by Matthew Dunn
Sign got back into his vehicle and drove. “We must be careful. It is possible that I’ve just met one of the Argentinian assassins.”
Casero followed them. He knew they weren’t heading to Roy Cove. No one lived there because there was no road access to the coastal location. That meant that instead of turning northwest off the road they were on, passing Roy Cove and heading to the uninhabited West Point Island, they’d stay on the road that led to Hill Cove. Only one person lived there. A mile north of the cove there was another dwelling. Beyond that, the coastal road continued for approximately six miles before stopping. Logically, that meant Sign and Knutsen were going to see one of the two men. He followed Sign’s vehicle for fifteen minutes, flashed his lights, and overtook their jeep. He waved his hand while glancing in the rear view mirror and drove at speed. He wanted to be out of sight. He drove close to Hill Cove, but not too close. After driving his vehicle off the road for one hundred yards, he stopped and began covering his car with snow. Sign and Knutsen were at least a mile behind him. And given visibility was appalling, even when they drove past his disguised vehicle they wouldn’t be able to see him or his car. He grabbed a holdall containing binoculars and a rifle, and set off on foot.
Peter Hunt was in his house, polishing boots and wiping down waterproof smocks with a wet cloth. He lived alone. He’d never married, and his parents had passed away a few years ago. Mostly, he farmed the adjacent remote land, though money was scant in the winter months. It was only when the lambing season was well and truly over that he was able to slaughter some of the lambs, sheer the older sheep and sell their wool, and have any meaningful income. Before then, running costs remained high. The sheep needed to be housed and fed, his stone cottage was leaky and cold and needed constant repairs, ditto his two barns, and his vehicles were in regular need of new parts due to the strain put on them. So, in the off-season he supplemented his income by doing other things – hunting for game and selling it in Port Howard, catching and smoking river and sea trout and gift wrapping them in string, straw, and wooden boxes, and posting them to delicatessens in England and France, cultivating herbs under LED grow-lamps and selling the crops to anyone that would take them, and getting cash-in-hand for helping other farmers on the island with repairs and supplies.
Hunt was forty one years old, five foot nine, had a weathered face that was tanned all year round, was bald, and had the strength of an ox. Like most farmers, he was a stickler for routine and hygiene. He bathed every day; his clothes were washed after every shift; his other kit and tools were cleaned regularly, and always after usage; and every morning and evening he always smothered Norwegian cream onto his hands and feet to prevent his skin cracking from prolonged exertions and exposure to wet conditions. And yet, there was no mistaking his aroma – he smelled like an animal.
He went into one of the barns. Inside were his beloved sheep. Separated from them, in a pen, was his ram. Perceived wisdom amongst farmers was that one should keep rams and sheep away from each other until breeding season. For the most part that was true. But Hunt had learnt that putting his ram in the same enclosure as the females helped bring a calming influence on the ladies. He didn’t know why that was. But he knew it worked. He picked up a handful of nuts from a bowl and held them under the ram’s nostrils. The ram had big horns, and was cantankerous, but he never attacked Hunt. His master gave him what he wanted – food, the opportunity to mate with the other sheep, a free reign of a stretch of land in the warmer months, and a cosy home when the weather was dire.
Most people wouldn’t have been able to hear the car approaching – the wind was too noisy. But Hunt had an excellent sense of hearing. He had to have that; one survived out here by one’s wits and capabilities. He walked back into the house and looked at the road. A jeep was approaching. That was very unusual. Even in the summer, not many people ventured out this far. The last time he’d seen another human being was a week ago, and that wasn’t anywhere near here. He started feeling uneasy as he looked through a telescope that was positioned on a window ledge. The car was drawing nearer.
He didn’t like this one bit.
He grabbed his daysack. It contained everything he needed if he had to bolt to rescue a sheep or attend to any other emergency. He placed it on his back and looked at his telephone.
Sign stopped his vehicle outside Hunt’s cottage. “Let’s tread carefully. Hunt will be suspicious of us, simply because he hasn’t seen people out here for a long time. He will be exponentially on his guard when we start asking questions.”
