by Bill Kitson
He watched the weather forecast each evening. He’d to wait over a week before he heard the news he was waiting for. Next evening once dark had fallen, he drove out of town to the point he’d seen on his reconnaissance trip. He parked down a farm track and climbed over a fence and crossed the field, past a flock of heavily pregnant ewes who eyed him with mild curiosity. When he reached his objective he set to work with a massive woodman’s saw. He felt fleeting regret for the act of vandalism he was committing, but then thought of the cause. His resolution returned, stiffened.
After a couple of hours’ hard work he judged things were as he wanted them. Now all he had to do was sit and wait for the wind to blow. The cut he’d made would ensure the tree fell in the direction he wanted. After that, there was his main task to complete.
The next morning, Nash walked into Helmsdale station to be greeted by Sergeant Binns, who was standing by reception with two harassed looking civilians. ‘Mike, have you a minute?’
‘Problem, Jack?’
‘It’s about the blackout last night.’
‘Tell me about it. I was halfway through cooking my evening meal when everything went dark. I didn’t fancy lasagne for breakfast.’
Binns introduced the visitors; one from the local electricity company, the other a farmer. ‘The power blackout was caused by a tree falling across the power lines,’ Binns told Nash.
The man from the power company added, ‘Half the county was without electricity. The thing is; it wasn’t accidental.’
‘I thought it was a result of the gales.’
‘They helped, but even with the wind as strong as it was that tree wouldn’t have fallen.’
‘No,’ the farmer said bitterly. ‘That tree was sawn through. And it was done to make sure it fell across the power lines.’
Nash stared from one to the other in astonishment. ‘You mean someone went to the trouble of sabotaging the electric supply? Why would they do that?’
‘Ask me another,’ the engineer said. ‘It wasn’t kids either. It would have taken hours of work to saw through a tree trunk that width.’
‘I still don’t see what we can do about it. We’ll investigate of course, but without some idea of the motive, I don’t think we’ll have much luck.’
‘We’ve got a problem.’
‘What sort of a problem?’
‘I’m at the laboratory. We’ve had a power failure last night, just come back up. But the stand-by generators couldn’t be activated by the security men.’
‘Why not?’
‘They’d been tampered with.’
‘How did that happen?’
‘I don’t know, but there’s worse.’ He paused and took a deep breath. ‘Far, far worse.’
‘Go on.’
‘During the blackout somebody broke into the buildings. Both the laboratory, and the offices.’
‘How did they manage that?’
‘I don’t know how they got past the fence. I’ve had the guards check the perimeter and it hasn’t been cut. Once they were in, all they had to do was open the doors. The electronic locks are deactivated by a power cut for safety reasons.’
‘Was anything stolen? Any damage?’
‘I thought of that. So I went to the laboratory first. My first thought was that it might be animal rights people. But the cages were still intact. However, a load of product had been poured into the giant blenders. All sorts of different stuff. The blender switches had been left in the on position. As soon as the power came back up, they started working. All the contents have been rendered useless. They’ll have to be incinerated. We daren’t even flush them away because we don’t know how toxic they are. With all the chaos, we can’t even tell if anything’s missing.’
‘OK, that’s bad, but not cataclysmic. What else? I take it there is more?’
‘Oh yes, there’s more all right. Our intruder went into the office block. Not only went into it, but went through it. Took a load of personnel files,’ he paused before telling his boss the worst. ‘And he went into your office. Your safe is electronic like the doors, isn’t it?’
‘Oh no! Don’t say—’
‘I’m not sure exactly what you had in there, but it isn’t there now. The intruder even left the door open.’
‘I’ll tell you what was in there. All the disks. The ones with the programme details on.’ His boss’s voice took on a harsher note. ‘And the details of everything we’ve done: you and I. If they were decoded and fell in to the wrong hands you know what would happen, don’t you?’
‘I do, but what can we do about it?’
‘Let me think for a minute.’
He waited; his impatience mounting.
