by Angie Smith
“She could’ve got someone to collect it for her, and if she did produce the dossier the same person could’ve posted it for her. It could be a friend, or one of her neighbours, or maybe she’s working with someone we don’t know about.”
“The parcel had a tracker in it, and was taken straight to her floor.”
“That still doesn’t prove she took it.”
“Even so, our guys are trolling through the CCTV footage; we’ll soon know who posted the dossier and where they came from.”
“And what if it was Barnes?”
“Then we’ll go and have a chat!”
Chapter 18
Friday 8th June.
Barnes and Pamela lay sunbathing at the front of the catamaran while Woods chatted to Lester and Joseph, the two young local crewmen who were sailing the vessel. They’d left the hotel’s private jetty at 9.00 a.m. local time and were heading south-west towards Gecko Island; ETA 11.00 a.m.
“When we get there I’d like to sail around the island close to the shore,” Woods said.
“You can go beach, not land. Wealthy Russians, many guards.” Lester formed a pistol shape with his fingers.
Woods got the message. “How many people live on the island?”
Lester shrugged. “Fifty-six villas, many Russians.”
“We understand an old friend lives there; we’ll look out for him.”
“Russian?”
Woods shook his head. “British.”
“No British.” Lester looked at Joseph who shook his head in agreement.
“Well, we’ll look out for him all the same,” Woods insisted, as he spotted Barnes jumping up from the forward sun-bathing area, which was located between the two bevelled hulls. She squealed a warning to Pamela, but a large wave crashed over the bows, drenching them both. Laughing, they came to the stern to dry off. Barnes removed her cover-up-wrap; she was wearing one of Laura’s tiny, bright pink bikinis. She turned to take hold of a towel.
“Jesus Christ, Maria!” Woods said, cringing. “What happened to your back?”
“For the last time it’s Laura,” she said through gritted teeth.
“Sorry, Laura.”
“Does it offend you?”
“No, of course not, I just wondered what had happened to it.”
She sighed. “It was a long time ago and it’s really a taboo subject.”
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to intrude.”
Her stance softened. “It’s okay. I’m self-conscious about it; that’s partly why I’ve never had a boyfriend.”
“Never?” Pamela queried.
She shook her head apologetically. “And before you ask,” she was looking straight at Woods, “I’m not a lesbian.”
“I wasn’t going to ask,” Woods retorted. “It’s none of my business what you are.” It sounded so contrived that he felt embarrassed. He needed to change the subject and lighten the mood. “Would anyone like a cold drink? There’s a fridge full of beers and a selection of snacks in there.” He pointed at the cabin.
“I’d love a drink,” Pamela said.
“Laura?” he asked tentatively.
She smiled, “I’ll come with you and grab some snacks. I’m starving.”
Faulkner-Brown was waiting on the seat outside the Hepworth. He’d asked Dudley to meet with him urgently, having received news about the dossier. The CCTV footage had been analysed and the person posting the document identified.
“What’s the news?” Dudley asked when he finally arrived, having been held up in the Police HQ car park by a lorry delivering new furniture to the Chief Constable.
“Barnes,” Faulkner-Brown said sighing. “It looks as though it was her who produced the dossier. She got one of her neighbours, Ms Gillian Stokes, to post it. We need to interview her for confirmation.”
“So where are we heading?”
“Denby Dale Road, the recycling centre. Stokes is employed there, and on Wednesday morning she detoured to the main sorting office before heading to work.”
“Come on,” Dudley said, standing. “It’s not far from our hotel.”
They walked over to the car and ten minutes later were parking at the recycling plant.
“I’ll do the talking,” Faulkner-Brown insisted.
They entered the main office, asking to speak to Stokes. Dudley produced his police ID and she was called in over the tannoy. They were allowed to use the small grubby-looking mess room at the rear of the building. Faulkner-Brown did the introductions and started by asking how long Stokes had known Barnes.
