by Matthew Dunn
“He felt no pain. Death was instantaneous.” Sign leaned forward. “My colleagues will ensure that a Thames Valley Police bereavement officer comes over to help you.”
“Bereavement officer?! Will that person bring Colin back to life?!”
“No. You’ll carry the burden of Colin’s death for the rest of your life. Maybe one day you’ll find love again, but I doubt it given your age and circumstances. You’ll move into the top quartile of probable suicides. You won’t notice anything around you. Your work will suffer. You might be sacked. You won’t eat properly. Drugs or alcohol will temporarily numb the pain. Anything anyone says to you will be judged by you to be wrong. Your stomach will gnaw on itself. Ultimately, you will no longer be in charge of yourself. Hence the need for support.”
“Fucking MI6 mind games!”
“My wife was murdered. Colin was murdered.”
“What?!”
Sign remained calm, his tone measured and soft. “On the former point, my wife was raped and shot in Latin America. She was Polish. Rebels thought she was a Russian spy. They crucified her and put a bullet in her brain six hours later while she was still on the cross. It was a warning to others. They left her there. Vultures fed on her. I managed to get her bones and give them a burial. On the latter point, Colin’s death isn’t suspicious to the cops or MI6. He won’t be afforded a full police investigation or post–mortem. And even if his body was sliced open, it would be near impossible to discern foul play. He was mashed up by the crash. However, I think a tube was pushed down his throat and into his stomach. He was force fed strong alcohol, probably his favourite whiskey. He never drove the car but it was made to look that way. He stood no chance.”
Delacroix couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “A tube down his throat will leave traces. Blood, maybe rubber, whatever.”
“The potential traces will only be discerned by a top police forensics expert. Even then, there will be no evidence to prove murder. If I were the killer, I’d have made the tube out of the same material as the tyres on the car. The tyres were burnt out in the crash. A coroner would conclude that Colin inhaled their burning fumes in the last moments. Blood and rubber would be explained away.”
“You’re not a cop! How do you know these things?”
“It is precisely because I’m not a cop, and have conducted matters that would blow the minds of police officers, that I know these things.” Sign’s eyes didn’t blink as he said in an authoritative tone, “You need a police bereavement officer here to help you get through your loss and to help you with all administrative matters. Do I have your permission to organise that visit?”
“Yes, yes.” Delacroix’s voice was distant. “Murder? Who would have done this?”
“There are a number of possibilities. The most likely possibility is one that I’m pursuing. I believe that Colin was the victim of a serial killer. A very unusual killer.”
“Get the bastard!”
Sign nodded.
From his hidden position in the copse, Knutsen focused his camera on Delacroix’s front door. His mobile phone had an ear piece and throat mic attached; the phone was dialled in to Roberts’ phone. He said, “Sign’s leaving. He’ll be with you in a few minutes.”
Roberts replied, “Okay.”
Knutsen panned his camera to the right. He froze. “There’s a man walking down the lane towards you. Opposite direction from Sign, but same distance.”
Sign and the man were five hundred yards away from Roberts’ car. Sign was walking from the north; the man was walking from the south.
“He’s wearing jeans, boots and a jacket. Hood’s up. I can’t see his face.”
Roberts sounded tense as she said, “Could just be a rambler. There’s a country footpath off the lane, close to Delacroix’s house. The man could be headed that way.”
“Probably. But I don’t like this. I’m moving position.” Knutsen got to his feet and sprinted two hundred yards across heathland. He threw himself to the ground and trained his camera on the lane. Here he was more exposed. He muttered, “Come on you bastard – show your face.”
Roberts said, “This doesn’t feel like the limpet. He wouldn’t do something like this.”
“I know!” Knutsen was breathing fast. He swung his camera left. Sign was three hundred yards away from the car. Knutsen focused his camera back on the man approaching the car from the rear. “Get out of there, Katy! Pick Sign up. Don’t worry about me. I’ll make my own way back to London.”
“No. I’m bait, remember. I’m staying put until you get that photo.”
