“Well, it was, lad. But there’s lots of diamonds too.” Denby had the far away schoolboy smile again. “And I’ve remembered, there was another boat. We dropped something off there years ago. No one goes there now though.” His facial expression told Daniel that he was there now wherever there was.
“It was called Richard.”
“The captain, the sailor?”
“No, the ship, stupid. It was called Richard. I’ve just remembered. Isn’t that funny after all these bloody years.” He laughed as the footsteps of two people started to gain on them.
“Come on.” Daniel grabbed hold of his phone and dialled. Nothing. They were either out of range or the MOD had installed something to stop signals. Either way, it was far from ideal.
He wrote a text. Abbreviated but detailed enough and pressed send. Someone had told him once that a text can send when a call might not work. It was worth a try.
He started trying every door along the never-ending corridor.
“In here.” Daniel and Denby found themselves in a dark room. “Keep quiet.”
Daniel’s own breathing was laboured but he fought to control it. He’d hated dark rooms since he was a kid and battled to gain control of his most important sense. There were cabinets and shelves with boxes on. Old green metal light fittings had gathered dust. A phone on an oak desk was waiting to ring. A pencil, with a wooden barrel and a small black ‘crow’s foot’ emblem was left just so, on the dusty desk, next to a piece of paper. He could see it all now.
He picked up the pencil. If it was a good enough weapon for Carrie O’Shea, then it was good enough for ex-Chief Inspector John Daniel.
“If they get me, try to escape. Grab a weapon of some sort and fight for your life my friend. Now, before the worst happens, how’s that memory?”
They stood in the blackened office waiting as the footsteps got closer. They could hear them trying doors.
Denby hissed a quiet sentence into Daniel’s ear.
“When we were training in the war, they taught us to find weapons of opportunity. I think I’ve got one strapped to my leg.” He dropped his trousers.
He undid the white pipe from the yellow rubber tubing on the catheter and closed the clamp. He held up the day bag with pride. Removed with military precision as if he’d trained for this day.
“What are you doing?” Daniel could see but just wasn’t sure, it was surreal beyond belief. Here he was stuck in an abandoned office with an old sailor who had his trousers at half mast, holding up a bulging day bag of what was probably the foulest-smelling urine, as dark yellow as honeycomb but nowhere near as sweet.
“You’ll see. Let battle commence.”
They waited either side of the door. It opened, much to the surprise of the thirty-year-old from West Africa. He stumbled slightly, and that was enough. Daniel grabbed him and pulled him into the dark, ramming the pencil repeatedly into his face until he felt the lead snap as it made contact with bone, then gristle, finally an eye. He pushed and pushed, holding his hand over the assailant’s mouth until he stopped resisting.
This was not Home Officer training at its best. It was feral street fighting. When in Rome.
He held up his hand. Denby knew a command when he saw one, even in the half-light of the old office.
Now on his own the second black male was walking a little slower. His team mate had gone into the room ahead and had failed to come out. The two other members of his team had taken the second corridor. He could wait. He should wait. But what would they say about him back home? He was a lion hunting two old gazelles not some feeble coward.
He looked back down the long white-light passageway. Now or never.
He burst into the door and met the full force of former Lieutenant Commander Denby’s primary weapon. The stagnant urine was squirted as fiercely as the old man could muster, like a curving arc of acid it hit the man in the face, into his eyes and mouth. The smell was horrendous, but the burning was worse. Days old and acidic it was enough to distract the attacker, long enough for Daniel to hit him repeatedly in the face with the phone.
He carried on striking him until he lost consciousness.
With the phone cable in hand, Daniel bound the older African’s wrists behind his back.
He checked his phone. Nothing.
“Come on, Tom, let’s go home.”
As they went to leave, the first male grabbed Daniel’s foot and started to drag him down to the floor. Denby stepped backwards then fell, deliberately onto his face. The crack of his neck was sickening. The smell of Denby’s days old urine as bad.
