Prey Read online

  ‘Thought you’d be past the nicotine cravings by now,’ Wolfe says.

  ‘I’ve an addictive personality.’ Casburn looks straight ahead.

  ‘Addicted to your job, that’s for sure.’

  ‘Look who’s talking,’ he says.

  She flicks him a quick look and swears she sees the hint of a smile.

  Two mounted police officers, both female, in fluorescent yellow reflector jackets and riding muscular greys, go by.

  ‘You’ve changed your hair,’ Casburn says.

  ‘Yeah, well, they shaved it to stitch my head. It looked daft, so I cut it short all over.’ Her black hair is in a pixie cut.

  ‘Suits you.’

  Her brows knit. ‘Now you’re getting weird.’ She leans forward, trying to catch his eye. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘What did Sandra West tell you?’

  ‘Ah.’ Wolfe clicks the stud in her tongue against her teeth, which she does when she’s thinking.

  Casburn places his hands behind his head and cricks his neck, first one way and then the other. ‘Her boyfriend, Charles Powell, is bound by the Official Secrets Act. If he’s betrayed government secrets to his girlfriend, who’s then told you, he’s committed a crime.’

  ‘How is that of interest to SO24?’

  Specialist operations units within the Metropolitan Police are assigned an SO number. The newly created Global Threat Taskforce is SO24. Casburn was appointed head of SO24 after he prevented a terrorist attack on London. Very few within the Met know that Wolfe paved the way for Casburn to capture the terror cell, or that she paid a heavy price for doing so: a man very dear to her was forced to leave the country. She hasn’t heard from him since.

  Casburn sighs. ‘I ask a question. You answer with a question. We get nowhere.’

  ‘Look, Dan. We’ve been through hell together. I’ve even grown to respect you.’ Casburn snorts. He still doesn’t look at her. ‘Yeah, surprised me too. Thing is, we know each other. How we work. How we think. I’m guessing you had West’s phone tapped, otherwise how else would you know we were meeting? And to bug her phone, somebody high up in government would have to approve it, which begs the question: why?’

  Casburn doesn’t so much as blink. He wears his face like an iron mask.

  Wolfe continues, keeping her voice down. ‘I’m also guessing you’re investigating the Chancellor of the Exchequer, Harold Sackville?’

  She leaves the question hanging, counting the seconds inside her head, determined to wait for an answer. She doesn’t get one. She tries another tack. ‘You owe me, Dan.’

  He stops chewing his Nicorette. ‘I owe you nothing. I gave lover-boy his freedom.’

  Casburn is trying to rattle her. He knows Vitaly Yushkov was more than just a ‘lover-boy’. The not knowing where he is or what he’s doing drives her crazy.

  ‘Vitaly handed you Kabir Khan on a plate,’ she said. Khan was the terror cell leader. ‘And he did it because I asked him to, remember? As I said, you owe me.’

  ‘Vitaly’s a killer, Olivia. He should be behind bars.’

  ‘He was innocent,’ she snaps, glaring at him, forgetting their pretence at being strangers.

  Two mums with prams stare at them. Wolfe hates herself for letting Casburn rankle her.

  He stands. ‘Let’s walk.’

  Casburn marches across the damp grass towards a clump of London plane trees as though he’s still in the SAS. She jogs to keep pace with him.

  ‘I’m giving you a chance to tell me what West told you. And don’t give me some bullshit about protecting your sources. We’re beyond that.’

  He stops. Tugs at his shirt collar. She’s rarely seen him this tense.

  ‘What’s happened?’ she asks.

  He eyes her for a brief moment. ‘This is off the record,’ he says. A statement, not a question.

  ‘Agreed.’

  ‘Whatever she told you cost her her life.’ His tone is sharp. Accusatory.

  ‘What?’ Wolfe’s step falters. Casburn walks on, ignoring her obvious shock. Wolfe catches up with him. ‘She was killed?’

  Casburn stops walking and, finally, makes eye contact. ‘Officially it’s suicide. Hung herself at home yesterday, according to Sussex Police.’ He looks around him, then back to her. ‘Whatever she told you either pushed her over the edge, or someone murdered her because of it.’

  ‘Oh God.’

