The Blackwater

By Paul Smith

Two stories. One harrowing tale. 
The past and present collide as history repeats itself. If DCI William Constable is to catch a killer and expose an international drug trafficking ring before it is too late, he will need to stray from the path to which fate has called him. But nothing can deviate him from his preordained path to death, nothing except a ghostly reincarnation, whose timely appearances from beyond the grave are all that stand between him and his fate.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Troubador Publishing Ltd
• Release date: Jun 16, 2021
• ISBN: 9781800465930

Paul Smith

PAUL SMITH is a dedicated father of two and an expert trainer in leadership and storytelling techniques. As the author of the popular Lead with a Story, he has seen his work featured in The Wall Street Journal, Time, Forbes, The Washington Post, Success, and Investor's Business Daily, among others.

Book preview

2006

Contents

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

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Epilogue

Historical Note

Acknowledgements

Chapter 1

Essex, Thursday 16 January 2014

The street light flickered, dimly illuminating the carpark one moment then plunging it into darkness the next. I pulled back my sleeve and looked at my watch. Half past five in the morning. With no time to lose, I reached into the passenger footwell, grabbed the bolt cutters, then turned to leave. But as I faced the door, I found myself glued to the spot, my trembling fingers wrapped around the handle. I took a deep breath. Then some more. When at last I hit upon some courage, I seized the moment and dragged myself from the car.

I left the carpark and, taking care not to slip, descended the embankment into a blanket of mist. There was a coldness in the air. My heart pounded as I edged forward in the gloom.

I soon arrived at the fence. Taken by surprise, I faced an enormous hole. Beaten to it, doubtless by a group of bored teenagers, I tossed the bolt cutters to the ground, then squeezed through. I landed awkwardly, and my middle-aged body, less agile than it once was, let out an involuntary groan.

After picking myself up, I made my way through a short section of undergrowth to the edge of the stone ballast. Sick with nerves, I stopped. I strained to listen. Nothing. I glanced over my shoulder, scouring the scrub from which I came. No one. But I heard a noise. An owl. Hooting in the distance, it called out to its companion. Its cry drew no response, and I wondered if the owl, like me, was alone.

Making its slow ascent, the sun sat low in the sky. The mist had tamed its glare, and illuminated by the soft light, I crept forward, proceeding with caution as I navigated the ballast. When I arrived at the track, I stepped over the rail to stand on a sleeper.

As time melted into the mist, I sensed a stillness. Then something compelling drew my gaze. I turned and stared at the track. Dew had condensed onto the rails, making them gleam. I traced the silvered tracks as they fused with the fog. Although parallel to each other, they looked like they might converge beyond the mist. The scene enthralled me and, staunching the flow of time, it held my eye. Standing in absolute stillness, I forgot why I was there.

From nowhere, the calmness faded, lost time catching up with itself as heaven morphed to hell. Entombed by the slavery of my depression, a cloud of loneliness enveloped me as I waited to die. Gripped by a choking sadness, I knew what I must do. I just wished I had found the courage to end my life sooner.

As I waited for death, something stirred. Against my will, the powerful feeling forced me to cling to the dregs of my wasted life. A life I no longer wished to live. Working its black magic, it instilled a sense of fear – an inescapable feeling of uncertainty that forced me to question my sense of conviction. Though I longed to embrace death, I feared it. The paradox made me wonder if there is a light inside, a flame we cannot extinguish whilst our arteries pulsate with life. No matter how far we fall, how hard we try, perhaps we can never switch off our innate proclivity to survive.

It was this unconditional obligation to live, a survival instinct evolved over millennia to become forged into my DNA, that would intervene again that year. But having fallen so low, the light that once flared was now an ember. Despite my wish to extinguish it, sorcery was at play. And, like a comical re-lighting candle, the flicker refused to go out.

Mirroring a malignant cancer, my grey matter had taken on a life of its own, fashioning dark thoughts that contrived to torment and destroy. Time after time, they had played over and over inside my head. So it was no surprise they resumed.

