‘Yes, thanks, ma’am. It’s all gone off now to the coroner.’
‘Accidental death, then?’
‘That’s our conclusion.’
‘How about the stove? Did you get an engineer’s inspection?’
‘Yep. Definitely dodgy—incomplete combustion and a leaky flue. He said it was an accident waiting to happen.’
‘I see. But still, there’s something odd about this case. Why did she hide her identity like that? Did you follow that up?’
There was a moment’s silence. ‘People do that all the time. They want to get out of the life they’re in and start again with a clean slate.’
Kathy could hear the defensiveness in his voice. ‘That’s right. So we need to know what was making her previous life so uncomfortable that she felt the need to do it. I think this makes a thorough forensic examination of the boat essential now, don’t you?’
She heard the suggestion of a suppressed sigh of impatience down the line.
‘With respect, ma’am, no, I don’t. And I know my inspector wouldn’t support such a request. Our budget is under a great deal of pressure here.’
‘Yes, of course, and I sympathise, but all the same, I will put it in writing.’ She took a note of his inspector’s details and rang off.
Later Bren Gurney returned to his desk, and she asked him, ‘Do people refer to the task auditor as DKP?’
‘First I’ve heard of it, why?’
‘Mickey Schaeffer called him that. What do you think of Mickey?’
‘He’s all right. We’re going to the England–Wales match together next weekend.’
Rugby chums, Kathy thought.
‘Why?’ Bren asked. ‘Is there a problem?’
‘No, I just realised that I know nothing about him. Usually you know everyone’s story within a week or two. Is he married?’
‘Separated, shared custody of a boy. Mickey’s bringing him along to the match. Why, interested?’ He grinned. ‘Time you settled down, Kathy.’
‘Not with a married bloke I have to work with. No, I just wondered what made him tick.’
‘Comics,’ Bren said. ‘He collects old Eagle comics. Got an outstanding collection apparently. Spends his free time scouring the flea markets and second-hand bookshops.’
‘Really?’ Kathy tried to picture it, but couldn’t.
‘Anyway, tomorrow’s his big test, isn’t it? For you too, and for all of us.’
Operation Intruder. Kathy felt a surge of unease. The new commander had given it the highest priority, despite the short notice, and she would be in the thick of it. Bren was right, Brock’s team would be on trial.
‘I wish I was going in with you, Kathy, but Mickey won’t let you down, I’m sure of it.’
‘He’d better not.’
8
Brock had arranged to meet Dr Chandramouli at a small restaurant in Soho, not far from the churchyard where he’d said goodbye to Commander Sharpe. He remembered Sharpe’s hint that he could tell Brock a few things about his successor, Lynch, and he wished now that he’d gone along for that drink. But he remembered how Lynch’s creature, D.K. Payne, had called him away, almost as if he could sense the possibility of rebellion. Brock shook his head, annoyed at feeling infected by the general paranoia.
The mathematician arrived, a tall, aristocratic-looking Indian with an easy charm and long flowing silver hair. Ominously, he was carrying a briefcase.
‘I’m so delighted to meet you, David. I can’t tell you how appreciative we all are that you were able to make time to see me.’
‘I hope it’s not a wasted journey for you, Chinmay.’
‘I’m sure it won’t be.’
‘How is Professor Kite?’
‘Oh . . .’ Chandramouli pursed his lips, shook his head. ‘He’s in a very sad place at the moment. Debilitated by grief. And one can’t help feeling that all those years immersed in dark Norse sagas haven’t helped. We have been trying to persuade him to get professional help, but he is intransigent, quite intransigent. We are concerned about the possibility of suicide, and are trying to keep a very close eye on him.’
They ordered from the menu, both regretfully refusing the wine list, and Brock said, ‘My colleague, Inspector Kolla, did say that he made her think of a gloomy old Viking patriarch.’
Chandramouli nodded. ‘He gives the impression of being arrogant and remote, but the older fellows, who knew him when he first joined us, remember a sensitive, cheerful young man. He was only thirty-four when he was made a fellow, having published the brilliant first volume of what was planned to be a comprehensive, ten-volume history on the Norse epics. Sadly, thirty years later, only one other volume has eventuated, long delayed, to rather disappointing reviews.’
