Fifty Two Weeks of Murder (5 page)

Chapter 6

Anders brought Buckland’s ex-wife, Lady Margaret, into Abi’s office and had her sit on one of the comfortable chairs. She took the sofa opposite as Abi moved from her desk and sat next to Anders, both of them facing Lady Margaret. Anders took the opportunity to scrutinise the woman as she fussed in her handbag for some tissues. She was tall and regal, carrying herself with the manner of those born into wealth and titles. Anders knew Lady Margaret to be in her mid-fifties, but she looked much younger, with red, permanently flushed cheeks and hair tied in a fierce bun behind her head. She wore an expensively tailored suit, with a pearl necklace and matching earrings. Putting her bag on the floor, she smoothed the hem of her skirt with perfectly manicured hands before clasping them together in a defensive manner.

Anders found her to be remarkably composed considering what her ex-husband was getting up to. Crossing one leg over the other and resting her hands on her knees, Anders leaned forward and gave her guest an open smile. Unthreatening but engaged.

“Lady Margaret,” she started, but was interrupted by Buckland’s ex-wife, her perfectly enunciated tones a sharp contracts to Anders’ American accent.

“My friends call me Maggie. You may do the same.” Anders nodded her thanks and continued.

“I’m Assistant Chief Constable Anders and this is Abigail Philips. She’s a psychologist attached to the NCA, and is here to support the team. Please may I reassure you that we are simply here to discuss what you may know about your ex-husband’s whereabouts. We wish to make this as painless for you as possible.” Lady Margaret gave her a wan smile and Anders could see her mask of composure slip for a brief second. Abi reached out and took her hand, giving Lady Margaret an empathetic smile.

“I appreciate that this is very difficult for you,” she said. “I’m told that you and Michael have a son together.” She nodded and dabbed at her eyes with some tissue.

“Yes. Lawrence. He’s in America at the moment, studying at Yale. I can’t get hold of him yet. Time difference I guess.”

“Would you like me to contact someone at the Bureau and see if they can get in touch?” asked Anders. Lady Margaret took a sharp breath as she noticed the scar on Anders’ neck and her eyes narrowed as she searched her memory.

“You were that FBI agent,” she said softly. “The one at that horrible house. That man did some terrible things dear. He fully deserved what you did to him.”

“Your ex-husband ma’am,” said Anders quietly, changing topic and ignoring the questioning look Abi gave her.

“Of course,” Lady Margaret replied. “I’ve not seen Michael for several months now. We’ve been divorced for over a year, but he stayed close to Lawrence. Our social circles often brought us together, but it was never a problem.”

“If I may, what were the reasons for your divorce?” Lady Margaret smiled sadly.

“We just grew apart. Sometimes you live with someone for many years and then see them anew one day. Realise that you simply don’t love them anymore. Your love has become that for a friend or companion.”

“Most successful marriages are based upon friendship,” said Abi. “It’s best to have that at the beginning and see if love flows from there.” Lady Margaret nodded her head in agreement, her mind wandering through happier times.

“Absolutely. We started the wrong way round. We met when I had just finished my training as a nurse. Came in to A&E after he’d fallen from his horse. A whirlwind romance you might say, married by the end of the year. It caused quite a stir, I can tell you! As if my father wasn’t annoyed enough at me becoming a nurse, I go and get married within a year of meeting Michael.” She smiled wistfully at the memory, though it faded as she remembered those passionate times turning to cold embers. “He had such an energy and vibrancy about him, it was infectious.” As she spoke, Anders and Abi let her do so uninterrupted, content to let her reveal the man they were hunting. Lady Margaret looked forlorn as though she mourned someone who had passed away.

“And then he changed. So slowly you never really notice it at the time. He lost the joy, the passion. It was his eyes. They used to sparkle. By the time we divorced, they were blank. I could never work out what he was thinking, what was going on behind that stare. We used to spend hours just talking, sharing ideas and thoughts, revelling in each other’s company. But that just vanished. Slowly, piece by piece until you realise one day that it’s gone and you didn’t even see it slip away. Like a call in the night to tell you your husband’s died in an accident. You never see it coming.”

