The Journey of Kyle Gibbs Box Set

by Wayne Marinovich

  ‘Hello, Gibbs,’ she said, a warm smile lighting up her blue eyes.

  Gibbs stood up too quickly, knocking over his glass of wine. ‘Ah shit. Hello, Sharon.’

  She tucked her hair behind her left ear and hung her handbag on the back of the chair. It slipped off and landed on the floor.

  ‘I’ll leave you two bumbling Bambis alone. Let me know when you are ready to order,’ Andy said.

  They both laughed a little too loudly and sat down. Gibbs poured more wine as he explained what had happened to them in Angola and the journey back.

  ‘Why don’t you let me help you?’ she said. ‘I still have a lot of colleagues in the military, and a few spread across MI5 and MI6.’

  ‘Blimey, living it up with the spooks, are we?’ Gibbs said. ‘Are they still tapping everyone’s calls and emails?’

  ‘They probably are. How else would they get the information they need nowadays?’

  ‘I don’t think I’d ever trust them, all that bloody espionage,’ Gibbs said.

  ‘And this from a man who’s just been on a secret mission, and illegally crossed international borders after going on the run from the secret organisation he did a job for.’

  Gibbs chuckled. ‘When you put it like that.’

  ‘Why don’t you give me a list of names that you want them to look out for?’ Sharon said. ‘They owe me a couple of favours.’

  ‘I’ve learnt the hard way that these men are not to be trusted, and they have a surprisingly long reach. They’re dangerous people to have on your tail, and besides, you’ve only just arrived in London. The last thing I want to do is drag you into all of this.’

  ‘Listen, it’ll give me something to sink my teeth into. One of my ex-boyfriends still works at MI6 so I could give him a call and find out what news they have on the coup,’ she said.

  ‘How ex is he?’ Gibbs asked.

  She smiled at him. ‘A long time ago. He helped me with a few legal cases when we served in Iraq together. We keep in contact for old times’ sake.’

  ‘It would be a great help if he could find out anything, but I wouldn’t want you meeting up with him in person and getting involved in any of the usual spy crap that they do,’ Gibbs said.

  ‘I’ll get on it this week.’

  ‘Thanks. So, what brings you down to London then?’

  ‘The MOD is in chaos all over the country except here in London. It can barely pay its people and corruption is rife. Plus, all the decent people up north have left so I’ll end up leaving I guess.’

  ‘I thought I was a lot better than decent?’’

  She smiled. ‘You were one of my first cases, so I had little to compare you to. You were an annoying client if I’m honest.’

  ‘It’s why I’ve been sent into your life.’

  ‘We all have our crosses to bear,’ she said, and let out a laugh that melted Gibbs a little.

  ‘You have no ties to Scotland?’

  ‘No. My folks passed on a year ago so nothing there for me anymore,’ she said, staring into her wine glass.

  ‘Upwards and onwards,’ Gibbs said.

  She raised her eyebrows.

  ‘Yeah, I know how bloody clichéd that sounded the minute it came out.’

  ‘At your age, I expect these things.’

  ‘Hey, cheeky, I’m not that much older than you.’

  ‘Gibbs, I’ve seen your military file, so I know how old you are. And may I say that you haven’t aged all that well.’

  ‘Yes, twist the knife after you’ve plunged it in.’

  She laughed again, and took a long sip of wine, pulling a face after swallowing. ‘Yikes.’

  ‘Good for open wounds too,’ he said, leaning forward with his elbows on the table. Her smile kept drawing him in.

  ‘Do you miss Scotland?’ she asked, running her hair behind her ear.

  Gibbs drank more wine. ‘I miss my uncle and aunt. They helped me through a tough time when I was a teen. Uncle Gordon was the one who triggered my interest in the military. Aunt Rhona is a saint and still clucks around me like a mother hen. I also miss the laugh of my twin cousins who are batshit crazy, but other than them nothing more. Scotland is part of my past.’

  ‘I remember your psyche evaluations mentioned you had problems with your father as a kid.’

  ‘The idiot ended up setting himself on fire and can’t hurt people anymore,’ Gibbs said, grabbing his wineglass and taking a large gulp that made his eyes water. ‘Now enough of my morbid past.’

