Authors: Angie Smith
“The parcel had a tracker in it, and was taken
straight to her floor.”
“That still doesn’t prove she took it.”
“Even so, our guys are trolling through the CCTV
footage; we’ll soon know who posted the dossier and where they came from.”
“And what if it was Barnes?”
“Then we’ll go and have a chat!”
Friday 8
th
June.
Barnes and Pamela lay sunbathing
at the front of the catamaran while Woods chatted to Lester and Joseph, the two
young local crewmen who were sailing the vessel. They’d left the hotel’s
private jetty at 9.00 a.m. local time and were heading south-west towards Gecko
Island; ETA 11.00 a.m.
“When we get there I’d like to sail around the
island close to the shore,” Woods said.
“You can go beach, not land. Wealthy Russians, many
guards.” Lester formed a pistol shape with his fingers.
Woods got the message. “How many people live on the
island?”
Lester shrugged. “Fifty-six villas, many Russians.”
“We understand an old friend lives there; we’ll look
out for him.”
“Russian?”
Woods shook his head. “British.”
“No British.” Lester looked at Joseph who shook his
head in agreement.
“Well, we’ll look out for him all the same,” Woods
insisted, as he spotted Barnes jumping up from the forward sun-bathing area,
which was located between the two bevelled hulls. She squealed a warning to
Pamela, but a large wave crashed over the bows, drenching them both. Laughing,
they came to the stern to dry off. Barnes removed her cover-up-wrap; she was
wearing one of Laura’s tiny, bright pink bikinis. She turned to take hold of a
towel.
“Jesus Christ, Maria!” Woods said, cringing. “What
happened to your back?”
“For the last time it’s Laura,” she said through
gritted teeth.
“Sorry,
Laura
.”
“Does it offend you?”
“No, of course not, I just wondered what had
happened to it.”
She sighed. “It was a long time ago and it’s really
a taboo subject.”
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to intrude.”
Her stance softened. “It’s okay. I’m self-conscious
about it; that’s partly why I’ve never had a boyfriend.”
“Never?” Pamela queried.
She shook her head apologetically. “And before you
ask,” she was looking straight at Woods, “I’m not a lesbian.”
“I wasn’t going to ask,” Woods retorted. “It’s none
of my business what you are.” It sounded so contrived that he felt embarrassed.
He needed to change the subject and lighten the mood. “Would anyone like a cold
drink? There’s a fridge full of beers and a selection of snacks in there.” He
pointed at the cabin.
“I’d love a drink,” Pamela said.
“Laura?” he asked tentatively.
She smiled, “I’ll come with you and grab some snacks.
I’m starving.”
Faulkner-Brown was waiting on the
seat outside the Hepworth. He’d asked Dudley to meet with him urgently, having
received news about the dossier. The CCTV footage had been analysed and the
person posting the document identified.
“What’s the news?” Dudley asked when he finally
arrived, having been held up in the Police HQ car park by a lorry delivering
new furniture to the Chief Constable.
“Barnes,” Faulkner-Brown said sighing. “It looks as
though it was her who produced the dossier. She got one of her neighbours, Ms
Gillian Stokes, to post it. We need to interview her for confirmation.”
“So where are we heading?”
“Denby Dale Road, the recycling centre. Stokes is
employed there, and on Wednesday morning she detoured to the main sorting
office before heading to work.”
“Come on,” Dudley said, standing. “It’s not far from
our hotel.”
They walked over to the car and ten minutes later
were parking at the recycling plant.
“I’ll do the talking,” Faulkner-Brown insisted.
They entered the main office, asking to speak to
Stokes. Dudley produced his police ID and she was called in over the tannoy. They
were allowed to use the small grubby-looking mess room at the rear of the
building. Faulkner-Brown did the introductions and started by asking how long
Stokes had known Barnes.
“Sorry, I’ve never heard of her.”
“You live in the same block of flats, on the same
floor.”
“Oh, is she the young woman who goes out running?”
Faulkner-Brown nodded.
“I’ve never actually spoken to her; she keeps
herself to herself. If you ask me I think she’s a bit weird.”
“In what way?”
“Err… I can’t really describe it. She’s odd,
strange, like she’s a screw loose.”
“You posted an envelope on Wednesday morning.”
“No I did not.”
“We’ve CCTV footage of you doing it.”
Stokes looked bewildered. “You must have mixed me up
with someone else.”
Faulkner-Brown shook his head. “I don’t think so.”
“Where am I supposed to have done this?”
“You posted the document at the sorting office, then
caught the bus opposite B&Q and came here to work.”
“On Wednesday morning?”
“You took the 7.20 a.m. bus; it dropped you off just
down the road five minutes later, so you’d arrive here around 7.30. We’ll check
the CCTV outside if we need to.”
“But it’s my day off on Wednesday; we’re not even
open here. I didn’t get out of bed until about 10.30. It must be someone else
who looks like me.”
“Can anyone verify what you have just said?”
“Why don’t you ask my boss, or check the opening
times on the board outside? And my partner, who works nights at the
supermarket, will confirm I was with her all day.”
“I think we need to review the footage,” Dudley
said, turning to Faulkner-Brown. “I’ve a suspicion I know who it was.”
Faulkner-Brown pursed his lips. “I’m sorry to have
troubled you, Ms Stokes,” he said.
“Can I go back to work?”
He nodded and she left the room. “If Barnes left the
building disguised as her, she must have returned the same way,” he mumbled.
“We need to check with the guys watching the flats.”
“Why don’t we go and ask her?” Dudley sounded
irritated as he headed to the door.
At 11.00 a.m. local time the
catamaran arrived at Gecko Island. Barnes and Woods each grabbed a set of
binoculars from the cabin and settled on the side of the boat. Pamela continued
to sunbathe on the knitted white polyamide netting stretched between the hulls.
