Bradley nodded. ‘Sounds like the correct thing to do. Thank you very much.’
‘Not a problem,’ responded Garrett.
Garrett headed to the outskirts of London, off the beaten track a little and finally pulled over into a travel lodge hotel next to a highway service station.
‘This place looks pretty discreet,’ he said. ‘I’ll go and book two rooms, you lot wait here.’
Chapter 32
After Bradley had showered, Garrett had given him a set of his clothes. They were of a similar height but Garrett’s arms and shoulders were almost twice the size of the skinny scientist and the clothes hung on him like the skin on a Shar-Pei puppy. But at least they were clean.
Then Petrus took care of Garrett’s wound, cleaning it roughly and then stitching it up using the hotels free sewing kit. Lindsey watched in fascination as the Zulu put six deft stitches into Garrett, his big hands working with care and precision.
‘Wow,’ she exclaimed. ‘You’re really good at that.’
Petrus grinned. ‘Lots of practice,’ he answered as he laid a bandage over the wound.
After that, it took almost two hours to tell Bradley the whole story and get him completely up to date.
Then he recounted his end of the tale up until their rescue.
‘So whose finger did they show you?’ Asked Petrus.
‘Must have been some random child,’ said Garrett, his eye glittering with subdued anger. ‘Must have killed her afterwards or we would have heard something about it in the news.’
‘It would have been sergeant Robhurst,’ said Bradley. ‘SAS soldier, Haddock’s bodyguard, complete psycho. Beat the crap out of me a couple of times.’
‘He’s a dead man,’ snarled Garrett. ‘He just doesn’t know it yet.’
‘Guys,’ interjected Lindsey. ‘I think that you’re missing the point here. We’re talking about a group of people that were planning to explode a fucking nuclear weapon on British soil.’
‘Language,’ barked Garrett and Petrus together.
Bradley grinned at the reaction from the two men.
‘I can assure you, Lindsey,’ said Garrett. ‘That point has not evaded us. And I can assure you that this group of people will not go unpunished. But before we all go off half cocked we need to be fully prepared. Bradley, do you know the names and addresses of the major players involved?’
Bradley shook his head. ‘I know names, a bit of info, but that’s all.’
‘Okay, shoot.’
‘The woman, you already know. Councilor Debra Haddock. Then there are two men. Police Commander, City of London police. Name of Jarvis Hastings. Then there’s a Colonel Grant Peterson, 21 SAS. Look, gentlemen,’ continued Bradley. ‘They were set to kick off this thing tomorrow. If we really want to put a stop to this it should be as soon as possible. I’m worried that, when they find out what has happened to the warehouse, they will come after us with everything that they have. Not to sound defeatist but if they do kill you two, then Lindsey and I don’t stand a chance. We would have to become fugitives forever.’
‘Agreed,’ said Garrett. ‘But I can assure you, prof, it’ll take more than this sideshow to kill us two. Lindsey, do your internet thing. See if you can find out any addresses. Let’s start with the colonel. He’s our biggest threat. Not sure how much longer our luck will last if he keeps sending those SAS boys after us. Then we remove the cop, commander Hastings, he is Haddock’s eyes and ears. Without him there’s no more access to CCTV for them.
Finally, Haddock. But we need to do something special there. Also, we have to be very careful, to coin an old cliché; we are sitting on a powder keg here. If we take out these people and the cops start to look for us, then there is no way on God’s green earth that we will ever be able to get away or to hide. We will have been responsible for the assassination of three top UK officials.’
‘But I can tell them about the whole conspiracy,’ interjected Bradley. ‘The nuclear weapon, the kidnappings.’
‘Oh yes,’ agreed Garrett. ‘But that would make little to no difference. I know that I sound cynical but I’ve done work for these types before. Trust me. This sort of thing simply cannot be allowed to go public. If the rest of the world discovered that three top UK officials as well as a raft of their underlings were plotting to detonate a nuclear device on sovereign soil, the shit would hit the fan in a big way. The United Kingdom would be vilified. They would become the laughing stock of the intelligence world. No – they cannot allow that to happen. If we don’t do this properly then we will all die. So, firstly, I need to put a plan together and, secondly, we can never talk about this to anyone...ever. Agreed?’
There were nods all round.
Chapter 33
There were six people at the dinner table. The colonel knew them all. In fact they were, strictly speaking, his wife’s friends, but he had known them for years.
And he still struggled to remember their names. The fat one was called Susan, of that he was fairly sure.
‘Darling,’ his wife, Penelope, said to him. ‘Sally was just telling me that their Tim has been accepted to Edinburgh to read philosophy. Isn’t that grand?’
Peterson nodded and smiled his general all purpose smile, broad enough to show approval but not so broad as to seem false.
‘Sally,’ he thought to himself. ‘The fat one is Sally. Not Susan.’
His wife stood up from the table and went to fetch the main course, the starter having already been cleared away. It had been some sort of grilled white cheese on a bed of rocket or lamb’s lettuce or some form of salad that had, up until recently, been considered a weed by most normal people.
The main course was sustainable line caught fish. Poached and served with a side of organic vegetables and couscous.
