No Way Out, page 10
Hughes studied her face a bit, then said, “People from poor countries come over here to live off the government, sucking our benefits dry. And British taxpayers pay the tab. It’s not right. We’re tryin’ to change all that—from within. No bombs.” He drove his index finger into the distressed wood table. “Legislation, that’s what we’re doing. Getting support for issues that appeal to the common man.” He turned to Reid and Carter. “That’s why we don’t know anything about that bombing.”
“But this bombing,” Vail said. “Does it sound like a tactic the Anarchists would take?”
Hughes laughed. “If I did think that, why would I tell you people?”
“Because you’re always happy to help Scotland Yard,” Reid said with a straight face.
Hughes grumbled, then grabbed his mug and threw back a swig of beer. He let the glass slam down a bit harder than necessary. His eyes flicked over to the table where the other patron sat, then back to Reid. “There were a few blokes who got upset years ago when Mr. McAllister started advocating change. They thought the party’d gone soft, that we were selling out to the mainstream, gettin’ in bed with the establishment—the people we’ve opposed for decades.”
“So they split off from the party,” Carter said.
Hughes took a pull from his Lambert. “We weren’t radical enough for them anymore.”
Or, apparently, for you. “Sounds like you envy their position.”
Hughes sucked another mouthful from his cigarette. He locked eyes with Vail and leaned back in his chair. “Sometimes you have to make certain…compromises in life. But I’m not complainin’. I like my job. And I like working with Mr. McAllister.” His gaze again wandered over to the man at the other table. “Besides, being a radical is better suited to young bucks. I’m too old for that shit.”
Vail turned and glanced over her shoulder. The customer seated there wore a serious expression, his attention clearly focused on their table. Vail grasped her beer and rose from her chair.
“Where you going?” Reid asked.
She walked over to the other man’s table and took a seat. “Karen Vail. Good to meet you.”
Her new friend did not move, his vacant stare remaining on the formerly empty chair.
“Are you the leader of the Army of English Anarchists, or just a sympathizer?”
His eyes rose and met Vail’s. “I’m in charge.”
Vail nodded slowly. “Do you have a name?”
“I do.”
Vail waited, but he didn’t volunteer it. “You look like a Billy to me. So, Billy—”
“Nigel. Name’s Nigel. And I know why you’re here. No need to be troubling my friend over there. He ain’t got nothin’ to do with anythin’. BHP’s a bunch of pussies. Talk a lot, no action.”
“How about you, then?”
Nigel played with his empty glass. “I don’t have any comment on that.”
“I’m not a newspaper reporter. I’m a cop. In case you don’t know, if you wanna keep your ass out of jail, you answer us when we ask questions. Unless you’ve got something to hide.”
Nigel kept his chin down but raised his eyes to meet Vail’s. After considering her point, he said, “Arrest me then if you think I did the deed. If not, I guess this conversation’s over.” He gestured at the waitress, who knew the signal and nodded back. “But you don’t have anything on us. You can’t. Because there ain’t nothin’ to have, is there?”
Vail looked over at her colleagues. They had all turned their seats and were watching; they were either impressed that she picked up on Nigel being with the Anarchists, or they were keeping their distance to allow her room to operate.
“You took responsibility,” she said. “Just being opportunistic, or did you set that bomb?”
Nigel squirmed a bit. The waitress brought another beer and set it down. But as Nigel reached for it, Vail grabbed his forearm.
“It’s not nice to ignore a lady,” she said firmly. “I asked you a question.”
His face was taut, angry. “You ain’t no lady. You’re a copper. And get your fuckin’ hand off my arm.”
Vail released it but held his gaze.
He took a swig of beer, then set the glass down. “That guy thinks he can destroy Britain’s history, the essence of what makes it great, by claiming some nigger Jew bitch wrote Shakespeare. And then the media keeps repeating the lie, making it seem like the truth.” Nigel frowned, as if his beer was suddenly bitter. “He needed to be shut up.”
