The Pulsar Files, page 4
part #1 of Matt Flynn Series
‘I’m not hungry this morning.’
‘I think they do good paninis here if you don’t fancy something sweet.’
‘I’ll stick to coffee.’
‘Your mug’s empty,’ Joseph said, ‘want another?’
‘No, you’re all right, mate. When you finish stuffing your face, I fancy a walk and burn off some of the caffeine.’
‘What, and lose our prime position beside the window? Not to mention moving away from the delicious smells coming out of the kitchen making me want to eat something else.’
‘A good view of what?’ Matt said waving a hand in the general direction of the café across the road. ‘A bunch of old men making a cup of coffee last for two hours.’
‘They must have a lot to talk about.’
‘Not the war, I hope. It was over twenty years ago.’
‘Their power to reminisce and rake over old victories again and again would surprise you.’
‘I’m sure you’re right.’
Joseph shovelled the last forkful of cake into his mouth but Matt couldn’t wait any longer. He pushed his chair back and stood. ‘C’mon Joseph, let’s make a move. I need some fresh air.’
Joseph had joined HSA around the same time as Matt; he a former murder squad detective in west London and Matt previously doing a similar job in the east. A good-looking bloke with styled black hair and close-trimmed facial hair, he didn’t go short of female companions, according to himself. No one in the office had actually seen him with any of these girls, prompting howls of derision from fellow agents when he revealed fresh information about his love life.
They stepped out into Blenheim Crescent, a smart street full of restaurants, coffee bars and shops selling foods from various countries around the globe. The area attracted many Serbs and while Joseph had been staking out another suspect, he’d heard about the sighting of Dejan Katić days before. Matt trusted the information as Joseph’s mother came from Eastern Europe and Joseph knew enough of the language to converse with the locals. In casual conversation with a restaurant owner, he’d confirmed the arrival of a stranger from the homeland who boasted of gangster connections.
‘Not much fresh air here,’ Joseph said as a bus trundled past on the Portobello Road.
‘Maybe not but when the guy in the café starts to notice the two guys sitting at the window of the café opposite, it’s time to split.’
‘Do you think Katić is still around? I think we’re wasting our time.’
‘If it was me and I came here to assassinate someone, I’d hightail it back to Belgrade as soon as the job was done. Whatever he did, no matter how careful he’s been, his handiwork is bound to surface sooner or later and the longer he waits here, the greater the chance we or some other agency will nab him.’
‘I’m the same.’
‘I mean, somebody’s brought him over from Serbia to do a job so the target is high profile, but don’t forget, Rosie talked to Border Force this morning and they don’t have a record of him or his fake passport leaving the UK.’
‘Maybe he’s got no choice but to stick around to collect his money, or he’s waiting to be told about another assignment.’
‘It’s a long shot, but his reputation is such that it’s worth spending a bit of time looking for him. If we do spot him, we’re to bring him in.’
Early afternoon, Portobello Road was busy with shoppers and kids who should have been at school, and as the area was once a major part of ‘Swinging London,’ it attracted its fair share of tourists.
‘Hey, Joseph, take a look at this,’ he said jerking a thumb towards the nearest shop window. They both stopped to look at an array of second-hand phones and fancy bumpers. ‘Unlock Your Phone Here’ the sign said. Were they encouraging thieves to steal a phone and have the passcode unblocked, or was it something more innocent like a service to change phone networks?
‘What are we looking at?’ Joseph asked. ‘I’m happy with the phone I’ve got.’
‘See the big Samsung there,’ Matt said, pointing, ‘the one with the silver edging? There are two guys standing talking further down the street, close to a bus stop. One’s wearing a brown leather jacket, the other a green anorak. I’m sure the tall one in the leather is our target.’
‘Speaking of phones,’ Joseph said pulling out his as if taking a call. He swivelled round and scanned the street. ‘Man, so it is. Cool, I’ll call you back later.’ He turned back and stared at the window. ‘I see them. Yep, it’s our man. What’s the plan?’
