Lost in Shadows

by Alex O'Connell

  “There’s only one way out, Tommy. I’m going to kill you” Doyle’s voice was quiet and matter of fact as he raised the gun, still concealed by the guidebook and shot Tommy through the left side of his chest. There was no more than a muffled pop as the silenced 7.62 mm. cartridge cut through the heart of Detective Sergeant Thomas Windsor and killed him instantly. As he murdered, as he executed, Doyle’s skin seemed to fluoresce, to glow yellow, then red as raw emotion fought to take control of every element of his previously almost rational being. But Doyle had long since learned to control himself, although, God knows, it was still a struggle he managed to suppress the feelings and felt them subside and return to their dark homes deep within his psyche. He sat there, as calmly as he could and as Tommy slumped forwards, Doyle caught him and pulled him upright once more. He was wearing a black denim jacket. That was a stroke of luck, thought Doyle, it was only on close examination that you could see that there was any blood, indeed that you could see that anything was wrong at all. He folded his victims arms, concealing the wound as carefully as he could manage and brushed his index and middle fingers over his eyes to close the eye lids in the way you see in films. To any casual observer, such as the two old gentlemen who now passed by, Tommy Windsor was enjoying a pleasant nap in the soft spring sunshine. The soldier behind them hadn’t moved. His unfocused eyes were fixed on a spot high on the bell tower of the Chapel Royal of St. Peter ad Vincula. For the briefest of moments Doyle wondered if he could continue with his tour. There was so much history here and he didn’t want to miss out on any, he wanted to immerse himself in it all. But that would be tempting fate. Instead he would content himself with the fact that he had become part of our nation’s bloody history and that he had become Tower Green’s eighth executioner.

  The Tokarev and its silencer now safely stored inside the voluminous inner pocket of his jacket, Doyle walked back the way that he had come, past Tower Green, past Queen’s House with its ever alert sentry who had seen and heard absolutely nothing, through the Bloody Tower’s monumental arch and back into Water Lane, where he removed his jacket and left it folded over his left arm, just on the off chance that anyone was looking for him and might recognize him by it. He was in no hurry and he tried to take in as much as possible as he walked. He would come back, he thought. Definitely; he promised himself that. Best leave it for a few weeks though just in case anyone had paid more attention to him than he thought.

  * * *

  It was nearly one o’clock by the time Doyle had jogged reluctantly up the back stairs of the Mount of Venus and into Don Bellini’s private office. He hadn’t rushed. His head had been too full of new experiences that he was still trying to digest and come to terms with.

  “Where the fucking hell have you been?” Bellini greeted him vehemently. “All I’ve been getting all morning is a bloody metallic voice telling me that your mobile’s switched off.”

  “The battery needs re-charging. I tried to call you. What’s the matter, Mr Bellini?” Doyle could see that he was clearly extremely agitated and he knew, from recent experience, that this was far from being a good sign. Bellini was so unpredictable now, more so that ever, more so with every passing day it seemed. And there was no telling how he would react to just about anything – be it good or bad – when he was in this state.

  “Haven’t you seen the news?” Bellini demanded.

  Doyle shook his head. “I’ve only just got back.”

  Bellini reached across the desk for his remote control and switched on the sleek flat screened Sony T.V. On the Sky News channel Doyle saw an outside broadcast from a crime scene, blue and white tape emblazoned with a continuous repetition of the word ‘police’, as if anyone needed to be reminded, bisecting a quiet street that looked vaguely familiar to him. He assimilated in the words “horrific murder” and “brutal crime” before he realized where he had seen it all before.

  “That’s Ashworth’s house. Bloody Detective Inspector Ashworth. That’s where he was last night. Tommy, I mean.” Bellini didn’t seem to be far from hysteria. He could feel this himself and he tried to take a step back from his paranoia and regain control. “Did he turn up this morning? Have you done it? You killed him?”

  “Yes. There were no problems” Doyle tried to reassure him but Bellini wasn’t sure if he was happy about this news or not.

  “No problems, the man says.” Bellini’s tone was loaded with irony and he jerked his head, directing Doyle’s attention once again towards the T.V. “Look. It’s like the fucking Texas Chainsaw Massacre in there. He’s cut her head off. And her husband’s too.”

