by A P Bateman
King was in no doubt this was the dead man’s accomplice. But why hadn’t they waited in the house? Why had they sat back on the side lines? They had proved to be an ineffective back-up, and little use as a getaway driver. King swept across the field once more with the rifle scope. He turned slowly and surveyed the house. Maybe the person had not seen what had transpired. Perhaps this was part of the plan, a secondary rendezvous. He could hear distant sirens. That was it. The driver of the getaway vehicle had pulled ahead out of sight.
King turned in the direction of the sound of sirens. He guessed the police hadn’t listened to the brief. Their blue strobes lit up the night sky as they filed single file down the lane. An ambulance followed. He turned briefly in the direction of the vehicle on the other side of the hedge, but saw that it was driving away, distant tail lights fading out of sight. He looked back at the cottage, where the lights of the first police car illuminated the body on the ground.
King took a few steps towards the cottage. He lowered the weapon, carrying it by its frame in his right hand, barrel backwards and butt first, a universally unthreatening way to transport a weapon. Armed police officers had filed out of the lead vehicle. King raised his left hand, raised his right to his waist, his arm outstretched. He considered dropping the weapon altogether, Cornish armed police didn’t get out much and the sight of a man with a FAMAS walking towards them may prove too much to take in and get those trigger fingers twitching.
The thud happened a second before the white light. King felt it vibrate in his internal organs – a wave of pressure and nauseous unsteadiness. His entire equilibrium off kilter, for just hundredths of a second. The secondary noise, the immense explosion left his ears ringing and his eyes momentarily blinded by white light. He dropped onto his knees, involuntarily, then rolled as his senses caught up. His senses were acute; the police were not so experienced. And they were closer.
The glass blew out of the windows and showered onto the armed officers in the driveway. Splinters of wood and pieces of rubble and what was left of the interior of the cottage smashed into the vehicles, and personnel who were lucky enough to be near their vehicles ducked down for cover. Some were luckier than others, who bore the brunt of it upon their heads.
There was a scene of confusion as police officers were torn between keeping cover or tending to their colleagues, and the chain of command was lost in the ensuing panic. King got back to his feet. The cottage was gone. The whole façade was open, and the roof had dropped four or five feet. Fire had broken out and the flames licked at the ceiling, the wooden staircase and fixtures. There was a loud popping noise and King figured it was the first of the four live .357 magnum rounds cooking off in the heat. One of the armed police officers returned a volley of fire at the cottage and prompted two more to do the same, as the burning ammunition fired back at them. One of the armed officers, King presumed him to be the team leader, shouted to ‘cease fire’ and after a few seconds of confusion, the armed officers started to tend to their wounded colleagues.
King looked at the burning cottage in dismay. He had seen explosions like it before. Used them too. A secondary incendiary of phosphorous, burning at over one-thousand degrees Celsius and propelled outwards both by the detonation and gaseous backdraft from the initial ignition of the incendiary. A bomb of three parts. Specialist equipment.
King searched the chaos for a senior officer, he guessed that the man in his fifties, dressed in plain attire, was his best bet. The man was of medium height and weight and wore a drab raincoat. He looked ruffled, but King would bet he hadn’t looked much better before the explosion. He was speaking into a mobile phone, standing over the body of the gunman and looking like his world had shifted on its axis and he would never get it back. Some of the armed police officers nearer to the burning building were hobbling away, helped by officers who had been further away and protected by the vehicles. King quickly ascertained that there had been no fatalities, and the paramedics at the ambulance were busy organising a makeshift triage.
King walked out from the darkness of the field and walked up to the officer. “Who’s in charge?” he asked.
The man spun around, recoiled when he saw the assault rifle, but the decision-making part of his brain soon discounted King as a threat. Maybe it had been the relaxed posture. “I am,” he said. “Detective Chief Inspector Trevarth. You must be the MI5 guy.”
King nodded. “Shame you didn’t catch the brief.”
