Chapter 6

 

Carson Jacks, it appeared, was somewhat of an unknown quantity.

Neither Scotland Yard nor Interpol had any records of him and a search of police and local council records the length and breadth of the country also failed to throw any light on the character who had now become the focal point of Milton’s investigations.

Each day for the week following the discovery of this vital name had uncovered more frustrations and it seemed that Carson Jacks was the proverbial invisible man.

It seemed that the only way they were going to find out who this man really was would be via information received from the Dubai Police Force with whom Milton’s unit had established contact.

“Okay, so what do we have, people?” said Milton at the daily morning briefing the following Friday, some six days after first coming across the name Carson Jacks.

“Well, sir, nothing with the DVLA,” said Sergeant Bennett. “They have a record of a Carson Jacks, but he is 72 and lives in Cleethorpes. We checked him out just in case, but he has not left the country in three years. The last time was to go to France on a weekend visit.

“We have also run checks through the tax office, local councils and even the Home Office records and criminal system. Nothing, sir.”

“Great! That just about dries up all the avenues in this country. What has the local force in Dubai told us, Waite?” He turned to his number one deputy.

“It’s not easy, sir. They have been very slow coming back to me,” he replied.

“What do you mean slow getting back to you? I only want them to run a check on this man’s credit card.” Milton was getting agitated.

“You don’t understand, guv. I am dealing with a Captain Ali and I must have rung him up at least 60 times this week. He’s either on his break, is busy or has gone to the mosque. He knows how urgent it is, but he keeps telling me he has to go through his superior and when I ask him what the hold-up is he says his boss is …”

Waite paused, much to the annoyance of Milton.

“Yes, Waite? And?”

“Well, he says his boss is either on a break, is busy or has gone to the mosque.”

The reply was met by Milton banging a clenched fist against his own forehead in disbelief.

“Waite, this is the only lead we have on one of the biggest criminal cases that this country has ever investigated. I want you to get on that phone to Captain Ali now and tell him we need information today or we will go directly over his head and leave him in the biggest pile of shit he could ever imagine. My God, Waite, it would be quicker if I went over there and got the information myself.”

His last comment left him thinking how realistic a suggestion that actually was. Surely it wouldn’t be such a bad idea to fly to Dubai and sniff around. At least it would get him out of his shitty little world for a while. Where is Dubai anyway? Saudi Arabia? he thought to himself, ‘Don’t they cut your hand off for picking your nose over there?’

“Sir,” Waite continued, “I can’t ring him up today.”

“Why the hell not?”

“Today is Friday and Friday is the Muslim holy day of rest. There’s no one working over there,” he explained.

“For God’s sake!” exclaimed Milton, wondering if it could get any worse. “Ring him on his mobile! I want results by the end of the day, people, otherwise we are all in over the weekend.”

Waite knew everyone’s weekend plans relied on his being able to get hold of the elusive Captain Ali. Maybe he should just make up some bogus information? Surely someone in Dubai couldn’t be connected to this spate of football violence across Europe, could they? Waite’s mind raced.

But Waite was a first-class copper and his professional integrity forced him to try that Dubai dialing code one more time.

“Hello? Captain Ali?” asked a shocked Waite, who expected his efforts to be met by: “Sorry but the mobile phone you are trying to connect with has been switched off …”

“Aaaaaahhhhhh, my beautiful friend from England, Sergeant Waite, no?” was the reply.

“Hello Captain Ali, how are you today, sir?” asked Waite in slow easy-to-understand English.

“Very well, Sergeant Waite. The sun is shining, the sky is clear and God is great. Everything is beautiful!”

Waite realised quickly that beautiful was obviously the new word Captain Ali had learned that week.

“Sir, I have been trying to get through to you over the last two days but you haven’t returned my calls,” he said.

“Oh, I am sorry. I had no record of your calling. You know, Sergeant, sometimes messages just don’t get through here. How can I help you now?”

“I am still awaiting information on a Carson Jacks, the man I contacted you about earlier this week.”

Judging by his progress to date, Waite felt like he had been dealing with an incompetent idiot but was pleasantly surprised by the Captain’s reply.

“I have plenty of information you require. I have just been waiting for you to call me and to let me know where you want it sending.”

The discussion could have gone around in circles all day but at least Waite could see a weekend out of the office in sight.

“Fantastic, Captain Ali. I need you to fax it to me urgently on this number … have you got a pen?”

Waite reeled off the control room’s number complete with international dialing code.

“Okay, I have the number. I will send you the information tomorrow, In sha’Allah,” added Captain Ali.

Waite had learned that ‘In sha’Allah’ is the Arabic way of saying, “You’ll get it when you get it.” Waite had heard it plenty of times before and voiced his concern.

“Captain Ali, I cannot stress enough the importance of receiving this information straight away. I plead with you to send it through today,” he remonstrated.

