The Spy Whisperer (Ben Sign Mystery Book 1)

by Matthew Dunn

  Smith said, “This is where I vanish. Over to you.” He walked off into the darkness.

  Hilt put Parker into the front passenger seat and placed a seat belt around his limp body. He got into the driver’s seat and motored down the deserted country lane leading to Parker’s boyfriend. It was dark, no street lamps. Hilt stopped the car two miles away from Parker’s boyfriend’s house.. He looked at Parker’s comatose body. “Time for us to go loud, my friend.” He put Parker in the driver’s seat, no seat belt attached, sat in the front passenger seat, placed his foot on the accelerator, steered the vehicle until it got to sixty miles an hour, swung the steering wheel left, and leaped out of the car. Parker’s vehicle smashed into a tree. Parker careered out of the car, via the windscreen, and smacked the ground. Hilt grimaced as he staggered to his feet. The landing on grass had cushioned his escape. But at that speed he still felt raw. Parker was motionless on the ground. The car was a wreck. Hilt ripped off a dangling piece of metal from the car and beat Parker around the head and body. Police forensics would never know what had really happened. The violence of Parker’s ejection from his car would account for any bruises, broken bones, lacerations, and brain damage.

  Hilt wiggled Parker’s neck. It was broken. Parker’s face was a bloody mess and swollen. One of his eyes was closed. The other was dangling by a thread and nestled on his face. His arms and legs were all at the wrong angles. Clothes were lacerated. Shards of glass were in his head and clothes. There was no breathing.

  Parker was dead.

  CHAPTER 20

  The following morning, Sign was growing impatient as he kept glancing at his lounge wall clock. “Where is he? Parker was supposed to be here at eight o’clock.” It was now eight forty five.

  “Something must have come up,” said Knutsen.

  “Most likely. But he could have texted me.”

  Roberts asked, “Was it important for him to be at this meeting?”

  “Yes!” Sign regretted snapping. “Sorry, Katy. I had an idea. Parker is integral to that idea. He could assemble a team of MI6 surveillance experts and get them to follow Messenger, Pendry, and Logan for a week.”

  “Would the chief allow that?”

  “He wouldn’t have to know. Parker could tell his team that it was simply a training exercise. All of the team members are cleared to know the identities of other MI6 officers, so technically Parker wouldn’t be breaking rules. It’s unlikely, though possible, that our three targets would spot the team. What’s crucial is that the limpet does spot them. That way we take his eye off the ball. His focus will be on the MI6 team. Meanwhile we search for the limpet.” He started pacing. “But I need Parker! No one else in MI6 would do this for me – they’d ask too many questions.”

  Roberts said, “Parker might say no. Technically he might not be breaking rules, but he’s still deploying MI6 officers against high ranking officers. Parker’s retiring soon. The last thing he needs is a disciplinary charge and a potential threat to his pension.”

  Sign waved his hand dismissively. “Parker will do it; and his pension is ring fenced, even if he steals the crown jewels.” He checked his mobile. “Still nothing.”

  Knutsen said, “He must have needed to go to head office early.”

  “Yes.” Sign rang Parker’s mobile. It went straight to voicemail. He called the switchboard number of the Foreign & Commonwealth office. He asked for Parker. The call was transferred to Parker’s office in MI6. His phone rang four times and went to voicemail. Sign hung up. “This is most unlike Parker. Things would be different if he was overseas – situations then are more fluid – but he runs a prestigious department in London. Every morning he gets the same train to London; every evening he returns home at the same time. It’s his reward to himself after spending years in the field where there’s no structure to daily life.” Sign looked at Roberts. “Call the Met. Ask them to check their police national computer and incident logs to see if there’s any reference to a Colin Parker of Oxfordshire.” He gave her Parker’s address. “I don’t know his date of birth.”

  “I don’t need it.” Roberts was on the case. After she got off the call, she waited. “They’re checking.” Ten minutes later her phone rang. She expected it to be from the woman in Scotland Yard who was doing the checks. It wasn’t.

