The One Romanian

By Geoff Newman

“Another tightly written thriller to supplement the highly successful Jack Mawgan Trilogy. This time Jack takes on a dark and callous foe whose evil methods include medieval torture delivered under a cloak of religious fanaticism.”

A knock on the door of his London apartment - a beautiful woman needs his help. Jack sets out on on another crime-fighting adventure that nearly costs him his life.

Once again Jack finds he is unable to resist the challenge to his detective skills. He is faced with the apparently motiveless murder of four Romanian men who are found floating in the Thames.

What could possibly link the murders in London to Rome, Bucharest and the Falklands? The answer involves shocking revelations of a British plan to launch a nuclear attack in South America and uncovers corruption in the Catholic Church on a global scale.

Jack has his work cut out.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu Publishing Services
• Release date: Aug 1, 2016
• ISBN: 9781483454238

Book preview

NEWMAN

Copyright © 2016 Geoffrey Newman.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted by any means—whether auditory, graphic, mechanical, or electronic—without written permission of both publisher and author, except in the case of brief excerpts used in critical articles and reviews. Unauthorized reproduction of any part of this work is illegal and is punishable by law.

ISBN: 978-1-4834-5422-1 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4834-5423-8 (e)

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Lulu Publishing Services rev. date: 07/26/2016

CONTENTS

PART ONE

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

PART TWO

Chapter 16: Earlier That Year

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

AUTHOR’S NOTE

MY STORIES ALWAYS HAVE their basis in my personal experiences; they are then expanded by detailed research and embellished with the serendipity that comes from my imagination.

The tale of events during the Falklands campaign is one that could easily have happened – minus the nuclear dimension of course – as similar and even more daring missions were planned.

I want to make it clear that as far as I am aware it was never the intention of the UK military to dishonour the requirements of the Geneva Convention or the Nassau Agreement or the Treaty of Tlatelolco.

Recent revelations about goings on at The Vatican have been used to feed the storyline. The revelations are not contemporary but the allegations are about events that are.

Please read and enjoy this complex tale and enjoy it safe in the knowledge that all is fiction – probably!

Note that at the back of the book you will find a ‘List of Abbreviations’ and a ‘List of Characters’, along with some useful information to help you enjoy reading this exciting story.

To my family, whose patience is remarkable.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

MY THANKS TO FRIENDS and family who have supported me and believe in me. Special mention to my wife Lesley, my daughters Tabetha and Milly and Hannah my editor. Without their contribution it would be impossible to deliver what I hope are interesting stories.

PART ONE

Proverbs - 21:15

‘When justice is done, it brings joy to the righteous but terror to evildoers.’

CHAPTER 1

Wednesday 1st September 2010

Beside the River Thames

THE MYSTERIOUS FIGURE, DRESSED all in black, set about the macabre task alone like the efficient and well-trained killing machine he had become. One by one he dragged the four men from the van and dropped them into the mud below the deserted quayside. The first three unfortunates were still clinging to the last threads of life when they landed with a dull thud on the slime below but bound and cruelly maimed as they were they could not help themselves. There was nothing to do but wait for the tide, extinction and a release from the pain.

The fourth body was just a lifeless and sad soul who had suffered the misfortune to be with the wrong people and in the wrong place at the wrong time.

In four hours it would be high tide and the dark and unforgiving grey soup of Old Father Thames would gather up this donation of near dead souls, drown what little life was left in them and distribute their remains up and down stream in a lottery of swirling tides and vicious rip currents.

With the task complete the murderer checked that there were no witnesses to this final act of disposal. An act that, in the killer’s mind was the kind of justice these evil men, these wicked thieves, deserved.

10:25, Monday 6th September 2010

Reading Railway Station

‘Damn!’

