The Falcon Tattoo (The National Crime Agency Series Book 2)

by Bill Rogers

  ‘Go on,’ she said.

  ‘It could be a genuine warning, Jo. He may be telling you that he’s making this personal. That he’s going to target you in some way. You can’t afford to overlook that possibility. You have to be on your guard.’

  ‘I agree,’ said Max. ‘That’s why I’m going to stick to you like glue.’

  Jo stood up. The thought of whoever had sent that bouquet, whether or not it was the unsub, had unsettled her more than she was prepared to admit. The thought of him following her, his eyes on her. Her not knowing what his next move might be.

  She realised that the three of them were staring at her.

  ‘I don’t need babysitting,’ she said. ‘I’m perfectly capable of looking after myself. Now, I don’t know about the rest of you, but I’m exhausted. I suggest that we call it a day, and come in bright early in the morning.’

  Chapter 46

  He lowered the window a fraction to stop the windscreen fogging up, and checked his watch. It had been over an hour now. Fortune was on his side. Cars were double-parked along the length of this street. He had been able to slot into the one remaining space, twenty-five yards away, beneath a tree and in the shadow between two street lights. He reached across, opened the glove box and felt for the flask of coffee. There was no telling how long he would have to wait.

  He paused as a taxi drew up outside the house on the opposite side of the street. The driver switched on the overhead light, and turned to receive his fare. She leaned forward, revealing her face in profile, and the glistening sheen of her hair. She was perfect. This was perfect. His pulse began to race as he watched her hurry up the steps, two shopping bags in each hand. He saw the security light come on. Watched her struggle to find her key. Saw her face light up as the door opened from the inside. Watched as the two of them embraced in the hallway. Saw her kick the door closed behind her. He drew a deep breath, exhaled slowly and began to unscrew the top of the flask. He would give anything to be there and to see the face of that bitch Stuart when she learned what he had done.

  There was a distinct change in the traffic now, as city-centre workers hurrying home from their office parties and Christmas drinks were replaced by singletons heading out for a long night in the Manchester clubs and bars. It was raining now, a miserable drizzle that ran in rivulets down his windscreen and pooled in shallow depressions in the road, reflecting the blue-and-white LED icicles strung in the trees and bushes bordering the pavements. He checked his watch again. It was twenty minutes since she had disappeared inside.

  There was movement in the hallway. Dark shadows behind the opaque glass panel. He switched on the engine, turned on the windscreen wipers and craned forward.

  The door opened. He watched them embrace, their faces framed by the golden glow from the ceiling lights. What began as a hesitant kiss on the lips swelled and deepened. His hands began to sweat. The veins on either side of his neck began to pulse. He tried to wipe away the condensation on the windscreen from his hot breath, and left an ugly smear. He cursed, groping for the wash-leather beneath the flask in the glove box. By the time he had cleared the windscreen, she was getting into a white Toyota Auris parked outside the house.

  He closed the glovebox, fastened his seat belt, waited for the door of the house to close, and set off towards the twin brake lights at the end of the road.

  He had been surprised to see her drive into this car park. It was a long way to come for a Krispy Kreme doughnut or a visit to ASDA. But now that she was out of the car and waiting to cross the busy Barton Dock Road, it all made sense. Every one of the Trafford Centre car parks had been full as they drove past. Like the thousands of other poor souls who had flocked here, she had some last-minute shopping to do. Something she had forgotten. Unlike him.

  His right hand strayed absentmindedly to the deep pocket of his cagoule. He felt the hilt of the knife and smiled. Then he slipped on his black leather gloves and flipped open the brass clasps of the briefcase on the seat beside him. It was time to throw the cat among the pigeons, and for the falcon to take the dove.

  Chapter 47

  It was a miserable way to start Christmas Eve morning. Jo was angry. With Max, and with herself. With him for thinking that because she had once been the victim of a violent abduction that she needed protection, and with herself for letting it get to her. Or was it simply because she was a woman? It wasn’t the sort of thing he was going to say to a male colleague. And she had already demonstrated her ability to look after herself during her very first investigation as part of the Behavioural Sciences Unit. Get over it, she told herself – there are far more important matters to deal with.

