Max & Olivia Box Set

by Mark A Biggs

  For the second time that day, we sat watching the radio speaker, listening for the interception to transpire.

  ‘Air support—we still have the five motorbikes in sight, heading west from Truro on the A390.’

  ‘Are there pillion passengers?’ I said aloud. It was almost as if the helicopter heard my question.

  ‘We can see two pillion passengers.’ followed by silence until a minute later. ‘The bikes are turning right of the A390 at Penstraze.’ More silence, then, ‘They have taken another right towards Tregavethan.’

  More silence. I looked to Detective Wells. ‘Where are the road units? They should have them by now.’

  She looked at me and said nothing then moved her gaze back towards the radio speaker.

  ‘Air support—Tango one two has them.’

  The next two minutes felt like an eternity. I stood and paced the room while Detective Wells remained motionless in her chair. I took my seat once more as the radio voice filled the room.

  ‘Tango one two—No pillion passengers, repeat no pillion passengers. Riders report they were dropped off in Truro. We can confirm the passengers were Max and Olivia. Air Support must have seen the spare pillion helmets and jackets on the passenger backrest.’

  Detective Wells put her head in her hands and said, in a subdued tone, ‘What now?’

  No one answered her rhetorical question and she added, ‘I want to know of any cars stolen in or around Truro.’

  The instructions given to her team, she returned her attention to me.

  ‘I am guessing they have whatever it was they were after. We have road closures and the railway stations being monitored, so all we can do is wait. To tell you the truth, I think they will make it out of Cornwall, if that’s what they are trying to do. Perhaps we are not given them the respect they deserve. They are either incredibly lucky, stupid or very good. One thing is for sure, they will pop up somewhere.’ She placed her hands over her face, briefly hiding it from view before slowly drawing her hands down to reveal her face once more and continuing the conversation.

  ‘Okay, once we have interviewed Elinor, there’s no point in staying here. We should take a ride to Mawnan and look at this church and perhaps we can work out what they were doing there. I also think we should go public. Put their faces on the front page of every newspaper, try and break any public support the romance their story is creating by linking them to the house fire that killed your daughter.’

  ‘Detective Wells—Lynda,’ I interrupted. ‘You know we can’t do that, even though it would help us find them. It would also help other people to find then. It would put Max and Olivia in untold danger and, with them, Janus.

  ‘I suggest we take Elinor with us to the church. We act as if we know what it was Max and Olivia were going there for. With luck, this will encourage Elinor into revealing what she knows, if anything. If the church divulges nothing, then we wait and, as you say, they will most certainly pop up again.’

  Detective Wells thought for a moment before nodding her head in agreement adding, ‘Coffee while we wait for Elinor to arrive?’

  For the second time that morning we left the station and made our way to the coffee shop. This time we were not called back before our arrival.

  It was difficult to guess Detective Wells’ age; somewhere in her fifties I surmised. She was a heavy set woman but not in an unattractive way. Her clothes were slightly jumbled, dishevelled without being untidy. She wore no wedding ring and other than inviting me to call her by her first name, she revealed nothing of her personal life. Not rude but, like me, private. Our conversation stayed centred on the case and, even when it turned to the house fire, there was not a word of acknowledgement that I was the father of the lady who died. Yet, her tone and manner was such that I knew she cared.

  We had just finished our coffees when her phone rang. The conversation lasted less than thirty seconds before Detective Wells hung up and said, ‘Elinor is at the police station. Time for the drive to Mawnan.’

  Even when living in England, I rarely visited Cornwall. Arriving at the Mawnan Church and looking out over the fields, river and Helford Passage, I regretted this lack for there is no doubt that this is one of the most beautiful places in the world.

  The drive down had been purposely quiet and our ploy had worked almost immediately. When Elinor asked, ‘Where are you taking me?’ I had simply replied, ‘We thought you’d like to see what brought Max and Olivia to Mawnan Church.’

  ‘You know about the church and the fallen stone cross?’ Elinor had said, with emphasise on the word cross, making it more of a statement than question. To this I simply nodded yes and said nothing. After perhaps thirty seconds, Elinor felt compelled to fill the silence.

