by Jay Gill
He pushed the thoughts away. He’d given the topic enough time and thought; he really wasn’t willing to go over it all again.
“Ah, here we are,” said Whyte as he came out of the vestry and shut the door behind him. “We’ll lock up and you can walk with me. I need to visit an elderly parishioner who is not doing so well. She’s become quite frail of late.” He checked the windows and doors and then held the big front door open for Vaughan and locked it behind them. The two men began walking the mile or so to the pensioner’s home. “I usually cycle, but this gives us an opportunity to catch up. I want to know how you’ve been holding up. I’ve spoken to Fiona, but I wanted to hear how you feel. You know, Fiona is very worried about you. She tells me you’ve become withdrawn.”
“Withdrawn – what the hell does she know of withdrawn?” spat Vaughan. “And what does she expect? She’s pushed me away. We can’t have a civilised conversation any longer. Every time I try to talk to her, we end up arguing. And that’s no good for Becky, so I keep my mouth shut.”
“It’s not always clear—” began Whyte.
“If you try to tell me this is part of God’s plan or that he moves in mysterious ways, I will punch your lights out.”
Whyte smiled and raised his hands in mock surrender. “I hear you loud and clear. In fact, what I was going to say was, it’s not always clear how we’re supposed to get through dark times like the one you’re experiencing. I cannot disagree with you that Becky’s illness is unfair. I would also agree with you that it might seem there are others far more deserving of the hardship and pain your little girl is enduring. What I will say is that, having seen other families go through similar things, trying to cope alone is a mistake. Love and support from those around you are often a comfort.
“You need to pull together as a family, Jared. I promise you will get through this, and when you come out the other side, you will all be stronger. Along the way you might argue, you might fight, you may even blame one another, but that’s often the way we cope with our emotions. There is little so personal or so painful as caring for a sick child.”
The two men walked in silence for a while. Inside, Vaughan was fuming. He’d hoped Whyte would still be the same Nolan Whyte he’d known growing up. They’d shared a lot back then and had understood each other almost instinctively. Instead, he now saw someone who had never really had to make tough choices, a contented middle-class man living in a bubble of safety. This wasn’t someone who had ever had to make choices that really mattered, he thought bitterly. He stole a glance at his old friend and saw nothing but a walking platitude.
They reached the pensioner’s house, and Vaughan couldn’t help himself from asking, “Well, Father Nolan Whyte, how would your God feel about someone like me killing someone bad to save someone innocent?”
Whyte paused for a moment to reflect on the question. Even that annoyed Vaughan. Whyte put his hand on Vaughan’s shoulder. “Are you referring to your time in Afghanistan?” he said gently.
“Yes,” lied Vaughan. “You know what? Forget it. We can talk about that another time.” He started to walk away. Before he got too far, he yelled back, “Pray for Becky. Pray for my little girl, and make sure it’s loud enough for him to hear you.” Vaughan pointed up to heaven.
Chapter Sixteen
Prime Minister Lafferty took a deep breath before walking out through the door at Number 10 and approaching the podium.
“It is with great sadness that today I must confirm the death of my good friend, Deputy Prime Minister Duncan Brannon. It is believed his death is linked to the murder of the MI5 director, Mark McPherson. Early indications are that this cowardly act was perpetrated by the same person or group.
“I would first like to offer my condolences to his family and ask that everyone give them space to grieve and that they respect their privacy at this difficult time.
“Duncan Brannon was not only a dedicated member of parliament but a close friend. He was a formidable campaigner on many issues and especially those that were close to his heart. Duncan would not like me to pretend we always agreed, because we didn’t. What I can tell you is that he was someone upon whom I could always depend. He was a kind, decent and honourable man, someone I feel privileged to have worked alongside and to have called a friend.”
Lafferty cleared her throat as her voice began to tremble. She gripped the podium more tightly before continuing. “Intelligence teams are working around the clock to follow up on the hundreds of leads. New information is coming in all the time. Having spoken only moments ago to our intelligence and security chiefs, I am reliably informed they are close to bringing to justice those responsible.
“I would now like to move on and speak directly to those responsible for the two recent atrocities.” The prime minister’s eyes grew steely and her back straightened almost imperceptibly. “I feel I speak on behalf of the whole nation when I tell you that acts of cowardice like those carried out against the MI5 director, Mark McPherson, and Deputy Prime Minister Duncan Brannon will not go unpunished. We will not tire in our search for you, and you will be brought to justice and punished. Friends, leaders and allies from countries around the world have reached out to me over the last few days and offered their unwavering support. There is nowhere you can go. There is nowhere you can hide. We will not tolerate any outrage of this nature, either here or abroad. We will take every measure necessary to stamp out terrorism in all its forms.
“It is at times of sadness like these that the good and the brave come together. It is our common humanity and hope for a better world that binds a nation and makes it stronger. You can never – I repeat, never – divide a nation that at its very heart is built on hope.”
