David Trevellyan 03 -More Harm Than Good

by Andrew Grant

  “Forty Second Commando, Royal Marines,” she said. “As if that means anything to you.”

  “It means an awful lot to me, ma’am. My father fought in the same war as your husband, and I’m an officer in the Royal Navy, myself.”

  The old lady glared at me, but she didn’t speak.

  “Can I help you find a cab, or anything like that?” I said.

  “Ridiculous,” she said to herself, turning away and resuming her snail’s pace. “He should have killed them. Should have tortured them...”

  I watched her shambling progress for a few moments, then picked up the champagne and started towards the building. I took two steps. Then I stopped. And took out my phone.

  There was something in the way they the guys had behaved that bothered me. Nothing about the encounter felt like an accident, right from the outset when they’d walked straight up to me, as if I was a target. So I called my control and filled him in. He gave no sign of whether he agreed with me or thought I was crazy, but he did put me on hold while he spoke to the police. Four minutes later he was back on the line. He said if I could sit on the guys for another quarter of an hour, they’d be scooped up by the Met and held until a couple of our people were available to have a word with them.

  From what I’d seen of the guys, I would guess they’d had pretty miserable lives up to that point. And I was certain that things were going to get worse for them over the next few days. The Navy interrogators would give them plenty to think about. Whereas me, I was left with only one thought.

  We were only yards away from where Melissa had picked me up on our way to Luton. She’d known what time I was likely to arrive home, having asked me to buy the champagne. And she was the only one who knew my address.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Melissa texted me just after 4.00pm. She said she’d finally got hold of Leckie, that he was happy to help, and the meeting at her place was still on. That left me plenty of time to wonder whether she was setting me up for a second bite of the cherry. It also left me plenty of time to walk, so I left my apartment at a quarter after five and set off towards St Paul’s. The area around the cathedral was clogged as usual with packs of tourists, necks craned back, gawping up at the dome. I weaved my way though them and started across the Millennium Bridge, then turned right in the shadow of the Tate Modern and dropped down to the side of the river. The Thames Path narrowed drastically as I followed it west, leaving me to run a constant gauntlet of joggers and bike riders until I was in sight of the OXO Tower.

  The note Melissa had written for me gave an address on the second floor of one of the buildings directly behind the main complex, but finding the correct door took more than a little luck. I finally located it, but when I hit the call button on her intercom I didn’t get a reply.

  I waited a moment, then started to work my way through the buttons for the other apartments in the building. I’d only tried three when the main door buzzed open. Civilians and their attitude to security never cease to amaze me, but you can’t say they’re not useful.

  I stepped into the hallway. Four people were waiting for someone to emerge from one of the ground floor units, so I skirted round them and made my way up the stairs. I followed the numbers until I found the door to Melissa’s apartment. It was standing open an inch, so I carefully placed the bottles of the champagne on the ground, drew my Beretta, and went inside without knocking.

  The main living/dining space in Melissa’s apartment was lined with windows which bathed the old, golden brown exposed brickwork with light. The room was double height, and a ladder led up to a sleeping platform which spanned the entire width at the far end. An archway led to a small kitchen on the right. I heard footsteps from inside it, and then someone appeared.

  It was Tim Jones. I’d been surprised to see him when we’d first met in Melissa’s room at St Joseph’s, too. I was glad things didn’t turn out the same way, though, if only for the sake of her furniture.

  “David,” he said, bringing his right hand out from behind his back, complete with his Sig Sauer pistol. “Thank goodness it’s you. Is Melissa with you?”

  “No,” I said. “I’m supposed to meet her here, at six.”

  “I was too. But she brought the meeting forward half an hour. She said she had some new information. Something we needed to talk about.”

  I pulled out my phone and saw another text from her on the screen. It said the same thing, and added that in light of what she’d found, she’d asked Leckie not to come. I must have missed it arriving in the noise from the street.

  “How did you get in?” I said.

