The Mammoth Book of Best British Crime 7 Page 10

  Which means it wasn’t Jed, she suddenly thought, with real gratitude. Jed. Why didn’t I think of him before?

  “Has anyone found the boy?” she said aloud.

  “Boy?” said the inspector. “What boy?”

  And so she told him about Jed, who was supposed to have been so responsibly escorting Gemma home by ten o’clock.

  “Have you got a phone number?”

  “No. But I can get it for you.”

  “Or a surname?”

  Her brain had shut down again as guilt poured through it. What if Jed had been in one of the other bins, bleeding all night, bleeding out maybe? Dying? And she hadn’t said anything.

  “Gerald Springthorpe,” said her mother.

  “Was he – I mean, is he Gemma’s boyfriend?”

  “No. Just a friend. They’re all at school together, so he’s probably sitting in the exam room now.”

  Maggie noticed that her mother was talking absolutely normally, sensibly, without any carping or martyring herself. She was in charge, and in some weird way it helped.

  “We’ll talk to him later. Can you tell me . . .?”

  His voice seemed to be coming from further and further away. Maggie’s temperature control had gone again. Shivering, boiling, she felt the floor tilting upwards and then nothing.

  They’d found Jed by the time Gemma was pronounced dead three hours later, and one of the DI’s juniors was relaying his story to Maggie. Listening to it helped to hold her in the present, but it couldn’t stop the tears that came out of her eyes in great gouts. More fluid than she’d ever have believed a body could hold. She didn’t even try to stop them, or dry her face.

  “He says they were together all the way to the Bull, then a mate of his called out and wanted them to come in for a drink,” the police officer told her. “He says Gemma refused, said her nan would kill her if she was late home again. He said OK, he’d take her to the door, then come back to join his mate in the pub, but Gemma asked him if he thought she was a baby.”

  “So he let her go,” Maggie said, thinking what tiny things had made this huge unalterable disaster: her own insistence on not being out late on school nights; Gemma’s pride; Jed’s friend hanging around the pub at just the wrong moment.

  “It wasn’t his fault, Mrs Tulloch. Really it wasn’t.”

  “Didn’t he hear anything?” Maggie said. “It was only a street way. She must have screamed.”

  Then she thought about the noise she’d heard in the pub. Jed had probably been inside then. If she’d known, if he’d recognized her, would there have been time to find and save Gemma?

  Maggie bent over her knees, fighting to keep the howl inside her body.

  “With all that music no one could’ve heard anything from outside,” the officer said, then echoed her thoughts: “You’d know that I expect. I mean, you were in there yourself. We’ve got you on the CCTV, calling her name. Jed and his mate were there, too. The film proves his story.”

  “So no one knows who did it?”

  “Not yet. I’m sorry, Mrs Tulloch. We’re doing everything we can. We’ve taken every possible kind of sample. The labs will . . .”

  Maggie stopped listening. What did it matter anyway? Gemma was dead. It could’ve been anyone – one of her own clients, even, hanging about, bored, grabbing a passing girl to rob her of her phone and whatever pathetic little amount of money she had.

  Had she fought back? Was that why they’d kicked her to death. Or were they crack-crazed thugs, getting off on her terror and their power?

  “What about the secret cameras by the bins?” said her mother.

  Maggie raised her sodden face and saw the officer looking sceptical.

  “What secret cameras?” he said.

  “The council put them there by the bins only a few weeks ago. One or two of the sluttier neighbours were flytipping nearly every day. Dumping their smelly rubbish in the recycling bins. So we got the council to put the cameras there. They should’ve had film in and been running. They must show what happened.”

  “It’ll haunt me until I die,” Sue Chalmers said to Dan that night. “They were only thin scraggy boys who did it. Twelve-year-olds. You and I could’ve fought them off, stopped them killing her, if we’d known. But how could we know?”

  “It’s not our fault. I phoned the cops when we heard the screaming but it took them more than half an hour to come.”

  “You did what?”

  “Like you, I thought it was just kids making a racket, enjoying themselves, so I rang the local nick to complain, instead of 999. By the time they got round to investigating, poor Maggie Tulloch had already found Gemma. But at least they’ve got the boys now, and the evidence to prove it was them. They’ll definitely go down for it.”

  “I don’t suppose that’ll help Maggie, though. D’you think I ought to go round and see her?”

  “No. You’d be intruding on that awful grief. And she’s got her mother with her, after all.”

  BLOODSPORT

  Tom Cain

  1

  LOOKING THROUGH THE sniper sight as the couple left their holiday home and walked down the path between the rhododendrons, down to the gate where a scrum of photographers, reporters and TV crews were waiting, it was the wife Carver felt sorry for. He had nothing against her. Quite liked her, in fact, as much as you can like anyone you’ve never met or even spoken to. From everything he’d seen, she seemed sensible and down-to-earth. She looked like she was doing her level best to show that there was at least one sane person in the country who still thought her husband was up to the job. Carver thought she was wrong, but he admired her loyalty in trying.

