Antonov paled. Transport for London handled over a billion passengers a year, covering hundreds of miles of track, and that didn’t include any of the regional train operators or the Docklands Light Railway.
‘See what I mean?’ Morton said. ‘They could strike anywhere. It doesn’t have to be a bomb, either. It could be gas or a chemical agent or something else entirely.’
‘Then,’ Antonov said, his resolve clearly stiffening, ‘we must have sniffer dogs on the trains.’
‘That might not be a bad idea,’ Morton said.
As he spoke, he wondered if the killer was one step ahead of them. If they were arrogant enough to taunt him, to provoke the Counter Terrorism Command into raising the threat level to critical, to challenge legions of police, then surely, they ought to have considered sniffer dogs, bomb removal robots, and the like?
What else was there? Morton strained to think. If it wasn’t a bomb, poison, or gas, what could the killer do? Was he reading too much into the word “train”? Was the killer luring them to the wrong conclusion? He would have to release Ayala soon, but not too soon that the killer might notice. He needed all the man power he could get.
***
By six o’clock, the Home Office had been briefed. The prime minister appeared bleary-eyed on BBC News to announce that the terror threat level had been raised to critical.
Within a matter of minutes, every news channel was carrying the video statement as breaking news. Speculation ran rampant: was it international terrorism that had prompted the change? So-called experts began to brief the public on avoiding flights, staying home, and reporting anything suspicious.
It was a mass hysteria the likes of which had not been seen in decades. Airports ran empty with flights across London being cancelled for security reasons, and supermarket shelves were emptied of everything from bread and milk to cans and bottled water.
It was as if the apocalypse had been announced.
***
It was exactly as I expected. The police were clueless.
Even the lame-duck prime minister had become a puppet in my game. They had brought in tens of thousands of new officers, moved sniffer dogs and bomb disposal units. They would no doubt lock down the capital’s railway stations tighter than a nun’s arsehole.
None of that mattered. They had no way of knowing where I would strike, only when. The clock was ticking down. The final countdown had begun.
I was winning. And in less than sixteen hours, it would be game, set, and match.
Chapter 52: Puzzling
The Counter Terrorism Command abandoned Morton’s Incident Room shortly after breakfast. They had a divergence in approach, and each team had their own way to proceed. The moment they were gone, Morton sprung Ayala from his cell. He’d have to keep a low profile until the evening, but they needed him in the room.
The taunt had to be the key. ‘I’ll train you.’
The killer was playing with him.
The thing about games was that there had to be a chance either side could win. The killer didn’t want to play fair, but they seemed to need a victory. To beat Morton without giving him a shot would be a pyrrhic victory.
Wherever they were targeting had to be connected to the railways.
‘Mayberry, get me a map of London. I want overlays showing every train, every tube, and even the DLR.’
The projector flashed to life as the bulb warmed up. Mayberry, silent as usual, did as directed.
Lines snaked across the London map.
‘Now, mark in red anywhere that the Counter Terrorism Command are going to put extra staff.’
‘H-have y-you got a l-list?’
He had a point. Antonov hadn’t given them explicit details. ‘Let’s assume they’re going to cover every major hub station, all zone one stations, and any station where tube lines interact.’
That would be where Morton would put the extra staff if he believed in the same logic as Antonov.
At Mayberry’s command, a large knot of the rail network in the centre of the map turned red.
‘Now, put anywhere with a high population density in green.’
The areas that lit up were close by the commuter lines going in and out. They were busy enough to carry thousands of passengers, but not important enough to guard.
‘If you wanted to kill a lot of people, where would you hit? Rafferty? Ayala? Any ideas?’ Morton turned to look at his two senior detectives.
Both were asleep.
Morton paced the Incident Room, then tapped each on the shoulder. Neither woke.
‘Sod it,’ he said.
He raised a hand into a giant fist and slammed it down on the conference table between them. They jumped up immediately. Their eyes went wide as if they were afraid they were under attack.
