She glanced under the car. The polished concrete had a sheen that enabled a safe view. At the far end of the row of vehicles was another person. Another woman. Shoulder-length blonde hair, naturally wavy with a deep golden colour, wearing a black suit, trousers and a jacket over a blue blouse. And a sapphire ring that belonged to her grandmother.
She was one of three women in the building with vaguely familial links.
Susan Reddington was only related to her adopted sister Doto by a piece of paper that had been locked in a safe somewhere, and the second blonde was young enough to be Reddington’s daughter.
Surname Briton. Daughter of Gareth Briton.
Gareth had been a blue flamer – a rising star in the military. Sandy hair, slightly olive skin and a moustache that hinted at red. A three-piece suit, polished brogues, subtle clues in his regimental tie, a background in one of the British Army’s finer units. A ladies’ man but never willing to admit it in the officers’ mess.
One night at Catterick, a barracks in Yorkshire and the second home to many a soldier, he carved up another notch on his mythical headboard – tied her to it in fact, with her own underwear. She loved it. Gagged with her elasticated tie, watching the rest of her clothes thrown across the room where they had been removed in haste.
They were both there for a conference on staff leadership.
He was the instructor. She was the younger pupil.
She had given in to his inuendo and charm, those fleeting looks across the classroom, lips being licked, eyes locked and within hours she had lost almost everything she had fought for in her own rapid rise through the ranks. The daughter of a senior officer who had died prematurely, handing the baton to his little girl, all eyes were always on her. But that night it was only Gareth Briton’s, and they were all over her. This was to be a one-night-stand to end them all. This wasn’t a unit bet – who could get Reddington into bed first? This was a well-planned operation with a mission executed exactly as planned, as he lay on top of her, hovering, hip to hip, eye to eye, skin covered in a veil of perspiration, heavy breathing permeated with moments of exquisite silence.
Both drunk on cheap but expensive French brandy from the nearby mess, they threw caution and everything else to the wind.
It was the most incredible thing she had ever done. He tipped brandy onto her stomach and drank from her. He removed the tie, let her speak, let her hiss filthy words to him. He licked the residue from her breasts. She presented her neck to him, tipped her head back, bite it, go on I dare you. He closed her eyes with his fingertips, brushed them over her lips. Kissed her then placed the tie back in her mouth as his tongue darted over her lips once more.
She was quiet again. This was the best part. The silence. She imagined what was going on further down the bed, unable to escape. This was definitely the best part.
The fact that next door another couple were doing something similar added fuel to the fire. Theirs was a more audible affair. But it had to end.
She left his room and walked quickly back to hers in the shadows, praying that no one had seen her. She got into her own bed, perfectly made, sheets crisp and a cool pillow. And she laid her head down and smiled in the dark.
Weeks later she rang him with the news.
“This will finish me. You need to…”
“No, my father will finish you. You need to marry me.”
Weeks passed and on a miserable Saturday in April they were joined in holy matrimony.
It lasted just over a year. In that time he had been demoted, a disgrace to the regiment, and she had given birth to a beautiful little girl. She had her parents’ colouring and her mother’s penchant for the finer things.
She also swore an oath to continue the family secret held fiercely close by her great grandfather and his despicable cohort. From that moment, they also made a pact to stay close and look after each other.
Susan looked back, pointed to the staircase. Held up two fingers. Then pointed across the car park and held up one.
Two people through the door and up the stairs, one still in the car park. Time for the girls to go hunting.
Roberts and Cade arrived at the Hatton Garden vault.
“You are saying that no one has been here in the last hour? Not an attractive-looking British girl? Or a less attractive man? Perhaps hours ago? I need to know…”
“I appreciate that governor, I’m ex-job myself and trust me since the last time this place got done over, I’ve been extra careful to put my welfare first. I can sense a wrongun. And trust me, I’ve had no wronguns in here today. You are welcome to look at the footage.” He pointed at the screens.
“That won’t be necessary my friend,” said Cade. “I think we’ve met before Mr. Hackett?”
“I’m impressed boss, but even with such a sharp memory I think you’ve been duped.”
“Can we open any of the boxes?”
“What legally?”
“No, illegally. You see right now we are working against a bit of a deadline.”
“Can you provide me with a warrant?”
“Retrospectively?”
“However spectively you like, I just need something in writing before I start inviting folk to open these boxes. It’s sacrosanct you know.”
“We know. Look Barry if I told you that the Prime Minister herself authorised this would it help?”
“No.”
“OK. How about the threat of being shot?”
“Now that would be more convincing Mr.?”
“Cade. My real name is John. My friends call me Jack.”
“So what shall I call you?”
“Jack will do just fine.”
“Then let me just lock the front door and you can come this way Jack.”
Roberts walked behind Hackett looking at Cade incredulously.
‘How do you do that? Is it some sort of Jedi mind trick?’
“He just knows how to ask the right question Mr. Roberts,” said Hackett smiling as they descended the stairs.
“And how did you know I was asking him that question?”
“Call it thirty-one years of policing London sir. I have a sixth sense when it comes to people talking behind my back and like a lot of people who have their riches secured in here, I know what is and isn’t valuable.”
