‘He has a lot on his mind.’
Jackman nodded and pulled a face. ‘He’s got guts, that’s for sure.’ He tapped his spoon against the mug. ‘The target, he’s safely out of the way?’
‘Well out of reach,’ agreed the Colonel.
‘Good. What have you done with him?’
‘That’s need to know.’
‘And I don’t need to know, I suppose,’ said Jackman. ‘What about the man who placed the contract?’
‘Discenza? The FBI have him in protective custody in Miami. No one can get to him.’
Jackman stirred his tea again, staring at the brown liquid as it whirled around. ‘Does Cramer realise how closely he himself fits the profile of the man we’re looking for?’
The Colonel sipped his tea, then shook his head. ‘If he does, he hasn’t mentioned it.’
‘Set a thief to catch a thief?’
‘Not really. He was chosen for other reasons. The similarities hadn’t occurred to me until you read his file and pointed it out.’
Jackman walked over to the trolley and put down his spoon. ‘He lost his mother at a relatively young age, his father was rarely at home when he was in his teens, he wasn’t exactly well liked at school, SAS-trained, never been in steady employment since he left the regiment. I suppose you can account for his whereabouts over the past two years?’
The Colonel smiled thinly. ‘No, I can’t. But Mike Cramer is not our killer, I can guarantee that. He’s not the type.’
Jackman looked at his wristwatch. ‘That’s the problem, Colonel. He’s exactly the type.’
Lynch lay on his back, his arm around Marie. She toyed with the hair on his chest, winding it gently around her fingers and tugging it softly. ‘Still think it’s not a good idea?’ he asked.
‘Definitely,’ she giggled. ‘But I wouldn’t have missed it for the world. Who taught you to make love?’
‘You’re my first customer,’ said Lynch.
Marie laughed and slapped his chest. ‘I don’t think so,’ she said. She kissed the side of his neck and nuzzled against him. ‘I want to come with you,’ she whispered.
‘You just did.’
‘You know what I mean.’
‘No.’
‘I could help.’
‘No,’ he repeated.
‘Why not?’ Her hand began to move inexorably downwards.
‘Because it’s my fight, not yours.’
Her hand lingered between his legs, caressing and touching him. ‘They killed my father and my mother, Dermott. It’s as much my fight as yours.’
‘I know that, Marie. But this isn’t a sanctioned operation, it’s personal. I want Cramer because of what he did to Maggie.’
‘And I want him because of what he did to my father.’
‘No.’
‘You have to let me help you.’
Lynch rolled on top of her and took his weight on his elbows so that he could look down on her. ‘You have helped. More than you know.’ He kissed her again and she opened her legs, drawing them up and fastening them around his waist. She squeezed him, hard. ‘And that’s not going to make me change my mind,’ he said. He rolled off her and headed for the bathroom.
Cramer sat between Allan and Martin in the dining hall watching the Harrods video again. It was the tenth time they’d studied the footage. Cramer felt that he knew every second by heart, but he realised the importance of getting a feel for the killer, for the way he moved, the way he held himself. He’d spent countless days on surveillance operations in the border country watching and waiting for IRA terrorists, and on many occasions he’d been able to identify targets by the way they walked, the tilt of a head, the shrug of a shoulder. At a long distance bodies were often more distinctive than faces. The problem with the video was the faked limp. It affected everything about the man’s movement, and Cramer was starting to think that the video might actually prove counter-productive.
‘What do you think, Allan?’ Cramer asked. ‘Do you think you’d spot him in a crowd.’
Allan shrugged. ‘I’m getting a feel for his shape. The problem is that he can change that with padding.’
‘Or dieting,’ said Martin, who was munching his way through a stack of ham and pickle sandwiches that Mrs Elliott had prepared earlier.
‘Yeah. I think you were right when you said that all we know is that he’s white and right-handed.’
‘Could be ambidextrous,’ said Martin, reaching for another sandwich.
‘Terrific,’ said Cramer.
‘I’ll tell you something, Mike,’ said Allan, rewinding the tape to the beginning again. ‘The guy actually looks a bit like you.’
‘What?’ exclaimed Cramer, then he saw that Allan was grinning and he faked a punch to his chin. Allan ducked and pressed the ‘play’ button and walked back to his seat as the screen flickered. Martin looked over his shoulder and the others turned to see what he was looking at. It was Su-ming. She was wearing blue jeans and a black pullover with the sleeves pulled up to her elbows. Cramer stood up and introduced her to Martin. She nodded a greeting but made no move to shake his hand.
‘Are you Chinese?’ Martin asked her.
‘No,’ she said, curtly, and turned away from him. ‘Have you eaten?’ she asked Cramer. He shook his head. ‘I shall prepare you something,’ she said and headed towards the kitchen.
Outside they heard the helicopter turbine start up. ‘The profiler,’ said Cramer as Allan threw him a questioning look.
‘He didn’t hang around for long.’
‘There wasn’t much for him to say. Long on opinions, short on facts.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Yeah. About as much use as one of those psychics that reckon they can tell the police where the bodies are buried by using a pendulum or a crystal ball.’
Allan helped himself to one of Martin’s sandwiches. ‘Pity. I was hoping he might come up with a few specifics.’
‘The man we’re looking for was probably abused as a child,’ said Cramer.
Martin grinned. ‘Great. We’ll be on the look-out for a bedwetter, then.’ One of the guards came out of the kitchen carrying a fresh pot of coffee. Martin drained his cup. ‘Just in time,’ he said.
Cramer watched the killer on the screen walk up to the second bodyguard. Two shots to the chest. Cramer wondered why it was only the targets who were shot in the face. Jackman’s explanation that it was his signature seemed too glib. He looked up to see the man with the coffee pot walking behind the television. Cramer had last seen him standing guard at the entrance to the school. He was in his mid-twenties, broad-shouldered and narrow- waisted, the build of a ballet dancer. Cramer felt himself tense inside. There was something about the way the man was holding the coffee pot that didn’t look right, as if he was trying to keep it away from his body. It might simply have been that he was scared of spilling the hot liquid, but then he saw the man’s eyes flick in his direction and he knew that he wasn’t wrong. Cramer pushed Allan to the side as he leapt to his feet, his right hand reaching inside his sleeve for the stiletto.
The man dropped the coffee pot and turned towards Cramer. His mouth opened in surprise when he saw that Cramer was already pulling out the knife. As the stiletto emerged from Cramer’s sleeve, he kept moving, keeping the momentum going, his left hand outstretched, his eyes focused on the man’s throat. The coffee pot smashed onto the floor. The scalding liquid splashed Cramer’s trousers but he felt nothing, he was totally focused on the man in front of him. The man’s right hand had disappeared inside his leather jacket but Cramer was already close enough to slap his hand against the man’s chest and jam the stiletto up under his chin, hard enough to indent the
