by Nick Oldham
‘Something else that’s not for me to say,’ Jake said.
‘You know the SAS found the crashed plane up on the moors, yeah? It was fucking airlifted out by a Chinook and is supposedly in the hands of the CAA’s air crash investigators … but it isn’t, because I’ve tried to find it, just to see if there are any bullet holes in it like you said and if there is a briefcase in the inventory. I also tried to find Lady Chalmers’ body so I could have a look at her, but apparently an army pathologist has carried out the PM and says she died of trauma from the crash and now she’s been cremated.’
‘What about Lord Chalmers’ body and the security guy?’
‘Oh, all done above board … Rumour says it’s going to be put down to a burglary gone wrong.’
‘He was assassinated,’ Henry said.
‘Yep – by gangsters unknown … and those paint samples I took from the Range Rover … they seem to have disappeared in the post. Just what the hell were the SAS doing on these moors, Henry? It all stinks to high heaven.’ Jake looked hopefully at Henry. ‘And as I said, you don’t need to play by the rules any more, Henry.’ He arched his eyebrows. ‘Do you?’
EIGHTEEN
‘Don’t you come into my house shouting the odds,’ Rik Dean blazed.
‘I want to know what’s happening,’ Henry demanded.
‘What do you mean, happening?’
‘Why have they walked, for a start?’
‘You know why, because your eyewitness testimony is unsound, fanciful, and there is no evidence to support it in terms of other witnesses or forensics. We got the wrong guys. Shit happens. Live with it.’
‘Who were they?’
‘Don’t know, don’t care.’
Rik stalked across his living room and flung himself miserably into an armchair. He looked as if he wished the world would swallow him whole.
He glared at Henry. ‘It’s what they say in American movies, Henry – above my paygrade, OK? I’ve been told what to do, and I’m doing it.’
‘Does that include the investigation into Alison’s murder?’
Rik contracted as though he’d been hit by a bullet.
Henry said coldly, ‘I taught you better than that.’
Rik’s raging eyes dropped in shame.
‘You are an SIO, a senior investigating officer, Rik. You inherited my job, for fuck’s sake. I thought you’d inherited my principles, too. These people who have died need justice and you’re the one who has to seek it for them. That’s what being an SIO is all about. I shouldn’t have to tell you that.’ Henry sat on the settee opposite. ‘C’mon, tell me what the hell’s happening.’
‘No, Henry, I can’t.’
‘You know, if you get involved in something that backfires, you’ll be the one hung out to dry, Rik. If there’s some sort of cover-up going on, then you need to be squeaky clean, otherwise when the shit hits the fan, you can kiss your big fat pension pot goodbye.’
Henry closely watched the range of emotions and angst playing out across his friend’s face.
‘It’s high up, Henry, too high for me,’ he bleated.
‘What’s this, then?’ Henry handed him a photocopy of the two sheets he had saved form the waste bin in the function room. He had kept the originals.
Rik took them from him and snorted derisively, then closed his eyes for a long moment before opening them and saying, ‘If it’s any consolation, Alison’s death is not connected, as such, to Lord Chalmers.’
‘I never thought it was … but what does “as such” mean?’
‘I mean that some of the same people are involved’ – here Rik pointed to the ceiling, ‘up there, if you know what I mean, pulling the strings, but the two incidents are unconnected.’
Henry pointed to the papers. ‘And that?’
Rik squirmed visibly. ‘OK, OK, but this goes no further than this room.’ He looked expectantly at Henry for that promise, but did not get it. Henry remained resolute. ‘OK, OK … that’s the name of the man who killed Alison.’
‘You know who he is?’ Henry was shocked.