“He was taking the piss lad!” Denby put a gnarled thumb into the air and laughed. He had no idea how amusing he sounded or that he had just killed someone a third of his age.
“That’ll teach him to pick a fight with a sailor.”
Chapter Forty-Five
Roberts and Cade were out in an unmarked BMW. Dark grey with tinted glass and subtle blue strobes built into the front and rear lights. It was what Roberts referred to as a Black Rat’s dream.
Black Rat was the term used, with some affection, for the traffic police, something which neither man had ever been.
“So tell me mate what did you want to discuss that was too important yesterday, but needed a few hours overnight to allow you to decide?”
“Weird sentence but the answer is straightforward. I needed one of the analysts to dig out some old footage – a job from our past.”
“Ooh I’m intrigued, pray tell,” said Roberts as he negotiated traffic, turning his head left and right, avoiding the almost inevitable daily risk of a low-speed collision.
“Remember November the fifth?”
“Remember, remember the fifth of November, gunpowder, treason and…”
Cade interrupted him. “Sounds like you ‘ve lost the plot. Think Hatton Garden.”
It was now clear in the young DCI’s mind. “Ah yes the diamond raid by Alex Stefanescu’s men. Very clever too. Ex-copper got a whack across the bonce for his troubles if memory serves me right.”
“It does. Now, if you can, playback the footage from the security cameras, like I did more recently.”
Roberts feigned closing his eyes. “Nope, not seeing anything but a group of men lobbing flashbangs around and making off with a load of gear – actually, a box of documents that was almost the undoing of the Tory government and a few gemstones.” He looked at Cade. “I’ve missed something haven’t I?”
“You have. We all did. Because back then we were looking at the offenders. They were well trained and thorough. They took only what they needed, left a load behind. That takes training.”
“And we were perplexed about why the government had stored its most explosive documents in a jeweller’s vault instead of in the Tower or in a police station or somewhere else.”
“Yep, all of that. But what we didn’t wait to watch was towards the end of the footage. And until I watched it again, I wouldn’t have had a clue either.”
Roberts pulled into the kerb, put the electronic handbrake on, then turned in his seat.
“I’m like an African elephant brother. Spill the beans.”
“It was actually Carrie and Dave that spotted it. She had a flashback when you started talking about Steve Hancock.”
Roberts’ neck bristled. “Go on.”
“Like me, she thought she had seen him before – her being ex-police she wrote it off to one of those meetings from the past, but I had the same feeling too. We retrieved the footage from the vault and re-ran it.”
“That bastard was there wasn’t he?”
“One hundred percent Jason. No doubt. He walks into the frame about fifteen minutes after the chaos has subsided. He’s armed, got a few of his staff with him. Something just didn’t ring true, it was the way he was looking around, more so the way one of his team knocked out the camera.”
“Shit, so we lost some evidence?”
“Far from it, this was a Hatton Garden vault mate – containing mi
llions of pounds of everything that is precious. Knock out one camera, another engages, take that one down…”
“I get it. And what did Hancock do?”
“Nothing.”
“Well, as anti-climaxes go Jack, this is up there with E.T. forgetting to phone home or telling Elliott that his flower only perked up because he pissed on it when he wasn’t looking.”
“You are obsessed with urinating aliens, aren’t you?”
“No. But now you mention it – Close Encounters of the Turd Kind?”
“Awful.”
“Star Whores?”
“Drifting off the subject matter slightly. Which reminds me – he took nothing. He checked the vault with a fine-toothed comb though. Every single box, but paid particular attention to a set of eight large drawers. Checked them twice, then again. All on camera. Then when he was doubly satisfied, he opened one and put some of the gemstones that were on the floor into it.”
“The almost perfect crime. Let’s go and lock that odoriferous bastard up Jack. Right now. I am so going to enjoy this.”
“No.”