  “There was no answer downstairs when I buzzed,” he said. “So I waited till someone else came out, and sneaked through before the main entrance closed behind her. Then I came up here and found Melissa’s door standing open.”

  “When was this?”

  “About half an hour ago.”

  “Is there any sign of her?”

  “No. I’ve looked everywhere.”

  “Any sign of a struggle?”

  “Not that I can see.”

  “Have you called the police? Or your office?”

  “No. She told me we had to keep this meeting absolutely secret.”

  “She was right,” I said, turning back to my phone. “But I have a feeling the ground rules have just changed.”

  Before I could key the three nines I heard footsteps outside in the corridor. There were three sets. They were heavy. And coming in our direction. Fast. I paused. They continued to come closer, then stopped right outside the door. I moved to my left – the hinge side – and signaled to Jones to go right. Five seconds passed in silence. Then the door was flung back into the room, arcing around on its hinges, its handle smashing into the wall. Three men followed through the open doorway. The first came straight ahead, stopping in the centre of the room, his head snapping from side to side. The second peeled off, heading towards me. The third went to the other way, straight at Jones. All of them were over six feet tall. They were wearing desert boots, jeans, and army surplus style DPM jackets. They all had shaved heads. And they were all carrying guns.

  “You,” said the first guy, with his eye on Jones. “Drop your weapon.”

  Jones opened his fingers and let the Sig slip through, landing grip-first on the floor, next to his foot.

  “Good,” the guy said. “Now, both of you. On the floor. Right now.”

  I started to lean, as if I meant to comply with his instructions, but when my head was low enough I lunged forward, slamming it into the second guy’s solar plexus. The force pushed him back a couple of steps, so I straightened my waist and whipped my neck up as hard as I could. I timed it just right, catching the guy’s chin with the back of my head. His knees buckled and he went over backwards, hitting the floor hard. I followed in, kicking the gun out of his hand and stamping down on his throat before he had the chance to react.

  I quickly scanned the room, and saw Jones lying face down on the floor with his arms and legs spread. The third intruder was standing over him, with a Colt Delta Elite aimed at the back of his skull. The first guy - the one who’d spoken - was still in the same spot. His arms were folded across his chest, with his gun in his right hand, and his expression looked almost bored.

  “Stop,” he said. “Put your hands behind your head. Then get down on your knees.”

  I didn’t move.

  “Do it now,” the guy said, taking a step towards me and lowering his hands to his sides. “Because if you don’t, your friend is going to get a bullet between the ears in the next five seconds.”

  “I want you to be very clear about something,” I said. “I’d never do anything to hurt a friend, so there’s no need for you to do anything hasty. But there’s something I don’t understand. How will the person holding my friend know whether I’ve done what you told me?”

  “What kind of stupid question is that? He can see you.”

  “He can? How? Is there a concealed camera in here? Are we
under covert surveillance? Have you set up some kind of on-the-fly video conferencing?”

  “He’s standing right behind me. He’s not blind. He has a gun in his hand. And it’s pointing at your friend’s head. Do you want me to draw you a diagram?”

  “Yes please. I love diagrams. And actually, I think a good diagram could help all of us, right now. Because that guy on the floor? He’s not my friend.”

  “Don’t try to bluff me.”

  “I’m not. I think he’s a slimy, brown-nosing corporate schemer. The first time I met him I broke a chair over his head. Psychologically, he’s toast.”

  “He did,” Jones said. “It’s true. I may never recover.”

  “See?” I said, taking a step towards the guy. “His bottle’s gone. He’s useless now. He might as well shoot him. I think you should. In fact, give me your gun, I’ll do it for you.”

  “Hold it,” the guy said.

  I stopped. I was two yards away from him, and four from the guy standing over Jones.

  “Now, get over there,” he said, nodding towards the wall at the far side of the room.

  “Over where?” I said.

  “There,” he said, stretching out his right arm and gesturing with the gun.

