“Nasty, would hurt being dragged along the track.”
“And the other hand would be cuffed to the one heading the other way.”
“Oh, now that is entertaining! So either way you win.” He put on a muffled voice, pretending to be an announcer at a British railway station.
“The four forty from Nottingham will be calling at Leicester, Luton and St Thomas’ Hospital!”
Cade had to laugh.
“The only other thorn in my side, or rather a sickening worry, is that Cynthia hasn’t turned up for work mate. She’s never taken a days’ leave, let alone sick leave or even been late.”
“And you are thinking what?”
“I’m trying not to panic. But I think something has happened.”
“Done all the usual checks?” It was a rhetorical question to Roberts, who was a smart operator.
“And more besides. Seriously getting concerned now but trying to keep it on the old down low.”
“Then put her out as a missing person, Jason. You have to.”
“Yeah, I know, was trying to convince myself she’d turn up.”
“She will.”
Cade had no idea where. He swallowed some bile. The group that he had spent years chasing did that to him. On the surface he was calm, the archetypal swan. Under the water he paddled like a duck on acid, desperate to get to where he was heading. He had learned to hate the group and their leader in particular.
‘Cade is a simple man. Very calm, no skeletons, he can be trusted one hundred percent to do the right thing, when asked.’
Words uttered in a meeting in an office where power was worn as a badge of rank, an office that housed the very people likely to lose the most. And words he was likely never meant to hear.
Cade had listened, he had no option in the exulted company. His internal dialogue returned.
‘Calm? No skeletons? Maybe. Simple? Thanks, I think. Angry? Beyond its very description. It has taken ten years, maybe more, and in those years I have gained nothing but contempt for Alex and his band of brothers – but those in power, on my side, that live selfish and despicable lives. I trust you even less.’
As he left that meeting he heard a voice he trusted say to one he didn’t.
“Unexploded bombs are no less powerful as time goes by. On the contrary, they become less stable and more dangerous. In this respect, Jack Cade is no different. Treat him with disdain by all means. But be prepared, somewhere down the line to pay the price.”
“A threat, sir? Do you threaten me?” Said the first faceless voice to the second.
“No. I warn you. Nothing else, just a warning.”
To Cade, it felt like yesterday. Where had the time gone and how had he ended up where he was? Fair questions that revisited him as he was about to head to one of the most beautiful places on earth, with an equally alluring woman, to meet one he had fallen in love with.
Through varying degrees his life came back to visit, occasionally to upset and now and then to play with his subconscious.
“All passengers for flight JQ846 to Hamilton Island, please now go to departure screening.”
It was a simple message, and one echoed across the airport and the world. Every minute. Of every day.
Cade and Helston joined the aircraft, both turning right as there were no other options on the Airbus A320.
“Two hour flight to paradise, Jack. Shame we are not on holiday. So, what are your plans?”
It was a reasonable question from one friend to another, even more so from a former DI to her equivalent.
“Honestly Kim, I have two plans. Plan A, roll up to the house and ask her what the hell she was playing at…”
She sensed the gap. “And Plan B?”
“You’ve already second-guessed me, haven’t you?”
She had. They buckled in and watched the New South Wales coastline disappear as the Queensland beaches came into view before they turned north east and across open water towards the Whitsundays.
Chapter Twelve
In Nottingham, at the Black Lion to be exact, Tris Robertson was at his usual chair, in his local haunt, enjoying time away from work so much more than attending to the miserable needs of others, when inconveniently his phone rang. He allowed its rhythmic buzz to continue until curiosity got the better of him.
His partner and off-duty drinking companion was quick to point out that they were very much off duty and prematurely enjoying the fruits of their recent enhanced-rate overtime.
Phil Brown ran his fingers across his throat in a mime that said, ‘Don’t answer! It’ll be your wife!’
