by Ray Timms
‘Who’s gone? What! How?’
‘I had no choice but to release him.’ The sergeant said whilst trying to get a Romanian illegal immigrant to understand via a telephone interpreter that he was under arrest.
‘You did what?’ The DI said sharply.
‘We had a visitor, two o clock in the morning; some big name flew up from London. I did all I could to hold him Frank, but I had a call from the Chief, who sounded upset that I was stalling. Sorry Frank but I was given a direct order to release him.’
Frank was thinking about Gent, a killer on the loose who knew about his wife and daughters. ‘What was the name of this big shot who came up from London?’
Reading from the night incident register, the Custody Sergeant said. ‘It was, Attorney General, Sir Alec Chumleigh-Sloane. They don’t get any bigger than that.’
Back at his desk, Frank called home.
Beth said, ‘I’m fine Frankie. You sound worried.’
‘I want you to call up the girls and have them go straight to your mum’s in Hartlepool. Tell them it is a surprise holiday and that you will see them there. You got that?’
‘Yes Frankie but… ‘
‘No but’s please, Beth, you have to trust me on this.’
‘This is about the hotel shooter isn’t it?’ Beth guessed.
There was no point in lying to her. ‘Yes, we had him in the cells last night and he told me your names. This morning he was gone. Someone high up in the government had him released.’
‘Ok Frankie’ Beth said, her voice had a slight tremor. ‘You just make sure that you stay safe.’
‘By the way,’ Frank said.’ The steak and chips that you cooked last night was awesome.’
‘Aw Frankie, that’s nice, hearing you say that about my cooking which I know is rubbish.’
Frank felt guilty. He vowed that after today, even if Beth insisted they go back to the James White recipes that contained mostly air suspended in dishwater, he was going to say nice things about her cooking. Not every woman can cook like his mother. ‘We going back on the diet?’
Beth said. ‘Frankie, to be honest, I had been hoping for a while now that you would tell me the food was rubbish so I could stop using James White recipes. But if you want us to carry on using them, you know I will.’
Frank said. ‘I know you would honey but listen, you know that bin by the back door?’
‘The rubbish bin?’
‘I want you to take all the James White books along with his DVD and drop them in the bin. Will you do that for me?’
‘Aw, of course I will Frankie. I do love you. Mwah–mwah.’ Beth blew him kisses down the phone.
‘Mwah–mwah coming back athcher.’ Frank said, looking round at the two smirking detectives.
*
Friday, a little after nine in the morning, Gent was mulling over in his mind his plan to take out the King.
At two o’ clock the King was scheduled to make his historic announcement to Parliament.
Earlier, his handler had called to remind Gent that if he failed to take out the King before his fateful speech he could expect no further work.
Rethinking his priorities, the thief and the busboy would have to wait. The cop, if he doesn’t get in his way, might yet escape getting killed.
12.30, Gent called in at the local MI5 office and had one of the techie geeks, extend a mobile phone selfie-stick and then convert the end of it to hold a hypodermic needle. In the lab, he collected a vial of fast acting poison. He was advised that Sarin poison was tasteless, colourless and it had no smell, and the victim would be dead within minutes. Happy with his adaptions and wearing a disguise, Gent set off for the Palace.
Half-hour later, wearing a black itchy wig and a false moustache, Gent immersed himself in the crowd waiting to see the King when he emerged from the Palace.
*
Friday, just after one o clock, in the King’s apartment, the police and his security team were horrified to hear the King say he planned to spend some time in the courtyard meeting and shaking hands with his subjects before he got in his car to make the short drive over to the Scottish Parliament Building.
The Chief of Police, in charge of security, now had to hurriedly move his people around. His carefully laid out plans to get the King safely over to the Parliament Building was in bits. Henry couldn’t get the King to change his mind.
‘Do you think Robert the Bruce would have hidden from his enemies?’ Gavin said, waving away a makeup girl. ‘No, and nor shall I. Besides, it is only right and proper that my subjects are able to shake my hand and perhaps have me sign a tee shirt.’
