by Matthew Dunn
The accurate observation startled Sign. He decided to lighten the tone and opened a drawer in his wooden writing desk. “Thank you for being so flattering, Mrs. Roberts. But, I do have some things in here that don’t quite match those criteria. An eighteenth century cutthroat razor used by a man who wanted to cut off my head,” he rummaged through the contents of the drawer, “a leather sheaf containing a pin dipped in poison – I would have died in two seconds if the woman had succeeded in sticking it in me, a defused bomb inside one of my old mobile phones, a revolver that nearly blew my head off, and so many other things. He slammed the drawer shut. My Pandora’s Box. But Mrs. Roberts is right – everything else, organic or inorganic, in my flat matches her criteria.” He looked at Parker. “We’re dealing with matters of national interest. That bothers me of course, though I’m no longer in that game. So, all a humble civilian like me can do is deal with the immediate problem. We’re dealing with a serial killer. If we capture or kill him we…”
“Nip the bud before it grows into an oak.” Parker looked at Knutsen and Roberts. He was silent. All were silent. Then he said, “I am head of counter intelligence at MI6. I am due to retire in six months’ time. By declaring my status to you, the only things I have to lose are my pension and my dignity.”
Knutsen replied, “We don’t breathe a word to anyone outside of this room. That’s how we’re wired.”
“It had better be.” Parker addressed Sign. “You’ve spoken to the chief?”
“Yes.”
“As cantankerous as ever?”
“Correct. But he did help.” Sign pulled out an old school chalkboard that he’d rescued during a Pakistani bombardment of an empty Indian school. “I’m not supposed to do this.” He winked at Knutsen. “But I’m going to.” He started writing on the board, using chalk. “The outgoing chief gave me the list of candidates for the top job in MI6.” He wrote the list. “One of them could be the whisperer.”
Parker frowned. “The whisperer?”
“The person who whispers people to death.” Sign drew two lines down the board, thereby dividing it into three columns. At the top of column one he wrote the title, List of Candidates to be Chief of MI6. He drew a line through Archer, Lake, and File. “That leaves me, Messenger, Pendry, and Logan on the list. I’m no longer in MI6, but could I be playing a canny game, hoping to get back into the organisation at the very top?”
Knutsen said, “No.”
Roberts and Parker agreed.
Knutsen added, “You weren’t anywhere near the death scenes when the suicides happened. I bear witness to that.”
Sign put a line though his name. “So that leaves Messenger, Pendry, and Logan. All potential victims? Or, is one of them the killer? In the middle column he wrote the title, Tangential Victims. Beneath that he wrote the names Elliot Roberts and Debby File. “Any of us could join this middle list.” On the right column he wrote the title, The Murderers. Beneath that he wrote the words ‘whisperer’ and ‘limpet’. He looked at Parker. “The limpet, I am sure, is former paramilitary MI6.”
“Shit!”
“Yes. But he’s not the brains. He’s an employee. An extremely ruthless one at that.” Sign patted Roberts, Knutsen, and Parker on their shoulders. “Everything – absolutely everything – is kept within this room. Mr. Parker – would you care to help us with our investigation?”
Parker glanced at Knutsen and Roberts. “I have a day job.”
“Which is vital to us. What does MI6 think about the suicides?”
“It thinks there’s a conspiracy between Archer, Lake, and File. They got caught out by a foreign intelligence agency. They killed themselves rather than face the music.”
“Idiots!” Sign started pacing again. “MI6 knows that’s not the case. But it wants this to be swept under the carpet.”
Parker bowed his head. “Ben – you know these are troubling times. We have an idiot savant U.S. president, problems in Germany, major problems with Russia, the possibility of nuclear war with North Korea, China breathing down our necks, Brexit, terrorism at the drop of a loony tunes hat, UK politics all over the show, and UK workers overseas looking at our shores as if they’re stranded troops on the sands of Dunkirk. We need a new head of MI6. No one outside of the list is qualified for the role.”