‘Good morning, you two,’ Morton said. ‘How nice of you to join us. We’re trying to work out where the killer will strike. Any thoughts?’
‘It has to be somewhere just outside the safe zone,’ Rafferty said. ‘The biggest threat is coming into central London. You can’t hit Waterloo or Paddington because it’ll be so busy with police. This is a killer who wants to be smart, not just violent. If they wanted to kill people, they’d have done it without taunting you and without sticking to an arbitrary schedule.’
‘About the taunt,’ Ayala said. ‘What if the choice of takeaway delivery is important? They chose a place in Camden. What’s around there?’
‘Camden Market?’ Rafferty volunteered.
‘That’s not a train,’ Morton said. ‘It has to be railway-related.’
‘Does it?’ Rafferty said. ‘What if it’s just a coincidence? What if they meant it like the verb, to educate, not the noun train? They could hit a bus, or a convention, or a church. Every time we push the security perimeter back, we move the people to a new, weaker spot just outside it.’
Just outside. ‘Hmm,’ Morton mused. ‘Which stations are immediately outside the big interchanges?’
‘C-Clapham J-Junction?’ Mayberry volunteered.
It was possible. It was one of the busiest interchanges. There would no doubt be some presence there, though, and it was a high-CCTV area.
Morton shook his head. ‘No. We’re not thinking outside the box enough. Our killer isn’t going to just throw a backpack on the floor and walk out. They’re not suicidal. They’ll know we’ve got dogs, marksmen, and metal detectors. Everyone is on high alert. They’re going to strike in a way that’s smarter than a bomb.’
‘What if they kidnap a train driver?’ Ayala said. ‘They could force him to ram a platform or run a red and collide with another train.’
The image of two trains crashing at high speed appeared in Morton’s mind. There would be carnage.
‘They’d have to be willing to die with the train driver when the train crashed,’ Morton said. ‘They’d also have to convince a train driver to commit suicide during a terror alert. It’s not impossible, but it’s desperate rather than smart. We know they’ll strike at ten o’clock. What trains are running then? Mayberry?’
Mayberry tapped away for a moment. ‘H-hang on.’
From the other end of the table, Morton saw him open Skype and call Brodie.
The Scot’s rough brogue echoed through the conference room. ‘Need a hand, laddie?’
‘Brodie,’ Morton called out. ‘We need live train times for tonight. What trains are there that’ll be within three miles of central London at ten o’clock tonight?’
‘How precise a time, boss?’
‘Plus or minus fifteen minutes. But sort the results by closest time and proximity to major population centres.’
‘On it.’
They sat in silence for a while. Eventually, Brodie knocked on the conference room door in person. That was a surprise; it was rare to see him emerge from his cave.
‘I’ve got it all here, boss,’ he said as he held a USB stick aloft. ‘May I?’
Morton waved a hand. ‘By all means.’
Brod
ie took over Mayberry’s laptop, and a series of red dots appeared on top of the railway lines.
‘Each red dot is a train. This is at 21:45. If I move the time forward, the map changes like this.’
As Brodie slid the timer to the right, the red dots moved. Hundreds of trains coming in at varying speeds.
‘Speed,’ Morton said suddenly. ‘If this isn’t a bomb, and it’s actually about a crash, you need speed to do damage.’
‘Okay,’ Ayala said. ‘Force equals mass times acceleration. I’m with you there, boss. But you just said they couldn’t crash a train.’
Bile rose up Morton’s throat. ‘You don’t need to kidnap a driver. You don’t even need to be on board.’
‘A hack?’ Brodie said. ‘I don’t think the trains are networked. They’re still largely manual.’
‘Not a hack. Something simpler.’
‘Something on the track?’ Ayala suggested.
‘That could do it.’
‘How many lines go through an area with a population density of over, say, 5000 people per square mile?’
