Flight Path: A Wright & Tran Novel

by Ian Andrew

  Continuing to stare at the glass, Kara had said, “I miss the rush, Tien. Following the odd cheating partner or finding the employee who’s dipping the till isn’t enough. Last week, when we were working with the old team, it was a thrill, a buzz. Franklyn’s cases are likely to provide more of that. I want it.”

  “No you don’t.”

  Kara looked up, frowning.

  Tien continued, “You don’t want it, you need it. Simple as that. You need it and to be honest, I enjoyed last week more than any other since I left the Army, so yeah, it’s okay by me. On one condition.”

  “Name it.”

  “We both have to agree to every case. No agreement, no case.”

  “I wouldn’t have wanted it any other way,” Kara had said and downed her bourbon.

  They’d set up a second meeting with Franklyn, sorted out all their protocols and then waited, but there had been no word from the old man. No contact, no excitement to get worked up about. Just silence. So they went back to doing routine. Not that they strictly needed to. The cash they had acquired while tracking down a less than respectable middle-aged couple meant they could have retired for good, but that would have driven both women insane. So now Franklyn had called and Tien had instigated the security measures that might not be necessary, but that she was going to oversee anyway.

  Reaching to the steering wheel controls she pressed a small button marked with a telephone symbol. The BMW’s head-up display in her windscreen showed a ‘Dial by Name’ command box.

  “Call Jacob Harrop,” Tien instructed. There was a small pause before a sultry voice responded with, ‘Calling Jacob Harrop’. Tien needlessly said, “Thank you Marlene.”

  When she had taken delivery of the new car she had cycled through all the available voices, from the austere clipped English of an actor whose face she could see, but whose name she couldn’t remember, through to an over-emphasised robotic voice. She had finally settled on the velvet tones of the female she had christened Marlene.

  “Hi, how’s it going?” Jacob answered, his Essex tones neither sultry nor velvety.

  “Good. You in place?”

  “Roger that. Toby too. All is clear. You?”

  “I’m about ten away. I’ll confirm when I’m there. I make it ten-hundred hours,” she paused and waited for the digital numbers on the head-up display to roll over, “now.”

  “Roger that.”

  She disconnected the call without any further formalities. The elegance and simplicity of using trusted colleagues on outer protection screens meant that she didn’t have to waste time explaining the situation. They knew their job and Tien trusted Jacob and his brother Toby, both former Royal Air Force Regiment gunners, to protect Kara. Their role was to be the equivalent of the Seventh Cavalry and she knew they would come charging if required.

  Tien’s job was to be near with a vehicle. The Central London locations on the list would make that difficult, but out here in the North West suburbs, it was altogether easier. In the weeks that followed the second meeting with Franklyn, Tien had spent her time researching all thirty-one locations. Visiting each in turn she had assessed their surroundings, how many entrances each had, where the nearest parking spots were and based on what she found, she graded them into easy, medium and hard. The hard ones were those she dreaded due to the difficulty in protecting Kara, or being able to remove her from harm’s way. She began to put rudimentary plans in place and then set about refining those plans as time allowed. Because Franklyn hadn’t called in months, she had refined and improved her counter-surveillance plans for the complete list. The Canons Park location, a small coffee shop next to a Tube station, was graded as ‘easy’. Open, above ground, a single front entrance and an exit door to the rear, albeit accessed through the kitchen, good road links surrounding it, parking in sight and no issues with mobile signals or line-of-sight radio communications. Tien would have chosen it herself for the first rendezvous.

  She drove past the Tube station entrance and continued to the next roundabout, mentally registering the cars and vans parked within the vicinity. Looping back, she pulled into a parking area adjacent to a long row of shops called ‘Station Parade’. The small café was located midway down its length, sheltering between a newsagents and a picture framing business. Her position gave her a clear line of sight to the café entrance and allowed her to scan all the vehicles in the immediate vicinity. Being a Wednesday, the morning activity had slumped into a post-rush-hour-post-school-run hiatus, so activity around the Parade was minimal. She was parked directly in front of a car-parts shop that had been forlornly abandoned some time ago. The rest of the businesses in the row were still trading and there was light foot-traffic into the newsagents, the bookmakers, the florists and the rest of the sundry shops. The patrons toing and froing were wholly unremarkable.

