Timebomb (Paul Richter)

by James Barrington

  ‘They?’ Mason asked.

  ‘At least two people. The victim was simply too heavy for one man to pull him up like that, unless the killer was unusually powerful. And they clearly hated him. After they’d finished questioning him, they could have just shot him, or strangled him, or even cut his throat. To disembowel their victim and leave him to die slowly like that suggests a level of hatred that I’ve never seen before.’

  Any idea who he might be?’ Clark asked. ‘Did you find anything on the body?’

  ‘He’s got short hair, not quite a crew-cut, which might suggest he’s in the military, or maybe an American. But for a positive identification we’re going to have to rely on his dental work, and that’s always a slow job.’

  ‘We could try his fingerprints,’ Mason suggested, but The Ghoul shook his head.

  ‘He hasn’t got any. Someone’s removed the top joint of each finger and thumb, probably with a pair of heavy pliers or bolt-croppers. They’re not anywhere here, as far as I can see, so presumably his killers took them away with them to dump elsewhere and that way make identifying him as difficult as possible. And, judging by the bleeding, the victim was still alive when they did that to him.’

  ‘Jesus.’

  As for other means of identification, there’s a pile of clothes over at the far edge of the clearing. There was no wallet or anything like that in the pockets, but I recovered this from the trousers.’ The Ghoul proffered a clear plastic evidence bag in which was what looked like a credit card, its magnetic stripe visible.

  ‘What is it, exactly?’

  ‘I don’t recognize the logo, but I’m fairly certain you’ll find it’s a smart card for a hotel room. A lot of hotels use these now instead of a key, because it doesn’t matter if they get lost. They just change the room access code and then issue a new card to the next guests.’

  Rochester, Kent

  Hans Morschel had got back to the hotel in the early hours of the morning, but was up and in the hotel dining room in time for a late breakfast.

  When he’d finished eating, he walked through into the deserted lounge with a cup of coffee and flicked through a couple of newspapers. Then he pulled out his mobile phone, checked Hagen’s new number and dialled it.

  ‘Half an hour?’ he suggested, when Hagen responded.

  ‘Fine. At the hotel, you mean?’

  ‘Yes. We need to go in one car. Make sure you’ve transferred the stuff to a bag before you get here.’

  ‘I’ve already done it,’ Hagen replied and rang off.

  Hammersmith, London

  ‘Nothing at all?’ Richter asked grimly.

  The duty officer shook his head. ‘The cameras at Dover recorded the car as it left the port, and one of the traffic cameras on the M2 motorway possibly also detected it.’

  ‘Possibly?’

  ‘The cameras are designed to monitor traffic flow, spot any accidents, that kind of thing, not to read car number plates. All the plods are prepared to admit is that a left-hand-drive Mercedes was seen heading west along the M2. It was a 300, so it’s the right model and more or less the correct colour.’

  ‘Where, exactly? And how many people in it?’

  ‘That camera was positioned just a few miles outside Dover, which isn’t much help, and it looked like a single occupant. Anyway, since then, nothing further.’

  ‘I’m not too surprised,’ Richter said. ‘Almost certainly he’ll have changed the plates by now. You’d better widen the watch order to include any left-hand-drive Mercedes 300-series with a single occupant. That probably won’t do any good, because there’ll be thousands of them over here at this time of year, but let’s make the effort anyway.’

  As Richter stood up and turned to leave the room, the parcel Wilhelm Schneider had sent him tucked safely under his arm, the duty officer stopped him in his tracks.

  ‘Hang on a minute,’ he said, staring at one of his monitor screens. ‘Five seems to think of this as your operation and they’ve just flagged up an incident they reckon might fall under the general heading of terrorism. It might also relate to your session last night in Maidstone nick.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘The Kent police have found a body in a wood outside Sittingbourne.’

  ‘Oh, shit. Who was it?’

  ‘Just a sec’ The duty officer was busy scanning the lines of text on his screen. ‘The victim was a middle-aged male, carrying no identification, and apparently he was tortured to death, very messily.’

