Perfect Day

by Kris Lillyman

  ‘Dead man named as third attacker in diplomat’s daughter murder.’

  Beside the large, bold headline, was a photograph of a man whom Locke had last seen in Cambridge nearly two years earlier, having recruited him personally for the Sekibo mission.

  The pair of them had previously served together as mercenaries in various war zones around the world and, as such, Locke knew him well. Indeed, it was none other than his former staff sergeant, Roger Finch.

  ***

  Locke waited patiently until the British man reading The Sun vacated the café, leaving his finished newspaper folded on the table next to his dirty plate and empty cup. A moment later, Locke had the paper open and was reading the lead story with great interest.

  Locke had only served with Finch in a freelance capacity, having been his commanding officer in a mercenary unit, hired to fight for various paramilitary organisations around the globe. But Finch was originally a British Army sergeant who had been court-martialed and dishonourably discharged for the unnecessary use of violence against prisoners.

  It had been Finch who recruited Merton and McCullough for the Cambridge op, apparently having served with them during his time in the regular army. But now they, too, were dead.

  Furthermore, both had been murdered, as had Finch.

  Locke did not need to read what the police suspected in the newspaper to tell him what he already knew - which was that all three men, Finch, Merton and McCullough, had been killed because of their involvement in the murder of Claudette Sekibo.

  It also meant that he, along with the other two men who had taken part, were potential targets, too.

  Locke remembered Miles DeVilliers telling him that the girl’s boyfriend had miraculously survived the Cambridge attack - even though Locke, himself, had assumed him dead.

  Furthermore, his instincts told him that the boy was the one who had killed Finch and the others but that seemed almost inconceivable. Locke’s memory of the boy was not clear, but he recalled enough to think him of little consequence; certainly no match for a trained soldier such as Finch or the two skinheads.

  Yet he was the obvious choice. After all, who else could it be?

  Troubled by this unforeseen turn of events, Locke crossed to the payphone at the back of the café and picked up the receiver, he then punched in a number that he had committed to memory long ago.

  His call was answered on the second ring by Miss Markham, Miles DeVilliers’ personal secretary.

  “It’s Locke,” he said, eschewing any pleasantries, “I need to speak with him urgently.”

  “And your number?” Asked Miss Markham, her manner equally curt.

  Locke glanced at the number printed above the keypad on the payphone and read it to her.

  “Thank you,” Miss Markham replied. “Mr. DeVilliers will call you there shortly.” Then she hung up.

  Locke replaced the receiver and waited.

  Miles DeVilliers was likely to be anywhere in the world, such was the nature of his business, yet his secretary always had a number on which she could reach him, as was vital to maintain the high level of service his clients expected. In addition, it allowed his operatives to contact him should the need arise; Miss Markham would intercept the call, taking a number DeVilliers could phone them on, and he would call back at his earliest convenience, no matter where on the planet he happened to be.

  Indeed, the payphone rang precisely five minutes later and Locke snatched up the receiver. “It’s me,” he said.

  “James, dear boy, Merry Christmas!” Said DeVilliers cheerily. “I was wondering when you might call.”

  “Have you seen the British newspapers?” Locke asked, skipping the formalities.

  “Of course, my dear. In fact I’ve been trying to reach you for several days but you rather annoyingly appear to have gone awol.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m back now and we need to talk.”

  “I couldn’t agree more. Where are you?”

  “Marseille. But I can be on a plane by this afternoon.”

  “No need, dear boy,” exclaimed DeVilliers, “You could hardly be more local - I’m just down the road in Monte Carlo, having a few days on the yacht. You could be here by lunchtime if you hurry. Shall we say one-thirty?”

  “Sure.” Said Locke.

  “Excellent. I’ll have Robert meet you near the Yacht Club on the Jetée Lucciana, he’ll ferry you out.”

