Just Kill Them
A gripping murder thriller set in modern-day London
Michael Leese
A note from the author.
Just Kill Them is the latest novel in an unputdownable series of standalone stories featuring Jonathan Roper and Brian Hooley. The pair are Scotland Yard’s secret weapon in the fight against crime and terror - but they couldn’t be more different. Roper is young, gifted and autistic, and his idea of social interaction is telling people what they’ve got wrong. Hooley is the veteran coper who has seen and done it all. His idea of social interaction involves a punch in the mouth followed by a pint. It’s a potent mix and offers a roller coaster ride that will leave you gasping for breath or laughing out loud.
This book is written in British English.
I’d like to invite you to visit www.michael-leese.com to sign-up for my VIP readers list, to hear about new releases, free book promotions, special offers and exclusive extras.
As a Brit I’d recommend you settle down with a nice cup of tea and enjoy what is far more than just another cop story. You may have your own ideas on the perfect liquid accompaniment…
Chapter 1
Greenwich Peninsula, London.
Sheila Reynolds couldn’t remember when she had last enjoyed herself so much. Despite the early hour – it was just after 6am – she had been talking and laughing for more than an hour.
She was glad she had taken a little care with her appearance. She’d chosen an outfit that complimented her slightly plump figure, while carefully applied make-up hid a few lines which was never a bad thing.
As the light improved, it was obvious that her fellow believers, both men and women, had been equally careful and wanting to look their best. After all, this was one of the few times they would get to see their hero in the flesh
At last the doors of the O2 Arena opened, and the newfound friends shared smiles, polite pats on the back, and even a few high-fives. Soon, they poured in, excitedly exchanging tales of record share prices and special dividend payouts.
They were here to worship John Ryder, the tech mogul they credited with making them considerably wealthier than they might have been. It may not have been the typical stadium crowd – there were far too many business suits for that – but it lacked for nothing in enthusiasm.
The decibel count hit triple figures as, up on stage, the musicians marched into view. The invitation had stated “Expect the Unexpected” – but, even so, these were household names who had never before appeared on the same stage.
The band launched into the Fleetwood Mac track, “Go Your Own Way”, bringing howls of approval. At the final note, the lights dimmed before returning full beam to reveal an unfeasibly handsome man moving towards the front of the stage.
The screaming hit fever pitch as he glided along. His ponytail, fashioned from thick blonde hair, moved in rhythm with his every move. The man’s presence was undeniable. He was in superb shape, a little over six feet five and weighing 270 pounds.
Sheila Reynolds was surprised to find that she was standing up, waving her arms and shouting so loudly she was going hoarse. She felt a hot flush of embarrassment at the thought of explaining her voice loss to her teenage children.
All around her, thousands of middle-aged people shared the same expression of surprise at just how carried away they had become. But, as if on an agreed signal, they all gave a collective shrug and went back to enjoying the show.
They’d come from all parts of the world to see John Ryder. Behind him, the band had started on “Gimme Shelter” by the Rolling Stones. Ryder was even joining in on air guitar, a winningly bashful grin on his face.
TV cameras zoomed in, capturing the scene in super high definition. Public appearances by this man, described by Forbes magazine as a “Technology Titan”, were such a rare event that broadcasters were live streaming the footage to a global audience of millions.
Ryder took his time before gesturing for the audience to sit down. Then, the music faded away and the singer handed over the microphone with the care of an athlete passing on the Olympic flame.
Silence settled over the crowd. Ryder looked out at his adoring fans. He concentrated hard, tightened his grip on the mic as he raised it to his lips…
Then the screaming started.
Chapter 2
Nearly seventy miles away, close to the Kent coast, Detective Jonathan Roper and Chief Inspector Brian Hooley were onboard a Eurostar train about to head under the English Channel.
Like many police officers, they had wide experience of cross-border crime. Just a year ago they had thwarted a plot to set off a nuclear bomb in London. Now, they were on the way to Paris – where they had been booked to deliver the keynote address at an international conference about the seemingly unstoppable rise of transnational crime and how Scotland Yard was dealing with it.
The DCI was a burly man, standing a little under six feet tall – and his greying hair betrayed the years of experience that made him one of the Met’s more accomplished ‘thief takers’. He’d recently divorced from his wife of more than 25 years and as a result was partly estranged from his two children.
Right now, his blue eyes were sparkling as he listened to the announcement that they were about to head under the Straits of Dover.
Roper was in his element. “Did you know the tunnel section is 50.45 kilometres or 31.35 miles long?” DCI Hooley let the information wash over him; his companion had been throwing facts at him since they left London.
As Roper chatted away, DCI Hooley thought it was noticeable that, when he was nervous, Roper talked incessantly. He wondered if it was another expression of the type of autism by which he was affected.
The younger man was a brilliant detective, and his condition had given him the ability to spot the things others missed. It was a huge advantage for an investigator but came with its own set of problems.
