UG3 Diminishing Returns   Chapter 04     Chasing Shadows

 

It was Sunday 18th Jan before Heather was ready to go back into the office to continue her investigations. She’d showered but had redressed in a clean nightie and dressing gown as she had no intentions of going outside, least not in her fluffy slippers which had now been laundered, just to be safe. She was not bothered one jot if the security folk checked on the camera who was in the room, she was dressed for comfort and not for their benefit.

Sophie headed out of the door having ensured Heather had breakfast.

Heather now had a copy of Sophie’s report so edited it and forwarded it to Jenny, considering the mater closed. There were some responses to her Russian queries but they could wait.

The phone rang, the display claimed that SO15 from New Scotland Yard was calling - Heather reluctantly answered it.

“It's Kevin Edmunds, I understand you've been unwell?”

“Indeed, is this a courtesy call?”

“No, I hope you don't mind but I've booked us flights from Heathrow to Inverness for the first of February and return flights on the third. “

“To attend this inquest in the Highlands?”

“Correct, I'd suggest you overnight in London on the way.”

“I guess you'll want to brief us?”

“That's correct.”

“Okay, can you email me and Sophie the information, we'll sort out the transport from here.”

“Will do, get well soon!”

Heather spent the next few hours assessing the information she had so far, but still was chasing just a few shadows. As yet there was no concrete intelligence.

She took a break at lunchtime and closed the office, taking the time to attend to some housework before starting a roast dinner. Whilst Sophie was out of town she had to guess what time her partner would return, but worked on sitting down at half past five.

Sophie returned from Plymouth just in time to see the table being set.

“How was it, dear?”

“That was hard work getting information, at first, but I have a clearer picture now of port operations.”

“Great, dinner's in ten minutes.”

“How have you been?”

“About 75%, you get the job of loading the dishwasher after dinner as I'm having a shower before going to bed. I'm knackered.”

By the time Sophie had the dishwasher underway Heather was finishing in the shower. The DS let herself into their office to compile her own findings from the day into a meaningful report. Much of this she could have got from the local officers in Plymouth, if they'd been there, or even if they’d answered their phone. It transpired that, the team had been depleted by half taking leave and a further two had been tasked with investigating Constable Smythe. That left two running their port office at about twenty five percent cover, with occasional support from the city centre police station at Charles Cross.

Sophie, instead, had found the Customs office and, once she presented her warrant, managed to speak to one of the local intel officers. They were aware of the drug import information but hadn't reported anything back as yet.

Sophie was treated to a tour of the Millbay Docks where she saw a yard full of trailers, which confused her as the ferries weren’t running.

“The Santa Helena has a weekly unaccompanied service into Bilbao in Spain. That lot is ready to go out on Wednesday. It certainly brings us a few interesting loads.”

“No drivers?”

“Trailers only, sixty of them, but you’re correct, no drivers at all. There’s hook ups for the refrigeration units and space for one hazchem on the ship, plus loose pallets so it’s multi-purpose. The trailers that arrive on Wednesday are collected once we’ve cleared them, which could be anything from ten minutes to three days!”

Her customs escort had explained that they could not search every trailer so they used profiling. This wasn't perfect but it did have a good strike rate.

“We do our best to get to know the regular drivers who come here to pick up and drop off. They hear things and will pass it on, especially if they think it means an easier time when they next come down here.”

Sophie was then shown the general cargo sheds, the port could handle most traffic but looked quite underused that cold January day.

Sophie, and the Customs officer both knew that the suspected imports were unlikely to arrive into Plymouth given the presence of Customs Officers and Police. Small harbours like Topsham and Brixham did fall under their jurisdiction, however.

“But we can’t spare the staff to pay regular visits to the small ports and airports, there’s over forty of them, so we rely on co-operation from the locals.”

She'd also considered asking the Royal Navy if she could have a tour of Devonport Dockyard, two miles from Millbay Docks, but that would require some planning and wasn't essential to the enquiries.

Sophie wrote everything into an email and sent it to Emily, by the time she locked up the office all she could hear was gentle snoring; Heather was already fast asleep.

