Scent of the Dragon

By Anthony Hulse

A chance sighting of his abducted niece in Egypt prompts bodyguard and ex-detective, Lucas Wingate to investigate. The trail leads to Rumania, and mysterious Serbian recluse, Goran Banovic. MI5 purposely let slip to Wingate the whereabouts of Banovic, who is suspected of being involved in the gruesome slaying of past British politicians by impaling them on stakes. Could Banovic possibly be former Serb warlord, Dragan Jovic? A complex and brutal tale of deceit, murder and treason.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Aug 5, 2014
• ISBN: 9781291973747

Book preview

Scent of the Dragon

Scent of the Dragon

Anthony Hulse

Copyright

Copyright@Anthony Hulse 2015

ISBN: 978-1-291-97374-7

The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead is coincidental and not intended by the author.

All rights reserved. No parts of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronically or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage or retrieval system without permission from the author, except for the quotations in a review.

Prologue

Brighton, England

The old man scurried after his barking Jack Russell and felt the cold sea spray against his craggy, unshaven face. The yelping dog perched on the seawall, faced the oncoming tide, and awaited the arrival of its master. Peering out into the autumn morning, the man screwed his eyes up. He had never before noticed the erect wooden stake that protruded from the soft sand.  

Barney Silcott scrambled down the slippery steps, the cold waves lapping at his ankles. He hesitated for a moment, his ancient eyes focusing on the dark form occupying the stake.

The small dog continued to bark loudly and watched the curious man approach the strange shaft.

Holy Mary! spluttered Barn, making the sign of the cross.

He shuffled up to the stake and examined the impaled, naked, dead man. The stake entered his anus and protruded through his gaping mouth, his death mask frozen in a look of horror.

The old man gripped the stake and unsuccessfully attempted to dislodge it from the sand. He conceded, before he returned to the esplanade, his trusty dog following dutifully. Barney once more looked over his shoulder, as if seeking confirmation of the horror, before he proceeded to the police station.

Chapter One

Cairo, Egypt.

The doting father ushered his wife and three children together in preparation for the photograph. His wife, on his request, uneasily edged towards the stinking camel. Gentle giant, Cameron Sharpe, an electrical engineer by trade, prided himself on his hobby of photography. Everything had to be just perfect for the shot.

Sharpe urged the toothless Arab to join the family, adding an air of mystique to the snapshot. Satisfied everything was perfect; Cameron took the picture, just as the camel released a mouthful of spit onto his wife. The children giggled and watched their mother squirm and retreat away from the beast, leaving their father looking bewildered. 

The antics of the Arabian camel did not warrant Cameron’s attention, but the young woman who passed as he took the photograph. Loretta Sharpe scowled at her husband, who jogged off after the blonde girl.

Cameron caught up with the girl. Heather. Heather. It’s you, isn’t it?

A stocky Arabic looking man looked over his shoulder at the bewildered photographer and urged on the attractive girl.

Cameron, not to be denied, scurried after the couple and blocked their advance. Heather, you cannot possibly know how much we’ve worried about you. Your parents think you’re dead, lassie.

I think you are very much mistaken, sir, said the Arab, displaying a mouthful of yellowing teeth. She is not the girl you seek.

Cameron held the tearful girl by the shoulder and she avoided eye contact. It’s been almost five years, Heather and you’ve changed, but I know it’s you. Why are you so afraid?

This time, the Arab appeared more forceful, seizing Cameron by the wrist. Again, I say you’re mistaken. Move aside please.

Heather, I’m your Uncle Cameron. You must remember me. Please, speak to me.

The girl cowered behind the Arab, who lashed out viciously at the Westerner, knocking him to the ground. 

Cameron’s family ran to his aid and helped him to his feet, as the couple made their getaway by flagging down a cab.

Cameron’s distressed wife stooped down to retrieve his dislodged spectacles. Darling, are you okay? Who was that girl?

You don’t recognise your own niece? he replied, dabbing his cut lip with his handkerchief.

No? Surely, you’re mistaken.

Cameron watched the cab vanish into the swirling sand and heat haze, convinced he had encountered his abducted niece.  

******

Cannes, France.

The tall, tanned, burly blonde man, if dressed more appropriate, could easily be mistaken for one of the arrogant movie stars that filed out of the theatre. The crescent-shaped scar below his right eye helped dissociate him from the glamour set.

Lucas Wingate, ex-detective with CID, ushered his employer, Vanessa St Claire into the waiting Rolls Royce, one eye regarding the huge thong of enthusiastic film buffs. The bulge inside his blazer was not a mobile telephone, but a MK23 SOCOM, the preferred weapon of the hired bodyguard.