  She began by ringing Harry Stone.

  ‘I’ve just left Warrington,’ he told her. ‘I’m on my way over to you. I’m on hands-free, so is this urgent or can it wait till I get there?’

  ‘I’ll let you decide, Boss,’ she said. ‘Is your line secure?’

  ‘I’ve pulled into the inside lane,’ he said. ‘Unless the caravan behind, or the wagon in front are training an encryption-busting, directional, high-gain antenna on this car, I’d say it’s as secure as the PM’s direct line to the White House. Although I have no doubt the Chinese and the Russians are already working on hacking into that one.’

  ‘It’s someone we’ve had on our radar,’ she said. ‘SM.’

  She waited for him to let her know that he understood.

  ‘Go ahead,’ he said.

  ‘You’ll know from the shared drive that I asked Ram to track down the sister. I’ve just finished a video interview with her. She alleges that he abused her from the age of ten to fifteen. And her physical appearance at the time fits with our victim profiles.’

  ‘Go on,’ he said.

  ‘We have also established, Ram that is, that SM had a student placement at the donor facility that was the likely source of the trace evidence found on the body of the dead victim.’

  ‘Shah has been busy,’ he said. ‘You both have. Well done. What is it you’re asking?’

  ‘Approval for covert surveillance on SM.’

  ‘You don’t necessarily need my involvement to do that.’

  ‘I do for landline, mobile and Wi-Fi intercepts,’ she said, ‘and a tracker on his car.’

  ‘Ah,’ he said. There was a pause. ‘I’m giving you approval for directed surveillance,’ he said. ‘As for the intrusive surveillance, leave it with me. I’ll need to contact the Surveillance Commissioner.’

  ‘Thanks, Boss,’ she said.

  ‘Now you’d better get off the line,’ he told her. ‘Before I get boxed in by this bloody great tanker bearing down on me.’

  Jo replaced the phone and punched the air. Before she had time to set everything in motion, her BlackBerry rang. When she saw that the call was from Abbie, she knew that she had to take it. This could be a second chance, or at the very least an opportunity to put right the hash she had made of their most recent conversation.

  ‘Abbie,’ she said. ‘I’m so glad that . . .’

  ‘You’ve got to help me, Jo!’ Abbie sounded frantic, her words tumbling into each other. ‘I don’t know who else to turn to.’

  ‘Whatever’s the matter, Abbie?’

  ‘It’s Sally, she’s missing!’ There was a sob in her voice.

  ‘Sally? Sally who?’

  ‘Sally! Sally Warburton. James’s sister.’

  Of course. Abbie had texted her that she was staying with James’s sister here in Manchester. But why did Abbie sound so desperate?

  ‘Calm down,’ Jo said. ‘And tell me what makes you think that Sally’s missing.’

  ‘I don’t think, I know! Sally is missing. She went to the Trafford Centre yesterday, and she never came back.’

  ‘What time did she set off?’

  ‘At seven pm – I told her it was stupid. That the traffic would be a nightmare, and the shops would be heaving, but she said there was one last thing she needed to pick up. It was something she’d ordered. She didn’t want to
leave it till today because it would be even more manic, with it being Christmas Eve. You’ve got to help me, Jo.’

  ‘I assume you rang the Trafford Centre?’

  ‘It was the first thing I did. They said her car wasn’t there, and there was no record of it having entered any of their car parks. They’re all monitored.’

  Jo knew from a multi-agency exercise that she had been on how tight security was at the Trafford Centre. Two hundred and eighty-five cameras, monitored from the state-of-the-art security control room, covered the ten thousand car park spaces. Security officers patrolling the centre were able to speak face-to-face with the control room using videophones. If they said Sally’s car had not been there, then it definitely had not.

  ‘You’ve tried ringing her phone?’