“MI6 could recruit someone outside of The Office; perhaps from the Diplomatic Service. It’s happened before.”
Parker shook his head. “Not in this climate. Right now we need an expert spy; a combatant. These are not times for diplomacy.”
“And what about you, Colin? You could postpone your retirement. You are both senior and experienced. The only reason you’re not on the list is because you’re soon leaving the service.”
Parker shook his head. “I’ve told you before – My partner and I have plans. We’ve bought a restaurant in France.”
Sign stared at the board. “So, it’s down to Pendry, Messenger, and Logan.”
Parker said, “We could put protection around them.”
“We could. But in doing so, we could be protecting the whisperer from himself. We’d never find out his identity.” Sign walked up to Parker. “Are you prepared to help us?”
“Doing what?”
“Work from the inside. How do you get on with the head of security?”
Parker shrugged. “He’s a bumptious plodder who has ideas above his station. But he does the job right. I can work with him.”
“You’ll need Gable’s permission for this, but why don’t you and the head of security interview and brief Messenger, Pendry, and Logan. Ostensibly it will be to flesh out their understanding of operational security and counter–intelligence. The meetings would be couched as part of the selection process for the next chief.”
“The chief interviews are not scheduled until two months before Gable retires. You know how it works. There’s a ring of steel put around the process to ascertain the next chief. Only a handful of people in MI6 are privy to that process. To interview candidates now would be premature and unprecedented.”
“I know.” Sign sat in his armchair. “But these interviews would be data sharing, not the real deal. Look at it this way: when an election is about to take place, MI6 always briefs potential foreign secretaries from all major parties, on the basis that elections can be unpredictable and whoever wins must hit the ground running. This could be a similar dynamic.”
“It could.” Parker was deep in thought. “I’ll speak to the chief. I’m sure I can set this up. Presumably what you want me to do is get the measure of Messenger, Pendry, and Logan.”
“Yes. See if one of them is a psychopath.”
Parker laughed. “I’m good at my job, but a highly intelligent serial killer is hardly going to reveal himself to me.”
“Ask them, ‘What would you do?’ questions. What would you do if you met an agent in Islamabad, and your agent was compromised? Would you save the agent or get out of there on the basis that you carry a treasure trove of secrets in your head? Work the angles; keep probing. Eventually the answers to your questions may paint a picture. We’re looking for a narcissist; someone who only prioritises himself. The whisperer is ruthless and single minded. He doesn’t care about others.”
“Logan, Pendry, and Messenger are too bright to fall for that.”
“Then set them up for a fall. Tell them these are troubling times. We need clear thinkers. People who are not afraid to make tough decisions. Lure the whisperer out with the backdrop of a world that’s turned to madness. See if the whisperer bites and answers your questions truthfully.”
Parker sighed. “I’ll try. But let me put it this way: if I interviewed you under similar circumstances, you’d run circles around me, the head of security, the chief, the prime minister, in fact anyone in power.”
“But, you’re not interviewing me.”
“Have you considered the possibility that the whisperer is as clever as you?”
“I’ve considered the possibility that his intellec
t outstrips mine.” Sign said, “Give it a shot. Sometimes it’s not about the answers, but rather the demeanour of the interviewees. Use your antennae. Who, sitting in front of you, could be a murderer?”
Parker stood and put on his coat. “I’d be going out on a massive limb for you all.” He hesitated. “But I’ll do it. Oh, and if I took your question literally, I can see two male murderers in this room.” He left.
Sign said to Knutsen and Roberts, “Good. We have Parker on our task force. Now – I need to cook a stir fry. It’s my own recipe, adapted from a recipe I received from a Chinese prostitute I rescued from a slave trade program. Mrs. Roberts – I suggest you stay for supper. There are no aromas of food coming from your kitchen and one can only eat takeaways now and again. Mr. Knutsen – shall we all eat our Chinese food while playing a board game? Trivial Pursuit?”
“No! You always win.”
