My Name Is Not Jacob Ramsay

by Ben Trebilcook

  Jason lifted the cover to reveal the spare wheel. He exchanged a look with his father, whose lips were firmly pressed together, tight, angered, flustered, but still very much controlled.

  Edward exhaled a deep breath and rounded the driver's side, shining his torch into the vehicle. It was a sad, sorry mess; a melted dashboard and steering column.

  "Whadya think, Dad?" Jason asked, once again watching his experienced father open his CSI supply box and pull on a pair of nitrile gloves. They were blue, and were latex and powder free.

  He poked his head inside the vehicle and his eyes scanned around the car. He looked to the door and then switched on his torch. He twisted it so that it ejected a UV light. Evidence couldn't hide from ultra violet light. It could pick up fingerprints, body fluids, fibres and even blood. Edward put on a pair of orange goggles and shone his UV beam into the car.

  Jason shuddered. It was becoming cold, especially as he was standing still, watching his father in his element, doing whatever it was he seemed to do best. Detective work. Finding evidence. Doing what was needed to find people. People like Michael.

  Edward narrowed his eyes as he shone the UV light over the inside of the driver's door. The light picked up some spatter around the door handle. Edward tightened his face, almost expressing pain and hurt. He took a bag of transparent sticks of some kind. It was a bag of Heme Stix, used for detecting blood. They consisted of two glass ampules inside a plastic tube. Edward took a cotton bud-like swab from his box and moistened it with a pipette filled with water. He rubbed a stain on the door handle with the swab and then removed the cap from the Heme-Stix vial, breaking the head of the swab into the vial.

  "Is it blood?" asked Jason, watching his father again, exhaling his warm breath into the cold night air.

  "Could be cherryade," quipped Edward, who then pressed his finger and thumb together against the lower part of the vial, breaking an inner glass ampule. This liquid was brown in colour and when broken allowed the swab to become wet. He then snapped the clear ampule that was attached to the cap and shook it well. A blue-green colour appeared.

  "It's blood," said his father softly.

  "Whose blood is it? Mike's? Is it Mike's blood?" Jason blurted. There was panic in his voice as he watched Edward put the vial into the box and then retrieve another swab.

  Edward rubbed the swab under the inside door handle again, all around the plastic. He retrieved a white postcard-sized blood testing card and dripped water from his pipette onto each of the four circles printed on the top of the card. Each circle was labelled, the first with 'Anti-A', then 'Anti-B', followed by 'Anti-D' and 'Control'. There was a small chart underneath which allowed for information to be written in for the person's name and blood type, etc. Edward put the swab onto the first circle and then repeated the process with three more swabs, which he had rubbed from the door handle. The water and blood on each circle reacted with whatever solution was housed within the card itself. Edward tilted the card in different directions, thus allowing the blood to spread to the edges of the circles. It revealed a different pattern in each one. He put the card down flat on the floor of the car and then retrieved a laminated card, which depicted the various blood types. He held the laminate to the four circles of blood on the cards, squinting with his aimed torch to see more clearly. The circle labelled 'Anti-A' depicted a speckled, marbled pattern. The 'Anti-B' was a full block of red. 'Anti-D' was also speckled and the 'Control' circle was the same solid red as 'Anti-B'. Edward matched the blood he'd found to the illustrations on the laminate. He identified the blood type as A positive. A+. A rhesus positive.

  "What is it?" asked Jason.

  "It's A positive," answered Edward.

  "Same as me," remarked Jason.

  "Same as you, same as me and same as Michael," his father stated. He stood and placed the bloodied card inside a plastic evidence bag, along with the swabs, before zipping it up and putting it inside his box. He joined his son and retrieved the plaster cast of the tyre mark from the ground and the aluminum frame, which he folded and placed back inside the box.

  "At three forty-nine, Mike called Rebecca and left a message on her phone. At four twenty-three this afternoon Mike's stereo was being pinched. Couple of coppers called it in. At six-eighteen, the car fire was reported. Now, from when he made the call at three forty-nine to when the coppers found the chav nicking the radio, we've got thirty-four minutes. Where was Mikey in that time?" questioned Edward not only to Jason, but also to himself, thinking hard. He removed his gloves and popped them into another evidence bag.

