by Paul Watson
‘FME’s here Amy,’ said the sergeant.
Standing in front of the sergeant’s desk was the Forensic Medical Examiner (FME), the police doctor.
The doctor was around forty year’s old, male Caucasian, 5ft 10, wiry build with short dark brown hair. He had a thin scar on his left cheek.
‘New Doctor Amy; it’s his first week on the borough. I think it’s best you get Jake sorted with his meds first; then we can draw blood from the drink drive.’
‘Where’s the FME room?’ said the new doctor. He spoke with a South African accent.
The sergeant pointed to a cubicle opposite the fingerprint room: the room was a mirror image, but contained a hospital bed, a desk and the breathalyser machine. There was a basin and hand soap.
The FME picked up a bag from the floor, entered the room, sat in one chair and pulled another next to him. Jake and Amy followed him.
‘Have a seat mate,’ said the doctor. He smiled at Jake. ‘I’m Roberts.’ The doctor filled a paper cup with water from the tap and placed it on the desk. He took two white pills from one of many containers in his bag. ‘Take two of these now, and we’ll get you sorted with more for later, assuming you’re considering an overnight stay?’ Jake swallowed the pills and drank the water. ‘Watch him; he should be all right to interview. I’ll be around for half an hour with the drink drive if you need me.’
‘Thanks. Jake, we might as well crack on with the interview, as you don’t want your solicitor; you can sleep after that.’ Jake and Amy left the doctor in his office and walked into the interview room.
‘I’ve got something I need to tell you,’ said Jake.
‘Hold on for just two minutes while I get set up, take a seat over there please.’ Jake slumped in the chair furthest away from the door.
The bang startled Amy as Jake collapsed on the table.
‘Jake!’ Amy shook his shoulder, but he didn’t move, his cheeks pressed the desk; his eyes stared. Amy ran from the interview room and into the empty FME room. ‘Where’s the doctor Sarge?’
‘He’s just popped out for a cigarette.’
FIVE
Roberts walked through the yard of the police station carrying the medical bag. The Gaoler had unlocked the door of the cage, so Roberts could smoke a cigarette.
A fifty-year-old guy, dressed in jeans and a t-shirt, washed police cars. The guy finished cleaning one vehicle and opened the bonnet. A faint odour of urine permeated the air as the man used a funnel to top up the screen wash from a plastic jerry can. Roberts continued walking to the edge of the yard, turned the silver knob, opened the gate and stepped out into the high street.
The retail outlets and coffee shops had closed now, emptying customers into the bars, pubs and restaurants that lined the side streets. The sun was low; it would be light until around 10 p.m. when the sky would turn a deep blue. Roberts enjoyed this redeeming feature of the British climate; no accident that revolutions in agriculture and industry started here. Long hours of daylight in summer, plenty of rain, surrounded by a warm sea protecting the population from invaders and extreme weather.
‘I know that you’re just dying to talk,’ said a boy, around twenty years old, wearing a red shirt with the logo of a charity that Roberts didn’t recognise.
‘I’m already a member,’ said Roberts and continued walking.
‘Thanks, much appreciated.’
Roberts saw a large black bin in an alley on the left, used by one of the local restaurants: the restaurant had forgotten to padlock it, which was useful. He opened the bin and threw in the medical bag.
Roberts crossed the road, entered the tube station and jogged down the escalators. He arrived at the Northbound platform and read the overhead sign, it showed two minutes to the next train; Roberts waited.
He didn’t know his employer’s motivations, and he’d stopped caring a long time ago; Roberts’s motive was clear: it was to provide. Both his daughters received the best elementary education money can buy. They lived in America, with their mother. Roberts had lived with them until they were two, but the grind of civilian life didn’t pay like African warlords; his marriage was over by then, anyway. The large payments he sent every month to his ex-wife left no bitter sting. She’d remarried, but Roberts funded her lavish lifestyle, which pleased him. This job would be a big payday; the only bad thing about money was its cost.
