“You really do think we are being shafted, don’t you, boss?”
“I’m a cynical old fart even at the best of times Ben, and these aren’t the best of times. Be prepared for more surprises.”
*
The protest marchers had assembled, in excess of four thousand. They were mostly genuinely concerned Chinese people with British citizenship, and Poles who either had applications for similar status or had already been approved. The police had information that the remaining minority were seasoned troublemakers from all backgrounds. They had not accounted for Paul Grimes’ recruits or more importantly, their agenda. The Enigma placards had various messages on them, some merely extoled the need for the entire population to challenge the government’s transparency over the content and intended uses of the Genetic Profile Directory. Others were more provocative, saying ‘no to extremism within Islam and the government’. There were a few moderate Muslims who carried no placards, simply marching to emphasise their unease. Purdil Pitafi was amongst them.
This group was the focus of Grimes’ activity. Northumberland Street was a very busy pedestrian shopping area, but many had kept away because of the mounting tension around the city, even though the police downplayed the risk of a racial inferno. Barricades at both sides of the street were supposed to represent the demarcation between protestors and spectators. Mounted police were patrolling them. The march had not even reached halfway toward the Haymarket bus station when all hell broke loose. Members of the Muslim Shield had already begun to shout abuse at those of their own religious persuasion. One of them fell and it was assumed that the cause had emanated from the barricades, primarily because of the finger pointing and yelling by Grimes’ ethnic buddies. The primer had worked and the barricades were breached by the Muslim Shield. It happened so quickly that many of the mounted officers were thrown from their horses, despite the animals being thoroughly disciplined. Baseball bats, iron bars, knuckledusters and tazers appeared out of nowhere and most of the police were still deployed in the wrong place to break up the running battle.
Some protestors and bystanders sought refuge in shops which had decided not to close, causing more mayhem in spaces which were difficult to police. The decision to employ water cannon complicated matters on the ground and in the air. The helicopters lost considerable perspective in identifying the pattern of hot spots. It was worse on the ground as non-participants started to flee in all directions. Although the overall eruption melted away relatively quickly, there were already thirty-one dead accounted for, including two police, and Purdil Pitafi. The evening news began to ask questions of Bernard Cousins and his approval of such an event in the middle of the city, and yet more serious accusations of the police tactics to handle such possible consequences. The footage on national TV went further than the local stations in demanding answers from the Prime Minister. Although many arrests were made for public order offences, the police were resigned to poring through CCTV footage to identify the more serious offenders, including the killers of the very first to die – Purdil Pitafi.
Chapter 12
Renton and Adams had been alerted to what was happening in the city while waiting for Bradstock to call. They were riveted to the coverage, and were startled as the phone rang. It wasn’t Bradstock, it was Doyle.
“Inspector I just wanted to put us both a little more at ease. I had a call from the bank and have it on good authority that no bond has been presented in Cologne, so the block which Vivienne registered appears to have avoided an embarrassing situation. I detest having to work on Saturdays, this is an exception.”
“Thanks for the call Mr Doyle, I appreciate your help.” Adams looked confused again until Renton filled in the detail.
“What a slimy bastard he is.”
Adams’ piercing stare was accompanied by a jibe that Renton had put more hours into the case while suspended than he ever did when at the office. They both laughed briefly, being interrupted by the phone again. This time it was Bradstock. Adams gave the thumbs-up that they were on record.
“Crisis over Renton, you were correct. Forster didn’t even know it was in his hurriedly gathered in-tray. He will send both the report and the Sim-card by overnight courier today, and he asks you to call him to give him the delivery details if you want it first thing in the morning, otherwise he will dispatch it to the station. I have explained to him why you came to me first and he admits he would have done the same. As far as Cousins is concerned, I think he has more than enough to distract him from the unorthodox route you chose. If you would prefer, I can claim to have no knowledge of it. It would make sense – then nobody needs to get out of their pram.”
