The Spy Whisperer (Ben Sign Mystery Book 1)

by Matthew Dunn

  Knutsen asked, “How can we be of help, ma’am?”

  “You don’t need to call me ma’am. You’re no longer a cop.” Roberts had long hair that was dyed platinum. She wore no rings on her fingers, even though she’d been happily married for fifteen years. At first, Sign thought her elegant and beautiful demeanour was icy. He revised that assessment. No, she was an owl, he decided. She watches.

  Sign said, “You know Mr. Knutsen is late of your service. I am Ben Sign.”

  “I know who you are.” Roberts looked around the room, before looking at Sign. “You’re a picky collector.”

  “Picky, yes.”

  “Why did you pick Tom Knutsen to work with you?”

  “A raft of reasons, but in particular because he knows loss. I can’t work with someone who doesn’t understand emotional toil.”

  “Why?”

  “Loss sharpens the senses and also allows us not to fear death.”

  Knutsen looked at Sign.

  Roberts said, “An interesting perspective. And you think just because you were a high flying MI6 officer, you can help us out with difficult problems.”

  “I can but try.”

  Roberts huffed. “I didn’t agree to this meeting. I told my boss it would be a waste of my time.”

  “I suppose, therefore, it could also be a waste of our time.” His tone of voice was benign as he added, “I was recruited into MI6 because my DNA demands that I accurately read people. It’s the key requirement of all MI6 officers. I’ve never arrested anyone, because I’m not law enforcement. But I have stopped covert nuclear programs, terrorist attacks, and wars. I wouldn’t dare to presume I have your skills of detective work.”

  Knutsen suppressed a smile. He’d expected Sign to lambast Roberts, not flatter her. Then again, Sign was a gentleman when he needed to be.

  Roberts said, “To my errand. We have the death of a senior MI6 officer. MI6 won’t cooperate. It thinks it’s simply a suicide. The victim has a wife. She has no idea why he’d have done something so devastating. We can’t access MI6 or get in its head. You can.”

  “His name?” Sign was leaning forward.

  “Mark Archer.”

  “Mark?” Sign was frowning. “He was ranked as an average officer, meaning he was exceptional by the standards of other special operations agencies. More importantly, he had a loving family and was a very stable man. Suicide makes no sense.”

  “That’s what my boss thinks.” Roberts tone softened. “He has a slush fund and is willing to pay you to do what he calls a back channel investigation. I thought he might be wasting his time. Maybe… I was wrong.”

  “It’s a tremendous sign of intellect when one self–corrects.” Sign was deep in thought. “Inspector Roberts – forget what your boss thinks. What do you think about Mark’s death?”

  Roberts had attended this meeting with a preconceived notion of what Sign would be like. She’d imagined he would be arrogant and condescending. But he was nothing like that. She knew he was treading softly with her. But that mattered not. What did were his impeccable manners and deference to her vocation. “The wife is hiding something. I’ve interviewed extensively. I applied every trick in the book. But I can’t get through to her.”

  Knutsen asked, “What do we know about the wife?”

  “Mrs. Archer has no criminal record. She has a daughter and son; both are at university. Due to her marriage to a spy, she’s security cleared to the highest level. I saw no chinks in her armour.” Roberts focused on Sign. “I’m told you can see things differently.”

  Sign waved his hand. “I’m an amateur, by your standards.”

  Roberts smiled. “Thank you for being so kind.” Her tone hardened. “I’m out of my league. You, of all people, are not.”

  Sign stood and walked to the mantelpiece. “Your instincts may have been right. This could be a waste of time. Maybe it is suicide driven by any number of stresses – debt, marital problems, infidelity, the usual suspect list goes on. Or maybe he was murdered. If murder, then that is a police investigation. The only reason I should be involved is if the murder was carried out by a hostile foreign agency.”

  “It’s not murder. He killed himself. Forensics is certain of that. So am I.”

  “How did he do it?”

  “Fifty capsules of prescribed painkillers, washed down with a bottle of cheap vodka. He also slit his wrists in his bathtub for good measure.”