Knutsen cursed and moved to another location.
The man was a hundred yards from Roberts’ car.
Knutsen made adjustments to the camera’s lens. Given the angle he was now viewing the road, he was confident the man’s hood would no longer expose his face.
The man was fifty yards from the car.
Roberts said, “I see him. He’s in my rear view mirror. He’s walking slowly. But his head’s down. Can’t see his face.”
Nor could Knutsen.
The man was twenty yards from the car.
“Katy – get out of there. Now!” Knutsen dropped the camera, withdrew his pistol and ran across open ground towards the lane. He stopped in his tracks as the man turned to face him. They were one hundred yards apart. The man was wearing a ski mask. He put his hand inside his jacket, pulled it out – holding nothing – two of his fingers and his thumb positioned in a way to mimic a handgun. He was stock still as he turned towards the car and pretended to shoot Roberts. He turned toward Knutsen and repeated the action at him. If he’d had a real gun, both would have been dead. He turned and ran.
Knutsen pursued, firing warning shots in the air and shouting, “Police! Stop!”
Sign ran to Roberts when he heard the shots.
Knutsen raced past him while saying, “Limpet. Get Katy safe!” Knutsen continued his pursuit.
Roberts was in the driver’s seat. Sign pushed her to one side, took control of the car, reversed it at full speed up the lane, performed a hand break turn, drove for another hundred yards, then stopped, the engine still running. He’d performed the manoeuvre in five seconds. He waited, staring into the rear mirror.
Roberts said, “I can drive, you know?”
Sign ignored the comment. He muttered, “Come on Tom.” In a louder voice he said to Roberts, “Call Delacroix.” He gave her his mobile number. “Tell him who you are and that there is a threat. Tell him to lock every single entry point in the house and then stay away from windows. Tell him there’s no threat to him per se, but we have a prowler in the vicinity.”
When Roberts ended the call she said, “He’s calling 999.”
“It will be of no use.”
Knutsen was breathing fast as he jumped over ditches and small bushes, his gun held at eye level, sweat pouring down his face despite the chilly air, muscles aching, and lungs feeling like they’d ingested battery acid. All of his senses were operating at optimum level. He swivelled left and right, searching for the limpet. He ran onward into an open field, rotated three hundred and sixty degrees, and stamped his foot on the ground.
The limpet had vanished.
Four hours later, Sign, Knutsen, and Roberts convened in the West Square lounge. They’d arrived ninety minutes earlier, had showered, changed, and made some calls. Sign lit a fire and poured three glasses of calvados, which he served with espresso black coffee and muffins. He sat in his armchair. Knutsen and Roberts took their drinks and sat near him by the fire. Sign was no longer in formal attire, though was smartly dressed in a shirt and trousers that had an immaculate crease down the centre. Knutsen and Roberts were in jeans and T–shirts. They didn’t want to look like they were sitting in an officers’ mess.
Sign sipped his calvados. “I’ve just spoken to Delacroix. Thames Valley Police are with him. He’s in no danger.”
“How do you know that?” asked Knutsen.
“Because he serves no purpose.�
�� Sign looked angry. “Katy’s husband was killed in order to stop her snooping. It didn’t work but it was a chess move. Delacroix isn’t on the board. His death serves no purpose. The whisperer and the limpet will know that executing him won’t stop us. No purpose,” he repeated.
“What happened today?” asked Knutsen.
Sign placed his glass down. “It was a shot across the bow. It was another warning. The limpet deliberately showed himself on the lane. Normally, if he was going in for a kill, we wouldn’t have seen him. Instead, he sauntered up the route, not a care in the world, and pretended to put bullets in your brains.” Sign lowered his head. “If he’d pulled out his gun, you’d be dead.”
Roberts said, “Why did you push me out of the driver’s seat. I could have got us out of there!”
Sign lifted his head. His voice was loud and aggressive when he said, “Because I’ve done escape and evasion in Tehran, Moscow, Beijing, Kabul, Nairobi, New York, Melbourne, and a hundred other places! You haven’t! I was saving your life! If you want to get all girl–power on me, go ahead, but try a few years at the real sharp end before you earn my respect.”
