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  But despite her sense of satisfaction, she couldn’t help feeling uneasy as to why the Sidewinder seemed so interested in her. The chance meeting in Helston had been surprising enough, but to find Baxter’s publicity manager apparently going to the extent of following her afterwards really jangled the alarm bells in her head. Okay, so Meadows was a nosy, vindictive bitch who would have delighted in the opportunity of broadcasting Lynn’s whereabouts to the rest of the staff at New Light, but to go to the extent of trying to tail her to her home was well over the top even for her. It was really unsettling.

  Lynn continued to ponder the issue as she headed on her roundabout route back to The Lizard, but after pulling up in front of The Beach House, thoughts of Cate Meadows were soon expunged from her mind. The sharp breath-taking chill of the ocean had the instant effect of redirecting her focus as she slipped naked into its creamy surf. But as she struck off in an effortless crawl towards the mouth of the cove, she was completely unaware of the figure crouched on the clifftop above, studying her through a pair of powerful binoculars.

  ****

  Detective Chief Inspector Mick Benchley was not a happy man. It was three months into the bombing investigation, which had scarred Lynn Giles for life, and it seemed he and the disenchanted members of the Major Investigation Team he led as a senior member of the Met’s Homicide & Serious Crime Command were no further forward than at the start of the inquiry.

  Slouched in the worn leather chair in the incident room commander’s office, the heavy, balding ex-SAS man drummed on the top of the desk with the fingers of his right hand, scowling unseeing at the picture of Her Majesty the Queen on the opposite wall as, for the umpteenth time, he turned over in his weary brain what little information on the case had so far come to light and tried to make some sense of it.

  The bomb had been planted at The Philanderer’s Night Club in Mayfair prior to a celebrity fashion show and although several people in the vicinity had been slightly injured by the blast, Lynn Giles was the only one to have suffered so much physical damage. The crime scene investigation team had found the remains of some cardboard wrappings among the debris, which the forensics laboratory had painstakingly reassembled, to reveal that the device had probably been concealed in a box of chocolates. Laboratory examination had also found traces of gelignite on the wrappings and a partial thumbprint on a small fragment of glass, which was said to have come from a wristwatch – obviously used as the timer. No matches had been found for the thumbprint on the criminal record data base, suggesting the bomber was an unknown, and the only observation SO15’s Counter Terrorism Command had felt disposed to make was that the device seemed to have been crude and the type of explosive used “unsophisticated” – whatever that meant. Crucially, they had never heard of the group, Christians Against Sexual Exploitation, which had claimed responsibility for the attack, and had concluded that the bomber was more than likely an amateur and therefore not an ongoing terrorist threat.

  Benchley grunted to himself. Bloody SO15. They had been all over the incident at the beginning – only too keen to take on the lead role in the investigation. But all that had changed when the countdown to a major London-hosted international conference on terrorism – which had been leaked to the press – had got under way. In the absence of any positive intelligence suggesting terrorist involvement in The Philanderer’s Club bombing, the incident had been downgraded from possible terrorist status to that of a crank crime. This had enabled the elite specialists to drop out and the police hierarchy to focus their attention on the more definite threats to national security they believed to be in the pipeline.

  As a result, Detective Chief Inspector Mick Benchley had suddenly found himself flavour of the month again and handed back what he preferred to call “his poisoned chalice” as senior investigating officer, though with the caveat that SO15 reserved the right to maintain a watching brief should it be necessary for them to become further involved. In other words, he carried the can if the investigation went pear-shaped, but they could come back in if his inquiries turned up anything tasty and take the whole thing off him again. Bloody typical.

  The point was, where did the team go from here? No suspects. Little forensic evidence, apart from the partial thumbprint. No surveillance footage from the CCTV system covering the venue, as it had been down for months. Not even a tenuous lead to follow up on. In short, not the faintest glimmer of light at the end of the tunnel. They had hit the buffers and that was certainly not good for his future career.

  Leaning back in his chair, he lit a cigarette and blew smoke rings at the already yellowed ceiling, ignoring the “No Smoking” notice on the wall.