  "What are the options?" asked Jason.

  "Eh?"

  "On what to do?"

  "Well, the idiot who tried to take the radio is still in a cell down the road."

  "They're still holding him?" Jason said, surprised.

  "Yeah. Good ole Geoff, eh?" Edward said, faking a slight chuckle.

  "Yeah," laughed Jason.

  "We could pay him a visit."

  "And then?"

  "See what turns up from him. If it's nothing, then I'll pass the photos of the tyre marks to someone," Edward explained.

  "Oh, and who's that?"

  "D'you remember Carolyn?"

  "Carolyn?"

  "Carolyn Wright."

  "Oh, the spook!" Jason quipped.

  "Yes. MI-5 Carolyn."

  "Mum's friend. Her daughter went to school with Mike?"

  "That's right, yeah," replied Edward, turning and leading Jason away from the car.

  On the pavement, Jason crouched down to tie his shoelace, placing his torch on the ground. It beamed along the pavement as he twisted the cotton lace into a bow. However, the torch started to roll away, making the light fade. It dropped over the side of the curb. Jason sighed and shuffled and reached down to the curb to pick up the torch, just as he saw his father, Edward, opening the driver's door of the jeep. Jason clutched the torch and his eyes followed to the end of the beam. He frowned and straightened and began to walk several steps down the pathway. He bent down to the curb again and retrieved something else, scooping it up with his torch. He walked back to the car where his father stood, watching him.

  "Whatcha found now?"

  "It's an iPhone case. It's Mike's."

  "How'd you know that?" asked Edward.

  "The front corner is split. I bought it for him and he told me on the phone the other week that it had split. Cheap rubber." He pointed a forefinger to the split front left corner.

  "OK, bag it up, and the roll of tape as well," instructed Edward as he clambered inside behind the wheel.

  The weatherproof structure, known as a randome, covered antennae and microwave activity. The ones upon Menwith Hill, the RAF base in Harrogate, Yorkshire, looked like gigantic golf balls. The RAF base provided communications and intelligence support to the United Kingdom, Australia, Canada, New Zealand and the United States, collectively known by the abbreviation AUSCANNZUKUS. It was the home of ECHELON. In the simplest of terms, ECHELON intercepted internet and telecommunications, aiding in political and diplomatic matters, the apprehension of drug cartels, the uncovering of terrorism plots and, no doubt, a whole lot more besides.

  It was earlier that day, at 16:01, a particular cellular telephone call was flagged up on the ECHELON computer system, which brought it to the attention of one of its data analysts working at the base.

  "Yo. Get 'ere quick, yeah. I done somefin and joo gotta get 'ere wivda car, man."

  "Whasup blud?"

  "I've shanked da Prime Minister and now I'm gonna kill the Queen, init? Just get to da fuckin' Common, man. Wynn Common init."

  Two distinct male voices were detected. The telephone conversation was intercepted the moment the words "Prime Minister" were spoken. Specific technology was even able to record the call from the very beginning, despite the fact that "Prime Minister" was only mentioned nine seconds into the conversation. The caller ID was flagged. The words 'shanked' and 'shank' were known to be gang terminology for 'stabbed' a
nd 'stab'. When the system analysed the word 'shanked' at lightning speed and reworked it with a more fitting 'stabbed', the caller ID was flagged again when the computer noted the sentence: "I've just stabbed the Prime Minister." And again when the mention of the Queen was made, and finally once more when the sentence "I'm going to kill the Queen" was put in order. Each lined was flagged with the same caller ID, along with their mobile phone network, bank payment details, including all direct debits and standing orders, home address, driving licence, car registration, car make and model, car insurance, credit card payments, employment and tax records. The caller ID linked to that particular cellular phone, and to all the listed details, was one Michael Thompson.

  At 17:22 that cellular phone belonging to Michael gave out a signal, and despite the device not technically being in use, it was still continuing to transmit, therefore intelligence services and their high-tech systems could listen in, which was exactly what ECHELON was doing automatically.

