Three (Detective Alec Ramsay Series Book 7)

by Conrad Jones

  Toni looked at the big detective, her top lip quivered as she answered. “He didn’t know anything about the source.” Her answer implied that he knew who Antonia Barrat was.

  “How well did he know you?” Stirling asked.

  “Not very well.”

  “Assuming that he did his research, he would know where you work and where you live?”

  Toni shook her head and thought about it. Okay, she was freelance but he would know who her main customers were. She suddenly felt vulnerable; vulnerable and afraid. Like she had when her father died and her mother vanished; sick and empty inside and numb to the core. She stared at her trembling fingers. Her nail varnish needed repainting. New varnish wouldn’t stop her fingers shaking. She couldn’t think of anything that would. “He could have found out that much, yes.”

  “But not where the information came from?”

  “No. I didn’t share it with him. I don’t disclose my sources to anyone.”

  “In which case,” the DI sat forward and clasped her hands together, “we have to assume that they will be coming to ask you who told you about the mill. They have a leak and they will want it plugged very quickly.” Annie shrugged. “So you can either tell us where it came from, or you can wait for them to come knocking on your door.”

  Toni felt like she had been kicked in the stomach. She craved corruption and scandal, sought it out on a daily basis but she didn’t want this. Her sources had been a mine of information for years but they were on the periphery of an extremely dangerous section of society. Their world was way too dangerous for her to survive in. She didn’t want to go down that road, not now, not ever but the men who took Mike had her camera and that could be a huge problem. “I can’t divulge my source,” she said tight lipped. “That is final.” She looked at her watch again. “I really need to go.”

  “Have you got a deadline to meet?” Stirling asked bluntly. “I hope you’re not thinking about writing this up, Toni.” She shook her head. She had thought about it but only briefly. What could she write without evidence? She had witnessed something dreadful but to rush an article would be wrong. “You would be seriously endangering your friend’s safety if you do.”

  Toni seemed shell shocked. Her face appeared blank and emotionless. She checked her watch again. “I need to get home.”

  The DI checked her watch too. “You have children?” Toni nodded silently. She did have children but they weren’t the issue right now. She didn’t like people knowing about her private life. She did her utmost to protect them from the world. Losing her father and mother at such a young age had taken a toll on her. She knew that she was damaged by the experience but she had been determined that her loss wouldn’t ruin her life. Damaged but not broken; that was her motto. She didn’t talk to anyone about her home life and she intended to keep it that way. “You need to get home and get them ready for school?”

  Toni looked at the DI and blinked. She ignored her question. Let her think whatever she liked. Toni was done. “Are we done here?”

  “You do realise that you are in grave danger, don’t you?” Annie asked her, her voice calm, yet firm. Toni nodded her head and stood up. “Think about your family, Toni.”

  “My family have nothing to do with this,” Toni said putting her bag over her shoulder. “I would like my mobile phone back please and then I’m going home.”

  Detective Inspector Annie Jones looked at Stirling and then pointed to the door. “Give Miss Barrat her property and show her out, please.” She shook her head and stood up, handing over her business card. “We’ll have a marked car follow you home and sit outside your house for a few hours.” She sighed resignedly. “Make sure that you keep in touch, Toni and if you see or hear anything suspicious, call me directly.” Antonia’s eyes seemed to glaze over as if she wasn’t listening anymore. Her mind had switched off. It was a common defence mechanism that Annie had seen many times. The adrenalin was wearing off and shock was taking a hold. Whatever had happened in the mill had stunned her. She was a thick skinned journalist, turned author and documentary maker, who had uncovered a corrupt ring of police officers that reached from new uniformed officers on the beat, up to a senior Area Commander. She had been threatened many times during the investigation but she didn’t back down. Annie had a grudging respect for her. She also knew that the fallout from writing a book and filming a documentary about corrupt police officers would pale in comparison to what would happen if an organised trafficking syndicate set their sights on her. Annie was convinced that it wasn’t a case of if, but when.

