by Angie Smith
“Why didn’t you leak the story to the press?” Woods asked.
“I would’ve been totally discredited; no-one would believe someone who’d faked their own death. Plus the Russians bought my silence. They agreed to compensate me for the business losses, and allowed me to settle here.”
“So why are you telling us now?”
“It’s something about being good for the soul.”
Woods sighed. “How did Williams know about the people who’d caused you and Pauline distress?”
“We were chatting about my will and in particular the eight inspirational people who I bequeathed some money to. Freddy wanted to know exactly what they’d done, and after I’d told him he asked about those who’d had a negative effect on me. I thought long and hard and came up with the six people you know about. Again Freddy wanted to know what each had done.”
“And I suppose you’re expecting me to believe you had no wish to harm any one of them?”
“Why would I want to harm them? My philosophy’s to move on and forget. In fact, when Freddy was talking of revenge, I advised him to do what I’d do.”
Barnes leaned forward. “You said by the time Porter had been murdered you’d worked out it was Freddy and his plan for revenge. Why didn’t you do something to help Ramírez?”
“Why do you think Bedford gave you the details of her new identity and where she was living?”
“So he knows you’re alive,” she said, shaking her head.
Crean smiled, but didn’t reply.
“That’s how you know about me. He’s reported back to you,” she pressed.
“Maria, that’s not important. What you are going to do with the information I’ve given you is.”
“They want Williams silenced,” Barnes said.
Woods agreed. “That’s why Hilton Dudley is on the investigation team.”
Crean nodded as Barnes thought out loud. “They’ll stop at nothing, and they’ll discredit or destroy the evidence.”
“You need to come up with a way of ensuring they can’t,” Crean reinforced.
“When we get back to the UK they’ll come here,” she said; then added, “that is if they’re not already on their way.”
“They’ll never get near me. I’m well protected.”
Woods raised his eyebrows.
She looked at Crean. “You let us in!” she exclaimed.
He had a wry smile. “Why do you think Sarah was walking along the headland?”
Barnes pondered and looked at Woods. “We need to get the information safely back to the UK, and they’ll be watching out for us, so we’ll need to outwit them; then we’ll need a plan.”
Woods shook his head, “They’re above the law and capable of anything.” He looked to Crean. “They’ve even tried to kill me.”
Unusually for Woods he sounded pathetically apologetic, but Barnes was having none of it. “Oh ye of little faith,” she snapped. “We’re not beat yet.”
Crean grinned. “So what are you going to do?”
“We must find Williams and stop the killing. Then we’ll deal with the information. When was the last time you spoke to him and have you any idea where he might be?”
“I haven’t seen him since last Christmas, and no, I’ve no idea where he’ll be now.”
Woods’ stance mellowed. “Do I have a say in any of this?”
Barnes’ expression needed no explanation. “Sorry, I was getting carried away again. What do you suggest?”
He looked at Crean. “Why do I get the feeling I’m being manipulated to dance to Williams’ and your tune?”
“Like you, I want the bad guys brought to justice.”
“You’re not exactly a knight in shining armour; if you weren’t on Russian soil I’d be arresting you and dragging you back to the UK.”
Crean huffed. “You can always start extradition proceedings. That is, if you’ve got a year or two to wait.”
“Which you obviously haven’t.”
Barnes wanted the sniping to cease. “Faulkner-Brown’s crew and Williams are the real bad guys; it’s them we need to focus on, not Gerrard!” She looked at Sarah and Scott, who in her opinion would make good poker players. “What are you planning to tell Pauline when she discovers you’ve been staying with your father?”
Sarah’s eyebrows knitted together. “None of your business.”
“She believes you’re in Asia.”
“So? She doesn’t need to know we’ve been here, but I suppose you’ll take great delight in telling her.”
“I’ll take no delight in it whatsoever; you should be the one explaining yourself.”
Crean stepped in. “When the time comes, I’ll speak to her.”
Barnes was incensed. “When the time comes?” she echoed. “Gerrard, the time is right now. Have you any idea what she’s going through and how much she loves you? You need to act!”
Crean looked at his daughter. “Maria’s right, I’ll speak to your mother. . .”
Woods, who’d been quietly listening, interrupted. “No… don’t do that. Give us a few days; we’ll catch the next flight home and after I’ve sorted out Faulkner-Brown, I’ll explain things to Pauline. I’ve an idea how we can use the information to our advantage, catch Williams and have all the protagonists brought to justice.” He winked at Barnes. “Come on, we need to get back to the boat.”
Crean raised his hand slowly and the senior protection officer appeared. “These two need a quick flight back to the UK, and to avoid inquisitive border officials.”
The officer nodded. “I understand,” he said in perfect English.
“Fuel the jet,” Crean ordered, and then turned to Barnes. “This is on the house. I know you enjoy first-class travel; accept it with my compliments.”
