The Illusionists

Chapter 1

England 2018

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Nervously, the man glanced up and down the narrow, litter-strewn passageway before slipping, silently, out of the rear service door of the seedy hotel. Although June and still only 9-30 in the morning, thick, rain-threatening clouds offered a damp start to the English day and as he felt a splash of water on his prematurely balding scalp, the man’s pace increased automatically.

It was as he approached the underpass, beneath the railway station, that he noticed the vehicle. It was a white, Ford Transit van; it had black-tinted windows and was parked some 70-yards ahead of him, on the left-hand side of the road – his side of the road. He stopped. The vehicle appeared innocuous, it was old, filthy and shed-like, the index number plate so covered in grime it was barely readable. Over the rear doors and written by a careless, untrained and apparently unsteadied hand, in black paint, were the words, ‘No tools stored in vehicle overnight’. A builder’s van, he quickly concluded, probably belonging to someone working in the station – of course. So – why was he so concerned about a workman’s van? He shook his head at the sheer stupidity of the question; for he knew, only too well, why.

Still stationary, the rain was now drumming harder and more insistently on his naked head but reluctant to move forward, he glanced, cautiously, up and down the street. With no rush hour it was, except for a couple of pigeons foraging in the rubbish-strewn gutter, deserted. Dressed only in shirt, jeans and trainers, he was rapidly becoming soaked and he needed to get out of the rain. For a further ten or so seconds he stared at the white van, not quite knowing what he was looking for, uncertain as to just what would make him more relaxed about it. Then he heard the dead woman’s voice, heard it as clearly as if she were stood next to him. ‘They could be onto you, Jan; someone’s been talking to people about you, asking questions – you must hide until you can get away, get somewhere safe.’ But he had been hiding, hiding for weeks and now he had to___

The lightning bolt which lit up the northern sky as though it were the middle of a bright summer’s day was instantly followed by a clap of intimidating and ear-shattering thunder. In his nervous, almost paranoid condition, the sudden and unexpected beginnings of the electric storm so surprised him that he jumped, literally, almost a foot into the air. Then, as the heavens finally and decisively opened, he threw all caution to the wind and began to run, as fast as he could, towards the dry and welcoming sanctuary of the underpass ahead.

He had almost passed the stationary vehicle when the passenger door was suddenly and violently thrown open in front of him. Unable to stop, he ran straight into it, hitting his face on the fully closed window. Like an overripe soft fruit, dropped from a great height onto a concrete floor, his nose exploded sending a shower of bright red blood onto his shirt, jeans and trainers. Then, as semi-consciously, he recoiled from the almost catastrophic impact, he felt himself being tackled from behind. His assailant was strong, very strong; but as his right arm was folded neatly, and seemingly effortlessly, up his back and towards his shoulders, it was not the man’s great strength that concerned him, it was the large, razor-sharp knife, held in his antagonist’s gloved left hand. Now, with the knife’s tip merely a couple of centimetres away from his throat and with his heart-rate quickened by the dramatically increased flow of adrenaline, Jan Kessel, by now literally paralysed with fear, could only wait for the inevitable. It came less than a second later and with massive, fountain-like haemorrhaging from his highly pressurised carotid artery, Jan’s twenty-four years, six months and three days of life came to an abrupt, blood-soaked and extremely violent, end.

*

Detective Sergeant Julie Barlow stared at the blue and white incident tape fluttering in the light breeze and pulled an irritating wisp of bright red hair from her eyes. Then, after re-entering the forensic tent, returned her attention to the scarlet-coloured mess at her feet. Slowly, she lifted her head and focused on the elderly, cadaverous looking man, who, with the aid of an ancient, hand-held analogue Dictaphone and whilst using stilted, stentorian tones, was studiously completing his notes. ‘Finished?’ she asked, as he switched the device off. Doctor Raymond Herbert Simpson, Home Office pathologist, serial prima donna and lifetime whinger, nodded disinterestedly. ‘And?’ she insisted.

The pathologist chuckled. ‘Undoubted cause of death – loss of blood,’ he replied, an unseen, impish grin spreading quickly across his bearded face. Then, mumbling almost incoherently through his mask, ‘probably due to his neck straying far, far too close to an extremely sharp razor or similar, instrument.’