  She has lost sources before. It never gets easier. The guilt weighs heavily. So heavily, she often takes risks she shouldn’t to protect them. Now Casburn is blaming her for West’s death. Wolfe stares blankly at the ground, trying to process the tragic news.

  ‘Olivia!’ Casburn clicks his fingers in her face.

  ‘I’m not your dog,’ says Wolfe looking up, her large dark eyes angry. ‘Sandra was a good person trying to do the right thing. I’ll do what I can to help you. Listen to this. She left me a voice message yesterday.’

  Wolfe rummages in her leather jacket for her iPhone, finds the voicemail and plays it so Casburn can hear. In it West tells Wolfe she made everything up about Sackville. It was done in spite, and to forget everything. Her voice is tremulous.

  ‘Eleven fourteen,’ Casburn says noting the timing of the message. ‘What did West tell you at the pub, the day before?’

  ‘That Sackville is stashing money in an offshore tax-haven account. British Virgin Islands.’

  Casburn shows no surprise.

  ‘Name of account?’

  ‘ZIB Trading.’

  ‘Account number?’

  Is he testing to see if she has it, or does he want it?

  He moves closer. She feels his breath on her skin. She instinctively puts her arm out and pushes him back. She hates people invading her personal space, and he knows it. At five feet eight, he’s taller than her by four inches and uses his muscular build to intimidate. Sometimes she thinks there are two Dan Casburns, and it’s rare for the nice guy to be in charge.

  ‘Back off, Dan, or I swear to God I’ll put you on the ground.’

  ‘Butcher’s a good teacher, but don’t ever try anything like that with me.’

  The threat in his voice incenses her. Casburn would be a difficult man to bring down, but she’d have a damn good go if he gave her no choice.

  She was going to co-operate, but his bully-boy tactics are infuriating.

  ‘I have nothing more to say,’ she says, ducking under his arm.

  He grabs hers. ‘You have a chance to walk away. Forget Sandra West and whatever you think you know.’

  ‘And if I don’t?’

  ‘There are people who will make your life hell.’

  Wolfe yanks her arm free. ‘Is that a threat?’

  ‘Take it whatever way you like.’

  3

  Butcher Investigations is a two-person PI business run out of a shoebox at the back of an old-world, working-men’s gym in Tooting. The entrance is at the back of the building, down a narrow lane littered with overflowing industrial-sized bins. A laminated printout stuck to the door with Blu Tack informs visitors – not that there are many – they are in the right place. Most of their work comes from referrals from Jerry Butcher’s mates in the Met: jobs the over-stretched and underfunded police have no time for. The one-room office is just big enough for two desks which face each other, a small round table shoved into a corner, a kettle and mini fridge.

  Balancing a cardboard tray supporting three takeaway coffee cups, Wolfe opens the door to find sandy-haired, craggy-faced Butcher standing behind the seated twenty-five-year-old hacker Jwala Ponnappa, with a hunting knife at her throat.

  ‘Coffee’s up,’ Wolfe says, putting the tray down.

  Ponnappa turns her head awkwardly and peers over Butcher’s arm at Wolfe. ‘I’m a bit tied up,’ she says.

  ‘Grab the pencil and stab his hand,’ Wolfe suggests.

  Butcher releases his business partner. ‘Good call, Liv.’

  Ponnappa, whose sylph-like physique makes even Wolfe look tal
l, gives her a wave, bangles jangling, and grabs one of the coffees. Ponnappa first met Butcher when working cybercrime for the Met. A few years later, they opened their PI business. ‘Thanks for this.’

  ‘What a lovely surprise,’ Butcher says. ‘We’ve missed you.’

  He gives Wolfe a hug.

  Wolfe doesn’t hug, but Butcher is an exception. The retired Detective Chief Superintendent of London’s Homicide and Serious Crime Command has been the one constant and positive influence in her life. Without him, she would have gone off the rails at fourteen when her world imploded. Nor would she have survived the last year and still have her job as a journalist. Wolfe holds him tight. ‘Missed you too.’

  ‘Take a look at this,’ Butcher says, handing her the knife. ‘Made entirely of plastic.’

  ‘Not strong enough, surely?’ She takes it.

  ‘Test it.’ He nods at an apple on Ponnappa’s desk.

  ‘Hey! That’s my token healthy meal,’ Ponnappa protests.

