Regret No More

by Seb Kirby

  No, he would not do what was expected. Indeed, as he’d learned to his advantage more than once, this was the moment to do what was unexpected.

  He took a taxi and visited the first travel agent he found. He booked a return flight to Albuquerque.

  There were others on the list. A hit in Albuquerque when eyes were focused on Austin would produce consternation amongst those seeking to stop him. When he returned to Austin, the chances of making the hit would be greater.

  He returned to the hotel and lay on the bed. He called up Wagner’s Parsifal on his MP3 player. The small earphones were not adequate to do full justice to the magnificence of the music yet his mind cleared as he listened. The sense of order that was so lacking in the world out there was being restored with every note. This was a music for decent god-fearing people, an antidote to the trash he encountered all around him in this place and, more than that, a reminder of the true heroism that survived in men like him. Men unafraid to look truth in the face.

  He let his mind drift. He saw himself picking up the lance, the spear that pierced Christ’s side. He felt the superhuman power that holding the cherished object was giving him – the power he drew deep inside him in moments like this.

  Luiz Reyas had followed Heller to the hotel and had noticed the brief interest he’d shown in the Englishman who waited in the lounge. He’d then followed Heller to the travel agent. The assistant there looked pleased when Reyas pushed a fifty-dollar bill across the counter. “The German. Where was he headed?”

  The assistant took the bill. “Albuquerque. You want a ticket?”

  Chapter 47

  DI Reid knew he had to check it out. They could be hiding James in the posh apartment in Wilbraham Place that he’d seen the Blake woman visit. One million was good but two million was a world of difference if you wanted to feel comfortable amongst the rich.

  He chose to leave it until after dark to make his way over to Blenheim Mansions. He checked for security cameras and could see none. That’s what you get with established wealth. Who would want those ugly things destroying the fine appearance of the building?

  There was no point in being subtle. The only way he was going to get into the Westland apartment was to use his CID card – but not as DI Reid. For circumstances like this he kept a fake card in another name, DI Billingham. The card he’d shown at the vehicle pound and at the Allegro Hotel. This was useful if you wanted to avoid being traced if you were forced to identify yourself after roughing up a suspect or for times like these when a full-on personation was required. Reid had not used it often but the money spent in having the fake card made had been repaid many times over.

  He pressed the bell to apartment number 6. After a pause the intercom crackled and he announced himself. “Police. Inspector Billingham. I have some questions.”

  It was a good sign. The Westland woman replied and sounded anxious. “Can’t this wait?”

  “It’s urgent. It’s about Julia Blake.”

  That did the trick – the electric lock was slipped and he was inside.

  He checked again for security cameras. You had to admire the confidence of these people. There were none to be seen.

  The door to the apartment was opened as soon as he arrived. Peggy Westland was being cautious. “You don’t mind if I see some identification?”

  He showed her the Billingham card. “Mike Billingham. I just have a few questions.”

  She showed him in. “It must be urgent to come here at this late hour, Inspector.”

  He took the seat he was offered. “It is. I understand you know Julia Blake?”

  “What’s this in connection with?”

  Reid decided on a straightforward approach. “Julia Blake. She’s missing. So is her husband, James. This is a routine missing persons enquiry. We’re checking anyone who might know them and I was told you’re close to Mrs. Blake. Do you know where she is?”

  Peggy Westland was a poor liar. “No, Inspector. I haven’t seen her for, well, it must be several years now. Not since her return from Florence. You must understand I’m in mourning for my husband, Richard.”

  “Sorry to trouble you. Have you seen her husband, James?”

  She was growing more confident she was in control. “I haven’t seen either of them. Now, if there’s nothing more, Inspector, I have much to do and, since there’s nothing I can say to help you, I’d like you to leave.”

  Reid could see she wasn’t going to help him. He’d come this far, further than he’d ever been. If he was going to do this thing, if he was to become the wealthy man he knew he deserved to be, he had to go that short distance further. Blake could be hiding anywhere in this large apartment. He wouldn’t forgive himself if his man was here and he let him go.

  Reid stood, walked over and picked the Westland woman up. She was nine stone or less and it was easy to carry her to the bedroom using the fireman’s lift they’d taught him in rescue and safety training. She was shouting and trying to kick but the fact he’d approached her without warning had overwhelmed her and her protests were not going to alert anyone.

  In the bedroom he threw her on the bed and pushed a pillow over her face. She wasn’t big but she was a fighter. He had to use all his strength to hold her down until the shaking of her legs stopped and he knew he’d killed her.

  There, he’d done it. There was no way back now.

  There wasn’t much to connect him to the crime. There would be no CCTV to analyze. There was little light with no one around. It was unlikely he’d been seen entering or leaving the building. There would be no questions about DI Billingham because the only person who knew of his existence here apart from himself was lying lifeless beneath him. There was nothing to connect what had happened here with the DI who visited the Allegro and the vehicle pound.

  Reid began the search. He took time to examine each of the rooms. He opened cupboards and peered inside. He looked under beds. He opened the shower cubicle door. Blake wasn’t here.