One-fifty, with his security people nervously watching on, Gavin stepped out into the courtyard. Almost immediately he was lost in the swarm of people that surrounded him. When he found he was corralled in, Gavin got worried. Tourists were now pulling him into their personalised photos. Selfie sticks with cameras attached waving above the heads of people were like so many flags. Gavin looked around for his security people and couldn’t see them for the number of people throwing themselves into the melee. ‘Henry!’ Gavin called out searching for the Houseman in the faces in the crowd.
One man in the swollen crowd, holding aloft a converted mobile phone selfie stick, had no interest in being photographed with the King of Scotland. Sweating in his wig and fiddling with the droopy moustache that was beginning to lose its adhesion, Gent was closing in on his target. This close to the King, Gent was finding it almost impossible to move. Through the heads and shoulders of the crowd he could see King Robert had his back to him. Elbowing his way closer, Gent stepped on the toes of Mrs Shayaki, a Japanese tourist. The woman cried out in pain and then retaliated by slamming her elbow into his ribs. He pushed her out of his way and was immediately confronted by her husband Mr Shayaki, who understood enough English to know what he had just called his wife. Gent was trying to get the man out of his face so he could see where the King was.
Like a shoal of fish, with the King somewhere in the middle of it, the crowd was being moved along by the police towards the King’s Official car that was parked up by the gates and waiting to transport King Robert to the Parliament Building.
Not wanting to accidentally prick anyone else with the poison-tipped selfie stick, Gent, was keeping it high above the heads of the crowd. Tired of the man berating him in Japanese, Gent roughly shoved aside Mr Shayaki. He could now see the King was just ten feet away. Mr, Shayaki, a black belt in Karate, incensed by rudeness of the man who had just assaulted his wife, delivered Gent a vicious chop to the side of his neck. Surprised by the attack, Gent cried out and felt his knees wobble. Himself, a black belt in King Fu, Gent landed a foot in the Japanese tourist’s groin. The elderly Japanese curled up and then emitting a groan collapsed onto his knees. Angry now, Gent began throwing people aside. A grin lit his face when he saw the back of the King’s exposed neck.
Increasingly worried for his own safety, Gavin was now wishing he had listened to Henry, who he could hear shouting at the police officers to do something about the people mobbing the King. The stupid selfie sticks being thrust at him threatened to poke out an eye.
This hit hadn’t been easy or straightforward. Already, he had had to kill a hotel waiter and two Italian mobsters, whose family may yet seek revenge. He had survived an attempt on his life by the Swedish Meatball and to cap it all, last night he was arrested by a stupid cop. None of that now mattered now because all he had to do was to reach the selfie-stick over the heads of the tourists and plunge the needle into the King’s exposed neck and then watch him fall down dead. Then while everyone was engrossed in the welfare of the King he would calmly walk away.
*
Over in the Assembly Hall of the Parliament Building, Mary Dewar, sat at her special desk, allocated to the First Minister, was thinking the King’s scheduled appearance was already half an hour late. She was hoping the delay meant the King had changed his mind about bringing in his new laws. Then perhaps Scotland’s bizarre
experiment with having a monarch again will have failed and things can go back to as they were.
Cruid, sitting right alongside Dewar, looking ten years older than his seventy years looked down and saw there were spots of blood on his shoes.
‘We blew it.’ Cruid said, leaning over, keeping his voice down.
The two of them had been arguing all morning over whose fault it was the Swedish Meatball had died.
‘No, it was you who blew it, Cruid, it was you who drew up his contract.’ Mary hissed.
‘It wasn’t me that had their lover beat the man to death.’ Cruid retorted.
Checking that her microphone was switched off, Mary said. ‘It’s no longer important because it looks as if both of us are in the shit.’
Before Cruid could come back at her, Mary’s mobile phone chirped. She checked the caller ID. It was a withheld number.
‘Yes?’ Mary said, cautiously.
‘Mrs Dewar, my name is Q. I thought you might like to know that you can dispense with the services of the Swede because we have the matter in hand. We really don’t need the complication of having two people wanting to kill the same person.’
