The House of Killers, Book 1

by Samantha Lee Howe

  With the curtains now closed, she pulls on a short black dress, and covers her hair with a long black wig. She never goes anywhere without a weapon, and tonight is no exception. She stows her knife inside the leg holster of one of her knee-length boots.

  She pauses, wondering who is monitoring her. She glances at the window but doesn’t look outside again. To do so will alert them that they have been noticed.

  The house has a hive system installed. From her mobile phone, Neva closes the blinds in the kitchen and turns the lights on. In the small snug, she turns on the television and a side lamp.

  Then she slips out of the house via the back door, walking across the land under cover of the growing darkness. They watch her main door but there’s a hidden lane out the back, down through a copse of trees which emerges onto another road. Across that and through another field and there’s an anonymous rented garage with another car stored in it. Just for her use. Just in case.

  Neva wakes in a bed that is unfamiliar. For a moment, she doesn’t recall where she is. She was careless. She drank too much, let herself go. Even if they had managed to follow her, this sort of blow-out behaviour was not uncommon. Sometimes she has to let her hair down. Sometimes she has to get laid to ease the tension and avoid the sense of loneliness that can destroy one of her kind. Tracey knew about these indiscretions; Neva is certain that the Network does too.

  She runs her hand over her hair and notes that the pins have kept the black wig in place.

  The man beside her is still sleeping. She slides from the bed, pulls on her dress and boots, and takes her purse. She doesn’t glance back at him; she has no need to recall his face and doesn’t care to know his name.

  She slips away with the silence and stealth of someone who is used to disappearing.

  It’s only when she reaches the lobby that she realises she is in the same flat occupied by Michael. She pauses in the doorway, remembering his place and the taste of brandy. His face. Somehow, his image is ingrained in thoughts she saves for important things. Her heart is thudding as the lift behind her pings and she hears the doors open. She doesn’t look around. She turns her face away. Brass panelling lines the lobby and Neva sees Michael reflected in it. He is walking towards the door. She bends her head, pretends to search in her purse, and doesn’t look up as he passes her.

  From the doorway she watches him hail a taxi. Then he is gone.

  She stares out into the street for a while, and then turns and goes back to the lift, heading back upstairs to Michael’s flat on the second floor.

  She knocks on the door and waits, an excuse for her presence ready on her lips should anyone else be there. When there is no movement from within, Neva removes one of the pins from her hair. It doesn’t take long to pop the lock, open the door, and go inside.

  Michael’s flat is tidy and minimalist. On a table by the door is a landline phone and one photograph. It is of the woman he said was his sister. Neva studies the face. She sees the similarity and knows he told the truth. They have the same sandy-coloured hair and the same colour eyes. Dark brown, warm, with the wry presence of humour.

  She wanders around the flat, careful not to touch anything.

  In Michael’s bedroom, Neva looks around. Using the hem of her dress, she opens the chest of drawers. Then she looks inside his wardrobe. There is only male underwear and clothing inside, confirming what she already knows is true. He lives alone.

  Neva considers this. A ‘sort of’ cop. No family – except perhaps the sister. His home does not appear to be ‘lived in’, as though it is nothing more than a base to him. This suggests he may work long hours and is rarely there. Dedicated to some kind of law enforcement job. Michael is the type of man she would normally steer clear of, yet Neva is fascinated by him. Something about him inspires an emotion she hasn’t felt since she was a child. Warmth. Safety. Hot chocolate. This final thought makes no sense. He’s a stranger to her. They had never met before. She explores her reaction to him, prodding and wiggling as though at a tooth that needs to come out.

  She finds a photo album in one of the drawers. Flicking through, she sees pictures of Michael as a child with a girl the same age. Underneath each one is written ‘Michael and Mia’ along with their age. She understands then the closeness of the sister; they are twins – similar but not identical. And then the parents. The father in a police uniform, the mother wearing an apron as though she’s just stepped out of a 1950s kitchen. A perfect family. Upstanding citizens all of them. She closes the album. A postcard of normality and a contrast to everything she’s ever experienced.

  She knows she should leave and never return but she has the overwhelming urge to talk to Michael again. She analyses her interest. Is it sexual? Or is she like a moth, attracted to the very light that shines brightly enough to burn? She’s heard of others who take unnecessary risks, those to whom death and the kill have become sport. Neva has never been like this. She gets no delight from killing. It’s a job. She’s just good at it.

  In a drawer in the kitchen she finds a cheque book. She sees his full name for the first time.

  Michael Kensington.

  She remembers another Michael. He was slightly older than Neva, six or seven to her five. In the early days he talked to her. Tracey never stopped them talking; it just happened after the third or fourth visit to the room when they all withdrew inside themselves.

  None of them asked why Michael disappeared. Neva had not given him a second thought until now. What had happened to that Michael? What had happened to all the others she had spent time with?

  She recalls leaving the house, thirteen years later. Fully combat trained, an expert in munitions. She’d even shown a talent for languages. They discouraged competitive behaviour, but Neva had prided herself on being the best of all of them. They weren’t her friends; they were colleagues.

