Ten Second Staircase

∨ Ten Second Staircase ∧

39

Entrapment

Oskar Kasavian was seething. He slammed through the offices one after the other, searching for a scapegoat or something to hurl, knowing that he could blame no-one but himself, but it was dawn on Saturday morning, and the building was nearly empty. He had not expected the detectives to call his bluff by refusing receipt of the third cadaver, slyly returning the body to its resting place via a couple of taciturn orderlies at University College Hospital. This was going to be trickier than he thought. At least the gloves were off now. His ambition had been made clear, as had their intention to fight back. “Where the hell are they?” he shouted at his secretary in passing. “There’s no answer from the PCU. They can’t all be out on assignment. Don’t they realise this is their last weekend in full employment? What the bloody hell is going on?”

♦

“What else could I do?” asked May. “We’re running out of time.”

“I don’t need to remind you what happened before,” Longbright warned. She had returned to find a lead on the remaining constable who had registered as a witness on May’s ‘confession’, an e-mail from a colleague who remembered the officer’s married name. But time was running out fast.

“We were more foolhardy in those days. Besides, this was Janet Ramsey’s idea.”

“What makes her so sure he’s going to turn up?”

Before them lay the unfolded Saturday morning edition of Hard News, the last one of the week. Highwayman’s Shock Secret Revealed. “The article states that she alone knows the Highwayman’s identity, and that she’ll give it to the police at six P.M. today. She’s had the article constructed by some psychologist to include provocative phrases that will find resonance with our man. She’s recorded the article, and they’ll be excerpting it on radio and television throughout the day. She’s also making sure that her whereabouts are known on the Internet, just as the others did.”

“I know she’s doing it to boost circulation, but she’s being very stupid.”

“We can’t stop her from doing it, so we’ll have to help control the event. Colin and Meera are going to stay with her the whole time. She’s due here any minute for a briefing session with us. I was going to ask you to sit in with me. I might miss something; I haven’t been to bed yet. Did you speak to the publican at the Horse Hospital?”

“He confirmed the old inn’s claim to fame as Dick Turpin’s rest stop, and he remembers the night White was banned. He doesn’t recall who else was in that night, but he promised to ask around.”

“Have you seen Arthur?”

“Is he not answering his mobile?”

“I tried calling him at home, but Alma hasn’t seen him either. Perhaps it’s best that he’s not around. He doesn’t approve of journalistic entrapment techniques.”

♦

Janet Ramsey looked like a housewife from a faded seventies sitcom, bulky and floral, with hair arranged in stiff red peaks, but her voice betrayed the late Thatcherite steel of determination without conscience. She fixed Longbright with a searching eye before accepting the sergeant’s offer of a seat and coffee, as though suspecting her of a trick. She also refused to say anything of consequence until a male entered the room, a habit Longbright deplored in other women.

“We think the Highwayman has some kind of link with Clerkenwell, and he certainly knows the area,” May explained. “The apartment we have for you is inside a converted watchmakers’ factory. It’s a monitored site with only one main entrance, right between the school and the estate where the Highwayman was sighted. We’ll block off the rear exit and roof access, and we can cover the windows front and back. If he turns up, he’ll have to use the front hall.”

Ramsey knew that the unit had never supervised such a sting operation before, and that she was forcing them to maintain a police presence at the site. “You’ve got me for the whole day,” she told him. “If he doesn’t show, I want to record an exclusive interview with you in the afternoon, for a Monday publication.”

By Monday we may not even be here, thought May. “You know you’ll never get a straight answer from a police officer, Janet. We always hedge our answers to cover all eventualities.”

“Then I’ll conduct the interview with your partner.” She smiled slyly, knowing that Bryant’s inability to lie had exposed the unit’s plans on a number of occasions.

“That’s up to him,” May countered. “I’m not striking deals with you. You’re doing this with our knowledge, but without our approval.”

“Let’s face it, you haven’t got very far by yourselves. Besides, I’m helping you to catch the man. I’m performing a public service.”

“Your altruism is touching,” said Longbright.

“I make it a policy never to use words my readers wouldn’t understand,” replied Ramsey. “If you’re planning to provide me with protection against this maniac, I’d say you’re involved.”

“We have a remit to protect the vulnerable and innocent,” Longbright told her, “but we also cover journalists.”

“This one’s a caution.” Ramsey jerked a thumb back at the sergeant. “Which old movie did you find her in?”

“We’ll want you to wear a radio mike, in case anything unforeseen happens,” said May.

“Don’t worry, darling, I’ve done this sort of thing many times before. I used to specialise in ending MPs’ careers by posing as a call girl.”

“That must have been a stretch for you,” said Longbright. May glared at her, but only for the sake of keeping the peace. “Ah, there you are,” said Bryant, sticking his head around the door. “John, a word?”

