by A P Bateman
“But you both stayed at the St. Michaels, in Falmouth,” she said suspiciously.
“I know. She definitely told me that she was staying in Truro. I drove all over the bloody place looking for her car. I was worried she’d gone off the road someplace,” he paused. “Then all hell broke loose when I returned to the cottage and after Randal left with the body on the helicopter, I checked a few places for vacancies on my mobile and nipped down to Falmouth. That’s when I saw her again, at breakfast.”
“And you shared a table, naturally?” she said quietly.
He shrugged. “Yes. I guess I just wanted to see what she was doing there. I can’t work her out. She’s heading the forensics on this, but she seems too much of a loose cannon, too erratic.”
Caroline looked at him, then cast her eyes down. “This isn’t working, is it?”
“What?” King was taken aback. “Nothing happened, it was just a stupid error of judgement.”
Caroline shook her head. “I mean you, MI5, us working together.”
King frowned at her. “What makes you say that?”
“Alex, you turned up to a top tier meeting wearing what most men would dress to go drinking in on a Friday night,” she paused. “At a meeting with the Home Secretary, no less. You even knocked the meeting back an hour. Who does that? You don’t want this anymore. You want to hide in the shadows, hunt down terrorists and put a bullet in them. That bitch, Amanda Cunningham, had it right; this isn’t your line of expertise. You’re not an investigator. But it’s more than that, I just don’t think you want to be told what to do anymore. You need something else. A new challenge.”
“The yacht?” he said. “We could go around the world together. I’ve thought about that a lot lately. The Greek islands, or just circumnavigate the Med.”
“We don’t even know how to sail!” She shook her head in bewilderment. “I’m thirty-seven. I don’t think I’m there yet. I could go further in MI5, perhaps run a department.”
“Just rewind a moment,” he said. “Do you trust me?”
She stepped forward and put her arms around him, rested her chin on his shoulder. “Yes,” she said. “I do.”
“And you can see that Amanda Cunningham said all that in there both to undermine me and to drive a wedge between the two of us?”
“Yes,” she said, she hugged him close. “But why?”
“I don’t know,” King said. He smiled, bent down and kissed her. A loving kiss on her lips, but not passionate or a prelude to anything more. “But I’m going to find out. Some bitch you’ve just met says I’m a shit investigator and you have me down for retirement already?” He pulled away from her and opened the door.
“Where are you going?”
King smiled. “The Director General’s office. I guess we shouldn’t keep him waiting any longer.”
42
King opened the door to Amherst’s office without knocking. He led the way, nodded to the director as he sat down. Caroline took her seat, looked at the director and nodded a thank you.
“Well?” Amherst prompted King.
“I think I have him suitably rattled,” said King.
“Well, we need him more than rattled,” Amherst said. “It’s going to take more than a pair of jeans and a text re-scheduling a meeting.”
Caroline frowned. She leaned forwards, was relieved to see both Ramsay and Mereweather wearing similar expressions. “Sir?” she asked, then glanced at King. “What’s going on?”
“Alex and I met two weeks ago. He’s been working on something for me, reporting directly to me. He has been investigating Sir Ian Snell’s background. He discovered that Helena Snell’s cousin was not the man guarding her. That man has been living on the coast of the Black Sea, living it up in the many casinos and brothels. He came up in an ongoing MI6 investigation. When it was noted he seemed to be in two places at once, and MI5 were performing security background checks on Ian Snell’s employees, including Ivan Kerchenko, our friends across the Thames gave us a head’s up. Naturally, Kerchenko was a person of interest.”
Ramsay coughed. “Sir, is this to do with the gunman at King’s cottage?”
“Yes,” Amherst nodded. “Fill them in, will you?”
Ramsay nodded. “We have a positive identification on the gunman at King’s cottage. Director Amherst told me not to divulge that information during this morning’s meeting. The man in question was Ivan Kerchenko. Helena Snell’s cousin. We received the information this morning on the gunman’s DNA, from the Russian FSB. They want to extend us every courtesy after the incident last year near GCHQ.”