‘When Katić says goodbye to his pal and walks away from us, we follow. When he gets to a place a bit quieter than around here, we’ll make a move on him. If he comes towards us, we’ll need to improvise.’
‘Right.’
‘Whichever way this goes down, on my signal, I’ll do him from the front, you do the back and the cuffs. When he’s subdued, you bring round the car. Okay?’
‘Yep.’
Keen to make a sale, the owner of the phone shop, a fat, bald man with a thick black beard appeared in the doorway. He was about to come over and engage the two window shoppers, when Katić kissed his friend goodbye and walked in the direction of Matt and Joseph.
The two HSA agents ambled towards the Serb, both men wearing old clothes and tatty jackets and looking like plasterers or plumbers on their way back from a job. Seconds before their paths crossed, Matt nudged Joseph with one arm and rammed his other fist into Katić’s stomach. Wasting no time, Joseph grabbed the arms of the winded Serb from behind and applied plastic ties.
‘What the hell eeze this?’ Katić said, his face red.
‘Sharup, Katić, you’re under arrest.’
Matt gave him a quick pat down and after locating a gun, slipped it into his pocket.
‘Eet’s for personal protection,’ the Serb said. ‘It can be dangerous here, some men they want to settle old scores, you know?’
‘I can sympathise with them,’ Matt said. He poked Katić in the ribs with his finger, as if holding a gun. ‘Move,’ he said. He chose not to use the real thing as it was a busy area and he didn’t want to alarm the locals.
They frogmarched him away from the main drag, down Colville Terrace. Matt spotted the back door to a shop and shoved him in the doorway, face first. Joseph ran off to fetch the car.
Katić mouthed something in Serbian which Matt suspected wasn’t complimentary.
‘If you must say something, say it in English.’
‘I want to talk to lawyer. Theese is police brutality.’
‘You should be used to it where you come from, mate. We’re not the police, we’re Homeland Security.’
‘What is theese?’
‘Police with guns and the balls to use them.’
‘What is going on here?’ a posh English voice said.
Matt turned. A man, aged about sixty and waving a walking stick, came striding towards him.
‘This is police business, sir. Move away.’
‘I thought you said…Agh my arm.’
‘Shut up Katić.’
‘You cannot arrest this man,’ the walking stick holder said, ‘he hasn’t done anything wrong. I saw you punch him, back there on the main road and I followed you here. This is common assault of an innocent man. I demand you let him go.’
‘Very public spirited of you sir, but quite unnecessary. Everything’s under control.’
Matt eased the pressure on Katić’s arm but when he started struggling, he tightened it again, causing the prisoner to cry out.
‘You don’t look like any police I know. I demand to see your warrant card.’
‘It’s not possible at the moment, sir, as you can probably appreciate. Rest assured what I’m doing is legal and nothing for you to worry about. I’m a member of an undercover police team.’
Matt looked round. Where the hell was Joseph? Behind walking stick man a small crowd had gathered, swelling with every curious pedestrian who had nothing better to do. He could disperse them with a flash of the Glock, but it would attract the attention of the boys in blue and tensions between them and the ‘gun toting cowboys of the HSA,’ as a former colleague in the Met described Matt’s organisation, were strained. A quick apology from The Director and everything would be smoothed over, but in the intervening melee, the prisoner could escape.
With an enlarged crowd egging each another on, they grew bolder with calls to release the captured man and aggressive shouts from younger men. Some looked local, letting off some pent-up aggression while others looked East European, perhaps assessing the situation as persecution of one of their own. He was about to turn and tell them to move back when Katić made a strong attempt to escape. In an almost instinctive reaction, Matt punched him in the kidneys, eliciting an animalistic growl from the prisoner and subduing any resistance.
His action incensed the mob and they surged closer, shouting and gesticulating, some in languages he couldn’t understand. Matt reached for his weapon but before extracting it, a car careered around the corner scattering the throng towards the safety of the pavement. Matt, relieved to see it was Joseph in the car and not a couple of undercover cops, left the gun holstered.
