The hand luggage restrictions meant he had little else besides his book in his carry-on bag. He felt filthy, his teeth caked with muck from the airline meals, and his mood was complemented by the two phone calls he had managed to secure with Claire before he left. Neither gave him cause for hope. As far as he could tell, she wasn’t sure whether she was more angry that he had been accused of killing her lover, or that she was afraid he was a full-time murderer for Her Majesty. He never had been, but that didn’t sway her. She trusted nothing he said about his work now. He didn’t blame her.
But for his part, he ached. His body was not built for the punishment it had absorbed in the last weeks, and the final battle with Stilson had savaged a frame that was already weakened from stress and exhaustion. He wanted only to go to Dartmoor now with the dogs, take a basha, and camp out in the wilds for a few days. To get away from politics, from cities, and especially from Karen.
He had liked her. He had wanted to support and promote her. And in return she had tried to have him killed.
At Customs, he met the gaze of the officers with resentment in his eyes. One tried to have him open his bags, and he stiffened his back before agreeing. He had nothing to declare. Although the clothes were all new in the last fortnight, the officer saw nothing to make him think that Jack had gone over his allowance, and Jack was soon through and walking down the corridor of humiliation – that was what he called the exit. On either side were smiling, happy people, welcoming home their loved ones, greeting lovers with hugs and kisses. But for Jack there was only the slow walk without looking from one side to another. Ahead of him were two policemen with their Heckler & Koch submachineguns held negligently across their chests, and behind them, a huddle of scruffy men and women clutching cameras or voice recorders.
And then there came a roar and the flashes of many cameras as the press hurried forward. Jack was shoved aside as Mohammed al Malik appeared, blinking, pale, confused, and flanked by two Special Branch officers. He covered his eyes from the flashes, and the two officers tried to hustle him away, but before they could, Sara beat her way through the crowds and cried out to him. Although the officers tried to keep her from their charge, she threw her arms around her husband.
Jack stared at them, then turned and was about to stride away when he saw a familiar face outside, peering in through the glass door. There was a studied calmness about him as Starck inhaled on a cigarette, then stubbed it out and beckoned.
He had little choice. He complied.
‘So, Jacky, my boy. How are we this fine morning?’
‘Shit.’
‘I can imagine it. I feel repulsive myself. Not used to such early mornings, you see. Anyway, come with me, dear heart. You have a debriefing.’
‘No. I’m going home. You can sort something next week, if you pay my fares.’
‘Jacky, old cock, I’m afraid you don’t quite understand. This isn’t an invitation to a pub lunch with a riotous game of darts to follow: this is an order from the DDG himself. He wants to know exactly what has been happening between you and the Brothers over the pond. And you will be coming if you value your pension.’
Jack followed him out to the car, which was double parked and protected by a scowling police officer. He cast disdainful look at Jack and ignored Starck’s patronising gratitude, turning on his heel as Starck opened the boot and threw in Jack’s case.
‘What’s it all about?’ Jack asked as they left the terminal and drove slowly over the road following the exit signs.
‘Well, me old darling, it’s like this. I think people are a little resentful about your last manager so, from now on, I am in charge of Scavengers, and you will be in charge of team one.’
‘Haven’t you forgotten something?’ Jack demanded.
‘No. Don’t think so.’
‘The bit where you say, “Your mission, should you choose to accept it”. That bit.’
‘Ah, that is so 1970s, Jacky. This is the new century, and we prefer to think in terms of the immediate obedience of all staff. So no, there is no “If you wish to” about it. It’s there, this is your job, and you will be starting next week.’
‘Fuck off.’
‘Not the best start to a professional relationship.’
‘I mean it. No. I’ll think about it and give you an answer next week.’
‘End of this week.’
‘Next week.’
‘Saturday?’
‘Next week.’
Starck gave an elaborate sigh.
‘If you think you have so much more to do: better DIY jobs about your house, I suppose? Very well. Next week.’
Wednesday 12th October
04.32
It was early in the morning when Jack left the house.
He had not been sleeping well since his return. Claire was civil, just, but they had lost any spark of intimacy that had once existed. He slept in the second bedroom, an unspoiled room which gave out directly to the thatch. All night he could hear the scurrying and pattering of small feet – rodents or birds, it didn’t matter to him. Not any more. He was here, and he was soon to be thrown out if Claire didn’t come to some kind of arrangement with him. The way things were, he didn’t think that was going to happen any time soon.
