Chapter 43: Schengen
Mere moments after stepping foot on French soil Pierre was leaving again. He had left the UK on a French passport identifying him as a 'Guillaume Racine'. The name existed only on that passport, the passenger manifest for the journey, and a prepaid Visa with which he had paid. Both the card and the passport would be shredded shortly.
Pierre was once again within the Schengen Zone, a collection of countries that didn't believe in internal border controls. He would travel freely onwards, through France then Switzerland, Germany, the Netherlands and Denmark. From there his next job awaited in Finland. Not once would he be requested to supply any sort of documentation, although he was in fact carrying yet another set of fake documents just in case. He was now an Italian, Giuseppe Berlingieri.
His appearance would be changed dramatically, his hair shortened and darkened. A few licks of grey would be added around the temples to age him, and his clothes would transform his attire from casual businessman to stylised Italian. Square designer specs and a woollen neck scarf rendered him unrecognisable. The police would look for Guillaume Racine for a while, but when they found no trace of him the case would join the growing mountain of unsolved murders in the European Union. With 490 million people in the EU, hiding in the crowd would be child's play for an experienced professional.
***
The gendarmerie were feeling the heat. The death was, as far as they were concerned, their responsibility to investigate. The ship was flying a French flag, and the body was found in a French port. The problem was they had nothing to go on other than a name. The British were being uncooperative, claiming that jurisdiction should be passed over to them as the deceased was a British citizen and might be related to crimes in the UK that were under active investigation.
Jacques Nazaire didn't care about nautical jurisdiction rules. The gendarmerie only took orders from within the military. If the powers that be wanted to fight it out over jurisdiction he would happily leave them to it. Until then, the case was his and he would treat it like any other case.
The problem was it wasn't just any other case. It was exceptionally rare for a death case to fall to the gendarmerie. If the body had been found outside the port the case would be in the hands of the French police, and they had far more experienced investigators than Jacques.
Jacques had seen more contraband cases than most, but this was a different kettle of fish and he was beginning to feel out of his comfort zone. The visual inspection of the body in the morgue had revealed precisely nothing. Other than being dead the man was in excellent health. It was as if his heart had simply stopped of its own accord. Jacques knew this supposition to be false. Dead men do not seal themselves inside rooms. There was a killer out there, and he intended to catch him.
***
Tempers were riding high. The lawyer from the British Crown Prosecution Service, Kieran O'Connor, arrived unannounced that morning, demanding to talk to the gendarmerie. Those in charge deemed it prudent not to be rude to him, as much as they wanted the lawyer to leave.
As a compromise, they let him into the port but holed him up in the one building without air conditioning. A sweltering thirty-degree day, it had tempers fraying before an official meeting had even begun.
The argument was, in Jacques' opinion, completely unnecessary. He had been called in by those up the food chain to give evidence why the gendarmerie felt the death was on their turf. The French claim was obvious enough to Jacques. The man died on a ship sailing a French flag, and the body was discovered within French national waters. The ship's CCTV showed he had stayed alive long enough to make it to the bar. The barman corroborated this and estimated he didn't disappear from the bar until at least a couple of hours into the journey, by far long enough to leave British territorial waters.
For Jacques, the question wasn't in which jurisdiction the man died but how best to find his killer. It was more likely the killer was in France than in Britain, given he had to disembark in Le Havre. That meant if the British wanted to arrest him they would have to go through the kerfuffle of obtaining a European Arrest Warrant. Domestic police had no such jurisdictional issues to contend with. The problem was that the French knew little about the man, and it would be difficult to track his killer when there was no forensic evidence, no cause of death and no apparent motive. He hadn't been robbed, he had no known acquaintances on board the ship, and so Jacques was at a loss as to how to begin to investigate.
The British had the fact that he was a British national, and that he had departed from the UK. Kieran O'Connor was already yelling about their supposed trump card, a domestic provision known as section nine of the Offences Against the Person Act that supposedly gave the UK extra-territorial jurisdiction when a British subject was involved in a murder. Jacques didn't know who would win the legal case. He was happy for both to investigate. It was a shame the British simply wouldn't accept that. They wanted the body shipped back to be dealt with by their own pathologist.
Interpol had sent a representative to mediate. Her presence should have lessened the tension in the room somewhat, but it was ultimately only a supervisory role, and the tension could be cut with a knife.
Jacques resolved to say whatever he needed, and get out. It wasn't his job to wrangle over cases. He just investigated them.
***
The blood work came back negative. No foreign bodies, no poison, no drugs. Every drug that the French tested for had been marked 'négatif', except for alcohol, which showed a minimal concentration. He certainly hadn't drunk enough for it to kill him. The medical examiner was stumped.
'Can we not do a more detailed screening?' Jacques asked.
'Yes, but the tests don't just look for everything. We have to know what we're looking for. It's not a common poison, virus, or other such pathogen. That means we're in the territory of neurotransmitters. I don't have the kit to test for that.'
