by Matthew Dunn
“Your theory being the trigger for his suicide?”
“A man. A horse whisperer. Someone who talked to Archer and Lake and persuaded them to kill themselves.”
Roberts replied, “It’s just a theory. I’m not sure how long my boss will give you slack.”
“Mrs. Roberts – in my career, not one senior MI6 officer has committed suicide. Yet, within less than a week, two have. It could be an anomaly. Or they could be connected. Ultimately, we could be dealing with murder.”
Roberts was angry. “We know for a fact that Archer and Lake committed suicide!”
Sign’s voice was quiet as he said, “Murder can take many guises. An MI6 officer can kill people with words. How is your husband?”
“Can we get back to business? He’s fine. Thanks for asking.”
“Good. Now, inspector, you are plummeting into a world that is hard to comprehend. But, with your permission, I’m giving you a portal into that landscape. We could be dealing with someone who is killing people by blackmailing them. And he’s doing so with merely the power of suggestion.”
“A serial killer?”
“Time will tell.” Sign stared at nothing. “I wonder, I do wonder, if my theory is right. Is someone getting rid of people? If so, are they in his way? Or is he clearing up a mess? Maybe it’s a combination of the two.”
“Maybe there is no person. But if there is, maybe it’s a woman.”
Sign agreed. “I’m not discounting any possibility. If there is a person – a trigger, horse whisperer, garbage man; my labels but slap whatever label you like on the person – the person could be male or female, black, white, Asian, a UK national, or a foreign national. I’m using the gender ‘he’ as shorthand. But I have a feeling that he’s a man and he’s British.”
“If he exists.”
“Indeed.” Sign walked to one of the windows and partially opened the curtain. He wondered if the limpet was out there. He closed the curtain. “We must brace ourselves for the possibility of more deaths of MI6 officers.”
Roberts checked the time. “I need to head home.”
Sign clapped his hands. “Do me a favour. Call your esteemed Scottish friends and ask them to check the UK flight rosters to any port in Scotland during the preceding twenty four hours leading up to Lake’s death. Also, ferry tickets to Skye. I need names.”
“You think the whisperer will be one of those names?”
Sign picked up Roberts’ coat and handed it to her. “I’m most interested to know if he’s not on any roster. That would make him invisible and highly trained.”
The following morning Sign and Knutsen were in Skye. As Knutsen drove, snow was heavy. “Never been here before,” he said, “and I’m not sure I want to be stranded.”
Sign glanced at the SatNav. “Four miles to go. Can you keep the car on the road until we reach our destination?”
“I’ve done the advanced driving course.”
“I’ve done a variation of that, refined to be offensive and defensive driving in hot and cold climes. Let me know if you want me to take over driving duties.”
“No. You’re okay.”
Sign smiled. “It’s a shame about the snow.”
“What were you hoping to do? Trace footprints with a magnifying glass?”
“No. It just changes the image of the place. I wanted to see it how Lake saw it when he died.”
“You want to get in his head?”
Sign didn’t answer.
Fifteen minutes later, Knutsen drove the hire car off the road and down a track that led to the cottage where Lake had taken his life. A four wheel drive vehicle was parked outside the property. Knutsen stopped his vehicle next to the SUV. A Scottish man got out of the vehicle at the same time Knutsen and Sign disembarked.
The Scot said, “Mr. Knutsen?”
“That’ll be me.”
The middle aged man shook hands with Knutsen. “Spider McCloud. I’m the estate ghillie. My boss said you’re with the police.”
Knutsen nodded.
“Come in then, but don’t take too long. Weather’s closing in. You’ll need to get a flight back before they close the airport.” McCloud unlocked the front door and led them in.
Sign looked at the kitchen floor and ceiling. “He was sitting at the kitchen table when he pulled the trigger?”
McCloud answered, “Yes. I was the one who found him. We had new guests due to arrive and I needed to check everything was in order in the cottage. He was on his back on the floor, chair underneath him, shotgun still in his mouth. It was a right mess.”
