by AD Davies
Like her Saviour said, it was a shame she waited so long. Because she procured the supplies from that guy at the motorway service station, as instructed. She stored them, as instructed. And only minutes before being called into Swank’s office she received her final instructions: how to mix the chemicals, how to arm the device, and where to use it.
… until either the threat is nullified … or you all return home for the autumn break next week…
Wishful thinking.
Sorry, everyone. The threat is right amongst you. And no one is going to make it home for autumn break.
Prom night was going to be the best.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
The fact DS Friend displayed the gall to attend her morning briefing at Sheerton Police Station caused Paulson to reassess her opinion of the woman she nicknamed PC Pixie. Rather than the girl’s voice and manner merely screeching through Paulson’s spine and forcing her fine hairs on end, now she actively believed Alicia would never be a police officer again after today. The paperwork she completed this morning had not yet been submitted, a recommendation Alicia be taken off active duty altogether due to being unfit at this time. It suggested she was a danger to herself and continued service may harm either her or the baby.
Usually reserved for women with health issues—either biological or simply too physically immobile, causing back problems or strained knees, etc.—it was a course of action made to look compassionate, but it was, in reality, a two-fold tool: first, the staff member could not sue the Police Service for neglecting their duty of care, and second, it cut down the time the mother-to-be would be useless to a tax-payer-funded role. That the current statutory maternity leave was as generous as it was irked Paulson even more than PC Pixie’s bubbly demeanour and her tendency to monologue her thoughts instead of summarising them. However, the Police Service’s policy allowed a longer paid leave than was demanded by law, in part to allow more time to recover before returning to a physical job, but more to dissuade mothers from quitting entirely once they’d sucked the teat of government welfare dry.
No, after what she pulled last night, PC Pixie would no longer bathe in taxpayers’ cash. Pregnant or not, she disobeyed orders, placed herself in danger, trespassed on private property—which without Jacob Rocaby’s confession would have rendered all evidence on said property inadmissible, including the victim—and … oh yeah, she disobeyed orders.
It was on her list twice because PC Pixie did it more than once this week.
The woman needed disciplining, and possibly firing for her actions. Easier to do it before she started her leave, or it may be deemed “discrimination” at a tribunal. So Paulson shelved the compassionate request to HR to help Alicia help herself by forcing her maternity leave date forward, and submitted a complaint to the Professional Standards Unit.
Alicia gave a little wave and a smile from the middle of the room as she sat beside DCI Murphy, freshly returned from IROMOV, who would also face questions from PSU, establishing a black mark on his record.
Enough to end his secondment?
Maybe not, but certainly sufficient to count against him if the DCI vacancy became permanent.
As uniforms and detectives filed into the briefing room, bringing the number to fourteen, Paulson and Chief Superintendent Daniel Nixon—in charge of Sheerton—stood shoulder-to-shoulder at the front. There was a podium in one corner for those given to grandstanding but Paulson never liked those damn things; too much like a politician delivering a speech.
When all assembled before them, Paulson introduced herself and Nixon explained, “Chief Superintendent Paulson is here because in the wake of the incident at the Violent Men Institute today, this is now a joint operation between Sheerton, Leeds Central, Harrogate, and the Serious Crime Agency. She brings a wealth of experience, and will also be contributing a number of specialists who are en-route, I believe. Janine?”
She swallowed the nauseous tingle at his use of her first name in front of the rank-and-file, and said, “Yes … Daniel. First, I need to address a small matter. I hear the unofficial term for this event is ‘Operation Arkham.’ For those non-geeks and anyone who happened to grow up since they were teenagers, that refers to the insane asylum in Batman comics. The writers apparently enjoy it when the inmates break out and cause havoc throughout the city. So far we have seen only two of fifteen men causing trouble, both involving alcohol and shouting. No violence, except for when the police showed up to take care of the disturbance.”
