Mayweather turned her gaze on Roper who she knew would be following the conversation closely, even though he appeared to be totally absorbed in a careful study of the carpet. She said. “Do you have any ideas about why he was so interested in that field Jonathan?”
Roper sat up a bit straighter as he shifted in his seat. He had a tendency to fidget when he didn’t have a computer screen to look at.
He said. “I just have a lot of questions for now. I was thinking about this last night and I would really like to know if Sir James was about to have treatment of some sort; maybe he’d even started.”
Mayweather nodded.
“I’m not sure if the new autopsy will show anything, given the state of the body but perhaps you can talk to his personal doctor. There is a name mentioned in the file.”
“It’s a funny thing,” Hooley interjected. “But there is no one around who was close to him. After his wife died there is a view that he just focussed on the Foundation to the exclusion of everything else. I think that keeping his wife’s clothes suggests he either couldn’t, or didn’t want to, move on.”
He glanced at Roper; the idea of a man known by many but having no friends was equally applicable to his younger colleague as well. Then it struck him that he was like that himself. As he was wondering about this he became aware that his boss was looking at him over the top of her glasses.
“Sorry Ma’am just got slightly lost in thought for a moment.” He rubbed his hands together. “Jonathan and I need to go and do some brainstorming.”
But as he stood up he was reflecting on how easy it was to cut yourself off from people. He told himself to make a determined effort to talk to his son and daughter a little more.
16
“I’ve found something. I think it is going to tell us what happened to Sir James Taylor.”
Hooley was completely taken aback. “What and how have you found that? I thought you were working on the bio-technology companies?”
It was just coming up to 6pm and Roper had a slightly glazed look which appeared when he had been digging hard on the internet. He said. “I have been going over our visit to the warehouse. While we were in the meeting with the ADC, I suddenly realised what all those square marks were. They were placements for scaffolding poles used to create some sort of temporary structure, most likely an arena.
“I also noticed that there were drag marks everywhere and that they also went out of the door. When I checked the lamp post I saw that it had been tampered with. I think someone was drawing off a lot of power. The newly oiled hinges clinched it. Those huge doors must have been opened and closed very recently.
“It was while we were talking about the security guard that things started to fall into place. Someone needed him out of the way for several days because there was going to be something there they didn’t want him to see. I’ve watched scaffolders and they are quick, but even so, they would need a couple of days to put something up and then take it down.”
He stopped and looked at Hooley expectantly. The DCI knew this meant he had more. “Go on then. Tell me what you’ve found.”
Roper was fully alert. “I’ve been searching around on the dark web, or black internet, and think I have found a video clip. I haven’t looked at it yet but it has the initials JT and the date Sir James went missing.”
Hooley’s expression had gone from quizzical to alarmed. He knew enough about the dark internet and how it was accessed to know it was a lawless space. “Unless I’m misunderstanding you, there could be something pretty nasty on this clip?”
Roper nodded slowly. “I think there is every chance there will be. The only way to be sure is to look at it. The whole file is about 10 minutes long and looks to be quite high quality.”
“Are you sure you’re up to this Jonathan? I can always get someone else to watch it.”
“No. I need to do this. But I was hoping we could look at it together.”
Hooley reluctantly nodded and got up to close his office door. “We don’t want anyone bursting in at the wrong moment. Then he picked up a spare chair and moved over to where he could see Roper’s screen. “Ready when you are,” he said.
Roper clicked on the clip. At first it seemed quite normal but within minutes they were drawn into a nightmare world. The first thing that came into view was an arena, forty feet square, surrounded by tiered seating. The ring itself was bordered by four-foot-high linked mesh and those at ground level would be eyeball level with the action. Hooley feared the worst. There were too many terrible videos around for him to take any other view.
“Could you hold it for a moment Jonathan,” and as Roper hit the pause button he said. “Do you think this is the warehouse where the body was found? Roper nodded. “I think so. Very certainly.” He reached forward to hit play.
The camera slowly panned around the stands. There must have been dozens of people there; all looking excited and staring at one end of the arena. Suddenly it was clear what they were waiting for. A pair of Pit Bull type dogs were brought into the ring. Their appearance led to a huge increase in the volume as people shouted out in excitement. The dogs strained against their leads in their determination to get at each other.
Then the camera zeroed in on the pudgy compère; sweating and red-faced in his too tight suit as he bellowed a countdown and with a huge roar the dogs were released. The fight was over in seconds as one dog grabbed the other by the throat. The camera panned in as a spray of blood splattered over the spectators in the front row. They didn’t seem to care. The victorious dog was dragged out by handlers, its powerful jaws still clamped round the neck of the loser. No one tried to take the trophy away.
Hooley shuddered. Not just at the cruelty of the dog fights but also at the pleasure of the audience. Without them wanting to watch there would have been no fight. He glanced at Roper who appeared to be coping with what they were looking at.
