“A surveillance operation, sir? Only we tend to be notified, to stay clear, if you get the idea, to stop this sort of thing happening. Got a warrant card, sir?” The driver was grinning, obviously enjoying his colleague’s droll humour.
“Yes I do and I can’t show you it because my target is currently watching us.”
“Watching us, is he sir? That’s a new way of doing it, isn’t it Trevor? Getting the suspect to watch us.”
Switzerland could just make out the suspects’s face through the rain-streaked window which meant that he could recognise me from the BBC car park, he thought.
The movement was only slight, but it was enough. The eyebrows twitched, the face tightened.
“He’s onto us!” The profiler called out. Switzerland swung open his door, slamming it off the police car and pulling his sidearm.
The two cops were stunned, the driver flooring the accelerator to get them out of trouble, then screeching the car to a halt ten metres up the road. Both were out of the car in seconds, pulling their Tazer guns from their holsters.
Switzerland was across the road, weapon outstretched.
“Paul Wrightman! Metropolitan Police! Stand where you are!”
Wrightman hesitated for a fraction, then turned and sprinted. The two policemen were charging across the road, weapons outstretched. Switzerland spun, narrowly avoiding the prods of one fired Tazer. He brought up his weapon and fired, knocking the officer with the un-discharged Tazer down, before spinning and pointing at the first, now unarmed officer, the smart aleck one who he had been initially talking to. Switzerland snatched his wallet from inside his coat and flung it at the officer.
“Read that, you stupid bastard and call backup!” he roared, before turning and running after Paul Wrightman.
The young man was at least 30 metres ahead of him and running fast before he ran straight into the suddenly emerging bonnet of a Volvo station wagon driven by a now startled middle-aged woman.
Switzerland caught up moments later, pointing his weapon at the floored man.
“Paul Wrightman, don’t move or you’ll be popping paracetemol for the rest of the day.”
• • •
Switzerland looked at Colonel Thomas Wrightman through a one-way mirror. The former soldier was sitting in an interrogation room. He’d requested a family friend as his legal counsel so Switzerland postponed the interview until the man, a middle-aged barrister, had arrived. He met with his client for an hour, before being led to the interrogation room.
Although he knew that Wrightman could not see him, the face was staring at him through the glass or at least it felt that way. The former soldier’s face was calm if not quite relaxed, as if he had accepted his fate.
Because of his military background, and his special forces training, the detective was weary of beginning the interview until he was absolutely confident he had solid tangible evidence to present. The problem was that he didn’t.
The house had been searched by the CSI team and nothing had turned up, nothing illegal or even suspicious. This had not surprised Switzerland. He had expected the equipment they used to be locked up in some anonymous storage facility almost certainly paid for by cash. The Big Eye was searching CCTV systems for both men which could have come up with something but Switzerland was not holding his breath. No doubt the colonel would have briefed his son to avoid the cameras, never bring his mobile phone with him and never use his Oyster card, and he clearly hadn’t.
There was another issue troubling the policeman. It was the possibility of more victims. It was not impossible or improbable that there were other victims held somewhere. The email had made an effective promise, so he had to be sure.
The DCI turned and faced the other one-way mirror, facing into the room that Paul Wrightman was sitting alone in. He was a slimmer, taller version of his father with the same resolute ease, eyes patrolling the wall he faced.
The profiler closed the door quietly behind herself as she entered.
“We have nothing on them. Nothing.”
The young DC, preparing notes on a chair in the corner, looked up from his notebook.
“It’s all circumstantial. If we can’t find the lockup, or wherever their base of operations is, we have nothing to pin on either of them.”
Switzerland leaned against the wall, and closed his eyes, slowly waving his finger in the air as if he were conducting to an orchestra on the radio.
“Ok, let’s follow this through logically. The Colonel almost certainly built the BOYZMEAT bomb and the bomb we recovered from Kirsten Phillip’s car. He also probably laced the cocaine with the poison and the laxative that killed THE GERMAINES. MI5 have told me, off the record of course, that the colonel did attend a course when he would have received such training. But he did not construct the weapons or poison the cocaine in his home. CSI have been all over the location. So where did they do it?”
“In a lock up?” the DC suggested.
“So how did the Colonel get to the lock up? There are traffic cameras on both ends of the street, and we’ve had the techs all over them. We have followed the colonel’s car to the swimming pool and to the supermarket. We’ve even managed to find him on the CCTV in the supermarket, so it’s not like he ditched the car there and got a lift with his son. He hardly ever leaves his home. Yet we have searched the house, so how on earth did he manage to make the bombs?”
“Could he have taught the son? The son’s an electronics engineer, after all,” the DC suggested. He knew his boss long enough to know that the DCI liked his junior officers to throw everything into the mix, where it could be logically discounted.
Switzerland, eyes still closed, pointed at the DC.
“Possible, but unlikely. The Army bomb disposal people say that the bomb was sophisticated and built by someone who had made explosive devices before. We have no evidence that Paul Wrightman has ever done that.”
“Could he have gone on foot, so to speak?” the profiler asked.
