Random Targets

by James Raven

  ‘That’s right. The mayor of London has arranged a special gathering at a church in Catford this Friday to mark the first anniversary of Roth’s death. I’ll be attending myself if I can.’

  ‘Well, Angel won’t be going I’m afraid.’

  ‘And that’s a shame. It would have been good to see her again. She’s a nice person and a fine detective. I hope she soon recovers and I’d appreciate it if you would pass on my best to her.’

  ‘I’ll be glad to,’ Temple said and a second later the screen went blank.

  CHAPTER 28

  THE M25.

  That man-made monstrosity that inspired the Chris Rea hit song Road to Hell.

  One hundred and seventeen miles of grey tarmac encircling London. It’s the busiest motorway in Europe and since opening in 1986 it’s been a nightmare for drivers – constant congestion, endless road works, more traffic than it can cope with.

  This evening’s rush hour was as busy as ever despite the hysteria over the first two attacks. The sniper had positioned himself at a spot between junctions eight and nine, just south of Epsom Downs.

  He was standing behind a clump of bushes on a low embankment, out of reach of the lights on the central reservation. It was an isolated spot, chosen after careful thought. There were a couple of farms in the area, but they were some distance off and concealed by trees and hedges.

  To his right was an area of thick woodland as black as tar. Behind him the embankment descended steeply to a minor country lane that passed beneath the motorway. That was where he’d left the Suzuki motorcycle that would whisk him away from here as soon as the deed was done. He could make good his escape by heading north or south and be miles away before the first emergency crews arrived on the scene.

  A heavy frost was beginning to settle, but despite the cold his back felt warm and wet with sweat. He looked up at the sky, at faint clusters of stars, and he felt his heart beating rapidly.

  He took a long, deep breath and emptied his mind of everything, everything except the job at hand. He looked down on the traffic moving west to east. All four lanes were flowing fast with only about ten yards between most of the glaring sets of headlights.

  As he raised the rifle he felt completely at ease. These killings had become routine. He was just going through the motions; one deadly step at a time until he’d reached his goal. He didn’t feel a thing for his victims. He didn’t know them. They were just a means to an end.

  He flipped the lens cap off the scope and pressed his left eye against it. He willed his heart to slow, breathed out, kept his lungs empty.

  He stared through the scope until the crosshairs settled on a car windscreen. Then he focused on the vague shape beyond it. He counted his heartbeat, corrected for the wind … and pulled the trigger.

  The rifle cracked and bucked against his shoulder.

  Then he flicked the bolt, jacking out the spent cartridge, before homing in on another target.

  CHAPTER 29

  IT WAS 5.30 p.m. when Temple finished briefing the troops. The session had lasted a solid hour because there’d been a lot to get through.

  He told them about Cole Renner and relayed the conversation with DCS Vickery about Yousef Hussain. There was a lukewarm response to the setting up of the task force, but that didn’t surprise him. Like him, the team were wary of losing control of the investigation, but they all understood the reason for it.

  He listened to the various updates and reports. He learned that they were sifting through no less than twenty-four hours’ worth of CCTV footage taken from cameras around the crime scenes on the M27 and M3. They were now trying to make contact with the other men on the list that Greg Savage had produced. But it was slow going under intense pressure.

  After the briefing, Temple called the hospital and was told that Angel was asleep. He asked them to tell her he’d be along later. He didn’t know what time, of course, because that would depend on the sniper.

  Like everyone else Temple was on edge, wondering if there would be another attack on another motorway.

  He had to wait until just after 6 p.m. to find out.

  This time it was the M25 in Surrey.

  The incident room became as still as a cemetery when the news broke. Within seconds every television monitor was tuned to a news channel.

  There was a mixture of shock and relief among the detectives. Shock that it had actually happened and relief that it wasn’t in Hampshire so they didn’t have to rush out to another distressing scene.

  At first the reports just said there had been a serious accident on the motorway. Then it became a multiple crash with many vehicles. Then confirmation that shots had been fired and eyewitnesses were reporting bodies on the carriageway.

  As Temple watched he felt a cold shiver wash over him. How many people would die this time? he wondered. How many wives and husbands would lose their spouses? How many more children would be orphaned? A dark rage flared inside him, like a hard, burning flame.

  ‘We need to catch this bastard,’ DC Marsh said as she stepped up beside him. ‘This is beyond a joke.’

  He turned to look at her. Her face was strained and there were dark smudges of tiredness under her eyes.

  Like everyone else she was totally exhausted. The case was wearing her down and eating into her soul. The job of a murder detective is a test of sanity at the best of times, but this went beyond that. There were so many victims. So many completely pointless deaths. It was impossible to remain professionally detached.

  Beresford came down to the incident room to inform Temple that Vickery was on his way to the M25 where he’d be joining officers from Surrey Police.

  ‘We’re on stand-by,’ he said. ‘If Vickery needs us we’ll respond. In the meantime we crack on with our own enquiries.’

  On TV the newscasters were telling viewers that there was gridlock on the M25 and warning drivers to steer clear of the area. At the same time they were asking the questions that everyone wanted answers to.

