The Sound Of Crying

by Nigel Cooper

  Time to find out what that building is and do a recce of it. Conveniently, several young people – male and female, early twenties, students perhaps – walked past Helen towards the park. Thinking quickly on her feet, she followed them, caught up and walked, almost amongst them, along the footpath of Jesus Green. Stanton would not recognise Helen anyway, not with her jeans, newly dyed black hair, large sunglasses and a black hoodie, hood up even though it was sunny. However, why draw attention to yourself when you can blend in with a bunch of similarly dressed people.

  As they headed along the path, Helen glanced left to check Stanton out. He wasn’t looking in her adopted group's direction, he was looking over to his left, towards the young boys as they laughed, shouted and played football. It crossed her mind that Stanton might actually be in sexual predator mode, thinking about his next little victims. The evil fucker wasn’t going to get that chance again, ever, not if Helen Kramer had anything to do with it.

  After about fifty meters, Helen separated from the group and picked up her pace, heading further down the footpath, passing mothers, children and dogs, along the way. As she approached the north side of the park more and more people were eating ice creams of some sort or another from the ice cream kiosk next to the river – next to that she also clocked what looked like a CCTV camera close to the top of a lamppost, she wasn’t a hundred per cent about this, but she had to assume that it was, and that this ‘big brother’ was working and keeping an eye on things in the immediate vicinity. Even though she’d done a lot to change her appearance: her clothes, make-up, hair colour and, when in public, the way she walked and her deportment, she always – when in public places where there could be CCTV cameras – kept her large dark glasses on, her hoodie up, or wore her beret and tilted her head downwards to avoid being picked up by such technology. Helen was always aware of her surroundings, especially CCTV cameras – even those that were mounted higher up – via her peripheral vision, she noticed everything. She walked past the ice cream parlour and up onto the footbridge and as soon as she started to cross the river she recognised the building as the Job Centre. Yes, it had four floors, including the ground floor, and it had a convenient flat roof – convenient for a sniper anyway. But how would Helen be able to get up there, to take a shot across the park at Stanton?

  At the other side of the bridge she paused by at the zebra crossing on Chesterton Road and looked up at the roof aloft the Job Centre building. She looked up and down Chesterton Road, this was definitely the tallest building around so she doubted – once on the roof – that anybody else would have a more elevated position so the chances of being spotted up there would be slim to none.

  She noticed a permanent metal ladder bolted to the wall that led from the top of the building to a smaller rooftop section, potentially giving even more elevation. There also appeared to be a brick shed with a flagpole on it, with what looked like a wooden door at the front that led out onto the flat roof.

  She spent ten minutes walking around all four sides of the building and, from what she could gather, there was no clear way up onto the roof, at least not from the outside. It would appear that access to the flat roof would have to be gained from inside the building – her first obstacle; time to put her thinking cap on.

  She walked up to the main glass doors at the front of the Job Centre building, then she paused outside briefly before entering. She noticed a security guard pacing up and down in the lobby area. She timed her entrance, waiting until he was over to the right and facing the other way. She pushed the glass door open, then quickly nipped through the door to the left to follow the JOB CENTRE FIRST FLOOR sign, which obviously now led upstairs. She pushed through the door and didn’t even look back towards the security man; she just waltzed right on over to the door, opened it, and walked through as if she owned the place. She figured if she just walked on through with total confidence, as if she was supposed to be there and knew exactly where she was going, then people generally didn’t ask any questions. In this case, she was right, the staff at the various desks on the ground floor didn’t give her a second look.

  She made her way up the stairs, hood up and dark glasses on, which was just as well as she spotted a security CCTV camera in the corner of the stairwell on her way up to the first floor. The Job Centre department was through a door to the right, but Helen kept going up to the next floor, even though there was a clear sign reading, NO ACCESS BEYOND THIS POINT – STAFF ONLY. At the second floor, where she was not supposed to be, the only door up there had a numerical security keypad for access, which she did not have the code for. She looked through the small glass window of the door and – from what she could see, and using her built in sense of direction – she figured that access to the flat roof would almost certainly have to be through there somewhere.

  It was a little risky, she knew it, but there were hardly options in abundance here. Helen kept up her façade of being an author of fiction, researching a novel (as she had with Accuracy International and Peter Jackson) when she went back down to the ground floor to speak with the security man in the lobby.

  ‘Hello,’ she said, having removed her sunglasses as she paced up to him. A risk she had to take, but her black hair and new style of eye make-up had changed her appearance enough, and she made a point of keeping her head tilted down slightly and her back to the CCTV in the camera up in the corner over her right shoulder.

  ‘How can I help you?’ he said.

  ‘I have something of an unorthodox request and I’m not sure who to ask. I’m an author of fiction and I’m doing some research for a novel I’m writing and, if at all possible, I was wondering if I could get access to the roof for a moment, so I can check out the view from up there.’

  ‘I’m not sure about that, I’d have to check with the landlord of the building.’

  ‘Of course, could you do that please?’

