More Harm Than Good

by Andrew Grant

“No idea,” Pearson said, already fifteen feet away from me. He was striding towards the opposite corner, throwing up clouds of grey dust with every step he took. “We’re just using it to get to the stairs. Come on. We need some height.”

  We went up two flights, to the top floor, and Pearson set off into a long, narrow corridor. Doors on either side led to a series of identical square rooms, each with a pair of windows. I guessed they’d been dormitories of some kind, but decided against asking him about them. I just followed him in silence until we reached the last door on the right hand side.

  “Keep your head down,” he said, and slipped inside, beckoning me to keep up with him. “Take the window on the left. Can you see our boy?”

  I took up a position at the corner of the window and peered down to the ground below. I saw a man about forty feet away. He was sitting on a motorcycle. A skeletal, lightweight machine designed for riding off-road. The engine wasn’t running and the guy was sitting upright, his hands on his hips. He was slender. Probably about five foot six. I couldn’t tell his age or hair colour, because his head was covered by a skull and crossbones bandana. He was wearing a set of blue and white racing-style leather overalls, complete with pretend advertisements, and he had a blue helmet with a mirrored visor tucked under his left arm.

  “Got him,” I said.

  “Confirmed,” Jones said, from his position at the other side of the window.

  Pearson called Melissa.

  “We have visual,” he said into the phone. “Proceed when ready.”

  The guy’s bike was facing the side of the site where we’d parked, and he had stopped it in front of a two storey stone building. The doorway and all of its tiny ground floor windows had been bricked up, and the roof was missing completely.

  “Is that the asylum?” I said.

  Before Pearson could answer I caught movement out of the corner of my eye. It was Leckie. He was on foot, hands at shoulder height, walking gingerly as if trying to avoid getting too much mud on his shoes. Melissa was three paces behind him. They closed to within three yards of the guy and stopped, their hands still in the air. The guy got down from his bike and hung his helmet on the handlebars. He took a step towards Leckie. And froze as a bullet kicked up a plume of dirt and brick fragments about four inches from his right foot.

  Pearson raised his phone and started to shout out a warning, but there was no need. Melissa dived to the side and Leckie sprang forward, knocking the guy to the ground and covering him with his body. Two more bullets struck the spot where he’d been standing. A moment passed in silence, then Leckie rose into a crouch and started to pull the guy along the ground by his collar. He looked completely inert. Melissa joined him and they dragged the guy a couple of yards before he snapped out of his trance, his arms and legs beginning to scrabble desperately over the loose surface.

  A bullet took out the motorcycle’s rear tyre and it toppled sideways, away from us. The helmet slipped from the handlebars and started to roll across the uneven surface in a crooked arc, until another bullet split it in half. Leckie and Melissa tugged harder, turning to their right, and hauled the half-crawling biker along the face of the asylum building. Another bullet hit the bike’s rear light, shattering its red plastic cover. Then they reached the corner of the building, threw the guy around it, and disappeared into cover themselves.

  Beside me, I heard Pearson exhale loudly. Jones gasped. Outside, the gun was silent. The sniper had no target. Melissa and Leckie had taken themselves and their contact out of his line of sight.

  And, I realised, out of ours.

  I didn’t hear Pearson’s and Jones’s footsteps pounding along the upstairs corridor until I was half way down the second flight of stairs. They were moving fast, and coming in my direction. I took the remaining stairs two at a time, but when I reached the bottom I didn’t go back into the room we’d passed through before. I headed for the one opposite. It was a similar size. Its floor had a similar covering of debris. Similar graffiti was daubed on the walls. But there was no external door.

  None of the windows had any glass left in them, so I crossed to the nearest one and peered out. There was no sign of anyone watching, so I climbed through the empty casement and dropped down between a bush and the wall. I paused, then started towards the far end of the building. The foliage gave me cover for about three quarters of the distance, and I cleared the rest of the ground without attracting any unwelcome attention. That left me at the corner of the west wing, almost directly under the window we’d used for observation.

  The motorcycle was still lying on its side, diagonally to my right, with the old asylum building behind it. The bullets that hit it came from the left. That meant I’d either have to go back and find a way to loop the opposite way around the site, or take the direct route and cross the sniper’s field of fire. One option was impractical. The other, undesirable. But time was also a consideration - a major one - so I made the decision. I took a deep breath, drew my Beretta, then broke cover.

  The ground was deceptively slippery in front of the asylum building, and I almost lost my footing as I rounded the corner on the far side of the abandoned motorcycle. But at least no one shot at me as I crossed the open space, and straight away I could see that Melissa and Leckie were both in one piece. I wasn’t so sure about the guy from the bike, though. He was lying on the ground between them, not moving, and as I stepped closer I could see his leathers were soaked with blood from a crescent-shaped gash on his neck.

  “This isn’t good, David,” Melissa said, when I reached her side.

  Leckie turned away from me and slammed the palm of his hand into the wall.

  “This isn’t good at all,” she said, and I noticed the right side of her face was splattered with faint droplets of blood.

  “What happened?” I said. “I didn’t see him get hit.”

