by Tim Ellis
‘You must be fucking crazy, mister,’ one of them said before Jack wrapped duct tape around the man’s mouth. ‘We’re coppers. Check my pocket. My Warrant Card is in there. I’m a Detective Sergeant in the Metropolitan Police Service, for fuck’s sake. You let us go now, and we’ll forget all about what’s happened tonight.’
He didn’t respond.
Instead, he cut off all their clothes with a knife and removed their shoes and socks. Next, he laid out each man’s identity documents on the table in front of them; emptied their wallets of money, cards, and photographs; laid out any equipment he found in their pockets such as phones, keys, handguns and so forth. He removed the batteries and SIM cards from their phones. Then, he went to the Transit van and removed everything that wasn’t screwed down from the cab and the back, and placed it all on the table as well.
He called Lucy.
‘Yes?’
‘It’s me.’
‘And?’
‘I’m in a derelict warehouse.’
‘I hope you’ll be very happy there.’
‘Cross the river at Vauxhall Bridge, turn right onto Nine Elms Lane, another right onto Cringle Street and the warehouse is at the end. It’s called Hoboken Machinery. I have five guests waiting for you.’
‘Okay, I’ll be there in about an hour. You’re staying there, are you?’
‘Yes. I still have work to do.’
The line went dead.
He picked up his Stun Master stun gun, inserted six new batteries into the base and said, ‘Okay, let’s begin, shall we?’ He went along the line of men, pushed the stun gun into their genitals and pulled the trigger.
Each one went rigid and flopped over unconscious as 4.5 million volts stabbed through their bodies.
It was still early in the process, but he was sure they’d be only too eager to talk after a few testicular jolts loosened their resolve. He knew from personal experience that men were rather sensitive around the genital area.
Chapter Eleven
Tuesday, November 7
They followed the black Range Rover to a nondescript semi-detached house in Wilton Place, Knightsbridge. Traffic was fairly light, but the roadworks made the journey more difficult than it should have been. What might have taken fifteen minutes, took them forty. It was five past midnight when they arrived.
Dennis climbed up the ladder, that was fixed to the back of the van, to acquire a vantage point for filming and also to prevent himself from being seen. There wasn’t much to see though. The two police officers handed the bag of money over to a dark-haired attractive young woman wearing a short plain nightdress.
She took the bag, smiled and closed the door.
‘I’d give her one,’ the larger of the two said to his companion as they walked back to the vehicle.
‘If you did, your name would need to be added to the register.’
‘No!’
‘Fourteen give or take.’
‘I never would have guessed. I mean seriously, who can tell these days? A bit of slap and she’d be street legal.’
‘Indeed. Damned if you do, damned if you don’t.’
‘Exactly.’
And then they climbed into the Range Rover and were gone, their task completed for the night.
‘It’s not much,’ Duffy said, after they’d watched the playback of both the collection and handover of money.
Dennis pulled a face. ‘Out of context, they could be collecting and delivering pizzas. I mean, there’s no money that anybody can see. It doesn’t prove anything whatsoever, does it?’
‘No.’ Ruth bit her lip. ‘We might be able to identify them as police officers, but they could argue that they were doing a second job to pay the bills and supplement their pathetic police pay.’
‘We could prove the Russians are running a prostitution and trafficking racket from Churchill Gardens Road, couldn’t we?’ Duffy countered.
‘They could deny all knowledge of that,’ Dennis argued. ‘How do we prove otherwise?’
‘But they left with . . .’ Duffy began.
‘With what?’ Ruth interrupted her. ‘I’ve been doing this job a long time. That bag was full of toys for the orphanage.’
‘No – money? There’s the counting house over the road.’
‘Counting house! It’s just an ordinary three-bedroom semi-detached house. The little old woman who lives there is collecting toys, books and knick-knacks for the charity auction that the church is organising for the orphanage.’
Duffy stuck her bottom lip out. ‘We have nothing, do we?’
‘No.’
‘But there’s the other two addresses.’
Ruth shook her head. ‘Probably more of the same. Isolated incidents don’t really tell us anything. If this is all Fury has got for us, then we could be investigating police corruption for quite a while. Most of those involved will probably be retired and living in the Bahamas before we’re able to prove anything.’
Dennis grunted. ‘I think you’ve forgotten how to be an investigative reporter, Ruth Lynch. Whatever happened to the woman who exposed miscarriages of justice? MPs fraudulent expense claims? And the Apostles’ paedophile ring? Last time I saw you, you looked dishevelled and obsessive. There was a wild look in your eyes and you were still wearing those khaki dungarees you’d had on for days. Now look at you . . .’ He fingered her black jacket with the fur-lined hood. ‘Is this the latest in fashion that the celebrity investigative journalist about town is wearing these days? What happened to the graft and research? Nobody’s going to give you a free lunch. You’re going to have to put in the hard intellectual work in pursuit of the truth; conduct interviews; collect information; follow leads; track reports and meet clandestine sources. At the moment, you’re on the outside looking in, which is not the way we hunt down a story, is it?’
