Running Scared (DI Mike Nash Book 10)

by Bill Kitson

  In a solicitor’s office in Netherdale the morning post had been sorted and handed out. Prison Rule 39 is designed to allow correspondence between prisoners and their legal advisors without the contents being subject to scrutiny. When the solicitor received such a communication from Felling Prison with the letters OT discreetly written on the back of the envelope, instead of opening it, he placed it inside another envelope. After consulting a file, he addressed the outer envelope and placed it in his post tray. He made a note to add the appropriate charge to his client’s legal fees. His abuse of the system could land him in trouble, but he knew he would be paid handsomely for the service.

  Next morning at his house in Netherdale, Tony Hartley, saw the solicitor’s name on the franking mark on the envelope and breathed a sigh of relief. With luck, the major would have come up with an idea to solve his staffing problem. He opened it and began to read. The major didn’t waste time on niceties.

  ‘I appreciate the need to recruit. I hear the sergeant is back in the country now, and I’m sure he’ll be looking for work – and money. And this time, make sure Nash doesn’t get in the way.’

  Tony Hartley finished reading, sat back, and thought about the message. Nash, his boss’s nemesis and responsible for his imprisonment, led a charmed life where Hartley was concerned. This time however, there was no way Nash could even make a connection. He wondered briefly how, when currently serving a life sentence in a high security prison, the major had heard of the sergeant’s return to England. They had all served together as sappers and when last heard of, the sergeant had been in jail in central Africa. Nevertheless, he’d be ideal for what Hartley required. Ruthless and professional, trained as one of the army’s most efficient killers, the sergeant had become a ‘security consultant’, otherwise known as a mercenary.

  Hartley scrolled down the contacts section in his laptop. All the entries were coded but he soon reached the one he was looking for. A cryptic note told him that the number belonged to the sergeant’s sister, who was also his next of kin. He hoped that the woman hadn’t moved house. He dialled the number, which rang out three times before going to voicemail. Fortunately, the woman had recorded a greeting which identified her. Hartley spoke slowly and clearly. ‘This message is for the sergeant. Please ask him to contact Captain Hartley,’ he recited his mobile number and rang off.

  Five minutes later his mobile rang.

  ‘You left a message.’ Hartley could sense the tension in the sergeants’ voice. Obviously, he was afraid the call might be a trap.

  ‘The major suggested I call you. He thought you might be interested in some gainful employment. Extremely gainful. If so, we should meet.’

  ‘Woolley Edge north, six plus twenty-four.’ The phone went dead.

  Hartley smiled. That was it then. He would meet him at Woolley Edge services on the northbound carriageway of the M1 at 6 p.m. the following day: problem solved.

  Ron Mason, the sergeant, crossed to the table, coffee in hand, and sat down. ‘Your security’s crap,’ he greeted Hartley. ‘I followed you all the way from your car into this place. Now, what’s the job?’

  Hartley greeted the former sergeant then chose his words carefully, mindful that they were in a public place. ‘We’re having a lot of trouble with competitors in our supply department. A European company was already in the area. We need to eliminate them. Added to which, I lost three good men a while ago in an operation that went wrong, and I need to recruit.’

  What might have been a smile crossed Mason’s face. ‘I read something about that so-called operation, in the papers – gave the impression of a complete cock-up. It sounded sloppy. Was that them, or you?’

  ‘Them. They didn’t follow orders. So, are you up for it? You know the team. All they need is a bit of smartening up. Like you said, security is one angle.’

  ‘When do I start and where do I report?’

  Hartley was about to reply when his mobile rang. He glanced at the screen before taking the call. ‘Yes?’ He listened for some time. ‘Shit! OK, I’ll deal with that myself,’ he said. ‘Who are they?’

  He listened for a little while longer, grunted what could have been a farewell, and ended the call. He stared at the phone for a moment before looking up.

  ‘Trouble?’

