by Owen Nichols
“And then he changed. So slowly you never really notice it at the time. He lost the joy, the passion. It was his eyes. They used to sparkle. By the time we divorced, they were blank. I could never work out what he was thinking, what was going on behind that stare. We used to spend hours just talking, sharing ideas and thoughts, revelling in each other’s company. But that just vanished. Slowly, piece by piece until you realise one day that it’s gone and you didn’t even see it slip away. Like a call in the night to tell you your husband’s died in an accident. You never see it coming.”
Her words married with the text on the website. Of someone who had lost their way and turned to something more dangerous and exciting to find some meaning. Anders was drawn to the idea that it was some spoilt little posh boy with too much money and too little perspective, but it was more complex than that. It always was. The words he had written were that of a zealot. Of someone who passionately believed in his cause. In his blog, he’d written that belief defiles sound thought and reason and she wondered if he’d seen the irony in his own words.
“Have you read the blog on his website?” she asked. Tears welled in Lady Margaret’s eyes as she recalled the horrific text, but Anders kept pushing. “I’m sorry to ask you these things, but his ideas on mankind, about us being some kind of plague. Is this something you’ve heard from him before?” She shook her head.
“No, not at all. He was such a kind man. Gave so much time and resources to several charities that he set up.” Anders groaned inwardly. She’d have to investigate those charities.
“Would you know where he may be hiding now? Any places he loved to frequent, anywhere he mentioned he felt safe?” Lady Margaret shook her head, closing her eyes and sighing heavily as she struggled to maintain her composure.
“I’ve tried so hard. I wanted to come here with something useful, but I have nothing I’m afraid. What I can tell you is that Michael is no fool. If he has set himself to this task, it will not be done haphazardly. It will be meticulously planned and executed. He will see it through.”
Anders saw a chilling truth in her words and found herself startled by a loud tap on the window. She turned to see Mal on the other side and he beckoned her out.
“Excuse me Lady Margaret, I will leave you with Abi to finish the interview. If you think of anything, here’s my card. Please don’t hesitate to call me at any time.”
Standing to leave, Anders caught Abi’s eye. She nodded to say that she would be fine and ushered Anders out. Closing the door to the office behind her, Mal asked if she had anything.
“Not much,” replied Anders. “Abi’s finishing up, but I don’t think we’ll get anything of use. You?” Mal shrugged.
“McDowell’s doing a press conference in an hour. As you can imagine, he’s keen for us to get results. Have you set up an interview with his brother?” Anders nodded and moved to the stairs leading out, taking her jacket from the back of the chair at her desk as she did so.
“He’s at Parliament now. Ten minute walk. You fancy a stroll?” Mal scratched his beard absently as he assessed what else needed doing. Realising that he couldn’t do anything until his team had all checked back in, he gave her a grin.
“Why not? Always wanted to go to Parliament.” His grin faded as they reached the staircase.
“We do have lifts, you know,” he grumbled.
“I know,” replied Anders as she hit the steps at a frightening pace. Shaking his head, Mal followed her up, careful to avoid staring at her rear and telling himself to behave.
As they left the Yard, Anders crossed the road so that they could walk along the Thames. The sun was setting and the roads were jammed with cars and vans snarling their way home. A few buses and taxies sped past, enjoying their own lane and a biting wind forced them both to bend their heads against its chill, unprepared as they were for the cold in the summer months. Hands thrust into his jean pockets, Mal raised his voice to speak above the traffic and the rambunctious wind that toyed playfully with their clothes and hair.
“Heck of a first day,” he said as a boat sped past crammed with tourists taking photographs and waving. Anders waved back, grinning at their cheers.
“I’ve had worse,” she replied.
“You come across anything like this?” asked Mal. Anders gave the question some thought before replying.
