by Vince Vogel
“You don’t think that bitch MP grassed me up about firing the machine gun, do you? Put in a complaint that I’d endangered everyone’s lives.”
“Then why are we both in here?”
This Conner was about to answer when the door opened behind them. Both men went rigid and faced forward as though their lives depended on it.
But it wasn’t the commander who sat down opposite. It was the MP. Jane.
“At ease, gentlemen,” she said, holding a large manila folder on her lap.
Dorring and Conner sat down with bemused expressions.
“I’ll get straight to the point,” she said before tossing the folder onto the desk. “Have a look.”
Conner picked it up and pulled out a stack of photographs, each one labeled with a name. There were eight in total. He handed half to Dorring and began leafing through his half. Dorring did the same. They were photographs of murder victims. Of Dorring’s four, two were male. All of them Afghans. All of them with the SAS insignia carved into them.
“As you can see,” Jane said, “the body we found the other day isn’t the first. It’s number nine that we know about. Nine in the last two years. We’re sure there’s many more that never got found or reported. On these ones, we were called in by the local authority to assist.”
“And you still think it’s SAS?” Conner asked, looking up over the pictures.
“We weren’t so sure until the body we pulled from the market the other day. We initially thought it could be insurgents trying to set the local populace against us by marking the bodies like that. Hell, we were sure of it.”
“Then why did the body in the market change that?” Dorring asked. “You said you were sure until then.”
“Because we found something inside of victim nine,” Jane said, turning her green eyes to him.
“What?”
She opened her jacket pocket and pulled out what he took for an evidence bag, clear plastic with a label. It was gripped around something and when she placed it between them on the desk, Dorring immediately recognized the knife. He had one himself.
It was an SAS issue commando dagger. Straight, double edged, blued steel blade. Ribbed metal hilt with an attached SAS beret badge in brass—a knife with angel wings out of its hilt and a banner at the bottom holding the immortal words Who Dares Wins.
“That doesn’t mean a thing,” Conner said, looking down at the knife. “He could have gotten that at a collector’s market.”
“Here in Helmand?”
“Could be.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Then back in England.”
“Then that leaves us with the killer being one of us, one way or the other. Anyway, it’s not from England. It’s not antique or a copy. It was issued by the Royal Army, Special Air Service Regiment. See the number on the base of the handle?”
Conner lifted it up to his eyes and spotted the numbers scored into the handle. 44-78… That was as far as they went. There was supposed to be three more, but someone had scratched the numbers off.
“Yeah,” he said. “I see them.”
“That’s its issuing number,” Jane explained. “It’s one of 150 such knives handed out to all current serving Special Air Service commandos. I take it you two have yours?”
“Yeah. They’re with our kit,” Conner said. “Why—you wanna check?”
“No. The first two numbers are different to both of your issued knives.”
“Oh!” Conner exclaimed with widened eyes. “So you’ve already checked?”
“We’ve checked everyone in your unit. As you can see, the last three numbers have been removed. The killer is playing a game with us. Of the knives matching those first four numbers, thirty-six men in your unit are a possible match.”
“Maybe it was stolen?” Dorring suggested. “Taliban often take knives off dead soldiers as souvenirs.”
“That’s true. But none of these knives has been reported missing from any dead soldier. Plus, so far in this war, only four SAS have died and all their bodies were recovered along with equipment. No, it wasn’t taken from a dead soldier.”
“Then it was stolen from a live one,” Conner said, unable to allow himself to believe that one of their unit did what he was seeing in those pictures.
“None have been reported missing or stolen,” Jane stated calmly.
“It ain’t one of us,” Conner grumbled, placing the knife back on the desk.
“I don’t get it,” Dorring said.
Jane turned to him.
“What don’t you get?” she said.
“Why you’re showing us this.”
“Because I need your help. I need people I can trust on the inside.”
“Oh! You trust us now?” Conner put to her.
“Neither of you could have killed the last victim. She died four hours before she was found. I know that the two of you were busy on an operation at the time. There was no way you could have done it. Therefore, I can trust you.”
“But that’s what I really don’t get,” Dorring said. “If you managed to find out that we were on a mission while she was being killed, can’t you use the same method to find the killer?”
“You mean, find out who was away on operations during the killings and who was at base?”
“Yeah.”
She smiled and Dorring got it.
“Classified,” she said. “I don’t have the authority. Neither does my superior. And neither does his. What you do in the SAS is very sensitive and is guarded with the highest authority. Your missions are kept secret forever. What you do is for you and you alone. These murders don’t have anywhere near the importance to allow me into the intricate details of your operations.”
“Then how’d you know we were on operations when the last one was killed?” Conner asked.
“Because of the report on what happened at the market. You both made statements which had to be presented to the Royal Military Police. We then had to get confirmation on them. Your superiors confirmed that you had been on an operation when you said you were. There were no details, not even the direction you were traveling from when you took the call, but it was stated categorically that you were away all night. I believe that your superiors wouldn’t have lied to us. There would be no reason.”
