Whacked in Whitechapel (A Cozy Mystery) (Cassie Coburn Mysteries Book 3)

by Samantha Silver

  “The police are waiting downstairs to arrest you. I am here simply as a courtesy. I know that you are the one behind all of this.”

  “No. No, you’re wrong. I don’t know where you got this idea.”

  “All right, you do not believe me. Since I need to know where the vials are, let me explain everything that happened to you. When you realize just how much I know, you will answer the rest of my questions, and maybe– just maybe–you will not spend the entirety of the rest of your life in prison.”

  Violet leaned back in the chair comfortably, like a parent about to tell a child a fairy tale.

  “It all started when Anita Turner told her boyfriend, the man whom she knew as Edward Harding, about what she had overheard in the hospital: for three days, the hospital was to store Ebola vials. Now, Anita thought her boyfriend was a regular man, but he was not. He was a thief; a thief who had stolen from the wrong man in Russia, and was now lying low in England for a few years before moving back to his old life in Eastern Europe. The man knew what the vials would be worth, and quite frankly, he could not resist.”

  Violet’s eyes turned hard. “But the main problem he would have was getting rid of them. How could he get in touch with someone who wanted the vials? Harding turned to his connections overseas, looking for someone who would pay good money for vials of a disease that could spread terror. And his connection sent him to you, a fellow Russian.”

  Anthony Roman scoffed. “I’m more English than either one of you. I was born in Manchester. I went to Eton, and then Cambridge. I’ve lived in London almost my whole life.”

  “And yet your handkerchief, obviously a present from your mother, given the fact that you still carry it with you despite its age and the overly feminine pattern, is monogrammed AP.”

  “Yes, my mother gave me the handkerchief as a gift years ago. She passed away eight years ago now, and the rest of the letter ‘R’ has been worn off.”

  “That is what I thought at first, but no, it has become evident that you are lying. Your name is Anthony Roman–or Anton Romanov, to be more exact–and in the Cyrillic alphabet, the Roman letter ‘R’ is written as a ‘P’. Your parents are Russian.”

  Anthony Roman just stared at Violet for a while, rather than saying anything, so she continued. “Whoever Artie Ingram contacted put him in touch with you. You organized a meeting, and you offered to pay Ingram for the vials of Ebola. Ingram agreed to ten million pounds. He stole the vials and killed his girlfriend, who had agreed to help him into the hospital as she was feeling bitter about not being accepted into medical school. So now Artie had the vials of Ebola. However, for the second part of the plan, he needed help. He needed someone local. He reached out to Petkovic, a dual citizen of both Serbia and England, who lives here full-time and knows the city. However, Petkovic betrayed Ingram and shot him, stealing the vials. Are you with me still?”

  “This story is insane. It’s the fabrication of a crazy person,” Roman said. Still, I could see a thin sheen of sweat on his forehead. Violet was definitely getting to him.

  “Ingram had left your details on his fridge. After killing him, Petkovic called you, and you agreed to allow him to continue the plan, and pay him instead. The attack is supposed to happen today; that much I know. I suspect that if one were to look at your recent trades, you would have made a number of short sales today, in anticipation of the attack. You must be banking on quite the payday in order to pay ten million to some gangsters. Unfortunately for you, Petkovic and his second-in-command are in prison. However, fortunately for you, there is still time to make a deal. As you can see, I know everything. Everything except where the attack will be taking place. If you help me, I can help you.”

  “You have no proof of any of this,” Anthony Roman replied. “If you did, you’d simply arrest me.”

  “Ah, mais tu vois, I am not with the police. I do not care about arresting people; I care about finding the Ebola. I can ensure, however, that you will have the opportunity to make an advantageous deal with the Crown Prosecutor should Cassie and I find the Ebola vials before they are unleashed on the general public. I have figured all of this out without needing any proof. How long do you think it will take me to find proof of all of this once I actually begin to look for it? You are now betting your freedom on my own stupidity. Trust me, you will lose.”

