by A D Davies
“Julian Sibeko,” Jules answered with equal seriousness.
“And you have waived your right to counsel at this time, correct?”
“Correct. But I reserve the right to terminate the interview and request legal representation should I feel my rights are being violated.” He made sure to annunciate clearly for the recording.
“Seems you know your stuff.” Murray sounded casual but concentrated on the formal paperwork stacked between him and Jules. “Been in trouble before?”
“Never,” Jules said. “I just read a lot.”
Murray looked up. “Being clever, mate?”
Jules cast a glance at the papers. Long enough to establish them as statements taken from what he assumed were the arresting officers and the soldiers who challenged him. Jules affected a smart-ass faux-British accent. “Not at all, old chap.”
Detective Constable Deepay’s face tightened between a smirk and a scowl.
Murray rearranged the papers, slowly examining each one. He found what he was looking for and lifted the sheet to read so Jules couldn’t see it. “You vandalized a part of Windsor Castle, then trespassed in a restricted area before assaulting two guards and attempting to flee. Wow. That’s...” He made a show of counting on his fingers. “Four years minimum.”
“Okay.” Jules resumed his natural voice. “Except I was just using the bathroom. Or trying to.”
Deepay adjusted his chair. “Perhaps you have a good reason for accessing that area. If you do, now’s the time to tell us.”
The trick to coming out on top of any interrogation is patience. Don’t offer them anything. Don’t explain your actions. Try not to deny anything outright because that gives them leverage if they catch you in a lie.
Jules placed his hands flat on the table. “I’m sorry, what do you think I’ve done again?”
“You accessed the void under the main building,” Murray said. “But we don’t believe you acted alone. We think maybe you were put up to it by someone else.”
“Do you? Who?”
“This person.” Deepay slid a grainy CCTV screen grab featuring Harpal Singh at the entrance as he paid his fee. “He acted suspiciously to distract a number of security personnel.”
Jules picked it up and held it in front of his face. “How? By being a Muslim?”
Murray took the photo from him. “You both work for this man.” He replaced it with a photo of Toby Smith checking his watch, again grabbed from CCTV.
Jules moved his head closer to the image. “Why do you think I’m working for him?”
“You don’t want to take the fall for this alone.”
Jules formed an inkling of how to get out of here. He just needed to buy more time to process it. “You do know I’m an American, right? You really think my embassy will let me go to jail over an accusation of trespass?”
“More than an accusation,” Deepay said.
“What possible evidence do you have?”
“No,” Murray said. “We’re not going there yet. We know what you did, and you now have a chance to explain yourself. Tell us why, tell us who put you up to it, and maybe you walk away.”
Jules finished his calculations. It was really no different from judging the distance between buildings or how much strength to put into his jump to compensate for wind shear.
He sat back in his seat, legs spread, a cocky lopsided grin aimed right at the senior detective. “The Reid interrogation system is frowned on in this country, ain’t it?”
Murray sat taller. Deepay let his mouth gape a second but resumed his poise.
“Too many false confessions. I mean, you guys are good, working it with less aggression than the US feds are trained to use, but it’s the same method. Hit me with the accusation—trespassing, assault, all that business. Then tell me to explain myself. That don’t work, cop number two comes in with an offer to distance myself from the crime by laying it on other folks. Gives the suspect a way out. But when they start talking about their accomplices, you swoop back in and hammer ’em. Then there’s all that confirmation, affirmation, consolidation that follows... But why’m I talking to you about this? You got the playbook. And you don’t have any evidence, or you’d have hit me with that already—”
“We have your onesie,” Murray said.
“My what?”
“Your outfit. The all-in-one number you wore. Here.” From a box under the table, he produced a clear plastic bag containing Jules’s bodysuit and slapped it in front of Jules. “For the benefit of the recording I am showing the suspect an item cataloged into evidence as W-three-two-four. Mr. Sibeko, would you care to explain that?”
Don’t get caught in a lie.
“You didn’t find that on me,” Jules stated. “And it doesn’t look like the kind of material that holds onto fingerprints too well.”
“That’s true. But it’s ripped. There’s a spot of blood. It’ll have your DNA on it, and there will be a corresponding cut on your shoulder.”
Jules extended his cocky demeanor to suck his teeth slightly, mimicking tough gang kids he’d seen on TV when he was younger. “Thing is, this is a trespassing charge. An accusation of assault. But when I came in here, they only charged me with trespass, so I’m guessing there’s no camera evidence of any fight. Which is weird, don’t you think? Cause every other corner of that place is covered.”
He gave them a second to digest that.
“Look, your textbook Reid interrogation course was great value for money, I’m sure, but it only works when you have evidence. And since there’s no way I’m getting charged with assaulting anyone, that leaves a bit of criminal damage and trespass. With some dubious circumstantial evidence of a bit of grazed skin, you ain’t paying for DNA tests for something so trivial.”
Silence.
Then Murray said, “We know you were down there in the sewer, Mr. Sibeko. In the void that’s off-limits even to castle staff. And we have the evidence to prove it.”
