The House of Killers Read online

  That same feeling now accompanies the receiving of this folder. I’d been chosen to see this. They needed my input. All those years of studying had given me confidence and expertise as a psychological profiler. My contributions have solved cases, saved lives, but I was acutely aware that I was only as good as each case they gave me. I had a feeling this one would be difficult.

  ‘You can open the file, Michael,’ says the man by the door.

  I look up at the use of my name and find myself face to face with a man I’ve seen many times around the building: Security Agent Ray Martin. This man has clearance I can only dream of. I hadn’t known he was behind this. I might have been nervous if I had.

  ‘What’s in it?’

  ‘Something that may interest you, as a profiler.’

  I nod. My adrenaline quells a little. This might be nothing much. I calm myself as I open the folder because I don’t want Ray to see my excitement. You should never appear too keen at a job interview, and I had no doubt that this was one.

  On the first page I see a photograph showing the burnt-out remains of a hotel laundry van.

  I speed-read the information provided in the document, noting how elements of the content have been crossed through with impenetrable black marker. Will Ray Martin explain why so much of this has been redacted?

  ‘We’re expecting you to take the job,’ Ray says.

  ‘What does it involve?’

  ‘I want you to be part of a special taskforce. It’s newly formed and has a specific role within MI5,’ Ray says.

  I learn for the first time that my role in MI5 isn’t going to be the traditional one after all, nor is the agency as transparent as they appear.

  ‘As you know, the official line is that the agency’s aim is to “gather intelligence” and we actively say agents have no power to arrest anyone. This is true to an extent but there are branches and divisions that do have that kind of power, and more,’ Ray continues.

  ‘I know this, of course,’ I say. ‘It was part of the recruitment briefing.’

  ‘This taskforce is officially called Archive,’ Ray says.

  His wording fascinates me; it tells me more about the type of taskforce Ray is running than a full explanation does. I know then that I am being invited into something unique. Archive is not as innocuous as it sounds.

  ‘The brief I was given said we’d be looking at cold cases. That you wanted a second opinion on one such case,’ I say, keeping my voice level.

  ‘That’s certainly true,’ says Ray. ‘But there’s more to Archive than that. We look at other things too. Current issues. Some cases we’ll crack; some will be ongoing as we try to put together the pieces of a complicated puzzle.’

  ‘Solving puzzles is what I do,’ I say.

  ‘Few people in MI5 are senior enough to know that Archive even exists,’ Ray continues. ‘With acceptance of this job come some extra requirements.

  ‘Such as?’ I ask.

  ‘You’ll be using your expertise to its full capacity. But secrecy surrounding the cases and what you do at Archive will be paramount. You can’t share it with anyone. Family, friend, or lover.’

  ‘It’s that serious then?’ I say, knowing that Ray means every word. ‘I can do that. But why me?’

  ‘During your study years you spent time asking questions and not always accepting the obvious explanations. We’ve been watching you.’

  I’m beginning to understand why so much time and money has been spent on me. It’s a question I’d raised time and again when, at the end of the training, they gave me a simple office job.

  I’d talked about it with Uncle Andrew. He’d encouraged me to stick with MI5 and it appears that his advice was correct.

  Andrew had always been in my life and, though he wasn’t really an uncle, my twin sister, Mia, and I called him that until we reached our twenty-first birthday. On that day he asked us both to refer to him as Andrew. Mia and I were happy to, but Andrew was more than that to us. He was a constant, unlike our parents, who were always more interested in each other than in their two children. Though I don’t say they aren’t proud of our achievements. My father encouraged my choice of profession, and Mia and I had been given the best of everything. But even now, it’s Andrew I go to for advice. And Mia who comes to me for help and comfort, just as she did when we were children.

  While I’d been plodding along in the new MI5 desk job, I’d expressed my disappointment to Andrew without telling him anything specific. Within twenty-four hours I’d received the call and was invited to apply for this new role. I couldn’t help thinking that Andrew had somehow pulled strings, but it didn’t matter to me. I wanted to do more – regardless of how the role came about – and I’d prove myself worthy if I hadn’t already.