Caroline frowned. “So, Sir, what you said about the Russians not co-operating was…”
“A lie, yes,” Amherst said. “This is the Security Service, Agent Darby, do keep up,” he flashed her a rare smile, but it faded just as quickly. He looked up at Mereweather. “Anything on this chap who attacked King on the train?”
Mereweather shook his head. “DNA would suggest Russian or Eurasian extraction. But he’s a clean skin. Nothing on any databases. Not yet, at least.”
“Unusual,” King said. “He looked the type to have form, at least. But the fact he was Russian and the fact that Ivan Kerchenko attacked me, not five miles across country, from where his cousin’s husband was shot that same day, ties Helena Snell into this by association. The odds are too much for coincidence. Kerchenko was a former Spetsnaz operative. As was Viktor Bukov. Viktor Bukov is sleeping with Helena Snell. That’s a hell of a connection right there. But the attack happened before Amanda Cunningham and I went back to Sir Ian Snell’s property. Somebody wanted me stopped before it came to that. They wanted me off the investigation before it had begun.”
Caroline nodded. “So, what is this about?” she asked, looking back at Amherst. “Why were you keeping the Home Secretary out of this?”
King looked at her. He could see she had a different expression to that of a few minutes ago in the briefing room. She had all but given up on him then, now she seemed ready to hang on his every word. He was a little relieved. “I think the five were a ruse. I think that three of the world’s wealthiest people on that list were sacrificed. I think Sir Ian Snell was the only legitimate target, and I think the last person on the list will be shot to cover their tracks and maintain the illusion. Anarchy to Recreate Society’s manifesto was a smokescreen, designed to hide the one person they wanted dead. And in doing so, public opinion of the super-rich dehumanised the people on that list, legitimised them as collateral damage in a war on wealth. So much money has been given away, helped so many causes, that nobody really cares that a few of the outlandish mega-rich have been killed,” he paused. “The list was bogus. If you analyse the rich lists, many of the rankings change weekly. Three of Silicon Valley’s tech giants and two social media gurus never even featured on Anarchy’s list; no doubt because they give away millions and run education and reform programs. Sir Ian Snell was shoehorned onto the list because of various investments. A list of the rich should be taken on net worth alone.”
“So, what about the Home Secretary?” asked Caroline. “Where does he figure in this?”
“Sir Hugo Hollandrake and Sir Ian Snell were at university together. That’s common knowledge.” Amherst rested his elbows on the desk and steepled his fingers. “I doubt they were even friends, but nobody seems to know for sure. But what we have uncovered is that the Home Secretary invested heavily in Snell’s ventures soon after he went into politics. He continued to invest for the next three decades. These investments were well hidden, and it first came to our attention through an Inland Revenue investigation. He covered his tracks well, so did Snell, but there is evidence that Hollandrake is a silent, or rather, secret partner in GeoSpec. Even if just by association. There is also the suggestion from sources of information, and human interaction, that Sir Ian Snell paid favours to advance Sir Hugo Hollandrake’s political career. I have commissioned a team of forensic accountants to investigate both men’s accounts and a connectio
n has been made. It’s tenuous, but forensic accountants are skilled at spotting such links. They pick at a thread and unravel it.”
“And GeoSpec has won the tender for the Goliath missile contract,” Caroline commented flatly. “Quite the mother of a conflict of interests, I should imagine.”
“And then some.” Simon Mereweather interjected. “Sir Hugo Hollandrake has been a pivotal role in championing Goliath. His announcement yesterday that Goliath was now secured and orders for the motherboards from GeoSpec has surprised defence commentators and business insiders alike. I suppose it seems strange to come on the back of Ian Snell’s death, but he has committed the government. Some argue that the deal was already cemented, others venture that the deal shores up GeoSpec and protects British jobs and further investment by the company. And he has always advocated GeoSpec as a British company from the start. Not only has he pushed GeoSpec as the only British company in the tender, with the angle of keeping employment in the UK, but he has defended the country’s need for security by using a British company in such a security conscious project. The Trident system could have been upgraded. Lord knows we’ll likely never use the damned things anyway, but when Hollandrake served as Defence Minister, he set the ball rolling with the Goliath program, committed it to contract and investment, knowing that it needed a completely new dedicated processing system and that GeoSpec was his choice. Now he’s the Home Secretary, and the remit for the country’s defence still lies with him, ultimately ends with him, and he has kept the pressure on to use GeoSpec, even when several Indian tech companies could do the work for half the cost. Hollandrake argued vehemently that in post-Brexit Britain, we should look to our own tech companies to innovate, especially in matters of defence, rather than importing from countries with less ethical workforce values.”
