“I’ll be watched, this is out of the question.” Sternway said tersely.
“Then you can call a halt now. Stop the process.”
Sternway grimaced at the other end of the line. The conversation was taking a long time. He didn’t want to stop, they were so close.
“La Rueda, Byward Street, three thirty. Tell her to come alone and bring your questions in writing. I’ll write the answers over lunch.” Sternway said rapidly.
The line went dead.
Robinson felt pleased. His wife had said that he should exert some control. He didn’t really have any important questions. His wife had said he shouldn’t let Sternway take the lead. She’d also said they should tape Sternway as a form of evidence to help them keep control. She would know a way to get Sternway talking too, questions on paper or not. Melinda was a strong woman and had as many ambitions for him as he had for himself.
Across the city Sternway sat at his desk staring intently at the disposable mobile in his hand. He picked up the phone, gave a harsh instruction and two minutes later Joe came into office.
“Problem Sir?”
“Yes. Book me a table at Rueda, for two at three thirty?”
“Mrs Sternway sir?”
“No Joe Lady Macbeth by looks of it.”
Chapter 90
Dover
10 – 30 a.m.
April 19th
David grabbed a handful of fruit from the bowl on the dining table. He sat in a comfortable armchair watching ‘SpongeBob’ and peeling a banana. Conor liked ‘SpongeBob’, but didn’t understand it very much, though David and Mary found it hilarious. Kids’ television had certainly got better since he was a kid. He bit into the banana, enjoying the moment and feeling justified in doing nothing for a while. He had felt tarnished by the last few days, exhausted by the intense travel and imminent sense of danger. He promised himself that he’d finish the banana, the large juicy orange and the fresh looking Gala apple and get back to work upstairs as soon as the episodes of the cartoon were over.
Stanton crawled from behind the shed at the top of the garden and sprinted the short distance to a larger shed nearer the house. The garden was twenty metres long and Stanton felt exposed until he was hidden from view by the old fashioned post war shed. He sidled along the exposed edge of it and made it to the shelter of the house. Crawling along on his stomach he got below the dining room window. He could see McKie watching television in the lounge as the dining room and lounge were ‘knocked through’. Stanton made his way around to the side of the house, climbed onto the roof of the kitchen extension and from there up the drain pipe to the roof. Using powerful arm and stomach muscles, amazingly agile for a man his age, he flipped his legs and torso feet first onto the roof tiles and slid his upper body and head afterwards. He spread his weight out and inched himself slowly up to the Velux window on the back of the house. The DIC technicians always put a roof window on both sides to let light into the attic. The one at the front was next to the large white satellite dish that David’s neighbour objected to.
The neighbour, Tom, a retired accountant went out into his garden to get the washing in for his wife as she had seen spots of rain on the front windows. He looked into the sky and his eye was caught by the sight of a pair of legs disappearing into the Velux window on David’s roof.
Tom wouldn’t have believed his eyes, but he wasn’t the kind to doubt them. He had been annoyed at the noise months before when the men had come and obviously done some kind of loft conversion and then there had been the satellite dish. He disliked changes to the locality. The nineteen thirties semi-detached houses on Elm’s Vale were a matter of pride for him; he lived in the house his parent’s had bought just before the war, he’d grown up there and he had a sense of ownership over the area. He was pleased to have a customs man living next door, good solid civil service job, but the changes to the house made him unhappy with his neighbour.
Tom had checked at the time of the changes and McKie didn’t need planning permission. Tom felt angry and thwarted by the changes to ‘his’ street. Now it seemed a man was climbing in windows that he had objected to. Tom would have rung the bell and told David that there was a man in his loft, but anger made him decide to make a point about the windows and their inconvenience. He went inside and called the police, but not nine, nine, nine. He called the Dover number and duly waited.
Up in the loft Stanton went over to the laptop, which had not been locked by password, and began looking at the DIC network. He wasn’t shocked by the news bulletins on Cobb and Mason. He knew Mason had nearly made it and he knew himself to be the last man of the five. He quickly read the details of the shooting and began searching elsewhere on the DIC network. He didn’t have long and he wanted information. He found the file with the full list of DIC agents in the UK and their locations. He found files with the location of DIC headquarters and details about the duty rotas. It was very useful information. He checked the list of building CCTV cameras and chose the lobby, where there were two. He saw the revolving door, two guards and the lifts behind the desk. He had a quick scan around Euston Tower, the armoury and data gathering rooms. He was impressed by the size and scale of the operation of what was an organisation that the British public knew nothing about.
On the desk were writeable DVD’s and he popped one into the drive and began copying the file. In the meantime he looked for a quick way into London on the internet. He decided on a National Express Coach and saw that there was a coach leaving at eleven am and got into London at one forty-five p.m. He noted the price of five pounds, he could easily cover that. It was ten thirty so he knew he had time to get to the National Express stop at Pencester Road, a ten minute run from where he was, according to the online map. He covered his tracks by deleting the history tool bar and all cookies. The file copying continued. He looked around the loft and saw the gun cabinet. He then looked around for a key and found it hanging high up from a roof beam. He retrieved the key and unlocked the cabinet. He took out the shiny Sig 220 ‘Rail’, added the silencer, put a clip in, pumped a round into the breach and clicked it to safe. Looking in the cabinet he saw the laser sight and fixed it to the ‘rail’ on the pistol. He twisted around looking at the laser dot. He turned to the computer and seeing the file downloaded, took out the disc, popped it in a jewel case and slid it inside his jacket. He covered his tracks on the file copying as best he could, but didn’t know that the DIC access work was logged and monitored. The fact that the files had been copied registered on McKie’s ICT usage log at Euston Tower. Stanton was just making for the window when he heard the hatch being opened.
Cartoons over David went back to work. He pulled the ladder down and climbed up into the loft. Too late the personal danger signal hairs on his neck told him someone was there. He felt the cold muzzle of the pistol against the back of his neck.
“Climb in slowly, knowing that I’m taking a step back and this weapon has the laser dot sighting so I can fire accurately in this half light.”
David climbed into the loft, stood up slowly with his hands on his head. He turned around to face his assailant and stared straight into the eyes of Stanton. Stanton the killer from Perth, murderer of Griffiths and others and now was it his turn to be killed by him? How had he got there? How had he got in? Why was he there?
“What’s your name?” Stanton hissed.
“McKie, David McKie, you’d be Trevor Stanton right?”
“That’s correct.”
“I saw you at Perth. You had a goatee then.”
“I saw you in Glasgow too my friend.” Stanton’s bared teeth were as close to a smile as McKie imagined the man got.
“Glasgow?”
“Yes, after you’d killed Wheeler.”
“Motherwell? Were you following me?” David was astounded and a little unnerved.
“No. Our paths have crossed accidentally, which is unfortunate for you.”
“You came into Dover by boat, but you saw me and came here… you want revenge for Wheeler, that’s not