'Who does?'
'Université de Bordeaux.' The medical examiner named one of the most prestigious universities in France for natural sciences.
'Merde.' Jacques knew it would take time to get an external consultation. Maybe the British could help.
Chapter 44: Dishonourable
Yosef's heart pounded as he opened the latest darknet message. It had all seemed so easy when he had agreed to the plan. His son deserved not to have to suffer any more, and if this was how Yosef could alleviate his suffering, then so be it.
That didn't stop his nerves as he read the name and biographical details of the man he was supposed to kill. His hands shook as he copy-pasted the name Jake Randall into Facebook, and brought up a photo. It seemed so personal now that he was looking at the smiling face of his victim. Jake was a lecturer, a bona fide Doctor of Philosophy in International Relations, and an avid member of his local council. Yosef wondered what he had done to deserve death.
He wrenched his eyes away from the screen. He knew he had to memorise that face, lest he kill the wrong person, but to gaze at the bright spectacled green eyes of the man on the screen was to shake Yosef to the core. He believed adamantly in the sanctity of life. As an orthodox Jew there was nothing more precious in his religion. It took his only son's suffering every day with Tay-Sachs to convince him that the rule against killing was not absolute. It was dishonourable to let him live.
The problem for Yosef was that Jake did not have Tay-Sachs. He was an apparently healthy young man, one of God's children whether he knew it or not. Yosef steeled himself, forcing himself to look at the Facebook profile in front of him. If this man had to die to prevent his son's suffering any further, then so be it. He would be Yosef's sacrificial lamb.
***
It took three days for the French to capitulate. They would agree to let the British take a lead role in the investigation into the death of Barry Fitzgerald, including repatriating the body to be examined in London. The gendarmerie would continue to investigate locally, including the hunt for the eventual suspect, but the bulk of the investig
ative process would fall on the Metropolitan police. Jacques was off the hook, and Detective Chief Inspector David Morton once again had a full caseload to investigate. Blood work samples were already winging their way to the lab, a full battery of exotic tests waiting to be carried out once the samples were in London.
Interpol would co-ordinate, including enforcing open information sharing. Anything the British knew would be passed to the French, and vice versa. If the suspect left France, Interpol would be on hand to rope in any necessary police departments as well as assisting with the procurement, and enforcement, of a European Arrest Warrant should one prove necessary.
***
Yosef had never travelled south before. He had been a Londoner for a long time, and liked to spend his vacations somewhere hot or exotic. Visiting the southern counties was low on his list of priorities, but this time he had no choice.
The kill had to take place out of London because the intended victim resided in Portsmouth. Yosef wasn't too happy about this, but at a little over sixty miles away from the capital it was about the same in terms of travelling time as crossing the breadth of London by underground. It was certainly quicker than the bus network.
To avoid being too obvious Yosef had taken a National Rail coach to get to his destination. It was cramped, stuffy and uncomfortable, and Yosef's legs did not appreciate being confined in a space that was a few inches smaller than their length. Rather than being direct, the route was most circuitous, visiting a huge number of towns and hamlets before finally setting Yosef down at the hard interchange in Portsmouth.
The target's veneer of respectability would never lead Yosef to suspect it, but the man he was to kill that evening was a drug dealer who had caused a young Anthony Duvall to spend the prime of his life in prison.
He was greeted by a sea of bus stops in front of him, stretching out to every possible destination in the area. Behind him the train station sat, squat and squalid, graffiti tagging evident on almost every surface at hand height. It was clearly a hub for transportation in the region. With train, road and sea links it was an easy place to stage a getaway, as the police would be forced to spread their resources thinly to cover all the bases.
The water churned nearby, a murky brown that lapped against the hull of HMS Warrior. Above him, the Spinnaker tower loomed, a concrete sail guarding the harbour. It was an unusual sight, and there was something different in every direction that Yosef looked.
His destination was the university at which his target taught. Yosef wanted to get a visual handle on the man, and he knew which building he taught classes in. Unfortunately for Jake his schedule was publicly viewable on the university website, and so Yosef knew exactly where Jake would be at any given time.
It was only a short walk away. Directly down College Road, and to the right, the Mildam building was easy to find. A former navy office, it had become part of the university portfolio long before Jake became first a student, and then a tutor at the institution. It was easy enough to find him, clearly visible through the windowed door at the side of the lecture theatre his next class was being taught in. He was the spitting image of his Facebook persona.
Yosef still didn't have an exact plan as to how to kill the man. He knew the when was certain. It would go down tonight, and he would be back in London before midnight. That gave him a window of a little less than eight hours before he would need to leave the city. The rest of the plan lacked finality.
He could attempt to take him out in the university, but with the foot traffic around the area it would be almost impossible not to be seen. That left accosting him after he finished, which was likely to be around six judging by his rather regular schedule. Traffic would be heavy around then, with commuters leaving the city after work. With the city being on an island it was especially dense in terms of population, and several naval ships were in the harbour. While that was great for covering up Yosef's presence, as he could easily be lost among the crowds, he knew that he couldn't afford to be seen either in person or by CCTV. The population was transient due to the student and naval nature of the city, but they weren't blind. If he attempted anything in broad daylight it would be seen.
