Occum's Razor

by Giles, Stewart

  “This is cool,” Bridge said, “it’s like we’re driving through the sea.”

  Whitton smiled and shook her head. She thought about Smith. She hoped he was still alright and they were not too late. Police sirens could be heard in the distance. Whitton looked out of the back window and saw three police cars with their lights flashing. They were parked at the front of the queue waiting for the water level to drop.

  “I wonder what that’s all about,” Whitton said.

  Friedman looked in his rear view mirror and turned the radio on. He adjusted the frequency and voices were heard over the speakers.

  “Police frequency,” he said, “comes in very handy sometimes.”

  They all listened to a report of a shot being fired at one of the pleasure cruisers two hundred metres offshore. The report stated that the shot came from the island.

  “Who the hell would want to shoot at a bunch of tourists?” Chalmers said.

  Whitton smiled.

  “Smith’s alright,” she said.

  They reached the island and Friedman parked the Land Rover next to the post office.

  “What now?” He said, “Where do you suggest we start looking?”

  “Can you talk over that thing too?” Whitton pointed to the radio.

  “Of course,” Friedman said, “I have full authorisation.”

  “Then find out where the shot came from,” Whitton said, “find out where the tourist boat was. We find that out and we find out where Smith is.”

  “That’s absurd,” Friedman said, “we don’t even know if he had anything to do with it.”

  “Just do it,” Whitton said and realised how harsh it sounded.

  “Whitton’s right,” Chalmers said, “this is Smith’s doing.”

  Friedman switched on the radio.

  “All units,” he spoke into the microphone, “we’re on the island now. Can you give me a location of where the gunshot came from? The one that was fired at the tourist boat.”

  There was silence on the radio. Friedman repeated the question.

  “The boat was rounding the north east side of the island,” a man with a very high pitched voice said, “We estimate the shot came from Castlehead or thereabouts.”

  “Thank you,” Friedman said.

  “Who is this?” the high pitched voice asked, “we have no units on the island yet.”

  Friedman thought for a second.

  “The Incredible Hulk,” he said and turned the radio off.

  Michael Young looked at Friedman. He had a puzzled look on his face.

  “You won’t like me when I’m angry,” Friedman said, “Do we have a map of the island?”

  Young turned on the GPS.

  “I’m afraid Friedman is a bit old fashioned,” he said.

  He typed in Castlehead, Holy Island and the GPS started to search for satellites. It located their current location and a detailed map appeared on the screen.

  “Turn left,” the voice of Daffy Duck was heard over the speakers.

  “My daughter,” Young said, “she’s five. She thinks the GPS is cool.”

  Friedman followed Daffy Duck’s directions until the cartoon duck announced, “You have reached your destination.”

  “This can’t be right,” Chalmers looked out of the window, “there’s nothing here but an old castle. Where’s the cottage?”

  “It can’t be far from here,” Whitton looked at their position on the GPS screen, “We’re at the north east of the island; it can’t be too far from here.”

  She got out of the car and looked around. She walked up an overgrown path to the top of a crag. The view was breathtaking. The sea in front of her looked wild. The wind had picked up and spray was coming off the waves. She spotted something out of the corner of her eye. There was something shiny lying on the ground in between two small rocks. She bent down to see what it was. It was a metal casing. She picked it up, put it in her pocket and walked back towards the Land Rover.

  “Does anybody know what this is?” she took the metal casing out of her pocket.

  Friedman took it off her and held it up in front of his face.

  “Dragunov,” he said, “this is the shell from a Dragunov SV sniper rifle. We’re close.”

  SEVENTY ONE

  “They’re close,” Sarah Proud said to Smith, “I can feel it. They’re very close.”

  They had returned to the cottage. Proud was loading cartridges into the magazine of the rifle.

  “You will do exactly what I say,” she said, “and if you’re lucky you will leave this island with your life.”

  Smith felt sick. The pain in his stomach seemed to be getting worse. He was sure that at least one of his ribs had been broken when Proud hit him with the rifle.

  “This is what’s going to happen,” Proud slotted the magazine into the rifle, “you’re going to stay by the window with the rifle. Don’t worry; I’ll have my gun on you the whole time in case you decide to do something crazy. Boronov knows we’re here and he’s not stupid. This is not going to be easy.”

  “Why don’t you just hide behind a tree and shoot him when he appears?” Smith said, “Why do I have to do it?”

  “I thought you hated him,” Proud said, “He took your sister all those years ago. He killed her. Your life would be totally different now if it weren’t for Boronov.”

  Sarah Proud was right. Smith thought back to his first few months in York after his sister had disappeared and his mother had sent him to live in England. He had hated every single minute of it. The darkness and the cold had depressed him. He had been an outcast at school with his strange accent and Australian ways. He had very few friends when he was younger, growing up in York. If it was not for that day on the beach in Western Australia, who know what he would be doing now. He would probably be a lifeguard on Fremantle beach.

  “You can’t do it can you?” Smith said.

  “What?” Proud looked shocked.

  “You can’t kill your own brother,” Smith said, “no matter how much you claim to hate him, no matter what you think he’s done to you, you can’t bear the thought of pulling that trigger and ending his life.”