“I was informed of a lethal shooting,” he said. “I’m not putting my officers at risk turning up unarmed.”
“Yes, I can see they’re worth their weight in lead,” King replied sardonically. “Nobody could foresee the explosion, but I’m surprised they all rocked up in one vehicle and didn’t set up a cordon.”
“They didn’t know what to expect.”
“Then they should have been wary,” King mused. “Or I suggest they knew there was no threat, as you were briefed by my control, and no doubt briefed them in turn, and were merely a show of force because MI5 are operating on your patch and you don’t like it.”
“The police don’t work for MI5.”
“They do tonight,” King said. “And the last time I checked, the boys in blue work for the British government. So tonight, by default, you’ve gone against orders and created your very own shit storm. All you needed to do was dispatch a couple of detectives, or come in person alone, supervise the Home Office coroners to take control of the body and have a run through the Official Secrets Act,” King paused. “Familiarise yourself with national security protocols.”
DCI Trevarth looked dumbly at King, then glanced back at the officers gathering around the ambulance and damaged police vehicles. “I…” he hesitated and looked back at King anxiously. “Shit, what do I do now?”
“Damage control, you mean?”
The detective nodded. He looked up and stared at the blue strobes of the approaching convoy of fire engines and ambulances. He shrugged. “I suppose.”
King looked over his head. It was getting worse. Two lights approached in the sky. King looked back at the detective. “Get two officers into the field. A torch in each hand. Position them twenty-metres from the hedges, fifty-metres apart. Get them to hold each torch at arms-length and kneel down.”
“But…”
“But nothing, Trevarth,” King paused. “For the moment, you have a pension. Do what I say, and you may just keep it.”
15
“Well, it’s a cluster fuck, this little lot, isn’t it?”
King waved a hand towards the burning cottage. Two fire engines, or tenders, were spraying the flames with hoses, there was no threat to life, so the rest of the firefighters were milling around, waiting to take a turn with the hoses. “I’d offer you a cup of tea,” King paused and shrugged at Neil Ramsay, the designated officer for the operation. “But the kitchen is in a bit of a mess.”
“So…” he said, looking at DCI Trevarth. “This little lot is down to you, is it?”
The detective was about to speak, when King cut in. “I heard that an off-duty officer heard gunshots, couldn’t get a signal on his mobile and roused the troops personally.”
“Really?” Ramsay said incredulously. “Which station?”
“Fal…” King was cut off.
“Camborne!” Trevarth interjected. “I’ll file a report later. Your orders crossed with the duty sergeant, who got this lot together.”
“I think the DCI was just a few minutes too late to stop the procession,” said King. “Shame, but those are the breaks.”
“Right,” Ramsay said, somewhat dubiously. But he had a story to go back with and years in the field mopping up mistakes had taught him not to dig too deep, and not to question enough to know all the facts. If he didn’t know everything, then the buck could be passed on. “Well, I can tell we’re in the bloody countryside. Something to do with all the bullshit I can smell around here…”
King shrugged. “Well, nobody could have foreseen t
he incendiary device. The fire brigade would have to have come out for an explosion.”
“The what?” Trevarth frowned. “Incendiary?”
“He means the gas explosion,” Ramsay said nonchalantly. “Left the bloody gas on. Careless really.”
“Incredibly,” said King. “Seeing as I have an electric combi-boiler and a log fire.”
The flames were dying, but the firefighters were still busy with the hoses. The walking wounded had been taken to hospital in Truro and two detectives were assisting the Home Office coroner and forensic scientist who had travelled in one of the helicopters. Two MI5 officers, both ex-Metropolitan police MIT detectives, were comparing notes next to the body, which was now being secured in a body bag. The FAMAS rifle had been declared safe by one of the firearms officers, and bagged and tagged. King’s Smith & Wesson revolver was still inside the burning building. As a piece of evidence, it would surely be useless. The MI5 officers had gathered the local police and medical crews together, along with a rotation of firefighters, to go through what events had transpired and sign the Official Secrets Act.
