The Legacy (24 page)

Chapter 46

Richards was in London having driven up early that evening. After he'd finished his morning coffee at the Ring O'Bells, he'd spent a few hours walking in the hills around the village. He had chosen his route carefully to ensure that he could see the house at all times but it had been extremely quiet. Once the blond man and the girl had left, presumably for the hospital, there had been no noticeable activity. After his walk, he'd taken the opportunity to fit a tracking device to the Range Rover and then, satisfied that there was little to be gained by watching an empty house, he'd headed for London. He wanted to see the contact who was trying to identify the blond man for him and he also needed to pick up some additional equipment, which included a sniper rifle, that he now felt he might need. But, though both of these were important, the main reason that he'd decided to return to London was a text he'd received from his girlfriend. Her husband had been called away at short notice to attend an urgent diplomatic meeting over in Dublin. This meant that she was free for the night and, seeing an unexpected opportunity, she'd sent Richards a text suggesting that she should come and spend it with him. He'd agreed readily.

When he arrived in London, he'd gone straight to the contact's house. The contact had quickly summarised what he had discovered: ‘His name is Harry Parker. He's ex-British Army. Gurkha. First rate linguist. Did three tours in Afghan, one with a special unit of some sort. He left the Army about three years ago. Now lives in Nepal and works in development as a freelance contractor. He's been shot a few times and got that nasty scar in Somalia earlier this year.' The contact had given Richards a thin file. It contained photographs of Parker and a brief resume of everything he'd uncovered. Richards had scanned the notes, asked a few questions and then, eager to get away, had said that he would call if he had any further questions. So far he hadn't phoned.

He'd got back to his flat just before the girl arrived. They'd had fun. They hadn't seen each other for a week or so and their enthusiasm lasted for several hours. She was now asleep in his bed and he was lying in the bath thinking through what his next move should be. His contact had described Parker as a ‘capable bloke'. He'd also said that Parker was sought after by the development agencies, particularly when they needed something done quickly in an environment that was likely to be hostile. From the notes in the file it was obvious that Parker had few reservations about killing his fellow man. He'd been responsible for several deaths in Afghanistan whilst serving in the Army as well as in Somalia whilst working for a development agency. ‘Not one to under-estimate,' Richards said to himself. The more he thought about Parker, the more he realised that making the artist's death look like an accident might be asking too much. ‘As long as she dies and as long as her death doesn't lead the police to me or to Highworth, maybe it doesn't need to look like an accident after all,' he thought to himself as the germ of an idea started to take root. ‘Yes, it might work,' he said to himself, smiling as he noticed the girl standing naked in the doorway.

‘Room for one more?' she asked, holding up two glasses of champagne.

‘Of course,' he replied, admiring the firmness of her body as she walked slowly towards him. She handed him one of the glasses as he sat up to make room for her.

‘To diplomatic conferences in Dublin,' she said, raising her glass to his as she stepped into the bath. ‘May they hold many more!'

Chapter 47

Harry's alarm went off at five thirty am. He showered, dressed and went downstairs to make coffee. Boot was snoring gently in his basket and Harry tiptoed around him to avoid waking him up. He put the kettle on and went down into the cellar whilst it boiled. Both the Gurkhas were asleep. Their kit was neatly laid out. Harry noticed that both had weapons within easy reach of their beds and assumed that they also had pistols under the covers with them. He was grateful to both of them for helping him out. He'd sent the sketch that Camilla had drawn to some ex-Army friends in London but, so far, he had heard nothing. He had no idea whether the person trying to kill Camilla was a professional assassin or just some hired yob from London. Of the two, he was assuming the former, hence the need for the Gurkhas, at least until he could be sure.

He heard the kettle whistle and went back upstairs. Boot opened one eye as he heard Harry searching the cupboards to find the cafetiere. Eventually he found it. Reassured that all was well in the world, Boot closed his eye and went back to sleep. Harry made the coffee and poured it into a thermos mug to take with him in the car. He was looking forward to seeing Lucy. He left the house, got into the Range Rover and, as quietly as he could, drove down towards the main road. It was still dark and the village was quiet. The few street lights cast just enough light for Harry to see a fox pad across the village green. It disappeared down a track that ran along the side of the Ring O'Bells and down towards the stream that he had crossed with Ellie on their run.

Harry switched his headlights to main beam as he left the village and started to climb the hill towards the Moretonhampstead road. There was no other traffic and very little ambient light. His headlights illuminated a badger crossing the road ahead of him. He slowed until it reached the other side, disappearing into the undergrowth. Early morning was, he felt, a magical time of day. The world seemed to belong to animals, not people. As a soldier, he'd come to prefer operating at night. It was safer, particularly for movement. Though night vision goggles enabled their wearer to see in the dark, their field of view was restricted and, unless they were pointed directly at you, you were unlikely to be seen. An owl flew across the road in front of him. It looked as though it had a small rodent in its beak. ‘Off to feed its young,' Harry said to himself.

