Looming in the twilight was a motor cruiser gliding towards a mooring post out in the channel; it was sleek, white and glittered in the dusk. Most of the vessels around it were smaller: sailing boats and skiffs, so it stood out. It was upriver, well away from the marina and the Harbour Master’s office.
In the call Ivan Rossi made to Jo he’d been astonishingly candid. He’d explained that he was doing a favour for a family friend and had gone out on his boat. But engine problems had slowed them down and he was late getting back. He insisted he would still meet her in London by nine.
The sympathy and anxiety in his voice, his trust in her, had made Jo uncomfortable.
‘Listen to me, Charlotte, I will be back. I made you a promise and I intend to keep it.’
As she’d listened to him she’d reflected ruefully that, like her, his mind wasn’t on the job in hand. He was oblivious to the fact he was walking into a trap. She had to remind herself that this was good. But part of her felt sorry for him.
The hotel’s largest suite had been turned into a comfortable mobile command centre. Vaizey was on his feet, pacing as he directed operations, and Foley was at his side. The tension and excitement in the room was palpable. Jo stood at the back, keeping out of the way, and watched.
Camera one zoomed in on the cruiser. There appeared to be three men on board, all wearing heavy waterproof sailing jackets with the hoods up and tightly fastened to conceal most of their faces. The tide was receding fast, they’d left it too late to tie up to the jetty. Or perhaps it was always their intention to use one of the mooring posts further out in the main channel.
Their jackets were fluoro-yellow so even in the fading light the men were easy to pick out. They worked swiftly and efficiently, launching a small inflatable with an outboard motor. One of them got into the dinghy, the others returned to the cabin. They made four trips, carrying a bulky holdall each time, which they passed to the man in the boat. Then they boarded the tiny vessel too.
Foley folded his arms. ‘If they’re not careful, they’ll sink it.’
Vaizey smiled. ‘I’m guessing this isn’t the first time they’ve done this.’
The action moved to camera two and the point of view changed. Loaded down, the inflatable was ploughing towards the shore, where it beached on a patch of hard sand. The camera panned to take in a black Mercedes panel van parked on the grass close to the shoreline, behind it black trees and dark woods. A man in a hoodie got out. The transfer of the holdalls from the boat to the van took less than a minute. One of the sailors stripped off his jacket, joined the hoodie in the van and it drove off.
As the dingy was being pushed back into the water, half a dozen armed police swarmed from the trees and the two sailors were surrounded up to their knees in water. They raised their hands in surrender. The sound on the footage was muffled, only the shout Armed Police! was audible.
Gaze fixed on the screens, Vaizey nodded to himself. The comms officer seated in front of the monitors punched the air with his fist.
Foley was on his phone, finger pressed to his other ear. He turned to Vaizey. ‘We’ve got two drones on the van, boss. And as soon as they hit the main road ANPR will pick them up.’
Camera three wobbled and turned. A bright light was being shone on the two sailors as they were hauled out of the river and cuffed. The officers arresting them pulled their hoods back and the camera zoomed in on their faces.
Ivan Rossi looked wet and cold and in shock. His companion was older and sullen but then Rossi seemed to gather himself. He started speaking to the armed police arresting him. The words were impossible to decipher but the tone was pleading.
Vaizey tapped the comms officer on the shoulder. ‘Ask them what he’s saying?’
The comms officer relayed the question through his headset. The answer came back almost immediately.
‘He wants to call his girlfriend. Says she’s expecting him and if he doesn’t show she’ll be upset.’
Foley gave a hoot of laughter and swivelled round to face Jo. ‘You’ve completely suckered him. What a numbskull! You’re the business, Jo Boden. A real femme fatale.’
Everyone in the room was looking at her. Jo felt awkward. She managed a smile, aware of Vaizey and that chilly unremitting stare resting on her. Then he nodded. ‘Yes, DC Boden. Well done.’