  “Fine.” With that Locke hung up the phone. Monaco was less than a three hour drive away and it was still only early. That gave him more than enough time to grab his things, hire a car and get to Monte Carlo for his meet with DeVilliers.

  As he contemplated leaving Marseille he was saddened but also somewhat relieved, knowing the depths to which he might sink should he stay.

  But now he had a good reason to go; an opportunity which was equally thrilling.

  Because hopefully DeVilliers would tell him where to find the boy he had left for dead in Cambridge and then, upon learning this information, he could set about finishing the job.

  ***

  DeVilliers luxury motor yacht was moored out in the bay; a spectacular view of Monaco, set against a clear blue sky, making for a magnificent backdrop as it bobbed serenely on the calm Mediterranean sea.

  Locke stepped lightly off the little launch that had collected him from the marina and climbed aboard DeVilliers’ boat, The Decadent Queen - its name chosen as a tongue-in-cheek ‘shot across the bow’ of the British Establishment who had once so callously spurned him. Indeed, it was his unceremonious dismissal from MI5 which had driven him to achieve the very success he now enjoyed.

  Locke found him lounging in a hot tub on the upper deck, a glass of champagne in his chubby hand and his toupee slightly off kilter.

  “Ah, James, dear boy, compliments of the season,” said DeVilliers by way of a greeting, before gesturing to the hot tub, “Care to join?”

  “No,” replied Locke, his tone no nonsense and brisk. “But we need to talk.”

  “We could talk in here,” teased his host.

  “I said ‘no’.”

  “Oh, very well,” sighed DeVilliers, although enjoying Locke’s discomfort immensely. “You’re all business, James, and no fun at all,” he chided, before nodding to his bodyguard who was standing close by. “Leon, if you would be so kind.”

  At the instruction, the burly minder picked up a white towelling robe; the initials ‘M.D.’embroidered in pink script on the breast pocket, and held it open for his employer.

  DeVilliers then climbed out of the hot tub; his tubby body red from the heat of the warm water and his powder blue Speedos leaving very little to the imagination, as he slipped on the robe with Leon’s assistance.

  “Robert!” He called to his other minder, who had just returned with Locke in the launch, “You can serve lunch now, my darling!” He then turned to Locke once more, “This way, James, dear boy. We’ll talk and eat as I’m absolutely famished.”

  As Locke followed him down the steps to the spacious lower deck, he was surprised to see a fully decorated Christmas tree standing beside the far rail, partially obscuring the view of Monte Carlo behind.

  Immediately adjacent to the tree was a plush open seating area which ran the whole width of the stern, offering maximum comfort for onboard entertaining.

  In the foreground, under the shade of the upper deck, sat a large circular dining table set for two. A bottle of champagne in an ornate silver cooler took pride of place in the centre together with a platter of assorted fruit and a crystal jug containing freshly squeezed orange juice.

  “Please, take a seat, my dear,” DeVilliers invited as Robert pulled out a chair for him and Leon did the same for Locke.

  Once the two men were seated, Robert scurried away, only to return almost instantly with a basket of warm bread rolls which he placed down between them
. DeVilliers reached over and picked one up. “So, you’ve seen the newspapers?” He said, tearing the roll in two.

  “I have,” replied Lock. “This morning. Is it the boy?”

  “By ‘the boy’, I assume you mean is it Sam Beresford who killed those men of yours?” Queried DeVilliers as he liberally buttered each half of his roll.

  “If that’s his name, yes.”

  “Hardly a boy, I’m afraid, James. More a very rich young man with unlimited resources.”

  “Whatever,” snapped Locke. “But is he the one who killed them?”

  “The truth is, I don’t know - but I think it safe to assume so. The police, however, are not saying—“

  “I don’t care about the police. Where can I find him?”

  DeVilliers regarded Locke thoughtfully. He knew it made sense to go after Beresford but killing him would certainly be a risk. Such a high profile murder would undoubtedly cause a sensation in the American media. It might even involve an F.B.I. investigation; the ramifications of which were almost impossible to predict.

