BLOOD MONEY a gripping crime thriller full of twists Page 6

  Martin made his way to the metal filing cabinet. Each of the inspectors based here had a personal drawer. He unlocked his and it slid open with a loud, high-pitched squeal. Martin pulled out a litre Evian water bottle and a glass tumbler that lay beside it. He twisted the lid, releasing the scent of vodka. Martin closed his eyes as he breathed it in. It had been weeks. He was a little more regular at home, but at work . . . it could only ever end badly. He was out of hours now though, wasn’t he?

  Martin sat back in his chair and savoured the reassuring burn of the alcohol as it slid down his throat. He wished he’d brought whiskey with him. Vodka was just a means to an end, it didn’t taste of much. He bumped the table as he fidgeted in his seat, shifting the mouse so the screensaver disappeared. The screen now displayed a list of the prisoners currently in custody downstairs. Martin’s eyes rested on “T. Robson, PWITS class A drugs,” and his mind returned to the conversation of earlier in the day. He’d liked Tony. He’d felt a connection with the man. They weren’t so very different really. Both were totally devoted to their children, both desperately caught up in their kids’ respective illnesses, both powerless to help.

  Except Tony wasn’t powerless. He might still be able to do something. He wasn’t a criminal. He’d just been desperate to help his son.

  Martin read the words again — T Robson, PWITS class A drugs — and thought about how unfair the world could be sometimes. Good people could be punished for simple mistakes, for just trying to do the right thing for their families. Martin considered what he could do for Tony. An idea flashed through his mind. No, crazy. He dismissed it with a shake of his head.

  But his tumbler was empty and he was already picking up the Evian bottle to pour himself another.

  CHAPTER 9

  ‘I came in this morning, opened up, and found it like this.’ Alessandra, or Ali as she was usually known, pointed at the smoking mess. Bits of grey foam still oozed from the bottom of the specialist drying machine. When she’d left the previous afternoon, it had been quietly drying what was suspected to be three kilo blocks of heroin and the sports holdall that had contained them. In fact, her explanation wasn’t entirely true. She’d opened the door to flames and smoke, and she herself had applied the foam via a fire extinguisher hanging off the wall. The contents of the machine were lost completely. What the fire hadn’t consumed had been washed away in the effort to put it out.

  ‘You’re going to have to do a whole lot better than that,’ snarled Helen Webb. She stood with her feet apart and her hands on her hips. ‘The chief himself is coming down here today and he has taken a personal interest in the heroin that was drying in here, under your supervision. What do I tell him when he walks into my office and enquires about the quarter of a million pounds’ worth of hard drugs taken off the street?’

  Ali shrugged. ‘Well, you can tell him the drugs are definitely off the street.’

  Helen Webb gave her the coldest of looks. ‘You can make your jokes to Professional Standards when they launch their enquiry with my blessing. I suggest you get out of my sight now and start your very detailed statement about just what happened here.’

  Ali’s smile faded. She bit her bottom lip, considering a reply. She decided against it. She picked up her bag and walked away from the smoking mess and blackened glass that was all that remained of a £6,000 specialist piece of drying equipment. And sole evidence against a man caught moving a quarter of a million pounds’ worth of Class A drugs across the county.

  * * *

  Paul Baern was in the office twenty minutes before an eight o’clock start. He always arrived early, despite the fact that he was pretty sure no one gave a damn. He reported to whichever CID sergeant was on duty at the time, and they would already have allocated anything interesting to members of their own teams.

  Paul was on what the police termed “restricted duties,” which effectively meant he wasn’t insured to leave the building. He was no one’s problem and everyone’s, all at the same time, until senior management could find a way of getting him off the payroll for good. The moment it had been confirmed that his gunshot injury had caused irreversible damage to the nerves in his left arm, all parties had known that Paul and Lennokshire Police would have to part company, but sorting the details of the severance was a prime example of heel dragging. Much of Paul’s time was now spent at the front counter assisting the civilian staff there with any queries from people who walked in off the street.

