53
"My conclusion at first was that one scientist murdered both Neil Morris and Dr Luzhny. Everything pointed to that, and I was mistaken. You investigated and re-checked every professional in that compound. They held an unbreakable excuse for the night of the murder. Two men exported in, maybe indeed three. We today realise that Miss Ryder is working for the SVR. And if anybody operating for them makes mistakes, they end up shovelling salt in Siberia."
"But why kill them? Was that necessary?"
"To cause me to think they knew the killer."
"The bastards!"
"Gaining time. Sheena, if that is her true name, possesses a knack for treachery."
"But why the red herrings…" Fitzgerald started when I interrupted.
"Here's a garage now."
"We'll pull in and ask questions."
We pulled off the roadway, and he turned on the siren. A blast to wake the dead, but except the filling-station assistant on duty. The Sergeant didn't pause. He was out of the motor. Into the bright room within five seconds of gliding to a standstill.
He appeared straightaway and vanished around the rear. That was enough for me and I joined him.
He'd discovered the employee in a repair shop at the back of the business. Tied up and constrained by someone who did not stopped to analyse the price of masking tape.
The same individual, for good measure, likewise whacked him over the skull with a heavy object. The assistant recovered from that. More specific was that he regained awareness by the time we went to him. He was a stout middle-aged personality, and what was a red face was crimson with fury and his attempts to free himself.
We ripped the tape round his wrists and ankles, tore it off his mouth, and encouraged him to a seating position. He formed violent opinions, and in our frantic desperation, we granted him that. Fitzgerald jumped in after a few moments.
"Right. That's enough. An assassin is on the run. I'm Sergeant Fitzgerald of Suffolk Constabulary. Every second you stay and curse strengthens her chances of vanishing. Tell us, and fast."
The attendant shook his head. Didn't have to be an expert to recommend him, he was still somewhat confused. He stated, "Woman, mid-forties, arrived here for petrol. Half-past six, it was."
"Fifteen minutes ago. Are you sure?"
"Positive. She'd run out of fuel for her vehicle. A mile, maybe two. She rushed because she was out of breath. She hit me when she asked for a can. When I came round, I was out in the repair's rear shop. Tied up as you found me. I didn't give away. I was conscious. A guy with a gun pointed at another lady. The other woman was backing the chief's car out…"
"Make, colour, and licence number?" Fitzgerald snapped. He took them and continued. "Stay here. Don't move. That's an ugly crack. I'll reach the Suffolk Constabulary and they'll be a motor and an ambulance out here soon."
Ten seconds later, we were on our way again, leaving the attendant holding his head and glaring at us.
"Fifteen minutes," I half-listened to the sergeant speak in haste and without delay into the police radio. "She lost time after the accident. Then they had a lengthy walk to the shop."
"They've had it. There's most of the Suffolk Constabulary searching for them. Who do you guess the man is that's supporting her?"
"Mark Wheatley," I answered.
"The Secretary of State for Environment, Food and Rural Affairs?"
"The same."
"Are you serious?"
"Never more so. He's been engaged in this right from the beginning."
"Jesus Christ!"
"Order them to prepare roadblocks, recommend they stop them at any cost."
"Are you crazy?" Fitzgerald said. "Are you out of your mind? Do you wish to see Miss Briggs killed? For fuck's sake, you know they'll exploit her as a living shield. As she's protected. They haven't seen a police officer since the minor traffic accident. Be half-believing now that we've called off the search. Can't you realise that?"
"Roadblocks. Set them up before they come to Cape Ore."
Fitzgerald cursed under his breath and whispered into his transmission. When done giving the word, he turned to me.
"Please clarify the red herrings."
I wasn't in the proper state of disposition to point out anymore on the case.
What remained left of my functioning mind understood the reasoning behind the demand.
The woman was in danger.
To lessen the tearing uncertainty, to relieve the negative stresses, dragging my fatigued conscious ahead.
Having failed Alexis Fawx because of negligence, I didn't wish to give up Clarissa Briggs. So I continued on, stumbling forward.
"Sheena Ryder had to but time. The spurious points we observed, the more blind alleys we blundered. There were plenty. The longer it took us to get around to inquiring in the dangerous places. She overestimated me, but despite that, I moved faster than she expected. Don't forget the twelfth day since the crime occurred. Trails go stale by this time. But she perceived I might make inquiries in the one place she feared – the Department of Environment, Food and Rural Affairs. She recognised she might have to do something with Wheatley. And later the better, for within hours of Wheatley's death a message on social media may follow, and I'd be on to her. Whatever Sheena's ultimate intentions are, she'd prefer to carry those out while still a respectable member of the local district, instead of a wanted murderer on the run from the police throughout Britain."
"It's difficult to hold the country for ransom, with the law breathing chasing you," Fitzgerald conceded. His detachment, his iron control, was more than human. "Why did Dr Fawx die?"
"Because of two things. Because she was MI5, and she stumbled across something that brought her brief life to an abrupt end."
"And what was that?"
Easing the gun out of my waistband, I pointed it at the Sergeant.
"You."