by LJ Ross
He turned to Captain Nobel.
“Gary? Tell us what’s being done by EOD.”
Nobel was sprawled at the end of a row, his legs splayed an anti-social width apart in a classic ‘alpha’ gesture that generally had the opposite effect to the one he intended.
“I’ve got the team out there now combing the bridges, checking and double checking for any other devices. We can use the sniffer dogs this time, since we don’t need to keep a low profile. We’ve also been joined by another unit from Catterick, down in Yorkshire, so if there’s anything to find, I’m as confident as I’ll ever be that we’ll find it. We know the kind of device our perp prefers to use, so we can be on the look-out for anything similar.”
“Morrison wants everything operational again by tomorrow morning,” Ryan said, with a degree of irritation. “It’s the start of the working week and she wants to put the whole thing behind us. I agree, but only if it’s safe to re-open those bridges.”
“On the face of it, there’s no reason why not. The threats were only a few hours apart, so if our perp wants to hit another bridge and ask for more money we’ll probably hear about it pretty soon. If we don’t hear anything and my team confirm there’s nothing suspect on the remaining major bridges, we have to make a decision and move on.”
Ryan happened to agree.
“Were you able to salvage anything from the bomb site on the High Level Bridge?” he asked.
“Yeah, we’ve collected a load of samples,” Nobel said. “They’ve been sent across to Faulkner’s team but I dunno how long it’ll take them to process. Faulkner seems a decent bloke but he’s—”
“Fastidious? Professional?” Faulkner suggested, from a couple of rows back, and Nobel turned in surprise.
“Sorry, mate, didn’t know you were with us. I just meant—”
“Yeah, I think I understand what you meant.”
The temperature in the room dropped several degrees and Ryan stepped in quickly.
“You won’t find a better forensic specialist,” he said, and his tone brooked no argument. “On that note, can you tell us anything yet, Tom?”
Tom Faulkner was a quiet, academic man with a natural flair for forensic science. He could step into a crime scene and tell at a glance what the blood spatter and configuration of a body meant and whether it spelled murder. As a chemist, he had a natural interest in the components of improvised bombs and, privately, he could admit to a degree of professional excitement at the prospect of poring over the evidence to help discover who was responsible.
“I’ve sent through a report of our preliminary findings about the first bomb,” he said. “I’ve been liaising with Captain Nobel and his colleagues to discuss the most likely construct and I’ve included a diagram in there.”
Ryan flicked through the pages of the report until he came to the back sheet, which showed an improvised device sitting inside the cross-section of a rucksack.
“The bomber gave specific deadlines for each explosion which might suggest a fixed timer,” Faulkner continued. “But, in reality, the explosion was delayed by a few minutes each time. We have to assume it was rigged up for remote-controlled detonation, which would be consistent with the evidence we have.”
Ryan frowned, thinking back to their most recent encounter on the High Level Bridge.
“If the bombs rely on manual detonation, why did they wait to detonate? The smaller charge went off as a warning or a punishment because they’d clocked members of EOD scouring the bridges and that was against the rules. If they weren’t afraid to press the button when people were on the bridge then, what stopped them from pressing the button later, when they could see us taking hundreds of people off that train?”
The room was silent as each person mulled it over.
“If I’ve said it once, I’ve said it a thousand times,” Phillips’ rumbling voice broke the silence. “You can never second-guess a nutter.”
“Words to live by,” Ryan muttered.
“Maybe you were right before,” MacKenzie suggested. “Maybe this person doesn’t want to kill anybody, so they waited.”
“They might have killed Sue, or anyone else who happened to be around when that first charge went off,” Nobel argued. “There was a bus crossing the bridge—they could have been caught up in it. Who knows? The explosion might have hit a weak point and taken out more of the tracks than intended. What if the train had been a little further along? It could have been derailed.”
“Nobel is right,” Phillips agreed, though it pained him to say it. “There are too many ‘ifs’, ‘buts’ and ‘maybes’ in all this. I’ve managed to get my hands on the CCTV footage from the Council’s cameras around the entrances to the Tyne Bridge on both sides and I’ll hunt out the same for the High Level by the end of the day. The bloke from Network Rail tells me there aren’t any cameras on the tracks—they just don’t have the money for that kind of coverage—but there are a couple in Central Station, so we’ll see if they’ve captured anything interesting.”
Ryan hitched himself up onto a nearby desk while he listened.
“There’s been no time to sit and look through the CCTV footage but that’s a task for the coming days,” he said. “It’s a mammoth job because we don’t know where or when the bridges were accessed to plant the devices. Frank? I want you to get in touch with our colleagues in the British Transport Police and enlist some volunteers to help go through it all. We need plenty of eyes on this.”
“Aye, good idea.”
Ryan ticked off the mental checklist in his head, thinking through what needed to be done.
“Jasmine? Any news from your team?”
Her eyes flicked towards Nobel, no doubt fearful of another outburst from the man who had undermined her publicly last time they’d been at a briefing together. Ryan noted the action and was ready to step in, if necessary.
