Chapter 34

“Day Six of EPIC and we’re onsite in Gerês! Today’s BluLite reportage coming from Agent Cher Davenport of the FBI. Right now, we’re on the terrace on the roof of the hotel. Beautiful spot, don’t ya think?”

Cher rotated her phone around the scene and brought it back to focus on the couple in front of the fountain. “And did we just get lucky! Here’s Commander Gilchrist, kingpin of the entire project. With him is Acting DCI Stubbs, of the London Met. Quite a coup to get these two guys in one place, if I say so myself. Let’s share a few words with two of the most influential figures in British policing.”

She steered her chair one-handed towards them, using the other to continue filming, but stopped at a distance of around fifteen feet. Well out of reach. Her smile was bright enough for daytime television.

“Good morning to you both!”

Beatrice returned the smile with a nod, watching Gilchrist in her peripheral vision. “Good morning, Agent Davenport, it’s a pleasure to see you again.”

Gilchrist switched on his beam. “It certainly is a surprise. You caught Acting DCI Stubbs and I having a quiet chat.” He laughed heartily. “We assumed everyone was at breakfast so we sneaked off for a policy discussion. We should have known nowhere is private at a conference for detectives!”

Cher beamed right back. “Too right! Say, lemme ask you how you think the conference is going.”

Gilchrist glanced at his watch. “In a word, fast! We hardly have time to cover all the topics and conversations we want to discuss with our European colleagues. Every moment counts. My next session begins at nine, in fact. I should be heading back.”

“Just one last question, to both of you. How has the death of Samuel Silva affected morale? Of course the press are making the most of it but how did this event impact the conference itself? Is it business as usual?”

Beatrice turned her face to Gilchrist, in an ostensible gesture of politeness; in full knowledge the Commander saw it as a challenge.

“The death of a colleague is always a tragedy. Not one single delegate is unaffected, but we are professionals. We are here to do a job. The best way to honour our comrade is to carry on. The case is closed and my only regret is the perpetrator was not brought to justice. Thanks for the chat, but unfortunately, I need to get to my next appointment.” Cher ignored him and kept the camera on them both.

Cher turned her attention to Beatrice. “DCI Stubbs?”

Beatrice took a deep breath. Their colleagues now knew where they were, so all she had to do was sit tight and wait for the cavalry to arrive. She had to filibuster.

“Commander Gilchrist has done an EPIC job at this year’s European Police Intercommunications Conference. His achievement has been to bring international detectives together, encouraging collaboration in all kinds of unexpected ways. I am sure, in time, all his actions will be deservedly recognised.

“If I may, I’d like to pay a personal tribute to Samuel Silva. The loss of such a pioneer of intelligence is a blow to the entire law enforcement community. His research benefitted us all, in Europe and beyond. He knew this, yet he sought to take no profit. Instead he planned to share his work as a public resource. I still hope his colleagues can make that happen. He was also a husband and father, mentor and godfather. He was a wise, decent man who will be greatly missed.”

Gilchrist applauded. “Well said! Marvellous speech. Thank you. However, Acting DCI Stubbs, Agent Davenport, I have to get to...”

“So I would like to ask you all,” intoned Beatrice, addressing the camera, “wherever you are in the world, to bow your heads for one minute and give thanks for a truly exceptional fellow officer. Ladies and gentlemen, Samuel Silva.”

Sixty seconds. Gilchrist stood beside Beatrice, his head bowed and hands clasped behind his back. He couldn’t go anywhere for the next minute without appearing a crass oaf. Then what? Beatrice bowed her head and squinted at her watch. 08.46. Come on! Roman? Xavier? Someone? Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Gilchrist slip a hand into his pocket.

The sound of a gunshot behind them both gave Beatrice such a shock that she stumbled sideways, the heavy ornament in her jacket pocket thumping against her hip. Gilchrist’s head snapped up and he stared past Cher, at a wide open space.

“What are you doing? Get away from her!” Gilchrist launched himself forwards, as if at some invisible assailant. Cher attempted to spin round but couldn’t turn quickly enough before Gilchrist ran behind her, snatched her phone and threw it over the edge of the balustrade.

The oldest trick in the book. Look behind you!

Before Beatrice could move, he trained his gun on Cher. “So Plan A it is, with a minor adjustment. Sorry ladies, no time for niceties. Let’s make this quick.”

He shoved Cher’s chair in the direction of the red and white tape flapping in the breeze, his gun pointing at the back of her head. Time seemed to slow down as the chair rolled noiselessly towards the gap in the low wall. Cher released a howl of protest and yanked on the brakes. Gilchrist swore, shoved his gun in its holster then tipped the chair back and physically dragged it to the edge.

Beatrice’s hand slipped into her pocket and took hold of the metal cockerel. Her fingers fitted around the sharp curves of its tail and comb as if it had been designed for her palm. Gilchrist lugged the chair closer to the crumbling stone, his face red and ugly.

Two could play at old tricks.

“Commander, look out!” she shrieked and hurled the cockerel with all the strength she had, aiming directly at his head. His face snapped up a second before the spiky souvenir hit him full in the mouth. He released the chair and recoiled, his hands covering his face. Cher reacted instantly, using both arms to wheel herself away and snatch the chance to escape.

So only Beatrice watched Gilchrist stagger backwards through the plastic tape and lose his footing. Only she saw his arms flail outwards and his mouth open to scream through broken, bloodied teeth as he fell. Only she covered her ears and counted the seconds until he hit the ground.