Chapter 5

 

Milton’s elation at his first productive day’s work for some time was soon dampened when he arrived home. The house was empty and looked like it had been empty all day. The note on the kitchen table explained it all:

“Hi honey, on the off-chance that you may come home, me and the kids have gone camping down south for the weekend with the Thompsons. We didn’t want to sit in all weekend hoping that you might at least call. The weather isn’t always like this in September so we decided to make the most of it. We’ll be travelling back early Monday in time for the kids to get to school.”

The footnote summed up his wife’s frame of mind:

“In the likelihood that you don’t read this, John. … Hi Maggie, he’s done it to you again, another weekend on your own!”

Once again Milton was alone. Should he drive down to Brighton? Should he catch up and play dad? Was it even Brighton they had gone to? He had a free Saturday night for once and he was all dressed up with no place to go.

“Shit!” he whispered to himself as he crumpled up the note and threw it unsuccessfully towards the dustbin.

He grabbed a bottle of beer out of the fridge, headed for one of the two easy chairs in the living room and flicked the ‘on’ button on the remote control.

BBC News was harping on about the aftermath of the violence earlier in the week. British politicians, British ex-players, German politicians, German ex-players all had their say.

Sod it, Milton thought to himself. Why should I waste my first Saturday night off in ages? I’m heading to the pub.

He was doing this more to spite his wife than to satisfy himself.

As a teenager, he was a bit of a hellraiser. He could turn a woman’s head in his day and, at 32, he was still relatively good looking despite the stresses of his current predicament taking their toll on his features.

He had forgotten what it was like to let what was left of his hair down and tonight he was determined to go and enjoy a few pints down the local with the boys. But none of the boys would be there waiting for him. His healthy group of mates from his younger years had long forgotten about Milton, who had deserted them for his wife and his career at a time when they were still enjoying nights out and meeting new birds.

His social life was as non-existent as his married life, but a couple of pints of Guinness was exactly what he needed right now as he left the loneliness of his family home and headed off to the pub.

 

* * *

 

The phone ring sounded more like an air raid siren as Milton refused to open his eyes to unleash a pounding headache. His two pints of Guinness had turned into seven and it was probably the first time he had drunk that much since his stag night. He had enjoyed his night of freedom a little too much and was going to pay the consequences for the rest of the day. Dealing with hangovers was not his field of expertise.

“Hello?” he answered the phone with a gruff voice, hoping it would be Maggie on the other end.

“Guv?” enquired the voice at the other end, which sounded distinctly like Waite.

“What time is it, Sergeant?” he asked, expecting it still to be the middle of the night.

“Just gone 11 sir?”

“Is that a.m. or p.m.?”

Waite laughed and concluded, “Sounds like someone has had a good night!”

Milton propped himself upright, realising that the call must be of some importance.

“Fire away, Waite. What do you want?”

“Sir, I’ve heard back from the Swiss about the chopper. I’ll meet you at the office in an hour. This is going to blow you away, sir.”

“Will do Waite … and Waite, this better be good because you are interrupting a perfectly good hangover!”

Waite replied with a laugh, which was followed by the tone of a dead line. Without even hanging up, Milton let himself fall back onto his pillow with a thud and a groan.

 

Milton was at the office long before the hour was up. After throwing up what looked like most of the Guinness and the Chinese takeaway he had bought on the way home, he showered, sunk a pint of water accompanied by two Anadins and set off in a morning-after daze into London.

Waite was there already with a faxed piece of A4 in his hand.

“Sir, you are not going to believe this. We have turned over a whole new leaf in this saga and it is going to give you a hell of a shock.”

“Waite, if you don’t cut the crap and get to the chase soon, you are not going to believe what I will do with this pencil!” Milton gestured by pointing the sharp end towards Waite.

“Sorry, sir.”

He took a deep breath and continued.

“The helicopter was chartered on the day of the game by three men who also chartered the same chopper two weeks earlier.”

“Three men?” Milton pondered, as his sergeant was about to carry on with his mouth gawping. “Sorry, carry on, Waite.”

“The Swiss have questioned the owner of the chopper who said that the same three men came on both occasions. Two were qualified helicopter pilots with British military experience and produced the documentation to allow them to take the chopper up for the day.

“Now, on the first occasion, the men produced cash to hire the chopper and also paid the £5,000 security deposit in cash up front. But here is the chestnut: on the second occasion, on the day of the game, they again paid for the rental of the chopper in cash, but apparently they did not have the cash for the deposit. The owner said there was some debate because the men argued amongst themselves for a while and then reluctantly handed over a credit card for the owner to swipe.”

On mentioning this, Waite waved the piece of A4 in the air.

“The owner, suspicious of the men’s reluctance to let him have any identification documents, took a photocopy of the credit card before he ripped up the swipe he took from it on safe return of the chopper.”

Milton took the paper from Waite’s fingers and staring back at him was the name Carson Jacks.

“What else did the owner say about these men, Waite?”

“He said they were definitely English with athletic builds and, for some reason, he said the most striking feature of all three was their suntans!”

“What do you mean suntan?”

“Well, he said they were definitely English but looked as though they lived on the Med or something. It was like one of those …” Waite checked his notes sent through from Switzerland. “… year-round tans.”

Milton stared down at the credit card details and another piece of the puzzle fell into place in his mind.

At the top of the card was scribbled writing that looked like Arabic and underneath was the English translation: The National Bank of Dubai.

“Oh my God, Waite,” exclaimed Milton as he dropped the hand clutching the sheet to his side and walked towards the window. “What the hell have we stumbled across now? How far wide of the mark have we been? How many people do you know living on the Med that have a Dubai credit card?”

Giving himself a moment to gather his thoughts, Milton ordered Waite to run the name Carson Jacks through every computer database available.

“I want to know everything there is on this man Carson Jacks. This could be the spark that lights the fire, my man. Something tells me our adventure has just begun,” he said to Waite.

Little did he know how right he was.