• • •
The bomb disposal expert paused to let Switzerland take in what he had said.
“I’m sorry?” the policeman asked. He had heard the soldier the first time, but wanted a moment to process what he’d just been told. The soldier repeated it anyway.
“This bomb was removed from the car.”
He held up the now harmless shell, and indicated four blobs, one in each corner.
“This is the adhesive. It had been placed about an hour beforehand. You can see very clear marks where the bomb was prised off, probably by a thin blade, maybe a Swiss army knife.”
“It definitely didn’t fall off? He wasn’t replacing it, maybe readjusting it?” the DCI queried.
The soldier shook his head.
“The bomb was fine, ready to detonate until it was forcibly removed and disarmed. At some risk to the bomber, I might add.”
“How?” the profiler asked.
“The device was remote controlled. He could have disarmed it from a distance, but he would have been aware that leaving the bomb in place would have been dangerous. A jolt from a speed bump or an unusual radio signal could cause it to detonate at a later date. Or some curious mechanic could just hit it with a hammer. “
“That would cause it to blow up?”
The soldier frowned matter-of-factly.
“Probably not, what with modern explosives being pretty stable. But you still wouldn’t want to go hitting them with hammers. It’s certainly frowned upon in the ordnance disposal fraternity.”
“Was it a professional device?” she asked, just a moment before Switzerland was going to ask the same question. The soldier nodded, popping another piece of gum in his mouth.
“Oh yeah, this is special forces. Looks like NATO training to me. This guy knows what he’s doing.”
Switzerland thanked the soldier, and having secured the scene, the two returned to his office in New Scotland Yard.
“This is extraordinary,” she commented, curling absentmindedly onto the sofa in the corner.
Switzerland slumped into his seat, pondering out loud.
“He comes back. He plants the bomb, and comes back an hour later to disarm the bomb, at risk to himself. What does that tell us?”
“That he is capable of rational planning and that his objectives are very specific in his own mind. But what changed his mind, changed his objective?”
“She did,” Switzerland realised, slamming his desk. “We were all expecting a bimbo presenter to voice the usual celebrity nonsense but she came out with rational, well informed opinions. What was that all about anyway?”
“She’s actually a lovely young woman. She’s passionate about history and politics. Wants to present Newsnight, would you believe. She just wanted to show that there was more to her than what the media suggested.”
“And that’s what changed his mind. He’s at war with vacuous celebrity, and so when a vacuous celebrity suddenly is revealed to be a rational and well-informed thinker, he spares her. At risk to himself.”
The profiler nodded in agreement.
“That makes sense. It also tells us more about him. A former military man motivated by a hatred of the lightweight media. Perhaps he suffered during a combat incident that the media ignored, or didn’t take seriously?”
Switzerland snapped his fingers, and he started searching through the files and folders on his desk.
“Yes! I meant to show you this. When I was looking through the military profiles, I came across two candidates. Both ex-special forces, both with many of the skills we’re looking for, including training with the intelligence services, and both with a record of being critical of the media’s coverage of the conflicts they served in. Colonel Tom Wrightman, and Major Edward Farrington.”
He handed over the files of both.
“Wrightman is a closer skills match, but I actually remember Farrington from when NATO finally pulled out of Afghanistan. He savaged the media for covering that fist fight on X Factor — the one when Louis Walsh gave Simon Cowell a roundhouse kick to the jaw — on the same night the Royal Irish Regiment had to fight their way to Kabul airport.”
“Yes, I remember him. That fits. What do you want to do?”
Switzerland snatched up his phone.
“Am putting the two of them under surveillance for a start. And then maybe get something to eat?”