  He sat for some time in the lounge and tried to collect his thoughts. Why had the Westland woman lied to him? It would have been simple enough to state that Julia Blake had been here earlier that day. Peggy Westland was hiding something and if it wasn’t James Blake it must be something else.

  He began a more thorough search. He turned on the desktop computer. As expected, there was no password protection. He began searching the desktop looking for files but there was nothing out of the ordinary there. He looked in drawers, in kitchen cupboards and found nothing of interest there. One place remained, a place so obvious he was annoyed with himself for not having searched it up to now.

  The antique desk was the centerpiece of the lounge. One of the drawers was locked but there was no need to force it, he had a pick for that. The drawer was open in a few minutes.

  Inside he found a single manila envelope containing a form letter from a lawyer from Ghent.

  He didn’t know what this meant yet but he did know it was important.

  Reid returned to the bedroom to arrange the body. He was sure he was in time to avoid the complications of rigor mortis. He worked to remove any signs of struggle, placing the Westland woman in a sleeping position in the bed and arranging the bedclothes to make it look possible she’d died in her sleep.

  It would be some time before a post mortem could be held and find she’d been asphyxiated. Even then, they might not be certain that a second party was involved. By then he would be away with his million, maybe two if he could find the husband.

  The visit had not been a waste of time; he had the letter. Something told him that for the right person this might be worth more than the two million he was chasing.

  Day 4

  Friday August 22nd

  Chapter 48

  The news would devastate Julia; Miles knew that. Yet he also knew he should be the one to tell her. It was better that it came from him rather than the shock of her hearing this from elsewhere.

  He was standing in line at immigration at Chicago O�
��Hare Airport and because of the five-hour time difference it was still just 5 AM there. He was flight side and shouldn’t be using the phone but there was reception and there were messages that could wait no longer.

  After checking the messages he called Julia.

  There was a long wait before she picked up.

  “Julia. Are you all right? I didn’t think you were going to answer.”

  “I didn’t want to pick up.”

  “You’re safe?”

  ‘Yes. Craig is here. He has a room down the corridor. He keeps watch. Nothing to worry about. And your flight?”

  “It was fine. But we were delayed getting a landing slot and now I’m in a line at immigration and it’s not moving. And I have a new message from Reyas. Meet in Albuquerque. Sandia Peak Tramway. 10.40 AMT.”

  “Not Austin?”

  “He’s made a switch. Don’t ask me why. I now need to change my ticket.”

  “You’ll get there in time?”

  “I should be fine to get an early morning flight out there.” Miles paused. “Listen, Julia, I have something to tell you and it’s best you hear this from me.”

  “James?”

  “Not James. But not good.”

  “What then?”

  “When I landed, I checked the news feeds on my phone. There’s a piece you need to know about. There’s no good way of saying this. Peggy Westland has died.”

  Miles could sense the shock that Julia must be feeling. “She was well yesterday. What happened?”

  “It says Peggy Westland, widow of well-known painter Richard Westland, died last night in her sleep in her apartment in Sloane Square. The body was discovered early next morning by her cleaner. Though the outcome of a post mortem is awaited, initial police investigations point to death from natural causes.”

  Julia sounded angry and shocked. “That can’t be, Miles. That can’t be.”

  Chapter 49

  I’d never been the type before this but now I knew what paranoia was all about.

  It was more than a game of cat and mouse. I was caught up in my very own dystopia. To everyone around me, the world had the unexceptional sheen of normality. To me, the world was filled with those who listened to and observed my every move.

  The FBI guys were working me hard and working me well.

  I was watched overnight on a rota basis – three hours of Jones, three hours of Michael, three hours of Philips.

  Even then they were taking no chances. The phone in the hotel room had been disabled.

  “Come on buddy. You might as well sleep. The phone’s dead. You’ve got no way of sneaking out of here and getting a message out, so why not shut your eyes and give us all a break.”

  I had no sleep that night. It was too hot for sleep anyway. The air conditioning was noisy and no match for the eighty degree overnight temperature.

  By morning I was exhausted.

  Agent Craven came in. “OK, James, time to get up. It’s show time. Time to play out your role as Charles Harrington, computer nerd and delegate to the Comicom trade fair out at the Conference Centre.”

  I looked back, bleary-eyed, and didn’t reply.

  Craven turned to Philips, the last one on the rota to watch over me. “And what should Harrington be doing, Agent Philips?”

  “Why, sir, he should be getting up, showering, getting dressed real smart, going down to breakfast to look over his itinerary for the day and getting ready to board the bus taking him out to the exhibition.”

  Craven smiled. “And the bus leaves in forty minutes.” He then turned to me. “That’s if you’re still with us?”

  I thought about Julia. I thought about Miles and what could happen to them both if I refused to play along. “OK. I hear you.”

  I showered and dressed. Craven left the room but Philips stayed. I wasn’t going to be allowed privacy. “What do you think I’m going to do?”

  Philips smiled back. “Just following the plan.”

  The plan had me seated at breakfast where I could be seen if anyone was watching and checking to see if I was following the expected routine of the trade fair attendee I was supposed to be. I ate the breakfast. I looked over my papers for the day.

