Lies That Blind

by Tony Hutchinson

  Barry Harrison popped his head into the room.

  ‘We’re following a car in Kendal. We suspect Bev’s phone’s inside it.’

  Chapter 57

  Three unmarked armed response units, BMW X5s, were in convoy behind the target vehicle, poised to conduct a ‘hard stop.’

  Inside the vehicles, AFOs mentally visualised the next few minutes: hours and hours of practising this tactical option combined with previous experience would soon culminate in a few seconds of potentially life-threatening action.

  The intelligence indicated at least one occupant was likely to be armed and dangerous.

  Each AFO asked themself the same question.

  Would the suspect shoot if cornered?

  The unknown ramped up the tension.

  Silence. Deep breathing. Concentration.

  The car, travelling within the speed limit towards the M6, appeared to have only one occupant.

  ‘Can you see anyone else?’ the driver of the lead police vehicle asked, leaning towards the windscreen, trying to answer his own question.

  A combination of darkness and poor streetlighting wasn’t helping.

  The AFO beside him squinted ahead. ‘Not sure whether I can see a front seat passenger or whether it’s just a headrest.’

  Was there a passenger? Was the passenger armed?

  The uncertainty only cranked up the tension.

  The firearms operational commander, a well-respected sergeant on the Firearms Unit, was in the lead vehicle. He had already agreed a plan with two other officers: the on-call superintendent, who had now assumed the role of strategic firearms commander, and a firearms tactical advisor.

  He notified control room that they were now able to implement the ‘hard stop’.

  All three BMWs were in position. No other vehicles were in the vicinity. No visible pedestrians.

  Authorisation was granted.

  ‘Go, go, go,’ the operational commander shouted into his radio.

  Speed and coordination were key now.

  High-pitched sirens shattered the silence of the night; flashing bright blue lights, secreted in the X5s’ grilles, pierced the darkness.

  The first BMW roared past the target vehicle, swerved in front of it, screeched to a halt. The armed officer, hanging out of the front passenger door, jumped out before the vehicle stopped, before the tyres finished smoking.

  ‘Armed police!’ he shouted, running towards the driver’s door.

  His colleagues leapt from the car, dashed towards the front of the target.

  The driver of the second police vehicle accelerated aggressively then stood on the brakes, the front end nose diving as it lurched to a stop alongside the target vehicle, all four doors of the X5 shoved open simultaneously, the AFOs inside star-bursting from the vehicle.

  The third BMW sped towards the rear of the target, stopping inches from its bumper before the officers dived out.

  The first AFO out of the lead car smashed the driver’s window of the target with the butt of his weapon.

  ‘Armed police,’ he shouted again, MP5 now pointing at the driver. ‘Hands on your head.’

  AFOs surrounded the car, all shouting, ‘armed police.’

  The driver, the lone occupant, was totally compliant.

  The operational commander spoke into his radio.

  ‘Target vehicle stopped; driver detained. Repeat, target vehicle stopped, driver detained.’

  Tea forgotten, they both stood in the small bedroom, parade square rigid.

  ‘It’s the waiting I can’t stand,’ Ed said.

  Sam felt sick with nerves. ‘I’d feel better if I could listen to the firearm operation. At least I’d get an immediate answer if Bev’s inside once they’ve stopped the car.’

  ‘If Bev’s not in the car where is she?’ Ed said. ‘On the fells?’

  ‘We can speculate all night. We’ll just have to wait. I don’t like it any more than you do.’

  Sam walked back and forwards, gathering her thoughts.

  ‘If Bev is in that car, she’s not alone. If she was alone, she’d have contacted us. If she’s in the car she must be incapacitated otherwise she’d be looking to escape from the driver. Very hard to control a car and control an individual.’

  ‘Agree.’

  They fell into a heavy silence, the seconds and minutes stretching.

  When Sam finally spoke, her words hit Ed like a boxer’s body shot.

  ‘I forget to tell you,’ Sam said. ‘Chris Priest has put his ticket in.’

  Like a winded heavyweight Ed’s intake of breath was audible.

  ‘Priest’s retiring?’

  Sam nodded.

