Sealed With A Death

by James Silvester

  “Which case?”

  Lucie hesitated for a moment and took a deep breath in.

  “Ines Aubel.”

  Ismail gave a harsh, sardonic laugh and shook his head.

  “Ines Aubel,” he repeated. “You know, I’ve been a rozzer for twenty years, and I’ve had a lot of cases I wish I’d never been involved in, but never have I been so sorry a body was found as I was with Ines Aubel, God rest her soul.”

  The lament surprised Lucie, but she didn’t question it, reasoning that allowing Ismail to unload the obvious stresses he was feeling would see the information he carried flow more freely.

  “What was the cause of death?”

  “Gunshot wound to the head.”

  “And she was raped before she was killed?”

  “It appears so,” Ismail snapped in confirmation. “Her injuries certainly suggest as much although there’s no trace of DNA evidence; at least none I’m aware of. I’m sorry, how do you know all this?”

  “You filed a report, linking Ines’ death to the disappearance of six other women,” Lucie said, ignoring his question.

  “Indeed I did, and immediately after filing it I was contacted by the Home Secretary’s office and told in no uncertain terms to drop it and focus my energies on other cases. When I objected, I was threatened with suspension, so you’ll see why it grates just a little to have to make time to dance to your tune - or is that MP you claim to work for pulling the strings? If he is then for what? So he can score points in some debate?”

  “Kasper Algers is an Independent,” Lucie responded, “he doesn’t do Party politics.”

  “Maybe not, but he still needs to get himself re-elected, doesn’t he? If he sticks his nose into a few cases before too long he’ll have made quite the name for himself, won’t he?”

  “Listen!” Lucie loudly demanded. “This isn’t about political one-upmanship, ok? Algers may be an MP, but I’m not and I’m just interested in the facts of this case. A woman has been murdered, six more are missing, nobody’s come up with a better theory than you, and maybe I might be able to do something about it without getting screwed like you’ve been. Now if we can get to the bottom of something, and make a bit of noise about it, then maybe the government won’t have any choice but to let you re-open the case, yes?”

  Ismail’s eyes narrowed and Lucie could tell he was feeling the burn of resentment at the impotence of his situation, and it was a feeling with which she fully sympathised. A few moments passed before he finally nodded his acquiescence.

  “Right then,” Lucie said, her voice returning to normal. “What first made you think the cases were linked?”

  “Chance really,” Ismail shrugged. “When the body was found, I looked into her background and found there’d been a missing person’s report filed on her a few days previously, and I remembered a mate of mine on the MET telling me of a couple of disappearances she’d been working on until she got shifted onto other cases. After that I went looking and found ten other disappearances in similar circumstances: all young women, single, professional and living alone…”

  “And all originally from somewhere in Europe,” Lucie interrupted, the police officer nodding in response.

  “Yep, and not from one country in particular but right across the EU. I thought maybe some nutter from one of these ‘yellow vest’ groups that have sprung up recently might be involved, but before I could dig any deeper, I was called up and told the case had to be closed.”

  Lucie squinted as she processed the information. Ismail’s thoughts about the yellow vests – the usual Far Right groups, some of whom had taken to donning high visibility jackets in mimicry of the gilets jaunes movement in Paris – were intriguing and the involvement of such people was always a possibility, although they had never previously acted so subtly. More interesting to Lucie right now was the reason for closing the case.

  “You said your mate was told to close her investigation, too?”

  “So she told me,” Ismail responded. “Pretty much the same thing that happened to me; a call from above telling her there was political pressure to divert our resources to more ‘pressing matters’ as they described them.”

  “And the case is left open-ended?”

  Ismail shifted uncomfortably.

  “Not exactly,” he said. “I wanted to leave mention of my theories in case of future investigation but was categorically told that wasn’t acceptable. Instead the bigwigs upstairs picked out what they saw as the most likely option in the circumstances and that was that.”

