Fifty Two Weeks of Murder

by Owen Nichols

  Chapter 12

  Several hours later, Mal assembled everyone in the Hub. He stood before them, covered in grime and dirt, crusty blood clotting the back of his head where Lawrence Buckland had hit him with a stool. He put his hands on the back of a chair, holding himself steady as he gathered his thoughts. Everyone sat facing him in a semi-circle, a strange mixture of the clean and the filthy. When Mal spoke, his voice was filled with regret and sorrow.

  “I need to apologise to you all. It’s my fault Lucy’s in surgery right now. We don’t know how it’ll go, but it doesn’t look good. They lost her for a couple of minutes in the ambulance but managed to revive her. If it weren’t for Anders and Duncan, we’d already be mourning her loss.” Barry clapped a congratulatory slap on Duncan’s back and he almost keeled over, pale as he was with blood loss. He gave a weak grin, having refused to go home after a check-up at the hospital, wanting instead to be here. Mal had skipped treatment as well, rushing Lawrence back to the Hub for questioning.

  “Lucy is strong. She will pull through,” declared Mal, more in hope than expectation. He turned to Abi. Both she and Helen clasped hands, tears streaking down their cheeks. They’d been shaken badly by events and Mal knew that this had pushed the team to breaking point.

  “Abi, can you interview Lawrence. I want a basic profile before Anders and I question him. See if he’s a stable, rational human being or his fathers’ son. Are you okay to do that or do you want someone in there with you?” Abi shook her head.

  “No. I’ll go in alone. Jesse will keep an eye out, won’t you?” Jesse, unusually sombre gave her the thumbs up.

  “Of course Mrs A. Always got your back.”

  “While Abi is doing that, we need to see if we can get hold of physical records from every county in the UK. Have each of the counties scan them in and email them to Jesse. We can then match them up with the IT records and see if there are any blanks. Could be that Buckland is hiding in one of those black spots he’s created.” It was a huge job and would require many hours of work, but this was the basic foundations of any investigation. Painstakingly gathering evidence and hoping it would reveal something useful. Jesse stood up and moved to his desk, speaking as he went.

  “I’ll check previous IT records as well. If these buildings have recently been deleted from the system, I can see if any back up records show discrepancies.”

  He set to work, fingers tapping furiously on his keyboard. After a brief pause, Mal turned back to the group.

  “Helen, Ben. Have you got all the evidence you need from the Boyle site?” Helen nodded that they had.

  “Okay, good. You guys get over to Soho and take the scene. See if Buckland senior has been there and find out what you can about the explosive device.” Barry spoke up, his background giving him some experience in explosives.

  “Fragments I saw before we left looked like a mine, most likely an M18A1, take out the clacker, put in an M5 Pressure Release Device. Simple trip wire to set it off. Lucy moves the laptop a millimetre and...” He held his hands out in a helpless gesture, unwilling to explain further.

  “Where the hell is he getting explosives from? Barry, see if you can trace that. It might help.” Mal sighed heavily and ran his hands through his hair, frowning as he noticed the sticky blood that smeared the back of his head. He stared at the dark flakes of blood in his hand for an age before speaking again.

  “How did we miss Lawrence? He was supposed to be in America.”

  “We were looking for Michael Buckland, not his son. We were also looking for a Buckland leaving, not coming in. He’s been here for three weeks.” Whilst Lawrence had been processed, Barry had run a search and found a Business Class flight from Washington with his name on it.

  Just then, the lift chimed and Lady Margaret and Francis Buckland’s lawyer, Blackwell, stepped into the Hub. He looked as fastidious as ever, but Lady Margaret looked shaken. Her normally cool and polished demeanour cracked and tears of worry smeared her make-up. Mal growled as he saw the lawyer.

  “Jesse, pull Abi from the room. Barry, take Blackwell to Lawrence.” He turned on his heel and walked into his office. He rarely went in there, preferring to work outside in the Hub and it was strange to see him in it with the doors closed. He moved to his chair behind the desk and sat on it heavily, head pounding from both the explosion and the wooden stool that Lawrence had introduced him to. Turning the chair on its swivel, he faced the wall behind him and closed his eyes, the day’s events resting heavily upon him.

