The Pulsar Files, page 2
part #1 of Matt Flynn Series
Uncle Kevin didn’t do empathy and Chris often wondered how he managed to run the family company, all those people with their petty issues and problems. He’d never seen him cry, not even when he received news of his only brother’s death, and the one time he’d put an arm around Chris’s shoulders he hadn’t looked or sounded comfortable doing so.
‘Don’t worry, I want to.’
Chris opened the car door and got out. The air smelled fresh and pungent, a welcome relief from the suffocating heat and atmosphere of Uncle Kevin’s house where he’d been holed up for the last few days.
Not that he’d wanted to go out and be confronted by all the reporters standing in the road shouting their stupid questions. Kevin had to be counselled by his wife before venturing out as his legendary temper was on a shorter fuse than normal, and she didn’t want his picture ending up in a newspaper with his fist in some poor hack’s face.
‘Chris, come on,’ Uncle Kevin said in a tetchy voice, misinterpreting Chris’s slow pace for reluctance or the slothful walk of a teenager.
A few minutes later, they were seated in what passed for a lounge in the Mobile Incident Unit. The settee was U-shaped, taking up one end of the vehicle, with Kevin and Chris sitting along one arm and facing Superintendent Ed Cousins and his colleague Inspector Barry Fisk along the other.
‘Thanks for coming to see me again, Chris. You too, Mr Anderson. Let me again offer my sincerest condolences for your loss.’
‘Thank you,’ Kevin said.
‘After we finish up here, I’ll take you both down to the crash site as you requested.’
‘That’ll be grand, Superintendent,’ Kevin said.
‘Now that it’s been two days since the crash I will try and bring you up to date with everything we know. With the balloon ride taking place so early on a Sunday morning, there were few people awake, never mind witnesses, and those we did find, a farmer and a dog-walker, were only able to report seeing the balloon in flight and not the accident itself. We’ve made an appeal for any witnesses to the balloon’s final moments to come forward, but with the incident happening so early in the morning and in such a remote location, I’m not hopeful. Ten or fifteen minutes later they would have been flying over the Oxford colleges and then it would have been a different story.’
Chris sniffed, holding back tears.
‘Having a few witnesses would certainly have made our job easier,’ Superintendent Cousins continued, ‘but we can only work with what we’re given. There are three possibilities for the cause of the crash, all of which we’re investigating. Firstly, that the pilot, Mr Gerard Hewton, fell ill or suffered a heart attack. A post-mortem examination on all victims will take place today and I’m confident this issue will be clarified. Even though Mr Hewton wasn’t a young man, at sixty-nine, his wife said he hadn’t taken a day off work for sickness since he started the hot-air balloon business over twenty years ago.’
Chris moved to lessen the ache in his back. The seats looked comfortable but the upright sitting position felt unnatural.
‘The second area to consider is if anything within the balloon malfunctioned. The burner itself has been damaged both by fire and from smashing into the ground. Piecing it back together is a painstaking process.’
‘We do it all the time in our business,’ Kevin said in his usual brusque voice. ‘Customers send back faulty equipment and we take it apart to find out why it failed.’
‘This is the defence components company you run, formerly in partnership with Stephen, Chris’s father, Galleon Electronics?’
‘Aye, although now there’s only me. The loss of my brother leaves a big hole.’
‘I can only imagine which is why we are working hard to try and establish the cause of the accident.’
‘We appreciate all your efforts, Superintendent.’
‘Good. Now, the third line of enquiry we are pursuing is pilot error. Even the best pilots make mistakes and this is why an eyewitness to the balloon’s final moments would prove invaluable. I don’t want you to think we are sitting around waiting for someone to call, we are talking to staff at the balloon company and Mr Hewton’s family and friends, in an attempt to fill in the gaps in our knowledge and to find out his mental state.’
‘What, to see if Mr Hewton suffered from mental illness or something?’ Chris said.
‘Yes, or something less severe like a temporary loss of memory or blackout.’
