by Gus Ross
He reckoned the injury was probably inflicted by a hammer, or something similar, and that it was likely to have been delivered by someone with a fair degree of strength. There was also, ominously, no evidence of theft; in fact Buckfield’s car keys still remained on the ground where they had no doubt fallen from his hand.
Yip, this looked like a murder scene all right, albeit that Mrs Edgerton had inadvertently tried her best to mess it up a bit.
Chapter 9: Mr Snoodles.
Sternie slurped at his tea in that seriously annoying way, a bit like those old coffin dodgers that no longer possessed their own teeth but at least had an excuse for it, he had no excuse.
To be fair his hands were too big for the delicate china cup from which he continued to slurp and for a brief moment he looked oddly ridiculous sitting there, and not in the least bit dangerous. I figured that was probably not the most sensible line of thought and instead, given our current little slice of domestic bliss, and that his side of the bargain was to answer my questions now that I had stopped trying to assault him with the crockery, that perhaps now was the time.
“So, are you able to tell me just what is going on?” I was pleased with how calm and forceful my delivery sounded, but inside the tea I had just drank was on spin cycle.
Sternie looked up from the rim of his cup, raised his left eyebrow and then proceeded to slurp the last of his tea. I continued to stare in his direction until he raised his head again.
“The less you know, the longer you are liable to stay alive,” said Sternie, as if he had just delivered the line from a script. “There are a lot of people looking for you, for both of us now, and we are not too far up their Christmas card list.”
Really!
I had figured that much out for myself. But I needed to know who to trust, or at least I thought I did. Sternie’s mind was not really concerned with my trust issues, he was still focussed on the call he had just taken before I had attempted to lamp him with some fine china.
He had never met the voice on the other end of the phone but over the years had put together a pretty good mental picture of its owner: short, overweight, balding, cheap suit and shoes. Yip, all the markings of a desk bound, pen pusher, or should that be keyboard tapper. The voice would pass him his instructions and sometimes he would pass back some information he had obtained; he supposed that this was as close as he would get to having a handler, but he was pretty unimpressed.
Still, this gig had been getting just a little too messy of late, although at least now he could see things starting to draw towards some sort of conclusion, and if the old man wanted him in, then in it would have to be. But he could not understand why that had to wait till morning. What he did know was that he would be pleased to see the back of this assignment, what happened after that he had not given much consideration to, but there was still a heck of a lot to do before he could entertain the luxury of such thoughts.
The faceless voice had given him the next set of instructions, but they were troubling him and I could see the expression in his eyes. Something just didn’t seem quite right and I was pretty sure I could hear the wheels grinding beneath the Elton wig. I decided that I would leave Sternie’s grilling for a bit longer.
The man behind the Telegraph was speaking into one of those ear piece phone things that basically make you look as if you are talking to yourself, or have developed some hideous kind of growth round your ear. He was speaking quite softly and with no danger of being overheard.
“Have her in my sights sir. 17.20 to Bournemouth. Should be getting in at 19.13 or so. Seems to be running to schedule. How do you wish me to proceed?”
“As you are. Do not attempt to intercept. And keep your distance, I don’t want her spooked.”
“Ok Sir, will do.” The man with the paper, peered over the top of the page, but she had not moved. He glanced at his watch, 17.55. Still a fair bit of time left, he could relax and enjoy the ride. He had been bloody lucky to come across her path again, having lost her completely some hours earlier, and already he was dreading the debrief.
The change at Basingstoke would not come as a surprise to the regular commuter, more of an inconvenience really. To those not familiar with the route, it might have been forgivable to be confused by the 17.35, which was the direct train, but even then there were enough announcements to ensure that even the half daft knew there was a change of train required to complete the trip to Bournemouth. For the man behind the paper, it wasn’t so much his lack of awareness of the change, but more the lack of alacrity with which he executed it, that caused the problem.
The women in the red hat, who had reverted back to the grey one from before as she stepped from the train was soon lost in the bodies jostling along the platform. She slipped through the exit barriers and into a waiting taxi almost before the man with the paper had realised he had lost her. By the time he had figured out what had happened the taxi was well on its way back towards London. He slammed his paper into the small grey plastic bin that hung from the bus stop lamp post. When the call finally reached the desk of Thompson the old man was furious; he was close to having both of them, well almost, and now she was loose again.
This was not going to plan and someone was going to pay dearly for it.
He had taken a call from the same person Sternie had just finished speaking to, a few hours after he had finished his less than satisfactory lunch with Hanson, and that had geed him up quite a bit, but she was the one he was really after.
Mac toyed with the cheap plastic bag in his oversized hands, he thought about taking out its contents and loading them up onto his computer, but knew better; he would struggle with ‘A’ level physics, let alone the information that was on this particular memory stick.