CHAPTER 6
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WAGS SLAM LOVE AGENCY! - The Sun
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A number of celebs and wags have lashed out at the National Companionship Agency. Page 3 beauty and ‘Celebrity Kidney Donor’ finalist ShaMMina told us that the “NCA or whatever is letting mingers meet with top hot guys and that’s well out of order!” ShaMMina was recently dumped by Chelsea striker Roman Vincenzo who was matched with Croydon accountant Mary Stuart by the NCA, and whom have recently announced their engagement. “Look at what Roman’s hangin’ around wiv now? What’s she like, with her Marks and Spencer shoes and her accountancy thing? What’s she done to deserve ‘im? What’s e’ even see in ‘er? I mean, she can count! Big Deal!”
---
Dante was caught in a frankly ridiculous situation although it was questionable as to whether he was smart enough to know it. The Serbian had subtly goaded him along, helping him recruit a group of equally hot-headed and easily manipulated individuals which resulted in them having twelve people ready to engage in direct action. The Stoat had continued to be involved, hyping up Dante’s contribution to the operation and preparing the groundwork for his plan.
The Stoat was slightly anxious about the next stage, because it was at this stage that the group would disintegrate if any of the individuals involved were stronger willed than he had expected. They were different from the neo-nazis he had recruited earlier. For a start, they were far more ideological, spending hours quoting obscure political texts to each other and occasionally denouncing each other as sellouts and class betrayers. They were nearly all attending university, their courses funded by the hideous right wing capitalist state they denounced. Curiously, of the twelve, only one of them came from a genuinely working class background and such was his personality The Stoat reckoned that if he hadn’t been lured into this group he would have joined a cult of some description and would be standing on a street corner offering people a free personality test.
Each meeting had a similar structure. The Serbian would always get Dante sexually aroused just before it, mixing his sexual expectations in with her desire to be sexually involved with a man of political action so when he addressed the group, he swayed them towards the idea of taking more extreme action than just the odd demo or hunt sabotage.
They still gasped when The Stoat unveiled the selection of automatic weapons and grenades he had kept hidden under a tarpaulin in the disused warehouse. He had let them take it in before stepping in to seal the deal.
“Comrades, we have friends across the world who want to see us strike a blow for the working class and in Dante we finally have a leader who isn’t a treacherous Kerenskyist careerist but a man of action!” he paused, knowing full well that The Serbian was now stroking Dante’s crotch under the table as he spoke, as she and The Stoat had planned.
“I’ve followed Dante’s lead and know he is right. We need to smash this capitalist proxy-state at the heart of its latest workers opiate production facility. And Dante is the man to lead us!” he bellowed, opening a set of architect’s drawings.
On cue, the Serbian leapt to her feet, chanting Dante’s name and punching the air. Within seconds, the whole warehouse was filled with the chanting from the whole group, all pumped up and ready to follow their leader in whatever plan he hadn’t yet been told of. Dante, head swelled from the accolade, leapt to his feet and held one of the AK47s aloft in a classic revolutionary pose, as he’d seen in countless pictures on the telly. The Stoat grinned to himself. The way this was going, it would not be long before this clown thinks that this whole thing was his own plan.
Julian was welcomed warmly into the cabinet room by Fairfax.
“Forgive me for the delay. Absolutely out the door with the campaign. You said it was urgent?”
Julian opened his battered briefcase.
“Um, Prime Minister, before I start, are we secure to speak here?” He pointed at the light socket.
“You afraid of the bulbs listening in?” the PM asked, with an eyebrow raised.
“Well, isn’t that where they tend to put surveillance devices? In light fixtures?”
“Oh, I’ve no idea. Look, I was in boarding school with the head of MI5, so let’s hope we can trust him. What’s the problem, Dr. Tredestrian?”
Julian slipped a single sheet of paper across the table at him.
“Do you recall I mentioned this to you during the initial briefing on the NCA system?”
The PM pulled out his glasses, put them on, took them off to polish them and then put them on again. He read quickly.
“I thought we were not going to use this?” he asked, tapping the sheet.
“Normally we’re not, but I have a case where I think it would make the difference, help someone who is in a pretty bad way.”
Fairfax read the sheet again.
“You do realise why we keep this under wraps? The social implications are very significant. Possibly dangerous. You said so yourself.”
