Troubled Waters (20 page)

‘I don’t know,’ Carlo replies, looking perturbed. ‘She has been behaving strangely for a while, and I assumed it was the company business, you know.’

‘Has she ever been violent?’

‘Of course not!’ he states vehemently, looking outraged. ‘I don’t know what you are talking about.’

I nod to Amelia, and she relates the incident of Sophia attacking her at the martial arts class.

Carlo is not as taken aback as we would have expected, but I am genuinely surprised that he is still sitting there answering our questions.

‘Oh dear! This is a problem for me,’ he confesses. ‘Perhaps I’d better explain. When she was in her first year at university she was a good athlete, then she was attacked and sexually assaulted. She fought back and escaped, but the attacker got away. Sophia knew who it was, but the police wouldn’t prosecute. She didn’t finish university. She never really got over it and became paranoid, looking over her shoulder all the time. She was on medication for a while, and later on she took up martial arts classes. One day the police came round; she had taken revenge on her attacker, a young man from university. She beat him up quite badly: broken arm, broken ribs, and facial injuries. They wanted to press charges, but the fact that he wouldn’t give evidence speaks volumes. I wanted to kill him myself, but Miriam, my wife, calmed me down.’ Visibly upset, he turns to Amelia. ‘Are you all right? Are you still friends?’

‘Yes, she told me all about the attack at university, and I think she is over that.’

‘Thank God for that,’ Carlo replies.

‘What happened then?’ I ask Carlo.

‘Well, she ended up with a caution.’ There is a contemplative pause in the discussion before Carlo observes, ‘That is all over with, and so we don’t know what can be bothering her now.’

‘No, but that historic knowledge may assist us moving forwards,’ I affirm.

Carlo appears relieved that he has got the story off his chest. ‘Thank you for coming, and the bill is on me. I would appreciate it if you could keep me informed.’

I assure him that we will let him know as much as possible, then we leave the restaurant and make our way back to the Lowry Hotel. The cool December evening helps our thoughts to crystallise, and we are still convinced that Sophia’s problems are emotional and somehow connected with our other investigations, but how is another question. I take the opportunity to move the Saab off the street into a more secure NCP twenty-four-hour car park.

When we arrive back at FrackUK all appears quiet, and Carl advises us that it has been so all evening. Their takeaway appears to have been Indian, judging by the pervading aroma and the containers still spread around the office table. There is a smattering of
Harmony Earth
protesters and media still outside in the gardens. A large-screen TV on the wall of the office is broadcasting a review of the scene in Piccadilly Gardens outside, the newscaster artistically placed to make full use of the giant wheel as a background, in contrast with the Piccadilly Tower.

We have a last coffee before trying to settle down as best we can for the night’s vigil. Fortunately, there is enough sofa-type seating to accommodate the three of us in Carl’s office and the two staff volunteers in the reception area. Blankets magically appear and we take up our positions for the night.

Morning comes and we wake, stiff and ratty, after a long night interrupted on several occasions by drunken revellers, mostly fans celebrating the prowess of the city’s football teams. It’s 7am on Saturday 13
th
December. No one wants breakfast this early, so its just coffees all round. Carl busies himself with his two staff and any other business to take his mind off the situation. We go over and over the situation with Sophia, trying to figure out what could be going on.

***

Meanwhile, in an aparthotel not far away, Hans Johansen was destroying his passport, to be replaced by one in the name of Knut Amundsen. John, the armed man, was still asleep in the other room. Knut had picked him up at the station the day before, after he had travelled up from London. The muscle could travel in easily enough from Salford.

Knut had discussed the general outline of his plan with John the night before, over a few beers in the aparthotel. Food had been frozen pizzas from the hotel kitchen freezer. Knut was keeping a tight rein on John until the plan was activated. He had finalised the plan for action today, and all that remained was to pick the precise time for ease of operation and maximum effect. He decided that the time would be early afternoon, when there would be less chance of them being spotted among the crowds milling around in Piccadilly.

He woke John, and they breakfasted on cornflakes and tea made in the small kitchen of the apartment. They conversed over breakfast in short sentences, as per usual.

‘Have you made a final check of the weapons?’

‘Yes,’ John answered.

‘Got your ticket back to London?’

‘Yes.’

‘Is it for any unspecified time?’

‘Yes.’

‘Anything you want to ask me?’

‘I thought there was going to be three of us.’

‘There is. We meet him later,’ Knut said.

‘What time’

‘Two o’clock,’ Knut said, in a tone to end the conversation. ‘I’ll tell you where later, when I ring him.’

