Deadly Game

by Matt Johnson

  ‘I think I get the idea.’

  ‘My best advice to you is not to think like a layman. For example, something that may seem to be a simple coincidence could actually be a thread of information. Weave a few threads together and they start to form a picture. Our job, as detectives, is to recognise those threads and to create that picture. HOLMES helps us do that.’

  ‘Does it actually solve cases?’ I asked.

  Naomi chuckled. ‘Not exactly. Think of a crime as being like a mirror that’s been smashed into fragments and all those parts have been spread to the four winds. HOLMES helps us piece things together so the image is revealed. It might not tell us the whole story but it can fill in detail – timings, where people say they were, comparing one person’s statement against another, that kind of thing.’

  ‘But more complicated?’

  ‘Of course. And often we don’t need the whole mirror image to be able to solve the crime. Most of all, HOLMES helps if we’re struggling with the biggie, what is arguably the single most important clue in any investigation.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘The motive.’ She patted the top of her screen as if it were a favourite pet. ‘Find why someone was murdered and you’re halfway to finding who. But remember, although it’s a good system, it will never replace a copper’s gut instinct. So … if you simply follow what the computer says, you might catch villains, but you’ll do nothing that coppers haven’t been doing for years using their brains.’

  I smiled. Despite being a techie, our Office Manager was still a detective.

  My introduction to the electronic side to a major investigation over, Nina led the way to the station canteen. As soon as we were alone in the corridor, I asked her a question that had been nagging at me all morning. Did she think her plan had worked?

  ‘I think so,’ she replied, somewhat nonchalantly.

  ‘You think so?’

  ‘OK … I’m pretty sure. The DCI has the Cristeas on his radar. It was my idea that he employ you on the enquiry team and put you on door-to-door.’

  ‘Teaching me the ropes?’

  ‘Something like that. Just remember: you’re an eye witness to a suspect. You remember what Naomi said?’

  ‘Which bit?’ I asked.

  ‘About coincidence being a clue. You chasing down that gunman and finding he was the same bloke you met in Romania was what Naomi referred to as a layman’s coincidence. To a detective, it’s a line of enquiry … and it will help with building up a picture of what exactly happened to Relia and why. It was chance that you clocked him, pure luck, maybe … but you made that luck by being determined to check for the killer’s escape route.’

  ‘So why put me out knocking on doors?’

  ‘Because you know exactly who we’re looking for, Finlay. If you see him or his friends, or any clue as to their whereabouts, then you are going to recognise it when others might miss it. They were here, in this very area, on these very streets and people saw them. Those are the same people that you are going to be talking to … and one of them might hold the clue we need to put a name to the face you recognised.’

  ‘Sounds good. So … what am I going to do about my other problem?’

  ‘Toni Fellowes, you mean?’

  ‘Yes. I called her and she apologised. But I’m not entirely sure she took it on board.’

  Nina leaned toward me, her left hand moving to gently adjust the lapel of my jacket. ‘You leave her to me.’

  A few moments later, we located Josh Bonner, my working partner for the day. He was in the canteen, sat with his back to the door, talking to two of the other members of the team. The group were just finishing chatting as I walked up. Nina left us to get acquainted.

  Josh stood up, his chair dragging noisily on the linoleum floor. As I reached out a hand in greeting, the two other detectives stood. For a moment, it seemed they were also about to extend a welcome. Then, without uttering a word, they both turned and strode quickly to the door.

  ‘Something I said?’ I asked my new companion, as soon as we were alone.

  ‘Bit awkward guv,’ Josh replied, as we sat down. He took a deep breath.

  I sensed what was coming.

  ‘You see … we know about you. It’s gone round the job like wildfire. It’s not every day the IRA start targeting coppers, and everyone knows they earmarked you for some special attention.’

  I thought carefully before replying, recalling how the assembled detectives had fallen silent as Nina and I entered the briefing room. I had considered it a fairly normal response to the arrival of strangers. Now, what Josh was saying cast the reaction in a new light. ‘So, are they OK with me being around?’ I asked.

