by Mark McKay
A Terminal Agenda
Mark McKay
(The Severance Trilogy, Book 1)
2nd Edition
Copyright © 2016
All Rights Reserved
For more information on the author, and forthcoming books, visit
https://www.markmckayauthor.com
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Epilogue
Chapter 1
London, England. 2014.
His last day on earth was rather short. It was 8.30am on a Tuesday in July, in the City of London. The sky was a cloudless brilliant blue and the lazy warm breeze caressing the pavements held the promise of a perfect summer's day.
He was leaving Nero's coffee shop, clutching a partially folded newspaper in one hand and a large cappuccino in the other. Pausing briefly in the doorway to scan the headlines, which told him there would be a Tube strike on Thursday, he became aware of someone standing directly in front of him, only inches away. He mumbled an apology and began to move to one side.
She mirrored his move like the first step of a dance and he raised his eyes in surprise. He never saw her face, his gaze stopped on the barrel of the gun she held at chest height, filling what little space remained between them. There was a popping sound and the cardboard cup fell from nerveless fingers, colliding with the pavement and projecting most of its contents on to expensive stilettos. She looked down at the damage briefly, her expression a mixture of surprise and distaste. As her victim slumped to the ground, she slid the gun smoothly back into an open handbag and walked calmly away.
There were three other customers in the coffee shop, with their backs to the door. The busy barista behind the counter saw a slumped body blocking the shop entrance, with two concerned suited City workers bending over it. One of them looked up and caught his eye.
'We need an ambulance, quick.'
The barista reached for the phone.
An hour later, the body was brought to the Royal London Hospital mortuary.
'Who was he, then?' asked the pathologist, as he regarded the stripped corpse on his examination table.
'His driving licence says he's Simon Wood, born April 1975,' replied Detective Chief Inspector Nick Severance. 'Same year as me.'
Both men wore theatre greens and masks in this sterile environment. As Nick looked at the neat hole disfiguring Mr Wood's chest, he couldn't help but wonder at the blatant lifelessness of the man. Some indefinable current had been disconnected and a light of awareness switched off. Nick had seen quite a few dead people in the course of his work, but the contrast between a recently deceased and a living person never failed to momentarily surprise and unnerve him a little.
He took a dispassionate, professional look at Simon’s face. He looked remarkably boyish for a man of thirty-nine. Maybe it was the freckles and the close cropped ginger hair that did it. His long, angular face wore a peaceful expression, which suggested no particular regret at this sudden release from earthly existence. He’d obviously been in the sun recently, too. His face and arms bore the signs of a deep tan, which contrasted sharply with the paleness of the rest of his exposed body.
'I think the cause of death will be quite easy to establish,' remarked the pathologist, in a neutral tone of voice. Nick wasn't sure if this was an attempt at humour or simply a bland statement of fact. He decided to take the remark at face value.
'Yes, what I need from you is the bullet. I assume you can find it?'
'No exit wound, so it's in there somewhere. Once I get the coroner’s blessing, I'll go ahead with the post mortem.'
'Thanks, I'll leave you to it, then.'
Back at the station, Nick re-examined the personal effects of the recently deceased Mr Wood. Nothing but a wallet and a phone to work with. The driving licence he'd extracted from the wallet at the mortuary showed an address in Bethnal Green, in East London. The mobile was password protected, so he tried the name and address on the British Telecom website. That yielded a land line number, which no one answered. He wondered if Simon had a partner and if he was married. Perhaps he had children. Or maybe he just lived alone, that was certainly a common enough phenomenon these days. He sighed. He'd wait till after 6pm and try again. He turned his attention back to the contents of the wallet. About £50 in cash and a few credit cards. Nothing immediately useful in locating next of kin.
He drummed his fingers on the desk. He'd been called directly to the mortuary from Bishopsgate Police station. The death was obviously unnatural and the ambulance crew had notified the station, which was practically opposite Nero’s, before loading Simon aboard and driving off with a police constable in attendance. The two Scene of Crime officers who had arrived directly afterwards had cordoned off the entrance, but Nick wasn't optimistic about finding anything useful after all those rush hour commuters had trampled in and out. Perhaps one of the IT wizards downstairs could hack the password on Simon's phone and then he could start calling a few numbers. He decided to get a coffee before doing anything else.