The tube train emerged from the tunnel, and the doors opened. Roberts sat in the only free seat; the man next to him didn’t smell so fresh. Roberts had about five minutes on his short journey to get up to date and he checked his new phone. It contained a prepaid sim; Roberts had a few prepaid sims in his pocket he’d bought from different stores.
He only made phone calls in emergencies; the security available on the latest consumer handsets and instant messaging Apps would take the agencies months to crack. The liberal values of Silicon Valley made secure communications trivial; it hadn’t always been that way.
A new message from Patrick Laws: ‘Kill Murray at RV. Standard t’s and c’s.’ Roberts hated surprises; his standard terms and conditions, agreed by Laws, contained fixed fees for removing unforeseen obstacles. The rate for eliminating a target in a public place was large.
Murray was smart, tough and experienced, and he’d chosen the rendezvous point; it was a place with the required hustle and bustle, with police, security and cameras. The tube train arrived at King’s Cross Underground Station, and Roberts made his way through the series of escalators and tunnels.
He remembered a few years ago when he’d queued outside the locked gate upstairs at rush hour until the station guards deemed it safe to release more rabbits into the warren. The architects and engineers had solved the problem by building a fast-moving queue of thousands in the subterranean concourse.
Roberts emerged from the underground station into a plaza. He paused at the old Victorian facade, beautifully restored with a modern canopy and recessed lights in the steelwork.
‘Evening Standard?’ said the man by the paper stall.
‘Thanks.’ Roberts took the newspaper. He strode into the station near Platform 8 where the departures heading north would leave all night. A left-luggage locker stood near the departure board; a train would leave for Edinburgh at nine p.m. from Platform 0. He checked national rail enquiries on his phone; the board and the online info agreed: no delays. Roberts checked the time: eight thirty p.m.
Time for a coffee before departure.
He bought a first-class single ticket and opened locker 157 with the key he’d collected on his arrival the night before. He picked out a baseball cap; it was a little late to need sun protection, but he wouldn’t stand out. He also drew out a black metallic cylinder and wrapped it in the Evening Standard before walking through the open ticket barriers into the Western Concourse.
The roof emanated from a trunk near the main departure boards and grew into a giant white spider web of tubular steel covering the vast concourse. The airy space was an improvement on the earlier drab, supposedly temporary structure.
A set of escalators carried passengers to a mezzanine, crammed with the usual chain cafes. The station was still busy, but the number of stationary figures staring at the massive departure board had dwindled from its peak a few hours ago. Roberts made a mental map of the CCTV cameras.
He climbed to the mezzanine and bought a coffee in a takeaway cup from a Spanish teenager. From her metal lapel badges, Roberts gathered that she also spoke French and Italian. He hoped all that effort would bring her rewards; maybe she owned the franchise?
Roberts sat in a plastic chair, a little away from the glass barrier, to get a view of the concourse below, and waited. At 8.55 p.m, a man in orange shorts walked into the hall and stood in the middle, near a deserted temporary advertising stand.
5 minutes early, army timings.
The man had a mashed-up face, and Roberts wondered, briefly, whether this could have led to Murray’s impending demise.
Roberts didn’t
rush; he didn’t want to be in the station one minute longer than necessary after the event. He waited another three minutes and then pushed the metal tube out of the newspaper, pulled out a tripod from the base of the steel canister and put it on the table. Roberts pointed through the gap between the glass barrier and the steel handrail. Crosshairs targeted Murray’s head; the cylinder gave a brief hiss and Murray hit the floor with a thud; commuters investigated.
The digital clock on the overhead screen showed 20.59; Roberts rolled the newspaper around the cylinder and jogged back down the escalator, continuing over to the Eastern concourse. Running for a train didn’t appear strange, so he sprinted down the hall to Platform 0. A guard blew a whistle; Roberts jumped into the rearmost doors as they closed, and the train pulled away.
