Just Kill Them

by Michael Leese

  He had also been quick to spot the potential of the Personal Assistant market and came out with a winning product that had the added gimmick that users could choose the names and gender for the device, something that was quickly copied. He was a serially successful man and it was claimed that he only had to think of a thing before it became a must-have item, bringing riches that turned the company into the biggest corporation on earth, with a stock market valuation in excess of a trillion dollars.

  But today that success was in danger of crashing down. The news that Ryder was fighting for his life - and not expected to survive - had seen the Corporation’s share price take a pounding. It was predicted that, when New York opened, the company would lose a third of its value at a stroke.

  With the time difference between London and the USA there were still a couple of hours to go before the Wall Street bell was rung to kick off trading on the East Coast. There should have been time to do something.

  Ryder’s deputy, Peter Moran – a man who had never known anything but success – made things worse when he broke down during a live video conference which had been intended to reassure markets all over the world. For a time, it seemed that chaos would be the order of the day since there wasn’t the experience available to come up with a strategy – but the spell was finally broken when the woman in charge of the London operation, strategically the most important outside the US, took centre stage.

  Josephine Taggert had been looking on in dismay. She knew that this was a pivotal moment and it was important they quickly started acting in unison. John Ryder couldn’t do it for them, so they needed to do it themselves.

  “If I may have your attention.” She spoke very slowly and very loudly into her screen microphone. Everyone on the video call stopped and waited to hear what she had to say.

  Her mildly protruding eyes somehow underlay the urgency of what they were facing. It helped that she was known to have risen to her position through hard work and ability, not the backstabbing that was sometimes the case. She was the reason why Ryder had chosen London, rather than Seattle, for what was to be a major announcement.

  Taggert held her hands behind her back, something she found calming, and today she needed all the help she could get. She hoped the tiny tremors she could feel running through her body wouldn’t show up on the screen carrying the live transmission.

  She took a deep breath and tried to take her time. ‘Don’t rush, you need to get this right,’ she told herself. It was good advice, straight out of the manual, but very hard to do when your body was pumped with adrenalin.

  She started to speak, but realised her mouth had gone bone dry. She needed a drink of water or she would be unable to talk clearly. Her assistant, Mary Lou Healy, a petite redhead, had spotted the warning signs and soon handed her boss a glass. She took a couple of sips and relaxed.

  “John is our friend, our leader and our inspiration – and he is in the biggest fight of his life. We still don’t know exactly what happened, but we have our own people at the hospital and I’m afraid that the news is not good. He is suffering from multiple injuries, including forty per cent burns to his body and these are said to be severe.” She stopped and looked down at the floor before gathering herself to carry on. “I need to give you the real picture. The doctors say his chances of survival are less than five per cent, and even if he does somehow survive, he is going to be very sick, requiring extensive surgery. It might be many, many months before he is released from hospital.

  “At the moment he is in an induced coma and free from pain. He is getting first rate care, and we are talking to the finest burns doctors around the world. All any of us can do now is keep him in our thoughts and pray for him.”

  Several of those listening had been crossing themselves as the scale of the injuries was revealed, and others were muttering under their breaths. They might work with the technology of the future, but old habits die hard.

  Taggert took another sip of water. “I think it is clear that, for the immediate future, it is our responsibility to take this company forward – and on this I do have some positive news. It is fair to say that, even though John is fighting for his life, he is still here in spirit. I can tell you now that he flew into London yesterday because he wanted to make an announcement about a new product that he believes will take us to the next level.”

  With that melodramatic statement, she pulled her left hand out from behind her back, holding what looked like their current mobile phone.

  “John has been working on this in great secrecy and he only told me about it when he arrived in London yesterday. I didn’t even know he was coming, let alone planning to make a big announcement.”

  She carefully rotated the phone so that everyone could get a close-up view of the product.

  “Look closely. John believes this is the future.”

  Chapter 10

  The Cobra meeting was breaking up, each department chief anxious to get back into the thick of things. As Hooley turned to go, Mayweather placed a hand on his arm.

  “I’m going to see Sandra Asmus this afternoon. She texted me just before the meeting started to say the moment she heard an officer had been killed at the O2 she knew it was Barry. Those two were so close, I hate to think what she’s going through at the moment.”

  Hooley felt a wave of intense emotion, forcing him to fight back the tears that threatened to flow. He regained his composure so quickly that only someone who knew him well, like Mayweather, would have noticed.

  Keeping his eyes down, he said, “I’ll call her tonight.”

  She studied him intently and asked, “I wonder if the kids are still at home? Barry was so proud of his children.”

  Hooley sighed and patted her hand in a distracted way before turning and walking out. That was the thing about grief; sometimes you could talk for hours, other times you could think of nothing to say.

  He found Roper waiting near the exit. “I’ll meet you back at the office. Give me a few minutes on my own to walk back and think about my old mate, then we need to crack on. He’d have been really cross if we started moping at the start of a big investigation.”

