by A P Bateman
“There’s more to it,” King said. “Much more.” He looked up as Amherst’s secretary walked in with a tray and placed it in front of King and Caroline on the low coffee table. He looked up at her and nodded a thank you.
“Well, obviously,” scoffed the Home Secretary.
“So, what are your thoughts?” King asked amiably. “If you don’t mind, Home Secretary?”
“Well,” Hollandrake paused, looking flustered. “I just mean there’s more to it than we think. That much is obvious.”
“Is it?” King asked. “The newly formed terrorist group, Anarchy to Recreate Society, who have sworn to eradicate world poverty and redress the balance of wealth, has made good on their promises to date. They said they would kill the five wealthiest people on the planet, and apart from one man, they have,” King paused. “What more to it do you see?” King poured some milk into his tea and spooned in a sugar.
“Well, I…”
“Agent King,” Amherst interjected. “Tell us your thoughts. Now that you’re here and have your refreshments, I don’t think we should waste any more time. The Home Secretary is here to receive a briefing, not give it.”
King shrugged. “Well, Sir Ian Snell didn’t die from a gunshot wound.”
“Absurd!” Amanda Cunningham snapped. She leaned forward and looked at King, then glanced at everybody in turn. Her expression ranged from anger to bewilderment. It was like turning an expression dial. She knew how to work an audience. “I performed the autopsy and Sir Ian Snell died from a massive head trauma. Caused by a gunshot wound. You had your reservations back at the house, but I can now confirm they are unfounded.” She looked past King and caught Caroline’s eye. “I’m Amanda Cunningham, by the way.”
“Caroline Darby,” she replied warmly.
“I know, Alex told me all about you. Nice to finally meet you.”
“Finally? What, after two days?” Caroline frowned.
“He talked a lot,” she said. “Over our dinner together.” She turned to King, then looked at Director Amherst. “I’ll stand by my findings. Sir Ian Snell was killed by a massive head trauma from a gunshot wound. You are hunting a sniper. That is the modus-operandi from the previous three killings. American software giant William Hoffman killed in California by a fifty-calibre through bullet toughened ballistic glass, at a range of one thousand metres. American social media guru Steve Gitsenez killed in Paris by a seven-point-six-two-millimetre bullet at five hundred metres. British television and media mogul Max Blackwell killed in Liverpool by a point three-three-eight, and I can confirm, the same point three-three-eight that killed Sir Ian Snell in Cornwall.”
“Why the change in calibres?” Ramsey asked.
After it was clear nobody had a satisfactory answer, King said, “Tool’s for the task. The fifty used to kill Hoffman needed to punch through ballistic glass. Hoffman’s ranch had a long approach and his security detail would be able to see anyone getting near. The one thousand metre range was on the cusp of the point fifty punching through the glass, but the sniper would have known this. The seven-point-six-two was a solid round for five hundred metres and easily obtainable in France. Nobody heard the shot, so the rifle would have been suppressed. That calibre works well with a suppressor.” He reached and picked up his cup, took a sip of tea and held the cup on his thigh. “The sniper has access to a point three-three-eight in this country. He’s used it twice already. He’ll carry on using it here.”
“Why?” asked Amherst.
“Practicality,” said King. “Guns are heavily controlled and licenced in the UK. This won’t be legally owned, most likely stolen. If you’re a member of a suitable range, have experience and pass the criteria, you can own calibres of this power, or more. The rifle will be bolt action operated, not semi-auto. And unless they have a licence with the relevant ammunition authorised, then the ammunition will have been stolen too.”
“Okay, thank you,” Amherst nodded. “Tell me, why do you feel the need to doubt the pathologist assigned to this investigation, Agent King?”
Sir Hugo Hollandrake turned and stared at King. “Yes, do tell. I would love to know why a man of your…” He looked King up and down distastefully. “… stature, feels he can disregard the work of an esteemed pathologist.”