  Across the street a Number-79 bus slowed to a stop, then pulled away again having deposited a young mother with a baby-buggy and two older sari-attired ladies. As the bus moved off Tien noted a white male still sitting in the shelter, his head down looking at his mobile phone. He looked about mid-twenties, had short dark hair and was wearing black trainers, jeans and a dark-blue padded ski-jacket.

  She checked the London Transport sign at the near end of the shelter. It showed three route numbers so she relaxed a little, considering he may have been waiting for one of the other buses. She pulled her own mobile and searched for the routes. According to the online timetable the Number-186 was due in two minutes and the Number-340 two minutes after that. She relaxed some more and dialled Jacob’s number.

  “I’m here now. You still good?” she asked.

  “Yep,” he said.

  “I have one possible. You?”

  “None, I’m clear. Toby’s happy their trail is clear too. Do you want me to come take a walk-by?”

  “No,” Tien answered. “Hang tight. If he is a sighter he won’t be on his own. I suppose we should expect our guest to be running safety too.”

  “Okay, your call. I’ll let Toby know.”

  “Good, talk soon.” Tien disconnected and watched as an iconic red double-decker bus came into sight at the far end of the road. She could see ‘340 Harrow’ in the vehicle’s window display and thought it was typical that the second one due was the first to arrive. As it moved around a parked car she caught sight of the Number-186, a single-decker, following close behind.

  An elderly couple, probably in their early seventies, had joined the young male at the shelter. The dapper old man stepped forward and raised his arm to signal the approaching bus. His wife waited a few steps behind. The young man didn’t move.

  Both buses trundled to a halt and although her view of the stop was obscured, Tien could see the elderly couple getting on to the first bus and making their way unsteadily to a seat. She was impressed that the driver waited for the couple to sit down before he hauled the double-decker back into traffic. The Number-186 trundled behind like a half-height sibling, patiently following in the tracks of its bigger sister.

  The young male still hadn’t moved. His eyes were sweeping from his mobile phone to the front entrance of the café. He hadn’t yet looked up the opposite length of the street to where Tien was ensconced. She watched his hands. They held his mobile down on his lap but his fingers weren’t moving the way they should if he was texting or surfing the net or accessing any other type of app. Then he raised his right hand to his mouth and spoke into his cuff. At the same time he turned in her direction. Tien, behind dark tinted side windows, scrunched down, making her movements very slowly, but he wasn’t looking at her. He was watching a dark-maroon Jaguar XF saloon as it cruised down the road. When the car slowed and stopped outside the Tube station’s entrance, the nearside front and rear passenger doors opened and two men, also in their mid-twenties, stepped from it. They glanced across to the man at the bus stop and nodded in acknowledgement. It was a quick gesture, but unmistakeable. The Jaguar pulled away as soon as the doors were slammed shut.

>   Tien called Jacob again, “Hi, I have two more males, short dark hair, wearing suits, making their way to the café.”

  “Do you want me to come to you?”

  “Negative. You stay on the rear entrance. I think these two are doing a less than covert sweep. We should probably offer them some advice. This is not how to avoid attention.”

  Jacob laughed, “Have they even noticed you yet?”

  “Nope, they’ve just walked straight for the café. One of them is standing outside, like a bad impression of a US secret service guy. The other one has just ducked inside,” she paused, waiting. “And now he’s back out. And they’re going over to talk to their friend at the bus stop. Oh dear, this is amateur hour. All they need is mirror-sunglasses and they’d be perfect.”

  “What do you want to do?” Jacob asked.

  “We’ll wait until I’m sure they’re our main guest’s escorts. If not we’ll abort. I have,” Tien glanced at the car’s clock, “10:17, so we have a few minutes. Give Toby a heads-up.”

  “Roger.” The line disconnected and Tien knew that Jacob would call his brother who was currently at the next Tube station down the line, providing eyes-on protection for Kara.