  A man asked, “Inspector Roberts?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m Superintendent Moore of Thames Valley Police.” He was about to continue.

  But Roberts interrupted. “I need to verify you are who you say you are. I’m calling your switchboard and will tell them to transfer me to you.” She hung up, made the call, and listened as the call was transferred. “Superintendent – now we can talk freely. What do you have?”

  Moore replied, “Colin Parker is flagged on our system as a senior government official whose wellbeing is vital. Last night he got drunk; really drunk. He drove a few miles and lost control of his car. He’s dead.”

  Roberts looked at Sign.

  Sign immediately knew something was wrong.

  “Anything suspicious?” she asked.

  “No. Traffic police and forensics have been all over the road traffic accident, plus detectives have examined his home. He got sozzled, got in a car, and drove. He wasn’t wearing a seatbelt. Death was probably instantaneous. He was a mess when we found him.”

  “Where was he driving to?”

  “We don’t know. Toxicology reports show that he was at least twenty times over the limit. It’s an open and shut case.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Roberts ended the call and told Sign and Knutsen what she knew.

  Sign was silent for a moment. He picked up his tea cup and smashed it against a wall. “Parker wasn’t a heavy drinker!”

  “Why was he driving at such a late hour?”

  Sign rubbed his face, exasperated. “Because on one level it makes sense to MI6 and the police, if the latter were privy to what made him do something so stupid. Parker’s been openly gay for years. He has a boyfriend in Oxfordshire. They’ve been steady for fifteen years and love each other faithfully, though now and again they throw their toys out of the pram and have a tiff. Passion is key. MI6 will think it was out of character for Parker to go on a binge and drive, but it will also conclude that passion corrupts every soul. However, what we’re dealing with is murder.”

  Knutsen said, “You heard what Katy said. The police examined his house, car, and body. Nothing! This is not linked to our case.”

  “It has everything to do with our case. No doubt Parker was photographed by the limpet coming to our digs. The whisperer realised that Parker was my insider in MI6; my informant and pawn. This had to stop. Parker was force–fed booze. Either the limpet did it or the whisperer did it. My money is on the whisperer, while the limpet held Parker down. They’d have been wearing specialist clothing and other accoutrements to protect their presence in Parker’s home. One or both of them would have driven him a few miles while Parker was passed out – I suspect the limpet drove and the whisperer wasn’t present for the journey. Close to the death scene, the limpet put Parker in the driving seat while he was still blacked out. The limpet reached across from the passenger seat and drove at high speed. Parker wasn’t wearing a seat belt. The limpet jumped. The car crashed. Parker flew through the windscreen.” Sign shook his head. “If there were any indications of life, the limpet would have quashed them with a piece of metal from the car. Paint or splinters from that piece of metal would be attributed to the accident. There are no traffic cameras on the country lane he died on. No one would know the limpet was the driver. It’s a perfect murder.”

  Knutsen walked up to Sign and placed a hand on his shoulder. “You’ve no evidence of this.”

  Sign shrugged off his hand. “Evidence?! I once caught a traitor because I’d noticed that he was wearing a green tie rather than his usual blue; I put a bullet in the head of a man who usually smoked Marlboro Lights but on the last day I met him was smoking the full strength brand – hi
s cigarette contained a toxin aimed at me; I stripped a Russian woman and found an FSB wire, merely because she had an uncharacteristic twitch in her eye. She’d been forced to work for the FSB, under threat of death if she failed to comply. I got her out of Russia. She’d have been dead had I not noticed the tiniest minutiae. She’s now happily married in France and is safe. I could go on and on with other anecdotes. Evidence is for cops. Don’t put me in that category!”

  Knutsen briefly glanced at Roberts. He said in a gentle voice, “Ben – Katy and I trust your instincts, we really do, and we’ll back you up, but what you’re suggesting sounds fanciful. I know he was your friend, but don’t let that cloud your judgment.”

