by Jay Gill
‘I thought I heard you come in,’ said Melanie. ‘How did it go?’ She eased Zachary into his high chair and dropped his favourite chewy blanket in front of him.
Cutler leaned over and gave his younger son a kiss.
‘All good. The new store is finally opening next week and I’m visiting it on Wednesday. I got a pat on the back from head office; my region’s sales have remained strong. They’ve asked me to present at the next quarterly meeting. That should be interesting. It’s been a while since they asked me to do that. I’m sure I can’t do any worse than the last fella. As I said before, I don’t think he prepared at all. The moron tried to wing it.’
He watched as Melanie hovered around the kitchen, only half listening to him. ‘Why are you wasting your breath?’ he thought. ‘She has no interest in what you have to say. She’s probably working out whether Wednesday will work for her and Mr Flexi-fun.’
Mr Flexi-fun was Melanie’s yoga teacher and fitness trainer, but it seemed he offered a few extras that didn’t appear on his marketing literature or website. Cutler gave it no more than five minutes before she disappeared to send Lover-boy a text message. Does she really think I don’t know?
‘That’s nice. Would you feed Zachary?’ She passed him a bowl of pasta with cheese sauce. ‘I need to pop to the loo.’
Cutler watched as his wife looked around for her mobile phone then disappeared upstairs. If he didn’t love her so much, he’d have sliced her up there and then, shortly followed by her not-so-secret lover.
On and off over the past few weeks he’d fantasised about killing them both. He’d spent some considerable time, mainly while on long drives, going over the many ways he might approach the task. His favourite thus far was not the most brutal but somehow seemed the most rewarding.
He imagined himself silently breaking into the hotel room where they were having one of their afternoon flings. He’d then remain by the door, watching them screwing and listening to their gasps and moans of pleasure, their athletic bodies moving rhythmically while they kissed and laughed. In his mind’s eye they looked great together, which even he admitted was odd.
After watching for a while, he’d step forward and clear his throat, then speak to get their attention. ‘Ahem, I’m sorry to interrupt, but unless I’m mistaken, I do believe you have my wife on your dick.’
Of course, Melanie would be all apologetic and explain it away as nothing but a moment of weakness. Mr Flexi-fun would be all puffed up and act the innocent, but he’d also be wearing that infuriating look of his that said ‘Well, look at me – how could she resist?’
Cutler would then make Melanie tie Mr Flexi-fun to the bed. Probably wouldn’t be the first time she’d done it. Then, while she watched, he’d take his favourite scalpel and neatly slice around the outside of Mr Flexi-fun’s face. After that, with a little theatrical flourish, he’d peel that sucker right off. Holding the flapping skin aloft, he’d show it to them. He wasn’t sure what his parting line would be, but it needed to be something witty; of that he was sure.
He waved a spoon full of pasta around like an airplane then flew it into little Zachary’s mouth. He looked at his two boys and, as he had often found himself doing recently, he wondered whether they looked alike. More to the point, did they look like him?
Danny looked like him for sure: same mouth and eyes. Zachary he wasn’t so sure of. Cutler stared at him, narrowing his eyes slightly, as he had done countless times in the past. Oblivious, the baby reached out for another spoonful of food, his mouth gaping like a baby bird’s as its parent arrived with a beak full of grubs. Cutler held the spoon of food just out of reach.
Zachary was too young for him to be completely sure, but his skin tone was definitely different to that of his and Danny’s. Was Zachary a cuckoo in the nest? Or was he imagining it? He’s only little, Cutler told himself. His features haven’t developed. If Zachary wasn’t his, was that something he could live with? And if not, what then? Accidents happened all the time, and toddlers were prone to all manner of mishaps: fingers in sockets, climbing inside tumble dryers, swallowing detergents, falling from windows, drowning in bathtubs. He’d think of something. If it came to that.
Danny looked up from his new drawing. ‘Zachary is crying, Daddy. Shall I feed him?’
‘Sorry, Zachary,’ said Cutler, forcing himself to smile at the baby. ‘Your big brother is going to do it. Here you go, Danny.’ Cutler handed his elder son the spoon and the bowl of pasta and watched as the little boy fed his brother. Despite himself, he felt himself soften. He loved his boys. He loved his wife. All families have their challenges, he knew. Marriages experience highs and lows. It’s how you deal with them that’s important in the end.
After a few minutes, Melanie re-joined them in the kitchen. She was smiling and looked flushed and pleased with herself.
‘You look like the cat who got the cream,’ said Cutler, keeping his voice upbeat.
‘Who, me? No, don’t be silly. Just happy you’re home. We miss you. We miss Daddy, don’t we boys?’
Chapter Fifteen
Jared Vaughan stacked the hymn books then walked around the church checking the pews for stray copies.
‘Good. You waited. It’s really good to see you again,’ said Father Nolan. ‘I won’t be long. Just let me get out of these robes then we can walk and talk.’
Jared Vaughan and Father Nolan Whyte had known each other since they were children. They’d grown up on the same estate, gone to the same school, had the same circle of friends, kissed the same girls and together stolen cigarettes from the late-night corner shop. After leaving school at sixteen they’d been pulled in different directions. Jared had started an apprenticeship as a plumber but soon got restless and decided that if he wanted to see something of the world then the military was the way to go.
