If I Should Die (Joseph Stark) (38 page)

Whelan barely reacted when confronted with his blunder. He listened to their questions, accusations and threats in silence, then uttered just one word: ‘lawyer’.

‘Well, that was short and sweet,’ said Fran, closing the door to the interview room.

‘He might be small-time but he’s a proper villain.’ Groombridge rubbed his temples. ‘We won’t get anything out of him.’

Stark looked at the clock: ten past one. No wonder the guv’nor was tired.

‘Guv!’ Dixon came down the corridor, looking like he’d run every step.

‘The ping?’ asked Groombridge.

Dixon shook his head. ‘No current location on the new number, Guv. Either switched off or another burner …’ He glanced at Groombridge, whose disapproval of cop-show Americanisms was written on his face. ‘Sorry, Guv, disposable pay-as-you-go mobile phone.’

‘Right. So?’

Dixon rallied. ‘I just took a call for Stark from the National Crime Squad – one of the numbers he entered on the database, off Whelan’s phone, flagged up against an NCS investigation. They wanted to know everything we had but they wouldn’t tell me anything at all.’

Groombridge’s hackles rose. ‘Is that so? Well, let’s see if they’ll be any more forthcoming with me.’

They followed the DCI up to the door of his office but he closed it behind him. In the prevailing quiet the door was no match for the raised voice behind it. For the first time Stark heard Groombridge swear. It turned out the DCI was quite proficient.

A few minutes later Groombridge emerged, unruffled. ‘Right. NCS immigration crime team have been working jointly with the UK Border Agency, and the number flagged belongs to a fake-passport supplier they’re keeping tabs on in deepest, darkest Deptford. They’ve
had his phone tapped for months. They refused my request to pick him up for questioning – they want whoever is supplying him with blank documents but, most importantly, they’re keeping tabs on his customers. They’re after terrorists or people-traffickers, not small-time crooks like Whelan. After a little persuasion they did agree to email over redacted transcripts of “relevant conversations” for my eyes only.’

It took an hour for the email to arrive. Heads were nodding when Groombridge bustled out of his office holding a sheaf of paper. ‘Right, heads up! Nearly four weeks ago Whelan ordered two fake IDs – passport, driving licence, birth certificate, bank account, credit card, the lot – paying in cash. The names on the documents were Nicola Michaels and Steve Baker. Get back on the phones to the airports, ferries, Eurostar, Eurotunnel, shipping companies, private-boat hire, et cetera. Bookings under those names. That means now!’

‘Let’s hope we’re not too late,’ said Fran, earning a sharp look from Groombridge.

There were no bookings, past or future. That ruled out airports. Unfortunately all it took to legitimately leave mainland Britain was to be seated in a car booked on to a ferry or into a tunnel by a third party, real or fictitious. On the ferries you had to stipulate in advance how many people would be in the car; for the tunnel you didn’t even have to do that. Likewise Nikki Cockcroft might have left by private light aircraft or small fishing boat, though the weather offshore had been rough. Consequence of an island nation. Nikki, a.k.a. Nicola, could already be abroad. Interpol had her alias now but Europe was a big place with vast open borders.

‘Okay,’ said Groombridge, with energy he couldn’t possibly feel. ‘If you can’t find the person, find the car. Where are we?’

‘Nowhere,’ replied Fran.

‘No ports have a booking for the Mondeo, Guv,’ added Williams.

‘They’re obviously not that stupid. Our Nikki needs a new car.’

‘I’ll get on to Chatham and see what other cars went missing in the last few days,’ suggested Fran.

Groombridge was shaking his head. ‘Do that. But they’d be mad to use a hot car. They need a clean one. That’s what we should be looking for.’

‘Guv.’ Stark put up his hand self-consciously. ‘One of the numbers on Whelan’s phone was a car dealership in Chatham.’

It turned out that three cars had been boosted in the Chatham area in the last two days. But Fran was more interested in what the Chatham police had to say about the dealership.

‘It’s a small independent owned and run by one of those old-school wide-boys. They suspect he supplies the odd stolen luxury car to an Albanian outfit that ships them off in containers, ruthless bastards. Whelan might supply the occasional car, I suppose. But if you’re an iffy type in need of a clean car and you know an iffy car dealer …’

Groombridge nodded. ‘All right. You and Stark get over to Chatham and shake down the car dealer.’

‘Come off it, Guv. We just got back from that shit-hole!’ protested Fran.

‘So you know the way.’

Fran rolled her eyes. ‘Come on, then.’ She jerked her head at Stark with enough of a glare to impart blame. ‘If we leave now, you can buy me breakfast and at least three coffees.’

