Scared to Live (32 page)

It was barely dark when be got the call. 'You know what you have to do, johnny. It's time.' He didn't need to ask any questions. He recognized the voice straight away, and he knew the instruction was something he had to act on. And he had to do it now. 'Yes, it's time. It's time.'

There had been a train of thought in his mind that he couldn't quite grasp. Too many distractions and distortions, that was the trouble. At moments, he almost got a clear view of some mental will-o'-the-wisp that ought to be followed and interpreted. His thoughts were connected, but the connections were slippery, so they escaped his groping fingers. At other times, he knew the illusion of meaningfulness was just that an illusion. It was like a blurred or shifting picture puzzle. The content seemed to change the more you tried to define it, or get it into focus. Someone had explained it to him once. They said that incoherence resulted from a loosening of associations, a dysfunction at the neuro-cognitive level. He had no idea why he should remember that, when he couldn't recall things that had happened the day before. Especially when he didn't understand some of the words that were used. Or perhaps that was the reason - he remembered because he didn't understand. Yes, that could be it. There was no solid meaning in the words to escape him. No soft, slippery undertones, no blurry significance. Only letters and sounds, and nothing else. Like bare earth, with no life in it. No humanity or feeling behind the words to confuse him. No voices at all, only noise. But it was a voice that had distracted him again. He had no idea what he'd been thinking about before it came. That was the way his thoughts were - always shifting. Forever flitting this way and that. The flight of ideas. He liked the sound of that phrase. The flight of ideas. It sounded exciting and creative. It made him sound like some kind of genius whose mind soared above everyone else's, light and fragile, a crystal bird. Reflecting the light like a prism, riding the currents of the wind, dipping and soaring. Never following the same direction for more than five minutes at a time. He waited as long as he could, resisting the urgent whisper until it became intolerable. Then he left the apartment at

about two a.m., rolled his car quietly on to the street and started the engine. All the people in their houses were asleep by now, except for those sleeping alone, afraid what might be out there in the dark, the burglars and rapists, and the crazed axemen. 'You know what you have to do, Johnny.'

26

Friday, 28 October

Fry was early for the briefing next morning. The room filled up around her, but she let the increasing level of noise wash over her. When Cooper arrived, he looked flustered and dishevelled, as if he'd only just got out of bed. But that was his normal style. His hair fell untidily across his forehead, there was a scuff mark on his jacket, and his tie needed straightening, as usual. Casual was OK, but on Cooper it made him look disorganized. She had an urge to tell him to tidy himself up before he met the public. Most of all, she couldn't help reflecting on the contrast between Cooper and Georgi Kotsev. The divisional commander, Chief Superintendent Jepson, had made an appearance to greet Sergeant Kotsev. 'I've emailed Captain Pirinski to thank him for loaning your services, Sergeant. It shows a very positive attitude on the part of the Bulgarian authorities.' Kotsev shook his hand. 'Thank you, sir.' 'I'm very glad you came. It's so useful to have a translator; not to mention your experience in the field of cross-border organized crime.'

'I'm pleased to help.' The Chief Super took DCI Kessen aside and put a hand on his shoulder. 'Special Branch and C Division are taking the Zhivko bombing - it's their pigeon, after all. But they'll liaise with us on any connections to Rose Shepherd or Simon Nichols.' 'Very good, sir.' 'It's the best way, Oliver.' 'Yes, I know.' When he took the floor at the briefing, Kotsev turned out to be an excellent speaker, showing no signs of nervousness. He'd obviously had practice at presentations, and his almost perfect English and smart appearance commanded attention, even from this jaded bunch. 'First a little background,' he said. 'Your colleague Sergeant Fry assures me that not all of you are experts on Bulgarian history.' Behind him, the chief superintendent chuckled, and almost seemed about to nudge Kessen to share the joke. 'In the last fifteen years, organized crime has thrived in Bulgaria, its influence reaching all parts of our society. Sadly, the state apparatus has been too weak to deal with this problem. Too corrupt also, you might say. But no longer. Now, anti-corruption is a byword in our ministries.' Kotsev paused and looked around the room. Fry wondered if he'd made another joke. But even the chief super didn't get it this time. 'You're talking about a kind of Mafia, Sergeant?' prompted someone. 'A kind of Mafia, yes. However, our organized crime groups are becoming more sophisticated, and they are developing their own areas of expertise. In addition to trafficking women into the international sex trade, Bulgarian criminals are skilled at counterfeiting currencies, forging credit cards and identity documents. Their enterprises are said to account for a third of the