Caroline touched King’s arm and stared at him. She whispered, “Are you sure about this, darling?”
King looked back at Sir Hugo Hollandrake and to Amherst in turn. “I was sent down to look at the crime scene because of my experience.”
“You barely found your way around the bloody crime scene!” Amanda interrupted. “You were a rank amateur, didn’t know what questions to ask. I had to guide you, prompt you even.”
“Is this true?” Amherst asked incredulously.
“Yes!” blurted Amanda.
“Director Amherst, I feel you may not have your best team investigating this matter. Either that, or MI5 isn’t best placed to continue with this.” Hollandrake shook his head. “The police have plenty of senior detectives who could do this. And do this well.”
Simon Mereweather held up his hand. “I’m sorry, Home Secretary, but I chose to send King down to investigate. That decision was on me. And I still stand by that. Alex has invaluable experience that nobody else in this room has. He has spent years in the field and done more for his country than we should ask of anybody. The sniper skills demonstrated by these people have been remarkable. Shots fired, and people killed at tremendous distances, and I assumed when I looked at the property on Google Maps, that this would be no different. Sir Ian Snell’s nearest neighbour was over two thousand metres away and the ground looked open with little cover for a gunman to get near their target. I assumed this was a massively long shot and thought King would be able to contribute his expertise.”
“It’s fine, Simon. You suggested King and I concurred,” Amherst said gruffly. “So, let’s have it.” He looked back at King, who seemed unperturbed, sipping from his cup. Then he glanced at Amanda Cunningham as he said, “Without further interruption, if you please?”
Unperturbed, King shrugged. “As I said to Ms Cunningham, it was a long shot and on the cusp of what a point three-three-eight can achieve. But I later found two missed attempts. Two bullets in the wall. My first instinct was that it would have been too noticeable. Snell would have heard the sonic wave, or boom as people sometimes call it, and the noise of the bullet strikes against the stone wall. If the weapon wasn’t sound moderated with a suppressor, then he would certainly have heard these two gunshots from across the valley as well.”
“Even from so far away?” asked Hollandrake.
“Especially so. Because of the valley and the echo that it would generate,” King answered. “When we returned to the property the next morning…”
“Who?” Amherst interrupted.
“Ms Cunningham and myself. We discovered Ian Snell’s wife in bed with her bodyguard.”
“No crime there,” Amherst said dismissively. “Morally reprehensible, but not a crime.”
“Viktor Bukov is Helena Snell’s bodyguard, but he is also posing as her cousin, Ivan Kerchenko. That’s the name he’s working under. We don’t know where the real Ivan Kerchenko is.”
“So, Snell’s wife is having an affair, is in bed with her lover just hours after her husband’s death,” mused Amherst. “Nothing tangible. What do you make of King’s theory of multiple shots, Ms Cunningham?”
“It’s not a theory. The bullets were there. There were definitely three shots taken.”
“But only one shell casing found at the house where the shot was taken from,” Amherst said, looking at a sheet of paper in front of him. King assumed it was Amanda’s report. “Why leave a shell casing at the house, if they took three shots?”
“Because they wanted it to look like only one shot had been taken,” King said.
“Snell was killed by a gunshot. Anarchy to Recreate Society murdered him, as they said they would,” Amanda said emphatically. She was flushed, and
King noticed her hands were shaking, causing the papers in her hand to waft, as though in a breeze. “Whether or not they took more shots, and why they left only one casing at the house is not something I can comment on. I only deal in cold, hard facts. And that was what I saw. Sir Ian Snell was either engrossed in his paper he had been reading and didn’t notice the other two shots, or maybe he was asleep. All I know is that I was chosen for my expertise, and my expertise in this matter has drawn a conclusion.”
Amherst looked at King. “Fair enough?”
King shrugged, sipped some more tea.
“So, what about South Africa?” the Home Secretary asked. “Sounded like a complete and utter balls up.”
“I was compromised,” Caroline said sharply. “I was greeted by an imposter who knew the name of my contact. I was abducted.”