He hauled the prisoner over to the car and when Joseph opened the rear door, he pushed him inside. He closed the door, turned and saw a fist barrelling towards him. He jerked his head to one side, avoiding direct contact but still felt its force on the side of his cheek. Matt returned the compliment and punched his attacker in the face and shoved him backwards into the encroaching crowd. This forced them to retreat as they tried to catch the falling man or attempted to move out of the way.
Matt used the distraction to leap into the passenger seat. With hands slapping the roof and the back of the car, Joseph took off and sped down the road.
‘I’m not sure if this road is a dead end,’ Joseph said, his face split in a grin.
‘You’ve a wicked sense of humour, Teller,’ Matt said, rubbing his sore face, ‘but if this is a dead end, it’s your turn to go out and talk to them.’
Chapter 8
Matt and Rosie headed for the stairs leading down to the interview rooms. The Director of HSA, Templeton McGill, appeared before they reached the door.
‘Congratulations Matt, I heard about the capture of Katić.’
‘Not without a struggle.’
‘An Inspector Harman from the Met called about a disturbance in the Portobello Road area and wondered if we were involved.’
‘I assume you feigned innocence?’
‘But of course. It doesn’t make sense to broadcast what we do to all and sundry. Have you spoken to Katić yet?’
‘We’re heading there now,’ Rosie said.
‘Good. Have you got anything concrete to throw at him?’
She shook her head. ‘Nothing leaps out of the newspapers or the Reuter feed suggesting his involvement in any major crime, but we’ll be probing his presence here in the UK, don’t you worry.’
‘If you can’t nail him, Interpol will take him.’
‘It doesn’t surprise me to hear they’re interested, the things he’s been involved in.’
‘You’re right but you know what they’re like. They’ll be on the phone every couple of hours after you start questioning him and they won’t let it go until we hand him over.’
‘It doesn’t give us much time.’
‘No, the clock’s ticking. If we can’t find out what he’s been up to and throw some serious charges at him, they’ll come and spirit him away, never to be seen by us again. They’ve got a string of stuff they want to talk to him about.’
‘Whether it’s us or Interpol who nail him, it’s comforting to think a man like him won’t be seeing daylight for a while.’
‘True, but if he ends up with them, it won’t be much consolation to the family or business partners of the poor bugger he’s no doubt killed. Mark my words, he’s not here for a week’s holiday and to take in some of our ancient monuments.’
‘I feel the same.’
Gill looked Rosie in the eye, a disconcerting stare for anyone. ‘Find out why he’s here, Rosie, and this discussion will be academic. Succeed and I’ll take great pleasure in telling Interpol to fuck off.’
The Director turned on his heel and strode off.
‘I don’t think I’ve seen Gill so wound up,’ Rosie said as they walked downstairs.
‘Me neither. He’s either desperate to nail Katić or there’s no love lost between him and Interpol.’
‘I don’t think Interpol’s the problem. I seem to remember he served with the army in Bosnia.’
‘Maybe his gripe isn’t with Katić specifically, but with people like him who served in the army and are guilty of war crimes.’
‘Let’s find out, shall we?’ she said pushing the door of the interview room open.
The room was laid out like a police interview room: a table between the subject and his inquisitors, a camera on the wall and a guard standing behind him and one at the door. The only differences a copper would notice was the room was set up primarily to record information and all HSA staff were armed. It was equipped with audio and video recording but the prisoner was alone, no lawyer present. HSA didn’t allow them to bring or request one.
‘At long last,’ Katić said. ‘I have been seated on my butt for many hours. I demand some food and something to drink.’
Rosie said something to Matt, and moments later, he left the room.
‘So, Mr Katić, how are you?’
‘I’m peessed off, if you want to know.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I am here in theese horrible place.’
‘I don’t understand why you’re surprised. Entering the UK on a forged passport is a criminal offence.’