‘You mean he might have cut himself shaving?’ put in Graeme Reynolds, the senior scenes of crime officer.

‘Have you both finished fucking about?’ asked Barlow, who whilst never usually prim, was not prepared to ignore what she considered to be both infantile and disrespectful gallows humour. ‘It’s all right for you two happy buggers, I’m probably the sucker who has to tell Chummy’s mother here how near he came to losing his head – like – completely!’

‘We have finished, but pull your hood up, Julie,’ replied Reynolds, whilst checking LCD images of the corpse on the screen of his digital camera, ‘if H arrives he’ll give you a good stuffing for being inadequately dressed.’

‘I know, but it’s so bloody hot today,’ sighed Barlow, feeling only marginally calmer. ‘Anyway, there’s not much chance of H arriving, control can’t get hold of him.’

Reynolds grunted. ‘So, what’s new, these days?’

As he spoke, the clock of the nearby Church of St Mary in the Vale tolled three. Three o’clock on a sunny, Sunday afternoon, thought Barlow. Three o’clock and while all her mates were down the pub, getting slowly and sublimely stoned on a good Australian white, where the hell was she?

‘I’ll do the PM first thing in the morning,’ said Simpson, moving towards the doorway. ‘Tell H he can have his report by sixteen hundred, tomorrow.’

‘What shall I tell him in the meantime?’ she asked, following him out of the tent.

The aging medic turned and eyed her, testily. ‘What I’ve already told you, of course,’ he replied, petulantly, as he removed his mask. ‘He’ll have my full report by four tomorrow, good day to you, sergeant.’

Barlow watched him as he swaggered off towards the end of the street and his car. ‘Poser, bloody overpaid poser,’ she observed, to no one in particular.

‘Who?’ asked a voice in her right ear.

Startled, she quickly turned and although the questioner was fully overalled and masked, she instantly recognized the dark, brown-eyes of the head of North Midland’s Constabulary CID, Detective Chief Superintendant Robert Michaels. ‘Oh...no one,’ she replied, dismissively, ‘just thinking aloud – that’s all, sir.’

Michaels nodded. ‘Is H here?’

‘No, sir,’ she confirmed, ‘but he should be along any minute.’

‘Really, what makes you so certain, has someone contacted him at last?’

Barlow grimaced, she should have realised that Michaels only reason for showing on a Sunday was that his deputy had gone AWOL. The problem was that she was anything but certain. In fact, at that moment in time almost no one in the whole constabulary had so much as the faintest clue where the senior duty CID officer actually was. ‘Well...I...’

Michaels looked into the thirty-year-old police officer’s pale, blue eyes, smiled and placed a friendly hand on her shoulder. ‘Your loyalty’s very commendable, Julie, I wish I had had you as my winger. Now cut the bullshit, do you have any idea where H is or where he might be?’

Barlow looked at the footpath. The fact of the matter was that she did have an extremely good idea as to precisely where he was and just what he was up to. ‘Possibly, sir.’

Michaels began walking towards the tent doorway. ‘Thought so, you’d better tell me everything you know about our friend in here then bugger off and get him. I can only cover for H for so long; for some unknown reason the Press are taking an unhealthy interest in this one, as are the Home Office; therefore the ACC wants a comprehensive wash-up with both of us, later.’

*

Detective Superintendent Harry H. Harrington MC QPM, was precisely where Barlow had thought he would be. She spotted him almost as soon as she climbed out of her car and she gritted her teeth, stoically, as she began walking purposefully towards him.

‘Thought I’d find you here,’ she said, trying not to look or sound in any way either sympathetic or judgemental.

The tall, dark-haired, grey-eyed, senior police officer and former Royal Marine Commando glanced up at her disinterestedly. Although wearing an expensive looking dark business suit, complete with white shirt and loose-fitting tie, he was sitting, or rather lying, on a recently dug grave; his back supported by a new, highly polished, black marble memorial stone and whilst giving the appearance of someone not quite fully under the influence of the contents of the bottle, tightly and possessively clutched in his right hand, Barlow nonetheless quickly concluded that he was very definitely getting there.