It was a dangerous city to attempt anything in. There were few quiet areas, and even fewer areas not covered by the ever-watchful cameras, but Yosef was not just anybody. Before moving to Britain Yosef had been in Shin Bet, the Israeli national body for internal security. While not as famous as its brother agency dealing with intelligence, Mossad, it was just as effectively trained. Yosef had been accepted to both agencies, but it was his preference for avoiding violence that stayed him from joining Mossad. Instead he had taken a role that saw him liaising with foreign security agencies. It was just as demanding, but primarily paper-based rather than field-based. He had still gone through the basic combat training required of all employees, and was therefore more than capable of defending himself, but he was not as bloodthirsty as some of his fellow candidates.
As a disciple of Krav Maga, Yosef was well placed to carry out the hit itself. He had always focussed on training to defend himself, but the techniques he had learned were easily adaptable. Krav Maga taught him to strike hard and fast, targeting exposed areas such as eyes, throat, groin and knee. Yosef would disarm the target by taking out his knees from behind, and end his life with a swift kick to the temple.
Yosef knew that he had to wait until the target went to a less populous area to make his move. He knew from a search of the electoral roll that the target lived in Southsea. Taswell Road was in the residential section, ending in a cul-de-sac. Before that the streets were well lit, and it would be reckless to proceed.
Yosef knew he also couldn't afford to wait too long. The house had a number of occupants according to the electoral roll. Witnesses could easily get him caught, and if they were to actively become involved then he might well be caught quickly. He would therefore have to strike while his target was heading indoors.
A pub less than two minutes' walk away proved the ideal waiting place for Yosef. There were hundreds all over the city, ideal locations to simply bide time. He knew from his instructions the target would take twenty-five minutes or so to walk back after finishing his five-to-six lecture. At 6:20 p.m. his target came into view ambling down Clarendon Road. His demeanour was relaxed, with his hands in his pockets and a slight strut to his step. It was clear he wasn't expecting to be ambushed at any moment.
Yosef waited a little distance away until his target turned off the main road. He then quickly began to close the distance, power-walking rather than running. His target continued to saunter, fishing in his pocket for a key as he turned into his road.
Yosef's step quickened. The gap closed to mere metres, and Yosef made his move.
He kicked out, slamming his foot into the man's right knee. The target's legs gave way underneath him and he fell to the uneven pavement. Yosef's shoes were steel-toe capped, and Jake would not be able to get up quickly.
Struggling to pull himself up he flopped forward, exposing his temple to a blow from the right. Yosef twisted in position, and pulled back his muscled leg, ready to deliver the fatal blow. As Yosef prepared to take a life, his thoughts drifted. Life was too precious. This man wasn't threatening him. Yosef was the aggressor, and the Talmud places a high value on life. It came down to a simple choice: his son, or his faith. Yosef found himself paralysed. He simply couldn't do it. He could not take a man's life, even if it would end his son's suffering.
Snapping out of it, he fled, leaving a dazed and confused Jake sprawled on the pavement more than a little worse for wear.
Chapter 45: Repatriation
The body arrived back in a plywood coffin. Someone had thoughtfully draped the union flag over it before it had been flown back to London. On arrival the Metropolitan police's in-house chaplain saw fit to give the deceased his last rites. He didn't know whether the dead man had been a practising Christian, so he veered towards the non-denominational. That duty fulfilled, he witnessed the tran
sfer of the corpse to the morgue, ensuring that the chain of custody was rock solid.
The gendarmerie had done most of the work for the pathologist. A 'T' shaped incision had been made in the body rather than the British 'Y' incision, and the organs had been removed en lutelle, where the organs were removed together rather than in groups. It wasn't how the pathologist would have done it himself, but the work was certainly proficient, and it had been thoroughly documented on tape.
It did not take long to confirm the initial French finding. The man was, but for being dead, perfectly healthy. The testing that would take place on various samples would be extensive. Blood work would be done of course, with a much-extended battery of tests run to check for foreign particulates. Samples of skin and hair would also be examined. Sometimes trace could be found in the hair long after it had been cleansed from the blood.
The brain had been removed by the French authorities. Their notes suggested that they had observed the brain in situ, but did not spot anything out of the ordinary. The medical examiner did endorse his report to note that brain functions were not his specialism, and if he had retained the case he would have called in a neurologist to inspect the brain. To facilitate that, the brain had been removed and put in a buffered water solution containing 15% formalin that would preserve the brain as well as helping it to retain its original shape, allowing it to be handled for inspection.
No expense would be spared in determining cause of death. The eyes of the international media were now firmly fixed on London, and the heat would continue to build until the manner of death was established.
The DCI Morton Box Set Page 18