  Hartley nodded. ‘How soon can you start?’

  ‘My kit’s in the car.’

  ‘I’ll give you directions on the way out. Suddenly, your job has become urgent, we’ll sort terms out later.’ He lowered his voice. ‘One of our couriers has been attacked. The dealer he was supposed to deliver to found him at the rendezvous an hour ago, bound and gagged. The package he was carrying, a very expensive package; gone. The hijackers made a couple of mistakes; they let our man see their faces. He recognized them, knows where they hang out; where we can find them. They’re members of Euro-trash, our competitor’s lot. Although the courier can’t be certain, he thought he recognized something one of them said about where they were to take the package. That’s why we need to move fast. We know who the enemy is and we know where they are. This means war. And, with you on board, we’ve the manpower to overcome them. It won’t be easy. This man is a tough nut and he’s some unpleasant characters around him, but that’ll only make the job more enjoyable.’

  Two days later at the meat factory, Ivan Kovac was reading an e-mail when his phone rang. He glanced at the display as he picked up the handset. ‘Yes, Stanley?’

  ‘We have a problem.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The two men we used to hijack that shipment from the Soldiers two days ago. They’ve vanished. They haven’t been seen since they dropped the package off.’

  ‘I don’t suppose they’ve been sampling the merchandise by any chance? Gone on a bender and not recovered? Alternatively, if they’ve decided to set up business on their own account I would be very, very angry.’

  ‘No chance, certainly on the first count; all the stock is in place. And as for the second idea, I don’t think they’ve the money to do that; or the balls.’

  ‘If they have, they won’t keep their balls much longer. If they’re not out of it on the white stuff or flogging it round the streets, what do you think happened?’

  ‘No idea. Worst case scenario is that they might have been seized as an act of retaliation by the Soldiers.’

  ‘Worst case, why?’

  ‘Because if that’s what’s happened it’s more than likely that somebody inside our organization has been got at and talked. The alternative would be that our men were sloppy and got recognized. Either way, they know too much for comfort.’ Stanley paused. ‘Although from what little I know about our competitors I don’t think they have anybody capable of extracting that sort of information. But,’ he added, ‘I could be wrong.’

  ‘Thanks for cheering me up,’ Kovac told him sarcastically. ‘You’d better set everyone you can spare looking for them. And another thing, the private detective e-mailed his report through with the Pollard woman’s background. I’ll phone you as soon as I’ve read it and decided where to start.’

  ‘You still don’t believe the press reports about the drowning?’

  ‘Show me the body and I will.’

  The report was long and detailed, but that was only part of the problem. Although Kovac’s spoken English was good and he had mastered the difficulty of presenting his voice accent-free, reading the language was more difficult.

  He made notes of anything significant, or that would provide some clue as to where the reporter might have chosen as a bolt-hole. The notes covered all members of Becky Pollard’s family, her friends in both London and from her time in Yorkshire, and her workmates at the Netherdale Gazette and the national paper she had joined.

  He all but discounted her parents and the other close family members off his list. He felt sure Becky Pollard wouldn’t risk endangering them by making them a target for possible collateral damage.

  The more he thought about it, and the longer he studied the r
eport, the more certain Kovac felt that the answer was in North Yorkshire and around the Netherdale area in particular. As he studied the list, two entries stood out. The chief constable, Becky Pollard’s godmother, would be a natural choice given her personal attachment and her official position. However, it was the second name that interested Kovac even more; Detective Inspector Mike Nash. The private investigator had written at some length of their relationship prior to her departure for London. It seemed that the couple had been living together for some time.

  Kovac felt sure that it would be to this man Nash that Becky Pollard would turn in such a crisis. The investigator had gone into great detail about Nash, outlining his career, which sounded remarkably successful following a stint in the Met; a dangerous opponent, then. If she had turned to him for help and shelter, Kovac felt certain she would have passed on all she knew. That in turn meant that Nash was an even bigger threat than Becky Pollard. Whereas she could only write about what she might have discovered, Nash could act on it. The whole of Kovac’s empire was under threat.

