Going Dark Page 18

  ‘Stan, it’s Tom. I need to speak to you as soon as I can, there’s been a big development.’

  ‘I’m sorry, my dear. The officer is on annual leave. May I take a message and ask him to contact you when he’s back...? Of course... You’re welcome. Goodbye.’ The phone went dead.

  He didn’t have to wait long until Stan called him back; the burner phone buzzed in his hand almost straight away.

  ‘Talk to me, Royal,’ said Stan.

  ‘Right, this is going to sound mental, but I’ve every reason to believe that Simon Taylor is bent as a nine-bob-note. He also has two others helping him: one on the NCA in SW1, the other at Ilford nick.’

  ‘Jesus, what a turn-up. What do you want from me?’

  ‘You have contacts all over, but I need you to be discreet. Can you pull whatever strings you need to pull? I need to find out who he has a link to at those places. It may be in personnel files and it could be that some of your mysterious contacts may have some idea. I know Taylor was on SOCA in the past and I’d like to find out who he worked with there and where they are now. Just get your ear to the ground.’

  ‘Okay. I’ve a few people I can call up. There may be rumours floating around, you never know. Leave it with me, dear boy. Are you okay, by the way? Glenda is going bloody mad not knowing where you are. A dead body with a slit throat turned up in Willesden, some kind of Serb mafia nonsense. Nothing to do with you I take it? You are listed as a person of interest.’ Stan’s voice gave nothing away, but Tom could feel the probing.

  ‘It’s all crap,’ Tom said. ‘I’m getting closer, but I need to find out who Taylor’s working with before I blow this thing out of the water, okay?’

  ‘Leave it with me and take care. I’ve got to run, Royal. Keep your head down.’

  And with that, he was gone. Tom knew that Stan would be discreet and, along with Buster and Mike, there was no one he trusted more.

  He picked up the phone again and tapped in another number.

  ‘Hello, DC Pete Rhymes speaking,’ said a chirpy, cockney voice on the other end.

  ‘Buster, it’s Tom. Don’t say my name out loud if you’re in company.’

  ‘You’re fine, mate. I’m at home on-call, and I’m also hearing some fucking bullshit rumours about you being of interest in a murder in Willesden,’ he said in his familiar machine-gun-speed voice.

  ‘Can we meet? I need some help.’

  ‘Of course, buddy. Where?’

  ‘Usual place, about midday?’

  ‘I’ll be there. Stay safe, my little Polish friend.’ And with that, he was gone.

  *

  The ‘usual place’ was the Punch and Judy in Covent Garden, a busy pub in the centre of the square. Its attraction was its popularity with tourists: two people could speak freely and never be noticed amongst the throngs of visitors buying over-priced food and drink.

  Tom arrived slightly after midday and saw his old friend sat in a corner booth in the darkest corner of the hostelry, nursing a drink. He ordered two pints of lager at the bar and went and sat in front of Buster. There was no handshake or hug, just a knowing smile that was more than adequate as he placed the beer in front of him.

  ‘I love it when you give me beer, Borat,’ smiled Buster.

  ‘I know you well, cockney wanker.’ And they both giggled like schoolchildren.

  ‘So, what’s going down? I’m hearing stories about a UC going rogue and getting his informant killed.’

  Tom sighed and brought Buster up to speed on events.

  ‘Jesus fucking Christ!’ Buster’s voice was a shocked and forced whisper, his meaty face screwed up with the news. ‘I knew there was a lot more to it but no one’s saying much. No one knows of our history at SRR, so I’ve not been asked anything: it’s just the usual police rumour mill.’

  ‘I’m ninety-nine percent sure that the main man is DCI Simon Taylor, my boss at Kilburn,’ said Tom. ‘The second is someone at Ilford nick, where the solicitor was taken and some evidence wiped. The third, I think, is NCA at SW1. They’ve had my phone and bank hooked up and I only managed to escape getting kidnapped because the guy had a slightly moody-looking warrant card.’ Tom paused again, aware that the story was ridiculous when said out loud.

  ‘Do you have evidence of this?’

