Authors: Angie Smith
Dudley tentatively lifted the cover on the intercom.
The blast from the explosion blew him back momentarily, the melting plastic in
his hand burning him. “Shit!” he said, his fingers sticking to it. “She’s
rigged it; we’ll never get the number now.” He ran to the kitchen sink to hold
his hand under cold running water.
“She’s a bloody explosives expert as well. She used
enough to destroy the unit but nothing else,” Faulkner-Brown grumbled.
“Where did she learn that?”
“Not in the police force. And what I’m trying to
figure out is how the hell she got hold of my family photographs.”
“She must be getting help.”
Faulkner-Brown sighed. “If she’s working with the
Russians, the dossier could have said so much more than it did. I was starting
to think she wasn’t, but now I’m wondering if the dossier was to divert
attention away from our attempt to focus the police in on Pauline.”
“If that was the case, they knew our intention
before we carried out the shooting. Therefore you’ve got a leak.”
Faulkner-Brown’s head nodded slowly.
“I doubt she’s with relatives,” Dudley surmised.
“I need to organise protection for my family,”
Faulkner-Brown said, taking out his phone.
Sudden noises came from outside the flat, and McLean
appeared with Jacobs.
“You two are under arrest,” McLean said.
“How did you know we were here?” Dudley spluttered,
looking bemused.
“We got a call saying someone was breaking in.
Where’s Maria?”
“Good question!!!”
Barnes closed the laptop and
joined Woods on the side of the boat. She refocused the binoculars and peered
towards the island.
“Any problems?” he asked.
“McLean and Jacobs arrived to kick them out; Dudley
burnt his hand. Now they really will start searching for me.”
“Burnt his hand?”
“The intercom exploded.”
“Exploded!!!”
She nodded. “One tiny explosion; the only person at
risk was the one handling the unit. He’ll need to have it dressed, but the
upshot is they can’t obtain the number I’ve been using.”
“Where did you get the explosives?”
She raised her eyebrows.
“Let me guess; a friend.”
She nodded again. “I take it you’ve not spotted
Crean?”
“Not yet.”
She sensed he was thinking. “If you’re worried
they’ll trace the number I used to ring the cavalry, I didn’t ring them
directly. I called a friend who then went to a phone box and rang on my behalf.
Rest assured they’ll not get my numbers.”
“The one I used to book the flights is the one
they’ll find. Then they’ll see the texts. Even though we used codenames they’ll
work it out; they’re not stupid.”
Barnes was again nodding. “It was my fault, I should
have realised and got you to use your normal mobile, but it all happened so
quickly. Using Homer as the code word was a bad idea.”
“Why?”
Barnes was unsure if he’d missed the point. “Homer’s
Odyssey,” she said. “Ancient Greek poem about Odysseus’ journey home after the
fall of Troy. You did know that didn’t you?”
“I thought he was a cartoon character.”
“No you did not,” she insisted, detecting he was
troubled by something. Nevertheless she refocused on the headland. “There!!!”
she yelled, standing.
“Where?”
“On the headland. Young woman walking two pugs; have
you got her?”
“Got her,” he replied.
“That’s Sarah. Lester, stop the boat!” she shouted.
“Blow klaxon?” he grinned.
“NO!” Woods roared.
Barnes smiled. “He’s kidding.” She looked at Woods. “Crean
can’t be far away. We need to see which villa she goes to and focus in on
that.”
“The end is nigh,” Woods said, excitedly.
Faulkner-Brown was back in his
hotel room with Dudley sitting beside him. Both their laptops were open and in
direct contact with Vauxhall Cross who were conducting the search for Barnes.
They’d left her flat, and McLean and Jacobs had been ordered back to the
Incident Room.
“She’s not with relatives,” Dudley said. “You don’t
booby-trap your flat to prevent someone getting hold of your number and then go
off to stay with relatives.”