“Sorry, I’ve never heard of her.”
“You live in the same block of flats, on the same floor.”
“Oh, is she the young woman who goes out running?”
Faulkner-Brown nodded.
“I’ve never actually spoken to her; she keeps herself to herself. If you ask me I think she’s a bit weird.”
“In what way?”
“Err… I can’t really describe it. She’s odd, strange, like she’s a screw loose.”
“You posted an envelope on Wednesday morning.”
“No I did not.”
“We’ve CCTV footage of you doing it.”
Stokes looked bewildered. “You must have mixed me up with someone else.”
Faulkner-Brown shook his head. “I don’t think so.”
“Where am I supposed to have done this?”
“You posted the document at the sorting office, then caught the bus opposite B&Q and came here to work.”
“On Wednesday morning?”
“You took the 7.20 a.m. bus; it dropped you off just down the road five minutes later, so you’d arrive here around 7.30. We’ll check the CCTV outside if we need to.”
“But it’s my day off on Wednesday; we’re not even open here. I didn’t get out of bed until about 10.30. It must be someone else who looks like me.”
“Can anyone verify what you have just said?”
“Why don’t you ask my boss, or check the opening times on the board outside? And my partner, who works nights at the supermarket, will confirm I was with her all day.”
“I think we need to review the footage,” Dudley said, turning to Faulkner-Brown. “I’ve a suspicion I know who it was.”
Faulkner-Brown pursed his lips. “I’m sorry to have troubled you, Ms Stokes,” he said.
“Can I go back to work?”
He nodded and she left the room. “If Barnes left the building disguised as her, she must have returned the same way,” he mumbled. “We need to check with the guys watching the flats.”
“Why don’t we go and ask her?” Dudley sounded irritated as he headed to the door.
At 11.00 a.m. local time the catamaran arrived at Gecko Island. Barnes and Woods each grabbed a set of binoculars from the cabin and settled on the side of the boat. Pamela continued to sunbathe on the knitted white polyamide netting stretched between the hulls.
“Fifty-six villas, Lester says,” Woods clarified.
“You know the plan,” Barnes said, focusing the binoculars.
“You’re confident he’s on the island.”
“I’ve a good feeling about this. After dinner yesterday evening I chatted with a couple of waiters, asking if they knew of a young wealthy English woman in her early twenties, and her brother, who might visit the island to buy provisions. I showed them Sarah and Scott’s photographs.”
“And?”
“They recognised Sarah; she regularly visits one of the restaurants on the other side of the island. One of the waiters worked there before coming to our hotel.”
Lester appeared. “Monsieur Greg. We sail slow.” He swivelled his finger in a circle. “You,” he placed his hands to his eyes, mimicking using binoculars, “see friend, we stop, you want blow klaxon?” He placed his hands over his ears grinning broadly.
“No! No!” Woods shook his head vigorously. “We see friend; go on beach, we wave, surprise him. No klaxon. No.”
“Only beach, no land, not allowed. Under
stand?”
Woods nodded and smiled. “Only beach.” He spotted Barnes holding back a smile. “What?”
“There’s no need to speak parrot fashion.”
“I suppose you can speak Creole.”
She scrunched up her nose. “A little French.”
“You know all hell will break loose when we go inland. Lester says they have armed guards.”
“I’ll handle it. I’ll explain we’re there to meet an old friend. What’s the worst that could happen?”
“We’re locked up and deported for illegally entering Russian territory.”
She grinned. “Not if I have anything to do with it.”
Faulkner-Brown stared at the intercom system on the entrance to the flats where Barnes lived. Dudley went to press the buzzer to flat eighteen.
“Don’t press that; choose one of the neighbour’s. We need the element of surprise.”
Dudley did as instructed, and explained to the woman who answered that they were police officers trying to contact one of the residents who wasn’t answering their call button. The entrance door opened immediately and they sprinted up to the top floor and across to flat eighteen. Dudley knocked loudly. Nothing. He knocked again. Still nothing. “We’ll have to break in,” he said, turning to Faulkner-Brown.
