Trilogy: The First Three Books in the Amber For Go Series

by Paul Harris

  “Yes, Miss Laska? What is it?”

  She is startled by the rapidity of the old man’s movements, and by the blade of the letter opener glinting before her eyes, and takes a step backwards.

  Following her gaze, and becoming conscious of the threatening interpretation that could possibly be made from his demeanour, Fischer loosens his grip on the pearl handle. The opener falls to the ground and clatters against the floorboards.

  “What is it, Miss Laska?” he asks, more softly this time, and with a semblance of a fabricated smile.

  “I forgot to give you this,” she smirks, and hands him a note.

  He closes the door, turns away, and examines the yellow slip of paper that she has given to him. Its contents seem to do very little to improve his mood. A greyness has descended upon him of late that was never previously there. His skin wears an unhealthy pallor and his beard is not as neatly trimmed as it was only two weeks prior. His, once luxuriant, shock of grey hair is beginning to rapidly thin. Stray hairs, having escaped his head, hang from the lapel of his jacket. He raises a hand to his face and wipes moisture from his brow, once smooth, now indelibly furrowed by concern.

  He breathes deeply and begins to pace to and fro across his office, his metronomic footsteps keeping perfect time with the ticking of the clock that hangs from the wall opposite his desk. A photograph hangs beside the clock, surrounded by framed certificates. It features a team of white-shirted footballers lining up on a Swiss football pitch in May 1969. It has hung in that very spot since before Fischer arrived at the University from his native Austria.

  He peers through the lead-framed window at the grassy area below. It is bordered by fir trees and slopes gently away towards the new science faculty building to his right. Students are milling around aimlessly, kicking empty Coke cans and walking arm in arm; hand in hand. They are meeting their first loves, their true loves, their last loves, their one and only loves, their first of many loves. These young people are carefree and happy, as yet unspoilt, their faces as fresh canvasses waiting for time to paint its murderous picture; strangling optimism and bludgeoning aspiration.

  From his vantage point, he spies the diminutive figure of Jelena Novak strolling aimlessly through the campus grounds. Her pig-tailed head is bowed slightly and seldom does she raise her eyes from the ground, and then only to negotiate the groups of students who are huddled together at intervals along her route. She walks without purpose, her direction altering at will. Her hair is tied with pretty pink ribbons and her knee-length cotton dress hangs limply from her shoulders. There is a plaster on one of her knees that is just starting to peel around the edges.

  As she wanders past the old stone edifice which houses, amongst others, the faculty of law, she senses a presence. Looking up, she sees the shadow of a man in a window high above. She forces a smile. Fischer raises a hand to the glass and presses his palm against it. A shard of sunlight reflects against the window and obscures Doctor Fischer’s tears from her sight.

  He does not shed them for Jelena; she sheds her own tears, every night. But, she will be happy soon, the doctor has no doubt. She will follow Jarni to London and they will be united once more. Jarni will send for her when he is settled. There is nothing more certain. Doctor Fischer smiles and wipes his face with a neatly pressed blue and white striped handkerchief. Jelena presses her eyes, once more to the ground, and walks on towards the fountain in the centre of the square.

  No, Doctor Fischer sheds tears for another. Jelena’s doleful expression brings to mind his own troubled daughter, so far away, and always so alone. He shares the pain of her endless nightmares but, most of all, he mourns for his own acute sense of loss.

  And, In Tesco’s on the Old Park Road

  In Tesco’s on the Old Park Road, a chronically obese security guard is prowling the grocery aisles like an overweight tabby prowls around a bird table. He senses that he has his prey, but is not so sure that he has the agility for the final pounce. He takes a two-way radio from his back pocket and speaks, very lowly, into it. He calls for assistance in strained whispers as he does not want to alert his target.

  The security guard, often referred to by his co-workers as Vince, is startled as the radio crackles loudly, and he drops it onto the floor with an almighty crash.

  “Which aisle is he in?” bellows a metallic voice from inside the radio as it vibrates on the floor tiles and attracts the attention of the entire store, even the deaf old lady from Montrose House who refuses to wear her hearing aid because she “don’t want to hear it anyway”.