“Monopoly?”
“You cheat.”
Sign considered the options. “Texas Hold’em poker. Five quid in loose change maximum per player. Winner takes all.” Sign paused before entering the kitchen. His face and tone of voice were serious as he said, “Parker will not be able to achieve much beyond character assessments. Even that will be flawed because Logan, Messenger, and Pendry are chameleons. Parker’s use to me is not to flush out the whisperer; rather, to tell him the net is closing around him. The whisperer will see through Parker and know he’s working for me. We must pray nothing bad happens to Parker.”
CHAPTER 19
Roberts entered the commissioner’s office in New Scotland Yard. Wearing a smart black trouser suit with her ID badge pinned to her collar, and with her hair pinned up, she looked every inch the top detective the Met had to offer. Much to the consternation of the commissioner, she sat on the edge of his desk and addressed him. “Let’s cut to the chase. I’m still grieving, but am rational. Knutsen’s a power house. Sign’s IQ is off the charts. And we have a fourth member of our team – an MI6 officer – who may be able to help. We also have a list of three people who may be potential victims or suspects. I can’t tell you who’s on that list – it’s classified – but I can tell you we’re making progress. Keep Sign and Knutsen on the payroll. If you don’t, you may be compromising national security. I want your assurance that you’ll keep us all on the case.”
The commissioner partly wanted to bollock Roberts for being so impertinent. But secretly he loved the fact that she was back in the saddle. “I presume the three people on the list are MI6.”
“Yes, but it’s more complicated than that. There are other potential victims in play. Plus, we have a hitman in the mix – my husband’s murderer.”
The commissioner looked away. “I will renew Sign’s contract from my slush fund. Stay on the case and stay focused. MI5 is breathing down my neck. They’re gunning for an MI6 scandal.”
“Just tell MI5 to fuck off. They’re reasonably good at catching terrorists on UK soil. They’re bugger all use for anything more cerebral.” Roberts stood. “I want to interview Debby File.”
“She’s been interviewed already.”
“But not by me. Where is she?”
The commissioner replied, “In the same hospital.” He sighed. “You can see her. I’ll notify the appropriate authorities.” His eyes narrowed. “You have your war–paint on, and I’m thankful, but what’s the devil in the detail?”
Roberts wondered if she should tell her boss the truth. She decided she should. “My husband put a flower in my hair on the summit of Mount Snowden and kissed me; I burned his body and tossed the remains onto the rocks. We bought a house that was to be ours forever; I’ve just sold it to an anonymous cash buyer. My stomach cramps at night. I smell him, even though it should be impossible to do so. So, the devil in the detail has a new face.– a murderer. I’ve put my affairs to bed. I need to catch the killer.”
The commissioner stood, walked round his desk, and touched Roberts’ elbow. Ordinarily it would have been an inappropriate action for such a senior officer to make. But, the commissioner was happily married and viewed Roberts as a daughter. “Time heals. Work helps.”
“I hope so.”
“Go interview Debby File and find out if something’s amiss.” The commissioner smiled sympathetically. “The anonymous cash buyer for your house was Ben Sign. He wanted the place off your hands as soon as possible. He paid more than the asking price. When the transaction’s complete, he’ll hopefully sell the place. He took a mortgage out against his pension.”
Roberts was startled. “His pension? That could cripple him. I don’t need his charity!”
“You don’t. But you do need friends. Sign wasn’t giving you charity; he was giving you closure, despite the cost to himself.”
Hilt watched Roberts enter Watford General Hospital. The limpet was in a car, holding a zoom lens camera to his face. His handgun was tucked under his belt at the nape of his spine. He called Smith and told him what he was seeing.
Smith replied, “Let Roberts proceed. I’ve geared this to make it look like Debby File is integral to her husband’s death. Lack of evidence to the contrary is all that matters to us. But stay on Roberts. I want to know where she goes next.”