Jack’s involuntary expletive drew glances from every corner of the otherwise sedate surroundings of the first class carriage. He quickly raised his newspaper and pretended to read on. His ire was the result of an article on page three with the headline …

‘IS MAWGAN THE MAN WITH THE MEDAL?’ By Sara Dunne

The door to the carriage swished and a middle-aged woman in a pin-stripe trouser suit sauntered into view. She carried a designer ladies briefcase in one hand and a cappuccino, fresh from the Costa Café in the main concourse, in the other. The delicate and delicious aroma of fresh coffee was a welcome relief from the acrid tang of the British-Rail-vintage air freshener that permeated the entire carriage and often lingered on his clothes.

She was a regular, nodded then smiled at Jack as she moved elegantly to the seat opposite; her usual spot for the leisurely morning commute to Paddington.

Jack often returned from his Truro constituency on the Monday morning train when a Sunday engagement meant that taking the sleeper wasn’t an option. The train eased out of the station and they sat across from each other in a stony silence. Sometimes they exchanged small talk but on days like today Jack’s body language made good use of the newspaper to hint that conversation would be unwelcome. She took a copy of ‘Hello’ magazine from her briefcase and began to read through white-rimmed designer sunglasses.

There was a sudden buzzing sound from Jack’s mobile. It sat on the table in front of him, suitably muted in line with the ‘quiet carriage’ requirements, but nonetheless the noise brought looks of disapproval from those fellow travellers nearby.

He picked up the handset and studied the screen. It was his old friend Dan Barclay. He could guess what the message would be about. It simply read ‘Call me soonest.’

That would have to wait until he was in the privacy of his office at Portcullis House. ‘It never rains but pours’, he thought as the fury inside him rose to the point where he could feel his face redden. The story that was about to break was in danger of pitching him into the media spotlight at a time when he needed a distraction like a hole in the head. It was the first day of the new Parliament and he had much to do without this diversion.

07:40, Monday 6th September 2010

Barclay Investigations, Exeter

Dan Barclay, owner and sole operative at Barclay Investigations sat at his desk and read through the article in the newspaper. He sucked his teeth and shook his head. ‘Oh boy! This may spell trouble, I hope you can handle this Jacko old friend or my business will come to a grinding halt.’ The words on the page made his blood run cold as the memory of events back in 1994 came flooding back …

…The question on the lips of members of the Home Service Committee is ‘can it be that Independent MP Jack Mawgan is hiding a secret past?’ Rumour has it that Mr Mawgan’s fascinating careers as both detective and paramedic included a decoration that has yet to be made public.

The teasing headline begged a complete story and the author promised the same in the Tuesday edition.

Dan was an ex-copper and an old friend and colleague of Jack’s. They had first met on a clandestine operation in the Balkans during the Croatian civil war. The UN brokered ceasefire had facilitated the arrival of a large team of police volunteers from around the world, all were serving policemen and women and all were destined to work under the aegis of the UNCIVPOL programme. Although intended to ensure that policing was fairly conducted in the areas supervised by the UN, Jack and Dan and several others in a team of MI5 operatives were there on a different and very special mission. Their task was to track and monitor a crime syndicate with headquarters in Serbia and branches that covered every country in Europe. They were a vicious collection of hard cases that ruled using all manner of violent means including torture and murder.

Jack and Dan had been involved in a shoot out with the gang, had rescued several hostages and barely escaped with their lives. Both were wounded and were subsequently awarded the George Medal but circumstances prevented the gazetting of this honour. Publicity would have put their lives and those of their family members in danger.

Dan was particularly exposed to an excess of publicity. Since the Balkan incident he had retired from the Police and set up his own Private Investigation business, based in Exeter, Devon. All was not as it seemed for Dan was in fact one of a select band of trusted specialists whose expertise was used by the security services to carry out what are often referred to as ‘black’ ops as well as to assist in all manner of undercover operations. These were operations that were best handled at arm’s length and without the risk of severe consequences should the operation go wrong. Deniability was the key.

The implications for Dan, should a member of the press get wind of his past, would make it impossible for him to avoid the close scrutiny of his activities. Even the normal PI business would be impossible and that would mean that the security services wouldn’t touch him with a barge pole.

Disaster may lie around the corner but he had little choice but to wait for Jack to deal with the situation.

