The Sound Of Crying

by Nigel Cooper

  If this Natalie woman who stole Peter Jackson’s rifle really was Helen Kramer and if she really was planning to assassinate Derek Stanton by taking a long-range shot at him from the Job Centre roof and, more to the point, if she was going to be taking that shot today, well, all Rhodes could do was hope and pray that she would not be looking to take the shot within seconds of Derek Stanton settling down on that bench for his lunch, otherwise he’d be screwed, or rather Derek Stanton would be.

  Chapter 36

  Derek Stanton came out of his house, lunchbox and flask in hand, closed and locked his front door behind him and headed off along Thompsons Lane. Dean – who’d been sitting on the wall, a few houses along, pondering and thinking about exactly how this was going to play out for the best part of 40 minutes – was suddenly forced into making something of a snap decision. Upon seeing Stanton leave his house, Dean looked around to make sure nobody was watching him, then, when Stanton was 50 meters down the street he got up and followed him.

  Stanton disappeared around the corner as he turned into New Park Street so Dean picked up his pace and jogged down to the corner to catch up. He paused, stuck his head around the corner and saw Stanton walking along. He continued to follow him, only he didn’t cross the road, he figured it would be less obvious if he stayed on the pavement on the opposite side in case Stanton glanced around. Dean clenched his fists, clench release, clench release, as he walked, frustrated, wondering how he was going to do this, should he just walk up behind him and blow his brains out from behind without Stanton even knowing what had happened, no, he wanted to see the fucker’s face, he wanted Stanton to know exactly who he was, then he wanted to see the look on the evil fucker’s face just before he pulled the trigger.

  At the end of New Park Street Stanton turned left, out of sight, forcing Dean to pick up his pace again. He continued to follow Stanton along Lower Park Street where he watched him enter the park, Jesus Green. Dean got to the corner and waited by the last house on the left, his only remaining cover before the open, exposed, space of Jesus Green. Stanton entered the park and turned to walk back towards the fence. Dean quickly ducked back behind the house on the corner to avoid being spotted. His heart was pounding in his chest, adrenaline running like crazy now. He leaned forward and peered around the corner of the house just in time to catch Stanton sitting down on a park bench, his back to him. Dean looked around the park, it was relatively quiet, a few people randomly scattered in the distance and a woman pushing a pram along the footpath that runs across the middle of the park. This is it, the moment of truth, he could do this, all he had to do was walk into the park, walk up to Stanton, pull out the gun and point it at his head at close range, then finally read the evil child-killer his last rites before pulling the trigger.

  The fence that ran along Park Parade was quite low, Dean figured he could hop over it and sneak up behind Stanton, so he wouldn’t see him coming. Stanton wouldn’t know he was there until Dean made his presence known. He took one final look up and down the street and into the various windows of the terraced houses to his right, all clear. He crossed over Park Parade and climbed over the fence. Stanton still had his back to Dean as he prepared his lunch on his lap. Dean took the Baikal pistol out of his waistband and paced, with purpose, towards the bench. Derek Stanton, it’s time to die.

  Chapter 37

  Helen

  It was time, today is the day I’m going to kill Derek Stanton. Last night I’d checked the weather and the conditions were perfect: perfect temperature, perfect humidity, the sun is going to be out with some light silk-like clouds to diffuse and soften the harsh light a little, with little to no wind – a sniper's dream.

  As I drove down to Cambridge from Ely I went through the details of the plan in my head again and I couldn’t find any flaws. There were, however, a couple of things that could possibly thwart the proceedings. If there was an issue with the security man on the door at the Job Centre for example, if he decided to approach me, question me, this time. Or if when I got up to the top floor there were staff members hanging around in the corridor, or if any of them came out of the office at the far end while I was walking along the corridor and opening the door that led up to the roof. But, these risks were there when I went along to kill the mango and that went like clockwork, so there’s no reason to think it shouldn’t go like clockwork this time.