Lafferty released her grip on the podium and stood back for a moment before receiving questions from reporters. She looked across at Norton, who was a short distance away to her right. He had worked with her on preparing the speech, and it was he who had encouraged her to take a hard line and to suggest they were close to making arrests.
This was far from the truth. Lafferty also hadn’t been keen on stating that they would “take every measure necessary,” as it implied troops on the ground were a possibility, something her election pledge had stated she wouldn’t condone.
The first question came from BBC reporter Tasmin Hussain. “How true are rumours that the group involved in these killings has sent Downing Street a list of intended targets, a so-called kill list?” she demanded. “Is it true that you yourself are on the list?”
Lafferty was ready for this question. She’d been advised the kill list rumour was created by a certain section of the popular press to sensationalise the story. “I want to make this perfectly clear: I am not aware of any kill list. I want to also make clear that no direct threat has been made against me or any other member of government.”
“Is this the work of religious fundamentalists?” shouted another reporter.
Lafferty had been expecting this question and had been strongly advised to avoid answering it directly and revealing that, in fact, they had no leads at all. “We are keeping all options open at this stage,” she replied evenly. “We have not received any communication at this point. No group has claimed responsibility. For reasons of national security, and because investigations are ongoing, I am unable to give any further details at this time.”
“Was any warning given before the attacks?”
Lafferty thought of Hardy and his phone call from the shooter. Again, she’d been advised not to give away the fact they were in communication with the killer. “No. We’ve had no contact.”
“Will you be calling for air strikes?”
“That is a matter for another time.”
“So, you haven’t ruled them out?”
“Before we’d consider that kind of force, we would need a target. And until we have identified who is responsible, that is a moot point.”
Lafferty smiled as best she could and called an end to questions. She was tired and sad and
angry about having to answer questions at all. At this time, a press conference achieved nothing except to highlight how little they knew at this stage of the investigation. Norton should have been the one standing at the podium right now, but he’d wriggled out of it. He was happy to advise, Lafferty thought irritably, but didn’t have the balls to stand there and answer any tough questions himself.
Chapter Seventeen
I stared at my desk. Spread out in front of me were the reports on the McPherson and Brannon killings. A knock at the door made me look up.
“Are you busy?” asked DI Gabriel Rayner. I attempted a smile. I knew that was just his attempt at lightening my mood. Rayner understood me better than most. He was a good friend, and I could feel him trying to appraise me. I sensed he was interested in working out how I was coping as well as trying to establish how the investigations were developing. We worked well together, and if ever I needed a sounding board, he was happy to fill that position.
His appearance somehow relieved some pressure. “Busy? No; you know how it is. It’s difficult to find enough to fill each day. How about you?”
“About the same,” he deadpanned. “I’ve been doing crosswords all morning.”
I tossed Rayner my notes. “I’ve got a few solid ideas but nothing concrete. When the killer called me, he suggested Brannon and McPherson were part of a list. I’ve a few ideas on how he might have composed the list, but it’s pure speculation. The only way to establish why they were on the list is to work out what linked McPherson and Brannon, and as far as I could see they had no personal connection. They knew each other and worked together but weren’t buddies and had no business associations outside Whitehall.”
“Meaning there must be a political connection,” said Rayner.
“Yes. The war on terror has meant that, as MI5 director, McPherson would have met with Brannon regularly.”
“You don’t think they were killed simply because of their value as high-profile individuals? You think there’s another reason?”
“I do. To my mind, if it were that simple, if all he wanted to do was horrify the nation by killing influential figures, the shooter could simply work through a list of politicians. He could simply kill them in their homes or while they were going about their business in their constituencies.”
“Maybe you’re looking for something that isn’t there.”
I shot Rayner a questioning look.
“I’m just saying,” he continued. “Perhaps you’re overthinking the whole thing.”
“Perhaps. But this guy created a situation that drew out McPherson. He knew McPherson would have to be there. That takes planning and inside information. Then he targeted Brannon in another sophisticated attack. He knew of Brannon’s schedule. This killer is patient, smart, organised and motivated, and he must be receiving inside help. There’s nothing random or opportunistic in what this shooter is doing.”
“You keep saying it like it’s one person doing this and not a terrorist cell or group.”
“As far as I’m concerned this is one person, probably with access to confidential information including protocol and schedules.”
“Okay, I’ll bite. Why do you think that?”
“If it were a terrorist cell or group, or a lone wolf doing this in the name of some organisation, surely we’d have heard from them by now. But the killer has never claimed any affiliation.”
“So, what’s motivating your man to do this?”
“That I don’t know.” I turned and looked out of my office window at the passing clouds for a moment. “In fact, right now, there’s a lot here I don’t know. Too much.”
Rayner picked up the photos of the type of bullet used. “Judging by the type of weapon used and the accuracy of each shot, I guess we’d both agree this guy has a military background?”
