by Jay Gill
“Thank you, Parker. I’ll speak to Rowena. I know the last visit did her a world of good. Please thank Georgina. Tell her we still talk about her delicious fruit cake.”
“I will, sir. Thank you.” Parker looked at his watch. “We shouldn’t be long now. I’ve heard from a traffic officer ahead and the road is clear.” He was well aware of Mrs Brannon’s condition and felt for the deputy prime minister. He genuinely liked the Brannons; they were good people. They’d always been considerate and respectful. Unlike other ministers he’d served, some of whom had been self-important at best, the Brannons were regular, down-to-earth people. On occasion they were almost too welcoming, and Eric had to remind himself he should keep a professional distance.
Parker looked out the window as they passed the junction for Old Beaconsfield. They were on the M40 motorway. The M40 hadn’t been his first choice; he preferred to use the M4 whenever he could. He knew it and the roads exiting it better. Today, he’d had no choice; the M4 was snarled up due to an overturned lorry. He’d had to change his plan, and that made him uneasy.
He sat back in his seat and tried to relax. Why am I worrying? he chided himself. He never used to worry so much. The traffic out of London had been slow for only a short time.
Now they had broken free of the city traffic and were moving at speed. He checked his watch again. Ahead of schedule: good. Stanton was level-headed and good behind the wheel, the right choice for today’s assignment. The killing of McPherson had been audacious, and although no one would admit it, they were all on edge. Parker certainly didn’t want to be known as the protection officer who had failed to protect the deputy prime minister.
He watched the lead vehicle begin to slow as they moved off the motorway and onto a slip road towards the Handy Cross roundabout. It was a big and unpopular interchange with multiple lanes, multiple exits, multiple traffic lights. It handled a huge volume of traffic going in and out of London, heading to and from the south coast, as well as to and from Oxford and beyond, and was always busy.
Ahead of them Parker could see the flashing blue lights of a BMW police motorbike parked on the pavement. There was no sign of the officer who owned the bike, and the roundabout was quickly becoming congested.
“Shit. What the hell is this?” muttered Parker. “What use is it having an officer here if he isn’t keeping the traffic moving?”
Stanton looked over at Parker and, stating the obvious, said with anger, “This was supposed to be clear. We can either sit in this or I can hit the lights and siren.” He wasn’t asking permission, and without waiting for a reply he turned on their blues and twos. The lead vehicle did the same.
Parker laughed. “I guess we’re not joining the congestion.” He turned to Brannon in the back. “Stanton will have us out of this in no time, sir.” Parker turned in his seat as they passed the police motorbike. Where was he?
The first armour-piercing round, with its strengthened body and specially hardened and shaped nose, penetrated the windshield. It tore a massive hole in Stanton’s chest. As Stanton’s body slumped sideways, the lightly armoured car accelerated forward, then veered sharply right before coming to rest against a silver transit van.
Without hesitation, Parker twisted in his seat and started for the rear of the vehicle in an effort to protect the deputy prime minister. A second bullet punched through the windshield. The round tore out a large portion of Parker’s lower back, severing his spine and devastating his internal organs.
Deputy Prime Minister Brannon was frozen to his seat. He looked around helplessly, his eyes pleading for help from the passengers in vehicles either side of him. Brannon’s final thoughts, right before two rounds tore apart the topmost half of his body, were of worry for Rowena.
The act of murdering Deputy Prime Minister Duncan Brannon took no more than sixty seconds. The repercussions would be felt for decades.
The traffic officer carefully packed away his rifle. He put his helmet on and, with the visor down, walked casually from his position of cover back to his police motorbike. To avoid suspicion he began questioning onlookers and taking witness statements. Audaciously, he even assisted security officers for a time while they closed off the area. During the chaos and confusion that ensued, he mounted his BMW police motorbike and slipped away. But not before making a phone call and leaving a message.