‘Yes … no … yes … shit … That’s a legend, an undercover alias and I’ve been told that if I ever track down this killer, which seems unlikely, I have to use this identity for him and a back-story will be concocted for him. I cannot ever reveal the true ID of Alison’s killer, nor anything about him … not that I know who he is … and I suppose one way or the other it won’t matter too much because the people who’ve told me all this will probably bring him to a sticky end somewhere along the line … I don’t know how it’ll pan out, Henry, I really don’t know.’ Rik was clearly at his wits’ end. ‘This is one of the legends of a guy who is a state-sponsored killer who has gone nuts, gone rogue and by pure chance, coincidence, or whatever, came across Alison and Ginny, got fixated on them … You know the rest. Either way, if I get him, they want him back.’
‘Some coincidence,’ Henry sneered. ‘Is that something else you haven’t learned? Have I not taught you? Coincidences are clues, coincidences are weakness in stories, they lead investigators to the truth but sometimes if you believe a coincidence it smacks you in the face. It is no coincidence that this man turned up to abduct Ginny.’
‘Why do you say that? I was assured it was.’
‘And you believed it … You have so much to learn, my friend.’
‘Why do you say different?’
‘Because Alison knew who he was – and I think Ginny could still be alive.’
It was a fleeting moment. A flash of realization on Alison’s face that Henry remembered, a frown, just as the paramedics were wheeling Ginny out to the ambulance in a time that now, to Henry, seemed a hundred years ago. It was after Henry had asked her if she thought anything was going on in Ginny’s life that neither of them knew about. Alison had answered truthfully that she didn’t know and then there had been the lines on her forehead, the eyebrows coming together, and then it had gone.
Henry had seen it.
Now he knew what it meant.
Alison knew who the intruder was.
‘What,’ Rik said cynically, ‘based on a fleeting facial expression?’
‘A picture paints a thousand words,’ Henry argued.
‘So do you, or Alison, or Ginny, know of a state-sponsored assassin gone on the loose?’
‘Fuck off, Rik, of course not. It’s someone close to home.’
They were sitting on garden chairs on the rear decking in Rik’s back garden, drinking ever more coffee. Henry had calmed down a little, so had Rik.
‘So where do we go from here?’ Rik asked.
‘I’m assuming the DNA samples taken from Ginny’s room met the same fate as the fingerprints? Blocked, in other words?’
Rik nodded.
‘But the forensic lab will still have the offender’s DNA profile in their records?’
‘On record but going nowhere.’
‘OK, do me a favour.’ Henry saw Rik cringe as from his inside jacket pocket he pulled out a clear plastic bag stuffed with human hair. ‘From Ginny’s waste bin, samples of her hair, some with roots still on … she was always combing her hair and dropping it into the bin. Get a comparison with the intruder’s DNA will you? Off the record. Can you do that?’
Rik took the bag. ‘I can, but why?’
‘Just humour an old cop, will you? And in the meantime, two more things.’
Rik said, ‘Bollocks,’ despondently.
‘This legend.’ Henry waved the sheets of paper. ‘If he’s still using it, it could lead us to his whereabouts, or at least his locality. And secondly, give me the name of this spook who’s playing you like a marionette.’
‘Why?’ Rik’s voice was deeply suspicious and he didn’t even notice Henry’s veiled insult.
‘Because I think it’s time I spoke to him.’
NINETEEN
Henry Christie had never been a massive fan of London, but enjoyed the occasional visit and had sometimes worked there as a detective in the pas
t, but not often.
However, that morning he was working in the capital as a grieving man with very much his own agenda, beholden to no one other than his murdered fiancée and her missing stepdaughter.
He was fighting for things that had so tragically been taken away from him and from a purely personal perspective he did not care if this turned out badly for him. At least he would go down fighting.
He had travelled down the evening before and stayed in the Premier Inn Hub on St Martin’s Lane, just off the top end of Trafalgar Square. He hadn’t had a greatly pleasant night’s sleep – his mind was too busy, his pain still too intense both mentally and physically – but he’d managed a few hours and got up early to use the internet facilities in the hotel then took a stroll around the quiet streets, ending up by the Thames.
At eight thirty a.m. he was standing on Westminster Bridge with his rucksack over one shoulder.
There was an earpiece in his left ear connected to his mobile phone.
