by AD Davies
That she chose not to kill herself was entirely down to her Saviour.
He shared her passions, too, despised the entitled elite as much as she did. He called her “almost fully-formed” and she required little persuading on what course of action she should take.
She remained patient, but the time was fast approaching. And as she drove from Arms Cliff Crag in her Mitsubishi Outlander Hybrid—gifted to her for passing her test first time—through the tight lanes toward the motorway and eventually to a decrepit service station, her arms and legs tingled with excitement, making her want to dance. She was to meet a supplier arranged by her Saviour.
It was really happening.
All the months of talk, of plans, of bloody awful patience, they were going to pay off this week. Holly Costa would be remembered forever. She would be just like Guy Fawkes! Except, y’know, successful.
Bringing down the establishment was gonna be awesome!
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
While Murphy sat on his bum in a meeting with Chief Superintendent Paulson, Police and Crime Commissioner Graham Rhapshaw, and a number of representatives from Rhapshaw’s office, it was left to Alicia to lead the discussion on the possible leads dug up so far. Stevenson had deigned to show up in person, the proximity of Sheerton being more convenient if they needed a physical body to get out and about. With Alicia suitably chewed out by Paulson for venturing to the Institute yesterday, she was on her final warning.
Another final warning.
“So,” she said to the four gathered in what was quickly becoming “their” corner of the squad room. “What do we know today that we didn’t know yesterday?”
“They’re targeting a school,” Ndlove said.
“They—or he—is in communication with somebody at that school,” Stevenson corrected.
Alicia said, “And we know a bit more about IROMOV now don’t we? Shall we make a verbal guess without putting it in the file?”
“A guess?” Stevenson said.
“We know someone within the Institute was communicating with killers via foreign servers. It’s either one, two, or more people within the camp using some very clever tactics to create fear, lose wealthy people a bit of money, and make a point.”
Stevenson crossed his arms. “It would be dangerous to narrow our focus to the Institute.”
“My bet is on the chaplain. The ex-football hooligan.”
“Why not the IT guy?”
“Norman Faulkner? Well, because that would be silly of him. He’s the one who told us a VPN wasn’t sufficient to hide as deeply as our man is.”
“Double bluff? We’d have learned that from our Cyber Division eventually. And we still aren’t sure—”
“DCI Murphy has cleared the village,” Ndlove said with another jerk of her head to Stevenson. “The geographic profile doesn’t fit, and the original VPN isn’t available at the school.”
Cleaver added, “The school that may be a target.”
Another pause.
The notion of a school massacre flashed images of blood and severed limbs through Alicia’s mind, of stained school uniforms flat to the floor, text books fluttering in the wind, abandoned forever. Parents sobbed in her image, and protesters gathered.
What form would the attack take this time?
They’d seen gay activists, Islamic jihad, and police brutality campaigners. Would he repeat himself? A Muslim attacking the place would surely drum up the most anger, as evidenced by how the breezeblock attack now drew protesters from all over the UK like iron filings to some giant jihadi-shaped magnet, marches planned in London, Birmingham, and Manchester over the coming weekend. With Counter Terrorism Command waiting in the wings to take over, and the public having received no word of terror charges being brought, the narrative in the far-right press had taken on a political-correctness-gone-mad tone, that the police were afraid to label Omar a terrorist for fear of “offending” people. But while his actions were undoubtedly an attempt to spread terror, he was not affiliated with a religious terror group, no allegiance declared to Islamic State or similar. If he were not a Muslim he may never have killed like he did, but Counter Terrorism Command would get nothing useful from him.
Once the full plan was revealed, the public would understand.
But not if a school fell afoul of such an atrocity.
“Alicia?” Stevenson said. “Are you okay?”
She looked up, unsure how long her introspection lasted. “Sorry, just thinking. Baby brain. So what’s your guess? Norman?”
“I’m not guessing.” He sounded bored. Certainly exasperated. “Promise me there won’t be a sweepstake.”
