The Pulsar Files, page 19
part #1 of Matt Flynn Series
He left Rosie in the lounge and walked into the kitchen. With the majority of the police activity taking place in the lounge, the forensic team hadn’t reached the kitchen as yet. Sitting on the worktop in the company of a couple of dirty plates and mugs, were three glasses: the whisky drunk by Spencer before he and Chris arrived, the beer given to Chris, and the water to Matt. He picked up his water glass and gave it a quick wipe with a paper handkerchief. He reached for Chris’s beer glass and did the same. He replaced it on the worktop when a voice behind him said, ‘What the hell are you doing in here?’
Matt turned to see a white-suited SOCO standing there. It was a long, narrow kitchen and it was possible with Matt’s back turned he’d obscured the SOCO’s view of his illegal tampering of the evidence. The handkerchief disappeared into his back pocket.
‘Matt Flynn, Homeland Security. Detective Inspector Blackstone said it was all right for me and my colleague to look around the crime scene.’
‘Ah, right. If Blackstone says it’s okay, who am I to argue? You work for HSA eh? I always fancied moving there. What’s it like?’
He was aged mid-thirties but with boyish enthusiasm etched on his rotund face, his mind no-doubt filled with images of guns, explosions and handsome agents karate-chopping the enemy. He’d probably been taken in by what the Director called the ‘Bourne Effect,’ in reference to the Robert Ludlum books and Matt Damon movies about a rogue secret agent. To say so in an interview would be enough for the interview team to terminate the discussion and refuse the candidate further consideration, as they didn’t want anyone joining the organisation glorifying the role they performed.
‘I’m not sure the forensics side would be much different from what you do with the police. A dead body is a dead body.’
‘Yeah, but we also have to deal with all the mundane stuff as well, the wife skewered with a carving knife by her husband after his coffee was served cold, or the builder falling off a ladder into a cement mixer. You guys cut out all the boring crap and only work on the shootings and high-profile cases, the interesting stuff that gets splashed all over the newspapers.’
‘It’s not always so interesting, I assure you.’
‘Shit, I’m being called, I better get back. Hey, it’s been good talking to you, it might encourage me to stick in that application.’ He made to walk away. ‘One last thing,’ he said, a sly smirk on his face, ‘don’t let me catch you touching anything.’
Chapter 35
Detective Inspector Emma Davis stood on the windswept headland, binoculars pointing out towards the Irish Sea in front of her, but she couldn’t see a thing. Not quite true, she could see the moon and a couple of stars peeking through the thick clouds, the white-topped waves of the water, whipped up by a stiff breeze. What didn’t appear in her vision were ship lights, in particular, the lights of the Tudor Rose, a thirty-five-foot single keel yacht making its way across the Atlantic from the Caribbean.
The Metropolitan Police hadn’t all of a sudden taken an interest in trans-Atlantic shipping, but for many months Emma’s team had been following the career of London drug dealer Simon Wood. Starting small about five years back, they believed he was behind a complex web of small-time dealers and running an organisation turning over six figures a week. Word on the street suggested he was making a bid for the big-time by importing an industrial quantity of his new drug of choice, cocaine, but Emma’s team had no idea where, when or how.
A breakthrough came when intel from the French authorities informed them of a yacht spotted off the coast of Guyana engaging in a rendezvous with a freighter from Turkey. The yacht was now heading towards the UK. This was one of many pieces of intel arriving into the offices of the drug unit every day, and if not for the diligence of Detective Constable Lorna Mayhew, no one would be aware that Simon Wood owned the yacht in question, the Tudor Rose.
Emma walked back to the car feeling cold and miserable, but knew Jacko would have the engine on and the heater running full blast as he couldn’t stand being cold.
‘Christ, it’s bitter out there,’ she said climbing inside.
‘Tell me about it. I used to come down here when I was a kid; scarred me for life.’
‘You used to come here? Where are we near, Portreath?’
‘Not exactly this place: south Cornwall.’