They arrived at the second vault. The door opened, and the lights initiated. “I can’t leave you alone. You do understand? You can photograph the contents by all means. Now, which box is it?”
“I haven’t got the foggiest Barry. Was hoping you could help,” said Roberts staring at the many hundreds of identical doors.
“Five One Two.” Cade smirked at Roberts.
“How do you know that?”
“Female intuition.”
“But we need two keys.”
“You owe Carrie a bottle of Blue Nun,” he said holding a key between his thumb and forefinger.
“Oh sheer class. I’ll get her two and a weekend break in Clacton.”
“She’d love that. It’s the company she keeps that makes it all the more enjoyable.”
“I bet she’d be heals over head in love with you if you took her to Clacton.”
“Steady on… And Dave Francis sends his regards. Wanted you to know he’s lost none of his field skills. Don’t get him anything alcoholic – a box of Milk Tray will be ideal, he loves the orange creams.”
He handed the second key over. “Turn the keys Barry.”
The two keys slid into the mortice locks of box Five One Two, made from nine-millimetre-thick cold-rolled stainless steel and titanium, the door swung open on the left-hand hinges, and inside a drawer bearing the same number was waiting to be slid out.
Cade pulled out the metal tray by its handle and slowly lifted the lid. He half expected a ray of golden light to appear, or a large moth, or a mocking voice to bellow down at them, warning them not to pass.
Instead, inside was an aged piece of paper and three old photographs.
The first photogra
ph was of a young married couple. Black and white and about four by four inches with a white border. The bride was a good-looking woman with a head of dark blonde hair and piercing eyes. She was smiling, but there was something missing from the smile – happiness.
The male was in a naval dress uniform; fresh-faced, no beard, also smiling, his whole life before him. It was obvious who it was.
The second faded monochrome image was of the same male, stood with a group of young black girls. On the back, in faded graphite was the word Kamsar and a date that started with nineteen.
The third was a picture of an older man, with a brown beard, wearing a black suit, stood somewhere in London, possibly Trafalgar Square. Either side of him, were two girls. One was eating an ice cream and was in her twenties, possibly younger, she was in turn holding a little girl on her knee who had the summery treat running down her chin and onto her chequered cotton dress. Both had blonde hair, and they were beaming. Happy days indeed.
“Recognise anyone?” He held the images up in turn.
“Nope,” said Hackett.
“Respectfully Barry I wasn’t asking you. Jason?”
“That’s Tom. Beard or no beard I can pick him out. The girls, no idea.”
“I wasn’t sure at first but the more I look the more I think it’s someone we’ve both met.”
“A clue would be nice Jack, you know, like her name.”
“The older girl is Susan Reddington.”
“Eh? How on God’s earth do you work that out? She’s only about twenty-nine now.”
“She’s a good-looking girl I’ll give you that. And I think she stays in shape because of her job, but I suspect she is a little older than you think. Maybe forty.”
“Never! If she’s forty, then I’m Marilyn Monroe.”
“How was the president’s birthday party?”
“It was lovely. Thank you for asking.”
Roberts stood and looked at the image. Then stared into the metal box. “You think that picture of Tom Denby is him with Susan Reddington? So who is the little girl then?”
“That I don’t know Marilyn.”
“Go fuck yourself Mr. President.”
“Can I be of assistance?” asked Hackett.
“Only if you are going to stop my dress blowing up in the wind when I stand over the grate outside,” replied Roberts.
“Hardly the blonde bombshell guv, all due respect and all that. No, you see to me what you fellas are overlooking is that piece of paper at the back of the box. I could see you were well disappointed that the box wasn’t full of diamonds, or rubies or gold, not all of them are. Some have treasures worth far more. You just need to open your eyes a little.”
“Do go on.” Roberts looked perplexed. Quite how a retired constable was going to guide a DCI and an ex-inspector down the right path was a little beyond him. But as tired as he was, he needed answers quickly.
“Thank you. You see unless my quiz captain’s brain has let me down I recall it was Miss Baker, Marilyn to her fans, that said ‘Hollywood is a place where they’ll pay you a thousand dollars for a kiss and fifty cents for your soul’.”
“And?” asked both Roberts and Cade in unison.
“Well, you both expected diamonds and pearls and glittery gold, watches, emeralds…all of that…didn’t you? Everyone does. If I had a quid for every quid that wasn’t in the eagerly opened box that was subject of a last will and testament…”
“Let me guess, you’d have a quid?”
“No, I’d be rich. You see, you need to stop looking for all that glitters and look at the man’s soul. I reckon it could be on that piece of paper. Like I say, I’m no expert. But people also use these boxes to hide stuff from the law or the taxman or keep things secret from others. Open it.”
It was the last thing in the box. An aged A4 piece of lined paper, probably torn from a government issue notepad.
Cade carefully opened it. The faded blue lines on the white paper revealed a grid, a sort of pre-Sudoku game and probably from twenty or thirty years prior. This was slightly different. It contained six grids each containing twelve boxes.
