Red Crystal (33 page)

He noticed the buff-coloured padded envelope straight away. The six staff at the
Red Star
kept a wary eye open for unusual packages. As an official publication of the Communist Party they were used to receiving the occasional hate mail. People had been known to send dog turds, bad eggs, and other such subtle indications of resentment.

But
was
this package unusual?

No clue to who the sender might be. Post mark: W1.

He flexed it in his fingers. A hard object half-way down. The rest crunchy – as if it contained granules of some kind. He sniffed at the flap. Slightly acrid. Could be a chemical that let off a bad smell.

He thought for a moment. Always better to be on the safe side. He put the envelope in his desk. As soon as the others got in he’d discuss it with them.

At two minutes to nine Binodh Gopalji unlocked the door of the Anglo-Asian Society’s office in Bradford and, as was his habit, carefully hung his coat and hat on the hook behind the door. Then he stopped to pick up the mail off the mat. He recognized an electricity bill, which was not at all welcome since the society was always short of funds; two circulars; a batch of Indian publications; fifteen letters and a padded envelope.

He sat down at his desk and looked out of the window for a moment. A nice day, and getting better. The sun was making an effort to break through. It didn’t happen very often in the British winters. But he didn’t mind that. He loved Britain: it was tolerant, ordered, and comfortable. He thought with pride: Simply the best country in the world.

He began to open the mail, carefully and methodically, as was his way. Leaving the bills and circulars until last, he began with the letters. Requests for news of relatives, requests from India for an introduction to a possible bride – the only quick way of getting into Britain nowadays – requests for help. Requests, always requests, which was just how it should be.

He came to the padded envelope. It was taped down at one end. By opening it carefully, it could be reused. Since this type of envelope was expensive, it was a consideration not to be sniffed at.

Patiently, he stripped off the Sellotape and was pleased to see it had not brought away any of the paper.

Then, angling the envelope so that he could see inside it, he unfolded the end. A piece of card. He pulled it out.

Although he remembered nothing about that afterwards.

The force of the explosion, though relatively small, was sufficient to knock him backwards off his chair on to the floor, leaving him stunned. However, it was the sheet of flame that blasted outwards in a three foot arc that did the damage. It scorched away all the hair and much of the skin from his face and hands. And, though the eyelids can close faster than the shutter of a camera, Binodh Gopalji’s reacted a fraction of a second too late, and the blast hit his eyes.

He was found almost immediately, by another tenant, and fifteen minutes later was in the emergency room of the nearest hospital. His condition was not critical, but severe enough – skin grafts would be required to repair the burnt skin; and his eyes would never quite recover from their blasting. However, for Binodh Gopalji the blast to his body was nothing compared to the shock to his moral sensibilities. Life could never ever be viewed in quite the same way again. The exploding envelope had blasted more than his face; it had destroyed the tolerant comfortable Britain he had loved like a true son. Moreover, he was totally mystified as to the reason why.

The fourth envelope was delivered at nine-ten to the Council for Civil Liberties, a fiercely independent organization which fought for and defended individual rights. Although it examined all manner of threats against personal liberty, it had inevitably concentrated its efforts on protecting the interests of the underprivileged, and was regarded as firmly left-wing.

The envelope was opened by the secretary-receptionist, a girl of twenty-three. She was extremely lucky. For one thing, she was standing up when she opened it on the desk, so that it was some distance from her face. For another, she was talking to someone else at the time, so that her chin was up and her face at an obtuse angle to the blast. Finally – and luckiest of all – the weedkiller – sugar mixture did not ignite properly. As a result, she was stunned but not seriously hurt.

Leonie Brown was not so lucky. She arrived at the office of the West Indian Action Group at nine-forty, having had far too little sleep. She made some coffee, took a couple of phone calls, and yawned. At ten she looked at the mail, such as it was. Nothing very interesting. Except for the padded envelope. Sitting at her desk, she ripped off the Sellotape and pulled out the card inside.