  ‘Certainly, you’re actually in luck, he’s on site today, I’ll call him for you,’ he said, walking off to use a phone on a nearby desk.

  He returned a moment later, said, ‘He’ll be here in a moment, he’s in the CSC office just around the side of the building.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Not even a minute had passed and a suited man in his thirties walked through the main door. The security man met him, said, ‘This is the lady.’

  ‘So, you’re an author?’ he said.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you’d like to gain access to the flat roof for research I understand?’

  ‘Well, if it’s at all possible, I’d only need a second or two, just to confirm the view from up there, I can only guess from down here. Of course I could always use artistic licence, but I always like to be as thorough and authentic as I can with my writing.’

  ‘Well, it sounds exciting, what’s it about?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Your novel?’

  ‘Oh, it’s a thriller,’ she said, hoping there wouldn’t be any follow up questions.

  ‘Well, everybody enjoys a good thriller,’ he said, ‘I can take you up there myself if you like, if it will only take a minute,’ he said.

  ‘That would be wonderful, thank you so much.’

  ‘Ok, follow me,’ he said, heading through the door that Helen had already been through a few minutes earlier. She followed him up the stairs, sticking close and keeping her head down when she passed the CCTV camera in the stairwell. When they got to the second floor she watched over his shoulder as he punched in a four-digit code: 1689. The security keypad on the door had protruding metal buttons, which obviously required some pressing as he pushed each one methodically, making it easy for her to see which numbers he’d pressed. 1689, 1689, 1689, she repeated in her head, over and over, so as not to forget it.

  She followed him along the corridor until they reached a door on the right with a sign on it reading, TO ROOF. This door also had a numerical security pad, but luckily for Helen, she would not have to try and remember a second number as he punched in
1689 again.

  She noted that there were not many people on this floor, if any, a few perhaps in the offices further down the corridor. He led her up some narrow stairs – more dusty and rustic now, suggesting this stairway was not in regular use – to the top. At the top he opened the wooden door via the single Yale lock lever, then, while holding the lever down, he flipped the little toggle – struggling as it was quite stiff – into the secure open position, ‘Wouldn’t want to get locked out here, would we,’ he joked, while checking the Yale lock catch had secured before pushing the door open. ‘I can’t remember the last time I came up here,’ he said.

  ‘I don’t suppose anybody has much need to come up on the roof?’ she enquired.

  ‘No, rarely, if ever, just the odd spot of maintenance on the flat roof due to weather damage, once a year perhaps.’ Good, she thought.

  She followed him out onto the roof, which was white, almost blinding as it reflected the sunlight, it was just as blinding looking down at it as it was looking up at the sun in the sky. She walked forward to access the view, and her potential shooting position.

  ‘Don’t go to close to the edge,’ he said, sticking right by her side, as if ready to grab her arm should she venture too far forward. She stopped well short of the edge and looked across the park. She could just about – it was so far away, about 400 meters perhaps – see the bench over in the far south corner of Jesus Green, the bench where Stanton sat at noon each day to eat his lunch. It was perfect, she could see across Chesterton Road, across the river Cam, through the handy gap in the large trees, and right across the open park to the bench, she had a perfect line of sight. She also looked up and down Chesterton Road, the houses either side, then to her sides and behind her. All the other houses and buildings were smaller than the Job Centre building, with less floors, so nobody could possibly see her up here.

  ‘Well, does it work for your thriller?’

  ‘Absolutely, it’s perfect, thank you. I’ve seen enough.’

  He led her back down the stairs to the main entrance.

  Success.

  Chapter 25

  Helen

  ‘Hi,’ I said, as I gave Peter a smile, a hug and a kiss. Peter had invited me back to Bisley Camp shooting range in Surrey, which I’d happily accepted. Peter is often at the range, training, consulting, or just practicing himself. Our dinner date in St Albans went really well, in fact Peter and I have since been out on a second dinner date, which also went well. I don’t feel good about using Peter like this, leading him down the garden path with my fake romantic involvement, but it’s the only way, I have one thing on my mind right now and one thing only, and that’s avenging my children’s murders, getting revenge; if the so-called justice system won’t get justice, I’ll get it myself, on my terms, my way.

  Accidently falling in love with Peter simply won’t happen, nor will any kind of emotional attachment, at least not on my part. A relationship – love, feelings, the so-called honeymoon period – and all the emotional stuff that goes with it will never come into the equation in this case. Since my precious boys were snatched from Priory Park over a year ago something inside me just stopped working – certain emotions, feelings and characteristics ¬– they simply shut down and I became numb inside. I’d since become incapable of showing any recognisable human emotion, except for hate and revenge.

  Since I found out that my children had been murdered certain emotions and feelings inside me have died altogether and I’m not sure if they will ever come back to life. So, as far as Peter Jackson is concerned, I can smile at him, make polite conversation, have dinner with him, kiss him, fuck him, whatever it takes to get what I need: his rifle, ammo and the training to use it.