  ‘Most of them don’t give a toss, but a few – like those two – think you might … well … be a bit of a bullet magnet.’

  I sighed. It seemed that, for a while, this was a situation that was going to follow me wherever I went in the police. Until people started to forget about what had happened, I would have the shadow of it hanging over me.

  ‘Listen Josh,’ I scowled. ‘It wasn’t the IRA; just some idiots with a grievance. The combined efforts of SO19 and the Anti-Terrorist Squad managed to take care of them. I’m just trying to get on with my life.’

  ‘Sounds like a helluva story. Any truth in the rumour that you were SAS?’

  I took a deep breath. ‘Yes … a very long time ago. You were probably still wearing shorts.’

  ‘Guess so … sorry. Just that you guys are heroes of mine. That’s why I agreed to be posted with you when we were all asked.’

  ‘You were all asked?’

  ‘Yeah, everyone knows, DCI included. You can’t keep things secret for long in this job. We were all given a choice about working with you.’

  ‘OK, Josh.’ I stood up, realising that I needed to get out in the fresh air before I lost my temper. ‘It’s time you started teaching me how to be a detective.’

  Chapter 52

  Wearing out shoe leather is a basic necessity of being a detective.

  Josh Bonner and I we were tasked with visiting shops on the east side of the main Hampstead High Street and showing Relia’s photo to anyone we met. There were dozens of potential sources of information: boutiques, mini-markets and several estate agents stood side by side with solicitors, banks and even an internet café. They all had to be visited, and all the occupants interviewed.

  We were expected. Word had spread of the murder and I was relieved to discover that, in the main, people were more than helpful. It differed from times when, as a PC, I had been drafted onto similar squads to do the legwork. There were all too many areas in London where cooperation was not at all guaranteed. Hampstead was an exception, rather than the rule.

  Many people were curious. They wanted to know who Relia was, where the murder had occurred and what had happened. Josh did most of the talking but kept it brief. The DCI had given instructions that any shops with Eastern European employees were to be noted, especially if they shared the language of Relia’s home country, Romania. He was of the opinion that Relia may well have given away her location to the traffickers by talking in her native tongue to somebody local. It was a reasonable starting point in our effort to establish a trail to the killers.

  Every location we visited was logged, each person present was spoken to and their details recorded. Everyone absent was listed for a follow-up visit. The HOLMES demand for data input was thorough and colossal.

  Before long, we were becoming hungry, so Josh suggested a diversion to the nearest petrol station. It had a small sandwich shop and was on the list for us to check, so we were killing two birds with one stone.

  The pay desk at the petrol station was manned by a single, not very helpful, Asian lad. Fortunately, his mother was sitting in the office at the rear and she proved to be the antithesis of her son. Neither of them recognised Relia from the rather worn photograph. But they did have a CCTV system and they were willing to allow us to sit and watch it from the comfort of t
he back office.

  The CCTV was modern, using a digital recording system that stored several weeks’ worth of images. The owners of the petrol station used it to deter shoplifting and to record the registration numbers of the cars when the drivers made off without paying. As we sat watching the screen, paper cups of tea and packs of sandwiches to hand, I asked about Eastern European customers, on the off chance they might remember something.

  As Josh had told me, ‘The more questions you ask, the luckier you get.’ And we were in luck: what the lady owner remembered was vital.

  She recalled two foreign men, the previous Sunday evening, asking for directions to Redhill Flats after buying petrol. It had stuck in her memory because her sister also lived in the block. The men had paid cash, using a crisp, new fifty-pound note. It was still in the safe. The owner knew it was the same one as they rarely saw them. Most people paid by card and traders generally avoided large notes, for fear they could be counterfeit.

  Josh immediately asked to review the CCTV for the Sunday evening. With the review set to double speed, we focussed on the counter camera, looking for the moment that the two foreigners would appear.