Brodie pulled up the census data and layered it over the map. There was scant overlap between soft targets and a population density that high.
‘Okay,’ Morton said. ‘What one target could you hit with a train and do the most damage?’
‘Somewhere with a utility plant?’ Ayala suggested.
‘What about waste treatment facilities?’ Rafferty chimed in.
‘A bridge?’ Brodie suggested. ‘A fast train could do a lot of structural damage.’
That was it. If a train could be derailed to hit another target, the killer could take down large numbers of people.
Morton glanced at his watch. It was fast ticking toward six.
‘We need to get teams out to every location that derailment could cause mass casualties. Look for buildings near train lines: hospitals, universities, high-rise tower blocks. Anything outside the usual security perimeter. Exclude anywhere like Clapham Junction. We want trains travelling at speed. Come back here in an hour with your best guesses.’
That would leave them three hours to cover the highest-risk spots. They were cutting it fine, and they still didn’t have a concrete idea. Fingers crossed that someone would come up with a target that made sense.
Chapter 53: On Location
The list had been divvied up, and Morton had sent his team out separately. Each had backup from the Counter Terrorism Command. True to his word, Morton had also called in Brian King, who turned up with his partner in tow, armed to the teeth.
Morton himself had taken the most obvious target: the approach to Euston. It seemed like the takeaway had to be a clue. Why had the killer chosen to use a Thai place in the middle of north London? It could just be that it was the least suspicious action choosing somewhere Morton ate, but if the intention was merely to provoke him, it had been a lot of work finding that out.
Clues were still ringing in Morton’s mind. Ten o’clock. Panang Cuisine. It was nearly half-past nine. There were thirty-six trains coming in to Euston in the thirty-minute window running from quarter to until quarter past ten. Of those thirty-six, twenty-eight would be going fast enough to do serious damage.
‘Brodie.’ Morton spoke into the microphone attached to his ear. ‘Can you hear me?’
‘Loud and clear,’ Brodie said back after a second’s delay.
‘Are you in contact with the others?’
‘Yes.’
‘Can you patch in Brian King and his partner?’
There was a brief crackle before Brodie replied, ‘No problem.’
Morton sent Brian half a mile up the line. If there was to be an incident between them, they’d be spaced out far enough to deal with it.
Something was bothering Morton. The taunt echoed in his mind, over and over.
Well done. You added two and two and got four, but can you make it five? You trained me. Now, I’ll train you.
What was he missing? Two and two was four. Why did that seem so cryptic? Conversely, “train” seemed too obvious.
Can you make it five?
Why five murders? Why ten o’clock?
As the time ticked down, the others checked in from outside Marylebone, Paddington, Victoria, King’s Cross, and Liverpool Street. In total, there were almost two hundred trains that could be targeted.
It had to be North London. Panang meant something.
Quarter to ten. The window was open. If the killer was going to strike, it would have to be now. Who could it be? It wasn’t Sully, Danny, or Almira. They’d been ruled out. Danny was still in custody, and Almira was streaming to her clientele; Brodie had checked, and seemed exceedingly cheerful about that assignment. Taylor, not Eric, was too unstable to let walk, so Jensen had had him committed for further evaluation.
Babbage, Villiers, Pincent, and Rudd were still in contention.
None of them lived in North London. None ate at Panang. None seemed to have a connection to ten o’clock.
Who would they want to kill? Babbage’s anger would surely be directed at anyone he felt was responsible for his parents’ deaths. Villiers was an unknown, as were Pincent and Rudd.
Ten to ten o’clock.
Who had a connection to Panang? The only answer was Morton... and Kieran.
‘Brodie, where does Kieran live?’
‘Mornington Terrace.’
Minutes from Penang. A few metres from the railway lines out of Euston.
You added two and two and got four, but can you make it five?
Five. Not thousands. Five. There was one target. One single victim hiding among the many.
Kieran.
