by Emma Jameson
“Car bomb,” Jackson said with satisfaction. “How long’s it been since we had a good, old-fashioned car bombing, I ask you? Sick of knifings and double-sick of murder vans. Time was, a car bomb got everyone’s juices flowing. But this is a little frou-frou, of course, because Millennial thugs are as frou-frou as all the rest of them. Where’s the bloody file?”
Jackson started rooting in his desk-detritus like a pig sniffing for truffles. Paul, apparently unable to help himself, ventured, “Maybe on the computer…?”
Jackson grunted. He didn’t care about data he could locate quickly, Kate knew. He cared about data he could crumple, rip into bits, or wave threateningly under someone’s nose.
“Right. Here it is,” Jackson said, seizing a tranche of printed-out emails, official statements, and photos, held together with a binder clip. Kate looked sidelong at Paul, who acknowledged her with a flick of his lashes. If “Back to Nature” Ford Fabian’s shade knew the chief investigator of his murder was requiring subordinates to print out hard copies on reams and reams of dead trees, a haunting would surely follow.
“PC Kincaid brought this to me,” Jackson said. “You remember him? Gobby but clever with research. Like you, Bhar.”
Paul looked pleased. In public service, the further you progressed up the food chain, the more arse-kissing was required. Why else had her supremely talented husband reached the rank of Chief Superintendent and settled in for the long haul? But Paul always overdid it slightly for Kate’s taste.
“Here we are. From the official statement, made around half-six this morning by Mr. Fabian’s personal assistant,” Jackson said, holding the page out at arm’s length. He read aloud,
“‘The accident happened around half-three. The Fabians were due at Television Centre for a daybreak interview on This Morning. They were running late, and I was struggling to get them back on schedule. If anyone was lurking about, neighbor or stranger, I took no notice…’” Jackson skipped to the next relevant detail. “‘Their car was a Mercedes Benz C-class coupe, purchased last year. I saw no sign of tampering. But naturally, I never peeked under the bonnet or did any special inspection.’
“‘As I said, we were running late. Mrs. Fabian became indisposed. She kept requesting a few more minutes to compose herself before departing. Mr. Fabian was in a state. Finally, he said he would do the interview solo, and perhaps it was better that way. Mrs. Fabian went back into the house. I remained outside to watch Mr. Fabian drive away….’” Jackson hummed tunelessly as he flipped pages. “Here’s the specs on the C-class. Keyless entry and an ignition button. Now, back to the assistant.” He read,
“‘From where I stood, the car started up normally. I turned and went up the steps. As I grasped the door handle, it happened. Squealing tires. Peeling rubber, I think you say. Mr. Fabian was accelerating straight toward the intersection at the end of our street. In the wee hours, there’s no traffic, but you must go left or right. Straight ahead is only a curb, a patch of green, and a brick wall with a hornbeam behind it.
“‘I don’t think Mr. Fabian hit the brakes. If anything, he sped up. And he was screaming, I think. Perhaps it was me. Right before my eyes his car jumped the curb and slammed into the wall. I ran to help. It was ghastly. The airbag didn’t deploy. He was dead. He must have been dead. I hardly got a look at him when I got a strong whiff of petrol. I ran back to the house to ring 999 and that’s when the car exploded.’”
“I don’t get it,” Kate said, wondering if they were meant to believe Fabian’s brake lines were cut.
“Neither do I,” Paul said. “What’s a neo-agrarian fringe candidate for PM doing in a 240 horsepower coupe?”
“You poor sentimental bastard.” Jackson shook his head. “I don’t like to be the one to tell you. But some of these pols say one thing and do another.”
“Convenient that Mrs. Fabian took a powder at the last second,” Kate said. “And the assistant is the only witness on a deserted street. His story’s bollocks, unless the car was hacked. Which is still theoretical, isn’t it?”
“Hacked.” Paul gave a low whistle. “Wait till we get self-driving cars. We’ll need a new murder squad. A new kidnapping squad, too.”
“You two are savvy to this stuff?” Jackson sounded relieved. “When I asked Kincaid if the car’s brake line was cut, he looked at me like I was an unfrozen caveman. Like after he explained about car hacking, he’d have to break the news that Airbuses aren’t big iron birds.”
