The Silent Room (37 page)

‘I have!’ Platt blurted out. ‘Ask the other tosser.’

Ryan eyeballed him. ‘You and I both know that’s not the case though, don’t we? I can see you need time to think on it.’ Pulling up his sleeve, he checked his watch. ‘It’s late. Maybe we should adjourn ’til morning—’

‘Fuck that! My lass’ll be going crackers. She’s pregnant! Ready to drop, if you must know.’

‘Aren’t we all.’ O’Neil spread her hands, looked at Ryan, a question in her eyes. ‘Up to you, DS Ryan. I’m happy to sleep on it.’

‘No!’ Platt yelled. ‘I want out of here. I nicked a car, so what? I’ve done it before and you haven’t kept us in overnight.’

‘I’m going to ask you one more time,’ Ryan said. ‘And if you don’t come up with the truth, you will be charged with very serious offences. Is that clear? So tell me what you know before I lock up your mate Foxton. There’s another team doing that, by the way, so you’ll soon have company. I’m here to establish the truth and I know you haven’t got there yet, so try harder. What exactly was your part in the hijacking?’

Pushing away from the table, Platt stood up suddenly, knocking his chair flying. ‘I told you! I nicked a car, drove it to where they said and legged it. End of—’

‘Sit down and stop wasting my time.’ Ryan watched him right the chair and retake his seat. ‘You denied theft of a vehicle initially. You denied any knowledge or association with Claesson Logistics until DS Maguire went to your home and found documents that proved you work for them occasionally—’

‘That’s proof of a falsehood,’ Marek interrupted. ‘Nothing more.’

Ryan ignored him. ‘This is the final countdown, Brian. Tell us or we’ll have to assume that you are more involved than you say you are
and
that you are protecting others. Instead of being charged with TWOC of a vehicle and assisting offenders, you’ll be charged with much more serious offences – conspiracy, for starters. It could make the difference between a four-year term of imprisonment, fourteen years, or life. You have a decision to make. If you want to see your child outside of a prison visits room before it reaches its teens, speak now. By the way, I know exactly what you did, but I want to hear it from you.’

Platt was sweating. ‘I told you everything.’

‘That was said without conviction.’

‘Eh? What does that mean?’

‘It means it’s bollocks! We know about the video.’

It took a while for Platt to speak. His bottle was going, his non-verbal communication giving him away. He blew out a long breath, painfully aware that Ryan was playing it straight and that he was facing a lengthy stretch in jail.

Time to push his buttons.

‘I hope they paid you well if you’re willing to take the rap for them.’

‘They paid me nowt! They said I wasn’t getting any more work unless I went along with it. I’ve got a kid and one on the way. They need to eat. What was I supposed to do? I was told to take a video to show the copper walking away with the others like he was part of the hijack. That’s all, I swear.’

‘And?’

‘Nothing! I legged it to the four-by-four and drove away.’

‘The one you’d left in the woods earlier?’

He nodded. ‘Yes.’

‘That proves premeditation and planning.’

‘So what? Can I go now?’

‘No, I’m afraid not. That vehicle was later used to kill a police officer.’

‘Nothing to do with me!’ Platt was exposed and on the back foot. He looked at Marek. ‘I’m not havin’ that. Tell the bastard!’

Marek’s facial expression confirmed only that his client was in deep trouble, more than he could possibly handle, and far more serious than any of his previous convictions. Ryan had him cornered. They both knew it. There was nowhere to go. As the prisoner was informed that numerous enquiries were being carried out – and that he’d be kept in custody until the conclusion of those investigations – a tear ran down his cheek.

Ryan looked at O’Neil. ‘What do you say guv?’

‘I’d say we’re done here.’ She looked at Platt. ‘Unless you have anything else to tell us?’

‘No,’ he said, defeated. ‘That’s it, I swear.’

With that, the interview concluded. After the prisoner and his brief were led away by a member of uniformed staff, the detectives high-fived. Next stop Claesson Logistics, but first a drink to celebrate and then some well-earned rest.

69

The raid on Claesson Logistics was swift and carried out at seven a.m., the minute they opened up for business. Timing was important. O’Neil wanted a result. Collaring Claesson and Foxton would be ideal. Failing that, one or the other would do. Platt was small fry, already in the bag. The important thing was to seize evidence. Arrests would come later.