  ‘Over and over again. Last night and this morning. It’s switched off. Sally never switches it off when she’s out, Jo. Never!’

  ‘Has she been in contact with her brother?’

  ‘No. James is here with me now. We’re both frantic with worry, Jo. You’ve got to help us.’

  ‘I assume that you’ve contacted the local police? Trafford North? That would be Stretford Police Station. You don’t have to wait twenty-four hours any more; you can ring as soon as you’re worried about someone.’

  ‘I rang them last night when she didn’t come home. They asked me for a photo, details of her friends and relatives, places she often visits, whether she has a medical condition.’ She paused, and Jo thought she heard her sob and someone comforting her. ‘Oh, Jo,’ she said, ‘they want her toothbrush . . . for her DNA.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Abbie,’ Jo said, ‘that’s just routine. It doesn’t mean that they believe anything sinister has happened to Sally. They’ll be tracing her phone and her car. I’m sure they’ll find her in no time. Most people turn up within the first twenty-four hours.’

  ‘This isn’t most people, Jo,’ Abbie replied, ‘this is Sally. She hasn’t had a lapse of memory. She’s too young for Alzheimer’s. She’s only twenty-six, for God’s sake!’

  ‘You’ve checked with all of the hospitals?’

  ‘Of course we have. She’s not in any of them.’

  In which case, Jo thought, she’s right to be worried.

  ‘Look, Abbie,’ she said. ‘I’ll help in any way I can, but there’s nothing I can do that GMP and our Missing Persons Bureau won’t already be doing.’

  ‘There must be something else you can do? For a start, you can make sure they’re taking it seriously.’

  ‘I will, Abbie, I promise. And send me a copy of the online form the police asked you to fill in. The one with Sally’s physical description, ethnicity, mobile number, etc. Oh, and a recent photo. I’ll text you the email address to send it to.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I’m sending that text now, Abbie. If I hear anything, I’ll let you know straight away. You take care, and try not to worry.’

  ‘I’ll try, and Jo . . . thanks, from both of us.’

  ‘Like I said,’ Jo replied, ‘I’m sure she’ll turn up soon. Got to go, Abbie. The text is on its way now. Bye.’

  ‘Bye, Jo . . .’

  It was an uneasy ending, with neither of them knowing how best to finish the call. Jo entered her dedicated email address and pressed send.

  ‘Problem?’

  She looked up. A concerned Max was standing beside her.

  ‘It’s Abbie,’ she said. ‘The girl she’s staying with has gone missing. I think she’s right to be worried.’

  Max pulled up a chair, and sat down.

  ‘What are you thinking?’ he asked.

  ‘That it may have something to do with Operation Juniper,’ she said.

  He frowned.

  ‘Is there any way,’ he said, ‘that our unsub might have connected this girl with you? How long is it since Abbie left your apartment?’

  ‘Just over four weeks. But Abbie has a key, and she’s been back several times to collect her post and some of her stuff, always when I’m out. But he must have been watching the apartments to know where to send those flowers. He could have seen her and followed her.’ Jo’s voice caught in her throat. It followed that he must have been watching her too. Studying her. Trying to get inside her head.

  ‘Assuming it was him,’ said Max.

  ‘Who else could it be?’

  ‘But she’d left before you took over Operation Juniper.’

  ‘You know how serial perpetrators work, Max. He’ll have been doing his research on me from the moment that I gave that first press conference. He’ll know I’m in a civil partnership with Abbie. If I was able to track her down, I’m sure he could.’

  Jo’s computer pinged to let her know that she had mail. She turned to face her monitor. There were two mail attachments.

  ‘It’s the Missing Person description,’ she told Max.

  She printed them off and swivelled in her chair.

  ‘Oh my God!’

  ‘What is it?’ said Max.

  She handed him the printouts.