  ‘This isn’t good news. It could be the same man I met. Anything else? Did the Kent plods say why they thought it might be terrorist-related?’

  ‘No, unless it was just the way he died, combined with the fact that he wasn’t carrying any ID. Anyway, Five want us to send someone down there to liaise. You up for it?’

  ‘Yes,’ Richter said. ‘Give me the details and I’ll drive down straight away.’

  The Medway, Kent

  The Blue Skies Marina was only a few miles south-west of the centre of the cathedral city of Rochester, but it was on the other side of the River Medway, so the actual distance they had to drive was more like five miles. That wasn’t a problem, and Morschel was able to use the time to run over their plan one more time with Hagen, checking for any possible hitches.

  After they arrived at the marina, Morschel parked the Mercedes just inside the gates and strode across to the office.

  Inside, a swarthy, middle-aged man was sitting behind a desk, a telephone clamped to his left ear while he made notes on a large pad with the stub of a pencil. Noticing the car stop outside, he wrapped up his conversation quickly, replaced the receiver and stood up.

  ‘Mr Heinrich?’ he enquired.

  Morschel nodded and shook his hand. ‘Is it ready?’

  ‘Of course. As you requested, we gave it a full service and filled up the tank.’

  ‘And it’s in the water?’

  ‘Yes, for a couple of days now. How will you be paying for the boat?’

  ‘Cash, if that’s acceptable to you.’ Morschel wanted neither delays nor complications, and paying cash was the obvious and easiest method of avoiding both. Besides, it wasn’t a large enough transaction to raise any suspicions.

  A few minutes later, he followed the boatyard manager out of the office and across to a pontoon, where about half a dozen boats were moored.

  ‘Here she is.’ The manager indicated the one on the end, a small fibreglass powerboat about seventeen feet long, with a dark blue hull and white superstructure. A large Evinrude outboard motor was strapped to the transom and connected to a set of remote controls – wheel, throttle and ignition switch – located at the rear of the cabin.

  They climbed aboard, and Morschel listened attentively as the manager explained the boat’s operation. The German was very experienced in boat-handling, but he was aware that every vessel had its own foibles and he had no time to discover them for himself.

  ‘If you’re ready, Mr Heinrich, let’s take her out, just in case you find anything you’re not happy about.’

  ‘Good idea,’ Morschel replied, and he cast off the bowline as the other man started the engine.

  They took the boat about a quarter of a mile downriver, then the manager handed over the controls to Morschel, who steered the vessel back to the boatyard and brought it expertly alongside the pontoon. Once the line was attached, he switched off the engine and they stepped out of the boat.

  ‘A pleasure doing business with you, Mr Heinrich,’ the manager said. ‘Will you be taking the boat away now?’

  ‘Yes. I’ve got a berth organized for it down-river.’

  ‘Fine. But if you need a boat-trailer, or anything else, just let me know. You’ve got my card.’

  Once he’d returned to his office, Morschel and Hagen hauled four large black leather bags from the boot of the car and stowed them in the cabin of the powerboat. Then Morschel started the engine and swung the boat round to point down-river towards Rochester. As he steered the craft
out into the river, Hagen drove away in the Mercedes.

  About half an hour later Morschel was mooring the vessel at a marina located between Rochester and the M2 motorway, where he’d earlier booked a berth for a week. He’d just finished securing the ropes when Hagen walked along the pontoon and stepped on board. The berth Morschel had selected was well away from the centre of the marina and there was nobody else in evidence, either on the neighbouring pontoons or any of the boats at nearby moorings.

  The two men moved inside the small cabin and began to open the four bags they’d carried from the Mercedes. They took out wires, detonators, batteries and a selection of tools from one, and dozens of packets of Semtex from the other three. As in many boats of its type, the cabin floor comprised a horizontal platform of wooden planks, specially shaped to lie on the interior of the hull. Under the floor, therefore, was quite a large space and, once Hagen had used a screwdriver to lift a couple of the planks to expose the void, they carefully stacked all the plastic explosive inside it, along with the detonators and wiring. When they’d finished replacing the planks, everything they’d brought aboard the boat was completely hidden.

