CXVI The Beginning of the End (Book 1): A Gripping Murder Mystery and Suspense Thriller (CXVI BOOK 1) (31 page)

Sarah’s eyebrows knitted together. “None of your
business.”

“She believes you’re in Asia.”

“So? She doesn’t need to know we’ve been here, but I
suppose you’ll take great delight in telling her.”

“I’ll take no delight in it whatsoever; you should
be the one explaining yourself.”

Crean stepped in. “When the time comes, I’ll speak
to her.”

Barnes was incensed. “When the time comes?” she
echoed. “Gerrard, the time is right now. Have you any idea what she’s going
through and how much she loves you? You need to act!”

Crean looked at his daughter. “Maria’s right, I’ll
speak to your mother. . .”

Woods, who’d been quietly listening, interrupted. “No…
don’t do that. Give us a few days; we’ll catch the next flight home and after
I’ve sorted out Faulkner-Brown, I’ll explain things to Pauline. I’ve an idea
how we can use the information to our advantage, catch Williams and have all
the protagonists brought to justice.” He winked at Barnes. “Come on, we need to
get back to the boat.”

Crean raised his hand slowly and the senior
protection officer appeared. “These two need a quick flight back to the UK, and
to avoid inquisitive border officials.”

The officer nodded. “I understand,” he said in
perfect English.

“Fuel the jet,” Crean ordered, and then turned to
Barnes. “This is on the house. I know you enjoy first-class travel; accept it
with my compliments.”

It was 8.00 p.m. and
Faulkner-Brown was speaking on the telephone to Vauxhall Cross. He’d been
piecing together evidence from interviews with Crean’s undertaker, accountant,
oncologist and pathologist, Dr Nugunda. He’d obtained evidence of Barnes’
enquiries with the National Fraud Intelligence Bureau and was now convinced
Crean had faked his own death. Dudley had been dispatched to coordinate the
surveillance on Woods’ sister-in-law’s house and had been unable to confirm
that both daughters were actually staying with their aunt, although the
suspicion that they were remained. Evidence of Sarah Crean’s Skype calls to her
mother had been analysed, proving they were generated in the Seychelles. Every
resource available to Faulkner-Brown was now focusing on Woods’ holiday
destination.

“Praslin is only two hours away from Gecko Island. Apparently
Woods chartered a catamaran and sailed off towards the south-west this morning.
Crean must be there. Where are our nearest team?” he asked.

“Nairobi, four and a half hours away,” Vauxhall
Cross answered.

“Get someone to fly straight to the Seychelles,
detain Woods and his so-called daughter. I need to know what they’ve
discovered.” He slammed down the phone.

Saturday 9
^th
June.

The two agents instructed to fly
to the Seychelles were sitting in the aircraft awaiting pushback on their
scheduled flight to Mahe.

“Apologies for the slight delay, ladies and
gentlemen,” the first officer’s voice filled the cabin. “We’re awaiting
clearance, which we understand we should be receiving any moment. The weather
in Mahe is currently a pleasant twenty-eight degrees with slight south-westerly
winds and risk of isolated showers.”

One of the agents looked out of the aircraft’s
window and spotted a Phenom 300 jet coming into land. “Look at that,” he said
to his colleague. “Three hundred people sitting waiting here while some wealthy
guy lands his private jet.”

His colleague smiled, and leaned across to look out
of the window. “Nice,” he said, and then settling back in his seat, “think about
it, we’re going to the Seychelles and we’re being paid. How good is that?”

“Yes, but we’re not going to be relaxing in the sun;
we’ve got work to do.”

“I know that, but how hard can it be? We detain the
individuals, interrogate them and report back. Then maybe we’ll have some time
to enjoy ourselves.”

His colleague looked out of the window as the
aircraft was slowly pushed back. “Don’t think for one minute that this will be
a piece of cake. I’ve read the notes on the two individuals we’ve to detain,
and one of them is definitely a pro. I doubt we’ll have any time to enjoy
ourselves.”

Woods, Pamela and Barnes landed
in Jomo Kenyatta International Airport, Nairobi. The jet needed refuelling, and
despite the risk they would be remaining on board the aircraft. Afterwards they
would head to Charles de Gaulle, Paris, and, after another fuel stop, on to a
private airfield in North Yorkshire. The original flight-plan was to fly to
Doha and on to Domodedove International Airport, Moscow; but ninety minutes
into the flight the pilots had negotiated their current route which was
formally agreed with the air traffic controllers. During the flight Barnes had
been in the cockpit chatting to the Russian pilots while Woods and his wife
made the most of the luxurious accommodation on board the jet. Prior to leaving
Praslin, they had sailed back to the hotel in the catamaran, checked out, and been
collected by Crean’s motor yacht, which brought them back to Gecko Island and
his private airstrip where they’d boarded the jet which had taken off just
before midnight local time.

