The Pulsar Files, page 18
part #1 of Matt Flynn Series
Outside, she joined Edinburgh Way and turned at the first roundabout towards town. No one followed her out but now, barrelling along a busy urban road, it became hard to tell. When she stopped at the roundabout beside Harlow LeisureZone she spotted the face of the man from the car park in a car lying two cars behind.
She didn’t panic, but waited until a couple of cars that were in the process of negotiating the roundabout on her right-hand side came closer. She zipped out in front of them, eliciting loud blasts from several horns, and proceeded to keep her foot on the gas all along the next section of carriageway.
This time, the roundabout wasn’t busy, just as well as she had no intention of stopping. Most of the journey home was along single carriageway roads that provided excellent cover during the day as they would be busy with shoppers, delivery vans and school buses, and would put any number of vehicles between her and her follower, but not at this time of the evening. Realising if she continued on her course he would soon catch her up, she took a sharp left into the car park at the Tesco Superstore. She slotted her Seat into the first space she came across among the hundreds of anonymous cars belonging to late evening shoppers and waited with the engine running.
She didn’t fear being approached by her pursuer or being cornered in a dead-end, of which Harlow had many, as she was armed and wouldn’t give up without a fight. No, her fear was revealing the address of her home and putting Andrew and her neighbours in danger. It didn’t cross her mind that her behaviour was somehow irrational or paranoid. In all their training, they were taught to trust their instincts. If a situation didn’t feel right, they didn’t waste time debating the issue as such a delay could be the difference between being killed or walking away.
She waited ten minutes before getting out of the car. She stood on the door sill and panned the car park, looking around for her pursuer’s blue Vauxhall. His car had looked new and clean, most likely a hire, and would stand out against all the silver saloons cruising the vast car park, looking for a space, as many were streaked in mud and grit from recent heavy rains. She waited another five minutes before heading out.
She turned into Church Langley and drove towards her house. She cruised past her driveway at low speed, looking for cars she didn’t recognise and any strangers walking around. Satisfied that nothing looked out of place, she turned back, drove into her driveway and locked the car in the garage.
When she walked into the house, she would pour herself a glass of white wine from the fridge, take it upstairs and stand behind the curtain like a pervert spying on a good-looking neighbour across the road. She would not relax this evening until she was convinced no one had followed her.
Chapter 33
Derek Spencer picked up another document from the heap and started to read. A few minutes later, he placed it on a second, smaller pile, replete with red pen marks to highlight a word or phrase, and with notes in the margin to improve clarification and to remind him of a key point. It was methodical and tiring work but the Member of Parliament would take all night if he needed to.
Many MPs and cabinet ministers didn’t bother with this sort of slog, leaving it to an unpaid intern or a budding student of politics, and instead of carrying into the Commons chamber a large, untidy pile of papers, all they needed was a one-page summary with some key points highlighted. However, with such explosive material, he needed to be master of his brief. The floor of the House of Commons could be a bear-pit of a place and if not armed, loaded and cocked, his opponents would find a chink in his defences and exploit it to the point of derision.
He moved the papers from his lap to the floor, walked into the kitchen and switched on the coffee machine. He had known the flat’s owner, David Fisher, since school, when David was the star of the rugby team and reputed to have bedded most of the female sixth form. David’s job as export manager for a household goods company took him all over the world and he liked to leave his Pimlico flat occupied while he was away. In truth, he also enjoyed having an MP as a house guest as it gave him something to boast about to his colleagues at work, making them jealous that he had the inside track.
While waiting for the coffee to brew, his mind returned to the Dragon documents left by Chris Anderson and Matt Flynn over an hour before. It wasn’t unusual for defence companies to pull out all the stops at the launch of a new product, as military equipment was expensive and many were wedded to their existing set-up. If their over-enthusiastic trough-feeding had stopped at the odd holiday and a few coke-fuelled parties, it would have bothered no one but crusading newspapers and some politicians. The political heat it created could be smoothed over by the Prime Minister’s silver-tongued spin-doctor, following the resignation of one or two fall-guys, but Dragon didn’t stop there. What could not be overlooked, apologised, or never excused was the murder of Chris Anderson’s family and Derek’s good friend, Latif Artha.
