by Bill Daly
‘I’ll take care of that,’ Charlie said, scribbling in shorthand in his notebook.
‘Farrell was still shadowing Johnston when he boarded the London train in Glasgow,’ Kenicer continued. ‘Our intention was to let him carry the consignment back to London where we planned to recover the anthrax and nail his Iraqi friends at the same time. However, someone put a spanner in the works by taking Johnston out on the train and relieving him of the case he was carrying.’
‘Do you have any idea who that was?’ Hamilton asked.
‘We don’t have a name, but we know he was a member of an Irish Republican paramilitary organisation called the Fermanagh Freedom Fighters.’
Charlie and Hamilton’s eyes met. ‘Irish Republicans?’ Charlie’s tone was incredulous. ‘How did you manage to establish that?’
‘We also have dealings with the aforementioned Roman Timofeivitch Bespalov. Fisherman by trade, venture capitalist by inclination. Long before the Iron Curtain came down, Bespalov was a role model for western capitalism. Everything is available from him – for the right price. He’s heavily involved in brokering arms deals. There’s a glut of guns and explosives on the international market these days – the former Yugoslavian republics are awash with them – and the most popular route is from Bosnia-Herzegovina, via Croatia and Slovenia, to Russia. From there, the weaponry is shipped to wherever the buyer wants it delivered.
‘Bespalov acts as middle man. He negotiates the price and organises the handover. Anthrax doesn’t come onto the market very often and for this particular consignment the Irish and the Iraqis were bidding against each other. The Republican paramilitaries have been strapped for cash for some time – ever since their American funding dried up. There’s no way they could match the petro-dollars. However, Bespalov has never been known to turn down anyone’s money if he can help it – and he appreciates the value of information. After agreeing a sale with Brothers of the Sword, our Russian friend sold the details of the delivery plan to the FFF. He gave them everything they needed to know; from the scenario of a purportedly crippled fishing boat limping into Tobermory harbour, to the modus operandi for the handover, including a photograph of the courier and the fact that he was a mercenary. He even let them know the attaché case containing the anthrax would be handcuffed to the courier’s wrist. Bespalov supplied the Irish with the details of the pick-up point, the route and the schedule – in effect, all the information they would need to intercept the consignment – and he sold them that information for ten percent of the purchase price. He also agreed to provide them with the combination to open the briefcase, if and when they managed to appropriate the anthrax.’
‘Isn’t this all a bit John Buchan?’ Charlie interjected. ‘A crippled fishing boat, a secret rendezvous in a remote barn, a briefcase handcuffed to a courier’s wrist? For God’s sake! If the Iraqis wanted to get a shipment of anthrax to London, why not just tell Bespalov to sail into some quiet cove on the south coast of England and drop it off?’
‘It’s not that simple, Anderson. For a start, Bespalov would have trouble coming up with a credible justification for sailing in those waters – and even in the middle of the night you couldn’t get a boat within ten miles of the British coastline these days without it being monitored by satellite surveillance.’
‘I realise I’m in danger of repeating myself,’ Charlie persisted, ‘but how did you find all this out?’
‘We also got the details of the delivery plan from Bespalov – for another ten percent. It made quite a dent in my annual budget, I don’t mind telling you. But unfortunately, Bespalov chose not to disclose to us that he’d tipped off the Fermanagh Freedom Fighters until after the event, so we weren’t anticipating the hit on the train. Our Russian friend has a nasty habit of playing both ends off against the middle.’
‘So,’ Hamilton stated grimly, ‘what you’re telling us is that, at this very moment, somewhere in the Glasgow area, there’s an Irish paramilitary faction sitting on a consignment of anthrax?’
‘That would appear to be the case.’
‘Bloody hell!’
‘We’re working on damage limitation,’ Kenicer said. ‘Bespalov is still at sea and we’re in radio contact with him. If he’s to be believed, he hasn’t transmitted the combination for the briefcase to the FFF yet. Straight after this call I’ve got a meeting with the Home Secretary to determine how far we’re prepared to go in bribing Bespalov not to release that information, but that’s little more than a holding exercise. Bespalov’s a law unto himself and as soon as he thinks he’s milked us for all we’re worth, he’ll sell the combination to the Irish. Nothing is surer.