  “Vince? Vince? Which aisle? We have cameras on two, four, and six, but we can’t see you or the suspect. Vince?”

  Bo Billox is standing in aisle three, perusing tins of corned beef and wondering why they are just so expensive these days. There are no closed circuit television cameras in aisle three. Bo knows that, he got the message. His ball head swivels on his shoulders and his eyes engage with those of Vince, the security guard, who is currently peering around a stack of toilet rolls at him. Vince has the look of a man who doesn’t know whether to break cover and collect his radio from in front of the Fray Bentos pies or to stay where he is and pee himself. When Bo snarls, “What?” at him, Vince concludes that his cover has been compromised anyway, and steps out into aisle three and retrieves his radio.

  “Control?” he whispers into it. “Three. Repeat: aisle three.”

  “Why are you whispering?” asks Bo.

  “Stealth,” Vince nods. “It’s the security guard’s most valuable asset.”

  Bo nods back but doesn’t seem convinced by Vince’s explanation. For a moment, their eyes are locked on one another’s as if each is afraid to blink first. A bead of sweat trickles down Vince’s brow. Bo notices it, smells fear, and takes the initiative. “It’s been lovely chatting, but I must dash. Next time, though, eh?”

  Vince hesitates as Bo turns his back on him. He freezes. He stumbles; can’t find his words. “Wait!” He follows him. “Can I see what you’re concealing underneath your jacket?”

  “No.” Bo walks faster and so does Vince; as fast as you can walk without running.

  Vince’s radio crackles again. “That him, Vince? Vince?”

  Vince’s colleague is no more than fifteen feet away from the pursuit. Vince raises his hands in the air and shouts across the shop floor. “Of course it is! Stop him!”

  The second security guard pounces. Bo wriggles from his grip. Vince lunges, and takes them both down to the ground with him. Someone screams. Bo swears. A call ten is issued over the public address system. Male members of staff are sent to the scene. A small crowd of anxious shoppers gathers. A hugely constructed unit of a beast in a stripy apron slips inelegantly from behind the meat counter and demolishes a spice rack on his way to the scene. He presses his weight down on Bo’s shoulder blades, pinning him to the ground amidst muffled cries of foul abuse.

  Vince snatches a tin of Pedigree Chum from inside Bo’s jacket and holds it aloft as evidence. There is a subdued round of applause from the gathering of onlookers as they express their admiration. Bo, meanwhile, continues to remonstrate in the foulest of terms with his captives. Old ladies cover their ears in horror. Small children giggle and cast surreptitious glances at their embarrassed parents. A plastic shopping bag splits in the melee and a red onion rolls across the polished tiled floor where Bo’s face is being pressed down into it and horribly contorted in the process. “I’m a war hero, you know! A hero and this is the thanks I get!”

  Bo is indeed a campaign veteran, the relevance of which appears to be lost on the crowd whose mirth is only increased by his claims of valour.

  When the police arrive, they raise Bo to his feet and handcuff his hands behind his back in order to stop him flaying like a windmill. Initially, two officers arrive, speaking into their radios. Then, another two are seen riding the escalator up to the shop floor; and then, three more; until the area around the cigarette kiosk is a sea of dark police uniforms.

  The
re is a further round of subdued applause as they drag Bo from the store and down underground, into the car park.

  Bo yelps. “Watch my arm, you bastards!”

  “An old war wound, is it?”

  “No. One of my dogs bit me.”

  Zeus and Apollo, meanwhile, are oblivious to the excitement unfolding inside the store. They are lashed to a bicycle rack outside and are passing their time by frightening children and knocking the elderly off balance. They can sense the trepidation. They thrive on the alarm their growls and snarls and barks engender, and select their targets accordingly.

