"The sharp edge of a razor is difficult to pass over; thus the wise say the path to Salvation is hard."
--Katha-Upanishad
Spartan bumped into DS Croft in the corridor. Both were in a hurry; Simon was still arranging his silk tie. One of his shoelaces was undone.
"Got caught on the hop this morning, were you?" quipped Spartan, as they headed for the briefing room.
Just before they got to the door, Croft stopped, bent over and tied his shoelace as Spartan stood and watched. When they were ready, the door opened.
Inspector Warburton stood at the far end of the briefing room, in front of a screen. The room was dimly lit; the blinds had been drawn, and the projector had only just been turned on. Between DI Warburton and the entrance was a crowd of silent officers, all of whom turned to face the detectives framed in the doorway.
"Good to see you gentlemen at last," said Inspector Warburton. "We were going to start the show without you."
"Control didn't page us until ten minutes ago," Croft said. "We were already on our way in."
"Well, I'm not in the mood for excuses or apologies," the Inspector snapped. "Take your seats, gentlemen. There has been a significant break in your case, and I've decided that it's time to brief the Tactical Support Group here on their role in the forthcoming phases of the investigation."
Croft and Spartan cast sidelong glances at one another.
"So all that firearms training's about to be put to the test," Croft said. Spartan nodded, grimly. "Again."
Libra stood at the entrance to the Students' Union of Manchester University. Walking away from him were two gaudily clad female students, all piercings and dyed hair, strolling casually along the street hand in hand.
The one on the left was dressed in the latest Goth chic, all black velvet and lace with a big floppy black hat; the other, in some shocking pink fluffy jacket to match her hair, and a short black leather skirt, red and white striped stockings and huge boots with platform soles. Both were reading at the Herald Recruitments sales literature he'd just handed out to them.
"And those," Libra said to himself, "were the normal ones."
Another clutch of students boiled out of the Union building behind him. Libra sighed, made ready with more leaflets.
The hunt was the hunt, but all the same business couldn't take care of itself ... And besides, one of these students might just recognise the little hunter sign embossed onto his business cards, one card stapled onto the corner of every leaflet.
And one of those might know something about the imbued who used to hang around the area.
"Sir, I don't understand," Spartan said. "We've already done the talk this morning. You've dismissed the TSG. Why are we still here?"
"The briefing the Tactical Support Group received was, for operational purposes, limited in its scope," DI Warburton replied.
"You've been taking Newspeak lessons," Spartan said. "In other words, you've left stuff out they didn't need to know."
"Yes, well," the Detective Inspector blustered. He turned back to the screen, thumbed the controls on the keyboard before him.
"We know, now, that we're after three people," said Inspector Warburton. "We've not been able to identify them from our records, which might indicate that they either moved here from elsewhere, or they're local lads who only recently turned bad.
The videofit reconstructions of the faces of the three suspects appeared on the screen. "I know you've just seen them on the main briefing," Inspector Warburton said, "but bear with me here.
"What the TSG learned from their briefing was just enough to identify these men as targets. Our job is much more difficult, because it is our task, not to bring them down with gunfire, but hopefully to investigate these people and gather enough evidence to arrest and detain them before they can achieve their goals, and put them away before they hurt anybody else."
The first videofit face appeared on the projection screen. A small face, bald, with blue eyes like gimlets. "We know that this man is about five foot eight, wearing a black leather jacket, black T shirt, dark blue canvas trousers and brown shoes. Our eyewitness account describes a pierced left ear and right eyebrow.
"The second man," Inspector Warburton said, "favours a worn brown leather jacket. About six two, brown hair with a slight quiff, black jeans, Doc Marten boots." The face staring at them from the screen was long, with a slightly pointed chin, long nose and brown eyes.
The third man was in silhouette. "The witness never saw the third man," Inspector Warburton said. "The attack was over much too quickly. All the witness knew was that there was a third voice, to whom the other two deferred. They called the owner of that third voice 'Steelhorn,' possibly a gay reference. We've got undercover officers discreetly tracking down this name in the Village. It may refer to a stripper working in one of the nightclubs there, or perhaps it is a handle for a visitor to the Village.
"In any case, all the evidence so far points to this third man as being the mastermind behind this particular cell."
Inspector Warburton tapped a control, and the screen cleared. "Here is where they made their first known strike," he said. An image appeared on screen: a still frame from closed circuit TV surveillance footage. The date and time were from early October, 2000, at around 3am.
"The armoured vehicle was scheduled to leave the station and proceed towards a secure area just outside Manchester, in order to facilitate the destruction of a large consignment of weapons which had been confiscated by us from gangs over the prior twelve months.
"The robbery occurred when the vehicle made a stopover at a motorway service station; the driver, it appeared, suddenly needed to answer a call of nature." He gestured with a pointer to the screen. "This is the interesting footage. Watch the following frames."
The frames showed the van standing beneath a light. The doors were closed and secured; the driver was nowhere to be seen. The point of view of the camera was from directly behind the van; DS Croft and Spartan had a clear view of the rear door to the armoured van.
