by P. S. Bridge
‘Mark, please. This is not the time to discuss this. Think of your guests and your lovely children. They need you now more than ever.’
‘What they NEED, Hugo,’ replied Mark angrily, his voice rising as he spoke, ‘is the truth, answers, justice?’
‘Revenge?’ Hugo warned. Mark looked at him wide eyed. ‘If you are thinking that this is somehow related to Azidi, and that his group targeted you because you are prosecuting him, I would tread very carefully. I researched this thoroughly and there was no record of any calls being received to your phone of this nature.’
Mark sighed.
‘I HAVE to know what’s going on. There is more to this, I know it. I have a particular skill set which can help.’
Hugo looked gravely at Mark.
‘Walk away from this, Mark. Move to New York, be with your children and live a peaceful happy life. I have an estate agent in LA who deals with property in New York. I’ll give him a call and get him to give you a good deal. If money is an issue, I can help with that, for Marie’s sake. Leave this behind and move on. It won’t end well,’ he warned before finishing the last mouthful of his wine and patting Mark on the back.
‘C’mon Hugo, you know me better than that. It’s a se …’
‘Enough!’ Hugo angrily interrupted, before softening his tone, regretting his harsh manner towards a grieving man. Mourners looked nervously to where the raised voices were coming from. Hugo looked round nervously. Mark stayed silent as Hugo squeezed his shoulder and walked towards the front door.
‘You are grieving and desperate for answers. What happened to Marie was tragic, but you mustn’t blame yourself or go looking for revenge. These people are clearly dangerous, whoever they are.’
Mark wasn’t focussed on any idea of walking away from this now and, although it was tempting, something was telling him to stay. Hugo’s ‘cruel to be kind’ approach fell on deaf ears but made Mark wonder why he was behaving like that. Once in his car, being driven by a young chauffeur, Hugo picked up his mobile and pressed the speed dial button.
‘We may have more of a problem than we thought.’ Hugo hung up the call and beckoned his driver to drive. Gradually, mourners left the wake, much to Mark’s relief. It was early evening and the last of the mourners left Wendy, Mark and the children at home. Mark put them to bed and kissed them goodnight.
‘Hey, you know you can both talk to me about anything. Especially Mum, OK?’
They both nodded, and he kissed them again, tiptoeing out and gently closing the bedroom door behind him. He faced Wendy in the hallway.
‘Talk about Marie? Mark, it’s the day of her funeral!’
Mark put his hand on her shoulder and she put her hand on his and cried again.
‘I’ve called the airport, the flight is tomorrow. It’s best for everyone for a while. I need to tidy up,’ she said, trying to find things to do so she didn’t think about Marie too much. Mark pulled her back.
‘You need to go to bed. I’ll deal with all the stuff downstairs,’ Mark ordered as they both reached the bottom of the stairs. Wendy followed Mark into the living room to collect her handbag and stopped as she passed him at the living room door. She smiled and nodded reluctantly.
Mark was alone in the living room, surrounded by flowers and cards from mourners and friends and family. Suddenly he remembered the post in the study and walked to retrieve the yellow Jiffy bag from his desk, stopping in the hallway to look at his and Marie’s wedding photos in their shiny black and silver frames that adorned the hallway. He ran his hand over the image of a smiling Marie as he walked.
He took the yellow Jiffy bag into the living room and, with a Glenfiddich in his hand and a cigarette in an ashtray, opened the Jiffy bag slowly. In it he found copies of the police evidence, photographs, forensic evidence and crime scene images, and information and statements from everyone including the neighbour who found Mark with the lifeless Marie. He was about to put it all back when he discovered a handwritten note in handwriting he didn’t recognise. He read the note and realised it was attached to a smaller envelope. He opened it and in it, Mark found copies of notes taken from someone who seemed to have asked the neighbours about the black Range Rover. No one in the area had booked gardeners that month, so why were they there?