  At this point, Anthony Roman was visibly sweating, and looking around for an exit. Violet almost had him; I was sure of it. “Your job involves taking calculated risk. Do not bet against me,” she told him. “Tell me where the Ebola is supposed to be released.”

  She stared Anthony Roman down for another thirty seconds or so, and finally, he broke down.

  “I don’t know,” he finally said. “I honestly don’t know where the attack is going to be. All I know is that through one of their guys, named Sasha or something, they’ll be able to access somewhere where they can spread the virus as efficiently as possible.”

  “Sasha. Is that all you know?”

  Anthony Roman nodded miserably. “Look, what kind of deal do you think I can get?”

  “I think it will depend on whether or not Cassie and I manage to find the Ebola vials in time. Move,” she said, plugging the powerboard back in and getting up and making her way to where Roman was sitting. He got up off his chair and Violet began tapping away at his computer. She tossed me her phone.

  “Text DCI Williams that we are ready,” she told me, and I did as she asked. About two minutes later the man himself came up the stairs, followed closely by two other detectives.

  “Anthony Roman, you are under arrest at this time,” DCI Williams told him, and Roman sighed as he turned around and put his hands behind his back. Evidently all the fight had gone out of him after realizing just how much Violet knew. "You do not have to say anything but it may harm your defense if you do not mention, when questioned, something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.”

  He handed Roman off to the other two men, who left the room, one flanking Roman on each side, and DCI Williams turned to me while Violet typed away on the man’s computer.

  “Are you any closer to finding the virus?” he asked. I shrugged.

  “Well, we know the attack is going to be today, and we know it’s one of the men in the Serbian gang named Sasha who’s the main player now. The rest is up to her,” I said, motioning to Violet.

  “It is always up to me, and I am always correct. Come, we must go immediately. It is already after four thirty. If I estimate correctly, the attack will take place sometime before six tonight. Possibly as early as five o’clock.”

  “Where are we going?” DCI Williams asked as the three of us practically sprinted out the door.

  “Waterloo Station!” Violet called behind her.

  My heart clenched when I heard the words. Waterloo Station was the busiest train station in London, and one of the busiest in the world. I was pretty sure I’d read in one of my guide books a few months ago that around one hundred million people traveled via Waterloo every year, meaning there could be as many as three hundred thousand passengers passing through in a day. I knew for a fact that at rush hour, the place was always jam packed with people leaving work and heading back home.

  “I have a car parked outside,” DCI Williams said, panting slightly, as the elevator made its way down the shaft. What had felt like such a high-speed adventure the first time I’d taken it now felt like a snail’s pace. We had to get to Waterloo Station.

  “No,” Violet said. “The tube will be much faster.”

  Normally, the fact that I’d had an ACL reconstruction–combined with the fact that my regular exercise schedule was non-existent–meant that I wouldn’t be able to keep up with Violet and DCI Williams as we ran down Leadenhall Street toward Bank Underground station. However, this time, adrenaline coursed through my veins and if there was a protest from my knee, my brain ignored it. We only had a few minutes left to stop a terrorist attack, after all.

&
nbsp; I really, really hoped we were going to make it in time.

  Chapter 21

  When we reached the fare gates at Bank Station, Violet didn’t even bother tapping in; she simply jumped onto the panel where you tapped your Oyster card, then jumped over the paddle gate. DCI Williams already had his Oyster card out, and mine was in my back pocket, so I grabbed it and the two of us scanned in. A transit police officer was yelling at Violet, but DCI Williams flashed his badge and yelled “it’s ok, she’s with me,” at the man, who backed down. We followed Violet as we raced through a veritable labyrinth of one-way tunnels, escalators and sloping tunnels toward the platform for the Waterloo and City line headed to Waterloo, and immediately jumped onto a waiting train. I’d never been so thankful to make a train in my life.

