Going Dark Page 27

  His phone buzzed in his pocket.

  ‘On his way down, Chief Super just given him a bollocking, lol!’

  Tom smiled to himself, shaking his head at Stan’s abilities.

  The back door to the police station flew open and Taylor stormed out in shirt sleeves, his gaudy tie loosened. Anger was written all over his face as he walked to his Jaguar. The indicator lights flashed as he pointed the key at the car, then he climbed inside and reversed the car out of the response bay, straight to the space in front of Tom. Tom kept himself low but was confident that the uniform would mean that Taylor wouldn’t even offer him a glance.

  Taylor swung the door open and stepped out, slamming it violently while pointing the key at the car: Tom’s cue to press the rubberised button on the roll-jam. Nothing happened: no flashing indicators and no noise from the Jaguar. Taylor paused for a moment and then pressed again, a frustrated look on his face, and the Jag’s lights flashed with a ‘blip’ noise. Taylor didn’t miss a beat and strode angrily towards the back door of the nick.

  Tom watched him return to the police station and disappear back inside, leaving the yard all peaceful once more.

  Tom removed the borrowed uniform items and got out of the carrier, pointing the roll-jam at the Jag as he did so. The lights flashed, and the blip indicated that the kit had worked perfectly. Tom didn’t skulk or hesitate as that would have just attracted more attention than if he was brazen and obvious. He walked straight up to the car, pocketing the roll-jam and pulling out the GSM bug in a smooth motion. Opening the door, he squatted on his haunches and took out the bug, snapping it onto the underside of one of the seats. It attached with a reassuring metallic click. Taking out the roll-jam again, he pressed the button once more and the familiar blip told him that the car was now locked and secure. Perfect!

  He tucked the device back in his pocket and took his burner phone out and dialled Pet, who answered immediately. ‘Give me good news, Detective.’

  ‘I’m going to give you a number for a GSM bug I’ve just planted in Taylor’s car. It’s voice-activated, but I want you to dial into it and set it to record via your computer once I give you the word. Also, make sure any text messages he sends are forwarded over to me as well.’

  Tom read the phone number out from the SIM packaging. A tone from the phone in his ear told him that another text had arrived.

  ‘Got it. Ready when you are.’

  ‘Good girl, speak soon.’ Tom hung up and checked the screen on his phone.

  ‘Back in his office and he looks pissed off!’ read Stan’s message.

  Tom walked quickly down to the rear door of the police station and used his warrant card to swipe into the building. He quickly covered the corridor, glad that the station seemed quiet. He nodded at one uniformed constable who was hurrying out of the nick, clearly responding to a call by the general chatter he could hear from the personal radios.

  Tom ascended to the second floor and walked along the corridor, directly to the office with the laminated sign taped to the door: DCI Taylor.

  Tom grabbed the door handle, twisted it, and walked in without knocking.

  Taylor was busy studying his computer screen but looked up with a slight start when he heard the door open. Unused to the lack of a knock, he was clearly preparing for a rebuke at whoever the visitor was.

  His face registered shock as Tom strode confidently into the room, shutting the door behind him.

  ‘Tom,’ the DCI spluttered. ‘You’re safe! Thank goodness. Where have you been? People have been so concerned.’ The look of concern on his face was genuine but Tom knew it wasn’t concern for him.

  Tom said nothing but walked slowly to the chair in front of his senior manager and sat down, not taking his eyes off the man for a second. His dark, almost black eyes seemed to bore right into Taylor’s soul.

  ‘Tom, people have been looking for you, you must know this, and I’ve had all sorts of resources out looking—’

  ‘I know what you did, Simon: you and your friends. I know it all.’

  34

  ‘Tom, what on Earth? I’ve no idea what you’re talking about!’ Taylor stammered, his lips quivering, and a sheen of light perspiration dotting his top lip. Fear shone out of his eyes like a beacon and his shoulders slumped.

