The door flung open and Baker lunged forward, face taut with anger.
Boo spun around, stepping deftly between her and Julian, foot going behind Baker as a hand pushed him back, tripping onto the floor of the hallway. She had her weapon out with the other hand.
“No! Stop! Stop!” Julian cried, stepping forward to restrain her. She stepped back, but kept the gun on Baker.
The driver of the car, a CI5 man, was out of the driver seat, his weapon drawn and pointing towards the door on outstretched hands. Julian waved at him.
“It’s okay, all okay! Just a misunderstanding!”
Tredestrian stepped over the threshold of the house, offering a hand to Baker.
“Please Mr. Baker, I’m sorry if I upset you. But you know what I’m saying is fundamentally true. I knew Rebecca. Not as well as you, but you know she wouldn’t have wanted you to live like this.”
Baker took his hand, and pulled himself up.
He nodded at Boo.
“I’d keep her.”
She nodded, smiled, and put away her weapon.
Baker gestured them into the house. Like the garden, it had once been greatly cared for but was now neglected. A house that had once had the attention of a meticulous and caring woman now gone.
The living room, large, oak floored and centred around a modern stone fireplace was dusty, save for numerous framed photos of a smiling attractive woman with short brown hair. Some also featured Baker, smiling and at least a half stone heavier, looking robust and urbane and happy. All were in their own frames and were clean, well-polished and dust free, looking more so in their dusty surroundings.
Baker slumped into an armchair.
“Twenty minutes, Julian. And I’ll have that cheque too.”
Julian nodded and handed over the folded piece of paper which Baker rested on the armrest.
“I have a match. Nearly 95%, Thomas. Do you know how rare that is?”
“You have no right to do this, Julian. To use that information.”
“When she knew it was terminal…”
“I did it to make her happy, and this was all before the NCA, when she was working for you. I did it just to make her happy. I answered the questions and sat through the profiling, but I never intended to ever do it. She didn’t even know if the plan would work, it just gave her something to hold onto because she wanted me to be happy.”
Baker’s eyes glassed up.
“You can be happy, Thomas. It’s not a betrayal, you’re not forgetting her or disrespecting her.”
Baker stood.
“Julian, has it occurred to you how unfair it would be to inflict me on some woman, when I am broken from the loss of my wife?”
“I think I can help with that.”
“Enough! Enough, Julian, you’ve had your say. Go. Please.”
Julian nodded, and he and Boo stood to leave. Baker was hunched with his back to them, shaking.
Julian left his card on the seat.
“Call me, Thomas. If you change your mind. Even if you don’t, just call.”
Back in the car, as it headed back towards London, Boo looked at the NCA director, who was gazing vacantly out of the passenger window.
“He has a point, you know,” she commented.
That broke his day-dreaming.
“I’m sorry?”
“He’s an emotional wreck, Dr. Tredestrian. It would not be fair to inflict him upon some poor woman in that state. I thought you had safeguards to prevent such a thing.”
“We do. We do,” Julian replied frustratedly, before flicking open his phone and dialling his PA.
“Alison, I need you to get me a meeting with the Prime Minister.”
• • •
Switzerland slid the photo over to the profiler. He could have shown her the image on his PDA but he liked to be able to touch and feel the images, pinning them to corkboards, jabbing them and squinting at them as his junior officers looked on bemused.
Fortunately the profiler, although slightly younger than him, appreciated the old school approach. He really liked this woman, he thought as he checked the ring finger. Not that that meant anything.
“What am I looking at? All I can see is a white smear,” she said, peering over her glasses. He liked the way she wore glasses too.
“Ah. The smear. This is the last image taken from the alley outside of where Corky Edwards was kidnapped. Now, I think it is a bit of a stretch to believe that the camera just happened to go on the blink an hour before she vanished, so I had some of the children who work for me check it out and they came up with that.”
“A smear?”
“No, a camera being burnt out by a handheld military issue laser.”
Her eyes widened, and she looked again at the image up closer.
“Really!”
“Yeah, a laser. So here’s what I’m thinking. The military are telling me that these things have been knocking around since the Russian-Ukrainian war, but that they’re tricky enough to use.”
“So you’re thinking a military background for our suspect?” she asked, correctly.
“Mixing this with the explosives and sound engineering skills from the lift explosion, the pharmaceutical knowledge needed to treat the cocaine in such an evil way as to make it take a while to work as opposed to kill the victims instantly, I’m thinking very highly trained special forces perhaps with some intelligence training too. Black Operations stuff.”
“Yes, I’ve been thinking about that. That death was about humiliating them first. He could have just poisoned them or blown them up, but he humiliated them. That’s significant.”
“A misogynist?” Switzerland asked. He was actually enjoying this, trading thoughts with an obviously highly intelligent woman. And those legs weren’t bad either.
“Possibly, but I don’t think so. If that was the case he’d be more likely to mutilate them. No, there’s a reason in his mind why he’s doing this and in his mind, it would be quite rational.”
“We’re assuming it’s a he. I presume that just going on statistics?” he asked.
