The Badge & the Pen Thrillers

by Roger A Price

  ‘What, you mean you weren’t wearing a wire?’ Harry asked.

  ‘Too dangerous,’ she answered.

  ‘At first, granted, but once you had his trust, you must have worn a wire?’ Vinnie asked.

  ‘Always too dangerous with the likes of Babik,’ she answered.

  ‘Who the hell was running you?’ Harry asked.

  ‘You know I can’t tell you that, sir.’

  Vinnie was even more suspicious of her now, and Harry slumped into his chair and began to rub his head in his usual over the top manner. It always looked almost ape-like to Vinnie, and he had often thought about asking Harry why he did it. Surely, if he needed to rub his head it would be easier to use the hand from the same side as that to be rubbed? Grady brought his pointless observation to an end.

  ‘Anyway, I don’t know whose idea it was to place a car outside my address, but it worked,’ she said.

  The professional standards officer — damn! Vinnie thought. He then explained that the officer was there for her own safety, not mentioning which department he was from. He wasn’t sure that Grady believed him, but she said that Babik had clocked it and arranged a distraction. The fact that the firm was keeping a watch on her, for whatever reason, actually added to her security. Harry asked her to explain.

  ‘A pedestrian was knocked over further down my road, which drew the attention of the officer sitting outside. It was obviously a ruse.’

  ‘How can you be sure?’ Vinnie asked.

  ‘The driver failed to stop and the pedestrian, who was uninjured, refused to give his details, said he was OK and didn’t need any police help, and anyway, he hadn’t seen what make of car had hit him and couldn’t describe the driver.’

  ‘How do you know all this?’ Harry asked.

  ‘Because the guy who knocked at my door told me.’

  ‘What guy?’ Vinnie and Harry said in unison.

  ‘Just some geezer who had been paid 50 quid to pass a message.’

  ‘What message?’ Vinnie let Harry ask alone.

  ‘That Mr B wants to see me at noon in Avenham Park in the city centre.’

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Christine felt a little fuzzy when she awoke, but a hot shower and two cups of coffee had helped to nullify the effects of the previous evening’s Merlot. Both Bob-A and Shoulder-B were already up and dressed and seemed excited to be going home at last. Christine put a call in to June to set up space for Vinnie’s press conference and June agreed, no problems, in fact it was a poor news morning so she said that she was glad of it. She’d liaise directly with Vinnie or Harry as she knew Christine had a busy morning.

  That done, it was just after eight so Christine suggested the two women start to get ready. She had planned to go to the airport with them and see them off, but DS Mathews rang late the previous evening to warn Christine that, as there were no direct flights to Bucharest from Manchester or Liverpool, they would have to take the women to Birmingham International Airport. DS Mathews and someone from social services would escort them. Once ready, both women thanked Christine for all she had done, not least for saving them from the men who had tried to get hold of them in Liverpool. That was Christine’s cue.

  ‘Don’t take this the wrong way,’ she started, aiming her comments at both women, but making eye contact with Bob-A. ‘Are you sure you have no idea who those two men were? I know that’s what you told DS Mathews.’

  ‘Never seen them before,’ Shoulder-B answered.

  ‘Why you ask again?’ Bob-A answered the question with one of her own.

  It was why Christine had waited until now to probe. They’d be gone in five minutes. Turning to face Bob-A full on, she continued, ‘Look, I’m on your side, you know that, but I need all you can give me if my investigation is to succeed. I just think you recognised the first man over the fence.’

  ‘Why you say that?’ Bob-A asked.

  ‘I saw it in your eyes.’

  ‘What, what did you think you see?’

  ‘You recognised him.’

  ‘You not think I not tell police lady if I knew one of those blatnoys?’

  ‘Blatnoy mean thug, old Slavic word of Russian origin,’ Shoulder-B said, and added, ‘lots of Slavic and Russian words in Romanian.’

  Bob-A then spoke hurriedly to Shoulder-B in what Christine guessed was Romanian, because of her fluidity, but this time Shoulder-B did not translate, she just looked away without comment.