Alicia held up three fingers, her thumb tucking her little finger in; a Girl Guides salute from her youth. “I swear there will only be a sweepstake over my dead body.”
“I think Norman Faulkner is the best suspect. He’s capable, he’s angry, and has the relevant history.”
Cleaver nodded agreement. “He hurt prostitutes, might have killed the last one if he wasn’t interrupted.”
“A classic,” Alicia said. “Starts with the most vulnerable victims, in this case sex workers. Starts out with beatings, rape, escalating to torture and finally murder. Only he never made it as far as murder, and has voluntarily made serious efforts to change. With IROMOV.”
“You disagree?” Stevenson said.
“I think he’d hide better.”
“I have new information, though.”
Now everyone sat a little straighter. Alicia was winding up to throw a pen at him as punishment, but his exasperated tone earlier might grow into resentment if she embarrassed him.
He said, “My dad works in London for one of the medium sized banks. In the finance division. I thought the names of those businesses affected sounded familiar, so I checked with him. And I was right. The people running them have all been involved in some controversy. Terrance Harris of Denizon was implicated in the wrongful deaths of five illegal immigrants working at one of their franchised restaurants in the States. He was protected by a firewall of deniability, paid a fine and some damages to the relatives, and went back to work. The dad of Harpinder Rashid was accused of sexual harassment but a no-fault pay-out made it go away, meaning the alleged victim can’t talk about it. The motorway incident is a bit more random, but three months ago there was a case thrown out of court involving insurance companies colluding with one another to bury claimants’ teams in paperwork until they exhausted their resources. A number of the biggest insurers, all of whom would have been hit.”
“It’s like boxes within boxes,” Alicia said. Her head felt squiggly, unable to keep track of the layers. Focus. “And you think Mr. Faulkner has more motive than others?”
“Yes. Unless you can think of another.”
“Well, my guy has less motive, but he’s still a better suspect. Jacob Rocaby.”
Stevenson stretched his legs out and reached behind his head like the smuggest smug twat ever to look smugly at someone. He said, “Another classic.”
“Run it down for me.”
“Religious abusive father. Acting out violently. Glamorising violence. I think you’re looking at it too literally, Alicia.”
“And I think you have one eye on the movie adaptation.”
Everyone frowned, although Stevenson’s was the deepest. He also dropped the hands-behind-the-head smugness and said, “I don’t understand.”
“Norman is ‘The Magician.’ That’s a way-cool name for a serial killer.”
A roll of the eyes signalled the return of Exasperated Bobby. “His history of violence against hookers and his current politics is still more in keeping with this killer.”
“Mine’s better,” Alicia said. “Cleaver?”
“Hers is better,” Cleaver said. “All the motives in the world don’t mean a crap if you have physical evidence implicating someone else.”
Stevenson laid out a palm as if to say “go ahead.”
Cleaver did. “Jacob Rocaby, known
as ‘Rocker’ in his heyday, not only runs the Institute for Reformation of Men of Violence, he owns the limited company and the company owns land, which he bought cheap due to being over a former coal mine. The lake is manmade, part of an old quarry. IROMOV is registered at Companies House and returns tax records. Although the trust—also managed by Rocaby—technically owns it and is a registered charity to avoid paying said tax, its cash flow is largely in the form of government grants and income from other properties. A lakeside cabin for secluded getaways, three plush apartments in Leeds and Harrogate, a few low-rent bedsits here and there, and a minicab company. All that funds both his own salary, a healthy thirty-nine thousand a year … that’s one thousand a year less than the higher tax-bracket … and the company car we have been clocking on a regular basis.”
Alicia slipped a series of A4 photos from a file she hadn’t shown anyone yet, time-and-date-stamped stills of a licence plate. “There’s a traffic camera ten miles south of the Institute, at the crossroads of a busy route between Leeds and Harrogate, with another two miles north. Guess which one Jacob Rocaby has been caught on.”
“The north,” Stevenson said, now sat forward, his tone neutral. “Excelsior Academy is north.”