  So the fact that this perfectly pleasant woman would soon be wiping blood off her simple, unpretentious summer dress – chosen, he supposed, in the hope of pleasing all the bitchy columnists who’d accuse her of dowdiness if she looked too plain, or vulgarity if she went for anything too expensive in these recessionary times – well, that bothered him.

  Not enough to call the whole thing off: but it bothered him nonetheless.

  Her husband, though – the Prime Minister of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, and First Lord of the Treasury – he was a different matter. Carver had a bone to pick with him.

  After all the politicians’ lies, the corruption, the greed, the mountainous debts, the obsessive control freakery and the rampant incompetence, it had taken the death of a single soldier in Afghanistan to shift Carver out of the general herd of pissed-off, moaning but essentially inert citizens, into a group of one: the man who was going to do something about it.

  The soldier’s name was Mike Swift. In the newspapers, he’d been described as a Major in the Royal Marines. The reports said he’d been attached to the British forces’ headquarters staff in Helmand province. They said he’d died in a helicopter accident.

  The newspaper reports were bullshit.

  Carver didn’t need anyone to tell him that Swift, though his original commission was indeed in the Marines, had actually served as an officer in the Special Forces. He’d arrived in the SBS as a first lieutenant, newly elevated from one elite force into an even more exclusive group of fighting men during Carver’s last couple of years in uniform. Carver remembered Swift well: tough despite his youth and inexperience, resourceful, respected by his men and blessed with a thoughtful, reflective side to his nature that always conveyed a sense that he saw the bigger picture. Even as a junior officer, Swift had clearly been destined for bigger things. Now he was lying in a coffin, awaiting his last flight back to RAF Lyneham.

  It took a call to another former SBS man, Bobby Faulkner, to tell Carver what had really happened. By “accident” the Ministry of Defence did not mean that a helicopter had crashed. The truth was, it had never turned up at all. When Swift had called in, requesting immediate extraction from a job up-country that had just turned critical, he’d been out of luck. The British Army had been forced to act like a third-rate radiocab company on a busy S
aturday night. There weren’t any aircraft available. They were all busy. Those that weren’t already being used were out of service: “Sorry, sir, have you tried the Americans?”

  The Taleban made sure that Swift’s body was found, just as they’d done with his redcoated predecessors, back in 1841. There’s something about a body with the skin flayed off its limbs, the entrails neatly piled upon a slit-open stomach and a crudely-carved, gaping wound where the genitalia should be that sends a powerful message.

  The general public had not heard the message. Great trouble had been taken to ensure they never would. But Carver had inside channels unavailable to the average punter. He’d heard the message all right. And the moment he did, he decided to act upon it.

  Very publicly.

  With force.

  2

  Carver was high up an oak tree. He’d been there for three days, remaining as motionless as humanly possible, rendered invisible by the combination of thick summer foliage and a shaggy, camouflaged ghillie suit that broke up his outline and blended him into his surroundings.

  The oak grew beside a lake in Cumbria. Carver had his back to the water. In front of him was an open expanse of grass, which ran as far as a road that ran north–south, parallel to the eastern shore of the lake. For the past thirty minutes there had been no traffic along the road, nor would there be for another thirty to come. Manned police barriers, approximately 200 yards apart, both clearly visible to Carver, had made sure of that.

  Directly opposite Carver’s position there was a turning off the road, which formed a semi-circle of tarmac, ringed by the high brick walls of a large property. This semi-circle was where the media were massed. Their assorted cars, vans and trucks, now parked along the road on either side of the semi-circle, and the police cars that had accompanied them, had been the last vehicles allowed past the barriers.

  The walls were lined with trees and shrubs and bisected, right in the middle of their arc, by a gate. Behind it a tarmac drive led up to the Victorian villa that had been rented for the Prime Minister’s holiday accommodation. Carver was watching the PM and his wife walk down that drive towards the gate, the waiting media and, though they did not know it, to him.

  The official schedule for the next few minutes had been very tightly scripted. Every move that the prime ministerial couple would make, and every word they would say had been accounted for. They’d walk up to the gates, apparently engrossed in happy conversation and pleasurable contemplation of the property’s well-manicured grounds and delightful lake views. The gates would open. The couple would walk through them and pose with the gestures of enforced normality that distinguish pictures of politicians, regardless of race or ideology, attempting to look like normal human beings. Carver felt reasonably certain that this would involve the Prime Minister pointing off towards the middle distance while the missus followed his finger with a look of adoring fascination plastered on her face. He had never seen any normal human beings do this, but somehow it was expected of our leaders and their spouses.

  A few bland questions would be asked, avoiding any reference to contentious political issues and concentrating instead on the general desirability of a family holiday amidst the glories of the British countryside. The Prime Minister would assure his people, with a cheery smile, that he was enjoying himself enormously.

  More pictures would be taken and then proceedings would draw to a close and the loving couple would walk back through the now-closing gate and up the drive again.

  Whoever had scripted the whole charade had cast the stars, brought in the extras and even found a delightful set. The one thing they had not counted upon was the special effects. Samuel Carver would be providing them.

  Or would he?

