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

by Bill Rogers

  ‘That’s either a knife or a gun,’ Max observed.

  ‘Shhh!’ said Jo.

  The man was wearing a dark cagoule with the hood up, over dark jeans. Ten strides brought them to a small, white family-size saloon. They stopped beside the driver’s door. The man bent so that his head was close to the woman’s.

  ‘He’s giving her instructions,’ said Max, unable to contain himself. ‘Telling her what he’ll do if she doesn’t comply.’

  ‘That’s what I thought,’ said Sarsfield.

  ‘Shut up, you two!’ said Jo. ‘I’m trying to concentrate here.’

  The car’s lights flashed as it was disarmed. The woman opened the driver’s door and began to get in. The man shifted his right hand to her right shoulder and pressed down. He was wearing dark gloves. Something glinted briefly in the glow from the car’s interior light.

  ‘Did you see that?’ Jo asked.

  ‘Yes,’ said Max. ‘He was too fast for me to be sure, but he was definitely holding something. I’d hazard a guess that it was a knife. Maybe he’s concealed it up his sleeve.’

  The man opened the rear passenger door on the driver’s side with his left hand, and then used the same hand to push back his hood.

  ‘I don’t believe it,’ said Ram. ‘He’s black!’

  ‘And he’s wearing dark glasses at night!’ said Max.

  The man slammed the driver’s door, ducked his head and slid quickly into the seat behind the female driver. His left hand curled around the driver’s headrest, out of sight his right hand pulled his own door closed and then deftly secured his seatbelt.

  ‘The bastard’s thought of everything,’ muttered Max.

  The man leaned forward with his head close to the woman’s. She secured her seat belt. The car lights came on and then the white reversing lights. The car began to back slowly out of the parking space. A sequence of three cameras followed the car until it finally turned right on to Barton Dock Road, heading north towards the Ship Canal. The three of them breathed out as one. The two investigators sat back in their seats.

  ‘I see what you mean, Gerry,’ said Max. ‘A bald, moustachioed man of African-Caribbean heritage?’

  ‘Does anyone else thinks it’s odd that he pulled that hood back and looked towards the cameras?’ said Jo. ‘Especially given how careful he’s been in every other respect?’

  ‘I was wondering that,’ said Ram. ‘It was almost as though he wanted us to see his face.’

  ‘Can you run it again, Gerry,’ she said. ‘Freeze it at that point and then zoom in on his face?’

  ‘I can’t,’ he said. ‘But I have a techie here who can.’

  Thirty seconds later they were staring at an archetypal, almost stereotypical image of an African-Caribbean male face most representative of boxers, rappers and bodyguards. A large, perfectly oval egg of a head, completely bald. Wrap-around sunglasses, a prominent nose and lips. A narrow strip of beard surrounded the lips and filled the crease at the centre of the chin to form a sophisticated yet sinister goatee beard.

  ‘I’m sure I’ve seen him somewhere before,’ said Ram.

  ‘Can you move it on frame by frame, please,’ Jo said.

  They watched as the man turned in slow motion, and began to duck his head.

  ‘Freeze it!’ she said. ‘Now zoom in on that?’

  She pointed to the lighter grey inverted V-shape running down the back of the skull to the nape of the neck.

  ‘What the hell is that?’ asked Max.

  ‘That’s a seam,’ she said. ‘He’s wearing some kind of mask, only it’s a fraction too small for him.’

  ‘That’s why I thought I’d seen him before,’ said Ram. ‘That’s a silicon mask. I nearly bought one last year for a Halloween party.’

  The two investigators turned to stare at him.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘I really did. Look, I’ll show you.’

  He leaned across Max, entered something into the search bar of the computer, pressed return, made a selection and pressed return again.

  ‘There you go,’ he said as the image flashed up, ‘thirty quid on eBay.’

  ‘It’s identical,’ said Max.

  ‘Right,’ Jo said. ‘I want that seller contacted. We need a list of everyone who has ever purchased one of those masks.’

  ‘Assuming we can get that information,’ said Gerry Sarsfield. ‘There could be hundreds, thousands of names, email addresses, credit card or PayPal details to sift through.’

