Seven of Swords (The Seventh Wave Trilogy Book 3) Read online

  “I need to tell you something. It’s important. I have to tell you before I go back to prison.” He was hissing his words, spittle landing on Robertson’s black body armour.

  “Mr Lee, can this wait until the morning?”

  “No, sir. It cannot.”

  He exhaled. “Go on. Do enlighten me.”

  “That means tell. Your man there said it earlier. I learn quickly. I may not be able to read or write, but I’m not stupid. Would you agree?”

  “Oh, I would. I am so glad you told me this. Goodnight.”

  “No! Stop. That was not it. I know about a job that is going to happen in London, soon. If I tell you, will you let me go?”

  “No. I can’t do that. Now, if you wish to tell me all about this mythical job, then I am still all ears…if not…”

  “No, it’s fine. I’m not going to be treated like an idiot. If Mr Roberts hears about this, he’ll be furious.”

  Robertson looked at Brown. There was a chance of some overtime here. Brown nodded. Ever the Yorkshireman, he knew that the age-old saying about pennies and pounds was eternal. Out of sight of Lee, but in his mate’s peripheral vision, he did a little jig and rubbed his large hands together.

  He was due to retire soon, like many of his colleagues he’d served the public well, and thirty years had passed ‘like that’. He had a brother in the adjoining force. Similar build and length of service. His hair wasn’t a patch on his luxuriant main. And Phil was the better looking of the two. Naturally. And in his eyes he had joined the better force.

  Nottinghamshire was one of those provincial forces that had a reputation borne out of sheer bloody-mindedness and hard work.

  His had been a great career, he’d joined the force when it was still allowed to be called one, back in the late seventies. He’d lived through the strikes and the massive changes and had enjoyed every day. He was a little broader nowadays. His once-immaculate black hair, which he convinced the girls was from his Italian heritage, was also now a little thinner. A few grey companions to their black neighbours, here and more often there. But his eyes still smiled, and he was a good cop and a better person. Always.

  However, things were changing, society, and with it policing too. He could no longer live in the past, but for now he may as well make hay whilst the sun still shone.

  His slightly younger partner was about to close the cell door for the night, turn the solid metal handle, twice checking it was closed, peer through the spyhole, dim the lights and head home. But the similarity to his own name piqued his interest. After all, what was another hour at double time and an extra day off?

  “And why would this legendary Mr Roberts be furious?”

  “Because I am his informant.”

  “So he’s a police officer?”

  “The top man. Scotland Yard.”

  “Impressive. And what exactly do you want to tell him?”

  “DCI Roberts always lets me go. It’s the arrangement we have. We both win that way.”

  “Well, the Nottinghamshire Constabulary does not work like that Mr Lee, we have standards you see. Best I ring your Mr Roberts and ask his opinion. Is there a broad theme to your information? Or is it just a medley of lies and betrayal?”

  “There is and unless I receive the emancipation that I seek, then this conversation is over.”

  “Crikey. Less than an hour in our custody and Bob Marley is channelling through your Irish blood. I’ll go and hunt down your DCI, but he will not be happy being rung at this hour, I’m sure.”

  “Oh, he will be. Trust me?”

  “As far as I could throw you.”

  Lee, a career criminal, knew when to call it a day. If the copper was good to his word, then he would ring Roberts. All he could do now was lay down and wait at the end of what had been a long day. He was hungry but first things first. He unzipped his jeans and guided the hot, dark-yellow, pent-up and odorous urine into the basic stainless steel toilet.

  Leaning against the green-painted block wall with his left hand he finished his task with the other, shook it vigorously until the last drop fell into the utilitarian bowl and then turning, as he put his pride and joy away, introduced himself to his cellmate.

  He held out his hand, “Patrick Lee. And what would you be in for?”

  The male leaned forward slightly but refused to shake the offered hand.

  “Did your mother not teach you to wash your hands afterwards?”

  The voice was unusual, European, slightly rasping, his words passing over fractured teeth and arid lips.

