Deadly Game

by Matt Johnson

  ‘Ah … I see. So we exposed him to a risk?’

  ‘It’s very kind of you to say we, Stuart. Actually it was me. So now you know why I’m on restricted duties,’ she lied.

  ‘Because you should have checked on them first?’

  ‘The family are my responsibility. Fact is, we may not have learned about it except for the fact that a couple of days ago Finlay saw one of the Cristea people fleeing the scene of a murder.’

  ‘He made the connection himself?’

  ‘Yes, and he wasn’t happy. So, I promised to make it up to him by digging up as much as I could on them.’

  ‘To help identify the gunman?’

  ‘Amongst other things, yes. It’s the least I can do in the circumstances.’

  ‘Did you see the report Nell did on Cristea Publishing’s distribution centre in the Forest of Dean?’ Stuart asked.

  ‘Yes. They seem to be putting the proceeds of their criminal enterprises to good use.’

  ‘Why would a publisher distribution factory want an incinerator?’

  ‘You’re referring to the planning application?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You want a steady-Eddie answer or something more imaginative?’ Toni fixed her companion with a firm stare.

  ‘Try me with both?’

  ‘An acceptable reason would be to destroy unsold stock, spoiled books, that kind of thing.’

  ‘And the imaginative?’

  ‘You don’t want to think about it.’

  Stuart paused for a moment as he slowed down to stop at a red light. ‘Try me.’

  ‘We know the Cristeas are into slave trafficking. Ever thought what happens to the women once they are no longer useful?’

  Stuart stared at Toni, a look of horror on his face. He missed the light turning green and jerked into action as someone behind sounded their horn. ‘Body disposal, you mean?’ he said, once he’d recovered his voice.

  Toni looked straight ahead. ‘Like I said, it’s only an idea.’

  The remainder of the journey took place in virtual silence. Toni was too preoccupied to talk. By the end of the day, she might well be out of a job. Or, if she was lucky, Dave Batey might go along with an idea she was formulating.

  And that would be where her new friend Stuart Anderson would come in.

  Chapter 68

  SO19 Firearms Branch, Old Street

  For Lynn Wainwright, the late-turn reserve shift was dragging on.

  With her firearms authority suspended for the period of the investigation, she felt like a spare part. The lawyer appointed by the Police Federation was optimistic, though. It was clear that the dead suspect had opened fire, and she had responded appropriately. Her version of events had been corroborated by the only witness, Detective Inspector Finlay, who also spoke highly of Lynn’s skill and her reactions to a life-threatening situation. The lawyer felt she would be returned to full duties in a month or so.

  Outside of the SO19 base, London was its usual cocktail of night life – with fun-seekers mixing with troublemakers. Almost every call for police help would, in some way, be related to either drug or alcohol use. The police officers on the streets reacted to each and every ‘shout’ with varying degrees of urgency, and in the background, the Trojan cars – the Armed Response Vehicles – cruised, ever patient, and always ready to be deployed.

  With only one late-turn crew due in, Rod, the shift sergeant had suggested Lynn slide off early. He could see she was bored and her presence in the office was superfluous. Lynn already liked the sergeant and the offer of an early finish raised him even higher in her estimation.

  She varied her route home, not due to any perceived threat of a security risk, but simply to try and avoid the worst of the traffic. At ten-thirty there would also be a higher number of drink drivers out on the street. There was no easy route at this time, but the City seemed to present the easiest option.

  She was about halfway into the journey, stopped at some lights, when she felt the thud as a car travelling behind her made contact with her rear bumper. She swore, then raised her eyes to the heavens. This was all she needed.

  With my luck it will be a drunk driver, she thought. She was in half-blues with a small, dark jacket pulled over her uniform shirt to provide extra warmth. Normally she would have changed into civilian clothes but tonight she was tired and had just wanted to get home to a hot bath.

  There was no choice, she would have to get out and take a chance. If the people in the car behind recognised the uniform beneath her jacket, things would either go more smoothly or turn really awkward. It would probably depend on whether they were the worse for drink. Swinging the door of the VW open, she stepped out into the street and walked around to the back to see if any damage had been caused.

  Apart from her car and the old, black Mercedes that sat behind it, the street was deserted. Lynn waved to the man in the driving seat, beckoning him to get out and to join her in checking for damage. The man looked foreign, maybe Greek. After a moment he seemed to understand her sign language and opened his door.

  He was foreign. Perhaps she was in luck, after all. The damage to the Golf was minimal, just a scratch, and the Mercedes seemed untouched. There was a chance she might be able to ignore it and be on her way.

  By waving and pointing, Lynn managed to get the Mercedes driver to look at the two car bumpers. They both leaned down to have a closer look. She could smell cigarette smoke as he breathed, but no sign of drink. Another blessing.

  As she straightened up again, Lynn became aware of another figure behind her. She guessed it was the passenger from the Mercedes.

  She turned to check, and a strong hand was immediately reaching around her face and squeezing some kind of gauze pad over her mouth and nose.

  Her reaction was instant. She twisted, ducked down, and swung an elbow towards her assailant. At that same moment, something heavy connected with the side of her head. It knocked her to the ground.