Now we’re getting somewhere.
“How’d you do it?” Vail said nonchalantly. “The bomb.”
“Didn’t say we did.”
“But you called in, claimed responsibility.”
Nigel ground his jaw.
Vail drank from her glass, swallowed, and watched Nigel’s expression. She knew very few details of the bombing were made public—standard procedure for any metropolitan law enforcement agency, especially one of Scotland Yard’s renown. “Let’s back up a minute. If—hypothetically—you were to do the deed, how would you do it?”
“I’d plant the bomb using an undercover guy, who’d leave a package near where the manuscript is being stored. I’d make sure the arsehole was in his gallery, then I’d detonate with a remote.”
“Semtex? Ammonium nitrate? Pipe bomb? M112 demolition block?”
Nigel studied her face but did not answer.
He may not have replied, but Vail had her answer. She finished her beer and set the glass down firmly on the table. “Thank-you, Nigel.” She extended a hand and the man slowly took it, head tilted and mouth open in surprise. She grinned. “I appreciate your time.”
BACK OUTSIDE THE BAR, standing in the drizzle, Vail turned to face her colleagues. “We’ve got our work cut out for us, gentlemen. Because if Nigel is truly the head of the Anarchists, they did not set the bomb.”
11
“Hang on,” Carter said, skirting a large puddle as they headed back to the car. “That’s it? You have a five minute chat with the guy over a beer and you decide he’s not our man?”
“I have to agree, Karen,” Reid said. “Bit of a rush to judgment. They claimed responsibility. Their ideology fits.”
“Opportunists,” she said, stepping off the curb.
“Wait a minute.” Reid moved in front of her. “I don’t see—”
“You’re skeptical because he was willing to put himself out there,” Carter said, “putting a face and name to his organization. But it could be he’s confident they covered their tracks and knows we won’t find any proof linking him to the crime.”
“No.”
“No?”
“They’re piggybacking on this,” Vail said. “They didn’t plant it.”
Carter squinted. “How the fuck do you know that?”
“He said he’d use a remote detonator. Our offender used a timer.”
Carter turned up the collar of his trench coat. “He told you he used a remote detonator? I thought you said they didn’t plant the bomb.”
“We were talking hypothetically,” she said. “But I was reading his body language.”
“Body language?” Carter snorted. “That’s what you’re basing this on? Gobshite.”
“Carty,” Reid said, holding out a hand, as if cautioning him against challenging Vail’s opinion. “Karen’s got a different way of looking at things.”
“When I asked him what type of explosive he’d use,” Vail said, “he didn’t answer. He couldn’t—because you didn’t release that to the press. Am I right?”
“Yeah, but—”
“So that means that if they didn’t do it, he’d have to guess. And if he guessed wrong, he’d be exposed as a bullshitter. His only reasonable move was to not answer me.”
Reid stepped aside and they fell in behind Vail as she led the way to the car.
“I’ve still arranged for your buddy Nigel to be followed,” Carter said, nodding at an undercover copper in a sedan a block away. “I was gonna have him tail Hughes, but we need some intel on the Anarchists. Just in case you’re wrong.”
“I’m not.”
As Reid inserted his key, he said, “What’d you think of Hughes?”
Vail pulled open her door. “I assume you’re asking relative to the bombing, not my personal opinion of the guy.”
Reid twisted his lips.
She stood there, peering over the car at him. “I don’t know. He may know who did it, but I doubt he or the BHP was involved. I think your assessment of the man’s right. He’d like to be doing the more radical stuff—he’s an action guy—but he’s also loyal to Leon McAllister. So he’s learned to temper his anger and toe the party line, no matter how tempted he is to pull the trigger, or how frustrated he got with McAllister’s decision to take the group in a different, more mainstream direction.” She got in and closed the door, and the others followed.