  I parked my Suzuki about fifty meters down from the Job Centre, on the other side of the road under a tree in the shade. It was relatively quiet, just a few random people walking along the pavement and Chesterton Road was pretty quiet regarding traffic. I looked across the road at the Job Center building and checked my watch, 11:45 a.m. Stanton would be arriving at the bench across the park in fifteen minutes. I pondered for a moment, going through the plan in my head for the last time. Stanton was usually there for at least thirty minutes. Having researched long-range shots in great detail I’d learned that it was not a good idea to take the shot within a few seconds of the target sitting down. Stanton would be moving slightly as he leaned from left to right while arranging his packed lunch. I’d watched Stanton go through his lunch-eating routine in the park enough times now to know that he would be settled and relaxed when he was about half way though his first sandwich. He always sat towards the left side (his left) of the bench and placed his plastic lunch container and flask on the bench next to him. He’d lean to his right to remove the lid from the container and then he’d pour his coffee. During this early part of his routine he was constantly leaning to his right, before sitting upright again. I know the flight time of the bullet was only going to be half a second, but that was more than long enough for Stanton to lean over while the bullet travelled 362-meters across the park towards him. Instead, I would wait until he had his lunch organised on his lap and his coffee poured, when he was sitting upright with one of his sandwiches in his hand. I figured I’d wait until he was half way through his second sandwich before taking the shot, when he was settled, relaxed, not moving, apart from his jaw movements as he chewed. He might turn his head as he enjoyed the views in the park, but I’d decided to go for a chest shot anyway so that wouldn’t matter. If Stanton arrived at noon, bang on 12 as he typically did, it would be about seven minutes past by the time he got stuck into his second sandwich; give or take. I didn’t want to be up on the Job Centre roof, exposed, out in the open, for any longer than necessary, even if nobody could see me up there. I simply wanted to go up there, quickly set up the rifle, take the shot then get out of the building and back to my car in the shortest amount of time possible. Working through the time backwards in my head I decided to get out of the car at 12:02 p.m. This would give me five minutes to get across the road, up the stairs, out onto the roof after dealing with the Yale lock on the rooftop door, set up my rifle, make any final adjustments to the scope and then, when my eye was up to the sights and my finger on the trigger, Stanton would be at his calmest, steady as a rock, an easy, stationary, target.

  I checked the clock on the car’s dash as well as my wristwatch, it was time.

  I got out of the car, removed the backpack from the boot and put it over my shoulders. I put the flat-head screwdriver in my back jean's pocket and crossed the road. As I approached the glass door to the building there was no sign of the security man, perhaps he was grabbing a coffee, or was attending to something, either way I was pleased as the first possible hurdle was out of the way. I pushed the glass door open and, as before, I headed straight for the door on the left that led upstairs, so far so good. I tried to keep my breathing relaxed as I went up the first flight of stairs as I didn’t want to arrive on the rooftop huffing and puffing, as that would not bode well for the shot. As before I ignored the NO ACCESS BEYOND THIS POINT – STAFF ONLY sign and continued up to the next floor. I peeked through the glass window of the top-floor door and didn’t notice anybody in the corridor so I punched in the security number and pushed the door open, crept inside and quietly controlled the closing of it to avoid any sl
amming sound. As before I could hear some muted office chitchat coming from the office at the far end of the corridor. I quickly made for the door to the roof, punched in the security number and went through, quietly closing it behind me. As I made my way up the narrow stairs to the roof I started to relax as I was now out of sight of any office staff below. I opened the door to the roof and took out the screwdriver and removed the Yale lock, it would be a shame to get locked out on the roof at this stage of the game. I put the lock on the floor at the side of the little rooftop building, out of sight. I dragged the hunk of metal across to prevent the door being pushed open from the inside and tiptoed across the roof so as not to alert anybody in the offices below.

  Gently, I put the rucksack down and then looked across the park towards the bench, it was barely a speck on the landscape and, without the scope, I could not make out if Stanton was there or not, the bench was too far away.

