by Iain Adams
She allowed herself to slide carefully down until only her head showed above the suds. The water lapped against her neck and she felt the tension slowly ebb away. Her body was relaxing, but her mind continued to whirl.
There had been a rash of plant and construction machinery thefts across the county. Almost certainly the work of gypsies, but investigations with the traveller community always presented problems. Her stream of consciousness floated away from work. She debated whether or not it was yet time to get on with the renovations, as she found herself tracking an unsightly crack across the ceiling. Finally, McRae’s message crept into her thoughts. She soaped herself, dreamily, lazily, and her imagination took a distinctly erotic turn.
There was no other word for it, she decided. She was feeling aroused. The message from McRae had been as neutral as her own had been to him – almost, she thought, a childish case of tit-for-tat – but just reading his last sentence had been enough to remind her of their last touch. That prickle of sexual tension was making her squirm. She imagined him undressing her. God, she was feeling randy. It was, she realised, ridiculous feeling the way she did over a man she had only met a couple of times. For Tina, it was an exceptional, if not unique, experience. There was no accounting for this adolescent fixation. She pulled herself together.
After dressing and roughly drying her hair, she made her way back down the narrow cottage stairs.
She poured a glass of nicely chilled Cloudy Bay Sauvignon and finished drying her hair while half-listening to the news on Radio 4. Still more coverage of the terrorist bomb, lousy GDP figures, unemployment up and, just for a change, the never-ending saga of Afghanistan. She switched the radio off; it was depressing and she didn’t want to feel depressed. Soon enough she would be seeing McRae again and that was something to look forward to.
The only fly in the ointment was that she had nothing to report. She had uncovered virtually nothing on Kanelos and even less on Smythson, and there were far too many bloody O’Connells. She hadn’t even identified a suitable contact at SOCA. She sighed; one of those guys must have a record.
O’Connell – there really were a hell of a lot of O’Connells. Was it an Irish name or an Ulster name? she wondered. Must be Irish, the Northern names had more Scottish roots, didn’t they? She shook her head at her woeful ignorance of Irish affairs. Still, how many people in England had ever truly understood Irish affairs? So near and yet so incomprehensible.
Jack Reid! How could it be that she had never thought about him? Eleven years ago, she had had a relationship with Jack. It hadn’t lasted long, but it had been intense while it lasted. They had met when they were both with West Midlands. Seemed like a lifetime ago. The last time she had spoken to him must have been at least five or six years earlier. The point was that Jack had been about to transfer to the RUC or whatever they called it these days.
The PSNI, Police Service of Northern Ireland – that’s it! she thought. God, what an awful, bureaucratic-sounding name. Still, whatever they were called, he could be well worth talking to, she concluded.
He must be pretty senior by now. He was always a smart operator. The PSNI have a load of contact with serious crime and they sure as hell will know a lot of people named O’Connell! Bit like him asking me about a guy called Smith, though. Still, it would be good to catch up with Jack again.
She pulled open her desk drawer and rummaged through it for her old diaries. Eventually, she found the number she wanted in a dog-eared 2005 Letts. Without hesitation, she dialled.
It was, it turned out, a minor miracle that she was even able to reach him. CID officers in Northern Ireland apparently changed mobile numbers as often as their socks for security reasons. Reid had only retained his old number on a diversion for the benefit of a few of his old mainland mates.
His voice, she thought, sounded ever so slightly different; there was a distinct touch of an Ulster burr blending with his native Black Country twang. Odd, but strangely comforting. Regardless, he was warm, friendly and sounded exceptionally pleased to speak to her. They talked animatedly about old times, updated each other on their careers and it turned out that he too had made it to detective inspector. He was even on the cusp of a further promotion. She was a little surprised to find out how much he loved his life in Belfast, although at times it was apparently still pretty hairy. It made her spate of muggings and gypsy thieves in Reading sound like very small beer.
‘Still single?’ he asked, showing a disappointing lack of surprise at her answer. It soon transpired that he had recently divorced, following a brief marriage to a local woman – which no doubt went some way to explaining his almost excessive pleasure at her call. He seemed so delighted to speak to her, in fact, that he was soon telling her how he would be visiting his mother in Wolverhampton shortly and perhaps they could meet?
Oh shit, she thought. ‘Yes, you never know,’ she replied evasively, ‘but what I would like is for you to do something for me.’
‘You haven’t changed,’ he laughed good-naturedly. ‘Go ahead. What do you want, you scheming hussy?’
Careful not to divulge the nature of her own involvement, Tina gave details of the names she was interested in and explained that they were potentially linked to suspect fires. Jack went silent as he listened to her intently. She promised to email him a copy of the paper summary that McRae had given her. She also probed him gently as to whether he had any contacts inside SOCA.
Jack’s response was surprising. The jocular tone had gone; he was all business. He didn’t even attempt to address her last question, but, instead, excusing himself abruptly for his need to cut the call short, as he was on his way out, he said:
‘Look, it’s been really great talking to you, Tina, but I’ve got to dash. Sounds interesting. Why don’t you get that paper over to me, then I’ll think about it and get back to you in a couple of days, alright?’
