The Quiet Man

by James Carol

  ‘And if he did use superglue that would explain the bald patch on the trunk. It must have come away when he removed the camera.’

  ‘Also, superglue would tie in with the MO. That’s what he used to attach the door sensors. Forensic evidence would be able to confirm if that was used here.’

  Winter found the business card Jefferies had given him and punched the number into his phone. The detective answered on the third ring with a curt, ‘Yeah, what is it?’

  ‘I’m missing you, Jefferies.’

  ‘Winter?’

  ‘And you said I’d never call.’

  ‘You’ve got something?’

  ‘Maybe. We’re across the street.’

  ‘I’ll be right there.’

  ‘I’m counting the seconds.’

  They were perfectly placed to see Jefferies launch himself from the front door. He stopped for a second, searching for them, then jogged over, undressing as he went. The hood went down first, then the mask. By the time he reached Winter he was pulling off the latex gloves and scrunching them into a ball.

  ‘What have you got?’

  Anderton fielded the question. This was her show. While they talked, Winter went back over what he’d seen inside the house, searching for that elusive something and hoping that it wasn’t an elusive nothing. He closed his eyes but all he kept seeing was Myra’s bedroom door opening, then the bright flash of the explosion. The picture in his head changed and he was now looking at Sobek’s kitchen door. Again, it opened an inch and the picture in his head disappeared in a nuclear flash. One door opens, another closes. The phrase jammed in his head, the rhythm of the words creating a melody that, in turn, became an annoying earworm that wouldn’t leave him alone. One door opens, another closes. One door opens, another closes. He was back outside Myra’s bedroom, pushing the door open. And now he was back outside Sobek’s kitchen, pushing the door open. And now he was standing with Eric Kirchner and he was about to push the door open. And now he was downstairs at Myra Hooper’s house, pulling the kitchen door open.

  He felt his breath catch and his heart accelerate and tried not to get too excited. Very occasionally you got a flash of insight that changed everything, a moment of total clarity where the only thing you knew for certain was that things would never be the same again. Anderton and Jefferies had stopped talking. He had no idea how long they’d been staring at him.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Anderton asked. ‘You’ve got a strange look on your face.’

  ‘Who’s your go-to guy for bombs?’ he asked.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I need to see him. Now.’

  23

  Anderton’s go-to guy turned out to be a go-to gal. Heather Barnfield had been a bomb disposal expert for the British Army until she retired ten years ago. Her husband was originally from Canada and they’d decided to relocate here to while away their twilight years. Their house was on the banks of Harrison Lake. It was only an hour and a half from Vancouver but it might as well have been a different planet. The lake was surrounded by trees and mountains and plenty of fresh air. The water reflected the sky, shimmering and shining and perfect. Boats were skimming across the surface, sails blustering. The only sounds came from the birds and the breeze.

  Anderton had spent most of the journey on her cell, calling in favours and mining for information. She’d managed to establish that Myra Hooper was thirty-one and had lived in Vancouver for most of her life. There was a three-year gap while she was at college in California, and six months spent travelling in Europe, but they were the only occasions she’d spent any real time away from the city. For the last three years she’d worked as a buyer for a firm that imported coffee. She’d been living apart from her husband for six months, but neither party had filed for divorce. Add in the fact that she was still using her married name and that got Winter wondering about a possible reconciliation. Cody was at elementary school, and by all accounts doing well. His grades were good and he’d never been in any real trouble. He liked sports and was on the school’s soccer and basketball teams.

  They parked next to a battered old pickup that must have had a couple of hundred thousand miles on the clock. Barnfield was waiting on the porch with a steaming mug of coffee in her hands. Her grey hair was tied up in a bun and she was wearing gold-rimmed spectacles. She could have been a librarian. Then again, looks could be deceptive. There was evidence of her previous occupation in the way that she carried herself. Her movements were economical and precise, and her brown eyes didn’t miss a thing.