“Ah, well, we’re still stuck with the Ukraine,” she said. “We hit a wall when we trace it that far and I’ve been speaking to GCHQ to see if there’s any way of putting pressure on the authorities over there. But the fact is, it’s a very different jurisdiction and they’re not co-operating, sir.”
Ryan just nodded. It was no more than he had expected.
“What about internet searches for the bomb components?”
“We’ve been working with them to cross-reference any leads they’ve generated on a national level with any known offenders locally, but there’s just been no time, sir. We need a few more days because, at the moment, they’ve got thousands and thousands of searches for things like circuit boards but nothing that stands out as being potentially relevant.”
She paused, then gave them the bad news.
“Our best guess is, the bomber used the Dark Web to order the things they needed and that will take more than a few days to trace—maybe even months. Even then, there are no guarantees.”
Ryan thanked her and considered the next move as he looked around their shattered faces. Local police were managing the infrastructure in Newcastle and Gateshead and, in true northern style, the residents of both cities had chosen to rise to the occasion. They followed the long diversions to travel where they needed to go and thanked their lucky stars that nobody had been seriously injured. If there were grumbles, they were no more than the usual grumbles of a city-dweller who would rather not be inconvenienced by something as piddling as a major bomb incident. The media continued to report the high drama of the day and pseudo-experts talked about this being the product of the Digital Age and how, without the internet, this might never have happened.
Ryan was more inclined to think that people were always people, flawed or otherwise. If some arsehole wanted to threaten an entire population, they’d figure out a way to do it, internet or no internet. That was just human nature.
Outside, the snow had stopped falling to reveal clear blue skies and the sun shone bright beams of light through the rain-washed windows, so that the storm of the morning might never have happened.
> “Go home and get some rest, all of you,” Ryan said. “Nobel? Let me know when the bridges have been cleared and are deemed safe to re-open but, in the meantime, the rest of you catch forty winks. I’ll see you back here tomorrow morning, eight a.m. sharp.”
As they began to disperse, Yates took him to one side.
“Sir? I wanted to ask what was happening with Jack. Have you heard anything more? I’ve been getting texts from his parents and I don’t know what to tell them.”
Ryan sighed.
“He’s in custody,” he said. “Jack confessed to Lucas’s murder, as you know. Tebbutt is still investigating.”
He watched tears spring into the young woman’s eyes and cleared his throat.
“Jack didn’t want his family to be told straight away but they’ll have to know soon enough. Tebbutt will keep them informed, even if Jack won’t.”
Yates blinked a few times and nodded.
“They’ll be crushed,” she said softly. “Jack is so close to his family.”
As she walked away, Ryan stuck his hands in the back pockets of his jeans and thought of his friend.
CHAPTER 23
David Lowerson helped his wife out of the car and locked it with a trembling hand before taking her arm.
“I can’t stand not knowing,” Wendy whispered. “I just can’t stand it any longer.”
“I know, love,” he murmured. “But DCI Tebbutt says she’s got some news for us; maybe it’ll be good. They probably just want to confirm Jack’s whereabouts, so they can eliminate him from their enquiries.”
David looked across at his wife and felt protectiveness wash over him. She looked so frail, all of a sudden; as if a gust of wind could carry her off at any moment. He’d made sure she wrapped up warm before they left the house, bundling her into a “Big Coat” and looking out a pair of rubber-soled shoes so she wouldn’t slip on the icy ground, but she was still shivering.
It was the shock of it all.
“We’ll get you a nice hot cup of tea, just as soon as we’re inside,” he promised.
He told himself to stay strong, to go through the motions for all their sakes, but whenever he thought of his youngest son, he wanted to crumble. He wanted to cry out, to hit something, anything to dispel the dreadful cocktail of anger and disappointment festering inside his belly that told him that, just maybe, his son had done a dreadful thing after all.
Last night, he’d been unable to sleep thinking of Jack as a boy, as a cute little bundle of mischief he’d carried on his shoulders. He’d watched both of his sons play together at the park or on trips to Bolam Lake, watched them kick up leaves there in autumn. He’d seen Paul grow up to marry and become a father himself, while Jack had gone on to excel as a first-class policeman and murder detective.
How he’d bragged about his clever son, David thought. How he’d bored his friends down at the snooker club about Jack’s heroic exploits.
What would he tell them now?
“This way, love,” he muttered, as he took his wife’s arm and guided her through the automatic doors.
* * *
“Mr and Mrs Lowerson? Thank you for coming so quickly.”
Wendy and David looked up to see DCI Tebbutt crossing the foyer in a pair of smart chinos. They could read nothing from her face, which was both comforting and concerning.
“Where’s—where’s Jack?” Wendy burst out. “What have you done?”
Tebbutt didn’t flinch at the outburst.
“If it’s alright with you, I’d like to speak to you both individually.”
“I’m not going anywhere without David,” Wendy said, and looked perilously close to tears.
“She’s overwrought,” he explained, apologetically. “I’m afraid everything’s come as a huge shock—to all of us.”
Tebbutt thought of how to get around it, then held out an arm to guide them towards the nearby family room.
“Why don’t you come and sit down, both of you, and we’ll have a chat.”