  “I never met her, I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”

  The face moved into the available light.

  “My name is not important.”

  “My uncle is the tenth richest man in England. My name is Patrick Lee and I am very important.”

  “I know you told me and I heard the sergeant talking to you. Now, if we are going to get along you really need to improve your game Mr Lee.”

  Heavily accented, morose, angry.

  They would get along fine, or Lee would quietly throttle him in the cell whilst everyone else slept, and then claim, in a sweat-stained panic that he has been attacked by the foreign maniac, just as he had the last time that Mr Roberts had come to his aid – negotiating with a judge, stating in no uncertain terms just what a valuable resource Lee was to the Metropolitan Police.

  But he knew it would be a long night without another word said, so he tried again, ever the talker – he had the genetic gift of the gab.

  “So, are you a Romany like me, my friend?”

  His voice filled the room from the dark recess of the bottom bunk. “We are all gypsies in the end, Patrick. I am descended from the travelling peoples of the North Indian Subcontinent and yes, my way of life and my work means I have to keep moving, either that or the xenophobic hatred tracks me down, time and time again. You will say we are alike, as I sense the gypsy in you too. The only difference is I made something of myself and you are just a thug.”

  Lee sniffed through a twice-broken nose. His Irish accent now more evident. “Is that so? Well, you don’t look that bloody successful roight now, Mr feckin’ Romany. You know I’ve punched people in the mouth for less than that!”

  “Of course you have. But please, don’t do that to me or I will end up sliding bits of your anatomy under the door to feed the other zoo animals.” He rolled his sleeves up, deliberately, one turn at a time.

  “You appear to be confusing your brute strength with my wisdom.”

  Lee would normally follow through on his threats. He was, it was said, afraid of only one woman and one man, and that was, in turn, his mother and God. He was a proud individual with a long family history and a reputation as a member of the British bare knuckle fighting circuit. But this man was different and Lee feared his voice and he feared what he saw.

  “So, you see my tattoo and things change? Interesting, then it would appear that the people I work with have at least gained some respect among your community.” He then just as carefully rolled the sleeves down again, taking time to fasten the buttons, just so.

  “OK. To show I am a man of honour, I will tell you my name. I am Constantin Nicolescu – son of Nicolae and a proud Romanian. I am, as you saw, a member of the group known as the Seventh Wave. Our leader…”

  “Jackdaw?”

  “Ah, his reputation really does precede him I see. Yes, to you Jackdaw, but to me, one of his most loyal soldiers he is Mr Alex Stefanescu – quite simply the brightest star in a galaxy of criminals.”

  “Yes, his name is known throughout our community from Eastern Europe to England – as far as Appleby Horse Fair. OK, so I’m impressed and not a little shit scared. To be honest, I didn’t realise.” Lee was on edge. It wasn’t the man in front of him that concerned him. He could deal with him with one punch.

  “Oh, you didn’t realise and of course that makes all the difference. I should allow you to allow yourself to be strangled by me, slowly, until you beg for forgiv
eness, your eyes bulging with fear. But that would be most boring. You see, when I kill people Mr Lee, I do it in such a way as to make even experienced police officers vomit. Or I destroy the body with chemicals, or even better, explosives. Simple. Understand?”

  Lee nodded.

  “A hundred Euro would enable me to track down your family and kill them one by one. Burn them alive, smother them with acid, cut pieces off their helpless bodies and bury them in a hundred different places. Each day posting a piece to you, until you get the hint. I could fill their homes with poisonous gas, use chemicals to disfigure them, so bad not even the rescuers would bother to save them. Should I continue?”

  “OK, OK, so you have my feckin’ attention. What do you want?”

  “Good. Now, I need you to do something for me.”

  Constantin outlined his intentions over the course of two minutes. Slowly, deliberately, and with no margin for ambiguity.

  “No. I am not prepared to do that. Mr Roberts has been good to me over the years. Call it honour between men.”

  “He is a police officer, Patrick. And members of the travelling community do not trust them, and they do not trust you. But you pretend he is your friend?”

