COVER BLOWN: covert police work clashes with a murder investigation

by Ian Robinson

  The superintendent looked flustered, and behind Nash the firearms team leader stifled a laugh with a cough as he left the room to save face.

  The superintendent found his voice. ‘I will speak with Inspector Ivers, get his take on who’d be best to relay the information to Buchanan. I appreciate it won’t be you, DI Nash. Thank you for coming out of your way to update me. Try a phone next time. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do,’ he said, taking his flat hat from the chair where it sat and placing it on his head.

  All braid and bluster, Nash thought as he strode past her towards the ward that Ivers was in. The superintendent’s bag carrier closely followed behind him juggling bits of paper. Nash smiled at the only other officer left in the room who’d raised her head.

  ‘Do tell the superintendent it was a marvellous cup of tea, and that I’ve let the borough Sapphire team DI know that Buchanan’s theirs now. If I need him, he’s going nowhere fast, so nothing’s lost,’ she said before walking out of the staff room, leaving the door open.

  As Nash left the room she heard an almighty scream coming from the ward where Buchanan was. It was the voice of a female. A female who was in pain. Nash deduced it could only have come from Diane.

  Nash ran towards the sound and as she rounded the wall of the corridor towards the ward, she saw a firearms officer. Nash slowed up and put her hands out at chest height, palms out, to indicate she understood the request and wouldn’t move beyond the imposed line he’d resurrected by the barrel of his MP5 submachine gun. He hadn’t raised it fully, but halfway was enough for her. She could hear voices. Buchanan was dragged out.

  His wrists were thrust back-to-back behind him in plasti-cuffs. Blood streamed from his left eye which was a bloodshot mess. Buchanan was being supported under the armpits by two firearms officers, his feet sliding along the floor as he refused to walk. Ivers followed out behind them. Ivers held Diane by the shoulders as he talked calmly to her. Diane looked visibly shaken and her face and top was marked with blood.

  ‘Diane, it’s DI Nash, where have you been hurt?’

  Ivers lowered Diane onto a seat that was placed near her by a nurse. Diane wasn’t physically injured. The blood was all Buchanan’s, from where Diane had plunged a Bic biro into his eye socket. She’d used the distraction of the superintendent’s stammered speech to launch her attack. She would have gouged Buchanan’s eye out had Ivers not dragged her off him. Diane looked up to see PC Roberts. Roberts had been asleep in a restroom as she was too tired to go home, and the nurse who’d tended to her insisted she used it.

  PC Roberts moved forwards and held her hands.

  ‘It’s all going to be good, Diane. He can’t harm you anymore,’ she said as Diane looked into her eyes and finally let her courage and strength dissolve, and her tears fall.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  Moretti waited in the hospital car park for Nash to appear. As she did, he flashed the lights of the non-descript car he was in. Nash walked over, pleased to see him. He’d texted to say he’d collect her. Nash ducked into the warmth of the car. In the central cup holder was a takeaway coffee.

  Nash savoured the scent before she took a sip and looked across at Moretti. ‘Thanks, Nick, you’re a saviour. I needed a lift and the drink’s a bonus after the dry atmosphere in that hospital. Thankfully, Diane’s no longer at risk of harm from that idiot,’ she said.

  Moretti engaged reverse and backed out of the bay.

  ‘I heard the superintendent in charge was as effective as the current government in a crisis,’ he said as he indicated right and exited the hospital to join the traffic into Central London.

  Nash looked in the side mirror and let out a sigh of relief as the entrance to the hospital dissolved to a distant memory.

  ‘Any other news?’ she asked.

  Moretti wriggled his back into a comfortable position for the journey to the office.

  ‘I had a call from a DC on the operational team involved in the phone shop job,’ he said, switching lane to avoid a cyclist. ‘I’d sent him a photo of the last victim. She’s also caught on camera entering and exiting the shop. It’s definitely linked. Why, is still unknown.’