‘How do you mean it scarred you for life? Did you fall out of a tree or something?’
‘I was speaking metaphorically, if you must know. As a kid, I had to endure walks along the cliffs with a bloody gale blowing and being forced to go into the water and freeze my balls off.’
‘I’d imagine a week or two in the fresh air and the clean living of the countryside would be a godsend to a boy from a council estate in East London.’
‘Don’t get me wrong. I liked coming here but I hated staying with my grandmother. She was eighty something with spindly hands and a powdered, white face making her look like a vampire.’ He shivered. ‘The vision still gives me nightmares.’
‘Is there any coffee left in the flask?’
‘Plenty. I’m drinking this,’ he said, holding up a can of Coke.
‘Rots your teeth and makes you fat.’
‘Coffee gives you high blood pressure or summat, so touché to you.’
She poured a cup and looked out. Not much activity out on the ocean, but enough moonlight to illuminate the numerous unmarked police cars and vans belonging to Devon and Cornwall’s finest, all assembled at great expense to give Mr Wood and his accomplices a warm welcome home.
The longer this went on, the deeper a feeling of dread pervaded her mood, like a sea mist shrouding the cove in the cliffs below. Did Wood somehow feed them false information and leave them at the wrong cove, proving yet again they could never catch him with dirt on his hands?
Due to lack of availability, the locals couldn’t provide a helicopter to track the yacht’s progress and instead, a radio bod was monitoring transmissions between the yacht and their accomplices somewhere along the coast. In any case, she thought, consoling herself, a helicopter would alert the yacht to the police presence and force them to change their course and dock somewhere else. If the yacht headed back out to sea the Royal Navy patrol ship, Sir Ivanhoe, taking part in NATO manoeuvres in the Irish Sea, would be alerted and the sods on board would claim all the credit without doing any of the work.
‘Christ,’ Jacko said, ‘how long does it take?’
‘How long does what take?’
‘To sail into Cornwall from the Caribbean.’
‘I dunno. The ETA was 2:30. What time’s it now?’ She looked at her watch, ‘3:15. They’re only three quarters of an hour late. Maybe they’re finding the sea a bit rough and not making good progress.’
‘Or maybe a change of plan and they’re heading round the coast to Dorset.’
‘It’s not like you to be so pessimistic.’
‘Yeah, but I’ve got better things to do with my time than to sit here in this bloody car. No offence Emma, but I’d rather be clubbing or sleeping.’
‘So would I, but–’
The radio leapt into life. Emma grabbed it and hit the ‘Receive’ button.
‘All cars. All cars. Transmission received from Tudor Rose. They are docking at Mullion Cove, repeat Mullion Cove. Invoking Plan B. Alpha One and Alpha Two in lead, proceed to Mullion Cove …’
‘Action at last,’ Jacko said as he eased the car away from the grassy slope back to the tarmac road and set off in pursuit of the other police vehicles.
The drive to Mullion Cove took less than forty minutes, the police vehicles making rapid progress on empty roads devoid of tourist caravans and delivery vans, there to hinder such activity during daylight hours.
The radio operator didn’t tell the whole story in her transmission and was forced to correct it later. Yes, they were to drive to Mullion Cove, but their drug smugglers didn’t fancy docking in a busy tourist spot and waking up those nearby in tents and caravans. Instead, they selected a secluded cove further up the coast, a place where a vehicle could get down on the beach. According to a police spotter, he could see a 4x4 parked there, no doubt awaiting the arrival of the yacht.
The curved shape of the shoreline gave the large police party, now on foot, an adequate level of cover as they made their approach along the beach towards the yacht. Superintendent Walden, the lead copper from Devon and Cornwall Police, decided to wait until the merchandise was being unloaded before giving the ‘Go’ order, and he deployed two shooters in the rocks and dunes to stop anyone trying to a make a run for it.
