Scared to Live bcadf-7

by Stephen Booth

  ‘I was at the University of Central England in Birmingham. We called it UCE. As a comedian said once, it isn’t named after its initials, but the grades you need to get in.’

  He regarded her quizzically, perhaps not fully understanding what she’d said, but recognizing the self-deprecating tone. Fry immediately felt embarrassed. She didn’t know what had made her say that about her old university. She had no reason to denigrate it. At the time, UCE had been exactly what she needed — a route to escape into a different world, where opportunities were available for the grasping. She was sure it had been a lifeline for many who’d gone there before her, and since. Some said that institutions like UCE served a more useful purpose in society than any number of Oxbridge colleges, with their dreaming spires and drunken hoorays throwing themselves off bridges.

  ‘It’s kind of you to escort me,’ said Kotsev. ‘You must be very busy, I’m sure. A shooting enquiry for you to pursue. Connections to organized crime. Worrying complications for a small police department.’

  ‘Yes, it is a bit hectic.’

  He fell silent until they were out of Glossop and travelling southwards along the ridge through Hayfield and past Chapel-en-le-Frith.

  ‘So this is the county of Derbyshire,’ he said. ‘Very pretty.’

  Fry didn’t respond. She generally tried to avert her gaze from the view whenever there was a steep drop away from the road.

  ‘What are these hills called?’ asked Kotsev.

  ‘Er … I’m not sure.’

  ‘And this valley? The river?’

  ‘I forget. But if you really want to know, I’ll introduce you to one of my colleagues when we get to Edendale. He knows everything about the area.’

  His eyes were on her again, she could feel it. It was making her tense. Watch the countryside goingby, why don’t you?

  ‘So what sort of place is Pleven?’ she said, trying to sound as though she was interested in the answer.

  ‘Pleven is located in the agricultural region of Miziya, in the north of Bulgaria. It’s surrounded by limestone hills. You might feel at home if you visited there.’

  ‘Might I? Why?’

  ‘Those are limestone quarries I can see ahead of us, if I’m not mistaken.’

  ‘Oh. Probably.’

  ‘So the hills are very much like these. But the city of Pleven has a population of a hundred and forty-three thousand persons. Not like this.’

  ‘That’s all right, I’m used to big cities,’ said Fry. ‘I don’t really belong in this area.’

  ‘I see. Myself, I’m a city person too — though I was born in a village in a rural district. My family moved to Sofia, where I received my education. Later, as a police officer, I was assigned by the ministry to Pleven.’

  ‘And you developed an expertise in organized crime?’

  ‘Yes, indeed. Recently I have been working in co-operation with the Organized Crime Groups Unit at Europol. We formed a Joint Investigation Team — Europol officers and Bulgarian law enforcement. It’s very interesting work. We have had some great successes, of which we are very proud.’

  ‘You mean pro-active operations? Disrupting the activities of organized crime?’

  ‘More than disrupting. Two years ago, we broke a major organized crime network which was spreading counterfeit euro notes into Western Europe. More than four hundred officers carried out raids in several cities. Four illegal print facilities were closed. Fake documents, credit cards and tourist visas were seized, in addition to many counterfeit euros. Believe me, General Borisov of the Bulgarian Police and Europol Director Storbeck were very happy to present the results of that co-operation.’

  Fry didn’t know what to say. She was too busy suppressing an overwhelming surge of envy. This guy was from some place in Eastern Europe that she’d never even heard of, yet he was leading the sort of life she dreamed of. He was enjoying a useful and exciting career, while she was stuck in this backwater that she was almost ashamed to let him see.

  She put her foot down on the straight stretch of road over the plateau towards Edendale. There weren’t any villages to speak of up here, only scattered farms with tumbledown outbuildings and abandoned tractors. There were more sheep than people, by a factor of about five hundred to one.

  ‘Not far now,’ she said.

  Kotsev nodded amicably. ‘You know, when Bulgaria joins the EU, I would be interested in transferring to Europol. There are often vacancies for a First Officer. Then I could live in The Hague. Do you know The Hague? It’s a good city. Very pleasant. Very civilized.’