  Doyle sank into a chair. This news surprised him and it showed. There was more than a little crack of reticence in his voice when he replied. “Why would he do that? He was just an informer, he admitted that much to me this morning.” Nothing seemed to make sense anymore.

  “Did he say anything to you about it? What did he do? How did he seem?” Bellini’s questions were rapid fire, like a machine gun, hardly giving Doyle time to answer and certainly not to think.

  “He said that he’d had a heavy night, that’s all. He looked it too. I just assumed he meant that he’d hit the bottle after he got back. Do they know that it was him who did it?”

  “Of course it was bloody him.” Bellini paused for an instant as he realized what Doyle actually meant. “No, apparently not. At least, they’re saying they don’t know. Not yet.”

  “It’s a good job he’s out of the way then” Doyle said. “Has there been any word about him yet on the telly? I did it just like you said. That was sweet, if nothing else.”

  “Well done, Frank. No, I’ve heard nothing yet. It’ll probably take a while for them to get round to identifying him.”

  “Is my alibi sorted?”

  “Of course it is. You were here with me all morning. We had my brief over, updating my will now that Hannah’s gone. You witnessed it.” Doyle noted resignedly that as the was the witness, he was obviously not being left anything and once more he felt that he was on the outside, trying desperately to claw his way in. “Hang on, this is us” Their attention was drawn back to the T.V. as the newscaster moved on to the next item and continued in an rich, sonorous voice:

  “And finally, there’s news just coming in of a murder this morning at the Tower of London. A tourist has discovered the body of a man on a bench at the site of the scaffold on Tower Green. He had been shot through the chest and is thought to have been dead for some time when before he was found, perhaps more than an hour. The man’s identity has not been released but sources at New Scotland Yard suggest that he was a serving police officer. We’ll bring you more on that story as it develops. And now with news of last night’s sporting action ....”

  “A what?” Bellini exploded. “Did he say a policeman? Fucking hell.” He opened his desk draw and prepared to take an emergency fix of heroin. Doyle had never seen him do this before, although, of course, he had known about it for what seemed an eternity. By now everyone did. There were not even vestiges of secrets anymore. He watched, not with disapproval or horror but with a minute fascination.

  Bellini let out a sigh as his hit kicked in. “He can’t have been. Tommy in the filth? He’s been with us all the way. For Christ’s sake, he’s done more than his share of the dirty work. There’s an awful lot of blood on his hands.” After last night it seems, Doyle thought, there must have been an awful lot more. Bellini sat in silence, engrossed in the intensity of the moment. “If he really was with the police, perhaps he forgot what side he was on. Gone native. We’ve all heard of that happening. But I never believed it. If he’d given them half of what he had on us, they would have pulled us all months ago. I suppose it explains about Ashworth. Well done Tommy, old son. You clear up your own mess, I’ll say that for you.” His mind was racing now, the heroin had forced it up instantly into fifth gear and the revs were so high he wished he had a sixth. The excitement clearly emanating from him infused the room. “We’re going to have to act fast. Franc
is. I want you to go back to your place now. They could be watching it already. Although, thanks tola belleCharlotte, the Old Bill have got a lot on their plates today. Can you go in through the back way?” This was like the old Don Bellini, he was back at his best now, thinking logically, rationally and decisively. At that moment, Bellini felt that a crisis was just what he needed.

  “I can if I go through a window” Doyle responded.

  “Good. Do it. Get what you can. Anything you need and clear out whatever weapons you’ve got there. Then get over to my safe house in Kilburn. You know the one?” Doyle confirmed that he did and he pocketed the set of keys that Bellini threw across the desk to him. He knew the house well enough, he had been there before once, when Bellini had some little shit holed up there who he had to teach a lesson to. He remembered it well and he knew that he didn’t like it. For one thing, it was too close to the Scrubs for his liking but he was in no position to be choosy and he knew it. “Take this, too” and Doyle gratefully received the roll of notes that Bellini had withdrawn from his desk. Thank God for the smack, thought Doyle, he’d have never given me that without it. ”I’m going to fix us up with a cast iron alibi. It’s time for me to call in a favour. On your way, Francis” he summarily dismissed the man.

