by Ru Pringle
‘As you can see, the device was an unusually potent IED, using a mix of chemicals available from supermarkets and garden centres and hardware you could buy at B&Q to do the nasty work. It proved lethal, and, as some of you will be aware, its generic components have made the perpetrators hard to trace.’
He swipes on to the next page: mugshots of a corpse.
‘This is James Teith. He was shot dead on the sixteenth of October escaping from a raid by Special Branch, who were acting on a tip-off from a covert intelligence source after eyewitnesses put him at the crime scene. It’s now believed Teith was the one who planted the device – ironically, posing as a security contractor sweeping for explosives. He was careful to cover his tracks, and probably used disposable ’phones and cash SIMs for communications related to the bombing. However, using data recovered from his personal ’phone and other records, we have been able to identify three other members of the cell believed to have carried out the attack.’
A photo-board appears, this time showing a broad-faced, stocky man in his forties, along with a rotating composite of his head and torso. In many of the photos he’s smiling, holding trout or salmon. Others, showing a younger, trimmer version with a neatly-groomed beard, are clearly surveillance shots, mostly date-tagged just before the final independence referendum, when independence activists were routinely surveilled.
‘This is Ken McCoull, believed to be the mastermind of the attack. Forty-eight; one hundred and eighty centimetres; a little over one hundred kilograms. Single, no immediate family apart from parents, who divorced when he was twelve. Both are still living, and are being questioned. He worked in the navy as a mine clearance specialist for twelve years, reaching the rank of chief petty officer before his dismissal when Scotland left the UK. Following that he became a finance manager involved successfully with Edinburgh banks, until five years ago, when he dropped off the radar. I won’t go into details – you all have the files – but he’s proven himself to be shrewd, with a history of nationalism going back to social media activity in his teens. Next …’
Another swipe.
‘… We have Professor Rajiv Sinclair-Kohli. Fifty-one; one hundred and eighty-six centimetres; around … seventy-two kilograms. Long-standing lecturer and research fellow at the University of Edinburgh, where he’s a respected pharmacist. He’s been missing for two weeks – he’d booked annual leave; said he was visiting Nepal with his family. We checked the flight records: his family left, on open-return tickets. He didn’t. No family members have returned, and attempts to trace them have been unsuccessful. We’re not currently sure of his role. It’s possible he may have constructed the bomb.
‘Finally …’
The next photo-board shows a striking middle-aged woman. She has a broad face, high cheekbones, a conspicuous dimple in her chin, and – in most of the pictures – an expansive but slightly guarded smile. Half the photos are taken in mountains or at running or cycling events. Most of the other half – the only ones in which her chest-length silvery curls are tied up – show her wearing a police cap, and occasionally body armour. Her eyes are unusual, almost the same bright, metallic tone as her hair.
‘This is Coira Keir. Forty-five years old, one hundred and sixty-eight centimetres, fifty-seven kilograms. No family.’ The photos are raising a few eyebrows. ‘Yes, as you can see, she’s a police officer. Not only that, she was on duty at the time of the explosion, as superintendent in charge of security for the prime minister’s party. We believe she used her position to provide inside information while the bombing was being planned, and to provide access and cover for the bomber to position the device undetected. She certainly signed the paperwork for the contractor since identified as James Teith, and eyewitnesses have confirmed her at the site, to all appearances doing her job until minutes before the blast. Then she disappeared. Yes …?’
He extends a finger in the direction of one of the specialists, who has her hand up. The psychologist and profiler. Ina … Tiles? ‘And by the way, just so I’m clear, I expect anyone with questions not to stand on ceremony, and just to ask them. Go on, Ina.’
‘These suspects …’ The psychologist pushes black-rimmed glasses up her nose, bringing her narrow shoulders together as though afraid of speaking out of turn. ‘These are unusual profiles for terrorists.’
‘Good point.’ He lets his gaze wander round the room. ‘In response to which, a couple of things. First: these are intelligent people, and we don’t know when this was planned. It could have been months ago – even years, meaning they’ve had time to adapt their own profiles to what they want us to see. There are precedents in cases involving sociopaths, am I correct?’