  Tien in turn called Kara, who answered on the second ring, “Yep?”

  “We have company at the RV. Three tall, slim males, mid-twenties, behaving like they’ve read the easy-reader book of bad security details.”

  “Still, three young guys. I could maybe teach them a few moves?” Kara interjected with a laugh.

  Tien couldn’t help smiling, “Concentrate Kara,” she mock scolded. “I’m going to get you to stay where you are until I know they’re with our guest. Okay?”

  “Yep.”

  Tien kept the line open but said no more. Instead she waited and watched. A few minutes later the Jaguar reappeared. The two men in suits left their colleague at the bus stop and crossed the road. As the car stopped level with the Tube station the rear, nearside passenger door opened and an older man, thin, with a receding hairline, stepped out. He nodded at the two younger men who got back into the car. It pulled away.

  “Kara?” Tien asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Our guest has arrived. He still has a plus-one in situ. I thought the old man trusted us?” Tien said with a small laugh.

  “Yeah, guess he trusts us like we trust him. Are we still going?” Kara asked.

  “I think so. Seems okay. The other two were confirmed as his and they’ve left. When you talk to him you might suggest he ups his game. Those guys were dreadful. Wait,” Tien watched the older man, dressed in a dark three-piece suit and carrying a slim document folder, walk purposefully towards the café. He carried himself with the poise of authority and despite Kara and Tien’s assumption that he was way past retirement age, he walked with the bounce and vigour of a much younger man. He entered the café without a single glance around. “Okay, you’re on,” Tien said and disconnected the call.

  From where Tien was parked she could see the elevated train line leading to the above ground station of Canons Park. At 10:24 Kara’s train came into view.

  Tien was satisfied the meeting place was secure. Jacob Harrop was positioned to the rear of Station Parade. He’d been in the vicinity of the shops since eight that morning. For the last hour he had been in a concealed vantage point that allowed him to get to the rear door of the café in less than thirty seconds if needed. His brother Toby would step from the train just behind Kara and be in loose contact with her until she was within sight of Tien. Then he would turn away and, having been briefed by his brother, knew to find a spot where he could keep an eye on the man at the bus stop. His job was to prevent anyone getting in the way of a rapid extraction. Tien was in overall control and as she saw Kara walking towards the café, she flicked a small switch on a compact radio transmitter. Each of the four wore a concealed earpiece and an omnidirectional mic that didn’t require you to speak into your cuff, unless you wanted to look strange. It was much more convenient than using mobiles but had a limited range. Given their proximity now, the range was of no concern.

  “Hi all, we’re up on comms, how read?” Tien asked.

  “Fives,” answered Jacob.

  “Same,” answered Toby.

  “Just dandy,” Kara answered with a light tone as she looked into the florist’s window.

  “Thanks for that professional assessment,” Tien said. “Anyway, you’re cleared in. Time now is 10:27.”

  Tien watched Kara step through the café door and cross to a table set back from the window, about halfway into the small establishment. The older man rose and extended his hand. As he spoke, Kara’s voice-activated microphone transmitted. Tien heard the distinctive ‘Tic’ as the mic switched on.

  “My dear Kara, it is so good to see you again.”

  “You too Franklyn. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

  “I’d like you to make sure the dead are really dead.”

  Chapter 3

  Canons Park, London.

  Franklyn slid a document folder over to her. It contained a set of photographs, a coroner’s provisional report, a number of newspaper cuttings and a handwritten letter. Kara closed the cover when the waitress appeared at her elbow. After Franklyn had ordered for both of them, Kara scanned the letter.

  ‘To my family, friends and fans,

  I’m sorry for all the hurt that I have caused. There is no excuse. I succumbed to greed and my addictions. I should have reached out earlier but it is too late now. I am so sorry for disappointing you all. The money is gone and I cannot face any of you again. Especially not the parents and children who were relying on it. On me.

  I know you can never forgive me for I can never forgive myself. It is better that I end it like this. I am so sorry.

  Derek Swift’

  “Okay, who’s Derek Swift?” she asked.

