‘Tell you what to do, Doug. Ask Helen to photocopy every one of my client sheets, then roll them up tightly and shove them up your arse.’
Notley put the phone down, the hint of a smile on his face. The perfect goodbye. Now he could concentrate on his preparations. The first order of the day was to take a shower, and he dwelled under the hot water for half an hour, letting the intense spray wash over him. He thought about Marian, as he did every day, and for the first time in weeks, a sense of calm overwhelmed him.
He would soon be with her again.
After dressing, he had a light breakfast, and then drove to the high street, where he purchased a bouquet of lilies from the florist. From there, it was a twenty-minute drive to the cemetery.
Marian’s grave was situated near a fence, and to the right of it was an empty plot. He’d purchased them both after her death, so that he could be buried next to her when his time came.
That time was drawing near.
‘I got you these,’ Notley said, laying the flowers next to her headstone. ‘Your favourites.’
He spent the next half an hour telling her about how he’d spent his time since his last visit, culminating in his phone call to the office.
‘So this is it, sweet. Today’s the day. Just a few more hours and that bastard will be dead and we’ll be together again.’
The bastard in question was Oliver King, who held the position of health secretary in Her Majesty’s Government.
Notley didn’t blame the surgeon who’d operated on Marian, or the nurses who’d provided her aftercare. He didn’t even blame the hospital administrators. No, Oliver King was the man solely responsible for Marian’s death, thanks to his push to privatise the National Health Service. Over the last few years, the changes the government had put in place were designed to ensure the public service failed, paving the way for full privatisation and an insurance-funded healthcare system similar to that in the US.
The contract for musculoskeletal surgery had been awarded to a private company, who had then controversially subcontracted it back to the hospital, but only after ensuring a sizeable chunk of the £230 million contract was kept back as profit. That had resulted in staffing levels being cut to the bone, and when Marian had suffered internal bleeding during the night, the warning signs were not spotted.
What should have been a routine hip replacement resulted in her death, and the coroner had highlighted a catalogue of errors. The hospital trust had been held ultimately responsible, but Notley knew where the actual blame lay.
Tonight, he would have his chance to make the health secretary pay for his actions.
It hadn’t taken long to discover a public engagement that King would be attending. Notley had spent a couple of hours visiting government websites and reading online health journals before discovering the business dinner with the Tagrilistani president. King had announced it as an opportunity for Britain’s specialist healthcare providers to share their expertise with their new trade partners, and he would be one of three ministers attending the event.
Notley didn’t care about the other two. He was just thankful that the prime minister wouldn’t be in attendance, as security would have been much tighter.
He said his farewells to his wife, promising to see her soon, then drove back to his house and prepared an early lunch. At two in the afternoon, he took a bus into the heart of the city and walked down to the river. A biting wind fought him all the way, and he was exhausted by the time he reached his destination.
What he saw there made his heart slump.
More than twenty people were already gathered near the steps leading up to the hotel, and a few were holding placards adorned with Cyrillic lettering. Most of them were chatting, sharing a hot brew from a Thermos flask, while a couple chanted in Russian, their target being the four policemen standing a few yards away.
It was clearly a pro-Russian protest, and Notley could only assume these were the advance party. Many more would turn up before the dinner guests started to arrive, putting a huge dent in his ideas. Security would undoubtedly be stepped up, making it almost impossible to get close enough to his target.
The protesters were contained behind a set of crowd-control interlocking barriers, and another set had been erected on the opposite side of the entrance. Notley guessed the entire building would be cordoned off by the time the dignitaries arrived. He hadn’t factored any of this into his plan, but he was a quick thinker and it wasn’t long before he realised his only chance would be to get in among the protesters.
He took out his phone and surreptitiously photographed the scene, making sure to get a good shot of the placards. He then walked farther along the street before checking his camera work. He was able to clearly make out the writing, so replicating the banner shouldn’t be a problem.
Notley flagged down a taxi and had it take him home, where he immediately went to his garden shed and gathered everything he would need to complete his mission.
Ellis watched the minute hand of the wall clock tick towards twelve; she was acutely aware that time was running out. The guests for the business dinner would be arriving in four hours and her team were no closer to revealing the sniper’s identity than they had been yesterday.
Out on the main floor her people were still hard at work, but she felt they were fighting a losing battle as time wore inexorably on.
Elaine Solomon caught her eye as she put down her phone and pushed her chair backwards. She strode towards Ellis’s office, carrying a couple of sheets of paper.
‘What have you got?’ Ellis asked.
‘A woman was found dead at a London hotel this morning,’ Solomon said, handing over one of the reports.
Ellis rubbed her temple. ‘Tell me why this has been passed to us, now of all times.’
‘She was killed with a garrotte,’ Solomon told her. ‘The Met ran the MO against the national database and came up empty, so they sent a request to Interpol. That’s what came back.’
Ellis looked at the printout in her hand, and saw seven matching murders. Each had taken place in a different country, over a period of three years.
‘So the killer gets around,’ Ellis said. ‘What does it have to do with us?’
