by P. S. Bridge
‘Marie darling, I’m … I’m home,’ he sobbed, rocking backwards and forwards with her head in his lap. ‘I’m sorry I’m late.’ He trembled.
Tears streamed down his face as he gripped her cold, bloodstained hands in his and lifted her head up, cheek to cheek with him and sobbed even harder as he rocked her gently.
He had lost track of how long he’d been sat on the floor, but his legs felt numb. He kissed her forehead, smearing yet more blood over his face. His suit was covered in blood as he gently laid her back down.
He saw the bullet wound to the head and realised she was dead. Stricken with grief once again, he fell to his knees, picking up her locket and holding it in his hands as he rocked again, cradling her to him as images of their younger days, wedding day, birth of their children and happiest moments flashed before him. He cried and screamed until he had no voice left.
Time stood still for Mark as the strange, hazy blur reduced enough for him to see his neighbour who, upon hearing the noise, had come to investigate. They appeared in the doorway of the study seeing Mark cradling his wife’s lifeless body. The neighbour reached for his mobile and called 999, trembling as he dialled.
‘Hi yes, umm, Police please. I need to report a murder.’
Mark suddenly came to, hearing the neighbour report the address to the police, and shouted about the children.
‘My children, Hope and Ben, where are they?!’ he screamed. ‘Please, I must find my children! Hope! Ben!’
The neighbour put a finger to his ear so he could hear what the police control room were saying.
He reached for his desk cordless phone and tried to dial a number but the line appeared to have been cut and Mark realised there was no electric to the house either. He reached in his back pocket for his mobile and called the children’s school.
The secretary in the office answered and Mark, voice trembling and trying to sound normal, asked who collected the children from school.
‘I am sorry, Mr King,’ the secretary explained. ‘But the children didn’t show up today.’
Mark was silent. The secretary continued, ‘Your wife called to explain she was taking them out of school to New York as their grandmother was sick and it was a last minute emergency.’
Mark dropped the phone in shock. He could hear the voice at the other end of the phone speaking, but it sounded so distant to him.
‘I hope everything is OK with your mother-in-law.’
Mark reached down and pressed the cancel button to end the call.
Thinking they may have been kidnapped by the same people who shot Marie, he called Benjamin’s mobile but there was no answer. He then received a text of a picture of Benjamin and Hope on a plane with a text:
‘Hi Dad. Mum says we are going to see Granny and mum’s friend Julia (Marie’s school friend) is taking us.
Love you B & H.’
Mark concluded the text had been sent by Hope. Mark felt the vibration of his phone and pulled it out of his pocket, smearing blood over the screen. He received a missed call notification from Julia with a voicemail from her telling Mark she was taking the children to New York. Mark would have to tell them and Marie’s mother in person. He couldn’t bear the thought of doing it over the phone.
Mark looked up in horror at the figure stood at the door, motionless and staring down at the fateful scene. There were no words. All Mark could do was cry silently and sit still holding his wife’s hand as blue flashing lights illuminated the hallway and study. The sound of the siren and footsteps echoed and seemed to get more and more distant to Mark and he put his hands up as the police motioned for him, almost in slow motion, to come towards them and asked him if he was armed. He shook his head but made no sound. He felt the cold hard steel of police handcuffs on his wrists and put up no resistance as more and more police appeared to rush into the house. He allowed the police to lead him out to their car and he stared blankly at the rows of neighbours coming out of their houses to see what the police were doing there. Police activity in the neighbourhood was rare. Any police activity sent the area into a frenzied flutter of curtains and rumours. Mark shielded his face as the familiar flash of the media’s cameras hurt his eyes. What he didn’t see, was the confused face of Ian Hawking, lurking behind the other photographers as the police officer read Mark the caution. He nodded in acknowledgement, not uttering a word as questions were fired at him. He looked out of the police car window to see the forensic team tape off the front of the house as Crime Scene Investigators in white overalls entered and exited the house. One younger officer rushed out of the front door and threw up on the lawn outside. Everything was a daze, like it was in slow motion and had been smudged by a white light preventing Mark from making out details. He wasn’t sure if his eyes were closing or if he was hallucinating.
