'We can only speculate.'
'What's your best guess?' Morton asked as the coffee arrived. He declined sugar as Burrows stirred three into his coffee, black.
'Come with me.' Burrows rose, striding quickly for the door. Slightly perplexed, the investigators tailed him, curious expressions splashed across their faces.
He led them into a larger room, with a conference table in the middle and a number of charts, documents and photos on displays down the length of the wall. It was eerily reminiscent of the police squad room when everyone was roped into a particularly intriguing case.
Burrows gestured at a collection of photographs near one end.
'These gentlemen have all appeared on our radar after making gains that would be hard to explain by mere luck. They all make losses, but those losses are without exception far smaller than the gargantuan gains they make. All the men are connected personally, even if only remotely. Several of them are linked by alma mater, professional training, place of birth and past employment. The connections are slim at best and don't appear to point to a cohesive group. Their market positions, however, almost always coincide, even when the general market opinion is against them.'
'So you think they are working together?'
'Yes. Between them they seem to have developed an extensive collective network, one that would explain how they are getting their information.'
'I'm sensing a "but" in there?' Morton smiled mirthlessly.
'Yes. The "but" in the equation is: I can't for the life of me work out how they are communicating. No letters, texts, calls, emails, couriered messages or in-person meetings have taken place. I have extensive surveillance on all of them, and my agents have seen nothing.'
'Doesn't sound like you've got much to go on. I guess we're on our own.'
***
The journey took Ant longer than he expected. It was nearing nightfall when he made it into Portsmouth. His jury-rigged device was safe inside a backpack. Without the petrol inside the car, it posed no threat. A jiggler key rounded out the required kit, and was tucked safely inside a pocket, hidden from prying eyes. Jake's car was an older-style Fiat, and getting into the fuel cap would be fairly trivial. By bumping the inside of a tumbler lock Ant could force the pins up above the lock for a fraction of a second. If done while nudging the jiggler forward and turning, it would allow the cap to be opened without the proper key. It was an old lag's trick, and Ant had heard about it many times while in prison. It wasn't something he had much experience in doing, but he had practised on his own car, and was confident that he could open the cap inside thirty seconds flat.
The plan was to wait for dark before making his move. He would need a full two minutes to get to the car, open the cap and get out without being seen. Daylight would put him in plain view, and while the house was at the end of a cul-de-sac, there was the possibility that there would be neighbours around that could spot the movement.
Google Street View had shown Ant that a solitary street lamp lit the road in the evening, and Ant guessed it would kick in around six. On a Wednesday night Ant was fairly certain that footfall would drop to zero after around ten o'clock. There would likely be a few students in the various pubs in the area, but Taswell Road wasn't on any of the major routes, and few lived there. The houses were largely recessed from the road, fences and hedges obscuring the driveways from view.
At eleven o'clock, Ant made his way to the street. A few drunks could be seen near the Taswell Arms pub. The road was laid out as an inverted T section, with one side running north-south, and the bottom of the T containing the target house. The north of the cul-de-sac was a school, and the CCTV on the gates would cover part of the pavement on that side of the road.
Ant was careful to stick to the south side of the road, avoiding the ever-watchful cameras. No one was in sight, and he passed into the driveway of Jake's home without being challenged. A crackle rang out in the darkness, somewhere nearby, and Ant drew closer to the wall for cover, holding his breath to ensure silence. Thirty seconds passed, and he heard nothing. By the one-minute mark his blood was pumping, beginning to pound in his ears, and a sharp intake of breath ensued as his lungs screamed out for air. He didn't know how long passed before he allowed himself to move again, his muscles a little stiffer for the experience.
He slowly inched towards the fuel cap. It was at the back right of the car, close to the house. If anyone inside went past the bay window that guarded the lounge he would be caught. Moving quickly he jiggled the lock. A forensic examination would show that the lock had been bumped, but Ant was confident that the explosion would destroy all the evidence.
With a wrench the fuel cap came off in his hand. He delved inside the bag at his feet, and pulled out the device. He had balled up the device his Irish cellmate had taught him to build. He had tied one end to a short length of string. He held the string, then lowered it in carefully, listening out for the splash that would indicate he had gone too far. The device needed to be near the petrol, but not in it as only the fumes could be lit from the spark. If the device were to become submerged, it would fail. He taped it off inside the fuel cap, and replaced the cap to conceal his treachery.
He rose slowly to avoid making any further noise and lifted his bag gently onto his back. It was now redundant, and he would dump it somewhere before returning to London in case the police traced him by CCTV – a man with a bag would be seen far more easily than one without. He moved on the balls of his feet, scarpering out of the driveway and doubling back along the road away from the house.
He debated finding a 24-hour bar to wait out the night, but a lone drinker arriving near the witching hour would be remembered, and the explosion was bound to make the national media sit up and take notice. Instead he would sleep on the seafront. It was quiet, and he knew that the many benches would be a magnet for the homeless. He could easily kill time there before catching a cab in the morning.