‘I’ve spoken to Downing Street,’ Kenicer continued. ‘Their instructions are that any information regarding a stolen consignment of anthrax is to be disseminated on a strictly need to know basis. If the press got wind of the fact that Irish dissidents have got their hands on anthrax on the British mainland it could engender widespread panic.’
‘In case you’ve forgotten,’ Charlie interjected, ‘we happen to have our own Parliament up here. Have you involved the First Minister?’
‘This is a national security affair, Anderson,’ Kenicer snapped. ‘Downing Street calls the shots. No one who does not need to know will be informed about what has happened – and that includes your First Minister. I’ll arrange for Downing Street to confirm those instructions to you in writing, Hamilton.’
‘What about my Chief Constable?’ Hamilton asked.
‘There’s no reason to involve him. Besides, he’s on vacation.’
‘You’re very well briefed.’
‘I know your boss is in Vienna – and I know when he’s due back. I know what hotel he’s staying in and, at the touch of a button, I could find out what he did yesterday afternoon, what he had for his dinner, how much he had to drink and who he took to bed.’
‘You’ve made your point.’
‘My team have got to know what they’re up against,’ Charlie protested. ‘They need to know what’s at stake.’
‘That’s your call, Hamilton,’ Kenicer stated. ‘If you consider it necessary for your officers to be told about the anthrax, you’re at liberty to brief them. But do understand that you’ll be held personally accountable if there’s any leak of information at your end.’ Hamilton sucked his cheeks in hard. ‘This situation will require full cooperation between our organisations,’ Kenicer continued, ‘if we’re to have any chance of discovering the identity of the person who carried out the hit on the train – and tracking down the anthrax – before Bespalov releases the combination to the FFF.’
‘Where do we go from here?’ Hamilton asked. ‘We’re already pulling out all the stops.’
‘We’re dealing with a consummate professional. Whoever took out Johnston on the train knows his business. The kill was clinical and the dismemberment of the hand was essential to relieve him of the case he was carrying.’
‘Wouldn’t it have been simpler to saw through the links on the handcuffs, rather than chop the guy’s hand off?’ Charlie suggested.
‘Two reasons for not doing that. Number one, a sawn off handcuff, attached to the victim’s wrist, might have put you on the right track. Number two, the hit man was working to a tight schedule. As he had no way of knowing what material the handcuffs would be made of, that would have introduced an unknown factor. Sawing your way through good old flesh, bone and gristle is much more predictable.’
Charlie got to his feet and strode towards the office window. ‘Is everyone at SO15 as callous as you?’ he called out over his shoulder.
‘Don’t lose your cool, Inspector. If you want to talk about callousness, I suggest you concentrate on the killer.’
‘What about the murders of the gypsy and the young girl?’ Charlie asked. ‘Surely they weren’t also carrying something he wanted?’
‘Not as far as we know,’ Kenicer said.
‘And why the nine of diamonds and the smileys?’ Hamilton asked.
&nb
sp; ‘I don’t see the point of them,’ Kenicer said. ‘They’re probably just red herrings,’ he said, cutting the connection.
Charlie and Hamilton looked at each other.
‘What now?’ Hamilton asked.
‘I need to brief my guys about the anthrax,’ Charlie said.
‘Who do you need to tell?’
‘O’Sullivan and Stuart at least. They have to know what we’re up against.’
‘All right. But only those two. And make sure they understand the need for complete secrecy.’
‘What about Doctor Orr? Should I tell her?’
‘Definitely not! Under no circumstances must any civilian be told about the anthrax.’
Tony O’Sullivan was dozing on his settee, nursing his hangover, when Charlie’s phone call roused him. Charlie then called Malcolm Stuart, instructing both of them to be in the incident room at three o’clock.
Colin Renton popped his head round Charlie’s door. ‘Have you got a minute, sir?’
‘Sure.’ Charlie put down his pen.
‘Frank told me he stopped you on the Erskine Bridge this morning.’