“A bit dramatic,” Amanda scoffed. “You look safe and well to me.”
“I killed two men to escape.” Caroline glared.
Simon Mereweather held up a hand. “Need to know, Agent Darby.” He looked back at Amherst. “Miss Darby was later ambushed a second time, the prisoner she secured release for and the South African Secret Service agent escorting her were both killed in the attack. She was lucky to get out alive. South African intelligence have more leaks than a sieve and somebody knew her every move. They knew she was coming and they knew why she was there. I think we can conclude from this, that the identity of the sniper would have been that much closer if the prisoner had been able to talk. There is no doubt in my mind that the man who shot the prisoner and killed his brother, who practiced in the South African bush, is the same sniper who is behind the killings on this list,” Mereweather paused. “Whoever their contact is in the South African Secret Service, they sacrificed a serving agent. The SASS are livid and starting a thorough sweep of their seals. We can’t expect further co-operation from them, and neither should we want it until they clean house.”
Amherst nodded. “And you were compromised down in Cornwall, I hear,” he said to King. “They bombed your house, I believe?”
“Someone shot at me. My cottage was blown up afterwards.” King glanced at Caroline, who had raised a hand to her mouth. The colour drained out of her face. He’d told her he’d been compromised, that there had been a fire, but had not had the chance to come back to the conversation. Her exploits in South Africa had been at the forefront of their brief conversation. “As yet, we don’t know who the gunman was.”
“And nor will you, I imagine,” commented Sir Hugo. “Not if he got away.”
“No, he didn’t get away, Home Secretary,” Simon Mereweather said. “King killed him.”
“Really?” Sir Hugo Hollandrake looked surprised. “He looked back at King, but looked away when King held his stare. “So, it may be possible to get an identification after all?”
Mereweather nodded. “Neil, do you want to contribute?”
“Certainly, Simon,” Ramsay replied. He opened a note pad and glanced down. “We have entered his DNA and fingerprints through the Police National Computer, but so far no match. We have Interpol looking at their database. King said the man appeared to be East European or Russian, we’ve extended our interest to the FSB, but we’ve heard nothing from Moscow so far.”
“How do you know he was from Eastern Europe or Russia?” The Home Secretary asked incredulously. “I thought you killed him?”
“We had a brief chat,” King said. “It wasn’t a clean kill. It seldom is.” He looked the Home Secretary in his eyes, but the man averted his eyes to the floor. He’d never met a man like King before, probably hoped he never would again.
“Well, if we’re relying on the Russians, we’ll be waiting a while,” said Amherst. “They’re still smarting from last year and the exposure of members of their leadership and in particular, ex-KGB and FSB operatives who attempted to commit terrorist activities on these shores.” Amherst glanced up. “We’re not sure they’re our friends anymore.”
“They never were,” King said.
“Expert, are we?” The Home Secretary asked, sharply and somewhat sarcastically. He looked at King again, and once again, could not hold his stare.
King smiled, but it was a cold, emotionless expression. His eyes were the coldest grey blue imaginable, like a wolf’s. “I know more about Russian intelligence and the lengths they will go to maintain an East-West divide than anybody else in this room,” he replied. “And more about the Russian backed operation that the director has just mentioned than anyone else here, except for Caroline, of course.”
There was a silence, long enough to be uncomfortable.
Hollandrake gathered his papers together. “So, we may not get an identification at all.” He stood up. “Well, this all seems to be a waste of time,” he said. “I didn’t think MI5 were the right outfit for an investigation like this. This is more of a police case. I will take my findings here today to the Prime Minister and afterwards, if she agrees, we will engage Special Branch and the police. Ms Darby can continue with her liaison with Interpol, she seems to have a good working relationship with them.” He looked down at King. “But I fail to see your contribution to any of this. You are obviously a rough, tough soldier type, with a past I’d prefer to know nothing further about, but you’re of no service on this case.” He turned to Director Amherst. “Re-assign him, will you? From what Ms Cunningham has detailed in her report, he is by no means an investigator. And knows nothing of forensics either.” He glanced back at King. “And it wouldn’t hurt you or your chances of continuing to work here by buying a decent suit and tie and making a bloody effort. Who in God’s name wears jeans to a meeting with the Director General and the Home Secretary?”