  ‘What about her social media? Is that the same as the others?’ Nash asked.

  ‘She has an Instagram account and it’s private like the other two. She also has a cat, as you know, and she has posted pictures in the same way–’

  ‘But?’ Nash interjected.

  ‘But… I looked at just how easy it is to see where and when these images were taken, and it isn’t quite as straightforward as I first thought. Well, not to me, anyway. I think it goes deeper than a simple image search on Google and the data appearing. Especially when the accounts are locked down in the way theirs were. There’s another issue that’s greater than that.’

  ‘Well, I’m here and going nowhere fast, so you may as well deliver the bad news,’ Nash said.

  ‘Your number is on Moore’s call data,’ Moretti added.

  ‘The same number that appears on Melissa’s and Jade’s?’

  ‘Yep.’

  Nash shook her head then turned to Moretti.

  ‘I know what you’re thinking, Nick. I’d be thinking the same if the tables were turned. I haven’t used that number since the operation it was assigned to. I don’t know any of the victims outside of work. The first time I ever met them, they were dead. Before you ask, no, I wasn’t the last person to see them alive,’ she said, as she relaxed her head against the headrest and reached for her coffee.

  Moretti noticed and assisted her by handing her the cup.

  ‘I believe you, Pip. We need to prove it though. I’ve requested your call data for the number from the phone you used on that operation. It hasn’t come through as yet, but that should show that no calls were made to any of our victims’ numbers, unless you used a different phone with that SIM card in,’ Moretti added.

  Nash didn’t reply. She was glad he’d used his initiative and made the request.

  ‘Who authorised it?’ she asked, out of curiosity.

  ‘DCI Carlson. He’ll sign anything when he’s in a rush for the golf course,’ Moretti said with a glint in his eye and a smirk that told Nash she should check what she signed more thoroughly whenever Moretti presented her with a docket to sign off when she was in a hurry.

  It was right what they said about the quiet ones being the ones to watch, she thought.

  ‘It’s a sad day when the SIO isn’t interested in enquiries he’s got overall responsibility for,’ she said.

  ‘He knows you do a great job and have never let him or the command down,’ Moretti added.

  ‘He won’t support my promotion though. He’s made that quite clear.’

  ‘Why would he? If he did that he’d be out of a job, and no longer free to book out on enquiries that start at the clubhouse and end at the same place,’ Moretti said.

  The traffic had now opened up and Moretti looked across at Nash and down at a set of switches situated on the dashboard.

  ‘Go on, have your fun,’ she remarked, as she settled back into the seat.

  Moretti flicked a couple of switches. A hue of blue light sparked from their vehicle, as a repetition of aggressive octaves screamed from the external speakers and announced Moretti’s call to arms.

  * * *

  The team had assembled in the briefing room. Nash had made efficient use of her travel time as she’d been rocked about by Moretti’s drive back to the office. She’d made calls to various departments involved in her investigations. She obtained the updates she required before she’d make a decision on her next course of action. A course she hoped would lead to the arrest and charge of their murderer. She’d spoken to Clarke, who’d updated Nash on the developments she’d unearthed through her research. Nash tasked Sagona with calling the team in for a briefing.

  She wanted every member of her team brought up to speed. With Buchanan in custody, but effectively written out of her investigation strategy, she needed
to focus her attention on the phone shop.

  The air in the briefing room fizzed with mixed voices that subsided to a low whisper as Nash and Moretti entered. Nash took her usual seat at the head of the conference table and waited for the projector screen at the opposite end of the meeting room to lower while her team got comfortable. She could tell by the change of energy in the room that they expected to be making progress after this meeting. Much had stalled since Buchanan had been in hospital and the forensic and witness appeals had dried up to nothing. The last scene had been quick to complete, such was the similarity in setting they’d all experienced at the others. That wasn’t to say they were apathetic in their approach – far from it. They were as judicious as they’d always been.

