The Five

by A P Bateman

  “They were in London at the time of Snell’s death,” Mereweather said. “We have CCTV, debit card transactions and eye witnesses who could be called. Their alibis are cast iron.”

  “Suspiciously so,” Ramsay commented.

  “And they could have laced those cups at any time,” said Caroline.

  “When I revisited the scene with Amanda Cunningham, the dishwasher was running a cycle with just a set of fancy coffee cups in it,” King said. “They didn’t offer believable explanations, and Amanda did not appear to think it significant.”

  “We still need a shooter,” added Ramsey. “Snell was still shot and within that time frame Helena Snell and Bukov were not there. And then there’s the murder of the family at the house where the shooter fired from.”

  “What about his bodyguards?” Amherst asked. “They raised the alarm, could they have been paid off to coat the cups in glucose, take the shot even? Kill the family in the farmhouse. Bodyguards are usually nothing more than private mercenaries anyway.”

  “They were fingerprinted, DNA sampled and checked for powder residue,” said King.

  “Cordite?” said Mereweather.

  “About forty years ago or in a bad detective novel,” King smiled. “There are various smokeless propellants used today; strands, flakes or spheres, and they all burn at different rates to suit the type of firearm. Fast burning for pistols, slower for rifles. Many are nitro-based, but they still produce residue when fired. You can’t use a firearm without becoming contaminated. His bodyguards were checked, no results back yet.”

  “None at all?” Amherst asked.

  Ramsay shook his head. “The DNA results came back clear. Nothing at the farmhouse, at least. One of them is wanted by the police in a historical rape allegation. I guess that’s a result, of sorts.”

  Amherst nodded. “Ramsay, I want you to push forensics for results. I want you to look deeper into Ivan Kerchenko and see if you can find out his movements prior to turning up at King’s cottage.” He turned to Mereweather. “Simon, I want you to dig into Sir Hugo Hollandrake’s affairs. Liaise with the forensic accountants and the SASS, find out the chain of command, the events leading up to the attempts on Caroline’s life.”

  “Yes, Sir,” Mereweather said.

  “Caroline, I want you to get close to Amanda Cunningham.”

  “Sir?” she looked bemused.

  Amherst held up a hand. “The woman tried to broadside you, destroy your relationship,” he paused. “The trust is obviously there between you and Alex. You two seemed to have sorted it out in no time at all. Find out everything you can about her, use what she tried to expose in your relationship to work a way in. I want you to gain her confidence, we need to know more about her.”

  Caroline nodded. Her face had flushed. It was clear she wasn’t pleased with her assignment.

  “King,” Amherst said. “Remain here, if you don’t mind.” He looked at the others in turn. “Go on then, get going. I’ll contact you all in turn for updates. This will be the last meeting here, until we have a conclusion.”

  43

  He knew that the rooftop would be the place. There was no other valid firing point. Gipri Bashwani’s office was no more than two hundred metres distant and with what he estimated to be a fifteen-degree drop in angle. An easy shot. But the glass would be thick. At least three centimetres. It wouldn’t be ballistic glass, he knew this having already studied the blueprints of the building. But thick, toughened glass could do unexpected things to a bullet. The angle of drop could make the bullet take a glancing strike. Or, the bullet may well penetrate easily, but deviate greatly from the target. The bullet may even expel all its energy exiting the glass and drop harmlessly onto the floor. It may not be affected at all, but there was never any sense in taking the most positive outcome. He had perfected his skills over half his lifetime. He knew that the least favourable scenario was the one to aim for. With these variables in mind, he knew the .338 Lapua Magnum would make the most sense. It would have the power to smash a single bullet through the glass and continue with only a slight decrease in both velocity or energy. It would be loud, especially in the proximity of the other buildings, but it would perform the task effectively.