Now the camera was back on the compère. He was telling the audience the next fight was the big one. A very rare competition between two Neapolitan Mastiffs; they had been flown in from North America earlier that day. He explained that each dog would be paraded separately followed by a short break to allow the audience to place their bets. When the first dog was brought in there was total silence. Even through the camera Hooley could see how big it was. It had thick legs, a huge neck and an enormous head enveloped in loose, wrinkled skin which gave it a menacing, hooded-eye look. It was twice the size of the pit bulls and its giant paws scattered the liberal quantities of sawdust spread across the floor to soak up the blood.
The camera performed a lingering close-up on a well-dressed woman in the front row who shrank back as the dog stopped and swung its massive head to make eye contact. After a long moment, the beast continued on a steady lope around the arena. The dog was led out to be replaced by the second animal, equally fearsome.
At last both dogs were returned to the arena with two handlers assigned to each one to hold on to restraining leashes. The animals were dragged to opposite sides, all the while keeping their eyes firmly locked on to each other. The compère began a countdown from ten and by the time he reached halfway the crowd was on its feet.
Three...
Two …
One…
The handlers unleashed the beasts and vaulted out of the ring. The two dogs charged at each other and met with an audible, meaty thud. They backed off, drool dripping from their open mouths, as they studied each other before advancing again. For such large and brutal-looking dogs there was a strange delicacy in the way they set off, seeming to move slowly at first with their muscles rippling under their skin, before clashing in a blur of gaping jaws as each tried to gain the upper hand. This time one of the dogs managed to tear a lump from the other, making the crowd shout louder than ever. Then both dogs turned their heads to one side at a sudden commotion.
Sir James was crashing into the ring, landing heavily on his stomach. Hooley thought he must have been hurled in from just off-camera. It would
have taken two men; one either side, holding an arm and leg each. Sir James lay stunned before fear quickly drove him, scrambling, back to his feet. He tried to get away but the dogs had him in their sights and charged. As the first grabbed his shoulder and spun him round, the second went for his throat. Sir James’s terrified screaming was abruptly cut off as his wind pipe was shredded.
“Turn it off Jonathan,” said Hooley. He had gone white. “I need a few minutes before we see any more of that. So you have found out what happened to him. But why kill him in such a terrible way?”
Roper shook his head slowly. “I don’t know. But I was looking at the audience and they weren’t expecting what happened. They all looked shocked and terrified. Maybe it was designed to frighten them and make sure they don’t talk.”
Hooley looked grim. “Talking of audience, that camera captured some pretty clear shots of some of them. We can get stills made and release them to the media, and that fat little announcer. That should round people up.”
He looked over at Roper and surprised to see a doubtful expression on his face. He said. “I’m obviously missing something. Tell me what it is.”
“I don’t think it will be as easy as that. All the people in that video, apart from Sir James, look as though they have come from abroad. I know London is full of different nationalities, but there is something about their clothes, hair styles, the make-up used by the women that suggests it won’t be easy to identify people.”
Hooley’s hopes faded. He was sure that Roper would be proven right. He made a fist with his right hand and punched his left hand hard as a sign of his exasperation.
17
Dan Sykes was staring at a bacon and egg sandwich. It was made to order: crispy bacon, sliced egg and a touch of mayonnaise served on sliced white bread. It was making his mouth water and that was the point. Sykes was a firm believer that the more you practised the ‘luckier’ you got. So resisting temptation was one of the mental tricks he employed at every opportunity. Right now he was waiting for Tommy Burton to call him.
His Scotland Yard contact had come through with the information about the new man on the Special Investigations Unit. He had passed this on to Burton in an email via a secure server. That was a couple of hours ago. Trying to guess how long it would take for a reply was pointless, although he imagined it would be sooner rather than later. But years in the military had induced a powerful sense of fatalism. He was convinced that the moment he took a bite of the food the phone would ring. He hated being interrupted while eating so it was a good time to practise his hunger control.
Now he was leaning back in a leather bound office chair staring at the sandwich which he’d placed on a platform constructed from four packs of printer paper. To stop himself from going cross-eyed he would, from time to time, gaze around the room. His office was on the ground floor of a stupidly expensive house in Mayfair. He’d been told that the desk alone was worth thousands of pounds. It was a retro piece produced by a leading designer. On the wall facing the desk was a “five-figure” spin painting by a leading British artist. He thought it looked like something a child might produce.
Then there were the windows. Three layers of custom glass, each one toughened to resist bullets. Or at least that was the claim. Over the years he’d developed a healthy scepticism of the latest high-tech kit, much preferring his weaponry to be tried and tested.
He was into the second hour of what he liked to think of as the real hunger games when the phone finally burbled into life. He picked up.
Burton spoke immediately.
“I think you should make sure he has something to think about.”
“How much of a distraction?’
“Nothing broken.”
The connection ended.
Sykes picked up his sandwich, dropped one half in the bin, mustn’t be greedy, and savoured the first bite. He chewed, swallowed, and then put his food down. He didn’t like to bolt his meals, wasn’t good for you. Now he looked at the briefing note he’d been sent about Roper. It was quite short but there was enough information there with the most important thing of all, his home address. No point trying to get near him while he was at work and surrounded by police officers.