“Not sure I buy it,” Carter said. “I’m not ready to give up on the Anarchists—or Nigel. Security Service is putting together a backgrounder on him right now. Until we’ve checked him out, he’s still on my list.”
Vail clicked her seatbelt closed. “I’m just here to advise. It’s your show.” Robby’d be proud of me—I’m really getting the hang of this good soldier routine. She looked out the window as Reid pulled away from the curb.
Yeah, right.
12
Reid dropped Carter at Thames House, MI5’s headquarters, then continued on toward Turner’s gallery.
“How long till that other bomb goes off?”
Vail consulted her watch. “I’m not sure we can still consider it a credible threat. But if it’s an opportunistic strike—the most likely reason, if it does happen—we’re looking at a little over two hours.”
“If we’re lucky, it’s all just a bunch of bollocks. A hoax.”
“I’m curious,” Vail said. “How long have you known Carter?”
“Carter?” Reid asked. “Just met ’im.”
Bullshit.
“Why?”
“I got the impression you two had known each other.” First clue’d be when you called him Carty.
Without looking at her, he said, “Nope.”
Vail’s phone vibrated. She consulted the display and said, “Hmm. Speak of the devil. Your mate’s arranged for me to see Turner’s surveillance tapes.”
“He’s not my mate.”
“Okay.”
“He’s not,” Reid said, brow knitted firmly. “But you don’t really want to waste valuable time watching security footage the service has already been through, do you?”
“I do. He said we can access the digital file from Scotland Yard. Know how to get there?”
Reid, making no effort to hide his frown, hung a left at the next intersection. “Should’ve stayed home and spent the day with Brant,” he mumbled.
THEY WALKED UP TO THE main entrance, which sat inside a secured perimeter. To their left, a small, blue sign rotated slowly atop a white pole, its text reading either New Scotland Yard or Metropolitan Police depending on which side faced outward. The immediate vicinity was hardscape, a one-lane rain-slick road fronting the entrance.
They stepped into a glass-enclosed turnstile one at a time. After they entered the tube, the convex door swung shut behind them and the one in front opened a second later. For Vail, it was a second too long, a sense of claustrophobic anxiety building in her chest. She took a breath and stepped into the administrative area, where a contemporary semicircular wood desk dominated the space. Museum-worthy displays peppered the bright room commemorating milestone achievements in London policing.
After the officer at the front desk issued Vail a visitor’s pass, Reid led her to an identical set of curved security pods.
Great. Another glass coffin. She steeled herself and made it through, then followed Reid to the right into a waiting elevator. They took it up to the cafeteria level, which was well-lit and cheerful, filled with modern white plastic-and-metal tables and chairs.
Rows of computers sat atop a midnight blue counter that ran along the periphery of the sectioned-off work area of the cavernous room.
They walked along the Pergo flooring and took seats in front of one of the monitors. The screen read, “Standard Workstation,” with a Windows XP login. “Good to see you stay up to date on technology. XP is, what? A dozen years old?”
Ignoring her, Reid logged in and navigated to the correct folder on the server where the security footage was located. “Here you go. Fancy some coffee?”
“That’d be great, thanks. White.”
Reid set off down the open hallway to the end of the room, where the vending counter was located. Vail inched the chair closer and oriented herself as to what she was looking at: a screen with an irregular line that resembled an electrocardiogram. There were lengths along the time line where the pattern was flat, with peaks at various points. She had seen digital surveillance systems like this before: you clicked your mouse on the areas where the line became elevated, which were moments when the motion sensors had been triggered.
After having watched several segments that showed Gavin Paxton moving about the gallery and then leaving for the evening, Reid joined her with two steaming coffees in his hands.
“Anything?”
Vail leaned forward to get a better look at the screen. “What time does Paxton normally leave the gallery?”
“Turner leaves at six, Paxton locks up at seven. Why?”
“Just saw Paxton leave, so I wanted some reference.” She clicked on the next peak and the video started again, with Paxton moving through the gallery door.
