by A P Bateman
“Dark hair, tanned or dark skin, foreign, or at least foreign to a South African. A bit vague on that. A scar on his cheek. Cold eyes.”
“That’s not a lot,” Mereweather commented flatly.
“It’s a start,” said King.
Caroline shrugged. “Badenhorst said he was a supreme shot though. He shot a springbok at seven-hundred yards with a varmint rifle.”
“That’s good?” Amherst asked. “What the bloody hell is a springbok? It’s a rugby team, isn’t it?”
“A gazelle,” Caroline said. “Like a deer.”
Ramsay looked at Mereweather. “Sounds good, is it good?”
Mereweather shrugged. “What’s a varmint rifle?”
“Trust me, that’s good,” said King. “Highly dubious, even. It’s that good.”
“He hit both the brothers at over five-thousand metres,” Caroline added. “Closer to six.”
King nodded. The marksman was out of his league, he wouldn’t mind admitting it. But it was the shot from the farmhouse across the valley that intrigued him the most. Why had they taken three shots to hit Snell? It didn’t sit right with him. Nothing ventured, he threw it out there, “That’s all well and good,” said King. “But he’s not the same sniper that shot Ian Snell.”
“That, again,” Amherst said. “Amanda Cunningham was adamant that Snell was shot.”
“Oh, he was shot alright. There was never any doubt about that,” King said. “But he wasn’t killed by the bullet. He was dead long before he was shot.”
“How do you figure?” asked Amherst, a little impatiently.
“I found two more bullets at the scene. Two bullets that Amanda Cunningham missed during her investigation of the crime scene. Each one would have smashed into that granite wall like a stone hammer. It would have made a hell of a lot of noise.”
“You know that for a fact?” Mereweather asked.
“I’ve had enough rounds land near me to know, Simon. And I know some of the heavier Russian or Soviet stock long-range stuff, similar in size to that of point-three-three-eight, makes a serious amount of noise hitting a wall next to you.”
Merewether shrugged. “Fair enough.”
“And then there would be the echo. Supressed or not, there would have been the sonic boom from the bullet breaking the sound barrier, if not the sound of the gunshot itself. Snell would have heard. No doubt about it. That would mean he would have moved. Even if it was just looking up at the direction of the noise. So, it would have been less likely for the third shot to be on target, not more likely. Now, I pulled his medical records and discovered that Sir Ian Snell was a diabetic,” King said. “Type one. He was on meds, which he controlled. He’d had to control it for most of his life, so he would have been good at it. Known what he was doing. When the autopsy was performed, I was hoping there would be a spike in insulin in his system. I believe that someone coated the cups with pure, concentrated glucose and allowed it to dry to a residue. Undetectable by taste, but it is what caused his diabetic coma. Snell was out cold when the shots were taken. And whoever the sniper was, they needed two sighting rounds, because the sniper who killed Snell was not the same sniper who killed the other three men on the list.”
“But Amanda Cunningham did not detect anything untoward.” Amherst turned over some pages in front of him. “Here, toxicology report - negative for barbiturates or substances of any kind.”
“Interesting,” said King. “Because the insulin that he injected daily to control his diabetes would have shown up. Had Amanda had his medical records, she would have seen that.”
“But surely she had his records?” Amherst asked.
King smiled. “Ramsay?”
Ramsey sat up in his seat. “Right, okay. So, at King’s request, I arranged for Snell’s records to omit certain, details.”
“Why would you think to request that?” Caroline asked incredulously.
“Why wouldn’t I?” King countered. “I wanted a clean slate. I wanted an autopsy without doubt. And I had my doubts.”
“Which were?” Mereweather asked.
“Nobody stopped to ask why Amanda Cunningham was assigned the case. She’s twenty-years younger than most lead pathologists, this was her biggest case by far and she is a Home Office employee, with little outstanding professional accomplishments behind her. She was chosen for this, for a reason. And the directive came from the Home Secretary’s office. She was requested.”
“By Sir Hugo Hollandrake?” Caroline asked, disbelievingly.