  ‘What do you see in this file?’ Ray asks, bringing my thoughts back to this crucial task.

  ‘The van was used to cover up another crime.’

  ‘How do you know that?’ Ray asks.

  ‘The extent of the fire. It’s not a standard robbery, joyride, and burn-out. It’s thorough. Meticulous. There was no DNA found at all anywhere,’ I explain.

  ‘This was one of our cold cases until recently. Now it’s become current. We have remains that we believe are connected.’ Ray sits down opposite me. ‘Look in the back.’

  I turn the pages until I find the next set of photographs. This isn’t a crime scene but an exhumation. The body was found in a shallow grave in the Lincolnshire Wolds.

  ‘A runner tripped over what he thought was a root but turned out to be a human bone.’

  ‘How did you know it was connected to this van?’ I ask.

  ‘The van was found two years ago near this spot. Although local law enforcement searched the area, they didn’t find the grave or the remains at the time. It must have been covered up fairly well. However, the person who did this hadn’t planned on nature’s interference. The body was buried under an old oak tree; the roots grew through it and pushed it to the surface,’ Martin explains.

  ‘It wasn’t buried deep enough then. Sloppy,’ I say.

  ‘Precisely. After being so scrupulous about burning the van, and possibly any clothing that might have contained evidence, the killer was a bit amateur about the body disposal.’

  ‘First-time kill?’

  ‘What do you think?’ Ray says.

  I read the autopsy report before replying, ‘This wasn’t a first kill. But it was a first-time clean-up.’

  ‘Why?’

  I return my attention to the folder, pointing to the description of the wound inflicted on the victim. ‘Most amateurs stab downwards, or forwards. This one knew how to handle the knife and where to do the most damage. The stab was upwards, directly and precisely under the ribs. A killing blow.’

  Ray nods. ‘What I don’t understand, though, is why they knew enough to destroy all DNA but not how to rid themselves of the body completely? Someone with that level of expertise should understand how to dissolve human flesh and bone with chemicals.’

  I glance once more over the file before replying, taking in one forensic statement after another. Something nags at the back of my brain – a feeling I’ve had before when studying evidence. I see myself looking at the victim – a woman – through the perpetrator’s eyes. Despite the execution, there is something sympathetic about the disposal of the body. Then my gaze falls on the photograph of the grave. Of course. The answer is there, so obvious, yet almost overlooked.

  ‘This wasn’t just a disposal of a corpse. The killer gave the victim a burial,’ I conclude.

  Ray leans forward and looks again at the pictures of the grave. I think he must have examined them many times before, but he can’t see it. I almost didn’t myself, but then I have been trained for this. To look and to really perceive.

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Aside from the fact that the death was clean. A straightforward kill, no dismemberment. No immolation – they could have let the body burn in the van. But look as this.
’ I point at the picture.

  ‘Daffodils? So? They got crushed by the excavation team.’

  ‘There,’ I say. ‘There’s string wrapped around the stems. This isn’t just a hole they dumped the body into; it’s a grave. The killer laid their victim to rest, and then brought them flowers. These are fresh so I’d say the killer visits fairly regularly.’

  Ray sits back and stares at me for a moment, holding his chin with his hand. He looks thoughtful and then his serious expression changes and his eyes focus on me as though he’s seeing me for the first time.

  ‘I’m going to need you to sign this,’ he says. He produces a piece of paper and puts it down in front of me. ‘Official Secrets Act.’

  ‘I’ve already signed one. Should be on file,’ I say.

  ‘That was generic. This one is specific.’

  I read the document, understanding completely. This is more detailed, and I acknowledge that by signing I’ll be changing my life even more. It is the end of privacy as I’ve known it. I write my name across the bottom, then date the document. I push it back to Ray.