While travelling back to the island Barnes had time
to read the message posted on the social networking site by Holly Woods. It
stated that her aunt’s house was currently under surveillance. Barnes
immediately responded, posing as Holly’s sister Laura, saying not to worry and
to be careful. Her postscript read:
Having a great time here in paradise,
Mum and Dad talking about travelling on to Moscow, will keep you informed.

Now as she looked across at Woods she could sense he
was troubled. “I know you don’t like the thought of travelling on Gerrard’s
jet, but it’ll get us back to the UK undetected, and it’s much faster than
scheduled flights with lengthy connections. We’ll be on British soil by 8.30
a.m.”

Woods nodded, but still looked troubled.

“Are you worried about your daughters?”

“Not really, they can look after themselves, and no
doubt Faulkner-Brown will be concentrating on coming after us.”

She smiled. “And when he reaches Praslin he’ll
discover we’ve already left. He’ll see the message I posted, discover a jet
left Seychellois airspace heading for Russia and assume that’s where we’ve gone.
We’ll have the element of surprise, which is exactly what your plan needs.”

Woods sighed. “That’s the problem.”

“What is?”

“You are so good at this.”

“Why is that a problem?”

“I’m having doubts about your true intentions. I
feel there’s so much I don’t know about you, and what little I do know worries
me.”

She paused, unsure how to respond.

“If it was only a couple of things, I’d accept them
as your peculiarities, but there’s a list as long as my arm.”

“Such as?”

“You had suspicions about Dudley from the minute he
arrived; you knew he’d been going through paperwork on the desks; you filmed
him bugging the office; you rightly presumed he’d drugged my coffee. You knew
they’d been in your flat, and you found all their listening devices. You have
an amazing ability to lose anyone who’s following you; you’re an expert in
subterfuge, security camera avoidance, explosives, the use and detection of
mobile telecommunications. You speak several languages. You equipped your flat
so we’d know who’d been in while we were away; you rigged the intercom to ring
your mobile… Need I go on? Ordinary police detectives don’t have those skills
or that level of knowledge.”

She scowled; she hated being doubted. “I thought we
had mutual trust and could rely on one another. All my peculiarities, as you
quaintly refer to them, are actually talents which I’ve worked hard to develop
and hone. I use them to my advantage, I’ve explained most of them to you, and I
fail to see how that is an issue.”

Woods scratched at his ear. “Yesterday there were
two significant events that can’t be explained away as being your
peculiarities.”

She quickly went through the day’s events in her
mind and then stared at him with that puzzled look she was so good at producing
when the need arose.

He explained. “Firstly, when the guards surrounded
us you stepped forward and spoke in Russian to them. However, your body
language and that of the guards suggested something quite different from the
conversation you claimed to have taken place. You weren’t explaining we were
there to meet an old friend; you were issuing instructions and orders, and they
were being submissive, or that’s what their body language implied. And the
senior officer spoke perfect English, so there was no need for you to speak in
Russian.”

She attempted to answer, but he carried on. “And
secondly, when I viewed the footage of Faulkner-Brown and Dudley in your flat,
I asked what the photographs were that Faulkner-Brown was looking at when he
slumped down on the sofa. You said they were a picture of your cat and your
graduation. Neither would generate the response he produced. Whatever he was
seeing, it wasn’t Felix, or you wearing your graduation gown.”

Barnes knew she’d have to explain and that he wasn’t
likely to be fobbed off with anything other than the truth. She swallowed hard.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t like deceiving you, but things have been working against
us and I had to adopt an unconventional approach.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“You’re right; the photographs in Faulkner-Brown’s
hand were his wedding and his three children.”

“How the hell did you get hold of those?”

“It wasn’t illegal or anything that need worry you.”

He shook his head and looked sceptical.

“My brother... he has contacts in Russia who can
obtain things like that. I wanted to scare Faulkner-Brown. He thinks I’m
working for the Russians and that’s the sort of thing they’d do. It worked, but
I didn’t think you’d approve, so I fibbed… Sorry.”

“What about the guards?”

“Same thing. I named some very influential Russians
who I claimed to be connected to; I wanted the upper hand. The irony is that
Gerrard was expecting us, so there was no need for me to do that.”