  I took the AX308 out of the rucksack and attached the barrel and tactical suppressor. I unfolded the stock, locking it into place, and opened up the bi-pod and set the rifle down on the roof. I took out the small sandbag and placed it under the butt of the rifle before nudging the gun back and forth a couple of times to settle everything down. There was hardly any wind up here, nothing noticeable blowing on either of my cheeks from any direction, the conditions would probably be the same across the park. I lay down and got into position, wrapping myself around the rifle until it became an extension of my body, as my weapon and I became one. I looked through the scope and nudged the butt of the rifle to the left a tad with my right hand until the bench came into view – and there he was. The crosshairs were too low, aiming at his knees. It was tempting to tap the butt of the rifle down into the sandbag every so slightly to raise the crosshairs up to his testicles so I could blow them the fuck away. But, I was here to kill the sick evil fuck, not carry out castration-by-.308-calibre-bullet, tempting as it was. So, I nudged the butt of the rifle down into the sandbag a little harder until the crosshairs came up further still until they were bang in the middle of his chest, then I nudged the butt a trifle more with my right hand until the sights were lined up perfectly with Stanton’s heart. He seemed settled, relaxed and perfectly still as he chomped away on his sandwich. I zoomed out a little on the scope to take in the tree behind Stanton, the tree with the carrier bag. It was still there, thank goodness. This was my real first mistake; I should have got here much earlier to check it, so I’d have time to put up another wind indicator if a park warden had taken it down. The bag was still, no wind at all; same went for the wind, or lack of it, on my face. I adjusted clicks on the scope for zero wind and then zoomed back in to help me get a clean aim at Stanton’s heart. I checked and double-checked my aim; the crosshairs of the scope were placed to perfection. I thought it would feel different somehow, aiming at a human being instead of a paper target at Bisley Camp shooting range, or a mango in a tree, but it didn’t. I didn’t see Derek Stanton as something human, I simply saw him for the evil monster that he was. I thought of my boys, my beloved Edward and Jamie, and what this evil man had done to them. I could feel my lip snarling up at the edges. I had to relax, I had to put the anger out of my mind otherwise it could mess up my shot, this was no time or place for emotions.

  I relaxed, letting every muscle in my body sink into the flat roof, I calmed my breathing and got into my sniper ‘bubble’ – as Peter Jackson used to say when instructing me – and focused on my target and nothing else. My surroundings disappeared into the background. My entire world was now in the scopes of the rifle – just Derek Stanton and me, nothing else existed outside of that little circle of glass a few inches from my right eye. Even though Stanton was highly magnified in the scope, he seemed small and insignificant somehow, a pathetic evil little man who would soon cease to exist. In a few seconds the Lapua Scenar 167-grain .308 calibre bullet would be making its journey across the park to form a very brief relationship with Derek Stanton’s heart.

  I moved my right hand up, without taking my eye off the scope, and flipped the safety lever off, before lowing my right arm and settling my finger on the trigger. I relaxed more, shrugged my shoulders to release any tension and breathed, slowly, focusing on Stanton, the crosshairs centred on his chest. I breathed in and out, slowly, once, twice, and then I took up the pre-load on the trigger. The trigger pull on the AX308 was set to around 4.5lb and my finger was now taking up about two of that. I breathed in one last time, in preparation for the shot, I let my breath out and held it for three counts, as I’d been taught by Peter. I counted, one, two, but just then something startled Stanton as someone came into view on the right edge of my scope. It was a man, he was holding a gun and he’d stuck it up against the side of Stanton’s head. Oh my god, it was my younger brother, Dean, what the hell was he doing there, with a gun, pointing at Stanton’s head.

