The Boardman Files

by Gus Ross

  “I’m still not buying it George. What possible motive could you have had to put the crown jewels at risk? It just doesn’t stack up. If ya’ ask me, then I say your still bluffin’; a pretty good one, but a bluff all the same. I think what happened is that you ‘really clever Brits’, ain’t really all that clever after all. I think you lost the girl, or maybe you never had her. Either way, I think she cleaned you out and that the crown jewels are now safely tuck up with yours truly, somewhere you and your James Bond boys ain’t ever gonna find them.”

  The fact the Mac had missed the entire point of the game was exactly what the old man had hoped for. It was what he would always refer to as the black spot; the same spot that sometimes leads us to pull out into the fast lane when there was nothing in our mirror, only to find that suddenly there is something there and it is bearing down on you, angrily blaring its horn and flashing its lights, as you desperately try and avoid colliding with it. It was also generally the downfall of men such as Mac Howison, men who thought they were untouchable and, who, when presented with an opportunity to posses everything they ever wanted, were apt to develop a black spot for what was really going on alongside them.

  But Mac still hadn’t given him quite enough; he was now pretty certain where the leak was coming from and if he was right then oh, how he was going to enjoy himself with that one, but he needed something more. Still the grotesque caricature that was Mac Howison was on the ropes and his head would be groggy by now.

  “Ok then Mac, I am sure we could play this game for most of the night, but here is the bottom line, if you like. I have no interest in whatever it is you have. You can go do whatever the hell you like with it. It makes no difference. You have nothing and it is worth nothing. It is that simple. So go ahead and try and sell it to the bad guys. I have a suspicion they might be pulling you out of a river somewhere before very long if you do.”

  Thomson watched his man intently, looking for any hint of a reaction to the river comment but it was Mac’s turn to wear the poker face. Inside, however, Mac was seriously pissed about how this was turning out. He had not for one moment considered that the information he had moved hell and high water to obtain was not the real deal, and he had no way to prove it or not. The fact that the old man was clearly intent on bluffing it out if he was lying, or really did have no interest in the info, was tantamount to the same thing for now; there would be no deal cut tonight. He would need to sweat it out and maybe he would try and call his bluff. But what if he was the one who had got it wrong? What if he did end up floating in a river somewhere? As if to compound his frustration, Thomson decided to pop a cherry on top of the evening’s proceedings.

  “And another thing Mac, there have been a lot of people showing up dead of late and sooner or later something is going to turn up that will lead us all the way to the source. And when it does, I am going to take a very personal interest in seeing that justice is done.”

  Howison gulped the last of his Jack Daniels and fixed the old man with a contemptuous smile, “Is that some kind of threat George. You and your little posse better be gettin’ up early if you think you’re gonna’ pin somethin’ in ma’ direction. Of all the people, I would have thought you would have known better than to make empty threats George. I’m bulletproof old man, bulletproof.”

  “Yes Mac, of course you are.”

  Howison left the club, having made a pronounced point in fixing his hat and mouthing some less than pleasant suggestions to the check in clerk. Thomson had not secured the check mate that he had wanted, but that owed more to Howison not realising he had no effective moves left and just delaying the inevitable. The trouble was that Thomson still did not quite have enough to uncover the mole; he would bet his house on whom it was, but there was no way to prove it yet. He would also like nothing better than to pin as much as possible on Howison, after all, he had to have been behind the murders of Lucian Hendrick and Osram and his boys, and probably a good few others he did not know about, but he was a slippery toad and one who knew how to cover his tracks.

  Mac Howison would return to his office to think through everything that the old man had said to him. He was still not one hundred percent sure it was not all a bluff, but he did not feel quite as comfortable as he had done a few hours earlier. But it would be nothing at all like how he was going to be feeling in a few hours time.

  A few hours in which his entire life would be turned upside down.

  Chapter 20: What goes around comes around.

  I continued, battling against the driving rain and cutting a lonely figure as I made my way to the Tudor Grange, completely oblivious to the facts that my welcoming party had turned Bournemouth station into some sort of high security compound as they continued to search for the great Lord Lucan impersonator, and that my wife was in mortal danger less a mile away from my current location.

  Holt and his men had reached the scene of the unfortunate lady dog walker and could see a further two bodies off in the distance. His next decision was made easy as a further series of shots rang out from the direction of the Pavilion.

  “Jones, Hamilton, flank to the east. Moore you come with me. And keep your bloody heads down.” He had just received the news from the station in his earpiece, but he did not have time for that now. Hodge would have to deal with it.

  She had only made it about halfway through the car park when the bullets smashed through the windscreen of the car she was huddled behind, sending small slithers of shattered glass everywhere. She could feel it stinging into her face like little pellets of ice and she was aware of the familiar sense of blood gathering on her cheek. She wiped at it with her right hand but it was nothing more than a few deep cuts. If only she could make it past the car park and into the lower gardens. From there she would have a chance, but she was pinned down. She had heard the car come to a screeching halt not far behind her and knew that soon there would be more of them. She was being hunted like a dog and now she was cornered.

