‘It won’t all go wrong. What’s the connection between Randall and North?’
‘Randall was North’s PO, protection officer, when North was working at Portman Down. People working on new WMDs are targets for other countries that try and get them to jump ship and bring their work with them – and that’s not only enemy countries, but friendly ones as well. America is the main culprit; bit like the Premier League in football. A top scientist gets offered a financial package he can’t refuse and gets tempted to move; so people like Randall are supposed to keep an eye on their marks and let us know if that is happening. Somewhere along the line this gamekeeper turned poacher and saw that North’s ultrasound weapon was a WMD game changer of enormous value and assisted him in smuggling the parts out and then disappearing. Every time we got within touching distance of North, he would be gone. It became pretty clear he was getting inside information, and that pointed at Randall. When you lot became involved after the murders we decided to let you run with it, in the hope that without Randall on your team keeping North up to speed you’d have a good chance of nailing him. Little did we know that Randall was shacked up with your Detective Sergeant and was privy to all your moves as well as ours!’
‘I didn’t know that either until you told me. I keep my squad’s private life away from the office. How did you find that out?’
‘I got MI6 to do a deep security check on Randall. Got a shock when it came back with that little bombshell, I can tell you. So that’s when I decided to have our little café meet and fill you in.’
Palmer thought for a moment.
‘Yes, well I have to admit I tested your theory out when we did a raid on North’s West Norwood house. The only way North could have known we were inside and to phone us at that particular time in the morning was if somebody let him know; and the only person who could have done that was Randall, who suggested he go round the back of the house on his own just before we went in. He must have had a prearranged signal that he sent to North. That personal relationship with Sergeant Singh gives me a lever I can use. Shall we get on with it?’
Layne led Palmer out of the viewing gallery, down a few stairs and into the interview room. Randall looked surprised to see Palmer, who sat down opposite him whilst Layne stood away by the door.
‘Bit of a bastard aren’t you, eh?’ Palmer snapped at Randall who looked a bit shocked at the ferocity of the attack. ‘Making out you care for Gheeta; moving in, taking all her true affections and giving back your false ones just to get information on North. You’re a little shit, Randall. You’re not a man, just a two-faced little shit. She still loves you. Won’t grass on you. Right now, she’s banged up in West End Central. She says she was not working with you, but it’s obvious you persuaded her to join you and North in your money-making scheme. She denies it, but it’s obvious she’s as guilty as you. She gave you the information on what was happening and you passed it to North. No wonder he’s always a step ahead of us. Well sorry old son, but neither you nor her are going to get the life of bliss in Peru you had lined up for yourselves; more likely to be Pentonville – a tiny cell in a maximum security wing, locked up for twenty-three hours a day; twenty-four if I had my way. You know, you remind me of the blokes who befriend vulnerable females and steal their life savings; only you stole her heart and her career. CPS reckons the pair of you will go down for assisting murder, and if North manages to do anymore it’ll be mass murder. That’s life in any judge’s book, Randall. Pity… DS Singh was a brilliant detective with a glittering career ahead of her, and a family that loves her – and then you came along and fucked it all up. Nice bloke aren’t you, eh?’
Randall spoke in a whisper.
‘She’s not involved.’
Palmer laughed.
‘Bollocks! She’s in it up to her neck.’
Randall looked up and spoke loudly.
‘She’s not. It was just a coincidence she was on the North case; she didn’t even know what I did. She thought I was a security consultant. She’s nothing to do with it. I should have told her I was on the case, but knowing your moves in advance was a godsend.’
‘Wasn’t it just! But the only place it’s going to send you, old son, is inside – forget Peru. I’ll see if we can arrange the two of you to have cells opposite each other, so you can explain to her over the next thirty years or so what a bastard you are. Romantic really isn’t it, eh? You’ll be able to grow old together – inside.’
Randall shouted with an angry voice.
‘She’s not fucking part of it, you fool. She had nothing to do with it!’
He was shaking in his shackles; Palmer had him. He leant forward on the table and shouted into Randall’s face.
‘No, of course not; nothing to do with it. Your living with a key member of the Murder Squad who is after your big mate who is about to share forty million quid with you, and she’s nothing to do with it? She’s up to her neck in it. What was her share to be then, five million? Bit more than a Detective Sergeant earns, I can tell you.’
He turned away as if to leave, had second thoughts, and returned to put his face into Randall’s again.
‘Okay, Mr Lover Boy. You know that you are going down for a considerable time, you’re not going to Peru or any other place with no extradition ties to the UK, and you’re not getting one pound, let alone forty million of them. So, if Sergeant Singh is as innocent as you say she is, just tell me where North is; and if we can get to him before his moment of madness, I’ll see that the court is told that you assisted us. That might just get the judge to reduce the sentence, so you might get out with a few years of your miserable life left to enjoy in civvy street. And, when we do get North, if he knows nothing about Sergeant Singh, I might be minded to believe she’s as innocent as you say.’
He stayed with his face barely twelve inches from Randall’s for what, to Layne, seemed an eternity. Randall knew he was in a tunnel with no light at the end, and Palmer had just lit a very small one. His voice dropped to a whisper.