‘As far as I see it, there’s nothing we can do about the details of the programme. Nor can we abandon it, or put it on hold. We’re so close to success now, and our masters are keen for results. The latest batch seems perfect, but there have to be more field trials. As for the other side of things, there are the two we’ve been using in our experiments. I’m afraid we can’t take the chance that they might be questioned. If they talk, we’re finished. So, much as I regret it, they’ll have to go. And, I’m afraid, so will the third one. The one we haven’t started on yet.’
‘What about—?’
‘No,’ his boss cut in, ‘definitely not. Not yet. He’s too valuable. As for the others, see to it will you. As fast as you can. No, hang on a minute. First, do the two we’ve been using. Get hold of the third, but don’t dispose. Not yet. We might need a bargaining tool.’
Lara was bored. With Richard away at that blasted conference, and Caroline also not available, she was desperate for company. An idea struck her. She went over to the phone, dragging her filofax out of her bag. She found the number and dialled. ‘Guess who?’
‘Lara?’
‘Got it in one. I want you. Tonight.’
‘Can’t do it. No car. Some berk ran into me two nights back. It’s in for repair.’
‘Get the bus to Helmsdale. I’ll pick you up.’
‘Missing me that much?’ She could hear the desire in his voice.
‘You’ll see. Just get on that bus.’
‘Okay, it’ll have to be when I’ve finished work though.’
‘Don’t work too hard. You’re no use to me if you’re not on top form.’
‘You have to identify your target; then comes the assessment. Take your time. Observe and be patient. That’s the first and one of the most important parts of the whole job. The observation; get that wrong and you’ve no chance. Go in sloppy, under-prepared, and you’re a dead duck. Remember you’ve only to get it wrong once. Bollocks it up and you finish up as the target. In a war there’ll always be casualties. My job’s to teach you how to avoid being one. You understand me?’
‘Yes, Sarge.’
‘And your job, when you’re fully trained, is to become the perfect killing machine. It’s what you were picked for, soldier. So pay attention. Listen and learn.’
He stirred slightly as if the memory had unsettled him. Even that slight movement could have been a mistake. He muttered a silent curse. ‘Mind on the job, soldier.’ He could almost hear the sergeant saying it. He forced his attention back on the target; brightly lit, in the all embracing darkness. Here, no street lights spoilt his night vision. He looked through the window; he’d expected only one occupant, so who was the other? He didn’t recognize them. So, a bit of collateral damage.
‘Pick a method to suit the situation. Always remember the golden rule. In, do the job, and out. Away, before they know you’re there. And, wherever possible, leave no trace. If you can make it look like an accident, so much the better.’
His hand strayed to the kit by his side. Mentally, he ran through his equipment. Tools to effect entry, hypodermics and the equipment to disguise the kill. Had to disguise it, in a war zone it wouldn’t matter as much. But this wasn’t a war zone. This was rural England.
He’d wait until they settled for the night. No risk of b
eing disturbed anyway, the cottage was miles from anywhere. Silent entry, quick kill, then sit and watch: away before dawn. No point in taking unnecessary risks.
Time to move. The locks were easy, easier than anticipated; no bolts. That helped. Inside he moved slowly. He knew the layout perfectly. He’d been inside before; several times. But then the cottage had been empty, and it had been daylight. Up the stairs, one, two, three. Careful, the fifth step creaks.
At the bedroom door. Listening. Nothing at first; then the gentle sound of breathing. Good. They were asleep. The door had creaked but butter from the fridge had cured it last time he was there. Edge it open. No wind tonight; nothing to cause a draught. Ease your way inside. Wait for your night vision to adjust. Hypodermics at the ready. Strike once, twice. Done.
He moved swiftly across the room out of range, but after the first involuntary movements neither of them stirred. Nevertheless, no point in taking chances. His hand hovered over the light switch, but that same sense of caution stopped him from switching it on. Better get on with finishing the job.
