by Jay Gill
‘Are you okay, sir?’ I asked over my shoulder.
‘I’m fine. Can you see anything? Which direction did the shot come from?’
‘No idea. It could have come from anywhere. If I had to guess, I’d say it came from that direction.’ Still crouching, I pointed towards the sun. ‘He’d want the sun on his back and not in his eyes.’ I felt my phone start to vibrate in my jacket pocket and reached for it. I stared at the screen in disbelief. ‘It’s him,’ I said to Webster. ‘It’s the shooter.’
Webster’s eyes widened and he nodded at me to press Accept.
The same muffled voice spoke. ‘It’s been a real joy playing with you today. I needed to get to McPherson. I’m so glad he could make it. Everything went like clockwork. Your performance was textbook, and for now the show’s over. Good bye, Inspector Hardy.’
‘What do you want?’ I yelled. Too late; the shooter was gone. ‘Fuck!’
‘What did he say?’ demanded Webster.
‘He said…’ I could barely get the words out as I looked over at McPherson lying motionless in a pool of blood and brains. I took a breath and collected myself, then repeated the killer’s words to the chief.
Dazed, I sat on the ground with my back against the door of the squad car and put my head in my hands. McPherson had been one of the most decent men I’d ever known. He’d dedicated his life to the service of the country. I knew he had family – a wife and two grown boys. Even though every officer’s family lives with the knowledge that their loved one might one day die in the line of duty, the impact on them would be almost unbearable.
As was the knowledge that I was in many ways responsible. I’d blindly played my part in the killer’s game.
Chapter Seven
The conference room was eerily quiet as members of the government’s emergency response committee stood for a minute’s silence to remember McPherson. It was a moment I’ll never forget.
When it was over, we sat down and I looked up and down the long table. With the exception of a couple of faces, I recognised everyone in the room. I have a rule of avoiding meetings whenever possible, but this one was an exception. This was a COBR meeting – short for its location at the Cabinet Office Briefing Rooms at 70 Whitehall – and besides the prime minister, Angela Lafferty, there were senior ministers and key figures from security, intelligence and policing.
George Norton, the Home Secretary, remained on his feet. ‘We’re here to establish five things: What happened. How we let it happen. Who’s responsible and why. And finally, what we’re going to bloody well do about it. The world’s press are going to be on my back, day and night, until we give them answers. Our own head of UK security, the very person who is supposed to protect the people of this country from attack, is himself killed in broad daylight. This is bloody embarrassing. Somebody in this room had better know something, and I want to hear it.’
The room fell silent. It was apparent nobody had anything to go on. Or if they did, it was too tenuous or too risky to share. At this stage nobody was willing to stick their neck out on what might turn around and bite them later.
Further enraged by the silence, Norton pressed for answers. ‘Do we think it’s ISIS? Is it an ex-employee? Is it Russia or China or North Korea? This bastard must be a professional, because from what I can see, he has outsmarted our entire UK intelligence service.’ Norton’s tone was spiteful and was making everyone in the room uncomfortable.
Finally, Ken Derbridge, an ex-MI6 agent, spoke up. ‘It’s not going to be the Russians or China,’ he said. ‘North Korea? Extremely unlikely; they’re working full time on pursuing their missile capabilities and are in a propaganda war. They simply aren’t going to be looking to start anything like this.’
Derbridge spoke clearly and calmly, but his tone indicated resentment at having to put up with Norton’s foot-stamping. I suspected Derbridge had, in his younger days as an MI6 agent, spent a lot of time in the field and met a lot of unsavoury characters. He wouldn’t be intimidated by the blustering of a trumped-up civil servant like Norton.
‘What about a lone-wolf terrorist?’ asked Norton.
‘A home-grown ISIS sympathiser is a possibility. Whoever it is, they will have had extensive weapons training to achieve a shot like that,’ said Derbridge.