  “No bruising on the throat or blemishes on the inner mouth?”

  “Meaning he was force fed the cocktail? No.” Roberts elaborated. “The razor he used to slit his wrists was on the side of the bath. His, and only his, prints are on the razor. Mrs. Archer’s prints and sole imprints are in the bathroom, as you would expect.” She clasped her hands. “But even if a murderer was so ingenious to fake suicide without trace, he or she would not be able to eliminate their presence in the crime scene. Forensics is so good these days that a man in a disposable jump suit, face mask, and shoe covers would still leave traces of his presence. Mrs. Archer couldn’t have killed him. She’s not strong enough, plus there’s zero evidence of forced death. It’s suicide. But I don’t know why. That’s what I need you for.”

  Sign spun around. “Knutsen and I need to speak to Mrs. Archer. With your permission.”

  Roberts nodded. “You have my permission. The commissioner has authorised me to engage you both on thirty thousand pounds.”

  “Make it forty and you have a deal.”

  “Forty?”

  “Try to find someone else who’ll work for you and understands the secret world.”

  Roberts sighed. “My default position was forty. I can do that.”

  Sign strode up to her. “It’s been a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” He shook her hand. “We’ll use our methods. But all formal communications will go through you. I don’t want to liaise with anyone else in the police. Agreed?”

  Roberts frowned. “Why?”

  “Because I don’t want to work with anyone I don’t trust or respect. I can see into you. My evaluation is very favourable.”

  Hidden from view, Hilt watched Roberts leave West Square from the same position he’d seen her arrive. He called Smith. “During the last three days, she’s either been at home or in the New Scotland Yard building. With two exceptions. I followed her to an address in Godalming three days ago.”

  “I know that address. What is the other exception?”

  “She’s just left a house in Kennington. She was in there for half an hour. The house is converted into four flats, but I know which flat she attended. Zoom camera. Saw which button she pressed to get into the communal entrance.”

  “Find out who lives there.”

  “Will do.” Hilt ended the call and followed Roberts.

  CHAPTER 7

  Post dinner, Sign and Knutsen sat by the fire in the lounge. Sign said, “We are seeing Mrs. Archer tomorrow. When I called her she sounded understandably distraught. She can’t believe her husband committed suicide, but she also knows that’s what happened. She has two issues: one is grief; the other is bewilderment.”

  Knutsen asked, “You’re certain it’s suicide?”

  “I’m inclined to believe the police know what they’re doing, though I never discount anything until I’m on the ground. But if it is suicide, I can do something that the police can’t. I can get into the minds of people, dead or alive.”

  Knutsen laughed. “Like a clairvoyant?”

  “No. Like someone who knows the human condition, regardless of nationality, race, gender, age, religion, political beliefs, social status, or sexual persuasion.” Sign look wistful as he added, “I like to think of the process as one of absorbing souls.”

  There was so much about Sign that Knutsen wanted to know. “Does it pain you to have that burden?”

  “Absorbing souls?” Sign looked irritated. “It’s like asking a shepherd if he’s wracked with anguish because some of his sheep are mischievous or prone to stupidity.”
>
  “Fair point.” Knutsen drank some coffee. “But you are a chameleon. I saw you change colours when Roberts was here.”

  Sign made a flourish with his hand. “Chameleon? Praying mantis. Whatever? You decide.” Sign was distracted. “Thus far I have nine theories about Mark Archer’s death. Eight are banal. One most certainly is not.”

  “You haven’t even seen his dead body, or yet visited his wife.”

  “Body’s don’t talk and people lie. It is in the imagination that we begin to hypothesise.” Sign added wood to the fire. “I need you to get a handgun. Something reliable. A Glock or similar. Can you do that?”

  “Yes. Do you want me to get you one as well?”

  “I don’t carry guns unless absolutely necessary.”

  Knutsen frowned.

  Sign elaborated. “We did things in the bandit zones of South Asia, Africa and Latin America that you wouldn’t believe. I don’t like those days. They stay with me. I held a gun when I was younger. Now I’m older. Let’s leave it at that.”

  “But why do I need a gun?”