  Gender

  Female

  Age

  26

  Ethnicity/appearance

  White Caucasian

  Height

  1.57 metres/5’2”

  Build

  Slim

  Ethnic appearance

  White

  Eye colour

  Blue

  Hair colour and style

  Blonde, shoulder length

  Glasses

  None

  But the photograph was the clincher. Sally Warburton could easily have passed as a slightly older sister of Sareen Lomax, the first victim attributed to the unsub.

  ‘I agree,’ said Max.

  ‘With what?’

  Andy had been attracted by Jo’s outburst, Ram was close behind. Max handed them the printouts.

  ‘See for yourself.’

  ‘Her name is Sally Warburton,’ Jo told them. ‘Abbie’s staying with her at the moment, here in Manchester. She went shopping at the Trafford Centre last night and didn’t come back. She’s been missing for fifteen and a half hours. No phone or text messages. Her phone is off. No sign of her car. It has to be Malacott. This is too much of a coincidence. First the flowers, now this.’

  She stood up.

  ‘I’m going to arrest him. Search his house, his office, his car.’

  ‘Hang on,’ said Andy. ‘Let’s think this through. Firstly, it could just be a coincidence. Secondly, since she hasn’t turned up, then the odds are that she’s probably still alive and he’s holding her somewhere. Thirdly, he’s either trying to distract you again or he’s challenging you. You can’t just rush in and arrest him. Let’s say you do and he bluffs it out – you may never find her. Besides, right now all you have is a hunch that it is Malacott that has her.’

  ‘He’s right, Jo,’ said Max. ‘You have to approach this as you would any missing vulnerable person, not charge in there like the cavalry just because he’s made it personal. That may be what he wants, what he’s prepared for.’

  Jo bit her lip. They were both right. This had to be finessed and done by the book.

  ‘Okay,’ she said. ‘Ram, you get on to Missing Persons and find out where they’re up to with tracing the car and the mobile phone. Impress on them the urgency of the matter. Tell them if they need additional help, we’ll offer Operation Juniper resources. Max and I will plan the covert surveillance strategy on Malacott. When the Boss gets here, I’ll brief him and see if he can get us some tactical support.’

  ‘Tactical support for what?’

  They turned their heads towards the door as Harry Stone strode in.

  Chapter 48

  ‘Sally Warburton’s phone has been traced to a waste disposal bin on the outskirts of a retail park opposite the Trafford Centre,’ Gerry Sarsfield told her. ‘That’s where her car was parked. As soon as we found it, I sent a DC to have a look at the CCTV on their cameras. It looks like they captured her and her abductor
getting into the car, and the car driving off. I’ve just sent a link to your inbox. I suggest you brace yourselves, because you’re not going to believe what you see.’

  Jo and Max were seated in the satellite major investigation room at the Quays, conversing with Sarsfield by videoconference. Harry Stone had been called away to take a personal call. Ram had slipped out for a moment.

  ‘I’ve got it, Gerry,’ said Jo. ‘Give me a second.’

  Jo angled the screen of the second monitor so that the GMP detective would be able to see exactly what they were watching. She waited with mounting excitement as the video began to stream. The first thing that struck her was the quality of the resolution, especially given that it was late in the evening.

  ‘The detail is amazing,’ she said.

  ‘That,’ Sarsfield told her, ‘is because they’re using a network visual recording system with IP cameras so they can control the cameras in real time from their monitoring room, and also get good-quality licence plate capture. That way they can send out automatic car park fines and resolve any disputes over accidents in the car park, including false claims for compensation.’

  The car park was only half full. There was movement on the extreme right of the screen. A woman opened the driver’s door of a Shogun, and got into the car.

  ‘That’s not her,’ said Sarsfield.

  They watched as the lights came on and the car backed out. As if by magic, the camera followed the Shogun until it disappeared from the screen. The camera swung back to its starting position.

  ‘Here they come now,’ said Sarsfield.

  A couple appeared in the centre right of the screen. A tall figure with a man’s gait, and a woman over a foot shorter than him. His left arm enveloped her back and appeared to be clamping her left arm to her side. His right arm was across her front with his hand hidden inside the fold of her open coat.