‘I might be able to help. It depends on what you’re after,’ said Pete carefully.
‘I could do with tracing a fast motor vessel. I’ve got two leads as to who the owner might be; both mix with the great and the not-so-good! Can’t tell you what it’s about as it’s highly sensitive, but you’ll be the first to know when the story breaks.’
‘That’s a bit thin,’ said Pete.
‘My sources tell me you’re a man up for a challenge,’ replied Jeremy.
‘How’s about we go back to my office and see if we can turn something up in the library?’
It was a short walk across to the shiny, glass-fronted building. Pete signed Jeremy in and they made for the library.
Jeremy gave Pete the details of Maryam, her husband and the sheikh, and showed him the photos that Emma had sent to his phone.
‘Where do we start looking?’
‘First let’s look under their names. Let me show you how the manual and electronic cataloguing and indexing work. I suggest you start over here and I start at the other end and we see how we do,’ said Pete.
Jeremy looked at the mass of catalogued photos. Bloody hell! If only MI5 had this type of information on people! He was fascinated by the tabloid approach to life. Some of the pictures made the mind boggle and the eyes water. They surely couldn’t publish many of them, but he supposed they made for good bargaining tools!
It soon became apparent that Maryam and her husband were landlubbers; they loved high society, opera and the Arts. There was nothing to do with them and boats.
Then Pete struck gold. A colleague had been working on a story about oil magnates and beautiful celebs. There were pictures of the sheikh surrounded by beautiful women and there, amongst the pictures, was the sheikh with a movie star draped across the back of a sleek-looking monster of a powerboat.
‘Beautiful, isn’t she?’ asked Pete. ‘I’d love to get my hands on one of those. She looks like a Sunseeker Predator 75 if I’m not mistaken. Like shit off a shovel. I reckon her top speed would be something like forty-seven knots – over fifty miles per hour… Fast boats are a daydream of mine.’
Pete looked carefully through the similar pictures. ‘Damn it! None of the photos show the boat’s name. Don’t worry.’ He picked up the phone and chatted to a colleague, and within moments was talking to a specialist yacht broking agency. He spoke to them for a while and then hung up. ‘This is the boring bit of the job – the waiting for someone to phone back with the info. And the coffee’s cold!’ commented Pete.
They didn’t have to wait long. The yacht broker advised Pete that a limited number of these boats were built each year. The manufacturer had given him the names of the boats constructed in the past five years. The broker reckoned that it wouldn’t take him long to track down whether any of them were owned by a rich Arab sheikh.
Jeremy smiled. It was great to see a professional at work! Pete didn’t give away who he was researching. He reckoned Pete could give a lesson or two to some of his younger colleagues. To pass the time, and not wishing to lose an opportunity, Jeremy pulled together a bit of information on Maryam and her husband.
Less than twenty minutes later Pete’s broker contact phoned back. He’d identified three such boats which were owned by Arab sheikhs.
‘The first one is owned by a Sheikh Tufayl.’
‘Voila!’ said Jeremy.
‘Her name is Flying Goddess,’ continued Pete. ‘She is usually moored at either Monaco or Cannes and has a full-time captain.’
The information cost Pete €500. On the basis that it would help with a story, he would mark it down to expenses. Pete made a couple more calls and discovered that the boat wasn’t in Monaco or Cannes. His contact in Monaco reckoned that the boat left late last year for a refit somewhere or other, but not locally.
‘Thanks mate,’ said Jeremy. ‘I can’t tell you much at the moment, but odds-on this morning’s work will have been your most profitable yet.’
‘Exclusive as and when?’
‘Of course, but in the meantime our discussion remains just between the two of us,’ replied Jeremy. ‘Now if you’ll excuse me, I must dash.’
On the journey back, Jeremy phoned Emma.
‘That’s brilliant!’ she said. ‘You’ve got the name, the make and the type of boat and even know that she’s being refitted.’
Kate called across to Emma, ‘Look at Iceland first. If that’s where Basel is, I bet that’s where Flying Goddess is having a makeover. Have a chat to Jeremy’s colleagues and get them to pass the information on to their man travelling to Iceland.’
The morning had gone by fast; it was already 12.15 p.m.
Emma called across to Kate. ‘You’ve got a phone call from a DI Rick Feldon in Manchester.’
‘Afternoon. We have pulled in Stone and Wesson,’ said a businesslike Mancunian voice. ‘The story is that we’ve linked them with a paedo ring – indecent images, etc. Well, that’s what the paperwork says. Could have got it wrong, though,’ he said with a chuckle. ‘I’ve made sure that neither of them can see any outsiders. Mr. Stone is complaining vociferously, and his solicitor isn’t best pleased – human rights and all that!’
Emma called across, ‘Remember to ask him about whether they use outsourcing companies in their police station.’
‘Oh shit!’ exclaimed Kate under her breath. ‘I had quite forgotten.’ She asked Rick the question.
‘Yes, catering,’ came his reply.
‘Do me a favour. As far as the two from Dewoodson are concerned, treat all your caterers as hostile! I’ll explain later.’
‘Will do,’ agreed Rick with a hint of surprise in his voice. ‘We picked up William Wesson at a property he was valuing. He’s like a feral cat and is seriously pissed off.’
‘Wesson’s computer has been set up in the interview room and we asked him to show us all his files relating to PREH. The little bastard tried to delete the folder they were in. Thankfully we stopped him. Phil Scott is emailing the valuation report to you as we speak. By the way, if you want any more of the clowns at Dewoodson brought in, please let me know. It would be my pleasure. We’ve spoken to Mr Stone’s number two and explained the sensitivity of the situation. He’s agreed to close the office until Monday. Also, a couple of suits from MI5 turned up to give us a hand – said they were friends of yours. They’re giving the offices a once-over.’
‘Excellent work and thanks,’ said Kate.
‘Good luck at your end. Cheers!’ Rick was about to hang up, when he added, ‘Do you have a biro at hand? Here are Phil’s and my mobile numbers. If you need anything, day or night, please don’t hesitate.’
‘Thanks Rick and please make certain that no outsiders speak to either of them.’
The email arrived; Kate opened the attachment and printed it off. Rafi scooped it up from the printer. He went through the valuation, marking off the properties which hadn’t shown up on the mortgage register. Two of the new addresses were prime high street shop investments, but two were definitely not prime: some elderly light industrial units in Stalls Lane, Heysham, and a commercial property in Castle Street, Peterhead. Both were vacant. Result! Two more possible properties, mused Rafi. He typed Castle Street, Peterhead, into the mapping software. It was next to the docks. He did the same for Stalls Lane, Heysham. ‘Oh hell!’ he uttered under his breath.
‘Found something?’ enquired Kate.
‘We can add another nuclear power station to our list! The Heysham property is bang next to one.’
Rafi was about to continue when Emma piped up. ‘Our contact at the coastguard has traced both of the missing trawlers. Rosemarie has just finished a refit at the dry dock in Great Yarmouth and Highland Belle is at Troon dry dock. Both are poised to set sail.’
‘Well done, Emma,’ said Kate. ‘Are all the other trawlers at sea?’