‘Let’s get to the point,’ she says. ‘Sharrick wasn’t my handler long, and although I studied Tracey, knew most of her movements, I didn’t have time to do this with him. Tracey was easy for me anyway. She’d been with me since I was a child. She trusted me. The last thing she expected was that I’d stalk her. So, in answer to your query, before you ask it, I don’t know where Sharrick’s base is. If I did, I might well have gone there and interrogated him myself.’
‘It doesn’t matter now anyway,’ I say. I look around the busy restaurant to make sure no one is observing us and that our conversation is not overheard. ‘Sharrick’s dead.’
‘What?’
‘He was found in a flat over in Devon. We discovered that he’s lived there for the last five years under the name Damon Sharrick,’ I say.
‘What happened to him?’ Neva asks.
‘Well, it looks like a hit. Two shots in the head. That’s what finished him. But here’s the thing. He had a broken leg and his collarbone and arm were fractured. The coroner said he could only have sustained such injuries if he’d fallen from a great height. At least thirty feet. Not enough to kill him, but enough to damage him significantly. Then someone put the bullets in him and finished the job.’
Neva shook her head. ‘Why? He was in with them. Rumour has it he was about to be promoted. It was why I chose him for you. He was about to enter the inner circle of the Network.’
‘And now he’s dead,’ I say.
‘It doesn’t make sense,’ Neva says. ‘Who did you share my dossier about Sharrick with?’
‘No one. I shared my lead on Sharrick with two of my colleagues. But they can be trusted.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘With my life,’ I say.
‘I have to go,’ Neva says.
‘Don’t go. Come in with me. I can guarantee your safety.’
‘No, you can’t, Michael. Listen. This is really wrong. Sharrick … he was strong. He’d survived all this time. He wouldn’t have been retired without cause. Someone leaked the information that he was being watched,’ she says.
‘No. It’s not possible,’ I say.
‘Can you do one more thing?’ she says.
‘What?’
‘Toxicology. On Sharrick’s body. Pull up the report. See if there were any substances in his system. If they were in doubt about him, they’d drug and question him.’
‘Okay. But I’m not expecting anything. I suspect he was thrown off something in an attempt to kill him. When that failed, he was shot. They retired him. It’s that simple. You said yourself they never let anyone go into old age. Sharrick was past his prime and no more use to them,’ I say.
‘So you think this was just bad luck? Our timing was off?’ Neva says.
‘Yes.’
She frowns and shakes her head a little, as though she thinks I’m the naivest person she’s ever met.
‘We can’t meet again,’ Neva says.
‘You’re being paranoid. No one knows you’re my source,’ I say. ‘And I have no plan to reveal it.’
Neva stands. ‘Goodbye, Michael.’
‘Wait,’ I say. ‘Please. I’m sure I wasn’t followed and you made doubly sure. Let’s talk this through.’
‘Okay,’ she says relenting. ‘But … I need the bathroom. I’ll be right back.’
She leaves and I watch her walk towards the ladies. Just then the waitress comes up and asks if we’re ready to order. I take my eyes away from Neva and look at the waitress.
‘A beer for me,’ I say. ‘The lady will decide when she returns.’
I wait. It doesn’t take me long to realise that Neva is not coming back. I hoped she’d trust me, but given the information I’d shared, I couldn’t blame her for being suspicious.
Despite her fears, I don’t believe there is a leak in Archive. I’ve worked with Beth, Ray, and Leon for a long time. There has never been any doubt of their intention to resolve the cases they work on. Even so, Neva’s words sow a seed of doubt in my mind. What if one of them was a mole for the Network? A double agent, even? I shake my head in subconscious denial. The waitress returns with the beer. I take a sip, then pay her, and stand up from the small cafeteria-style table. There’s no point staying here alone. Plus, I feel self-conscious that I’ll be remembered, especially since my date has ducked out on me.
Outside, I look around. There is a man standing in a doorway opposite me, for example. He’s not looking at the pizza restaurant, but he looks suspicious, as though he’s averting his gaze too much. He is turned away, his body almost blocking the restaurant from view. Is it possible I have been followed?
I cross the road and walk towards the guy.
‘Hey,’ I say. ‘Do you have the time?’
The man looks at me and panic crosses his face.
‘Look, I’m just waiting for my wife!’ he says.
‘I only asked you for the time,’ I say.
‘Yeah. But … I know what that means … round here…’ stammers the man.
‘It means I left my watch at home.’
‘I’m not gay! Okay?’ says the man.
I blink, shake my head in surprise, and then move on. When you begin to feel paranoid you can imagine things, I think.
As I walk away, I chuckle. The man has issues and I can’t help being amused at my own insecurity. I think I’ve been around Neva too much.
Chapter Forty-Three
Neva
Neva walks away from Michael and heads towards the ladies’ room, but before she gets there she slips sideways and into the restaurant kitchen.
None of the chefs look at her. She’s paid them already for their discretion in anticipation of having to use this as a contingency.