  Paul’s future was largely ignored. He was getting used to that too. Paul had been a close ally and friend of George Elms, a man currently awaiting trial for murdering at least six police officers in cold blood just a few months earlier. Some of the mistrust had rubbed off on him. A lot of people had liked and respected George Elms, but understandably they had backed away from him when he had been named as the suspect for the murders. Paul had known from the very start that George was innocent, and his confession at the scene of his arrest had done nothing to change his mind. Nor had any of the evidence he had managed to get his hands on since then. Paul was now filling much of his spare time at work unofficially investigating the murders of the six officers, particularly the shooting of Samantha Robins, his close friend and colleague. She certainly died at someone’s hands and it was eating Paul alive that the culprit still roamed free.

  ‘Ali? What’s going on?’ Paul tried addressing someone directly. He was standing at the front counter of Langthorne House. The civilian staff weren’t likely to be with him until closer to their eight thirty start, and he had gone to see why the public door had been opened early, and men wearing Fire Forensic Examiner suits were walking in and out, carrying various pieces of equipment. Ali looked like she was in a hurry to leave.

  ‘Paul!’ she said, as though his question had brought her out of a trance.

  ‘Yes, Ali — Paul! What the hell is going on this morning? You ain’t even dressed right!’ The CSIs wore blue polo shirts with their title on the breast, tucked into black combat-style trousers with loads of pockets, and patrol boots. Ali was in blue jeans and white trainers with a long sleeved T-shirt. She was a pretty girl, her Italian heritage evident in her brown eyes and long, dark hair.

  Ali looked around her. ‘I can’t really speak, mate, not now.’ She looked near to tears.

  Paul cocked his head to one side as Ali went towards the door. He noticed that the backpack she was carrying by the top handle rather than over her shoulder was stuffed until the zip wouldn’t quite close.

  ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘No. Not really, Paul.’ Ali hesitated long enough to suggest that she wanted to talk to someone about it.

  ‘You wanna pop in the office? I can pretend I care if you like?’

  Ali gave him tired smile. ‘I don’t want to get you in trouble.’

  ‘No one gives a fuck about me, Ali, or who I speak to.’ Paul reached down behind the counter and pressed a button. It opened one of the two rooms that were accessible from the front counter area. The door swung outwards slowly. Ali watched it, seeming to run through her options. She stepped into the empty room.

  A computer sat on a desk, its screen dark and the standby light blinking.

  ‘We’ll be okay to talk in here.’ Ali had been peering at the sound-recording device in the middle of the table. The room was sometimes used for interviews where there wasn’t the necessity to take the interviewee down to the basement for the full custody experience.

  ‘I got suspended,’ she blurted out.

  Paul hadn’t been expecting that. He sat back a little and let Ali carry on.

  ‘About five minutes ago. I got a bollocking this morning from Helen Webb. She told me to piss off and write her a statement for PSD. But before I was even able to log in, someone from PSD came in and told me I was suspended on full pay. He said I would need to surrender my uniform as it was part of the evidence, and then I was to leave the building. He took my security pass card and told me not to go outside the county. Said I would be hearing from him.�
� Ali tapped her pockets and pulled a business card from one of them, laying it on the table for Paul to see. He leant forward and read, “Paul Adams, Professional Standards.”

  ‘Sounds like a right cock.’

  ‘Yeah. I mean Paul, really.’

  Paul smiled. ‘Yeah. You can never trust a Paul.’ He sighed. ‘So what was the bollocking about? You must know something about it.’

  ‘Oh, yeah, sorry. Haven’t you heard about the fire?’

  ‘There’s been a fire?’

  ‘Ah, fuck, I thought everyone knew. There was a fire overnight, last night. Do you know about the job from yesterday? The heroin that was seized from the bloke in the ditch?’

  ‘Yeah, three bricks of the stuff. They reckon it’s uncut, up to half a mill.’

  ‘Yeah. Well, it’s gone.’

  ‘Gone?’

  ‘Burnt.’

  ‘Burnt?’

  ‘Yup. It appears someone set it on fire last night.’