Talking of problems, Hooley was reminded that his younger colleague had only yesterday had to deal with a complaint. As Roper drew breath to launch into another barrage of stats, he interrupted him. “I gather your meeting went well?”
Roper stared at the floor. “I take it you mean the meeting with the HR people.”
The DCI kept a straight face. Roper would open up or not. There was nothing he could do to change things. After a pause – long enough to unsettle the normally phlegmatic senior officer – Roper started speaking.
“It went much better than last time. The new head of HR said it was clear that I was trying to be as helpful as possible. In fact, he said he couldn’t quite understand why there had been so much fuss before.”
DCI Hooley kept his thoughts firmly under wraps. He’d been at the previous meeting and seen, as well as heard, the shouting. It was mainly why there was now a new head of the HR department. The previous incumbent had gone off sick for six months, before announcing he was leaving and would travel the world to ‘find himself’.
The DCI had thought it was a bit of an overreaction. All that had happened was that the complainant had lost his temper after Roper refused to go into detail about his ‘Rainbow Spectrum’. Despite the man’s outburst, Roper had remained silent, refusing all entreaties to speak. This had triggered yet another outburst which the HR boss attempted to deflect by asking the DCI if he, in his role as Roper’s boss, could help to explain.
Hooley had been relaxed about the request and started by saying it wasn’t arrogance that had made Roper mute on the subject; it was his unfortunate experiences at school, which had persuaded the younger man that he should only share the information on a ‘need to know’ basis.
“I’ve got a need to know!” shouted the complainant, a long-serving detective constable who wasn’t known for his patience. This had prompted an
intervention by the HR chief which, in turn, led to threats of violence.
In the subsequent disciplinary hearing, the detective constable had claimed he was the victim of being ‘verballed’ by the head of HR.
“I never said ‘I’ll rip your head off.’ What I said was that I ‘thought it was a bit off’. I meant it was a bit off that he was defending Detective Roper. It didn’t feel fair to me.”
In the ensuing inquiry, neither Roper nor Hooley were able to help. At the time the DCI had been laughing so hard he accidentally caught his shin on the edge of a desk, which was extremely painful and rendered his recollection vague. Meanwhile, Roper explained that, once the shouting started, he had stopped listening.
The DCI couldn’t help smiling at the memory. He was also secretly glad that he had never had to explain what the Rainbow Spectrum actually was. In truth, he wasn’t entirely sure he understood it, despite Roper’s many attempts to explain.
What he did know was that, on multiple occasions, Roper had used it to help crack some of the most difficult cases the Yard had had to deal with. His support appeared to enhance Roper’s ability to spot the details that most other people missed.
Hooley was aware that he and Roper were regarded as an unlikely partnership. The ‘Odd Couple’ was one of their politer nicknames, and it was the older man’s phlegmatic personality that was the key – since it allowed him to shrug off the type of comments that many would find insulting.
The problem was Roper’s lack of social skills. It meant he could make unflinchingly direct personal observations. Most of the time, Hooley was broadly impervious. He had learned that attempting to bite back with a sharp response made little, if any, difference.
As the train rushed into the tunnel, the DCI studied Roper in the reflection cast by the window. He was dressed, as always, in his work “uniform” - a skinny black suit, paired with a white shirt, black tie and shoes polished to a brilliant shine.
The DCI knew this was pretty much the limit of his companion’s work wardrobe, not that he himself was a gift to fashion. The real problem for Roper was his hair; thick, black and curly, it seemed to have a life of its own.
Emerging into the daylight on the French side of the tunnel, Hooley smiled as he took in the scenery and settled back for the journey to the capital. A moment later, both of their mobile phones began to ping frantically as they were deluged with incoming traffic.
Hooley grabbed his handset and read the first message.
“Bloody hell.”
He rarely swore, but this was extraordinary.
Chapter 3
As he went to speak into the microphone, a fireball engulfed John Ryder.
Sheila Reynolds was close enough to feel the backdraft of heat and be dazzled by the light. She froze in place, then felt a tremendous blow to her face as people scrambled to get away.
The only thing that kept her on her feet was the sheer volume of people, all pushing and shoving. A man she had moments before exchanged polite smiles with went for a gap that opened up in front of her. He slammed into her left shoulder, spinning her round into a woman who lashed out and clawed at her face, driven out of her mind by the screaming and shouting of a panicked crowd. To say it was pandemonium was an understatement.
Sheila Reynolds stumbled and fell to the floor. More people fell on top of her and soon she was trapped, unable to move anything except her head. That too was suddenly covered by another body and she frantically jerked to try and breathe.
She died in abject terror, suffocated to death.
Those lucky enough to stay on their feet were screaming and jostling each other in the rush for the exits.
Inspector Barry Asmus, on crowd duty outside, ran into the building as the first of the audience ran out. He was talking into a radio set that linked him with the Arena security teams.
“I’ve got people running out of the auditorium and shouting about a bomb. What can you see on your video feeds?”