“That’s another unanswered question: how was he able to gain access to such a weapon? We’re not talking about some hunting rifle here. We’re talking about a high-powered military-grade sniper’s rifle capable of firing armour-piercing rounds. Whether he’s a serving soldier or an ex-serviceman, a weapon like that is not something anyone can just walk off base with.”
“What about the black market?”
“Possibly. But I think we’d have heard something. Even if it was a whisper, there would have been talk. A weapon like this doesn’t come into the UK without someone noticing it. Not these days.” I didn’t say anything, but I had been wondering whether the rifle was the key to tracking down the killer.
“Where does that leave us?”
“I suspect our shooter has some powerful friends. Friends able to move something like this rifle without questions being asked. Once again, that brings us back to a killer with someone on the inside who can make things happen and who can pass information on the movements and whereabouts of high-profile individuals.”
“You think it could be someone within government itself, don’t you?”
I wondered whether Rayner thought I’d gone crazy. “I do,” I said flatly. “It’s a theory that ticks all the boxes. But why stick to government? Maybe the orders are coming from within MI5 or MI6, or even here at Scotland Yard. Right now, all we know is that all the elements involved in pulling this off mean the shooter isn’t working alone. I know we keep hearing the theory, but I think we can rule out a foreign terrorist organisation. They wouldn’t have access to the crucial information, for one thing, and the fact that no one has claimed responsibility rules that scenario out for me.”
“Well, if that’s true, then who has the most to gain by killing Brannon and McPherson?”
“Right now, I don’t know, but what I do know is that we need to keep this to ourselves. If I’m wrong, you shouldn’t be near me when the shit hits the fan, and if I’m right, then anyone associated with the investigation is in the firing line. Either way, you’d be doing yourself a favour if you stayed as far away from me as you can on this one.”
“No bloody way.” Rayner shook his head then looked me in the eye. “I’m not letting you . . .”
I cut him off mid-sentence. “I’ve already spoken to the chief. You’re not to get mixed up in this one.”
“Like that’ll stop me,” said Rayner. I could see he was seriously pissed off, but he stayed cool. He jumped to his feet, walked to the door and snatched at the door handle. He turned and asked, “Why do you think the shooter is calling you, James? What have you got to do with any of this? Do you think you know him?”
“I’m not sure. I keep asking myself the same question. At first, I thought I was simply chosen to be the idiot who would put McPherson in the shooter’s line of fire. But after the last call, I felt the shooter was trying to tell me something.”
“Tell you something?”
I felt frustrated with all the unknowns in this investigation. I had so many fragments I was trying to piece together, and each one felt fragile. The last thing I wanted to do was force the pieces together in an attempt to make sense of them.
“You know, right now all this could be nothing. In some ways it all makes sense, but I could just as easily argue the case for why none of my ideas stack up. All I am sure about is that for your own sake, you should keep a safe distance, for the time being at least. No point us both getting mixed up in this. Do you hear what I’m saying, Gabriel?”
“I do. I’ll give you space, but if you need anything, you know where I am.” He paused and looked at me pointedly. “And you know I’ve got your back, James. Always.” Rayner let himself out and closed the door behind him.
The small office fell silent; the gravity of our conversation hung in the air. I suddenly felt alone and more than a little overwhelmed. I shut off my laptop, grabbed my jacket and headed home. What I needed now was not more information but perspective. I needed distance from my investigations, time and space to let my brain download and process what it had gathered.
While some detectives achieved that with a pint of ale or a bottle of whisky, I achieved it through time
with my family.
Chapter Eighteen
Our house was alive with the sounds of laughter and singing, the cheerful noise of cutlery and glasses clinking and the warm smells of food and drink. We were having a wonderful day; Mum was celebrating her birthday and we were doing all we could to spoil her. Alice and Faith had made cards, and with Monica’s help they’d made a profiterole cake, which they were now proudly carrying into the room together. Everyone sang “Happy Birthday,” and there was more laughing and clapping as Mum blew out her candles.
Dad was filming and narrating the whole event on his new smartphone. He made sure he recorded the balloons and banners he had secretly put up with the help of Alice and Faith. In the background, a song by Taylor Swift ended and Ed Sheeran took over.
“How’s the cake?” Monica asked me. “Judging by the size of that second slice I have a feeling you like it.”
“Guilty,” I said, holding up my hand. “It’s amazing, and you know how I hate to see cake left over, so I’m doing my bit to make sure that doesn’t happen.”
Monica laughed. “Good to see you’ve got your sense of humour back. The old Hardy returns.”
I must have looked hurt.
“You know you disappear inside yourself – when you’re on a case, I mean. We get worried about you, James. I was worried.”
“Sometimes the investigations… They…” I trailed off. I didn’t know how to explain without sounding selfish.
“I know.” Monica put a hand on mine. Her skin felt warm and soft. “You’re here now, and that’s what matters. Look at those girls of yours. They’re having a great time. They’re hoping you’ll do your ‘daddy dancing’ today. I know I’ve been looking forward to it.”