“Cutting a brake line just means puncturing it so the brake fluid leaks out,” Kate said. “Usually done at night, obviously, so it puddles under the car and the driver doesn’t notice. Thing is, spongy brakes are hard to miss in the city. The idea is, you’re motoring at a fair clip on a lonely road when the brakes fail. In London, you’re more likely to be in stand-still traffic.”
“Could have been a jammed accelerator, I suppose,” Paul said. “But I don’t know how you’d pull it off in a modern car.”
“But the Millennials are too frou-frou for a IED under the hood,” Jackson said. He looked almost as disapproving as he’d been over Ford Fabian taking his wife’s surname.
“I don’t know if it’s frou-frou so much as deniability,” Paul said. “I read about car hacking in Wired. A small bomb might be a dud. A big one could kill extra people or take out an entire block. Hacking the car as it’s being driven is precise, like a surgical strike. And if it’s done right, it looks like suicide or an accident.”
“I knew the practice of putting computers in cars would come to no good. I don’t think they’ll bother with kidnapping,” Jackson said. “Hackers will just lock the doors, crank up the heat, and make you pay a Bitcoin ransom to get out. It’ll take a while for CSIs to give us confirmation. But assuming this is proven to be murder-by-hacking, what was their point of entry? Did one of them break into the car, plug in a laptop, and reprogram something?”
“Wireless, Guv,” Kate said. “Invisible signals transmitted through the air alongside the big iron birds.”
“Are you calling me thick, Hetheridge?”
Kate tried to brazen it out with an enigmatic smile. Jackson looked at Paul. “Well? Is she saying I’m thick? While you stand there grinning like a great prat?”
Paul started clearing his throat and coughing up bits of denials. “No… you see… that is to say… I wouldn’t….”
Kate, who hated to apologize, tried to say something mollifying. “Just a little humor. Joke. Mini-joke. I never meant, to, ah, cause offense.”
Jackson glared at them for five more seconds, then burst out laughing. “Oi! Tossers, both of you. Grow a pair, why don’t you? Now what was that about wireless?”
Paul tried to regain his dignity by behaving as if the previous exchange hadn’t happened. “There are lots of possibilities. The most obvious is the little Bluetooth trackers that car insurance companies have started giving out. The idea is harmless. The device transmits data whenever the car is driven. Time of day, speed, and so on, so your next quarter’s rates are figured according to actual mileage, not a woolly estimate. Hackers realized they could interface with some of those devices wirelessly. If I remember the article right, some cars are so computerized, hackers can wirelessly take full control of the accelerator and brake.”
“Is this still theoretical? Or has it actually happened in the UK?” Kate asked.
“Not sure we’d really know. Possibly. It’s hard to nail down,” Paul said. “I know there’s been a couple of incidents in the States. Single car, deserted road, and an unpopular driver dead before he can testify against a crime boss or publish an exposé.”
“I don’t care if it makes me thick to admit it,” Jackson said. “I understand cars have computers that run the odometer and the satellite radio and the service reminders. I don’t see how a computer can pump an accelerator or move a gear shift.”
“That’s because you’re thinking of old school motors,” Kate said, throwing in a belated, “sir. Used to be, it was all mec
hanical—a physical action to trigger a physical reaction. Pump the accelerator, squirt petrol in the carburetor. But in modern cars, pressing the pedal or moving the gearshift triggers a computer signal. It could all be done with buttons or voice commands, really.”
“I see. We’re doomed.” Jackson sighed, pushing his reading glasses onto the top of his head and tossing the file aside. “Rise of the computers. I’ll be dispatched straightaway for nonconformity. Maybe you two will make it as a robot’s pet.”
“I, for one, welcome our coming AI overlords,” Kate said. “So back to Ford Fabian. Based on the assistant’s statement, his boss either committed suicide in the most rash, unexpected way possible, or his vehicle was tampered with. Where do the Fabians live?”
“Knightsbridge. The posh side.”
“Of course they do,” Kate said. Public figures who railed against modern conveniences and unsustainable lifestyles often resided in well-appointed neighborhoods. If they’d dwelt in a yurt on Salisbury Plain, that would have been surprising. “Lots of CCTV cameras round there, public and private. Do I need to put someone on the acquisition of private footage?”
