CXVI The Beginning of the End (Book 1): A Gripping Murder Mystery and Suspense Thriller (CXVI BOOK 1) (15 page)

“He’d gone out to interview another suspect. There
was no-one in the room once we’d left.”

“Maybe Dudley’s call was put through to the Duty
Desk and they told him.”

Barnes shook her head. “I’ve checked; it wasn’t.”

Woods pondered.

“And don’t you think this is strange. The killer
gets off his motorcycle, removes his helmet, calmly walks up to Porter’s
tractor, fires four shots, writes DCCXVI on the cab window with lipstick. Then
realising someone’s watching him, gives chase, still carrying the gun and the
helmet, stumbles upon the camouflaged hide, spots the camera attached to the
scope, removes it, and then miraculously catches Flintshire before he reaches the
road. What was Flintshire, a snail?”

Woods now understood, and was nodding in agreement.

“He wouldn’t have time to get the camera; his
priority was getting Flintshire, before he reached the Mondeo, and because of
the police sirens approaching he took the car keys and escaped in that, leaving
the camera and his motorcycle behind.”

“So where’s the camera?”

“Who was first on scene?”

“Maria, I hear what you are saying, but. . .”

“Work the timeline out from when we heard Flintshire
say, ‘
Oh Christ, I think he spotted me,
’ to when the shots rang out.”

Woods counted silently. “Twenty seconds?”

“I’d say twenty-two, so he was caught in twenty to
twenty-two seconds. That’s from being spotted and getting as far as the
hedgerow. How far is it across that field?”

“You’re right, Maria, he couldn’t have stopped to
grab the camera, he must have run full pelt after Flintshire.”

“Now work the timeline out from the end of the shots
to you nearly hitting the killer head on.”

“I don’t need to, you’re absolutely right, he couldn’t
have gone back for the camera either; he did as you say, he grabbed the car
keys and drove off in the Mondeo.”

“But we can’t prove Dudley took it, not yet anyway,”
Barnes said.

“You could be jumping to conclusions though; one of
the attending officers might have taken it.”

She scrunched up her nose. “I’ll keep digging,” she
said, leaving him alone with that thought.

He was tired, not as quick minded as he was years
ago when he had been her age, or as smart as she appeared now. He was impressed
by her enthusiasm, her drive, her determination, and yet puzzled by her
emotional state; he recalled her leaving the room to freshen up when they’d
interviewed Pauline, and the closeness the two women appeared to have formed.
He was getting old, perhaps too old for this. He looked at his watch;
I need
an early night
, he thought.

Tuesday 29
^th
May.

Jacobs arrived at Malaga Airport
at 2.35 p.m. local time. He was met by Police Inspector Antonio Martinez who
was waiting in the arrivals hall, holding up a sign with Jacobs’ name on. Martinez
was typical Mediterranean, olive skinned, slick, greased-back, black hair, bull
necked, broad shoulders and burly arms. They introduced themselves and Martinez
told Jacobs it would be a sixty minute drive to Casares where Ramírez’s parents
lived in a small villa on the outskirts of town.

When they arrived the sun was at its hottest. The
villa was a former schoolhouse which was renovated in authentic rustic style
with modern comforts and charm. It was surrounded by mature gardens and located
in the valley of La Acedia at the foot of the Bermeja mountain range.

Inspector Martinez made the introductions in Spanish
and then explained to Ramírez’s parents that the English detective was trying
to locate their daughter, who he feared may be in danger. At this point the
elderly couple — who were in their late sixties — became agitated and began gesticulating
and speaking loudly at Martinez. Jacobs was unsure what was being said, but the
tone indicated anger and venom.

After a few minutes Martinez, who had obviously
heard enough, silenced the couple by taking out his pistol and demanding they
be quiet. He then turned to Jacobs. “I’m sorry S
eñor
, they don’t want to speak
to you; they want you to leave
.”

“Why? What’s the problem? I’m here to help!”

“They say their daughter went to England years ago and
disowned them, never returning; if you want to find her go back there.”

“Could you explain to them that records show S
eñorita
Ramírez returned to Spain in the late
90s; she didn’t go back to England. And can you ask them if they could suggest
anywhere she might be living?”

Martinez spoke to the parents and again they became
agitated and pointed at the door, waving their hands in a dismissive manner; he
turned back to Jacobs and shook his head. “Sorry S
eñor
.”

Jacobs was perplexed at the couple’s defiance, but reluctantly
agreed to leave. Through Martinez he thanked them for their time and apologised
for the upset his visit had caused. As they drove from the villa Martinez asked
if there was anything he could do to help.

