Henry left the interview room relatively pleased with what he had achieved, but he needed much more and quickly.
His first port of call was to the custody desk to ask for the mugshot of Gerald McCabe taken when he had arrived at the station – one hard copy and a digital copy sent to his phone. He met up with Flynn and Jake outside the police station and they decided to drive in one car the short distance to Norman Road in Greenwich, which they found quite easily.
However, they parked on Greenwich High Street and strolled to a café with internet access.
From there Henry phoned Rik Dean who was in the MIR at Lancaster. He opened the conversation by saying, ‘Now they think it’s many more.’
‘Wow. I allow you to go to London and within hours you’ve nailed a serial killer. Pretty good going.’
‘Team effort.’
‘I’ve been to see Diane, by the way.’
Henry went cold. Rik’s voice sounded ominous. ‘And?’
‘No change … which in some ways is a good thing. Seems they really have managed to stem the internal bleeding.’
‘Good.’ Henry blew out his cheeks. ‘Now then …’
Flynn and Jake were at the counter buying drinks and sandwiches. They returned with two full trays to the secluded alcove in which Henry was seated and distributed the food.
Henry checked to see if it was possible that they were being listened to by anyone, but the café was quite empty and the alcove made things fairly private. He placed his phone on the table between them and switched on the speakerphone so Flynn and Jake could listen in.
‘Ricky boy, I need someone to get into army records and see if we can unearth a photograph of one Darren McCabe’ – he gave him the date of birth – ‘who apparently served in the forces for a short time. Also, I’m going to send you a mugshot of his twin brother, Gerald. Can you see if you can get it blown up first of all and then get the artist to do a quick drawing from it so it’s similar but not exactly the same, if you get my drift. Only thing is, I want it as soon as, because we’re going to do some basic coppering tomorrow morning.’ Henry looked at Flynn and Jake. ‘Aren’t we, guys?’
They nodded less than enthusiastically.
‘I’ll sort it,’ Rik promised, ‘and send it to you.’
‘I’ve booked three rooms at the Travelodge in Greenwich for us tonight and tomorrow night just in case, so I’ll access their internet and then see if I can get what you send printed off behind reception. Time’s getting on, so we’ll start fresh in the morning.’
‘All charged to LanCon?’ Rik asked.
‘It’s the right thing to do.’
‘OK, no probs, I’ll get on with this.’
‘How’s the prison job coming along?’ Henry asked.
‘Oh, marvellous. We have a couple of hundred suspects and not one wants to talk to us. Strange, that.’
Henry ended the call, looked from Jake to Flynn, and at the food and drink in front of them.
‘Thanks for today, guys.’ He was about to say something a bit slushy and motivational when his phone rang. It was Rik Dean again.
‘Henry, know how I was saying we were getting nowhere with the prison job? Well,’ he said excitedly, ‘we got a ping!’
Going back up through London took a very infuriating ninety minutes, all the way from Greenwich to Willesden, just south of the point where the M1 juts into London and becomes the A5. Henry drove his Audi because Flynn was feeling the pain of his wall-smash increasing all the time, and although he was convinced that he hadn’t done any actual damage to himself, he was beginning to struggle. He’d snaffled four Nurofen tablets but they seemed to be having little effect.
Jake followed in the BMW.
Finally, and with the assistance of satnav, they drove on to a large retail park near to Church End where they met up with the National Crime Agency officer they had spoken to previously, Ted Sandford, the guy who had briefed them via Skype on Dunster Cosmo. Sandford turned out to be a fifty-eight-year-old former detective superintendent who had retired from the Met and joined the NCA.
They met him at the quiet end of the car park, outside a Toys R Us that had closed down a couple of years before. They all shook hands.
‘Hear you’ve struck gold already,’ Sandford said.
‘More by luck than judgement,’ Henry replied.
‘My sources tell me the Met have very red faces … under their noses and all that.’
‘Well, they shouldn’t have,’ Henry said and meant it. Catching serial killers was hard and it often took a lucky break that opened the floodgates.
‘Mmm, whatever,’ Sandford said. ‘Anyhow,’ he continued, ‘I’ve spoken to Rik Dean, as you know, and he’s put me in the picture about the “ping” from Lancashire prison.’
He was referring to the fact that the telephone unit at Lancashire Constabulary HQ, in liaison with mobile phone providers, had eventually discovered that a text had been sent from a mobile phone in Lancashire prison just after Tommy Costain’s murder. This was known as a ‘ping’. It was not unusual for texts or calls to be made, obviously; most were legitimate and related to staff-owned phones, and just local calls or texts anyway.
The one thing different about this was that it had been made from a pay-as-you-go mobile bought from a supermarket in Preston which had only ever been switched on one time (as indicated by the ‘pulse’ from the phone), used to send one text, switched off and never used again.
