It was a good choice – the fact that there was no sun in his eyes and, superficially at least, that the houses did all seem the same. And the man had been right about human psychology. When reacting to a gunshot, people did automatically look up. But it would be difficult to identify a particular window, especially one screened by the remnants of autumn foliage. That the sash window did not slide open was not a problem.
He thought for a moment of his time in Peking, when the Boxer rebels and Qing government soldiers, in their brutal reaction against colonialism, had besieged the Legation Quarter, massacring any foreigner they could get their hands on… And how, one day, with a screaming mob battering at the gates, he and a colleague, spaced strategically apart, had picked off the ringleaders at will, from over a thousand yards. They had fired not just from a high vantage point across a canal, but right through the open windows of another building in between, sowing confusion amid the mob and a panic that something supernatural was afoot.
The intervention of the Eight-Nation Army – of which Russia, Britain, France and America were part – was in the name of humanitarian relief, he was told, there to thwart the wanton barbarism of the Asian horde. It was those same ‘civilised’ Europeans who had then tortured the defeated rebels with a bestial cruelty, executing them in gleeful public rituals. The streets, quite literally, had run with blood.
Mordecai took a chisel and hammer. Gently he tapped out the corner of the bottom left pane. Using his jacket wrapped around his hand, he managed to ease the rest of the glass inwards.
He felt a light breeze on his face – southerly. He studied the movement of the trees – just a gentle sway – and watched the motion of the pedestrians. Were they stooping? Was there anything significant about the wind that made them move differently? A swirl perhaps? It appeared not. Nor was there rain.
Carefully he gathered up the shards of glass. There was a piece of newspaper next to the piled floorboards – something about the Olympic Games in St Louis. He wrapped the shards in it and put them in his bag.
As part of his equipment he had been offered the use of a tripod but had declined. It was an affectation… unnecessary. No sniper he knew ever used one. Other than the rifle and the ammunition, the only piece of gear he needed was a screwdriver, he said.
He dragged the billiards table to the centre of the room, the balls in the pockets clacking. Against the wall, wooden dining chairs had been stacked. He selected one and placed it on the table, about six feet back from the window, well away from view. Atop the table, the seat was a good height, up to his chest. He folded his jacket to form a cushion, knowing, too, that the envelope with his money in was safe within, then rested the rifle upon it. With a bit of rearranging he found the perfect downward angle – as secure a gun platform as there could ever be – allowing him to fire from his preferred standing position.
He looked through the scope and, for sighting purposes, pulled focus on a bright-red pillar box. By zooming in he could even read the collection times. The telescopic sight worked in conjunction with the fore sight on the barrel’s nose. He took the screwdriver and made a minor adjustment, turning it less than a quarter turn in the slot on the screw head.
He heard the chimes – a long jangling refrain echoing from down below that signalled three o’clock. He checked it against his watch. He was now officially in position, ready. He would remain that way for the best part of an hour.
A clip of ammunition had been provided. But a sniper did not work like that. So precious was each shot that it had become part of the ritual to revere each bullet individually. He took two and stood them up like toy soldiers, the 7-millimetre silver-tipped points like miniature mediaeval helmets.
If the first bullet didn’t strike home, the sniper had virtually failed. If the second bullet missed then he absolutely had. He put the other three in his pocket.
Chapter Thirty-Six
The grilling of Finch was interrupted by a sudden knock on the door. Detective Coates stopped, snapped a polite ‘Come in’ and a constable outside swung it open.
‘Jilkes!’ Finch blurted.
He entered looking harried. With good reason, thought Finch. Even Jilkes’ suit, normally with a razor-sharp crease on the trouser leg, looked a little crumpled.
He caught Finch’s eye but Finch couldn’t discern the message.
‘Detective Coates?’ Jilkes asked.
Coates nodded. Jilkes dumped his brown leather briefcase and stuck out his hand.
‘Reginald Jilkes, solicitor.’
Coates returned the greeting without feeling.