“Could you organise to have their telephone usage
checked out over the past few months, and a trace placed on their numbers, just
in case they’ve been in contact with her, and are attempting to protect her? I
don’t understand why they are so agitated by my questions. They doth protest
too much, methinks.”

“Okay, S
eñor
, I’ll fix it,” he said smiling, then
asked, “would you take dinner with me? I know a very good tapas bar near here.”

As he was anxious to get back to the UK Jacobs
declined. He said if they hurried to the airport he should be in time to catch
the evening flight. Martinez acknowledged this and immediately switched on the
sirens, heading back to Malaga.

Wednesday 30
^th
May.

It was 7.00 a.m. when Woods
stepped into the Incident Room; he’d not slept well, and had been up most of
the night. He wasn’t feeling his best and needed his early morning caffeine
fix, so headed to the vending machine. Instantly he spotted both Barnes and
McLean sitting at their desks. He shook his head in disbelief.  “One of these
days, I’ll beat you two into work,” he said.

He noticed McLean smiling at Barnes. “Good morning,”
they replied in harmony.

He smiled back. “Good morning.”

He went into his office and closed the door. He took
off his jacket, placed it on the back of his chair and settled down at his desk.
He switched on his computer and started reading through his e-mails. Suddenly,
Barnes appeared holding a piece of paper on which was written:

DON’T
SAY A WORD,

WAIT
FIVE MINUTES AND THEN

FOLLOW
ME OUT INTO THE CAR PARK.

I
REPEAT DO NOT SAY A WORD.

Woods looked at her and she was holding her
forefinger to her lips. She left without speaking.

As instructed he waited and then went out into the
car park; he spotted her sitting on the boundary wall at the far side. He went
across.

“What is it, Maria?”

“You already know that ever since he arrived I’ve
felt really uneasy about him.”

“Who, Dudley?”

She nodded. “Well my suspicions have been increasing
by the day. When I get in on a morning I’ve noticed things have been moved on
my desk.”

“That’s the cleaners.”

“The cleaners don’t go through every piece of paper
and then put them back in the wrong order. And it’s not only my desk, it’s
everyone’s, including yours.”

“How do you know if things have been moved on other
desks?”

“I just do. You could go to your office now, place a
paper clip somewhere, and within ten seconds of coming in I’d know where, it’s
a game I used to play with my father. Anyway, I decided to find out what was
going on, and you see those flats over there?” she pointed across the road. “Flat
24 has a perfect view into our offices and a lovely old lady and gentleman live
there who kindly allowed me to place a camera in their window. Watch this.” She
opened her tablet and played the footage shot from the flat.

“What is he doing?”

“He goes through everyone’s desk looking for
information. I told you he was up to no good.”

“When was this taken?”

“Monday night.”

“Well I suppose he could be trying to keep up to
speed with the investigation.”

“Under the cover of darkness,” Barnes said, sounding
exasperated. “If you don’t think that’s suspicious, watch what happened last
night.” She played more footage.

“Who’s that with him?”

“It’s his electronics expert. Watch this.”

“What the fuck!”

“He’s placed a listening device under your desk;
it’s behind the right front leg. I came in early and found it. I’ve left it
alone so you can decide what to do.”

Woods was furious. “I’m not having this.”

“Calm down, you need to think carefully before you
act.”

Woods was not listening. “Right, I’m dragging that
bastard up to Foster’s office now; we can have it out once and for all. I’ll
find out who he’s taking his orders from. And if he’s got the camera from the
spotting scope. Let me borrow that,” he said, snatching hold of the tablet and
placing it in his jacket pocket.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Barnes said
quickly.

It was too late; Woods was already striding back
towards the building.

“Please keep me out of all this,” she shouted. “I
don’t want to be incriminated.”

Woods ran up the stairs and into the Incident Room.
He glanced around and spotted Dudley speaking to McLean. He ignored them and
went into his office. He bent down near the desk’s front leg, carefully
removing the listening device, and then placed it in his inside jacket pocket.
Then he took a pair of handcuffs out of the cabinet and slid them in his
trouser pocket. He was ready. He stepped back out into the Incident Room just
as Barnes was returning to her desk, but he walked straight past her and
towards McLean and Dudley.

“Have you got a second, Hilton?” he said calmly. “Foster
would like to see us both in his office; I think something’s come up.”

“Okay, just a sec,” Dudley replied, fetching his
jacket and following him out.

