by Jeff Gulvin
Swann was suddenly tired. Colson sat on a desk and hitched his trouser legs up at the thigh. He let the team settle and then spoke. ‘All right everyone, it’s early, I know, especially for the team who went north yesterday, but think of all the overtime.’ He looked at Webb. ‘George, maybe you or Tania would like to give us a rundown on what you found.’
Webb told them about the Semtex, detonators and timing and power units, all of which, together with the pipe bomb, had gone to Porton Down. ‘The bad news is we’ve finally found the glass,’ he finished.
‘What about the fatality?’ Colson asked him. ‘Do we know who he is?’
‘Name’s Richard Gravitz, sir,’ Swann put in. ‘American. He rented the farm supposedly to do his Ph.D.’
‘I took a varsity clasp ring from him,’ Webb said. ‘GWU on the back.’
‘What does that mean?’ McCulloch asked him.
Webb glanced over at him. ‘Graduation ring, Macca. He obviously went to GWU.’
‘Which is what?’
‘How the fuck should I know?’
‘It’s George Washington University,’ Colson cut in on them. ‘It’s in Washington D.C He paused. ‘Someone better give Louis Byrne a ring.’
Webb moved in his seat. ‘I’ve got film of the body and his fingerprints via the digital camera,’ he said. ‘I’ll call Byrne myself, soon as they wake up over there, and get it downloaded to him.’ He stopped then. ‘Just so everyone knows—Gravitz was murdered by whoever was working with him. They doctored his respirator, mashing up the filter with a knitting needle or something. I assume they wanted to see if what they were making worked.’
‘In which case, why leave when they did? Why Semtex? And why a half-made bomb?’ McCulloch said it to no one in particular. ‘If you only want to see if it works, you don’t need to bail out when it does.’
‘The locals got a 999 call,’ Tania added, ‘somebody claiming the farm was being burgled. He gave his name as Colin Learning.’
Colson chewed the ends of his fingers. ‘Campbell’s got a point,’ he said.
Swann looked at the floor. ‘He’s doing it again, isn’t he.’ He shook his head. ‘He’s telling us he can make a chemical bomb and he can kill people with it.’
Louis Byrne looked at the set of digitized fingerprints that George Webb had sent over. He studied the image in detail, photocopied it, then packaged it for CJIS in Clarksburg. Leaving his desk, he went up to see his unit chief, Randall Werner. He was looking at an after-hours communication that had come into the SIOC overnight, and waved Byrne to a chair. After a moment he looked up. ‘What d’you want, Lucky?’
Byrne loved it when men such as Werner called him that. He knew he was the favoured son, but it still helped to hear it once in a while. You could be out of favour just as fast as you were in with the upper echelons of the Bureau. He placed the copy of the prints on Werner’s desk. ‘Fatality in northern England. US national, Randy. These just came in from Scotland Yard.’
Werner placed half-moon spectacles on his nose and studied the copy of the prints. He lifted his brows, wrinkling the tanned flesh of his forehead, and took the glasses off again. ‘We know him?’
‘They’ve got a name. Richard Gravitz III, supposedly a student from Harvard, but they have a clasp ring from GWU.’
‘Yeah?’
‘The Harvard bit is supposed to be a Ph.D., so it might’ve worked, but this guy died mixing a chemical bomb.’ Byrne looked straight at him. ‘It’s the Storm Crow, Randy.’
‘As in Bliss and Davis?’ Werner lifted his eyebrows. ‘Your favourite topic of conversation.’
He pushed his chair away from the desk and clasped fingers across his belly. ‘You gonna organize the FEST?’
‘If that’s OK with you.’
Werner nodded. ‘Who’re you gonna take?’
Byrne shrugged. ‘Won’t need many. All we’ll get to do is tag along. UK counter-terrorism’s good. They’ll let us shadow, at best.’
‘OK. Who?’
‘I need to talk to the State Department and the CIA. I want Larry Thomas from Weapons of Mass Destruction and I thought I’d take Cheyenne Logan if Tom Kovalski can spare her. She was working with me at Bliss.’
Werner nodded. ‘You want me to talk to Tom?’
‘I can do it.’
