Chapter 14: A Friend Indeed

1800 hrs Sunday 6^th April 2019 Thurston Hall, Bury St Edmunds

DAY 6

There was a moment of stunned silence before Vince spoke.

“Well, I’ll be damned! Josh Dolihaye, I don’t believe it. What the hell are you doing in the depths of swede basher land? How long have you been a carrot cruncher?”

I gave him a brief résumé of my life since leaving SO 6 where we had been colleagues and friends, and then he regaled me with tales of his subsequent life. Vince had left SO 6 a year after I did.

“It all began to go downhill when you left the flat in Swiss Cottage and moved in with that posh bird, whatshername.”

“Rebecca,” I reminded him.

“Yeah, that’s the one. The guy who took your place was a complete waste of space, and a celibate, teetotal, Methodist to boot. Alan, Toby and me couldn’t fully service the Swiss Cottage Quartet badge bunnies without you. Then, when you left SO Six they sent us another bloody teetotaller! It was too much for us to handle. Toby went to traffic three months after you left SO Six and I went to Shoreditch three months after him. We left Alan trying to keep the girls happy. He retired six months ago due to ill health! I had been at Shoreditch for about a year when there was a call for volunteers to staff the newly created National Crime Agency’s (NCA) Human Trafficking Unit in Manchester...”

“You’ve moved up North?”

“Yes, and I met the sweetest girl you could ever wish to know. Her name is Veronica and we are getting married in two months; that was my hot date, we are supposed to see the minister of her church after Evening Song.”

Obviously Vince was not too well up on religious matters as the man in charge of a Church of England church is a vicar and the evening service is known as Evensong --my mother used to drag me to church every Sunday until I rebelled aged fourteen.

“Hellfire, Vince, you getting married? I can’t believe any female would be so stupid. Has she also got a white stick and a blind dog?”

Vince laughed. “You cheeky sod! Veronica is an extremely brainy girl with twenty-twenty vision, which is why she grabbed me for her husband before any other female could. You were the last person I expected to tie the knot and deprive all them badge bunnies of your expertise, but by now you must be well married to Rebecca. Any kids yet?” There was a long silence. “You still there, Josh?”

“Yes, sorry about that, Vince. Your question took me by surprise. Rebecca is long gone. She dumped me two days after my transfer to the East Anglian Constabulary was approved. Rather ironic, as it was because she moved to Norwich with her job that I applied for the transfer. She is now in America shagging a Yank corporate lawyer, an older, richer guy, and they are probably married by now.”

“Bloody hell, I am so sorry, Josh, although none of us in the flat thought it would last, but being so cunt-struck you just couldn’t see it. I hope by now you’ve met someone else.”

“I have, but she is spoken for,” I sighed. “But that’s how the mop flops, and I’m working on it. Anyway, to get back to your phone call. Arnold Rampley topped himself a month ago.”

I heard Vince whistle in amazement. “I never had any direct contact with Sergeant Rampley, but his name is on file as a useful informant on Felixstowe Docks. We are looking into whispers and rumours that human trafficking is being conducted through some or all of the East Coast ports; Harwich, Tilbury, Felixstowe, London Gateway, etc, and as a listed contact I rang his number to pick his brains and find out what he knew.”

“Arnold Rampley sent a list of the girls he suspected might have been trafficked through Felixstowe to NCA several months ago. The NCA dismissed his assumptions as mere fantasy, and his Detective Inspector (DI) got a bollocking for wasting NCA’s time,” I said.

“When was the list sent to NCA?”

I thought it over before replying, “Sometime in February. I would have to ask my DI for the exact date as I have only been in post for a week. Well, it will be a week on Monday.”

“I’m the coordinator for the Human Trafficking Unit here at the N C A, Josh, and I can positively state no list from the East Anglian Constabulary has been across my desk since the beginning of the year.”

“But my DI got a rollicking from --” I paused, it was not politic to impugn high ranking officers. “She passed the list through the proper channels and was told by a senior officer that the NCA had dismissed Rampley’s list as speculation.”

“I can assure you that we examine all and every piece of info passed to us with great care. Even if it leads us nowhere we always thank the informant via their senior officers. If we ignored, rubbished or dismissed any information input from the various police forces then info would cease to be sent and we would be blind and deaf as to what was happening in the docks. If Sergeant Rampley’s list reached NCA then I would have seen it and the appropriate action taken.”

I knew Vince to be an honest and hardworking police officer, which meant that Fuller had either misinterpreted what NCA had told him or, which was something I had not contemplated before now, he had not passed the list to the NCA.

“It appears a senior police officer in the East Anglian Constabulary may have been economical with the truth, Vince.”

“Care to give me a name, Josh? I can make enquiries without involving you.”

