by Jay Gill
Olsen looked as if he were fighting a mental battle; he clearly wanted to talk but was finding it hard to start. “As you might expect, we have people in place up and down the country gathering intelligence. We’re monitoring terrorist activity day and night. Gathering intelligence isn’t the problem. The problem used to come from sifting the vast amount of intel, prioritising it and allocating enough appropriate resources when it’s required. We’ve since become very good at that; we had to adapt quickly. Right now, we have the very best people and technology cross-checking and sifting out fact from fiction.”
“Have you found something?”
“That’s just it. Our people look for patterns in behaviour and activity. Chatter before an attack as well as chatter after an attack. You see, often after an attack, sympathisers let their guard down and say something we can pick up on. There’s always someone with a loose tongue we can pick up and squeeze.”
“And?”
“Nothing. We’ve heard nothing that suggests any sort of organisation was involved.”
“I bloody knew it.” I was ready to blurt out my theories, but instead I kept my mouth shut and my ears open. I let Olsen continue.
“What we did find was evidence based on profiling voice patterns, language and phrasing used in the calls you received from the shooter. We examined reports and interviewed witnesses at the scene of both shootings; in particular, analysts pored over the many statements given by witnesses at Brannon’s attack just up the road from where we are now. Based on the ballistics report we now know the type of weapon used. It’s also clear the times and locations of each attack was carefully considered. Experts also took into account the skill set required to achieve the killings. We cross-referenced all that to build a profile.
“Our man is most definitely a white British male who is serving or has served in the British armed forces. We’re looking for a skilled sniper. One of our own. Someone the British army trained. His skill set will make him lethal and elusive.”
“How do we find him and stop him?”
“Before I get to that, there’s something else you need to know.”
“Go on.”
“When I said there was no chatter, that was only half true. Our analysts discovered we were being fed information – or disinformation, to be more precise. Whoever is behind this wanted us to believe there was an active terrorist cell involved in these attacks. What we came to realise was that the chatter was coming not from the streets or online, as it traditionally does, but was clearly manufactured. I can’t go into detail, but what I can say is that based on experience we know it was fabricated.”
“So where did it come from?”
“I can’t say.”
“What do you mean you can’t say? Is it that you can’t say or that you won’t say?”
“All I can tell you is we’re looking at internal failures in data protocol.”
“Someone inside MI5 deliberately spread misinformation?”
“I didn’t say that.” He didn’t need to. My mind was already working overtime trying to make this all fit.
“I can’t believe I’m hearing this. Are you telling me McPherson and Brannon were killed by us? None of this makes sense.”
“You’re right; none of this makes any sense right now. What you need to know is that, like us, the Met is being deliberately misled, and it’s coming from within.” Olsen checked his watch. “I had better go. This thing is going to get messy very quickly. It won’t be long before we have a line on the shooter, and once that happens and people start getting squeezed, we’ll know more.”
“How do you know I’m not part of this? I mean, it was me who took the call from the shooter.”
“Right now, there are very few people I trust. McPherson trusted you, and that means I trust you. Instinct tells me you’re potentially as much a victim in all this as McPherson and Brannon, so, for now, watch your back. Once they know we’re narrowing in on them they’ll bite back.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
I was talking to military veterans at a morning support group meeting and had been listening to stories for a couple of hours, hoping I might unearth a lead. I’d heard some heartbreaking stories as well as many inspirational ones. I’d learned how lives were being turned around through the work of the veterans’ charity that hosted these meetings. I was filled with admiration and reflected, not for the first time, on how hearing the problems of others can put your own challenges into perspective. These men and women were true heroes. Every day they fought mental and physical battles I found difficult to imagine.
It had been a good meeting and I’d made some new friends, but I hadn’t generated a lead of any kind. I was preparing to leave when my phone vibrated in my jacket pocket. I excused myself and stepped outside to read the text message I’d received.
“There’s a bullet with your daughter’s name on. You had better find her. Quick.”
A million thoughts surged through my brain at once and every muscle in my body went rigid with fear. Uncomprehending, I read the message again.
Your daughter. Did they mean Alice or Faith? I began running to my car, dialling Monica’s number as I ran. It went to voice mail. I reached my car, got in and raced out of the car park and into some light traffic. I dialled Monica’s number again, and this time she answered.
“Alice and Faith – where are they?”
“They’re at school. What’s wrong?”
“Both of them?”
“Yes, of course. What’s going on?”
“Where are you?”
“I’m in town, shopping. You’re scaring me. What’s going on, James?”
“I’ve received a threat against Alice and Faith. I’m on my way to the school. I need to go. I need to call the school. I’ll call you as soon I know more.” Monica couldn’t get to the school as quickly as I could.
“I’m heading home. Let me know as soon as you hear something,” she said. I could hear panic in her voice. In the background, the quiet of the store changed to the sound of passing vehicles as she walked out onto the high street.
When I arrived at Spring Castle School, Alice and Faith had been taken out of lessons and were sitting, bemused, in the office of their headmistress, Mrs Keane. I was almost overwhelmed by relief when I saw them, and I struggled to hold back my tears as I squeezed and kissed my little girls.