His desk was in a corner spot on the third floor, right next to a window overlooking Bishopsgate. He could see Liverpool Street station easily from here, but the coffee shop, which was at the base of an office block adjacent the station, was out of his line of vision. He glanced outside at the stream of buses and people passing below, noting how the summer warmth had brought lightness and colour to many of the suited figures parading the street. There were jackets slung over shoulders, a few men sporting pink shirts and designer shades, and the hemlines of the women's flowing summer skirts seemed to have risen a few inches.
He rose from the desk and walked the length of the office to the coffee machine. There were around thirty people on this floor, most of them devoted to fraud cases. Murder wasn't a common event in the City, mostly because very few people resided in the Square Mile. The 300,000 or so daily workers appeared each morning and then for the most part retired to their suburban retreats after 6pm. And if they were murdered on their way home it was none of his business, provided it took place outside his jurisdiction. He pushed the espresso button and waited. Some dark liquid calling itself coffee dribbled into the plastic cup. He looked at it quizzically. He could always nip over to Nero's and get a genuine espresso and see how the Scene of Crime boys were getting on. It was a two minute walk after all. He was suddenly aware of someone calling his name.
'Nick, your mobile's ringing.'
He automatically checked his pocket. His phone was there and it wasn't doing anything. 'Not me.'
'The mobile on your desk.'
'Oh, shit!' Coffee forgotten, he ran back to his desk and picked up Simon's phone. Apparently someone named Rebecca was calling.
‘Hello,’ he said, slightly breathless.
‘Simon? You’re not Simon. Wrong number then, sorry to have troubled you...’
She was about to hang up. ‘Wait, you’ve got the right number, just the wrong person. I’m Detective Chief Inspector Nick Severance, City of London Police. Are you a relative of Simon?’
There was a long moment of silence, then: ‘No I’m not, we’re colleagues. W
hat are you doing with his phone? What’s happened?’
He began to explain the circumstances of Simon’s demise and after a rapid intake of breath and a muttered ‘My God,’ she stayed quiet as the story unfolded. The place and manner of death didn’t take long to impart and then he informed her that he was the Senior Investigation Officer on what was obviously a murder case and asked her just who she might be.
‘He was late for a meeting,’ said Rebecca. ‘That’s why I called. I’m Rebecca Slade, we work – I mean we worked together.’
‘Worked together doing what?’
She didn’t answer for a moment and he put it down to shock. He was about to repeat the question, when she found her voice.
‘Sorry, I was just wondering why he got off at Liverpool Street. He knew we had a meeting this morning, he should just have come straight here.’ There was a short sigh. ‘I can’t believe it. How do I know you’re a what did you say – Senior Investigation Officer?’
‘Trust me Rebecca, this is not a joke. You can call the Bishopsgate switchboard if you like and they’ll put you through to me.’
She thought about that for a moment. ‘Alright. We worked together as researchers at the School of Oriental and African Studies – SOAS. In fact, this was the first time I’d have seen him for a while. He only got back from a month in India a few days ago. The meeting was to update us on his work out there.’
‘What was he doing in India?’
‘Research, of course. He had a theory he was following up.’
Arrives back from India and promptly gets shot, thought Nick. What had he been up to? First things first: ‘Do you have a name for next of kin, Rebecca?’
‘He has a sister, name is Charlotte. They share the same house in Bethnal Green. I can give you her number. I think both parents are dead.’
‘No wife, or children?’
‘No.’
He waited while Rebecca retrieved Charlotte’s mobile number. He would wait till this evening and then visit the Bethnal Green address, on the assumption she would be home from work. He would prefer to tell her the bad news personally and only if she wasn’t in would he use the phone to track her down. He advised Rebecca of his intention and asked her not to pre-empt him by calling Charlotte herself.
She agreed. ‘No, you can do that. I don’t think I could tell her something like that anyway.’ Her tone was a mixture of shock and sadness. ‘Do you need anything more from me?’
‘I will probably need to speak to you again at some point. Can I have your contact details?’
‘Sure.’ She provided him with address and phone details and for now they were done. When he disconnected, the phone went straight back to lock mode.
