Into The Fire: Inspector Stone Mysteries, #4

Prologue

The gate burst inwards as it was struck by the speeding van, almost flying off its hinges with the force of the impact.

Once through the van raced across the yard before coming to a stop near the roller door that provided access to Hartwell Electrical’s warehouse. A second van skidded to a halt alongside a moment later.

The vehicles were a matched pair of white Ford Transit vans, both so dirty an observer might believe they had come from a rally race. Except for the locations of the individual mud splatters they were identical, down to the licence plates, a tactic intended to make it harder for the vehicles to be identified or traced should anyone see them and report them to the police.

Four people, three men and a woman, all of them dressed in dark clothes and wearing gloves and balaclavas, got out of the vans and assembled by the roller door.

A pair of bolt cutters was produced and the padlock securing the door quickly cut away. A siren blared the moment the door was raised, making two of the four jump in surprise, even though they had been warned to expect it. The other two showed no such alarm at the sudden noise, they simply ducked under the rising door and disappeared into the darkness of the warehouse.

Less than a minute later the noise died away and the two reappeared.

Get the doors open, the leader of the quartet ordered brusquely.

He was obeyed swiftly, and once the rear doors of the van he had driven onto the property were open he reached in to grab a pair of high-powered torches. He kept one for himself and handed the other to his number two, who immediately turned it on, chasing away the shadows with its narrow beam.

Three, you’re with Two, Four, you’re with me, One said. Referring to his colleagues by a number was a security measure he had insisted on during the planning stages of the heist, not that any of them expected to be overheard or witnessed during the raid.

The industrial estate on which Hartwell Electrical had their warehouse was patrolled by guards from a security firm. They had no cause to be concerned that the guards on duty that night were going to trouble them, though, because before going to the warehouse they had paid a visit to the portacabin the guards operated from – the guards were tied up, and would be unconscious for some hours to come.

With the guards not an issue, and the alarm silenced, the quartet got on with their business. One and Four made their way through the warehouse to the stairs that led up to the office, while Two and Three kept an eye out from the yard in case someone were to pass and take note of them.

Get the computer, One instructed his companion once he was in the office, having resorted to the simple expedient of booting open the door to gain access. Take all of it and chuck it in the back of the van. They only needed the hard drive to deny the police any surveillance footage that might help them but it was quicker, and easier, to take the whole computer than it was to dismantle it and remove the hard drive. And take anything else that looks like it might be connected to the security cameras. He was sure it was just the computer, but he didn’t want to take any chances, even if their faces were hidden and their vans had fake licence plates on.

While Four got on with that, it was a task he could manage without difficulty since it didn’t require him to know anything about computers, only how to remove cables, One searched for the delivery paperwork. He located it soon enough, and quickly found the licence number of the lorry that held the load he was after; there were three lorries in the yard, all of them filled with cargoes he could make money off, but the one he was interested in held a mix of goods that would be easiest for him to sell.

Above the hook that held the delivery paperwork was a locked cabinet. One had it open in moments and he quickly searched through the keys it held for those belonging to the lorry he was interested in. He took them down once he found them and hurried from the office, trusting Four to finish up the job of removing the computer, not that he liked to trust the younger man any more than was necessary.

All clear? he asked when he reached the loading bay.

Not a peep, Two answered, her eyes on the wrecked gates, which would have been a clear sign to anyone passing that something was going on. You got them?

J answered by holding up the keys. We’re after FR67 OST, he told her. Second lorry in by the looks of it. Come on, let’s get going. Climbing behind the wheel of the van he had driven into the yard he drove quickly over to the trio of lorries, loaded and waiting for their drivers to arrive in the morning and take them to their destinations.

It took just a few seconds to pull the van up by the lorry he was interested in, and he was out again before the second van could reach him. While Two brought the second van over, One unlocked the doors at the rear of the lorry and swung them open to reveal the pallets of electrical items he was there to steal.

Climbing up he took a knife from his pocket and, with a quick slice, dealt with the plastic that had been wrapped around the first pallet. The first thing he picked up was a Playstation 4 which he quickly dropped down to Three, who had hurried round to catch it and load it into the back of the nearest van.