By Monday morning it was clear that the accountant had over-exerted herself the previous day so Sophie sent her back to bed. She called their GP, Dr Rachel Wilson.

“Heather's still not back to normal, it's been a week now.”

“There's no quick fix for a viral infection, how are you feeling?”

“Fine, but I had the flu jab in London a few months ago.”

“There's no record that Heather had it?”

“I don't remember her going for it. I was always offered it as a serving police officer.”

“Well, she'll build up some immunity but it might take another week. Rest and fluids are always the advice I give.”

So, no prescription was offered. Sophie was left feeling a little guilty about being out from eight to five the previous day, just so she could visit the port, but it took time to get to Plymouth and a quick visit was pointless if she couldn’t learn from it.

Sophie was, however a realist. It was only because of Heather that the police officer had firstly ended up working with the MI5 accountant and most recently jointly buying a home. Under different circumstances Sophie would be stuck in London.

Before this started, Sophie had just finished a five year stint with the Royal and Diplomatic Protection Squad and was looking forward to counter-terrorist operations in London, but without the freedom she currently had.

Without Heather she would have to return to London but, because of her changed circumstances, would not necessarily have a say where she was posted The possible postings could include a stint of uniformed duty in one of London's worst boroughs, or even being promoted to a desk job.

The day's post arrived, courtesy of the usual mail man: the only item of note was a copy of the property completion contract from their solicitor. It required signatures from both of them; the amount of money required to buy the adjacent property was high but they could afford it.

Sophie had sold her London flat and half of that had been put into the existing property, she'd now use the other half. Heather had sold her North London office with the hidden bedsit plus had been entitled to numerous cash awards for uncovering the Fourani case. With her Security Service salary and the fees from private work she could also afford to do the expansion.

The Redhill house they had previously used was owned by the Security Service and had been intended as a temporary home. It was no longer being occupied often enough and wasn't considered fully secure. Whilst they still kept an emergency change of clothes at that house it was due to be handed back as soon as possible.

Sophie made a pot of tea, added some biscuits and loaded these onto a tray, the solicitor's paperwork was folded under her arm.

“Thanks, Sophie, I was about to ask but I wasn't sure you were still here?”

“I'm going nowhere today, and neither are you.”

“That sounds like Nurse Sophie?”

“Yes, and you should really get a flu jab for next winter.”

“No argument there. What's that?” She pointed at the papers.

“If you're up to it, it's the contract for next door.”

“If you take it back down to the kitchen I'll have a shower then come down.”

“Okay, but don't overexert yourself.”

“Okay, Boss.”

Heather was back in the office Wednesday morning, catching up with the usual general notices, intelligence reports and the responses to enquiries she'd submitted ten days earlier.

One such report was from First Nation Bank in Exeter and she now had a photograph of the person who had used a Bank of Cyprus card there. The picture was of a woman, but the age was difficult to judge.

For the cashpoints that included a camera, they had included images for each transaction, and clearly the quality was variable. What she did notice, however, was that half the images appeared to be male and half female. She did an analysis by date and the images captured since November were all female.

One other query she’d submitted had been to check the name Dimitris Dēmētríou against the passenger databases for the airlines, ferries and trains that operated internationally to and from the UK. She was still waiting for a few of the results so went down to make a coffee.

Sophie had left early to visit Exeter and find the local Police Officer who covered Topsham, that was a three hour drive away and at times Heather wished they had access to a helicopter for such days.

On the monitor she could see the local postman go past, so she knew she wouldn’t be disturbed by him once back in her office. The kettle boiled and she made her mug of go-go juice. What was clear from her illness was that Heather had lost weight, but she wasn’t hungry given her lack of activity – she hadn’t been out of the cottage since her return from hospital.

Nevertheless, she picked up an oaten cookie and headed back upstairs with her coffee; her laptop pinged as she sat down, announcing the arrival of new information.

“Damn.”

There was a hit, but not as she expected. The previous June, Dimitris Dēmētríou had bought a single ticket from Brussels on Eurostar for a Belgian woman, Bernice Hollande. The ticket had been bought online using the same Bank of Cyprus card.

