SENTINEL: an exciting British detective crime thriller

by JOHN STANLEY

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘I need to know who is involved and why?’

  ‘My sources tell me that you are looking for some young drug addict. Attacked one of your officers with a knife. Surely you should be looking at him?’

  ‘Your sources seem remarkably well informed, Jason.’

  ‘You’re not my only friend in the force, Danny. I know things that not even you know. I am sure that it would be a much more profitable pursuit were you to look for this unfortunate young man instead of spreading malicious falsehoods about me. They tell me he is called David Roberts if that helps.’

  ‘OK so what if I believe you?’ Radford sat back in his chair, wondering as he often did where Jason de Vere obtained his information. ‘That still leaves Garvin. The Roberts kid was just wrong place, wrong time.’

  The reply did not seem to please de Vere but he said nothing.

  ‘Talking of wrong time,’ continued Radford, ‘why would anyone want James Rowland silenced now anyway? I mean, he’s been banging on about this for months.’

  ‘Let’s just say that certain things are coming to a head, shall we, Danny?’ said de Vere cautiously. ‘You don’t need to know any more than that. Commercial confidentialities. I’m sure you understand.’

  ‘I need more than that.’

  ‘Suffice to say that certain parties are very keen that the vicar ceases his public campaigning immediately.’ The council leader was selecting his words carefully. ‘This does mean that I am implicated, of course, it is just that one does get to hear things.’

  Radford gave a slight smile.

  Ah, the game, the game. Time to up the ante.

  ‘So when is the deal with Tony Hankin being signed?’ he asked innocently, looking down at his fingernails with an expression of feigned innocence. ‘Luxury flats on the site of the church, isn’t it? Why so secretive, I am sure it is what the good Lord would have wanted.’

  De Vere stared at him in disbelief.

  ‘How the..?’

  ‘I know things that not even you know, Jason,’ Radford smiled. ‘One does get to hear things, you know.’

  De Vere sat back in his seat and sighed.

  ‘You are a remarkably resourceful man, Danny Radford,’ he said. ‘Clearly, I have under-estimated you.’

  ‘You wouldn’t be the first to do that. I’ve got a police station full of the fuckers.’

  ‘So what else have you heard, may I ask?’

  ‘That Hankin has set a deadline of Sunday and his backer is sick of waiting for someone to shut the vicar up.’

  ‘I don’t suppose you would like to tell me where you got this information?’

  Radford gave a slight smile.

  ‘What do you think?’ he said. ‘All very interesting, though, is it not?’

  ‘Is it the best you can do?’ said de Vere, quickly recovering his composure. ‘A bit of unsubstantiated rumour?’

  ‘Not quite. See, I heard that Hankin believes that a few brown paper envelopes will do the job.’ A hardening of the voice. ‘Corruption is one thing, Jason, attempted murder is another. If I am going to help you, I needs to know what the hell is happening, especially if the vicar goes public. He’s already talking about a press conference.’

  ‘Yes, but no one will believe him.’ A hint of desperation in the councillor’s voice now. ‘Especially when you reveal that you are investigating him for theft.’

  ‘Not sure that will be enough, Jason. If you go down so do I, remember. Level with me.’

  Which was when Jason de Vere made the biggest mistake of his life. Half an hour later, Radford having gone, the council leader sat in his office, deep in thought, nagged incessantly by the thought that he had told Danny Radford more than he needed to know, that the inspector had out-manoeuvred him. De Vere closed his eyes.

  ‘Stupid, stupid, stupid,’ he murmured.

  The desk phone rang and he stared bleakly at it. He sighed and picked up the receiver.

  ‘Hankin,’ said a gruff voice, ‘we got to talk. I am not liking what I am hearing, Jason.’

  ‘I imagine,’ said de Vere bleakly, ‘that you are not.’

  Just after ten, a weary Michael Gaines was about to leave the squad room when his desk phone rang.

  ‘Derek,’ he said when he heard the voice at the other end. ‘Thanks for getting back to me. Sorry it’s so late.’

  ‘It had better be good, sunbeam. I was just thinking about getting frisky with the wife when the desk rang.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Don’t apologise, old son, you seen my wife these days?’

