The Angel of Whitehall

by Lewis Hastings

  “Who’s been murdered?”

  “I don’t know yet.”

  “Or missing?”

  “Ditto.”

  “So, what exactly am I telling my people to look for Jack? And why is this something we should be doing?”

  “You’ve changed, Jason. There was a time when you’d go with my gut instinct alone.”

  “Jack…things have changed. New boss, swept clean. Unless you have a direct line to the Prime Minister, I am going to need evidence and bundles of it too.”

  Cade thought for a second. “As it happens Jason, I do.”

  “No way! You are seriously going to ring up Sassy Lane and say, ‘Hey babe it’s Jack. I’m in town and need to ask a favour?’”

  “After the money, reputation and chaos we saved? You bet. In the interim, I’ve got something to do.”

  “Then be in my office tomorrow, we’ll go together. In the meantime, I’ll go and hunt for albatrosses or is that albatross?”

  “Good man, and Jason, make sure neither of us ends up with it around our necks.”

  The Samuel Taylor Coleridge reference wasn’t lost on Roberts, what was, was how he was going to find an albatross in Central London.

  Chapter Twelve

  Vauxhall Bridge Road, Westminster, London

  DS Dave Williams was old-school. Which meant he didn’t miss a trick. Out on the beat, in uniform, he was a legendary thief-taker, as a detective even more so. His presence was often enough to make bad people run, even when they had no reason to. A passing motorist would inadvertently run their hand across their face as Williams drove by them. It was enough. As a reader of non-verbal communications Williams was in the elite class.

  It was called gut instinct, and it couldn’t be taught.

  And it worked both ways.

  Williams was driving back to the office when to his left he saw a young black girl. She was running. In itself it wasn’t enough to call out the cavalry. But she wasn’t dressed for running. Not in the modern sense, anyway.

  That a white Mercedes Benz was apparently keeping pace with her, was a reason to be interested. That they weren’t aware of Williams was even more so. Again, it was instinct. The car was a late-model 300 Series, but with after-market black tints it caught Williams’ eye. The fact that the girl was looking back, trying to blend in, running, trying to find somewhere to hide or seek refuge made him pull in behind the German car.

  The same feeling made him reach for the handset in his red Vauxhall Insignia.

  “MP this is X-Ray Seven Seven.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “I’m Vauxhall Bridge Road southbound towards Rochester Row. So far?”

  “Yes received.”

  “Can I get another unit, ideally a marked one to join me, please? I’m about to stop a white Mercedes Benz, registration Sierra Hotel Three Five Lima Oscar. The plate doesn’t look right to me MP.”

  “Received. No trace on that plate. I have another unit making its way to you. Charlie Whisky Three One.”

  “Received thank you. X-Ray Seven Seven to Charlie Whisky mobile I’m about to turn left onto Rochester in one minute. Target vehicle is braking, and indicating left. The pedestrian is still running. If you can join me and stop the car, I want to speak to the female – over.”

  The marked vehicle was two minutes away, coming in from the south. The driver knew the area like the back of his hand, could do it in his sleep, knew every nook, every cranny.

  “Received we’ll come in behind you and execute the stop. Over.”

  “Received MP he’s turning left and now on Rochester Row. Stand by…vehicle is braking hard, passenger door opening, front seat passenger is out and running. He’s after the girl. The Merc has continued on along Rochester.”

  “MP received. Any other units to back up?”

  “Charlie Whisky Three Eight.”

  “Thank you. Can you come in from the east and see if we can box this Mercedes in please?”

  “Yes, yes.”

  “Seven Seven to MP.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “I’m going after the girl. Get the marked units to stop the Mercedes.”

  Williams accelerated and turned left onto Stillington Street, then braked hard. Looked around him. Nothing. Then he saw the male running behind parked cars to his right.

  “MP I’ve got a runner on Stillington Street. IC3 male, short black hair, black jeans, blue trainers, black jacket. I’m going off on foot. I have no personal radio.”