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
The mobile comms unit was being dismantled and packed into crates by the time reports came through from the team tracking the van. It had joined the M6 and speculation was its destination was Manchester or Liverpool. After a day hanging around, Foley had been champing at the bit, so Vaizey had allowed him to join the pursuit; Jo was left to drive their unmarked pool car back to London.
The cruiser had been searched and impounded. The two gun smugglers transferred to cells in Southampton. Vaizey ordered up several bottles of Scotch, toasted the DI from Hampshire and his officers, and instructed the local armed backup to stand down.
The call from Foley came at around 11 p.m. Vaizey put his phone on loudspeaker so the team remaining from the Met could listen in.
There were sirens in the background and Foley sounded wired. ‘We tracked the van to a small industrial estate in Stockport. The buyers are a well-known Manchester crime family. Ten arrests in all, the guys in the van plus eight armed thugs at the warehouse.’
‘How many weapons?’ In spite of several whiskies, Vaizey was very much in control.
‘I’ll send you the video of the preliminary exam. Looks like two bags of Skorpion machine pistols, possibly twenty units. Ten Russian assault rifles, all AK 47s. One of the bags is ammo. Plus there’s a selection of hand guns. It’s a fucking arsenal all right!’
‘Any problems?’
‘We took them completely by surprise. Initially, we thought they might try and shoot their way out. But when they saw what they were up against they thought better of it. SIO here is extremely chuffed, dream come true for him catching one of their leading local mobsters red-handed with a pile of guns. He asked me to pass on his compliments to you.’
‘Give him mine, Cal. And tell the rest of the team well done from me. Textbook operation.’
‘Will do, boss.’
Vaizey clicked the phone off, turned to Jo and smiled. ‘Top-up?’
She was lounging on the sofa and allowed him to pour an inch of whisky into her glass. Her plan had been to leave several hours ago. But that hadn’t happened for reasons she couldn’t quite pin down. She wasn’t drunk but she was probably over the limit.
The atmosphere in the room was one of tired relief. Any further coordination through the night would be handled from the London control centre. The comms officers were running through their checklist, making sure nothing got left behind.
One of them turned to Vaizey. ‘Mind if we get off, boss?’
‘Yeah, you go. Thanks.’
Jo put her glass down without touching it. ‘I should go too. Long drive.’
Vaizey gave her a stern look. If anything it reminded her of her father. ‘Aren’t you a bit over the limit? We’ve got this whole suite until tomorrow. Plenty of space to crash.’
His tone was casual, it would be hard to read anything into it. She looked at him. That chilly penetrating gaze scanned her, but only for a moment.
He picked up his glass and drained it. ‘Me, I was up at four. So I shall be out like a light as soon as my head hits the pillow.’
Jo got up slowly. She couldn’t help feeling like a gawky teenager trying to appear cool and in control.
This was the operational life, long hours of boredom then a burst of excitement. Euphoria at a successful result laced with alcohol. She’d been in this situation before, in the backwash, mellow with drink. It was easy to forget that life existed outside the job. This is where affairs began and marriages ended.
She gave him what she hoped was a disinterested nod. ‘Yeah, you’re right. Thanks, boss. I’m fine with the sofa.’ Kicking off her shoes, she plonked down and started to get com
fortable.
The comms officers carried the last of their gear out and closed the door behind them.
Steve Vaizey hesitated and then put his hands on his hips. ‘You know I’m married, don’t you?’
Now they were alone the tone of voice was less matter-of-fact, he tilted his head and gave her a quizzical smile. Jo stared at him. She didn’t get it. His abrupt change of manner had wrong-footed her again.
‘Meaning what?’
‘Meaning I intend to stay married but that doesn’t mean to say that I don’t want to sleep with you.’
She felt both annoyed and manipulated. This was hardly the hot-blooded passion she’d hoped for. His attitude puzzled her.
‘What about what I want?’
He shrugged. ‘Okay, well I guess that answers the question.’ He turned and headed for the bedroom. ‘Sleep tight.’
As he walked away she felt a rush of regret.
‘Hang on.’ She spoke without thinking.