  ‘You need a new scriptwriter,’ said Gaines. ‘You got anything on a James Rowland?’

  ‘But he’s a vicar,’ said Derek after a slight hesitation. ‘Surely, you don’t want to be digging around into him? Whiter than white and all that?’

  ‘Not sure that anyone in this inquiry can lay claim to that. I wouldn’t ask if it was not important. You should see what’s coming out of the woodwork.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘You got anything?’

  ‘It feels wrong, Michael.’

  ‘Just do it, will you?’

  ‘Hang on.’ Gaines could hear the tapping of fingers on a keyboard. ‘Sorry, nothing here. No convictions. Worth a try, I…’

  ‘Check soft intelligence, will you? Amazing what shows up sometimes. The big lesson we learned from Huntley.’

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘Very.’

  More tapping.

  ‘Got something.’ The voice sounded strangely flat.

  ‘What you found?’ asked Gaines eagerly.

  ‘Something from Northamptonshire. Says they investigated a James Rowland two years ago for theft from a local church. Eight hundred quid over three months. Turned up on audit. Rowland was in the congregation. Northants could not prove anything so they let him go. He vanished not long after.’

  ‘You got a piccie?’

  ‘Sending it now.’

  Gaines looked over to his computer and saw the email arrive in his inbox. The sergeant placed the telephone receiver on the desk, clicked on the attachment and found himself staring into the face of the Reverend James Rowland.

  ‘How hard it is for those who have riches to enter the Kingdom of God,’ he murmured.

  ‘You’re getting very philosophical in your old age,’ said the disembodied voice from the phone receiver.

  Gaines picked it up. ‘This is excellent stuff, Derek. Anything else on him?’

  ‘Nothing, I am afraid. Looks like Northants lost interest after he vanished. Guess they were just happy that he was out of their hair.’

  ‘Well, he’s definitely in ours,’ said Gaines. ‘Listen, thanks for doing this. Just one last favour, and this really is a long shot…’

  Chapter eleven

  Saturday morning dawned sharp and cold in the city but not in the dark and stuffy interview room at the police station where Gerry Perlow stared across the table to a bedraggled Guy Roper. After a sleepless night, Roper’s eyes were bloodshot and his hands were trembling as his withdrawal symptoms took hold. Perlow, never the cleanest of men, wrinkled his nose at the stench emanating from the prisoner.

  ‘I hope you’re going to be more helpful than your mate,’ said the constable. ‘Because I’ve just had Jonathan in here and he was bloody useless.’

  ‘When can I go home?’ asked Roper, unable to conceal the desperation in his voice.

  ‘When you tell me where I can find David Roberts. One of you has to know.’

  ‘I told you, I don’t. Neither of us do. We hardly know the guy.’

  ‘I don’t believe you,’ said Perlow. ‘Look, this isn’t about a bit of smack, you know. It’s not slap wrists and “on your way, son”. David Roberts knifed a police officer. That’s about as serious as it gets.’

  ‘Yeah, like I care.’

  ‘What’s more, we think he may also have assaulted the Reverend James Rowland.’

  ‘He told me that he didn’t.�
� Roper seemed disturbed by the suggestion that Roberts had lied. ‘Said it was done by two other blokes.’

  ‘Yeah, well they have been released so, as it stands, your mate is in the frame for it. It doesn’t take Sherlock Holmes to make the connection.’

  ‘I heard the vicar was dead,’ said Roper. ‘Is that right?’

  ‘No, he’s hanging on. Why so interested? You couldn’t care less about our injured copper.’

  ‘Yeah, but he’s alright is James Rowland,’ said Roper. ‘The only one who took an interest in me. Said he’d help me get off the drugs.’

  ‘That went well then.’

  Roper hesitated before replying.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Perlow, intrigued at the change in his demeanour. ‘Come on, Guy, something is clearly bugging you. Time to get it off your chest.’

  ‘You’ll laugh.’

  ‘Then I laugh.’

  ‘James Rowland promised that if I got myself clean he’d help me become a priest.’

  Perlow raised an eyebrow but did not laugh.

  ‘Wouldn’t have thought you were the type,’ said the constable. ‘From what I’ve seen, all the young clergy are naïve boys and girls from nice homes.’

