Authors: Angie Smith
“Okay, okay, okay… I’ll talk to you, but I would
like some assurance that if I do, I won’t be bothered by the SIS.”
Barnes returned to her seat. “Provided you tell me
everything you know about Victor Zielinski and Rebecca García Ramírez, then
there won’t be any need for them to come here.”
Bedford sighed long and hard. “How did you find
him?”
“I was looking into Gerrard Crean’s charity
donations and noticed that if you compared the size of the charity against the
money donated, Blueberry Woods received by far the biggest contributions; then
I found out what they specialised in and alarm bells started ringing.”
“I knew one day someone would finally work it all
out. I suppose I’ve been preparing for that day for the past ten years.” He
scratched the stubble on his chin. “Do you want me to start from the beginning
when I first started working for Gerrard or jump to Zielinski?”
“The beginning, please,” Barnes said, taking out her
notebook and pen.
Thursday 31
st
May.
As he shuffled through the
paperwork he’d removed from the locked filing cabinet, trying to find the
appropriate documents, Barnes rocked back in the chair and slowly appraised
Bedford. She was unsure whether or not to trust him; she needed to analyse him
further before finalising that decision, and in the meantime, as always, she’d
be cautious.
“Here it is,” he said. “I started working with
Gerrard on the 21
st
October 1989. He commissioned me as intermediary
for a property deal in Dublin.”
Barnes was unimpressed. “How did you two meet?”
“I bumped into him at the Golf Club and we got
chatting. I explained what I did. . .”
“Persuade people to be more reasonable?” she
interjected.
Bedford frowned. “That’s a strange way of putting
it.”
“Those are Pauline Crean’s words; she said you’d
have a friendly chat and resolve difficulties.”
“I suppose in a nutshell that’s what I do.”
“What kind of wrestling moves assist people to be
more reasonable?”
Bedford smirked. “Despite what
you
might
think, Gerrard thought he could use my services; he was happy to employ me. In
fact we were working for him up until he died in 2010.”
“Doing what?”
“Acting as mediators, checking people out and
keeping tabs on them. Everything was legal and above board.”
“Hmm… Tell me about Ramírez. Did you act as mediator
there?”
“I’ve nothing to hide, Miss Barnes, so you can stop
looking at me like that. I suppose you know she was blackmailing him.”
She nodded. “Something about telling him she would
claim he’d slept with her unless he gave her £1m.”
“Is that what Pauline told you?”
She nodded again.
“Pauline doesn’t know the truth. Gerrard had been
having an affair with Ramírez for over six months. Don’t ask me why, it must
have been a mid-life crisis thing, and when you look at Pauline and compare
them. . .; well, I thought he was off his rocker. But he’d provided Ramírez
with a house and that’s where they went for sex. Gerrard claimed she’d spiked
his drinks one evening and suggested they tried some kinky stuff. Unbeknown to
him she’d set a hidden camera in the bedroom and filmed the whole shenanigans.
That’s what she was blackmailing him with and she wanted £10m.”
“I see.” Barnes said ruefully, considering Pauline’s
alternative scenario. “Now that does make more sense than what Pauline said.
And. . .” She stopped and, rather than completing the sentence, thought,
if
Gerrard had an affair, why would he want to kill Pauline for being unfaithful?
Bedford continued, “Gerrard wanted me to get hold of
all the footage and then persuade her she’d be better off accepting the £1m he
was prepared to pay her, returning to Spain and never setting foot in this
country again.”
“And that’s what you did?”
This time Bedford nodded. “She didn’t take much
persuading; she got the next flight home. Her parents used some of the money to
buy the villa they now live in.”
“They claim she never returned.”
Bedford laughed. “I’ll get you the file. We kept
tabs on her for a few years and, because we’d told her we’d do that, she
adopted a new identity — that of a childhood friend who’d been killed in a car
accident — and she tried to hide from us. We lost contact for a couple of
months, but finally traced her through the parents who were still keeping in
touch; she was living thirty miles down the coast and working at an elementary
school. She then married a Frenchman, became a mother and moved to France,
where, as far as I’m aware, she still lives today. It was around 2006 when
Gerrard instructed me to stop checking up on her; he felt she was no longer a
threat. All the names, addresses and details are in the file,” he said, getting
up and going over to one of the cabinets. “Here, you can have this if it
helps.”