“Yes they are sir, and I still believe our analysis was correct. But this case is rare.”
“You know that I can’t actually authorise this, even if I wished. It’s not quite illegal, as it is an experimental drug, and I presume you will have the subject’s consent, but ethically this is somewhat challenging.”
“I’ve come to you to seek your advice, that’s all. If you say no, I won’t. But I hope you won’t.”
The Prime Minister stood, removing his glasses and absentmindedly brushing off some chocolate Hobnob crumbs from his waistcoat.
“You know, I’d really like a second term. It looked very unlikely until you came along, and now I look like I have a stab at it. People wonder why politicians put themselves through all this. Some do it for the money, some for power, some ego. I’m guilty of some of those things myself, but I think I have been a good Prime Minister. Everyday since I entered Downing Street I get a report on how many people are sleeping rough that day. We’ve gotten it down massively and I think we can eliminate it early in the second term, if we get it. My point is, in a very long-winded way, I think I’m doing some good, and if you think that doing this will help relieve the suffering of some poor person, then fair enough. But, and I hate to ask you this, promise me that if it gets out, you won’t bring me down with you, Julian. What I’m trying to do is too important.”
He looked at Julian, almost pleadingly.
Tredestrian nodded. He himself would be devastated if he had played any part in the downfall of Alexander Fairfax. This was a good man.
“I won’t let you down. This is all me.”
Fairfax nodded his consent.
• • •
They found the rapper known as C-Spray dead from asphyxiation, with a very large dildo lodged in his throat. That feature, alongside the fact that he was dressed in lingerie, six-inch heels and wearing full makeup, were the two salient points of the murder that the tabloid media (with suitable manufactured can’t-believe-our-luck outrage) put on their front pages and websites. The fact that video footage of the notoriously misogynistic performer was subsequently released, showing him on his hands and knees buggering himself with the aforementioned dildo as he sobbed and begged not to be killed turned the story into a global event.
“You do release you are now a celebrity yourself?” the profiler enquired, as she and Switzerland stepped through the police barricade and passed the staccato flashes of a hundred bulbs. Switzerland frowned, looking away from the roars of the media present as they walked into the upmarket apartment block where the rapper’s body was found.
The young DC was already on the scene, overseeing the CSI team who were prepping the body for removal. He shook his head as his DCI arrived.
“It’s very sad, sir. C-Spray was a genius, and a spokesperson for his people.”
Switzerland took his PDA out of his coat pocket, and tapped it. He’d been reading up on this character on the way over. As he had to do with nearly all these victims.
“Detective Constable, his name was Clarence Lumpkin and his father is a very well-to-do stockbroker. His mother is a Tory county councillor. He was from Surrey, for God’s sake. What people did he speak for?”
“You know, from the Surrey ‘hood.”
Switzerland shot a this-is-what-I-put-up-with look at the profiler, and looked back at the PDA.
‘His last song was called That Ho Bitch Betta’ Have My Money.’ A philosophical piece, no doubt.”
“He was looking for respect, sir.”
“DC Edwards, I watched a couple of his videos. The man was a sexist pig and a fraud. From the ‘hood? The only problems he had in his ‘hood was the waiting list at the local Mercedes dealer. What do you think?” He nodded at The profiler.
“Nothing too subtle here. C-Spray’s misogyny was the target, by dressing him up in women’s clothing and sodomising him to humiliate him. And then choking him to death with that particular piece of hardware. Releasing the footage of it just adds to the humiliation.”
“Where were our two suspects when this happened?” the DCI asked.
The DC pulled out his PDA.
“Ah, interesting turnaround on this. Of the five people we have identified, three were at home. Of the two you in particular highlighted, Wrightman was at home, and we cannot account for Farrington. Oh and there is one other detail that the Ministry of Defence neglected to mention in their file.”
He tapped on his PDA again, and held it up.
“This is Colonel Tom Wrightman.”
