‘Hmmm,’ she said noncommittally.
‘This is because you’ve met him before, isn’t it? If that’s what you’re worrying about, relax. It’s a strange coincidence, nothing more. We need to look at the facts in front of us and Rayner’s in it up to his eyeballs. The note proves he was already known to Fairview.’
‘You’re right, I suppose.’
‘Better believe it,’ Campbell said, and took a sip of his coffee.
Mug in hand, Frances made her way to her desk, flopped into her chair and closed her eyes. She’d been on the go for nearly thirty-six hours straight, and there was only so much caffeine could do against the mounting sleep deprivation. Maybe she really was letting her prior association with Rayner affect her judgement. After all, it was only natural to search for patterns that weren’t there, to seek meaning in coincidence. It was how people made sense of the world, a thing as naturally engrained in the human psyche as a healthy fear of heights or loud noises. The hard part, of course, and an essential requirement of her job, was to put such feelings aside and analyse the evidence with cold, hard objectivity. Which wasn’t easy when you were dead on your feet. With any luck Levine would be convincing Rayner to change his plea to guilty at this very moment, and in a couple of hours’ time she’d be curled up in bed with a good book and Hercule, her cat, beside her.
She opened her eyes to see Campbell approaching.
‘You weren’t asleep, were you?’ he asked.
‘No, just resting my eyes.’
‘Good,’ he said, bouncing from foot to foot, ‘because you’re not going to believe what’s just happened!’
‘Rayner’s changed his plea?’
‘Not exactly. I bumped into Gordon Levine on my way back from the gents. He says he’s withdrawing representation, Frances. He’s dropped the case, citing professional embarrassment.’
8
Sam sat alone in the interview room, his back arched over the table and his head in his hands. In a last, desperate roll of the dice he had tried telling the truth, but his lawyer (or, more accurately, ex-lawyer) hadn’t believed a word of it. Now he was out of ideas, with no way of proving his innocence or reversing what had happened without his bottle of Tetradyamide, which the police had found in his room.
His miserable thoughts were disturbed by the sound of the door being unlocked. He lifted his head to see a uniformed police officer show Chrissie in. She hurried over and took the chair beside him.
‘There was nothing there,’ she said as soon as they were alone. ‘Forensics were already searching the house.’
‘I know,’ he told her. ‘Sergeant Hinds interviewed me an hour ago. She’s got the pills, Chrissie. And they found a note I wrote to Malcolm Fairview in the bin in my room.’
‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Where’s Levine got to?’
‘He’s gone. I tried telling him the truth and he didn’t buy it. Said he could get me diminished responsibility if I plead guilty and claim I’m mentally unstable because of my injury. When I refused, he said he was dropping the case. Said he didn’t think he could win based on the evidence.’
Chrissie bit her lip.
‘I didn’t do the wrong thing, did I?’ Sam asked.
‘No, of course not.’ She wrapped an arm around his shoulders and leaned her head against his. ‘I was serious when I said we’d get through this as a family. Don’t worry, little brother, if you didn’t kill Malcolm Fairview then that means someone else did. There are other lawyers out there, you just leave it with me.’
Sam sniffed and gave her a weak smile. ‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘You always know the right thing to say.’
‘It’s a rare natural gift,’ she said, and hugged him a little closer.
The door opened and Hinds stepped in, once again accompanied by the bad-tempered Detective Campbell.
‘This is a charge sheet,’ Campbell said, handing Sam a sheet of paper.
‘A what?’
‘Due to the weight of evidence against you, Mr Rayner, I have no choice but to charge you with the murder of Malcolm Fairview.’
‘But he doesn’t even have a lawyer!’ Chrissie protested. ‘That arsehole just walked out on him.’
‘Your brother will be allocated a new defence lawyer once someone willing to represent him can be found,’ Hinds said. ‘In the meantime, Sam, you’ll be placed on remand at an Institute for Young Offenders until a date can be scheduled for your court hearing.’
9
Frances stifled a yawn as she stood beside Campbell under the rotating prism of the New Scotland Yard sign.