  She waved and called out a ‘hello’. Her accent was more working class than ruling class. Winter liked it, though. He’d always been a sucker for a British accent. She came down the porch steps to meet them, limping slightly, a Labrador at her heel. He looked more closely and noticed that her left leg was missing. Her jeans hid most of the prosthetic limb, but the sandals couldn’t hide the fact that her feet didn’t match. One was flesh and blood, the other titanium and latex. Judging by the way she moved, the limb had been amputated below the knee.

  Barnfield caught him staring. ‘It’s not what you think. Shortly after we moved here I had a cycling accident. My advice, if you’re going to pick a fight with a car make sure you’re driving a lorry.’ She laughed. ‘It’s ironic, really. I spend three decades working with bombs without losing so much as a fingernail and then something like that happens.’

  ‘Not that it’s slowed her down any,’ Anderton put in. ‘Last year Heather ran the Vancouver marathon. How much did you raise again?’

  ‘Almost five thousand dollars. But that’s by the by. The real achievement was that I got a better time than Dale. I still haven’t let him forget that one.’

  ‘And where is Dale?’

  Barnfield pointed to a boat out in the middle of the lake. It was painted blue and didn’t seem to be going anywhere any time soon.

  ‘That’s him out there. He tells me that he’s fishing, but he never catches anything. I think it’s just an excuse to get away from me.’ She turned back to Winter and held her hand out. ‘Heather Barnfield. You must be Jefferson Winter.’

  They shook hands.

  ‘So, can I get you a coffee? Tea, perhaps?’

  ‘Coffee for me. Two sugars, please.’

  ‘What about you, Laura? Anything?’

  ‘A coffee would be good, thank you.’

  Barnfield went up the stairs to the porch, one hand on the railing to keep the weight off her injured leg. There were two chairs on the porch, both pointed toward the water, a small table between. The view was spectacular. If Winter ever decided to settle down, this was the sort of place he would gravitate toward. He’d only been here for five minutes but he could already feel his thoughts and heartbeat quietening down. He accompanied her into the neat, orderly kitchen. Everything was squared away, every surface shone. The Labrador followed them in and headed straight for its bed in the corner.

  The only nod to Barnfield’s previous occupation was a framed photograph on one of the walls. She was standing in the middle of a group of soldiers, everyone dressed in battle fatigues. The fierce light and the sand-blown environment indicated that this had been taken a long way from Canada. Given her age, Iraq or Afghanistan seemed most likely. She was a head shorter than her colleagues, and the only woman, but there was no question of her not belonging. She came over to where he was standing and handed him a coffee.

  ‘Afghanistan, November 2001,’ she said. ‘Interesting times. It was just after 9/11 and everyone was still waiting for the dust to settle. Two of the men in that photograph are dead now, killed by IEDs. Whenever I start feeling sorry for myself this reminds me that there are worse things to lose than a leg.’

  ‘I’ve got a few questions,’ he said.

  ‘And there was me thinking that this was a social call.’ Barnfield smiled briefly, then turned businesslike. ‘So, your bomber’s struck again. He’s a bit early this year.’

  ‘He is. You were involved with the police investi
gation into the first three murders, right?’

  Barnfield nodded. ‘That’s right. And I’m expecting to be called in to help with this one, too. That’s who I thought was calling when Laura phoned earlier. The latest murder is all over the news.’

  Winter hesitated for a second, aware that Anderton was watching. He’d run his theory by her in the car on the way here. She’d thought it was a good one. At least, she’d thought it was worth driving all the way out here to check it out, which amounted to much the same thing.

  ‘The design of these bombs is fairly unique,’ he said carefully.

  ‘There’s no “fairly” about it. They’re completely unique. You work in law enforcement so you know all about fingerprints. Everyone’s are different. With bombers, the design of the device is like their fingerprint. They all have materials they prefer to use, techniques they prefer to employ. Put two bombs side by side and I’d be able to tell you if they’d been built by the same person.’

