by Phil Brett
‘That’s true, Glen, and I admit that I’m as much thinking this through as we go along as anyone else.’ She paused, before repeating a familiar mantra: ‘This is a new society with new ways, so we’re going to make mistakes. But I do think, for operational matters, the committee is a good idea. The CIM can remain as a democratic balance. We don't want to replace the old law and order with a new one.’
‘Just in better clothes,’ I added.
Payne forced a slight smile. Bale didn’t, and neither did the others. ‘Indeed, Pete. We want more than cosmetic changes. What Pete said was interesting about the political situation. Whilst we might choose to keep and utilise the forensic and investigatory skills of the old regime, we operate in a very different way. It strikes me that MI5 or MI6 or any other security service could be involved.’ The smile lengthened. ‘Let’s not be patriotic here. It could be from another country. We know that the American, Chinese and the Russian agencies are active in the country. Our enemies can be as international as we are.’
She steered herself back to the point. ‘But, they operate in the shadows. If we do likewise, then we fight on their ground, where they are stronger. No! We go public; use the fact that we are the majority of this country to fight them. Of course, Roijin and Asher, you have to be in charge of the technical side, but Glen, you should travel to the airport with me and we will thrash out what you are to do. You will then report back to the NWC and seek their agreement.’
‘Okay,’ he muttered.
She looked first directly at Victoria and then at me. ‘However, Pete and Vic, you will stay in the shadows and will do whatever it takes to stop them. Glen will get the necessary permission from the NWC.’
I wondered if that meant I could be released from the Anchorage, or at the very least have some time off from seeing Dr Brakus. Or was that just wishful thinking? She didn't mean that shadowy.
24. Melissa officinalis
After a few well-chosen comments, Jackie Payne picked up her bag and bodyguards and left for the airport. Glen Bale poodled after her, with his bottom lip protruding.
With Youssef stiffening by the second in the kitchen, Victoria rallied the remaining four. Joseph was still avoiding looking at me, with Roijin marginally less antagonistic.
Cole was oblivious to it all. Or at least pretending to be. On hearing the front door close, she got down to business, ‘So, is there anything more we can say about the murder of Olivia? Forensically, have we found anything at all from the scene? I can't believe that, in this day and age, we can come up with so little!’
Asher pulled a face. ‘Not really, Vic. Only that we analysed the glass from the windows and can state now, for certain, from the scatter that the killer wore UK size 7 ½ leather boots.’
‘So a woman with larger than average or a man with smaller than average shoes?’
‘That’s what we think, Vic.’
Phew! That was helpful. Any minute, he’d be putting a deer stalker hat on and playing the bloody violin. Elementary, my dear whatsit. Send out the militia to arrest a quarter of the population and occupy all shoe shops.
Roijin shook her head, obviously reading my mind. In desperation, she offered a few more titbits of info. ‘We are matching the possible shoe size with the photo-fits. We have recovered a few more car-cams providing images, and are using them. By taking, say, a glimpse of a shoulder, we can see if such a match to a shoe that size is possible. But it’s painfully slow and, frankly, guesswork. Human beings don't conform to factory settings. Someone with chest 40 can have all manner of shoes sizes. We’re basically putting a jigsaw together without knowing the picture.’ You could hear her trying her hardest to sound upbeat and positive. ‘We're hoping to collate the shoe size and the screen images from the time slots to and from the car park. Think of it as a Venn diagram, with three circles: shoe, entering, and leaving the car park. We're looking at the middle intersection.’
So that was our maths lesson of the day.
‘Even by finding the common denominator of the images . . .’ She'd now moved onto fractions. ‘. . . it still isn’t easy. We have no side shot, let alone frontal, and have only tiny fragments. Sometimes, you are talking about nothing more than a top of an ear or a glimpse of a shoulder so they can be put together in a multitude of ways. Nonetheless, we think we have narrowed it down to nine images.’