  The crime was certainly a strange one. Okay, so whoever had planted the bomb obviously had a hang-up about scantily clad young women cavorting on a catwalk. But why now and how come the crank or cranks responsible had not struck again somewhere else or made any demands or threats? There had been other fashion shows, both in the city and outside it, since the event at The Philanderer’s Club and all had gone off without incident. It just didn’t make sense.

  Benchley was uneasy about Lynn Giles too and the fact that she was no longer living on his manor didn’t help his developing ulcer. What if the bomb had not been planted to kill and maim indiscriminately, but had actually been specifically meant for her? What if this crap about Christians Against Sexual Exploitation was just a blind to muddy the waters? So she had taken his advice and disappeared to the seaside for a while and as far as he was aware, he was the only person who knew her whereabouts. But that didn’t mean she was safely out of the way. If someone was after her, they wouldn’t give up now, would they? And it would be the height of naivety to think that she could remain hidden for ever. Yet there was nothing he could do to guarantee her safety. Unbeknown to the ex-model, he had desperately tried to get her on to the witness protection programme, but his commander had emphatically refused to sanction it.

  ‘She doesn’t qualify, Mick,’ he’d explained. ‘There’s nothing to suggest she is a specific target, we have no suspects in the frame and what you’re asking me for is an open-ended commitment at a time when our resources are already being stretched to the limit. It cannot possibly be justified.’

  The trouble was that deep down Benchley had to agree with him. The model’s vague recollections about seeing someone or something suspicious on the day of the blast didn’t really amount to anything and as she was allegedly still suffering from amnesia and couldn’t come up with anything definite, she was no threat to anyone, so why would she be in imminent danger? Pretty unlikely. That didn’t stop him worrying, though.

  He glanced at his watch and reached for his anorak on the back of the chair. Lunch-time anyway. Time for a sandwich and a pint at his local.

  ‘Moira,’ he shouted through the half-open door. ‘Get your bloody coat on. Lunch, and it’s your round this time.’

  A thin, dark-suited woman in her 40s appeared at the door even quicker than he had expected. Detective Inspector Moira Angel was unsurprised at being summoned by a yell. The grey-haired, bespectacled detective had worked with Benchley for a very long time now and she was well used to his abrasive, intolerant personality, enduring it with the quiet fortitude of someone who actually nursed a secret affection for the lonely bachelor.

  ‘Well, come on, woman,’ he exclaimed, frowning as she just stood there, looking at him with a sober expression on her face. ‘Stir yourself. Mine’s a pint.’

  She shook her head. ‘I don’t think so, Guv,’ she said.

  His frown deepened. ‘And how’s that?’ he queried. ‘I got them in last time.’

  ‘We’ve just had a shout from Islington. They’ve got a stiff in a derelict over there.’

  ‘So? Why would that be of interest to me? Probably some bloody dosser blown away on crystal meth.’

  She raised an eyebrow. ‘Actually it seems like their John Doe was shot in the head.’

  ‘Shot?’

  She nodded. ‘And from th
e stuff they’ve found in a haversack he had with him, it looks like he was into explosives.’

  Benchley stared at her. ‘You what?’ he exclaimed.

  Angel nodded. ‘I know it’s a long-shot, but it could be there’s a link here to The Philanderer’s Club job.’

  Benchley didn’t make further comment. He was already on his feet, wrenching his coat off the back of the chair, and she smiled slightly. ‘Lunch off now then, is it, Guv?’ she asked mischievously.

  ****

  A yellow-and-black-coloured police “Crime Scene. Do Not Cross” tape was in evidence across the door of the Islington derelict when Benchley and Angel pulled up outside. Maurice Morgan was actually there, waiting for them, and as soon as they had donned the necessary protective overall and booties, the uniformed police constable on guard duty lifted the tape to allow them to enter the evil-smelling premises.

  The Met explosives team had already left the area after checking the dead man’s haversack and giving it a clean bill of health, but SOCO were still carrying out their forensic examination and were likely to be there for some time.

