Killer Intent

by Tony Kent

  Joshua read the few contents quickly before returning to the call.

  ‘OK. That should be enough.’

  ‘I would hope so, Sergeant.’

  Joshua was irritated by the arrogance in Stanton’s words. A less controlled man would have bitten already. But that was not Joshua’s way. Those comments would be collected and stored. To be accessed later, when the tables were turned.

  Instead he asked the question that most concerned him.

  ‘Surely if I kill this Devlin guy within twenty-four hours of Lawrence, there are going to be questions about both deaths?’

  ‘Let there be.’ The response was flippant. ‘With Devlin out of the way there will be no one to suggest that Eamon McGale ever saw or spoke to Daniel Lawrence. And without that, what will people see? The murder of a long-standing legal team. Nothing more. They become the unfortunate statistics of organised crime. Your job will have been done, Sergeant. Your wife and your son will be safe, and you will retire a rich, happy man with our paths never to cross again. You have everything to gain from this, so make it happen.’

  Joshua heard the line go dead. He waited for a few seconds. Listened as he always did for the telltale ‘click’ that would indicate a line interception. Nothing came. Satisfied, he reclined and brought the well-defined muscles of his bare back against the cold hardwood bedstead. With his head resting against the top of the headboard he focused his mind.

  One more death. One more and he could walk away. One more and he could return to his life with the safety of his family guaranteed. There was a light at the end of this dark tunnel and only one obstacle stood in his way. An obstacle Joshua would remove before the day was over.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  ‘Still no mention of Paddington Green? Or McGale?’

  Jack Maguire’s eyes bored into Sarah as he spoke. There was excitement in his voice. As if he already knew the answer to his question. Sarah’s discovery that Daniel Lawrence had died the previous night had made their cover-up theory much more likely.

  ‘Not a word,’ Sarah replied.

  She held open the large glass exit door as Maguire struggled through. His hands were full, a camera in the right and a large case of portable sound and editing equipment in the left. Once outside Sarah released the door and watched as Maguire placed his case down, freeing his left hand to reach to his jacket pocket and remove a cigarette packet.

  ‘Back on the wagon today?’ he asked, holding the now-open packet out for Sarah.

  ‘Seems like the wrong time for that,’ Sarah replied. ‘We’ve got enough going on.’

  She took two cigarettes from the packet, gave one to Maguire and kept the other for herself. A few seconds later and they were both set.

  They began to walk again, with Sarah now carrying Maguire’s case.

  ‘There’s not a word in anything I’ve seen to suggest that Lawrence went to Paddington Green last night,’ Sarah observed, returning to the subject. ‘It’s like he wasn’t there at all.’

  ‘So what are they saying?’

  ‘Next to nothing, Jack. Lawrence’s death isn’t on any radar but ours.’

  ‘And they’re saying it was an accident?’

  ‘That’s what the cop I got it from says, yeah. The way he tells it, Lawrence was in his office till late, ends up driving home too fast. Can’t handle the car or falls asleep at the wheel or whatever and “bam”. Goodnight.’

  Maguire did not answer. They walked on in silence. At least a minute passed, maybe two. Sarah was used to it. She knew Maguire’s mind was working overtime. Finally, a few feet from the van, he stopped.

  ‘This stinks,’ Maguire announced. ‘There’s no way that no one knows Lawrence was with McGale last night. Shit, we know the name of one copper who definitely saw him.’

  ‘Trevor Henry?’

  ‘Yeah. Henry was there when Lawrence arrived. He must have been.’

  ‘No doubt,’ Sarah agreed. ‘Henry walked through that gate no more than a minute before Lawrence showed up.’

  ‘Which means at least someone knows. We can be sure about that. And then the poor bastard turns up dead a few hours later? Just like McGale? And what? We’re supposed to accept that it’s all a bloody coincidence? I don’t think so, Sarah. Do you?’