  The first clue that anything is amiss is when they see a large white van with metal grills fitted over the windows approaching. It slows down and parks on double yellow lines right outside the store. Two uniformed RSPCA officers climb from the van, one holding a net and the other a length of rope tied into a noose. Zeus growls from so deeply within that it sounds as if his stomach is rumbling. Apollo, however, senses something out of the ordinary and is alert to it. His ears are pricked and his nose is held high. He begins to pace anxiously, backwards and forwards, on the radius of his lead. Zeus barks viciously and lunges at one of the dog handlers.

  He steps back and offers Zeus the noose. Zeus shakes his head defiantly. The officer wears black leather gloves as a precaution against being bitten but his neck-tie and his starched white collar remain immaculate. Zeus lunges once more; and for the last time. This time the officer stands his ground and expertly lassos Zeus’s muzzle with the rope. Zeus is beside himself with fury and indignation. He launches himself up on his hind legs and shakes his head maniacally at the RSPCA officer, always glaring with his sea-green eyes into the officer’s face. With some great degree of difficulty, it takes both officers to manoeuvre Zeus into the back of their van.

  In stark contrast, and like a fugitive who has been on the run for far too long, Apollo more willingly accepts his fate. It is as though he has seen it all coming. His head is bowed meekly as the second noose is fitted and he is led away. It is as if he is looking for the deal. He can lay all misdemeanours at Zeus’s door and start a new life in Mexico or Mitcham.

  On a normal day, the car park beneath the store is poorly lit, but today it is aggressively illuminated by a flashing blue halo of light. Three police cars are parked in a semi-circle, like Custer’s last stand. Bo is being invited to make himself comfortable on the back seat of one of the vehicles. He seems somewhat reluctant and has to be cajoled by two police officers who open the door and push his head through it. They slam the door shut but Bo’s muffled protestations can still be heard through the glass of the window.

  Two more patrol cars arrive on the scene, their flashing lights and piercing sirens adding further to the confusion. Two more police officers join the half dozen who are already standing by their cars chatting and laughing. Bo, his hands still manacled behind his back, is head-butting the window. Shoppers, distracted by the sight of so much police activity, crash into one another with their shopping trolleys. Small children stand and point at the flashing lights. A man wearing a dark hoodie pulled down over his face scurries by with his hands in his pockets.

  Eventually, the police cars begin to disperse. Their blue lights are extinguished. Peace and mundanity descend once more. Bo’s pale face looks damp and rather clammy as he peers forlornly from the back seat of the patrol car. The threat of random and indiscriminate violence has temporarily been eradicated. The missing tin of dog food has been returned to its rightful place on the shelf in aisle three. At some discreet distance away, and holding a plastic shopping bag full of chilled ready-meals, Rodney Peddle wears a smirk of unbridled satisfaction.

  Chapter Nine

  The Salzburg Document

  Tom Peddle crept along Lincoln’s Inn Fields trying his best not to stall his well-worn Mondeo. He knew that it was his lucky day when he spotted a sole vacant parking space and managed to reverse into it without colliding with anything or ripping his wing mirrors off. He was feeling rather pleased with himself as he began to dispense pound coins into the parking meter. Looking down, he noticed a twenty pound note rolled up tight, lying on the pavement right next to his foot. He picked it up and thrust it into his pocket. This was, indeed, the day when everything would fall into place at last. He turned around with an almighty spring in his step.

  The sun was beating down from a gloriously clear blue sky. Birds were singing in the trees across the road in the park. Tom couldn’t wait to discard his jacket and tie and find a bench to sit on, where he would while away an hour with an ice cream, but first he had business to attend to. He took off his sunglasses, placed them in his breast pocket and walked to an open door in one of the side streets. He entered a narrow passageway and ascended an equally narrow staircase. Upon reaching the top, he bumped his head on an ancient wooden door jamb.

  “Mind your head!” shouted a man’s voice. This was good advice but, as with so much good advice, was poorly timed.

  He entered a cramped office and supposed that the desk he saw in front of him, which was piled high with box files and pieces of paper, was the reception desk. There was, though, no sign of a receptionist in attendance.

  “Hello!” called Tom.

  “Hello!” returned a voice from another room, but no one appeared.