One phone, one text message: end of story.
And although the body of that text could not be read, what could be shown was the number of the phone it had been sent to and its location within a radius of ten metres.
The message had been received by another pay-as-you-go phone that had been purchased just the day before, switched on for just one morning, then switched off after the text had been received and never used again.
Another phone, used once.
‘We can jump to conclusions, obviously,’ Sandford said, ‘and it might be that the text was sent by a prison officer, not a prisoner – but what we do know is those facts: one message sent, one message received, both phones no longer in use.’
‘Which stinks,’ Flynn said, still rolling his neck muscles.
Sandford regarded him. ‘Who are you, exactly?’
‘Hired help.’
Sandford’s eyebrows met in the middle as he frowned, then he turned back to Henry.
‘So possibly reporting a job well done?’ Henry surmised. Then he asked Sandford, ‘Why are we here?’
‘First because of Dunster Cosmo who, as you know, is always on our radar, and although he’s pretty clever with his phone use, as I already told you, he might just have slipped up on this occasion. The location in which the text from Lancashire landed is right here, more or less – on an industrial estate just across the way, near the railway depot at Neasden.’ He pointed and went on, ‘And because the signal was so precise, we actually pinpointed the industrial unit where it landed.’
Sandford reached into his car and brought out an iPad which was already logged on to an aerial view of an industrial estate. He put the device on the bonnet and all four men crowded to see.
‘It’s called Gladstone Hill Industrial Park, maybe a mile from here as the crow flies. It’s a big one with many nooks and crannies. Mostly legitimate, but also a lot of rogues on there, plus many unoccupied units.’
Looking at it reminded Henry of White Lund in Morecambe.
‘The text message landed here.’ Sandford placed his finger on the image.
Henry peered at it. It looked quite a large unit.
Sandford then chose ‘street view’ and dragged what looked like a very unwilling cartoon image of a person across the screen and released them so that the map changed to an actual ground-level view of the unit in question.
‘Formerly leased by a haulage company. It’s been empty since they went bust, maybe eighteen months ago, and it’s on the books of a commercial estate agent in Cricklewood,’ Sandford explained. ‘As soon as we got the message from Rik Dean, we went to have a discreet drive past. It’s surrounded by a high fence, as you can see, not overlooked by any other units, very private, and also the units either side are empty, too. It’s got big gates that you can only glimpse through – if they are closed, that is.’
Henry looked sharply at Sandford.
‘When we drove past, the gates were open and a couple of vans were parked inside.’
‘Legit?’ Jake asked.
Sandford shook his head. ‘The discreet drive past wasn’t so quick as to prevent photos being taken,’ Sandford said, adding, ‘My people are good.’
He selected a file from the tool bar of the iPad and tapped to open it. It showed photographs of the industrial unit obviously taken from a passing car. Several were taken through the open gates towards the unit itself and a loading bay. Two vans were parked by the bay, the wide, sliding door of which was open and revealed the interior of the unit. Two men were caught on the photograph.
‘Have you spoken to the letting agents?’ Henry asked.
Sandford shook his head. ‘Not yet. We thought we’d hang back on that just in case we spooked anyone, although we did make a quick call to them asking if the unit was available for rent and we were told not until next week.’
‘Yet we’re not sure if this has anything to do with Cosmo,’ Henry said. ‘Just because the text landed here.’
‘I agree. However …’ Sandford expanded one of the photographs and zoomed in on the faces of the two men. Although the image became less defined, their features remained quite clear. ‘We know these guys: Derry Brand, an Irish fella, and Liam Gorst, and they are Cosmo’s closest associates, if you will – known in the trade as lieutenants, heavies, sidekicks, enforcers … whatever. They do his bidding and the big question, apart from the one about the text from the prison landing here just after a murder was committed, is what is going on here?’
Henry said, ‘This all fits in with Cosmo’s MO, doesn’t it … short-term leases, et cetera.’
‘People trafficking,’ Flynn said.
‘Could well be,’ Sandford agreed. ‘Which is why I’ve got surveillance teams, a firearms unit, dog patrols and a couple of strike force vans in place already, to see if anything goes down tonight. It looks to me like these guys could be waiting for people to arrive … so you’re all welcome to tag along and see what transpires.’
‘We’re up for it,’ Henry said. He looked at his colleagues. ‘Aren’t we?’
Two hours later, Henry, Flynn and Jake were squeezed uncomfortably on to the back seats of a police personnel carrier somewhere – Henry did not have a clue as to exactly where he was, geographically speaking – within striking distance of the industrial unit which may or may not be the subject of some action.
