Random Targets (5 page)

T
HREE MILES AWAY
from the crash scene the man who left the message under the bridge sat in front of his TV watching the rolling news on Sky.

The central heating in his tiny flat was on full blast, but he was still wearing his polo sweater and khaki coat. He hadn’t bothered to change after getting home. He was too cold and in too much of a hurry to see what they were saying about the carnage on the M27.

The details were only just beginning to emerge: five people
dead, two of them shot as they drove along the motorway in the rush hour. At least fifteen people injured. The motorway was still closed along a 15-mile stretch and would probably remain closed until well into tomorrow.

A senior police officer was interviewed. He said they believed that just one gunman was responsible and that he fired shots from the embankment or from a nearby bridge. Probably using a high-powered rifle. A massive search was underway and extra police had been drafted in from neighbouring forces.

As he listened he couldn’t resist a self-satisfied grin. It had, after all, been a resounding success and it had imbued him with a sense of power and fulfilment. He’d managed to kill five people with two shots. And it could not have been easier. Now the cops were running around like headless chickens wondering what the hell was going on.

He felt elated. There’s something deliciously impersonal about murdering total strangers at random. It heightened the thrill of the kill because there was no emotional attachment. No inner voice telling him that maybe this person didn’t deserve to die.

When he targeted the two cars he couldn’t even discern the faces of the drivers beyond the windscreens. Despite ten times magnification through a night-vision scope their heads and shoulders were still little more than blobs in the dark. But it was enough. After adjusting his aim to take account of the speed of the cars he’d let them have it.

Faceless people he didn’t know and couldn’t even see properly. The perfect victims.

He decided he’d had enough of the news and switched off the TV using the remote. By morning there would be a lot more of it. The victims would be named and people would be queuing up to condemn what had happened. He wondered if the cops would reveal what they’d found under the bridge. Maybe not since it might cause some panic.

He got up from his chair and threw off his jacket. He was hot now and could feel sweat trickling down his back. He went to the fridge and helped himself to a beer. German-made and cold
as ice. Just how he liked it.

Then he picked up his custom-made canvas rucksack and put it on the table that stood between the kitchenette and living area.

It was time to clean the rifle. He felt duty-bound to take care of it, especially after the outstanding way it had performed that evening. He unzipped the bag and took it out.

He had always been in awe of this particular weapon. The Arctic Warfare Super Magnum – better known as the L115A3 long-range sniper rifle. It was considered so deadly that the British army had dubbed it ‘The Silent Assassin’. It had a range of over a mile and had been used to kill scores of insurgents in Afghanistan.

The man ran his fingers over the folding walnut stock, then across the stainless steel barrel and finally over the state-of-the-art telescopic sight. In his humble opinion it was a work of art and he was proud of the fact that it was British made. In fact the manufacturers, Accuracy International, were based along the coast in Portsmouth – just a few miles from where he decided to launch his first attack. How gloriously ironic was that?

He kept the cleaning equipment in a kitchen drawer. He took it out and got to work. Fifteen minutes later the rifle was in pristine condition. Clear of prints and greasy smudges and looking as though it was brand new.

He loaded two more shells into the detachable magazine and put the rifle back in the bag.

It would stay there until tomorrow.

I
T TOOK ALL
night to clear the traffic that had built up behind the crash scene. For the hundreds of people trapped in their vehicles it was a ghastly ordeal.

They had to wait for some of the wrecks to be moved so that
a single lane could be opened up. But that didn’t happen until the SOC officers gave the go-ahead. They had to be sure that the area had been properly processed and that all potential evidence had been removed and catalogued. Then the road surface had to be cleared of debris and ash.

Temple stayed at the scene until 3 a.m., by which time his eyes burned and his muscles ached. He was tired and hungry and worried about Angel.

Before getting a lift home he sent out a message to his team that there’d be a full briefing in the office at 8 a.m. and he wanted everyone there.

His small house on the outskirts of the city was cold and lifeless. It was a typical bachelor pad which lacked character and felt sterile. Angel had been planning to improve things. When she moved in she was going to make the place warm and homely with new curtains, bright cushions and more pictures. He was looking forward to it.

The first thing he did was blast a ready meal in the microwave. Then he picked at it as he read through his notes. At one point he closed his eyes while he thought about what questions to raise at the briefing.