Katić banged the table with his fist. ‘You sheethead, you are trying to stitch me up. I do not have a false passport, I change name.’
Rosie didn’t pursue the subject even though she knew the passport owner had reported it stolen three weeks before. It would only result in a petty squabble which Katić would be happy to exploit as an excuse to refuse to talk about anything else.
Matt came into the room and passed a glass of water and a granola bar to the Serb.
‘What is theese?’ he said, lifting up the granola bar as if handling a piece of nuclear waste. ‘We wouldn’t feed theese crap to our rabbits.’
‘Take it or leave it, mate,’ Matt said. ‘It’s the best available from the vending machine.’
In a bid to be ‘healthy’ all the vending machines in the building had been emptied of chocolate bars and crisps, and replaced with nuts and bars made from anything that didn’t include much sugar.
Katić pushed the granola bar to one side but left the water and sat sulking with his arms folded. He was a big guy, tall and muscular with sandy coloured hair and a face rarely straying from a frown or a scowl. Perhaps if Rosie had spent her teenage years growing up with a vicious ethnic war going on around her she would look the same, but she felt sure she would have pursued something less violent afterwards.
‘What are you doing in the UK, Katić?’ Rosie asked.
‘I am the sales representative for Zama Tractors. I’m here to meet representatives in your excellent farming community and talk to them about distributing our fine agricultural vehicles.’
‘Mr Katić,’ Matt said, ‘I grew up in Ireland where my grandfather owned a dairy farm. I know enough about the subject to call your bluff, but why should I waste my time when I know you’re lying.’
‘I told you. I am the sales representative–’
‘Yeah, yeah, you’ve memorised an old Massey Ferguson brochure, how clever. I’ll ask you one more time, what are you doing here in the UK?’
‘I told you but you don’t believe me.’ He pushed his chair back and crossed his arms. ‘I say nothing more until I see lawyer.’
‘You’ll be waiting a long time,’ Rosie said, ‘as we don’t allow lawyers. Now answer the question. If you don’t, I’ll leave you here for a couple of hours to think it over, or I might have you locked up in a cell overnight. If you really piss us off, I’ll stick you in a cell and leave you there for three, maybe four days. How does that grab you?’
‘You can’t do theese. Do you think I’m some dumb Serb dragged here from the slums of Belgrade?’ He tapped the table with his forefinger. ‘I know the law, the police–’
Matt sighed. ‘I told you before, we’re not the police. We can hold you here as long as we like.’
Matt wasn’t bluffing, however, there were practical issues to consider. If no charges were forthcoming and they let the prisoner walk, he could take his story of wrongful incarceration and brutality to the newspapers. Even then, it wasn’t necessarily a PR disaster as not every account would be believed, and in the case of Katić, Matt knew that the Serb had as much interest in keeping his face out of the media as HSA did.
Katić sighed, a sign perhaps of the message getting through. ‘I’m a businessman, selling tractors, and while here in theese beautiful country, I stayed a few days to meet some old friends.’
‘You’re no businessman,’ Rosie said. ‘You, my friend, used to be a sniper for the Serb Army targeting Bosnians in Sarajevo as they queued for bread or walked down the street.’
Katić’s face lost its characteristic frown and displayed venomous hate. ‘Theese fucking scum deserved to die. Serbia is for Serbs like me,’ he said tapping his chest, ‘not for Moslem pigs from Bosnia and Albania.’ He shrugged. ‘Nobody cares now, it is all in past. They now live in their own little country, they are welcome to it.’
‘All the information we have suggests to me you haven’t changed jobs. You’re still a sniper but now you’re doing it for big money. Did you come here to do a job?’
He shook his head, the shake of a teacher dealing with a dense pupil. ‘I told you–’
Rosie held her palm up. ‘Stop it, we’re getting tired of hearing your made-up fable. Take a look at this.’
She picked two items from the file, turned them around and pushed them towards him. One was a photograph of a car taken by an ANPR camera near Oxford and the other a map of the area.