Peterson hated fish but it was being served in deference to the fact that one of the guests was a vegetarian. Or pescatarian. Or whatever it was that people called themselves when they wanted to inconvenience the host.
Peterson would have preferred to have had a few of his own friends at the table. But for the fact that he had none. He was a career military man and, as such, he had higher ranking officers, officers of equal rank and those below him. Not friends. He had no time for friends.
So instead he had to break bread with fat people called Sally and people that eschewed meat.
His wife said something else and he smiled again.
After tomorrow things would be very different.
He’d be the second most powerful person in the country. A man of power and means and influence. He’d probably get rid of Penelope. Push her discreetly to the side. Maybe a small apartment in Sloan Square or thereabouts.
No more conversations about curtains or swags or seventy percent wool carpet. (You can’t tell the difference, you know. It’s just the same as the hundred percent).
No more boring dinners with pretentious women and tofu nibblers.
He smiled to himself.
‘Oh look, Dudley,’ said one of the women as she held up a bottle of the red wine. ‘Two thousand and two. It’s older than our youngest son, Tarquin.’
A ripple of polite laughter washed across the table. Ice clicked against crystal water tumblers. The fire crackled and popped in its grate.
Outside a squirrel scuttled up an oak tree, seeking safety in the upper reaches.
At ground level, an urban fox skulked silently away from a darker shadow that moved stealthily past.
A sound of steel defiling human flesh.
A slow exhalation of breath. Of life leaving the body. Escaping its earthly bounds.
Petrus stepped over the prostate guard, moving on to check for any more before gesturing to Garrett to follow.
‘I’ll take the bodies to the car,’ whispered Petrus. ‘We can dispose of them later. You go and do your thing.’
Garrett slid forward, heading for the house.
‘Look, I don’t mind the Poles,’ said one of the men around the dinner table. ‘Goo
d builders, hard workers and, let’s not forget, their women are gorgeous. But it’s these other fellows. Mainly from Africa. Asylum seekers, my lily white ass. More like free housing, schools and medical seekers if you ask me.’
‘I agree,’ said Peterson’s wife. ‘And it’s not that they’re of color. I mean, some of my best friends are of color. Well, acquaintances at the very least. Close acquaintances. It’s the way that they act, killing and raping and stealing. It’s not right.’
A sash window slid upwards on silent runners.
Then a shade flitted through the house, peering through doors. Pausing to listen and then moving on.
‘And as for the benefit classes,’ continued Penelope. ‘You know, we should be spending more money on defence, bobbies on the beat, grammar schools. Instead we spend billions on illegal immigrants and foreign aid.’
Peterson leaned back in his chair, his face a picture of smug superiority. All knowing. A man of significance.
Whilst the lesser people amongst us complain, he thought. The giants amongst us do.
‘Darling’, called Penelope. ‘Be a sweetheart and go down to the cellar and fetch up another bottle of the red, would you?’
The colonel stood up, and bowed theatrically. ‘Your wish is my command,’ he said as he left the room, heading for the cellar.
Down the plush carpeted corridor, left into the kitchen, down the stairs at the back.
He flicked the light switch. Three shelves of wine racks. Mainly full.
He picked up a bottle of red.
The door clicked closed behind him.
He turned.
‘Good evening colonel.’ A voice in the shadows.
The bottle slipped from nerveless fingers. Shattering on the floor.
‘Who are you?’
Garrett stepped forward into the light.
‘I am one of the men that you and your boys have been trying to kill. Rather unsuccessfully, I might add.’
‘Why are you here?’
‘I am here to witness your death,’ answered Garrett.
‘I don’t understand. What do you mean?’
Garrett drew the silenced, olive green, military issue Walther P99 from his belt.
Colonel Peterson shrank back.
‘Don’t worry, colonel,’ said Garrett. ‘I’m not going to shoot you.’
‘Not?’ Questioned the colonel.
Garrett shook his head and then reversed his hold on the pistol handing it over to Peterson, butt first.
The colonel took it hesitantly.
With one swift movement Garrett moved forward and twisted the colonel’s arm, forcing the barrel of the Walther up against his temple.
‘No,’ said Garrett. ‘You are going to shoot yourself.’
The pistol cracked.
Blood sprayed across the room, speckling the bottles and the walls.
Garrett let the man drop to the floor, the pistol still clutched in his dead hand.
Then he left the house on silent feet.
A minute later the fox also slunk away, confident that the coast was clear.
Chapter 34
Commander Jarvis Hastings was a cliché. Divorced, a functioning alcoholic, clinically depressed and a slave to his career. To get anywhere in the police force wasn’t an easy task and it pretty much necessitated a mindset that lived to work as opposed to working to live.
His children came a poor second and marriage an even more destitute third. But he had risen to one of the most powerful positions in London and, very soon, he would be in one of the most powerful positions in the country.
He lived in a small one bedroom apartment on the slightly less fashionable side of the river. Battersea Park. A view of the Thames. A small balcony. Open plan living area. Ikea.
It was on the forty fifth floor. Two below the penthouse. The view and the balcony made up for the diminutive proportions.