‘Mr Jilkes.’
Jilkes nodded at Finch.
‘Detective, I believe I am permitted to speak to my client… alone?’
Coates sighed and tipped his head to his constable. They stood, gathered their paperwork and the detective flipped closed his cardboard folder. They left briskly, as if downing tools in protest.
Jilkes went to the mirror and tugged the shabby green curtains across. He took the seat opposite Finch, the one that Coates had sat in.
‘Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes…’ said Finch.
Jilkes smiled, though it wasn’t convincing. He had the bearing of a man about to take a beloved old dog for one final walk before carting him off to the vet to be put down.
‘Just to let you know, I kept my promise, Jilkes. I didn’t request you… didn’t ask for you.’
Jilkes gave something approximating a smile again. He had brought cigarettes like before… Navy Cut. He took out two, lit them both in his mouth then passed one to Finch. They both inhaled and held the smoke deep.
‘I know,’ Jilkes sighed. ‘And I respect that, Ingo. Truth is… it was a hard one to avoid. The police were all over St Albans, asking questions – of me, of Maude, people at your surgery, in the pub. But Christ, this is Special Branch, Ingo, not some bumbling local bobbies. These boys are only called in when it’s serious.’
‘But Jilkes… Agatha, the kids… What you said…?’
He didn’t answer and was spared having to do by the door opening again and a constable entering with two enamel mugs of tea, which he plonked down rather pointedly, causing some of it to spill over onto the table.
‘Thank you,’ said Jilkes to the man’s back as he marched out.
‘And thank you,’ said Finch.
He raised the mug in salutation.
‘I had a rethink, Ingo. I knew you wouldn’t nominate me as your lawyer – given our talk – so thought I’d simply invite myself… if that’s okay. I mean, assuming you don’t have legal representation already…?’
Finch shook his head and came close to a grin.
‘Let’s just say I’m doing this for both of us,’ Jilkes added. ‘Get this thing well and truly wrapped up.’
Jilkes opened his briefcase and rifled through his papers. He set them on the table – copies of various police reports and the statement that Finch himself had signed. He pulled his fountain pen from his jacket.
‘But I have to say… Jesus, Ingo, what the hell have you been doing, laddie?’
‘It’s been a difficult few days,’ Finch deadpanned.
Jilkes had got tea on one of the papers. He dabbed at the mess, then picked up the sheet to waft it dry. It looked like a copy of the arrest warrant.
‘That’s something of an understatement. Jesus… It wasn’t enough that you were accused of murder? You then take it upon yourself to go on some crazed cross-country spying mission?’
‘That’s a rather sensational way of—’
‘Not only that but… dammit, Ingo… you use some sneaky underhand tactic to worm your way into my office. You take advantage of my staff…’
‘Sorry, Jilkes.’
‘If everything else here weren’t so bloody serious, that could be one to end a friendship.’
‘I know.’
Jilkes looked him in the eye.
‘Is that how you got started? Got your leads?’
Finch nodded.
/>
‘Phone numbers, yes.’
Jilkes shook his head and rubbed the back of his neck.
‘Well you’ve got balls, Ingo, I’ll give you that, as well as ingenuity… and I’ll certainly be looking into how I protect my client information in future… But as for everything else… This alleged killing spree?’
Finch puffed on his cigarette. He gave an ironic smile at the absurdity.
‘Come on, Jilkes, it’s bullshit, just like before.’
Jilkes fiddled with his fountain pen. He looked nervous, uncertain. Finch had never seen him like this in all the time he had known him.
‘Is it, Ingo?’
Finch furrowed his brow.
‘Jilkes?… What the hell do you mean?’
Jilkes didn’t… couldn’t look up. He read off from his notes.
‘Your gun, the Webley – they matched it, Ingo…’
He set the paper aside and moved on to another.
Finch stubbed his cigarette out in the small tin ashtray.
‘For Christ’s sake, Jilkes. You yourself said it was inadmissible… agreed that ballistics is an inexact science!’