Each man had been provided with a hi-vis singlet to wear over their jackets with the word ‘Observer’ imprinted on the back, and they’d had specific instructions not to get involved in anything that might happen, and just to watch. They’d each signed a risk assessment form – even Jake, the only real cop of the trio – to acknowledge the possible danger they might find themselves in and to indemnify the Met from any claims further down the line. A back-covering exercise.
Sitting in the van with them were seven cops – one sergeant, six constables – attached to a special operations unit which Henry understood to mean cops who kicked down doors and did other exciting things. They were geared up in overalls, stab vests, boots and crash helmets, as if they might be going into a riot situation. A variety of tools were spread among them, including crowbars, sledgehammers and door openers, as well as the usual accoutrements such as batons, CS spray and Tasers. None were tooled up with firearms, but Henry knew there was a firearms unit parked up somewhere nearby.
Henry was quite enjoying this. The feeling of anticipation, ready to pile out and wade into whatever could be addictive.
And, as always, the waiting was accompanied by laughter, non-PC jokes, and the obligatory fart that sounded as though it might follow through.
Very little had changed over the years in that respect.
Cops were still a pretty crude bunch.
By midnight nothing had gone down. The loading bay of the industrial unit was still open and the two guys with the vans were still inside the compound. They’d mooched around a little, made calls on their mobile phones, smoked a lot, but little else.
It was pretty clear, though, that they were waiting for something.
Just after the witching hour, another car drove into the yard, accompanied by three smaller vans.
Over the radio on a specially encrypted channel, which Henry could hear in the van, Sandford – who had eyes on the premises – said, ‘Looks like it’s getting interesting, not least because the car that has just arrived with the three vans is Target One’s own vehicle. We might have caught him napping here. In other words, Cosmo has arrived.’
In the van, Henry and the two others glanced at each other, their eyeballs glinting in what light there was from the street lamps.
Sandford went on to say, ‘Could be a night for the arrival and distribution of goods.’
Nothing further happened for another hour other than updates from Sandford who kept up a running commentary from his location relating to the movement of the men who continued to mooch, chat and smoke.
‘They’re waiting for something,’ Sandford said.
Ten minutes later, his voice became more animated when he said, ‘It’s here! An articulated HGV pulling a container unit has just pulled into the yard and is now reversing up to the loading bay. The goods have arrived, ladies and gents and others, the goods have arrived.’ His voice was dramatic.
In the van there was a palpable surge of excitement as the officers sat up and prepared themselves for some action.
Even Henry’s heart started to pump a little more quickly.
‘It’s a tight space, but the driver’s doing well,’ Sandford said as he watched the HGV. ‘He’s backed up to the loading bay and stopped now. He’s getting out and talking to Cosmo … Seems to be some sort of disagreement … gesticulating … waving of arms … arguing. Someone’s not happy … One of Cosmo’s guys is opening the container … I think we need to hit this now,’ Sandford said, ‘catch them in the act … All units go!’
With a lurch, the personnel carrier jumped forward, and about thirty police officers secreted in various locations close to the target premises moved in quickly.
‘They’ve come down from Harwich,’ Sandford said sombrely, his voice trembling with emotion. In fact, he was close to tears. ‘Sailed across on the ferry from the Hook of Holland. And somewhere along the way, the air-flow system stopped working.’
The flatbed trailer with the container on it was still backed up to the loading bay and the doors of the container were wide open.
Henry and Sandford stood side by side looking into the container which was now lit brightly by emergency scene lighting from a mobile incident unit.
‘How many?’ Henry asked. He was feeling both nauseous and enraged.
‘Twenty-four, including two babes in arms.’
Henry’s insides twisted into a knot of fury as he looked across the illuminated shapes of the dead people in the unit. Some were in tight embraces, others curled up in foetal balls, trying to stay warm and alive.
None had succeeded.
They had shivered their way to suffocation and a miserable, lingering death.
‘Fuck,’ he said.
‘They seem to be Asian in origin,’ Sandford told him.
Stepping carefully over and around them were two crime scene investigators clad in forensic suits, taking photographs, recording the scene with still cameras and video. The flashes from their cameras seemed to add poignancy to the tragedy they were studying.
None of the bodies had yet been moved. So far all that had happened was that a Home Office pathologist and her team had been called to the scene and rechecked every single body for signs of life to confirm what paramedics had already done and to pronounce death. She had left the container unit in tears to go and prepare the mortuary for the arrival of their bodies in due course.
Henry himself could not even begin to fathom the tragedy he had played a part in unveiling. The money paid to the gangs who promised a better life in the UK; that people would be able to claim benefits straight away, then get a guaranteed job and begin sending money back home to their dependants. Who, he thought angrily, still believed that shit?
Even now, with the worldwide problem of people trafficking and modern slavery under the spotlight, Henry could not believe the gullibility of admittedly desperate people who put their trust and cash into smugglers’ hands to make that hop across the Channel to the land of plenty.
