Driving into Darkness (DI Angus Henderson 2) (8 page)

At one thirty, Henderson walked into Sussex House bearing an Asda thicker-cut egg and cress sandwich and a bottle of cranberry flavoured mineral water. As a consequence of Rachel’s assault on his wardrobe, many of his new clothes seemed to be designed with a neater cut and felt a bit snug around the waist and legs, with none of the ‘give’ of his previous outfits. Not to exacerbate the problem, he only bought the sandwich and ignored the mini pork pie and apple Danish, the usual accompaniment to a cup of coffee later in the afternoon.

She would claim it wasn’t the fault of the new and better styled clothes, but his expanding gut on account of his love of Harvey’s Bitter, salted peanuts, and the occasional Chinese takeaway, often in the same evening. Being a canny Scot, he couldn’t see the point of spending a load of money on new clobber and not wearing it, hence the lighter lunch, but there was no way he was going on a faddy diet, as life was for living and not for counting calories or watching the readout on a set of bathroom scales, as if life itself depended on them.

He had spent the morning at a house in Framfield, on the outskirts of Uckfield in East Sussex, and for the twelfth time, met with a distraught householder, saw a door smashed to bits, and was shown the empty space where their pride and joy used to be. This time, the gang had upped the ante, as the owner of the car, Grant Basham, an insurance actuary in the City of London, had been hit on the head with something hard, either a bat, a boot, or a boxer’s fist and he was now in a coma.

The car, a red Ferrari 458 Spider and only two weeks old, was to be taken on its maiden journey the following week, on a five-day drive through the Dordogne. The car had been a present to self on Mr Basham’s fiftieth birthday, as up until then, he had owned a succession of small cars, used for the short drive between his house and Uckfield railway station. Now, it was touch and go if he would ever walk again, never mind drive a demanding car like the Ferrari.

At one of their team meetings, someone suggested the gang might end up killing someone as a consequence of their escalating violence, and at the time he dismissed it as scaremongering because, after all, it was only a car, a big lump of metal, glass, and plastic that could be replaced. Now, he was not so sure. It wasn’t only the violence but the nature of it; brutal, nasty, and incapacitating, way beyond what would be deemed necessary to extract the keys from a reluctant owner.

Their resident car thieving expert, DS Tony Haslam of the Traffic Department, assured them the gang were receiving anything from five hundred to a thousand pounds per stolen car, but was this a good enough reason to take a man’s life and spend the next fifteen to twenty years in jail for murder when they finally caught them?

He didn’t think so, and because it wasn’t what might be called in a police operational manual or a quality newspaper, proportional violence or systematic persuasion, he had to face the prospect that they were dealing with some irrational or psychotic characters. If this wasn’t enough to keep him awake at night, he didn’t know what was.

The edge of his appetite was curbed by all these negative thoughts and when he started eating, it was with less enthusiasm than when he first walked over to the supermarket. A couple of bites in, the phone rang. He was tempted to leave it, as it could be Chief Inspector Harris with part two of the, ‘you better catch them soon or we’ll all be out of a job' speech, as if he wasn’t thinking the same sorts of things himself, but with a groan he picked it up.

‘Detective Inspector Henderson? This is Sergeant Billy Hardcastle from the Met Stolen Vehicle Unit. Eddie Robinson said I should give you a call.’

‘He did, did he? Well done to you, Eddie. So Billy, how much did he tell you?’

‘Not much. I understand you need some footsloggers around the streets and alleys of Hackney.’

For the next few minutes he told Billy about the sighting of the chilled foods van and its disappearance somewhere in Hackney.

‘So what is it you want them to do?’

‘I need some people to knock on doors until we find the garage they’re using.’

‘I don't think it's such a good idea, sir.’

‘Why? Do you think they’ll scarper if we do?’

‘Without doubt, as soon as they get a whiff of something going on, they’ll vamoose These sorts of characters seem able to up-sticks in minutes and disappear into the wild blue yonder. A few weeks later, they'll buy some new gear and tools and start all over again. One of the costs of being in this sort of business, I suppose.’

‘Can you suggest anything better? I mean we know they’re around there somewhere, it’s just a case of finding them.’

‘We’re talking about how many streets?’

‘Hang on.’