Five boxes were empty. A few pencil marks at the side of one indicating that at some point someone was thinking about adding a number.
In the sixth were the numbers Five and One and Two.
Cade offered the paper to Roberts who handed it to Hackett, caring not whether any forensic evidence was spoiled.
“Well quizmaster, any idea?”
Hackett pondered for a moment. Rubbed his chin, then bit his lower lip.
“It’s a code.”
“Give that man some stripes please Inspector Cade. Jesus Barry my two-year-old could work that out.”
“No, with all due respect, you’re not listening. It could be a telephone number.”
“It could,” pushed Roberts. “But?”
“But we only use eleven digits. Could be foreign. Let me think now.”
“Please do, just a little quicker, lives could be at stake here.”
“Right, sorry, you see us quizzers we have ways of remembering things that to many are useless. But I know we use eleven digits. Most countries and cities use less, some ten, some eight, even the biggest Chinese cities don’t use twelve.”
“Mobile number?”
“Nope. It’s not a phone number, sir. So, what else has twelve numbers?”
“Off the top of my head, Barry, I’m struggling. A bank account?”
“Could be. Some are eight, some ten and some twelve. And five one two isn’t the start of a UK bank account.”
“For the love of Mary Jane how do you know this stuff?” asked an almost disbelieving Roberts.
“Quizzes. My team – Diamonds Are Forever are the top pub quiz team in North London. I sit here for hour after bloody hour scratching my nuts and waiting for some glamorous Russian bird to totter in on her nine-inch heels, finger nails longer than my cock…”
He stopped for a second as if something important had come to mind.
“Sorry, where was I?”
“You were comparing your manhood to the length of a Russian girl’s fingernails.”
“I was. My point being this is not a busy place, so I sit and I learn. Ask me to name the Kings and Queens of England in order.”
“No.”
“Alright I sense a feeling that you two gents need to crack on. The number twelve features in the bible a lot. The Old Testament book of Genesis for example clearly states that Jacob had twelve sons and those twelve sons formed the twelve tribes of Israel.”
“Connected to this bit of paper?”
“No. I don’t think so. Jesus had twelve apostles.”
“He did,” said Cade, feeling a little jaded. “The paper?” He held it up, Exhibit One.
“No.”
“Would it help if I held a gun to your head?”
“The job has changed Mr. Roberts. There was a time a simple cosh or a truncheon would have sufficed, but now it’s all guns this and TASER that. Ah!” He held a finger aloft.
“A clock. Twelve numbers. Does it relate to a time?”
“When? Where? Why?”
“No idea.” He shuffled the files inside his immense cranial library.
“Twelve is the largest number that has just one syllable. Erm, twelve signs in the zodiac, twelve months of the year. He was a on a roll now.
“Twelve men have stepped onto the moon.”
“I went there once,” said Roberts.
“Let me guess, no atmosphere?” asked a frazzled Cade, still staring blankly at the grid.
“Twelve zeros in a trillion. Twelve inches in a foot?” asked Hackett.
“But I don’t use mine as a rule,” answered Roberts.
“Look we are getting nowhere. We’ve got a grid with numbers in it. There must be some connection?”
Hackett smiled. “And he knocks it out of the park! I may not be a detective but I’m still bright. It’s a grid reference!”
Roberts look
ed at Cade. Then at Hackett. He stepped forward and hugged him. “Marry me Barry. Right now!”
“Well, I’d have to divorce the wife and…”
“And I think he was joking. So, it’s a grid reference and there were six of them. That means six locations that Tom knew of. And those six places are where the women and men were held when they arrived here.” Cade looked at Hackett.
“Baz, as brilliant as you are, if you utter a word of this to anyone, even that objectionable shit from the tabloids that calls himself a journalist I will personally insert the barrel of this Glock…”
“I get it. You can trust me. I’d accept a pint if you are buying.”
Roberts checked his watch. “Six o’clock. Do you know where the Sanctuary is?”
“The boozer that the squads from the Yard used to use? Of course.”
“The very same. See you there. Jack will buy you dinner and a few pints of Roger’s most special ales and we’ll even ensure you get home care of Old Bill. Deal?”
“Deal.”
“Good. Now starting with Five One and Two work out the next nine numbers or you’ll be having Inspector Cade’s Austrian pride removed from your glistening orifice!”
“Leave it with me. A few clues would be nice.”
“The owner of this piece of paper was a sailor.”
“Oh well, in that case consider it almost done. I’ll need about a week.”
The three men shook hands and Roberts and Cade got back to their car as the phone was ringing.
“John. You OK?”
“Yes, I’m fine Jason, nothing a Dark Storm and some ice won’t cure. How did you get on?”
“Well, Kate had legged it. We got to the vault and found a few photos of Tom, his wife and a couple of women; well one woman and a little girl. And a piece of paper with grids and three numbers on. Apart from that, Sweet Fanny Adams.”
Cade spoke up next.
“And you’ll never guess what JD – we’ve worked out what the numbers equate to…”
“Yes a grid reference – a map reference. Tom remembered a while ago.”
“And you didn’t think to tell us?”
The Angel of Whitehall Page 44