My thoughts returned to the night I found the letter, the moment my life changed forever. I didn’t need to read it to know what it said. It had been coming for a while and I deserved it. My family deserved more; more than I could ever give. But they were all I had. All I ever wanted to have. And they were gone. Losing them left a void in my life I could never fill. Now, as I waited to die, memories of them flared in my mind and, tortured by my feelings, I wondered if my daughter remembered me.

No longer able to replay the memory of the day they left, I wrestled for control of my mind. Frustration switched my imaginings to how people might remember me, what people might say. I searched for something good that might live on in the minds of those who knew me. But nothing sprang to mind. All I could think of was the hurt I’d doled out to those closest to me, the crater my selfish existence had carved in their lives. I would soon become another railway death, a loser who took the simple way out. Hundreds of lost souls kill themselves on Britain’s tracks every year. And, weighed down with guilt, I couldn’t wait to join them.

It was then that a faint vibration and humming sound entered my thoughts. It was not these so much as the distant rumbles of thunder that focused my attention, the knot in my stomach tightening when I realised the rumbles were not coming from a storm. My fear returned as though it had never left. This time with good reason.

What followed is impossible to explain. But its memory remains etched in my mind, every recollection as vivid and profound as the last. Seized by panic, I turned to look away from the approaching train. I looked towards the undergrowth beyond the stone ballast. That was when I saw her, a ghostly figure standing as pure as driven snow by the side of the track. She looked soaked to the skin, the sodden fabric of her dress clinging to the slim contour of her body. Indifferent to the cold, her pale freckled face, framed by wet, shoulder-length, mousy-brown hair, bore an expression of celestial beauty.

Struck by her presence, I realised she was staring at me. And bewitched by her glare, I could focus on nothing else. Her icy blue eyes projected an aura of serenity that reached out and touched my soul. Her look severed me from time. In the void, I sensed an inexplicable but definite connection between us. The bond brought a stillness to the chaos inside my head. I no longer felt alone. I was no longer mindful of the approaching train.

As the gap in time stretched out, she held my gaze. But now something about her conveyed a hint of sadness. Touched by her sorrow, I realised that she shared my pain. And I shared hers. I felt the weight lift from my shoulders; it drove all sense of worry from my mind. Staring at me with damaged eyes, she gave me the strength to face that which lay ahead.

The deafening roar of the onrushing train forced me to close my eyes. As I braced myself for the impact, a blast of air hit me like a hurricane, taking my breath away and wrenching me from my feet. I curled up into a fetal position, about to exit life as I had entered it. The force of the draught almost blew me sideways. Still the noise came, a thunderous sound that shook me to the core. But still no impact. No end to the terror of it. My heart in my mouth, I heard the roar subside. The noise disappeared as fast as it arrived. I lay there until there was silence. When what seemed like an eternity had passed, I opened my eyes.

Numbed by a sense of disbelief, I lay where only seconds before I had stood. It seemed I had escaped death by a whisker. Had I fallen victim to some divine intervention, or had I imagined the entire thing? I didn’t know. Hauling myself to safety, I recalled seeing the youthful woman standing by the track. I swung round, my eyes sweeping the undergrowth to see if she was still there. But there was no one. Was she also a figment of my imagination?

I now know the woman I saw was neither an actual person nor even an apparition. She was a hallucination, a creation born of fear. Staring death in the face had caused psychosis to play tricks with my mind. Madness foiled reason as hysteria painted pictures in my brain. That is the only explanation. I have no evidence, no proof she was real. And that is what I have to believe. For if not, I must be insane.

That has not stopped me from wondering. All I know for certain is that what I saw that day is beyond my understanding. As impossible as it now seems, a part of me continues to wonder, to believe the unbelievable, to imagine the woman I saw was not a figment of my imagination but a ghost. An apparition there to guide me from beyond the grave. I would see her again. Many days would pass before I would have another encounter when once again, out of the blue, she would appear like a ghostly reincarnation – like an angel to alter my fate. I still recall to the last detail the image of her. And real or imaginary, sane or insane, I don’t know what I believe.

Engulfed by my utter sense of failure, I headed back to the car. I should have felt purged, ready for a fresh start. Instead, as I trudged through the undergrowth, I felt washed out, weighed down by sadness. On reaching the car, the dawn chorus was in full swing. It sounded like an orchestral celebration, yet it did nothing to lessen my pain.

