The Blow Out

by Bill Rogers

  ‘But they’ll still register as heroin and morphine in a standard drugs test,’ said Jo. ‘We’ve been specifically warned about it. I’m sorry, Aggie, but I can’t risk it.’

  Agata sat down. ‘You’re serious, aren’t you?’ she said.

  Jo reached across and squeezed her hand. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘but I am. You know the TV presenter – Angela Rippon?’

  ‘Rip-Off Britain,’ said Agata.

  ‘Well, she tested positive on the show after eating some poppyseed bread. She did it after hearing about the power-station worker who was sacked for failing a routine workplace test after doing the same. And there’s the Swiss national who was given a four-year sentence in Dubai after he was found to have a few poppyseeds on his clothing after eating a poppyseed roll at Heathrow Airport.’

  Agata put her other hand on top of Jo’s. ‘Did you drive here?’ she said.

  ‘No.’

  ‘So you can either stay here tonight or go back on the Metro. And what are the chances of you having a random workplace drugs test tomorrow, a Saturday? In the middle of a major investigation?’

  Jo smiled. ‘A billion to one?’

  ‘There you go then.’

  ‘But there’s always a chance of an accident when I’m in the car tomorrow,’ Jo reasoned. ‘And that might result in a roadside drink and drugs test.’

  ‘So be careful. Or better still, get one of your minions to drive you.’ Agata could see that Jo was beginning to waver. She squeezed Jo’s hand tight. ‘Life’s too short,’ she said. ‘And you know they’ll let you off when you explain. It’ll not be the biggest risk you’ve ever taken.’

  Ain’t that the truth, thought Jo. It was possibly the largest understatement she’d ever heard. She stared into those big blue eyes, the slightly darker shading of one giving Aggie an air of mischievous intent.

  ‘What the hell,’ said Jo, releasing a hand and reaching for a bun.

  Later, the table cleared, they sat side by side on the sofa, nursing a Slivovitz plum brandy apiece.

  ‘A nineteenth-century recipe,’ Agata explained, ‘passed down through the generations by the Jewish inhabitants of Stryków. It even survived the Holocaust, which is more than ninety-nine per cent of those inhabitants did.’

  ‘Are you Jewish, Aggie?’ said Jo.

  ‘No. Neither am I Polish. I was born here. I’m a British citizen with a British passport. It is true that because both of my parents are Polish I’d automatically qualify for Polish citizenship, but it has never crossed my mind. Until now.’

  ‘Why now?’

  ‘Because we Brits have decided to divorce ourselves from the rest of Europe. Poland included. I have always regarded myself as both British and European. I do not want to have to choose. So, if we do leave I shall take up my Polish citizenship.’ She nudged Jo with her free arm. ‘You realise that means that if we ever go on vacation to Europe together, I’ll be able to speed through immigration and customs in both directions, while you have to queue with all those other people from outside the European Union. Don’t worry though, I’ll wait for you in baggage collection.’

  ‘I know so little about you,’ said Jo. ‘And with your obvious affinity to Poland, I just assumed . . .’

  ‘That’s because my parents wanted me never to forget my roots, or theirs.’ Agata swirled her brandy and took a sip. ‘When France fell in 1940 the Polish Prime Minister took his Government-in-Exile with him to London. With him came nearly 20,000 members of the armed services. Did you know that during the Battle of Britain and beyond, the Poles made up the largest non-British contingent of pilots and airmen in the RAF? My grandfather was one of them – a war hero. After the war he was given British citizenship. He returned to Poland to try to help rebuild it, but ten years later, disillusioned and certain that the Soviets would never loosen their grip, returned, bringing my father and his two sisters with him. But in 1997, after the Russians had left and Poland was beginning to re-establish itself as a nation, my father and mother took us to live in Poznań and sent my sister and me to Saint Mary Magdalene High School. We both went on to the university there.’

  ‘What did you read?’

  ‘English and Journalism. As you can imagine, the English came easily.’

  ‘What is it like, Poznań?’