Fran was still
tsk
ing
an hour later as they sat in the car outside the dealership, sipping their cooling coffees. Stark’s stomach rumbled. A service-station sandwich was not the canteen’s full English he’d been banking on. Fran seemed satisfied with her Danish and double espresso. She didn’t seem tired, she didn’t seem hungry, just angry. Perhaps that was what sustained her. But if she was too angry to be tired he was rapidly becoming too tired to be angry. He wasn’t sure how long he could keep this up. He rested his head against the cathartic coolness of the glass.

A punch in the arm woke him. Fran ignored his pointed rubbing and pointed across the street. A man in a Barbour jacket and flat cap was unlocking the heavy padlock on the barrier across the entrance to the yard. Stark got out stiffly. The man looked at them as they approached, uncertain. It was too early for customers unless they were very keen. Fran held up her warrant card and his face defaulted to cagey.

‘Douglas Brown?’

‘Not a crime, last time I heard.’

‘We’d like a word inside, if you don’t mind.’

‘I do mind.’

‘I suppose we could talk out here. We could still be talking out here half an hour from now when your customers start showing up. Stark, go and put on the blue lights so everyone can see who Mr Brown is chatting to so early in the morning.’

Brown looked at the busy passing traffic, clearly unhappy at the suggestion.

‘We just want to see a list of recent sales, nothing untoward.’ Fran smiled but Brown’s distrust was plain. She sighed. ‘Listen,’ she let her impatience show, ‘I’m interested in your legitimate dealings. If you prefer I’ll have an officer here in an hour with a warrant. But by then I might decide to take an interest in other dealings. Albanian ones, perhaps.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘Perhaps a quick outing to their yard might jog your memory. They’re upstanding citizens like yourself. I’m sure they’ll be as happy to help us with our enquiries as they’ll be to know you’re doing the same. You know how co-operative these Albanians are with the police.’

Brown was in his sixties. Long past the bravado and imagined invincibility of the up-and-coming crook. ‘Come in, then.’

He showed them his books.

No Whelan. No Nikki Cockcroft, Nicola Michaels, Liam Dawson or Steve Baker. Fran slid an image of Dawson across the desk: the CCTV still from the prison visit, a dodgy-looking image of a dodgy-looking bloke. ‘Know this man?’

Brown shook his head. Fran placed Whelan’s latest arrest mugshot on the desk. ‘This one?’ Same reaction from Brown, but his eyes betrayed him. ‘You’ve a lousy poker face, Mr Brown. Billy Whelan is a known associate of yours. And he’s in a world of shit. If you don’t want to join him, I suggest you start being a whole lot more co-operative. All I want to know is whether he bought a car from you recently.’

It was almost laughable to watch the man’s eyes darting as his brain scrambled for options. It was a wonder he eked out a living trading used cars.

‘Perhaps we should ask the Albanians,’ suggested Fran.

‘All right, all right! Billy bought a car, couple of weeks back.’

Fran jabbed at the books. ‘Which?’

Brown found the entry. ‘This one. Silver Volkswagen Golf.’

Fran stared. ‘Says here this car was bought by a John Michaels. Whose name is the car registered in?’

‘I’ll look.’ Brown pulled out a ring-binder of ownership slips. ‘Here … Nicola Michaels.’ Fran glared at him dangerously and he went on the defensive. ‘Billy asked for the slip in that name, said the bloke was a mate. Nothing illegal there, happens all the time. Dad buying his daughter’s birthday surprise. It’s all legit!’ he insisted desperately.

‘Look at the address, Sarge,’ said Stark. According to the book, Nicola Michaels lived on the Ferrier Estate.

‘One of Dawson’s flats, maybe.’ That wasn’t the only detail that piqued her curiosity. ‘According to these numbers you sold at a loss. Paid in cash, did he?’

‘Win some, lose some,’ said Brown, innocently. It was an old trick. Fill in the price on the buyer’s slip but not your own. Then fill in a lower number on yours, pocket the rest VAT free and offset the loss. Fran slapped the book shut and took it.

‘I didn’t do anything wrong!’ protested Brown, in rising alarm, as Stark followed Fran across the showroom.

Fran stopped. ‘Tell the Albanians you’re getting too old for their game. You’re retired. Otherwise I’ll be back with that warrant.’