I opened the door and slumped into the driver’s seat. About to place me at the mercy of my thoughts, my mind stirred. But something in my peripheral vision stole my attention. Sensing a person looking down at me, I glanced upwards. He looked familiar, but the hollows of his cheeks were deeper and the lines of his face darker than I remembered. Not recognising the person I saw, the lacklustre eyes gazing back at me from the rear-view mirror did not at first appear to belong to me. The wraithlike reflection portrayed a mask of misery, a poignant reminder of how low I had fallen. How ill I had become.

Unable to bear looking at myself a second longer, I turned away, leaning forward to rest on the steering wheel. Then the tears came, tears I had swallowed for so long. Head in hands, I cried. And, weeping like a child, it seemed nothing could stem the flow. Nothing except the muted sound coming from the glove compartment.

Blinking back the tears, I retrieved my phone from the glove box. I studied the screen through blurred eyes. There were several missed calls. Without thinking, I pressed voicemail.

‘You have one new message.’

I listened.

‘Where the fuck are you?’

I recognised the voice. Hanging on every word, I pressed the phone to my ear.

‘The operation has gone tits up and there’s a shitload of smack on its way… Call me!’

Chapter 2

London, Thursday 16 January 2014

The Met’s major incident suite was on the top floor. As I dashed towards the lift, I heard a familiar voice.

‘Morning, Sir!’

It was Stanley, the night watchman. Always full of the joys of spring, his energy was hard to miss. Though nothing could free me from my torment, Stan’s grin lifted my spirits a touch. And boy, did they need lifting.

‘Morning, Stan,’ I replied, forcing a smile.

‘It’s busy this morning, Sir. You’d have thought someone had murdered the Home Secretary!’

I hurried through the foyer, trying to laugh. But unable to, I slipped into the lift.

I paused outside the incident room, my thoughts still muddied by my low frame of mind. Shackled by a propensity to think people would hold a poor opinion of me, I was under no illusion. I would be the object of shame. No matter how much I wanted to pretend otherwise, there would be no slipping in under the radar. Christ, why do I have to be in charge? Why can’t I work on security – be like Stan?

Fuck it. There was no turning back. Consigned to my fate, I inhaled deeply, turned the handle and burst into the room. Detective Chief Superintendent Morag Cunningham, a well-dressed woman in her early fifties, stood in front of the large whiteboard, addressing the team. She spun round to see me enter. The other officers joined her, their heads twisting in my direction. I tried to press on, but it was like walking into a wall.

Morag stopped talking. But she was still casting a spell over me, her harsh Scottish accent still ringing in my ear. As she latched onto my scared look with an irate stare, her pale face gave way to the same colour as her Celtic hair. Forced to turn away, my eyes fell on the team. And, drowning in the sea of faces, I hardly dared to breathe.

‘DCI William Constable!’ barked Morag.

I turned to face her.

‘We thought you’d gone AWOL,’ she said.

Gripped by the tight air of tension in the room, my reply jammed in my throat. ‘Morning, Ma’am,’ I said at last, no longer able to look my superior in the eye. ‘I gather there’ve been some developments?’

Morag retorted, her voice competing with the sound made by an officer sucking at her teeth. ‘You can say that again. Now sit down and listen in. There isn’t much time.’

And she was right. There wasn’t time for Morag to begin a war of words, to embark upon a succession of snide remarks. There was too much at stake and not enough time to waste it on anything other than the task at hand.

I spotted an empty chair next to Tim, the DI who’d left the message on my phone.

As I collapsed into the chair, he whispered, ‘You look like shit, Sir… I hope it was a good night?’

Privately educated and full of self-confidence, the arrogant prick was not one for playing the quiet subordinate. He was the opposite of me. I’d never known him to have a care in the world. Born with a silver spoon in his mouth, he treated everyone with contempt, including his superiors. And he was a man I could not bring myself to trust.

‘Like you wouldn’t imagine,’ I replied.

The DCS continued to brief the team. ‘As I was saying, the Danes have had a blue-on-blue incident and the entire operation has gone to pot.’

‘Silly twats,’ muttered Tim.

