Killer Intent E-Book

Tony Kent

• Herausgeber: Elliott & Thompson
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Serie: Dempsey/Devlin
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2017

Seitenzahl: 682

Beschreibung

As seen on ITV in the Zoe Ball Book Club An assassin's bullet. A deadly conspiracy. But who is calling the shots? 'A twisty, action-packed conspiracy thriller. Kent knows how to bring the thrills' -- MASON CROSS, author of the Carter Blake series When an attempted assassination sparks a chain reaction of explosive events across London, Britain elite security forces seem powerless to stop the chaos threatening to overwhelm the government. As the dark and deadly conspiracy unfolds, three strangers find their fates entwined: Joe Dempsey, a deadly military intelligence officer; Sarah Truman, a CNN reporter determined to get her headline; and Michael Devlin, a Belfast-born criminal barrister with a secret past. As the circle of those they can trust grows ever smaller, Dempsey, Devlin and Truman are forced to work in the shadows, caught in a life-or-death race against the clock, before the terrible plot can consume them all.

Leseprobe

For Mum and Dad for everything . . .

And for Victoria for everything else . . .

Contents

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-One

Twenty-Two

Twenty-Three

Twenty-Four

Twenty-Five

Twenty-Six

Twenty-Seven

Twenty-Eight

Twenty-Nine

Thirty

Thirty-One

Thirty-Two

Thirty-Three

Thirty-Four

Thirty-Five

Thirty-Six

Thirty-Seven

Thirty-Eight

Thirty-Nine

Forty

Forty-One

Forty-Two

Forty-Three

Forty-Four

Forty-Five

Forty-Six

Forty-Seven

Forty-Eight

Forty-Nine

Fifty

Fifty-One

Fifty-Two

Fifty-Three

Fifty-Four

Fifty-Five

Fifty-Six

Fifty-Seven

Fifty-Eight

Fifty-Nine

Sixty

Sixty-One

Sixty-Two

Sixty-Three

Sixty-Four

Sixty-Five

Sixty-Six

Sixty-Seven

Sixty-Eight

Sixty-Nine

Seventy

Seventy-One

Seventy-Two

Seventy-Three

Seventy-Four

Seventy-Five

Seventy-Six

Seventy-Seven

Seventy-Eight

Seventy-Nine

Eighty

Eighty-One

Eighty-Two

Eighty-Three

Eighty-Four

Eighty-Five

Acknowledgements

Copyright

ONE

Joshua felt a rush of adrenaline as he looked down into the square. He was 200 feet up, on the edge of the spire of a Regency-era church. From here he could see every crowded inch below. It caused the familiar sensation of controlled adrenaline to rise in his gut. This was the stress point of any assignment. The moment he could no longer walk away. It was what he lived for.

Every detail was visible through his rifle’s telescopic sight. Joshua drank in the information, taking just moments to spot the obstacles that could still stand in his way. A less skilled professional would have taken longer to weigh up the evidence. Joshua was nothing if not efficient.

He moved away from the scope. It had told him all it could for now. Instead he viewed the crowd below with his naked eye. The numbers were immense. He wondered – not for the first time – at how unsuitable the location was. Joshua could see the political thinking. Where else for a ceremony to honour the British heroes of the recent Middle Eastern wars than Trafalgar Square, London’s monument to military glory? But historical resonance made it no less of a security nightmare.

A grim smile threatened the corner of Joshua’s mouth, brought on by the chaos below. The area might be policed by the world’s finest security agencies, but any problems they faced were to Joshua’s advantage. Right now those problems were legion.

Joshua’s hands returned to his rifle.

With the slightest movement, the barrel swept upwards, his eye back behind the scope. He scanned the surrounding rooftops and spotted nineteen sharpshooters in less than a minute. It was rare that he was able to do this so quickly. It might even be unique, but then this was a unique contract. Every other assignment of Joshua’s long career shared a common feature: the need to stay hidden in order to achieve the shot. Not today. Today Joshua had to remain in sight. If he did not, every one of those nineteen marksmen would wonder where their twentieth man had gone.

TWO

Joe Dempsey stood at a window, less than four hundred yards away. His view from here was every bit as good as Joshua’s. His mood was not.

For half his life Dempsey had been employed to identify and neutralise threats. To expect the unexpected. The unthinkable. Eighteen years of that would affect any man and Dempsey was no exception. He saw danger everywhere. Dempsey sometimes wondered if this was thanks to his training, or if it was just paranoia. But such doubts did not worry him today. Today the threat was very real.

‘It’s not looking any better down there, I take it?’

A soft voice with a distinct Edinburgh lilt interrupted Dempsey’s thoughts. He turned towards the speaker.

Callum McGregor sat at the only table in the room. The director of the Department of Domestic Security was a colossus of a man. Six foot six and 270 lb. He over-crowded his empty desk.

Dempsey walked towards the director without a word. Dempsey was a big man himself, but he moved lightly. He pulled a chair to the other side of the desk and sat without waiting for permission.

He looked McGregor in the eye.

‘It won’t get better, Callum. We can’t control a space this big and this public.’

Dempsey’s voice was harsher than McGregor’s. It was less refined, more intense. This was to be expected. McGregor’s was the voice of a diplomat. Dempsey was the diplomat’s threat.

‘You know you’re preaching to the choir, Joe. But it changes nothing. We’ll do the best we can with what we have.’

‘What we have isn’t enough.’

Dempsey’s reply was blunt but not insubordinate. McGregor was the senior of the two, but mutual respect cut through rank. He continued.

‘It’s not just numbers. There are seven different agencies out there, Callum. All working independently from one another. Christ knows why we need that many. If we’d kept it to a single agency this thing could be properly coordinated.’

‘The Americans were never going to pass President Knowles’ protection to us, Joe. That one was a given even before the threat against Thompson.’

McGregor was telling Dempsey nothing new.

‘And we weren’t letting them do it alone. No way we risk losing either of the ultra VIPs – president or ex-president – on British soil. Which means too many chefs in the kitchen already, even before our individual agencies start squabbling to be here. All things considered, this isn’t the mess it could be.’

Dempsey leaned back in his chair. It irritated him when McGregor was right. Which the director usually was. But knowing the ‘why’ did not make the facts any easier to swallow. An event this public, with US presidents past and present in attendance? Even without the British politicians on hand – and they would be on hand, thanks to the publicity it would bring – it was nothing short of a nightmare.

