A Soldier's Revenge: A Will Cochrane Novel (16 page)

Painter surveyed the room, though most of it was off limits to them. “Keep an open mind, Andrew. It may well be Cochrane walked into this. He wasn’t the killer and kidnapper.”

Haine pointed at the forensics officer. “These days, investigators can move very fast. Ain’t technology a wonderful thing? All of the bullet shells around the bodies and all of the bullets
in
the bodies have been examined. We’ve compared the results to the ballistics analysis you released from the Waldorf murder. One hundred percent match.”

H
alf a mile away from where the two uniformed police officers had been shot, Simon Tap watched the numerous officers working the scene through high-powered binoculars, while listening to the intercept device Knox had given him.

Painter and Kopa
ń
ski came into view. It was the first time the former Delta Force operative had seen them in person, having come here based on an earlier intercepted call. But there was no doubting it was them because they matched the photos Knox had given him. Painter was walking awkwardly because of her artificial limb and one side of Kopa
ń
ski’s face was an unmistakable mess.

They entered their vehicle.

Tap didn’t follow them. Cochrane was somewhere in the area. All that mattered was that if he was spotted, Painter would be immediately notified.

With Cochrane cornered, the cops’ duty was to first try to negotiate him down. Whether that worked or not didn’t matter to Tap.

What did was that he’d have a window of opportunity to get into position. From a distance. With a rifle.

And end this—once and for all.

CHAPTER 18

A
fter the Scottish police car departed, James Goldsmith was sitting in the kitchen with his head in his hands.

Grief hadn’t yet taken hold. Instead, he was in shock, his mind and body filled with pain and dread.

Every brain cell in his head had wanted the police to say there was a perfectly good explanation for his inability to locate Sarah.

Instead, they’d looked him in the eye and said, “Mr. Goldsmith—brace yourself.” And they then told him what they knew.

When they left, Tess was curled up on his feet. Whether she sensed something was wrong or not, she seemed to want to keep him warm.

James smoothed her while crying. “What are we going to do?” he said, looking at nothing. His nostrils were burning, head giddy and throbbing. Nothing seemed of this world.

Will Cochrane and his sister Sarah had barely spoken during the last few years. For a long time, she hadn’t known he was a spy and had assumed that he was a criminal because of his furtive attitude and frequent absences. When he told her the truth in an attempt to win his sibling back, the declaration backfired because Sarah realized it put her and James in significant danger. They’d had to be protected by Will’s allies from a man who wanted to kill Sarah just to make a point to Will. One of the protectors, a retired woman called Betty who was like a mother to Will, had been killed. Sarah had never forgiven Will for putting her in such danger. Even though none of it had been his fault.

Some good did come out of that. The event was a catalyst for James and Sarah to reappraise their increasingly bourgeois London lifestyle. Suddenly, their surroundings and ambitions seemed shallow and unsustainable. With no kids to rein them in and ground them, it had felt like they were approaching an age where they were acting like grown-up children at a party full of people half their age. It was time to get out.

All was now lost—the house, the money, the new beginnings, any sense of normality or hope. Most of all, James had lost the woman he’d been with since university.

His lovely Sarah, tall, with long blond hair—though the police said she’d cut her hair and dyed it brunette before she was killed. That was a strange thing to do. Mind you, she’d been increasingly prone to whimsy. He liked that about her. No longer the highly strung metropolitan lawyer; instead, a woman who didn’t take life so seriously. Until recently, that is.

This would be his greatest test. His beloved was no longer there to be the strong one in a wretched set of circumstances. He had to be that person. He had to dig deep and summon the courage to sort out his affairs, somehow focus his thinking and do the right things. Grief had to wait, he told himself over and over. If he sprang into action, then he could grieve properly without his mind being befuddled by worries about the future.

He got to his feet, unsteadily at first, grasping the back of the chair until he felt ready to move. Taking Tess out was the first thing he needed to do. He clipped on her lead and said, “Come on, girl. Bit of rain outside, but not enough to bother us, eh?”

Wellington boots and raincoat on, he walked as fast as his asthmatic lungs would allow him, Tess pulling hard on the lead as they moved over the hills surrounding their home. Ordinarily, the fine rain and windless air would have made the trek a pleasure for James, who adored this type of weather. Now it didn’t register, his brain screaming at him to turn back, shut the door to his home, and just wait for all the pain to go. But he had Tess to think about. She needed this, and step one was that he wasn’t going to let her down.

Four miles later, they reached the nearest dwelling to their home—a thatched cottage belonging to a blunt-talking but nice farmer and his family. No doubt the farmer was away working in the fields somewhere, but his wife was usually to be found at home.

Smoke was coming out of the chimney, lights were on inside. James knocked on the door, rainwater dripping off his coat’s hood onto his face. “Mrs. McTavish. Good morning. I have a favor to ask.”

The stout middle-aged woman, apron covering her blouse and ankle-length skirt, looked suspicious. “Good morning to you, Mr. Goldsmith. I don’t have much time today for favors.”

“It’s just that . . . I’ve got a lot to do. I may need to go to London. Certainly I’m going to be stuck in Edinburgh for a few days. There’s a lot of paperwork. Things I need to sort out. But I can’t leave Tess on her own.” He held out her lead. “Will you look after her while I’m gone? It may only be a few days. She’s no bother and will eat anything.” He tried to smile. “In fact, she’ll try to eat too much of anything. I have to watch her on that.”

The Scottish woman rubbed her hands on her apron, not touching the lead. “Can’t you put her in a kennel? It’s a madhouse here, and one more mouth to feed and set of legs to walk isn’t going to make my life any easier.”

“I’d pay you, same rate as kennels.”

“I wouldn’t accept your money.”