  “Nonsense,” Proud said, “Viktor Boronov means nothing to me.”

  “Then why make me do it? What if I miss? I’m not exactly a hot shot with a rifle.”

  “You managed to hit that mooring buoy perfectly well,” Proud said, “the boat was moving quite quickly but you hit it nevertheless.”

  “Did you use me all along?” Smith changed the subject, “I thought we had some kind of a bond.”

  Sarah proud laughed.

  “You were a means to an end,” she said, “any emotions I ever had died when Nadia Boronov died. Now shut up with this nonsense.”

  Smith realised he had touched a nerve and kept quiet.

  Sarah Proud walked towards the window and peered out. She opened the window slightly; just enough for the tip of the rifle to fit through.

  “Sit here,” she ordered.

  Smith did as he was told. He eased the end of the rifle through the gap in the window.

  “Shoot at that tree over there,” Proud said.

  She pointed to an old oak tree about fifty metres away.

  “There’s a dead branch on the left,” she said, “see if you can shoot it off.”

  Smith rested the rifle on his shoulder and looked through the scope. He centred the scope on the dead branch where it met the tree stump and gently pulled the trigger. The bang of the rifle made him jump. He looked out of the window and saw that the branch on the left hand side of the tree was gone, together with half of the tree. He had hit the target.

  “You’re ready,” Sarah Proud said.

  SEVENTY TWO

  The sound of the gunshot made Whitton jump. Her heartbeat was getting faster. She looked out the window of the Land Rover and saw a grouse take flight from the heather. The gun shot had obviously startled it.

  “It came from over there,” Friedman pointed to the right.r />
  He took a large handgun from the glove compartment and opened the barrel to double check that it was loaded. Michael Young also took out a gun although his seemed much smaller than Friedman’s.

  “Wait in the Land Rover,” Friedman said to Chalmers, Whitton and Bridge, “we’ll let you know when everything is clear.”

  He started to walk slowly in the direction of where the gun shot was heard. Young followed closely behind him. They came to a hill top and crouched down. Another Land Rover was parked less than fifty metres from them. They spotted the stone cottage a hundred metres further on. They watched as a man walked purposefully towards the cottage.

  “I can see him,” Smith whispered to Sarah Proud, “he’s coming towards the cottage.”

  Sarah Proud took out a pair of binoculars and focused them on the spot where Smith had pointed. She watched as the man stopped to examine an oak tree. It was the tree that Smith had just shot at. The man was wearing a hat and a pair of sunglasses even though the sun was nowhere in sight.

  “I thought you said Boronov was smart,” Smith said, “he’s a shooting duck out there. He’s just waiting for me to shoot him.”

  “Shoot him then,” Proud said, “and make sure you don’t miss. You’ll only get one chance believe me.”

  Smith trained the rifle on the man next to the tree. He was still crouched down by the dead branch. He seemed different to how Smith remembered Wolfie or Boronov to be although Talinn seemed a very long time ago now. Smith had him in the centre of the telescopic sight.

  “Do it,” Proud said.

  Smith’s finger curled around the trigger but something was stopping him from pressing it. Some subconscious neurone in his brain was sending a signal to the finger to prevent him from killing another human being.

  “It’s him or you,” Proud cocked her gun.

  Smith still had the man in his sights. He closed his eyes and pulled the trigger.

  The blast of the rifle drowned out the sound of the door of the cottage being opened. Smith opened his eyes and heard a familiar voice.

  “Hello Nadia.”

  Boronov was standing in the doorway. He was pointing a gun at Sarah Proud. Proud said something in a language Smith could not understand but from the intonation in her voice he could tell she was not indulging in pleasantries.

  “Nadia,” Boronov said, “where are your manners? Speak in English in front of our guest. I’m sure the detective hasn’t learned to speak Estonian in the two years since we last met.”

  “You?” Proud said, “How?”

  “You shot a good friend of mine Jason Smith.” Boronov stared at him.

  His black eyes bored deep into Smith’s soul.

  “You see,” he said, “people are willing to die for me. Are you willing to die for her?”

  He hit Proud so hard on the cheek with the barrel of his gun that Smith flinched for her.

  “Get out,” Boronov said to Smith, “my fight is not with you.”

  Smith looked into his black eyes. This was the man who had changed the course of his life. This was the man who was responsible for the death of his sister.

  “But my fight is with you,” Smith said.

  He realised it was probably the most stupid thing he had ever said but the blood inside his body felt like it was boiling. The anger that had caused many sleepless nights and even more guilt induced hangovers had taken over. He did not know how he managed to do it but before Boronov and Proud knew what was happening he managed to swing the Dragunov round, point it at Boronov and pull the trigger.

  Smith looked down at Boronov. He was lying on the floor of the cottage. Smith sank down to his knees. Boronov started to laugh. It was the most sinister laugh Smith had ever heard.

  “The Dragunov is an amazing sniper rifle,” Boronov said, “the best weapon for long distance assassinations but at close range it’s basically useless.”