Ruth sat back and interlocked her fingers behind her head. ‘I hate it when you’re right, Dennis.’
His lip curled up. ‘I know you do, but it’s not just about collecting statistical data, is it? We also have to include people’s testimony; observe events; do all the methodical forensic stuff by wading through reports, footnotes and cross-referencing everything. And from this mishmash of information we then have to piece together the whole. You’re good at understanding people, being persuasive and getting them to trust you. Are you going to take what this whistle-blower has told you at face value? Or are you going to find where you left your investigative journalist’s head, screw it back on and actually find out whether he’s telling you the truth, or manipulating you?
‘What he told me seems to be the truth.’
‘Is that right? You still have your curiosity, but you seem to have lost your scepticism while you were giving birth. Remember, you have to test a hypothesis; analyse all the information, evidence and data; and synthesise that into a well-told story. We’ve hardy begun, and already you’re looking for the pay-off. I think we have a long way to go yet, Ruth. The three of us are an investigate team. I film it, you write it, and Nate drives us there and back and picks up the slack. We have to cultivate our sources. All we have so far is one man’s word that the world is round. We need more than that. We have to cover all the angles, and that’s easier when we’re working together as a team.’
‘Yes, you’re right.’ She glanced at Duffy. ‘Don’t think I’m not grateful for your support today Duffy, but to be honest you’re in the way now. After tonight, I’ll be teaming up with Dennis and Nate again. I’m sorry to be so blunt, but I don’t want to be responsible for your safety.’
Duffy shrugged. ‘I understand. And if we are being honest with each other, then I’ll admit to feeling a bit like a spare part tonight as well.’
Ruth called to Nate in the front. ‘Let’s go home, Nate.’
He started the engine and they began moving.
It took them thirty minutes to reach Godolphin Road, where Ruth and Duffy said goodnight to Dennis and Nate, and arranged to meet at midday to discuss the way forwar
d.
***
Lucy held out her hand. ‘Keys.’
‘You haven’t even got a licence.’
‘Who’s fault is that?’
‘I’m guessing it’s mine, otherwise you wouldn’t be asking?’
‘You’re right, so give me your keys. I have to go somewhere.’
‘Where?’
‘Am I likely to tell you? If they tortured you, you’d spill your guts, so it’s better that you know nothing.’
‘I do know nothing.’
‘There you are then. It’s called blissful ignorance.’
‘I could drive.’
‘You’re staying here to look after the ankle biters, which all happen to be yours, by the way.’
‘But . . .’
‘Unless you want to leave them in the care of numbnuts out there?’
‘I could . . .’
‘You could give me the keys before I smash the driver’s window and hotwire your nice Mercedes.’
He handed the keys over. ‘You’ll take care of it?’
‘As if it was my very own.’
‘If you get caught, I’ll have to say you used it without permission.’
‘Thanks for your support.’
She headed towards the annex. She’d decided that she needed a YouTube channel to broadcast the confessions, so she sat down and opened a totally fictitious Google account from her computer via the Tor browser; signed into YouTube and then created a new channel under the name of “Police Confessions”. All she had to do now was upload the videos, press “Publish” and the whole world would know what was going on.
It would all be anonymous on the internet. Of course, the other dirty coppers would know exactly who was behind it, but they wouldn’t be able to prove anything. Nor would they be able to stop the confessions from airing.
She hadn’t finalised the details yet, but she had the idea that Ruth would be the first to see the confessions and be in a position to verify them before they went live. She wouldn’t know anything about who had abducted the dirty coppers; who was holding them captive; or who was making them confess to their crimes. All she would know was that someone had contacted her with the offer of an exclusive story about police corruption and sent her the video confessions one at a time to verify before they went live. The idea still needed some ironing out, and she wasn’t going to go live with the first confession until she’d thrashed out the details with Ruth and Duffy, but she was beginning to warm to the idea.
Before leaving, she helped herself to Ruth’s old camcorder and tripod from her bedroom, took her own laptop and some snacks in her backpack in case she got hungry. She had the feeling it was going to be a long night.
‘Shall I wait up for you?’ Quigg asked.
‘Oh, you think you’re getting the sex-a-plenty starting tonight, do you?’
‘Is that not how it works?’
‘I’m not a concubine for your convenience, Quigg.’
‘You’re not?’
‘I have things to do.’
‘Which are more important than keeping your lord and master sexually satisfied?’
She laughed. ‘Lord and master! You have more chance of becoming the lord of the flies. It’s unlikely I’ll be back tonight. You should sleep up this end of the house anyway, to be near the kids.’
‘What will you be doing all night?’
‘Creating must-see television.’
‘Pornography?’
‘You have a mind like a sewer. I’ll see you tomorrow.’
‘You’ll be back with my car before I have to go to work, won’t you?’
‘Ruth’s car is out there if I’m not?’
‘You want me to drive a Renault Clio? I’m a Detective Inspector for goodness sake. I’d be the laughing stock of the station if I turned up in that.’
‘Or you could catch the tube.’
‘I’ll need my car during the day.’
She sighed. ‘I’ll try and be back in time.’