“We’re on the brink here,” Amherst said quietly. “Enough to bring down not just the Home Secretary, but the entire government as well.”
“Might not be such a dreadful thing,” Neil Ramsay mused dryly.
Amherst shook his head. “Elections are fine. That’s just the democratic process and that’s what we ultimately work for. But the country isn’t in a place where it can cope with shock resignations and snap elections. The public are election and referendum weary. The economy can’t cope with much more uncertainty.”
“But Sir Hugo can’t get away with this!” Caroline blurted. She took a moment to regain composure, then said, “He’s used power and influence for his own gain.”
“Well, that’s about three hundred MPs to keep him company then,” Mereweather chided.
“You know what I mean, Simon,” Caroline said. “This is on an unprecedented scale.”
“We’re not seeing the whole picture,” said King. “Okay, a member of parliament, a cabinet minister, didn’t declare a business interest. Steered a decision towards his investment. It happens. It’s not right, but it won’t change. MPs are self-serving idiots with fewer morals and more greed than the average person. Hollandrake may have been involved with Snell’s company, but what does that mean considering recent events? How does Caroline’s experiences in South Africa link to it? Somebody has someone inside the South African Secret Service who gave up an agent, could arrange not one attempted hit on a British intelligence officer, but two. That’s a big payoff for certain. Those forensic accountants need to start looking for a link to the Home Secretary or Helena Snell at the very least.”
“Caroline, what did you learn from the prisoner?” Amherst asked. “What information could he give you about this sniper?”
“Dark hair, tanned or dark skin, foreign, or at least foreign to a South African. A bit vague on that. A scar on his cheek. Cold eyes.”
“That’s not a lot,” Mereweather commented flatly.
“It’s a start,” said King.
“And that’s all he told you?” Amherst queried.
Caroline closed her eyes for a moment. She pictured the scene – Kruger trapped, the fuel burning and Badenhorst shot multiple times. The last bullet had severed something inside and he was bleeding out. He had leaned forwards and whispered to her. She opened her eyes and they were moist. The man had known he was going to die, and he had thanked her for getting him out of Pollsmoor Prison. She wasn’t going to tell anyone else that. “That’s all,” she said. “Badenhorst said he was a supreme shot though. He shot a springbok at seven hundred yards with a varmint rifle.”
“That’s good?” Amherst asked. “What the bloody hell is a springbok? It’s a rugby team, isn’t it?”
“A gazelle,” Caroline said. “Like a deer.”
Ramsay looked at Mereweather. “Seven hundred yards sounds good, is it good?”
Simon Mereweather shrugged. “What’s a varmint rifle?”
“Trust me, that’s good,” said King. “Highly dubious, even. It’s that good.”
“He hit both the brothers at over five thousand metres,” Caroline added. “Closer to six thousand.”
King nodded. The marksman was out of his league, he wouldn’t mind admitting it. But it was the shot from the farmhouse across the valley that intrigued him the most. Why had they taken three shots to hit Snell? It didn’t sit right with him. Nothing ventured, he threw it out there, “That’s all well and good,” said King. “But he’s not the same sniper that shot Sir Ian Snell.”
“That, again,” Amherst said. “Amanda Cunningham was adamant that Snell was shot.”
“Oh, he was shot alright. There was never any doubt about that,” King said. “But he wasn’t killed by the bullet. He was dead long before he was shot.”