He turned back to face her and she could feel her pulse racing.
His smile was sardonic. ‘So what do you want, Jo Boden? Do you even know?’
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
She woke in the early morning with a fuggy head – whisky had never been her drink – to find herself alone. The king-sized bed occupied the main bedroom in the suite. She couldn’t remember getting into it. The large soft duvet was hardly rumpled. Then she remembered the sex; it had taken place on the sofa in the other room, efficient and perfunctory. It was okay, but nothing earth-shattering. He’d apologized, said again how tired he was, so why hadn’t he stayed? The state of the bed suggested she’d slept there by herself.
Getting up, she wandered through the suite. Her clothes were arranged in a neat pile on the chair, which was most certainly not where they’d landed when she’d pulled them off. There was no sign of Vaizey and no note. His bag, his laptop, his jacket were all gone. An array of empty bottles and half a dozen dirty glasses were lined up neatly on the desk. It seemed rather strange, tidying up before slinking away.
She pulled back the heavy drapes and white icy light flooded the room. It sent a lonely chill through her. Whatever romantic illusions she’d harboured about Steve Vaizey had turned out to be just that. It was like bad-first-date sex, the result of alcohol and inertia tinged with the vague hope that this time would be different.
She felt used, but she’d allowed it. He was the SIO and after a successful and tense operation he probably regarded sex with a silly and available DC as a perk of the job. By hanging around and having a drink with the team, hadn’t she issued an invitation? Or perhaps he’d confused her with Charlotte? Either way she felt like a slut.
As she stood under the shower, soothing herself with hot water and complimentary toiletries, she discovered a couple of tiny finger-mark bruises on her left bicep. A man who didn’t realize his own strength? Or more likely didn’t think that a girl like her would object if he was a bit rough.
Standing alone and naked in front of the broad illuminated mirror and double sink vanity unit, Jo looked herself up and down. And she didn’t much care for what she saw. She was tall, her damp shoulder-length hair was naturally blonde, she wasn’t carrying any excess fat. But the penetrating LED lights emphasized the whorish pallor of her skin. Was this what Steve Vaizey had seen? The kind of twentysomething girl, adrift between relationships, who wouldn’t say no because the big three O was looming and she was beginning to feel a little desperate. What do you want and do you even know?
She dressed quickly, collected her belongings and headed downstairs. The girl behind the reception desk had a seen-it-all hotel smile and a Slovakian accent.
Jo placed the key card in front of her. ‘Did any of my colleagues come down for breakfast?’ She had a residual wisp of hope that maybe he’d left her to sleep and was still around.
The receptionist shook her head. ‘No, madam. You are the last. Everyone else has left.’
Eating breakfast alone in the dining room didn’t appeal and Jo considered just leaving. But she was hungry, she had a nagging headache and wasn’t that sure what she should do. The car had to be driven back to London, there’d be reports to write, but she saw no urgency. She’d done her job, so officially her secondment to Grebe was probably over. Maybe Vaizey had already decided that, which would explain his cavalier attitude last night. He didn’t expect to be facing her in the office.
She went into the bar, ordered a large black Americano and a croissant, then settled herself in a window seat while she waited for it to arrive.
The coffee should help kick her sluggish synapses into action. She started to give herself a stern lecture: okay, she’d made a mistake but there was no point dwelling on it. He’d actually drunk far more than her. Her dignity was damaged but hopefully he wouldn’t be the sort to brag about it, so her reputation would survive.
Rummaging in her bag she unearthed her phone, which had been set on vibrate only. Tapping it with her index finger, she found six missed calls. She felt a flutter of expectation ripple through her.
He’d been trying to call her, of course he had! He was on the road, he’d want to be present when Rossi and the others were interviewed. This was still very much a live operation. He may even be headed for Manchester. Assembling a body of evidence, liaising with the CPS, the bust was only the beginning of the process.
