by Phil Brett
She took a sip. ‘The funny thing was, that one of those killed was someone I knew. Stuart Atkins. I'd done my police training with him. Nice bloke, even if he did think he was God's gift to women. He transferred to the Met's Armed Response. It was surreal looking down at him, dressed as a waiter, covered in blood and holding a sub-machine gun. Three of us had hit him, so I'll never know if it was one of my bullets that was the fatal one.’
Enjoying the extravagance of a glass of a red wine (the Anchorage sadly didn’t stock booze), I thought it was all very commendable.
‘And still it continues,’ she muttered.
And still it continues, which I reckoned was pretty much par for the course. The ruling class have always used whatever violence they require to support their privilege, up to and including war. ‘They feel that they can’t mount a direct attack on us, so they chip away at us. And our infrastructure is the obvious target.’
‘But the damage they can inflict is surely only temporary, so why bother?’ She wasn't dumb; she knew full well why, but I thought I'd take the opportunity to pass on a pearl or two of knowledge.
‘It is. But it still helps them to paint a picture of instability. We claim that the revolution is secure, but such actions show that there is still conflict. Of course, in a sense, they are right: there is conflict and instability – which they have been creating. It is a self-fulfilling prophecy. With us, they say that “anarchy roams the streets”, whereas, if they were in power, there would be strong and stable government. It’s been a constant theme: that we are not able to govern. It doesn’t matter whether people believe the cooked-up story that it was a Nazi attack. Their hope is that people will just see more violence in the previously tranquil land of Jane Austen and Anthony Trollope. It will add to the notion of a failed state and the demand that the UN must “do something”. No doubt, they’ll also show some footage of the middle classes suffering on the continent and some interviews of worried people on the streets of Norwich.’
She nodded in agreement. She took another mighty gulp, which nearly finished the glass. Glen Bale was going to have something say if we turned up reeking of wine.
‘So, Connor Nash died in a PR exercise,’ she muttered, clearly still feeling guilt at being unable to save him.
Personally, I thought saving me had been heroic enough, but she obviously didn’t think so. Nor, I guessed, would Connor's family. I changed the subject, finding the morose Cole even more annoying than the arrogant one.
‘My thoughts are that the attack has nothing directly to do with the murder of Olivia,’ I said. ‘Would you agree?’
She did. ‘Yeah, I think they were just two foot soldiers. Our killer is more cerebral. They're careful. When they strike, it is one shot and off. Standing in full view firing at anything that moves isn't their style.’
‘More cerebral or more cowardly?’
‘Point taken.’
‘But, I agree that they choose their time and place with greater care. They use their brain and a hand gun. Those two at the wind farm would have just blown up the car park to kill Olivia, rather than sneaking around jamming closed circuit TV. They’d have blown them up as well.’
Again, she agreed. My, my, we were as close knit as a stockinet stitch. ‘Still, we should keep an open mind about it. I think that goes for the Nazi link. Personally, I think it’s a red herring, but you never know.’
Then the great Trot cop love-in stopped and we sat in silence. I listened to the funk of Parliament’s Chocolate City, which was causing a few of us in the bar to tap our fingers. She, meanwhile, sat mourning the death she felt she could have prevented. Or perhaps she was wondering about the death she caused herself.
We sat there in awkward silence for five minutes, before I once more broached the subject of Olivia Harrison. ‘It’s interesting that Olivia heads down to the south coast to spend a few days prepping for the conference, but then decides to cut it short and leave and then goes off grid.’
The pun had been intentional, and I thought quite amusing and apt. She didn’t get it. Or if she did, didn’t find it to be either.
I carried on, ‘She found something which concerned her enough to lie to the NWC. That's not something she would do lightly. Whatever it was, I think we can presume that it was the same thing which prompted her to contact Gita Devar, desperate to see her, and to ring “Youssef”.’
‘And you think Youssef is Youssef Ali?’
‘Why not?’
‘Well, for the reason that it is a common name; I personally know four Youssefs in the party.’
