by Matthew Dunn
Smith said nothing.
“Don’t know why they went there.”
“They went there to get an interconnecting flight to the Isle of Skye.” Smith had anticipated this, but still the information was unsettling. In an authoritative voice, he said, “There is a tragedy in Skye that peaks Roberts’ interest. She’s continuing to liaise with Sign on matters that relate to matters that relate to me.”
“Why don’t you tell me what’s going on?”
“That wasn’t part of the deal.” Smith added, “I want you to do something for me. It won’t be pleasant. But it will be a puzzling message.”
“What?”
Smith told him exactly what to do. Hilt had no problems with the instruction, even though he’d miss his favourite TV show.
Sign and Knutsen arrived back in West Square. Sign had barely spoken during the flights back to London. He was preoccupied and deep in thought.
Knutsen made a fire and asked, “What shall we have for dinner tonight?”
Sign was in his armchair. He looked up. “I’m sorry. I’ve been a tad distracted and hadn’t thought about food. That’s remiss of me. I’ll put my coat on and nip out to the butcher and my vintner and pick us up two partridge and a bottle of Perdrix aux Choux.”
Knutsen patted him on the shoulder. “It’s time you let your brain rest. I’ll order a Chinese takeaway.”
Sign’s voice was distant as he said, “Chinese food? Yes, I’ve had that many times – in Hong Kong, Beijing, Chengdu, and Xi’an, among many places in China. But I’ve not eaten it here.”
“It will be different. You can thank the Americans for that. But at least it will allow you to rest.”
Fifty minutes later, Knutsen handed Sign a plate containing Peking duck, pancakes, cucumber, and a soy sauce. Both men ate in silence in front of the fire, their plates on their laps.
When he’d finished eating, Sign said, “In 1995, I saw a Mongolian man attempt to ride his camel up a mountain in China. It was for a bet he’d made with four Chinese men. They thought he wouldn’t make the summit. They were partially right. The camel dropped from exhaustion halfway up. The Mongolian man felt he had no choice other than to put his beloved beast out of its misery. He shot it dead, then carried on climbing. He reached the summit. We witnessed his achievement through telescopes. He descended and demanded payment for winning the bet. The Chinese men tried to argue with him, saying his camel failed him. But the Mongolian man stood his ground and said the bet was about him, not the camel. The Chinese men pulled out knives. I pulled a gun out and told them to pay up.”
Knutsen laughed. “Is there anything in your life that is normal?”
“I suppose not.” Sign chuckled, clapped his hands and said in a strong tone, “The Peking duck has reinvigorated me. There’s a pub within walking distance that serves excellent real ales. What say you to a couple of jars and a game of darts?”
Hilt donned a black wig, glasses that had fake lenses, and a high vis jacket with the logo ‘DHL’. He carried a small cardboard box within which were stones he’d picked up from a residential driveway. He walked down the street and rang the Roberts’ doorbell. Given it was nine PM, cold, and dark, he expected Mr. Roberts to answer the door. Instead, it was Katy Roberts.
“Yes?” she said.
Hilt put on a Romanian accent. “I have a package for Elliot Roberts. It needs to be signed for.”
Katy yawned. “Okay. I’ll sign it.” She held out her hand.
“No. It can only be Mr. Roberts. I’m under strict instructions and will get in trouble if he doesn’t sign.” He looked at the box. “It has a government stamp on here. Maybe passport? Bit too heavy for that, though. But it must be something important.”
Katy was irritated. “My husband’s in bed. He’s not feeling well. Leave it at the local post office. He can collect the parcel tomorrow.”
Hilt dropped his false accent. “Okay missy.” He barged past her, withdrew a silenced pistol, and entered the house.
Katy screamed and tried to grab him. Hilt punched her with sufficient force to break her nose and slam her unconscious against the corridor wall. He walked upstairs. In the bedroom, he saw Elliot Roberts sitting upright in bed, a bedside light on. He was reading a book. Roberts’ mouth opened wide as he saw Hilt standing in the entrance, pointing his gun at him.
Hilt said, “Night, night,” and pulled the trigger twice. The bullets ended Elliot Roberts’ life.