“Ma’am.” A red-haired woman in a smart trouser suit raised her hand. When Paulson nodded, the woman said, “We’ve had more reports than that. Ex-partners have reported some of them hanging around, some pubs ejecting them without incident … three at the current count. I think we might be looking at a ticking bomb with these guys.”
“Be that as it may, these are not insane criminals,” Paulson said. “So no more ‘Arkham’ talk, please. They served their time and resided in a safe place, approved by the Probation Service. Of those, seven are still on licence, and part of their release conditions was that they reside in an approved property. They are subject to arrest warrants, but let’s keep it quiet. Talk to them first, then ask them to check in with their probation officer. Any reports such as those the detective here mentioned will come to us. We handle it. Gently. But we handle it. Interviews will be conducted via coordination with myself and DS Stevenson.”
Stevenson raised his hand so everyone knew who was in charge.
Paulson said, “Daniel will dish out assignments by detective inspector and DCI.”
She eyed Murphy for a long moment, and next to him Alicia flashed another pixie-smile.
Yeah, grin it up. Stay of execution will last a couple more hours at most.
The girl should have been under suspension, but Paulson figured she would probably do something else to add to the charge sheet. All the better.
Paulson moved to the door, knowing she was about to tell a little white lie to the squad. “The bigger problem is the impending attack that we anticipate will be carried out either by one of the remaining IROMOV members or one of those who fled. DS Stevenson will assess any arrests made. But in the meantime, let me introduce Nick Shepherd of Observation Unit 12.”
She opened the door to find—with perfect planned timing—Nick Shepherd on a small plastic chair sipping a coffee. He stood, entered the room and laid out exactly how they would nail the perpetrator of the planned attack, and neutralize him before anyone else got hurt.
“Otherwise,” Paulson said to close, “we will have to shut that school down, and deny some very influential people their children’s prom. Which might not sound like a big deal, but if we can’t keep them safe, those highly influential parents will demand blood. Heads will roll, and one of them will not be mine.” She focused on Murphy and Alicia, and ensured they knew it. “Dismissed.”
* * *
So Alicia finally understood she was off the case. At least as far as Paulson was concerned. The chief super actually appeared gleeful as she collared Alicia after the briefing to inform her of the PSU complaint.
Alicia made it as far as the new incident room before she was intercepted by a detective constable from the professional standards department. He escorted her to a small disused office where he informed her of a complaint regarding her conduct as a police officer. It was step one in modern disciplinary proceedings. That today was officially Alicia’s final day before commencing her maternity leave would feature heavily in her union rep’s argument to delay pursuing a case until her return in six months (maybe a year, depending how she feels), but it was not a shock to learn of Paulson’s strategy. Because no criminal charges were being brought at this time she was not under suspension, but she was allowed the morning to gather herself and discuss the matter with her rep. The file had already been passed to her rep for reviewing, so Alicia was now required to appear at three p.m., “upstairs.”
The DC seemed to think she would automatically know what that
meant, but—in a case where nobody knew much—all Alicia knew for certain was the she would not be appearing at any meeting today.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Because of the intel that filtered through over the past twenty-four hours, Nick Shepherd went straight from that annoying briefing to the target location. Why Paulson insisted on him giving what amounted to a thirty-second summary of his unit’s remit, he had no idea. Especially considering his team had been on duty since the early hours, setting up in record time to tag along with the Armed Response team and use the cover of the fires to install both digital and in-person units for monitoring. They achieved the new time-trial primarily due to the special circumstances, namely kids being in danger from terrorists, although Nick worried they’d now set a new standard and might be referred to in future when he demanded an additional forty-eight hours to get ready. In this case it was all out in the open, clear lines of sight, not infiltrating an inner city mosque or slipping through a rough boozer without alerting the locals to a stranger. This was a job for long range tech, much of which was stashed at the Catterick Army Training Centre, and required fast and efficient organisation of the boots-on-the-ground teams.