  How many people were dead? How many had been shot? Had the sniper got away? How many vehicles were involved?

  Within fifty minutes of the pile-up the first aerial footage was relayed live from a news helicopter. It was a familiar scene: flashing lights, burning cars, heavy smoke, overturned lorries and emergency crews in reflective yellow jackets.

  Then came details about the exact location. Roughly halfway between junctions eight and nine. The eastbound carriageway. South of Epsom downs.

  DS Vaughan ran a search on Google and called Temple over to his computer. They looked first at the map showing the location and then switched to the satellite image. It looked as though the sniper had been positioned on a wooded embankment next to an underpass. They moved on to the ground-level POV image and saw that it was an isolated spot surrounded by woods.

  ‘He’s picked another good place,’ Vaughan said. ‘Well, concealed and quiet. Escape routes to the north and south. He’ll be miles away by now.’

  Information came in throughout the evening direct from officers at the scene and from the TV news teams. By 9 p.m. it was clear that it was the worst attack yet in terms of casualty numbers.

  At least twelve had died – four gunned down when they got out of their vehicles and two shot whilst driving. A family of three had perished in one car when it burst into flames after being hit by a lorry and three others had died when their vehicles collided.

  More than thirty people had been injured, some seriously, and about a hundred vehicles had been involved in the pile-up.

  Beresford took a call from Vickery. The DCS wanted them to know that the sniper had left another message. It was sprayed on a wall of the underpass. It read: Until the next time.

  CHAPTER 30

  ANGEL’S ROOM was filled with soft white light. The air was warm and static and smelled of eucalyptus. As Temple approached the bed, her freckled cheeks lifted with a gentle smile.

  ‘I’m sorry I couldn’t get here sooner,’ he said. ‘But it was impossible
to get away.’

  He kissed her gently and tasted toothpaste on her lips.

  ‘I’ve been following the news,’ she said. ‘I can hardly believe what’s happening.’

  He turned to look at the small TV screen. It was showing a map of the M25. The crawler caption at the bottom read: Third sniper attack. More drivers shot.

  ‘They’re saying he shot people outside their cars again,’ Angel said.

  Temple turned back to her. ‘This guy’s a fucking monster,’ he said. ‘He’s now killed a total of twenty-four people. Twelve of them shot dead.’

  Angel reached for his hand and squeezed his fingers.

  ‘I can see it’s getting to you,’ she said.

  He couldn’t deny it so he just nodded. He was a hard-bitten detective with many years’ experience, but this case was proving to be the biggest challenge of his life. It was twisting him up inside and making him question his faith in humanity. He’d hunted serial killers before. He’d brought rapists and child murderers to justice. But no case had ever crawled under his skin like this one. Nothing he’d encountered in the past had prepared him for what he was now witnessing.

  And it was beginning to show. He cut a dishevelled, rather mournful figure. His eyes were bloodshot and his face was wrinkled with stress lines. His white shirt was crumpled, the tie drooping from the unbuttoned collar.

  ‘How are you feeling, sweetheart?’ he asked her.

  ‘My ribs catch every now and then and it hurts like hell, but the medicine’s a godsend.’

  ‘And the blood clot?’

  ‘I had another scan this morning. It’s unchanged.’

  ‘That’s a relief.’

  She creased her brow. ‘You look tired, Jeff. You need to sleep.’

  In fact he was so tired it felt like sludge was running through his veins. His muscles were heavy and weak and a dull weariness that went beyond exhaustion pervaded his body.

  ‘Have you met your new boss yet?’ she asked.

  ‘You mean Vickery?’

  She nodded.

  ‘We had a conversation via video link,’ he said. ‘He told me you two know each other and he sends his best wishes.’

  ‘We worked together on the Joseph Roth case,’ Angel said.

  ‘I know. Vickery told me. He said he was hoping to see you at Roth’s memorial service.’

  ‘That’s right. This Friday. I had planned to go. It’ll be a big event. Roth was well liked and it was thanks to him that the terrorists were caught.’

  ‘And what was it like working with Vickery?’

  ‘He was OK. A bit cocky, and very direct. But a good copper. What about you? What was your impression?’

  Temple shrugged. ‘I think I’ve already put his back up.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He’s convinced the sniper is an Al Qaeda terrorist. I’m not.’

  He pulled over a chair and sat down. Then he brought her up to date on everything. This time she was more responsive. She listened to what he said and nodded a couple of times. He took this to be a good sign.

  ‘They’re both credible suspects,’ she said. ‘But Vickery’s bound to focus on Hussain because that’s the reason he’s been brought in to head up the task force. I think you’re right to be wary, though. His accomplice might be lying in order to achieve some notoriety.’

  ‘That occurred to me too,’ he said. ‘But I’m also bothered by the messages that have been left. Terrorists don’t usually leave messages. And when they do it usually refers to a jihad or something.’

  ‘Have you raised that with Vickery?’

  ‘Not yet. But I will when we talk next.’

  ‘Then again it might be neither of them,’ Angel said.

  ‘That’s the problem. It could be just about anyone who knows how to fire a rifle – including a screwed-up police marksman.’

