But why? If it was an attempt to kill one or both of us, why so involved? As a sniper-for-hire who had been interviewed after being sentenced once said, “Keep it simple. The more complicated a hit gets, the more opportunity for mistakes, not to mention a smaller profit margin.”
Words to live by.
Shad hadn’t been with ABCD long enough to have developed a list of enemies. The few cases we had worked together all involved rather genteel malefactors. The most violent encounter Shad and I had was with a Rottweiler natural in Taunton who objected to being parted from his mate, a Dandie Dinmont bio named Flossie whose human engrams happened to be fleeing imprisonment on embezzlement charges. That particular felon had been remarkably grateful for our intercession. My early decades with Metro, on the other hand, had produced a virtual army of murderers, terrorists, and other violent chaps who would’ve delighted in seeing me blown to pieces. That was long ago, though. Most of the violent ones from my Metro years were either dead, living off their book and motion picture royalties, or dribbling oatmeal down their bibs in prison geriatric wards. None of them, in addition, were bombers. There was an answer somewhere, but I couldn’t find it. I took my headache to bed.
Early in the morning on my third day home there was a ring from D. C. Ralph Parker, our mountain gorilla bio detective with the waste management problem. “The chaps at Scientific and Technical concur with Army Military Police, sir,” he said. “As far as they are concerned it was a dud artillery shell that became unstable and simply popped off. They found enough bits of casing to identify the shelclass="underline" an Excalibur Mark XVII. That’s a twenty-five centimeter high explosive smart round for a long range cannon the army used toward the end of the Twenty-one hundreds.”
“What about the chemical composition of the explosive? Has that been matched to the casing fragments?”
“Exact match, sir.”
“How’d the shell get next to an observation post?”
“The army can’t explain it. Records from that period show which part of which range was used for a particular test or exercise. They show from where the shells were fired and where they were supposed to land, but there’s no way to catalog short rounds or duds. If the guidance load went out on one of those smart rounds it became just like any other lump. Also, it’s the army’s opinion that an observer could well have been standing in that observation post during an exercise and not have noticed a short round dud striking nearby and burying itself in the sod. The noise, you see.”
“What about the call?” I asked.
“Sorry?”
“The call that came into ABCD regarding a dead amdroid out on the moor, Parker. Did anyone trace it?”
“The call came from a mobile phone out of Okehampton, sir. A bit strange that.”
“How so?”
“It’s a police mobile number assigned to a Sergeant James Colly, constable assigned to Okehampton Station. On that exact day, though, Sergeant Colly was in Royal Devon Hospital here in Exeter getting his entire heart replaced. He’d been in intensive care there for a fortnight before the operation, which is a substantial piece of surgery I’m told.”
“Does make rather a good alibi, doesn’t it. Where was his phone?”
“With him, sir. It was among his things in hospital, locked up. Whoever made the call must’ve duped his police card. That kept the call from being screened out as a hoax.”
Had to have been done more than three weeks ago. Considerable planning, highly technical, forensically sophisticated, absolutely ruthless. “Parker, do you have Colly’s phone records?”
“Yes, sir. The call to ABCD Exeter was the only call made on that phone for the past twenty-two days. We voice printed the call recording, and that definitely wasn’t Colly who rang up the tower to report the dead bio. Very high voice. A child’s according to the computer analysis.”
“Get a match on the voiceprint?”
“No. Someone not in the system.” There was a long uncomfortable pause on the line.
“What is it, Parker?” I said rather more irritably than was polite.
“We have orders from London to drop the entire matter. They’ve concluded that Shad’s death was simply a piece of rotten luck.”
“Luck,” I repeated flatly.
“Yes, sir. There’s some suggestion,” he continued, “that Shad might have set the thing off himself.”
“What?”
“They say he might have touched something out there.”
“It was a possible crime scene, Parker! Of course he touched something! That was his bleeding job!” My headache began ricocheting from one side of my skull to the other, and I forced myself to calm down. “Shad’s an experienced detective, Parker. When he was a human nat in the NYPD he even had bomb disposal unit experience. He wouldn’t beat on a bomb fuse with a hammer just to see what would happen. They can’t be serious.”
“Serious enough for Dartmoor National Park Authority to consider billing ABCD to have that logan stone put back in its original position.”
“Bollocks! Great roiling oceans of bloody flipping bilge!” I closed my eyes as molten steel seemed to pour into my brain pan, all of which left me somewhat suspended between uncontainable pain and unexpressed expletives. When I risked opening my eyes I noticed Val sitting in the doorway. “Sorry, dear.”
Her deep aqua eyes studied me for a moment. “Harry, are you all right?”
“Managing, dear. Ralph Parker and I were having a wag on the phone.”
“The doctor said getting upset would probably worsen your headaches.”
“I’m astounded he took the time from selling his old trusses.”
“What?”
“I’m pleased to report my own research supports Dr. Truscott’s theory, dear. Something else?”
“Don’t get cross with me, Harry. I know you’re in pain, but don’t take it out on me.”
I took a breath and let it out. “Sorry.”
“Nadine would like to go to Hangingstone Hill. Is that possible?”
“Parker,” I said into the handset, “has the scene out at Hangingstone Hill been cleared?”
“Yes sir. Did I hear your wife and her friend want to go out there?”
“Is there a problem?”
“I suppose there isn’t any reason except ... I mean, that’s where Shad ... you know.”
“Yes,” I answered. “Perhaps it may help Nadine,” I offered. “Very well, dear,” I said to Val. “I’ll see about organizing something.”
“Thank you.” She turned and padded away toward the stairs.
“Sorry about barking at you,” I said to Parker, turning again to the phone. “Didn’t mean to kill the messenger.”
“Not at all, sir. But about going to Hangingstone—it hasn’t rained on the north moor since it happened.”
“You mean we may find blood.”
“Yes, sir. Shad’s and a good deal of your own. A weather front is supposed to dampen things a bit this morning. Perhaps if you wait until tomorrow.”