“Aye, alright. This way, pet,” David helped his wife out of her chair, her legs no longer seeming to function as they used to.
On the wall beside the family room, they passed a small poster which had recently been put up alongside a number of other notices and signs warning people not to smoke. It was printed in colour and showed DCS Jennifer Lucas as she had been in life, smiling coyly for the camera in her dress uniform. Beneath it were the simple words: ‘R.I.P. Jennifer Ann Lucas, 1972-2018.’
David jerked his eyes away from the sight of it.
“Take a seat,” Tebbutt invited them, before closing the door. “Can I offer you a coffee, some tea?”
“I don’t want anything,” Wendy snapped. “I just want to know what’s happened to Jack.”
“Well, now,” Joan said, pleasantly. “Before I go into it any further, I’m sure you understand I need to caution you both. It’s just standard procedure.”
David nodded, and they listened while Tebbutt recited the formal police caution.
“…anything you do say may be given in evidence. Is that all clear?”
They both agreed, and she placed a small recorder on a low coffee table laden with business cards and a bowl of potpourri that had lost its scent long ago.
“The time is three-oh-seven on Sunday, 11th February. Detective Chief Inspector Joan Tebbutt with Wendy and David Lowerson at Police Headquarters. Both have been cautioned however they understand this is not a formal interview, they are here to discuss the present situation regarding their son, Detective Constable Jack Lowerson and to provide any useful information in connection with the investigation into the death of Detective Chief Superintendent Jennifer Lucas.”
She paused to ask them one final, important question.
“I’m required to check. Would either of you like to call a solicitor?”
“I don’t think we need one,” David replied, and Wendy nodded her agreement.
“Alright. Let me start by bringing you up to date, as I understand you’ve been concerned for the past three hours about Jack’s whereabouts. I can assure you that he is safe and well and is in one of our custody cells, downstairs—”
“You’ve arrested him, again?” David burst out.
Tebbutt held up a hand, requesting that he allow her time to finish.
“Jack came down to the station of his own accord, asking to see me. I met with him and he voluntarily confessed to killing DCS Lucas. Accordingly, I have placed him in custody while our investigation is ongoing.”
She let that hang on the air for a moment, watching their faces crease with twin expressions of shock.
“He what? No. No, that can’t be right,” Wendy whispered.
“Jack tells me the situation was one of self-defence,” Tebbutt continued. “There was a heated argument which became physical and he was in fear of his own safety. He tells me he was forced to act or be hurt himself.”
His parents stared at her, dumbfounded.
“Now, it’s my job to investigate the veracity of the statement he has given to me, and we’re looking at all the available evidence including DNA found at the scene,” she said. “I’m hoping you’ll assist me by confirming some of Jack’s movements—and your own. Let’s begin with yesterday morning.”
“I—wait a minute, I can’t believe this of Jack,” his father said. “I don’t care how heated the argument was, Jack doesn’t have a violent bone in his whole body. I should know, I’m his father,” he said, and his voice broke on the last word.
Tebbutt waited until he’d recovered himself, looking between the pair of them.
“I understand this is difficult,” she said. “Take as long as you need.”
When they seemed to have composed themselves, she continued.
“Did you see Jack at all, yesterday?”
David rubbed a hand across his forehead, trying to remember.
“Wendy, what time did I go across to see Paul and the kids?”
“About eleven,” she murm
ured, and looked across at Joan. “David went to entertain the grandkids while I had some shopping to do.”
“Those would be your other son’s kids?”
“Yes, they live over in Low Fell. I took them down to Whitley Bay, for a run-out,” David said.
“Nice spot,” Tebbutt murmured. “How long were you there?”
“Ah, just a couple of hours because Leila had a dance class in the afternoon. I got home just after three.”
“What about you, Wendy? Did you get home around the same time?”
“I think you were a bit after me, weren’t you, love?” David turned to his wife. “Maybe five-ish?”
“Yes,” Wendy said, vacantly. “I went to the library to exchange some books, then had a look around the shops.”
“With a friend?”
“No, just on my own.”
Tebbutt smiled.
“Neither of you saw Jack yesterday, other than when he was arrested in the evening?”
“No, we hadn’t seen him in a few weeks,” David said.
“Oh?”
Tebbutt pasted on her ‘listening face’, the one she had cultivated over the years to put people at ease, so they felt comfortable enough to tell her whatever popped into their heads. It was remarkable, really, what could be learned from saying nothing at all.
“Jack was like a different person,” his father said, and Wendy nodded.
“He used to come over for his dinner every Wednesday night. But his new girlfriend didn’t like it. We invited her to join us, but she never came. Maybe we weren’t good enough for them anymore.”
“That new girlfriend was DCS Lucas?” Tebbutt put in, and Wendy nodded, tight-lipped.
“He thought we were common.”
“Now, love,” David chided. “I’m sure that isn’t what Jack thought.”
“How do we know what he thought, Dave? I feel as though I hardly know my son anymore.” She looked up at Tebbutt with wide, glassy eyes. They were of an age and, in other circumstances, Wendy could almost imagine herself sharing a glass of white wine and a scone with the woman.