“Hardy. No tricks this time. I’m sorry I had to use you the way I did last time. Anyway, I wanted you to be the first to know that number two on the list has been ticked off. Tick! You know, it never had to be like this. I wish with all my heart there could have been another way.
“Bye for now. We’ll speak again soon.”
Chapter Thirteen
Home Secretary George Norton and Prime Minister Angela Lafferty were finishing their meeting when the PM’s phone rang.
“Please take it. I’ll catch up with you later,” said Norton. “I’ve covered everything for now.” He stood and began collecting his papers, slipping them into a leather folder. He could feel his own phone vibrating in his jacket pocket, but he ignored it. He knew what the call was about and was more interested in catching what the prime minister had to say.
Lafferty answered the phone, and her eyes immediately turned to Norton’s. “Oh, dear God, no. Are you sure it’s Duncan? Clear everything else for today. I want to be kept informed of every development.” Lafferty put the phone down and turned to Norton. She was visibly shaking. “There’s been another attack. It’s Duncan Brannon. They’ve killed him. Two protection officers as well.”
“What? When?” asked Norton.
“It happened a few moments ago.”
“That seals it. I know you don’t like it, but you must now reconsider my proposal to restrict your movements. No more public appearances. I know the security services are in agreement; I have already discussed scenarios. We need to get on top of this as quickly as possible. I think we should make an urgent press statement.”
The PM’s personal secretary announced over the desk intercom that Detective Chief Inspector Hardy was holding on line two.
“Tell him I’ll speak to him later,” said Lafferty. “Could you please get me the home number for Rowena Brannon? I need to speak to her as soon as possible and offer her my condolences.”
The prime minister looked pale, and Norton wondered whether this was the right time to mention the need for decisive action. He was keen the prime minister should announce the government would be taking a hard line against those involved and pledge the usual: no stone would be left unturned in the hunt for those responsible for such atrocities. He decided it would be better to bring it up at a later meeting. Instead, he would tackle a different concern.
“You look like you have something to say, George.” The prime minister’s customary warm eyes had become stormy. “If you do, then spit it out, for God’s sake. We don’t have time for pussyfooting around.”
“I know we want as much input as possible, and this may sound counterintuitive, but I wonder whether we should reduce the number of information channels for you. My concern is that decision-making could become difficult with too many conflicting viewpoints.”
“I’m not sure I follow.”
“A good example is Detective Chief Inspector Hardy. Thoroughly capable chap, I’m sure, but we have our security and intelligence services working around the clock to provide you with the very best information. As home secretary, I wonder how wise it is to be taking advice from a murder and serious crimes detective. I’ve done a background check on him, and he’s clearly an excellent policeman; there is no denying that. However, he does have personal issues.”
The prime minister raised her eyebrows, which encouraged Norton to continue. “He’s a widower. As I understand it, his wife was murdered a couple of years back in a knife attack – some sort of street attack. It means he’s juggling all sorts of responsibilities. The man is bringing up two young daughters virtually alone. And he’s not your average murder detective: he seems to speci
alise in the most disturbing cases, including serial killer investigations. I’m not sure whether these cases find him or he finds them. The situation with his wife must be painful, and by all accounts he thinks there are still unanswered questions. My point is that, all in all, it’s difficult to judge his mental state. I might also add, Brannon’s and McPherson’s deaths are a security issue and should be dealt with using the correct channels. With respect, Prime Minister, all this is way over DCI Hardy’s pay grade.”
The prime minister sat silent for a few moments, considering his words. “What do you make of the fact that the killers, whoever they are, are in contact with him? Should we just disregard that?”
“Not at all. I just think he should go through the correct channels. To be blunt, you’re too busy to have him calling you on a whim. Furthermore, you have him feeding you his theories and those of Scotland Yard, while at the same time our intelligence services are following their own lines of enquiry. It could all get very confused, very quickly. Ludicrous as it might sound, for all we know he may be part of this whole thing. I mean, you also bring up a valid point yourself: why are they contacting him?” Norton raised his hands to indicate that he, too, thought it far-fetched but that nothing could be ruled out at this stage. He was pleased with the way he’d got his points across and the way he’d introduced seeds of doubt to the prime minister’s thinking.
