Angels

by Jay Gill

  ‘No,’ said Vaughan, with ferocity in his voice. ‘No. As soon as she goes back to the hospital, we lose control. If we do that, they’ll dose her up on God knows what and she’ll be gone within a month.’

  ‘For Christ’s sake, Jared, we can’t just keep hanging on. It’s not helping her. You must see – she’s nothing more than skin and bones.’

  ‘We’re getting the treatment. Let them know I’m getting the money.’

  ‘I’ve done that, but we can’t keep telling them that. I can tell they don’t believe me anymore. Don’t you understand?

  ‘We’re not giving up. We’re not giving in. Never. As long as there’s a chance, we fight. And if you go behind my back and admit her to the hospital it’ll be the last thing you ever do.’

  Fiona took a step back, her face ashen. ‘So you’re turning on me now? Who the hell do you think you are? I’ve been here since it started. You ignored it. Went off to fight on the other side of the world, instead of being at home with me to fight for her.’

  ‘That’s not fair, and you know it. I’m here now. And I’m fighting. And I’m going to win. We’re going to win. So leave me the fuck alone and let me sort this out.’ Vaughan climbed into the car, slammed the door and drove away without looking book. He could hear Fiona screaming after him. Cursing him.

  He gripped the steering wheel tightly and focused, pushing away all unnecessary emotions, just as he had been trained to do. He had a job to do and he could not afford the luxury of peripheral distractions. Breathing steadily, deliberately, he thought back to his training and the serenity of the pine forest at dawn. Birdsong, the only sound echoing through an otherwise silent forest. The strong scent of pine on the breeze. The cool morning air in his lungs. The dampness of morning dew. Calm and quiet determination was what he needed to complete the job. Nothing more.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Crowds had been waiting all day for the arrival of celebrities Sophia Ray-Summers and Carson Day. Their touching portrayals of Queen Elizabeth II and Prince Philip’s relationship, and eventual marriage, after the Second World War had earned them countless award nominations. The movie had met with critical acclaim ahead of the premiere, meaning the pair were drawing larger than anticipated crowds in London’s Leicester Square. With huge numbers of fans and so many big names in London this evening, additional armed response officers had been deployed, meaning security was tight.

  Guests walking the red carpet included cast members as well as invited guests, including TV celebrities, comedians and officials. The crowd screamed, shouted and called out for attention while cameras flashed and mobile phones were held up in hopes of celebrity selfies. News crews, celebrity reporters, bloggers and YouTubers lined the red carpet to ask their questions and receive what they knew would be well-scripted replies.

  Ben Drummond, the Ex-Secretary of State for Defence, walked gamely up the red carpet hand in hand with his wife, smiling and waving to a crowd he knew had no interest in him. This whole awkward exercise filled him with immense displeasure. This bloody movie had better be good, he said to himself. The sooner this humiliating charade is over the better.

  It had been the PR agency’s idea. We need to raise your profile, they’d insisted. We’ll get you on a few chat shows, a celebrity TV competition. We’ll organise the writing of your memoirs; some controversial and juicy revelations from your time on the benches would be helpful. The public want inside secrets. Who’s screwing who, when, where and how.

  Your name has value, they said. You can have a career in the public eye after politics, but we need to start “getting you out there.” Telling your story.

  The whole evening filled him with utter dread. He hoped there wouldn’t be a repeat of the last premiere he’d attended. He’d spent the last hour in complete discomfort, stifling yawns and fighting to stay awake. At least Phillipa was enjoying herself. His wife looked beautiful tonight and he could tell she was excited by the whole event. That in itself was worth it. He owed her some happiness for a change. Seeing her like this reminded him of the young woman he’d met all those many years ago. Where had all the time gone? He squeezed her hand a little tighter to get her attention and then smiled at her lovingly. It had been a long time since he’d seen her so happy.

  Through the crowd, he watched as a couple of Met police officers questioned a man. They were asking him to show them the contents of his rucksack and the scruffy oik was protesting his innocence. Probably a pickpocket or druggy, thought Drummond.