  A few minutes later, there was a soft knock on the door.

  “Come in,” he called and turned to see Anders entering the room, holding a large medical kit. She was caked in dirt and dust, Lucy’s blood staining her clothes a darker hue.

  “Let’s clean up that wound of yours shall we,” she said and shut the blinds as she made her way down the narrow office. She put the kit on the empty desk and leant against the table, facing Mal. Seated, he looked up at her as she gave him a comforting smile.

  “It’s my fault,” he said. “She wanted us to wait. I just wanted it over with.” Anders reached into the bag and pulled out some saline tubes and gauze, turning Mal round with her foot on the chair so that she could clean his wound.

  “It is, you should have and I know,” she said, dabbing the dried blood from his scalp and making him wince. Not just with the pain either. Her matter of fact tone held no judgement and he found himself comforted by her honesty. He thought back to the moment he had brought Lawrence down the stairs, seeing the mangled shop floor for the first time as the dust had cleared. He’d never forget the image of Duncan leaning against a wall, tubing running from his arm to Lucy’s, Anders with her hand inside Lucy holding some blood vessel to stop her bleeding out.

  “That was some work you did back there,” he said. Anders took out some disinfectant and started to apply it to the wound itself. Mal gave a short cry of pain and she yanked him back by his collar as he tried to move away.

  “Stop being a baby,” she said and he grudgingly held still as she applied what felt like acid to the back of his head. As she worked, her face a mask of concentration, she told him of her time in Iraq.

  “I saw the damage land mines can do on my first tour. Stuff like that sticks with you. I’m going to have to glue this I’m afraid.” A flap of skin was still loose and had shrivelled because Mal had not sought attention sooner. It was too late to get stitches, but some glue would at least help it heal more quickly. Reaching into the medical bag, she pulled some out and applied it to the back of Mal’s head. She spoke softly as she worked.

  “The team looks to you Mal. They need you. Yes, you screwed up, but they’ve not lost faith in you.” Her job done, Mal turned to her, their faces close, breath mingling and sexual tension rising.

  “What about you?” he asked. “Have you lost faith in me?” Anders leaned forward and kissed him. A brief kiss, no more than a second, but it was enough to answer his question.

  “Where do you keep them?” she asked. Mal looked confused, caught off guard by the sudden change in conversation.

  “What?”

  “Your range of high quality shirts?” She gave him a cheeky grin as he indicated a cupboard set into the wall. She walked over and opened the door, chuckling at the range of shirts and jeans in there. She wondered if he actually slept here. Taking a clean shirt and trousers from the cupboard, she walked back to Mal and held out a hand, the clothes clutched in the other. It took Mal a second to work out what she wanted.

  “Oh,” he said and stood up to unbutton his shirt, dust and flakes of blood falling off as he struggled to get out of the grime infused material. He then unbuckled his jeans and stood in front of Anders in just his boxer shorts and socks. His chest was flat and firm, not muscled like the pretty boys down the gym, but lean and trim, his legs long and toned. He stood in front of Anders and folded his arms across his chest as she appraised him slowly, a sly grin on her face.

  “Your turn,” said Mal mischievous
ly. Anders raised an eyebrow at him, pausing long enough to let the tension rise, before tossing Mal his clothes and leaving the room.

  “Get dressed,” she said on her way out. “We’ve an interview to conduct.”

  Chapter 13

  Thomas Blackwell was a fifth generation lawyer. He took little joy from his work, but knew nothing else. An unctuous man who was hard to like, his sharp intellect and unparalleled understanding of the law kept him in gainful employment with the very select few who could afford his rates. As Deputy Chief Constable Weathers and Assistant Chief Constable Anders entered the room he eyed them carefully. They both looked tired and in need of a shower.

