Ivory Nation, Andy Maslen [e manga reader .txt] 📗

hips rhythmically in his grip, easing himself into her tempo.

As she approached her climax he leaned forwards and lowered her onto the bed, driving himself deep into her as she came before his own climax erupted, causing him to cry out.

‘Oh, Eli! I love you!’

Afterwards, they lay entwined for an hour, watching the light fade outside and listening to the gulls keening and the halyards clinking against the masts of the boats in the next door boatyard. It was to be a long time before they would experience such peace and contentment again.

11

PADDINGTON GREEN

Amid the muted conversations and hum of centrifuges in the lab at Paddington Green Police Station, lead forensic scientist Lucian Young adjusted the focus of his microscope.

The picture sharpened. He looked at the array of particles one of the CSIs had lifted from the concrete platform at the top of the fire station training tower. At x10 magnification, they resembled boulders, crusted and rugged, varying in size but all tinged in various shades of rust-red and speckled with silvery flecks like diamonds.

Soil. He’d already analysed dust and grit from the same location. The samples were completely different, both in morphology and colour. The concrete samples were sharper, with larger plate-like areas of reflective mica. And they were grey and yellow.

He increased the magnification to x100 and moved the slide around beneath the lens. Different boulders swam into focus, though all displayed identical characteristics. Then he saw something that piqued his curiosity.

‘Hello,’ he said. ‘What are you?’

The object capturing his attention was black, curved, shiny and ended in a needle-point. The blunt end was ragged. Had it been broken off? He pressed a button on the side of the microscope and took a high-resolution digital photograph.

After printing out a large-format copy, he took the sample over to a bank of high-tech equipment tended by a young woman in a white coat. Her blonde hair tied up in high mini-bunches gave her the appearance of a science club schoolgirl.

‘Jess, can you run this soil sample through the gas chromatograph and mass-spectrometer for me, please?’ he said.

She nodded wordlessly, accepted the slide and placed it reverently on her desk.

Lucian returned to his own desk and made a call. The ringing was cut short before the first digital purr ended.

‘Magda Szabo.’

‘How’s my favourite forensic entomologist doing?’ Lucian asked with a smile.

‘Lucian?’

‘One and the same. I’ve got a toughie for you.’

‘Ooh! Sounds interesting. From a body?’

‘For once, no. We’re working on Operation Birch. I’ve got a soil sample from the sniper nest and—’

‘Soil? I’m insects.’

‘…and I’ve found something that looks like a stinger. It’s no more than a tenth of a millimetre long.’

‘And you were wondering if I could identify it for you.’

‘If you had time.’

‘You have picture, yes?’

‘You want me to email it to you?’

‘I’ll have answer for you as soon as I can. I’ll do it straight away. There are various databases I can consult.’

Two hours later, Lucian’s mobile rang. He glanced at the screen and smiled.

‘That was quick, Magda,’ he said.

‘It’s Operation Birch. I would be sitting on my hands for this?’

‘Of course not. So. What can you tell me?’

‘It’s very strange.’

‘Come on, Magda, don’t keep me in suspense. What is it? A spider fang? A wasp sting?’

‘Neither. It is mandible. Right mandible, to be precise. From termite.’

He could hear the triumph in her voice. And understood why.

‘A termite? You’re sure?’

‘What? You doubt your, what did you call me, “favourite forensic entomologist”?’

‘Sorry, no. Of course not. What kind, could you tell?’

‘Absolutely! It is soldier of species Macrotermes michaelseni.’

‘Habitat?’

‘Very interesting, given you found it in Windsor.’

She paused.

‘Please, Magda!’

‘Sub-Saharan Africa. You know those big mounds?’

‘Yes.’

‘He is one of those. Long way from home, yes?’

Lucian nodded as he thanked her and ended the call.

A bloody long way from home.

He stared at the picture he’d printed out. At this magnification, the jaw looked like a particularly vicious knife blade, albeit one snapped off the hilt.

‘What’s that?’ Jess asked, as she arrived by his shoulder.

‘That,’ he said, ‘is the right mandible of a soldier termite. Exclusively found in Sub-Saharan Africa.’

‘That’s interesting,’ she said.

‘I know.’

‘No, I mean it’s interesting because I’ve been working on the soil sample you gave me.’

‘Go on,’ he said, feeling that a second revelation was only seconds away.

‘I compared the mass-spec and gas-chroma results to the UN’s Harmonized World Soil Database. There’s a ninety-two percent probability it comes from the Okavango Delta in Botswana.’

‘You’re joking!’

She grinned.

‘Actually, yes, I am. It matches the soil in the flowerbeds in Hyde Park.’

‘Shit! I thought we were onto something.’

She burst out laughing.

‘Sorry, boss, but you’re so easy to fool. No, it really is from Botswana. There’s a spike in the copper content that’s so distinctive it’s like a fingerprint.’

Lucian’s fingers flew over his keyboard as he tapped in a search query: Okavango Delta termite.

The very first search result Google returned was ‘Master Builders of the Okavango’. It led to an article about mound-building termites.

He turned and thanked Jess, then picked up his phone.

‘Stella?’

‘Hi, Lucian, what’s up?’

‘Someone in that sniper nest had recently been in Botswana.’

‘What?’

‘I’ve got two data points that confirm the presence of soil from Botswana on the top floor of the training tower. A termite mandible and the soil sample we found it in.’

‘Bloody hell!’

‘I knew you’d be pleased.’

‘You’re a genius, Luce. I’m taking this to Callie.’

12

Tammerlane looked up from his papers. He smiled broadly and rounded his desk to shake hands with his visitor.

‘Anthony! Please, take a seat.’

As commissioner of the Metropolitan Police, Anthony Redding was the public face of the investigation, known as Operation Birch, into the assassination of Princess Alexandra.

‘Thank you, Prime Minister.’

‘Call me Joe, please,’ Tammerlane said with a smile.

‘We have some rather disturbing intelligence. About the killer’s identity.’

‘Go on,’ Tammerlane, said, cupping his chin in his hand.

‘It appears that he was an Israeli. Name of Dov Lieberman,’ Redding said, his hooded eyes maintaining contact with the PM’s.

‘Mossad?’

‘No, Sir. He was a schoolteacher. Physics, apparently.’

‘A physics teacher?’ Tammerlane repeated, arranging his features into an