  “He didn’t,” she said. “A spent round hit the wall and kicked out a fragment of stone, is the best we can figure it. Unbelievable bad luck.”

  I heard footsteps approaching from behind me and a second later Pearson and Jones appeared around the corner of the building. Pearson had a rifle in one hand, and a metal worker’s file in the other.

  “We’ll never trace the gun, now, if he rammed this down the barrel,” he said, brandishing the file. “And its owner’s in the wind. Shit. What happened here?”

  “Is he dead?” Jones said.

  Melissa nodded.

  “Did he at least tell you anything?”

  Melissa nodded again.

  “Two things,” she said. “The thing his group is planning will happen in three days’ time. And it will be bad enough to bring down the government.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Pearson started by heading back towards the motorway, but changed his mind at the last minute. He wanted us to make our way to London via the chain of towns that straddled the old Midland Railway line, instead. It would take longer, but there would be more people around. He was worried that whoever had taken out Leckie’s informer might be looking to add to their tally for the day.

  “Face it,” he said to Melissa. “We all saw the spread of rounds. There was no way someone was just targeting the stoolie. He was bait. They were after you. Or Leckie. Or both.”

  Or they were trying to make Melissa look innocent. Or Leckie. Or both.

  “And the shooting didn’t start until the moment you two appeared,” he said. “Coincidence?”

  No one else seemed in the mood for debate.

  “The snitch was sitting on his bike, in plain sight,” he said. “The trigger man knew where he was. He could have taken him at any time. But he waited. Why?”

  “You’re sure the sniper was there all along?” Melissa said.

  Pearson shook his head, very gently, but didn’t speak.

  “Who else knew about the meeting?” I said.

  “Colin Chaston, my boss,” Melissa said. “I told him. Pearson knew our destination, but nothing else until we were on the road. You t
wo knew what we were doing, but not where we were going. And of course Leckie knew all about it. I doubt he told anyone, though. He always had the reputation for playing his cards close.”

  “So I was right,” Pearson said.

  Melissa ignored him.

  “What about the informant’s own organisation?” Jones said. “His own people could have been on to him. Followed him, aiming to silence him, and taking the chance to rack up a couple of bonuses at the same time.”

  “That’s possible,” Melissa said.

  “What do we know about the informer?” I said.

  “Not enough,” Melissa said. “I’ll do some digging.”

  “We should find out more about the group he was embedded in,” I said. “And I’d like to know more about Leckie’s history with him.”

  “I’ll find out,” Melissa said. “The Deputy DG’s called an emergency briefing for first thing tomorrow. I’ll try to have something by then.”

  No one spoke much for a while after that. The afternoon’s excitement had left everyone irritable and out of sorts. There wasn’t much evidence of the interdependence Melissa had told me about, instinctive or otherwise. I wondered how much truth there was in everything else she’d said. I began to sift her words, starting from when our paths first crossed, and just as we were approaching the vehicle entrance to Thames House something triggered a connection in my head. It was in an unanswered question from earlier. I didn’t say anything straight away, though. Because what I what I wanted her to do would definitely be outside the scope of normal behaviour. The more people that knew, the less chance she’d agree. Specially because there was a good chance it would leave us both barking up the wrong tree.

  Melissa was less resistant than I’d anticipated, but looking back I suspect that had more to do with taking the path of least resistance than having any expectation of my being right. She couldn’t help right away, though. Her boss had asked for a follow-up briefing, and she wanted to ferret out some of the information we’d talked about. Plus it would take her a while to lay her hands on the things we’d need. A couple of hours in all, she reckoned, so we agreed to meet at the hospital at seven o’clock.

  My clothes and hair were dirty from the workhouse so I used the time to head home, shower and grab some clean clothes. I found a taxi easily and had the driver drop me half a mile from St Joseph’s. I strolled the rest of the way, and had just passed through the arch at the main entrance when I felt my phone buzz in my pocket. It was a text from Melissa:

  On my way, but running late... M.

  I didn’t want to draw attention to myself by leaving and coming back an extra time, so I kept on going and made my way to the hospital cafeteria instead. The tables had been rearranged since my last visit. There were fewer of them near the windows, and none of these were free. I didn’t want to sit in the middle of the room, so I bought my coffee to go and carried it down to the garden. All the benches were available, out there. Maybe it was too chilly for people to spend much time outside. Or maybe they thought the place looked less picturesque in the wash of the faux Victorian street lights that had been planted at random intervals in the flower beds. At least it had been cleaned, though. There was no more sign of storm damage, and the plants and bushes looked like they’d recently been trimmed.

  I was nursing the final drops of my drink and waiting for Melissa to let me know she’d arrived when the door at the far end of the garden swung open. Three people came through. They were male. In their early twenties. Scruffily dressed. And I was half way to my feet before I realised they weren’t the same ones who’d called the police on me after our encounter, last time.