  Holt’s men entered the car park from both sides and then all hell broke loose.

  The gunman, who had gotten himself a pretty good vantage point from the back of the Pavilion, saw them first. He fixed his sight and Jones, who was slightly behind Hamilton, took the bullet full in the chest, sending him backwards and down.

  “One man down Sir. One man ....”

  Hamilton, who had instinctively turned as he heard the shot, just in time to witness his colleague’s demise, was not able to complete his final sentence, as the next shot took out the back of his head.

  “Fuck this Sir, permission to engage.” Moore was already going for his gun and Holt knew there was no option.

  “Permission granted. Get that commie bastard and to hell with the orders.”

  Suddenly there were shots from behind her but they were not coming in her direction; whatever was going down she knew this was the only chance she would be liable to get. She was on her feet and sprinting full out across the open ground. It was now the hidden gunman’s time to keep his head down, as Holt and Moore rained shots all around him.

  She could see the end of the car park ahead of her as she ran, desperately trying to push her body faster than was possible, almost willing herself to stay ahead of the inevitable. The gunman’s head was still down and she was almost free, almost gone into the dark of the night before he had realised, but he had seen her; it was just a glimpse of something moving out of the corner of his eye but it was enough. He squeezed the trigger and sent one final shot in her direction.

  The sound of gunfire continued from the car park for some time, but it was fading; she had covered the ground at a ridiculous speed, driven mainly by adrenalin, but now she was exhausted, and she could feel a dull throbbing on her left thigh. She moved her hand down her leg but she already knew she had been hit. Her jeans were warm and wet and suddenly the dull throb gave way to a blazing intense pain, as if her body had suddenly realised that it had been shot and was now frantically trying to get the message to her brain before s
he bled out in the cold dark of Bournemouth gardens.

  The operation was turning into a disaster and Holt knew it. He was now pinned down in a gunfight with a sniper they were explicitly told not to engage with, two men were down, she was goodness knows where and to cap it all, his men had failed to intercept the patsy on the train. He would be lucky to keep his job, assuming he made it through the night.

  And then, as if things could not have been any worse, there were suddenly people spilling out from the Pavilion. Whatever had been showing that night had come to an end, and Mr and Mrs Joe Public were out and into the night air, completely oblivious to what was going on outside.

  It would take almost a full minute before the first of the screams rang out, and then there would be pandemonium: people everywhere shouting and screaming, people on phones calling the emergency services, people whose cars were not quite as they had left them cursing and swearing and at least two elderly members of the public who had fainted at the sight of the two dead bodies in the car park. For the gunman it was the perfect opportunity, he would be gone in an instance, like some kind of ghost who had never been there

  I was congratulating myself at making it unseen all the way to the Tudor and was beginning to wonder if indeed there had been any form of welcoming party waiting for me at the station. Perhaps they had not managed to track my ATM withdrawal after all, but deep down I knew this was wishful thinking.

  As I entered the grounds leading up to the hotel I was not entirely sure what to expect. I had heard the distant cracks and bangs, muffled by the wind, as I approached, but stupidly thought that they were nothing more than some kids playing with the leftovers from fireworks night. I think it might have been that I was too preoccupied with the thought of what my wife might have to say for herself, or what I might say to her for that matter, but either way, I failed to register the sounds of distant gunfire for what they were, which was probably a good thing.

  The site of the Tudor immediately brought back memories of much better times. It was dark, but in the floodlights I could already make out the brown frontage of the bottom half of the hotel as it met the white of the top half, in all its Tudor House splendour. It had been a good few years since we had last been there but it felt like nothing had changed, although everything had changed.

  I rang the little bell at reception and waited; already I could feel my heartbeat start to quicken in anticipation and for a moment I thought about simply turning and leaving. How could this possibly work out? What on earth could she have to say for herself that would make this ok? But of course I did not walk out. I had nowhere else to go and despite everything, I loved her, whoever she really was.

  A young girl, who looked like she had just left school, popped her head out and greeted my with a warm smile.

  “Good evening Sir. Do you have a reservation with us?” She spoke in a slightly European accent that I could not place, but she seemed very polite and friendly.

  “Yes, my wife is staying with you. I wonder if you might call her and let her know I have arrived.”

  “Do you know the room number Sir?”

  “Oh, I’m afraid I don’t.”

  “No problem Sir. What name would she be under?”

  It was the simplest of questions really, but one that suddenly sent me into a panic. What name indeed? Would she have used her married name, her real name, some alias? I had no idea, but I was conscious that the look of panic on my face and the reddening I could feel coming to my cheeks was liable to make me seem rather suspicious. Given that I was also soaked to the skin and no doubt looked a tad on the rough side, I was beginning to feel more like a stalker rather than a husband trying to locate his wife.

  “Eva Richards,” I said forcefully.

  “Ah yes, we have a Mrs Richards staying with us. Room 109. Would you like me to call her room?”

