Authors: Angie Smith
Woods nodded. “If you’re not comfortable with it
I’ll understand.”
“On the contrary, I was going to suggest we kept it
to ourselves.”
He rolled his eyes.
“You won’t be rolling your eyes if we get the
killer,” she said, grinning.
Woods laughed. “No, I’ll be rubbing my hands
together in delight.”
“I need to update you on the Russian connection,”
she said, explaining about Bedford’s involvement with the KGB, SVR and FSB.
“I’m going to see him on Monday morning.”
“Okay, I think it’s time you got back to work. I’ll
read these reports and figure out how Crean duped Pauline and the police
liaison officer,” he pondered for a moment. “There’s always the possibility
that Pauline’s in on this.”
Barnes tut-tutted and slowly shook her head. “I
don’t think so. There’s no evidence of any telephone or internet contact with
anyone other than her kids, Plant, close friends and family. And would she
really be sleeping with Plant if she knew Gerrard was still alive?”
“No, she wouldn’t.”
Jacobs rushed — together with the
two gendarmes — over to the police car and jumped in. The call from the
Montpellier Divisional HQ had been received at 2.00 p.m. and the subsequent
conversation with Madame Laurent had concluded with Jacobs’ realisation that
the Patricia Gomez who worked for her was indeed Ramírez.
“How long will it take?” Jacobs asked.
“Twenty minutes,” the gendarme answered as the car
lurched off.
Jacobs grabbed his mobile and keyed in Foster’s
number. “Hello, we’ve found her,” he yelled above the sound of the siren. “I’m
on my way there now; she’s been filmed performing sex acts and the footage is
on the internet. It must be her.”
“Is she alive?”
“She was at 9.30 this morning.”
“Ring me as soon as you’ve got her.”
“No problem,” Jacobs said, shutting down the call.
“How long?” he called out.
“Fifteen minutes, Monsieur.”
When the car pulled up outside Gomez’s cottage
Jacobs ran past the damaged Fiat straight to the front door and banged loudly
with his fist. Nothing!
“Go round the back,” he ordered.
The two gendarmes sprinted out of sight as he
continued banging on the front door. “Rebecca, Rebecca!” he called out.
There were shouts from the back of the cottage
followed by two gunshots.
“Shit!” Jacobs cursed. He ran round the side of the
property and immediately saw one of the gendarmes lying on the floor clutching
his abdomen. “What’s happened?”
The other gendarme was already on the radio asking
for reinforcements. “Monsieur,” he pointed over the garden wall.
Jacobs leapt over the crumbling stonework onto the
rough-made track which followed the garden boundaries, eventually joining the
road about 200 yards further down. He spotted a man in dark clothing running
off and immediately gave chase. “STOP, POLICE!” he yelled, all to no effect.
His heartbeat raced as he ran after the assailant, but unfortunately, the track
was uneven and poorly maintained; wearing his light footwear, Jacobs’ footing
was unsure and he stumbled trying to stay upright. He was losing ground and the
man was getting away.
When the man reached the road a dark blue Mercedes
saloon screeched up and he jumped inside. The car then sped off and, as Jacobs
lurched out onto the road, it was already too far away for him to read the
registration number.
Rather dejectedly he made his way back up the lane
to the cottage; he had already guessed what he was likely to discover. There
were two paramedics squatting down assisting the gendarme who’d been shot in
the stomach; four additional gendarmes had arrived, and apparently more were on
the way. Jacobs informed them about the blue Mercedes and the information was
given out over the police radios.
“Monsieur,” one of the gendarmes said, pointing into
the cottage.
Jacobs slipped on some disposable shoe cover-ups and
went inside. He was directed to the bedroom. Ramírez lay on the bed with a
pillow covering her face. His heart sank like a stone; he looked at the
gendarme standing guard at the bedroom door.
“Sorry Monsieur. She’s been dead a while, possibly
this morning.”
“What?” Jacobs said, confused. “There was a car
waiting for him, he only just got away.”
“She’s cold, Monsieur.”
Jacobs shook his head in disbelief. “Surely he
didn’t hang around waiting for us?”
