The must-read new blockbuster thriller

by Tony Kent

  Dempsey’s attention returned to the van.

  ‘You know anything about that yet?’ he asked, pointing towards it.

  ‘Only that it shouldn’t be here,’ Henley replied. ‘And that there’s no sign of whoever was driving it.’

  Dempsey nodded.

  ‘Then let’s see what we can find out.’

  The driver’s door of the van had been welded shut by the heat and force of the nearby explosion. Dempsey looked through its shattered window to the passenger’s side. It was damaged too, but had been spared the brunt of the blast. If there was a way into the van it would be there.

  Dempsey made his way to the left-hand side of the vehicle and tried the door. It was difficult to move, but he felt some give. With enough force it would open. Dempsey gripped the handle and the frame and, with considerable effort, he ripped the door ajar.

  A short examination of the cab area revealed nothing of interest. There were no ID cards. No useful correspondence. Nothing that told him anything about the van’s occupants or the story they were chasing.

  Dempsey wasted no more time with the cab. Instead he moved to the sliding door that guarded the rear. It slid open with little effort; its mechanism had been spared significant damage. What it revealed was an Aladdin’s Cave of information.

  The rear section of the van was unsurprisingly cramped as Dempsey climbed inside. It was also well equipped and virtually undamaged. A khaki survival jacket rested on the back of a chair that was bolted to the centre of the floor. Dempsey riffled through the jacket’s many pockets. It contained batteries, notepads, cigarette packs and a CNN photo ID card in the name of Jack Maguire.

  The thumbnail photograph looked back at him. A photo that could be of a dead man, Dempsey realised. Someone had been driving Michael Devlin’s car at the time of the explosion. And it had not been Devlin himself. With no sign of Jack Maguire and no other obvious reason for the CNN van to have been abandoned here, the odds were fair that it had been Maguire in that seat.

  Dempsey put the identity card aside and searched the rest of the van’s interior. The vehicle’s official paperwork was filed in a compartment close to the sliding door. It revealed that the van was allocated to cameraman Jack Maguire and reporter Sarah Truman. There was no photograph of Truman. But the name was enough. Dempsey now counted three missing people. Michael Devlin, Sarah Truman and Jack Maguire. Devlin could be accounted for. Last seen fleeing the scene on a motorcycle, with an unknown woman behind him. It would be a leap to assume that woman was Truman, but with the abandoned outside broadcast van in the equation? It was a leap Dempsey was willing to make.

  And one which made it ever more likely that Maguire was still just feet away, charred within the burned-out Jaguar.

  The remaining paperwork told Dempsey nothing of value. Most was procedural, recording the use of official broadcast equipment. A small amount was more specific, including several short files of information on people of interest. There was nothing in the files to suggest what was so interesting about them, and so they were of little use. Putting them aside, Dempsey turned his attention to the state-of-the-art broadcast equipment. Perhaps Maguire and Truman had left recordings of what they had been working on.

  The master console of the electronic board meant nothing to Dempsey so he began to randomly press buttons. This continued for almost a minute until every screen suddenly buzzed into life. The sharp rise of static electricity lifted the hairs on the back of his neck. The sensation barely registered; his attention was on the silent screens. The image of an angry sergeant in what was obviously a British police station dominated.

  Dempsey hit every button, dial and lever that might be related to the vehicle’s volume control. Nothing worked. His life and training had prepared him for many things. Raising the sound on possibly damaged, high-tech video machinery was not one of them.

  Finally he accepted the inevitable and stopped. Opened the sliding door. Looked out. A young, white-suited forensic specialist stood nearby. Not the same guy as before.

  Dempsey summoned him into the rear of the vehicle.

  White Suit seemed nervous. Made worse when Dempsey forcefully slammed the sliding door shut when he was barely inside.

  ‘Are you any good with electronics?’ Dempsey cut to the chase. His voice bristled with intensity.