  ‘Shut up, Simon. I know all of it. I know you’ve been blackmailed by the Brankos and Adebayo. I know you got Albrechtsen to steal the SD card from Ilford. I know that you got Gareth Jones, your mate from the NCA, to bug my phone and intercept my banks. I know about your taste for little girls, you sick, fucking pervert. I can forgive all of that. I know Branko and Adebayo pushed or paid you to do it all.’ Tom paused a moment, his eyes firmly fixed on Taylor’s pale and weak ones.

  ‘But, Tom, I—’

  ‘Shut up, Taylor,’ Tom yelled in a fair impression of a rage that he didn’t really feel, but he wanted Taylor to think he was unhinged and dangerous.

  ‘But what I can’t forgive,’ he continued, ‘what I will bring you down for, is giving my foster family’s home address to those bastards, who you knew would kill them. To silence me and get the footage of that sick fuck Adebayo back, you were willing to murder my family. I know it all, so don’t fucking dare deny it, or I’ll snap your skinny little fucking neck right here.’

  Tom sat back in the chair, his legs crossed, and his fingertips steepled in front of his face, a sudden picture of calm as his eyes locked unblinkingly on Taylor.

  They held that position for a full minute before Taylor eventually broke the silence.

  ‘I assume you have proof of all this? I guess not, or it would be the IPCC here now, not you,’ Taylor said, a little confidence coming back into him.

  Tom said nothing but just continued to stare without moving a muscle or even changing his expression. He wasn’t expecting a confession, inadmissible as it would be in any case, as Taylor couldn’t be sure that Tom was not recording the conversation.

  ‘I have a photo of you snorting coke off a prostitute’s belly. It’s nice but you look a little saggy: you may want to work on your abs,’ Tom said with a smirk.

  A hint of a smile came across Taylor’s face. ‘How did you get those? I assume in a manner which complies with all the evidential requirements that a leading QC would be unable to challenge?’

  ‘I know you sent the text to Branko with my parent’s address on,’ Tom said, feigning a slight fluster of his own.

  ‘And how do you know about that, DS Novak? I assume any invasion of my privacy was properly authorised by a superintendent at least?’ Taylor was warming to his task now, enjoying the apparent turning of the tables.

  ‘I’m going to bring you down, all of you; especially now my family are safe. I wonder what happened to the Brankos and all the Serb mafia you sent to me. Where’s Adebayo? Everyone has vanished, I hear; it’s just you and your cronies left. Just think, Taylor, just think to yourself, “I wonder what Tom Novak is capable of?” I hope you sleep soundly in your lovely place in Watford.’ Tom smiled, but the menace was obvious and evident in his voice which had lowered to a growl.

  Alarm flashed in Taylor’s eyes. ‘How dare you threaten me, you odious little man? Who the fuck do you think you are? Your career is finished, you little refugee rat,’ he spat with a mix of fury and fear.

  Tom paused, the silence almost congealing the atmosphere in the stuffy office.

  Suddenly he stood, causing Taylor to jump, just slightly, in fright. Tom took two steps around the desk and moved his face to within an inch of Taylor’s. ‘Be seeing you very soon, Simon.’ He smiled, exuding a latent violence that he didn’t really feel, but he wanted to leave a lasting impression.

  Tom turned on his heels and walked out of the office, slamming the door behind him.

  As he walked down the corridor, he pulled out his phone and sent a message to Pet. Game on, he thought grimly.

  *

  Simon Taylor sat, stunned, in his office, unable to organise his thoughts enough to decide what
to do next.

  He’d been unable to raise any of the Brankos since they’d captured Novak. He couldn’t think what had happened and the thought of it concerned him.

  He felt incredibly vulnerable and couldn’t come up with any set of circumstances that could have landed him in the situation he was now in. Clearly the kidnap of Novak’s family hadn’t worked, but where was Branko and his wretched family? He wasn’t answering his phone since their last conversation in the night.

  Adebayo had gone, that much he knew; one of his contacts in Special Branch had let him know about that. Gareth, who had been monitoring his accounts, had watched him clear them.