  Then they’d set her up in the first house, a place in Bern, Switzerland, with a few others, slightly older and more experienced than she was. It was a ‘halfway’ house, Tracey had said. A base to work from until she was ready to go it alone. Neva knew they were just still keeping her under complete control.

  There were three men and one other woman in the house. She had sex with one of the men to see if she liked it. It hadn’t wowed her and she didn’t bother with him again. Neva knew he was relieved. Her first proper assignment had her paired with him. He treated her like a novice until she beat him to the mark, a French ambassador, and took him out with a firm swipe of her blade across his throat. After that, the older operatives accepted her.

  ‘She’s top of the class,’ Tracey had said to the handler who ran the house. ‘She’ll be out on her own before long.’

  Two years later, Neva was in England and with Tracey’s encouragement she bought the cottage with the savings she’d gathered during her term in Switzerland. Then, as Tracey predicted, she was out alone and working at full capacity.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Michael

  From the story I give Beth, my colleagues know I made an error in judgement. It’s the first in years, and so I enter the conference room looking suitably embarrassed. Ray, Leon, and Beth are already there, and they stop talking when they see me. I imagine that Leon gloats a little, though Beth gives me an encouraging wink.

  ‘Sit down, Michael,’ Ray says. ‘Beth’s been filling us in on today’s events.’

  I sit down and find them all looking at me. It makes me feel oddly guilty, even though I’ve not done anything that would be considered that wrong. Taking Anna back to my place could be considered a mistake but I haven’t told anyone that part. Not even Beth.

  ‘I’ve pulled up all footage around the area but somehow, our girl always avoids being caught,’ says Beth. ‘Michael is the only one who saw her up close.’

  ‘Describe her…’ Ray says.

  ‘Strawberry-blonde hair, fair skin. Blue eyes. About five-eight in flats, but she wore a small heel – two inch maybe. Slim, but athletic,’ I say and then I explain
my suspicion that she was the assassin who took out Aidan Bright. ‘She’s exactly the same build.’

  ‘Our rail victim was a target, then?’ Ray asks.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I say.

  ‘So, you saw her outside the station?’ prompts Ray.

  ‘Yes. As I told Beth, she was just standing in the middle of the pavement. I spoke to her and helped her get a cab.’

  ‘You don’t know where she went?’ Ray asks.

  ‘No,’ I lie.

  Ray grills me with fierce intensity. I don’t change my story and I see him exchange a look with Beth.

  ‘It’s possible she was trying to help the woman who fell,’ Beth suggests. ‘Then realised she couldn’t get involved.’

  ‘I did question her about the accident. She said she hadn’t seen anything,’ I say.

  ‘And you believed her?’ Ray asks.

  ‘Until the witness statements put her there, I had no reason not to,’ I answer. ‘Anyway, when I read Leon’s transcripts, I knew she’d been right in the thick of it.’

  The others speculate on who she might be and how they’ll trace her. I listen in silence.

  ‘She was English?’ Beth asks.

  I nod again.

  ‘Accent?’ Beth prompts.

  ‘I’m not sure. RP. She spoke very carefully. Each word clipped, but I thought it was because she wasn’t feeling well,’ I explain.

  ‘Could have been disguising her real voice perhaps? Any other observations?’ Ray says.

  I shake my head. Then I remember the brandy glass. It’s in the dishwasher. I can’t recall if I had started the machine that morning or not. If I haven’t, we’ll probably be able to pull a print from it. I shake my head again in a subconscious gesture. How on earth will I manage that one?

  ‘Michael?’ Ray says.

  ‘I asked her name. She said she was called Anna. Other than that, nothing else. I just hope, somehow, our paths cross again,’ I say, but I’m shamefaced as Ray studies me.

  ‘Don’t blame yourself. Any one of us could have been in the same situation,’ says Beth.

  ‘Well, if you do think of anything else, let us know,’ says Ray.

  Ray stands up and leaves the room.

  ‘Welcome to the fuck-up podium, mate. It happens to us all from time to time,’ says Leon. Then he stands and pats me on the arm to show some form of solidarity. I don’t think it’s sincere.

  When he’s gone, Beth says, ‘It’ll be all right. You didn’t do anything wrong. Ray can be a bit of a dick about procedure sometimes, but we don’t have one for this scenario. As agents, our priority is the public’s safety. No one can say you didn’t take the needs of someone you thought was a regular person into consideration. If you hadn’t helped her, there might have been more hue and cry. Woman fainting in the street, MI5 security agent not helping – can you imagine the headlines?’

  I thank her for the support and then we both go back to work on the incident.

  Once in my office, I sink down into my chair, regretting my lack of honesty. I should have told the truth at the outset. Why had I lied? It wasn’t as if I knew she was guilty of anything. I know the answer, even though I try not to admit it to myself. My whole life has been under scrutiny since I joined the taskforce. Anna was a secret I wanted to keep. A brief encounter that I’d enjoyed, but thought would go nowhere. That was, of course, before I began to suspect who she was.