When he spoke it was not only without interest, it was without any kind of emotion whatsoever, indeed, he did not even bother to look at her. ‘Do I have to swear at you obscenely?’ he asked, quietly. ‘Or will just a casual, Foxtrot Oscar suffice?’

She sighed, sadly, before glancing around the peaceful graveyard. Apart from an elderly couple, placing flowers on a well-weathered plot some fifty metres away, the large, ancient churchyard seemed totally deserted. However, the ancient burial ground was alive with the sounds of summer as bees droned busily about their business and other insects buzzed and whined, irritatingly, past her ears. Somewhere, in the near distance, a collared dove cooed its persistent, vain, and centuries’ old message of world peace into the warm, sleepy afternoon whilst in the nearby village of Middlestone-on-Duran, a dog barked, loudly, incessantly and annoyingly. Barlow bit her lip and looked back at her leader. ‘There’s been a murder, sir, Michaels wants you back at division, like – right now.’

Harrington chuckled without humour, as though amused she thought he should treat such news with any form of seriousness. He pulled a radio and a mobile phone out of his pocket and threw them on the disturbed soil at his side. ‘I know, they’ve been shouting me for hours, I turned the bloody things off.’

Barlow frowned and looked down at the man she had only worked with for four months; the man universally and affectionately known as ‘H’, the man whom she had the highest possible regard for. ‘H was the best,’ went the general, canteen consensus, and to the real ‘Job’ cognoscenti, tired of the constant whining about inadequate and poor policing by Joe Public, he was one of the very best things to have happened to provincial law enforcement for a long, long time. That was until five weeks ago, five weeks ago when out of the blue his happy and contented world had fallen apart. ‘The ACC wants you there as well,’ she said. ‘My car’s parked in the lane, I’ll run you in; you can hardly drive in this state.’

Harrington opened his mouth to say something, something very strong, unkind and impolite; something which would have been totally and completely unjustified, quite out of character and which he knew, deep down in the large, decent part of his psyche, would have lessened him as a man. He remained silent.

Barlow played her ace. ‘I’m pretty sure the dead man is Kessel,’ she said, slowly.

For the first time since her arrival, Harrington actually looked at her with a degree of interest. ‘Jan Kessel? Our Kessel? The Kessel we’ve been...?’

She nodded.

‘You’re positive?’

She nodded again. ‘As near as, possible, at this stage; he had Kessel’s ID on him, including a passport. I’ve matched his image up with records at CRO, it all fits, SOCO will confirm prints tomorrow.’

‘Tell me about it,’ he snapped, suddenly sounding sober and more attentive.

She told him everything she knew then offered him a hand. ‘You know, sir, Ffion’s watching,’ she began, ‘she won’t be happy to see you like this; she won’t want you falling apart. So – are you going to come?’

Once again Harrington opened his mouth but instead of saying anything took the proffered hand and climbed, slowly and unsteadily to his feet. Although the nearby murder scene had suffered a torrential downpour earlier that day, in keeping with localised, seasonal phenomena, it had not rained for weeks in the micro-climate of Middlestone. As Harrington began to move away therefore, Barlow stopped him and with her hand began brushing bright, red soil off the back of his jacket and trousers. As she did so the elderly couple, their tasks completed and now on their way back to the main road, glanced, enquiringly, in the police officers’ direction. They noted the dust on Harrington’s back, the whisky bottle in his hand and the clear signs that someone, or some people, had been lying on the rust-coloured soil of the recently made grave.

Harrington and Barlow saw the expressions on their appalled faces, guessing without difficulty the macabre assumptions the couple had seemingly flown to and as the policewoman finished dusting her boss down, Harrington managed, for the first time in what seemed like a lifetime, a wry, knowing smile. Then, they too began walking out of the graveyard towards, for the senior detective, an appointment with the corpse of the man wanted in connection with the brutal death of his beautiful young wife, some thirty-five days earlier.