Some progress on next of kin at least, he thought. He’d still need to get at Simon’s contact list though, so the next port of call was the IT department. They would have the software required to run a password crack on the mobile and they should also now have the CCTV footage of Nero’s, circa 8.30 this morning. He was more than a little curious about the choice of venue for the killing. Anyone who thought they could cold-bloodedly commit a murder in the open spaces of the City of London without the event being caught on camera was either incredibly stupid, or just didn’t care. Time to find out which it was.
IT was located in the basement. There were no windows down here and Nick paused for a moment as the lift doors opened and his eyes adjusted to the lack of daylight. The room was lit by rows of dim fluorescent strip-lighting, which in some areas were either not working, or blinking intermittently. The far end of the room was home to a locked cage of servers, fronted with thick glass panels. The server area was air conditioned and insulated, but the faint hum of the machines was still audible even where he stood, some fifty feet away.
Desks were arranged in groups of two throughout the office. Some sported multiple twenty inch plus monitors and all without exception were populated by at least one laptop and a desktop terminal. The place contained about twenty techies, not one of them women. The women in the force, at least here in Bishopsgate, seemed remarkably resistant to the temptations of a post in IT. Nick thought the subterranean ambience and the often monastic silence of the inhabitants might have been a contributing factor.
One of the monks raised a hand and Nick strode halfway down the office in response to the summons. The summoner was a man in his mid-thirties dressed in faded jeans and t-shirt, with a few days of stubble on his cheeks and a tangled mop of unmanageable jet black curls crowning the gaunt, pale features.
‘Jamie, you should get out more,’ said Nick. ‘You’re starting to look like one of the undead.’
Jamie Nelson grunted. ‘Too much to do, Nick. Supporting the forces of justice is a thankless and never ending task.’
‘Anything interesting to show me?’
‘Yes, it’s certainly interesting. Grab a chair.’
Nick borrowed one from a nearby unoccupied desk and settled himself alongside Jamie. The large monitor situated on the desk directly in front of them showed a frozen image of the entrance to Nero’s coffee shop.
‘I’ll walk you through it,’ said Jamie. ‘This is just before 8.30 this morning.’
The entrance way was recessed by a few feet into the base of a tall office block but was clearly visible. Out front of it and slightly obscured by a stone balustrade and two supporting pillars, there were a dozen or so tables set up for ‘al fresco’ drinkers. None of the tables were occupied.
‘Where is everyone?’ muttered Nick.
‘All takeaway trade. Everyone’s on their way to work. You can see a few people at the counter inside, though. Now, watch carefully.’
Jamie started the video footage. Nick saw someone approaching the door from the inside, obviously about to exit.
‘Your victim,’ remarked Jamie.
‘But there’s no one else there.’
‘Wait.’
As Simon began to open the door, a figure, who had been either standing or sitting behind one of the pillars came into shot, draped from head to foot in a long, flowing black garment. The figure moved to intercept Simon, who was now halfway through the door and whose attention was focused on his newspaper. He was taller than his assailant and although he was partially obscured as they performed the first step in what could have been the beginning of some seventeenth century minuet, his surprised expression was clear enough. Then he collapsed and the figure turned and walked away. Now they had a profile. Nick swore softly.
‘She’s wearing a bloody burka. Very clever.’
The black full body cloak included a head piece which covered the face, leaving a slit for the eyes.
‘Assume it’s a woman, of course,’ he reflected.
‘Well, he or she is a head shorter than your victim and is wearing high heels. You can’t see them until we pick her up again in Bishopsgate, and she certainly walks like a woman. Or perhaps I’m wrong and your murderer has a fetish for cross dressing.’
‘How far did you track her?’
‘About five minutes later she turned into Folgate Street. Then we have her entering a hotel up there, the Neptune. Want to see it?’
Nick shook his head. ‘I assume they have their own security cameras. I’ll get someone up there and see if we can get a better view of her.’
‘I doubt she will be leaving the place in that costume,’ said Jamie.
‘True, but if she discards it there we may be able to retrieve it before the laundry maids do. And disguised or not, she must be on the hotel footage somewhere.’
Nick left Simon’s mobile with Jamie and returned to his desk. He made a quick phone call to request that two detective constables be sent to the Neptune as soon as possible and then sat idly staring out the window, considering what to do next. He was flying solo just now. He’d been appointed Senior Investigation Officer and hadn’t as yet had time to assemble and brief his investigation team. And apart from the details of the incident itself, what did he have to share with
them? An unidentifiable perpetrator who it seemed was totally untroubled about being observed in the act of murder, which suggested to him the demeanour of a professional killer. Nothing about the incident gave a clue as to motive, either.