If there is a terrorist attack today, Dempsey thought, it’ll take a miracle to stop it.

The thought was banished as his earpiece flickered into life.

‘POTUS has left the Music Room. Bamboo to move in nine minutes. On my mark. Three, two, one, mark.’

The United States Secret Service had been protecting its presidents for over a century. And its former ones, too. In that time they had honed their techniques to perfection. Four short sentences were all it took to put every agent on notice.

The countdown had begun.

Dempsey synchronised his watch as the voice in his ear declared ‘mark’. McGregor did the same. Between them the two men had seen more action than the average infantry platoon. They had run covert missions from one side of the world to the other. Today’s assignment was a walk in the park in comparison. But still Dempsey’s instincts were screaming.

Dempsey got to his feet. His ramrod-straight military bearing took full advantage of his six feet two inches. That height, combined with a powerful physique discernible even under his suit, made him an intimidating presence. His dark, piercing eyes, set deep in a face that carried the damage of a life lived dangerously, completed the picture. He was not an unattractive man. Far from it. But when it suited him, Joe Dempsey could be terrifying.

Those dark eyes now met McGregor’s, and no words were needed. The concern on the director’s face said enough.

Perhaps Dempsey was not the only one with a bad feeling after all.

THREE

‘POTUS has left the Music Room. Bamboo to move in nine minutes. On my mark. Three, two, one, mark.’

Joshua could not place the American accent in his ear. It was East Coast, but where? The failure irritated him more than it should. Joshua’s obsession with detail – with control, with ritual – was shared by millions across the globe. To most it was debilitating. Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, capable of ruining lives. For Joshua it was something else. His was a career where attention to detail could be the difference between life and death. In that world, Joshua’s condition had helped create the perfect killer.

Joshua synchronised his watch on the speaker’s ‘mark’. He felt his synapses fire as he did so, fuelled by another surge of addictive adrenaline. The transmission had come from the Presidential Protective Division, bringing complete focus to Joshua’s mind. In exactly nine minutes the presidential motorcade would leave Buckingham Palace. It would then make its way along The Mall before arriving in Trafalgar Square in just under thirteen minutes’ time. As always, the Secret Service was running like clockwork.

And so was Joshua. The effects of adrenaline differ from person to person. In most it leads to fight-or-flight. In others – fewer – it leads to paralysing terror. And in fewer still it leads to a cold clarity of thought. Where time seems to slow. Where every action is considered. Calculated. Lethal. Most would call it sociopathic – or worse. Joshua called it professionalism.

It was that professionalism which now took hold. With one sweeping movement he scanned the rooftops for the seventh and final time. A number that had long given Joshua comfort. Seven reviews of his surroundings. Seven confirmations that the team was in place, that every one of the sharpshooters was where he or she should be. Between them the team covered Trafalgar Square from every angle. But none of their angles mattered. One single line of sight would count today.

It was already Joshua’s.

It was another perfectly planned detail from his employer. By now Joshua expected nothing less. The twenty-man team of marksmen and women had been cobbled together from a political tug of war. Half had come from the US Secret Services’ Counter Sniper Support Unit, which left a ten-man British contingent. Five from Protection Command. Five from Counter Terrorism Command. Or at least that had been the plan.

Joshua had replaced the senior CTC operative at the eleventh hour. He had not allowed himself to ask how this had been achieved. Sure, he was curious to know. And someday he might even find out. But for today it was enough that – somehow – he was a part of the very team assigned to stop him. In a decades-long career Joshua had found many ways to get close to his targets. None had been so steeped in irony.

He turned his scope back to the square. It had been thirty minutes since he had first looked down. The crowd inside the hoardings – the temporary barrier between invited guests and the massing public – had tripled in that time, to full capacity. Two thousand men, women and children. All patiently baking in the unseasonable October sun.

As far as Joshua was concerned there could have been ten thousand. Or just ten. He was interested in only one.

A small, wiry man, dressed in ageing tweed and sitting in an aisle seat twenty-three rows back from the stage. Exactly as Joshua’s instructions had predicted. The motorcade was still minutes away but Joshua’s target was in place. From this moment that target would not leave his line of fire.

FOUR

‘You’re sure we’ll get a clear view from here?’

Sarah Truman asked the same question for maybe the tenth time in as many minutes.

‘As good as anyone inside the hoardings,’ replied Jack Maguire. ‘You want better, you have to go higher. That means going outside the square.’

Maguire nodded towards the nearby rooftops. Sarah followed his indication. For a moment she seemed to consider their options. A marksman was visible on a nearby church spire. It was a reminder that all raised buildings were off-limits.

Sarah turned back to Maguire.

‘It just seems a bit side-on. Wouldn’t we get a clearer shot if we were directly in front of the stage?’

‘I’m sure we would. Of the back of everyone’s heads, mainly.’

Maguire’s brisk words were said with a smile. He could understand her worries. For Sarah – much more than for him – today was a big deal. The first major story the network had given her. Maguire would have been concerned if Sarah had not been a little neurotic.

‘You almost ready for a run-through?’ Maguire asked, focusing his lens.

‘As I’ll ever be.’

Maguire could tell that Sarah’s grin was forced. That she was hiding her apprehension. Her stomach must be churning, he thought. But she can handle it.

Sarah quickly proved him right. She pulled her long brown hair free of the band that had secured it in a neat ponytail and scrunched her fingers through its thickness. It was something Sarah did before every take. A transformation from ‘behind the scenes’ to ‘front of house’. A superstition that was almost as pointless as a rabbit’s foot or a four-leaf clover.

Sarah placed herself in the centre of Maguire’s shot.

‘Let’s do it.’

Maguire’s smile widened. He had worked with TV reporters and actors for years. He was used to their narcissism and had lost count of the shots wasted while ‘the talent’s’ make-up was re-touched. But the last two years had been different. Not because Sarah was nothing to look at. In her own way the tall, slim American was as attractive as anyone Maguire had ever partnered. Sarah was not a classic beauty, sure, but she was somehow better for that. And, unlike the others, she was utterly lacking in vanity. At least as far as Maguire had noticed.

With her ritual complete, Sarah seemed reinvigorated, her pre-shot jitters now hidden by her honest smile and sparkling green eyes. Maguire beamed with pride.

‘What are you grinning at?’

‘Nothing. Come on, get started.’

