435 Tango: Out of the Blue and into the Black

by R J Holligan

  Putting the coffee down on the floor, Quayle replied, “Yes, why? “

  There was a pregnant pause as she looked at him as if a police officer, some would say a peg or a half above her in the organisation, should know.

  “There was some kind of big flap about it. We found his basic records but there was no other background on him. Then Trumpton was fixing him up with a duty solicitor but we got a call from the superintendent that another lawyer was on their way. Some posh nob with a double barrel name. And then we were told to put him on the other empty wing so he couldn't talk to anyone. Later on some suits interviewed him. Trumpton told me he'd be handling the guy’s food and stuff.

  A chill ran down Quayle's spine. Realising that the corridor was monitored by CCTV he to out a scrappy pad from his stab vest and wrote Special Branch? And held it up to her discreetly. She nodded. “Anyway I'll drop you a coffee down in another couple of hours.,” she said and moved back down the corridor to the main Custody area.

  Four hours later, Quayle was relieved and another officer to his place. He grabbed a lift home with two colleagues who had also been on hospital constant watch. In the locker room he was gratefully taking off his stab vest when a piece of paper fell from it. A Post-It note with the name Colleen and a mobile number. Obviously, his late-night visitor had discreetly put it on him.

  “Fuck me, I'm like a bloody noticeboard,” said Quayle. He now finally had a few days to delve a bit deeper into what the hell was going on. But first a much-needed shower and some sleep.

  Chapter 8

  It was early afternoon when Quayle emerged in the weird hinterland between late morning and afternoon and from a sleep that far from leaving you refreshed, is just sufficient to repair and restore the balance which night shifts knock out out of you. . Sticking on his scruffs and trainers he hit the local Co-op for the makings of a brunch and a newspaper. Eschewing the heavy broadsheets he opted for the I, a last stop before taking the plunge to full trashy tabloid. Fortified by coffee and a plethora of pig-based products he went to the study and toa picture off the wall. Behind it was a wall safe. Quayle span the dials and swung the heavy steel door open. Reaching in he to out several bundles of twenty- and ten-pound notes.

  On the second shelf were a number of gold South African Krugerands and a Rolex Submariner watch. Quayle, whilst most of the time remaining level-headed, had always had a slight suspicion that society could all go tits up overnight. Hence his wads of notes, some gold and the watch. Stashing the money in his inner coat pocket, he shut the safe, replaced the picture and headed for his bike. The sun had made a half-arsed attempt to come out, but it was still cold enough for Quayle to send clouds of steamy breath out as he cycled down the canal towpath. The canal was pretty deserted, the 'playboaters' having gone back to their bricks and mortars till the summer. The odd live-aboard boats, their roofs festooned with logs and bags of coal, were moored up and wisps of smoke spiralled lazily up in the frozen air.

  Swinging off the towpath and over a brick-built hump backed bridge he came to a halt in a courtyard of old factory buildings. He hoped Jay would be in his lair. Leaning his bike against the wall he approached the wooden door and knocked. Thirty seconds later the door opened a crack. A face appeared from the dark interior. “Is this work or pleasure?” a voice said, Quayle held up a bunch of notes. “It's something that'll exercise that dope-ridden brain of yours and give you a few quid,” he said.

  The door opened enough to let him. Jay in his trademark hoodies and trackies but with expensive trainers moved to the back of the disused factory. Its ubiquity was its best defence. The concrete floored room was littered with cardboard boxes full of books. It was the remnants of Quayle's former life as an online bookseller. Jay disappeared behind a stack of boxes. Light flooded up from the trapdoor which was open. Quayle picked his way down the steel ladder into the underground lair.

  The subterranean room was about ten metres by ten square. One side was dominated by a heavy wooden lab bench like those found in old schools. Most of this was covered with desktop PCs, laptops and computer parts. On the floor was a spaghetti of cables and wires. A large plastic tube sucked in air from the outside helping to dissipate the static charged air and heat kicked out by the machines. “What can I do for you comrade,” said Jay.