‘Tell me about the girls, Freyja and Gudrun.’
‘That’s the other thing that distresses us a great deal, that two such talented young graduates of ours should have died so tragically.’
‘You were tutor to both of them, you said?’
‘I was. I saw them more or less weekly throughout their undergraduate and postgraduate terms. Freyja was the more outstanding of the two—a first in her tripos, then a master’s with us, a Fulbright to MIT for a doctorate, then a couple of years working in the States before she returned to a job in Cambridge. Gudrun followed in her footsteps: a computer science degree, an upper second, then an MPhil in our Computer Laboratory and off to London. Both very likeable young women. Freyja was a fine athlete, mainstay of the college women’s hockey team, and also passionate about ethical issues. One summer, for example, she worked in an orphanage in Mumbai, and then the next year she went to South Korea to rescue bears from bear-bile farms. And very attractive, too, in a sporty sort of way.’
He looked pensive, and Brock said, ‘Was Gudrun overshadowed by her older sister?’
‘I suppose so, yes. She didn’t shine in quite the same way. In fact, she was rather a quiet, introspective person, more comfortable with her computer than with people.’
‘But a competent computer scientist?’
‘Oh, very. The MPhil isn’t for everyone. Which is why I find it rather incomprehensible that she should have taken a job in marketing. Do you know what kind of company it was?’
‘A security company.’
‘Really? What sort of security?’
‘From what I understand, everything from CCTV and alarm systems through to computer security and data protection.’
Dr Chandramouli frowned and began to speak, but was interrupted by the arrival of their meals. When the waiter left them alone again, Brock said, ‘Something bothered you, Chinmay?’
‘Well, yes. You see, data protection was Freyja’s field.’
‘Freyja? I thought Andy said it was quantum mechanics.’
‘Quantum cryptography, actually. It’s to do with transmitting uncrackable encoded messages in individual particles of light, or photons. Freyja began working in that field in her master’s at Cambridge, and then continued at MIT. It’s the cutting-edge area for secure digital communications these days, which of course is crucial for everything from paying your bills online to protecting military secrets.’
‘And she was working on that in her job at the Cambridge Science Park when she returned from America?’
‘I believe so, yes. I didn’t see much of her in the year she died, but I remember we spoke about the holy grail of quantum cryptography—the creation of a complete quantum-mechanical network. I got the impression she was involved in that quest in some way, although she had to be rather circumspect in what she could tell me.’
‘Do you know the company she was working for there?’
‘Penney Solutions. It’s a technology consultancy company that provides outsourced research and development to clients in a variety of fields—mainly electronics and biotechnology, I believe. It was started by one of our graduates, Philip Penney, about twenty years ago, not a huge company but one of the standout successes of the so-called Silicon Fen. The Cambr
idge police did speak to Dr Penney after Freyja’s death, but there was no suggestion of her research being a factor, except that she worked ungodly hours out there, which was why she was cycling home in the dead of night. Of course,’ he added, with a disingenuous air, ‘I’m sure Dr Penney would be glad to speak to you if you so wished.’
Brock set down his knife and fork and wiped his mouth with his napkin. Time to set things straight, he thought.
‘Chinmay, much as I sympathise with your concern for Professor Kite, there really are only two things that I can see would help him—a good counselling psychologist, and the arrest of whoever knocked Freyja down—and I’m afraid I’m not in a position to help with either. There’s no way that I can reopen a case in another police area without new evidence. I’m sorry.’
Chandramouli raised his hands. ‘No, no, we understand. Professor Bronikowski made that quite clear to us. He’s been working on a research project with the Manchester police for some years now and is familiar with police protocols. He reviewed the Cambridge investigation, and came to the conclusion that it was extremely thorough and professional. No, we were thinking more along the lines of finding some ways to help Desmond look to the future instead of the past. We’ve discussed a scholarship in his daughters’ names, or a fund to help the victims of road accidents, but we thought you might have more creative ideas, with your background.’
Brock thought that unlikely, but the mathematician’s mind had moved on, as he raised his eyes to the ceiling and stroked his throat in a mannerism that his students probably imitated. ‘Security . . . that is an intriguing coincidence, is it not? I wonder if Philip Penney has heard of this company in Paddington—what was their name?’
