Spicer glanced at the card. He said, “I don’t expect you to answer this, sir, but for form’s sake I’m going to ask what your interest in this matter is.”
“Oh, I don’t mind telling you, Superintendent,” Jim said brightly. “There may be a terrorist aspect to tonight’s events. Something we’re working on.”
Spicer blinked, caught by encountering such a vein of candour so early. “We’ve already interviewed most of the passengers,” he said, starting to lead Jim back across the yard to the main building. “I’ll make sure you have copies.”
“Thank you, Superintendent.”
Spicer jabbed his forefinger at a keypad mounted on the wall and leaned his weight against the door beside it. The door opened and he held it while Jim stepped inside, then followed him.
“Your request came too late for us to detain the majority of the passengers,” he said as he led Jim down corridors and up flights of stairs.
“It’s not necessary to detain them, Superintendent,” Jim said. “A sight of their interviews will be more than sufficient. You can send the remaining passengers home when you’ve spoken with them to your satisfaction.”
“I was told –”
Jim shook his head. “Just someone at the office trying to dot the i’s and cross the t’s. Better to be safe than sorry and all that. It’s really not necessary.”
Spicer’s voice took on a grumpy timbre as he stopped at a door and poked at another keypad. “Shall I recall the officers we sent out to bring the passengers back to the station then?”
Jim looked at the Superintendent. His job didn’t often bring him into contact with the police service, but other members of the organisation he worked for relied, at least in part, on a good relationship with them. And vice versa. The two bodies were constantly apologising to each other in a slow dance of almost Byzantine politeness, bumping along from diplomatic incident to diplomatic incident.
He said, “I do appreciate your efforts, Superintendent, and I apologise for the miscommunication which has taken place. I’ll make sure the person involved is reprimanded.”
Spicer wouldn’t let it go. “I already have a major incident on my hands, sir. I’ve had to take officers off that to go and collect the passengers. And I’ve turfed Barnet MPS out to take care of the ones up there.”
The Metropolitan Police Service’s many areas existed in a world of constantly renegotiated alliances and favours owed. Undoubtedly Spicer had called in some of those favours this evening.
“I can only apologise again,” Jim said. “I’ll mention in my report to my superiors that note be taken of your efforts, come the next Spending Review.”
“That’s not good enough, sir,” Spicer said. “With respect.”
Here it comes. Jim mentally drew himself up to his full height and asked pleasantly, “What can I do for you, Superintendent?”
“A certain individual has become of interest to us,” Spicer said, picking his way through it as delicately as a ballet dancer. “It’s a wholly criminal matter – no Security involvement at all – but during our investigations we discovered that your people have had the individual under surveillance for some considerable time on another matter.”
Jim nodded. “And I presume you’ve asked for the fruits of that surveillance.”
“Not all of it. A period of eight days last September.” He added apologetically, “We asked a fortnight ago.”
“If you give me the details, I’ll make sure you get the information you need, Superintendent.”
Spicer looked at him a moment longer, then nodded and pushed the door open. “Thank you, sir. After you, please.”
THE WITNESS WAS in his thirties, well-dressed, well-barbered. He seemed completely at ease sitting in the interview room across a table from a rather scruffy-looking detective sergeant whose body language suggested that she had already done more than enough of these this evening, thank you very much.
“And you left work at...?” she asked.
“Five thirty,” he said, leaning back in the chair. American accent. He didn’t smile exactly, but he radiated good-naturedness. He seemed, Jim thought, a wry sort of man.
“And how did you get from Chancery Lane to Tottenham Court Road?” the detective sergeant asked.
“Is that relevant?”
The detective sergeant gave him a look which suggested that she wanted to say, “I’ll decide what’s relevant.” But instead all she came up with was a tired, “Please, Mr Ross.”
Ross smiled. Wryly. “I walked.”
“Central Line was suspended,” Superintendent Spicer murmured, sitting beside Jim. “They had one under at St Paul’s.”
‘One under’ was slang for a jumper, a suicide under the wheels of a train. “Do we know for certain that it was an authentic suicide?” Jim asked.
Spicer looked at him as if he had just quoted a line from Gravity’s Rainbow. “Bloke’s dead,” he allowed after a few moments. “That was authentic enough. Any more details, you’ll need to talk to British Transport Police.”
Jim nodded and made a note. They were sitting in a small, cosy monitor suite, facing a rank of screens. Most of the screens had been turned off. Three showed the interior of the rooms being used to interview passengers from the bus. Two of the rooms were empty for the moment. The third contained Mr Andrew Ross and his interviewer, Detective Sergeant – Jim consulted the file – Collins.
“So, you walked from Chancery Lane to Tottenham Court Road,” Collins recapped. “And that took you...?”
Ross shrugged. “Ten minutes? Fifteen at most.”
“So you were at Tottenham Court Road no later than five forty-five.”
Another shrug. A smile. “I guess. I didn’t dawdle.”
Collins looked at him. “Many people at the bus stop, were there, Mr Ross?”
“Sure. It’s always busy there. Four or five different buses stop there, it was rush hour. Lots of people.”
