by Jaime Raven
Having satisfied herself that she had chosen a great position, she went back to the bed and opened up the briefcase.
Minutes later she was sitting on a chair next to the window and the rifle was resting on the ledge. The television was on behind her, providing a running commentary on the hunt for the woman on the motorcycle.
Rosa stared down at Appleton Mews, ready to spring into action the moment a vehicle turned into it.
But she knew it was probably going to be a long wait.
49
Laura
I decided to go home just after 3pm. By that time Aidan was sitting up in bed and his parents were with him.
Two armed officers accompanied me and we travelled in a marked car.
It was only a short drive to the house and when we got there it was still a crime scene. Police vehicles were parked outside and a group of people, consisting mostly of our neighbours, were gathered on the pavement.
There were also a couple of press photographers who started taking pictures the moment I stepped out of the car.
I was greeted at the front door by Josh Miller, the crime scene manager, who I’d known for years. He’d been expecting me, and he asked me how Aidan was.
‘He’s recovering, thankfully,’ I said.
‘That’s good to know, Laura. We’ve all been worried.’
It was weird entering the house. It felt cold and abandoned, and my muscles stiffened.
‘We’ll soon be finished here,’ Miller said. ‘But I’m afraid it’s still a mess. We’ve had the front door repaired but the kitchen window isn’t yet fixed. I strongly suggest you stay somewhere else tonight.’
‘I’m going to,’ I said. ‘My mother’s house isn’t far away. I just need to get some things.’
I’d known what to expect, but it still came as a shock when I walked into the kitchen. There was Aidan’s dried blood on the floor and yellow stickers marking the spots where bullets had struck, including the front of the dishwasher and two cupboard doors.
‘The woman fired no less than eight bullets into the house,’ Miller said. ‘You’re so lucky you were able to return fire.’
Without the glass door, the cold air from outside made me shiver. But despite that I just stood there, feeling the tears well up as my mind carried me back to the previous evening. The sound of gunfire. The breaking glass. The figure in the garden shooting into the kitchen. Me on the floor with Aidan’s head in my lap and his blood on my hands and blouse.
When did it happen? I wondered. That precise moment when my pregnancy was terminated. When the baby died in the womb before I knew that he or she was even there.
‘Are you OK?’ Miller asked me, and I suddenly realised that my chest was pumping for oxygen.
I nodded. ‘It’s just a shock coming back to all this.’
‘I can imagine. But rest assured that when you next return it will be almost like it was before. The glass is being replaced later and we’ll give it a good clean.’
‘Thanks, Josh.’
I didn’t need to pick much up. A change of clothes, some toiletries and some things for Aidan. I only anticipated staying at my mother’s house for one night.
But as I packed my small case I wondered if it would be better not to return until Aidan was discharged from the hospital. The thought of sleeping here alone filled me with dread. It made me think about some of the victims of crime I had dealt with over the years. The ones who’d become mental wrecks after their homes had been violated.
Would Aidan and I ever be able to get over it and continue to live here? Cooking in the same kitchen that had been shot up like a saloon in a western movie? Walking over the spot where Aidan’s blood had been spilled? Relaxing in the garden from where the killer had launched her violent attack?
There were wider questions too. How would this impact on our lives in general? Our future together? Our ability to eventually find peace of mind?
And what if I was wrong to assume that I would conceive again? What would it do to me? To us? It was a thought too horrible to contemplate.
I felt my body start to shake so I sat on the bed and put my face in my hands. Just then my mobile phone rang, making me jump.
It was DCS Drummond, calling to see how I was and to update me.
I told him about Aidan’s condition and said I was feeling better in myself.
‘The doctor said I was sick because of the shock,’ I lied.
He informed me that the woman who had shot him was still on the loose. It made me angry. Scared. I felt blood pounding behind my eyes.
‘We need to find her, guv,’ I said.
‘We’re doing everything we can,’ he replied. ‘The people who saw her after she came off the bike are going through pictures we have on file. But in all honesty there aren’t many females in the system who match the description or the MO. I’m beginning to think that maybe she’s a hired gun who was imported from abroad.’
‘What about Roy Slack?’ I asked. ‘Is he still in the frame?’
‘He is and I sent Tony Marsden to see him. But he’s still pleading ignorance and if we can’t link the bastard to what’s going on we’re buggered.’
‘Have you stepped up protection for everyone else?’ I asked.
‘As much as we can. But we’re under strict instructions not to wind down the operation. So it means that every member of the team is going around with armed minders.’
‘Does that include you, guv?’ I asked.
‘It does. But as you know it’s no protection against a seasoned pro like this girl obviously is.’
‘What about family members and loved ones?’
‘Everyone who received the texts has now been assigned personal bodyguards. And we’re advising them to move to other addresses or stay indoors.’
‘My mum’s gone to her friend’s place in Ringwood.’