“Thanks for your understanding Sir, I’m happy to forget this if you are. The main thing, as you say, is to get the Sim-card back into the evidence file. I’ll contact Forster and get it delivered to my home as it will save me coming into the office tomorrow.” Adams slow smile said it all and he suggested they should ask uniform about Pitafi.
*
Beresford had received a call to say that some sports channels had interrupted their coverage of football matches to bring news of riots. He asked his driver to put on the radio. His wife was horrified and Beresford asked her to resist the urge to call Vivienne.
“We want this trip to be as pleasant as possible, let’s not start out with bad news. There is nothing we can do about it.” She agreed.
*
Renton and Adams were accompanied to the riot scene by a uniformed officer and instructions had been sent ahead to keep the body of Purdil Pitafi separate from the others until they arrived. They travelled back with the allocated ambulance to the morgue and alerted Gregory Watson. Renton used the time to bring Adams up to speed with his plan to redeploy Stephanie Baker.
“She’s a good detective Ben, and I know that she has rough edges, so this is what I have in mind. She stays on this case, but only in a capacity of evaluating the evidence. I don’t want her making outside calls, interviewing people or taking statements. I want to use her instinct as an analyst, nothing more. I’ll use this to make her see that we have to work as a team. She’ll be bitterly disappointed but knows she had it coming. I want her to report everything, and I mean everything through you. If she steps out of line once more she risks trashing her career. Do you have any concerns about this?”
“None whatsoever.”
“Good, well then, after we get Greg’s view on whether he’s going to start the post-mortem tonight, you should head on home.”
“No way, I wanted to bounce something off you about the possibility you mentioned earlier, you know, that Clive Donoghue’s report may no longer be in the file. Your other hunches were right, so I wondered if you could fancy an Indian take-away?”
“Absolutely, it might help to dull my overactive brain, if not my stomach.”
They were sharing Sri Lankan duck and chicken Biryani at Adams’ apartment overlooking the marina at St. Peter’s Basin, when Renton’s mobile began to vibrate. It was Donoghue.
“I could not rest easy, and did not want a sleepless night, so I came in to check the file. The report is not there.”
“I expected that Clive. Tampering with evidence has to be taken seriously, so you must log the incident and we’ll take it from there.”
“Yes I will do so, however all is not lost. It was Angela, one of my assistants who checked the list of names against the call history, and fortunately she retained her handwritten copy. Should I leave it on your desk?”
“No, keep it with you until I get there. I’m on my way.”
During the short drive Renton reminded Adams that he was about to query something with Bradstock in relation to this Sim-card.
“I hope I’m not letting my imagination extrapolate too far ahead of facts, so let’s wait and see what’s on Angela’s note.” It turned out better than expected. The alleged calls were indeed all listed and pretty much fitted with the accounts of Vivienne, the pilot, and the chauffeur, Martin Parrish.
The call to Baumann however, did not fit with the arrival time of his flight to Cologne. It was much earlier; in fact it was before the flight took off from Heathrow.
“Well, well,” said Renton, “either his wife was lying or he was, when he supposedly returned to the luggage carousel in Cologne. Why would he do that?” Adams was very quiet and waited until Donoghue excused himself to return home a relieved man.
“There’s another possibility boss. I was wondering about it anyway, as I mentioned earlier. I keep thinking about the sequence of these deaths, and particularly those with Baumann ID on them. Unless we find some connection of their real ID with Baumann, they may be random victims, but with a simple intent. He has literally evaporated and tried to distance himself from his vulnerable family as a first priority. I guess it’s my turn to air a hunch. He deliberately told his wife a bullshit story about having to meet someone in a Cologne hotel. Whoever is responsible for the Tower Bridge and abandoned hospital killings could actually be searching for Baumann, and we’re being used to that end. It fits with him being called by Banks, who was confirming when they would meet up again before the flight. We’re being prevented from asking for help in Germany, where he is supposed to have gone AWOL, but where would he be least expected to head for?”