  ‘Agreed. To the future.’

  Gibbs reached across the table and took her hand. She didn’t pull away, and her big smile sent warmth through him like an African wildfire.

  • • •

  Lord Butler sat at the long mahogany dinner table eating his leek and potato soup. The liquid warmed his body, making him feel content and at peace. The vicious darkness that lurked within him was dormant, and he leaned back when the plate was empty. A young male servant whisked it away as another dish was placed before him. His favourite, piping hot lamb stew.

  ‘What’s that one’s name?’ he asked, staring at the young man who left in the direction of the kitchen. ‘Is he new?’

  ‘Yes, sir. That’s Lloyd,’ the elderly servant said.

  ‘Invite him to join me in the library for a glass of brandy after dinner, would you?’ Lord Butler said.

  ‘Of course, sir.’

  ‘I heard the phone rang during the soup course, Jackson. Was it urgent?’

  ‘Mr Brun is holding on for you on line three, sir. He says that it is important. Shall I take a message?’

  ‘I’ll take the call in here,’ Lord Butler said, watching the man bow and slowly leave the room. A few minutes later, Lloyd shuffled through the door with the hands-free phone from the study. Lord Butler nodded and waited until he’d left. It was time to replace him with someone younger.

  ‘Hello, Alex,’ Lord Butler said.

  ‘Good evening, sir. I apologise for interrupting your evening.’

  ‘That’s quite okay, my friend. I was just finishing up. What’s so urgent?’

  ‘My contacts have managed to trace Kyle Gibbs and his associates to London, sir. I have people tracking their movements as we speak,’ Alex said.

  ‘Excellent news.’

  ‘Do you want me to take care of them, sir? They’re starting to ask questions, and I’m told one of them is staking out Mr Kirkwood’s premises.’

  ‘No, Alex. I think it is too early to step into the game, but please drop John Mountford a line and pass on the information to him.’

  • • •

  Gibbs adjusted the position of the Glock17 which he had stuffed into the back of his jeans. He looked down the Clapham high street to where JP and Shredder were standing between two empty market stall frames. JP looked back at him and shook his head.

  ‘Seems he’s not here,’ Gibbs said to Killey from their position in the doorway directly across from them. All seemed quiet at Kirkwood Enterprises.

  ‘We’ve been here for most of the day. No one has moved in or out of that door.’

  ‘Damn it. Where the hell is this arsehole?’ Gibbs said and looked across to a homeless man who was working a nearby rubbish pile just down from the green Kirkwood Enterprises door. His rolling eyes and slow hand movements hinted that he was high on something as he staggered around, mumbling incessantly. He dropped the dirty white duvet that was draped around him and stood staring at it for a few seconds.

  ‘Why don’t we just break in and have a look around?’ Killey said.

  ‘Was just thinking that. Let’s go,’ Gibbs said, signalling to the other two.

  The sun had just dipped behind the row of shops, casting a long shadow across the empty Northcote Road. The four men converged upon the concrete steps and followed Shredder up to the green door with the small brass plaque on it. After a quick scan in either direction, Shredder knelt down and jimmied the lock.

  All four men drew their weapons and pushed their way
through the front door, going straight up the pale carpeted stairs to the first-floor landing. The stagnant smell of old air flooded their nostrils, and Gibbs signalled them to spread out, each taking a room that was behind one of the four closed doors.

  Gibbs grabbed the brass door handle of the door furthest away from the stairs and slowly turned. He raised the Glock and pushed the door open to what was Kirkwood’s office. A few weeks prior there had been two bookcases and a couple of filing cabinets against the right wall overlooking a large oak desk in the middle of the floor which faced the door. Now the room was empty.

  ‘Clear!’’ he shouted. Only to hear three similar calls.

  Kirkwood Enterprises were no longer trading at the premises.

  ‘Any ideas, boss?’ Shredder asked.

  Gibbs shook his head and walked over to a pile of paper. He picked up a few sheets and flicked through them. ‘I’ll call Sheila and Martin to see if they know anything.’

  ‘Do you expect her to look in a phone directory or something?’