  The visit didn’t last long – there wasn’t a lot to see and corpses were corpses as far as Benchley was concerned, coupled with which Morgan had something else to show them anyway.

  The old Ford van was parked on waste ground at the end of the street, a couple of hundred yards or so from the murder scene and overlooked by several grey concrete tower blocks.

  ‘Local area plod pointed this out to us,’ Morgan explained. ‘Looks like it might have belonged to our stiff. He had a set of Ford ignition keys in his pocket and they fit the ignition slot and one of the door locks exactly. There are no other motors abandoned in the area, so it figures this one was his.’

  Mick Benchley stared at the vehicle for a few moments with an expression of weary cynicism on his craggy face. It was apparent that the van was of no value to him whatsoever. Someone had torched the thing and much of the interior had been reduced to a scorched, blackened shell ironically bearing a nice “Police Aware” notice.

  ‘Pity our bomber hadn’t stashed some of his explosives inside,’ he commented drily. ‘At least then our little arsonist wouldn’t have been around to do any more torching.’

  ‘Local skipper tells me it happened a couple of months ago,’ Morgan said. ‘No witnesses, of course, not in an area like this. Fire Service managed to put out the blaze before it destroyed the van completely and the local authority should have arranged to have the motor shifted to the car pound by now, but obviously forgot about it. One of dozens on their manor, I expect.’

  Benchley bent down to stare at the twisted bumper bar beneath which the registration plate should have been attached. ‘Index number?’ he queried.

  Morgan nodded. ‘All checked out by the plods, Guv. Did a thorough job, too. Plates belonged to a Jag stolen from Billericay in Essex two years ago and never recovered. Engine and chassis numbers check out with a van which was scrapped by the original owner and sold to a dodgy breaker’s yard Chiswick way. Yard has since closed down after the owner got wasted in a gangland hit, so there’s no trail to follow after that.’

  Benchley grunted. ‘Convenient,’ he said sarcastically. ‘So another brick wall for my team. Brilliant! Any other little gems of info you have for me?’

  Morgan shook his head. ‘Only that the pathologist reckoned the stiff was shot just once in the head and that that could have been as long ago as a couple of months.’

  ‘Round about the time of the bomb blast at The Philanderer’s Club then?’

  The DI shrugged. ‘I don’t know much about that particular job, but if you say so.’

  ‘Don’t know a lot, do you?’

  Morgan’s mouth tightened. ‘No, Guv,’ he snapped back. ‘I sort of left my crystal ball back at the nick.’

  Benchley ignored the response, accepting that he had asked for it. Then leaning back against a broken-down wall, he pulled out a packet of cigarettes, selected one and proffered the packet to his two colleagues. Morgan took up the offer, but Angel refused.

  ‘So what have we got?’ he said, lighting up and passing his lighter to Morgan. ‘A stiff in a derelict house with a bullet in the head, whom we believe to have been wasted several weeks – maybe months – ago and who may have been carrying an explosive device when he was shot?’

  ‘No device there now, though,’ Morgan cut in, puffing out smoke. ‘We only found a trace of what we believe to be gelly on some wrappings.’

  ‘But there were other items in his haversack. I think you said some cheap wristwatches and quite a few batteries and pencil detonators?’

  Morgan nodded. ‘Oh, I reckon he was a bomb-maker all right, but until DI Angel here called me, I had no idea what he might have done with the gelly or who his intended target could have been. Presumably he was constructing a device for someone and that particular someone collected it, then wasted him.’

  ‘Which begs the question, why?’ Angel put in.

  ‘That’s easy. To make sure he couldn’t talk.’

  Benchley straightened up, stabbing a finger at him, smoke curling from the cigarette in his other hand. ‘Exactly, which suggests our bombing was to be a one-off job – the killer only needed the one bomb and he didn’t intend using his man again.’

  Angel frowned. ‘I agree, he obviously didn’t need his services anymore, but that doesn’t mean our bombing was a one-off job. Maybe the killer walked away with more than one device.’