  ‘I’m figuring that a lot of thought goes into the design.’

  ‘You have no idea. Bomb makers take an inordinate amount of pride in what they do. It’s sick, when you think about it. A bomb has one purpose. To kill and maim. That’s the only reason you build one.’

  ‘What if there was another reason? What if it was designed to save lives?’

  Barnfield frowned. ‘I guess that the IRA would occasionally issue warnings so the area around the bomb could be cleared. But even then the bombs were designed to kill.’ She shook her head. ‘A bomb that saves lives, I just don’t see it.’

  ‘This bomber uses a pipe that’s been cut down the middle in his design. By doing that the blast is deflected toward the victim. It all comes down to physics. Something that has forward momentum, whether that’s a river or a waveform or the blast wave from an explosion, will always seek out the path of least resistance.’

  ‘That’s what’s happened here. The blast is directed toward the victims. Ultimately, that’s what kills them.’

  ‘And because of the half-pipe, the ball bearings would have been directed toward the victim, too. Usually they would be spread over the blast zone.’

  ‘That’s correct.’

  ‘And usually with pipe bombs, the pipe gets turned to shrapnel, which increases the killing power of the device. But that hasn’t happened here. Again, it all comes down to taking the path of least resistance. The pipe doesn’t get blown apart because it was cut in half. It doesn’t enclose the explosion.’

  ‘There is only one person being targeted here. The whole design of these bombs is informed by that.’

  ‘Not the whole design. Bombs explode outwards, the blast wave growing uniformly until something gets in the way. But the blast wave from this bomb has been channelled toward the victim. And that’s the perfect explanation. Firstly, because it’s true, and secondly, because it plays into our prejudices. It’s easy to believe in a crazed bomber who’s hell bent on causing death and mayhem. Okay, let me ask you something. Let’s say you were the bomber and you wanted to protect the person who opened the door and triggered the device, what changes would you make to this design?’

  Barnfield thought this over for a second. A slow, sly grin spread across her face. ‘Well, I’ll be damned. I wouldn’t change a thing. So why would he want to do that? Why not kill them as well?’

  ‘That’s the million-dollar question.’

  ‘Judging by the fact you’ve driven all the way out here, you clearly believe this is significant.’

  ‘This changes everything. Up until now, everyone has been focussing on the dead, but what if they’re just collateral damage? What if he was actually targeting the people who triggered the bomb? What if this is all about the living?’

  ‘And why do that?’

  Winter shrugged and shook his head. ‘At this stage, I’m not sure. The first thing I needed was confirmation that this theory was feasible. Which you’ve just given me.’

  ‘It’s definitely feasible. I’ve got to ask, though. How on earth did you reach this conclusion?’

  ‘Because of the doors,’ Anderton said.

  ‘I’m not sure I follow.’

  ‘At the first three scenes the doors all opened into the kitchen. The force of the blast pushed them back against the frame, creating a barrier between the person who’d opened the door and the blast.’

  ‘They said on the news that the latest victim died in her bedroom. Based on that and what you’ve just said, I’m guessing that the kitchen door at the latest scene opened outwards?’

  Anderton nodded. ‘That’s correct. The living-room door opened the same way, but the bedroom door didn’t. If he’d done his thing in the kitchen, the force of the blast would have slammed the door into the person opening it, possibly injuring them. This guy doesn’t want them hurt. Not even a little bit.’

  Barnfield was shaking her head again. This time her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. Winter couldn’t work out if she was feeling disgust, admiration or disbelief. Perhaps it was a combination of all three.

  ‘I spent thirty years disarming bombs, everyone’s from the IRA’s to the Taliban’s. You think you’ve seen everything, then something like this comes along.’ Another shake of the head. ‘A bomb designed to protect lives. Wait until I tell Dale about this.’

  ‘I need to call Freeman,’ Anderton said. ‘He should know about this. Heather, thanks for your help.’

  ‘My pleasure. And when you speak to Freeman tell him that I’m expecting to hear from him.’