The date of travel was 28th June 2014, six months earlier, about a month before the first suspected shipment.

Heather fired off a request to Jenny for information from the Cypriot authorities, plus a search for the woman on the Belgian document. Her money was now on Dēmētríou entering the country dressed as a female.

She next ran a search for any bank accounts in Hollande's name and found one in Reading, to the West of London. She identified Hollande's debit card and searched for that in the various databases.

Bingo! She quickly typed up the latest and added it to the pool of information.

The secure phone rang.

“Hello?”

“Oh, Heather, it's Bob, how are you feeling?”

“Great, I've just identi…...sorry, scrub that!”

Bob laughed, “that's okay. I have some news for you.”

“About the Constable?”

“Indeed, former Constable Jeremy Smythe has been convicted of assault. He's been sent to Exeter Prison for six months.”

“I don't want to sound cruel but he did deserve this.”

“The magistrates agreed. They heard his mitigation and dismissed it immediately, the video of him in your living room was also shown, I don't think he'd seen it before.”

“Was our address given out in court?”

“No, and you were given anonymity following an order from the High Court.”

“I didn't know that had been arranged, Sophie probably forgot to tell me. What about Albert Smythe?”

“He's been moved into a residential home. He'd signed his home over to the grandson but Jeremy had to pay for his defence and, without a salary, that had to come out of the house.”

“So a serious fall from grace for both of them. Are there any other Smythes who I should be aware of?”

“No.”

“Good.”

That was the end of the call but the phone rang immediately.

“Hi Jenny.”

“Heather, that was brilliant thinking. Emily's organising a visit to Hollande's address in Reading.”

“Woah, hold on. It's only an account address and if it's raided then that identity will be ditched.”

“It's okay, Heather, Emily is not talking about a raid, simply a walk past at first, then monitoring who goes there.”

“Good, have you had anything back from Belgium yet?”

“The request only went off two minutes ago, so don't expect a response before tomorrow young lady! That reminds me, it's your birthday soon?”

“Friday, next week.”

“If you're going to Scotland that weekend then I think the briefing can be at the house in Hertfordshire?”

“Fine. I guess the house is all fixed now?”

“Yes, and it’s been renamed as Abigail Adams House. What's the latest from your solicitor or the estate agent?”

“We should exchange next Thursday but we won't be able to do anything until we get back.”

“Do you have contractors ready?”

“No, I've not been well, as you know, and until we exchange we aren't guaranteed anything.”

“Well, I suggest we run this through the security team and get an approved contractor down to you.”

“How long is that going to take?”

“Several weeks, at the very least.”

“Damn.”

“Sorry Heather, but that's the speed these things work.”

“You said Abigail Adams? That was one of my aliases?”

“Indeed, she was listed as one of the deceased from the terrorist attack. Didn’t we tell you?”

“No, you didn’t.”

She locked the office and went down to grab some lunch, unsure whether to be sad about the passing of one of her own identities.

Unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately, there was a backlog of domestic jobs partly caused by the weather, Heather's health issues and Sophie’s regular day-long, or week-long, work away from home.

Whilst she should continue looking for the people behind these drug imports, the laundry came first. The weather had now returned to the standard sunny state, for Cornwall at least, and the recently washed clothes needed to be dried. Whilst a tumbler would do the job, Heather preferred to use a line and the prevailing south-westerly breeze.

Next, she pulled on her yellow rubber gloves, the bathrooms were on her hit list.

By the evening, Heather was worn out but was happy that she'd achieved a full day of work, even if some of it was on her knees. The laundry was now folded in a basket whilst the next load was timed to be washed the following morning.

She bet 007 never washed his own lingerie.

Sophie returned at eight that evening.

“The local officer for Topsham didn’t come on duty until three, so I only got away at five.”

“Get anything?”

“Possibly, there was an intel report of a vessel on Christmas Eve but it wasn’t submitted until a few days later. Now he knows there’s interest from London maybe he’ll come up with some more info.”

“What was the name of the boat?”

“That’s one of the problems, nobody included it in the report.”

“Great!”