I frowned. Hadn't it been eight, when we were back at the Courtauld? It was something I should have raised, but I decided not to. I guessed they knew what they were doing. She placed her phone on the arm of the chair and pressed “project”. Up came the route the killer had used to escape which, by tracing the jamming, we could follow for some of the way. ‘Here are the composite pictures.’
Up they went. They were, it was true, slightly clearer than the previous ones, with more detail, but they could still have represented pretty much anyone from fairly large groups in the population. The male that I had previously thought of being Mediterranean looked now to be more precisely Greek or possibly Turkish, and had traces of facial hair. The black woman appeared slightly taller and fuller than before, looking to be in her fifties and wearing a rather fine blue overcoat. However, it was up and down for this lot: the Chinese female now looked shorter, with a far more stylish haircut and looked to be about twenty-five. The Asian guy had lost some weight but gained a woolly hat. The three white women had now become two, with one of them being deemed a male with a beard. Roijin explained that, previously, only having clips of the face had made gender identification almost impossible. Now, with a snatch of chin and upper neck, they could estimate that she was probably a he. The two women and our newly arrived man were now sporting hats of varying descriptions, with the third, a hoodie. One person remained gender uncertain, but now had a hoodie. This would have been a whole lot easier in the summer. Then, the new ninth image came up: a large black man, slightly overweight, with short cropped hair that looked as if it had been dyed. Each was a fuzzy image which looked like someone had half-melted it, cut it up and then taped it back together again. Next to each was a simulation of what they might look like. When all was said and done, it was guess work. Even then, by my reckoning, it narrowed it down to two million or so.
But then, the key question of the size 7 ½ loomed, and surely that would discount all but one of them.
Again, my mind had been read.
‘We think the African-Caribbean man can be discounted because we estimate his shoe size to be far too large.’
Ah, such was the fleeting nature of fame.
‘And the Chinese woman can be discounted for the opposite reason, that we estimate that their shoe size to be too small.’
Was I the only one who thought all this was rather hit and miss?
Joseph perked up and said something interesting. I should note this moment down for posterity. ‘One thing which has puzzled us as we have been doing this is the question as to why the killer walked there and back. Okay, the video jamming device couldn’t have worked so well in a moving vehicle, but why not just steal a car and dump it? By walking, they risked being seen and were certain to leave a map of their movements. So, why? I think that’s an interesting question.’
It was indeed. ‘Any ideas?’ I asked.
To my surprise, he answered me in a fairly friendly tone. ‘I think so, Pete. It would seem to us that one reason could be that whilst they knew that she was driving to Battersea, they did not know where she would park. Or, maybe, they did know, but followed her until they felt that they could make their move. But, whatever the reason, Roijin and I feel that that we can't get anything more out the crime scene. This is as good as it gets.’
Cole nodded. ‘So, we should look closer at the sub-station, rather than solely looking at the area around here.’
‘Agreed,’ Joseph and Kemal replied.
I thought out loud. Whether that was a conscious decision or not was debatable: ‘We have a large blank area for her visit at the sub-station and, indeed, for the afternoon be
forehand. It’s something we need to look into.’
The blank area was largely down to Jack Foxton’s lackadaisical attitude to work, but I glossed over that fact, whilst retelling my conversation with him.
Again, I was greeted by professional courtesy and agreement. I was beginning to believe in miracles. They’d be hugging me soon.
Cole spoke, maybe fearing such a sight. ‘Ash, could you ring the tube workers' union and ask about this Terry Walsh, see if we can talk to him. Olivia was visiting him when she was murdered, so it seems to me that it is vital that we talk to him.’
‘Will do,’ he said, already getting the phone out. He turned to the wall and started talking in a deep, low voice.
Victoria turned her attention to sweet little old me. ‘Good. Thanks, Ash. Okay, Pete, we should give this sub-station a visit. I’m thinking: do it straight away.’
I replied that I thought it was a good idea. Roijin agreed and suggested possible reasons for Harrison's visit, whilst regretting that Jack Foxton hadn't been more successful. Or at least more than half awake, I said to myself. Our circular conversation started to grow in volume. We were finding ourselves in competition with Asher Joseph, who appeared to be having a few issues on the phone.