  “I didn’t say he was my friend, I said he had been good to me. There is a difference. I always get what I need from him.”

  “I am glad to hear this. Any moment now that kind police officer is going to come back here and ask you to accompany him to a phone. You ask your charitable police friend to carry out my request or there will be a hundred Euro note with you family’s name written across it.”

  The cell hatch opened.

  “Mr Lee. Turns out you do have friends in high places after all. Step back as I open the door. You OK, look like you’ve seen a ghost?”

  “No officer, not at all. I’m fine. Your man here was showing me his tattoo. That’s all. I’ll be fine. Take me to the phone, please.”

  Chapter Six

  Lee picked up the phone, its handset was held together with a grubby wrapping of sticky tape.

  “Hello.”

  “Patrick, it’s DCI Roberts.” He vigorously rubbed the substance of the day from his red-rimmed eyes. “What’s happening up there?”

  “I got picked up on a warrant boss. My own fault, I should have given false details and prayed that the coppers wouldn’t suss me.”

  “Why change the habit of a lifetime?”

  “Fair point. Look boss, I’ve gotta get out of this place. You know how they screw me up. I need to go, now…”

  Roberts sensed an urgency in Lee’s voice, one he wasn’t used to.

  “You OK Paddy?”

  “Other than being in custody and facing a few months in the big house, yeah, I’m absolutely fine.”

  “Alright, well, for the record, I asked. Now, what have got to tell me? Make it good and I’ll see what I can do for you. No promises Paddy. You understand?”

  “I understand, sir. You’ve always been straight with me.”

  He started whispering, turning his back on the custody staff. He cleared his throat as he watched a drunk being wheeled into the waiting area, Lee could smell the alcohol from where he was stood.

  “Mr Roberts, I’ve heard something big is going to happen in your city. Our city. It’s big, bloody big. Almost unbelievable.”

  “Well Paddy, on average half of everything you tell me is a lie and the remaining fifty percent is dubious so this had better be good.” Roberts took a sip of a lukewarm coffee and sent a rapid text message to his wife.

  It’s me. I’m going to be late. Sorry.

  Patrick Lee had spent his entire criminal career balancing the truth with its direct opposite, of living in a sterile cell and constantly moving on, of dealing with the xenophobia and hatred and of knowing that people disbelieved him, even, on the rare occasions that he was actually telling the truth.

  He knew even now that Roberts wouldn’t believe him.

  “Mr Roberts, I heard that a group of men are going to hit London hard. The banks probably, but there was something else.” It was his opening gambit, and so far the police officer hadn’t stopped him in his tracks.

  Roberts looked at his watch, working out how long the casual chat with one of his longest-running informants might take, and how long the drive home would be – finally coming to the conclusion it might be better to sleep in the office. The black leather chair had accommodated a few of his predecessors over the years. It was looking promising.

  He leant back as far as he could and placed his gleaming leather-soled shoes onto the desk. “Do go on.”

  “The team is Eastern European.” Roberts felt the hook, the industrially honed barb. Ten years, maybe longer since he had last felt the reaction deep inside his stomach. He ran his fingers across his forearm, stopping to favour a dark red scar, a reminder of the shattered bones that once lay beneath, a legacy of being chained to a cold metal pole, deep underground in the capital.

  “Bastards.”

  “Sorry?”

  “Forget it, just talking out loud. Keep talking, tell me what you know.”

  “So you are interested?” Lee’s hopes were building. Perhaps he might soon see the kids and their mother after all.

  “Yes. But I need detail.”

  “Well, I heard a man talking about the tower and jewels.” As he uttered the words, they sounded ludicrous. No one would believe him.

  “A tower or the Tower? If it’s the latter, you know this sounds ludicrous, don’t you? Repeat what you heard. Slowly.”

  “I understand. I surely do sir yes, but you have my word, he said the Jewel of London – the safest place in the capital. And that means the Crown Jewels. The Queen’s stuff. Doesn’t it?”