His boss had just given the order for Mr. Roper to be given a bit of a slap around. While he didn’t want any broken bones, you could cause plenty of damage with a few well placed blows that should put him in hospital for a day or two. The briefing note made it clear that Roper was a bit of a loose cannon. There was something about him almost getting the chop a few months ago. It seemed there were plenty of people in the Met who didn’t like him and they had been disappointed to see him return. His source had also said that these same people insisted any success he had as an investigator owed as much to luck as judgement since his methods were often impossible to replicate, or even understand. But Sykes wondered about that, especially as it seemed he had a powerful ally in Deputy Assistant Commissioner Julie Mayweather. Another lesson learned long ago; never underestimate an opponent.
He put the note down and shrugged. None of that mattered for now. The important thing was Roper was going to receive a short, sharp lesson. He picked up the photograph that had been sent with the report. He was not impressed by what he saw. In his line, working-up a serious dislike of a target helped to get the job done. The photo was a full length and Roper was in a dark suit that didn’t hide how skinny he was. You look like a bloody stick insect in a suit, Sykes thought to himself. Then he looked at the hair, all curly and sticking up. If there was one thing Sykes hated it was scruffy hair. He wondered about doing the job himself. It would get him out for a bit, but he knew Burns would whinge like mad if he didn’t delegate the real grunt work. He was going to have to pass this one on and decided that Pat was the man. He never lost his cool and was good at administering beatings without them going wrong. Pat enjoyed his work; it was why Sykes used him. He always thought those who brought a little passion to the game were the best operators. He shook his head. He would take enthusiasm any time. Too many people were in it for the money. Soft bastards. They always ran when it got difficult.
He decided that once he’d briefed Pat he would get out for a while. There were a couple of sites he needed to visit. Make sure that things were going smoothly. They’d been operating at full capacity for six months now and so far nothing had gone wrong. He knew from experience that it couldn’t last, but being careful would keep that clean record going as long as possible. And at least he would be doing something, rather than waiting and watching all the time. He smiled as another thought hit him. The last shipment had been here for a while now so would have been cleaned up nicely.
18
“You OK Jonathan?” Hooley had become aware that the younger man was staring into space. No response. He tried again. “I said are you there mate?”
Still nothing. Now he was in a dilemma. Should he interrupt him or not? He decided to leave it a bit longer and was rewarded when Roper suddenly sat-up, blinking rapidly.
“Did you just say something, Brian?” he asked.
“I was just checking everything was alright.”
Roper gave him a puzzled look. “Why would you do that?”
“I spoke to you twice and you didn’t respond.”
Roper nodded slowly. “That’s because I was trying something out in my head. I think it might help us with this case. It’s a different way of sorting out all the information we have.”
Hooley’s eyebrows rose as he wondered whether to ask or just wait for an answer. Roper saved him the worry.
“I haven’t quite got it right yet. I’m going to need to work on it a little more.” Then a huge beam lit up his face; it made him look like a young boy. “But I think it could be very good. It’s already helped me remember the name and telephone number of his personal doctor.”
Hooley looked at the pile of documents on his desk, just part of what had been generated by two investigative teams. These were the ones that he had printed out, there
was plenty more online. He pointed at the files. “I know you’ve got a memory like an elephant but surely extracting something from this lot is very difficult?”
“Yes,” said Roper. “Under the old way of thinking it would be. I’d have got there in the end but this allows me to remember things much more easily.” He leaned forward, his enthusiasm obvious. “Actually I could show you some of it now; it’s quite easy really all you have to do is….”
Hooley jumped in before he was given a detailed explanation. “Don’t worry. I’ll take your word for it. I’m not sure my little grey cells are up to new tricks at the moment. Now to matters at hand and things I do understand, I take it you’re intending to call this doctor and see if he can tell us about Sir James. Give it a go, but remember that doctors can get hung up on confidentiality, even when we are talking about someone who’s died.”
Roper made the call only to be told that Dr. Paul Humbert would have to call him back. His secretary said he might be able to ring around mid-afternoon. No longer distracted by his attempt to speak to the doctor he realised it was already 1.30pm and asked Hooley if he wanted something to eat.
“Actually, I’ll go,” said the DCI. “I’ve decided that I need to start eating a bit more salad and bit less bread so I want to see what my options are.”
“Sprouting crimson lentils,” said Roper.
Hooley looked as Roper as if he had just ‘sprouted’ a pair of horns. “Sorry, what did you say?”
“I said sprouting crimson lentils. Very good for you, especially in a salad. Some people call it a super-food although that’s not true, but it does fill you up. You should also try a kale smoothie, full of vitamins and minerals.”
Hooley sighed heavily.
“Thanks for the motivational chat. I can’t wait to try it. The Kale smoothie sounds a particularly horrid invention. I’ll bet that becomes a real favourite of mine.”
Going Underground (Jonathan Roper Investigates Book 1) Page 6