THE CAMBRIDGE ANNEX: THE TRILOGY Page 26

  The Duty Sergeant made the call, and a half dozen police constables hurried out to follow the policewoman down the road to where the van stood, hazard warning lights steadily blinking.

  A glance inside revealed the cause of the policewoman’s worry and a truncheon smashed the glass of the driver’s door so the lock could be released and the alarm turned off. The others opened the back door to help release the two large oriental men who had been badly beaten up, as well as restrained, copper wire digging painfully into wrists and ankles.

  “Here, look at this,” the policewoman said, lifting a badly damaged tablet from the corner of the van. There was a white Dymo label fixed to the edge that read, ‘Property of H. R. Rolle’.

  +++++++++++++++++

  Matt and Jake whooped loudly as they saw Cheryl climb from her BMW to run across to them, her arms outstretched. “You made it, you made it!” she cried, her grin broad enough to split her face in two.

  They were on a lay-by on the E34 and just inside the German border having driven from Brugge and through Eindhoven during the late afternoon. A small building offered toilets, shower facilities, and these was also a hot food outlet that served fries with ketchup or mayonnaise. The three of them wandered over to buy a portion of chips and a can of coke each and, talking about Professor Rolle’s death, ambled over to one of picnic tables to catch up on news.

  “So everything else ok?” Cheryl asked yet again.

  “Sure,” Matt assured her. “Who could go, have gone. Thomas and David are sending us texts each day and everything’s good down there.”

  “And you?” Jake asked.

  “God, it’s been a nightmare, all on my own, not knowing what was going on!” she told them, and laughed with the relief that seeing the boys had brought to her. “How’s Gary?” she asked, her cheeks colouring slightly.

  “He’s fine too,” the boys chuckled, deepening Cheryl’s blushes. “But you’ve got us some business, haven’t you?” they asked.

  “Some business? Some? I’ve got us six launches,” she told them with a fierce nod. “They’re all hefty, and all for GEO,” she added, all in a rush. She pulled a map out and pointed to Essen, a further 40 kilometres to the East of them. “There, all six, all together,” she told them, stabbing at the map in proud defiance of all the hurdles she’d had to overcome in order to get them there. “They’ve got orbits already certified with the International Telecommunication Union, but have no carriers. All the carriers changed their Terms and Condition after Bonn. You now sign up straight away, even if the launch isn’t for another eighteen months.

  “Most clients have signed into it; I mean, what choice have they got? But not these boys, not with the weight of their satellites. They’d have to pay over 50 million US Dollars each to get satellite that heavy into GEO, and we’re doing it for just 10 million apiece.

  “You can do it, can’t you?” she asked, suddenly stopping to look at them.

  “Dead easy,” Matt assured her. “Won’t the other side know what we’re doing though; if our clients haven’t signed up for any of them yet?” he asked.

  Cheryl nodded. “All our clients have been regularly sending trucks from their manufacturing plant for the last few weeks. Anyone watching will think it just another regular dispatch. And anyway, who’d put a multimillion dollar satellite on the back of a curtained trailer?” she asked with a grin.

  Cheryl dragged out further details from her bag and they worked there for another hour, putting weight and dimensions into Jake’s laptop in preparation for their first big ‘gig’.

  At the end of it, before they got back into their van, Jake sent a quick text to Michael. “Having a gr8 time. Got 2 go, arranging gig.”

  June 9th

  Michael smiled a thanks to Sir Richard’s secretary as she waved him directly into his office. Sir Richard was seated at the small conference table talking to Professor Lovell, and both stood to shake his hand before he was invited to sit and have a cup of tea with them.

  “My condolences,” Professor Lovell told him.

  “Thank you,” Michael acknowledge while nodding his head in gratitude for the tea too. “Why the sudden need to meet?” he asked.

  “Do you know anything about Herbert or Claire’s Wills, Michael?” the professor asked him.

  “Well, no,” Michael said, looking at each of the men in some confusion. “I assumed they had left everything to the university. It was their life, after all,” he shrugged.