Nolan Whyte had somehow always known he would join the church, and after much soul-searching he had followed his heart. After several years in Ireland and some time in Manchester and Bristol, his parish for the time being was in the small town of Rickmansworth.
‘Okay, Nolan. No hurry.’ Jared watched as his friend disappeared through the door to the vestry. He really didn’t want to be in church any longer than he had to. He was only there for his daughter’s sake. Anything that might help was worth a shot.
He no longer believed in God himself. Not just because of the unjustness of Becky’s illness; that had simply reinforced his scepticism. What had really done it for him was what he’d seen on the battlefield and what he’d seen done to civilians during conflicts. The rape, torture and brutality that had been allowed to take place at the hands of soldiers against innocent men, women and children was something he’d decided no just God would allow. And when he’d returned home, the news of Becky’s illness had completely eroded any faith he’d once had.
He pushed the thoughts away. He’d given the topic enough time and thought; he really wasn’t willing to go over it all again.
‘Ah, here we are,’ said Father Nolan as he came out of the vestry and shut the door behind him. ‘We’ll lock up and you can walk with me. I need to visit an elderly parishioner who is not doing so well. She’s become quite frail of late.’ He checked the windows and doors and then held the big front door open for Jared and locked it behind them. The two men then began walking the mile or so to the pensioner’s home. ‘I usually cycle, but this gives us an opportunity to catch up. I want to know how you’ve been holding up. I’ve spoken to Fiona, but I wanted to hear how you feel. You know, Fiona is very worried about you. She tells me you’ve become withdrawn.’
‘Withdrawn – what the hell does she know of withdrawn?’ spat Jared. ‘And what does she expect? She’s pushed me away. We can’t have a civilised conversation any longer. Every time I try to talk to her, we end up arguing. And that’s no good for Becky, so I keep my mouth shut.’
‘It’s not always clear—’ began Father Nolan.
‘If you try to tell me this is part of God’s plan or
that he moves in mysterious ways I will punch your lights out.’
Father Nolan smiled and raised his hands in mock surrender. ‘I hear you loud and clear. In fact, what I was going to say was, it’s not always clear how we’re supposed to get through dark times like the one you’re experiencing. I cannot disagree with you that Becky’s illness is unfair. I would also agree with you that there are others far more deserving of the hardship and pain your little girl is enduring. What I will say is that, having seen other families go through similar things, trying to cope alone is a mistake. Love and support from those around you are often a comfort.
‘You need to pull together as a family, Jared. I promise you will get through this, and when you come out the other side, you will all be stronger. Along the way you might argue, you might fight, you may even blame one another, but that’s often the way we cope with our emotions. There is little so personal or so painful as caring for a sick child.’
The two men walked in silence for a while. Inside, Jared was fuming. He’d hoped Nolan would still be the same Nolan Whyte he’d known growing up. They’d shared a lot back then and had understood each other almost instinctively. Instead, he now saw someone who had never really had to make tough choices, a contented middle-class man living in a safe bubble. This wasn’t someone who had ever had to make choices that really mattered, he thought bitterly. He stole a glance at his old friend and saw nothing but a walking platitude.
They reached the pensioner’s house and Jared couldn’t help himself. ‘How would your God feel about someone like me killing someone bad to save someone innocent?’
Father Nolan paused for a moment to reflect on the question. Even that annoyed Jared. Nolan then put his hand on Jared’s shoulder. ‘Are you referring to your time in Afghanistan?’ he said gently.
‘Yes,’ lied Jared. ‘You know what? Forget it. We can talk about that another time.’ He started to walk away. Before he got too far, he yelled back, ‘Pray for Becky. Pray for my little girl and make sure it’s loud enough for Him to hear you.’
Chapter Sixteen
Prime Minister Angela Lafferty took a deep breath before walking out through the door at Number 10 and approaching the podium.
‘It is with great sadness that today I must confirm the death of my good friend, Deputy Prime Minister Duncan Brannon. It is believed that his death is linked to the murder of the MI5 director, Mark McPherson. Early indications are that this cowardly act was perpetrated by the same person or group.
‘I would first like to offer my condolences to his family and ask that everyone give them space to grieve and respect their privacy at this difficult time.
‘Duncan Brannon was not only a dedicated member of parliament but a close friend. He was a formidable campaigner on many issues and especially those that were close to his heart. Duncan would not like me to pretend we always agreed, because we didn’t. What I can tell you is that he was someone upon whom I could always depend. He was a kind, decent and honourable man and someone I feel privileged to have worked alongside and to have called a friend.’
Lafferty cleared her throat as her voice began to tremble. She gripped the podium more tightly before continuing. ‘Intelligence teams are working round the clock to follow up on the hundreds of leads. New information is coming in all the time. Having spoken only moments ago to our intelligence and security chiefs, I am reliably informed they are close to bringing to justice those responsible.