‘I know. We’ve contacted her and there are two officers outside the house already.’
‘What about your family, guv?’
I knew he had a wife and two children and lived in London, but I wasn’t sure where.
‘They left for her brother’s house in Wigan last night. I’m staying put, though. In fact I’ll be going home soon to have a shower and get a change of clothes.’
‘Well, be careful,’ I said. ‘And thank the team for all their kind messages and tell them to take care.’
But even as I spoke I knew that none of us had any control over our own destiny. And that the psychotic cow on the motorbike hadn’t yet finished destroying our lives.
50
Rosa
It was early evening and already dark outside. The target hadn’t yet arrived and Rosa was still in position next to the window of her hotel room. Still waiting patiently to commit another murder.
Appleton Mews was bathed in an orange glow from the street lamps and she’d seen various cars and people come and go. But nobody had entered or left the house with the blue door.
She was hoping she would see the target soon, though, so that she’d still have time to meet up with Alice. She’d told her that she was attending an all-day seminar that would probably finish late. Alice had understood, of course, and had said to come to her apartment whenever she could. Rosa was anxious not to disappoint her, or herself.
Despite everything that was going on it was Alice who kept invading her thoughts. Rosa couldn’t wait to hold her in her arms again. To kiss her. To lick her. To feel her breath on her face. To taste the juice from between her thighs.
It was a craving like none she had ever experienced. And it was getting stronger. Becoming more of a distraction.
In the past she had always managed to compartmentalise her feelings and the mental anguish that had blighted her childhood. But now she was struggling with that. The barriers were down and her thoughts were out of control.
She was finding it harder to focus on the job. Harder still to keep Alice’s face out of her mind’s eye.
When Rosa had left the apartme
nt this morning, Alice had stayed in bed.
‘I’m having lunch with my dad and then I’m going shopping,’ she’d said. ‘I might even buy you a present.’
She was probably back home by now, Rosa thought. Getting ready for this evening. They were going to spend it making plans for tomorrow’s tour of London.
Rosa wondered if Alice had seen the CCTV footage of the woman on the motorcycle. Had she heard the man with the beard describe the woman as being attractive and having a slight accent?
If it had been in Mexico the media coverage would have been more muted, the story far less sensational.
It was an added pressure, along with the ridiculously high number of street surveillance cameras, and the fact that all of those people on the kill list knew that they were potential targets. So they could take precautions, change their routines, never let their guard drop, arm themselves just as Laura Jefferson had done.
For Rosa the scenario she found herself in was challenging rather than intimidating. It meant she had to be sharp, creative, fast-thinking, patient.
And lucky.
So far her luck had held up, and when seven o’clock came she discovered that it still hadn’t deserted her.
Dead on the hour two cars entered Appleton Mews and Rosa knew instinctively that her target would be in one of them.
It had been a long wait, but at last it was over.
She leaned forward towards the window, the rifle pressed into her good shoulder, the telescopic lens tight against her right eye.
The two black unmarked cars pulled up in front of the house with the blue door.
Rosa inhaled deeply and held the breath in her lungs. She stilled her body and felt the anticipation grow as she watched two men get out of each car. They were wearing dark suits and it was obvious to Rosa that they were cops. They looked around them as though searching for signs of danger.
After a few moments the rear door of the first vehicle opened and another man got out.
Rosa saw immediately that he was the man she’d come here to kill. The target.
And he made it easy for her by standing under the glow of the street lamp nearest to the house while he spoke to the other men.
She centred the crosshairs on his face, which loomed large in the magnified lens.
The first bullet pummelled into the centre of his forehead and sent him flying backwards against the front door. The second hit him in the throat as he slid to the ground. And the third struck him in the chest.
As his bodyguards dived for cover, Rosa pulled the rifle back through the window into the darkened room.
Within sixty seconds the weapon was disassembled and back in the briefcase, and she was closing the room door behind her.
She knew she didn’t have much time, that the cops would close in quickly on all the most likely sniper locations, including the tall hotel.
And that was all the more reason to remain calm and avoid attracting attention.
Rosa went down in the lift and then walked calmly through the busy reception area and onto the street.
She did not encounter any problems or resistance because everyone she passed was blissfully unaware of what had just happened. The cops in Appleton Mews would still be struggling to get their act together. Screaming into radios while desperately trying to avoid being shot at themselves.
Imagining the chaos she’d just caused filled Rosa with a sense of accomplishment as she walked quickly away from the hotel.
She felt good because the mission had been successful. There was no way the victim would survive the three bullets she had pumped into him. And she was excited because she could now spend the rest of the evening with Alice.
Four streets on, she hailed a taxi and climbed in.
‘London Bridge railway station,’ she said to the driver and made herself comfortable in the back.