Morag continued. ‘The Danes pronounced two traffic officers dead at the scene.’ An air of concern washed over her face. ‘And their undercover operative, Iørgen Holst, is in critical.’

My heart sank. Though I’d never met Iørgen, I had spoken to him several times. A selfless man, he was someone I valued. It had taken him fourteen months to infiltrate the Bandidos motorcycle club. This was no mean feat. Having kicked the Hell’s Angels into touch, the Bandidos were Denmark’s leading drug traffickers. ‘Christ, what happened?’ I said.

‘We don’t have time to go into the details. And anyway, it’s not important,’ said Morag. ‘What is important is that before the incident, a consignment of heroin left Denmark in a light aircraft. And it’s on its way to Blighty as I speak.’

I interrupted. ‘Do the pilots know we’re onto them?’

‘Not that we know of,’ she replied. ‘The Danes shot all six Bandidos dead at the scene, and there’s nothing to suggest the deal involved any other traffickers.’ In a hurried voice, DCS Cunningham added, ‘We’re working on the basis that the pilots and the buyers this side of the pond know nothing about the incident.’ Morag barely stopped to draw breath. ‘The plane is scheduled to refuel at a private airfield near York. From there, it will fly to its ultimate destination in Essex.’ Tapping a key on her laptop, she pulled up a satellite image of an airstrip. ‘The plane should make its first stop in about twenty minutes. There’s a tactical support team already at the airfield.’ Morag took a deep breath. ‘Unless they try to shift the drugs or make a run for it, I’ve instructed the officers to remain out of sight.’

Staring at the projector screen, she changed the slide before pointing to another airfield. ‘After refuelling, the plane should land at North Weald Airport. It’s a small airfield ten miles south of Stansted Airport. I’ve already dispatched a surveillance squad and two SCO19 teams. They should arrive any minute.’

Turning away from the projector screen, she looked at me. ‘Will, I want you at North Weald Airport to coordinate things on the ground.’

I nodded.

‘You’ll be in overall command and responsible for calling in the attack.’ Looking concerned, she stressed, ‘The pilots could be armed.’

‘Yes, Ma’am,’ I responded.

Before I could ask questions, she looked at Tim. ‘Tim, I want you here. You’ll be Will’s first point of contact.’ Swinging her gaze back on me, she added, ‘In case there’s a cock-up.’

Unable to conceal his disappointment, Tim’s face turned as red as his hair. ‘Of course, Ma’am.’

Still looking at me, DCS Cunningham frowned. ‘Do you have any fresh leads on who’s buying the drugs?’

She knew full well I had nothing. I’d had an early lead, but to my astonishment it had ended in a cul-de-sac. To add insult to injury, the Danes were leagues ahead of us. Iørgen had been at pains to point out that he’d identified the source and had enough evidence to convict the entire biker gang, not to mention a host of individuals further up the supply chain. To his frustration, we were no nearer to identifying the elusive end of the chain; the Holy Grail, as the NCA liked to call it. ‘No, nothing, Ma’am,’ I replied.

Morag shrugged. Then she paused. ‘Okay, everyone. You all know what to do.’ She looked at me. ‘Will, you have five minutes to familiarise yourself with the layout of the airfield. There’s an unmarked car waiting to take you there as soon as you’re ready.’

Above the sound of shuffling chairs, she turned her gaze on the team. ‘I needn’t tell you: this could be our last chance. So do whatever it takes to bring them down; if not for our sakes, then for the Danish officers who’ve lost their lives.’

The lives of the Danish officers meant nothing to the top brass, of that I was in no doubt. The success of this mission was about something more important: national pride.

As everyone dispersed, the DCS looked at me. ‘Will, can I have a quick word?’

Standing in the corner, Morag spoke in a loud whisper. ‘Where the fuck were you? You’re the SIO, for Christ’s sake. Or at least you should be. I should be in bed, not here doing your dirty work!’ Looking like she might blow a fuse, she raised her voice. ‘How do you think this looks to the team?’ She paused, simmering before one final explosive outburst. ‘Your tardiness could have wrecked the whole bloody operation!’

‘I’m sorry, Ma’am,’ I interjected. ‘Something important came up.’

