The Network
The Dream Traveler Book Two
Ernesto H Lee
Copyright © Ernesto H Lee 2018
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission from the author.
ISBN – 13: 978-1728753386
Cover art by Spiffing Covers
Dedication
To Maria, the other Frog in our crazy bubble of a box….the words below are not my own, they are a close enough reflection of how you make me feel. Yours are the words and the smiles that encourage and make my days better xx
A group of frogs was traveling through the woods and two of them fell into a deep pit. When the other frogs saw how deep the pit was, they told the two frogs that they were as good as dead. The two frogs ignored the comments and tried to jump up out of the pit with all their might. The other frogs kept telling them to stop, that they were as good as dead.
Finally, one of the frogs took heed to what the other frogs were saying and gave up. He fell down and died.
The other frog continued to jump as hard as he could. Once again, the crowd of frogs yelled at him to stop the pain and just die. He jumped even harder and finally made it out. When he got out, the other frogs said, “Did you not hear us?” The frog explained to them that he was deaf. He thought they were encouraging him the entire time.
Moral: There is power of life and death in the tongue. An encouraging word to someone who is down can lift them up and help them make it through the day. So be careful of what you say. Speak life to those who cross your path. The power of words is sometimes hard to understand. An encouraging word or a smile can go such a long way.
Preface
What a difference a week makes.
Just seven days ago, I was standing in front of my colleagues feeling optimistic and excited at the prospect of closing my first cold-case as lead detective. How is it that just one week later, I find myself handcuffed on the wrong side of the desk facing the distinct possibility of spending the rest of my life in prison for the murder of my own prime suspect?
If I didn’t know better, it would be all too easy to fool myself into believing that this was a part of one of my dreams. However, this is no dream and the custody sergeant in front of me and the armed officers at my sides are as real as they come. I have never felt as isolated and alone as I do now and, to make matters worse, I have no idea who to turn to for help.
My partner has admitted to working against me, my boss has me pegged as a murderer, and the head of the serious crimes squad has demonstrated beyond all doubt the lengths he will go to in order to protect himself and the rest of his crooked network. From this point on, or until proven otherwise, I need to assume that Morgan and every other copper on the force are also part of Clive Douglas’ secret network.
This is a not an easy thought to stomach, but it was partly my trust in Catherine that got me into this mess. Like it or not, for now I am entirely on my own and if I don’t come up with a plan quickly, one of my next stops will be the very prison cell that I was threatening Terry Fletcher with.
Unfortunately, my head feels like it is about to explode and my guts feel like they are on fire. This has nothing to do with the shock of my arrest and everything to do with the half bottle of absinthe I knocked back as a stimulant before my last trip.
Regardless of the reason, a banging head and dodgy guts are hardly conducive to formulating a good enough plan to save myself. To say that I am feeling utterly helpless would be an understatement. Nevertheless, my hangover will soon pass — and when it does, all of these corrupt fuckers had better buckle up tight.
Sean McMillan
14th February 2018
One Hour Earlier – Present Day - Wednesday, 14th February 2018
The light in my eyes is so powerful that I am temporarily blinded. I consider for a moment that perhaps I am still dreaming. The voice is very real, though, and the barked order leaves me in no doubt as to what is happening.
“Stand up and keep your hands where I can see them — do it now!”
Before I can react, I am manhandled from the bed and pushed facedown to the floor by at least two assailants. A knee presses down hard into the small of my back and my arms are viciously jerked behind me. It is only when the cuffs snap shut on my wrists that I realize what is happening and when the main lights go on, I am surprised to see Catherine standing in front of me. Sergeant Huntley is standing to the left of her and they are accompanied by four heavily armed firearms officers. The senior officer tells the guy with his knee in my back to stand me up; then he turns to Catherine.
“Is this him, DC Swain?”
“Yes, it is. This is Detective Constable Sean McMillan.”
I am about to speak, but Catherine moves towards me and speaks first.
“Detective Constable McMillan, I am arresting you on suspicion of murder. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defense if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence. Do you understand?”
“Cath, no. This is fucking crazy! You can’t believe this. It was Douglas. Please, Cath.”
She looks embarrassed and is going to say something but is distracted when Sergeant Bellmarsh enters the bedroom. He is wearing search gloves and is holding a bloodstained hunting knife in his left hand.
“This was in one of the kitchen drawers; the blood on it still looks fresh.”
Despite my protests of innocence, I am dragged out of my apartment and into the lift. Catherine can barely make eye contact with me as we descend to the ground floor. The road outside is filled with police vehicles and DCI Morgan and DS Douglas are standing next to the back of a police transit van. I try to speak to Morgan, but he stops me.
“Save it, Sean. Don’t say something you might regret.”
Then he speaks to my escort, “Go on, get him out of my sight.”
The look of disappointment and disgust on his face says it all, but as the rear door slams shut, I refuse to accept that this is the end. Far from it — this is just the beginning.