‘Ready?’ the news reporter, a woman with a botched face-lift that gave her a permanently shocked expression, asked.
‘Born ready,’ Campbell said and glanced to Frances, who nodded in response.
‘Good, let’s go then.’ The reporter turned to the television camera directed towards them and raised her microphone. ‘Good afternoon, you join me live with Detective Mark Campbell and Sergeant Frances Hinds of the Metropolitan Police, who inform me that they’ve made a breakthrough in the investigation into the murder of Malcolm Fairview, a former government scientist found dead at his west-London flat nine days ago.’ She thrust the microphone towards Campbell, nearly bumping him on the nose. ‘Detective, what more can you tell us about the case?’
Campbell cleared his throat and, obviously relishing the limelight, flashed a toothy smile. ‘Thank you, Amanda, that’s correct. We made an arrest yesterday evening and have since charged a suspect.’
‘And do you believe, as several of my colleagues in the press are speculating, that the killing was connected to Mr Fairview’s former employment?’
‘No, that’s not an avenue we’re currently exploring. While we can’t rule anything out in terms of motive yet, what I will say is that the suspect is a minor, believed to be a survivor of the British Airways Flight 0368 tragedy last year.’
A murmur spread through the crowd amassed just out of shot.
‘So there’s no truth to the rumours that the murder was, in fact, a professional hit carried out by a foreign government agency?’
Campbell glanced at Frances again, his eyes wide.
‘There’s no evidence to support that whatsoever,’ she said, stepping in. ‘Romantic as the notion sounds, it appears we’re dealing with a lone killer, a deeply troubled young man who has seemingly slipped through the mental health services’ net. Now, I’m afraid that’s all we’re prepared to say at this stage. We’ll bring you more information as and when we have it.’
‘Thank you, Sergeant,’ the reporter said, withdrawing the microphone and turning to the camera again. ‘Back to you in the studio, Colin.’
* * * * *
‘Vultures,’ Frances muttered as they made their way through the Homicide and Serious Crimes office. ‘They’ll twist a story any which way they think will get highest viewer figures, and the truth be damned!’
‘That’s a bit harsh, don’t you think?’ Campbell said.
‘Not in my experience,’ she said, recalling her treatment in press in the aftermath of the Thames House bombing.
‘Never mind, it’s done now.’ He stopped by his desk and turned to her. ‘I’m going to wrap up and get out of here while there’s still something of the weekend left. I suggest you do the same.’
‘Sounds like a good idea,’ Frances said, imagining herself on the sofa with the tall glass of white wine and the leftover Chinese takeaway she had in the fridge.
After topping up her coffee, she returned to her own desk and hammered out her report. No sooner had she hit the print button than the phone on her desk rang. With an exhausted sigh, she picked up.
‘Hinds? It’s Kaur here. I have news, of sorts. The chemical analysis of the pills found in Rayner’s bedroom is back from the lab.’
‘And?’
‘That’s the thing, we don’t exactly know what they are.’
‘What do you mean you don’t know what they are?’
He gave an uncomfort
able laugh. ‘I’ve got the report right in front of me. It states that the sample pill contains a new molecule, previously unheard of.’
‘It can’t do,’ Frances said. ‘That’s impossible.’
‘That’s what I thought, so I rang the technician at the lab. She told me that she’d never seen anything like it in her whole career, and she’s six months off retirement. I’ll email a copy over so you can take a look for yourself.’
‘Okay, thanks,’ Frances said, and hung up.
With each new fact that emerged, the case seemed to grow stranger still. What was Sam Rayner doing in possession of a previously unheard-of molecule? Suddenly the idea of a professional hit didn’t seem so unlikely, but who in their right mind would hire a brain-damaged teenager as an assassin?
She shut down her computer and pulled on her coat; it looked like her sofa was going to have to wait a while longer.
