And that's because I've just written it down. It's the number belonging to the address in Hertfordshire.
I feel a numb sense of shock, even though I shouldn't really. He's certainly intelligent enough to have pulled this off. It's just that I really hadn't wanted it to be him. Not after everything we've been through together. I was hoping it would be Rafo, the Fijian now living in Fife, who'd served six years for his part in the pub attack.
Not my mentor. My commanding officer.
Major Leo Ryan.
41
It's 2.30 a.m. on Saturday morning. Dark clouds are scudding across the sky, and it's starting to rain – the heavy, soaking drops you get in the tropics. The initial shock I felt has already metamorphosed into different emotions. First, sadness, that someone I respected so much and for so long could hate me enough to have put me through this. And there's an acute sense of anticipation, too. At last, I think I know the identity of the man behind Leah's death, and that of so many others. He will have all the answers I'm looking for.
What happens after I've heard those answers is something I'm still trying not to think about.
Thick walls of pine trees line both sides of the road. I am in the countryside on the Hertfordshire/Essex border, very close, I'm sure, to where I woke up this morning. Beside me on the passenger seat is the road atlas I bought from the petrol station next to the pay-phone. I am only fifteen minutes away from the junction of the M11 I joined when I drove back to London sixteen hours and a lifetime back.
I slow down as a turning appears up ahead. I can see a sign on the grassy bank. It says PRIVATE ROAD – NO ACCESS, and then beneath it there's a second sign of varnished wood saying ORCHARD COTTAGE. As I take the turning, I see that it's little more than a track, leading deeper into the pines. I drive down it about twenty yards before parking the car up on the verge and killing the lights. I get out of the car, noticing that the rain's getting heavier now, and look into the darkness ahead. I can see no sign of human habitation, but I know that Orchard Cottage is down here somewhere.
I start walking down the track, keeping to the edge of the treeline, breathing in the cool, moist air, enjoying the feel of the rain on my head. I feel alive again, out here among the pines. The surroundings remind me of Bosnia and Kosovo, places where, whatever anyone says, I genuinely did experience camaraderie. I love the open air, and I realize how much I miss nature's vast, majestic expanses now that I live in the city. It's why I dread the prospect of incarceration so much. I make a vow as I walk: I am not going down for this. One way or another, this has to end tonight.
As a soldier, you have to learn to manage your fear of death. Some do it by finding God; the majority manage simply by thinking that it won't happen to them. That's not as hard as you may think on a battlefield. You factor in that a few will die, but you also play the percentage game, which means that probability-wise you'll survive. That goes out the window when you're on your own, though, and for much of today that's the way it's been. I had Lucas with me for a while, but now he's gone, and once again it's just me. Armed only with some spray and a glorified pen knife. But I do have the one commodity all soldiers need: surprise. No-one will be expecting me.
The track bends round to the right, and I can see a faint light flickering through the trees. I'm getting close. With a growing, almost tangible sense of anticipation, I pull off the track and fight my way through a thick set of brambles, moving deeper into the woodland. I walk in a steady south-westerly arc, taking my time. The pine trees seem to close in on me, their branches intertwining to plunge me into a darkness that would be absolute were it not for the light of the cottage. Around me, there is dead silence. It amplifies my own sounds as the twigs break beneath my feet. I've been trained in the art of moving silently, but it's been one hell of a long time since I practised it.
A break in the trees appears in front of me. I stop when I reach it, and look out. I'm facing an overgrown rear garden that leads up a hill into further woodland. The garden belongs to a two-storey house with latticed windows which sits in a dip down to my left. Lights illuminate both floors.
Orchard Cottage.
This is the place I want.
I remove the lid from the pepper spray in my jacket pocket and undo the strap on the sheath containing the buck knife, then move swiftly across the lawn towards the cottage. When I reach the back door I try it more out of hope than expectation, and am surprised to find it's unlocked. Very slowly, very quietly, I open it up and step inside.
I'm in a darkened hallway with a stone floor. It smells vaguely of dogs. Pairs of walking boots are lined up against one wall, and various coats hang from hooks above them. From further down the hallway I can hear the loud ticking of a grandfather clock. It's all so frighteningly normal.
I unsheathe my knife and creep further into the house, past the staircase and towards a partly open door out of which a thin shard of light is escaping. I can hear movement coming from inside. It sounds like someone's shuffling papers.
I stop by the door and wait, planning my next move. From what I can hear, the distance from the door to my target is at least six feet, probably more. He may be armed, so I'm going to have to move very fast to incapacitate him. The major's an experienced operative, one of the best. This is not going to be easy, and this time if I make a mistake, I know it'll be my last.
I reach for the handle, but as I do, I hear a chair scrape on the carpet and somebody standing up. Whoever it is is walking towards the door. I step back into the shadows, and as he emerges, I grab him from behind in a headlock, pulling him back towards me. I can feel him beginning to resist so I press the knife hard against his throat.
'Hello, sir,' I say, 'long time no speak. Please don't make any sudden moves, otherwise I'll have to kill you.'
He's no fool, and remains stock still. I can't see his face, so I don't know what his expression is. I'm hoping it's shock. But he lets slip a deep, throaty chuckle, and I know then that he's the one who's been tormenting me on the phone today; that his is the voice beneath the suppressor.
'I didn't expect you to make it here, Tyler,' says Major Ryan in his gruff, educated tones. 'But then perhaps I should have done. You've done well today. Better than I anticipated.'
I pat him down and discover a pistol in a waist holster, underneath the waterproof mac he's wearing. The mac's wet to the touch, so I know he's been outside recently.
'Why don't you tell me exactly what you were anticipating?' I suggest, removing the pistol. It's a brand-new Heckler amp; Koch. 'In fact, why don't you tell me everything?'
'I think you've been through enough to deserve an explanation,' he admits.
'I know I have,' I say, turning him round and walking him back into his study – a spacious, traditionally decorated room with mahogany furniture, and bookshelves lining the walls. I give him a shove towards the leather chair next to his huge, spotlessly clean desk, then I point the gun at him and ask the question I've been waiting to ask all day: 'Why did you do it?'
The major makes himself comfortable. I haven't seen him in years. Not since the court martial. Considering that his unblemished twenty-year career was ruined when they threw him out of the army, and he spent at least five years behind bars, he looks damn well for it. He's dressed like a country gent in a Lincoln green waterproof mac, tweed trousers and burgundy brogues. His hard, pockmarked features are heavily tanned, and he wears a confident half-smile as he meets my eye.
'You were expendable, Tyler. That's why.'
'But I never did anything to you,' I tell him.