Vogel was interrupted by the ring of his phone.
He muttered his excuses and glanced at the screen. The caller was Polly Jenkins again. He answered at once.
‘Boss, traffic say Kivel has just turned off the M5 at Junction eighteen,’ Polly reported. ‘He’s heading south on the A4.’
Vogel was a new boy in the west of England, and his knowledge of road configurations anywhere was not as good as it should be, because he didn’t drive. But even he knew what lay in that direction.
‘My God,’ he muttered, with sudden certainty. ‘The airport. They’re heading for Bristol Airport. Hold on a minute, Polly.’
He turned to Hemmings. His senior officer was on his feet, his own phone in his hand, every iota of his body language positive and decisive. Vogel was not surprised. Hemmings wasn’t the boss of MIT for nothing. Clearly the superintendent was already right up to speed.
‘Tell Polly to make sure traffic continue to monitor the situation,’ he instructed. ‘You and Saslow, get to the airport. I’ll liaise with the airport police and arrange backup. Armed backup. Please be careful, Vogel. If you catch up with our man first, don’t do anything until you have backup. Is that clear?’
‘Of course, sir,’ said Vogel.
He was already halfway out of the house, Saslow hard on his heels.
Bristol Airport was quiet. More or less closed. Although the airport was licensed for night take-offs, in reality these were few and far between, particularly out of the holiday season.
Vogel was aware of this. He also knew that Bristol Airport was something of a centre for those who did not have to rely on the services of commercial airlines. Multi billionaire Sir James Dyson, one of the south west’s most successful businessmen ever, kept his own personal jet, a forty million pound Gulfstream, parked at the airport in its own two million pound hangar. Sir John Fairbrother, perhaps sensitive to the scrutiny of his company’s shareholders, had preferred, when necessary, to charter private aircraft capable of intercontinental travel. Or travel on somebody else’s.
During the drive to the airport Vogel had called Micky Palmer and asked him to check if any flights were booked in or out of Bristol airport that night.
Micky had returned the call just as Vogel and Saslow were turning into the airport complex. The airport authorities had reported that a private jet, registered to a Saudi Arabian sheik, had landed within the last few minutes. The jet, a Gulfstream like Dyson’s, with a range of 7000 nautical miles, had also been booked to fly out of Bristol within the hour.
Saslow pulled into the short-term car park as Vogel had instructed. He didn’t want to attract attention by parking their car anywhere that it shouldn’t be. As the two officers walked across the access road to the terminal building, just the one at Bristol, Vogel’s phone rang again. It was Polly Jenkins to tell him traffic had reported that Kivel’s vehicle had just been spotted turning into the airport. It seemed Vogel and Saslow had got there first.
‘Let’s get back into the car park, keep out of the way,’ said Vogel, mindful both of Hemmings’ instructions and Saslow’s confrontation with violence the previous year, from which he did not believe the young officer had yet fully recovered.
The grey Prius appeared almost immediately and pulled up right outside the terminal in a restricted parking area. Clearly Jack Kivel was in a hurry, and with the terrible crimes Vogel now believed he had almost certainly committed, a parking violation, even at an airport, would be unlikely to bother him.
Two men emerged from the Prius. The lights from the terminal building were bright enough for Vogel to be able to identify one of them as Jack Kivel, and the second, from photographs provided by the MIT surveillance team, as Freddie Fairbrother.
They quickly entered the terminal building, Kivel leading the way.
Vogel glanced around, there was no sign of any other police presence. No airport police, although they must surely be around somewhere. No armed response. Nobody.
He turned to Saslow. ‘Look Dawn, I’m going over for a closer look, see what’s going on. I want you to stay here, wait for backup, OK?’
‘No boss, if you’re going over there. I’m going too.’
‘I’m not putting you in danger, Saslow, not again.’
‘Sir, it might not be Heathrow but that terminal building is a big place. We can keep out of sight, I’m sure, just check nobody gets away. Keep a watching brief. Maybe alert airport personnel. Much easier with two of us.’
Vogel knew there wasn’t time to argue.
‘Stay with me,’ he commanded, as he hurried across the road.
The two officers entered the terminal cautiously. At first, they couldn’t see Kivel or Fairbrother or anyone else who might be of interest to them. All the check-in desks and the bars and cafes seemed to be closed.
Then they caught sight of three figures at the far end of the building, close to departures. One was a tall bearded man wearing a baseball hat. The second was Jack Kivel. The third almost certainly Freddie Fairbrother.
‘We mustn’t get too close, Saslow,’ instructed Vogel. ‘Kivel might still be armed.’
‘In an airport, boss?’ queried Saslow.
‘They’re not airside,’ responded Vogel. ‘You don’t go through security until you go airside. For all we know they could all be armed.’
The three men seemed to be in deep conversation. And thankfully, they appeared to remain unaware that they were being watched. In order to make themselves less visible Vogel and Saslow sat down on two of a row of plastic seats.
After about five minutes a female airport official came and spoke to the tall bearded man, who then seemed to start taking his leave, in an apologetic sort of way.
‘What on earth is that woman doing?’ muttered Vogel. ‘Airport staff should have been warned not to approach.’
‘Seems like the word hasn’t got through,’ responded Saslow. ‘Wires crossed somewhere. She doesn’t look as if she’s aware of any sort of danger.’
After a brief further exchange, the other two men, Fairbrother and Kivel, turned to walk towards the exit to the car park. The bearded man followed the airport official towards departures. It was probably his imagination, but Vogel reckoned he could hear the revving of a Gulfstream’s engines outside on the runway.
Vogel looked anxiously around him. There was still no sign of the promised backup.
‘Shit,’ he said. ‘That bastard’s going to get away. I’m not having it.’
He turned to Saslow. ‘Stay here. Do you hear me. Stay here.’
Then he took off at a run across the terminal building, passing close to Kivel and Fairbrother, but moving so quickly that they did not begin to react until he’d reached the bearded man and the airport official.
‘Sir John, Sir John Fairbrother,’ he shouted, holding out his warrant card at arm’s length. ‘Stop. Police.’
The bearded man turned at once, probably involuntarily, Vogel thought later.
‘I’m sorry I think you must be mistaken, officer,’ he said calmly. ‘My name is Jeremy Carter. You can see my passport if you wish.’
Vogel placed one hand firmly on the man’s arm, and with the other took a set of handcuffs from his pocket.
‘You are Sir John Fairbrother,’ he said. ‘And I am arresting you on suspicion of four counts of murder and conspiracy to murder, and on suspicion of an as yet unspecified number of counts of fraud. You do not have to say anything. But it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence—’