He allowed himself a grin at the thought of the countless billions spent and the endless hours invested by, what he liked to refer to as, the ‘Geneva Boffins’. Even now they were heralding the discovery of the Higgs Boson, aka the ‘God Particle’, although it would be many, many years before they would verify it beyond question and countless more before they really understood what it was they had found. And yet, here it was, in a feeble little plastic bag; the answers to all the questions. He held it in his hand, like a god holding the fate of mankind, and it was his to do with as he pleased. And he knew exactly what that was. But first, there were quite a number of loose ends to tie up.
And quickly.
“Where you off to love?” the taxi driver was the usual cheeky, chappie London type and it was not every day that he picked up a women quite as attractive as this one. She had removed her hat and shaken loose her blonde hair, and was now in the process of applying some make up to her previously untended face. ‘Scrubbing up pretty nicely’ is how he would have put it. “Off somewhere nice in the city?”
She had simply told him to drive back into London when she first got in (after all, she was in a bit of a hurry), but she had not been specific as to where. To be honest, she had not really thought that bit through yet. She had expected to be tailed, and was indeed pleasantly surprised with how easily she had managed to slip it, but she was not finished yet. The bag was now in the hands of her contact at C.E.R.N., and after all she had put herself through over the last five years, she hoped that it would be worth it. Of course she still had her little insurance policy; in her game she had learned to trust no one, at least not until she saw the whites of their eyes or had the confirmation she required.
She had never met him; these things were safer that way. But the face of the man she had thought she had just delivered the bag to was currently located on a cold slab, in a morgue, having not long since been dragged from a river.
“Take me to the west end please,” she said without thinking. She still had time to plan out her next steps and the west end was as good a spot as any for now. She would allow herself to close her eyes for a bit and soon the incessant hum of the black cab’s diesel engine had set her dozing...
...She had been in London for most o
f her adult life and had found it exhilarating and far easier to settle in than she had initially feared. Dave had been her first real boyfriend; they had met at a dinner party hosted by one of her friends and it had been clear from the guest list that she was being set up, but she didn’t mind.
When he finally turned up, almost an hour late, and looking like he had been standing out in the rain for most of it, she had taken an instant shine to him. He was handsome, without doubt, but she liked his manner and almost self-mocking attitude to life more, and he made her laugh. They had only dated for six months or so before he popped the question and she had been more than happy to accept. Married life after all was all part of the plan: come to London, get a life, make some friends, settle in, get married. All part of the plan and she had managed it all perfectly, almost too perfectly and when the call had finally come she had found more than just a part of herself wishing it had not.
Sternie finally stopped pacing the room and turned in my direction. I was almost surprised that he remembered I was his prisoner, if that was the right term for it; he had been pacing for so long that I reckoned I could have easily slipped out the front door without his noticing. Probably wishful thinking.
“We need to go. Something is not quite how it should be and I am not going to sit here and wait to find out what that is.”
“You don’t say.” I couldn’t help my response, but then I reckoned that even in the world of the ‘Sterminator’ (my new pet name for my new best friend), today had been a bit out of the ordinary. “Where ‘we off to this time?”
“I have a place in mind where we can lie low until I can get my head around things,” said Sternie without a hint of irony. I had kind of thought that our current little suburban nest fitted that bill perfectly, but then what did I know.
Sternie was working on pure gut instinct. The call he had taken in the bedroom was probably exactly the one he expected to receive, except it wasn’t. He had paced for some time trying to figure out what had been wrong with it, but he couldn’t. The instructions were clear, bring him in, just as he had expected. He had done his part, he had played his duplicitous role to a tee, even the shark eyed lunatic he’d been teamed up with had not suspected him, but that last call seemed just a little bit off. Why wait till morning?
His cover was blown, or would be as soon as someone came across the body at Swithins’ farm, so of course it did make sense to come back in and hand over the merchandise. But his gut was telling him to do it now. If he had seen the black Audi A4 that was just drawing up to the kerbside at the top of the street he would have thanked his gut for the heads up and made haste. But less than a minute later came a knock on the door.
“Are we expecting guests?” Again the words were out of my mouth before my mind had engaged.
“Get down. Now!” barked Sternie.
Before I had even had time to hit the floor the front door burst open and then I had one of those slow motion type moments again. In the end, I was kind of thankful for it; I suppose it helped me appreciate the full extent of events, not to mention just what an effective killing machine the Sterminator really was.
Two figures, fully dressed in black, complete with de rigour balaclavas, and armed with what looked like sawn-off shotguns, stormed into the room looking every bit like one of those clips you sometimes see on ‘Crimewatch’. Sternie threw himself across the room with entirely too much grace for a man of his size, and (strange the thoughts that cross your mind, well my mind at least), without the slightest hint of his Elton wig coming off. The first blast from the sawn-off took care of a particularly nasty landscape painting hanging above the mantle; kind of like the ones you see in a dentist waiting room or a car boot sale. Glass and debris flew in all directions. Sternie, who was somehow still in mid flight, unloaded his semi automatic in the most acrobatic of moves, and took out number one baddie with a direct hit to the forehead. Sternie smashed side long into the back of the sofa and I was pretty sure that would be the end of him, and me for that matter. But baddie number one had crumpled at the feet of baddie number two and this allowed just enough time for Sternie to discharge his second shot. Again it was perfect. Blood splattered from the entry point in the neck, turning the room red.