So the task force now knew of OU12’s remit, if not exactly how they did it, and he wasn’t prepared to disclose that level of detail.
“OU12 is the Observation Unit attached to the SCA,” he told the gathered coppers, although they more than likely already knew that. “We have a virtually unlimited range of surveillance methods, and once we are assigned, we can use any of those we see fit. Wire taps, digital monitoring, in-person eavesdropping, undercover observations, and sometimes distance eavesdropping—that’s radar mics, if you didn’t know the term.”
It was a radar mic they aimed at the IROMOV clubhouse right now. A highly-sensitive microphone with a cone-like dish behind it to capture everything that vibrated through the target area, sometimes simply a person’s mouth, but other times a pane of glass would suffice. Today, it was glass. Never as efficient as direct line-of-sight, it nevertheless relayed the words spoken by anyone in the room close enough for the glass to “hear” them. Often, it needed fine-tuning in what they sometimes called “post production” but never a term used in official documents or in the presence of defence lawyers. Drop the background noise (like air-conditioning or traffic), cut out a repeated sound (such as a loud clock), or simply hone in on a particular frequency (or “voice” as it’s known to the layman).
Right now, Michelle Kelly—Nick’s smallest, fastest, and most discreet team member—was sequestered in the back of a former outhouse, a wooden block that ceased being used once the group installed internal plumbing to the individual abodes, and relayed the untainted audio to a cloud server dedicated to OU12. As it recorded live, it was accessible by any and all members of the team, plus those in the new task force.
In the back of the Range Rover that collected him, it was clear to Nick that someone screwed up royally, and he wasn’t totally sure these were the correct people to be listening to. They’d eliminated one guy—Norman Faulkner—by ascertaining he did not appear to suffer psychotic urges, instead using his lack of emotion to breed him as a spy, and the group’s de-facto leader was in jail for kidnapping, torture, and false imprisonment, which left a smaller core with which to work. The case so far had alerted the unknown target, and demonstrated the investigators’ incompetence to that target, revealing their intent and desperation. Unless the guy was on a deadline, he would likely drop back into hiding.
If it was only one. That was an assumption Nick Shepherd was not willing to make.
While Michelle Kelly focused on the group as a whole, ready to pick up on any new leads, Nick ordered the top three receive personal treatment:
- Bill Khan, philosopher-in-chief.
- Vernon Slater, impatient and violent—a “chav” in Nick’s parlance, but not the Police Service’s.
- Kuno Kae, a bleeding heart lawyer who saw the perpetrators of crime as victims equal to the actual victims.
Nick allocated a spotter to each subject, a covert team that lay in wait, camouflaged and still, the kind of skill set required of special forces commandoes. In fact, like himself, most of his team were ex-military, mostly Signals or their Nato equivalent, but some from classified units whose CVs were redacted even to potential employers. After twenty-or-so years of active service, this type of civilian op was a healthy change of pace, meaning the majority of OUs were over forty.
Can’t beat experience.
Once the spotters picked up movement, a mobile team took over, a team of another two, switching out vehicles so they would not appear overly suspicious on long journeys. In cities they wouldn’t need three per subject, but in the isolation here, it paid to be careful.
Throughout his journey to the rendezvous, Nick reviewed the reports on the OU12 project server, impressed as the men set about their work, at first alongside the Fire Service, raking through the burned properties, but by 1300-hours, most of the work was done and all that remained was the arson investigation. Still, the men of this “Institute for Reformation of Men of Violence” continued to work, pulling down burned half-walls, recovering minor knickknacks, while two of the leftovers—Lamar Reynolds and Tony Potter, according to the intel—prepared a meal. Michelle Kelly picked up that it would be chilli.
Vernon Slater, in particular, caught Nick’s eye. It was not his job to interpret the data, only coordinate, collate, and present it objectively to the detectives. Not that it stopped him from speculating. This Slater guy was like a hundred jar heads he’d seen killed in action, sent mad by combat, or turned into brave, productive lifelong soldiers. Rarely did any of them leave the Forces unchanged; bettered or broken.