  Without another word, Anderton headed outside to the porch to make her call.

  24

  Barnfield sat down at the kitchen table and waved Winter into the seat opposite. The dog stirred and got up and started sniffing around his legs. He leant down and scratched it behind the ears. Judging by the way its tail kept bashing the floor, the gesture seemed to be appreciated.

  ‘You don’t mind dogs, then?’ Barnfield said.

  ‘I’m fine with them. I always wanted one as a kid, but my father wouldn’t let me.’

  ‘I’d always wanted one, too, but that was impossible while I was in the army. We got Zeus when we moved here. He’s a good boy.’

  On hearing his name, Zeus walked over to Barnfield, tail wagging. She fussed him for a bit, talking to him like he was a baby.

  ‘Do you miss it?’ he asked her.

  ‘The army?’ She shook her head. ‘Not really. I guess there are days where I get nostalgic, but it doesn’t last long. On the whole I much prefer life here. Nobody’s trying to blow me up. What about you? Do you miss the FBI?’

  ‘Not in the slightest.’ He nodded toward the Afghanistan photograph. ‘You belonged in the army. That much is obvious. I never belonged in the FBI. I was always the odd one out. I loved the work and I was good at it. It was the people and the politics that I had a problem with.’

  ‘You don’t play nicely with the other children?’

  ‘I can play nice, but it gets to the point where I just want to poke their eyes out with a sharp stick.’

  Barnfield laughed. ‘I think that’s true of every job.’

  ‘I prefer the way I work now. I deal with people in short bursts. By the time I’m ready to start sharpening the sticks, I’ve already moved on.’

  Barnfield glanced out the window and Winter followed her gaze. Anderton was talking on her cell, smiling and happy and more animated than he’d ever seen her. She had good news to share and was enjoying every minute. She moved to the left and momentarily disappeared from sight. Without her in the picture, the view looked like a painting. Water, mountains and that immaculate sky.

  ‘It was wrong what they did to Laura,’ Barnfield said. ‘She gave everything to that investigation. I don’t think anyone could have done a better job.’

  ‘She’s one of the good ones,’ Winter agreed. ‘But that’s politics for you. It’s not about competence, it’s all about whether or not your face fits.’

  ‘What’s Freeman like? I haven’t met
him yet.’

  ‘Let’s just say that his face fits and leave it at that.’

  Winter picked up his mug and took a sip. It was a damn sight more palatable than Sobek’s coffee. Good-quality beans, just the right amount of sugar, and it hadn’t been stewing in a flask. It was almost as perfect as the view.

  ‘What sort of person would you need to be to build a bomb like this?’ he asked.

  Barnfield didn’t answer straight away. She drank some coffee then put her cup down on the table. ‘Interesting question. The first thing you’d need is patience, but that goes without saying. I take it you’ve heard the phrase “measure twice, cut once”? Well, that’s doubly true when you’re building bombs. Make a mistake and you’ll wind up dead. Those are the stakes. But that’s not what you want to know, is it?’

  Winter shook his head.

  ‘I’m not sure how to answer your question,’ Barnfield said.

  ‘If it helps, try imagining yourself as the bomber.’

  ‘Okay, I’ll give it a go.’ She hesitated a moment while she thought this through. Her eyes were searching the corner of the room without really seeing anything. ‘First, I’d need to establish what the bomb was for. In this case we have a rather unique situation. I want to kill someone, however, I want to make sure that a person who’s only a few yards away is unharmed. The amount of explosives would be crucial. Too much and I’ll end up blowing the door out, which could injure them. Too little and the person the bomb is attached to might live. At some point I’ll have to carry out experiments to see how little I can get away with.’ She stopped talking and looked at him.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘That’s your first big difference. Usually you wouldn’t be too concerned with limiting the size of the explosion. Generally speaking, when it comes to IEDs, the bigger the bang the better. The people who build them are after the shock factor.’

  ‘Good. What else can you tell me?’