CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
“Is that Mr Tighe? Zachary Tighe?”
The voice was unfamiliar. Something about it rang faint bells but I could not place it. To be honest I was surprised when the reception put the call through to me. I am seldom in the offices of the paper. I write my copy at home and e-mail it in. But today I had come into the office to discuss some minor concerns I had with the accounts department and then went into the editorial department and perched in front of a monitor at a free work station to browse the web in search of a particular American author I was addicted to. I had read all of his twenty-two previous novels, each of which was set in Louisiana, a place I had never been to but because of his emotive writing I felt I knew it well, and I saw that his latest novel was out in hardback so I was anxious to find the paperback version. At the same time I intended to check out the Kindle e-reader which I kept seeing on the underground. Why keep adding books to the shelves in the flat when I could simply download them onto the e-reader? Made perfect sense in terms of taking reading matter on holidays as well.
“That’s right. Zack Tighe. Who is this please?”
“Tony Lawrence,” came the reply. Sharp but with no further explanation. I sensed I was supposed to know straight off who Tony Lawrence was and therefore to respond with some familiar retort.
“And you are?” I asked.
“Tony Lawrence,” he repeated. Then after a brief pause he added: “MP. Member of Parliament. Tony Lawrence? Maybe you have seen me in the House during PM’s questions?”
“Yes?” I was still mystified why a member of parliament should be calling me. And the name did ring a bell but so faint that I could not think why.
“I have been following your column on the murders. The serial killings.”
“Right. Do you have some information that I might find useful?”
Lawrence’s tone had changed from one of hesitation, probably because I did not recognise his importance immediately, to one with a degree of seriousness. Almost stern. “I think we should meet Mr Tighe. I believe it would be beneficial to both of us. Mutually beneficial.”
I was still not sure where this could be leading. “I am not very clear about what you are suggesting Mr Lawrence. Forgive me, but what sort of help could I give you? And why? And what sort of help do you think you can give me?”
“Perhaps the details we could discuss when we meet up,” answered Lawrence. “But I can say right now that I think you are spot on when you say the killer is still out there and not in police custody.”
I did not say anything.
He continued: “And if that is true, why is the government, or the police, trying to cover things up?”
“If they are intentionally covering things up.”
“As you say, if. But I think they might be and I think that in doing so they are playing an extremely dangerous game. I want to find out why.”
Normally when someone passed me information, or offered to pass me information, I jumped at the opportunity. More often than not the information they had to give was of very little use, sometimes of no use whatever. On a few occasions it had led to good stories that helped lift the lid on matters that might otherwise have remained in the dark. But I had never had a Deep Throat sort of informant that put my by-line on the front pages of the world media. So I was more than a little sceptical about what Mr Tony Lawrence MP might have to give. Members of Parliament usually were far more interested in receiving than giving. And so far he had not intimated he had anything to give to me.
“If we do decide to meet up,” I said, “would I be correct in thinking that you had something for me that I could use in my column? On the record or off?”
“Let me just say at this juncture Mr Tighe that I think a discussion between the two of us might very well lead to something that could be of benefit not just to the two of us but to the wider community.”
Lawrence let the words hang there. Once again there was the serious texture in his voice. A hint. Not a guarantee. Just a hint. Nothing more.
“That would be fine then,” I said. “I’ll be pretty clear in the next half hour or so.”
“Give me two hours,” said Lawrence. “I will have my work cleared by then. Would you be able to come to my office in Portcullis House? I am afraid that while I can clear my desk for a while I can’t be away from it for too long.”
“I can do that,” I replied. “Two hours from now. I will wait for you downstairs in the lobby.”
“Not in the lobby. Before you go through security. Ask for me there and I will have to come down and get you. Then we can go into the lobby for a coffee.”
Of course I was aware of the security procedure. I had been to Portcullis House a number of times and was always struck by the contrast between the Palace of Westminster were the offices of all members of parliament used to be and the new office headquarters across the road on the corner of Bridge Street leading to Westminster Bridge itself.
While the Palace of Westminster, known by the general public as the Houses of Parliament where the Commons and the Lords are located, could be dated back to the eleventh century when it was the primary residence of kings, Portcullis House was opened in 2001 after almost a decade of complicated construction. What was the old palace was destroyed by fire in 1834 and the existing Palace of Westminster is its replacement.
It is one of the centres of political life in the United Kingdom with Whitehall where the organs of current governments are situated being the other, including No 10 which is the residence of the Prime Minister. Of course mention Westminster or the Houses of Parliament anywhere in the world and the comment will immediately be Big Ben. Pretty well everyone thinks the clock tower is Big Ben whereas actually it is the main bell that gives it its name. Whatever, Big Ben and the Palace of Westminster is one of the most popular tourist attractions in the country. Americans especially are impressed by its age.
