E. Seymour - Final Target

‘Griffiths-Jones, born O’Malley, is originally from Newry, Northern Ireland. Woodgate from Kent. Both worked in the City.’

‘Political motivation?’

‘Police considered a possible connection to the Real IRA in the early part of the investigation, but it’s been discounted.’

‘The relationship between the two – illicit or otherwise?’

‘Smart of you.’

‘That’s what you expect from me, isn’t it?’

She smiled. ‘Illicit. Griffiths-Jones’s husband had no idea about her extracurricular activities until his wife’s untimely death.’

I gave my eyebrow another workout. Giving an order to kill one’s spouse on account of an affair was an obvious motive for murder. I’d never got involved in domestics, but I knew men who would and did.

‘He checks out,’ McCallen said, attempting to head off that particular line of enquiry.

‘As in, he has an alibi?’ Which meant damn all in my previous line of work. Those who gave the orders were nowhere near the crime scenes and they always ensured their alibis were watertight.

‘As in, he didn’t do it.’

‘So they simply happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time?’ I said.

‘Why do you say that?’

‘Because the cyclist was the target.’

‘That’s not what the police believe.’

‘Well they’re wrong. He was killed first.’

‘How do you know?’

I wondered whether McCallen was really dumb or acting dumb. Had to be the latter. ‘His death was played out in a distinctly different fashion. Whereas the occupants of the car had been treated to a spray and pray approach, the cyclist was coldly and surgically removed.’

‘Two killers?’

‘One killer who panicked when he had company.’

‘Amateur?’

I paused because I couldn’t be certain. ‘A professional, new to the job.’

‘Does he have a signature?’

I paused for a second time. I’d always favoured a three-shot approach. One in the head, one in the body, one to finish off. Sounded gruesome now, as if it had nothing to do with me. The tops of my cheekbones flushed hot to the bone in shame. ‘He didn’t favour a pistol, which is highly unusual for a hit. My guess is that he used one weapon, an automatic primed to fire single shot for the original kill, then he switched to multiple fire when he ran into trouble.’

She frowned. ‘Sub-machine guns are cumbersome.’

I shrugged. It depended on the weapon. The Heckler & Koch MP5K short version could easily be concealed under clothing or fired from a specially modified suitcase or bag. It had been one of my favourite methods for jobs where the target employed bodyguards. I didn’t tell her this.

‘There was nothing random about the hit. The killer had prior information about the cyclist’s movements. Odds on, he knew that the cyclist was touring the New Forest.’

McCallen’s eyes danced with interest. ‘What makes you say the New Forest?’

‘Ponies and donkeys.’

She didn’t say yes or no, just tilted her chin.

I explained my theory, then said, ‘The pattern of shell casings provides the clincher. The killer thought he’d done the business and then Mrs Banker and her lover show up. No witnesses equals no loose ends.’

‘Collateral damage?’

‘Rules of the game. If you’re good at the job you shouldn’t need to indulge in it.’

‘What about you?’ A sudden frosty note etched her voice.

‘I was good at the job.’ We’d hit rocky ground so I decided to change direction. ‘Who was he?’

‘A German tourist.’

‘Does he have a name?’

‘Lars Pallenberg.’

‘So what’s his story?’

‘He was a tourist who happened to be an artist.’

‘An artist, or asset?’ My expression was neutral. McCallen’s answer might explain why she’d come to me and nobody else. Her kissable lips parted very slightly. Only someone familiar with her could divine that McCallen’s first instinct to lie was rapidly substituted by the truth.

‘Both. I was his handler.’

‘Tough for you.’ No intelligence officer liked having an asset bumped off. Unfortunately, it was an occupational hazard. Recruit, use and let go, Reuben my mentor, once told me. ‘But there’s nothing you can do about it. You simply disavow, pretend he never existed and walk away.’

‘He was also a friend.’

The warmth in her eyes made me feel as if I had something cold and wet and slippery crawling through my intestines. I didn’t ask the obvious question.

‘It’s not what you think.’

‘You have no idea what I think.’ How could she possibly know? ‘Your relationships are nothing to do with me.’

She paused, cleared her throat. ‘What I mean –’

‘You allowed yourself to be compromised.’

She fixed me with a blizzard of green. ‘The association was finished before you and I met.’

‘Makes no difference to me.’ For a woman who’d once implied that there could never be anything between us, I thought she was labouring a point. But then that was a woman’s prerogative. ‘But you’re going to have to help me out. Why are you discounting the obvious? Lars got made and paid the ultimate price.’

‘Maybe.’

From McCallen’s monosyllabic answers, I got the impression that she was holding back. I looked at her hard. If she wanted me to help her, she’d have to trust me and tell me what the hell was going on. ‘Was he vetted?’

‘No.’

‘You kept him secret from MI5?’ I was fairly incredulous.

‘Uh-huh.’

‘Why?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘I love the way you lie.’

She flinched, but didn’t elaborate.

‘Were you careful? Could you have been seen?’ I’d always thought McCallen crazy, but there usually seemed to be an internal logic to her actions. Mixing business with pleasure, if that’s what she’d done, was as dumb as it gets. She’d exposed him to danger and herself to blackmail with all types of criminal permutations in between.

‘Possible, but unlikely.’

I thought about it. As an intelligence officer, McCallen could be on any number of bad guys’ radar. That meant whoever was seen with her was also at potential risk. But then she already knew the score in that regard. She was the expert. I was merely an educated outsider.

‘Are the police doing their job properly?’

‘Yes.’

‘Examining relationships and connections?’

‘Uh-huh.’ Her eyes met mine once more.

‘Which could lead straight back to you.’ And when the truth was out, her job would be on the line. Now I got it.

‘Precisely.’

‘Presumably you covered your tracks, gave Lars assumed code name.’

She swallowed and nodded. ‘The police are concentrating their efforts on the couple, which buys me a little time.’

‘Why the focus on the couple?’

‘Griffiths-Jones had a large sum of money that can’t be accounted for deposited in a private Swiss bank account.’

Hence her lie regarding the money trail. ‘Fiddling the books?’

‘That’s my take.’

‘White noise,’ I said. ‘Tell me about Lars.’

‘A German national who split his time between London and Berlin.’

‘So not a tourist at all.’ I was surprised how easy it was to catch McCallen in another lie. Signalled she was under considerable pressure. Typically, she went all pedantic on me. ‘He was touring the New Forest at the time of his death.’

‘Why recruit him?’ An artist didn’t strike me as typical spy material. It had to be down to a connection, the company he kept. I didn’t expect her to reveal operational details and, true to form, she chose her words with care. ‘Let’s say that the UK has seen a rise in right-wing militants. A certain group has energetic links with neo-Nazis in Germany. The latest breed are drawn from all sorts of disparate cliques: the disillusioned and unemployed, flat-earthers, anti-Muslim, anti-capitalist, anti-nuclear, anti-globalisation, animal rights activists, most without clear political aims.’