  ‘Nothing admissible. I’ve had a bit of help along the way which I’ll tell you about another time. I’m hoping you can do some research on the Professional Standards’ intelligence systems to see if there’s anything known about Taylor and accomplices. I’ve got the Serbian Mafia after me, backed up with access to all the law enforcement databases and resources. I need to identify the lot of them before I can plan my next move.’

  Buster gave a long sigh. ‘Jesus, Tom, this is unbelievable. A DCI using intercepts and bank monitoring to get a serving DS wiped-out?’ The detective paused, worry etched in the lines on his forehead. ‘You know I trust you and I owe you more favours than I can ever repay from our SRR days, so I’ll do it. One thing though.’ He paused, raising his eyebrows while taking a sip of his lager. ‘Don’t go killing anyone. I know how good you are at it. We may be able to make some of this official if the evidence can be parallel-proved, and we may be able to use whistle-blower rules to protect you. Just don’t kill anyone, okay? You kill someone then I can do fuck all to help you, Borat.’

  ‘I’ll try. I promise.’ Tom took a deep swig of his drink.

  ‘Another thing,’ Buster said.

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘What happened with Ivan: the dead bloke in Willesden?’

  ‘I went there to see him to find out what he knew. Someone got there before me and slit his throat. One of the Serbs turned up and I knocked him out and legged it. A bullet may have gone through the ceiling, but I didn’t fire it.’ Tom said.

  ‘Hmm. Well there are loads of people on the Murder Squad who want to speak to you. Neil Wilkinson is keeping a bit of heat off you after the kidnap attempt, but they will start calling you a suspect rather than a person of interest unless they get hold of you soon.’

  ‘Not yet. No way. I have genuinely no idea who I can trust. Apart from you, Buster.’

  The two men clinked glasses before Buster said, ‘Right, I have to get out of here. I’ve got your number and I’ll get back to you once I know something, so stay local. I’ll pop into Charing Cross nick as I can access everything from there.’ Buster nodded, finished his beer, stood and walked off with a wink.

  Tom sat for a moment longer to give Buster time to get well away before he left the pub. His thoughts were interrupted by his phone vibrating.

  ‘It’s Stan, old boy. I’ve asked about and no one knows too much, although one or two people seem to know of a rather bad smell about Glenda from the time he was on the NCA. One thing my sources were clear about is that he’s never going to get promoted again, which probably accounts for his bitterness.’

  ‘Nothing concrete, then. Just rumours?’ Tom asked.

  ‘Just that, although he’s not well-liked and is thought of as a little creepy, trying to live a bachelor life with his flash car and daft suits.’

  ‘Okay. Thanks, Stan.’

  ‘One more thing, Royal. I’ve been keeping an eye on him and he’s been very jumpy since all this broke. He keeps making frequent trips down to his beloved Jag where he just sits inside talking on the phone. Very strange.’

  ‘Okay, mate, thanks for everything,’ said Tom.

  ‘Always a pleasure, never a chore, old son. Take care of yourself,’ Stan said and rang off.

  Tom felt a little better after speaking to Buster and Stan. Although he did feel a little bad for the slight mistruth he’d just told Buster. He would certainly try his best not to kill anyone. Apart from Zjelko Branko. Zjelko was a dead man walking.

  *

  He left the pub and walked slowly around Covent Garden, pausing by a street entertainer who was amusing a clutch of tourists with a juggling act. He watched with mild interest, happy to let his mind wander away from cu
rrent events.

  He noticed the surveillance team almost immediately. His eyes were drawn first to a youngish-looking guy who he immediately pegged as a cop. The man was wearing a North Face fleece and Timberland boots: almost a uniform for plain-clothes cops. To make things worse, he could see the guy’s lips moving as he touched his finger to his ear. Tom picked up his pace a little, walking towards Leicester Square before turning left along Long Acre by a large coffee shop which had a plate-glass window on both sides of the corner. A classic ‘window trap’ used in anti-surveillance: glancing back would enable Tom to see through the glass corner. As Tom turned, he saw the guy in the North Face fleece start jogging to close the distance between them. He sighed. That was another schoolboy error.