  Benchley snorted. ‘Oh come on, Moira, we’re not talking about a cash-and-carry warehouse here. Can you honestly imagine someone calmly walking down a London street with a holdall full of ready-made poppers? Hardly likely, is it?’

  ‘So what are you saying?’

  ‘I’m saying that the actual bomber was unlikely to have been a terrorist, but someone who had planned a single hit.’

  Morgan drew on his cigarette, then nodded again. ‘That seems to fit – especially since, according to the SO15 guy who turned out to this job with the explosive team, no self-respecting terrorist would have used this particular bomb-maker anyway. He reckoned that the kit in his bag was about as sophisticated as the stuff a Seventies trainee anarchist would have used – and probably just as reliable.’

  Benchley went into a fit of coughing over his cigarette, attracting a reproving stare from Angel. ‘So a has-been or an amateur maybe,’ he wheezed. ‘But we have no ideas as to his identity.’

  Morgan shook his head. ‘He was in possession of three passports – one Serbian, one Croatian and one Albanian – in three different names, which suggests he got about a bit, but we’ve yet to print him and do a full check.’

  ‘And no trace of the weapon or any clues as to what sort of firearm was used?’

  ‘No sign of the weapon, no, and as to what it was,’ Morgan shrugged, ‘that’s down to Ballistics when they have had time to examine the round.’

  ‘And there were no witnesses at the murder scene?’

  Morgan emitted a short laugh. ‘If there were, no one is likely to admit to it. We’re talking doss city here, Guv – junkies, alkies and roadsters, most of them wanted for something somewhere. And whoever belled us to report the stiff is probably long gone now.’

  ‘So our bomb-maker was a foreign national, using a variety of identities, who most likely hailed from the old Yugoslavia or somewhere close by?’

  ‘More than likely, yes.’

  ‘But if that’s the case, what was he doing in the UK? And if he was behind the bombing, what was his connection with the glamour industry?’

  ‘Maybe he had no connection at all with it?’ Angel suggested. ‘Maybe he was just someone for hire?’

  ‘And by the sound of it, not very proficient in his chosen profession. Doesn’t say much for the person who hired him, does it?’

  ‘Perhaps he was an amateur as well?’

  Benchley pinched out his cigarette and tossed it over the wall. ‘An amateur who was able to shoot a man in the head
and to need only one round for the purpose,’ he retorted bleakly. ‘Unusual skill for the sort of nutcase we’ve been looking for, don’t you think?’

  Angel shrugged, but said nothing.

  Morgan took another long pull on his cigarette. ‘Don’t ask me, Guv,’ he replied after a brief pause. ‘I haven’t the faintest idea what sort of person you’re looking for.’

  Benchley smiled without humour and tapping Angel on the arm to indicate it was time to go, he headed back to his car. ‘Well, maybe you should give that old crystal ball of yours a rub when you get back to the nick, eh, Maurice?’ he said over his shoulder. ‘It might save us all a lot of time.’

  CHAPTER 4

  The extension telephone in Lynn’s bedroom shrilled at just on 10 in the morning. Thinking with a sharp stab of apprehension that it might be Murray and hoping he wasn’t about to cancel his dinner invitation that evening, she rolled over in bed and propped herself up on to one elbow, squinting in the sunlight which streamed through the partially open blinds and acutely conscious of the screaming of gulls outside the window.

  ‘Yes?’ she snapped irritably.

  ‘Hi, sweetness.’

  ‘Freddie?’ she exclaimed, recognising the wheezy voice of the boss of the New Light Modelling Agency. ‘What do you want?’

  There was a soft chuckle. ‘Now, you be especially nice to Uncle Freddie,’ he said. ‘He might have something for you.’

  Lynn tensed, then wriggled herself up into a sitting position. ‘What? You mean a work-type something?’

  ‘Could be.’

  ‘But you paid me off?’

  A confirmatory grunt. ‘Said I’d keep looking around for you, though, didn’t I, luvvie? Thing is, someone like you will always be in demand.’