‘She has nothing to do with it,’ he said, then paused for a moment. ‘He’s still in the hotel. He’s going to wire into the telecoms mast on its roof.’
His head dropped to the desk.
‘Tell her I’m so sorry. Tell her I love her.’
‘No way,’ said Palmer over his shoulder, as he hurried out of the interview room and scuttled along the corridor with Layne trying to keep up. ‘Find my driver, Harry. My Sergeant has gone to that bloody hotel with North’s mugshot, and if the staff recognise him as a resident she might try and be a hero. She should have more sense, but who knows.’
Layne was confused.
‘I thought you said she was in custody? In cahoots with Randall and North?’
‘Did I say that, Harry?’ he said with a smile at Layne. ‘Sometimes I am such a liar. Can’t help it.’
Commander Layne despatched one of his men to fetch the driver from the visitor’s refreshment room.
‘You haven’t lost your touch Justin, have you eh? Brilliant strategy that! Mind you, just one thing you got wrong.’
‘And what’s that?’
They were in the lift going up to ground level.
‘He’s not going to Pentonville, or any other civilian prison. It will be a closed military court martial and a military prison to follow, probably on an overseas base like Malta. None of this will ever get out – media would have a field day if they thought we’d let a mad scientist with a homemade WMD go AWOL.’
‘Well, let’s hope we get him before he gets to use it then,’ replied Palmer as they exited the lift and ran through the array of tanks and helicopters on the ground floor to the exit. ‘Mind you Harry, it is kind of comforting to know this is all here should we need it. Frightening and comforting at the same time.’
Outside they got to Palmer’s car as his driver arrived. Palmer winced as he got in.
‘Damn sciatica – shouldn’t have run just now, gets me now and again. I’ll keep you in the loop, Harry.’
They shook hands through the window. Layne was very serious.
‘Just remember – when you get him, he’s our military prisoner. Let me know, and I’ll have him picked up. I could go into that hotel with a team if you prefer, Justin?’
‘Oh yes, and that would set the media alight wouldn’t it, eh?’
‘Just thought I’d offer. You take care old friend, and give my best to Mrs P.’
Chapter 21
At the hotel Sergeant Singh was most surprised to find that North was immediately recognised by the manager, and that he was still in residence: Room 88, fourth floor. She tried unsuccessfully several times to get Palmer on his mobile, and even through the control room channel at the Yard, but he couldn’t be raised. She decided that being in uniform she’d better keep out of sight, just in case North came down from his room and got spooked by it, so she sat in the manager’s office behind reception. A large one-way glass window in the door gave her a good view of the foyer if North should leave. Her mobile rang. It was Palmer.
‘Where are you?’
‘At the hotel. North is still here, guv.’
‘Yes, I know. Don’t go near him, there’s a firearms unit on its way. Get a side room for them to use to tool up. I’ve told them to come in one by one, looking like guests. They’ll give my name at reception. Okay?’
‘Bit like James Bond this, isn’t it guv? I’ll arrange a room for them.’
‘Okay Moneypenny,’ he laughed. ‘Get through to your network contacts and get the signals from that mast on the hotel roof cut off, that’s the one he’s going to use. He might have hot-wired into it already so softly, softly is the word. If he gets an inkling we are onto him, he might just press the button.’
‘Okay. I’ve been trying to contact you, have you had your mobile turned off?’
‘No, I got into a dead area – I’ll fill you in later. I’m on my way – oh, and get a pass keycard off the manager so we can get into North’s room.’
‘Okay.’
She got a pass card and then had the manager label a side lounge as ‘Private Meeting’. One by one eight firearms officers arrived, all in civilian clothes and all with the same large suitcase which Singh thought amusing; reminded her of an old Pinewood comedy film with Peter Sellers that her dad used to watch and laugh at. They all gave their name as ‘Palmer’ and were directed by the Manager to the side lounge. Sergeant Singh waited until they were all present, and then briefed them on the situation with North; all they wanted to know was where he was in the hotel, was he armed, and was he wanted alive? She told them his room and floor, that he was probably armed, but she thought it best not to say armed with a WMD, and she gave them each a printout of his face taken from the lift interior CCTV. Then she rang the networks and had the signal from the roof mast switched off.
Palmer arrived as the evening became dark outside.
‘Right lads, I want to impress on you that this bloke is very dangerous. When, and if, you get him in view, he is likely to try and make a call on a phone, or click a switch, or press a button on some sort of trigger apparatus. We’ve got that covered so let him do that; but he must not be allowed to get away. Understand?’
A chorus of grunts acknowledged the command. Palmer handed the logistics of the operation over to the SFO (Senior Firearms Officer) who sent three through the kitchens and up the staff staircase to the fourth floor where North’s room was; two more went up the main guest staircase where the hotel put a ‘Cleaning in Progress’ sign at the bottom and diverted all guests to the lifts, and another two stayed covering the ground floor and lifts out of view in the manager’s office. Palmer and Gheeta took the lift up with the last one.
