The Wait for Shadows

by Karl Holton

  He looked at her. “Sure … I’m fine,” he said. “Thanks for the drinks.” He turned away and started to walk out of the bar.

  As he got to the entrance, he heard Sarah shout at him. “Excuse me.”

  He turned around and looked at her. She was waving his mobile phone that he’d left behind. He walked back smiling at her all the way. “Thanks. I’d be dead without this.”

  Chapter 37

  Day 10

  Arrivals, Stansted Airport, Essex

  9.06 p.m.

  Lomax’s flight from Moldova back to Stansted was late; he wasn’t happy. Watching Urna walk off to get onto a private jet back to New York had angered him. On top of that, the service on the flight was terrible and they’d missed their slot in the schedule so the plane landed late.

  He walked out through the customs and watched the only person in sight questioning a young man. He’d just opened his case and the customs officer was asking him banal questions about what was inside.

  As he exited the section and walked out into the main arrivals area he immediately saw his two security men, ready to drive him. He nodded at them from a distance but noticed the look on the face of one.

  “What’s wrong?” Lomax asked, as all three men moved away from the crowd and kept walking.

  “The team missed Tommy Gibbs,” was the response.

  Lomax looked down then closed his eyes. “How the fuck did that happen?”

  “He managed to get into his car, which was armoured and … he managed to get away from us,” he said. “There was an exit that hadn’t been covered.”

  Lomax felt his anger burning. How did Raske miss Tommy? I’d set it up so it was simple. “What about Johnnie?” Lomax asked. “Have we received any information about where he is?”

  “No, sir. Not a thing … he seems to have disappeared.”

  Lomax kept on walking, feeling the fury grow. “We have got to find both of them and fast. I’m not interested in excuses.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The men’s striding through the airport continued at pace.

  Lomax rubbed his forehead. “Please give me some good news.”

  “We have the drugs in a secure place and everyone else in Tommy’s gang is dead.”

  He nodded as he took in the news. That’s something. The mobile phone vibrated in his pocket. He took it out and checked the screen. The contact showing was ‘Bas-Haut’, who was his equivalent in France. “Bonjour, Bas.”

  “Hello, Lomax, can we talk?”

  Lomax had a cursory look around. “Yes, it’s fine.”

  “I have some good news; I saw your message about needing a piece of art, preferably in France in the next seventy-two hours.”

  Lomax had posted a message about needing the artwork on their secure message board. This was used by the whole organisation and sat on the Dark Web. All their messages were coded and couldn’t be read without the necessary software. Only Jasper knew how to break the code without the software.

  He nodded. “Yes. I hoped you would see it … do you have something that meets my criteria?”

  “I think so,” Bas said. “I’ve spoken to one of our main sources. He says he has something ‘Fantastique’. But they won’t say what it is until we say we can meet their terms.”

  “Is it in Paris?”

  “Yes; we’re going to see it in a few hours.”

  “What are their terms?”

  “He’s given us an exclusive chance to acquire it in the next twelve hours … but we have one chance to say yes and the price they want is fixed; forty million euro.”

  Lomax let the number resonate in his head. Sounds ideal, he thought. “Ok, call me once you’ve seen it.”

  “Bonsoir, mon ami,” Bas said, putting down the phone.

  Lomax put his phone in his pocket as they walked past Café Balzar. He heard the barmaid shout ‘Excuse Me’. For a moment he wondered if she was talking to him. He looked towards the bar to see a patron walking back to her.

  “Sir, we need to get on the move and start talking to the men,” said one of the guards.

  Lomax turned to him. “You’re right … we need to get everyone looking for Johnnie Garrett and Tommy Gibbs.”

  Chapter 38

  Day 10

  Hôtel Maison Souquet, Rue de Bruxelles, Paris

  12.04 a.m. GMT (1.04 a.m. Day 11 Local)

  Louis Paquet was a sixty-eight-year-old art expert with one of the best reputations in Paris outside the formal authentication of the major art institutes. Torian knew Paquet would give him a verbal attestation on a stolen piece for a price, normally five hundred euro. Paquet was the best choice for stolen pieces of this quality in Paris. But more importantly to Torian, he was cheap.

