Bourne - To Kill a Man - Maggie Costello Series 05 (2020)

To Kill a Man

Also By

Also by Sam Bourne

The Righteous Men

The Last Testament

The Final Reckoning

The Chosen One

Pantheon

To Kill the President

To Kill the Truth

As Jonathan Freedland

Bring Home the Revolution

Jacobs Gift

The 3rd Woman

Title

Copyright

This ebook edition first published in 2020 by

Quercus Editions Ltd

Carmelite House

50 Victoria Embankment

London EC4Y 0DZ

An Hachette UK company

Copyright 2020 Jonathan Freedland

The moral right of Jonathan Freedland to be

identified as the author of this work has been

asserted in accordance with the Copyright,

Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication

may be reproduced or transmitted in any form

or by any means, electronic or mechanical,

including photocopy, recording, or any

information storage and retrieval system,

without permission in writing from the publisher.

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available

from the British Library

HB ISBN 978 1 78747 495 6

TPB ISBN 978 1 78747 497 0

EBOOK ISBN 978 1 78747 494 9

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters,

businesses, organizations, places and events are

either the product of the authors imagination

or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to

actual persons, living or dead, events or

locales is entirely coincidental.

Ebook by CC Book Production

Cover design 2020 Andrew Smith

www.quercusbooks.co.uk

Dedication

For Sarah the woman in my life

Contents

MONDAY

Chapter 1

Washington, DC

Later she would tell the police she knew it was a man. She would say the sound of a footstep just before midnight, the heaviness of its tread, left her in no doubt that a man was inside her home.

She would tell them she had been at her desk most of the evening, working away on a document. She would explain that it was a closing memorandum for the committee, adding in her formal statement the official name of both the case and the committee. Not that it was necessary. The detectives knew who she was. She had served as lead counsel to the House intelligence committee during those televised hearings that had riveted the nation, conducting the most dramatic cross-examinations, briefing the media on camera just afterwards and building a cult following in the process. In Washington, and on cable TV, Natasha Winthrop had become a semi-celebrity. There was talk of a run for high office, even the very highest.

She also told the police what was less well-known: that while she had become a hero to those who despised the current president, she had simultaneously aroused a matching level of passion among those who loved him. She showed the detectives some of the tweets that had come her way, including a couple that had arrived earlier that day: Choke, bitch was one, Hey whore why arent you dead yet was another.

She told the police she was used to noises in the night. They were the proof that it wasnt just real-estate hype: her home in Georgetown really was a colonial-era house, one that creaked and groaned with memories. But this sound, together with the softer one that came after it, had left no room for doubt. The second noise seemed more cautious, anxious not to repeat the mistake of the first. It contained human deliberation, taking care to disguise itself, aware of its own implications though she used different words when talking to the police. It was nearer too, no question about it. And obviously, unambiguously, it belonged to a man.

Her statement said it was only a few seconds later that a man was standing before her, framed in the doorway of her study on the ground floor. She told the detectives that he seemed to pause, as if making an assessment. He was dressed all in black: boots, dark jeans, close-fitting winter jacket. His face was covered by a ski mask, with only his eyes visible. She said that his eyes had stared at her and that she had stared back at him. It was probably no more than a second, but that meeting of their eyes felt interminable. He took a long look into her, as if searching for something.

Shed wanted to move, but could not. She was frozen, her arms and legs as much as her throat. And what was strangest was that in that second, he seemed frozen too. Paralyzed somehow. Two people staring at each other, facing the void.

But then the moment was over. In two swift strides, he marched into the room. Very deliberate steps, as if coming in to collect something. She told the police that, for a fleeting second, shed wondered if this were a robbery. If he was there to steal one of her files. Or, more likely, her computer. Given her work, it would hardly have been shocking: there were plenty of people whod have been glad to know what she knew.

In both her first, unofficial interview with a police officer and in her signed statement, she mentioned that she had prepared for this eventuality. After the break-in at the firm, shed had a panic button installed, linked to a private security company. There were two: one by the bed, one in the kitchen. But none in her study. Which meant shed have to get past him and out of this room.

But before shed had a chance to move, he was close enough to push her over. The flat palm of his hand on her left shoulder and she was down. And then he was on top of her. She told the detectives that this seemed a practised movement, almost a technique. She thought at the time: hes done this before.

Then he tore at her clothes. One hand stayed on her shoulder, the other began to tug at her belt and at her zip. She was writhing, but it was no good. The strength of him was too much.

She described how he used his knees to keep her pinned down, one of them pressing so hard into her hip she thought it would crack. He was so close, she could smell him. The damp of outside was on his clothes, that wet-dog smell of wool soaked in the rain.

In her statement, she described how he kept the ski mask on throughout, so she had only his eyes to go on. Her impression was that he was neither young nor old, but somewhere in between. Perhaps a few years older than her. Say thirty-eight or thirty-nine. She thought she saw, perhaps when the mask slipped, that his hair was dark and that he had stubble on his cheeks.