SIX
Jamie found Rob in the lighting booth. ‘No trace of the suspect Rob, they’ve set up a cordon outside, and we’ve got dog units arriving.’ The dead lighting operator slumped in his seat; his lifeless eyes stared at the empty stage.
‘The dead guy’s assistant found me at the rear exit and brought me up here,’ said Rob.
A man wearing a baggy suit entered the room and said, ‘Evening Shrek.’
‘Hello Mike,’ Rob replied to the CID officer.
‘Would you do me the courtesy of getting your size 12 boots out of my crime scene please?’
‘Would you do me the courtesy of returning my ten-pound note?’
‘They can’t get hold of the FME apparently,’ said Mike, the CID officer. ‘They’re trying to bring one in from another borough; I’ll be hanging around here for a while.’
‘Anything you want us to do Mike?’ said Jamie.
‘Can you take the man’s statement: the man who found the body? Could you pick up any CCTV too?’
‘Jamie, you’re too kind,’ said Rob. ‘See you later Mike.’
Jamie and Rob found the lighting assistant stood on the half landing.
‘Are you all right to give us a statement?’
‘Yeh, no problem.’
‘Also, do you know where we can get a copy of the CCTV footage?’
‘Bob would have sorted it normally, but I can probably download it for you.’
‘Bob’s the dead man?’
‘Yes, Bob Simpkin, he did the lights and all the IT around here, but if we go down to the security room, then I’ll see what I can do.’
They walked down to the bottom of the stairs and through a door that had a sign saying ‘Staff only’. Inside the room were two desks and computer equipment. The assistant fiddled around with the computers and after a few minutes handed Rob a USB stick.
‘You can book that one in, I’ve already got one from earlier.’ Rob gave the stick to Jamie. He turned to the assistant. ‘How long did you know Bob?’
‘A long time. Bob worked here for over 20 years and was part of the furniture; everyone liked him.’ The assistant had a red face and puffy eyes.
‘There was someone who didn’t like him, can you think of anything unusual?’
‘Bob was a very busy man, full of energy; he didn’t get much sleep. His phone was always ringing, and he always promised people things by different dates.’
‘What things?’
‘The lighting was a hobby rather than a job; Bob made his income elsewhere. He was one of the first men in the UK to buy a Tesla Model S and he wore an expensive watch too.’
Jamie took his second statement of the night while Rob bought three coffees from the lady in the foyer; she refused payment.
When Jamie had finished the statement, Rob said, ‘Do you know where Bob parked his car?’
‘The car park on Parker Street. Bob was the only man here who ever drove to work, said he liked to get things done on the way, he’s made a few illegal modifications to the car.’
‘We know that place; let’s poke around Jamie.’
The assistant opened a desk drawer and took out something that looked like a little toy car on a key ring. ‘Here’s the key.’ He handed it to Rob.
‘Thanks for your help. Sorry for your loss.’ A single tear escaped from the assistant’s eye and slalomed down his cheek. Rob and Jamie left him and walked through the yellow police tape, which cordoned off the Theatre.
The pair walked along Russell Street and then turned left into Drury Lane. They headed right into Parker Street. The street was narrow and lined with red brick buildings either side; cypress trees grew through a steel frame that retained the facade of a building. Jamie peered through the windows of the facade and viewed clear sky. It reminded him of a ruined monastery he’d visited, while on holiday as a child. Back then he’d imagined the floors and rooms where the monks once lived. Now he imagined how the building would appear when the developers had finished: high-end residential, concierge services, the new roof likely to have a garden on top. The original bricks still protected against the wind and rain, but new steel columns and beams transferred the weight of the building into new foundations and then into the London clay.
Towards the end of the road, they arrived at a parking garage on the left. A ramp dropped into the garage, and there was a pedestrian entrance from the pavement. A yellow sign showed that the parking was open 24/7. The two officers descended the ramp. Rob estimated that most of the parked cars were German, with Audis comprising the most significant proportion; there were also two Jaguar’s, five Range Rovers and a single Aston Martin.