The door to the flat across the hallway opened and a frail, elderly lady peered out. “Are you looking for Maria?” she asked timidly in a croaky voice.
“Yes, we’re her colleagues.”
“She’s gone away.”
“When did she go?” Faulkner-Brown asked, frowning.
“Wednesday I think, yes it was early Wednesday morning, because on Wednesday’s I always. . .”
“Do you know where?”
“To visit relatives. She’ll be back in a week or so.”
Dudley glanced at Faulkner-Brown. “First-class team of covert specialists! What was it you said? She can’t move a muscle without you knowing!!!”
“Shut up.”
“Thank you,” Dudley shouted, as the elderly lady went back inside her flat.
Faulkner-Brown was already on his phone organising for someone to come and unlock the door. “The question is: is she actually with relatives?” he said, frowning at Dudley.
It was forty minutes later when the locksmith arrived and let them into the flat. Faulkner-Brown hurried in with Dudley following.
“She’s left a note,” Dudley said, picking up a sheet of paper from the coffee table. “Please don’t damage anything. I promise you’ll not find what you’re looking for in here.” He shook his head in disbelief. “She knew we’d be coming. Look, she’s rigged the flat so it appears she’s in residence: the lights, TV and the device making the shadows are all on timers, and the blinds are positioned to prevent direct sight into the flat.” He looked at Faulkner-Brown who’d taken a couple of picture frames off the mantelpiece and was staring at them. He went over. “I didn’t know she was married,” he said, seeing one was a wedding photograph.
“She isn’t.”
Dudley looked at the second picture. “Does she have kids?”
Faulkner-Brown was ashen. “No, she doesn’t,” he said quietly, appearing unsteady and sitting down on the sofa.
“What is it?” Dudley asked.
Faulkner-Brown stared at the pictures.
“What’s happened, what is it?” Dudley pressed.
“This is my wedding. That’s me, my wife, her brother and sister, her niece and nephews, her parents, my parents, my sister, my niece and my grandparents. And this one is my three kids.”
Silence.
Barnes’ phone rang. She dropped the binoculars, ran over to her bag to look at the screen. She dashed to her laptop and quickly fired it up. Seconds later she was watching live footage from her flat.
“Is there a problem?” Woods asked, looking over.
“They’re in my flat.”
He started towards her.
“Keep looking for Gerrard,” she ordered. “You can watch the footage later.”
“Who is it?”
“Dudley and a chubby, funny looking guy.”
“Faulkner-Brown.”
Barnes pressed a speed-dial number on her phone.
“Who are you ringing?”
“I’m calling the cavalry. And you’re supposed to be watching out for Gerrard. Do I have to do everything?”
Faulkner-Brown was sitting looking stunned. “She left here disguised as her neighbour, went to the main sorting office, posted the dossier, then caught the bus so it appeared she was heading to where the neighbour worked, got off just before the recycling plant, which is conveniently sited next to the canal and a network of unmonitored footpaths; and then she disappeared.”
“That’s how it’s looking,” Dudley responded. “But somehow she answered the intercom when your team of experts attempted to deliver a parcel on Wednesday afternoon.”
“The intercom in this building is GSM based. She must have programmed it to divert to a mobile, and if that’s her work phone,” he pointed to one plugged in the wall, “she must have another one. If we can find that number then we can trace where she was yesterday afternoon.”
Dudley nodded. “I’ll check the unit.”
Faulkner-Brown urged caution. “She knew we’d work it out.”
Dudley tentatively lifted the cover on the intercom. The blast from the explosion blew him back momentarily, the melting plastic in his hand burning him. “Shit!” he said, his fingers sticking to it. “She’s rigged it; we’ll never get the number now.” He ran to the kitchen sink to hold his hand under cold running water.