When they reached Foster’s door Woods opened it
without knocking and stood back to let Dudley enter first. As he passed him,
Woods grabbed his hands and pulled them tight behind his back, securely
handcuffing him. He forced him in and threw him to the floor in front of Foster.

“Greg, what the hell? Have you taken leave of your
senses?” Foster said.

Dudley tried to stand as Woods pulled him to his
feet, but his face was smashed down on Foster’s desk. “Who is this arsehole
working for?” Woods snarled.

Foster jumped up and backed away from his desk.
“What are you talking about? You know who he’s working for.”

Woods held Dudley down one-handed and ran his other
hand up Dudley’s trouser leg, tearing it at the seam as he did so; he pulled
out a holstered gun and banged it down on Foster’s desk. “When did detective
inspectors start carrying guns?” he snapped.

Foster looked aghast. “What is this?”

“I need to make a phone call,” Dudley spluttered.

“No you don’t, you can speak into this.” Woods
slammed the listening device down next to Dudley’s face.

“What’s that?” Foster asked.

“It’s a bug his friend placed in my office last
night. Look at this.” Woods barked, tossing the tablet to Foster. “Play the
footage,” he demanded.

“I can explain. I just need to make a call.”

“No, you don’t,” Woods yelled, smashing Dudley’s
face back down into the desk. “The cavalry will be here soon enough.”

“Right, Dudley, this better be good, otherwise
you’re being arrested,” Foster threatened.

“If you let go of me, I can explain. . .”

The phone rang. “Yes,” Foster said, snatching up the
receiver.

“You see, Dudley, the knights in shining armour are
arriving to rescue you,” Woods said, holding him down firmly.

Foster finished the call. “Let him go, Greg. We need
to go to the Chief Constable’s office right now.”

“Including this arsehole?”

Foster nodded. “Yes, including that arsehole.”

Woods released his grip slowly and took off the
handcuffs.

“We’re all on the same side,” Dudley said, when he
was free.

“That’s as may be, but some of us don’t carry guns
and go around stealing evidence. It was you who took the camera from the
scope!”

Dudley made no response.

Wednesday 30
^th
May.

Woods and Foster were sitting
outside the Chief Constable’s office waiting to be called in. Sitting opposite
was Hilton Dudley whose bloodied face had been cleaned up and who’d managed to
acquire a spare pair of trousers from the Custody Sergeant, which now replaced
his torn ones, his appearance less dapper than the Savile Row dandy he normally
depicted. The atmosphere was palpable as they all waited silently, Woods’ stare
firmly planted on Dudley. The Chief Constable’s secretary was quietly working
at her desk, occasionally looking up and smiling at whoever’s gaze she
attracted.

“I didn’t know anything about this,” Foster whispered.

“The question is, who did?” Woods replied quietly.

“Not him?” Foster said, gesturing towards the Chief
Constable’s door.

“Well, he sure as hell does now.”

The telephone on the secretary’s desk buzzed and she
picked it up. “You can go in now gentlemen. They’re ready for you.”

“They! Who are we seeing?” Woods whispered, getting
up.

“No idea.” Foster replied, as they entered the room
with Dudley following.

Chief Constable Matt Holden stood and introduced Rupert
Bartholomew Faulkner-Brown who was sitting at the far end of the large oval
table. Dudley immediately went to sit next to him, while Woods and Foster
seated themselves away from Faulkner-Brown, facing Holden.

Faulkner-Brown spoke first. “I apologise for the way
you’ve found out about this, Superintendent; we totally underestimated you. It
was a grave mistake and I’m truly sorry.”

Woods did not respond; there was so much he already
didn’t like about Faulkner-Brown – a plump, balding middle-aged man with a
cocky, patronising manner, wearing a green and orange checked suit. His
appearance belied his true profession, which Woods rightly guessed as a Senior
Intelligence Officer.

Foster looked at Holden. “Were you aware of this,
Sir?”

Faulkner-Brown answered, “Mr Holden was unaware of
the full reasoning for our interest in the investigation, but had agreed to one
of my people assisting you.”

Woods shook his head slowly, but remained silent.

Faulkner-Brown turned to him. “I fully understand
why you’re pissed off, but I can assure you we’re both on the same side and
detaining the killer is our main priority.”

“Where does tampering with the evidence fit in with
your main priority?” Woods asked.

“He thinks I took the camera from the scope,” Dudley
said.

“You were first on the scene.” Woods snarled.