  He made a snap decision and quickly diverted into the coffee shop, going straight to the counter and ordering a coffee. As he waited, he used the large mirror on the back wall to observe the street outside. A man in a grey hooded sweatshirt walked past the shop and went across the road where he paused, apparently interested in the window display of an upmarket dress shop. He was clearly using the glass to try to keep watch on the door of the coffee shop. Tom knew there would be at least another two surveillance officers on foot nearby, probably taking cover in shops ready for him to move on.

  He paid for his coffee with cash and sat at a table at the back of the shop. He didn’t have to wait long. The cop in the blue North Face entered within three minutes and made for the counter, making a big show of looking everywhere apart from at Tom. He quickly got a coffee and sat at a table by the door, using the same mirror Tom had used to observe the interior of the shop.

  Tom couldn’t help but smile. He wasn’t worried; it was definitely a police team, as he recognised the tactics, and it was obvious who had put them onto him. He stood suddenly and made his way to the door, watching the barely-concealed look of alarm on his observer’s face. At the very last second, Tom diverted and sat down on the chair opposite North Face.

  ‘Hello,’ Tom said to the young officer with a smile. Alarm flashed across the man’s face as he stuttered a greeting.

  ‘Listen, mate,’ said Tom in a friendly, non-confrontational voice. ‘You lot really need to work on your tactics and tradecraft. I’m not being too critical as I reckon you’re not long qualified. Why are you following me?’

  ‘Errm, I’m just having a coffee…’ the officer stuttered in a Midlands accent.

  ‘Look, I don’t have time for this. I’m really fucking busy. Now, can you bugger off and leave me alone before I make a really big scene and publicly blow-out all of your foot units outside, starting with your man in the grey hoodie over the road looking into the dress shop window.’ He grinned as the man’s eyes flitted to his colleague outside. ‘Now you’ve not done too much wrong, but I am very good at this; I’ve been doing it for years. I’m assuming Buster sorted this to protect me, but can you please piss off and tell him to come back and see me, right now. Tell him I’ll buy him a tea.’

  The man hesitated just a second and Tom could almost see the cogs turning.

  ‘Go on: chop-chop,’ said Tom, with as much sarcasm as he could muster.

  Clearly defeated, the officer stood up and left the coffee shop, pulling his phone out of his pocket as he did so.

  About ten minutes later, Buster sat down with a sigh in the chair the surveillance officer had recently vacated, a rueful grin on his face.

  ‘Why?’ asked Tom.

  ‘Because we’re all worried you’re going to get topped. My boss wouldn’t let you just walk away, mate. I’m sorry.’

  Tom was unable to be angry at his old friend. He accepted that he was only doing what he thought was right; Buster was the most honest person he knew, despite all the bluster, and it would have almost killed him to go behind his back.

  ‘They’re a shit surveillance team. Who trained them?’ Tom asked.

  ‘They are a new one. Recruited from all over so we have some unknown faces on the teams. I must admit they are a bit green.’

  ‘They are shite. Don’t use them against proper villains. You managed to find anything out about Taylor yet?’ Tom asked.

  ‘Fuck me, mate,’ said Buster. ‘We only met twenty minutes ago!’

  ‘Well then you shouldn’t have distracted me by setting your Keystone Cops on me, should you?’ grinned Tom. ‘Anyway, I know you: twenty minutes is more than enough for you to dig out intel. So come on: spill what you’ve found out.’

  Buster grinned in defeat. ‘There is a very bad smell about Taylor, mate. You may be onto something.’

  ‘Go on.’ Tom felt his pulse quickening.

  ‘Taylor left SOCA under a bit of a cloud in 2010 when he was a DS. Apparently, him and two others were running a trafficking job that was all looking good until it totally collapsed in somewhat suspicious circumstances. I can’t find anything concrete, but the suspicion was that one of the three tipped-off the targets and all the trafficked girls disappeared back to Eastern Europe just before the arrests went down. Totally smashed the job to bits, and two years of work went down the crapper.’

  ‘Jesus, that sounds bad. Was anything ever proved?’

  ‘Nope. SOCA was a bit of a joke at the time. Management were totally incompetent and just decided to send the two cops back to the Force and transfer the SOCA guy elsewhere. Want to guess where to?’

  ‘No, I want you to tell me, you daft bastard.’

