“I looked specifically at the pay off between weight they can carry and the time they can fly. Basically, the heavier the payload usually the less time they can stay in the air, plus the larger the drone needs to be. A larger drone is capable of carrying several kilos in a single load, but is more visible and more likely to be detected. An average pistol weighs one and a half to three kilos whereas the plastic pistol used in the shooting weighed only a kilo.”
“So the idea of having the drone fly the gun into Kaufman’s cell is feasible,” Quinn said.
“But why send in a plastic gun?” Remy asked. “Given their unreliability and only a small difference in weight, why wasn’t a regular gun used? Surely that would have been easier.”
Quinn looked unhappy at her interruption, so she appreciated the thoughtful nod Idris gave her.
“Remy’s made a valid point, Quinn. I’d say the clues lie in the forensics report. Chesney confirms it’s a ghost gun produced from a 3D printer. Composition is from a plastic called ABS-M30, which is very sturdy but still sustains damage every time a round is fired. It has no identifying serial number and given its meltdown from yesterday’s shooting, it hasn’t been used in any other crimes. These printed guns take significant damage from using conventional ammunition because the brass casing deforms during the explosion and transfers the explosion to the plastic components. But essentially this type of gun is almost impossible to trace.”
“There’s your reason,” Eli said. “It still might be possible to track down where the plastic was purchased and who bought it.”
“What did Chesney say about the ammunition?” Quinn asked.
“Two bullets were located, one unexploded in the chamber, unable to be fired because the barrel was impaired from the first shot. They dug the other out of Thrussell. The fragments that passed through him, nicking Griffin on the arm, were found lodged in the opposite wall to Kaufman’s cell. Both bullets are thirty-eight caliber, semi-jacketed hollow point rounds.”
Quinn gave a low whistle. He was a former armed officer and was well-versed in weapons.
“Those bullets are packing immense stopping power. Because they don’t have a full jacket they have a mushroom effect upon impact,” he explained to the others. “I wouldn’t have expected the bullet to exit Thrussell at all.”
“I’d say the reason for that was because of the angle the bullet hit Thrussell. He was turning towards Kaufman so the bullet went through him almost sideways, exiting his torso under his right arm. Forensics also said what is really unusual is that these particular bullets had a lighter load than standard,” Idris answered. “Chesney thinks that because the weapon was plastic whoever planned the shooting probably assumed a lighter payload would mean less damage to the gun.”
“Semi-jacketed ammo was popular thirty or forty years ago, but isn’t manufactured as much any more. Given the lighter load as well, my guess is we’re looking at hand crafted bullets, making it difficult to track down more than the casings,” Quinn said.
He walked over to the whiteboard and wrote down a list.
Plastic.
3D printer.
Bullet manufactory.
Drones.
Gun blueprints.
He turned back to them. “Right, you lot. These are the priorities to search for tomorrow when you tip over the Loughboroughs’ house. I want you there at 6:00 hours to catch them on the hop. Let’s see if we can turn up something that’ll make it worthwhile to bring them in for interviews.”
Remy’s heart rate accelerated as she recalled the Loughboroughs’ home, a sturdy white stuccoed Tudor cottage in leafy Uxbridge. Quinn was still talking so she tried to concentrate.
“Let’s move on. I’ve asked for footage from any cameras outside Kaufman’s cell to be sent through. Since most of the prison cameras aren’t focused upwards it’s a long shot that we’ll be able to spot the drone, but we may get lucky,” Quinn said.
“What about checking the ground under his cell window? Sometimes drones hit walls or other objects and crash out of control,” Idris said. “If we can find some pieces we may be able to track where the drone was purchased and tie that to an individual.”
“I can check that out,” Remy volunteered, glad of a task that kept her on the periphery of the case.
Quinn added the task to his whiteboard list. He directed his attention towards Idris. “What did Naomi Kaufman have to say?”
“Like a scared rabbit she kept repeating that she knew nothing about her husband’s activities. Swore black and blue she’d never heard the name Griffin Loughborough.”