“I know that, stupid. I’m making absolutely sure
though. I’ve also asked for someone to go to Woods’ and check she’s not there.
Is there anywhere else she may have gone?”
“I thought you had Woods under surveillance.”
Faulkner-Brown explained about the confrontation
with the house brick. “We scaled down the operation and concentrated on
Barnes.” As he finished speaking his phone rang. He listened for a few moments
and then said, “Find out exactly where.”
“Who was that?” Dudley asked.
“Woods has gone on holiday with his family; one of
his neighbours said they left on Wednesday afternoon.”
“Barnes left on Wednesday morning and Woods goes on
holiday in the afternoon… Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”
Faulkner-Brown’s phone rang again. He listened and
then reported to Dudley. “Woods flew out of Manchester to Abu Dhabi on
Wednesday evening with his wife and daughter.”
“He could’ve gone anywhere from there. Was Barnes on
the flight?”
“They’re checking.”
“She may have travelled under a false name.”
Faulkner-Brown shook his head. “They’re checking
that too.” His phone rang yet again and he concentrated on the call. He turned
to Dudley. “Woods, his wife, and daughter Laura flew from Abu Dhabi to Mahe,
then onto Praslin. Barnes wasn’t on either flight and neither was a lone female
traveller. She’s not with him in the Seychelles.”
“Just a second. He has twin teenage daughters. Why’s
he only taken one on holiday, and where’s the other one?”
The catamaran quietly bobbed
around in the crystal clear water as Barnes focused on the young woman walking
the pugs along the headland. Woods had been instructed to go into the cabin and
remain out of sight whilst she relayed events to him.
“She’s looking at the boat,” she said, waving her
hand at the woman.
“What the hell are you doing?” Woods barked.
“I’m on holiday sailing around the island. What’s
wrong with me waving at her? Look, she’s waving back.”
“Don’t draw attention to us,” Woods pleaded.
“She’s heading into that villa.” Barnes was looking
to her right. “Lester, drop the anchor,” she shouted. “We need to go ashore.”
She focused in on the imposing villa, searching for Crean, and any guards
patrolling the grounds.
The villa was an individual, exclusive,
Colonial-style property with spectacular uninterrupted views out over the
ocean. It was majestic. It had large open windows, wide covered verandas,
lavish grounds, its own swimming pools, tennis courts, a private mooring, and a
helicopter landing pad.
“Gerrard must live there. I need to change.” She
headed to the back of the boat. “Is the dinghy ready?”
Woods prepared to board the inflatable as she
slipped on some shorts, a tee shirt and a pair of sandals.
“Only beach,” Lester reinforced for the umpteenth
time.
“We should have flown in by helicopter; it would
have been easier,” she observed.
Woods turned to his wife. “Make sure they wait here.
You know what to say when they spot we’ve left the beach.”
Pamela nodded as the two detectives stepped gingerly
into the dinghy and Woods pulled the starting cord on the outboard motor.
Barnes was far from amused when it failed to start. Joseph climbed aboard to
get the engine running, and after six attempts it finally spluttered into life,
and he jumped back to the catamaran.
It took them a few minutes to reach the breakers and
under Barnes’ instructions Woods sailed gung-ho style straight up onto the
white sandy seashore. They jumped out and together pulled the small craft up
the beach, tying it to one of the large volcanic boulders.
“We’ve attracted attention,” Barnes said, nodding
towards the headland at what she presumed to be binoculars glistening in the
sunlight.
“Let’s start by mooching around the beach and hope
they get bored, then we’ll make a move for the villa,” Woods said.
They strolled along the sand, Barnes watching the
headland. “I can’t see any more guards,” she said. “I’ll mosey on up to the
edge of the beach while you walk along the shore. At the opportune moment I’ll
head inland at the spot covered by the coconut trees; I’ll make for the path
that leads up to the villa. You need to wait a few minutes, then look surprised
at my disappearance, and come after me, appearing to be searching for me. If we
get stopped I’ll do the talking.”
