Killing Time, page 20
Rob had asked Jack to investigate the unsolved third heist from the archives, and pull all and any detail relating to it. The robbery that never was. Until now. More new information, a new crime, albeit one never attributed to the gang of men whose names still stood out, written large and bold in the middle of the board
WILLIAM REYNOLDS
JOE DAVIES
CHARLES WORTH
PAUL HARRIS
DANIEL MORTIMER
“Well, it’s either Mortimer or we’re fucking missing something.”
Rob’s outburst wasn’t surprising, and was nothing that hadn’t been discussed in corridors and toilets and on lunch breaks amongst the wider members of the team. Jumping to the endgame, maybe, but with Mortimer being the only member of the gang still alive, it was an obvious conclusion, given Paul Harris’ death from natural causes, and with the other three accounted for.
“While we’re waiting for the techies, I want us to keep digging. I still think we’ve missed something.”
Rob’s propensity to keep battering away was a strong trait. He had clear views on who he wanted in custody, but he was far from ruling out that Daniel Mortimer was just the last in a growing line of suspects. He hated being presumptuous.
Jack had been assigned the third robbery and was about to go digging, something he was becoming very proficient at. An eye for detail and the default position of not trusting anybody was developing, and Rob was confident he’d find something.
The links were starting to fall out. Shaking Elizabeth Warren’s tree provided the link between Paul and William, as well as the tenuous outline of the debt William owed to Joe, something Alan had finally coughed up. Rob wondered how much of this simply wouldn’t be happening if Alan Reynolds hadn’t sold pills to Chris Davies all those years ago. Twenty quid here and there that to date has cost three lives. Expensive quick bucks.
The missing link in every which way was still Daniel Mortimer. They had limited past case history, just a handful of details about the time he served at Gartree, and still nothing close to evidential as to how he met and became involved with any of the other four men. Even the physical description was patchy and most likely dated. Paul Harris seemed to be the strongest credible candidate for a link, but that was nothing more than a deduction, and in truth the team still didn’t have a clue. Even Elizabeth Warren seemed to know little about the man she’d fallen for and taken a significant sum of money from.
A ghost doing a very good job of hiding.
Rob was working on some new theories. In his mind, at least. The relatives list the team had found for the old crimes had been completely fruitless; there was no clear or obvious candidate from the assorted victims, no clear motivators for revenge. Nobody, other than Alan Reynolds knew anything about the possibility of some goods of value still being out in the world.
Rob pondered, thinking that a few buried Rolexes wouldn’t have caused this. It was much more personal to whoever was committing these crimes. It meant something.
Jack was already straining at the leash. The prospect of new leads starting to appear and a third heist that the team were never charged with was juicy, and right in his wheelhouse. The fact that the link hadn’t been found could be a cause for concern, but in truth a number of internal factors could account for that. No charges were ever brought, and Alan Reynolds’ recollection of this robbery was one of a three-man effort.
Chapter 42
I feel tired today. Lethargic. I am not a morning person, never have been. My Fitbit didn’t register me being awake before 10am yesterday, despite the fact I started work at eight. It’s sometimes problematic in my line of work, but people don’t always notice what’s right in front of them. Only caffeine and food will stir the senses and get me going today. A croissant will do it. A chocolate one.
Things are going well. I can still go about my daily business like a regular civilian, blending in. Carrying on. People in coffee shops and supermarkets are nice to me, smile at me. Unaware of my elevated status. Unaware of who I really am. I like that.
I’m still showing horror when conversation of the murders comes up. Feigning how appalled I am by the senseless killings. It’s been quiet these last few days. The press are continuing to hound the police, and with Brexit gaining pace, some cabinet resignations and some other local politics taking some column inches, I’m barely on the brink of being unmasked. Of being found out. I’m trying not to be arrogant about it, but I am now the City Slayer. I’m not sure it’s my favourite but it’s a phrase that’s being used abundantly. How we love a nickname. I’ve always thought it sounds like an old word. Slayed. Slayer. I’m not fucking Buffy. There hasn’t been a murder in a good few days, and after a brisk spell for me, it’s not like I can stop now; I still have unfinished business. The plan gets sketchier from here on in, but only I know that.
I feel satisfied enough. The empire could have crumbled by now, it could have gone wrong, I always knew that. Only it hasn’t. I’m ‘still at large’, as the Mercury worded it yesterday, and I still have my plan. Incomplete vengeance is no result, so the show will go on. Joe and Charlie were fun, they helped with the healing, but I set out to wipe them out. All of them. Although I’m struggling to find this one, he’s doing a good job of hiding. I was hoping that with his mates going down like rats on a ship he’d slip up, stick his head above the parapet and reveal himself. Only he hasn’t. Yet.
I’m on the fly now so this could be more testing. I’ll need to adapt. Be more versatile than I have been so far. There’ll be no recon next time, no sitting outside a house for weeks planning my ‘in’, planning the attack, no learning the territory and honing the best way to kill.