“Yes, and the camera wasn’t there, I assumed the
killer had it.”

Woods tried desperately not to lose his cool. “The
killer didn’t have time to stop and remove it. Listen to the recording: compare
the distance of the chase on foot against the time it took, and then the time
from the second murder to where I nearly smashed into the Mondeo, against the
distance travelled.”

Dudley shook his head. “I swear I didn’t touch it.”

Woods looked straight at Faulkner-Brown. “If it
wasn’t him, then it was your other guys in the Maserati!”

Faulkner-Brown frowned. “You’re very good, I’ll give
you that,” he said. Then, turning to Holden, “Gentlemen, we need your agreement
that whatever we say next remains between the five of us and these four walls.
Do we have that?”

“Of course,” Holden said. “That goes without
saying.”

Foster nodded.

Faulkner-Brown looked at Woods. “What about you,
Superintendent?”

Woods tapped his fingers annoyingly on the table.
“That depends,” he said.

“On what?”

“Getting the camera.”

“I’ll make sure it’s returned.”

Holden scowled. He formed a ball with his fist and
banged it down hard on the table. “This was never part of the agreement.” He
was staring at Faulkner-Brown. “I won’t stand by and let the investigation be
compromised by you acting irresponsibly.”

Faulkner-Brown again apologised, but gave no
reasoning behind taking the camera.

“Do you know who the killer is?” Woods asked,
focusing in on Faulkner-Brown.

“We have a very good idea.”

“Then tell us, and we can stop wasting time,” Foster
said.

“It’s not that simple. If it’s who we think it is,
he’ll be totally incognito. We’ve been trying to find him for a while; he’s
completely disappeared off the radar.”

“Give us his name,” Woods snarled.

“Fredrick, or Freddy, Williams, but there’s no
record of him on the systems, so don’t waste any time looking for him there.”

“What makes you think he’s the killer?” Foster
asked.

“His modus operandi, and the fact he’s leaving Roman
numerals to link the crimes.”

“What have the numerals to do with this?” Woods
asked.

“We suspect it’s his way of letting us know he’s
resurfaced.”

“And the Creans?”

“We’re assuming Gerrard Crean paid Williams to
murder a few people who’d hacked him off during his life; he was dying and
could afford it. What we’re trying to uncover is how Williams was paid, or is
being paid, and what’s happening to the money; but Williams is a master of
subterfuge… as no doubt you’ve discovered.”

“Do you have a photograph that we can circulate?”

Faulkner-Brown shook his head. “It wouldn’t do much
good if we had, because he’s a master of disguise.”

“Are we correct in our assumption about the possible
victims?”

“Your deductions appear sound.”

“Where exactly does Jonathan Plant fit in to this?
Because, as far as I’m concerned, he’s one of the suspects.”

“He’s not involved; you have my word on that, but we
think Williams is trying to implicate him. For the record Plant took the
battery out of the boat’s tracker to use in his satellite phone; he was
catching up on some work while Pauline was sleeping off the booze.”

“Therefore, Plant must be known to the killer and I
suppose the killer’s known to him.”

“I’d rather not comment.”

Woods became agitated. “Is that why he’s got people
protecting Pauline? Is she in danger because of him?”

“Again, I’d prefer not to comment.”

Woods erupted. “You’d prefer not to comment! I’ve
got my detectives wasting precious time running around trying to figure out who’s
involved, who to protect and who might be a suspect; and you place this idiot
in the team, who’s only interested in feeding material back to you and
withholding crucial information from us.”

“This isn’t what I agreed to,” Holden said, shaking
his head. “He was supposed to assist with the investigation.”

“Again I apologise,” Faulkner-Brown said. “I’m happy
to answer questions, but you must understand there are some matters which I
simply can’t comment on.”

“What information are you prepared to divulge,
particularly in relation to Williams?” Woods probed.

“I’ve told you all I can on that subject.”

“He’s a former agent of yours, isn’t he?”

Faulkner-Brown looked furtively around. “No, of
course not.”

Woods grinned. “Of course he isn’t. How stupid of me
to suggest such a preposterous thing. What was I thinking?” He glared at
Faulkner-Brown. “I don’t suppose you know the whereabouts of Victor Zielinski
and Rebecca Ramírez?”

Faulkner-Brown shook his head. “I’m sorry I don’t,
and to be frank I suspect both Zielinski and Ramírez may already have been
murdered. Like you, we can’t find any trace of them, but I wouldn’t recommend you
stop looking until you’ve found them or their bodies.”