10
Sam let out a whimper and stared down at the shackles around his ankles and wrists. The unthinkable had happened: he had been charged with Malcolm Fairview’s murder and, having been refused bail due to the serious nature of the crime, was in the process of being transferred to Her Majesty’s Young Offenders Institution Knotsbridge, where he was supposed to remain until his hearing.
No matter how much he protested his innocence, nobody would ever believe the true circumstances by which he had blundered into a crime scene nine days ago. All of the evidence pointed towards Sam as Fairview’s killer, and unless he could find a way out of his predicament (which didn’t seem very likely without Tetradyamide) he was now stuck, trapped in a dead-end timeline with no way of reversing the events that had led him to this point. The opportunity to cure his mum’s amnesia and keep a roof over his family’s heads was lost. He would never see Eva again, and if Esteban Haufner ever stuck his neck out there would be nothing Sam could do while rotting away in a cell.
Feeling a strange numbness in his chest, he glanced through the window to see the prison transfer van turn off the duel carriageway and onto a pot-holed side road. In the fading light he could make out a sprawling Victorian building ringed by a high brick wall about half a mile up ahead.
He sniffed, trying his best to hold back the tears. What if there was another way out, one he hadn’t thought of before? Although he didn’t have his bottle of Tetradyamide any longer, if he could somehow bring on one of his seizures he might conceivably end up back in the past. It was only a day since his arrest, and if he could return to a time before Hinds had shown up at his house last night then he might be able to take Tetradyamide and undo implicating himself in Fairview’s murder, or, better yet, prevent it from happening in the first place. If there was a common theme to all of his unintended seizures, from the first few he’d experienced in hospital last year to the day he’d collapsed at college a week and a half ago, it was that he had been distressed beforehand every time, and his current state of mind was even worse than on any of those occasions.
As the van pulled up outside a gate in the wall, Sam closed his eyes and, hoping against hope, willed himself to smell burning caramel. A few seconds passed, but nothing happened; all he could smell was the lingering aroma of bleach in the back of the van, and when he opened his eyes the only thing to have changed was that the gate now stood open before them.
It hadn’t worked, but then again Fairview had once told Sam that Tetradyamide would stop his seizures, and although it was several days since Sam had last taken any, perhaps there was still trace of the drug in his system.
The driver released the handbrake, allowing the van to crawl forwards. Sam turned back and caught a final glimpse of freedom through the rear window before the gate swung shut. They crossed a courtyard where, apart for a circle of cloudy, darkening sky directly above, all view of the outside world was obscured by the walls. The van stopped outside a building that might once have been grand but was now weatherworn and grimy, the bricks caked in competing splodges of moss and lichen. A ring of gargoyles with nightmarish, eroded faces circled the roof. One of the police officers in the front cabin climbed out and opened the rear doors, letting a gust of cold air sweep into the van. He unlocked the padlock connecting Sam’s shackles to a metal ring on the floor and then barked, ‘Out!’
Sam did as instructed, gravel crunching beneath his feet as he clambered from the van. A smaller door set in the huge, metal-studded wooden doors of the entrance opened, and a short man in a grey suit emerged, flanked on either side by a uniformed prison guard. He stopped a few feet from Sam, looked him up and down and then raised the clipboard in his hand.
‘Name?’ he asked indifferently.
‘Sam Rayner,’ Sam said, struggling to keep his voice from cracking.
The man made a mark on his clipboard and then lowered it, his thin moustache twitching. ‘I’m Warden Jenkins,’ he said in a flat, monotone voice. ‘Welcome to Knotbridge, son.’
11
Frances passed through the revolving doors of the Security Service’s temporary headquarters and found herself in the waiting area of a rather unremarkable office block. Apart from the armed police stationed outside there was little to differentiate it from any of the media and tech firms based along the road.
‘Can I help you?’ a bored-looking receptionist asked, glancing up from filing her nails as Frances approached.
‘I hope so.’ Frances loosened her scarf, opened her coat and displayed her credentials. ‘I’m investigating the murder of Malcolm Fairview.’
