Jigsaw by Campbell Armstrong

ether.
    The policewoman said, ‘I keep thinking the next call’s going to be something useful.’
    â€˜I know the feeling,’ Pagan remarked. The numbing brutality of legwork. Putting together each tiny building-block of information in the hope of a grand design.
    A grey-haired man who walked with a limp approached Pagan. He carried an untidy sheaf of papers and a stuffed black briefcase. He gave an impression of disorder, spillage, preoccupation. ‘Frank Pagan,’ he said. ‘I heard they were bringing you in on this. Good to see you back.’
    The man was Dick McCluskey, an explosives expert. He had known Pagan for more than fifteen years. McCluskey was considered something of an anarchist who kept himself aloof from departmental politics. Pagan liked him for this alone. McCluskey had an intriguing hobby; he designed magical illusions. He constructed elaborate cabinets in which objects and people disappeared. Pagan wondered if he had a trick box that might spirit the wrecked carriage away.
    â€˜What do you think?’ Pagan gestured toward the track, the lit mouth of the tunnel.
    â€˜A small device with enormous power, obviously. It had to be concealed inside some kind of container. You don’t place anything that looks strange on a crowded tube. Too conspicuous.’
    â€˜What kind of container?’
    â€˜Something routine. A briefcase. Somebody’s bag. We’ve been running a few tests, so far not altogether conclusive. Remember, the initial explosion emitted an incredible blast of heat. If that didn’t kill all the people in the carriage, then fire and smoke did the rest. You know, the powers that be think I should have instant answers, but what they don’t consider is how damned hard it is to keep up with technology. Destruction spawns extraordinary technical advances. It attracts oddballs and psychos who just happen to be electronic geniuses. If they applied themselves to other fields, who knows what they might accomplish?’
    â€˜Somebody placed the device in the carriage somewhere down the line, then got off—’
    â€˜Maybe. Maybe not. Consider another hypothesis.’
    â€˜I know what you’re going to say.’
    â€˜A kamikaze sort.’
    Pagan nodded. ‘A human bomb. I don’t need human bombs, Dick.’
    â€˜Think about it. Say you’re crazy, you’re suicidal, you’ve built a compact high-explosive gismo, you want to test it. More than that. Say you want to be at the suicidal epicentre of it. You want to feel it. Where’s a good place to do it? In the Tube. There’s no security. No baggage check. People come and go at will.’
    â€˜I can’t stretch that far,’ Pagan said.
    McCluskey moved away. ‘I’ll get in touch when I have something definite. See you.’
    Pagan walked to the edge of the platform. A kamikaze. He didn’t believe that. He was aware of Foxie at his side.
    â€˜Somebody blows up a carriage,’ Pagan said. ‘Why? Does he want to kill everybody inside? Does he have some kind of deranged grudge against a hundred people? I don’t see that. I can’t get my mind around that one.’
    Foxie heard a note of frustration in Pagan’s voice. ‘Or was the bomber after just one person, Frank?’
    â€˜And everybody else just happened to be in the way?’
    â€˜It’s a consideration.’
    Pagan pondered this a moment: it was the kind of idea that took you down inside an abyss of lunacy. What kind of mind would conjure such a scenario? A cold shadow crossed Pagan’s brain. ‘It’s not a consideration that appeals to me.’
    â€˜Still. A possibility, Frank.’
    â€˜Anything’s possible.’ He took the list of names from his pocket and handed it to Foxworth.
    â€˜Is Billy Ewing available?’ he asked. Ewing was an old associate, a Glaswegian with a permanent sinus problem. Sniffing Billy, reliable and