‘That’s right. Apparently a woman had committed suicide.’
‘I thought you’d want to know that she’s been identified, sir. It was Helen Taylor, Zoe Taylor’s mother.’
‘What?’
‘Her car was found in a lay-by in Erskine,’ Renton said. ‘She left a note on the passenger seat to the effect that she couldn’t go on any more. She said she hardly ever saw her husband because he spent most of his time on the road – and that her daughter was the only reason she had for living.’
Charlie felt a lump forming in his throat.
Tony O’Sullivan arrived at Pitt Street just before three o’clock. He was sitting alone in the incident room, cradling a black coffee in both hands, when Malcolm Stuart walked in.
‘Is Dino not around?’ Malcolm asked.
‘Gone for a coffee,’ Tony said blowing gently on his drink to cool it down.
When Charlie returned, he closed the door and sat on a chair in the middle of the room. ‘The first thing I want to tell you,’ he said, ‘is that Helen Taylor, Zoe’s mother, committed suicide this morning by jumping off the Erskine Bridge.’
‘Jesus,’ Tony muttered under his breath.
‘In my book,’ Charlie said, ‘that’s another murder down to this bastard. But that’s not the reason I called you in this morning. Counter Terrorism Command from the Met got in touch with Niggle to let him know that the guy who was killed on the train was a courier for an Iraqi terrorist organisation known as Brothers of the Sword. His hand was chopped off to relieve him of an attaché case that was handcuffed to his wrist.’
Malcolm raised an eyebrow. ‘Do we know what was in the case?’
‘Anthrax.’
Tony’s hand froze with his coffee half-way to his lips. ‘Do they know who killed him?’ he asked.
‘They don’t have a name, but they believe the killer belonged to, or worked for, an Irish republican paramilitary organisation called the Fermanagh Freedom Fighters.’
‘Bloody hell!’ Tony stretched forward to put his coffee down on the table with a shaking hand.
‘I can’t emphasise too strongly the need for confidentiality,’ Charlie stated. ‘Niggle has authorised me to brief the two of you, but no one else. If we need to enlist any additional resources to assist us with the murder enquiries, they must not be told about the anthrax. If the press were to get a sniff of the fact that Irish paramilitaries have got their hands on a consignment of anthrax on the Scottish mainland it could start a major panic. So apart from you two, no one else gets told about it – not even little Miss Profiler. That includes colleagues, girlfriends and mothers. Is that clear?’
With only a fifteen minute break to grab a sandwich, the brainstorming session lasted until after midnight, by which time flip-chart pages containing lists of events, times, potential motives and possible suspects covered the incident room walls.
‘Three murders, three amputated hands, three nines of diamonds and three smileys. And nothing to link any of them,’ Malcolm mused. ‘That’s just not possible – there has to be a connection.’
‘Maybe all three victims came from Auchtermuchty?’ Tony suggested.
‘If that’s the level we’ve descended to,’ Charlie said, looking at his watch and rolling down his shirt sleeves, ‘it’s time to call it a night.’ He got to his feet and stretched his aching back. ‘I could do with some kip. I reckon we all could.’
‘The murderer wanted to get his hands on the attaché case,’ Malcolm said, ‘so there’s a logical reason for him killing the soldier – and I can think of reasons why someone might want to kill a young girl – but it’s completely beyond my comprehension why anyone would want to murder some old tinker. Unless it’s a…’ Malcolm paused, a look of comprehension slowly spreading across his features. He leapt to his feet. ‘Eureka!’
‘What is it?’ Tony said.
‘I’ve figured out the reason for the smileys,’ Malcolm said excitedly.
‘Go on!’ Charlie demanded.
‘First, he kills a Tinker, then a Taylor, Zoe of that ilk, then a Soldier. I think he’s playing games with us, sir. The smiley is a smiley with a capital ‘S’. George Smiley? The John le Carré novels?’
‘Jesus Christ!’ Charlie said, sinking back down onto his chair.
‘So where does he go from here?’ Tony asked. ‘Has he finished killing – or will his next target be a sailor?’