A second Playstation followed, then an Xbox One, a Blu-Ray player, another Playstation and a television. By then Four arrived with the computer from the office, which he tossed casually into the back of the nearest van, and One was able to organise a chain to keep the goods moving from the lorry to the vans. Each item was stacked neatly to ensure they could fit as much as possible in, even so they ran out of space in the vans before they could unload everything from the lorry.

It annoyed One to be leaving behind so much valuable merchandise; if he could have managed it he would have driven away all three lorries, and made enough to set himself up comfortably for the rest of his life. That simply wasn’t possible, though; he had nowhere safe to store three stolen lorries, and though he had the connections to get rid of stolen goods, he didn’t have enough connections to deal with three lorry-loads of it. Criminal and corrupt he might be, incautious he wasn’t, which was why he was only taking as much as he was sure he could handle.

Working by hand it took almost an hour to fill the two vans, and the moment they were done One jumped down from the back of the lorry, which he left open – there was no point in making an effort to conceal what they had done, not when the mess they had made of the gate would tell anyone the place had been broken into. Climbing into the van he shifted into gear while Four slammed closed the rear doors, and the moment the younger man joined him he reversed away from the lorry and raced away across the yard.

A smile, hidden by his balaclava, was on One’s lips as he drove out of the yard. He estimated that he would be able to make thirty thousand pounds from his haul, and that was being conservative. It was a good night’s work.

1

The rock disappeared from sight as it arced through the darkness, becoming visible again as it struck the window. The glass shattered with a sharp, cracking sound, which was immediately drowned by the burglar alarm, whose wailing split the silence of the night.

The noise would normally have been enough to send a vandal running. The dark-clad figure who had launched the rock was a vandal with a cause, however, and wasn’t about to let himself be driven away by a bit of noise and the possibility of being arrested.

Even if he hadn’t considered arrest a small price to pay for exposing what was happening there, he wouldn’t have run from the siren. There was no-one nearby to hear the alarm, he knew that for a certainty, and it would take some time for the police, or anyone else, to respond to it.

Since he had time, and he didn’t care about being arrested – as far as he was concerned being arrested would only bring more attention to what he had done and what he was trying to do, and that was all to the good – he stayed there, throwing stone after stone at the building.

There were few windows on the ground floor but plenty on the first floor, and soon enough the ground around the building was covered in shards of glass as each stone that left his hand found a pane of glass.

Once all the windows had been broken he turned his attention to the rest of the building. The main doors were protected by steel shutters, and nothing he did shifted them, nor was he able to get the fire door open, even using the crowbar he took from the boot of his car. After a couple of minutes of trying he gave up.

As much as he wanted to get into the building and do as much damage as he could – smashing the windows just wasn’t satisfying enough for him – the effort wasn’t worth it, not when the alarm continued to disturb the night.

Frustrated he threw the crowbar into the boot and grabbed up a can of spray paint. It was bright red, a colour he considered highly appropriate under the circumstances, and it showed up well on the wall of the building as he began spraying. How graffiti artists created the images they did he couldn’t imagine; he had enough difficulty just making what he was writing legible, even though each letter was a foot tall.

It took him ten minutes to finish, by which time he had decorated the building with a dozen words which couldn’t be missed by anyone who came within a hundred feet of it.

It was time to go he decided once he was done with his graffiti. He had done all he could just then, or almost all; taking out his phone he took photos of everything he had done. He wanted a record of the action he had taken, for his own pleasure, but also for the furtherance of his goals.

Satisfied with his night’s work, if not the reason behind it, he took a last look at the fruit of his labours and then got into his car.

He had gone no more than a quarter of a mile from the trading estate when he saw, on the road that ran parallel to the one he was on, the flashing lights of the police car responding to the alarm set off by the damage he had caused. They had taken even longer to answer the alarm than he had expected.

He was tempted to turn around and head back the way he had come, so he could see the reactions of the police officers when they saw what he had done. The graffiti especially, he was sure, would get a response of some kind. He resisted the urge, however, and kept going.

