Fifty Two Weeks of Murder (6 page)

“Then we are indebted to you. I’m sure you know why we are here.” Buckland indicated the man sat at the table. He hadn’t moved and simply stared quietly at the group.

“I do. That is why I have my solicitor present. I’m sure you won’t mind.” The figure gave a grunt of acknowledgement and proceeded to write notes as Anders spoke, Mal content to let her lead.

“We’re only here to see if you can help us with our inquiries. This is very much an informal discussion.”

“Who was he?” asked Buckland suddenly. Anders gave him a querulous look before Buckland gave an impatient gesture. “The man my brother crucified. Who was he?”

“I’m afraid that we cannot disclose that information yet.” Mal leaned forward and spoke over Anders.

“It was Matthew Peters,” he said, eyeing Buckland closely.

“Good God,” he muttered, visibly shaken by the news. He turned from the pair and Anders saw him shake with grief. “He was a very dear friend of mine. We’d known each other our whole lives. Went to school and University together. A dear, dear friend.”

That would account for the spiteful nature of the killing, thought Anders.

“Do you think his choice of victim was deliberate?” she asked. Buckland turned back to them, eyes red with grief. His voice, when he spoke was full of sorrow yet laced with bitterness.

“Most certainly. We never saw eye to eye. He hated me as only a twin could.”

“His ex-wife, Lady Margaret, seemed to think he was a kind man and that this is out of character.” Buckland gave a snort of derision.

“Crucifying someone is out of character to the majority of people Miss Anders. It
is
out of character for Michael, but he is not incapable of such things. He was quick to anger as a child and always taking up some crusade or other, flitting between them like a moth to flame. If he believes in his work, he will fully commit to it.”

“Where is he likely to be now,” asked Mal, his voice soft and gentle. “Our records show that he has land and holdings all over the country. We are searching them now, but it will take some time to conduct a proper search.”

“Nowhere there,” replied Lord Buckland. “He’s no fool, my brother. Makes the brightest of us look dim by comparison. He’ll have somewhere that your records won’t show and all of his accounts offshore.”

“Might I ask that we take some fingerprints and DNA samples? As a twin, it would provide vital data that may help us catch him more quickly.” Lord Buckland turned back to Anders, who had asked the question.

“Twins don’t have the same fingerprints Miss Anders. I’d have thought that someone with your training would know that.” She gave him an easy smile and Lord Buckland found himself charmed by her.

“I am aware of that sir, but your fingerprints are not only shaped by your genes. During your time in the uterus, the maternal nutrition, blood pressure and your own position in the womb will have affected the growth of your fingers during the end of the first trimester. The whorls and ridges on your hands will have some similarities with your brother. It would help make a partial match.” Lord Buckland grinned and winked at her.

“Thank you for the lesson Miss Anders, I’d be more than happy for you to take some samples.” At this, Blackwell coughed politely and stood up, scraping his chair loudly on the wooden floor, the sound echoing around the chamber.

“At this point, I must intervene and recommend that my client does not provide any samples. I will not have it in the public domain that DNA and print samples have been taken. My client’s reputation would be damaged beyond that which it already has.”

“Not helping in our investigation is equally damning,” snapped Anders. She’d taken an instant dislike to this unctuous man who used the law as a weapon, his tone and demeanour insidious and reptilian.

“Then he will provide samples when it is clearly proven that, in doing so, he will further your investigation. You have his brother’s written confession, posted for the whole world to see. That is sufficient for now. You are conducting a manhunt, not a murder investigation.” Anders made to reply, but Mal stepped forward, his voice calming the increasingly heated debate.

“We are not governed by the Freedom of Information Act. Lord Buckland here ensured that the NCA was exempt from that. No one will know if he has given samples. All our work is done in-house.”

“Your department is less than a week old Mr Weathers. It is untested and not yet proven to be secure.” Francis opened his hands in a gesture of apology.

“I’m sorry, but I need to abide by his instructions. There’s little point in paying him so much otherwise. If I can help in any other way, please let me know.” Mal gave him a brief smile and shook his hand as he made to leave.

