Seven of Swords (The Seventh Wave Trilogy Book 3) Page 8

  “Nice. I’ll get that added to his custody record.” Robertson slid the creased paperwork across the desk and nodded to his multi-tasking custody sergeant who leant across and wrote ‘Monitor regularly/assaults police’ in black biro before slipping it back into the pile ready for the morning shift.

  “I don’t swear often, but you watch him like a fucking hawk or he’ll escape. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Crystal boss.”

  “Why is he in custody?”

  “Fighting, well to be technically correct, aggravated burglary. Nearby flat about half a mile from here. Ex-soldier lives there, bit of a drunk, often talks about the old days and how he helped us to do our jobs. Problem is boss, this place we call our professional home is so full of Walter Mitty characters that you literally couldn’t make it up.”

  He laughed a tired laugh. “I bet. But I am one hundred percent interested.”

  “Your man travelled up to our patch from London, apparently. Some score to settle from the past. Out on bail, unbelievable given what he said he’d been banged up for? Magistrates these days will believe anything. Said he wanted to rid his past of a witness – something like that, I can’t really understand what he is rambling on about. Talked about killing Francis so that all the loose ends were neatly tied. Asked to make a call to a female called Thomas and has refused to eat. I suspect he’s on the gear, heroin at a guess. He looks like a living skeleton.”

  The line was quiet. “You still there boss?”

  He was.

  “I am. What’s your first name?”

  “Tris.”

  “Well Tris, if you’ve got a few minutes I’ll tell you a story. It all starts a long, long time ago in a place called Kent.”

  Roberts outlined the Op Breaker days, how Constantin had become the unchained assassin for Alex Stefanescu and how, even ten-plus years later, the past still haunted the Breaker team and its members, who had dwindled, one at a time. Three dead now, all apparently unconnected, but none considered routine.

  “And Mr Cade is still with you?”

  “No, sadly not. He’s from your force, as I mentioned, but we didn’t hold it against him. He’s currently somewhere at thirty thousand feet chatting up a cabin crew member, having become a consultant to the British government.”

  “Very nice. Good to hear your story boss, but respectfully it’s time for me to call it a day. Anything else you need from me?”

  “No Tris, I think we are done.” There was something, but it wouldn’t gel. He was about to say goodbye when he looked back at the ceremonial picture of himself from his training days, resplendent in the dark blue uniform, boots shined to within an inch of their lives. The whole future ahead of him.

  “Francis?” He paused. “Francis?” He said it again, and then the light became illuminated. The scorched photograph in what was left of dear old Edward Francis’ home, all those years ago. The terraced family home in north Kent, decimated by what first appeared to be an accidental gas explosion.

  “Just before you go. And bear with me, Tris. Your aggravated burglary victim. He’s not called Dave Francis, is he?”

  “Yes, as it happens. Your intuition is spellbinding, sir. Any chance you know this week’s lottery numbers?”

  “No. And call me Jason. Just bear with me one more second.” He ran the ideas around in his head. “Have you got Mr Francis’ phone number?”

  “I have. Would you like it?”

  “No, I need you to ring him. I’ll hold. Ask him what is father’s name is – and importantly if he knows a man called Jack Cade.”

  “As you wish, sir. I’ll put you on hold, apologies for the brutal lift music.”

  The phone rang six times. An old Blackberry, barely able to operate now, given to him by Jack Cade at a time when discretion was the better part of valour. Cade had paid for its upkeep, too. A real gent, that one. Even through the haze of an alcohol-fuelled decade he had kept it charged, just in case. He may have been a drunk, but he was a disciplined one.

  Francis shuffled barefoot across the sparse lounge floor and looked at the display. It was late. He really couldn’t be bothered to field some annoying bloody insurance call. But his analytical mind couldn’t allow the ‘Caller withheld’ to pass by unchallenged, and besides, no one ever rang him on this phone. He pressed the green button.