“Who owns the shotgun?”
“The estate. We’re licensed firearms owners. And we’re only allowed to lease shotguns to people who have licenses from the British authorities. Each year we thoroughly checked Mr. Lake’s permit to see it was up to date and in order.” McCloud sounded hostile as he added, “We’re a professional bunch here, mister. It would cost us our livelihood if we bent rules.”
“We don’t doubt that.” Knutsen looked at the large amount of bloodstains. “My goodness. It must have been a horrific sight for you to confront.”
McCloud shrugged. “I shoot deer in season, string them up, gut them, and butcher them for sale in Skye. I’ve seen worse than a man’s head blown off. Plus, I was in the Royal Scots Dragoon Guards in the first Gulf War. In ’91 I was deployed in the 7th Armoured Brigade. I’ve witnessed what rockets and grenades can do to the insides of an armoured vehicle containing my pals. Still,” McCloud hesitated, “that was a while back. Deer I can handle. They need to be culled to keep numbers to a manageable level. Otherwise, whole herds will die. But human bodies? I thought I’d left that life twenty five years ago.”
“Sir, you are a brave man.” Sign examined the floor. “You found him. What happened next?”
“I called 999. Two local police officers turned up. I know them well. They’re nice lads, but too young to see stuff like this. Robbie threw up; Angus nearly fainted. But they manned–up. They put police tape around the house. Two hours later my boss called me and told me to stay here. Specialist police were coming from Inverness, he told me. When they arrived, they took my finger and boot prints. After that, they asked me to leave. Two hours later, they called me and said that the body had been removed and there were no suspicious circumstances surrounding Mr. Lake’s death. I came back to the cottage and cleared up the mess as best I could. But,” he pointed at the floor and ceiling, “I can’t get rid of the stains. I’ve got professional cleaners and painters and decorators arriving this afternoon to deal with the rest. The next guests are arriving tomorrow. We can’t cancel them. This time of year, the estate needs any cash it can get.”
“Of course.” Knutsen asked, “Were there any other boot or fingerprints that were unusual?”
McCloud laughed. “We don’t take prints of our guests when they arrive. Anyway, you’re the police. You should know what was and wasn’t found.”
Sign snapped, “We’re specialist police. We’ve been asked to look at the suicide with fresh eyes. That requires us not to know details of what forensics found.” He looked around the kitchen. “Aside from the mess that you discovered, was there anything that struck you as unusual in the room?”
McCloud rubbed his stubbly face. “Mr. Lake had venison stew on the go. And there were a brace of grouse and one woodcock hanging on the meat hook next to the Aga. They were fresh, caught that morning. I thought it was odd that a man who was going to kill himself would be preparing at least four days’ worth of food. I took the birds and gave them to my wife. The stew I put in the bin.”
Sign said, “In remote and interconnected parts of the world such as these, trusted men like you are paid to keep an eye on matters. On the day of Lake’s death, did you see and vehicles go to the cottage?”
“I can’t be in one place all the time. I have my rounds to do. Before coming to the cottage, I had to repair a fence, drive to Portree to get some food and cigarettes, and put turnips and other meal down
for the deer. This time of year we don’t kill deer; we feed them. They come down from the mountains because there’s nothing to eat there in winter. I protect them now; I kill some of them in the warmer months. But they know me. I’m probably the only one around here who can feed them by hand. We’re a family. No, I didn’t see any visitors to the cottage. But I wasn’t watching the cottage.”
“Was Lake any different in demeanour compared to his last trips here?” Sign elaborated. “In other words, when you greeted him on arrival, did he seem different?”
“No. He always struck me as a private man who wanted a spot of solitude. He asked me about hunting and where were the best places to bag some game. If you ask me, he looked very happy to be here.”
“Thank you very much, Mr. McCloud. You’ve been a great help.”
McCloud checked his watch. “I need to check the upstairs boiler. It’s been playing up lately. Is there anything else you need me for?”