“Thank you Lord Buckland,” he said and strode to the exit. Anders followed, but Francis called after her.

“Miss Anders, before you leave, let me tell you a little about this Palace.” He walked with her to the exit as Mal waited at the door. “It was built in the eleventh century, but in fifteen twelve, it was destroyed by fire. After that, it was rebuilt and became the House of Parliament. In eighteen thirty four, it was burnt down once more and during the Second World War, it was bombed no less that fourteen times. The statue you walked past on your way here, the one of Richard the Lionheart. It was blown from its pedestal and its sword bent. But it did not break. That became the symbol for democracy during the War. This whole building represents this nation’s commitment to democracy and social justice. My brother will cause chaos and attempt to undermine the very values this society has been built on for over five hundred years. He must not be allowed to succeed.”

As they reached the door, he wished them good day and turned smartly on his heels, his footsteps echoing off the Royal Gallery walls. Anders and Mal let themselves drift with the tide of humanity as it poured through the Palace and found themselves deposited on the steps of St Stephen’s entrance. Mal shook his head, a dour look on his face.

“We’re not going to get much help from him or his ex-wife,” he said. He checked his watch and turned to Anders.

“Come on, let’s get back to the Yard. We need to debrief the team.”

Chapter 7

Anders opened the door to her apartment and tossed the keys into a glass bowl on a table in the hall. She hung up her jacket and made her way to the kitchen. Cassie had made dinner and decided to use every pot and pan available. It smelled good though, and her stomach rumbled at the inviting odour. Cassie had left a portion for her in the oven and she spied it through the glass. On the fridge, she saw a painting that Aaron must have done that day at school. He’d drawn Anders, snake like scar round her neck, holding a gun to a frightening monster. It was painted black, but the eyes were blue, much like his father’s. The monster was tall, but Anders was taller, Cassie and Aaron standing behind her, shielded from the fury of the beast.

“Pretty sure that’s going to come up at a parent-teacher meeting,” she muttered as she turned the oven on to warm up her food. While she waited for that to heat up, she took a bar of chocolate from the fridge and sighed in delight at the English chocolate, so much better than the American version Aaron and Cassie preferred.

Hearing sounds coming from Aaron’s bedroom, she took off her boots and padded along the corridor to his room. The door was ajar and she could see a light spilling from the crack. The shower was on in the bathroom and she could hear Cassie’s soulful voice as she sang an old Christian song, “In the Pines”. Cassie imbued the words with such sadness that Anders felt overwhelming sorrow for her.

Sliding Aaron’s door open a little more, she saw him lying in bed, curled up under the sheets and wide awake. He smiled as he saw her and shot from his bed to give her a warm hug.

“Bumble!” he cried. She lifted him up and carried him to his bed, tiptoeing over the scattered action figures that created a prickly minefield for her bare feet. Posters of his favourite Marvel films adorned the walls and she noticed that he still wore his Captain America T-shirt.

“It’s way past your bedtime little Munchkin. How was your first day at school?” As she tucked him back into his bed, he shrugged.

“It was ok. I painted you a picture.”

“I saw. Thank you. I always wanted to slay big scary monsters! Grrrr!” She gave Aaron a tickle that caused him to shriek loudly and throw his sheets off in delight. Tucking him back in, she asked if he’d made any friends that day. Another nonchalant shrug.

“A few,” he replied. “Can you read for me?” Anders smiled, reached over to the bedside table and plucked a book from the top before sliding back on the bed and leaning against the wall, folding her legs under her.

“Of course. We haven’t finished The Hobbit yet.” As she flicked to the right page, she heard a creak in the hallway and guessed that Cassie was outside, listening in. “Come on in hun,” she called and Cassie gave a rueful smile as she snuggled up to her on the bed, her damp hair soaking through Anders’ blouse. Though she was nineteen years old, her past had aged her in many ways but stunted her development in others. Anders cleared her throat and started to read, putting on her best dragon voice for Smaug, as Aaron and Cassie drifted off to sleep.