Chapter 22
North was getting impatient. He checked his watch: quarter past four. Randall should have been in touch by now with an update on the police activity; he guessed the Mayor was probably playing for time on police orders. He should have been out of the country and on his way to a very wealthy life in Peru by now if things had gone to plan. The fly in the ointment was the Mayor. Time to call him one last time, and then if the money wasn’t wired out it would be time to show just what he could do. He was angry.
He picked up one of the two mobiles on the hotel telephone table, clipped a voice distorter over the mouthpiece and pressed the Mayor’s direct number on speed dial. It rang five times, enough time for the trace equipment in the Mayor’s office and the operators to start a trace. North smiled. He’d covered all that by using Eastern European proxy servers and knew the trace would go round and round in circles. The Mayor answered.
‘Hello?’
‘Where’s my money?’
‘It’s all in hand.’
‘It’s not in my hands. You have thirty minutes to have it wired out to the account I gave you. Thirty minutes.’
‘It’s the Treasury, they’re taking time to put it together. You can’t just wire ten million without official sanction. It will be there – just give me a bit more time.’
‘Thirty minutes – and it’s now eleven million. If it’s not done in thirty minutes, say goodbye to a million voters. Your choice. Thirty minutes.’
He clicked off. Time to prove he was not a man to be messed with. The M.O.D. should have realised that when they cut his funding and shelved his project. They thought he was bluffing; well, now they would find out that he wasn’t.
He took a suitcase from the wardrobe and delved down to the bottom where his small box of death was hidden. Picking up the two mobiles and putting them and his little box into his jacket pockets, he checked the corridor through the spy hole; all clear. Leaving the room quietly, he hung the ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign on the door and made his way along to the end of the corridor, and quickly through the staff door onto the staff staircase.
The stairwell wasn’t clear. He could hear people coming up from below. Slowly he peered over the rail and down. Hotel staff don’t usually wear all blue flak jackets and carry Heckler and Koch MP5SF submachine guns; but the two men two floors down and on their way up did.
North quickly drew back out of sight. His brain raced. He’d obviously been found; but how? Randall? Must be Randall; he hadn’t checked in when he should have. He must have been found out somehow. Perhaps Randall talked to save his own skin, otherwise how would the police know he was here? Five minutes more in the hotel room and he’d probably have been caught. North knew he was now on his own.
He kept tight against the staircase wall and went up the flights silently. On the top floor, the seventh, he stopped and listened. No sound from below, and a careful look down showed no activity. Whoever that was coming up, and he guessed it was either a police firearms unit or SAS, had left the staircase; probably left it at his floor to burst into his room.
He pushed open the door to the roof. The cool air and sound of London’s traffic hit him. How long had he got? The game was obviously up; he wasn’t going to get the money and he probably wasn’t going to get away. Okay Mr Mayor, let’s see how you explain away the deaths of a few thousand of your electors for the sake of a few million pounds then, eh? See how you like being cast on the scrap heap like I was.
In front of him, bolted securely to the top of the water tower, stood the sturdy thirty-foot steel telecommunications gantry, looking like something from The War of the Worlds, awaiting an order to rip itself from the restraining bolts and attack. The light from tall office buildings around the hotel reflecting from it made it stand out against the dark red sky above. The three major network satellite dishes stood out proud from the sides amongst a host of other smaller discs and antennae.
North smiled. Okay Mr Mayor, okay MOD; let’s see who has the last laugh. He started to climb the steel rungs of the water tower ladder.
The lift doors opened on the fourth floor and the firearms officer furtively looked out and checked the corridor. At either end his men from the staff staircase knelt on one knee, their weapons ready. He signalled to them and they advanced along the corridor, hu
gging the walls towards Room 88. Palmer and Gheeta followed behind. Outside the room an officer checked through the spyhole; no movement inside. Gheeta gave him the pass key card, which he silently slipped into the door card reader. He nodded to the other officers, and with a substantial amount of noise they slammed open the door and rushed in shouting: ‘Police!’
The rooms were checked, the cupboards and drawers were checked, the bed mattress was checked; but there was nobody, and nothing to say the room had even been occupied, the only clue a used tea cup.
‘Where the hell is he then?’
Palmer had a sinking feeling. If North had managed to get out of the hotel he could be anywhere; and there was no way of getting to him until he made contact, which he might well do by using his box of tricks.
‘Well, we know he didn’t go down, sir,’ said Gheeta. ‘So he must have gone up.’
They took three armed officers with them and followed in North’s footsteps up the service stairs to the roof door. The officers went through quietly and signalled the all clear for Palmer and Gheeta to follow. Once through onto the roof they waited, crouched in the shadows against the wall, as two officers searched around the roof, checking behind the large air control fan units. They gave the all clear.
Palmer felt a tap on his shoulder. It was Gheeta’s hand. He followed the direction of her finger to the mast gantry above the water tower, where the dark figure of North was crouching tight against the base.
‘Mr North,’ shouted Palmer. ‘This is Chief Superintendent Palmer of the Metropolitan Police. Would you come down sir, please?’
POETIC JUSTICE & A KILLER IS CALLING: The DCS Palmer and the Serial Murder Squad series, cases 3 & 4. Page 17