  At first Sarah did not answer. Instead she smiled, dropped her cigarette to the ground and crushed it underfoot. When she looked back towards Maguire her smile widened.

  ‘No, Jack. I don’t. What I think is that we’re in cover-up territory.’

  She counted off points on her fingers as she spoke.

  ‘McGale? Dead. Lawrence, the lawyer they say he never saw? Dead. Something else is going on here, Jack. Something only we’ve got a line on.’

  Maguire smiled back. But he did not speak. Instead he began to load their equipment into the van. He did so carefully, securing everything into place. When he was done he slammed the sliding side door shut, took what was left of his cigarette from between his lips and flicked it away.

  ‘So what now, boss?’

  Sarah hesitated for just a moment. When she spoke she did so honestly.

  ‘I don’t know, Jack. That’s the problem. I mean, we know we’re being lied to but I can’t think of a single way to prove it!’

  ‘Then we follow the golden rule.’ Maguire’s smile grew wider as he spoke. There were still lessons he could teach. ‘When you don’t know where to start, you start at the beginning.’

  TWENTY-NINE

  ‘How can you be sure we’ll even be allowed in?’ Sarah asked.

  The CNN outside broadcast van was parked at the side of Paddington Green police station, closer to the entrance than it had been the previous night. The massed press were no longer out front, and without that disruption the main road had been reopened. Which meant the ‘no stopping traffic’ rule was back in force.

  ‘They have to let us in,’ Maguire replied. ‘It’s a public police station. They don’t have a choice.’

  ‘They seemed to have one last night. No one could get through the front door.’

  ‘That’s because last night the station was on security shut-down with a major terror suspect in custody. In those circumstances they can justify it. But with McGale dead? What would a continued shut-down achieve?’

  Sarah still looked unconvinced.

  ‘So that’s it? McGale dies and suddenly it’s not a fortress any more? Suddenly we can just walk in off the street?’

  ‘Pretty much, yeah,’ Maguire replied. ‘They’ll take some precautions, I’m sure. They’ll probably have a cop out front instead of the usual civilian police worker. Just as an extra line of protection. But even that could work in our favour.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Because cops aren’t used to handling the front desk and dealing with the press, Sarah. That’s what the civilian workers do, day in and day out.’

  Sarah nodded. Maguire sounded confident. And he had the experience to back it up. She could only hope that he was right.

  *

  The image in Maguire’s lens was steady, even as he walked. His focus remained fixed on Sarah’s back as she strode through Paddington Green’s automatic front entrance. They had agreed in advance exactly how to play this. Sarah did not miss a step. Without checking that Maguire was keeping up, she scanned the room, located the front desk and headed straight for it.

  The desk was long, panning from one side of the back wall to the other. It had room to be manned by as many as six officers. Today, with the reception area otherwise empty, there was only one. A young man, barely into his twenties. A baby police officer, just as Maguire had predicted.

  ‘Good afternoon, Constable Mitchell.’

  Sarah spoke with an official tone as she read from his name tag. She was playing for the camera. Maguire had seen her do it before, but never on a matter so serious.

  Sarah continued.

  ‘Would you mind if I asked you a few questions about last night?’

  Mitchell opened his mouth to
respond. Nothing came out. The combination of a rolling camera and a striking, confident woman was having exactly the effect Maguire had hoped. The boy was a rabbit in the headlights. Mitchell looked back and forth between Sarah and the camera lens. Twice. Three times. Finally he forced out a reply.

  ‘We . . . I’m . . . there . . . I’m not authorised to speak to the press, miss. And, erm, I don’t really think that you, er, that you should have that camera recording in the station.’

  Maguire almost felt sorry for him. Almost. But now was no time for sympathy. And Sarah seemed to agree. She played her hand, leaning forward against the counter. Close enough for Mitchell to smell her perfume. The scent and Sarah’s proximity seemed to fluster him even more.

  When Sarah spoke again her voice was low. Almost seductive.

  ‘Well if you’re not authorised, Constable Mitchell, how about you go out back and get me someone who is. Sergeant Henry, maybe?’

