by Bill Kitson
‘Don’t worry, he did ring him, that’s why I’m here.’
Chapter Twelve
Alan Marshall certainly hadn’t slept easy in his bed. When morning came he rose before daybreak and slipped out of the hotel before any of his fellow guests were up and about. He went to a small café opposite the market for breakfast. It was an establishment that was constantly busy, so much so, the staff had no time to inspect their customers. If the staff were kept busy, the customers were too preoccupied with their own affairs to notice one another. It suited Marshall perfectly.
As soon as he’d eaten he moved on, spending all morning in the library where the high bookcases provided shelter from prying eyes. He read the morning paper which contained a full-page article on the Jeffries murder, a glowing eulogy on Councillor Robert Jeffries and a savage condemnation of his killer. It didn’t quite go so far as to indict Marshall for the crime but if it fell short, it wasn’t far short. Marshall noted the media conference scheduled for 11 a.m. and knew it would fuel the publicity surrounding him; the last thing he needed. He spent the remainder of the afternoon and early evening in the darkened anonymity of a multi-screen cinema before returning to the hotel after nightfall.
The reception area was deserted but as he walked towards the flight of stairs his gaze strayed to his right. The office used by the proprietor was unoccupied but the light was on. Marshall saw an open copy of the local evening paper lying on the desk next to the phone, revealing a photograph of Marshall under the single word headline: “KILLER”.
The paper’s proximity to the phone rang alarm bells. Even with his new growth of stubble Marshall was easily recognizable. He turned to head for the stairs, then, on impulse, turned back and grabbed the paper before setting off for his room. He heard the distant sound of sirens. Somehow he knew exactly where they would be heading.
He pulled his holdall from the bottom of the wardrobe and stuffed his clothing and few possessions inside. He realized the front of the building was a no go area. Fortunately the fire escape ran past his window. Cautiously, he eased the window up, crawled through on to the steel platform and started down the iron rungs as fast as he could.
He’d got to within ten feet of the ground when he glanced down, in time to see a figure move away from the wall, little more than a darker shape in the darkness. ‘Watch out, he’s here,’ a voice called out.
Marshall jumped. His feet and knees simultaneously hit the man in the midriff, who collapsed with a huge sigh, like a deflating balloon. As Marshall regained his balance a second man launched himself out of the shadows. Marshall swung the holdall and heard a cry of pain. Then he was off down the garden like a sprinter. He cleared the low hedge at the end like a steeplechaser and landed in the grounds of a terrace house in the road behind the hotel. The building, sub-divided into flats, had the garden area paved for car parking. Marshall sped across the tarmac and into the street beyond.
He heard sirens begin to wail and the screech of tyres as police vehicles set off in pursuit. He ran from the street into the back-alleyways amongst the maze of terraces surrounding Headingley’s famous cricket ground. He dodged this way and that, following no defined pattern, sheltering where he could in back yards, gardens, gateways, and in porches as police cars zoomed past in their frantic efforts to locate him.
He kept on the move for over an hour, conscious all the time that around the next corner disaster could be lurking. At last the sirens became a faint echo in the distance. He needed to get clear of Leeds, but the bus and train stations would be highly dangerous now. Walking or hitching was equally unsafe. It was becoming impossible for him to move. Equally there was no future in remaining where he was.
As he reached a road junction Marshall’s eye was drawn to a row of brightly lit signs on the buildings opposite. He had reached the edge of the student quarter of the city, pubs and café bars everywhere. He crossed the road, casting nervous glances to the right and left, and looked through the windows. He hesitated for a few moments, then decided to take the chance and slipped quietly through the door of the most dimly lit establishment he could see.
Inside, he ordered a coffee and settled down in a corner seat with a direct view of the door and window, sliding his holdall under the table. Around him, the incessant chatter of the students, too occupied with their plans for the evening to give him a second glance. He opened the paper he’d purloined from the hotel and began reading about his alleged misdeeds.