Mark didn’t remember the journey to the police station. Nor did he remember coming into the interview room or having his clothes taken from him for forensic analysis. He didn’t remember getting into the jogging trousers and hoodie provided for him by the station. All he knew was that he was suddenly giving a statement to two CID officers sat before him across a wooden table. He was in an interview room and his hands were placed, palms down, on the table while a cold cup of coffee sat in a white polystyrene cup. He sat silently at the table while the police read back his statement to him. Hugo entered the room, as he had elected himself as Mark’s legal representative.
‘My client will say nothing further to you until he has had the chance to consult with me.’
The two CID officers got up from the table, replacing all the paperwork from their file and looked down in silent judgement at Mark, then at Hugo.
‘As you know, officers, I would like to speak to my client alone so if you could please leave the room.’
The female CID officer sighed and shook her head before following her colleague out of the room. Hugo looked at the mess which sat before him, head bowed and wearing white forensic overalls. The man before him was a total mess.
The two interviewing officers, having obeyed Hugo and left the room immediately, stood outside the room talking to what appeared to be their superior. Hugo looked down upon Mark, who was staring ahead, not moving, and not saying anything. There was sympathy for Mark as Hugo’s eyes narrowed. He questioned Mark.
‘What in the world happened?’
Mark shrugged and continued to stare blankly ahead. Then he spoke.
‘I went shooting after leaving you. I got home, and she was …’ Mark could feel the tears flow again as Hugo’s hand gripped his shoulder firmly and supportively, ‘shot execution-style. I was too late.’
Hugo, visibly shocked, shook his head and sat down across from Mark.
‘Don’t worry my boy,’ Hugo reassured him, trying to comfort Mark and reassure him everything would be OK.
‘I will provide Lever & Sons’ FULL support and resources to find out what happened. Now let’s get you home.’
He spoke softly but confidentially to Mark, who was now in clothes provided by the police.
‘It’s obvious from the evidence from the scene that suspicion is initially on you Mark, especially as the police are taking into account your assault on the “gardener” yesterday.’
Mark’s voice trembled. ‘Marie was shot. It must be connected to the black Range Rover that has been parked outside our house every day for weeks.’
They were interrupted by a knock at the door. It opened, and a well-suited man walked in. Hugo immediately spoke.
‘I require time with my client,’ he snapped but he was interrupted by the flash of an MI6 ID badge reading ‘Agent Nathanial Williams’. Hugo backed down and Agent Williams looked solemnly down at Mark.
‘I think you and I need to have a “little chat”.’
The office within the villa was cool and quiet, with its white marble floor and dark wooden doors. The CCTV cameras were strategically placed throughout the villa, flashed their red movement sensors while a cool breeze rustled the light
net curtains and leaves of the various yucca plants that were placed in ornate but modern vases either side of most of the doors that led off to the multitude of different rooms. The breeze eased the stifling heat common in the Mediterranean. Tropical and secluded, this paradise was off the radar, as were other ‘properties’ belonging to the organisation. It was perfect for business such as this to be carried out. The villa was built at the top of a remote hill, meaning it was away from prying eyes. Armed men stood at the main entrance, carrying Uzi 9mm weapons and bowie knives in their belts. The large balcony facing the sea was occupied by a bamboo patio table and chairs and a few sun loungers. An older man was seated on a sun lounger reading a newspaper.