‘What about someone McPherson pissed off? An agent he sacked or reassigned?’ Clearly reluctant to stand down, Norton eyeballed the room testily. ‘It feels a little like I’m doing all the work here, people.’
‘An ex-employee I would consider it unlikely,’ said Derbridge, refusing to take the bait, ‘but it should stay on the table for obvious reasons.’
‘I cannot believe I’m asking the head of MI6 to guess, but if you had to make a guess,’ asked Norton, ‘who would you suggest is most likely responsible? And is this likely to be just the start?’
I watched the two men eyeballing each other. Either these two men had history, or Norton had cast-iron balls the size of watermelons. As a general rule, it just isn’t a good idea to piss off the head of MI6.
Derbridge leaned back in his chair and studied his thumbnails. He paused before speaking again in a measured manner. ‘Give me twenty-four hours and I’ll have something better than speculation.’
I couldn’t help a fleeting smile, and Norton must have sensed it. ‘For those who don’t know him, which is probably most of you, this—’ he gestured towards me ‘—is Detective Chief Inspector James Hardy. He was in command during the incident.’ All eyes turned my way. ‘I understand it was you who received the call which led to the evacuation.’
I had a pretty good idea where this conversation was going, and I nodded, keeping my expression carefully neutral. I was prepared to tolerate a public battering in the hope it shone some light on what had happened to the friend we had all lost.
‘I took the call from the shooter,’ I said. ‘We now know that the evacuation was nothing more than a ploy to bring about the opportunity to murder McPherson.’
Norton glared up and down the long table. ‘How did the shooter know McPherson would be there? And how can we be sure McPherson was the intended target?’
I shared everything that had happened and the details of the calls from the shooter. After another hour of nothing but theories from the room and a feeling of getting nowhere, Norton conceded defeat and suggested everyone reconvene in twenty-four hours, by which time at least some of those present should have answers for him.
I was about to leave when I heard the prime minister call my name. ‘Please, would you stay behind for a few minutes, Detective Chief Inspector?’
Norton was about to leave but hovered at the door. ‘We’ll be fine, George’ said Prime Minister Lafferty.
‘It’s probably best I stay,’ suggested Norton.
‘I’m sure you have more pressing matters to attend to. I just want to have a quiet word with the detective inspector. You carry on. And please, keep me informed of any new developments, big or small.’
Norton smiled faintly and left us alone.
Chapter Eight
‘Please, take a seat, James. I won’t keep you long. Do you mind if I call you James? ‘Chief Inspector’ is fine for meetings, but when I’m one to one I find conversation flows easier with less formality.’
I watched as Prime Minister Lafferty began poured us both tea. ‘I agree,’ I told her. ‘Although, if you don’t mind, I would prefer to call you Prime Minister. I’m old-fashioned that way, and my mother would never forgive me if I didn’t address you correctly.’
Angela Lafferty smiled and handed me a cup of tea. She looked tired; she’d aged a lot in the few short years she’d been governing the country. I recalled seeing before-and-after photos of past prime ministers and being shocked by how the strain of governance was evident in their faces. It was as if each year in office added five years to a person.
‘I’m surprised,’ began the prime minister as she sipped her tea, ‘and please excuse my directness: I’m not quite sure how else
to word it. I’m surprised the shooter went to all the trouble he did to kill McPherson. It was all rather dramatic, don’t you think? I mean, why not just shoot him on his way home or when he was leaving his house in the morning?’ She tilted her head to one side, encouraging me to participate in her speculative meanderings. ‘Why do you think he went to all that trouble, James?’
‘At this point I honestly don’t know,’ I admitted.
‘What if you had to guess? Let’s imagine you’re the shooter. Ask yourself, what are the benefits of going to all the trouble of putting on a show the way he did? Was it ego, terrorism, a demonstration, or a display of power? And why did he contact you?’