The next thing he knew he was coming awake with a start. He checked his watch and saw that he’d slept for two hours. He showered and shaved and put on fresh clothes. White shirt, blue suit, red tie. Smarter than usual because he knew he’d be expected to front a press conference at some point during the day. Then he called a taxi, as his own car was still at the station. It arrived just as dawn was breaking. It looked like it was going to be another gloomy day. Dark clouds were gathered like gargoyles above the city.

On the way to the hospital he got the driver to stop outside a newsagents so he could buy some newspapers.

The headlines screamed at him.

Carnage on the M27.

Rush Hour Murder.

Two drivers shot by motorway sniper.

It was pretty alarming stuff even without the line about the
scribbled warning under the bridge. All the reports went into graphic detail with vivid descriptions of what had happened. There were quotes from motorists who had seen the pile-up and from emergency personnel who had to deal with the immediate aftermath.

Temple read through all the stories and there was nothing in them he didn’t already know. Except for a short paragraph that appeared on page two of the
Daily Mail.

One woman told our reporter she saw a man acting suspiciously close to where the shootings happened. He was apparently standing on a bridge looking down on the traffic when she drove past.

Temple immediately called the office and asked the detective who answered if he knew about the woman. He didn’t, but he said that was probably because most of the team hadn’t yet got back with their reports.

‘Chase it up then,’ Temple said. ‘If she hasn’t already given us a statement then contact the newspaper. We need to talk to her right away.’

At the hospital Temple was greeted by a different nurse. Her name was Pritchard. Thirtyish, with tied-back dark hair and a small, oval face.

She told him that Angel had had a comfortable night and had spent it in a private room. She’d woken earlier and had responded to questions. A doctor had spoken to her briefly and told her about her injuries.

‘She remembers some of what happened,’ the nurse said. ‘And that’s a good sign. With head trauma cases memories often get lost or fractured.’

‘Is she awake now?’ he said.

‘She is, but maybe not for long. We’ve had to give her another sedative.’

He entered the room nervously. As soon as he saw Angel his heart leapt into his mouth. She was still on her back, rigged up to an array of cables and computers. But her pillows were raised and the oxygen mask had been removed.

The nurse accompanied him to her bedside and then
retreated. He looked down at Angel, his body trembling. She seemed to be sleeping peacefully. Her breathing was shallow but wheezy and sounded painful. The skin beneath her eyes was tinged purple. Her hands were resting on her chest and one was still attached to a slim white continuous pulse monitor. He grasped the other and squeezed it gently.

To his surprise her eyes flickered open. She moved her head slightly to look up at him and a smile touched her lips. He felt the emotion well up inside him and for several moments he couldn’t speak.

‘Where’s my kiss?’ she murmured.

He was overcome by a wave of joy and relief. This was something he hadn’t expected and he could barely believe it. He leaned over and gave her a soft kiss on the mouth. He tasted the bitter tang of medicine.

‘How are you feeling?’ His throat was dry and the words rasped out.

She swallowed and it seemed to cause her some difficulty.

‘My head hurts,’ she said, her voice low and scratchy.

‘Have you told the nurse?’

‘She gave me something, but it still hurts.’

‘You need to give it time to work,’ he said.

He brushed his fingers across her cheek. Her skin felt smooth and supple.

‘How much do you remember?’ he asked.

She blinked a couple of times and swallowed again.

‘I was driving home,’ she said. ‘Suddenly everything came to a stop and I hit the car in front. Then I remember waking up in the ambulance. That’s all.’

‘Did the doctor tell you about the crash?’

‘No. But I imagine it was a bad one.’

‘You were very lucky.’

‘So what happened?’ she asked.

The question hung in the air for several seconds and she obviously picked up on his hesitation.

‘I’ll find out soon enough,’ she said.

So he told her, holding nothing back. And he watched as her
face registered shock and disbelief.

‘I’m in charge of the case for the time being,’ he said. ‘That’s why I wasn’t here most of the night. I knew I’d only be in the way. So I went back to the scene.’

He realized he sounded sheepish and it compounded his sense of guilt.

Angel must have picked up on it because she said, ‘There’s no need to explain. I know how much you hate hanging around hospitals. And I know you’ll be taking this case personally. So have you got any theories yet? Why would anyone do such a thing?’