  This was far from ideal. A young, athletic black male being pursued along a street by a plainclothes detective with no personal radio. But it happened. It had always happened. Police staff the world over, using that bloody gut instinct. And normally when they added two to itself they came up with four.

  Williams abandoned the Vauxhall in the junction of Stillington and Greencoat Place. Greencoat is a staggered cross roads. Williams knew the couple hadn’t run ahead of him so they had to have turned right onto Greencoat.

  He ran now, across the road in front of an irate cab driver who displayed his displeasure with a time-honoured hand gesture. Williams slipped past him and entered Greencoat. He could hear sirens to his right. The cavalry had arrived. At least the Mercedes would be stopped.

  He looked ahead as he ran. There was only one person in the street. He was walking, pretending to be part of the scenery. As Williams’ boss and friend would have said, he stood out like bollocks on a Bulldog.

  Williams increased the pace, still unidentified as a police officer he knew he had a chance. He ran now, as fast as he could. The male followed suit. He was younger. But Williams was fit. After fifty or so metres, he called out.

  “Stop, police.”

  The male came to a halt. Which surprised Williams. But then there was nowhere to go. A long, narrow street with a few businesses and every doorway closed and covered by cameras.

  “DS Williams, Met Police.” He panted, producing a warrant card.

  “What seems to be the problem today officer?”

  “Today?”

  “Well, your guys seem to stop me a lot. It is harassment.”

  “Is it? And why is that? It certainly isn’t because you are black is it?”

  “Because you are black too does not make you one of us. You are a coconut…” He was about to continue.

  “Yes, I know what that means. I’ve been in the police probably as long as you have been alive. Now let’s drop the bullshit, shall we? Lean against that wall.”

  “Why?”

  “Because, my friend, I’m going to join you. I’m knackered.”

  “You are not my friend.”

  “OK. Have it your way. I’m going to lean against the wall. And if you run off, I will chase you. Deal?”

  “Deal. Now, what do you want, Detective?”

  “Detective Sergeant to be precise.” Williams looked up the road and saw a marked unit slowly driving by. He waved. It stopped, reversed and turned into Greencoat, pulling up alongside Williams who walked to the passenger side and spoke quietly.

  “Team. Thanks for coming. Call it gut feeling but he was the passenger. He chased the girl but I’ve lost her. I think he did too. Christ, she was quick. Like she was running for her life.”

  “So, where has she gone boss?”

  “Your guess. I’m kind of hoping you might know the patch better than me?”

  “Come a bit closer.” The older constable whispered without pointing. “Behind us on our left is the Queen Mary Hostel. Amazing place. Only looks after females, mainly those that are vulnerable, mental health, homeless etcetera.”

  “Thanks, pal. I don’t want to play my hand so I’m going to search him and let him go on his way.”

  “We can do that if you want? Keeps you distant. By the way the Merc got away. Drove like a bloody maniac, apparently. India Nine Eight reckons they’ve found it though, about two miles away on Horse Ferry Road near a pub.”

  “The Barley Mow?”

  “Yeah that’s i
t. I’m impressed.”

  “Don’t be. It was my old foot beat. I knew every tea spot and boozer for miles. Arneway Street runs off it. Dumped you say?”

  “Yep, and no sign of the driver. They got there too late. He went down a one-way to avoid the marked unit.”

  “OK, so he lives to fight another day. Thanks, boys. I’ll head back to my car but as soon as he’s gone I’ll knock on the door of the hostel.”

  Williams waited ten minutes for the search to be conducted and the mandatory stop and search forms to be issued. He watched the uniformed staff dotting the ‘i’s and crossing the ‘t’s. The paperwork was completed exactly as it needed to be.

  Williams sat in the Vauxhall and watched the male from a distance. He walked quickly along Greencoat and out of sight, on his phone, no doubt talking to his accomplice. Shame the car would be gone by the time they decided to surreptitiously head back to it.