In the article there was a statement about him, his past, and time in Durham gaol. The journalist had quoted the source as Superintendent Richard Dundas of Yorkshire Central Task Force. Marshall remembered Dundas; remembered him only too well.
He needed a plan, but first of all he needed to get clear of the net that was closing in around him. He looked again at the article, memory stirring. Now he thought he knew a way, but it meant taking a chance. And doing something he’d vowed never to do again: taking someone on trust. From nowhere, or so it seemed, he recalled a conversation he’d had with the occupant of the next cell. The prisoner owed Marshall: big style. It had been Marshall’s timely intervention that had saved his neighbour from death or serious injury at the hands of a trio of prisoners he’d angered. Recognizing the debt, he’d told Marshall, ‘If you’re ever in a jam and need help, get in touch.’
Marshall watched and waited until he was sure the coast was clear, then set off towards the city centre at a brisk walk, mobile in hand.
As soon as the call was answered, Marshall said, ‘I used to live next door to you. You once promised to help me if I was in need of it.’
There was a long silence as he awaited the reply. ‘Is that who I think it is? Someone who has been making a lot of newspaper headlines?’
‘You’ve got it. But you shouldn’t believe everything you read. About the only thing they got right is my name. The question is, will you help me?’
‘Depends what you want, but I’ll do what I can.’
Marshall could sense some reluctance. Hardly surprising, as the man didn’t know what the favour was. ‘I’m taking you on trust,’ he admitted, ‘and I hope that boast you once made wasn’t an idle one. You told me, with your contacts you were able to access information other people couldn’t get. Is that still the case?’
‘Pretty much.’ The answer was immediate; the relief evident. ‘What exactly are you after?’
‘I have a car registration number. I know the make and model. What I need is the owner’s name and address. Can you get that for me?’
‘Piece of cake. I take it you need this as soon as possible?’
‘Oh, no,’ Marshall assured him, ‘it’s far more urgent than that.’
This time there was laughter in his contact’s voice. ‘Give me your phone number. I’ll have the details for you by morning.’
Marshall rested in a shelter in a remote corner of a park; he was exhausted. The night was dark, moonless and the cloud cover was thick enough to threaten rain or snow. It was certainly cold enough for snow, but Marshall wasn’t worried by that. As far as he was concerned the worse the weather, the better for him. He felt very much alone and depressed.
He awoke with a start, looked round alarmed: his mobile was ringing. He answered the call, committing the details of what he was told to memory. It was still dark. His holdall was still at his side. Marshall sighed with relief and rubbed at his arms, his legs, as he tried to get some feeling back into his numb body. He was frozen and hungry. He knew this was useless. Nowhere around here was safe. It was strange, he thought. At one time he’d been perfectly at home in a city; his city. Now, the place terrified him. Mind you, he hadn’t been on the run then. After a lot of thought, he realized he had only one choice, dangerous though it might be. He knew where he had to go. But how to get there, that was the first problem.
‘The audio-visual surveillance team is in place and the phone line has been tapped.’
‘Good, keep me informed on the way things are moving, especially if there is anything positive
to report.’
Had the various members of the Internal Affairs inquiry team inspected Lisa Andrews’ file closely, they might have noticed that as part of her training she had attended a surveillance techniques course. They might have read the comments made on her report by the senior tutor. Sadly for them they failed to see either.
The tutor had been impressed by Andrews’ ability to detect electronic chatter, the signature of all listening devices. He’d been so intrigued by this talent that he tried her with a variety of instruments from two-way radios to mobile phones. At the end of her course, he told her if she wanted to transfer into counter-espionage activities he would gladly recommend her for it.
Whether Lisa would have picked up the sound, had her alarm level not been heightened by Donald’s threat of reprisals, is difficult to determine. When the phone rang she answered just in time to hear a faint but unmistakeably familiar click, then Shirley Dickinson’s voice.