  Tom followed the direction of the voice into an adjoining office where a man was sitting at a desk. This desk was also stacked to capacity with files and sheets of paper. The lighting was poor but, as Tom’s eyes adjusted, he could see that the man was rapidly scribbling something into a notebook. He seemed far too dishevelled to be a lawyer of any note. He had a good head of grey hair and wore, what was perhaps once, a rather flamboyant tweed suit with leather patches stitched into the elbows. A brown tie hung limply around his neck. He pushed his glasses back along his nose and looked up at Tom.

  “Mr Cawthorne?” enquired Tom.

  Cawthorne took a silk handkerchief from his breast pocket and blew his large red nose into it. He stood up and extended his hand to Tom. “Mr Peddle, I presume?” They shook hands and Cawthorne offered Tom a seat.

  Once re-seated, the lawyer raised a brandy glass to his lips and took a sip. He indicated the full bottle and empty glass that were sitting on his desk in front of Tom. “Cognac, Mr Peddle?”

  “No, thank you, Mr Cawthorne. It’s a little too early for me.”

  “I suppose you’re right,” sniffed Cawthorne. “So, what can we do for you today?”

  Tom was a little confused by Cawthorne’s question. It was the lawyer himself who had made the appointment. Tom had understood the matter to be cut and dried. He straightened his neck tie. “I was led to believe that you had a payment for me? I am here to sign the documentation in order that you can release the funds to me.”

  Cawthorne peered over the rim of his glasses at Tom. “Really?” he muttered. “Let us see, shall we?”

  “Is there a problem?” Tom asked anxiously.

  “Let us see.” Cawthorne began to rummage through a filing cabinet at his side.

  In an attempt to calm his nerves, Tom scanned the office. The walls were lined with intricately carved wooden panels. Bookcases were jammed with sleeveless dusty books. Dust lay everywhere and the smell of old books pervaded the atmosphere. An old curtain was drawn across one end of the long office as if acting as a partition. Tom thought that he could hear the low murmur of conversation from beyond it.

  “Ah, here we are,” announced Cawthorne, placing some papers on the desk in front of him and beginning to fastidiously examine them. This examination seemed, to Tom at least, to take a lifetime.

  “Well?” prompted Tom when his patience finally faltered.

  For one whole minute and perhaps even two, Cawthorne made no response. Eventually, he gathered the papers and thrust them back into the file where they belonged. He raised his eyes to Tom and took another sip of Cognac. “Everything seems to be in order,” he smiled. “At least, at our end.”

  “What do you mean,
‘At least, at our end’?”

  “We are still awaiting the relevant documentation from Salzburg. It’s merely a formality and absolutely nothing for you to worry yourself about. A case of crossing and dotting, nothing more,” Cawthorne smiled.

  Tom crossed his legs. “So you can still make the payment?”

  “Of course we can make the payment, Mr Peddle.”

  “That’s great.” Tom uncrossed his legs.

  “As soon as we receive the document from Salzburg,” Cawthorne added with an almost malicious sense of mischief.

  Tom’s heart sank beneath a bitter blow. He crossed his legs again and began to violently squeeze his knee caps with his hands. “And where is this Salzburg document?” The pitch of his voice was rising a decibel at a time.

  “I’m assured that it’s on its way. Doctor Erasmus has certainly sent the documentation.” explained Mr Cawthorne, reassuringly. “He sent it by hand, oh, weeks ago. Of course, I can’t release the funds until we receive it, but I’m sure it won’t be long now.”

  “Phone this Erasmus now and find out where the damned document is!” Tom was raging. “Why couldn’t he email it? It only takes seconds.”

  “We need the original document. Nothing else will do.” Cawthorne removed his glasses and sat back in his chair. He took another sip of Cognac. “Are you sure you won’t have a glass with me?”

  “No, I’m quite sure I won’t! Phone Erasmus now! It’s quite imperative that we have this document and that you give me my money!”

  “I phoned Doctor Erasmus’s office only yesterday and although I was unable to speak to him personally, I have been assured that the document is on its way. Nothing more can be done.” Cawthorne was emphatic: “Nothing more can be done.”