  Towed, along with so many others, never to be claimed.

  Devoid of any identifying features and bought for cash the two men were confident it would never be linked to them.

  The solidly built DS left the Vauxhall which he’d re-parked in a manner not to attract a ticket and walked back along Greencoat Place. He stopped at the double black doors with their well-polished brass letterbox and an official sign welcoming visitors. To his right was an intercom.

  “Hello?” replied a female voice.

  “Hello my friend. My name is Dave Williams I’m a detective sergeant with the Met.” He held up his warrant card to the CCTV camera that gazed down at him.

  “How can we help you, sergeant?” A pleasant voice, female, probably in her thirties. At least that was Williams’ guess.

  “Did you see the patrol car outside earlier?”

  “Yes. Everything OK?”

  “Absolutely. Nothing to worry about. Look, any chance I can come in and have a chat about that.”

  The door clicked, he opened it and walked into the reception area.

  “Hi, I’m Cherry. Welcome to the Queen Mary.”

  “Hi. Thanks for this. Look I won’t keep you long.”

  Cherry was certainly in her thirties. But she was Chinese, so Dave knew he couldn’t always get it right. He sensed a warmth with her though, in the way she held his hand just a second too long.

  “Our aim is to care for vulnerable women, particularly those in crisis. What is your interest?” She opened a door into an unexpected garden, with a small pond and flowers blooming.

  “Very nice. I chased a couple from the main street, Cherry. The male was the one we stopped, but the female disappeared. The local police reckon she could have come in here. Is that possible? I only want to make sure she is OK. It looked like she was running for her life.”

  Williams looked around, then carefully scanned the floor above them. There were seven in total in a well-maintained brick building that probably dated back to Victorian times.

  The Chinese woman replied, “I saw her running, hoped she’d try the first door in the street. Call it an instinctive need to survive. She veered left, so I unlocked the door. It had closed by the time the man appeared on my screen. He kept running. Then I saw you.”

  “So where is she now?”

  “She’s safe.”

  “That’s good, Cherry, but I’d still like to talk to her, face to face, she if I can help.”

  He looked up again. On the second floor a girl looked down, they were eye to eye and hers showed nothing but fear. She had marks on her face which Williams couldn’t work out. Were they scars?

  He held a hand up, as if to say ‘it’s OK, I’m a friend’, but she backed away.

  “Cherry I need to see that girl right now.”

  “OK. Come with me.”

  They re-entered the building and climbed the first flight of stairs, then the second. He got to the window, looked down into the garden and saw her once more. She’d somehow defeated the system, possibly climbed out of a window but now she was in the garden and looking for a way out, back onto the street that she clearly feared.

  “What’s the quickest way to the street?”

  “The way we came. I’m sorry. I didn’t know she would do this.”

  Williams sprinted down the stairs, taking two at a time. He got to the black door once more, exited and stood for a second, listening.

  Nothing. Not a footstep or noise, no cars, not even a bird singing.

  He walked back to Stillington Street. Looked left and then right.

  She was gone. And he would have no idea why. Or who she was.

  She wandered the side streets, looking over her shoulder. She knew she needed to get to the rendezvous before it was too late. She owed him that much at least. She shivered, it wasn’t cold, possibly just the fear of being alone in a major city and waiting to be found. It was getting dark; the lights began to slowly come to life, throwing shadows and causing her to check and double-check doorways and alleyways. She knew she needed to head north east, along the river and then into the city.

  Her worldly possessions consisted of a locket, the clothes she stood up in and a body covered in an art form that was out of place in a city like London.

  The blue Volvo cruised along the dimly lit side street, three up, all male and all tasked with one thing. Find her.

  Two hours passed, for them time was not an issue, they were only paid on results, if it took all night, so be it.

  “Wait. Is that her?” He smiled, rubbed his hands together. He wasn’t cold either, it was anticipation. She was worth a month’s wages, maybe more.

