The House of Killers

by Samantha Lee Howe

  ‘I’m ready,’ she murmurs to herself in the mirror.

  Looking out of her bedroom window, Neva notes that the road is still clear. No sign of the car. No sign of anyone at all. It has to be now!

  She packs a small overnight bag with an auburn wig, make-up, and appropriate clothing for Ingrid’s wardrobe; she is the twinset and pearls type, with designer bags and shoes. Neva has crafted an entire history for her, subtly creating an identity she can fall into. Neva adds a pair of Prada stilettos and a matching bag to the case, frivolous items she’s bought just for this persona. She gets no pleasure from them at all.

  Downstairs, she goes into the garage and unlocks the car. It’s a ten-year-old Ford Mondeo, nothing flashy. She fills the boot of her car with the bags.

  The burner phone makes a loud ding as she gets in behind the wheel. She’s forgotten it’s in her purse.

  Meet me at the crossroads. Sharrick.

  Sharrick, her new handler, is near. That’s why there’s no watch on her! They expect her to obey, or maybe they’re ready to converge and this is just a trap to draw her from her place of safety.

  Neva gets out of the car. She opens the boot and unzips one of the bags. She removes a Glock 61, checks the safety, loads it, and then gets back into the car. She puts the Glock in the central storage area amid the old receipts and pens and then picks up the burner and replies.

  On my way

  On her key fob is a remote control. She uses it now to open the garage door. She starts the engine and pulls out and away from the country house. She has called this place home for the past four years. She won’t see it again.

  She feels no regret.

  The meeting point is a railway crossroads some five miles away. Neva pulls up alongside a silver Mercedes. She doesn’t get out of the car. She waits for the man in the Mercedes to get out and walk towards her. He gets into her passenger seat, closing the door carefully.

  Neva turns and looks at him. He is tall, over six feet, with silver hair cut short around the ears but flopping over his eyes at the front. She puts him at around forty but trying to look younger.

  ‘I’m Sharrick,’ he says. ‘Your new handler.’

  ‘What happened to Tracey?’

  Sharrick looks at her. His eyes are cool blue, icy.

  The hairs rise on the back of her neck. Neva’s been trained to react or remain passive as a situation requires. There’s a moment when she feels Sharrick’s tension, as though he’s steadying himself for a fight. Neva knows this pre-battle sensation. She forces herself to remain relaxed even though every reflex is screaming at her to reach for her gun. Any miscommunication at this point will dictate her future.

  Sensing nothing from her, Sharrick’s unease decreases. The slight stiffness in his shoulders lessens. The change is subtle but Neva is alert to every movement and she knows in that instant that the danger has passed.

  ‘You had quite a history with her so you deserve to know. She said her location had been compromised. Next thing we know, the police are scraping her up off the tracks.’

  ‘I see,’ Neva says. ‘You have an assignment for me?’

  ‘No. I thought it best to meet first. See if this news upsets you. It doesn’t.’

  ‘Why should it?’

  ‘Because she was with you … from the beginning.’

  ‘Sentiment is a waste of energy,’ Neva says.

  ‘Good,’ Sharrick says. ‘Aren’t you curious how she became compromised?’

  ‘Curiosity kills.’

  ‘If you have any suspicions, contact me.’

  ‘I will.’

  He gets out of the car without further comment. Neva backs up and turns the vehicle around as though she’s heading back to the country house.

  She glances through her rearview mirror and sees Sharrick driving away in the opposite direction.

  The roads are wide open country lanes and no other cars are around. There’s no one watching her. Can the Network be that stupid? Neva hopes so.

  Chapter Fifteen

  MICHAEL

  I open the dishwasher and look inside. Cups, glasses, and plates fill it to the brim, still unwashed. I let out a slow breath. I’m not sure if I’m relieved or disappointed. Now I have the glass, I’m compelled to check for prints. If I come up with anything from that search, I’ll also have to take this to Ray, which means I’ll have a lot of explaining to do.