  Nash nodded at Moretti. He’d activated his laptop that was linked to the main screen. He’d asked Clarke to collate all the research the Intelligence Desk had compiled. She’d done this and uploaded it to his laptop. Both Nash and Moretti hoped Clarke’s work would convince them all that they’d take a different path. A path that would be clean and untainted by Buchanan. As Moretti waited for his computer to link with the main projector screen, Clarke entered the room. She took off her headphones and leaned in towards Nash’s ear. She spoke in a hushed tone to Nash, who then smiled and nodded at her. Clarke took a deep breath and walked up to the front of the table. The team ignored her and focussed their concentration on the screen that now displayed a PowerPoint presentation she had compiled. Nash announced the meeting was to begin.

  ‘The last scene was identical in many ways to the other two. The same MO as Melissa and Jade. Death by asphyxiation caused by strangulation. Dr King is satisfied to link all three cases,’ Nash said, as she looked around the room.

  There was no disagreement from anyone and she was surprised that Sagona remained silent. She grasped the lull and continued.

  ‘Buchanan is in custody and being dealt with by the borough Sapphire team. He awaits interview in relation to the rape of Diane Fullerton whom he’d held hostage at St Thomas’s Hospital. Early forensic examination of the scene and clothing taken from Diane worn at the time of the rape, showed signs of trace contact. Whether that’s fibres or DNA, I don’t know, but he’s going nowhere. As for our investigation, I’ve spoken with the CPS and they’ve suggested we consider bail. However, I’m letting our warrant of further detention continue until I’m satisfied he’s not our man, and I have something in writing from the band E lawyer. Although we have the forensic evidence from Melissa’s flat on his boots, it isn’t enough. He gave a prepared statement that correlated with the evidence we found. Now, before you all start firing back that he would have done as he knew what we’d found, it’s not that simple. He’s a nasty piece of work but it doesn’t make him a killer. He’d carried out bathroom work at both Melissa’s and Jade’s flats. Correspondence found in Jade’s flat and an image of said correspondence sent to me electronically, while coming here, corroborates this. An entry in a diary also showed that he was paid. She’d noted how glad she was to be rid of him. She recorded feeling uncomfortable when he was around, but needed her bathroom work done. He was cheap and turned up where others had let her down. Phone data and a follow-up call also revealed she’d spoken to a client after this diary entry, and she’d met with this client. In other words, Buchanan wasn’t the last person to see her alive, nor was he the client she’d met.’ Nash paused and let the team make a note of what she’d relayed.

  Moretti scribed for her. She wanted him to note down what she said, as she needed to be certain she’d covered everything. He could nudge her if she’d missed a point. She was confident she’d cover everything as she felt her mind was like a new razor. She had an idea where and who they’d focus on.

  ‘I’m going to hand you over to Sally. She’s requested a desire to impart the work she’s done on the team’s behalf, and mine as the IO. Sally, the floor is yours. Take your time,’ Nash said.

  Clarke had positioned herself so she wouldn’t have to look at the main room, but just the screen. Her hands moved as though she’d be better off wearing gloves, despite the ambient temperature of the room. She massaged the computer’s infrared pointer in her fingers, then she clicked at the screen and the first slide began.

  The team watched as the research was presented. Clarke thought that too much attention was being paid to the cats each victim had owned, as well as the times the images were taken and subsequently uploaded. Many people owned pets and posted pictures of them on social media, so why should this be any different? It all appeared to be more of a coincidence once she’d delved deeper into the background for each victim. That research hadn’t highlighted any significant areas of concern in relation to lifestyle, but there was one aspect in relation to Melissa Phelps that was niggling at Clarke. She’d left it out of the presentation but would update Nash afterwards.

  The links and data patterns that had originally proposed the killer was accessing their profiles, now seemed implausible. The victims’ behaviour was more that of habit, and de-stressing after work. Each image showed their friends that they were at home, back with the pet they cared for. Clarke didn’t have any pets, but she could relate to the sense of calm and enjoyment she’d feel when she arrived at her flat, and logged into the online gaming world she adored. Her virtual friends helped her unwind. She didn’t post about it on social media though.