  Maguire suppressed a flinch. Sarah was pushing her luck. Mitchell should respond by escorting them both from the premises. By force if necessary. The plan relied on this not being Mitchell’s reaction. It relied on him instead being thrown off his game and thereby getting the attention of the man they were really here to see: Sergeant Trevor Henry.

  Maguire had hoped for success, but he had not expected it to be easy. So he was surprised when Mitchell, after just a few moments of confused hesitation, abandoned the front desk and disappeared into the heart of the building.

  Maguire’s lens remained focused on Sarah. It recorded as she turned towards it for the first time. No words were needed. Her eyes said everything.

  The message in Maguire’s visible left eye was just as clear. It widened and focused on a point behind Sarah’s left shoulder. She followed its gaze and turned. Her confidence – so important to the plan – seemed to falter as Trevor Henry stormed through a security door at the end of the room.

  ‘What the hell are you doing in my station?’ Henry demanded. He sounded furious. ‘Get out! Now!’

  Maguire saw Sarah’s feet begin to inch backwards. And then he saw her stop herself, standing her ground. He was impressed. In twenty-five years he had seen reporters cower from much less. The thought was a moment’s distraction. Not long enough that he failed to notice Henry pause for just an instant when he recognised Sarah – a detail captured for ever through his lens.

  ‘What the hell are you doing here?’

  Henry hissed the question through almost-gritted teeth. For that moment he spoke quietly, directly to Sarah. Then he seemed to notice Maguire behind her. When he spoke again the volume and the fury were back.

  ‘Get that camera off! Now! You do not film in my station!’

  Sarah’s natural instinct would be to do as she was told. Maguire knew that. She was the product of a good upbringing, with respect for uniform drilled in. Somehow she forced that instinct down. They had agreed a plan, and Maguire could sense her determination to see it through.

  ‘Sergeant, can you confirm that Eamon McGale met and consulted with a legal representative in this building, just hours before his death?’

  Henry glared at Sarah before speaking. Any attraction he may have felt for her the previous night was now replaced by naked animosity.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Miss Truman,’ he finally said. ‘Eamon McGale saw no one yesterday.’

  Henry’s voice was now formal but authoritative. It gave no hint of his previous anger.

  ‘The suspect committed suicide before any representative arrived, just as has been disclosed. Now leave.’

  Sarah did not move.

  ‘Sergeant, when we spoke yesterday you informed me that Eamon McGale’s lawyer had been selected. Shortly after that, Daniel Lawrence, a defence lawyer, arrived at this station. He stayed here for almost two hours. There was only one person in custody during those hours, and so only one reason for Daniel Lawrence to be here. Mr Lawrence was the lawyer you mentioned and he did meet with Eamon McGale. That’s right, isn’t it?’

  The barrage of questions seemed to force Henry onto the back foot. He seemed surprised.

  Probably because Sarah knew more than he had told her, Maguire thought. A regrettable conversation that was now a problem.

  Henry seemed unsure of how to react, and so he resorted to what he did best. Anger.

  ‘That allegation is ridiculous,’ Henry barked. ‘Now get the hell out of my station or I’ll have you dragged out.’

  This time Sarah did not move even a little. Maguire could see that she was just warming up.

  ‘Are you aware, Sergeant, that after leaving your station Daniel Lawrence was killed in a supposed car accident? On the very same night that Eamon McGale allegedly took his own life? Doesn’t that seem just a bit suspicious to a detective such as yourself?’

  Henry visibly started. It was gone in an instant, but not before Maguire saw it. The last piece of information – the death of Daniel Lawrence – had shocked him.

  It was quickly hidden. Henry regained his composure.

  ‘Have it your way,’ he said. The anger in his voice was missing. The menace was not.

  Henry turned his head towards the security door and shouted. The words came out fast but their meaning was all too clear. Within a moment four male officers were in the room. They did not wait for instructions. Henry took a single stride back to let his men pass, and he watched as they ejected Sarah and Maguire from the building.