  ‘I’m not sure. I . . . I . . . it depends on what—’

  ‘The video equipment,’ snapped Dempsey. Surely an explanation was unnecessary, given the screens now surrounding them? ‘I need the sound on this equipment up and running now. And you look like a bloke who’s spent more time playing with wires in your bedroom than playing football. So can you do it?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ White Suit’s confidence was returning as he realised he wasn’t being taken from his comfort zone. ‘I don’t think that will be a problem.’

  ‘OK. Do it.’

  Dempsey shifted himself to the van’s second seat, to make way for White Suit. He watched as the pale young man began to connect loose wires at a remarkable pace. At first he was interested, but that quickly wore off. It then became a test of patience.

  His mind wandered as White Suit worked. The timing of the attack. Its details. The military-grade detonator. Even Devlin’s nationality. It could not all be coincidence, Dempsey was sure of that. It had to be related to Trafalgar Square. To Turner. But how? How was it all connected? And if Dempsey was right – if the gunman was Turner – then how the hell had some lawyer escaped the most efficient killer Dempsey had ever met?

  The sudden explosion of sound brought Dempsey’s musings to an abrupt end. The speakers were working.

  And then some.

  Dempsey turned, his ears ringing from sheer volume. He saw that the images on the screen were now perfectly accompanied by their audio recording. His earlier amateur tinkering must have set the now-working volume to its highest level.

  Dempsey ignored the pain in his ears as White Suit fought to reduce the sound. Instead he concentrated on the monitors. The footage was coming to an end, taken as the camera was lowered to face the pavement. It was shaky. And it meant nothing without what had come before. But, as the volume came down and the image disappeared, Dempsey could make out a single word, spoken with a soft American accent:

  ‘Perfect.’

  The screen went blank and immediately White Suit took the recording back to the start. He selected automatic playback and vacated the central chair. Dempsey replaced him without a word.

  The footage onscreen was an obvious rough cut. There was no ‘to camera’ address to put the footage into context. Instead the scene began with the rear view of a tall brunette as she strode into a police station reception area.

  The first minutes of footage were impressive, dominated by the attractive young reporter. Dempsey was as certain as he could be that he was watching Sarah Truman.

  Truman had a soft American accent – the same voice Dempsey had heard say ‘perfect’ moments before – and she used her body language to devastating effect. Her manipulation of the young police officer at the station’s front desk was played out onscreen. Truman toyed with him like a predator. Little more than a boy, he was helpless to do anything other than her bidding.

  Dempsey continued to watch. Nothing was said or done after the young officer’s disappearance. Truman was waiting for something. She did not have to wait for very long.

  A single figure suddenly dominated the screen: the same sergeant who had appeared when the footage had first flickered into life.

  ‘What the hell are you doing in my station? Get out! Now!!’

  The shout from the apoplectic police sergeant filled the van. It was exactly the reaction Dempsey would expect from an officer whose premises had been invaded by the press. It gave Dempsey no cause for concern.

  Unfortunately for the man on screen, his next reaction was a lot less acceptable.

  ‘What the hell are you doing here?’

  The way the words were delivered. The way the sergeant
looked directly at Sarah Truman as he spoke. The way his tone switched from outrage to annoyed recognition. They all rang alarm bells in Dempsey’s mind.

  These people knew each other.

  The telling lapse ended as soon as it had begun. The sergeant turned his attention to Jack Maguire. Loudly demanded him to leave, as if he had no idea of who either reporter was. But Dempsey knew what he had seen and heard.

  The footage continued in the face of the officer’s anger. Ignoring his orders to leave, Sarah forced a question. A question which injected life back into Dempsey’s tiring mind.

  ‘Sergeant, can you confirm that Eamon McGale met and consulted with a legal representative in this building just hours before his death?’

  The question hit Dempsey like a shockwave.

  The official line was clear. McGale had seen and spoken to no one before taking his own life. That a reporter thought otherwise would not usually convince Dempsey that he had been misled. But these circumstances were far from usual. In all likelihood the cameraman behind this piece was dead, while the reporter who had asked the question was last seen clinging to the back of a motorcycle as she fled a gunman. That alone made it a query that demanded an answer.

