by Ru Pringle
A circle of six plastic chairs has been arranged in a pool of light from the room’s single LED.
The expressions of the truncated team range from nervous to deeply suspicious. Fields is one of the suspicious ones. Sebastian included the officer on a whim. He hopes he’s done the right thing. The fact is, he needs someone in the police for what he intends to set in motion.
Lorna appears in the doorway, glances each way down the corridor, and closes the door behind her. She sticks an EM scrambler on it and sits down opposite him.
Sebastian motions for the others to take the remaining seats.
‘As you might have gathered,’ he says, ‘you’re not in any kind of trouble.’ He’s having to speak loudly to be heard above the generator. He sees the others relax a little. All except Tiles, but with her, it’s hard to tell.
‘That’s some relief,’ James Fields is saying. ‘For a wee moment there I thought we might end up in bags in the back of a van.’
‘Police rumours of MI5 procedure,’ drawls Lorna, ‘are exaggerated.’
‘Wis this a set-up?’ Andy Gupta asks, eyes hooded. ‘Six chairs? Youse already knew …’
‘We’ll come to that.’ Sebastian eyeballs each of them in turn. ‘Before I begin, you need to understand that nothing discussed here goes beyond the six of us. And there will be repercussions if that trust is broken. That clear?’
More exchanged glances. ‘Kind of hard to say before we know what we’re getting into,’ Soo-Ling Campbell points out.
‘That’s the deal. If you don’t like it …’
He points to the door. There’s a bit of huffing and procrastinating, but then Tiles says, ‘Agreed.’
‘The rest of you: raise your hands if you’re in.’
After some hesitation, they all do.
‘Whit’s this aw aboot, chief?’ Andy Gupta points to the scrambler on the door. ‘An wha exactly is it we’re expectin tae be listenin in?’
‘That, Andy, is a very good question. We may have … a problem. I’m going out on a limb hoping you four may be able to help solve it.’
‘Why us?’ Soo-Ling again.
‘A personal judgement. Based partly on the fact that you four have all clearly grown frustrated with the case.’ He leans forward. ‘As have Lorna and I. We need results we’re simply not getting.’
‘Someone is obstructing us,’ says Lorna. ‘Someone with considerable resources. We need to know who.’
Andy Gupta is squinting down his hook-nose. It makes him look like a heavy-lidded hawk. ‘When ye say obstructin us, ye mean …?’
‘A mole,’ says Lorna.
The others look at each other in alarm.
‘We know who?’ asks Fields, sitting up very straight.
‘Not yet,’ Sebastian tells him. Meanwhile Ina’s eyes have been narrowing.
‘Are we sure it’s nobody in this room?’
‘Being straight with you, no. But we don’t think so.’
‘There’s more,’ Lorna says, scrabbling in her bag for her vaper. ‘I know all of you have harboured reservations about the handling of the bombing investigation …’
‘That’s pittin it mildly,’ snorts Andy. ‘I’ve niever seen anythin sae locked doon. I made two requisition orders for copies o CCTV tapes fae the bombin – it was directly relevant tae the case!’ He makes the skin around his eyes darken. ‘Baith times, turned me doon flat.’
‘Why do you think that is?’ Sebastian asks, levelly. Andy looks severely spooked, so he adds: ‘This is all off the record. You can speak freely.’
‘Weil …’ Andy covers his mouth as though this will somehow shield him from the consequences of what’s emerging from it. ‘It did occur tae me – and I’ve been ower this wi Ina and Soo Ling – that some high-heid-yin might no hae wantit ony footage fae the bombin tae come oot.’ He folds his arms defensively, face contorting. ‘I didna want tae believe it. But noo it’s stairtin tae seem like the ainly thing that maks ony sense.’
‘It’s the same with the satellite and drone imagery,’ Soo-Ling cuts in. ‘We’ve been pretty much told not to get involved. That it’s beyond our remit. I mean,’ she wrinkles her button nose, ‘what the fuck?’
‘And your conclusions?’ More nervous glances. ‘Again, at the moment we’re just brainstorming. Nothing said here will come back and bite anybody.’