  The first thing Temple did when he got home was to pour a large, neat whisky. He downed it in one go and felt his cheeks warming as it spread into his bloodstream. Then he made himself a cheese sandwich and munched on it in front of the television.

  Coverage of the latest attack continued. There were sound bites from emergency crews and survivors. Journalists were reporting live from the motorway and from outside several hospitals. DCS Vickery gave a brief interview in which he described the scene on the motorway as horrendous. He also said he believed the attacks were part of a terror campaign backed by Al Qaeda.

  There were maps and graphics and images showing where the pile-up had occurred and the likely location of the sniper. They ran footage showing armed police on the embankment and in the woods. And there were talking heads in the studio discussing the knock-on effect for drivers and businesses.

  Temple felt a pressure forming behind his eyes. He finished his sandwich and poured another whisky. He thought about what he would do tomorrow and made some notes. He would go and see Renner’s father and also Ryan Addison, the friend whom Renner had called to say he was pissed off with the world and wanted to take it out on someone. Temple needed to forge ahead with this line of inquiry if only to determine whether or not he was wasting his time.

  After a while it was a struggle to stay awake. His thoughts became jumbled and he became aware of a dull ache at the back of his skull. He closed his eyes and slumped back on the sofa. He could still hear the TV and told himself he ought to get up and switch it off before going to bed. But he never got to do it because he quickly slipped into the black treacle of unconsciousness.

  CHAPTER 31

  THURSDAY MORNING AND Temple was driving past the spot on the M27 where the sniper had carried out his first attack. The inside lane was closed as repairs were still underway and a sheet of tarpaulin covered the spray-painted message under the bridge. A single police car was parked next to it, with an officer inside. Another was standing on the embankment with a couple of men in suits.

  For Temple it was a surreal experience, especially as he was listening to the news on the radio about the latest attack on the M25. That stretch of motorway was still shut down and there was traffic chaos. Hundreds of thousands of vehicles were being diverted on to minor roads, causing gridlock in towns and villages.

  The M27 was relatively quiet. It was 10 a.m. so the rush hour was over and Temple was making good time. He had decided to go by himself to Portsmouth to interview Ryan Addison. He’d called his number before leaving home and luckily the former soldier had picked up and agreed to meet him in a café around the corner from his flat.

  Temple had managed just a couple of hours of fragmented sleep on the sofa, but he felt refreshed after a shower and some toast. He still wasn’t sure what to make of the terrorist theory that was gaining momentum. A photo of Yousef Hussain had been released: he was clean-shaven with shoulder-length dark hair and an olive complexion. He was wearing John Lennon glasses and a wry smile. DCS Vickery was telling the media that Hussain was wanted for questioning in connection with the shootings. Temple wasn’t convinced; though he was well aware that terrorists were increasingly varying their tactics in order to heighten the level of shock, these attacks did not bear the hallmarks of an Islamic fundamentalist. Of course this didn’t mean they weren’t being committed by an individual inspired by Al Qaeda ideology.

  Vickery had also announced that more reward money was now being offered for information leading to the sniper. Scotland Yard had agreed to set up a centralized fund into which it could all be put. Contributions had come from businesses, national newspapers, anonymous donors and even the parents of Joseph Roth, the police officer whose memorial service was taking place on Friday. They had offered to put £2,000 into the pot which had already reached a staggering £500,000.

  Temple knew that a big reward would generate a lot of interest and focus the minds of the public. But rewards were also an indication that the police were desperate for help and struggling to move forward with a case.

  The café was close to the naval base in Portsmouth. It was a greasy spoon establishment with lino
on the floor and blue plastic tablecloths.

  There were half a dozen customers, including Ryan Addison, who was sitting next to the window. Temple recognized him immediately from the photograph Greg Savage had provided. In the picture he was in uniform and sporting a crew cut. But now he was wearing a padded lumberjack shirt and his hair looked like it was a month overdue for a trim.

  ‘You must be Mr Addison,’ Temple said as he approached the table.

  The young man was already on his feet and Temple guessed he must be about five foot eight and twelve stone or so.

  ‘That’s me,’ Addison said.

  Temple held out his hand and Addison took it. His grip was firm and his palm felt calloused.

  ‘Thanks for taking the time to see me,’ Temple said.

  ‘D’you want a cuppa?’

  ‘Coffee would be great.’

  Addison got the attention of the woman behind the counter and ordered a coffee and a tea.

  Temple studied him for a moment. He had a lean, wolfish look and there was a dark, brooding intensity in his sunken eyes. Temple had seen the expression in the eyes of other soldiers whose minds had been marked by the horrors of war. It was as though they were reliving the hideous experiences over and over again inside their heads.

  According to Savage’s notes, Addison was twenty-nine and had served three tours of duty in Helmand Province with Four Rifles. He’d received various commendations and seen plenty of action on the front line. Eighteen months ago he’d been made redundant from the army as part of a major cost-cutting exercise by the MOD.

  Temple pulled out a chair and sat down. Addison furrowed his brow and said, ‘So what’s this about, Inspector? You were pretty cagey on the phone.’

  Temple had told him only that he wanted to discuss a former colleague from the army.