Switzerland opened his eyes, and looked at her.
“Could they have rented a house nearby?” she continued.
“He could not have exited the street without us seeing him. The son could have put him in the back of another car, say, a cheap second hand he picked up somewhere, but we still would have spotted the son leaving. Could have hidden him under a blanket, but then he would have had to get him back. It’s awkward, but not impossible. We checked all the neighbouring houses. They’re all occupied, either owned or rented. We visited them all, spoke to all the neighbours. The lock up is not on the street,” Thompson confirmed.
“Let’s just play this out for a minute. It’s reasonable to assume that they choose a target, go to the lock up, prepare what they have to prepare there and then Paul carries out the actual attack. Which means that we should have CCTV footage of Paul leaving the street a day or two before each attack. Secondly, we have had CSI and dogs and the whole circus over the house, without a hint of explosives or anything that could be linked to the attacks, which means that there has to be an actual other premises where they prepare their attacks. So let’s have all the CCTV footage gone through of the 72 hours leading up to each attack, and see if there’s a pattern.”
The profiler hadn’t a clue what he was talking about and said so.
Thompson was on the DCI’s train of thought.
“If the car was the same one used, we can trace it through the CCTV traffic net. Maybe follow it to the other location,” Thompson added, getting up and bolting from the room.
The profiler looked at Switzerland.
“This is pretty tenuous, you know.”
Switzerland looked at his watch and mentally calculated how long he could keep the Wrightmans in custody. He had great admiration for Prime Minister Fairfax but he had removed a lot of the special powers that Tony Blair and his successors had given the police. He understood why, even respected him for it, but now as a result, he was up against the clock.
• • •
“Sir!”
Switzerland was awoken by his DC bursting through the door into his office. The DCI was slumped on the sofa, but bolted up as if he’d been caught doing something unsavoury.
Thompson had a laptop under his arm.
“Sir, you need to see this.”
• • •
Susan awoke with a start, and the smell of disinfectant in her nose. A nurse stood over her, and Julian stood behind the nurse.
She had no idea where she was. She had met Thomas, he had been as handsome as she had expected. He’d even sorted the kissing thing, giving her a peck on the cheek which she took gracefully, like one of those people who gets kissed all the time. As opposed to her brain screaming that a very handsome man had just kissed her and that never wash that cheek again.
The waiter had been pouring the wine, yet another detail that the NCA had checked, providing a wine both had approved. Then she had absentmindedly reached for the bowl of pretzels.
The pretzels! She remembered it lodging, his face looking concerned, her clawing at her throat and then blackness.
Julian sat on the edge of the bed.
“How do you feel?” he asked.
“Mortified,” she replied.
He smiled.
“Well, don’t. Could have happened to anyone. Even to the President of the United States. Our waiters are all first-aid trained and one had spotted what happened. You passed out. We took you to the clinic just as a precaution.”
The memories were rushing back. Thomas. Two minutes in and she had made a tit of herself.
Julian stood up.
“You’ve a guest.”
He stepped to one side, and Thomas stepped in, with a large picnic basket.
“Hello Susan. I do hope you like Haloumi cheese.”
• • •
Switzerland had just finished his introduction to the digital device recording the interview when Wrightman’s brief asked if he could make a statement.
“By all means,” invited the DCI.
Thompson clicked his pen to take notes.
“Detecive Chief Inspector. It is my belief that Colonel Wrightman and his son are both innocent of the crimes you are investigating. Am I correct that your Forensic Department has not a single shred of evidence connecting either man to these crimes?”
“We have found nothing in their home, that is correct.”
“As for motive, Chief Inspector, all you have is a man and a brother who have suffered the misfortune of a beloved family member passing away in the most tragic of circumstances.”
“That is also correct.”
“Nor can you link either man to any of the crime scenes.”
“No, we cannot.”
“So why on Earth are you wasting this man’s time?” the brief asked, gesturing towards the Colonel, who looked impassive through the exchange. Not smug, Switzerland noted, not like a criminal who knew that he’d beaten the system. Just impassive like he would accept whatever was the proper outcome of this situation. Switzerland found himself respecting the man.
“You are quite correct, Mr. Jennings. We have nothing on the Colonel. He’s free to go.”
“And my son?” the Colonel asked.
“Your son will either be released from prison in about twenty years with good behaviour or never see the light of day again. That is up to you.”
Jennings growled.
“I will not have you intimidate…”
“Not intimidation. Fact. You are right, we could not connect either of you to the crimes. But we knew that you had to go somewhere to prepare the devices and store your equipment. Some lockup somewhere. Now, I’m a bit of a traditionalist when it comes to police work. But my DC here, he’s a whiz with technology. So he scrutinised the CCTV cameras on both ends of your street, hoping to catch one of you leaving to go to the crime scene or the theoretical lockup. We got your son leaving but we could never track him. But then Thompson spotted this.”
Thompson opened a file, and took out a series of black and white photos. All showed large white vans.