  Fry turned to look at him, to see if he was laughing at her. But she met his eyes, and she could tell that he wasn’t.

  Fry delivered Kotsev to the new Holiday Inn off Edendale’s relief road and made sure he managed to get checked in all right. Not that he seemed to need any help. The girl behind the reception desk practically fell over herself to offer him wake-up calls and restaurant reservations.

  ‘I hope you’ll be comfortable here,’ said Fry when he’d collected his room key. ‘Our divisional commander has asked if you’ll take part in a briefing in the morning. Will that be all right?’

  ‘Dobre. That’s OK.’

  ‘I’ll see you tomorrow then, Sergeant.’

  ‘Thank you for everything, Sergeant Fry.’

  ‘That’s all right. Goodnight.’

  ‘Ciao.’

  He picked up his bag to go to his room, but instead of leaving through the revolving doors Fry found herself hesitating. Kotsev smiled at her politely, his dark eyes crinkling at the edges.

  ‘Was there something else?’

  ‘Well, I was just going to say … The thing is, I know what it’s like arriving in a strange place where you don’t know anyone. Eating meals alone is the worst thing, isn’t it? It’s too embarrassing going into a restaurant on your own.’

  ‘I will ask for room service and watch some English television while I eat,’ he said.

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Unless you were about to suggest a better idea?’

  Fry took the cue. ‘Well, if you like, I’d be happy to take you to dinner tonight and show you a bit of Edendale. As it happens, I’m free.’ He opened his mouth to reply, but she rushed on. ‘Well, it’s preferable to sitting on your own, isn’t it?’

  Kotsev bowed slightly. ‘A great deal better, Sergeant. Thank you, I would be delighted.’

  She let out the breath that she hadn’t realized she was holding until then.

  ‘I’ll pick you up here at about seven thirty, then.’

  ‘Seven thirty. Excellent. Goodbye for now.’

  He insisted on shaking hands again. Then Fry watched him walk to the lift, rolling his shoulders a little under his leather jacket as he shifted the weight of his case. Kotsev pressed the button, and glanced back while he waited. Fry was surprised to find herself still standing there like an idiot. She waved self-consciously. But he was already turning to enter the lift, and he probably didn’t see it.

  ‘Ciao,’ she said quietly, as the doors closed behind him.

  ‘The device was taped under the chassis and wired into the electric motor for the ramp. Unloading the ramp closed the circuit and detonated the device. Click, boom. Simple, but effective.’

  The army bomb squad captain looked pleased with himself, as if the device had been his own design and he’d scored top marks in his assessment. In his fatigues, he looked alarmingly young to be in charge of the combined briefing at Chesterfield police headquarters.

  ‘How big a device?’ said Hitchens. ‘I mean, how much explosive?’

  The captain shrugged. ‘Twenty pounds or so. We can give you a better estimate later. But, to be honest, it didn’t need to be any bigger to achieve its primary purpose.’

  ‘Which was?’

  ‘Well, it looks pretty clear to me. I’d say the purpose was to take out the owners of the vehicle — not to maximize casualties or cause general devastation. This wasn’t al-Qaeda, you know. We’re not talking te
rrorism here.’

  ‘We’re not?’

  ‘In my opinion, the attack was targeted too precisely. But that’s your province, I suppose. You and our friends from Special Branch, anyway. I expect they’ll have their own ideas.’

  Kessen didn’t look pleased at the mention of Special Branch.

  ‘How long would it take somebody to attach a device like that to the vehicle?’

  ‘If it was someone who knew what they were doing, no more than a few minutes. There’s nothing clever about the device itself. It’s the method of detonation that’s a bit smarter than usual. Whoever attached the explosive must have worked out his method pretty well beforehand. It’s not something you’d be able to improvise on the spot. So, if you want my opinion, it wasn’t just some opportunist assassin slapping a bit of Semtex under the chassis when no one was looking.’

  ‘They needed access to the interior of the vehicle?’

  ‘Oh, yes.’