‘OK. I’ll contact the leg-att over there and set you up.’
Byrne went back to his office and picked up the phone. He called the Criminal Justice Information Services in West Virginia. ‘This is Louis Byrne from International Terrorism. I’m sending you down some digital prints of a deceased US citizen, which just came over from London. If you can’t get a criminal fix, check the military. Maybe the guy did some service.’
‘You got it.’
Byrne hung up, then he rang Angie’s office across the Federal Triangle. ‘Hi, honey. It’s me. I’ve got to go back to London. And I might be gone for a while.’
17
JAMES INGRAM SAT IN his office staring at the wall. Two hours earlier he had got off the plane at London City Airport. He had been to Northumberland to try to see what was going on at his farm, but he could not get within a mile of the place. It was like arriving on the set of some disaster film and he was still a little shell-shocked even now. A mobile army camp with tents everywhere, vehicle checkpoints and armed police officers. A great gaggle of pressmen had descended as soon as he was recognized, but he refused to comment. They had strung a mobile perimeter line as far south as Derwent Reservoir and most of the local talk was about whether it had been contaminated.
He was not allowed anywhere near the farm and had been told in no uncertain terms by a Major Carter that, once they were satisfied that any contamination had been contained, the farmhouse, outbuildings and all the contents would be incinerated. The farm had been in his family since 1852 and it contained one of the best wine collections in the north of England.
The telephone rang on his desk. Ingram did not seem to hear it; still sitting with his cheek cupped in a palm, staring out of the window. It rang again and this time he stirred and picked it up. ‘Yes?’
‘The police are here to see you, Mr Ingram.’
Ingram jumped. He knew they would come. Caspar had told him that people from Scotland Yard had been in the office, yet still he was disturbed. He hated the police, always had done, hated any form of dealings with them, even down to a traffic offence. ‘Send them in,’ he said quietly.
He got up, went to the mirror over the fireplace and adjusted his tie at the collar. Then he turned and stood there waiting for them with his hands behind his back. His secretary showed in two men, both in suits and ties. One was tall and slim, with dark hair and the sort of eyes that would hunt you across a room; the other was huge, with long, reddish blond hair and green eyes.
‘Mr Ingram?’ The dark-haired one spoke.
‘That’s me.’ Ingram was stern-faced now, the injured party here. He held out his hand.
‘Detective Sergeant Swann. This is Detective Constable McCulloch.’ Ingram shook hands, then offered them the seats across the desk from his. He clasped his knuckles together and looked from one to the other.
‘What’ve you come to tell me, gentlemen?’
For a moment Swann did not say anything. He crossed one knee over the other and looked at the solicitor. He had never seen him in the flesh before and he was smaller than Swann had imagined. Once or twice, BFP events, marches and so forth had been given a tiny airing on television and he had seen Ingram interviewed on the odd occasion.
‘We want to talk to you about the situation in Healey, Mr Ingram. Your farm.’
‘Ex-farm.’ Ingram looked keenly at him. ‘They’re about to burn it down.’
Swann nodded. ‘Nothing else they can do.’
‘It’s six hundred years old, Sergeant. Been in my family since 1852.’
‘What d’you know about the people who rented it?’ McCulloch spoke for the first time.
Ingram stared at him. ‘Noth
ing, Constable. Why should I?’
‘It’s your property.’
Ingram looked at Swann again. ‘I understand, Sergeant, that you’ve been to see Caspar & Gibbs, the letting agents?’
Swann nodded and Ingram glanced at McCulloch. ‘Then you’ll know I have absolutely nothing to do with who they let to. It’s why one employs an agent.’
Swann nodded. ‘So you had no knowledge whatsoever?’
‘None.’
‘You do know Charlie Oxley, though?’ McCulloch said.
‘Who?’ Ingram stared at him.
‘Charlie Oxley. You should know him, he’s a skinhead, active with Action 2000.’
‘Action 2000 has nothing to do with me.’
Swann lifted his eyebrows. ‘You’re leader of the British Freedom Party, Mr Ingram. Come on.’
‘I’ve said it many times,’ Ingram pinched his lips together, ‘there is no association between my political party and Action 2000.’
