Authors: James Twining
The Double Eagle (9 page)
CLERKENWELL, LONDON
22 July—7:42
P.M.
I
t had been a hat factory when it had first been built in 1876, according to the inscription chiseled into its once proud façade. Then, during the Second World War, production had been given over to the manufacture of buttons for RAF uniforms. By the time Tom had bought it, the building had fallen into disuse, the store and warehouse level empty, the three upper floors carved up into office space in the 1960s.
Tom had chosen the, by comparison, palatial surroundings of the former managing director’s office as his bedroom. Inexplicably it came complete with its own marbled en suite bathroom, as if the former boss’s managerial mystique would have crumbled had the staff ever suspected that he used the toilet much like the rest of them.
Eventually, Tom’s idea was to have this top floor as a large open-plan living room complete with kitchen and dining area. The second floor would be bedrooms and bathrooms while the first…well, he still hadn’t quite decided what to do with the first. More showroom space, perhaps?
It didn’t matter. That was all in the future anyway, after the store was up and running. For now, he had to make do with the cracked mirror on the back of the bathroom door as he adjusted his tie, picking his silver cufflinks off the chipped filing cabinet that now doubled as a chest of drawers and deftly threading them through the double cuff of his Hilditch & Key shirt.
“I’ll see you later,” he shouted to Dominique as he clattered down the concrete steps, his footsteps echoing back up around the stairwell’s empty carcass.
“Okay.” She had appeared at the doorway to the second floor where she had taken up residence amid the tea-stained walls of the former finance department. “Have fun.”
Tom stepped out into a cherry sunset, the sun scrolling down through an orange sky, a warm whisper of air shushing through the streets. He liked seeing the city at this time. It was a strange transition period, when one set of inhabitants melted away and another appeared.
He soon reached Smithfield, Europe’s oldest meat market, a low-slung amalgam of a refurbished cast-iron Victorian market hall and a postwar brick-and-concrete hangar. It was surrounded on all sides by a crenellated roofline of alternately short and tall warehouses, a jarring convergence of redbrick and white stone, of gothic windows and industrial steel shutters. Five minutes later and he was in Hatton Garden, the center of London’s diamond trade.
It was nearly empty. Gone were the eager shop assistants enticing you to enter, offering you their very best price, suggesting a pair of earrings to go with the necklace. Gone were the courier bikes and the security vans and the anxious soon-to-be-weds, comparing ring prices in gaudy shop windows. Their shutters had been drawn down, their contents safely stowed for the night, their neon lights extinguished.
And yet the street projected a latent energy. Rather than be asleep it was merely resting. A few Hasidim with pale faces and dark suits still stood in doorways, plunged into shops and buildings, swapped anxious glances from under their dark fedoras. Behind the scenes, the work went on, stones were cut, deals were done, hands shaken, money counted.
Perhaps because his own life had been so lacking in order, so devoid of any fixed reference points or rules, Tom was fascinated by this place. As in Smithfield, he drew an almost spiritual reassurance from the continuity of these streets, their daily cycle, the comforting embrace of their familiar routine. In a way, he craved their predictability.
Stepping in off the street, Tom presented his pass to the security guards on duty in the dingy fluorescent lobby of the Hatton Garden Safe Deposit, Ltd. Sitting behind their barred window they inspected it carefully, flickering screens in front of them covering every angle of the lobby and vault and staining their faces blue. Satisfied, they buzzed him through the first door and then, when that had closed behind him, the second door with metal bars running through it.
The reinforced vault there, at the foot of the dark green linoleum stairs, was about seventeen foot square, its walls lined from floor to ceiling with 950 identically sized tungsten and steel doors that gleamed silver under the lights, each individual box numbered in black. Unusually for that time it was empty. That suited Tom perfectly.
He took a key out of his pocket and indicated to the guard who had followed him into the room which box he wanted opened. They both put their keys into the two separate keyholes and turned them. With a click, the door opened. Tom drew out the black metal container it concealed and placed it on the metal tray that slid out from between two layers of boxes at about waist height. It was empty apart from another key, which he removed. Turning to a second box on the opposite wall, he and the guard again inserted their keys. This time, Tom waited until the guard left the room before opening the black container.
He already knew what was in it, but opened the small leather pouch it contained anyway, emptying its contents into his gloved hand. Just over a quarter of a million in cut diamonds, his share for the Fabergé egg he’d stolen in New York. Much easier to move than cash and, if you knew who to ask, accepted in more places than American Express. He tipped the diamonds back into the pouch.
Reaching into his jacket pocket, he removed the egg and placed it in the second box. He’d wrapped it in his ski mask, a small symbolic act that he knew wouldn’t be lost on Archie when he came to collect it. He slid the box back into the wall and locked the door. He then dropped the pouch and the key to the second box into the first box, returned it to the wall, and again locked it shut.
He passed through the security gates again, nodded at the guards and then stepped out onto the street just in time to see the streetlights buzz on.
LOUISVILLE COUNTY MORTUARY, LOUISVILLE, KENTUCKY
23 July—11:37
A.M.