Remy felt Quinn’s long blue gaze switch to her.
“What did you find at the Guardian Angel Relief Volunteers?”
“The local constabulary have paid the charity a visit on six occasions during the past four years, all related to stolen items found on the premises. They haven’t been able to prove that the charity is a front for fencing otherwise they would have closed it down.
“Theoretically, for insurance purposes, the organization keeps a sign in list of volunteers on the premises at any given time. But it’s dodgy and hit and miss from what I can see, so I’m not sure how reliable the information is that I’ve pulled from the register. For what it’s worth, I’ve made a note of all the volunteers who were present on the dates the calls were made to Kaufman’s phone from the charity’s landline number and the date he made the outgoing call. There are six volunteers whose names appear on thirteen of the nineteen dates but I’m not sure if it would be a waste of time talking to them.”
“What about getting a triangulation done on the phone calls?” Idris asked.
Remy nodded. “I was just getting to that. I asked for a triangulation for the single call that Kaufman made from the phone. The call wasn’t answered at the location of the Guardian Angel Relief Volunteers. The location pinged was in the Docklands area, to be specific the Old Canning Town Turkish Baths. I spoke to IT about the discrepancy because the number registered for the call is still the charity. IT said a simple rerouting mechanism could have been in play whereby one phone number is dialed but automatically redirected to a different number.”
The atmosphere in the room electrified immediately.
“Good work,” Quinn said with grudging admiration. “I want you and Idris to pay the steam baths a visit and see what you can scare up.”
“Have we considered that if this is a burner phone, Kaufman could also have a regular use one?” Remy said.
“Prison staff made him sit on the BOSS chair, so we know he hasn’t secreted anything internally.” Quinn used the common term for the body orifice security scanner found in most prisons that were able to detect metallic items as small as staples. “They promised me they’d run a ferromagnetic detector over Kaufman’s cell before he’s moved back in.”
“What the hell’s that?” Eli asked.
“It picks up electromagnetic fields emitted from a smart phone even if it’s off and the battery’s been removed. They’ll inform us if they find anything.”
“One more item,” Idris said. “It may be nothing, but there’s a discrepancy in the amount of drugs confiscated during Griffin’s arrest.”
Quinn’s eyebrows shot upwards.
“Not our case, mate,” he said with a disparaging shake of his head. “We’re only investigating the shooting. Now, tomorrow at six, I want you to get out there and rattle three generations of Loughboroughs!”
Chapter 16
Bridesmead, Wednesday, April 4
Her heart still racing over the prospect of tomorrow’s shakedown on the Loughboroughs, Remy vowed to make herself scarce so there would be no chance she could run into Griffin’s relatives.
“When do you want to visit the steambaths?” she asked Idris.
Without a word, Idris sank into his seat and keyed some search parameters into his laptop.
“Looks like they’re closed all day tomorrow, but they’re open tonight until eleven.”
She chuckle
d. “Looks like tonight it is then. Hope you didn’t have any big plans for the evening?”
“Wouldn’t matter if I had. With this damn job it’s always work before pleasure,” Idris grumbled. “See if there’s a pool car we can take while I arrange a warrant to get hold of customers’ names. I don’t fancy slogging through Tube commuters.”
Two hours later, the traffic was still heavy enough to turn a ten-minute drive into thirty minutes of drudgery. Remy was content to sit in silence since Idris seemed absorbed with his own thoughts. When Idris pulled the unmarked sedan to a halt outside the industrial-styled, red-bricked warehouse exterior, she noticed him checking the rear view mirror before he exited.
A line of expensive late model sedans and SUVs were parked outside the building, which was also ringed with sturdy wire mesh fencing. She noted a white van zoom past them, earning a hard stare from Idris.
“Anything amiss about that van?” she asked, her curiosity piqued.
Idris shrugged. “White vans are commonplace, so maybe I’m mistaken, but we seem to have had a white van in our vicinity ever since we left the office.”