  Dempsey’s surprise distracted him from the next few lines. But his attention returned in time to hear what came next:

  ‘Sergeant, when we spoke yesterday you informed me that Eamon McGale’s lawyer had been selected. Shortly after that Daniel Lawrence, a defence lawyer, arrived at this station. He stayed here for almost two hours. There was only one person in custody during those hours, and so only one reason for Daniel Lawrence to be here: Mr Lawrence was the lawyer you mentioned and he did meet with Eamon McGale. That’s right, isn’t it?’

  The familiar name pricked Dempsey’s ears. Daniel Lawrence. It was a name he knew. Or at least recognised. A name connected, in fact, to something he had seen in the last few minutes. His mind searched through its own internal files as his eyes returned to the screen.

  ‘Are you aware, Sergeant, that after leaving your station Daniel Lawrence was killed in a supposed car accident? On the very same night that Eamon McGale allegedly took his own life? Doesn’t that seem just a bit suspicious to a detective such as yourself?’

  The sergeant had been unable to hide his reaction. At least at first. The news of Daniel Lawrence’s death had been a shock. That much was clear, and alone would have been interesting. It was made all the more so by his obvious effort to then hide his shock and feign outrage.

  Dempsey had looked many guilty men in the eyes over the course of his career. None had been more transparent than the man he now watched.

  As telling as the image was, it did not remain for long. The camera wielded by Jack Maguire instead took in the details of the floor, ceiling and walls as he was roughly escorted from the building. With pavement now filling the screen, Dempsey again heard the word ‘perfect’ as the monitor went black.

  The light cast by the footage died. But Dempsey did not move. His mind was in overdrive considering the meaning of what he had seen. White Suit squirmed in his seat under the agent’s apparent stare. It was unnecessary. Dempsey was not even seeing him. His mind was much too busy.

  And then it stopped.

  After minutes of motionless thought, Dempsey became a flurry of activity. He moved away from the screens and back to the paperwork he had earlier dismissed. File after file was thrown aside as he scanned for the name he had just heard. His trained eye quickly found what he was looking for.

  Sarah Truman had used the name ‘Daniel Lawrence’, the same name as had appeared on one of the manila envelopes that had been strewn across the floor of the van. In just seconds that paperwork was in Dempsey’s hands. He opened its outer jacket. Scanned the front page at a glance. He was interested in only one thing. The photograph of Daniel Lawrence that was attached by a single paperclip.

  Dempsey tore it from the folder.

  ‘Can you make a copy of that recording using the equipment in this van?’ Dempsey asked.

  ‘Well that’s exactly what this van’s for, so yeah,’ White Suit winced at his own sarcasm. He seemed to instantly regret it.

  Dempsey had not noticed.

  ‘OK. I want you to make me a copy, and then bag the original up as evidence. Exhibit it as having been retrieved by you. Make no mention of me.’

  Dempsey turned to look at White Suit before continuing. His intense gaze made it clear that his next words were no request.

  ‘Don’t speak to anyone about what’s on that recording, or anything you’ve seen in here. Just get me a copy, bag the original and then forget all about the last ten minutes.’

  These final words echoed in White Suit’s ears as Dempsey exited the van and closed the sliding door behind him.

  Henley noticed Dempsey step out and walk back towards the house. Henley followed into the blackened lounge. Dempsey was already there, crouched over a small pile of charcoaled items that were heaped together near the corner of the room. He watched as Dempsey flicked away the broken remains of a smouldering wooden frame to expose the photograph that had recently sat inside it.

  Henley moved closer, to Dempsey’s shoulder. From here he could see the photograph. It showed two young men in full morning dress. The dazed look in the eyes of the shorter man suggested that, of the two, it was his wedding day being recorded.

  Dempsey held the picture carefully with his left hand and raised his right alongside it. The photograph he had taken from the Lawrence file was undamaged and the comparison was obvious.

