fact there are some people who say you killed him, Inspector Vos.’
Mayson Calvert has spent a very agreeable morning at the forensic laboratory discussing the relative strength of aramid fibre compared to other man-made fibres, such as those made from polyethylene terephthalate and polypropylene, and in particular compared to human ligaments and cartilage. The conclusion he has reached with George Watson, not surprisingly, is that there is no contest – but it has been fun anyway.
On the screen in front of them is an electron-microscope image of the fibres, which are commonly used to make Kevlar vests, flame-resistant clothing, sailcloth, high-performance bicycle tyres and, in this case, the rope that was used to secure Okan Gul to the struts of the railway bridge by his left ankle. When the train hit, the impact immediately destroyed the weakest link in the chain, which was Okan Gul’s joints.
‘I suppose the good news,’ Watson says, ‘is that the rope
is
so unusual. Find out where it came from and you’re well on your way to finding your killer.’
Mayson Calvert is not so sure. Perhaps, he thinks, Watson is still under the impression that the only outlet for speciality products like aramid fibre ropes are speciality shops that keep handy receipts and records of purchasers. Perhaps, he thinks, Watson is forgetting that virtually any product is now freely available on the internet, from anywhere in the world, and that tracking down online sales – assuming there are legitimate records – is a process that could take thousands of man-hours to complete, even for a man like Mayson Calvert, who needs only four hours’ sleep a day.
No, Mayson thinks the aramid fibre rope, while certainly unusual, is not the key to identifying the killer of Okan Gul. He is far more interested in the electron-microscope images currently visible on a second screen at the other end of the laboratory bench. These are of particles no bigger than a speck of dust that were discovered on the dead man’s clothing and also on the aramid fibre rope. The particles have been isolated because of their unusual content and structure, which appears to be densely compacted organic material. Identify the particles, Mayson thinks, and you are getting somewhere.
Identify where the particles
came
from, and you may well catch a killer.
The picture attachment arrived in Vos’s inbox thirty seconds ago. Now his desk phone is ringing.
‘Do you have it, Inspector?’ says Chief Inspector Krelis Remmelink.
‘I have it,’ says Vos. ‘I’ve just opened it.’
‘One of my men said we should be holding this conversation on Skype so we can see each other.’
‘No offence, sir, but I prefer the telephone.’
‘Of course! We are men of the telephone generation! Besides, one must maintain a certain air of mystery. In your mind, perhaps, I am like James Bond, eh? Sitting here in my office in a dinner suit, sipping a martini?’
‘How did you guess?’ Vos says, although his mental image of the chief of the Amsterdam bureau of IPOL is more like some sort of crumpled Columbo figure, complete with grubby mac.
‘You have it now?’ Remmelink says.
‘I’ve got it.’
The picture attachment is a long-range surveillance photograph of three men sitting at a table in the window of a bar.
‘You recognize them?’
‘I recognize two of them,’ Vos says. ‘The man sitting next to Okan Gul is Jack Peel. He’s a local nightclub owner and wannabe gangster.’
‘You don’t sound surprised.’
‘Let’s just say it confirms information I have already received from a contact earlier today. Who’s the third guy?’
‘His name is Wayne Heddon. You have heard of him?’
‘I can’t say I have.’
‘He is from Manchester. I understand the people he represents were previously active in importing heroin from Hamburg, until the authorities there closed down the pipeline. It seems Mr Heddon has been looking for new outlets; the drug squad here in
Mayson Calvert has spent a very agreeable morning at the forensic laboratory discussing the relative strength of aramid fibre compared to other man-made fibres, such as those made from polyethylene terephthalate and polypropylene, and in particular compared to human ligaments and cartilage. The conclusion he has reached with George Watson, not surprisingly, is that there is no contest – but it has been fun anyway.
On the screen in front of them is an electron-microscope image of the fibres, which are commonly used to make Kevlar vests, flame-resistant clothing, sailcloth, high-performance bicycle tyres and, in this case, the rope that was used to secure Okan Gul to the struts of the railway bridge by his left ankle. When the train hit, the impact immediately destroyed the weakest link in the chain, which was Okan Gul’s joints.
‘I suppose the good news,’ Watson says, ‘is that the rope
is
so unusual. Find out where it came from and you’re well on your way to finding your killer.’
Mayson Calvert is not so sure. Perhaps, he thinks, Watson is still under the impression that the only outlet for speciality products like aramid fibre ropes are speciality shops that keep handy receipts and records of purchasers. Perhaps, he thinks, Watson is forgetting that virtually any product is now freely available on the internet, from anywhere in the world, and that tracking down online sales – assuming there are legitimate records – is a process that could take thousands of man-hours to complete, even for a man like Mayson Calvert, who needs only four hours’ sleep a day.
No, Mayson thinks the aramid fibre rope, while certainly unusual, is not the key to identifying the killer of Okan Gul. He is far more interested in the electron-microscope images currently visible on a second screen at the other end of the laboratory bench. These are of particles no bigger than a speck of dust that were discovered on the dead man’s clothing and also on the aramid fibre rope. The particles have been isolated because of their unusual content and structure, which appears to be densely compacted organic material. Identify the particles, Mayson thinks, and you are getting somewhere.
Identify where the particles
came
from, and you may well catch a killer.
The picture attachment arrived in Vos’s inbox thirty seconds ago. Now his desk phone is ringing.
‘Do you have it, Inspector?’ says Chief Inspector Krelis Remmelink.
‘I have it,’ says Vos. ‘I’ve just opened it.’
‘One of my men said we should be holding this conversation on Skype so we can see each other.’
‘No offence, sir, but I prefer the telephone.’
‘Of course! We are men of the telephone generation! Besides, one must maintain a certain air of mystery. In your mind, perhaps, I am like James Bond, eh? Sitting here in my office in a dinner suit, sipping a martini?’
‘How did you guess?’ Vos says, although his mental image of the chief of the Amsterdam bureau of IPOL is more like some sort of crumpled Columbo figure, complete with grubby mac.
‘You have it now?’ Remmelink says.
‘I’ve got it.’
The picture attachment is a long-range surveillance photograph of three men sitting at a table in the window of a bar.
‘You recognize them?’
‘I recognize two of them,’ Vos says. ‘The man sitting next to Okan Gul is Jack Peel. He’s a local nightclub owner and wannabe gangster.’
‘You don’t sound surprised.’
‘Let’s just say it confirms information I have already received from a contact earlier today. Who’s the third guy?’
‘His name is Wayne Heddon. You have heard of him?’
‘I can’t say I have.’
‘He is from Manchester. I understand the people he represents were previously active in importing heroin from Hamburg, until the authorities there closed down the pipeline. It seems Mr Heddon has been looking for new outlets; the drug squad here in
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