‘What kind of bloke would commit suicide and tear the heart out of a decent, hard-working family such as ours?’ Kevin said.
‘Let’s not jump to any conclusions so soon, Mr Anderson. As I said, this is only one line of enquiry. We don’t know if the pilot suffered from any such malady, not yet.’
‘Fair enough. A man’s innocent until proven otherwise, right?’
‘Yes. Now when I spoke to you earlier, Chris, you couldn’t remember why your parents, your sister and her friend undertook the balloon ride. Did anything in the meantime jog your memory? It’s a small point, but one I’d like to clear up.’
‘I told you why I didn’t go.’
‘Yes, yes I understand your reasons.’
‘Yeah, but some papers are saying, why didn’t I? Making it sound like I had something to do with it.’ He couldn’t help it, but tears welled in his eyes, tears he vowed would never shed in public.
‘Chris, I can assure you there’s no question in my mind or anyone on my team, the Accident Investigation Branch or anyone connected with this accident, about you being somehow involved. To say so is preposterous and I think the newspapers are wrong to speculate, but speculate they will. My advice to you is not to read any more newspapers until this story no longer interests them.’
‘I think I can be of some help here,’ Kevin said. ‘Stephen’s secretary remembers Stephen receiving an invitation in the mail from a supplier.’
‘Does this kind of thing happen often?’
Kevin smiled, but it resembled the grin of a rattlesnake before it struck. ‘We’re in the defence business, it happens all the time. Mind you, more often it’s us treating the big boys, but sometimes they invite us to their hospitality tent at the races or the rugby. If it’s an invite to something they’re not hosting, like the theatre or a balloon ride, tickets are usually given to us by a rep or sent in the post.’
‘Do you know if Stephen’s secretary remembers from which company they were sent?’
‘I asked her, but she doesn’t. Does it matter?’
‘No, I don’t suppose it does.’
The Superintendent looked at the Inspector and then at Chris and Kevin. ‘We don’t have anything more to add. Do you have any questions you’d like to ask, gentlemen?’
‘When will the bodies be released for burial?’ Kevin asked.
‘As soon as the post-mortems are finished,’ Inspector Fisk said, ‘and the coroner is satisfied by the findings. I expect all this will be completed around midday the day after tomorrow.’
‘Why is the coroner involved? Don’t they get called in for murders and the like?’
‘No, the Coroner’s Office investigates any unexplained death. It’s a legal formality, nothing more. We’ll call you when they’re released. Is there anything else?’
Chris and Kevin shook their heads.
‘Right gentlemen, can I suggest we move outside?’
Chapter 4
The wind at Dover Ferry Terminal was so strong, Matt Flynn believed it signalled the coming of a storm, but it didn’t seem to bother the cigarette-puffing Border Force guy, Alan, beside him. Matt didn’t smoke; why would he after his mother died after puffing her way through thirty-odd a day? Rosie liked to joke that he didn’t smoke so he could run away from the bad guys, but in his defence, the job made such physical demands on both of them that having any sort of impediment could get them killed.
He came out as he fancied some fresh air. The temperature in the Portakabin where they were reviewing CCTV pictures varied between chilly cold to sweaty hot, depending on if the big heater in the corner was blowing or not. When it switched off they froze and when it came on, it sucked all the moisture out of the air, leaving it dry and encouraging him to drink more of their crappy coffee.
From where they were standing, the terminal looked too big to be man-made, a giant metal structure in an otherwise serene landscape of white cliffs and churning gun-metal-coloured sea. Everything here looked to be on a grand scale, from the size of the signs making sure drivers proceeded in the right direction and the cranes lifting cargo from the ships to the huge dimensions of the cross-channel ferries themselves. He knew there were many places along the south coast where a traveller could enter the UK: the Channel Tunnel, Newhaven Port and Southampton, but their intel suggested their man came through here. He didn’t mind having his hair blow-dried and his clothes fumigated of the last vestiges of cement and plaster dust as long as he and Rosie came away with a result.
