Gone Underground

by Phil Brett

  ‘Did they say how it had been detonated?’

  ‘They’re still working on it is what I’ve heard.’

  She thought for a second. ‘Do you ever take your tool boxes to more sensitive areas of the station? Maybe somewhere where, if the bomb had been detonated, would have caused more damage or more deaths?’

  He stroked his chin. ‘Can’t think of any place. We don’t work on the tracks.’

  ‘What about taking your sandwiches, when you’re working elsewhere?’

  He looked at me as if I was an idiot. I thought it was a sensible question. The explosives were in a lunch box, so it made sense to ask if whoever had planted them and hoped that they would be taken somewhere the explosion could have a greater impact. A perfectly, logical question. It wasn't as if I'd asked what filling they had contained.

  Whatever he thought of the question, he did answer. ‘Rarely. They get dirty and we have strict union rules about proper lunch breaks. But, I guess if the tool box itself could have been moved and if they had set it off when it was in a tunnel and timed it just right, they could take down a section and bury a train. But I don't know how they'd know when to set it off. In any case, they’d have to pack stronger explosives than they did here. To be honest, there was enough to kill people within a radius of ten metres in a confined area but not much more. Certainly, it wasn't strong enough to damage a tunnel.’

  I had to say that it did seem rather desperate, and if it had not been for the loss of life, a rather pathetic example of state terrorism. Was the prime minister really having cloistered talks with the president of the United States and cooking up plans for bombs in sandwich boxes? It seemed rather amateur and, well, small scale.

  ‘Tell me about the others who died,’ I asked.

  In a sombre and respectful tone, he told us what he knew of them. Every so often, he would include an anecdote, which returned a smile to his face. It was plain that he had known these people far better than he had known Terry Walsh.

  He was unable to help us anymore, so we started to head off to find the station rep. A few bridges needed to be mended and were to supply the heavy lifting. It was as we were negotiating the labyrinth of the station that my phone went off.

  ‘Hi, Glen,’ I said, rather surprised that he’d called me rather than Cole. ‘That was quick. So, did they find out anything of use about the explosion here?’

  ‘Nothing as yet, Pete, but you need to get back to the Courtauld ASAP. They’ve identified one of the people leaving the scene of Olivia’s murder.’ He hesitated, before saying, in a voice which sounded like it required a drum roll, ‘You’re going to be pretty surprised when you find out who it is!’

  27. Drypetes deplanchei

  Un-bloody-believable.

  Expressions of disbelief, some sacred, some profane and some not even actual words, just primeval grunts. All of them with one thing in common – the utter astonishment at the absurdity of the news. Several people had come forward in response to Glen Bale’s appeal. One name kept cropping up – Jack Foxton. He was the white man with the beard. The same Jack Foxton, from the Battersea Workers Council, who was quite literally helping us with our enquiries.

  Un-bloody-believable.

  We all but ran into the entrance of the Courtauld. Al Handley was standing there, being all curator-y, busily working away to save the art treasures for the workers’ state. Looking up, he saw me, beamed a smile and motioned for me to come over. I was in too much of a rush to chinwag about Cézannes, so I yelled that I'd catch him later.

  Hurtling down the stairs, we almost fell into the room we’d been using as an office. Bale and Kemal were standing, agitated, shifting their weight from one foot to another, as if waiting for the toilets. Instantly, they stopped and turned their attention to their new visitors.

  As streetwise Cole as might be, she could no more believe this turn of events than I could. Before we could take off our coats and sit down, let alone have a cup of warming coffee, she was straight on the case. ‘Tell us what has happened. I know you’ve briefly gone over the basics with Pete, but if you wouldn’t mind, repeat them for me so I can understand where we’re at.’

  Bale looked as if he was in the latter stages of shock. ‘“Where we’re at”, comrade, is that five people have identified one of the figures in the composite pictures as Jack—’

  ‘And they are positive? Who spoke to them?’

  ‘I did,’ replied Kemal.

  The news appeared to reassure Cole. Maybe she felt that if it had been Bale, they would have identified the figure as Frederick Engels or Santa Claus. Or indeed both, just to shut him up.