He gave her his personal email address and the call ended. It was as if Jack had realised that he was distinctly unlikely to be re-kindling his love life.
Funny, she thought, he seemed hot to trot until I failed to respond to his come-on. She mentally kicked herself for not having given a more amenable impression. She suspected she must be losing her touch, but hoped that Jack would still make some effort for old time’s sake. Somehow, however, she suspected that she might have blown it. Nevertheless, she scanned and forwarded McRae’s summary sheet to the address he had given, accompanying it with a covering note that she hoped sounded a damned sight more enticing than her spoken words had.
Feeling slightly depressed at the turn of events, she drained the last of her glass of wine and promptly refilled it. Her earlier mood of optimism had been deflated by Jack’s change in tone. She no longer anticipated any help from across the Irish Sea.
42
London, August 2011
McRae had estimated he would need no more than ten minutes in the garment factory. He had seen fork-lift operators coming and going at odd times, which he hoped accounted for the odd alarm procedures, but his primary concern was to ensure that there was no one in the office section, no late cleaner or shift worker. That would screw up everything.
He had surveyed the place from both the front and the rear alley and it had looked as quiet as the proverbial grave with not a single light showing. Nevertheless, he remained nervous. The great, and possibly sole, beauty of O’Meara Street was that it went nowhere. It was a dead end, with nothing other than the factory on one side and a couple of nondescript offices cum warehouses opposite. Even the corner shop had closed at nine. The only light in the area emanated from the Squatters Rights on the junction with the Whitechapel Road.
He finally plucked up sufficient courage to approach the main door. Fortunately, the huge lantern suspended beneath the portico was unlit. He glanced up at the lamp and noticed for the first time that it was not, in fact, painted green as he had thought, but was covered in verdigris.
He pressed the button. He had already deduced that in the un
likely event of there being anybody in the bowels of the building, they would surely switch lights on as they approached the front door to greet their nocturnal visitor. He was ready to scarper, should such an event occur. The last thing he wanted was to come face-to-face with O’Connell or Kanelos.
Somewhere inside the building, a buzzer sounded. Nothing. He pressed the button again. Same result. It was clear.
Glancing at his watch, McRae could see it was 10.20pm. He patted his anorak pocket to check he had everything he needed. The Microlite torch and surveillance device were still intact. He next switched his phone to silent; the last thing he needed was an unexpected call. It reminded him that he really needed to change the blasted ringtone sometime – a quick burst of Led Zeppelin might be highly inappropriate.
He had chosen the time with great care. The pub was no more than a quarter full. Sufficient patrons to avoid being conspicuous, but quiet enough for what he intended. What he didn’t need was the attention of Dwayne the landlord, who he could clearly see as soon as he entered the bar. The man hadn’t noticed him yet as he was busy with another customer, but if he hesitated he knew it would only be a matter of time. McRae hurried to the bar and managed to quietly order a half of lager from another bartender. He then walked casually to an unoccupied booth with an unrestricted view of the stairs leading to the men’s toilets.
After showing what would, no doubt, be regarded by most as an unhealthy interest in the traffic to and from the men’s room, he finally judged the moment to be opportune. He ambled across to the old staircase and started to descend the stairs.
At the bottom, he ignored the men’s toilets and the door to the beer cellar, and made his way to the third door. The key was in position as it had been at the time of his first visit. He quickly opened the door and stepped cautiously into the low-ceilinged room, before closing it carefully behind him and switching on the neon light.
The room was still empty. He switched the light back off and made his way across to the opposite stairs. He flicked the torchlight up the steps and swallowed nervously as he began the ascent. This was it.
He checked the position of the key box on the wall and then tapped the glass sharply with the end of his torch. The glass cracked into three distinct pieces but fortunately stayed in place. He carefully removed two shards and pulled out the key. The key was shiny and looked as new as the day it had been bought, but the four-lever padlock itself was cheap and rusty and, for a moment, the key jammed. Sweating and juggling the torch with his left hand, McRae eventually coaxed the key against the wards and the padlock dropped grudgingly open. This was the moment of truth.
So far he had made little noise, but operating the panic bar, even if it worked, would surely be heard inside the factory – if there was anyone to hear. His biggest fear was that the door would have been secured from within the factory or, worse still, connected to the alarm. It would seem illogical but possible.
Taking a deep breath, McRae pushed down on the bar. The door was stiff and heavy but it yielded. It opened, emitting an audible groan. He held his breath, his heart pumping as he waited anxiously for all hell to break loose. He was poised to make a rapid escape but there was only silence in the dark passageway. His heartbeat slowly returned to something resembling normality and he cautiously peered through the crack formed by the barely open door and into the hallway. It was as dark as Hades but there was a dull distant amber glow, which he presumed emanated from the reception area.
He paused and listened keenly, all of his senses engaged, before pushing the door until it was half open. Again he waited, reluctant to commit himself to the last fatal step. Finally, irrevocably, he squeezed through the opening and stood in what he presumed to be the main access route between the front reception and the production area. To his right he could just make out the stairs, which, he presumed, must lead to the main office suite. His eyes were becoming slowly adjusted to the gloom, but he risked switching on his torch for a second to be sure of his surroundings.