King watched the smouldering building. He was left feeling confused, his emotions torn. In some way, the destruction of the cottage signified the final materiel piece of his wife’s existence, severed forever. He knew that he should feel devastated, but in truth, it came as a relief. As if hanging onto this one piece of her had curtailed him from moving on completely. The flames had not yet died, but he already knew he would move on without looking back. The insurance would be paid and the property re-built, but he would sell. His life was with Caroline now and they would buy a place together, start from scratch. Build their own memories, good or bad, create their own history. The feeling was almost invigorating. Caroline had made this past year better, but he now knew he could look forward to better things to come.
“…wouldn’t you say, Alex?”
King looked away from the fire. Ramsay stood there with his cell-phone. DCI Trevarth was walking away towards the police vehicles. “Sorry?” he asked.
“I said, I suppose a bed for the night is out of the question,” Ramsay repeated. “Are you okay?”
“Fine,” he said. “Just got shot at, killed a man and watched my marital home burned to the ground.”
“Well, you could have my problems. I mean, is there ever a fucking phone signal down here? We came a couple of years back for a few days, I don’t think I had a two-bar signal for the entire holiday. Do you know how bloody tedious teenage girls can be without a phone signal?” He tapped on the home screen once more, then held the phone aloft, as if an extra half-metre would solve his problems. “Bloody place!”
“You could use my house phone.”
“Funny.” Ramsay scoffed. “Have you got funds?”
“Company card.”
“That will do,” he said curtly. “I’m flying back to London with the body. You have a return to London from Newquay, am I right?”
“Yes.”
“Well, better not waste it then. Get back to London by the afternoon for a briefing. You’d better find a hotel for the night. I would offer you a lift, but I’m sure you need to get your hire car back to the airport. Besides, there will be no room with the body and all.”
“The car’s full of holes.”
“Bloody hell,” he said. “That’s the company’s deposit lost now.”
King did not know whether the man was joking or not, but he suspected he was quite serious. He shrugged like it didn’t matter. He’d get back to London when he was finished here and not before. He had other matters to attend to. He wasn’t about to tell Ramsay that, the man was on a clean-up mission and would not take the news well. All he was focused on was getting MI5’s presence out of this mess and back where it could be controlled effectively.
Ramsay pocketed the phone and shook his head. “You’ll need to file a report back at Thames House. Take your time and get it right. I don’t want repercussions, just something that will close the file and keep it closed,” he said.
King nodded. “You can get a signal at the end of the lane. There’s a lot of granite here, and the trees seem to cut the signal off further in spring and summer.” Ramsay looked at him incredulously. King added, “In winter, the trees are bare, so it doesn’t affect the signal so much. In the summer, they are full with leaves.”
“Bugger me, what a place!” He shook his head. “It’s okay, I’ll wait until we’re airborne. Now, go and find a place to stay.”
16
King had adopted the soldier’s mantra of eating and sleeping when he could. There were enough periods of activity for it to have made no significant difference to his waistline. He worked out regularly, with daily routines he could perform anywhere. These were complimented by runs and swims. He used kettle bells, but didn’t lift heavy weights, always preferring instead to use his own bodyweight, either pulling himself up or doing push-ups or squats. He had learned the importance of getting out of trouble more quickly than he had got into it by running. He didn’t jog. He ran at a pace which would lose marathon runners or middle-distance runners, but he could do it for five miles. He could run at a full sprint for three minutes before slowing. He hadn’t run any distance for a while, but the last time he had he had carried a rifle, thirty-pounds of equipment and an eleven-stone wounded colleague for sixty-miles in the Syrian heat by day, and below zero by night. So today, in keeping with the hotel, he decided to ignore the gym or the opportunity for a run along the promenade and sit down for a full English breakfast and several cups of tea.