The woman narrowed her eyes. ‘One moment please,’ she said, and pressed a button on her phone before speaking into the microphone of her headset. ‘Someone will be down shortly. Why don’t you take a seat, Sergeant?’
Frances nodded and lowered herself onto one of the sofas in the waiting area. Rubbing her clammy palms against her skirt, she wished she had something to drink, if only to settle her stomach, but there didn’t appear to be a water fountain nearby.
After a few minutes the doors to one of the lifts opened and a bespectacled man with curly, greying hair stepped out.
‘Sergeant Hinds?’ he asked, sitting on the sofa across from her. ‘Benjamin Vaughn, Secretary to the Director General. I understand you’re investigating Malcolm Fairview’s death?’
‘That’s right,’ Frances said. ‘He was on your payroll, I believe.’
Vaughn nodded. ‘He was, although the nature of Mr Fairview’s work remains classified. Besides, you’ve already charged someone, haven’t you?’
‘We have,’ she admitted, ‘however a new piece of evidence has come to light. The suspect was in possession of a bottle of pills containing a previously unheard-of molecule.’ She hesitated, fearing that she was about to embarrass herself. ‘I’m looking for information about the Tempus Project.’
‘Beg your pardon?’
‘The Tempus Project. It’s a research group investigating people with time-travelling capabilities.’
‘Time-travelling capabilities?’ Vaughn repeated. ‘Is this some sort of a wind-up? ’
‘I only wish it were.’
‘Well I’ve never heard of anything so outlandish,’ he said brusquely, ‘and even if I had, I’m hardly likely to discuss it with you.’ He leaned in closer, locking her in a gaze that had nothing friendly about it. ‘Listen, Sergeant Hinds – or should that be Inspector? – I know all about you and your role in what happened at Thames House. If you think your name will open any doors around here, you’re sorely mistaken.’
‘I see,’ Frances said, rising to her feet. ‘In that case I won’t take up any more of your time.’
* * * * *
Frances stepped out onto the icy pavement, her face flushed with heat against the chill night air. If she was ever going to get to the bottom of what the mysterious pills found in Rayner’s bedroom were, it did not appear the answer would be forthcoming from the Security Service. With a dejected sigh, she turned towards the tube station again and suddenly found herself facing a tall and strikingly handsome young man.<
br />
She froze and sucked in a sharp breath. ‘Agent Steele?’
‘Inspector Hinds, I thought it was you! What brings you to our not-so-illustrious new headquarters?’
‘Following up a lead in a case I’m working,’ she told him. ‘I just met with Benjamin Vaughn.’
‘Oh? And how did you find him?’
‘Not particularly helpful.’
Steele chuckled. ‘The man’s a pompous arse, Inspector. Don’t take it to heart.’
‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘And actually it’s just plain old Sergeant now. I was demoted and transferred to Homicide and Serious Crimes after CT Command was disbanded.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ he said. ‘And since we’re on the topic of new terms of address, I suppose I’m just “Mr Steele” following my retirement.’
‘You’re no longer with the Security Service?’
‘I was at Thames House on the day of the bombing.’ He raised the walking stick in his hand. ‘My injuries mean I’m no longer fit for active service, or so I’m told.’
Here we go again, Frances thought, and lifted her chin as she prepared for the inevitable onslaught. ‘Look, I’m sorry about what happened that day,’ she said, perhaps a little too forcefully. ‘Believe me, if I could go back there’s plenty I’d do differently.’
Steele lowered his stick and batted the comment away with a leather-gloved hand. ‘Hogwash. What happened to CT Command is an absolute disgrace, if you ask me. You were doing your best under difficult circumstances. If there’s blame to go around, it lies firmly at the feet of those responsible for the political brinkmanship that’s been going on since the attack.’
‘Oh,’ Frances said. ‘I must admit, it’s a relief to hear you say that.’
‘Don’t forget, I was also involved in the investigation into Flight 0368.’
‘Yes, of course,’ she said, a dark, sickening sensation bubbling through her as she realised that she had last seen him on the day they had interviewed Sam Rayner together.
Ripples of the Past Page 16