Read Online Europe at Midnight by Dave Hutchinson - Free Book Online Page A

already have a major incident on my hands, sir. I’ve had to take officers off that to go and collect the passengers. And I’ve turfed Barnet MPS out to take care of the ones up there.”
    The Metropolitan Police Service’s many areas existed in a world of constantly renegotiated alliances and favours owed. Undoubtedly Spicer had called in some of those favours this evening.
    “I can only apologise again,” Jim said. “I’ll mention in my report to my superiors that note be taken of your efforts, come the next Spending Review.”
    “That’s not good enough, sir,” Spicer said. “With respect.”
    Here it comes . Jim mentally drew himself up to his full height and asked pleasantly, “What can I do for you, Superintendent?”
    “A certain individual has become of interest to us,” Spicer said, picking his way through it as delicately as a ballet dancer. “It’s a wholly criminal matter – no Security involvement at all – but during our investigations we discovered that your people have had the individual under surveillance for some considerable time on another matter.”
    Jim nodded. “And I presume you’ve asked for the fruits of that surveillance.”
    “Not all of it. A period of eight days last September.” He added apologetically, “We asked a fortnight ago.”
    “If you give me the details, I’ll make sure you get the information you need, Superintendent.”
    Spicer looked at him a moment longer, then nodded and pushed the door open. “Thank you, sir. After you, please.”
     
     
    T HE WITNESS WAS in his thirties, well-dressed, well-barbered. He seemed completely at ease sitting in the interview room across a table from a rather scruffy-looking detective sergeant whose body language suggested that she had already done more than enough of these this evening, thank you very much.
    “And you left work at...?” she asked.
    “Five thirty,” he said, leaning back in the chair. American accent. He didn’t smile exactly, but he radiated good-naturedness. He seemed, Jim thought, a wry sort of man.
    “And how did you get from Chancery Lane to Tottenham Court Road?” the detective sergeant asked.
    “Is that relevant?”
    The detective sergeant gave him a look which suggested that she wanted to say, “ I’ll decide what’s relevant.” But instead all she came up with was a tired, “Please, Mr Ross.”
    Ross smiled. Wryly. “I walked.”
    “Central Line was suspended,” Superintendent Spicer murmured, sitting beside Jim. “They had one under at St Paul’s.”
    ‘One under’ was slang for a jumper, a suicide under the wheels of a train. “Do we know for certain that it was an authentic suicide?” Jim asked.
    Spicer looked at him as if he had just quoted a line from Gravity’s Rainbow . “Bloke’s dead,” he allowed after a few moments. “That was authentic enough. Any more details, you’ll need to talk to British Transport Police.”
    Jim nodded and made a note. They were sitting in a small, cosy monitor suite, facing a rank of screens. Most of the screens had been turned off. Three showed the interior of the rooms being used to interview passengers from the bus. Two of the rooms were empty for the moment. The third contained Mr Andrew Ross and his interviewer, Detective Sergeant – Jim consulted the file – Collins.
    “So, you walked from Chancery Lane to Tottenham Court Road,” Collins recapped. “And that took you...?”
    Ross shrugged. “Ten minutes? Fifteen at most.”
    “So you were at Tottenham Court Road no later than five forty-five.”
    Another shrug. A smile. “I guess. I didn’t dawdle.”
    Collins looked at him. “Many people at the bus stop, were there, Mr Ross?”
    “Sure. It’s always busy there. Four or five different buses stop there, it was rush hour. Lots of people.”
    “And did you see the gentleman there?”
    Ross shook his head.
    Collins sighed a little. “Perhaps you could think for a moment, Mr Ross. Did you see the gentleman waiting for the