His wife had kept the house in Wimbledon and the two children, Charles and Sophie, were at a good private school, courtesy of his wife’s parents.
‘I’ll be going then, commander,’ said the woman standing behind him.
Jarvis waved her away without looking up. ‘Fine, Marcy. The guard will let you out.’
She hesitated a few seconds and then turned and left via the front door.
Jarvis had long ago started using prostitutes to relieve, if not his loneliness, at least his physical frustrations. He only used top quality girls and he never paid. There were some advantages to being the commander of the London City Police.
He stood up and pulled his white bathrobe tighter around him, retying the belt as he did so.
Then he built himself a drink. Scotch, a splash of soda and a generous helping of ice. He took a sip and then added more Scotch, filling the tumbler to the brim.
He selected a cigarette from his tabletop silver cigarette box. They were one of his few indulgences. Handmade Turkish cocktail cigarettes. A strong blend wrapped in various different colored papers. Heady and full of flavor. His wife had hated them.
Despite Haddock’s warnings about their safety, Hastings felt very safe and secure. After all, he was on the top of a tall building. There was limited access to the block and only one door. A door that was steel reinforced and protected by a guard. There was another guard in the lobby and yet another patrolling the exterior of the building.
He had nothing to worry about.
The commander lit his cigarette and walked out onto his balcony to look at the view.
It was freezing cold but he never let that deter him. He loved standing out, five hundred feet above the hurly burly of the city, the view stretching across the river and on, taking in the thousands of houses and apartments and office blocks all the way to the horizon.
Something twitched at the corner of his vision and he turned to look. It took him a few seconds to comprehend what he was actually looking at before a wave of fear washed over him.
It was a rope.
Hanging down from the top of the building and terminating at his balcony.
‘Good evening, commander,’ greeted Garrett.
Hasting swung around and noticed, for the first time, a man standing in the shadow almost right next to him.
The man smiled. And it was the most terrifying thing that the policeman had ever seen.
‘Time to pay the piper, Jarvis,’ the man said.
Then he slammed the commander in the chest with the heel of his hand, smashing him backwards over the railing.
And sending him plummeting to earth.
Amazingly he never screamed. Nor did he drop his tumbler of whisky until he hit the ground.
A shadow flitted upwards from the balcony, like a puff of black smoke from a funeral pyre.
Chapter 35
As was her habit, Debra woke early. Five thirty. She splashed cold water on her face, tied her hair back, donned a tracksuit and then spent the next forty minutes on her exercise bike, keeping her pulse rate at optimum for the required thirty minutes.
Afterwards she showered, made her face up. Clarins and Estee Lauder. Subtle. Hair, sleek and businesslike.
A light spray of Joy eau de parfum.
She could hear the soft voice of sergeant Robhurst as he talked to one of the other bodyguards in her kitchen, as they helped themselves to coffee. She knew that two other SAS guards were outside. One in the front of the gabled Georgian house and one in the garden at the back.
The house was situated in Barnes, a stone’s throw from the river. Two bedrooms and a dressing room upstairs. Eat in kitchen, sitting room and study on the ground floor.
Nett value around the one million pound mark. And Debra owned it outright.
She lived alone. Completely single. No boyfriend. And, contrary to some theories, no girlfriend either.
Utterly dedicated to power in all of its forms. Control. Command.
She glanced at her watch, seven o’clock. Time to phone colonel Peterson.
The phone rang for a while before it wa
s answered.
‘Yes?’
‘Colonel?’
‘No ma’am. This is detective inspector Regis. To whom am I speaking?’
‘Councilor Haddock. Listen DI, put me through to the colonel.’
‘Sorry, ma’am, can’t do.’
‘Why?’
‘Unfortunately I have to inform you that the colonel is deceased, ma’am.’
There was a long pause while Haddock processed the information. Finally she spoke again. ‘What do you mean, deceased? As in dead?’
‘It’s the only version of deceased that I know of, ma’am. Died last night. The official verdict’s not out yet but it’s almost definitely suicide. Shot himself with an SAS issue pistol. Did it in the wine cellar, while his guests were upstairs at a dinner party. No chance of foul play. The doors were locked and there were plenty of witnesses saying that no one else was there.’
‘What about his guards?’ Asked Haddock.
‘There were no guards, ma’am.’
‘Of course there were, DI. Two of them. SAS.’
‘Sorry, ma’am. No guards.’
Debra disconnected the call.
Her hand shook as she scrolled through her address book looking for another number.
Commander Jarvis Hastings.
Dialed. It rang until it cut off. No messages. Nothing.
She tried again. The same result.
Again she scrolled through her numbers. Looking for commander Hastings’ office number.
The duty sergeant answered.
‘Commander Hastings please. It’s Councilor Haddock. Urgent.’
‘I’m sorry, missus Haddock,’ replied the desk sergeant. ‘But I’m afraid that I have some rather dreadful news. Commander Hastings is dead.’
‘What?’ Shrieked Haddock as she began to lose control.
‘I’m so sorry, madam,’ continued the sergeant. ‘The commander took his own life last night. Jumped from his balcony.’
Garrett & Petrus- The Complete Series Page 74