  As the clock reached 8.22 pm on the CCTV recording, I leapt up and stopped the player. If I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes I would not have believed it.

  There, on the small screen before me, was the gunman from the Cristea wedding. The same man who escaped from me and Nina two days previously. Also on the monitor, just behind the gunman, stood a well-built and very familiar figure.

  It was Petre, Marica’s bodyguard.

  Chapter 53

  As Toni entered through the security door, it was immediately clear Nell was finding it hard to contain herself. The speed at which her researcher typed seemed to reflect her mood. Angry or excited, her fingers were a blur of activity.

  Nell pointed at the PC screen. ‘Read,’ she said.

  ‘What’s so urgent, Nell?’ Toni replied as she dropped her handbag and pre-packed sandwich on the desk and pulled up a chair.

  ‘I did what you asked. You’ll need to follow my report to understand it fully, but I established an unlikely connection between the author you were looking for and the Operation Hastings murders.’

  ‘Seriously? What kind of connection?’

  ‘Just read.’

  On the face of it, Toni had given her assistant two completely unconnected lines of enquiry: Operation Hastings and Cristea Publishing. Hastings to tie up loose-ends, and Cristea to try and help Finlay. As Nell had continued to dig, the more she had looked, the more she had found. As they sat together reading through Nell’s report, Toni learned why her researcher was so excited.

  MI6 files from the 70s and 80s had only recently been transferred into digital form but Nell reported the job had been completed conscientiously. Toni had no doubt that some poorly paid clerk had been given the rather tedious scanning task, spending many hours going through hundreds of handwritten and typed reports, in case, one day, someone should need to see the information they contained. On this particular day, Toni was that someone.

  Nell’s report was detailed and comprehensive. It began by describing how the Cristeas were originally a farming family who had grown in stature since the mid-80s, when the senior member of the family, Gheorghe Cristea, had expanded his honey production business. Using established trade routes through Afghanistan and Pakistan, Gheorghe had started importing opium. He had first come to the notice of MI6 in 1983, when information had reached the ears of the FIA, the Federal Investigation Agency at Islamabad in Pakistan. The Cristeas then used those same routes to transport arms to Ahmad Shah Massoud, a military leader from the Panjshir valley in northern Afghanistan. An MI6 PF had been created for Gheorghe Cristea.

  ‘Cristea has a personal file?’ she enquired.

  ‘You’d better believe it,’ said Nell.

  Toni read on. The family had continued to expand their interests. Honey routes became regular opium trails, which also started to see the movement of precious stones, such as emeralds and lapis lazuli, which were mined and exported through northern Afghanistan. These were then exchanged for what were becoming the most valuable and sought after commodities in the area: weapons and armaments.

  With burgeoning income streams, the Cristea empire grew. However, when the demand for weapons diminished, a switch had been made to what was fast becoming a highly lucrative trade. The trafficking of sex workers. The Cristeas had even been mentioned in a United Nations report on links between UN-appointed contractors and the organised slave trade. In 1996, Anton Cristea, the eldest son of Gheorghe, had been killed in a shoot-out with local police in Georgia. Anton had been transporting women who had been abducted and were destined for the sex-slave trade.

  Toni stopped reading. ‘Sex trafficking? You’re telling me Cristea Publishing is a front for drugs and people trafficking?’

  ‘Hard to believe, isn’t it?’

  ‘This is really interesting, Nell. But what does it have to do with Chas Collins or Finlay and the Hastings report?’

  ‘There’s more, trust me. It’s what was missing from the FIA reports that gives it away.’

  As Toni read on, she began to get the picture. Nell’s eye for detail was incredible, particularly when it came to documents and reports. She assimilated information at a phenomenal rate and her memory never failed to amaze. These skills meant Nell had noticed one report was absent from the 1983 weekly FIA reports from Pakistan.

  ‘There’s a lot to read, Nell. Couldn’t you just summarise it for me?’

  Nell sat back in her chair. ‘OK, but it’s all in there.’

  ‘Pretty please?’ said Toni.