The gendarme held up his hands. “Monsieur, you’ll
need to speak to the Inspector.”
Foster received Jacobs’ update at
5.15 p.m. and listened with dismay as the day’s events were relayed.
“She died this morning, sometime before lunch. It
looks as though she’d been drugged, they’re analysing the coffee. The sex toys
and restraints used in the internet footage weren’t in the cottage. The killer
must have taken them away with him.”
“So who was running away from the cottage?”
Jacobs sighed. “Probably one of the chaps who’s been
shadowing me.”
Foster was incensed, but tried to hold his feelings
in check. “Stay there, work with the French police and gather as much
information as you can. I need to meet with the Chief Constable and update him.
There are going to be ramifications, but I don’t want you worrying; you did
everything you could. It’s a certain Mr Dudley and his colleagues that will
have some explaining to do.”
Foster ended the call, and immediately rang Matt
Holden’s secretary.
Faulkner-Brown once again drove
slowly into the off-road shale car park on the outskirts of the small industrial
estate in St Albans. Exactly as on his last visit his headlights illuminated
one other vehicle. He drove up, parked alongside it, switched off his engine,
and stepped from the BMW straight into the Audi A6.
“I thought I’d made myself perfectly clear; you were
not to contact me until Williams was no longer a problem,” the Audi driver
said.
“Things have changed.”
“Are you here to hand in your resignation?”
“Of course not, I’m here to discuss matters and
agree a way forward,” stated Faulkner-Brown.
The Audi driver sighed, “Go on, I’m listening.”
“The sixth victim DXVI, Rebecca Ramírez was murdered
today; the numerals were in the footage uploaded to the internet. That leaves
CCCXVI and CXVI. I was rather hoping we’d have got Williams by now, but, as you’d
expect, he’s meticulous and appears to have luck on his side.”
“I understand from the press reports that two people
are currently under police protection.”
“Well, Victor Zielinski is; meanwhile Pauline Crean
has her own security and we’re watching her from a distance. As you know, Plant
will definitely be one of the final two on the list. Obviously we’d prefer to
keep that from the police, that’s why he orchestrated her as being the one in
danger. We’re now stationing him at the farmhouse, because he can draw Williams
in and deal with him. All we have to do is make it appear Williams was after
her.”
“Do you intend killing her?” the Audi driver asked.
“It may not have to come to that, but I’m not ruling
it out.”
“Right, everything is in order then.”
Faulkner-Brown shook his head. “The police were
starting to ask awkward questions about Plant, and they were having doubts
about Pauline being in danger. I had to take action.”
“Yes, so I understand; there really are no depths to
which you won’t stoop.”
“Nevertheless, Woods is now out of the way and the
detectives are working on the assumption that Zielinski and Pauline are the
ones at risk. I’ve got someone on the investigation team, keeping me up to
date.” Faulkner-Brown stopped speaking.
“Go on,” the Audi driver said.
“We think the Russians also have someone on the
team.”
The Audi driver’s voice took on a sinister tone. “What
exactly are you proposing to do about that?”
“It’s a young woman. She’s compromised my guy and is
heavily influencing the direction of the investigation. We’re assuming she’ll
want Williams captured and then for him to sing like a nightingale.”
“You’ve checked her out?”
“She’s clean. I can’t find anything out of the
ordinary, but that’s what you’d expect.”
“Perhaps she might have an unfortunate accident?”
“She’s way too clever, and I wouldn’t want to risk
it. She’s already obtained evidence we drugged Woods’ coffee; if anything
happened to her no doubt it would end up in the wrong hands.”
“What options are left?”
“We play along, keep a watchful eye on her, and make
absolutely sure Plant succeeds. When Williams is dead she’ll disappear back to
whence she came.”
“And if Plant fails?”
Faulkner-Brown looked out of the window.
“Well?” the Audi driver demanded.
“Then, it’s either you or I that will be the last
one on the list.”
“What about the Pole? I understand he abused Crean’s
mother.”
“It’s not about Crean anymore. He was used to put
the story on the front pages; Williams now wants to get us.”