Foxton made a run for it the minute the detectives entered the premises. He got as far as the door and was brought down by Maguire in a rugby tackle worthy of Welsh international George North. As he was led away in handcuffs and put into a panda car, O’Neil and Ryan were told by the receptionist that Hans Claesson wasn’t expected in.

‘No matter,’ Ryan said. ‘We have a search warrant.’

Showing the document they’d managed to secure from a magistrate overnight, O’Neil asked to be taken straight to where the company stored their mainframe computer hardware. Excitement radiated from her. Ryan felt the adrenalin pumping too. They were after a link between Claesson and the Russian oil company AMKL-Exploration Inc., preferably one that involved Vladimir Pirotsky.

His family were anxiously waiting for news in Moscow.

The receptionist handed back the warrant, stood up and asked them to follow her to the second floor. They were about to pass through double doors at the top of the stairs when Ryan’s mobile rang. O’Neil stopped walking, turned to face him, nodding her permission for him to take the call.

He listened for a moment and then hung up. ‘Technical support, guv. They’ll be at reception in five. They’re asking to be met and allowed in. You want to go down and wait or shall I handle it?’

‘Go ahead,’ she said. ‘Bring them up. I need them to examine the servers.’

Turning on his heels, Ryan retraced his steps and disappeared. O’Neil noticed a maintenance man arriving in the corridor ahead. The receptionist ordered him to take her to the room where the servers were kept and left them to it.

O’Neil was shown into a windowless, air-conditioned room with a bank of electrical equipment along one wall and not a lot else. The server racks were extensive, about the size of a large fridge freezer. Inside were thick metal trays – each with its own hard-drive slot. On some of the equipment, lights flashed as data was transferred. Knowing little about technology beyond what she’d learned at school, she assumed the apparatus worked much like her hub at home, albeit a giant version.

She looked around for a place to sit.

‘I’ll need four chairs and another table I can shove together with that one if you can manage it.’ She flicked her eyes to a table in the centre of the room, before switching her attention to the electronics. ‘Given that we can’t take this lot away, we might be here a while.’

‘You look like you mean business,’ her escort said.

A foreign voice.

O’Neil was suddenly wary, eager to get rid of her escort. As he moved away, she ran her eyes over him. He was a big bugger with a dimple in his chin, brown eyes and hair in a style that was close to an American crew cut. A bit of a thug. Not someone she’d care to meet on a dark night. She observed him lean over the desk in order to lift extra chairs from a stack in the corner. As he reached out, his shirtsleeves rode up, revealing a Swedish flag tattoo on his right forearm and bruises to his knuckles.

Claesson.

An attempt to hide her growing anxiety was met with a hostile glare. He looked like he could kill with one punch and she had no backup.

‘I’ll get you that table,’ he grunted.

‘Thanks.’ She tried for cool, urging Ryan to hurry.

O’Neil shut her eyes, exhaling in relief as he disappeared, trying to quell her fears. She needed to warn Ryan that the man who’d just left the room could well be Jack’s killer. Fumbling to find her phone, she had second thoughts. What if he returned and caught her in the act? Ryan and others would be along any second.

Better to wait and stay calm . . .

Maybe she was imagining what wasn’t there . . .

Maybe . . .

The lights dimmed and went out. Fearing the worst, O’Neil began to panic, inching her way to the door as the fire alarm kicked in. The noise was deafening but it would alert Ryan and he’d come looking for her. Using her phone, she lit her way to the door and tried the handle. It wouldn’t budge.

What the fuck?!?

The Swede wouldn’t need to punch her.
Her hands shook as she scrolled through her address book for Ryan’s number, using her free hand to cover one ear.
Thank God! It was ringing.

The explosion blew out the windows in reception. Along with everyone else, Ryan had been marshalled through the front door to an assembly point at the side of the building. The phone in his hand stopped ringing:
O’Neil.
He looked around, expecting to see her waving her hand above the walking wounded, hoping she’d been led out another way.

He scanned shocked faces.

She was nowhere in sight.

When he heard another loud bang, he froze, heart banging in his chest. He stepped back, helping a woman in distress. And still he couldn’t see O’Neil. A ceiling inside the building collapsed in a thunderous crash, sending plumes of dust high into the air. From his position in the street, he could feel the intense heat burning his skin. Suddenly, the alarm stopped and there was a deathly hush.