‘It’s anybody’s guess at this stage,’ he said. ‘There’s a lot of speculation, but nothing definite.’

‘The motorway was busy,’ she said. ‘Busier than usual.’

‘That’s almost certainly why the killer chose to strike at that time,’ Temple said. ‘Rush hour. People driving fast because they were eager to get home. And in the dark it would have been virtually impossible to see anything on the embankment.’

Angel started to cough and the pain con torted her features. Temple swallowed and felt his heart flutter.

‘Are you all right?’ he said. ‘Do you want some water?’

She shook her head and clenched her teeth.

‘I’m just really tired.’

‘I’m not surprised,’ he said. ‘You need plenty of rest.’

She took a breath and closed her eyes.

‘I know I’m lucky to be alive,’ she said. ‘But what if I can’t do my job anymore? What happens then?’

‘Don’t be silly. You’ll get better. Injuries to the lungs and ribs are pretty common and easily treated.’

‘But the doctor said they don’t know for certain if the blow to the head has caused any permanent damage.’

‘I’m sure that if it had it would have shown up on the scan. So don’t worry.’

‘I can’t help it,’ she said. ‘I’ve got my heart set on a new career in forensics. If my head’s fucked up then so is my future.’

Temple told her she was worrying unnecessarily and he was confident she would make a full recovery. Then he went on to
say that he would take time off work to be with her after she was discharged.

But after a while he realized that he was speaking to himself. Angel was fast asleep.

T
HE OPEN-PLAN OFFICE
of the Major Investigations Team was now being referred to as the incident room. Overnight more phones and computer equipment had been moved in along with TV monitors, fax machines and printers.

It was also packed to the rafters for the morning briefing. Every available detective had been summoned and all leave cancelled.

A smartly dressed DI named Kev Slater introduced himself to Temple. He was the officer dispatched from London by the Anti-Terrorism Command to find out first-hand what was going on. He explained that Hampshire police were still in charge of the investigation, but his team were on standby to take over if necessary.

‘There’ll be no need for us to get involved if this is a one-off crime committed by some lone psychopath,’ he said. ‘But if the evidence starts pointing towards a terrorist, or if there are more attacks, then we’ll have to take over.’

‘Well, let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,’ Temple said.

At 8 a.m. Temple stood at one end of the room next to Chief Superintendent Beresford. The atmosphere was electric despite the fact that everyone was tired. There was also an air of fearful apprehension. Very few officers had got any sleep and some had only just returned from the motorway. They’d all seen the dramatic images and heard the interviews with tearful survivors. Everyone knew that this case was going to dominate their lives for the foreseeable future.

Temple kicked off with an update on Angel. There was
spontaneous applause when he said she was conscious and talking. The open display of affection towards her touched him and he felt a lump rise in his throat. He had to cough to clear it before carrying on.

Then it was down to business. He started by introducing DI Slater and explaining why he had travelled down from London.

‘If and when his lot take over I’ll let you all know,’ he said. ‘In the meantime we’re running the investigation from here and everyone continues to report to me.’

He then referred to the video footage they’d just obtained from the motorway traffic centre. One of its cameras had actually recorded the pile-up. Some of the team had already viewed the sequence, but most hadn’t. The tape rolled and there was silence as a grainy image of the busy motorway appeared on the various TV monitors around the room. But all it showed was a string of tiny lights moving at speed in the dark. Then after a few seconds one of the vehicles lost control and veered across the lanes. Another vehicle then appeared to jack-knife and in the blink of an eye all the lights were bunching up. It was both chilling and surreal.

But there were no helpful details on the tape. The embankments either side of the road were blacked out and the camera was too far away to show up something as small as a muzzle flash.

Temple then went through the headline points. The postmortems would be carried out on all the victims later that day. Their relatives had been informed. So far no connection had emerged between the man and woman who had been shot.

Three of the fifteen people injured were still in a serious but stable condition, including Angel. One man had yet to regain consciousness, but the hospital was hopeful that he would pull through. A section of the motorway was still closed but the traffic from last night had been cleared. Forensic technicians from the Scientific Services Department were still at the scene looking for evidence. So far there was no evidence to suggest any more than two shots had been fired.

Temple mentioned the warning that was spray-painted under
the bridge and said he did not want to go public with it just yet.

