by Thomas Ryan
“How about manpower?” Red asked. “There are a lot of doors in the area.”
“Sorry, guys, for the moment you’re it,” Moana said.
Her boss had none-too-politely informed Moana that extra personnel would not be forthcoming. Manning shortages had affected the whole country and other districts were in the same boat, her D. I. had ranted, parroting the words of the area commander. None of them had complained, he had said, stabbing the air with his forefinger as he said it.
Moana didn’t believe for one minute that no one else had complained. Of course she had kept these thoughts to herself. She had two boys in university. Education wasn’t cheap and her salary barely covered her living expenses as it was. The increase in salary from her promotion to senior sergeant was going to be a big help and she was not about to toss it away.
She pinned the identikit on the crime board next to the Auckland Central City street map.
“I’ve marked the territories and put you in pairs. Get round as quickly as possible and don’t cut corners. Remember our offender is a dangerous man. We need to find him. Any questions?”
There were none. As her team filed from the room Moana eased back into her seat. Forensics had recovered hair and skin samples from the assault on Mary Sumner. She didn’t expect a match to be found but they might get lucky. Not surprisingly there were no finger prints. No doubt the offender had worn gloves.
Moana picked up the file of reports close to hand and began scanning through it. Forensics had swept the apartment but turned up very little. If Mary Sumner’s flatmate had been away Mary would be dead. Of that she had little doubt, and the piece of paper inside a plastic folder supported her thinking. The note from the killer had left her flabbergasted. The message included a name she knew from the newspapers but someone she had never met. Well, that was about to change.
Mary had not been shown the note. The first police officers on the scene had seen it for what it was, a message from the man who assaulted her and they had removed it before it was seen. Moana was still deciding when Mary should be informed. A few days either way would make little difference.
She had ordered patrol cars and beat police to stop and question any suspicious-looking characters walking alone at night. Moana laughed out loud as she thought of the instruction. Auckland was a twenty-four-hour city. The streets filled with suspicious-looking characters every night.
The words the intruder had left on the note worried her. The attack on Mary Sumner was only the beginning. Did he have a list or was he right now compiling one? Another attempted murder or, God forbid, a successful one and the words ‘Serial Killer in Town’ might bump the USS Ulysses visit off the front page. The killer was out there waiting to pounce. But where the hell was he?
A knock on the door interrupted her reverie.
Recognising the man who entered the room, Moana rose from her chair. At over six feet tall, he walked shoulders back with his head slightly raised in a challenging manner. His charcoal suit was neatly pressed, his shirt gleamed white and his burgundy-red tie was neatly knotted. Light brown hair had been neatly trimmed and his face looked freshly shaved, shoes highly polished. That he carried himself with military aplomb came as no surprise to Moana; Inspector Brian Cunningham had been a Special Forces officer for years before joining the police force.
“Inspector Cunningham, good to see you, sir.”
“I hear congratulations are in order, Moana. Well done. You deserve the promotion.”
They shook hands. Moana offered an uneasy smile.
“I take it your visit is business, not pleasure?”
“I read the early morning report on the two women who were attacked last night. I have an interest.”
Moana arched her eyebrows. “You’re kidding me. This is way out of your jurisdiction.”
“The attack, yes. The note, no.”
Moana cast an eye down at the document left by the attacker. What was in the note that would be of concern to Cunningham?
8.
A client request and a court session delayed Quentin’s visit to the Central Police station. He and Jeff walked through the main entrance in the late afternoon and a constable escorted them through to Moana Te Kanawa’s office; a box without a window. Moana had managed to squeeze in a desk, a filing cabinet and three chairs, a small leather settee against the wall, and a tiny dark lacquered wood coffee table in front of it. A small stand held a pot plant. Two prints of beach scenes hung on the walls. The result was cramped but Moana’s furnishing skills had distinguished it from a drab linen closet.
An unopened copy of the morning Herald had been dumped on the coffee table. The headline read: ‘Women Attacked in Apartment’.
“Hey, Quentin.” Moana rose from her chair to greet her guests.
“Moana. Meet Jeff Bradley,” said Quentin.
They shook hands.
Quentin noticed Jeff stiffen at the sight of the man in the charcoal suit who was leaning silently against the wall. He had never seen the heavy-set cop before but obviously Jeff had.
Moana said, “Inspector Brian Cunningham is sitting in on the meeting. He’s here as an observer. The Inspector is with the Special Tactics Group.”
“Hello, Jeff.”
“Brian. It’s been a while.”
“You two know each other?” Moana asked.
“We’ve met,” Jeff said, not taking his eyes off the police inspector. “Brian and I served in the special forces together. He was my CO.”
Quentin noted Cunningham had not held out his hand to Jeff and Jeff had not offered his.
Moana pointed to two chairs. “Take a seat, gentlemen. How are Ann and Mary, Quentin?”
“Much better. Jeannie’s been fussing over them. I’ve hired a security firm to watch over the house.”
“I’d like to say it isn’t necessary but I’d be misleading you. Sorry I don’t have the men to provide police protection. Can I offer either of you tea or coffee?”