  ‘And they were certain?’

  ‘Yes, Vic.’

  ‘So, when did you put this to Foxton?’

  ‘Straightway. He was actually here when we found out, inputting more statements that the council had taken! I took him into a small office they’ve got here and confronted him with it.’

  ‘And what did he say?’

  ‘He admitted it.’

  ‘Un-bloody-believable!’

  Kemal looked at me, but didn’t comment.

  Cole was now standing, legs apart, hands on hip. In exasperation, she barked, ‘And did he explain himself? Did he say what he was doing there? Or why, when we are in the middle of identifying people who were in the area of the murder, he neglects to mention that he's bloody one of them!’

  Comrade Cole was not a merry old soul right now. She was fuming.

  ‘No, Vic. He just hurled abuse at me. You know, the usual crap. About what my job used to be. All the bollocks we get for having the nerve to change our beliefs. I mean, you wouldn’t have known that the concept of people changing their ideas is central to Marxism.’

  She flashed me an accusatory look. I had thought relations were thawing between us, but obviously there was still a way to go before I'd be getting invites 'round her place for barbeques. I kept my mouth closed.

  Cole pushed the question again. ‘So, he didn’t explain himself?’

  ‘No, Vic. Which I, for one, think is extremely suspicious. He neglects to tell us that one of the people we want to talk to is him and then refuses to explain himself!’

  I agreed. It was hard not to. ‘It certainly doesn’t make sense. Where is he now?’ I asked, wanting to join in the outrage orgy we were having.

  Bale answered, looking sheepish. ‘Locked in the office. I didn’t really know where to put him.’

  I had never seen him look so on the back foot, almost apologetic. I should have been sympathetic – should have been. ‘So, he’s making himself at home, reading the exhibition catalogues. What have you been doing whilst he self-educates himself?’

  Bale didn't answer, but Kemal wasn’t so bashful. ‘I’ve been checking his alibi. He works at the housing allocation office about half a kilometre away. One of his colleagues said she saw him come in first thing and was working at his desk. He then gets a call and scarpers. She didn’t see him return. However, another colleague of Foxton's said he thought he saw him come back later, pick up his bag and go.’

  ‘Did he say where he’d been?’ Cole asked.

  ‘He hasn’t said anything. He just told me to piss off. “Piss off, nark” were his exact words.’

  I didn’t comment. I didn't smirk.

  In a mood which can only be described as peevish, Cole said, ‘I think Jack has been researching art history long enough. It's time that Pete and I have a chat with our friend. So, where’s this office?’

  Bale led us to it in a manner of guilty puppy showing its owner the mess he’d just made on the floor. Entering it, we found it to be a pretty nondescript room with all the usual accoutrements you found in any clerical work station. If, that is, you discounted the irate looking bloke perched on the desk. He jumped off, hollering the war cry of: ‘What the hell!’

  He moved rapidly towards us, ranting about how dare we and who did we think we were? I held my hand out to lay it on his chest, which was, as usual, encased in an
ultra-slim fit waistcoat. It had been meant as a friendly calming gesture – a kind of “cool it, tiger” action. The sort of thing tough guys do in the movies. He, though, took it as an assault and before you could say, ‘Peace, bro’, I felt his fist hit first my chin and then bounce off my lip.

  ‘Don’t fucking touch me! Wanker!’

  I fell back, and in the time it took me to regain my balance, Victoria had, in one swift, graceful movement, caught his left fist as he went for the follow up. Wrenching it down, she spun him around and yanked it behind his back.

  He screamed, ‘Ahh! Nazi!’

  She pushed him face down onto the desk and told him to calm down. We only wanted to talk to him. It hadn't been the greatest of starts.

  Hearing the fracas, Bale came in to find out what was happening. The scene which met him was myself nursing a bloodied lip and silently hoping that no blood would get on my shirt; Foxton hurling abuse and wriggling as much he could without breaking his arm; and Cole being the one threatening to do so.

