Hooley was experiencing a bizarre mix of emotions. He was charmed that Roper was going to such trouble on his part and outraged at the brutal way he was being told. Realising that shouting would get him nowhere, he spotted an escape route.
“I haven’t got any gear here,” he announced with a triumphant smirk. It wasn’t often he got one over on Roper.
Roper matched the smirk with a broad grin as he reached down and produced a kit bag, which he held out in front of him.
“I anticipated you might say that. All the stuff we bought you six months ago is here. All of it unused and with the labels attached, I notice. That is changing today.”
For the second time, the DCI was flabbergasted. He stuttered as he mounted a protest.
“Did you break into my flat to get that? If so, how did you get past that alarm system? The bloke from M15 said it was state of the art and totally foolproof! He claimed it would even keep the Russians at bay.”
Hooley stopped mid-rant and shook his head. “Why am I even asking?”
Chapter 14
Peace had broken out. Hooley was resigned to his fate, and in just a few hours he was going to be led to the gym.
Before they left, he wanted to throw his contribution into the mix since it was all too easy to leave the heavy lifting to Roper. He thought he might have just the thing in the shape of an outline briefing on Valentina Ferrari which he had asked his Research Room to prepare. It had come directly to him so hadn’t yet been widely released.
Printing out a couple of copies - he didn’t share his younger colleague’s comfort with reading on screen - he waved them at Roper to get his attention. Handing one over, he said, “This is an initial appraisal. I’ve put in a request for a couple of Italian speakers to join our growing team. Hopefully they’ll be able to talk to the Italian Security Services to get more depth and context.”
“This is very interesting,” said Roper. He had dropped the printout on his desk, having read and absorbed the contents. The DCI pointed at one of the bullet points. “This stuff about allegations of taking backhanders is interesting.”
As usual Roper surprised him. “I think that came about when she was looking into allegations of over-pricing by the Italian pharmaceutical companies. It was said that she was paid off to stop her investigation.”
“Really?” said Hooley, quickly checking he hadn’t missed this on his report. “Where did you get that from?”
“I found an online report that was part of a wider inquiry into corruption in Italy and allegation of Mafia involvement. The report said no evidence was found to implicate Ferrari and that it could have been an attempt to throw dirt to put her off her investigation.”
Hooley was thinking rapidly. “So you must have all the dates? We can do some proper digging and find out if there’s a money trail.”
Roper looked expectant.
“As one of the section chiefs, I got an email a few minutes ago saying there was now a dedicated team of forensic accountants working with the MI5 team. I was going to tell you anyway – so the timing is perfect. That gives us all something to get stuck into.”
Roper stood up. “Excellent news and perfect timing. We need to break off shortly to get you spinning, but I may also have something. I just need a little longer to let it come together.”
The DCI’s heart sank; he had managed to almost forget about it. He was honest enough to admit that Roper might have a point; he was losing his temper more easily and that was something which worried him. In this job you needed a cool head to make the right calls. Being bad-tempered was self-indulgent.
He also acknowledged that his walking to work was not quite as beneficial as he imagined. He was supposed to maintain a brisk pace, but when Roper had accompanied him recently, he realised he was moving at little more than a comfortable stroll.
At the time, Roper had seemed to let it go – Hooley had even managed to convince himself that he wasn’t going to pursue it - which was far from the truth. It was becoming clear that he had been plotting for a while.
With a sense of resignation, he stretched his arms above his head and looked at Roper with a thoughtful expression. “Do you think it would help if we had a chat with Tom Phillips? See what we can pick out of that rather clever mind of his?”
Roper looked very enthusiastic. “I should have thought of that, it’s a great plan. I’d like to know if he agrees that one person could have planned all this.”
Tom Phillips was a Major with the SAS and had been seconded to work with Hooley and Roper on their most challenging investigations. They had formed a close bond over the years, most recently when the trio foiled a plot to detonate a dirty bomb in London.
After that the DCI had claimed his hair had gone grey, something which offended Roper’s sense of right and wrong since he could see no difference in the DCI’s normal salt and paper hair colour.
Hooley put out a call to the Major. To his disappointment, he quickly texted back and said he would be unavailable for a little while. The major was often on covert missions, so Hooley and Roper would just have to wait.
Soon, Roper started getting ready for the gym. As they were walking out, he had one more surprise. “I know I’ve just been saying it was the Ferrari attack which stood out,” he began, “but what about Diamonds and Pearls? It is the only one that has no obvious individual target, or none that we know about. I’m getting the idea that we are missing something.”
Chapter 15
Face fixed in a rictus grin, sweat pouring from every pore of his body and taking in huge gulps of air, Brian Hooley was wondering if he was going to make it out of the gym alive. For some reason, Roper’s observation that a gym was a reasonably good place to have a heart attack – “you’ve got well trained first aiders and a defibrillator on site” – was not proving a comfort.