“Already requested,” Jackson said. “The public footage will take eons. You know how those B of K people are. The private owners live for police requests. They’ll probably have it to us by this afternoon.”
“I don’t suppose Mr. Fabian’s assistant provided any suspects?” Paul asked. “He was standing for PM. Maybe Giant Elmo or Lord Buckethead bumped him off to improve their chances?”
Kate chuckled. Politics in the UK were many things, but unremittingly stodgy wasn’t one of them. Every duly nominated party candidate was allowed to stand—literally stand—for Parliament, and the rules which governed parties permitted a wide range of free expression. For this reason, on the night of the most recent election, the future PM had stood onstage awaiting the returns next to a Darth Vader knockoff and a man dressed as a Muppet.
“The assistant has a long list,” Jackson said. “To hear him tell it, his late lamented boss was a towering figure with mortal enemies all over Britain. I don’t know about that, but he did have some friends. The Scottish Greens are up in arms, naturally. And someone claiming to represent the Celtic Gaia Society went on telly to demand Scotland Yard investigate Fabian’s death not only as a homicide, but a hate crime.”
“Why?” Kate asked.
Paul, ever-buoyed by the slightest whiff of absurdity, bounced on his toes in delight. “Oh! I’ll bet I know. It’s a hate crime against Mother Earth.”
Jackson nodded. Kate told Paul, “This must feel like early Christmas for you.”
“It does. I’m metaphorically rubbing my hands with glee. Nope. I’m literally rubbing my hands with glee.” He demonstrated.
“Right. Well. As it happens….” Jackson cleared his throat. “DS Hetheridge, I want you to solo on the Fabian case. Take along TDC Gulls, obviously. If the case wraps quickly, more power to you. If it metastasizes, check back with me, and I’ll help you build a bigger team. Keep allowing Gulls the longest lead she can handle. These interviews may involve the very toffee-nosed twits we’re meant to specialize in. I’d like to know how she performs with the quality, as my old mum called them.”
Jackson turned to Paul. “DS Bhar. Why should Hetheridge here have all the trainee fun? I mentioned PC Kincaid. Turns out he’s interested in going the detective route, too. Can’t let Gulls outshine him, I reckon. You need to show Kincaid how this unit cracks on. I don’t care how you put him to use. Delegate some research. Let him fact-check or do phone interviews. Mostly just turn on the charm. Kincaid’s a good prospect. We need all the new blood we can get.”
“I don’t understand,” Paul said.
Jackson sighed. “Yesterday, for my sins, I sat through a two-hour lecture about mentorship. Now the, er, fruit of that meeting rolls downhill. Hetheridge will continue mentoring Gulls in the field. You’ll begin mentoring Kincaid on the administrative side. Simple as that. You savvy?”
Paul looked shocked. Kate felt the same. Since joining the Toff Squad, she’d worked every major case with Paul. Tony had been the guiding force, naturally, but Kate and Paul had collaborated on everything. Moreover, Paul had seniority. Not to mention a personnel file full of commendations from his Henden training center days. If a choice had to be made, he should have received the high-profile assignment. Kate should have been relegated to the back-burner, clearly.
Except that wasn’t objectively true. Paul’s early fieldwork had been distinguished, but after the triple murder case that ended in Sir Duncan Godington’s acquittal, things had gone pear-shaped. Convinced he was a good detective in need of career rehabilitation, Tony had provided Paul with some cover. But Tony wasn’t around to shield him anymore.
“Look, Bhar. I realize this was unexpected. But in the end it all comes down to marching orders, and you have yours,” Jackson said. “Meantime, give Kincaid a ring. Take him out for an early lunch and sell him on the perks of the job. Off you go. I want a word with Hetheridge alone.”
“Sure.” Paul took a step toward the door. “But… this is only temporary, right? I’m not being downshifted. Am I?” As many times as he’d announced that his career was in the karzi, now that the moment arrived, he looked gutted.
