Facing Justice Read Online Free Page B

name came various aliases. From the aliases, bank accounts across the world, complex travel arrangements, forensic tie-ins – and then the location of the individual.
    Working with Interpol and the Cypriot police, an armed raid was carried out on a secluded villa near Paphos and a man arrested without any bloodshed or drama.
    Three months later, after much solid detective work assisted by a forensic team that managed to link the man in custody to the position he’d laid up in with his rifle (not recovered) on the bleak moors of Rossendale, he was in crown court facing a murder charge, even though he had not said one word whilst in custody. But that didn’t matter.
    And now the jury was back.
    Henry held his breath as the clerk of the court asked the jury foreman if they had reached their verdict.
    The man stood nervously, as though his back was killing him. His eyes did not look into the steel-grey impassive eyes of the killer in the dock. He said, ‘Yes we have, Your Honour,’ addressing his reply to the judge.
    Henry glanced at the defendant. He was ex-army, had been a sniper in Kuwait, Iraq and Afghanistan – a superb one – and had left the services and offered his killing skills to the highest bidder. He had an exemplary service record and no previous convictions, facts referred to many times by the smooth defence barrister. But Henry knew he had carried out at least four other assassinations in African republics that had netted him about a million and a half pounds, probably foreign aid money. The killing of Felix Deakin had brought him two hundred thousand, money that was still being tracked by the financial experts, but it was proving tricky to find the source.
    The man, who was called Mike Calcutt, allowed his gaze to take in the jury foreman and Henry – pausing just a little too long for comfort on the detective – before looking back at the jury.
    The clerk asked if the verdict reached was unanimous or by a majority.
    â€˜Unanimous.’
    A whisper of amazement flitted around the public galleries, which were packed with gawping public and greedy media.
    The clerk then read out the murder charge against Calcutt and asked if the jury found him guilty or not guilty.
    For a brief moment, as the foreman paused, Henry thought he was witnessing some reality TV show, where contestants were voted off.
    â€˜Guilty.’
    Henry’s eyes swept to Calcutt. He did not flinch. Cool, cool bastard, he thought. But we got you in the end. If only we could get the bastard who hired you in the first place.
    Henry, Rik Dean and four other detectives involved in the case had gathered in a loose congratulatory circle in the public waiting area outside the court-room doors. They all beamed wide smiles and there were lots of handshakes and high-fives amongst them. The kind of euphoria that comes after a protracted, successful investigation that nails a killer.
    â€˜Well done everyone,’ Henry said, checking his watch. He meant what he said, because he’d very much taken a back seat and had only put his twopenn’orth into the machine when asked. Now that he was a detective superintendent he was trying to delegate more and not get involved in day-to-day investigating. It went against his natural instinct, as was the case with most high-ranking detectives who loved to get down and dirty with the lads. Problem was that it was easy to lose sight of the overview and at his rank, as he was learning, that was not something he could afford to do. He had now become a professional plate spinner and this major inquiry was just one of many he had to manage.
    â€˜Drinks?’ Rik Dean suggested. There was an eager gaggle of yeses from his colleagues, who wanted to celebrate in the traditional way. This was although the defendant had yet to be sentenced by the judge. Once the jury had informed the court of the verdict, the defence had immediately leapt up with a desire to make submissions, so