Having hesitated, Tiles nods.
‘Second: we need to remember they’re unlikely to view themselves as terrorists.’
This causes a murmur to ripple around the room.
‘We need to put ourselves in the heads of these people. Records show all were passionate “Yes” supporters before the final referendum on Scottish independence. Having campaigned for years – and finally won – they’ll have watched the events of eight years ago, when all of that turned to dust, with shock and disbelief. With pain. If they consider themselves patriots, it’s possible they didn’t see themselves as having any option.’
‘Everyone has an option,’ snaps Sir Trevor’s voice, near his ear. ‘Shouldn’t we concentrate on what radicalised them, rather than legitimising their actions? You can’t be suggesting you sympathise?’
Sebastian blinks. He turns to find the man glaring down at him, eyebrows bristling. ‘Sympathise with their actions? You must be kidding. Do I understand or empathise with the reasons behind them …?’
‘Thomas – are you sure this man has been properly vetted?’
Willoughby’s mouth is moving soundlessly, like that of a goldfish, his eyes darting between the faces of the two other men. Sebastian lowers his eyelids fractionally and makes his expression very neutral.
‘Sir,’ he begins, levelly. ‘Our aim here is to understand these people, and what motivates them, so we can close down whatever organisation they belong to before it can commit further atrocities like the one we just witnessed. Now, you might choose to stick your head up your own arse and chug down whatever propaganda your department stuffed up there, but that won’t help us here. I’m not clear to be honest what authority you have over me, if any, and I don’t really care. I’m here to do a job, as quickly as possible.
‘So either let me do it,’ he pokes the man in his bony chest, ‘or leave the room. And if you have a problem with that, then perhaps you can have me fired. Although I suspect that might prove harder than you think.’
He treats the civil servant to his best dead-eyed smile. ‘Now, may I continue?’
In the corner of his vision, amongst thirteen sets of bulging eyes, Lorna’s spectacularly failing to hide her sniggering. Sebastian watches Sir Trevor Bolton-Clemens’ expression with fascination. For an instant he half expects some vampiric transformation, involving a knobbly forehead and fangs. Then, as fast as it slipped, the mask is back in place, save for a kind of furious scalpel gleam in the older man’s eyes.
‘By all means,’ the civil servant says mildly. He pats at his breast pocket, his mouth quirking in apparent amusement. ‘And forgive my intrusion. You are, of course, quite correct. There can be no place here for anyone whose influence on this investigation might be considered … unhelpful.’ He pulls a wafer-slim ’phone from his lapel and studies it for a moment. ‘As chance would have it, I’m required elsewhere. Thomas, if you wouldn’t mind. I’d appreciate it if you’d keep me updated.’
He nods in Sebastian’s direction.
‘Mister Blakeslee. Ladies, gentlemen.’
Bolton-Clemens climbs the stairs with dignity and surprising vigour for an elderly man. Sebastian’s interested to note that, while obviously considering following him, presumably for an urgent discussion, Tom Willoughby stays put. He hears what
was hoping for: a ripple of applause. Turning, he’s greeted by expressions ranging from shock to delight.
He takes a deep breath. Old goat wound you up more than you thought.
‘You’re correct, Ina. These are outwardly ordinary people, from diverse but respectable backgrounds. At this stage just two things connect them, other than the bombing. Which are,’ he holds up a finger, ‘that setting off this bomb was important enough for them to risk their positions in society – which were, with the exception of Teith, who was unemployed at the time, and arguably McCoull, valued – and also, in the case of Sinclair-Kohli, his family’s future. And,’ he holds up a second finger, ‘that they knew each other socially. For at least a decade.
‘As I’m sure I don’t have to tell you, our search area expands exponentially with time. So, to update you: Special Branch are following a lead on McCoull, who is believed still to be in the city. We’ve nothing direct yet on Sinclair-Kohli, although investigations are continuing at the university. The Nepali and Indian authorities also claim to be co-operating in the search for his immediate family – but, given conditions in both countries right now, success seems unlikely.