‘Where did you get theese?’ Katić said, looking rattled for the first time.
‘I think they do good paninis here if you don’t fancy something sweet.’
‘I’ll stick to coffee.’
‘Your mug’s empty,’ Joseph said, ‘want another?’
‘No, you’re all right, mate. When you finish stuffing your face, I fancy a walk and burn off some of the caffeine.’
‘What, and lose our prime position beside the window? Not to mention moving away from the delicious smells coming out of the kitchen making me want to eat something else.’
‘A good view of what?’ Matt said waving a hand in the general direction of the café across the road. ‘A bunch of old men making a cup of coffee last for two hours.’
‘They must have a lot to talk about.’
‘Not the war, I hope. It was over twenty years ago.’
‘Their power to reminisce and rake over old victories again and again would surprise you.’
‘I’m sure you’re right.’
Joseph shovelled the last forkful of cake into his mouth but Matt couldn’t wait any longer. He pushed his chair back and stood. ‘C’mon Joseph, let’s make a move. I need some fresh air.’
Joseph had joined HSA around the same time as Matt; he a former murder squad detective in west London and Matt previously doing a similar job in the east. A good-looking bloke with styled black hair and close-trimmed facial hair, he didn’t go short of female companions, according to himself. No one in the office had actually seen him with any of these girls, prompting howls of derision from fellow agents when he revealed fresh information about his love life.
They stepped out into Blenheim Crescent, a smart street full of restaurants, coffee bars and shops selling foods from various countries around the globe. The area attracted many Serbs and while Joseph had been staking out another suspect, he’d heard about the sighting of Dejan Katić days before. Matt trusted the information as Joseph’s mother came from Eastern Europe and Joseph knew enough of the language to converse with the locals. In casual conversation with a restaurant owner, he’d confirmed the arrival of a stranger from the homeland who boasted of gangster connections.
‘Not much fresh air here,’ Joseph said as a bus trundled past on the Portobello Road.
‘Maybe not but when the guy in the café starts to notice the two guys sitting at the window of the café opposite, it’s time to split.’
‘Do you think Katić is still around? I think we’re wasting our time.’
‘If it was me and I came here to assassinate someone, I’d hightail it back to Belgrade as soon as the job was done. Whatever he did, no matter how careful he’s been, his handiwork is bound to surface sooner or later and the longer he waits here, the greater the chance we or some other agency will nab him.’
‘I’m the same.’
‘I mean, somebody’s brought him over from Serbia to do a job so the target is high profile, but don’t forget, Rosie talked to Border Force this morning and they don’t have a record of him or his fake passport leaving the UK.’
‘Maybe he’s got no choice but to stick around to collect his money, or he’s waiting to be told about another assignment.’
‘It’s a long shot, but his reputation is such that it’s worth spending a bit of time looking for him. If we do spot him, we’re to bring him in.’
Early afternoon, Portobello Road was busy with shoppers and kids who should have been at school, and as the area was once a major part of ‘Swinging London,’ it attracted its fair share of tourists.
‘Hey, Joseph, take a look at this,’ he said jerking a thumb towards the nearest shop window. They both stopped to look at an array of second-hand phones and fancy bumpers. ‘Unlock Your Phone Here’ the sign said. Were they encouraging thieves to steal a phone and have the passcode unblocked, or was it something more innocent like a service to change phone networks?
‘What are we looking at?’ Joseph asked. ‘I’m happy with the phone I’ve got.’
‘See the big Samsung there,’ Matt said, pointing, ‘the one with the silver edging? There are two guys standing talking further down the street, close to a bus stop. One’s wearing a brown leather jacket, the other a green anorak. I’m sure the tall one in the leather is our target.’
‘Speaking of phones,’ Joseph said pulling out his as if taking a call. He swivelled round and scanned the street. ‘Man, so it is. Cool, I’ll call you back later.’ He turned back and stared at the window. ‘I see them. Yep, it’s our man. What’s the plan?’
