Читать книгу Final Target - E. Seymour V. - Страница 8

The envelope stared at me like the bad fairy at the wedding feast. I stared back, belligerent. Draining my glass, I thought about having another drink and changed my mind. I didn’t know for how long McCallen intended to take the night air, but I wasn’t taking risks. Scooping up the envelope, I slipped it inside my jacket and left the bar. My intention was to walk around the block and return, the envelope unopened. My subconscious had other ideas.

Letting myself back into the rental apartment only metres away, I switched on the light, poured myself a glass of water and sat down. The paper crinkled as I moved, the envelope a sharp-edged rock digging into my heart. Only photographs, the devil in my brain told me. Where’s the harm? Do you really want to put yourself in temptation’s way, the other part of me said, aren’t you supposed to be walking away from all that? I’m providing you with an opportunity to do good, McCallen said. What she really meant was that I was giving her a chance to solve part of a puzzle. For some unspoken reason, she couldn’t ask anyone else. I was flattered. And for reasons I hadn’t yet nailed, I was more than tempted.

The devil won out.

I opened the envelope, slid out three black and whites, three identical in colour, and three close-up shots, again in colour. I laid them out in front of me like a croupier placing cards on the table, and took out my phone to capture the images. Next, using the MagniLink facility, I studied each in detail.

The first photograph provided an aerial shot of a two-lane road running through a section of dense woodland. Studying the leaves on the trees, which were oak, ash, chestnut and beech, I guessed it was taken around May or June. From the angle of the sun and hint of dew on the ground, it must have been early morning. Clearings revealed signs of human activity, animals and horse tracks, and beyond these, a criss-cross of paths and narrow roads, undoubtedly a tourist trail. As killing places went, it was an ideal location. No CCTV. With quick road access, the killer could get in and out within seconds and had plenty of cover for a speedy getaway.

On the road, a sleek-looking vehicle, a Jaguar, was positioned almost at right-angles as if the driver had changed his mind about the direction in which he was driving and had decided to turn around. Metres down the road from the Jag, most likely travelling from the opposite direction, an overturned mountain bike, top spec and only used by a serious cyclist. One body lay on the road almost underneath the bicycle. Another body hung out of the open door on the passenger side of the Jaguar. Spent cartridges littered the scene. Untidy. I’d come back to these later.

I moved on to a close-up of the Jaguar. Rounds of gunfire had extensively damaged the front and offside of the vehicle. Standard procedure: windscreen smashed, metal perforated by so many rounds that it looked like the car had been sliced open by a king-size can opener. This meant the weapon’s magazine capacity was at least thirty rounds and probably fired at a rate of 700 rounds per minute, maybe more. I looked closely at the measurement of individual holes. The problem with this is that when a bullet leaves a weapon, impact changes both it and the surface with which it comes into contact. Without the actual bullet in my hand, it was difficult to estimate calibre. Clearly fired from an automatic, I reckoned it could be 9 x 19mm Parabellum, but I couldn’t be exact.

The passenger door was open, the driver’s door closed. Rubber marks on the road suggested that the car had moved at speed, tyres biting the asphalt in the driver’s desperate bid to get out of trouble and make a fast getaway. I closed my eyes and pictured the scene: driver responds to the threat by stopping, takes fire but not enough to kill, reverses and then is felled by another round of automatic fire.

A close-up revealed the driver: her face twisted to one side, most of the top of the head removed, body slumped over the wheel, blood and brain matter decorating the expensive leather interior. Left arm extended, her hand stretched out as if trying to make contact with her male passenger one final time. Meant the relationship was close. Death conceals age to a degree, but I guessed she could have been anything between thirty-five and forty-five years of age.

Close-up of the passenger revealed that he had made some effort to flee but, caught in the spray, his upper torso was a mess of gunshot wounds. I estimated his age around the same as mine. Either way, I reckon he’d hit his thirty-third birthday. To my professional eye, the driver was first on the killer’s playlist, the passenger of secondary importance.

Next up, the crime scene with the unfortunate male cyclist. The bike, keeled over on the road, trapped the cyclist’s right leg. This indicated that the cyclist was facing the motorist and stationary when shot. Close examination revealed that, unlike the occupants of the car, he had been shot, at most, three times. He’d taken a bullet to the chest and one at point-blank range to the head. I suspected that this was the third in the sequence. The actual choreography would go something like this: one in the head, one in the chest, and a follow-up shot for good measure. A pathologist might state otherwise but, either way, he had been dispatched in a clinical fashion. He wasn’t riddled with bullets. I imagined the cyclist’s attention being attracted; maybe someone flags him down and asks for help – directions possibly – he stops to think and, before he knows it, death beckons.

I took another look at the overall shot. There were no visible tyre tracks on the verge, but the pattern of fallen cartridges told its own little tale. I frowned. My observations were so blindingly obvious; McCallen didn’t need my help at all.