The headline in the newspaper described lawyer Mark King’s ‘assault’ on gardener/hitman Roman Vose in his Range Rover and alongside it was another headline showing Mark being arrested after his wife was murdered in a shooting. The old man read that the story tried to implicate Mark as a distressed madman who assaulted an innocent person, was fired from his job and in a fit of rage, went home and shot his wife in the head, killing her. This old man smiled as he read further that Mark was witnessed going to a shooting range before returning home to ‘kill’ his wife. The article continues with the theory about Marie, Mark’s wife, having an affair and Mark catching the couple in the act or suspecting her and finally snapping, taking her life out of jealous rage. Either way, it didn’t look good for Mark. The old man was Thomas Theodore Lundon, and this was his villa, and he had been watching Mark for some time. Quietly and from the shadows was how he operated. Thomas Lundon was responsible for ensuring that problematic people and situations were ‘taken care of’ and a great deal of responsibility rested on his shoulders from higher up in the organisation, to make sure he handled this threat with tact and without exposure. This organisation had flourished for decades by always being in the shadows, never revealing itself to anyone or letting anyone who had seen their operations, live to describe what they had seen.
This game was a game Lundon enjoyed. He was a busy man and had many areas of responsibility and his time was precious. He could not afford a problem such as this, to disrupt their main objective. Usually, Lundon’s solution to a problem was to throw as much money as it took at it, to make it go away. Most people he encountered could be bought, or at least, bought into the fold of their organisation. He had killed people along the way, those who would not be turned or could not be bought or those who simply got in the way so much as to warrant killing. He had always thought of killing people as a necessary evil, an evil he had become accustomed to. However, at his age, he didn’t feel the need for killing so much, unless it was necessary. With Mark King however, Lundon was more than happy to pull the trigger.
It wasn’t that Lundon didn’t like Mark King. They shared a very similar outlook and goals. Lundon wanted to be at the top of the ‘food chain’ and Mark King was a lawyer who revelled in the power of putting criminals in prison. To Lundon, the process was the same. What had slowed Lundon down throughout his career and driven his thirst for all things powerful was his severe diagnosis, when he was in his twenties, of epilepsy. He found this particularly difficult when socialising among his peers, as when he was young, this illness was not commonplace and people could be cruel. Prior to his membership induction, he remembered one particular acquaintance mocking him relentlessly for his condition so much that he shut himself away for months, totally cut off from the outside world, embarrassed and alone. When he finally resurfaced, he was angry, bitter and vengeful. The doctors had reminded him on numerous occasions throughout his life that the longer his fits went on, the more pressure they would put on the brain and the more he would find it difficult to rationalise and make decisions in his life. Several months ago, he had a seizure which nearly killed him and it was after this that a member of his organisation had introduced him to a contact in Syria whom Lundon thought may be of use to him.
Lundon laughed at the headline before answering a call on his mobile. On the other end of the phone, Lundon recognised Roman Vose who always addressed Lundon as ‘Boss’ in an accent which could have been Russian or Albanian. Lundon didn’t care, and it didn’t matter anyway. He was a hired thug, a spare part that could be switched out and replaced whenever required. The conversation was quick and direct.
‘Boss, phase one is completed. Target one has been eliminated.’
‘Good,’ Lundon replied in his usual short, sharp way before hanging up the phone. He pointed his fingers like a gun whilst smiling satisfactorily that his plan was finally coming together.
‘Gotcha. Now the game REALLY begins.’
The sun shone down upon Oak Park Cemetery in the Oxford countryside whilst the mourners filed into the large country church Marie used to spend nearly every childhood Sunday. The line of mourners seemed to go on forever as black suit upon black dress filed into the medieval stone church. The air was cool inside, and the organist was seated while the funeral bell tolled its mournful song.
Mark’s mother-in-law Wendy, flanked by Benjamin and Hope, had flown back from New York to lead the procession into the picturesque village church. It moved silently past a vast array of people from Mark and Marie’s life. Mark had considered being a pall bearer, but he needed to support the children, so the six men, Marie’s brothers and friends, carried her on her final journey. The agreement with Wendy was straightforward. She was to take care of Hope and Ben for a while until Mark was back on his feet and could take care of them himself. The agreement had been made prior to the funeral, and many believed it was the best course of action. It was a hard day for all and Mark, with his Aviators and perfect black suit, white shirt and black tie, sat with his head bowed on the front pew of the church whilst the service was conducted. The minister, a friend of Marie’s, conducted the service and addressed mostly Wendy, Mark and the children.