  Wolfe thrusts the knife into the apple, expecting the blade to break or at least bow. It slices right through.

  ‘And here’s the sheath.’ He hands her what looks like a comb. ‘Slide it over the blade.’ She does. A perfect fit. It now looks like a comb with a handle.

  ‘Where did you get this?’

  ‘A shipment arrived from China yesterday. Seized by Customs. Has them worried.’

  ‘I can see why.’

  ‘Take it. You might find it useful.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘When are you moving back into the area?’ Butcher asks.

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Well at least come back to the gym. You need practice. Got to keep your edge.’

  ‘I’m using a gym near work. Keeping fit.’

  ‘Who’s training you?’

  ‘Nobody. Me.’

  ‘Lazy.’

  Butcher teaches Kali stick fighting and Brazilian jiu-jitsu. He taught Wolfe everything she knows about self-defence, including how to use everyday objects like metal water bottles and key chains as weapons. Maybe he’s right, and she has become lazy.

  Butcher continues, nodding at her, ‘And your stalker’s disappeared?’

  ‘So far so good. Looks like moving out of my flat worked. Which is why I’m not sure about coming back. He knows where I lived.’

  ‘I go there regularly. No sign of intruders.’

  Ponnappa chips in. ‘No bugs or hidden cameras either, and when I last looked, your phone and laptop were clean. I’d say he’s moved on.’

  Wolfe isn’t convinced. He invaded her home, spied on her through minute cameras in her smoke detectors, watched her through her webcam, even deleted her emails. That’s why she moved to west London and set up a new mobile phone number. To this day, she still doesn’t know who it was.

  ‘I need your help with a story I’m researching,’ Wolfe says, keen to change the subject.

  ‘Take a seat,’ invites Butcher.

  She briefs them on her meeting with Sandra West two days ago, and her claims about the Chancellor. ‘Sandra said the account was in the name of ZIB Trading and that Harold Sackville was the signatory.’

  ‘How does West know this?’ Butcher asks, taking notes in a small ring-bound notebook.

  ‘Her boyfriend, Charles Powell, is Sackville’s assistant private secretary. She claims he overheard an argument between Sackville and his brother, who’s an alcoholic and a gambler. He wanted to borrow money. The brother referred to millions stashed away in the British Virgin Islands.’

  ‘So, are you telling me the man who holds the government’s purse strings is secretly defrauding HMRC?’ asks Ponnappa, referring to Her Majesty’s Revenue and Customs.

  ‘I don’t know yet. Powell sounds a bit naïve. He couldn’t believe his boss would do such a thing. He did some snooping. Found Sackville had made calls to the British Virgin Islands.’

  ‘That in itself doesn’t mean anything,’ says Butcher.

  ‘Agreed. But ten days later, the Chancellor goes out, leaves his mobile behind. Phone rings. Powell answers. A woman says there’s a problem in the Virgin Islands. Powell asks what problem. The woman realises she’s not speaking to Sackville and puts the phone down. He calls back. It goes to answerphone. It’s the office of ZIB Trading.’

  ‘Which is?’ Ponnappa asks.

  ‘A company registered in the UK, supposedly importing carpets and floor coverings, with an address in Morden.’

  ‘Sounds like a shell company,’ says Butcher.

  ‘Or a front.’

  ‘Don’t suppose West gave you the account number?’ asks Ponnappa.

  ‘I think she knew it, but wouldn’t give it to me. Which could be why she died.’

  ‘Died?’ Ponnappa repeats.

  Wolfe looks away, the guilt rising again like flood waters. ‘She was found dead, hanging from her bedroom light fitting. Apparent suicide. But Casburn clearly thinks it’s not.’

  Butcher runs a hand across his mouth, a mannerism Wolfe has come to recognise. He doesn’t like what she’s just told him. ‘Wait a minute. Casburn’s involved in this?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Not sure, exactly.’ Wolfe tells them about her meeting with Casburn and his warning to leave well alone.

  Butcher shakes his head. ‘I’d hoped that after last time, you two might at least be civil to each other.’

  ‘I think we were pretty civil, right up to the point he tried to intimidate me.’

  Butcher frowns. ‘Did he threaten you?’