  ‘I wasn’t always like this, you know.’ Guy Roper looked at the detective constable, becoming animated for the first time in their conversation. ‘I studied theology at university. Was even thinking of becoming a priest then…’ his voice tailed off and he glanced down at his scarred arms. ‘You know the rest, Mr Perlow. So, yeah, I do care about James Rowland. He was my only hope.’

  ‘In which case,’ said the constable, ‘you had better pray that he does not die because of what your mate did so I’ll ask you again, where is he?’

  Guy Roper shook his head and Perlow sighed; the window had closed. The constable glanced at the uniformed who had been standing by the door throughout the interview.

  ‘Let him go,’ said Perlow. ‘And his pal.’

  Danny Radford sat at his desk sifting through the reports from the night before. Time and time again, amid accounts of burglaries and car thefts, his attention wandered and he found himself staring out of the window at the bare trees surrounding the police station car park, recalling the previous night’s conversation with Jason de Vere.

  Could he have been telling the truth? And yet he sounded sincere, not politician sincere but sincere like a man backed into a corner with nowhere to run. Or is he? Is he playing the game as well?

  Radford was disturbed from his reverie by the ringing of his mobile, which he took up from the desk. It was England.

  End game.

  ‘Just been talking to the Chief,’ said England. ‘Wants to know when we are moving in?’

  ‘Any time now. I tell you, I have never seen de Vere so rattled as last night.’

  ‘The Chief thinks we have enough.’

  ‘I disagree. We’re not quite there, we need more.’

  ‘Lift them. Lift them all.’

  ‘Give me another twelve hours, will you, Peter?’

  ‘No more,’ and the phone went dead.

  Radford sat there for a few minutes, deep in thought. This time, his reverie was disturbed by a knock on the door and in walked Gaines, clutching a couple of brown files. The sergeant sat down opposite him and placed the files on the desk. Radford surveyed the bags under his eyes.

  ‘Late night?’ asked the inspector.

  ‘Yeah, but worth it. Oh, before I forget, Gerry Perlow has had to let the two druggies from Chandos Street go. One of them is Guy Roper.’

  ‘What, the magistrate’s son?’

  ‘The very same. Sad case, bright kid apparently. Doesn’t talk to his father. Knowing that sanctimonious bastard, neither would I. Jesus, I’ve had some rollockings from him when he was on the bench. No wonder his kid turned to drugs. Talking of sanctimonious bastards, you going to tell me how it went with de Vere?’

  ‘You know I can’t do that. Not just yet anyway. You tell Connor what I said?’

  ‘Yeah. Looked like someone had taken their boot off his gonads. Oh, and no one else knows. Difficult to keep stum, though, the things folks are saying about you. There’s some real shit flying around.’

  ‘Not for much longer.’

  ‘Why?’

  Radford ignored the question and looked at the files on the desk.

  ‘What’s in there then?’

  Gaines opened the top one.

  ‘It says,’ he announced, ‘that our Reverend Rowland is suspected of stealing from a church in Northamptonshire. Doesn’t look like their CID chased him particularly hard. The file is marked NFA.’

  ‘What have I always said about lazy policing?’ said Radford with a shake of the head. ‘Good work, Michael.’

  ‘You haven’t heard the best of it.’ Gaines passed over the second file. ‘They’re all at it.’

  Radford opened the file and scanned the top sheet before looking up in bemusement at his sergeant.

  ‘Charles Radley,’ said Gaines. ‘Believed to also go under the names Charles Joseph, Joseph Kenning and George Makers, wanted by three forces in the South East for fraud and blackmail with menaces. Right little darling.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Look at the second sheet,’ grinned the sergeant. ‘Imagine him without the beard.’

  Radford gave a low whistle as he studied the face staring out of the grainy picture on the page.

  ‘Isn’t that …?’

  ‘Yup, none other than the Reverend Charles Garfield, chaplain to the Bishop of Leyton. Turns out that he and our Mr Rowland have more in common than it might originally appear. Clearly being a man of God does not preclude you from lying your cock off.’

  ‘You have no idea,’ murmured Radford.

