The Blow Out

by Bill Rogers

Jo did, as did Nick. The minute it became clear that Springer didn’t even drive, let alone own a car, they had feared exactly this scenario. Tracking down the fraudster would be near on impossible. At best, time consuming.

  ‘Do you know why anyone would decide to use your name and details, Mr Springer?’ said Jo.

  He shrugged. ‘Why do they pick anyone’s? Probably just choose one at random from the metaphorical phone book. Or check out a few profiles on social media.’

  ‘You do understand that I’ll have to ask one of my officers to check what you’ve told me,’ she said.

  ‘I’ve nothing to hide,’ he told her.

  ‘Good, because just to be absolutely certain, for your sake as much as ours, the officer will also ask you both about your whereabouts on certain days and at certain times.’

  ‘No problem,’ they said in unison.

  ‘Have you ever received any official-looking documents, brown envelopes, that sort of thing, addressed to someone else, but with your address?’ she asked.

  ‘No,’ replied Jordan Springer. ‘I’d have certainly remembered if I had.’

  ‘There was one about a year ago, Jordy,’ said Adam Sealy. ‘I’m sure I told you about it?’

  Springer looked surprised. ‘You can’t have done. Like I say, I’d have remembered.’

  ‘What did you do with it?’ asked Jo.

  ‘Wrote “Not known at this address” on it and put it in the mail on the way to work.’

  ‘No!’ his partner exclaimed. ‘You must never do that.’

  ‘What was I supposed to do with it? Open it?’

  ‘Exactly. Then, if it’s legit you can reseal it and send it back to the Post Office. Because there’s every chance that someone’s using your address to gain credit or official documents.’

  Sealy appealed to the two police officers. ‘I thought it was illegal to open any mail not in your name?’

  ‘It is,’ Nick told him. ‘Under the Postal Services Act 2000, a person commits an offence if, intending to act to a person’s detriment, and without reasonable excuse, he opens a postal packet which he knows, or reasonably suspects, has been incorrectly delivered to him. The penalty is a fine, or up to six months’ imprisonment.’

  ‘Ah!’ said Springer. ‘But in this case, there would be a reasonable excuse. Namely, making sure someone isn’t trying to impersonate me!’

  ‘It’s a moot point, Sir,’ said Nick. ‘You’d be safer returning it to the post office and reporting your concerns to them.’

  ‘I think that’s about it,’ said Jo. ‘If we could just have a look in your garage before we leave.’

  ‘Sure, I’ll show you,’ said Springer.

  They were walking back down the hall when something caught Jo’s eye. A framed university diploma in the name of Jordan Springer. He had been awarded a 2:1 honours degree in Economics.

  ‘You were at UCL?’ she said.

  ‘That’s right. 2010 to 2013.’

  ‘While you were there, did you come across a student named Darren Clements?’

  He looked surprised.

  ‘Darren? We shared a house during my last two years. There were five of us in a rental property off Russell Square. He was a year below me, on a different course.’

  ‘Two years?’ said Jo. ‘You must have got to know him pretty well.’

  ‘I guess so. Not that we were bosom friends. Why are you asking?’

  ‘Hang on!’ said his partner. ‘Are you saying you think this guy is the person who has been impersonating Jordan?’

  ‘I’m not saying that at all,’ she replied. ‘It’s just that the more information we have, the better we’ll be able to pursue appropriate lines of enquiry. Are you still in contact with Darren, Mr Springer?’

  ‘No. I haven’t seen or spoken to him since I left university.’

  ‘Is it possible some of your other friends may have done?’ asked Nick.

  ‘I suppose so. But if they did, they never mentioned it.’

  Jo handed him a card containing her contact details. ‘I’d be obliged if you could check and then let me know,’ she said. ‘Now, the garage?’

  Chapter 61

  ‘It’s got to be Darren Clements,’ said Nick as he started the engine. ‘Unless he sold the car on to someone else. But it’s too much of a coincidence – him having both a motive, and fraudulently obtaining a vehicle spotted in the vicinity of several of the crime scenes.’

