Without a Trace

by Mari Hannah

  Kate picked up yet another suitcase, this one wrapped in cellophane. In her peripheral vision, someone caught her eye. She knew furtive criminal activity when she saw it. The guy may as well have been waving a red flag. A Metropolitan Police Technical Support Unit had rigged up extra CCTV, but the bastard Kate was watching obviously knew where the cameras were.

  How he’d found out was anyone’s guess.

  Withdrawing behind a pillar, she continued to observe him. He looked over his shoulder surreptitiously, using a master key to unlock an expensive-looking case. He rifled through it, took out something small and shoved it in his jacket pocket. The thought that he could just as easily have put something in made Kate want to rip his head off. As he relocked the case and moved on to the next, Kate took out her phone and pressed record.

  She’d bank this.

  Before her lunch break, Kate sent Hank a Miss U lots text. They rendezvoused at the café in Hounslow twenty minutes later, Kate explaining why she’d summoned him, making it her priority to share the news of Nikolaev’s murder, stressing the need for him to keep in constant contact with Robbo in the Northumbria incident room. Hank was as worried as she was when she divulged the victim’s name. Whoever had taken Nikolaev out would now be a target.

  A turf war back home was all they needed.

  Next, she showed Hank the short video she’d taken of the thief in the baggage shed, copying it to him, then deleting it from her phone. For evidential purposes, she shouldn’t do it, but had no other choice in case she was caught with it in her possession. ‘Whatever security measures are in place, they’re not good enough. He’s dodgy, and systematic.’

  ‘What about the other three you queried?’

  ‘I’ve watched them like a hawk.’ She paused. ‘They all speak English as well as we do and yet they’re using a foreign language. One of them has a West Country accent. He’s IC1 male, so it begs the question, where did he learn it? Obviously, I can’t tell what they’re saying but I’ll sure as hell find out. Wearing a wire is risky, but I need a listening device in there.’ She checked her watch. ‘I’ve got to run. You know what to do.’

  43

  As a detective of longstanding, Hank had learned to overlook a small offence in order to uncover a much larger one. Knowledge was power. He identified the offender Kate had seen from his personnel record as Thomas (Tommy) Patterson, forty-two years of age, married with three kids, living in Stanwell, a place Hank had never heard of. According to Somi Haq in HR, he’d been given a verbal warning for not pulling his weight and another for swearing at a female supervisor. He’d regret it if he had a go at Kate.

  When she gave Hank the nod at the end of her shift, he locked his office, trailing Patterson from the terminal building to the staff car park, catching up with him as he blipped the locks of an old Audi with his key fob, the vehicle winking at him as he opened the door.

  ‘Mr Patterson? Can I have a word?’

  Startled, the guy swung round, his left elbow resting on the top of the car door. Hank had no need to identify himself. The man knew who he was from their earlier interview: a DS from the Casualty Bureau, or so he thought, a copper throwing his weight around.

  Patterson looked like he was going to leg it. Let him try. He was red-faced, overweight, a beer-belly obscuring his waistband, legs like tree trunks. He wouldn’t get far. Hank might be a big bugger but he was lightning fast. A rugby tackle would take him down.

  ‘You and I need a chat,’ he said.

  ‘We had a chat.’

  ‘We need another.’

  Patterson was a Londoner, born and bred. Hank could tell by his attitude that this wasn’t the first time he’d been questioned by the law for wrongdoing, though he’d gone through the normal CRB checks before gaining employment at Heathrow. He’d worked at the airport for several years and was probably due a review. Hank made a mental note to nudge Somi Haq.

  ‘What’s your problem?’ Patterson asked.

  ‘My “problem” is you weren’t entirely honest with me during your interview. It seems you left a few details out—’

  ‘So, recall me …’ He was getting ready to climb in and drive away. ‘I’m on earlies tomorrow.’

  Hank stepped forward, an iron grip preventing the car door from closing. ‘I’d rather do it now.’