  My heart pounded in my chest. I knew the ride would take around four minutes–Waterloo was only two stations away–and I also knew they were going to be the longest four minutes of my life. Violet, on the other hand, seemed as calm as if we were just going down to the pub for a drink.

  “Tell me, Cassie,” Violet told me. “If the virus was released into the air, what would happen?”

  I thought back to what I’d learned about Ebola. “Well, honestly, nothing really. Ebola isn’t like the flu. It’s not an airborne disease. If someone infected with Ebola sneezed in your face, and droplets of their saliva got into your mouth or nose, you would be infected via the air, but technically it would be from the droplets of saliva.”

  “So the HVAC system is unlikely to be the target. It is bodily fluids only, yes?”

  “Exactly,” I said. “Blood is the best carrier of the virus, if I remember right. One milliliter of blood can carry one million particles of the disease.”

  “Fluids,” Violet said quietly, almost to herself. “How do you get every person passing through Waterloo station to be covered in fluids?”

  I had no idea. After all, it wasn’t like every single person used the bathroom. Suddenly, Violet perked up.

  “The sprinkler system!” she exclaimed. “It has to be. Cassie, how would it work?”

  I thought for a few moments. “Well, if they injected the virus into some blood, the virus would thrive there. However, as soon as the blood was added to regular tap water, the virus would be killed within minutes. Because the tap water doesn’t have the same salt concentration as our blood, water would rush into the blood cells to even out the salt concentration, making them burst and killing the virus. Assuming they put the blood in regular tap water, the sprinklers would have to be set off within about one minute or else the virus would be useless.”

  “Well, we can always hope these guys are idiots,” DCI Williams muttered. “But let’s try and stop this all the same.”

  “Agreed,” Violet said, nodding. The lady announced that we were at Waterloo Station, and we piled to the front of the line. As soon as the doors opened the three of us practically burst out of them. I followed Violet blindly as she expertly navigated the corridors, and within a minute we found ourselves standing in the center of Waterloo Station, a hub of activity.

  The air buzzed with the hum of people talking, be it on their phones or to each other. Men in suits carrying briefcases rushed by while tourists stood in front of the departures board trying to find their platforms. Students carrying backpacks that weighed more than most children walked past giggling, and smartly dressed businesswomen closed deals on their phones.

  As soon as we walked in, however, I focused on the roof. The semi-transparent tiles let the light in, giving the whole area an airy feel. The rectangular panes and criss-crossed steel beams made the building feel like it was built during the Industrial Revolution. Speakerphones hung down from the ceiling, but more importantly, if I looked very closely, I could see sprinklers on every few beams.

  “We have to find out how to get to the sprinkler system,” DCI Williams said. “I can ask someone.”

  “There is no need,” Violet said as she made her way toward the room to buy tickets. “I already know where to go.” At the entrance was a large orange door announcing ‘Keep Clear–Emergency Exit Only’. To the left of that door, however, was another, this one just plain brown. Violet made a move to open it, but it was locked. Cursing, she grabbed her lock picking tools from her purse and thirty seconds later the door was opened.

  We entered and found ourselves at the entrance of a stairwell, one of those crappy cement ones that literally every building on the planet seems to have somewhere. Taking the steps three at a time, Violet and DCI Williams bounded upwards, while I ran up as best I could. Going up stairs didn’t hurt anymore, but I still wasn’t able to take them two at a time.

  When we reached the top of the stairs, another door led us into a hallway. We passed multiple rooms, none of which were labeled, but Violet seemed to know exactly where she was going.

  “How do you know where the sprinkler room in Waterloo Station is?” DCI Williams asked, wheezing slightly.

  “I live in London, I make it my business to know every corner of this city,” Violet replied.

  “There’s a difference between knowing where to get your kale smoothies and being able to navigate the back rooms of a major train station though,” I said, laughing through my gasps as my lungs sucked in air.

  “And that difference means we might be able to stop a terrorist attack today,” Violet said.