The restaurant at the St. Michael’s Hotel afforded King a spectacular view of Falmouth Bay overlooking Gyllyngvase Beach. Even so, King had chosen his table carefully, aligning his back to a pillar whilst still able to keep his eye on the entrance to the restaurant.
Old habits die hard, old warriors died harder.
The sea glistened silver in the rising sun and was as flat and calm as a millpond. The sky was blue and cloudless. King took in the view, the restaurant’s surroundings, and wished Caroline was with him to share it. He hadn’t spoken to her for two days. It was protocol. She was on a mission; it would be up to her to make contact. You never broke the rule.
He saw movement out of the corner of his right eye. He took in a casual glance, stopped in his tracks. Amanda Cunningham spoke to a member of the waiting staff. King knew she was relaying her room number and would be told to pick a table. The hotel was quiet. Just as long as a single guest or couple didn’t go and sit on a table set for six it wouldn’t be a big deal. He watched her hover at her table, listen to the waitress, nodded a few times and King could lip read her asking for coffee. She took a short walk to the buffet table and came back with an orange juice. She looked around the restaurant at her fellow diners and King caught her eye. He waved discreetly, and she frowned. She wandered over, the frown growing.
“What are you doing here?” she asked. “Are you following me?”
She hovered uncomfortably, and King beckoned her to take a seat. “If I were, then surely, I would be in Truro?” he replied. “That’s where you said you were staying, right?”
She was midway through sitting, looked perplexed as she sat down. “No, I…”
“Truro,” he said. “I can’t think how I’d confuse that.” He dipped his knife into a rosette of butter. “I was worried when you left, last night. I drove into Truro and scouted about.”
“I can’t think why,” she said. The waitress arrived with a pot of coffee and cream. She didn’t say anything as she placed them down beside the upturned cup. “Thanks,” she said to her, then looked back to King. “No, I don’t recall saying that I was staying in Truro. So, what are you doing here?”
“They do a good breakfast,” King replied, not wanting to elaborate on the events that had transpired after she had left. He shrugged like it was nothing and decided not to bring up the fact she had been seriously over the limit. He hadn’t been an angel in his past life, certainly wasn’t going to ge
t evangelical about it. “So, are you going back to Sir Ian Snell’s house this morning? Or the Jameson’s?”
She sipped from her cup. She had made the coffee creamy and sweet. “I wasn’t planning on it.”
“Really?”
“No. Why do you ask?”
“You’re all wrapped up, then?”
“I am performing the autopsy on the body. Snell’s body.”
King nodded. “I think you should do the Jameson family as well.”
“What?”
King had spread marmalade on the wholemeal toast and took a bite. He had used a lot of butter and it dripped down his chin. He dabbed it with the back of his hand, realised he wasn’t in a wadi in Iraq or Syria and used his cotton napkin. “Transference,” he said. “The spread of DNA through fibres, materials, particles or liquids.”
“I know what transference is,” she said sharply. “I’m the one with the PHD.”
“And I watch CSI.” He moved his toast as the waitress swept in and placed a plate in front of him. He smiled a thank you and picked up his knife and fork. “Apparently, they usually have a buffet, but the kitchen is cooking to order because it’s so quiet. I had to bribe her to double up.”
Amanda looked at his plate of food, pulled a face. She stood up and smiled. “You’ll have a coronary with all that fried food,” she said. “Trust me, I’ve seen enough clogged arteries to know. I’m going to get some fruit.”
King watched her walk to the buffet table. The irony that she had drank a month’s worth of alcohol units in a night wasn’t lost on him as she left to fetch her healthy alternative. He buttered more toast and folded it around a slice of bacon, dipping it in the egg yolk. He didn’t factor in lunch, so had decided to make hay. It was on expenses after all.
Amanda came back with a large fruit salad and a bowl of yoghurt. She picked over the fruit with a fork. “There will be no transference at Snell’s house. He was killed with a bullet at long range.”
