Detective Sergeant Kirstin Toogood tapped her slender fingers on the steering wheel. Traffic lights were red. She could have walked. She should have walked. She was only going next door after all. However, a superior officer told to go by car. Now, with roadworks on Victoria Street forcing a diversion, she’d wasted time crawling round the snarled up one-way system of Parliament Square. Getting stopped at every sodding light.
She stewed over the reason for her trip. It was not pleasant informing relatives of the death of a loved one. She had done so far too many times when in uniform, but hoped it was something she’d left behind when she joined CID. Despite being involved in several murder cases, it was something she had avoided until now.
Worst of all, just before she left Scotland Yard, she’d heard the reports of a Major Incident being declared in Belgravia. Initial reports described a shooting and at least one fatality. Armed Response Teams and a counter terrorism team were being drafted in from across the city.
Stuck behind an overweight cement mixer, Toogood tried to comfort herself. She did not have good memories of guns in Belgravia. Her mind briefly thought back to her time on the infamous Operation Darkchapel investigation and her association with the troublesome officers Sergeant Markus Inglefield and Sergeant Gui. During her time with them she had stared down the barrel of a gun in Belgravia.
The lights changed and she pushed forward, almost touching the bumper of the cement mixer as it plodded forward. When she crossed the white line of the crossing, they had been amber for some time and, if anyone asked, she would claim her front bumper was across the line when the lights had turned red.
Sitting in the passenger seat, the uniformed Constable Kimberly Hart saw the Highway Code infringement but had the nous not to point it out to a detective sergeant who was already in a bad mood.
Turning the corner onto Whitehall, Toogood pulled out to see if there was a way around the mixer. A black cab shooting up her outside put a stop to the manoeuvre. The driver, not registering the stupid vehicle in front of him was an unmarked police car, sounded his horn and gesticulated at the idiotic woman driver. Toogood’s fingers twitched towards the switch for the hidden blue lights, but she took a couple deep breaths. She had a job to do. No matter how unpleasant it was, or whether she agreed she should be doing it.
In front of the cement truck was an open top double decker sightseeing bus. She imagined the commentary the tourists were hearing as the bus dawdled up Whitehall:
"On our left, the giant grey stone building is the Foreign and Commonwealth Office. Coming up in the centre of the road is the Cenotaph. Back on the left again, wedged awkwardly between the monolithic buildings of the Foreign Office and the Cabinet Office, is Downing Street, home of the Prime Minister.”
As they drifted past, Toogood saw the usual throng of tourists lined up in front of the giant black security gates, from where they hoped to get a picture of the famous black door of 10 Downing Street. However, given the Prime Minister’s residence was fifty yards down the road, and set back from the other buildings, Kirstin knew it was an impossible picture opportunity.
Opposite Downing Street was another set of imposing black metal gates, which the occasional tourist confused for Downing Street. Those that mistook the giant building for Number 10 were soon corrected and directed across the road. When Toogood pulled over and watched for a gap in the oncoming traffic, there was no mistake for Kirstin. This was her destination, the reason she had crawled through a mile of central London traffic. When a tiny gap appeared in the traffic, she darted across, ensuring she gave a cyclist just enough space.
At the gate, an armed officer in a bullet proof vest and white buttoned t-shirt eyed her cautiously. Another officer emerged from a sentry office on the other side of the heavy gates and inspected the licence plate of her car. This was the reason Toogood could not have walked to the ministry building, her coming had been foretold and necessary authorisations to get into the building had been hastily arranged. The car’s licence plate was part of her ID.
“I’ve never been inside the MOD before,” Constable Hart said.
Toogood said nothing. She had never been inside the Ministry of Defence building either. The licence plate inspector nodded the details were as expected and the armed officer approached the driver’s window. Toogood displayed her warrant card. She noted, despite everything checking out, the armed officer kept his hand on the grip of his gun, his finger within half a second of the trigger.
With the Major Incident in Belgravia, Toogood knew security alerts would have been sent out to all officers guarding key locations in and around London.
“Park in space number twenty-one,” the armed officer said flatly.
The heavy iron gates slowly opened.
Geographically, Toogood was now driving down Richmond Terrace, but in actuality it was the visitor’s car park for the giant Ministry of Defence.
The car parked in the correct numbered space, Toogood got out and looked behind her. Through a row of recently pollarded trees she could see Scotland Yard. She was, literally, next door. Sighing at the wasted time, Toogood followed Constable Hart up the grey steps up to the southern entrance.