If he pushed harder for a duty brief, there was enough information on this tape already to grant even the most harried, least-interested lawyer an easy win. But the mirror intrigued Jules.
A mirror and a recording?
Why place him in this cell when most modern police stations in Britain no longer used such observation rooms?
A gamble suggested itself, one he didn’t need to take. But it might furnish him with more information. And that was his purpose in Britain after all: to glean intel that might help recover his mom’s bangle, not to mess with cops or explore secret passages. The more he dwelled on his earlier failure, the hotter it burned.
“Okay,” Jules said. “Let’s say it’s true. Let’s say I broke in. I’m guessing it’d be to explore the secret catacombs beneath Windsor Castle. Motive would have to be something worth the risk, say a vault full of artifacts stolen during the height of the British Empire? If you take me there, I’ll try to show you exactly where they’re rumored to be—”
Three fast bangs sounded like thunder on the door.
Murray and Deepay exchanged looks. Deepay stood and opened the door, revealing a woman in a formal police dress uniform, someone in clear authority.
Murray said, “For the benefit of the recording, Chief Superintendent Sue Clifton has entered the room.”
“Interview suspended,” Clifton said firmly.
“Interview suspended under the order of Chief Superintendent Clifton at... 4:35 p.m.” Murray flicked off the mics.
A tall man entered. Pristine suit. Thinning hair. Wide toothy smile. “Well, gentlemen, thank you for your time here. But I think we can say the Windsor Estate has no wish to press charges.”
Murray stood and addressed the chief. “Ma’am.” Then he faced the new guy whose voice marked him as Colin Waterston, Toby’s old pal whom Jules had listened to earlier. The cop said, “Sir, it’s a misconception that the victim needs to press charges for the police to bring charges. The evidence and our recommendation will go to the CPS—”
“The
CPS?” Colin’s eyebrows popped high up his forehead. “You mean the Crown Prosecution Service gets the final say on whether charges are brought? Which makes it the service that acts on behalf of Her Majesty, Queen Elizabeth the Second? Is that who you mean?”
“Err, yes. That’s right.” He turned to the woman in charge. “What is this?”
“This,” Clifton replied curtly, “is a representative of the House of Windsor asking you to drop all charges in relation to a young man’s minor infraction.”
“Hardly worth bothering the taxpayer with this, is it?” Colin’s eyebrows resumed normal service, but his finger rose and pointed at Jules. “On one condition. A private five-minute chat between myself and young Julian here.”
Jules smiled. Nodded. “Sure. But this ain’t me admitting to anything.”
“Understood.” Colin clasped his hands behind his back, chin high, and rocked on his heels. “Well?”
The woman straightened her uniform tunic. “Gentlemen. Thank you, that will be all.”
Murray gathered the statements and the bodysuit and made for the door, but Colin laid a palm on the evidence bag, halting Murray.
Colin’s fingers curled into a fist so he gripped it. “I believe this was found on Windsor property.”
“Yes,” Murray said, not letting go.
“And if this gentlemen denies it belongs to him, that makes it property of the Queen, yes?”
The chief superintendent stepped aside. “It needs logging out, Mr. Waterston. It’ll be waiting for you when you get finished here.”
Colin placed his other hand on the bag and ripped it open, removed the item, and relinquished the plastic. “I believe you have everything you need on that label to log it out.”
The chief sighed, hard eyes leveled at the curator. “DS Murray, DC Deepay, my office, please.”
The two men plodded out of the room, their heads low. The woman gave Colin another narrow-eyed stare. “Five minutes.”
Jules watched in silence as Colin spent the first minute of the five checking the room. He ensured the recorder was inactive, then flicked off the light to illuminate a suite behind the two-way mirror. Empty. After that, he took a small box the size of a smartphone from his jacket pocket and held down a button while sweeping the walls. Satisfied, he sat opposite Jules and clasped his hands in front of him.
“Unfortunate business, the police getting involved.”
Jules mimicked Colin’s pose. “Lemme guess. The soldiers you ordered to intercept me weren’t supposed to call the cops. You wanted to handle it yourself.”
No reply.
“But the earlier alert had the police on edge. So they get wind of a trespasser picked up by the Royal Guard... They ain’t gonna mess around waiting for you.”
“Quite.”
“So what was your plan? Drag me to the Tower of London? Set the ravens on me?”
Colin took a breath. Let it out slowly. “I was actually going to offer you a bribe.”
“Bribe?”
“You’re not part of Toby’s little band of ‘freelance archeologists,’ or whatever they’re calling themselves. You’re not really known for anything except getting in trouble around wealthy people and areas of historical interest.”
“Nice homework.”
“So if you’re only a temporary part of Toby’s plans, and you were expecting to find something in the vault, you must be seeking a very specific piece.”
“What happened to your collection? Wasn’t all stolen, was it? You moved it, didn’t you? When you realized someone broke in?”
Colin sighed. “When an item goes missing and we are forced to dismiss three members of staff who are implicated in that disappearance, it behooves us to take certain precautions until we can be sure of the extent of the thieves’ reach. If there was anything of value, we would have removed other items that were potentially at risk.”
