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Forty-five minutes later, Mike met Ben at the private terminal at Northolt. Ben was admiring the lineup of jets on the tarmac. “This place is certainly convenient. They fly private jets and their military Typhoons out of here?”
“They do. They keep the Royal Squadron here, too, to fly the Queen and other VVIPS.”
“VVIPs?”
“Very, very important people.”
Ben laughed. “Fitting.” Across the tarmac Mike saw Trident walking around their G5 with its American flag on the tail. Clancy was inside, sunglasses on, readying the flight plan.
Mike gave Ben a hug. “Sorry to pull you away from vacation. Melinda doing well?”
“No worries. She said four assassinations in three days justifies it, so I’m here with her blessing and her warning I’m not to get myself dead. Seriously, she’s really worried about what’s happening. Do we know what the link is between the victims, yet? And how this Vittorini woman in Glasgow fits?”
“No, not yet. I’m hoping we will have a better sense of what’s happening once we get up there. Someone’s trying to spy on MI5, and it has to be connected to all of these murders. I’ll brief you on the plane.”
Trident met them at the bottom of the stairs. “Good timing. I’m finished up. We’ll have you to Glasgow in a heartbeat. Climb aboard.”
* * *
The shipyards reminded Mike of the Brooklyn Navy Yard, one of her favorite distance running paths. She loved running through the yards, looking over the river, at Manhattan. But it had been decommissioned for actual shipbuilding sometime in the sixties, she knew, while the Govan Shipyards was one of the premier shipbuilders in the world.
A partially assembled Type 26 frigate sat in dry dock, cranes draped over it like metal blankets. The entire shipyard felt empty and quiet, eerily so. Mike knew they’d closed down to honor their owner, and she could see the devastation on the faces of the workers as they hung together in quiet knots.
She also saw a similar group of people twenty feet away, on the edge of the water, outfitted in the now-familiar fluorescent yellow POLICE reflective vests. Two plainclothes cops stood with notebooks open. A crime-scene photographer snapped shots from all angles, and, unlike the scene in Notting Hill, Mike could easily see the long hair of their victim spread across the dirty ground.
They walked to the detectives focused on a young woman who was crying. As they approached, Mike heard the detective saying to her, “Ms. Coes, run us through it again, if you please.”
She said low to Ben, “Let’s listen.”
The young woman’s voice was high-pitched and shaky, her accent deeply Scottish. “She—Mrs. Vittorini—was standing there on the edge of the dock with her eyes shaded, looking at the naval ship we were building. I had to remind her it was time to leave for a luncheon. We started toward the car, and—” Her voice broke. She shook her head, gulped. “She went down. It’s so windy today, well it usually is here, and I saw the wind had tossed her hair across her face. I didn’t know what had happened, so I went down on my knees beside her. I pulled her hair back, and I saw the froth on her mouth. She was dead.” She drew a breath, and tears trickled down her face. “I don’t know what happened. I didn’t see anything, hear anything, but it’s loud here, as you can imagine. Who’s that now?”
The group turned to see Mike and Ben standing some six feet away, listening. A young detective stepped toward them.
“Ah, you must be the folks from Scotland Yard. Got here quick. I’m Chief Inspector Graham Mackenzie, head of CID for Glasgow.”
Ben stuck out his and Mike’s creds. “Special Agent Ben Houston and Special Agent Michaela Caine, American FBI. Superintendent Penderley sent us here. We’re working the case with a special team.”
“You’re Yanks then. Well now, we’re not adverse to having Yanks on our soil. Welcome aboard. We hope you know something we don’t.”
Mike said, “Chief Inspector, we need everyone to stop exactly where they are. We need a magnet.” She saw him blink and added quickly, “We’re looking for a needlelike object. We believe this murder is tied to three others in London over the past couple of days.”
Mackenzie said, “Let me find a runner, have them bring a magnet.”
“There’s no need for a magnet,” Sabriel Coes called. “I saw something metal in her scarf.”
Mackenzie said, “Shall we have a look? We’re still waiting on the coroner.”
Mike and Ben followed Mackenzie into the perimeter. The dead woman wasn’t beautiful, not anymore, but Mike could see she had been, high cheekbones, a straight nose, full lips, now drawn back in a rictus smile.
Mackenzie said, “Paulina was a popular lady around these parts, grew up in Glasgow, was passionate about the shipyards from the time she was a wee lass. She had great civic pride, was generous with her donations. But most of all, she gave jobs to those who might have gone without. She’s famous, you know, throughout the world. Word had it she was going to try a political run, try to reboot the Scottish independence vote, especially now we’ve seen the back end of Brexit. It’s a profound loss to us, a bitter loss, since it appears she was killed.”
Mike put on nitrile gloves, leaned down, and gently moved the scarf. She saw the tiny red puncture on Vittorini’s neck and the needle lying in a fold of the scarf.
Mike looked up. “We believe she’s been shot with a drug called epibatidine. Tree frog poison. We think the needle is the delivery mechanism.”
Ben said, “Did anyone around see or hear a drone flying overhead before or after the murder?”