May followed his partner out into the corridor. “I wanted you in the briefing with Ramsey. She’s going into the apartment in an hour’s time. Where have you been?” he asked.

“The Leicester Square Vampire,” Bryant explained. “The DNA samples from the bodies Kershaw and Finch examined need to be matched up against the evidence we archived in the Paddington lockup. I’ll go there myself and sort it out. Heard anything more from Kasavian?”

“He’s called several times already this morning, but I’ve instructed everyone to stay away from the phones when his direct line comes up. I wanted you on the Highwayman case, Arthur. We’re out of time. Putting a lid on the Vampire won’t do us any good now.”

“There are circumstances where I can imagine it would help,” said Bryant mysteriously. “If you need me, I’ll be poking through our bric-a-brac in Paddington.”

♦

An hour later, the unit moved Janet Ramsey into St John Street. Colin Bimsley took up his position behind a fortress of cylindrical rubbish containers at the rear of the converted warehouse, while Meera Mangeshkar waited with May and Banbury in the unit’s unmarked white van. An immense West Indian constable named Liberty DuCaine had agreed to make himself available to the unit for the day. He was positioned on the other side of the building, awaiting instructions.

St Crispin’s appeared silent and empty, the front gates closed. The edge of the Roland Plumbe Community Estate was visible through gently falling rain, but it also appeared deserted.

“It’s a stain gun,” said Banbury, holding up the narrow-barrelled device with some pride. “Lightweight aluminium, my own design, converted from an animal tranquilliser.” He opened the top-loading chamber and showed May the cartridge inside. “There’s a secondary needle on the front of the dart to keep it in place after striking home. The contents are under pressure and the plastic casing shatters on impact, spraying blue dye over a radius of about half a metre. It’s harmless, but impossible to get out, and takes weeks to wear off.”

“What about clothing?” asked May. “Our man wears motorcycle leather. Surely it won’t penetrate that?”

“If the needle can get through, the dye will follow. The best way to use it is to fire into an object above the target’s head. There’s no way he can avoid being covered.”

“Do we have a marksman?” May wondered. The unit had never been authorised to use weapons.

“You have me,” said Banbury. “I have a licence to use this.”

“So now we wait.” Mangeshkar sighed.

♦

By three-thirty P.M. the clear sky had clouded over and drizzle fell like fading memories, leaching colour from the streets and returning the city to the indistinct texture of box-camera photographs. Longbright waited in May’s BMW, parked diagonally opposite the front door of the building. Colin Bimsley was numb and soaked, his long legs cramping behind the bins. He text-messaged Meera inside the van, asking if she’d seen anything. She replied with some disparaging remarks about their potential victim – he could tell she was just as bored.

Five minutes later, she sent back a single word: movement. He uncoiled his legs, rubbing life back into his thighs, and awaited the call to action. Looking through wet leaves, he could see DuCaine across the alley, ready to make a move.

“He’s outside the building right now, just strolled around the corner,” said Mangeshkar, watching through the night goggles she had bought from her own money after Land had refused to allow the unit to purchase a pair. “Man, he has a lot of nerve. He’s just gone inside.”

“You’re sure it’s him?” asked May.

“No, it’s probably some other guy in a highwayman’s outfit.” She lowered the glasses. “Of course I’m sure. Why don’t we grab him now?”

“He’s in disguise, Meera. For all we know, he could have paid someone to wear the outfit. We need as much incriminating action from him as possible, because we can’t afford to leave any loopholes. Notice he only wears the cape for photo shoots.”

“The rest of the outfit’s almost normal for London. Take off the eye mask and the tricorne, he’d look like any courier in town,” said Mangeshkar.

“Call Ramsey. Warn her he’s on his way up, and tell her to keep the door locked. I’m sending in Bimsley and DuCaine.” Banbury made a move to open the door of the van. “Where do you think you’re going?” asked May.

“I need to get closer. I won’t get a clear shot in this rain.” Banbury raised the barrel of the stain gun.

“I’d be happier if you stayed in the van,” said May.

“It’s okay. I’m wearing a protective vest.” Banbury hopped out of the van and crossed the road, slipping into the entrance hall. They waited. Two minutes passed, then three. The crackle of Ramsey’s handset made them jump.

“I heard someone on the stairs,” she whispered. “Wait, I can see him through the spyhole – he’s right outside the door. Where the hell are your men?”

“They should be on the staircase below you,” May answered.

“They’re waiting for him to make a move.”

“I don’t want to be carried out of here in a body bag just because your people were waiting for the right moment,” she snapped back. The sound of an electric bell filled the van. “I don’t believe it,” said Ramsey. “He just rang the doorbell. What do you want me to do?”

“Don’t let him in,” May warned. “What can you see now?”

“He’s gone – no, wait, he’s – ”

There was a burst of static, and the line went dead.