He wondered at what point the air supply stopped working and when the people trapped inside the container began to realize that something was seriously amiss, that the air was getting thinner; when the breathing became more and more difficult, and then panic set in, the banging on the sides started, the screaming, and when a baby no longer drew breath.
He forced his mind from these bleak thoughts and images, and tried to work out the kind of money involved. The figures blew his mind.
‘Well, at least we’ve got Dunster Cosmo and his crew,’ Sandford said, cutting into his thoughts, ‘even though it’s no consolation for these people and their families.’
‘Yeah, at least we got them,’ Henry said.
The police operation, despite being hastily convened, had gone remarkably well, but because Henry, Flynn and Jake had been told to hang back, they hadn’t witnessed much of it, only being called in after the arrests had been made of Cosmo and his associates, plus the lorry driver.
All of them had attempted to flee as the police descended, and there had been some Keystone Kops-like chases around the exterior of the industrial unit. A couple of police dogs had sunk their fangs into the buttocks of two of the men, one being Cosmo himself.
Henry was sad to have missed that, because even though he had never met or interacted with Cosmo, he knew he hated him.
All the suspects were taken away quickly in a fleet of police vans that Sandford had arranged to be on standby, and all were lodged in separate police stations to ensure there was no way they could communicate with each other.
In the container unit, a CSI bent low and took a flash photograph of one of the victims, lighting the face of the young girl eerily.
‘Jeez,’ Sandford said. He had his hands on his hips, his eyes raised to the heavens, then he looked at Henry. ‘I can’t believe how gutted I am.’
‘I can, because I am, too.’
Henry could not look any more. He turned away and walked into the industrial unit which would have been used as a cattle pen for these people before they were dispersed to other locations in the UK. There, he guessed, they would simply have been dumped on the streets and left to fend for themselves.
He thrust his hands in his pockets and walked around the edge of the concrete floor, scuffing his feet in the dust. At the far end of the unit he walked into the office in which he saw some chairs and a table, probably left by the previous occupants. Something on the floor by the wall caught his eye. He crossed over to it and saw he was looking at a mobile phone in bits. He bent to look. The back had come off and was in two pieces, the screen was cracked but it looked salvageable.
‘What’re you looking at?’ a voice from behind asked. It was Jake Niven.
‘Broken phone. You got a pair of disposable gloves?’
Jake delved into a pocket and handed a pair to Henry who fitted them and picked up the pieces.
‘No SIM card,’ he said. Henry turned the phone in his fingers. The back of it was still on the floor, snapped into two halves. Henry was looking at what was exposed in the phone with the back and battery removed: the slot for the SIM, the place where the battery fitted and a small circuit board. He would call it the gubbins. Next to what he thought was the circuit board was a small sticker with various identification numbers printed on it, including the FCC ID, the SSN and the IEMI number, and a bar code, and he just knew that what he was holding had to be the phone on which the text from the prison had been received and which had then been stomped on.
Henry held it up to the light to see if he could make out any fingerprints; there were smudges on the screen which could be useful.
He took the phone over to Sandford and showed the pieces in the palm of his hand.
‘Oh … promising,’ the NCA guy said.
‘No SIM card, though. However, I’ll bag it up,’ Henry said. ‘There’s a smudge of a print on the screen.’
‘Can it be reassembled?’ Sandford said. ‘Or at least could the battery be put back in and powered up?’
‘Don’t see why not.’
‘If you can switch it on, then unless the text was deleted before an attempt was made to break the phone up, it could still be on the phone, even though there is no SIM card.’
‘I know that,’ Henry said.
The battery did slot back into place. Henry held it there with his thumb and pressed the power button and was surprised to see the display on the screen light up. He pressed the menu button and selected the message icon. And held his breath.
Had Cosmo got careless?
There was one message in the inbox from, it said, an unknown sender.
‘He hasn’t deleted it,’ Henry said in disbelief.
‘Probably because he didn’t expect us calling tonight,’ Sandford said.
Henry selected the message and saw the text was still there.
It read: U got 1 dead man.
By scrolling down, the number from which it had been sent was also there, plus the date and time received, which linked in nicely with Tommy Costain’s murder. The message showed that there were attachments to it. Henry selected one and a photograph appeared on the screen – Tommy Costain’s body lying in a pool of blood. There were three more taken from different angles.
He showed them to Sandford, who said, ‘Wow. Just wow.’
However, Henry’s elation was tempered by glancing into the back of the container unit just as the CSI took a series of flash photographs of twenty-four dead people who had lost their lives chasing the dream of a better life.
He knew he would have to take his place at the back of a very long queue of law enforcement officials wishing to talk to Dunster Cosmo.