The lawyer’s voice echoed in Morton’s mind, only slightly muddied by the whisky they’d enjoyed that night.
I’ve prosecuted a few cases that had similarly specific time elements. I think one of them was ten o’clock too. Saturday’s a busy night.
‘Brodie, can you search Kieran’s old cases for a reference to ten o’clock?’
‘Sure. Any reason why?’
‘Just do it. Fast.’
Morton paced the track as he spoke. If one of the students was going to derail a train, it would be nearby. He headed north towards Kieran’s.
‘Brian!’ Morton yelled into the radio. ‘How close are you to Mornington Terrace?’
‘Ten minutes out. Should we head over?’
‘One of you go,’ Morton said. ‘One of you hold position.’
Morton broke into a run. Six minutes to ten. Somewhere along the lines between Morton and Kieran, one of the students was going to derail a train.
‘Boss,’ Brodie’s voice echoed. ‘Kieran prosecuted an unlawful death case against the police a few years back. He lost.’
‘Who?’
‘Dean Walker.’
Morton remembered the name. ‘What did he do?’
‘He shot some teenager on the railway line. He thought they were putting something dangerous on the track, but they were just larking about.’
Something on the track. Just as Morton had expected. There was one thing that could be put on the track that fitted perfectly: a train derailer.
‘All units, we’re looking for a derailer. It’ll be somewhere on the track. It’s a safety device intended to stop a train going down the wrong route. They’re usually a bright orange, but the killer might have painted it. Repeat, we’re looking for a derailer.’
‘Boss?’
‘Yes, Brodie.’ Morton was sprinting along the track, scanning for a derailer.
‘Dean Walker killed himself after he was acquitted.’
It all clicked in Morton’s mind. That was why Angela King had been the first victim. Her husband was a surrogate.
Chapter 54: Unexpected
Kieran was watching the news eagerly. He had no part to play in tonight’s manhunt, but he was invested nonetheless. It was his friends who were risking life and limb to hunt down a serial killer.
He had a tumbler full of whisky on the
coffee table and a pizza in a box by his side.
As the clock ticked towards five to ten, he heard a knock at the door. Had the pizza guy forgotten something?
He unlatched the door.
‘Don’t move,’ said a woman’s voice. A gun poked through the gap in the door. ‘Take three steps back and keep your hands where I can see them.’
Kieran complied. ‘You don’t want to do this.’
‘Oh, don’t I? Why’s that?’ The woman shut the door behind her. She kept her voice low and even.
‘Because this isn’t smart,’ Kieran said simply. ‘I assume you’re the one who killed Angela King, Hudson Brown, the old man, and Ed Teigan.’
‘I did.’
‘Why?’
‘You know why,’ she said. ‘Don’t you remember me?’
‘Should I?’ Kieran asked.
‘Ruth Middleton. Surely, you remember her?’
Kieran shut his eyes. He did. She was the teenage girl who had been playing on the railway tracks. She’d been shot by Dean Walker, a man he’d been tasked to prosecute.
‘You knew her.’
‘Knew her?’ the woman said. ‘I loved her.’
‘Killing me won’t bring her back.’
‘No, but it might make me feel better.’
Kieran held his hands up.
‘Don’t move.’
‘Okay. It’s... Maisie, isn’t it?’
‘Oh, so you do know me now.’
Kieran looked her directly in the eye. ‘I’m sorry I lost the case against Dean Walker. Juries don’t always do what I tell them. For what it’s worth, he killed himself afterwards.’
‘Coward!’ Maisie spat. ‘He killed the first girl I ever loved.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Kieran said simply. ‘That doesn’t excuse killing four innocent people.’
‘Innocent? Pah,’ Maisie said. ‘Brian King killed someone, you know. I saw it in the paper. You haven’t even brought charges against him.’
‘That was an accident.’
‘You’d better hope my finger doesn’t accidently slip.’
The DCI Morton Box Set Page 70