  He had to find out where Nash lived, and send someone to deal with him. But before that, it would be better to make absolutely certain. No point in wasting Nash if the danger from Pollard still remained. First things first, he would send someone on a scouting mission. Once they had confirmation, his men could move in.

  He glanced at the photo that the private investigator had included as an attachment to the e-mail showing a smiling, very attractive woman. ‘Sorry, my dear,’ he murmured. ‘If you’re not already dead, then you soon will be. Your little game will be over. I’ll introduce you to Uncle Stanley and you’ll find out how he got his name.’

  Clara Mironova drove from York to Netherdale for an early morning meeting with Chief Constable O’Donnell and Superintendent Fleming. The previous day had been her day off and she had driven to York to meet her fiancé Major David Sutton and stayed overnight. It had been their final chance to get together before he went on an overseas posting. Had he not been leaving, Clara knew that with the pressure she was under she would not have even taken a day off, but this was different. She was now burdened again with the anxiety all army wives and girlfriends feel when their loved ones are sent to a war zone. In her case the distress was heightened, by the knowledge of the type of specialist work David was involved in.

  He had been ready to quit the army, but with the prospect of unemployment had decided to sign on for a further tour of duty which had sparked off an angry confrontation. However, all that was forgotten in the emotion of their farewell.

  In an attempt to dismiss her fears and distress, Clara reflected on other things that had happened in the time since Nash had gone on leave. Principal among these was her realization of the amount of work he did, much of which she hadn’t been aware. This was highlighted by the volume of paperwork that crossed her desk, papers she didn’t usually get to see. She had often teased him about doing nothing. Now she appreciated the amount of work he did get through. Not that she would have admitted as much to him.

  In the Riley murder inquiry, there had been no witnesses, so there were no statements to read. By contrast, given the location of the crime scene, they had called in a variety of scientific specialists whose evidence might prove crucial should they be able to bring a prosecution to court. On the passenger seat, Clara had the reports from each of these experts, copies of which were with the chief constable and Fleming. These reports would form the basis for discussion. But that wasn’t all Mironova had. Whilst waiting for David to arrive in York, Clara had read the reports and begun to develop a theory and a possible link. Whether this would lead to an arrest or conviction she was unsure.

  They sat around the chief constable’s crescent-shaped desk. O’Donnell opened the debate. ‘What do you make of the expert opinions?’ She looked first at Fleming for a response.

  ‘The analysis of the blood seems to confirm the poaching theory. Identifying it as being from a deer means we’re looking for someone prepared to kill to avoid arrest. That suggests that they might have form. Perhaps they knew that would lead to a longer term of imprisonment than standard for this offence. As far as physical evidence goes, we’ve a boot print and a couple of tyre tracks. These may or may not belong to the killers. Most important, Professor Ramirez recovered the bullet from PC Riley’s body. It was a large calibre bullet that would have passed through the body had it not hit the breastbone, where it lodged. If we recover the weapon, that should give us a match. The calibre of the weapon is another indication that poachers killed our officer. That’s as far as I’ve got, but I think Clara might have more.’

  O’Donnell looked across at Mironova.

  ‘I agree with Jackie up to a point,’ Clara hesitated, ‘but I think they were involved in more than poaching. I believe they were scared we could connect them to other unsolved crimes. Forensics found dog hairs in the deer’s blood. Owning dogs isn’t unusual for poachers, although I don’t think many of them take them deerstalking. However, people who need to control sheep also need dogs.’

  ‘Sheep?’ The chief constable stared at her. ‘Are you suggesting shepherds murdered PC Riley?’

  ‘No, ma’am, not shepherds – rustlers. You remember the farmer who had his flock stolen? What if there’s a gang stealing livestock to order? I asked Tom Pratt to do a bit of research.’