  Now that the time was drawing near, he suddenly felt afflicted by doubts and misgivings. The whole thing had been almost too easy up to this point. Carver had contacts from his old days in the forces scattered throughout Whitehall, the private security industry and even the media – nothing said “credible defence analyst” like actual combat experience. They had managed to find out everything he’d needed to know. He had been careful not to tell them exactly what he had in mind, if only to save them from any legal retribution later. But his general intentions had been clear enough. Yet between them they gave him everything he needed: schedules, locations, security protocols, shift patterns (because the most vulnerable moment for any security operation is the handover between one shift and another), even the precise gap between the couple and the rope holding back the photographers. And then, when he’d asked for one, last personal favour, every one of them had willingly complied. Perhaps he shouldn’t have been surprised. Feelings were running high.

  So he had emerged from the lake at 4 a.m., three nights earlier, taken up his position and begun his long wait. And all the while a thought had been growing in the back of his mind, a niggling seed of doubt that had steadily expanded until now it seemed to fill his whole consciousness. For whatever he had done and how many sins he had committed Carver believed himself to be, if not a good man – there were too many deaths on his conscience for that – certainly a man of honour and integrity. Many years ago he had sworn to serve his Queen and country, and he still felt bound by that obligation.

  He was certainly not a psychopath. He had a conscience and a profound sense of right and wrong. And so, as he lay in that oak tree, he kept asking himself, “Can I really go through with this?”

  3

  The US Army regards the Heckler and Koch 416 assault rifle, a development of the standard M4 carbine, to be the best gun of its kind in the world. Its elite Delta Force actually helped develop the 416’s design. So Uncle Sam is happy to pay up to $1,425 a unit to provide his top troops with such an outstanding weapon. Samuel Carver, like the men of Delta Force, was armed with an M4 variant. It was called the RAP T68 Avenger, and in the custom specification he required it had cost him just over $4,000, roughly three times as much as a 416. It really was a very, very special piece of kit.

  The T68 was much quieter than a conventional weapon. It emitted no muzzle flash, making it much harder for any opponent to spot. Its rounds were of a much larger calibre than standard ammunition, exploded on impact and were virtually guaranteed to take out anyone they hit. The T68 was a game-changer.

  For every ladder, however, there must be a snake, and the slithery reptile in this particular case was that the maximum range of the T68 was just 300 ft. For anyone interested in marksmanship – anyone, for example, intending to take out a target with a headshot – the effective range was reduced to a mere 150 ft. Carver was aiming for the body, but even so, he had a lot further than 150 ft to cover. And it wasn’t an easy shot given the downward angle at which he was shooting, the breeze off the lake and the mass of men and women, armed with cameras and microphones, who were standing directly between him and his target. Carver was no great fan of the journalist classes. But he didn’t want to hit one of them.

  Overhead, a police helicopter was sweeping the area. It would be gone by the time the couple reached the gate of the property: no one wanted the noise of a chopper to interfere with the audio quality of the Prime Minister’s interview. But its presence provided a welcome distraction for Carver. It made him forget his moral qualms and worry about a practical issue: the degree to which he was shielded from any thermal imaging equipment the helicopter or the officers aboard it might be carrying. It was a warm day, with bright sunshine. He was counting on them trusting their own eyes to do the job.

  The helicopter made one last pass over the scene of the photocall and the surrounding area then clattered away across the lake. The air fell silent. Now Carver had nothing to take his mind off his self-appointed mission.

  He nestled the butt of his rifle against his shoulder and went into the standard routine of slow, deep breaths, preparing to shoot after he had exhaled, at the calmest point of the cycle. He visualized the process: the smooth, easy trigger action; the repetition as he went for his second and thi
rd shots.

  Through the T68’s Super Sniper 3-12 × 50 Scope, he could see every line on the Prime Minister’s face.

  The green crosshairs moved downwards, past the open collar of the PM’s shirt to a point directly between the narrowest parts of the lapels of his casual, holiday jacket, smack in the middle of his chest.

  Carver kept the sight there as his target – a man, he reflected, who had done him no personal harm: who could not even raise his taxes, since Carver had long lived in a flat in Geneva – proceeded through the gates of his rented lakeside villa, and up to the mark where he and his wife would stand for the photocall. The mark, Carver knew, was 247ft from where he lay, at one corner of a right-angled triangle. The ground formed the long, horizontal side. The tree formed the short, vertical side. The line of fire was the hypotenuse. Basic geometry.

  The Prime Minister reached his mark.

  Carver could not shoot.

  For the first time in his life, his will, or maybe his nerve had deserted him. He had sabotaged planes and helicopters and condemned their inhabitants to terrible, screaming deaths. He had sent cars spinning across motorways into the paths on oncoming trucks. He had set houses alight, along with everyone in them. He had shot, stabbed and strangled. But this, for some reason, he suddenly could not do.

  He gave a single sharp shake of the head, as if physically trying to dislodge his uncertainty.

  Carver settled back into his routine: slow, deep breaths; mental images of smooth, easy trigger-pulls; preparation for subsequent shots.

  The Prime Minister was posing for pictures. He was smiling at his wife. He was, as Carver had predicted, pointing at something across the lake. His wife appeared to find this utterly fascinating. The green crosshairs were still pointing directly at his chest: the fourth button down of his shirt, to be precise.