“What do you mean no? Need I remind you I have jurisdiction here – admittedly you do whilst the P.M decrees it, but you get my point? We can lock up the man who has been my nemesis since he first literally pissed in my parade boots at Hendon.”
“No. We wait. He’s a player alright, but a pawn, a knight at best.”
“Two up and one across. Just like he likes it. And with Kate too. Seriously, how could she?”
“Mate you need to let that little obsession end right now. She’s bad news. Attractive, probably rather inventive in the bedroom and at a guess filthy with it. But you have to let her go. Even the thought of her.”
“After that description? Jesus I’m glad you are not my counsellor. Tell me, what do you know about Hancock that I don’t?”
“I’ll drive. You read this.” He handed his phone over, revealing the text from JD that had somehow seeped out from the subterranean shield.
They swapped seats as Roberts digested the words, then was about to make a new call when his phone buzzed.
“Roberts.”
“Jason it’s Johnnie. You get that text from JD?”
“We did we are heading there now.”
“Me too, I’m coming down the Mall as we speak, look out for a black cab.” It sounded ridiculous the moment he’d said it but Roberts had already cleared the line and was re-dialling.
“Bridie it’s me – strike, strike, strike!”
“Now, guv? But we’re not ready.”
“Do it Bridie and fuck the consequences. Jack and I are on the way to Admiralty Arch, the shit’s going down, JD is in trouble, get a marked armed unit on the way, in fact get anyone there. We need to save Tom.”
He read the message again.
‘Hancock is rogue. In a tunnel under the Arch. Two male IC3 after us and an IC1 female. Hancock is here, and he’s not on our side. Heading SW to No 10.’
“What does he mean number ten?”
“How many number tens are there in London?”
“Well, one.”
“Then that’s where he’s heading. Wasn’t there some talk at a briefing a while back that suggested the PM and team could escape underground in the event of a terrorist attack?”
“Well, yes, but.”
“Then clearly our old sailor knows something we don’t – or JD does. Let’s not forget he’s been on the peripheries of power for years now. He’s no ordinary ex-DCI.”
“So where? Admiralty or Number 10?”
“Admiralty. Get the armed cars to the PM’s place – they are more likely to be allowed through the gates. Get the senior command to make something up. Remember all this Griffin stuff is supposed to be highly need to know.”
“Fair point. You know I wish I didn’t. I sometimes wish I’d stayed as a sergeant.”
“No, you don’t. Now let’s get there shall we?”
Roberts was pointing left then left again and straight on as Cade whistled through the traffic, sirens screaming, traffic parting, the noise ricocheting off walls and the high sides of buses. It was hypnotic.
“Down here. Northumberland Avenue. Stay on here until we reach Trafalgar Square. Come on!” He punched the dashboard.
“Traffic looks hideous mate? Suggestions?”
“Pavement. Use the pavement.”
“Too many trees.”
“Bus lane.”
“Too many buses.”
“Force them out of the way.”
“Trafalgar Square is just there, we must be close.”
“Running distance…”
Cade pulled the BMW into the bus lane and they both got out and ran, Cade plipping the remote as he did so, leaving the blues flashing and a tidal wave of typically English silent abuse from motorists.
“This way.”
They ran to the arch where they saw Hewett almost sliding the taxi to a halt.
“Gents. Now where?”
The three men ran into the archway itself.
An old lady, probably in her eighties, in a blue raincoat, called out from across the road. “If you are looking for a rather distinguished older man with a beard and a younger guy that looks like someone off the telly they’ve gone in there. I watched it all. Two big black fellas and a white chap and a white girl. They went through that door there. Go on, watcha scared of? The fact they had a shooter?”
“Thank you, my love, we’ll take it from here,” said Roberts pondering on who the hell the old girl was.
“You armed Johnnie?”
“Do taxi drivers normally carry firearms?”
“Fare point well made. Here.” He passed an ASP baton.
“What shall I do, swat the bullets away?”