Portcullis House on the other hand draws very few sightseers. The old buildings on the site were demolished and at the same time London Underground was building an extension to the Jubilee line that included a new interchange station at Westminster station which occupied the same area. Various other underground railway considerations were also taken into consideration so it was not until a year or so before the end of the century that the building above ground began to rise. The building is named after the chained portcullis used to symbolise the Houses of Parliament on letterheads and official documents, and today it accommodates about a third of members of parliament.
As you enter Portcullis House through circular revolving doors you are faced with a glass and steel lattice work of architecture that allows maximum light to flood from above into the spacious vestibule where mature trees help to bring the feeling of outdoors inside. But before visitors can enter that area they have to go through a security check. Once you have been scanned and your bags checked, and you have advised the guards why you are there and who you plan to meet, you are told to move to the side and wait. And wait.
Half an hour after I had completed this process I watched as various people walked down the free standing staircase from the floor above into the lobby, some moving off towards the coffee tables on one side while others disappeared in other directions. Still others stood gossiping. One of those who descended walked out into the security area where I was sitting on a wide bench and looked around. His eyes settled on me and he strode forward unhesitatingly.
“Zachary,” said Tony Lawrence and extended his hand. “Nice of you to come. Let’s go outside around the corner. There’s a nice little place in Whitehall.”
I was slightly disappointed. I had hoped we would meet in his office or in the coffee lounge where I could try to identify more senior members of parliament or officials. Maybe the Prime Minister himself would saunter in. I had been inside Portcullis House on a few occasions and always got a bit of a kick out of being there and seeing familiar important faces. Now I was being escorted out and around the corner to a public coffee shop.
As soon as we were seated and had ordered two cappuccinos Lawrence began by asking how long I had been a journalist.
I told him it had been quite a while.
“You’ve worked around the world, haven’t you?” he asked.
I told him I had but did not elaborate because I was sure he had done his homework and knew precisely what my journalistic background was.
“So you elected to return home and settle down then,” he said.
“Come back yes, but settle down, we will have to wait and see.” I had no intention at this stage of our relationship, if we were going to have one, of unburdening myself with personal information. “So far so good though.”
The coffees came and Lawrence took a sip of his. I added sugar to mine and stirred the froth and nutmeg into a creamy surface.
“I like your column,” he said. “Very interesting. Brave. What you have written about the murders is brave.”
I said nothing.
“You are not afraid to go out on a limb are you?” Lawrence said. “I mean you are not reluctant to write what you think even if it goes against the authorities. In this case the police.”
I shrugged but still decided not to say anything.
Lawrence looked straight at me for a few seconds and then placed both hands on the table. “OK,” he said. “I appreciate your position. Let’s get down to why I asked to meet with you. Enough of the small talk.”
“That’s good,” I responded. “I don’t want to be rude but I don’t want to waste your time or my time. Is there anything I can do to help you, or do you think you might have something that would be useful to me?”
“I think we could help each other. I have a position that carries with it some influence, and you likewise are in a position to influence things as well.”
“I can see that. In a general sense for sure. But how would that apply to the subject you mentioned? The murders and the serial killer.”
“I think you’re correct,” said Lawrence, “that the police have not arrested the person or persons responsible for these terrible murders. I think he or they are still at large and therefore women are still at risk.”
“Why do you think that?” I asked.
Lawrence smiled and sipped his coffee. “Zachary, I have my contacts as you will know. Surely you would have expected me to make enquiries.” He paused. “You obviously have yours and you would not have gone out on such a limb with your opinions unless you came to the same conclusion that I have.”
Clearly he was right but I was unsure why or how he wanted to use me. I was certain that he did want to use me. I just was a little unclear still how. So if he wanted to keep the small talk to a minimum I was happy to go along.
“Points taken,” I said. “So to cut to the chase as it were you reckon you can offer me something of interest and in return you want to use me for your own purposes. Can you explain to me what your purposes are?”
For the first time he smiled. “The chase. Right.” He sipped his coffee again. “There are a number of actions I could take. To support you if you like.” Another sip of his cappuccino. “Obviously I could talk to people. In the House and outside. I could try to get picked during PMQs, though that is not always the easiest thing to do as you will appreciate. And then there is an Early Day Motion.”