  “Yes?”

  “Mr Francis? Please don’t hang up. It’s PC Robertson from the Meadows Police. How are you feeling?”

  “Bit late for a welfare call. What do you need?” Once the tactical operator, always the tactical operator.

  “I’ll cut to the chase. I’ve got a DCI from the Met Police on hold. I’ve been talking to him about the man that broke into your place tonight. I have two seemingly random questions for you if I may?”

  “You may.” He tipped the scotch down the tarnished steel sink and eased the cold tap on decanting water into the glass. He needed to drink more of this and less of that.

  “OK. What is your father’s name?”

  It stopped him in his tracks. His hand shook subtly, spilling some of the water.

  “Was. Past tense Constable. He’s dead. Died in an explosion in Kent. 2004. Edward Francis. Second question?”

  “Do you know anyone called Jack Cade?”

  He tipped the water down the plughole and with his right hand opened and poured a double from a supermarket red-labelled bottle.

  “Now there’s a name from the past. He was one of yours. The only one I ever trusted, present company excepted. What’s the connection?”

  “I have no idea, sir, but I’ll try to find out. Stand by.”

  Robertson picked up the desk phone.

  “OK boss, or should I say Jason? His dad was called Edward Francis, dead now…”

  “Died in an explosion. Kent. 2004. Go on.”

  “And, yes, he knows your Mr Cade.”

  “A classic case of six degrees of separation, Tris. I’ve still got it.” He clicked his fingers together. “And I have never lost it!”

  Roberts knew more about Dave Francis than most people. Cade had talked about him fondly, and his skills as a thoroughly trained intelligence officer, and importantly how he had salvaged Cade’s early career. And he knew that if Constantin had managed to track him down, he was vulnerable. His stomach twisted like a wet flannel. His intuition was calling out from the rooftops of London.

  ‘They are back.’

  “Boss, what do I tell David? He wants to know what the connection is between Constantin and his old man – Edward Francis.”

  “That’s simple. Tell him he is. And tell him to pack his bags, tip away that cheap scotch and get to your place. In fact, get someone to fetch him. Keep him away from Constantin Nicolescu at all costs, issue him with a travel warrant, and put him on the first available train to London. Tell him he’s employed again.”

  “As you wish, sir. I’ll let the duty inspector know we might have a guest overnight who isn’t in our custody. Oh, and one last thing, Patrick Lee mentioned the female called Thomas? In case you’ve forgotten? Seemed important.”

  “It is, more than you’ll ever know. Thanks mate, I owe you one. Goodnight.”

  “Before you go boss…what about Lee?”

  “See if you can bail him to me, would you? If not, stick him in a van with the rest of them, he’s come up with a priceless story that holds no water with me. But I suggest you segregate him from his cell mate or one of them will end up dead.”

  “Good talking to you sir, sleep well.” He took the last words of the faceless, but pleasant voice at face value.

  “Tris, I’ve changed my mind. Hold Francis there, somewhere secure. I’ll send a car first thing. Don’t let him out of your sight.”

  Robertson still took the comment about Lee and his cell mate as a joke – a tired one but not one to be taken seriously. He opened the pale green, graffiti-laden door and guided Lee back into the cell where his companion for the night was already sound asleep.

 
“Please, sir.” He hissed his plea to a weary police officer, wanting nothing more than a quiet ride home and his wife and his bed. Preferably in that order.

  Now Lee was desperate. Laying what he considered a royal flush onto the card table.

  “But he said the tide will turn.”

  “Did he? That’s grand. You’ll be fine. Go on.”

  “He said the bird has flown the nest!”

  “Marvellous. I hope he has a wonderful time. I need to fly as well or Mrs Robertson will see to it that the door to her veritable bodily paradise is forever locked.”

  The door closed with its familiar metallic thud, the steel handle confirmed the lock was in place for the night and with a gentle tap on the door Robertson walked to the plywood radio cabinet, slipped his Motorola into the slot marked twenty-four and headed for the locker room.

