Occum's Razor

by Giles, Stewart

  “It’s an unfortunate habit of mine,” Smith said, “I do that a lot.”

  “Lose the charm,” Proud said, “it doesn’t work on me. It never has done.”

  “So you killed Fisher?” Smith said, “what about the cigarette butts in the ashtray we found. You don’t smoke. Was somebody there with you?”

  “No,” Proud said, “I always work alone but Brad Friedman smokes those cigarettes. I left them there to make you think it was Friedman that killed Fisher. I knew you’d put two and two together in the end. Like I said, you’re a very good detective.”

  “What about the second football player?” Smith said.

  “The Colombian?” Proud said, “He’d seen me. I couldn’t take the risk of him identifying me.”

  “It was you who tried to kill me by tampering with the wheels on my car,” Smith said, “the fingerprints we found on the wheel nuts were the same as the ones on the sniper rifle.”

  Sarah Proud looked shocked.

  “Grant Webber?” she said, “He was told not to divulge any information about that.”

  “Well he did,” Smith said, “I need a smoke.”

  Proud took out Smith’s cigarettes and lit one for him. She placed it in his mouth. The gun was pointed at him the whole time.

  “Thanks,” Smith exhaled a cloud of smoke, “what about Tommy Pike’s son? What about my sister?”

  “I had nothing to do with Laura and the boy,” Proud said, “I kill people when it’s necessary but I draw the line at children.”

  From the tone of her voice, Smith could tell she was telling the truth.

  “Boronov had her killed,” she said, “her and the boy. Laura was trying to help him escape. It could have spelled disaster.”

  “So what now?” Smith said, “What are you going to do with me? Are you going to kill me too?”

  “Of course not,” Proud said, “Boronov is going to kill you. Or that’s what he thinks he is here to do. Me and my friend here have other plans.”

  She pointed to the Dragunov rifle.

  “You’re going to kill your own brother?” Smith said.

  “No,” Proud got off the bed and walked over to the window, “you are.”

  SIXTY SEVEN

  Whitton, Chalmers and Bridge sat opposite Brad Friedman and his colleague in the small coffee shop two hundred metres from the car park. Nobody said a word. None of them seemed to know where to begin.

  “What the hell is going on here?” Chalmers broke the silence.

  “It’s complicated,” Friedman said.

  “Who’s he?” Whitton pointed to the man with the friendly face.

  “This is my colleague, Michael Young,” Friedman said.

  Young took out his ID and placed it on the table in front of Whitton. She looked at the card and then looked at Young. The card was similar to the SOCA ID card that Friedman had shown her.

  “What are you doing here?” Chalmers asked.

  “We have received some information that informs us that Viktor Boronov is on the island,” Young said, “and we also believe that your DS Smith was a big part in getting Boronov here.”

  “What has Smith got to do with all of this?” Whitton said.

  “Smith and Boronov have a history,” Friedman said, “they had a bit of a disagreement a few years back in Talinn. Boronov or Wolfie as he is also known wants Smith dead and the woman you know as Sarah Proud wants Boronov dead. Like I said, it’s all very complicated.”

  “This is all a bit much to take in,” Whitton said, “why should we believe anything you say after everything that has happened? You broke into my house. You threatened me. You threatened to kill Smith’s dog.”

  “I had to,” Friedman raised his voice.

  An elderly couple on the next table glared at him.

  “I had to,” he said again, “I’m sorry about everything that you had to endure. It has taken me two years to get inside Boronov’s operations; to gain his trust. The men I was with that day work for Boronov. I couldn’t be seen to be weak in front of them. The whole investigation would have fallen apart.”

  “What about Smith’s house?” Bridge said, “Who burned his house down?”

  “Who do you think?” Friedman said, “Boronov.”

  “But why did Sarah Proud get Smith out of there?” Bridge said, “And why did she take him to Holy Island?”