  Then it was time for me to be startled as I heard the rooftop door behind me bang up against the old rusty hunk of steel I’d dragged in front of it. I didn’t take my eyes off the scope though, not now, not at this stage. I had an ear on the door behind me and Stanton still in my sights. Whoever was behind me was eager to get through that door and out onto the roof, the pounding and banging was very determined. I could hear the hunk of steel nudging, scraping inch-by-inch across the roof as the banging and shoving continued. Stanton was still in my sights, what the hell was I supposed to do? I hadn’t planned for this situation, and what the hell was my brother doing down there with a pistol up against Stanton’s head?

  The door finally burst open behind me, letting whoever was there through onto the flat roof.

  ‘Helen, don’t do it!’ came a voice from behind me. ‘Helen, my name’s detective sergeant Damon Rhodes, I’m with Cambridge CID. Look, I know what you’re going through, I really do, but this isn’t the answer, Helen,’ he shouted. I could hear him walking, slowly, cautiously, towards me.

  ‘Don’t come any closer,’ I shouted, Stanton still in my sights, my brother still holding the gun up to his head, mouthing, angrily at Stanton.

  ‘Helen, please, you’ve got to trust me on this one, if you pull that trigger you’ll not only put an end to Stanton’s life, you’ll put an end to your own too. Helen, this isn’t the way, youre life will never be the same again, you might think that this is the right thing to do, but, trust me, it will affect you forever. If you pull that trigger you’ll die up here too, you’ll never be the same again. Helen, please, listen to me, hate is baggage and revenge is even worse, it’s like an acid running through your veins and it will do you more harm than it will Stanton.’

  ‘Not after I’ve pulled the trigger and avenge what he did to my children it won’t,’ I said, crosshairs still on Stanton, my brother still raging on about something or another to Stanton, though I could imagine what he was saying.

  ‘Helen, all this eye-for-an-eye stuff, fighting fire with fire, it’s not the right way; it doesn’t work, Helen, it never does. Helen, please, listen, there’s a saying, “If you go down to the river and sit on the bank and wait long enough, eventually, you’ll see the bodies of your enemies float by”. Helen, Derek Stanton will get his comeuppance, people like that always do, trust me, Helen, you don’t want to flush your life down the toilet because of him. If you pull that trigger, he’ll be free of this world and you’ll be left behind to live with it. Helen, you might think you’re doing this for your children and that you’re thinking of them, but during all this did you ever stop to think about what they would be thinking if they knew what mummy was doing? What if they’re looking down on you right now, Helen? Please, trust me, the best thing you can do right now is to take your finger away from that trigger.’

  I lifted my head off the cheek piece of the rifle momentarily and looked into the middle-distance and pondered what the detective had said for a moment.

  ‘Helen, please, do what’s right.’

  I did what he said, I leaned my cheek back against the cheek piece, breathed out, held my breath and…<
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  ‘Helen, NO!’

  BANG!

  Chapter 38

  Dean dropped the pistol as the .308 calibre bullet slammed into his right shoulder. The 167-grain bullet packed a serious punch, the sheer force and velocity of the round was enough to send Dean’s upper body spinning round. The Baikal went flying from his hand as the bullet entered his shoulder at the front, narrowly missing the upper part of his lung. It then deflected off his scapula, cracking it in the process, before exiting his upper shoulder at the back. He dropped to the floor in agonising pain, Stanton looking down at him in disbelief, trying to figure out what just happened.

  * * *

  Helen lifted her head up from the scope of the rifle, sat up and turned around to see Rhodes running towards her.

  ‘Helen, step away from the gun,’ he said. She got to her feet and stepped away. ‘Helen Kramer, I’m arresting you for the assassination of Derek Stanton, you do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention, when questioned, something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence,’ he said, putting himself between Helen and the rifle on the ground. ‘Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes, but you can’t arrest me for the assassination of Derek Stanton, detective, because I didn’t kill him.’

  ‘Turn around and put your hands behind your back,’ he said, taking out his handcuffs. She obliged. He handcuffed her and called it in from his mobile, requesting a forensics team to deal with the rifle and an ambulance to get over to the south corner of Jesus Green to deal with whatever was left of Derek Stanton.