  Gibbs flipped him the middle finger. ‘We need to find out who the gang lord is for this area. Andy said that these gangs charge protection rates to all businesses like this, so I’m sure they’d know. They must know where Kirkwood moved to.’

  ‘Gibbs!’ JP shouted from the landing. ‘You’d better get out here.’

  They spun around and ran out of the office, straight into a wall of pungent smell.

  JP stood on the landing with his Sig pointed at the back of the homeless man from the street who’d wandered in through the open door. ‘Jeez, buddy, how about standing a little closer to the water in the shower,’ Shredder said, clasping his nose.

  ‘Are you friends of Mr David?’ the toothless man asked, scratching at his matted long grey hair.

  ‘Yes, we are, mate,’ Gibbs said. ‘Do you know where he went?’

  The man nodded and carried on looking into one of the vacant rooms. Gibbs and Shredder stood aside and let the haze of smell walk past. He mumbled his way over to the discarded papers lying on the floor and started stuffing them into his large tweed overcoat.

  ‘Hey, buddy. What is your name?’ Shredder asked, taking a cigarette out and offering it to the man.

  His eyes lit up, and he snatched the whole box from Shredder. ‘Gareth Simpson.’

  ‘Okay, Gareth, you said that you know where David is,’ Gibbs said, watching the man trying to decide which pocket to hide the pack of smokes in.

  ‘I am Mr David’s friend,’ he said.

  Gibbs walked closer. ‘Where can we find him, Gareth? We’ll give you another two packs of cigarettes if you tell us.’

  ‘I helped him move from here. I can show you. Where are my cigarettes?’

  ‘Mr David has them,’ Gibbs said, and stood aside, pointing to the door.

  Chapter 22

  Clapham Junction, London, England, UK - 2019

  The hour dragged on as Gareth Simpson stumbled and meandered the few hundred yards along the littered Northcote Road, then across to the St John’s Road pedestrian walkway. Checking every pile of rubbish as he was accustomed to doing took an age as he searched for anything that he deemed useful in his world.

  ‘Jesus, boss. This could take all bloody day,’ Killey said. ‘Should I hurry him along?’

  ‘His mind seems a little broken, so let’s just be patient and see what happens. It is the best lead we’ve had in days,’ Gibbs said.

  The four men followed him past Clapham Station, and two abandoned London buses that now served as dining eateries parked up near the entrance. The group ambled past the Public and Commercial Services Union Building, where he stopped and pointed to a carpark of an old Lidl supermarket.

  ‘Where is Mr David, Gareth?’ Gibbs asked, getting as close to him as his nostrils would allow.

  The homeless man fidgeted and rubbed his nose with his palm. His eyes squeezed shut. Scratching his mass of entangled hair, he pointed directly at the abandoned supermarket. Gibbs looked up at the grey fascia boarding of the shop with its blue, red and yellow logo signboard hanging precariously over the chained front entrance.

  ‘In there,’ he said. ‘Where are my two packs of cigarettes?’

  ‘You’ll get them once we find Mr David.’

  Shredder walked over to Gibbs. ’Hiding in an abandoned Lidl. I find that hard to believe. Something is not right here.’

  Gibbs nodded.

  They crossed over to the car park that was littered with rusty car shells and countless mangled shopping trollies. All four men drew their weapons as they fanned out amongst the debris.

  ‘Keep your eyes peeled, boys,’ Gibbs said, glancing over at four men who were sitting around a small drumfire to the side of the car park They glared at Gibbs and his men while warming their hands over the flames, and took swigs of rotgut gin out of a clear wine bottle.

  A very mild evening to be sitting around an open fire. Gibbs’s fighting instincts ratcheted up a level.

  Another group of men suddenly appeared from a railway underpass ahead of them and walked directly towards them. The approaching men had also been living rough, with dishevelled hair, and wearing mismatched articles of dirty clothing. All carried a primitive homemade weapon of sorts.

  ‘On me, men,’ Gibbs shouted as two more menacing forms stepped through a large hole in one of the smashed supermarket windows.

  ‘What have you done, Gareth?’ Gibbs said, grabbing him by the collar of his jacket.

  He just started laughing hysterically. ‘You’re trapped. I tricked you, and now it’s time to die.’