  She was stunned, struggling to comprehend what had happened. Then, it seemed that one of the men lay on top of her, pinning her to the road surface.

  The gauze pad was, once again, forced over her face. Now, she could smell chemicals. She struggled in vain to twist, to kick out, and to breathe.

  Semiconscious, Lynn only barely registered her ankles and wrists being bound together and what felt like duct tape being stuck over her mouth, leaving just her nose to allow for breathing.

  Next she felt what must have been a hood being pulled over her head and fastened around her neck with a cable tie.

  One of the men lifted her with apparent ease, then dropped her again, into what, in her haze, she guessed was the boot of the Mercedes. The boot lid slamming shut brought her to her senses for a moment.

  She listened, straining to hear a clue; anything that might tell her what the hell was going on. There was nothing.

  Chapter 69

  Jenny wasn’t happy that I was working on a Saturday.

  She repeated several times, before I left home, that the whole reason I had quit Royalty Protection – where seven-day working was the norm – was to be able to spend more time with my family. There wasn’t much I could say to defend myself. It wasn’t that I was married to the job, far from it. But the murder of Relia had got under my skin. Add to that the fact I had been so close to catching the gunmen who were hidden beneath the Ealing house and I knew I wouldn’t be able to rest until her killers were caught.

  Jenny said I was becoming obsessed. I ended up leaving the house without kissing her goodbye. It was the first time that had happened.

  And I told myself it would be the last. The drive into work gave me time to reflect. Jenny was right. I still wasn’t myself. I knew I should be talking to her more, reassuring her that the threat to our family was over, but I found it impossibly difficult to talk about. Finding Relia’s killer stopped me from thinking about other things. Concentrating on work helped keep me sane. But I knew I couldn’t keep avoiding the discussion that Jenny
seemed so keen for us to have. She wanted to talk about our relationship. But I was beginning to fear what she wanted to say, that she would come out with something from which there would be no turning back.

  We just needed time, time to settle. A new home, a period of peace and we would be fine. I knew it. And I would make sure never to leave the house again without kissing her.

  I arrived at the Murder Squad office just after eight. Although it was early, I was surprised to find that, apart from the Officer Manager, Naomi Young, and the DCI, the Incident Room was deserted.

  I chanced a look through the large window into the DCI’s office. The mind map on the wall was starting to fill up with photographs and notes. Different coloured lines drawn with marker pens joined sticky notes to other seemingly connected lines of information and enquiry. Naomi was making coffee.

  ‘Got a spare one?’ I asked.

  ‘You’re an early bird today,’ she replied as she poured a second cup and pulled a third mug from the cupboard.

  ‘Things to do, people to see. You know how it is.’

  ‘Well, you can start by taking this coffee in to the governor. He asked me if you were in today, there’s been a DNA match from that cellar you found under the floorboards at the house in Ealing … and there’s more good news from the hospital. PC McCulloch is on the mend.’

  I felt a wave of relief, picked up the drinks and tapped on DCI Bowler’s door. He called me in immediately.

  Naomi was right. I was told to sit down on the opposite side of the desk and then informed that we were going to brainstorm. There was to be no ‘how-are-you, how’s-the-family’ type chat. It was straight to business.

  ‘You’ve got a good brain, Finlay,’ Bowler said. ‘Nobody else even thought about the possibility of a hidden chamber under the house. Now bear with me while I go through what we’ve got so far, I want to make sure I’m not missing anything.’

  The DCI confirmed that a DNA sample found in the cellar had been matched to the scene of Relia’s murder. He also revealed that fingerprints found in the Ealing house belonged to one of a group of Romanian men who had arrived at Heathrow airport just a couple of days before the killing.

  ‘It looks like they were a team brought in especially to carry out the job,’ he said.

  My guess was he was right and, chances were, they had already been spirited away to safety.

  Moving onto the interviews with the sex-slave girls rescued from the house, Bowler told me these had produced very little. They were a wide range of nationalities – from Algerian to Moldovan, French to Italian. The one common factor was they were all from very poor families. None of them had expressed a wish to return to their homes. All feared being re-abducted and, without exception, they viewed the possibility of life in the UK as a far better alternative to repatriation. The women had also been able to confirm that the gang running the trafficking route was Romanian.

  My phone had beeped while we were chatting to alert me to a text message so when we broke off for a few minutes for the DCI to answer a call, I took a look.

  The text was from Jenny. ‘Ring me. Urgent.’

  I felt my stomach turn over. My hand trembled as I pressed our home number.

  I forced myself to think sensibly. Hopefully it was news resulting from the estate-agent particulars we had been looking at. But the reason for the text had nothing to do with houses. There had been an email from Marica in Romania. Jenny read it to me, her voice trembling.

  Robert, this is very hard for me to believe. Today, I find that you are a spy. I hear that you made it look like you save me from drowning when it was excuse to get inside my family. My father is very, very angry with you. He tells me you are a police spy and that if he ever sees you again he will kill you. Robert, I know what happened in the sea so I know I do owe you my life so this is why I make you this warning. Please do not come near me or my family again. Please be careful. Marica.

