The Angel of Whitehall

by Lewis Hastings

  Del Murphy chose that moment to arrive. Skidding to a halt.

  “Boss you all OK? Jesus sounded like a right old palaver around the streets of London didn’t it? Where’s the bandit car?”

  Cade spoke first. “Gone mate. Lost. Or at least they backed off. Listen, you’ve got more than a few sources. Get them on the lookout for the following.” He outlined what he wanted but it could be easily summarised; African women in their forties or fifties with scarification, preferably alive and ideally with a number tattooed between their shoulder blades. However, he knew quietly he had a greater chance of cleaning the aforementioned excrement off of Johnnie Hewett’s blanket.

  “Nothing like a challenge guv. Do you want me to ring Ginger?”

  “No, leave him for now. Let’s face it if anyone needs beauty sleep it’s DCI Roberts. He’s back in tomorrow.”

  Murphy walked back to his Vauxhall as his cell phone rang. He leant against the front right wing and nodded, then a bit more then cleared down the line before walking back to the group, a fine mist leaving his mouth as he walked. It was getting cold again.

  “Guv, you know you said you needed a break in this operation?”

  Cade looked at Daniel. “I’m not sure if he means me or you JD?”

  “Either, or. That was the CAD room. Turns out a local CID unit has found something of interest. They ran it through the key-word search and bingo!”

  “It just so happens that I love bingo Del. What have you got?”

  “Well local section staff down at Battersea found a woman, she was propped up against a wall. Sadly appears to have died from her injuries.”

  “Relevance, Del?” asked Cade, already wondering why Battersea had to feature in his life once more. He’d lost a very important person there in his past. She had slowly drowned in the Thames, just minutes from where another woman now appeared to have lost her life.

  “Black female, major stomach wound, appears to have bled out, but not at the scene. Paramedics reckon they would have found her sat in a lot more blood or at the very least a trail…”

  “Taken to the location?”

  “Looks that way, boss. Yes.”

  “Go on.”

  “The CID staff that attended did a bloody good job, ran everything through the box and must have hit some keywords otherwise we might not have found out.”

  The ‘box’ was a colloquial term for the main police computer system.

  “They also found that she was stuffed full of cocaine pellets but said it just doesn’t match with an internal courier.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Yes. She has scars on her that were old. Perhaps another one of your African ladies…”

  “They are tribal scars Del and they are our African ladies Del. More than one case indicates a trend to me.”

  “My thoughts too boss. And she had a separate injury on her back. Her attackers had cut out a small square of skin from…”

  “Between her shoulder blades!” shouted Denby from inside the cab. He’d been listening to the whole conversation. Old – far from stupid.

  The area of Battersea had always had a reputation for the unusual, especially where the law was concerned. In the eighteen hundreds, it was a popular location for illegal activities including duelling. A past that included horse racing, dog and bare-knuckle fighting and crime was also part of the area’s DNA. For Cade it was simply a place of sorrow.

  “Get everything we can off of the CID team and send my regards. That it?”

  “Not quite boss.” He beckoned Cade, Daniel and O’Shea in closer.

  “It seems that before the lady died, she wrote something on the pavement, in her own blood. It looked like ‘Tell Mala’Ika’ and the word ‘Farm’. They photographed it but had no idea of its relevance.”

  Cade nodded. He was already one step ahead. He returned to the taxi and opened the door. “Did you hear that Tom?”

  The old man smiled but shook his head. “No, but I can lipread very well. And I’ve had a bit of a flashback young man.”

  “Good. That’s very encouraging Tom. Care to enlighten me?”

  “The word was Farin not farm. Farin Mala’Ika,” he said it defiantly, proud of its status. “It means the White Angel.”

  “I know that already Tom.”

  “Ah, but I bet you don’t know who he is?”

  “I don’t.”

  “You’re looking at him lad. You are looking at him…” He had a tear in his eye that eventually broke over the lid and ran freely down his face.

  “I am the White Angel.”