He was waiting patiently.
Now, he had all the patience in the world.
His mind rumbled back over the last forty-eight hours since his brow-beating conversation with Rik Dean.
It hadn’t helped that Rik had never been formally introduced to the mysterious man from London in the chief constable’s office. No name, no responsibility, no comeback. Just a description of a chubby, smug civil servant who expected the world to kowtow to his wishes.
Henry had encountered a few of them in his time.
He had told Rik to find out as much as he could about the man.
Rik whined, ‘But, but, but …’
‘You’re a detective aren’t you? How the hell did he get into the chief’s office? As best as I can remember, unless you’re summoned, an appointment has to be made.’ Henry had leaned forward at that point. ‘Check the chief’s online diary, duh! And you said he came by military helicopter … where from? Flight plan? Duh!’
‘Stop saying duh,’ Rik complained.
‘Duh – OK.’
Rik went into work and accessed the chief’s online diary, which only officers above a certain rank were allowed to see. There was no entry for the time slot in which he had been to see the chief, it was blank. Rik thought the personal touch might possibly work, so he walked from his office over to headquarters and trotted up to the middle floor, the corridor of power as it was cynically known, and went into the Chief’s outer office where the staff officer and secretaries worked.
Chief Inspector Riley was at his desk, tapping away at his computer.
‘Morning, sir,’ he said to Rik. His body language instantly informed Rik that he was being cautious.
‘Hi.’ Rik sat down on the chair positioned at the end of Riley’s desk. ‘Chief in?’
‘No, with the crime commissioner.’
‘I wonder if you could help me, then?’
‘I’ll try.’ Meaning he wouldn’t.
‘The … er … two fellows who were in with the chief the other week, y’know, the government types … unfortunately I didn’t catch the names or the departments they are in and I need to contact them as a matter of urgency. Can you give me their phone numbers and such?’
‘No.’ It was an instant response.
‘Why not?’
‘I’ve been told not to divulge anything to anyone.’ He drew a pretend zip across his mouth, then tapped his nose with his forefinger. ‘Secret squirrels.’
‘I need the details,’ Rik said, his face becoming dark.
‘You’d have to ask the chief directly,’ Riley said. ‘I’m sorry, just doing what I’m told.’
‘That it, then?’
The chief inspector nodded. Rik rose without a word and left the office making his way down to the canteen situated in the ground floor, bottom corner of the building but as he was about to enter, he had another idea and went to reception in the front foyer. The lady staffing the desk was one Rik had known over ten years and he recalled she had been on duty when he had been called across to see the chief.
‘Morning, Rhona.’
‘Mr Dean.’
‘Need a favour.’
‘Anything.’
‘You were working the day that two guys landed in the military helicopter, the two men I came to see.’
‘Yes, I remember.’
‘Did they sign in?’
‘All visitors have to sign in,’ she said professionally.
Rik knew this. They had to sign in and be issued with a temporary pass for the duration of the visit. It applied to everyone, except police staff. Rik recalled both men had been wearing the passes on lanyards around their necks.
‘Can I look at the log sheet?’ Rik asked.
‘Have I done something wrong?’ Rhona asked.
‘Far from it.’
‘Let me find it.’
She showed him the book. Each visitor had to fill out their details, place of work, any vehicle registration number, and sign in.
Although the details required were not extensive, the men had written as little as possible in the space provided, but they had signed their names, which made Rik smile. It was often the little things that caught deceitful people out.
One gave the name Jenkins, the other Smith. Both gave their workplace as ‘Home Office’.
‘Which was which?’ he asked Rhona.
Rhona looked and said, ‘Jenkins was the tubby one in the suit, Smith the other guy, slim, in casuals. Looked like a soldier.’
‘Brilliant, thanks,’ Rik said and glanced up at the ceiling and noticed the security camera covering the entrance and front desk.