11:10, Monday 6th September 2010

Portcullis House, London

Jack made his way from his office on the third floor down to the committee room on the first floor. He was worried about the press harassing his secretary and had left instructions with Terri that she was to tell anyone who called that he would be issuing a statement at one o’clock. When he had arrived earlier that day there were literally dozens of people eager to talk to him. Terri was looking unusually flustered and obviously worried; she had never had to cope with this kind of pressure before. Jack calmed her down and convinced her that there was nothing to worry about. He would deal with it at lunchtime.

At that moment Jack was heading for a meeting with Peter Oreste in the committee room. Peter was chairman of the Home Service Committee and had been the first to contact Terri. His invitation to meet ahead of that day’s committee meeting was an opportunity to get his version of events in before any mischief was created by the press.

Peter was outside the No.3 Committee Room talking with a man Jack recognised as the Home Secretary’s Permanent Private Secretary. When they saw him approaching their conversation abruptly ended and the PPS disappeared like a puff of smoke on a windy day.

‘Hi Jack, nice to see you. Shall we find a quiet corner in here?’ He led Jack into the committee room and strode purposefully to his normal position at the centre of the ‘top’ table. Jack took a seat next to his, not his normal seat for his junior status meant that his place was on one end of the horseshoe of members’ seats. ‘You’ll have a tale to tell then Jack so go ahead. The Home Secretary has filled me in a little but said that it would be down to you to tell me what this is all about.’

‘What do you know?’

‘I know that you did something in the line of duty that earned you this country’s gratitude. Please tell me more, it sounds rather interesting.’

‘Well, Peter, the truth is a long and complicated story and since it happened we have had the Home Secretary’s help in keeping it out of the press. The leader of the group we took out back then is still around and has sworn to take his revenge after we destroyed a large part of his organisation.’

‘What about your colleague? Is he also in danger?’

‘That’s a tricky subject because I cannot afford to have his name out there in the newspapers. It would destroy his life and the vital work he does for some important security departments in a, how can I put it, semi-official capacity. I’ve just promised him that I will fix this and make it go away.’ Peter raised his eyebrows and needed only a second or two to process what he was being told. ‘Well we need to get a ‘D’ Notice out there and put a stop to this straight away.’

‘I’m not sure that would be wise. That might encourage some digging by those who have a fascination for such things. May I suggest that we issue a statement that might head things off? We just need a little work to be done in the records office so that anyone that does go digging will find something quite harmless.’

‘In that case we need to speak with someone at the Home Office.’

‘Actually I know just the man, woman actually. She works in ‘Five’ and I’m sure they are just the people to knock this on the head.’ Peter looked at Jack with a sideways expression that said ‘of course … you would … given your background I expect you do know someone like that’.

‘Sounds like it’s above my pay-grade Jack. Now let’s have a look at your statement.’ Jack put an A4 page on the desk in front of him and they both studied it earnestly.

‘That should do the trick I guess,’ said Peter.

‘If it doesn’t then we’ll have to bring in the heavies to dampen their enthusiasm.’

‘Jack, there’s something else I’ve been meaning to discuss with you.’

‘Sure, how can I help?’

‘You may not appreciate it but your election to this committee wasn’t an accident.’ Jack raised his eyebrows and sat back in his chair.

‘Actually I was hoping that my background would enable me to contribute to the workings of what is a very important committee.’

‘I’m sure that’s the case but as a newly elected Member you would normally be expected to wait your turn.’

‘What are you saying?’

‘I guess I am making the point that there are several influential members in the house that would like to see the Home Affairs Committee support an agenda that we see as rather important.’

‘Peter, I’m an independent, I don’t do agendas.’ Peter shifted in his seat as if to show mild annoyance.

‘Jack, I’m sure that in the short time you’ve been here you have learnt that we, and by ‘we’ I mean us backbenchers, sometimes have weird and wonderful protocols that are not always understood by those outside The House. We all have agendas, you need to understand that. We all have things we want to get done, things that will help to ensure our re-election when the time comes.’