  He would need to get his equipment ready for the target. He liked to use a roll mat to lie down on and a small sandbag he fashioned out of an old cloth coin sack to rest the rifle on. Normally a bipod fitted to the underside of the rifle stock would steady his aim, but he would be firing from an elevated position, and that would only go to raise his profile. Amongst these buildings, he needed to keep as stealthy as possible. It would also be less to carry, the weapon would have to be transported in a stripped down state in a sports bag, he would need the scope and mounts to be already attached to the weapon, and the sight pre-zeroed. Calibration could be affected by miniscule alterations to the weapon system’s set up. If the mounts did not line up exactly to the position when the weapon was zeroed, then it would be inaccurate. Even at the relatively short range involved with this assignment.

  There would be no need for a spotting scope, but he would need a magazine and would always load it fully, in this case, five rounds of match grade, green dot ammunition. The first hundred rounds to roll off the bullet press. All stamped with a green dot, and all infinitely better quality than the tens of thousands that followed and made their way to the military and sporting outlets the world over. He debated whether to suppress the rifle. It could affect the power of the bullet, but at this range that would not matter. The gunshot would create an enormous echo from the proximity of the other high-rise buildings. But even with the use of a suppressor, it would only work effectively if he used subsonic ammunition, and then he wondered whether it would jeopardise his shot. He would need to test both at the same distance when he zeroed the rifle. Not only would he test the bullets for penetration, but he would use a decibel meter app he had downloaded on his smartphone to make his decision whether to silence the weapon, or take an unsuppressed shot. His exit from the building and escape was paramount. He even weighed up the time it would take to remove the suppressor from the weapon. He made a mental note to time himself at the same time he tested the other possibilities.

  44

  The surveillance teams of MI5 were known as watchers and they were the best in the world. Since the troubles in Northern Ireland, and especially from the early seventies onwards, MI5 had perfected the art of manpower surveillance not by using stereotypical intelligence agents or soldiers from the SAS, but by using mothers pushing prams, kids on skateboards, workmen repairing roads, old aged couples walking in the park – the scenarios were endless, ever evolving, and as natural as a snapshot of everyday life. The agents were highly trained, of all ages and race, and communicated through hidden mics. The IRA would notice SAS soldiers acting ‘civvy’, even when they grew their hair and wore beards, but they were not so quick to pick up a Rastafarian walking along with a ghetto blaster on a busy London street, or an old man with a walking stick making his way down the Falls Road. That had moved on with the times now, but what appeared to be a teen popping tricks on a BMX listening to tunes on the latest smartphone could well be a highly trained twenty-two year old surveillance operative, who may well find themselves suited and carrying a laptop in the rush hour the next day.

  Two teams were on Amanda Cunningham. Oblivious to both, she had parked her sporty Fiat 124 Spider in the carpark behind the mirrored glass offices of the pathology unit off Shoreham Road, and was now walking towards the building. The first team was a mobile unit consisting of a bicycle courier, a black cab and a non-descript white van typically used by parcel delivery privateers. The second team was a foot unit. Amanda had been bumped by a young woman talking on her mobile. She had apologised mid-conversation; the bump had been long enough for the woman to slip a tracking device, like the one used in King’s holdall, into Amanda’s coat pocket. Amanda Cunningham had been oblivious. She would not see the woman again, because the team would rotate. The
woman would change wigs, take off her pair of tiny glasses, change her coat and take off her heels in favour of trainers that would clash with her active wear – even mask her scent with a different deodorant - and she would jog past to re-confirm a visual when Amanda left the building. The bicycle courier would put his bike in the rear of the van and put on a pair of overalls and a beanie and take the wheel, while the driver would throw on a jacket and walk past. The next visual would mark another regroup, a rotation, another approach. The teams were fluid, their scenarios almost exponential.

  The man driving the van parked up. He was facing away from the building; the rear mounted camera was filming the entrance and he was watching the image on the monitor designed to look like a satnav mounted on the dashboard. He picked up his mobile phone and dialled. When the call was answered, he spoke with a clip tone to a woman he did not know and would probably never meet. “The target is inside,” he said, “The tracker has been activated and your app should be picking it up now.”

