Blast residue indicated the type of explosive used, and often where the explosive was manufactured, and even when. Determining whether a bomb utilized Semtex, C-4, or one of a dozen more arcane explosives was a crucial first step in tracking down the identity of the assailant.
“Boss!” A whistle from the interior of the van drew his attention.
Baxter arrived in record time. “You have a result?” he asked breathlessly.
“Semtex,” declared the technician. “From the home factory in Semtin.” Semtex was a common plastic explosive manufactured in Semtin, Czech Republic.
“Taggants in good condition?”
“Taggants” referred to chemical signatures placed in the explosives denoting the place and date of manufacture.
“Check. We sent them over to Interpol for analysis.”
“And?”
“The Semtex used in the bomb came from a shipment sold to the Italian army. Here’s where it gets interesting: the Italians reported the shipment hijacked en route to a military base outside Rome in late April.”
One of Interpol’s lesser-known responsibilities was to maintain an up-to-the-minute database of every batch of explosives manufactured from legitimate explosives concerns around the world and to keep track of where and to whom they were sold.
“How big was the shipment?”
“Five hundred kilos.”
“Ask Interpol if any of the same batch has shown up somewhere else. Oh, and good work.”
Baxter climbed out of the van and headed back up the street into the glare of the lights. The Semtex was just one piece of the puzzle. He’d need many more before he could begin to make heads or tails of the bomb and, more important, the bomber.
“Evidence,” he shouted to his men. “I want some bloody evidence!”
It was nearing midnight, and Den Baxter’s day was just beginning.
31
It took Kate and Graves three hours, but finally they found her.
Her name was Isabelle Lauren, and she had studied at Balliol College, Oxford, from 1997 to 2000.
“Funny,” said Kate. “Robert Russell wasn’t even up at Oxford when she was there.”
“Was he teaching?”
“Not till 2001.”
Graves shrugged. “I suppose it doesn’t matter how they knew each other. Just that they did.”
“Mmm,” Kate agreed. “Still, I’m curious.”
Graves closed the university yearbook and rang up his assistant, giving him Isabelle Lauren’s name and requesting that all pertinent personal information be on his desk within thirty minutes, beginning with a current address and phone number. When he’d finished, he set the phone down and glanced up at Kate. “I suppose it’s too late for an apology,” he said.
“An apology for what?”
“For this morning. I’m sorry for barging in on you like that. I tend to get carried away.”
“Your manners need improvement, no doubt,” said Kate. “But that’s not what bothered me.”
“Oh? What was it, then?” Graves hurried to ask. “That I didn’t want to cooperate?”
How was it, she wondered, that someone so smart could be so damn stupid? The answer came to her at once. Men. The inferior species. “You still don’t get it, do you?”
The phone rang before Graves could answer. Motioning for her to give him a second, he picked it up. “What is it now?” Suddenly his face fell. “Oh, excuse me, Detective Watkins. I was expecting another call. Ransom? He did what? Good Lord!”
“What?” Kate put her head close to his, trying to listen, but Graves immediately walked away, nodding and grunting and mumbling “yes” over and over again. Finally he said, “I’m with DCI Kate Ford. It’s important that she hear what you have to say. I’m going to put you on speaker. Go ahead.”
“The woman’s name is Prudence Meadows,” explained a deep voice. “Jonathan Ransom shot and killed her husband two hours ago.”
Graves exchanged a glance with Kate that said he’d been right all along.
“There’s no question whatsoever,” Watkins continued. “Ransom and her husband were at university together years ago. The woman and her husband visited with him only last night at a reception at the Dorchester. According to Mrs. Meadows, Ransom came to the door of their home in Notting Hill at approximately nine-thirty. He demanded to speak to her husband. She said he looked agitated, but she let him in anyway. The two men retired upstairs for an hour. During that time she put her children to bed and then went to her bedroom to read. At ten forty-five she heard raised voices coming from downstairs. She went to see what was going on and found Ransom holding a gun on her husband, shouting that he wanted money and the keys to his car. Dr. Meadows refused. An altercation ensued, and Ransom shot the man dead.”
“Go on,” said Graves. “Then what did Ransom do?”
“Mrs. Meadows tried to call the police and he put a dagger through her hand into the table to stop her.”
“Didn’t he try to kill her, too?” asked Kate, staring hard at Graves.
“No. Just left her like that, then took the keys to the car and fled.”
Kate shot Graves a perplexed look. “Can we speak with Mrs. Meadows?” she said.
“Not right yet,” responded Watkins. “She’s in surgery for the hand. You can have a go at her tomorrow morning.”
“Right,” said Graves. “Anything on the car Ransom stole?”
“Not yet, but we’re looking.”
“Cover all the airports and the ports along the coast.”
“Already done.”
“Of course it is. Thank you again for getting in touch so promptly.” Graves hung up. He raised a hand to stop Kate before she could begin. “I know what you’re going to say. If Ransom killed the husband, why did he leave the woman alive?”
“It must have been an accident. He’s not a killer.”
“You keep saying that, and the people around him keep dying.”
The phone rang again. It was Roberts, who stated that Mrs. Isabelle Lauren’s primary residence was in the city of Hull, in the northeast of England. Graves requested that an aircraft be made ready and told Kate to meet him early the next morning at Thames House for a briefing prior to departure.