Bulgarian economy. They control tourism on the Black Sea coast, the ports, construction, agriculture. They seek power, and their influence runs very deep. But recent efforts of our authorities have put pressure on these criminals and created competition for a shrinking market. That is why there are currently so many murders - they are struggling to keep their influence.' Kotsev spoke for a few minutes, outlining the issues he'd explained to Fry the previous night, but in less detail, skating round the more alarming possibilities. Listening to him, Fry wasn't sure how she should feel about having been privileged to share inside information. It was flattering in a way, perhaps. But it put her in an odd position, knowing more than her senior officers, or at least having a fuller picture. When Kotsev paused again, a hand went up. 'If these individuals have so much power and influence, is it difficult to mount a successful prosecution?' 'Yes, we have a tough time making charges stick. Witnesses deny their testimony or have accidents, lawyers back out of cases, evidence disappears.' 'You said "various counterfeiting activities" - would that include passports and identity cards?' 'Yes. The counterfeiters' main area of business is forging euro banknotes. However, the United Kingdom is not a market for counterfeit euros - yet. Groups operating here are more likely to be employing their skills in the production of false identity documents.' 'What about the couple who were killed in their car? Were they involved in organized crime?' 'Yes, we believe this was the case, based on the known associations of Dimitar Iliev and the nature of the assassination. But there are also ethnic problems in Bulgaria, and Piya Yotova was a Romani woman. We do not know for certain who pulled the trigger, but Iliev and Yotova were shot with a Kalashnikov

automatic rifle.' Kotsev smiled sadly. 'Kalashnikovs are causing some embarrassment. These weapons have been illegally exported to many war zones, and are therefore damaging our international image.' 'And Simon Nichols? How was he connected?' 'Simcho Nikolov? We are convinced from our intelligence sources that he was a major participant in counterfeiting operations. That was his particular area of expertise. Unlike the Zhivko brothers, we do not believe he was engaged in enforcement activities.' There was a moment of silence when Kotsev had finished. Hitchens stood up to take over. 'It might be worth mentioning a bit of news at this point,' he said. 'The firearms examiners have identified the weapon that killed Rose Shepherd.' 'A Kalashnikov?' 'No. Turns out it's a fairly unusual item. This took some research on the lab's part, so I think we owe them a favour. But they say it's a Romanian military sniper rifle, the Pusca Semiautomata cu Luneta, or PSL. It might be considered to belong to the Kalashnikov family, but it's different in appearance.' 'Well, one thing's for sure. Nobody's going to admit to owning such a gun. There's a mandatory five-year prison sentence for the possession of an illegal firearm.' 'It's probably a clean weapon anyway. It won't be easily traced back to its origin.' Hitchens nodded. 'As for Simon Nichols - or Simcho Nikolov, I should call him - we haven't yet received the full postmortem report, but so far there is no evidence that his death was due to anything but natural causes, or an accident.' 'So he probably isn't a victim? In that case . . . ?' 'Yes,' said Hitchens. 'We should be regarding him as a potential suspect for the Rose Shepherd killing. We need to

find some way of establishing his movements in the last few days before he died.'

After the briefing, Cooper found himself standing in the corridor with Liz Petty. Some mysterious force seemed to place them together at unexpected moments. Or perhaps that was only the way it seemed. 'Are you OK?' he asked. 'Yes, fine. Thanks, Ben.' When he spoke to Liz on the phone her voice always sounded so warm that it took him by surprise, almost knocked the feet from under him. Many female police officers formed a hard exterior, but not SOCOs, it seemed. He'd have to be careful not to make a nuisance of himself phoning her too often, just to hear her voice. Petty seemed about to touch his arm, but drew back suddenly and looked past him, over his shoulder. 'Uh-oh.' 'I was asking Liz about the search at the caravan,' said Cooper when he saw Fry approaching. 'That's OK.' 'She just happened to be passing, and I ' 'It's all right,' said Fry as she drifted by. 'I don't care. See you later.' They both watched her disappear down the corridor. 'What's up with her?' said Petty. 'I've no idea.' 'Perhaps she's turning human.' 'I'd better get on anyway,' said Cooper uneasily. 'There was one thing I wanted to ask you.' 'Yes?' 'Do you think it would be possible to find out more about this weapon that fired the shots at Bain House, the PSL sniper rifle? I know the lab have pulled out the stops for us, but could you have a word with Wayne?'