  ‘Set it on fire? How the fuck did they do that? You can’t even get into the safe for a dooby without the custody sergeant having to sign it out in his own blood, let alone moving three bricks of pure heroin.’

  ‘But it wasn’t in the inspector’s safe. It was in my drying machine in the CSI office because the Tac team gorillas forced the bloke into a ditch full of water. Damn near killed him.’

  ‘Yes, I did hear that. So the gear was in the CSI office, and what? You’re the only one with access so you’re guilty?’

  ‘Yeah, except I’m not the only one with access. You know the door? It’s a coded lock and most of the station have probably been given the code at some point. I just happened to be the twat opening the door this morning, and I put the fire out. Helen Webb’s clearly pissed at the loss of evidence and she had a go at me. Suggested I had the dryer on too hot.’

  ‘Is that possible?’

  ‘No. It’s six thousand pounds worth of technology, they don’t set things alight. You can’t set it to get anywhere near that hot and even if you could, a damp bag and an even damper brick of powder? Have you any idea how hot that would have to be? And you wouldn’t get flames, you’d just get incineration.’

  Paul held his palms up. ‘Woah, CSI scientist. I take your word for it.’

  ‘Someone set that fire. It has to be deliberate.’

  ‘And they’ve seized your clothes? For what, accelerant?’

  ‘Exactly. Who knows what they’ll find on that uniform. You have no idea the places I go and the things I do in that.’

  Paul couldn’t help laughing. ‘I bet.’

  Ali laughed. ‘You know what I mean.’ Her laughter subsided quickly.

  ‘I’ll let you get away,’ said Paul. ‘The sun’s up today — go put your feet up and try and forget about this shithole. Treat it as some extra holiday.’

  ‘I should, you’re right. Though it definitely doesn’t feel like a holiday.’

  ‘You’ve got nothing to worry about,’ Paul added.

  ‘I know that. I’m not pissed off because I’m worried about the investigation, it’s the fact that they feel the need to investigate me in the first place. I’m kinda proud of my record here. But they just treat you like shit.’

  ‘That is true. I saw the way they treated George Elms, and then Sam when they thought he was reaching out to her. We’re all just something to be used when they think they need us, and abused when they think they don’t.’

  ‘George Elms,’ Ali murmured. ‘You still chasing shadows with that one?’

  ‘Yup. And I won’t stop chasing them.’

  ‘Did you ever get the information you were after?’

  Paul shook his head. ‘No. Same response you gave me. But you at least said it wasn’t worth your job. Everyone else looked at me like I was something they had just scraped off their shoe.’

  ‘The briefing was pretty strict. No information was to be released about any part of the investigation around those murders. I did a lot of the groundwork, but the results were fed to the supervisors and the senior investigating officer. It was clear that they didn’t want us minions to know the outcome.’

  ‘Langthorne doesn’t want that particular series of crimes investigated,’ Paul mused.

  ‘Why would they? They have their man. He admitted it.’

  ‘They don’t have a single piece of forensic evidence that puts George as the killer. Certainly not beyond reasonable doubt, unless you can tell me any different?’

  ‘Still pushing me, Paul. Even now!’ Ali’s smile was a little more genuine now.

  ‘Like I said, I’ll never stop chasing those shadows, Ali. I just want to know who killed my mate.’

  ‘Sam?’

  ‘He’s still out there.’

  Ali was silent, with a thoughtful expression, and then she breathed out. She reached out to the monitor, and spun it towards her.

  ‘Pass me that keyboard.’

  Paul did as she requested and as the monitor fired up, Ali started typing. ‘They might have nullified my login already, in which case you’re still on your own.’

  Paul watched Ali’s face as she began to type her password. ‘Don’t do anything that’s gonna get you in trouble, Ali,’ he said.

  ‘What are they going to do? Suspend me?’

  The screen showed a database program Paul didn’t recognise. He could tell it was web-based from the surround.