King said nothing. He picked up his cup and drained the remnants of tea. He stared up at the man and smiled when he broke away first. Sir Hugo Hollandrake shook his head and walked for the door.
“Amanda, you can come with me and feedback to the PM,” he said sharply. He looked back at Amherst. “I mean it. Re-assigned. At best.”
Amanda Cunningham stood up. “I’m sorry, Alex. Truly I am, but it had to be said. People have died, more will die until these terrorists are caught. It’s nothing personal, it just needs real investigators and detectives on this case,” she paused, swung her satchel over her shoulder and walked between Amherst’s desk and the line of three coffee tables. She stopped in front of Caroline. “I’m sorry about your cottage, really I am. It was such a shame, such a beautiful part of the country.”
Caroline smiled, but it was emotionless. “Thank you.”
“I liked it,” Amanda said, slipping her document folder into her satchel. “The barbecue area was lovely. I bet you’ve had a great many romantic meals together there as well. It’s a real shame.” She followed the Home Secretary out, nodding to Director Amherst as she left.
Amherst waited for the door to close. He looked at Caroline, who in turn had flushed red and was staring at the floor. “Would you two like a moment, before we commence? I think it may be a good idea.”
King shook his head. “It’s nothing.”
Amherst nodded. “Well then?”
“Actually Sir,” Caroline said quietly, still staring at the floor. “A minute or two would be helpful. If you don’t mind?”
“Of course. Use the briefing room,” he said, without looking up.
Caroline stood up and walked ahead of King to the door. King followed awkwardly. He was embarrassed at the scene, angered at Amanda Cunningham’s broadside, but most of all, he could see that her comments had hurt Caroline. They had been calculated, delivered to hurt Caroline as much as himself. King could not forgive that.
The briefing room was half the size of Amherst’s office. It was dark and empty, but the room was motion sensitive and the light came on when they entered. Caroline stood with her back to him, her hands on her shapely hips.
“That fucking bitch!” she said contemptuously.
King was shocked. Caroline seldom cursed, but he could see just
how angry she was. It was a side to her he had never seen before. “Caroline, I…”
“Did you sleep with her?”
“Of course not!”
“Kiss?”
“No!”
“Then what?”
King perched on the edge of a table. He looked at her back, wished he could see her face, but he knew her well, knew he couldn’t rush her. “I wanted to talk to her about her findings. It wasn’t the sort of talk for a hotel bar.”
“Of course not,” she said sharply. “So why not at Sir Ian Snell’s house?”
King shrugged. “It kind of snowballed. She suggested her hotel bar. She said she was staying in Truro, I had to pass through Truro to get back to the cottage. I didn’t think it would be very private. I suggested a tea or coffee in town. She said she was starving, so I offered to cook something. I hadn’t eaten all day either,” he paused. “It was dumb, but innocent. At least on my part.”
Caroline turned around. Her eyes were moist. “She’s very pretty,” she said. “And young. And it wasn’t just dumb, it was bloody stupid of you.”
“I know,” he said solemnly. And then he smiled. “For goodness sake, love. I’ve never felt the same way about someone as I do with you.”
“Apart from with Jane,” she corrected him.
King shook his head. “I loved my wife,” he said. “And I was heartbroken when she died. For years. But then I met you. I’ve never been happier. I’m sorry I invited her, but I knew it was a mistake pretty soon after she arrived.”
“Why?”
King smiled wryly. “Because she had been drinking, carried on drinking, then lost it when I suggested she had drunk too much. Especially, to drive back to her hotel in Truro,” he said.