‘When Katić says goodbye to his pal and walks away from us, we follow. When he gets to a place a bit quieter than around here, we’ll make a move on him. If he comes towards us, we’ll need to improvise.’
‘Right.’
‘Whichever way this goes down, on my signal, I’ll do him from the front, you do the back and the cuffs. When he’s subdued, you bring round the car. Okay?’
‘Yep.’
Keen to make a sale, the owner of the phone shop, a fat, bald man with a thick black beard appeared in the doorway. He was about to come over and engage the two window shoppers, when Katić kissed his friend goodbye and walked in the direction of Matt and Joseph.
The two HSA agents ambled towards the Serb, both men wearing old clothes and tatty jackets and looking like plasterers or plumbers on their way back from a job. Seconds before their paths crossed, Matt nudged Joseph with one arm and rammed his other fist into Katić’s stomach. Wasting no time, Joseph grabbed the arms of the winded Serb from behind and applied plastic ties.
‘What the hell eeze this?’ Katić said, his face red.
‘Sharup, Katić, you’re under arrest.’
Matt gave him a quick pat down and after locating a gun, slipped it into his pocket.
‘Eet’s for personal protection,’ the Serb said. ‘It can be dangerous here, some men they want to settle old scores, you know?’
‘I can sympathise with them,’ Matt said. He poked Katić in the ribs with his finger, as if holding a gun. ‘Move,’ he said. He chose not to use the real thing as it was a busy area and he didn’t want to alarm the locals.
They frogmarched him away from the main drag, down Colville Terrace. Matt spotted the back door to a shop and shoved him in the doorway, face first. Joseph ran off to fetch the car.
Katić mouthed something in Serbian which Matt suspected wasn’t complimentary.
‘If you must say something, say it in English.’
‘I want to talk to lawyer. Theese is police brutality.’
‘You should be used to it where you come from, mate. We’re not the police, we’re Homeland Security.’
‘What is theese?’
‘Police with guns and the balls to use them.’
‘What is going on here?’ a posh English voice said.
Matt turned. A man, aged about sixty and waving a walking stick, came striding towards him.
‘This is police business, sir. Move away.’
‘I thought you said…Agh my arm.’
‘Shut up Katić.’
‘You cannot arrest this man,’ the walking stick holder said, ‘he hasn’t done anything wrong. I saw you punch him, back there on the main road and I followed you here. This is common assault of an innocent man. I demand you let him go.’
‘Very public spirited of you sir, but quite unnecessary. Everything’s under control.’
Matt eased the pressure on Katić’s arm but when he started struggling, he tightened it again, causing the prisoner to cry out.
‘You don’t look like any police I know. I demand to see your warrant card.’
‘It’s not possible at the moment, sir, as you can probably appreciate. Rest assured what I’m doing is legal and nothing for you to worry about. I’m a member of an undercover police team.’
Matt looked round. Where the hell was Joseph? Behind walking stick man a small crowd had gathered, swelling with every curious pedestrian who had nothing better to do. He could disperse them with a flash of the Glock, but it would attract the attention of the boys in blue and tensions between them and the ‘gun toting cowboys of the HSA,’ as a former colleague in the Met described Matt’s organisation, were strained. A quick apology from The Director and everything would be smoothed over, but in the intervening melee, the prisoner could escape.
With an enlarged crowd egging each another on, they grew bolder with calls to release the captured man and aggressive shouts from younger men. Some looked local, letting off some pent-up aggression while others looked East European, perhaps assessing the situation as persecution of one of their own. He was about to turn and tell them to move back when Katić made a strong attempt to escape. In an almost instinctive reaction, Matt punched him in the kidneys, eliciting an animalistic growl from the prisoner and subduing any resistance.
His action incensed the mob and they surged closer, shouting and gesticulating, some in languages he couldn’t understand. Matt reached for his weapon but before extracting it, a car careered around the corner scattering the throng towards the safety of the pavement. Matt, relieved to see it was Joseph in the car and not a couple of undercover cops, left the gun holstered.