It was still dark as he pulled the door to behind him. He had a driving mug of coffee with ‘FBI, Fabulous Bloody Infantry’ emblazoned on the side, a gift from Debbie, and he set it in the mug holder as he started the Subaru’s engine. While it warmed, he wandered to the front and back. He had spent an age at an internet café looking for cars of the right age and style before finding one with number plates that suited him. When he was done, it had taken him a while to go up the potholed driveway to the road, and on to the A30, heading up towards Exeter. With his new number plates, it was tempting to wave at the ANPR cameras. Automatic Number Plate Recognition was rapidly becoming standard software throughout the UK, but he didn’t care today.
He didn’t care at all. In his mind, he saw that Munch picture Lewin had sketched. The horror of Lewin’s end was there still: the self-loathing at what he had done. And Jack now had it, too, ever since his torture of Sorensen.
It would take Jack a good four hours to get to where he wanted, and then another couple of hours to do what he needed.
No problem. He had all day.
*
19.34 London
Karen Skoyles left work early that evening. She had lost much of her motivation since the catastrophic end to Jack Case’s mission in America. At first she had been placed on gardening leave, a polite euphemism for the condemned civil servant before execution, but more recently she had been permitted to return, on the understanding that she would not be permitted to have an executive position, nor even managerial responsibility for staff.
That meeting had been intolerable. She had been called to HR and, when she entered, Starck was sitting in the corner, arms folded over his waistcoated belly, eyeing her without feeling.
‘I am entitled to my line manager being present at a disciplinary meeting,’ she pointed out.
‘Yes,’ the HR officer agreed, and he waved a hand towards Starck. ‘You know Peter, of course? He has been promoted in your absence, Karen. Now, please take a seat. We shall try to keep this as civilised as possible.’
She sat.
First she was passed a file. In it were the transcriptions of her telephone calls to her American handler in the US embassy, as well as others, including the call to Sara al Malik. Karen stared at her words, then threw the papers aside. They dangled from the treasury tag as she read the next pages. Deliberate deception; misleading senior officers; planning to subvert the career of a fellow officer; conspiracy to aid a foreign power at the expense of the Service… and so it ran on for several pages.
‘Well?’ she said, pushing the folder onto the desk.
She was informed that her post no longer existed, her liaison duties were properly being taken up by a new liaison division, and her management of Scavengers w
as ended. In future, only those with operational experience would have control of such units. The Bullies were to be returned to their former home, and her ops and tech and analysis groups were all returning to their home teams in the normal organisational structure.
‘So you’re making me redundant?’ she said with a sneer.
‘No, Karen,’ Starck said, and levered himself up heavily from his corner. ‘You are being saved, my dear. You will spend the rest of your career with us. You are fortunate. You will, however, have to accept a lower salary and reduced pension concomitant with your new position. Obviously you will be expected to aid us when we ask for details of your contacts with the Americans. And if there is ever any suggestion that you are not dealing fairly with us, there will be consequences.’
And that was that. Her humiliation was complete.
She had left today to go shopping after work – a week’s food for her apartment. She stowed the bags on the back seat, climbed in, and drove the short distance back to her home in the Barbican. Driving into the apartment, she went down the ramp to her parking bay, and reversed into it.
Opening the car door, she reached inside for the bags and, as she came back out, hip swinging the door closed, she heard the step behind her. It made her freeze. She recognised that step instantly.
‘Hello, Jack.’
‘I don’t suppose you expected to see me again, once you’d sent me off to America,’ he said.
‘No,’ she sighed.
He was behind her, and she would have turned to face him. She began to bend, to put the bags down.
‘No,’ he said sharply. ‘Hold them where I can see your hands, Karen.’
‘What, you think I’ve got a gun? Remember Lewin? We’re not allowed guns when we get beyond a certain pay grade, Jack.’
‘I wouldn’t put it past you to buy a black market one. Or to steal one from the armoury,’ he said. ‘So keep them up, and don’t drop the bags.’
‘Why?’ she said.
‘I don’t want to have to stab you,’ he said. ‘You ruined my life. You realise that?’
‘I was just trying to get on.’
‘So you had Jimmy McNeill stalk my wife, force her into his bed. Just to ruin me, so you could get me out and take over my teams? That’s not nice.’
