Killing State
Page 1
Contents
Title Page
About the Author
Praise For Killing State
Copyright
Prologue
Chapter 1: London
Chapter 2: London
Chapter 3: London
Chapter 4: London
Chapter 5: London
Chapter 6: Westminster, London
Chapter 7: London
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10: Oxford University
Chapter 11: Oxford University
Chapter 12: London
Chapter 13: A West London Hotel
Chapter 14: Westminster
Chapter 15: London
Chapter 16: Newcastle Upon Tyne
Chapter 17: A1
Chapter 18: North Sea
Chapter 19: Hermitage Island
Chapter 20
Chapter 21: Northumberland
Chapter 22: Yorkshire
Chapter 23: Newcastle
Chapter 24: Newcastle
Chapter 25: Newcastle
Chapter 26: London
Chapter 27: Newcastle University
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30: Newcastle University
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33: Newcastle
Chapter 34: Chinatown, Newcastle
Chapter 35: Newcastle University
Chapter 36: Newcastle
Chapter 37: Newcastle
Chapter 38: London
Chapter 39: Savoy Hotel, London
Chapter 40: Newcastle
Chapter 41: Savoy Hotel, London
Chapter 42: Newcastle
Chapter 43: Newcastle
Chapter 44: Newcastle
Chapter 45: Newcastle
Chapter 46: Newcastle
Chapter 47: Newcastle
Chapter 48: Suffolk
Chapter 49: Newcastle
Chapter 50: Newcastle
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53: Suffolk
Chapter 54
Chapter 55: Northumberland
Chapter 56: Northumberland
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62: London
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65: Banqueting Hall, Westminster, London
Chapter 66: London
Chapter 67: London
Chapter 68
Chapter 69: London
Chapter 70: London
Chapter 71: London
Chapter 72
Chapter 73: London
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78: Surrey
Chapter 79
Chapter 80: Westminster, London
Note to Readers
Acknowledgements
Dedication
Praise for…
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Judith O’Reilly is a writer and journalist. Her first book Wife in the North was based on her blog of the same name and was a bestseller in the UK and Germany. It was a BBC Radio 4 Book of the Week, was serialised in The Sunday Times and The Daily Telegraph, and sold into ten countries. Her second non-fiction book A Year of Doing Good was serialised in The Sunday Times and was an exploration of goodness. Killing State is her first thriller and introduces the action adventure hero Michael North. O’Reilly is a former lobby correspondent, education correspondent for The Sunday Times, and political producer for ITN’s Channel 4 News and BBC 2’s Newsnight.
www.judithoreilly.com
@judithoreilly #killingstate
Praise For Killing State
“Killing State is a psychological thriller with more twists than a pretzel. The author’s first novel is a gritty, action-packed page-turner.”
Andy McNab, author of Bravo Two Zero and Line of Fire
“A worryingly plausible portrait of Britain in the near-future, Judith O’Reilly’s debut novel is fast-paced, packed with action, and introduces a series hero to watch.”
Mick Herron, author of Slow Horses and Spook Street.
“New thriller writers come and go. I suspect this lady will stick around.”
Frederick Forsyth, author of The Day of the Jackal and The Odessa File.
“Smart, action-packed and totally immersive, Killing State is set to be one of the biggest thrillers of the year. Don’t miss it!”
T.R.Richmond, author of What She Left.
“A superb political thriller written with aplomb … Former soldier, Michael North is a terrific creation – a hitman with a bullet already lodged in his brain with no time to waste. This is page-turning stuff and Killing State is a story you will keep reading right till the end.”
Howard Linskey, author of The Drop and The Search.
“In a Dexter meets House of Cards battle this gritty thriller will appeal to readers with a sophisticated palate for political intrigue.”
K.J. Howe, author of The Freedom Broker.
LOUGHMAN PRESS
www.loughmanpress.com
www.judithoreilly.com
KILLING STATE
A LOUGHMAN PRESS BOOK
First published in Great Britain in 2017
Copyright © Judith O’Reilly, 2017
Judith O’Reilly asserts her moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
All rights reserved.
Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written permission of the copyright owner of this book.
This book is a work of fiction, and aside from the mention of US President Donald Trump, Diana, Princess of Wales and Marilyn Monroe, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN 978-1-9997653-1-6
eBook produced using Atomik ePublisher from Easypress Technologies.
Prologue
This morning for Honor Jones MP was unremarkable, except in one respect. She was going to die.