  I might have expected Bale to explode in shock and horror, demanding to know what we thought we were doing. But he didn’t. Instead, he came to a sudden halt, staring at us without uttering a single word. It was straight out of a silent movie. Quite obviously, he had no idea of what to say. Which must be a first.

  He just stood there.

  ‘Now, Jack, please stop.’ Cole spoke with a quiet authority. ‘All we want to do is talk to you, so if I let go, will you just sit down? Because if you try anything again, I will cuff you. We do have the authority, Jack. The NWC has given to us the powers to investigate the twin murders of Youssef Ali and Olivia Harrison, and we will do whatever it takes. However, no one is accusing you of anything. You will be treated fairly. Now, will you sit?’

  He nodded.

  ‘Good.’ She let go and watched him sullenly take his seat.

  ‘You hurt me,’ he moaned.

  ‘You started it!’ I said, touching my lip and checking for any blood spots on my collar.

  We sounded like a pair of seven-year-olds.

  Cole took a seat and indicated for me to sit down. Seeing me do so, Bale took the opportunity to escape the insanity. Obviously, his leadership role amounted to running in, gaping and then running away. Not one destined for the history books.

  In doing so, he missed Foxton’s thoughts on a vast variety of subjects. Starting on the legitimacy of our parentage, similarly unflattering terms on the party and its view of democracy compared to his. Between each subject change, he reiterated that he wasn’t going to say anything.

  ‘I have no reason to,’ was almost like a chant. Eventually, he ground down to a moaning mumble. ‘Kalder, you’re not going to do to me what you did last time. You’re not going to fire twenty bullets into me!’

  It wasn’t twenty! Why did everyone have to exaggerate?

  I snapped back. ‘Interesting that you bring that up, Jack. Are you MI5 as well? Is that what you’re saying?’ Again, the macho image I'd been hoping for wasn't quite achieved. It was more of a camp sneer than a growl of testosterone.

  Stroking his arm and wincing, he snapped back. ‘Of course not. That’s absurd. Ask anyone about me.’

  ‘We will, kid!’ I said, still trying to be intimidating. “Kid” was a bit over egging the pudding, but then he had hurt me.

  Cole though, wasn’t acting. ‘If that is the case, Jack, then why were you seen walking away from the car park at the exact time of Olivia’s murder?’

  He answered, but in a voice congealing with surliness. ‘I wasn’t walking away from the car park, I was walking past it. I do live in the area, so it’s not that surprising.’

  ‘Fair point. But why didn’t you tell us straight away that one of the photo-fits was you?’

  ‘I didn’t realise that it was.’

  ‘Come on!’ I scoffed, with all the acuteness of a teenager.

  He changed his tune a little. ‘I didn’t feel that it was important. I knew I had done nothing wrong.’

  Cole prevented me from uttering another profundity. ‘You’re not that naïve, Jack. You’d know full well that by identifying yourself we could have removed you and that would be one less person to look for. Just as we have done with others. We have had two women contact us after Glen’s appeal, saying that they could be one of those in the pictures. We have ruled one out and are in the process of investigating the other. Their help narrows down our focus. You could have done likewise.’

  ‘Bale is the last person I’m going to answer to.’

  I had some sympathy with that, but nonetheless, it was a ridiculous position to take.

  ‘So, what were you doing there?’

  He didn’t reply but just looked at her. Evidently, he had decided to stop talking. All her questions were now met with a sneer or a silence, making him look like a gif. I told him such. He had no idea what I was talking about. Gifs were far too in the past. I might as well have made reference to a component of a steam engine. Which pretty much summed up how I had fared with him. My successes consisted of a curt, ‘I live here.’ Followed by an even curter, ‘Satisfied?’

  After twenty minutes of spinning around and chasing our tails, we gave up, got up and thanked him. I understood the first two but not the second. Cole added, ‘I’m afraid you will have to stay here for a while, Jack. Do you need anything? Food, drink? Would you like us to contact anyone?’

  This provoked a hand gesture involving a single digit and a snarl. ‘Yeah, contact the Battersea Workers’ Councils and tell them that one of their delegates has been attacked and is being illegally imprisoned.’