  The procession began to bunch up and the awkwardness escalated as he was forced to stand and face the crowd. Should he approach people and speak to them, or speak to his wife and pretend the crowd wasn’t there? Fortunately, a journalist started to wave to them. Not someone he recognised but a welcome distraction nonetheless.

  She was a petite brunette in a figure-hugging emerald dress with some sort of cropped leather jacket. A modern look, Drummond supposed. She was half his age and very much his type. Her bright eyes, tanned silky skin and welcoming smile drew him towards her like a magnet. He smiled warmly and mentally undressed her as they spoke. Focus, Ben. Remember the promise you made to look but not touch.

  Her name was Saskia and due to the relaxed atmosphere, she kept questions light and upbeat. When she touched on the recent shootings, he did his best to keep his answers brief. The exchange went well, and he even managed to move the conversation on to his forthcoming TV appearances and drop in the joke the PR agency had given him about his philandering past.

  Overall, he was pleased with his performance. And for the most part, he’d managed to keep his eyes away from Saskia’s delightful breasts. Drummond looked to his wife for reassurance. None came. She could read him like a book. He’d fooled no one but himself. Phillipa ignored his lack of integrity and continued to smile and wave to the crowd as together they moved a bit further along the red carpet.

  Ben Drummond knew nothing of what happened next. One second, he was wishing he could apologise once more to his wife for his lack of respect and past indiscretions, tell her how deeply he loved her. The next second, he was flat on his back choking on blood. His body spasmed for a few seconds before shutting down completely. The armour-piercing bullet had torn through him with catastrophic results. Had it been a few inches higher, it could have taken his head clean off.

  The impact threw Phillipa to the floor alongside her husband. At first, she made no sound. She looked at the mass of blood, the gaping wound and exposed tissue and internal organs. She was unable to comprehend what she was seeing or what had happened. Even as the screams and the yelling of the panicked crowd around her filled her ears, she made no sound. Unlike in the movies, there were no tears and no hysterics. Instead she felt only complete numbness and bewilderment as she sat silently beside her dead husband.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  The accuracy of the British-built L115A3 sniper rifle meant Vaughan could position himself over 1000 metres away from Leicester Square. He could watch Ben Drummond without fear of disturbance until he was ready to take the shot. It would be days, possibly weeks, before anyone worked out where the killer shot had originated. He was in no hurry and could afford the time to carefully pack away his things and double check the area for potential evidence before disappearing among the crowds on the streets below.

  He put on a tweed cap and a pair of glasses. With the cap pulled down jauntily over one eye he walked at a fast but casual pace to the underground station. He then caught the tube and finally walked the remaining short distance to his hotel. He smiled briefly at the receptionist then took the stairs to his room.

  Vaughan opened the wardrobe and placed the tall rectangular case inside. Music venue stickers, including the Royal Albert Hall, Boston Symphony Hall and La Scala, on the outside of the case suggested it contained a musical instrument. He pulled the heavy blackout curtains and, still dressed, lay down on the bed. He lay motionless in the darkness and silence.

  His head was pounding and his face
and eyes felt hot. The headaches were a nuisance; he was sure they were brought on by stress. The conflict in his head was constant, eating away at his sanity. None of what he was doing could be justified. Not really. Any sane parent would simply have accepted they couldn’t save their child. Wouldn’t they? He closed his eyes, which for a while only intensified the throbbing in his head. By controlling his breathing, he eventually fell into a dark and sombre sleep.

  The room was black. At first, he was unsure why he’d woken. Click, click. The sound of a key card unlocking the door to his room. Light spilled in as the door gently opened. Should he pretend to sleep or move? Was it the maid? He could make out the shape of what could only be a man, a big man. Vaughan would learn later that, due to his colossal size and his real name being Tom Redmond, the big man’s nickname was Redwood.

