‘I want to know the last person to have physically seen him and the last person to have spoken to him. Assuming they’re different people.’
There was a new urgency in West’s voice as he barked into his office telephone. Dempsey could hear someone on the other line but could not make out the words.
‘I couldn’t give a shit where the unit is!’ Whatever that someone had said was not well received. ‘Get every bloody helicopter we’ve got out there and locate them. Every last one of them.’
West slammed down the receiver without another word. He looked across the desk towards Dempsey, then Henley. He had the bearing of a man who was not about to explain himself to either.
‘So what now?’
‘Now we look at this from a different angle.’ Dempsey’s mind was racing ahead. ‘We won’t know the time frame for Jones’s replacement until we know when he deployed. So let’s look at this from the other end. What do we know about the shooter?’
Dempsey waited for a contribution.
‘We know he had the absolute trust of whoever’s behind this.’
Henley had decades as an investigator on his resume. Dempsey was not surprised that he spoke first.
‘Right. They did ask a lot from him. Impersonation of Jones, reliable shot, calm under pressure, leave the scene undetected. That’s a lot of trust. But what does it tell us?’
‘Nothing one hundred per cent,’ Henley replied. ‘But it reduces the possibilities down to two.’
‘Which are what?’
West’s experience was in warfare, not detection. So this exercise was not playing to his strengths. Dempsey was unsurprised as the major general struggled to keep up.
‘That he’s one of their own,’ Henley explained. ‘Or that he’s freelance with one hell of a reputation. Nothing in between would do. Not for that level of trust.’
‘And how does that help us?’ asked West. ‘If we don’t know who “they” are, how does it help to know that the shooter is one of their own?’
‘Actually, that’s not the possibility with legs.’ Dempsey had already weighed the odds. ‘We can’t discount it, but it’s extremely unlikely that someone with this shooter’s talents would be on a permanent payroll.’
‘Why do you say that?’ It was Henley’s turn to be confused. ‘He didn’t do anything out of the ordinary.’
‘No, but he didn’t have to. Whoever organised this thing, there’s no way they go to all that trouble and don’t use someone with the skills for any situation. We didn’t see a tenth of what this guy was capable of. Who keeps someone like that on the books?’
‘Apart from you guys?’
Dempsey ignored the comment. He looked towards West and waited for his input.
‘So it must be an independent?’ West concluded. ‘Where does that leave us?’
‘Further forward than you might think, sir.’
Dempsey was several steps ahead, explaining one finding while simultaneously analysing the next. He felt energised by the progress his own mind was making.
‘If the shooter comes with the kind of reputation we’re talking about then it narrows the field. There are only so many guys out there that meet the profile.’
‘OK, Major. Perhaps you’re right. But that still leaves a hell of a problem, doesn’t it? The fact that almost every freelancer meeting that profile has never been seen.’
‘This one has, sir.’ Dempsey indicated to Henley. ‘Mr Henley’s seen him.’
‘I know that. But what use is it if we can’t show Mr Henley a picture of our suspects? With all due respect to him, his contribution is worthless until we’ve caught the bastard.’
‘True, sir. Unless we do have a picture.’
Neither West nor Henley spoke. Dempsey was now far ahead of them.
‘Remember the question, sir. “Who keeps someone like that on the books?” Well, Mr Henley’s right. We do.’
West shot Dempsey an angry glare. When he spoke his tone was clear; he did not like where this was going.
‘Are you suggesting one of my men did this? That one of my men was involved in the murder of an SAS sergeant? Not to mention everything that’s followed?’
‘No, sir. I’m not.’ Dempsey realised that his answer sounded contradictory. ‘But then not all of us have been your men, have we?’
Dempsey turned to Henley.
‘Alex, what did this guy look like?’
Henley must have been surprised by the sudden question, but it did not slow him. He closed his eyes and stayed silent. Dempsey could only guess at what he was doing, but it was an educated guess; both men had been trained sharpshooters – Henley for the Metropolitan Police, Dempsey for the SAS – and so Dempsey presumed that they shared the stock sniper’s skills of attention to detail and absolute recall. It was the latter, Dempsey thought, that Henley was utilising now.
‘I can’t tell you much about his clothes,’ Henley finally said. His eyes remained tightly shut. ‘Standard operational gear. All looks the same when it’s on. He was tall. Taller than you, Joe. Six foot three, maybe six four. Pretty thin, but with a strong frame. You know, strong square shoulders that belong to a bigger man, but beneath them pretty slim.’
Dempsey nodded and glanced towards West. So far, so expected.
‘What about his hair, Alex? What colour was it?’
‘Black. Real black, in fact.’ Henley opened his eyes. ‘Why? What does that mean?’
‘Maybe something. I’m not sure yet. Tell me more.’
Henley closed his eyes again.
‘He was pale too. Not unhealthy, just very light-skinned. Maybe it’s what made his hair seem so dark. Or it might have been the hair that made him look so pale. It’s hard to tell.’
Dempsey had heard enough. He turned to West.
‘You really think it’s him?’ West asked.
‘It’s him.’
‘Who? Who are you talking about?’
Henley had opened his eyes. It was as if he had missed an entire conversation in a matter of seconds.
‘We’ll show you.’ Dempsey indicated towards the computer on West’s desk. ‘Can that thing access extant files as well as live ones, sir?’
‘Of course it can. They’re under a different programme heading but it’s all there. Do I need to ask who we’re looking for, Major?’
The two men shared a grim look before West turned his attention back to his computer. It took West a few minutes, but then he glanced up at Dempsey and nodded; he had found the file. Henley got to his feet. Dempsey did the same. They moved around West’s desk to get a full view of the screen, which was filled by a digitised military jacket.
At a glance it resembled Steven Jones’s file. On closer inspection it was even more impressive. Piercing blue eyes under jet-black hair stared back at them. A distinctive face. Henley did not need a closer look to be sure. He took one anyway.
‘Is it him?’
Dempsey was standing at Henley’s shoulder. Henley looked up.
‘Yeah. That’s him. That’s the man who said he was Sergeant Jones.’
Dempsey did not respond. Instead his gaze moved back to the screen. It locked on the grainy black-and-white file photo. A face from Dempsey’s past.