  Best-case was that the Brankos had fled back to Serbia and, with Adebayo back in Nigeria, he and his friends may now finally be in the clear. Taylor was sure that Novak had nothing admissible or IPCC would have been there instead.

  Perhaps just keeping his head down would be the best way forward, but he had to speak to Jones and Albrechtsen to see what they thought. Jones had access to everything at the NCA and could see if the Brankos had indeed fled.

  He needed to speak to them right away: it was urgent. He pulled out his burner phone and composed a message to their WhatsApp group.

  ‘We need to meet. No details on phones, I’ll call you both in five mins.’

  He pressed Send on the old iPhone and received blue ticks indicating that the messages had been read.

  He needed to be careful: nothing written down, no messages that could be read if the phone was ever seized, not that he could see that happening. He decided to ditch his burner phone after meeting the others and would get them to do the same.

  He wasn’t taking any chances, especially as he had no idea how Novak knew what he knew. He was sure of one thing, though: there was no way Novak could have heard any phone calls, as Gareth Jones was at the centre of the NCA intercepting mechanism.

  Taylor always thought that he, Jones, and Albrechtsen were a formidable unit. When on the NCA, they had brought down some serious criminals and managed to feather their own nests and enjoy the fruits of their labour. A stupid Bosnian immigrant wasn’t going to stop them; he had no idea who he was dealing with.

  Tucking his phone into his pocket, he stood and walked along the corridor towards the car park to call the boys; they had plans to make regarding Novak. He wasn’t worried anymore and began to smile as he felt his confidence rising, knowing that others had tried to bring him down in the past and all had failed. Because he was so smart.

  35

  Tom sat in the café around the corner from the nick, a large cappuccino and a half-eaten bruschetta on the stainless-steel table in front of him. It was one of the new types of establishments that had been springing up in the Kilburn area since the chic and cool families had started moving in, once they could no longer afford the property prices in Maida Vale or Notting Hill. The walls were lined with shelves of produce full of expensive pastas, antipasti, and Italian wines. No single chair matched another and the whole place had a shabby-chic feel that was as false as it was welcoming. The exodus of the traditional working-class population had also led to the exodus of the traditional greasy spoon café, to be replaced by delicatessens that served paninis, focaccia, and fifteen different types of coffee. Tom was unsure what he felt about that as he enjoyed a good, old-fashioned fry-up as much as the next man. He was fussy about his coffee, however, and very much enjoyed well-made Italian snacks, so it was honours-even as far as he was concerned.

  The café was bustling with a large group of middle-class mums, sat gossiping on a large sofa while their kids played happily on the rug by their feet; posh accents mixed with the babble of the children resulting in a happy buzz.

  Tom felt the phone vibrate in his pocket and, checking the display, saw it was Pet calling.

  ‘Hi, Pet, what can you tell me?’

  ‘Taylor is calling one of his buddies, clear as a bell. You want to listen? I can patch you in?’

  ‘Do it.’

  There was a clicking in his ear that was then replaced by the voice of the man he had, just fifteen minutes ago, been having a confrontation with.

  ‘Gareth, it’s Si. We have a problem with Novak,’ Taylor said.

  Tom could only hear Taylor’s half of the conversation. He hoped it would be enough.

  ‘I know, I know, but we need to meet: the three of us, it’s important. I don’t want to talk on the phone but it’s important. I don’t know where the Brankos have gone and Adebayo has legged it to Nigeria. I need you to double-check that as well.’

  A short silence followed with the slight hiss of static in the background, but the quality of the bug’s transmission was impressive and as clear as a bell.

  ‘Okay, tonight at about seven, usual place. At least we can get something to eat and, if we sit outside under the burners, we won’t be overheard. See you then.’

  Tom digested this information. He wanted a specific location if his plan was to work as he intended.

  Tom heard Taylor coughing slightly before the DCI said, ‘Graham, it’s Si. You okay to speak?’

  There was a short pause before he said, ‘We need to meet, mate, urgently. There’s a problem with Novak and we need to sort it, for good. I don’t want to talk on the phone. I’m meeting with Jonesey later at seven. Can you get there?’