  ***

  Caroline ended the call and opened the app on her mobile phone. She watched the steady intermittent red dot. She could hear a bleep, but turned down the volume. She could see that Amanda Cunningham was stationary. She would have enough notice of her movements. Enough time to do what she needed to do.

  Caroline inserted the pick into the lock and used the pair of torsion prongs to work the lock. It was a Chubb lock. A solid design with four tumblers. She worked her way through the gates and had the lock open inside two minutes. She replaced the tools into the pocket of her handbag, took a cursory look around, then opened the door and stepped into Amanda’s flat.

  45

  Simon Mereweather already had his secretary digging into Sir Hugo Hollandrake’s past. He had organised two researchers to assist her, and a technician to navigate the web and intercept the man’s emails. This would be done through GCHQ’s database and the technician had already opened a portal and started work on thirty thousand emails, running them through an algorithm that would pick up emails using a hundred or so key words that Mereweather had fed in. There was no way a person could collate data manually over the given period. Mereweather had chosen the start point six months before Hollandrake’s public support for the Goliath intercontinental ballistic missile system (ICBM). There had to be a starting point, and that seemed as good a time as any.

  Mereweather was now meeting with the forensic accountants. These were like regular accountants, only beiger and even more by the book. After meeting with them for less than ten minutes, he was quite sure that the two men were autistic. Gifted, but not operating on the same level as most; a higher plane entirely. They could not understand sarcasm or inference. But they could see answers in numbers that other people would not. The lines of accounting figures spoke to them like well written prose. It meant something, encouraged them to read on, look deeper. To Simon Mereweather, the accounts, the banking figures, the offset taxes, the endowment policies, hedge funds and accrued dividends looked like a tortuous experience to wade through, but for the two accountants, it was a dream come true.

  “Anything?” Mereweather ventured.

  “Threads,” said one of them.

  “Starting to unravel,” said the other.

  “But do they lead anywhere?” Mereweather asked impatiently.

  The two men smiled at each other. One of the men was in his thirties, his hair receding and growing an ample paunch. The other man was virtually identical. Merewether could barely distinguish between them. He noted one had a cheaper looking suit. He didn’t know how cheap it was, but guessed the other was supermarket bought, so he could only hazard a guess. He adjusted the cufflink on his shirt cuff, suspected his own shirt alone cost twice as much as the suit at a conservative estimate. His suit, as much as fifteen times more. He had ten more like it in his wardrobe at home. Another two in his office. But then again, he was a lot higher up the ladder, and reflected that he barely had need to touch a single salary payment and couldn’t remember the last time he had. He looked at the two men in turn. He was becoming impatient. He was damned if he was going to indulge them in a big reveal.

  “Spit it out, you’re either up to this task, or not,” he said.

  “Sir Ian Snell had various shell companies,” cheap suit said, a little tersely for Mereweather’s liking. He seemed to realise this and mellowed a little as he added, “It’s all about paying as little tax as possible and declaring costs more than once. Routed through a shell company with large fees and operating costs, and the money shrinks. On the screen, at least. By the time it makes its way to the Inland Revenue, or HMRC as they’re called now, the profits have whittled down and the taxes to be paid are substantially smaller. Sometimes non-existent. The VAT submission figures and rebate seems consistent though, even with smaller turnover and profits declared.”

  “Which means?” Mereweather asked impatiently.

  It was the turn of the other man to speak. He had a tinge of Welsh to his voice. “Snell claimed back far more VAT than he should have.”

  “But I want to know about Sir Hugo Hollandrake.”