At the station she would enter one of the public toilets, take off the wig and stuff it in her shoulder bag. She would also dump the raincoat. Then she’d lose herself in the crowd before getting another taxi to the hotel in Vauxhall. No way would the cops be able to track her.
As the taxi carried her away from the scene of her latest assignment, she sat back and closed her eyes to reflect on what she had just done.
Once again she’d shown how easy it is to kill someone. The target had been easy to get to despite having four burly cops with him for protection. It served as a warning to everyone from prime ministers to presidents that they were as good as dead when a price was put on their head.
Rosa knew that this particular killing was going to have a profound impact on the city. There was going to be a strong and immediate reaction, and the hunt for the assassin would be stepped up.
But she remained confident in her ability to stay one step ahead of the cops, no matter how many of them were assigned to the task of finding her.
She opened her eyes and looked out at the streets that were filled with people and traffic. The sounds of voices and engines were drowned out by the high-pitched wail of multiple sirens. It signalled to everyone that something serious had happened. Something bad.
Rosa wondered how long it would be before the news got out that the Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police had been shot dead outside his home in West London.
51
Laura
News of the Commissioner’s murder reached me an hour after it happened.
Aidan had just settled down for the night and I was about to leave the hospital to go to my mother’s house.
Sergeant Ray Wilks, one of the armed officer’s who’d been assigned to protect me, came into the room and said, ‘I’m sorry to disturb you but there’s something you need to know.’
He told me when we got to the waiting room and my insides turned to ice.
‘It just came through on the radio,’ he said. ‘It seems he was shot by a sniper outside his home in Kensington.’
His words sliced through me like a rotablade, and my lungs were suddenly clutching for air.
I wanted to believe that it wasn’t true, that it was fake news spread by a mischievous creep with access to the police radio frequencies.
I crossed the room and switched on the television.
‘I don’t think the media’s aware of it yet,’ Sergeant Wilks said.
And he was right. The news channels were still leading with the Balham shootings and the hunt for the woman on the motorcycle.
I grabbed my mobile phone from my pocket and jabbed at it. DCS Drummond answered straight away.
‘Hello, Laura,’ he said, before I spoke. ‘I can guess why you’re calling.’
‘Is it true, guv? Has the Commissioner been killed?’
‘I’m afraid so, but the details are sketchy. There’s still a lot of activity at the scene. I’m on my way there now.’
‘Was it just him or was anyone else shot?’
‘He was the only victim, although he had four armed officers with him at the time. Word is he was shot with a high-velocity sniper rifle so the area around his house is being closed down.’
‘Do we assume it’s the same woman?’ I said.
‘I think we have to. That last message stated that something would be done to make us reconsider our position. This must be it.’
I wanted to ask more questions, but Drummond said he had more calls coming through and would ring me later.
When I came off the phone it felt as if my heart was flinging itself against the wall of my chest.
‘Sit down and let me get you a cup of coffee,’ Sergeant Wilks said, so I nodded and sat down on the sofa.
The assassination of John Saunders was a staggering development. And totally unexpected. He wasn’t just another detective investigating organised crime. He was – or had been – the highest-ranking police officer in the country. The Commissioner of the Met, no less. The man in charge of a force that consisted of more than 40,000 staff, including 33,000 regular police officers.
The job didn’t just entail leading t
he fight against crime in the capital. The Commissioner was also responsible for counter-terrorism and the protection of the Royal Family and senior government ministers.
His death at the hands of an assassin would have huge ramifications and be headline news around the world. It was going to spark a major debate about protection for senior officers and politicians. And it would plunge morale within the Met to an all-time low.
Sergeant Wilks handed me a Styrofoam cup filled with steaming black coffee, then told me he was going to resume his position in the corridor.
‘I won’t be leaving here just yet,’ I told him, having changed my mind about going to my mother’s house. ‘I don’t know how long I’ll be staying.’
After he had left the room I was consumed by a strong sense of unease. I remained seated on the sofa, not moving even to drink my coffee. My muscles felt as though they’d been injected with lead, which was probably my body reacting to yet another shocking event.
I was convinced now that this wasn’t just about the organised crime task force. I suspected the killings would continue even if the Met closed it down. This was aimed at every police officer in London, and the death toll was certain to rise.
So who would be next? Another detective? A family member? My mother? Me? Or would it be someone like the Mayor of London, to whom the Commissioner reported on matters relating to crime and policing?
The more I thought about it the harder it was to keep from screaming out loud. It got to the point after about twenty minutes where it seemed like the walls were closing in on me.
I set my untouched coffee on the table and got up to return to Aidan’s room, where I’d now decided to spend another night. I couldn’t bear the thought of leaving him by himself, even though he was on the road to recovery.
But just as I was heading for the door the newsreader on the television grabbed my attention with the words: ‘Reports are coming in that John Saunders, the Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police, has been shot and killed close to his home in West London.’
I stayed in the waiting room for another two hours watching the story unfold on the TV.