Three (Detective Alec Ramsay Series Book 7)

by Conrad Jones

  “We’ve talked to dealers who have heard rumours of punters paying thirty quid a tablet,” a Matrix officer added. Permanently undercover, his tracksuit and baseball cap made him distinctive amongst this particular crowd. “Any new drug is at a premium when it is introduced. Whoever shipped this product in is set to make or lose millions. I’m assuming that the original traffickers dropped the ball at the vehicle switch. Another gang from the city hit them?”

  “That’s what I think,” Annie nodded. “I’m not sure that they dropped the ball, more like someone stole it from them.” She thought for a few seconds. “How many outfits in the city could pull this off and distribute this drug without being wiped out by whoever brought it in?”

  The Matrix officer took off his baseball cap and rolled it in his hands. “We don’t know who is dealing this on the streets but somebody does,” he paused. “Let’s assume that the name of a dealer popped up and then they traced the drugs back up the food chain to the importers. Once they knew who was bringing it in, all they would need to do is find a source within the organisation.”

  “Okay, that makes sense. I’m listening.”

  “There are plenty of outfits capable of taking the drugs from the Fletcher Bros garage. Three men with shotguns, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Anyone could send three men with Mossberg shotguns in a van but only one or two could cut it, press it into tablets and then have the muscle to distribute it with impunity.”

  “Fletcher was adamant that the gunmen were local.”

  The Matrix officer shook his head. He looked towards Sykes who took the lead. “If they were local then they’re working for someone else. The local gangs keep their heads down nowadays. If they don’t then they vanish. Between the Turks, Russians and Albanian outfits there isn’t much breathing room.” He shrugged. “Why don’t I take my team and follow up on the customer that approached the Fletchers about the vans and see if we know them or their connections?”

  Annie nodded and smiled. She glanced at Miranda for the go ahead. Sykes was a key part of her squad and she didn’t want to stand on her toes. Miranda nodded that it was fine. “Do that, thank you,” Annie said. “His name and contact details are in the notes. Rick Grainger.”

  “We’ll go and speak to him once we’re done here.”

  “Okay thanks, Jim Stirling will come with you. Let me know if you have any joy,” Annie said. Stirling nodded at Sykes, who returned the gesture. She moved on quickly. “Where are we with the van that they used at the mill?”

  “Nothing so far, Guv,” one of her detectives answered. “We’re waiting on CCTV from the tunnel police but they may have crossed the river over the Runcorn Bridge so we’re checking footage there too. It may have been garaged as soon as it was stolen.”

  “Okay,” Annie looked towards the river policemen. “Can you bring us up to date?”

  “The Coast Guard found a burnt out Zodiac an hour ago just off the North Wales coast,” a sergeant from the waterborne force reported. His uniform was similar to his colleagues on land but with different insignia. The Port of Liverpool Police were essentially a small force unto themselves. “We’re having the wreck recovered but there’s not much left. First reports indicate charred human remains aboard.”

  “Thanks,” Annie said turning towards the detectives from The Vice Squad. “Are you any closer to knowing who owns the property in Aigburth?”

  “No, Guv,” a balding detective in a crumpled suit replied with a shake of the head. “The limited company that owns the deeds is a subsidiary of a shell company registered in the Cayman Islands. It’s a dead end.”

  “What about the directors of the limited company?”

  “Three Latvian men are listed as the directors and company secretary. We have never been able to contact them. There’s no trace of them being in the country since the company’s conception four years ago.”

  “What about the women that were in the cellar?”

  “One of them has recovered enough to talk but she’s not saying anything.”

  “Do we know where they’re from?”

  “Nothing, Guv. No form of identity on them. If I had to guess, I would say that they’re Latvian.”

  “Guv,” Stirling interrupted. “This might shine a little light on things.”

  “Go on.”