‘Bringing us to Coira Keir.’ Chairs and faces swivel back to face the images on the screen. ‘Our orders are to focus our search on her, for now.’
‘Are there any leads?’ a voice calls out. Soo-ling Campbell, the remote sensing expert.
‘Nothing specific – yet. However, I believe searches are ongoing into vehicles connected with Keir or any of her friends?’
Andy Gupta nods, on cue. ‘We’ve no found her car yet.’ He raises doleful black eyes in Sebastian’s direction. ‘For aw we ken, could be sat in some garage or lockup.’ His thick Edinburgh accent isn’t easy to follow. ‘Worst case, she could hae dumped it in a curfew-free zone o the city. In which case it’s no likely we’ll be seein it again. Or she could be drivin it.’
‘We wouldn’t expect her to use her own car if her escape was planned,’ Sebastian points out. ‘However, there are indications that things may have gone less smoothly in some way than the bombers hoped. She may have been forced to use her car. If she’s fleeing by road, we expect her to go north, where CCTV coverage is sparse. A trawl’s already been done for vehicles recently missing from police pounds, as well as cars stolen within the last year. As you’d expect, manhunts are ongoing at all airports and airfields, and the coastguard and the navy have been put on alert. Police are going door to door in all parts of Edinburgh where she has been seen.
‘So what I want,’ he says, clapping his hands together, ‘is all records of her, collated and summarised. I want lists of her contacts and communication histories, and these analysed for patterns. I want a detailed profile of her, ASAP. We need to be able to predict this woman, meaning we must be able to think like her. Has she left the city? We need to know, quickly. If so, where is she most likely to have gone? Does she have friends or acquaintances she’s likely to turn to? Possible bolt-holes? Does she know anyone with a car that’s unaccounted for? If she’s fleeing, or thinking about it, will she be making it up as she goes along – or does she have an escape route pre-organised, with contacts and perhaps even outside help?
‘Which brings me to a bigger question. Is this attack home-grown, or did the bombers have the support and sanction of foreign agitators?’
Someone’s raising a hand. Sebastian lets his eyelids droop slightly, but nods for them to go on.
‘We got anyone on the ground?’ The speaker is Derek Planter, the undercover agent. Presumably an effective one: the man looks and sounds like a Glasgow drug lord. ‘Ah ken we need tae crunch the numbers an pixels an the like, but there’s nae substitute for haein bodies oot on the sniff.’
‘We have field officers on the case,’ Sebastian assures him. ‘Including some of the Service’s most experienced, from Edinburgh and London. One has the best field record I’ve ever seen, and a skills set that includes profiling. I’m willing to bet they know her better than we do at this stage.
‘Is there anything else?’ He claps his hands together. ‘Good. Now let’s – Andy, you have something?’
The young surveillance expert is virtually bouncing up and down in his seat.
‘Might hae found her car,’ he blurts, his speech noticeably Hindi-inflected now he’s excited. ‘There wis a registration number picked up on average speed cameras, Glasgow-bound on the M8 last night, west o Bellshill. It’s no the registration number o Keir’s car – it’s the number o a car the polis pulled ower for illegal plates. Owner’s fae Polwarth. South-west side o Edinburgh. Claims her plates wis switched, an she’d nae idea til the polis tellt her. Turns oot thae plates is aff a vehicle that wis gien a Certificate o Destruction earlier this year. Interestingly, handit in by the polis. An impoundment. Insurance job.’
Sebastian’s heart beats just a little faster. ‘You got the footage?’
‘Comin up.’
The grainy picture from the speedcam shows an anonymous white hatchback with a highlighting graphic superimposed around it, receding along the motorway. Speed, ninety kilometres an hour, according to the camera. The exact speed limit.
Cool customer, if that’s her.