‘That’s the nursery rhyme,’ Malcolm said. ‘In the le Carré version, the next one in the sequence is a spy.’
‘That’s all I need,’ Charlie said with a quick shake of the head. ‘I’m really looking forward to telling Special Branch that I want the names of all the spies they have operating in Scotland so I can arrange protection for them.’
‘The reason the soldier was killed was to relieve him of his attaché case,’ Malcolm said. ‘But maybe the killer doesn’t realise we know about that.’
‘What are you driving at?’ Charlie asked.
‘If he thinks we don’t know about the case, then those first two killings might’ve been a diversionary tactic to throw us off the scent. If Smiley assumed we’d cotton onto his Tinker, Tailor, Soldier theme eventually, then maybe he was trying to deflect us from the real reason for him murdering the soldier. Maybe he was hoping we’d deploy our resources towards protecting spies and sailors, or whatever, instead of focussing on the attaché case and what was in it?’
‘Killing two innocent women as a diversionary tactic would require a seriously twisted mind,’ Tony said.
‘That goes without saying,’ Malcolm said.
‘Why the nine of diamonds?’ Charlie asked.
‘I don’t know,’ Malcolm said, sitting back down.
‘That was good work, Malcolm. I’d better update Niggle straight away,’ Charlie said, picking up the phone. ‘Anytime of the day or night, he said.’
Having woken Hamilton, Charlie told him about Malcolm’s le Carré theory.
‘I suggest we all head off home now and get some sleep,’ Charlie said, replacing the receiver. ‘We’ll pick up the threads in the morning.’
‘Well done, Malcolm,’ Tony said, yawning and stretching as he got to his feet. ‘Goodnight all. Sweet dreams.’ Flinging his jacket over his shoulder, he headed along the corridor in the direction of the staircase. Malcolm remained seated.
‘No home to go to, son?’
‘Could I have a word, sir?’
‘Fire away.’
‘I don’t know how to put this.’
Charlie furrowed his brow.
‘It’s this Irish Republican business, sir.’ Malcolm shifted uncomfortably on his seat.
‘What are you trying to tell me?’
Malcolm’s face flushed. ‘I went back with Tony to his place last night. We had a couple of beers and then we got stuck into the whisky. After he’d had a few, Tony started goi
ng on about this Catholic and Protestant thing. How Pitt Street’s riddled with Freemasons. How his prospects depend more on the school he went to than his ability as a copper. How he got knocked back for promotion first time round because he was a Catholic. Lots of stuff like that. Then, after we’d sunk a few more, he started playing CDs of Irish rebel songs.’
‘Is that it?’
Malcolm hesitated. ‘I was thinking back to Thursday morning, when Johnston was killed on the train.’
‘Go on.’
‘Tony was supposed to be interviewing the post office staff in St Vincent Street with Renton that morning, but he told us he got a call on his mobile from someone who claimed to be a doctor in Kilmarnock – and who told him his mother had been involved in a hit and run accident. But when he got to the hospital, it turned out to be a hoax.’
‘So?’
‘If it was a prank call, by someone wanting to waste police time, how did the caller get hold of Tony’s mobile number?’ Malcolm paused. ‘I thought – what if Tony wanted an excuse not to go to the post office, sir, in case… in case someone recognised him?’ Malcolm stared at the floor to avoid eye contact with Charlie. ‘Or what if Tony got on the London train…?’ His voice tailed off. ‘I just thought it should be checked out,’ he mumbled, his gaze fixed on the floor. ‘If I’m out of order, sir, I’m sorry.’
‘Is that it?’ Malcolm glanced up and nodded quickly. ‘I don’t for one minute believe Tony’s involved in any of this,’ Charlie said, ‘but you’re not out of order. Nothing is sacrosanct. Good detective work requires every line of enquiry to be followed up. It’s only by eliminating the impossible that we get to the truth.’
‘I wouldn’t want Tony to think that I –’
‘No need to concern yourself on that score,’ Charlie interjected. ‘Tony will be told what he needs to be told. You were right to get it off your chest. Now go home and get some kip. You look as if you could do with it.’