Robertson looked at the white writing on the black background. The name Lenny meant he should answer the call. The time of the call added some weight to the fact that he had to. It was what informants and their handlers did. Dedication, beyond the call of duty.
“Yes. This had better be good. I am about to imbibe an entire flagon of foaming Nun’s Pride at the Grand Chat Noir.”
The voice on the other end sounded out of breath – panicked.
“Hang on, I’ll go outside.”
Once in the car park he put the phone to his ear.
“Go on. Good to see you haven’t sold the phone I bought you.”
“Look boss, I met him when he came to the arches. He swapped my clothes for a gold ring and a train ticket. I couldn’t lose. All he wanted was a coin to make a phone call. I didn’t trust him enough to lend him my phone. It was weird. He was odd. I know I’m hardly purer than the driven snow boss but…” The words were hurried but made sense.
Robertson cut him off. “Need I remind you I am off duty and that I had just tasted the simplest offerings from an impure nun upon these tender lips?”
“What? Look, it’s no laughing matter boss. He scared me. I’ve not slept since. I sold the train ticket to another homeless lad.”
“And the gold ring?”
“I pawned it for fifty quid. I’ll give it back. I know it wasn’t mine, but I needed to eat. I don’t want anything to do with this, I’m trying boss, you know I am, I just need a break. You trust me, don’t you?”
He chose not to answer. “Lenny, calm down. Who are we talking about here?”
“A guy. Older than me, think he’d just been bailed from the station or escaped. Russian he was.”
“In a hurry? I’m sure he was if he’d just escaped!” Robertson knew it was no time for humour but couldn’t resist.
“Boss I’m trying here.”
“Fair enough. Go on.” It was then he stopped and rewound the conversation.
“Stop. Russian?” Robertson scanned his environs, checking for eavesdroppers.
“Yes, boss. He took my clothes and said he was heading to London.”
“Could he have been Romanian?”
“How the fuck would I know I’ve never been further than Derby. Do they sound Russian, these Romanians?”
“Yes, to you they do. You say he was heading to London?”
“That’s right. But I’m smart, Mr Robertson. I followed him. I didn’t believe him and I wanted to make sure that if the shit hit the fan, I wouldn’t be knee deep in it. He couldn’t go to London, cos I ‘ad his train ticket and he ‘ad no money. So I knew he was lying.”
“So where did he go?”
“About half a mile down Station Street, across London Road – you know the old railway station – over the canal?”
“I do.”
“There, boss. That’s where he went. He hung around for a while until an older silver Vauxhall picked him up.”
Robertson had forgotten about his pint now. This was a chance to redeem his force – for word had got out quickly that Constantin had escaped and no force liked to be humiliated, especially by the Met.
“And would you have got any of the registration number?” Robertson waited to be disappointed. Fingers tightly crossed.
“I did. I always wanted to be a copper. But the old man forbid it. This is my chance, eh?”
“Possibl
y, yes…”
“EW and it had the numbers 04…and E and S and S.”
Robertson leant against a nearby Mini. The boy had just quoted back the plate, verbatim.
“Did I do well, boss?”
“I’ll be sure to let you know Lenny. Good lad, and do me a favour? Have you got any of that fifty quid left after feeding yourself?”
“Yes.”
“How much?”
“Forty-six pounds.”
He’d spent four pounds on food. Homeless and starving, he still knew how to budget.
“Keep it. It’ll be our secret. OK? Now, another act of kindness if you may? Use some of it to get a bus to your place. I’m sure your parents are beside themselves with worry Lenny. Go home. Whilst you still can. And you can keep that phone too.”
He took a breath, cleared his head, then rang his station.
“Sarge. Don’t ask why. I need you to get into the custody record of a prisoner called Lee. We locked him up on a warrant the other night. I need the phone number of the DCI from the Metropolitan Police and I need it now.”
Provided with the number, he dialled, then nodded to his partner who was over-acting, pulling faces through the pub window and pretending to finish the abandoned pint.