“Yes, statistically it is more likely that our killer is a man.”
“Would you be able to draw up a profile that the military could run through their records?”
She nodded.
“Of course, but I doubt they’ll cooperate. Someone with these sorts of skills is, as you said, probably special forces, perhaps even with an intelligence background. They’ll be very reluctant to release that sort of information.”
Switzerland opened his wallet, pulling out a business card.
“I think I might just have the fellow to call.”
• • •
The Stoat knew her as a mercenary from Serbia and that she specialised in this sort of thing, using her striking good looks to get close to men who were normally her targets. He had briefed her on what was required and she was certainly delivering, having seduced Dante and established herself as the power behind the throne in the group. The Stoat had continued to attend the meetings, keeping a low profile but making sure that she always supported his contributions as he planted the seeds. The moderates were quickly despatched as middle class sell-outs while the case for real direct action was made. When The Stoat suggested to Dante privately that he could acquire military hardware, the young man’s eyes widened in horror. Then on cue, she applauded the idea assuring The Stoat that Dante was not one of those posers but was committed to real action. It was then that the Stoat began to outline how the group could deliver a crushing blow to the capitalist system. The Stoat had to prevent himself from smirking as she stroked Dante’s thigh and left him with a very clear link in his own mind between direct action and her possible willingness to open those shapely long legs for him. The Stoat wondered as to whether there were any other great revolutionaries in history who planned terrorist acts around the possibility of getting their leg over. He doubted Lenin had planned the October Revolution on the promise of a go on some Russian trollop’s jubbli
es.
• • •
Switzerland and the profiler looked up from the screen as it scrolled through military files when the young DI knocked.
“Sir, we have the media sweep results.”
The profiler looked at Switzerland for a translation.
It had been one of the better ideas from one of his young officers. Given that the celebrity victims had all appeared in the Sunday papers in the previous two weeks, he had suggested that they get their specialist search engine to scan the papers and identify potential targets. Switzerland liked the idea, although he had been sceptical as to how one defined ‘celebrity’ other than the ability to take up mass on the planet’s surface and expel carbon dioxide at regular intervals. However, his team had put together some criteria and he was now looking at a list of seven celebrities who were heading the ‘most probable’ group. Switzerland looked down the list, and shook his head.
The profiler smiled.
“You’ve no idea who they are, do you?” she asked, smiling.
“Not a clue. Is that really so bad? I know who Nelson Mandela is, and President Clooney, and Matt Damon, and people who actually do things. I’m not bad with sports people. But this lot? I mean, what do they actually do? If we are evacuating the planet, what possible use could we put this crowd to?”
“Ballast?” she suggested.
He looked down the list, and then ordered the DI to put protection on the most probables.
“One of them, some model, is on Question Time tonight. That’s near here. We’ll take this one,” Switzerland commenting, standing up.
The profiler grabbed her bag.
• • •
They arrived at BBC Centre after the show had already begun filming. He’d taken the decision not to disrupt the recording, as he believed that the killer had been very careful not to kill other individuals not associated with his cause. Granted, the two non-THE GERMAINES guys had both been poisoned but he’d discussed this with the profiler and they’d both come to the same conclusion. The killer had associated their drug use with the culture, and so in his mind they deserved to die. She agreed that it was very unlikely that the killer would attempt to kill the model where innocent people — many of whom were looking for honest political discourse, a possible apparent objective of the killer — could get killed.
The panel was made up of the usual suspects: a New Labour MP who could only speak in platitudes to the point of possibly requiring special needs assistance, a Daily Mail columnist who seemed to believe that ‘ordinary people would quite enjoy watching ‘perverts’ being castrated as they enjoyed a nice Sunday roast, an angry black commentator who, much to the embarrassment of other black activists, kept being brought back onto television because she regarded “being white” as racist and finally, Kirsten Philips as the celebrity de jour.
Switzerland was surprised when he saw Kirsten Phillips. She was beautiful, but dressed in an almost 1950s style, looking quite prim.
Switzerland identified himself to the entire panel, suggesting the need for stepped up security given the ‘prominence’ of the panel, an excuse they all nodded sagely at, and went through a nominal search of the set and all the bags the panellists had brought with them and hidden at their feet. Fortunately none of them recognised him from the investigation.
He then took up a front row seat, less then five metres from her.
The taping begun, and when the panel opened on the first question about a proposed new European treaty, the responses were pretty textbook until David Dimbleby called her. She presented a well-thought-out and informed outline of Britain’s place in the European Union, quoting key issues that needed to be addressed as well as suggested solutions, and threw in a few references to articles in existing treaties for good measure. Switzerland was surprised, as indeed were the audience. Off camera, he could see that the producer looked like he was munching on a lemon, disappointed that his bit of on-air totty was refusing to act as such.
Good for her, Switzerland thought.
The recording continued for two hours during which Kirsten gave well-researched commentary on the state of the nation and displayed that she was very comfortable with the material. Switzerland kept his eyes scanning the audience and the crew. As soon as the presenter bid farewell to the audience, he moved quickly out to Kirsten. Explaining the real situation to her, Switzerland took a lot of time to stress that this was just a case of being cautious and that they had no evidence that she was the actual target.