  ‘It was me who solved the cryptic clue. Mawnan was the difficult part, the fallen stone cross the easy bit.’

  ‘It’s quite an art, solving cryptic crosswords,’ I said. ‘It’s good that you have come with us, just in case the fallen cross proves to be another puzzle.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Detective Wells also added.

  Standing in front of the fallen cross, Detective Wells read aloud the words that were written.

  ‘What do you make of it?’ I said to no one in particular.

  ‘Yes, what do you make of it?’ came a voice from behind; a voice I recognised as my assailant from the night before.

  ‘Don’t be alarmed,’ continued the voice. ‘Inspector Axel understands the rules; do nothing silly and all will be well.’

  I turned slowly, bringing the assailant into view. As before, he was wearing a balaclava. With one hand he waved a greeting while the other hand remained in his coat pocket. Moving his head, he motioned down to the coat pocket where I could see the outline of a gun moving against the material.

  Elinor started to move but, quickly, I held her arm. ‘It’s okay Elinor. Everything will be all right.’

  My assailant casually moved and stood beside Elinor to look at the stone cross. The sound of the helicopter distracted us from the assailant’s presence. It appeared from below the sloping land leading down towards the river. After rising into view, it settled on the grass field outside of the boundary of the churchyard.

  Taken by surprise we did nothing but watch the three people alight from the helicopter and, before we had a chance to register the danger, two men were pointing assault rifles directly at us. They advanced while a tall, slim, blonde haired woman, probably in her thirties, following closely. She was dressed in a full body suit of tight blue leather. Looking to her feet I expected to see high heels, but she wore more practical flat soled shoes which looked out of place with the suit. Lifting my gaze, I saw the body suit accentuated the pertness of her breasts and was unzipped, revealing cleavage.

  ‘Hello sweeties,’ she said. ‘What have you found?’ To this, no one responded.

  ‘That was a question,’ she said and, pointing to Elinor, she continued, ‘You, sweetie, tell me what you know.’ As she spoke, one of the men holding an assault rifle levelled it at Elinor.

  Elinor stammered at first but quickly regained her composure. ‘All I know is the gravestone cross is meant to be a clue to the location of something which is hidden. They, Max and Olivia, did mention the name of the thing but honestly I can’t remember.’

  ‘Thank you sweetie; did they say where they thought this thing might be hidden?’

  ‘No,’ replied Elinor.

  The lady in blue took a few steps closer to the gravestone and, using her mobile phone, took a picture. Without saying a word she turned and started walking back towards the helicopter and the whooshing of the props, which disturbed the serenity of the location.

  The men with the assault rifles also withdrew. The red dots emanating from the laser sights bounced from us to the ground as they walked carefully backwards until they had cleared the churchyard and were once again in the field. They jumped back into the helicopter, which lifted slowly off from the ground.

  ‘One of yours?’ I asked my a
ssailant.

  ‘Russian Mafia. I hear there’s a syndicate looking for Janus.’

  ‘Do you know her?’

  ‘No, not my type.’

  The helicopter hovered above the field just outside of the churchyard.

  ‘Move, take cover!’ shouted my assailant, shoving Elinor to the ground.

  Turning, I saw a red dot flicker on the stone cross and flung myself down and then rolled a couple of times, finding temporary cover behind a grave. I heard nothing other than the rotor blades slicing the air not far away but saw puffs of dirt and mud as bullets landed where I had been.

  The sound of gunshots only metres from my ears was deafening. Bang, bang. Bang, bang; two rapid shots followed by another two rapid shots. Looking over, I saw my assailant lying with his back to the ground, two hands steadying the gun aimed at the helicopter. The response was immediate; the helicopter swung away and dipped below the hill and was gone.

  Detective Wells and Elinor lay motionless on the ground. I rushed to Elinor’s side and knelt. I placed my hand under her head and lifted it gently. Her eyes were open but stared vacantly back. She was dead.

  ‘Help me,’ I cried out in anguish but all was silent. Looking about, I saw my assailant was gone, vanished back into the world from which he came. I stood up and looked towards Detective Wells who had not moved. Fearing the worst but in hope of the best, I moved to where she lay.