‘No. But it’s how to get on.’
‘You could have tried it by simple merit, Karen. I liked you. I tried to help you. Christ, I even hired you!’
‘Oh, right. So you’d have given up your job for me? I don’t think so.’
‘Karen, even if it meant you went above me, I’d have done that, yes. Because I liked you, and you were very good.’
‘Well, it’s academic now. I’m finished. Washed up, and I’m not forty yet! I thought I’d be retiring at fifty, and as it is, I’ll be lucky to get out at sixty with a clerical pension.’
‘You want sympathy?’
‘Not from you.’
‘Your story about me was an insult. I’ve seen the reports you concocted about my phone on the day Jimmy died. What a load of bollocks. How did you do that?’
‘I just copied a report on my scanner, removed the bits that didn’t agree, inserted your phone details, and bingo. It was Jimmy’s report, actually. So it went exactly where he was.’
‘And you thought you could make it seem like me? Jesus.’
‘I know. It was persuasive, though. Persuasive enough for the DDG.’
‘Yes,’ Jack said. ‘But I wasn’t stupid enough to take my phone. I’m bright enough to leave that behind when I commit murder, Karen.’
‘But you…’
There was a hideous realisation even as she stammered, and then she felt the cord go about her neck. She tried to reach up to pull it away as the pressure about her throat tightened, the two bags fell to the ground, and a bottle smashed. The last odour she could discern as her sight blackened, and her lungs seemed to fill with concrete, was the smell of good Bordeaux as it flooded the concrete parking floor.
Jack waited a while longer, the cord taut in his hand, and felt for a pulse. It was there, a fluttering little feather of movement, and then… gone.
He removed the rope from her, and went to the edge of the parking bay. There was a four-inch pipe up there. He climbed on the car’s bonnet, threw one end of rope over the pipe and made a noose of the other end. He pulled her up to the car, put the rope over her head, then grabbed the other end, pulling her up until her feet swung some six inches from the ground. He took both her shoes, and placed them heavily on the car’s bonnet to make it appear she had stepped from it, then released her so that the shoes scraped over the paintwork. Finally, he stood back and began to walk away. He pulled the latex gloves from his hands as he went, putting them into his pocket, and then shoved his hands into his trousers, whistling, as he made his way up the stairs.
Half an hour later he was at a bus stop when the police cars came hurtling past, sirens blaring and lights flashing.
He watched them for a moment. There was no guilt or sadness. He had just killed a woman he had known for over a decade, and there was nothing in his heart – only an emptiness. Her death was irrelevant. It achieved nothing.
‘But at least she didn’t get away with it, Danny,’ he muttered. She had tried to keep the torture going, helping Amiss and his fundamentalist supporters and ignoring the fact that their victims were mostly innocent.
Yes. Jack felt no guilt, but there was just a small tingle in his heart, a small sense of satisfaction – a feeling that Danny Lewin and Stephen Orme and the others were avenged.
Acknowledgements
This book would have been enormously difficult to write without the active help of many people all over America and England. It would be impossible to list them all, but there are some who helped a great deal.
I am very grateful to Sergeant Sean Whitcomb of the Seattle Police Media Response Unit for his advice on firearms laws in Seattle;
To James H. Frounfelter of the Benaroya Hall, Seattle, for his help identifying certain plaques outside his hall;
To Mary Burke of Conway Stewart USA for her help in checking details of shops in Seattle;
To Gordon S. Burton of the Anton Anderson Memorial Tunnel for helping me with the location and equipment in the tunnel’s safe houses;
To the delightful staff of the Seattle Mystery Bookstore for their great support and kindness to this wandering author;
To Dana Stabenow and Karen J. Laubenstein for their help during my all too fleeting visit to Anchorage in 2007, especially for their advice on where to go to play with handguns;
To Ruth Dudley Edwards and Jane Conway Gordon for their acerbic wit during the Bouchercon trip in 2007, during which this story first came to my mind;
To Keith, my brother, for making some excellent suggestions about cuts from the original manuscript. I never thought I’d have to thank an actuary for his literary skills. And neither did he;
To my agent, for having the faith to see the potential of this story and for his unswerving support during the writing.
But most of all to my wife and family for their patience during a very tough few months while I locked myself away and wrote this tale.
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