***
As the sun rose over the ocean, Ant realised that he was exposed. He had not expected to fall asleep on the hard bench, and to regain consciousness as early morning runners jogged by was disconcerting. He had to get out of Portsmouth before he was seen. He made his way to the train station. He could have simply taken a train, but the police would be bound to look at the CCTV covering those leaving the city in the wake of an explosion.
Instead, his destination was the nearby taxi rank. With the air of someone in a hurry he demanded to be taken to Petersfield. It was a regional trading hub, and he knew it would be easy to get onwards passage there via train back to London. As his taxi pulled into the market town, Ant sent a text to Jake's phone which set off the receiver in his car. The resulting explosion engulfed the car in a ball of flames that blew out the windows of his house, scattering metal and glass over a fifteen yard radius.
Chapter 49: Panic
Half the city had been cordoned off by the police. They had no idea whether or not it was an isolated incident, and they were taking no chances. The road was photographed from every angle, with every shard, fragment and remnant being bagged and tagged. The forensic evidence would be so extensive that the regional processing centre used by the Hampshire Constabulary would be backed up for weeks. The point of origin was discovered in little time. All the damage radiated out from the car parked in front of 2 Taswell Street.
'It was a miracle that there was only one casualty,' Detective Inspector Brown said to the group assembled as they broke for a quick coffee, and a chance to survey the scene.
'Yes, sir. Plenty of property damage though. Must be a few million quid in damage,' one of Brown's junior officers chipped in.
'True enough, but the insurance companies will put that right.' Brown was unconcerned with the smashed windows and scratched cars.
'You think it was Al Qaeda?' a crime scene tech ventured.
'If I hear any of you say that near the press, you'll be fired. No one here is to use the term terrorist. Do I make myself clear?' Brown glared at them.
>
They nodded quickly, knowing they'd simply wait until he was gone before they finished their conversation.
'Right, back to work.'
There was one victim, the driver of the car. His body was better preserved than Brown had expected. Rather than the complete immolation he had expected from an explosion, the body was remarkably well preserved. The fireball had not been hot enough or long enough to incinerate the remains. Forensics had explained that the concussive force was minimal for an explosion, and that it was safe to rule out any controlled substance being used to fuel the explosion. It was simply the petrol tank exploding.
Brown knelt near the car. There wasn't much left of whatever trigger had been used to set off the explosion. The shrapnel fragments would have to be sorted by hand for any evidence of the requisite electronics, but it would take a while to collect all visible evidence. Until that had been done the search for the trigger couldn't begin.
CCTV was being analysed by the audio-visual department, but coverage on the Portsea peninsula was spotty at best, with most of the coverage focussing on the tourist areas such as Gunwharf and the Historic Dockyards. Most of the other shops carried their own cameras, but in the residential areas the blanket ceased and a few cameras were dotted around the major throughways.
The work was being hindered by the media. Minutes after the emergency services were called they began to converge on the scene. Roads that would normally flow freely were being clogged with journalists, and camera crews. Combined with the road closures the police instituted near possible targets for attack such as the Guildhall, the city was at a standstill. Even the Navy had the good sense to remain on base with tightened security checks on the entrance.
Every officer on the force was under strict orders to only reply with 'no comment', yet the journalists were getting some of the information anyway.
Inspector Brown knew he would have to call a press conference sooner rather than later to address the public's concern. They deserved to know the truth, but at the same time the last thing he needed was to incite public panic. Before that happened he had been asked to meet with an Executive Liaison Group from MI5. It probably wasn't a terrorist organisation. None had claimed responsibility yet. Nonetheless, they couldn't afford to risk it, and it would be actively pursued as a possibility.
For now, the police would have to follow up on the bomb, and hope that something could be seen on the CCTV.
***
Grim satisfaction resonated through Ant as he saw the aftermath of his handiwork on television. The road had been devastated, bits of car and masonry scattered over the street. He was glad no one else had been hurt. His anger was great, but it was directed only at the man who had caused him to wind up in prison. He had exacted his revenge. The talking heads on television were haring off in the wrong direction. More than one had been quick to attribute the blame to Al Qaeda, despite a denial being issued by their spokesperson through Al-Jazeera. Ant didn't mind; the speculation was fuelled by ignorance, and the more he heard about terrorist groups the further away from the truth the police had become. The device might give them some hints, but even it was a design he had stolen from a former cellmate who had attempted to use it during the Troubles.
He knew that there was a danger he would become overconfident. He had killed two people, and so far the police were none the wiser. There was one more death that he had to bring about, the man who set him up to carry out the first kill but reneged on the deal. He had enough information to piece together who he was. Now all he needed to do was find out where he went and when. With that information he could begin to form his plan, and then revenge would be his.
Chapter 50: Implications
Edwin felt smug. He knew he'd layered just enough information into the darknet exchange to implicate Yosef. Neither of them had any idea he was involved as they both believed they were dealing directly with the other. Yosef didn't deserve to die. He wasn't the one who had benefited from the kill Ant carried out, but Ant didn't know that. By giving Ant the chance to take it out on Yosef he removed the chance that someone with knowledge of the darknet would try and hunt him down. Eleanor was long since dead and buried, and the police were still nowhere near finding out what had happened.