‘Hello, Shirley,’ Lisa answered. ‘Listen, I’ve got a pan on the stove. Can I ring you back in five minutes or so? Right, I’ll call you then.’
She waited for Shirley to disconnect, and immediately heard the same clicking sound before the dialling tone returned. ‘Donald, you bastard,’ she muttered as she wandered to the window in the lounge overlooking the street. She stared at the vehicles for a few minutes then closed the curtains. She was careful to leave a tiny gap between the two edges of the fabric. The curtains were heavy velvet, there was no way anyone standing behind them would be visible to the outside world. She was interested most in the occupants of the Ford Transit van she could see.
She went back to the phone and lifted the receiver. Once again she heard the slight click before the dialling tone kicked in. She smiled and replaced the receiver. She went back into the lounge and switched the TV on. She turned the volume up, then tapped Shirley’s number into her mobile.
‘Shirley, I’m sorry about the noise but I think I’m being watched, that probably means the phone’s tapped. I can’t even trust my mobile for long. Do you have a mobile?’
‘No, but my husband does,’ Shirley replied.
‘Do you have caller display on this phone?’
‘Yes we do. Why?’
‘Write my mobile number down then send me a text so I can get yours. It saves repeating it aloud. I’ll send you a text in reply. I’m not going to say any more, OK?’
Five minutes later Lisa received a text which read, ‘Haven’t heard from our friend, worried. You take care’. She replied immediately. ‘Will contact tomorrow’.
Lisa was about to go to bed when she remembered the parked van. She walked over to the lounge window and peered through the gap. It was still there. Lisa went round the flat turning the lights off one by one, then entered her bedroom where she switched the bedside light on and closed the curtains. She sat on the bed for ten minutes then switched off the lamp. Anyone watching would assume she’d gone to bed.
She walked cautiously back through to the lounge and across to the window. She stood watching. Her patience was rewarded when the rear door of the vehicle opened and a man climbed out. He turned as if to close the door but held it for a moment peering into the interior. It was impossible to be certain at that range and in darkness, but from his posture Lisa guessed he was talking to someone.
The man closed the door and set off to walk towards the town centre. Lisa continued to watch. It was some twenty minutes later when she spotted him returning, carrying a plastic bag. He knocked on the van door which opened immediately. Instead of climbing in he delved into the carrier and began passing small containers inside. Lisa smiled, obviously a takeaway. With a little luck she might be able to gain the advantage. She took her mobile, dialled 999 and specified police assistance.
‘There’s men watching from a van outside. I’m scared. They’ve been there hours. I daren’t go to bed.’ Lisa gabbled the words in a breathless whisper, panting nervously to further disjoint the delivery.
‘Could I have your name and address please?’ the police operator asked patiently.
‘What? Oh, er, yes. My name, er, Jackie Reynolds,’ Lisa continued to whisper. ‘I live at seventeen, Wharfedale Close, Flat D. They might be burglars or worse. Please, will you send someone?’
‘How long has the vehicle been parked there, madam?’ the operator asked.
‘It’s miss, not madam. It’s been there hours. I don’t know exactly how long. Before dark, because I know it’s blue.’
Lisa paused. Then injecting a degree of panic into her voice went on. ‘There’s a man getting out of the van. He’s walking over towards the building. Oh please send someone as fast as—’ She pressed the button to end the call.
The operator rang back three times, each time Lisa ignored the call. She wondered how sensitive the surveillance equipment might be. Whether the team had gained access to the flat itself and placed bugs inside? There was no sign of movement. Obviously her little charade hadn’t been picked up. Five minutes later, a police car drew to a halt across the front of the van.
Lisa watched. Her interest turned to amusement as the two officers from the patrol car began inspecting the van. One of them tried the rear door which opened easily. He shone his torch inside. In a whirl of activity he stepped clear as a trio of men emerged. There was a heated conversation lasting several minutes, towards the end of which documentation was produced.