In a dark fleece and trainers, a black docker’s cap pulled over his ears, her killer looked like any other jogger as he waited. It wouldn’t be long now. She liked to run when the streets were quiet and the park was empty.
The day before he watched her as she stepped out with her shiny blonde hair in a ponytail and white ear-buds. She was alone. He could have told her that was dangerous. When there’s a predator about, you’re safest in the herd.
She’d eased the door shut behind her – a considerate neighbour – and yawning, she fiddled with the iPod. He could have told the Tory MP for Mile End that she should vary her habits. That routine would be the death of her. Down the short herringbone path, through the cast-iron gate which creaked, and on to the street. Stretching out her quads, her slim leg doubled as she pulled her foot up behind her. She did the same with the other leg and then set off. Running steadily down her street, across the road, ducking under the railway bridge, into the park where small-time dealers did small-time deals, by the canal, past the graffitied lock and right into Majesty Park. By the time she was round the far edge of the lake, she was breathing hard but even.
It was there he planned to move in behind her, and, listening to her music, he hoped she wouldn’t hear him. He would slide the blade once through the heart, and once through the wall of the stomach, aiming to catch the artery so she would bleed out before help came. Precise. Efficient. Professiona
l. He had been through it in his mind a hundred times, counting it out, she would die forty-two seconds after she first felt his breath on her neck under the swing of that blonde ponytail. He would be careful not to get blood on his running shoes.
After yesterday’s run, the banker who lived in the flat above hers came out as she left for Westminster. She smiled, her hand on his forearm as she said something that made him laugh, leaving him staring after her as she headed for the tube station. The police would question the City boy after the body was found. Had he found her attractive and did she reject him? Did that make him angry? He’d be appalled at her death, distraught, and then outraged that anyone would think that he could do such a thing.
Across the road, Honor pulled the front door behind her, and the watcher felt the oak thud of it. She yawned as she opened the creaking gate, and behind the privet hedge, in the shadowed doorway, he flexed his muscles. He let her go, drawing out the two purple horse-pills from his fleece pocket, chewing them, swallowing. He could hear the sound of her trainers against the wet pavement. And then he moved out from the shadows.
At first, he kept his distance.
She was a quarter of a mile ahead of him, then 500 paces, then 400. As she breathed in, so did he, and out again, in and out, drawing the air down deeper as she did. Her stride was shorter than his, but across the water, he knew the exact moment her breath grew ragged and a light sweat broke out on her forehead. She wasn’t as fit as he was but she was fitter than most. Fifty paces between them, she kicked up her heels, pushing herself and forcing him to move up a gear. She was flying.
She was in sight until the moment she disappeared into the trees. A less experienced man might have panicked, but the run through the woods took two and a half minutes, time enough to catch her, and he had the knife ready. Six inches, serrated, he would make it quick, make it a mercy.
His pace was fast and steady. But as he entered the woods and rounded the bend, she wasn’t running ahead of him, but sitting on the park bench alongside the path. Smoke curled up from her mouth and for a moment he thought she might be on fire, till he realised there was a cigarette between her fingers. The burning tip, the sudden centre of the world.
He broke his stride, hesitated, stopped.
Honor Jones had eyes which were sea-glass green and gold close-up and there were smudges under them that looked like bruises. She’d been crying. She pulled first one bud and then the other from her ears, watching him all the while.
“I have to finish the cigarette,” she said, and with the tip of her thumb nail flicked ash from the barrel on to the damp ground.
From behind the trees, there was a squawking and a clatter as four Canada geese rose from the lake up into the air. And it came to him that she knew what he was. She’d known he was there all along. Waiting for her. Pursuing her.
Which meant that she knew what he was there to do. But why wasn’t she screaming?
His right hand lay alongside the knife, the thin polyester tracksuit the only thing between his cold flesh and the warm blade.
He was still six feet away from her, and she could run. Twenty feet beyond the shadowed bench was open ground and she might be lucky. A man might be walking a dog. It might have been a dog which spooked the geese. An Alsatian lapping at the water’s edge between the concrete and the slime. He didn’t think she would run though, her muscles weren’t bunched and ready for flight. Her left arm was stretched out along the bench, and he imagined her sitting relaxed on the green benches of the Commons chamber waiting for her turn to speak.
Her chest rose as she inhaled again. He moved closer and her jaw tightened.
She flicked the cigarette on to the ground and stood with a sigh. “I was warned you’d come and I didn’t believe it,” she said, using her trainer to grind the cigarette end into the path.