  ‘We’ll finish this tomorrow,’ Morschel decided. ‘I’ve got to study the GPS and autopilot installation manuals, and that could take me some time.’

  Ten minutes later the pair emerged from the cabin, locked the door behind them and carefully checked the security of the mooring lines. They then headed towards the car park where Hagen had left the Mercedes.

  North Downs, Kent

  ‘And you are who, exactly?’ DI Mason asked.

  Richter had arrived a couple of minutes earlier and parked the Jaguar in the lane next to the farmer’s Land Rover. One of the constables had stopped him before he reached the edge of the wood and refused to let him go further without the DI’s approval.

  Richter reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out a small leather wallet and showed Mason the identification card it contained. The DI peered at it and then studied Richter’s face.

  ‘It’s not much of a likeness,’ he pointed out.

  ‘Tell me about it,’ Richter said. ‘The photographers we use are no better than those idiots on the high street doing passport piccies.’

  ‘So your name’s Paul Richter, OK, but I don’t understand the rest of what’s on this card. Who exactly do you represent?’

  ‘At the moment,’ Richter said, ‘mainly the Security Service, I suppose. You received instructions last night to institute a watch order, looking out for a Mercedes saloon on German plates?’

  ‘We did. But how did you know about that?’

  ‘I know about it because it was my idea – requested by my section through Thames House.’

  ‘So you’re a spook?’ Mason handed back the leather folder.

  ‘More or less, yes.’

  ‘OK, I’m satisfied. I’m DI Paul Mason and this’ – he turned and indicated another man standing a few feet away – ‘is DS Clark. Dick,’ he called out, ‘come and meet a real live secret squirrel.’

  Richter shook hands with both men. ‘Right,’ he said, ‘what can you tell me about this business? You’ve found a murder victim and you think his death might be related to terrorism?’

  ‘It might be,’ Mason conceded, ‘just because of the way this man was killed.’ He explained the injuries the pathologist had found on the corpse.

  ‘Where’s the body?’ Richter enquired.

  Mason glanced at his watch. ‘By now, it should have reached the mortuary. We’re still processing the crime scene here, but in a few minutes we’ll go down there and see what else the pathologist can tell us about the victim.’

  ‘I gather this man wasn’t carrying any identification?’

  ‘Only this.’ Mason showed Richter the card The Ghoul had found in the dead man’s pocket.

  ‘It looks like a hotel room key card.’

  ‘That’s what we think, too,’ Mason agreed.

  ‘If you need any help tracing it, let me know, and I can send a request through Five for an expedited search. Do you mind if I tag along with you to the mortuary?’

  ‘I don’t suppose I really have a choice here, so be my guest.’

  Forty minutes later, Richter was standing in the mortuary beside Mason, looking down at the mutilated corpse of the man he’d known only as Helmut Kleber, now lying naked on a dissection table. The Ghoul hadn’t yet started the full post-mortem, but he had completed the external examination.

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ Richter muttered. ‘What the hell did they use on him – a hedge-trimmer?’

  ‘At the moment, I don’t know,’ the pathologist replied, ‘but my guess is some kind of short-bladed knife, very sharp. Now, it looks pretty much as I suggested to you at the scene,’ he went on, turning to Mason. ‘This man’s been whipped, beaten and burnt, probably in that order, and finally disembowelled. The implement used to beat him was unusual in one respect. Most whips taper, but this one appeared to have the same thickness throughout, which probably means it wasn’t actually a whip as such.’

  ‘You mean like a length of steel cable?’ Mason asked.

  ‘Yes, but probably not exactly that, because there’s no evidence of striations or marks within the wounds, which you’d expect from a metal cable. A steel bar is a possibility, though that too would probably have done more damage. My guess is some kind of plastic-covered heavy-duty electric flex, something like that.’

