The Silent Room (36 page)

Ryan nodded, even though he suspected that he’d have to read his notes to the engineer half a dozen times before they were done.

Matthews told him he’d go over it again if they were in any doubt and answer any question at the end of his verbal report. ‘I’ll write it up at the airport,’ he said. ‘You’ll have it via email before I board for the Netherlands. The important thing to remember here is this: whatever the project, you can always guarantee that senior management want the switchgear energized ASAP. It supplies pumps that are needed to get production up to maximum.’

‘Time is money,’ O’Neil said.

‘In
my
industry?’ Matthews said. ‘Always.’

‘I imagine production stoppages cost billions,’ Ryan said.

Matthews was nodding. ‘The Russian economy is heavily dependent on natural resources. Anyway, an RFCC,’ Matthews lifted his hand, a gesture of apology.

‘Ready for commissioning certificate?’ Ryan suggested.

‘He’s catching on.’ The engineer grinned at O’Neil. ‘I’m beginning to think you guys don’t need me at all.’

‘Yes, we do,’ O’Neil said.

As Matthews had been talking, the acronyms contained in Jack’s notebooks were finally beginning to make sense to her too. FAT, meaning factory acceptance test. MCCR, meaning mechanical completion check record.

Hindsight was a wonderful thing.

She was keen to move on. ‘You were saying?’

‘This is the important bit,’ Matthews said. ‘The case Pirotsky highlighted was similar to the one where Jack Fenwick’s brother lost his life, exactly the same in fact. An RFCC was issued so that powering up could proceed without a high-voltage test being carried out – a test that you should know would take three hours max. In ideal conditions, if results are acceptable, there’s no problem. You issue the certificate and away you go. If there is a problem, investigations are required until it is resolved and retested. If everything is hunky-dory, what we call a livening up notice is issued.’

‘And if the problems aren’t resolved as they should be?’ Ryan asked.

‘Power is put on the switchgear and it explodes, killing anyone in the vicinity.’ Matthew’s expression was sympathetic. ‘This is exactly the area where Oliver was working seven years ago. I checked the accident report. It’s a matter of public record. The case Pirotsky cited, not so. There were twenty deaths in that one. It could have been an awful lot worse. Anyway, the Russian couldn’t live with it – and you know the rest.’

The room went quiet.

‘Why would the switchgear explode?’ O’Neil asked.

‘Because non-visible dust had accumulated on the bus bars over many months of being in storage,’ Matthews said. ‘The same can happen if equipment is left in the construction area for an extended length of time.’ He paused, took a sip of water from a bottle, allowing them time to process this before continuing. ‘When eleven thousand volts is applied to bus bars in that condition, the voltage jumps, or flashes over from one phase to the other, causing ultra-high temperatures and ultimately an explosion. Arc flash temperatures can reach in excess of thirty-five thousand degrees Fahrenheit, nineteen and a half thousand Centigrade.’

‘Jesus!’ Ryan bit down on his teeth so hard his jaw set like a vice. ‘So you’re saying both of these industrial accidents were preventable.’ It wasn’t a question.

‘Entirely.’

A dark shadow crossed Matthews’ face. No wonder. The man had spent the last twenty years of his working life dealing with safety issues. Bad housekeeping was inexcusable, tragic for all concerned. Men had died unnecessarily, leaving behind distraught relatives. Hilary and the kids were minor ripples on the edge of a pool of sorrow that resulted from an oil-rig explosion in the Ukraine before Lucy Fenwick was even born.

It was a shocking revelation, one that angered Ryan, reminding him of his conversation with Garry Snaith. In any line of business, contractors tried cutting corners. Sometimes that put security at risk. Like Freberg, Garry couldn’t live with it. And when he challenged those who should know better, he found himself out on his ear with nowhere to go.

Glancing at his notes, Ryan sought clarification from Matthews. ‘And it was the arbitrary issuing of ready for commissioning certificates that the Russians were trying to cover up in order to avoid any blame being apportioned to them?’ he asked.

‘Precisely,’ Matthews said with conviction.

‘How can you tell the switchgear wasn’t tampered with en route?’

‘Sabotage?’ Matthews took in Ryan’s nod. ‘Switchgear is always transported in secure containers. Even if that were possible – which it’s not – if the correct testing protocols were followed, it would’ve shown up. There is no excuse for what happened to those men. None. That’s why we have such stringent regulations.’