She walked nonchalantly off in the direction of the
trees, and as she approached the edge of the beach she did one last
reconnaissance of the headland and villa, then slipped stealthily into the
foliage. She crept through the giant palm leaves and reached the narrow
footpath. There was no sign of anyone, so she set off walking up the hill
towards the villa. She checked the beach for Woods, but he too had disappeared.
As she walked on she heard faint footsteps approaching from behind. She ducked
quickly out of sight into the lush vegetation, keeping still as the footsteps
grew louder. She held her breath...
“You should have waited much longer before coming to
find me,” she whispered as Woods appeared.
“You scared the life out of me,” he said quietly,
regaining his composure.
Barnes joined him on the footpath. “Come on, stay
low and keep quiet,” she mouthed.
They ventured forward, reached the tennis courts and
ducked down behind a terrace.
“We’re almost there,” Woods said.
“Shush!”
Immediately there was loud barking heading their way
and running, heavy footsteps approached them across the tennis courts. “This is
it,” Barnes said, standing up.
Woods joined her as two Dobermans and six heavily
armed guards wearing camouflaged uniforms surrounded them.
Faulkner-Brown tapped his fingers
nervously on the laptop as he waited to hear back from the team trying to
locate Holly Woods. In contrast Dudley’s fingers worked tirelessly away on his
keyboard as he downloaded the CCTV footage from Wednesday afternoon at
Manchester Airport’s departure hall.
The phone rang. Faulkner-Brown snatched it up;
seconds later he updated Dudley.
“Holly Woods is with her aunt, here in West
Yorkshire. They’ve checked social media posts between the two sisters over the
past days which confirm Laura is in the Seychelles with her parents and Holly
is staying with her aunt. They’re going to the house to verify that as we
speak.”
“Both sisters are staying with their aunt,” Dudley
contradicted. “Look at this.” He turned the laptop so Faulkner-Brown could see
the screen. “This is Woods arriving in the departure hall. Watch what his
so-called daughter does. Now watch them going through security, and finally,
through the departure lounge.”
Faulkner-Brown pondered. “You may have something
there, but we need more proof. All we have at the moment is a teenager dashing
to the loo and avoiding the camera on the departure screen. . .”
“Then meandering up to security avoiding looking at
the cameras on the way, miraculously stumbling at the precise moment she passes
through the detector and finally avoiding the cameras in the departure lounge.
What more proof do you need?”
Faulkner-Brown continued to ponder. “Okay, I’ll ask
them to search the aunt’s house. You look at how, where and when Woods booked
the flights.”
Forty-five minutes later Faulkner-Brown had the
answers. “There’s only one daughter staying at the aunt’s,” he reported.
“I beg to differ. Put the house under surveillance.
The other one must have been out. Woods booked the flights on an unregistered
mobile, from a location near the footbridge where Mateland was murdered. That
number has been in contact with another unregistered number and several texts
have been sent between the two.” He spun the laptop in order for Faulkner-Brown
to read the messages.
“The place where 9.80665 meters per sec squared is
relevant, and lovers meet to chat. That must be the footbridge.”
Dudley nodded.
“Homer’s chauffeur no longer at risk! On way to see
Homer’s mediator! Have news about offshore money… Homer must be Crean, the
chauffeur Ramírez, the mediator Albion Bedford. What’s the offshore money?”
Dudley shrugged.
“Homer’s pathologist on thin ice. What does that
mean?”
“We need to have a chat with the pathologist, but
this proves Barnes and Woods were working together. She was keeping him up to date
and they were conducting their own investigation. One of the phone calls was
when Woods was being followed in the White Rose Shopping Centre, and the last
text was on Tuesday morning when Woods sent ‘
See you at 9.00 a.m.
’, the
day Barnes left work at 7.15 and never returned; the day the flights were
booked.”