  “I’ve already told you that,” Friedman sounded irritated, “she did it to gain his trust and make him believe she was on his side. She was using him as bait the whole time. She is using him to lure Boronov out of his impenetrable hole. Boronov would never let his guard down otherwise.”

  Chalmers scratched his nose.

  “If what you say is true,” he said, “there’s still one thing that doesn’t make sense.”

  “What’s that?” Friedman said.

  “This all started with the murder of a football player,” Chalmers said, “that has been explained. Match fixing and all that. Boronov stood to gain a pile of money from that. You say that you were working undercover in Boronov’s operations. Why does Sarah Proud or whatever her name is want Boronov dead? If she’s part of this operation what would she have to gain by killing its leader?”

  “Sarah Proud’s real name is Nadia Boronov,” Michael Young said.

  “Boronov?” Whitton said.

  “Yes,” Young said, “she’s Boronov’s little sister. They were separated when she was very young. She came to England and he stayed in Estonia. She changed her name to Sarah Proud when she was about ten years old.”

  “So she isn’t SOCA at all?” Bridge said.

  “Oh she’s SOCA alright,” Friedman said, “we only realised who she really was a few months ago. She’s a very dangerous woman. She used her position to get closer to the brother she’s hated for most of her life.”

  Chalmers stood up.

  “I’m going outside for a smoke,” he said, “would you care to join me?”

  He looked at Brad Friedman. Friedman nodded and followed Chalmers outside.

  “I don’t like this,” Chalmers said, “we’re not dealing with a couple of drunks knocking the hell out of each other on a Friday night; this is serious shit. Do you and your friend in there carry guns?”

  “Of course,” Friedman lit a cigarette and handed the packet to Chalmers.

  “Bloody hell,” Chalmers lit a cigarette, “what’s going to happen on that island?”

  He looked across the road towards Holy Island in the distance. The tide was showing no sign of dropping.

  “If we’re lucky,” Friedman said, “we’ll get there in time. If Boronov has already got to them then somebody will already be dead. It’s just a matter of who.”

  “Why does Smith always get himself into shit like this?” Chalmers took a long drag of the cigarette and coughed.

  “We have a few hours,” Friedman said, “I think we’d better use that time to figure out exactly what we’re going to do when we eventually reach the island.”

  SIXTY EIGHT

  “Put the case on the bed,” Sarah proud pointed to the black case containing the rifle, “how much do you know about sniper rifles?”

  “The one you shot Jimmy Fisher with was the first one I’d ever seen,” Smith admitted.

  “Oh well,” Proud said, “it’s never too late to learn. Take out the rifle frame and lay it on the carpet.”

  Smith looked at the various components of the gun in the case and suddenly felt dizzy.

  “If you’re going to shoot one of these you have to learn what each part does,” Proud said, “take out the frame and lay it on the carpet.”

  Smith did not move.

  “I can do it for you,” Proud said, “but I’m afraid I’m going to have to knock you out again. We don’t want you to do anything stupid do we?”

  Smith picked up the frame of the Dragunov and placed it on the carpet in front of him.

  “Good,” Proud said, “now there’s a spring and a long bolt rod in there. Take them
out and push them inside the middle of the frame.”

  Smith stared at the various parts in bewilderment.

  “I have to warn you,” Proud said, “the spring has to be positioned just right.”

  “I’ve never done this before,” Smith said.

  “It has to be in exactly the right position,” Proud said, “or when it’s fired the cartridge won’t go in a straight line.”

  “Where will it go?”

  “It’ll probably just blow the whole mechanism up in the face of whoever is holding the rifle,” Proud said.

  Smith concentrated on the spring and bolt rod. He wiped his hands on the back of his shirt; he was sweating quite badly. He placed the rod inside the rifle frame and pushed the spring on as tightly as he could.

  “Good,” Proud said, “you’re a natural. You might just come out of this with your face intact. Now clip the front cheeks on either side of the back of the barrel.”