The cold and fatigue Emma felt faded away as they hurried towards the yacht, support vehicles as yet unseen coming up behind them. The large group of officers refrained from shouting or rattling their batons and in any case, any noise they did make was drowned out by the crashing waves. The first coppers arrived almost within touching distance of the Range Rover before being spotted. It was fisticuffs at close quarters but the weight of numbers and drawn batons soon overwhelmed the two men from the Range Rover, waiting there to receive the contraband.
A guy on the docked yacht appeared on deck with a gun and started firing, one bullet hitting the windscreen of the car, spidering the glass. They all ducked down until they heard another shot being fired from the police lines. When someone shouted the all-clear, she looked out from her position behind the car and saw the man with the gun lying on the deck clutching his shoulder.
‘Hands in the air, all those aboard the Tudor Rose!’ Superintendent Walden bellowed. ‘You are outnumbered and we are armed!’
One by one the crew from the yacht came up from below deck and stood facing them with their hands in the air. Emma and Jacko, only observers for this Devon and Cornwall operation, watched as officers climbed on board and handcuffed them while a medic attended to the injured man.
Standing close to the car while all the activity was taking place on the yacht gave Emma a chance to look at the cargo already unloaded: five bags weighing three or four kilos each stacked in the boot. It was impossible to be certain without opening one and having it tested, but she would bet her pension the white powder inside couldn’t be used to sweeten her coffee.
‘Looks like there’s a fantastic haul aboard the boat, if this is what they unloaded in only a few minutes,’ Jacko beside her said.
‘Oh, I think so,’ she said smiling. She felt pleased to be involved in capturing such a large consignment of dope. Not only would it stop many lives being ruined, but it avoided her and Jacko looking like prats among this sizeable group of cynical coppers if the crew aboard turned out to be no more than a large family on a round-the-world voyage.
‘Shall we move in a bit closer and find out if our man is one of the crew?’
‘Make my night if he is.’
They walked towards the yacht, the crew sitting on the deck, their hands behind their backs. With the lighting gear not yet rigged, it was difficult to distinguish faces, and hard for them to get closer with all the big coppers standing around looking relaxed and enjoying a smoke now the only danger they faced was tax on their overtime.
‘Inspector Davis, Sergeant Harris, where are you?’ Superintendent Walden shouted.
‘Over here,’ Jacko replied.
‘Come up here, if you please.’
They pushed their way through idling coppers and men with their jackets off, links in a human chain unloading the bags of drugs from the yacht. They walked over the gangway towards the Superintendent who came towards them and shook their hands with unexpected vigour. ‘This is a huge find we’ve got here, Inspector Davis, the largest in this part of the country for many years. I offer my thanks to you and your colleagues for bringing it to our attention.’
‘Thank you, Superintendent,’ she said. I hope you receive the promotion you’re hankering for, she thought. ‘Do you mind if we take a look at the crew?’
‘I’m not sure your man’s aboard. I didn’t recognise him among those we handcuffed.’
‘I’d like to make sure.’
‘Be my guest. They won’t bite, they’re all handcuffed.’
‘Thank you.’
She walked towards the bow, the crew sitting under the watchful eye of a young copper. She looked along the faces, weather-beaten and bearded, but if they intended this to be some form of disguise, she could see through it.
‘Hello Simon,’ she said to a scruffy man wearing jeans and an Antigua-inscribed t-shirt.
‘Hello Emma.’
‘Detective Inspector Davis to you, Wood.’
‘Oops, sorry. A couple of weeks aboard a boat with these miscreants and my manners go out of the window, or porthole I should say.’
‘You’ll have a long time to work on your behaviour where you’re going. Courts take a dim view of big-scale importing like this.’
‘Don’t I know it? Lean closer.’
She did as he asked, believing him to be above the usual druggie tactics of biting or spitting. Perhaps he wanted to broker a deal by implicating his shipmates.
‘Before I get back to London,’ he said, ‘slip me your bank details and I’ll drop a million into your account.’
She straightened up. ‘Bribery to add to the drug shipment charges? I would advise you to stop digging a deeper hole than you’re in.’