Intrigued by this, Mark made a decision. It wouldn’t be easy; it could probably get him killed or a prison sentence or worse. Mark’s old life flashed before his eyes as he remembered Sandhurst Military Academy, where he had been trained as a sniper and prepped for the SAS. He was hardened and realised that he had gotten soft as he got older. Gradually, Mark’s grief turned to anger. He remembered back to Al Azidi in court, the black four-by-four outside, the fact there was no phone line or electricity in the house when he found Marie and held the forensic report out in front of him, which concluded Marie was killed from a single gunshot to the head from a high calibre long distance sniper rifle. Mark read that the police concluded there were no signs of any broken windows or forced entry into the house, which meant Marie must have been at the front door when she was shot then dragged into the study. Mark knew he tested negative for gunshot residue so they were clear he hadn’t fired a weapon except for at the shooting club, where they wore gloves. CCTV placed him there at the same time as the coroner’s estimated time of death and the CCTV also confirmed that Mark did not remove any gloves from the shooting club before returning home.
Mark’s flashbacks became more intense and confused. He wrestled with the idea that Marie’s death was pre-meditated, more than just a ‘burglary gone wrong’. He also remembered an MI6 agent speaking to him at the police station; it was strange for them to be involved if it was a case of domestic murder or a robbery gone wrong, but he didn’t think about it at the time as he was in shock.
Suddenly he jumped as if from a dream. His Glenfiddich was empty and his cigarette had burnt down without him smoking it. He could hear the patter of rain on the UPVC window frames; it was raining outside and there was a thunderstorm overhead. He thought he was dreaming and that the thunder and lightning woke him up. There was a figure in the doorway and Mark jumped to his feet, but then realised it was Wendy. She had come to check on him and could smell the cigarette smoke. She gave him a disapproving look as she walked towards him.
‘Well I don’t know how THAT will help!’ Mark looked sheepish, as if he had been caught by his mother smoking when he was young. Wendy came into the living room, sat down beside him and lit her own cigarette up. Mark glared at her and she gave a wry smile.
‘What? You don’t think I didn’t used to do it too. I gave up when Marie was born but, after today, I could really do with one.’
They sat in silence, smoking for a while. Mark could see Wendy really felt affection towards him and they were both grieving. Mark stubbed the last of his cigarette out before turning to Wendy, her hands in his.
‘Promise to take care of the children in New York?’
She smiled and nodded and Mark got up, made his way towards a cabinet and retrieved his old army bag. In it, he put the files from the Jiffy bag and dashed upstairs to collect clothes, a few pairs of jeans, shirts, jumpers and shoes. He returned to the living room to a worried Wendy.
‘What ARE you doing?’
Mark went over to the large grandfather clock which had been stood in the back of the room since before Hope was born, and opened it to reveal a keypad. He punched a number in and pulled the back of the clock open to reveal a small gun cupboard. In it was his old Sandhurst kit and his sniper rifle.
‘Don’t worry; I took the liberty of keeping this from the police. It’s not been fired in years,’ he explained, a faraway look in his eye as he remembered the last time he picked it up. Wendy looked terrified and wide-eyed as she watched in horror as Mark zipped it into its carry case.
He gathered his kit and passport which had been returned to him the day before by the police, car keys, two mobile phones and other belongings: wallet, credit cards and files, put it into hi
s kit bag and turned to Wendy.
‘I know Marie was murdered I think I know where to start in locating her killers.’
Wendy looked disappointed at him.
‘And what will you do when you find them, kill them? That won’t bring her back, Mark,’ she said, lighting another cigarette up.
‘What I’ve always done,’ Mark growled quietly. I’m going to bring them to justice but my kind of “justice” doesn’t involve a courtroom!’
‘MARK, you can’t do this, this is madness!’ Wendy pleaded, her voice getting louder. ‘You are already still under suspicion as it is, don’t make it worse for yourself. Think of the children?’
Mark shouted, ‘Marie’s death was a professional HIT! Can’t you SEE?!’
Wendy broke down in tears.
‘I know that. I just don’t want to admit it; that anyone would want my beautiful daughter dead.’