They caught up on the news for a while, and John was unperturbed when the scene in Piccadilly came onto the screen. Knut was impressed with his equanimity. Knut called the muscle at eleven o’clock.

‘Are you ready?’ Knut demanded.

‘Yeah,’ the muscle confirmed. ‘Wearing dark clothes.’

‘Good,’ Knut praised. ‘Meet us outside Debenhams department store, facing Piccadilly, at two o’clock.’

‘OK.’ And there the conversation ended.

After finishing the call the muscle watched the rest of a trashy show on TV and then cleared up some of the pizza boxes and beer cans strewn over the floor from the night before. Surprisingly fastidious about personal hygiene, he then showered, but didn’t shave, preferring to leave several days of fashionable stubble for effect. Dressed and ready to go, he moved downstairs to the kitchen. He picked up a small workman’s bag – it could have been any plumber’s bag, containing a hammer, several spanners, and screwdrivers – all of which could be used as weapons to deadly effect if necessary. Ready for action, he left the house, bound for downtown Manchester.

***

Back at FrackUK, the waiting game is still the waiting game: we pace around the office, peer out of the window at the protesters, then pace around the office some more. We discuss a few more angles, but nothing conclusive begins to emerge. I get the tingling feeling that something is there, just out of reach. At noon the phone rings. It’s Lambert.

‘Morning. I won’t ask if you had a good night, but what I can tell you is that it is extremely likely that Hans Johansen – sorry, Knut Amundsen – is in town. He could have travelled up by car and we would never have known, but we checked the CCTV footage at the airport and Piccadilly railway station and got lucky with the railway station. We’re not totally sure, because the man was wearing a baseball cap and kept his head down, but the height and weight is pretty convincing. He met a man off the train from London Euston carrying a large sports bag. God knows what could be in it.’

‘Do you know who the man off the train is?’ I ask.

‘Not yet, but we passed it down to the Met. They’ve got a team trawling the files as we speak.’

‘Well, that confirms our worst fears,’ I observe. ‘When can you get rid of the protesters?’

‘It’s not against the law to protest, and as yet no offence has been committed,’ Lambert replies.

‘OK, at least we can assume that something is afoot and we are not waiting around here for nothing.’

‘I think that’s a fair conclusion,’ Lambert agrees. ‘How did you go on last night when you had a chat with Carlo Peroni?’

‘I have quite a bit of news on that front. I don’t think I mentioned to you before about Sophia attacking Amelia.’

‘You certainly didn’t,’ he grumbles. ‘I did notice the bruise on her face but felt it impolite to ask how it came about.’

‘Sorry. I was going to tell you at the golf club yesterday, but of course that got scuppered. Well, there was some kind of disagreement as they were sparring at their martial arts class, and apparently Sophia went mental. It became real fighting – at least it did for Sophia. Amelia was able to defend herself, but only after she had taken a couple of blows. It fizzled out as fast as it had started, and Sophia was full of remorse and crying, but still insisting it was to do with a stalker – which of course we are not convinced of.’

I start to relate the details of our conversation with Carlo the night before, but Lambert stops me. ‘Tell you what, we need to go over there anyway, to see what’s going on again, so leave it till then. We’ll be there in about half an hour.’

Amelia and I remain with Carl, mulling over the lack of any activity below – the protesters seem to be behaving – and Lambert arrives just after noon along with Evans. I briefly wonder whether they go everywhere together.

The first thing the policemen do is to go to the window and look over the scene that they only minutes ago walked through – human nature, I guess, because I now do exactly the same. It looks the same as when I last checked, half an hour ago.

The office door is suddenly shoved open and one of Carl’s volunteer’s rushes in clutching an e-mail. Carl reads it first, before passing it around the table. As before, it is all in capitals.

IT WILL HAPPEN TODAY.

Hans Johansen

HARMONY EARTH

Lambert, the last to read the e-mail, places it on the table. ‘I don’t suppose anyone has an idea as to what the
IT
might be?’

We all shrug and hold our hands up in surrender.

‘We’ve got men watching all entrances to the building,’ he advises reassuringly. ‘And there are plenty of uniformed officers in the streets and the gardens around, as you can plainly see from the window. What you can’t see, though, is the plain-clothes guys also wandering around looking for anything suspicious.’

‘I suppose that’s comforting,’ Carl observes.

‘It’s the best we can do for now, I’m afraid,’ Lambert says, and then turns towards me. ‘Now, about your chat last night with Carlo Peroni.’