Renton interjected, “You mean you think he came back to London? If he knew Banks was in imminent danger you could be right, and we still have to factor in this bloody briefcase. You know, you could be on to something here Ben, and we can’t be rapped over the knuckles for checking UK flight manifestos. Let’s get on to it immediately.”
It did not progress immediately. Greg Watson had come in to take a cursory look at Pitafi’s body, and make notes to begin the post-mortem in the morning. He rang Renton.
“So I am still stuck with you Jack, Saturday evenings included. I’ll be brief. Pitafi died from a stab wound from behind, which was very savage, as it exited from the chest after passing though his heart. It was brutal but efficient. I would suggest that it was a long, thin cylindrical implement, delivered with considerable force and even more accuracy. I should have a better picture on the other stuff by Monday.”
Adams wanted to speak to Heathrow but was prevented by Renton.
“I said earlier we can delegate some things upwards, especially those which could catch them out if they lie. When I said we should get on to it immediately, I meant through Bradstock. He’s going to get really pissed off with my voice over the next few days.”
Once again their train of thought was uncoupled, the boys in uniform had been meticulously checking the many CCTV cameras on Northumberland Street, and one of them had picked out Pitafi. In the background the officer’s eagle eye had spotted a vaguely familiar face with a wound dressing to one side of his nose. The officer had almost decided to let it pass when he realised who it was.
“What threw me Sir was the missing moustache.” The duty officer then recalled the testimony of Jimmy the dog walker, and decided to contact C.I.D. “It may be nothing Jack, but I doubt it. He is known to work for Paul Grimes, who is also on the footage. We would be talking to them both anyway as witnesses, as they were so close to Pitafi when he went down.” Renton thanked him and told Adams.
“We’re going to need Jimmy and the recovery truck driver to check him out, if there’s sufficient cause after we interview him. I think we should let uniform soften him up first by questioning him over the riots. It’s getting late and I want to catch Bradstock early in the morning, before he settles down to his croissants and coffee.”
Adams nodded but drew his attention to the TV. The mute was employed but they saw Cousins being interviewed on the regional news. On turning up the volume they heard him deflecting barbed questions about both the handling of the protest march and the lack of information on the Banks murder. He promised a press conference on Monday. Renton’s upbeat demeanour turned sour.
“That’s something we don’t need. He must have had pressure by now from Bradstock. It should be an interesting conversation with Nigel at sparrow-fart in the morning. I can’t see him becoming Sir Nigel in a few weeks’ time. Can you, Ben?”
*
Beresford’s driver turned on to the private road leading to the gates of Vivienne Banks’ residence. Pressing the entry pad met with no response. Beresford’s wife remonstrated with her husband for not telephoning ahead. He reluctantly rang her mobile; he had wanted to arrive completely unannounced. She was dining out at Café 21 on the quayside, and was less than enthusiastic about leaving her escort.
“Vivienne, for once in your life just consider your family ahead of your hedonistic cronies, your mother has been looking forward to seeing you for months. I’m used to your vitriol, but she doesn’t deserve to suffer because of what you think of me. Why don’t you have another drink and that will give us time to collect you. I know where this restaurant is.”
“Ok, but I am not stupid pater, Mum is here because she wants to be with me. You are here because of Alistair’s death, and to determine how you can benefit from the tragedy. You had better prepare for a fruitless trip.” He didn’t want to have such a conversation with a potentially curious audience at her end, and closed the call.
She smiled across the table at Julian Hepworth. “I think we had better get the bill, I don’t want a scene in here. We can talk again about Bowman when my parents have gone. I am eternally grateful for your help Julian and Alistair would have appreciated our efforts to keep his dream going along the lines he wanted.”
