Fifty Two Weeks of Murder

by Owen Nichols

  “Michael’s brother. The good egg, if you will.” She clicked the remote again and showed footage of Francis on the BBC news last week. He was just as impassioned, but there was a slight shift in tone. His speech in Oxford had been about how the law was there to protect everyone, to allow society peace in which to thrive and grow. Here, he was making an argument for a return of the death penalty.

  “…the last execution took place in nineteen sixty four. It was abolished for murder at that time, the only punishment by hanging given to treason until nineteen ninety eight. Since then the rate of murder has only increased…”

  “…actually, the murder rate has declined sharply since two thousand and two…”

  “…there will always be a blip, a time when murder rates peak and decline, but on the whole, there has been an increase. The justice system is letting people down…”

  Anders turned to Abi, who was frowning.

  “There’s a change there,” she said. “His attitude to the law has changed completely.”

  “I think his attitude is the same as it’s always been,” replied Anders. “Around the same time as Michael is divorcing his wife, Francis’ dies in a car accident. I’ve read the reports and there’s no way her brakes should have failed like that.” Realisation was dawning on the group as Anders piled on the evidence.

  “Matthew Peters. Buckland’s first victim. He’d known Francis since they were children. The two people, Matthew and his wife, who could tell the difference between Francis and Michael were dead. The body in the safe isn’t Michael. It’s Francis.” A stunned silence settled over the room as everyone digested the information. Michael had killed his brother, hidden the body and then assumed his place. He’d been hiding in plain sight all along. McDowell swore loudly, the sound coming clearly through the speakers.

  “I’ve been keeping him up to date on the search for his brother,” he said angrily. “He’s been the one making sure we had extra funds to pursue him.” Anders shrugged.

  “Either he didn’t think he’d be found or he enjoyed the sport.” Anders gave him a look of sympathy as further realisation hit.

  “That’s how he knew about Mal,” he said, ageing suddenly, his vibrant energy leaching from him. “He’s dead because of me.”

  “There’s more,” said Anders, unwilling to dwell on that fact. “I think Lawrence, his son is helping him out, but also his wife.” Abi gave a snort of derision.

  “Not her. She’s devastated by this whole thing.”

  “She fooled us both Abi,” replied Anders. “Unless she’s been living with her head in the sand these last few weeks, she’d have seen her ex-husband on the TV. Boyle took at least three people to keep him alive. Lady Margaret trained as a nurse. It was also Lady Margaret Buckland who visited St Thomas’ yesterday to open a children’s ward. She could easily have slipped into Lucy’s room. Occam’s Razor. The theory with the fewest assumptions is the one we go with. This has the fewest assumptions. Helen, what are your findings?”

  Duncan groaned in shock as Helen spoke, her voice quiet in the group.

  “I checked Lucy’s body just now. There’s a needle mark in her belly button. Very small. Toxicology is running now, but I don’t think it will show anything. Insulin would do the trick and the hormone would denature then break down quickly so as to be untraceable. I may find slightly elevated levels, but nothing conclusive.”

  McDowell spoke in the silence that followed.

  “I’ll have a warrant drawn up for you now. You can take Buckland in his brother’s home at Kensington. There’s not enough for the other two beyond circumstantial evidence.”

  “We can still take them in for questioning and hold them for thirty six hours,” said Duncan. “Might give us time to find something.” Dawkins stood up and brushed lint from his trousers. His voice was grim but filled with satisfaction.

  “I’ll have two armed units escort you. When can you leave?”

  Chapter 11

  Buckland’s property was located at the Academy Gardens in Kensington. He occupied the bottom two flats of an exclusive residence and Barry had the gate keeper open the gates as Anders drove through and parked the patrol car. Behind her, two large vans screeched to a halt and out poured two units of armed officers. They wore vests with Police emblazoned across their chests and carried Heckler & Koch machine guns with clear magazines that showed clips filled with bullets. They moved with a grim silence and were followed by two men carrying a large tube with handles that would be used to break down the front door.