  Smith found what he assumed were what Proud was talking about; two metal plates that secured the rod and spring in place.

  “Now,” Proud said, “slide the bolt carrier on and clip on the assembly spring.”

  There were not many parts left in the case. Smith picked up a rectangular piece of metal and slotted it into the only place where it would fit.

  “We haven’t got much time left,” Proud said.

  Smith wiped his forehead but his hand was covered in oil and he merely replaced the perspiration with gun oil.

  “I told you,” he said, “I’ve never done this before.”

  He clipped the final cover on.

  “Almost there,” Proud said, “now insert the magazine. Of course it’s not loaded yet. I’m not that stupid.”

  Smith slotted the magazine in just in front of the trigger.

  “We’ll worry about the scope later,” Proud said, “I need to set it first. It’s time you got in a bit of practice. We can start by shooting at rocks from the top of the cliff.”

  Sarah Proud made Smith pick up the rifle and nudged him outside with her own gun. The rain was pouring down as they left the cottage and headed for the cliff top where only the night before they had lay huddled together drinking whisky. Smith looked over the edge of the cliff down to the cove below.

  I’ve been so stupid, he thought, this woman has hooked me in without me even knowing about it. He thought about making a run for it down the path towards the sea but he realised it would be futile. What would he do? Make a swim for it? From what he knew of Sarah Proud, she would shoot him before he even reached the water.

  “Put the rifle down,” Proud ordered.

  Smith laid the Dragunov on the grass.

  “Stand back,” Proud pointed to a pile of rocks about twenty metres away.

  Smith walked over to the rocks, sat down and took out his cigarettes. He lit one and watched as Sarah Proud inserted the cartridges into the magazine and set about aligning the telescopic scope. She had finished before he had even smoked the cigarette half way down.

  “Get back over here,” she said.

  She handed Smith the rifle.

  “Rest it on this rock here,” she pointed to a flat piece of stone on the top of the cliff.

  “We’re in luck,” she said, “there are a couple of gannets perched on the other side of the cove. Perfect target practice.”

  Smith was starting to feel sick. He did not want to shoot anything even if it was just a sea bird. He was not sure if he had it in him to kill another living creature.

  “Look through the scope,” Proud said, “make sure the gannet is in the centre cross and gently squeeze the trigger.”

  Smith tried to think of something else as he gazed through the scope. A large drop of rain landed on the scope Smith jumped. He was amazed at how clear everything was through this tiny scope. He focussed on the gannet. It seemed to fill up his whole field of vision. He closed his eyes and squeezed his finger on the trigger.

  “Wait,” Sarah Proud shouted, “I forgot to warn you about the recoil.”

  It was too late. The report of the rifle reverberated through the cove. The two gannets took flight. Smith had missed.

  Smith’s heart was beating harder than he could remember it beating before; it felt like it was about to leave his body.

  “It’s quite a buzz isn’t it?” Proud said, “Just wait until you actually hit what you’re aiming at. There’s no way to describe the feeling; it’s better than sex. Now try again and this time I’ll try not to distract you.”

  Smith looked back through the telescopic sight. He spotted something out of the corner of his eye. There was something in the water about two hundred metres offshore. It looked like some kind of tourist vessel. He moved the rifle to the side until the boat was in his sights. He could see the faces of the people on the boat quite clearly. He suddenly came up with an idea. He did not want to hurt anybody so he scanned the boat for something to shoot at far away from the passengers. He spotted a large orange mooring buoy on the stern of the boat. He let the buoy fill the centre of the scope and he pressed his finger on the trigger. He watched as the buoy exploded at the back of the boat. The screams from the tourists could be heard from the top of the cliff.

  Sarah Proud snatched the Dragunov from Smith and hit him in the stomach with the barrel. Smith felt like he had been hit with a sledgehammer. He doubled up and lay on the ground.