A blitz attack will be different. Maybe it’ll be fun. I’ll test myself. I have got one new focus anyway, that’s a real bonus. That one will be staked out, watched and planned for. It’ll either throw the police right off the scent or help them out, so I just need to decide on the order and see what falls out over the coming days. My itch to kill isn’t fever pitch like it was after Joe Davies. I’m almost content.
I haven’t planned much for the aftermath in terms of my life. I’m no suicide killer and won’t be bailing out. I’m either getting away with this scot-free, I’m going down for it, or I need to find door number three and bail. Brazil is the front runner, and my go bag and fake passports are stashed already. Just some loose ends stand between me and an early retirement to Rio.
Three down, two to go.
Chapter 43
“Good morning, all,” Rob shouted. He repeated his welcome for the benefit of those who hadn’t heard him. “Settle down and listen up everybody!” Rob bellowed to get the attention of all those who had gathered to hear the breaking news.
There was an energy in the room and a real buzz. Word had spread across the station like wildfire, without the full details being known, but those whose recent weeks had been spent dedicated to this investigation knew this morning was important. There was going to be a revelation that might change the course of the team’s focus over the coming days. The proverbial crossroads.
Nicky hadn’t seen this many officers in the room since the second murder, when proceedings were stepped up and the response needed to be measured in people and resource. When it needed to be seen.
Jen was scanning the room too. She met the eyes of Emma Sharpe and Bernie Copp, who were standing together towards the back of the room. Emma nodded at Jen, who smiled back. Everybody of note was in the room.
“The tech guys have been working hard; trying to track our missing man. There was some complexity with it, but Elizabeth Harris’ laptop has given up its secrets. The team have been picking at a couple of scabs, and they’ve been able to reverse engineer the metadata.” Rob spoke clearly and loudly, looking at a number of people as he explained the findings. “There were several emails of note from an encrypted email address, which had been rerouted, so they were harder to trace than regular communication. This guy is good, but our guys are better.”
Rob nodded. The masses in the room were stretching and leaning to get a better view, like a rake of middle-aged men standing on the terrace of an old-fashioned football ground. Vying for position.
“It has taken a while but they have a hit. We have a hit. They’ve traced the emails back to an IP address, and more importantly, a specific location.”
The room rippled with anticipation. A few conversations started and palpable excitement broke out. Rob’s raised left hand seemed to stop a full outburst, a combination of celebration and relief.
“This is a major step but it isn’t fully cut and dry, so listen up!”
The room died back down. Seldom was a piece of information black and white, clean. Just another piece of information leading to more work leading to more information. A crawl towards the finish line. Baby steps.
Rob continued his explanation, consciously not wanting to take any edge off the positive news he’d just shared. He’d been speaking to his contact, Justin at the tech facility overnight. The explanation and discussion had focused mainly on location. The IP address used had been consistent for all of the emails, which was generally good news, but the address had been isolated to an internet cafe just outside of Liverpool Lime Street station, and had needed more work.
The last twenty-four hours had been a furious high-level effort to affirm the identity of Daniel Mortimer, using the highest powers the state had at its disposal. Rob’s cards were close to his chest. The variables too great to risk.
The cafe itself had no CCTV, one of the likely reasons for its selection, and Rob had been working to establish whether Liverpool was a dot on a journey or a place Daniel Mortimer now called home.
Rob’s relationship with his Merseyside counterpart had helped the efforts, as had his scouse heritage, but the work of DCI James Crofts’ team had plotted the IP address and times against CCTV in the locale, and they’d got a hit. One that matched closely enough the facial features of an aged graphic of the man being hunted, found on two CCTV feeds within fifteen minutes of the emails being sent to Elizabeth Warren, walking north, away from Lime Street. Away from the heart of the city and Liverpool ONE, but crucially past a tight and popular area around the Liverpool Empire, where the same face had been found twice on a security feed. The right description, the right place and at the right time. No coincidence.
From those crumbs, his mobile phone had been accessed and triangulated, and located at what the Merseyside Constabulary now believed was Daniel Mortimer’s home address.
Twelve Field Street was a regular looking house on a regular looking street. Normal. Jen pulled its image from Google Street view up on the screen behind Rob, as he continued to share the direction of the investigation that was now jointly happening over a hundred miles away.
Rob pointed at the red brick terrace on the screen behind him. “We believe this is Daniel Mortimer’s house. We believe he lives alone. He isn’t married and, as you’ll see from the map shortly, he’ll have walked from his house to the internet cafe. His house, ironically, is less than 500 yards from St Anne Street Police Station, and only a quarter of a mile from the Royal University Hospital, where we believe he’s employed as a radiologist.”
A raised hand from the masses broke the flow. Rob looked up and gestured to the individual with his hand raised to share his mind.
“So is he in custody, Sir? Has he been arrested on suspicion of the murders?”
The question was fair. The nods and murmurs from around the room always showed when the thought shared was a common one.
Rob responded with what could be construed as a negative response in a clear manner. “Daniel Mortimer is not in custody as we speak.” He enunciated ‘not’ to avoid any confusion. To ensure those who might have misheard didn’t have an excuse to put their feet or up disappear to the pub to celebrate the win. Rob continued.