“She’s a bloody explosives expert as well. She used enough to destroy the unit but nothing else,” Faulkner-Brown grumbled.
“Where did she learn that?”
“Not in the police force. And what I’m trying to figure out is how the hell she got hold of my family photographs.”
“She must be getting help.”
Faulkner-Brown sighed. “If she’s working with the Russians, the dossier could have said so much more than it did. I was starting to think she wasn’t, but now I’m wondering if the dossier was to divert attention away from our attempt to focus the police in on Pauline.”
“If that was the case, they knew our intention before we carried out the shooting. Therefore you’ve got a leak.”
Faulkner-Brown’s head nodded slowly.
“I doubt she’s with relatives,” Dudley surmised.
“I need to organise protection for my family,” Faulkner-Brown said, taking out his phone.
Sudden noises came from outside the flat, and McLean appeared with Jacobs.
“You two are under arrest,” McLean said.
“How did you know we were here?” Dudley spluttered, looking bemused.
“We got a call saying someone was breaking in. Where’s Maria?”
“Good question!!!”
Barnes closed the laptop and joined Woods on the side of the boat. She refocused the binoculars and peered towards the island.
“Any problems?” he asked.
“McLean and Jacobs arrived to kick them out; Dudley burnt his hand. Now they really will start searching for me.”
“Burnt his hand?”
“The intercom exploded.”
“Exploded!!!”
She nodded. “One tiny explosion; the only person at risk was the one handling the unit. He’ll need to have it dressed, but the upshot is they can’t obtain the number I’ve been using.”
“Where did you get the explosives?”
She raised her eyebrows.
“Let me guess; a friend.”
She nodded again. “I take it you’ve not spotted Crean?”
“Not yet.”
She sensed he was thinking. “If you’re worried they’ll trace the number I used to ring the cavalry, I didn’t ring them directly. I called a friend who then went to a phone box and rang on my behalf. Rest assured they’ll not get my numbers.”
&
nbsp; “The one I used to book the flights is the one they’ll find. Then they’ll see the texts. Even though we used codenames they’ll work it out; they’re not stupid.”
Barnes was again nodding. “It was my fault, I should have realised and got you to use your normal mobile, but it all happened so quickly. Using Homer as the code word was a bad idea.”
“Why?”
Barnes was unsure if he’d missed the point. “Homer’s Odyssey,” she said. “Ancient Greek poem about Odysseus’ journey home after the fall of Troy. You did know that didn’t you?”
“I thought he was a cartoon character.”
“No you did not,” she insisted, detecting he was troubled by something. Nevertheless she refocused on the headland. “There!!!” she yelled, standing.
“Where?”
“On the headland. Young woman walking two pugs; have you got her?”
“Got her,” he replied.
“That’s Sarah. Lester, stop the boat!” she shouted.
“Blow klaxon?” he grinned.
“NO!” Woods roared.
Barnes smiled. “He’s kidding.” She looked at Woods. “Crean can’t be far away. We need to see which villa she goes to and focus in on that.”
“The end is nigh,” Woods said, excitedly.
Faulkner-Brown was back in his hotel room with Dudley sitting beside him. Both their laptops were open and in direct contact with Vauxhall Cross who were conducting the search for Barnes. They’d left her flat, and McLean and Jacobs had been ordered back to the Incident Room.
“She’s not with relatives,” Dudley said. “You don’t booby-trap your flat to prevent someone getting hold of your number and then go off to stay with relatives.”
“I know that, stupid. I’m making absolutely sure though. I’ve also asked for someone to go to Woods’ and check she’s not there. Is there anywhere else she may have gone?”
“I thought you had Woods under surveillance.”
Faulkner-Brown explained about the confrontation with the house brick. “We scaled down the operation and concentrated on Barnes.” As he finished speaking his phone rang. He listened for a few moments and then said, “Find out exactly where.”