‘It is… or was inadmissible. It was the question of its licensing that provided us with the technical get-out, if you remember. But now that its ownership been accepted… that it’s your gun…’
‘What are you saying?’
‘I’m saying yes, ballistics, as a science, is not one hundred per cent precise, far from it. But I got another test run privately – intended to exonerate you, ironically. The police test, my test, they both point to the likelihood that, in all probability, it’s the murder weapon, the gun that killed Pickersgill.’
Finch hissed his disapproval. He could sense Jilkes fumbling, reluctant to come to another point. He was fussing with his cigarette and tea.
‘Spit it out, for God’s sake!’
‘Ingo… I mean… the drinking. Is it possible that—?’
Finch stood.
‘Fuck, no, Jilkes!’ he bellowed.
‘You’ve never blacked out? Maybe done something you weren’t even aware of? That you later regretted?’
‘NO!’
‘Okay, okay,’ Jilkes soothed.
Finch sat back down again.
‘It’s just this stuff in Norfolk… the police officer, Dryden…’
‘He was a bastard, Jilkes. He beat me to a pulp, chained me to a concrete block and left me to drown.’
‘Ingo, there are witnesses queuing up to counter just about everything you’ve said with regard to every incident.’
‘It was Nathan Cole who shot Dryden. He actually saved me. Was on my side, it turned out… an ally… for about five minutes. Till he then decided that I was a loose thread.’
‘And so what, you killed him too?’
‘No, Jilkes.’
‘And here, in London, all these stories – phoney people, fictitious addresses?’
‘Jilkes,’ he protested. ‘The lavender man… Vax… you met him yourself, for Chrissakes. He came to your office.’
And then the penny dropped. Finch sat back, sighed and folded his arms across his chest.
‘They got to you again, didn’t they…?’
He looked Jilkes directly in the eye.
‘…You’re here to put me under. The executioner… Here to deliver the coup de grâce.’
Finch shook his head with disdain.
‘You have to tell them what you’ve done with Annie,’ urged Jilkes, his tone now ringing, to Finch’s ears, just plain hollow. ‘Please, Ingo, tell us she’s still alive.’
‘Get out.’
‘What?’
‘I said, “Get out!”… NOW!’
‘Ingo… Three murders? A kidnapping? You’re looking at the gallows, man. Let me get you some medical certification. Diminished responsibility. You know, your career record, your war service… These are mitigating factors. We can at least attempt to commute it to something tolerable.’
The force with which Finch leaned across the desk and screamed hard into Jilkes’ face, spit flying, made the lawyer visibly blanch.
‘GET OUT!!!!’
No sooner had Jilkes scurried off than Detective Coates and the constable re-entered.
‘Having a nice quiet cuppa, are we?’ quipped Coates.
‘It was most delightful,’ fumed Finch.
‘It’ll take a while to find you another lawyer, one of your choosing anyway. We can put a telephone call in and get a public one over a bit quicker?’
Finch sighed again.
‘That won’t be necessary, Detective. But I am ready to talk.’
The Detective looked relieved. He and the uniform resumed their seats. The constable took out his notepad.
‘It’s the best way, Dr Finch. The truth always outs in the end.’
Finch, with his hands cuffed together, manipulated open the packet of cigarettes and took another one out. Coates reached across and lit it for him.
‘I’ll make you a deal,’ said Finch.
Coates’ splutter conveyed incredulity.
‘Yet again, I really don’t think you’re in any position to negotiate.’
‘Actually, I think I am, Detective… I’d like you to take me to Chepstow Place… Number 11… Right now.’
He blew out a cloud of smoke.
‘Take me there… investigate the premises… Do that and I’ll…’
‘You’ll what?’
‘Tell you what I’ve done with her,’ said Finch. ‘…with Annie.’