Getting the Speaker of the House to select you at Prime Minister’s Questions I knew was difficult. It was entirely in the hands of the Speaker and unless agreement had been reached in advance the chances of being called on were slim. EDMs were also unlikely to succeed. EDMs are formal motions submitted for debate in the House of Commons but very few are actually debated. Their main purpose is to allow MPs to draw attention to an event or cause that might otherwise not attract the interest it is thought to deserve. MPs register their support by signing individual motions. A few signatures would lead nowhere. Hundreds were required and that was unusual.
The traffic outside on Whitehall was busy an always. Buses and tour coaches and taxis and private cars stood stationary at traffic lights at the entrance to Parliament Square and with the door to the coffee shop wide open there was a steady drumming of engines, loud enough to notice but not loud enough to drown out conversation.
“Look,” I said, “I recall your raising the issue in the House, in fact I referred to you in one of my columns, but I still fail to see what I can do for you or what you can realistically do for me.” It was the realistically that I wanted him to pick up on.
Lawrence leaned back in his chair and breathed out heavily. “I have no intention of misleading you,” he said. “I am not certain that I can achieve what I would like to achieve. What I can tell you is this. The police have not arrested the person responsible for these horrible deaths. They know that the person they have in custody is not the right person. That means there is indeed a monster out there. It does mean that the likelihood of more murders cannot be ignored. And finally it means that if I can do anything, anything at all, to help guide the authorities into coming clean, to pressure the police to step up their actions, to apprehend the person responsible for the brutal murder of those women, then I will do it.”
He looked me straight in the eye and bent forward over the table and practically whispered: “Zachary, any useful information that I unearth I am prepared to share with you.” There was a pause, and he went on: “I don’t believe you have been writing your column on this issue just to scaremonger. I think you might have a source inside the police who has told you the facts. And I think that if we put our heads together we can achieve something useful, something that might prevent more deaths.”
I was not sure if what he said was accurate. Sharing information might make for good column copy but would it lead to the arrest of the serial killer? I doubted it. This was in no way similar to the MPs expenses scandal or the phone hacking where media exposure resulted in halting the abuses. This was entirely different. There was no public or media probing, no parliamentary enquiry or no way of calling witnesses or informants to ascertain relevant information. This was pure and simply a case of a series of terrible murders. No-one knew who the killer was. No-one knew why he was doing what he was doing. No-one knew whether he planned more murders. No-one even knew if there was more than one killer. And certainly no-one was in possession of key information that pointed to the killer’s whereabouts. At the moment he was free to do whatever he liked, wherever he chose, and whenever he decided. They were the only known facts.
Lawrence glanced at his watch. “I have to go,” he said. “You know where you can reach me and I know where I can contact you. Let’s just say for now that we think about this and maybe get in touch again when either of us has something useful to share. OK?”
Without waiting for a reply he pushed his chair back, stood, held out his hand so I could shake it, and turned and walked out of the coffee shop.
I sat quietly for a few minutes going over the entire but relatively short conversation in my mind. I did not know what I was going to do. Nor did I know if my meeting with Tony Lawrence MP would turn out to be beneficial. I picked up my cup of coffee. It was cold. I had not taken a single sip.
*
When he got back to his office Lawrence closed the door and used his BlackBerry to make a call.
“Hello,” he said when the call was answered. “I just had an interesting meeting with Zachary Tighe, that columnist who has been writing about the serial murders. I think I might be able to use him to raise the temperature a bit. Do you have any objection to that? Would it compromise you in any way?”
There was a silence for a time and then the voice on the other end of the line answered: “Not right now, no. But I don’t have to tell you to be careful. There are some real bastards in the press as you will know.”
“I know,” said Lawrence. “This Tighe seems to be pretty straight. Let’s see what use we can make. The sooner something meaningful can be done the better. I’ll keep you in the loop of course.”
When he ended that call Lawrence called Sir Kenneth Bell who had been prickly at the Home Affairs Select Committee hearing. He did not divulge anything about the meeting he had just concluded around the corner, but suggested they meet to discuss the murder case to see whether the committee should meet again. Sir Kenneth was happy to comply.
An Early Day Motion was the next item on his agenda. When he told Tighe he had an important meeting to attend he was not telling the truth. In reality he wanted to get the ball rolling in Parliament. What he needed to arrange pretty quickly were four or five co-sponsors of an EDM. But that was not his first task. The first job was to construct the EDM itself. He grabbed a few sheets of paper from a drawer in his desk and shuffled them in front of him. Placing them squarely on the desk he pondered for a moment and then began to write in precise long hand.