Maguire refocused his lens one last time before giving Sarah a thumbs-up. The signal for her to begin:

‘We’re here in London’s Trafalgar Square, where the great and the good will soon arrive to commemorate the thousands of British men and women who have taken part in over a decade of conflicts in Afghanistan and Iraq. As the armed forces of Great Britain and her allies are preparing to rethink their priorities and their deployment, we are here today to say thank you to those who are already home. And to those who have made the ultimate sacrifice in defence of our way of life.

‘With the War on Terror shifting its focus in the Middle East, the time has come to take stock of what has so far been achieved in the years of brutal conflict. And to pay our dues to those brave soldiers who have fought so hard and for so long. And now, as we wait for . . .’

Sarah’s words trailed off, interrupted by the sound of cheers from the south-eastern end of Trafalgar Square. It could mean only one thing. The presidential motorcade had arrived.

FIVE

‘Bamboo is breaching the Arch. Stagecoach at three, Maverick, Mercenary, Footprint and Falcon aboard. Snapshot and Snow at four in Half Back, with Wallflower and Warrior.’

Dempsey glanced at his watch. It had been twelve minutes since the transmission in McGregor’s office. That message had set the timetable. So far it had been accurate, almost to the second. Dempsey shook his head in admiration.

The Americans are damned efficient.

But Dempsey could not allow the effectiveness of the Secret Service to make him comfortable or complacent. They had impressed him so far, but he had to stay vigilant. To do otherwise could cost lives. Bitter experience told him that.

Dempsey glanced towards his own nine agents. The DDS team. Handpicked men and women, every one of them outstanding in their previous lives. Soldiers. Police officers. Spies. They had been the best of the best. Exceptional enough to catch Callum McGregor’s eye. Tough enough to make it through DDS selection. Dempsey did not trust easily, but every member of this team had earned it.

The nine agents were exactly where they should be. Lone figures at the end of each aisle, in the no man’s land between crowd and stage. Each wore a crisp black two-piece suit, a pristine white shirt and a slim black tie. Regulation black sunglasses completed the image. Individually they could pass for extras from a Hollywood movie. Only the conspicuous bulge between the left breast and the armpit of their jackets said otherwise. These guys were the real thing.

Not that Dempsey doubted that. He had complete confidence that each would do his or her duty. That they would act just as they had been drilled over the past forty-eight hours. There were ten aisles in the square today, the only routes through the sea of chairs that temporarily filled a vast space usually open to the public. Of those aisles, nine were covered by Dempsey’s agents. The tenth – the only one not currently manned – was different. This was where the VIPs would enter. Their route to the stage. If anything was going to happen it would most likely happen here. Which was why it was Dempsey’s aisle.

It demanded more from Dempsey than he expected from his agents. Their brief was simple. To stand in place. Motionless but aware. Their eyes everywhere. Dempsey’s was more complex. Eventually he would do the same as his team, but first he had to get the VIPs from the gate to the stage.

It sounded easy enough. These things always do.

Dempsey’s earpiece buzzed again, the continuing commentary of the presidential motorcade’s movements. It was the American way: ‘Intelligence Is Everything’. If you know every detail, every movement, then nothing can go wrong. Dempsey thought otherwise. It was never that simple.

Dempsey moved to the security entrance at the north-west end of the square and took his place. From here his view was limited. The fence that surrounded the square saw to that. That fence was a necessary security measure. But in politics even the necessary is sometimes hidden. Two thousand guests were lucky enough to be inside the square. Millions more were not. It was the job of the barricade to keep them out. But every one of that unwanted number was a registered voter, which made the sham necessary. Hundreds of metres of blue velvet drapes had been stretched along the hoardings. Combined with the heavy-duty carpet underfoot, the stage at the north end and the thousands of chairs that faced it, they made Trafalgar Square look like the biggest conference room Dempsey had ever seen. All of it intended to fool the public. To hide the fact that only the great and the good were allowed inside.

The deception worked. That was clear from the noise. Dempsey could see one thing through the magnetic security arch that marked the access point from out to in: the arrival of the presidential motorcade. Ironically it was the one thing he did not need to see. The cheers of the crowd were deafening. The enthusiasm real. Dempsey knew of only two politicians who received that kind of adulation. Visible or not, the sound alone told him that both had just arrived.

Dempsey fixed his sight on the framed scene visible through the arch. The view was limited but sufficient. It seemed impossible that the crowd’s cheers could grow any louder. But somehow they did, just as Dempsey saw the motorcade – codenamed ‘Bamboo’ by the Secret Service – crawl to a final halt.

‘Bamboo’ had made the short journey from Buckingham Palace at a jogging pace. Eight agents from the Presidential Protective Division had run alongside each car. Not one of them had broken sweat. An example of superb physical conditioning. This alone should have left Dempsey feeing safer. Should have, but did not.

The voice in his ear told Dempsey that the president’s car – codenamed ‘Stagecoach’ – was the third vehicle in the motorcade. Dempsey knew that already. He had watched it stop closest to the entrance, where it sat for barely an instant before its passengers began to emerge.

The obvious weight of the rear doors only hinted at the extent of the 2009 Cadillac presidential limousine’s modifications. This was the first time Dempsey had seen the legendary vehicle so close. Nothing about it seemed too unusual. If Dempsey had not known better he could not have guessed how well it lived up to its nickname: ‘The Beast’. Weighing more than the average dumper truck, the vehicle sported five-inch-thick military-grade armour that could repel a direct hit from a hand-held rocket launcher. Run-flat tyres that allowed the driver to hit top speed regardless of the condition of the wheels. Assault-proof glass so thick that barely any natural light could penetrate the car’s interior. It was almost a nuclear bunker on wheels. A place where the president was completely safe. If only the same could be said of Trafalgar Square.

The Secret Service team swamped ‘Stagecoach’ before its wheels stopped turning. Once again Dempsey’s view was blocked. But once again sight was unnecessary. The roar of the crowd was enough to tell him that US President John Knowles and his First Lady Veronica – codenamed ‘Maverick’ and ‘Mercenary’ – were now in public view. Dempsey knew that Britain’s Prime Minister William Davies and his wife, Elizabeth, would be with them. ‘Footprint’ and ‘Falcon’. Their Secret Service handles.

All four were now in the hands of the Presidential Protective Division’s best. They would remain so until they passed the threshold of the square. Only then would they become Dempsey’s responsibility.