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Outside New Scotland Yard, Finch was led to a waiting black police Ford. With his hands cuffed in front of him, he was placed between Coates and the red-haired constable in the back. Up front, beside the driver, another policeman perched in the passenger seat. As the car lurched away, Finch saw a second Ford exit through the gates. It tucked in close behind. There were another four police helmets in it.
At least I’m out now. That much of the plan has worked.
Across the road to the left was the river, the big old stinking swirl of brown with its barges and boats and ferries and tugs. Up ahead, and very close, loomed the Palace of Westminster and Big Ben. They were a mere half-mile or so along from the Savoy. Finch thought of the walk through the gardens he had taken with Annie, with the same view set before them.
At Westminster Bridge, the car turned in towards Parliament Square. They chugged past Westminster Hall, with grim old Cromwell standing out the front, past the Commons, and the Lords tucked away behind it, with further uniformed officers in abundance. The chimes sounded: three o’clock. If only, thought Finch, he could convey to this place, the seat of government, what present concerns existed inside his head.
The traffic slowed and then ground to a halt.
‘It’s no good, sir,’ said the driver. ‘It’s ’cause they’ve closed off all the roads either side of Buck House.’
‘Need to keep a clear route to Whitehall,’ explained the copper in the passenger seat.
‘What’s happening?’ asked Finch.
The driver pulled over beside great, grubby Westminster Abbey.
Said Coates: ‘This crisis everyone’s banging on about… the Dogger Bank… the Russians… Seems there’s been a breakthrough on the diplomatic front.’
The police driver climbed down and went over to confer with one of the policemen standing guard. His cape made him look like he sported wings.
Coates turned to Finch.
‘Downing Street contacted us last night. It’s been in the works for a few days but yes, there’s to be a summit, a signing of a joint declaration at the Foreign Office, four o’clock. They won’t say a declaration of what exactly, but we’ve been tipped a wink that the stand-off’s been resolved. No doubt the foreign secretary will want to make some grand announcement – how he saved the day… rabbit out of the hat…’
‘Bloody Lansdowne,’ harrumphed the copper in the passenger street. ‘He’s just waiting for the PM to turn h
is back. Balfour will get a proper shafting.’
‘Now now, Webb,’ tutted Coates. ‘We’re above that.’
‘Sorry, sir.’
The traffic was now cramming Parliament Square, still pouring in but not getting out. All routes out to the west and north were snarled up. Horses were whinnying, scraping their hooves, the few cars were over-revving. There was the odd beep of a horn. You could hear the moaning and groaning from atop a nearby omnibus.
A paper boy weaved in and out.
‘Standard… Standard… Getch’yer Standard.’
Coates leaned over and gave him tuppence. He took a paper and folded it out on his lap. Finch saw the headline in huge, bold type: ‘PEACE!’
But there was never war.
The driver returned from his caucus.
‘Foreign Office have done it again.’
‘They certainly have,’ quipped Finch.
‘He means the traffic,’ said Coates. ‘Whitehall has a habit of going through us, the Met, the proper chain of command for matters of high-level policing, only for the civil servants to then start dealing with individual officers directly. End up coordinating the security themselves. Left hand never knows what the right hand’s doing.’
The red-headed copper spoke. It was the first time Finch had heard him.
‘The paper, sir. What’s it say?’
‘Just as they said, Sissons. Four o’clock, Whitehall. Russian ambassador’s coming to eat some humble pie. Although they’ll make it sound mutual. Allow them to save face.’
‘So they’ll be travelling from the embassy… down through Belgravia, along Eaton Square…’ mused Webb, the copper in the passenger seat.
‘Be the usual,’ concurred the driver. ‘Mall… Trafalgar Square…’
Coates looked around him.
‘If we’re going to get to Bayswater, we’ll have to go another way.’
‘I’ll take her round the back,’ said the driver.
He pulled the car over to the right to go around the square and back out the way they had come in. The bobbies on the beat waved their arms and cleared a path through the traffic. They could feel the indignation of the public.
The Cold North Sea Page 29