Sign and Knutsen approached the front door. Sign knocked.
There was no answer.
Sign knocked again and called out, “Mr. Hunt?”
The door opened a few inches. Hunt said, “Yes?”
Sign smiled. “My name is Ben Sign. And this is Tom Knutsen. We’re from London. We’re investigating an incident that took place near Stanley. We’re talking to islanders to see if anyone witnessed the incident. May we come in?”
“What incident?”
“Four men fell off a trawler at sea, a mile out from Port Stanley. They drowned. Their names are Eddie Wilson, Rob Taylor, Billy Green, and Mike Jackson. We want to understand what happened that night.”
“Who’s we?”
“Mr. Knutsen and I are accident investigators. We work for a London law firm and represent the interests of Wilson and his friends. There may be an insurance pay out. But, we need further testimonials before we can close the case. Anyone who can help us do that will be financially rewarded.”
Hunt tried to look perplexed.
Sign could tell from his expression that it was an act.
Hunt said, “I only go to Stanley about twice a year. I read about the drownings in the paper, but I wasn’t anywhere near Stanley when it happened. You should be talking to people in the capital, not people on the west island.”
Sign maintained his smile. “We’re trying to cover all bases. So far we’re not making progress. The men were carrying weapons on the ship when they died. We understand that you’re a weapon enthusiast. We are speaking to people like yourself to see if there’s anything you might know about the men’s state of mind when they sailed out on the night of their deaths. Please may we come in? It’s dreadfully cold out here.”
Hunt didn’t buy that Sign and Knutsen were who they said they were. His stomach was in knots. “Okay. Just give me a moment.” He shut the door.
Signed snapped at Knutsen. “Cover the back!”
Sign tried to open the door, but it was locked. He kicked the door, near the handle, but it held fast. He heard an engine start up. The sound was coming from the back of the house. He raced as fast as he could to the rear of the property. One hundred yards away was Hunt, driving a red snowmobile. Knutsen was pursuing him on foot, but the vehicle was too fast and was making ground.
Sign shouted, ““Tom. Our jeep. Now!”
Sign ran their car, and drove it a few yards beyond the house. He stopped. Knutsen jumped in.
Knutsen was breathless. “He was on the snowmobile before I could get to him.”
Sign drove the jeep as fast as he dared in the slippery conditions. The snowmobile was still visible, driving north along the road. “Where’s he heading?”
“As far away from us. Is my guess.” Knutsen rubbed his injured arm. “I could have shot him, but what would have been the point in that - shooting a witness?”
“You made the right decision. We need him alive.” Sign tried to keep pace with Hunt. “He’s scared. We just need him to come to his senses when he realises there’s nowhere to go.”
Sign was gaining on Hunt. He was one hundred yards behind him. Hunt looked over his shoulder, pulled down fully on the throttle, and drove his snowmobile off the road. He was now on undulating land, travelling at fifty miles per hour.
“No!” shouted Knutsen. “Our jeep won’t make it out there. Let me out. I’ll go after him on foot.”
Sign stopped the car. Both men disembar
ked and ran along the tracks the snowmobile had carved in the snow. Hunt was at least three hundred yards away. Knutsen was holding his handgun, but the distance was too great to put a shot into the snowmobile to try to immobilise the vehicle.
Sign slowed to a walk and placed his hand on Knutsen’s shoulder. “We stand no chance. We know where he lives. He can’t escape the inevitable.”
They turned to walk back to their jeep.
As they did so they heard a loud bang. It was unmistakably a rifle shot. They spun around. Hunt was motionless on the ground. His snowmobile was careering haphazardly in different directions before it hit a rock, and tumbled in the air before crashing to the ground. Sign and Knutsen ran as fast as the deep snow would allow them to. They were one hundred yards from Hunt when two more shots rang out, bullets hitting Hunt and causing his body to slightly move. Both men threw themselves to the ground.
Knutsen muttered, “The man you met on the road. He was an assassin. Somehow he got here before us. We’re easy targets.”