  Bellini hadn’t even been involved with one of the murders that he had seen on the news and he had been safely in his office at the Mount of Venus for the other. That would have been enough in normal circumstances but this had suddenly grown much bigger, and he still, even now, wasn’t a man to take un-necessary chances. For this he would use something special. Call in one of the many ‘favours’ that were owed to him. The big one. As soon as Doyle had left the room, Bellini was checking through the address book on the address book of his laptop computer for that special number. He found it and dialled.

  “Sir Charles?” He had the number of his direct line, straight to his desk in Westminster. “Good afternoon. This is Don Bellini.”

  There was a stunned silence for just a moment before a voice that bore all the traces of the best education money can buy at Winchester and Christchurch College responded. “Good afternoon, Mr. Bellini. How nice to hear from you. I’m afraid I’m in a meeting at the moment. Would it be possible for you to call back tomorrow.” There was no meeting. Sir Charles Knight, baronet, Her Majesty’s Secretary of State for Trade and Industry, was alone, he had just dismissed his principal private secretary and was about to dissect the minutes of a meeting of one of the many committees that reported directly to him. He knew though, that he would be in Scotland tomorrow, visiting development sites, and there he would be out of that terrible little man’s clutches, for the time being.

  “No. I’m afraid it would not be possible. Unless you want to see the pictures of you shafting poor little Ricardo sent to the Prime Minister. And to your wife. And to the Brazilian Embassy. And to every tabloid and magazine editor here and on the Continent.” There was an overt air of menace that Sir Charles remembered only too well. He had seen Bellini in action before and he had no doubts that he would be prepared to carry out his threat – and a good deal more besides. He couldn’t afford to let that happen. He had worked too hard to throw it all away because of a supposed moment of indiscretion. There was even talk of one of the big three jobs in the next Cabinet re-shuffle. He hoped for the Foreign and Commonwealth Office, that would get him out of the country for a long spells at a time. He wanted to be as far away from Bellini as possible.

  “Very well, Mr. Bellini, let’s talk.”

  “That’s better. I want you to give me an alibi – say that I was with you last night, stayed over all night. And this morning too. It was Sunday, so don’t tell me you were in the House.” Bellini knew how Sir Charles would try to operate.”

  “No. No I wasn’t. But I’m afraid I can’t oblige you. I was at a private function. A good twenty people saw me there.”

  “Oh, no they didn’t.” Bellini had expected no less from who exuded an easy air of upper class authority that is concomitant with a family tree whose roots could be traced back to the Norman Conquest. But he knew Sir Charles could be bullied and he wasn’t in the mood to be put off easily. “We were at your mews house in Belgravia all evening. Drinking that nice malt of yours and talking about government policy. Perhaps I was giving you some advice about your career.” He was very pointed. “Get in touch with your host from last night and make sure he knows that you weren’t there. Just in case.”

  “Mr. Bellini, I can’t ask them to lie. These people are friends of mine.” He sounded defeated already. He was doing no more than going through the motions as best he could. He was just playing the game.

  “If they’re your friends then they’ll do it for you. Do I have to remind you that Ricardo was only twelve? And doesn’t he look in a lot of pain in those photo’s? You perverted bastard. It’s not just your career that’ll be finished. You’ll go to prison. Not a cushy, soft one like your pals Aitkin and Archer. You’ll be in one where you might never get out. Maximum security. There’ll be times when you’ll wish you were dead and there’ll be no shortage of people only too willing and able to do it for you.”

  Sir Charles knew this was true. Over the years he had spent countless sleepless nights considering the possibilities, reviewing his options and deciding every time that he had none. Why had he done it? He didn’t know what he had done, even. He could remember nothing of that night, except that he had been stupid to even put himself in the position where something like this could happen. He was pretty sure that he had been set up. He never been interested in boys. Not even when he was at Winchester. But that didn’t matter. Bellini had him over a barrel, and the barrel was now teetering over the precipice of a very steep cliff. Of Niagara Falls. And it was a barrel that would implode in on itself and crush him if it ever once started to plummet.