  Taking a tea towel from one of the kitchen drawers, I pick up the glass and place it inside an evidence bag. I put it down on the kitchen counter above the dishwasher.

  I take a beer from the fridge and open it, swigging from the bottle as though this will help me think. Who can I get to check this for prints who won’t report back to Archive?

  I can call in a favour.

  I have a friend in Scotland Yard who can check out the prints on my behalf. That way no one at Archive need know and I’ll be able to keep the information to myself if it proves to be a dead end. Of course, if the prints bring up something, then I’ll have to come clean.

  I think about what that will mean. With something to go on which might help us find Anna, it’s likely that Ray won’t give me anything worse than a bollocking for not speaking up sooner. Under other circumstances, withholding such information could mean serious repercussions, perhaps even suspension. The prospect of facing a disciplinary when I’ve so far had an exemplary career does not please me. But it’s a real possibility. I’m faced with a decision that could change my life, possibly ruin my career.

  I sip the beer again and try to put the issue from my mind. Tomorrow I’ll meet DCI Drew Cartwright and ask him to check out the glass for prints and DNA. Drew owes me this; I won’t even have to remind him that I once saved his career.

  I finish the beer and get another one from the fridge, then I go into the living room. I sit down and reach for the remote control on the small table at the side of the sofa, but the gadget slips from my fingers and falls onto the floor.

  ‘Shit!’

  I place the beer bottle on the table and reach down for the remote. That’s when I see the long strand of black hair.

  I keep the place clean. Scrupulously clean.

  Forgetting about the remote control, I pick up the hair. I glance around the room. I take the hair, walk back into the kitchen, and put it inside the evidence bag with the brandy glass.

  I look around the room now with fresh eyes. Nothing appears to be disturbed but I know without doubt that someone has been here. Why didn’t I realise sooner?

  I walk through the flat, starting at the front door. Just as I would if I were at a crime scene, I study every inch of my floor and surfaces. The intruder came in through the front door. I put myself in their head. There has been no obvious ransack. Nothing was stolen or I’d have noticed immediately. So, what did they want?

  I close my eyes and focus. If I were at a crime scene, what would I see? I need to search my flat and see if anything has gone.

  I start with my bedroom. I haven’t been in there since I got home. One of my drawers isn’t quite closed. I can’t be sure that I didn’t leave it that way this morning as I rushed to get ready, but usually I’m tidy and always close the drawers. I open it up and see the photo album on top of a pile of old T-shirts. The album was always underneath, stowed, so that I could almost forget the family when I needed to, but knew where to go when I didn’t. I’m in no doubt that I’ve had an intruder.

  I go back into the kitchen to look again at the hair strand. Also, the thief may have gone in there. People leave money in jars in kitchens, after all. I scan the work tops, then I open the cupboards, one by one, trying to think like this person. Inside my cupboards I see … tins of food, dried pasta. Nothing appears to have been moved. What could you possibly want to find here anyway?

  My eyes fall on the brandy glass. I pick it up and look at it through the evidence bag. The glass looks clean. Why hadn’t I noticed that before? I open the bag and sniff. The odour of brandy has gone.


  ‘Shit!’

  I put the glass down. Trying to find prints or DNA might now be a waste of time.

  Then, a memory flashes through my mind. That morning I’d left early. There had been a woman standing near the door in the reception. She’d been wearing a short black dress; her long black hair was ruffled and it had crossed my mind that she was returning from an evening out – a ‘walk of shame’, they call it. She’d avoided looking at me. Kept her head averted. I hadn’t thought too much of it.

  I analyse the memory now, trying to pull out every detail. I was trained to be observant. She’d been tall, in four-inch heeled boots. But she was hunched, as though hiding her height. I’d thought this defensive because she might have been embarrassed to be seen. But … was it … Anna? Was she wearing yet another disguise?