‘I called Interpol’s headquarters in Lyon for more information, and they think the same man is responsible for all those deaths. They found the same DNA at each of the scenes. They also sent this.’
She gave her boss the second sheet of paper, and Ellis saw that it was a list of assassinations that had taken place over the last eight years. All had been carried out by a sniper and some of them were highlighted in yellow.
‘I marked the ones that are of interest to us,’ Solomon said. ‘Check the dates.’
Ellis compared the two sheets. ‘These women were all killed within forty-eight hours of the assassinations.’
‘Exactly. Interpol thinks the sniper is behind the murders of the women, which means he could be here.’
Ellis read through the printouts again, then turned them over. ‘It doesn’t say who he is?’
‘That’s the downside,’ Solomon conceded. ‘We have his DNA from the murder scene, but it doesn’t match any record in the world. The guy’s never been arrested.’
‘It’s a start, though,’ Ellis said, the wheels turning quickly in her head. ‘Drop everything you’re doing and concentrate on this lead. I want you to get flight records for the forty-eight hours after each assassination, then match them with all flights into the UK over the past seven days.’
‘Someone who moves around this much is bound to have more than one identity,’ Solomon pointed out.
‘True, but probably not an infinite number of them. Chances are he has used one twice. If he did, go through airport CCTV and find him.’
Solomon trotted back to her desk and gave the rest of the team their new orders, while Ellis picked up her phone and dialled Gerald Small’s extension. She asked him to pop into her office and he arrived thirty seconds later.
‘We need to match some DNA,’ she said, ‘but can’t afford to wait hours for the results to come back. Any ideas?’
‘I think the Met has a unit that can be transported in the back of a car.’
‘How quickly does it display a match?’
‘It can take hours, depending on the size of the database it’s searching,’ Small said.
‘What if we only wanted to match against a known sample?’
‘In that case, a minute or so.’
We could have done with one at Bessonov’s place, Ellis thought.
‘Call the Met and ask if we can borrow it. If they give you any problems, put them through to me.’
As soon as Small left, Ellis placed a call to Oscar Rendell, commander of SO1, and told him what they’d learned in the last few minutes.
Solomon popped her head into the office and held up a piece of paper.
‘Hold on, Oscar,’ Ellis said, bidding her enter.
‘A description of our killer,’ Solomon said. ‘The girl worked at a brothel in Soho and the manager got a good look at him, as did the receptionist at the hotel.’
Ellis thanked her and returned to her call. ‘Our suspect is male, six feet tall, late fifties to early sixties, with a large, red bulbous nose and a black beard. They found his blood and skin under her nails, so there’s a chance his face is wounded.’
‘I’ll tell my men to keep an eye out for him,’ Rendell said.
‘This guy has managed to stay off the radar for the best part of a decade,’ Ellis said, ‘so assume he knows a thing or two about disguises. We’re working on finding a portable DNA device and I’d like to deploy it near those buildings.’
‘Given what you’ve just told me, I think we can bump this up to a credible threat. I’ll throw some more bodies into the mix. When will the DNA gadget arrive?’
‘I’ll get back to you on that. For the time being, let your men know what they’re looking for. There’s no telling when he’ll turn up.’
‘Will do.’
‘And Oscar, please keep this low-key. If he sees the place swarming with armed police, he’ll probably walk away. We need to catch this guy.’
Ellis hung up, and for the first time in days she felt they had the advantage. If they could apprehend the sniper, there’d be a good chance of finding a money trail to prove that Bessonov had paid for the hit. That worm still wasn’t cooperating, but the more she could throw at him the better the chance of something sticking.
Her phone rang, and she snatched it up. ‘Ellis.’
‘The Met said we can have the DNA unit. They just need to know where to deploy it.’
Ellis gave Small the instructions, then created a summary and fired it off to the home secretary’s office before locking her computer and walking to Solomon’s desk.
‘I need you to send SO1 a copy of the DNA found at the hotel as soon as possible. I’ll be gone for some time, but if anything comes up, call me on my mobile.’
Ellis swiped her way out of the office and took the elevator down to the car park. She had a couple of hours to kill before she had to pick Harvey up from the airport, so she thought it a good time to thank Greminov for his help in getting her agent home safely.
It was a two-minute drive to the ambassador’s residence, and when she turned into the street she found it blocked by civilians holding placards and chanting in Russian. She remembered that President Milenko was staying there during his trip, and these people were obviously trying to persuade him not to go ahead with the trade deal.
Fat chance, she thought, though it would be good to offer her thanks to the president, too.
She left her car parked on double yellow lines and pushed her way through the crowd. When she reached the front, she saw several armed police officers, and none of them looked relaxed.
Ellis edged out of the throng with her ID raised, and an officer approached her. After studying her credentials, he made a call over his radio, then waved her through once the reply came.
The door to the residence was already open by the time she reached it, and the same attaché showed her up to Greminov’s office.
As the double doors opened she saw the ambassador sitting behind his opulent desk, with President Milenko standing at his side.
‘Miss Ellis,’ Greminov said, remaining in his seat. ‘How fortunate that you should pay us a visit.’