  “And what was the ‘most likely option’ DI Ismail?” Lucie quizzed, her suspicions suddenly aroused by the CID man’s uncomfortable body language. Ismail inhaled slowly before answering, a hint of shame in his voice.

  “The body was found not far from one of the new trial legal brothels; the one just outside the town centre, you know? It’s common knowledge that there are ways to bypass the registration requirements, and there are some pretty desperate people who hang around nearby, looking to undercut what’s on offer legally…”

  “Ines wasn’t a ‘desperate’ person, Detective Inspector, she was a well-paid employee of a blue chip company in the centre of London; what need would she have to supplement her income like that?”

  “Look, I agree, alright?”

  Ismail held up his hands, clearly as frustrated as Lucie herself with the situation.

  “I agree. There was no evidence of payments other than her salary going into her account, no evidence of drug use, either in her system when we found her, or at her flat. There was nothing whatsoever to indicate a predilection for risky lifestyle choices or anything that could explain why she ended up where she did. I tried to investigate further but thanks to cut after cut to our budget, and now with this fucking Brexit shit about to kick off, my time was demanded elsewhere; what’s more it had to be seen to be utilised elsewhere.”

  “What? More of that ‘British services for British People’ bullshit the papers are full of?”

  “Hey!” Ismail shouted back at her, anger clouding his face in an instant. “Asian guy standing here, hello! You don’t get to lecture me about institutional fucking racism after what I’ve had to put up in my life and doing this fucking job! Believe me, Miss Government Agent, I get more shit each day from the people I’m trying to help than I do from the bloody criminals! Do you know what it’s like to be looked at with suspicion by everyone the day after a bomb goes off somewhere? To be stared at with pure hatred by the witnesses you’re trying to question, because they think you’re more likely to blow yourself up alongside the suspect as arrest them? Even today, I get nasty looks from anyone who has to squeeze up next to me on the Tube. And you think I get off on kowtowing to the fascistic bastards steering us into the sewer?”

  Lucie stayed silent for a moment, resisting the urge to snap back with details of her own life and the prejudices she and Europeans had faced since even before the Referendum had been called. Instead, she dialled back her emotions, refusing to again allow them to control her and cloud her actions on a case. Anyway, it was clear the case mattered to the DI. She held up her own hands and spoke again, softening her inflections.

  “Ok, I understand, I’m sorry. It’s not a competition to see who’s taken the most abuse in life. It’s obvious you did everything you could.”

  “Yeah, well it wasn’t enough, was it?” Ismail replied, gathering his own emotions and sighing in resignation. “She’s officially noted in the records as a suspected prostitute, no-one is out there looking for the killer and six other women are still missing. Meanwhile I’m increasingly finding my job transformed into being part of the judiciary wing of the Conservative Party…”

  A small smile formed at the edge of Lucie’s mouth at the officer’s black humour, which she was pleased to see mirrored on his own face, the tension that had filled the room beginning to ease.

  “Well, fortunately I don’t answer to the bloody Tories, at least not yet. I’m going to be picking this
case up Detective Inspector, and I’ll get to the bottom of it, you can count on that.”

  “Call me Asif,” he answered, his smile widening. “And I wish I had your freedom. Is there anything I can do to help?”

  “You can start by calling me Lucie,” she grinned back, “and by keeping this conversation secret, right? Needless to say, I’m not too keen on the idea of finding my face on the News at Ten.”

  “Absolutely,” Ismail nodded. “I’ve done enough work with counter terrorism and Interpol to know how these things go down.”

  “Good. Have you got a pen?”

  Ismail patted his pockets and retrieved a ball point pen, handing it to Lucie, who took it and scribbled something down on the back of a receipt recovered from the capacious pocket of her overcoat, handing the scrap to the police officer.

  “That’s my number,” she smiled. “If you think of anything you can reach me on that.”