He checked his watch, just coming up to 12.30pm. He needed to know more about Simon Wood and sooner, rather than later. There was no point in waiting till this evening to talk to his sister, delaying till then was only giving the murderer further vital hours in which to disappear. He would phone Charlotte straight away and arrange to meet her to break the bad news.
She worked in a bookshop in Charing Cross Road. Or he assumed she did, as that was where she directed him to when she answered the phone. He had kept the conversation short, simply saying that he needed to speak to her in connection with an incident concerning her brother and that he would elaborate when they met. She was understandably mystified, but said she’d look out for him. He borrowed a uniformed policewoman and they drove down in an unmarked car.
It was a rare and antique booksellers, on two floors. As he entered the place his colleague lingered behind momentarily to have a word with an approaching traffic warden, whose enthusiasm swiftly waned on seeing the police uniform. There were half a dozen people browsing at floor level, four of them middle aged men lost in studious contemplation of open tomes and a pair of Japanese tourists with cameras slung around their necks. The counter was directly facing the entrance, with a flight of stairs just on the right. Behind it stood a man that Nick thought must be in his mid-sixties, at least. He had close cropped white hair and a deeply lined forehead. He wore a grey herringbone patterned jacket and had one hand distractedly steadying his reading glasses as he contemplated the book he held in the other hand. He looked up as Nick approached.
‘Can I help?’
‘I’m looking for Charlotte.’
‘Just a moment.’ The man picked up a desk phone and dialled. ‘Charlotte, someone to see you.’ Then he replaced the receiver and beckoned to the stairs. ‘Go up, she’ll be out in a minute.’
Nick made his way upstairs, just as WPC Hathaway came in. He mouthed at her to stay where she was, which did not go unnoticed by the man behind the counter. He gave them both a curious look and then returned to his book.
There seemed to be no one upstairs, just rows of overflowing bookcases. Nick heard the click of a door and then from behind a bookcase the form of a woman emerged. She saw him and stopped.
‘Oh, are you...?’
‘DCI Severance, we spoke on the phone.’
‘You don’t look like a policeman.’ Then she blushed. ‘Sorry, I know that’s a ridiculous thing to say.’
What the hell does a policeman look like anyway, he wondered. He was 6’3” and around fourteen stone, give or take. He was certainly built like your archetypal policeman. Maybe it was his face, he obviously didn’t look hard enough. He smiled at Charlotte.
‘Don’t worry, it’s been said before.’ He produced his ID, and while she glanced at it he took the opportunity to study her.
She had reddish hair like her brother, but more auburn. It was loose and straight at the sides, becoming progressively untamed as it spilled halfway down her back. The eyes were blue and the face fine featured, with pale skin. She wore a blue cotton print dress on a slim frame and her arms were bare. He estimated her age as early thirties, maybe a little younger. She looked at him with concern and confusion and a touch of defiance.
‘What’s this about?’
‘Can we sit somewhere?’
She led him to an alcoved seating area, overlooking the street. He hated having to tell her.
‘When did you last see Simon?’
‘This morning, only briefly. Where is he? The phone goes straight to voice mail.’
‘I’m afraid he was shot this morning. He died at the scene.’
The blood drained from her already pale complexion and for a moment he thought she might faint. She took a gasping breath.
‘What? I don’t…’ She stared at him in shock. Then a few seconds later found her voice again: ‘Is this some sick joke? Why would someone shoot Simon?’
He was relieved to see some colour returning to her cheeks. He gave her an account of the shooting in as few words as possible. ‘I hoped you could help me answer your last question,’ he concluded.
She was too consumed by shock and grief and tears to answer coherently. ‘Where is he?’
‘Royal London hospital.’
‘I want to go home now.’
‘We’ll take you.’ Nick got up and signalled Yvonne Hathaway from the top of the stairs. She joined him and together they gently lifted Charlotte to her feet. Yvonne put a reassuring arm around her and took her out to the car while Nick talked to the man downstairs, who had discarded his book and was now casting a concerned look at Charlotte’s retreating back.
‘Care to tell me what’s going on?’
Nick told him. ‘Can you cope without her for a few days?’