  ‘You know you can trust me?’ Christine said.

  Bob-A didn’t answer, but just stood in contemplation for what seemed liked ages, before a knock at the door made them all jump. ‘This will be your escort,’ Christine said.

  ‘Ok,’ Bob-A said. ‘He same man who recruited me for job in England in first place. I not know his name but I will try to find out when I get home. I’ll ring you, I promise.’

  Christine smiled, she knew that time was up and she would have to trust Bob-A.

  Once the two women were safely away, Christine decided on a further coffee before heading out for the day. Her first call would be on Iqbal Mamood junior, at the family farm on the moors east of Manchester. She didn’t have high hopes.

  *

  Vinnie shuddered when Grady said ‘Avenham Park’. He’d not been there since his fatal showdown with the escaped psychopath, Daniel Moxley; he hadn’t planned to return. Putting that aside, he turned to face Grady. ‘Whereabouts in Avenham Park?’ he asked.

  ‘Down by the river, at the bottom — near to a pub, so that it’s all out in the open, I told you that he’s a careful man,’ Grady answered.

  Vinnie felt relieved that he didn’t have to go anywhere near the pavilion at the top of the park. That was where he’d had to shoot Moxley to save another’s life, and as justified as his action was adjudged to be, it was not a place physically or mentally he wanted to see again.

  ‘Does that mean he suspects you?’ Harry asked, breaking Vinnie’s train of thought.

  ‘He’ll want to satisfy himself, and will be cautious until he has,’ she answered.

  Back from his self-indulgence, Vinnie started to feel elated. This was indeed a great breakthrough. They could finally get their hands on Babik and have the pleasure of throwing him into a cell. ‘Do you want me to organise the firearms side straightaway? We haven’t got long,’ he asked Harry.

  ‘Yes… and maybe no.’ Before Vinnie could speak, Harry went on to explain. ‘We’ll have them with us of course, but maybe not to jump on him as soon as he turns up.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Vinnie said, but it hit him as soon as Harry started to speak. The hostage. If they simply jumped on Babik and locked him up, he may say nothing of the hostage’s location, because to do so would be to admit he had actually abducted someone. Harry voiced Vinnie’s thoughts. ‘And if it all kicks off and he draws a weapon and the armed cops have to respond…’

  ‘Exactly, dead men don’t talk.’

  ‘So you want me to get back in with Babik and let him think his bluff has worked?’ Grady asked.

  ‘What do you think, Vinnie?’ said Harry.

  ‘Yes and no,’ Vinnie said. It was his turn to appear vague. ‘Yes, with restrictions, but with some control added.’ He didn’t want to say more in front of Grady, but did say, ‘If we take you at your word, Susan, you’ll have to do exactly as we brief you and wear some kit.’

  ‘I’ve told you, I can’t wear a wire. He’ll know, he’ll check.’

  ‘Not a wire; a tracker, that’ll give us control. If we can electronically track where you are, then we’ll know where Babik is, and once you can confirm the location of the hostage for us, we can look to save her, and then nick him as well, preferably once they are separate. It’ll be easier that way.’

  Grady said she was happy with that, and seemed relieved that she wasn’t going to wear a wire. Vinnie told her to get up to police headquarters at Hutton straightaway, and collect a mobile phone with a covert tracker built in. Not one with an obvious app, like a smartphone,
but one of the new Nokia retro phones which had no internet — until their police technical staff had hacked them. Most villains had become suspicious of phones since the invention of the smartphone, but Nokia had recently brought out a phone that was based on their models of yesteryear; phones that simply made and received telephone calls. It was a godsend for the technical boys and girls.

  Grady hurried off, and as soon as she had left the office Harry asked, not for the first time, ‘Do you trust her?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Me neither, yet, but I guess we’ll have to run with her for now.’

  ‘No choice.’

  ‘The tracker will help.’

  ‘But will it give us enough control?’

  ‘Possibly, but it won’t hurt to have a full surveillance team follow them away from the park — if we can get one in time,’ Vinnie added.