That time did not come right away. Minutes passed as Knowles milked his applause. As Davies – a much less popular leader – basked in the reflected glory, Dempsey could only wait and watch as the Secret Service did its job.

To see the Americans in action was a lesson in how it should be done. Unlike the oversized gorillas employed in celebrity protection, whose eyes never seem to leave the star paying their wage, President Knowles’ agents were the opposite. Nondescript and efficient. Their eyes were where they should be. Constantly scanning the crowd, never resting on Knowles. The agents’ job was to spot threats to the president. Barring suicide, those threats were unlikely to come from the man himself.

Minutes more went by with no sign that the cheering would end. It bothered Dempsey. It bothered him a lot. As long as the VIPs were outside they were not under his protection. Which meant that – for now – there was nothing Dempsey could do for them. For a man whose life had been built around self-reliance and complete control, that feeling of impotence was ordinarily unbearable. And there was nothing ordinary about today. The ragged six-inch scar that ran the length of Dempsey’s left cheek throbbed. A sign that his blood pressure was spiking.

Dempsey’s moment came without warning. While the crowd continued to cheer, President Knowles turned on his heel and strode into the square. Dempsey took a step back. Standing bolt upright, he ripped off a crisp salute. Knowles – a former US Marine and now his country’s commander-in-chief – returned the gesture. William Davies – Britain’s unpopular prime minister – did not.

Dempsey turned and began to walk towards the stage. He had frozen at coming face to face with Knowles. The US president was a man he deeply admired, but still Dempsey had not anticipated the effect meeting him might have. Even so, the distraction lasted no longer than a heartbeat. Dempsey tore his eyes away from the most famous face on the planet. He had a job to do, at the head of the entourage.

The distance to the stage was no more than a hundred yards. It took a full three minutes to cover it. The crowd was on its feet. Pushing. Reaching. Cheering. Two thousand of them in total. It was all Dempsey could do to keep them at bay as the entourage inched its way forward. The Secret Service escort that surrounded Knowles helped. But Knowles himself did not. The president seemed to shake every hand he passed. It made every step an effort and every yard an achievement. The ordeal only ended when they reached the staircase that led up to the raised platform. Only then could Dempsey step aside.

Dempsey watched as the VIPs climbed the eight short steps and took to the stage. Every one of them was getting off on the adulation of the crowd, with no consideration of the dangers that could be out there. Not even from ex-president Howard Thompson who, Dempsey knew, must be aware of the specific threats that had been made against his life.

But then politicians never seemed to worry about such things. Their safety was someone else’s responsibility. Dempsey’s responsibility.

Dempsey took his place at the head of his aisle. His first task was a success. He should feel better. Should feel more confident. But for some reason the anxiety continued to rise. Something was not right. Something Dempsey could not quite place.

SIX

Joshua’s wristwatch sat in front of him, in his immediate eyeline and beside his rifle’s barrel. It was wedged face up, readable at a glance. Convenient but unnecessary. Joshua had been counting off seconds in his head since the first Secret Service transmission. Another symptom of his obsessive nature. One thousand, seven hundred and forty had passed.

His expensively engineered Rolex Submariner agreed. Twenty-nine minutes.

It had been time well spent. Joshua had moved through his ingrained pre-shot rituals without a conscious thought. The circumstances of the assignment might be strange, but the fundamentals were always the same. Load the mag. Chamber the round. Settle the line of sight. Identify the obstacles. Seven times over to satisfy his compulsion. Each time done with absolute precision.

Joshua knew his target’s name. He knew his face. And he knew where Eamon McGale would be found. McGale had been in Joshua’s crosshairs since taking his seat. If everything went to plan, he would not be leaving them alive.

It was an easy statement to make, and sometimes a harder one to fulfil. But not for Joshua. Joshua had been steeped in violence for as long as he could remember. There were, no doubt, many other men who could do what he did. But it took a rare man to do it so well. One who combined physical ability, cold obsession, professional training and an absolute lack of remorse in one lethal package. Joshua possessed all of these qualities in abundance, making him more than a match for the ageing, slightly ragged man who sat in his sights.

McGale had looked out of place from the start. Not physically. He wore aged clothing and looked in need of a good meal, yes, but there was nothing particularly unusual about his appearance. No. What Joshua noticed were his emotions. Or, more precisely, his lack of them.

Even from a hundred yards outside and two hundred feet above the square, Joshua could feel the effect of President Knowles’ arrival. The wave of goodwill was like nothing he had ever seen. Yet McGale had stayed rooted to his seat. An oasis of calm within a storm of hysteria.

Nor had McGale reacted to what had followed. William Davies had spoken from behind a two-inch-thick sheet of glass. A combination of teleprompter and bulletproof screen. Davies was a short, plain and unpopular man. Unused to enthusiastic applause. But today, with two thousand handpicked spectators caught up in the euphoria of the moment, even he received it.

Davies had started the event with a short thank you to Britain’s armed forces. The crowd had roared its agreement. All except for McGale. McGale had again remained static. Only the beads of sweat that trickled down his neck and brow were proof of life beneath the tweed.

But this changed when President Knowles took the centre of the stage. That was when McGale reacted. When he began to fidget. To repeatedly touch the underside of his chair. To the untrained eye it might look like an itch. To Joshua it was a starter’s pistol. He knew the effects of nerves when he saw them. And he knew what would follow.

SEVEN

Sarah Truman had noted her president’s every word. She had been living in London for two years. In that time she had seen much more of Britain’s prime minister than of her own country’s leader. It was inevitable that she would compare the two, and it was hardly a fair contest. Unlike William Davies, the leader of the free world was a very impressive man.

John Knowles certainly impressed Sarah. He seemed to have it all, she thought. Tall, athletic and handsome. A Hollywood president. Because of this he was sometimes underestimated, which was a mistake that was never made twice. Knowles’ intellect exceeded even his looks, making him more than a match for any political challenger.

Sarah glanced across to Maguire. She was confident that her cameraman had the shot. That trust was well placed. Maguire had a clear view of the stage with no obstructions. Other camera crews had been less fortunate. Or maybe they just were not as good. Either way, the best footage would today come from Jack Maguire’s lens.