“Roberts.”
“Boss. Don’t hang up. PC Robertson from Notts Police. We spoke about gypsies, tramps and thieves the other night.”
“Oh yes. Just before you let my bloody prized target leg it down the street with another man’s identity and a grin bigger than a Cheshire Cat!”
“Sir, respectfully, that wasn’t down to me. I’m ringing you off-duty.”
Roberts’ interest piqued. “Touché. Fair enough. Do go on.”
“I run an informant in the city. Homeless lad. Says he met your man not long after he escaped. Described him well. Said he was heading to London. They swapped clothes. Anyway, long story short – he followed him to a car.”
“Praise the Lord above. Tell me he can describe the vehicle?”
“He can go one better. He got the registration.”
“Tris, if ever there was a time where it was appropriate for two heterosexual males to open mouth kiss then it would be now. I owe you. Who do I write to?”
“You don’t boss. Let’s just call it an act between brothers in arms, shall we? But if I’m ever in the capital, I’ll expect you to buy me a pint to replace the one my erstwhile colleague has just downed in front of me.”
“Consider it a debt of honour. Top man. You have no idea what this is connected to. Keep my number. Next time you are down this way, I’ll take you to a proper boozer – the Sanctuary. It’s where real men drink and I normally have a shandy.”
“Hello CAD room, PC Ellis.”
“DCI Roberts from the Operation Niko team. I need an urgent broadcast of the following registration, across the Met area – and ideally Essex and Kent too. If sighted staff are to contact you in the first instance, then me on this number. Do not stop the vehicle, consider armed response. Occupants wanted for aiding an escaped prisoner and in connection with an international crime syndicate.”
“Consider it done, sir.” Keith Ellis looked down at the notepad and transcribed the figures into the PNC2 system. The vehicle was stolen, from Essex, a week before. He added the commentary and commenced a broadcast across the main channels, reaching out to area and traffic staff all over the city of London and its furthest reaches.
Roberts leaned back into his sofa, stacked a few cushions behind his head and watched a drama unfold on the television. His wife brought in a coffee, a long black, no milk, some sugar. He felt more at ease, knowing that at the very least they had a start point, and with a syndicate like the Wave he knew that was a significant development.
As he allowed the drama to wash over him, he couldn’t help but smile and grimace at the past. Chases, shootings, assaults, murders, poisonings and the surreal world of transvestitism all rolled up into a recipe for disaster – itself more than enough for any TV drama.
“Transvestites!” He threw himself up and off the light grey sofa.
“What’s that, love?”
“Christ, sorry, pause this will you? I’ve got to make a call and now.”
Roberts had begun to drift back to the past when his photographic mind had centred upon the list on his desk, in his locked office, in the iconic police HQ which had been his professional home for longer than he could recall. There, on the note at the very top of the list, it said in clear and over-written black letters: Ring Lucy Thomas.
“Shit, shit, shit.” It was hardly eloquent, but it summed up his concerns.
“How could I have forgotten?” In actual fact, Roberts had spent over ten years trying to forget the first time he met Lucy Thomas – codename Harrier. It was a long story, in fact there was no short version other than to say that Lucy wasn’t exactly everyone’s idea of a woman.
They had met, with Jack Cade, when one of the team had heard that Lucy had been entertaining a potential target of Op Breaker – the team created to fight Eastern European organised crime. The prettily named Lucy Thomas had indeed built up a client base across the fair city of London – all males, the occasional heterosexual, an experimental couple and an old war veteran that she visited for tea, biscuits and nothing else. She was the epitome of discreet.
Roberts couldn’t actually recall what her real name was. It mattered not. What mattered now was saving her life. He even referred to her as a woman, and she referred to him as ‘Jason darling’. It was wrong on every angle, but she was a great informant and via knowledge that had surprised him had saved Carrie O’Shea from a fate worse than death. The Met Police owed her.