She took the file. “Thank you,” she said
apologetically. “I misjudged you, I’m sorry.” She paused. “Now can you explain
what went wrong when you tried to persuade Zielinski he’d be better off
returning to Poland.”
Bedford cleared his throat. “That was an unmitigated
disaster. I assume you know about the abuse on Gerrard’s mother?”
She nodded succinctly.
“Gerrard came to me with the footage and explained
he needed a couple of my guys to help him persuade Zielinski to get out of the
country. It appeared straightforward, so I sent Tim Ogden, a new fellow who’d
just started working for me, and Geoff Proctor, one of my best people who’d
been with me for years. They went to Zielinski’s caravan, knowing he’d be in
the pub with his mates, collected his belongings, and then bungled him into a
car while he was making his way home. The plan was to meet up with Gerrard,
show Zielinski the footage, point out what the consequences would be if he
stayed in the UK, and then drive him to the airport and put him on the next
flight to Poland. What could possibly go wrong?” Bedford leaned back in his
chair and stared at the ceiling. “You can’t trust the Poles can you? The stupid
bastard pulled a knife and stabbed Proctor several times. Ogden immediately
jumped on Zielinski and disarmed him, while Gerrard administered first aid and
tried to stop Proctor bleeding to death. In the meantime Ogden went berserk,
kicking the shit out of Zielinski, and Gerrard had to stop helping Proctor and
drag Ogden off because he feared he was going to kill him. I got a call from
Gerrard saying Zielinski was on the floor unconscious looking like he was
dying, and if Proctor wasn’t rushed to hospital he’d be joining Zielinski in
the mortuary.”
“So what did you do?”
“I tidied up the mess. I got a couple of my guys to
take Zielinski to hospital saying they’d found him beat up in the street; they
removed his wallet so it looked like a robbery. We honestly thought he was
going to die. Another guy rushed Proctor to hospital miles away, so it didn’t
appear the two incidents were related. Finally I sacked Ogden.”
“But Zielinski didn’t die.”
“No, thank God…, Gerrard was beside himself. When
the full nature of his injuries were discovered, together with the kind of life
he was going to have, that’s when Gerrard stepped in and supported Blueberry
Woods. Even though Zielinski had abused his mother he felt he owed him.”
“What about Proctor?”
“Punctured lung, damaged kidney and spleen, several
stab wounds; he’s never worked since. Gerrard set him up with a pension and
paid him compensation; he felt responsible.”
“Tim Ogden?”
“In Wakefield Prison, unlikely to be released. He
worked as a bouncer for a while, then killed a young man outside a night club.
He was sent down and a couple of months later he killed a prison officer. The
man’s a psychopath and better off inside.”
“Why didn’t Gerrard repatriate Zielinski?” Barnes
asked, grasping for an explanation other than the obvious.
Bedford took a deep breath and frowned. “Fear of
identification,” he replied laconically.
“You’re not exactly squeaky clean in all this, are
you? For a start there’s perverting the course of justice, and kidnapping.”
“Where’s the proof? Gerrard’s dead, Proctor won’t
implicate anyone, Zielinski can’t communicate, and Ogden’s a psychopathic
murderer serving life. If you’re expecting me to make a statement, dream on.
I’m hoping my cooperation will suffice and you’ll keep me out of trouble.”
“I’ll have a word with my Chief Inspector.”
“How come you’re not asking me about any of the
murders?”
She ignored the question. She knew he wasn’t the
killer; he didn’t fit the description of the person they were after. “I’ll need
a list of people who’ve worked for you over the past twenty-five years.”
“No problem, I can get that at the click of a
button.”
“What about Gerrard? Were there any staff who worked
here that he was close to?”
“I suppose me. He always insisted I worked with
him.”
“That didn’t happen in the Zielinski case.”