Her words married with the text on the website. Of someone who had lost their way and turned to something more dangerous and exciting to find some meaning. Anders was drawn to the idea that it was some spoilt little posh boy with too much money and too little perspective, but it was more complex than that. It always was. The words he had written were that of a zealot. Of someone who passionately believed in his cause. In his blog, he’d written that belief defiles sound thought and reason and she wondered if he’d seen the irony in his own words.

“Have you read the blog on his website?” she asked. Tears welled in Lady Margaret’s eyes as she recalled the horrific text, but Anders kept pushing. “I’m sorry to ask you these things, but his ideas on mankind, about us being some kind of plague. Is this something you’ve heard from him before?” She shook her head.

“No, not at all. He was such a kind man. Gave so much time and resources to several charities that he set up.” Anders groaned inwardly. She’d have to investigate those charities.

“Would you know where he may be hiding now? Any places he loved to frequent, anywhere he mentioned he felt safe?” Lady Margaret shook her head, closing her eyes and sighing heavily as she struggled to maintain her composure.

“I’ve tried so hard. I wanted to come here with something useful, but I have nothing I’m afraid. What I can tell you is that Michael is no fool. If he has set himself to this task, it will not be done haphazardly. It will be meticulously planned and executed. He will see it through.”

Anders saw a chilling truth in her words and found herself startled by a loud tap on the window. She turned to see Mal on the other side and he beckoned her out.

“Excuse me Lady Margaret, I will leave you with Abi to finish the interview. If you think of anything, here’s my card. Please don’t hesitate to call me at any time.”

Standing to leave, Anders caught Abi’s eye. She nodded to say that she would be fine and ushered Anders out. Closing the door to the office behind her, Mal asked if she had anything.

“Not much,” replied Anders. “Abi’s finishing up, but I don’t think we’ll get anything of use. You?” Mal shrugged. 

“McDowell’s doing a press conference in an hour. As you can imagine, he’s keen for us to get results. Have you set up an interview with his brother?” Anders nodded and moved to the stairs leading out, taking her jacket from the back of the chair at her desk as she did so.

“He’s at Parliament now. Ten minute walk. You fancy a stroll?” Mal scratched his beard absently as he assessed what else needed doing. Realising that he couldn’t do anything until his team had all checked back in, he gave her a grin.

“Why not? Always wanted to go to Parliament.” His grin faded as they reached the staircase.

“We do have lifts, you know,” he grumbled.

“I know,” replied Anders as she hit the steps at a frightening pace. Shaking his head, Mal followed her up, careful to avoid staring at her rear and telling himself to behave.

As they left the Yard, Anders crossed the road so that they could walk along the Thames. The sun was setting and the roads were jammed with cars and vans snarling their way home. A few buses and taxies sped past, enjoying their own lane and a biting wind forced them both to bend their heads against its chill, unprepared as they were for the cold in the summer months. Hands thrust into his jean pockets, Mal raised his voice to speak above the traffic and the rambunctious wind that toyed playfully with their clothes and hair.

“Heck of a first day,” he said as a boat sped past crammed with tourists taking photographs and waving. Anders waved back, grinning at their cheers.

“I’ve had worse,” she replied.

“You come across anything like this?” asked Mal. Anders gave the question some thought before replying.

“No, but like Lord Buckland, I’ve seen plenty of folks justify their killings no matter how bizarre it may seem to us. Dennis Nilsen killed fifteen men and kept them at his house in various poses for company. Brenda Ann Spencer spent one morning shooting at school children. Why? She didn’t like Mondays. That’s where the Bob Geldof song came from. On the flip side, look at Fergus Glen. In two thousand and three he hacked his brother to death when he didn’t say thank you for his meal. His defence? He just annoyed me, he said.” Mal saw a gap in the pedestrian traffic and led them back across the road as Westminster Palace loomed closer, its Gothic architecture towering above them. The wind abated slightly and a warmth infused the air.

