Stealth

Table of Contents

Previous Titles in this series by Margaret Duffy

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Aftermath

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

A HANGING MATTER

DEAD TROUBLE

SO HORRIBLE A PLACE

TAINTED GROUND *

COBWEB *

BLOOD SUBSTITUTE *

SOUVENIRS OF MURDER *

CORPSE IN WAITING *

RAT POISON *

STEALTH *

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First published in Great Britain and the USA 2012 by

SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of

9–15 High Street, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM1 1DF.

This eBook edition first published in 2012 by Severn Digital an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited

Copyright © 2012 by Margaret Duffy.

The right of Margaret Duffy to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved.

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

Duffy, Margaret.

Stealth.

1. Langley, Ingrid (Fictitious character)--Fiction.

2. Gillard, Patrick (Fictitious character)--Fiction.

3. Detective and mystery stories.

I. Title

823.9'14-dc23

ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-321-1 (epub)

ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-8210-3 (cased)

Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.

This ebook produced by

Palimpsest Book Production Limited,

Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland.

I wish to thank Police Constable Malcolm Webley and his colleagues at
Manvers Street Police Station in Bath for their help and advice.
Any errors I have made with regard to police matters are mine alone
and show I wasn't listening.

Y
esterday, seemingly, he had killed – murdered – three men. At least, it seemed like yesterday – the memory was still searing into his brain like acid, a drop at a time – but in truth it had happened five months and six days ago. If Patrick Gillard closed his eyes he could still see the barn, one of several semi-ruined buildings near the old Sussex farmhouse, the yard in front of it scattered with pieces of rusting farm machinery and rubbish; old plastic feed bags and filthy straw blowing from one corner to another and then back again as the strong breeze eddied around.

Night had come and, thirst tearing at his throat, he had waited for them in the darkness. Two – another two – were dead already in the house, and he knew that could be described as self-defence. Young, strong, stupid, carrying hand guns, their fingers heavily armoured with rings, they had been ordered to put their guns aside and help the gang leader's minder, Murphy, beat the interloper to death. No one had known about his knife, no one had known that knives could kill so quickly, easily and silently. The two had died.

After he had escaped outside to the barn they – the gang leader Northwood and Murphy – had left him alone to become hungry and thirsty before they began to wear him down. There was a water butt at the bottom of the ramshackled wooden stairs to the loft but it stank and he had not dared to drink from it, catching just a few drops of water as rain dripped through the roof. So he had waited up in the hayloft for the attacks to come. In all, he had reckoned, there were around thirty of the gang remaining.

For the next forty-eight hours the gang had taken it in turns to come in rushes of twos and threes and to begin with he had managed to beat them off. There had then been a pause, possibly while most of those indoors had slept off their main occupation: heavy drinking, during which lull reluctant ‘volunteers' had been sent out, one at a time, to watch him, loitering nervously in the yard, smoking, drinking, ordered to report any movement, signs of weakness or attempts to escape.

He had killed them, three of them, when it had got dark again. Special Forces training had made it easy. Stealth. They had been slightly drunk, probably drug addicts, as helpless to a professional like himself as the cardboard cut-outs on the indoor firing range where he did some of his training. But he was a policeman now, no longer an undercover soldier. Perhaps he should not have tried to lessen the odds for this had not been a war and they had not been his enemies in the way he used to understand the term.

Murder?

Five months later

C
annes was cold. Not just cold, also grey, dreary and windy; I huddled deeper into my fleecy jacket and told myself it was stupid to expect anything different as the Mediterranean has winters too. Grumpily, I surveyed one of the marinas, La Panteiro, where expensive pleasure boats were moored, no doubt looked after by skeleton crews while their owners lounged in warmer climes. I had been down for a closer look and found myself profoundly unimpressed by vessels one could only describe as ‘plastic', inhabited by bored, hostile-looking people with fake tans, no doubt miserable because they had to stay in this place as they were paid to do so.

Although working part-time as a consultant for SOCA, the Serious Organised Crime Agency, my husband Patrick being officially an adviser, my main activity is that of author. I write crime novels with a smattering of romance under my own name, Ingrid Langley – Langley is my maiden name – and was in the South of France to attend an international writers' festival.

Yes, he's
officially
an adviser. In truth, though, this retired lieutenant colonel was engaged because of his service in Special Forces, subsequent experience with national security and what someone once described as an ability to get the opposition shit-scared. Being a student of the human condition I am mostly a consultant to
him
,
a little feminine insight sometimes being required, and he, mostly smilingly, refers to me as his oracle.