  ‘Lynda, Lynda,’ I cried. ‘Can you hear me?’ My calling was in vain; she was voiceless and only the hallowed ground whispered with the breeze, Princes or thieves, believers and non-believers—all are welcome. Sanctuary and peace are to be found in my ground, as its parched soil drank the blood that trickled from the lifeless souls.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Windermere

  Max

  ‘Oh Max, I do wish you would steal a less conspicuous car; the police are everywhere and perhaps it’s best we blend in.’ This was spoken in a tone reminiscent of Lady Penelope from Thunderbirds, a game of ours from a bygone era.

  To it I replied, ‘Yes m’lady, unfortunately m’lady, it seems the older type automobile is more accommodating to the senior touch.’

  ‘Oh Parker; well done. Have you prepared the Rolls Royce? Is it ready to run?’

  ‘Oh yes, m’lady? Quite ready. Everything’s been done. I’ve lubricated all of the cannons and I’ve polished up the gun.’

  ‘Very well Parker. I think I’d like to take a little ride. And Parker…’

  ‘Yes, m’lady.’

  ‘Somewhere just around the countryside.’

  ‘Land’s End Airport m’lady.

  ‘Very well Parker.’

  The drive to Land’s End, which was just over an hour away, was uneventful. Leaving Olivia at the airport, I drove to Penzance to dump the car, vowing, along the way, to buy an old Roller as our next get-about. Having disposed of the car and leaving a hundred pounds in the glove compartment, I acquired the services of a taxi to whisk me back to the airport and Olivia.

  I didn’t ask what lie, in the guise of a story, Olivia had told for our charter to Bristol. Having told so many lies over our lifetime, they were for us, if only for a short time, the truth. Once in Bristol we decided on staying at least for a couple of days. Olivia and I were in need of rest and the purchase of another car before any recovery attempt could be made in Scotland.

  ‘Who could imagine fitting so much into a single day?’ I said. ‘What lie are we going to tell this time for having no luggage and no clean underpants?’

  ‘It’s all right for you boys. The same pair of underpants lasts you a week and even then, you just turn them inside out and start again.’

  ‘Tomorrow, “Operation Underpants’,” I replied.

  ‘Max, although I don’t want to, I think we should find separate hotels. At least until the heat settles.’

  I reluctantly agreed and, before parting said, ‘Let’s meet back here at nine o’clock, outside this café. It looks a reasonable place for breakfast. Afterwards you can buy the undies and I’ll find a new set of wheels.’

  Having seen the police at the Mawnan church, we knew it would be only a matter of time before they discovered the fallen cross if they had not done so already. It seemed fair to conclude that our other pursuers already knew we were heading to Scotland.

  Much of the next two days was taken up with finalising the plans for the trip. Only in hindsight would we know if the plan had been a success or failure. We discussed all the modes of transport; flying, train, bus and driving. In the end we returned to our initial idea of purchasing another car. Our own wheels gave flexibility.

  With transport decided, it was then a matter of working out how to drive north. Travelling together, two old farts, would provoke the attention of anybody pursuing and also those following our story in the media and on Facebook.

  ‘Max, I think two women journeying together would be less obvious. Old ladies always travel together, so they would seem—well, quite natural.’

  I agreed but pointed out that Elinor was no longer with us.

  ‘I’m not thinking of Elinor,’ came the reply.

  ‘You’re not suggesting what I think you are suggesting?’ I said—and was right; Olivia’s scheme was for me to travel in drag.

  With me having grudgingly agreed to the cover of two women travelling together, we fixed on adding as many elements and layers to our deception as possible. Every possibility, no matter how ridiculous, had been put on the table for discussion. In the end we settled on having two young people drive us. To do this we visited a local backpackers’ hostel and offered a free ride for two people wishing to travel to Scotland on Thursday 7th. All they needed was a current driver’s licence. The advertisement was placed on the backpackers’ noticeboard on Tuesday afternoon and, by Wednesday morning, we had our chauffeurs. The next element of our plan was to use the old Visa card, the one in the name of Max Breeze, which was undoubtedly monitored, to book two nights’ accommodation in London.