  Since Mayweather had got the top job at the Met, all three had left the Special Investigations Unit and handed it over to a new team. Roper and Hooley were now the key members of a tiny unit that reported directly to the Commissioner.

  Their new home was one floor up from their old haunt in Victoria, so it was still an easy walk back from Whitehall. Roper nodded at his instructions and strode off. He didn’t appear to be making any effort, but his long legs soon carried him from view.

  For Hooley it was a time to cast his memory back to when he and Mayweather had first established the Special Investigations Unit. Back then, Hooley’s number one priority had been to find a hardnosed Sergeant to take charge of day to day operations. It was a high-profile job and there was no shortage of hopefuls putting themselves forward – but, while they were all pretty good, Hooley, recently promoted to Detective Inspector, was determined to hang on to see if he could find the perfect fit.

  Which is when Barry Asmus appeared, a freshly minted Detective Sergeant with the maturity of a twenty-year veteran. He had already mastered the knack of looking like the sort of copper you wouldn’t want to mess about with.

  “If you want to be part of the Old Bill, you need to act like part of the Old Bill,” he’d told an approving Hooley at his interview. “Otherwise why should anyone take any notice of you?”

  In no time the pair had bonded, developing a near telepathic ability to anticipate what each other needed. They had socialised together and their wives had also got along well.

  Hooley smiled as he recalled a joint birthday party for their children. Asmus’ eldest daughter had been sent to bed for throwing a tantrum, soon to be followed by Hooley’s daughter – who lost the plot over a game of pass-the-parcel.

  They’d spent a decade working closely together until Asmus had decided he would prefer to be back on the “f
ront-line” and had taken his inspector exams and moved down to Greenwich, not far from his home just outside Bromley.

  At about the same time, Hooley’s marriage started to come under pressure with his wife increasingly resenting his long hours. She was left alone to cope with a couple of rebellious teens. He’d never found it easy to talk to his kids and now it was impossible. By the time divorce became inevitable, he was estranged from his children, who were angry at the hurt he had caused their mother.

  Despite his personal chaos, Hooley and Asmus had remained in constant touch – and just a week ago they’d met up for a pint and a curry. Asmus had been in good form and was full of plans for the future. He’d been approached by a company that provided security advice to top football clubs. Asmus wasn’t much of a soccer fan but the pay was good, and the work was interesting. With the biggest clubs awash with cash, they were a prime target. The fact that he had been so close to retirement made his death more poignant.

  Quicker than he would have liked, Hooley arrived in Victoria. There would be plenty more grieving to come, but he needed to find out who was behind these terrible events; that would be the best way to pay tribute to his friend. It was a painful irony that one of the first people he would have called in to help today was Barry Asmus.

  Lost in his memories, he suddenly realised that autopilot had brought him to the cafe that he and Roper liked to use. It reminded him that he was hungry, so he called his younger colleague and was presented with a shopping list of sandwiches and muffins.

  Food and drinks handed over - Roper had the lion’s share - the DCI fired up his computer and checked his emails. He was pleased to find he had been sent the links to access all aspects of the investigation.

  From MI5’s super-secret data base to the AMIT controlled data flow, everything they would need was there. As well as highlighting any previous events that might link to the attack, he often thought the system was like one of those breaking news blogs that appear for the biggest stories - some of it fascinating and some of it dull.

  There were many advantages to being on exceptionally good terms with the Chief Constable of the Metropolitan Police. Not having to engage in an arm wrestle for information was one of them.

  Satisfied he had what he needed, he turned to look at Roper – who appeared to have developed the ability to inhale muffins in one go, judging by the ease with which he had just consumed one.

  Even through his grief at losing a good friend, there was one question that was nagging away at him. Now he was with the only person who would know the answer.

  “How many people will we need?”

  “All of them that want to help. It might get a bit complicated.”

  Hooley raised a quizzical eyebrow but there was no response. He realised he was going to have to ask.

  “Complicated. Why’s that?”

  “Most people would rather work remotely, that way they don’t have to talk to anyone they don’t want to. That leaves just two people who want to come in – and they don’t like each other, so can’t be here at the same time.”

  Hooley was about to get stuck into his reading again when he realised that Roper was looking at him intently.

  “What? Am I missing something?”

  “Actually, it’s a question of what’s missing, that you’re missing. Along with everyone else.”

  The DCI could feel the signs of a tension headache coming on. “I tell you what. Rather than wasting time with me making a load of guesses, why don’t you explain what those words actually mean?”

  To his surprise, Roper got up and closed the door. When he looked at his boss his expression was unusually sombre.

  “It doesn’t look like any of the known terror groups are behind this. All of the intelligence services are reporting that all of them, from the IRA through to IS, were taken by surprise. IS itself has been trying to find out who was behind this.”

  Hooley guessed that this was real time intelligence and had not yet been disseminated widely. Roper maintained his own, tightly knit, circle of contacts. The DCI had no idea who they were or how they communicated.