Sign looked at Knutsen. “You don’t have to do this. I can check the body on my own.”
“Not a chance.” Knutsen got to his feet.
So did Sign.
They trudged through ever-thick snow. It felt like they were wading through waist-height water. When they reached Hunt, there was no doubt he was dead. He had two bullet holes in his chest and one in his head. His killer was an expert marksman. Sign and Knutsen looked around. There wasn’t any sign of life, let alone a sniper. Sign checked the body while Knutsen stood guard, his gun in both hands while he scoured any place that might be a good location to lay prone and fire three kill-shots. Sign found nothing in Hunt’s clothes. He rolled him over and pulled off Hunt’s daysack, the contents of which he poured onto the ground. There was a small blanket, torch, tin of baked beans, flask of water, compass, flare gun, box of matches, and a knife.
“No mobile phone,” said Sign.
“He had no idea what he was doing beyond getting away from us. When he lost us, he’d have waited up for a few hours, maybe even overnight, before heading home.” Knutsen crouched next to the body. “We got our fifth man, but we got to him too late.”
Sign looked at the horizon. “Why hasn’t the assassin killed us?”
“What do we do?”
“We notify Richards. There’s nothing more to be done here.”
They walked back to their jeep, sat in the vehicle, and tried to stay warm while the engine idled and powered the heater.
Knutsen called Richards and notified about what had happened. “We found him. The fifth man. But he’s dead. He didn’t talk before he died. We’ve got no evidence.” After Richards spoke, Knutsen hung up. “He’s sending a helicopter to retrieve Hunt. After it’s arrived, we’re to drive to Port Howard. Richards is supplying us a boat and crew. They’ll transport us and the jeep back to the east island.”
Sign bowed his head. Quietly, he said, “So be it.”
“Are you okay?”
Sign smiled, though his expression was bitter. “I’ve always hated failure.”
“We could, at least, get the assassin. He’s got to get off the west island. Odds are he’s going to be on the ferry tomorrow.”
“Odds? Yes, what odds are we dealing with?” He looked out of the window. “For the most part the assassins had exactly the same problem as we had – they were searching for a needle in a haystack. Like us they’d have searched Port Stanley. When that didn’t throw up any results, they’d have searched a few miles further afield. Then they partially struck lucky – they got Maloney’s name. But we came up trumps. We killed Maloney’s assassin and we got a deathbed confession from him. We got Peter Hunt’s name. Thus, we become the people to pursue because we can lead the assassins to the fifth man. The person I met on the road was not a local farmer. He had an air of command. I have a nose for these things. He’s special operations and I would go further to say that he is probably his unit’s team leader. He will have wondered where we went today. He has to use his instinct. Collectively, we’ve exhausted the eastern side of East Island. That leaves the western side of East Island and West Island itself. He’ll have deployed his two other assassins – we think they’re women – to ground beyond Goose Green. Meanwhile he’ll have taken the ferry to Port Howard. Before doing so he’ll have spoken to the ferry captain. The boat has cameras; I spotted them when we boarded. No doubt the team leader benignly persuaded the captain to show us images of our faces and our vehicle. That’s how he got on to us.”
“The case is closed! We tell Richards about the assassination unit. His men take down the sniper at Howard.”
“But, then we don’t get the whole unit. The women are on east island, I’m sure of that. They’ll get off the island by boat, submarine, or light aircraft. The male assassin will never talk. We’ll get him, but not the others.” Sign looked at his watch. “What time does the helicopter arrive here?”
“Richards estimated about an hour to ninety minutes.”
“Then we must move fast.” Sign engaged gears and turned the jeep around. He drove to Hunt’s cottage. “Stay here.” Sign entered the property via the rear door. He knew exactly what he was looking for. In the lounge he found a shotgun. It was loaded with three cartridges. He held it in one hand as he searched the kitchen. He picked up a fish knife – one that had a thin and flexible blade – and tucked it underneath his belt.. He went into the upstairs bathroom and opened a cabinet. Alongside many other items, a pair of tweezers were in there. He secreted the tweezers in his pocket, walked downstairs, left the cottage, and opened the passenger door. “We need to go back to the body. Time is of essence.”