“I don’t know. We are talking about a very senior officer. I will have to check with my DI. She may have misunderstood what she was told.”

I decided to change the subject, as making insinuations against senior officers was not a good way to get on in the police. “There is a strong suspicion that Rampley didn’t commit suicide. His wife is adamant he would never do such a thing.”

“Who does she think did it?”

“Some local crime boss who thought Rampley was getting too close to their drug smuggling and prostitution business.”

“She is probably on the right track. The criminals operating drug smuggling and prostitution rings are also into human trafficking. Young English girls are being trafficked to the Middle East, some for harems, but the majority go to brothels. The paler their complexion and the blonder their hair the higher the price they fetch on the market.”

“I thought Russian girls were the main trade for the Middle East flesh markets?”

“They were, but the Russian authorities were not best pleased that their females were being exploited, and have taken special measures to stop the trade.” Vince sounded like he was recounting something told him.

“What does that mean exactly, Vince?”

“It means that English females, the younger the better, are being trafficked specifically to replace the no longer available Russians girls.”

“Do you have any idea who is behind the trade?”

“We have a better than an idea of who is behind the trade. We know who the mastermind and organiser is.”

“So why not arrest...”

“He lives abroad and is untouchable. He uses intermediaries who are difficult to catch as they usually have diplomatic immunity. All we can collar are the foot-soldiers, who know nothing, and even if they do they are too scared to tell us anything. They do their time and live to a ripe old age, or at least as ripe an old age as any low life gangster lives. The main men are walking about as free as air and we cannot lay a finger on them. All we can do is disrupt and derail their operations wherever and when we can.”

“Rampley left behind a diary that might throw light on some aspects of human trafficking. He was tracking down missing underage girls...”

“Prime targets for human traffickers, Josh.”

“Yes, but unfortunately Arnold Rampley was sexually involved with one of the girls and was caught shagging her in his car. So, anything he discovered about any criminal activity would be tainted by his involvement in underage sex. But he told a rep from the Police Federation he was going to have his day in court.” I paused deliberately before continuing. “That was a day or two before he supposedly committed suicide.”

“So you are suggesting Rampley was bumped off because he was about to spill what he knew in an open court?”

“His wife thinks so,” I said.

“She could be correct, because even if the police could not prosecute anyone because of Rampley’s involvement in underage sex the gang’s identity and methods would have been blown, and the kingpin would have lost a great deal of money, which is all we can hope for.”

“Who is this Mister Big that cannot be brought to trial?”

Vince sighed. “This is an open line, and is probably being recorded; Freedom of Information and all that crap. So just let us say that those nice gentlemen at Harrington House in Kensington would know who he is.”

It took me some time to figure out the clue, but then the penny dropped.

“You don’t mean Vla... ?”

“No names, Josh, but yes. We know that some states sponsor international terrorism; well, there are also states who sponsor international criminality. Look, the diary you have seems to be important. I can be with you in --” he paused. “Give me half an hour and I’ll ring you back, or better still give me your mobile number and I will use mine to contact you.”

I gave him the information and he hung up. Left hanging by his abrupt finish I wandered into the canteen and got an Americano. I sat at ‘our’ table and thought over what Vince had said, or implied. First, that a senior officer had lied about passing a list of supposed trafficked girls to NCA, and second, that an international state was organising criminality; human trafficking, prostitution, drug smuggling, theft of intellectual property, cybercrime, money laundering, and who knows what else, specifically targeting the UK. Vince’s finger had pointed firmly to the east for the latter, and my finger pointed downstairs for the former. As I was finishing my coffee my mobile chirped, fortunately I had recharged it an hour previously. It was Vince. “Will you still be at Thurston Hall at eight-thirty tonight?” he asked.

“Yes, I’ll still be here.”

“Great! I’ll see you then.” He rang off before I could ask how he was going to get to Bury St Edmunds from Manchester in – I looked at my watch, it was 6.33 pm – two hours.

However, I had a presentation to put together and went back to my office and started making notes to go with the camera footage. I would leave the piece de resistance until Monday morning when I revealed my bombshell.

About 7 pm my mobile, fully charged up when I arrived back at Thurston Hall, chirped and I picked up thinking it was Vince with an excuse not to show. “What’s wrong, can’t you find a private jet to get you here?”

“Hello Joshua,” Molly said, surprise in her voice. “Why would I need a private jet? I came home on the four-thirty from Liverpool Street to Cambridge. Are you still in Felixstowe?”

“Sorry, Molly, I thought the call was from someone else. I’m at Thurston Hall and am supposed to be meeting that someone here at eight-thirty.”

“Have you eaten yet?” she asked. Her motherly instinct kicking in I suppose.

