Janet was sat upon the floor, arms hugging herself and rocking back and forth. Tears streamed unchecked down cheeks as pale as a shades whilst her mouth was open in a silent, unending scream. They ran to her then, knelt and hugged her without any clear idea how to make their mothers pain go away.
‘India Nine Nine’, a Squirrel helicopter bearing the livery of the Metropolitan Police, touched down on the tarmac of the air force station. The Commissioner and Arnie Petrucci, the CIAs London head of station alighted from it, and shook hands with the Chief Constable. The Commissioner had no authority and no special legal powers here in Scotland, where the legal system owed more to the French than the British systems of justice.
“Good morning Jamie, thank you for calling me so promptly. Do you know what has happened yet?”
“I would have called you sooner, but I was off duty. As you requested I kept the presence of this operation strictly to myself. I was off duty when this came in, as I said. Angus MacDonald… my Assistant Chief, was informed of the multiple murders and of the location, but of course the address meant nothing to him.”
They climbed inside an unmarked Range Rover, which immediately pulled away.
“Run me through the sequence of events, if you would please Jamie.”
“You will appreciate that I knew only that you told me there were some special people living in a safe house on my turf and there was an on-going intelligence connection with the RAF station here?” He looked at Arnie Petrucci, who remained poker faced and offered nothing by way of insight into what was an American run operation of the greatest secrecy.
The Commissioner nodded in agreement. Even he did not know what was happening with the Russian officer and young woman who had alerted the west to the enemy’s intention to nuke the capital cities and defence establishments in various countries.
“At 0935hrs this morning, the driver of an express train to Inverness reported a body falling from a bridge in front of his train; he also stated that he saw another man on the bridge, who he believes was carrying an assault rifle of some description. Had he not seen the weapon… or what he took to be a weapon, then he would have stopped, but as it was he continued on into Forres and alerted the British Transport Police, BTP called us and we sent in a tactical firearm's team. They confirmed the body side of it, and found a Met issue MP-5 beside the line before backtracking footprints in the snow. A topcoat containing two full MP-5 magazines in the pockets was found, a number of spent cases, both 9mm and 7.62mm, a blood trail and three separate sets of prints leading back to the house, the one you informed me of.”
The Range Rover reached the Guardroom at the entrance, and they all had to identify themselves to a steely-eyed air force policeman, who was being covered by a ‘Rock Ape’, a member of the Royal Air Force Regiment.
When he was satisfied that they were not well-disguised enemy deep cover operatives fleeing the area, the Range Rover was allowed to continue.
“In the rear garden they found the body of your Constable Stokes, dead of a single gunshot to the head… he was identified by his warrant card that was beside his body, he appears to have been hurriedly searched. The front of the house contained more bodies, Police Constable Pell and an as yet unidentified male in the hallway, plus an unidentified female on the doorstep… and Mr Tafler on the garden path. With the exception of the woman, all had died from gunshots. The woman had died as result of her throat having been crushed… there was another blood trail in the lane at the front, but so far we have not found whose blood it was, nor that of the other one along the route back to the house.”
No mention had been made of Major Bedonavich nor Svetlana Vorsoff’ as having been identified and the Commissioner was about to ask for the description of the woman whose body had been found, but Arnie Petrucci nudged him, shaking his head almost imperceptibly, because he alone amongst them knew whose body it wasn’t.
It was the CIA man who asked the next question though. “The body on the tracks, was there any identification and can you describe the body?”
The men and women of the Central Intelligence Agency, despite what Hollywood would have us believe, do not have regular contact with scenes of violence or tragedy. In his entire career the most active ‘spook’ will only see a tiny fraction of the blood and gore that a street copper may see whilst going about his daily business. He or she would not know, or have seen what becomes of a body once a train has run it over.
“Mr Petrucci, the underside of an express train houses a great number of metal protrusions, all spinning at high revolutions. At this time we do not even know what the sex of the dead person was.”
Arnie Petrucci did not comprehend what the Chief Constable was trying to tell him though. “Well can you at least give me an approximate height and age?”
“Sir… the largest piece of that body on the line would fit into your hip pocket… no sir, I cannot approximate an age or height.”
Petrucci was silent whilst he took that in, and decided that if the offer were made to go down on the track to see for himself then he would politely decline. However, it was vitally important to establish the identity of the body, for if it was not that of Major Bedonavich then it would mean that he could be in enemy hands, and the details of the Russian operation compromised.
“The identity must be discovered as soon as possible Jamie, how long will your laboratories take to do a DNA test?”
“Do you have someone in mind… and a DNA sample to compare against?”
They did indeed have DNA samples from both the Russian’s, and he nodded emphatically.
“Twelve hours then, sir.”
The Range Rover passed through Kinloss and crossed over the rail line at the level crossing outside town and continued to the A96(T), which they followed for several miles before turning onto a minor road, and eventually arriving at the bottom of the lane that led to the house. A police car was blocking access to all vehicles and the curious.
“From here we walk gentlemen,” the Chief Constable informed them, and then adding for the American’s benefit. “Sticking strictly to the marked channel, this is a crime scene.”
A chilled constable with a crime scene log in his hands checked the two policemen through, and then it was the CIA officers turn.
“Special Agent Hoover… ” he informed the young man with a straight face, and produced FBI ID. “… initials, J, E.” he added with a warm smile, enjoying the joke but having no intention of the Scottish justice system ever knowing who had really been at the scene. The young constable was dutifully writing down the details without question, when an older constable stepped up and looked over the young officers shoulder to read what was being recorded, and then looked the American sharply in the eye with a glare that said “Piss taker!” but he did not correct his colleague.
If his boss was bringing a spook to a murder scene, it was no business of his to make waves.
Little was achieved by their visit to the scene except to anger all three men. It was too early to establish who amongst the participants had done what at the scene, that would take some time and had no bearing on the important issue, was the operation safe or had it been blown in its entirety, and what should be done now? Those were questions for Petrucci’s boss and the President to address.
That the countryside beyond the river was clear of enemy for a distance of twelve miles was the report from the RA Phoenix operators, and indeed the battalions clearance patrol that had gone back to the ‘island’, had not received a single round of fire from snipers or artillery.