The blast itself would not have hurt her seriously, but for the fragment of metal from the detonator case which, sharp as a knife, flew into her chest and pierced a lung. Unfortunately there was no one about and it was some ten minutes before she was discovered, choking on her own blood and hardly breathing. She was taken to hospital where they poured ten pints of blood into her and, against all the odds, just managed to save her. It was four weeks before she left hospital.

In the offices of the
Red Star
David Levene was working hard on an article which had to be finished by that afternoon, and completely forgot the envelope in his desk. Then at noon a fellow journalist, coming in late, mentioned the news story he had just heard on the radio.

Then, with something of a shock, David Levene remembered the envelope. Very quietly he locked his desk, and told the others not under any circumstances to approach it. Then he telephoned Scotland Yard.

At about the same time a communiqué was delivered to
The Times
and the
Daily Express
. It was titled: ‘Britain for the British’, and contained a vitriolic tirade against immigration and subversives. It purported to come from an organization called the National Coalition.

‘Who the hell are the National Coalition?’ demanded Chief Superintendent Straughan.

Everyone stared at Mason, the Branch man who covered right-wing organizations. He shook his head. ‘Nothing on file, sir. Never been heard of before.’

Ryder sneezed and blew his nose. He’d just arrived, having phoned in earlier and heard the news. He was rather glad he wasn’t in Mason’s shoes, having to admit he knew nothing.

‘Right,’ said Straughan, ‘Commander Kershaw, late of the Serious Crime Squad, is in charge of the investigation. Mason and Smith are being seconded to assist. For the rest of you – I want ears to the ground. I want to be reassured that no one on the left is going to get agitated and start thinking about reprisals.’

As they got up to leave Straughan frowned at Nick. ‘No one told me you were back with us, Nick. Got clearance from the CMO, I trust?’

‘Sir. Should come through tomorrow.’

As they returned to the office Conway murmured, ‘Careful, he’ll check up on it.’

With bad grace, Nick phoned the Central Medical Officer’s office and made an appointment for later that afternoon.

Then he went down to the incident room, which had the air of frenetic activity that marked the early stages of a new case.

Nick found a face he vaguely recognized, a sergeant he’d worked with a few months back, and reintroduced himself. After chatting for a bit, Nick let it be known that he’d like to hear when any info came back from the explosives people at Woolwich. There was no reason why the sergeant should keep him in touch, except it was asked as a favour, and a lot of business around Scotland Yard was done by favours.

Nick went back to his office and, tempting some hot water out of the coffee machine, made himself an aspirin and hot lemon drink from a sachet that he had taken from Gabriella’s supply.

He thought back to the morning. What a strange lady she was. On waking she’d been cool and distant, almost resentful. She’d watched him covertly, as if assessing him afresh. Then, abruptly, she seemed to break out of whatever constrained her, and to regain a little of her confidence. Some of the previous evening’s mood had returned, and she became sharp and funny again.

He wondered if there was any future in the affair. Probably not. And in some ways he was sorry. She was good company when she made up her mind to it. He liked her smartness, her clever mind, the tough exterior which hid the vulnerability underneath. But at the same time she was uncertain, evasive, and volatile, as if, underlying all the toughness, there was a deep lack of self-confidence. She didn’t seem to know who she was, and that was a pity.

In the end she’d be trouble, he sensed it. And yet – there was something about her that intrigued him.

Also – he couldn’t help remembering – she might be useful.

The sergeant from downstairs phoned up with the preliminary report from Woolwich – the Home Office Branch of the Royal Armament Research and Development Establishment. The device found at the offices of the
Red Star
consisted of a continental-style detonator, a home-made initiator and a mixture consisting of a weedkiller containing sodium chlorate, and sugar.

‘No trace on the source of the explosive?’ Nick asked.

‘Dunno. Nothing reported anyway.’

Nick rang off, wondering how a right-wing group had suddenly got so proficient in the making of explosives. One somehow expected trouble of this sort to come from the Left, who had a traditional fondness for drawing attention to their cause with violence and loud bangs. He remembered
Strike Back!