  “In fact, while they left their cash holdings to the university, they have left their property and personal effects to you, Michael,” Professor Lovell told him, the Will open in front of him.

  “Oh, dear. That comes as a shock!” Michael told them.

  “Well, there may be another shock,” Sir Richard told him.

  “Would it surprise you to learn that Rolle actually had an offshore account with some 300,000 Euros in it?” he was asked.

  “Half a million US Dollars!” Michael gasped, the journalistic habit of converting currencies to US Dollars still with him.

  “The money was a recent transaction, paid in from Bank of China,” Professor Lovell told him.

  Michael thought of the implications and let his breath out. “Shit,” he murmured.

  “I assume it was a payment for something,” Sir Richard said, his expression bland.

  Michael nodded. “I assume so too. I think Rolle was playing the Chinese, keeping them at bay by offering to give them what they wanted, as long as they paid him. And when he wouldn’t deliver,” he left the sentence unfinished.

  There was a lengthy silence as they digested Michael’s statement.

  “Should we give the money back?” Sir Richard asked.

  “Hell no!” Michael cried.

  +++++++++++++++++

  “Stanley,” Sir Arthur Coleman called a welcome, nodding his head and waving the man to come across and join him at the conference table.

  Stan walked over and opened his manila folder to begin spreading photographs over the table.

  “So, what do we know?” Sir Arthur asked.

  “We’re by no means certain of all those involved, but we do know some if not all the key players,” Stan explained, and he tapped each of their photographs as he gave them a name. “Michael Bennett, a journalist with five years experience in the Service, Frankie Hill, a gypsy from Essex, Professor Rolle, now deceased, probably killed by the Chinese; not that we can prove it of course, and Thomas and David Howard, twin brothers who are now out in Japan, we believe with at least 15 of Hill’s cronies’. I also think there may be a good number of Cambridge university students out there to help him, at least Gary Clarke, the Chair of the CUSF, and Leanne Adler, an electronics genius. We suspect others too, but we can’t prove it without tipping our hand to the Japanese by asking for recent entries.”

  “Mm, yes, and we don’t want to do that quite so early in the game,” Sir Arthur murmured.

  “Early, Sir? I suspect whatever they are doing, it will be done soon.”

  “And what do you think they’ll do?” Sir Arthur asked.

  “Well Sir, I’m thinking that the Japanese have offered some financial incentive to enable them to join the USA, Russia, China and India as the main space powers,” Stan explained.

  He’d given it some thought on the journey in from Cambridge, and the more he looked at the details, the more he was convinced he had worked out their plan.

  “You’ll notice the car Bennett has just been given, supposedly by a gypsy, as if they had the money for such a gift,” he snorted. “The university have the skills and the knowledge,” Stan went on. “The UK lifts were small trials. Bonn proved it can work commercially, and now they’ve offered to do it for Japan,” he concluded.

  Sir Arthur shook his head. “Cambridge University help a third power make the most of a British development? I don’t think so, Stanley.”

  Stan bit his lip and allowed the comment to slide over him. Unfortunately, he thought, the old ‘brigad
e’ within Britain still failed to realise just what a large financial inducement would do to the younger generation.

  “What would you like me to do now, Sir?” he asked instead.

  Sir Arthur looked at the photographs for a few moments before making his decision.

  “Have this Bennett fellow arrested. Have the car impounded too,” he told Stanley. “No one is to go near it mind. Just have it put discretely to one side for now, alright Stanley?”

  “Yes Sir,” Stan agreed. He couldn’t wait to see Michael’s face.

  Sir Arthur waited until Stanley had left before picking up the phone to talk to the Prime Minister. He was afraid Stanley was right; things were moving rapidly now. At least he had done what he could for Bennett. The man would be safe within a police cell.

  +++++++++++++++++

  Arresting a busy journalist was easier said than done, DI Heather Wilson reflected as she found herself once more just minutes too late to arrest the hard working man from the Cambridge Chronicle. In the end, she dismissed her driver, and sat down at Michael’s desk in the Press Room to wait for him. Sooner or later he’d turn up, and she’d arrest him then. They could probably walk to the station too, and do some talking on the way.