  She turned the pages in her file. ‘These figures are only approximate, and the data is from last year, but the NFU suggests that over sixty thousand sheep were stolen in UK during the first ten months of last year. That’s two and a half times the number for the previous year.’ She read on a little further. ‘There have also been large increases in the theft of cattle, pigs, and game birds.’

  ‘That’s a lot of livestock,’ Fleming suggested.

  ‘I agree, and reading this report, the NFU blames high meat prices. I’d go further and add the recession into that equation. These figures suggest there are large gangs of professional criminals stealing stock on a regular basis; gangs ruthless enough to kill in order to protect their source of income. I believe PC Riley was unlucky enough to get in their way.’

  O’Donnell shook her head and sighed. ‘All of which makes catching them even more difficult and dangerous. Accepting that you’re right, and I’m not suggesting otherwise,’ – O’Donnell smiled – ‘what baffles me is how they dispose of such large quantities of animals.’

  ‘I think there has to be an element of collusion,’ Clara paused. ‘Someone has to be doctoring the paperwork. Added to which there has to be an abattoir or meat factory involved. There’s no other way such a large amount of meat could get into the food chain. Once the stock has been butchered, there’s no chance of identifying the source. For all we know the next meal we eat, be it a bacon butty, lunch in the canteen, a pork pie from the butcher or dinner in a restaurant, could contain stolen meat.’

  ‘I’m inclined to agree with your theory,’ – O’Donnell glanced at Fleming who nodded – ‘which makes it depressingly unlikely we’ll be able to bring the killers to trial. Unless you’ve thought up an approach to identify the gang?’

  ‘There is one thing that might be worth trying,’ Clara said. ‘Although it would be very difficult to identify the people involved, we might be able to find the vehicle they use. The van used to transport the deer would be near impossible to trace, but for a flock of sheep they would need an HGV; and a specialist one at that. There aren’t many on the road, which shortens the odds no end. The other part of that equation is that they wouldn’t want to travel too far with their load, or use a vehicle that would stand out, so the truck is likely to be a local one.’

  ‘Good thinking.’ The chief closed her file, signalling the end of the meeting. ‘Keep me updated.’

  O’Donnell watched them leave her office, reflecting on what Mironova had told them. The way Clara worked was uncannily similar to how Nash operated. He’d maintained all along that Mironova had the makings of an excellent detective. His absence looked like
giving Clara chance to prove him right.

  Chapter four

  When Clara got home that evening, it was dark. She had been working late and had lost track of time. She walked in, switched the lights on, and looked round. The apartment felt cold, unused, as if she had been away far longer than forty-eight hours. She left her bag in the hall and wandered into the lounge. She had become so used to David being around the place that now, when she needed his help and support, a shoulder to cry on, she felt his absence even more keenly. Suddenly, despite the air of confidence she exuded at work, she felt very much alone and vulnerable.

  Unsolved crimes were piling up around her and in her tired state she wasn’t sure she could cope. At work she’d become accustomed to having someone to talk problems through with. As a member of the police team, she knew she made a valuable contribution. Now, plunged into the unfamiliar role of leader, she began to realize, for the first time, that the position was not without its disadvantages. It was lonely work being captain, and suddenly, with something of a shock, Clara realized that she missed Mike Nash as much as she missed David. In a completely different way, she thought with a wry smile. Damn the pair of them, why had they both deserted her when she needed them so badly.

  That was a little unfair, she acknowledged. David had taken the only option available to him, and if that meant time apart it was no worse than thousands of other couples had to put up with.

  If David’s actions were easily explained, the same could not be said as easily for Mike. Clara went into the kitchen, brewed herself a coffee, and sat at the kitchen table, nursing the mug. She knew she ought to eat something but she was long past hunger and couldn’t be bothered to make the effort. Instead, she sat puzzling over the conundrum that was Mike Nash and in particular his recent untypical behaviour.