More security. Glass barriers and metal gates. Outsourced security contractors sat behind bulletproof glass inspecting passes and identifications. Before Toogood could get that far, her and the constable had to go through airport security. Toogood emptied her pockets. Her mobile phone, car keys and change were deposited into a scratched plastic tray. They disappeared through the x-ray machine. She then went through the security arch, which thankfully made no noise. On the other side she collected her belongings, she was just picking up her mobile when a loud alarm began to blare out. She looked up and realised her compliance to the security protocols had been pointless.
Constable Hart, in her uniform of a knife proof jacked decorated with metal badge, mobile phone, radio and a belt holding handcuffs and a pepper spray canister had sent the metal detector arch ballistic. The crescendo from the gate made everyone in the reception area look round.
The alarm was stopped. And Constable Hart was merely waved on.
At the security desk, Toogood again showed her warrant card. This time Constable was asked to do the same. The security contractor issued them with brightly coloured visitor’s badges, on brightly coloured lanyards. As they typed up the name of the person Toogood was there to see, the security contractor informed the two officers they must wear the badges above the waist, and they must always be on show. They were not allowed to go anywhere in the building without a member of department staff accompanying them.
Reception was empty and Toogood and the constable stood silently for almost four minutes. A short man with short dark hair come out through another security gate and quicky looked around the reception area. When all he saw was Toogood and the constable, he turned towards the security desk. The man who had issued the visitor IDs pointed the man back towards the only two visitors there.
“Good afternoon, I am Simon Seacroft,” the man said as he approached. As an afterthought he held out his hand.
Toogood shook Simon’s hand warily. It was not Simon Seacroft she had asked for at reception. “I am Detective Sergeant Toogood, and this is Constable Hart.”
“A sergeant? And a constable?” Simon said, confused. “You’d better follow me upstairs.”
No one spoke as they rode the lift to the fourth floor. Simon smiled weakly a couple of times, but never got as far as speaking. When the doors opened, it was a short walk through an open area of desk to small, glass-walled office. Toogood saw Simon’s name on the metal plate beside the door.
Something wasn’t right.
“Where is James Fitzwilliam?” she asked as Simon closed his door.
“I don’t know,” Simon said after a pause. “It was only an hour ago I reported it to HR. That James hasn’t been at work that is. Apparently, since he wasn’t in the office yesterday, and hasn’t answered any emails, or his phone, for two days, my senior manager told me HR had to be informed. I hadn’t expected them to call the police.”
Toogood gave a slow look at a baffled looking Constable Hart.
The office door opened and put an end to the several questions Toogood wanted to ask.
“Are you Simon Seacroft?” the visitor said sharply. She was smartly dressed in a grey pencil skirt and pink blouse.
Simon stumbled to his feet and fiddled with his tie. “Y-Yes ma’am.”
“Come with me,” the woman said.
Simon looked sheepishly at Toogood and the constable, then apologetically back at the woman intruder. “I have visitors. From the police. About James,” he said feebly.
The woman turned her irritation on Toogood and then noticed the uniform of Constable Harper. “What command are you from,” the woman said, and Toogood noted her understanding of Metropolitan Police Service organisational lingo.
“Homicide and Serious Crime,” Toogood said matter-of-factly. “Could you tell me who you are please?’
“Anne Villiers, from the office of the Permanent Secretary.” She looked back at Simon. “They should come as well.’
Another silent lift took Toogood, Constable Hart, and a nervous Simon to the eighth floor. This time no one even attempted a smile.
The corridors of the top floor were not so drab as below. Expensive, military themed artwork hung on the walls. Pictures of naval and land battles swept by as Anne hurriedly led the way. Toogood had lost her bearings and looked out the windows. She saw the Thames below. They were heading for the northern end of the building. They halted briefly at a door marked “Conference Room Waterloo”. Anne tapped quickly at a keypad beside the door and a hidden lock snapped open. Conference Room Waterloo had no windows. A large table, capable of seating twenty, dominated the space.
Only five chairs were occupied. Everyone looked up with the same surprised expression when they saw the uniform of Constable Hart.
“Who’s this?” Even though the man who spoke was seated, Toogood could tell he was tall, easily over six-foot-four, she guessed.
“You tell us,” Anne Villiers said, “they were with Simon when I found him.”
“Who are you two?” the man asked again.
“With respect,” Toogood said firmly, “I would like who you are, and why we have been brought here.” As she spoke, she studied the large image projected on the far wall.
It was quite blurry, but she saw what looked like traffic on a typical London street. She guessed it was part of some CCTV footage that had been zoomed in on two specific vehicles. A black Renault Trafic van and gun metal BMW.
“I’m Commander Cavendish, Counter Terrorism Command,” said the tall man.
Constable Hart sucked in a shocked breath. Toogood’s head snapped to look at the Commander, her eyes wide and she instinctively stood more up right.
“I’m Detective Sergeant Toogood, sir. This is Constable Hart. We’re from Homicide and Serious Crime.”