  “I need to go off grid to pursue a few lines of enquiry.” said Quayle. “Okay I can do you a laptop with your own VPN encrypted email and a couple of smartphones for two grand.” Quayle put on his best per face.

  “Fifteen hundred.” Jay raised his eyebrows.

  ” Eighteen hundred is my final offer,”

  Quayle offered his hand. “Done!”

  Jay relaxed and opened a can of generic energy drink. “I thought you were looking for more than a bit of hardware,” said Jay. Quayle made a steeple out of his hands as he moved a few shades further into the murk of criminality. “I need you to access our systems,”

  Jay an accomplished 'White Hat' hacker looked like all his Christmases had come at once.

  “Right, I'll take five hundred to take a first lo. But I'll need to know how you access the systems to find a backdoor.” he said.

  “Well we either use a desktop in the station or our laptops,” said Quayle.

  “Is there any way I can get access to it?”

  Quayle thought for a while. “Well, I have got it at home, but I imagine it can be GPS tracked,” he said.

  Jay to another sip from his can. “I've got it, there's some business units for rent by the day or the week down by the High Street. You get one of those for a few days and I can work on it there.”

  Quayle looked worried. “Yeah, but I can't just give you the passwords and let you roam around.”

  Jay laughed. “Don’t worry, I won't be crashing around like a bull in a china shop.”

  Quayle still looked worried.

  “It's fine, we’ll create a 'Chimera'. Basically, we'll replicate your presence on the online systems. One will stay pristine and only show what you'd normally be doing. On the other one we can roam uninhibited. I can just load it onto the laptop you'll be buying.”

  Quayle tried to be nonplussed. “That sounds like a plan. When can I have the gear?”

  Jay swivelled in his office chair and pounded the keyboard. “Two days tops. Meantime, if you just want to do some mainstream cyberstalking, take one of those laptops and mifis from over there. They're all on an untraceable VPN. And take this to keep in touch,” he said handing over a Blackberry Curve.

  “Have you got another one of these for a friend? “asked Quayle.

  “Fifty quid.”

  Quayle counted out a wad of notes. “That should cover it for all, so far.”

  Jay leant down into a box and passed over another Blackberry and two chargers. “Take the laptop in the red case, I'll text you the passwords in the next hour.”

  Quayle stood up and offered his hand. “Jay to it and shook it. Good to do business with you.” Picking up the laptop bag, and slipping the phones and chargers into the pockets, Quayle made his way out, glad to be in the crisp air again. His tiredness had been replaced with a tingle of exhilaration at the realisation that he' d started down a scary path that he didn't know where it would end.

  Slinging his laptop bag, he cycled off for a nearby coffee shop where he could refuel with caffeine, a couple of miles down the towpath. By which time he hoped Jay would have sent him the passwords.

  Jaspers was quiet after the lunchtime rush and he had no problem finding a corner table facing the window. Ordering a flat white and millionaire short bread, he took out the Blackberry and switched it on. His coffee and cake arrived. As he to a sip, the phone pinged. Taking out the laptop he booted it up. From his trainer he to a folded-up piece of paper. On it was written:

  CHARLES COURTS

  JAMES SIDWELL

  ROBERT TALLIS

  THOMAS MARSDEN

  Opening up a webpage with a search engine he typed in the first name. As with most generic web se
arches nothing came up. Lots of Facebook and LinkedIn pages. Quayle narrowed the search to the UK. He imagined the names on the list Palfreyman supplied were not people who put pictures of their dinner on Instagram.

  He tried the name and hit the News Section. His coffee had gone cold by the time he'd scrolled numerous pages and hit multiple links. Standing up and stretching he went to the counter and ordered a double espresso. It came a few minutes later and he stirred in a couple of sugars. Deciding to double down, he put the name in again with crime in the search bar. A plethora of human misery filled the screen. There were a number of stories, bits of course. Courts brought up loads of 'court' stories.