“Ben?” Knutsen was worried about the outburst.
Sign maintained his aggressive tone. “Let me make this simple for you both. We’re dealing with two people who want us out the way. I don’t care if you like me or hate me. I don’t care if you think I should drive or you should drive. I don’t care who carries a gun and who doesn’t. But let me tell you this: I damn well care if one of you gets hurt.” He stood and chucked a log onto the fire. “We’re dealing with highly trained psychopaths. It would be remiss of me to allow your egos to get in the way of your lives.” He watched the wood burn. In a quieter voice he said, “Mrs. Roberts – you have skills and contacts that I do not have. Plus, you have a police badge. It opens doors. You are crucial to this investigation.”
“Don’t patronise me!”
“I’m not.” Sign smiled. “I’m putting you in your place.”
The comment was met with stunned silence by Roberts and Knutsen. Then both couldn’t help laughing. It was as if a pin had burst a balloon.
Sign didn’t laugh. “Parker’s death has set us back. Henry Gable won’t further help me – I can assure you of that. Ergo, I might be of use to you because I think like an MI6 officer; but I no longer have access to MI6.” He stared at Roberts. “You see? I have limitations.” He asked the Special Branch inspector, “What am I missing in this case? Don’t mimic my style of thinking. Instead, think like a police detective who’s investigating a series of murders.”
Roberts considered the question. “In murder cases, detectives want to ascertain motive. It brings us closer to narrowing down a list of suspects. But, in this case it’s weird. You’ve ascertained that the suspects are Messenger, Pendry, and Logan. One of them might be the whisperer. The other two could be dead men walking. The suspects might be the murderer’s kill list. I’ve never worked a case like that. I don’t know any detective who has.”
“What do we do next? Parker’s of no use to us, God rest his soul.”
“You could separately meet Messenger, Pendry, and Logan. It would be easy for you to get their DNA. Just a handshake would suffice. If there are any more murders, we could see if DNA links the crime to the murderer.”
Sign shook his head. “There’s been no DNA at any of the previous crime scenes. The whisperer and the limpet have been meticulous about that.”
Roberts’ voice trembled with emotion as she said, “Interview them anyway! Use your brilliance to ascertain who’s the killer.”
“That won’t work. Remember – we’re dealing with a schizophrenic, a megalomaniac, and a psychopath – respectively, Messenger, Pendry, and Logan. They will all appear to me to be the killer. Alas, I won’t be able to discern one brute from the others.”
“Then we maintain our focus on the limpet. We grab him and make him talk.”
“Therein is the problem.” Sign prodded a finger on a coffee table. “If I was faced with a similar problem in Ankara or Casablanca, I could torture the limpet to within an inch of his life. I’d get the whisperer’s identity. Then, I’d kill the limpet. But both of you are schooled in the art of following United Kingdom rules. You’re police officers. You don’t have what it takes to be unconventional.”
Knutsen wasn’t having any of this. “I’m ex–police. And Katy is Special Branch. We don’t follow rules.”
Sign smiled. “I hoped you’d say that.” He stood and stoked the fire. “But, I must warn you that it’s an unpleasant business seeing a man gasp for air as water is poured down his throat, or screaming for his mother as his fingers are cut off and seared with a car cigarette lighter. It’s not like the movies. Most tough guys are not defiant at that moment. They just want the pain to stop.” He turned to his colleagues. “The limpet, however, will be defiant until the very end. It will be a matter of pride, as well as training. We would have to do things to him that would make a billy goat puke. My question to you is whether you could endure that experience.”
Knutsen and Roberts glanced at each other.
“Also, it would be highly illegal.” Sign re–took his seat. “Don’t worry. I need to explain something that will resonate with your exemplary service to our country. The torture methods I’ve described are not for us. Not for me anymore, at least. I’ve had the opportunity to conduct extreme surgery on people in order to extract secrets from them. In all cases, there was a ticking time bomb to be discovered, so to speak. But in recent years I chose not to take that route.”