  I took half a step forward and grabbed his right arm, just below the wrist. I held it immobile, the gun pointing safely at the wall, and jabbed him below the rib cage with my right hand, knocking the wind of him. Then I brought my hand up, smashing into his jaw from below. I stepped in towards him, ducked slightly and spun round so that my right shoulder slotted in place below his armpit. Then I straightened my legs and pulled down with my left hand, lifting him off his feet. I was still turning, so I pushed back hard with my left leg, building the momentum and smashing his body into the guy who was covering Jones.

  The two intruders went down in a tangle of limbs, rolling sideways away from us. Neither of them kept hold of their weapons. Jones’s guy ended up on his front, and for a moment he was still. The other one scuttled sideways and started to scramble back to his feet.

  “Take him,” Jones said, kneeling up. “I’m on mine.”

  “I’m not a control freak like you,” I said, stepping towards the first guy, who was fully upright again. “I don’t need you to kneel with your hands behind your head. You can stay standing, if you like. Or sit. Or lie down. You can even contort your body into some weird fairground sideshow position, if it makes you happy. As long as you do one thing.”

  “What?” the guy said.

  “Co-operate. Tell me: Where is the woman who owns this apartment?”

  The guy sprang forward, feinting to hit me in the face but really aiming a heavy blow at my stomach. I ignored the first, blocked the second, then snaked my right leg behind his knees and hooked his feet out from under him. He landed flat on his back, and as he hit the floor I heard a gunshot behind me. I spun round, fearing the worst, and saw Jones five feet away from me. He was on his feet. His Sig was in his hand. The smell of cordite reached my nose, and I followed his gaze down to the floor. The guy who’d been on top of him was lying there, on his back, twitching slightly, with a gaping hole where his right cheek had been.

  “Watch out,” Jones said, raising his gun and aiming it in my direction.

  The first guy had rolled over and was scrambling for the spot where his battered old Browning had come to rest in the earlier struggle. I stepped towards him, ready to kick the gun away again, when Jones fired. The shot was uncomfortably loud in such a small space, but it did its job. The bullet hit the guy at the base of his skull. He slumped forward, face down. His body gave one long, last, violent shiver. Then he was still.

  “Wow,” Jones said.

  I walked across and examined the guy I’d tangled with first.

  “Wow, indeed,” I said. “What a great job. We started with three people who could have helped us. And we’ve ended up with none.”

  “What about that one?” Jones said, nodding towards the guy I’d just been looking at.

  I shook my head.

  “Damn,” he said. “I thought we’d be able to talk him, to at least. I wouldn’t have pulled the trigger, otherwise. What should we do now?”

  “Search the bodies,” I said. “I want their phones. And I want to see everything in their pockets. We might be able to piece something together. But first, I want you to call your office. Tell your control to find out if the police have been called, following those gunshots. If they’re on their way, get them turned around. Then tell them to get their best cleaner out here. These bodies need to disappear. Quickly. And Tim?”

  “Yes?”

  “Do not say anything that could link what’s happened, or this address, to Melissa. And make absolutely certain not to tell anyone she’s disappeared. Anyone at all. Do you understand?”

  “Yes. But why?”

  I gave him a moment to think that one through.

  “Oh,” he said. “I get it. You think there’s a leak in the department. So if Melissa’s clean, we don’t want them reporting that she’s hiding, or they’ll go looking for her. And if she’s dirty, we don’t want them to know we’re on to her or she’ll go deeper underground.”

  “Right,” I said. “And for now, remember something else. As far as you and I are concerned, she’s innocent until proven guilty.”

  I figured that since experience was on my side I’d search two of the intruders and just leave one for Jones, but I was still finished first. The guy whose throat I’d crushed had a spare clip for the huge Desert Eagle he’d been carrying, and that was all. I left it behind. The guy who’d done the talking had a spare clip, pictures of Melissa and me, and an old battered switchblade with a wooden handle. I took the knife and photos, and moved across to where Jones was standing. He was next to the final body, his phone still in his hand, apparently transfixed.

  “Come on, son,” I said. “What are you waiting for?”