“Time code’s visible if you hit F4—it activates the onscreen display.”
Vail did as instructed, and the milliseconds started cascading across the bottom portion of the screen. “What the hell’s he doing back at the gallery at 11:30 at night?”
“He’s got a key and permission to meet with clients anytime, even after hours.”
Vail paused the video. “Don’t you think that’s strange?”
Reid shrugged. “I asked Turner about it. Didn’t seem fazed by it. Said he gave Paxton the go-ahead. He’s supposedly made a lot of after-hour sales.”
“Why can’t he do the same business during regular hours?”
“Turner said he’s got a very affluent clientele—not that all the people who shop on Bond aren’t affluent. But these are supposedly very well-off.”
“The one percent,” Vail said.
“The one percent are comfortable,” Reid said. “These would be the point one percent—maybe even the point-oh-one percent.” Reid shrugged. “You’d have to ask Turner.”
“Or Paxton.” She started the recording again and watched as two men entered the gallery. “Who are these guys? I saw them come in before. Paxton showed them a few things, but they left without buying anything.”
“They made a purchase the second time they came in. A bronze statuette. Then they left. Paxton left a few minutes after them, and about an hour later, the bomb went off.” He gestured toward the screen. “You’ll see.”
Vail observed the events play out as Reid described. When she clicked on a particularly pronounced spike in the line, a bright flash of light filled the screen, followed by dense smoke, and then a few seconds of voracious fire. “And that’s all she wrote. Pretty intense.”
“See?” Reid said, checking his watch. “Nothing there. I’ve been through it, MI5’s been through it, probably even SO15. Waste of time.”
“Uh huh.” Vail clicked on the rewind icon and scrolled back to the activity prior to the explosion, when Paxton met with his two customers. She played it through in full motion, then rewound and replayed it. And again.
“What are you doing?”
“My job.”
The images played out before her: Paxton welcoming the men, shaking their hands, and then chatting for three minutes and ten seconds. One appeared to pull out his wallet and extract a number of bills. He gave them to Paxton, who gingerly lifted a statuette from a lighted display stand and then disappeared off-camera. He returned a moment later with a medium-sized box. The men shook hands and they left. Paxton turned off the lights and exited the gallery ten minutes after his customers.
“Well?” Reid asked. “Do you see anything? ’Cause I sure don’t.” Vail didn’t reply, so Reid continued. “I’ve watched the footage for the seven days prior to the explosion, including the day it went off. I never saw anyone setting it.”
“Did you notice there’s a section missing from the recording?”
Reid leaned closer to the screen. “What?”
“The seconds fly by too quickly, so don’t look at those. But watch the minutes.” She rewound it and then pressed “play.” The digital numbers jumped, skipping numerals. “Twenty minutes are missing, starting fifteen minutes after Paxton and his friends left.”
Reid continued to stare at the screen. “I’ll have to ask the lab, see if they noticed that.”
“Certainly raises a lot of questions.” She clicked back to the moment when Paxton entertained his two guests. “These two guys are standing near the safe, where the bomb was placed. Right?”
“Yeah, but they don’t look like they plant it. I mean, the safe has to be open for them to put the bomb inside.”
“That’s the point, isn’t it? Remember I talked about access being one of the keys? So the question is, Who has access to the interior of the safe?”
“How the hell am I supposed to know?”
“As a skilled inspector, you might have just asked. Like I did.”
Reid leaned back in his seat. “Bugger. I should’ve asked. So who had access?”
“Turner, obviously. And Paxton, because there are times when he’s in the gallery when Turner isn’t. That’s it.” She pressed “play” again and watched, this time in slow motion. Vail paused the recording, then sat back and appraised the screen. “What do you see?”
“Two guys standing in the gallery, in front of the safe, their backs to the camera.”
“Exactly. And the day before, what did you see?”
“Pretty much the same thing.”