“Daddy, you’re squeezing me too tight,” complained Alice.
“Are we going home early?” asked Faith. Then she said hopefully, “I’ve got double maths last lesson. So please can we go home now? Please, please, please?”
Mrs Keane stood by the door to her office. “Girls, I’ll speak to your teachers and let them know you’ve had to leave early. I’ll make sure you’re given the opportunity to catch up.”
“Thank you,” I said. “I’ll keep you updated.” I was so happy to see Alice and Faith safe I was close to hugging and planting a kiss on Mrs Keane.
“You have my private number,” said Mrs Keane. “Under the circumstances it might be easier to speak out of school hours. Just keep me posted. I’m sure this will all blow over.”
“I’ll call you this evening.”
I had ignored the parking bays and parked directly outside the school reception area. I opened the car’s back door and helped Alice and Faith with their bags as they climbed in.
“Where are we going, Daddy?” asked Alice.
“Well, I thought we’d go home and perhaps we could do some baking. How about showing me how you made those flapjacks? The ones you made with Monica?”
Faith was going through her rucksack, looking for something. “I think I’ve left my pencil case on my desk. I need to go and get it. It has my new pen in it. I don’t want to lose my new pen.”
Alice began helping her little sister look. The two girls began pulling everything out and piling it on the seat between them.
“What’s this?” asked Alice. She was showing her sister a plain white envelope. “There’s somet
hing inside. I can feel it.”
I watched them in the rear-view mirror. “What have you got there, girls?”
The two girls began arguing.
“It’s mine. I want to open it,” cried Faith.
“Fine, then. You open it,” said Alice. “You’re such a baby.”
Faith tore open the envelope. She pulled out a card and set it to one side, then held up a large, shiny bullet. “Look, Daddy. It’s got my name on it.”
“Put that down,” shouted Alice at her sister. “Do you even know what it is?”
I cranked the wheel hard and stopped the car at the side of the road, causing the driver behind me to swerve past, honking. I turned in my seat. Faith was still holding up the bullet. I recognised it as the type used by the sniper.
“That’s pretty, sweetheart,” I said, keeping my voice light. I wanted to stay calm for the sake of the girls. “But someone is being mean. Putting that in your bag is naughty. Would you be a good girl for Daddy and give me the bullet, the envelope and the card, please? I need to take it to my police station.”
I put out my hand and, with reluctance, Faith handed everything over to me. I glanced at the card as I slid it, and the bullet, back into the envelope. On it was written BACK OFF.
I felt sick. This had just got very personal and too close to home.
Chapter Thirty
At 3.07 a.m. Cutler woke with a jolt. He was covered in sweat. Beside him he heard Melanie sigh heavily and roll over. She didn’t like being disturbed while she slept.
“Sorry, hon,” he whispered. “Another bad dream.”
His sister Amanda had died when they were children, but what happened still haunted him. “Haunted” was the right word. She had been three years older, and he had adored her. He remembered her saying one time that he was her shadow. There were only a few times towards the end when she’d told him he couldn’t tag along, but for the most part they’d been inseparable.
Growing up, they had needed each other. Dad was never there, which was fine. Whenever he was home, he was drunk or angry or both. Mum was there physically, but her mind always seemed to be elsewhere. She always seemed to be staring out of a window or standing in the garden smoking and thinking and, sometimes, crying. Even when she did speak to him, her eyes seemed vacant and her mind far away. He remembered desperately wanting her to acknowledge him.
His parents had always argued; their quarrels had gotten worse right before Dad left for the last time. As a child, Cutler thought the lack of warmth he received was normal. Frustrating, yes, but normal; he knew now that children often become resigned to their circumstances, and that had been true for both him and Amanda. He understood why things had been the way they were, although he wished he had known in childhood what he now understood as an adult.
As his parents’ quarrelling had intensified, Mum had become even more withdrawn and distant. On that final day, he remembered sitting on Amanda’s bed, hugging her pillow and crying while he waited for her to come home. She always comforted him, and he needed her now; their parents were having a horrible row in the kitchen below him. He must have been about twelve and she was nearly sixteen. He should have been emotionally stronger, but he was a sensitive boy; everyone said so.
He remembered feeling relief and excitement and looking out of her bedroom window when he heard her key in the front door. He remembered the arguing stopping for a moment as Amanda entered the house. He sat forward on the edge of the bed, waiting for her to run up the stairs and walk through her bedroom door and put her arms around him. But she never did.
Nobody ever told him what Amanda had said when, once again, she’d found her parents in the middle of a blazing row. It would have been smart or witty; she was always so smart. Whatever it was earned her a punch from her father.
“Smart-mouthed little bitch. Just like your fuckin’ mother.” The punch knocked her sideways, and Michael heard a sickening thwump as she smacked her head against the foot of the stairs, and then there was silence. The calm before the storm.
It was the silence before his mother’s screams that he remembered most, even now. Something was terribly wrong. The silence told him so. He was used to the noise when his parents were together, but not the silence.