He knew that the pile of carcasses on his conscience had grown steadily since then, but he had no personal connection with any of them. He hadn't so much as seen them, so it was easy for him to rationalise them as just numbers. It was the same way he felt when he first read of the tsunami that had killed 1.7 million people back in 2004. He knew that it was a devastating loss of life, and that every victim would be mourned by someone, but without a face to put to each number it was easy to disassociate the deaths from his actions.
Knocking back a whisky, Edwin toasted his freedom.
***
Ant didn't bother planning his last kill. He knew the man couldn't carry out a hit, so he certainly couldn't pose a threat to a hardened lag like Ant. He knew the man had a child with a rare illness, which meant he probably spent a lot of time at Guy's Hospital in Southwark, as it was the only hospital in the capital to deal with Tay-Sachs children. He knew he was looking for a Jewish gentleman, and he knew his first name.
Finding out who his son was had required him to be bold, but had worked like a dream. He walked into the hospital, and asked the nurse which room Yosef's son was in, holding an armful of toys. The nurse immediately showed him to the private room that Zachariah occupied. Surreptitiously glancing at his charts gave him a surname, Gershwin. He thanked the nurse for her help, and made a hasty retreat. He now had all the information he needed.
***
Inspector Brown was being stonewalled. The 'liaison' group had seized a great deal of evidence in the name of national security, and the police were in the dark. CCTV had shown nothing. With over 200,000 people milling around an island city it was impossible to keep track of just one individual. Per square mile Inspector Brown had responsibility for more people than London, and when cases like this came along his department was overstretched.
A backlog of forensics was being examined, and in the three days since the explosion the debris had been sorted according to source. This was mainly done by visual inspection. Glass was separated from metal from plastic, and placed into mountains of evidence. Each piece over an inch long was individually logged and numbered, with the position at the scene noted carefully. Three hundred and sixty degree imagery allowed Brown to explore the crime scene as it was on arrival, but the resolution left something to be desired.
The team were still looking for traces of electronic debris in a bid to find something that could identify the bomber. The problem was that it was at the epicentre of the blast, and was likely to have been melted by the heat. Brown also feared that the electronics from the car itself would contaminate anything found, and render it worthless as a means to trace the bomber.
Instead of focussing on the slim chance of finding something forensically significant he had been homing in on the life of the victim. Four people shared the house which was bombed, and the car was used by just one of them. Brown had assigned deputies to investigate all four, but his personal hunch was that the bomb had hit its mark when Jake Randall had died in the blast.
Mr Randall was a lecturer in international relations at the university, and outside his housemates and students he appeared to have a fairly closed social group. It would be somewhere to start, even if unlikely to be fruitful. Even if the university proved a dead end it would beat sitting around waiting for forensics to come up trumps.
***
Ant lay in wait on a dark street near Guy's. He knew Yosef drove to the hospital after watching him leave his son's bedside the previous evening. Finding the car again took some time, as there were no car parks in the area, and with London congestion it was impossible to park in the same place twice. Yosef was clearly affluent though, as the car was a new-model BMW. It wasn't brand new, but at barely eighteen months old it would still cost a pretty pen
ny.
He found the vehicle parked near Vinegar Yard, a short walk east of the hospital, and far enough away from London Bridge Station to have lower footfall. On foot, the quickest way to it was to take Melior Street straight from Guy's and cut down an alleyway.
He debated breaking into the car and hiding inside, but it would increase the odds of his being seen. It seemed like he was loitering for an age when Yosef appeared. When he walked past, Ant waited a moment before following. He reached his BMW around thirty seconds before Ant got there and there were simply too many watching for Ant to be able to make his move. Mr Gershwin would survive that evening, but it was only a temporary reprieve.
***
Morton could see what the FSA meant. He'd done his own research on the individuals Burrows had pointed the finger at. It was a loose collection, and he wondered if Burrows was clutching at straws trying to find a connection. Thirty individuals could be found who had made vastly more than their peers. Much of the work in the investigation had already been done by journalists astounded at the profits. Morton doubted he and WPC Stevenson would be able to dig anything more up, at least not without alerting them to the investigation, and he knew Burrows wanted to keep it hush-hush to avoid ruling out a sting.
The links the media had highlighted were spurious at best. Two had gone to the same school. Another pair shared the same golf club. Three more graduated from Oxford together. All of the links were of the same ilk, connecting together small subgroups, but nothing suggested that they were all linked. Burrows' own case file that he had sent over unabridged ran to hundreds of pages including detailed surveillance work, and not once had all of the suspects met, or communicated in any way known to the FSA.
Feeling a migraine come over him as he pored over dozens of financial statements, Morton shouted for WPC Debra Stevenson.
'Debs, be a doll and get me two aspirin, would you?' He grinned, knowing she hated to be called doll.
The DCI Morton Box Set Page 20