“No, but like Lord Buckland, I’ve seen plenty of folks justify their killings no matter how bizarre it may seem to us. Dennis Nilsen killed fifteen men and kept them at his house in various poses for company. Brenda Ann Spencer spent one morning shooting at school children. Why? She didn’t like Mondays. That’s where the Bob Geldof song came from. On the flip side, look at Fergus Glen. In two thousand and three he hacked his brother to death when he didn’t say thank you for his meal. His defence? He just annoyed me, he said.” Mal saw a gap in the pedestrian traffic and led them back across the road as Westminster Palace loomed closer, its Gothic architecture towering above them. The wind abated slightly and a warmth infused the air.
“They’re the scariest ones,” continued Anders as she undid her jacket and shrugged it off. “The ones with no motive, no cause. They just want to inflict suffering and pain. I think Buckland actually veers more towards that when you strip away his twisted ideology.”
They took a right as they neared the iconic structure and skirted around it so that Westminster Abbey was to their right and the Houses of Parliament to their left. They had access to the St Stephen Entrance on the West side and Anders smiled as Big Ben ushered in a new hour above them. It would take a long time to shake the feeling that she was just a tourist in London. Mal frowned at her words, oblivious now to the famous landmark.
“How come?” he asked. Anders, neatly sidestepping a queue of meandering tourists, gave an exasperated sigh.
“I’m not sure. The sadism mainly. It feels too personal to be linked to a cause. There’s also the public nature of it. That’s what he’s getting off on. Dressing it up as he’s doing, gives him a following, a cult. It gives his actions legitimacy and anyone who wishes to emulate him, a justification. What’s more powerful than changing the world?”
Her words sent shivers down Mal’s spine and he gazed at her thoughtfully. Anders was oblivious to his stare as she looked around in wonder at the embodiment of the British Constitution. Suddenly her phone vibrated and she pulled it from her back pocket as Mal turned to find the entrance. Leading them through St Stephen’s Hall, past the marble busts of Pitt and Fox, he listened in on the conversation.
“Anders here,” she said and turned the volume of her phone up so that she could hear over the bustle and hubbub of tourists taking photographs and chatting away animatedly.
“Agent Anders, it’s Crackers.” Anders rolled her eyes as Jesse continued to push his moniker.
“You’re too old for a nickname Jesse,” she said and laughed at his mock indignation. “What’s up?”
“You’re a hard woman Agent Anders. Got the skinny on Buckland’s brother for you. Turns out they’re identical twins. Born in nineteen sixty five, Francis popped out first, so I guess he’s the elder brother. Seems that way from his career anyways. Went to Oxford to study physics, his work led to some of the Haldron Collider stuff they do at CERN. I’m looking at the maths here, but it’s not in any language I know of.” Anders chuckled as Mal led them to a desk in the Central Lobby and presented their warrant cards to an officer stationed there. The room was huge, opulent and elegantly decorated. It spoke of understated wealth and prosperity, a symbol for the nation.
They were led down a long corridor to meet with Lord Buckland and Anders asked Jesse to hurry with the cliff notes.
“His brother, our little psycho, went to Cambridge instead and studied History. Has a few papers published by the looks of it. Francis married in nineteen eighty eight, did lots of charity work, MP for a few years. He then joined the House of Lords at the Queens request in two thousand and seven. Wife died last year in a car accident. DUI.” They
neared a large oak door and the guide knocked before entering and announcing his guests.
Anders followed Mal and found herself in a large, well lit room. On the walls hung paintings of every King and Queen since George I. Statues of gilded caen stone lined the thirty metre room, each one depicting a King who had ruled during times of war and conflict. Two large frescos, weathered by age, depicted the death of Nelson and the battle of Waterloo. The Royal Gallery was close to the debating chamber, so several large tables and chairs were placed down each side to enable conversation and work. The room was empty at this time, save two people.