“That this House notes…” EDMs invariably began with these words. Lawrence continued writing. “That this House notes with concern the recent deaths of four women in the most dreadful fashion; that while the police have not publically made any announcement of the fact that a person is being held in custody it is unclear whether that person will be charged with these offences; that if such person is not to be charged what action are the police adopting with a view to apprehending the person or persons who are responsible; that there are views being expressed among the general public including the media that unless this case is speedily brought to a successful conclusion panic will spread throughout the community which will hinder further police actions; and therefore calls on the Government to take all responsible actions to assist the police in the apprehension of the person or persons responsible for these violent acts of criminality.”
The title for his EDM he thought might read: “THE URGENT NEED FOR ACTION TO APPREHEND SERIAL KILLER” If he was able to table the motion today it could make the session after next. That would put it in the bracket of numbers around thirteen hundred and fifteen.
Lawrence then began giving thought to who his immediate co-sponsors might be, ideally members from all major parties. Sir Kenneth Bell would probably be one and that would lead to another three or four falling into line without too much trouble. It was the need for a few hundred more supporters that was more problematic and which would take some time.
But time, he was not sure they had.
*
Detective Martin Walden was far from happy.
He was sitting with Maguire in Waxy’s pub in Chinatown where Maguire had suggested they go for a drink to end another busy but generally fruitless day. Information that might lead to the arrest of the serial killer had dried up. Nothing new was coming in and the investigation had largely ground to a halt. Of course every available police officer was on the case and doing all they could but without any new information their enquiries were leading nowhere. A brick wall was very much in sight. But it was not the stalled investigation that had upset Walden.
“Dave, I reckon you’ve made a wrong move this time,” he told his friend and partner. “The limb you are out on is fragile to say the least. You’ve gone too far this bloody time.”
Maguire said nothing.
“And,” added Walden, “you’ve taken me with you. You realise that don’t you? You have put both of us in the shit. You have put both of us on the line. In fact, you may well have jeopardised the whole case.”
Still Maguire remained silent.
“For chrissakes Dave, say something. Tell me why you’ve done this and what you hope to gain. Explain it to me. Convince me this was the right thing to do.”
Maguire sipped his Caffreys and then carefully placed his glass on the bar, habitually turning it in circles to dissipate the wet ring it left on the wood. “Let’s just for the moment go over what we have,” he said. “We have four dead women. There is no doubt they have all been killed by the same individual. There is nothing to suggest why they have been killed. There is nothing that links them. There is no commonality in the locations. We have received no information, not a jot, from the public that might be helpful in tracking down the individual responsible for the murders. There is every reason to believe that there will be more killings. There is every reason to believe that the individual responsible is pretty intelligent at leaving no clues. Not one. All we know for certain is that there is someone out there who chooses women for no common reason, kills them brutally, drops their bodies in various locations around London and the surrounding area, leaving no clues. And then disappears. Totally.”
He paused. “Meanwhile, we have a task force of experienced detectives working round the clock to get absolutely nowhere. We have not a single answer to all the questions we keep asking ourselves.”
Maguire paused again, and then went on: “Along the way we take in for questioning a number of individuals who have records of violence against women. One of them we charge with a very serious crime and for some reason let it be thought, even if we don’t come out and actually say it, that he might well be the serial killer. We know he is not the killer. And this means that we are going to have to go public very soon with the news that this madman is still out there and that women everywhere could be his next target.”
“OK. So….” Walden said.
“Hold on,” interrupted Maguire. “Just a second. While all this is happening, or not happening, the public is anxious. The media senses a great story that will scare the pants off everyone. One that they can keep running for as long as the individual responsible remains at large.”
Again he paused. “And then there are the politicians. Goddamn politicians. Already they’re jittery. Already they are just waiting to pounce and crucify the Force for not apprehending this, what was it, monster, that some minister claimed was praying on women up and down the country.”
Now Walden said nothing.
Maguire continued: “The point of all this is that there is a time bomb out there. We already have a massively dangerous case. But we have not a single thing to go on. And we know, we must all know, that unless we achieve some real success very, very soon that bomb is going to blow up in our faces and a lot of people are going to seriously hurt. Just think if one more woman turns up under bushes somewhere, or in a gutter somewhere in the metropolitan area, what might happen. Could we actually see more riots in the streets?”
Almost in unison they picked up their glasses and downed large mouthfuls of the Irish ale. It was Walden who spoke.
“Jesus Dave, are you moonlighting for one of the red tops? All you’ve omitted is the disaster headline. Seriously though, you are right with everything you’ve said. I can’t fault anything. Spot on with everything. But my questions still is, why go to a reporter and personally assist him to further dramatise the already bad situation? That?