  ‘I agree,’ said Jo. ‘But there’s a yawning gulf between believing it and proving it. And we don’t know for certain that Ronnie O’Neill, or any of the other victims of these attacks had a role in his sister’s death, as suppliers or dealers. It’s a pity the original investigation didn’t try harder to establish where the drugs she took came from.’

  ‘Once they had a verdict of death by misadventure I suppose they didn’t see the point?’ said Nick.

  ‘Darren Clements certainly would have done,’ Jo replied. ‘We need to find that vehicle – preferably with him in it. That means the ANPR database, live and historical searches. And a close look at any passive media footage we can get our hands on within a mile radius of his home. For all we know he may be parking it nearby and using his bike to go to and from it. And I want him under twenty-four-hour personal surveillance.’

  ‘Trouble is, now he knows we’re looking at him, he’s going to be extra careful. And what’s the likelihood he’s going to keep using the same car?’

  ‘He doesn’t know that we know about the car. Or that we’ve established a possible link between that and him.’

  ‘Why don’t we get a Section 8 warrant to thoroughly search his home? We’ve got reasonable cause. And there’s no way we can obtain the evidence we need without it.’

  Jo shook her head. ‘You said it yourself, Nick. He knows we regard him as a suspect. I’ve met him. He was smart, calm, and confident. Arrogant even. He was happy for us to have a good look around. We didn’t find anything at his house that could connect him to the attacks, and if there was he’s going to have either destroyed it or moved it by now.’

  He checked his mirrors and then glanced at her. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘How many times have you come across a villain who was all of those things, but was so arrogant he didn’t bother to cover his tracks?’

  Jo thought about it. ‘You’re right,’ she responded. ‘There’s too much at stake. If it is him and he’s been smart, at the very least we’ll likely force him to back off. To slow down. Maybe save a life while we’re gathering more evidence. If we don’t bring him in and he does strike again, how’s that going to make us feel?’

  ‘Exactly my thinking,’ said Nick. ‘And if we’re wrong and it isn’t him there’s nothing lost. And it’ll look like we’re actually doing something. If you’d seen this morning’s shambles you’d know how important that’s become.’

  Jo’s heart skipped a beat. ‘What do you mean, this morning’s shambles?’

  ‘I hate to be the one to tell you this, Jo,’ he said, ‘but while you were sleeping off last night’s hanky-panky, Helen Gates was being grilled about Operation Alecto on BBC Breakfast news. And I have to tell you, it wasn’t pretty.’

  ‘Oh hell!’ she said. ‘There was a text from Gates on my phone but I didn’t read it. I was late for the solicitors. I bet she was wanting me to do the interview.’

  ‘That’d be my guess,’ he said. ‘Or at the very least she’d have wanted you to brief her.’

  ‘Go on,’ she said. ‘Tell me the worst.’

  ‘She was giving it the usual “Investigations are ongoing . . . A number of lines of enquiry are being followed . . . We are hopeful of a speedy resolution . . .” but the presenters were having none of it. You should have heard them going at it. “Why has no one been arrested? Why has so little information been made public? Is it true there’s a random killer on the loose firing pellets laced with ricin? Is Counter Terrorism Command involved? What can members of the public do to protect themselves?” You should have seen her face.
It’s not easy to look both embarrassed and wrathful at the same time.’

  Jo grimaced. ‘No prizes for guessing who all that wrath was aimed at.’

  ‘That wasn’t the worst of it,’ he said. ‘One of them asked her if there was any truth in the rumours that the abduction of the missing twelve-year-old girl was connected with the shootings.’

  ‘What did she say to that?’

  ‘The only thing she could say. That the operation was being handled by the National Crime Agency and all enquiries should be directed to them.’

  ‘Apart from the fact that it’s not strictly true, it must have come across as a massive cop-out?’

  ‘It did. And when that was pointed out she decided she’d had enough. A technician had to rush on to stop the throat mic ripping her blouse as she walked off.’

  Jo leaned forward and banged her head rhythmically against the fascia. It started that hammer going again, but the pain was a comforting diversion. I suppose this is why people self-harm, she told herself.

  ‘Poor Helen,’ she said. ‘She’s never going to forgive me.’