  ‘I don’t care,’ she said. ‘We can prioritise those with UK delivery addresses, and those in the North West of England. I also want to know where that car went.’

  ‘We’re already on to it,’ said Sarsfield. ‘I was about to tell you that we know it headed north and was picked up by ANPR at twenty eighteen last night, two minutes after it left the car park, approaching the junction of the A57 with the M60. No sightings since then. I’ll give you real-time updates on that. I can also tell you that none of the other car registrations on that car park belong to Malacott’s BMW. So however he got to that car park, it wasn’t in his own car.’

  ‘In which case,’ Jo said. ‘Let’s find out if there are any cars registered to that company of his. If there are, we need to find out who they’re registered to, the name of the keeper and the keeper’s address. We also need to know if he’s been using a hire car.’

  Dorsey Zephaniah arrived and, seeing them deep in conversation, waited for an opportunity to interrupt.

  ‘He could have parked his car somewhere else,’ said Max. ‘Travelled in on the metro or by bus, forced her into her own car, made her drive to where his car was parked, somewhere without CCTV, transferred her to it and driven off. That’s what I’d do.’ He paused, and then shook his head. ‘Mind you, he’d have to have known that she was heading there in the first place.’

  Dizzy raised her eyebrows.

  ‘Remind me to keep an eye on you, Mr Nailor,’ she said. She turned to Jo. ‘This arrived for you in the post, Ma’am. It looked unusual. I thought it might be important.’

  Chapter 49

  Dizzy held an envelope in her left hand. She was wearing a pair of the white nitrile gloves provided for just such eventualities. In her right hand, she held another pair. Jo put the gloves on to receive the envelope.

  She saw at once what Dizzy had meant. It was a standard buff envelope, but the name and address had been cut and pasted from a glossy magazine. Her name and correct title, Senior Investigator Joanne Stuart, had been used. Conscious of her colleagues moving back a pace, she felt gingerly around the edges of the envelope for telltale wires, then turned it over. Across the sealed flap in glossy yellow capitals were the words FOR YOUR EYES ONLY A.

  ‘That’s the James Bond film,’ said Ram. ‘Someone’s printed out an image of the poster and cut out the title. You can tell because that diminutive letter A at the end was the British Board of Film Censors’ rating.’

  ‘You might want to let Forensics open that,’ said Max. ‘It may not be a letter bomb, but it could easily contain or have been impregnated with God knows what. Anthrax or ricin – it wouldn’t be the first time.’

  ‘Puts a whole new spin on poison pen letter,’ Ram observed.

  ‘Under the circumstances,’ said Jo, ‘I think we should find out what’s in here sooner rather than later. Don’t worry, I’ll be careful.’

  She took from her desk tidy the wafer-thin plastic ruler that she used as a paperknife, together with a pair of plastic tweezers.

  ‘I really think you should wait!’ said Max.

  Ignoring him, Jo carried the envelope over to an empty desk beside the windows that looked out on to the Huron Basin. It was a calculated risk, one she was prepared to take. She slid the ruler beneath the top edge of the flap and held her breath as she drew it gingerly down, to the side and across, until the whole of the flap was released. She then teased the flap open with the tweezers and used them to widen the gap so that she could see inside. There appeared to be a single p
iece of paper, just over three inches square. She exhaled, and used the tweezers to ease it out. It was a portrait photograph on standard printer paper. Jo recognised the face immediately.

  ‘Come and see this,’ she said, holding it up in the air.

  Max was the first to recognise it.

  ‘That’s Ginley,’ he said. ‘The reporter?’

  Jo nodded. ‘Anthony Ginley, the IPC investigative reporter.’

  ‘That’s the photograph on the IPC website,’ said Ram.

  ‘The question is, why has someone sent it to me?’ asked Jo.

  ‘More distraction,’ Andy suggested.

  ‘Unless someone else is the unsub,’ said Ram. ‘Ginley, for example. Or someone close to him has decided he’s gone too far and is giving him up?’

  ‘Hang on,’ said Jo. ‘You did the background check on Ginley and started to check on his whereabouts at the time the girls were abducted. I thought you said he was clean?’

  Ram was suddenly the centre of attention. He shook his head sheepishly.