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Whitehall, London, next day

  Susan Reddington arrived into work very early. Favourite shoes, skirt, lined with satin, Gerbe stockings, freshly laundered white blouse, hair up in a simple ponytail. She walked in, checked her watch, twenty-five minutes early.

  She stretched, eased her joint pain. Her bruises were a long way from appearing but her body ached from the crash. But she needed to stay on course.

  Playtime.

  She sat down and ensured he got an eyeful on this bitterly cold morning, a really long, lingering look at her smooth silk-covered thighs; silky skin covered in natural coloured silk.

  It just didn’t get any better.

  ‘Go on, have a really good look you dirty old bastard.’

  She knew no one else could see and equally could see him trying to adjust his desk position and also himself. It was clear he was physically turned on by the sight. He was a red-blooded male, and she was a rather attractive woman, why wouldn’t he be?

  She let the moment hang in the air like the awkward silence that it was, then with her left leg extended she flicked the door shut. He saw everything. She wanted him to. It was wholly deliberate, and as much as she despised the pervert, she got a thrill out of it too. Just a glimpse of the final prize was all he needed to see, and he’d waited months.

  She had changed since returning from Afghanistan. She had seen some awful things. They said, in stage whispers that Reddington had saved the lives of three men one cool autumn morning; literally walked out from behind cover and started shooting, hitting one target after another. It did something to her though, later, that night when she was alone, her colleagues heard her sobbing. In the morning she was gone. Captured. A senior intelligence officer, captured. A female at that. A white blonde, female senior intelligence officer.

  If kidnapping could somehow be aligned to Scrabble, Reddington was the ludicrously obscure word MUSJIKS – laid smugly on the first tile for one hundred and twenty-nine points.

  Someone, somewhere, had cashed in a favour to get her home.

  She looked up from her desk, straight into his eyes as he shovelled spoonful after spoonful of something sugary into his mouth. She waved at him, a sort of beckoning rather than recognition. She knew he’d find it more difficult to walk with that thing bulging indiscreetly in his nasty, far-too-tight polyester trousers.

  Playtime indeed.

  “Frankie, come in. How are you this morning? I thought it was freezing outside this morning, but you’ve obviously been here for a while. Warmed up have we?”

  “Morning Susan. Yes, thank you.” He stood awkwardly, praying for the moment to end but in his mind wanting to bend her over her pristine bloody desk and teach her a lesson. And it bled from his every pore.

  “Close the door.”

  He closed the door as told.

  “Frankie I’ve known you a few years now and as one of my best civilian contractors I trust you. But you see there’s a barrier between us. Wouldn’t you say?”

  He was unsure where this was heading. She was going to mention the morning ritual of that he was sure.

  “Look Susan I probably need to apologise…”

  She held a hand up, the one with her grandmother’s sapphire ring.

  “Frankie, stop. I’m not sure if you think you are being told off here? Is that it? Do you think you have been naughty?”

  The word
naughty was all he didn’t need to hear. He strained to hold himself back.

  “Is that it Frankie? Been a rather naughty thing have we, looking at Captain Reddington’s stocking-covered, long, smooth legs. Naughty Frankie.”

  “Please stop.” He was genuinely pleading now.

  Hook.

  “Frankie move a little closer. I’ve got something to show you.”

  Almost powerless yet raging with testosterone he edged forward in the black mesh-backed typist’s chair until he was almost alongside her.

  “Give me your hand. Now.”

  Line.

  He reached out; she held it, then pushed it down the front of her knickers just as the door opened and Monique walked in.

  “Frankie how dare you? Jesus. Monique thank God you arrived when you did. Get out you filthy bastard!”

  “But Susan, Monique…please, it’s not how it looks. I’m happily married, to the same woman for forty years. Monique it really isn’t how it looks.”

  “Boss I saw everything,” she said with a wry smile. If only Frankie Deighton had known what Monique had seen it would have provided him with enough nocturnal thoughts to keep his marriage alive for another ten years at least.