‘Plates ye see there’s fae last year: aff a Volkswagen Golf. Current model, white. Noo – I ken it’s a white Volkswagen Golf we’re lookin at, but I’ve cross-checked, an that model wis oot o date three year ago.’
Sebastian looks down from the screen. ‘Anyone have an image of Coira Keir’s last known car?’
‘This is from yesterday morning.’ A female voice. He’s too distracted to notice who it belongs to.
On the main screen appears a grainy image of a vehicle, obviously CCTV. Police vehicles are ranked in the background, with police officers standing around conversing. The driver’s door opens and a trim middle-aged woman with curly grey hair gets out, straightens, and looks directly at the camera. The image freezes.
She isn’t quite what Sebastian expected from the mug-shots. More eye-catching, somehow. Even in flat shoes and with her hair tied back.
The car is a white, previous generation Volkswagen Golf.
Gotcha.
‘She’s heading west,’ he barks. ‘Sift all CCTV footage from after this was taken on all linking roads westwards from here.’
‘What if it’s a false trail?’ James Fields this time. Unselfconsciously picking his freckled nose. ‘She could double back on a side road. And why have the police roadblocks no picked her up?’
‘My guess is she’ll have tried to put as much space between herself and the crime scene as quickly as possible. But you’re right, James.
‘Ina – we need that profile. We have to be able to predict what she’s done next.’
CHAPTER 4
____________
This Way to Hell
YOU’RE IN YOUR CAR, drinking acrid, lukewarm coffee from a paper cup. You’re tired from chasing leads all day.
Leads which, so far at least, have come to a grand total of nothing.
You’d thought you were close a couple of times. Some of the Keir woman’s elderly neighbours were quite forthcoming when you turned the charm on, but all any of them ultimately had to say was that the target had left at the expected time on the morning of the attack, and that no strangers had recently been seen at the main-entrance Marchmont flat you’re parked outside. Definitely no strange cars, either. And these elderly ladies would know. Looking out of windows at other people’s lives, and gossiping about them on social media, is what they do.
The police have already asked all these questions, they assure you, but you ask them anyway.
She’s clearly a careful, methodical woman, Keir. A loner, like you are. The flat’s window frames, door and Victorian iron guttering are shiny and freshly painted; the potted bushes through which the yellow and black police tape has been threaded are neatly trimmed. There are no weeds. The battle with the omnipresent graffiti is one she seems to have bee
n winning.
Apparently she doesn’t have cats. Somehow, that surprises you.
It’s interesting though: no strange cars. Every day outside working hours, except for occasional weekends, her car has been parked in the reserved residents’ space right outside the front door. Yet it’s not here now. Others will be theorising that it’s hidden in a lockup somewhere.
But you don’t think so.
Your ’phone vibrates. You tap your earbud. Nod as words flood out of it, though the caller can’t see you.
‘On my way,’ you say eventually, and hang up.
YOU TAKE THE POTHOLED ROUTE westward out of town, past the Inner Security Wall, and along the secure corridor through the battle zones of Broomhouse and Wester Hailes. Burning vehicles illuminate smoke-greased air and occasional arcs of tracer are visible over rooftops and rubble. There’s a roadblock, where a remote-controlled chain-gun on an armoured vehicle tracks your car. Having displayed your card and submitted to a biometrics scan you finally find your way on to the relatively smooth tarmac of the M8.
The dash tells you the batteries are as charged as they’re going to get, and the petrol tank’s mostly full. The old lithium ion cells are faded, but there should be enough combined juice for six hundred kilometres according to the trip computer. If you don’t push it.
You feel confident this will be sufficient.
Your mind is working hard, sorting, digesting and memorising information. Thinking like Keir is not enough. You have to be her. There’s an element of panic about events after the bombing, you realise. It feels like something didn’t go to plan. But not a mistake, exactly. Like something happened that was unexpected. You’re frightened; you have incomplete information about what’s gone wrong. You’re smart enough to realise contacting your co-conspirators is a bad idea, so you probably don’t know which – if any – have evaded capture …