Privacy advocates have long complained that Great Britain is becoming a surveillance state. Possibilities for misuse exist. So does regulatory legislation. Much of the potential for abuse centers on data collection and retention. Technology has other ways to pry. Closed circuit cameras (CCTV) seem to be everywhere. Some estimates put the ratio of cameras to people at about one to eleven.
Most of the cameras belong or are leased to individuals and private companies rather than the government. The devices generally supplement security measures and are used primarily to identify shoplifters or intruders. Britain’s Data Protection Act of 1998 allows the public access to footage from these cameras. In practice, obtaining the data is often difficult, even for the police.
The Met had already checked the Green Park images from 8:00 p.m. to 11:00 p.m. on the night of December twenty-first, as well as the private camera at Lord and Lady Edgerton’s townhouse. The video from the Edgerton home showed a young man with his face turned away from the camera. The recording from the park caught a blurred running figure disappearing into the crowd moving up and down Piccadilly.
The cameras along the street belonged primarily to the various establishments on the block. The police were entitled to request to view those videotapes, but they had to go through channels. That might have stalled the investigation. Given the presence of so many government figures at the party, the CTC made a case for national security concerns, which speeded up the process somewhat.
Every bit of digital information provided by more than a dozen bars had been reviewed. Attractive men with dark hair weren’t unusual. The streets were filled with them: alone, in couples or groups, dressed up or dressed casually. Many of the single male figures were, typically enough, glued to their phones. Heads down, they proved hard to identify. Most of them wore black.
Six weeks after the shooting, with no new bodies, no new leads, and no imminent threats to members of parliament, the case began to recede in importance. Except for the Fosters and their friends.
~
Once Michael showed signs of recovering, Simon went back to Brussels. It was the beginning of a new year, and he had work to do. He kept track of the search for Daniel Guzman, noting that other more pressing cases now occupied the attention of the authorities. He had his own deadlines to meet. A two-week assignment took him away from the continent altogether. Early in February, he arrived back home just long enough to claim a week’s vacation, pack a bag, and head to London.
He was pleased to see how well his cousin was doing. Between his fiancée and his nurse, Michael had the best of help. His aunt and uncle seemed in better spirits, if still wary. They planned to move out of the luxury apartment hideaway in another week. No one, not even a member of the House of Lords, could find any more funding for security.
Though Suzanne and Brian offered to put him up, Simon took a room at the Ritz. It was decidedly lux, although by no means the hippest spot in town. He liked that. Unfortunately, the venerable hotel offered no midwinter discounts. As generous as his employers could be, they weren’t about to spring for a five-star hotel. Simon decided to treat himself for the three days he’d be in the city. Given the kind of work he did, he figured he deserved a bit of luxury whenever and wherever he could get it.
After a pleasant dinner with the Foster clan, he walked back along Piccadilly and stopped into a handsome bar near the Green Park Station. He ordered twelve-year-old Royal Lochnagar, neat. However much the fine Scotch whiskey cost, the drink wouldn’t set him back nearly as much as it would at the Ritz. This place also seemed less stuffy.
“Here ya go, mate. Enjoy.” The bartender set the drink down.
Simon looked around. Henry’s Bar was one of the dozen or so pubs whose security recordings had been thoroughly reviewed right after the shooting. More an eatery than a nightspot, the place opened early and closed by 11:00 p.m. On a Tuesday evening in February, it was modestly busy but not at all crowded. He had plenty of elbowroom, and the man behind the bar seemed to have plenty of time.
“Slow night?” Simon asked.
“S’about average, I reckon.” The bartender, a curly-haired, pudgy man of about thirty with a handlebar mustache, looked around to see if his other customer needed him. Satisfied he had his bar under control, he leaned his plump arms on the counter. Chatty sort, Simon reckoned. He didn’t mind.
“February is quieter, though, isn’t it?”
“True enough. We get some of the hotel overflow along with the regulars, though not the party types we get during the holidays and weekends. You visiting?”
“Working. Staying at the Ritz”
The bartender whistled. “Nice. Your company pays for that?”
“I wouldn’t be there otherwise.”
They both laughed.
“Well, we appreciate your gracing our humble abode with your grand presence.”
“To tell the truth, I prefer the atmosphere here. It’s a little more casual. The Ritz may have relaxed its dress codes, but I always feel like I should be wearing a coat and tie.”
“We’re more easy-going. I do have a very nice jacket in the back I can lend it to you, should you be wanting to impress anyone back at your hotel. Can you believe I found it in the trash over the holidays? Idiot must have been smashed to toss it like that. I’ve kept it all this time, thinking he’d surely come back for it. Who wouldn’t? Black cashmere, soft as a baby’s arse, pardon my French. Custom made, by the looks of it. Would set me back a month’s worth of wages. I admit I might a nicked it if I could have buttoned the bloody thing. Not even close.” He patted his waistline and grinned.
Simon had been slipping into a state of mellowness, thanks in part to the fine Scotch. All at once he came fully alert.