  The fact that my feelings and emotions have shut down, for the most part, makes what I’m doing here all the easier. Later, perhaps, I’ll apologise to Peter for using him like this. But, for now, I must press on, stay on track and keep my plan.

  ‘I’m glad you came,’ said Peter.

  ‘Me too, I really enjoyed it last time I was down here.’

  ‘Well, you certainly took to it like a duck to water. I’m really glad that you’re so enthusiastic about it too. It’s quite rare.’

  ‘A woman, you mean?’ I said, smiling.

  ‘Well, there are quite a few women who belong to gun clubs, but there aren’t many women around here, practicing 600-yard long-range sniper shots and there certainly aren’t any who can shoot as well, or as attractive.’

  ‘Flattery will get you everywhere. Anyway, I’ve found something that I really enjoy.’ Peter smiled at this. He wasn’t exactly what I’d call a lonely man, but it was obvious that he loved that I was enthusiastic about his profession, that he loved so much.

  ‘I really enjoyed having dinner with you again the other night,’ he said.

  ‘I know,’ I said, smiling.

  ‘Perhaps … well, if it’s not too soon … I mean, if you’re ok about it … maybe—’

  ‘Were you this shy with the targets in your scopes when you were on all those tours?’ I said, joking. He let out a little laugh. ‘Just ask,’ I said, giving him a huge smile.

  ‘Well, how would you like to come and have dinner at my house?’

  ‘I’d love to, can we go and shoot some rounds now?’ I joked.

  ‘Of course.’

  When Peter asked me if I’d like to do some more shooting at Bisley, I asked if I could try shooting at a lesser range than the 600 yards we were shooting at last time, I’d asked him if we could do 400 yards this time around. ‘Of course,’ he’d said, without even questioning my reasons, he was just happy that I was going to be there with him again. However, I did have a reason, a very specific reason, for asking Peter if we could shoot from 400 yards. After I learned that Derek Stanton sits on the bench and has his packed lunch in the south corner of Jesus Green every day at noon and after I’d done a recce on the Job Centre building on Chesterton Road I went back to my rented room and got on the internet to do a little more research. I downloaded the Google Earth app for my iPad and, using its Line Ruler tool, I drew a straight line between the Job Centre roof and the bench at the opposite corner of the park and it measured 394 yards, or 362 meters. I had to remember to keep doing the conversions. I generally think in meters, but Bisley Camp shooting range, the old part being pre WW1, still uses the old imperial measuring system i.e. yards. When shooting distances and ballistics come into play, it’s vital that I get this conversion right because if I mistake yards for meters there would be a difference of 32 meters, which could make a tiny difference to the accuracy of the shot, especially if there was a lot of wind.

  Having done a few tests with Google Earth, I knew it was pretty damn accurate with regard to distances when using the Line Ruler tool. I’d also gone onto Google and typed in Cambridge, then Maps then, Street View and looked at the angles from there also. It all looked pretty good, a distance of 362 meters would be a breeze for me as I’d already shown, at Bisley with Peter, that I could hit a target the size of a mango from 600 yards, five times in a row with a seriously impressive grouping. The distance from the Job Centre roof to the park bench where Stanton would be eating his lunch is 200 yards closer than my previous shots at Bisley. Realistically, wind permitting, with my natural talent for long-range shots, I should be able to send a bullet into his mouth and out through the base of his neck, severing the spinal cord just below the brain.

  I wanted to get a feel for shooting the mango-size target from 400 yards at Bisley, in preparation for my planned shot across Jesus Green. Sure, Bisley was flat and barren and the only things between the shooter and the targets were strategically placed wind flags. My shooting position in Cambridge will be urban and I’ll be shooting from a slightly elevated position, an angle of 5 degrees according to my calculations. I’ll also be shooting across a main road, the river Cam, through a gap in some large trees, then a further 270 yards or so across the open park to the far corner. And, on top of all that, there will be
people in the vicinity, walking along the footpath and grass, and it’s possible that there could be children playing football as close as fifty feet from where Stanton will be sitting, and then there are some terraced houses directly behind the park bench too. Based on the talks I’d had with Peter about sniping and ballistics stuff (hardly romantic talk over dinner I know, but he didn’t seem to mind, in fact he positively relished in it), shooting in an urban environment is quite different to shooting on an open range. 600 meters seems much further away in an urban environment compared to the flat open space of Bisley Camp shooting range. However, shooting at 400 yards at Bisley would be a good start, at least I’d get a feel for the mango-sized target in the scopes and, as it’s 200 yards closer than the last time I was here with Peter, my groupings should be closer together too.

  Peter suggested that we hop into his Land Rover and drive down the range a little to save walking. Not that is was much of a walk, three hundred yards or so, but Peter had checked his weather app and said that there was a chance of rain. He figured a fifty yard run to the car would be better than a three hundred yard run if it did suddenly pour down; I agreed.

  We arrived at our spot, range 74, at the 400-yard range. Peter and I chatted while he laid down a padded ground sheet on the grass and set up the rifle, setting the bi-pod on the grass a few inches in front of the padded ground sheet.