by Matthew Dunn
Wendy frowned. “Now and again.”
Kendo is thirsty work. “How about I grab a couple of cans from the local off licence while you rustle up some crisps and salsa or whatever comes to hand. David and I will sit and have our beer and snacks. Alone, I’m afraid. It will be mans’ talk.”
“What will you talk about?”
“I will tell him about my father. He was conscripted into the army between ’53 and ’57. He served in Egypt and Libya. He wanted to know what makes the Japanese military thinking tick, particularly tactics and strategy in the medieval period. This brought him into contact with two experts in the arms and armour field. One was a curator of swords and spears at the V&A. The other was a representative of the Royal Armouries. My father’s fascination about how swords and spears were employed in combat was underpinned by one thing: he wanted to understand discipline. He had a friend who he went to school with. The friend joined the merchant marine at the same time my father joined the army. Previously, they were inseparable. Both were highly intelligent. One stint of my father’s tours was guarding the Suez Canal. My father spent hours there, hoping his friend would pass on a ship. His friend never did. But the possibility was there. They reunited after they were out of service. My father’s friend had just got married. She’d died from malaria, age twenty two. My father taught his friend kendo. It saved his friend from depression or far worse.” Knudsen smiled. “I want to tell David what I’ve just told you. And I think two thirsty men deserve a beer while I recount my history.”
Wendy beamed, all traces of tears now absent from her glistening eyes. “You move your ass and get those beers, mister. And I’ll do better than crisps and salsa. I do mean double fried chips and mayonnaise.” She grabbed Knutsen’s hand before he left. “Thank you for everything. And tonight will mean the world to my son.”
CHAPTER 8
Accompanied by an icy wind, rain lashed the Surrey town of Godalming, as Sign and Knutsen walked from the train station to Mrs. Archer’s house on Charterhouse Road. Both had umbrellas up and were wearing woollen coats over their suits. Due to the weather and the fact it was late morning, the pretty town was relatively quiet – London commuters had long since departed for work. Sign and Knutsen walked up the hill that took Charterhouse Road to the famous school bearing its name. The house was a detached four bedroom property, these days probably having a value of seven figures. There was no way that Mark Archer could have afforded that on his government salary.
Sign rang the doorbell. Mrs. Archer answered.
Sign said, “Mrs Archer – Ben Sign and Tom Knutsen. I believe you are expecting us.”
She looked like she’d barely had any sleep during the night, though she was elegantly dressed, had applied makeup, and not one hair on her head was out of place. In a posh voice, she said, “Do you have any identification?”
Sign nodded and showed her his passport. “We’re very happy to wait outside while you call Inspector Roberts to verify our credentials.”
“That won’t be necessary. Come in.”
The men placed their umbrellas in a stand, hung their overcoats on a rack, and followed her into the lounge.
“Would you like tea?”
“That would be very gracious of you. Milk, no sugar.” Sign sat on a sofa. Knutsen sat next to him, even though there were many chairs in the room.
When Mrs. Archer had left the room, Knutsen whispered, “Expensive gaff. Some of the furnishings and other stuff in here must have cost a fortune.”
Sign placed a finger to his lips and shook his head.
Five minutes later, Mrs. Archer returned carrying a tray containing a teapot, cups and saucers, a small jug of milk, and a plate of biscuits. As she poured the tea, she said, “Inspector Roberts told me that you were advisers. She said you were to be trusted.” She looked at Sign. “And she said you worked with my husband.”
“I no longer work for The Office. And when I did, I knew of your husband, though our paths never crossed. We operated in different parts of the world.”
After handing them their cups of tea, Mrs. Archer sat opposite them. She looked sorrowful as she said, “It’s been an odd life. When Mark and I went on our first two overseas postings we made a mistake. In Kuala Lumper and Brasilia, like all newly–arrived diplomats, we were pounced on by the close knit expat community. They get so lonely and so bored. They want new friends. We thought it was great to meet new faces. The trouble is…”
“Postings last three years. Then people leave. We never see them again.”
