Stephen Leather - The Double Tap

‘Other than the fact that they kill people,’ said Cramer. The Colonel flashed Cramer a warning look but Jackman ignored the interruption.

‘Most assassins kill to attract attention to themselves,’ Jackman continued. ‘They might claim to be acting in the name of some political cause or another, but generally they’re seeking attention. Often they keep diaries, for instance. When you get your man, I think you’ll find that somewhere he kept a diary or a record of what he’s been doing. Almost certainly with photographs, newspaper clippings, maybe even video recordings of news broadcasts.’

Cramer shifted in his chair. ‘Okay, I see what you’re saying,’ he said. ‘But I don’t see how it’s going to help me identify the killer.’

‘In terms of being able to pick him out of a crowd, you’re right,’ Jackman admitted. ‘Profiles don’t work like that. What the FBI and other law enforcement agencies do is to use the profile to select the most likely suspects, so that they concentrate their resources in the most productive way.’

Cramer exhaled deeply and rubbed the back of his neck. It seemed that the more he tried to get specifics from the profiler, the more nebulous he became. It was like grabbing mist. ‘What about his nationality?’ Cramer asked.

Jackman shrugged. ‘American or British would be the most likely, possibly Australian or South African.’

‘Why?’

‘The man’s calmness under pressure and his marksmanship suggest Special Forces training.’

‘So why not German?’

Jackman removed his glasses and twirled them around in his right hand. ‘German is a possibility, yes. But whatever his nationality it’s clear he has an affinity for languages. Witnesses who heard him talk disagree completely as to his voice and accent. He was working as a waiter for three days before the killing of the Kypriano girl and spoke fluent Greek. We have witnesses in Miami who were sure that he had a New York accent and a bodyguard whose client was shot in Bangkok says the assassin is Scottish.’

‘Scottish?’

‘The bodyguard was from Glasgow and he swears that the accent was genuine. I’m not convinced that a German would be able to speak perfect Greek and English without a trace of a German accent.’

There was a knock on the door and Mrs Elliott appeared pushing a tea trolley. The Colonel smiled his thanks as she placed the trolley by the side of his desk and left the room.

‘There was something I didn’t read in your report that I thought would have been worth mentioning,’ said Cramer.

Jackman raised his eyebrows and stopped twirling his glasses.

‘The way he kills. Close up, one shot to the face, one to the chest.’

Jackman nodded. ‘It’s his signature. It’s a way of telling the world that he did it. Like Zorro carving a Z with his sword.’

‘There are easier ways of killing. The head-shot is risky. It’s not the way we’re trained to shoot.’

‘How would you do it?’ Jackman leaned forward, eager to hear Cramer’s reply.

Cramer shrugged. ‘The chest. It’s the biggest area, you’re less likely to miss. Rip through the heart or a lung, the liver even, and it’s all over.’

‘Faster than a shot to the head?’

‘A head’s easier to miss.’

‘And you think it’s significant?’

‘You don’t?’

‘I just think it’s his way of letting the client know that he did the job.’

Cramer put a hand up to his mouth and tapped his lips thoughtfully. ‘Maybe,’ he said.

‘You don’t seem convinced. But he can’t very well leave a business card, can he?’ Jackman smiled and there was something canine about the gesture, like a dog contemplating a bone.

Dermott Lynch was washing up when he heard a key slot into the front door lock. He picked up a large carving knife but almost immediately heard Marie call down the hallway, ‘It’s me.’ Lynch replaced the knife in the soapy water.

Marie walked into the kitchen and put a plastic carrier bag onto the table. ‘You’re very domesticated,’ she said.

Lynch shrugged. ‘You have to be when you live alone. You soon learn that if you don’t do it, it never gets done.’

‘Why Dermott, you mean there’s no young lady in your life to clear up after you?’

Lynch chuckled and rinsed the cutlery under the cold tap. ‘There are several young ladies, Marie, but I don’t think any of them are the type who’d do my housework.’ He picked up a towel and dried his hands. Marie took a bulging envelope out of her handbag and opened it. ‘It’s in fifties and twenties,’ she said. ‘Will that be enough?’

‘That’s great,’ he said, running his thumb over the notes. He slipped the envelope into the back pocket of his jeans, then impulsively stepped forward and kissed her on the cheek. To his surprise she turned her face so that her lips brushed his and for a few seconds she returned his kiss. Lynch put his hands on her hips and tried to kiss her harder but she reached up and put her hands on his shoulders and pushed him away. She looked at him, one eyebrow raised archly, a lock of her hair across one cheek. ‘I don’t think this is a good idea, is it, Dermott?’ she said.

Lynch grinned. ‘Aye, right enough,’ he said.

Marie kept looking at him and he could see his own reflection in the pupils of her eyes. She smiled and put her head on one side as if reconsidering. ‘Maybe later,’ she said.

‘Aye, maybe,’ said Lynch. He knew that she didn’t mean later that day. She meant afterwards, after Cramer was dead. He nodded, still looking deep into her eyes.

She held his gaze for a few seconds then twisted around and pulled three cartons out of the carrier bag. ‘Hair dye,’ she said, handing them to him. ‘I wasn’t sure what to get, so I got one black, one blonde and one red.’

Lynch juggled the boxes thoughtfully and Marie slipped away to the other side of the kitchen, where she busied herself filling the kettle. ‘What do you think?’ asked Lynch.

‘I’d go for black,’ she said. ‘Red is always a risky colour. And it’ll only advertise the fact that you’re Irish. And I’m not sure you’ll suit the bleached surfer look. But I wanted to give you the choice.’

Lynch put down two of the packs and took the carton of black dye into the bathroom. Marie appeared at the doorway with an old towel as Lynch was reading the instructions. ‘Use this,’ she said, ‘and try not to get it everywhere.’

She was right; it was a messy business, and by the time Lynch had finished the bathroom looked as if a wet dog had shaken itself dry. He wrapped his wet hair in the towel and did his best to wipe the sink and mirror clean. When he walked back into the kitchen Marie was pouring him a cup of tea. Lynch took it and sniffed it appreciatively. She hadn’t made the mistake of brewing it too long and she’d poured the milk into the cup first so that the milk hadn’t scalded. He sipped it and sat down at the table. Marie reached over and unwound the towel. ‘Who cut this?’ she asked.

‘I did it myself,’ admitted Lynch. ‘Not good, huh?’

‘Not great,’ she agreed, running her fingers through the thick locks. ‘Let’s see if I can improve it.’

She took a pair of scissors from a drawer and led Lynch through to her bedroom and sat him down in front of her dressing table. Lynch watched her in the mirror as she combed his hair. She had a thoughtful frown on her face, like a little girl facing a difficult decision. She used the scissors carefully as if she was frightened of making a mistake. She tidied up the front and gave him more of a parting, then concentrated on the back, tapering it so that it just brushed the collar of his shirt. When she was satisfied she stood behind him and patted him on the shoulders. ‘How’s that, sir?’ she asked.