My mobile phone rang. It was McCallen. ‘Where are you?’
‘Back at the flat.’
‘I’ll come round.’
I let her in and she sat down opposite and let her beautiful eyes meet mine. ‘Thank you.’
‘For what?’
‘For doing something you didn’t want to do.’
I fixed her with a cool stare. ‘It was pretty much a pointless exercise.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘None of my observations are rocket science. Any interested amateur would draw the same conclusions.’
‘Which are?’
I shook my head. ‘No trade until you answer my questions.’
‘Fire away.’
‘Who are the couple?’
‘India Griffiths-Jones and her toy boy lover Dylan Woodgate.’
‘Their occupation?’
‘Griffiths-Jones was a banker, Woodgate a city trader.’
‘Have you followed the money trail?’
‘It’s clean.’ She unexpectedly dropped her gaze. Meant she was lying.
I arched an eyebrow. McCallen glanced up at me with a cold look, lips zippered. Planning to return to this point later, I pressed on.
‘Where are the deceased from?’
‘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