  Had Anna returned to my flat? I wander around, looking at everything, considering what she has touched and, more importantly, what her motive was for being here. Was the appearance of disarray intentional in order to make me dismiss her when I saw her? Or had she really spent the night with someone else in my block of flats? If that was the case, was it a coincidence or deliberate? I can’t dismiss the possibility that she intended to come back, that she wanted to learn more about me.

  I try to superimpose the long black hair onto Anna’s face. I can imagine it, just. Then I remember that I’ve yet to work on the artist software to try and recreate her image to put into the database. This is now a priority, even ahead of taking the brandy glass to Drew Cartwright – not that he’s likely to find anything on it now.

  Feeling paranoid, I double-lock my flat door, ensuring the deadbolts are also run across the top and the bottom. It won’t keep any trespasser out when I’m not home, but it will stop any attempt to come in while I sleep.

  Then, a worrying thought occurs to me. Did she find my secure weapon box?

  I hurry back into the bedroom, pull back the rug near the bed and look down at the floorboards. To the casual eye, the floor is immaculate, solid. Underneath the lamp on the bedside cabinet is a tiny button. I press it now and the floorboard slides aside, revealing the box. This little storage space was fitted by MI5 when I joined Archive. I lift out the secure metal box, key in the code, and use the finger print scanner as final security. The box opens and I look inside to see my gun, secure and safe. Untampered with.

  I take out the gun. Standard MI5 issue, Glock 17. Making sure the safety is on, I load the weapon, then place it down under my bed, within easy reach.

  When this is done, I lie down and try to sleep. But I’m wired, senses on hyper-drive, and so every little noise brings me back out of my shallow slumber. Twice I check the gun is still where I left it and then, just before dawn, too tired to fight sleep any longer, I finally give in and rest.

  But my subconscious mind still worries at the problem. In my dreams I see Anna again near the station. This time she’s wearing a black dress and her hair, loose over her shoulders, is flowing like a black cape around her. She smiles at me as I walk towards her. Then the air moves and my dream self falls back, hands held to my throat. Anna is standing over me, a sharp and bloody blade in her hand. The blood pumps out of my body, over my fingers. I try to yell for help but no sound comes out of my destroyed throat.

  I’m cold. So cold. This is what death feels like.

  An irritating ringing pulls me out of this torturous nightmare. For a moment I’m paralysed, still in that place between dream and reality. I put my hands to my throat. Then I sit up, looking around my room. Light sifts around the curtains and still the ringing continues. It takes me a moment to realise it’s my mobile phone on the bedside table. I reach for it.

  ‘Hey? Where are you?’ asks Ray.

  ‘Oh shit!’ I leap from the bed. ‘Sorry. Alarm didn’t go off. I didn’t sleep too well last night.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Thinking about the case … you know how that is?’

  ‘Nothing a stiff brandy doesn’t cure. Come up with anything?’ Ray asks

  ‘Still working on it. I’ll get there, a-sap.’

  I hang up and place the phone back down beside me with a shaking hand. The dream presses again around my conscious mind. How can I tell Ray that my subconscious has connected and confirmed that Anna is our killer? That she’s been here, in my flat, twice? Once because I brought her here, the second time of her own volition – motive still unknown.

  I pick up the gun from under the bed and take it into the bathroom. I lock the door, place the gun on the sink, then shower, shave, and brush my teeth.

  Back in the bedroom I dress, adding my holster to my uniform, and I place my weapon inside it, before pulling my jacket on to cover the gun. I rarely ever take my gun into the office.

  On the way out, I take a final glance around the flat and wonder what I’ll do if Anna comes back. Part of me hopes she will. I want answers. Especially why she came back here. Was she curious about me too?

  What am I thinking? This woman is dangerous. Her snooping isn’t curiosity; it’s something else. But what? Had I become a person of interest to her and her employers?

  In the kitchen, I grab a bagel from the bread bin. Then I pick up my briefcase and leave the flat, double-locking the door, before heading off to the lift.