  “You picked this up since we got back to London? Would you have been able to get this in Paris?”

  A shrug provided the answer, it meant probably but it happened faster when they were at the home base, and Hooley felt a sense of justification in ordering the rush return to London. It placed Roper on his patch and gave him the ability to reach out to the people who provided him with these golden nuggets of information.

  “Are you passing this information on?”

  A sharp shake of the head. “Everyone else will know soon enough – and I don’t want to explain how I know about this.”

  A rueful expression crossed Hooley’s face. He understood why Roper had shut the door and why they had their room constantly swept for bugging devices. He didn’t think anyone would try and eavesdrop - but better safe than sorry.

  It was a paradox of being an investigator. Sometimes the things you knew could get you into big trouble, but if you didn’t know them you couldn’t make any progress.

  “So, what do you make of this information?”

  Chapter 11

  Julie Mayweather stood up, stretched her arms to ease some of the knots in her back, and looked out at the River Thames. She’d always quietly envied Roper’s view from his South Bank flat near Tower Bridge, and now she boasted something similar.

  It came courtesy of Scotland Yard’s move from Green Park to this new setting looking out over the Victoria Embankment and close to the Houses of Parliament at Westminster. It was only a short distance, but the move took the Yard closer to the political heart of the country.

  Her working life had changed more dramatically than she had anticipated. She still found it extraordinary to be taking regular calls from the heads of the intelligence services, senior civil servants and even the Prime Minister himself.

  All the more reason to remind herself that she now called the shots. As well as moving in highly politicised circles, the key job was to prevent crime. She might not be arresting people anymore, but she could make life easier for those who did. It made her all the more delighted that she had been able to persuade her superiors that she should keep her links to Hooley and Roper as they pursued their highly specialised, and unique, approach to fighting crime.

  This wasn’t a case of “thinking out of the box”; that sounded too close to “management speak” for her liking. What she valued was having a small number of people who brought a genuinely different way of thinking about the threats they faced.

  Knowing that Hooley and Roper were on the case was a comfort. Even though she was already throwing considerable resources at the problem, she always worried that, with most of the task force needing to follow proper process, it would be easy to overlook some apparently insignificant detail.

  As soon as she had met Roper, it was obvious that he was different. How he would fit in was less obvious. What had surprised her was the way Hooley too had picked up the baton, seeming to relish his new role as part mentor, part enabler. She smiled. Who said you couldn’t teach an old dog new tricks?

  Cheered by this thought, she picked up her reading material, a briefing update on the latest stage of the investigation. The teams of investigators were doing a formidable job of sorting out the details but were a long way from finding who was behind it.

  She put the document down and gazed out of the window, just as a heavily laden barge came into view, heading west. At the prow was a scruffy looking dog, its tongue sticking out as it took in the scents, the canine version of a big grin on its face.

  “Lucky dog,” she thought, then perked up as she thought she heard Roper and jumped up to check.

  Stepping through her door, she saw that he and Hooley had run into the immovable force that was the group of officers who policed the outer office.

  It was the pair’s first visit since she had taken over three months ago and so they were a new and unwelcome intrus
ion, at least as far as her guardians were concerned. As she took in the scene, she couldn’t help a brief snort of laughter that brought all eyes turning in her direction.

  “It’s OK, they’re with me,” she said, waving them into her inner sanctum and motioning for them to take the two chairs in front of her desk

  The DCI noted, with approval, that the chairs were brand new. He had spent so much time sitting on one of the old chairs it had almost moulded to his backside.

  Noting his gaze Mayweather said, “I don’t like spending money on office trimmings, if at all possible, but I decided the least I could do for anyone forced to sit and listen to me was to make sure they had somewhere comfortable to sit.”

  It was a characteristic piece of self-deprecation and brought a fleeting smile to Hooley’s face. It was one of the reasons she was one of the more popular holders of this job than had been the case for a couple of years. The rank and file would back a “thief taker” over someone perceived as a political operator every time.

  There was a pause as the three adjusted to their new situation. For years Mayweather had been their direct boss. Now she was the overall chief of all police and they had moved on to head up their own unit.

  After a few moments of unspoken contemplation, they decided that nothing had really changed, apart from some technical stuff about lines of accountability.

  Mayweather leaned forward. Despite the undoubted pressure she was under, she hadn’t lost her air of competent authority. It was that professional poise that had, many years ago, first convinced the DCI that she was someone he would be happy to follow, no matter where she led.

  Pointing over to the now closed door she raised one eyebrow and said, “I expect we have ten minutes, at most, before someone knocks on that with ‘urgent information,’ so I’ll be quick. I have made it plain that I expect you to get full co-operation from everyone else on this inquiry. Inevitably there will be some turf wars – so I rely on you, Brian, to decide which battles need to be fought and which can be left alone. If you want some arses kicked, by all means let me know, but I also know you’re quite capable of holding your own.” She paused, drawing out the moment. “This is the first big test of the new unit. Are you both happy that you have the resources and space you need to make this work?”