  When I looked around the room, Craven’s agents could be seen here and there pretending otherwise but nonetheless observing my every move and with that came the paranoia. What if the assailant Craven was expecting was here and watching, planning how to take me out? From that point of view the level of protection was minimal. It wasn’t that I was the bait in the trap so much as I was the preemptive sacrifice. Craven didn’t care what happened to me as long as he smoked out his man.

  It was the same on the bus taking the delegates to the exhibition. I sat on the outside seat, third row from the front, next to a rotund middle-aged man from Tennessee. We exchanged pleasantries about the heat in Austin at this time of year and then talked about what we were looking forward to at the Comicom trade fair.

  I thought of asking him to get a message out for me, to ask him to tell the world I was being held against my will. But I had to decide against it. The paranoia hit home again. How did I know the man from Tennessee wasn’t one of Craven’ s men, one I hadn’t seen before? No, that was a risk I couldn’t take, not when I knew what might happen to Julia and Miles if I got this wrong.

  It was the same at the exhibition. As I made my tour of the stands and stopped to take the expected interest here and there, I was sure my every step was being followed. I thought I recognized one of them from the ’plane but he was soon gone and I was left with the feeling that the others watching were there working as a team in such a way that none was close enough for long enough for me to be able to single them out.

  I tried to move between the exhibition stands in as unpredictable a way as possible without giving them the idea I might be trying to lose them. I thought it might have worked when I came to a stand on SDRAM storage at the far end of the hall.

  I was sure I must have lost them.

  There, set against the wall, was a public phone box.

  I would have less than a minute and I had no coins, no card. It would have to be a collect call. I was thinking fast. Was there anyone here in the States who would accept a collect call from me? There was Malcolm Spencer who’d worked with me in radio in London and who’d taken a job out here. But I couldn’t remember his number. Was there a way of getting the number from an operator?

  My time was up.

  A hand came down on my shoulder. It was Philips. He whispered, “Not thinking about the public phone, are we?”

  I shook my head. “Just tired of walking round the stands.”

  “That’s OK. I have a message that you’re returning to the hotel. There’s a bus out front in ten minutes.”

  The journey back to the hotel was like the journey out. I had no way of knowing if one or more of the business types on the bus were with Craven or not. I made the journey in silence.

  Back at the hotel, the surveillance rota came back into action. Craven explained. “You lie low for the rest of the afternoon. Get some rest. You’re back at it this evening.”

  Chapter 50

  Miles reached the Sandia Peak Tramway outside Albuquerque with half an hour to spare. He hadn’t slept much on the flight from Chicago and could feel the jet lag bite.

  Luiz Reyas was nowhere to be seen.

  There was tourism all year in the Sandia Mountains but at this time, with no snow, the area wasn’t crowded. A group of Chinese waited in silence for the tramway car to wind its way down the four thousand feet precipice of the Sandia Mountain Range as the ascending companion car aimed for the top. It was a three-mile trip during which the tramway car lurched over two turrets connecting the three sections of cable on which it ran.

  The downward traveling car was approaching. Miles looked up at the display board. The next departure was scheduled to leave in less than five minutes yet there was no sign of Reyas. Miles began to feel foolish that he’d traveled so far on such slen
der information.

  The car arrived and half a dozen tourists clambered out. It was going to be a short turnaround. The Chinese tourist party boarded. The car was ready to go.

  There was a voice behind Miles. “Please get in, Senor.”

  It was Reyas.

  Miles stepped aboard. “Cutting it fine?”

  Reyas replied, “You made it over OK?”

  They spoke like host and guest with nothing that would be out of place to the casual listener. “The flight was smooth enough. Some delay in getting into Chicago. I had to change tickets there after clearing immigration but I made the connection here this morning with no problems.”

  The tramway car began its journey to the summit. Miles didn’t want to admit to the vertigo he suffered from and made sure not to look down.

  They didn’t want to talk here and fell into silence as the ascent continued.

  The air had begun to thin as they approached the first support turret at seven thousand feet. As the tramway car lurched as it crossed the turret, Miles could no longer hide his discomfort.

  Reyas smiled. “It’s like that. Nothing to worry about. Unless you get to thinking too much about what it’s going to be like on the way down.”

  Miles took deep breaths. “I’ll be OK.”

  The ride over the second turret was no better than that over the first. Miles fought back nausea as the tramway car lurched again on its way. When the tramway car shuddered to a stop at the summit, Miles lied. “That wasn’t so bad.”

  Reyas was still smiling. “The charm of the English.”

  They disembarked and walked along a narrow path that threaded its way across the Sandia Crest. Reyas paused. They looked out across the vast expanse of the Rio Grande plain, ten thousand feet beneath them.

  Reyas spoke quietly. “This place is sacred to the Pueblo. You can see why.”

  Fifty miles away, on the other side of the plain, a storm with forked lightning standing out against black cloud was playing out. It was like looking at events in another time and place where a less than benign god was making weather. Yet up here the late afternoon sun was shining.