Two men approached the van from behind; the cameras could only pick up the backs of their jackets. Both were wearing ski masks. A third darted in from the side, brandishing what looked like a length of pipe, about three feet long.
"At first, we could not believe what we were seeing," Warburton said, "so we had the next few frames enhanced. And still, we were baffled by what happened next."
The next frame showed the man approach the cab of the armoured van from the side, still brandishing the length of metal pipe. The next frame showed him swinging the pipe; the next, the pipe connecting with the reinforced glass of the side windshield.
The glass didn't just break. It exploded.
"Our best guess is that some agent, acid maybe, had been sprayed on the inside of the glass hours before it was scheduled to travel with its cargo," the DI said. "Forensics are speculating on a new treatment that weakens the glass imperceptibly, so it is much weaker than it appears. It's the only logical explanation as to how someone could break down a sheet of glass designed to withstand a direct impact from a bullet ... with a length of copper pipe."
Inspector Warburton cleared his throat. "CIB are investigating the possibility of it being an inside job. So far, they've drawn a blank."
Spartan glanced at Detective Sergeant Croft, and kept his counsel.
"So they got away with enough guns to start Armageddon," DS Croft said. "What's the inventory?"
"They were Glock - 17s and Heckler & Koch MP - 5s," DI Warburton said. "The weapons of choice of the drugs gangs in Manchester."
"How many were there?"
"Inventory put it down as twenty Glocks, 10 H&Ks," DI Warburton replied. "We haven't seen them return to circulation, so the temptation is to assume that they are hoarding the weapons, which our consultant profiler thinks shows a survivalist mentality at work. There may be a makeshift arsenal of these weapons in the region. Find the guns, and you'll find the suspects.
"The robbers, however, screwed up," the Inspector added. "They got the guns. But nobody told them that the armoured van was carrying only the weapons. Not the ammunition. The rounds had been transported separately, in a full convoy, 24 hours before to a different location to be disposed of safely by trained ordnance defusers."
"So the bullets have been destroyed?" Spartan asked. "Which means that the robbers have been looking for a supply of bullets ever since."
"And I know that they had secured access to some by April this year," Inspector Warburton replied, "because of what happened here." He tapped the keys on his laptop, and the CCTV footage changed. This time, the scene was a streetcam outside a residence in Manchester.
"You have your briefing notes," DI Warburton said. "You know what street this is."
Spartan felt a sick sensation in the pit of his stomach. Somehow, he knew what was coming. "Yes, sir," he said. "I do."
"This is from mid - April, 2001," Warburton said. "Three unfortunate civilians are going to die violently."
A car pulled up in front of a nondescript house in the middle of the street. "This is the car driven by the killers. We've identified the car as being a Sierra Cosworth stolen two nights before from a lockup in Bolton," Warburton said. "Watch."
Three men got out of the car, approached a house, knocked the door. The door opened; a woman emerged, stood in front of the men.
Another man appeared; and a third man. They stood in the street, apparently chatting. One of the men shook hands with the leader of the strangers. All six went in.
"As far as I am aware," DI Warburton said, "none of the dead people were related. They all appeared to be friends or associates. The men were complete strangers to them, yet something about them spoke of recognition to the occupants." DI Warburton shut off the projector. "It was a seriously misplaced trust. They were all found dead not long afterwards. All three had been shot from behind, in the back of the head where they sat or in rising from their chairs, by the assailants. They'd been watching a pay-per-view TV sports show at the time.
"We have established that the rounds which killed them all came from the one gun: one of the stolen Glocks from the weapons shipment robbery."
"Who found them?" asked Spartan.
"The brother of one of the deceased," DI Warburton replied. "He's since gone to ground."
DS Croft and Spartan pricked up their ears. "This person. Was he the witness?" Croft asked. The DI shook his head.
"No, the witness was a next door neighbour who spotted the two as they went to the car after the killing. She'd heard them shouting, especially the third man, who'd got into the car and was already gunning it with the car doors open, making a hell of a racket, sounding the horn, yelling at the other two to hurry.
"The only faces she saw clearly were the two men running out of the house. They got into the stolen car, which was later found abandoned and burning in Newton - le - Willows, near the railway station. There was nothing left in the car to identify the men."
"Okay," Spartan said, "so where do we come in?"
"I suspect that these men have been lying low in Manchester since the incident," said Inspector Warburton. "They may be getting ready to strike, and soon."
"How do you arrive at that conclusion, sir?" asked Croft.
"There was a burglary during the recent riots," Inspector Warburton said. "The burglar was disturbed by someone in the backstreet. There was a struggle. The weapon which had killed those people was found by chance by a uniform policeman.
Inspector Warburton smiled. "What is interesting is that the owner of the burgled premises, one Duleep Bannerjee, is in our files. He was arrested three years ago. You will never guess what for."
Spartan glanced at Simon Croft. "Possession of unlawful firearms," he ventured.