The men’s explanation must have satisfied the officers, for they moved away from the trio and began walking towards the flats. Lisa watched as the three men stood for a few moments obviously debating the events and their significance. Several glances were cast up towards her windows before the trio climbed into the front of the van and drove away. As they departed Lisa heard the faint sound of a doorbell ringing somewhere in the building. She glanced at her watch, it was 2.15 a.m. Lisa remembered how upset Jackie got when her sleep was disturbed. She smiled with satisfaction as she wandered through to her bedroom. It might only have been a small triumph, but it was enjoyable nonetheless.
The senior internal investigations officer listened to the report. ‘When the officers went to the flats to reassure the woman who’d rung, she knew nothing of the complaint. We checked the number of the caller. It was a mobile phone. The woman they spoke to doesn’t possess a mobile.’
‘I take it you’re assuming DC Andrews has become aware of our activities and taken retaliatory measures?’
‘I think it’s a reasonable assumption.’
‘I wonder how she found out?’
‘According to her file, she was extremely talented at spotting telephone bugging during her training course.’
‘Her response seems to have been highly effective. She’s got rid of the team watching her home. She’s stopped using the phone in her flat and we can’t bug her mobile unless we can get hold of it. I’d say she’s winning hands down.’
‘It seemed sensible to withdraw the surveillance team as soon as their cover was blown. I’ve given instruction for another unit to be deployed as soon as is practicable.’
‘Marvellous.’ There was no doubting the sarcasm in the senior officer’s voice. ‘Be sure to let me know when plan B is in operation. Do you think you can manage to search her flat for evidence without her noticing? If you find Marshall’s fingerprints for instance, then I can contact her senior officer.’
Chapter Thirteen
Marshall boarded the first available train next morning. He’d waited until it was due to leave, saw there was one compartment without passengers and headed for it. Given the early hour and that there were only a couple of stations en route, he hoped it would stay that way. He opened the paper he’d bought at the newsagents in the station concourse. The only reason he’d chosen that one was that it was a broadsheet. Useful for hiding behind. Almost immediately, an item caught his attention. It was a profile of one of the parliamentary candidates standing at a forthcoming by-election. Marshall had little or no interest in politics but remembered the conversation
he’d overheard at Sir Maurice Winfield’s shoot. The man they’d talked about was obviously the one interviewed here. After the first sentence Marshall’s interest was well and truly caught. With considerable surprise he realized he knew the subject of the article.
FORMER PILOT NOW A HIGH FLYER
When Julian Corps left the RAF to take over the ailing family business few people guessed he would one day become one of the leading figures in the construction industry. Even fewer would have suggested he might become a powerful force in parliamentary politics. Yet twenty years later, Corps heads Coningsby Developments, one of the two major players in the construction and civil engineering industries. Although not yet elected to Westminster, the by-election looks to be a foregone conclusion, and many political pundits are predicting a rapid rise for Corps through the party ranks. Some have even gone so far as to suggest him as a future Prime Minister.
Corps himself was one of those early doubters. Stressing that his name is pronounced like an army unit rather than a dead body, the prospective MP explained, ‘My first priority was to get the company on to a sound footing. My father was a great engineer but less talented as a businessman. I was too concerned with the day to day running of the firm to think of much else.’ When asked how he’d gone about performing the rescue act, Corps smiled. ‘It took a lot of bloody hard work for little reward. It meant long hours of solid graft, day in, day out. First priority was to make sure all the bills got paid. Then cross my fingers and hope we had enough left to pay the wages. If there was anything left in the kitty after that, it got split between building up a reserve and paying myself a wage.’
‘What if there wasn’t enough?’
Corps smiled again. ‘Then I had to do without. It’s a good discipline being hungry.’
‘When did you think the company was beginning to turn the corner?’
‘I don’t remember there being a defining moment. It was more a gradual process. After a while I felt confident enough to tender for bigger, more lucrative contracts. I suppose it was when we’d serviced one or two of them successfully, that I began to think we were making real progress.’