“They’re the scariest ones,” continued Anders as she undid her jacket and shrugged it off. “The ones with no motive, no cause. They just want to inflict suffering and pain. I think Buckland actually veers more towards that when you strip away his twisted ideology.”

They took a right as they neared the iconic structure and skirted around it so that Westminster Abbey was to their right and the Houses of Parliament to their left. They had access to the St Stephen Entrance on the West side and Anders smiled as Big Ben ushered in a new hour above them. It would take a long time to shake the feeling that she was just a tourist in London. Mal frowned at her words, oblivious now to the famous landmark.

“How come?” he asked. Anders, neatly sidestepping a queue of meandering tourists, gave an exasperated sigh.

“I’m not sure. The sadism mainly. It feels too personal to be linked to a cause. There’s also the public nature of it. That’s what he’s getting off on. Dressing it up as he’s doing, gives him a following, a cult. It gives his actions legitimacy and anyone who wishes to emulate him, a justification. What’s more powerful than changing the world?”

Her words sent shivers down Mal’s spine and he gazed at her thoughtfully. Anders was oblivious to his stare as she looked around in wonder at the embodiment of the British Constitution. Suddenly her phone vibrated and she pulled it from her back pocket as Mal turned to find the entrance. Leading them through St Stephen’s Hall, past the marble busts of Pitt and Fox, he listened in on the conversation.

“Anders here,” she said and turned the volume of her phone up so that she could hear over the bustle and hubbub of tourists taking photographs and chatting away animatedly.

“Agent Anders, it’s Crackers.” Anders rolled her eyes as Jesse continued to push his moniker.

“You’re too old for a nickname Jesse,” she said and laughed at his mock indignation. “What’s up?”

“You’re a hard woman Agent Anders. Got the skinny on Buckland’s brother for you. Turns out they’re identical twins. Born in nineteen sixty five, Francis popped out first, so I guess he’s the elder brother. Seems that way from his career anyways. Went to Oxford to study physics, his work led to some of the Haldron Collider stuff they do at CERN. I’m looking at the maths here, but it’s not in any language I know of.” Anders chuckled as Mal led them to a desk in the Central Lobby and presented their warrant cards to an officer stationed there. The room was huge, opulent and elegantly decorated. It spoke of understated wealth and prosperity, a symbol for the nation.

They were led down a long corridor to meet with Lord Buckland and Anders asked Jesse to hurry with the cliff notes.

“His brother, our little psycho, went to Cambridge instead and studied History. Has a few papers published by the looks of it. Francis married in nineteen eighty eight, did lots of charity work, MP for a few years. He then joined the House of Lords at the Queens request in two thousand and seven. Wife died last year in a car accident. DUI.” They neared a large oak door and the guide knocked before entering and announcing his guests. 

Anders followed Mal and found herself in a large, well lit room. On the walls hung paintings of every King and Queen since George I. Statues of gilded caen stone lined the thirty metre room, each one depicting a King who had ruled during times of war and conflict. Two large frescos, weathered by age, depicted the death of Nelson and the battle of Waterloo. The Royal Gallery was close to the debating chamber, so several large tables and chairs were placed down each side to enable conversation and work. The room was empty at this time, save two people.

One sat at a table, hands resting on his large stomach. His face was pinched and he gazed at the officers with hooded eyes over his beaked nose. The other paced the room, hands resting behind his back as he gazed at the paintings. He was tall and powerfully built. Though in his early fifties, Lord Francis Buckland seemed to have weathered like oak, getting tougher with each passing year. Grey speckled his temples, but his face was smooth and unlined. He wore a well-tailored suit that highlighted his physique and had an air of authority about him. Anders could tell that he was used to command and accepted it as his right. Mal stepped forward, suddenly incongruous in his jeans and flannel shirt, and offered his hand to Lord Buckland, who gripped it tightly.

“Good morning Lord Buckland, thank you for agreeing to meet with us. I’m…”

“I know who you are,” he said, his voice deep and smooth. “I was part of the committee that agreed to McDowell’s initiative.” Mal gave a gracious nod of his head.