  “Very well, Mr. Bellini. I’ll see what I can do.”

  “No. You won’tsee what you can do. You’ll do exactly what I tell you to do. Now, tell me what happened.”

  Bereft of even the last vestiges of free will, Sir Charles knew that he had no option but to comply. “You, an old and valued friend,” he sounded the word poignantly, “came to my house at nine o’clock last evening?”

  “Nine o’clock is fine. Carry on.”

  “We spent a very pleasant evening in conversation but both drank rather too much whisky. Not wise to drive. I insisted that you stay over. We breakfasted together and you were still there when I left for the House at around ten o’clock this morning.”

  “Make it ten thirty, just to be on the safe side.”

  “Very well. Ten thirty.”

  “There. That wasn’t too difficult was it?”

  “I take it that in return for this service you’ll supply me with the negatives and every copy of your sordid little photographs.”

  Bellini laughed. “I hardly think so. This doesn’t warrant so high a price. All this is, is a little favour, to show me we’re still good friends. Let’s call it a gesture of goodwill, shall we? Besides, you really shouldn’t get personal; you’re not talking from a position of strength. My sordid little photos, are they? I think you should really take another close look at them. They make it pretty clear who the sordid one is. Think of me as a white knight. I’m just defending your reputation. I’m protecting your honour. Big on that, aren’t you? Now. Get onto your friends. They’re not going to be bothered but make sure that they know the score. Then expect a call from the police. It’ll probably be quite soon.”

  “Very well, Mr. Bellini.”

  “Don’t let me down, Charlie.” He’d always hated it when he was called Charlie. Bellini was knew it. “I’d make sure that you’d regret it.”

  “ I am only too aware of that. Good day to you.”

  Bellini smiled as he replaced the hand set of the phone. It didn’t get any better than this. That man was one of the elite. He had been smug and superior in the comfort of his old money and interbreeding. Sir Charles Knight was a
man of genuine influence, real power and Bellini owned him, body and soul. He could toy with him, play with him like a pet dog. There was apparently even talk in some circles about the possibility of him being a future leader of the party, a future prime minister. Bellini prayed for that day although he had been giving it less thought in recent weeks in the wake of what had at the time seemed his own burgeoning quasi divinity. He had been so aware of it on the day that he had assassinated the Maleks. The sense of latent power had never gone, not even subsided really but it had become a thing familiarized by custom. It was always there, in the background. Now he could feel it rising once more. This time, it felt stronger than ever. The police wouldn’t be able to touch him now. He had made sure of that. He would manipulate and control them just as he had manipulated and controlled Knight. They were simply pawns in his grand game. The next call he made was to his solicitor. He told him to get straight over to the club, so they could begin to rehearse their performance.

  * * *

  Francis Doyle, as usual, felt himself to be no more than a pawn in someone else’s game. Although he had never played chess, he knew how expendable those pieces could be. Could he still rely on Bellini? Would he really look after him now, as he had so often done in the past? Doyle wasn’t sure but he knew that he had no other options available.

  He was breathless when he reached the dirty, run down road, close to the imposing edifice of Waterloo station, that he called home if he called it anything at all. He had entered the street cagily. He knew Bellini was right about one thing, if the police weren’t here already they soon would be. There was nothing obvious in the street, no police cars, no uniforms and nothing that he, with his practised eye, could identify as an unmarked police car, with its occupants staking out his flat. He would take no chances though. Before he got close to the door of his building, he slipped unobtrusively down a side street and, after checking that he was alone, he hauled himself up and over a six foot brick wall, using his knee to brace himself at the top, before dropping down, careful of where he landed. Keeping close to the rear wall, taking as much cover as possible, he made his way slowly, each footstep deliberate, across the back yards of the old Victorian terraced houses that had grown up with the station. He had another six back yards to cross before he reached the one that ran behind his house. He had never been in it, it didn’t belong to his flat but, when he looked down, he could see it from his rear, bedroom window. And from the little toilet and bathroom he shared with the other apartments on the first floor. On a day like today, he was surprised that he had not run into anyone in their yard. Surprised but grateful. It had saved him having to cosh anyone.