Clearly distracted by Joseph, Victoria almost shouted at me, ‘So, we'll head there, as soon as we leave?’
My reply was rather drowned out by Joseph, who was getting in a right old in a huff, which for once, wasn’t with me.
He slammed down his mobile, totally destroying any chance I had on expanding on my thoughts. The floor is yours, Mr. Joseph.
‘Marvellous! The tube workers are reluctant to offer any help because they feel that it infringes on their workers’ rights. Or, at least that's what their “representative” said!’ He almost spat the last two words out.
Cole was surprised by the answer. I was somewhat pleased. ‘What?’ she said, clearly not expecting anyone to oppose police operations of the new workers’ state. ‘Didn’t you tell them that you were working for the NWC?’
‘Yeah, but the union rep was adamant. He said that he’d have a meeting to consult his members.’
I chuckled, admiring the commitment to his work colleagues. Joseph didn’t appreciate my appreciation. There wouldn’t be any hugs for me, then.
Roijin was straight on her phone. Presumably, she thought a woman’s touch would be more persuasive. I wasn’t convinced, but it was worth a try. But I was wrong. She wasn’t phoning but had gone online. I couldn't see that as being more likely to succeed. They wouldn’t have a web site for missing engineers.
Roijin suddenly made a strange expression. Maybe she had discovered the lack of such a website. Or, maybe she had a touch of heartburn. ‘It gets worse, Vic. I’ve just tried to hack into the London Underground personnel files, but the security system isn’t letting me. No! No!’ The expression grew in intensity. ‘It’s a sophisticated system. It’s mounting a counter-attack!’
‘A what?’
‘Er . . . Vic . . . No, no, no! They’re hacking into my computer!’
She was busily tapping away on her phone, like a teenager deep in a texting war. Only this being slightly more serious.
‘Damn, damn, DAMN! Well, they know who I am now. They’ve gotten into my party membership.’ She tapped away. ‘Got 'em! That’s stopped them.’
It wasn’t time to festoon the area with bunting just yet, though. Celebrations for the halting of a cyber-attack on comrade Kemal would have to be put on hold. Her phone pinged. If a ping could sound ominous, then it was this ping.
‘Oh . . .’
‘Now what?’ Cole asked wearily.
‘They’ve just contacted me to inform me that they’ll be sending a formal complaint to the NWC tomorrow. They feel that my actions are uncomradely, undemocratic and illegal.’
Farcical didn’t come close to describing how our investigation was going. Then again, I couldn’t think of a better one, so it would have to do. Farcical.
Cole sighed. ‘Great. Just great. Oh, I guess that they’re not wrong, are they? Still, no probs. I’ll get Glen to sort it tomorrow. Come on, Pete. Let’s get going, then.’
Joseph held his hand up. He had something more to say and was desperate to get back into Queen Victoria’s good books. ‘Wait, there's something else, something which I do think is useful. Olivia was wearing a pair of turquoise French heels when she died. I rang Nick Morgan, who confirmed that it was the pair she always wore.’
Now, I loved clothes and was a self-confessed style obsessive, but I did hope this was going somewhere. Asher Joseph might be a forensic whiz kid, but as a fashion correspondent, he had much to learn. He wasn’t going to cheer up Cole with shoe talk. Cole just wasn’t that kind of girl.
He continued, and as he did, it became clear what he was on about. ‘We analysed the shoes and lifted traces of concrete and tarmac. Nothing unusual about that. The combination matched what is pretty much universal to London streets. There was also oil from the car park, but we also found a substance smeared along her left heel. There were tiny elements of the same under her fingernails and ingrained in the pores of her left hand. Even with thorough washing, miniscule traces can be left behind. We could tell it was some type of lubricant, but, at first, we couldn’t match it. However, we extended our search and eventually located it. It’s used solely on ventilation systems in the London Underground.’