  ‘I said I couldn’t find anything suspicious about him,’ he said. ‘Or anything that linked him or his vehicles to the scene of any of the abductions. But I never said that he was definitely eliminated. And the mere fact that he’s been investigating all of the cases means that he must have been visiting the campuses. But he hasn’t yet been asked for alibis in relation to specific incidents because there didn’t seem to be any grounds for that.’

  ‘Shit!’ said Jo. ‘Have I become fixated on Malacott? Have I got this all wrong?’

  ‘Hang on,’ said Andy. ‘Why has Malacott become our prime suspect, Jo?’

  Jo put the picture of Ginley down on top of the envelope, and began to count off on the fingers of her left hand. ‘Because he has previous, because he’s linked with the universities, because he has an almost unhealthy obsession with victims of rape, because his sister, whom he abused, is the spitting image of at least one of the victims, because . . .’

  ‘And we haven’t yet asked him for any alibis for the evenings the girls went missing,’ Max said.

  ‘That’s because we didn’t have reasonable cause until now,’ she replied defensively.

  ‘Well you do now,’ said Max. ‘So why don’t we proceed as planned, and at the same time get Detective Inspector Sarsfield to have a couple of his team question Ginley, based on you having received that photograph? That way nobody could accuse you of having tunnel vision, or of failing to follow up every lead.’

  Jo picked up the photograph using the tweezers, put it back in the envelope, and handed it to Dorsey Zephaniah.

  ‘Put this in an evidence envelope,’ she said, ‘and have someone from Forensics come and collect it. I want anything they can find: DNA, fingerprints, typeface, make of printer, anything. Tell them that it’s a priority, an abduction.’

  ‘And that if necessary – we’ll pay for it to be brought forward,’ said Harry Stone as he walked towards them. ‘Whatever it is.’

  ‘It’s from the unsub, Boss,’ Jo told him. ‘A wind-up.’

  ‘You can tell me all about it in my office,’ he replied. ‘I need a word with you, in private.’

  He turned, and began walking towards the door.

  ‘I’ll be with you in a second, Boss,’ she said.

  She turned back to the conference screen, where DI Sarsfield waited patiently for them to tell him what was going on.

  ‘I’m sorry about that, Gerry,’ she said. ‘I’ve got to go and have a word with Mr Stone. Max will explain. I’ll see you at the Gold Command meeting at Central Park in . . .’ She looked at her watch. ‘Bloody hell! – thirty-three minutes’ time.’

  She turned, and dashed from the room.

  ‘I’m sorry, Jo,’ Stone said, ‘but you’ll have to attend the Gold Command Meeting without me.’ He looked even more tired and drawn than usual. ‘I don’t know how much you’ve been told about my personal circumstances?’

  ‘I only know that your mother is far from well, Boss,’ she said, ‘and your daughter has some issues.’

  He massaged his temples with his thumbs, and then passed his hand over his forehead as though wiping something away.

  ‘I’ve just had a call about my daughter. Half an hour ago, several passengers on the Victoria Line stopped her jumping under a tube train at Warren Street. She’s been sectioned.’

  Jo instinctively placed a hand on his arm. ‘Oh Harry, I’m so sorry.’

  ‘So am I,’ he said. ‘You’ve got your own problems, and here am I leaving you in the lurch. But don’t worry, whatever you need from our side, you’ve got it. For a start I’ve contacted the AKEU, that’s our Anti-Kidnap and Extortion Unit, and told them to get in touch with you and give you every possible support.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Boss,’ she said, ‘I’ve never heard of them.’

  ‘That’s my fault,’ he told her. ‘You should have had a fortnight’s induction while you were introduced to every aspect of the Agency. The AKEU is part of Investigations Command. Small but perfectly formed, like us.’

  He smiled weakly.

  ‘Unfortunately, your reputation had proceeded you and I had no hesitation in handing you the first investigation that came along. Now I’m playing catch-up. The AKEU have been handpicked for their experience in hostage and kidnap investigation, negotiation and release. Not just in the UK, but worldwide.’

  ‘That’s brilliant,’ said Jo. ‘I assumed I’d have to go cap in hand to GMP for that kind of support.’