  “In case my ninth theory is correct.”

  Knutsen said, “Okay.” He paused for a moment before asking, “Are you religious?”

  “No.”

  “Have strong political beliefs?”

  “I’ve worked with too many politicians of different parties. They’re all the same. All they want is power. No, I have no faith in one party versus another.”

  “Do you aspire to re–marry?” Knutsen expected a harsh retort.

  But instead, Sign said, “Perhaps one day, but not for now. My wife’s buried not far from here. I visit her grave when I can and talk to her. She’s still my wife.”

  Knutsen wrapped his hands around his coffee mug. “There’s a cold draft coming in to the room. We need to do something about that.”

  “I like the draft. I think of it as a messenger from the outside world, reminding me that all is not well.” Sign smiled. “It comes from the extractor fans in the bathrooms. I suppose there might be one–way extractor fans on the market these days.”

  “I’ll check it out.” Knutsen checked his watch. “I’ve got to go out now.”

  “Excellent. It’ll give me some peace from your questions. We’re on parade tomorrow morning. Ten o’clock train from Waterloo to take us to Godalming. Then we’ll see what we make of Mrs. Archer.”

  Forty five minutes later, Knutsen knocked on the door of a council flat in a high–rise tenement building in Brixton. A black woman, mid–forties, opened the door a fraction, but kept the security chain attached. When she saw it was Knutsen, she fully opened the door. Her eyes were bloodshot. She’d been crying.

  Knutsen was worried. “Wendy. Is everything okay?”

  Wendy couldn’t stop the tears starting again. “He’s not here.”

  “But the dojo starts at nine.” Knutsen had driven here. Once a week, work permitting, he collected Wendy’s son David and helped him with his martial arts training. It kept David off drugs and petty crime. “Where is he?”

  “He’ll… he’ll be hanging out with those guys. You know the place. I thought he’d given up on all that. They’re bad people, Mr. Knutsen. Tonight we had an argument. He laughed at me and told me he was going to see people who actually cared about him. He used bad language.”

  “Leave it with me.”

  Knutsen left and walked four hundred yards to a side alley off Brixton High Street. Wendy was right. Her eighteen year old son was there, hanging out with three men who were in their early twenties and had the physiques of basketball players. The older men were drug dealers. David was truly in the wrong company. Knutsen approached David and told him that he had to go or they’d lose their slot on the dojo. David feared Knutsen, though also highly respected him. But in front of the other men he tried to act defiant.

  David said, “I’m not doing no training tonight. I’m working.”

  “With these idiots? And what are you actually working on? Construction? Taxi driving? Plumbing? Painting and decorating? Anything noble? Or are you just selling plastic wraps of hash, coke, and spice to kids? I don’t call that work.”

  The tallest of the older men walked up to Knutsen and put his face millimetres from his face. “Back off, white boy.”

  David yelled, “Leeroy! No!”

  Leeroy persisted. “You a cop?” His breath stank of fast food.

  Knutsen held his ground. “I’m simply here to take David to his kendo class. He’s improving. I don’t want to see him fall behind.”

  Leeroy pushed him against a wall. “He ain’t falling behind when he’s with us, you cunt.”

  The two other older men pulled out knives. David looked terrified.

  Knutsen said, “Calm down. I just want to help David. I’m not a cop.

  “Yeah, all off–duty cops say that.” Leeroy put his hand in his puffer jacket. “I got me a piece. Finger’s on the trigger. If you fuck off, I don’t put a hole in your gut.”

  Knutsen nodded, then head butted Leeroy, stamped on his chest and groin, advanced with lightning speed to the other men, dodged their knives, smacked one of them in the throat and jabbed the other with two fingers into his eyes. The men would live, though would need medical treatment. Knutsen said to David, “Let’s go.”

  They walked out of the alley. Knutsen didn’t care that the three men were writhing in agony on the ground.

  Fifteen minutes later, they were in the Brixton martial arts gym. It entertained all sorts of fighting disciplines, including boxing, kung fu, and krav maga. But tonight was kendo night. Knutsen helped David get his armour on. He said, “Now we do a better class of fighting.”