  Nonetheless, there was a possibility that it could carry serious repercussions not only for Locke but for Miles himself should their part in it be discovered.

  Furthermore, the spotlight might even fall on Quentin Faraday should Sam’s murder be linked to that of his fiancé - and that would be very bad for business indeed.

  “Before I tell you, James,” Miles said at last, “I think it only prudent that you tell me the names of the other members of your team. At this juncture I think it might be a wise precaution to help me better protect both of us from the possibility of any fallout - just in case Beresford should slip through your fingers.”

  “He won’t,” Locke stated firmly.

  “Even so,” countered DeVilliers, “I really must insist.”

  Locke glared at him for a moment, resenting the tone, but ultimately he knew it made sense. The remaining two men he had used on the Cambridge job might also be dead or in danger and any slip-ups by them could possibly lead back to him. “Fine,” he snapped, as Leon opened a napkin and placed it down on Locke’s lap. “I’ll tell you. Where’s the boy?”

  “You’ll have to be very careful, James,” DeVilliers warned. “No mistakes, no loose ends - and you’ll need to make it look like an accident - there cannot be any question that he was murdered. Understand?”

  “Yes. I get it.” Locke said, irritated by DeVilliers patronising tone. “Now where is he?”

  DeVilliers eyed him warily for a moment longer, then said, “New Hampshire. Portsmouth - at the Beresford mansion. Young Samuel has been apparently holed up there since being discharged from hospital, something of a recluse, so I’m told. But I don’t believe a word of it. I, like you, am convinced he is behind the killings. I think he’s systematically hunting you down - and he has the wherewithal to do it, too.” He took a bite of his roll and chomped on it as his guest digested this.

  “So what makes you so sure he’s there now?” Locke asked.

  DeVilliers smiled. “Because I am reliably informed that a friend of his from Cambridge - a Russian I believe - has just flown out to America to visit him. His name was on the airline’s passenger manifest and his address whilst staying in the U.S.A. is listed as ‘Portsmouth, New Hampshire.’ So you see, it seems like our young Master Beresford is having friends over for the holidays.”

  Locke could not help but be impressed. “I’ll have to kill the friend, too,” he said.

  “Of course,” agreed DeVilliers. “But two people can have an accident just as easily as one can they not?”

  “Indeed they can.”

  “Quite so. Now, my dear, I suggest you enjoy a hearty lunch then get on your way as I’ve taken the liberty of booking you on the evening flight from Nice. You should be in New York by the morning. Robert will give you all the necessary travel documents when he drops you back at the marina.”

  Regardless of Locke’s personal opinion of DeVilliers, he had to admit the man was thorough, which in their line of work was extremely reassuring.

  “Sounds perfect,” he said. “Now why don’t you pop the cork on that champagne?”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Portsmouth, New Hampshire, U.S.A.

  The house had come alive again for the first time since Sam’s parents died. During his stay there after being discharged from hospital he had only used a few rooms; his bedroom, the kitchen, the gym and, occasionally, the den when he needed to relax - but even then he had left the dust covers on the chairs. As for the rest of the house, he had kept it in darkness; the window shutters closed and the furniture covered over as if no one lived there.

  This time, however, with Vas as his houseguest and a need to get back to some semblance of normality, Sam had thrown open the shutters, removed the dust covers and brought some life back into the place.

  Vas had been given one of the huge bedrooms with a bathroom all to himself whilst Sam had moved back into his old room. Downstairs, the light and airy living room was now strewn with the general messiness of two young men living together, as was the den, where they drank beer, ate pizza and watched sports on the big screen T.V. most evenings.

  But whilst Vas slept late in the mornings, resting his leg as Miri had ordered, Sam struggled to stay still.

  So, as his friend lay in bed, Sam would hit the gym for a couple of hours then head to the indoor pool to do a few lengths in an effort to keep his body in peak physical condition.