Sarah had no doubt that it would. She counted herself lucky to be partnered with such a respected talent so early in her career. She was genuinely grateful for Maguire’s guidance. But they were friends and so it could remain unspoken. Instead Sarah concentrated on the stage. On the close of Knowles’ speech. As always, both his words and his delivery were faultless:

‘. . . no greater friend and closer ally than Great Britain. It is a relationship that has stood the test of history and of adversity, and I could not be happier to pay tribute to the men and women who have stood beside my own nation in these troubled times. Ladies and gentlemen, we are here today to thank those among us – and those who have tragically left us – for a sustained heroism unmatched since the time of the Greatest Generation. I give you a group that can be summed up in a single word. I give you “heroes”.’

The crowd erupted at that final word. Knowles had judged his audience perfectly. He always did. The people reacted just as he had intended. The sound of their cheers was deafening. Disorientating, even. Sarah could feel her head begin to spin as she scribbled into her notepad.

The noise continued for what seemed like minutes. It was all Sarah could do to keep her attention on her notes. Only when the intensity began to lessen did she regain some concentration. It was a temporary relief.

In just moments a fresh injection of energy shot through the audience. Just as suddenly as the first. Sarah glanced up from the page. Towards the stage. Looking for the cause.

President Knowles had taken his seat. His retreat had left the podium free, but the space was not vacant for long. Sarah watched as former US President Howard Thompson joined Sir Neil Matthewson – the Secretary of State for Northern Ireland and Britain’s most popular politician – as together they approached the centre of the stage.

The reception the two men received was as enthusiastic as it had been for Knowles. It had been almost four years since Thompson’s time in the White House. Somehow he remained as popular as ever. Matthewson was just as well loved. So it was no surprise that they were greeted so warmly. Or that the dead-eyed reaction of a single man in the crowd would go unnoticed until it was too late.

EIGHT

The deafening cheers said different things to different people. To Thompson and to Matthewson they were the deserved thanks for years of public service. To William Davies they were proof that the event was a PR success. Cosmetic surgery to cover the cracks under his government. And to Dempsey they were confirmation of his worst fears. He could not police a crowd of this size.

Dempsey’s eyes moved behind his sunglasses. Constantly scanning from left to right. Looking for a hint of something. Of anything. But what? A gun? A knife? A bomb? How could he spot a thing in this sea of bodies? His unease was crippling, yet he could not explain it. Dempsey had faced far worse odds. Had lost count of the times it had been his life in danger. But today was somehow different.

The interruption of McGregor’s voice in his earpiece was welcome.

‘We’re behind schedule. The first soldier should have been onstage to collect his award by now. These bastards are milking the applause.’

‘Then you need to get a message to them. Get them to sit their arses down!’

Dempsey snapped his words into his wrist-mike. His strong London accent broke through. Betrayed his annoyance.

‘Is that an order, Major?’ McGregor sounded amused.

‘It is if you say it! We need this crowd seated, Callum.’

‘Agreed.’

No more words. Dempsey lowered his hand back to his side, moving his wrist-mike from his lips. His eyes continued to dart across the crowd.

Dempsey knew that McGregor would do his best. That if any man could force the politicians to get on with the job it was the DDS director. But that knowledge did nothing to salve his anxiety. Not this time. Dempsey had survived as long as he had by trusting his instincts. As he caught a glimpse of an unusual movement and a hint of metal from within the distant crowd, those instincts told him one thing. Whatever McGregor could or could not do, it was already too late.

NINE

Joshua was ready. Primed. McGale’s body language had pre-warned him. The sudden tightening of his jaw. The stiffening of his ageing muscles beneath his nondescript clothing. The calming, strengthening intake of breath. All signs of a man about to act.

Joshua’s eyeball was inches from the scope. He could see every detail. Every movement. Yet even he was surprised by McGale’s speed. Joshua had watched carefully as McGale reached his hands to the underside of his seat. They had remained there for a second. Maybe two. As if they had met resistance. Then, just as suddenly, they were free. The right hand now carried a pistol. Its make and model was disguised by the duct tape that had attached it to the bottom of the chair.

McGale had burst into action, moving as fast as a man who was half his age and twice as active. Joshua struggled to pick him out from the still-roaring crowd as he ran, but it did not concern him: McGale had only one place to go and only one way to get there. Instead of following his target’s jinking run, Joshua placed his scope at the stage end of the aisle. Which McGale would reach within moments.

Sarah opened her third notebook of the day. In it she scribbled down every word and emotion that came to mind. Not for the first time, she wrote the slogan ‘Beatlemania’. She knew why. This crowd was like nothing Sarah had ever experienced. It was a sustained hysteria and it brought to mind footage of The Beatles’ screaming fans in the sixties.

It was not a reaction she understood. Sarah knew that both Thompson and Matthewson were well respected by the British public. Together they had led the Northern Irish negotiations that – until recent terrorist atrocities – had seemed to put the faltering peace process in the province back on track. But this alone could not explain the crowd’s worship. As an American living in London, Sarah found the whole display a little ‘un-British’.

Sarah’s eyes fixed on the page, her focus absolute. She saw nothing else as she concentrated on turning her thoughts into words. The deafening noise around her did not make this easy. Sarah closed her eyes and tried to block out the distraction. And so she failed to see the middle-aged man who sprinted past her, in the direction of the stage. Maguire, though, had been paying better attention.

Maguire hesitated for less than a heartbeat before giving chase. Though slowed by the effort of keeping his lens trained upon McGale, it was a short enough distance not to matter. Whatever was to follow would be caught on film. And Sarah, whose concentration had been broken when Maguire moved, was just a few steps behind.

Joshua used his naked eye to watch McGale run. His crosshairs were perfectly positioned. Everything was in place. He wondered for a moment if McGale might actually reach the stage before being spotted.

He had his answer within an instant. Joshua felt a pang of disappointment as McGale reached the end of the aisle and ran clear into the pistol sight of a waiting agent. The agent was ready, her gun aimed at McGale’s heart. Just a movement of her finger and he would go no further.

It was what Joshua had been waiting for. What he had been told to expect. He did not hesitate. Joshua pulled the trigger only once and watched without satisfaction as his bullet ripped through the front of the agent’s head. The impact slammed her to the floor, removing the only obstacle in McGale’s path. Not that McGale seemed to notice. He appeared unaware of how close he had come to death.

In just three more strides McGale had reached the stage. Too fast for anyone else to react.

Six shots. The full load of the weapon McGale had pulled from beneath his seat. Fired into Matthewson and Thompson from near point-blank range. That number meant everything to Joshua; his instructions had been clear. Phase One was to ensure that McGale reached the stage and fired the full number of rounds. Joshua was to assist in that by removing any obstruction from McGale’s path. Only then would McGale himself become the target. Phase Two.