‘It’s not bribery if you accept my kind offer, is it?’
‘You’re wasting your breath, Wood.’ She walked away.
‘C’mon detective, you know it makes sense. Set you up for life it would.’
She met Jacko on the deck. ‘Let’s go, Jacko, and get some sleep, someone back there is polluting the air.’
‘You should take a look at the stack of dope down below,’ he said, ‘must be another thirty or forty bags.’
‘Quite a haul, then?’
‘Amazing.’
They crossed the gangway to the shore, getting strange looks from the assembled coppers, no doubt because they didn’t get invited up on deck by their boss.
‘Inspector Davis!’
Walking past the side of the yacht and glancing across, she saw Wood leaning out of the handcuffed group, looking at her.
‘Say you’ll reconsider.’
‘Get lost Wood. There’s nothing you could offer me that I want. You’re going down, end of. Get used to it.’
‘You fucking bitch, you don’t know who you’re messing with. Nobody, repeat, nobody says ‘no’ to me, you hear? Even if they put me inside, don’t you worry, your days are numbered. You’re dead, Davis.’
Chapter 36
Matt walked into HSA’s London offices and headed for a spare desk. For once, he felt pleased to be there, as back at home Emma was doing his head in, buoyed one minute with the capture of Simon Wood, depressed the next at something else gone awry.
The work she did could be stressful, even in days when they didn’t draw a weapon and shoot a drug dealer. He never wanted her to move to the unit in the first place as he knew a guy who worked there for about five years and quit after a colleague was killed. His nerves were shattered and he couldn’t hold down another job. The last Matt heard, he was surviving on benefits, his wife and kids living elsewhere with another man.
Rosie appeared at his shoulder.
‘Morning Matt. I take it you’re here for our ten o’clock with Gill?’
‘Yeah, for once I’d rather be here getting a bollocking from Gill than sitting at home getting an ear-bashing from Emma. It’s a strange world, eh?’
‘I don’t dare ask. You may or may not receive a bollocking, but whatever he hears from us will have a bearing on how his meeting will go with the PM later this morning.’
‘No pressure then.’
‘It’s not looking good if the statement the PM made last night is anything to go by. He looked angry on the ten o’clock news.’
‘Did he say anything about the murder investigation? Have they got any leads?’
‘I saw DI Blackstone on Sky News this morning and he said they believed the killing had all the hallmarks of a professional job. Looking at HOLMES this morning, I don’t see much follow up going on with forensics.’
HOLMES, the Home Office Large Major Enquiry System, was used by all UK police forces during large and complex investigations. A dedicated operator assigned to the team keyed into the system all data, reports, sightings, witness accounts and anything else generated by the investigation team. Detectives are then able to find out what others in the team are doing, search for connections to a lead and combining their skill and experience with the acquired knowledge of the system, identify new lines of enquiry.
‘Which means the SOCOs didn’t pick up much,’ Matt said. ‘Damn. It would be good to get a lead or two. Any mention of the glasses in the kitchen?’
‘As you would expect, they sent them off for analysis with everything else. Will they assume Derek Spencer liked to mix his drinks? I mean, the evidence suggests he started off with beer and a whisky chaser, followed a glass of water and finished up with coffee, or will they think he entertained some guests?’
‘I think you’d enjoy it if I got banged up as a suspect.’
‘How can you say such a thing?’
‘When we were at Spencer’s flat, I didn’t spot any cameras in his building or the street outside. If Blackstone thinks we’re a lead worth pursuing, he’ll hit a brick wall.’
‘You hope.’
‘I’m not quaking in my boots, if that’s what you think. I didn’t kill him and neither did Chris, but you know as well as me the big sausage machine of a police murder investigation just keeps turning. If they pull us in for questioning, it could be hours or even days before we’re cleared.’
‘At least.’
‘I suppose if the worst came to the worst, the Director would bale me out.’
She shook her head. ‘He won’t interfere in a major police investigation.’
‘Not even if it involves one of his agents?’