“Your choice, that or nothing.”
Cade’s phone rang. “Cade, go!”
“Jack, it’s me. Are you OK?”
“Not now Carrie, we’ve got a situation.”
“Yes, I’m well aware of that darling, I’m just wondering why you are at Admiralty Arch?”
“You watching us?”
“Absolutely. But the Bentley has left, headed south east down Whitehall.”
“The blue one with the information marker on?”
“The very same. Just pinged on an ANPR camera.”
“Carrie get that stopped and keep watching. Try to get a camera on Downing Street. We think JD and Tom are going to pop up there, or nearby.”
“Pop up? Something I should know?”
“They are in a tunnel. Can’t tell you more than that. We are going in now. Johnnie Hewett is here, he’s about to head out and see if he can get a visual on the Bentley.”
Cade wrote the registration number on the back of Hewett’s left hand as he was terminating the call to O’Shea.
Hewett raised a thumb and jumped back in the black cab and pulled onto Trafalgar Square, Lord Nelson staring down from his column, no doubt tutting at the chaos that drew people’s eyes away from him and the incessant hoard of pigeons that visited him every day.
“Carrie, ring me in twenty and if you don’t hear from me use my credit card to pay the hotel bill. You know the PIN.”
She was about to say something about treating herself when she saw Cade had already gone. She did indeed know the number. It was a show of his trust. He had a fairly healthy bank balance after all.
It seemed like weeks since they had arrived at the hotel. Up close and personal, against the floor to ceiling glass as the world passed by. Then a sailor who was more than old enough to be her grandfather had climbed out of the bathroom and made off. That was the domain of much younger men – but Denby had a goal and time was running out.
She scanned the map in front of her.
“Dave. You were a field officer. Where would you surface if you went underground at Admiralty Arch? What’s the most obvious next stop?”
“Underground? How do you know about that?”
“Apparently JD knows. And
Jack is putting faith in that alone. It looks too far on the map.”
“You could go in any direction.”
He scanned north, then west, then east.
“East is possible. But not too far or you’d get wet.” He ran his finger down the screen, imagining himself travelling underground. The place was a warren of tunnels. His index finger stopped, and he tapped the screen.
“It’s less than a quarter of a mile if you head due south. When the war broke out, they needed to move important people around. Churchill was based at the Arch. He was also Prime Minister. His war rooms are nearby. So…”
He zoomed in on the map on the double screen system in front of him, drew a line between the old buildings once more.
“Yep. I’d say it is entirely plausible.”
“Number 10?”
“The very same. That’s where I think they are heading. I’ll put my pension on it.”
“Now what?” O’Shea was pacing.
“We wait for a call from the PM saying she’s highly pissed off that someone has just appeared in her lounge?”
“This way Kate. I can almost smell them. Nothing like the odour of fear to help you track a man.” He was almost laughing, holding the Glock with both hands in the ‘low ready’ and ready to swing it up and fire in a second.
“I never thought it would end like this. But I love it.” Briton was also relishing every moment. Since she’d first met the older man, she’d done everything he’d asked of her. And it suited them both.
Hancock was so close to retiring he could count the hours. The girl was years younger, with a mind that had often ridden on the coattails of successful and sinful men – and she only ever wanted to be sinful with older men.
But who was the real offender here?
Who was the guilty one?
The young woman with a penchant for an experienced man? Or the man himself, in a relationship no doubt and arguably more remorseful.
Steven Edgar Hancock was the fourth in as many years. Wear them out, fleece them, let them fall in love a little, get the answer she needed, then move on. It’s what she did best. There was only one victim, and it was never Kathryn Briton.
“Remember what I said, girl? Worst case get to the vault and get the stuff out and bugger off somewhere, then wait for my call. Then we can live like kings. Come on, this way.” He unnecessarily eased the grip back on the Austrian pistol, felt the tension.
The Angel of Whitehall Page 41