by Andy Maslen
Twenty minutes later, humming a tune that had become stuck in her brain after hearing it on the radio first thing that morning, Julia unclipped Scout to tear off through the crops. She stood and looked around, smiling as she breathed in the warm pollen scent that for her always said, winter’s over.
“Hello, darling,” Sasha whispered, as her quarry appeared through a gap in the hedge that marked the division between two fields. “Pretty dog. I suppose he’ll be good company for your husband after you’re gone.”
She put the Zeiss Victory RF binoculars down onto the camouflage ripstop nylon groundsheet. She bent to retrieve the gun bag and unzipped it. The weapon that emerged bore very little resemblance to the wooden-stocked shotguns and hunting rifles favoured by the farmers and aristocrats in this part of southern England.
The Remington was fitted with an AAC Blackout flash hider, a Schmidt & Bender Polar T96 telescopic sight and a bipod. Timur Kamenko had, on her instructions, supplied the gun painted in a woodland camouflage pattern of browns, blacks and greens. On one memorable contract, while scrunched down in some bracken on the Isle of Arran, where a Syrian businessman liked to hunt red deer, a robin had fluttered down from an overhanging tree and perched on the barrel. Only when Sasha hissed at it did the bold little bird return to the safety of the tree.
She settled onto her belly and began preparing for the shot. Right hand around the pistol grip, index finger held straight against the outside of the trigger guard. Left under the slotted fore-end. Right cheek pressed against the pad on the left side of the stock.
The first few times she had killed for money, she had vomited immediately afterwards. But it was more from the excess adrenaline washing through her veins than any heightened emotional state. That brush with the reaper in the snuff-movie apartment in LA had changed something inside her. Perhaps it had never been fully present in her to begin with, but whatever empathy she might have had for her targets had ebbed away along with the blood of the two men who’d planned to rape and kill her on camera.
In one, fluid, lift-pull-push-lock movement, she worked the bolt to chamber one of the .308 rounds. The bolt was so well machined that its progress back and forth was almost silent. The barest metallic snick reached Sasha’s ears as its front end pushed the round home. She checked the target’s progress with the binoculars, then switched to the scope.
The woman stood five nine or ten in her boots. A full figure, and black hair loose around her cheeks. She was laughing as she threw a stick for the dog, calling to it as it raced away into the crops.
Sasha stilled herself. The woman was on the move again, but she was maintaining a steady pace, and Sasha barely needed to worry about leading her with the cross hairs.
Sasha uncurled her finger and reseated it around the trigger, squinting as the sun emerged from behind a cloud, then breathed all the way in.
Four hundred yards away, Julia looked up. She’d caught a flash of light on the next hillside, almost as if someone were signalling to her. She shrugged, then looked around for Scout. He was nowhere to be seen. She inhaled, and pursed her lips, ready to whistle for him.
She did not exhale.
The woman, the fight arranger, the wife, the mother, died instantly, while her skeletal muscles still held her upright. The .308 copper-jacketed soft-point round that stole her life from her entered her forehead one inch above the bridge of her nose. It punched through the bone, destroyed her brain, and burst from the rear of her skull, spattering the hedge behind her with blood and tissue.
Sasha worked the bolt to eject the brass, catching it in mid-air as it turned end over end. She pulled out a small penknife from a jacket pocket and prised out a narrow spike with her thumbnail.
A few minutes later she packed away her equipment, unzipped her jacket and walked away. She wasn’t worried about the bullet. Assuming it was ever found, it would reveal little. She always loaded her weapons wearing nitrile gloves, and if the police had the budget to analyse the striations on the copper casing, all they’d discover was that it had been fired by no gun on their database. Dead end.
“You’re a dangerous man to know, Gabriel Wolfe,” she said, smiling, as she descended from the hill to pack her equipment into her car.