  Gibbs smashed his Glock17 against the side of Gareth’s head, and he whimpered midway through his laugh then sank to his knees in a heap.

  ‘I have four on me,’ Shredder called out.

  ‘Me too,’ JP said.

  ‘Another two coming out of the supermarket,’ Gibbs said. ‘Do you see any guns on them?’

  ‘One has a metal pipe. The other might be concealing a firearm,’ JP said.

  ‘Okay then. Let’s not waste any ammunition unless we have to.’

  The three small groups started to circle them like nervous hyenas circling a pride of lions on a kill. Chains, metal poles and wooden posts appeared out of grimy sleeves and jacket pockets. They looked very nervous. One or two snorted and spat globules of tobacco-coloured phlegm at the feet of the four men they had cornered.

  ‘Why don’t we all calm down and talk this through. No need to do anything stupid,’ Gibbs said.

  One of the attackers dressed in a long-faded leather jacket, with a greasy comb-over, took a step forward, and Shredder raised his Glock. ‘You’re outgunned here, mate, so step back and leave us be.’

  ‘Fuck you, mate. People don’t have so many loaded weapons anymore. They are all empty and just for show,’ he said, glancing around at Gibbs’s men.

  ‘Okay then. Would you like to take another step forward and test your theory?’

  The man stood motionless, glaring at Shredder, a thick metal towing chain swinging slowly from his right hand.

  A tall man, resembling a character from a Mad Max movie complete with yellow builder’s helmet on his head and a red scarf wrapped tightly around his neck, lifted an old sawn-off shotgun out from under his dirty beige trench coat and held it at waist level, pointing it at the four men. Their attackers all screamed encouragement and started to move forward.

  Gibbs calmly raised the Glock and fired at the tall man, knocking his helmet off in the first shot as a small trickle of blood wound its way over his bushy eyebrow. The second made a neat hole in his forehead, sending him falling forward to the ground. The surprised attacker standing next to him reached down for the fallen shotgun, but never got the chance to raise it as Gibbs fired again.

  Shredder and JP took down two more of their motley attackers before the rest of their collective nerve broke. Dropping their primitive weapons, they turned and ran.

  A few more shots near the feet of the retreating group and Gibbs called a c
easefire. He picked up the tall man’s sawn-off shotgun, cracking the ancient weapon open to reveal a single shotgun shell next to an empty chamber.

  ‘Damn idiot,’ he said, emptying the shell out and slipping into his pocket. His attention turned to a groggy and mumbling Gareth Simpson.

  Gareth scampered backwards, as the four men turned and walked towards him.

  Killey holstered his Sig 226 and slipped out his large hunting blade. ‘Let me get him to talk, boss.’

  ‘What do you think, Gareth? Should I let this man skin you alive?’ Gibbs said.

  ‘I am sorry, Mr Gibbs, he made me do it.’

  ‘Who, David Kirkwood?’

  ‘No, the tall blond-haired man.’

  ‘Tell me his name, Gareth, or my friend here will begin by cutting off all your fingers, one by one,’ Gibbs said, grabbing the man’s lapel and dragging him to his feet.

  ‘He made me promise not to tell you and said he would give us a large cow carcass to cook for our families when you were all dead.’

  • • •

  A few hundred meters away a gust of wind flicked the man’s neatly combed fringe up into the air. His blond hair came to rest on his fingers as he rolled the focusing ring on the high-powered binoculars. He’d been sitting patiently on the roof of the Public and Commercial Services Union building for twenty-four hours. It had cost him his treasured titanium Breitling wristwatch to blag his way up to the roof through the hundreds of squatters’ homes erected inside the building.

  With his temper boiling and thoughts dwelling on how to get his timepiece back, the players to his little story all came into view.

  He saw the four men set up a small fire and take a seat to the side of the car park. Movement and shadows inside the supermarket told him that some had taken a flanking position, with the rest waiting and smoking behind one of the underpass’s concrete pillars.

  The bumbling fool appeared first, picking up and throwing a bit of litter away. The German smiled as he watched the show the man was putting on through the binoculars. Gareth was a consummate actor from one of the street theatres and was doing his best to suck the targets in. Clearly it had worked, as he saw the four men walk into view.