Henderson opened his tatty A-Z, now marked at the page he and Walters had been looking at earlier. It wasn't a big area but he knew from studying satellite imagery on the web, it was densely populated with blocks of flats, lock-ups, warehouses, and light industrial units. ‘About half a dozen.’

‘I could get a few people, three or four max so as not to cause alarm and get them to walk the streets, looking for suitable places where they think your gang might have taken the van. I’m thinking it has to be more than a single garage or a lock-up. We’re talking here about a big workshop where they can switch the plates and I think a paint shop for doing the colour change on the cars. Do you know for certain the cars are transported inside this van?’

‘As much as we can be certain about anything,’ Henderson said, ‘because ever since we discovered it, we’ve seen it travelling up to London after three successive raids. I would say it’s good odds in my book.’

‘I’d be forced to agree with you. Tell me, is there any regularity in the timing of the raids?’

‘Nope, none whatsoever. Sometimes a week goes by, ten days, five days. If I could find any pattern to it, I would put a couple of cars on the M23 and a few more in Hackney and tail them.’

‘I was thinking the same. You see, I can see another problem with all this.’

‘What?’

‘Well if we do put men on the streets and they find say, five or six suitable places where someone could hide a big van and a few cars, we’ll need to watch all six locations for a few days or even a few weeks to identify which one they’re using. I mean, we just can’t ring the bell and ask if we can come inside and take a look around, can we?’

‘We’re into surveillance then. Mind you, if the gap between raids is only four days, we might not have long to wait.’

‘Yeah, but you said it yourself, the time between raids could be up to ten days or maybe now they’ll decide to take a break and go off on holiday.’

‘Yep, and knowing my luck on this case, I bet you’re right.’

‘Hang on a sec though, I’ve just thought of something we could do and it might save us a lot of time. Let me make a few phone calls and I’ll call you right back.’

Slowly, slowly he panned to the right. With the crosshairs lined up, a little behind its left ear, Dominic Green let out a brief smile. The Bambis had broken through the fencing close to a planting of three hundred ash, beech, and silver birch trees, part of his commitment to the environment as a responsible land owner, not to mention getting some free loot from the government, but the little buggers were in there and chomping for all they were worth.

In truth, his interest in the green agenda was to silence the ‘friends of the environment’ bitches from Brighton who were forever haranguing him in their vegetarian sandals and skanky hair about the way he was raping the green belt to make way for a new office or shopping developments. If governments listened to them and implemented what they were proposing, the country would go back to the Stone Age with no power stations, no cars, no airports, and nothing else to pollute their precious countryside. As a result, everyone would starve to death and instead of the tight planning controls in place at the moment which stopped him constructing whatever he pleased, the landscape would be littered with decaying corpses, discarded clothes, rusting cars, and crumbling buildings. No wonder everybody thought they were crackpots.

With over twenty acres of rolling countryside at Langley Manor to the west of Horsted Keynes in Sussex, planting a few trees was an easy commitment for him to make as the plants, the fence, and the protective sheathings were cheap. In addition, Kevin the gardener was already on the payroll and as happy as a dog with two tails to be doing something different, rather than cutting the grass or weeding the vegetable plot.

The shot was a good one and with the help of John Lester, his driver and bodyguard, they loaded the lifeless body into the back of the trailer. The big American freezer in the kitchen and the chest freezer in the shed were heaving with venison and so the three bagged today would be sold to a local butcher.

At one time, he considered donating the meat to an old folk’s home or an orphanage, but he and Lester laughed like drains when a bloke from the council told him he thought the old dears would turn their noses up at the strange tasting food, and the little snotty-nosed buggers would have a hissy fit when they found out where their juicy steaks were coming from.

He had been lying on wet grass and his shirt, trousers and socks were muddy and so before Lester went off into town to take care of some business, he dropped him back at the house. Green showered and changed and as his kids were at school and his wife Natalie was out shopping in Brighton, he set about preparing his own lunch.

He was thin and ate frugally, as he hated fat people and the slothful way they moved, and in any case, a chopped up apple, a bit of Brie and some bread was enough to fill him up for the afternoon. After lunch, he strode into the small sitting room, poured a whisky from the decanter and took a seat in his favourite armchair beside a roaring fire.

