She entered Hakim’s DNA into the Interpol database and waited.
It was a match to the DNA found on the back seat and inside the boot. It was their first major breakthrough. She could now say with absolute faith – backed up by indisputable forensic evidence – that the two men traced to the flat where the car had been found, had at least journeyed in the same car as Hakim.
The cafe mentioned by the tip was her number one priority; they couldn’t let these men get away. Questioning them was imperative, and, with the concrete evidence of her discovery moments ago, finding the men who might have had contact with Hakim was a priority. Part of her couldn’t help wondering if Grant was as close.
She gave the direct order for an operation to commence at the address, and it wasn’t long before they were in place. She checked her connection to the body cams of the officers attending and switched her computer to live so she could monitor the footage beamed from the three separate vehicles onto her screen.
The officers made final checks to their equipment and an operation order was sent to Helen as she watched live. Two of the teams were plain-clothes, while another was fully uniformed and kitted for rapid response. All wore body armour, and all were armed. Helen’s pulse raced as she watched the streets of Lyon whizz by.
The small unit arrived on scene and Helen prepared herself for a long wait.
The two plain-clothes squads got out quickly and observed the area. The uniforms held back, awaiting instruction; they would take care of any potential break-ins or arrests. The Police Nationale was informed and put on standby to secure the area if necessary, and prepare for armed retaliation. Helen had to sit on her hands as she watched the street view of the plain-clothes officers making contact with the cafe entrance. Two others went round the back, and she was relieved to see that only one door led away from the premises. It was secured.
Another officer sat in his car opposite the cafe, watching through a powerful camera lens, and counting the bodies inside. There was a waitress serving tables, a man behind a counter reading a newspaper, and three customers. Helen agreed that one officer should go inside and book an internet slot, order a coffee and check the toilets. She watched as his camera, fixed to his tie, showed her everything. Soft music played inside, and the officer greeted the staff, before being shown to a table. He ordered a coffee and sat down. It was midday.
Helen’s heart rate began to taper off as she realised that they could be watching the little business for some time, and she told herself that she must carry on working. She couldn’t sit there all day hoping the two men would simply waltz in and make her life easy.
She turned away from the screen and busied herself with the CCTV footage from the garage in Lille, where the purchase of petrol had been traced, thanks to the idiots who failed to get rid of their till receipt properly when they torched the Range Rover near Calais. But she was grateful to them for it.
The footage was crystal clear, and she peered at the images as she paused the frames. Two men of North African descent were seen paying at the counter at the exact time on the receipt, but they didn’t match the descriptions and Photofits of the ones identified as Les Beurs by the angry Frenchwoman. It made sense to her and confirmed that this was a widespread operation, and one of some considerable planning, involving multiple vehicles. The two men who’d occupied the flat in Lyon had stayed here, while the other two – whom she was staring at right now on her computer screen – busied themselves with getting rid of the initial transport vehicle, the Range Rover, thinking their leg of the journey was complete.
‘You cocky bastards,’ she said under her breath. She enhanced the images in the hope that she’d get a good face-on view to run through facial recognition technology. It was a lengthy process and after a while Sylvia appeared back in the office, asking what she was up to. Helen didn’t respond at first and Sylvia peered over her shoulder, raising her eyebrows.
‘You’ve been busy,’ she said.
Helen nodded and said she’d be a couple more minutes. After she’d finished, Helen flicked expertly around her computer, showing Sylvia the lab report, the CCTV and the live reconnaissance of the internet cafe.
‘You go for the jugular, don’t you? I like that about you. You work as hard as me,’ Sylvia winked and Helen smiled.
It was one o’clock. Helen’s stomach rumbled. She was aware that Sylvia had tensed and looked up to her questioningly.
‘I know one of those men,’ Sylvia said, pointing at the CCTV still from the garage near Lille. The one of the men paying for petrol. ‘He’s been on our radar before and is currently logged as a person of interest in connection with several cases of drug production here in France, as well as not registering for work or asylum in the first place. Peter Knowles will be interested in this – they thought at one point that he was part of a terrorist sleeper cell in Marseilles. He dropped off the radar two years ago and we assumed he’d gone back to North Africa or gone to ground here in France. The last time we had anything on him, he was in Paris. It looks like he’s been out of the action, awaiting instruction.’
‘From who?’ Helen was stunned.
‘He’s associated with Fawaz bin Nabil.’
It was a bombshell.
Helen listened intently as Sylvia logged on to the database for Interpol’s red notices, of which there were thousands, and it wasn’t long until she found what she was after. The mugshot stared back at her from the screen, and underneath, his name.