‘Right. As I explained before, she did attack Amelia, which seemed totally out of character. We began talking to Carlo about the fact that Sophia was obviously worried about something, and could it really be a stalker, etc. He agreed that she was worried and also felt that a stalker was unlikely to be the real reason. When I asked if she could be violent, he categorically refused to accept it, until I suggested he listen to Amelia’s story.’ I nod to Amelia at this point to take up the narrative.

‘He already knew that we attended martial classes together,’ Amelia begins. ‘When I explained how the situation occurred, he kind of caved in and revealed all about Sophia’s past history.’

We go through Carlo’s story from the night before: Sophia being sexually attacked at university, receiving a caution for taking revenge, and being on medication for stress and so on.

‘So we have a bunny-boiler here,’ Lambert says bluntly. ‘Are you saying what I think you are saying?’

‘That we have a potential killer here,’ Evans spells it out.

‘I don’t think we would go as far as that,’ I contend.

Lambert scratches his chin. ‘I can see there could possibly be opportunity, but what about motive?’

‘Exactly,’ I agree. ‘As far as I know, your investigation has not turned anything up in the fraud inquiry.’

‘Absolutely not. She is as clean as a whistle in that regard.’

‘OK, let’s think about it some more before chasing around. We’ve got enough on our plates, what with figuring out what this Knut Amundsen might be planning.’

‘Do you want me to arrange some sandwiches, boss?’ Evans interjects.

At this point Carl gets up. ‘No worries. I’ll sort that out.’ He makes for the door. We discuss various scenarios of what Knut might be planning and are ready to theorise on the murder case when Carl and his volunteers return with platters of sandwiches. One volunteer takes the drinks order and scoots off to organise it.

Sandwiches finished, there are five of us around the table: the two policemen, Carl, Amelia and me. The subject of the murder is introduced by Evans.

‘Looks like Sophia did it, then,’ he states bluntly. ‘From what you told us before, anyhow.’

‘Steady on,’ Lambert cautions. ‘I’d agree it looks like she could have done it, but we don’t have any concrete evidence that she actually did.’

At this point Carl excuses himself to check on his volunteers and other stuff, quite correctly pointing out that this discussion doesn’t really concern him directly.

I am not convinced either. ‘Have we had all the information from Sammy Wang yet, as to who did or didn’t move out of the bar? Are we even convinced it was not a purely random attack, possibly sexual, by an opportunist who happened to be on the river bank at the right time?’

‘Two questions there,’ Lambert begins. ‘First, Sammy Wang is still going through a few loose ends on the statements of the people in the bar area. Second, there were no signs of any interference with clothing, and it appears to have happened very quickly. The only signs of injury are the bruising to the neck, consistent with strangulation by her own scarf, and a slight chafing to her right leg consistent with being caught on the iron railing as she was thrown over into the river.’

‘Surely there would be other physical marks where the body bumped against the river bank and the stone flags of the jetty under the windows of the Mark Addy public house?’ I point out.

Evans takes over. ‘That is correct, but we can tell that those marks occurred after she was in the water.’

Amelia and I nod wisely, but are still no wiser.

***

It was five past two, and at the Piccadilly end of Debenhams department store Knut and John were waiting patiently for the muscle. John was dressed in dark clothes, but not so dark as to attract attention, and carrying his sports bag he could be going to the gym. The muscle materialised out of the crowd.

‘You’re late,’ Knut reprimanded him.

‘Sorry, the bus was late.’

‘You came on the fucking bus?’ Knut exclaimed in astonishment.

‘Best way on a Saturday afternoon.’

Knut looked at John, who shrugged, as one used to the teeming hordes of London town.

‘Can’t disagree,’ John said, looking at the mass of people surging around them. They moved back out of the main drag into a quiet side street.

‘Right, you both know what the plan is when we get there,’ Knut said. ‘However, so as not to attract attention, we’re going to separate. We’ll each make our own way individually over to the tower building, where we’ll meet up again at the entrance on the Chinatown side of the building and enter from there. John, you go from the left side along Portland Street, and then turn right into New York Street. I’ll go across the centre and then round Portland Street also.’ Speaking slowly to the muscle and pointing, Knut added, ‘You go along Moseley Street and then turn left into New York Street. Once in the mall we walk together, enter the foyer of FrackUK and then its
go, go, go
. Any questions?’

John and the muscle both shook their heads.

‘Right, let’s go,’ Knut ordered. ‘You two go first, nice and steady. My route is shorter and straight across. I’ll follow in a minute.’

Knut’s instructions had a twofold purpose, the obvious one being that they should be less
obvious
to anybody watching, and the other one being that he wished to avoid the possibility of them being seen by any protesters who were still in the gardens area, albeit now in one group and smaller in number.