  ‘It’s a fascinating place. One of the oldest and largest cities in Poland. The Renaissance Old Town survived the German occupation, as did the cathedral, which is the oldest church in the entire country. The Imperial Castle and the Town Hall are really impressive. In summer there are beaches along the River Warta, like in Paris. The city has one of the highest standards of living in Poland.’ She raised her glass. ‘Oh, and I almost forgot – an exceptional standard of education.’

  Jo clinked glasses with her. ‘One has only to look at you.’

  ‘I’d love to take you and show you round some day, perhaps?’ said Agata.

  ‘I’d love that,’ Jo replied. ‘I’ve never been further east than the Rhine.’

  Agata adopted a serious tone. ‘Did you know,’ she said, ‘that Winston Churchill promised that the British people would never forget the debt they owed to the Polish troops who fought alongside them, and then, at the Yalta Conference, he agreed to let Russia keep whole swathes of Poland and displaced over a million Poles, including many of those selfsame troops? Many of the troops refused to return home to Poland, and thirty of them committed suicide rather than do so.’

  ‘That must have been dreadful,’ said Jo.

  ‘My grandfather said it felt like the ultimate betrayal. That’s why the British Government passed the Polish Resettlement Act allowing the troops and their families, and others affected by the annexation to stay in Britain or come to live here.’ She shook her head sadly. ‘How times have changed,’ she said.

  The evening had taken a more sombre turn. Jo wasn’t sure how to respond. She put her glass down. ‘I need the loo,’ she said.

  ‘In the bedroom,’ said Agata.

  On her way back, Jo spotted a laptop open on the bed. Perhaps it was the drink, but she was tempted to take a peek. She tapped the space bar and a document appeared. The headline screamed out at her.

  ‘Melissa Still Missing. What are the police doing to find her?’

  A rush of mixed emotions threatened to overwhelm her. Her initial reaction was to feel disappointment and betrayal, but a more insistent voice broke in. Don’t be a fool, it said. This is Aggie’s job. She did warn you. And, to be fair, she hasn’t raised this case, or Alecto, all evening. Stop being so precious, and for God’s sake don’t mess this one up.

  She quickly put the laptop into sleep mode, praying that Aggie wouldn’t notice. Then she picked her coat and bag up off the bed and walked into the lounge.

  ‘You’re not leaving already?’ said Aggie. She stood up. ‘I was hoping you might . . . stay the night?’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Jo. ‘But I’m really bushed. I desperately need a good night’s sleep.’ She saw how crestfallen Agata looked. ‘Seriously,’ she said, ‘and there’s a lot preying on my mind. The investigation. The missing girl. I wouldn’t be any fun. And there’ll be plenty of other occasions.’

  Before Agata could reply, Jo gave her a big hug.

  ‘Thank you, Aggie,’ she said. ‘It’s been a wonderful evening. Exactly what I needed.’

  ‘How will you get back?’

  Jo looked at her watch. ‘If I leave right now, I’ll get the last tram to Victoria. Then it’s just a two-minute walk to the apartments.’

  Agata followed her to the door. ‘Be careful,’ she said.

  Jo gave her a reassuring smile. ‘I’m a big girl,’ she said, ‘and it’s a Friday night. The city will be buzzing.’

  There was an awkwardness about their kiss that reflected the conflicting emotions going on in their heads. Jo had no idea what was stopping her from fully committing. And she knew that Aggie couldn’t fathom why such a promising evening had suddenly headed south. She stepped out into
the corridor.

  ‘My turn next,’ she said, ‘just as soon as I’ve got the place straight.’

  ‘Don’t forget I promised to help you with that,’ said Agata.

  ‘I’ll call you tomorrow,’ said Jo. ‘And thanks again – it really was a lovely evening.’

  The elevator doors opened. As Jo stepped inside she looked back towards the apartment. Aggie was still standing in the doorway. Her ash blonde hair framed a sad pale face. She looked nothing like the hard-boiled reporter. More like a little lost doll. Jo felt a pang of guilt and was tempted to run back, hold her close, and tell her there was nothing to worry about. A moment’s hesitation and then the doors slid to and the elevator began to descend.

  Chapter 59

  DAY SIX – SATURDAY, 21ST OCTOBER

  Jo moaned. Her temples throbbed, her mouth was bone dry, and there was an insistent ringing in her head. She opened her eyes and quickly closed them against the searing bright light around the edges of the shutters.