Gabriel reached his village a little after six that evening. As he drove up the narrow road that led to his cottage, he had to pull in as a dark-grey Audi A4 came thrashing around a corner towards him, blue lights flashing their staccato warning at him from the radiator grille and the dashboard. He parked on the gravel at the side of his cottage, not bothering to put the car away, and went inside.
He checked his answering machine. The red light was on and the digital display showed a 3. He took his jacket off and slung it over the back of a kitchen chair. Then he pulled a bottle of white Burgundy, a Marsanne, from the fridge and poured himself a generous glass, took a mouthful, topped it up, then ambled over to the machine and hit the play button.
“I Know Who Did It”
THE voice was Mike Angell’s. He sounded as if someone had just punched him in the face. Numb, flattened somehow.
“Gabriel, it’s Mike. Mike Angell. I, er, it’s Julia. She was walking Scout. And then she was, she’s been shot. The police are here. They say she was murdered. Oh, God. Sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but you’re a friend. A good friend. And I—”
He heard broken sobs, and then the continuous high tone as the message ended. Gabriel stood completely still. He looked down at the black box as if willing it to chirp up that it was a joke. He felt a weight in his gut as his stomach churned. The next message played.
“Hi, Gabriel. It’s Steph at the pub. Don’t know if you heard, love, but it’s terrible. Julia Angell’s been killed. The pub’s full of coppers. It’s just so awful. Come in when you can. Most of the village is in here. The police are talking to everyone.”
He dragged a chair out from under the table and sat heavily. With his hands dangling between his knees, he waited for the next message.
“Mr Wolfe? This is Detective Superintendent Anita Woods. Please call me as soon as you receive this message.” A mobile number followed, repeated twice in a clear voice with no trace of an accent.
Gabriel sat and let his head drop forward. Oh, Julia. What happened? People don’t get murdered around here. It’s why so many Londoners move down. His throat thickened but no tears came. Perhaps he was too wrapped up in the latest discussion with Fariyah Crace. He sighed deeply and stood. Suddenly he wanted company very, very badly. Maybe the pub was the answer. He’d probably find the detective there.
He was at the back door, pushing the handle down when the landline phone rang again. He lunged across the kitchen and grabbed the handset from the cradle, fumbling and almost dropping it. He jabbed at the answer button and brought the phone to his ear.
“Hello?”
The caller was a woman. Her tone was light, mocking.
“Hello, darling. I know you haven’t been in long. Have you heard the news?”
For a second he couldn’t place the voice.
“Who is this?” he hissed.
“My, my,” the woman answered, in a tone suddenly dripping with antebellum southern charm, “have you forgotten me already, dear boy? I would have thought our recent … encounter … in Hong Kong would be fresher in your mind. It took a great deal of ingenuity to effect my escape from your Triad friend. Though I’m sorry to say his two female companions have gone to visit with their ancestors.”
Gabriel saw a face as if lit by a flash of lightning. Dark, bruised-cherry lips; finely curved black eyebrows; straight, black hair tied back in a ponytail. His jaw clenched. Sasha Beck. An assassin who had been hired to kill him. And failed.
“It was you, wasn’t it?”
“What was?”
“Don’t fuck with me.”
She reverted to her normal voice, a playful London accent that dipped and swooped through the social registers, from lady of the manor to East End tough. She sighed.
&nb
sp; “Oh, darling, there’s nothing I’d like better. But, since you’re being so direct, yes. It was me. Well, I pulled the trigger. But as you know, I’m a hired gun. Literally. The question you should be asking is who paid me to pull it.”
“Tell me, then. Who hired you?”
“Can’t. Client confidentiality.”
Breathing steadily through his nose and struggling to contain an urge to scream at her down the phone, Gabriel uttered two final sentences.
“I’m going to find you. And then I’m going to kill you.”
“Not if I find you first, darling.”
Then she hung up.
In the pub, the atmosphere was feverish. Those villagers not being interviewed by uniformed officers or detectives were standing round in groups, foreheads creased with anxiety, leaning towards each other as they talked. Many of the women – and a few men – appeared to have been crying. Their faces were red and blotchy, the women’s streaked with black where their mascara had run.