Roberts entered Debby File’s hospital room. Aside, from File and Roberts, the room was empty. File was on a bed, her left leg elevated and held in place by straps. A plaster cast and bandages were on her ankle; a drip was by her arm, its liquid intravenously entering her forearm via tubes. Her auburn hair was matted, eyes bloodshot, face blotchy.
Roberts pulled up a chair and sat next to her. “I’m Detective Inspector Katy Roberts of the Metropolitan Police Service. I know you’ve been interviewed before, but I’m working a different angle. I’d like to talk to you.”
“Detective Roberts – I have nothing to add to that which I’ve already said to your colleagues. I was shot in the ankle. My husband committed suicide. I never spent the things the bank said I spent on my credit card. If my husband had that rifle in our house, he must have kept it well hidden from me. My husband loved me and our son. He showed no signs of instability. He was a clever man. He’d have worked us out of debt. Why did he kill himself? It makes no sense.”
Roberts pulled out copies of File’s credit card statements. “These say you spent nearly twenty three thousand pounds in two days. None of the purchases were blocked by your bank, because the things you bought were typical of the kind of items you’d bought in the past – food at Tesco’s, online shopping at Amazon, ditto M&S and Next, utility bills, and petrol. Plus, you paid a rather hefty bill for your car to be repaired at your local mechanics, on top of which you booked a holiday at your local travel agent for you and your family to spend four weeks in a series of luxury resorts in Asia. That holiday alone cost seven thousand pounds, factoring in business–class flights.”
File shook her head. “I didn’t buy any of those things. The last time I used my credit card was about three weeks ago. And that was to buy lunch at a pub. This must be a mistake.”
“Your credit card statements are delivered to you once a month. It looks like you requested these copies in advance of your regular statements.”
File looked confused. “I didn’t request them. I’d never seen them before one of your colleagues showed them to me.”
“And yet they were found in your filing cabinet. Could your husband have requested them?”
“No. We have separate bank accounts. He doesn’t have authority to access mine.”
“Are you sure your husband didn’t see these statements?”
“No, I’m not sure! I don’t hide things from my husband. My filing cabinet is unlocked. I didn’t know the statements were in there! But he never snoops. Least ways, not at home.” She started sobbing. “Anyway, why would he shoot me and hang himself over twenty three thousand pounds? It doesn’t make sense.”
“No, it doesn’t. But it makes enough sense for a coroner’s report to conclude that you and your husband were under marital stress. It w
ill conclude that violence led to these outcomes.” Roberts showed her the photo of Terry File and the woman. “Have you seen this before? It too was in your filing cabinet.”
“No! No, no. no!”
“Do you know who she is?”
“I’ve never seen her before. My husband was faithful.”
Roberts put the photo back in her pocket. “I believe you. The woman was one of his colleagues. They were working. I’ve no idea who took the photo.”
File breathed deeply. “What’s happening?”
“I’m trying to find out. Who’s looking after your son?”
“My brother and his wife. They live nearby.”
“Has your husband ever expressed suicidal thoughts before?”
“Never. He was happy.”
Roberts nodded. “You are security cleared to know exactly the nature of his work?”
File replied, “He’s been MI6 all of his adult life. His last job was head of the paramilitary unit. He didn’t go out and do the ‘guns and glory’ stuff, as he used to call the work of his department. He merely managed his units from his office in HQ.”
“Did he know how to use a gun?”
“Of course.”
“How good?”
“If he wanted to kill me, he’d have done so.” File winced as she adjusted position in her bed.”
Roberts stood. “Nothing you’ve told me or my colleagues is admissible in a court of law. You’re on morphine painkillers. Anything you say until you’re off morphine cannot be deemed as evidence. But, for what it’s worth, I believe you. Something’s not right. There is a team working on your case. I’m part of that team. We have access to places that other police and investigators can’t access.” She paused before leaving. “I’ve recently gone through the loss of my husband. I suppose it varies per person, but if you’re like me it starts bad, then becomes hell, but finally gets into the realm of being a new chapter in your life.”