Jackson, for his part, looked ready to blow. “Perhaps there’s a language barrier. I realize you’re accustomed to hobnobbing with a Peer of the Realm. I’m a lowly Mancunian who picked the job over the joint. So tell me. What did Tony mean when he employed the phrase, ‘Marching orders?’ Was he declaring a safe space for insubordination?”
“No, sir.” Paul snapped to attention. “Thank you, sir. I’ll ring Kincaid’s guv and get permission for him to work under my supervision.” He exited at top speed.
After the door closed, Jackson sighed again. He still looked irritated. Kate knew it wasn’t wise to keep pushing, but she couldn’t help herself. Of her many character defects, one that shone brightest was her compulsion to speak up in defense of her friends. “Sir….”
“Me first,” he cut across her. “Did I cross a line?”
“When?”
“When I said grow a pair.”
It took Kate a moment to recall what he was even talking about. “No. No, of course not.” She grinned. “I assumed you meant Paul.”
“Too right. Second question. I commended you about Gulls. Now that it’s just you and me, I want to know. Will you formally recommend her to become a detective constable?”
“I think so,” Kate said. “She’s sharp. Dedicated. So far, my only worry is, she’s too dedicated. She may burn out. But Guv.” She looked Jackson in the eye. “What’s happening to Paul? Are you reassigning him?”
Jackson looked pained. Standing up, he stretched, groaned softly, and dropped into his office chair with such force it admitted its own vinyl-and-plastic moan.
“Hear that? My old chair did the job for ten years. Never a squeak, never a rattle. That chair was on track to take me to retirement. But due to the move, it was seized over my objections. Dumped in a landfill or auctioned off to some charity. Then the boys upstairs, in their infinite wisdom, requisitioned me a brand-new chair. And it’s already falling apart, isn’t it? A metaphor for the move writ large, if you ask me.”
“One of the boys upstairs is a girl.”
“I know. I blame her, too.” Jackson studied Kate speculatively. “Now tell me. If I confide in you, will it stay in this room?”
Kate didn’t answer. One of her other character defects was the inability to glibly lie on the spot. She was more likely to blurt out the truth and be forced to endure the results.
“We may as well come to a reckoning now,” Jackson said. “I doubt even Tony was an open book when you worked together. More often than not, I’ll need to keep mum, too. But there will be times when I’d like to clue you in, as long as I know it won’t become tomorrow’s breakfast chatter at Pret.”
“I don’t want to spread it around. Or take it over
your head in the form of a complaint,” Kate said. “But Paul’s my friend. I’d like to tell him where he stands. If the tables were turned—if I were sidelined, and he could find out if I needed to cut my losses and resign—I’d want him to do it.” She sighed. “Full disclosure. I’ll tell Tony, too. But you know how he is.”
“Silent as the grave,” Jackson said, plopping his feet on the desk again. “We had our ups and downs over the years. He knew a load of my secrets, and he never spilled them. Now. Bhar. Thing is, no one wants to sack him. But his last cockup—you remember—was the final straw. There was a memo to take immediate action….”
“…which in Met-time means four months later,” Kate said.
“Precisely. Maybe he never said, but he’s been on more or less constant probation since Sir Duncan’s acquittal. Still. During his training, he was a star. We’ve sunk too much into him to give up now. Seems fairly obvious there’s only one way to let him succeed. Put him back where he excels. The classroom.”
Reluctantly, Kate digested that. She’d hoped Jackson would say something patently unfair, a half-truth or willful distortion she could pounce on and correct. This was all too reasonable. It might even be right.
“I’ve been asked to ease him into it,” Jackson said. “Keep him out of the field. Give him trainees to mentor. With any luck, he’ll start to enjoy it. So when we reassign him to Henden training center, he won’t sue us for discrimination.”
Kate made a rude noise.
He looked surprised. “I thought that’s why you were asking. To be sure it wasn’t a race thing.”
“No. I was asking in case there was still something he could do to turn this around. I guess not. So you’d might as well tell me, is that why I’m with Gulls? Am I getting put out to the Henden pasture, too?”
The usually easy-to-read Jackson turned opaque.
“Oh, no. Please. Me teaching courses?” Kate cried. “Total nonstarter. Have a look at my transcripts if you don’t believe me.”