“And if you pass the school another mile on, and turn left, you find that little village, Thorpdale.”
“How often?”
Cleaver said, “Before yesterday, when the men were shot in The Dove of Portugal, twice a week. Monday and Thursday. Like clockwork.”
Ndlove added, “Could have written it off as popping into the village for bits and pieces they can’t grow in their farmed sections.”
“But,” Alicia said, hoping to take the punchline, “after our visit yesterday, he popped by again.”
“Tuesday,” Stevenson said.
“A break in the pattern.”
“So,” Alicia said, conscious to keep the smug from her voice. “What do you think?”
Stevenson took his time. In another world, he may have been cute. “Fine. Two viable suspects. We should look into both.”
“Agreed,” Alicia replied. “Now that wasn’t too hard.”
Ndlove raised her finger and said, “Are we discounting the pair working together?”
“No,” Alicia and Stevenson said together.
They shared a brief smile, and Alicia said, “We won’t rule anything out. But I believe it’s one leader, and many followers.”
Stevenson nodded. “And we’ll work to that basis until we prove otherwise.”
* * *
Once Alicia departed for another bathroom break, Cleaver and the junior detective constable agreed to pull the details of Rocaby and Faulkner’s probation officers—what some younger coppers and offenders increasingly referred to as “parole officers” thanks to US television and movies—and once Stevenson was alone, he made one final check for eavesdroppers, slipped out his phone, and called Chief Super Paulson.
“Hi, boss. Yeah, I know you said you’d only tap up your old friends in Five if we really needed it—right, right, request mutually-beneficial intelligence—but if I noticed something a bit out of the ordinary, something that might embarrass an important person … might that fall under your umbrella? Nigel Swank. He’s the headmaster of Excelsior Academy. Ex-MP. I think we need to tread carefully.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
On his and Paula’s tenth wedding anniversary, Murphy treated them to a weekend break in Gloucestershire, a luxury home in the heart of the countryside. As they travelled in their well-maintained but ultimately bog-standard Vauxhall Vectra up the mile-long driveway, they both marvelled at the manicured gardens, the perfect green grass, and the extensively-refurbished castle that now served as a hotel as it rose from the ground fog directly ahead. A marquee on the front lawn, like the set of The Great British Bake Off, housed a party populated by Hooray-Henries in top hats and tails, beyond which a paddock of six horses lay, and—further up—the entrance to a maze greeted them. The car park held Range Rovers and Jaguars, BMWs and a Bentley, while up at the main building the door was opened for them by a young man in a gold-piped red uniform, which in turn led to a reception hall bigger than Murphy’s house.
That hotel seemed positively shabby in comparison to Excelsior Academy.
After a brief risk assessment and with Paulson out of contact, Murphy approached his own chief superintendent—Daniel Nixon—for permission to take Alicia out of the building. Murphy suggested her presence would be beneficial given the sensitive nature of informing a prominent school of a possible-but-highly-unlikely threat, and since the new super had never experienced the pleasure of Alicia first hand—only her track record and academic qualifications—he agreed a psychologist would be an advantage. He was less enthusiastic about the prospect of sending a pregnant detective into a situation where the threat level was so high, even one-in-ten, but Murphy convinced him that their visit to IROMOV must have delayed any immediate action.
One positive prospect, plus low risk to injury, equalled a hall pass for Alicia to officially leave the station on business. She gave a high-pitched “yippee” and clapped her hands at the news.
The head teacher of Excelsior Academy lived in an annex a half-mile from the main building. A minimum six-bed grand Tudor house, it stood on its own, with a terrace overlooking the sports field consisting of a rugby pitch surrounded by a four-hundred-metre running track with bleachers down one side and what looked like state-of-the-art changing rooms. Beyond there, woodland stretched to the south east, with the remaining ground maintained to a strict lawn standard. The main school building was visible, presenting more grandness to the world in the form of a stately home akin to European royalty.