“Then we’re both drinking at the last chance saloon.
What contingency have you in place?”
“If Williams is captured, my guy on the
investigation team will sort it, but if Plant fails, we’ll need to act.”
“What you’re actually saying is, if Plant fails,
I’ll need to act. I’m not stupid; you know it’s me he’ll want dead. I was the
one who sanctioned the operation.”
“Is this where we fall out?” Faulkner-Brown asked.
“Maybe I need my own contingencies. If I have to go
down, then I’ll make sure the bloody lot of you are brought down with me.”
“As I’ve said, Plant’s capable of looking after
himself and dealing with Williams, so it shouldn’t have to come to that. I’m
just keeping you in the picture.”
“Get out of the car. I know exactly what you are
doing. You forget who put you where you are now; I can quite as easily have you
removed.”
Faulkner-Brown stepped out of the Audi. “I’ll be in
touch,” he said, closing the door.
Monday 4
th
June –
Tuesday 5
th
June.
Woods was travelling up to
Newcastle, having caught the 7.35 a.m. Glasgow train out of Wakefield Westgate
Station. He had purposely walked through the whole length of the train twice,
looking for anyone suspicious. Satisfied he was not being followed, he waited
until north of York before switching on his unregistered mobile. Immediately he
received a text from Barnes.
Homer’s
chauffeur no longer at risk!
On
way to see Homer’s mediator!
Have
news about offshore money.
Ring
before 10, if you can.
Woods keyed in Barnes’ unregistered number. “Hello,”
he said. “What’s the news on Homer’s chauffeur?”
Being careful how she worded it, she updated him on
the circumstances surrounding Ramírez’s murder.
“Two left,” he said dejectedly when she had
finished. “What about the pathologist’s money?”
“The £750,000 supposedly originated from the sale of
gold, which he claimed was a family heirloom left to him by his grandparents,
but as you’ll know gold is very difficult to trace. So it’s going to be
difficult to either prove or disprove.”
“The money’s obviously in the offshore account for
tax avoidance reasons,” said Woods.
“Yes, and there’s another connection; the
pathologist’s parents own £250,000 of shares in Homer’s company; they became
shareholders about the time the money appeared in the offshore account, and the
shares generate a substantial annual income. The fraud guys are looking at Homer’s
accounts for me, trying to find any trace of the £1m, but it could all be part
of the £400m that went missing.”
“Mmm,” Woods said. “I’ll see what the pathologist
says this morning. You couldn’t do me a big favour and ring Homer’s wife? Ask who
was there when she identified his body and if she or any other members of the
family went to see him in the chapel of rest before the funeral.”
“I’ll do it now. I’ll ring you back.”
Five minutes later she rang with the answers. “The
liaison officer and Homer’s pathologist were with her when she identified his
body, but no-one went to see him in the chapel of rest; she said it would’ve
been too painful.”
“What the hell was the pathologist doing there? It’s
usually one of the mortuary staff plus the liaison officer,” he said, speaking
quietly and turning towards the window to avoid drawing attention to himself.
“Apparently he was doing something with Homer’s body
when she arrived so he supervised the identification.”
“I bet he did. Right, I’ll ring the hospital and
check a few procedural things out with them. I think I might have an idea how
this was done.”
“Good luck. Text me with the answers.”
Woods terminated the call, but left the phone
switched on.
The Glasgow train reached Newcastle
on time at 9.27 and Woods took a taxi straight to the hospital. Dr Nugunda, a
stocky Nigerian in his early forties, around five-foot tall with bulging eyes,
a pock-marked complexion and short thick curly black hair, was sitting in his
office waiting for Woods to arrive. He welcomed his guest, offering
refreshments, which were declined. On the desk in front of him was Gerrard
Crean’s post-mortem report.
Woods was invited to sit and got straight to the
point. “Dr Nugunda, as I mentioned on the telephone I’m reinvestigating the
circumstances surrounding Gerrard Crean’s death.”
“Could I suggest that you read my report?” Nugunda said
abruptly, pushing the file across the desk. “It might help answer some of your questions.”