  Weathers was easy to read. He had an open, honest face that, he supposed, women were attracted to. A rough, outdoorsy type. Blackwell had met many like him, policemen to the core. Stubborn and committed, a leader of men, but not especially bright and easy to work around. Anders was a different proposition. He couldn’t work her out. She was a closed book, enigmatic and alluring with that scar running up her neck. He’d read that they covered her back and, as she sat down, she gave him a cool gaze as if she’d been reading his thoughts.

  Putting his musings aside for a moment, he turned to Weathers as he spoke. He didn’t care whether Buckland’s son was innocent or guilty. The boy looked like his father and seemed like any normal kid, apart from the bruising on his face where the police officer had assaulted him. He was charming and quick to smile, easily answering Blackwell’s questions. He didn’t take him at face value though. Not with that family.

  “Lawrence Buckland, I’m Deputy Chief Constable Weathers and this is Assistant Chief Constable Anders. We’re holding you here in connection with…”

  Blackwell interrupted him, earning a reproving look from Weathers.

  “You need to actually charge him with something Mr Weathers. That, or provide some clear reason as to why you will be holding him here for questioning.”

  “Why were you in that building Lawrence?” asked Weathers. Blackwell had instructed him not to speak and so answered for him.

  “His family own the property. Lawrence was looking for his father.”

  “He assaulted a police officer.” Blackwell supressed a smile at the thought of his client hitting Weathers with a stool.

  “My client feared for his life. He thought he was being attacked after an explosion had rocked the building.”

  “Why was he there?”

  “I’ve told you. He was looking for his father.” Weathers laid out several sheets of paper on the desk, sliding them to Blackwell. He skimmed through them and found nothing of consequence.

  “There are no records this building exists. So why were you there Lawrence?” The kid made to speak, but Blackwell lay a hand on his arm, telling him to be quiet.

  “An admin error by some temping office worker isn’t going to be enough to convict my client Mr Weathers.” Blackwell could see that he was getting frustrated by the kid’s silence and his answers, reflecting that he did actually enjoy this part of the job. Winding up police officers was ever such fun.

  “Your client has the skills to run this website, hack into bank accounts and edit borough records on land registry.” Blackwell gave a mirthless chuckle.

  “Mr Weathers, I’m fairly certain that those skills are not part of the syllabus at Harvard. Please feel free to check though. I know the NCA likes to do things by the book.” Weathers changed tack, knowing that he was getting nowhere and looking increasingly uncomfortable.

  “Your mother was here last week Lawrence, saying she didn’t know where you were, yet our records show that you entered the country three weeks ago.”

  “My client entered the country three week ago with friends and stayed with them as he often does before seeing his family. I will provide you with witnesses of course. Once he’d heard of the distressing news of his father, he set out to look for him to make him stop this nonsense.” Weathers jabbed a finger in Lawrence’s direction. The kid kept his face blank, looking at the desk the whole time and refusing to make eye contact. Good boy. He was far too easy to read.

  “Why can’t he tell me that?” asked Weathers.

  “He’s instructed me to speak on his behalf.”

  “Why was there a bomb rigged to go off?”

  “You’ll need to ask Lord Buckland, if you find him.”

  “One of my team almost died.” Blackwell gave a gracious nod of his head.

  “My sincere condolences.” Weathers gave an irritated snort of derision.

  “She’s not dead yet,” he replied testily, losing his temper. “Why didn’t your client set it off when he entered the building?” Blackwell decided that it was time to wrap up this conversation.

  “Did you identify yourself Mr Weathers?” He looked confused and Blackwell knew he hadn’t.

  “What?”

  “It’s a reasonable question and one I’m quite sure will be raised in any investigation into this matter. Did you identify yourself? When you entered the building, did you identify yourself and give clear reason for your entry?”

  “I had a sighting of Buckland at the building. That is sufficient evidence for me to search the premises.”

  “It is Mr Weathers, but the moment you entered a quiet building and realised that there was no immediate danger, you should have identified yourself and your station or anything you do is unlawful according to the Police and Criminal Evidence Act.” Weathers went a peculiar shade of red at that.

  “I had yet to determine that we were in no immediate danger and that the building was occupied. You’re dealing with semantics here.”