Later that night, Anders showered and changed into her nightwear, a strappy top and some shorts, and moved quietly around the flat as she cleaned the kitchen, took her tablets and turned off the TV that had been left on. She’d even managed to get Aaron’s favourite t-shirt off him and in the wash. She’d have it dry for tomorrow. Once Anders was done, she made her way to the workroom, taking a bundle of papers with her. Closing the door quietly, she started to pin the sheets to the whiteboard that she’d screwed to the wall. Using a black marker, she drew lines, scribbled ideas and started to build a pattern of evidence. Her work done, she stepped back and appraised her notes, chewing the tip of the marker absently. Finally satisfied, she locked the door behind her and made her way to bed, easing herself under the sheets with a satisfied purr. Within seconds she was asleep.

A few hours later, Anders’ phone rang, crashing through her sleep. Snapping instantly awake, she grabbed the device before it could wake Aaron and Cassie.

“Anders,” she said, sleep making her voice groggy. Mal’s dulcet Welsh tones came from the speaker.

“Get to Smith’s Antiques opposite the Natural History Museum. We have our first entry into Buckland’s competition.”

Chapter 8

Throwing on a pair of jeans over her shorts, Anders moved swiftly through the flat to the kitchen. She quietly set up breakfast and left a note on the fridge before grabbing her jacket and sneakers and running down the steps of the apartment building to the basement where her car was parked. Slipping on her sneakers as she ran, she hopped into an old Ford pick-up truck and tapped in the address Mal had given her into a small sat nav tucked away in the glove box. With scant regard to the British Highway Code, Anders sped from the basement and skidded onto the street, covering the distance to the crime scene in half the time that the sat nav predicted.

As she approached Smith’s Antiques, the roads narrowed. Store fronts lined the streets, selling London tourist paraphernalia or dinosaurs and other items of interest that anyone coming from the Natural History Museum might fancy. Most shops sold cheap tat, but there was the odd gem hidden among the back streets where only those who knew what they were after went. Smith’s Antiques was one such gem. A small shop sandwiched between two large houses, they seemed to creak inwards, shrinking the shop yet further. The sign was old and muted, the window’s dark and musty, but the shop was filled with rare finds that would sell for many thousands at auction. The whole street was filled with a flashing red and blue light as stationary patrol cars idled close by, yellow police tape strung across the road.

Anders parked near the tape and walked to the closest uniformed officer, holding out her warrant card for him to see. The three silver downturned stripes on his epaulettes showed the officer to be a Sergeant. Had she been in uniform, her insignia would have shown a circle of oak leaves with crossed tipstaffs in the centre, a call back to the fourteenth century when arrest warrants were carried in the hollow tips. It was also handy for clubbing and led to the distinctive police batons.  The sergeant looked young and was visibly shaken by what he had seen, blinking rapidly as he leaned forward to look at her card. He frowned as he saw her rank and stood to attention, his training overriding his shock.

“Report, Sergeant,” she said and he gulped at the recall, wiping sweat from his shaved head with a damp tissue.

“Yes ma’am,” he said. “An alert was posted an hour ago. Neighbours rang us when they saw blood pouring from under the doorway. They banged on the door to see if anyone needed help, but there was no reply.” Anders looked around the street and saw curtains twitch in a few windows. The locals were clearly enjoying the show, she mused, before turning her attention back to the Sergeant.

“I entered the premises by jimmying the lock and found…well…it looked like something from that website so I called it in. Been here waiting for you guys. No one but your boss has been in or out since I saw…” Anders gave him one of her dazzling smiles and thanked him for his work, giving him a comforting pat on his arm. She told him to get the rest of the uniformed officers and start knocking on doors and taking statements.

“Start with that one,” she said and pointed to where she had seen a shadow through the curtains as a bored housewife watched the excitement below. She made her way to the same van that Barry had requisitioned earlier and saw Ben getting into a new set of coveralls.

“Hey Ben,” she said, grinning as he spun on his heels to greet her, his lanky frame twisting to accommodate the sudden movement. He brushed a mop of hair from his eyes and smiled a welcome.