Present Day – Wednesday, 14th February 2018
Normal practice when arresting a serving police officer is to take them into a neutral police station to limit any potential interference during processing and interview.
It is also done to limit any embarrassment to the officer or their colleagues. I can only assume then that I have been taken into my own station at the specific request of Detective Chief Inspector Morgan.
Only time will tell if this is a good or a bad thing, but for now it looks like I might at least get the opportunity to explain myself to the boss face-to-face.
It is noticeable that, apart from the custody sergeant and my armed escort, the reception area is far busier with other police officers than it should be at 8.40 in the evening.
It’s hardly surprising, though; it’s not every day that they get to see one of their own colleagues being hauled in for murder. Word of my arrest has clearly done the rounds of the station and as the number of onlookers increases, so does the volume of the whispers, until finally the station senior officer, Chief Inspector Moore, orders all non-essential personnel to return to their duties.
This leaves the custody sergeant, the armed officers, my former partner Detective Constable Catherine Swain, Chief Inspector Moore and, of course, myself. I don’t know this particular custody sergeant and if he knows or recognizes me, he certainly doesn’t show it, but as Catherine explains the nature of my arrest and hands me over to his custody, his eyes remain firmly focused in my direction. My eyes, however, remain firmly on Catherine. I can’t decide whether she is avoiding looking at me out of embarrassment or shame. By rights, it
should be equal measures of both.
Whatever it is, she is clearly in a hurry to leave and with her part of the booking-in formalities complete, she turns quickly away and walks towards the lift. She may have betrayed me, but she was my partner and I refuse to accept that she believes I am capable of murder. Knowing that I may not get another opportunity, I call out to her as she leaves.
“I didn’t do it, Cath. You know I didn’t. Please speak to Kevin Morgan before it’s too late.”
My plea for help causes her to stop and for a second it looks like she might turn around to answer me. I can hear her take a deep intake of breath; but in the end, she continues walking without looking back. When the lift door opens, she steps in without saying a word and I am still staring at the doors when the custody sergeant addresses me.
“Detective Constable McMillan, no doubt you are well aware of the process from here on, but please listen anyway.”
I turn to face him and nod my agreement. He carries on, “My name is Sergeant Alex Cummins. Do you understand the reason for your arrest?”
I understand very well the reason for my arrest, but now is not the time or the place to discuss it. Cummins is not here to form or express an opinion on whether I am guilty or innocent. His job is simply to process me ready for interview. I nod again and he instructs my escort to remove the handcuffs.
“Okay, please state your full name, date of birth and occupation.”
“Sean Arthur McMillan, 4th June 1988, police officer.”
“Marital status?”
“Single.”
Over the next few minutes, I provide further details including my address, phone number and car registration, and when Cummins has all the information he needs, he stands up and tells me to empty the contents of my pockets onto the counter. The items themselves are unremarkable, but one particular item is conspicuous by its absence.
Until now, I had completely forgotten about the digital voice recorder. I can only assume from its absence that by now it is either destroyed or firmly in the hands of DS Douglas. It had been bothering me how my colleagues had been able to get into my apartment without waking me when I had locked and dead-bolted the door prior to my last trip. The answer to this is irrelevant now, but they were obviously in my apartment long enough for someone to search through my pockets, take the recorder, and plant the knife in the kitchen before waking me. However they did it, I am resigned to the fact that the voice recorder and any hope of my using it to prove my innocence is long gone.
One of the escorting officers pats me down to ensure my pockets are empty and to confirm that I don’t have anything else concealed on my body. Satisfied, he nods to Cummins to carry on. Cummins checks and records each of my items in his property log.
“One silver color iPhone 7, One Vodaphone SIM card, One silver color Tag Heuer gent’s wristwatch, two pounds and fifty-three pence in coins, one black leather wallet, and one key ring with one car key and three other keys. Inside the wallet are fifty-five pounds in banknotes, one Barclays Bank debit card and one Barclays Bank credit card, both in the name of Sean McMillan. One driving license in the name of Sean Arthur McMillan, one police identity card and one warrant card, also in the name of Sean Arthur McMillan.”
My wallet has a side pocket where I tend to keep the less important items. Cummins unzips it and takes out the items inside.
“One membership card for Blockbuster Video, one Tesco loyalty card, one Starbucks loyalty card, various assorted credit card slips, and finally one Lloyds Bank debit card.”
There is a pause for a second, then he holds out the debit card for us all to see before speaking again. “One Lloyds Bank debit card in the name of Mr. Paul Donovan.”
To say that I have been fitted up would be an understatement and, despite knowing that I am wasting my breath, I refuse to just stand here quietly accepting my fate. They have taken the voice recorder, planted the knife in my kitchen drawer, and planted this card in my wallet. God only knows what other surprises they have planned for me.
“This is total fucking bollocks! I have never even seen that card before.”