Joshua placed his crosshairs back between McGale’s eyes and prepared to apply the kiss of pressure that would release the chambered round. It was fast by anyone’s standards. But not fast enough.

Both Sarah and Maguire had pursued McGale without a thought. Neither seemed to consider their own safety until Joshua’s shot rang out. It was a wake-up call that stopped both in their tracks. They watched in horror as the young agent’s head ruptured.

Maguire was a twenty-five-year veteran video journalist. He had seen more violent death than he cared to remember. He could only wonder at the damage this had done to his psyche, but today he was just grateful it had removed his gag reflex. Sarah had frozen at the sight of the fallen agent, while Maguire had paused for only a moment. Then he was moving again. Sweeping his lens from the floor to the tragedy unfolding onstage. Perfectly placed, Maguire’s camera captured every bullet that ripped into Matthewson and Thompson.

Maguire’s attention – like his lens – was directed to the raised platform. It made him miss the sight that followed: a DDS agent passing him at speed and slamming the gunman to the ground.

Sarah had seen Dempsey coming. Her eyes had been fixed on the dead agent as she fought off shock. Maguire may have seen this kind of violence before, she knew. But Sarah had not. Sarah had been raised in a wealthy Boston family. Death – even natural death – had played no part in her life. And so Sarah had no idea how to deal with what she had just seen. Luckily for her, Dempsey now provided a dramatic distraction.

The agent moved like an Olympic sprinter. So fast that Sarah had to throw herself aside as he hurdled the body of the fallen agent. Sarah’s eyes stayed fixed upon Dempsey as he passed and she marvelled as he tackled, disarmed and restrained the shooter in one smooth movement.

Seconds passed before Joshua reminded himself to breathe.

McGale remained in his crosshairs, but he might as well have been behind bulletproof glass. Joshua could not fire now that his target was restrained. Not without ruining his own cover.

McGale had been tackled with extraordinary speed. It had not been expected. The surprise had made Joshua hesitate. Just an instant. But even milliseconds can change a life.

Joshua had failed for the first time in his career. As the smoke cleared and the teams of paramedics fought to save the life of the men bleeding onstage, Joshua could only wonder what the consequences of that failure would be.

TEN

Daniel Lawrence’s heart raced as Michael Devlin cross-examined Richard Dove, the final and most damaging witness in the case against their client.

Nathan Campbell – the man Daniel and Michael were there to defend – stood accused of a financial fraud that had wiped billions off the stock market value of The Costins Group, an investment bank that had employed him as a derivatives broker.

Richard Dove had been his immediate superior. The man who – according to the prosecution case – Campbell had directly deceived in the course of his crimes.

This was Dove’s opportunity for payback. To tell the world of Campbell’s guilt. And it was his chance to publicly repair any damage caused by his own proximity to Campbell’s acts.

So far he had made the most of both.

Daniel’s notes recorded every question that Michael had asked in the past thirty minutes. He knew that his friend was doing everything he could. The charismatic barrister always did.

Their only chance of success – the only chance Nathan Campbell had of leaving the court a free man – was for Michael to undermine Dove’s evidence. To find and expose any lies the man was telling. Any prejudices he had.

But Daniel was not naive. He had been around long enough to know how the public react to bankers who take risks with other people’s money. He and Michael understood the common belief that it was men like this – men like Nathan Campbell – who cause the recessions that only seem to hit everyday men and women. And so Daniel knew that for Nathan Campbell to be acquitted, his barrister would first have to overcome that natural prejudice.

It was no surprise that the jury already hated the man now sitting in the dock. They had heard the prosecuting barrister’s opening speech. It told a damaging tale. A tale of an arrogant man who had played with hundreds of millions of pounds as if it were Monopoly money. Who had used the bank’s funds – the savings and investments of the bank’s customers – to take increasingly large gambles on the performance of foreign markets. And who had dishonestly used his bank’s ‘error accounts’, designed to protect its customers from unexpected loss, to cover his own massive failings.

The speech had ended with several jurors staring at Campbell with something close to hate in their eyes. Daniel had expected no less. It was only natural that some would take this kind of crime personally. Savers and investors the world over had been hit by what they saw as the risk-taking of men like Campbell. In all likelihood, at least some of his jurors would have suffered.

But worse had followed. As damaging as the opening speech had been, every trial rests upon the evidence that can be called, and upon the testimony of the witnesses. So far those witnesses had played their parts to perfection, each proving beyond any doubt – reasonable or otherwise – that Nathan Campbell had done exactly what the prosecution said.

It was a frustrating experience for Daniel. To watch witness after witness hammering nails into Campbell’s defence. But it was also inevitable, because Campbell had already told Daniel – and Michael – that every fact being alleged was true.

London’s Central Criminal Court – known worldwide as the Old Bailey – had been extended many times over the years. New courtrooms added, old ones renovated. Court Two, though, was one of the originals. A cavernous, wood-panelled temple.

Both judge and defendant were elevated, facing one another across the centre of the room. They sat above the jury and witness box on one side, and the full set of lawyers on the other. It was a set-up that gave Daniel a clear view of the jurors as they listened to the evidence.

And from where he sat, their belief in Campbell’s guilt was unmistakable.

This was the prejudice Campbell faced as the final prosecution witness, Richard Dove, was called. Daniel knew that even Michael would struggle to overcome it.

He also knew that Michael would not try to do so.

Convention dictates that the barrister asks the questions in court. A solicitor’s job is more understated. More legwork. Less glory. But this did not mean that Daniel had no hand in the preparation of Campbell’s defence. He and Michael had discussed every tactical move and they agreed on at least two things: that any attempt to deny what Nathan Campbell had done would be disastrous. And that, in any event, Campbell was not really what this case was about.

Michael had begun his questions carefully. He spoke with camaraderie. An old lawyer’s trick, Daniel knew. Befriend the witness. Be amicable. Be understanding. Wait for his guard to slip.

It was always more effective than starting with confrontation. And so it had proved. Michael had scored point after point. Gently encouraging Dove to admit that he had not been fond of Campbell. That Campbell’s working-class Birmingham background had not – in Dove’s opinion – justified his position within such a prestigious bank. And that he had, throughout Campbell’s career, done much to undermine him with their superiors.

These were small successes. They weakened Dove’s credibility. But in the face of the rest of the evidence – evidence that Campbell admitted to be true – they were nowhere near enough.