Woods chewed his lips; she could see the cogs
spinning metaphorically in his mind. She sensed the next question would be
difficult.

“I presume your brother is the friend you always
claim to have with specialist knowledge on whatever subject. Does he work for
the Russians?”

She shook her head.

“Have you compromised the investigation in any way?”

“No, I’ve only used his specialist knowledge to help
us. He’s not a spy; you don’t have to worry about that. He’s a very gifted
young man and he’d never do anything illegal. I can assure you my only
intention has been to apprehend Williams and prevent any more murders. Please
believe me on that.”

“One last thing; when we nearly crashed into
Williams, you said if I injured you I was a dead man! At the time I thought it
was the highly charged atmosphere of the chase, so I let it go, I didn’t say anything
about it.” He looked her straight in the eyes. “Was it a. . .”

“It wasn’t a threat,” she said quickly. “It was the
adrenaline. I was trying to draw your attention away from the chase and slow
you down.”

“Okay,” he said, rubbing his chiselled chin.

She watched closely as he appeared to be analysing
every word she’d said. She considered adding to it, but decided she had given
him sufficient information to substantiate the explanation. All she needed now
was for him to believe her. He looked across and she gave him one of her
apologetic smiles.

He smiled back, but there was hesitation in there.
“I’m glad we’ve cleared the air,” he said, sounding sincere. “I’m sorry I
doubted you, but the next twenty-four hours are going to be intense and we’ll
need to work together; there no room for mistrust from now on.”

“I’ve never doubted you for one second. And I won’t
let you down.”

“No more secrets?” he said.

“No more secrets,” she echoed, crossing her fingers
out of his sightline.

Saturday 9
^th
June – Sunday
10
^th
June.

Foster awaited the arrival of
Hilton Dudley in the Incident Room. McLean, Jacobs and West were already
present having been summoned along with Detective Inspector George Hooper, who
was there at Foster’s behest.

“Aye, what time are we expecting him?” McLean asked.

Foster glanced up at the clock. “He shouldn’t be too
long; I asked him to be here at ten.”

Fifteen minutes later Dudley appeared. He was
introduced to Hooper, and he grabbed a coffee from the vending machine before
joining the others who were sitting in a semi-circle around Foster.

“Right everyone,” Foster said. “We’ve had a good
response from the public re Williams’ photograph and uniformed officers are
working around the clock checking each reported sighting.”

“Don’t put too much credence to the sightings;
remember Williams will have changed his appearance,” Dudley said.

Foster sighed. “I appreciate that, but I can’t
afford not to check them out. And we might get a lead as to where he’s been
operating from.”

McLean glared at Dudley. “Aye, if national security
is reliant on MI5 and MI6, how is it they can’t find someone who used to work
for them? I mean, they’ll have all his details, his fingerprints, known
associates, aliases, and they’ll even have his bloody shoe size… none of which
they’ll release. God help us if ever we need their help! What do you say,
Hilton?”

“I agree.”

“Aye, we all know what a bunch of arseholes work
there don’t we?”

Foster cleared his throat, trying to bring attention
back to him. “I understand we made significant progress on the car cloning.”

“Aye, we thought there must be a link between the
people who’ve had their vehicles cloned, and eventually after a lot of digging
we found it. We knew Williams covers every eventuality, he’s meticulous and
precise; therefore, he’s not the type who’s going to see a car in the street
and decide to clone it. He’s going to do his homework and ensure the risk of
being caught is minimised. So we concentrated on what information he needs when
driving around in a clone car.”

“To avoid unnecessary detection he needs the
registered keeper’s name, address, date of birth and to have a vague
resemblance to their appearance,” West said, assisting with the explanation.
“He needs to know the car’s legal, and then if he’s randomly stopped he can
pass as the owner and not arouse suspicion. Also he needs to know the movements
of the cloned vehicle so he can ensure he doesn’t use the clone at the same
time.”

“Aye, one of the most vital things is he needs to
resemble the registered keeper, so we thought that’s maybe where he starts. He
selects someone similar to his own age, height and build, then he obtains all
the other information. Their vehicle is probably the least important item.”

Foster nodded as West continued. “He chooses someone
who looks fairly respectable, with a reasonably decent car, consequently he’s
minimising the chance of the vehicle being illegal. But how does he obtain
their name and date of birth? The other information can easily be obtained by
following them, so we concentrated on where you always have to give your
personal details.”

“Aye, the hospital. Every time I’ve an appointment
they ask me to confirm my name, address and date of birth, even though it’s on
the blooming letter I’ve just given them!”