Working with snippets of information was a common occurrence in their line of work. Police and other law enforcement organisations could only move against criminals when they had strong evidence. HSA agents could take action on less, apprehending criminals as they were selecting targets and stopping terrorists who were planning bombing attacks.
‘How long have you worked here?’ Matt asked his companion.
‘Seven years now. I used to be at Heathrow, pulling in Nigerians and Jamaicans for a bag and body search. I could shock you with some of the things we found. I didn’t mind the job, but I hated living so close to an airport. I had to live there because of the early starts and sometimes a late-night finish, but it was too bloody noisy and a hassle to go out anywhere as our local road was the car park they call the M25.’
‘I don’t live near an airport, but I seem to spend half my life driving on busy motorways.’
‘Now that I’m based at Dover, I live in the town in a pretty little house in a cul-de-sac. The sea is to the front, about two hundred metres away and behind the house, a ten-minute drive or so I’m out in the countryside. A bit further west around Eastbourne you reach the South Downs and for people who enjoy walking as me and the wife do, it’s fantastic.’
‘It must be hard working here with the huge volume of cars and lorries coming through the terminal every day. How do you spot the real bootleggers, traffickers and criminals from the folks trying to sneak in with an antique or half a dozen bottles of whisky?’
‘Too bloody true it’s hard and why we depend on intelligence from people like your lot and the security services. But you know, we’re so busy concentrating on drugs and the war on terror, me and some of the bosses around here think too many scumbags are getting through, the likes of gunrunners, people smugglers, and small traders filling up their vans with loads of booze and fags and selling them at a street market. If we had another fifty staff–’
‘Matt!’ Rosie shouted, her voice easily penetrating the thin walls of the Portakabin despite the absence of open windows. ‘Come and see this.’
Matt nodded to Alan who shrugged and continued to smoke. Matt opened the door and walked inside, his body temperature rising at least five degrees now he had come out of the chilling wind. The one-storey Portakabin, minuscule beside the gigantic ferry terminal, was kitted out with multiple video screens and possessed all the equipment necessary to view historical CCTV pictures from the dozens of cameras operated by the Port of Dover Authority and UK Border Force. His companion, Alan the smoker, had said it: HSA passed on more intelligence to Border Force than the other way round. It felt good to be in receipt of their hospitality for a change.
He pulled up a seat beside Rosie, now operating the joystick controls. She had short blonde hair which bobbed up and down as she tapped the screen or the desk, emphasising a point. The only information they had to work with was Katić’s approximate entry date into the UK, based on what Joseph’s contact had told him. Using clever software, every individual arriving in the UK that day had been narrowed down to only those carrying a Serbian passport.
‘You said to me, Mr Flynn, if our man Katić used a false passport we’d be stuffed. Agreed?’
‘Why do I feel I’m about to eat my words?’
‘Because you are, you non-believer. False passport or not, there he is,’ Rosie said pointing at one of the screens. ‘I should have put money on it.’
‘If you’d put money on it, you’d lose. We both know you’re a terrible gambler. The only person I know who put her money on a favourite and it came in last.’
‘My one and only time betting money on a horse. You’re never going to let me forget it, are you?’
‘C’mon, shift over and let me take a closer look.’
Rosie moved her chair to one side. The pictures looked clear, taken outside on a bright day, the driver standing beside his car while officials carried out a routine search. His hair was longer than the photo they carried and now sporting a little natty beard, like a portrait artist or a fashion designer. Despite the cosmetic changes, the aquiline nose and prominent front teeth with a gap between the front two were clearly visible. He was reluctant to call his eyes evil or black, common enough descriptions of wicked men, as if what was in their heart or mind could be reflected in their eyes, but he did have the callous and unfeeling look of a cold killer.