  “See you in four days, Sarge!”

  Constantin smiled in the darkened room. He could hear the English traveller’s heart beating. Lee thought they were connected, drawn together by their ancestry, felt that their origins would protect him. He was wrong.

  Lee failed to sleep for a moment, he spent most of the night leaning against the cell door, whilst on the worn green plastic mattress next to him Constantin slept like a baby. Tomorrow would be a new day and Constantin was quietly optimistic about it – in fact he couldn’t wait.

  A few hundred miles south Roberts grabbed a pen and piece of paper and made a brief things-to-do list before he could drive the equally quiet commute, back to the edge of London and home. It was late, and he needed to be as sharp as one of Carrie O’Shea’s pencils the following day. The list was interspersed with bullet points and arrows and inane late-night doodles, but the importance was paramount.

  He rested the silver-barrelled pen on the paper, then started writing.

  Ring Lucy Thomas.

  Ring Carrie O’Shea.

  Sort out Francis.

  Ring Jack.

  Sleep!

  He switched the office light to off, closed the door and headed for the stairs, wearily walked down to the ground floor, so tired he misjudged a few steps, left the building and slumped into his car.

  Late night music guided him north. He missed most of the familiar landmarks, only realising so when he pulled onto the drive of his comfortable suburban home. He leant back into the driver’s seat and let the last lines of the familiar song wash over him, exhaled, exited the car and walked towards his front door.

  Tomorrow would be a long day. Tomorrow, for Detective Chief Inspector Jason Roberts was now less than ten minutes away.

  Chapter Seven

  Scotland Yard, London, 15th January

  Roberts was back in his office, first thing, dressed to kill in a blue suit, pink shirt and navy tie with pink dots, Armani belt and an oversized watch. His black shoes were as shiny as they were the day he had joined the police.

  ‘Says a lot about a man,’ a chief inspector had once said to Roberts and his intake at Hendon Police Training College. It was a phrase mirrored across England and Wales, at a time when the UK police forces still had regional training centres.

  Roberts adjusted his tie, wiped the top of his shoes across the back of his trousers and walked from his office to the briefing room. The Ops Centre of Scotland Yard had never lost touch with the operation known as Breaker, its people had just moved on, to new pastures, new hunting grounds.

  Breaker was now a perennial business as usual operation for the Metropolitan Police, rolled out quickly when the slightest hint of financial crime was so much as murmured in the great banks and trade centres in arguably the most important centre for monetary trade on the planet.

  Syndicates from across Europe had continued to target the UK – there were so many possible targets and countless victims and the methods of operation had grown, become viral, to the point where now even the big four banks were having to share data and intelligence with the police, UK Border Force and the Inland Revenue. An act hitherto unheard of.

  If Breaker staff weren’t looking at financial crime and its perpetrators, it was short-term secondments to support other units – firearms the week before, Albanians the week before that, Yardies two months prior. Their ability to support and confront criminal entities was becoming legendary, backed up by the recently formed Specialist Crime and Operations team known as SCO19.

  Roberts’ unit were, what the Met called, a Tactical team – able to deploy to a problem. Their reputation had also grown. But not without cost. The memorial wall was growing and Roberts needed to contain the activity in that area, where and whenever he could.

  At the heart of all criminality as money. Follow that and you couldn’t go far wrong. ‘Show me the money’ was a by-line for the team.

  “Morning, you retched shower! No, please don’t stand. No, seriously, how are we all?”

  Roberts’ people were sacrosanct as far as he was concerned. No one touched them, not unless they had gone to or through him first. And that was why his team was the one everyone wanted to join. Young, upwardly mobile detectives, through to pre-retirement old-school officers that still had a passion for doing the job well, they all wanted to get into the hearts and minds of the public via their targeting of criminal syndicates.