“Spot on,” Foster said smiling. “So Williams goes to
a hospital car park, waits until he sees someone with a similar appearance,
follows them into clinic, stands behind them as they book in, monitors their
vehicle’s movements, and then steals an identical car and changes the number
plates.”

“Good deduction,” Jacobs said.

“Aye, that’s the link. Every one of the cloned
vehicle owners has been to a recent hospital appointment. So Sharron then
trolled through hours and hours of CCTV footage from the various hospitals.” McLean
looked at West.

“I discovered that a dark blue Audi A6 had been
following them, not only out of the hospital, but in and around where they
worked and lived.”

“Do we have a registration number?” Dudley asked.

“Aye, but it’s not what. . .”

The door to the Incident Room crashed open and Woods
strode in with Barnes at his side.

“Greg, Maria,” Foster said, attempting to sound
surprised.

Dudley jumped up and looked stunned as Woods made a
beeline for him. He tried to deflect the blow from Woods’ clenched fist, but it
came too fast and sent him crashing to the floor.

“Cuff him and throw him in the cells,” Woods
ordered, as Jacobs and McLean came to assist him.

“What’s the charge?” Jacobs asked, placing handcuffs
on Dudley.

Woods was busy rummaging through Dudley’s pockets. He
removed two mobile phones and the gun from the leg holster.

“Attempted murder,” Barnes answered, handing Foster
the laboratory report on the coffee.

McLean and Jacobs manhandled Dudley to his feet.

“Faulkner-Brown will have me de-arrested,” he said,
defiantly.

“Not if he doesn’t know you’ve been arrested,” Woods
replied.

Dudley was frogmarched out of the Incident Room
towards the Custody Suite.

“I need him out of circulation for as long as
possible. Maria and I need to get over to Hawes.” He looked at Hooper. “Are
your guys briefed and ready?”

“Of course. They’re already there, waiting for your
instructions.”

“Excellent, we can’t afford any mishaps.”

“There won’t be any; you’ve got my four best men.”

Woods turned to Foster. “Is everyone up to speed
with what I uncovered in the Seychelles?”

Foster nodded. “We’ve been here since seven. As you
instructed, only Dudley was kept out of the loop. We also think we’ve uncovered
who sanctioned the murders of the Mathewsons.”

Woods frowned. “How?”

“Williams left us a gigantic clue. We discovered a
dark blue Audi A6 had been following the cloned car owners; that too was a
clone.” He grinned. “A clone of the car belonging to Henry Guilford-Johnston
MP.”

“Wasn’t he Foreign Secretary when the Mathewsons
were killed?” Barnes ventured.

Woods scowled. “He certainly was. But…, I don’t
understand, why would Williams clone his car? Surely the last thing he’d want
would be to draw our attention to the person he intended murdering.”

“Maybe he has something else planned for him. He
told Crean he’d hold the Establishment to account. He didn’t say he’d kill the
people involved. Maybe Plant isn’t in danger either.”

Foster looked at Woods. “Does this affect your
plan?”

Woods was nodding. “It might do. Can you get over to
Guilford-Johnston’s and see what he has to say? As planned, Maria and I will go
to Pauline’s and deal with Plant. You ring me as soon as you’ve spoken to
Guilford-Johnston.”

One of the mobiles Woods had removed from Dudley’s
pockets started ringing. He picked it up, glanced at the screen and pressed the
reject call button.

“Faulkner-Brown?” Barnes surmised.

“Fat-Boy, according to the screen.”

Barnes grinned.

Faulkner-Brown pressed the send
button to dispatch the text asking Dudley to contact him urgently. The two
agents, who had arrived at the hotel where Woods and Barnes stayed, had discovered
they had left the previous evening. Enquiries revealed that after visiting
Gecko Island they’d checked out of the hotel and sailed back in the direction
of the island on a very expensive motor yacht which had arrived to collect
them. The agents immediately commissioned the same catamaran that Woods had,
and headed for the same location where the vessel had been moored the previous
day. Faulkner-Brown instructed the agents should search for signs of Woods,
Barnes, and Gerrard Crean; he was waiting for an update from Vauxhall Cross.

“Yes,” he snapped, snatching up the phone.

“When the catamaran reached the island the villa
appeared deserted; there was no sign of anyone and all the shutters were closed.
They decided to go ashore and investigate, but as they approached the beach,
armed guards appeared and shot the dinghy out of the water; our guys had to
swim back to the boat.”

