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

“Don’t mind me,” the technician commented dryly.

“This is as good as it gets,” replied Mereweather. “And we can’t go to the yard and work with Special Branch, for obvious reasons.”

Normally MI5 would work with Special Branch for something like this, but as King had pointed out, if the man on the train was a known terrorist or had links to terrorism, then sooner or later a body without a finger was going to be flagged on the system. The fact that two MI5 operatives had recently requested prints and DNA from a severed finger was not going to go unmissed.

MI5 did not have a dedicated forensics facility, using Home Office facilities instead, or on occasion, facilities like the one the two men were standing in now. A private company owned and run by ex-Home Office forensic experts who knew how to secure those all-important government contracts. This facility had dealt with some of MI5’s lesser known investigations, especially matters which were unrecorded for public record. Fishing with dynamite, as it was often referred to. Harvesting evidence and replanting it to seal an investigation. The smoking gun, the extra rope for terrorists to hang themselves, metaphorically speaking. Such practice was unthinkable in a Home Office laboratory. The British judicial system was the fairest in the world, but the enemy had changed, and the fight was just that little more delicate, the stakes a little higher than they had ever been.

“So, are we doing this?” the technician asked impatiently. It was past office hours now. The man had dinner plans and a boxset to catch up on. He looked at King and Mereweather in turn. “Where is the subject? I’ll need to take DNA swabs first, then run prints. That can take hours if they’re on East European databases. Russia’s are tediously slow.”

King took the bundle out of his pocket and tossed it over to the technician. The man stared at the bloodstained tissue, looked back up at King.

“What is this?”

“That’s the subject,” he said. “Or at least, his finger. DNA shouldn’t be a problem, but you’ll only have the one print to work from.”

39

King had woken at six. He had checked his phone, seen the texts and replied. The first he replied to had been Caroline’s. Her plane had touched down and she was headed towards diplomatic arrivals. She had sent back a text and told King not to bother picking her up. Simon Mereweather was putting on a car and she would meet King back at the flat. She had signed off with three kisses. All was well.

Mereweather’s text had been short and sweet – Meeting. Nine-sharp. Top tier. King had texted back – Make it ten. He knew Mereweather would be livid, but he felt a little petulant today. Caroline had been away, gone through so much, King was damned if he was going to rush away with her so close.

King had then slipped on his jogging bottoms and a T-shirt and ran the short distance to the market and bought a selection of Caroline’s favourite pastries from a stall. They were baked fresh each morning and he chose pane au chocolate for Caroline and plain croissants for himself. Then he picked up some glazed pastries with chopped pecans and a heavy glaze and jogged back. It wasn’t exactly a workout, but he dropped the bag of pastries onto the counter and walked out onto the balcony overlooking the lock.

He started with an 8kg kettle bell and French pressed until failure. He topped out around the eighty mark, but wasn’t really counting. He gave himself twenty-seconds recovery, picked up the 12kg kettle and went back to it. He pushed to failure, lost count after thirty. After twenty seconds recovery he worked with the 16kg, again pressing until he could manage no more. Then dropped straight into abdominal crunches. He worked to one-hundred, rolled over and did one-hundred push-ups. He gave himself a full minute to breathe, then dropped into a low squat and swung the 12kg kettle bell, changing hands after he reached twenty. He repeated five times, then went back to crunches and press-ups once more. Hanging from the ceiling was a heavy punch bag and King went straight to it - punches, blocks, strikes, kicks and knees - timing himself for three-minute rounds. After each round he dropped and held a low squat while he breathed and rested for one minute. When he broke away, he was soaked with sweat and breathing hard. He reached up for the two hand-holds he had fitted into the ceiling and started a series of pull-ups. He rested in between, but merely dangled, never touched the floor. He could feel his shoulders burning like fire. Upper body strength was so important in King’s work, or at least the work he had done up to a year ago. Now that he was tasked with investigating and surveillance, he did not need to be so physically fit. But King knew he would need it again one day. He was certain of it. He started raising his legs, crunching his lower stomach muscles, controlling the speed and maximising the effect. When he finally dropped back down, he stretched for five minutes, each time gaining more flexibility and healing the muscles he had so strenuously worked on. He glanced at his watch, finishing exactly on the forty-minute mark. He had done more than most people would in a ninety-minute gym session, and all without spending a penny on membership, or looking in the mirror.

King stripped off and ran the shower. He shaved first, using traditional sandalwood shaving soap in a mahogany bowl. He had discovered the brand online and found it to foam and retain moisture far better than mainstream foams or gels. He worked the soap into a lather with a traditional badger hair brush and applied it generously. King always wet shaved,