She kissed him lightly on the cheek and called the waiter. Hepworth thought it would be better if he left before Beresford arrived. The greeting between mother and daughter was overtly emotional, while Beresford remained in the car. Hardly a word was spoken on the journey back. Once the driver was despatched, the pent-up tension gave way to the usual exchange of insults, which were always followed by sobbing from Mrs Beresford. She pleaded with them to leave all of this until the next morning.
“Can you both just settle down and I will make a coffee? This angst helps nobody, and if you must behave like two spitting vipers, do it while I take a walk in the woods tomorrow. It’s not asking much for us to respect Alistair’s passing without immediately dissolving into the dysfunctional family we have become.” She looked at her husband and added, “He was our son-in-law for God’s sake, we need to help our daughter to grieve; surely you can’t be so insensitive at a time like this.”
Vivienne had never known her mother take him on like this, and tried to hide her facial betrayal of pride amongst the tears. She joined her Mum in the kitchen to make the coffee, and hugged her passionately. They agreed to cut the evening short and catch up with lost sleep.
*
Cousins called Renton just as he was nodding off. “Jack I don’t know whether you caught the news but I have had to agree to a press conference on Mo…”
“Monday, yes I saw the interview. Do you think this is wise? I mean I can understand the need to try to calm public perception with respect to the riots, but I have to say that the Banks case may suffer if we are forced to reveal stuff prematurely. It’s too early for the appeal route.”
“I know, but I’m under pressure on all sides, and we can’t just continue to sidestep genuine questions. Would you be happier if I let you handle the press on your own?”
“Yes I think that would be preferable, as long as you make that clear at the start.”
“Alright, that allows us to prepare independent of one another. I’m counting on you D.C.I. Renton.” The reply was reassuring, but was interpreted as – ‘you mean your arse is hanging out of the penthouse window.’
*
As midnight approached Paul Grimes and Vic Jackson were sighted in the Bigg Market in the city centre. The plain clothes observers reported that they were in a group of about ten or twelve individuals who were all the worse for wear with alcohol. It was considered to be a dangerous place to apprehend them. Backup was drafted in to work in relays until the two could b
e isolated. Finally the group left the pub and began to splinter. As the two targets peeled off at the junction with Collingwood Street and turned right toward the Central Station, four squad cars appeared out of nowhere to confine them to one side of the road. They ran, but were heavily inebriated; Grimes tripped and rolled over making the job easier for about half of the sixteen armed response officers. Jackson was more nimble and tried to head for the cover of Saturday night revellers. Screaming broke out and became contagious. One of the more athletic officers caught up with him as the bystanders parted. He was punched and head-butted before his colleagues arrived. An attempted caution was greeted with profanities and a spitting frenzy. The sheer weight of numbers eventually got him physically subdued and handcuffed. He was bundled into the nearest car, which followed the one in which Grimes was relatively philosophical, almost cocky about the situation.
*
As Jack Renton tried desperately to shut out the day’s events and drift into the welcoming arms of sleep, his mind wandered on to the bigger picture of what life had left in store for him. He couldn’t make up his mind whether his own persona was more or less pathetic than society in general. The specifics of the case, and the gulf between his ingrained principles and those of the upper echelons to which he had to answer, reflected a microcosm of the wider world outside of law enforcement. There was fear in London of more indiscriminate killings, fear in the Northeast of rising racial tension, conveniently piggybacked on the sinister implications in a Genetic Profile Directory. There was fear in the Midwest within the police hierarchy that control was relentlessly slipping from their grasp. There was fear in government that they had erred on numerous fronts of policy. There was acute fear amongst moderate Muslim communities in most urban areas that they had lost an important voice in Purdil Pitafi, and there was reciprocal fear in the Muslim Shield that they were being systematically engineered into predetermined conflict of someone else’s choosing. All of this had already been nurtured by years of austerity and fear of it lasting for decades more. The gossamer-thin membrane between Renton’s subconscious and lucid cerebral oscillation fashioned its very own expression. ‘We are standing on the brink of Absolute and Resident Fear.’