  ‘And she doesn’t need to know about that.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Come on Vinnie we’ve got a lot to arrange. I’ll start by ringing the chief, if you speak to the surveillance unit.’

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  It took Christine over an hour to find the isolated homestead where the Mamood family lived — thank God for sat navs. She had travelled east from Manchester over the infamous Saddleworth Moor beyond Rochdale where the Moors Murderers, Brady and Hindley, had interred their victims. It was a vast area of moorland, which still had an eerie feel to it.

  Once over the moors, Christine passed a small village, to which she guessed Iqbal Mamood junior had escorted the women during their monthly trips out from their incarceration. Her sat nav said she was five miles from her destination, as she left the village and started to climb towards the Pennine Hills in the foreground. But when her navigation device announced that she was at her destination, all she could see was a vast vista of open hilly grassland to both sides of the single track road. She had to change down into second gear as the gradient became more acute. No wonder Bob-A and Shoulder-B had felt totally isolated.

  She then noticed a narrow break in the hedge to her right and could see that a rough track led from it. Worth a try.

  A bumpy five minutes later, the track came to an end beside an old stone built farmhouse that was surrounded by several outbuildings. The place had obviously been a working farm but she guessed that was a very long time ago. Christine was just glad she wasn’t a postman around here. She pulled up next to an old battered Ford Mondeo saloon, which was a good sign. As she walked past it towards the farmhouse’s solid wooden front door, she noticed that the car had several Asian-looking trinkets hanging from the driver’s mirror. Another good sign.

  Then, she came to an abrupt halt as she reached the short path leading to the front door. Next to it was a large bay window, one side of which was open… and sticking out of it, from behind grubby net curtains, was the barrel of a shotgun. Not a good sign.

  Having caught her breath she saw that the gun was being held by a youth of Asian heritage, and he was shaking. She wasn’t sure if his nerves were a plus or a minus.

  ‘You must be Mr Iqbal Mamood,’ she said, as brightly as she could.

  ‘Why must I be?’ the gunman answered.

  ‘I hope you have a licence for that shotgun.’

  ‘None of your business, but yes I do.’

  ‘Well, unless you want to lose it and go and join your parents in prison, I suggest you drop it immediately.’

  The man did, and then added, ‘Sorry, I didn’t know you were police. I keep getting loads of strangers coming round; press and others too. I’m scared.’

  Christine decided that now was not the best time to reveal her true credentials, so allowed him to maintain his assumption. ‘You are Iqbal, aren’t you? she asked.

  He nodded, and she saw him put the weapon down on the window ledge. She sighed in relief, and said, ‘I just want five minutes.’

  Iqbal nodded again and disappeared momentarily before opening the front door. Christine had expected other journalists to have paid the place a visit, but was intrigued to hear of the ‘others’.

  Iqbal led her into the lounge and showed her to a threadbare settee with horsehair stuffing pointing through the armrests. She tried to place as little of herself as possible on the edge of the seat cushion, as she watched Iqbal lock the shotgun into a steel gun cabinet on an interior wall. ‘You really shouldn’t point that at people.’

  ‘I know and I’m sorry.’ Iqbal spoke with a bearing that oozed the vulnerability of youth. He suddenly looked much younger than his actual 18 or 19 years. She could almost feel sorry for him… until she remembered what the women had told her about his lecherous advances, and how he had enjoyed his power over them.

  Five minutes later Iqbal had told her about the several press representatives who had been up to the house, including one who had made all kinds of threats. From the description he gave Christine, she was in no doubt that the latter was the loathsome John Debroski.

  She then asked him about the ‘others’ he had mentioned.

  ‘Look, I don’t want no trouble. I didn’t know my parents had bought those girls, I just thought they were illegal immigrants who had no choice but to accept their terms, in order to have somewhere to stay,’ he started.