Brock told him and he wrote it down carefully in a small notebook. ‘I might ask Philip. Anyway, David, I took the liberty of copying a few of the documents relating to Freyja’s accident, and if you have the time to cast your eyes over them, you never know, it might spark something. Any ideas, anything at all, would be much appreciated.’
They finished their meal and when they parted on the footpath outside, Dr Chandramouli handed Brock a heavy envelope. ‘And when you have a little time you must come up to Cambridge and have dinner in Hall with us and meet the Master.’
Brock said goodbye, taking the package with some misgivings.
It was after nine when he got home that evening. Warren Lane and the railway cutting beyond the fence were wreathed in fog, and the muffled bang of a fog warning on the tracks echoed in the chill night air. He opened his front door and wearily climbed the book-lined stair, switching on lights, breathing in the familiar smell of old volumes with a feeling of relief. Shrugging off his coat he went to the bathroom to wash, then to the kitchen, where he prepared a roast beef sandwich and a glass of whisky and took them through to the living room. The radiators of the central heating were ticking comfortingly, but he switched on the old gas fire that he had retained for the friendly glow of its flames and collapsed heavily onto the sofa in front of it to check his mail. When he’d sorted through the bills and circulars he was left with Chandramouli’s package. He’d been mugged, he thought, in the most gentlemanly way, but mugged all the same. He was almost sure that Chandramouli had known all about Paddington Security Services, and had steered the conversation to plant the idea of a connection between the sisters’ deaths in Brock’s mind, so that he would feel compelled to reopen Freyja’s case.
He sighed and opened the envelope and began with a summary of the police investigation that Professor Bronikowski of the Institute of Criminology had compiled. It soon became clear to him that the Cambridge police had carried out an exemplary investigation. They had door-knocked every house along the length of Milton Road, checked every CCTV camera in the city, mounted a thorough public appeal for information and carried out an exhaustive forensic examination of the area where Freyja was killed. At the end of it, the only witness they had was the man who had raised the alarm, and his recollection of the car was useless—no make, no colour, no number. After hitting Freyja it had simply vanished into the night.
The post-mortem report was equally depressing, the list of injuries that Freyja’s body had suffered reading like a catalogue of human vulnerability. But among all the ruptured organs, smashed bones and torn muscles there was one odd little feature that the pathologist had fastidiously recorded—the flesh between the thumb and forefinger of Freyja’s right hand had been sliced open. Brock frowned at the entry, remembering what Kathy had told him about Sundeep Mehta’s post-mortem of Gudrun Kite. It was a small thing, an insignificant coincidence, but still.
He moved on to the other papers, the university records of the two girls, and finally, as if to remind him of where his loyalties lay, a complimentary copy of G.M. Trevelyan’s Trinity College: An Historical Sketch.
He thumbed through the book, but his mind kept drifting off. Finally he picked up the post-mortem report and read it again. It listed the contact details for the pathologist, Dr Arthur Morrison, and Brock reached for the phone and dialled. He introduced himself, apologising for the late call.
‘Not a problem.’ The voice sounded decisive, businesslike. ‘What can I do for you?’
‘We’re investigating the death of Gudrun Kite in London last week, and I believe you carried out the post-mortem on her sister, Freyja, in February of this year.’
‘That’s right. One of our anaesthetists, Andrew Harris, told me the Met were involved. Are you reopening Freyja’s case?’
‘No, we have no grounds for that, but we want to make sure that there’s no connection between the two deaths.’
‘It’s a tragic thing. I’ve seen it before, families suddenly struck down by a succession of tragedies, out of the blue. The survivors are left shell-shocked, saying why us? I met old man Kite, and Freyja too, at a dinner at the Harrises’ once. She was a delightful young woman, really special. It was a shock when she turned up in our mortuary. So, how can I help you?’
‘I’ve read a copy of your post-mortem report on Freyja, and I had a small query I wondered if you could help me with.’
‘Fire away.’
‘The injuries were very extensive.’
‘Oh yes. She must have been hit at speed, become entangled beneath the vehicle, and then reversed over.’
‘Have you ever seen anything like that before?’
‘I’ve seen worse, but usually in different circumstances: a high-speed impact with the body crushed inside the cab. I would say this was one of the worst hit-and-run cases I’ve encountered.’