  “Sir Hugo is company secretary to some of these shell companies. His wife is down as company secretary to others. That is a term for an indirect business partner, say at ten percent. That means they get a share of the profits commensurate with their investment. They don’t need to put in a penny, simply have their share stated on the information at Companies House. There’s no secretarial duties, it’s a title in name only. Which means both Hollandrake and his wife take a cut of the profits and a share of the VAT returns. I imagine in return, Sir Hugo has invested influence, nothing more.”

  “So, both he and Snell were milking the taxman?”

  “Oh yes,” said Welsh. “Many, many times over, I suspect. Because we can’t find out what these shell companies actually do.”

  “Isn’t that the point of a shell company?”

  Cheap suit said, “Some are merely a cover. Some are a way to run assets at a loss, giving the prime company better profits. That helps a lot if they float on the market. All the toxicity the company has accrued is offloaded. But companies like that can still turn a profit based on VAT rebates alone,” he paused, then added, “With some provision for creative accounting.”

  Welsh nodded. “Say a company imports something. They declare the duty and pay a certain amount in taxes to get the ball rolling. They then sell their products to a shell company, that they already own, at an inflated price. The shell company sells it on, but at a low profit, maybe even at a loss. They don’t pay tax because of the loss. They submit a VAT return, get a rebate. But they’ve sold on to another shell company that the initial holder owns. The stock price rises and falls. On paper, one company is booming, another is going bust. But it’s only one investment. All that is happening is the products are being passed around on paper and tax is either being paid to avoid unnecessary interest from HMRC or VAT is being claimed many times over and the initial investment is constantly rising. Find another company with their own shell companies and work together, avoid the taxes, claim back the VAT in rebates, and the money being made is infinite.”

  “So, the upshot of your findings so far?”

  “Sir Ian Snell wasn’t worth half what people thought, but the companies he owns and have floated on the stock markets are worth far more on paper, so their shares are over-inflated,” he paused. “And Sir Hugo is worth far more than anyone could have guessed, because of his holdings in the shell companies. It’s all profit, bailed out by our taxes and until now, under everybody’s radar. What we need to do now is dig deeper, find out if Sir Hugo is running shell companies returning the favour to Snell. I suspect he is, and I suspect that Hollandrake’s wife is too. She may or may not be privy to such dealings.”

  “And of course, Snell’s wife could be involved too. I suspect we’ll find Russian shell companies as we keep digging,” said cheap suit.

  Mereweather leaned back in his chair and rubbed his temple
s. He had recently noticed, to his consternation, that he was greying at an alarming rate. He had contemplated dying his hair, but had not caught it in time. It would look too obvious now. Perhaps if he took some annual leave, returned with a new haircut as well. Maybe his wife would fancy him more? He thought of spending time with her, his children, then he remembered why he hadn’t taken the leave. In truth, he much preferred his work to family life. He rubbed his face, something he did when he was either tired or stressed. “How has GeoSpec fared since Snell’s death?” he asked.

  “On the stock market?” cheap suit clarified.

  “Yes.”

  “It dropped considerably for the first day, flatlined most of the second and started to rise again. But it stabilised today.”

  “After the Home Secretary’s announcement securing the deal on GeoSpec providing the motherboards and electrical systems for Goliath,” Mereweather mused. “Can you find a link to Hollandrake through GeoSpec?”

  “No,” Welsh said. “Not a trace.”

  “Interesting,” Mereweather said. “Shares?”

  “Nope,” cheap suit said emphatically.

  “Well, start compiling a list of investors. Minimum share blocks through to the board of directors. And cross reference the names connected with the shell companies.”

  Welsh smiled. “We’re already doing that.”

  46

  Amanda Cunningham lived an organised life. Her flat was clean and tidy - a place for everything, and everything in its place. There was an open, half consumed bottle of wine in the fridge, but no empty bottles in her recycling bin. Caroline thought back to King’s comments of her arriving drunk and drinking too much to drive. She couldn’t see a connection to excess drinking from what she had seen. She had been expecting a recycling bin like some outside student digs. But all she could see were milk bottles and some empty tins.