The explosion had thrown O’Neil across the room with such force that it knocked her out cold. When she came to she was groggy and choking, small pockets of fire all around her. More worrying was the fact that one of the server monitors had caught fire and was popping and sparking, ready to blow. The flame from the fires gave her light – the wrong sort – and her mobile was nowhere to be seen in the debris.

‘Ryan!’

She listened, relaxing as she heard the sound of running feet. In her head, she saw him charging at the door, taking it off its hinges, but then realized that the footsteps were moving away and not approaching. Stunned from being blown off her feet, she tried to get up. Pain shot up her right leg and hip. Her ankle was broken. The sight of bone sticking through the skin made her vomit.

Terror gripped Ryan by the throat, sending him into a spin, recurring nightmares jockeying for space in his head: his father lying on a filthy carpet of a drug dealers den, bleeding from a knife wound; Jack on his deathbed; the torment on his kids’ faces when they heard he was dead.

What was that?

Had he imagined it?

No, there it was again . . .

O’Neil’s voice, faint and far away . . .

She was calling his name.

A male voice pulled Ryan from the abyss. He turned to find the TSG team leader, a horrified look on his face and that of his crew. The building was well alight.

‘Two seats of fire,’ one of them noticed. ‘Top and bottom floors.’

‘Deliberate,’ someone else said. ‘No doubt about it.’

‘Jesus Christ!’ Ryan’s voice sounded muffled. His ears hadn’t yet recovered from the blast. ‘We need to get in there!’

The heat was intense. No one could get near the entrance without flameproof clothing for protection. Ryan raced round the side of the building, hoping to find another way in. ‘Eloise!’ he yelled up at the second floor. ‘Guv, can you hear me?’

Nothing.

A fire engine screeched to a halt in the lane running alongside. As firefighters piled out and got to work, their crew manager emerged with his distinctive yellow helmet, advising him to move away.

‘I’m police.’ Ryan held up ID. ‘You have one tender?’

‘Stand back!’ The crew manager yelled. ‘Our lads are stowed off. I sent for reinforcements; ETA five minutes. There’s a massive fire at a paint manufacturer on the Team Valley.’

‘What? You must have contingency plans.’

The fireman’s eyes were hard. ‘Move it and let my lads do their jobs—’

‘My boss is frying in there.’

They both ducked as part of the roof fell in, sending tiles crashing to the floor just metres away.

‘I need a torch,’ Ryan said.

The fireman shook his head. ‘No way.’

‘Hand me a fucking torch or I’m going in without one.’

Stay close to the floor.
Deep in the interior, O’Neil could hardly see. Covering her mouth with a fragment of her blouse she found on the floor next to her, she tried calling out but her voice was gone. She’d never be heard. Even if she’d been able to stand, she knew she couldn’t open the door. There was a small gap under it, smoke creeping in and curling up the walls. She could see a fire raging in the corridor beyond.
Stay close to the floor.
The problem was, the wooden floor beneath her was getting hot. Downstairs must be well alight.

A couple of ambulances arrived. Ryan looked up as the vibration and sound of rotor blades caught his attention. India 99, the police helicopter, had arrived, its down-draught whipping smoke around, sending debris flying everywhere. It hovered for several seconds, surveying the damage before touching down on a playing field a couple of hundred metres upwind of the burning building, a much safer distance with aviation fuel on board. Ryan was scared but knew he couldn’t wait any longer. Despite a natural desire to get the hell out of there before the whole lot went up, he knew he had to run towards the fire and not away from it. He couldn’t leave Eloise.

He won’t leave me. Not Ryan. I’ll be fine. Stay awake and breathe.
O’Neil coughed, the smoke searing the back of her throat. She thought she heard him calling out to her, then the sound faded away like in a nightmare. Out of reach. Unattainable. One panel of equipment in the corner of the room was like a giant torch, flames belching out the top, reaching the height of the room. Then she saw it. Smoke drifting through a crack in the ceiling. The plaster was sagging and stretching, the crack elongating until a gaping hole appeared. Her eyes widened as the gap opened up and the beam began to fall, down and down, almost in slow motion.
Please, Ryan, don’t leave me. I’m here . . . right here.
And then everything faded to black like a movie screen.