J
ennifer had always believed that there were no such things as coincidences, just different perspectives. From one perspective, a series of individual events could appear totally random with nothing binding them together other than their actual existence. A coincidence.
From another, however, events could evolve, become more complex, deepen in significance until they ultimately emerged as constituent parts of an overall pattern of cause and effect that could never have been dreamed of originally, let alone guessed at.
These were the facts as far as she could tell: Short had worked at Fort Knox. He was young and healthy. He was happily married with three children he adored. He was a regular churchgoer. And he was liked and respected at work. All in all, he was certainly not your average suicide material. So from one perspective, the fact that he had committed suicide just a few days before the discovery that five gold coins had been stolen from Fort Knox was just a terrible coincidence.
And yet, when viewed from another, more cynical perspective it was no coincidence at all. It was downright suspicious.
Corbett had agreed when she had finally managed to track him down the previous afternoon on his way to another internal meeting, a look of grim-faced resignation stamped across his face. He had greeted her with a tired smile.
“Five minutes, Browne, that’s all I got. So you’d better make it quick. Let’s talk and walk.”
She had rapidly explained what she had found out about Short, choosing to omit Viggiano’s mistake, although she knew he wouldn’t have done the same for her. Corbett had clearly been impressed, even pausing to give her a pat on the side of the shoulder that had made her swell with pride.
“So he didn’t leave a note?”
“No.” She had given a firm shake of her head. “All the witness statements say it was totally out of character. He was happily married and doing well at work. He just doesn’t fit the profile.”
“I agree.” A brief pause. “And you say he was one of the guards down at Fort Knox?”
“Yeah. One of their star performers, apparently. Whatever that means.”
“And tell me again when this happened?”
“Four days ago. That’s just two days after Ranieri was murdered in Paris.”
“Hmmm.” Corbett’s forehead had creased in thought.
“The autopsy hasn’t happened yet. I spoke to the Louisville coroner’s office earlier and they’ve agreed to delay the procedure until tomorrow so I can observe. I’ve booked a flight.”
“Good.” Corbett had nodded as he reached the meeting room door he’d been heading for. “You’re right, it doesn’t add up. Let me know what you find. Oh, and Browne…” he had said as she turned away. “Nice work.” She could almost have kissed him.
The mortuary was an anonymous white slab of a building on the outskirts of town, only a short drive from Louisville International Airport and screened from the road by a wall of cedar trees. Jennifer stepped gratefully out of the humidity’s dank embrace into the building’s refrigerated reception area.
There was a hint of desperation to the way it had been decorated, the walls painted a jarring concoction of pinks and blues, orange molded plastic seating lining one wall. The Beach Boys were being piped through a lone ceiling speaker, the noise muffled where the protective mesh had been painted over by mistake.
An expressionless woman, funereally dressed behind a rectangular access hatch punched into the far wall, acknowledged her with a shrug, dialed a number, and announced her arrival in a whisper. A few minutes later and a short balding man, about fifty years old, Jennifer guessed, bustled into the room, gold pocket-watch chain spanning his stomach before vanishing into the depths of his vest pocket.
“Agent Browne? I’m Dr. Raymond Finch, the pathologist here. We spoke earlier on the phone.”
“Hello.” Jennifer shook his hand warmly, holding out her ID in her other hand, although she noticed that he barely gave it a glance. “Thank you for inviting me down here.” He’d had no choice, really, but she knew that it never hurt to show a little humility, especially with the locals.
“No problem. We’re pretty much good to go if you are.”
“Great.”
He led her through a door, along a narrow corridor, down some stairs and then through a set of heavy double doors that swung open in front of them to reveal a small, white-tiled anteroom. The temperature had dropped down here and her throat had a slight burning sensation from the cocktail of disinfectant and formaldehyde that seemed to grow stronger as she penetrated deeper into the building’s entrails.
“You ever done one of these before?” Finch handed her a long white gown that she slipped on over her black jacket and long skirt, taking one for himself to cover the pale green scrub suit he was pulling on. He then placed a set of plastic shoe covers over his brown deck shoes.
“No.”
“Well, it’s pretty straightforward. Ugly but straightforward. You’re welcome to sit out here until we’re done, if you like.”
He smiled sympathetically but Jennifer gave a firm shake of her head. She hadn’t traveled all this way to miss the action.
“I’ve seen a lot of dead bodies, Doctor. One more won’t hurt.”
“Okay. Then let’s get started.”
Finch led her through another set of double doors to the autopsy room. It was quite a wide space, perhaps twenty foot square and blindingly white. Powerful lights beat down on the spotless tiled walls and floor and reflected off the stainless-steel work tops and glass-fronted cabinets that wrapped themselves around two of the walls. In the middle of the room stood a stainless-steel table, a waist-high slanted tray that had been plumbed for running water. A chrome hanging scale rocked gently in the air-conditioning’s hum like a medieval gibbet.
“So what’s the Bureau’s interest in this case?”
“It’s just a routine inquiry. Nothing to get excited about,” she lied, hoping that she had disguised the deceit in her answer better than Finch had disguised the curiosity in his original question.
“Ah.” She could tell he didn’t believe her. “Well, it may be routine for you but we don’t get too many suicides round these parts. And when we do, they tend to have put a gun to their head. So this is about as exciting as it gets.”