A woman, her voice calm, responded, “Something happened on stage. It triggered panic in the first few rows. It becomes calmer the further you get from the stage, although people are still leaving as fast as they can…”
There was a brief silence, and then the woman was back. “Sorry about that, we just managed to restore internal lighting, so we have a clearer picture. It does look pretty bad down at the front but much calmer elsewhere. I can see a lot of people are on the ground. It doesn’t look good.”
Asmus needed more. “Is there any evidence of an explosion, any damage or fire?”
“Not really. Something happened on stage. It was centred directly on John Ryder, but I’d need to review the tape to be accurate about it.”
Asmus took a deep breath, “My next big question. Any signs of terrorist activity? Can you see anyone with a knife or a gun?”
“Nothing like that at all. I don’t like to tempt fate, but our security is pretty good.”
Well, thought Asmus, someone must have breached security to cause whatever it was that had happened. But he swallowed the thought and instead asked his next question. “Are your teams still in place inside?”
“They are. They’re helping to direct everyone out. We have all the emergency exits open to make sure there are no pinch points trapping people inside.”
“That is brilliant news. Sorry, I don’t know your name.”
“It’s Sandra, Inspector Asmus. I was given your name as part of the security briefing for today.”
“Well thanks Sandra. Please keep me informed of anything you see. There should be more police arriving now and health responders – so I’m going outside to start organising things out there.”
He jogged out through the huge concourse area and past the various food outlets, concessions stalls and restaurants. The place was huge, and this part was like a large out of town shopping centre.
Running through the doors to the outside space, he immediately saw several police officers running towards him. As he got on his personal radio to talk to area command, he waved them over.
He quickly went through what he knew, emphasising that it looked like many fatalities but there was no evidence of any terrorist activity, as there had been in previous attacks on concert venues.
Asmus was told that senior officers were on their way but for now he remained in charge.
As he was talking two men, chalk white with shock, ran up. They were gesturing wildly at the doors they had just emerged from, talking so fast it was almost gibberish, but they quickly slowed down, apparently calmed by his presence.
“It was a bomb or something. It got John Ryder and then everything went mad.”
As the men staggered off, Asmus was grappling with the classic dilemma - how to save lives without destroying the crime scene. He knew that the Counter Terrorism Command, the Area Major Incident Team, AMIT and other security services would be on their way – so he wouldn’t be alone for long – but for now it was his call.
His concentration was broken as a frightened woman ran past, leaving the scent of her perfume behind: Chanel No5, his wife’s favourite. It triggered an almost painful flashback as he recalled her telling him not to be late home for their twenty-sixth wedding anniversary dinner that night.
It was ironic that he’d only volunteered for the O2 duty to cut the chance of being caught up in a big incident – but all his hopes of getting home had disappeared with the explosion. He sighed. She was a copper’s wife who understood when duty called.
Irritated at himself for getting caught up in his own thoughts, he took a moment to think things through. Hundreds, if not thousands, of people had made their way out by now. People were openly weeping, and many were glued to their phones, either talking or checking to see what had been posted online.
For some reason, a woman started filming him and he suppressed his irritation as he thought about what to do. Until someone could prove otherwise, he was going to assume a bomb had gone off. Which left the big question: were more primed to explode?
A group of uniformed officers were standing close by, waiting for instructions. He made his mind up. He needed to get more help inside the auditorium.
“We need to get everyone out,” he said to the officers. “Be cautious. This is a frightened crowd, so go in slowly and carefully.” Asmus looked intently at the men. To his eyes they seemed impossibly young and were no doubt scared. “I’ll join you as quickly as I can. Do your best and keep calm. You will save lives. Now go. I’ll be right behind you…”
Even as he spoke more officers turned up, including a Sergeant. He needed people everywhere and made another snap decision.
“Sergeant, it’s vital we get as much information as we can. Can you organise a few officers to start collecting mobile phone footage and any key witnesses?” The man didn’t waste time on words, he nodded and took off to get on with his task.
Asmus often complained about TV police shows, but they did get one thing right: you needed to move fast and grab as much intelligence as you could. At this stage there was no way of knowing what the most important information would be.
Checking the time, he was amazed to see more than twenty minutes had elapsed. He’d already done what organising he could. Now he needed to get eyes on what he was dealing with.
As he jogged back towards the exits, he noticed that the security gates had indeed been opened, just as he had been promised. Uniformed guards were waving people through. He noticed they were all deferring to a tall black man. He made his way over.
“You’re doing a good job here, keeping things moving. You may have saved a lot of lives. There are some badly frightened people here.”
The man laughed. He looked at home in the mayhem. “Did two tours in Afghanistan so this sort of thing is a lot easier than walking around and trying not to tread on an IED.” He glanced over the restaurant stands. “Hope you’re not feeling hungry though. All the catering staff legged it at the first sign of trouble. Can’t say I blame them, really. Minimum wage not exactly the incentive to stay and fight.”
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