  “Yes, Paddy, I know who bloody owns them! But they’ve been secure for hundreds of years. Not since your Irish brother Thomas Blood tried to steal them in the sixteen hundreds has anyone had a proper go. And he was as much use as a chocolate poker.”

  Roberts knew that the Crown Jewels were the most protected pieces of metal and glass on the planet. Bombproof glass, sensors, locks the size of a small country and hundreds of CCTV cameras, constantly monitored by the Tower Guard. It was nonsense. In situ, now in the Jewel House, they had remained within the Tower since the thirteen hundreds. Moved twice, cleaned regularly, admired by millions, valued almost beyond belief and never stolen.

  “Look, you said the Tower, then you said the Jewel of London. What exactly did he say? Think, man.”

  “Look Mr Roberts, it’s been days since I slept properly, these bastards have given me a half-cooked frozen meat pie and a cup of tea with nowhere near enough sugar in it. And to cap it all, I haven’t had a shit since Wednesday. Do you know how that feels? You should try it sometime.”

  The detective chief inspector was tired too, but he acknowledged that at least he got to go home.

  “OK Paddy, what’s it to be. The Tower or the Jewel? Or would you settle for a shit?”

  They both laughed, the ice was broken.

  “The Jewel. He said the Jewel and OK, I probably put two and two together and came up with four, which is pretty good for someone who never went to school.”

  They both laughed again. “Patrick Lee, you are a bloody nightmare my son. Leave this with me and I’ll do my best to get you out by the morning. Worst case, I’ll send a few of my lads up to collect you and bring you home rather than sticking you in a prison van. Deal?”

  “You have yourself a deal, boss. Sleep well, regards to Mrs Roberts. She’s a lovely lady.”

  He’d met her in the street with Roberts once. Soho. October, it was raining, which meant the meeting was thankfully short. He was right; she was lovely, the silver-tongued bastard.

  “She misses you daily. Sleep well too, do avail yourself of the facilities before it’s too late and kindly put the nice constable back on the phone, I need to have a little chat with him, you know, sort out your little problems as always.”

  “Thank you, sir. I owe you.
”

  Lee handed the phone to Robertson, who had been indiscreet in his eavesdropping. He wiped the mouthpiece with the edge of his police sweater and spoke.

  “Sir, PC Robertson, how may I help?”

  “Is that lying bastard still stood near you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Get him back to his cell. I’ll hold.”

  Roberts took a second to look around the office, once the home of his great friend John Daniel, retired chief inspector and the man considered responsible for putting him on the police map. He began to pick the pointless white bits from under his fingernails, place them onto his lips and fire them around the room, each time seeing how far he could reach.

  “Sir.”

  Roberts sat up so quickly the seat nearly toppled.

  “Do go ahead, my son, tell me about Lee, what has he been saying and what are the chances of getting him out on bail for me, Pray tell. I am like Dumbo…all ears.”

  “He’s been alright to deal with, to be fair, no different to the usual run-of-the-mill traveller. Demanding, demonstrative, loud, and unbelievable. Literally, unbelievable. He was OK actually, mentioned you as I was bedding him down for the night. He looked like he had seen a ghost. As I brought him to you he mentioned something about the other lad in his call, about a wave and how he wanted to move cells?”

  Roberts stood up. The room closed in. He fixed his gaze on a team photo, a long-forgotten image of his initial training.

  “A wave? Right, stop. Slow down, go over what he said. Word for word.”

  Robertson uttered the words so slowly they were in danger of appearing sarcastic. But he sensed their importance.

  Roberts continued. “I hear you. Who is his cell mate?”

  “Hang on, I’ll read his name to you.” He nodded to the custody record, sat with a pile of others. Slipped the phone onto his shoulder and leafed through a few bits of paper.

  “Here we go. His name is Constantin…”

  “Nicolescu?”

  “Yes, boss. Spot on. How did you know?”

  “I didn’t but there’s only one Constant in my life and his name ends in Nicolescu. Bastard smashed my forearm with the sole of his boot. Left me to die on a tube train a few years ago.”