  “Nice shot,” Proud said, “but I know exactly what you were trying to do. Every available police officer from the mainland will be on the island soon when the report goes out about some maniac shooting at a tourist boat. That was a very stupid thing to do.”

  Smith tried to get up but the pain in his stomach was unbearable. Sarah Proud released the safety catch on her handgun and pointed it at Smith’s head.

  “From now on,” she said, “you shoot at only what I tell you to.”

  SIXTY NINE

  The two men drove out of the car park of The Crag Inn and headed north. The rain was falling lightly on the windscreen of their Land Rover.

  “The stone cottage is on the far north east of the island,” the man known as Viktor Boronov said, “it shouldn’t be too difficult to find.”

  “I’ve got a map,” the man who was driving the Land Rover said, “Just in case. Anyway, this is a small island. How hard can it be to find two people on an island like this? We’ve tracked down people in large cities before.”

  “Don’t underestimate who we’re dealing with here,” Boronov said, “Nadia is a born killer; she has the instincts of a wolf and the police detective seems to be bullet proof. I’ve never come across anybody like him before.”

  “We’ll get them,” the driver said.

  “Them?” Boronov sounded angry, “We’re here for Nadia remember. The policeman is not to be harmed.”

  They turned left onto a smaller road. A sign for Castlehead was pasted on a small rock by the side of the road. The grey skies and the drizzle oozing out of the sky reminded Boronov of Talinn in November. He stared out of the window and a scene from his childhood played out in his head. It was two years after his parents had been killed. Boronov had been caught stealing cigarettes from a tobacco kiosk in the centre of the city and he had been sent to a juvenile detention centre. It was November and the first signs of winter could be felt all over the city. The days were dark and wet and the night time temperatures plummeted below zero. Boronov had been involved in a fight with an older boy over something insignificant; an apple or something, Boronov could not quite remember but it had sparked an argument. Boronov had stabbed the boy in the ear drum with a pencil. He still remembered the sound of the boy’s screams. In the commotion that followed, Boronov had managed to escape the detention centre. He ran like his life depended on it. He ran until his legs could take it no longer and he found shelter in a shop doorway. As night came and the rain turned to sleet and then to snow, the temperature had dropped to minus fifteen degrees. When they found him the next morning he was barely alive. The doctor in the hospital w
here he was taken claimed he should not have survived the night in such harsh conditions. After two days in hospital, Boronov was released. He still remembered the words the doctor had spoken before he left. The doctor had asked him how he had managed to survive when anybody else would surely have perished from the cold. Boronov had looked the doctor straight in the eyes and said five simple words.

  “I wasn’t ready to die,”

  Boronov shivered even though the heater in the Land Rover was on full. The clock on the dashboard said twelve thirty.

  “We’re close,” he said, “I can feel it.”

  SEVENTY

  The tide was almost out as Brad Friedman started the engine of the Land Rover. Chalmers, Whitton and Bridge were sitting in the back seat. Friedman had suggested they all go in one vehicle. Chalmers had parked his car in the shade of an old oak tree and Theakston was busy snoring on the back seat, oblivious to what was going on.

  “Let’s go then,” Whitton was getting impatient.

  The water had receded and the tarmac of the causeway was slowly emerging from the sea.

  “I saw a video on You Tube once,” Bridge said, “where a Land Rover crossed a river.”

  Chalmers looked at him as if he had said something irrelevant.

  “The water was up to the windows,” Bridge carried on undeterred, “let’s go then. Isn’t this what these vehicles were designed for?”

  Friedman sighed and drove out of the car park. There were very few vehicles waiting to cross the causeway due to the weather. Friedman adeptly manoeuvred the Land Rover round a small Fiat at the front of the queue and headed towards the island.

  Small waves were crashing over the road as they drove and when Whitton looked over at Chalmers she noticed he had gone very pale. He was holding on to the grab handles on the door and his knuckles were white.

  “I’m getting too old for this kind of adventure,” he said, “Give me a few pints and a quiet game of poker any day.”