All the relatives made a fuss of the children, Wendy and Mark as they made their way from the funeral back to the waiting cars to take them to the wake. Mark carried his single white rose to the graveside as the grave was half filled with earth. He knelt at the graveside and, before throwing the rose onto the coffin and pile of earth, made a vow to Marie.
‘I’m sorry I was late again, my darling. I guess you were used to that. But I swear by my own blood, that I will find those responsible and do what I have always done, punish them and avenge you.’
He stood up and sprinkled the earth onto the coffin and looked up into the sky.
‘The sun shines on the righteous, my love,’ he muttered and Hope held onto his hand tightly, resting her head on his arm. He held onto her and felt a tear drop onto his hand. This made his own tears flow more freely as he struggled to hold them back for the sake of the children.
Mark stood up, and the minister began the committal. Mark shuddered at the sound of the earth hitting the coffin. He had attended many funerals in his life and had always hated that sound. To him, it sounded almost final.
Mark, the children and Wendy were the last to leave. People stood around, hugging and shaking hands whilst women wept into tissues and handkerchiefs. Men solemnly comforted them and shook hands with one another. Hugo Lever waited at the path for Mark and patted him on the back.
Ian Hawking lurked behind a tree, away and out of sight of the family and mourners. He wasn’t attending as a journalist but as a mourner, and silently wept from his hiding place. Hawking, too, carried a single white rose. He waited until the family had left the graveside and into the waiting line of black cars before he shuffled towards the graveside. He knelt, as Mark had done, and dropped the rose onto the earth covered coffin as the minister put a hand on his shoulder.
‘My son, there is no need to hide from God.’
Hawking looked up, surprised that the vicar had spotted him.
‘I don’t hide from God,’ he replied, ‘but sometimes, one can be more effective hiding from people.’
The minister patted his shoulder before blessing him and walking back
towards the church. Hawking rose to his feet and backed away from the grave. On the way past one of the flower bins, he took his notebook and pen and dropped them into the bin and headed across the cemetery, back towards where he had parked his car so as not to be noticed by anyone.
Back at the house, the mourners shuffled about holding plates filled with buffet food and drink. People commented on the new carpet Mark had fitted recently. Mark had also had his study, where Marie was killed, renovated and the smell of fresh paint and varnish were still hanging in the air above the smell of lilies. When he arrived, someone has collected all the post received that day and placed it on Mark’s desk. Mark noticed a large yellow Jiffy bag cellotaped up with a handwritten address label on it which had been written in black marker. ‘FAO Mark King’ was written in bold but he couldn’t bring himself to deal with that right now as he had people to look out for at the wake. Mark’s children both appeared behind him and they embraced him, sobbing as they fired questions at Mark about what life would be like now. Mark tried hard to manage a smile.
‘Don’t worry you two,’ he reassured them, ‘Daddy will sort it all out and once I’ve done that, I will come to New York and be with you.’
They both looked up at him, managing half-hearted smiles.
‘Go and speak to Granny about what time your flight leaves for New York, there’s good little angels.’
Both children ran towards the living room where Wendy was being comforted by two or three others as she cried helplessly into her handkerchief.
Several people approached Mark, shaking hands to pay their respects, but Mark wasn’t really focussed on them. However, one which got his focus was Hugo Lever.
‘This is all a set-up, Hugo,’ Mark whispered angrily, holding back tears of rage. Hugo sighed and tried his best to be supportive without being insensitive.
‘You have to believe me. You fired me over a set-up.’
Hugo looked sympathetically at Mark but inside, Hugo was frustrated and pleaded with Mark.