“How do you figure?” asked Amherst, a little impatiently.
“I found two more bullets at the scene. Two bullets that Amanda Cunningham missed during her investigation of the crime scene. Each one would have smashed into that granite wall like a stone hammer. It would have made a hell of a lot of noise.”
“You know that for a fact?” Mereweather asked.
“I’ve had enough rounds land near me to know, Simon. And I know some of the heavier Russian or Soviet stock long range stuff, similar in size to that of a point three-three-eight, makes a serious amount of noise hitting a wall next to you.”
Merewether shrugged. “Fair enough.”
“And then there would be the echo. Suppressed or not, there would have been the sonic boom from the bullet breaking the sound barrier, if not the sound of the gunshot itself. Snell would have heard. No doubt about it. That would mean he would have moved. Even if it was just looking up at the direction of the noise. So, it would have been less likely for the third shot to be on target, not more likely. Now, I pulled his medical records and discovered that Sir Ian Snell was a diabetic,” King said. “Type one. He was on meds, which he controlled. He’d had to control it for most of his life, so he would have been good at it. Known what he was doing. When the autopsy was performed, I was hoping there would be a spike in insulin in his system. I believe that someone coated the cups at his house with pure, concentrated glucose and allowed it to dry to a residue. Undetectable by taste, but it is what caused his diabetic coma. Snell was out cold when the shots were taken. And whoever the sniper was, they needed two sighting rounds, because the sniper who killed Snell was not the same sniper who killed the other three men on the list, and that’s why two empty bullet cases were taken away from the farmhouse, and only one was left.”
“But Amanda Cunningham did not detect anything untoward.” Amherst turned over some pages in front of him. “Here, toxicology report - negative for barbiturates or foreign substances of any kind.”
“Interesting,” said King. “Because the insulin that he injected daily to control his diabetes would have shown up at the very least. Had Amanda had his medical records, she would have seen that.”
“But surely she had his records before commencing an autopsy?” Amherst asked.
King smiled. “Ramsay?”
Ramsey sat up in his seat. “Right, okay. So, at King’s request, I arranged fo
r Snell’s records to omit certain details.”
“Why would you think to request that?” Caroline asked incredulously.
“Why wouldn’t I?” King countered. “I wanted a clean slate. I wanted an autopsy without doubt. And I had my doubts.”
“Which were?” Mereweather asked.
“Nobody stopped to ask why Amanda Cunningham was assigned the case. She’s twenty years younger than most lead pathologists, this was her biggest case by far and she is a Home Office employee, with little outstanding professional accomplishments behind her. She was chosen for this, for a reason. And the directive came from the Home Secretary’s office. She was requested.”
“By Sir Hugo Hollandrake?” Caroline asked, disbelievingly.
“I was already investigating Sir Hugo. Too much of a coincidence in my book,” replied King. “Simon, I text messaged you during Snell’s autopsy. You arranged for another autopsy to be performed by the lead pathologist at The Royal Cornwall Hospital, or Treliske as the locals call it, after we left?”
“I did,” he said. He picked up a manila envelope from beside his chair. He tipped out the sheaf of papers, sorted through them and started to read. “Raised insulin levels, significantly raised, in fact. Indicating hyperosmolar nonketotic coma. Cause of death was combined organ failure, leading to a cardiac arrest. But I am told his body would have shut down, so he would have been unable to react. More or less had the heart attack in his sleep.”
Amherst leaned back in his chair, rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Well, Alex, it turns out you’re not such a bad investigator after all.” He stood up and walked to the window, looked out on the brown waters of the Thames.
Caroline watched him, shivered involuntarily. She had seen a man do that in this room a year ago. That man had brought death and destruction to her service.
Amherst turned and looked back at them. “Well, I think we have people of interest. We need to discover the depth of Sir Hugo Hollandrake’s involvement. His position within government is certainly untenable. What we need to find out is to what lengths he has gone. Whether blood is on his hands. Helena Snell and her bodyguard, Viktor Bukov, are in the frame for Sir Ian Snell’s death.”