The Alex King Series, A BATEMAN [good books for high schoolers .TXT] 📗

living a sheltered life through Wi-Fi, a keyboard and a screen, and losing touch with reality.

A redundant existence.

“So, why are we out here?” Amanda asked. “Are you not happy with my investigation? I can assure you I have been meticulous.”

King ignored her and turned his back on the farmhouse. The chair in which Sir Ian Snell died was still there, pulled out slightly from the rest of the furniture set.

He pictured the image of the man when he had first seen him. Slumped forwards, his head blown away at the bullet’s exit point. It had left a crimson splash on the patio, which was now scrubbed clean, but still the stain was visible. More than just a water mark yet to dry. There was enough protein left in the bleach and water solution used to sluice the blood away to leave its grisly mark.

“Does that not strike you as weird?” he asked.

“What?”

“Helena Snell and her lover coming back here, so soon after her husband’s death.”

She shrugged. “If they are having an affair, then maybe losing her husband wasn’t the worst thing that could happen?”

“No doubt,” King said.

“Maybe that’s how she gets over grief, of sadness. Losing herself physically and emotionally with someone else? Maybe she just likes sex and wanted to feel good?”

King shrugged.

“But you think there’s more to it?”

“There always is,” he paused. “And the cups. Why are there nothing but coffee cups in the dish washer?”

“They drank coffee?”

“Two cups.”

“You’ve never drank a drink and put the cup on the draining board, only to pour another into a clean glass?”

“Perhaps.” King shrugged. “Glasses maybe. It’s a visual thing. Glasses smear with lips and fingerprints. You often change what you’re drinking as well. But cups? People just make another, don’t they? Pour tea or coffee straight into the same cup. I do. Most of the people I know do as well. And then there’s the fact that they didn’t use a pot or one of those plunger things.”

“A cafetiere?” she smirked.

“Yes.” He ignored her expression. “This isn’t a Nescafe house. Helena Snell isn’t going to drop in a teaspoon of instant granules. So, where’s the rest of the things to make the coffee?”

“There’s a five grand Italian coffee machine in there.”

“There is?”

“Yes. Set in the wall, next to the oven.”

“Still need a spoon, don’t you? There were no spoons in the dishwasher, just mugs.”

“The machine makes it how you want it. Finishes it off with frothed milk, I imagine.” She shrugged like it didn’t matter anyway. “You knew all about… what was his name? Viktor Berkoff?”

“Bukov,” King corrected her. “Yes. MI6 did some background checking and it was flagged up. Sir Ian Snell’s company, GeoSpec, won the contract to produce the motherboards for the new Goliath ICBM system. The nuclear weapons that will eventually replace Trident. After confirmation of the deal, GeoSpec’s shares went stratospheric. Naturally, anyone working for Snell and his company were thoroughly background checked by the government. There tends to be concentric circles when checking an individual. The further out from the priority, the less stringent the check. So, Sir Ian Snell and his executives, his family and close friends all get thoroughly vetted. The catering staff and cleaners, those on the outer circles, at GeoSpec all get checked but the vetting isn’t so concise. Otherwise, where does it end? But being Ian Snell’s employee, his wife’s personal bodyguard and family member, Ivan Kerchenko was in that inner circle,” King paused. “Except it was soon realised that Kerchenko, the real one, was back in Russia. MI6 being what they are, kept the imposter in play. They decided to watch to see what the scam was. The bigger picture. They handed this information over to MI5 and Interpol when it became evident Snell was next on the kill list. I was tasked with the investigation.”

“So, you were already investigating Snell when Anarchy to Recreate Society started killing the top five on the rich list?”

“I was investigating, yes. But not just Snell.” King nodded. “MI5 kept me in play, and with Interpol’s remit, I was tasked with investigating Snell. Especially as the killing had been done with what was clearly military expertise.”

“The sniper.”

“Exactly.”

“So, what have you found out so far?”

King shrugged. “Not a hell of a lot,” he said. “Or, more than I can make sense of. It’s like a chunk of rock. There’s a statue in there somewhere, it just needs chipping away at.”

He could see Helena Snell and Viktor Bukov watching them from inside. Helena was perched on a loveseat, her long and shapely legs tucked under her. She looked feline, her arms on the seat, her long fingernails tapping in rhythm with her breathing. Her eyes were on King, almond-shaped, predatory. But she was calm, her expression unreadable. By contrast, standing behind her, his eyes staring daggers, Bukov looked seething. But more than that, he looked worried. Out of the two, Helena was the poker player. Bukov was more roulette. He’d either win or go bust. But Helena would play the strategies.

King looked back at the stain on the ground, then to the house across the valley, then to the stain again, then further towards the wall. He was forming a picture in his mind. He looked back at Bukov, then back to the wall. There was a flicker in the Russian’s eyes, but his lover remained calm and composed.

The wall was made from stones. Pieces of cut and shaped granite, laid with earth between the stones, Cornish hedge style. Lavender and rosemary grew on top and a flowery plant was trailing down, the fronds touching the patio. King did not know what type of plant it was, nor did he care. He walked over, knelt and studied the wall. He ran his hands gently over the wall, looked back at the