  The ringing stopped.

  She turned her back to the window, warily opened one eye and then the other. She focused on the phone lying on the bedside table. She reached out and picked it up. It was off. She switched it on again. The time said 9.25 a.m.

  She cursed and levered herself up until her back was against the headboard, closed her eyes again and took stock.

  She didn’t remember going to bed, but she knew that her sleep had been populated by the weirdest of dreams. She couldn’t remember any of the details, but it had felt like fleeing from one nightmare to the next. From the very hounds of hell.

  She put it down to the plum brandy and the poppyseed. My God, she thought, have I just experienced what it’s like to be on heroin?

  As the phone came alive, it began to alert her to text after text. She held it up and checked them through bleary eyes. There was one from Helen Gates. The others were all from the same number. There was one she did not recognise. She opened the first of them, timed at 9.02.

  Ms Stuart. We are all here. Where are you?

  ‘Shit!’

  She pushed back the bedclothes and swung her legs over the side of the bed, triggering a hammer blow inside her skull. She’d missed the completion of sale they had arranged for this morning. In the open-plan lounge the landline began to ring. She hurried through and picked it up.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ she told the solicitor. ‘I had a really bad night and slept through the alarm. Am I too late?’

  ‘Not if you can get here within the next half hour. Mr and Mrs Roberts have to be away by 10.15. I’ll get them a coffee. But please hurry. I have another appointment myself at ten.’

  Jo splashed her face, cleaned her teeth, threw on her clothes, grabbed her phone, bag, and keys and left.

  Forty minutes later she stood on the pavement outside the solicitors, took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. The atmosphere had been frosty and she’d felt dreadful, both physically and emotionally. But the deed was done. Now she could move on.

  Her phone pinged. It was a text from Abbie.

  All done and dusted?

  Jo shook her head. ‘You couldn’t wait, could you?’ she murmured. She kept the reply short and to the point.

  Yes. Cheque to follow.

  She’d barely pressed send when another text appeared. It was Nick Carter.

  Got some good news, Ma’am. Are you coming in?

  She replied straight away.

  Be with you in fifteen.

  In the event, it was more like ten. Jo hated to think what might have happened had she been stopped for speeding. She kept an alcohol self-test kit in the car, so she knew for a fact that she’d been on the amber/green boundary when she set off. But God knows what her opiate level might be. There was no telling how St Martin’s Day Croissants would go down as an explanation before an NCA disciplinary enquiry. Like a lead balloon, came to mind.

  Nick hurried across the room to meet her. He viewed her with surprise and a hint of concern. He lowered his voice. ‘You look like shit,’ he said.

  ‘Like shit, Ma’am,’ she replied.

  ‘Sorry, Ma’am,’ he said. ‘Are you okay?’

  When it was evident that she was not going to elaborate, he launched into a rapid update.

  ‘The hospital’s given Heather Rand the all-clear, but they still want her to stay in for a few days just to be on the safe side. Firearms forensics have confirmed what you already knew about it being possible to fire pellets from a long rifle using powder-activated nail gun blanks. But, they say there was no evidence of rifling marks on the recovered pellets. Nor was there any gun powder residue on the pellets. They also say the noise, even with a suppressor fitted, would have been much more evident. Their view is that we’re looking at either a standard air rifle, or a target air pistol.’

  Jo nodded. ‘All of which rules out the rifle I saw at James Campbell’s cottage.’

  ‘Exactly. That was a good call, Ma’am. But the really exciting news is that a Nissan Micra was caught on CCTV in the vicinity of two of the sites on the days in question.’

  ‘Which crime scenes?’

  ‘Ainsdale and Bolton. I can show you on the computer,’ he said.

  ‘I’ll take your word for it,’ she said. ‘Was it possible to identify the driver?’

  ‘Not from the cameras. He had the sunshield down and a baseball cap low over his face.’

  ‘How do you know it was a he?’

  ‘An educated guess. We were able to get the licence number. The registered owner, keeper, and insured, are one and the same. Duggie Wallace wasn’t in, so I got on to your man, Ram Shah, and asked him to get us everything he could on this guy.’