‘And are they best friends of Olivia Harrison? Are they the people who Olivia always turns to when she needs advice or support?’
Victoria remained silent, waiting for me to expand on the importance of this.
I obliged. ‘He told us that he hadn’t heard from her. So, did she ring him and he didn’t get the message? Why not? And if he did, why didn’t he tell us? Did he return her call? If so, what did she say and why didn’t he mention it to us? If he didn’t, again, why not?’ I stopped to let her speak, but she was just looking at me, so I continued. ‘I think it's telling that he is cropping up again.’
Here, Cole did speak. ‘And you think Ali is an agent?’
‘Maybe.’
‘And maybe not.
I gave what I hoped was a wise humph, but in the end, it sounded more like Winnie-the-Pooh. ‘There’s something odd about him. When I first met him, he told me that he came from an apolitical family, and yet his father was employed by the Turkish Secret Service. What’s more, he was getting regular payments from Turkey.’
‘Hardly rock solid evidence, is it?’
‘I admit that. But still, what's the Turkish standing order for then? Holiday fund?’
She didn’t answer.
‘I think,’ I said, ‘that we should look into Comrade Ali and his background. I also think we should have another word with him, press him a little harder.’
‘Fair enough. We’ll put it to the committee tonight.’
‘No,’ I growled. I had already seen how doubting comrades’ loyalty was not a way to make friends, and I had no wish to being ridiculed again. My explanation didn't go down too well. She thought otherwise, and I received a lecture on the new ways, arguing that the new society we were creating had a system of law and order which was transparent, accountable and democratic.
Clearly she was snapping out of her moroseness. Possibly because of the wine or possibly because of my fabulous company, but whichever it was, she was waving the sword and shield of truth and justice in my face.
Spare me, please, from her self-righteousness. ‘And I agree with everything you say but the fact is, Victoria, that all those noble sentiments led me into a home for the mentally unwell. You may be Jackie Payne's golden girl, but I'm the unstable psycho. You and I can do some digging around and if we find something, then we can report to our little committee of ours. Let's face it: this committee is hardly the Pete Kalder fan club, is it? It’s bad enough that in our happy little gathering we have Glen Bale who has nursed a contempt for me for decades. Then there’s your pals Roijin Kemal and Asher Joseph, who seem to despise the very air I breathe.’
She smiled for the first time since getting here. ‘I thought it was likewise?’
‘No, it’s political,’ I protested. ‘I just don’t understand why you all joined the police, for goodness sake! And why you’re now so touchy about admitting it!’
A sound halfway between a laugh and a scoff – well, actually nearer the latter – came from her lips. ‘Maybe we're “touchy” about it because you're so very diplomatic when you refer to it. Which you do, ad nauseam. But as you've asked, I’ll tell you, Pete: I joined because I saw that the police had made strides to overcome its racism, sexism and homophobia, and I thought that I could help the process to create a truly fair law and order system.’
It was my turn to utter the scoffing hilarity compound.
She shook her head. ‘I a
dmit that we were wrong. Quickly, we found it wasn’t about individuals, but the system and what it was designed for. That said, there were good cops, and yes, far more bad ones too. Both Roijin and I had first-hand knowledge of the sexism still latent in the service. Roijin had the added thing of the Islamaphobia which hung in the air from years of suspecting all Muslims of being suicide bombers. As for Asher, well, being black and Jewish speaks for itself.’
Derision billowed from my mouth. ‘What an equal opportunity group you were.’
I was met with a look which was harder than any slap across the cheek. I should have apologised, but didn’t. Instead, I muttered, in a voice resembling a rebuked child, ‘Anyway, you were incredibly naive.’
‘True,’ she agreed. ‘But we have moved on. Maybe, Pete, you should too.’
‘I still don’t see why they continue to have a problem with me,’ I said, still in sinned-against-child mode. ‘Up until our love-in at Battersea car park, I hadn’t seen them since my trial.’
Her look softened and focussed onto my eyes. I didn’t expect any romance though. ‘Think about that trial and what they had to do, Pete.’