  ‘And they had to know in advance what they were dealing with?’

  ‘Exactly.’ The captain smiled. ‘Personally, I think that should make your job a lot easier. There can’t be many people around here with that sort of expertise.’

  ‘Well, we hope not.’

  ‘We’ve all heard such a lot about Semtex,’ said Hitchens. ‘I suppose it must be easy to get hold of if you know the right people?’

  ‘It used to be. Especially if you had contacts in Libya, which is where most of the stuff went to. It became the terrorists’ explosive of choice, because it was difficult to detect, easily obtained — and as little as two hundred and fifty grams could bring down an airliner.’

  ‘Two hundred and fifty?’

  ‘Slightly over half a pound. Think of a packet of butter.’

  ‘Are you sure? It doesn’t seem enough to bring down an airliner.’

  ‘Ask the people on board Pan Am 103, or the residents of Lockerbie. The device in that case was estimated to contain three hundred and twelve grams. It made a pretty thorough job, wouldn’t you say?’

  ‘You said it used to be easy to get hold of,’ said Hitchens. ‘Only used to be?’

  ‘For the last four years, all sales of Semtex have been under the control of the Czech government. They’ve added ethylene glycol dinitrate to produce a distinctive odour and aid detection. They’ve also tried to reduce the shelf-life; all new supplies contain an identifying code.’

  ‘So Semtex is more difficult to obtain now, and easier to detect?’

  ‘If it’s newly manufactured. The trouble is, there’s still a lot of the old stuff around. The security services reckon the IRA has about ten tonnes of it, for a start. They’d probably be willing to share it around if they’re paid enough.’

  ‘Could this be the sort of explosive used by quarrying companies?’

  The expert looked at him pityingly.

  ‘Well, there are a lot of quarries around here,’ said Hitchens. ‘There are blasting operations going on all the time. If they were using this stuff — ’

  ‘I doubt it. Plastic explosives are much more expensive than other materials that perform just as well for ordinary blasting. On the other hand, if you have a major demolition project in the area, that might be a different matter.’

  ‘I’ve tested the water upstairs,’ said Kessen as the group of E Division officers walked back to the car park after the meeting.

  Hitchens stared at him as if he’d suddenly starting speaking a foreign language. ‘Sorry, sir?’

  ‘Upstairs. They’re happy for us to run with the Rose Shepherd enquiry for now, but I have to keep everyone in the loop. Fully informed of developments.’

  ‘Right. And who’s everyone?’

  ‘I’ve got quite a list. As you might imagine, MI5 and Special Branch are too busy with other things right now, and SOCA isn’t up and running properly. But they all want to keep tabs on what we’re doing anyway.’

  ‘In case we mess up completely.’

  ‘That’s about the size of it.’

  ‘You know, sir, a cynic might think they were actually hoping we’d mess up, just to prove a point. Sort of “Give them enough rope and they’ll hang themselves.”’

  Kessen sighed. ‘You could be right. But we have to get on with the job and achieve the best outcome we can. Let’s get a copy of the report sent round to Sergeant Kotsev at the Holiday Inn, so he’ll be up to speed for tomorrow morning. C Division will want to borrow him tomorrow, too, so he can fill them in on the Zhivkos’ background.’

  ‘I’ve just called DS Fry to keep her informed,’ said Hitchens. ‘Apparently, she’s seeing Kotsev later this evening.’

  ‘Oh? Well, I’m glad we’re being hospitable,’ said Kessen.

  24

  Fry was on her way home through Edendale when she took the call from Hitchens. Turning off Meadow Road, she bumped her Peugeot over a patch of rough ground in front of the old cattle market, wincing as a front wheel bounced into a deep pot hole and muddy water splashed over her offside wing.

  ‘Yes, I heard about the explosion in Chesterfield. What’s our interest in it? Oh, really?’

  While she listened, Fry stared at the ruined buildings that had once been the premises of Pilkington amp; Son, livestock auctioneers. The demolition workers had left two rows of sheep pens standing outside, exposed to the weather. Rusty gates were falling off their hinges, iron bars had been bent out of shape by vandals, or by panicking animals.

