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“Boss!” A whistle from the interior of the van drew his attention.
Baxter arrived in record time. “You have a result?” he asked breathlessly.
“Semtex,” declared the technician. “From the home factory in Semtin.” Semtex was a common plastic explosive manufactured in Semtin, Czech Republic.
“Taggants in good condition?”
“Taggants” referred to chemical signatures placed in the explosives denoting the place and date of manufacture.
“Check. We sent them over to Interpol for analysis.”
“And?”
“The Semtex used in the bomb came from a shipment sold to the Italian army. Here’s where it gets interesting: the Italians reported the shipment hijacked en route to a military base outside Rome in late April.”
One of Interpol’s lesser-known responsibilities was to maintain an up-to-the-minute database of every batch of explosives manufactured from legitimate explosives concerns around the world and to keep track of where and to whom they were sold.
“How big was the shipment?”
“Five hundred kilos.”
“Ask Interpol if any of the same batch has shown up somewhere else. Oh, and good work.”
Baxter climbed out of the van and headed back up the street into the glare of the lights. The Semtex was just one piece of the puzzle. He’d need many more before he could begin to make heads or tails of the bomb and, more important, the bomber.
“Evidence,” he shouted to his men. “I want some bloody evidence!”
It was nearing midnight, and Den Baxter’s day was just begi
31
It took Kate and Graves three hours, but finally they found her.
Her name was Isabelle Lauren, and she had studied at Balliol College, Oxford, from 1997 to 2000.
“Fu
“Was he teaching?”
“Not till 2001.”
Graves shrugged. “I suppose it doesn’t matter how they knew each other. Just that they did.”
“Mmm,” Kate agreed. “Still, I’m curious.”
Graves closed the university yearbook and rang up his assistant, giving him Isabelle Lauren’s name and requesting that all pertinent personal information be on his desk within thirty minutes, begi
“An apology for what?”
“For this morning. I’m sorry for barging in on you like that. I tend to get carried away.”
“Your ma
“Oh? What was it, then?” Graves hurried to ask. “That I didn’t want to cooperate?”
How was it, she wondered, that someone so smart could be so damn stupid? The answer came to her at once. Men. The inferior species. “You still don’t get it, do you?”
The phone rang before Graves could answer. Motioning for her to give him a second, he picked it up. “What is it now?” Suddenly his face fell. “Oh, excuse me, Detective Watkins. I was expecting another call. Ransom? He did what? Good Lord!”
“What?” Kate put her head close to his, trying to listen, but Graves immediately walked away, nodding and grunting and mumbling “yes” over and over again. Finally he said, “I’m with DCI Kate Ford. It’s important that she hear what you have to say. I’m going to put you on speaker. Go ahead.”
“The woman’s name is Prudence Meadows,” explained a deep voice. “Jonathan Ransom shot and killed her husband two hours ago.”
Graves exchanged a glance with Kate that said he’d been right all along.
“There’s no question whatsoever,” Watkins continued. “Ransom and her husband were at university together years ago. The woman and her husband visited with him only last night at a reception at the Dorchester. According to Mrs. Meadows, Ransom came to the door of their home in Notting Hill at approximately nine-thirty. He demanded to speak to her husband. She said he looked agitated, but she let him in anyway. The two men retired upstairs for an hour. During that time she put her children to bed and then went to her bedroom to read. At ten forty-five she heard raised voices coming from downstairs. She went to see what was going on and found Ransom holding a gun on her husband, shouting that he wanted money and the keys to his car. Dr. Meadows refused. An altercation ensued, and Ransom shot the man dead.”
“Go on,” said Graves. “Then what did Ransom do?”
“Mrs. Meadows tried to call the police and he put a dagger through her hand into the table to stop her.”
“Didn’t he try to kill her, too?” asked Kate, staring hard at Graves.
“No. Just left her like that, then took the keys to the car and fled.”
Kate shot Graves a perplexed look. “Can we speak with Mrs. Meadows?” she said.
“Not right yet,” responded Watkins. “She’s in surgery for the hand. You can have a go at her tomorrow morning.”
“Right,” said Graves. “Anything on the car Ransom stole?”
“Not yet, but we’re looking.”
“Cover all the airports and the ports along the coast.”
“Already done.”
“Of course it is. Thank you again for getting in touch so promptly.” Graves hung up. He raised a hand to stop Kate before she could begin. “I know what you’re going to say. If Ransom killed the husband, why did he leave the woman alive?”
“It must have been an accident. He’s not a killer.”
“You keep saying that, and the people around him keep dying.”
The phone rang again. It was Roberts, who stated that Mrs. Isabelle Lauren’s primary residence was in the city of Hull, in the northeast of England. Graves requested that an aircraft be made ready and told Kate to meet him early the next morning at Thames House for a briefing prior to departure.
As she walked to the door, he called, “You never did tell me what bothered you so much.”
Kate looked over her shoulder. “You really want to know?”
“Couldn’t sleep if I didn’t.”
“What bothered me, Colonel Graves-”
“Call me Charles.”
“What bothered me, Charles, wasn’t that you came into my home una
Graves set his hands on his hips. “What the hell was it then, DCI Ford?”
“Kate.”
“Okay… Kate.”
“I saw your Rover yesterday morning at One Park. What really pissed me off was that you arrived before I did, and you didn’t tell me. It was my crime scene. I don’t like to be second to anyone.”
32
The Peninsular and Orient ferry Princess of Kent, 179 meters in length, 40 meters from sea to smokestack, and 33 in width, with a draft of 22,000 tons and capable of carrying 500 automobiles or 180 trucks, along with 2,000 paying passengers, sat moored at the dock of the Dover-Calais terminal, ready to commence boarding in twelve minutes and thirty-seven seconds, as noted by the enormous digital clock arrayed on the neighboring warehouse. It was 6 a.m. The sun had come up a half-hour ago, and though the temperature was no more than seventy-five degrees, there wasn’t a lick of wind, and it was already uncomfortably humid.
Jonathan snaked through the idling trucks. Drivers milled outside their cabs, smoking, exchanging trade tips with one another, or just stretching their bones. He was studying the size of the cabs, the addresses of their owners (usually noted on the driver’s door), as well as the rigs’ home country plates. As important, he was determining whether the driver was at the wheel waiting to guide his rig aboard the ferry or somewhere en route to or from the ticket office.
He eyed a Peterbilt cab belonging to the freight forwarder Danzas and piloted by a M. Voorhuis of Rotterdam, Holland. The cab would be perfect, offering ample room to hide a fugitive eager to reach the European continent. Better yet, it belonged to an established freight company. Customs and immigration checks were carried out upon landing in France. Inspection was supposedly random, but he knew that vehicles registered to the established companies were rarely selected.