  Once again there was a short pause before he said. ‘Yeah, that’s the one, big place by HMS Belfast. We can sit outside, get a bite, and talk it through. Okay, see you later. Don’t worry, man: we can sort it.’

  There was another pause before Taylor said, ‘Stop worrying, mate! We can sort it between us. Novak is no one. I’ll see you at seven.’

  There were muted shuffling sounds followed by the sounds of the car door opening and then being slammed shut.

  Pet’s voice emanated from the phone. ‘You get all that?’

  ‘Clear as a bell. Thank you, Pet.’

  Tom put his phone back into his pocket and smiled to himself. They’d described a large pub with outside seating under gas heaters and in the shadow of HMS Belfast. Tom knew that pub: he’d been to it a good few times for a beer and a burger. The Horniman by Hays Galleria on the banks of the Thames, directly opposite HMS Belfast: the old WW2 warship which had been preserved as a tourist attraction.

  The pub was huge and bustling and, if you could get a seat outside, it would be the ideal place for a quiet meeting about nefarious activity. He’d even met informants himself there in the past, as it was nice and public and allowed for a discreet chat in an environment where you wouldn’t be overheard.

  He sipped his coffee and checked his watch: it was only 11am. Plenty of time.

  He picked up his phone and dialled, listening as the phone rang in his ear for about ten seconds before a familiar cockney voice answered. ‘I wondered when you were gonna call me, you cheeky bastard, Borat.’

  ‘Hello, Buster.’

  *

  Simon Taylor arrived at The Horniman just before 7pm and saw that the terrace was absolutely packed out with early-evening drinkers enjoying the unseasonably good weather. He had been unable to concentrate at work after Novak’s visit and had quietly fumed at the man’s insolence all day. He’d had to work hard to avoid the Borough Commander, who was gunning for him about the domestic violence clear-up rate having slipped badly recently. He just couldn’t bear the day-to-day drudgery of borough policing, but it seemed the only way he may be able to climb the promotion ladder any further.

  Despite everything he’d done, the hours he’d put in, and the general improvements in the borough’s performance, he’d been rejected at the last two promotion processes. He couldn’t figure out why; they just seemed to flounder with very little feedback as to why he was not getting promoted. ‘Just keep plugging away, Simon,’ the Chief Super had said, without giving him anything concrete. It was so frustrating.

  He looked inside the pub but couldn’t see the other two anywhere, which was annoying; he hated any kind of lateness, particularly in ci
rcumstances like this. He went to the bar and bought himself a pint of lager together with a large whisky chaser to settle his nerves. That would be his fourth pint, as he’d stopped off nearby for a couple of liveners before the meeting. He’d found himself drinking far too much recently, certainly since his unfortunate dealings with those bastard Brankos.

  Taylor wandered outside onto the terrace once more to see if any spaces had cleared, but it was still jam-packed with revellers and groups of drunken office workers, still in their business attire with loosened ties and discarded stilettos.

  He was on the point of giving up and going back inside to find a seat when a shaven-headed, short, stocky man with a pretty blonde companion said, ‘We’re just leaving, mate, take this one,’ in a cockney voice, indicating to the table they were vacating. It was littered with empty glasses and two cleared plates. A condiment box fashioned like a small, vintage wine box sat in the middle of the table holding a menu, napkins, cutlery, and sauces.

  ‘Thank you,’ Taylor said, relieved. The table was perfect: not too close to any of the other tables, and right next to the river wall overlooking the Thames. He sat down and got his phone out to see if the other two had called. They hadn’t.

  He took a long swig of beer and took a sip of his whisky, savouring the warmth and smoky taste.

  A young and pretty waitress appeared and said with a bright smile, ‘Can I just clear this please, sir?’

  ‘Please do,’ he replied, and she began to take the remains of the meal away.

  As she wiped the table down she said, ‘Will you be eating tonight?’

  ‘I’m expecting a couple of friends. I suspect we will eat something.’

  ‘I’ll just replenish your sauces and things then, sir,’ she said.