  ‘The Zhivko brothers? That’s more than a coincidence … yes, I bet they are.’

  Fry felt suddenly tired, and an inexplicable tremor of fear ran through her. Not at the thought of the explosion that had killed the Zhivkos in a Chesterfield street. The fear was caused by something else, closer to home.

  ‘Yes, of course, sir. I’ll liaise with Sergeant Kotsev.’

  She ended the call, and glanced at herself in the rearview mirror, seeking a trace of that fear in her own eyes.

  ‘Oh, yes — liaise. That’s what I’ll do.’

  Fry sat in her car for a few moments longer. A section of the main cattle market building remained, gaunt and roofless. Through the chain link fence with its Keep Out signs, she could just see the edge of the sale ring. Almost nothing was left of the tiers of wooden seats that had once formed an amphitheatre into which frightened animals had been driven for auction.

  The closure of Pilkington amp; Son meant that half of the town centre was no longer brought to a halt on market days by trailers and cattle transporters. Ben Cooper said that a vital element had been taken away from Edendale. Something about its long history as a rural market town, a dislocation from its agricultural hinterland.

  But the cattle market had another meaning for Fry. This was a place she had once thought she was going to die.

  Instinctively, she raised a hand to her face and touched the faint bump under her skin, the remains of a scar that everyone assured was no longer visible. Maybe they were right. Yet whenever she looked in the mirror, she could see it for herself.

  Fry looked at her watch, remembering how little time she had to reach home and get changed before she was due to go out again. She rolled the car slowly along the fence, strangely reluctant to tear herself away from a crowd of unpleasant memories, compelled to scan the derelict buildings for familiar doorways and walls.

  Beyond the main building, she glimpsed a tangle of trees over a tunnel of dark shadows. The cattle market had been built close to the railway station, in the days before road transport became the norm. But the overgrown tracks where cattle wagons were once unloaded had been torn up now, leaving a secret back lane through this part of town.

  That was something everyone needed now and then, wasn’t it? A glance down a hidden, private road that might lead to a new life.

  Angie was due at her job tonight, working behind the bar at The Feathers in New Street. Yet she had that secret little smile on her face as she pulled a denim jacket over her T-shirt.

  Diane was glad her sister looked so much better t
han when she first moved in. But there was something still there, below the surface, that she didn’t know how to deal with. It was the main reason that she sometimes had to nerve herself to enter her own flat, the way she had tonight. Yes, she had to brace herself to face her own sister. And then she had to suppress the guilt, of course.

  At least the job meant Angie wasn’t sponging any more. Or not so much, at any rate. With her wages and a few tips, she ought to be able to afford some new clothes. But clothes seemed to be the last thing Angie was interested in.

  The other problem was that the flat had only one bedroom. The sitting room had become a second bedroom where her sister had been sleeping for months now. Actually, quite a few months. It was funny how some people’s homes could feel too lived in.

  While Angie got ready to go out, Diane looked at the wallpaper, striped in a faded shade of brown that she’d barely noticed.

  ‘Hey, Sis, would you like to help me re-decorate?’ she asked.

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s long overdue. I was thinking of something modern. Off-white and charcoal grey. What would you say to that?’

  Angie groaned. ‘What the hell’s wrong with you, Di? Are you turning into Carol Smillie? If so, you might as well shoot me now, because I can’t live with you any longer.’

  ‘Who’s Carol Smillie?’

  ‘Are you kidding? She used to do those TV makeover shows, re-decorating people’s houses.’

  ‘Why would she do that?’

  ‘It’s entertainment.’

  Fry paced around the flat. ‘So you wouldn’t be able to live with the idea, then? A couple of off- white walls here, and a charcoal grey one there. Maybe one abstract picture in a chrome frame.’

  ‘It would drive me mad,’ said Angie. ‘It sounds totally cold and soulless. I couldn’t stand it for more than a day.’

  ‘Yes, that’s what I thought,’ said Diane.