Soo-Ling seems to be their spokesperson now. ‘Until we have direct evidence, we have to question the role of the four suspects in the bombing, sir. The pattern, with the attacks and everything, and the missing evidence … I know this isn’t strictly my field, but I’ve seen this kind of thing before. It has hallmarks of a cleaning operation.’
‘James? Do you agree?’
The police officer looks uncomfortable for a moment. ‘Wouldna have put it quite that way, sir. But I do think there’s questions that need tae be answered.’
‘Ina?’
‘Keir is highly politicised. I can see her involved in a very targeted act of resistance if she felt driven to it. But …’ she shakes her head. ‘Sir, she’s no more likely to have voluntarily taken part in an indiscriminate bombing than I am. I’d, um – I’d stake my career on it.’
‘Could she have been blackmailed into it?’ This from Lorna.
Ina Tiles shrugs her narrow shoulders awkwardly. Each part of her seems to move with disconcerting independence. She pushes her glasses up. ‘It’s, um, possible. But I believe she’d need to feel sure bystanders wouldn’t be harmed. And the usual sources of, um, blackmail involve family and loved ones. She hasn’t any. She has few close friends. If someone did threaten her friends, I believe she’d make an evaluation of what she thought was the lesser evil and, um, well – sacrifice her friends rather than … than risk massacring innocent bystanders. And woe betide anyone who put her in that position. Other things: incriminating photos? Debts?’ She shakes her head. ‘Wouldn’t be on Keir’s radar. If she was involved in any way, it’s because she wanted to be.’
Sebastian leans back. ‘What about McCoull?’
Ina wrinkles her nose. ‘We don’t know much about him. Friend of Keir’s, for at least five years. Periods of alcoholism. Prone to depression. Highly intelligent in a practical kind of way. Also has few friends – which by itself did make McCoull, Keir and Teith ideal candidates for a terror cell. The, um, the real enigma from that point of view is Sinclair-Kohli. Not least because he’s – or he was – a practising Buddhist.’
‘No all Buddhists are peaceable,’ James Gupta points out. ‘Some o them wis scary bastards. My ancestors haed tae fight them.’
‘I suspect that was rather a long time ago, Jimmy.’
‘Focus!’ barks Sebastian. ‘Ina – the other suspects: could they have taken part in the bombing?’
‘I … I haven’t spent nearly as long with them. But Sinclair-Kohli; I find it doubtful. McCoull, in the right circumstances. If he convinced himself the cause was just. I’d say Teith is – was – more likely than the others.’
‘Okay.’ Sebastian leans back. ‘Here’s where I think we’re at. I’m not expecting us to find any records of the bombing. I’m pretty sure they’ll have been wiped, and that looking for them could be hazardous to our careers, or our health. However, that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t try. And there will have been witnesses. If Keir and the rest are just patsies – and that’s a big if – then police officers must have been involved in the cover-up. Officers who weren’t involved directly might have information. Of odd behaviour, or procedural irregularities they considered too insignificant to log, but which together might reveal a pattern. We need that pattern. James?’
‘Sir?’
‘Any word of unexpected fatalities in the Edinburgh police? Even natural causes.’
The police officer’s pale blue eyes widen. ‘You think whoever we’re dealing with would …?’
Sebastian nods. ‘In a heartbeat.’ Fields whistles.
‘None come to mind.
I’ll make enquiries.’
‘Would you also be in a position to ask around? Find out who was on duty that day. Play the social game – get them drunk. Plug them for intel.’
James Fields’ pale eyebrows come up. ‘You’re asking me to go undercover?’
‘Basically.’
The police officer puffs out his cheeks. ‘Been ten years since I’ve done that. But aye, sure. Will feel weird milking colleagues. But I’ll give it a go.’
‘Soo-Ling. How current are your IT skills?’
The young woman grins like a cat. ‘Better than Carla’s.’
‘Yes, I saw you were quite the hacker before MI5 got to you.’
This causes her coppery skin to flush.