  *******

  At the same time a few miles away across Liverpool Bay, the rib floated silently into a rickety boathouse on the North Wales coast near Flint. For decades it had been used by a local fisherman, now long dead. His nets and lobster pots were still stacked up in the corners, a rank smell of decayed fish and mould drifted from them. The planks were warped and splintered and part of the roof had collapsed a few years before but it served its purpose. The boathouse was one of many hideaways. They moved the rib from one remote location to another every four days regardless of whether it had seen action or not. The smell of the sea mingled with the dank odour of rotting wood. The water beneath the wooden berth was shallow and it lapped gently against the pilings. On a calm night, the sound was soothing. Tonight it emphasised his solitude.

  He looked skyward and caught a glimpse of the moon from behind the dark clouds but it was just a fleeting glance. Spots of rain began to fall, a few at first and then it quickened with each passing moment before becoming a perpetual downpour. He pulled the collar of his bubble jacket tightly closed and fastened the zip to the top but it didn’t stop raindrops from trickling down his neck. The urge to smoke a cigarette was overwhelming but he couldn’t risk being seen from the water. Compromising the abandoned boathouse would anger his employers. He would wait until they came for him. The mudflats behind the boathouse were impassable on foot, shifting pools of quicksand made the walk to shore lethal. They would pick him up in a larger boat when there were no other vessels in the area. As he tied the rib to a rusty mooring ring, he heard the sound of a diesel engine approaching from the east. It was too dark to distinguish what type of vessel was approaching but he was confident that it was them. If it wasn’t, then they would sail on by towards their destination. He waited for the noise of the engine to draw closer and then checked the mooring rope was fastened tightly. The wake from the boat began lapping at the mudflats and gentle waves made the rib rock slightly. A gull called out in the darkness, disturbed by the approaching boat. It was an eerie sound, out of place when the sun went down. The gull sounded the alarm that danger was approaching.

  He stood at the bow of the rib and waited for the vessel to come into sight. It rocked slightly from side to side. The rain had become more persistent and he was beginning to feel the cold in his hands and feet. The silhouette of a boat loomed against the light pollution from the dwellings on the far coast. A powerful spotlight illuminated and shone directly at the rib, blinding him momentarily.

  “Turn the light away from me!” He hissed, protecting his eyes with his hand. “What is your problem?”

  “Did you have your mask on at the mill?” A voice from the boat shouted. The dazzling light burned into his eyes making him squint.

  “Mask?” They always wore masks. They had to. It was rule number one. “Of course I did, why?”

  “There was someone at the handover snapping pictures.” The voice replied.

  “You’re fucking kidding me,” he said. The rib rolled gently on the swell. “Was it the police?”

  “We’re not sure yet.”

  “Well, how do you know then?”

  “Where is it?”

  “Where is what?”

  “Your mask.” He hesitated. Just for a moment but it was a moment too long; too noticeable.

  “I tossed it in the river.”

  He momentarily registered the pain in the palm of his hand as a nine millimetre bullet
ripped through the flesh and bones, before it slammed into his forehead, liquefied his brains and then blew the back of his skull off.

  CHAPTER 6

  The greasy spoon cafe was packed with the usual faces. Shopkeepers, office workers and local builders were sitting eating breakfasts from plates the size of bin lids. Condensation misted the windows and the irresistible aroma of bacon pervaded from every molecule of the building.

  “Morning, Margaret,” Kayla said chirpily as she stepped through the door. Her smile lit up the room. A bell dinged as she closed the door behind her. The cafe buzzed with the sound of chatter and the air was warm and moist. She could understand why it was so popular with people on their way to work. Kayla had used it daily since she had opened her shop next door.