O’Neil and Ryan exchanged a look.

‘You thinking what I’m thinking, guv?’

O’Neil was way ahead of him. ‘Possible link to Claesson Logistics?’

‘It would make sense of their involvement. Security is a big part of their business.’

‘Vladimir Pirotsky is our next port of call, then.’ O’Neil turned to the engineer. ‘You’ve been remarkably helpful, Mr Matthews. It all makes perfect sense. You may be called as an expert witness in due course. For now, thanks for talking us through it.’

67

Ryan held up his phone. ‘Email from Nystrom,’ he said. ‘She tried contacting the Russian engineer and guess what? Pirotsky is no longer with AMKL. They say he was an alcoholic and didn’t show for work so they terminated his contract. Local police say he’s not at his address. Hasn’t been seen for months. If you want my opinion, we’ll never find him. If we do, he’ll be zipped inside a body bag and no doubt it’ll look like an accident.’

They had arrived at Torp airport with minutes to spare, Nystrom paving the way for them to walk straight on to the aircraft.
Would that the Brits could be so efficient where the law was concerned.
The Ryanair flight took off on time and they were due to touch down in a little over ten minutes. In the seat beside him, O’Neil yawned. Like him, she was exhausted, the dryness in the pressurized cabin getting to her.

‘You think Vladimir Pirotsky has gone the same way as Jack and Anders Freberg?’ she asked.

‘Don’t you?’ The thought depressed them both, Ryan in particular. ‘How many more have to die before this case is finally resolved?’ he said. ‘I bloody hope Maguire has had more luck tracing Foxton than Nystrom did Pirotsky – I’m looking forward to having a conversation with him.’

They disembarked at ten to five. By the time they had cleared Immigration and found O’Neil’s car, rush hour was in full swing. Slow-moving traffic was yet another drag on their time as they left Liverpool; more energy-sapping, mind-numbing sitting doing nothing. They found that hard to stomach after the shifts they had put in recently in order to crack the case. Then suddenly things got even worse. They were stationary, with no police escort to smooth their way. Ryan found himself wishing they were still in Norway.

‘Mind if I call Caroline, guv? She worries if I’m flying.’

‘Go ahead. Just don’t get caught.’

There was no answer, so he left a message and rang off.

‘I think it’s lovely how you consider her all the time,’ O’Neil said.

‘She’s my twin, my only family. Why wouldn’t I?’

‘Just an observation. Not everyone would.’

‘What about you?’ he asked.

‘No ties,’ is all she said.

Ryan felt like he’d stepped in something sensitive. He didn’t push it. O’Neil was staring straight ahead. It was her composure he found irresistible. He was tired, undoubtedly, and so was she. But sitting in the car with her, even after a long shift and an even longer journey, he still felt relaxed and hassle-free, totally calm, like he used to with Jack. No easy achievement in the short space of time they had worked together.

Two and a half hours later, Ryan depressed the accelerator, moved forward a few metres and stopped, a line of taillights stretching as far as the eye could see in front of them. O’Neil’s phone beeped. Taking it out of her pocket, she checked the display. Feeling her spirits lift, he glanced in her direction. She had a wry smile on her face.

‘Good news, guv?’

‘Some.’ She didn’t lift her head. ‘Organized Crime have coughed the names of the arms dealers they were after. They’re nowt to do with our case. They were wrong about Jack and have said as much. I reckon they were inept rather than dodgy. Although if I never see DC King again, it’ll suit me down to the ground.’

‘Anything else?’

She was flicking through emails.

‘Maguire hasn’t found Foxton?’

‘No, but he’s managed to break down our friend, Brian Platt. Sounds like he’s giving him bloody good intelligence too. John reckons he has still more to tell. I told you he’d come up trumps if pushed—’

‘And work miracles if threatened.’ Ryan couldn’t help himself.

‘Yeah, well, I won’t have to put up with him for much longer.’

Ryan looked sideways. ‘Did your transfer come through for the Murder Investigation Team?’

A flash of excitement crossed her face. ‘Something even better.’

He waited. When she didn’t elaborate, he asked her outright what she meant.

‘I can’t talk about it yet.’

‘I’m intrigued.’ The logjam eased and Ryan picked up speed, pulling into the outside lane. He didn’t get far as everyone ahead of his vehicle did the same, frustrating the hell out of him. ‘C’mon, he said. ‘I didn’t figure you as a tease. I had enough of that with Roz. I’m done with begging.’