‘I want you to work with Lorna. Who used to be quite the hacktivist herself.’ He grins darkly. ‘Didn’t you, Lorna?’
Lorna raises an elegant eyebrow.
‘Ina – you’ll be briefed depending on what the rest of us find, but I want you to be ready to do some fieldwork. You up for that?’ Tiles seems to swell at the prospect. ‘I want you to study the official reports, then visit the bomb-site and give me your impression, based on your profiling experience. Ask yourself: do the reports ring true? What I want is a kind of schematic map of official events. Poke holes in it. I’m after inconsistencies, statements that don’t ring true. Use your intuition.’
She nods, repositioning her glasses.
‘Final thing. Hopefully it’s clear now why you can mention this to no one. And that means absolutely no one. Don’t talk about it, even if you are alone. Regulate every word you say. Expect tails on your car and bugs already in your home. Be paranoid.’
He digs in his pockets and distributes four ziplocked evidence bags among them.
Each contains a plastic ’phone and a dozen solid-state SIMs.
‘Use these. They’re basic, but functional. You’ll see the SIMs have dates on – use the SIMs on that date only, then destroy them. The ’phones are fitted with video encryption. Do not use your existing ’phones or take them with you when you are doing anything involved with this. Leave them securely hidden at home, or lock them up. Do not leave them on your desk in the Ops Room, as others including our mole will wonder why. Clear? For all other things, use your personal and work ’phones normally.’
He claps his hands. Gets to his feet.
‘Lots to consider. Lorna or I will be in touch in a couple of hours. I want you to use the time until then thinking about your approach. Whatever their involvement proves to be, I believe Keir, Sinclair-Kohli and McCoull might be our route to confirming what happened on the day of the bombing. Which means that if they’re still alive and someone is trying to shut this down, we may be their only chance of staying that way. Never forget that makes us potential targets too.’
Sebastian ushers them out of the door. Soo-Ling Campbell is last. At the last moment, he grabs her arm.
‘A word, please.’
He sits the remote sensing specialist in the little circle of light. She looks expectantly between him and Lorna, who’s wearing an expression of stern sympathy. Nodding once at Sebastian, Lorna follows the others through the door and closes it behind her. He listens to muffled discussion and the familiar click of her heels disappearing up the corridor.
‘Why am I nervous?’ Soo-Ling asks.
He gives her what he hopes is a reassuring smile. ‘You shouldn’t be. I want you to do something, urgently. Don’t breathe a word of this to anyone – not even the others who were here just now. I want you to find someone. Someone who doesn’t want to be found. I don’t mean physically. I’m hoping that won’t be necessary.
‘I mean, on the ’net.’
She blinks. Then a grin expands across her face. ‘You came to the right girl. What …?’
‘I want you to send them a message.’
CHAPTER 38
______________
Danish Pastry
OUTSIDE, IT’S ALREADY DARK. A bottle of English sauvignon blanc sits on the candle-lit table. London singer-songwriter Tom McRae is wailing something impenetrable and cello-dark on the speakers wired to the old MP3 player as water burbles and slaps against the hull.
Alistair is doing his best not to scream.
Otter’s Pocket is anchored in a bay to the west of Staffa, the little volcanic island forever associated with Mendelssohn’s overture to Fingal’s Cave. Despite a boyhood spent less than fifty kilometres away, Alistair hasn’t been here before. Coira’s said it’s her first visit too. It’s not the best anchorage, and the continued cross-frequency jamming of radio here means he can’t get a weather forecast, but he’s confident the weather will stay benign and south-easterly for the next twenty-four hours.
He watches Coira root through his medical bag with her characteristic frown. She has a selection of sterile wipes and plasters laid out, along with some coarse sail thread, a curved and wickedly thick sail needle, medical scissors, and a pair of fine-nosed pliers. She’s sterilised the pliers and the needle in one of the stove burners. There’s also a bottle of gin. It’s of questionable provenance, but undoubted potency.
She pours some in a bowl and coils the thread into it.