  A smile flickered across her face. ‘We already have, Jack. They are sending a lawyer and a NWC rep. Both should be here soon. Till then, make yourself comfortable.’

  As soon as she had locked the door we were surrounded by Bale and Kemal.

  ‘So, is he our man?’ Kemal asked.

  Cole and I exchanged looks. I answered first, touching my cut lip. ‘Well, he doesn’t punch like MI5!’

  For the first time since we had arrived, Bale's face cracked a little, and a smile flickered. ‘He’s good enough to give you a solid looking slap!’

  He had rediscovered his voice. The joy! I was glad that something had amused him. He, at least for a second or two, looked perkier than I had seen him for days.

  I gave a verbal backhand in reply. ‘That’s as may be, but I certainly would advise you not to go in because he’d love to give you a few.’

  He refrained from further smart-arse comments. Probably correctly, figuring that I might give our Jack a hand.

  Whether to lower any risk of further confrontation or to show off her knowledge, I don't know, but Cole took the opportunity to inform us that most MI5 agents would have been civil servants in front of a screen of data, monitoring the communications of chosen “undesirables”, so in all probability would not have been that physical. ‘Don’t believe the movies, Pete,’ she advised me. Once that educational was completed, she asked me for any other observations.

  ‘He wasn’t particularly impressive in any other way either,’ I replied. ‘Still, a dumb kid might be his cover.’

  ‘Maybe.’ She looked into the distance and thought for a second. ‘Roijin, the video clips of Foxton. Are any of them of him coming out of the car park?’

  ‘No, the nearest, which we think is a part of the same young male which we now think is Jack Foxton, is a fraction of a wrist taken from a passing motorbike sensor ten metres from the exit.’

  ‘Can we tell which direction he was passing?’

  ‘No. Sorry, Vic . . .’

  ‘Okay. Glen, you sort this out with the Battersea comrades who are coming. Roijin, get Ash to ask around about Jack.’

  ‘Sort it out?’ Bale mumbled. ‘How?’

  ‘You’ll think of something.’

  He was going to argue but he didn’t have time; Cole was in full strident mode. Bale was in his most baleful. ‘So, we are getting a positive response to the photo-fi
ts, but Glen, have we got anything in the way of info on why Olivia suddenly left the wind farm to spend a day and a half at the fracking centre?’

  ‘No. Sorry, Vic. Nothing.’

  The poor man was sinking deeper by the second.

  ‘Shame. I think if we knew what Olivia had found out, and what had made it so important for her to go to the South Downs, then we might know how the extraction plant is linked with her death.’

  ‘You definitely think there is a link?’ he asked.

  ‘Pretty sure, but how, and why, we don’t know.’

  Roijin all but wagged her tail with excitement. ‘I might be able to help there. We may not have got any response which helps us understand what took her there in the first place, but we did a call from several comrades who had contact with her after she had left.’

  Cole didn’t so much jump down her throat as dive bomb. ‘What! When did this happen? Why didn’t you tell me?’

  ‘I was going to, Vic, but then this Jack Foxton thing happened.’

  She impatiently brushed aside the excuse. ‘Okay, so tell me now.’

  Suddenly energised, Roijin turned and beckoned us to follow her into the main room. She all but bounded in. Our progress wasn’t quite so brisk, due to the need to first reassure Glen that the office presently acting as Foxton’s cell was securely locked and that he wasn’t about to kick it down and come out, paper clip in hand, to embark on a murderous killing spree.

  Upon putting his fears to rest, we joined Roijin. ‘Here!’ she said, tapping a key on her laptop and bringing up a 2D projection in front of us. It consisted of two faces of white middle aged men and Olivia Harrison. A list of names attached to each. ‘Those two guys are comrades; they work in the national division of energy work force allocation based in central London. Basically, that’s the HR of the NWC for the energy industries. Olivia was their supervisor. It was they who rang. One of their responsibilities is to ensure that there’s enough workers at the industries, which are, shall we say, less supportive of the workers’ state than they might be.’

  ‘Including fracking,’ I murmured.