  “It’s OK Monique. I’ll deal with this. I think Frank is just having a stressful time. It probably looks a lot worse than it is. Seriously.”

  “Are you sure? I really should tell someone.” Her chocolate brown eyes were alive. She was loving the game too.

  “No, really, there really is no need. Is there Frank?”

  “No boss. Not at all. Thank you. Thank…” His voice stammered.

  Sinker.

  “You can leave Monique and thank you for coming in when you did. I think this needs to be dealt with internally. Close the door on your way out.” She even enjoyed dismissing her lover.

  Reddington stood up and pulled the blind down on her door. Locked it. Turned around and smiled as she unbuttoned her blouse. One button at a time.

  “Tell me when to stop Frankie. You naughty boy…”

  She dropped a small foil packet into his lap.

  “You’ll need this.”

  At Scotland Yard the Orion team gathered in the briefing room as Jason Roberts whisked in looking refreshed from a night of watching the television, an overly large sample of a twenty-year-old Macallan malt and a frantic hour of fumbling with Mrs. Roberts – as she was always referred to at work.

  “Alright you lovely bunch of people, what have you got to tell me?”

  Murphy had done a quick turnaround in order to get back for the briefing. He led the way with Cade and Daniel nodding courteously at him.

  “Guv to say the least it was an interesting evening.” He began by outlining the embassy visit and the friendly re-capture of Lieutenant Commander Denby. Then he moved into the pursuit. Pointing on a projected map as he spoke. The team watched. No one asked questions. The hope was that someone might pick up on location of interest or recall something a CHIS had told them.

  No one asked anything, so he continued.

  “Guv it gets a little sexier, and you told us you needed some evidence to support a full-on investigation?”

  Roberts nodded, sipping on a chai latte which he decided was hideous.

  “We’ve now got two dead African women in the area. Both have the scarification marks and both have a square cut from their backs. I don’t know why yet, but that has to be relevant.” He looked at Cade and Daniel for support.

  “One hundred percent team. Del came onto the tail of a pursuit last night. Strange one too. It involved the following car.” Cade paused like an old hand waiting for the slide to appear.

  “As you can see it’s a black Mercedes 300 series on diplomatic plates. Makes it all the harder for our guys to interact with. And importantly it’s registered to this address.” A new slide appeared. “The home of the Ambassador of Guinea which as you all know is a French influenced country on the west coast of Africa. Now, equally important, we don’t think the government or the good people of Guinea have anything to do with this operation at all. In fact, given recent foreign investment in the region the last thing they need is bad press. But bad people and suspicious vehicles are now linked. Next slide, please.”

  A slide appeared showing a slightly blurred image of a black female.

  “This lady is one Doto Adesida. Smashing girl, very tall and I imagine quite strong too. Either way, she’s one of if not our number one target. She employs good-looking, well-built men from her home country and they talk in one of the many local dialects. They all speak fluent French and English too. Jason and I had a run in with her and her attack dogs in a Bentley the other morning in Whitehall. DCI Roberts ended up being dragged down the road as you know and when we got alongside them in traffic they were bothered this much…” He held up his thumb and forefinger a millimetre apart.

  “Next slide.” A white woman appeared. “The shot was taken by Mr. Daniel from the taxi during last night’s little escapade.”

  It was slightly pixelated, but the image was clear enough to see the green military uniform. “Any guesses?”

  Dave Francis leaned forward, elbows on the table. “It isn’t a guess but I’ll claim the prize. British Army Intelligence Corps. Three pips, she’s a captain.”

  “She is Dave, well done. Her name is Captain Susan Reddington. What’s fascinating is when we met her last night at the Guinean embassy function she was all over us until Tom Denby started to chat about the old days.”

  “Imposter?” Francis was old school Intelligence Corps himself. Where he hadn’t been and what he hadn’t done wasn’t worth printing on a T-shirt.