  ‘Cheer up,’ said Nick. ‘You’re not alone. She tried to get me too, but I was in the shower. By the time I returned her call she was already in the studio. Don’t worry, it’ll all be forgotten as soon as we nail this bastard.’

  The Airwave radio burst into life. It was ACC Gates. Her voice teetered on the edge of fury. ‘DS Carter,’ she said, ‘is there the remotest possibility that you happen to know the whereabouts of SI Stuart?’

  Jo pulled a face, took a deep breath, and sat back. ‘I’m right here, Ma’am,’ she said.

  ‘Hallelujah!’ said Gates. ‘The wanderer returns!’

  ‘I’m sorry, Ma’am,’ said Jo.

  ‘Sorry? I should bloody well think you’re sorry. Are you aware of what I had to endure this morning?’

  ‘Yes, Ma’am. DS Carter briefed me.’

  ‘Lucky you. I had no one to brief me. Because you two appeared to have gone walkabout. Again!’

  ‘I’m sorry, Ma’am.’

  ‘Where were you?’

  ‘I had an appointment with my solicitor, Ma’am. I forgot to switch my phone back on.’

  ‘Something that appears to have become a habit.’

  ‘Sorry, Ma’am.’

  ‘Will you stop apologising and shape up. This is an ongoing multiple murder investigation with unparalleled national interest. I need to be able to contact both of you at any time, night or day. Is that understood?’

  ‘Yes, Ma’am,’ they chorused.

  ‘My God!’ she said. ‘It’s Tweedledum and Tweedledee.’

  They exchanged glances.

  ‘We have a prime suspect, Ma’am,’ said Jo, seizing the initiative.

  There was a pause.

  ‘Are you serious, or are you just trying to humour me?’

  ‘I’m serious, Ma’am. Darren Clements.’

  ‘I thought you’d ruled him out? Him and his father?’

  ‘Not entirely. We had nothing to connect him to any of the murders other than a possible motive. But because he lives alone and works from home, he had no concrete alibis for any of the attacks.’

  ‘So what’s changed?’

  ‘Despite his motive, he never acted upon it in the way that his father did,’ said Jo. ‘But now we have evidence that he stole the identity of a former student friend and used that to buy, license, tax, and insure a car that has been placed in the vicinity of two of the crime scenes at times relevant to the shootings.’

  ‘Motive and opportunity,’ said the ACC. ‘That’s too much of a coincidence. All you need now is the means. You have to find that air rifle.’

  ‘I’m on my way to Nexus House to fill out a Section 8 application for a warrant to search his house and put a team together,’ said Jo.

  ‘Leave the warrant to me,’ said Gates. ‘It’ll be quicker. I’ll give you a call as soon as the magistrate has signed it. You can pick it up from Central Park HQ.’

  They both heard the click as she ended the call.

  ‘Well, that went well,’ said Nick Carter.

  Jo wasn’t sure if he was being serious or sarcastic.

  He turned off the engine and began to unbuckle his seat belt. ‘Tweedledum and Tweedledee?’ he said.

  ‘It could have been worse,’ she replied.

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Cagney and Lacey,’ she said. ‘I know which one I’d be.’

  Chapter 62

  ‘There’s no response, Ma’am,’ said Maguire, the search team leader. ‘And no sign of life, as far as we can tell.’

  Jo was unsurprised. The surveillance team hadn’t observed any movement since they’d arrived an hour earlier. A female officer in plain clothes had just made the initial approach because Jo had been hoping to keep it as low-key as possible. Just in case they’d got it wrong. Some hope.

  ‘Very well,’ she said. ‘Send them in.’

  They watched Maguire return to the lead van and climb into the passenger seat. The van set off, followed by a Land Rover Defender and a sedan, both containing members of the Firearms Unit, then Jo, Nick, DC Whittle, and a loggist from Central Park. A marked Forensics van, a dog unit, and an unmarked van brought up the rear.

  The lead vehicles turned left into the suspect’s street. The sedan car carried straight on, accelerated, and then turned sharp left towards the rear of the property.

  The first of the vans parked broadside across the road. The rear van copied the manoeuvre. Roadblocks in place, three officers in full riot gear ran up the drive, the doors of the BMW flew open and four armed officers came forward and took up positions in the yard, covering the windows with their weapons. Jo walked towards the house, her colleagues beside her.