  ‘I’m going to nip downstairs,’ Ed said after a moment. ‘I’ll get us some cold drinks. Why don’t you jump in the shower? You might feel better. It’s going to be a long night. I’ll give you twenty minutes.’

  He gave her twenty-five.

  The shower had transformed her: shiny, damp hair, skin somewhere near normal, eyes not exactly sparkling but the tiredness gone.

  ‘Any news?’ Ed asked.

  Sam shook her head.

  ‘So, Marty Irons?’ she said, bending forwards, rubbing her hair dry with a towel.

  ‘Here, take this,’ he said.

  He handed her an ice-cold Coke in a small, glass bottle; regular coke, regulation pub mixer.

  Ed watched her run her tongue around dry, cracked lips.

  ‘It’s full fat. Get some more sugar into you.’

  Sam thanked him, tied the towel around her head and walked to the window swigging from the bottle.

  ‘Marty Irons met up with Brian Banks,’ Ed said behind her. ‘As I was saying, they kept in touch, although I didn’t know that until the last few days.’

  ‘Okay. But what was so important about Chris Priest putting his ticket in?’

  Two steps and Sam stood next to the bed, about turn, two more back to the window.

  ‘Marty told Brian that a couple of his associates were leaving Britain and joining him over there. It was all very vague, but he said a bent cop from the old days was joining them. At the time I wondered if it was Don Mulrooney, the other surviving member of the ‘Seaton Three’, but Brian wasn’t sure and I always thought he went out there with Marty when they were released from prison.’

  Sam kept up the two-step pacing.

  ‘So, what are you saying?’

  ‘I think it might be Chris Priest.’

  ‘Chris Priest? Head of Professional Standards?’ Sam was stunned. ‘Based on what?’

  ‘Rob Conlon, Paul Adams’ cousin, didn’t think Paul was corrupt.’

  Sam sat on the edge of the bed, put her hands on the mattress.

  ‘Sixty grand in a shoe box suggests otherwise.’

  ‘It does, providing it wasn’t planted there.’

  ‘That’s a big leap.’

  Ed shuffled in the tiny chair.

  ‘First things first,’ he said. ‘I’ve called Tucky Walton. He’s on his way over here to collect us.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘If the locals get Tara, fair enough. But if they don’t, I think she’ll be headed for that little airstrip. We should be there waiting.’

  Sam was back on her feet.

  ‘If you’re right, and it’s a big if, we need to share that with Cumbria. Plus, any arrests will be a firearms job and if the airport is near York, that’s a North Yorkshire operation. We can’t do this ourselves.’

  Ed nodded. The idea of keeping it to the two of them appealed but he knew it was impossible. There were protocols to be followed in cross-border jobs.

  Sam stood at the window. She wasn’t happy about leaving Bev.

  ‘Tucky’s also going to contact the detective who was sitting with Paul’s wife, the family friend,’ Ed was speaking again. ‘Tucky will get him to ask Erica Adams if Chris Priest was ever at the house.’

  ‘Why have you got a bee in your bonnet about Priest?’

  ‘Priest would have contac
ts,’ Ed answered. ‘He could find out where Harry Pullman was. Ray Reynolds always believed the ‘Seaton Three’ was the ‘Seaton Four’. That was the reason Harry Pullman and Hugh Campbell bought into my suspension. I worked with the bent bastards. I lived for years under that cloud. It was one of the reasons I left when I did.’

  His phone rang.

  ‘But remember,’ Ed said, ignoring the mobile. ‘Priest worked with the bent bastards too.’

  He answered the call.

  ‘Ed, it’s Tucky.’

  The background noise indicated he was driving.

  ‘Heard anything?’ Ed said.

  A pause.

  ‘Is the boss with you?’

  ‘She is.’

  ‘Can you put her on please. Her phone’s not ringing for some reason.’

  ‘Did you do what I asked?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘I need to speak to the boss.’

  Ed thrust his phone towards Sam.

  ‘Tucky Walton for you. Put him right will you. He obviously didn’t get the memo about my suspension being bogus. He’s not happy sharing information with me.’

  ‘Sorry Ed,’ Walton said after a brief word with Sam. ‘Someone did visit Erica on Saturday.’