The screen showed a surveillance shot of the retired Special Forces colonel. He looked in good shape for his mid fifties, well built and trim with a full head of hair and a strong jaw. He looked like he was eating a meal.
“That was taken last night at his home around the time CSI give for when C-Spray was killed.”
Switzerland studied the picture. He looked like he could handle himself, although the photo did give him a solid alibi.
Edwards looked at the PDA again.
“Oh, I’m sorry sir. Wrong size photo.” He scrolled down the photo, and showed it to his commanding officer again. This time the photo was larger, and showed Wrightman sitting in a wheelchair.
Switzerland looked for a moment, and then thumbed a button on his phone.
“This is Switzerland. Detain Major Edward Farrington immediately.”
• • •
Triscuit slumped scruffily into the seat in front of the fire, as Fairfax put a large brandy in his hand, before joining him with a large snifter of his own. Triscuit glanced down at his notes, as his boss closed his eyes and tilted his head back in the seat.
“You know Bill, things are moving too fast. I spoke at two press conferences and four photo opportunities today. I travelled over two thousand miles. In a single day! Nobody expected Gladstone to do that. He could spend days preparing a speech, address a monster rally and then piss off home for his tea and a bit of self-flagellation. Wish I could do that.”
Triscuit said nothing. He knew he wasn’t expected to. His job right now was to stay quiet and let his best friend blow off steam.
“Well, obviously not the whipping, but, you know, time to think. And write. I’d love to have time to write.”
“Three weeks to go and things will calm down,” his director of elections assured.
“Not if we win.”
“Going by this poll you might have more time on your hands then you can handle. We’re still 2% behind.”
Fairfax took a nose of brandy. He liked this. Good company, a fine brandy and a bit of Roy Budd tinkling away in the background.
Triscuit peered at them again, not that he needed to.
“Curiously enough, no. The celebrity angle has elevated this thing to the level of a reality TV show. Voters don’t seem to equate murdering celebrities as being a real crime, as such, so they’re not angry at the government’s failure to catch the crazy bastard. Ironic, really. Reality TV started out by aping real life, and now people are substituting real life for a reality show. Of course, it makes you wonder what sort of country it’s becoming. I mean, you can count the number of people who read a proper newspaper in the hundreds of thousands now. Do you know, forty percent of poll respondents don’t know there’s a general election? Twenty-three percent don’t know what it is. Don’t know what a sodding general election is, for Christ’s sake! I wonder is it worth winning? Then we get told we’re elitist for not buying into all this shit.”
Fairfax took a sip.
“Funny thing is, Bill, I’ve been going to these events, all at the National Companionship Agency branches throughout the country and the response I’ve been getting is people cheering and hugging me, and not just the usual bussed in party hacks. Real people. I’ve met people who were desperately lonely, had given up on ever sharing their life with someone and yet, we’ve helped them find someone. Bill, I met one couple who collect funny shaped cornflakes. Funny shaped cornflakes! A man from Stoke and a woman from some small Welsh village, the name escapes me, I mean, what were the chances that fate would ever bring them together? Yet we have! They even showed me a photo of a bran flake that looked like me. And it did too! But if you could see the happiness, holding each other’s hand…even if we lose Bill, we’ve done something really useful, really good. You know, it got me thinking, all my political life, I’ve been condemned by my opponents as an elitist. I supported the EU, I opposed hanging, I supported gay marriage and I had the Sun and the Daily Mail tell me I was too ‘high brow’ because I wanted people to get a fair trial and let people fleeing tyranny into the country. Funny thing is, they’re actually right. I am an elitist. Like the first fellow who stood up and said we should stop drowning women to see if they are witches, or there’s nothing wrong with a black chap sitting at the same lunch counter I sit at, or the German who hid the Jew in his coal bunker or under the stairs when everyone told him he was wrong and when it was unpopular. I’m an elitist Bill, because we the only people who ever get anything done.”
The Ministry of Love Page 9