  The initial promise by Torian of being taken to see something ‘monumental’ had no impact when he’d walked into Paquet’s house forty minutes earlier. He’d told the angered old man, as he stood in his pyjamas, that it was a ‘once in a lifetime’ chance; Paquet was uninterested.

  Only when Torian had placed a bottle of claret on his kitchen table beside a small pile of fifty euro notes had he become quiet. ‘Is that one thousand? I’ll do it at this hour for one thousand … and the wine’, Paquet had shouted at him. Torian had smiled and said ‘you get dressed while I make us a quick coffee’. Within a few minutes Torian was asking himself ‘how long does it take for an old-man to dress?’

  As they sat in the taxi getting closer to the rendezvous, Torian was now wishing he hadn’t made the coffee. He was finding it difficult to calm Paquet down as the taxi pulled up outside the hotel.

  Paquet took out a tissue and wiped his nose. “There better be a good reason why you dragged me out of bed at this ungodly time?”

  Torian shook his head as he looked out the window.

  Paquet turned to him, holding out a hand. “What if I have doubts about it?”

  “Then tell me,” said Torian, shaking his head. “But tell me outside the room. We’ll make an excuse and leave. Make it obvious that you’ll just need time to consider it.” He noticed the trepidation on Paquet’s face and thought about what he was asking the old man to do. “If you’re unsure, just keep away from the painting and say nothing. I’ll make an excuse for us … ok?”

  Paquet nodded as the taxi stopped. “Why here? Are you sure this man is credible?”

  Torian ignored him as he paid the driver and left the taxi.

  The two men stepped onto the pavement of the ordinary Parisian street. In the darkness the two black lanterns above the front door were the only clue to the opulent extravagance of the rooms inside.

  Paquet grabbed his arm. “You haven’t told me about the painting. It may be better if I have some idea before seeing it.”

  Torian smiled as he recalled the ‘Ace’ being overturned. “I think it would be better to get your reaction … as you see it.”

  “You’ve seen it?” Paquet asked.

  “Only a photo … I’m excited to experience my own reaction.”

  Torian led them from the plain beige frontage of the hotel into the lobby, where the interior immediately attacked the senses. The mixture of deep red fabric with gold green arabesque interiors created an intense barrage of colours. Torian liked it; he could see that Paquet didn’t.

  The receptionist expected them; a porter showed them to the lift. The luxurious ‘Belle Époque’ style continued all the way to the door of the room. Celso instantly opened the door.

  “Come in, gentlemen,” Celso said.

  They walked into the suite and the position of the painting was obvious. It was hanging on a wall with dark golden wallpaper; what appeared to be a white bed sheet was hanging over it.

  Torian noticed the gun sitting on a small table in the room. He knew that Celso was not to be trifled with.

  They were standing about four metres from the painting. Celso moved over to it and held the white cloth. “Shall we?”

  Torian nodded.

  Celso took the cloth off the pain
ting.

  Torian felt himself breathe in, filling his lungs as time stopped. Paquet stepped forward in silence, lifting his glasses off his nose and letting them sit on top of his head.

  He kept moving forward appearing to want to enter the image. Torian watched the old man attempt to reach for a support that wasn’t there. He could hear a sound coming from the art expert; it wasn’t speech. Torian moved forward feeling the awe rising within as he got closer.

  They were both a metre away. Torian forced himself to move his eyes towards Paquet.

  The old man was crying.

  Chapter 39

  Day 11

  Oliver Close, Grays, Thurrock, Essex

  6.11 a.m.

  Benedict had been quiet for the last ten minutes and Wallace was starting to feel uneasy about it. She had an impression that he had other things rattling around in his head as he scanned the photos of both crimes.