He laughed and in different circumstances, Jennifer knew that she would have found Finch quite soothing, kind gray eyes peering warmly over the top of half-moon glasses, a grandfatherly white moustache bristling under his beaked nose. But she was cold and her eyes stung from the whiteness of the room and she just wanted him to get on with it.
“So where’s the body?”
Finch didn’t seem to notice the slight impatience in her voice.
“My assistant should be along with Mr. Short any minute now. Ah, here he is.”
A gurney rolled in, a white sheet covering the body lying on it, closely followed by a bored-looking youth sporting a disconcerting blaze of peroxide hair and matching tongue stud and nose rings. He was dressed like Finch in medical scrub suit and protective gown.
“You’ve read the police report, I expect?” asked Finch as the assistant scraped the gurney along the side of the autopsy table with a metallic screech. Jennifer nodded, flinching at the noise.
“Of course. His son saw smoke coming from the garage and found his father in the car. The police tried to administer first aid on the scene but it was too late.”
“Yes. They found him on the backseat.”
“Did they? That wasn’t mentioned anywhere.”
The assistant levered the body onto the autopsy table with a brutal series of pushes and shoves that made Jennifer wince. Short lay awkwardly, like a hastily arranged doll. His skin was waxy and bleached, the face flat with dark rings under the eyes, the flesh slack and gloopy.
“Buckled in.” The way Finch said it suggested that he thought this had a deeper significance and Jennifer picked up on it immediately.
“Buckled in? You think that might mean something?”
Finch shrugged.
“It’s certainly unusual.”
“As is finding him in the back, if you ask me. I mean, if it was your car, wouldn’t you normally sit in the driver or passenger seat?” Finch nodded his agreement as he pulled first one, then another set of surgical gloves onto each of his hands, releasing each wristband with a loud thwack.
“I guess people do strange things when they’re about to kill themselves,” he ventured. “Who knows what he was thinking. A cry for help? An unconscious reference to a troubled childhood? There are any number of possible reasons.”
Finch pulled a mask over his face and moved round to confirm that the toe tag matched the autopsy permit handed to him by his assistant with detailed X rays of the whole body that had been taken earlier in the day. Having satisfied himself that he had the right body, he began the procedure.
First, he checked the body for any abnormalities such as puncture marks, bruises, or cuts. His voice droned on mechanically as he dictated what he saw into the small microphone clipped to his lapel, the only other sound the shutter-click of the assistant’s Nikon as he followed him round the table, Finch stepping back every so often to allow him to get a better shot.
Even though the room burned with the intimacy of death, it was the terrifying impersonality of the procedure that struck Jennifer most. The laboratory-like surroundings, the faceless uniforms, the official forms and photographs and case numbers that reduced what had once been a man, a person, to an anonymous file entry, a lonely statistic. She felt suddenly very sorry for Short.
The initial examination confirmed that carbon monoxide—or as Finch would have it, CO poisoning—was the most likely cause of death. Short’s fingernails and lips were stained a telltale cherry red, a sure sign of asphyxia from lack of oxygen in the blood. Apart from a small tattoo on his left shoulder, there was nothing else.
This phase complete, the assistant placed a “body block” under Short’s back, a rubber brick that caused the chest to protrude outward and the arms and neck to fall back, allowing the maximum exposure of the trunk for incisions.
Finch selected a scalpel from the instrument tray on his right and cut into Short’s chest, a deep Y-shaped incision that ran from each shoulder to the base of the breastbone and then down in a straight line to the pubic bone, deviating slightly to avoid the navel. He peeled the skin, muscle, and soft tissues away from the chest wall and then pulled the chest flap up over Short’s face so that the front of the rib cage and the strap muscles of the front of the neck lay exposed. Then he used a bone cutter to clip through the bones on each side of the front of the rib cage as if he was cutting through a wire fence. This allowed him to peel off the sternum, although he had to hack away at some of the soft tissues that stuck stubbornly to the back of the chest plate.
Jennifer looked on with horrified fascination, part of her wondering whether she should have accepted Finch’s offer to wait outside rather than let her fear of missing out on anything get the better of her, part of her unable to look away. He used what Jennifer recognized from some class or other back at the Academy as the standard “Rokitansky” method, not unlike field dressing a deer where, starting at the neck and moving downward, he cut all the organs free and then removed them from the body in one block.
Finch carried the blood-soaked mass to the dissecting table, a stainless-steel surface mounted at the foot of the autopsy table, while his assistant moved the body block to behind Short’s head as he prepared to remove his brain. Finch spread the organ block out and then cut the chest organs away from the abdominal organs and the esophagus with scissors, dictating all the time. But his monotonous delivery was suddenly interrupted.
“Dr. Finch?”
Finch looked up as the assistant beckoned him over.
“What’s up, Danny?”
“Can you take a look at this?” Finch put the scissors down and walked round to where his assistant was standing behind Short’s head.
“What have you got?”
“Check it out.” The assistant pointed at Short’s head. Finch ran his hands over the base of Short’s skull, feeling it with his fingertips.
“That’s strange,” he said.