“Two days before each attack, a large container would be delivered to the house. And then taken away the day after the attack. You brought the lock up to you. Now that, that was clever. We’ve traced the company, they have identified your son as the man who paid in cash for the service. Our CSI people told me 30 minutes ago that they have all sorts of goodies to report. As I said. Fact.”
Wrightman exhaled, and patted his barrister on the arm.
“If I tell you what I know?”
Switzerland smiled at the wording. On the tape, it would not count as an admission.
“You confess fully and you’re both going to jail. You killed nineteen innocent people, Colonel. You will never see freedom again, given your age. But if you cooperate, we speak to the CPS and your son will see freedom before he’s sixty.”
Jennings whispered in Wrightman’s ear, who nodded.
“Nineteen people. Yes. Innocent? No, I don’t accept that. These are the parasites that have created the culture we have, where a talented young woman like my daughter could be driven to take her own life. I murdered them, yes. But I don’t accept their innocence.”
His eyes flashed with a glimpse of the steel that Switzerland suspected he had shown in Afghanistan. They then softened slightly.
“I served in Afghanistan, Mr. Switzerland. I helped to protect schools so that little Afghan girls could learn how to read and write and stand with dignity as equals to their brothers. And then I come home to see that my beautiful intelligent little girl has had her heart broken and dreams expunged because she doesn’t look like a whore. Innocent? No.”
Wrightman’s wide shoulders slumped and he stared at the table.
Switzerland looked at the barrister.
“I’ll speak with the Crown Prosecution Service and see where we stand.”
The barrister nodded and with that Switzerland and the DC terminated the interview.
Outside the room, the profiler had been listening on a non-recording door buzzer.
“Well?” Switzerland asked.
“He’s a murderer. And yes, I have a certain pity for him.”
He poked a finger through a blind to see outside the station. There were television cameras and spotlights and very large crowds, with many individuals holding signs. One sign, held up by a group of teenaged girls read: “BOYZMEAT We Luv U. He should be hunged.”
Someone in the crowd saw him, and shouted something. A ripple went through the crowd, which began chanting ‘Swit-zer-land! Swit-zer-land!’ as it waved and cheered at him.
The DCI went red with embarrassment, waved weakly at the crowd and then closed the blinds.
“Oh dear God,” he muttered.
She smiled. He looked at her.
“Buy you a bag of chips, Dr. Deprofila?” he asked.
EPILOGUE
“Chief Inspector Switzerland! Come in! Come in!”
The PM was out from around the table far more swiftly than his size would suggest. He grasped the policeman’s hand firmly, gripping his forearm with the other hand and directed him to a seat in front of his desk.
The study was small, overwhelmed with books, but tidy and dust-free. A beam of sunlight lit up the room, warming the small space quickly.
The PM’s back was to the window.
“My congratulations on the election victory, Prime Minister. A very solid victory,” Switzerland offered.
Fairfax smiled.
“Thank you very much. Do you know, if it had been under first past the post, we would have won a massive landslide? The Tories would have come back to Westminster in an ice-cream van. Still, I’m not sure massive majorities do us any good in the long run — just look how poor Tony and Margaret were regarded when they finished up. If they’d had to compromise a bit, listen to what the other fella was saying, maybe they wouldn’t have gotten on so many people’s tits. I’m told that compromise is a dirty word in British politics, but ask the fellow if
he applies that rule in his marriage?
“Having said that, I am pretty pleased, considering it looked very possible that I was going to have to take up painting watercolours or, God forbid, write my memoirs. And you played your role too, Chief Inspector. Solving this whole business did us no harm. I’m very grateful, although it is presumptuous of me to assume that your political persuasions are similar to mine.”
Switzerland went to answer but the PM raised a palm.
“Don’t answer that, I’m only jesting. It’s none of my business. You did fine police work and it has been noticed. That awful superior of yours has been assigned as a liaison to Hollywood. Which means all sorts of opportunities are opening up for a competent policeman. I intend having a word in the Home Secretary’s ear.”
There was a knock on the door and a young, pretty secretary popped her head around.
“Prime Minister…?”
The PM nodded and rose from his chair, shrugging his shoulders.
“I’m sorry Chief Inspector, but I have a scheduled call with the President of France. He has an EU-wide plan to insert a woman’s rights chapter into the Holy Koran, or some such.”
Fairfax escorted Switzerland to the door. Just as he reached it, Switzerland stopped and faced the PM.
“Sir, I know that I should not say this, but the suspect knew absolutely nothing about the email demanding a ban on celebrity news. Nothing at all. He’s openly cooperated with us on everything else, so we have no reason to believe that he was lying. It’s quite bizarre.”
Fairfax nodded.
“Well that is bizarre. Tell me, did the email do any harm? Hinder the investigation or anything like that?”
“Not really sir, no. But makes you wonder who would do such a thing? Who could? Presumably someone with access to top-level briefings but why would such a person do it? The only real effect was to force the media to focus on real news. Of course, I’d say you were delighted, the British public with nothing to look at but in-depth political coverage for the last week of the campaign. I read somewhere that your poll ratings went up something like six percent as a result?”
The Ministry of Love Page 16