‘Okay.’
‘Right, I’m off. And don’t use the landline, because the coppers are monitoring it.’
‘Have a nice time.’
‘A hump of male porn stars with rippling six-packs and twelve-inch dicks, I’m sure I will. It’ll certainly make a change from having missionary sex with a flabby middle-aged has-been.’
‘It’s so nice to be appreciated.’
As she passed the guard, she kicked his feet. ‘Wake up, numbnuts. You’re not being paid to sleep on the job.’
Outside, she put the two bags and the tripod in the boot, climbed into the Mercedes, adjusted the seat and mirror, and turned on the ignition. She gunned the engine and made the back wheels screech to annoy Quigg, and then left the compound.
On her way to Vauxhall Bridge, she stopped off at the Chinese takeaway and bought a selection. No doubt her father would be hungry, and she was getting that way as well. It was at least four hours since she’d demolished the doner kebab.
Following her father’s instructions, she was soon in an eerily deserted industrial area on the bank of the River Thames crawling towards an old derelict warehouse with a Hoboken Machinery sign hanging precariously lopsided above a rusty metal roller door. She flashed her lights.
The roller door began to ascend. She drove the Mercedes inside and the door closed behind her.
Climbing out of the car, she passed her father one of the Chinese takeaway bags.
‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘I’m feeling a bit peckish.’
‘You’re welcome.’ She put her Chinese takeaway on the bonnet of the Mercedes to keep it warm – she wasn’t ready for her food just yet.
Five naked men were sitting in chairs. They had ropes around their necks, plastic restraints securing their ankles and wrists, and duct tape over their mouths.
There was a distinct whiff of urine and faeces. The place didn’t reek of it, because it was a large room with a high ceiling, but the aromas were definitely noticeable in the air.
‘Impressive,’ she said. ‘You’ve done this before?’
‘A few times. Let me introduce you to our guests.’ He walked along the line from left to right and pointed to each man. ‘Detective Sergeant Andrew Pratt, Detective Constables Raymond Laidlaw, John Binnington, Phillip Martin and Basil Murphy. Caught red-handed on their way to murder Ruth, Duffy and the two men.’
She smiled at John Binnington. ‘DC Binnington and I met earlier, but at that meeting he was calling himself Randy Gerber. Hello, Randy,’ she directed at the naked man. ‘Nice to meet you again.’ She aimed a kick at his left shin.
He grunted in pain.
‘Are they ready to talk yet?’ she asked her father.
He pursed his lips and shook his head. ‘Close, but I don’t think we’re quite there.’ He picked up the stun gun and began inserting new batteries.
The men looked at him with pleading eyes. One grunted and two began sobbing.
He walked along the line, jabbed the stun gun into each man’s genitals and pulled the trigger.
They convulsed and flopped over unconscious again.
Raymond Laidlaw pissed himself.
‘As you can see,’ he said, sweeping his hand above the table. ‘I’ve been doing a bit of work while you were taking your time to arrive.’
She cast her eyes over the items laid out on the table in front of each man – phones with the batteries and sim cards removed; keys; wallets; money; bank cards; credit cards; pens . . . There was even a small brown bottle containing white tablets. She picked it up and read the label:
Mr Basil Murphy
Imipramine (Tofranil) 25 mg tablets
Take three daily (6 hourly)
‘Any idea what these are for?’ she said to her father.
‘Does it matter?’
‘Well, we won’t know unless we find out, will we?’ She went to the Mercedes, opened the boot, and removed the two bags and the tripod. First, she set up the tripod and screwed the camcorder onto the mounting plate, bu
t didn’t switch it on. Next, she placed her laptop on the table, switched it on and found a spare chair to sit on.
Her father said, ‘I’m going to eat this and then make my way to the church. Pretty soon, someone will notice that these five are missing and out-of-contact, so I’d better go and deal with the surveillance van you say is parked up out there somewhere.’ He nodded at the men. ‘They shouldn’t give you any trouble, but you know what action to take if they do.’
‘Operating the stun gun seems pretty straightforward.’
‘It is.’ He put a Glock-19 on the table in front of her. ‘As a last resort.’
‘Thanks. You needn’t worry about me, I have work to do here with all these sim cards, bank, credit cards and the other crap. I’ll soon find out what’s been going on.’
She didn’t even hear her father leave, as she plugged the power lead that she had coiled up at the bottom of her rucksack into the USB power socket, and connected it to her laptop. Next, she plugged in the Kodak A270 smart card reader into one of the other USB ports on her laptop and downloaded the latest drivers.
While the software drivers were downloading she looked at what Imipramine was used for – depression and childhood bedwetting. She didn’t think Basil Murphy was being treated for enuresis, so she imagined that being a dirty copper was taking its toll on his morality. Some people just weren’t cut out to be corrupt.
She clicked on SIM Editor 4 and began examining the Subscriber Identity Module cards. Each card stored the user’s ID; network authentication; personal security information; text messages, email addresses; and contact phone numbers. She pulled a notebook and pen from a side pocket of her rucksack and began making notes.