In the kitchen she takes the phone she’s been using to contact Michael out of her pocket. She removes the sim and drops the phone into the nearest bin. At the back door she pauses, looking out down the dark alley. Then she slips outside, skulking along the wall where she feels she is best sheltered. Before she exits the back street, she removes the mousy wig, takes off the jacket and drops them and the sim card in the nearest dumpster. Behind the dumpster is another bag containing a long black coat. She pulls it on, fastens it up and slips the hood up to hide her hair. Then she leaves the shelter of the alley and walks away as fast as she can.
Just in case Michael has led them to her, Neva decides not to take a train back to Manchester that night. Over the next few days, they will be watching all exit points.
She walks the streets, carefully checking behind and around her until she finds a car that will be easy to steal. It’s an ancient Morris Minor, in racing green. She’s always disliked green, but old cars are so easy to take. She could walk around for hours and not find such a gift.
A few minutes later she’s inside and hot-wiring the car.
Neva drives the stolen car to Birmingham and leaves it at the train station. There she buys another cheap phone and sim and catches a train to Manchester.
Back at Marie and Daz’s house she packs a small travel bag. She takes one of her fake passports and places it in the overnight bag. After that she stows her weapons in another holdall along with all her other IDs.
‘It’s time to get out of Dodge,’ she murmurs, as though to convince herself she has to leave.
She leaves a note for Daz and Marie, telling them she will be absent for a few months. She doubts they will care about her absence until the next rent period comes around and she probably won’t return anyway.
Before she leaves, she glances around the room that has been her home for more than six months. This exit has more impact than the one from her former country home. She examines the emotion. It is like the beginnings of toothache, a dull, annoying pain that you somehow know will get worse if left unattended. Neva doesn’t know how to address it, or how to understand what it is that’s making her unhappy. Is it the small comfort of this house, or the thought of leaving England altogether?
Taking the two bags, Neva clo
ses the bedroom door and locks it. She’s left some belongings, though there is nothing she is attached to. She knows she will have no need to return here. Then she walks downstairs and out of the house.
Out of habit she looks up and down the street, then under her car, just in case something has been placed there. She is a dangerous enemy and any potential assassin will know this. It wouldn’t be wise to get into close combat with her. Once she’s satisfied, she climbs into the car and drives away.
After dropping her weapons bag into her retained storage unit, she abandons the car and makes her way to Manchester Airport in a taxi.
By the time she arrives, she has bought a one-way ticket to Geneva and a first night’s stay in a hotel there.
Chapter Forty-Four
Michael
Following up on Neva’s request, I arrive at the mortuary after hours. I could have waited until tomorrow, but Serge will be on duty and he is always the most helpful diener of all of the mortuary assistants.
I show my identification at reception and then walk down the corridor to the lift. Exiting at the basement, I walk down a corridor which smells of bleach towards the mortuary. The door is locked, with a keypad on the side next to a bell. I press the button and a few seconds later Serge comes out of a side room and hurries towards the door. He sees me and presses the door release button on the other side.
The body is being kept in a private facility run by MI5 and MI6. I have been here many times and I’ve built relationships with the coroner and his orderlies. Particularly Serge Kostow.
‘What brings you over this late?’ Serge asks.
‘I need to see the toxicology on Damon Sharrick,’ I explain.
‘Ah! The corpse with the bullets in his head.’
I smirk at Serge’s blunt answer. ‘Yeah, him.’
‘Doctor Wendler didn’t do any tests on him,’ Serge says.
‘Really? I thought that was a matter of course?’
‘Normally. But he got word from your office not to bother.’
I’m surprised by this but keep my expression deliberately blank.
‘Can I change that? Discreetly?’
‘Sure. What are you looking for?’ Serge says.
‘Anything unusual. Doping, hallucinogens, poison, that sort of thing.’
I follow Serge into his office and watch as he fills out the paperwork on a red form.
‘This form is used to ensure only the person requesting the information gets the results. That’ll be me, and then I’ll pass it to you,’ Serge explains. ‘You want this sent to your office email?’
‘No. I’ll come and see you when you have the report,’ I say.
Serge nods. Serge is used to these requests from agents. Some want to keep information for their own personal reveal at briefings; others have different reasons for secrecy. It’s all in a day’s work. In my case, I’m not really sure why I want to keep this secret at the moment, but instinct tells me I should.
‘I’d like to see the body,’ I say.
Serge leads me into the storage room.
‘He’s in number three,’ Serge says. Then he opens the fridge and pulls out the drawer.
There is a sheet over the body. I’ve never understood why they do this. What’s the point? The guy isn’t feeling the cold now. But it’s a tradition, relating to respect for the corpse, I suppose.
Serge pulls back the sheet. I can see the state of the injuries Sharrick sustained prior to his death. The collarbone is jutting out at a weird angle. There are two neat bullet wounds in his forehead.
‘Were the bullets still in?’ I ask.
‘No.’ Serge turns the head of the corpse to show me the exit wounds, wider and messier than the way in. ‘The corpse was washed, wearing a fresh, dry-cleaned suit. No blood where he was found, so he died elsewhere.’
