Running Scared (DI Mike Nash Book 10)

by Bill Kitson

  RUNNING

  SCARED

  Bill Kitson

  Copyright © Bill Kitson 2018

  The author asserts their moral right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  All Rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, copied, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written consent of the copyright holder, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  Cover photo: Steven Arenas. Design: Val Kitson

  Printed by CreateSpace: An Amazon.com Company

  Contents

  By the same author

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter one

  Chapter two

  Chapter three

  Chapter four

  Chapter five

  Chapter six

  Chapter seven

  Chapter eight

  Chapter nine

  Chapter ten

  Chapter eleven

  Chapter twelve

  Chapter thirteen

  Chapter fourteen

  Chapter fifteen

  Chapter sixteen

  Chapter seventeen

  Chapter eighteen

  Chapter nineteen

  Chapter twenty

  Chapter twenty-one

  Chapter twenty-two

  Chapter twenty-three

  Chapter twenty-four

  Chapter twenty-five

  Chapter twenty-six

  Chapter twenty-seven

  Chapter twenty-eight

  About the Author

  For Val

  Wife, lover, best friend, critic, editor, and all-round superstar.

  By the same author

  DI Mike Nash Series

  Depth of Despair

  Chosen

  Minds That Hate

  Altered Egos

  Back-Slash

  Identity Crisis

  Buried in the Past

  Dead and Gone

  Snow Angel & False Witness

  Picture of Innocence

  Eden House Mysteries

  Silent as the Grave

  The Kaiser’s Gold

  Vanishing Act

  Flesh and Blood

  The Haunted Lady

  Writing as William Gordon

  The Greek Island Romances

  Watering the Olives

  The Last Resort

  Peaceful Island

  Sophia’s House

  Sea Nymph

  The Fountain of Daphne

  Byland Crescent: Book One, Requiem

  Byland Crescent: Book Two, Renaissance

  Love Changes Everything

  Acknowledgements

  All the titles in the DI Mike Nash series involve research, but Running Scared was a far more complex plot to put together and has taken several re-writes. I have to thank the following people for their contributions.

  For nautical matters, Yachtmaster Tony Othick and Chief Officer Lorraine Gouland, without whose help the book might have sunk!

  My readers, Wendy McPhee, Angela Gawthorp and Andy Wormald, for their feedback and confirming the logic of the storyline.

  The real Sharon Meehan who wanted to be ‘naughty’.

  And not least, illustrator Derek Colligan, my usual designer, who on this occasion was unavailable but offered advice to my in-house editor, Val, enabling her to produce the cover. Not only that, but I also have to thank her for all her hard work in getting this book ready for publishing – and for being lovely.

  Chapter one

  "FORMER GAZETTE EMPLOYEE FEARED LOST IN YACHTING ACCIDENT". Detective Constable Viv Pearce glanced at the placards outside the newsagents; then stopped suddenly, causing another pedestrian to cannon into him. He muttered an apology then went inside and bought a copy of the Netherdale Gazette. He stared at the headline and accompanying photo in horrified disbelief.

  It had been Pearce’s turn to go for sandwiches. The tall Antiguan DC was on his way back when he passed the shop. He entered Helmsdale police station at a run, threw Jack Binns, the desk sergeant, his sandwich and sprinted upstairs, taking the flight two at a time to the CID suite. Binns stared after him, wondering what the panic was.

  Pearce dumped the carrier bag on his desk and glanced towards DI Mike Nash’s office. The door was open, the room unoccupied. ‘Where’s Mike, is he back yet?’ he demanded.

  DS Clara Mironova looked up from the file she was studying. ‘No, he’s not arrived yet. He’s still at HQ. What’s wrong, Viv?’

  Pearce held out the newspaper. Clara scanned the front page. ‘Oh no!’ she muttered.

  The other occupant of the room, former superintendent Tom Pratt, now the civilian support officer, hurried over to see what was wrong. Together, they read the announcement beneath the headline that had attracted Viv’s attention.

  “It is with deep regret that we have to announce that former Gazette staff member Rebecca Pollard is feared drowned following an accident in the Bay of Biscay. The yacht on which she was a passenger capsized during a freak storm. It is believed she was heading for Spain on a sailing holiday.

  Miss Pollard, whose family has owned the Gazette for four generations, was an immensely popular member of staff. After leaving the paper, she worked in Fleet Street as an assistant editor and had built an outstanding reputation as an investigative journalist.

  We extend our heartfelt sympathy to Becky’s family and friends, both here and in London.”

  After scanning the article, the team members looked at one another.

  ‘Clara, isn’t Becky Pollard related to the chief constable?’ Viv asked.

  ‘The chief’s Becky’s godmother.’

  ‘Maybe this is why Mike’s not here,’ Pratt said. ‘I wonder what effect this will have on him.’

  ‘I don’t know, they used to be close, but that was a long time ago,’ Clara replied.