He hauled the prisoner over to the car and when Joseph opened the rear door, he pushed him inside. He closed the door, turned and saw a fist barrelling towards him. He jerked his head to one side, avoiding direct contact but still felt its force on the side of his cheek. Matt returned the compliment and punched his attacker in the face and shoved him backwards into the encroaching crowd. This forced them to retreat as they tried to catch the falling man or attempted to move out of the way.
Matt used the distraction to leap into the passenger seat. With hands slapping the roof and the back of the car, Joseph took off and sped down the road.
‘I’m not sure if this road is a dead end,’ Joseph said, his face split in a grin.
‘You’ve a wicked sense of humour, Teller,’ Matt said, rubbing his sore face, ‘but if this is a dead end, it’s your turn to go out and talk to them.’
Chapter 8
Matt and Rosie headed for the stairs leading down to the interview rooms. The Director of HSA, Templeton McGill, appeared before they reached the door.
‘Congratulations Matt, I heard about the capture of Katić.’
‘Not without a struggle.’
‘An Inspector Harman from the Met called about a disturbance in the Portobello Road area and wondered if we were involved.’
‘I assume you feigned innocence?’
‘But of course. It doesn’t make sense to broadcast what we do to all and sundry. Have you spoken to Katić yet?’
‘We’re heading there now,’ Rosie said.
‘Good. Have you got anything concrete to throw at him?’
She shook her head. ‘Nothing leaps out of the newspapers or the Reuter feed suggesting his involvement in any major crime, but we’ll be probing his presence here in the UK, don’t you worry.’
‘If you can’t nail him, Interpol will take him.’
‘It doesn’t surprise me to hear they’re interested, the things he’s been involved in.’
‘You’re right but you know what they’re like. They’ll be on the phone every couple of hours after you start questioning him and they won’t let it go until we hand him over.’
‘It doesn’t give us much time.’
‘No, the clock’s ticking. If we can’t find out what he’s been up to and throw some serious charges at him, they’ll come and spirit him away, never to be seen by us again. They’ve got a string of stuff they want to talk to him about.’
‘Whether it’s us or Interpol who nail him, it’s comforting to think a man like him won’t be seeing daylight for a while.’
‘True, but if he ends up with them, it won’t be much consolation to the family or business partners of the poor bugger he’s no doubt killed. Mark my words, he’s not here for a week’s holiday and to take in some of our ancient monuments.’
‘I feel the same.’
Gill looked Rosie in the eye, a disconcerting stare for anyone. ‘Find out why he’s here, Rosie, and this discussion will be academic. Succeed and I’ll take great pleasure in telling Interpol to fuck off.’
The Director turned on his heel and strode off.
‘I don’t think I’ve seen Gill so wound up,’ Rosie said as they walked downstairs.
‘Me neither. He’s either desperate to nail Katić or there’s no love lost between him and Interpol.’
‘I don’t think Interpol’s the problem. I seem to remember he served with the army in Bosnia.’
‘Maybe his gripe isn’t with Katić specifically, but with people like him who served in the army and are guilty of war crimes.’
‘Let’s find out, shall we?’ she said pushing the door of the interview room open.
The room was laid out like a police interview room: a table between the subject and his inquisitors, a camera on the wall and a guard standing behind him and one at the door. The only differences a copper would notice was the room was set up primarily to record information and all HSA staff were armed. It was equipped with audio and video recording but the prisoner was alone, no lawyer present. HSA didn’t allow them to bring or request one.
‘At long last,’ Katić said. ‘I have been seated on my butt for many hours. I demand some food and something to drink.’
Rosie said something to Matt, and moments later, he left the room.
‘So, Mr Katić, how are you?’
‘I’m peessed off, if you want to know.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I am here in theese horrible place.’
‘I don’t understand why you’re surprised. Entering the UK on a forged passport is a criminal offence.’
Katić banged the table with his fist. ‘You sheethead, you are trying to stitch me up. I do not have a false passport, I change name.’