“I know . . . I . . . Everything is all so last minute. I don’t know what else to do.”

“Not sure my husband would be happy when he gets home and finds your Tess staying with us.”

James couldn’t stop his grief. “Sarah’s . . . Sarah’s . . . Mrs. McTavish—the police have just visited. My wife’s been murdered in America.”

The woman’s demeanor instantly changed. “Oh, you poor, poor man.” She grabbed the dog lead. “You must come in. I’ll make you a cup of tea.”

“No, no. Thank . . . You’ll look after Tess?”

Sympathy was all over Mrs. McTavish’s face, together with shock. “For as long as it takes, my dear. You need people around you right now. You can’t be on your own.”

James nodded. “That’s why I need to get busy now.”

“Come on in, Tess,” she said while pulling gently on the lead. Tess’s tail wagged as she picked up the scent of baking inside the cottage. To James, she said, “I genuinely don’t know what to say. Sarah seemed like a lovely lady. I’m so, so, very, very sorry. You have got to focus on helping the police find the killer.”

“It won’t bring her back, though, will it? And she’s so far away right now.” He walked away, rubbing tears from his eyes, stumbling a bit.

One hour later, he reached his home. Knowing his mind was weak, he told himself to just go through the motions and get ready. Performing tasks might distract him and strengthen his mind. He showered and shaved, put on the suit he always wore when he had the most important business to attend to in Edinburgh, picked up a pen and paper, and laughed as more tears ran down his face. For the briefest moment, out of habit, he’d been about to write Sarah a note saying that he was leaving. How absurd.

He opened his attaché case, checked its contents, and ensured the back door was bolted on the inside. All was nearly ready for him to depart. But there was one more thing to be done. He collected a length of rope from the workshop, knotted and arranged it so that it was hanging from a large meat hook that was screwed into an oak beam in the kitchen ceiling, stood on a chair beneath the beam, placed the noose over his head, and said, “I’m coming to get you, Sarah my love.”

He kicked the chair away and dropped.

One minute later, he was dead.

“I
don’t need to get on that bloody contraption, I’m perfectly capable of walking by myself.” Dickie Mountjoy was infuriated that his momentary ill health on the flight had been flagged to JFK airport staff. They were trying to insist that he be shuttled to baggage claim and immigration on a motorized cart.

No doubt used to dealing with such difficult passengers in these types of situations, the American ground crew woman in front of him kept a fixed grin on her face. “Sir, look at it this way. Everyone else has to walk. We’re giving you VIP treatment.”

“No, you’re not. You’re treating me like some damn invalid!”

“The captain of your flight was worried about you.”

“He should have been more worried about flying the plane. It was just a bit of heartburn. I get it all the time. All this fuss and bother is likely to give me even more indigestion if you keep this up.”

“Mr. Mountjoy—I . . .”

“I’m not getting on that thing! Have I made myself clear enough?”

The woman knew she wasn’t going to win the argument. “Okay, sir. But if you need anything, you just approach a member of our staff. Deal?”

“What?”

“Will you do that for me?”

“Yes, yes, whatever.”

He straightened his back, ignored the pain in his legs from the cramped flight and old age, and marched toward the baggage claim area.

Forty-five minutes later, he was standing by the airport’s taxi rank, ready to be taken to the apartment he’d secured for two days near Times Square.

I
n Dickie’s London home, Phoebe was watering the major’s plants and adjusting the settings of his radiators due to colder weather hitting the city. David was with his girlfriend, watching her putter about the place while he sat on the sofa drinking a mug of tea.

“Sure there’s nothing I can do to help?” the mortician asked Phoebe.

“No. I’m nearly finished. I’ll come back tomorrow, just to make sure everything’s fine before he returns the day after.”

“He should never have traveled that far at his age. And what on earth does he hope to achieve, anyway?” David blew over the lip of his mug. “Cochrane’s nowhere to be found, despite the fact it looks like half of America is searching for him. What’s Dickie going to do? Just turn up in New York and find him?”

Phoebe turned to face David. “I’ve no idea. But you know what the major’s like when he gets an idea in his head.”

“Yeah, he becomes a raving liability.”

Phoebe laughed, though the sound wasn’t quite right. She patted a duster against a radiator, her expression now quizzical and her voice distant. “Will can’t have done what they say he’s done. That’s not him. It’s just not him.”

David agreed. “Heard on the news this morning that today American police are going to reveal the identity of the victim. Maybe that’ll help Will. Somehow prove he’s innocent.”

“How would that work?”

David shrugged. “Dunno, really. Perhaps if she’s some criminal or something, police might realize another criminal killed her. Wanted her dead.”

“You’re not making any sense.”

David knew he wasn’t, but like Phoebe he was trying to come up with any reason why Will hadn’t gone insane. “What do you fancy for dinner tonight?” was all he could think to ask.

Phoebe collected her watering can and other items. “Maybe a Chinese takeaway?”

“I’ve got a better idea. How about I cook our favorite Szechuan chicken?”

“Perfect. That sounds . . .” She felt herself getting teary. “Will never told us why he was going to New York.”

“He said he’d tell us when he got back, remember? That he was making plans. He’s always been a bit secretive like that.”

“Not with us.” She smoothed a finger against David’s face. “You know one of the things I love about you? You don’t do things like running around being a spy and then murdering people.”

David could sense Phoebe’s emotions were high. “I’m not
that
normal. I’m a mortician.” He smiled, hoping his dark humor would lift Phoebe’s spirits. “Sometimes I have to cut up dead bodies to make them look pretty again.”

“When you put it like that . . .” Her thoughts became distracted again. “I feel cross with Will. Why didn’t he hand himself in to the police and tell them he was innocent?”