  The team knew the relationship had ended when Becky went to London to advance her career. At the time, Clara thought Nash would have tried to make her stay, but then again, perhaps that would have been useless. He had known Becky well enough to feel certain nothing would have persuaded her to change her mind. Although their relationship was over, she guessed he would be as shocked as they were at the news. Clara, who had come to regard Nash more as an older brother than a boss, was concerned for the effect this would have on him. Having recently suffered a huge personal loss, this fresh blow could be devastating for him.

  Nash had been spending a leisurely Sunday afternoon off duty, catching up on some reading, when he’d received a phone call from Chief Constable Gloria O’Donnell requesting he should come to her home immediately. When he’d arrived at the house it was her husband, who opened the door.

  ‘Mike, come on in. If you’d go through to the dining room’ – he pointed to the right – ‘I’ll let Gloria know you’ve arrived.’

  The chief, known by the affectionate title of God, from her initials rather than her position, was widely respected, not least by those serving under her.

  She arrived with a tray of coffee. ‘Mike, thank you for coming round, I wanted speak to you before tomorrow morning’s newspaper are out.’ She went on to explain the headlines she expected to appear in the press. ‘I’m not going into the office tomorrow; the phone here is already ringing off the hook.’

  ‘In the circumstances I’m not surprised.’

  They talked for over an hour, at the end of which she stood up and looked at him, searchingly. ‘Are you going to be OK?’

&nb
sp; ‘I don’t have much choice in the matter, do I?’

  ‘Before you leave, I’ve someone I want you to meet.’

  Nash followed Gloria into the sitting room. Her husband was seated in a comfy armchair, chatting over coffee with their visitor who, as they entered, stood up from the sofa. Nash smiled as he looked at the strikingly beautiful young woman; tall, with a superbly athletic figure. Her short lustrous dark hair, fine features, and her complexion like polished ebony, made her an absolute delight on the eye.

  ‘Mike, I think you know Alisha Roberts. I believe you two have met before.’

  Nash reached out to shake her hand. ‘Alisha, it’s been a long time; a very long time.’

  Two days later, Clara walked into the CID suite at Helmsdale to find her boss already in his office. Nash called her through and gestured to the folders on the corner of his desk. ‘These are outstanding cases. I’ve been through them and made notes for action.’

  ‘You’ve done all that this morning? What time did you get in?’

  ‘Six o’clock. Most of this is routine, although there is a lot of it. You might want to keep an eye on the figures, don’t let them get out of hand.’

  ‘Hang on, Mike, why are you telling me this?’

  ‘I have meetings today and tomorrow, and as of Friday I’m on leave.’

  Questions queued up in Mironova’s mind. What meetings? she wondered. With whom? And why didn’t she know about them? And what was this about leave? She hadn’t been told, and Nash was usually meticulous in consulting her before even requesting leave. She ought to have been the first to know.

  ‘On leave? For how long?’

  Nash’s reply provided a fresh shock. ‘Six weeks. I’m collecting Daniel from school to spend summer in France with his aunt.’

  ‘Yes, but six weeks, Mike. That’s a long time to be off work.’ Mironova tried a joke. ‘I know you don’t do much when you’re here, but you do make good coffee.’

  The joke failed miserably.

  ‘Clara, I need a break.’ He glanced at the photo frame on his desk, a reflex action that saddened Mironova. The photo was a painful reminder of the woman he had so recently loved – and lost.

  ‘I know six weeks is a long time, that’s why I wanted all the paperwork up to date before I go. Anyway, you’ll have the superintendant to oversee operations. She’s sending help over from Netherdale, so you’ll be fine.’

  And that was that.

  As Mironova walked back into the general office, she wondered if the news of Becky’s death had been instrumental in Nash’s decision. Was he secretly grieving more than they imagined? He was certainly acting out of character. He hadn’t been his usual self of late and now this. Perhaps hearing of the death of his old flame, a painful reminder, had been too much for him.

  Although it would have been churlish to deny him leave, as a rule he had to be dragged away from work, such a long period was unheard of. And to take it without consultation or consideration for the others in their small team simply wasn’t his style. They had managed before, short-term, but this was different. Clara felt the responsibility of long-term command a little daunting.

  Nash watched Clara leave, aware that he had upset her. He stared ruefully at the door which she had closed with a quiet firmness that spoke volumes, more so than if she’d slammed it. He knew she was unhappy at the way she’d been told. Knew also that there was absolutely nothing he could do about it.

  Ivan Kovac was sitting at his desk in the office of his meat processing plant in Leeds when Stanley entered the room. Kovac sensed his excitement.

  ‘You’ve got to see this,’ Stanley said as he thrust a two-day-old newspaper at his boss.

  Kovac studied the news report with interest. He read the article describing the death of Becky Pollard in silence, and when he finished, looked up. His associate was visibly agitated, an excitement Kovac did not share. ‘What do you make of it?’ He asked the question quietly, because he saw no reason for celebration. Not yet, anyway.

  Stanley shrugged. ‘Saves me a job – and a lot of time and worry for all of us.’

  ‘A slice of luck, you think?’