“Amateurs,” grumbled Faulkner-Brown. “Get them to go
back under the cover of darkness. Crean, Woods and Barnes must be there.”

“We think you need to refocus,” Vauxhall Cross
responded. “According to social media sites, Woods’ so-called daughter posted that
they were thinking of going to Russia. Coincidentally a private jet left
Seychellois airspace late yesterday, heading for Moscow via Doha.”

The line went quiet while Faulkner-Brown processed
the information he had just been given. “Why would they go there?” he finally
muttered.

“To unravel the large ball of fog you appear to
surround yourself with.”

Faulkner-Brown banged down the phone. He tried
Dudley’s number, and again the call was rejected.

Woods and Barnes arrived at the
farmhouse gates. Woods explained to the guard that they were Detective Chief
Inspector Malcolm Foster and Detective Sergeant Sharron West, who wanted to
speak with Mrs Crean. Barnes flashed West’s ID and the guard radioed in.
Seconds later the gates opened slowly.

“Easy-peasy,” Barnes said as Woods pulled up outside
the stables. “Now comes the difficult part.”

They went to the main entrance and Pauline was
already waiting to greet them. “I wasn’t expecting to see you two; they told me
it was Foster,” she said smiling. “How are you?”

The dogs appeared and Barnes bent down to stroke them.
“We’re fine,” she said, then with a resigned look, “Pauline, would you mind
coming with me to the stables? There’s something important I need to tell you.”

“Is Plant in there?” Woods was pointing at the
farmhouse.

Pauline nodded. “Making coffees, I think.”

“Good, I’ll have a chat with him,” he said, stepping
inside. He spotted Plant in the kitchen. “I’ll skip the coffee, if you don’t
mind,” he called. “You never know what’s in it. That is, unless you have the
lab report.”

Plant spun round and frowned. “I was told it was
Foster.”

“He’s interviewing Henry Guilford-Johnston MP.”

Plant appeared hesitant. “I thought you were in the
Seychelles.”

“Can’t believe anything, can you? Although, when it
comes to misleading information, you and Faulkner-Brown are the experts.”

“Where’s Pauline?”

“Outside. I wanted to speak to you alone.”

“I need to make a phone call.”

“I think you do. But first we should have a chat.
Shall we?” he gestured towards the sitting room and Plant left the coffee-making
and followed him in.

“What exactly do you know?” Plant asked as he looked
across at Woods, who was sitting down on the opposite sofa.

“I’m assuming everything you and Faulkner-Brown have
desperately tried to prevent me uncovering.”

Plant raised an eyebrow. “Well, information can
easily be discredited.”

“I’d like to see you do that, since the majority
comes in the form of classified documents produced by your own department.”

“You’re bluffing.”

“You’re smart enough to realise my smugness suggests
otherwise.”

“Then tell me what you know.”

Woods intentionally paused, giving the impression he
was considering his options, then he spoke slowly and without emotion. “I’ve
detailed documents naming you as the perpetrator of the Mathewsons’ murders. I’ve
classified reports on the operation, including information about the deal
between the British and the Russians, resulting in the documents you stole
being destroyed and the murders you committed covered up. I know your codename
is XVI and the assignment to murder the Mathewsons was CXVI. I also know it was
Guilford-Johnston who sanctioned the operation. Do I need to go on?”

“Who gave you that information?”

Woods’ expression remained absolute.

“It was Williams! Wasn’t it?”

Woods smiled. “If I’d spoken to him, he’d be under
arrest, and no doubt your chum Dudley would have murdered him by now. I’m sure
Faulkner-Brown would’ve kept you up to speed with events. Has he not been in
touch this morning?”

“Stop playing games.”

Woods scoffed. “Fine words; it’s a pity you and
Faulkner-Brown don’t heed them.”

“Williams is the only person outside the department
who’d have that information.”

“Is he?” Woods’ phone buzzed. “Excuse me, while I
take this,” he said. Three minutes later he ended the call; it had been Foster
with an update after speaking to Guilford-Johnston. Now he needed to amend his
plan, but if luck was on his side he could use the situation to his advantage.
“That was Foster,” he informed Plant. “Guilford-Johnston’s agreed to cooperate.
He’s been expecting us; he’d already prepared his resignation letter. He’s making
a statement this afternoon. He’s asked for police protection.” Woods stopped
and looked at Plant. “Apparently, it’s you and Faulkner-Brown that he wants
protection from; he says he’s not too concerned about Williams.” Woods inwardly
smiled as he saw Plant squirm. “I can feel the rope tightening around your
necks as we speak.”