He flew down the stairs and knelt beside his sister. Mum and Dad were simply staring. Dad was all jokey about it.
“Come on, angel. I’m sorry. Get up. Sorry, sweetheart. I just lost it for a second.”
Blood began pooling beside Amanda’s head. It was coming out too fast. The puddle of dark, rich fluid was growing and growing, right before his eyes. Michael stared at his parents.
“Do something!” he screamed.
For what seemed like forever, they simply stared back at him. Then Mum became hysterical.
Her piercing screams shook him to the core. Each one felt like a knife puncturing his skin and jarring against his bones. His body began to tremble uncontrollably.
Chapter Thirty-One
The room smelled of furniture polish and bleach. He held his aching head. It felt like a boiling pot with its lid sealed tight, swelling and threatening to blow.
Cutler needed some release. Whether it was Melanie’s infidelity that was getting to him or the sheer intensity of the repeating nightmares, he wasn’t sure.
Things were changing for him. Until recently he’d always played safe. The trouble was, he’d enjoyed hunting little Peter ‘Rabbit’ Rice, and although he realised it had been a mistake, one that might eventually catch up with him, he was keen to experiment a little more.
He’d left home early and would be staying at a Premier Inn for the night. Tomorrow he would visit a Cassley Shoes store situated within an out-of-town retail park. He’d spent the afternoon and evening getting ready. He’d had some new customer questionnaires printed up and was looking forward to using them. All completed questionnaires got entered into a draw, and head office had agreed to a grand prize of £250, to be spent in store.
It was the questions he was most pleased with. Scrap that: it was actually the section requesting personal details he was most pleased with. He hoped it would help him build a database for the future and save time. The usual bullshit questions were there: How often do you shop at Cassley Shoes? Would you recommend Cassley Shoes to a friend? Then, sandwiched among Age, Sex, Relationship status, Children, Name, Home address and Email and contact telephone number (so we can contact the winners), he’d slipped in another line before going to press: Number of people living in household. These six seemingly innocent words would help him sift the wheat from the chaff. He was probably breaking all sorts of data-protection laws, but that was a problem for head office, not him.
Tomorrow he’d urge staff to get shoppers filling out questionnaires, and he’d collect them in a couple of weeks. From now on, prospecting would be easy.
Tonight, however, he wanted to celebrate, if for no other reason than to let off some of that pent-up energy. For the first time in his life he felt empowered. He felt sure it had started the day he had taken care of Peter Rice. It made him feel as though nothing could any longer stand in his way. If he wanted something, he would simply reach out and take it. Quite by accident, Peter had caused him to step outside his comfort zone, and now there was no going back. There had been spontaneity in the way he’d dealt with Peter, and, having successfully dealt with him, he felt a kind of invincibility. Peter had been a pivotal moment, and since that moment Cutler’s mind had been working overtime on the question of what else he could take.
Watch out, world. Michael Cutler is a new man.
It was almost 1 a.m. when he parked the blue Mondeo beside some unlit garages. He pulled on his police jacket and sergeant’s hat. With a quick walk and a bit of a run he was only a few hundred yards behind a young blonde he’d spotted while cruising around. From what he could tell, she had a great body; her tiny skirt showed off her wonderful, curvy figure. He watched as she leaned against a garden wall and pulled off her high heels to rub her feet. S
he was wobbling and finding it difficult to remain upright. This gave him his chance to catch up with her and offer assistance, just like a genuinely concerned officer of the law.
“Evening, miss. Is everything okay?”
“Officer – you startled me. Yes. Just these damned shoes are killing my feet.”
He was close and could smell alcohol. “I see. It’s quite late for a young woman to be out by herself. Have you got far to go?”
“Young woman?” she started laughing. “It’s my birthday. I’m celebrating my birthday. Twenty-one! Woohoo!” She was swaying more now and waving her shoes in the air. “I’m a little drunk or, as a police officer might say, a little ‘intoxicated.’” She stood straight and saluted him.
“Indeed. Well, congratulations, miss. Happy birthday.” He gave her a reassuring smile. It was important to remain friendly and keep his performance both professional and convincing.
Her expression turned sour. “Congratulations on getting dumped on your birthday, more like. My bastard boyfriend dumped me on my birthday. What a great guy he turned out to be.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. A pretty girl like you won’t find it hard to find someone new.”
“Are you flirting with me, officer? I bet you’re married. Let me see your hand.”
Before he could object, she grabbed his hand and examined it.
“There – I knew it. You are married. You’re a naughty boy. Naughty! I saw you looking at my tits.” She closed one eye and tried to focus on him. “I’m Tina, you naughty policeman.”
“Nice to meet you, Tina. I’m Sergeant Lamb. Would you like me to call you a taxi?”
“Baaaa, Sergeant Lamb. I don’t need a taxi. I’ve only got to go ’round the little corner. I’m definitely drunk, but I can definitely walk.” Tina started to sing quietly to herself as they walked together. “Sergeant Lamb is a naughty boy, naughty boy, naughty boy. Sergeant Lamb is a naughty boy, baa-baa, baa-baa, baa.”