My mobile phone rang. It was McCallen. ‘Where are you?’

‘Back at the flat.’

‘I’ll come round.’

I let her in and she sat down opposite and let her beautiful eyes meet mine. ‘Thank you.’

‘For what?’

‘For doing something you didn’t want to do.’

I fixed her with a cool stare. ‘It was pretty much a pointless exercise.’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘None of my observations are rocket science. Any interested amateur would draw the same conclusions.’

‘Which are?’

I shook my head. ‘No trade until you answer my questions.’

‘Fire away.’

‘Who are the couple?’

‘India Griffiths-Jones and her toy boy lover Dylan Woodgate.’

‘Their occupation?’

‘Griffiths-Jones was a banker, Woodgate a city trader.’

‘Have you followed the money trail?’

‘It’s clean.’ She unexpectedly dropped her gaze. Meant she was lying.

I arched an eyebrow. McCallen glanced up at me with a cold look, lips zippered. Planning to return to this point later, I pressed on.

‘Where are the deceased from?’

‘Griffiths-Jones, born O’Malley, is originally from Newry, Northern Ireland. Woodgate from Kent. Both worked in the City.’

‘Political motivation?’

‘Police considered a possible connection to the Real IRA in the early part of the investigation, but it’s been discounted.’

‘The relationship between the two – illicit or otherwise?’

‘Smart of you.’

‘That’s what you expect from me, isn’t it?’

She smiled. ‘Illicit. Griffiths-Jones’s husband had no idea about her extracurricular activities until his wife’s untimely death.’

I gave my eyebrow another workout. Giving an order to kill one’s spouse on account of an affair was an obvious motive for murder. I’d never got involved in domestics, but I knew men who would and did.

‘He checks out,’ McCallen said, attempting to head off that particular line of enquiry.

‘As in, he has an alibi?’ Which meant damn all in my previous line of work. Those who gave the orders were nowhere near the crime scenes and they always ensured their alibis were watertight.

‘As in, he didn’t do it.’

‘So they simply happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time?’ I said.

‘Why do you say that?’

‘Because the cyclist was the target.’

‘That’s not what the police believe.’

‘Well they’re wrong. He was killed first.’

‘How do you know?’

I wondered whether McCallen was really dumb or acting dumb. Had to be the latter. ‘His death was played out in a distinctly different fashion. Whereas the occupants of the car had been treated to a spray and pray approach, the cyclist was coldly and surgically removed.’

‘Two killers?’

‘One killer who panicked when he had company.’

‘Amateur?’

I paused because I couldn’t be certain. ‘A professional, new to the job.’

‘Does he have a signature?’

I paused for a second time. I’d always favoured a three-shot approach. One in the head, one in the body, one to finish off. Sounded gruesome now, as if it had nothing to do with me. The tops of my cheekbones flushed hot to the bone in shame. ‘He didn’t favour a pistol, which is highly unusual for a hit. My guess is that he used one weapon, an automatic primed to fire single shot for the original kill, then he switched to multiple fire when he ran into trouble.’

She frowned. ‘Sub-machine guns are cumbersome.’

I shrugged. It depended on the weapon. The Heckler & Koch MP5K short version could easily be concealed under clothing or fired from a specially modified suitcase or bag. It had been one of my favourite methods for jobs where the target employed bodyguards. I didn’t tell her this.

‘There was nothing random about the hit. The killer had prior information about the cyclist’s movements. Odds on, he knew that the cyclist was touring the New Forest.’

McCallen’s eyes danced with interest. ‘What makes you say the New Forest?’

‘Ponies and donkeys.’

She didn’t say yes or no, just tilted her chin.

I explained my theory, then said, ‘The pattern of shell casings provides the clincher. The killer thought he’d done the business and then Mrs Banker and her lover show up. No witnesses equals no loose ends.’

‘Collateral damage?’

‘Rules of the game. If you’re good at the job you shouldn’t need to indulge in it.’

‘What about you?’ A sudden frosty note etched her voice.

‘I was good at the job.’ We’d hit rocky ground so I decided to change direction. ‘Who was he?’

‘A German tourist.’

‘Does he have a name?’

‘Lars Pallenberg.’

‘So what’s his story?’

‘He was a tourist who happened to be an artist.’

‘An artist, or asset?’ My expression was neutral. McCallen’s answer might explain why she’d come to me and nobody else. Her kissable lips parted very slightly. Only someone familiar with her could divine that McCallen’s first instinct to lie was rapidly substituted by the truth.

‘Both. I was his handler.’

‘Tough for you.’ No intelligence officer liked having an asset bumped off. Unfortunately, it was an occupational hazard. Recruit, use and let go, Reuben my mentor, once told me. ‘But there’s nothing you can do about it. You simply disavow, pretend he never existed and walk away.’

‘He was also a friend.’

The warmth in her eyes made me feel as if I had something cold and wet and slippery crawling through my intestines. I didn’t ask the obvious question.