***

Back at FrackUK we are still theorising on the murder. I am developing an idea, but feel it is too early to voice to Lambert and Evans, and would also like to know what else Sammy Wang can dig up. I decide to bide my time, and perhaps chew it over with Amelia first.

Lambert is becoming impatient, while Evans is pacing around and keeps checking out of the window. Nothing much seems to be going on.

‘I think we might be of better use back at base chasing things up with Sammy Wang,’ Lambert announces, rising up from his chair.

At that point, almost exactly on cue, there is a loud screech of brakes and horns sounding. A horrific shriek is heard from the crowd outside.

Evans is still at the window. ‘Quick!’ he shouts. ‘It looks like someone has been run over by a tram.’

We all rush over to the window and are afforded a bird’s-eye view. A tram has stopped, and six policemen have detached themselves from guarding the protesters and have started to cordon off the area in front of the tram. There is mayhem. All traffic is at a standstill, and sirens can be heard in the distance as emergency vehicles, police and ambulance, attempt to make their way through the traffic to the site of the incident.

‘If they’ve been run over by a tram, an ambulance won’t be much help,’ Amelia sadly observes.

‘Evans, get down there and find out what going on,’ says Lambert. ‘I’ll phone HQ and make sure they have the details. We’ll wait here until you come back up.’

Carl comes running into the office. ‘Have you seen…?’ He stops mid-sentence when he sees us all standing at the window, rooted to the scene below.

Evans runs out as ordered, and minutes pass before we are able to tear ourselves away from the drama unfolding before us. More police are now evident, and an ambulance arrives, siren blazing. It feels like only minutes later and a body bag is loaded into the ambulance, which starts its sombre journey to the morgue.

Eventually, one by one, we silently return to our seats around the table. No one speaks for a minute.

‘I’ll organise drinks,’ Carl offers.

‘I’d better make the call to HQ,’ Lambert says, standing up, to be more private in the corridor.

***

Outside Debenhams department store, Knut waited the minute he had promised his minions and then began to stroll across the centre of Piccadilly Gardens. To a casual observer he was an ordinary shopper enjoying the mildness of a Saturday afternoon afforded by weak sunlight with few clouds, rare for Manchester in November. He checked on the stalls, some selling various kinds of trinkets and tee shirts, others bargain sweets and so forth. He looked up at the giant wheel as he passed under it, wondering, as most did, whether it ran at a profit with so few cars occupied.

The tram driver on the Bury to Altrincham line had driven his tram from Victoria station south along Market Street, where he turned right onto Mosley Street for a few yards and then left to go through the bus station towards his next stop, Piccadilly railway station. He saw a tallish man on the edge of the kerb, wearing dark clothes and with fair hair cut short in a military style. The tram was going slowly, and just behind it a bus was overtaking in the outside lane. The bus passed quickly, but the man failed the routine taught to every small child: he looked right, then left, but his undoing was not to look right again. The tram was almost upon him when he stepped into the road. The driver sounded the horn automatically, his brain registering immediately that it was too late. The last thing the driver saw as the tram struck the man and his head spun around was the horrified look in his ice-cold Nordic-blue eyes.

***

In the FrackUK offices, Carl returns with drinks, followed by Lambert. Stating the obvious, Lambert asks, ‘Evans still out there?’

‘Yes, no word from him as yet from him,’ I report.

‘Well, as soon as he is back we’d better be off back to base.’

Five minutes later Evans returns.

‘Calming down slightly out there now,’ he informs us. ‘They’ve carted that poor sod off to the morgue, what’s left of him anyway. The driver’s in a right state, going to need counselling. He’s not hardened yet. It’s his first fatality, only been in the job a month.’

‘Did the driver say anything?’ Amelia asks.

‘Only that the man didn’t look right a second time. The driver said he’d been sounding the horn intermittently like they always do going through the centre of Piccadilly, and that he clearly saw him look right once, then left, but not right a second time. He just stepped out.’

‘Have we got any ID on him?’ Lambert asks.

‘Didn’t get to ask, sir,’ Evans replies. ‘I’ll check with uniform back at the station. It wasn’t easy to ask under the circumstances.’

‘Not squeamish, are you?’ Lambert retorts.

‘He was kind of squashed, sir,’ Evans says in his defence.

Lambert nods curtly. ‘OK, well, let’s go and spend an hour back at the station, and see what’s turned up about this incident and check the info from Sammy Wang. He should have collated it all by now.’ Turning to us, he adds, ‘Give you guys a chance to firm up a theory as well.’