“I hear what you’re saying, George, and I’ll take it under advisement. However, unless I see damning evidence to the contrary, Inspector Hardy stays on this,” said Lafferty. “I need as many good people on it as possible. And the more lines of enquiry there are, the better. It seems to me we have nothing solid right now. As soon as we do, we’ll reassess. Let’s leave it there, shall we? Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must speak with Rowena.”
“Absolutely. I’ll leave you to it. I’ll come by later and we’ll work on the press statement.” Norton gathered his files and slid silently away, leaving Lafferty to her thoughts.
Chapter Fourteen
As usual, the drive home had been a nightmare. Michael Cutler stepped through the front door, shrugged off his jacket and kicked off his shoes. What a shit day.
“Daddy’s home,” cried his son Danny as he came charging to the door with his arms wide open.
At least Danny was pleased to see him. Cutler scooped him up, squeezed him, kissed him and lifted him over his head.
“How long have I been gone? You’ve grown for sure. How old are you now? Eight? Nine? Ten?”
“Nooooo! I’m five,” Danny protested, giggling and squirming.
“Only five? Are you sure? You’re too big to be only five. Anyway, if you were five, wouldn’t you have started school?”
“I have started school! Stop being silly, Daddy. Come on, I want to show you my paintings.”
“Where’s Mummy?” whispered Cutler.
“She’s changing Zachary’s nappy. It’s a real stinker.”
Cutler laughed. “Shall we hide down here, then, and wait for Mummy in the kitchen?” Cutler carried Danny into the kitchen, where he poured them each a glass of fruit juice. Danny spread his latest drawings and paintings over the kitchen table and explained what each scene was. They both looked up as Cutler’s wife appeared in the doorway.
“I thought I heard you come in,” said Melanie. “How did it go?” She eased Zachary into his high chair and dropped his favourite chewy blanket in front of him.
Cutler leaned over and gave his younger son a kiss.
“All good. The new store is finally opening next week and I’m visiting it on Wednesday. I got a pat on the back from head office; my region’s sales have remained strong. They’ve asked me to present at the next quarterly meeting. That should be interesting. It’s been a while since they asked me to do that. I’m sure I can’t do any worse than the last fella. As I said before, I don’t think he prepared at all. The moron tried to wing it.”
He watched as Melanie hovered around the kitchen, only half listening to him. Why are you wasting your breath? he thought. She has no interest in what you have to say. She’s probably working out whether Wednesday will work for her and Mr Flexi-Fun.
Mr Flexi-Fun was Melanie’s yoga teacher and fitness trainer, but it seemed he offered a few extras that didn’t appear on his marketing literature or website. Cutler gave it no more than five minutes before she disappeared to send Lover Boy a text message. Does she really think I don’t know?
“That’s nice. Would you feed Zachary?” She passed him a bowl of pasta with cheese sauce. “I need to pop to the loo.”
Cutler watched as his wife looked around for her mobile phone then disappeared upstairs. If he didn’t love her so much, he’d have sliced her up there and her not-so-secret lover shortly after.
On and off over the past few weeks he’d fantasised about killing them both. He’d spent some considerable time, mainly while on long drives, going over the many ways he might approach the task. His favourite thus far was not the most brutal but somehow seemed the most rewarding.
He imagined himself silently breaking into the hotel room where they were having one of their afternoon flings. He’d remain by the door, watching them screwing and listening to their gasps and moans of pleasure, their athletic bodies moving rhythmically while they kissed and laughed. In his mind’s eye they looked great together, which even he had to admit was odd.
After watching for a while, he’d step forward, clear his throat and speak to get their attention. “Ahem, I’m sorry to interrupt, but unless I’m mistaken, I do believe you have my wife on your dick.”