“I was already investigating Sir Hugo. Too much of a coincidence in my book,” replied King. “Simon, I text messaged you during Snell’s autopsy. You arranged for another autopsy to be performed after we left?”
“I did,” he said. He picked up a manila envelope from beside his chair. He tipped out the sheaf of papers, sorted through them and started to read. “Raised insulin levels, significantly raised, in fact. Indicating hyperosmolar nonketotic coma. Cause of death was combined organ failure, leading to a cardiac arrest. But I am told his body would have shut down, so he would have been unable to react.”
Amherst leaned back in his chair, rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Well, Alex, it turns out you’re not such a bad investigator after all.” He stood up and walked to the window, looked out on the brown waters of the Thames.
Caroline watched him, shivered involuntarily. She had seen a man do that in this room a year ago. That man had brought death and destruction to her service.
Amherst turned and looked back at them. “Well, I think we have people of interest. We need to discover the depth of Sir Hugo Hollandrake’s involvement. His position within government is certainly untenable. What we need to find out is to what lengths he has gone. Whether blood is on his hands. Helena Snell and her bodyguard, Viktor Bukov, are in the frame for Sir Ian Snell’s death.”
“They were in London at the time of Snell’s death,” Mereweather said. “We have CCTV, debit card transactions and eye witnesses who could be called. Their alibis are cast iron.”
“Suspiciously so,” Ramsay commented.
“And they could have laced those cups at any time,” said Caroline.
“When I revisited the scene with Amanda Cunningham, the dishwasher was running a cycle with just a set of fancy coffee cups in it,” King said. “They didn’t offer believable explanations, and Amanda did not appear to think it significant.”
“We still need a shooter,” added Ramsey. “Snell was still shot and within that time-frame Helena Snell and Bukov were not there. And then there’s the murder of the family at the house where the shooter fired from.”
“What about his bodyguards?” Amherst asked. “They raised the alarm, could they have been paid off to coat the cups in glucose, take the shot even? Kill the family and the farmhouse. Bodyguards are usually nothing more than private mercenaries anyway.”
“They were fingerprinted, DNA sampled and checked for powder residue,” said King.
“Cordite?” said Mereweather.
“About forty years ago or in a bad detective novel,” King smiled. “There are various smokeless propellants used today; strands, flakes or spheres, and they all burn at different rates to suite the type of firearm. Fast burning for pistols, slower for rifles. Many are nitro-based, but they still produce residue when fired. You can’t use a firearm without becoming contaminated. His bodyguards were checked, no results back yet.”
“None at all?” Amherst asked.
Ramsay shook his head. “The DNA results came back clear. Nothing at the farmhouse, at least. One of them is wanted by the police in a historical rape allegation. I guess that’s a result, of sorts.”
Amherst nodded. “Ramsay, I want you to push forensics for results. I want you to look deeper into Ivan Kerchenko and see if you can find out his movements prior to turning up at King’s cottage.” He turned to Mereweather. “Simon, I want you to dig into Sir Hugo Hollandrake’s affairs. Liaise with the forensic accountants and the SASS, find out the chain
of command, the events leading up to the attempts on Caroline’s life.”
“Yes, Sir,” Mereweather said.
“Caroline, I want you to get close to Amanda Cunningham.”
“Sir?” she looked bemused.
Amherst held up a hand. “The woman tried to broadside you, destroy your relationship,” he paused. “The trust is obviously there between you and Alex. You two seemed to have sorted it out in no time at all. Find out everything you can about her, use what she tried to expose in your relationship to work a way in. I want you to gain her confidence, we need to know more about her.”
Caroline nodded. Her face had flushed. It was clear she wasn’t pleased with her assignment.
“King,” Amherst said. “Remain here, if you don’t mind.” He looked at the others in turn. “Go on then, get going. I’ll contact you all in turn for updates. This will be the last meeting here, until we have a conclusion.”