The instructor, a pretty, dark haired woman, was looking at him closely. “OK Brian, that’s the warm-up over. Catch your breath, take a drink of water and when you’re ready we can move on. Remember – this is your first session. You go at the pace that’s right for you. We can look at breaking records a little further down the line.”
The DCI sat up and took a long swig from his water bottle. It had been a long time since he had been in a gym, and here he was sitting on a “spin” machine with Roper next to him and the instructor off to his right.
After the water, he grabbed his towel to dry his face, took some deep breaths and then leaned forward to place his hands on the handlebars to show the instructor he was ready.
“I think this time round we’ll just get used to the machine. So, Brian, don’t worry about your resistance just now. As for you, Jonathan, I want that resistance turned right up so you can feel it with every movement.”
The DCI risked a glance and was dispirited to see that Roper was powering away, his legs a whirl of movement despite having to work extra hard.
The instructor said, “We’ll have you doing that in no time at all. For now, just give me a nice steady pedal and, in a minute, we’ll try making it a little bit harder.”
The rest of the session passed in a blur – but, to his surprise, Hooley kept going and he experienced a sense of accomplishment when she called time on their work-out.
“Little steps and we’ll get you there in no time. Now, stay in your seat while we do some breathing and stretching exercises. Then I’ll tell you to get off your bike – but do it carefully and keep a hold of your bike until you’re sure you’ve got your balance.” She paused. “You did well today but it’s all a bit strange. Your bum hurts and you don’t know when it’s going to end. The next session will be better and so will the ones after that. At least you kept smiling.”
Hooley shrugged and a rueful expression crossed his face.
“To be honest, I think my face froze in fear.”
She laughed.
“We’ll make a fitness convert out of you yet!”
After the warm-down, he tottered off to the showers. He did feel a
little unsteady but underpinning that was a sense that he had done something worthwhile, and he had stopped feeling cross with Roper.
As they walked the short distance back to the office, Hooley was having a pleasant daydream about being fit enough to start running so missed what Roper had said to him.
“Sorry, Jonathan, would you mind repeating that?”
“I said you have a good voice. I didn’t realise you could sing.”
Hooley had a horrible feeling he knew what was coming.
“Was I singing along to the music in the spin class?”
“Yes, very loudly. It made everyone smile.”
Hooley held his hands up in mock surrender. “She was playing a lot of stuff from my youth with all those eighties numbers. You forget how much those songs mean to you.”
“You even knew all the lyrics, which was quite impressive.”
“I did? What song was I singing along to?”
“It was Love Will Tear Us Apart by Joy Division. The original version, written in August 1979 and released in June the following year. That’s quite an iconic anthem.”
Hooley tried to remember what he was doing in 1979. He knew he’d joined the police the following year but couldn’t recall what he’d been up to. Then he thought about what Roper had just said.
“The stuff you carry about in your head! It’s quite amazing, especially as I hadn’t realised there were two versions of that song. Even I didn’t know that, and I was singing it.”
They arrived back at the office where Hooley was grateful to sit down. He could feel a slight tightness in his thighs, nothing too bad but a caution that he had been working out. He resisted the urge to rub his legs and waited for Roper to sit down. He’d placed two cups of water on Hooley’s desk with the instruction to drink both soon.
“Just before we left, you said you were going to tell me something about Diamonds and Pearls. Are you ready now?”
Roper nodded. “I’d pretty much made my mind up by then but wanted to make sure that nothing else occurred to me. As much as I have been saying the Ferrari murder didn’t make sense, there is something about the attack on Diamonds and Pearls that’s even stranger. You see, I don’t understand why they targeted the shop rather than the owners. Of course, you could say they did try for both when they set off the bomb, but it was very unlikely they would have caught one of the three partners there. That bomb went off at 10.02am. The slightest bit of research would have turned up a dozen interviews with the owners saying they never got out of bed before midday.”
Hooley was impressed but had questions. “Maybe they were lying about getting up? You know, to make themselves sound a bit different?”
Roper wasn’t having that argument. “Not at all. You must have missed the interview the manager gave afterwards. He said the owners were never there before the afternoon.”
“So maybe they just wanted to hit the shop and the customers?”
“No, no. There's more to it than that.”
“Alright, try me. What’s your big theory?”
“I think it was done for two reasons. The first was for a punishment and the second was a warning.”
Hooley rocked back in his chair. “Some punishment and one helluva warning. Assuming you’re right, what on earth is it all about?”
Roper took his time answering.
“I can think of a couple of reasons. One is quite likely, the other is very likely.”
Chapter 16
They’d made their way to Streatham by different routes… train, bus, Uber and even walking. Men like this couldn’t risk being seen together - someone would call the police.
It wasn’t just the shaven heads, well defined muscles and tattoos, there was something about the way they moved which said, “we are your worst nightmare.” Their glittering eyes spoke of animal cunning and hidden weapons, probably knives. They were exactly what they looked like. Killers.
They were all headed for a flat located off Streatham High Street, a bustling area of South London, lined with dozens of shops and restaurants and residential blocks built in the 1930s.