  I look through the glass windows into Beth’s office. Beth has everything I’ve ever wanted. Unlike her, I find it difficult to live the lie that having a full-on relationship means. Beth and Leon don’t have the same problem with lying to those they love. Beth is married and Leon is in a long-term live-in relationship. Both partners have been vetted and MI5 had no concerns about either of them. I never discuss their home lives with them, any more than they discuss their working day with their respective partners. But they seem to have the balance right. For me, though, I don’t want to try that again. Those days ended with my former girlfriend, Kirstie.

  We’d dated for a few years and I’d known that Kirstie wanted more from the relationship. I’d been willing to pursue it until Kirstie showed too much interest in my day job. Kirstie was a journalist, and despite passing the vetting process, I began to doubt her when she started asking too many questions. When I found her trying to open my work laptop, the relationship had ended. It had to when the trust was gone. That was two years ago now, and I hadn’t been able to get involved with anyone since. I just couldn’t face it.

  So, what had changed?

  Anna is the only woman I’ve been interested in since then and, of course, she turns out to be a potential person of interest. It’s a major part of the frustration I’m feeling. But I had to tell them about her, otherwise I would be breaking my oath, and the job means everything to me.

  In order to distract myself from further thought of Anna, I open the new transcripts Leon has provided about the incident.

  Transcript of Witness Interview

  Interviewer: Leon Tchaikovsky

  Interviewee: Cara Harvey

  * * *

  HARVEY

  I was rushing because I heard the train approach and that’s when I saw this woman in front of me. She was clearing the path, so I ducked in behind her. I noticed her mostly because her hair was so lush. Long, straight hair. Blonde.

  * * *

  TCHIAKOVSKY

  Did you notice what she was wearing?

  * * *

  HARVEY

  Black coat, belted around the waist. Black jeans too, I think. I’m not sure. It was all a bit of a blur…

  * * *

  TCHAIKOVSKY

  This woman, did you notice if she was in a hurry?

  * * *

  [Harvey thinks for a minute.]

  * * *

  HARVEY

  I guess she was as keen as me to get on that train and people moved for her. Like I said, I followed. Then, she sort of … rushed … forward. I heard a scream and when I looked beyond her, I saw the other woman on the tracks. She’d fallen but was trying to climb back up…

  * * *

  TCHAIKOSKY

  Who screamed?

  * * *

  HARVEY

  I think it was the woman. The one I was following. It was like a cry of … anguish. Like she was in real pain. Maybe she was shocked when this other woman fell? Anyway, she turned and pushed past me, running the other way, back off the platform. And then the train … Jesus. It was … [Harvey chokes back a sob]. I’ve never seen anything like it in my life…

  I look over the top of my monitor and sigh. This account isn’t exactly damning for Anna but I can see how it could be interpreted. I replay the witness’s interpretation of what she’d seen, imagining how Anna threw herself forward, deliberately knocking the victim into the path of the oncoming train. And that cry she’d made? Was it one of torment as the witness suggested? Is Anna suffering?

  The email software dings and a note from the coroner arrives. I open up the email and look at the report. The woman had been carrying identification that said her name was Tracey Herod.

  A few moments later, Beth sends me an email confirming that Tracey Herod had been the owner of a coffee shop near King’s Cross. What does this seemingly innocuous woman have to do with Anna?

  ‘Michael?’ Beth says from the doorway. ‘The coffee shop Herod owned just went up in flames and the fire brigade have been called out.’

  ‘Christ! Any casualties?’

  ‘No. The place was evacuated when a gas leak was reported. Within minutes it was burning.’

  ‘Let me have the fire officer’s report when you we have it. This is getting very interesting,’ I say.

  ‘I know. It can’t be a coincidence.’

  Left alone again, I reread all the eye-witness transcripts. I’m not sure what I’m looking for that will tell me more than I already know but I want to try and understand Anna and her possible motivations.

  Thinking about the s
mall connection I’ve had with her, Anna doesn’t closely fit the profile I had created for the assassin we are pursuing. Past history has shown such assassins to be high-functioning sociopaths, with narcissistic traits. They usually delight in death. After a while, a pattern emerges, showing how they play with their kill, elongating the moment of finality. This need to hold back the moment, as though gaining some kind of pleasure from the delay, often reveals a perversity found in serial killers. It is inevitable that an assassin will eventually become divorced from any form of inhibition. I have trouble reconciling this standard norm with the woman I met. If she is the killer, she is an anomaly. She didn’t look like someone who had enjoyed committing a murder just seconds before. In fact, she was upset. Confused. Maybe even afraid.

  I open the profile document I’ve been compiling for years on this particular assassin and look again at my notes. Though the kills are always quick and clean – often with a knife – there is no obvious deterioration into more psychotic behaviour. This modus operandi alone has made this killer stand out from others. Some perpetrators I’ve studied have fallen into common traits of over-cutting, leaving multiple secondary stab wounds, or excessive bullets shot into the victim’s body – all of which display a level of disrespect for the person, dehumanising them completely in a frantic display of aggression. As though they hate the victim and the hits have become personal, not merely a job. For that reason, I think this killer might be the most professional of all. They seem strong, controlled. Like they’ve never lost it. They are perhaps incapable of resorting to torture, any more than they could break down with regret. Cold inside, feeling nothing, perhaps, other than the desire to follow orders.