“My dear Sergeant, today is Friday. It is our day of rest. I will send it through tomorrow.”

“Sir, I beg you. Please send it through today. I will be forever in your debt,” pleaded Waite, who had the distinct impression after his lack of progress over the past week that every day was a day of rest in Dubai. Playing the Arabs at their own game seemed to have struck a chord though.

“You sound like a desperate man. You have my word that I will fax your information through, how do you say it in England, AASP?”

“That’s ASAP,” corrected Waite. “You don’t know how grateful I am that you’re doing this.”

Waite decided not to report the news to Milton due to his let-downs throughout the week from Dubai, but instead sat tight with his fingers crossed and his eyes glued to the fax machine.

Two hours later the fax machine rang and Waite jumped to his feet and ran over - the third time he had done this in the past hour.

“Waiting for something important?” Sergeant Bennett asked inquisitively. “One thing’s for sure, it won’t be a love letter!”

The top of the first piece of paper showed Arabic writing and Waite blurted out “Yes!” and clenched his fist close to his chest. “Sir, we’ve got the stuff coming through from Dubai.”

Milton joined Waite by the fax machine as three pieces of A4 spewed out.

The first displayed Jacks’s bank details, which showed that he had held a current account with the National Bank of Dubai since 1992. It had a healthy balance and revealed that he had no outstanding loans.

The second was a copy of his Dubai driving licence, again issued in 1992, which was clean and contained a clear photograph of a 33-year-old man. His age was given away by the date of birth on the credit-card-sized licence.

The third was a copy of a certificate, but it was entirely in Arabic. Luckily, Captain Ali had summarised what it said.

“My butiful Sergeant Waite,” beautiful being spelt horrendously wrong. “It appears that your Carson Jacks is what we call a VIP resident of Dubai. This is a copy of his residency certificate and it shows that he is sponsored by the local ruling family.

“He is a managing director of a company called Expatriatedotcom, which is an Internet mail-order company selling patriotic items online. You know, flags, mugs, t-shirts, etc., with countries’ flags on. It is based in Dubai and currently employs around 50 men, all from the UK. Hope this is of some use. Your friend, Ali Yousef.”

At that moment, Milton could have kissed Captain Ali Yousef and declared lifelong love for his Arab counterpart.

The sense of relief could be felt across the room as Milton patrolled it like a robot on speed. His excitement could not be contained.

“Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes!” he declared as he slapped high fives with each member present.

“After 12 months of running up dark alleys, there is some light at the end of the tunnel at last,” he said.

Announcing that everyone could report back on Monday, he headed across the centre of London to report his findings to Dobson and he couldn’t care less if his lisping boss did cover him in spit. At last he had something positive to report and he knew he was going to be jetting off to the sun as soon as his boss allowed it.

Milton’s excitement during the mobile phone call he made to Dobson on his way across London obviously set his boss’s pulse running, for when Milton arrived at the office Sir Michael was also there along with a number of other senior officers from the force.

Milton then proceeded with his theory.

He explained about the doctored CCTV camera and about what looked like a professionally trained man fighting, with the communication device tucked in his ear. He seemed to get the most attention when he mentioned the helicopter, which had been hired by a Carson Jacks, one of three Englishmen with a ‘year-round suntan’.

His theory was that, for some reason, the Dubai-based company, Expatriatedotcom, was connected with all the football trouble. Thus, to stop the violence, someone needed to go in and find out why. That someone, Milton concluded and presented, was himself.

Milton was asked to leave the room while his proposal was discussed.

Leaning against the wall in the hallway, he had it all mapped out in his mind. He would travel to Dubai, befriend Carson Jacks or one of his henchmen and find out what the hell was going on.

He had done undercover surveillance work before, but not on this case. Eighteen months earlier, he had worked as a drugs dealer for nine weeks in order to crack one of the biggest cartels operating in South London.

He was convincing. He lived the life of a dealer and even grew to enjoy it. At one stage, his commanding officer at the time threatened to take him off the job because they thought he was becoming too involved. The job saw the life of his undercover partner taken. His throat was slit by a drug addict who was desperate for a fix despite having no cash.

This made Milton even more determined and he eventually succeeded in bringing seven men to book and smashing an international multimillion pound empire. One was jailed for life for a string of drug-related murders.

Milton’s reward was a notch up the promotional ladder and the anti-hooliganism task force assignment.

An hour passed before he was called back in.

“Well, John,” said the well-spoken Sir Michael, “we are delighted with this breakthrough and we have decided to give you complete control over whatever course of action you decide to take.”

The length of the discussion and the glares he was receiving from Dobson told him that not everyone was in agreement with this, but he couldn’t give a toss. He had received another vote of confidence from Sir Michael and he wasn’t going to let him down.

“Thank you, sir,” he said in acknowledgement as Sir Michael concluded, “I believe you will need some suncream. Dubai can be frightfully hot at this time of year.”