“There are still many unanswered questions about this man.”
Rob started to half point at the screen again, then realised there wasn’t an image of Mortimer on it for him to address. Even he hadn’t seen an image yet, but he knew pictures of Daniel Mortimer were now in the domain of the authorities. DCI Croft had promised to have an image over by 9am, a deadline that had not yet passed, and Rob was itching to see the face of the man who had been so elusive thus far. He was desperate to share it with the team whose efforts had also failed to track him down.
“Daniel Mortimer is currently under full surveillance by Merseyside Constabulary. They have eyes on him, they have his phone tapped and they can trace his whereabouts through his laptop and through his iPhone, as well as through the hospital CCTV when he’s at work. For the first time, we’re on the front foot!”
Rob had felt some relief when he’d hung up from the phone conversation late last night. Relief that a positive identification had been made, and relief that, although the still faceless suspect was working for the NHS, that it wasn’t at one of Leicester’s hospitals or healthcare facilities. It wasn’t on his watch.
He’d smiled later that night at home, when he realised that until that point he had been getting desperate. He’d organised a sample of Daniel Mortimer’s DNA from evidence, which Nicky and Jen had arranged with the help of Gary Hunt at Gartree. He’d even considered some form of localised DNA testing in the same way one of his predecessors, Detective David Baker, had done so three decades previously when trying to apprehend Colin Pitchfork. Alec Jeffreys’ DNA breakthrough and methods of testing had become a viable option to Rob. Desperate times.
“The news is great, but for us as a team there are still a significant number of unanswered questions. If Mortimer is the man, has he been travelling up and down the motorway to kill and then return? And if so, has he been doing that while working around his shifts? All of this is still breaking. We’re continuing to work on his phone to see where else that’s been, but until then the ‘fit’ isn’t perfect, so we’re keeping him under watch to see what he’s up to. If he isn’t our man then we are merely protecting him, and if he is our perp we’ll be standing on his coat-tails waiting for him to show us his true colours.”
There was a pregnant pause. With no immediate questions aired, Rob confirmed that the operation was ongoing and had the full backing and authority of the chief constables from both forces. All resources were going into this, and there would be no respite for the Leicestershire team in the coming twenty-four hours.
Rob nodded and looked at Nicky. Nicky stood up, ignored the several hands which had now raised and started to speak, stating that a team of officers was required to travel to Liverpool to support the Merseyside force, and carry out the arrest. To continue the operation, just in a different county and in different surroundings. The hands dropped as Nicky confirmed the requirements, as those with their hands raised started to realise what was required of them, and it became crystal clear what the next steps looked like.
One hand remained in the air. Nicky stretched to see that it was PC Emma Sharpe with her hand up. She josticulated, inviting the question.
“Yes, Emma.”
“Are we able to volunteer please, or will this be assigned? And secondly, if it isn’t Daniel Mortimer, are we continuing to work on other lines of inquiry?”
It was a fair question. Leaving all of your eggs in a solitary basket is seldom a good idea, especially with such uncertainty still in play.
“A contingent will need to remain in Leicester and look after the consolidated efforts here and the ongoing investigation into a possible third robbery carried out by the gang, as well as all and any key outstanding leads.”
Emma’s hand went up again.
“What do we know about the third robbery at this stage, please?”
“At this stage, not a lot, which is why we’re treating it as a priority. It may have nothing to do with the murders; it may mean everything.”
Rob stood up and addressed the room. “This is major progress so you should all be pleased that your work has got us to this point. There are still a lot of unknowns, so stay focused and we’ll get over the line. Nicky and Jen will assign the resource over the coming days for the operation. There are shift requirements here and a need to be in Liverpool for a short period of time. We’ll be flexible if we need to be, but the expectation of you is high.”
The murmurs started around the room. Like any team of people, there were those straining at the leash to be involved, some who’d be doing all they could to keep their heads down and stay in Leicester, and a few inbetweeners. The non-committals.
Nicky and Jen had had a chat offline around who were the right people to go to Liverpool. Those with the right skill set, or the right traits. Jack had been involved too to ensure there was a credible team to continue the Leicester end of the work.
Bernie voiced a question to the front of the room. “What’s his assumed name then, Gov? Who are we going to get?”
The room murmured again. An appreciation for the question.
Rob had no issue in sharing the name. The Merseyside force already had it in their domain and there was now nothing classified that prevented the name going out. With some of the links that existed online and between different forces and personnel, it was already possible, if not highly likely, that there were more in the room than Rob, Nicky, Jen and Jack who already knew the pseudonym of the man they’d been trying to find.
“Briefing packs will be issued out to you all, but our man is now trading as Johnathan Christopher Alexander. We’ve already established his employment records and property are registered under this name, so we now need to keep unpicking his alias and the last two decades of his life.
Daniel Mortimer had made a mistake, and for the first time Rob knew where he was. And to make it even better, he had eyes on him.