“Fifty-six villas, Lester says,” Woods clarified.
“You know the plan,” Barnes said, focusing the
binoculars.
“You’re confident he’s on the island.”
“I’ve a good feeling about this. After dinner
yesterday evening I chatted with a couple of waiters, asking if they knew of a
young wealthy English woman in her early twenties, and her brother, who might
visit the island to buy provisions. I showed them Sarah and Scott’s
photographs.”
“And?”
“They recognised Sarah; she regularly visits one of
the restaurants on the other side of the island. One of the waiters worked
there before coming to our hotel.”
Lester appeared. “Monsieur Greg. We sail slow.” He swivelled
his finger in a circle. “You,” he placed his hands to his eyes, mimicking using
binoculars, “see friend, we stop, you want blow klaxon?” He placed his hands
over his ears grinning broadly.
“No! No!” Woods shook his head vigorously. “We see
friend; go on beach, we wave, surprise him. No klaxon. No.”
“Only beach, no land, not allowed. Understand?”
Woods nodded and smiled. “Only beach.” He spotted
Barnes holding back a smile. “What?”
“There’s no need to speak parrot fashion.”
“I suppose you can speak Creole.”
She scrunched up her nose. “A little French.”
“You know all hell will break loose when we go
inland. Lester says they have armed guards.”
“I’ll handle it. I’ll explain we’re there to meet an
old friend. What’s the worst that could happen?”
“We’re locked up and deported for illegally entering
Russian territory.”
She grinned. “Not if I have anything to do with it.”
Faulkner-Brown stared at the
intercom system on the entrance to the flats where Barnes lived. Dudley went to
press the buzzer to flat eighteen.
“Don’t press that; choose one of the neighbour’s. We
need the element of surprise.”
Dudley did as instructed, and explained to the woman
who answered that they were police officers trying to contact one of the
residents who wasn’t answering their call button. The entrance door opened
immediately and they sprinted up to the top floor and across to flat eighteen.
Dudley knocked loudly. Nothing. He knocked again. Still nothing. “We’ll have to
break in,” he said, turning to Faulkner-Brown.
The door to the flat across the hallway opened and a
frail, elderly lady peered out. “Are you looking for Maria?” she asked timidly
in a croaky voice.
“Yes, we’re her colleagues.”
“She’s gone away.”
“When did she go?” Faulkner-Brown asked, frowning.
“Wednesday I think, yes it was early Wednesday
morning, because on Wednesday’s I always. . .”
“Do you know where?”
“To visit relatives. She’ll be back in a week or
so.”
Dudley glanced at Faulkner-Brown. “First-class team
of covert specialists! What was it you said? She can’t move a muscle without
you knowing!!!”
“Shut up.”
“Thank you,” Dudley shouted, as the elderly lady
went back inside her flat.
Faulkner-Brown was already on his phone organising
for someone to come and unlock the door. “The question is: is she actually with
relatives?” he said, frowning at Dudley.
It was forty minutes later when the locksmith
arrived and let them into the flat. Faulkner-Brown hurried in with Dudley
following.
“She’s left a note,” Dudley said, picking up a sheet
of paper from the coffee table. “Please don’t damage anything. I promise you’ll
not find what you’re looking for in here.” He shook his head in disbelief. “She
knew we’d be coming. Look, she’s rigged the flat so it appears she’s in
residence: the lights, TV and the device making the shadows are all on timers,
and the blinds are positioned to prevent direct sight into the flat.” He looked
at Faulkner-Brown who’d taken a couple of picture frames off the mantelpiece
and was staring at them. He went over. “I didn’t know she was married,” he
said, seeing one was a wedding photograph.
“She isn’t.”
Dudley looked at the second picture. “Does she have
kids?”
Faulkner-Brown was ashen. “No, she doesn’t,” he said
quietly, appearing unsteady and sitting down on the sofa.
“What is it?” Dudley asked.
Faulkner-Brown stared at the pictures.
“What’s happened, what is it?” Dudley pressed.
“This is my wedding. That’s me, my wife, her brother
and sister, her niece and nephews, her parents, my parents, my sister, my niece
and my grandparents. And this one is my three kids.”
Silence.
Barnes’ phone rang. She dropped
the binoculars, ran over to her bag to look at the screen. She dashed to her
laptop and quickly fired it up. Seconds later she was watching live footage
from her flat.
“Is there a problem?” Woods asked, looking over.
“They’re in my flat.”
He started towards her.
“Keep looking for Gerrard,” she ordered. “You can
watch the footage later.”
“Who is it?”
“Dudley and a chubby, funny looking guy.”
“Faulkner-Brown.”
Barnes pressed a speed-dial number on her phone.
“Who are you ringing?”
“I’m calling the cavalry. And you’re supposed to be
watching out for Gerrard. Do I have to do everything?”
Faulkner-Brown was sitting
looking stunned. “She left here disguised as her neighbour, went to the main
sorting office, posted the dossier, then caught the bus so it appeared she was
heading to where the neighbour worked, got off just before the recycling plant,
which is conveniently sited next to the canal and a network of unmonitored
footpaths; and then she disappeared.”
“That’s how it’s looking,” Dudley responded. “But
somehow she answered the intercom when your
team of experts
attempted to
deliver a parcel on Wednesday afternoon.”
“The intercom in this building is GSM based. She
must have programmed it to divert to a mobile, and if that’s her work phone,”
he pointed to one plugged in the wall, “she must have another one. If we can find
that number then we can trace where she was yesterday afternoon.”
Dudley nodded. “I’ll check the unit.”
Faulkner-Brown urged caution. “She knew we’d work it
out.”