  No words were spoken as they were manhandled through the building’s main door. No threats. No warnings. Once outside the four officers turned and immediately re-entered the building. Maguire watched the officers disappear as the door slid shut behind them.

  Neither Sarah nor Maguire spoke. They just shared a smile. What had just happened – and what Maguire had recorded – may have told them little, but it was enough to know that they were on the right track. Eamon McGale had not taken his own life, and whoever had killed him had done the same to Daniel Lawrence and then attempted to cover up any connection between the two.

  It was the start they needed.

  Trevor Henry slammed the security door shut behind him. He was furious and made no attempt to hide it.

  ‘Goddamn gutter press have the balls to bring a camera into my police station and start accusing us? Questioning me? What the hell is going on in this country?’

  A chair unfortunate enough to be in his path was kicked into the air as he shouted. More furniture might have faced the same treatment; if so it was saved when Henry’s attention was caught by Mitchell.

  ‘You!’ Henry hollered. ‘What the hell were you doing leaving those two to film in the station? When the press come in with cameras rolling you throw the bastards out! Simple as! What did you think you were playing at?’

  This time Mitchell was not lost for words, but he could have been for all the good they did. They came out in fits and starts until Henry lost patience.

  ‘Stop blooding stuttering! You can’t even deal with a woman fluttering her eyelashes at you. Christ, where do we find you people?’

  Henry looked around at the silent figures about the room. All had been brought to a standstill by his outburst. He thought about saying more. It did not seem worth it. Instead he shook his head and walked to the room’s back door.

  ‘I’m going for a cigarette. If anyone comes in while I’m gone, try to deal with them like coppers instead of horny schoolboys.’

  Once outside he moved to the same quiet corner where he had met Sarah the night before. With a glance to make sure he was alone, he took a small, basic mobile telephone from his pocket and rang the only number in the handset’s memory.

  The call was answered after just the first ring. It always was. The man on the other end of the line demanded such brevity. Just what Henry now gave him.

  ‘We have a problem.’

  THIRTY

  Dempsey sat alone in an otherwise deserted Westminster bar, nursing his second Guinness of the session. It was the same glass that had sat in
his hand for the past half hour. The DDS agent was many things but he was no drinker. For four years he had lived less than two hundred yards from the bar. This was the first time he had stepped inside.

  The pub’s walls were decorated with inch-thin plasma-screen TVs. It did not take a regular to know what they usually showed: football, rugby, boxing. Anything to keep its customers amused as they drained its kegs and casks. But not today. Today, no TV in London was showing anything but the horrors of the previous afternoon.

  The sound of the nearest screen – of all the screens – was muted. Dempsey didn’t need it. Even the images were unnecessary. He needed no reminder of what he had seen first-hand.

  The sight of Sam Regis falling to her knees, her eyes lifeless and her skull torn apart, dominated his mind. For his whole adult life he had been surrounded by death and by violence. It was the career he had chosen. The skills he had earned. Dempsey had grown to hate them, but never more so than yesterday. Nothing could fuel his distaste for violence more furiously than watching a friend he had recruited and trained die such a death. It was a torment worsened by one sure fact: that only more violence – greater violence – would bring this thing to an end. That much was assured by the involvement of Sergeant Major James Turner.

  James Turner was already an established feature of the SAS at the time of Dempsey’s arrival. A dangerous man with a reputation for excellence. Older than Dempsey by seven years, Turner had spent longer in his parent regiment before applying for the infamous SAS selection. His time at Hereford therefore predated the younger man by just three years. But he had made those years count. By the time of Dempsey’s arrival he was already spoken of in reverential terms.

  Dempsey’s own situation had been more difficult. As an officer he was under pressure from the start to excel. To be at least the equal of any non-commissioned man who competed alongside him. In the three-month intense period of basic training and selection that had followed, he had more than lived up to that standard.