  Anders opened the boot to the car and tossed Barry his Heckler & Koch. He plucked it from the air with practised ease and checked the chamber before holstering a pistol. There was a nervous tension in the group as Duncan stepped from the car and struggled into a vest. Everyone knew what had happened to Lucy and were wary of further traps. Anders appraised the property, which Jesse had gleefully told her was worth over five million pounds, and figured Buckland wouldn’t care about such niceties. After all, that was the prize for one winning entry.

  In silence, they moved to the front door, a large, oak panelled entrance that would take some blows to knock in. Anders signalled the two squads behind her and bade the entry team to step forward. One of them put small explosives on the hinges and stepped back whilst the other two moved forward. The manoeuvre was well practised and they moved with intimidating efficiency. A quick glance to Anders and they were given the go sign.

  The doors buckled as the compact explosives warped the hinges and the blow from the metal tube took the door clean off, the metal shearing as if made from melted butter. Anders burst through the smoke as the entry team stepped aside.

  “Police! Put your hands up and stay where you are. We are armed,” Anders yelled as she found herself in a large open plan room. It was huge and housed a banqueting table and an open fire that burned heartily despite the summer heat outside. The space was bright and well lit, natural light streaming in from large windows. It was also empty and Barry followed Anders through the room and into a long corridor, both checking for any signs of traps, yet moving quickly, guns raised to their shoulders.

  Racing along the corridor, they scanned each room as they passed, Anders signalling those behind her to secure the room properly. The flat was elegantly decorated, wealth obvious but not overstated. They had little time to admire the surroundings as they pushed on. At the end of the corridor was a large study area and it was here that they found Buckland.

  He was leaning against a large desk that dominated the room and had his hands in the air. He was dressed in a bespoke suit, elegantly tailored to show his broad shoulders and trim waist. His dark and grey speckled hair was neatly combed and he glowed with good health. He was grinning as Anders entered and covered the space quickly to him. The world slowed for a moment as she saw Buckland, images of Mal’s ravaged body flashing through her mind. Her finger tightened on the trigger. The only thing protecting Buckland was her training and her desire to see him punished through the judicial system he so brazenly mocked. He saw the anger in Anders, felt the flutter of wings in the darkness and knew how close he was to death. He brushed the fear aside, his discipline stemming from class and breeding.

  “Welcome!” he said. “How may I help you today Miss Anders?”

  He protested as Anders spun him round and pushed him forward onto the table, pulling his hands behind him. Barry checked the room as she read him his rights, keeping her voice neutral as anger coursed through her. Barry glanced at the laptop on the desk and looked nervously at Anders. She quickly picked up on his vibe.

  “Something wrong?” asked Buckland, staring hard at Anders. He was no longer the composed, charming, handsome and athletic man Anders had met in Parliament. He’d warped and twisted, his mask removed, showing the true madness that lay beneath.

  Barry turned the laptop round so that Anders could see the screen just as Jesse spoke through her headpiece.

  “We have a problem,” he said, his voice tight with
worry. “It looks like every device that’s been used to look at the website over the last four weeks has a virus that’s just been activated, some kind of Trojan horse. Smart phones, tablets, even smart TV’s. Doesn’t matter if it’s Windows, Android or Apple. They’re all showing the same thing. I can’t override it. Three of my screens are buggered.”

  Anders stared at the laptop as Barry took out his phone and checked. It no longer responded to his commands and he couldn’t switch it off. It showed the same scene as the laptop. In one corner of the screen, an image from a small drone was showing Buckland’s house, the police car and two vans parked outside. The feed was live. Above it, Buckland had written three sentences and they sent a chill down her spine

  Burn it.

  All of it.

  Set the world on fire.

  Chapter 12

  Anders paused for a moment to work out her strategy. They had to get Buckland to Scotland Yard and secure him.