  She turned back to Nash for the first time since she’d begun. Nash nodded that she was good to finish with her presentation. Nash stood and leaned on the table, all eyes were now back with her.

  ‘I know that there’s been debate as to how I have come into this enquiry. I want to reassure you all I haven’t, but a number I have used has,’ Nash said. ‘I can now disclose why, but not yet how. I have been part of a covert investigation that has crossed over to ours. What is about to be disclosed will not leave this room. I’m passing around a memorandum of understanding I expect everyone to read and sign before I continue. If there are any dissenters, then you may leave now.’

  Nash waited while the sheets were passed around. Eyes scanned the document and everyone signed and passed them back. Nash continued.

  ‘The address shown on the sheet you’ve signed, and the operational name, pertains to a phone shop in the city taking in stolen phones for export abroad. Phones obtained by lorry jacking and street robbery. We are talking millions of pounds’ worth of goods, not to mention the trauma to every victim robbed on the street or in a shop. This shop in particular is associated with each of our victims.’

  Nash looked at the faces of her team, all of which were attentive and alert.

  ‘I tasked Sally by phone to initiate enquiries with Interpol. In particular, any background on the father and son team who operated the phone shop. This work has been completed. The owner is called Kamal Ramiz. An image is on screen now. He’s fifty-five, divorced, and known to the Albanian authorities. He’s been a person of interest for drug supply and the sale of firearms. He’s never been arrested in Albania, but Interpol hold intelligence reports of his associates, many of whom would use the small electrical shop that he ran there to launder money. Outside of work, his passion was cats. Kamal was a breeder of Abyssinian cats and took great pride in attending any show he could to display his breeding line. He travelled extensively to show them. He’s developed a reputation for the qualities of his breeding programme and his kittens sold for good money. He also uses the name Mace, Albanian for cat. He’s remained on the Albanian police radar for some years. Investigators were of the opinion he’d used the cats he travelled with as cover for the conveyance of criminal goods.’

  Nash continued, ‘That view was established when a wiretap on a bigger player they were watching brought Kamal and his enterprise into their investigation. Conversations about the movements of cats and cat-related goods were deciphered as code for the movement of drugs and guns. He did, or does, have an interest in the breed but his money was coming from more than first prize at a show. The crux came when
detectives in Albania made the link that there were no cat shows that related to the dates and times he purported to travel for the purpose of showing or exhibiting. The conversations recorded implicated Kamal in criminality but not enough to convict him. Despite surveillance, he was never seen with anything other than a cat carrier or a winner’s rosette.’

  ‘Kamal was tipped off by a corrupt detective. Kamal left and entered the UK with his son. They were granted leave to remain despite the concerns I’ve highlighted. He opened and operated different businesses before he settled on the phone business he runs to this day. Vesa Ramiz is twenty-five and the son of Kamal. He’s worked with his father since he was fifteen. There were no reports from Interpol in relation to Vesa but on the CRIMINT intelligence system there are protected intelligence reports. These reports are of rumours about the shop taking in stolen phones.’ Nash began to walk around the table as she considered what to divulge next.

  ‘I don’t know how this links with our murders but the association is too strong for me to ignore. This brings me to my number. I purchased the phone and SIM card from there as I always did when I needed an unregistered phone. There’s something deeper going on there and we need to dive to dredge it up. I want actions initiated to establish more on the lifestyle of Kamal. I’ll meet with the Homicide Task Force DI and see if his team can assist with some lifestyle surveillance. Sally, research all the Abyssinian cat breeders in the UK. See if Kamal’s name crops up, or another business associated to him comes back. We need to see if his travels have continued in the UK and where Kamal’s been frequenting. What breed were the cats the victims owned?’ Nash asked the room, in the hope someone may have taken note.