  "I'm not getting muddy. It's filthy down there."

  "It's just for one night. He can stay there until we figure out what to do."

  Again two male voices were detected. One was the same as before, the second was of a different pitch and tone.

  "I'll do it, then. Get out my way, yeah."

  "This isn't good for you. It isn't good for us! Bad things will happen, do you not understand!" and again, the data analyst collated the information received, including the area, and noted the transmitting signal that began to fade in and out and then die out altogether several minutes later. The data analyst attached it to the caller ID, which was Michael Thompson.

  In Plumstead Police Station, Michael's father flashed a badge of some sort and spoke with the Duty Sergeant, who had already been informed that Edward may turn up. It was arranged for Edward to speak with the youth who had broken into Michael's car earlier that day.

  "I ain't talking to no-one until I see a solicitor. Get me a solicitor!" yelled the youth from his cell.

  Jason, who was also present with his father, fortunately was dressed in trousers and a white shirt. He'd had an interview that afternoon and, to his father's approval, believed he could pass off as a late-night solicitor.

  Edward and Jason lingered by the front desk, waiting.

  A Pakistani gentleman was also by the desk. He placed a large, bulky Filofax on the front desk surface and explained that he had found it at the train station and was handing it in as lost property.

  Edward listened in.

  The Duty Sergeant behind the desk sighed and said that he would go and get a form and wouldn't be a moment, despite the gentleman saying he couldn't hang around and just wanted to hand it in.

  "I'll deal with it, sir. You go home and get some rest," Edward said, stepping up to the man and taking the Filofax from him.

  The Pakistani man nodded, smiled in a bemused way and exited the police station.

  "Shove it under your arm," Edward whispered to Jason, grabbing a pen off the front desk as the Duty Sergeant reappeared.

  "Oh, has he gone? Bloody lost property. Waste of time. Right, the youth told me that he's not speaking to anybody until he sees a brief," said the Duty Sergeant.

  "Tell him we've got one here," replied Edward, gesturing to his son, standing tall, next to him.

  The Sergeant eyed Jason up and down and raised his eyebrows.

  "Okey doke. Sure."

  A dark-coloured Audi pulled up outside Michael's home in Luxor Street. Two white men, in their late thirties and casually dressed, were behind the wheel and in the passenger seat. They looked out of the window and up at the top floor of a house. Michael's house. A moment later, a dark blue transit van pulled in behind the Audi.

  "Shall we let them get started then?" said the driver of the Audi.

  "No. I think we should wait. It's too early," replied the male passenger.

  In an interview room, in Plumstead Police Station, Edward and Jason sat at a table. The Duty Sergeant led the youth who'd tried to steal Michael's car stereo inside.

  "Take a seat, son," instructed the sergeant to the youth, who swaggered to a seat and with a carefree, I-don't-give-a-damn attitude, pulled a chair out and slumped on it.

  "You my brief?" the youth said to Jason.

  "I only have a couple of questions. Before you broke into the car-" Michael's father was quickly interrupted by the youth.

  "I told you people yeah. The car was already open. Like, the door was already open. What's wiv yooz, yeah?" he moaned.

  "OK. When you got to the car, did you see anyone else nearby?" questioned Edward.

  "Nobody was around. Just me."

  "I don't care if you're protecting your friends. I'm not here for any of them. I just want to know if you saw anyone in or around the car."

  "I dunno, man. Is dis allowed?" he said, looking at Jason, who nodded his head to him.

  "Did you see anyone near the car before you got there?" Edward asked again.

  "Yeah, all right. Fuck sake. I did. Let me go now. Pricks."

  "Language," warned the Duty Sergeant.

  "Who did you see?" asked Edward.

  "Some black kids, init. I ain't racist, but I did."

  "Black kids. How many?" Edward asked.

  "I dunno. Two. Anuva kid who was mongrel or somefin."

  "What do you mean? You mean he was handicapped?" Edward asked, curiously.

  "No. Just actin' like a fuckin' nut. He was spinnin' round and shit. Fucking Taliban," muttered the youth.

  "What was that?" Edward leaned across the table.