“No. Carry on with your chores. We’ll be here for five or ten minutes, then we’ll take your sage advice and be on our way before the weather closes in.” When McCloud was gone, Sign said to Knutsen, “Sit opposite me at the table.”
Knutsen did so, wondering what this was about.
Sign grabbed a fire poker that was the length of his arm and placed it on the table. He sat. The poker was between them. “Imagine I’m Lake. Imagine you want me to kill myself. Imagine the poker is the shotgun. What would you say to me to ensure I put a gun in my mouth and blew my brains out?”
“I’d have to know your secrets; ones that you were deeply ashamed about. I’d confront you with those secrets to push you over the edge.”
“That’s half of the equation. When I was a youngster in MI6 I had a controller who was as wise as they come. And he’d been several times around the block in the Cold War. There was nothing he hadn’t seen. He told me that if ever I fucked up and it came to the attention of a hostile foreign intelligence agency who tried to use my fuck up as blackmail against me, tell them ‘publish and be damned’. It was sage advice. I’m bullet proof. Archer and Lake were not. But to know they were not requires an in depth understanding of their psyches. The whisperer knew exactly which buttons to press. He knew how to torture them.”
“In plain speak, he knew them in person.”
“Yes.”
Knutsen inhaled deeply. “Ben – you could be so wrong about this. I know it’s a massive coincidence that two MI6 officers killed themselves in the space of a week, but coincidences…”
“Are coincidences.” Sign picked up the poker and put the tip into his mouth. “Boom.” He put the poker back onto the table. “Archer ended his life in a haze of booze and drugs. It was still hard to do, but it’s effective because not only does it shut down the body, it also makes the brain no longer care. But suicide by more immediate actions are incredibly exhausting. I’ve read about samurai who couldn’t go through with committing harikari. They were dishonoured as a result, though cared for by the women folk in the tribe. The samurais would sleep for up to three days after sitting cross legged with a blade against their stomachs. It is that debilitating. Lake would have been in mental agony as he held the gun. And yet he still pulled the trigger. And we know that he hadn’t planned to blow his head off. Food was prepared by him, he was out on a healthy walk and hunt in the morning, this cottage is his safe place once a year, and he has a loving wife and children.”
“As far as we know.”
Sign lowered his head. “I know his wife. She adores her husband.”
“That could be the trigger.”
“Adulation?” Sign replaced the poker next to the fire and gazed at the stunning mountain scenery outside. “The thought had occurred to me. There is nothing more beautiful than a person loving you unconditionally. It is rare, but in some cases it can breed a desire to stray from the path. It is possible that Lake had an affair.”
“He felt claustrophobic?”
“No, he sought danger. It’s an act of rebellion. He knew how good his wife is; therefore he wanted to taste a woman who was different.”
“That sounds messed up.”
“It is.” Sign washed his hands in the sink. “I have an insider in MI6, but I doubt he’d find the glitch in Lake’s history. So, infidelity is but one possibility. But actually the reason doesn’t matter. What does is whether someone else knew exactly what would prompt him to put a gun to his head.”
“What would you do if you were the whisperer?”
Sign smiled. “You don’t want my mind in that space. Nobody does. It wouldn’t be pleasant.”
“Let me correct my question.” Knutsen clasped his fingers on the table. “How would you kill me?”
“I’d tell you things.”
“Such as?”
“Such as things I don’t want to speak about.” Sign’s smile was the most glowing example of empathy. “Dear sir: you are the finest man. But to become that, we have to trip along the way.”
“Such as executing a man because I fancied a bird who’d been clipped by that man.”
“Clever use of language.” Sign picked up the pot that had yesterday contained venison. “There are two breeds of man: those that solely care about themselves, and those who don’t give a shit about themselves. You and I fall into the latter category. We look outwards, not inwards. We are the publish and be damned types. I couldn’t kill you with words. Ditto, you couldn’t kill me with blackmail. Basically, we don’t care about any indiscretions. We just get on with the job in hand.”
“And do you have any indiscretions?”