  One of the guys lay down on the nearest bench and pulled out a packet of cigarettes, but the other two seemed to be in the middle of an argument. They stayed on their feet, glaring, muttering, and occasionally pushing each other. It was pretty half-hearted stuff, but I kept an eye on them anyway, just in case. The dispute continued for another five minutes without coming to the boil, and just when I thought it was going to peter out altogether I felt my phone buzz:

  I’m here! Where are you? M.

  Coming... I replied, and stood up to leave.

  The guys didn’t seem to notice me, even when I moved. I took one final look at them as the door closed behind me, amazed that people could be so unaware of their surroundings, and saw that their attention had been taken by something else. Movement. At the far end, near them. Someone else was entering the garden. It was a man, in the security company’s uniform. I reached out for the door handle, remembering how the last security guard had been faced down so easily. But I didn’t go back through. There was something about the way this guy moved that made him seem less helpless. He was taller. Broader. More assured. The two lads who’d been arguing stepped back, away from him, and the other one jumped up from the bench and joined them. The guard took a radio from his belt and spoke into it, looking over at the wall to his right. He waited for twenty seconds, still holding the radio to his ear, then clipped it back in place and turned to face the yobs. I could see the smile on his face, and before his fist had even connected with the first lad’s jaw I would have bet money this was the part of his job he enjoyed the most.

  I didn’t want to keep Melissa waiting so I thought it was better not to waste time hanging around to see what he did with the lads’ unconscious bodies. It had taken him less than thirty seconds to put them all on the ground, and even walking quickly it took me ten times that long to reach the room in the basement where we’d agreed to meet.

  “I washed my hair this morning,” she said as I opened the door. “Now it smells of smoke. I’m not happy.”

  “I hadn’t thought about that,” I said. “Do you want to move to another room?”

  “No,” she said, pointing to a large black holdall with her foot. “Not after I’ve dragged this thing all the way down here.”

  The bag was about five feet long, two wide, and two tall. There was a logo in the centre of the long side. From one angle it looked like a bird with its wings spread. From the opposite angle, it looked like a fist. A row of letters was printed underneath, but a fold in the fabric made them hard to read.

  “They’re initials,” she said. “LASSKC. London All Style Sport Karate Club.”

  “I didn’t know you were in a karate club,” I said.

  “I’m not, anymore. When would I ever find the time?”

  “Good point. And that explains the fist. But why’s there a bird on your bag?”

  “It doesn’t look like a real bird, so it doesn’t bother me. And it’s a dove. It represents peace. That’s probably why you didn’t recognise it.”

  “That could explain it. Is the hazmat suit in there?”

  “Yes. I didn’t have anything else big enough to carry it in, and I didn’t want to attract attention, lugging it around.”

  “Good thinking. Thanks for bringing it.”

  “Are you sure you want to do this?”

  “I’m sure I don’t. Let’s check the video first, and see if I really need to. Did you get hold of a copy?”

  Melissa nodded, pulled out her phone, hit a few keys, then handed it to me. The screen was filled with a black and white image of the hospital garden. It was deserted. A timecode across the bottom showed the early hours of the morning, two days ago. Five seconds rolled past, then a figure appeared at the left-hand side of the screen. He was followed by three others. They were pushing a steel trolley. It held four caesium containers, and the men were making no attempt to rush or disguise what they were doing. There was no need. Their faces and any possible identifying features were completely covered by the hazmat suits they were wearing. I wasn’t surprised by what I saw. Because even though it had been shot from a different angle, it matched exactly what I remembered watching through the window on my way back from the cafe that night.

  I watched until the bulky figures had disappeared from view, then returned the phone to Melissa.

  “Nothing new there,”
she said.

  “No,” I said. “Unfortunately.”

  “So what’s the verdict?”

  “I need to go in.”

  “You’re certain? Because I don’t think it’s a very good idea.”

  “I’m not certain, no. But I think I should.”

  “OK,” she said, leaning down to unzip the karate bag. “Let’s get it over with, then. Have you ever used one of these before?”

  “Not a civilian one,” I said, taking off my coat and hanging it on a pipe that snaked out from one of the old ventilation machines. “But I’ve done the standard drills in NBC suits a couple of times. They can’t be too different.”

  “I hope not. And there are a couple of problems you should know about. There’s only seven minutes of oxygen left, according to the gauge on the tank. And the radio’s missing.”

  “That shouldn’t matter. Seven minutes will be long enough.”

  “Are you sure? Because you don’t want to be cutting it fine, in there. You can’t just look at your watch. And with no radio I can’t warn you when you’re getting close.”

  “Don’t worry. I’m not going to linger, in there.”

  “And what if you have a problem? You won’t be able to call for help.”

  “It wouldn’t make any difference. We only have one suit. It’s not like you could come in after me.”

  “I don’t like it. It’s dangerous.”

  “Nonsense,” I said, slipping off my boots. “It’ll be a walk in the park.”

  The hazmat suit was surprisingly easy to move in, because it was much looser than the military versions I’d had experience with before. It was harder to see out of, though, because the visor was smaller and further from your face. It looked comical rather than menacing, because it was bright yellow rather than matte black. But one thing was very similar. The heat you generated as soon as it was on. I knew that even seven minutes was going to feel like a very long time.