Moretonhampstead was starting to wake up as he drove into it. A small and now thriving town, he'd read somewhere that there had been a settlement here since 700ad. He saw a few lights starting to appear in the windows of the houses lining the streets. He pulled up outside the newsagents and went inside to buy cigarettes. It had just opened. A man was sorting out the newly arrived newspapers, undoing the bundles that they had been delivered in and putting the papers on racks in the shop's entrance.

‘Morning,' said the man cheerfully, ‘seen any snow yet?'

Harry had listened to the weather forecast as he'd dressed. ‘Not yet,' he replied, ‘but I'm sure it's on its way!' The man smiled. Harry asked for a packet of Camel cigarettes. He realised that he had started smoking regularly again but, given the circumstances, he decided not to be too hard on himself. ‘I'll stop when I get back to Nepal,' he thought to himself, paying the man before going back to his car. He lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply as the car left Moretonhampstead. The smoke caught at the back of his throat. It reminded him of early mornings in Afghanistan, sitting outside the operations room with a coffee and a cigarette, scanning intelligence reports as the sun started to rise above the mountains far on the horizon. There was more traffic on the roads as he joined the Devon Expressway for the run North to the airport. He switched on the radio and turned it to Radio 4. The
Today
programme was just starting. He listened as John Humphries - the main presenter - gave a lucid summary of a speech the Prime Minister had given the previous day. Under pressure from the opposition, the Prime Minister had been defending his Government's decision not to impose further regulation on the financial sector. Harry listened with half an ear. He was more concerned about how Lucy would react when she saw him. He realised now that this is what had created his sudden urge to smoke. He decided to play it cool and to let her set the pace. It felt slightly odd being nervous and he had to admit that he hadn't felt like this for years. Normally confident and self-assured, he felt like a sixth former about to collect the prettiest girl in the school for their first date!

Harry arrived at the airport just as Lucy's plane was coming in to land. He parked and went to wait in the arrivals hall. Ten minutes later, Lucy came through the double doors that screened the customs area from the waiting masses. He had to admit that she looked great. Skinny jeans, blue Converse All Stars, close fitting pink fleece and her trademark baseball hat. Her hair was pulled back and her pony tail poked out through the back of the hat. Her face lit up as she recognised him. Isobel was a great friend but Harry exuded such confidence and inner strength that she could feel the stresses and strains of the last few days starting to subside as she walked towards him. Even though she hardly knew him, she felt sure that if anybody could help her unravel her father's death, it would be Harry.

‘Welcome to Devon,' said Harry, putting his arms around her. He wasn't sure what to do next, whether to peck her cheek or kiss her on the lips but the decision was made for him as Lucy's mouth closed over his.

‘God, it's good to see you Harry,' she said, stepping back to look at him. ‘We've had a hell of a time in Edinburgh and you won't believe what I've found out about my Dad.'

‘I can't wait to hear about it,' replied Harry, surprised but delighted by Lucy's obvious pleasure at seeing him. He took her bag. ‘Let's get in the car and I'll take you for breakfast in Ashburton so you can tell me all about it.'

Lucy linked her arm through his as he led the way to the Range Rover. Its lights flicked on as he pressed the remote control.

‘Very nice,' said Lucy. ‘Were you feeling particularly rich when you hired this?'

‘No,' replied Harry, ‘I wanted a four wheel drive for Dartmoor and this was pretty much all they had. But it is nice and a bit of luxury now and again is good for the soul. It reminds me of why I work!'

Harry put Lucy's bag in the boot and they climbed into the car. It was still warm from the journey to the airport. ‘So,' said Harry, ‘tell me all about what's been happening and what you've found out about your Dad.'

‘Well,' said Lucy, ‘it turns out there was a lot more to him than met the eye. Give me one of your cigarettes and I'll tell you more.'

Harry fished the packet of Camels out of his pocket and handed them and his lighter to Lucy. She lit one for each of them and then started to tell him what had happened since they last met. She went into as much detail as she could remember about her discussions with her father's solicitor and his financial advisor. She told him about the letter and her father's confession that he had spent the last few years killing people for money. When she finished, she was crying quietly, the tears rolling down her face.

Harry reached across and squeezed her hand. ‘Christ, Lucy,' he said, ‘I can see why you're upset. It's almost unbelievable. So your Dad was an upmarket hitman and not a part time security guard as you thought. Quite a shock I should think.'

‘Yes, a real shock,' she replied, drying her eyes. ‘But the oddest thing is that, in a way, I'm rather proud of him. It always seemed so sad to me to imagine him manning the door at some concert, turning away drunks with his ex-Army mates. But I am shocked at how much he managed to make. You'd never have guessed given the way he lived.'

‘Really?' queried Harry, not wanting to appear too inquisitive.