‘What colour do you think he’d go for?’ said Rob.
‘Blue.’ Jamie pointed to a large sedan parked in a middle bay with the two bays either side empty.
They approached the Tesla and circled it. Rob noticed it was clean and polished to a high shine. Bob’s pride and joy.
There was a gentle clicking sound, and the internal lights glowed as the key in Rob’s pocket triggered the proximity sensor. Jamie walked around the back of the vehicle and opened the boot; Bob was a tidy man, nothing in it. Jamie opened the rear door and searched the back seats; the white leather smelled decadent. Rob climbed into the passenger seat and explored the side pockets, glove box and under seat tray. He then sat behind in the driver’s seat and carried out similar checks.
‘Jamie, check under the bonnet, would you?’
‘You think he hid something in the engine?’
Rob smiled, and Jamie strolled over to the front of the car. He opened the flap and learned that the electric vehicle had a front storage compartment where he had expected to see an engine. Only a black plastic box lay in the storage compartment. A yellow sticker on the object had one word printed on it: Adam. Jamie took the box out of the bonnet storage and sat in the passenger seat. ‘There was just this in there.’ He handed the box to Rob.
It was around five inches long by one inch wide; a seam circled it, but there was no visible hinge and no keyhole. Rob pulled and twisted the box, but it didn’t open. The outer material felt like a hard soap rather than wood or metal or plastic. It was much heavier than he expected; like a lump of lead. He turned it in his hands, and nothing rattled.
‘We might as well drive this back to the station,’ said Rob, grinning.
‘Mike won’t like that.’
‘You’re right, it’s not worth the bother, let’s call it in, and Mike can decide what to do with it.’
Jamie pointed to the central touchscreen; flashing in the middle of it was a message: ‘Destination 52 miles, 1 hour 30 minutes in light traffic, Cancel, Drive.’
‘Where was he going I wonder?’ Rob selected ‘Drive’ on the touchscreen. There was a soft click as the doors locked. The screen changed to a map with a blue line starting in central London and finishing somewhere to the West of the M25. The car silently moved forwards.
‘Self-driving?’ said Jamie.
‘The first models like this one had automatic driving features but not full autopilot.’
He’s made a few illegal modifications.
Jamie pressed the cancel button.
‘Voice authorisation requir
ed,’ said a female voice, emanating from the car’s speakers.
‘Cancel.’
‘Unauthorised attempt. Please override security lockdown using authorised voice access.’
The destination disappeared from the map, and the Tesla crept up the ramp. It turned right onto the street and moved on with its two passengers prisoners in their comfortable white leather seats.
SEVEN
Steve opened the cabin bag. There was a plastic pouch containing a roll-on deodorant, toothpaste and hair wax, all in containers of less than 100 ml in volume. Out of the compartment he brought a black wash bag that contained a razor.
‘No shaving foam?’ said Andy
‘I use the soap in the hotel rooms when I travel.’ Steve opened the central chamber, and flipped through two shirts, one pair of trousers, and three pairs of socks and boxer shorts. He lifted them and then put them back. ‘That’s it. All done, nothing out of the ordinary.’
‘I like your rubber duck.’
‘Rubber duck?’
‘When you were flicking through your boxer shorts there, I thought I saw a little rubber duck?’
Steve rifled through his underwear again and in amongst them he found a small yellow toy duck. The duck was like the traditional bath toy with a hole in the base. Steve picked it up and tried to squeeze. ‘It doesn’t quack.’
‘Can I see.’ Steve passed the duck to Andy. ‘Looks like something’s blocking the hole.’
‘Maybe my son put it in the bag. He’s often planting surprises in my luggage.’
‘Or perhaps you’re a drug mule. That rubber duck could be full of Colombia’s finest marching powder.’
‘Seems a shame to open him up. I like my new travel companion, let me check-in with Tommy and see if he planted it.’ Steve got out his phone and dialled. ‘Hi, Nikki, how are you?’