Sign waited five seconds before answering in a quiet voice. “Like you, I’ve killed people. I’ve screwed male and female brains. I’ve played chess on an international stage and at the highest stakes. And I’ve had to watch friends die. Friends from all over the world. All of that will stay with me for the rest of my life. But it can’t be used against me. It is personal business. My business. If anyone tries to throw it against me I’ll put a knife to their throat, and it won’t be a bluff. Then I’d carry on with my life. My wife is always in my heart. I will never have another woman. She was the best. Indiscretions is the wrong word. Bollocks to it all is the right response if ever one doubts oneself. If Archer and Lake had fixed that phrase into their heads, they’d still be alive.”
McCloud came downstairs rubbing his arms with a rag. “Boiler’s sorted. Bloody thing hates the cold. I need to lock up, if you’re finished here?”
“We’re done.” Sign winked at Knutsen. “We have to trade untamed beauty for a metropolitan bee hive. I know where I’d rather be. But work beckons. London it is.”
CHAPTER 14
It was dark and rain was pounding the street in Weybridge. Hilt didn’t care. He loved being wet. It was one of the many reasons that had got him through the hellish selection into the Special Boat Service and the resultant continuation training. In the course of his career in special forces and MI6, he’d spent nearly as much time in water as on dry land. And some of those waters had been icy oceans in January. He rang Smith. “Roberts is at home with her husband. There’s no point me watching her tonight, unless you have specific instructions.”
“No. Stay on her tomorrow. Any news on Sign?”
“He’s got a guy called Tom Knutsen living with him. Knutsen’s ex–Met police. But he’s unusual – spent most of his career undercover. He resigned after executing a criminal.”
“How do you know this?”
“Don’t ask, don’t tell. But I will say I have sources and techniques.” Hilt walked away from the Roberts’ property. “No doubt, Knutsen has gone into business with Sign. They’re using their West Square flat as their base of operations.”
“And Knutsen is down on his luck with cash, so Sign suggested he move in to the spare room. I’d have done the same, though God knows how Knutsen is putting up with Sign. Ben has so many brilliant facets, but he does tend to carve the world to his choosing.” Smith was silent for a few seconds. �
��Knutsen was chosen by Sign to be his right–hand man. How old is he?”
“I’d estimate mid–thirties.”
“Nearly fifteen years younger than Sign. Age is important. Sign wanted a younger business partner in case he needed to deploy him against men like you.”
Hilt smiled. “I can deal with an undercover cop, with my right arm tied behind my back.”
Smith’s tone was icy as he said, “Ordinarily, yes. But consider this: Sign decides to set up business as a security consultant; Sign wants a shooter with a brain to help him run the business; he’d have tapped his contacts from his MI6 days to see who might qualify; he’d have been presented with candidates from MI6, MI5, SAS, and your old bunch. And yet he chose an undercover cop.”
“He saw something different in Knutsen?”
“He saw something unconventional; someone who’d look at things differently compared to those who serve in spec ops, and someone…” Smith’s mind tried to fill in the gaps. “Perhaps someone who’d lost someone.”
“Like Sign and his wife?”
“Yes. Sign never makes mistakes when it comes to the people he works with. There’s something unusual about Knutsen. Quite what it is, we don’t know. But that doesn’t matter. What does is he’s proven he can be an executioner.”
“Leave that to me. He won’t know what hit him if he has a pop.” Hilt got into his car. He was hoping to have a beer or two at home, watch University Challenge on BBCi catch up, before hitting the sack. Tomorrow he’d be up at six to watch Roberts. “Something else I’ve got to tell you. Roberts visited West Square yesterday evening. This morning, I watched Sign and Knutsen go to Heathrow airport.”
“You were supposed to stay on Roberts!”
“Well, I decided to ignore you. I followed my gut. But what I didn’t ignore from you is the certainty that I’d get sucked into an anti–surveillance choke hold if I got too close. So I used binos and a zoom lens camera. Sign and Knutsen got on a plane to Edinburgh.”