  “Duncan, Barry, get Buckland to the car. We’ll ride in the middle, armoured van in front and behind. Barry, you’re driving. Take a wide route, not the direct one.” They hurried through the house as Anders gave her orders to the armed units. Normally, they’d secure the house and have it made safe for evidence collection, but their priority was to get Buckland to the safety of Scotland Yard.

  Anders hung back for a moment as they raced through the house to the cars. Taking her phone out, she quickly dialled Cassie, having not used her phone to view the site. The line was dead and she sighed heavily, knowing Cassie must have been looking at the website on her phone. She tried Aaron’s. He had an old Nokia that wasn’t connected to the internet. She’d told him he could have a smart phone when he was older and he’d always been fine with that. When you have nothing, getting anything is a blessing. He answered on the second ring.

  “Hi Bumble,” he said, happiness in his voice at her calling him.

  “Hey there Aaron,” replied Anders. “How are you?”

  “I’m ok. I’ve been making cookies with Cassie. I made one with extra chocolate for you.” Anders smiled and hated herself for not being able to be there with them.

  “That’s great honey. I look forward to eating it. Is Cassie with you?” There was a sound of conversation in the background as Cassie took the phone.

  “Hey, wassup?” she said.

  “Are you at home?” Anders asked, keeping the urgency from her voice.

  “Yes. Why?”

  “Keep Aaron away from the news. Lock the door and don’t let anyone in. Do not leave that flat, you hear?” Cassie suddenly sounded worried.

  “What’s going on?” she asked, her voice tight with fear. Anders sprinted from the house, knowing that she had held everyone up.

  “No time to explain. Just stay in the flat and keep the door locked. Don’t let Aaron see your phone either.” She hung up just as she burst from the flat and sped to the car as Barry folded himself into the driver’s side.

  Running from the house, Buckland was pushed into the back of the patrol car, his handcuffed arms bending painfully as he sat on them. It didn’t affect his mood and he grinned at his escort.

  “This is fun,” he said. “So much more fun than I thought it would be.” Duncan sat next to him in the back and told him to keep quiet as Jesse gave them a quick update.

  “Fires in Brixton, Camden and Croydon. Rioting has started already. I’m looking at the feed now and they’re not taking anything, just setting stuff on fire. Hang on, you’ve a large group heading your way. I can see it on the website. Get out of there and hang right.”

  Barry reversed quickly and gunned the engine as he waited for the lead van to exit the gate. Jesse had linked their radios to the same frequency and they listened in as he gave directions. Speeding from the courtyard, Anders could see an angry mob sprinting towards them. They were hurling abuse and throwing stones at the vehicles. There were men and women of all ages and types, but they all shared one common factor. Anger and rage.

  “Not sure if they want to kill him or set him free,” muttered Barry as a large rock cracked a window, making Duncan jump nervously. Jesse started reeling off a list of cities around the world where rioting had started. Barry negotiated his way round the traffic with skill, following the path set by the police van in front, the rear vehicle following closely behind. Anders turned to Buckland and spoke to him through the mesh that separated them.

  “What have you done?” she asked, knowing the answer but wanting to hear it. He smirked at her, his patronising aloofness grating.

  “It’s been a busy month Miss Anders.” He leaned forward, his eyes cold and full of menace. “The poor. The disaffected. The abused, spurned and the lost. People from all walks of life who feel let down by their standing in the world. All they needed was a cause. I gave them one.”

  Anders recalled the London riots in twenty eleven. What had started as a protest at the death of Mark Duggan had turned into simple looting by those who wanted what they felt should be theirs, regardless of whether they had earned it or not. The true cause of the protest had been lost amidst the looting, but Anders was well aware of how a simple spark could spiral out of control. Buckland had provided a spark and created enough unrest that it would catch fire all too easily.

  “In every major city around the world, they’ve been waiting for my signal. They believe, Miss Anders. They believe most passionately.” She gave him a contemptuous look.

  “But you don’t.” He shrugged, neither denying nor defending his beliefs.

