Killer Intent

by Tony Kent

  More silence.

  They’re not used to a politician speaking so straight, Michael thought.

  ‘Are you saying that the prime minister is no longer up to the job?’

  ‘Yes,’ Haversume replied. ‘That is exactly what I’m saying.’

  The silence returned yet again. This time for good reason. William Davies had been declared unfit to rule by the very man who – with Sir Neil Matthewson dead – was his obvious replacement.

  A starter’s pistol had been fired on a leadership contest. One with global implications.

  Haversume waited unblinking while his words sunk in. He seemed to stare through the screen. Through the silence. As if he were making eye contact with each and every viewer. Michael knew that he was not. That Haversume was actually looking at the blank faces of the stunned reporters barely feet away. He had to admit, though, that the effect was hypnotic.

  ‘Do not misunderstand me.’

  Haversume began to speak again. He gave the press no chance to catch its collective breath.

  ‘It isn’t that I lack respect for what the prime minister has attempted to do. He took a risk on Northern Ireland. He made concession after concession. He gambled a distinguished career on bringing peace to Ulster. For that I applaud him. But pure intentions are not enough.

  ‘Both the Catholic and Protestant paramilitaries have breached their obligations under the peace agreement. Lives have been lost as a result. And yet the prime minister has lacked the strength to admit that his gamble has failed. He seems unwilling to do what he must to bring the situation back under control. We now need a leader with the strength to protect our country. The prime minister is not that man. He is not up to the job, he is not strong enough for the job and he no longer deserves the job!’

  Haversume spoke with rising passion, his words building to a crescendo. His outrage and his sentiments were clear for anyone to see. And they begged a single question of the assembled press, a question that followed as surely as night follows day:

  ‘How can you continue as a member of a government in whose actions you do not believe? In whose leader you have no respect?’

  ‘I can’t.’

  The answer was unequivocal. This was not a speech that could later be written off as ‘misspeaking’.

  ‘The events of the last two years have made my position untenable. Today’s attack was merely the icing upon the cake. The position I now take will remain true, regardless of whether or not any Irish terror organisation was involved in today’s atrocity.’

  ‘And what exactly is that position, Mr Haversume?’

  ‘I think that is obvious, don’t you?’

  There was nothing patronising in Haversume’s tone. He was too skilled a politician for that.

  ‘I would be doing the United Kingdom a disservice if I were to leave William Davies unchallenged. I therefore announce my intention to seek a vote of no confidence in the government’s policies in Northern Ireland. And by implication, in the prime minister’s continued leadership of our country.

  ‘If the vote should go against him, I will then stand as a candidate in the leadership contest that will follow the prime minister’s resignation. And if elected, I will seek a vote of confidence in this new government. In a government led by someone who will put a stop to the damage being done to this country by a weak, weak man. The time has come, and I for one am ready to stand up and be counted.’

  Haversume’s last words were a hammer blow, brought down with utter conviction. They were also a final statement. Without waiting for a response he collected his papers, turned his back and stalked from the podium. He had said enough.

  TWENTY

  Michael stared at the screen.

  Haversume was gone, replaced by the sharply dressed BBC News presenter. He nonetheless still dominated. His performance had been note-perfect, every word expertly delivered. Michael sat in its aftermath, an empty beer bottle now barely supported by loose fingertips, his other hand motionless on Cass’s thick neck.

  A flicker of nervous energy rose up in Michael’s stomach. His own first-hand experience of the Irish Troubles told him that Haversume’s view was simplistic at best. But still. Daniel’s godfather – a man Michael actually knew – had just taken his first steps to leading the British government. Michael smiled. He had to admit, the thought of knowing the next prime minister was a rush.

  The digitally rendered tune of Bruce Springsteen’s ‘Thunder Road’ broke the silence. It had been Daniel’s favourite song for as long as Michael had known him, and so it now served as his friend’s personalised ringtone. It was not an unexpected call.

  ‘I can’t believe he just said that.’

  Michael had not waited for a greeting. Why else would Daniel be calling?

  ‘What? Who?’

  The tone of Daniel’s voice told Michael that he had not been watching. And the quality of the line told him why. The crackling interference was typical of the hands-free phone system that came as standard in Daniel’s car, meaning that he was nowhere near a television.

  Michael could always tell how hard his friend was pushing his car’s engine by how difficult he was to hear on hands-free. Right now the speed limit was a distant memory. It usually was.

  ‘Your illustrious godfather,’ Michael explained. ‘He’s just been on TV announcing a leadership challenge. Looks like we’ll be getting a new prime minister.’

  ‘You’re joking?’

  ‘Deadly serious. Plus he’s pretty much declared war on half of Northern Ireland in the process. I thought that’s why you were calling.’

  ‘Declared war? Over Thompson’s shooting?’ Daniel sounded troubled.

  ‘Of course it was. Why? What’s up?’

  ‘I’ve got to speak to him, Mike. He’s got it all wrong.’

  ‘He’s got what wrong? What are you talking about?’

  ‘I’m talking about what happened today. It wasn’t as straightforward as it looked. Nothing like it. It wasn’t a terrorist attack, Mike. Certainly not True IRA. Or UVA.’