“You chose the high ground.”
“I chose the moral compass. If a state or its associates torture someone, we define our country by that action. We must do unto others what we wish to be done to ourselves. In the case of Great Britain, we must be gentle men and women, and humanely kill people who aim to hurt us.”
Knutsen said, “Other cultures and states would disagree with you – Native American Indians, Russians, Germans, Japanese, Chinese, parts of Africa, et cetera.”
Sign nodded. “Correct. But, for the most part, that was in the past, though I concede that those countries and territories’ DNA permeates through to the current generations of your examples. But savagery, driven by survival or unnecessary aggression is not us. Agreed?”
“Yes.”
“Of course.”
Sign’s brain was thinking on multiple levels. “We must find the limpet’s most sensitive nerve ending and press it hard. The limpet is being paid by the whisperer. We could pay him more and try to get him to turn on his master. It won’t work. The limpet’s reputation would be in tatters. He’d never get another job. Speak or be damned in prison for thirty years or more, is another option. That won’t work either. The limpet would keep his mouth shut and escape or become a hero inside the penitentiary’s walls. But, there is one thing we could take away from him – his pride. He won’t like that one bit, particularly if he’s facing life in prison.”
Roberts was following his logic. “If he goes to prison a hero, he breezes through jail time. If he goes in a loser, welcome to hell.”
“Correct. I have an idea, but it’s a useless idea unless I have the limpet’s name.” Sign rubbed his face. “This would all be so much easier if I was wrong about the whisperer. All I’d have to do is get the three MI6 officers twenty–four–seven armed protection.”
Knutsen said, “That still might be an option. We’d be protecting a shortlist of candidates for chief. If the whisperer is one of them, there’s no guarantee he’d be selected for the post.”
“Are you willing to take one–in–three odds?” Sign stared at the names on the board. “Let’s say Logan is the whisperer and he isn’t appointed chief. Messenger gets the job. What would Logan do? He’d use the limpet to circumvent or neutralise Messenger’s bodyguards and he’d kill him. MI6 would be forced to then replace Messenger with either Pendry or Logan. Logan would kill Pendry. He’d then fake an attack on his life to make it
seem that the whisperer is an external force. He’d play the victim. Logan would be heralded a hero by his peers for surviving an assault from a hostile foreign agency. No – none of this will end until the whisperer gets what he wants.”
“Power over MI6.”
“I would think more than that. Power over the whole UK special operations community.” Sign said with authority, “I’ve thought through multiple options – bugging the shortlist’s homes; examining their mobiles; the three of us following them; grabbing one of them and making him contact the others with false information; producing to them a fake doctor’s analysis of Henry Gable’s health, showing he has stage four cancer and will be leaving his post in a matter of days, thereby accelerating matters and perhaps getting the whisperer to make a wrong move; and many other chess moves. Mrs. Roberts – pretend you didn’t hear what I’m about to say next. I’ve even thought about killing Messenger, Pendry, and Logan. Two innocents die. One killer dies. But, I can’t bring myself to do the latter option. And the other options won’t work. Pendry, Logan, and Messenger are too clever and attuned to the nuances of tradecraft. They won’t make mistakes. They’ll see through any bluffs and intrusions on their privacy.”
Knutsen said, “I’ve had to sacrifice people for the sake of the bigger picture.”
“So have I,” said Roberts. “Maybe killing the shortlist is our only option.”
Sign sipped some more of his calvados. “Remember – we are defined by our actions.” He looked at Roberts. “If we kill the shortlist, we will never find out the limpet’s identity; the man who killed your husband.”
Roberts bowed her head.
Sign smiled sympathetically. “Katy, we must find the limpet. I must give you peace.”
She raised her head. “I… I just want to know what’s going on. And when I know what’s going on, I’ll pull out my police ID and throw the law at the people responsible for Elliot’s death.”
Sign clapped his hands. “That’s my girl.”
“Woman.”