“Bully for you Mr Sterminator you get tonight’s star prize, two perfect 10’s and two perfectly dead bad guys.”
The voice of the late Jim Bowen floated through my head and I could see him handing Sternie the coveted trophy.
My mind was clearly getting a bit frazzled by all the blood, killing and dead bodies. The first forty two years of my life had been pretty much death free, if you discount the time next door’s cat had been squished by a bin lorry when I was eight.
Mr Snoodles had made a pretty yucky mess on the tarmac, but to be fair the whole experience had been a lot more traumatic for little Freddy Morrison (proud owner of said cat, and who had been trying to tempt it back into the house with a small plastic mouse at the time. I recall thinking he would most likely grow up to be a lollipop man as a result). But now people were being killed all around me and I had no idea who was going to invade the space in my head next. But before that luxury arose Sternie had me by the collar and was dragging me to my feet and towards the front door.
“Get up, and if you want to live through tonight do exactly as I say.”
There was not even the slightest hint of a wisecrack or question coming out of my mouth this time. I would be Sternie’s bitch from here to eternity and would happily throw a thousand Mr Snoodles in front of a bin lorry if that was what he wanted.
Sternie was crouching by the doorway; trying to see if our house guests had a backup team, but the coast was clear. We were back in the Land Rover and off again before the curtains in ‘suburbia street’ had time to twitch properly.
I offered a look across to the assassin chauffeur to the right of me, but his eyes were fixed to the road and I decided to say nothing. He had now saved my life on two occasions and I was beginning to develop a bizarre kind of admiration for this guy; whatever I was messed up in, he was my way out.
Or at least I thought he was.
Chapter 10: Don’t you just love GPS.
Working for Big Mac was not like your average job in the city; in fact, unless you were part of the presentable corporate face of OGC, one of the largest global players in the oil and gas industry, very few people actually knew that they were part of the payroll, so to speak.
Sternie had known of course, but then he had been briefed quite significantly by his real employers before taking the assignment. But there were now three dead men who would never know who had been buttering their bread, and all three killed at the hands of the duplicitous Mr Stern Anderson.
Things had begun to hot up for John McDade around about the time of the second call he had received that night. By now he was supposed to have had everything under control; a certain Mr Dave Richards, who most likely squealed like the proverbial pig, would have provided his men with the whereabouts of Mrs Eva Richards, before being neatly dispatched, no doubt in some old disused farmhouse, or equally desolate piece of land.
He knew Steve Alexander from before, had seen him operate first hand in the Middle East when they were both on Special Ops, and although he didn’t like him, there was little doubt he would obtain the information they required, whilst inflicting maximum pain and obtaining maximum pleasure in the process. But he had heard nothing, and now the man who held his butter knife had called him twice for information, which was making him rather uncomfortable. John McDade was also very aware that Steve Alexander was not the only sociopath in town.
Perhaps it had been sloppy from Sternie’s perspective; he had taken care of the tracker on the Land Rover, which was now sitting half submerged in the mud, beside a disused farmhouse, emitting its own little contribution to earth’s background radiation. But in retrospect he should have figured it had been too easy to find. The second one, which was rather more expertly concealed, had led the Audi A4 right to him, but
John McDade was now long overdue in hearing back from his backup team.
Something had clearly gone wrong.
He was sitting in small nondescript coffee house with one of those instantly forgettable names; like ‘Mean Bean’ or ‘Coffee Bean’, which the proud owners of said establishment had clearly thought would grow to be the next great coffee franchise, despite their rather less than inspiring choice of branding.
He had chosen this particular coffee house mainly for its anonymity; he had counted no more than two people in the hour that he had been sitting there (and one of those was the waitress), but also because it stayed open well into the small hours. It was the perfect place to take care of his business, but so far, other than dispatching the backup team and taking two calls he would rather have not, there was not much business to be done. Now, however, as he watched the dots on his laptop screen, one stationary and the other tracking at a fair pace across the map, he knew that his problems were only just beginning.
It was exactly at this point that Stern Anderson finally put the pieces together. He slammed the brakes and was out of the driver seat almost before the Land Rover had come to a halt. Fortunately there was nothing else on the road (it was fast approaching midnight), otherwise the Sterminator and Mr Snoodles might have been well on the way to becoming best friends.
“What’s up?” I asked lamely as I got out of the passenger side, as clearly there was quite a lot up.
“Got ourselves a nasty little tracker on this here beaut’, but I’ll be damned if I know where. I got the first one off before we left the farmhouse, but should have figured there’d be two.” Sternie had already given the underneath of the vehicle a quick once over and was now in the process of popping the bonnet.