“And did you see the gentleman there?”
Ross shook his head.
Collins sighed a little. “Perhaps you could think for a moment, Mr Ross. Did you see the gentleman waiting for the bus at the stop at the bottom of the Tottenham Court Road?”
Ross thought. He shook his head.
“He’s been pulled before,” said Spicer.
Jim turned his head to look at the Superintendent. “Beg pardon?”
Spicer nodded at the screen. “Chummy. Look at him. This isn’t the first time he’s been in an interview room.”
Jim looked at the screen again. “Do you think so?”
Spicer nodded. “Look at his body language.”
Jim looked. He made another note.
In the interview room, Detective Sergeant Collins asked, “Many people on the bus?”
“It was packed,” Ross replied.
Collins looked at him for a few moments, seemed to reconsider what she had been about to ask, and said instead, “Can I just ask why you always take the bus rather than the Northern Line?”
Ross shrugged. “Why not?”
“It’s just...” Collins consulted her tablet. “You customarily take the Central Line to Tottenham Court Road and get the bus to Muswell Hill from there. Why not just change to the Northern Line, get off at Highgate, catch the bus there? Quicker journey.”
Ross smiled. “Have you ever travelled on the Northern Line?”
“He’s in no hurry to get home,” Spicer said.
“Oh?” said Jim, studying Ross’s body language to see where this insight had come from.
“We’ve got footage of him from earlier, phoning his wife to say he was going to be late,” Spicer went on. “Got her side of the conversation with comms interception, she was yelling down the phone at him, giving it this and that. I don’t blame him for wanting to take his time getting home.”
“Oh.” Jim made another note.
“So,” Collins said in the interview room. “Could you show me on this diagram where on the bus you were sitting, please
, Mr Ross?” She poked at her tablet a couple of times, then held it out so Ross could reach it, but the angle was wrong for Jim to see it on the camera.
Ross studied the tablet’s screen for a few moments, then touched it. “There.”
Collins sat back and looked at the screen. “Lower deck, right hand side, seat 4d,” she said for the people sitting in the observation room. “By the window,” she added.
“Comms interception is a little... contentious...” Jim hazarded.
“You’re not one of those civil liberties bods are you, sir?” Spicer asked.
“We’re required to be conscious of these issues,” Jim said. “But one could hardly do one’s job...”
“Well exactly.” Spicer nodded. “This is my station, sir. Anyone who thinks they can make a phone call here and not be eavesdropped on is deluding themselves.”
“I see. Have you ever had the opportunity to argue this point in court, Superintendent?”
Spicer beamed. “On numerous occasions.”
On the screen, Detective Sergeant Collins asked, “Where did the bus stop between Tottenham Court Road and Camden Town station?”
Ross shook his head. “Every stop, felt like.”
“Did you see the gentleman board the bus?”
“No. The bottom deck of the bus was packed with standing passengers. I couldn’t see the doors.”
“So you’re sure he didn’t get on at the first stop with you, and you don’t know which of the other stops he got on at.”
“I didn’t say I was sure he didn’t get on at the first stop,” Ross corrected mildly. “I said I didn’t see him.”
“I like DS Collins,” Spicer noted. “Good copper. Patient, careful, attentive. Always checking a suspect’s story.”
Jim raised an eyebrow. “Is Mr Ross a suspect?”
Spicer looked at him. “I was instructed to regard everyone on the bus as a suspect.”
Jim nodded. “Of course.”
“He got on at Warren Street.”
“I’m sorry?”
“The victim. Got on at Warren Street. Some of the standing passengers remember him.”
“Ah.”
“Didn’t have an Oyster. Paid in cash. Asked the driver what the fare was to the terminus. North Finchley.”
“He asked for North Finchley, or ‘the terminus’?”
Spicer looked at him. Jim watched him trying to remember. “I’ll check,” the Superintendent said.
“Thank you,” said Jim.
“And no sense that there was anything out of the ordinary on the bus?” DS Collins asked.
“No,” said Ross.
“Until you get to Camden Town Station.”
“That’s right.”
“Could you tell me what happened?”
Ross settled back comfortably in his chair. “There are always quite a few people wanting to get on at Camden Town,” he said. “I couldn’t see anything because some girls in burkhas were standing in front of me, but I heard the sound of people getting on and touching their Oyster cards and phones on the reader at the front of the bus.”
“A beeping sound,” Collins suggested.
“That’s right. A beeping. Occasionally that double-beep you get when someone doesn’t have enough money on their card or the reader hasn’t scanned it properly.”
“A double-beep.”
“Yes. So, a few passengers get on, then I hear this double-beep. Then again. Then again. Like whoever it was is swiping his card on the reader again and again. Then it stops and I hear someone talking to the driver.”
“Saying what?”
“I don’t know; everyone around me was talking too. All I heard was voices down at the front of the bus. Then this guy started shouting.”
“Shouting at the front of the bus?”
“Yes.”
“And you made the assumption that this was the person who was having trouble with their Oyster card.”
“I didn’t have to make any assumptions. He started shouting about how he’d just put some money on the Oyster and there must be something wrong with the reader. The usual kind of guy. Probably trying to get on without paying, you know?”