The woman fascinates him. He freely admits it to himself. She looks every one of her forty-five years, but, in a strange way, magnificent with it. Greyness suits her. He thinks he should miss her long, blonde curls. But he doesn’t. What’s in their place has the lustre and hue of platinum, and it fits both her pale skin and frank eyes that are silver with a hint of bronze. Despite the strange grazes on her cheeks, she looks otherworldly. It’s like someone’s used Photoshop to dial the saturation down and the brightness up, just for her.
Then there’s her wrinkles. Exploding at the corners of her eyes, they’re elsewhere round her face as well, but for some reason just seem to accentuate the unusual, fine-boned structure of her face. She still has that dimple in her chin. While her hands remain big and clever-looking, all traces of puppy fat have gone. The rest of her has hardened too, but she’s managed to keep the curvy hips and angular shoulders he used to find so distracting. Her legs aren’t long – she’s a definite mesomorph – but their shape and her high hips make them seem that way.
She still swears like a pub full of coked-up builders. He’s almost glad: she wouldn’t be Coira otherwise. However, there’s a sense of almost fearsome purpose about her that’s new. He’s not sure how he feels about that.
She puts a phial of iodine by the pliers.
‘Ready?’ she asks, eyes unflinchingly confronting his. His teeth are clenched.
‘As I’ll ever be.’
He thinks he’s still slightly high from the morphine. He suspects it won’t help much. Coira loosens the flag he still has tied around his biceps. Peers underneath. She unties it and dumps it on the table. ‘Bleeding’s stopped. Could be a good sign.’
‘Yes.’ Or the bloody opposite.
She peers into the wound. ‘Doesn’t look like it hit anything major … Wiggle your fingers?’
It’s painful, but he does. She nods, and jabs the tip of his index finger with the scissors.
‘Ow!’ She similarly abuses each finger, his thumb, and both sides of the back of his hand. ‘Jesus, Coira. Could you not have used, I don’t know, a pen or something?’
‘You’re a fucking girl, you know that? Major nerves and tendons all seem fine. Like you said, no exit wound, so I think it got stopped by the bone.’
She grabs his elbow.
‘Push against me?’
He does. It's sore, but not excruciating.
‘Don’t think it broke the humerus. Not in two, anyway.’
‘You done this before?’
She bobs her head. ‘Sort of. Couple of partners got shot. Drug enforcement in West Lothian.’
‘Did they survive?’
‘One of them. Lean back and clench this between your teeth.’ She passes him one of the cork mats from off the table.
Yes, she was definitely more fun before. He does as instructed.
‘You can look away if you want.’
He does want, but he keeps on looking anyway. She wriggles on to the seat beside him. Douses the wound with gin. It’s sore, but less bad than he was expecting.
Unlike the next bit.
He’s been shot before – and with a more dangerous round than the one currently lodged in his humerus. That, however, had been extracted under anaesthetic in a proper field hospital. Coira closes the forceps of the pliers and then, without preamble or warning, slides them firmly into the round hole in his biceps.
It’s bad enough going in, but when he feels the forceps hit the bone, he thinks he will either vomit or pass out. He concentrates on keeping his breathing slow, but can’t stop himself bucking in the seat.
‘Easy.’
He lets a low moan escape as she begins exploring, working the pliers in semicircles. Mind-expanding patterns flash and dance before his eyes, he’s screwed them so tightly shut. He feels, as well as hears, a metallic contact, and there’s a wrenching sensation from somewhere inside his arm.
He hears Coira curse as the pliers slip and she has to dig around to find the bullet all over again.
After a fair bit of grunting by both of them, and his arm being wrenched about quite violently, he feels an even stronger pain, followed by a kind of release. The piece of mat he’s bitten off falls to the table as a deeply inhuman sound, emerging somewhere south of his navel, travels the length of his torso and escapes via his mouth.
Then he’s looking through whatever’s blurring his vision at a pair of concerned, platinum eyes.
‘Bloody hell,’ he manages.
‘Fun?’
He wipes his eyes. ‘Oh yeah.’ He feels gin slosh on his arm. Pain swells again. He snatches the bottle and takes a swig.
‘Press on the hole. Now.’