  “Maybe not Miss Anders, but this sure is fun.” Just then, Barry and Duncan’s phones chimed. It seemed that Duncan had been checking out the site on his phone as well. His eyes widened in fear as he saw a message scroll across the screen. It showed the convoy making their way through the early evening traffic, the images being screened live via the drone overhead, guided by someone unseen. Above the feed, scrolled a simple tag.

  One Hundred Million Pounds For Anyone Who Rescues Lord Buckland From The Oppressors.

  Chapter 13

  Darren Snow rode passenger in the lead truck. He was sweating nervously. In the dimming light of the evening, he could see an orange glow lighting the sky, black smoke coiling around the throbbing light in sinuous menace. The group of men and women at Kensington had scared him more than he thought they would, but the constant images beaming to his phone of his convoy had him panicking. Every turn they made, an overlay on the map changed, indicating possible routes back to the Yard. And possible ambush points. Next to him, Frank rode through the traffic, sirens blaring and ignoring traffic signals. They were making good time back to the safety of Scotland Yard, but every street and corner seemed to hold danger, roadblocks disrupting their progress, projectiles hurled at the windows. The glass held firm, but they all twitched nervously at every noise, loud in the confines of the van. London felt like a war zone.

  He clutched his Glock tighter and jumped when his phone chimed. Frank gave him a worried look as he read out the new message.

  “Jesus,” he said in his thick Scouse accent. “We’re going to have the whole damn city after us.” Darren wiped sweat from his brow and looked again at the phone, mesmerised by the convoy he was part of. Ahead, at Chelsea, the rioting had started and the roads were blocked. Frank avoided a car that swerved straight for them, narrowly avoiding being rammed off the road. The street ahead became jammed as the car skidded past and crashed into a lorry, causing it to dovetail across their path. On the radio, Anders’ voice guided Frank.

  “Head for Battersea, we’ll have to go across Tower Bridge and circle round. Keep changing direction, don’t stop, don’t indicate and don’t slow down.” Frank followed her commands, smashing through one road block and speeding across Battersea Bridge on the opposite side of the road, Darren holding on for dear life. His eyes kept going to the screen on his phone.

  One Hundred Million Pounds.

  He could do a lot with that. Maybe his girlfriend would stop moaning at him about his gamb
ling debts. A hundred million would shut her up. Actually, screw her. With that kind of money, he would just leave. See how she liked him then. He’d get loads of women. Go to Vegas. Always wanted to go there, he thought. A screeching brought him back to focus as a large truck was parked across the road and Frank hit the pavement to avoid it, honking his horn and desperately trying not to hit any civilians.

  Anders’ voice came through the radio, calming and soothing, giving them the confidence that they would get through this. Darren couldn’t understand why everyone liked her so much. Sure, she was fit, but she was a fucking transsexual. What the hell did he know? They were just mincers pretending to be women. He’d come across loads on the beat and most of them were rotters. Mingers, the lot of them. He looked at the screen on his phone again and saw Anders leaning out of the car and taking aim, not caring about the traffic hurtling around her. She fired a shot at the drone and the image on the screen went blank. She was pretty badass though, he thought as a new image came on the screen from another drone.

  One. Hundred. Million. He looked over at Frank. He was an arse. Always looking down at Darren, always giving him grief.

  Anders was guiding them back across the river, over Tower Bridge. The huge towers in the middle looming overhead as they crashed through the barrier and started making their way across just as the two sides were rising. Frank gunned the engine and crossed to the other side, wheels bouncing over the narrow yet widening gap.

  One Hundred Million.

  Darren made his mind and steeled himself. Switched the safety on his Glock to off.

  “Sorry Frank,” he said and shot him through the temple, blood spattering the windows, the noise shockingly loud in the small cab. He grabbed the wheel and twisted, hoping to stop Anders’ car and get Buckland out, but misjudging the speed of the van. It flipped at the sudden turn, spinning through the air as it rolled and landing with a sickening crunch.