Daniel knew this. He knew that point-scoring did not lessen the impact of the prosecution case. If anything, it looked like clever lawyers playing clever games because they had nothing else. Michael had to go further, Daniel realised. He had to attack.

It was a dangerous tactic. An all-or-nothing gamble. It was also Nathan Campbell’s one shot at freedom.

‘OK, Mr Dove, let’s put your personal dislike for Mr Campbell to one side for a moment, shall we? Because there’s something else I want to ask you about.’

Michael’s Irish brogue became more pronounced as he spoke. It was a nervous tic Daniel had noticed before. Always there when Michael’s questions took a more dangerous turn.

‘Fire away.’

Dove seemed confident. As if Michael’s questions up to now had achieved nothing. Which suggested to Daniel that the man was not as bright as he seemed to think.

‘I will, Mr Dove.’ Michael smiled as he spoke, his tone sarcastic. ‘But thank you for the permission.’

Dove looked confused. Perhaps wondering where Michael’s matey approach had gone.

Michael continued.

‘What I want to ask you is this. You’ve told us that your role was as Mr Campbell’s immediate superior, correct?’

‘Yes.’

‘And of course we know you didn’t think he was even remotely up to the job that he had been given?’

‘I thought we were moving away from the fact that I disliked him?’

‘Oh, we have. But it’s your professional opinion we’re discussing. I’m sure you see the difference, don’t you?’

‘Of course I see the difference.’

Daniel smiled. Michael was already getting to him. Exactly as they had known he must.

‘And we’re agreed that you thought he was pretty much incompetent, right?’

‘Right.’

‘Then would you mind telling me, Mr Dove, why it was that you allowed Mr Campbell – the incompetent Mr Campbell – to settle his own trades?’

‘What? Why does that matter?’

‘Do I really have to explain this to you, Mr Dove? Because Mr Campbell knows why it matters, and he’s apparently incompetent. So surely you know?’

‘Of course I know.’

‘Well then, perhaps you can help the jury to know as well. Because it’s right, is it not, that a trader such as Mr Campbell would usually have his trades settled by another member of the team?’

‘Team?’

‘You know what I mean, Mr Dove. By another trader on your floor. It’s a failsafe, isn’t it? It means that if a trader has involved himself in a bad transaction – in something where there has been a loss – then it can’t be hidden. Because the other trader, the one who has to settle the trade, knows about it. That’s it in a nutshell, isn’t it? It’s peer supervision.’

‘That’s right.’

‘But for some reason Mr Campbell was allowed to sign off on his own trades, wasn’t he?’

‘You’re making it sound like there’s something sinister in that.’

‘That’s your opinion, Mr Dove. As far as I’m concerned, I’m just getting to the truth. So please tell us, is it right that Mr Campbell was permitted to sign off on his own trades?’

Dove hesitated.

‘Mr Dove?’

No response.

‘Mr Dove, please answer the question.’

The intervention came from His Honour Judge Peter Kennedy QC, one of the most senior judges in the Central Criminal Court.

It had the desired effect.

‘Yes,’ Dove finally answered. ‘Campbell settled his own trades.’

Michael continued without missing a beat.

‘And can you confirm that this was in fact highly unusual, Mr Dove?’

‘What does that mean?’

‘Exactly what it sounds like. It was highly unusual – for reasons that must be wholly obvious from what we have discussed so far – that Mr Campbell was permitted to settle his own trades. That’s right, isn’t it?’

‘It wasn’t “highly unusual”, no.’

‘It wasn’t?’

‘No.’

‘OK. Then please tell me, Mr Dove. How many traders are employed under you at Costins?’

‘How many?’

‘Directly under you, yes. How many?’

‘I . . . I can’t really remember without—’

‘Without looking at the company records. Well, I have them right here, Mr Dove. Shall we take a look?’

‘I don’t need to take a look.’

‘I’m sorry, your voice dropped there. Could you repeat that?’

‘I said I don’t need to take a look!’

This time there was no chance the answer would be missed. It was almost shouted.

Daniel smiled. The plan was working. Dove was rattled.

Michael continued.

‘So you remember how many it is now?’

‘Yes.’

‘And?’

‘It’s fifty-six. Give or take.’

‘Actually, it’s fifty-six exactly, isn’t it, Mr Dove? At least according to your records?’

‘Yes.’

‘That’s a fairly specific number for you to not remember without your records, and then to suddenly remember five seconds later, isn’t it?’

‘My lord, Mr Devlin is veering very much into the realm of comment with questions like that.’ The prosecuting barrister had risen to her feet. ‘Can he be reminded to keep points of this kind for his closing speech?’

‘You’ve heard what’s been said, Mr Devlin. Make sure your questions are just that, please.’

‘My lord.’

Michael did not look away from Dove as he responded. Nor did he hesitate before moving to his next question.

‘So, fifty-six traders. Now tell me, Mr Dove, how many of those fifty-six traders working under you are permitted to settle their own trades?’

No response.

‘Mr Dove, I’m going to ask you that question again. Perhaps this time you will have the good grace to answer it. So, bearing in mind that I have your company records right here beside me, please tell me how many traders currently working under you are permitted to settle their own trades?’

‘None.’

The answer was almost spat out.

‘And how many when Mr Campbell was working under you? Again bearing in mind that we have the records right here?’

‘Just him.’

Daniel’s smile widened. He had to keep his head facing his notebook to hide it from the jury.

This is working, he thought. Michael’s got him.

‘So, back then, Mr Campbell was the only trader permitted to settle his own trades. And, right now, no one has that power. And yet you’re asking this jury to believe that such freedom wasn’t “highly unusual”? That’s just a lie, isn’t it, Mr Dove?’

‘Why would I lie?’ Dove exploded in anger. ‘What have I got to lie about? Your client’s the criminal. Your client’s the one who was losing hundreds of millions of the bank’s money and then hiding it. What have I got to lie about?’

‘Perhaps we’ll find out.’ Michael’s reply was completely calm. ‘But, before we do, who would have been empowered to allow Mr Campbell to settle his own trades? Who could make that happen?’

No response. Dove was now glaring at Michael.

‘Are you not going to answer, Mr Dove?’

No response.

‘Is it because the answer is you?’

No response.