The colour flared into her cheeks. ‘It better have—’ Stopping mid-sentence, an air of concern washed over her. Keeping her voice quiet, she said, ‘Are you sure you’re up to this? You don’t look well.’

‘I’m fine, Ma’am.’ Changing tack, I said, ‘Has anyone notified the NCA?’

‘I’ve been in touch with Steve and he’s requested we keep him informed,’ she replied. ‘Their officers are all tied up on an internet fraud case. And besides,’ she said, ‘we can handle this.’

As I turned to leave, she pulled me back. Her expression looked as cold as ice. ‘Oh, and Will,’ she said, ‘don’t fuck this up!’

Chapter 3

North Weald Airfield, Thursday 16 January 2014

It was a chilly winter morning and the early light painted the airfield grey. From my position behind the SCO19 team inside the hangar, I surveyed the airstrip. A veil of fog hung over the runway and visibility was poor. Breathing a sigh of frustration, I wondered if the small plane could land in these conditions. My mouth dried with apprehension. There was nothing I could do. No turning back. The hangars were bursting at the seams with officers and police dogs, man and beast champing at the bit as they waited for my command. Local police were also on standby, ready to block roads into and out of the airport at short notice.

I checked my watch. Twenty-five minutes to go, but still no sign of any drug traffickers. No news from air traffic control.

Breaking into a cold sweat, I heard the SCO19 commander speaking into his encrypted radio. ‘Alpha team in position and standing by. Over.’

The cumulative sense of impatience was almost palpable. All were on tenterhooks as we waited in silent anticipation.

The receiver crackled into life. ‘Bravo, copy that. Over.’

Everyone was in position and it was time to play the waiting game, ready to respond at a second’s notice. These were the moments I hated. Sometimes the wait would last for hours. Ample time for my mind to take control, for dark, introspective thoughts to play over and over inside my head.

Unable to suppress them, my thoughts turned to Iørgen. Apparently, two Danish traffic officers had blindly walked into a major drug deal, only for the Bandidos to take them captive. A fearless pack of violent criminals, true one-percenters, the Bandidos were ruthless, nasty bastards. Their motto, We are the people your parents warned you about, says it all. With no choice, Iørgen must have broken cover to orchestrate a rescue. ‘Christ, what a fuck-up,’ I grumbled. I shuddered to imagine what must have gone through his mind, the strain that drove him to risk his life.

All hell had broken loose as a gunfight ensued between the bikers and Iørgen’s operational back-up team. During the melee, Iørgen had taken a bullet in the chest. The last I had heard, it was touch and go, but he continued to hang on. ‘Christ, I hope he makes it,’ I muttered.

I felt a shiver run down my spine as I grappled with my guilt. Iørgen had hated every minute spent with the lawless bastards, from riding a Harley-Davidson motorcycle to the ridiculous beard and repulsive tattoos his alias had forced him to have. It had almost cost him his marriage, not to mention his life. Even his kids no longer recognised him. I felt for the man. I really did. But having broken into their inner circle to become one of them, we needed him if we were to uncover the major supply route for class A drugs moving from Afghanistan to Britain. Still pondering the case, I felt my stomach tighten. Were it not for my tardiness, my failure to solve the crime, to identify the elusive end of the chain, his ordeal would have been over a long time ago. He would be with his wife. With his kids…

Shutting Iørgen from my mind, cynical thoughts continued to ferment inside my head. I wondered what I was doing here. What all this was for. If we thought we would catch the big fish, we were wrong. Even if we did, there was no shortage of villains waiting in the wings, ready to step up to become the next Al Capone. The underworld’s biggest players were untouchable, out of reach. They had an army of crooks leaning over backwards to carry out their dirty work. And they also had friends in high places, so-called pillars of the community on their payroll, pulling strings to maintain the status quo.

We were losing the war on drugs. And my opinion on how best to tackle the issue was changing. It was another obstacle that led my zeal to wane. Criminalising drugs hadn’t stopped their proliferation. It hadn’t lessened the number of addicts. Neither had it reduced the incidence of drug-related crime. It created a black market, fuelling more violence, more wrongdoing. All the while, it turned helpless individuals at the bottom of the heap into lowlife criminals, unable to seek help, unable to be open about their problems. All this whilst those at the top became richer and more ruthless.