  Vaughan slid off the side of the bed and moved to the same wall as the open door. He watched as the figure moved quietly into the room. On seeing the hand holding the gun, Vaughan pressed himself against the wall and slid down beside a chest of drawers. He looked around the room, considering his options. He needed a weapon. Being smaller than this man-mountain, he needed to use his speed to his advantage. He knew from combat training that size was rarely an advantage against a well-trained opponent.

  On top of the table was a small flat-screen TV. He’d need to be agile if this was going to work. Vaughan sprang up, grabbing the TV as he did so. The TV ripped away from its cables as he used all his strength to bring it down hard on Redwood. With a grunt, Redwood lurched sideways in the darkness, stumbled and fell awkwardly over an armchair. Vaughan followed through with a rapid and relentless succession of kicks and stamps to the head. The giant’s movements slowed as Vaughan punched him repeatedly. Swiftly, he reached in and grabbed him in a chokehold, and at last Redwood ceased moving. Vaughan slumped back, exhausted and relieved.

  He looked around for Redwood’s gun. Finding it beside the armchair, he checked it. The silencer was attached, which told him what he needed to know about the intruder’s intentions.

  He sat on the edge of the bed and stared at the unmoving Redwood. He’d been lucky and he knew it. If he hadn’t woken, he’d most certainly be dead right now. He got up and turned on the room light. He paced up and down; the adrenaline and unanswered questions were making him restless. What the hell was going on? Redwood was face down and out of frustration, Vaughan kicked him again. Christ, the guy was big. Huge hands and arms, well over six foot seven inches and heavy like a carthorse.

  Vaughan sat back down on the bed. This had been too close for comfort, and that made him uneasy. He needed to do better. He also needed a new plan.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Jared Vaughan eased himself up off the bed, padded into the bathroom and drew himself a glass of water from the tap. His head was pounding. He swallowed a couple of paracetamol and then walked quietly back into the room. The man on the floor hadn’t moved.

  He sat on the corner of the bed again, picked up the gun and looked at Redwood. Think, Jared. This guy wasn’t the police. Someone wanted him dead, obviously, but was this oaf really the best they could do?

  Maybe he should kill him. Vaughan leaned over and pressed the gun to Redwood’s head, then sighed and sat back on the bed again. Still holding the gun in one hand, he stood, then crouched gingerly down beside his visitor and checked for a pulse. Alive. He checked the big man’s pockets. He rolled him over onto his back and unzipped his jacket. In an inside pocket he found an envelope and car keys. He threw them on the bed behind him and checked the other pockets. Satisfied there was nothing else, he stepped away from the big man and turned his attention to the envelope.

  Inside he found surveillance photos. Images of McPherson in his car, leaving his home. Brannon outside a hospital, leaving church and at a petrol station. Drummond entering a supermarket, leaving a Costa Coffee shop and walking in a high street with a mobile phone pressed to his ear. More photos showed location shots of where the killings had taken place. He opened a typed letter. A part of it read,

  ...since leaving my unit and returning home, I have failed you and our little Becky. In my unit I had a job to do and I did it. Back then, I faced an enemy I recognised. Now I’m home I’m facing the hardest battle. Saving my baby girl. Seeing her fade is too much. I’m angry and filled with resentment and frustration. The world seems black to me now. You’re better off without me...

  A knock at the door startled him. He tucked the handgun into his waistband and looked through the spy hole. A receptionist. Vaughan opened the door slightly.

  ‘Hello?’ He rubbed his face and tried to sound sleepy.

  ‘Is everything okay?’ the young woman said. ‘We got a call from one of the other rooms. They heard crashing and banging.’

  ‘Oh, that. It was me. I’m sorry. I woke up and forgot I wasn’t in my bedroom at home. I walked into the coffee table and fell over. Everything’s fine.’

  ‘That does happen a lot. You’re okay, I hope?’

  ‘Yes, fine. Feeling a bit stupid, that’s all. Thank you.’