Murphy’s BMW didn’t quite exude an inferiority complex among the vehicles in the main lot, but there was definitely a touch of envy. Luxury 4x4s, top of the line Audis, a Porsche.
Having arrived at the end of the school day, children swanned around in their navy blue uniforms. Most school kids Murphy saw messed their uniforms to the maximum limits of acceptability: the shortened tie, the shirt untucked but not all the way, skirts rolled up at the waist to reveal maximum leg. But here, the word “uniform” appeared to be literal; all identically-dressed and turned out, walking straight, with purpose. He swore they were all far taller than average too.
Good living.
“Isn’t it the school holidays?” Alicia asked.
“Private academy,” Murphy replied. “They don’t follow the same schedule as the pleb schools.”
They had an appointment, so they headed directly for Nigel Swank’s residence as they’d been advised, and once again Murphy slowed his pace for Alicia to keep up. She waved at every kid whose gaze lingered upon her. When one of them didn’t wave back—a broad-shouldered dark-haired boy nearly as tall as Murphy—Alicia pointed at her belly and called, “I ate too many pies and drank too much beer! Stay healthy, kids!”
Unfortunately, that was the point at which a sixtyish man in a long flowing gown and a suit a hundred times more expensive than Murphy’s approached and stood with his hands behind his back. With his hooked nose and dark eyes, he looked like a hawk, albeit a short human-shaped one. Barely a head taller than Alicia, he puffed out his chest and flicked his hand, his forefinger elongated toward the main school building.
“Sir,” the tall child said, and sped up his stride.
“Detectives,” the hawk man said. “I’m Nigel Swank. Perhaps you’ll step this way?”
Without waiting for a reply he spun on his heel and led them towards his residence.
“Perhaps we will,” Alicia said to Murphy, and the pair did indeed step that way.
“Don’t let the traditional facade fool you,” Nigel Swank said, sweeping an arm to encompass half the grounds. “This isn’t Hogwarts. We are cutting edge. IT, a fifty-metre pool behind the school, full security on the gate.”
That much was true. Upon arrival, they passed a guard who made scans of their IDs via his phone, the way bared by si
x reinforced bollards of the sort that rose and sunk from the floor. Governments used them outside embassies.
“The children sign in and out as they leave and enter,” Nigel Swank continued, not slowing despite Alicia struggling. “And the wall is ten feet high and topped with razor wire.”
At his double-wide white front door, Swank waited for Murphy and Alicia. When they reached him, he entered without preamble, and when Murphy stepped inside the head teacher was hanging up his gown.
Gravitas for the kids’ benefit, Murphy guessed.
“The main building is shaped like a square letter ‘U’. The two wings at each end have been extended to accommodate the residences. Four to a dorm. One wing for boys, the other for girls, so they remain separated by the whole school. The grounds outside have one-hundred-percent CCTV coverage, so there is zero sneaking around.”
This first anteroom was decorated in surprisingly modern fixtures, with only an antique-looking rug amid polished wood panelling and rustic bookcases. A dark oak-panelled staircase to the right was barred by a red velvet rope, presumably signalling the area was off limits to visitors.
Nigel Swank led them into a far larger room, without much in the way of furniture, but again decorated tastefully and not as Murphy expected with shields and suits of armour.
“I’m having a new dining table installed shortly,” Swank explained. “This whole area is for entertaining important guests. Clients, the parents of particularly important children, occasionally those children themselves if the need arises.”
Alicia glanced at Murphy. Her smile made him shudder, but he didn’t have the energy to stop what he knew was coming.
“Aren’t all children as important as each other?” Alicia asked sweetly.
Swank lowered his head, smiled, and looked back at her. “Not here, Detective Sergeant Friend. Not here.”
Through the door was a living room, with a deep shag-pile carpet and cream leather suite. A sixty-inch TV occupied one corner, while a giant bookcase dominated the other wall, and a blocked-up fireplace displayed ceramic artwork featuring hummingbirds and fish; a mosaic of intricate beauty.