  Their evening out had been awkward to begin with. Neither of them knew where to start. For her own part, she rarely dated, and when she did, it was all too often a painful reminder as to why she didn’t.

  She and Michael had a lot of history, and it was only when they dismissed the present and returned to memories of the three of them during their student days that she found herself enjoying his company once more.

  She envied his talent for puzzles she reflected as she recalled the little details of their dinner date, each sharing anecdotes from their chosen professions, laughing until the tears came. She was sorry, now, that she had only allowed him a chaste kiss at the end, and went to bed reliving the moment, imagination lengthening and deepening the moment their lips met until further imagery left her calm, naturally sedated and able to sleep.

  Michael’s appearance returned her to the present. He didn’t appear overly surprised to see her, finding her with every appearance of being at home, her feet on his desk reading the first draft of the following day’s paper.

  “Comfortable?” he asked, nodding to her before nodding to his worried editor, hovering at his office door. “Is this a social call?”

  “I’m afraid it isn’t Michael,” she told him, getting to her feet before putting her jacket back on.

  “Looks like even Robert has had the good sense to stay clear of you,” Michael murmured, noting that the young man had chosen to vacate the office on that day.

  “That’s a bit harsh,” she told him.

  He shrugged and waited for her to finish putting her jacket on, before following her out of the office and onto the pavement.

  “Am I formally arrested?” he asked.

  “You’re assisting us with our enquiries,” she told him tersely. “Or would you prefer to be arrested?” she asked, stopping in the middle of the pavement to look at him.

  “Not particularly,” he told her with a shrug.

  They walked for a few paces in silence, each lost in their own thoughts, both aware of the distance between them.

  “Did Wendy know?” she asked.

  “You can’t live with one and not know,” he answered, knowing instinctively that Heather was referring to his job with the Government. He kept his mind busy by watching the traffic and the ever present CCTV cameras. He knew where each one was now, their fields of vision. Thinking of them stopped him from thinking of other things, things he could no longer influence. “Not the details of course; no one knows the details, not any longer” he confessed, thinking of John Dalton.

  “I tried getting in touch, when I heard of her death,” Heather murmured. They stopped at the traffic lights and waited for the green figure of the walking man to appear before crossing, even though there was no traffic to speak of.

  “I don’t think I read my mail for a year or so,” he answered. He had no friends, but Wendy had had dozens, and he really didn’t want to read all their commiserations. Drinking did more than fog the mind; it made reading that much more difficult too, he had found.

  Heather licked her lips and looked about her, refusing to look towards him until the threat of tears had passed. “Why Wendy, Michael? Why Wendy and not me?” she asked finally, years after she’d first asked the question, of her pillow, of her dog, her cat, her kitchen sink, her fridge, her tea cup, even her mother. How bad was that?

  Michael walked in silence to the end of the road, unsure how to answer, even as he did. “She needed me more,” he said, and found that it was true. Heather had always been the more resilient of the two girls, the more able to overcome adversity, to find the good out of the bad, to find a life beyond Michael and Wendy.

  They crossed Park Terrace to walk across the freshly cut grass of Parker’s Piece, angling towards the police station while the smell of the lawn filled their nostrils.

  “Does this mean a lot to you?” she asked.

  Michael didn’t need to consider that question any more. He had always been committed to Rolle’s vision, but the death of his in-laws and his old friend John Dalton had made it his vision too.

  “Oh yes,” he breathed.

  June 10th

  Frankie stepped out of the police station and squinted in the bright sunlight. As his eyes adjusted, he spat into the gutter and walked away, heading towards the warehouse.

  He’d seen Michael being escorted into one of the cells. Like a well rehearsed scene from a crime thriller, one policeman had conveniently opened his cell door to give him his meal just as DI Wilson led Michael past, on the way to a vacant cell further down the passage. Things like that didn’t happen in real life, not unless they were carefully contrived. DI Wilson couldn’t have been clearer in her message to him.