  Smith stood up and looked at the gaping hole in the roof of the cottage where the bullet had entered. He swung the rifle at Boronov with all his strength. Boronov raised his arm in defence and there was a loud crack. Boronov screamed as the bones in his lower arm were shattered. Smith dropped the rifle and ran out of the cottage.

  SEVENTY THREE

  Smith did not know where he was going; he just ran and ran. He found himself at the top of the cliff overlooking the cove where only the day before he had swam semi naked with Sarah Proud without a care in the world. He heard the sound of a gunshot coming from the cottage and his heart started to beat faster. He was exhausted but the adrenalin was being pumped through his body. He looked down at the beach below. The waves were higher today. For some reason he wondered if the surfing was good in this part of the world. He heard another gunshot. He stepped onto the path down to the beach and started to run. Halfway down he lost his footing and fell. He hit his head against a rock and blacked out for a second or two.

  “I must keep going” he said out loud but there was nowhere to hide on the beach.

  He thought hard for a second and decided that going back in the direction of the cottage was not an option. Blood was trickling down his face from where he had hit his head on the rock. He reached the beach and looked up to the top of the cliff. There was somebody up there and they were on their way down. The rain had started to fall heavier and he could not see who it was. He ran along the beach and came to the other side of the cove. The rocks were too high to climb. There was no way out. The figure on the path was already half way down. Smith did not know if it was his imagination but he was sure there was a second figure coming down the path after the first. Proud and Boronov, he thought.

  Smith looked at the sea in front of him. The angry surf was spitting spray high in the air.

  “Fuck it,” he screamed and ran as fast as he could towards the water.

  He crashed into a wave and carried on running. A flood of memories flashed behind his eyelids as the cold North Sea water splashed in his face. The surf in Fremantle; the pleasure of catching the perfect wave and the feeling of elation on the beach afterwards when he looked out to sea and realised he had conquered one of the monster waves out there.

  Smith held his breath and dived into the next wave. He closed his eyes and concentrated on swimming as far out as possible. He broke the surface to take another lungful of air and dived under again. He swam and swam under the water. His lungs felt like they were going to explode. He broke the surface again and looked back towards the beach. Sarah Proud was standing on the beach close to the breaking waves. The second figure was nowhere to be seen. It must have been my imagination, Smith thought.

  Smith felt exhausted now; he felt like he could swim no more but he had to keep going. What had Sarah Proud said? He thought. There’s nothing but water between here and Denmark. He knew he would never make it to Denmark. It was no use. He could not swim any further; the current was too strong. The tide was coming in and he found himself being pulled back towards the shore. He lay on his back and started up at the sky. A patch of blue sky had appeared and the sun was trying to break through the clouds.

  “Boronov is dead,” Sarah Proud screamed over the sound of the waves.

  Smith realised the tide had carried him right back to the beach. He stood up and collapsed straight away. His legs felt like jelly. He stood up again on his trembling legs and looked straight at Sarah Proud.

  “Boronov is dead,” Proud said again.

  She was pointing her gun at Smith.

  “Good bye Jason,” she said.

  The sound of his name coming from her lips sounded like pure evil. He knew what was about to happen.

  Smith heard the click of the gun as it was cocked and closed his eyes. He waited for the bang. All he could think about was his dog, Theakston. He wondered who would be able to look after him. For some reason he suddenly remembered that his house had burned down and he had lost his job. He thought about what would be said about him at his funeral. He did not have The Ghoul’s foresight; he had not prepared anything in a
dvance. All of these thoughts were processed in the split second before the blast of the gun was heard. Smith fell onto the sand and felt the waves crashing over his head.

  Smith looked up at the sky. The sun was shining down now and the rain had stopped. He turned his head and looked towards the beach. An old lady was standing there. She was looking at something on the sand. She had what looked like a shotgun in her hand. Smith managed to stand up but his vision went black for a few seconds. He waited for the darkness to dissipate and managed to get onto the beach. Sarah Proud was lying on her back. She had a gaping wound in her stomach. The old lady approached Smith and lowered the shotgun.

  “I knew she was a baddun,” Mary McDougal sighed, “I knew it as soon as I set eyes on her. We don’t need the likes of her on this island.”

  Smith was gobsmacked.

  “Come on love,” Mary said, “let’s get you out of here and get you dry; you’ll catch your death down here.”

  EPILOGUE

  Smith sat opposite the log fire in the small stone house that Mary and Harold McDougal called home. He was sipping on a cup of coffee. He was wearing a woolly jumper of Harold’s that was at least two sizes too small for him. Whitton and Bridge were sitting on the other side of the room. Brad Friedman was talking to somebody on his mobile phone. Smith put the coffee mug down on a black table on the middle of the room.

  “Have you ever heard of William of Occum?” he said to Mary McDougal, “Occum’s Razor?”

  “No,” Mary said, “does he live on the island?”

  “Isn’t he that bloke who thought he was clever by stating the bloody obvious?” Harold McDougal walked in and sat in his usual chair, “Phoney bastard if you ask me.”

  “Harold,” Mary cast him an admonitory glance.

  “Well,” Harold said, “anybody can see what’s in front of their eyes can’t they.”

  Smith smiled. Friedman ended his call and sat next to Smith.