  “The usual?” Margaret said, waving a spatula dripping in grease. Her thin lips formed a nicotine stained smile and deep wrinkles ran from the corners of her eyes to her hairline, like the lines on a protractor. Her face was a warning to anyone who smoked twenty a day for twenty years; this is what you’ll look like. “It’s ready and waiting for you.” Margaret tapped her nose with her index finger. “Hey, that bloke from the bakery called in again,” she said with a sly wink. “He was asking about you again.”

  “Can’t say that I blame him,” one of the builders called Charlie said loudly. “He probably wants to show you his donuts, Kayla.” His friends laughed raucously.

  “Or his sticky iced fingers.” Another added.

  “He could be a secret master-baker,” Margaret joined in.

  “Will you lot pack it in,” Kayla laughed. “The poor man might be just lonely. I’m sure someone will go out with him...eventually.”

  “Not you though, Kayla,” Charlie winked.

  “Not me, no.”

  “Wouldn’t you like to go out with a real man, Kayla?” Charlie said biting into a burnt sausage.

  “Why, do you know any?” Kayla countered. Charlie blushed and smiled.

  “That was cruel.”

  “I tend to go for men who can eat their breakfast without dribbling egg yolk down their front.” Charlie stopped smiling and looked down. His check shirt was clean. “Made you look,” Kayla said as she paid for her food. “Thanks, Margaret. Can you do me a chicken mayo for dinnertime?”

  “Will do, love. I’ll drop it in later, Kayla.”

  Kayla Yates walked out of the cafe and immediately missed the moist warmth and the comforting aromas. She took a few steps to the front of the shop next door as a cold breeze bit at her fingers. She balanced her coffee and bacon sandwich in her right hand while her left clicked the remote which activated the metal roller shutters that protected her business. The motor whirred and the shutters rattled open loudly. Yates’s Gold Emporium. Every time she saw the sign, she felt a rush of pride. She had built it up from a stall on a Sunday market, buying and selling gold and silver jewellery, squirrelling the profits away each week. She branched out onto eBay to supplement her income. After five years of spending Sundays standing in a field, rain or sun, wind or snow, light summery mornings or pitch black November dawns, she had enough money and stock to put down a deposit on a high street premises and open it with a respectable selection of goods. Lord knows there were enough of them at the time. The nation’s high streets had degraded to a parade of pound shops, charity shops, bookmakers and money lenders. When she had first opened her doors, she was the happiest person in the city. Kayla Yates, business owner, entrepreneur and independent woman. By lunchtime that day her friends and family had left the shop and instead of a rush of excited customers, the cold harsh reality of running a fledgling business crept through the door. A few curious browsers and the local window cleaner touting for business were the only people that entered the building for the remainder of the day. Kayla was a survivor and she adapted quickly. Four years on, she was making more money than she had ever imagined, although it wasn’t all legitimate.

  The rollers fell silent and she used her key to open the door, using her shoulder to close it behind her. She typed the alarm code into the keypad and flicked on the lights. The smell of bacon was making her mouth water and she slipped her sandwich from its brown paper bag and took a bite.

  “As long as Margaret keeps frying bacon next door, I will never be able to keep to my diet and I’ll never be a veggie,” she said to herself, as she took a long sip of her coffee. “We’re open for business, don’t all rush in at once,” she muttered as she took the ‘closed’ sign from the door. “Don’t fall over each other in the crush. There’s plenty for everyone.”

  A light drizzle was beginning to fall, which would dissuade some potential browsers from venturing out. In the early days, that would have bothered her but now her business didn’t rely on footfall passing the door. The internet provided her with a much less fickle customer base and her pawnbroker service drew people to her like a magnet whatever the weather. Government austerity following the recession had forced people to sell their valuables. Computers, mobile phones, watches, rings, chains and bracelets were currency and she snapped up whatever came through the door and resold it at a handsome profit on her website.