The blade was cold now – enough to burn through the muscle down to the bone. She tilted the blonde head to one side.
“Have you been sent to kill me?”
There was a note of inquiry to her voice rather than panic. Curiosity rather than fear. She took a step closer into the silence between them, and North smelled the Chanel on her skin. She reached for him, but didn’t touch him.
“Where’s Peggy?”
Honor’s voice was soft – persuasive.
He had no idea where Peggy was. No idea who she was.
All he knew was that when he broke into the MP’s flat yesterday, Honor had scrawled the name Peggy in scarlet lipstick over and over again on her bathroom mirror.
She dropped her attempt at persuasion, glaring at him, her hands on her hips. “You’re going to kill me because I’m looking for her aren’t you? That’s the only possible explanation.”
Her friend Peggy was missing and she was trying to find her. Someone didn’t want Honor to find Peggy.
He wasn’t a murderer or a mercenary. He was duty-bound to follow orders, and this was nothing personal. The MP was a target, and she was dead already if only she knew it.
His weight on the balls of his feet.
Honor’s death would happen in seconds. Merciful. She wouldn’t suffer more than she had to. North made a deal with himself.
Chapter 1
LONDON
6.45am. Saturday, 4th November
He heard the messenger slide the black envelope under the door during the night, but he ignored it. An exercise in discipline.
Sun fought against charcoal clouds through the window of the Marylebone flat as a scowling Michael North emerged from the bedroom. His head pounded. He ran through in his mind the fight a week earlier, several sledge hammer punches to his temple and jaw before he closed the guy down. Not clever bearing in mind his situation.
And it was too bright in here. He pressed a button and the Venetian blind slid half-way down the glass. For a split second, he glimpsed a figure on the street gazing up at the building, but the falling wooden slats moved too quickly and when he checked again, the figure had gone.
He popped the blister packet he pulled from his back pocket, chewing the two purple tablets en route to the kitchen, the taste bitter on his tongue. He didn’t know what was in them – the Harley Street medic prescribed them. “In the circumstances, Michael…” that is to say “bearing in mind you’ll be dead soon, you can have these experimental drugs”. He didn’t ask the medics questions but sometimes they told him anyway. Things like “Watch for an escalation in the insomnia and migraines or any obsessive behaviours – that may well mean the bullet has shifted”. And when the bullet in his brain shifted, he didn’t need anyone telling him – he was a dead man.
He was shot on patrol outside Lashkar-Gah in southern Afghanistan five years ago.
The sniper made his own ammunition and the doctors told him he was “freakishly lucky’” in the bullet’s trajectory and position – just short of the posterior parietal artery in the right temporo-parietal junction. North didn’t feel lucky. Neuro-surgeons removed fragments of bone but couldn’t extract the bullet without further catastrophic damage. They were sorry. Instead they induced a three-month-long coma and let the inflammation of the brain subside. Would he like them to operate again? He’d said no but he often thought he should have said yes. Because what the doctors didn’t know was that he suspected the bullet was driving him mad.
On the upside, there was as yet no sign of the loss of cognitive and motor decline they warned him of. And he doubted he would live long enough for the epilepsy and dementia to kill him.
On the downside, the bullet affected his brain processing – new neural pathways establishing themselves, heightening his intuition when it came to other people, a sixth sense so to speak. At least that’s how he rationalised it when he left the hospital and did the research. Neuroplasticity it was called. The brain’s ability to heal and to compensate. He trawled through academic papers, medical journals, and books he barely understood till it didn’t frighten him. Till he could make himself believe it was possible, probable even. Till he could c
omfort himself that he was as normal as the next person. Though the next person didn’t have a bullet in the brain.
If he was wrong about the re-wiring, then he was suffering from the hallucinations and delusions common after traumatic brain injury and the bullet had triggered full-blown psychosis.
He didn’t know which was worse.
With a boost like someone knocking him sideways, the drugs kicked in, spangles and the sensation of annihilating pain fading, and North relaxed.
He crossed to the door and picked up the black envelope and with it a copy of the day’s papers. Scanning the front pages as he switched on the coffee maker – interest from the Balkans in the New Army, Friday’s G8 summit in London, and a Newcastle barman who threw himself from Westminster Bridge, killing himself and a tourist on a Thames cruise. He read the suicide story twice against the racket of steel blades grinding single estate beans.
Something rankled.
There was a prolonged and dangerous-sounding hissing and a solitary stream of espresso poured into a white cup.