  “You can’t prove that either way. If you heard any sound that the building was occupied, you needed to state your presence. This interview is done. My client will happily stay on British soil and let you know of his whereabouts should you ask. All you have is that he was in a building his family owned. Everything else that happened after is down to you. Good day Mr Weathers. Miss Anders.”

  Blackwell made to leave and indicated that his client should do so as well. Anders had been watching Lawrence throughout the interview, letting Weathers talk. As they stood, she spoke softly, but her words were laced with steel and sent a chill down his spine.

  “Your father wasn’t alone Lawrence. Two people crucified that man. Three people hacked Boyle to death.” She stood up as Lawrence looked at her and she seemed to grow in stature, filling the room with her presence. “There’s a reckoning coming for your father. I know you helped him and I know you’re sloppy. You’ll make another mistake and Mr Blackwell won’t be here to bail you out.” She leaned forward.

  “When you make that mistake? I’ll be there. And then you and I will have that reckoning.”

  Chapter 14

  McDowell was waiting in the Hub as the pair entered the room. His gruff Scottish accent boomed in the concrete space, amplifying the anger in his voice. He’d watched the interview on the monitor.

  “Mal. A word please. In your office.” Mal led him in, McDowell slamming the door behind them and raising his voice immediately. The glass barely muffled the sounds as he tore into Mal. Anders walked to where Jesse and Barry worked on tracking the black holes in the land and buildings registry as Abi’s door opened and Lady Margaret walked out. She looked much comforted and hugged Lawrence as he came from the holding cells, Blackwell following behind. He gave Anders a strange look before heading for the lift, holding it open as Lady Margaret ushered Lawrence in. He turned as the doors closed and winked at Anders.

  “You believe him?” asked Barry, clearly doubting his testimony. Anders shook her head.

  “Not a word. He’s neck deep in it and we’ve got nothing. No magistrate will give us a warrant to tail him either, not after today anyway. Poor victim Lawrence, picked on because of his daddy.”

  On Jesse’s screens, news footage from mobile phones showed the glass of the abandoned shop blowing out onto the street, followed by a thunderous boom. Luckily no civilians had been hurt, b
ut the tag line made for grim reading.

  “Police woman seriously injured as they fail, again, to catch Buckland.”

  The door to Mal’s office swung open and McDowell walked out. He gave the group a curt nod and headed for the lift. Mal came out a few seconds later, looking suitably browbeaten.

  “That sounded fun,” said Barry. He’d been to the canteen to get some food for everyone and shovelled a large baguette stuffed with meats and salad into his mouth, sauce dripping from it in sticky lumps. Mal leaned over and took some tissues from Duncan’s desk and passed them to Barry so he could clean himself up.

  “Could have been worse,” he said.

  “We off the case?” asked Barry, his mouth full of food.

  “No, but it was close.” He sat down on the desk and helped himself to some crisps and a cheese sandwich. “To be fair, he’s been pretty good. Today aside, we’ve been doing well. He’s keeping the Home Office off our backs and given us more resources. This place is going to get mighty full.”

  “Not that he has much choice,” opined Anders. “We’ve got to dredge through a mountain of evidence that keeps getting bigger every day. He should have given us more bodies the moment this all started.” They ate in companionable silence for a while. Abi came to join them and they finished their meal, each deep in thought. Once they were done, Mal turned to Abi.

  “Right, shall we go and see how Lucy is doing?” She gave him a wan smile and went to collect her bag and coat, worry etched on her face. Mal gave instructions to the team and took Abi to their vigil.

  Lucy’s heart had stopped on the operating table. The surgeons were unable to stem the bleeding. They started her heart again, paddles loud in the chaos of the theatre. Finally getting to the source of the internal bleeding, they were able to cauterise that and then work on her arm, removing dead tissue and sowing loose skin over the stump. It was many hours before she was taken from the theatre to intensive care and several days until anyone was allowed to see her. She had been taken to St Thomas’, almost directly opposite Scotland Yard on the other side of the river, which gave Anders ample opportunity to see her on the way back from work each evening.