  ‘I’m not talking to you out here. I’m in a hurry, mate. Need to collect my lad from footy training—’

  ‘He might be waiting a while.’

  ‘He’s thirteen!’

  ‘Make a call by all means. I hate to come between father and son, but you’re going nowhere until I say so. Do you really want your colleagues to see you hauled in for a second interview? They might form the impression that you’re under suspicion. Won’t win you any friends, given the reason I’m here, will it?’

  Patterson didn’t respond.

  Hank continued: ‘When we spoke yesterday, you said you were aware of things going missing in the baggage shed, not that you were responsible.’

  ‘Fuck off!’

  ‘That I can do – in exchange for information.’

  Nervously, Patterson scanned the car park. Their conversation had not gone unnoticed. He turned back, facing his accuser. ‘What information?’

  ‘First things first.’ Hank took out his phone, showed Patterson the video Kate had taken in the loading bay, the one in which he played a starring role. ‘Stunning quality, don’t you think?’ It clearly showed him using a master key to rifle through a number of suitcases. ‘Not so cocky now, are you? Hiding the key behind the pipe was clever. It wouldn’t do to be found with it in your possession. Let me guess, spot searches aren’t as regular as they used to be. No one has the time these days, especially now. If I was to search you – and you know I have grounds – I’m betting I’d find something that doesn’t belong in your pocket.’

  ‘I want my brief.’

  ‘All in good time.’

  ‘I’m saying bugger all till he gets here.’

  ‘Relax, Tommy. I’m not interested in your petty thieving. When I’ve got what I want, you can continue on your merry way. As I said, I want information. We both know what I mean by that.’

  Patterson was sweating now, avoiding the looks of other baggage handlers as they made their way to their vehicles. He pushed his hands deep into the pockets of his donkey jacket. ‘S’pose I could give you five minutes.’

  ‘That’s very sensible.’

  ‘And if I give you a name, then what?’

  ‘Let’s see how good your info is first, eh? For all I know you’re a generous man who lent his ID to the wrong person in exchange for cash … someone with a bomb timed to go off over the Atlantic …’ Sucking breath in through his teeth, Hank shook his head, a grave expression on his face. ‘Conspiring to commit mass murder would send you down for life. Your kid’ll have to find his own way home from footy training until he’s about forty, forty-five. Start talking.’

  ‘You’re taking the piss, right?’

  ‘I can assure you, I’m deadly serious.’

  ‘No, look, you’re barking up the wrong tree. God’s ’onest, I had fuck all to do with that crash. What do you take me for? I’m a dad, not a terrorist. There were kids on that flight.’

  Hank let him sweat.

  ‘This is bullshit! I swear, you got the wrong geezer. If there’s anyone in that line you need to speak to, it’s Bakr. He’s crazy, and so is his brother. It wouldn’t surprise me if they were both Al-fucking-Qaeda. It’s not me you want, it’s them. I said the same thing to my missus when that plane went down. Bet they were laughing their cocks off. I hate working with them.’

  Patterson was scared, too lazy to run, or so Hank thought. Except he did run, bolting towards the exit gate. Hank took off after him, lunging for him, felling him. The runner crashed to the ground, squealing as he hit the deck. He scrambled to get away, but Hank managed to get a purchase on one leg. Patterson kicked out with the other, catching the detective sergeant full in the face
, stunning him, bloodying his nose. Throwing himself forward, Hank grabbed hold of him a second time. There was no comparison in size. Hank was too much for him. Patterson was overpowered in seconds.

  Trying to focus, Hank wiped blood and snot from his face, wincing as he stood up, the arm around Patterson’s neck applying gentle pressure, limiting his air supply. Hank tasted blood as it ran down the back of his throat. He swung Patterson round, eyeballed him. ‘You know what? If you’d been a bog-standard tea leaf, I might’ve let you get away with your thieving in exchange for useful information. Don’t suppose the airport pays much. The problem is, you’re not only a thief, you’re a foul-mouthed racist.’ He held up his phone. ‘This video is going to come in handy. By the way, I make a cracking witness. You’re nicked, mate.’