  “He wasn’t a friend; he was a trusted associate. There is a difference. And I’m not being fanciful. This reeks of an assassination. I should know. I’ve conducted similar acts overseas.” Sign walked to the window. Calmly, he said, “I thought I’d permanently given up violence. But it seems violence is coming for me. When bad men wish ill of you, you want it to happen when you’re in your twenties or thirties, when you can still run half marathons and play rugger at the weekends. But at forty nine, those things become harder. My mind’s agile and I can walk a fair lick, but I couldn’t defend myself against the limpet.”

  “That’s why I’m here.”

  “I know, dear chap.” Sign smiled. “I’m sorry.”

  “For what?”

  “Your first case in our business has thrown you straight in at the deep end. We’re probably dealing with a serial killer who wants to be chief of MI6, together with a lethal assassin.” Sign laughed. “You could have got a job with a local security firm.”

  “Where’s the fun in that?” Knutsen saw the weight of the world on Sign’s shoulders. “You once told me that anything is possible. At first, I thought you were spouting some mumbo jumbo positive thinking shit, like those alleged gurus do in California. Then I thought you were referring to negative stuff – how to kill someone; how to manipulate the Establishment; how to cover your tracks. Finally I realised your assertion was simply a statement of fact. Anything is possible. But, unless a person understands that, they won’t even aspire to the near–impossible, let alone achieve it.”

  Sign nodded. “It is a mantra of sorts, but very few men and women have that gift. The problem is, you have men like me and the whisperer who strive to dally with the art of challenging the impossible. But that doesn’t mean we’re all good.”

  “You and the whisperer are very different. He’s a psychopath; you’re not.”

  “I’ll let higher powers decide whether that assessment is accurate.” Sign sat in his chair and interlocked his fingers. “Seven years ago I ordered a drone strike on fifty armed rebels. They probably had wives and kids. I’ve planted information on traitors, leading to their incarceration and probable execution; and I’ve shot people point blank. I may not like death, but it seems to stand by my side in life.”

  Knutsen repeated, “You’re not a psychopath. You care. You’re a good man.”

  Sign looked at Knutsen. “How’s David and his mother?”

  “The mother’s clean. David has his first interview with the Metropolitan Police on Monday. I’m helping him.”

  “Will he get in to the force?”

  “We call it police service these days.”

  “Regardless of terminology..?”

  Knutsen hesitated. “Hard to know. Standards required of new applicants have risen dramatically during the last few years.”

  “Bring them here before Monday. We’ll do a mock interview.”

  “Them?”

  “Yes. Mother and son.” Sign seemed distracted. “I need to go to Oxfordshire. Not to the crime scene. That won’t tell me anything that I haven’t already deduced. But, I’d like to have a chin wag with Parker’s boyfriend. You both need to come with me, though your role will be to see if you can spot the limpet. Bring a long range camera. See if you can get a shot of him. We’ll leave West Square by the front door. Hopefully the limpet will follow us.”

  Two hours later, Sign rang the doorbell of a converted barn, eight miles south of Oxford. The property was in countryside. Flat heathland, fields, and a few trees were all that surrounded the house. A low mist hovered above the moorland, staying fixed in place because there was no wind. Frost covered the ground. There was no noise, aside from a couple of pheasants calling in the distance.

  Sign waited. There was a possibility that Parker’s boyfriend was out, though Sign had earlier called his employer – Oxford University – and had been told that today he was working from home. The boyfriend was a professor of English Language and Literature at Corpus Christi college. Today he had no lectures or seminars to conduct.

  The professor answered the door. He was a lanky fifty seven year old, with a full head of medium length grey hair that looked messy, though had been fashioned that way to make him look contrarian. In all other respects he had the image of a country gentleman – tweed jacket, hunting shirt, corduroy trousers, and stout boots. He frowned as he looked at Sign, who was wearing a formal suit. “Do you work at the university? I vaguely recognise you.”

  “Not the university. We met once at a drinks function in the British Embassy in Jakarta.”

  The penny dropped. “You work with Colin. What do you want?”

  “Can I come in?”