  Kayla gulped her coffee and checked her window display. She had an impressive stock of designer watches. Rolex, Tag, Armani and Gucci, some new, some pawned, some fakes and some stolen. They glistened in the window behind reinforced plate glass. Her display was impressive. It made passers-by stop and stare, although most could only dream of owning one. There were gaps on the stand where the most expensive pieces stood. They were stored in her safe. She removed them every night before closing up and put them on display again every morning. It was a monotonous routine but despite her shutters, the insurance company insisted on it. She took another bite of her sandwich and walked through her empire, catching her reflection in one of the mirrors that covered the walls behind the counter. She liked her new highlights, blond over chestnut, reaching to her shoulder. Her denim shirt was washed to pale blue in contrast with her black jeans. It set off her grey eyes. She was fast approaching thirty-five but she turned the heads of men half her age nonetheless. The landline began to ring and she cursed as she swallowed a mouthful of bacon before answering.

  “Yates’s,” she said putting the phone beneath her ear. She took a quick sip of her coffee to wash down her breakfast. “How can I help you?”

  “Great telephone voice, Kayla.” The voice joked. She recognised it but couldn’t put a name to it. “It’s Jason.”

  “Hello, Jason,” Kayla said. She still didn’t have a clue who he was. “What can I do for you?”

  “It’s more what I can do for you.”

  “I see,” Kayla remained polite but she stuck two fingers up at the phone. She remained quiet, already bored of the conversation.

  “How’s business?”

  “Busy thanks,” she said checking her whitened teeth in the mirror for scraps of meat.

  “Do you remember that Rolex that I brought in last week?”

  “Oh, yes,” Kayla clicked who it was. Jason was a regular so she was polite but she didn’t like him. He was too cocksure, too forward and too unhygienic to like. “What can I do for you?”

  “I’ve got a couple more Rolex watches, one Oyster and a Submariner. What can you give me for them?”

  “Have you got receipts?”

  “No.” He sniggered.

  “Have you got the boxes and certificates?”

  “No.” He chuckled sarcastically. “I heard that you can supply certificates.”

  “You heard wrong,” she lied. His comment had wiped two hundred off the deal instantly just for his cheek. “Bring them in and I’ll take a look at them and see what I can do.”

  “Nice one, thanks. I’ll be there before twelve.”

  “See you then, bye.” She hung up and smiled in the mirror again. A pair of high end Rolex watches with new counterfeit paperwork and boxes would net her a few grand. It was a good start to the day. Kayla finished her coffee and headed for the secure room at
the rear of the shop. She heard the front door open and turned around and was surprised to see Antonia Barrat walking in. Her face was ashen, dark circles beneath her eyes and she had obviously been crying. The expression on her face told her that something very bad had happened.

  CHAPTER 7

  Half of the fourth floor of the fortress-like police headquarters, Canning Place was occupied by the Drug Squad. Built on the banks of the Mersey in a time when civil unrest was a consideration, it was designed with its defence uppermost in mind. The exterior walls were impossible to scale and the narrow windows at each corner made it easily defendable, like a medieval castle. The Major Investigation Team occupied the other half of the fourth floor. Annie stepped out of the lift, followed by Stirling and headed for her office. She was troubled by Toni Barrat and her unwillingness to cooperate but her hands were tied. Until it became legal to shake information from a witness, there was nothing she could do. Persuasion was a powerful tool when used to appeal to common sense, but on this occasion common sense had not prevailed.

  “Annie,” a voice called from behind her. She turned to see her opposite DI from the Drug Squad, Miranda Snow, beckoning her. They had climbed the ranks together and had become friendly, although sometimes their squads’ jurisdiction caused friction between them. They hadn’t had an argument that could not be settled over Italian food and a bottle of merlot. “I was coming to find you.”

  “Glad I have saved you a job.”

  “I might have saved you one,” Miranda smiled. She was tall but painfully slim and her black trouser suit seemed to hang from her frame as if it belonged to an elder sibling. Her curly black hair was scraped from her face into a tight bun at the back of her head. “You’ll want to see this. I know you will,” she grinned. Her dark brown eyes sparkled with mischief. “How did it go with Barrat?”