  Christine felt her blood start to rise on hearing his pathetic excuse, none of which she accepted. She guessed the police hadn’t believed a word either, but proving it would have been another thing. She had to supress her growing dislike as knew she would have to tread very carefully. She wanted to ask more about the women and who had brought them, but knew that to do so would sound wrong coming from the police officer he still mistakenly believed her to be, as the case was well and truly closed. To do so, she would have to out herself as being a reporter, which probably wouldn’t be a good move, so she decided to stay in character and focus on the ‘others’. She repeated her inquiry about them.

  ‘Look, nothing official, I don’t want them coming back, but if they do I want to know I can ring you and you’ll believe me,’ he said.

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘They must have been involved with the man who sold the women to my mum and dad.’

  ‘What makes you think that?’ she asked.

  ‘They just said to remember to keep my mouth shut.’

  ‘What did you take that to mean?’

  ‘I didn’t know, so I asked.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘They said that the “supplier of the women” was happy that my parents had made no mention of him, and they had been sent to remind me what would happen if I didn’t do the same.’

  ‘So they threatened you?’

  ‘Said if I said anything, then I’d end up being the one scrubbing floors, but in some Saudi Arabian hellhole, or worse.’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘A few days ago.’

  She asked for a description of the men, but Iqbal became very vague. Suffice to say they sounded of eastern European origin, both heavily tattooed and built like one of the farmhouse’s outbuildings.

  ‘Promise you won’t do anything, unless they come back? Iqbal asked.

  ‘I promise,’ Christine said. ‘Do you expect them to come back?’

  ‘I don’t know, man, but that’s why I’m nervous — in case their boss changes his mind.’

  Christine knew she would have to go soon, before her luck ran out, but asked one last question. ‘Look, the trial is over and done with now, so there is no harm in giving me anything you can about where, and with whom, your parents dealt when they bought the women.’

  She hoped she hadn’t pushed it too far, but she knew the deadline for her copy and that she’d have to be out of here pretty sharpish before Iqbal became suspicious. Even though she had met baguettes that were sharper than Iqbal. He appeared to consider her question carefully before he answered.

  ‘I never saw the man my father did his business with, but I heard him say his name was Boldo. He imports workers from Europe, via Greece and Spain mainly, and
has a network all over the north west of England.’

  ‘Anything else? I promise I’ll not file an official report, but if we can find this man and remove him, stop him doing what he does, then you’ll feel a lot safer, I’m sure.’

  Iqbal went silent again, and this time Christine didn’t think he was going to answer. But then he did.

  ‘Okay, I trust you, you didn’t hear any of this from me; I just want it all to go away.’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘I once overheard my father tell my mother that Boldo sometimes stayed in Preston. That’s all I know. You must go now.’

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  The bottom end of Avenham Park ended by the banks of the River Ribble. A wide river that denoted the city limits, though the built-up area just rolled into the neighbouring town of Penwortham, and although it was in a different council area — South Ribble — it was all greater Preston in all but name. The river was effectively the western boundary to the park in which the meet was expected to take place. Vinnie hadn’t had time to do a physical recce of the area, so had had to rely on a map and one of the resident detectives’ local knowledge. The park ran downhill from the east and then flattened out towards the river. Its southern side stretched into the park, whereas its northern side ran to a path under a railway bridge, which led to a pub and local roads. Vinnie and Harry were parked at the rear of the pub out of sight. Vinnie checked his watch: 11.45 pm, nearly time to deploy Susan Grady. It had been a rush, but they had managed to cobble together various resources.

  The six armed response vehicle (ARV) officers were deployed across the bottom half of the park, in plain clothes with their weapons concealed. Three detectives from the intelligence unit were stationed at all points except west, with a good view to the assumed target area. All had confirmed their positions via radio. Vinnie had managed to ‘steal’ a surveillance team that by chance was deployed in Preston around the home of a prolific daytime burglar. He was expected to spend his afternoon thieving, but needs must, and this job took priority. The surveillance team had hurriedly re-deployed and as there hadn’t been any time to do a plan of the area properly, they simply threw a loose cordon around all approaches to the park from all sides, barring the river.