‘Then how come they’re always at your rallies? How come ninety per cent of the ones we arrest for violent racist crimes have knowledge of your party, or even literature about it on their persons?’
Ingram ran his tongue over his lips. ‘It’s a free country, Sergeant. People can buy and read what they please.’ He sighed then. ‘You know, it’s a sad indictment of our society when I realize that I expected this. Here am I, innocently awaiting some word on how the people who ruined my farm might be caught. But, no. I get interrogated once again over a perfectly legitimate political party and another organization over which I have no control whatsoever.’
‘Charlie Oxley works for you, Mr Ingram.’ Swann’s voice was low and calm.
‘Does he? A lot of people work for me. I have many business interests.’
‘A lot of people who’re members of Action 2000 work for you,’ McCulloch said. ‘That’s a nasty coincidence.’
Ingram looked at him again. ‘Nasty, Constable. What are you trying to imply?’ He didn’t give McCulloch the chance to answer. ‘Gentlemen,’ he said, ‘being police officers you should know that one way of stopping young, potentially violent men from reoffending is to offer them gainful employment.’
‘It’s also a good way to build up a private army,’ Swann replied.
The tip of Ingram’s nose lost its colour. He stared at Swann for a moment. ‘Are you suggesting that I might have use for a private army, Sergeant?’
Swann looked evenly back at him. ‘I was merely making an observation, Mr Ingram. Reflecting on British society—much as you were a moment ago.’
They stared across the desk at one another, then Ingram said: ‘Was there anything else?’
‘Not right now.’ Swann stood up. ‘We’ll want to see you again though, as this investigation widens.’
Outside on the pavement, McCulloch lit two cigarettes and gave one to Swann. ‘He’s lying through his teeth, Jack.’
‘Tell me about it.’
Swann went home and found Rachael in the flat. Annika looked a little awkward and disappeared down to her room.
‘I’m finished work for a few days,’ Rachael told him. ‘I’ll have the girls, if you like.’
Swann scratched his head. And then he realized that as soon as Rachael had her life together again, she would take the children back. He had had them for over three months now and he was getting very used to it.
‘You don’t mind, Daddy, do you?’ Jo tugged at his hand. ‘We’ve hardly seen Mummy since the holidays.’ Charlotte looked up at him with equally expectant eyes. Swann sighed and shook his head.
‘No, I don’t mind.’ He looked at Rachael. ‘What day is it today?’
‘Wednesday. You that tired, Jack? The girls tell me you never got home last night.’
‘I did. From about two till five-thirty. I was back at the Yard by half past six.’
‘Were you up north?’
He nodded.
‘That was terrible. Chemicals, wasn’t it. You weren’t anywhere near anything, were you? I don’t want anything to happen to the children.’
Swann rolled his eyes. ‘Nothing’s going to happen to the children. I investigate, Rachael. George Webb does the sharp-end bits.’
‘The what?’
‘Oh, never mind.’ He sat down. ‘Today’s Wednesday. When will you bring them back?’
‘Monday. Peter and I are going to take them away this weekend.’
Swann nodded. ‘OK. Go and pack a bag, girls.’
Charlotte lifted hers from where she held it behind her. ‘Already done it, Daddy. We knew you wouldn’t mind.’
When they were gone, Annika came through and looked at him. Swann did not notice her. He sat there feeling strangely lost. She coughed and he stirred. ‘Sorry, Annika. I was miles away.’
‘They’ve gone away till Monday?’
‘Yes.’
‘Ah.’
‘Did you want something?’
‘Do you need me?’
Swann looked about the living room. ‘I don’t think so.’ Then he realized what she meant. ‘Oh, sure, right. Go to your boyfriend’s, if you like. They’re coming back on Monday afternoon.’
When she was gone, he felt even more lost and he sat for a minute and then went and took a shower. He stood for a long time with the curtain pulled across and the water falling over his head. He imagined George Webb under the freezing hosepipes in Northumberland. He wondered why it had not occurred to him until just now that Rachael would take the children back. God, he thought. How empty the place will be without them.
He met Pia in the West End and they had Chinese food in Lisle Street. He preferred the restaurants in Lisle—real Chinatown, he called it. Gerrard Street was for tourists. Pia watched him picking at his food and halfway through the meal she laid a hand over his.