Of the many jobs attributed to Katić, the assassination of numerous businessmen, unfaithful wives and politicians from various African and Asian states, none had produced incontrovertible evidence of his direct involvement. This didn’t make him a ‘ghost’ of the type beloved by thriller writers and movie makers, but instead, smart and resourceful. However, he needed to be on his game every time he carried out a job, as one false move or one little mistake and a whole host of security agencies, HSA, Interpol, FBI and Europol would put him away for good.
‘Well done boss,’ Matt said, ‘a great spot. It’s our man all right. What’s he driving?’
She looked up and pointed to another screen in a bank of eight. The view from a CCTV camera facing the front of the car displayed a Nissan mini SUV with Katić standing at the side, smoking a cigarette.
‘The car is a Nissan Qashqai, on hire from a company in Belgium.’
‘You’re on fire today, Fox. Now, from the picture of him standing beside the car, we can surmise Border Force searched it but didn’t find anything or they would have arrested him.’
‘Maybe the weapon was delivered here by a confederate or sourced locally.’
‘Yep, or maybe it was hidden in a secret compartment which I admit is doubtful in a hire, but what if the weapon was broken down and secreted all over the car? Anyone finding a piece would think it was a spare part for something else. Alan, the smoker I was talking to outside, told me a few minutes back, when they search a car they’re looking for drugs or known terrorists, not for pieces of metal that might make up a sniper’s rifle.’
‘If the dog doesn’t get excited, they wouldn’t have a reason to pull the car apart?’
Matt shook his head. ‘Nope.’
‘Ok, so we’ve established he arrived in the UK five days ago and maybe he travelled with a weapon or picked one up later. We know the car he’s driving and its reg. If Joseph lost track of him in London three days ago, our next move, the only move as far as I can see, is to use ANPR to try and locate the car.’
Using a range of fixed cameras at roadsides and mobile cameras mounted in police vehicles, Automatic Number Plate Recognition reads and records car number plates. It can read multiple number plates in seconds and will flash a warning to nearby patrol cars if a car has been flagged as a vehicle of interest.
‘If he’s still in London we’ll pick him up in minutes, but if he’s moved to somewhere in the sticks, then we are well and truly stuffed.’
Chapter 5
Chris and Kevin Anderson, Superintendent Cousins and Inspector Fisk left the Mobile Incident Unit where they had been talking and walked towards the scene of the balloon accident.
‘Have you decided to go back to university, Chris, or are you thinking about taking a break for a while?’ Superintendent Cousins asked as he walked beside him.
‘I’m not sure at this stage.’
‘I understand, you need some time to arrange your things in some semblance of order. What subject are you studying?’
‘Computer Science.’
‘Do you like it?’
‘Yep, it’s what I always wanted to do.’
‘Would you consider joining Galleon Electronics when you graduate?’
‘I don’t have any qualms about the work they do, if that’s what you mean. I’ve grown up with it.’
‘I didn’t intend it to sound like a loaded question. I realise in the past there have been some protests outside the factory gates, but it’s to be expected in the armaments business.’
The Superintendent stopped and turned to the small group. ‘It’s best if you wait here. Give me a moment until I can locate someone from the Air Accidents Investigation Branch to explain what they’re doing and what they believe happened.’
They were standing in the middle of an enormous field, the hubbub of the police cars, incident caravans and television crews far away behind them. In front, behind a long expanse of police tape, the wreckage of the balloon with a low-loader parked close by.
Chris turned to look around. Close to the road, a double line of trees jutted into the field, the only other interruption in this bleak, desolate landscape save for a few hedgerows and giant metal pylons, striding across the fields like enormous aliens. It was a bare, featureless place to die and at variance with the people in the balloon.
His father, funny, smart, always ready to retort with a quick witticism about Chris’s stupid haircut or the way he walked. His mother, wild and enigmatic, from the colourful dresses she wore to the strange cartoons she drew. Sophia, his sister, bubbly and cheerful with a smile to light up a dismal afternoon in December. Kamal, Sophia’s boyfriend, a wizard on the guitar and with a voice so rich, it could make listeners weep.