  They’d left the Grange Hotel late yesterday. Benedict had discovered which seat Tommy had allegedly sat in at dinner in the royal suite. He’d suggested forensics test the seat for Tommy’s DNA from his sweat. The result confirmed Benedict’s suspicions — it wasn’t Tommy’s DNA. The sweat from the other seats matched the DNA from various dead bodies of his gang members at the Thatchers Arms. The ten-pound note had Tommy’s fingerprint. ‘So it appeared Tommy had indeed arrived at the hotel later – he just hadn’t been there when the murders had occurred. A blatant, if poorly executed, attempt at covering up his whereabouts at the time of Horne’s murder,’ Benedict had said, half to himself half to Wallace. ‘He’d have been better off with no alibi at all. At least that wouldn’t show a clear intent to deceive us.’

  They travelled to the Thatchers Arms very late. The bodies of the Gibbs gang were gone by the time they’d arrived. In the darkness she’d seen again how Benedict appeared to imagine the violence. He let it inflate his desire for answers in some curious echo of their conversation at his flat a few days ago.

  The same thing was happening now.

  Wallace looked at Scott. “We’re certain that the robbery of the drugs van from here happened at exactly the same time as the attack on the Gibbs men at the Thatchers Arms?”

  “On the button,” Scott said.

  Benedict held out a photo of a dead body beside the container showing it to Scott. “Can you get forensics to check this guy’s mobile. You can see it’s in his hand. I want to know who he was calling while people were shooting at him.”

  “Sure; no problem, sir.”

  Wallace smiled at the way Scott called him ‘sir’. She looked up at the Queen Elizabeth II Bridge looming over the scene. The hum of traffic filled the air. It was grating, leaving the sensation it was erasing her thoughts.

  Benedict returned to the photos.

  “We now know Toby Duffield used that false passport and drove into the UK using the Shuttle, coming into Folkestone,” she stated. After the meeting yesterday, the Flying Squad team had not taken long to find this and they now had photos of the van coming into the UK. “Toby drove it to Southend and we think this was where the Gibbs gang were storing the van after stealing it from Billy Horne?”

  Scott nodded. “Gibbs had hired a static ship container from the haulage firm here, boss,” said Scott, talking to Wallace, but knowing that Benedict was listening. “The haulage firm owner is admitting to nothing. He says he had no idea that it was Tommy Gibbs and he had no idea what they were storing in it.”

  She shook her head. “When does he say they started renting the container?”

  “Three weeks ago.”

  Wallace rubbed her teeth together. “Interview everyone in this firm like they’re a suspect. This is bullshit … keep squeezing ‘till one of them cracks and then they’ll all start talking. Threaten the owner with the Fraud Squad.” She looked at Scott who nodded at her. “What about the van?”

  “The owner said that a van appeared here forty-eight hours ago,” Scott said. “Someone called him and asked if they could leave it here and move the contents into the container this week. He’d agreed but he says he had no idea what was in it.”

  “Is there any CCTV on site?”

  “Yes,” Scott said. “But nothing where the van was parked. So if the plates had been changed we’ve no idea what they were.”

  Wallace shook her head. “Shit.”

  “We’ll get something from the other places around here, boss,” Scott stated. “We’re going to catch a break … there’s no way the van got away without us seeing it and we’ll tie it back to what we’ve got from Southend.”

  Wallace smiled. This confidence was what she liked about Scott. He always believed they’d succeed. “Witnesses?”

  “We have five employees from the firm that were on site, including the owner. All of them did a runner and hid the minute the shooting started. Each one of them is saying they saw nothing.”

  “Weapons?”

  “Paulsen is dealing with forensics and the two bodies. He said to me that they were using similar assault rifles to those in Southend,” Scott said. “We do know that the sniper was at the Thatchers Arms and not here. The sniper shot the young lad coming out of the pub and then started shooting at Tommy in the car.”

  Benedict scratched his head. Why didn’t the sniper shoot Tommy straight away? “There’s something going on here that we haven’t yet grasped.”