  “The fingerprints taken from the three men at the garage were run through the system and we have two hits. One of the dead men is Oleg Markevica. He’s got a record as long as my arm, drugs, prostitution and firearms. There are two outstanding warrants with the Met, one for grievous bodily harm and one for possession of drugs with intent to supply.”

  “Latvian by any chance?”

  “Yes,” Stirling nodded. A murmur spread through the room. “The second set belongs to Raitis Girts. He’s wanted for murder in the Czech Republic. He’s Latvian too.”

  “Tell me he’s in the Royal Hospital and not the mortuary.”

  “He’s in the Royal.”

  “Guv,” the Vice detective said sheepishly. Annie looked at him and nodded that he should continue. “One of the directors of that property is Oleg Markevica.”

  “The facial recognition checks on the two heavies at the pawnbrokers shop have come back trumps too,” Stirling added. His mouth was twisted into a scowl. Annie had a rough idea what he was thinking. It would involve throttling him. “One of the men,” he sent the image to one of the screens as he spoke, “Andris Markevica, forty-five year old Latvian from Riga. INTERPOL have him listed on trafficking and firearms charges in Lithuania, Estonia and the Czech Republic. He’s been linked to the murder of a family in Latvia,” Stirling paused. “Mother, father and two children.” There was a dark silence in the room.

  “The same surname, Markevica,” Annie broke the gloom, “can’t be a coincidence?”

  “You don’t like coincidences.”

  “You’re right, I don’t. Okay, so we have a connection.” Annie put her hands together. “Let’s run with Raitis Girts as he is the only one still breathing. I want his records as far back as when he was just a twinkle in his father’s eye. See what INTERPOL have on the other names too. If he is wanted for murder in the Czech Republic then they will have a list of known associates.”

  “We’ve got close contacts in Prague,” the Vice detective added. “I’ll run with that straight away, Guv and then get onto Interpol.” Annie nodded and he headed out of the section with purpose. “We’ll find out who the Markevicas and Girts work for.”

  “Barrat told us that she overheard them mention the name ‘Ivor’ several times. They mentioned him in the context that he was the boss,” Annie said. “Given that this appears to be a family affair, let’s search for an Ivor Markevica or Ivor Girts and see what comes up.”

  “I’m running both names as you speak,” Stirling replied with a half grin. “Using my initiative, Guv.” His remark prompted a few chuckles from around the room.

  “Good, that’s what we need.” Annie heard the lift arriving on their floor. The doors slid open and from the corner of her eye, she caught the figure of Kathy Brooks stepping out of it. Her auburn hair was tied into a ponytail and she had left her whites in the mortuary. She sidled over to where Stirling was sitting and handed him some reports. The urge to take a look at what she had found put her off her stride for a moment. “Is there anything from the mules?” Annie asked Miranda. She shook her head with a thin smile.

  “They’re simultaneously being processed and passing balloons full of cocaine. It’s messy.” A wave of subdued laughter rippled through the room. It wasn’t funny, no one thought it was funny but they laughed anyway. “I think it will be a few days before we’ll have anything productive from them. We’ve completed preliminary tests on the coke and it’s Peruvian. Not that that will help much; most of it is nowadays.”

  “Seems you have a lot of questions with no answers?” Kathy Brooks interrupted. Annie nodded and hoped that she had something to help them move the invest
igation forward. “We processed the blood from the floor of the mill and it has come back with a match.” She handed Annie a file and a memory stick. “Mike James was born Michael Peter Jameson in London. He joined the Met in 1990 at the age of eighteen. Up until last year, he was a sergeant on secondment in the Met’s Human Trafficking Team. Apparently, he had a breakdown following an investigation into a refrigeration truck that contained sixty-five bodies.”

  “Wasn’t that in Calais?” Stirling asked.

  “That’s right,” Kathy nodded. “The Met offered him a compromise agreement and managed his resignation on medical grounds.”

  “They paid him off,” Annie added.

  “Basically, yes.”