I really didn’t want to share my thoughts at this stage, although of course I had similar questions bouncing around inside my head. I’d heard the prime minister was shrewd, and she hadn’t missed the fact the shooting had been more than just an assassination. As she’d pointed out, there are easier ways to kill someone, even when that person is the director of MI5. The whole thing had been a performance from beginning to end, but why?
‘If I had to guess, Prime Minister, assuming the MI5 director was the intended target, and I do think he was, then today was both a public display of power and an opportunity to garner as much publicity as possible. Both of which were achieved.
‘Forcing the evacuation of one of the grandest hotels in London, then shooting the head of intelligence in broad daylight in front of the world’s media suggests we have a killer who wants to shock. Some killers want to shock themselves. Some want to shock the investigators, and some want to shock the public.
‘This killer is the latter type: he wants the attention of the country, perhaps the world. It may be that he wants to send a message by killing such a high-profile individual. If that’s the case, then who is the message for?
‘As for your last question, Prime Minister, I believe I was contacted because my high profile adds even more to the theatre of what took place.
‘Whatever way you look at it, he achieved his goal. You, Prime Minister, convened a COBR meeting and the world’s press know that. The killer knows that, and will be encouraged. He achieved his aim today, and he has indicated that he’s only just getting started. What that means I don’t know. What I do know is that the next target will also be high profile, and he will not stop until he has driven home his message or achieved his goal. Something is driving this man, and we need to understand what it is.’
‘You don’t believe we’re dealing with a terrorist group?’
‘No. This is not terrorism in the sense you mean. Terrorism is about society as a whole. Scaring and shocking the people, and horrifying a society. Those who should be scared right now are people in high places. Those with power and influence. The greater the power and the greater the influence, the more worried they should be. It’s too early to say for sure but my gut tells me that today was about scaring those with influence. Those are the people the shooter will be targeting. Otherwise, why go to all the trouble he did with McPherson?’
‘You don’t mince your words, James.’
‘The shooter had one target in mind. McPherson. I don’t want to underestimate the deep sadness we all feel at McPherson’s death – after all, he was my friend. But if the shooter had wanted to cause real public outrage, he would have picked off any number of targets from the emergency services, or, more likely, civilians. After the hotel was emptied we were all sitting ducks. There could have been a very high body count. Instead, the shooter planned and executed his one target with discipline and precision. He’s a professional.’
‘My God,’ said the PM. She sighed heavily and tilted her head back in thought.
‘I’m sorry, Prime Minister. You asked me to speculate, and of course that is all this is. It’s really nothing more than a theory.’
‘Don’t apologise. I’m impressed. You speak your mind and that’s something I appreciate. I was told your insight is razor sharp. You haven’t disappointed.’ She smiled grimly. ‘I guess I had better start going out in armoured suits from now on. Can you recommend a good tailor?’
‘You could try the Ministry of Defence. They might have something in Kevlar, I suppose.’ The joke fell flat and I instantly regretted making it. I liked the prime minister; underneath the political exterior was a woman, a mother – and someone who, in my opinion, was top of the list of targets. ‘I’m sorry, Prime Minister. That wasn’t funny. Your security team can advise you better than I can, but you should consider cutting back on public appearances. You might want to rearrange your schedule until we have this under control. For the time being at least.’
‘So you think I am at risk?’ Lafferty tried to say it lightly, as though she wasn’t concerned one way or another.
‘I do.’ I wasn’t convinced by her act and could see she was scared. She had to know the truth.
‘Thank you for your honesty, James. I want us to stay in contact while we establish what we’re up against. I will make arrangements for you to have a direct line to me, and I want us to have regular communication.’
‘Yes, Prime Minister. And I hope I’m wrong.’
‘Me too.’
Chapter Nine
We were at one of my favourite restaurants, a family-owned Italian place called Nona Rosa. Their Carbonara spaghetti and garlic dough balls were always a hit with Alice and Faith.
The evening wasn’t to celebrate a birthday or anniversary; it was simply a Hardy family get-together. A time for us to enjoy each other’s company, get out of the house, and escape the routine of day-to-day life. It’s often at fleeting moments like these that I’m able to catch my breath and take stock.