  ‘And?’ she said, impatiently.

  ‘He lives in Trafford. He’s unmarried, but with a male partner. He works in Manchester for a major insurance company, as a departmental manager. Claims investigation branch. No previous convictions.’

  ‘Does he have a name?’

  ‘Jordan Springer.’

  ‘Get your coat, Nick,’ she said. ‘Let’s go and hear what Mr Springer has to say for himself. And by the way, you’re driving.’

  Chapter 60

  ‘Poppyseed-filled croissants?’ Nick Carter glanced across at her. ‘Are you sure you should be telling me this?’

  ‘Why?’ she replied. ‘Are you going to grass me up?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Good. The reason I’m telling you is that I thought you’d find it interesting. And just in case I need someone to back me up.’

  ‘Won’t Agata do that?’

  Jo looked out of her side window, avoiding his gaze. ‘Hopefully.’

  ‘Sounds like you did have a rough night,’ he said.

  ‘This is it,’ said Jo.

  The pre-war semi-detached was straight off Barton Road. There was a grey VW hatchback in the drive. Nick pulled in and stopped behind it.

  ‘No sign of a Nissan,’ he observed, releasing his seat belt.

  They walked side by side up the gravelled drive. The door opened before they had a chance to ring the bell.

  The young man standing in the doorway was in his mid- to late-twenties. He was of medium height, slim, dressed in a sweatshirt and jeans, and sported a short black beard. ‘How may I help you?’ he asked in a surprisingly bass and confident voice.

  ‘Jordan Springer?’ said Jo.

  ‘Yes. And you are?’

  Jo held up her ID. Nick followed suit. ‘Police officers. Could we come in and have a word, please?’

  ‘What’s it to do with exactly?’ he said.

  ‘It would be better for all of us if I could explain inside,’ she persisted.

  With great reluctance, he stepped aside and let them in. ‘All the way down the hall,’ he said.

  ‘Who is it, Jordy?’ said a male voice.

  ‘Police,’ he replied, shutting the door behind them.

  ‘Police?’

  A second man stood as they entered the kitchen. Of African-Caribbean heritage,
he looked older than Springer and taller. He wore sweatpants and a tight-fitting cut-off tank top that showed his well-developed muscles to the full. Springer went to stand beside the other man and the two of them exchanged looks.

  ‘This is all very mysterious,’ Springer said. ‘Are you going to tell us what this is about?’

  ‘My name is SI Stuart,’ said Jo, ‘and this is Detective Sergeant Carter. And this gentleman is . . . ?’

  ‘Adam Sealy. I’m Jordan’s partner.’

  ‘We’re interested in the whereabouts of this car, Mr Springer,’ said Jo, ‘registered in your name.’

  Nick Carter handed him a photo taken from one of the traffic cameras. The two of them stared at it in disbelief.

  ‘I don’t own a car,’ said Springer. ‘And I’ve never seen this one before in my life.’

  ‘Do you drive?’

  ‘Not cars, no. I own a mountain bike. I work in the city. I have no need of a car.’

  ‘How about you, Mr Sealy?’ said Jo.

  ‘I own a Mercedes SUV, a mountain bike, and a racer I use for my triathlons,’ he replied. ‘The Merc is being serviced right now.’

  ‘Then how do you explain the fact, Mr Springer, that this car is registered in your name, shows you as the keeper, and is also taxed and licensed in your name?’ said Nick.

  Adam Sealy looked concerned.

  His partner smiled and shook his head as though expressing disappointment. ‘I’m sure I don’t need to explain this to you both,’ he said, ‘but it’ll probably save us all time if I do. I’m in insurance. I see vehicle fraud like this all the time at work. Fraudsters using false addresses, including email addresses, and easily obtainable cards such as retail store cards to build up a plausible electronic picture of credit activity, which banks, DVLA, insurers, and landlords take as evidence that they’re dealing with a genuine applicant. In this case someone must have decided to use my details. All he’d have to do is inform them of a change of address. Probably one he’s got on a short lease, in Trafford, using the same information. You must be aware that there have been whole areas of some cities in the UK where over 60 per cent of vehicles are uninsured?’