Woods smiled. “Thank you, but I’ve already done that.”
He noticed the pathologist furtively glance around the room. “This is one of
the most extensive reports that I have ever read. You must be congratulated, Dr
Nugunda. I can see why you are so very well qualified.”
“Thank you,” Nugunda said, appearing to relax. “Does
it help answer your questions?”
Woods nodded. “There’s something troubling me though.”
Nugunda squinted. “What’s that?”
“It’s almost too good. As you can imagine, I’ve read
hundreds of reports, all of varying quality, and this one,” he held it up, “is
staggering, in both its content and detail.”
“All my reports are written in this way; I’m very
thorough.”
“I think I’ll read a few more if they’re as good as
this one.”
“Err, some may not be quite as good,” Nugunda replied,
nervously nibbling his fingernail. “Some are written to demonstrate specialisms
to students. They’re used for training purposes.”
“Are they?” Woods paused. “It’s funny you should mention
that because I understand you regularly take students and other doctors with
you into the examinations.”
“Yes I do.”
“Did you take anyone on the day you examined Gerrard
Crean, and his wife arrived to formally identify the body?”
“No, I’ve checked the records; I was on my own on
that day.”
“Yes, so I understand,” Woods said, his glare fixed
on Nugunda. “I spoke to your Hospital Director this morning. He checked the
signing-in book and confirmed you were the only person who signed in at 10.30
a.m.; Mrs Crean arrived at 11.15, along with the police liaison officer.”
“Everyone has to sign in.”
“Mmm,” Woods said. “But, it’s not beyond the bounds
of possibility that you had someone with you and they feigned signing in, or
you feigned signing them in, or you created a distraction and let them in
unnoticed. After all, who would challenge you?”
Nugunda frowned. “What you are suggesting is
preposterous.”
“Your Hospital Director says that although it’s
policy that everyone should sign in, it isn’t policed and most visitors forget
to sign out. As you did on that fateful day.”
Nugunda started perspiring, and Woods’ voice became
cool and measured. “On the day Pauline Crean formally identified her husband’s
body you arrived here with Crean disguised as a member of the medical staff,
maybe a doctor, maybe a student, and you walked with him into the mortuary. The
police liaison officer had telephoned the previous day to confirm the time and made
arrangements to bring Mrs Crean in. Kevin Jarvis’ body was in the mortuary with
the tag and barcode indicating it was Gerrard Crean who’d been brought in following
a car accident. You came to the mortuary with Crean in disguise, making an
excuse about needing to re-examine his body. You were informed about the
pending formal identification — which you already knew about — and you insisted
that you would handle it yourself. You assured staff that you were not going to
perform any invasive procedures.”
“That’s utter rubbish; you don’t know what you’re
talking about,” Nugunda retorted, shuffling around uncomfortably in his chair.
“Somehow you got Crean past the receptionist, and asked
staff to get Jarvis’ body.” Woods paused. “As you know, two members of staff
have to check the coding on the ankle-tag and verify you have the right body; but
because you were present, you and one of the technicians brought Jarvis’ body
into the examination room. The technician left you, and your supposed assistant,
to start work. You then removed Jarvis’ body and placed it on the shelf below
the trolley, covering it with a long sheet hung down from the table above. Crean
then took the place of Jarvis’ body on the table and was covered with a
separate sheet. You’d previously given him some medication to make him look
deathly pale. When Pauline Crean arrived you lifted the sheet exposing only the
head and she formally identified Gerrard. She left in tears and you reversed
the whole procedure. The technicians replaced Jarvis in the cold storage and
you and Crean calmly walked out.”
Nugunda shook his head. “Nonsense, utter nonsense.
How do you explain the photographs? You can see they’re Crean. Are you
suggesting I performed a post-mortem examination on him and then stitched him
back together?”
“There’s only one photograph that shows the full
body; all the others — of the internal organs and the examination — could be of
anyone. What I’m suggesting is that single photograph is a forgery and it’s
actually Crean’s head on Jarvis’ body.”