Chief Inspector Moore takes the card from Cummins for a closer look, and then hands it back to him before speaking to me. “I strongly suggest, Sean, that you keep your thoughts and emotions in check. You have been arrested on suspicion of murder and the way things are looking right now, you are going to be spending the night with us and possibly longer. It would be in your own best interests to use the time tonight to consider what you are going to say during your interview tomorrow.”
When I don’t respond to his statement, he tells Sergeant Cummins to carry on, and then he leaves me in the reception area with Cummins and the armed response officers. Over the next hour or so, my fingerprints and mugshots are taken, swabs are taken from my hands and the inside of my mouth and the police doctor carries out a basic medical examination to check that I am fit to be interviewed. It’s a completely familiar routine, but I would never have imagined that I would ever be going through it myself. Finally, I am taken to one of the station holding cells and Cummins hands me a set of white disposable overalls and shoes.
“I need you to strip off fully and place all of your clothing and shoes into this black bag. Put these on and we will arrange to get you some proper clothes as soon as possible.”
Before Cummins leaves, he tells me to sit down and to make myself comfortable. “You’re going to be held overnight, Sean. I don’t expect that anything is going to happen tonight, so I suggest you take Chief Inspector Moore’s advice and use the time to think about what you are going to say tomorrow. The Police Federation have been informed of your arrest and they are arranging for one of the reps to come and meet you tomorrow morning. In the meantime, you are entitled to make a phone call. Would you like me to arrange that for you?”
The total area of this cell is no more than five square meters and its contents consist of a stone bench with a hard rubber mattress with a single blanket and a stainless-steel toilet cum sink unit in one corner. Making myself comfortable is a bit of a non-starter and there is not a single person I can think of to call who could possibly make a difference. I decline the offer of a call and ask Cummins what the time is.
“It’s twelve minutes past ten. You will be locked in now until tomorrow morning. There is a call button on the wall next to the door, but I guess you know that already.” And then he adds, “It’s only for emergency purposes, understood?”
As the cell door slams shut, I remain standing until I hear the door at the end of the corridor closing. Then the lights go out and I am left in total darkness. I need to travel urgently to dig myself out of this mess, but with a lack of any dream trigger or stimulus, it is not going to be easy. Two hours ago, I was still suffering the effects of drinking half a bottle of absinthe, but being arrested by my former colleagues on suspicion of murder has a surprisingly sobering effect and now I am wide awake. In fact, I am more than just awake; I am hyperactive. Even if I could travel, I can’t decide where to go.
My previous trips were all about gathering evidence on Paul Donovan and Clive Douglas or about protecting Maria and Ben; but, more often than not, these trips had unexpected and unwanted consequences. With Donovan dead and Maria and Ben safe for now, why risk putting them back in the firing line for the sake of trying to save myself? The obvious thing would be to go back to the very start to undo all of my previous mistakes. But why bother going to all that trouble when my prime suspect is already out of the picture? I may not have convicted him, but in my eyes his victims have got an appropriate justice and besides, I’m not in this cell because of a murder by Paul Donovan in 1994. He may have started out as my primary focus, but ultimately, I am here because of something and someone much bigger; Donovan was just the sideshow. Detective Superintendent Clive Douglas is the main event and I fully intend to get myself a front-row seat for his final performance.
With my mind made up, I spend the next thirty minutes exercising as hard as I po
ssibly can in a five-square-meter darkened cell, and then I lie down on the bench and close my eyes. I only have a slim chance of success, but with nothing to lose I focus hard on the image of Clive Douglas’ face and start my chant. Perhaps it’s desperation or perhaps it’s just luck, but in the end, I have worried for nothing — the travel comes easily and my body is consumed in a blinding flash of light.
The Past — Sunday, 24th December 1989
It’s the middle of winter, it’s pissing it down and I am standing in the middle of Luton High Street in a white disposable suit and shoes. I could hardly describe myself as being inconspicuous and this is not exactly my best thought-out plan, but I am confident that there is some method in my madness.
In 1989, Clive Douglas was still a Detective Sergeant based at Luton Station. By choosing the Christmas period, I am hoping to catch up with him somewhere outside of work. If I had to guess, I would say that it is probably around two or three o’clock in the afternoon and judging by how busy it is with people carrying shopping bags, I am fairly confident that it is either Saturday or Sunday, as I had hoped. My plan is to track down Clive, but before I can even think about that, I need to find myself some shoes and clothes before I bloody freeze to death.
Conscious that my outfit is starting to draw some bemused looks, I scan the high street and spot a branch of Intersports a few doors down from where I am standing. When I step inside, it is like being in a scene from the football hooligan movie ‘The Firm’. The radio is belting out ‘Madchester Rave On’ by ‘The Happy Mondays’ and the store is packed with teenagers and guys in their mid to late twenties sifting through racks of Sergio Tacchini tracksuits, Lyle and Scott V-neck jumpers, Fila roll-neck shirts and Stone Island jackets. This truly is the age of the soccer casual; but before I can get any further into the shop, I am stopped in my tracks by the sweaty hand of a security guard.
The Network Page 1