‘I have no idea what you are talking about.’
‘Tut-tut, Mrs Dewar,’ Q said, tiredly. ‘We both know that you are desperate to remove the King and you have already made some very poor judgements regarding that enterprise. However, time is short, so I will say what I need to say and then I am sure you will then appreciate me calling you. In a few minutes the person we both wish to have eliminated will no longer cause either of us any trouble, so would you mind awfully, calling off your Swedish Rottweiler so that our man can get on with his job without further infringement?’
‘He’s gone.’
‘The Swede?’
‘That’s what I said. He’s gone.’
‘You have dispensed with him then?’ Q wanted to be certain.
‘Dispensed… disposed, whatever, but rest assured he is no longer working for me.’
‘That’s good to hear.’ Q was about to end the call when Dewar said.
‘I take it, you have someone poised to remove the person we are talking about?’
‘That’s correct Mizz Dewar. Soon all your troubles and the King will be history… Goodbye.’
Mary, staring in amazement at her phone and keeping her voice to just above a whisper said to Cruid. ‘That was someone called Q. He just told me there is an assassin in the Palace grounds poised to take out the King.’
‘Our King?’
‘Of course our King, you dummy.’ Mary hissed.’ Bloody hell, that’s a relief.’
*
The minute Frank Guardo found out the killer had been freed; he immediately put out a BOLO (be on the lookout) for his arrest.
Unimpressed by the fact it was Scotland’s Chief Of Police that had sprung Gent: at nine o’ clock that morning, just hours before the King was due to attend the Scottish Parliament, DI Guardo called up Sir Roland Tripp and challenged him on his decision to release the suspected killer.
Sir Roland said. ‘Frank, I had no choice but to let him go. I had the Attorney General, no less, up at my house banging on my door in the early hours of the morning demanding that I release him.’
‘Are you kidding me?’ Frank raged. ‘Have you forgotten that Scotland is now an independent nation? The English Attorney General has no business being up here, let alone interfering in our judicial system.’
Sir Roland said. ‘Frank, try and see it from my perspective. This independence fiasco might yet fail and I have to think about what friends I will have left. It’s tough on me having to take sides like this.’
Frank shocked at his shallow reaction warned him. ‘The man that you turned loose, I have CCTV footage of him at the scene of each of these murders and I have a witness that saw him in a hotel with a gun.’
The Chief said. ‘Well it’s done now. I have been assured he will leave Scotland, so we can relax. The man is history.’
Frank didn’t share Sir Roland’s optimism the killer had left the country. Seeing no point in pursuing his complaint, Frank said goodbye and ended the call. The English Attorney General coming all the way up here to free Gent confirmed Frank’s suspicion MI5 was behind this. Regarding Gent’s target, it was clear, some very powerful people were prepared to pay to have the King eliminated. Having already survived a number of assassination attempts on his life, Frank thought the King had been lucky. Frank was worried Gavin’s luck was about to run out.
Leaning on the roof of his car, chewing on the butt of Grandpappa’s pipe, Frank needed to find this killer before he could get to the King. If he were in the killer’s shoes where would he make the hit? The King would be most at risk when he left the safety of the Palace just before he made the short journey over to the Parliament Building.
There was an hour or so before the King was due to make that journey.
His mobile went off. It was a text message and a video clip from the CCTV team. Frank watched Gent hauling a heavy bag going inside the Alhambra hotel. The time on the video showed it was taken just over an hour ago. Checking his watch, D.I Guardo called up his team and ordered everyone over to the Alhambra. Even if he was gone when they got there, he may have left behind a clue about what he was planning.