“As a matter of fact, there is a young lady staying close by I hope to meet later. A real looker. Classy, too. You know what I mean? It’s obvious she comes from money. My clothes don’t speak her language. Do you think I might I borrow the coat, assuming it fits?”
“I think it just might. Anyway, I don’t see why you can't keep the damn thing. The nob’s had plenty of time to get it, and I’m not running a storage unit. Let’s put it to good use.” The bartender went into the back and returned with the jacket, neatly folded. “Try it on, just in case.”
“You know something? I bet it’ll do just fine. Keep your fingers crossed.”
“Wait, you’re going already? What about your drink?”
“Have at it,” Simon said. He slapped some money, including a generous tip, on the bar. With the coat carefully draped across one arm, he just managed to keep from bolting for the door. His phone was already out; all he needed to do was hit speed dial.
As he reached the door, he heard the bartender call out, “Good luck tonight.”
~
The camera that kept a watchful eye over Leathermarket Park passed a few times over the solitary figure on the park bench. It was human observation and intervention—a late afternoon stroller with a curious dog—that brought Metro to the scene. The body was taken to the morgue on Sunday evening. A preliminary autopsy suggested the woman died of heart failure. The absence of a handbag or wallet slowed down identification and raised a few questions. Still, the detective leaned toward a natural death followed by a crime of opportunity by a purse-snatcher.
A clerk assigned to identify unknown victims got around to the Leathermarket case on Monday. Using facial recognition software, he found a Nancy Okorie, single, born in Sudan and here on a residence card she’d received in 2010. A registered nurse employed by St. Mary’s Hospital, Ms. Okorie was thirty years old. The clerk called over to the hospital. The director of human services was out for the day, so the clerk left a message requesting a call to the police concerning an employee.
Southwark’s regular coroner came in midday Monday. He immediately set about reviewing the work of his weekend substitute, an older man he respected for his long years of service and mistrusted for his lack of attention to detail. The case of the body in the park interested him. The idea that an otherwise healthy young woman would die of a heart attack puzzled him.
Upon reexamining the body, he found the tiny puncture mark at the base of the neck. He went back over the other doctor’s findings more carefully, then called in the detective waiting (and hoping) to close the case.
“Sorry to tell you this, but you’ve snagged a homicide. Potassium chloride injected right here at the hairline.” He indicated the location. “Smart choice. An overdose causes severe heart arrhythmias. Then large amounts of potassium get released into the bloodstream because the heart has been damaged. Who knows what came from where? No reason to suspect anything.”
“Except the victim is young, otherwise healthy, and has a tiny puncture wound in the back of her neck.”
“Except that.”
“How the hell did Evans miss that? Never mind. Good catch.”
Monday night, the detective stayed late to review footage from the cameras at the park. He watched Okorie meet an unidentified male. The man wore a brimmed hat and kept his head down. He saw the note passed and then set on fire, the ashes conscientiously swept up and pocketed, the victim’s attempt to leave, and the way in which the man sat her back down.
By slowing down the recording and watching frame by frame, he could see how the man’s hand went to the back of the victim’s neck. He could just about make out a syringe. The man left; the woman appeared to expire moments later. What he couldn’t see was the perpetrator’s face.
Cold, thought the detective. But very professional.
On Tuesday, the director of Human Services at St. Mary’s learned that not only had a nurse at the hospital died, she was the victim of a homicide. The news spread throughout the day among members of the staff. A nurse’s assistant remembered Nancy Okorie confiding she’d snagged work with one of her former patients. The practice was irregular but not unheard-of. The assistant shared the information with her supervisor, who then went back to Human Services.
The HS director knew Nurse Okorie had tended the gunshot patient with the high-level security clearance. Foster, his name was. She made a few calls and left a message with someone who promised to reach the young man’s father.
~
The camera in front of the exclusive highrise where the Fosters stayed was operated by a private security company and reviewed daily. On Tuesday morning, February 5, it recorded a delivery by a young man working for a service called Complete Couriers. The guards at the door also noted the delivery because they were trained to do so, and because not that many people stopped by. The young man checked out; he worked as a messenger for the company. The parcel, addressed to Mr. Michael Foster, had no return address, which raised an appropriate level of concern.
Following instructions, the agents placed it inside a steel container and sent it over to New Scotland Yard. Then they notified Brian Foster.
Technicians there carefully examined the package for traces of inhalable or ingestible poison such as anthrax or ricin. Inside the mailing box was a smaller wooden container that held chocolates. The box appeared to be handcrafted and exquisitely etched. The lid attached with a set of hinges.
The lab examined the case for tripwires or latches that indicate an explosive device. Personnel ran tests on each piece of candy, on the paper in which they were wrapped, and on the note included with the box.
Brian decided to let them keep all of it. He requested that pictures of each of the elements be sent to his phone. Those arrived Wednesday morning in the middle of a class he taught on linguistic theory. He was studying them in his office when his mobile phone rang. After the brief call, he grabbed his coat, flipped the sign on his door indicating there would be no office hours, and ran out.