  ‘You said you’d look the other way.’

  ‘I lied.’

  44

  Kate met with her contact in the designated hotel room as per Torres’s instructions. The man was about forty: clean-shaven, shorter than her at five ten, with dark, wavy hair, cut short. He introduced himself as Agent Garcia – no forename – then immediately requested her mobile in order to set her up with a covert listening device that would transmit conversations directly from the baggage shed, which would be monitored round the clock, by him or someone like him.

  Kate looked on as he got to work.

  In the UK and the US, there were regulations governing the use of such devices. Eavesdropping on private conversations was frowned upon, but security and safety were paramount. Kate agreed with the sentiment. Those who sought to destroy lives had no right to privacy. If the three men she was interested in turned out to be innocent, that was unfortunate.

  The idea rankled, but only slightly …

  Innocent until proven guilty had always been her watchword, but when it came to major disasters across international boundaries, no individual was above suspicion. Having lost flight crew and witnessed the devastating fallout of what was being regarded by most commentators as a deliberate terrorist attack, honest workers would understand that law enforcement agencies were trying to save lives. That was her take on it. Under the circumstances – and with the potential of a second attack – she couldn’t see it any other way.

  Garcia stood up. ‘Your cell is done, ma’am.’

  ‘Great.’ She was about to tell him to drop the formality and call her Kate, but decided against it. He may only be aware of her cover name: Lou Paige. The fewer people that knew who she really was, the better.

  He handed over her mobile. ‘You want to talk to Torres now?’

  A nod. ‘You’ve met her?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am. I’ve had the pleasure.’

  He turned away, killing the conversation dead. No offence was meant and none was taken. Kate knew the score. Garcia was closed off, disinterested in continuing the dialogue. He’d respond if she needed help, that was a given. He wouldn’t speak, smile or engage, unless she had intelligence to pass on. Her security and safety was his sole consideration.

  Slipping her phone into her pocket, Kate wandered over to the window, looking down over a leafy park, still mulling this over in her mind. Garcia didn’t want to get to know her, find out that her father was sick or discover the nature of her relationship with someone she might have lost on board Flight 0113. He wanted to do his job. Period.

  That suited her – she was in no mood for small talk.

  Years of experience had taught her identical traits. It was enough to know that they were unified in the fight for justice. It was the same in her home force. If she called in a firearms team, she might never have clapped eyes on them, but knew that they would be on the same page when they arrived. That was why centralised training was important. It could be said of any department, the Casualty Bureau included. They worked in a uniform way, regardless of location, so that when resources were sent – ‘mutual aid’ as it was called – two disparate groups could merge seamlessly into one, a common goal uniting them. This was also true higher up the chain of command. From the top down they should, in theory, fit like a glove. Technology had followed suit. HOLMES was a quick and effective computerised tool providing access to information. You couldn’t, nor should you, bastardise the system in order for it to work for a local force. It was a national resource, capable of handling major incidents and major disasters with the added benefit of being able to record data from the likes of Interpol.

  ‘Ma’am?’

  Garcia’s voice cut into her thoughts. Kate turned from the window. He stood up, a nod to the chair he’d vacated, or more accurately to the monitor on the desk in front of it.

  ‘Special Agent Torres is online.’

  Moving to the desk, Kate sat down to talk to her US contact face-to-face, the same arrangement as before where they could talk in confidence. Torres had no further information to give in terms of wreckage recovery; either that or she was keeping it to herself. She looked weary, as Kate was feeling.

  ‘How’s it going your end?’ Torres asked.

  She didn’t know the half of it.