  Stanley smiled, recognizing Kovac’s humour. ‘For us, certainly’ – he indicated the paper – ‘not for her though. Although I guess drowning is less painful than what you wanted me to do to her.’

  ‘The only variety of luck I’ve experienced has been bad. But I do believe in the sort of luck you make for yourself. This’ – he tapped the paper – ‘seems far too lucky to be true. When I first got word from London that she’d been snooping around my business interests, I ordered her watched. If the idiot you sent to grab her and bring her here hadn’t botched things up and lost her, we would know we were lucky. Of course I could be wrong, but I think we should take this with, what’s the English expression, a piece of salt?’

  ‘A pinch of salt,’ Stanley corrected him. Ivan’s English was good, free from accent, but the idiom sometimes defeated him.

  ‘Let me think about this. Then I’ll decide what we do.’

  Stanley paused at the door. ‘It’s a shame if that report is true. I was looking forward to meeting her.’

  Kovac felt slightly sick at the man’s final words. His voice had been calm, always was, but when he had spoken there had been no disguising his disappointment. Kovac had killed, but even he was repelled at the thought of what horrors Stanley would have inflicted on the reporter. Repelled even more by the obvious enjoyment it would have given him.

  Few people knew Stanley’s real name, or where he came from. And even fewer had the courage to enquire. Throughout the murky world in which they operated, he was known only by his nickname, Stanley, or to give the full one, Stanley Slicer. The long scar he carried down one side of his face was a souvenir of an early knife fight – he had never lost a fight since.

  Ivan and Stanley shared a common bond, their true identities being shrouded in the past. Before he arrived in England, Todor Nikolic became Ivan Kovac, and the money he had laid out then had rewarded him with the paperwork as a Polish national to match his new identity.

  His business empire was flourishing, Ivan, as he now thought of himself, had long wanted to expand his operations in England where demand and the rewards were high.

  The drugs network he had set up both as a method of distributing illicit substances, and a channel for laundering the proceeds, ensured his continued and growing wealth. As he prospered, his fortune enabled him to diversify into a range of more legitimate businesses, granted, most of these were a cloak for his illegal activities.

  In several areas, with the aid of the persuasive powers of Stanley, elimination of competition had left him with a monopoly in the drugs market. That had been the case until recently when Kovac’s operation had been threatened from two angles. Firstly, from the investigative activities of Becky Pollard, and second, from a rival supplier who had entered the market and was undercutting him. There was no doubt this had cost him dearly and he was determined not only to regain his supremacy, but also eliminate the opposition. If circumstances had been different he would have resorted to strong-arm tactics, even to murder, but Kovac was reluctant to try that. The rival gang had a reputation for ruthlessness and a proven record as killers that surpassed anything either Kovac or Stanley could claim. Professional killers, trained to the art by the British Army, referred to by Kovac’s team as the Soldiers.

  A very real challenge awaited Kovac if he was to retain his position as market leader, but that would have to wait. His priority had to be the reporter. Although not one given to fear, the possible extent of her knowledge frightened him. He wasn’t sure exactly how much she had discovered, which was why he had asked Stanley to take care of her. What worried Kovac most was that she might have uncovered his identity and origin. Ivan Kovac, respectable businessman, would fear little from even the most searching of probes. But Todor Nikolic, who had never actually been to Poland, but who had left Serbia one step ahead of the authorities and a larg
e number of vengeful people, had every reason to be terrified of discovery. If people that had suffered from his past activities knew he was to return, he felt certain that his survival following his arrival at Nikola Tesla Airport would be measured in hours rather than days.

  Becky Pollard might indeed have drowned, but that was a chance Kovac was unwilling to take. He called Stanley back into his office. ‘That private investigator we’ve used before, get him to check on the Pollard woman’s background. I want him to go right back to her childhood. Concentrate on where she came from before she went to London. Once we have his report, I want you to set our people checking all her old haunts, family, and acquaintances. My bet is that, if she is still alive, that will be where she’s hiding.’

  An hour later, Stanley came back. ‘I spoke to the PI’s office. The job’s sorted.’

  ‘Right, you’d better go to the park and make sure everything’s OK there. Check to see if anyone’s been snooping around. And see if you can get an angle on what the opposition are up to. If we can find out where and when they’re operating, we might be able to hit them. If you can find that out, organize a couple of men to intercept one of their deliveries, we’ll be able to see how they react to the loss of a valuable cargo.’

  Kovac remained in his office, staring at the newspaper, pondering the report. A chilling thought struck him. Although they had no proof that she had left evidence behind that might incriminate him, what if there was a file waiting to be read? Or even worse, what if the information was already in the hands of someone who could act on it; police or immigration officials? Kovac broke out in a cold sweat. And that didn’t happen very often.

  Chapter two

  The argument had been stupid. Even the farmer recognized that, and he’d been the one who started it. The row had been about money, and was sparked by his wife mentioning that she wanted a new kitchen. It wasn’t that she was particularly extravagant, or that he was mean, but her timing had been appalling. To make the suggestion first thing in the morning, after the traumas of the previous day had been unfortunate.