The man thought for a moment. ‘Yes, tell her to call me when she’s feeling better. I’m James Owen by the way. I own this place.’
‘Did you know her brother?’
‘Met him once or twice. He would come here occasionally. Nice chap.’
‘Do you have a card I can take? May need to talk to you again.’
‘Yes.’ Mr Owen extracted a card from a pile beside the till and handed it over.
‘Thanks.’ Nick left the shop and returned to the car. Yvonne was in back with Charlotte, who was staring out the window with a glazed expression.
He swung into the driver’s seat. ‘Where’s home?’ he asked quietly.
It was a two bedroom terrace, near Victoria Park. Charlotte said nothing during the journey until they got close and then she told him where to stop.
‘You coming in?’
‘If you don’t mind,’ Nick replied. ‘There are some formalities and I’d like to ask a few questions.’
‘OK.’
Once inside, Charlotte led them through to a reception room.
‘Have a seat. I’ll make something to drink, tea or coffee?’ She seemed to have regained some composure on the drive back, but her expression was haggard and she held her hands balled into two tight fists on either hip.
‘Show me where everything is and I’ll do it,’ said Yvonne.
The two women disappeared into the kitchen and a minute later Charlotte returned alone. She sat down opposite Nick.
‘What formalities?’
‘I’ll need you to make a formal identification.’
She looked slightly taken aback, but nodded.
‘That’s the first thing. There will be an inquest, which is a standard procedure, as Simon died unnaturally.’
‘I see.’
‘And I’d like to ask you some questions about this morning.’
Yvonne re-appeared with cups of tea. ‘Hope you didn’t want coffee, sir.’
‘Tea is fine.’
‘He had a meeting this morning,’ said Charlotte, wrapping both hands around the warm mug.
‘Yes, I spoke to Rebecca Slade at SOAS. She was expecting him.’
‘No, I mean he had a meeting near Liverpool Street Station – the coffee bar.’
Yvonne had her notebook out and was scribbling away in shorthand.
‘With who, do you know?’ asked Nick.
‘Not exactly. It was all last minute, she only called him last night. He was quite excited about it, though.’
‘What, this was a girlfriend or colleague?’
‘Well, he said she’d been referred to him by someone in India. She had some exotic name...’ She paused, trying to remember. ‘Rashida, that was it.’
‘Did he say what it was about?’
Charlotte sighed and stared fixedly at her tea. ‘It was all a bit fantastic really. Simon had only been back from India a few days. Do you know about his job?’
‘A researcher at SOAS.’ Nick recounted his conversation
with Rebecca, Charlotte regarding him unblinkingly as he did so.
‘Yes, he was supposed to be telling them all about what he discovered,’ she said. ‘He was actually an Indologist – Indian history, philosophy, literature. His speciality was the Mauryan period.’ She could see Nick getting slightly lost. ‘Talk to Rebecca about exactly what he was researching, she knows a lot more than I do.’
She took a sip of tea and then continued. ‘Anyway, as I understand it he went to India because he’d discovered something in an old manuscript, which he said if true would lead to the biggest archaeological find since Tutankhamun. He was pretty circumspect even with me when he came back, said he wanted to see Rebecca and confirm his findings before making wild claims.’
‘And where does Rashida fit in?’
‘He just said she had another piece of the puzzle and she wanted to share it with him. That was all.’
‘Did Rashida call his mobile or the land line?’
‘Mobile.’
Then she left a trace, thought Nick. He wondered how Jamie was getting on with cracking the access to Simon’s phone. ‘You don’t know Simon’s phone password by any chance?’
‘No, sorry.’
He decided to leave it there for the moment. He suggested that Charlotte ask someone round for company and she said she would call a friend.
‘I’ll let you know about what you need to do next, tomorrow,’ he added. Then he gave her his card. ‘Anything you want to ask or discuss, just call the mobile number. Any time.’
Yvonne drove on the way back. He stared idly out the window, wondering how anyone could afford house prices in this part of London. No change from £900,000 for a two bedroom terrace in this street. He brought his mind back to Simon Wood. Had he met Rashida in Nero’s? He doubted that anyone named Rashida would turn up on the police report of those interviewed at the scene. It was more logical to assume she was his burka wearing killer.
And if Simon had indeed stumbled on the biggest archaeological find since Tutankhamun, why the hell would someone kill him?