  ‘What? How the hell do you know that?’ Michael was confused.

  ‘It came straight from the horse’s mouth. Eamon McGale. The shooter. I’ve just spent the last two hours with the guy in Paddington Green. You’re not going to believe what he told me!’

  The interference from the hands-free meant that Michael was not catching every word, but he understood enough from what he could hear. And it was not McGale’s version of events that surprised him most.

  ‘You’ve got to be kidding, Dan! You’ve got the case? How the hell did you manage that?’

  ‘We’ve got the case, Mike. You and me! This one’s a career maker for us. And it’s a career breaker for a lot of others. That’s if they’re stupid enough to ever let it come to court.’

  ‘What do you mean, “a career breaker”? For who? What did he tell you?’

  ‘I can’t say too much over the phone. It’s not safe. But I’ll tell you this: Tony’s wrong. It wasn’t a terrorist attack. And it wasn’t an attempt to kill Thompson either, whatever the prior intelligence might have been. McGale intended to kill Matthewson. Thompson just got in the way. McGale says that Matthewson was corrupt and was even behind some of the terrorist attacks. That’s why he killed him.’

  The interference was getting worse. It was not helped by Daniel’s overexcitement. His voice was breathless, creating more gaps than even the questionable cell-site coverage. But the message was getting through.

  ‘You can’t be serious. Neil Matthewson wasn’t a terrorist, Dan. This guy’s got to be cracked.’

  ‘You would think that, Mike. All you’ve seen is him shoot two people on TV. But you have to meet him. You have to listen to him. There’s so much more to it, there’s so many more names. I can’t say any more over the phone and it’s too late to come to you. But let’s meet first thing, yeah?’

  Daniel spoke with a tone that Michael had heard before. Many times. His old friend had found a cause.
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br />   ‘Are you sure about all this? Don’t go staking your reputation on the word of a lunatic. Who else have you spoken to?’

  Daniel could not reply immediately; his excited laugh – almost maniacal – prevented that. It was a few seconds before he could speak.

  ‘No one,’ he finally said. ‘So don’t worry yet. I’ll tell you everything in the morning and you can play Mr Sanity. Then we’ll decide what we make public and what we don’t.’

  Michael exhaled a held breath. He was grateful for a small mercy. Daniel had not yet put his hard-earned name at risk by repeating whatever tale McGale had told him.

  The frequent gear changes told Michael that Daniel had left the motorway and was now gunning along the country roads that covered the final miles to his Surrey home. He knew how hard his friend pushed his car on this last leg. And how distracted he could be by their discussions. The conversation had to end.

  ‘OK, Dan, let’s speak tomorrow.’

  ‘Speak to you tomorrow.’

  Michael shook his head as he pressed the disconnect button on his handset and sat back into his sofa. The news had developed throughout the day, before the eyes of the world. It had been tragic. But not for a moment had it touched his own life, and nor had there been any reason to think it would. Not until Daniel’s call. But now? Now he felt himself being dragged into a mess they should perhaps both avoid; a political minefield from which any sensible lawyer would turn and run. But Michael knew that he had little choice. Daniel was going to do this. And Michael would be there to support him.

  Daniel smiled as he heard Michael disconnect the line. He knew his friend was concerned for him. That he did not want him mixed up in something so controversial on McGale’s word alone. But Daniel had no such concerns himself. Everything McGale had said rang true. The man was no liar and, above all else, he needed Daniel’s help. Daniel would give him that help, whether Michael was with him or not.

  These thoughts came thick and fast as he sped along the country roads that led home. It was a journey he often thought he could complete in his sleep. Which was just as well, as he felt his tiredness begin to engulf him. It had been a long, stressful day. Both Daniel’s emotional strength and his analytical mind had been sorely tested. Only now, on the homestretch and with his excitement winding down, did he realise how hard he had pushed himself in the last twenty-four hours.

  If he had been more alert – more awake – Daniel would have noticed the speed of the vehicle behind. Instead he had assumed that the black Land Rover bearing down in his rear-view mirror would either slow or simply overtake. If he had known that its driver intended to do neither then the superior engine of Daniel’s car could have kicked in, taking him clear of any collision.

  Daniel was aware of no such thing. And so his Porsche was no match when the road-legal tank hit him from behind at almost 70 mph.

  Even at his most alert Daniel would have struggled to regain control after the impact. The sheer weight of the other vehicle had shattered his rear-axle and sent the back of the chassis buckling into the rear-mounted engine. He had barely time to let out a scream as his car hurtled off the road and into an adjoining field. It flipped four times before coming to a mangled rest. The mechanical soft-top that had significantly increased the car’s purchase price offered no protection.

  The black Range Rover pulled to a halt by the kerbside. The door opened and a dark-clothed figure stepped out. The man’s jet-black hair completed a black-clad image that rendered his body almost invisible in the moonlight. Only his unusually pale skin lessened the effect.

  The figure approached the now-smouldering wreck. Once near he crouched and looked inside through the darkness. Daniel was barely aware of him. His focus was on the blood seeping from a deep wound to his stomach as he tried to escape the tangled belt that seemed to pin him to his seat.