It was 8.00 p.m. and Faulkner-Brown was speaking on the telephone to Vauxhall Cross. He’d been piecing together evidence from interviews with Crean’s undertaker, accountant, oncologist and pathologist, Dr Nugunda. He’d obtained evidence of Barnes’ enquiries with the National Fraud Intelligence Bureau and was now convinced Crean had faked his own death. Dudley had been dispatched to coordinate the surveillance on Woods’ sister-in-law’s house and had been unable to confirm that both daughters were actually staying with their aunt, although the suspicion that they were remained. Evidence of Sarah Crean’s Skype calls to her mother had been analysed, proving they were generated in the Seychelles. Every resource available to Faulkner-Brown was now focusing on Woods’ holiday destination.
“Praslin is only two hours away from Gecko Island. Apparently Woods chartered a catamaran and sailed off towards the south-west this morning. Crean must be there. Where are our nearest team?” he asked.
“Nairobi, four and a half hours away,” Vauxhall Cross answered.
“Get someone to fly straight to the Seychelles, detain Woods and his so-called daughter. I need to know what they’ve discovered.” He slammed down the phone.
Saturday 9th June.
The two agents instructed to fly to the Seychelles were sitting in the aircraft awaiting pushback on their scheduled flight to Mahe.
“Apologies for the slight delay, ladies and gentlemen,” the first officer’s voice filled the cabin. “We’re awaiting clearance, which we understand we should be receiving any moment. The weather in Mahe is currently a pleasant twenty-eight degrees with slight south-westerly winds and risk of isolated showers.”
One of the agents looked out of the aircraft’s window and spotted a Phenom 300 jet coming into land. “Look at that,” he said to his colleague. “Three hundred people sitting waiting here while some wealthy guy lands his private jet.”
His colleague smiled, and leaned across to look out of the window. “Nice,” he said, and then settling back in his seat, “think about it, we’re going to the Seychelles and we’re being paid. How good is that?”
“Yes, but we’re not going to be relaxing in the sun; we’ve got work to do.”
“I know that, but how hard can it
be? We detain the individuals, interrogate them and report back. Then maybe we’ll have some time to enjoy ourselves.”
His colleague looked out of the window as the aircraft was slowly pushed back. “Don’t think for one minute that this will be a piece of cake. I’ve read the notes on the two individuals we’ve to detain, and one of them is definitely a pro. I doubt we’ll have any time to enjoy ourselves.”
Woods, Pamela and Barnes landed in Jomo Kenyatta International Airport, Nairobi. The jet needed refuelling, and despite the risk they would be remaining on board the aircraft. Afterwards they would head to Charles de Gaulle, Paris, and, after another fuel stop, on to a private airfield in North Yorkshire. The original flight-plan was to fly to Doha and on to Domodedove International Airport, Moscow; but ninety minutes into the flight the pilots had negotiated their current route which was formally agreed with the air traffic controllers. During the flight Barnes had been in the cockpit chatting to the Russian pilots while Woods and his wife made the most of the luxurious accommodation on board the jet. Prior to leaving Praslin, they had sailed back to the hotel in the catamaran, checked out, and been collected by Crean’s motor yacht, which brought them back to Gecko Island and his private airstrip where they’d boarded the jet which had taken off just before midnight local time.
While travelling back to the island Barnes had time to read the message posted on the social networking site by Holly Woods. It stated that her aunt’s house was currently under surveillance. Barnes immediately responded, posing as Holly’s sister Laura, saying not to worry and to be careful. Her postscript read: Having a great time here in paradise, Mum and Dad talking about travelling on to Moscow, will keep you informed.
Now as she looked across at Woods she could sense he was troubled. “I know you don’t like the thought of travelling on Gerrard’s jet, but it’ll get us back to the UK undetected, and it’s much faster than scheduled flights with lengthy connections. We’ll be on British soil by 8.30 a.m.”
Woods nodded, but still looked troubled.
“Are you worried about your daughters?”
“Not really, they can look after themselves, and no doubt Faulkner-Brown will be concentrating on coming after us.”
She smiled. “And when he reaches Praslin he’ll discover we’ve already left. He’ll see the message I posted, discover a jet left Seychellois airspace heading for Russia and assume that’s where we’ve gone. We’ll have the element of surprise, which is exactly what your plan needs.”
Woods sighed. “That’s the problem.”
“What is?”
“You are so good at this.”
“Why is that a problem?”
“I’m having doubts about your true intentions. I feel there’s so much I don’t know about you, and what little I do know worries me.”
She paused, unsure how to respond.
“If it was only a couple of things, I’d accept them as your peculiarities, but there’s a list as long as my arm.”
“Such as?”
“You had suspicions about Dudley from the minute he arrived; you knew he’d been going through paperwork on the desks; you filmed him bugging the office; you rightly presumed he’d drugged my coffee. You knew they’d been in your flat, and you found all their listening devices. You have an amazing ability to lose anyone who’s following you; you’re an expert in subterfuge, security camera avoidance, explosives, the use and detection of mobile telecommunications. You speak several languages. You equipped your flat so we’d know who’d been in while we were away; you rigged the intercom to ring your mobile… Need I go on? Ordinary police detectives don’t have those skills or that level of knowledge.”