“Do you think it’s got anything to do with the case?” Remy felt her own pulse race at the idea that the Loughboroughs had set someone to spy on them.
“Probably not. Let’s go inside and get this over with.”
A huge black banner featuring white letters spelt out Old Canning Town Turkish Baths across the front of the building. Three sets of paned windows overlooked the entry from the second story. Two sets of panes were open, steam billowing out. Pipes criss-crossed the brickwork and from each corner large security globes were angled downwards, throwing floods of light on the entrance.
Remy pointed to a black and yellow sign at eye height proclaiming CCTV cameras in operation.
“That could be handy,” she said.
The small alcove that served as a foyer was crammed with a cheap vinyl backless bench and a veneer counter. A plastic sign hung behind the counter, proclaiming opening hours and a price list. When they entered, they spied a large bellied man standing on the opposite side of the counter. Remy took in the colorfully striped kaftan and full facial beard that gave him an exotic air. Wrestling his eyes away from his computer screen, he threw a frosty look in Remy’s direction, shaking his head at her.
“It’s men’s night only on Wednesdays.” Turning towards Idris, he said, “And we only allow new visitors if you’ve made a booking.”
Remy and Idris raised their warrant cards for his inspection, watching his expression contract into cautious curiosity.
Another large-bellied man, his loins wrapped in a voluminous white towel, stepped into the lobby, unabashedly flashing a damply hairy chest. Remy realized that if there was ever a place she would stand out as a copper, this was it.
Ignoring them, he gestured to the man behind the counter.
“Ayaz, just letting you know we need more towels. Yenvi dropped a bundle of clean ones in the water. Clumsy sod!”
He disappeared back through the doorway without another glance.
“We’re not here to take in the schmeissing.” Idris held out the search warrant. “We need access to your client records for March 7. Since that’s a Wednesday, I’m guessing it was also men’s night only. Are you the owner or the manager?”
“My brother Mustafa and I are joint owners. What’s this about? Our clients value their privacy. I can’t just hand over their details even if you are police!”
“This warrant says you can. We want access to all your credit card payment receipts for that night.”
“And your security footage as well,” Remy added.
“We don’t have CCTV cameras inside, only for the outside.”
“That’s fine. We’ll take whatever you’ve got from the 7th,” Idris said.
Ayaz spent several more minutes puffing out his chest and huffing about his clients’ invasion of privacy, but eventually he turned his attention to the computer. Remy and Idris huddled closer to the screen, scanning the list of names.
The list was surprisingly short and yielded no familiar names. Idris frowned.
“Are you telling me this is your complete list of receipts?”
Ayaz shook his head. “The only details we have are recorded from credit card payments, but most of our customers pay by cash. The entry fee is only fifteen pounds so for most customers that’s spare change.”
“Are you always on duty on Wednesday nights?” Remy asked.
“Yes, this is my usual shift.”
Remy pulled out her phone and did a quick search until she found what she was looking for. A blurry photo of Jack and Mortimer Loughborough outside the magistrates’ court the day the sentencing was handed down for their lieutenants, Kaufman and Bannerjee. She enlarged the photo to remove the caption from the screen and shoved the phone under Ayaz’s nose.
“Have either of these gentlemen been in to use the facilities in the past month?”
“Think carefully before you answer,” Idris added. “You don’t want us hanging around any longer than necessary or traipsing through the premises asking your customers the same question.”
Ayaz tugged on his beard, obviously debating the merits of his answer. Finally, sighing deeply, he pointed to Mortimer’s image.
“He comes in every Wednesday. Lately he’s been giving his grandson driving lessons, so the youngster escorts him in then goes upstairs to sit in the lounge and wait for him. The old man’s usually here for an hour or so and then the two of them leave.”
“Every Wednesday?” Idris said sharply. “You mean, Mortimer and Drake Loughborough are here now?”
Ayaz nodded.