One sat at a table, hands resting on his large stomach. His face was pinched and he gazed at the officers with hooded eyes over his beaked nose. The other paced the room, hands resting behind his back as he gazed at the paintings. He was tall and powerfully built. Though in his early fifties, Lord Francis Buckland seemed to have weathered like oak, getting tougher with each passing year. Grey speckled his temples, but his face was smooth and unlined. He wore a well-tailored suit that highlighted his physique and had an air of authority about him. Anders could tell that he was used to command and accepted it as his right. Mal stepped forward, suddenly incongruous in his jeans and flannel shirt, and offered his hand to Lord Buckland, who gripped it tightly.
“Good morning Lord Buckland, thank you for agreeing to meet with us. I’m…”
“I know who you are,” he said, his voice deep and smooth. “I was part of the committee that agreed to McDowell’s initiative.” Mal gave a gracious nod of his head.
“Then we are indebted to you. I’m sure you know why we are here.” Buckland indicated the man sat at the table. He hadn’t moved and simply stared quietly at the group.
“I do. That is why I have my solicitor present. I’m sure you won’t mind.” The figure gave a grunt of acknowledgement and proceeded to write notes as Anders spoke, Mal content to let her lead.
“We’re only here to see if you can help us with our inquiries. This is very much an informal discussion.”
“Who was he?” asked Buckland suddenly. Anders gave him a querulous look before Buckland gave an impatient gesture. “The man my brother crucified. Who was he?”
“I’m afraid that we cannot disclose that information yet.” Mal leaned forward and spoke over Anders.
“It was Matthew Peters,” he said, eyeing Buckland closely.
“Good God,” he muttered, visibly shaken by the news. He turned from the pair and Anders saw him shake with grief. “He was a very dear friend of mine. We’d known each other our whole lives. Went to school and University together. A dear, dear friend.”
That would account for the spiteful nature of the killing, thought Anders.
“Do you think his choice of victim was deliberate?” she asked. Buckland turned back to them, eyes red with grief. His voice, when he spoke was full of sorrow yet laced with bitterness.
“Most certainly. We never saw eye to eye. He hated me as only a twin could.”
“His ex-wife, Lady Margaret, seemed to think he was a kind man and that this is out of character.” Buckland gave a snort of derision.
“Crucifying someone is out of character to the majority of people Miss Anders. It is out of character for Michael, but he is not incapable of such things. He was quick to anger as a child and always taking up some crusade or other, flitting between them like a moth to flame. If he believes in his work, he will fully commit to it.”
“Where is he likely to be now,” asked Mal, his voice soft and gentle. “Our records show that he has land and holdings all over the country. We are searching them now, but it will take some time to conduct a proper search.”
“Nowhere there,” replied Lord Buckland. “He’s no fool, my brother. Makes the brightest of us look dim by comparison. He’ll have somewhere that your records won’t show and all of his accounts offshore.”
“Might I ask that we take some fingerprints and DNA samples? As a twin, it would provide vital data that may help us catch him more quickly.” Lord Buckland turned back to Anders, who had asked the question.
“Twins don’t have the same fingerprints Miss Anders. I’d have thought that someone with your training would know that.” She gave him an easy smile and Lord Buckland found himself charmed by her.
“I am aware of that sir, but your fingerprints are not only shaped by your genes. During your time in the uterus, the maternal nutrition, blood pressure and your own position in the womb will have affected the growth of your fingers during the end of the first trimester. The whorls and ridges on your hands will have some similarities with your brother. It would help make a partial match.” Lord Buckland grinned and winked at her.
“Thank you for the lesson Miss Anders, I’d be more than happy for you to take some samples.” At this, Blackwell coughed politely and stood up, scraping his chair loudly on the wooden floor, the sound echoing around the chamber.
“At this point, I must intervene and recommend that my client does not provide any samples. I will not have it in the public domain that DNA and print samples have been taken. My client’s reputation would be damaged beyond that which it already has.”
“Not helping in our investigation is equally damning,” snapped Anders. She’d taken an instant dislike to this unctuous man who used the law as a weapon, his tone and demeanour insidious and reptilian.