43
He knew that the rooftop would be the place. There was no other valid firing point. Gipri Bashwani’s office was no more than two-hundred metres distant with what he estimated to be a fifteen degree drop in angle. An easy shot. But the glass would be thick. At least three centimetres. It wouldn’t be ballistic glass, he knew this having already studied the blueprints of the building. But thick, toughened glass, could do unexpected things to a bullet. The angle of drop could make the bullet take a glancing strike. Or, the bullet may well penetrate easily, but deviate greatly from the target. The bullet may even expel all its energy exiting the glass and drop harmlessly onto the floor. It may not be affected at all, but there was never any sense in taking the most positive outcome. He had perfected his skills over half his lifetime. He knew that the least favourable scenario was the one to aim for. With these variables in mind, he knew the .338 Lapua Magnum would make the most sense. It would have the power to smash a single bullet through the glass and continue with only a slight decrease in both velocity or muzzle energy. It would be loud, especially in the proximity of the other buildings, but it would perform the task effectively.
He would need to get his equipment ready for the target. He liked to use a roll mat to lie down on and a small sandbag he fashioned out of an old cloth coin sack to rest the rifle on. Normally a bipod fitted to the underside of the rifle stock would steady his aim, but he would be firing from above, and that would only go to raise his profile. Amongst these buildings, he needed to keep as stealthy as possible. It would also be less to carry, the weapon would have to be transported stripped down in a sports bag, he would need the scope and mounts to be attached to the weapon, and the sight pre-zeroed. Calibration could be affected by miniscule alterations to the weapon system’s set up. If the mounts did not line up exactly to the position when the weapon was zeroed, then it would be inaccurate. Even at the relatively short range involved with this assignment.
There would be no need for a spotting scope, but he would need a magazine and would always load it fully, in this case, five rounds of match-grade, green-dot ammunition. The first hundred rounds to roll off the bullet press. All stamped with a green dot, and all infinitely better quality than the tens of thousands that followed and made their way to the military and sporting outlets the world over. He debated whether to supress the rifle. It could affect the power of the bullet, but at this range that would not matter. The gunshot would create an enormous echo from the position and distance of the other high-rise buildings. But even with the use of a suppressor, it would only work effectively if he used subsonic ammunition, and then he wondered whether it would jeopardise his shot. He would need to test both at the same distance when he zeroed the rifle. Not only would he test the bullets for penetration, but he would use a decibel meter app he had downloaded on his smartphone to make his decision whether to silence the weapon, or take an unsuppressed shot. His exit from the building and escape was paramount. He even weighed up the time it would take to remove the suppressor from the weapon. He made a mental to time himself at the same time he tested the other possibilities.
44
The surveillance teams of MI5 were known as watchers and they were the best in the world. Since the troubles in Northern Ireland, and especially from the early seventies onwards, MI5 had perfected the art of manpower surveillance not by using stereotypical intelligence agents or soldiers from the SAS, but by using mothers pushing prams, kids on skateboards, workmen repairing roads, old-aged couples walking in the park – the scenarios were endless, ever-evolving, and as natural as a snapshot of everyday life. The agents were highly trained, of all ages and race, and communicated through hidden mics. The IRA would notice SAS soldiers acting ‘civvy’, even when they grew their hair and wore beards, but they were not so quick to pick up a Rastafarian walking along with a ghetto-blaster on a busy London street, or an old man with a walking stick making his way down the Falls Road.
Two teams were on Amanda Cunningham. She was oblivious to both. She had parked her sporty Fiat 124 Spider in the carpark behind the mirrored glass offices of the pathology unit off Shoreham Road. The first team was a mobile unit consisting of a bicycle courier, a black cab and a non-descript white van typically used by parcel delivery privateers. The second team was a foot unit. Amanda had been bumped by a young woman talking on her mobile. She had apologised mid-conversation; the bump had been long enough for the woman to slip a tracking device like the one used in King’s holdall into Amanda’s coat pocket. Amanda Cunningham had been oblivious. She would not see the woman again, because the team would rotate. The woman would change wigs, take off her pair of tiny glasses, change her coat and take off her heels in favour of trainers that would clash with her active wear and she would jog past to re-confirm a visual when Amanda left the building. The bicycle courier would put his bike in the rear of the van and put on a pair of overalls and a beanie and take the wheel, while the driver would throw on a jacket and walk past. The next visual would mark another regroup, a rotation, another approach. The teams were fluid, their scenarios almost exponential.