*

The headquarters of NMC was housed in Atterton Hall, a former Georgian manor house overlooking a small, natural lake on the outskirts of the ancient village of Burton Mere. An hour and half after being rescued from oblivion by Barlow, four cups of black, treacle-like coffee, and a lightning visit to the murder scene, Harrington found himself inside the ancient building in the company of Chief Superintendent Michaels and Assistant Chief Constable Sharon Lang. Lang was the force’s head of CID and counter-terrorism, the latter term being a euphemism for Special Branch.

The meeting was being held in one of a number of small conference rooms and although promised by the ACC to be ‘quite informal’, Lang, a well-known serial control addict, had nonetheless made a beeline for the head of the table as soon as the three officers entered the room together. As she took her seat she opened a buff-coloured folder marked ‘SECRET’, removed a number of papers from it and with an expressionless, poker-face, scowled at Harrington.

‘H,’ she began, matter-of-factly, ‘perhaps you can give us an overview of what we definitely know.’

For a moment Harrington stared back at her, studiously. Lang was in her mid-forties, had short, grey-hair, was easily fifty pounds overweight, unattractive on an industrial scale and to the surprise, and therefore perhaps shame of most of those who stereotyped her on first meeting, was neither gay nor single.

‘Well, it’s very early days, ma’am,’ he began, ‘but it seems the victim, a twenty-four-year-old white male, had his throat cut early this morning. His body was found near the underpass of Disdon Railway Station, by a passer-by. It is thought the location is the murder scene; oh yes, a summer storm had been in progress before and continued for some time after the killing.’

‘And?’ said Lang.

Harrington, annoyed by but powerless to comment on Lang’s patronising manner, shrugged. ‘And therefore, potentially, making Forensics’ task much more difficult, ma’am.’

Lang frowned and shook her head. ‘And meant what is the identity of the victim?’

Harrington smiled, grimly. ‘Unconfirmed but likely to be a man called Kessel,’ he replied, quietly, ‘Jan Joseph Kessel.’

Lang’s eyes hardened. ‘Who is currently pencilled in for___?’

Harrington’s own eyes had now taken on the hue of black granite and they fixed those of the ACC with a strength so compelling they made her feel extremely uncomfortable. As he looked at her the thought crossed his mind that had she had the appropriate biological ‘software’ fitted in her brain, had she been in any way capable of relating to the often complicated and diverse psychology of others, she might just have realised how awesomely patronising and with it, belittling, she was being. However, with the social side of her psyche inadequately ‘wired-up’ and therefore permanently malfunctioning, he accepted, reluctantly and pragmatically, that she did not. ‘According to Ffion’s diary, there is strong evidence to suggest that Kessel was in regular contact with my wife before she was murdered, as you bloody well know.’

Michaels glanced at his subordinate and colleague, anxiously. He knew the former marine was normally in possession of an iron-hard self-discipline; however, experience had demonstrated to him, on more than one occasion, that there could be a disconcerting, mercurial element to Harrington’s personality, a worryingly unstable characteristic much better left deeply buried and quietly undisturbed.

Years of practice allowed Lang to take the insubordination in her stride and she almost ignored it. ‘Exactly,’ she began, ‘the rules regarding officers investigating crimes they have a personal, and or serious emotional interest in, are quite clear as you well know, H. In view of this I’m very surprised you’ve not volunteered to stand down already, although the tragedy of your personal circumstances, and therefore your interest in finding the killer, or killers of your wife is well understood; as is your lack of respect to a senior officer which, under the circumstances I am, on this occasion, prepared to forget.’

Harrington’s face remained expressionless as he knew how hollow Lang’s words were. Then, to his surprise, Michaels uncharacteristically chipped in supportively.

‘I was going to discuss it with H later, ma’am; all this has blown up so quickly I’ve not had time___’

‘Were you indeed?’ she returned, sounding both unconvinced and uninterested. ‘Well I’m very sorry, H, but I have no alternative but to formally instruct you to have nothing more to do with this enquiry, nothing whatsoever, do I make myself absolutely clear?’

‘Crystal,’ returned Harrington, his tone betraying both boredom and annoyance.’

Lang was becoming impatient. ‘Listen, you know as well as I do that if this murder is not cracked in four weeks time there will be a case review by another constabulary. If the reviewers discover you’ve been within five miles of an investigation, with possible connections to the murder of your own wife, I’ll be back on the streets dishing out fixed-penalties before they’ve caught the bus home.’