Hilt walked downstairs. He grabbed Katy Roberts’ jaw and slapped her on the face. “Time to wake up.” He had to repeat the action several times.
Five minutes later, she moaned, opened her eyes, looked horrified when she saw who was in front of her, and lashed out with her legs.
Hilt ignored the blows. “Nah, love. That’s not going to do it.”
Blood from her nose was drooling down her lower face. She spoke, despite the movement of her mouth causing agonising bolts of pain in her head. “What do you want? Money? Me?” She sucked in air and looked at Hilt with defiance in her expression. “You’ve been here before, haven’t you? Bastard! Your DNA will be all over this house. We’ll get you.”
“We, Inspector Roberts? You haven’t got any pals in your house tonight. And my DNA doesn’t exist.” Hilt’s grip on Roberts’ jaw tightened as he put his face close to her face. “Listen carefully, sweetheart. I’ve just made a delivery. It’s upstairs. It might not be your kind of thing, but I don’t care. I’m just the messenger. What I do care about is national security. You’re interfering in that. Go back to PC Plod work. Zero contact with Sign and Knutsen. It’s your choice, darling. But just remember – I can find you anywhere on this planet.”
He slammed her head against the wall and left.
It was just after ten PM. The Metropolitan Police Commissioner was in the A&E reception of St. Thomas’ Hospital. Britain’s most senior police officer was unshaven and wearing jeans, boots, and a Christmas jumper depicting reindeer and snow. The jumper had been given to him by his children as part of their attempts to get him into the festive spirit. When he’d got the call about Katy Roberts, he hadn’t thought to change. He just came straight over to the hospital. Given it was a Friday night, most of the people around him were injured drunks. The place stank of booze and disinfectant. Knutsen and Sign strode in and shook hands with the commissioner.
Knutsen asked, “How is she?”
“Mild concussion. Her nose needs realigning. But otherwise she’ll live.” The commissioner rubbed his eyes. “I’ve talked to her. She told me exactly what happened. When she came to, she found her husband. The doctors aren’t worried about her physical health. But they are worried about depression… grief, call it what you want.”
The men sat opposite him. Sign asked, “Was this a message?”
“Yes. To you. Back off or she dies.”
Sign and Knutsen glanced at each other.
Sign asked, “What’s your recommended course of action?”
The commissioner looked directly at Sign. “Last time I checked, Ben Sign is above the law. Rumour had it that I might be way down the ladder from you. That didn’t happen. You resigned from your organisation.”
“Rumour is a temperamental mistress.” Sign showed the commissioner the palms of his hands. “Sir, I am now simply a humble civilian.”
“Technically you are. But I know that you know people and stuff that’s way beyond my pay grade.” The commissioner sighed. “What happened to Katy?”
Sign pointed to Knutsen while keeping his eyes on the commissioner. “Who was Knutsen to you?”
The commissioner frowned. “A brilliant cop. Excelled in undercover work. The jobs he did would have broken most men. But he survived… until the end.”
Sign nodded. “He was the man you sent in to do the laundry. We’re dealing with a very similar man. He won’t be law enforcement or a criminal. He will be paramilitary – probably ex–special forces, trained by men with my qualifications.”
The commissioner
glanced around, worried that the conversation might be overheard by the drunks in the room. “Formerly your lot?”
“Could be. But he could also be Mossad, Spetsnaz, SVR, FSB, DGSCE, BND et cetera. The list goes on.”
“Katy said he spoke with a London accent.”
Knutsen interjected. “I’ve heard Sign speak with a South African accent.”
The commissioner stood. “Let’s speak somewhere more privately.” He gestured to the back of the waiting room. “I’ve got two of my best firearms officers in Katy’s room. They’ll kill anyone who shouldn’t be in her room.”
Outside the hospital, the commissioner stood in front of a placard saying ‘Smoking Is Strictly Prohibited In The Hospital Grounds’. He lit a cigarette. Sign and Knutsen were with him. No one else was nearby. The commissioner said, “I authorized you to investigate the suicide of Archer. Roberts’ husband was brutally assaulted and his home trashed. I authorised you to investigate Lake’s suicide. Katy was assaulted, her husband is shot dead, and the killer tells her to mind her business because she’s messing with national security.” He looked at Sign. “What would you do if you were me?”