‘And you have an agenda.’

‘Not just me Jack, this is a cross-party agenda and one that has been festering for many years.’

‘Go on.’

‘Where to start….’

‘How about we leave the bullshit for another day and tell me exactly what is on your mind?’ Peter seemed to take a deep breath – a cover – whilst he organised the words in his head. He knew this wasn’t going to be an easy sell.

‘Your time in the police came to an unfortunate end did it not?’

Jack bristled. ‘You could say that.’

‘I am saying that, all those years of dedication to the Force and then it turns on you. You played the game then they rammed the bat up your arse.’ Half a smile crossed Jack’s face but he said nothing.

‘Let’s cut to the quick, the police service is in desperate need of modernising.’

‘It’s in desperate need of more resources.’

‘Maybe, maybe not.’

‘What are you trying to say, they don’t need more resources?’

‘That maybe, but the truth is the resources are there, they are simply being wasted on new boxes of toys whilst the whole policing system goes unreformed.’

‘What do you mean by reform?’

‘Every government since Maggie has tried to reform the police. Their organisation, career development, Spanish practices, Annual Rest Day, lack of fresh blood at the top and general intransigence has led to a lack of modern thinking. We have a police force designed in the 1930s and many of us think it is not fit for purpose.’

‘Very interesting, so what do you plan to do about it?’

‘We are formulating a strategy and we need a united front on this committee. We need you to be a supporter of the direction we are moving in.’ Jack took a moment to answer, he wasn’t sure he liked what he was hearing. He knew of course that the Members were forever plotting and scheming but this was the first time that he had been approached by the inner circle with a view to being a part of it.

‘Do you mind if I think about it for a day or so?’

‘Not at all old chap, take your time, nothing is going to happen for a while but we do need to get our ducks in a row and be sure we can’t be outflanked in the way the senior ranks have always managed to do before. Forward planning is the key. For that reason I must ask you not to discuss this subject or our meeting today with anyone else.’

‘Understood.’

Peter’s parting shot was to warn Jack that he needed to track down the party behind the leak to the newspapers and deal with it.

Returning back to his office along the thickly carpeted corridor he thought about that leak. He had a few ideas, some were palatable but one in particular was not. There were precious few people he trusted with that information and only one person to whom he had recently confided the details behind the scars on his body.

For a moment, as the lift door closed behind him, he stood alone with his thoughts and closed his eyes. At that moment he was back in her bed. The thought evoked the instant aroma of her perfume and he could smell her hair, feel her touch, as she ran her fingers over the scar on his chest.

CHAPTER 2

13:40, Monday 6th September 2010

Thames Marshes, West Thurrock, London

‘IT’S THIS JUNCTION ’ERE guv. Down St Clément’s Way then we should be able to get onto Bolton Road. The rest of the crew are down the end on the marshes.’

‘Another bloody Romanian I bet. This will make four in a row, four sodding Romanians, all trussed up like a Sunday Roast and dumped in my part of dear old Father Thames. After a week like this I need another corpse like a ….’

DI Eric ‘Wally’ Wallace left the sentence hanging. The accumulated fatigue of five nights of broken sleep left his sentence creation abilities bereft of suitable similes.

‘They’re not sure this one’s from the same gang though, he’s quite young looking apparently.’

‘Like father like son?’

‘Yea, well, maybe guv but the pathologist told me on the phone that this one looks a little different.’

‘Hang on, is that a caff over there? That’s just what the doctor ordered, a bacon sarnie will help me catch up with breakfast. My blood sugar is lower than a spring tide at Margate.’

‘Is that a good idea guvnor? The last one of these stiffs was high as a kite, put me off me grub for the whole day.’

‘Toughen up Reg, you’re going soft in your old age. Look, here’s a fiver, get us a couple of bacon specials.’ Wally pulled over by the tatty looking mobile roadside café causing a couple of dock workers to stand away from the counter clutching steaming mugs of thick brown tea. DS Reg Butler climbed wearily from the car and approached the counter of the beaten up converted van bearing the name ‘Jock’s Caff’ in hand painted lettering so scruffy it gave the author little hope of making it in the sign writing business.