“No, no, no!” Nugunda stood up. “What proof have you
to substantiate these ridiculous allegations? Is there any CCTV footage of me
walking into the mortuary on that day?”
“No doubt you’ll already know the hospital only
keeps footage for 12 months.”
“Therefore, you’ve no proof,” Nugunda said,
triumphantly.
Woods sat back in his chair and pointed at the
window. “Somewhere out there Gerrard Crean’s alive and walking around. Sooner
or later he will be caught and then you’ll have some explaining to do. In the
meantime I’ve got the National Fraud Intelligence Bureau looking at your
finances and your parents’ shares; the same applies to the £3.5m that suddenly
appeared in Kevin Jarvis’ account. And I’m taking this to have it analysed.”
Woods pulled out the original photograph from the report.
The pathologist was motionless.
“No doubt I’ll be seeing you again, Dr Nugunda.” Woods
rose and walked calmly out.
Barnes knocked on the large oak-panelled
door and waited. Since her last visit the brass nameplate depicting Bedford
Logistics Ltd. had been cleaned and there were smudges of polish on the oak
panelling. The door opened and Bedford appeared.
“How nice to see you again, Miss Barnes, and so
soon,” he said, smiling.
“Dobroye utro,” Barnes said.
Bedford grinned broadly, “Good morning to you too.”
“You can speak Russian?”
“Only the odd word or two. I assume you’re here to
ask about Gerrard and his connections in Russia.”
She nodded. “And also the KGB, SVR and FSB.”
“Right, I’ll make some tea. This is going to be a
long conversation.” Bedford left Barnes alone in his office; he went to fill
the kettle and when he returned she was studying the certificates on the wall.
“Impressed?” he asked.
“Suitably.”
“I had to study long and hard for those.” He
switched the kettle on and sorted out two mugs. “Milk and sugar?”
Barnes nodded. “Two please.”
While Bedford was busy making the drinks she went
over to the window and looked out. Parked across the road was a metallic grey
Audi A4 with two men sitting in it. “Do you have a rear entrance to this
building?” she asked.
Bedford poured the drinks. “Yes, out through the
door at the bottom of the stairs.” He carried the mugs across the room, placed
one down on the desk for Barnes and went behind it to his chair. “Come and sit
down,” he said, noticing her still looking outside. “Got company?”
“Nothing I can’t handle.” She settled in the seat
facing him and sipped the hot tea. “Can you tell me what Gerrard was doing in
Russia?”
“As you may know Gerrard was extremely innovative
and created his own specialist team of scientists who developed ground-breaking
solutions to complex technical processes. The team were all Cambridge PhD
graduates and amongst them were a husband and wife; I think he was a geologist
and she a physicist. Anyway, around 2008 they were developing a system for the
safe removal of shale gas - an alternative to fracking.”
Barnes raised her eyebrows.
“At that time shale gas was becoming an important
source of natural gas, particularly in the States, and experts were predicting
it would greatly expand the worldwide energy supply.”
“Correct me if I’m wrong,” Barnes interjected, “but hasn’t
China got the world’s largest reserves and the thinking now is that the USA and
Canada could prevent Russia from dictating higher gas prices in Europe?”
Bedford nodded. “You are well informed. And no doubt
you’ve already worked out where this is going.”
“Enlighten me,” she said.
“Well, Gerrard realised the importance of what was
being developed and, more to the point, the money that could be made, so he
looked for backing from the British Government. However, backward-thinking
Britain wasn’t interested at that time, so he considered approaching the US
Government; but the Russians appeared on the scene, with money, resources and
the offer of relocating the manufacturing process to Russia.”
“Realising if they controlled the safe extraction
process they’d still have a hold on the energy market.”
“Precisely. And that’s exactly what Gerrard did. He
agreed a deal, relocated the team of scientists to Russia, built a factory and
was just about to go into the experimental production process when the husband
and wife who were leading the development were tragically killed in a boating
accident, along with their three teenage kids.”
“Was there no-one who could take over from them?”
“Unfortunately, because of the secretive nature of
what was being developed, very few people knew the whole process and, despite
several attempts to get it off the ground and working, they failed.”