“Yes. You make a friend. But that friendship has a very short shelf life.” Her hands were shaking as she sipped her tea. “So after that, on other postings, we kept our distance from expats and other diplomats. There was no point becoming their friends. For me, the only constant was Mark. He kept me sane.”
Sign had a gentle smile on his face. “I’m so sorry for your loss. I’m also very sorry that we felt the need to meet you so soon after your husband’s departure.”
“Departure? Yes, he’s gone. I’m not religious. I don’t have a fantasy that I’ll join him in heaven. What do you want?”
Sign gestured to Knutsen. “Tom is a former police officer. He’s now my business partner.”
“And what is your business?”
“To find the truth and then decide if the truth benefits good people.”
“What an unusual remit.” She raised a finger nail to her mouth, but quickly replaced her hand on her tea saucer.
Sign said, “Would you like me to fetch you a mug from your kitchen? You could pour your tea into the mug. Mugs are so much easier to hold when the nerves are playing havoc. And we don’t mind. In our time, Knutsen and I have drunk out of tin cans, bowls, dirty glasses, you name it.”
“I have standards.” She placed her cup and saucer on a side table. She repeated, “What do you want? Be specific.”
It was Knutsen who answered. “We want to know if your husband killed himself or was murdered. If he killed himself, we want to know why.”
Mrs. Archer frowned. “But, I’ve already spoken to Inspector Roberts about this. I told her I’m confused. The police say there is no doubt that it was suicide.” Her lip was trembling as she looked away. “But I can’t understand why he did this.” She looked at the men. “We have no debt. Our children are doing well at university. They have no problems – not that we’re aware of. Mark has always been a loyal husband. He wasn’t seeing another woman. I know that. Women can tell. He was extremely loyal to MI6. And he was happy. His last job was London–based. In headquarters. He knew it was probably the pinnacle of his seniority, that he wasn’t going to go any further, but he didn’t mind. He was content. No stress, he told me. Who cares about entering the vipers nest at the top of the tree, he recently joked. I was glad. We were too old to return to the overseas postings merry–go–round. At last, we could enjoy what we had. In England.”
Sign asked, “Your children?”
“My son’s at the University of East Anglia. My daughter’s at Newcastle.”
“Have they visited you since the tragic event?”
“Of course! They’ve returned to their studies, but they’ll be back here once the body’s released and I can have him buried.”
“What are their thoughts about your husband’s death?”
She slapped her thigh. “They’re distraught! What do you expect?”
“As surprised as you?”
“Yes. They can’t understand why this happened. The only reason they’ve returned to university is they have exams. Goodness knows how they’re going to stay focused.”
Knutsen leaned forward. “Doctors, and the police for that matter, don’t fully understand mental health problems. But we do know that sometimes people are unhappy for no discernible reason. That’s the hardest part – dealing with people who are clinically depressed. It’s easier to deal with people who are down in the dumps because they’re behind on their rent of are going through a rough patch in their marriage.”
&
nbsp; “Down in the dumps?” Mrs. Archer laughed as tears ran down her face. “I haven’t heard that phrase for a long time.” She withdrew a handkerchief, patted her face, and composed herself. “I must impress upon you both that my husband did not have clinical depression. Nor was he down in the dumps. He was the happiest I’ve ever seen him.”
Sign said, “I need to ask you a hard question.”
Mrs. Archer looked nervous, but nodded.
“Despite what the police think, is there any suspicion in your mind – even if just one percent – that your husband was murdered?”
She shook his head. “Forensics were here for hours. They said there was no doubt he killed himself. I found him.” Tears were once again freefalling down her face.
“Take your time.”
“I… I found him. In the bath. It’s funny.” Her voice was trembling. “He didn’t normally drink to excess. The bath water was bright red with his blood. He’d slit his wrists. But all I could think about was that empty bottle of vodka by his side. I was cross that he’d drunk that much. Stupid me.”
