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©Ian Gosling 2008
THE PUPPET MASTER
by
Ian Gosling
Prologue
Tuesday 6th May 2003
The flight gave Barton time
to reflect on the events of the last few days.
Four men had died. But
they’d had it coming and deserved to die painfully, victims only of their own
greed. The world was a better, safer place without them. He gave them no more
thought.
He allowed himself to shed
a tear or two, as he thought about the girls – maybe he could have saved them –
Innocent, vulnerable girls; taken from their homes and their families, by a man
who had promised them a new life; a better life. But the man had lied, just like
he lied to all the others. They’d been shipped across Europe, like cattle,
crammed together for days, inside dark, stinking, filthy metal compartments,
hidden in the walls of a container truck, with barely enough food and water to
keep them alive. And then he had sold them to other men; again and again and
again. The man who had done this to them was dead now, but Barton would never be
able to tell them that. He closed his eyes and saw Naida again; her cold
lifeless body, lying battered and bloody at his feet. And her sister: Only
fourteen years old, for God’s sake! They’d found her in the bath, the waters
stained red as the blood flowed slowly from her open veins. There was no ‘maybe’
– if he’d just been satisfied with what they already had, and made a move
earlier – he could have saved them. But he’d wanted more.
He thought about the team
of people he’d left behind; his team. He could still see the looks of
disappointment when they realised that it might all be over, and the relief when
they learned that they’d been given more time. They’d given everything, but they
still wanted to give more: And for what? Months of work had been
screwed up in a weekend: And what had they got? Not the great result that
he’d promised: Another month? They were getting very close, and that just
might have been long enough. But it had all gone wrong. It wasn’t their fault,
no one could have anticipated it; it had just happened. But then, he’d made the
wrong call and it had turned into a disaster – Why hadn’t he agreed to close it
down when he had the chance? Why had he been so sure that he could get more? –
They deserved better than the second prize, and now it was up to him to turn it
round.
Then he thought of Grace;
selfishly at first, because he needed her to help him get through the next few
weeks, like she always did at this time of the year. And he needed her to guide
him and help him to understand what he was up against. Understand how a man
could be like that. But he hadn’t been fair to her and he couldn’t go on being
selfish. He had to put things right. There was so much that they needed to talk
about. So much that had to change. Things had already changed, but he had to
give her a lot more. This wasn’t a good time for them to be apart. What his wife
needed most now was for him to be with her, to support her, to show how much he
loved her. She needed him to give her his time; but he didn’t have any of that
to give. Not yet.
As the plane flew low over
the mountains, beginning its descent towards the coast, he looked out of the
window. Somewhere down there, lived a man who enjoyed a life a million miles
removed from the hell, that Naida and the others had endured. The man he had to
find if he was to put an end to this.
He wasn’t sure what he
would feel when he met him again, but he knew it would be hard to put his
personal feelings aside. They’d met before; twenty years earlier, but he doubted
that the man would remember. Barton would never forget, and it was going to be
difficult. But he knew he had to keep focussed – somehow he had to shut the
ghost out of his mind – and concentrate on the job.
Why was he so sure about
this man? He had no evidence, just coincidences, speculation, and gut feeling.
He was going out on a limb, but his instincts had served him well in the past
and something told him that this time was no different. He was certain this was
the man.
He’d come to find out what
the man knew; to ask questions, and find clues that would help prove his
suspicions. And, he had to give him a message. A message from a man lying in a
hospital bed; tubes sticking out of his broken body, electrodes stuck to his
skin, his face creased with pain, knowing that this his life was over. Just a
few words, whispered by a dying man: ‘Lenny … talk to Lenny … I let him down
… tell him, I’m sorry … tell him … I love him’.
Chapter 1
Monday 28th April 2003
Dagenham,
East London – 04:00 BST
Detective Constable Phil
Fellows eased off the accelerator, and watched as the black Mercedes turned off
the main road and led the two vans into the industrial estate. He carried on past
the turning and parked his car at the side of the road. He knew where they were
going and followed on foot, calling in his position as he walked towards the
truck depot. By the time he got to the gates, the three vehicles were already in
the yard, hidden from view by the rows of parked trailers. He kept low, creeping
beneath the trailers until he found a good vantage point. There was no moon, and
the scene in front of him was illuminated only by the yellow glow of the
streetlamps, in the road behind the yard, and the reflections in the
windscreens.
The rear doors of the vans
were open, and a group of men were standing by the car. The driver of the car
got out, and for a few seconds a bulky figure in the back seat was visible in
the soft glow of the car’s interior light. The driver had his back to Fellows
the smooth skin of his shaven head reflecting the glow of the streetlamps. But,
although he couldn’t see the man’s face, he knew who he was. Marcus Preston was
a giant of a man and he towered above the others, as he spoke to them and
pointed towards a large box trailer. Two of the men returned to the vans, and
the others followed Preston as he walked to the trailer. He unlocked the back,
and the men disappeared inside, as the vans reversed towards to the trailer.
Fellows watched as they
transferred the cargo. He was in his shirtsleeves and shivered in the chill
night air. As it began to rain – small puddles appearing on the ground, giving
the streetlamps a hundred new mirrors to reflect their light – he regretted
leaving his coat in the car. The men were unloaded first and herded into one of
the vans, then a dozen girls, and several large packages were packed into the
other. He’d witnessed similar exchanges before. He knew that, the men probably
had another long, uncomfortable journey ahead of them; the girls and the drugs
had only a few more miles to travel. One of the men threw a bundle from the back
of the trailer. In the darkness, Fellows couldn’t make out whether it was a man
or a woman. Preston bent down and shook the lifeless figure; then he shook his
head, picked up the body, and bundled it back into the trailer. He locked the
trailer doors, and ran to the car, followed by the two van drivers. The man in
the back seat lowered the rear window and spoke to them; his face hidden in the
shadows.
Fellows had seen enough.
And, as the rain became heavier, turning the small puddles into larger pools and
running streams, he retreated to the shelter of his car, and called his control
room.
National
Crime Squad, Hertfordshire Branch - 06:25
BST
Detective Chief Inspector Mike Barton was a worried man. He’d
been worrying since he got the call from the Assistant Chief Constable’s office
last week. Barton had been running Operation De Niro for nearly a year and this
was only the second time that the ACC had asked for a full briefing and an early
morning one too. Barton knew it spelt trouble ...
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©Ian Gosling 2008
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