Nodding greetings to the few people he knew, Gabriel shouldered his way through to the bar.
Steph, the landlady, was serving, alongside her husband. She hurried over as Gabriel laid his elbows on the wooden bar, its surface dented and started by countless thousands of pint pots and pewter tankards. Her plucked eyebrows drew together and her mouth turned down as she spoke.
“Oh, Gabriel, love. Here you are at last. What can I get you?”
He rubbed a hand over his face. Shock had made it hard for him to think clearly. Even to choose a drink.
“Gin and tonic, please, Steph. Large one.”
Drink in hand, he took a long pull then turned around, looking for a friendly face.
A woman he didn’t recognise came over to him. She was short, maybe five five, and on the plump side. Bleached blonde hair cut into a shaggy bob. Red slash of lipstick in a face lined by years, and by laughter, but not cigarettes to judge by its clear, smooth skin. Grey suit jacket over jeans, and flat, black pumps. She was carrying a spiral-bound notebook in one hand and in the other, either the world’s biggest gin and tonic, or a pint of mineral water with ice and lemon.
“Excuse me, sir,” she said, pocketing her notebook then extending her hand. “Are you Gabriel Wolfe?”
You must be Anita Woods. You guys are the only people to call anyone sir these days.
“I am,” he said, shaking the offered hand. “You are?”
“Detective Superintendent Woods. Wiltshire CID. I am the SIO, sorry, the senior investigating officer on this tragic case.”
And you talk like a press release.
“You mean Julia’s murder. Why don’t you just say so?”
Her face remained impassive.
“Look, I know this is a terrible time to be asking questions, and I know all this,” she waved her hand around at the saloon bar’s milling crowd, “is a bit chaotic, but if we’re to stand any chance of finding the person who did it, we need to start now. And I’m sorry for the euphemism. It’s just not everyone is comfortable with the unvarnished version.”
“Well, I’m fine with it. You don’t talk much like a cop by the way. More long words than usual.”
“Usual? You spend a lot of time talking to police officers, do you?”
Gabriel thought back to two Metropolitan Police detectives he’d worked with tracking a cult leader to the rainforests of Brazil.
“No. Not lots.” He sighed again. “Look, I’m sorry, OK? We got off on the wrong foot. Julia was my dear friend. I met her the day we moved down here.”
“We?” Anita asked, pulling out her notebook and placing her drink on a table nearby so she could make a note. “Are you married?” She looked him up and down. “With a partner?”
“No. And no. Though I am engaged. I meant me and Seamus. He was my dog. Can we go somewhere quieter to talk, please? There’s something I have to tell you. You won’t like it, but it will help, I promise.”
“This place is a bear pit. Where do you suggest?”
“I live down the road. Can you come to my house?”
“Fine. Lead on.”
She turned and called out to a male detective who was in the middle of an interview with a fortyish man in a pinstriped suit who looked as though he might have known Julia to judge from his red-rimmed eyes.
“Matt! Give me a call if you get anything, OK? I’m popping out for a while.”
He nodded and returned to his interview.
At Gabriel’s house, he offered a coffee.
“I’d rather have something stronger if you’ve got it.”
“I thought you guys didn’t drink on duty.”
“Yeah, well, I thought dog walkers didn’t get murdered by snipers in rural Wiltshire. You live and learn.”
Gabriel poured them both a whisky and then turned to face her.
“I know who did it.”
Suspension of Disbelief
THE detective’s eyes popped open, bright white, framed by dark, steeply arched eyebrows.
“What? How? No, scratch that. Who?”
Gabriel pulled out a chair and sat down, motioning his guest to do the same.
He swigged some more of the whisky, feeling its warmth hit his stomach and combine with the gin to make his head swim for a second. He shook his head.