He trotted down the stairs, ignored the one that creaked. The occupants of the house weren’t going to hear him: ever. He went to locate the fuse box then flicked the trip switch and went into the kitchen. He unrolled his tool kit, placed his torch where its beam would light his working area. Working methodically without need for haste, he stripped bare a length of wire and left the contacts exposed. He crossed to the sink and opened the cupboard below. His search yielded four promising items. He could hear his sergeant again. ‘All houses contain a selection of highly inflammable substances. All you’ve to do is put them close to a heat source. Whoosh! The lot will go up. Best of all, unless you do it wrong, it’ll look accidental.’
He waited outside until the house was well ablaze then walked unhurriedly towards the main road. He was struck by a horrible thought. Something he’d forgotten. What was it? Then he remembered. Something he’d meant to remove from the house. He glanced back, saw the blaze and relaxed. The fire would be all-consuming. Every scrap of evidence would be destroyed. The first of his targets had been identified and eliminated. Now he had to start on the next.
Superintendent Edwards was about to leave an early morning meeting with Nash when his phone rang. ‘Hold on a second, Ruth.’ He listened. ‘OK, where?’ She saw him scribble a couple of notes on his pad. ‘Right, give me time to arrange things at this end then we’ll be with you. Have you told Mexican Pete? No, OK, I’ll see to that.’
‘What’s happened?’
‘A house fire. That was CFO Curran. It happened overnight in a remote spot towards the top end of the dale. The nearest village is Gorton, but that’s a couple of miles away. The alarm was raised by a local gamekeeper. He saw the smoke, but by then it was a smouldering ruin. Almost completely gutted, by all accounts.’
‘We’ll have to get out there. Anything to do first?’
‘We need Jack Binns to organize some uniforms to be on site.’
‘I’ll deal with that.’
‘That’ll help. In the meantime, I’ll get hold of Mexican Pete.’
‘Who?’
‘Sorry, I mean Professor Ramirez. Our pathologist.’
‘Fine, and whilst we’re travelling you can explain the nickname.’
Nash introduced Superintendent Edwards to Curran and Mexican Pete. ‘Doug’s based in Helmsdale, but his area covers Netherdale as well. And this is our pathologist, Professor Ramirez, of York University.’
Ramirez inclined his head in a bow of acknowledgment. Pathologists rarely shake hands. And police officers never shake hands with pathologists. ‘What Nash means is, I attend the university occasionally,’ he told Ruth, ‘when Nash is on holiday, or when he’s having an off day and hasn’t found any bodies for me to examine.’
‘What’s the score here?’ Nash directed his question to both men.
Curran spoke first. ‘There are two victims, both badly burned. Professor Ramirez has had a preliminary look; he’ll be able to tell you more.’
‘On the face of it, they appear to be typical fire or smoke inhalation victims,’ Ramirez told them. ‘We should be able to get identifiable material, either by DNA or dental records.’
‘Why do you say, “on the face of it,” have you any reason to suppose otherwise?’ Edwards asked.
The pathologist gave a sour smile. ‘I’d have little doubt, but for him turning up,’ he indicated Nash. ‘He sniffs out dead meat and foul play even better than a bloodhound in a butcher’s shop.’
Nash hid a smile and turned to Curran. ‘Any idea of the cause?’
‘Nothing I’d like to be quoted on, but at the moment I’m inclined to think it was some sort of electrical fault. It looks like the sort of place that hasn’t been re-wired since the first electrics were installed. As to why it blazed so well, that’s down to the fact that it was half timbered. A lot of these Tudor style cottages have far too much inflammable material in them.’
‘Nothing suspicious then?’
‘Not that I can see, although it’s early days yet.’
‘Who owns the house?’
‘No idea. There’s nobody registered on the voters roll.’
Edwards looked at Curran for a moment before turning to Nash. ‘Better check them out, Mike. The locals might know something. Try credit reference agencies, and get onto the DVLA.’ She pointed to the car alongside the ruined building. ‘That should give us an ID.’
She paused and looked at him; saw his frown. ‘What is it? Something wrong?’