‘Really,' replied Lucy. ‘His legal estate totals just over four and a half million pounds. There's three and a half million in UK bank accounts, about eight hundred thousand in paintings and a flat worth just over three hundred thousand. There's also five and a half million in the offshore accounts I mentioned. All in all, I think he was worth just short of ten million pounds. McLeod said he was planning to retire when he got to the ten million mark. It seems such a shame that he was killed having got within spitting distance of his magic retirement figure. I'd much rather he was here now working out how to spend it all, ideally with Kate.'

‘It's such a shame but ten million's a lot of money to retire on. He could have retired much earlier. I wonder if he had a particular plan that required so much money,' said Harry.

‘I've been wondering that as well,' replied Lucy. ‘I know he'd intended to buy a cottage with Kate up in Skye and I suspect he was also planning to buy something abroad, somewhere he could use his offshore money without arousing suspicion but I've no idea where.'

‘What will you do with it all?' asked Harry.

‘I'm not sure yet. I'll have to pay death duties on the legal estate and that'll take a fair chunk of the money but it'll still leave me with a few million more than I had a month ago. As for the offshore accounts, I really don't know. I might buy something abroad and spend part of the year there.'

‘There's no rush to decide,' said Harry. ‘You can take as long as you like to work out what you want to do with your newfound wealth.'

‘You're right. I suspect it'll take me a while to get used to not having to count every penny,' replied Lucy. ‘I've been a post graduate student on a small research grant for so long that I won't feel comfortable going on a spending spree, particularly as I didn't earn the money.'

‘What about the chap your Dad said might try and kill him?' asked Harry.

‘It's funny,' said Lucy. ‘My Dad was a very careful man and he was obviously worried that something might be wrong before he met the man he called Richards. Apparently, meetings with Richards were usually planned well in advance. I suppose they had to be given my Dad was away a lot. Dad's sixth sense was extremely well developed and the short notice nature of this last meeting clearly set it tingling, warning him that something was not right. The problem I've got is that if I take the name to the police, I'll pretty much have to admit that Dad was killing people and I'm not sure whether I want to do that. It's not about the money - which I suspect they would want to confiscate - but more about his reputation. It would eventually find its way into the papers and I really don't want that.'

‘What else have you got on this Richards chap?' asked Harry.

‘Dad said he was in the Army and definitely ex-Special Forces. According to Dad's letter, he'd had to leave under something of a cloud, though Dad didn't say what sort of cloud.'

‘OK,' replied Harry, clearly intrigued. ‘I might be able to help. I've still got some friends in the SF world. I'll ask them what they know about anyone called Richards who might have had to leave rather suddenly and we'll see what they come back with.'

A few minutes later, they arrived in Ashburton. It was still early but already the car park was filling up. Harry found a space near the bookshop that Sarah worked in. It looked as if it was just opening for the day. The door was open and several small trestle tables were in the process of being set up in front of the shop to display the older and less valuable books that the owner clearly hoped would draw customers inside. Lucy paused and looked through the window.

‘I'd love to have a look round later this week if we have time,' she said to Harry. She noticed Harry's quizzical look. ‘I'm an academic remember. I love books!'

‘Of course. I'd almost forgotten. When do you find out about your PhD?'

‘Next week. I phoned up the University yesterday and they confirmed that the results would be announced next Monday or Tuesday. I'm not that worried but it would be good to know for sure that I don't have to re-write any of my thesis.'

‘What subject did you do it on again?' asked Harry.

‘The securitisation of development aid in Sub-Saharan Africa,' replied Lucy, pleased that Harry was interested.

‘And what was your conclusion?' he asked. He was genuinely intrigued having worked on a number of development projects in that part of the world.

‘That the rhetoric is there in terms of the high level strategies produced by Western governments but that, on the ground, it's business as usual. There's little evidence to suggest that the increased money being directed at conflict affected and fragile states is making any difference in terms of the west's security. The discourse is persuasive but nothing has changed in terms of what the NGOs are actually doing. It's all a bit depressing really. Western Governments are telling their people that they need to spend more money in developing countries and people support it because they think it will make them safer. But unless the NGOs change what they are doing and focus on building institutional capacity rather than on alleviating poverty, there's little prospect of any enduring improvement in the west's security.'

‘You care about this don't you?' asked Harry.

‘Yes, I do,' Lucy replied. ‘I care about it because we spend billions on development aid but there seems to be no real mechanism for holding governments to account. The west is skint. In spite of this, Western governments remain virtually unchallenged in the way they spend their development aid.'

‘Let's eat here,' said Harry, stopping outside one of Ashburton's many small cafes and restaurants. ‘They do a mean fried breakfast and the coffee is superb.'

They went in and found a table in the window so they could watch the town waking up. ‘This reminds me of Durham,' said Lucy. ‘Isobel and I used to spend hours sitting in a coffee shop near Elvet Bridge watching the world go by. It's one of my favourite pastimes.'