Sarcasm dripped from every word, and Ellis was immediately on her guard.
‘I just came to thank you – both of you – for helping to bring Andrew Harvey home. It really is greatly appreciated.’
‘It was the least we could do,’ Milenko said, ‘given the threats you made.’
‘Mr President, I apologise for the way I communicated my—’
Milenko raised a hand to silence her, and Ellis felt the presence of another person entering the room.
She turned and found herself face-to-face with John Maynard.
‘Take a seat,’ the home secretary said, and pointed to a leather sofa on the right-hand side of the room.
Ellis could tell the minister was pissed and did as she was told.
‘You’ve kicked up one hell of a shitstorm,’ Maynard said. ‘You had strict instructions to drop the matter, but instead you send a bunch of mercenaries into a sovereign nation and give the Russians a bloody nose. Can you imagine what that has done for already strained relations? President Demidov is accusing Britain of numerous acts of war, and they’ve already expelled our ambassador in Moscow. Oh, and just for good measure, the forces they pulled out of Tagrilistan last week are storming back into the country in even greater numbers, and this time they’re not even pretending it’s an aid convoy. In short, you’ve moved us to the brink of World War Three.’
Ellis had expected some sort of backlash, but not this. The possibility of an escalation had always been in the back of her mind, but she hadn’t envisaged the Russians making such a bold statement. Openly sending troops into Tagrilistan showed real intent, and it wasn’t something the international community could readily ignore.
She could deny any knowledge of Gray’s actions, but that would do him and his men a great disservice. They’d put themselves in harm’s way to save Harvey, and deserved recognition rather than being fed to the wolves.
‘I’m sure it’s just posturing,’ Ellis said. ‘I believe the recent withdrawal was tactical and was only ever going to be temporary.’
‘If only that were true,’ Maynard said. ‘They’re sending in enough firepower to destroy Tagrilistan twice over, and this time they’re massing fighter-bombers near the border. There are already reports of intense fighting inside the country, and President Milenko’s casualties are rising rapidly by the hour. The PM wanted to give you an earful personally, but he had to convene an emergency COBRA meeting to try to deal with this crisis.’
‘Then perhaps the first thing he should do is advise Demidov that we know about his plan to assassinate President Milenko this evening.’
Milenko looked at her quizzically, then turned his attention to Maynard. ‘And just when did you intend to inform me of this?’
‘That was the reason for my visit, Mr President,’ Maynard said, taking a printout from his briefcase. ‘We have unconfirmed reports that an as-yet-unidentified assassin may have been tasked with killing you. It has been suggested that Russia is behind the contract, though we have no direct proof at this moment in time.’
‘It sounds very much like the threats I receive each day,’ Milenko said. He looked at Ellis. ‘Would I be correct in assuming you came up with this . . . information?’
‘Yes, Mr President. My team—’
‘Miss Ellis,’ Milenko said sharply, cutting her off as he walked around the desk. ‘It seems very convenient that just before you are caught red-handed sending armed forces into my country, you concoct this story to justify your actions. Unconfirmed report? Unidentified assassin? I think I’ve heard enough.’ The president turned to Maynard. ‘I trust I can leave it to you to d
eal with this woman?’
‘Sir, this is a real threat,’ Ellis said, getting to her feet.
‘Enough!’ Maynard said. He took out his phone and thumbed through the contacts until he found the person he needed. ‘This is John Maynard. I want you to revoke all access and privileges for Veronica Ellis, effective immediately.’ He turned to Ellis. ‘This isn’t the first time you’ve gone off the reservation. Consider yourself suspended, pending disciplinary action.’
Ellis was infuriated at their unwillingness to listen, but knew that screaming at them wasn’t going to help her cause.
‘I’ll need to collect some things from my office,’ she said, but the home secretary shook his head.
‘Call one of your subordinates and ask them to pick them up for you. You’re not to visit Thames House until this matter has been dealt with.’
So this is it, she thought, though in truth it wasn’t that much of a shock. It would have been naïve to expect Tom Gray to bring Harvey home without incident, and any fallout was always going to land on her doorstep. At least Gray managed to bring Harvey home alive; she vowed silently to do all she could to deflect any blame away from Gray and his men.
Without another word, she picked up her bag and walked out of the office and down the stairs; the attaché was waiting to let her out into the street.
She fought her way back through the crowd and climbed into her car, then called Solomon.
‘Maynard has suspended me,’ Ellis said. ‘He’ll probably send over my replacement soon, but in the meantime I want you to keep working on an identity for our sniper.’
‘Oh, Veronica, that’s awful!’
‘No, leaving Andrew stranded in Tagrilistan is awful. I’ll do fine on the lecture circuit and I’ll have plenty of time to write my memoirs. Before I do any of that, though, I want to stick it to Bessonov, so find out who he hired.’
‘We did find a match on two of the assassinations. The same Argentinian passport was used just after each killing, but the last one was so long ago that the CCTV has been wiped. We contacted their consulate and asked for the photo of the applicant, but they have no record of it.’
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