  ‘Alright, it’s like this. Did you see I mentioned a man called Ahmad Shah Massoud?’

  ‘Yes … the Mujahideen leader?’

  ‘Exactly. Until his death, Massoud was the Cristea contact in Afghan. He ran the heroin trails … and he also ran weapons. The FIA reports on Massoud being supplied with American-manufactured weapons to use in the fight against the Russians would normally have been a distraction and outside my research brief. What spurred my curiosity was the coincidence that Massoud had been assassinated just before the 9/11 attacks.’

  ‘You think it was connected?’

  ‘Maybe, maybe not. Anyway, that led me down a route that I thought was a blind alley, but I did notice that it happened on the same day as the Chas Collins’ book came out and, well, you always say not to believe in coincidence.’

  ‘You’re learning. Go on.’

  ‘OK, so the Cristea link led me to the FIA reports. The FIA gave a name to the CIA operation in Afghanistan. It was called ‘Operation Cyclone’. You know? The same name as the book?’

  ‘I thought you knew that’s where he got the name from, Nell?’

  Nell stopped for a moment, a puzzled look on her face. ‘If I’d known, I would have said so.’

  ‘OK, no matter. So what’s the relevance?’

  ‘Cyclone was mentioned in one of the career histories of the SAS soldiers that you asked me to look at: the one called Bridges. Cyclone is the connection.’

  ‘I don’t get you. Why … I mean how does the name of one operation that Bridges was on establish a serious connection?’

  ‘Through Massoud!’

  ‘Who is the man that was assassinated the day before 9/11, I know. On the same day the Cyclone book came out?’

  ‘That’s it. That’s the connection.’

  ‘I still don’t understand. How does that link the Cristeas to the Hastings enquiry? What else do you have on Massoud? I need a bit more than a reference to Cyclone on the Bridges file to have us start a whole new line of enquiry into his past.’

  Nell sighed. Ahmad Shah Massoud, she said, was a fascinating character. He was a Sunni Muslim, also from the Panjshir valley in northern Afghanistan, where the Cristeas had established their connections. The son of an Afghan army officer, he had studied engineering and obtained a degree at Kabul University. When the Ru
ssians invaded to support the weak communist government, Massoud joined the resistance in the mountains.

  It was easy to see how Massoud had hooked up with the Cristeas. They had an established import/export route through the mountains of Pakistan and Iran into Eastern Europe. Massoud needed weapons and had access to opium and precious stones. The Cristeas provided the connections.

  Having satisfied her interest in Massoud, Nell explained, she had been about to switch back to the Operation Hastings enquiry when, out of idle curiosity she had typed Massoud’s name into the video website YouTube. Several links came up. Most were entirely in Arabic but in one – an interview with an Irish journalist – he spoke in English.

  Nell had watched it. During the ten-minute clip, Massoud was asked his opinion on several subjects, including his frustration at not receiving help from the CIA during the fight against the Soviets. Massoud was effusive in his condemnation of the CIA operation and how it had favoured what he referred to as ‘bad people’ who would one day use the American weapons against the very people who had supplied them. He talked about Al Q’aeda and the rumours of Afghan-based training camps.

  ‘Should we watch this video you mention?’ Toni asked.

  ‘Already lined up. It’s an oldie, but I think you’ll find it interesting.’ Nell rotated the nearest computer screen and pressed a key.’

  It was as Nell had described. Toni was surprised at the standard of Massoud’s English. His accent was strong, but he was easy to understand. She picked up on one expression that she hadn’t heard before. Massoud used it several times. He referred to something called ‘Al Anfal’. She made a note to google it.

  It was, however, a single word that he used towards the end of the interview that caused Toni to sit upright. He referred to the CIA operation, and he called it ‘Cyclone’. He knew the name, even back then.

  She checked the video listing. It had been uploaded before Massoud’s death but looked to have been recorded many years previously. Just as the recording was drawing to a close, Nell leaned across the desk and tapped the pause key.