God
! He had a sudden thought. Perhaps, by a perverse stroke of chance this National Coalition or whoever they were had got hold of a copy. That would be an ironical twist: the Left hoist by its own petard.

He took a copy of
Strike Back!
out of the drawer and looked through the explosives section. Here it was … under the heading ‘Easy Brew’. Sugar and weedkiller. Flashes up with searing, yellow flame. Not most powerful explosive … but ingredients easy to buy and easy to make.
Required
: sugar – any type; and sodium chlorate – principal ingredient of certain weedkillers (it listed the best brands).

The detonation – it went on to explain – could be effected in any number of ways. But, if limited to easily available means, then the methods on page 12 or 13 were recommended.

Nick looked at page 12. Glowing element of a broken light bulb powered by battery. Page 13. Drip acid on to a contraceptive, until it leaked through on to the mixture and explodes it.

But the letter bomb had contained a proper detonator. Things hardly available from a mundane shopping expedition. No. These right-wingers had contacts, sources,
sophistication
.

And yet – it was no good: something about all this bothered him deeply. It just didn’t ring true. The right-wingers were stirrers, agitators. They liked to march in black uniforms through immigrant neighbourhoods shouting loud slogans. And they were young, ill-educated and unsophisticated for the most part. Somehow these letter bombs just didn’t
fit
.

He would have believed it of Wheatfield’s sort. Every time. If the recipients of the letter bombs had been right-wing he’d have put Wheatfield near the top of his list straight away.

It was ironical that Wheatfield, of all people,
had
been on quite a shopping expedition the previous day.

Somewhere in the back of Nick’s mind a small alarm sounded.

That large bag bought from the hardware shop. It had looked just like a garden product. And the purchases in the supermarket – he had thought he had seen Wheatfield buy flour. But it could just as well have been sugar.

It was ridiculous of course. There was no motive.

It didn’t make sense.

And
yet
.

He racked his brains to remember the name of the shop in Westbourne Grove. His mind was a blank. He called the local Notting Hill nick.

After a long wait while someone asked around, he finally got it.

Westbury’s.

He called them.

Yes, said the sleepy assistant, they stocked all sorts of weedkiller. Nick sat a little more upright in his chair.

Containing sodium chlorate? the assistant repeated back to him. He hadn’t a clue, he’d have to ask the boss. After a long time the boss came to the phone. Weedkiller with sodium chlorate? Well – he’d have a look. There was a long pause. He came back to the phone and, obviously reading off the packaging, listed various chemical-sounding names. Then Nick realized that they probably were only names: manufacturers’ registered names for the concoction of chemicals in that particular product.

‘Is there a brand in a white bag with red lettering on it?’ Nick asked.

The shopkeeper answered without hesitation. He named a well-known brand. He described the red lettering, and said it had a picture of a garden underneath. And, yes, the picture of the garden
was
mainly green. Nick could almost hear him thinking, well, it would be, wouldn’t it, being a garden.

‘How big is this bag?’ Nick asked.

‘We’ve got it in bags of five, ten or twenty pounds.’

‘And the manufacturer – what’s their address?’

The shopkeeper gave it to him. Nick rang off, his mind racing.

Conway wandered into the office and opened his mouth to speak. Nick waved him to shut up and got on to the telephone exchange to find the number of the weedkiller manufacturer. Within five minutes he was talking to their chief chemist. Two minutes later he was replacing the phone, shaking his head with disbelief.

Mainly sodium chlorate.

Conway, who’d been listening avidly, demanded, ‘You on to something, Ryder?’

‘God only knows.’ He jumped up and grabbed his jacket. ‘Where’s Wheatfield, Conway?’

‘
Wheatfield
? Why?’ Then, catching the full implication of the question, he exclaimed, ‘But he’s left of
Marx
, for Christsake!’

‘Where is he?’

Conway suddenly looked crestfallen. ‘At this precise moment no one knows. The watch was called off an hour ago.’

Nick tried to contain his disbelief. ‘
Why in hell?
’

‘Because we
know
where he lives. And because a lot of people were needed for
this
.’