  ‘Anything else you need,’ Stone said, ‘just give whoever it is my mobile number, and I’ll approve it. Any paperwork I’ll sign retrospectively.’

  ‘That’s too big an ask, Boss,’ she said. ‘You can’t put your career on the line for me.’

  He shook his head.

  ‘Look, Jo, my career hasn’t got that long to run, and the way I’m feeling right now it wouldn’t be that much of a disaster if I was forced to retire – far from it. So don’t worry about me, just get this bastard and make my Christmas.’

  Chapter 50

  ‘So, SI Stuart,’ said the Chief Constable, ‘if I’ve understood you correctly, you want us to throw everything at this Malacott?’

  The absence of Harry Stone had left her and a colleague from the AKEU who had dashed over from Ralli Quays in Salford as the only representatives of the lead agency, the NCA. Simon Levi was supposed to be on his way, but had been held up in the traffic made worse by torrential rain as frantic shoppers flooded into the city centre. The Chief Constable and Assistant Chief Constable, together with various operational commanders, including the Head of the Firearms Unit, were already assembled when she arrived. One of the deputy chief Crown Prosecution officers for the North West was also present.

  At first Jo had been daunted by the presence of so many heavyweights, but as the meeting progressed she had become more confident. They had now reached the critical point, where the overall strategy had to be agreed and resources allocated.

  ‘That’s correct, Sir,’ she replied. ‘I accept that we have no direct evidence to link him to any of these crimes, but I’m sure that you’d agree that there is sufficient circumstantial evidence to warrant a concerted surveillance operation on him as a prime suspect, especially since we’re talking about the abduction of a female whom we all agree is likely to be at serious risk of harm.’

  ‘But you don’t know that for a fact?’ said the man from the CPS.

  Naeem Khan, sitting beside Jo, raised his hand. ‘I think we do,’ he said. ‘The evidence is pretty conclusive.’

  The Head of Crime leaned forward. ‘Remind us of your name,’ he said, ‘and what it is you do?’

  ‘My name is Naeem Khan. I’m the on call officer in the Anti-Kidnap and Extortion Unit of the National Crime Agency. As I explained earlier, our job is to support agencies in the UK and worldwide in kidnap and hostage situations with strategic and tactical advice, and access to NCA resources as appropriate.’

  ‘And what makes you t
hink this woman is at risk of serious harm?’ the ACC pressed, deftly ignoring the rebuke.

  Jo was tempted to tell him that it was blindingly obvious.

  Khan was far more tolerant. ‘Firstly,’ he said, ‘because the abductor has gone to a lot of trouble to avoid detection. We have, for example, no idea how or where he first approached and took control of her. He wore a mask that was designed not only to disguise his face but to intimidate her, and taunt the police. And he clearly used force to prevent her from fighting back, calling for help or resisting when he made her get in the car and drive off in a controlled manner. Secondly, it is also a reasonable assumption that the abductor was behind the arrangement of flowers sent to SI Stuart, as a warning and or threat. And finally, there has been no ransom demand, or demand of any kind whatsoever. In our experience, the absence of such demands suggests that the abductor has a purpose other than extortion, blackmail or terrorism.’

  ‘Such as?’ said the Commander of the Tactical Firearms Unit.

  ‘Other than extortion, the only other agreed categories are tiger kidnaps and vendetta kidnaps. The former have the intention of forcing a relative of the hostage to assist in a crime such as robbery. Vendetta kidnaps, as the name implies, are used by criminals to retaliate or resolve a dispute. Since neither of these appears to apply in the case of Sally Warburton that leaves psychopathic ends such as sexual gratification or displays of omnipotence. Or, possibly, to strike fear into others who might pose a threat to the person or organisation behind the abduction. In either of these cases, there is seldom a positive outcome.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Meaning that the abductee will either be found dead or will never be seen again.’

  There was a prolonged silence, finally broken by the Chief Constable. He turned to the Head of the Press Office. ‘Where are we up to in engaging the assistance of members of the public?’

  ‘Missing Persons have issued detailed descriptions and photos to all of the North West police forces,’ she said. ‘They have also been released via our Twitter and Facebook accounts. Radio appeals have already been broadcast. A joint GMP/NCA televised appeal and press conference has been arranged for three pm this afternoon.’