  All that was needed now was the purchase of the car, another British classic. I started my search first thing Tuesday morning, in between shopping for our new wardrobe and visiting the Backpackers’ hostel. Luckily Olivia did, in addition to my disguise, purchase some man’s things for when we arrived in Scotland.

  Unsurprisingly, my search for a Rolls Royce Silver Spur, similar to the one I had borrowed from Truro, was not successful in or near Bristol. To my dismay, other than MGs and Austin Healy Sprites, all of which were too small and far too difficult for us to get in or out of at our age, the choice of British classics on offer was pitiful. That’s not entirely true though. There was a magnificent brown 1970s Aston Martin V8 Vantage, one of my dream cars. Looking at it on the internet, I could imagine Max and Olivia Bond flying up the motorway towards Scotland, but in our reality it was outside of any reasonable cash advance I could secure without rousing suspicion. In the end, my British classic dream came down to a Russian 1956 GAZ-M20, left hand drive. On Wednesday night and £12,000 later, the M20 was mine. I drove back to Olivia’s hotel and showed her our relic from the cold war days. She could not control her laughter, knowing my passion for British cars.

  ‘Now I know why you said it would be a surprise,’ she joked.

  Before leaving Olivia for the night, I had asked what time our backpackers, Jess and David, were meeting us tomorrow.

  ‘At about eight,’ said Olivia. ‘At my hotel, not yours.’

  ‘I sure hope one of them can drive a left hand drive car; it handles like a battleship,’ I said before giving Olivia the mandatory farewell kiss and driving away.

  Next morning, the new wardrobe was lying in wait in Olivia’s room. She took great pleasure assisting me in dressing and then applying lavish amounts of excessive makeup. It was shortly before 8.30 in the morning when the two old ladies left the hotel.

  ‘Good morning David and Jess, this is Maxine,’ said Olivia, pointing to me. ‘And I’m Olivia. Oh, we are both so much looking forward to your
company on our run up to Scotland today. Aren’t we Maxine?’ To this I nodded. ‘If you don’t mind, Maxine and I prefer to sit in the back. You don’t mind driving do you?’ Olivia said to neither of them in particular.

  ‘What a magnificent looking car. What is it?’ asked David, although I detected an air of sarcasm in his voice.

  Trying for a more feminine voice, in keeping with my disguise, I replied, ‘I have absolutely no idea, love. It was my husband’s. He’s dead now—rest his soul. Had it for years, he did. Not the easiest thing to drive, but very comfortable and lots of room in the back. Oh, and love,’ I continued, ‘Can you take us up via Liverpool? We would like to make a detour into the Lake District. Perhaps we can have lunch there; it will be our treat. Are you ready, Olivia love?’

  ‘Ready for what, dear?’

  ‘To leave. For Scotland.’

  ‘Oh, of course, dear.’

  The M20 car was surprisingly better from the back seat, both roomy and comfortable. I gazed across to Olivia who was wearing a ridiculous red wide brimmed fedora hat, brown pinstriped jacket and matching skirt. She seemed something of a cross between Mata Hari and Hilda Pierce from Foyle’s War, one of my favourite TV series. From the charity shop, Olivia had chosen for me a wool cloche bucket hat, a cream shirt with frills, an extra-large dark green cardigan and a dark cream scarf adorned with red flowers. She did allow me the dignity of a long black skirt—I had refused a short skirt which would have necessitated stockings to hide my sexy legs. To complete my shame, I wore ostentatious pearls, clip-on earrings and bright red lipstick.

  The first half an hour of the journey was completed in relative silence, with David and Jess talking quietly between themselves, accompanied by the drumming of the car as we sped up the motorway.

  ‘Love, where are you from?’ I called from the back seat to neither one of them in particular.

  ‘We are both from a town called Warragul. In Australia,’ answered Jess.

  ‘Australia! Olivia, isn’t that exciting? They have come all the way from Australia.’ After a short pause I added, ‘What are you doing in the UK?’