“No, and look at the consequences; it was the first
and last time.”
Bedford turned to his computer. Within seconds the
adjacent printer fired into life producing a four page document containing the
names of current and former employees, which he handed over to Barnes. “I hope
this helps,” he said.
Barnes bit her lip. “Thank you, I’ll be in touch if
there’s anything else I think you might be able to help me with.”
“It’s been nice meeting you,” Bedford said.
She stood up. “You wouldn’t happen to know where I
could get my hands on a couple of unregistered mobiles and a few unused sim
cards?”
Bedford smiled. “You can have these,” he said, rummaging
in his desk drawer. “Just make sure I’m not dragged into the investigation.”
Hilton Dudley walked into the
city centre past the cathedral, down towards Kirkgate and then headed across
Chantry Bridge to the Hepworth Gallery. While inside he walked slowly around,
admiring the exhibits and passing the time of day.
“This is nice,” a voice said from his left.
He turned and saw Faulkner-Brown. “Where is she?” he
snapped.
“The last phone signal indicated she was sixty miles
north of Manchester travelling south on the M6.”
“What’s going on?”
“She’d been to see Pauline Crean, then visited
Barrow-in-Furness and Blueberry Woods where she found Zielinski. He has
locked-in syndrome following massive brain trauma. Foster’s already got police
protection organised.”
“Foster said she was heading to Manchester chasing a
lead on Ramírez.”
“Hmm, well perhaps her phone died. We’re waiting its
reconnection to the network, or perhaps you got the wrong person off the
investigation.”
“Wait a minute; I followed your orders.”
“Hmm, you did,” Faulkner-Brown muttered.
“You know she can speak fluent Russian?”
“And Polish according to the manager at Blueberry
Woods.”
“She has the exact tablet Woods has, unless it was
her who recorded the bugging of his office.”
“Maybe she needs some coffee?”
“Don’t even joke about that. She’s already made
subtle reference to it.”
“Hmm, possibly we underestimated the wrong person.”
“What now?”
“Stop fretting. I’ve organised for her phones to be
monitored, and her flat bugged. What could a lowly detective sergeant possibly
do? Except find people you can’t.” There was acidity in Faulkner-Brown’s tone.
“That’s not funny. You’re in this as deep as the
rest of us.”
“Yes, but I have friends in high places. Now why
don’t you scurry back to your role as detective inspector and let me
concentrate on her.”
Barnes waited until she was
crossing the border back into Yorkshire before she pulled off to the side of
the road and switched on her mobile. As soon as it connected she rang Foster
and explained her phone battery had died and that she’d only just managed to
get enough charge to ring in. She described the unfortunate altercation between
Zielinski and Crean, and passed on the details about Ramírez.
“Excellent,” Foster said. “You and I appear to be
the only ones still working. I don’t know where Dudley is; he disappeared late
this afternoon and isn’t answering his phone. Jacobs’ dashed off to a dental
appointment; McLean’s left for the evening and West’s rung in sick. I’ll ring
Jacobs later this evening and organise for him to fly out to France in the
morning.”
“Okay, I’ve got something I need to do, so I’ll see
you in the morning. I’m sorry, I’ll have to go; my phone’s dying again.”
“Fine, and well done, Maria,” Foster said quickly.
Barnes disconnected the call and immediately
switched the phone off. She then drove another twenty miles before again
pulling in to the side of the road. This time she placed one of the unused sim
cards into one of the unregistered mobiles Bedford had given her and she keyed
in the laboratory’s number. When the call was answered she asked to speak to
the lab technician she knew.
“Well?”
“Traces of anthracyclines, paclitaxel, mitoxantrone,
interferons, and interleukin-2.”
“Meaning?”
“Drugs associated with the onset of congestive heart
failure.”
“Bingo.”
“What do you want me to do with the report?”
“What time are you finishing this evening?”
“I’m about to leave.”
Barnes looked at her watch; it was 6.30 p.m. “I’m
not that far away. I can meet you in IKEA’s car park in twenty minutes if
that’s okay.”
“Right, I’ll grab a burger and see you there just
before seven.”