Knutsen had no idea what was going on as Sign led the way back to Hunt and his crashed snowmobile.
Sign stopped next to the body. “At least two of the assassination team will vanish forever if Richards learns the truth of what happened today. Thus, we must muddy the waters in order to enact absolute retribution. Richards must never know that Hunt was assassinated by Argentinians. I must warn you though – this is going to be messy and will only buy us a day or two. It won’t take the coroner in King Edward VII Memorial Hospital long to realise something is amiss. Meanwhile, we must corrupt a crime scene.” Sign used the knife and tweezers to dig out the three bullets. He had to cut deep into the head and torso to get them. The wounds looked even more savage as a result of his primitive butchery. He placed the bullets in his pocket. “Your pistol, sir,” He held out his hand.
Knutsen gave him his gun. “What on Earth are you doing?”
Sign didn’t reply. Instead he fired three shots into Hunt, each in the exact location Hunt had been shot by the sniper. Sign handed the pistol back to Knutsen. He placed the shotgun in Hunt’s two hands, curled the dead man’s finger around the trigger, and fired the gun into the air. He removed the gun and aimed it at a tree that was one hundred yards away. He walked to the tree. The pellets from the blast had caused no damage to the bark. He walked back to Knutsen and gave him the shotgun. “This thing’s useless beyond fifty yards. I’m going to walk back to the tree, cover my face, and you’re going to shoot me.”
“What?!”
“Just do it.” Sign walked to the tree, stood in front of it, and crossed his arms in front of his eyes.
Knutsen was breathing heavily, his arms were shaking. He blinked fast as he raised the gun. No doubt Sign knew exactly what he was doing, but this seemed preposterous.
“Get on with it, Mr. Knutsen,” Sign called out.
Knutsen breathed in deeply. He knew Sign was cavalier. But this request was beyond the pale. But, he didn’t want to let his friend down. He steadied his legs, leaned forward, and aimed at Sign’s chest. One second. Two seconds. Three seconds. Every instinct was telling him not to take the shot.
He pulled the trigger, dropped the gun, and ran to Sign.
Sign was still standing. He withdrew his arms from his face and smiled. “That smarted a bit, But on the plus side I’ve got pellet h
oles in my jacket and a number of minor pellet holes in my flesh. It’s nothing worse than getting stuck by thirty wasps on a hot summer’s day in Hyde Park. Come.” They walked back to the body. “Place the gun in his hands. Then we must retire to the warmth of our vehicle and await the arrival of Colonel Richards.”
When they were in the car, Knutsen asked, “What the fuck was that all about?”
“Deflection; diversion; call it what you wish. Why is Hunt dead? Because he attacked us with his shotgun. I have damage to my clothes and wounds to prove it. You ran to my rescue. Hunt fired again, but his aim was off. He raised his rifle one last time to kill me. You fired twice into his upper body. He fell to the ground, but was still alive. Hunt pointed his gun at me again. You had no choice other than to take a head shot. In doing so, Hunt flipped onto his side and let off a shot that hit the tree. The forensic analysis of Hunt’s hands and forearms will show cordite on his flesh. I am walking wounded, though to be honest I’ll pluck pellets out of my chest with Hunt’s tweezer. They’ve only penetrated a couple of millimetres. You killed Hunt to save me. Job done. No need to say anything about an assassin.”
“You are mad!”
Sign laughed. “I’m pragmatic.” He looked upwards. “Richards is ahead of schedule. Hunt’s helicopter has arrived.”
They exited the car. When the helicopter landed, Richards and four armed men got out.
Knutsen pointed to the place where Hunt was laying. “He’s over there. About three hundred yards.”
The men left their commander and went to retrieve the body.
Richards walked to Sign. “What happened?”
“We found your fifth man. Alas, he was somewhat skittish. He fled, we pursued, he opened fire on me,” Sign tapped his jacket, “matters escalated, Mr. Knutsen had to shoot him, matters further escalated, Mr. Knutsen had to kill him.”