‘Because that’s right, isn’t it? The fact is that you – as Mr Campbell’s immediate superior, as the man responsible for him and for everyone else on your floor – you would have had to authorise a working practice that allowed Mr Campbell, as a trader, to sign off on his own trades. To effectively become his own supervisor. That’s correct, isn’t it?’

No response.

‘Mr Dove, you will answer the question.’ Judge Kennedy again.

Dove looked up at the judge, to whom he directed his answer.

‘Yes, your honour. I would have to authorise that.’

‘And you did, didn’t you?’ Michael was relentless.

Dove looked back towards the barrister before answering.

‘Yes. Yes I did.’

‘Can you please explain why? Why such unusual treatment was given to this particular person.’

‘Because he was successful,’ Dove replied. ‘He was making more money than half of the rest of the floor combined. So when he asked for that freedom I thought it would speed him up. That it would make even more money for my section.’

‘But, Mr Dove, you’ve already told us at length that Mr Campbell wasn’t up to the job. You didn’t think he even deserved his place on your floor. But now suddenly he’s your best trader?’

‘I didn’t say he was my best.’ Dove seemed to be floundering. ‘I said he was the most successful. There are many reasons that could be.’

‘Yes, there are. But the only one of them that doesn’t justify even greater supervision than usual is that he was the best, isn’t it? Because if he isn’t the best but he’s still getting results above and beyond everyone else, then there’s probably something dodgy going on, isn’t there?’

‘Well we know something dodgy was going on, don’t we?’

The anger was back. Dove seemed to have chosen his battle. A battle Daniel could not wait to see.

Dove continued.

‘That’s why we’re here. Because he was up to no good.’

Michael smiled. When he spoke his voice was gentle.

‘Mr Dove, if an incompetent trader was doing so well you would have assumed that he was either lying about his success, or that he was achieving it through dishonest means, wouldn’t you?’

No response.

‘And in either case you would have increased your supervision over Mr Campbell, wouldn’t you?’

No response.

‘And yet what you actually did was exempt him from even the standard supervision that applied to all other traders. You gave him free rein to do exactly as he pleased. Why is that, Mr Dove? Why did you do that?’

Once again there was no response. This time Michael allowed the silence to settle.

Daniel looked at the jury. They seemed confused. Baffled by where Michael had taken Dove’s evidence. Questions seemed to be forming in their previously certain minds. It made Daniel smile again. But not over what had happened so far.

No. Daniel was smiling because of what he knew was coming next.

‘Is there a reason you’ve stopped answering my questions?’

Michael’s voice was still gentle, and all the more disconcerting because of it. He continued.

‘Are you refusing to answer because you’ve been lying?’

It was a red flag to a bull.

‘I’ve already told you, I’ve got bugger all to lie about. What have I lied about, eh? Go on. Tell me.’

‘The same thing you’ve been lying about for a long, long time.’ Michael’s voice was beginning to rise. ‘Because you didn’t sign off on Mr Campbell settling his own trades, did you?’

‘What?’ Dove seemed taken aback.

‘You didn’t sign off on that because it never happened. Mr Campbell never did settle his own trades, did he? He never was free of the supervision that applied to everyone else. Because he had someone else settling his trades throughout the entire period that he was supposedly hiding his actions from the bank. And that someone was you, wasn’t it?’

Daniel watched as the jury registered the question. They were hooked.

‘What sort of absolute bullshit are you trying to peddle?’

Dove’s response was angry. It was also immediate. Far too fast if Michael’s suggestion was something he had not heard before. Far too fast if what was being put to him was untrue.

‘Answer the question, Mr Dove. Did you act as Mr Campbell’s supervisor on the transactions that have brought him to court today? Did you take on the role of settling his trades?’

‘Of course I bloody didn’t.’

Dove’s anger seemed to be gone. It was as if they were now on ground he had prepared for. It was the wrong impression to give, but he carried on.

‘Look at the records you’ve got there. Every single one of the trades are recorded as having been signed off by Nathan himself.’

‘Oh, I know that,’ Michael replied. ‘But that’s fairly meaningless, isn’t it, Mr Dove. Because as his immediate superior you could have appointed yourself to the role, and you could have easily signed off as Mr Campbell without him being any the wiser. Because the only person who would be looking at the trades across your floor – from everyone, not just Mr Campbell – was you, wasn’t it?’

‘Oh, I get it.’

Dove’s voice was now arrogant. Daniel could tell that he had been prepared for these last few questions. But he doubted that Dove would be prepared for the next ones.

Dove continued.

‘You’ve sat down and worked out the only way that Nathan could have been overseen without that being recorded. Very clever. But it doesn’t really help you though, does it? Because Nathan did carry out the trades. He did use the error account to hide his losses. And he did lose hundreds of millions of bloody pounds. So even if I were settling his trades – and I wasn’t – it doesn’t make him innocent, does it?’

‘It does if he was making the trades under the orders of his boss,’ Michael replied.

‘That’s another comment.’ The prosecutor was rising to her feet again.

‘I’m moving on,’ Michael responded, before the judge could intervene.

He turned back to Dove.

‘Mr Dove, it is correct, isn’t it, that Nathan Campbell made each and every trade for which he is being tried under your direct supervision and guidance, and that every trade made was made upon your order?’

‘You’ve got to be joking.’

‘And isn’t it true that throughout that period, at least as far as Nathan Campbell was aware, you were settling his trades in accordance with good practice?’

‘This is pathetic. It really is pathetic.’

‘And isn’t it true that, having told Nathan Campbell that you were settling his trades, you manipulated the records to which you had access and presented the settlements as if it were Nathan Campbell settling his own trades?’

‘Desperate,’ Dove replied. ‘Absolutely desperate.’

‘So are you denying what I’ve asked?’

‘Of course I’m bloody denying it! Behind the trades? Ordering Campbell to make them? What do you take me for? I’m good at my job. No one with an ounce of expertise or experience would have made those trades. Guaranteed losers, every one of them. So this little conspiracy you’ve put together, why would I do it? Why would I have involved myself in something that was bound to fail?’

It was a good question. And exactly the one Daniel had hoped Dove would ask.

As ever, Michael did not miss a beat.

‘You’ve been with Costins for what, eighteen years?’

‘Why are you changing the subject? Come on, tell me what I had to gain from that picture you’ve painted.’

‘Answer the question, Mr Dove.’

‘Not until you answer mine.’

‘That is not how this works.’ The judge sounded impatient. ‘Mr Devlin asks the questions, Mr Dove. And you answer them. So please do that.’