Quentin shook his head. Jeff said nothing, just kept his eyes on Cunningham. The policeman had not sat down. The hostility in Jeff’s demeanour made Quentin shift in his seat. He crossed his legs and took a pen from his pocket. Began clicking the end. If Moana had noticed she hadn’t as yet reacted.
“Right,” Moana said, addressing Quentin. “How can I help?”
“My main concern is for Mary. We want your thoughts on whether or not he’ll try again. She’s intent on moving back into her apartment and if she stays any longer at my house, well . . . I have a family to consider. I hate that I might be putting them in danger,” Quentin said. “However you’ve pretty much answered my question. I guess for the moment keep Mary at my house and beef up security.”
Moana was about to respond but Cunningham interrupted.
“Unfortunately, Quentin, I can say for certain that he will try again. He’ll know the two women will be protected for the immediate future. If he can’t get at Mary he will choose another target.”
Jeff raised an eyebrow. “Really? How can you know that?”
“Call it copper instinct,” Cunningham said.
“Come on, Brian, you can do better than that.”
“What Inspector Cunningham means is that we have reason to believe this man is determined to murder Mary. Let’s say he is obsessed,” Moana said.
“Bloody hell,” Quentin said. “How can you possibly know that?”
Jeff said, “If he has been hanging around Quentin’s office do you think either of us might have seen him?”
“Interesting point; and that’s a very real possibility. Mary helped us put together an identikit picture.” Moana opened a manila folder on her desk and pushed the identikit towards Quentin.
“No I don’t know him,” Quentin said and passed the picture to Jeff. Jeff studied it for a few moments and then gave it back to Moana.
“I do
n’t recognise him either.”
Moana shrugged. “It was worth a shot.”
Cunningham kept his eyes on Jeff. The intensity of his stare had Quentin second guessing. He had spent enough time in courtrooms and considered himself a fair student of body language. In Cunningham he saw expectation. He had seen it enough times in the faces of prisoners in the dock about to hear the foreman of the jury read the verdict. What the hell was going on? Moana pushed a second document across the table. A photograph of a piece of paper with scrawled words across it.
“Jeff, this is for you to look at,” Moana said.
Jeff rose from his seat and quickly scanned the document then stepped back and spun on Cunningham.
Cunningham smiled.
“What the fuck is this?” Jeff said, stabbing his finger onto the document, eyes narrowed, voice ice cold.
“I think you know exactly what it is, Jeff. And what it means.”
9.
Senior Sergeant Te Kanawa’s mouth opened, but she shut it when Cunningham caught her eye and gave a slight shake of the head. The message from the Inspector was clear; let this play out, see where it takes us. Jeff caught the exchange between the two and ignored it. Cunningham had always played games, so why the hell would he change now.
The bile in Jeff’s stomach commenced a series of small eruptions. His shoulders sagged and he reached out to the wall to balance himself, fearful he was about to topple.
Cunningham said, “As you can see, Jeff, the message from the killer is addressed to you. It was taped to the kitchen cupboard in Mary Sumner’s apartment. She hasn’t been told yet but eventually she will need to know.”
Quentin read the words out loud. “ ‘Jeff Bradley, you killed someone close to me and now I will kill those close to you and then I will cut your throat.’ Bloody hell,” he whispered.
Jeff rubbed the bridge of his nose, quickly recalling his time with the SAS. Had he assassinated anyone? No. Not ever with the squadron. What then? The only conflicts he could recall in recent times were in Kosovo. The Akbar brothers: but Halam was dead and Zahar in the custody of the Americans. They would never have released him. Could he have escaped? No. Not possible. And yet . . . All the troubles he had experienced during his trip to Kosovo came flooding back.
Jeff turned away from the table, now composed, his stomach no longer threatening to throw up. Cunningham started to speak but Jeff held up his hand. He needed time. Cunningham returned to leaning against the wall. Jeff could have as much time as he wanted. Moana remained passive. Puzzled, but experienced enough not to interfere.
“Jesus,” Jeff mumbled, but loud enough for all to hear.
“Tell us what’s on your mind, Jeff?” Cunningham asked.
“Not yet, Brian, I might be wrong.” It was too fantastic, too much a coincidence. Jeff looked at the identikit photo again. “I have never seen this man before but I know someone who has. I’ll phone him.”
“This is the man in Kosovo, Barry Briggs,” Cunningham said.
“You’ve been checking up on me,” Jeff said.
“When I heard of that message left by the killer, I pulled all the data on your little escapade. I also called in a few favours and saw the SAS intel reports. Barry Briggs, Morgan Delaney and an Albanian Kosovan, Sulla Bogdani, helped you bring down a terrorist network. At the top of the list of the terror shitheads were the Akbar brothers. You killed Halam. If this message is from Zahar Akbar then we really do have a puzzle. According to the reports Zahar Akbar was in the hands of the Americans. Was there another brother?”
Jeff shrugged. “Not that I’m aware of.”
Cunningham said, “What is even more puzzling is why make it public. Why not just keep his mouth shut?”
Jeff shrugged then pulled out his mobile phone and opened his contacts list. He hit the dial icon.
After three rings, it was answered. “Hello there, Barry speaking.”