‘I need to select a colleague I can trust,’ she said playfully. ‘Only she or he and I can know about it. I’d like to tell you, but it’s
Eyes Only
stuff.’

He didn’t need to see the excitement in her eyes. He could hear it in her voice. Ryan bit his bottom lip. She was tantalizing him. If only she knew what he and Grace and Newman had been up to in the silent room. He checked his left-hand wing mirror in order to pull over, catching her eye. Impenetrable.

Bet she was skilled at poker.

‘So, what’s the criteria?’ he asked.

She shifted in her seat to face him. ‘That’s fishing, DS Ryan.’

‘You can’t blame me for wondering if I’d qualify.’

‘It wouldn’t suit your lifestyle.’ She was still grinning. ‘Anyway, ten minutes ago you were jacking it all in. I need someone whose commitment I can count on.’

‘Now I know you’re taking the piss.’

Whatever it was, it must be good.

‘You have Caroline,’ she said. ‘I couldn’t possibly impose.’

Ryan was laughing out loud and so was she, a real belly laugh she couldn’t control. It felt good to release the tension. ‘Will you stop talking in riddles and tell me. Scout’s honour, I won’t spill, not if my life depends on it.’

What she told him would remain on his mind for the rest of the journey home.

68

It was getting on for eight forty-five by the time they finally reached Newcastle city centre. On the way to Interview Room 1 at Market Street police station, they decided that Ryan would take the lead, for no other reason than that was how things were normally done. ‘No point in keeping a dog and barking yourself,’ he joked.

The leg-pulling continued, this time from O’Neil. ‘You don’t mind me sitting in . . . in an advisory capacity? I want to see how you handle yourself with the opposition.’

‘Oh yeah?’ Ryan grinned. ‘In case there’s a dearth of worthy candidates to work alongside you in your swish new job?’

She didn’t look at him. ‘I hate scraping the barrel, but needs must when the Devil drives.’

Since she’d confided what the position entailed, Ryan had thought of nothing else. Before he could muster a witty retort, she opened the door, leaving him with no option but to park his humour and concentrate on the task in hand.

Brian Platt tapped the table nervously as they entered. The detainee and his brief, Tomas Marek, seemed surprised and somewhat disturbed to see a change in personnel. The detectives sat down, switched on the recording device and dispensed with the introductions quickly, keen to get the interrogation over and call time on a very long day. They were dead on their feet.

Forcing the notion of a permanent partnership with O’Neil away, Ryan fixed his eyes on the prisoner. ‘Mr Platt, you’ve already admitted that you stole a Clio from the Shell garage at the top of Shields Road in Byker on Friday the eighteenth of October. Is that correct?’

The prisoner nodded, chewing the inside of his cheek.

‘For the tape, I need a verbal response.’

‘Yes,’ Platt said.
If looks could kill.

‘Good start.’ Ryan gave a half-smile. ‘In fact, we have CCTV of you doing it.’

‘Bully for you.’

‘You further admit that you were asked by Michael James Foxton to follow a security van from Newcastle Crown Court to a prearranged position on that same date,’ Ryan said. ‘And that your role was to pull up behind the van and put your handbrake on hard when Foxton arrived at the scene in an Audi. Is that correct?’

‘If you say so.’

‘It’s what you say that’s important.’ Ryan pointed at the recording device. ‘For the—’

‘Tape . . . yeah, I get it.’

‘So answer the question.’

‘Yeah, it’s all I done.’

‘That’s not true though, is it?’ Ryan glanced at O’Neil.

Rolling her eyes, she exhaled loudly, a gesture designed to show the prisoner that they didn’t believe a word of it. She crossed her arms, eyes on Platt. He looked away and then at his solicitor with an expression that said:
Do what the fuck you’re paid for.
In turn, Marek looked at Ryan.

The stalemate lasted for a while.

‘There’s no hurry,’ Ryan said. ‘If you two need a moment in private, my guv’nor and I can step outside.’

Marek was having none of it. ‘If it’s all the same to you, I’d rather not sit here all night. If you have evidence against my client, please disclose it. It’s late and we’ve already been through all this with your colleague, DS Maguire.’

‘All in good time,’ Ryan said. ‘My guv’nor and I are here to tell Mr Platt that extensive enquiries into very serious matters are ongoing and that he will remain exactly where he is until he answers our questions truthfully.’