He’d first met Latif when attending a demonstration of the weapon system fitted to the new Lockheed Martin F35 and they soon became best friends and not long after, lovers. He didn’t grieve in public when Latif died in a car wreck, as even though his party leader publicly supported gays, he didn’t promote or confide in any colleagues who were.
He knew now from copies of emails sent between Jack Dawson, head of Corporate Security at Dragon in Houston and Daniel Leppo, his second-in-command, Latif didn’t die as a result of a lapse of concentration or an animal running across his path; a hit-and-run driver forced him off the road and into a quarry. It wasn’t an accident as claimed by the police, but a deliberate act to silence a vocal opponent of Dragon’s flagship product.
His emotions started to waver when talking to Matt and Chris earlier this evening but he reminded himself of the support promised in the House tomorrow. It would include several MPs in his own party and many more in the Opposition, keen to be involved in the Government’s embarrassment and perhaps be responsible for the sacking of a minister or two.
He returned to his seat with his cup of coffee and his main weakness at the moment, a Tunnock’s Caramel Wafer, a taste first developed on a trip to Scotland to visit the Faslane nuclear submarine base. He picked up an A4 pad and began to draft the speech he intended to deliver tomorrow during a defence debate. He’d received a nod from the Speaker of the House that if he indicated he wanted to speak, he would be allowed to do so.
He wrote: ‘Honourable members, I’m afraid the discussion we have listened to in this house about the new Pulsar Helicopter, fine aircraft that it is, should no longer be about its cost or efficacy at selecting targets and eliminating enemies, but the murderous dealings of its manufacturer, Dragon Technologies.’ Loud heckling would come from the Tory benches, mainly those, he suspected, in receipt of the Dragon largesse, but he would plough on regardless. ‘I now have in my possession documents which clearly show how Dragon has bribed Ministry of Defence officials, cabinet ministers and MPs, and if that wasn’t enough, tried to silence anyone who voiced dissent or had the temerity to stand against them. This includes the murder of Chris Anderson’s family in a so-called balloon accident and a weapons specialist at QuinTec, Latif Artha.’
He would pause there as the House would be in uproar, even if only quarter full. His choice of words now would be crucial as they would be shouted over a wall of noise and a sea of angry faces, so only one or two words would be audible.
After completing and editing the speech, he would draft a summary statement which would be memorised and handed out to the press. He hoped to reveal much of its content in subsequent sound bites during television interviews, so he could present a consistent story, leading to more clarity in the morning editions.
He heard the click of the outside door opening over the Nora Jones CD playing in the background. He looked at the clock, too early for David to return from the opera. In fact, lousy evening or not, David would never pass up the chance to stay all night at his girlfriend’s place, the randy sod.
The lounge door opened but the chiselled face of his charming friend didn’t appear, instead two men he had never seen before walked in. Both looked stocky with short hair, dressed in black, and not resembling the Polish cleaner or the handyman David employed to do odd jobs.
‘Who the hell are you? What are you doing in my house? I’m going to call–’
Before he finished, a punch smacked him on the side of the head, knocking him out of the chair and on to the floor. He lay there for several seconds, his brain fuzzy and his vision seeing double.
‘They’re not here,’ one of them said.
‘Try the other rooms,’ said the guy standing close to him.
Firm hands gripped Spencer’s cardigan and hauled him to his feet. The face before him was black, clean shaven but with a pock-marked face. His breath smelled of cigarettes. He held a handful of Spencer’s shirt collar and squeezed it tighter, knocking the air out of his windpipe and making him gasp.
‘Where are they?’