  The schedule of work was like a mantra, key phrases repeating themselves with each step he took.

  The walk took him 20 minutes and he knocked heavily on the roller door before it started to lift. As it got high enough for him to stoop under it, he gave the watching police car the finger and slid himself into the interior.

  “How we doing?” he asked his lads as they appeared from around the remaining vehicles.

  “They’re all ready, Frankie,” Paddy told him with a grin. And they looked it too, the black paint gleaming, the tyres new, windows heavily tinted. You would need to look closely to notice the much thicker windows set in much stronger seals, or the heavy inner shell that would support the pressure of the atmosphere against the vacuum of space, and you’d have to take the vehicle apart to find the heavier suspension, or the modifications to the drive and the addition of the Howard chemical.

  Frankie nodded. “Mickey. You go first; down to the estate to pick up the ladies and the rest of the men.”

  “Sure thing, Frankie,” Mickey agreed, 140 kilos of muscle moving smoothly under his vest as he wiped his hands and went to get ready for his drive.

  “And make sure you don’t lose the copper that’s going to be following you,” Frankie reminded the man. Mickey was far more used to losing a tail, than letting it stay with him.

  “We really are going to be doing this, then Frankie?” Paddy wanted to know.

  “What, and miss out on a chance like this? Of course we’re doing it!” he told them, his grin long and feral.

  +++++++++++++++++

  Stan sat in the interview room, smiling pleasantly towards Michael, a cup of un-drunk tea sitting in front of him. Michael looked bedraggled, his tie lying to one side on top of his old waxed jacket, his shirt creased from where he’d slept in it, his cheeks needing a shave.

  “When do I get my phone call?” Michael asked, just for something to say.

  Stan watched him and shook his head. “You don’t get a phone call. You’re being held under the Anti-Terrorism legislation. I can hold you for 45 days,” he told the j
ournalist.

  “God, it’s going to be boring!” Michael groaned and leant back in his chair, his eyes turning to the ceiling while he played the game with Stanley Charway.

  “Boring for you perhaps. Bet your people won’t be bored though, eh?” Stan chuckled. “What with you locked up, and Frankie’s mob under continual surveillance.

  “Shame about the facility down in Japan; Hakata Bay. Did you think we didn’t know about that?” he asked.

  Michael stared at the ceiling and recalled student days with Wendy and Heather. For once, memories of Wendy didn’t bring the pain. It occurred to him that he hadn’t thought of a drink either, but that could have been the cup of tea he’d been given. Stories concerning police custody and the dreadful cups of tea they served were absolutely true.

  “As for Jake Collier and Matt Park. Well, we’ll have them in custody any minute now,” Stan told him, glancing at his watch. “The German authorities are being very cooperative,” he chuckled.

  ++++++++++++

  Heather Wilson sat in front of her monitor, watching the two men antagonise each other, chewing her thumb and trying to find some way out of the situation. Her DC stepped in and nodded. “We’ve just received reports of a fire on Thoday Street, number 15,” he told her.

  Heather nodded. “Bennett’s flat,” she confirmed.

  “Want us to go over there and check it out?” he asked.

  She considered for a moment, then shook her head. “No. Have uniform go and get us a report. Make sure everyone assumes that it’s malicious and treats is as a crime scene from the very beginning. Also verify that SOCO are checking it. That should cover that,” she told him.

  Who would start a fire in Michael’s digs, she wondered. Was that part of his plan; removing evidence in the event he was arrested, or were his enemies covering their tracks, removing evidence of their illegal search of his room? Whatever it was, her team would add little value by being there, so she’d let SOCO do their job and see what they uncovered.

  Heather pulled her mind from the unanswered questions and continued watching the interplay between Stan and Michael. Michael was far too laid back, even for a professional. They had it wrong, she just knew it. Strangely enough, that brought her some measure of contentment, and she hoped that it, and the small measure of guilt she also felt, didn’t show.