Perhaps that’s what the chav needed; a stint in the Army.
Then there was the lawyer. When her husband showed up with a bag, she changed into shorts and a t-shirt, pulled her dark hair into a ponytail, and while Nick tried not to objectify her, the sight of the lithe Japanese girl sweating and straining with an axe and a pitchfork stirred in him the guilt of distraction whilst on the job. She issued orders, and Vernon, Norman Faulkner, Henry Black, Julian Vincent, and Bill Khan did not question her. Even her husband mucked in. The way she handled herself, her curt manner as relayed by Michelle Kelly’s radar mic, made Nick’s insensitive and unprofessional desire harder to put to the back of his mind. Not that he would ever cheat on his wife, but it did not stop him from looking.
And thinking.
Thinking how this case required a well-organised person. Good at persuading people to follow orders to the point of suicide.
And Bill Khan, the philosopher. After the bulk of the work was done, he meditated on his front step, facing the lake. No one ribbed him for it, and no one batted an eye as he stripped to his gym shorts, let his flabby body fall out, and performed half an hour of piss-poor martial arts on the lakeshore. Stuff he perhaps learned from Jackie Chan films, but looked good to the uneducated eye.
Following a successful and highly subdued feast of chilli then ice cream for pudding, the only line of note came from Vernon Slater.
“Are we gonna talk about what happens next, or what?” he asked.
And Bill replied, “No. Let’s not do that yet.”
A reference to the big plan the suits were worried about, or simply exhausted?
As the afternoon wore on, Vernon Slater and Henry Black shot fifty-two arrows at various targets in a field too far away for Michelle’s mic to pick them up, and too exposed for her to risk an approach. Kuno Kae and her husband departed, and her allocated OU12 officers followed her home, where they would wait until she left again or her lights went out. The other OU12 pairing met up to let rock-paper-scissor decide who would take the first shift to watch the house all night.
Then, when everyone was off doing their own thing, and Nick was preparing to give Michelle the all clear to turn in for the night, Bill Khan left the compound in Jacob Rocaby’s car. He drove past Excelsior A
cademy, slowing as he did so, then continued on to the village of Thorpdale, where he entered a pub called the Black Knight, a narrow, crowded building with a pre-season football match attracting a dense gathering around the TV. One half of the tail team watched Bill order a lime cordial with soda, then spend half an hour nursing the drink with occasional glances in the TV’s general direction, until his iPhone’s FaceTime app trilled.
An end-to-end encrypted system into which OU12 could not pry.
Khan’s tail, though, using a tiny, handheld version of Michelle Kelly’s radar mic, picked out snippets of conversation, at least from Bill’s end, spoken into his earbuds’ mic. It took Simon Gallagher back at HQ ten minutes to tidy up the audio, but eventually they understood and transmitted an alert to their SCA contact: Detective Sergeant Robert Stevenson.
“Calm down, don’t panic,” Bill said. “It’s all in hand. Saturday is still on. It’s a go. I repeat, it’s a go.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
An hour after she was supposed to appear before a disciplinary panel, Alicia watched a video of the youngest member of the Institute, Vernon Slater, lifting weights in the sun. An outdoor gym no one mentioned before, but here it was, right beside the tool shed in which they kept more gardening implements than B&Q. One of what they now thought of as the “lesser” members, Lamar Reynolds, joined him without speaking. An argument earlier saw Bill calm everyone down, but it had little effect on the mood except to prevent a physical altercation. Bill went out soon after, and the OU12 guys were on him tight.
She had taken herself to Murphy’s office to stay out of Paulson’s way, but now the woman walked in, her hat in hand, holding herself stiffly in her uniform.
“DS Friend,” she said. “What did you do?”
“I don’t understand,” Alicia replied, eyes on the computer monitor.