My take on life coupled to my failure to mix with those around me had become my worst enemy. Fighting against me, my thoughts and my actions were making my life evermore challenging. Socially awkward, I had become an outcast, never quite fitting in. Even when surrounded by people I knew, I felt isolated. It was as if I was living my life in a bubble. Disconnected from the living, I was like a ghost barred from the afterlife. But no longer able to cope with the solitude, which at first had been my friend, the loneliness was now too much for me to bear.

For the second time that day, my mobile phone jolted me from my thoughts. Switched onto silent, I felt it vibrating in my pocket. It was the station. Moving to the back of the hangar, I took the call.

The officer sounded concerned. ‘Sir, we’ve received a call from your sister. She says she’s been having trouble getting hold of you.’

I wondered what Agnes, my older sister, wanted.

‘It’s urgent,’ said the officer.

I hung on her every word.

‘Your father’s had a heart attack. They took him to Basildon Hospital during the early hours of this morning.’

‘Christ, that’s all I fucking need!’

Too fixated with my work to shine a light on what mattered most, I failed to engage my mind. I know that now. Perhaps that’s why I reacted the way I did, the reason I spoke coldly.

‘Sorry, Sir, what was that?’

That was when it hit me, my heart sinking like a stone. Adept at masking my feelings, I tried to suppress the wave of sadness washing over me. ‘Okay, thanks, Sian,’ I replied. There was a lump in my throat as I took a contact number and then hung up.

I hadn’t seen Agnes in three years. Our relationship had deteriorated. I had become more distant, more out of touch with the needs of those closest to me. The last time we spoke – or rather, Agnes spoke – the one-sided conversation ended gravely, her raised voice hollering after me as I stormed out of her house. As for my father, he’d spent the past twelve months in a nursing home. Dementia had relieved him of his independence, of himself. It was my signature, a simple stroke of my pen, that saw him imprisoned in the last place he wished to be. It still haunts me. I had condemned him to that awful place, to God’s waiting room. Forced into care, he became unrecognisable. No longer tethered to the world, all memories of our time together vanished from his mind.

This changed everything. I had to get to the hospital. I needed to be there for Agnes and my father. For me. But I was in this up to my neck. I couldn’t leave, not now. The cycle of interminable days and bleary nights that came with chasing promotion in the Met may have ruined my relationship. It may have wrecked my life. And I may have all but given up on the force, on living, but I had to finish this, if only to win back some self-respect. Besides, these bastards had to pay. I could go later, make up for my absence and put things right when this was over.

I returned to stand behind the SCO19 team. Casting my helpless gaze towards the runway, my mind no longer committed to the task at hand, I tried to drive unwanted feelings from my mind. But it was impossible. By a quirk of fate, help was soon at hand. The SCO19 commander spoke into his two-way radio. ‘Bravo team, do you have visual yet? Over.’

Broadcasting static crackles, the handset forced everyone to wait with bated breath. Even the dogs, their muscles tensed like coiled springs, appeared to be waiting for an answer. The tension was at breaking point. Then came the reply. But it was not the one I hoped for. ‘Negative. Over.’

Where the hell are they? The plane should land any minute, but still no sign of them. Adding to my concern, there had to be buyers at this end to take the heroin, but they too were missing. An eerie silence hung over the airfield and, wide-eyed with worry, the beginnings of a terrible feeling stirred inside.

Several minutes passed before the radio burst into life again. ‘Air traffic control to all units. Over.’

‘Alpha copy that. Over.’

Cutting through the garbled din, a voice rumbled from the speaker. ‘Plane approaching, seconds away. Over.’

At last. Relief came in an instant as the wave of excitement washed over me and took control of every cell in my body. The agony of fatigue vanished. All thoughts relating to the past and future shifted to a distant part of my mind, replaced by a sense of pure consciousness. It was this buzz of excitement, brought on by adrenaline coursing through my veins, that drew me to frontline police work. Unable to focus on anything but the now, I was for the second time that day free of my mind.

I could hear the approaching plane, its shape still concealed