Philip Kerr - A Philosophical Investigation

‘Did I hear the word suspect, Jake?’ he boomed, rubbing his hands.

For a moment Jake considered stalling him and then decided against it. He was the kind of senior officer who was apt to be unforgiving about being kept in the dark on something. So she told Chung to repeat what he had just told her, after which she added a note of caution.

‘I’d like to keep this man under surveillance for a while,’ she explained. ‘It’s just a precaution, only there’s something strange about all this.’

Poison Challis sniffed. ‘I’ll tell you what’s strange,’ he said. ‘It’s this John Martin Baberton who’s bloody strange. You heard it yourself. The man’s a bloody psycho.’

‘No, sir,’ insisted Jake. ‘What I mean is that this is all a little too—’ She shrugged. ‘Too convenient.’

‘What are you talking about?’ Challis demanded. ‘What do you mean, too convenient?’

Jake wondered if it was her imagination or whether she could smell drink on his breath.

‘Haven’t you got any faith in your own law-enforcement technology? Jesus Christ, woman, it’s supposed to make things convenient. Not every result has to come from months of painstaking detective work. Not these days, anyway. Or is this just some of that bloody feminine intuition I hear you always banging on about?’

‘No, sir,’ said Jake patiently. ‘I’d just like to wait a little, sir. I’d like to...’

But Challis was already on the pictophone. ‘I want a tactical firearms squad ready immediately,’ he barked at the startled man appearing on Jake’s screen. ‘What’s the bloody address, Sergeant? Here, give me that piece of paper.’

Chung handed Challis the printout and looked questioningly at Jake as Challis read out the address to the squad constable. Jake shrugged silently, but when Challis had finished speaking, she said to him, ‘Sergeant Chung? For the record, I would like you to note that this course of action is being taken by Detective Chief Superintendent Challis against my advice. In my judgment—’

‘To hell with your judgment,’ snapped Challis. ‘Who the hell do you think you are? I run the Murder Squad, not you. I’ll say when we make an arrest and when we don’t. You may know a lot about criminal psychology, Chief Inspector, but I know about law enforcement, and I can recognise a bloody collar when I see one. Now you can either be a part of this, or you can stay here and sulk. Which is it to be?’

Jake felt her eyes grow smaller. She thought of the set of tungsten electronic knuckles in her bag and wanted to hit him. She could barely conceal the sarcasm in her voice as she told Challis that she wouldn’t miss it for the world.

But before she followed him out of the door, Jake called Gilmour’s office.

The police car carrying Challis, Jake and Stanley left New Scotland Yard and headed north up Grosvenor Street, Park Lane and then the little Egypt that was the Edgware Road, before turning west towards the A40. The slip-road climbed and looped like a big dipper until they emerged into the main eight-lane carriageway, sandwiched precariously between two enormous water-tankers. It was almost eight o’clock but the Westway was still choked with homeward-bound traffic. Drivers in their two-door Honda micro-cars stared up at the light railway speeding by overhead, and almost envied the passengers aboard it but for the knowledge that they would certainly have been travelling in conditions that would have left an agoraphobic battery hen short of air. Jake shook her head pityingly. One of the few compensations about working the unsocial hours that her job required was that at the times she usually drove to and from the Yard, the roads were all but empty.

The big police BMW moved powerfully onto the toll-paying, speed-unlimited lane which, at the flat fee of $100 a day, was comparatively free of all but the fastest and most expensive German cars. They passed one set of high-rise flats and then another — airborne rabbit-hutches, the road so close to the smoke-grimed windows that Jake could almost see the irradiated lettuce on the plastic dinner plates.

In a few minutes they were at the White City, the two white concrete towers of the new European Television Centre towering over the landscape like a twin pack of toilet rolls, reminding Jake that however long the job kept her out, she wasn’t likely to be missing anything good on the Nicamvision. Seconds later they were driving by H. M. Remand Prison, Wormwood Scrubs, recently expanded into what had been the old Hammersmith Hospital, and surrounded with a no-man’s-land of searchlight and razor-wire.

At the Hangar Lane roundabout, they turned south towards Ealing and Jake quickly lost her bearings in a maze of quiet suburban roads that ran close to the Honda Corporation’s golf course. At the end of one road, already blocked off by police, they met the flak-jacketed commander of the Tactical Firearms Squad.

‘We’ve got the place surrounded, sir,’ he said, indicating a large detached house set in about a quarter of an acre. ‘My boys have just finished having a quick sniff around the place. Apparently there’s a man’s body lying in some long grass close to the tennis courts.

‘Bingo,’ Challis muttered, and glanced balefully at Jake.

‘What did I tell you?’ He nodded at the house. Behind drawn curtains there were lights burning.

‘We haven’t approached the place yet, sir,’ said the TFS commander, whose name was Collingwood. ‘But we’ve shoved a couple of mikes on the wall and it looks as if there’s someone at home all right. Funny thing though. There’s a man standing in the porch.’

‘Doing what?’

‘He’s just standing there.’

‘Didn’t you bring nightsights?’

‘Of course I did. But he’s in shadow, I’m afraid.’

‘Perhaps he’s just stepped outside for a quiet smoke,’ suggested Detective Inspector Stanley. ‘I do that myself sometimes. Perhaps he lives with a non-smoker.’

‘Hang on a minute,’ said the commander, and pressed his earpiece closer to his ear. ‘One of my boys says he’s got a gun. A machine pistol it looks like. Seems as if he might be waiting for us, sir.’

Challis nodded grimly. ‘Probably using that body in the garden as some kind of bait. Gets one of us to walk up to the door to try and make an arrest and then opens fire.’ Challis turned to Jake. ‘What do you think about him now, eh? I suppose this bastard with the gun is there to stop the garden gnomes being nicked.’

‘I’ll admit I don’t have an explanation,’ said Jake. ‘But I still think we ought to wait, sir.’

‘For what?’ sneered Challis, not expecting an answer. ‘Can your men take a closer look, Commander?’

‘No problem.’

‘We could train some searchlights on the front of the place,’ Jake suggested. ‘Get a loudhailer.’

‘And let him know we’re here, so he can hole up in there? No way,’ said Challis. ‘I’m not going to risk a siege. The last thing we want on this is the press turning up.’

So, Jake thought, Challis was looking out for the interests of the Home Office after all.

Meanwhile the TFS commander had twisted a small microphone attached to his helmet round to his mouth and given the order.

For several minutes there was only the sound of what passed for silence in that part of London: traffic moving on the North Circular, a Nicamvision’s stereo sound system turned up too loud, a dog exercising its owner’s freedom to let it bark its head off, an ice-cream van insanely spewing out its signature tune “Oh What a Beautiful Morning”, and the wind stirring the rhododendron trees.

Jake breathed uncomfortably, still unable to articulate precisely what was wrong with the whole situation. A long dark Mercedes drew up alongside the other police cars. Gilmour, wearing a dinner jacket, got out and extended an index finger in the direction of Challis. Whatever he said was almost immediately forgotten.