  ‘So, what’s this all really about?’ I ask.

  ‘As I’ve said, Archive is a very important department. To most in the know, we are about cold cases, but there’s far more to us than that.’

  I feel a growing exhilaration as I prepare for Ray to reveal all to me.

  ‘Spies?’ I ask.

  ‘When we need to be,’ says Ray. ‘Mostly we take over suspicious cases from homicide.’

  ‘Suspicious in what way?’

  ‘Hits disguised as something else. Some cases involve persons of interest we’ve been watching. No two cases are the same and so it’s difficult to fully describe what we do. Even so, I have no doubt you will fit in and form your own opinion of our significance within MI5.’

  I digest this information; it’s obvious that Ray can’t give me a simple, straight answer as the taskforce doesn’t have a specific definition. I’m intrigued though. My short time so far at MI5 has proved to be mundane and I’ve felt like little more than a pencil-pusher at times, with the occasional profile task to perform – despite the fact that I’ve done my job well enough to get Ray’s attention. Now I’m wondering if that was the point. Were they waiting, watching me for a while before I was really brought into the fold? Did I have to prove myself first?

  ‘Why do you take the hits on? Why does it matter?’ I ask.

  ‘Because these executions sometimes happen to former spies, or those we suspect of being hired assassins.’

  ‘That makes sense in this case,’ I say.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘This was one of their own. They killed them, but the burial aspect shows a great deal of empathy and deference. Anyone else would have been in a chemical vat for certain.’

  ‘I think you’re right,’ says Ray. ‘Maybe we’ll learn that she’s someone who’s been on our wanted list.’

  ‘You said that sometimes cases involve people you’re interested in. Is there a connection with Archive? Is that why these people die?’

  ‘No,’ says Ray. ‘Not that we’ve discovered. It’s not generally our interest in them, but rather what they have accidentally or intentionally discovered that leads them down this path. But why our victims die is often the information we most want. Their murders could be important – we just don’t know yet. In this case, if our victim was an assassin, judging by her age, she may have been killed because she was no use to them. Retired, if you like. She wasn’t expecting it though. This woman may have known something that made it too dangerous for her to be allowed to simply leave her profession.’

  I take in the inferences of Ray’s revelations. If her employers had something to hide, this would make sense.

  ‘Sometimes what we do is dangerous. That’s why we are an armed division,’ Ray continues. ‘You should know that before you accept the transfer.’

  ‘You already know I’m very adept with a firearm,’ I say. ‘I doubt I’d even be here if you thought I was the slightest bit coy about it.’

  Ray laughs. ‘We know everything about you.’

  I process this. Ray means what he says. I’m ambitious enough not to mind. I find myself wanting in even more. I’ve examined killers across the spectrum, but so far not assassins. The appeal of this kind of work lies within the workings of the mind of sociopaths and how their narcissistic tendencies are hidden from the world in a semblance of normal behaviour. In effect, they are actors, playing the role of conforming. Assassins may have average lives, day jobs, partners – perhaps even children. To delve into these personalities and understand how they work is always the ultimate challenge. The idea thrills me in a way that other things in the world don’t. It’s a mystery I’m always keen to unravel.

  Some would say it takes a sociopath to catch one.

  ‘You’ll have to be careful with future associations, girlfriends…’ Ray says. ‘But the pay and the pension are worth it. We look after our own.’

  Did Ray just assume that I’m straight? No, he knows I am; they know ‘everything’ about me. I let that sit in the back of my mind. Does this change anything at all? No. I know what I’ll be doing at Archive will be important. I want to be part of it despite the few drawbacks. What’s a little privacy after all? Also, I’d like to see this file without the redactions. What will it tell me then about the killer? What other cases are they pursuing, and how will my mind be stretched to help solve them? I hide my anticipatory shudder as I move in my seat.

  ‘You in?’ asks Martin.

  ‘You know I am.’

  ‘Good,’ says Ray.