‘Which is why,’ Mark assured her, ‘I am going after whoever carried out the hit then the person who ordered it.’
Wendy’s face turned serious as she looked up at him through tear soaked eyes. Mark noticed her eyes were not sad anymore, and the sparkle he always looked for had gone. It had been replaced with pure anger.
‘Nothing I say will change your mind?’
Mark dropped his shoulders and shook his head. As he turned to leave, she called after him.
‘Mark, will you do me one favour?’
He turned and nodded.
‘Find them, get them to confess, and kill them.’
He rushed towards her and kissed her on the cheek. On the way out the front door, he took a picture of Marie and placed it in his bag.
Mark walked out to his car with his bag over his shoulder, stopped and looked up at his children’s bedrooms with their little lights illuminating the windows. He looked lovingly up and whispered softly, ‘I love you and I’ll be back soon,’ as he turned and his expression changed instantly. It was now serious and determined. He got into his car. ‘Right after I find the bastards that killed mummy.’
He started the ignition, revved the engine, and wheel-spun out of the driveway.
Chapter Seven
Mark pulled his car into a warehouse carpark behind the Travelodge off the M4 towards Swindon where he stayed in the night before. He turned off the ignition and sat in the car with a notebook and pencil. Inside, Mark had written a list of names; most were crossed out. He used pencil in case he was caught and could dispose of anything incriminating. Working as a lawyer, Mark kept detailed notes on the ways criminals used techniques to evade the chain of evidence. Mark checked all his mirrors and the windows before crossing a name off the list. He was waiting for a contact he prosecuted years ago for possession of weapons, whom the police used for information. Mark made the call shortly after leaving home and had advised the ‘contact’ that he had gone rogue and wanted some paid help and had provided the contact with a list of items and where to get them. Mark had also advised his contact how to get them and where to get them from, and delivered money to him in cash so as not to arouse suspicion from the authorities.
Mark sighed and checked his watch. His contact was late. Then, he spotted a hooded individual walking towards the car, hands in his grey hoodie and face concealed. The contact tapped on the window and Mark wound it down. The rough, street slang which came from under the hood was familiar to Mark.
‘I only got a hand-gun and some ammo innit.’
Mark nodded and, as promised, paid him. He talked in a low voice and explained his plan. The contact listened and occasionally nodded in agreement.
‘Man, I’m still pissed at you for putting me away though innit.’
Mark laughed and nodded, smiling.
‘Yeah well it was my job. I have another vocation now.’
‘Well, if someone offed my missus, mate, I’d bang ’em straight out too, ya know?’
Mark nodded and thanked him before the contact wandered off. Mark opened the small black military box to reveal a Glock 22 pistol and silencer, plus one hundred rounds of ammunition. He nodded, satisfied that it would do the trick and closed the box, putting it in his kit back. When he tuned in the radio on his hire car, having ditched his own to prevent him from being tracked by anyone, he reached for the box again, opened it up to inspect the Glock further. Alongside the magazine clips, he discovered a hand written note with a telephone number, address and time written on it from the contact. Smiling but curious, Mark returned to his hotel room to pack his things, before checking out and heading to the new ‘rendezvous’ named on the piece of paper.
Night had fallen as Mark rolled his hire car up to a set of wire mesh gates on a dockside. He had the note in his hand as he drove and the Glock 22, loaded and in his holster. He checked the time on his watch and got out of the car, locking it remotely. Noting there seemed to be no one around, he proceeded through the wire mesh gates and through an alley to a metal roll-up garage door. He checked all around it and gave a glance around, failing to notice the four men; armed with Uzi 9mm weapons silently surround him, weapons trained on him. Mark quickly assessed the situation, working out which one of the four men may be the best shot and who was the weakest before taking the safety lock off his holster without being seen. He was just about to respond when he felt the warmth of a red laser sight on his neck, followed by a second on his forehead. Realising that he was outnumbered, he re-holstered his weapon and put up his hands, deciding to see how the situation played out. Suddenly, he heard laughing and chuckles for the men to ‘stand down’. Relaxing a little, a short fat Italian man in a suit strode out of the shadows laughing at Mark. He clapped his hands around Mark’s shoulders, patting them vigorously, momentarily causing Mark to cough. Mark spoke
‘Russo,’ he said with a sigh. Russo was a local gangland leader and explained himself in a heavy Italian accent.