Remy noted the gleam in her partner’s eye with trepidation. She tugged on his arm and pulled him aside for a quiet word.
“We can’t exceed the powers of the search warrant,” she hissed at him. “If you charge into the building to grab Mortimer you’ll also risk alerting him to tomorrow’s search warrant. Don’t give Mortimer any grounds to lay charges of harassment—”
“I know our limitations!” Idris yanked his arm out of her grip. “We’ll pass this news onto Quinn as grounds to get Mortimer in for an interview.”
Chapter 17
Fitzrovia, Wednesday, April 4
Ignoring a horde of noisily drunk students on their way into a neon-signed, upmarket club, Quinn did some fancy sidestepping around several cars parked illegally on the pavement. He had left his own car, nicknamed “a dilapidated piece of crap” by his wife, in the parking garage where he was forced to house it since there were no parking spaces outside the Fitzrovia flat he shared with Isla.
When he opened the discreet gray paneled door into their Victorian flat, he was amazed to see his wife was already home and snuggled deep into the velvet cushions of their Lennox sofa. The color and material were Isla’s choice, not his. The sofa’s intense violet hue served as the perfect foil for her deep auburn hair.
The sight of her sitting as still as the living embodiment of a Renaissance masterpiece glassed him though the heart. No one had fought harder than Quinn to escape falling in love with Vincent Titus’s daughter. When they separated last year he had tried to rip that love out by the roots and move on with his life. But he and Isla were like poison in each other’s blood. They were both venom and antidote, they struggled to live together but couldn’t survive apart.
Isla had had her pick of ambitious legal graduates and rejected them all in favor of him. No one understood their chemistry, certainly not her father. Quinn was conceited enough to believe that Isla craved what he brought into her life because it brought her to life.
Through the long shadows stretching from the glow of a single lamp on a glass side table, he watched a spoon make a regular circuit from ice cream tub to immaculate red lips. Since Isla protected the integrity of the Lennox from food stains almost as religiously as she guarded her own well-proportioned curves, he was stunned to see her breaking both rules.
He flicked
on the overhead light, noting her pupils dilate to pinpricks as the light smashed into her tawny eyes and she registered his presence.
A pair of dress pumps with knife-thin heels lay toppled on the floor. Isla still wore her work suit. Her legs were tucked under her, forcing the tight skirt to ride high on her thighs creating a flat surface upon which the ice cream tub sat. Another totally out of character moment because Isla was precise about her tailored outfits, always returning them to hang carefully in the closet when she came home from the office.
“Why are you sitting in the dark eating ice cream? Did you miss lunch?”
“I skipped breakfast, lunch and dinner,” she replied. “The star witness in next week’s trial has gone missing and all the prosecution’s been told is not to worry by Bex Wynter’s mouthpiece, Cole Mackinley. Of course she would say that, it’s not her reputation on the line in court or her who’ll be facing off against a top notch Queen’s bloody counsel! It’s not her name that’s going to be plastered all over the media if the case falls into a shambles and Jack Loughborough laughs his way out of court. How dare she keep the prosecution team out of the loop! I’ve spent all day going over the evidence to see if we can possibly get a conviction without Griffin’s testimony in case we have to.”
“You’re being overly dramatic. Griffin’s not missing. He’s being taken care of.”
She squinted at him. “It’s not like you to defend your erstwhile American leader’s decision. Don’t tell me you’re agreeing with this cockamamie idea of pretending to the world that he’s dead?”
“If you want to go over Bex’s head you know what to do. Just call your father. I’ve never known Titus to refuse you anything.”
Quinn tossed his own jacket over the back of an armchair and slouched down in the seat. He kicked off his shoes and wiggled his socked toes.
“Now, what’s for dinner, darling? Or are you eating it?”
“Save your snide comments for those poor sods who have to work with you! If you’re hungry, go check the fridge yourself. I think we’ve still got a Sainsbury’s Indian vegetable masala left. And if you’re going to complain, maybe you should shop for groceries next time!”
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