‘What’s up, Jack?’
He blew the air from his cheeks and looked across the table at her. ‘God, you’ve got the most beautiful eyes,’ he said. He could see himself reflected there in the onyx.
‘What’s the matter?’
‘I don’t know, Pia. I wish I did.’
‘Have you been dreaming again?’
‘Not since the last time. But it sort of clings to you.’
She sighed and rested her hands in her lap. ‘You’re not going to want to hear this, but Rachael was right, you know. You need to talk to someone.’
‘Oh, God. Don’t.’ Swann rubbed the heel of his palm in his eye.
‘Jack, what happened to you was incredible. I don’t know anyone who wouldn’t need to talk it through with somebody.’
He stared at her then and took a long pull from his wine glass. ‘It was years ago.’
‘So what? You’ve never got over it. You’ve never even talked about it.’
‘I’m going to Scotland, if there’s any snow in November. Talk to Alec, maybe.’
‘Alec?’
‘You haven’t met him. Old climbing friend from years back. Talk it through with him. I’ll take Webby with me. Maybe the two of them can straighten me out.’
‘You’re going to climb snow and ice again?’
‘Yes.’
‘You sure that’s the right thing to do?’
Swann sighed. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I’m not. But it’s better than a psycho’s chair.’
They went back to Swann’s flat and he was so preoccupied with his own inner turmoil that he didn’t notice how quiet Pia was herself. He opened a bottle of red wine and turned to find her staring out of the window with one arm cupped round her waist. Swann stopped and stared at her, the set of her back, her forehead against the glass.
‘Pia?’
She didn’t turn.
‘Pia.’ He laid the glasses down and moved alongside her. She was staring blankly into the glass, with tears in her eyes.
‘Jesus, love. What’s up?’ Swann slipped an arm about her shoulders.
She sucked breath and flicked at her eyes with her fingers. ‘I’m sorry.’ She held up her hands, palm outwa
rds, then fumbled in her bag for a cigarette. Swann lit it for her and guided her over to the couch. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I just …’
‘No, I’m sorry.’ Swann kissed her lightly on the forehead. ‘I’m so bloody selfish. We only ever talk about me: my problems, my job, my past.’ He lifted her chin with gentle fingers. ‘Talk to me,’ he said. ‘What’s the matter?’
Pia drew on her cigarette and exhaled heavily. ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ she said. ‘Everything’s just getting on top of me.’ She looked at him then, the tears glasslike in her eyes.
‘Work?’
She nodded. ‘It’s getting to me—the greed, the lies. I can’t seem to do it like I used to.’
‘Then give it up.’
She looked beyond him then, mouth half-open. ‘How can I give it up?’
‘Easy. Just go in and tell Paul Ellis you’re quitting.’
She laughed. ‘If only it was that simple.’
‘It is that simple, love. Just quit.’
She shook her head, crushed out the cigarette and lit another. ‘I can’t just quit. I’ve got too many commitments.’
‘There are other jobs, Pia.’
‘Not with the money I’m on.’ She got up then and picked up the wine from the kitchen work surface. ‘Ignore me, Jack. I’m just going through a bad patch. I’ll get over it. I always do.’
Louis Byrne studied the report CJIS had sent over from Clarksburg. There was no Richard Gravitz III and the prints he had received from England did not fit anyone on their criminal files. They belonged to a man who had served three years in the army, Bruno Kuhlmann, suspected of being involved in the Atlanta pipe bombing.
He went across to the Domestic Terrorism Operations Unit and found Cheyenne Logan talking with Tom Kovalski. Byrne laid the prints on Kovalski’s desk. ‘Bruno Kuhlmann,’ he said. ‘Your John Doe from Atlanta.’
Kovalski squinted at him. ‘What about him?’
‘He’s been found dead in England.’
Kovalski stared at him, then picked up the sheet of paper. ‘He’d been under surveillance,’ he said. ‘We lost him downtown.’ He passed the prints to Logan and looked up at Byrne. ‘The UCA in Idaho photographed him in Jakob Salvesen’s compound.’