She was surprised but accepted his bona fides and after briefly thanking the presenter and the producer who saw his ‘BBC Producer In Saucy Model Romp’ dream evaporate, Switzerland accompanied her to her car. He walked slightly ahead of Kirsten and the profiler, who had struck up a conversation, and intended to check the car for an explosive device or unwelcome occupant before letting her into it. Thompson had texted him to confirm that a patrol car was waiting outside to escort her home, and that it would stay outside her home until further notice. A similar scenario was happening across the city with other celebrities, an operation which had resulted in three of them being arrested for drugs possession.
The underground car park was largely empty, capable of holding hundreds of cars but now only holding a dozen or so, and relatively well lit.
Which meant it wasn’t hard to see him.
The figure, in tight dark clothing and wearing a balaclava, leapt up from behind Kirsten’s baby blue Mini Cooper. He had a rectangular object in his hand, which he flung to the ground, and then ran. Switzerland pulled his sidearm from his holster, and shouted at him to stop, before breaking into a run after him. He shouted at the two women to call for support and to get away from the car before following the suspect through a door leading onto a darkened stairwell, just catching a glimpse of him running down towards the lower level.
He moved after him, holding his weapon out in front. He’d never been a fan of guns, and so had been relieved when the Met had offered weapons trained officers the possibility of carrying an alternative to the standard firearm. The weapon, known as Non-Lethal Electric Projectile Weapon, or NELLY as the officers who used it called it, was a light, hardened plastic device. Similar to a Tazer, a NELLY had a longer range and didn’t require wires to connect the projectiles to a battery pack. Instead, each of its seven rounds had its own micro battery capable of discharging a shock which would put a grown man down for at least three minutes.
The DCI moved quickly after him, bursting through a door and straight into the figure’s fist, which caught him on the side of the head and sent him sprawling back through the door. Switzerland, fitter than his age belied, recovered quickly, leaping to his feet before realising that he had dropped his gun on the far side of the door. He pulled the door open swiftly, racing through in the hope of overpowering his assailant before the assailant could recover his gun.
The car park floor he found himself on was empty and silent. His gun was at his feet.
Getting back to Kirsten’s car, it was now surrounded by police officers, including Thompson. The model seemed to be cheerfully obliging the officers who asked for a photo on their mobile phones.
Thompson acknowledged his boss.
“We’re evacuating the area now sir.” Switzerland looked confused for a moment, and then saw the rectangular package on the ground, the one dropped by the assailant. With a digital timer and what looked like a lump of explosive.
The DC turned back.
“Bomb squad on their way, sir.”
• • •
Rilk wrinkled a lip as he looked through the details of the latest State of the Parties opinion poll. The Liberal Democrat/Labour Coalition was now only 3% behind the Conservatives and it was all the NCA’s fault. Of course, it hadn’t helped that a small clause in the NCA bill had required that all applicants to the NCA be on the electoral roll. He was sure that was Triscuit’s doing. Not a dirty trick as such as Fairfax wouldn’t let him do that, but something as clever as that was Triscuit all ov
er; one of those little things that squeezed a few more Coalition MPs through.
The Tories had attacked the legislation, but it was hard to attack a government for making it easier for people to vote, as Triscuit damn well knew. The Coalition’s chief strategist hoped that the grateful loved-up citizens of Britain would re-elect the Prime Minister who had found them love. Rilk was beginning to fear that they just might. That wasn’t going to happen if Rilk had anything to do about it, but the momentum was beginning to build behind the Prime Minister. The Tories were desperately trying to find anti-NCA stories, but it was proving difficult. They had thought that they had stumbled onto an untapped lode when they found groups of bitter married men and women who felt the NCA was unfair to them, because they had married without scientific advice. Some in the party had talked about perhaps compensating such individuals as a vote winner, but that had just erupted into an enormous row when one clear thinking MP pointed out the ridiculousness of an anti-big state party looking to compensate people for choosing their own marriage partners without state interference.
Other curious side effects began to emerge. Education authorities began to report increased attendance at adult literacy courses as illiterate adults discovered that they had to be able to read and write to apply to the NCA. The usual official whinge brigade had voiced their outrage that it was ‘illiteratist’ to require people to learn how to read and write but their attempts to organise a mass march had been foiled by the inability of their intended new members to a) join the organisation and b) know when the meetings were actually being held.
Rilk was not happy about all that either. He really didn’t like the idea of voters reading stuff that he couldn’t control. In fact, he wasn’t that enthused about the wrong people reading generally. Reading put new words into people’s heads, forming new sentences and new questions and God knows where it went from there. It was all very good watching Sebastian Spence’s rippling six pack emerge from the waves on television in their campaign ads, looking like a aftershave model, but if people started reading what he wanted to actually do once in power that certainly wouldn’t help. No, that wouldn’t do at all.
The Ministry of Love Page 8