  Scrolling through he was just about to give up when a BBC story caught his eye. It was from 2010 and was on the 'old' BBC News website, a sort of archived page. ANIMAL RIGHTS CAMPAIGNER FINED FOR THREATS TO CONSTRUCTION BOSS. It was from BBC Oxfordshire and detailed a case at the Magistrates Court where an animal rights protestor, Charles Courts, had been fined £500 for a campaign of intimidation against Charles Lawrence, the Managing Director of a construction firm that was involved in the building of a animal testing laboratory. Courts had sent poisoned pen letters and made malicious phone calls to Lawrence and members of his family.

  Quayle cut and pasted the article into a Word document and did a search for Charles Courts Animal Rights Campaigner. Taking a sip of the bittersweet espresso he clicked a link to a blog called. Care Not Killing. It was a professionally written but heavily slanted journal of the activities of Clarendon Life Sciences, a research company that carried out live animal testing for large cosmetic companies. In essence, Courts and a band of fellow travellers had started a campaign against the company.

  An hour later Quayle had established a rough timeline. Under the collective name Animals for Justice, Courts and Co had harassed the Directors of the company. They had fought back with their well-heeled lawyers getting injunctions and hiring private security. Thames Valley Police it seemed had investigated the slough of malicious communication, criminal damage and attempted arson, but had found nothing to stick to the group. It then seemed the group had gone for the low hanging fruit and started attacking any company with a link to Clarendon, however tenuous. This included a firebombing of the company that cleaned the offices and the smashing up of a sandwich shop that some of the staff went to for lunch.

  Finally Courts got videoed haranguing Charles Lawrence in front of his house as he left for work. Court's undoing was accidental. The incident was caught on camera by a TV crew who were following Lawrence for a feature on business people in the Oxford area. There were simply too many witnesses for Courts and his people to intimidate. Plus the Police entered the footage themselves and used an officer as a witness of fact. Courts was fined and then seemed to disappear from view. Or did he? Quayle did one last search for 'Animals for Justice. He hit pay-dirt.

  The story dated 2014 from the Oxford Mail website read. Animal Rights Activists jailed for campaign of terror - Three men and two women had received fifteen-year jail sentences for a campaign of terror against people associated with Clarendon Life Sciences. The charges included arson and possession of explosive devices with intent to endanger life, hence the hefty sentences.

  But the last paragraph told an untold story. “In sentencing the group Judge Justin Harper said that his sentence reflected the very real threat the group had posed to innocent people and that it was only by the grace of God that no one had been seriously injured or killed. He noted with regret that the ringleader of the group Charles Courts had escaped justice. Although not present during the trial, Courts had been found guilty and sentenced to twenty years imprisonment in absentia. Thames Valley Police said the hunt for Courts was still very much a priority for the force.”

  Quayle had now found a thread he could pull on. It tallied with the mysterious happenings with Special Branch and their shenanigans. What Quayle needed to do next was a 'deep dive' on Courts on the Police systems. But that would have to wait. Looking down on his 'Action List' he saw he had one last job. Coleen the Custody Detention Officer. Quayle saw her in his mind: slim in stature with red hair, pale skin with cute freckles and sparkling green eyes. Any woman who could lo good wearing black uniform trousers, a polo shirt and big boots must have something. And anyone who bought you a coffee in the watches of the night was a goddess in his eyes. Quayle realised he hadn't thought about a woman like that... since her.

  Tapping in the mobile number he wrote her a quick text. It was time to go home. Not that it felt much like that anymore. Quayle was still buzzing from the coffee when he arrived home. His thoughts about Coleen had caused him to snap out of a funk. It was time to move on. Well, least make a move in the right direction. Grabbing a roll of dustbin bags he went into the main bedroom and opened her wardrobe. Taking clothes off hangars he put them in the black bin bag ready for the charity shop. He'd drop them off in town sometime. Catching a scent of perfume on a sweater he held it up and inhaled deeply. Beginning to cry he collapsed on the bed in a heap and sobbed himself to sleep clutching the sweater.

  Chapter 9

  The sound of knocking at the front door awe Quayle from sleep. Unwrapping himself from the sweater her got to his feet and looked out of the window. It was Corey Walker a local teenager who Quayle had arrested a few times for shoplifting. Leaning on a bike with a messenger bag he was doing his best to take the paint off the front door with his rapping.