Harrington nodded pragmatically. Although far from happy with what he was hearing he was fully grown and he knew, deep down and grudgingly, that his boss was right; that to argue or even plead with her would be both wrong and pointless. The problem was that he hated Lang and all her ambitious ‘I’m all right Jack bugger you’, works and as she droned on about how enormous her many responsibilities were, his mind drifted back to a virtual lecture he had given a subordinate chief inspector a few weeks earlier. A lecture he later considered given after far, far too many pints of lager.

‘The problem with Lang,’ he had expounded, ‘is that she is totally vocation orientated; with her there is no rule-bending, no compromise, nothing that can, in any way, bounce back and bite her later. A committed careerist, that none of her superiors would ever dream of shagging, her life experience has given her an unbalanced view of the world in general and men in particular. And with no interest shown in her sexually, she has always had to impress by results alone, subsequently climbing the greasy pole the hard way; something, I have to accept, she has done with consummate ease and undoubted skill.

‘Additionally, because of this virtually lifelong disinterest shown to her by the opposite gender, she hates, almost pathologically, most men and all their testosteronal and misunderstood works. She is therefore a woman with, in some ways, a quite brilliant but nevertheless empathetically dysfunctional mind who, because of her serial grudges and paranoia, has spent the last twenty-five years of her life religiously ensuring she is completely, utterly and absolutely – fireproof. In so doing convincing most of those needing convincing that she possessed an irrefutably skilled and safe pair of hands, despite the fact that she nearly always treated her subordinates like something usually removed with a scraper from a pig farmer’s boot.’

The sound of Michael’s harsh, guttural voice returned Harrington’s mind to the meeting.

‘I’ll run with it,’ said Michaels, ‘I was going to suggest that anyway.’

Lang shook her head, vigorously. ‘No need, I’m handing the entire case over to DCI Robinson,’ she replied, bluntly.

Michaels frowned. ‘Special Branch?’

She nodded. ‘He’s not too busy at the moment and I’ve had some intel that there may be security implications in the case.’

‘Like what?’ asked Harrington, surprised at the revelation.

‘Like, if it’s security then you don’t need-to-know, H,’ she returned, dismissively.

‘But Robinson hasn’t got the experience to run with a full-blown murder enquiry,’ complained Michaels. ‘He was a bloody traffic inspector for six years before getting the Branch job, and a drill sergeant in Training before that. Teaching probationers how to march and nicking motorists for speeding and dodgy tyres is hardly a recommendation for this job. And where’s he going to get experienced homicide investigation staff from? Most of his people are far too busy learning Arabic, Urdu and how Jihadists in Bradford and the Hindu Kush are being trained to blow up our busses and trains. At the end of the day he’s going to have to use my people, so why not give me what I’m paid for and trained to do?’

‘London,’ replied Lang.

‘Sorry?’

‘He’s getting all the trained staff he needs from London.’

‘You mean the Met?’ asked Harrington, incredulously.

‘I mean fucking London!’ she snapped. ‘Now___’ As she spoke, her mobile phone, which was on the table in front of her, began to vibrate, annoyingly. She snatched at it, pressed the talk key, said ‘yes’ and began listening.

Also listening, hard, Harrington thought he heard the words ‘visitor’ and ‘urgent’.

‘I’m going to have to wrap this,’ she began whilst switching off the mobile. ‘it seems I have a visitor. Thank you for coming, good evening gentlemen.’ Halfway to the door she suddenly stopped and looked back at a shell-shocked Harrington. ‘Oh, H, I almost forgot to mention it, you’ve not booked any compassionate yet.’

‘No ma’am,’ he replied, ’don’t need to.’

‘Disagree, I hear you’ve not been on top of your game for weeks and it took hours to find you today, I’ve seen the control room log. You look knackered, H, have a couple of weeks in the garden, fully paid for by the taxpayer, they owe you.’

Two weeks off work with nothing to do but think about Ffion was the last thing he needed and he tried to object. ‘But...but...’