  "Oh, what now? Was I not being - what's the word? Politically right or somefin? Wankers."

  "Forget about any of that. What did you just call him? The other boy, the mongrel. What did you call him?" Edward probed, hoping to gain some possible positive information.

  "Taliban. All right - all right, Af-gan-iss-starrrn," the youth said sarcastically.

  "And he was acting strange?" Edward was curious, desperate for more detailed information.

  "They're all strange. Listen yeah, da Taliwacka was wiv a couple black kids, probably Cherry yoots, and took the geeky looking librarian bloke wiv 'em. Can I go now please?"

  "What geeky bloke? Who was the other one? Who?" pressed Edward.

  The Duty Sergeant tightened his face, tapping his wristwatch.

  "I dunno. Some bloke. Looked like you but younger. Probably a Fed just like you. Dat's it now yeah. I'm not talking. Fucking take me back to my cell," ordered the youth, standing up from his chair and making to the door. He stared at the Duty Sergeant with an impatient expression.

  "I'll take him back," said the Sergeant to Edward, standing and opening the door. He then escorted the youth out of the room.

  "Now what?" Jason asked his father, who rolled his tongue around inside his mouth, filling out his cheeks and gums, thinking, just like Michael did.

  Earlier that day, at precisely six-thirty in the evening, in a grimy, eerie flat set within an equally uninviting estate in Thamesmead, a forty-two-year-old, well-built Nigerian man placed a polythene wrapped brick of cocaine into a black holdall. It was a kilo slab and it accompanied eight more identical blocks held within. Each one of the kilo slabs had a street value of two hundred and eighty thousand pounds. The total value of the eight kilo slabs of cocaine contained in the sports bag was over two million pounds. The bag was zipped up and the man gripped the handle tight and straightened before striding out of the dark room and into a narrow hallway. The walls, stained yellow by cigarette smoke, had stacks of Reebok shoeboxes lined up against them. Some brand new trainers were exposed on the top boxes and another Nigerian man, in his late thirties who wore jeans, a crisp white shirt and a long black leather jacket, inspected a pair of running shoes.

  "I want a pair in a size twelve," said the leather-jacket-wearing Nigerian to the first man, who carried the sports bag.

  "I do not have a size twelve. Are you crazy? They are a pair of running shoes, not a pair of skis, you eed yot. What you
are looking for is in the next box. Come. The others are waiting to leave," replied the man with the sports bag.

  His friend opened the lid to another shoebox.

  He pulled out a Beretta 92A1 pistol. That handgun contained fifteen rounds, weighed 950 grams, and had an effective range of fifty meters.

  He assessed it in his hand, gripping it and nodded his approval. "It is for me? What do you have?"

  "What I always have, plus three hundred of what you have there under my bed. Come on. It is time to go," instructed the first Nigerian man. He edged his companion to the front door, but his friend stopped him and gestured for him to turn around and look back up the hall.

  He did so and noticed a little Nigerian boy, about six years old, who was wearing a Manchester United football kit, eating a bag of Walkers salt and vinegar flavoured crisps and looking sad, with big, brown doughy eyes.

  "Watch your television programme or put on Toy Story 3. You like that movie film. Daddy will be back later. Maybe I will bring back a new DVD for you off the Chinaman, yes? Go to your room now, you hear me?" ordered the first Nigerian man to the little boy, who lowered his head and shuffled his feet, covered with dangling ill-fitting football socks, out of the hallway and into another dark room.

  "You are leaving him on his own?" asked the second man.

  "What, you want him to come with us? Are you crazy?"

  "He is six years old!"

  "But nearly seven. Let's go," replied the man clutching the sports bag that contained more than two million pounds' worth of cocaine. And with that, the two Nigerian men exited the flat.

  In a brand new, blue BMW 7 Series sat two Nigerian twin brothers, aged twenty-two. One had a scar on his left cheek and a milky white coloured pupil in his left eye. Either he was blind in that eye or it was simply discoloured for some reason. The scar and the milky white eye were the only differences setting the two brothers apart, as they were dressed identically, in dark blue jeans, black roll necks and black bomber jackets.