Rosie didn’t pursue the subject even though she knew the passport owner had reported it stolen three weeks before. It would only result in a petty squabble which Katić would be happy to exploit as an excuse to refuse to talk about anything else.
Matt came into the room and passed a glass of water and a granola bar to the Serb.
‘What is theese?’ he said, lifting up the granola bar as if handling a piece of nuclear waste. ‘We wouldn’t feed theese crap to our rabbits.’
‘Take it or leave it, mate,’ Matt said. ‘It’s the best available from the vending machine.’
In a bid to be ‘healthy’ all the vending machines in the building had been emptied of chocolate bars and crisps, and replaced with nuts and bars made from anything that didn’t include much sugar.
Katić pushed the granola bar to one side but left the water and sat sulking with his arms folded. He was a big guy, tall and muscular with sandy coloured hair and a face rarely straying from a frown or a scowl. Perhaps if Rosie had spent her teenage years growing up with a vicious ethnic war going on around her she would look the same, but she felt sure she would have pursued something less violent afterwards.
‘What are you doing in the UK, Katić?’ Rosie asked.
‘I am the sales representative for Zama Tractors. I’m here to meet representatives in your excellent farming community and talk to them about distributing our fine agricultural vehicles.’
‘Mr Katić,’ Matt said, ‘I grew up in Ireland where my grandfather owned a dairy farm. I know enough about the subject to call your bluff, but why should I waste my time when I know you’re lying.’
‘I told you. I am the sales representative–’
‘Yeah, yeah, you’ve memorised an old Massey Ferguson brochure, how clever. I’ll ask you one more time, what are you doing here in the UK?’
‘I told you but you don’t believe me.’ He pushed his chair back and crossed his arms. ‘I say nothing more until I see lawyer.’
‘You’ll be waiting a long time,’ Rosie said, ‘as we don’t allow lawyers. Now answer the question. If you don’t, I’ll leave you here for a couple of hours to think it over, or I might have you locked up in a cell overnight. If you really piss us off, I’ll stick you in a cell and leave you there for three, maybe four days. How does that grab you?’
‘You can’t do theese. Do you think I’m some dumb Serb dragged here from the slums of Belgrade?’ He tapped the table with his forefinger. ‘I know the law, the police–’
Matt sighed. ‘I told you before, we’re not the police. We can hold you here as long as we like.’
Matt wasn’t bluffing, however, there were practical issues to consider. If no charges were forthcoming and they let the prisoner walk, he could take his story of wrongful incarceration and brutality to the newspapers. Even then, it wasn’t necessarily a PR disaster as not every account would be believed, and in the case of Katić, Matt knew that the Serb had as much interest in keeping his face out of the media as HSA did.
Katić sighed, a sign perhaps of the message getting through. ‘I’m a businessman, selling tractors, and while here in theese beautiful country, I stayed a few days to meet some old friends.’
‘You’re no businessman,’ Rosie said. ‘You, my friend, used to be a sniper for the Serb Army targeting Bosnians in Sarajevo as they queued for bread or walked down the street.’
Katić’s face lost its characteristic frown and displayed venomous hate. ‘Theese fucking scum deserved to die. Serbia is for Serbs like me,’ he said tapping his chest, ‘not for Moslem pigs from Bosnia and Albania.’ He shrugged. ‘Nobody cares now, it is all in past. They now live in their own little country, they are welcome to it.’
‘All the information we have suggests to me you haven’t changed jobs. You’re still a sniper but now you’re doing it for big money. Did you come here to do a job?’
He shook his head, the shake of a teacher dealing with a dense pupil. ‘I told you–’
Rosie held her palm up. ‘Stop it, we’re getting tired of hearing your made-up fable. Take a look at this.’
She picked two items from the file, turned them around and pushed them towards him. One was a photograph of a car taken by an ANPR camera near Oxford and the other a map of the area.
‘Where did you get theese?’ Katić said, looking rattled for the first time.