Our names are still on several terrorist hit lists and for this reason Patrick has clearance to be armed with a Glock 17, which he carries in a shoulder harness. When things get really difficult I act as back-up with the Smith and Wesson he was issued with when working for D12, a department of MI5. They either forgot about it, which seems highly unlikely, or its continuing presence is a result of what I can only call a little smoke and mirrors activity on the part of the one-time official holder.

The stiff breeze was increasing; even the water inside the harbour wall was spiky with small, choppy waves, and I moved to leave my vantage point. Then paused, my eye caught by a vessel I had not previously noticed, probably because it was moored between two larger ones. It was either dark grey or black in colour and had the kind of lines that reminded me of a stealth bomber or fighter aircraft that are designed to be virtually invisible to radar. Anything more in contrast to the other watercraft was hard to imagine.

I was staying at the hotel,
Les Fleurs
, on the Boulevard de la Croisette, right on the sea front, where the two-day festival was due to take place. This wedding cake-style edifice had recently undergone complete renovation to restore its rococo-style splendour and because it was off-season and workmen were finishing some of the rooms on the second floor the rates had been significantly reduced to lure the organizers of the festival. Otherwise, I gathered, it was a playground only for the very rich.

My room was on the fourth floor and had sea views. The only indication that building work was still being undertaken were the distant and muted sounds of drilling and banging during working hours, plus the presence of a couple of vans I had noticed parked in a small side street. I wandered over to the window, for some reason still thinking about the ‘stealth' boat. It was impossible to see that particular marina from here as the view of it was blocked by the casino and adjacent buildings. I turned away and forgot about it.

The festival, small by the usual international standards – described cruelly by Patrick, but perhaps, if I am honest, more accurately, as ‘a two-day drunken bash' – did not start until the following morning. The programme indicated that there would be an opening talk by a Norwegian author who had been showered with any number of literary prizes. There would then be a coffee break before the gathering split into groups, when panels of experts – publishers, agents and authors – would debate various subjects and then perhaps answer questions from the audience. This session lasted until lunch. I had volunteered for one of these. There were also readings and presentations by authors, workshops and, on the last evening, what was described as a ‘bookish banquet', whatever the hell that was. Oddly, from what I had seen and heard so far, not many of the French authors one might expect to attend seemed to have yet arrived.

Patrick and I, when not working for SOCA – although my contribution is very modest time-wise – cannot normally attend this kind of gathering as we have a family: three children of our own, Justin, Victoria and baby Mark, and two adopted, Patrick's late brother Larry's children, Matthew and Katie. Even with the essential help of a nanny and Patrick's parents, John and Elspeth, who live in an annex at the rectory we bought in Somerset when the diocese was going to sell it – John is rector of the village – everything non-essential that we might like to do has to be deferred or simply abandoned. The only long break we get is a three-week summer holiday when we usually go abroad for part of the time and take Matthew and Katie, who are quite a bit older than our own children, with us.

However, this four-day trip to France was mostly work of both kinds: a rare outing for the author with a little snooping for SOCA on the side. Not to mention the companionship of a very low-key minder.

The next day dawned wet and just as chilly and drear, the sea as grey as the English Channel, seagulls standing disconsolately on the branches of the trees in a small park near the beach with little prospect of crumbs from tourists' picnics. It was a good day to be indoors.

The previous evening I had set out to dine alone, ostensibly with a book but in fact keeping a watchful eye for anyone I recognized. I already knew that my agent, Berkley Morton, was not planning to attend: ‘The South of France is
ghastly
in March, darling. Only oranges and lemons to look at'. As usual, he was right: trees were loaded with fruit in people's gardens. He must have forgotten about the mimosa in flower on all the hillsides which was gorgeous, its scent nostalgic, reminding me of the bunches my father used to bring home when I was a teenager. For me, that is – my mother hated the little fluffy pompoms, saying they made a mess.

The dining room had gradually filled. A few people I recognized: a couple of romantic suspense authors, a retired eminent professor of forensic pathology who now writes historical crime novels, Alan, my one-time agent, who I knew had been severely ill, and two or three fiction editors from library publishers who were huddled together, presumably comparing notes. Then, when I was having coffee there was the arrival of a man with greying, wavy black hair, who had more than a sniff of the dark side about him and who was still a hell of a lot thinner than he ought to be. I had not told him where I would be sitting on the very good grounds that I had not known in advance, but after looking around as if seeking a spare table – there were actually several – he had come over to mine.