  Afternoons, however, once Vas had arisen, were normally reserved for chatting, watching movies and generally goofing around.

  Shortly after their arrival at the Portsmouth house, Sam had driven into town and bought a large Christmas tree, determined that he and Vas should make the most of the Holiday Season. The tree now stood in the centre of the large living room, exactly where Sam’s mother had always put theirs when he was a child. However, whereas Meredith Beresford had been an expert homemaker and her tree decoration never anything less than spectacular, Sam’s efforts left much to be desired. Nevertheless, it still said ‘Christmas’ and with a few presents beneath the tree and a comforting fire burning in the hearth, it all looked rather festive.

  The truth was, however, everything Sam was doing was for Vasily. This enforced happiness - the youthful camaraderie and seemingly carefree existence - whilst sincerely meant was, in fact, a world away from how he truly felt.

  Indeed, the down time had given him pause to think.

  Furthermore, Finch’s death seemed only to have made his recollection of events in the glade so much more vivid.

  He could clearly see the men’s faces as he worked out, as he swam, as he watched T.V. Every night, whilst Vas slept soundly in his bedroom down the hall, Sam would wake up in a cold sweat, certain that he was in the glade once more, injured, dying and powerless to prevent the dreadful things that were happening to his fiancé over and over again.

  Merton, McCullough and Finch were now dead but the remaining three - the one with the crescent moon scar, the white-skinned albino and Locke, the leader, were still out there somewhere. All of them walking around, living their lives, free as birds - free to kill again.

  Claudette, however, was gone and Sam was struggling with the guilt of it.

  Even now, almost two years after her death, Sam had not been able to summon the courage to call Claudette’s father and speak to him about her passing; too ashamed to tell him that he had been unable to do anything but watch as his daughter was raped and murdered.

  Sam was well aware that Ekon Sekibo had not approved of their relationship. He had thought it a mistake and refused to give them his blessing as he believed their cultures too dissimilar.

  As a consequence, Sam could not help but wonder if Claudette had been killed because of this obvious difference. If so, then did that make him partially responsible?

  Had he not pursued her,
had they never become a couple, then she might not have died at all. Either way, it certainly seemed she had been killed because someone found their relationship - that of a white man and a black woman - so utterly abhorrent. Indeed, on the evidence of what Sam had witnessed in the glade, everything pointed to a racially motivated attack.

  Had Claudette been involved with someone from a similar ethnic background, not a privileged white boy from very wealthy, very Anglo-Saxon stock, might she still be alive?

  Sam, himself, had seen physical proof that three of her killers were racists - which backed up the theory that interracial relationships were deemed by them to be offensive. However, the more Sam considered it, the less sense it made to him.

  Barely an hour before her death, Claudette had returned from London with no idea of Sam’s intention to find a quiet spot by the river to propose - a fact which was known only to him, Vasily and Miriam.

  So how then did a seemingly disparate group of armed and organised men ‘just happen’ to stumble upon them?

  Of course, it could have been random, they could have been roaming Cambridge in the hope of finding someone to kill. Six violent looking individuals, armed with knives and chains - but no one had reported seeing such a group wandering the streets or river bank.

  In fact, the longer Sam dwelled on the random aspect of the attack the less likely he thought it to be.

  This left him to conclude that it had been premeditated. But if so, why?

  Sam hoped to find the answer one day. Maybe then he could finally look Ekon Sekibo in the eyes and tell him truthfully that his daughter had not died because of him.

  Yet this was not Sam’s only reason for feeling guilty.

  He knew in his heart that he now loved Miriam as much as he had Claudette, in some ways even more so due to the intensity of their time together. Yet he felt it was perhaps a terrible betrayal of the beautiful girl from Niger he had so wanted to marry.

  Even in his nightmares, when he saw the six vile men committing those obscene acts, Claudette’s face seemed to somehow meld into Miriam’s, making Sam’s hatred of them burn all the more for what they were doing to her.