Tim Stevens - Jokerman

To Vale’s credit, he didn’t argue, didn’t try to placate or humour Purkiss, or even ask what he meant. Instead he frowned faintly and said, ‘It’s a possibility, yes.’

‘It’s more than that.’ Purkiss picked up the polystyrene cup of coffee someone had handed him, found it was empty, and tossed it aside. He was quietly furious to notice a fine tremor in his hand. ‘I turn down a job to find the sniper who shot a Five agent. Hours later, a sniper takes a potshot at me , in my own home. Either someone knows I spoke to Kasabian and is assuming I accepted the job, in which case her security is woeful. Or, more likely, she’s set this up herself. To try to scare me into taking on the job, by making it seem as though I’m in danger too and have a personal stake in this.’

Vale raised his hand to his mouth before seeming to remember he didn’t have a cigarette between his fingers. He closed his eyes briefly, then said: ‘Let’s have a full debrief.’

Purkiss told him everything, including as much as he thought was necessary. Vale listened in silence. At the end, he said, ‘One man.’

‘Yes. And he ran, when I fired on him. He had the sense to know he was outclassed, up close. His rifle would have been no use.’

‘Describe him.’

Purkiss’s mind scrabbled for details. ‘Five ten or — eleven. Perhaps twelve, twelve and a half stone. Solid but not musclebound. As I said, he was wearing a balaclava.’

‘Race?’

‘White.’ Purkiss had seen a flash of the skin around the eyes.

‘Any sense of his age?’

‘From the way he moved, I’d guess anywhere between late twenties and late forties. Fast, agile, but more surefooted than you’d see in a younger man.’

‘Military?’

‘Probably. But then most snipers are.’

Someone tapped on the door and a nurse put her head in. To Purkiss she said, ‘Your friend’s being transferred now.’

‘I’ll give you a lift,’ said Vale.

In the car, which still smelt of old, stale smoke, Vale said, ‘How does it look for him?’

‘He’ll probably die,’ said Purkiss.

The surgeon who’d given Kendrick the once over said it looked as though a low-velocity bullet, which Purkiss knew meant most likely a ricochet, had sheared away part of the right frontal bone and part of the underlying frontal lobe of the brain as well. In addition, it looked as if there were bone fragments in the brain tissue. Apart from the injury itself, there were complications to be considered, including swelling of the brain with compression on vital centres such as the ones controlling breathing, and infection. The likelihood of survival was small. The chances of Kendrick’s escaping without long-term consequences were almost nonexistent.

Vale didn’t say I’m sorry , but his silence implied it. Purkiss remembered he’d met Kendrick once, after the business in Tallinn last autumn when Vale had coordinated the operation to extract Purkiss and Kendrick from Estonia and the enquiries of the local intelligence services. Purkiss also suspected Vale knew everything there was to know about Kendrick’s background, that he quietly vetted all Purkiss’s associates, even though he gave Purkiss a free hand in hiring whomever he wanted.

Thinking aloud, Purkiss said, ‘I’d like to be able to say that bullet was meant for me. But it probably wasn’t. No-one was supposed to get killed. It was Kasabian, scaring me. It feels right.’

At the wheel, Vale said, ‘I’m not so sure. That’s starting to look less and less likely.’

‘Why?’

‘Because of the very fact that Kendrick was shot. A professional wouldn’t have let that happen, if he was simply there to put the frighteners on you.’

‘Kendrick was firing back at him,’ said Purkiss. ‘He might have reacted in self-defence.’

Vale gave a slight shake of his head. ‘Sorry, John. I’m not convinced.’

Purkiss gazed back through the windscreen, at the bustle of Camden High Street, its thronging crowds. The ambulance carrying Kendrick had sped ahead long ago.

‘There’s a quick way to find out.’

‘How’s that?’

Purkiss told him.

For once, Purkiss thought he saw the twitch of a smile at the corner of Vale’s mouth.

‘You’re serious, aren’t you?’ said Vale.

‘Completely.’

Vale drove in silence, considering. Then he said: ‘All right. I’ll set it up first thing in the morning.’

‘No,’ said Purkiss. ‘Tonight.’

‘Ms Kasabian might not be prepared — ’

‘That’s just it,’ said Purkiss. ‘I don’t want her to be prepared.’

‘A polygraph,’ said Kasabian.

It was just after midnight. The three of them, Kasabian, Vale and Purkiss, were in a second-floor flat near Covent Garden, a venue Kasabian had specified when Vale called her.

Kendrick had gone into the operating theatre an hour earlier. Purkiss hung around outside, talking to an assortment of doctors and nurses none of whom seemed quite sure who he was. He noticed a small squad of armed police in the vicinity, and felt an odd relief, even though getting shot again wasn’t something Kendrick had to worry about in the immediate future. He wondered what the police had been told. Was Kendrick the suspected victim of a drug deal gone wrong, or of a gangland attack?

When it became clear there wasn’t much more he could do to help, or much more information he could glean about Kendrick’s condition, Purkiss left the theatre and went in search of Vale. He found him where he’d left him, in the reception area.

‘Done,’ said Vale. ‘Ms Kasabian will meet us within the hour. And I’m having the equipment delivered here in a few minutes.’

A quarter of an hour later, a silent, stone-faced young man came through the hospital doors, spotted Vale and nodded, and handed over a small suitcase. Purkiss could tell from the way Vale hefted it that its contents were heavy.

To Kasabian now, Purkiss said, ‘That’s right.’

She stared at him, her eyes trying to probe behind his as they’d done at the earlier meeting. Slowly she nodded in understanding.

‘Yes,’ she murmured. ‘You think I set up the shooting.’

‘I do, yes.’

‘All right.’ She was in the same trouser suit as earlier that day, which led Purkiss to suspect she hadn’t been home yet. She slipped off her jacket and began to roll up her sleeves. ‘Let’s do it.’

The flat was sparsely furnished, and was clearly a safe house of some kind, one of countless similar places across the city. A rectangular dining table stood at one end of the living room. Vale placed the suitcase on the table and opened it, and began to unpack the equipment within.

Few countries used the polygraph as part of law enforcement procedures, and even in the United States, where polygraph evidence was admissible in court in nearly half the states and at the discretion of the judge in federal cases, its validity was highly questionable. Purkiss knew this, and knew Kasabian knew it. But he wasn’t looking to achieve a criminal conviction. He just wanted to satisfy himself that she was lying.

And he’d know. So would Vale.

Purkiss stood by while Kasabian seated herself on one of the chairs next to the dining table and Vale attached the cuff round her left upper arm, the straps across her chest, the sensors on the fingers of her right hand. The leads ran to a box on the table which was in turn connected to a laptop computer.

Purkiss and Vale had discussed beforehand how they would conduct the questioning. Vale was the more experienced interrogator, and Purkiss wanted to observe Kasabian’s responses to the questions as they occurred. At a nod from Vale, Purkiss sat down at the table, the laptop open before him. Vale pulled one of the chairs over to the other side of Kasabian and sat facing her, a comfortable distance away.