  The receptionist was obviously keen to get back to whatever she was doing, and so with a sympathetic smile she disappeared back along the long hallway. Vaughan closed the door with a sigh. He needed to get out of the hotel and put as much distance between him and his visitor as possible. He opened the wardrobe and put his case on the bed. He grabbed his holdall and looked around the room. He couldn’t go home yet; it wouldn’t be safe for any of them.

  Catching his reflection in the bathroom mirror, he realised his face was red and beginning to bruise. He half-filled the sink and washed his face with cold water, hoping it might reduce the swelling. He grabbed his toothpaste and toothbrush along with the complimentary soap and shampoo from the bathroom. He looked at the towel and decided he should take that as well; he might need to sleep rough for a few days.

  He turned and stepped out of the bathroom, where he was met with a thick fist in the face. The force of it threw him backward against the sink. Redwood was on him instantly, grabbing him around the throat and pressing him backward. Vaughan twisted away, only to be greeted by a fat elbow to the side of the head. He collapsed to his knees. Redwood pulled him up, spun him around and forced his face into the sink. It held only a few inches of water but that was all he needed.

  Vaughan pressed down on the edge of the sink and then on the taps. Frantically, he tried to lift his face from the water. It was no use. Redwood was too strong and too heavy. He had his full weight over Vaughan and was doing all he could stop him moving. Vaughan felt himself trapped, like he was being crushed under a ton of bricks. His mind was telling him to give up, that it was futile to resist.

  Redwood began to laugh. ‘As you may have worked out, I’m here to arrange your suicide, you sneaky little fucker. I guess I’ll have to improvise. How about I slit your wrists in a bath full of water? We’ll need to account for the water in your lungs. Stop wriggling.’ Vaughan felt the water start to rise around his face as Redwood turned on the taps. ‘A deal is a deal. You know, your mother should have told you that when you say you’re going to do something, you do it. Otherwise you make people unhappy. People just like my boss.’

  Vaughan stopped struggling. He relaxed. He let his arms fall to his side.

  ‘There, there. Good boy. Easy does it. No point fighting it. We’re almost done,’ said Redwood.

  Vaughan eased one hand up to the front of his jeans and pulled out the gun. He reached swiftly behind him and fired twice into Redwood’s side. The huge man staggered back with a cry of surprise and outrage. Vaughan spun around, raised the gun and shot him twice in the chest and twice in the face.

  ‘Mother also said “The bigger they are, the harder they fall,” asshole, but my favourite was always “Don’t take shit from anyone.” That I do remember.’

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  My first date with Monica wasn’t at a fancy restaurant; it wasn’t at any restaurant at all. I wanted to take her so
mewhere nice and romantic, but she insisted we stay home. She needed to talk and thought it made sense to just have a night in.

  Alice and Faith had been whisked away by Mum and Dad and were having a sleepover at their house. That gave Monica and me the house to ourselves, and I was doing my best to make a good impression. I’d bought bottle of Chardonnay and was putting the finishing touches to what I hoped was something close to a romantic meal. I was out of practice and certainly out of my comfort zone.

  The seafood risotto smelled good and I was about to pan-fry some scallops for starters. I had hot chocolate sauce ready to be heated and poured over summer fruits and Amaretti biscuits. Not the work of a master chef, but I hoped it would impress.

  Monica sat at the kitchen table and watched me. I could see she was fighting back the urge to help. I played up my incompetence a little to get a rise out of her; I loved to see her laugh.

  ‘How do you like your scallops? Burned one side or two?’

  ‘Surprise me,’ said Monica. ‘You seem to be full of surprises this evening. Thank you again for the flowers; they’re beautiful. You didn’t need to go to all this trouble, James. It is very sweet of you. The food smells amazing.’

  ‘I may have overreached a little, but let’s see how it tastes. If it’s a disaster we’ll order pizza.’

  ‘Promise?’ said Monica with a grin. She had a wicked sense of humour, which I loved.

  ‘I promise. Don’t forget, you brought this on yourself. I was all for going out. It was you who insisted I poison us both with my attempt at a Gordon Ramsay dinner.’