Jeff held his finger up to Cunningham, a signal to wait. “Barry, it’s Jeff Bradley.”
“How are you, mate? How’s Kiwi land?” Barry said, his usual buoyant self bringing a smile from Jeff.
“Barry, this isn’t a social call. Halam Akbar’s brother. Would you still remember what he looked like?”
“Bloody oath I would. I’ll never forget what that little shit looks like. What do you need to know for? Do the Yanks need him identified?”
“Something like that, what’s your email address?”
Jeff made a writing gesture with his spare hand. Moana slid a pad and pen across the table. Jeff jotted down Barry’s email details.
“Okay, I’m going to send through an artist’s sketch in the next few minutes. I’ll call you back in five. Tell me if you know him.”
“I’ll be waiting.”
Jeff turned to Cunningham and held up the identikit. “Can this be scanned and sent through to this email address? He’s waiting for it.”
Cunningham said, “I’m only an observer here, Jeff. You’ll need to ask Senior Sergeant Te Kanawa.”
Moana glanced at the piece of paper. Uncertain. Jeff knew what she was thinking. This was way outside the rule book.
“What’s this all about, Jeff?” she asked, looking at the sheet of paper and the email address.
“I need confirmation that this is who I think it is. Five minutes.”
Moana nodded. “Okay, I’ll go send it.”
Jeff paced. He hoped he was wrong. The implications did not bear thinking about if he was right.
“Jeff. What the hell is going on?” Quentin had had enough.
Jeff ignored him. He checked his watch then he redialled Barry Briggs’s number. He pushed the speaker button and placed his mobile in the centre of the table. It rang twice before Barry answered.
“Tell me, Barry.”
“Well if his body is slightly built and he is about 5’ 10” in height then that’s bloody Zahar Akbar, Jeff.”
“The height is right but he’s beefed up a bit. This guy isn’t slightly built.”
“Maybe he’s been lifting weights. Eating too much grub. But this face is his, Jeff.”
“No doubts at all?” Jeff asked.
“No mate. No doubts at all.”
“Thanks, Barry.”
Jeff reached for his mobile and closed it. He sat down and began drumming his fingers on the table.
Kosovo.
When he had returned from the Balkans to recover from his injuries, he thought he had put that blasted country behind him. Now it seemed the former Yugoslav province had tracked him down. A tsunami of memories flooded his brain. Right now he could choose to walk away. Fat chance. If he was the cause of the attack on Mary and worse, if others close to him were in danger then he had little choice, he had to protect his friends. Zahar Akbar worked for the man responsible for the death of Arben Shala, Jeff’s former vineyard manager. There would be no running away. He would hunt Zahar down and put an end to it.
“Jeff, how well do you know this Akbar?” Moana asked, breaking into his thoughts.
“Zahar Akbar, not a lot. He’s a terrorist I came up against in Kosovo. I killed his brother and the man I spoke to on the phone captured Zahar. I never saw Zahar in the flesh. His brother Halam I’d recognise in an instant but he’s dead.”
Jeff continued to mislead everyone into believing he killed Halam Akbar but he had not. Morgan Delaney, an American woman who would forever hold a place in his heart, had fired the fatal shots and saved his life. To protect her from reprisals from the people the Akbars worked for, he had taken responsibility for the kill. The four or five who knew the truth would never tell. Now it seemed his decision to do so was correct.
“Moana, whatever this guy is up to in New Zealand,” Jeff said, “I can guarantee murder is a sideline.”
“Care to explain?”
“The brothers are, were,
international terrorists but not with a cause. They work on contract. You pay the money, the Akbar brothers do the dirty work and whoever hired them takes the credit. They started life as Palestinian refugees and learnt their particular expertise in killing in a variety of Islamic training camps.” Jeff turned to Cunningham. “You know the type.”
Cunningham nodded.
“They are very good at what they do. They especially like to blow people up. The more the merrier. In my opinion it’s unlikely Zahar Akbar would risk travelling to New Zealand to avenge his brother; I think finding me here is a bonus. And I think it unlikely he came to kill a few innocent people. He could do that anywhere. The question that needs asking is, what is the real objective? I would add it would be safer to assume he’s not alone.”
“There is the submarine. That would be an obvious target for a terrorist,” Moana said.
“These guys aren’t suicide bombers. Or at least Halam wasn’t. I assume his brother is the same. They’re only interested in money. Security round the sub will be tight. There is no way they could get close enough to plant an explosive and live.”
“Maybe not the submarine directly then but I think them being here at the time of the visit can’t be put down to coincidence.”
“I don’t disagree,” Jeff said. “The two events are definitely related. As I said, the brothers were bombers. They loved to blow up crowded streets. Maximum casualties.”
Cunningham butted into the conversation, “Like a crowd of thousands of protestors?”
Jeff nodded. He noted Quentin’s eyes flick between himself and Cunningham, confused that he and Cunningham had switched from hostility to civility. Not forced. Quentin had never been in the military. He had no understanding that when on ops personal grievances were put to the side. He wasn’t about to try and explain the nuances of soldiering to a man whose most exciting adventure was playing in a rock band and giving autographs to teeny-boppers. He would never get it.