Sign answered, “If it is a matter of national security, you should go to the foreign secretary and ask him what’s going on. If you get no joy from him, demand an audience with the prime minister. And if you get no joy from her, go to the attorney general. You of all people know that on UK soil we don’t kill individuals unless there is an immediate threat to life. I don’t think this is a UK organisation backing this.”
“So, you think this is a foreign agency?”
“It could be. We kill people overseas. Foreign intelligence agencies kill people on our soil.”
The commissioner inhaled deeply on his cigarette and blew out a stream of smoke. “If we’ve got a foreign individual or cell working our patch I need to involve MI5.”
“I doubt that will be necessary.”
The commissioner flicked his cigarette at the no smoking placard. “You MI6 people always hate MI5.”
Sign shook his head. “We’re just different breeds of animals.”
“And MI6 always thinks it’s superior.”
“Just different.” Sign touched the commissioner on the arm. “Sir: this must be stressful for you. When one of your own gets walloped, it’s hard to see the wood for the trees. But I don’t think we’re looking at trees. I think we’re searching for a solitary oak. That’s the person who’s doing this. But he has a helper. And the helper is the person who killed Katy’s husband.”
Knutsen said, “We call him the limpet. He’s been following us. Sign spotted him.”
The commissioner asked, “Is he watching us now?”
“Almost certainly.” Sign looked away. Ambulances were parked nearby, others were delivering casualties to A&E. Aside from the glow from headlights and lamps, most of the surroundings were bathed in darkness. He asked the police chief, “Do you have any armed officers – plain–clothed or uniformed – around the exterior perimeter of the hospital?”
The commissioner replied, “No.”
Sign looked at Knutsen. “Walk the perimeter. Kill anyone with a gun.”
When Knutsen was gone, Sign said, “Knutsen will tackle the limpet. I will tackle the oak. In the interim, we have a problem.”
The commissioner nodded. “Katy.” He pulled out another cigarette. “You’re thinking two things. First: will she be safe. Second: should I continue to deploy her as liaison with you.”
“Correct.” Sign sighed. “She won’t want to go back to her home. Probably she’ll sell the property. You’ll be tempted to put her in a safe house, under armed guard. My suggestion to you is to ignore that gut instinct. Does she have relatives?”
“A sister in Northumbria. She’s got a cottage in the middle of nowhere.”
“Don’t put her there. The limpet will find her.”
“But the limpet didn’t kill her.” The commissioner couldn’t fathom Sign’s logic. “So long as she doesn’t communicate with you and Knutsen, she’s safe.”
“No. She’s a move on the chess board. It’s too late for her now. She’ll be made an example of, even if she never speaks to me or Knutsen again.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Somebody persuaded Archer and Lake to kill themselves. I have a theory as to why, but I need more dead bodies before I can substantiate the theory.”
“You want more dead bodies?!”
Sign nodded. “I’m dealing with a serial killer. The most superb one I’ve ever heard about. I can only beat him if he gives me a pattern. Even then, it’s a major problem. How many serial killers are you aware of who’ve killed men with words?”
The commissioner lit his cigarette. “You’re theory might be crazy.”
“And yet Katy Archer’s husband is dead.” Sign pulled out a piece of paper and a pen. He wrote an address on the slip. “No safe houses; no relatives; absolutely nothing official or pertaining to family. The limpet will find them and kill her if I continue with my enquiries. But Katy Roberts is so deeply embedded in what’s happening it’s impossible to pull her out.” He folded the note in half, obscuring the address he’d written on the paper. He waited, looking out into the blackness. The commissioner became impatient. Sign wasn’t. He just stared.
Knutsen emerged out of the blackness. Sign walked up to him and asked, “What do you think?”
Knutsen replied, “If the limpet’s here, we’re dealing with a ghost.”
“Then we’re dealing with a ghost.” Sign spun around and walked back to the police chief. He handed the note to him. “It’s the flat below me. Students previously occupied the place. It’s now empty. Knutsen and I will sort out the place. Katy will be safe there. Knutsen and I will ensure that.”
“I’m going to take her off the Archer and Lake cases.”
