G. Moffat - Blindside

…’

‘What does that mean exactly?’ Irvine asked.

‘Okay, an opiate is a drug that affects the central nervous system and also breathing. Slows everything down. It’s used to manage pain, like in cancer patients.’

‘I thought they used morphine for that?’

‘Also an opiate. The effects of fentanyl are a little different from heroin. The high is not as pronounced and it also doesn’t last as long. So, because of the shortened period of the high, it can be even more addictive.’

‘Combine the two to get the best of both, so to speak?’

Fraser smiled and nodded.

‘Exactly.’

Irvine took a pen from her jacket pocket and scribbled notes on the back of one of the post-mortem extracts.

‘But why the deaths?’ someone else asked.

‘We think that whoever is supplying this hasn’t quite got the mix right yet. Which explains the different levels found in the first three victims. You see, the negative effect fentanyl has on the respiratory system is much more pronounced than with heroin and so if it’s sold as heroin to a user, he can OD on it without knowing. Basically, it stops him breathing.’

Irvine wrote some more. At the top of the page she wrote the operation name, looked up at Fraser.

‘Why Operation Red Square?’ she asked.

‘There are stories out there that the Russians used a fentanyl-heroin derivative against some terrorists, kidnappers, in Moscow a while back.’

‘You think these guys are Russian?’

‘We don’t know. Haven’t ruled anything out as yet.’

Warren stood, taking control of the meeting.

‘This fourth death is the one we want to focus on for now. Young girl found like that will get lots of ink in the press. Let’s see if we can get any better leads on it than we have from the others. I’ve asked for CID input not just because the deaths are unlawful, but also to give us a different perspective on the investigation.’

He looked at Irvine.

‘If you and DS Armstrong could wait behind after we break up, DC Irvine, we’ll take you through how we want to do this.’

Irvine nodded, feeling a little surge of excitement now — the buzz of the job.

When the meeting finished, Irvine and Armstrong waited while the room cleared, then went to the front of the room.

Warren came around the table and stood in front of them, leaning back against the table edge.

‘Now you know what we’re dealing with,’ Warren said to Irvine. ‘Kenny’s been immersed in this for a while and doesn’t think that we’re going to get anywhere by focusing on our usual sources.’

‘We won’t,’ Armstrong said.

Warren smiled, like a parent dealing with an irascible child. Irvine wondered if there was tension in the relationship between the two men.

‘My view’, Warren said, ‘is that we need to look at this from all angles. Leave no stone unturned, if you know what I mean.’

Irvine didn’t want to get stuck on the wrong side of a fight.

‘What do you want me to do?’ she asked.

‘I want Kenny to brief you on the local drugs scene, the supply chain and the like. Give you a feel for what we’re dealing with. Then he’ll take you on a tour of the earlier crime scenes. How does that sound?’

‘Fine by me.’

‘Good,’ Warren said, straightening up.

Warren left the room and Irvine followed Armstrong to the table where the coffee was, picking up a shortbread biscuit and taking a bite.

‘You don’t like the DG?’ Irvine asked.

Armstrong looked sideways at her.

‘He’s all right for a boss. I mean he’s a purist, you know. A bad bastard, if you’re a criminal. And he didn’t take the DG job for political reasons.’

Irvine had always assumed a job like DG of the SCDEA was a way to make a career splash. A politician’s job, not a real cop.

‘Why, then?’

‘Because he wants to do something about the shit that flows through this country. The drugs, I mean. He’s about as straight a cop as you’ll find anywhere.’

‘How did this thing start?’

‘I flagged it up to my syndicate leader, DI Fraser, and from there it went up the chain fast. The DG likes to keep his hand in on operational matters. Doesn’t like sitting behind a desk all day.’

‘He came up with the name of the op?’

Armstrong nodded. ‘He wants people to think he has all the big ideas. Fine with me.’

Irvine took another bite from her biscuit and put the remains back on the plate. She liked shortbread but this stuff was cheap and not particularly good.

‘What about your DI?’ she asked. ‘What’s he like?’

Armstrong picked up her half-biscuit and put it all in his mouth. Irvine didn’t know what to make of that.

‘Now, he is a politician. More concerned about his next promotion than anything else.’

Armstrong scrunched his cup before throwing it into the bin.

‘Look, never mind me. I’m crabby today because I haven’t had a good night’s sleep in about a week and we’re getting exactly nowhere with this investigation. And then the girl this morning…’

He didn’t finish that thought.

‘I’m not normally like this,’ he told her.

He tried to smile, but it wasn’t convincing.

Irvine didn’t mind crabby, so long as there was good reason. She kind of liked him, in spite of his poorly developed social skills.

‘Where to now?’ she asked.

‘Want a tour of my nightmare?’

Denver, Colorado

Monday morning

Seth Raines went to the kitchen in his apartment on Capitol Hill, poured himself a glass of orange juice and drank it in one go. He switched on the coffee machine and sat at the table rubbing sleep from his eyes. The images from a dream ran through his head: a dream of war and death. The details precise and the sounds and smells resonating like it was only yesterday.

Back in another life, Raines had served in the Helmand Province of Afghanistan as Staff Sergeant for Third Platoon, Charlie Company, First Reconnaissance Division of the US Marines. That was before a simple mission two years ago to monitor the eradication of an opium poppy field. Before his convoy was ambushed on the trip back from the field to the British camp outside the city of Lashkar Gah — brigade headquarters for Four-Two Commando, the Royal Marines.

In his dream, he saw only brief, fractured images of that day: the ragged stump of a severed leg and blood soaking into desert sand. But now that he was awake, the memory of it all rushed back, hitting him like a physical blow.

Raines was sitting next to one of his men — Private First Class Matthew Horn. They were sweating heavily under body armour listening to a briefing by the commanding officer of the British Marine brigade. He was a very British soldier, immaculately uniformed with a neatly clipped moustache and a deeply tanned face.

The door of the room was open and Raines saw a Union flag fluttering outside in the low wind. Two marines were standing at the base of the flagpole taking custody of the now deposed Stars and Stripes from their British counterparts. Raines nudged Horn and nodded for him to look at the exchange taking place outside.

‘Most of you already know the lieutenant,’ the British officer said, pointing at a young-looking woman in the front row of the briefing room. ‘She is our Civil Military Ops Cell representative today and will communicate with the ANP contingent through our interpreter.’

If there was one thing that both armies had in common, Raines thought, it was their love of TLAs: Three Letter Acronyms.

ANP — Afghan National Police.

‘This is a hearts-and-minds job for the local population,’ the officer went on. ‘The ANP will burn a designated opium poppy field in a very public manner and our job is to ensure that nothing untoward happens while this is taking place.’