He was choking and could barely speak. ‘Where are…who?’
The blow to the side of his face felt as heavy as a rowing oar. ‘Don’t fuck with me buddy. The people who were here earlier; where are they?’
The pain in his head throbbed like a disco strobe light, making it hard to concentrate. His eyes couldn’t focus, his vision like looking through a child’s kaleidoscope.
‘They’re gone.’
‘Where?’
‘I don’t know. I didn’t ask them and they didn’t say.’
‘What did you talk to them about?’
‘Something…something I’m doing for them in Parliament.’
Another slap.
‘What sort of stuff?’
The American noticed the papers lying on the floor. He let him go, picked up a sheaf and flicked through them. ‘What the fuck’s this?’
He wanted to say, ‘can’t you read’ but he didn’t want to be punched again.
‘Is this what you talked to them about?’
He didn’t speak, trying not to incriminate Matt and Chris, but the man grabbed his collar again and tightened it until he felt like he was going to black out.
‘Yes,’ he gasped.
He heard the other guy enter the room. ‘The rooms are clear; no sign of the targets.’
‘Shit! Did you check the closets and the bathroom?’
‘What do you take me for, a fuckwit? Of course I did.’
‘Damn it. He told us they’d be here.’
‘What do we do now?’
‘Take a look at this,’ he said handing over the papers in his hand to the other guy.
‘This is it,’ his companion said after a few moments. ‘This is the stuff the client said he’s looking for.’
‘Yeah, he figured the targets would give this bozo something,’ the guy holding Spencer said, ‘but it’s way more than he thought.’
He let Spencer go and the MP slumped in the chair, his energy and fight all but done. The two men talked in animated voices but he couldn’t hear a word over the incessant ringing in his ears, the result of the head punches and slaps.
A few minutes later, his questioner reached into his pocket and pulled out a gun and fitted a silencer. Before Spencer could raise himself up and make an attempt to escape, the gunman turned and pointed the weapon at his head.
Chapter 34
He pulled out his Homeland Security Agency ID and presented it to the young copper standing at the door of Derek Spencer’s flat in Pimlico. The copper gave Matt and Rosie a good look over before indicating they could go through. They climbed the stairs, walked into the open apartment and approached the middle-aged man hunkered down beside the pathologist.
Matt learned of Derek’s death following a phone call from a member of HSA’s administrative staff. David Fisher, the apartment’s owner and Derek’s flatmate, discovered the body of the MP early this morning. Fisher had been staying at the house of a girlfriend the previous night and only returned home for a change of clothes. Despite possessing a sound alibi, Fisher would be questioned by the relentless police investigation and considered a suspect until proved otherwise.
Matt’s first reaction had been one of rage, selfish perhaps at losing their last genuine hope of removing the threat to Chris and Louise. When the anger subsided, he felt sad that their involvement had caused his death. He didn’t know Derek well, but from his dealings with him and Sir Raymond Deacon, he no longer regarded all politicians as career-centred money grabbers, as popularised in the press, but knew many of them to be genuinely interested in bettering the lives of their constituents. This involved working unsociable hours and tackling difficult jobs to bring many improvements to constituents’ lives, often without their contribution being recognised.
‘Detective Inspector Blackstone?’ Matt Flynn asked.
‘Who wants to know?’ a large bulk said without turning round.
‘Matt Flynn and Rosie Fox, HSA.’
The man turned and gave them a once-over. A well-worn, jowly face, its centrepiece a rosette nose reflecting a regular pub habit, or a man who couldn’t stand the cold. The top of his head was as threadbare as an old sofa with thin strands of grey hair doing their best to hide a flaky scalp. He got to his feet in what looked like a painful movement, his knees cracking as he did so and stretched as if recently waking up.
‘Why the hell are you HSA folks taking an interest in this?’
‘It’s not every day a Member of Parliament is murdered,’ Matt said.