When Frank burst into Gent’s Alhambra Hotel room he wasn’t surprised to find him gone. When he had the manager show him the CCTV footage from cameras in the lobby, not half an hour ago, Gent had left the hotel wearing a black wig and moustache. He also had in his hand a rather long mobile phone selfie stick. Up in Gents room, Frank heard a shout from the bathroom. A sharp-eyed copper had noticed that the cabinet that concealed the plumbing had been disturbed. The DI lifted out an overnight bag and two further carrier bags that contained disguises. Wearing latex gloves Frank turned the contents out on the bed. Frank inspected the .38 S&W– a pile of banknotes–two passports with different names – a British Airways ticket to Madrid and an unopened bag of Haribo Jellies. Frank scratched his head and then shoved his old pipe in his mouth. HIs initial thoughts were, who in his right mind would leave behind a bag of Haribo’s? His blood ran cold when he spotted the empty glass phial with the words: ‘Sarin. Deadly poisonous.” His pipe nearly fell out of his mouth.
Chapter Forty-two
10 Downing Street.
In his private study, PM, Sir Roger Bottomley, Lord Soper and a reluctant Terry Beaumont, were glued to the TV showing the inside of the Scottish Parliament Building and the packed Assembly Hall full of people awaiting the arrival of King Robert who was due to make his historic announcement. The cameras switched to the scene outside Holyrood Palace and the door through which King Robert would emerge into the Courtyard. The people in the huge crowd were becoming restless as the time for his appearance neared. Then a cheer went up as the cameras showed him step out into the sunlight, his eyes blinking. Knowing that their killer was in that crowd and about to carry out a televised assassination, Terry had to look away. The PM did the same.
‘Let me know the minute he’s dead.’ Sir Roger said, to Lord Soper who wasn’t going to miss an opportunity to watch one of his experts at work.
*
With their sirens wailing, Frank’s Alpha Romeo led the police cars in a frantic dash across town.
The Spider slewed to a halt outside the Palace gates. Climbing out of his car, Frank first noted that some of the people being ushered away by the police were crying. There was no air of jubilation. The atmosphere was one of foreboding. Frank could see that he was too late. Fifty feet away, someone had placed a sheet over a body lying on the ground. Poking out the end were the shoes and the ankles of a man. Frank swore.
*
Gent had been poised to plunge the poison needle into the King’s neck when Mrs Shayaki, furious at this rude man who had just kicked her husband in the balls began cursing him in Japanese. When he ignored her tirade, she swung her handbag at his head.
‘Ow!’ Whatever it was she had in her han
dbag had hurt him… a lot. Of greater consternation to Gent was the blow had dislodged the nylon wig, which was now over his eyes. The second blow from the handbag of Mrs Shayaki caused Gent to gasp. The sudden intake of air acted like a vacuum cleaner. The moustache, that had been troubling him all morning now shot inside his mouth and had become stuck in his windpipe. Gent began choking.
With the wig now covering his eyes and with his lungs feeling as if they were on fire, Gent felt himself blacking out. His face had gone blue. He fell to his knees among the legs of the crowd. With his brain shutting down he rolled over onto his back. His body convulsed. He coughed one more time and out shot the nylon moustache. He gasped several times as his lungs gratefully gulped in air. He got to his knees and then looked round at the man who just spoke to him.
‘Are you ok? Should I call you an ambulance?’ Gavin said bending over the stricken man.
Gent picked up the selfie stick that was down by his feet and then gave the King a maniacal smile. Still a little concussed he was all set to stab the King when, Mrs Shayaki, who was clearly not quite finished with him gave him another clout over the head with her handbag. When her bag came down this time, Gent instinctively warded off the blow with the selfie stick that then snapped in two. In a heart stopping, sickening moment, he felt something stab into his thigh. When he looked down at his leg the hypodermic needle that had punctured his trousers was sticking out in a very alarming manner.
The man writhing on the floor and foaming at the mouth created alarm and panic among the crowd that very quickly backed off.
Gavin felt strong hands grab hold of him. The next thing, he was bodily lifted off the ground and carried at shoulder height back to the Palace.
Safely back inside the Palace, shaken but glad to be alive, Gavin looking shamefaced now faced the wrath of his wife. He had never seen her so angry.
‘That’s it Gav,’ Fiona raged, jabbing a shaking finger in his face. ‘There is to be no more of this… this, nonsense. You are not a bloody King. You are my Gav, and you are going to listen to me, and you are going to do exactly as I say.’