Collins blinked at him. “Did you see this person?”
“Not right then. The girls in burkhas were in the way.”
“But you heard his voice.”
“The whole bus heard his voice.”
“And that sounded like...?”
“Angry. Angry man. English accent. London accent, I guess. He was shouting at the driver, something about a book of discretionary tickets the driver had that he could give passengers or something.”
“And the driver did...?”
“I couldn’t hear his voice properly. Whatever he was saying just made this guy angrier and angrier. At one point he shouted, ‘Maybe I’d have more luck if I blacked up.’”
“And you took this to mean...?”
Ross smiled. “The driver was from an ethnic minority. I took it to mean that the guy thought if he himself seemed to be from an ethnic minority, he might get given a break.” When Collins didn’t comment on this he said, “Anyway, the driver turned the engine off.”
“Why?”
“I dunno. Ask him. I guess he wanted the guy off the bus and he wasn’t going anywhere until that happened.”
“And did that work?”
“No. All it did was get the other passengers angry. Some of them started ringing the bell to be let off. Some of them started shouting at the guy to get off. You know. London commuters.”
“And what happened then?”
Ross shrugged. “There was kind of a standoff for a minute or two. The guy kept shouting about this book of tickets, the driver kept saying stuff I couldn’t hear properly. Then he opened the rear doors and people started to get off and get other buses.”
“But you didn’t.”
“Are you crazy? I had a seat. You get on at Camden, it’s standing room only until Archway.”
“I wouldn’t know, sir.”
“Where do you live, Sergeant?”
Collins looked at him. “How many people got off the bus?”
If Ross felt rebuffed, he didn’t show it. “Half a dozen, a dozen. Mostly the standing guys.”
“So without them your view must have improved.”
“Sure.”
“Enough for you to see the shouting person at the front of the bus?”
“Oh yeah, enough for that.”
“Could you describe him?”
“White guy. Late twenties. Sandy hair. Cropped sandy hair. Kind of rangy. Lean, you know? Thin, pinched face. Wearing a sort of black leather blouson thing and black jogging pants.”
“What was he doing?”
“Standing in the doorway, shouting at the driver. He had a pen and a little notebook and he was writing stuff in it.”
“Stuff?”
“I don’t know, I couldn’t see.”
“But he was still shouting.”
“Oh yeah. Stuff about knowing who the driver was because he knew someone who worked at the same depot. Kind of a veiled threat, you know?”
“And the other passengers were still shouting at him?”
“One girl was. She was really pissed at him. Fucking this, fucking that. Women here swear a lot.”
“Did he reply to her?”
“Oh yes. He shouted...” Ross suddenly looked coy.
Collins sighed. “We’re way past the watershed, Mr Ross, and this isn’t the BBC anyway. You can tell me what he said.”
Ross shrugged. “He shouted, ‘And you can fuck off, you rancid black cunt.’”
“And she replied...?”
“Oh, she just told him to fuck off. Some of the other passengers started complaining about the swearing; some of them had kids with them. Everybody was shouting. That was when he stood up. The guy.”
“And where was he?”
“Across the aisle from me, one row down.”
Collins held out her tabl
et again. “Could you show me, please?” Ross pointed, and Collins said, “Seat 3b. The aisle seat.”
“Yeah,” Ross said. “The aisle seat.”
“Could you describe this gentleman for me, Mr Ross?”
“Late thirties, medium height. Looked kind of untidy, like he’d been sleeping rough for a couple of nights. Kind of old-fashioned clothes. Tweedy jacket, corduroys, white shirt, tie, black overcoat.”
“Did he have anything with him? Any bags? Luggage?”
Ross shook his head. “I didn’t see anything.”
“And what did the gentleman do?”
“He walked down the front of the bus and he said something to the guy who was shouting.”
“Did you hear what he said?”
“Sure. He said, ‘There’s no need for that sort of language, chum.’”
“And how did his voice sound?”
“English accent. Not London, West Country. He sounded tired.”
“And how did the shouting gentleman respond?”
“He punched him in the stomach and the guy fell down.”
Collins paused and sighed and leaned her elbows on the table. “Perhaps you might go through that one more time, Mr Ross? Did you see the shouting gentleman punch the other gentleman?”
“Sure. There was nobody between me and them by that time. The shouting guy took his hand out of his pocket and punched the other guy in the stomach.”
“The shouting gentleman had his hand in his pocket? You said he was writing something on a little pad.” Collins tipped her head to one side.
Ross watched her for a few moments. Jim could almost see cogs revolving inside his head as he replayed the scene. “He put it in his pocket,” he said finally. “He put the pad in his pocket as the guy stood up.”
“Which pocket? Left? Right?”
“Right. He held the pen in his left hand and he put the pad in his right pocket and as the guy came up and spoke to him he took his hand out of his pocket and punched him. Well, I thought he was punching him.”
“How many times?”
“Three times. Very fast. Then the guy fell down, and he turned and jumped off the bus and ran off.”
Europe at Midnight Page 6