‘A “mutual friend” advised me you require some assistance?’
‘You could say that,’ replied Mark. ‘But I was hoping for a more confidential arrangement?’
Russo laughed and again patted Mark on the shoulder.
‘Our “friend” advised me the mighty Mark King had gone rouge so I said, “Russo, you need to see this for yourself”. So here I am.’
Russo leant in to Mark and whispered, ‘I decide to do this for free, in aid of Mrs King, god rest her soul,’ in a serious tone as he marked himself with the sign of the cross.
Russo led Mark into the Garage which, to Mark’s amazement, was actually a huge warehouse full of equipment, mostly military surplus supplies. He was led to a rail of black combat clothing such as combats, Kevlar vests, flak vests, boots and other combat clothing. Next to this was a table with the biggest collection of weaponry Mark had ever seen. Suddenly, thinking back to an old case he handled early in his career, Mark remembered what he was looking at and was completely in awe of what he saw.
‘Impressive, no?’ Russo chuckled, breathing a sigh of regret.
Mark could only nod as Russo explained, ‘I am a son of a Mafia Godfather. Must have been when you first started your career, my friend.’
Mark remembered the case early in his legal career and that he had tried to have Russo put away several times for running drugs and weapons. However, Russo always admired Mark’s resilience and cunning legal mind.
‘I give you some supplies to aid your mission?’ Russo chuckled as he slapped Mark’s back before waddling towards the table laden with weapons. ‘The contact you met is my nephew and will one day hope to take over from me, but the guys you are dealing with, people behind Marie’s death, are bigger than us and so we are cutting our losses and relocating to South America, eh boys?’
Mark was astounded and lost for words. He’d spent years trying to get a conviction to stick; now he was helping him! The armed men milling about the warehouse cheered, much preferring somewhere warmer to work in.
‘Before we go, we would like to offer you as much kit as you can carry. You have one hour before it is collecte
d to be shipped to another location.’
Mark smiled as he surveyed everything in front of him.
‘Hey Marky, la mia casa è la tua casa, huh!’
Mark’s understanding of Italian was good enough to know this meant ‘my house is your house’ and followed Russo to an office to talk privately. Once there, Russo poured two Spanish whiskies and handed one to Mark.
‘Tell me, what can I do for you my friend? You want I should give to you? Logistics, safe refuge, fake passports, new identities for you and your good children, what, you tell?’
Mark smiled, grateful at the kindness being offered to him by someone he pursued relentlessly.
‘I am overwhelmed Russo. I didn’t expect this.’
Russo tutted at him, ‘There is a one condition. You no tell no one it me?’
Mark shook Russo’s hand.
‘Agreed,’ Mark smiled, shaking hands vigorously, ‘I will repay you, Russo, as soon as this is all over.’
Russo smiled at him, raising a glass.
‘I am a just ’appy we are both now on same side. The only repayment you give me is that you kill all of these bad guys.’
Mark looked serious as did Russo. Russo sighed, looking forlorn.
‘All the gangs and syndicates are now exposed. Everyone moving out, these guys mean business. We just cannot keep up.’
Russo made a toast. ‘To Marie.’
‘Marie?’ Mark questioned. Russo put down his glass and leant forward towards Mark.
‘We have been watching you covertly over the last year because you been in the press a lot, and I always liked Marie. She was kind and gentle and didn’t ask for any of this.’
Mark was shocked but also secretly relieved that Russo is now on HIS side. Mark asked Russo if he could be excused.
‘I’m going to need more than a hire car to shift this lot to where I’m going!’
Russo smiled and wagged his finger at Mark.
‘Ah, Russo is full of surprises. You want I show you, come, come.’