‘Among all the injuries you listed, there was one that looked a little different, an incision in the right hand, between thumb and index finger. Remember that?’
‘Hm . . . vaguely. Right hand?’
‘Yes, a clean cut. Did you have any idea how that could have been caused?’
‘I don’t think the question was asked, really. It was such an insignificant injury among all the others. There could have been any number of sharp pieces of metal or glass involved.’
‘Could it have been inflicted post-mortem?’
‘Post-mortem? What do you mean? In the hospital?’
‘No, at the accident site. I’m asking because Gudrun had a very similar incision in her right hand when she was found. It seems an odd coincidence.’
‘Well . . . I don’t know what to suggest. And your pathologist reckons it was done post-mortem?’
‘He thinks it’s a possibility. He couldn’t find any signs of haemostasis.’
There was a lengthy silence on the line, then Morrison cleared his throat and said, ‘You’re not suggesting . . . You know that nonsense about serial killers leaving a signature on their victims is just a Hollywood myth, don’t you, Chief Inspector?’
‘Yes, so I believe.’
‘They wouldn’t be that helpful, or stupid.’
‘No. All the same, you might like to check if you’ve had any other cases with such a wound. And perhaps I could ask our pathologist to spe
ak to you, compare notes.’
‘Fine. I’ll dig out my records and photographs tomorrow.’
After he rang off, Brock tried Kathy’s number, but it went straight to messages and he hung up. She would be asleep by now, he guessed, as he should be. He looked at his watch; he might get three hours.
9
Kathy’s alarm woke her at two thirty a.m., its shrill buzz breaking into a troubled half-sleep of uneasy dreams in which the rosy-faced dead girl on the narrowboat was somehow lying asleep in the fast lane of a motorway in the path of thundering traffic. Kathy stumbled to the bathroom and had a quick shower, gulped down a cup of tea and some toast, and put on her short black dress—the one with a hint of bling around the collar and hem—dark tights and high heels. She did her make-up, not sparing the mascara and lipstick, put on her best earrings and necklace and combed her blonde hair back into the bob she’d had done at the salon the previous evening. She stared at her reflection in the mirror, added a touch more lippy, and decided it would do. She had to look good, for Jack Bragg, the Butcher, was back in town.
She put on her coat and took the lift down to her car in the basement of her tower block and drove in to Central London, to the car park beneath West End Central police station, where she reported in, earning a couple of wolf-whistles on the way, and drew a Glock 33 subcompact pistol and some .357 SIG ammunition.
Jack had once been a menacing presence in the London underworld, the leader of a clutch of vicious standover and strongarm thugs who had terrorised businesses across the East End and gone on to develop an extensive drug- and gun-running network across the south of England. After a series of brutal murders, his gang had been broken up and Jack forced to flee the country, leaving his wife Patsy in charge of his assets, including their big house in Kent and his casino, Fantasyland, just off Leicester Square, through which he had laundered his illicit cash and, it was said, bribed and corrupted a number of useful public officials.
Although Jack had fled, probably to the Philippines, he had not forgotten London, especially when he learned that Patsy had divorced him and taken up with Sergei Romanov, who was now making a great deal of money operating Fantasyland twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. The Metropolitan Police had not forgotten Jack either, and had been patiently awaiting his return. Intelligence that he had slipped back into the UK had now been gathered—not by the old methods of informants or whispers on the grapevine, but the new way, using a computer program developed for the US military to collate information from social networking sites, financial transactions, IP network logs, satellite navigation equipment and mobile phone traffic. This had been achieved by a team of specialists, designated Unit 12, within the Met’s new Digital Security Task Force, known as DiSTaF. They had deduced from their intercepts and computer modelling that Jack was planning to take revenge on Romanov and his ex-wife, murdering them both and plundering the casino. For over a month Unit 12 had digitally sensed Jack assembling his team. Patsy had been moved to a safe house under constant police guard, and twenty-four hours ago Unit 12 had decided that the casino hit would occur around dawn on the following day, sending Homicide and Serious Crime into urgent preparations, with Brock’s team as the lead unit of what had been dubbed Operation Intruder.
The Raven's Eye Page 6