  Wolfe stretches across the tiny table and squeezes his arm to reassure him. ‘No, just made it very clear he wanted me to drop it.’

  ‘Don’t make Casburn your enemy, Liv,’ Butcher says. ‘His new role gives him a lot of power. If he wants to stop you, he will.’

  Wolfe considers this for a moment. ‘Him warning me off tells me this is about more than tax fraud. Something much bigger is going on, and I’m going to find out what.’ She leans forward. ‘Will you help me?’

  Butcher and Ponnappa look across the table at each other. Ponnappa nods.

  ‘We’re in,’ says Butcher.

  ‘I’ll get cracking on identifying the account,’ Ponnappa says. She spins her wheelie-chair around, puts on hot-pink headphones and her child-like fingers tap her keyboard with lightning speed.

  Wolfe heads for the door.

  ‘Where are you going?’ asks Butcher.

  ‘Morden. See you later.’

  4

  The Assistant Commissioner of Specialist Operations beckons Casburn into his office at New Scotland Yard.

  ‘Shut the door.’

  Ex-military, like Casburn, Frank Sutton has a no-nonsense manner which some at London’s Metroplitan Police, including the commissioner, occasionally find uncomfortable. Sutton has been sent on training courses in people management and media skills, and as a result his style is more diplomatic when addressing the public or his junior officers. But with his direct reports, like Casburn, he doesn’t pussyfoot around, and Casburn prefers it that way. Their affinity has paved the way for Casburn’s meteoric rise. Since joining the Met, he has hunted criminals like a man possessed. Refusing to settle for the low-hanging fruit, he’s targeted the untouchables, the canny bastards who’ve managed to escape prosecution, including the terrorist Kabir Khan who’s now incarcerated for life. There are plenty of rumours about the way he operates – suggestions of brutality and even darker whispers. But he’s succeeded. Casburn suspects Sutton approves of his methods, not that he would ever admit to it.

  Sutton sits rigid-backed, his perfectly pressed, crisp white short-sleeved shirt with shoulder epaulettes denoting his rank. Another quality Casburn identifies with. Tidy kit, tidy mind. Casburn’s tie is always perfectly centred, his shirt is laundered, his leather lace-ups buffed to a shine. A discipline from his time in the SAS he chooses to maintain.

  Sutton frowns at him through frameless glasses, which, the rumour goes, he was advise
d to wear so the media and the public can see his eyes more clearly, which enhances trust. Sutton denounced the idea as ‘poppycock’, but he bought the glasses none the less.

  ‘What does Wolfe know?’ Sutton asks, fingers interlocked and resting on his desk.

  ‘She knows ZIB Trading exists and that Sackville is a signatory. She wouldn’t tell me if she knows the account details.’

  ‘Will she drop it?’

  ‘From past experience, I’d say not.’

  ‘Wolfe isn’t easily…’ Sutton pauses to find the right word, ‘persuaded, is she?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Buggeration.’ Sutton’s thumbs circle each other.

  ‘Sir? I’m not clear why I’ve been instructed to do this. It’s not a natural fit for SO24.’

  The organisation was set up to protect Greater London from overseas threats.

  ‘I was asked to use my most trusted man.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’ Casburn’s poker face masks his frustration. He’s been told very little. ‘But what am I looking for?’

  Sutton removes his glasses and rubs the indentations either side of his nose. ‘This is an awkward one, Dan.’ Casburn notes they have reached the chummy point in their conversation. He is seldom called by his first name. ‘I’m not entirely comfortable with this whole affair, but the commissioner wants a watching brief.’

  Casburn guesses the PM or somebody else in the cabinet has asked the commissioner to do this.

  ‘What about PaDP?’ Casburn asks, referring to the Parliamentary and Diplomatic Protection unit, which also comes under Sutton’s command. ‘Are they in the loop?’

  Sutton’s glasses are back on his face. ‘One officer only. Like you, someone I trust. If we’re going to succeed, it’s critical Sackville doesn’t get a whiff of anything. Which is why we can’t have that journalist poking around. Find a way to get her to drop it.’

  Casburn considers this for a moment. ‘If we could give Wolfe a bigger story than this one, an exclusive, then she might let it go.’

  Sutton nods. ‘Let me see what I can do.’

  ‘Sir, can I speak plainly?’