  Kate never mentioned helping Robbo with the investigation into Nikolaev’s death. Torres would drop her like a stone if she did. Instead she filled her in on Hank’s arrest of Patterson. ‘Bakr, the guy he pointed the finger at, isn’t one of the three suspicious characters I’ve been observing. According to my 2ic, he’s a friendly, hard-working family man with an unblemished personnel record. Then again,’ she warned, ‘he hasn’t been at Heathrow long and fits the profile of a clean skin.’

  ‘He’s not known to MI5?’

  ‘No, I checked.’

  Slipping on a pair of tortoiseshell specs, Torres asked for Bakr’s full name, date of birth and last known address, scribbling the details down as Kate read them out. The agent’s gaze dropped. Kate could hear her typing. Torres studied the screen, then looked up. ‘He’s not on my system either. Keep on it. We’ll check him out, along with the other three you mentioned. Good luck your end. If you need anything, Garcia has your six.’ The screen went dead.

  45

  With a stony expression on his face, Hank lifted his cup, eyeing the man sitting opposite. Euan Chadwick was around fifty years of age, grey-haired, with a five o’clock shadow and dark circles under his eyes. The detective sergeant was about to add to them. This wasn’t a friendly ten-minute break with a fellow professional, it was a head-to-head exchange. Serious complaints were on the agenda with a senior security official whose job it was to police the airport and keep the public safe.

  Hank hadn’t even got to the good bit yet.

  ‘I arrested Tommy Patterson for thieving,’ he said. ‘He’ll be charged with that, and the added offences of resisting arrest and assaulting police.’

  ‘That looks painful.’ Chadwick was pointing at Hank’s facial injuries.

  ‘It is. The bastard nearly broke my nose.’

  ‘You can prove theft?’

  ‘Conclusively. He was seen with a universal master key, capable of opening checked bags without passengers being present or ever knowing anyone had been inside. I have a video to prove it. He’s savvy enough to identify the locks he can gain access to, so not a full set of keys, only one, though officers are currently searching his home to see what else he has in his possession. He’s been cautioned for arguing with a supervisor but has never been stopped by one. At the very least, that’s shoddy security practice. Doesn’t that concern you?’

  Chadwick shifted uncomfortably in his seat. ‘It does, but I can assure you that the key will not have come from us.’

  ‘You sure about that? This guy helps himself whenever the fancy takes him.’

  ‘Can I see it? The key, I mean.’

  Hank shook his head. ‘It’s gone off for forensic examination. And it is one of yours. I checked in with Customs when I retrieved it.’

  Chadwick took a deep breath. ‘I don’t know what to say.’

  Hank showed him the video Kate had taken in the baggage shed, zooming in as far as
he was able to show Patterson with the key in question.

  The security official’s expression darkened. ‘Looks like one of ours.’

  ‘I told you it was.’

  ‘You live in Newcastle, Hank?’

  ‘Yeah, why d’you ask?’

  ‘Heathrow is the size of a small city. We try very hard to stay on top of breaches like this. I’m not making excuses. Believe me, if I could offer up a defence to cover myself I would. What you have to realise is that as soon as these keys were made, a new system in place, there were those looking to have them mass-produced in order to make money.’

  ‘No lock is pick-resistant.’

  ‘That’s exactly it. BMWs are hard to steal, mate. Porsches even harder, but not for a clever criminal. Profit and ingenuity go hand in hand.’

  Hank couldn’t argue with that statement – criminals of the type they were discussing weren’t called ‘organised’ by accident – but he did it anyway. ‘With respect, that’s no comparison. Car theft is a criminal offence, of course, but we’re talking about the means and the opportunity to cause mass murder. It’s hardly the same thing.’

  ‘Was there anything else?’ Chadwick asked. ‘I hate to push you out, but I’m busy.’

  ‘As it happens, so am I. This morning, I arrested another baggage handler who walked through security with an old pass, when a new one was issued less than three weeks ago, a replacement for one that was supposedly lost. He didn’t have the new one on his person and couldn’t explain where it is now. How can that happen? Surely you delete old ID when you issue a new one?’