  “Point taken,” I replied as Violet slowed up. We stopped in front of a plain, beige-colored door. Unfortunately, this one was padlocked.

  “I knew I should not have left my stethoscope at home,” Violet muttered. “This one will take me a moment,” she said.

  “I have a better idea,” DCI Williams said, moving to a fire extinguisher hanging on the wall about twenty feet away. He grabbed it and made his way back to the door, bashing the lock and breaking it on the third attempt.

  “Your method has not the finesse of mine, but I cannot deny its effectiveness,” Violet said. Suddenly, she stopped short.

  “Wait,” she said, crouching down to the ground. There was some white powder on the ground. For what felt like the hundredth time today, my heart seized in my chest. White powder on the ground near a water supply we were fairly certain terrorists were about to use? This was not good. DCI Williams and I shared a look of worry, but Violet simply picked up some of the powder and put it in her mouth.

  “Are you insane?” I practically shrieked at her. “Why would you do that?”

  “Relax, it was nothing more than regular table salt,” Violet told me with a smile. “If it was anthrax, we would likely have already been infected anyway.”

  “Oh so that makes it ok to eat the random powder off the ground then.”

  “What it does tell us is that the Serbians have been doing their research. If they have added salt to the water supply and then added blood to which the Ebola was introduced, the virus will last for longer inside the sprinkler system.”

  “That’s it,” DCI Williams said. “That’s all I needed to see. I’m putting out an order to evacuate the station.”

  “It is a good idea, that one,” Violet said, nodding, as the three of us made our way into the room. “However, make sure that your evacuation is subtle. We do not want to spook the man into bringing his timetable forward.” DCI Williams nodded and pulled out his phone and then went back out into the hallway to make a call while Violet and I stood in what was evidently the main fire safety room for the whole station.

  In the center of the room was a large, black box labeled ‘Sprinklers’. Violet and I made our way toward it, and a few seconds later I’d realized how it works.

  “The water comes from there,” I said, motioning toward a large pipe entering the room with a cut-off valve set to ‘off’. No water was coming in. From there, the water entered the storage and was pushed out via another pipe that left the room from the other side. This one had a cut-off valve as well, but someone had broken it so that without a wrench it would be impossible to turn off the water flow.<
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  Violet had been right. This was where the attack was happening.

  “Sasha Bakic works at Waterloo Station,” Violet told me. “His shift this morning began at five, hence the moving of the vials. He would not have had time during his shift, especially during the rush hour, to infect the water, so he has had to wait until afterwards. His shift ended at three this afternoon. He has prepared the tank; there is more salt inside the water. He will likely bring blood contaminated with Ebola in here soon and add it to the sprinkler system, then override the computer here to set off the sprinklers.”

  “Therefore covering everyone in the station with an Ebola infected blood and water mixture, hoping that some of it gets into their eyes, their mouths or even just a cut on their skin, and infects them,” I finished.

  “Oui, that is the plan.”

  “All so one guy could make some money on his stocks,” I said, shaking my head.

  “There is a lot of money in it. When London was attacked in 2007, I remember the story of one broker who made hundreds of millions of pounds. He had no pre-knowledge of the attacks; he simply bought travel stocks when the markets dropped immediately after the attacks, and made the money on the rebound afterwards.”

  “So how do we stop this?” I asked, looking at the computer.

  “You are looking in the wrong spot,” Violet said, suddenly making her way toward the large black box. It was about three feet high, and she jumped on top of it with ease. “Yes,” she said, nodding. “This is the true problem.”

  I moved over to where Violet was and gasped. I hadn’t noticed it before, but a small hole had been opened on top of the sprinkler system’s water storage unit; it would have been designed for easy testing of the water inside the sprinkler system. On top of the hole was a shoebox, with a cell phone with a number of different colored cables protruding from it taped to the side. There was about a pint of blood at the bottom of the box.

  “Is that… a bomb?” I asked, my eyebrows coming closer together as I frowned at the box.