It was my turn to look into my glass, before gulping it down.
At just after a quarter past seven we arrived at Somerset House, the present home to the Courtauld Gallery and, for at least a while, the Community Information Meeting Committee. We were the latest in a line of residents which included the Inland Revenue and the General Register of Births, Marriages and Deaths. In a way, we ourselves were tasked to register the death - of Olivia Harrison. Despite the consumption of a bottle of wine, Cole and I were a little early.
Like the building, the courtyard played host to many things in its lifetime, including fountains and ice rinks, but today the space was filled with a large multi-media installation by an artist who had found popularity in the revolution. The centrepiece was large grey and geometric black scaffolding, with 3D images climbing over, under and along, it. Despite its huge size, there was enough space for us to park.
The structure was in stark contrast with the grand neo-classic style of the Sir William Chambers' architecture. We walked to the entrance guarded by the four large pillars and were met by the building security who, after we had explained who we were, informed us that we had been placed in the Navy Board Rooms.
On entering the South Wing, I saw the familiar figure of Al Handley. He was a tall, thin, white man, dressed in black drainpipe jeans, black canvas shirt and black Chelsea boots. With his pale thin face and a haircut which was shaved at the sides and blue on top and flopped over each side of his head, he reminded me of a cocktail umbrella. Something which I had often told him.
‘Pete!’ he yelled. Coming over and hugging. Hugs from two fellas in less than a couple of hours: I was Mr. Popular.
‘Al, how are you? Long time, no see.’
His hug was less full on than Maurice’s, barely touching my sides. This wasn’t from any inferior feelings. Indeed, Al was one of the few people who had made any kind of fuss over my recent incarceration. Using his position as the director of the Courtauld Gallery, he had started a petition amongst the art world to support me. He'd also arranged some notable names in the Revolutionary Art League to lobby the court. One of whom, it occurred to me, was the artist responsible for the thing outside.
Al and I had known each other for years. He was now not only in charge of the Courtauld, which occupied the entire Somerset House building, but he also happened to be an artist of some note. In the main, his medium was 3D imaging, although he had briefly been one of the Back-to-Paint avant-garde. His support and that of others in the art world had been, rather aptly, more symbolic than substantial, but it had meant a lot to me.
Now he was echoing the bar owner’s sympathy over my recent history.
Flushing from the attention – or was it the wine? – I changed the subject and asked if we had been allocated rooms as promised.
‘Oh, yes. It’s positively FBI Central in there. And they have been quite forthright in what they wanted.’ He rolled his eyes.
I thanked him and promised we’d talk later. Cole and I went up the stunning circular staircase, not quite believing the surreal spectacle we were participating in.
Arriving at the room which was to be our base, made it even stranger. Its tall white walls, mahogany doors, beautifully polished wooden floor and tall windows overlooking the Thames looked fit for a wedding reception for a minor royal. In keeping with its changing roles, this image was challenged by the furniture. Desks, chairs, 3D printers, filing cabinets and computers were arranged at the far end, making it look as if clerks had gate crashed the occasion. Ten soft armchairs had been arranged in a circle, ready for some comfortable discussions, but I doubted ours would be that. Two upright screens separated the soft from the hard furnishings. On them, pictures of Olivia and the scene of her death had already been pinned. Several 3D projections waited to be used. Our operations room was all set up, but we appeared to be the only operators present.
This quickly changed with the arrival of Glen Bale, who was leading the others in.
‘Vic, Pete, you’re here. Sorry. I was showing them around, although you’d have been more appropriate person to do that.’ He smirked. It was a masterful back-handed compliment.
I could have replied that I was surprised that he knew his Monet from his Manet, or indeed from his money. That his knowledge and understanding of art was paint-by-numbers, which resembled his knowledge of politics. But I didn't. I smiled, pretending to enjoy the comment. I could do nice when I wanted to.