2

Eric Larsson stood in front of his studio, staring at the damage that had been done. None of the damage was all that serious, it could be repaired in under a day, and the cost of it was not likely to be all that significant. Neither the repair time nor the cost were what bothered him, however, what did was the reason for the vandalism, which was made clear by the graffiti.

He ran a tired hand through his hair and fought the urge to yawn. It wasn’t easy, he had been sleeping soundly when he got the call to tell him that the burglar alarm installed at his studio had been triggered. There was only one consolation he could take from the situation just then, and that was that he had taken the call, not his wife; as distressing as the graffiti was for him to see, it would have been worse for his wife, who was a gentle soul.

That thought made him think of his models, some of whom were due at the studio during the coming day for photoshoots. He made a mental note to have them called and their shoots cancelled; he didn’t want his models upset by the stupidity, prejudice, and lack of understanding of what was most likely only one person.

Inspector Stone should be here shortly, Mr Larsson, Sergeant Wells, who was the senior of the officers who had responded to the burglar alarm, said.

Thank you. Larsson pulled his attention away from his studio, and the state it had been left in. As he became aware of other things he shivered, a reminder that he had left the house in such a rush he had forgotten to grab a jacket; short sleeves had been fine during the day, but at nearly three in the morning they just weren’t enough.

He made his way over to his car to search it for the jumper or jacket he often left in there if he got too warm during the day. His luck was not in on that occasion, however; he was going to have to continue shivering.

At least the alarm was now silent, he thought as he returned to stand next to the sergeant. It wasn’t much but it was better than nothing. The alarm had still been going when he arrived, and that, on top of everything else, had almost driven him round the bend. Fortunately the alarm company had been able to silence it remotely since he had been advised not to enter the property.

He wasn’t the only one to appreciate the quiet, he hadn’t missed the relief of the two uniformed officers when the wailing stopped, nor did he miss the reaction of the younger officer – he tried his best not to show what he was thinking, but Larsson saw the distaste that filled the constable when he saw the graffiti.

Larsson had been at the studio for about half an hour when the sound of an approaching car made him turn towards the road. Headlights, bright and blinding, made it impossible to see the car that was drawing near, but he assumed it was Inspector Stone’s. He was soon proved right.

Hello, Mr Larsson, Detective Inspector Nathan Stone greeted the studio owner, whom he had met while working on a previous case.

Inspector. Larsson shook the senior detective’s hand. Good of you to come. When I asked for discretion I didn’t expect them to call you out.

Nathan gave a quick smile, the best he could manage at that time of the night. It’s a coincidence, Mr Larsson, nothing more. I just happened to be on duty tonight, though seeing this. He gestured to the building. I think it’s safe to say you’re lucky I had the duty. Discretion is definitely something you need with this situation.

Larsson nodded. The damage itself is relatively minor, but the graffiti has me worried; this is clearly more than a case of kids having some fun.

You’re not kidding.

‘PERVERTS’, ‘CHILD ABUSERS’, ‘SICKOS’

Those were just a few of the words that had been spray-painted across the exterior of the building. All the words followed the same theme, and indicated that the person responsible for the vandalism – Nathan suspected it was a man, though he accepted that he could be wrong – had a definite grudge against the studio, even if that grudge wasn’t necessarily justified.

Is this the first incident like this you’ve had to deal with?

We had some problems when we first set the studio up, people thinking we were up to something dodgy with our models. It’s why we decided to move the studio out here, it’s far enough out of the way that people aren’t likely to come here to cause trouble without a good reason. That was years ago, though, Larsson said, almost a decade now, and it was never as bad as this.

Nathan had other questions to ask of Eric Larsson, but he had something more important to do first. I trust you can be relied upon to resist the urge to talk about this, he said to Sergeant Wells. The last thing Mr Larsson needs is for you to gossip about this like the old woman you are.

You know me, sir, Frank Wells was professional enough to avoid informality while a member of the public was nearby, I can be discreet when I need to be. If you tell me not to say anything, my lips are sealed.