“Answer the phone, you crazy bitch.”
She did.
“Oh, Jason darling. I love it when you talk dirty. How are we this evening?”
“Lucy shut up and listen.”
“Oh dominant as ever!”
“Quiet. I am fine. You are not. I need you to pack your bags, travel light, and change back to being a man if you have to. Either way, be ready to go in an hour. And do not answer your door to anyone except me.”
“And would it hurt you to tell this little birdie why?”
“Constantin is out. He’s spent a night in a cell babbling in his sleep. And the highlight was what he intended to do to you. Quote: If I can’t have her, no one can. I’ve seen this before with him. Need any more convincing?”
Roberts couldn’t begin to understand the relationship that Nicolescu had made with the middle-class call girl, but he knew what love and lust did to the male of the species.
“I’ll meet you in the foyer in under an hour.”
Roberts mouthed to his wife ‘sorry’.
He heard the reply. “Under an hour.”
He got into his own car and drove as fast as he could, south east and ignoring red lights where possible. He dialled the control room and asked for a local unit to attend the area – keep eyes on but avoid the property itself.
‘How long does it take to drive this far at this time of the night? Where are all these bloody people going?’ He muttered between clenched teeth and whitening knuckles as he negotiated traffic and deliberately broke the law.
Lucy Thomas was what could best be described as an interesting character. Brave and foolhardy. Bright and breezy. Professional, filthy, but cautious. Reckless yet compassionate. Influenced by money. Demanding to be loved for what she had become. And now worried. Who did she trust the most? The man that rang her when he needed something? Or the one who called when he wanted something?
The silver Vauxhall had left the Dartford location an hour before. Zigzagging across south west London until they reached a side road off Camberwell Road, turned right, then kept going. Heading north, then west, avoiding cameras where possible, side streets all the way in. They arrived, and the driver was told to wait.
“Stay here. There will be three of us when we return. We head straight back to our current home. No questions. Do not spe
ak with the new passenger. It is a woman. You don’t need to know anything else.”
The younger male was stood three metres away from Constantin. On the fourteenth floor, waiting, interested to see what was going to happen next.
He tapped on the door with a familiar tune.
Thomas froze. Tried to stop breathing. It was him. She knew that series of knocks anywhere. Then there was the voice. Eastern, exotic and familiar.
“Lucy. It’s me. We have to go. They are coming for you. You have to trust me. We have five minutes.” Nicolescu had no idea that Roberts was racing towards them, and that he had back-up in the form of two staff.
The clock was not ticking for him, but for Cynthia Bell – his captive audience of one who was potentially bleeding to death. He needed to keep her alive. He knew how. He’d read the book, turned the top of the page down as a marker. He just needed a donor.
“Come on. Come fucking on. For crying out loud.”
‘Traffic at this time? Didn’t these bastards have homes to go to?’
Roberts changed down to second, gripping the wheel and letting it slip as he turned corners. It was contrary to everything he had been taught.
His arm muscles pounded, the bones that the toothless bastard Nicolescu had stamped upon as he lay manacled to an underground train years before were screaming out at him.
He knew he was getting close, he could almost smell him.
He dialled Thomas’ cell phone. No answer. In a way, that was a good thing. Roberts would cross the river soon and then with a good run he’d be at her apartment in under ten. Local police were bound to be there any minute.
“Lucy. We have to go, my dear. Now.” He tapped gently.
She slid open the spyhole and looked. There he was. The man who had made her his own, from the very earliest days. She loved him, yet detested him too. Adored, his compassionate soul, despised his drug-fuelled demons.
“I’m coming.” The urge was too great. For all the information she had given Roberts and his blue-eyed partner, for saving that girl O’Shea’s life – not a penny. For a working girl, money was everything. And despite what Roberts had said, Connie Nicolescu had never harmed her. Was now to be the first time?
Seven of Swords (The Seventh Wave Trilogy Book 3) Page 13