In order, came Asher Joseph, Roijin Kemal, Gita Devar and a young cool-looking man, slightly shorter than me and dressed in grey trousers, waistcoat and a white short-collared shirt. He sported a fine, well-groomed brown beard and shaved head. I guessed that this must be Jack Foxton from the Battersea Workers Council.
Joseph and Kemal rushed to Cole, hugging and commiserating with her over the shooting at the Thames Estuary Wind Farm. I’d had my hug quota, so I wasn’t put out that that they studiously ignored me. Probably, they wished that the terrorists had had a better aim. Not that I was completely left out. Bale muttered that he had heard about it and was pleased that the two saboteurs had been dealt with. The man-presumed-to-be-Jack-Foxton nodded in agreement. The only real support came from Gita, who came over and rubbed my arm and asked if I was okay.
‘Yeah,’ I said, adopting my finest film noir nonchalance. ‘Thanks to the Shinto Gods, we were unharmed.’
Her face changed from empathy to confusion. I didn’t explain. Sometimes being mysterious was advantageous. More noir-ish.
Bale had moved to one of the computers and asked us to sit on the armchairs, which, close up, looked like they'd been liberated from a business hotel. We did so. On one side of me was Gita, the other Roijin. Bale announced that he was going to chair the meeting and would start it as soon as he had sorted out the customary ‘Blip’ in the technology. Whilst he fiddled and pressed buttons, I turned to Gita, she being the least likely to give me a whack on the jaw or a piece of her mind. However, she was on her phone. So, instead, I turned to Roijin. Seeing me in that hesitant about-to-speak pose, she just looked at me.
When there was social ice to be broken, I jumped hard. Maybe it was my meds, maybe the wine, or maybe I wasn't going to let a newly joined cop intimidate me, so I turned up the nonchalance dial. ‘Hello again, Roijin. By the way, I am right in pronouncing the J. aren’t I? It’s just a confusing spelling, because I thought with a J it was R O J I N and with an S, R O I S I N.’
She didn’t explain any possible mixing of Irish or Turkish spellings, but just said, ‘I like it that way.’
The ice remained intact. Maybe she was just a bad speller.
‘Sorry, maybe now is not the time for anthroponomastics,’ I said, rather smugly using a word which she would have no idea of its meaning. Probably thinking it concerned aerobic dinosaurs.
‘To be honest,’ she replied, with studded b
oredom, ‘other than sad geeks, who the hell is interested in the study of personal names? Not being one, I wouldn't say that anytime is a good time for anthroponomy.’
Well, that told me. The ice had just thickened.
To my surprise, I was grateful to Bale for piping up and speaking.
‘Okay, maybe we should all report back on what we’ve been doing and then discuss where we go from there. We’re all new at this. Well, maybe some more than others.’ He chuckled in the direction of Cole and her pals in crime-busting.
The three stooges nodded.
‘I think we should start with Asher and what he has found out, forensically speaking, of . . . er . . . where Olivia was killed.’
I was surprised. Bale sounded nervous, unsure of himself. That was new.
Asher slowly rose to his feet and a 3D image of the car appeared. He apologised for what might be upsetting images and told us that he would try to keep them to a minimum and keep it brief. Basically, it was as he had told us back at the car park. ‘The killer – and we are guessing from disturbance of glass and materials on the floor that it was an individual – had jammed surveillance and walked from behind the driver and shot once through the driver’s side window. On a probability scale, we are 97.6% certain that they were right handed.
‘The bullet was from an AA12 handgun, the favoured type of the British security service. It was a single shot, which entered the skull through the parietal bone and exited through the lower part of the frontal bone, taking most of it and the left eye with it. Death was instant.’
He continued with the information that he believed it was of someone of average height and, from something called the scatter scanner, they could tell they were between a size 6 and 9. So, in other words, pretty average and it also meant that it could be a small-footed man or large-footed woman. That was, if they were correct about the sizes.
I sat listening, thinking how vague it all sounded.
They had led with their left foot though.
This was hardly epic stuff. No need to call an orchestra for accompaniment.