  “But he seems to have maintained an unhealthy interest in the traffickers,” Annie added. “I want to know who his relatives are, friends on and off the force, previous employment, any disciplinary issues, the state of his finances, his romantic involvements and exactly who he has investigated in the last twelve months.”

  “We’re on that, Guv.”

  “His personnel file is on that stick. I need to get back to it. You lot keep sending me exhibits to process.” Kathy gestured to the lift, rolled her eyes and walked away with a wave of her hand.

  “Okay, let’s sort out the basics and then we can get on with the nitty-gritty.” She turned to her font of knowledge, a detective fondly known as Google. “Google will supervise all exhibits and the indexing of all information received from the various teams. If you do not fill out the evidence logbook properly, he has my permission to be very annoyed and give you a kick up the arse. I want any and all names that come up dealt with thoroughly. We trace them, interview them and eliminate them and I mean every single name got it?” Her question was met with enthusiastic nods. “No slipups on this one,” she warned. “I need all your initial reports with him by close of play today, understood?”

  “Guv.” A mass reply came from the detectives.

  “All the medical reports and witness statements need to be with him by lunchtime tomorrow at the latest.” That request was met with a groan. “Good,” Annie smiled. “Once we have solid identification we need bank account details, ATM cards, mobile phones and the works. Enough talk. You all know what is expected. Let’s get on with it. I don’t want any heroics. If a lead gives you a name or an address, it is to come back to the team for risk assessment and we’ll action plan everything. Our targets are professional killers, remember that at all times. Anything out of the ordinary, talk to me directly.”

  CHAPTER 25

  Ivor Markevica was having a conversation on his mobile while he looked out of his hotel window at Wenceslas Square, Prague. Built from the 1300’s onwards, the buildings were a mixture of Romanesque, Baroque and Gothic styles. The streets were teeming with tourists and the square was one of the most photographed parts of Prague. He was amused by how photography had evolved. The emergence of the selfie had changed things forever and the selfie-stick was a genius invention, annoying but genius. He smiled as he watched dozens of tourists posing in front of the historic buildings holding their sticks aloft. The city had him hooked from the moment he had arrived. Walking through Prague, it was easy to transport himself back six hundred years. Tourism fuelled the city’s economy. The ornately carved statues that covered the stone bridges over the River Vltava were magnets for millions of visitors but when the sun went down, the city took on a different personality as sightseeing gave way to the sex industry.

  Ivor had made millions from its dark side. Trafficking women and drugs had made him more money than a man could spend in ten lifetimes. It was not an industry in which the weak could survive. Only the smartest, hardest, cruellest and the most ultra-violent had any longevity in the trade. Ivor fit all of those requirements and then some. He stood tall and even though his mid fifties were behind him, he was heavily built. Hours of pumping iron every day for decades had added slabs of muscle to his upper body. His arms and chest were covered in ink and his greying hair was cropped close to his scalp. He had a disarming smile that had led many a foe into a false sense of security. Behind the tailored suits and charming smile was a narcissistic beast.

  “Exactly what the fuck is going on?” Ivor asked calmly. He was renowned for his icy calmness. It was a trait not many had. One minute he could be talking perfectly normally to one of his employees and the next he could empty a magazine of nine millimetre bullets into their face. There was no warning. The forests of the Vidzeme Uplands were littered with the bodies of both his friends and his enemies. He was an ice cold killing machine with the IQ of a Mensa member.

  “I am trying to find out exactly what has happened, Ivor,” Letva replied. “It is complicated.” He kept his answer as vague as possible because he didn’t know the truth yet. “One of our men is an informer.”

  “Who?”

  “I don’t know yet,” Letva sighed. “The shipment was compromised at the handover at the mill and they found a journalist hiding in the building with a camera.”

  “A journalist?” Ivor said surprised. “A Russian, a Turk, a fucking Estonian I could believe, but a journalist?”