"Why didn't he do time for that?" asked Simon Croft.
"He, er, provides useful services for us," DI Warburton said.
"In other words, Sergeant Croft," said Spartan, "he's a licenced snout." He looked at Inspector Warburton. "I take it that he's more useful to us on the street than in Strangeways."
"All we could do was take his weapons away," DI Warburton replied, "and caution him against buying more of the same. Clearly, he never listened."
"So what was stolen, then?" DS Croft asked.
"We're not clear on that," Inspector Warburton replied. "Mr Bannerjee was reticent to show his face to us after the riots. However, it has since become known to us that whatever else he had in his store, only one item went missing. And it's this which has me worried."
"Ammo," Spartan said.
"Nine hundred nine millimetre rounds," Inspector Warburton replied. "Usable in both the Glocks and the H&Ks. Mister Bannerjee had neglected to let us know that he'd been stockpiling these little beauties of his since the Y2K scare."
"Nine hundred rounds," Spartan said. "That's potentially nine hundred dead people, not to mention the families' grief, the reporters, the repercussions, and some major heads in the police force rolling if even one of them gets fired off." He looked at DI Warburton. "If I were you right now, my palms would be sweating."
"Aye, they might. But they're not. And you know why? Because you two are going to find them, and you're going to put these murdering lunatics away, aren't you?"
"Yes, sir," responded the officers.
"All right, then," DI Warburton said, "here's your first task." He presented them both with long white plain envelopes, which both men tore into. They looked at their letters, and groaned.
"Surveillance duty," Spartan said. "We're on bloody obbo."
"You will be monitoring the home of one of the suspects, or someone whom we believe is aiding and abetting one of the suspects," Inspector Warburton said. "Your orders are to relieve the officers already on watch on the premises. You go on duty in ..." he checked his watch " ... one hour." He smiled. "Ask Maureen in the canteen to pack you some extra sandwiches and a thermos before you go, lads. Your white unmarked van awaits."
Oxford Road was a long, straight, wide north - south thoroughfare cutting through the University precinct. The University grounds stood on the western side of the road; to the north, after a bit of a walk, was the small yet functional University shopping precinct; a two - storey covered mall partly raised above the ground, accessible via ramps and an escalator.
This afternoon, the square was busy with students revising, sitting on seats in the central open area, reading textbooks. The pub opposite the cafe was doing its usual brisk trade, as Libra observed from his vantage point within the greasy spoon cafe.
As students went about their business, Libra found himself taking the time to drink in the sights and sounds of the oblivious press of young humanity, enduring what they thought was the greatest trial of their lives.
Libra smiled and thought of Zeiss sitting his exam back home in Peterleigh. Presently, Libra's burger arrived, served by a pretty, smiling waitress. If only the trials of the imbued could be solved by answering two mandatory questions and an option ...
His mobile rang. Libra jumped, then fished it out of his pocket.
"Yes?" he said.
The voice was distant, muted by the rush of background street traffic. "Hi. I, er, got your card," the voice said; a young woman. "I, er, saw that you'd put a sign on it." There was a pause, as if the voice was becoming hesitant.
"Go ahead," Libra said. "What about it?"
"I, er, don't know how, but I recognise that sign," the voice said. "I know what it means - that the bearer of the sign is chosen for something."
"Mm - hmm," Libra said. "Go on. Do you recognise it from somewhere else?"
"Actually, yeah, I do," said the girl. "There were a couple of people who used to hang around near the Precinct, and one of them used to carry around a sign like that."
"Do you know where they are now?" Libra asked.
"I think they're the people that had something bad happen to them," the voice said, "like they got caught in a raid or gangs shot them or something. I know where one of them's living now."
Libra leaned forward in his seat. "Great! Can you tell me where he is?"
"Look, I'm not sure I ought to let you know that," the voice said. "How do I know you're not one of them others looking to finish the job?"
"Others?" Libra asked, suddenly somber. "Others like them?"
"Like them? No, not really," said the voice. "The other guys were kind of hard looking, mean. They looked a little weird, like they might have been on crack or crazy or something."
"Okay," Libra said, "well it's fair enough you don't want to trust me. But would I have handed you a business card with all my contact details on it, and a leaflet for the firm I manage, if I belonged to that crowd?"
"You mean you're the big old guy? The one on the steps of the Union building this morning?" the girl said, her voice suddenly rising a notch.
"That's me," said Libra.
"God, and Rachel kept telling me you were just some old perv trying to hit on me all the time," the girl said. There was a moment of stunned silence on the line. "Oh, I didn't mean to -"
Libra laughed. "I've been called a lot worse, believe me." Smiling, he took out a pen from his coat pocket, placed it down on the table before him on top of the notepad. "Look, it's better if we chat someplace where you can feel secure. Is that all right?"
"O - okay," the girl said. "Do you know how to get down to Wilmslow Road in Fallowfield ...?"
By: Fiat Knox
Copyright © Fiat Knox, 2001