“Well, it’s good to know you care,” Conner said.
“So I’m taking that’s why we’re here,” Dorring said, looking across the desk at her.
A band of bright light came through a gap in the blinds and rested across her cheeks, making her green eyes glow. It gave her a radiance that Dorring found intense.
“Yes,” she said after an initial pause. “I’ve been told that I don’t have the clearance to find out where all your unit was on the dates of the killings.”
“Not even the thirty-six?”
“No. But I’d want all 150. Make sure we were thorough and knew them all.”
“What about finding out when the men left the base?” Dorring asked.
“Not even that. Those lists are filled out with numbers for SAS operatives. Because you’re such a target outside of here, your names and IDs are kept classified.”
Dorring grinned at her and shook his head.
“What’s so funny?” she asked, a look of annoyance traveling over her countenance and making her all the more beautiful to him.
“You want us to find out for you,” he said.
She bit her lip. He was to learn that she always did when she was embarrassed or angry.
“I’ve asked for your assistance,” she said. “In wanting to alleviate the issue of the bad blood caused by these killings, your superiors have allowed me to use you two as security detail.”
“Security!?” Conner exclaimed. “You mean like fucking bodyguards?”
“Yes.”
“We’re special forces. We sneak into jungle hideouts and kill hundreds of men. We dance with bullets to the sound of the machine gun’s beat. We don’t do security.”
“Well, you do now
. You’ll both be assigned to me for the foreseeable future.”
“But we’re not just security, are we?” Dorring put to her.
Those radiant green eyes turned to him. They resembled flaming jade.
“Like always, you’re the smart one,” she said. “No. Your superiors think you’ll be security for me and Lieutenant Yates. However, I also want you to do other things for me. Things I can’t do.”
“Like look for who’s missing a knife?” Dorring said.
“Like that.”
“You mean,” Conner said, “sneak around behind the backs of our mates?”
“Yes. If one of them is the killer, then they need help. You can give them that help by assisting me in their capture.”
“None of them would have done this,” Conner tried to assure her, pointing at the photos on the desk. “None of them are this sick.”
“I admire your loyalty, Lieutenant, but you have to admit that all 150 of your unit are already killers.”
“It’s not the same!” he shouted, standing up sharply from his chair and glaring down at her. “We’re professionals, for fuck’s sake. This,” he pointed down at the photographs, “is some freak’s pleasure. This is sick.”
Jane stood up too and glared back into his eyes full force, their two faces separated by a few inches of air, the desk separating the rest of them. Conner gave her his war face, Dorring noted, and she gave one back. One which impressed him.
Dorring placed a hand on Conner’s arm and his comrade looked down at him. Dorring shook his head gently and all the anger left Conner. He sat back down and turned his eyes to his knees, his huge chest heaving in and out. Jane sat down too, straightening her clothes as though the tension in her muscles had creased them.
“We get it,” Dorring said to her. “We’re already killers, so it only takes a slight leap to get to this.”
Conner turned sharply on him. “You’re not taking her side, are you?”
Dorring turned back to him and frowned. “There are no sides,” he said. “And you know for sure that this place messes some people up.”
“But basic weeds them out,” Conner insisted. “The psychologists get to those people and they’re gone.”
“Not always. Sometimes it comes later on. After years of killing.”
“Fuck!” Conner said, shaking his head and looking back down at his lap.
He had such faith in the unit. In the army as a whole. He’d been a cadet from the age of ten and had dreamed of following his father, grandfather, great-grandfather, and every one of his known ancestors into war. Whole battalions made out of generations of the Jones family going into battle for all eternity. He believed in the moral goodness of the British army and left the barbarity to the enemy.
Dorring was different. He’d seen terrible things on both sides. Yes, the Taliban were dirty, as were many of their other enemies. They governed and fought through barbaric acts. But Dorring had seen terrible things done by his own side too. Especially to prisoners. Hatred for the enemy? Of course. But respect also. He saw war being used as an excuse to let their worst inner tendencies emerge.
“We’ll help you,” Dorring said, turning back to Jane.
“Thank you,” she said with a smile, her teeth joining her cheeks in the band of light coming through the blinds.
9
Mo stood in her bra and panties frying bacon and eggs when Dorring burst through the door of the cottage. In a corner of the sideboard, the kettle churned away and steamed up the windows.
“I hope you don’t mind having nay sugar,” she said the second he came in. “I forgot to pick some up from the shop.”
Ignoring what she’d said, he dashed his eyes about and saw a small table in the corner with a phone on it.
“Does that phone work?” he asked.
“I don’t know.”
He marched up to it and lifted the receiver to his ear. It was dead and he gathered that the line wasn’t connected because it was plugged into the wall.
“What’s the matter?” Mo asked, noticing for the first time the angst on his face.
“Have you got a mobile that works?” he asked her.
“No mobiles work on McGuffin.”
“Then we need to go to the police station immediately. I’ll let you drive. You’ll get us there quicker.”
