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Authors: Mason N. Forbes
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another glance at the elevator console – one lift was on its way down. I bounced on my feet and glanced at the desk. The woman abruptly lowered her head. Hard to know what she looked like behind the counter; dark hair and average shoulders. But, she’d ducked her head.
The elevator pinged. The door slid open. No one there – straight in. That’s when I heard the slight sucking sound which the bin-room door gives off when it’s opened. I bounced one-hundred and eighty degrees. My eyes locked on to a man half hidden behind the door – cop. The rest of the visual was just confirmation. The man was at least six-feet-three with buzz-cut hair, dressed in blue with black boots.
My stomach lurched.
Nothing for it. I pressed the button for my floor and the elevator doors began to close, just allowing me a last glimpse of the man as he backed into the bin room, the door sucking closed behind him.
O migod! Raid! Had to be.
I stared at the elevator panel, feeling numb. My brain wouldn’t work, only the bump of the lift stopping at my floor kicked me back into the here and now.
The door slid open. I peered out, expecting to see armed policemen. Nothing. I stepped out, determined not to allow any more idiotic thoughts to enter my mind. Business and practicality took over. The pest would have to have his appointment cancelled. How much more of today’s earnings were about to go flying out the window? One thing at a time: first the pest.
Then? I unlocked the door to my apartment, went in and locked it behind me. If the police did come; they could knock.
I hurried down the corridor, dropped my bag on the sofa and booted-up the laptop. At least I would be able to see the police, if they were on their way. The idea calmed me.
I hopped over to the sofa and took my phone out of the bag. Shit, I’d have to put it on charge. I dialled the pest. Nothing for it: I held my nose between my finger and thumb, giving a great impression of someone with a cold. Then I plugged the phone in to charge.
The laptop’s screen shone brightly at me. I brought up the feed from the mini-cams. No one in the outside corridor, and it didn’t look as if Ivonne was in her apartment.
Next, I checked to see if I could locate Erjon. He was three streets away in the city centre – not good. I downloaded the data from the tracking phone. A few short texts, all in Albanian, or whatever. Three telephone calls, the first two I skipped – wrong language. The third call caught my attention; the caller ID was suppressed. I started to listen; Erjon’s curt, “Hello,” followed by a male voice with a local accent.
“Be patient, it’s being put in place.”
“When?”
“Just a few details. Then it’ll be signed off. Should be tomorrow. I’ll let you know as soon as we get the green light.”
It didn’t seem like much. However, knowing that I’d seen a copper downstairs, my mind snapped to an immediate conclusion: Driscoll, the copper, had been talking to Erjon. And, they’d been talking about a police raid.
My fingers were busy twiddling with my ponytail. I stilled them and attempted to calm my mind which seemed bent on stoking my fears to the cost of any logical thoughts.
The obvious struck me; the phone used to track Erjon contravened the Data Protection Act. If a raid was imminent, and planning for a raid made sense, then the phone must go. The police had nothing on me, in fact, they knew who I was, and they had me on their system as an escort – nothing illegal there. However, the use of the phone – easily proven – would give them a lever, and or, grounds to bring a charge against me.
I lifted my bag off the sofa and dug about looking for Mike’s card; found it, sat down again and ran my fingers over the embossed script.
He’d said to phone him and not to stick my head in the sand. Had he meant that I should phone if HMRC came visiting? Well, we’d discussed the whole thing and he must know that the police would come first,
The elevator pinged. The door slid open. No one there – straight in. That’s when I heard the slight sucking sound which the bin-room door gives off when it’s opened. I bounced one-hundred and eighty degrees. My eyes locked on to a man half hidden behind the door – cop. The rest of the visual was just confirmation. The man was at least six-feet-three with buzz-cut hair, dressed in blue with black boots.
My stomach lurched.
Nothing for it. I pressed the button for my floor and the elevator doors began to close, just allowing me a last glimpse of the man as he backed into the bin room, the door sucking closed behind him.
O migod! Raid! Had to be.
I stared at the elevator panel, feeling numb. My brain wouldn’t work, only the bump of the lift stopping at my floor kicked me back into the here and now.
The door slid open. I peered out, expecting to see armed policemen. Nothing. I stepped out, determined not to allow any more idiotic thoughts to enter my mind. Business and practicality took over. The pest would have to have his appointment cancelled. How much more of today’s earnings were about to go flying out the window? One thing at a time: first the pest.
Then? I unlocked the door to my apartment, went in and locked it behind me. If the police did come; they could knock.
I hurried down the corridor, dropped my bag on the sofa and booted-up the laptop. At least I would be able to see the police, if they were on their way. The idea calmed me.
I hopped over to the sofa and took my phone out of the bag. Shit, I’d have to put it on charge. I dialled the pest. Nothing for it: I held my nose between my finger and thumb, giving a great impression of someone with a cold. Then I plugged the phone in to charge.
The laptop’s screen shone brightly at me. I brought up the feed from the mini-cams. No one in the outside corridor, and it didn’t look as if Ivonne was in her apartment.
Next, I checked to see if I could locate Erjon. He was three streets away in the city centre – not good. I downloaded the data from the tracking phone. A few short texts, all in Albanian, or whatever. Three telephone calls, the first two I skipped – wrong language. The third call caught my attention; the caller ID was suppressed. I started to listen; Erjon’s curt, “Hello,” followed by a male voice with a local accent.
“Be patient, it’s being put in place.”
“When?”
“Just a few details. Then it’ll be signed off. Should be tomorrow. I’ll let you know as soon as we get the green light.”
It didn’t seem like much. However, knowing that I’d seen a copper downstairs, my mind snapped to an immediate conclusion: Driscoll, the copper, had been talking to Erjon. And, they’d been talking about a police raid.
My fingers were busy twiddling with my ponytail. I stilled them and attempted to calm my mind which seemed bent on stoking my fears to the cost of any logical thoughts.
The obvious struck me; the phone used to track Erjon contravened the Data Protection Act. If a raid was imminent, and planning for a raid made sense, then the phone must go. The police had nothing on me, in fact, they knew who I was, and they had me on their system as an escort – nothing illegal there. However, the use of the phone – easily proven – would give them a lever, and or, grounds to bring a charge against me.
I lifted my bag off the sofa and dug about looking for Mike’s card; found it, sat down again and ran my fingers over the embossed script.
He’d said to phone him and not to stick my head in the sand. Had he meant that I should phone if HMRC came visiting? Well, we’d discussed the whole thing and he must know that the police would come first,
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