  “He was a radio broadcaster and sometimes television presenter in Suffolk. Strictly provincial but well known within his region. A local lad and a local celebrity,” Franklyn said.

  “And according to this, I assume he committed suicide because of some money he squandered?”

  “Yes,” Franklyn hesitated. “Well, that’s what the official police enquiry and the initial coroner’s report concluded.”

  Kara looked up from the file, “But you don’t think so?”

  “I don’t know. I just think it’s too convenient.”

  “Alright, let’s begin at the beginning then?”

  Franklyn smiled across the table at her and Kara, as she had done the first time they had met, found herself reciprocating the expression. There was something charmingly enigmatic about this old man which she found at once relaxing and intriguing. She knew practically nothing about him and despite Tien’s and her best efforts they had failed to uncover anything. She didn’t even know his full name. But then again, she didn’t need to.

  “Ever the practical one Kara,” he said.

  “I like to think so,” she agreed.

  “All the details we could recover are in the folder, but the general gist is this; Derek Swift was born in a village just outside of Ipswich, Suffolk in 1970. From age fourteen he volunteered at the local cottage-hospital radio station and after leaving school he moved permanently to Ipswich and started working for Radio Gippelwich.”

  “Never heard of it,” Kara said.

  “Well you wouldn’t. It services the town and about twenty miles around. But it’s second after BBC Radio Suffolk in popularity, so as Derek progressed from teaboy to DJ he began to be known in and around the town. He covered the local sports events, did outside broadcasts from the Suffolk Show, judged the occasional pageant, baking competition, you get the idea.”

  Kara nodded.

  “Eventually he had his own breakfast show, ‘The Swift Start’, which quickly became the most listened to radio show in Suffolk. After a few years he received offers to move to London and join the big national networks but he turned them all down. There’s a newsp
aper cutting in there saying that he loved his home county and that he was happy. Ambition and money were second to family and friends.”

  “That’s quite refreshing,” Kara said. “What family did he have?”

  “Parents and an older sister. That was it, no long-term partner although he was often seen in the company of women at functions and events,” Franklyn paused as the waitress came back with his pot of tea and Kara’s latte. He thanked her and poured himself a cup. Kara added a sugar to her coffee and watched Franklyn sipping his hot tea with no sugar or milk added. As he set the cup down he continued.

  “He diversifies by going onto the local commercial television station. Chairs local-interest panel shows, a debate at election times, interviews the manager when the town football club was doing well, or badly. Eventually they offer him his own local-television talk show on a Friday night, ‘A Swift Seven Days’ taking a look at the events of the past week. Again, it does well and again he’s offered to move to bigger things but again he turns it down.”

  “Sounds like he was doing okay. So what went wrong?” Kara asked.

  “As you can probably imagine, Swift was always involved in local charities. Last year there was a cluster of kids in the Ipswich and greater Suffolk area all diagnosed with the same rare cancer. It made the national news, but the Scottish Independence vote was at its height so it was rapidly pushed from the newsfeeds. Locally it was still a significant story because four kids in a thirty-mile radius had a cancer that normally would affect only ten in the entire country per year. The progression of the disease was advanced and the normal treatments weren’t successful.”

  “How old were the kids?” Kara asked.

  “A four year old, two five year olds and a seven year old,” Franklyn lifted his cup again.

  “This isn’t going to end well, is it?” Kara asked, dreading the answer.

  Replacing his cup in its saucer the old man refilled it from the small pot, “No. Not well. Derek Swift headed up a fund-raising drive to get enough money to send all four kids to America. A hospital in Washington State had pioneered a new treatment and was having some success with it. The only problem was the cost of seventy-five thousand dollars per child in addition to the travel and accommodation costs. All in all they needed to raise a quarter of a million pounds. It took a while, but in May, the week before the UK’s General Election, the parents were presented with one of those big promotional cheques for a total of two hundred and fifty six thousand pounds. That was on Saturday, the Second of May. The following day, Swift, and a friend called Amberley, went out deep-sea fishing, but Swift never made it back to harbour.”