“They’ve set up base in there,” he said, pointing to the church. “The police are briefing everyone in five minutes.”
They followed Shah through a gate and into the church grounds.
The church had been taken over as a central control point for the police and intelligence operation. It was close to the house where Aleksandrov had been found. The church hall was busy. There was a collection of men and women, some of them in suits, others in clothes that suggested that they might have been called to the town at short notice. Milton guessed that the crowd would include detectives and intelligence operatives. Milton, Shah and Ross stood together. There was a tangible buzz in the room, the crackle and pop of electricity, the expectation that something extraordinary was going on.
There was a folding table at the front of the room with two chairs behind it. A second table bore a large television screen. A man and a woman emerged from a room at the back of the hall and made their way through the crowd to the front. The man sat down but the woman remained on her feet.
“Thank you all for coming,” she said. “My name is Francesca Kennedy. I’m the Deputy Assistant Commissioner and the senior national co-ordinator for counter-terrorism policing in the Metropolitan Police. Suffolk Constabulary has now handed over this incident to us. The Assistant Commissioner is here”—she indicated the man sitting next to her, who responded with a nod of his head—“but I’m going to brief you. As you all already know, the victim was a former Russian spy who had been working for SIS for many years before he was exposed and prosecuted. He’s been living here in Southwold under a new identity since his request for asylum was granted. Given that background, his murder raised numerous red flags.”
She took out her notebook and flipped through the pages, setting out the timeline. A few additional facts had been added, but it was largely the same situation as the one that Shah had briefed them on in the helicopter.
“Aleksandrov was found at home, as you know. Single gunshot to the head. We’ve been piecing together his activities this afternoon. He was seen in the Old Nelson public house just after lunch. The publican knew him and said that it wasn’t unusual for him to go there for a drink around that time. He normally drank alone, but the publican said that he was with another man today. He didn’t get a look at the man and hasn’t been able to provide a description or any additional details.”
Shah raised his hand, and Kennedy nodded to him. “Raj Shah, SIS,” he said. “We have no idea at all who the other man was?”
“No. Not yet. But he’s obviously of significant interest. Finding him is the main priority. You got any ideas?”
“Not yet,” Shah said. “If we think of anything, we’ll share it at once.”
Milton noticed Ross lean closer to Shah so that she could whisper something into his ear.
“CCTV?” one of the detectives asked.
“Nothing in the pub—the publican says he can’t afford it. There’s not a great deal of coverage in the town, either, but local uniform is securing everything they can. We’re going through it now—if there’s anything useful, they’ll find it. We don’t know that much at the moment, but we’re working as fast as we can to build it up. I’m grateful for the extra help.”
Milton doubted that the help would make any difference. They might be able to put together Aleksandrov’s last few hours, and they might—eventually—be able to put a name to the men or women who had killed him. It wouldn’t matter. Milton knew that if this was a professional job, then the assassins would already be miles away from here. They would be heading for the nearest airport and a flight out of the country. He doubted that they would have the information they needed in time to stop them from leaving. They might already have gone.
Kennedy went on. “Aleksandrov lived on Wymering Road—that’s five minutes northwest of here. We’ve secured the property and moved the neighbours out. We’d rather limit access to the property until the SOCOs are finished gathering evidence and are out of the way. I’m told we’re looking at another hour for that. After that, I don’t have a problem with small teams going in to look for themselves, but for obvious reasons I’d like it to be under police supervision.”
Kennedy brought the meeting to a close. Tanner, Milton, Shah and Ross moved to the side of the room.
“This is all going to be too little, too late,” Tanner said quietly.
“I agree,” Milton said.
“Where do you think they are now?”
“If they’re not on a plane already, it won’t be long. We’re already five hours behind them.”
“A little optimism?” Ross said. “You’re not giving up already?”
“It’s realism,” Milton said. “This sounds like a professional job, probably a state-sponsored one. Men and women like that don’t wait around to be caught. They do their job and then they leave. And they have a big head start.”
“I’m going to update HQ,” Tanner said, taking his phone out of his pocket and turning away.
Milton waited in the church hall and then followed the departing officers out into the alley. The night was cooling fast, and he zipped up his jacket. The high street at the end of the alley was quiet. Milton wondered how long it would stay like this. How long would it take for the news to leak? A Russian spy had been assassinated on the streets of a sleepy English coastal town. It would be a big story. A scandal. They probably had the town to themselves for the night, and maybe for some of tomorrow if they were lucky. After that, it would be pandemonium. They needed to get a lead before then or they never would.
London
19
Vincent Beck was listening to Brahms when his landline rang on the table next to his record player. He picked it up and saw, with a quickening of his pulse, that the caller ID was a number that he recognised.
“Is this Vincent Beck?”
“Yes,” Beck said. “Who is this?”
“We believe that you were sold an insurance policy with a mortgage you took out ten years ago. It’s sometimes known as PPI. Does that sound like it might be right?”
Beck’s throat was arid. “How many years ago did you say?”
“Ten,” the man said.
“No,” Beck replied. “Not me. I’m afraid your records are mistaken. Goodbye.”
Beck ended the call and stared at the phone. It took him a moment to gather his thoughts. He had known that a moment like this would come—it always did, eventually—but he had been here so long without issue that it was difficult to accept it. But the moment had come and, now that it was here, he had to make sure that he reacted appropriately. He went to his bedroom, took the small suitcase from underneath the bed and packed a change of clothes. He took his keys from his pocket, lowered himself to the floor and slid beneath the bed far enough so that he could reach the loose floorboard. He used a key to prise up the end and removed the board so that he could reach into the void beneath. He took out his go-bag, scrambled out from underneath the bed and opened it up. The bag contained a burner phone, a passport and driver’s licence in a false name, £5000 and a small Glock 26 handgun, together with two spare magazines. The Glock was designed for concealed carry, with a small frame and abbreviated barrel that meant that it was easy to hide anywhere on the body. It was chambered in 9mm, with ten rounds in the magazine and one in the spout. Beck zipped up the bag and put it into the suitcase. He confirmed that the burst encoder was hidden in the suitcase and closed it up.