  “We will drop you off just up there, then we’ll get alongside her, just in front. You come up behind her and we grab her and go.”

  And that is what they did.

  She heard the car accelerating, which shielded the young guy’s footsteps, deathly quiet anyway wrapped in brand new knock-off Nike training shoes. He was behind her in seconds, as if they had practised it ad nauseam. It was how they used to get girls back home, on a Friday night, just for fun. They always let them go. At thirteen there were no other options. But this was different. She was worth catching and their orders were clear.

  “Find her. Get her away from prying eyes and do what I showed you. You can keep one each and bring me the rest and sign.”

  She was looking back still when she walked straight into the youngest male.

  “It’s OK miss. I’m sorry.” He held her arms for a second just to calm her down. It worked.

  He was a good-looking boy. He spoke English but with a heavy accent. She spoke in her mother tongue. He replied.

  “You look frightened, are you OK?” His voice was warm, scented with kindness.

  “There are men following me. Please help.” Hers was tainted with anxiety and panic.

  “Of course. It’s OK I’ve got you now.” He applied more pressure and in seconds she was in the back of the car, trying to scream, tape wrapped around her face – it did a job, hardly time to be precise. It stopped her screaming at least. She was face down in the rear footwell, her stomach jammed up against the transmission tunnel, where she sobbed and tried to breathe, the tunnel pushing into her diaphragm.

  Face down in the black, deep pile carpet in the back of a car in a foreign city. What had led to this?

  They drove for fifteen minutes, via back streets and one-way streets, streets that lacked surveillance, until they arrived at the empty industrial unit. The front seat passenger leapt out, opened the gate with a key and then repeated the action with the roller door.

  The whole process took twenty minutes. And she was there to meet them.

  “Madam, we have her as you requested.” He smiled a tobacco-stained smile.

  “You have done well. Do you want to do this or watch me and learn?”

  “We will watch – and learn from you.”

  “Then put her face down and get her top off.”

  The four men in the unit held her down, gripping her wrists and feet, one squeezed hard on her shins. Her face was
still randomly wrapped with tape, one piece was pulled across her left eye but she could still see sets of feet and hear what they were saying. She would make a very good witness.

  The problem was, she knew she needed to live. Why did she run away from the black man in the suit? Back at the hostel. He had kind eyes. She should have stayed.

  She screamed as the pallet knife with its razor-sharp blade sliced through the young skin between her shoulder blades adding another scar to the series that already ran across her upper body.

  The woman held the knife like a surgeon and was as quick and neat as any doctor. The piece of skin was removed and placed onto a glass slide – the type that would be used in a laboratory. Then into a clear Ziplock bag.

  The gap in her skin bled now, being shallow it was instantly sore, just cutting into the dermis.

  The woman held the slide up into the available light and smiled. One down. The padlock tattoo was rudimentary, as if created by the hand of an amateur, but it had served its purpose, or rather would have done if she had reached her destination.

  Each similar marking created a series, and the entire series was a reference to a hiding place, and the hiding place held the answer to their prayers and provided a future.

  As they turned the young girl over onto her back, she was able to see them all. Four young men, one powerfully built with darting, suspicious eyes and an exaggerated set of movements as if he had a drug habit.

  Then there was the woman.

  “No. Please. I will do anything. I will just go home, back to Kamsar. Back to the homeland. Please, I beg you…please. I had no choice. He made me do this.”

  More tape was wrapped around her face to the point that she was unable to speak and her left nostril was compressed, causing her to feel a sense of panic. What if she couldn’t breathe?

  The older woman smiled as she knelt down beside the younger girl. Stroked her face, wiped away the tears.

  “Your time is done my dear. I am sorry that you didn’t go home too, but you have something I want. You and your…sisters. They all have something I want. And now you know what is coming next. Make your peace my dear and say goodbye. You can pray with me if you like?”