‘No buts,’ returned Lang, by now almost fully through the conference room door and seemingly talking to fresh-air. ‘I’ve already booked it for you with Admin, see you in two weeks – enjoy.’

*

Ten minutes later, as Barlow drove both men back to Divisional HQ, Michaels whistled though his teeth. ‘Something is very much amiss here, H; in fact I smell a warehouse full of extremely large and very unhealthy rats.’

‘Did you notice Robinson’s car parked up?’ asked Harrington, staring through the windscreen and noticing that the day had brightened considerably. ‘The black BMW with the personalized plate, next to the red Picasso; this is not something new, something arranged at the drop of a hat. Giving a former Black Rat a murder enquiry just has to have been a thought-through contingency and can therefore only be political.’

‘I think you’re right,’ agreed Michaels. ‘What do we know about him, apart from his Training and Traffic background?’

‘Bugger all, really,’ replied Harrington. ‘He’s married with three kids, avidly supports Wolverhampton Wanderers and keeps himself very much to himself.’

‘How the hell do you know he’s a Wolves’ supporter,’ asked Michaels.

‘We drove down to the Smoke together last year, for a one day seminar on al-Qaeda; it came out in the conversation.’

‘Robinson went on a one day seminar on al-Qaeda?’ exclaimed Michaels incredulously. ‘I know money’s a bit tight nowadays but for Special Branch to only have a one day seminar about one of our deadliest enemies___’

Harrington chuckled. ‘Don’t panic; Robinson was helping with the presentation; he was tasked with running a work group after the main lecture.’

‘Thank God for that,’ sighed Michaels, suddenly feeling safer in his bed.

‘Excuse me, sir, do you mean DCI Robinson, from Branch?’ asked Barlow.

Both men had been so immersed in their conversation they had almost forgotten Barlow, the driver, was there. ‘Yes,’ replied Harrington.

‘I know he’s having an affair, sir, if that helps.’

‘Intel!’ exclaimed Michaels, gleefully and after having been so badly abused by his superior, throwing caution to the wind, ‘not with ACC Lang I trust and hope?’

‘Oh no, but he’s been giving his sister-in-law one for the past two years at least,’ said Barlow.

‘How do you know?’ asked Harrington.

‘Because I went out with a Traffic officer for six months last year; he told me.’

‘And he knows because?’ asked Michaels.

‘Because, following a complaint from a member of the public, Traffic caught them In Flagranti thingie, in a lay-by. Bollock naked and going at it like a couple of rabbits so they were, at least, that’s what I was told.’

‘Delicto,’ said Michaels.

‘Sorry, sir?’ said Barlow.

‘In flagranti delicto,’ helped Michaels. ‘It’s Latin and a rough, modern translation is – getting caught behaving like a couple of rabbits, in the back of a car, with your trousers around your ankles.’

Harrington chuckled. ‘I’ve not heard anything about that on the vine.’

‘Me neither,’ added Michaels sounding equally unconvinced.

‘I was told it was all hushed up by an old Traffic sergeant buddy of his, that’s why,’ qualified Barlow.

‘Really,’ said Harrington, his policeman’s mind quietly thinking of potential downstream leverage, should it ever be required. ‘Putting it that way, the story does have some credence.’

‘I’m also told he uses his alleged allegiance to Wolverhampton Wanderers as a front for his extracurricular,’ added Barlow.

‘How?’ said Michaels.

‘On a Saturday, when Wolves are playing footie, he’s usually playing away, shooting penalties in a seedy hotel with his trollop.’

‘Is this from Traffic again?’ asked Harrington.

She shook her head. ‘No, sir, last Christmas, at the Branch section do and with his tongue seriously loosened by rum and coke, he gave a friend of mine chapter and verse about his awesome sexual prowess. He finished by suggesting he had friends in extremely high places and that he could ease her journey to sergeant if she made a guest appearance with him and his sister-in-law for an afternoon threesome.’

‘He probably thought he could score more goals that way,’ suggested Harrington, actually chuckling for the first time in over five weeks.

‘Did she?’ asked Michaels.

No, sir.’

‘Didn’t like Robinson, huh?’

‘Didn’t like the look of his sister-in-law, apparently he showed her a photograph.’