nodded.
"Good, it's settled, then. You go off now and have your breakfast. I will see you at this time tomorrow morning."
Anna drove out of the garage. There was Burk, waving her through, almost saluting her. She smiled and waved as she passed. Having sorted her domestic problems, she was now determined that she would turn over a new leaf at work. Cunningham reckoned she had a dozy team, specifically describing Anna as being in a daze. Well, she would make her boss eat her words.
She hadn't felt this energized for a long, long time—not since Langton had left her. In some way she was back to being Anna Travis, the daughter her father had been so proud of, the officer with whom Langton had been more than impressed. DI Anna Travis was not going to be anyone's doormat ever again. Anna was at her desk before eight-thirty that morning. She checked over her report from the day before, and called Gordon to her office. "You got your report of last night ready?"
"Not quite."
"I'd like it before the morning briefing."
Gordon hesitated." It's just I've not had breakfast yet."
"That's your problem. Go on, hop it. Oh, and by the way—it was a good question regarding the man's shoes at Eddie Court's flat."
Gordon flushed and smiled. "Thank you. I'll get that report done straightaway."
Next, Anna called in the duty manager for an update. She was buzzing with adrenaline and he was taken aback. She asked him to arrange for the team to gather just before the briefing so she could really get to know them.
Anna had forty-five minutes before the briefing started, so she Googled Alexander Fitzpatrick again. She had a feeling about him, but she was not quite ready to share it.
Born 1948 in Surrey, into an affluent middle-class family, Fitzpatrick was educated at Eton, then Oxford, where he gained a First in PPE— Philosophy, Politics, and Economics. Skimming through the mass of data, Anna tried to picture what he would look like, all these years later. The photos were at least thirty years old. Now he would be in his early sixties, and she doubted he would still look like a hippy.
Fitzpatrick had joined the local newspaper as a fledgling reporter and subsequently worked for The Times and Guardian as a travel reporter. He used this as a cover to smuggle tons of hashish into the UK from Pakistan and Thailand, broadening his sales into America and Canada. Later, he had switched his drug importation from hashish to
CHAPTER 6
heroin and cocaine, and built a worldwide operation, laundering money through offshore banks and fake business dealings. Making millions, he lived a luxurious life, with an extraordinary ability to maintain his profile as a journalist at the same rime. At the peak of his drug dealing, he had his twenty aliases, with passports for most, and an astonishing array of phone lines: sixty that had been traced.
In the late eighties, Fitzpatrick formed a company making documentary films, which turned out to be yet another means of shipping his drugs worldwide under the cover of respectability. He had homes in Spain, Florida and the Bahamas, a fleet of cars, a jet, and a powerful ocean-equipped yacht called White Trash. It was not until 1991 that he became the focus of the Drug Enforcement Agency; the fact that they had been monitoring Fitzpatrick for many years without success gave him the confidence of being outside the law.
It was one of his close friends who had betrayed him and eventually caused his downfall. A heroin addict, Michael Drencock had been arrested for abusive behavior outside a nightclub. In possession of heroin and with even more discovered at his flat, Drencock had given police details of offshore banks and money-laundering businesses. But, before Fitzpatrick was to stand trial. Drencock withdrew all his statements and, 011 bail pending his own charges, he committed suicide. Fitzpatrick made another outrageous move by hiring some of his men to arrange a helicopter to lift him as he was entering the
"Good, it's settled, then. You go off now and have your breakfast. I will see you at this time tomorrow morning."
Anna drove out of the garage. There was Burk, waving her through, almost saluting her. She smiled and waved as she passed. Having sorted her domestic problems, she was now determined that she would turn over a new leaf at work. Cunningham reckoned she had a dozy team, specifically describing Anna as being in a daze. Well, she would make her boss eat her words.
She hadn't felt this energized for a long, long time—not since Langton had left her. In some way she was back to being Anna Travis, the daughter her father had been so proud of, the officer with whom Langton had been more than impressed. DI Anna Travis was not going to be anyone's doormat ever again. Anna was at her desk before eight-thirty that morning. She checked over her report from the day before, and called Gordon to her office. "You got your report of last night ready?"
"Not quite."
"I'd like it before the morning briefing."
Gordon hesitated." It's just I've not had breakfast yet."
"That's your problem. Go on, hop it. Oh, and by the way—it was a good question regarding the man's shoes at Eddie Court's flat."
Gordon flushed and smiled. "Thank you. I'll get that report done straightaway."
Next, Anna called in the duty manager for an update. She was buzzing with adrenaline and he was taken aback. She asked him to arrange for the team to gather just before the briefing so she could really get to know them.
Anna had forty-five minutes before the briefing started, so she Googled Alexander Fitzpatrick again. She had a feeling about him, but she was not quite ready to share it.
Born 1948 in Surrey, into an affluent middle-class family, Fitzpatrick was educated at Eton, then Oxford, where he gained a First in PPE— Philosophy, Politics, and Economics. Skimming through the mass of data, Anna tried to picture what he would look like, all these years later. The photos were at least thirty years old. Now he would be in his early sixties, and she doubted he would still look like a hippy.
Fitzpatrick had joined the local newspaper as a fledgling reporter and subsequently worked for The Times and Guardian as a travel reporter. He used this as a cover to smuggle tons of hashish into the UK from Pakistan and Thailand, broadening his sales into America and Canada. Later, he had switched his drug importation from hashish to
CHAPTER 6
heroin and cocaine, and built a worldwide operation, laundering money through offshore banks and fake business dealings. Making millions, he lived a luxurious life, with an extraordinary ability to maintain his profile as a journalist at the same rime. At the peak of his drug dealing, he had his twenty aliases, with passports for most, and an astonishing array of phone lines: sixty that had been traced.
In the late eighties, Fitzpatrick formed a company making documentary films, which turned out to be yet another means of shipping his drugs worldwide under the cover of respectability. He had homes in Spain, Florida and the Bahamas, a fleet of cars, a jet, and a powerful ocean-equipped yacht called White Trash. It was not until 1991 that he became the focus of the Drug Enforcement Agency; the fact that they had been monitoring Fitzpatrick for many years without success gave him the confidence of being outside the law.
It was one of his close friends who had betrayed him and eventually caused his downfall. A heroin addict, Michael Drencock had been arrested for abusive behavior outside a nightclub. In possession of heroin and with even more discovered at his flat, Drencock had given police details of offshore banks and money-laundering businesses. But, before Fitzpatrick was to stand trial. Drencock withdrew all his statements and, 011 bail pending his own charges, he committed suicide. Fitzpatrick made another outrageous move by hiring some of his men to arrange a helicopter to lift him as he was entering the
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