  “I don’t know,” he said, with a shudder. “It’s just - look at him.”

  “Not pretty, I know. Do you want me to do it?”

  “No. It’s OK. It’s just - I’ve never done this before.”

  “Well, ordinarily I’d tell you to take your time. Only right now, Melissa’s missing, which means time is the one thing we don’t have. So either get on with it, or step aside.”

  Jones crouched down and reached out his hand like a reluctant, bony spider. He didn’t exactly work fast, but in the end he at least did a nice thorough job.

  “Sorry,” he said. “No phone. Just a spare magazine.”

  “Don’t worry,” I said. “That’s the same as the others. You didn’t miss anything.”

  “Then what are we going to do? Can we trace them through the ammo, perhaps?”

  “You could try. Your people will have the resources, I guess. But there’s one other thing.”

  “What?”

  “Have you ever done a photo fit picture?”

  “I’ve seen them. And we learned about them, in training. I’ve never done one, though. Why?”

  “Something about this guy is familiar, and I’ve just figured out what it is. I was looking at his face, trying to remember how he looked before you shot half of it off. And then it struck me. Take away the fatal injury. Add hair. Change the clothes. And I’ve seen him before.”

  “You have?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where? When?”

  “At St Joseph’s. He was working as a security guard.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’m certain. I watched him sorting out of a bunch of yobs who were messing around in the hospital garden.”

  “The guy didn’t look like he knew you.”

  “He didn’t know I’d seen him. I wasn’t there, in the garden. I was watching through a window, waiting to see if he needed any help. I saw a guard try to chase some kids out of there once before, and he got nowhere.”

  “But this guy managed on his own?”

  “You could say that. If you’re a fan
of understatement.”

  “Everything’s leading back to the hospital. Well, if he works - or worked - at St Joseph’s, at least that gives us a place to start. We should head over there right away.”

  “I don’t think so. I’ve seen the hospital security office before. And without an army of forensic guys we’re not likely to turn anything up in there. We should start with Leckie, himself.”

  “The person? Not the place?”

  “Correct. We need to know whether Leckie is the villain or the victim. These guys could have worked for Leckie, and Leckie could have sent them here to get us. Or al-Aqsaba’a could have found out Leckie was planning on helping us, and sent the guys to silence him.”

  “What about the photos the guy was carrying? They’re only of you and Melissa. That’s pretty suspicious.”

  “True. But you should never jump to conclusions. They already know what Leckie looks like, remember. They wouldn’t need a picture of him. And they might not know you were back off the sick list.”

  “Well, OK. If you’re sure. And we’ve got some time while we wait for the cleaner. Why don’t I make some calls. See what I can dig up on the guy.”

  “You do that. I need to duck out for a while.”

  “Why?”

  “I have some calls of my own to make.”

  “Oh, I see. But where can I reach you if I find anything?”

  “If?”

  “OK. When I find something.”

  “Just call me. I won’t be far away. But be discrete. And be quick. Melissa’s life might depend on it. And Leckie’s, if he’s not a crook. As well as any chance of finding the other batch of caesium. And getting a hook into al-Aqsaba’a.”

  “Oh. So, no pressure, then.”

  Chapter Thirty

  I’m not normally in favour of field agents acting like they’re tied to their controller’s apron strings, but I figured a second attempt on my life since lunchtime was worthy of a mention. And on top of that, I had a couple of questions I wanted to ask. Questions that would best be asked without Jones being in earshot.

  I made my call looking out over the Thames, and then headed for a little Italian cafe I knew on the ground floor of the main OXO Tower building, just across the way. There was no point heading back up to Melissa’s apartment, specially while the cleaner would be there. That would break the golden rule: be seen by as few people as possible. And in any case, I needed time to think. I was bothered by Melissa’s text about new information, followed so closely by her no-show. I guessed whatever she’d found related to Leckie in some way, but how? And where was she? Had she been snatched? Killed? Or was she lying low, waiting till it was safe to resurface?