Tom Cain - Assassin

‘How do you mean?’ asked Manners, sensing that Grantham was trying to avoid going into details, and determined not to let him off the hook.

‘Tyzack carried out a series of assassinations, the most recent of them in Oslo, the night before last. On each occasion he did so in such a way as to frame Carver for the killings. He was able to do this because he had subverted one of my officers, whom he used to pass on misleading information, designed to focus our attention, and that of local police forces, on Carver. The officer in question has, however, been apprehended and has spent the day in interrogation. Ironically, he is unaware of Tyzack’s identity. He was recruited through an intermediary and although he spoke to Tyzack, never met him.’

‘So what have you done with your officer?’ asked Dame Agatha, nothing in her voice betraying her involvement in Selsey’s capture.

‘He’s been sent home,’ said Grantham.

‘What?’ Manners gasped incredulously. ‘You just let him go?’

‘No,’ said Grantham. ‘We used him as a staked goat to catch a tiger. It’s just possible Tyzack may try to contact him. We will be monitoring all communications, and have officers outside and inside the house. If Tyzack calls, we will pin down his location. And if he goes near the property, then we aim to get him in person.’

There was a clock on the wall of the office. It gave the time as a little after nine in the evening. Carver glanced up at it, and then asked Grantham, ‘What time did you send your man home?’

‘About ninety minutes ago,’ Grantham replied.

‘And you’re sure he’s still alive?’

‘He certainly was when he arrived home.’

‘Well, I hope he still is now,’ said Carver. ‘But I wouldn’t count on it.’

‘I told you,’ said Grantham, ‘I’ve got people covering the property, inside and out.’

‘I’m sorry, didn’t you hear what I said about Tyzack?’ Carver asked, getting to his feet. He nodded towards the desk: ‘Dame Agatha, gentleman, it’s been a pleasure, but we’ve got to get going.’

He paused and looked at Grantham, who was still rooted to his chair. ‘Or don’t you want your traitor to live?’

There were thousands of cars all over south London that looked just like the ten-year-old Vauxhall Corsa parked across from Selsey’s house, a little way down the road. Its body was bulked up by body panels and flared arches intended to give a small, harmless car the appearance of a serious muscle machine, as if it had been given a course of fibre-glass steroids. The windows were blacked out, and the muffler had been removed from the exhaust in an attempt to give the engine an intimidating roar, over which the thumping bass of the oversized sound system could clearly be heard.

There were countless men who looked just like the one who got out of the car and leaned against the bonnet, drinking from a can of Stella. The close-cropped hair, Fred Perry shirt, faded jeans, chunky gold jewellery and extravagant tattoos weren’t exactly an original style statement.

From the bedroom window of Bill Selsey’s house, the man could clearly be seen as he finished his beer, threw it into the gutter and reached into the car for another can.

‘What’s he doing there?’ asked one of the men observing him.

‘Dunno. Think it’s worth going down and having a word?’

‘Not yet. No need to draw attention to ourselves unless it’s absolutely necessary.’

‘Oh, hang on, I think we just got our answer.’

‘Bloody hell, that’s a terrifying sight.’

Raifa Ademovic was walking down the road. The baby-carriage was gone and she’d changed since her last appearance. Her hair had been pulled into a tight pony-tail, a proper Croydon face-lift. Her face was adorned with heavy scarlet lipstick, false eyelashes and dangling gipsy earrings and her body was clad in a stretchy black nylon boob tube, a microscopic leopard-skin mini-skirt and teetering white plastic heels.

‘No wonder the poor bastard needs a couple of beers first,’ the MI6 officer went on as Raifa reached Ron Geary, who did not bother to get up off the bonnet to greet her. She threw her fag-end on the pavement and ground it under her shoe. He chucked his can away. She leaned over him and they kissed. He groped her backside. Then they disappeared into the car.

‘And people say romance is dead.’

‘You know, that was the bird who walked by earlier with the pram,’ said the other officer.

‘So she’s left one brat and gone out to make another. That’s nice.’

‘Not necessarily. She could be an au pair.’

‘Illegal, I bet.’

‘Either way she’ll be living off benefits. Him too, most likely.’

The car started rocking.

‘Our taxes are paying for that.’

‘I know, makes you sick.’

Inside the car Raifa Ademovic was sitting in the passenger seat, her legs pressed against the floor, pushing back and forth to make the car move. Between pushes, she leaned forward and spat the taste of Geary’s lager out of her mouth. If it had been any other woman gobbing in his motor, Geary might have given her a slap, but he knew better than to get into a fight with that mad Bosnian bitch. He also had a job to do. He got on the phone to Tyzack.

‘No movement, boss. They’re all still in there. What d’you want us to do?’

‘Give the lovely Raifa a good seeing-to, why don’t you?’ Tyzack replied mockingly. ‘But be quick about it. I’m on my way.’

Bill Selsey was having dinner with his wife, sitting at the kitchen table. His desperate attempts to make conversation had come to nothing. Now they were left in silence, just the scraping of the cutlery against a china plate as Carolyn Selsey pushed her food around, trying to work up the appetite to put some of it in her mouth. She managed a couple of desultory mouthfuls before she gave up the struggle. Then she looked at the stranger sitting in the chair where the husband she’d thought she knew once used to sit and asked, ‘What have you done?’ And then again, her voice half stifled by unshed tears: ‘What have you done?’

‘For Chrissakes, don’t you have a siren or something?’

Carver was humming with frustrated energy, grateful of the seatbelt that kept him pinned down and stopped him bouncing off the walls of Jack Grantham’s Jag. They were trying to cut south-east across London, but every short burst of progress was brought to a grinding halt by a jam at a set of lights, a bus taking an age to set down and pick up its passengers, or any one of the countless delays and obstructions a crowded city can provide.

‘No, I don’t,’ Grantham replied. ‘See, we’re meant to be the Secret Service. That means we don’t want people to know we’re around. Sirens, flashing lights – that would pretty much wreck it, don’t you think?’

‘Ha-bloody-ha… He’s coming. I know he is…’ Carver screwed up his face. ‘Bloody hell, my back hurts.’ He shuffled in his seat trying to find a comfortable position.

‘Take a couple of painkillers, maybe they’ll calm you down.’

‘You got any guns in this car?’

‘One. Mine.’

‘Can I have it?’

‘Piss off.’

Carver leaned forward, peering through the traffic as though he could will a path through the wall of vehicles. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Come on…’

Damon Tyzack had made quick progress round London on the M25 and was now on the A2, coming back into the city, heading for Lee station and the Selseys’ house. He put in a call to Ron Geary. ‘Any developments?’

‘No, boss. No one’s gone in or out.’

Tyzack laughed. ‘Oh dear, did Raifa say no?’

‘No, boss, I meant the house.’

‘Oh for God’s sake, Geary, where’s your sense of humour?’ Tyzack sighed and ended the call.