It had been a busy three months since Frank’s death. Lawyers had managed to sell most of the businesses – the legal ones, that is – and she had transferred money from the offshore accounts into just one in her name in Panama. She had stood back from any of his non-legal enterprises and cut them dead, letting others fight for the spoils; she had enough to secure a very wealthy future for herself. All in all, it had worked out very well for her, and she was still young enough and had the looks to maybe snare another husband from the wealthy ex-pat community on the island; some elderly gent with loads of money and a short life expectancy would fit the bill.
The buzzer from the security gates at the road sounded. A quick look at the screen showed a taxi waiting. Was Palmer early? His flight wasn’t due in for another two hours. He must have got an earlier one. She pushed the button to open the gates and let it through to the marble steps that led up to the front entrance doors. She was due to have an evening meal at the top Italian restaurant in town later, with two wealthy widows from the ex-pat club who had taken her under their wing, thinking she was just a young widow in mourning; so Palmer being early would suit her just fine. She had spent the morning going over her statement about the shootings and was confident there was nothing that could be challenged if she stuck to it. The solicitor had told her not to worry, and that it was just a formality to close the case once and for all.
Opening the front door she was very surprised to see Freddy Doorman standing there, looking every part the local ex-pat in a light beige cotton suit, Rayban sunglasses and sandals.
‘Freddy! What…?’
‘Hello, Gail. Just a quick visit. I’ve got a message from Frank that I promised him I’d give you.’
‘A message from Frank? He’s dead!’
‘Yes, he is – otherwise I wouldn’t have to give you the message. Frank said to tell you ‘goodbye.’’
The hand Freddy drew from behind his back held a pistol with which he shot Gail in the temple. She crumpled to the ground, and he made sure that she stayed there with one more shot to the head. Then, turning, he looked skywards and smiled.
‘We had a deal, Frank; and Freddy Doorman always makes good on his deals.’
He walked down the steps, got into the taxi, and his minder drove it out of the villa’s grounds towards the airport. On the floor in the back lay a local taxi driver, blood oozing from the bullet hole in his temple.
Palmer was glad to get off the plane; he wasn’t a good traveller and the seats were always too narrow, and never had enough leg room which played hell with his sciatica. Next to him Gheeta had been quite comfortable, and spent the three hours flicking through various ‘techie’ magazines she had bought at Heathrow and revising the case. In her civilian fawn Armani trouser suit, McQueen sneakers, Burberry shoulder bag and tinted Raybans, she looked about as far away from an English police officer as you could get as they walked through customs green channel. Designer clothes were Gheeta’s one weakness. The only visible change to Palmer’s usual attire was that he was carrying his raincoat and was wearing an old pair of sandals that Mrs P. had insisted replace his black brogues for the trip.
‘You can’t go on the beach in shoes.’
‘We are not going on the beach.’
‘It’s the Canary Islands, everybody wears sandals – it’s thirty degrees. You’ll look daft in shoes.’
So he wore the sandals, and still looked daft. His trademark trilby stayed firmly in place – it would take a nuclear bomb to separate that from his head when he was working. He had once told Mrs P. that he wanted that hat to be buried with him. She had replied that it was going to be buried with him, together with as much of his wardrobe as she could squash into the casket with him. It would be a time capsule to 1950s fashion!
‘There we are, over there, guv’, said Gheeta, pointing to a young man in Policia Local uniform standing in amongst the row of taxi drivers and holding up a sign that said ‘PELMAR’.
Palmer showed his warrant card and all three exchanged greetings as they followed the driver through the big exit doors out of the Arrivals Lounge to the taxi rank where a police car waited for them. Palmer was just about to climb in when he stopped.
‘Hang on.’
He swung round to look back at the terminal building.
‘Don’t tell me you left something on the plane, guv?’ said Gheeta from the other side of the car.
Palmer squinted, trying to see through the reflective plate glass into the Departures Lounge.
‘That was Freddy Doorman, what’s he doing here?’
THE END
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The Author
Barry.Faulkner was born into a family of petty criminals in Herne Hill, South London and at this point we make it clear that he did not follow in the family tradition! However his childhood and teen years spent around many of the London 1960-70s ‘faces’ gave him much background material for the Palmer books. One ex Met DI even reckons he can name who Faulkner’s characters are based on...he can’t because they aren’t, they are all fictitious.
His mother had great theatrical aspirations for young Faulkner and pushed him into auditioning for the Morley Academy of Dramatic Art at the Elephant and Castle where he was accepted but only lasted 3 months before being asked to leave as no visible talent had surfaced. Mind you, during his time at the Academy he was called to audition for the National Youth Theatre by Trevor Nunn...50 years later he’s still waiting for the call back!
His early writing career was as a copy writer with the advertising agency Erwin Wasey Ruthrauff & Ryan in Paddington during which time he got lucky with some light entertainment scripts sent to the BBC and Independent Television and became a script editor and writer on a freelance basis working on most of the LE shows of the 1980-90s. During that period, whilst living out of a suitcase in UK hotels for a lot of the time, he filled many notebooks with Palmer case plots and in 2016 finally found time to start putting them in order and into book form. Seven are finished and published so far, more to come. He hopes you enjoy reading them as much as he enjoyed writing them.
Find out more about the real UK major heists and robberies including the Brinks Mat robbery and the Hatton Garden Heist plus the gangs and criminals that carried them out including the Krays and the Richardsons on his crime blog at [email protected]
Take care and thank you for buying this book. An honest review on Amazon or anywhere else would be very much appreciated.
Barry Faulkner.
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Burning Ambition (DCS Palmer and the Serial Murder Squad Book 7) Page 12