He stopped to let us digest the news. A projection appeared, showing what I presumed was the ventilation system in question. It reminded me of those lessons at school, where the teacher would flash up an image showing something which we all knew and didn’t need to see: a pic of an owl, if we were studying owls or such-like. Now, we had a ventilation system. Let me guess: it was from London Underground.
Cole asked, ‘How recent could this be? Can you put on a time frame?’
He grinned, pleased with himself. ‘Within twenty-four hours of her murder.’
He had reason to be. Comrade Joseph might just have given us a clue as to where Olivia Harrison had been for the missing afternoon. Until now, we had no idea where she had gone after she had left the fracking centre for the last time. Now, we might just have one.
Cole spoke. ‘Which suggests that Olivia visited a tube station on the afternoon before her murder.’
‘To meet Terry Walsh?’ I suggested.
Joseph almost panted. ‘I couldn’t say what the reason for her visit, but I’m sure she made one.’
Suddenly, my positivity disappeared, and without my mouth checking with my brain, I muttered, ‘Oh, good. I think, at the last count, there are 300 stations on the network, so we could pay a visit to them all. That’s my year sorted.’
Joseph's breathlessness morphed into a triumphant smile. ‘Not quite, Pete. Not all of them have full air conditioning, and this particular lubricant is only used on certain systems. In fact, it is only used on the most recently built tube line, the Hackney line.’
Now that was interesting. ‘Where there was an explosion a couple of days ago . . .’ I said.
He changed pictures, and the ventilation system was replaced by the station’s retro-styled roundel, just to clarify matters.
Joseph corrected me. ‘It was Wednesday, at the Hackney East station. From the news coverage, it seems that it was a small device, lacking anywhere near enough punch to seriously damage the running of the station. There were a few deaths, but not much more. It may be a coincidence, or it could be significant. But I am pretty sure that, forensically, I can place Olivia at the station a matter of days before the attack, and just before she was murdered.’
I knew that Cole would volunteer us to look into it. That, and the sub-station. Join the revolution and see the world. She did. It hadn’t been a wild guess, because we weren’t what you called a large outfit. Actually, sitting here looking at a floating image of a tube station in a front room, with a corpse in the kitchen, and with seemingly an ever shifting direction to the investigation, we weren’t what yo
u’d call an efficient one, either. Still, whether I liked to admit it or not, Joseph had come up with something important. It could be, as Cole was stating in a bloody-obvious way, that he had managed to fill in the missing events in her timeline.
‘Which,’ I said, wanting a piece of the platitude cake, ‘could give us an answer to the question as to what she had found out that warranted her execution.’
I received no round of applause.
Cole ignored the comment and finished her sentence. ‘Whether her visit is linked with the explosion or not, it seems pertinent to find out why she visited there. Pete, we’ve spent enough time here. Let’s go.’
She didn’t snap her fingers, but she might as well have. Dutifully, I got up. Our brightly coloured clad comrades also got to their feet, announcing that they would return to Youssef Ali and arrange for his removal. That, at least, was a blessing. I had been feeling rather queasy having our cosy chats in here, whilst he decomposed in the kitchen.
Asher announced that he would take a closer look at Ali at the lab. Ah, the mythical lab again.
Before I could say anything, Cole opened the front door. The wind slapped me around both cheeks. It was also very dark. What pitiful warmth the sun had afforded us had fled.
By now, people from the local councils had been co-opted and were milling around the street with flashlights and earnestness. Frannie and chums were nowhere to be seen and had been replaced by a pair of NWC militia who looked like media students: cold media students.
Walking out onto the road, I noticed ice appearing.
Cole had too. ‘You going to be alright in these conditions?’
I mumbled a non-committal reply. I didn’t fancy sliding about on it, or the wind chill cutting right through me.
‘Why don’t you leave the moped here and get a lift with me? It’ll be safer, warmer and a darn sight quicker. It’s going to be a long night, and I don’t want to have to keep stopping to wait for you or to bring you out of hyperthermia.’