“Then you’re signing her death sentence! And you’d be giving her no chance to obtain revenge against the two persons who killed her husband. What kind of life will it be for her to live in hiding with only SWAT operatives for company? She needs to be very close to Knutsen and I until we identify and destroy the two men who killed Archer, Lake, and Elliot Roberts. There is no alternative.”
The commissioner said, “Maybe it’s only one man. The limpet.”
“You could be right. But I maintain my position that the limpet is hired help. No. We’re dealing a far higher power. Almost certainly a senior, uber intelligent, highly trained spook. Knutsen and I call him ‘the whisperer’. He’s our serial killer.”
“So, why’s the whisperer doing this?”
“The million dollar question.” Sign looked at Knutsen. “I presume Katy will be released from hospital tomorrow. I will make arrangements to secure the flat below ours. Call your pals to sort furnishings. They need to come over in two hours’ maximum and set to work. A bed, chairs etcetera. It’ll just be the basics. She’ll make the flat look pretty in due course. Meanwhile Mr. Knutsen, do you know a trustworthy woman?”
Knutsen nodded.
“Good. Take her late night shopping.”
Sign said to the police chief. “Whatever you do, don’t take Katy off this case. I believe the whisperer has a kill list. This isn’t over. Trust me.”
The commissioner would have ridiculed Sign’s comment under other circumstances. But Katy’s plight was too serious to warrant macho jockeying. “The case remains yours, so long as you understand that you are part of the problem. The whisperer killed Katy’s husband to warn you off. He fears you. No one else. That means he knows you.”
Sign said, “Can I see Katy?”
The commissioner nodded. “In a couple of hours. She’s in treatment right now.” He checked his watch. “I need to head off. I’ll tell the two SCO19 guys in her room not to kill you when you enter Katy’s room.”
Knutsen knocked on Wendy’s door in the council tenement high rise in Brixton. When she opened the door, Knutsen said, “Hello Wendy. Sorry to turn up unannounced.�
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She smiled. “That’s okay, Mr. Knutsen. Come in. I was just making a pot of tea. Take your shoes off though. I’ve just had a new carpet fitted.”
Knutsen entered the tiny, immaculate apartment. Wendy’s son David was sitting on the sofa, playing Mortal Kombat on his Xbox.
Wendy called out from the kitchen, “Milk, no sugar? Right?”
“That’s right, Wendy.” Knutsen sat next to David and watched the TV screen. He said to David, “Your opponent’s got a massive uppercut. Go for his legs.”
David smiled. “You telling me how to play this game, old man?”
Knutsen leaned forward. “That’s it. Hit his shins now!”
David followed Knutsen’s instruction. “Got him. KO, brother!” He paused the game.
Sign said, “I need to take your mother out for an hour or so after the cuppa. Are you going to be okay?”
“You mean, am I going to go out and hang round crack dealers?”
“Something like that.”
“Nah. You beat them up big time. They think they’re tough, until they meet real tough. I don’t hang round those guys anymore. Dojo next Wednesday?”
“Bang on.” Knutsen held out his fist. “Yes, yes, I know what you’re about to say. White boys can’t do this. But just man up and get over yourself.”
David laughed and pressed his fist against Knutsen’s fist. “You on a date with my mum? I’ll kick your ass if you are.”
Knutsen smiled. “No. Your mother and I are bonded by friendship revolving around our mutual concern about an errant boy.”
“Errant? What does that mean?”
“Fuck up. And I’m referring to you.”
“Yeah, I got that bit mister.” David placed his controller down. “I wanted your advice. I’m thinking about applying for a job with the police. I’ve checked online and I’ve just about got the academic grades. But…”
“But you’ve got a petty crime record that disqualifies you from applying. It’s just as well you know me.” Knutsen pulled out his mobile phone and called the head of the Metropolitan Police Service. “Sir, I have a young man – age eighteen – who wishes to join your ranks. He’s intelligent, physically very fit, now and again needs a clip round the ear, but is ready to be a man. The problem is, he’s grown up around idiot boys. He’ll be on your database for stuff he shouldn’t have done. I know ordinarily that would mean he can’t apply. But he’s a great kid. And he knows the streets in south London like the back of his hand. And I reckon, if he’s up for it, he could go into my former line of work.”