  The team had come a long way since they had been rapidly established under the guidance of a northerner, Jack Cade and the debonair and highly respected boss called John Daniel, who had since retired for a better life, running his restaurant in a terribly picturesque part of New Zealand.

  Roberts often harked back to those days but knew that the past had to remain there – nevertheless no one could take the experience away from them. He realised that his team has learned it in bucket loads from Cade and Daniel. And now, there was a whisper on the floor that Cade might one day return.

  “Right, let’s start this off with the quiz.” Roberts had commenced each shift in this way, along with copious amounts of tea – and the right biscuit – since he had taken over. The junior staff member fired up the computer and projected the questions up onto the screen. Fifteen questions and no less than one hundred percent was expected. Occasionally, if they really put their heads together, they scored ten.

  “Question One: Where does Saddam Hussein keep his spices?”

  The team had heard it before but allowed their leader to regale them with his punchline.

  “In Iraq!”

  A collective groan ensued.

  “In a rack. You see, it’s a play on words?”

  He knew. They knew.

  The usual sarcastic cheer erupted, followed by a down to business attitude that epitomised the group. In charge and always leading, with a subtly-hardened edge since the days he had been brutally assaulted on an underground train was Roberts – stood at the front of the room scanning for alertness and ready to throw out a series of questions, not unlike his fabled science teacher Mr. Walton.

  He cast an eye over the room, quickly conducting a head count. He did this every morning, the mother hen making sure that all her chicks had come home to roost.

  Cynthia Bell wasn’t there that morning. Her usual diligent activities included taking notes and analysing as she did best, and she was always first in. She had been with Roberts since day one and was arguably one of the best analysts in the business, let alone the police. She had a soft spot for Roberts that was never sexual, and so they got along like the best of siblings – and he protected her from all types of harm – and with his wife’s blessing.

  He made a note to check where she was. She had no discernible family. Doctors probably, but she was never ill.

  Carrie O’Shea entered the room eating a croissant and drinking a takeaway black coffee from across the road, her favourite haunt since Cade had forced her there years before. Her hair had grown slightly, she’d long favoured the shorter cut but had lost interest when she knew her and Cade would never amount to anything. She could always hope.

  The gym had become her saviour, that and long walks th
rough the city she adored, often by night. There wasn’t a corner she didn’t know. If Cynthia Bell was the Princess of Data, then O’Shea was the Queen of All She Surveyed.

  It had taken her years to recover from the attack that had almost claimed her life. Cade and Roberts and a twist of fate had saved her. Her stubbornness, too. However, her obstinate approach to Cade also saw him make a decision to move on, leaving her in his wake, drowning. She had been given an olive branch but had snapped it in two. A move she regretted every day she woke and stared down onto the Old Queen Street mews, where she still lived a fortified lifestyle and from where she had once dragged a surprisingly-hesitant Cade upstairs to her bedroom.

  Nil carborundum desperandum. Wasn’t that what Cade had said once over coffee, that morning that she was thinking of leaving the Yard?

  God, she missed him.

  “You’re alive then, Carrie? I tried ringing last night.”

  “No, boss I’m a fucking mirage. Course I’m alive. Living the dream me.”

  He whispered, “Alex has escaped from a Bulgarian prison. Stay closely in touch with me day and night. Any issues, we get you into protective custody – no exceptions. It will all blow over, but for now, we take no chances. Understood?”

  “Boss.” She understood implicitly.

  It was standing room only on an already busy morning. Twelve more detectives had joined the team. Four had left – policing was like that, cycling and recycling. If you stayed around for a while, the same faces re-emerged. Roberts’ favourite Detective Dave Williams had also endured since day one; now one of the three team leaders, he had seen many changes but leapt out of bed every day, trying to make a difference. He had three more years before retirement and refused to be one of those staff that equated that to thirty-six more pay days. Retirement would surely follow, but for now Williams was fit and healthy and as far as he was concerned, the moment he gave it all up would be the start of his demise.