  ‘And all the other injuries?’ Richter asked. ‘Anything special about them?’

  Apart from the savagery involved, no. The other bruising was probably caused by fists or feet, or both, and the burning with a regular commercial blowtorch, the kind a chef would use in a kitchen or a handyman in his workshop. You can easily pick one up in any hardware store. The fingertips, as I mentioned, were severed with something like a bolt-cropper. Two blades, cutting from either side of the digit.’

  ‘So it looks as if whoever did this probably bought the tools in advance, and then drove the victim up to the wood under restraint to do the job. And you’re right,’ Richter added. ‘This was most likely an interrogation, with one guy asking him questions while the other supplied the persuasion. And afterwards they did their best to make the identification of the victim nearly impossible.’

  ‘What do you reckon, then?’ Mason asked him. ‘Is it possible this could be terrorist-related?’

  ‘Definitely,’ Richter said, staring at the terribly mutilated corpse in front of them and wondering how much – or how little – he should be telling Mason about the dead man. ‘Let me have the results of the autopsy once it’s finished.’ He handed Mason a card with his mobile number written on it. ‘Please keep me posted about that key card. I’d like to be there when you search his hotel room. You could also,’ he suggested, ‘keep your eyes open for an abandoned car. If he took a hotel room, he might also have hired a vehicle. If you can, I’d suggest getting a picture of his face out to your local police stations for circulation to all vehicle hire companies, that kind of thing.’

  ‘That was my plan, actually,’ Mason replied in a world-weary tone, ‘once the doc’s cleaned him up a bit.’

  Richter decided to add something. ‘When you start canvassing hotels, you’ll probably find he was registered under the name “Helmut Kleber”.’

  ‘How the hell do you know that?’

  ‘I know,’ Richter said, ‘because I spent a couple of hours last night talking to him in Maidstone nick. This is the guy who walked in yesterday, claiming he was carrying a lump of Semtex.’

  ‘Shit,’ the inspector muttered. ‘I heard about that. And you’ve no idea who did this to him, I suppose?’

  ‘None at all,’ Richter said, though in truth he knew exactly who was responsible, and why. ‘One last thing. There are international security implications in this matter. I realize a large number of people will now know you’ve found a dead body in the woods, but can you please ensure that’s all the information that’s released? No further specul
ation about his identity, or the way he was killed. If pushed, you can suggest that his death might be gangland-related.’

  ‘Why the caution, exactly?’

  ‘Because there are two different people I now want to track down. One is the man who physically did this to him, but the other is the guy who issued the orders – and right now I’ve no idea who they are. What I do know is that, if Kleber’s boss finds out he’s dead, I’ll probably never be able to identify him.’

  Rochester, Kent

  Morschel had bought the combined GPS navigator and linked universal autopilot system in Germany, because he had needed an outfit equipped with two particular features, and he was unsure if he’d be able to find a suitable unit in Britain.

  Once he’d checked that he had all the components locked in his car, Morschel called Hagen on the mobile and told him to meet at the marina, and to buy a heavy-duty 12-volt battery and a mains-powered battery charger on his way there. They would have to spend the rest of the afternoon installing the system on the boat, and then making sure that it worked properly. If they found any serious problems with it, they might have to postpone the start of the operation, and Morschel really didn’t want to have to do that. Everything was now prepared for Monday afternoon, and if they couldn’t make that deadline they would be obliged to wait for the next high tide. It would still work, he knew, but there was a very good reason why next Monday was the optimum date.

  Maidstone, Kent

  Richter had stopped for lunch at a pub just off the A2, and his mobile rang as he was finishing a plate of fairly average steak and chips.

  ‘This is DI Mason,’ the caller said. ‘We think we’ve traced the hotel. One of my men recognized the logo, and we’ve contacted the head office of that particular hotel chain. Though they use the same format of card for all their establishments, they’re colour-coded for different towns. The card we found was dark blue, which means Maidstone. The manager’s expecting us shortly. And you’re right: they did have a guest who checked in under the name “Helmut Kleber”.’