Good. Nathan knew that Frank Wells was a good officer, and always well-meaning, despite his habit of gossiping when something he considered newsworthy happened, so he trusted that when he gave his word he would keep silent. How about...? He nodded in the direction of the constable, whose name escaped him just then. Can he be trusted to keep his mouth shut?

Wells regarded the constable for a moment. He’ll keep it shut if he knows what’s good for him. He said it softly, but with enough volume to reach the constable, who was standing a short distance from the others.

Nathan accepted that, knowing his friend would make it clear to the constable, if he didn’t already know, just how important it was to be discreet, especially when discretion had been asked for.

I don’t suppose there was any sign of the perpetrator when you got here, Nathan said to his friend, certain of the answer already.

Wells shook his head. No, not a hint. Apart from the printers in building one the estate is like a ghost town, and the streets were equally dead on the way here. I don’t think we saw anyone within a mile of this place. That’s a bit unusual, even for this time of the night. Mr Larsson was already here when we arrived. He was sure Larsson had broken at least a couple of traffic laws to beat them to the trading estate, but that didn’t concern him just then. And he apparently saw no-one when he got here.

Nathan turned to the studio owner and received a nod of confirmation. How about inside the building? Could the vandal be hiding in there?

It’s possible, Wells admitted, but I don’t think he is. I checked the entrances and exits when I got here – there’s only the two of them – and there are signs he tried to force an entry, but nothing to suggest he was successful.

Stay here, sergeant, Nathan instructed. I’ll be back shortly. Georgie, come with me. He strode off with his partner, Detective Constable Ariana Georgius, in tow.

They stopped at the shutter covering the entrance to the studio, where the damage done by the vandal in his efforts to get into the building was visible. The shutters had resisted the vandal’s attack with apparent ease; scratches and other marks marred the paintwork, and there were a couple of dents, which looked to have been made by a booted foot, but there was no sign that he had come close to getting through.

Nathan gave the shutter a rattle, just to make certain it was still secure – it was – and then he stepped back.

Do you think this has anything to do with Ellen Powers’ murder? Georgie asked as she followed her superior around the outside of the building, looking for ways in. Like Nathan she was careful to avoid stepping on any of the glass shards that littered the ground, not because there was any chance that it would get through the thick soles of her shoes, but because it was evidence, and neither of them wanted to disturb it.

Only indirectly, Nathan answered his partner. I’d say this has more to do with The Rocket’s investigation, he said, referring to Detective Inspector Rowena ‘The Rocket’ Martins, and the stories printed in The Herald. Of course, that all stemmed from the murder, so you could say there’s a connection to it. He continued around the exterior of the building, surveying the damage that had been done and looking for ways into the studio. Having been there before he didn’t expect to find anything other than the fire exit at the rear of the building, so he was unsurprised when he didn’t. If you ask me, someone is unhappy with the outcome of The Rocket’s investigation.

Georgie grimaced. That’s hardly a surprise given the way the Herald has been stirring things.

The two detectives were aware of the fuss being made by the editor of the local paper regarding the Larsson Studio, and the investigation that had been conducted into both it and the way its models were treated. If the editor had believed in the stories he was running it would have been one thing, but both Nathan and Georgie, as well as many of the other officers and detectives at Branton Police Station, knew that Kelly was merely stirring and sensationalising a situation to sell papers. It wasn’t an unusual thing for a newspaper’s editor to do, but it was making things difficult for a great many people.

Stirring things. Nathan had to resist the urge to laugh. Talk about an understatement. You should hear what Collins says about Kelly and the Herald.

After about ten minutes the two detectives returned to the front of the building, where Eric Larsson, Sergeant Wells and the constable were waiting.

Anything? Larsson asked.

Nathan shook his head. It’s as Sergeant Wells said, it looks as though your vandal tried to get in and failed. There’s still the possibility that he, or she, could have got in through one of the broken windows, though. With your permission I’d like to make a check of the building to make sure it’s empty.

Sure, Larsson agreed with a tired nod. Better safe than sorry. Do you want me to open up the front door for you?

Please. Nathan didn’t bother to point