  For a moment, I was stunned into silence. Jenny and I shared an email address. It was the kind of message I would have preferred her not to see, but now the damage was done.

  ‘What does it mean?’ Jenny asked. I could hear her voice starting to break. She was near to tears.

  I tried to be strong. ‘It means what it says,’ I said. ‘You remember we talked in Bucharest about the Cristeas – what they did? Remember that car, the damage to the rear seats?’

  ‘Yes. You said you were going to ask Petre about that.’

  ‘Well, after we got back, I did some digging. I had a feeling the family were hooky and what I found confirmed it. To put it simply, the Cristeas are criminals.’

  ‘What the hell’s going on, Robert? You’re leading us from one disaster to another.’

  ‘Whoa Jen,’ I pleaded. ‘I had no idea before we went what they were like.’

  ‘So, who are these bloody Cristea people? Is Marica serious? I mean … for God’s sake Bob, we only just got through some people trying to kill us and now we’re gonna go through it again. I can’t handle this … I really can’t.’

  ‘They’re crooks Jen … but just in Romania. They can’t touch us here.’

  ‘You promise?’ Jenny was crying now. Between the sobs, she continued. ‘So why didn’t the police stop you from going there, to Romania? They must have known it was risky.’

  ‘They didn’t know. I didn’t know. Nobody knew before I checked what these people were like. I had no idea…’

  ‘What do they do … I mean what kind of people are they?’

  ‘Drug dealers.’

  ‘…And you promise they can’t touch us in England?’

  ‘I promise. They’re small-scale, local. They don’t operate over here.’

  Jenny stopped crying. The line went quiet for a few seconds.

  ‘Robert,’ she said, breaking the silence. ‘We need to talk.’

  ‘I know. Tonight … I promise.’

  ‘OK … bring some wine home?’

  The hole in my stomach reappeared as we ended the call. I hated lying about the Cristeas, but, caught on the hop, it seemed the best thing to do. I hoped, prayed, that I was right.

  Marius Gabor had recognised me. Word had reached the Cristeas and now Marica knew. I shrugged it off. It didn’t matter. I doubted if our paths would cross again. And if they did, it wouldn’t be on their turf, it would be on mine.

  I’d been lucky; in fact Jenny and I had both been lucky. The prospect of having been exposed while in Bucharest was too unpleasant to think about.

  Naomi joined me as I was returning to the DCI’s office.

  ‘You OK, Finlay?’ she asked.

  I nodded.

  She frowned. ‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’

  ‘I’m fine, really,’ I said. ‘Your coffee is actually quite nice.’

  Naomi laughed, her curiosity seemingly diverted.

  As we sat down, the DCI explained the office-based detectives had put a lot of hours into identifying the connection between the murder victim, the dead gunman and the suspects from the petrol station. The telephone call that had interrupted us earlier was news that the dead gunmen’s phone had been used in a number of areas around London and, on two occasions, in the west of England.

  I reiterated what I had learned about the Cristeas from Interpol. Naomi left us for a few minutes to run some checks through the Police National Computer.

  When she returned, she was smiling. ‘Found them,’ she said.

  ‘Names and addresses for our suspects, you mean?’ said Bowler.

  ‘No, but a list of known associates; houses they use, phone numbers, et cetera. Just a question of time, now. I can start drawing up a list of places to turn over. If we can relate the forensics we have from the murder scene to similar samples from new scenes, we can start to narrow down the identity of the killers. If we strike lucky we might even find the actual people during the searches.’

  Bowler slammed his pen on the desk. ‘Brilliant; get on it Naomi.’

  I was just about to lea
ve when a thought occurred to me. ‘I know it’s a Saturday,’ I said, ‘but I thought there would be more than just us in today?’

  ‘There are. The other two have gone over to Old Street. The WPC who saved your bacon didn’t turn up for work this morning. They’ve gone with her sergeant to check her home and make sure she’s OK.’

  Chapter 70

  The cell was dark.

  Occasional light came from torches that the guards carried. From these glimpses Lynn had discovered that immediate escape from her prison was unlikely. The only way in or out was the solid wooden door. It opened into a space that seemed to have been hewn from rock. The rear wall of the cell was concrete blockwork – a possible weakness, she’d hoped. But after a few minutes exploration she found that it, too, was solid and, without tools, impregnable.

  On first waking, Lynn had been utterly confused as to where she was. At first, she had expected it to be her own bed, but the cold, rough feeling of the damp blanket covering her brought with it the memory of the kidnapping.

  Whatever drug they had used to knock her out had left an acrid taste in her mouth, and a God-awful headache. It was like a bad hangover. Cold, headache and a severe thirst.

  There was no telling how long she had been unconscious. In the dark, she now checked her limbs. No pains, no injuries. Clothing seemed intact. That was good. Sniffing her armpit produced little by way of an odour, which suggested she had only been out for a few hours at the most. The final check was the toughest.

  Unbuttoning her trousers, she slid her hand slowly into the top of her knickers. Carefully, she checked for any sign of injury or sexual assault. There was none. As she re-buttoned her waistband, she let out an audible sigh of relief.