  Knutsen geared up and stepped onto the dojo, facing David. Both were brandishing their bamboo swords. They bowed. Knutsen said, “Now, don’t forget your feet and legs. The arms and sword are their slaves and are useless without them.”

  David lunged, trying to jab his sword at Knutsen’s chest. Knutsen tapped David’s sword to one side. Using both hands, David attempted to swipe his sword downwards. It was a move used by samurai to slice a man diagonally in half from shoulder to waist. It was also effectively used by Japanese soldiers against Americans in the Battle of Iwo Jima in WW2. Knutsen stepped sideways. David’s attack didn’t connect.

  Knutsen discarded his sword and said, “First incapacitate, then execute. Show me where you want to strike.”

  David tried to slap Knutsen’s abdomen. Knutsen stepped back, his hands behind his back. David dropped to a crouch and attempted to strike his ankles. Knutsen jumped, the sword cutting through air. David by now was angry and ill disciplined. He tried to hit Knutsen on the head. Knutsen dodged left, brought his arms in front of him, rushed forward, knocked David off his feet and punched his mask. “Now you’ve got a bloody nose and concussion. All I need to do is pick up my sword and cut you into pieces. Easy. Good job you’re wearing protection.”

  David got to his feet. “Where did I go wrong, Mr Knutsen?”

  “You had an argument with your mum and held on to the anger. Here we don’t have anger. We have calm precision.” Knutsen patted him on the shoulder. “You just had a bad night. I’ll drive you home. But first there’s something we need to do.”

  After leaving the gym, they stopped at a newsagent. “Why are we here?” asked David.

  Knutsen walked David to a section containing cards. “Choose one. Inside you’re going to tell your mum that you’re sorry.”

  “Really, man?!”

  “Do it.”

  David picked up a card. At the checkout, Knutsen gave him a pen and told him to write. After payment was made, they left.

  Knutsen said, “One more stop.”

  Two shops next door was a florist. The shop was closed, but Knutsen knew the florist lived above the establishment. He pressed on the intercom. A woman answered. Knutsen said, “It’s Tom Knutsen. I have a young lad with me. We need your help.”

  Inside the shop, the black woman kissed Knutsen on the c
heek.

  “How have you been doing, Maggie?”

  The former meth addict smiled. “I breathe the free air. That’s what you taught me to think.”

  “And it works.” Knutsen pointed at David. “This gentleman went off piste tonight. He’s now back on track and wants to make amends. Could you make us a bouquet of flowers? It’s for his mother.”

  Maggie smiled. “My pleasure handsome. You want to stay here tonight?”

  “Remember the rules. We always maintain parameters.” Knutsen had killed Maggie’s husband. He knew she was clean from drugs for two years. But like all addicts, her nervous system had been irrevocably changed by drugs. It meant she believed anything was possible, including sleeping with Knutsen. “Make the flowers pretty, Maggie. And find a good husband. Just avoid Internet dating.”

  Sixty minutes later they entered Wendy’s house. Wendy was tearful as David handed her the card and flowers, hugged her, and told his mum that he was sorry.

  Wendy made Knutsen a cup of tea, told David to go to his room, and sat with the former undercover cop in her tiny but pristine living room. “It’s hard being a single parent.”

  “It is. Particularly when the child is a boy.”

  Wendy shook her head. “It makes no difference if it’s a boy or girl. The challenges are just different, but equally hard. David needs a father. He’s never had one. You’re the nearest he’s got.”

  The comment made Knutsen feel awkward. “I just want to help him out. In doing so, it helps me out. I have no children. You know that.”

  “What I know is that even when you can’t move heaven and hell to train with him, you still lie to the probation service and tick the box that says he’s been to the gym every week. You’re a very good man.”

  “But David’s not yet a man. He may look like one, but he’s not.”

  “That’s where you come in. You teach him.” Wendy rubbed her eyes. “I couldn’t bear it if he went back into prison.”

  Knudsen smiled. “I’ve eaten this evening, but I could do with a snack. Also, do you allow David to have a small, low alcohol drink?”