'I'm not sure, Ben. What do you want to know?' 'Whether there are non-military versions of it.' 'OK,' said Petty. 'I'll see what we can find out.'

Diane Fry sat at her desk and watched Georgi Kotsev talking to Hitchens and DCI Kessen. But she wasn't thinking about Kotsev. She was thinking about Europol. Fry hadn't really considered it before. She'd been aware of Europol, of course, as one of the organizations continually being spawned by the integration of European Union countries. But it had never occurred to her until now that it was a possible career move. Since Kotsev's arrival seemed to be causing some distraction for her senior officers, she decided to take the opportunity to check their website. Yes, Europol was looking for employees who were creative, self-reliant, energetic and willing to take up challenges. It wanted candidates who were able to work in a dynamic, fast-moving environment that required a high level of flexibility. Fry nodded. She could do that, couldn't she? The bad news was that job opportunities were now open to nationals of twenty-five EU states, including all the new members, such as the Czech Republic, Poland, Estonia, Latvia and Lithuania. And probably Bulgaria and Romania too, before long. The good news was that balanced gender representation was a priority, so Europol particularly encouraged applications from women. She found half a dozen jobs currently available for law enforcement personnel. Counter Terrorism and Serious Crime. If interested, contact your Europol National Unit. Fry felt an almost physical surge of excitement. It was one of those rare moments when a vista of future possibilities seemed to open up; opportunities to change her life, to make it better. She remembered what Georgi had said about working for

Europol: I could live in The Hague. The idea seemed both astonishingly unlikely and perfectly feasible. She'd never been to Holland. In fact, the only places she'd been to on the Continent were Calais, Paris and Naxos. But she could live in The Hague. She was as European as anyone else, wasn't she? Where were those Europol job descriptions again? Fry was sure she must meet all the criteria for potential applicants. And now, thanks to Georgi Kotsev, she even knew something about cross-border organized crime. 'Anybody know where the Europol National Unit is based? 'Yes, at the NCIS in London,' said Cooper, without looking up. 'Their HQ is in Vauxhall Bridge, near MI6. I think you can see it in some of the James Bond films.' 'Thanks.' Fry waited to see if anyone enquired why she was interested in Europol. But there wasn't a murmur. Well, that didn't surprise her. No one cared what she did, or where she went. There was a seminar she'd attended recently on the use of Sirene, a new data system linked to the Police National Computer. The system was designed to give access to information from all the Schengen countries, and get an alert placed against the details of anyone suspected of involvement in organized crime. That would be useful - when it came in. It had been mentioned during the seminar that the British part of the system would be administered by the Sirene UK Bureau. Based at the NCIS. Fancy that. 'We're still not up to speed on organized crime, are we?' said Fry, when Cooper got to his feet and passed her desk. 'That's one of the reasons we're going to end up being merged, isn't it? That, and our neighbours' problems.' 'We can't blame it on Nottinghamshire.' 'We can try.' Fry sighed. 'You're so parochial,' she said. 'You're all so parochial.'

On the DI's desk, the plastic wallet was now labelled as evidence examined by the documents section at the forensics laboratory. 'The passport has been confirmed as a forgery,' said Hitchens. 'Likewise Rose Shepherd's driving licence. With those two items, you can build an identity for yourself in no time.' 'Pity there was no sign of a birth certificate,' said Fry. 'You don't need a birth certificate unless you're applying for a genuine passport. People who supply forged identity documents don't care where or when your birth was registered. So the person called Rose Shepherd won't have a birth certificate.' 'What about her DNA and fingerprints?' said Fry. 'We're running them through the database.' 'No wonder she got that shredder installed. If you had a fraudulent identity yourself, you'd know about taking precautions. But, despite her East European connections, she's not your typical terrorist suspect, is she?' 'True. But she'd need the right contacts to change her identity so effectively. Nikolov looks likely. But there are plenty of possibilities, given her links to organized crime. When we discover her real identity, we'll find the motive for her murder. There must be something she did in the past that she was trying to conceal.' Cooper nodded, but he was doubtful. He found he couldn't reconcile the picture he'd built up of Miss Shepherd with the idea of her being a criminal with a background full of sordid secrets. If she liked cats, she can't have been all that bad. Of course, when this woman took on a new identity, she'd done a pretty good job of it. But it was never going to be perfect. It wasn't really possible to start life all over again with the totally blank slate Rose Shepherd seemed to have craved. There were always a few threads that remained unbroken somewhere in any person's life. No matter who