“No, I will wait until I’ve had my meeting, should it go ahead.”

“It’s so lonely here at home without Deborah or you. I don’t want to eat by myself so I’ll drive out to the Hall and meet you in the canteen in half an hour. We can eat there and then I will be available to give you a lift home after your meeting.”

“Okay, that’s great, Molly. It will be good to see you, and you can give me a blow by blow account of your assignation with Martin.”

I revisited my mental image of Molly and her young stud Martin writhing about in a bed in a London hotel, and rang off rather abruptly.

The mobile chirped a few moments later.

“What do you mean, my assignation with Martin?” Molly’s voice had an angry tone.

I apologised for my abruptness when ringing off and then dropped myself in it. “Debs said you would be meeting Martin in London, and naturally I thought...”

“The worst,” she interrupted. “You, Sergeant Dolihaye, have a dirty mind and a vivid imagination. Martin is my god-father; he is my father’s best friend and at least sixty years old and married to a woman younger then I am. Should he even be inclined to jump on his god-daughter’s bones he wouldn’t have the energy, as his wife keeps him sated and well exhausted!” She rang off.

Molly arrived at the Hall not long after I had finished making notes for the presentation I hoped to give on Monday morning. She texted to say she would meet me in the canteen in five minutes. I ambled into the deserted canteen five minutes later to find her sitting at the table Maddy and I had appropriated for ourselves.

Molly looked absolutely gorgeous. She wore an azure blue two-piece suit that emphasised her blonde hair and svelte figure. She must have had her hair done especially for the London trip as it seemed much more lustrous, and was piled up on her head in a sort of French pleat, showing her swan-like neck to best advantage. I had to admit Molly Miller was an exceptionally attractive woman who I contemplated adding to the three females I intended bedding to make Maddy jealous. The thought of having my luscious landlady warming my bed at night sent a warm glow through my body and stiffened my prick. I banished the lewd thoughts I was experiencing and joined Molly at the table.

“I’ve ordered the roast beef Sunday dinner,” she said as I sat down. “I hope you will enjoy it.”

“If you had a hand in preparing the meal then I know I will,” I said, and she beamed in pleasure. I liked how a few appreciative words from me could put such joy in her eyes, and then remembered I had intended buying her flowers and cursed myself. I wondered how I could make it up to her.

Our dinners arrived and nothing was heard from either of us as we set to and demolished the excellent food. I had rice pudding for afters but Molly had fruit. The erotically charged way she consumed a banana reminded of a scene from an old movie I had recently seen on Talking Pictures – ‘Tom Jones’. She might have realised what effect her fellatio of a dwarf Cavendish made on my groin for I noticed a self-congratulatory smile on her face after she had daintily wiped her lips.

“I rather overdid the gastronomy yesterday. Martin and his wife Juliet took me to a local Kurdish restaurant and I feasted on Tabbouleh, Maqluba, and other exotic dishes whose names I disremember.” She fixed me with a pseudo stern gaze. “I detected some animosity when you mentioned Martin. Who did you think he was?”

“Your super stud toy-boy lover, with a twelve-inch dong!”

“I should be so lucky. I’m a middle-aged wom...”

“You are a very attractive female, Molly. Have no doubt about that.”

Our conversation was interrupted by the sound of engines. Looking out of the window I saw the helicopter pad illuminated and a machine hovering above the pad. If this was Vince Cowan arriving then he must have tremendous clout to be able to summon up a helicopter at a moment’s notice to fly him to Bury St Edmunds. I looked at my watch, 2030 hrs on the nose.

“This must be my meeting arriving. I shouldn’t be too long; he is only here to pick up a diary.”

She looked surprised. “Someone has travelled by chopper from... ?”

“Manchester,” I said

“Just to pick up a diary? Whose diary is it, Meghan Markle’s?”

“Arnold Rampley’s, which seems to be even more important than hers.”

The helicopter landed and the engine stopped, but the rotor blades continued slowly to rotate. I saw a figure get from the cabin and run, head down, towards the Hall.

I got from my chair, “I’d best go down and meet him,” I said to Molly.

“I’ll wait here while you finish your business, Joshua,” she said, and then leaned into me and kissed me warmly on the lips. “That’s for being a pleasant dinner companion, and for being jealous of Martin.”

“I wasn’t being – “ I shut up as I saw her smiling in the way women do when they know they are right about something. Besides, her kiss had sent a jolt to my groin in a similar manner as had Maddy’s unexpected canteen kiss just a few days ago. It must be something to do with the secluded table I thought as I hurried downstairs to meet Vince.

He was at the reception desk flirting with the receptionist and then looked up and saw me. “Josh, what a sight for sore eyes!”