  I sign all the necessary paperwork and as Ray takes it from me, he says, ‘Give my best to your uncle Andrew.’

  ‘You know Andrew?’ I say.

  ‘We worked together. Back in my Ministry of Defence days.’

  I don’t ask him any more as I know from Andrew that he can’t talk about his former government work.

  ‘He’s got his own company now,’ I say.

  ‘I know,’ says Ray.

  It leaves me feeling odd that they know each other, though I’m not sure why. Hadn’t I suspected that Andrew was somehow involved in this? That he’d ‘had a word’ with someone at MI5 about a promotion for me? I decide I’ll ask next time I see him.

  Chapter Two

  NEVA

  Present day

  She is sitting at the bar when her mark comes in. He is tall and good-looking – just like his photograph. Not the sort they usually send her. This one is more like a male model than a clerk who opened the wrong folder on the wrong day and had been caught doing it. She hadn’t asked them what was in the folder. Something dangerous, no doubt. Hazardous for this guy anyway. Risky for her too, should she learn the contents.

  She knows better than to show any curiosity.

  In the mirror that stretches across the back of the bar, she watches him, unnoticed. She has made certain that she is his type. The case file covered it all: how to dress (modest), what colour and style her hair should be (a black outgrown bob), and even the nerdy, black-rimmed glasses she doesn’t need but which suit her anyway.

  The inevitable happens soon after he sits: he meets her eyes. She looks away, embarrassed. It is not difficult for her to avoid eye contact; looking directly into someone’s eyes is far harder. There’s a moment of hesitation. She knows he’s studying her. She gives him a quick glance, a little more encouragement, and then he’s moving seats.

  He has so much confidence, as though he knows he’ll have no trouble reeling her in.

  ‘Look, I’m not interested…’ she says. ‘I came in here for a quiet drink…’

  ‘Me too. Shit day?’

  She doesn’t answer.

  ‘Let me buy you one drink … then I’ll let you get on with your lonely evening,’ he says.

  ‘Like I haven’t heard that before.’

  He looks at her with an innocent puppy-dog expression that he’s worked on for years. It’s never failed h
im. It won’t now. He doesn’t know that this time is already more certain than previous ones.

  She accepts the drink. There’s no point in dragging it out: a James Bond special, but stirred, not shaken. Irony makes it so much more fun.

  A few drinks later, and they are both giggling.

  ‘Let me make you coffee,’ he says. ‘I make a mean cappuccino. Then I’ll make sure you get home safe.’

  She looks at him over the top of the Martini glasses. ‘I shouldn’t have drunk so much. You’re not going to take advantage of me, are you?’

  ‘Me? I’d never do such a thing.’

  ‘Neva … that’s unusual,’ he says when they reach his flat. ‘How do you spell it?’

  ‘N.E.V.A.’

  ‘I like that. It’s different.’

  ‘Yes.’

  They are barely in the door when he comes on strong. Neva is ready for it. He pushes her up against the wall. Hands everywhere. She doesn’t struggle. She lets him kiss and grope her, swaying as though the effects of the alcohol have somehow loosened her up. She drops the overlarge handbag she’s carrying down to the floor, freeing her hands. It’s then that she sees the vase of daffodils on a small table by the door. She shudders.

  ‘I like girls like you. Always so prim on the outside but really…’

  ‘That’s enough.’ She pushes at his chest, but the movement appears to be half-hearted.

  He ignores her. Laughs a little in the back of his throat. He’s not the sort of man who takes ‘no’ for an answer even if she really has changed her mind.

  ‘I said stop—’

  ‘You don’t mean it—’

  Neva punches him sharply in the throat.

  He goes down fast, gasping for air.

  ‘What is the converse of heaven?’ she asks, running her fingers lightly over the petals of one of the daffodils. As if in slow motion, the petal breaks off and floats down onto the surface of the table. Neva’s heart begins to pound in her chest. Her head hurts. Anger bubbles up to the surface.