  There was no pain. That was unexpected. Daniel knew that he was badly hurt. The sensation that his physical strength was disappearing by the moment told him that. But where was the pain? Where was the cold? Was it a good thing that he felt neither? Or did it mean that he was already too far gone?

  Daniel’s efforts to free himself became weaker and weaker as these thoughts raced through his mind. Finally he stopped moving. There was no energy left to fuel it. Only then, with the distraction of escape gone, did he really see the man now so close to his car.

  Blood loss had already fogged Daniel’s mind, so it took him a few moments to register the sight of his killer.

  His eyes bored into Daniel’s own. They told him that his life was at an end. He was defeated. Helpless. As he watched the pale, black-haired man step forward, Daniel began to quietly sob for the first time in his adult life. For his wife. For his child. And for himself. A man who deserved better.

  TWENTY-ONE

  Alex Henley was unused to helicopters. He had been in three in his lifetime, all short distances. Each experience had been worse than the last but none had come close to tonight. It had required all of his concentration to keep his evening meal inside his stomach.

  Dempsey had requisitioned an Army Air Corps Gazelle for the journey from London to Credenhill Barracks. It had been waiting for them at a helipad close to New Scotland Yard and they had been in the air within fifteen minutes of leaving Henley’s office. That was now fifty minutes and 130 miles ago and, as his feet touched the tarmac of Credenhill’s own landing pad, Henley said a silent prayer of thanks.

  ‘Remember to keep your head down,’ the pilot shouted over the din of the engines.

  As Henley gratefully left the helicopter, he was greeted by a young man in military fatigues.

  ‘Please come with me, sir.’

  The young man’s uniform was adorned with an officer’s insignia that Henley vaguely recognised, and his sand-coloured beret was gripped in the fist of his left hand. His right he placed in the centre of Henley’s back, guiding him away from the aircraft and towards a waiting jeep.

  Henley glanced to his left and saw Dempsey striding towards the same vehicle. If Dempsey’s stomach had suffered as Henley’s had, he was hiding it well.

  Dempsey reached the jeep first and climbed into the front passenger seat. A heavily built Fijian with a corporal’s double stripe on his arm was behind the wheel. With the front seats taken, Henley and the young officer had to climb across the vehicle’s open sides and into the rear.

  ‘Would you like to check in at your quarters first, sir?’

  The question came from the driver as he fired up the Jeep’s engine. It was directed at Dempsey.

  ‘We won’t be staying.’ Dempsey’s reply was blunt. ‘Just take us to General West.’

  ‘Come in.’

  A low voice rumbled through a fire door that was marked ‘Director Special Forces’. The officer from the helipad did not hesitate. He opened the door and stepped inside, where he stood to attention, his eyes unblinking. Henley was a little taken aback by the formality of the soldier’s actions, coupled with the notable lack of a salute. What surprised him far more was Dempsey, who strode into the office and did exactly the same thing. For the first time Henley was reminded that, beneath it all, this was the essence of the man. A DDS agent in name but a SAS officer to his core.

  ‘At ease, Major.’

  Major General Arthur West spoke with a quiet, friendly tone as he rose from his chair. An effort to set a non-confrontational mood, Henley assumed. Dempsey responded by doing just as he had been told, adopting a less rigid stance. It was ‘at ease’, but hardly casual.

  ‘It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.’

  West continued to speak directly to Dempsey as he moved around his desk. If he had noticed Henley he did not show it. As he approached he put out his open hand. Dempsey hesitated for just a moment before grasping it.

  ‘Yours is a name I’ve heard a lot since taking this command, Major. It’s a shame we have to come together in these circumstances.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  Dempsey’s response was
brisk and efficient. He was in no mood for pleasantries. Henley already knew that. And now West no doubt knew the same. But his higher rank gave him the right to ignore it.

  ‘I trust you’ll see no deterioration in the standards of what we do here, Major. Though I’ve implemented certain improvements, so I dare say things have moved on since you left us.’

  ‘I’m sure they have, sir. But we won’t be here long enough to take the tour.’

  ‘More’s the pity,’ said Henley, keen to cover for Dempsey’s briskness. ‘I’ve always been very interested in the training your men receive.’

  West looked at Henley, as if noticing him for the first time. Henley offered his hand as he introduced himself.

  ‘Assistant Commissioner Alex Henley, Metropolitan Police.’

  West took Henley’s outstretched hand within his own and shook. Their respective grips were far from equal.

  ‘It’s a pleasure, Mr Henley.’

  West’s words said one thing but his tone said another. His failure to refer to Henley by his rank told the assistant commissioner all he needed to know. West turned his attention back to Dempsey.

  ‘Speaking of my improvements, how long ago was it that you left us, Major?’

  ‘Four years, sir.’ Dempsey’s impatience was becoming more obvious. ‘I’ve been seconded to the Department of Domestic Security since its inception.’

  ‘A shame for us.’ West seemed determined to keep Dempsey off-subject. ‘You’ve been a very difficult asset to replace. But our loss is the DDS’s gain.’

  ‘That’s flattering. But if we could move on to Sergeant Jones, General? We’re keen to begin his debriefing.’