LJ went ahead of the policemen towards the kitchen, and checked the back door for any signs of forced entry. He then went through each room in turn. “There doesn’t appear to have been a break in officers, and as far as I can tell there’s absolutely nothing missing or out of place.”
The officer in charge took a few minutes to write up a brief report, and LJ was asked to read and sign it. When they had left, he went, and poured two large whiskies. Annabelle downed hers in one gulp, and then said goodnight. Levenson-Jones poured himself another generous measure of whisky before moving to one of the Chesterfield sofas, and slumping down on to the antique leather. Sitting forward, he held his glass up to the portrait of Winston Churchill, and toasted the great man.
At the same time he made a mental note to have his technical support chap, Vince Sharp come round in the morning, and check the place for fingerprints. He was sure that the painting had been perfectly level before.
Six miles away in the East End of London, the sound of trains could be heard rumbling on the heavy metal track high above the run-down side street. Sending dust down from the exposed rafters, and vibrations through the very structure of the Victorian railway arches, and into the lockup.
Slater and Black sat eating pepperoni pizza from Gino’s, and complaining about the noise from the trains, while intently watching the monitor screen. Headphones kept out the noise above, and enabled them to hear what was being said at Belgrave Mews. The miniature bugging devices that Slater had placed inside the apartment were now active, and they could here and see the police officers, and LJ talking in the kitchen. So a nosy neighbour had spotted them.
“Um, very unfortunate, that is Black,” Slater said aloud, the hairs on the back of his neck stood up, and a shiver ran down his spine. Whoever she was would almost certainly be able to pick out the two young criminals with the bottle-blond cropped hair in a line-up? Malakoff will be furious that they’ve been so amateurish as to bring attention to themselves. Of that he had no doubt. The only option was to eliminate the witness, whoever she was.
Slater calmly picked up the phone, and dialled the number of a certain Detective Sergeant within the Metropolitan Police. This one owed his very recent promotion to a tip off that Slater had given him, which resulted in the downfall of a big-time drug dealer. Five minutes later the phone beside him started to ring, and he picked it up, and listened carefully, writing down the name and address that was given to him. He hung up without saying a word, the debt had been re-paid in full. Switching the twenty-four hour recorders over to automatic, Slater got up, and went to the back of the lock-up to an old rusty metal cabinet that was dented down one side, and bolted to a brick wall.
Opening the steel door he swung it around to reveal what was inside. He studied the array of weapons for a few moments, before extracting a Walther PPK with a silencer already attached for himself, and a sawn off shotgun for Black. Before closing the cabinet door, he reached in, and picked up a syringe along with a small ampoule bottle that he then carefully placed into his jacket pocket.
Slater slowly pulled on his soft black leather gloves, set the alarm and bolted the double doors at the front of the lock up. He turned, and looked up and down the dimly lit street, before walking across to where Black was already sitting behind the wheel of the stolen Ferrari, the engine running and false plates attached. At that time of night, the journey to the Belgrave Mews address that they had been given would only take them fifteen minutes.
After parking the bright red Italian sports car in a vacant space, three roads away. They walked back to number fifty-one Belgrave Mews, finding that there were no lights on, and the curtains had been pulled tightly together. The owner was hopefully at home, and by now fast asleep.
Black remained hidden outside while Slater entered through the back door. He stood just inside the room for a moment to let his eyes adjust to the darkness. The house was deathly quite and the only sound came from a wall clock in the hall. Slater moved through the ground floor, and then went up the stairs. His footsteps fell silently on to the thick carpet of the landing. He found the bedroom at the far end on the right. The door was slightly ajar, and creaked somewhat noisily on it’s hinges, as he pushed it open. He stood motionless in the darkness, did not even dare to breath, for fear of waking the old woman. His head was pounding, and he could hear his own heart beat under his clothing, after a minute of waiting, he carefully moved through the partially open doorway.
Once inside, he crouched down low and moved stealthily, like a cat, to the end of the bed where he remained motionless for a few seconds while he deliberated his next move. He knew that he had to administer the lethal injection into a part of the body where it would not be easily spotted by the police or an experienced pathologist.
He decided on the area of flesh just above, and behind the ankle. Lifting back the corner of the duvet, the old woman who had so foolishly informed on them remained still in her slumber. Even when the fine needle pricked the delicate parchment like skin, she didn’t stir.
Ten seconds later her heart had stopped beating. Slater stood up, and replaced the protective cap over the needle, before putting it back into his jacket pocket. Walking to the other end of the bed he checked the frail body for a pulse, when there wasn’t one, he allowed himself a congratulatory smile for a job well done, and then left, closing the bedroom door softly behind him.
“That elderly lady at number fifty-one,” LJ said, “she told the police that the two men in the white van were in there mid to late twenties, average height, and both had short blond spiky hair. Have our people run a check through the various agency databases of all criminals in the Greater London Area who work in pairs, and who fit that very vague description, please Roberts.”
“I’ll get on to it right away, Mr Levenson-Jones. What time would you like me to collect Miss Cunningham, sir?”
“Nine-thirty on the dot, please. That will give Vince Sharp enough time to give this place a good going over.” LJ replaced the telephone on to its cradle, and looked up to find the seventeen stone hulk of Vince Sharp stood in the doorway to his study, scrutinising a tiny pencil like object in his hand.
“Anything interesting?” He asked.
“This?” he held up the tiny metallic tube with the wire hanging out of the end. “This is the latest colour surveillance camera and integrated digital microphone. I’ve found three of these in all, one in here earlier, another in the living room, and this one in the kitchen.” He walked over and placed the bug onto LJ’s desktop.
“You’ve had a visit all right and whoever it was knew exactly what they were doing. I’ve only found them because I’ve got a scanner that will search a wider frequency band than those used by the police, and our own security service. But, these little beauties have been set at the most extreme end of the scale.”
“Rather sophisticated I would have thought for anyone outside of the intelligence community.” LJ said, leaning back on his swivel chair, and rolling the tiny device in his fingers.
“That may be true. But anyone could easily buy this type of surveillance gadgetry, if they knew where to go. But believe me, this type of kit does not come cheap. Whoever it was, would have needed to purchase not only the cameras, but also the portable laptop computer that goes with them, before they were able to receive the images and sound. That would have set them back around twenty grand at least.”