Hanging Hill - Mo Hayder [89]
‘Right – that rules out some of these. Tell you what, keep scrolling down. There are four at the bottom who both came to Bristol from London. No photos but they’re all listed as IC ones – white.’
‘Yup. I see them. Jo Gordon-Catling? Doesn’t sound right – but I’d like to see him.’
‘I’ve just had his photo come through this morning. I’ll scan it when we get off the line and send it over to you. The last three photos are coming directly from your force targeting team. The case officer’s got your email address. He’ll send you photos later.’
She put her finger on the screen, looking at the last names. ‘Mark Rainer?’
‘Yup. They still haven’t nicked him but he’s wanted for importing porn that breached the Sexual Offences Act – S and M stuff and, of course, the law’s all changed on that. Richard Rose – he’s small-time, hasn’t been active for years; we think he’s gone straight, but might be worth a look. The last one’s the biggest hitter of the lot – got overseas connections. Military. In the late nineties he was using Special Boat Squadron guys to smuggle nasty stuff into the country – paying them a grand a pop to bring a launch in through Poole, used a mooring in one of those millionaire pads on Sandbanks. The Met’s Organized Crime Group has got him firmly on their radar, not to mention their e-crime unit – even the Specialist Investigations Directorate at the Inland Revenue have given him a good hiding. But this boy’s as slippery as a butcher’s you-know-what. They just can’t make it stick.’
‘OK. What’s his name?’
‘Goldrab.’
‘Goldrab?’
‘That’s right. David Adam Goldrab.’
2
It was hot in the office. The printer was still whirring, churning out hot sheets of paper. Zoë stared at the names, willing them to mean something – to convey something to her. Marc Rainer, Jo Gordon-Catling, Richard Rose, David Goldrab. ‘Come on, London Tarn,’ she murmured. ‘Which one is you?’
None of the documentation helped. She needed a face to put to the details. But the emails from SOCA and the targeting team could take ages. She pushed back her chair, wandered out into the kitchen at the end of the corridor and put on the kettle. Waiting for it to boil, she stood at the window, idly looking down into the car park. There were marked vehicles moving around down there, in and out, pedestrians coming and going. Finding London Tarn, after all these years? She wasn’t sure how she felt about that at all.
She was about to turn away when she noticed an officer and a teenage boy in school uniform coming across the forecourt. She put her forehead against the window. She recognized the thatch of blond hair. It was Peter Cyrus – Millie’s friend. Frowning, she switched off the kettle and went out into the corridor. DC Goods was coming out of the incident room, scanning a memo.
‘Goodsy?’
He looked up. ‘Hmm?’
‘One of Ralph Hernandez’s friends is in the building. Peter Cyrus. Any idea what that’s about?’
He cocked his head on one side. ‘Don’t you know?’
‘Don’t I know what?’
‘About the CCTV.’
‘What CCTV?’
‘I thought everyone knew.’
‘Well, probably everyone does. Just not me. You know.’ She tapped her forehead. ‘I’ve got that sign here that says, “Important information to share? Please ensure I’m the last person you tell.”’
He shrugged apologetically. ‘Ben’s had a team trawling the pubs. The ones Hernandez was supposed to be drinking in with his mates?’
‘Ye-es,’ she said cautiously.
‘Well, he wasn’t there. None of them were. We’ve interviewed regulars and the bar staff, who’ve checked till receipts and CCTV. They’ve all been lying.’
3
Zoë couldn’t see Peter Cyrus anywhere, but she found Nial Sweetman sitting in a surly huddle in the reception area. She saw him through the glass door as she came down the corridor and knew from his face he’d rather be anywhere than there. He glanced up at the sound of the door opening, and when he saw it was her, a faint ray of hope crossed his face. She shook her head. ‘No. It’s not