This flat was a brisk walk away from the bright lights of the shops and was currently home to six men, the type of people you’d cross the road to avoid.
The flat was in the maze of streets where strangers didn’t stand out. When they’d arrived, they’d found the property was stocked, as promised, with a week’s supply of food and drink.
These were the men behind the attack on Valentina Ferrari. Forty-eight hours later, they were getting restless as they waited for their handler to turn up with their pay and details of how they were getting out of the country.
All the men had been flown in for the mission. Unknown to the British authorities, they were hoping that tonight would see them heading back to their homes in Chile.
Their leader was a scar faced sociopath who scared even his fellow killers. They called him “El Serpiente” – the snake. For some reason his DNA had given him eyes with yellow whites, and browny, green pupils. It was a frightening combination and even his own mother didn’t like to make eye contact.
He was sitting in an armchair waiting patiently, the others close but not too close. There was total silence. El Serpiente had achieved this very simply. First, he snapped his fingers, once, very loudly.
He didn’t wait to see if they had heard. He just placed his right index finger against his lips. Then he very slowly drew his little finger across his throat. There was no mistaking the message.
The waiting was becoming oppressive, but as restless as they felt, none of the other five made a sound. El Serpiente checked his watch. His mobile was in his lap, and now he very carefully rested it on one of the chair arms.
A few minutes later, it beeped with an incoming message. It seemed shockingly loud and everyone, except El Serpiente, jumped. He checked his watch again. Then he opened the message. It was a six-digit code.
The right message at the right time. El Serpiente didn't move. Just because things looked right didn’t mean they were. He glanced around, his strange eyes finally settling on one of the men, the youngest and least experienced.
He beckoned him over with his finger and pulled a photograph from his phone’s memory. “If this man is standing outside the door,” he said in a dry, raspy voice, courtesy of a taste for cheap cigars and raw native liquors, “let him in. If it’s someone else, shoot them.”
The man grabbed a Kalashnikov and quickly, but quietly, made his way to the door. He realised he might be about to die but was phlegmatic. At least it would be quick.
Holding the gun down by his side, he opened the door. To his slight surprise, it was the man in the picture. He stepped back to allow the man inside.
John Palmer was quickly through the door, carrying a large canvas bag. The door shut as he made his way into the flat. Upstairs, the rest of the gang were on their feet. The Snake stayed in his seat and Palmer paused in front of him, almost genuflecting as a mark of respect.
“Hello my old friend. You and your men did well.”
He held out his hand which was totally ignored. Palmer kept it there for a moment, then pulled back, trying to hide his embarrassment.
“Let’s get the money sorted. A reward for your excellent work.”
Reaching into his bag, he produced a thick brick of notes. Euros as requested. He held it out and the closest man greedily snatched it, holding it against his nose and grinning from ear to ear as the smell of money overwhelmed his senses.
The others quickly followed suit – until only El Serpiente was left. With a twirl of his finger, the others looked away. Palmer handed him two bricks of notes and a small bag to put them inside. Cash hidden, he snapped his fingers and the other men relaxed again.
Each man had already received €25,000 as a down payment and with a further €75,000 today. None expected to need to work for some time. No-one felt the need to count the cash. They’d worked for this man many times - and they knew where to find him if there was a
problem.
Short and going to seed, Palmer looked out of place among this group of lean, muscled killers. But being the paymaster won him acceptance. He rummaged around in the bottom of the bag. He didn’t notice the increase in tension as six pairs of eyes locked onto his movements. The younger man reached for the Kalashnikov.
With a surprising degree of theatricality, Palmer produced a bottle of Pisco, the Chilean national drink made from fermented grapes. They recognised the brand as one of the best and broke into gap-toothed smiles.
Within minutes, a rag tag collection of shot glasses was brimming over with booze. Palmer raised his in salute and they all knocked back their drinks.
All except Palmer.
Too late, El Serpiente noticed and tried to stop himself swallowing. By then, the damage was done; the drink was already half-way through his gullet.
Palmer watched in fascination as the six men started convulsing and calling out in Spanish. The only word he recognised was “Madre” – apparently, he mused, his victims wanted their mothers.
Within moments it was game over. They lay twitching and gurgling on the floor, blood pouring from their eyes, noses and mouths. It had been a nasty death, the poison reacting with their stomach contents to create a powerful acid that destroyed their insides.
The last to stop twitching was the man who had let him in, the agony he’d gone through leaving him with a reproachful look on his face. Quietly, Palmer backed out of the room. Apart from anything else, he was anxious to get away from the appalling smell. The police would find his fingerprints – but it would do them no good. He was a ghost and all traces of his existence had been removed from official records.
The burner phone he supplied to El Serpiente was safely in his pocket. That would need disposing of properly.
Standing in the doorway, Palmer touched his forehead with the first two fingers of his right hand in a macabre salute. “Nothing personal, chaps. It’s just there was a bigger plan this time. I’m afraid you were never meant to move forward.”
Just Kill Them Page 6