“You were in shock.”
“Anyway. Why would anyone murder him?”
Sign wondered how far he should push her. “Your husband and I were MI6 officers. There are bad people out there who’d like to see us dead.”
Mrs. Archer held her head in her hands. “You’ll think bad of me, but I wish it was murder. It would be so much easier to rationalise. Suicide seems so…”
“Selfish?”
“Unexplained.”
“And that’s why we’re here.” Sign handed her a business card. “You can contact us anytime if something else occurs to you, no matter how trivial. There are three of us helping you – me, Knutsen, and Roberts. Don’t trust MI6. Don’t trust anyone in the police aside from Roberts.”
“Why?”
“Because organisations don’t like problems, particularly when they involve someone with your husband’s security clearance and seniority. They find it an embarrassment. They fend off the media and the truth.” Sign tapped Knutsen on the arm. It was the signal to leave. The men stood and walked to the hallway. Mrs. Archer followed them. After putting on their overcoats and retrieving their umbrellas, Sign said, “Mrs. Archer – once again, we are so sorry for your loss. I too lost my wife; Knutsen lost a woman who he hoped would give him happiness.” He paused by the door. “Did anyone come to see your husband on the day before he died? Possibly a short time before he killed himself?”
She shook her head. “No one.”
Sign and Knutsen left.
As they walked down the road, Sign said, “She’s lying.”
From the opposite side of the street in Weybridge, Karl Hilt watched Katy Roberts leave her house. He knew her husband was still at home. Probably he either worked from home or was unemployed. Hilt didn’t care. He waited ten minutes. The street didn’t have CCTV, but there was a chance that Roberts’ house had security cameras. Given her occupation, there was a slim chance the cameras were hidden on the exterior and interior. Hilt wasn’t going to take a risk. Face, ears, and eyes couldn’t be exposed, due to modern recognition technology. He jogged across the road, donned a balaclava and sun glasses and ran to the rear garden. He’d brought equipment to force locks if necessary, but they were not required. The rear–facing kitchen door was unlocked. He entered.
The place was modest in size and indicative of a couple who had no children – no clutter, holiday postcards of trips to Thailand and other exotic climes were fixed to the fridge door by magnets, a Post–It note was stuck to the microwave saying Don’t forget – five minutes on full blast, then one minute rest, and an empty pot of coffee was on the hob.
Hilt moved into the lounge. It contained one sofa, an armchair, a TV, and not much else. Katy Roberts’ husband was on the sofa, watching a program about antiques. Hilt moved up behind him, placed his arm around the man’s neck, and squeezed. He said nothing as Roberts’ husband lost consciousness. For good measure, Hilt punched the man three times in the face.
He stood over him. The man’s face was a mess. He was either passed out or dead.
Hilt moved on. He had to make the event look like a random burglary. In reality he was looking for anything that could be of interest to John Smith. He searched the lounge, found nothing of interest, and trashed the room. In the upstairs bedroom, Katy Roberts’ wedding ring and other jewellery were in a box on a chest of drawers in the bedroom. Hilt took them all. He rifled through bedside cabinet drawers and found nothing. He opened all of the drawers in the chest and tossed underwear and other clothing onto the floor, to make it look like he was searching for hidden cash, spare car keys, or other valuable items. He ripped down wall framed photos of Katy and her husband, taken in various UK and overseas locations. He stamped on them, shattering glass and sending shards into the photos. He upended the mattress and used a hunting knife to slash it open. Duck feather spilled out. Reaching behind the heavy chest of drawers, he yanked it forward so that it crashed face down on the floor. The place was a mess.