  The professor looked annoyed. “I was just about to go on a walk. There’s been a Richard’s Pipit spotted near here. I was hoping to take my binoculars and see if I could spot him.”

  “Richard’s Pipit – native to Asia, but sometimes strays west. That would be an extremely rare sighting.”

  The professor’s face lit up. “Ah, you too study ornithology.”

  “Actually, no. But I do have a good memory. At some stage in my life I must have read about the bird.”

  The professor was enthused. “Come in, come in.” He ushered Sign into his home.

  Five hundred yards away, Knutsen and Roberts were in a car on the lane leading to the professor’s house. Knutsen grabbed his camera and said to Roberts, “Time for me to leave. Lock the doors when I’m out. Keep the engine running. Any problems, get the hell out of here. Don’t wait for me or Sign.”

  With sarcasm, Roberts replied, “How very chivalrous. Ladies first.”

  “Nah mate. I’m going to hide in the trees over there. You’re exposed. As far as I’m concerned, that’s good. If anyone’s going to take a bullet in the back of the head today, it will be you. You’re bait.” He winked at her and left.

  Sign sat in a leather armchair in a lounge that was crammed with books on shelves, academic papers in piles on the floor, art, and indoor plants. Logs were burning in the fireplace, a metal guard the only protection against a spark setting the barn and all its contents into ash. A lamp with a green shield was on a wooden writing desk. There was no computer on there; just more papers, pens, and other stationary. The only electronic item in the room was the professor’s mobile phone, being charged.

  The professor sat close to the fire. “You know my name?”

  “Eduard Delacroix.”

  Delacroix nodded. “Because of my association with Colin, I’ve been assessed by your organisation for security clearance every five years. The last assessment was four months ago.”

  “It’s not about that. Has anyone official phoned or visited you since last night?”

  Delacroix looked shocked. “No! What’s happened?”

  Sign breathed in deeply. “Then, I have to be the bearer of very bad news. Last night Colin was in a car accident. He died.”

  “What?!” Delacroix stood and rubbed his face. “Dead? Dead?”

  “He’s dead. Is there anyone I can call on your behalf? Family, friends, colleagues?”

  Delacroix was in utter shock. “How..? How did it happen?”

  “He got blind drunk and drove over here from his home five miles away. It was a miracle he didn’t crash his car within one mile of his house. He was coming to
see you. His mobile phone was smashed in the impact, but the sim card was intact. Security services have analysed it. He texted you before he drove, saying he was coming over to see you.”

  “I know! I know!” Delacroix picked up his phone. “I got the message and tried calling him. Last night wasn’t a good time for me. I had papers to mark.”

  “Colin’s parents are deceased. He has no brothers or sisters. He has…”

  “No next of kin! And I don’t fucking exist. We weren’t married. I’m just his gay lover.” Delacroix punched a table.

  Sign crossed his legs, his composure calm. “Legally, that’s correct. You don’t exist. But, I know the attorney general. I will impress upon him in the most forthright terms that all decisions about Colin’s funeral and personal administration must be given to you. There will be no dispute on this matter. You were in a loving relationship for fifteen years. You know Colin better than anyone. It is your right to be sole guardian of his affairs.”

  Delacroix was breathing fast. “Tell me everything! Colin was an expert driver. You guys taught him all sorts of stuff. What happened?”

  Sign told him what he knew.

  Delacroix shook his head. “He wouldn’t have got drunk. Not even in a fit of depression. I’ve seen him down – assets he’d lost in China; that kind of stuff. Whenever he was sad, he stayed sober. It was his way of coping.”

  “Sometimes people get drunk when they’re elated.”

  “Not Colin. He was always in control.” Delacroix ran fingers through his hair. “If anything, I was the emotional one. Colin was my rock.”

  “Has he ever come over to your place at short notice before?”

  “Never! He was a creature of habit. Even though we only lived five miles apart, we had rules. He does his spy stuff in the week; I do my academic stuff; he drives up Friday night with a weekend bag; we go for a meal; Sunday evening he drives home.” Delacroix had tears running down his face. “Did he..? Did he..?”