  “I will,” Ismail promised, his voice now far lighter and devoid of the stresses apparent within it earlier. “I definitely will. Let me sign you out.”

  For the first time since her brief touching of lips with the late Della Quince, whom Lucie could not now think of without succumbing to a medley of anger and love, she sensed the glorious tingle of new attraction inside her as she walked back down the steps towards the exit, with Ismail beside her. The tension now replaced with a nervous warmth and curiosity that the police officer’s face told her was mutual, they bid each other a warm goodbye before Lucie set off back towards the Underground station, focussing once more on the case. The only lead she had was the location of the body, and though she was not entirely enamoured of the prospect of visiting such an establishment, she knew the brothel near the crime scene was the only place to begin.

  By the time she reached Kentish Town station, she had dialled Algers’ number three times without answer and she frowned as she scrolled instead to Lakes’ details. Lake had demanded a direct report and while the prospect of speaking to him posed no greater anticipation than visiting the brothel would, it was likewise an unfortunate necessity.

  The dial tone rang once before the spy master answered, Lucie advising him blandly that she had met with DI Ismail and would soon be following up a new lead. It was as she finished and made to end the call that Lake stopped her, an urgency in his voice she was unaccustomed to.

  “What is it?” she queried.

  “Where are you now?”

  “In Kentish Town, heading back to Camden Town, why?”

  “Meet me in Westminster as soon as possible. There are things we need to discuss.”

  “Such as?”

  “Such as Mr Algers,” Lake slowly intoned. “There’s been an attack.”

  SEVEN

  Lucie spotted Lake outside the imperious magnificence of Number One Parliament Street, wearing both his regular ensemble of casual suit and expression of mild irritation at seemingly everything and everyone around him. Though the anger stirred up by their most recent meeting still frothed within her, Lucie pushed her resentment to the back of her mind and rushed across the road to meet him.

  “What’s happened?” she demanded. “Where is he?”

  “Walk with me,” Lake responded, setting off at a nonchalant pace in the direction of St. Stephen’s Tower.

  After a couple of steps of silence, Lucie could contain her worry no further and repeated her demand to know what happened, Lake eventually responding, though his eyes never once met hers.

  “Mr Algers is alive,” he confirmed, “though he may not remain so. He is presently at Chelsea and Westminster hospital.”

  “I have to see him,” Lucie interrupted.

  “There’s little point, he’s quite unconscious; his attendants have yet to give an altogether positive view of his chances.”

  Lucie thought for a brief moment that she could detect the faintest of cracks in her Superior’s voice, though as she turned her head to face him, his features displayed their usual look of annoyed rigidity.

  “What happened?” she asked.

  “He was on a visit and was confronted by a group of Yellow Vests who crowded him, shouting their usual repertoire of abuse, but rather than ignore them he chose to engage and challenge their remarks. He earned several bottles to the head for his trouble and was beaten further after he collapsed. If the police hadn’t arrived when they did, he would have probably been killed at the scene.”

  Lucie stifled the reaction she could feel brewing in her gut and cursed under her breath. Violence and intimidation towards anyone who dared to call out the illegality and gerrymandering of the Referendum was yet another unpleasant hallmark of the new Brexit Britain, and Kasper, with his outspoken views and refusal to ‘get behind’ what he and so many saw as damaging at best and fascistic at worst had long been on the list of targets. While politicians of all parties were used to the close attentions of the various Yellow Vest groups roaming Westminster, who would routinely menace MPs in order to score likes on social media, away from the ‘bubble’ they were altogether more unpredictable.

  “Did the police get them?” Lucie probed.

  “Regrettably not. Two Police Response vehicles attended the scene, but the Officers’ immediate concern was Mr Algers himself.”

  “But they can identify them, surely? Those thugs never go anywhere without a camera phone, there must be some video evidence the cops can rely on?”

  Lake shook his head, his customary frown creasing further.