‘I would now like to move on and speak directly to those responsible for the two recent atrocities.’ The prime minister’s eyes grew steely and her back straightened almost imperceptibly. ‘I feel I speak on behalf of the whole nation when I tell you that acts of cowardice like those carried out against the MI5 director, Mark McPherson, and Deputy Prime Minister Duncan Brannon will not go unpunished. We will not tire in our search for you, and you will be brought to justice and punished. Friends, leaders and allies from countries around the world have reached out to me over the last few days and offered their unwavering support. There is nowhere you can go. There is nowhere you can hide. We will not tolerate any outrage of this nature, either here or abroad. We will take every measure necessary to stamp out terrorism in all its forms.
‘It is at times of sadness like these that the good and the brave come together. It is our common humanity and hope for a better world that binds a nation and makes it stronger. You can never, I repeat, never, divide a nation, which at its very heart is built on hope.’
Lafferty released her grip of the podium and stood back for a moment before receiving questions from reporters. She looked across at Norton, who was a short distance away to her right. He had worked with her on preparing the speech and it was he who had encouraged her to take a hard line and to suggest they were close to making arrests.
This was far from the truth. Lafferty also hadn’t been keen on stating that they would ‘take every measure necessary,’ as it implied troops on the ground were a possibility, something her election pledge had stated she wouldn’t do.
The first question came from BBC reporter Tasmin Hussain. ‘How true are rumours that the group involved in these killings have sent Downing Street a list of intended targets, a so-called Kill List?’ she demanded. ‘Is it true that you yourself are on the list?’
Lafferty was ready for this question. She’d been advised the Kill List rumour was created by a certain section of the popular press to sensationalise the story. ‘I want to make this perfectly clear: I am not aware of any kill list. I want to also make clear that no direct threat has been made against me or any other member of government.’
‘Is this the work of religious fundamentalists?’ shouted another reporter.
Lafferty had been expecting this question, and had been strongly advised to avoid answering it directly and revealing that, in fact, they had no leads at all. ‘We are keeping all options open at this stage,’ she replied evenly. ‘We have not received any communication at this point. No group has claimed responsibility. For reasons of national security, and because investigations are ongoing, I am unable to give any further details at this time.’
‘Was any warning given before the attacks?’
Lafferty thought of Hardy and his phone call from the shooter. Again, she’d been advised not to give away the fact they were in communication with the killer. ‘No. We’ve had no contact.’
‘Will you be calling for air strikes?’
‘That is a matter for another time.’
‘So, you haven’t ruled them out?’
‘Before we’d consider that kind of force, we would need a target. And until we have identified who is responsible, that is a moot point.’
Lafferty smiled as best she could and called an end to questions. She was tired and sad and angry about having to answer questions at all. At this time, a press conference achieved nothing except to highlight how little they knew at this stage of the investigation. Norton should have been the one standing at the podium right now, but he’d wriggled out of it. He was happy to advise, Lafferty thought irritably, but didn’t have the balls to stand there and answer any tough questions himself.
Chapter Seventeen
I stared at my desk. Spread out in front of me were the reports on the McPherson and Brannon killings. A knock at the door made me look up.
‘Are you busy?’ asked Rayner. I attempted a smile. I knew that was just Rayner’s attempt at lightening my mood. Rayner understands me better than most. He’s a good friend and I could feel him trying to appraise me. I sensed he was interested in working out how I was coping as well as trying to establish how the investigations were developing. We worked well together, and if ever I needed a sounding board, he was happy to fill that position.
His appearance somehow relieved some pressure. ‘Busy? No, you know how it is. It’s difficult to find enough to fill each day. How about you?’
‘About the same,’ he deadpanned. ‘I’ve been doing crosswords all morning.’
I tossed Rayner my
notes. ‘I’ve got a few solid ideas but nothing concrete. When the killer called me, he suggested Brannon and McPherson were part of a list. I’ve a few ideas on how he might have composed the list, but it’s pure speculation. The only way to establish why each man was on the list is to work out what linked McPherson and Brannon, and as far as I can see they had no personal connection. They knew each other and worked together but weren’t buddies and had no business associations outside Whitehall.’
‘Meaning there must be a political connection,’ said Rayner.
‘Yes. The war on terror has meant that, as MI5 director, McPherson would have met with Brannon regularly.’
‘You don’t think they were killed simply because of their value as high-profile individuals? You think there’s another reason?’
‘I do. To my mind, if it was that simple, if all he wanted to do was horrify the nation by killing influential figures, the shooter could simply work through a list of politicians. He could simply kill them in their homes or while they were going about their business in their constituencies.’
‘Maybe you’re looking for something that isn’t there.’
I shot Rayner a questioning look.
‘I’m just saying,’ continued Rayner. ‘Perhaps you’re over-thinking the whole thing.’
‘Perhaps. But this guy created a situation that drew out McPherson. He knew McPherson would have to be there. That takes planning and inside information. He then targeted Brannon in another sophisticated attack. He knew of Brannon’s schedule. This killer is patient, smart, organised, and motivated, and he must be receiving inside help. There’s nothing random or opportunistic in what this shooter is doing.’
‘You keep saying it like it’s one person doing this and not a terrorist cell or group.’
‘As far as I’m concerned this is one person, probably with access to confidential information including protocol and schedules.’