I feel the frown on my forehead before I can straighten my face. Why would the killer go to such trouble, and then return Sharrick to his home? It was almost as though they wanted him found. Maybe Neva was right and this is some sort of message to show they are on to her.
Serge pulls back the sheet further. I look at the man’s hands. They are chafed, as though he had been gripping something hard to prevent himself from falling. There are signs of old callouses across the palm in the same place.
‘What did you make of these?’ I ask.
Serge looks at the wound. ‘I’ve seen these types of callouses before. Usually builders have them.’
‘He doesn’t look like a builder to me,’ I say.
Serge nods. ‘Doctor Wendler noted them in the report.’
‘Thanks, I’ll take a copy of the full report and if you can get a rush job on the tests there’ll be a bottle of whisky in it for you.’
‘You know me too well,’ Serge says.
Once outside I tense up. Hairs prickle at the back of my neck and I feel like someone is watching me. I look around but see no one in the car park and all the parked vehicles appear to be empty.
I order a taxi and wait by the reception door until the driver turns into the car park. Then I get inside and we drive away. Out of instinct I turn to look at the parking area again behind me. At that moment a car starts up and begins to follow. From the back of my cab, I watch the other vehicle. It stays behind us through most of the journey and then, a few streets from my flat, the car turns off and drives away in a different direction. I’m uncertain whether I was being followed or if this was just a coincidence.
I’m just being paranoid.
But the hairs are still standing up on the back of my neck. I feel odd. It’s as if I’m in a goldfish bowl being watched by a superior being.
The taxi pulls up outside my flat and I get out. I force myself not to look around as I push open the reception door and enter the building.
I can’t shake the feeling that I’m being observed even as I reach my front door.
Once inside my flat I check the surveillance equipment I’ve installed, looking at the recordings of each room on my laptop. Nothing has happened; all is as expected. But even so, I’m uneasy. Then I realise why.
If it was possible for Neva to access the restaurant and street cameras, then what could someone with the resources of Archive, or the Network, do? The thought occurs to me that I may well have given my life up to surveillance without realising it.
I disconnect the equipment from my WIFI and switch it all off. If there is any possibility that I’m being monitored, by Neva or anyone else, I won’t make it easy for them.
Chapter Forty-Five
Michael
A week later I meet Serge in a sushi bar in Soho. We sit side by side, selecting food from the conveyor that goes around the room. As Serge tucks into his first plate, I open my briefcase and put it down on the floor beside us. Without a word, Serge drops a manila envelope inside. Next, I place a bottle of Jack Daniels down on the counter. It’s in a brown paper bag. Serge takes it and puts it into his rucksack. We eat in silence, pay separate bills, and then I leave, taking the briefcase with me.
Back at my flat I open the envelope and look at the toxicology report. All seems normal with one exception; there are traces of LSD in Sharrick’s blood. I don’t know what to make of it. Or why the report was not done immediately. All it shows me is that Sharrick had taken something prior to his death. Was that willingly, or was he doped? Seeing how well Sharrick had looked after himself, I find it difficult to imagine that he would resort to drug taking, especially something as difficult to control as LSD. I come to the conclusion that he was drugged.
I read the rest of the report. Wendler noted the hand chafing but has made no speculation as to what caused it. That, it seems, is down to me to discover. Maybe Neva can shed some light on this.
I use the burner phone to dial Neva’s number, only to discover that the phone has been switched off. I haven’t heard from her since the pizza restaurant. I stare at the phone, disappointed. I send a quick text, just in case. But other than this, I now have no way of contac
ting her and cannot share this news or, more importantly, discuss with her what it all means.
It seems I’m back to square one, out on a limb, and totally alone with anything I learn.
Chapter Forty-Six
Michael
I wake with a nagging feeling in the pit of my stomach. The thought that the toxicology information was being deliberately ignored in relation to Sharrick’s death just keeps looping around in my head. I can’t recall any other time when a drugs report on a body hasn’t been made as a standard part of an investigation.
When I get into work, I look back at the records and see Ray Martin’s name signing off on the autopsy. This throws me: why would Ray tell the coroner not to do a complete report?
Beth, Leon, and I have been investigating Sharrick but hadn’t run this by Ray because there was no need to. I now look at the records and notice that Ray has accessed the files on Sharrick that I’d put on the system. This means that Ray has been looking at what we were working on. I wonder why. Perhaps Ray always checks on us, as part of his own managerial role? But no. The system doesn’t show his name against any of the other files. Ray has only read records in the past where we have asked for his opinion and expertise. He has enough work without looking for more. So why has Ray shown an interest in Sharrick’s case, when it hasn’t even been discussed with him?
Neva’s suspicions come floating back to me. She was certain that there was a leak in Archive. If the Network had known of MI5’s interest in him, Sharrick would be seen as a threat or a weakness. It would give them a motive to terminate an operative who had, until then, been very useful. Well, Sharrick was no use to them now, or to Archive. And Neva has cut ties with me, which means no more leads.
It frustrates me that this case, like so many others, will probably fall down around our ears with nothing to show for all the research I’ve done so far.
The House of Killers, Book 1 Page 19