  “Nothing I’m afraid that suggests immediate identification. One or two videos have begun doing the rounds on some of the darker corners of the internet, presented as a ‘warning to remoaners’, but everyone in them, save for Mr Algers, has their face obscured.”

  “But still, there must be some distinguishing marks, some way of identifying them that the police can look at?”

  “If they’re given the time to do so,” came the fatalistic reply, “which in the current climate, isn’t likely. The government don’t dare allow a full-scale investigation in case it brings up any awkward questions about Brexit or the validity of the process. I’m afraid the attack on Mr Algers will be put down officially as a simple case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  Lucie stopped dead on the pavement, eliciting the insults of the person closest behind her, who stumbled and walked around her.

  “So that’s it then?” She quizzed, giving in to her anger. “We’re just going to forget about it?”

  Lake took her gently by the arm and encouraged her to keep moving through the ever-increasing crowds, his voice typically low.

  “Calm yourself, Ms Musilova,” he said. “I said that the hands of the police would be tied. You, I and this department are not the police.”

  Her chest relaxed in relief at his reassurance and she pushed her anger back down, to be dealt with later.

  “So where did this happen?”

  “WaterWhyte Defence Systems,” Lake answered. “The Chairman and CEO of which coincidentally is one Jarvis Whyte MP, the Conservative Member for Heaton South. Mr Algers was looking into some queries about the…”

  “The Red Mako project,” Lucie guessed.

  “I remind you, Ms Musilova, that you are not assigned to enquiries into the Red Mako project.”

  “Yeah, well maybe not, but you can at least tell me what it is.”

  Lake sighed in resignation and spying an unoccupied bench, led Lucie to it and sat down, the pair watching the bustle of London life as he outlined the background to Algers’ case.

  “The Red Mako is the name of a new, high speed military interception boat being developed for the Saudis for use in the Yemen campaign. Six models are being produced for deployment from a strategic platform in the Red Sea – hence the name – designed to patrol the coastline and protect Saudi Arabia from any attacks launched from the water or attempts to break the naval blockade of Yemen.”

  “What, just trading in guns isn’t enough for the government anymore?” Lucie asked in obv
ious disgust.

  “Regrettably not. With business after business making plans to leave the country after Brexit, and the loss of so much of the financial sector for the same reason, the government feels it must attempt to plug the hole somewhere. After being embarrassed by some of the comments made by Airbus and the like, and the very real threat to the defence and aerospace industries, Red Mako offered the Hard Brexiters in the Cabinet the perfect opportunity.”

  “But surely they’ll still have the same supply chain problems that the other major companies are facing?”

  “Actually, no,” Lake replied. “As fate would have it, the tendering process for the sub-contracts, while of course being entirely fair and above board, have resulted in exclusively British companies being selected to supply parts, all under the umbrella of WaterWhyte Defence… strange that.”

  The cynicism in Lake’s voice was obvious and sincere, and Lucie began to grasp the nature of Alger’s investigation.

  “So, Kasper was looking into the tenders? Fair enough, it just seems a bit low key for a guy of his skill…”

  “It wasn’t just that,” Lake interrupted. “Let’s just say that we had one or two concerns that the project isn’t as completely defence oriented as the official documents would have us believe.”

  “You think it’s an attack vessel?”

  “There are certain indications in that direction, yes; suggestions that the Red Mako may actually be a sea-based weapons platform from which to attack Yemeni outposts; but getting to the bottom of things isn’t easy. This is the government’s pet project, the proverbial middle finger to Remainers and doubters out there, designed to show them that while Brexit Britain may be something of a turd, it can at least be polished.”

  Lucie smiled at his uncommon vulgarity, but her mind quickly returned to the severity of the situation Lake described.

  “Polished by building an attack ship to worsen a humanitarian crisis,” she mused.

  “If it makes money for them and makes Brexit look even vaguely successful then they consider it worth it. The human cost of anything has never weighed heavily on the minds of that lot.”