  “Please.” That was a relief. In time to come, I would realise the risk she had taken in using her married name, one that ultimately had led some of her fellow countrymen right to her and had currently put her in mortal danger, but I was no spy.

  “I’m afraid there is no answer Sir. Perhaps she is in the restaurant, or maybe the bar. Would you like me to see for you? Oh, wait a moment.” The girl had put down the phone and was now scrabbling around the reception desk looking for something. “Ah, here it is. She left a message for you. I nearly forgot. My apologies.”

  I must have had the face of an expectant puppy or something by that point but she smiled at me again and read the message to me.

  “Would you like me to call her mobile Sir, or do you want to?”

  “It’s ok. I’ll call her. Thanks for your help.”

  “No problem Sir.”

  Then I remembered. I was mobile naked.

  “Actually, on second thoughts, can you call her? I seem to have misplaced my mobile.” (If you could call launching it through the window of a moving cab misplacing that is).

  “Of course Sir. One moment.”

  I waited impatiently, doubting, in the same way that sometimes you will not allow yourself to believe something could possibly happen until it actually does. You know it should, but you are just too scared of what it would mean if it didn’t that all sorts of nonsense starts to run through your head. Well it does where I’m concerned. And I could hear the phone ringing out and I could see the expression on the desk girl’s face as she asked me without words whether she should hang on or give up for the moment. She read my expression and continued to hold, but still there was no answer.

  “Are you certain you have the right number?” I said clutching at straws and suddenly recalling a similar moment from my favourite police station earlier in the week.

  “It is the one she gave me Sir. Here, does that look right?”

  “I think it does,” I said. “Can you give it one more try please? I really need to speak with her.”

  Seeing her number written down like that (to be fair I had no idea what her actual number was; speed dial can do that to a man), in her own handwriting, handwriting that could not have been more than a few hours old, sent a series of strange feelings off and running inside me: I was excited, terribly excited that soon I would see her, I was apprehensive about what such a meeting might bring, I was concerned, but most of all I was suddenly scared, very scared. What if something had gone wrong? What if I had come this close and missed her? But the phone just kept on ringing and it was not going to answer phone either. Suddenly I was filled with a yet another sense of déjà vu. Something must have happened but I could only guess as to what.

  “I’ll wait in the bar. She can’t have gone far, it’s getting late and the rain is coming on pretty heavy out there.” (As if I really needed to add the last part given that I currently resembled a drowned rat). I sounded convincing though, just like a normal husband who was used to waiting for his wife to return from the shops, or tea with her friends or whatever, but inside I was beginning to feel sick.

  “Ok Sir. I will try her again shortly and let you know when I get hold of her.”

  I thanked her and moved off in search of the bar. I must have sat there for less than ten minutes and had already managed to annoy the desk girl into phoning my wife’s number on at least three separate occasions but each time the answer was the same and I could tell she was beginning to get a bit fed up with me. I ordered some coffee (I figured staying away from the hard stuff was a good idea for now), but it just made me feel even more edgy. I decided to try and be patient.

  “Mr Richards?”

  I looked up to see a man in a suit and for a moment I was not sure if I was about to be whisked away by MI6, arrested, shot, or abducted by the KGB.

  “Mr Richards, I am John Hollingsworth, General Manager.”

  He was offering his hand and smiling as if he knew me and I could see the badge on his lapel confirming his particulars. I let out a silent sigh of relief and then immediately thought I was about to be escorted from the premises for pestering the check in girl.


  “Oh, hello,” I replied, trying not to look as lost as I felt.

  “Mr Richards, I understand from Maria at the check-in desk that you are having some difficulty in contacting your wife at the moment.”

  I replied in the affirmative, not quite sure where this was all leading but beginning to feel quite uncomfortable.

  “Can you come with me please? I have something for you.”

  I followed obediently to a small back office room just off the reception area. Once inside John Hollingsworth clicked upon a small chubby looking black safe that sat bolted to the floor. He pulled out a sealed brown envelope that reminded me of the ones my lawyer had sent to me when I purchased my now sadly demised house; full of important documents that were not that really that important and the cynic in me reckoned were only sent out to help justify their exorbitant fees. He handed it to me and I was surprised how heavy it felt.

  “Your wife told me that if for any reason you could not get hold of her then you should be given this straight away.”

  I could tell that Mr friendly GM was almost as intrigued with the contents of the brown envelope as I was, but I was not about to open it there and then, and to be honest I was a bit scared of what might be lurking inside. Then I did something that to this day I am really proud of. I very calmly asked him for a similar sized envelope and a pen. I placed the one my wife had left me inside the fresh one and addressed it to my mother’s house.

  “Can you arrange for this to go in the mail please? It is a present for my dear old mother. She’s eighty two this weekend and it is really important that she gets this. Pictures of her grandchildren you know. Will make her day. She doesn’t really get to see them much these days on account of her age. She can’t really travel you see.” I was wittering on like a fool; my mother was only sixty five (they started young in those days), and was as healthy as a horse, not to mention that there were no grandchildren, well not yet anyway. But Mr friendly GM looked convinced.