Henry walked along Bridge Street, then right into Parliament Street and started to head up Whitehall towards Trafalgar Square. There was some kind of early morning demonstration taking place directly across from Downing Street and as ever, even so early, gawkers had gathered at the security gates to rubber-neck Number 10 in the hope of seeing the Prime Minister.
Henry sidestepped the demo, carried on to Trafalgar Square.
It was a pleasant morning, busy with pedestrians and traffic, and the newly cleaned Nelson looked resplendent atop his column.
Henry paused on the corner of Northumberland Avenue, then cut across to stand on the junction of the Strand.
Rik managed to download a screenshot from the security camera of Jenkins and Smith signing in at the front desk. Through the whole process, Smith had kept his head lowered, very much aware of being caught on camera, whereas Jenkins was not as savvy. It looked as if he had been quite flirty and smarmy with Rhona, doing a lot of gurning at her, maybe trying to use his charm.
Rik had captured the moment, though, when both men raised their faces to the lens.
It was a good, clear, well-focused image.
He had shown it to Henry and given him the names from the booking in sheet.
Henry had stared at it for a long, long time after which he spent many hours trawling the internet, searching through government department websites including the Ministry of Defence, MI5 and SIS, and dug as deep as he could, not being the most skilled surfer.
He worked his way through lists of people awarded knighthoods, MBEs, CBEs and other such honours because he knew faceless people like Jenkins often received such recognition for services rendered and their lights were often hidden deep in the bushels.
A man called Alistair Arthur Jenkins did receive an OBE in 2007 for services to the Crown, whatever that meant. Henry found his photograph at a Buckingham Palace garden party the following year. It was definitely the man, ten years younger, thirty pounds lighter, with more hair, but still chubby and slimy looking.
There wasn’t much else on him that Henry could find. And that told him something: security services.
Henry’s next step was to send what he knew down to Karl Donaldson, who had returned to work in the American Embassy in London. Henry hoped that Donaldson might know where Jenkins worked.
It transpired he did not. He had seen Jenkins flitting about the
press conference in Kendleton, but did not recognize him, nor did Rik Dean reveal anything about him other than to make a few cryptic comments which he did not elaborate on, so Donaldson had thought nothing about him.
However, he promised to ask around for Henry.
Good to his word, he came back to him within twenty-four hours.
Donaldson’s boss knew Jenkins.
‘One of the shady ones, definitely a spook,’ Donaldson had explained to Henry over the phone.
‘I think I knew that part.’
Henry was on the cordless phone in the Tawny Owl. As he spoke on it he wandered out from the private accommodation into the bar, which had reopened for business following a quick decision by Henry, who knew Alison would have wanted to keep it going. It had been her dream, he had become part of it and he was going to make it work and the staff were up for it. That was today’s plan, anyway.
And the locals were mightily relieved.
It was early evening and the pub had a few regulars propping up the bar who Henry acknowledged as he walked through and outside.
‘What does he actually do?’
‘Top-secret stuff.’
‘Get away,’ Henry scoffed.
‘No, I mean it. He runs a small unit that doesn’t officially exist but straddles MI5, MI6 and SIS, and the MoD. It carries out off-the-book secret ops. The budget comes from all those departments, but they don’t know that. Creative accounting, they call it.’
‘And the name of this department is?’
‘Er, The Unit.’
‘Very original.’
‘Word is they’ve been spectacularly successful in many fields of conflict and the removal, shall I say, of some very unsavoury characters. It doesn’t take the Brain of Britain to piece the bits together, Henry.’
‘He runs a hit squad.’
‘In one – amongst other things. He has a very sordid remit, but all for the sake of national security.’ Donaldson’s voice became mock-cagey. ‘If GCHQ hear this conversation, we’re in the shit, you know.’
‘Like I give a toss,’ Henry said. ‘And whose assets were already in Lancashire when Alison was murdered.’ This was something Henry had learned from Rik, who had sheepishly, and reluctantly, told him about the meeting in the chief’s office with Jenkins and Smith. ‘Assets who were killing Lord Chalmers and his missus and who then tried to kill me because I was a witness.’