The attractive British actress looked the part, dressed in her gold-sequined gown and matching gloves. She waved at her beaming fans with satisfaction, blowing kisses and posing egotistically for the media.

I think that went rather well, darling, don’t you? They simply adored me, she said to Wingate, who glanced through his mirror at the content actress.

The ‘darling’ reference, Wingate took as a figure of speech, and not an affectionate accolade. Vanessa St Claire referred to everyone as darling, although she had once seduced her bodyguard after downing a bottle of Bollingers.

Wingate, though he enjoyed the romp with the attractive redhead, acknowledged she used him as a mere sexual plaything. At the ancient age of thirty-two, the ex-detective exceeded the average age of her conquests by some ten years. The actress approached middle age, though her sexual appetite still flourished. That her solicitor husband defended rich clients in London, proved most convenient for the temptress.

Once aboard the yacht, darling, can you make yourself scarce? I’m expecting a visitor, she said with a twinkle in her eye. 

Male, I take it, Miss St Claire? Wingate, on his employer’s orders, always referred to her as Miss, deeming her marriage an inconvenience.

As a matter of fact it is. Dillon Sherwood.

The young American actor? Miss St Claire, you ought to be ashamed of yourself.

Just keep your eyes on the road, darling... Take a trip into town, Lucas. I’m sure with your good looks; you can find suitable entertainment for the evening.

Wingate steered the Rolls Royce along the harbour front, the armada of luxurious yachts motionless on the blue, glassy Mediterranean. He glanced at the vain actress through his mirror, to see she applied yet more colour to her silicone-enhanced lips.

The chiming of his mobile telephone interrupted the serenity.

Oh, Lucas darling; I do wish you’d turn that darn thing off when you’re on duty.

Sorry, Miss St Claire... Wingate, he whispered into the phone.

Lucas? How are you doing, mon? It’s Cameron.

Cameron. How’s it going, buddy?

Buddy? Shit, you sound just like one of those darn Yanks. I’m doing fine, or I was until recently. Listen, I’ve just returned from Cairo, and you’re not going to believe this, but I saw Heather.

Heather?

My older brother’s daughter, remember.

Oh, Christ yes. Are you sure? I mean, it’s been three years.

Five... Aye, I’m sure. I have her photograph. Listen, Lucas; can you meet me in London?

Hell, Cam, I’m in Cannes.

Don’t I know it? This phone call’s costing me a bloody packet.

Have you contacted the police?

Nae not yet... I haven’t even told Angus.

Her parents should be told.

I will eventually. Lucas, I thought maybe you could help.

Shit, how?

You still have contacts in CID, don’t you?

Wingate brought the vehicle to a halt and the actress waited impatiently, shaking her head to show her displeasure at the intruding call.

The bodyguard ignored her objections. I wasn’t even working on that case, as well you know.

I know that, but I thought...

I have to go, Cam. I’ll call you back later, okay?

Wingate returned his phone to his pocket.

Lucas, be a honey and run my bath before you leave, ordered the actress.

Wingate opened the car door for the actress. Miss St Claire. I need to…

Not now, Lucas.

I’m due some leave.

The startled celebrity regarded Wingate as a farmer would a fox. How can you even contemplate leaving me on my own?

Miss St Claire, it’s not as though your life is in danger, and you do have Larry.

Larry? I fired that good for nothing bum.

Wingate rolled his eyes. For the sixth time, I believe. I’ll call him and tell him to relieve me. It’ll only be for a few days.

The irate actress’s expression changed when she noticed a member of the press pointing a camera her way. Three days, Lucas. I’m so darned gracious with my staff, as well you know, so I’ll allow you three days.

Thank you, Miss St Claire.

******

London.

Detective Chief Inspector Donald Buster Legg examined the photographs pinned on the wall in the incident room. The bald, veteran detective had been with Special Branch now for fifteen years, and at the age of fifty-three, he had no intention of retiring. Throughout his career, he had viewed some gruesome sights; charred babies and headless corpses for instance, but he had never seen anything like this.

Nasty one, eh, guv? muttered the fresh-faced detective, looking over his superior’s shoulder. DS Andy Soloman could be described as handsome, if he did not possess a harelip. The curly-haired detective, conscious of his disfigurement, had a habit of covering his mouth when he spoke.

Why Special Branch, Andy?

You haven’t been told? Of course…you’ve just returned from holiday.

DCI Legg grunted. Too bloody true, and my wife is none too pleased, but there again, I did abandon her in Majorca. So, what’s the story, Andy?

The victim is George Fenwick, guv.

The politician? No shit.

Ex-Minister of Transport for Labour. He was found on Brighton beach yesterday morning.