Nash hesitated. ‘No, at least, I don’t think so. I just have this feeling.’ He grinned as he heard Ramirez groan.
‘Tell me,’ Ruth encouraged him.
‘It’s probably nothing.’
The Superintendent arched an eyebrow. ‘Go on, share it, Mike. Have you had a flash of your famous intuition?’
‘It’s just an impression, well, that there’s something more to this fire than meets the eye. It’s probably my imagination working overtime.’
‘Nothing tangible to back it up?’
‘Maybe I’m reading more into it than I should, but there seems no apparent reason why anyone living in this sort of a house wouldn’t register for voting.’
‘Maybe they haven’t lived here long, or they’re not interested in politics.’
‘If they’ve not been here long the previous occupiers would be on the roll. And where’s the other car?’
Ruth looked up in surprise. ‘The other car? What do you mean?’
‘This house is two miles from the nearest village. Gorton only has three buses a week into Helmsdale. If the owners were man and wife, they’d need two cars. Unless they were hermits practicing The Good Life.’
‘I see what you mean. Definitely worth looking into. I can see why you’re so successful. Can I leave it to you to follow up? I’d better get back to civilization. I’ll stop off in Helmsdale; make sure nothing else has happened.’
‘That’s OK; I’ll get a lift back with Ramirez.’
Nash and Curran watched Ruth pick her way carefully through the tangle of hoses and past the trio of fire appliances. ‘I’ll tell you something, Mike,’ Curran said thoughtfully. ‘Mexican Pete may have mentioned bloodhounds, but that new boss of yours is as fit as a butcher’s dog.’
Nash grinned. ‘I’ll be sure and tell your wife you said that next time I see her, shall I? Anyway, from what I’ve been told, your opinion and mine might not be of any interest to Ruth.’
‘Really? That’s not the impression I got every time she looked at you.’
Nash changed the subject hastily. ‘Is it safe for me to have a look inside?’
‘Yes, as long as you wear a condom.’
Nash grimaced. The hazmat suits, referred to as ‘condoms’, were as universally unpopular as they were necessary. Although they protected the scene from contamination and the wearer from potentially dangerous chemicals and gases, they were also extremely uncomfortable, caused the wearer to sweat
profusely in even the coldest weather and rustled alarmingly at the slightest movement.
It was ten minutes before he was ready. As he approached the building, Nash felt an overwhelming sense of sadness. No matter what happened, this blackened shell could never be returned to what he felt sure was its former glory. He wondered about the occupants. Had they died unmourned, or would there be grieving relatives to deal with? It looked like more of a family home than a dwelling for a couple on their own. In which case, where were the others?
As they picked their way carefully through the debris, Curran gestured towards the kitchen. ‘Seat of the blaze,’ he explained.
Although Nash knew the fire officer was shouting, the sound was muffled by the suits they were wearing, reaching him as little more than a whisper. He nodded to signify understanding; it was simpler than attempting a spoken reply.
When they entered the room, Nash paused and looked around, assessing the scene, trying to visualize what the place had looked like before fire turned it into a reeking, blackened heap of twisted metal and charred timber. As he moved forward towards the part where the damage was most severe, something on the floor caught his eye. If the winter sun hadn’t been streaming in through the hole where a picture window had once been he’d never have spotted it. He bent forward, peering down.
Curran joined him. ‘What is it?’ The fire officer roared as he knelt on the floor, careful to avoid the sharp edges of a chunk of fallen plaster. Several small strips of rubber, or plastic, he wasn’t sure which, had escaped the blaze. ‘Looks like insulation from around electrical cable.’
Nash shouted back. ‘What do you reckon; DIY disaster?’
Curran straightened up. His face, or what little of it Nash could see through the visor, was grim, ‘Either that,’ he screamed, ‘or we’re looking at arson.’
As Curran spoke, Nash felt a familiar prickly sensation, as the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. ‘Which means we’ve got a double murder on our hands,’ he yelled.