She scowled; she hated being doubted. “I thought we had mutual trust and could rely on one another. All my peculiarities, as you quaintly refer to them, are actually talents which I’ve worked hard to develop and hone. I use them to my advantage, I’ve explained most of them to you, and I fail to see how that is an issue.”
Woods scratched at his ear. “Yesterday there were two significant events that can’t be explained away as being your peculiarities.”
She quickly went through the day’s events in her mind and then stared at him with that puzzled look she was so good at producing when the need arose.
He explained. “Firstly, when the guards surrounded us you stepped forward and spoke in Russian to them. However, your body language and that of the guards suggested something quite different from the conversation you claimed to have taken place. You weren’t explaining we were there to meet an old friend; you were issuing instructions and orders, and they were being submissive, or that’s what their body language implied. And the senior officer spoke perfect English, so there was no need for you to speak in Russian.”
She attempted to answer, but he carried on. “And secondly, when I viewed the footage of Faulkner-Brown and Dudley in your flat, I asked what the photographs were that Faulkner-Brown was looking at when he slumped down on the sofa. You said they were a picture of your cat and your graduation. Neither would generate the response he produced. Whatever he was seeing, it wasn’t Felix, or you wearing your graduation gown.”
Barnes knew she’d have to explain and that he wasn’t likely to be fobbed off with anything other than the truth. She swallowed hard. “I’m sorry, I didn’t like deceiving you, but things have been working against us and I had to adopt an unconventional approach.”
He raised an eyebrow.
“You’re right; the photographs in Faulkner-Brown’s hand were his wedding and his three children.”
“How the hell did you get hold of those?”
“It wasn’t illegal or anything that need worry you.”
He shook his head and looked sceptical.
“My brother... he has contacts in Russia who can obtain things like that. I wanted to scare Faulkner-Brown. He thinks I’m working for the Russians and that’s the sort of thing they’d do. It worked, but I didn’t think you’d approve, so I fibbed… Sorry.”
“What about the guards?”
“Same thing. I named some very influential Russians who I claimed to be connected to; I wanted the upper hand. The irony is that Gerrard was expecting us, so there was no need for me to do that.”
Woods chewed his lips; she could see the cogs spinning metaphorically in his mind. She sensed the next question would be difficult.
“I presume your brother is the friend you always claim to have with specialist knowledge on whatever subject. Does he work for the Russians?”
She shook her head.
“Have you compromised the investigation in any way?”
“No, I’ve only used his specialist knowledge to help us. He’s not a spy; you don’t have to worry about that. He’s a very gifted young man and he’d never do anything illegal. I can assure you my only intention has been to apprehend Williams and prevent any more murders. Please believe me on that.”
“One last thing; when we nearly crashed into Williams, you said if I injured you I was a dead man! At the time I thought it was the highly charged atmosphere of the chase, so I let it go, I didn’t say anything about it.” He looked her straight in the eyes. “Was it a. . .”
“It wasn’t a threat,” she said quickly. “It was the adrenaline. I was trying to draw your attention away from the chase and slow you down.”
“Okay,” he said, rubbing his chiselled chin.
She watched closely as he appeared to be analysing every word she’d said. She considered adding to it, but decided she had given him sufficient information to substantiate the explanation. All she needed now was for him to believe her. He looked across and she gave him one of her apologetic smiles.
He smiled back, but there was hesitation in there. “I’m glad we’ve cleared the air,” he said, sounding sincere. “I’m sorry I doubted you, but the next twenty-four hours are going to be intense and we’ll need to work together; there no room for mistrust from now on.”
“I’ve never doubted you for one sec
ond. And I won’t let you down.”
“No more secrets?” he said.
“No more secrets,” she echoed, crossing her fingers out of his sightline.
Chapter 20
Saturday 9th June – Sunday 10th June.
Foster awaited the arrival of Hilton Dudley in the Incident Room. McLean, Jacobs and West were already present having been summoned along with Detective Inspector George Hooper, who was there at Foster’s behest.
“Aye, what time are we expecting him?” McLean asked.
Foster glanced up at the clock. “He shouldn’t be too long; I asked him to be here at ten.”
Fifteen minutes later Dudley appeared. He was introduced to Hooper, and he grabbed a coffee from the vending machine before joining the others who were sitting in a semi-circle around Foster.
“Right everyone,” Foster said. “We’ve had a good response from the public re Williams’ photograph and uniformed officers are working around the clock checking each reported sighting.”
“Don’t put too much credence to the sightings; remember Williams will have changed his appearance,” Dudley said.
Foster sighed. “I appreciate that, but I can’t afford not to check them out. And we might get a lead as to where he’s been operating from.”
McLean glared at Dudley. “Aye, if national security is reliant on MI5 and MI6, how is it they can’t find someone who used to work for them? I mean, they’ll have all his details, his fingerprints, known associates, aliases, and they’ll even have his bloody shoe size… none of which they’ll release. God help us if ever we need their help! What do you say, Hilton?”