  ‘What does that mean?’

  Before the inspector could explain the comment, his mobile rang. He picked it up off his desk and checked the name on the screen.

  ‘Radford,’ he said, taking the call. ‘You sure? Excellent. On my way.’

  The inspector stood up and put on his jacket, slipping the phone into his pocket.

  ‘Up for a bit of fishing?’ he said to Gaines.

  ‘Fishing?’ said the bemused sergeant, also standing up.

  ‘You are not the only one in on my dark little secret,’ said Radford as they headed for the door and into the corridor. ‘However, since you know more than I was ever supposed to tell you, that was Max Haines.’

  ‘What, the sergeant from the Secret Squirrel Department?’

  ‘I think they prefer Force Surveillance Unit but yes. See, they have been watching Jason de Vere for months. He hasn’t made a move without them having known it – and they’ve been tapping his phone. It looks like we have finally flushed him out.’

  ‘Heavy stuff,’ said Gaines with a low whistle as the officers pushed through the double doors and clattered down the stairs leading to the car park. ‘And we’re going to see him do what exactly?’

  ‘Hopefully, meet a guy called Tony Hankin.’

  ‘What, the property developer with the shiny teeth?’

  ‘Yeah, that’s him,’ grinned Radford as they pushed their way through the back door into the foggy chill of the morning. ‘They have avoided being seen together since this sordid little affair began. Now, we’re going to nick the bastards.’

  The inspector stopped walking and looked at the sergeant.

  ‘In case you hadn’t worked it out already,’ he said, ‘this is indeed a corruption inquiry, just not into me. For once, Leyton CID is in the clear.’

  ‘I kinda figured,’ said the sergeant, regretting his previous doubts. A thought struck him as they started walking again. ‘I take it this is all authorised?’

  ‘It’s gone as high as you can go. Last I heard it had reached the Home Office. Took England six weeks to get authorisation for a phone tap.’

  ‘I can imagine,’ said Gaines as they reached the inspector’s car, his pulse quickening at what he was hearing. ‘They don’t come higher
profile than Jason de Vere. Jesus, wait till people hear how wrong they were about you. There’ll be a lot of apologising to do.’ He hesitated. ‘Starting with me.’

  ‘Don’t be too harsh on yourself, Michael. Or anyone else, for that matter. I’d have thought the same. Besides, the reaction was crucial if the plan was to work. This place leaks like a sieve but on this occasion it worked to our advantage. We couldn’t have de Vere and his mates suspecting a thing.’ The inspector rested his arms on the roof of the car and eyed his sergeant intently. ‘Listen, Michael, if this goes tits up I will probably be drummed out of the force so I entirely understand if you do not want to go. You’re only three years off retirement and it would be completely understandable if, in the circumstances…’

  ‘You try and stop me,’ said Gaines vehemently as the officers got into the car. The sergeant glanced across as the inspector started the engine. ‘No one tries to turn my governor.’

  Radford gave the slightest of smiles and edged the car forwards.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said.

  Chapter twelve

  Shortly after seven, a lone figure emerged warily from his hiding place in bushes alongside the river, shivering in the frosty morning. After fleeing the house the night before, David Roberts had wandered the night-time streets for hours, ducking into the shadows as police patrols passed by, before heading across wasteland to a derelict warehouse down by the riverbank. Now, standing on the path and having experienced a cold and uncomfortable few hours’ sleep which had left him with a rocking headache, he glanced nervously across the wasteland, seeking movement.

  All he could see was mist swirling across the barrels and coils of rusting wire and all he could hear was the sound of cars on the nearby bypass and, closer, the lapping of the river. Briefly, but only briefly, he contemplated hurling himself in and allowing the dark waters to swallow him up. Feeling increasingly light-headed and with his leg having gone numb with the pain, he dismissed the thought and started to limp along the path, knowing that he had to keep moving to avoid the police patrols that he knew were looking for him.

  After he had gone a couple of hundred yards, a familiar figure emerged out of the trees at the far end of the path. Peering through the mist, Roberts realised with a sick feeling that it was Gerry Perlow, followed by two uniformed officers. A shout went up and Perlow pointed at him and they started to run in his direction.