“Hi Anders,” he said, his voice surprisingly deep and strong. “Enjoying your first day?” Anders gave a wry chuckle.

“Thought you’d still be at the Common, processing the Crucifixion.” Ben shook his head and the mop of hair drifted back over his eyes again.

“I’ve got SCO on it now. I’ve done enough there that even they can’t muck it up. Mal wanted us here.” SC+O were the Specialist Crime and Operations Unit of the Met and consisted of the Major Investigations Team. Had McDowell not set up this specialist task force, then they would have been handling this case. They were an excellent unit, but Ben worked on a different plane to most of his colleagues. He turned back to the van and started unloading more equipment, Anders helping him with some of the heavier gear.

Once they’d finished, Helen walked round the corner and Ben blushed wildly as he saw her. She’d clearly been on a date and wore a figure hugging dress and heels that were even taller than her usual. Anders chuckled as Helen approached, a scowl on her face.

“On a date Helen?” she asked. “Anyone interesting?”

“It was about to get interesting,” she grumbled as she sat on the back of the van and pulled off her shoes, the hem of her dress riding up to reveal the tops of her stockings. Helen noticed Ben glancing at them and winked at Anders. “I guess this case is really going to interfere with my sex life. A woman has needs you know.” Ben blushed further as he reached into a box to get out his forensics kit and Helen couldn’t resist teasing him further.

“If I don’t get my fix regularly, I just get cranky,” she said with a grin. Anders joined in gleefully.

“There’s always that twixt works on batteries,” she replied and Ben dropped his case, spilling powder on the street. Helen sighed theatrically.

“True, but they never last long enough!” She guffawed with laughter, but soon took pity on Ben and helped him gather up the equipment, fussing over him like a mother. Mal exited the shop as they worked and gave them a curt nod. He looked tired and obviously hadn’t been home yet. Under his coverall, Anders could see the same shirt and jeans that he’d worn the day before. When he spoke, Anders could hear the tiredness in his voice.

“Sorry for calling you out at this time of night, but it looks like Crime and Punishment in there.” Anders took off her jacket and tossed it into the back of the van as Mal spoke. She stepped into some coveralls and pulled them up over her legs, seemingly oblivious to the fact that her top showed the scars that ravaged her back. She was turned away from the crew and Helen gave her a smile, both sympathetic and sad. A look of sorrow crossed Mal’s craggy features and he quickly averted his gaze as Anders zipped up the coverall and turned around.

“Didn’t take you for a fan of Dostoevsky,” she said, unaware of the stir her back had caused.

“A-level English,” he said. “My teacher’s favourite book.” Anders smiled and put some headphones in her ears. Selecting an album at random, she gave Mal a nod and stepped into the antiques shop as “A Feather on the Breath of God” played from her phone. After she left, Helen looked to Ben, who shrugged.

“Most likely some form of strategy training to effectively recall information from a crime scene.” Mal gave him a strange look, but he carried on regardless. “I’d imagine she’s combining episodic free recall with cued recall using the music to stimulate the medial temporal lobes for conscious recollection coupled with the posterior midline region for imagery. She’s most likely creating a state dependent recall at the same time. One that can be enhanced by replaying the music without necessitating the need for drugs.”

Mal turned to Helen and opened his hands in a helpless gesture. Helen smiled and gave Ben a maternal pat on the back.

“Aww bless. What he’s saying is that he really needs me to find him a woman. When was your last date love?” Mal sighed and walked off, following Anders into the shop and neatly sidestepping the congealed pool of blood on the pavement. Helen chuckled as she picked up her case and followed Mal.

“You could have just said she’s a woman and remembers things better,” she said. Ben, hurrying to catch up spoke animatedly.

“Well, it’s interesting you say that. How different is the brain of a…” Mal stuck his head from the storefront and gave them an impatient look.

“Will you two stop faffing about and hurry up!” Scampering after him, they made their way into the crime scene that made up the first known entry to Lord Buckland’s macabre game.