“Then he will provide samples when it is clearly proven that, in doing so, he will further your investigation. You have his brother’s written confession, posted for the whole world to see. That is sufficient for now. You are conducting a manhunt, not a murder investigation.” Anders made to reply, but Mal stepped forward, his voice calming the increasingly heated debate.
“We are not governed by the Freedom of Information Act. Lord Buckland here ensured that the NCA was exempt from that. No one will know if he has given samples. All our work is done in-house.”
“Your department is less than a week old Mr Weathers. It is untested and not yet proven to be secure.” Francis opened his hands in a gesture of apology.
“I’m sorry, but I need to abide by his instructions. There’s little point in paying him so much otherwise. If I can help in any other way, please let me know.” Mal gave him a brief smile and shook his hand as he made to leave.
“Thank you Lord Buckland,” he said and strode to the exit. Anders followed, but Francis called after her.
“Miss Anders, before you leave, let me tell you a little about this Palace.” He walked with her to the exit as Mal waited at the door. “It was built in the eleventh century, but in fifteen twelve, it was destroyed by fire. After that, it was rebuilt and became the House of Parliament. In eighteen thirty four, it was burnt down once more and during the Second World War, it was bombed no less that fourteen times. The statue you walked past on your way here, the one of Richard the Lionheart. It was blown from its pedestal and its sword bent. But it did not break. That became the symbol for democracy during the War. This whole building represents this nation’s commitment to democracy and social justice. My brother will cause chaos and attempt to undermine the very values this society has been built on for over five hundred years. He must not be allowed to succeed.”
As they reached the door, he wished them good day and turned smartly on his heels, his footsteps echoing off the Royal Gallery walls. Anders and Mal let themselves drift with the tide of humanity as it poured through the Palace and found themselves deposited on the steps of St Stephen’s entrance. Mal shook his head, a dour look on his face.
“We’re not going to get much help from him or his ex-wife,” he said. He checked his watch and turned to Anders.
“Come on, let’s get back to the Yard. We need to debrief the team.”
Chapter 7
Anders opened the door to her apartment and tossed the keys into a glass bowl on a table in the hall. She hung up her jacket and made her way to the kitchen. Cassie had made dinner and decided to use every pot and pan available. It smelled good though, and h
er stomach rumbled at the inviting odour. Cassie had left a portion for her in the oven and she spied it through the glass. On the fridge, she saw a painting that Aaron must have done that day at school. He’d drawn Anders, snake like scar round her neck, holding a gun to a frightening monster. It was painted black, but the eyes were blue, much like his father’s. The monster was tall, but Anders was taller, Cassie and Aaron standing behind her, shielded from the fury of the beast.
“Pretty sure that’s going to come up at a parent-teacher meeting,” she muttered as she turned the oven on to warm up her food. While she waited for that to heat up, she took a bar of chocolate from the fridge and sighed in delight at the English chocolate, so much better than the American version Aaron and Cassie preferred.
Hearing sounds coming from Aaron’s bedroom, she took off her boots and padded along the corridor to his room. The door was ajar and she could see a light spilling from the crack. The shower was on in the bathroom and she could hear Cassie’s soulful voice as she sang an old Christian song, “In the Pines”. Cassie imbued the words with such sadness that Anders felt overwhelming sorrow for her.
Sliding Aaron’s door open a little more, she saw him lying in bed, curled up under the sheets and wide awake. He smiled as he saw her and shot from his bed to give her a warm hug.
“Bumble!” he cried. She lifted him up and carried him to his bed, tiptoeing over the scattered action figures that created a prickly minefield for her bare feet. Posters of his favourite Marvel films adorned the walls and she noticed that he still wore his Captain America T-shirt.
“It’s way past your bedtime little Munchkin. How was your first day at school?” As she tucked him back into his bed, he shrugged.
“It was ok. I painted you a picture.”
“I saw. Thank you. I always wanted to slay big scary monsters! Grrrr!” She gave Aaron a tickle that caused him to shriek loudly and throw his sheets off in delight. Tucking him back in, she asked if he’d made any friends that day. Another nonchalant shrug.