He loved the look and smell of a log fire, but if Maria the housekeeper didn’t do it, he would be sitting in here freezing his nuts off as he could never get the bloody thing to light. A petrol fire at the warehouse of a rival or a gas explosion in an old building he was trying to redevelop was a piece of cake, but starting and keeping a log fire alight was a mystery beyond his comprehension.

From lowly beginnings and more than a few brushes with the law, Dominic Green had built up a multi-million pound property development business, responsible for swanky housing estates, luxury apartment blocks, and up-market shopping centres. In addition, he also owned several entertainment businesses, with two casinos, five pubs and numerous illegal gambling dens. Which was why he was curious that the Managing Director of a microelectronics company, albeit a business much larger and more valuable than his own, wanted to see him.

At two, Maria showed William Lawton into the room. They shook hands and chatted about the weather and the general state of the economy for a few minutes before Maria returned with a tray of coffee and biscuits and departed, closing the door behind her.

Green picked up his cup and sat back in the chair. ‘So Mr Lawton, what did you want to see me about?’

At a touch over six foot, Green towered over most people, the bald head giving the impression he was taller still, which was just the way he liked it. Lawton only came up to his chin and while his tubby demeanour might lose him a point or two in the prominence score, he was impressed by the hand-made suit, tailored shirt, silk tie and snazzy leather shoes. All the same, he expected nothing less from the Managing Director of a jewel of a business, as he believed if the corporate world did not feather the nest of their senior management, what the hell was the point?

‘You may have read in the business press, Mr Green,’ Lawton said in a measured way, ‘Sir Mathew Markham retired from the company over a year ago, but perhaps you didn’t know that he now intends to sell all his interests in Markham Microprocessors. In order not to cause an unseemly rush to the altar, as he would call it, he decided not to put the company up for sale in a public auction, but to flush out all those companies with the necessary where-with-all and invite them to make a bid.’

Green re-filled his cup and added a little skimmed milk. Lawton’s dapper red-framed glasses and modern hair style made him think he was dealing with an East End bond salesman or a glib poker shark, but his speech was articulate and precise. ‘I’m following you so far.’

‘Good. To date, eleven companies have shown their cards but none have met Sir Mathew’s criteria. Now, there’s been another little twist in this tale.’

‘Do tell. I like twists.’

‘Sir Mathew has been in talks with some Koreans and I believe if no action is taken soon, the deal will be done and dusted and they will become the new owners of the business.’

‘Tsk, tsk that was naughty of him.’

Lawton started banging on about how the Koreans would be bad for employees, suppliers, and anyone else connected with the company, but Green had been around long enough to know self-interest was playing a big part here and Lawton was fearful of his own position. He wasn’t without sympathy as he would feel the same antagonism towards his employer if he were sitting in William Lawton’s expensive shoes.

Green put his cup and saucer on the table. ‘What you've said is all very interesting, Mr Lawton and I must say, it’s a difficult situation you find yourself in, but I fail to see how this could be of any interest to me.’

‘Ah, but it will be Mr Green, you’ll see. As a result of Sir Mathew’s actions in talking to the Koreans, I intend to put together a consortium to buy the company from under their noses. My aim is to have a group of five or six big hitters who can raise the necessary capital to make Mathew an offer he would be stupid to refuse. I’m here because I would like you to become a member of this consortium.’

Green stroked his chin, a habit that surfaced whenever he was thinking seriously about something, and not shooting from the hip as he often did. ‘I’m flattered that you would think of me but I know nothing about your business and I have to tell you, I never put money into something I don’t understand.’

‘The inner workings of the microprocessor industry are a mystery to most people, Mr Green. If I may, I’d like to tell you something few people know about and which will, I’m sure, change your perception of what we are talking about here and help you appreciate the scale of this opportunity.’

Words like ‘electronics’ and ‘microprocessors’ were an anathema to him, but words like ‘scale’ and ‘opportunity’ succeeded in piquing his interest. This discussion was starting to warm him even better than the fire. ‘Call me Dominic,’ he said.

‘Thank you, Dominic and please call me William. Now, you may think Markham Microprocessors is a fine company in its own right and one in which you would be wise to invest, and you’d be right. In fact, if you’d bought one hundred pounds worth of shares two years ago, they would be valued at almost six times as much now, and if this isn’t enough to tempt you, this might.’

Lawton shifted to the edge of his seat.