  ‘This is the CSI main database. All the findings from the shootings are stored on here under Op Tuscan. I’ll send you a zip file of everything I have access to. There’s a bit of a security glitch with zip files. Basically, there shouldn’t be any record of me sending it or even of you receiving it, but the second you open it the system will log the computer location and give a good idea of who the operator is. How you find a way round that is up to you.’

  ‘Thanks, Ali.’

  ‘Don’t thank me. Thank Helen Webb — she pushed me into this.’

  Paul nodded. ‘Helen is good at that.’

  CHAPTER 10

  The two-man interview team marched solemnly into the back office of Langthorne House custody suite at 09:00 a.m., twenty-two hours after their prisoner had been walked through the custody door. They had devised a strategy that was now in tatters. Their prisoner had been left overnight to sit and stew on his situation, he should have been chomping at the bit to confess all. Instead it was a different story that they had to report back to their boss, who sat waiting for them.

  Detective Inspector Darren Arnold looked tense.

  ‘Sorry, boss,’ the lead man offered.

  ‘I assume he told you he was delivering a large quantity of heroin yesterday and then gave details of where the rest is?’ the inspector said.

  ‘No such luck, boss. He went “no comment” to everything. Even when he was asked his name and date of birth.’

  ‘And with no solicitor?’

  ‘No solicitor,’ the man confirmed.

  ‘So a man with no record of dealing with the police at all, suddenly gets hit with three bricks of pure Class A on the passenger seat in his car, then acts the seasoned pro under questioning?’ Inspector Arnold rubbed at his scalp.

  ‘I wouldn’t say he was quite the pro,’ the lead man said, looking at his colleague.

  ‘Nah, he weren’t a pro,’ the other responded, ‘He’s shitting himself. He’s still convinced he’s going to prison.’

  ‘You could tell he wanted to talk to us. It was like he was taking advice from someone and taking it real literal, like.’

  ‘You think he got briefed by the drug gang? If you get nicked, say nothing?’ Inspector Arnold said.

  ‘Yeah, and you never know, someone might just set the evidence on fire.’

  Inspector Arnold puffed out his cheeks. ‘It stinks, don’t it?’

  ‘Did we find any links with anyone here?’ asked the man.

  ‘Nothing I’ve been made aware of, but to be honest I doubt I would be the first to know,’ said the inspector. ‘This is being handled by t
he senior echelons.’

  The men nodded.

  ‘I have to call the chief superintendent. She wanted to know the minute you people came out of the interview.’

  ‘Be nice about us though, yeah?’ The lead man grinned nervously as the inspector got to his feet, his phone already at his ear.

  ‘Can’t promise it’ll do you any good!’

  * * *

  Helen had been waiting for Inspector Arnold’s call. ‘Give me some good news, Darren.’

  ‘I wish I could. No comment.’

  ‘Shit!’

  ‘Sorry, ma’am, the team tried their best. They reckon he was coached.’

  ‘Of course he was.’

  ‘Ma’am, I wanted to check with you. If this was any other case, I’d be releasing the bloke with no further action. We’ve got two hours left on his clock, a no comment interview and no evidence of the offence besides the statements describing brick-size amounts of an off-white substance. Unless you can tell me there’s something salvageable from the fire that adds to the evidence?’

  Helen leant back in her seat and grimaced at the ceiling. He was right, of course. The heroin had been incinerated. Even if they could prove what it was from any residue, the continuity was lost. Any number of people had been in that room putting out the fire, cleaning up the mess or just taking a look. It wouldn’t take much of a defence solicitor to point out that they had lost their ability to confirm that their client was solely responsible for what had been in that bag. There was no reason to keep the man in custody any longer and no reason to bring him back.

  ‘Kick him out. No further action.’

  ‘Any consideration for surveillance? We might still salvage some intelligence, at least?’

  ‘No. It crossed my mind but I’m more and more convinced that the bloke’s just a stooge. By the end of the day they’ll have some other gullible moron with bricks of heroin for a passenger.’

  ‘Understood.’

  Helen Webb’s mobile phone suddenly burst into life. It was her other one, a pre-pay Nokia she kept with her at all times.