  Wallace took two steps towards him. “Tommy Gibbs nicks the van off Billy Horne and kills him with the help of someone. Somebody else nicks the van off Tommy Gibbs and tries to kill him. You’re wondering if this ‘someone’ is the same person. You’re worried that if we don’t find Tommy and get him to tell us who it is we might never find this out.”

  Benedict’s bottom lip flickered into a brief smile.

  She noticed his eyes locking on her. “Do you think this sniper is working with this ‘someone’?”

  Benedict looked like he had something to tell her as he stared at the floor. “It’s likely. We’ve got some ground to cover today. We need to see the place that the van was stolen for that art theft before we get back into London.”

  She shook her head. Jesus Christ, how many crimes does he want to look at? Wallace looked at Scott and asked him to leave them with a faint head movement. Scott left them.

  She walked up to Benedict. “Why don’t you tell me?”

  He turned to her but said nothing. He closed his eyes and ran his middle fingers over each eyebrow, sighing. “Tell you what?”

  “Tell me what all of this has got to do with this art theft and the person you went to see with Dawson yesterday,” she demanded.

  Benedict let a short laugh out, staring at the sky. “I don’t know if they’re connected … but let’s just say I’m suspicious.” His gaze returned to her. “But that person I went to meet might have an idea and I think it’s about time you met him.”

  Chapter 40

  Day 11

  Romford Police Station, Romford, Essex

  8.10 a.m.

  Rowe pressed the ‘black coffee’ button on the machine and waited. He wasn’t pleased with the resulting tepid, syrupy liquid that slid into the polystyrene cup. He wasn’t pleased with the terrible 1960’s building that the coffee machine was standing in; he wasn’t pleased with the lack of contact from Johnnie. Nothing today was pleasing.

  He’d been told by Watkins to set up an investigation team at this station and he was given two local detective constables to help him. ‘Brelsford and Kinsey are both decent young coppers’ said the Romford DCI to him. He was instructed to focus only on the drugs and discovering where they were being held.

  He didn’t care about the scolding he’d received from Watkins for trying to hit Benedict in Southend. He didn’t care that he had no one in the force supporting him. Ever since he joined the Drugs Squad all he’d cared about was getting drugs off the streets. He’d decided long ago that he could do more towards that goal by working on the inside; by working with the smugglers than against them. The fact h
e took some reward from them was irrelevant; the police wouldn’t pay him for being effective so he could take it from them.

  He picked up his cup and walked down the corridor into the small room they’d been given by the station sergeant. He’d tried to get the Romford DCI to help but he said there was nothing he could do. ‘Typical ineffective police bureaucracy’.

  Rowe entered the room and saw DC Brelsford, his new team member, staring at the pictures they had on the walls.

  Brelsford turned to Rowe. “Sir, if these are new drugs coming in maybe we can start tracing them by testing what is coming onto the market and finding the source through those sellers.”

  Rowe looked at the keen and clearly smart DC. He really didn’t like young detectives like this. “It won’t be on the streets for some time … if it’s just been smuggled in it still needs to get cut before being ready for the streets.”

  Brelsford turned back to the wall shaking his head.

  “Where’s Kinsey?” Rowe asked.

  “He’s in Southend talking to some people; he said they might know something.”

  Rowe sipped his coffee and twisted his face. “Get him on the phone and tell him to get here. We need to have a meeting about the next steps given what was discovered at Thurrock.”

  “Will do,” Brelsford said.

  The single phone in the room rang. Brelsford leaned over and picked it up. “DC Brelsford; how can I help.” He listened to the caller for a moment. “Sure, I’ll get him to come down.” He put the phone down and looked at Rowe. “They want you down at reception. Someone has walked in and asked for you.”

  Rowe stood up. “Ok – but you get hold of Kinsey.” He strode out of the door and down the stairs leading to the back of the reception.

  The desk sergeant saw him coming. “He’s sitting in reception.”

  Rowe tapped in the code to the door and opened it.

  Johnnie Garrett was sitting there. “Alright, Rowe … I think we need to have a chat.”