  Dempsey looked from one image to the other. A perfect match. The shorter man in the burned picture – standing next to a taller blond man who matched the description earlier given of Michael Devlin – was undoubtedly Daniel Lawrence.

  It was the connection Dempsey had been looking for. A connection he would not share. Dempsey had had no choice but to include Henley in his illusory suspension. If he had not then he would have been denied access to Lonsdale Square. Henley had proved himself worthy of that trust, but it had its limits. As always, Dempsey would disclose only what he had to. And right now, the picture in his hand was for his eyes only.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  Joshua stood bare-chested in the marbled bathroom of his hotel room. The artificially lit mirror highlighted every blackening contour of his battered body.

  Michael had been wrong in thinking that his efforts had not had an effect. Few had the ability to disarm a man of Joshua’s skill. Fewer still had the strength to put him on the back foot. Michael had managed both. Joshua was hurt. But what made him special was the ability to ignore pain and injury. They were for later. Now he was dealing with the consequences.

  A dark circular bruise prominent on his pale torso hinted at a broken rib; the result of Michael Devlin’s opening body-charge. The pain had been significant but it had not slowed him down. The same was not true of what had followed. Thanks to the protection of his bike leathers the gash that had needed five stitches between his right wrist and forearm was the most visible injury caused by Devlin’s dog, but not the worst.

  Using a pair of medical scissors he snipped the remaining length of the stitch. This was not the first time Joshua had put himself back together. He could rival most ER doctors with a needle and medical dressing. It did not need his full attention. Nor would it get it. His mind was on something a whole lot more important.

  Doubts had set in from the moment he had failed to kill McGale. Doubts made all the worse by his honest assessment of himself. Joshua could not have expected Dempsey’s appearance in Trafalgar Square. But was it an excuse? Would it have stopped him in the past?

  It was not a question Joshua could answer, but he suspected he knew the truth. Especially now, after tonight. The opportunity had been there to tie every loose end up in one go. To pull himself out of this mess. Yet he had managed to kill just one of three unarmed targets. Poor statistics for even the most inexperienced assassin; for him they were nothing less than unacceptable.
/>
  With his medical dressing in place, Joshua moved from the bathroom to the bedroom. The feel of the thin carpet replaced the cold stone on the soles of his feet. The relaxing effect of alcohol beckoned.

  Joshua removed a single glass tumbler. A bottle of forty-year-old Bruichladdich whisky sat on the nearby table. One of the few tastes he had developed in the course of his lucrative career was for costly liquor. It was to a bottle of one of the world’s most expensive malts that he now turned.

  He added the slightest dash of water to a large measure of the Scotch, to open the flavours. Any more – or, God forbid, ice – would be sacrilege. Done, Joshua tapped the glass north, south, east and west before picking it up. Another compulsion, another small price to pay for the advantages his condition had given him.

  Lighting a Marlboro, he sat back into the room’s single lounge chair and faced the panoramic sixth-floor window. The pain in his shoulder as it pressed against the stiff back of the chair only reminded him of his failure. Of how the second part of his plan – the murder of Michael Devlin and Sarah Truman – had gone so badly wrong.

  Devlin had clearly heard the bike’s engine. But the man was just a lawyer. How could he have possibly recognised what was happening in time to prevent it? And how the hell had he disarmed one of the world’s most highly trained killers?

  The fight that followed had put things into some perspective. While Devlin had shown more heart than almost anyone Joshua had ever faced, he had still been outclassed. But still, an amateur had caught Joshua off-guard. Had met him head-on. Disarmed him. Broken his rib. And, worst of all, he had done all this and he had escaped alive. It meant one of two things. Either Joshua was losing his touch or there was more to Michael Devlin than met the eye. Joshua hoped it was the latter, and feared that it was both.

  The ringtone had become the bane of his existence.

  It rang out at an hour that was much the wrong side of midnight. Far later than Joshua had expected, it interrupted his disturbed sleep. Too groggy to question why Stanton would call so late, he detected an unfamiliar pace in the usually measured speed of voice. It suggested something, but what? Anger? Fear? Excitement?