‘Two bacon specials please Jock.’

‘I’m nae Jock, he’s the bliddy owner, I’m just the hired help,’ came the riposte, thick with a Glaswegian slur. The diction wasn’t helped by the manky looking roll-up dangling from the corner of his mouth.

‘Yeh, whatever, just keep the fag-ash out of the mix would yer or my guvnor will tear me a new arse ’ole.’

Reg turned away, took out a pack of Marlboros and battered Zippo lighter and lit up a cigarette, cupping his hands to shelter the flame from the wind. He stood peering out across the reed-strewn patch of marsh joining the oil tank complex to the dockyard come scrap-yard that sprawled across the eastern end of Thurrock.

The shores of Kent, on the far side of the river, were the source of a blustery breeze. The wind was in the south and obligingly fetched the septic aromas of the Thames mudflats and casually wafted them in Reg’s direction. He wrinkled his nostrils as the odour arrived with all the ceremony of an uninvited guest.

‘God forsaken dump,’ he thought to himself then shuddered as a chill blast forced him to zip up his expensive leather bomber-jacket and draw heavily on his cigarette. He exhaled a long tail of smoke and thought to himself ‘too many ghosts round this part of the world.’ He shuddered involuntarily and turned when he heard Jock’s little helper cry, ‘Tae bacon specials Jimmy, that’ll be four quid.’ Reg handed him the fiver and a parcel of delicious mouth-watering bacon-smelling grub was handed over. The cook looked at the banknote and held it up to the light. Reg was about to say something caustic when the Glaswegian funny-man chuckled and said, ‘Only joking Jimmy,’ The one-pound change was handed over and Reg stubbed the remains of his cigarette out in the grimy ashtray on the corner of the counter.

Strange thoughts come at strange moments and as Reg turned to return to the car he saw the area was surrounded by dog ends and he wondered why the café bothered with an ashtray when that small and insignificant part of London’s East End was serving that purpose quite adequately.

‘Thanks for yer custom Jimmy, come again,’ the cook muttered unconvincingly at the departing figure. No response came so he wiped greasy hands down an even greasier apron, then tossed the now sodden remains of his roll-up into the mud where it joined its predecessors, a bonus for the local décor. A packet of Green Rizlas and a pouch of cheap recently smuggled east European tobacco heralded the arrival of a fresh smoke.

The two policemen sat munching on their impromptu brunch and listening to the radio traffic emanating from their destination just half a mile away. It appeared that the pathologist on scene, their old adversary Maggie Coleman, was obviously giving the sergeant in charge a hard time about the lack of a photographer causing delays with the process of getting the body back to her office at East Ham Public Mortuary.

Wally licked his lips and wiped away the dribbles with a pristine white handkerchief furnished only that morning by his long suffering wife of twenty-two years. ‘Nice one Reg, that’s set me up for the day that has.’ He started the car and they set off for the crime scene.

The clatter of rotors overhead signalled the arrival of the Police Helicopter. High definition aerial photographs of the scene had been ordered by the Area Commander and were nowadays a standard part of the package of evidence gathered at a murder scene.

Wally got out of the car and looked up at the noisy intruder. ‘Bloody waste of time if you ask me. Pound to a pinch of salt he wasn’t done-in around here.’ Reg looked singularly disinterested and lit up another cigarette. They stood for a few minutes taking in the scene. ‘Come on Reg, let’s get on with it.’ Reg sucked in a last drag and then took out a small tobacco tin he used as an ashtray. The dog end would be carefully ‘filed’ in the tin. This was the sign of a horny old detective who had been round the block. A stack of dog ends by your feet was a sure sign you were on a stakeout and a fresh butt at a crime scene would be scooped up by forensics. They wouldn’t be pleased if they found out it was one of his so Reg’s little tin was an essential part of his smoking paraphernalia.