“Her name is Sasha Beck. Well, that’s what she calls herself. But it could be an alias. I mean, these people like to stay under the radar, so you never know.”
Anita was scribbling notes in her notebook in an oversized scrawl.
“Wait. Hold on,” she said, looking up. “What do you mean, ‘these people’?”
Sasha’s an assassin. A hit woman.”
“I know what assassins are, thanks. Fictional. They don’t exist in real life. Or not in bloody Wiltshire, anyway.”
You’re drinking whisky with one right now.
“I’m afraid they do exist. I’ve … run into Sasha before. She’s the real deal.”
The detective frowned. “Look, Gabriel. I know a little about your background from Mr Angell. He gave me your name when we were asking him about Mrs Angell’s friends here. You were in the army, right? He thinks you … might have been Special Forces.”
Gabriel nodded. “That’s right. Why?”
“I want to try and phrase this right because, believe me, I don’t want to give any offence, but are you sure this isn’t some sort of fantasy you’re living out to compensate for civilian life being so boring?”
Gabriel laughed then, a genuine sound startled out of him by the detective’s well-meaning question.
“What makes you think my life is boring?”
“Compared to what you did before, I meant.”
“It’s not, OK? But that’s beside the point.”
“So tell me, what is the point?”
“Like I said. Sasha Beck did it. She’s a professional killer. Which means you will never catch her.”
“All right. Let’s say, just for the sake of argument, that I believe you. How do you know it was her?”
“She called me. About half an hour ago. To tell me.”
“That’s great! We can get your phone records and trace the number.”
He shook his head and pressed his lips together as he began to realise Sasha was playing him.
“She called my landline.”
“Doesn’t matter. We can still find the call.”
“Why waste your energy? She’ll have used a burner phone or a call diverter or some clever piece of technology she bought on the dark web.”
“You seem to know a lot about her MO. Anything you want to share with me?”
He spread his hands wide. “It’s very simple. She is a professional. In a field where a single slip gets you killed. I’m telling you, you won’t find her. Not unless she wants you to. And if she does, I’d be really, really worried.”
“So, what? We just walk away from investigating your friend’s murder? Is that what you’re saying?”
“No,” he said, feeling his te
mper rising, despite the fact Anita was simply doing her job. “I’m saying go on with your investigation. But while you’re doing that, I’m going to find her myself.”
Anita put her notebook and pen down on the table. She leaned forward and looked at him, hard, eyes unblinking, lips set into a straight line.
“I must advise you against that. You are a civilian. You have no powers of arrest. And if she’s as dangerous as you say she is, trying to contact her would be a very dangerous course of action.”
“Now you sound like a police officer again.”
“Which is what I am. A very senior police officer. A very senior police officer in charge of investigating every murder in this glorious county of ours, not to mention those of serving armed forces personnel across the whole world. And I am advising you, sir, not to take the law into your own hands.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.”
“Why don’t I believe you?”
“I don’t know. I’m not a mind reader.”
Something in the detective seemed to snap. She scowled at him.
“I don’t know if you’re trying to be funny, or taking the piss, or whatever the fuck you’re doing, but your friend, Julia Angell, just took a bullet from some fuck-off, high-calibre, sniper rifle not a mile from your front door, and I am personally heading up the investigation into her murder. So let’s have a little bit less of the macho posturing and a little bit more cooperation, all right?”
Gabriel shrugged. He hadn’t meant to enrage the cop, but now he had he found he didn’t really care.
“I want to see where she was shot.”
“Impossible. We’ve got CSIs crawling all over it. They haven’t found the bullet yet. It could be vital.”
“It won’t tell you anything. She’ll have worn gloves when loading her rifle. It’ll be a .338, a .308 or a .300, maybe a 7.62. A soft point, or maybe a ballistic tip. Nothing custom or hand loaded, just a regular brand like Federal, Remington or Winchester. Lapua maybe, or Black Hills. Probably a boat tail round – they fly straighter.”