Two storeys, with probably only two rooms upstairs. The gunman, if he hadn’t already departed, wouldn’t be upstairs. The priority spaces were all down below. The living room. The kitchen. What else was there? Probably a scullery. Possibly a separate dining room, but it would be a small one.
‘Cally?’
He called again and rattled about a bit in the porch. Then he laid down on the floor and eased his head around the living room door. Nothing. No one. He slid slowly into the room on his belly, and lay still.
As well as cupboards, a dresser, and free-standing bookshelves, there was an old, upright-style, three-piece suite on wooden legs. From his position on the floor, he could see the legs of a man kneeling behind the settee. The gunman had not left.
He pushed the door hard, forcing it back to crash against the wall. A man leapt up from behind the settee, arms braced to fire the gun he was holding.
There was no time, no time for anything at all. The air filled with dust, as bullets hit the wall and the door, where he should have been standing. Harry fired, and kept on firing until the gun pointing at him flew through the air, and the man who had been holding it slumped to the floor.
He scrambled across the room, ears ringing, pulse racing, and kicked the dropped gun aside. Then he stooped and felt for a pulse: there wasn’t one.
He straightened up and took a few moments to recover and let his pulse rate begin to drop back down. He wriggled his shoulders and stretched, working some of the tension out of his body. Then he leaned down again to see what he had shot.
The man was a stranger to him. Perhaps 30-ish, shorthaired and tidy-looking. He wore jeans and a casual outdoor jacket. There was nothing in his pockets to say who or what he was; only car keys and spare ammunition. All in all, that was a pretty good indication of who or what he was. Leave no trace. That was a cardinal rule for the cleaners.
A minute or two had elapsed by then, and no one else had appeared. He stood up and went quickly though the cottage,room by room, satisfying himself that no one else was in the building. It seemed to have been a one-man operation, as he had guessed. Not top notch either. They had just sent whoever was available and could get here in time.
But why? What the hell was it about? This seemed even more senseless than the killings in Prague. Cally was not a player, not any more. He’d been out of it for several years. He shook his head, feeling utterly depressed. He had liked the old man. Respected him, as well. His murder now was so pointless.
Pulling himself together, he took stock of what he knew and could see. Cally must have accepted his killer’s credentials. He would never have let the man inside the cottage otherwise.
Perhaps consultations with people from the department had still happened from time to time? It wasn’t impossible. Cally was – had been – a living archive. They might well have needed to consult him occasionally.
He returned to the kitchen and studied the scene there. Callerton was seated at the table. It looked as though he had been going through his morning’s paper, The Times, when the bullet had arrived. He had been waiting; waiting for his eleven o’clock visitor.
He glanced at the open page, grimaced and shook his head. Pen in hand, Cally had been reading an article on Siberian gas fields in the business section. He had even circled the subheading. Keeping an eye on his investments?
A last glance around. Then he turned and made his way outside and headed back towards the car. There was nothing here for him now. Nothing at all. Perhaps there wouldn’t have been anyway. It was doubtful if Cally had still been in the loop.
But in that case why had he been murdered?
And surely it was no coincidence that the shooting had happened shortly before he himself had been due to arrive to talk to him? No, of course it bloody wasn’t! They must have known he was coming. They would have been
‘Cally?’
He called again and rattled about a bit in the porch. Then he laid down on the floor and eased his head around the living room door. Nothing. No one. He slid slowly into the room on his belly, and lay still.
As well as cupboards, a dresser, and free-standing bookshelves, there was an old, upright-style, three-piece suite on wooden legs. From his position on the floor, he could see the legs of a man kneeling behind the settee. The gunman had not left.
He pushed the door hard, forcing it back to crash against the wall. A man leapt up from behind the settee, arms braced to fire the gun he was holding.
There was no time, no time for anything at all. The air filled with dust, as bullets hit the wall and the door, where he should have been standing. Harry fired, and kept on firing until the gun pointing at him flew through the air, and the man who had been holding it slumped to the floor.
He scrambled across the room, ears ringing, pulse racing, and kicked the dropped gun aside. Then he stooped and felt for a pulse: there wasn’t one.
He straightened up and took a few moments to recover and let his pulse rate begin to drop back down. He wriggled his shoulders and stretched, working some of the tension out of his body. Then he leaned down again to see what he had shot.
The man was a stranger to him. Perhaps 30-ish, shorthaired and tidy-looking. He wore jeans and a casual outdoor jacket. There was nothing in his pockets to say who or what he was; only car keys and spare ammunition. All in all, that was a pretty good indication of who or what he was. Leave no trace. That was a cardinal rule for the cleaners.
A minute or two had elapsed by then, and no one else had appeared. He stood up and went quickly though the cottage,room by room, satisfying himself that no one else was in the building. It seemed to have been a one-man operation, as he had guessed. Not top notch either. They had just sent whoever was available and could get here in time.
But why? What the hell was it about? This seemed even more senseless than the killings in Prague. Cally was not a player, not any more. He’d been out of it for several years. He shook his head, feeling utterly depressed. He had liked the old man. Respected him, as well. His murder now was so pointless.
Pulling himself together, he took stock of what he knew and could see. Cally must have accepted his killer’s credentials. He would never have let the man inside the cottage otherwise.
Perhaps consultations with people from the department had still happened from time to time? It wasn’t impossible. Cally was – had been – a living archive. They might well have needed to consult him occasionally.
He returned to the kitchen and studied the scene there. Callerton was seated at the table. It looked as though he had been going through his morning’s paper, The Times, when the bullet had arrived. He had been waiting; waiting for his eleven o’clock visitor.
He glanced at the open page, grimaced and shook his head. Pen in hand, Cally had been reading an article on Siberian gas fields in the business section. He had even circled the subheading. Keeping an eye on his investments?
A last glance around. Then he turned and made his way outside and headed back towards the car. There was nothing here for him now. Nothing at all. Perhaps there wouldn’t have been anyway. It was doubtful if Cally had still been in the loop.
But in that case why had he been murdered?
And surely it was no coincidence that the shooting had happened shortly before he himself had been due to arrive to talk to him? No, of course it bloody wasn’t! They must have known he was coming. They would have been
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