Майкл Ридпат - Launch Code

Out of the corner of my eye I saw Petty Officer Morgan watching me: he was the missile tech who had overheard what Lars had tried to do in the control room.

In one swift movement I whipped the wrench out of its pouch and lifted it. But Morgan was quick. He threw himself at me. I leapt backwards, crashing into an instrument panel, as Morgan clutched my free arm, the arm not holding the wrench.

I brought the tool down hard on his shoulder. He released his grip and fell to the floor screaming.

The other missile techs were slower than Morgan. They were still at their positions, staring at me and at their colleague writhing in agony on the floor. They hadn’t trained for this; it took them a second or two to tear themselves away from the procedures on which they were so totally focused.

Craig’s fingers were on the combination as he glanced swiftly back at me.

If he had turned to face me, he could almost certainly have protected himself from my blows for the couple of seconds necessary for the rest of the crew to overpower me. He would then have had plenty of time to open the safe.

But he didn’t make that choice. He turned his back on me and spun the dial five times to the left, stopping on the first number of the combination, and then spun it to the right to the next number.

Perhaps he thought the other missile techs’ reactions were as quick as Morgan’s. Perhaps he thought he had time to set the final number on the dial and return it to zero before I got to him.

He had misjudged.

Just as he was setting the third number, and the missile chief was finally rushing me, I brought the wrench crashing down on the back of Craig’s head.

Saturday 30 November 2019, Norfolk

Toby went with Bill to the police station in King’s Lynn, an imposing 1920s building just off the main road through town, with four brick pillars and a large blue light over the entrance. They waited half an hour for Robinson and Prestwitch to get there first, in the hope they might pave the way for Alice’s release. Toby felt the tension in Bill. He wanted to lash out at his father-in-law, blame him for getting Alice locked up, but he knew it was fruitless, so he held back.

He sensed a similar grudging self-control on Bill’s part.

If Prestwitch had spoken to the police, it hadn’t yet secured Alice’s release. And, as expected, the police wouldn’t let Toby speak to his wife. But he did get five minutes with Lisa Beckwith, Alice’s new solicitor from London, who took him to a coffee shop round the corner from the station, while Bill was being interviewed again.

She was very small, very thin with hard brown eyes and an air of suppressed aggression that Toby found comforting in the circumstances. Her advice to Toby was to say as little as possible to the police; she was gratified to hear that he had signed the Official Secrets Act. He should stick to the story he had given them about Alice’s whereabouts, and resist the urge to expand on it or embellish it.

She said she was confident that Alice would be released, but Toby didn’t believe her. She also told him she had advised Alice to say nothing.

‘Why do you do that?’ Toby asked. ‘It’s not as if she’s guilty or has anything to hide. We want the police to figure out the truth, so why don’t we help them do it?’

‘That’s not exactly what we want the police to do,’ said Lisa firmly. ‘We don’t need to prove she’s innocent. We don’t need to show the police who did kill Sam Bowen. All we need to do is prevent the police from gathering enough evidence to convict Alice.’

‘But—’

‘Toby. I know what I’m doing. Please help us. Keep quiet.’ It was more of an order than a request.

Back at the station, DC Atkinson wanted to speak to Toby again. He looked on edge. Excited. Impatient. He led Toby through to a featureless interview room and switched on the recording equipment.

No small talk.

‘Did Sam Bowen ask Bill Guth about the death of Lieutenant Craig Naylor on the submarine?’

‘As I believe you know, I have now signed the Official Secrets Act,’ Toby replied.

‘What Sam Bowen asked Mr Guth is not an official secret.’

Wasn’t it? Toby didn’t know. So he answered the question. ‘Yes, Sam did ask Bill about Craig’s death.’

‘Good. And what was Mr Guth’s reply?’

Toby wanted to answer. He wanted to help. But he had signed the act, as Bill had said, for his country and for his father-in-law. And although he disagreed with Lisa Beckwith’s strategy, there was no doubt that she knew more about keeping suspects out of jail than he did.

‘That is secret,’ said Toby. ‘It relates to what happened on the submarine.’

DC Atkinson couldn’t hide his irritation. He leaned forward. Tried a smile. ‘Look, Toby. You have to help us here. We’re just trying to find out what really happened. If your wife is innocent, she has nothing to fear from that, right?’

Toby didn’t answer.

‘We now believe that the reason Sam Bowen was murdered is that he knew something, or suspected something about the death of Lieutenant Naylor on the USS Alexander Hamilton . Justin Opizzi told us that Naylor was his biological father, and that Naylor’s sister Vicky Wenzel was always suspicious about the death. Sam’s girlfriend said Sam was suspicious about it too, and although the murderer took his computer and his notebook, and seems to have hacked into his Cloud back-up and deleted his files, there is one note on his desk back at home which suggests he was following that line of inquiry.’

‘What was that?’ Toby asked, curious.

‘Craig Naylor’s name circled with an exclamation mark next to it on a pad of paper.’

‘That doesn’t sound conclusive,’ Toby said.

‘It isn’t. Which is why I need you to tell me what you know about Lieutenant Naylor’s death.’

What did Toby know? That Bill had claimed it was an accident. That Justin had suspected Bill of killing Naylor. That Lars had admitted to killing Naylor himself.

It was useful stuff. None of it seemed to him to point to Alice killing Sam. But, on the other hand, he didn’t know why she had met the historian that evening.

Best just to trust Alice’s solicitor.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Toby. ‘I can’t tell you.’

Frustrated, Atkinson terminated the interview and kicked Toby out of the interview room.

Bill was waiting for him at the entrance to the police station. But as he was leaving, Toby held the door for a small woman also on her way out. Her long hair was dyed blue, and her freckled cheeks were drawn firmly downwards on either side of her mouth. She was very thin, but Toby noticed there was a slight bump at her waist.

She hurried out of the police station and down the steps to the pavement.

‘Hang on, Bill,’ said Toby, and he rushed after her. ‘Excuse me,’ he said in as friendly a voice as he could muster.

The woman didn’t look at him.

‘Are you Jasmine, by any chance?’

The woman stopped to face him, a glimmer of curiosity in her dead eyes. ‘Maybe.’

‘I just wanted to say how sorry I am about Sam.’

‘Sam? Who are you? How do you know about Sam?’

‘Oh, he came to Thanksgiving at our house on Thursday. It was the first time I had met him, but I liked him.’ Toby hesitated. Nothing he could say would be satisfactory, but he couldn’t just say nothing. ‘I am really sorry for you. And his parents,’ he added.

‘So you are from the family of the woman who killed him?’

‘Yes. She’s my wife. And she didn’t kill him, I’m sure of it.’

‘Then why isn’t she talking to the police? Why isn’t she helping them like any decent citizen would do?’