‘What I’m going to tell you Dominic is top secret, none of the other bidders know anything about this yet, and it’s the main reason why Sir Mathew didn’t want an all-out sale. When you realise what this means, it will enable our consortium to bid higher than anyone else, safe in the knowledge that we can reap rich rewards for our boldness.’

Like a poker player about to play a trump card, Lawton paused before placing his triumphant winning hand on the table.

‘We have developed a new enhancement to battery technology which will wipe the floor with every existing battery solution.’ He pulled out his phone, one of the latest smart phones and one of the things Green detested. Time robbers he called them. To Green, who only used a basic mobile for making and receiving calls, it looked like a small computer and the sort of thing Spike, his fixer and fully-qualified hard-nut, spent all his time playing with when he wasn’t bashing people’s heads in.

‘This is the latest Apple iPhone, courtesy of the company and not available yet but it has all the latest gismos you would expect, like web access, video replay, emails, video calls and so on, but the battery will only last ten hours during normal use and perhaps three hundred hours when it’s on standby doing nothing. In addition, all battery operated devices lose power even if they're not being used and the ability to recharge the battery diminishes over time, so after three or four years, they’re dead and need replacing.’

‘Humph,’ Green said with obvious disdain. If he had his way, the batteries would last no more than fifteen minutes and they would be incapable of being replaced. It would stop the obsession people had for looking at their phones and ignoring the person sitting beside them, behaviour he noticed was becoming more prevalent, particularly amongst women.

‘We have developed a completely new technology that will change battery use forever. All around us, even as we sit here in your fine drawing room, are radio waves generated by a whole range of equipment, such as radio and TV transmitters, your home Wi-Fi network, garage door openers, Wi-Fi hot spots at airports and coffee bars, all manner of things.’

‘If we could see them,’ Lawton continued, ‘we wouldn’t be able to see over to the fireplace in this room or to the garage outside the window because they are so numerous and all pervasive. These waves are carried on small amounts of energy and some clever people in our labs have found a way to collect this energy, suck it into the phone, and convert it into low-voltage electricity that will keep the battery fully charged all the time.’

‘What a bloody ingenious idea,’ he said. He was a keen reader of science fiction, in particular the novels of Ray Bradbury and Isaac Asimov and loved whacky, left of field ideas. ‘But why bother with a battery at all? Why not use radio waves to power the phone directly? Cut out the middle man, as it were.’

‘A very good question Dominic and one we debated long and hard in our development meetings. We decided to opt for the battery-based solution, as even though our new device absorbs radio waves from all directions and squirts electricity out in a nice, even flow, it will be retained for those times when a user is in a remote place with little or no radio wave activity around them. I’m thinking here of a beach in the Caribbean or a secluded hillside in Scotland.’

‘Fair enough,’ he said.

‘Now that I've explained the technology side, let me tell how it will impact our business. The battery companies are not going to like it, hence we are making strident efforts to keep it a secret and therefore I don’t advise you to buy any shares in their businesses in near future.’ A rare smile creased his face. ‘To prevent copies and industrial espionage, we will manufacture the device ourselves and license the technology to one or two other microprocessor chip makers.’

He stopped for a few moments and drained his coffee cup. Green leaned over to refill it.

‘When it’s released, I can see this tiny device being incorporated into every phone, laptop, satnav, and ereader, every mobile device on the planet. I’m telling you Dominic, it will revolutionise the electronics world and the way we use mobile devices. For Markham, the effects will be massive. We will make millions, hundreds of millions.’

The thought of millions absorbed his thoughts for a few seconds before he spoke. ‘Two questions. The first is, did you think this idea up all by yourselves or could you find, sometime in the future, half a dozen companies filing patent infringement law suits against you?’

‘The basic outline was dreamed up by a maverick radio genius called Gary Larner, but all the practical development work was done by the team at Markham, led by two brilliant engineers, Marta Stevenson and Sanjay Singh.’

‘I take it they are, and will be well compensated for their efforts.’

‘Yes indeed. We look after our key employees.’

‘What of your clever radio engineer, Gary Larner? Is he still part of the set-up?’

‘No. He no longer works for the company.’

‘What happened to him?’

‘He had a bit of a breakdown and went crazy for a while, so we were forced to let him go. In truth, it was just what the project needed, as he was going nowhere with it and only when Marta and her team picked it up, did we see any progress.’

‘Was he sacked or did you pay him off?’