DCI Legg adjusted his spectacles. What’s with the stake?

Took it up the shit pipe, he did, guv, and it went through to his mouth.

The Chief Inspector grimaced. True to life then, eh? What comes around.

DS Soloman protested. Is it just homosexuals, coloured people, and the unemployed you’re prejudiced against, guv, or have I missed someone out?

Impertinent young detectives who are still wet behind the ears you can add to the list, Sergeant. DCI Legg retreated to the coffee machine, ignoring the other detectives who entered the incident room. This is a job for CID, Andy.

That he was a politician had some bearing on us getting the case, insisted the younger man.

Ex-politician. And he was found on Brighton beach? asked DCI Legg.

That‘s right. He had a flat there.

So, Sherlock, what do you deduce from the photograph?

Sergeant Soloman blew on his hot, black coffee. It stinks of an execution, guv.

Anything else?

Such as?

The bloody stake, Soloman. How many men do you think it would take to lift it; not forgetting it had a bloody body attached to it?

Two…possibly three.

Right... How many men has Moody assigned to the case?

Chief Superintendent Moody, Buster, and don’t you forget it, came the deep voice from behind.

DCI Legg turned and smirked at the one man in the department older than him. How many men, sir?

And women, Chief Inspector. Don’t forget the women.

How many detectives, sir? 

A team of eight I think will suffice. Of course, you’ll be expected to dig up Fenwick’s past. The homosexual clubs he frequented, old enemies; anyone who may have bore him a grudge.

DCI Legg seemed curious. Why has the case been assigned to us, sir?

Like you, Don, I just follow orders, said the Chief Superintendent. Fenwick was once high profile enough for him to be categorised as a security risk.

But not important enough to warrant more than a team of eight, moaned the Chief Inspector. DCI Legg grimaced and placed his abandoned coffee on the table, before slipping on his jacket.

Where are you going, Don?

Oh, it’s a lovely day. I thought I’d take a stroll along Brighton beach.

Chapter Two

London.

After dropping off his luggage at his sister’s flat in Wembley, Wingate opted to travel by tube to his destination. The Essex Serpent public house in Covent Garden seemed relatively quiet for a lunchtime; one of the deciding factors in Cameron Sharpe’s choice of venues.

Wingate ignored the amorous leer from the busty, peroxide blonde barmaid and ordered a pint of real ale; one of the luxuries he missed when accompanying Vanessa St Claire on her global escapades. He spotted his red-bearded friend in the mirror, nursing a double brandy.

The brawny Scotsman rose from his seat, smiled, and extended his hand towards Wingate. Lucas. Putting on the beef, aren’t you, mon?

Good living, Cam. The caviar and smoked salmon doesn’t help either.

Point taken, you jammy bastard... Still working for the delectable Vanessa St Claire, eh?

Too true, mate. The rich bitch is demanding, but she pays well.

Och. You always did come out smelling of roses, even at school. Here, do you remember...

Save the nostalgia, Cam. Have you told Angus yet? quizzed Wingate.

No way. You know how hot-headed he is. He’d be off to Cairo armed to the teeth on the first available flight.

But, you have contacted the police?

Cameron shook his head before emptying his brandy glass. I was hoping you could help. It would sound more credible coming from an ex-detective.

The kitchen door opened and a waitress emerged, carrying a plate of bangers and mash. The aroma of the dish, as well as that of shepherd’s pie, made Wingate realise just what he had missed. His two years working with the insensitive actress had its perks, but he missed jellied eels, London ale, and shepherd’s pie. Wingate, a Londoner, born and bred in Camden Town, was proud of his roots.

Cam, you mentioned you took Heather’s photograph?

Right, I have it here, enthused the Scotsman, delving into the inside pocket of his sports jacket.

Wingate inspected the photograph. That’s it? Christ, this girl could be anyone.

But it isn’t anyone. I saw her close up in the flesh.

Did your wife see her?

Aye, she did.

And?

She only saw her from a distance. Listen, Lucas, I know how this must sound, but I’m certain it was her.

Wingate’s mind drifted back to the case. She was fourteen when abducted in Turkey, right?

Aye, that’s right. She was abducted in Kusadasi.

So, you could be mistaken. Girls nowadays grow up quickly.

Nae. That girl is Heather, Cameron insisted, prodding the photograph with his massive finger. She’s filled out a bit and her hair is a wee bit fairer, but it’s her.

Wingate licked his lips and coveted the young couple tucking into their lunch. Did she speak to you?

Nae. Some Arab chappie did the talking for her. The fear was evident in her face. She was afraid to speak. 

So, what happened?

The Arab twatted me and they made off in a taxi.