  ‘Time?’

  ‘About the time Paul was with Tara.’

  ‘Who.’

  ‘She doesn’t know. Nice man she said. Old. Talked his way into the house, said he was an old boss of Paul’s. Gave Erica some cock and bull story about Paul passing information to organised criminals.

  He did leave the room to go to the loo. Erica thought she heard the front door open but wasn’t sure so she didn’t ask any questions or challenge him. After he left, she rang Paul twice to tell him, but he never answered his phone and...’

  ‘What?’ Ed snapped.

  ‘Paul had already told Erica and his DC friend he had stumbled across a bent senior police officer.’

  ‘Who?’ Ed pumped with adrenalin, desperate to know.

  ‘Never told them. Said it was too dangerous. Said he was going to confront him.’

  Ed swallowed on the disappointment and considered what they had.

  ‘Confirms it’s a man I suppose. When was this?’

  ‘Few weeks ago. He can’t remember when.’

  Sam looked at Ed, raised her eyebrows.

  ‘Why didn’t he tell us? Come to see us?’

  ‘He didn’t know who to trust,’ Walton said. ‘Only told me because he started panicking, thinking he might be at risk, being Paul’s mate, and he didn’t think I was high enough up the food chain for Paul to refer to me as a senior police officer.’

  ‘Look I’ll see you when you land. Ring when you’re five minutes’ away. Save waking everybody up.’

  ‘Well?’ Sam said, after Ed ended the call.

  He brought her up to speed while they waited.

  Chapter 58

  Tears were streaking his cheeks, tears born out of fear and frustration.

  Fear because he’d never been arrested before, least of all at gunpoint.

  Frustration because he didn’t think the detectives would believe him.

  ‘Look,’ he shouted, forgetting the interview was being recorded.

  ‘Stop shouting,’ DC Manners interrupted, his soft tone matching his name. ‘Calm down.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  Rhys McKenzie, 23 years old, top lip smeared in sweat, tongue darting around his lips, thighs bouncing, began rubbing his wrists where he’d been handcuffed.

  ‘But you’ve got to believe me,’ he pleaded. ‘I told the armed police the same. I don’t know anything. You’ve got the wrong person.’

  ‘Because?’

  ‘Because I’m not a criminal. Because I live at home with my parents. Because I’ve never been in trouble with the police. Please check.’

  ‘We have,’ DC Manners said. ‘Let’s say for now we believe you. Why did you have a phone on the front seat of your car that does not belong to you?’

  ‘Like I tried telling the armed police, I was in the pub. Tuesday is darts night. There’s a few gets in.’

  ‘Go on,’ Ian Manners said.

  Rhys lowered his head, lowered his voice.

  ‘I went to the toilet, bumped into this lass. She was proper fit.’

  ‘Do me a favour Rhys, look up while you’re talking and speak up so the tape can record what you’re saying.’

  McKenzie nodded.

  ‘She bumped into me. I said sorry even though it was her fault. We got chatting in the corridor outside the toilets. She says she’s here overnight on business. Asks if there’s anywhere decent she can get a drink.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘I said, here. Like I said, she was proper fit.’

  ‘Then what happened?’

  ‘She asked if I’d do her a favour. Said her boss tracks her phone. Said she was shattered. Asked if I’d mind driving around Kendal for an hour or so with her phone, make her boss believe she was still working. Then when I got back, she said we’d have a drink and see what happened.’

  ‘And you agreed?’

  Rhys looked down again, nodded.

  ‘Can you describe her?’

  Another nod.

  Rhys McKenzie was terrified but he wasn’t a liar. Manners already had a report that told him that.

  He had already read through the key points...

  The car was registered to McKenzie.

  Another detective had confirmed he was in the pub and according to his friends had just vanished after throwing his darts, saying he was going to the toilet.

  Nobody had seen him talking to a female but the toilets are near the side entrance door and he was recorded on internal CCTV talking to a girl by the toilets.

  Nobody saw the girl in the bar but the CCTV in the pub car park recorded her walking through the side door.