Switching the torch back off, he made his way carefully towards the foot of the staircase, feeling the wall with his left hand. The staircase was concrete and he made little noise as he felt his way towards the top.
After what felt like an age, his foot cleared the last tread and he had arrived on the upper floor. The darkness was now absolute. Again he flashed the torch, which quickly revealed four doors – each of which seemed to be firmly shut. None of doors bore any clue as to what lay beyond but he reasoned that the director’s offices would in all probability be at the front of the building. He tried the first handle, which failed to give. Shit. It was locked.
Hoping his entire mission had not been a total waste of time, he yanked at the next handle. The door swung open with more emphasis than he would have liked and a little yellowish light spilled onto the landing. A strong smell of stale cigarette smoke accompanied the light and McRae felt an instant, intense, almost overwhelming desire to light up one of his Camels. It remained gloomy but the distant streetlights of the Whitechapel Road penetrated the blinds of the front windows to a sufficient degree to enable him to make out the silhouettes of a couple of desks and filing cabinets.
He crept stealthily into the office and was relieved to realise that the reason the first door had been locked was that it was no longer in use. The two doors had both serviced the same office. The first door was now partially revealed to be located immediately behind a rank of filing cabinets.
It looked as if he was in the right place. As he continued to scan the layout, he could see that there were actually three desks, of which only two appeared to be in use. At one end of the room were what appeared to be a few armchairs and a low coffee-table.
Quickly, he moved towards the nearest desk, which bore a computer monitor, two ashtrays and was unpleasantly sticky to the touch. He sought confirmation that this was indeed the director’s office and not one used by the general staff. He found what he was looking for quickly: a small untidy column of paper files. He risked flicking the torch on again for a few seconds. Three files down was one clearly marked “George-Personal”. He opened it expectantly but was disappointed to find nothing of interest. He moved quickly to the next desk, the top of which was quite unlike the first, being polished and uncluttered. It smelled of beeswax. A precise pile of similar files was positioned at the right-hand corner alongside a wire paper tray. McRae was somehow unsurprised that a file marked “Alex-Personal” was in the tray. The file was empty, no more than a shell, but he was not dismayed. He had what he wanted. This was undoubtedly the directors’ room.
Following the computer cable that trailed across Kanelos’s desk with his fingertips, he located the plug socket low down on the wall, behind a side table. It was a double socket.
Quickly, he removed the plug adaptor from his pocket. It was the device he had acquired, at the very reasonable cost of £200, from the surveillance equipment store. Visually identical to any other double plug adaptor, it had one very significant difference. It contained a SIM card and a microphone that would enable him, or so the multi-lingual instructions had claimed, to listen into conversations inside the room through his mobile phone.
He inserted the adaptor into the vacant socket and straightened up. By the dim light from the window, he could just make out the hands on his watch face. He estimated it had been about seven or eight minutes since he had descended the pub steps into the cellar. It was time to get going.
Carefully retracing his route to the bottom of the stairs, he was about to open the door to the cellar when he decided, on the spur of the moment, that it would be foolish to pass up what might probably be his only opportunity to see the factory’s production area. If he was correct, there wouldn’t be much left to see very soon.
By now, his eyes had adjusted to the blackness. He could make out the outline of the double doors to the workshops. Pressing gently against the right-hand leaf, McRae felt the door yield and his heart stopped as he felt his face bathed in a yellowish li
ght.
The moon was shining dully through the skylights of the workshop roof and, compared with the murk from which he was emerging, he felt for one alarming moment as if he was stepping onto a floodlit stage. The sensation quickly passed and he was immediately grateful for the improved visibility as he saw that a short flight of steps lay below him.
Stepping down onto the work-floor, McRae had a sense of déjà vu; the layout was so similar to the one at Walsall. Similar, but more compact, and crammed with stock. More overhead rails of hanging garments, more aisles, what looked like a couple of forklift trucks and, so far as he could see, no sewing machines at all. The place made absolutely no pretence of being a production operation; clearly this was no more than an import and export business. No, forget the export; it was simply a warehouse.
In a sense, he wasn’t surprised. The real money had always been in the stock scam, so why complicate matters? It made sense to keep things simple.
He found that his eyes had become so attuned to the moonlit scene that he even noticed small details; the steel uprights that supported the roof, for one thing. It looked as if they were in the process of being repainted, as he could clearly see that the one nearest to the stairs had been rubbed down and coated with primer. The next in line, which was almost concealed amongst the hanging rails, had a painter’s ladder leaning against it.
He moved a little closer for a better look. As he did so, he noticed that a small pile of what looked like floor sweepings had been brushed together, almost centrally, to the right of the steel girder, against which leaned a yard brush. Curious, he flicked on his torch for a better view. As he did so, something moved behind him.
43
London, August 2011
The youth thought he was becoming pretty good. He wasn’t learning anymore, he had “method”. In truth, he had developed quite a few methods. It all depended on what effect the boss required.