“That was one big room. And all those other channels... I read up on the history while I was waiting. William the Conqueror was supposed to be the first king to build a castle there, but I bet Toby will have a real long, boring way of saying there were settlements here long before the Brits.”
“It’s one theory. But let’s not dwell.” Colin slid a card over the desk with one manicured finger, stopping in front of Jules and withdrawing crisply. “This is my number.”
The card held only a phone number.
Colin said, “I have far more resources than Mr. Smith. I work with people to track down artifacts much like the one I suspect you are looking for. We cooperate with institutions and governments all around the world, and we can use our diplomatic clout to get you out of sticky situations. Such as this one.”
Jules read the card without touching it. “Can I go now?”
“I need an answer before I let you leave.”
“No you don’t. You already ordered them to let me go. So why don’t you get out of my way? You want Toby, or anyone else, you’re gonna have to work a lot harder than a get-out-of-jail-free card.”
Chapter Twelve
Central London
“Indeed,” Toby said. “There have always been castles built on top of other castles. Churches are often built on top of other churches too, and even temples and places of worship from religions supplanted by Christianity. There’s one in Mexico of particular interest, a cathedral built directly on top of what the Christians saw as a pagan site.”
Jules groaned internally. He knew he shouldn’t have raised the notion of the catacombs being hewn partially by nature and adapted by human hands long before the modern royal line commenced. Unfortunately, conversation in one of the many Pizza Huts in central London had died with Charlie’s confirmation that they couldn’t leave tonight due to their plane being impounded while the authorities searched it for anything related to terrorism or antiquity theft.
“In fact,” Toby went on, “the Saint Clement Basilica in Rome was built in the twelfth century over a previous construction dating back the fourth, and that one actually replaced an ancient Roman temple that predates Christ by a few hundred years. I forget how many exactly. I’d have to look it up.”
“Philip’s arranged accommodation,” Charlie said, hanging up her cell phone. “Five minutes from here. I’ll get the Tube home.”
Jules asked who Philip was.
“My husband,” Charlie replied, her hand touching the spot on her thigh where her knife would have sat; British laws forbade carrying such weapons in public. “We live in Greenwich.”
“Not at the chateau?”
“No, no,” Toby said. “Charlie pitches in from time to time, and Philip arranges transport and guides and such from his base here. A fixer, if you like.”
“So what is he? Army?”
“My husband,” Charlie said again. “And he parents our kids when I’m working. He’s just good at arranging logistics.”
“Kids?”
“Yes, why?”
“No reason.” Although Jules was taken aback for a moment, he shouldn’t have been. Charlie struck him as something of a single-minded type, her lush hair and athletic build not obvious pointers to motherhood. But then he wore so many disguises himself, other people’s shouldn’t come as a surprise. “So it’s just the four of you in... LORI?”
“Most of the time,” Dan said. “We all got our own things going on.”
“And pizza’s an acceptable diet?”
Following his release, Jules had gotten a message to Bridget, who told him they’d split up to leave Windsor. This was the location that had been suggested to pool their thoughts, and although Toby expressed a preference for somewhere with tablecloths, he was the only one who did.
“You don’t like pizza?” Bridget asked.
“Never tried it. Ain’t gonna either, not till my mom’s property’s back where it belongs.”
“Wait.” Harpal waved his menu. “You never ate pizza? How can you never have eaten pizza?”
“It’s a choice.”
Conversatio
n hit another lull. Jules was an interloper and felt like it. Although he struggled to adapt to the banal niceties of everyday life, of friends and socializing, he rarely had a problem faking whatever locally acceptable mores were required for the mission. He put it down to absorbing physical cues and being able to repeat them, but did not understand them deep down. In other words, he could adopt the how but not the why, hence the reason he probed the subject of the castle maybe having stood on a prior structure.
Conversation 101: ask open questions on subjects the other person is interested in.
He needed these people or at least would find them useful.
Jules addressed Bridget next. “So how come we missed the manuscript?”
“We’ll find out tomorrow,” Toby answered for her. “And no shop talk tonight. Let’s eat. Everyone ready to order?”
Toby caught the waiter’s attention and they all listed their pizzas and their beer or wine.
“Just the salad bar for me,” Jules said. “And water.”
“At least have some meat,” Charlie said. “You’ll need your strength.”
Jules went off menu, which the waiter was clearly confused by, but a piece of grilled chicken was not out of the question. Orders taken, the waiter departed.
“Oh, come on.” Harpal, now dressed in jeans and a white shirt, held the menu toward Jules, a perfect pizza photoshopped on the front. “How can you resist this?”
Conversation 101, section B: when asked, offer information about yourself.
“Like I said, it’s a choice,” Jules replied. “I choose to only eat things that don’t clog my arteries or threaten my health. High protein, low fat.”
“So no sugar at all?” Dan said.
“Some sugar. In the form of the right sorta carbs. I’ll eat pasta, rice, whole-grain bread. I enjoy good food too. Tasty stuff. But I steer clear of refined sugar. I don’t drink alcohol and I avoid saturated fat. Unless I’m somewhere with no choice, of course. But here, there’s choice. And I choose salad.”