The other two rooms on the level were a bathroom and an office. The bathroom was of no interest to Hilt. He entered the office. It contained a desk and laptop, table lamp, tray containing papers, and a small metal cabinet next to the desk. Hilt searched the tray. There was nothing of interest – just bills that needed to be paid and other household documentation. He threw the tray against the wall behind him, papers spewing out. Crouching down, he carefully examined each of the four drawers in the filing cabinet. There were a few sheets of paper listing birthdays and marriage anniversaries of relatives and friends of Katy and her husband, mortgage documentation, a will, a list of passwords for Tesco’s online shopping, Amazon, Linkedin, and Skype, a bundle of charger leads, and one business card.
The business card gave the names and address of Ben Sign and Tom Knutsen. The address corresponded to the one Hilt had seen Roberts attend to. He took a photo of the card, then tossed it onto the floor, alongside everything else from the drawers.
He walked back downstairs. Katy’s husband was still sitting in the lounge, his eyes scrunched tight, his face covered in blood. He was moaning. Hilt ignored him and left.
Fifteen minutes later and three miles away from the house, Hilt called Smith. “She doesn’t take her work home. With one exception. I found a business card.”
“Ordinarily that’s not unusual,” said Smith. “But I’m listening because it’s grabbed your interest.”
Hilt explained.
Smith replied, “I don’t know who Knutsen is. But I most certainly know who Ben Sign is. We may have a major problem. Meet me at four PM.”
CHAPTER 9
In Epsom General Hospital, Katy Roberts sat by her husband’s bed. He had bandages on his face and was conscious. Roberts had been told that her husband would need to stay in for at least two nights. The doctors weren’t worried about the facial injuries; but they did want to monitor his breathing. The crush to his throat worried the medical staff, though they were confident he’d make a full recovery.
Roberts rubbed her husband’s hand and said, “I need to step outside for a few minutes.”
Her husband coughed and said, “Go home. No… no point you hanging around in this place. Plus, after what the burglar did to our house, the place needs tidying. You better put on your marigolds and get to work.”
Roberts laughed. “Be Miss Dolly Domestic?”
“There’s a first time for everything.”
Roberts’ voice trembled as she said, “He took my wedding ring.”
“Don’t worry about that, my love. It was just a cheap piece of shit I picked up in Dubai. They weren’t real diamonds.”
Roberts smiled. “You’ve always been a terrible liar. I know you spent a fortune on the ring. The diamonds were real. I had it analysed by a specialist for house insurance purposes.”
Between more coughs, her husband said, “Good. Let’s hope the insurance pays out. Then you can nip down to Hatton Garden
and pick yourself up another ring.”
This was the first time Roberts had seen her husband in a hospital bed. It broke her heart to see him so vulnerable. “Okay. I’ll go home and sort the house. I can come back later tonight.”
“No point. I’m so damned tired, for some reason. I’ll probably be asleep.”
She kissed him on the forehead and left the room.
In the corridor was one of her plain clothed detectives. She asked him, “Any updates?”
The detective nodded. “I’ve just got off the phone to Surrey Police. Because of who you are, forensics went through your place twice. They really pulled out the stops. Only your jewellery’s missing. But the burglar made every effort to see if there was anything else of value in the house. We think he must have left on foot. Your laptop and TV weren’t taken. No other electrical items he could have flogged. He only took what he could stuff in his pockets.”
“He must have left some traces.”
“Yes and no. We have size ten boot prints. Forensics is certain they’re boots, due to the shape of the soles. But here’s the thing – the burglar scraped the treads off, most likely with a knife. Also, most likely he wore plastic shoe covers. There are no finger or palm prints. He wore gloves.”
“There should have been fibres from the gloves. And with modern forensics technology, prints can still be partially obtained – not just from the inside of gloves but also from everything they’ve touched.”
The detective nodded. “We got traces of resin.”
Roberts frowned. “He coated his hands in a resin compound, let them dry, then put gloves on?”
“Yes. I’ve never seen that done before. Forensics are both furious and fascinated as to how he came up with that idea.”
“What else?”
“He wore a smooth jacket. No fibres were transferred when he grabbed your husband. He was immensely strong – the injuries speak for themselves. And he knew exactly what he was doing. He’s been highly trained.”