‘But we have to take it seriously,’ he said. ‘There’s no question it was put there by the sniper and we have to assume it’s not an idle threat.’

He then invited DS Vaughan to provide a report on the evidence gathered at the scene. The detective had been home to put on a new suit and scrub himself up. But he still looked tired and dishevelled.

‘Let’s start with the bullets,’ Vaughan said. ‘We found two shell casings close to the bridge. We also managed to retrieve the shells that killed the two victims. They’re clean of prints, unfortunately. According to ballistics they were fired from the same weapon and they’re .338 Lapua Magnums, which are made for long-range rifles.’

‘Does that mean we’re looking for a professional shooter?’ someone asked.

Vaughan nodded. ‘Most probably. Those shells are used mainly by big game hunters and military snipers, including those serving in the British army.’

‘Our man is no amateur,’ Temple said. ‘I don’t think for one second he just fired into the traffic hoping to hit someone. He got those two drivers in his sight before squeezing the trigger. It would have required a high degree of skill considering they were moving targets and it was dark.’

‘We’ve only found two shells and so far no other bullet holes have turned up on any of the damaged vehicles,’ Vaughan said.

‘Which tells us the guy showed some restraint,’ Temple pointed out. ‘He did just enough to cause a major collision. He didn’t keep shooting just for the sake of it. And he probably took to his heels even before the vehicles came to a stop.’

Vaughan then stepped up to a large whiteboard on which he had prepared a diagram of the crime scene; it showed the motorway and the sniper’s position in front of the bridge. It also reflected their understanding that he’d shot at the cars when they were about a hundred yards from him.

‘He must have picked the cars at random,’ Vaughan said. ‘Two shots in quick succession. He was shielded from the traffic
by the bushes.’

‘We need to check gun clubs and the military,’ Temple said. ‘If our guy is a professional marksman then he might be on someone’s radar.’

Vaughan then referred to the paucity of solid evidence. There’d be none of the killer’s DNA on the victims. And there was almost certainly no connection between them and the killer. All they had were a few broken branches and a couple of shoe prints.

‘The shoe prints are a size ten and suggest a guy of average height and weight,’ Vaughan said. ‘We’ll be getting a plaster mould of at least one of them.’

He referred to the message under the bridge. It had been freshly painted using the kind used to spray cars which was widely available across the UK. No cans had been found at the scene.

‘It’s obvious he took his time with the message,’ Vaughan said. ‘It doesn’t look as though he rushed it. The letters and numbers have been carefully sprayed on and each one is about eight inches high and five inches across. We have to assume that he chose to launch his attack from where he did partly because he was able to leave a message like that under the bridge.’

DC Marsh then reported on the wider search and the house to house inquiries.

‘The search teams haven’t found anything of interest,’ she said. ‘Nobody living nearby heard shots or saw anyone running away, but there is one glimmer of hope – a woman who drove across the bridge shortly before the shootings did come forward to report a possible sighting.’

Temple had already been briefed on the woman who’d been mentioned in the newspaper. In fact they’d already been in contact with her by phone and Temple wanted to see her himself later in the morning when he returned to the scene.

The briefing lasted another half-hour and a whole range of issues was discussed. Beresford then said he would liaise with the Chief Constable and the Anti-Terrorism Command to find out how they wanted to play it. He would also talk to the traffic
police and Highways Agency to see if anything could be done to improve security along the county’s motorways. Everyone knew, though, that they barely had the resources to monitor what was happening
on
the roads let alone what was going on either side of them.

Detectives were assigned various tasks from checking out CCTV footage on nearby roads to collating more information on the type of rifle that had been used. Those who’d been up all night were told to go home and get some sleep.

Before the meeting wrapped up, Temple said, ‘What little evidence we have suggests we’re looking for a guy who’s proficient in the use of a high-calibre rifle. We don’t know at this stage if he’s a terrorist working with a group or a lone psychopath who’s decided to embark on a killing spree. What we do know is that he’s caused a lot of damage with very little effort. And he’s told us that he intends to do it again.

‘If he carries out his threat then God help us. I can envisage a situation where people are afraid to use the motorways, leading to major disruption. This may be his objective.

‘So it’s our job to find this bastard before he carries out another shooting. Next time he might decide to fire more than two shots and the death toll could be much higher.’

On that grim note Temple ended the meeting and headed downstairs.

It was time to face the media.