To everyone’s surprise, Dad got to his feet and raised his glass.
‘Here’s to you all. The people I love most in this whole world.’
We all smiled and Mum squeezed his hand lovingly. He’s not big on sentimentality. Maybe retirement, and having two rambunctious young granddaughters who think nothing of painting his fingernails, applying lipstick and putting a princess tiara on his head while he’s dozing, was finally bringing out his softer side. Then again, maybe it was simply the wine or maybe the magic of the moment. Whatever it was, it didn’t matter. This evening we were all giddy on being together and part of a happy, loving family.
Dad looked around at us and continued. ‘I want each of you to know how proud of you I am. I couldn’t be a prouder father and grandfather. You mean the world to me – to us.’ He looked at Mum, his eyes twinkling. ‘Here’s to a brighter future together. I know for sure it’ll be happy and we’ll have many more times like this evening.’
We all raised our glasses in a toast.
As I looked around, with Dad’s words still in my ears, I realised he was right. Things had changed. I’d changed. Everyone I loved most in this world was right here at the table with me. Funny how you can be told something over and over but it’s not until you see it for yourself that you understand it to be true.
I looked at Monica in a way I’d never been able to before, in a way I hoped she understood. I watched her laughing and I smiled. She smiled back. I held her gaze a little longer than usual; I wanted to look into her eyes, to really look. For the first time, my head and my heart were in tune with each other. What I was feeling suddenly felt completely right. I could feel my pulse racing. My mind was spinning with a million questions. My heart was telling me it was ready to connect. That was the moment I knew. Just like that, in a split second, looking at Monica, I felt my whole world change.
The only question now was: Am I brave enough to take the next step?
Chapter Ten
We’d said goodbye to my parents at the restaurant, and after a quick journey home I parked in our driveway. Alice and Faith were asleep in the back. I turned off the engine, and Monica and I looked back at them and then at each other. We had talked all the way home about the meal, about Mum and Dad, and a lot about Alice and Faith.
‘I enjoyed that,’ said Monica softl
y, not wanting to wake the girls. ‘It’s good to talk. We’re so busy, it’s easy to forget how good it is to simply talk. I hope we get a chance to do it again soon.’
‘You’re easy to talk to. We should do it again, soon,’ I agreed. I could feel my heart beating hard. ‘How about next time it’s just you and me? How about we go on a date?’ Saying it felt like a relief. The whole drive home I had been building up to asking her, and I’d done it. I felt like a teenager again – how crazy is that? I was nervous – sweaty palms, dry mouth, the whole package. I was so worried she might turn me down.
Monica didn’t say anything. Instead, she leaned over and kissed me on the cheek. ‘I’d like that, James. I’d like that a lot.’
‘Is Tuesday okay?’ I said, trying to keep the grin from cracking my face in half. I didn’t want to wait any longer than I had to. In a way it all seemed so bizarre. We lived in the same house and Monica was helping raise my children. We’d been through so much together since Helena’s murder. Yet, I still sensed that the new side of our relationship needed to go at the right pace and to be done correctly for it to blossom. No matter how keen I felt, I was sure we’d be stronger if we allowed things to develop naturally.
‘I’ll need to check my diary and let you know, but I’m sure it’ll be okay,’ teased Monica. ‘Shall we get these two sleeping beauties inside? It’s getting late.’
Monica helped me unbuckle the girls from their seats, and I carried Alice and Faith inside with a smile fixed to my face that must have made me look like the Cheshire cat.
Chapter Eleven
Deputy Prime Minister Duncan Brannon always felt frustrated after radio interviews, and this one was no exception. He glared at the phone as though it were full of hornets. As deputy prime minister, he was expected to justify government decision-making and policy. Attending TV and radio interviews, like the one that afternoon, was now a part of his weekly ritual.