The man driving the van parked up. He was facing away from the building, the rear-mounted camera was filming the entrance and he was watching the image on the fake satnav mounted on the dashboard. He picked his mobile phone and dialled. When the call was answered, he spoke with a clip tone to a woman he did not know and would probably never meet. “The target is inside,” he said, “The tracker has been activated and your app should be picking it up now.”
***
Caroline ended the call and opened the app on her mobile phone and watched the steady intermittent red dot. She could hear a bleep, but turned down the volume. She could see that Amanda Cunningham was stationary. She would have enough notice of her movements. Enough time to do what she needed to do.
Caroline inserted the pick into the lock and used the pair of torsion prongs to work the lock. It was a Chubb lock. A solid design with four tumblers. She worked her way through the gates and had the lock open inside two minutes. She replaced the tools into the pocket of her handbag, took a cursory look around, then opened the door and stepped into Amanda’s flat.
45
Simon Mereweather already had his secretary digging into Sir Hugo Hollandrake’s past. He had organised two researchers to assist her, and a technician to navigate the web and intercept the man’s emails. This would be done through GCHQ’s database and the technician had already opened a portal and started work on thirty-thousand emails, running them through an algorithm that would pick up emails using a hundred or so key words Mereweather had fed in. There was no way a person could collate data manually over the given period. Mereweather had chosen the start point six months before Hollandrake’s public support for the Goliath intercontinental ballistic missile system (ICBM). There had to be a starting point, and that seemed as good a time as any.
Mereweather was now meeting with the forensic accountants. These were like regular accountants, only beiger and even more by the book. After meeting with them for less than ten minutes, he was q
uite sure that the two men were autistic. Gifted, but not operating on the same level as most; a higher plain entirely. They could not understand sarcasm or inference. But they could see answers in numbers that other people would not. The lines of accounting figures spoke to them like well-written prose. It meant something, encouraged them to read on, look deeper. To Mereweather, the accounts, the banking figures, the off-set taxes, the endowment policies, hedge-funds and accrued dividends looked like a tortuous experience to wade through, but for the two accountants, it was a dream-come-true.
“Anything?” Mereweather ventured.
“Threads,” said one of them.
“Starting to unravel,” said the other.
“But do they lead anywhere?” Mereweather asked impatiently.
The two men smiled at each other. One of the men was in his thirties, his hair receding and growing an ample paunch. The other man was virtually identical. Merewether could barely distinguish between them. He noted one had a cheaper-looking suit. He didn’t know how cheap it was, but guessed the other was supermarket-bought, so he could only hazard a guess. He adjusted the cufflink on his shirt cuff, suspected his own shirt alone cost twice as much as the suit at a conservative estimate. His suit, as much as fifteen times more. He had ten more like it in his wardrobe at home. Another two in his office. But then again, he was a lot higher up the ladder, and reflected that he barely had need to touch a single salary payment and couldn’t remember the last time he had. He looked at the two men in turn. He was becoming impatient. He was damned if he was going to indulge them in a big reveal.
“Spit it out, you’re either up to this task, or not,” he said.
“Sir Ian Snell had various shell companies,” cheap suit said, a little tersely for Mereweather’s liking. He seemed to realise this and mellowed a little as he added, “It’s all about paying as little tax as possible, and declaring costs more than once. Routed through a shell company with large fees and operating costs, and the money shrinks. On the screen, at least. By the time it makes its way to the Inland Revenue, or HMRC as they’re called now, the profits have whittled down and the taxes to be paid are smaller. Sometimes none-existent. The VAT submission figures and rebate seems consistent though, even with smaller turn-over and profits declared.”