Of course, Melanie would be all apologetic and explain it away as nothing but a moment of weakness. Mr Flexi-Fun would be all puffed up and act the innocent, but he’d also be wearing that infuriating look of his that said “Well, look at me – how could she resist?”
Cutler would then make Melanie tie Mr Flexi-Fun to the bed. Probably wouldn’t be the first time she’d done it. While she watched, he’d take his favourite scalpel and neatly slice around the outside of Mr Flexi-Fun’s face. After that, with a little theatrical flourish, he’d peel that sucker right off. Holding the flapping skin aloft, he’d show it to them. He wasn’t sure what his parting line would be, but it needed to be something witty – of that he was sure.
Cutler waved a spoon full of pasta around like an airplane then flew it into little Zachary’s mouth. He looked at his two boys and, as he had often found himself doing recently, wondered whether they looked alike. More to the point, did they look like him?
Danny looked like him for sure: same mouth and eyes. Zachary he wasn’t so sure of. Cutler stared at him, narrowing his eyes slightly, as he had done countless times in the past. Oblivious, the baby reached out for another spoonful of food, his mouth gaping like a baby bird’s as its parent arrived with a beak full of grubs. Cutler held the spoon of food just out of reach.
Zachary was too young for him to be completely sure, but his skin tone was definitely different to that of his and Danny’s. Was Zachary a cuckoo in the nest? Or was he imagining it? He’s only little, Cutler told himself. His features haven’t developed. If Zachary weren’t his, was that something he could live with? And if not, what then? Accidents happened all the time, and toddlers were prone to all manner of mishaps: fingers in sockets, climbing inside tumble dryers, swallowing detergents, falling from windows, drowning in bathtubs. He’d think of something. If it came to that.
Danny looked up from his new drawing. “Zachary is crying, Daddy. Shall I feed him?”
“Sorry, Zachary,” said Cutler, forcing himself to smile at the baby. “Your big brother is going to do it. Here you go, Danny.” Cutler handed his elder son the spoon and the bowl of pasta and watched as the little boy fed his brother. Despite himself, he felt himself soften. He loved his boys. He loved his wife. All families have their challenges, he knew. Marriages experience highs and lows. It’s how you dealt with them that was important in the end.
After a few minutes, Melanie re-jo
ined them in the kitchen. She was smiling and looked flushed and pleased with herself.
“You look like the cat who got the cream,” said Cutler, keeping his voice upbeat.
“Who, me? No, don’t be silly. Just happy you’re home. We miss you. We miss Daddy, don’t we, boys?”
Chapter Fifteen
Jared Vaughan stacked the hymn books then walked around the church checking the pews for stray copies.
“Good. You waited. It’s really good to see you again,” said Father Nolan. “I won’t be long. Just let me get out of these robes, then we can walk and talk.”
Vaughan and Father Nolan Whyte had known each other since they were children. They’d grown up on the same estate, gone to the same school, had the same circle of friends, kissed the same girls and together stolen cigarettes from the late-night corner shop. After leaving school at sixteen they’d been pulled in different directions. Vaughan had started an apprenticeship as a plumber but soon got restless and decided that if he wanted to see something of the world then the military was the way to go.
Whyte had somehow always known he would join the church, and after much soul-searching he had followed his heart. After several years in Ireland and some time in Manchester and Bristol, his parish for the time being was in the town of Rickmansworth.
“Okay, Nolan. No hurry.” Vaughan watched as his friend disappeared through the door to the vestry. He really didn’t want to be in church any longer than he had to. He was only there for his daughter’s sake. Anything that might help was worth a shot.
He no longer believed in God. Not just because of the unjustness of Becky’s illness; that had simply reinforced his scepticism. What had really done it for him was what he’d seen on the battlefield and what he’d seen done to civilians during conflicts. The rape, torture and brutality that had been allowed to take place at the hands of soldiers against innocent men, women and children was something he’d decided no just God would allow. And when he’d returned home, the news of Becky’s illness had completely eroded any faith he’d once had.