  ‘So much for softly, softly,’ muttered Nick.

  The search team leader turned towards them. Jo nodded her head. The foremost officer swung his tubular steel Enforcer, exerting close to three tons of force against the lock. The door flew open. More armed officers, wearing respirators beneath their masks, ran up the drive and straight into the house adding their shouts to those of their colleagues: Armed Police! Stay where you are! Armed Police! Stand Still!

  By the time the detectives had reached the gate the firearms commander had received the all-clear.

  ‘There’s no one in there, Ma’am,’ he told her. ‘Nor in the yard out back. Looks like the bird has flown.’

  The firearms officers had begun trooping back down the flagstone path. Jo stepped back to let them pass.

  ‘Any sign of chemicals? Or potential booby traps?’ she asked.

  He shook his head. ‘They were briefed to look out for both. They’d have told me if they’d spotted anything.’

  ‘Better to be sure,’ she said, waving forward the two dog teams.

  They watched as a springer spaniel was carried over the broken glass by his handler and set down in the hallway. The handler of a golden retriever found it more challenging as he followed suit. A further seven minutes passed, during which more than a dozen neighbours had appeared in windows and doorways and been told in no uncertain terms to close them and to stay indoors. The handlers returned, both shaking their heads.

  Jo’s Airwave radio squawked. It was Helen Gates.

  ‘Gold Command. Report, please, Bronze Command.’

  ‘Initial searches complete, Gold Command,’ Jo replied. ‘All negative. There is no sign of the suspect. According to the dog handlers there was no trace of weapons, drugs, or the specific substance about which we’re concerned. I’m just about to send in a biohazard Forensics team.’

  ‘Is that really necessary, Bronze Command? Given the dogs have already been in?’

  Nick raised his eyebrows. Jo managed to keep her expression neutral.

  ‘I believe so, Gold Command,’ she calmly replied. ‘Mistakes happen. Forensics have their own highly sensitive detection equipment. When they’re happy we’ll carry out a full search of the premises.’

  ‘H
ave you started door-to-door?’

  ‘Yes, Ma’am. And I’ve received confirmation that the all-ports warning has been sent.’

  There was a long pause.

  ‘The search for the vehicle is ongoing?’

  ‘Yes, Ma’am.’

  ‘In which case, Bronze Command,’ said Gates. ‘In the absence of the suspect and any immediate threat, I’m handing all operational command of this operation over to you. Keep me informed of any developments.’

  ‘Acknowledged, Gold Command,’ said Jo.

  ‘Just find your suspect, SI Stuart,’ Gates added, ‘before he does any more damage.’

  ‘Thoughtful of her to put that last bit on record,’ Nick observed when the exchange was over.

  Jo tutted and turned to the loggist. ‘You’re not making a note of that, are you? My colleague’s comment?’

  He shook his head. ‘As if I would. It was hardly a decision, was it?’

  ‘Thank you,’ she said.

  Jack Benson, the senior CSI officer, approached with his visor up. ‘It’s safe for the search team to go in, Ma’am,’ he said. ‘Free from hazards and as far as we can tell, anything else besides. If pressed, I’d say he’s sanitised the place.’

  ‘I’m pressing you,’ she said.

  He shrugged. ‘In that case, in my professional opinion, someone has sanitised these premises.’

  Jo turned to the loggist again. ‘You can write that down.’ She stepped onto the path and headed towards the door. ‘Come on, you two,’ she called over her shoulder. ‘Let’s go.’

  It was immediately obvious what the CSI leader had meant. Compared with their previous visit everything was neat and tidy and all the surfaces had been dusted. The pile of paperbacks on the dining-room table had disappeared. The vinyl records had been placed in a wicker basket beside the turntable. The kitchen looked as though a professional cleaner had worked on it.

  Jo had a look under the stairs. The bicycle was missing, as was the black-and-red windcheater that had hung from one of the hooks. She kicked herself for not having taken a photograph of the upstairs.

  Jo found Carly in the study in the loft space. She was standing by the desk, holding a pair of black power leads.