‘The Golf’s registered under Nikki’s alias …’ Groombridge’s voice sounded mechanical, Bluetoothed through the car speakers. ‘Okay, I’ll get someone back on to DVLA to confirm, and have uniform check out the address. In the meantime we’ve got a shout on the Mondeo. The phone ping still hasn’t got a live location but the call history shows multiple calls in the vicinity of a light-industrial site in Welling. We got hold of the manager, who thinks he’s seen a grey Mondeo coming out of a unit rented recently by a tall, heavy guy in a black bomber jacket and baseball cap, fictional name, of course.’

‘Text Stark the address. We’ll meet you there. Good hunting!’

Moments later, Stark’s phone beeped and he typed the location into the sat-nav. They were still thirty minutes away and the dull rumble
of the road coaxed Stark’s eyes closed once more, but the possibility of his colleagues kicking in the right door stopped him nodding off.

‘How’s it going with Aqua-hottie?’ asked Fran, out of the blue.

‘Given your recent conspiracy, you could call her by her name.’

‘Defensive of her already. How sweet.’

‘I hardly think this is the time, Sarge.’

‘I’m just making conversation.’

‘Try “Nice weather for the time of year.”’

Fran tutted. ‘You were more fun when you were falling apart.’

‘That show’s over.’

‘I thought you were finished being a secretive bastard now your sordid past is public knowledge.’

She had a point. And he’d decided to make changes. ‘She’s great, thanks. She’s forgiven me for being a secretive bastard.’

Fran glanced at him in surprise. She made little effort to hide her triumph. ‘Meaning you think it’s about time I did too? After that stunt with the CPS lawyer!’

Stark smiled. ‘I can wait. You’ll forgive me eventually.’

‘What do you mean “eventually”, Mr We’ll See? You’re just trying us out for size, remember?’

‘Not any more.’

Fran blinked. ‘You’re ready to hop off the fence and be a proper copper?’

‘I’m ready to try.’

‘Wow! Another blistering strap-line for the recruitment poster.’

‘At least I’ll be learning from the best.’

‘Flattery now, is it?’

‘I was talking about the DCI.’ Stark laughed.

That earned him another punch in the arm. ‘Another year in my bad books! Keep this up and you’ll never make DC. It’s not the DCI who signs your PDP sheets. All right, next question.’

‘Come off it, Sarge!’

‘What happened with your SAS thing?’

‘What SAS thing?’

‘Training. Why were you sent home?’

Stark cursed silently. Where had she unearthed
that
? ‘They call it
“returned to unit”. And it’s Special Forces Training. You’re not SAS or SBS till you’ve passed.’

‘Which you didn’t. Why? I asked Captain Wendy but she wouldn’t say.’

‘Wouldn’t admit she didn’t know.’

‘She didn’t? She gave me guff about how these things are “not discussed”.’

‘They’re not.’

‘Boy Scout bullshit again. Tell me.’

‘Why should I?’

‘I’m curious.’

Just that. No threat or dissemblance, just plain, honest curiosity. Was she beginning to work him out? ‘Malaria.’

‘Malaria?’

‘During jungle training in Borneo.’

‘They can’t fail you for getting
ill
!’

‘They can and they do. Malaria, dengue fever, dehydration, infected cuts, blistered feet – it doesn’t matter. Whether it’s carelessness, susceptibility or plain bad luck, if you’re not fit to go on you go home.’ They had always been swamped with applicants. For years Special Forces had represented the best hope of genuine combat, until Afghanistan and Iraq had changed everything. Stark had given it little thought until an ex-SAS instructor pushed him to apply. For a while a sand-coloured beret had appealed to his vanity. A proper cap, as Maggs would’ve put it. Now just another forgotten dream.

‘So that’s it? All that cock-waving and it comes down to who gets a mozzie bite and who doesn’t – that’s madness!’

‘Maybe.’ Of course that wasn’t it – not all of it. But Fran couldn’t see through him like Groombridge; not yet at least. Stark hadn’t flown home early from Borneo. His symptoms hadn’t seriously kicked in till weeks later. By the escape-and-evasion he had felt like death but didn’t know the cause and sure as hell couldn’t let the Directing Staff know.

He’d escaped and evaded, but still had to face the resistance-to-interrogation test, or tactical questioning, as they liked to call it now. Stark had had little fear of it. However real they tried to make it, it wasn’t. No matter how tired you were, how humiliated, what stress or discomfort you were put in, they weren’t going to pull your nails out
or attach electrodes to your balls. All you had to do was wait them out. Or so he’d thought. But three days’ E&E in winter sleet, old boots and a Second World War greatcoat had let the malaria take hold. During TQ the fever had spiked and he’d become delirious. They’d eventually tracked him down eight miles away, barefoot and raving.