  “Yes, I thought the same when they told me. I was expecting them to say the Karpovs had an insider or something,” Letva said thoughtfully. “He could not have been there by accident. He had information. There’s no other explanation.”

  “Why would somebody tip off a journalist?”

  “It’s beyond me. The building was ideal for the delivery. We have used it many times with no problems.”

  “Which one?”

  “The old mill on Jamaica St.”

  “I know it. Not even the tramps use that area.”

  “Exactly. There was no chance of accidental contamination. The journalist was there because he knew what was going to happen. He had taken photographs so they took him to find out how he knew about the handover.”

  “They questioned him?”

  “Of course.”

  “What did he know?”

  “He didn’t know where the information came from. If he did, he didn’t tell. Oleg questioned him personally. There’s no way anyone holds out.”

  “He likes that shit.”

  “He does,” Letva agreed. “When Oleg told me what had happened at the mill, I guessed that he wasn’t alone so I sent one of our men back to check the mill over. When he got there, the police were there. They were swarming all over the place. He noticed a woman talking to them. She was upset so he guessed that she had been there too. He followed her to the police station and I had two men waiting for her when she left to go home. Her name is Antonia Barrat. She’s a freelance journalist and documentary maker.”

  “Is she going to be a problem?”

  “Yes. She wrote a book exposing corruption in the police force. It has given her a lot of kudos within her industry. She could attract attention to us.”

  “I don’t like the sound of this, Letva. What did they see?”

  “We don’t know exactly what they saw. Oleg told me that Jake wasn’t wearing his mask at the handover. There were pictures of him on the camera and I am concerned that the pictures were uploaded immediately.”

  “He wasn’t wearing a mask?”

  “No.”

  “And someone has uploaded pictures of him?”

  “Yes. I’ve already taken care of him.”

  “That is a shame. He was useful with his boats.”

  “I will replace him, but that isn’t an issue for now”

  “He was known to the police. If they get their hands on those photographs they would be led straight to him. I would not trust him not to make a deal to save his own skin. He knew too much about our operation.”

  “He’s not a problem to us now.”

  “You’re sure that these photographs could be a problem for us?”

  “The model of camera that he had has the facility to upload to social media immediately; this one is linked to an information storage site. My concern is that the site i
s for sharing information and others may be able to access them.”

  “Do you mean other journalists?”

  “Yes. He may have been the only one with access to the photographs but it is better that we act as if there are others that can access them. We should take the appropriate actions, yes?”

  Ivor thought about the different connotations and smoothed his tie with a tattooed hand. It was better to play on the side of caution. “Yes. Deal with them.”

  “Once I have spoken to the Barrat woman, I will know one way or the other. I went to her house but the police beat me to her.”

  “Letva,” Ivor lowered his voice to a cautionary tone. “This is not Latvia nor is it Kosovo or Afghanistan. You are in one of the United Kingdom’s biggest cities. You are not in a war zone. I cannot afford to have a trail of dead bodies across the UK. You understand me don’t you?”

  “Of course.” Letva replied calmly. He wasn’t sure what Ivor knew.

  “We cannot have the police focusing on us. It would be very bad for business,” Ivor paused, “very bad indeed. I cannot have any adverse attention coming our way. It must be tidy, understand?”

  “Have you spoken to your brother, Andris?”

  “Not yet. He isn’t answering his mobile. That’s why I called you.” Ivor could sense that Letva wanted to tell him more and that he wasn’t going to like it.

  “Look, Ivor things haven’t been tidy at all. In fact it is a total shit storm.” Ivor remained silent and listened. “I’m afraid that there are some casualties already,” Letva decided now was the time to tell Ivor how bad things were. Ivor remained silent still and it was unnerving. Letva could sense his anger simmering. “Two of our men followed the Barrat woman from the police station to a pawnbroker’s shop in Kensington. They thought that maybe it was her source. When she left, they went in and questioned the owner, a woman called Kayla Yates. They went way too far.”