Relief flooded through her. Waking up alone had simply fed the demons of self-doubt. But it was paranoia. She expected the missed calls to be from him, not an unknown number. That didn’t make sense. Was there a reason he wouldn’t be calling from his own phone? There could be several. She knew he carried more than one handset, she’d seen them.
The coffee and croissant arrived. She thanked the waiter and took a sip. Should she call him back on this other number? She was puzzling it out when the handset vibrated.
Her heart soared. She clicked to answer. ‘Hello?’
The voice was female and impatient. ‘Finally! You’re a difficult woman to get hold of. This is Tania Jones.’
Tania Jones? The television producer.
‘I’m sorry. I can’t really talk. I’m working.’
‘I’m afraid this is important. It’s Briony.’
Jo felt a ripple of anger. She wasn’t about to be hassled. ‘Look, I’ve explained, I can’t—’
‘Briony’s killed herself.’
‘What?’
‘It happened early this morning, we think. She threw herself under a train.’
CHAPTER FIFTY
The drive to Littlehampton from the New Forest took an hour and a half. Leaving the icy sepulchral stillness of the heathland behind, Jo hit the damp morning rush-hour around Southampton where she picked up the M27. The busy coast road was a steady stream of traffic crammed between sea and Downs. But she switched to autopilot, found a local radio station with 80s pop and inane chit-chat, which soothed her journey and helped her not think too much about Briony Rowe and why she might’ve decided to kill herself.
Jo’s strategy with the film-maker had been to force her into a corner and call her bluff. Had it succeeded beyond her expectations? Had Briony decided she couldn’t face the shame of being found out? In her belly, masked by coffee, Jo was aware of a queasy sense of guilt.
Stopping for petrol outside Chichester, she checked her phone. No missed calls, no texts, nothing at all from Vaizey. But then, why would he call? He’d made it clear that it was a casual encounter, what Alison would’ve called a one-night-stand. That was the deal and Jo had bought it.
After some thought she opted for a circumspect approach. She sent a text to Foley asking him to call and update her.
She was in the garage shop buying more coffee and a chocolate hit to get her brain in gear, when the phone buzzed.
‘How’s it going, Boden? I knew you must be missing me.’ He sounded as if he’d been up all night.
‘Not as much as you think. What’s the latest?’
‘We’re getting “no comment,
no comment”. But we’ve got it all recorded, them receiving the guns, examining them.’
‘What does the boss think?’
‘Haven’t spoken to him this morning.’
‘Oh. He left early. I presumed he was headed for Manchester.’
‘Cosy evening then, just the two of you?’
‘Oh, fuck off, Foley!’
‘Sorry.’ He did sound contrite, which surprised Jo. His voice softened. ‘Maybe I’m jealous.’
‘Let me be clear. Vaizey is my married boss. You are the DS and a colleague. My personal life and professional life do not overlap in any way.’ In essence this was true.
‘Okay okay—’
‘I’m assuming my secondment is over.’
‘I dunno. You need to check that with Steve. I think he’s in London. They’re tracking the money. Our Manchester gang boss sent a text to his accountant authorizing a money transfer to an offshore account in the BVI right after he’d examined the goods. That’s the last piece of the puzzle. CPS reckons once we put it all together they’ll be going down for a lengthy stretch.’
‘Good result all round then. If I’m not needed today, I thought I’d take the scenic route back.’
‘Fine by me. Listen, Jo, I know I can be a bit, well y’know—’
‘Apology accepted. See you back in the office.’ She’d hung up.
Foley the Neanderthal bully she could handle; at least in that role he was predictable. But Foley trying to play the emotional modern male and coming on to her was just creepy. And why had he suddenly changed his tune? Or was it sudden? Lust didn’t seem enough of an explanation. The experience was unnerving, but Jo didn’t have the mental space to figure out Foley.
Her headache was worsening and she concluded she’d had it with him and his boss. Going back to work for a boring old school copper like Dave Hollingsworth would be a relief. And now, on top of all this, she had to face the fact that she could be responsible for driving Briony Rowe to suicide?
It Should Have Been Me Page 21