  Quayle padded down the stairs and snapped the door open. Walker jumped back about two feet when he saw Quayle. “PC Quayle?” he stammered. “Small world, eh, Corey. Makes a change for you bringing stuff instead of taking it, I bet,” said Quayle nodding at the bulging messenger bag.

  “Oh yeah special delivery from Jay,” Walker said pulling a laptop case from the bag. Quayle to it and pressed a twenty-pound note into Walker's hand. As the young man toit , Quayle grabbed him in a wrist lock, not too hard but hard enough.

  “Corey, this is a bonus for you. I want you to forget this delivery okay?” The teenager nodded and Quayle let go.

  “See you around,” said Walker cycling off.

  Quayle surveyed the street and saw nobody around. Going back inside he to the laptop bag straight up to the study and put it on the desk. Pouring himself a hefty Bushmills, he got all the items out on the desk. Slipping on some blue latex gloves he to the items out of the bag. A bog-standard Dell laptop with power cables, a MiFi box that gave him virtually untraceable internet access. Booting it up he saw the standard Force intranet login page come up.

  Quayle logged on as normal and laughed as the system booted up much faster than the Force network ever did. Jay had done a masterful job of creating the chimera version ofQuayle's virtual workspace. Looking down at his list of actions he logged onto Titan, his force’s intelligence system. This wasn't the Police National Computer or HOLMES the two systems beloved of TV cop dramas. While these had their own uses, the former was mainly used to trace people with past and current criminal records. The latter was for major crime investigations where oodles of information from multiple sources was arranged and cross referenced. Each UK force had its Heath Robinson style affair which catalogues what was vaguely known as 'intelligence’.

  TITAN was the electronic bucket into which all gathered intelligence was swept. It came from a range of sources Much of it from response and beat officers who noted things about people and places, stuff they saw on patrol. Shift sergeants encouraged their troops to submit intelligence reports. The first thing a new PC learnt was that just because somebody wasn't up in court or in jail, didn't mean they weren’t a successful career criminal. Other sources came from informers or 'snouts’ in old currency. While they had their uses still, their use was waning as mobile phone and social media tracking gave a virtual 24/7 live footprint of nominals.

  A number of civilian intelligence officers to this amorphous mass, sifted and graded it and then added it to the system. So, by the time it came to Quayle logging on, its bona fides shou
ld have been established. Quayle started with a general search on Charles Courts, “Nada” he said to the empty room. He reran a search that to out gender. “Paydirt, he said, taking a swig of whisky. It read: Courts, Karlie DOB, 07/05/1995, Mother Jennie DOB 09/11.1978 No further records on mother. Quayle clicked on Karlie's General Observations tab. Karlie has no formal criminal records, not even a caution. But ROCU surveillance has seen her in the company of known members of 'CRAYFISH CREW' known OCG operating drug dealing in High Cross....

  The entry covered a few pages and had links to records of one high profile nominal even Quayle has heard of: Patrick Marber. Quayle printed off all the linked records. Reading for another time. The trouble with these systems, it was like pulling on a thread. The more you clicked the more you dislodged and got diverted, He spent another hour on the other four names and got nothing. Which told him more than if he had found anything. These people were ghosts.

  Chapter 10

  On the edge of waking up anyway, the trilling of the house landline we Quayle. Slipping out of bed he padded into the study and picked up the handset. “Hi Steve, it's Boz, the wheel's come off, we need all the bodies we can get. The boss has said it’ll be overtime not TOIL. You game?” Quayle didn't need to ponder it. “Yeah sure I'll be in within the hour,” and put the phone back in its cradle. The phrase 'the wheel's come off' meant things were really bad. The fact that the boss had authorised paid overtime meant that too. Forty-five minutes later the parade room was filled with a hotchpotch of officers. Boz was the only officer from Quayle's shift. Both sergeants and the Inspector stalked in. There was a buzz of excitement around the room that displaced the more usual jaded felling of 'same shit, different day' that normally permeated the room. “Okay folks, simmer down” Sergeant Bootle shouted.