  The CCTV also showed Rhys McKenzie getting into his Ford Fiesta and the girl walking out of the pub. There was no footage to identify any vehicle that she may have been using.

  DC Manners rose from his chair, opened the interview room door and scrolled through his phone for the boss’s number. Detective Superintendent Barry Harrison wanted answers quick.

  Manners glanced over his shoulder and asked his final question.

  ‘How long did you drive around for?’

  ‘Twenty minutes maybe. Not long.’

  ‘Paul might have been set up,’ Ed said. ‘Once he’s with Tara, someone goes to his house.’

  ‘Plants the cash?’ Sam sighed, dropped back onto the edge of the bed.

  ‘Possibly.’

  ‘Where would he get that amount of money?’

  ‘Tara’s grandad. Lester Stephenson. Accountant to Hugh Campbell.’

  Erica Adams had said it was an old man who came to the house. Could it be Lester?

  Sam ran a hand across her forehead. ‘Get someone to show her the photograph of Lester going into Tara’s. The one Steph Crosby took. Is it starting to fit now? Or are we forcing the pieces together? Chris Priest? He’s the one that fits the least.’

  ‘Why not Chris Priest?’ Ed said, making no effort to hide the annoyance in his voice. ‘Maybe that’s how he’s got away with it for so long, he seemed above suspicion.’

  Sam was on her feet again.

  ‘But how would Paul Adams find out? And when he does, why not report it? Why not come straight to me?’

  The second hand on the wall clock completed a full revolution before Sam spoke again.

  ‘Let’s think this through…what if Paul’s motivation wasn’t taking down a corrupt senior officer. Erica said he looked after the money and they were never short.’

  Sam’s words were now turbo-charged.

  ‘What if he Paul was always bent? What if this time, blackmail was his motivation? What if the sixty grand wasn’t a plant but a pay-off or an instalment?’

  ‘If that was the case, why mention anything to his wife and his mate?’

 
; Sam exhaled loudly, pushed her hands through her still damp hair and raised her voice.

  ‘Will anything fall into place in this crock-of-shit of an investigation?’

  She watched the clock again, letting her anger and frustration subside.

  ‘Tell me about Priest and the two of you in the CID office,’ she said, sitting down on the bed.

  She drank a mouthful of the coke, tepid now in the heat of the room and her sweating hand.

  ‘He was on shift with me. Worked with Marty Irons and Don Mulrooney. Our detective sergeant was worse than useless. Let Irons and Mulrooney get away with murder.’

  When Sam asked who was paying them for information, Ed shook his head.

  ‘They weren’t fussy as it turned out. Took money off anybody. The Skinners. Campbell. Whoever. They’d do anything if it paid.’

  ‘And you never suspected?’

  ‘Not at all. It’s not like they were waving the money in your face. Good thief takers, arrested loads of people, but afterwards, when you thought about it, you realised it was quantity not quality, that mostly they were locking up the small fry.’

  Sam nodded.

  ‘And then there’s the phone call,’ Ed went on. ‘Luke Skinner asking if Pugsley can help.’

  ‘The reference to the Addams family, reference to Paul.’

  ‘Easy conclusion to jump to,’ Ed told her. ‘Except of course when he joined, Chris Priest was overweight and nicknamed...’

  Sam jumped up. ‘Chris Priest! Overweight?’

  ‘Lost four stone in his first year in the job,’ Ed said, shaking his head. ‘I totally forgot about it. Never gave it a second thought. It was years ago. The nickname vanished with the weight.’

  ‘Surprised they took him in the first place if he was that far out of shape.’

  ‘Different times,’ Ed said. ‘I joined in ’78. Edmund-Davies was just completing his review into police pay. As long as you didn’t wear glasses and reached the minimum height requirement you were in. Huge staff shortages then. Poor pay. Low morale. I knew a lad who got in and he had a criminal conviction.’

  Ed sipped tonic from the small, glass bottle, saw Sam’s eyebrows arch for the second time in as many minutes.

  He raised the bottle, toast-like. ‘Always been a Pepsi boy, don’t like Coke,’ he grinned. ‘Imagine people getting in today with a record. And what a great man Lord Edmund-Davies was. Welsh mining stock.’