Stephen Leather - The Double Tap

‘And?’

‘And it’s just like I said, there’s no match. Not recently, anyway. There was one guy about ten years back, he used to kill his victims with a shot to the head and one to the heart, but he’s in a maximum security prison. And he’s a psycho, he used to torture his victims with a wire coat hanger. There’s no way he’s our man. He’s been well-documented by the profiling boys.’

‘Any chance of you sending me the file?’

‘Sure, I’ll have his details faxed to you, but you’ll be wasting your time. You could ask Jackman, I think he was with the Bureau at the time they were interviewing him. How’s Jackman getting on?’

‘He said he was off to South Africa to investigate the assassination there. He gave us a briefing before he went.’

‘Was he much help?’

‘Frankly, not really. What he gave us was academically interesting, but what we need is a description rather than a psychological profile.’

‘Yeah, I know what you mean. But I bet you a month’s pay, when we get the guy, we’ll find that he matches Jackman’s profile exactly. He’s one of the best. The boys at Quantico really like him. We’re lucky to have him on the case.’

‘Well I’m sure that his bill will reflect his ability,’ said the Colonel dryly.

‘It’s not the money,’ said Greenberg. ‘Jackman approached us offering to help, we didn’t go after him. He’s working on a book about serial killers and I think he reckons the publicity will get him onto the bestseller list. Then there’s his professional pride. He wants to be the best, or at least to be acknowledged as the best. You know the type. It’s like he’s got something to prove.’

‘Yes, I know the type.’ The SAS was full of such men, men who were driven to prove that they were the best. Mike Cramer had been such a man, willing to push himself beyond the limits of normal human endurance for no other reason than to demonstrate that he could. It wasn’t only Cramer’s terminal condition which had led him to accept the mission that the Colonel had offered. Cramer’s willingness to go up against the killer was also a result of his desire to demonstrate that he was as good as ever, a bid to recapture his glory days. Yes, Cramer and Jackman had much in common, though Cramer’s quest was likely to result in his own death while Jackman was only risking his professional reputation.

The Colonel stared at his chess computer as he replaced the receiver. The cursed machine had forced him into a corner, and there was nothing that the Colonel hated more than to have his options decided for him. He stared balefully at the pieces and stroked the side of his often-broken nose. He was no longer enjoying the game. It had stopped being fun, it was no longer even an intellectual challenge. Now it was war.

The boy stared at the television with unseeing eyes. It was some detective show set in San Francisco but he wasn’t really watching. He kept on looking up at the ceiling, expecting to hear the thud of the walking stick on the bedroom floor at any minute. He stood up and paced around the room, his mind in turmoil. On the television, the two cops arrested a black guy, threw him against the car and put handcuffs on him.

He went into the hall and listened, but all he could hear was his own breathing. He went back into the living room and looked at the brass clock on the mantelpiece. It was half past four. His father wouldn’t be home for another two hours. The boy swallowed. He looked up at the ceiling again, then back at the clock. He stood stock still for a full five minutes, then tiptoed upstairs and knocked timidly on the door to his mother’s bedroom. There was no reply. He pressed his ear against the door and listened, his brow creased into a frown. He could hear his mother moaning. Slowly, as if afraid it would bite, he reached for the doorknob and turned it.

His mother was lying diagonally across the bed, one arm draped across the pillows, the other across her stomach. Her mouth was wide open and frothy, white fluid was trickling between her lips and dribbling onto the sheets. As the boy watched, horrified, she coughed and turned her head to the side. Her chest was heaving and she arched her back as if she was being electrocuted. Her hands were clenching and unclenching seemingly with a life of their own. The medicine bottle lay next to her. It was empty.

The boy walked over to the side of the bed and stood looking down on his mother. She began to mumble and he bent down to listen but the sounds that were coming from her mouth didn’t make any sense. She’d knocked one of her pillows onto the floor and the boy picked it up. It was stained with sick and saliva and spotted with blood. The boy clutched the pillow to his chest and closed his eyes, promising God that he’d do anything if only He’d spare his mother. He opened his eyes. The white stuff was coming from her nose. It was the milk, the boy realised. The milk he’d given her. He climbed up onto the bed and knelt over her, tears running down his cheeks. He kissed her on the forehead, lightly, then put the pillow over her face and pressed down with all his might.

Martin was finishing a bacon sandwich when Allan walked into the kitchen. ‘Ready for the off?’ Allan asked, putting his shirt on over the top of his bullet-proof vest.

Martin nodded and washed the sandwich down with several gulps of coffee. ‘I’ll get the Merc,’ he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘How’s he doing?’

Allan shrugged his massive shoulders. ‘He’s quiet, but he’s got a lot on his mind.’

‘It takes balls to be a sitting duck, all right.’ He picked up the car keys. ‘I’ll be outside.’

Martin took the elevator down to the ground floor and walked across the lobby. He couldn’t be bothered with the lift down to the car park and took the stairs instead. The doorman on duty in the lower foyer nodded at Martin. ‘Looks like rain,’ said the doorman. Martin recognised him as Matt Richards, another of the SAS troopers who’d been at the school.

‘Yeah, forecast said it was going to piss down.’ Martin opened the door that led to the car park stairs. His footsteps echoed off the bare concrete walls as he headed downstairs.

The Mercedes was parked at the far end of the car park in the middle of three bays that had been allocated to the Vander Mayer apartment. Before he opened the door, Martin used a small mirror to check underneath the vehicle and peered through the side windows to make sure that nothing was amiss inside. When he was satisfied that the car hadn’t been touched overnight, he opened the door electronically and slid in. His chauffeur’s hat was on the passenger seat and he put it on, then looked at himself in the same mirror he’d used to inspect the underside of the car. He stuck out his tongue at his reflection and then dropped the mirror into his pocket. ‘Hi ho, Silver, away,’ he muttered to himself and started the car. All he could hear through the costly German sound-proofing was a faint purr, and there was barely any vibration. It was a beautiful car, but it wouldn’t have been Martin’s choice, if he’d had the money. The Mercedes was a soft man’s car, built to insulate the occupants from the outside world. And it was a car designed not for driving, but to be driven in. He preferred something more aggressive, something with power, something that roared rather than purred. A Porsche, maybe, or an XJS.

He put the Mercedes in gear and slowly reversed. He didn’t see the grey car until the last minute and he hit it side on, the bumper of the Mercedes crunching into the car’s rear door. ‘Where the hell did you come from?’ he cursed, glaring at the car in his rear-view mirror. He doubted if he’d done much damage to the Mercedes, it was a much heavier car than the one he’d hit. He twisted around in his seat. The driver of the other car climbed out of the far side. Martin smiled when he saw it was a woman, and a pretty one at that.