“What’s happened?” She was looking worried.
“I found something in the water.”
“What?”
“A body.”
“For real?” Her eyes widened.
“For real,” he repeated. “Now get dressed.”
They reached the police station in ten minutes. This time Dorring didn’t mind the fury of her driving. Instead, he welcomed it. Was eager that they reach the town as quickly as possible. After all, the body was still laying on the beach where he’d dragged it away from the tide. A part of him had wanted to take it back to the cottage. But he realized that this would be really stupid. They might accuse him of the crime. They’d certainly shown him nothing but hostility so far. They could end up turning it all on him.
Hell, they still might.
McGuffin Police Station was right in the center of the gray stone buildings that inhabited the main town. It was like the residential buildings, two stories of gray stone with a black tiled roof. It resembled a house in every way except the sign above the door and the blue police lamp outside its front, both proclaiming Police.
Inside the small reception room, they found the desk sergeant gazing down at a magazine on the counter. When the bell above the door went, he looked up and immediately scowled at the sight of Dorring. There was an obvious reason. The same as there was for Dorring to immediately frown when he recognized the drunk from the pub the day before.
“Stevie,” Mo said, bounding up to the counter.
The cop was still scowling at Dorring, a ruddy look to his face. He was mid-twenties with red hair thinning in the middle but still gelled into a weak quiff. His face was pockmarked with acne scars and it gave him a petulant air.
“What’s up?” he said, turning to Mo.
“Alex has found a body up on the beach.”
His forehead wrinkled and his brows tipped inwards sharply.
“What?” he said.
“He found a body floating in the water.”
“Where?”
“McKinley beach.”
She turned back to Dorring for support.
“About a mile north of the cottage,” said the Englishman.
“Which cottage?” the cop spat at him in annoyance, the frown and scowl joining forces and twisting his ruddy face up.
“McPherson’s,” Dorring said. “A mile north, I found a man’s body in the water.”
The cop grabbed his hat and opened the counter top, his wiry frame stepping through.
“Isn’t there anyone else who can come?” Dorring asked, and the cop’s nose curled upwards at the suggestion.
“It’s Saturday,” Stevie said in a way that suggested Dorring should know.
The cop stepped around him and went out the door.
Mo placed a gentle hand on Dorring’s arm and said, “They play rugby on a Saturday, so it’s only Stevie.”
“Come on!” Stevie shouted from outside. “I have’nay all day.”
Dorring and Mo stepped outside and the irritable cop locked the station doors up. Then he followed Mo and Dorring in his squad car. Once more, they passed the tunnels of Gordon’s Heather until the coast presented itself at the bottom of a vale.
“You say it was a mile north?” Mo said.
“Yeah.”
“Then we’ll drive to a road near there.”
She did as she said, not turning off for the cottage and following the band of gray along the coastline. Dorring instantly recognized the stretch of beach from his morning jog when it came into view below the low cliffs.
They parked on the side of the road and took a rocky path down the cliffs. The place he’d found the body was a few
hundred yards along, where the road bent inland and didn’t cradle the coastline anymore.
“Let’s see where this so-called body is,” Stevie grumbled as they trekked along the foreshore.
There was a wind rolling across the beach and it whipped the sand up in wispy spirals so that it hit their faces. Stevie frowned and was irritated by it. Mo pulled her scarf up around her face. Dorring ignored it and stared forward with purposeful eyes. He marched ahead of them along the sand, eager to reacquaint himself with the dead man. But when he was about fifty yards from where he was sure the body would be, his heart sank.
It was gone.
He began running. Mo called after him and took to jogging too. Stevie didn’t, though. He merely kept to his steady pace and swore about the sandy wind.
Dorring arrived next to a piece of sea-rotten wood sticking up out of the sand. He’d placed it there earlier. Right beside the body to mark it. The sand was kicked about and rough. The rest of the sand was firm and wet. Dorring could see his footprints from that morning coming from the direction of the sea.
“It was here,” he said to Mo when she caught up.
She wore a sheepish look as she gazed down at the empty sand. It was as though she found him suddenly unsettling. She’d been relatively quiet since he’d told her about the body that morning. He’d expected her to ask him a million questions, but she’d been uncharacteristically reticent about it all. A part of him had considered the fact that she didn’t believe him. She hadn’t even asked to see it.
Now, as she held her shivering body in the wind, she gazed at him with a look bordering on fear.
“There’s no blood,” she pointed out.
“He’d been in the sea too long,” Dorring said.
“But who would have taken him?”
“Anyone. Probably someone wearing a hooded coat and carrying a knife.”
“What?” She frowned at him and instinctively turned behind her to see where Stevie was.
The cop wasn’t far and soon stood beside them with a bewildered expression.
“So go on then,” he said. “Where is it?”
“He was here,” Dorring said.
Stevie glanced down at the rough sand and then back at Dorring. He wasn’t scowling or irritated this time. He was bewildered.