“What about Crean’s accident?”

“We can’t find anything suspicious there either.”

“So we can stop wasting time on that then; if you’d
only shared this with us earlier,” Woods said, exasperated.

Faulkner-Brown looked back at Holden. “I admit we’ve
made a complete hash of this, but we would like to continue working alongside
your detectives. I appreciate the trust between us has been dented and I take
full responsibility for that, but if we can put that aside I feel a combined
approach would be preferential to us all.”

Woods sensed Holden was unsure of what to do; maybe
it was his own fiery nature that caused his Chief Constable to be having doubts
about this working. If he was honest with himself he too was uncertain they
could work together; he’d never trust Dudley again.

“There must be transparency and sharing of
information,” Holden said.

Faulkner-Brown nodded, “I agree.”

“And I’d appreciate not having the office or our
phones bugged,” Woods added, spotting Faulkner-Brown give the slightest of nods
to Dudley, as though signalling something to him.

“Good,” Faulkner-Brown said. “We’ll share
information through Hilton, but we’d ask you to keep his true identity between
these four walls.”

Holden nodded in agreement.

At this point Dudley stood, went over to Woods and
offered his right hand. “Sorry,” he said. “No hard feelings?”

Woods got up and shook his hand, but his stance
indicated he was far from being happy with the situation; he had to follow
Holden’s lead and get on with the investigation.

“Are we all done here, Sir?” Foster asked.

“I think so. Keep me up to date,” Holden replied.

Faulkner-Brown stayed seated as Woods, Dudley and
Foster left.

“Let me grab you a coffee, Greg,” Dudley said as
they passed the vending machine on the top floor.

Barnes’ eyes widened when she saw
Woods and a slightly ruffled Hilton Dudley return to the Incident Room, both
with coffees and appearing placid. Dudley went over to his desk and started
working, while Woods went into his office closing the door behind him. Barnes
stayed seated for a few minutes closely watching Dudley; then she went to
Woods’ office. She looked in through the vision panel and saw him crawling
around on the floor looking under his desk and chair. She went inside quietly.

“Stop worrying, there was only one listening device.
I thoroughly checked the rest of the office this morning,” she whispered as she
perched on one of the stools.

“So why are you whispering?” Woods asked, dusting
himself down and going to sit behind his desk.

“I don’t know. How come Dudley’s still here, and
what happened to his nose and trousers?”

Woods took a sip of coffee. “It’s a long story, but
we’re stuck with him.”

“What?”

“Listen, keep this between the two of us; they want
to hide his true identity.”

“Secret Service?”

Woods smiled as he nodded. “They wanted an assurance
we’d keep quiet about it. . . ”

“But, somehow you managed to weasel your way out of
agreeing to that.”

Woods took another sip of coffee. “Sort of… Anyway,
until we get the camera back, I haven’t agreed to anything.”

“So they do have it.”

Woods pulled Barnes’ tablet out of his pocket and
handed it back to her. “Thanks for that,” he said, “and don’t worry, I kept
your name out of it. From now on, don’t tell Dudley anything, keep as far away
from him as you can, and be on your guard all the time he’s around.”

“What about Plant?”

“Forget him,” Woods said, explaining about the
battery swap to the satellite phone.

“What do we do now?”

Woods had another swig of coffee and placed the
carton back down on his desk. “We concentrate on finding Zielinski and Ramírez;
if they’re alive we protect them, and we keep up the surveillance on Pauline.
We also need to focus on Gerrard Crean; it’s assumed he’s commissioned the
murders and therefore we need to know who he associated with in the time
leading up to his death.  The SIS has been trying to catch the killer, and the
inference is our best chance is when he next tries to murder someone. . .”
Woods hesitated and looked down; he closed his eyes tightly.

“Are you alright?” Barnes asked, concerned.

Woods did not reply. He clutched his chest with his
right hand, grimaced and took a deep breath as the colour drained from his face.
He groaned loudly and slumped forward on his desk, knocking the coffee carton
over.

Barnes jumped off the stool and dashed across to
him; she felt for a pulse and then ran to the door. “Call an ambulance!” she
screamed. “He’s having a heart attack.” She ran back inside, pulled Woods onto
the floor and started CPR just as Dudley appeared at the door.

“Let me help,” he said.

Barnes noticed him glance at Woods’ desk. “Get
McLean and. . .”

“Aye, I’m here, Maria,” McLean shouted. “Let me take
over.” He pushed Dudley out of the way and Barnes moved to one side as he administered
CPR.