  ‘The SOCA bloke, Gareth Jones, was transferred to the fucking line room in London. They sent him to listen to intercepted phone calls, where he’s still working to this day.’

  So that was clear. Taylor’s link to phone taps was currently sitting a few miles away, listening in to intercepted phone calls.

  ‘What about the other?’

  ‘DC Graham Albrechtsen retired from the Met in 2015, where he finished his career on the Crime Management Unit at Tower Hamlets. He never got promoted, was always in the shit, and was suspected of all sorts of capers, none of which were ever proved.’

  ‘Not him, then.’

  ‘Want something else, Borat?’ Buster asked with the same teasing note in his voice.

  ‘I’m going to punch you in the face if you don’t stop winding me up.’

  ‘Graham returned as Dedicated Detention Officer Albrechtsen at an East London nick. Want to guess which one?’

  ‘Let me take a wild stab in the dark: maybe Ilford?’

  ‘Boom! Spot on. Somehow, despite all the clouds over his head, the Met took the fucker back as a gaoler. Apparently, he suffered the detective’s disease of lots of divorces and needs the money, so he takes care of prisoners for twenty grand a year. Listen, mate, this is big news and probably provable with some work. Let me speak to my boss about it.’ Buster’s tone quickly switched to a serious one.

  ‘No way. I’ve no idea how far this goes. I have no one to trust apart from you; they could have friends anywhere.’

  ‘Listen, mate, my boss was recruited direct from Manchester. She’s untouched by the Met, just like me. I trust her one hundred percent and she’s a very good lateral thinker. We can sort this; come and see her.’

  ‘I can’t, Buster. Not until I’ve sorted this out properly. Taylor could have others working for him, too much has happened for me to not rule that out. I’m sorry, mate. I gotta run. Don’t bother with the surveillance team, I’d only embarrass them.’ Tom stood, clapped Buster on the shoulder and walked out of the coffee shop.

  He felt bad leaving his friend like that, but he wasn’t ready to come in just yet. So many bad things had occurred, and he couldn’t assess the impact, the potential risks. Could they try to pin the murder of Ivan on him? Who knew what else was at stake?

  25

  Simon Taylor sat in his office, wondering what he should do with the information he’d just received.

  He’d managed to elicit some information from Novak’s file by convincing the clerk he needed it for safety reasons, given that Tom was absent without leave.

&nbs
p; Every method he’d employed to try and trace Novak had failed. His bank accounts were silent, his phone switched off, and the CCTV camera which a contact at Camden Council had trained on Novak’s apartment had come up with nothing. Not a single sighting had been reported, and the Serbs were getting more and more impatient.

  Adebayo had also been on the phone trying to sweeten the deal by offering him more money to make it all go away. Probably hoping to cut the Brankos out of the deal. He was an oily bastard, Adebayo, but Taylor had said he’d look into it. He’d managed to get the update on the rape from his contact at Ilford; it seemed the girl had left the shelter and hadn’t been seen since. So without the undercover recording and without the girl, the case was dead. That just left the immigration and trafficking case that, as he understood it, wasn’t solid either. All they needed was the SD card, and then the whole problem would go away, and it wouldn’t hurt if Novak disappeared off the face of the Earth either.

  In a flash of resolution, he decided he had to use the information he’d just received. He picked up his burner phone and composed a text message, his fingers tapping out an address into the message field.

  ‘Cameron and Shona Ferguson, Cregganmore Farm Cottage, Duthill Burn, Near Carrbridge.’

  Taylor hesitated for just a second. By sending the message to Branko, he would be an accessory to whatever befell Novak’s foster parents. Could he live with that?

  He got up from his desk and strode down the corridor, descended the stairs and emerged into the sunlight of the police station backyard. He didn’t want to make any more calls inside. He didn’t think anyone would be listening, but he felt he couldn’t be too careful, and his car was as secure as anywhere. Fishing in his pocket for his car key, he unlocked his Jaguar F-Pace SUV and climbed in. He’d been forced to use his own personal car since Stan had taken the Passat he normally used, which had annoyed him intensely. Nestling into the plush cream leather seats, he keyed a number into his phone. The call was answered almost immediately.