Commander Cavendish looked at Simon Seacroft, standing silent and confused, half hidden behind Anne Villiers. “What were you doing with him?”
“I wanted to speak to a colleague of his, a James Fitzwilliam, about something that has happened to his father.”
The woman from the office of the Permanent Secretary let out an explosion of derisive laughter and shook her head slowly.
“Commander,” she spoke as if to a child, “I have to brief the Permanent Secretary in five minutes on what we have been watching. Should I include that half of Scotland Yard is camping out in the Ministry looking for the Fitzwilliam family?”
Before the Commander could answer, the mobile phone of the Inspector next to him rang. He answered it quickly and listened for a few seconds. He then leant over and whispered in the Commander’s ear.
“How was she identified?” the Chief Inspector asked.
The Inspector on the phone relayed the question and listened for the answer, before turning to his boss
“They found a driver’s licence in her bag, and a witness from the school recognised her, so not an official ID, but as good as, given the time.”
Commander Cavendish stood up quickly and looked across the table at Toogood. “Did you drive here?”
“Yes, my car is parked at the south-“
“Give your keys to the constable, she is driving it back to wherever you came from. You are coming with me, sergeant.”
The Commander made his way to the door and his two accompanying inspectors quickly followed.
“What am I supposed to brief the Permanent Secretary?”
Commander Cavendish stopped at the door and looked back, it was his turn to be irritated. “Tell him to phone the Commissioner,” he said and disappeared towards the lift.
As they walked quickly back down the corridor Toogood was aware they were not being escorted. She felt it was not going to be a problem.
“Were you sent here to speak to James Fitzwilliam about his father being found dead on the London Eye?” Commander Cavendish asked.
“Yes, sir,” Toogood said.
“Have you been to the crime scene?”
“Crime Scene?” Toogood said.
When asked to come to the MOD, she had simply been told James’ father had died in an accident whilst riding on the London Eye. Obviously, and not completely without precedent, a Commander knew more about what was going on than a lowly Sergeant.
“Sorry, sir, I did not know James’ father had been killed in a crime, I was just told I was to notify him of his father’s death and if he was up to it, I should get him to come with me to St. Thomas’s to identify the body.”
On the ground floor, the Commander led the way back to the south entrance and Richmond Terrace. There he repeated his instructions for Constable Hart to head back to the Yard. When she had driven off, he led his inspectors and Toogood to his car. He told Toogood to get in the back with him.
“You ever done any work for SO15 before?” Commander Cavendish asked as they drove away.
SO15: Counter Terrorism Command.
“No, sir, I’ve worked murders.” Toogood said as they drove through the black gates and out onto Whitehall. Blue lights and siren burst into life, and they sped through the parting sea of traffic. They headed north, up Whitehall and across the southern edge of Trafalgar square, before speeding under Admiralty Arch. They were heading west. Belgravia?
“Here’s some murders for you, Sergeant Toogood,” the Commander said as they tore down The Mall. “This morning the body of Sir Nathanial Fitzwilliam was found on the London Eye. Earlier this afternoon, the body of his son, Sylvester Fitzwilliam, was found in a top floor room on the South Wing of that building.
Toogood looked out the window as the car swerved up Constitution Hill, Buckingham Palace sped by as fast as the facts were being pumped into her brain.
“Two hours ago, the office of the Permanent Secretary of the Ministry of Defence received an email stating that James Fitzwilliam was being held hostage. One hour ago, several people were shot outside a private nursery school in Belgravia. James Fitzwilliam’s wife, Emily Fitzwilliam, was fatally wounded during the incident. A young girl was possibly abducted in the attack as well. Her whereabouts are unknown. The gunmen wore black clothing and initial descriptions state they were heavily armed.”
Hyde Park Corner was a blur, passing with greater speed than Buckingham Palace. Within seconds they had entered Belgravia.
“It appears there has been a co-ordinate terrorist attack targeting members of the Fitzwilliam family. Sir Nathanial had been a diplomat in the Middle East. His son James worked in a department which gave him regular access to the Defence Council. It is a senior department in the MOD and means he has access to sensitive military information. I’m leading the CT operation. Since you’re connected with the Sir Nathanial aspect of the investigation you will be reporting to me.”
“Yes, sir. What will be my role at the Belgravia crime scene?” Toogood asked. Her earlier wish had come true. She fought control of the adrenalin rush to ensure she remained professional in front of the senior officer.
“You don’t have a role,” Commander Cavendish dropped the bombshell. “I already have a team of officers on site. When we get to the scene of the attack, we need someone to drive this car back to the Scotland Yard. Once there, get up to speed on the details of Sir Nathanial Fitzwilliam’s killing. I will want a briefing for the morning.