  “No hardly Dave, she’s kosher alright. It changed when Tom mentioned her grandfather.”

  “The term grandfather? Or her grandfather?”

  Francis held up his left index finger as if he was feeling for the wind direction. “I feel a storm brewing. Is she somehow related to a Colonel of the same name?”

  “Go to the top of the class Mr. Francis. Brigadier actually. Brigadier Edward Reddington who was looking like a really significant covert target until he accidentally fell to his death in the Thames recently. As luck would have it, it’s his funeral today. And given your background Dave you are attending.”

  “I don’t have anything to wear. All my old kit is back up in Nottingham in a trunk.”

  “Got a suit?”

  “The one I’m wearing.”

  Daniel threw a tie across the room. “That should finish it off nicely. Send our love.”

  Francis looked down at the Intelligence Corps regimental tie. He had no idea where Daniel had got it from and didn’t ask.

  He stared at the green, red and white striped garment. It had been a while. But you could always teach an old dog new tricks.

  “It would be my honour, sir. Let me have the location and I’ll be there. I wonder what his granddaughter is doing right now.”

  “No idea but we do know she concocted a story of being carjacked last night and subsequently involved in a high-speed crash. Just down the road from my home.” Daniel nodded at the screen.

  “This next slide is so need to know you almost don’t. I trust all of you with my life. You need to do the same with me as this is going to get bumpy.”

  The slide appeared, and everyone edged forward to try to figure it out.

  Cade offered to decipher.

  “Twelve boxes. Each one contains a number. Collect all twelve and you get…”

  A wise old fox called out ‘A free toaster!’

  Cade clapped politely, slightly sarcastically.

  “As I was saying before the camp comic chipped in – and team this is so bloody important, so no more interruptions. Each box needs a number. We need twelve numbers. They equate to a code of some sort. The problem is the man who created it can’t remember the answer.”

  Cade continued. “And until we started attracting the attention of some diplomatic and current and former British Army staff, we though
t we were on the wrong road.”

  “And now boss?” Del Murphy.

  “The main motorway Del, at high speed and looking for the right turnoff.” Cade just needed to find it now and the lack of a reply from Adaeze was more than worrying him.

  “We are putting huge faith into the words of a ninety-year-old sir. For what?” One of the younger more progressive detectives asked.

  “Look, whatever it is it’s enormous. Enough to pique the interest of an eclectic team who appear to have no obvious links. My guess is either money or a logistical foothold on something for the future. And that’s money too really, wouldn’t you agree?”

  “Power ultimately. But boss, like I say he’s ninety. He could be making it all up.”

  “We’ve adopted that position too,” replied Roberts who had been deliberately quiet.

  “But late last night we learned that one of the deceased women wrote his African name with her own blood on a pavement in Battersea, and another called out the names Black Mamba and White Angel as she was whisked away to hospital. She died before she made it. Now, to set the record straight and to remove any doubt. As of this time Doto is the Black Mamba. Tom Denby is the White Angel. Any questions?”

  “How do we find the answer boss? I’d like to get to the gold first!”

  “I’m hoping as highly paid detectives in the largest force in the country you can tell me. Now go – go and start collecting numbers.”

  Cade turned to O’Shea. “I’m rather hoping that the Met’s best criminal intelligence analyst can work it all out in time for tea and medals. Winner pays for a few more nights at the Royal Horseguards at the end of this investigation?”

  “Sounds fine to me.”

  “But we need to see some of this fine city as tourists for a change. We can’t spend all day in bed!”

  “Can’t we?”

  “If we weren’t at work, I’d slap your arse.”

  “If we weren’t at work, I’d let you. Anyway, I accept your challenge. Actually, I’ve already started. Whilst you lot fly around the city achieving two fifths of f-all I will add some science and common sense to this treasure hunt. I mean seriously boys how hard can it be? Twelve numbers multiplied by itself and the square root of no idea? I wish Cynthia was still here, she’d have this wrapped up with a pink bow in a day.”