Blackstone scratched his head, flakes of dandruff falling on to his jacket collar. ‘Thank Christ for small mercies or I’d been getting my balls chewed off every hour for not catching the people responsible. Excuse my French,’ he said nodding at Rosie.
‘I’m used to worse,’ she said.
‘Apart from the late Derek Spencer being an MP,’ he said through narrowed eye slits, ‘why are you guys here?’
‘We’ve been tracking a Serbian gunman who arrived in the UK a couple of weeks ago and it led us here.’ It was an old line, but vague enough not to invite too many questions.
‘How’s your gunman connected to this?’ the DI asked, nodding at the body of Derek Spencer. ‘Is he the guy I should be looking for?’
Matt shook his head. ‘It wasn’t him, he’s not in the country anymore.’
‘And here was me thinking you nice people from HSA were going to give me something for a change.’
‘Sorry, Detective Inspector, not today.’
‘How does your gunman connect to our victim?’ Blackstone said.
‘We’re not sure yet. Derek was doing some research for us.’
‘So, you know the victim?’
‘I wouldn’t say we know him, but we’ve met him a couple of times.’
Blackstone’s eyes narrowed. ‘When did you see him last?’
‘A few days back, we went to a meeting with him at his office in the House of Commons.’
Matt’s lie skated over thin ice as he and Chris had been at Spencer’s house the previous night and their prints would still be on the drinks glasses in the kitchen, if Spencer hadn’t had the time to wash them up before being killed. As one of the last people to see the MP alive, he could easily spend the next six hours in a stuffy interview room if he admitted as much.
Blackstone nodded. A simple check with Spencer’s secretary would confirm the House of Commons meeting, but Matt hoped Spencer didn’t also put yesterday evening’s get together in the diary as well.
‘When was Mr Spencer killed?’ Matt asked, keen to move onto the front foot.
‘Forensics estimate the time of death any time between the hours of nine and midnight last night.’
‘How did he die?’
‘Shot in the head.’
‘One or two bullets?’
‘Two.’
‘Any witnesses.’
‘Not a dickey. Now it’s up to the forensics boys and I’ll keep them here until they tell me something. I can’t tell you any more.’
‘Thank you, Detective Inspector. Do you mind if we take a look around?’
He looked at both of them with a suspicious stare, the jaundiced eye of a seasoned veteran. ‘Be my guest, but don’t touch anything.’
‘Sure thing.’
‘Hang on. You got a card? I may need to speak to you at some point.’
Matt handed Blackstone his contact details. He followed the DI to take a closer look at the body of Derek Spencer, currently being photographed by the police photographer as the pathologist gave his afternoon’s work a preliminary examination.
Spencer died from a double-tap, Special Forces parlance for two shots to the head. The first shot to kill the victim, the second to ensure he was dead. Was this a sign of Dragon upping the ante by employing Special Forces personnel after two of Ivan Mander’s villains attacked the safe house and failed? When added to Rosie’s scare the previous night, it suggested as much.
The room looked tidy with no signs of a struggle, the only indication of anything untoward happening were the bloodstains on the wood block floor and the inert figure of Derek Spencer MP. Matt knew from talking to Derek last night that after they left, he intended reading the documents left there by Chris. Looking around now, he couldn’t see any trace of them.
Knowing how forensic investigations worked, if a SOCO team came across the papers, and why wouldn’t they, lying in a heap on the floor or in the out-tray of Derek’s printer in the corner, they would have bagged them. He couldn’t see any bags and it was unlikely they would have taken them out to the van yet, instead they would have joined the small number of bin bags sitting in the hall.
It would be interesting to read Blackstone’s report about the murder and find out what he believed Derek Spencer was doing in his chair before he was shot. The absence of paperwork and anything else, including a television or radio, suggested he was drinking a cup of coffee while staring at the wall, but he didn’t think an experienced DI like Blackstone would dare write something so stupid and suffer the resultant ridicule.
