I checked my exits: there was only the front door. It looked like they were working on a fire exit to the rear of the building, but meantime they’d left all their ladders and scaffolding there, effectively barricading the door. So when I left, I’d have to leave through the front door. But that didn’t worry me. I’ve found that just as attack is the best form of defence, so boldness can be the best form of disguise. It’s the person slinking away who looks suspicious, not the one walking towards you. Besides, attention was going to be elsewhere, wasn’t it?
The window was fine. There was some ineffective double glazing, which could be slid open, and behind which lay the original sash-window. I unscrewed the window lock and tried opening it. The pulleys stuck for a moment, their ropes crusted with white paint, and then they gave with an audible squeak and the window lifted an inch. With more effort, I opened it a second and then a third inch. This wasn’t ideal. It meant the telescopic sight would be pointing through the glass, while the muzzle would be stuck into fresh air. But I’d carried out an assassination before under near-identical conditions. To be honest, I could probably have forced the window open a bit further, but I think I was looking for just a little challenge.
I peered out. No one was looking back at me. I couldn’t see anyone in the shops over the road, and no one staring from the hotel windows further along. In fact, some of the shops looked like they were closing for the day. My watch said 5.25. Yes, some of them, most of them, would close at 5.30. The tourists and visitors at the Craigmead Hotel wouldn’t be in their rooms, they’d still be out enjoying the summer weather. By six o‘clock, the street would be dead. I only had to wait.
I brought the case upstairs and opened it. I couldn’t find a chair, but there was a wooden crate which I upended. It seemed strong enough, so I placed it by the window and sat on it. The PM lay on the floor in front of me, along with two bullets. I sat there thinking about cartridges. You wouldn’t think something so small and so fixed in its purpose could be quite so complex. Straight or bottleneck? Belted, rimmed, semi-rimmed, rimless or rebated? Centre-fire or rim-fire? Then there was the primer compound. I knew that Max mixed his own compound using lead styphnate, antimony sulphide and barium nitrate, but in a ratio he kept to himself. I picked up one of the bullets by its base and tip. What, I wondered, is it like to be shot? I knew the answer in forensic terms. I knew the kinds of entrance and exit wounds left by different guns at different ranges and using different ammunition. I had to know this sort of thing, so I could determine each individual hit. Some snipers go for the head shot; some of them call it a ‘JFK’. Not me.
I go for the heart.
What else did I think about in that room, as the traffic moved past like the dull soothing roll of waves on a shore? I didn’t think about anything else. I emptied my mind. I could have been in a trance, had anyone seen me. I let my shoulders slump, my head fall forward, my jaw muscles relax. I kept my fingers spread wide, not clenched. And with my eyes slightly out of focus, I watched the second hand go round on my watch. Finally I came out of it, and found myself wondering what I would order for dinner. Some dark meat in a sauce rich enough to merit a good red wine. It was five minutes to six. I picked up the PM, undid the bolt, pushed home the first bullet, and slid the bolt forward. Then I took a small homemade cushion from my jacket pocket and placed it between my shoulder and the stock of the rifle. I had to be careful of the recoil.
This was a dangerous time. If anyone saw me now, they wouldn’t just see a man at a window, they’d see the barrel of a gun, a black telescopic sight, and a sniper taking aim. But the few pedestrians were too busy to look up. They were hurrying home, or to some restaurant appointment. They carried bags of shopping. They kept their eyes to the treacherous London paving slabs. If a cracked slab didn’t get you, then the dog shit might. Besides, they couldn’t look straight ahead; that was to invite a stranger’s stare, an unwanted meeting of eyes.
The sight was beautiful, it was as if I was standing a few feet from the hotel steps. There was a central revolving door, and ordinary push-pull doors to either side. Most people going into or coming out of the hotel seemed to use the ordinary doors. I wondered which one she would use. It was six now, dead on the hour. I blinked slowly, keeping my eyes clear. One minute past six. Then two minutes past. I took deep breaths, releasing them slowly. I’d taken my eye away from the telescope. I could see the hotel entrance well enough without it. Now a car was drawing up outside the hotel. There was a liveried chauffeur in the front. He made no effort to get out and open the back doors. The man and woman got out by themselves. He looked like a diplomat; the car carried a diplomatic plate below its radiator grille. They walked up the three carpeted steps to the revolving door. And now two women were coming out.
Two women.
I put my eye to the telescopic sight. Yes. I pulled the gun in tight against my cushioned shoulder, adjusted my hands a fraction, and put my finger on the trigger. The two women were smiling, talking. The diplomat and his wife had moved past them. Now the women were craning their necks, looking for taxis. Another car drew up and one of the women pointed towards it. She started down a step, and her companion followed. The sun appeared from behind a cloud, highlighting the yellow and blue design on her dress. I squeezed the trigger.
Straight away, I pulled the gun in from the window. I knew the hit had been good. She’d fallen backwards as if pushed hard in the chest. The other woman didn’t realise for a moment what had happened. She was probably thinking, fainting fit or heart attack. But now she’d seen the blood and she was looking around, then crawling down the steps on her hands and knees, taking cover behind the diplomat’s car. The driver was out of the car and looking around. He’d pulled a pistol from inside his jacket and was screaming at the diplomat to get indoors. The driver in the other car seemed to have ducked down in his seat.
And now there were sirens. You were always hearing sirens in central London — ambulances, fire engines. But these were police cars and they were screaming to a stop outside the hotel. I stood up and moved away from the window. It was impossible, they couldn’t be here so quickly. I took another look. Some of the police were armed, and they were making for the block next to this one, the block with all the flats in it. Passers-by were being ordered to take cover, the woman was yelling and crying from the cover of the car, the armed chauffeur was crouching over the lifeless body. He put his hands up when the police took aim at him, and started to explain who he was. It might take them a little while to believe him.
I knew I had seconds to get out. They’d turn their attention to this building next. I put the gun back in its box along with the unused bullet, closed the box, and left it there. Normally I’d take the gun away with me and break it up, then dispose of it. Max never wanted my guns back, and I couldn’t blame him. But I knew I couldn’t risk walking out with that carrying-case.
As I walked downstairs, the idea came to me. There was a hospital just a few blocks away. I picked up the telephone and dialled 999, then asked for an ambulance.
‘I’m a severe haemophiliac, and I’ve just had a terrible accident. I think there’s haemorrhaging to the head.’ I gave them the address, then put the phone down and went in search of a brick. There were some just inside the front door. I picked one up and smashed it into my forehead, making sure the edge of the brick made the initial contact. I touched my forehead with the palm of my hand. There was blood.