Fletcher by David Horscroft Read Free Book Online Page A

distinctly interesting; last time he had used that phrase, the subsequent investigation had pitched Tunisia into total chaos.
    “There was something in the records... A lack of something, to be precise. The commissioner is filed with the ID thirty-three-eleven, but the old couple is under thirty-three-thirteen and fourteen respectively. There was a record at thirty-three-twelve, and it was removed.”
    Vincent handed me a sheet of paper, with a chunk of what looked like a hospital record database printed in a table.
    “That’s him.” I grinned.
    “I don’t know. I checked further back, and missing IDs aren’t uncommon. People spell names wrong, or enter in duplicates; it happens. Don’t read too much into it.”
    “It’s him. No way we can recover the record?”
    “I tried. No go. Database doesn’t keep deleted records. You could always give the medical staff a grilling. The head coroner was on call for the commissioner and the couple. He’s good at his job, though, so try not to kill him.”
    He gave me a name—Alex Sturrock. I thanked Vincent—not out loud, of course—and turned to leave. He placed a hand on my shoulder for a second and spoke.
    “One last thing, K. Be careful what you dredge up. Make sure you can put it down again.”

#0895
    “I was right. It is one of those days. Someone spiked my breakfast with angel-rage , and before I know it I’m knee deep in flaming hospital, laughing my eyes out and reeking of petrol. Thank god I came down before the charges detonated. I’m not even in the right bloody city. Not today, not ever. “Everything looks strange here... Everything that isn’t charred rubble, that is. I’m used to that.
    “Speaking of things I’m used to, a military helicopter seems to be on its way here. I’m guessing that’s my exit cue. Over and out.”

7: Screwloose
     
    A week passed. Vincent disappeared as he always did, with Clive Jackson and his apartment getting consumed entirely by a vicious gas explosion. There was a funeral, with family. His sister even cried. Later that day, I sent him a message congratulating him on his convincing demise.
    “No more undercover for a while,” was the curt response. I didn’t know whether to trust it, but I had more important things to do than crack his disguise again. From my nest in the Helix I started marking down the life of Alexander Sturrock, while concurrently sending out feelers to track down leads on the murder-suicide.
    Ideally, they’d turn up with something. Practically? I wasn’t hopeful. This city had seen very little German violence, even during its 2012 heyday, and the modus operandi of this case just seemed totally out of sync with the sleeper cells. They were all about explosions and fiery displays of aggression, but this didn’t even make a newspaper.
    RailTech involvement seemed more likely, but they were good. They were really good. Looking into RailTech was like looking for a black spider in a dark box, in a cellar, at midnight. Except instead of a dark box, you’re actually holding an irate crocodile with high-tech night vision goggles and an appetite for faces. I had decided to keep my investigative distance from RailTech unless absolutely necessary after one of my contacts was found in several garbage bins.
    The most likely source of information was from the friends and family of the two deceased. I’d already scheduled time with some of them—nothing threatening—and I hoped to get something valuable from my recalcitrant human contact.
    The murder-suicide, no matter how puzzling, was not at the front of my mind. I finally had something tangible to attach to my object of interest—the mythical, mysterious boy who only I ever seemed to notice.
    I first saw the boy in 2007. I had just returned home from one of my more exotic cases, having successfully led the Russian ФСБ on a merry chase through Damascus. It was on a train where I saw him: cold eyes set in a tanned face, with a slash of white hair