  In the reception I take careful note of anyone around. There is a tourist asking for directions, a woman I recognise as one of my neighbours, and the cleaner mopping the tiled floor. Nothing unusual. Outside, I check up and down the street, noting any cars that appear to linger, or anyone that might be acting suspiciously.

  At the kerb I hail a taxi and, even though it’s quicker and easier to take the tube, I tell the driver the address and head off to the office. I glance back as the taxi pulls away. Every woman I see catches my eye. Is she Anna? I dismiss them automatically for height or shape or size. This is ridiculous, I tell myself. She could be anywhere. She could look like anybody.

  Chapter Sixteen

  NEVA

  After following Michael from his flat to his place of work, Neva returns to her new home – an expensive flat in Hammersmith. Over the last few months she’s spent the occasional night here, sneaking in wearing a headscarf and sunglasses, avoiding contact with any of the neighbours. Always careful, though, to wear Ingrid Rouille’s clothing and wig.

  She’s thinking about what she’s learnt about Michael as she enters the palatial reception and walks towards the lift. Head down, she tries to avoid contact with the few people she’s aware of that are milling around.

  ‘Hello? Miss Rouille, isn’t it?’

  She ignores the voice behind her and presses the call button on the lift.

  ‘Excuse me, are you Miss Rouille?’

  Neva turns to see a small, dark-haired woman, carrying a pointlessly small dog, possibly a shih-tzu. Neva smiles. Then she answers the woman with a carefully crafted French accent.

  ‘Oui. I am Ingrid Rouille.’

  ‘I just wanted to introduce myself. I’m Carleen Calendar. I’m your neighbour. We’re on the same floor. I also run the tenants’ association and we’re having a gathering this evening. I thought it might be the perfect time for you to meet us all.’

  ‘That’s kind. I’m afraid I’m busy this evening.’

  The lift arrives and Neva enters, pressing the button for her floor. The pointless dog yaps as someone else comes into the reception. Neva glances at the newcomer. It’s the postman. She puts her head down as he looks her way.

  Opening the door of her flat, she enters with soundless stealth. The rooms are furnished with borrowed taste. Ingrid is a story she has written in her head. A play she is performing. Neva enjoys this idea; being someone else is the second-best thing she’s good at.

  In the kitchen she boils the kettle and begins to make some herbal tea but something is nagging at the back of her mind. The image of the postman flashes behind her eyes. The man is familiar. He looks like someone she’s seen before. She shudders, shaking away the feeling of paranoia. No one knows
she’s here. She has to be imagining it. Besides, the man barely saw her as the lift doors closed, cutting the reception and Carleen Calendar from view.

  Neva sits down on the expensive, but stiff, sofa and sips her tea.

  Taking her mind off the postman, she thinks again about Michael. The building he works in is listed as belonging to a publishing house but she’s certain that really this is an MI5 or MI6 agency taskforce he’s working for. Perhaps they’re hidden there to make them a less obvious target.

  Michael’s behaviour interested her the most, however. He was acting as though he knew he was being followed. Neva was sure he hadn’t seen her though, which meant one thing: he knew someone had been in his flat. She’d kept back and had remained unobserved. She’d even managed to snap some pictures of him and the building to use later. One of her contacts would know what this place really was; it would cost, but Neva could afford to pay. She had plans too for her future security, which involved taking contracts other than from the Network.

  All of this needed to wait until such a time as she found herself safe. But that period wouldn’t come until Neva discovered how far their influence reached and if it was just Europe, which she suspected, or worldwide. Either way, the Network couldn’t do what they did without help. Throughout the years she’d worked for them, Neva had learnt more than Tracey suspected. She knew that there were government officials involved, operatives in the Ministry of Defence and even paid collaborators in British spy agencies. Names had been bandied about; her victims were often willing to tell her what they knew in the hope she’d show mercy. At first their blabbering meant nothing to her, but familiar names repeated time and again began to sink into her conditioned brain. She began to actively listen, even though she never asked questions.