Wingate sampled a mouthful of his ale and nodded his head in approval. Mmm, that’s worth coming home for... Listen, Cam, I’ll report the sighting to a friend I have in CID. He’s someone who worked on the case at the time.

Worked? frowned Cameron.

Wingate shrugged. I’ll be very surprised if the case hasn’t been closed. Five years is a long time. In the meantime, I think it would be a good idea to inform Heather’s parents, only don’t divulge to Angus where you saw her. The last thing we need is for the stubborn bugger to go traipsing around in North Africa.

Thanks, pal. I’m sorry for the trouble, but my options are limited.

No problem, said Wingate, playfully punching his old schoolmate on the shoulder.

The barmaid leaned over the jukebox and the music of ‘Dido’ gatecrashed the serenity.      

How’s things with you and Wendy? asked Cameron.

We’re officially divorced. Shacked up with some poxy journalist last I heard.

And Tommy?

I haven’t seen him for almost a year. You know, Cam, being a copper is like selling your soul to the devil. I must have been a right bastard to live with. Is it no wonder Wendy and my kid left?

But, you’re not a copper anymore.

Save your sympathy for Angus and his wife. I’ve fucked my life up and have learnt to accept the shit that came with the job.

Cameron stared at his empty glass, but resisted a refill as he was driving. Where are you staying, Lucas?

With my sister. Listen, I’ll see my friend and meet you in here tonight at eight. I’ll try to persuade him to come along.

Thanks. Can I offer you a lift?

No, I’m fine thanks, mate. Besides, that shepherd’s pie looks delicious.

******

DCI Legg assembled his team in the incident room. He appeared like a seasoned schoolmaster when briefing his fresh-faced team. Though the veteran rarely had a good word to say about anyone, he had earned the respect of his colleagues with his impressive results. Racist and sexist he may be, but there was not a finer detective in the police force.

The Chief Inspector loosened his tie, rolled up his shirtsleeves, and opened the window. In DCI Legg’s presence, nobody dared to smoke. Many a naive young detective had been humiliated after such an act of bravado.

Judy, what have forensics come up with?

It seems Fenwick had been dead at least three hours before his body was discovered, but no more than six hours.

And what can we deduce from this information? asked DCI Legg.

The pretty, blonde detective continued. Assuming Fenwick was carried to the beach during the early hours of the morning, it appears he must have still been alive during the impaling, sir.

The Chief Inspector stroked his bald head. How did they carry the stake to the beach? I think it’s safe to assume they had some form of transport large enough to carry the stake, right?

We’ve carried out door to door enquiries along the seafront, guv, but nobody recalls seeing anything out of the ordinary, added a shaven-headed detective, chewing on his gum.

DCI Legg spread his arms. What about footprints in the sand? Fingerprints on the bloody pole?

DS Soloman intervened, his hand habitually covering his deformed mouth. The tide destroyed any hope of evidence, guv, and the stake is clean.

DCI Legg paced up and down the room, his hands behind his back. So, we have a homosexual ex-Minister of Transport, mounted naked on a pole on Brighton beach. Who held a grudge against him? Obviously two or possibly more were involved in his execution, and executed he was. But, why? Were his murderers queer haters, or had he upset his killers when in office? He retired when?

Three years ago, guv, offered DS Soloman.

The Chief Inspector continued. Why impale him? I’ve heard of this before.

Dracula, sir, suggested DC Judy Hobbs.

Excuse me?

Vlad the Impaler, who the character Dracula was based on used to impale his enemies. He inserted the stake through the rectum and left his victims to die slowly.

I’m impressed, Judy. But, why Fenwick? Why did they take the trouble to impale him?

Vampire freaks, guv, suggested another detective.

Do they exist? Check it out will you, Judy? Jimbo, anything from his family and friends?

He lived alone, guv. We’ve questioned a number of punters from the local gay clubs, and the name Simon Mullery kept cropping up. He and Fenwick were apparently close.

Mullery insists Fenwick had no enemies, and nothing unusual has occurred recently, added DS Soloman.

I’d call sadistic weirdoes who get their thrills from plunging a twelve-foot stake up someone’s arse unusual, wouldn’t you, Sergeant? snarled the Chief Inspector. I want you to question his ex-colleagues, including the Prime Minister, and everyone who was in the cabinet when Fenwick was active.

The Prime Minister, guv?

"That’s correct, Andy. He’s not immune to questioning, is he? The jokers upstairs have reached their decisions over their cigars and brandies, deeming that eight detectives are adequate for this case. Personally, why Special Branch is involved is beyond me, but who the fuck listens to me? Judy, go back to forensics and tell them to do