by Ellis, Tim
What a fuck-up, he thought. He was finished, washed up. No one would touch him now. He’d be lucky if they’d let him defect to Russia like his uncle. Ruth Völker would disown him, that was for sure – he was on his own. Maybe Hell had been right. A hail of bullets was preferable to this ignominy.
‘Roll up, roll up,’ Cookie hollered. ‘Get your top secret government files here. Learn all about the secret facility known as the Defence Geospatial Intelligence Fusion Centre (DGIFC) in Feltham, South West London . . .’
‘Holy shit!’ Hell said. ‘They even know where we hide.’
Oliver Brightmore closed his eyes. This was a disaster of epic proportions. If he’d had a cyanide capsule hidden in one of his molars, he’d bite down hard right about now.
***
Sunday, April 22
Ezra Pine was laughing as he stepped through the pedestrian gate of Her Majesty’s Prison Chelmsford at exactly eleven o’clock in the morning. He was followed by Adam Pincher, Gary Chalker and Tony Wentworth all previously employed at Shrub End Police Station.
There were about ten cars in the car park. A black Mercedes pulled out and drove towards them.
‘Here’s our ride, boys.’
The Mercedes stopped some distance away and they carried on walking.
As they drew close, the driver’s window opened and the barrel of a 9mm Uzi submachine gun spat lead at them.
Three of them died where they fell, but Garry Chalker took another burst of gunfire in the back as he tried to crawl away.
The blacked-out electric driver’s window closed and the Mercedes moved slowly out onto Springfield Street.
***
Monday, April 23
‘Are you exited, Monsieur?’ Jennifer asked as they climbed out of the taxi and stacked their luggage on a trolley outside Heathrow airport.
‘Most definitely, Mademoiselle’ he said. It had been ages since he’d been on a holiday. Usually, he just stayed at home and devoted himself to carving more animals.
They’d stayed the night in a local five star hotel. The plane was due to take off at nine fifteen, and they were required to book in three hours before, so they’d been up since four o’clock.
Between them, they’d found the perfect two-week holiday on North Malé Atoll in the Maldives. He’d booked and paid for it online on Friday evening. It was just a tiny island in the middle of the Indian sea. They planned to spend their time snorkelling and taking photographs. He was really looking forward to it.
He’d gone into work on Thursday morning. Parish and Richards were in one of the incident rooms. He typed up his report, and then went to see the Chief. He’d written out his resignation the night before.
‘Come.’
He hadn’t met Chief Bonnard before. ‘Good morning, Sir.’
‘Sergeant Gilbert. I had Chief Inspector Marzocca from CEOP on the phone first thing this morning singing your praises.’
‘Really?’ He passed the Chief his report. ‘Also, here’s my resignation, and an application for two weeks leave beginning immediately.’
The Chief stared at him. ‘Sit down, Gilbert.’
He sat in one of the two chairs in front of the Chief’s desk.
‘What’s this all about?’
‘I lost my partner, Sir.’
‘From what DI Blake tells me, that was hardly your fault.’
‘You’ve spoke to DI Blake?’
‘She rang me this morning as well.’
‘She told you I was going to resign?’
‘Yes.’
‘I see.’
‘Listen, I’m only here for another couple of weeks at the most, and it wouldn’t look good on my CV if I lost a DS. I’m going to grant your holiday request, I’ll leave your letter of resignation unopened on the desk, and I want you to think about it while you’re on holiday. If you still want to leave the force when you return to work, then nobody will stand in your way – all right?’
He nodded and left.
After he’d given the bunch of flowers and box of chocolates to Judy Moody to say “thank you”, he drove to the hospital.
‘You had no right to ring the Chief,’ he said as he walked into Xena’s room.
‘You’re confused about the chain of command, numpty. First, there’s the Chief Constable, then there’s a load of arselickers, then there’s me and . . . guess where you come?’
‘I told you in confidence.’
‘Crap. I’m your boss. You can’t tell me things in confidence.’
‘Well, it won’t matter in the future, because I no longer work for you.’
‘You’re confused again, Stickamundo. The Chief called and told me your resignation is on hold until you come back from your holiday that I’ve not been invited on.’
‘Jennifer and I are flying to the Maldives on Monday morning.’
‘I would look good in the Maldives.’
‘I’m sure, but you need time to get better.’
‘Yes, doctor.’
‘By the time I come back they should have let you go home.’
‘I’m already working on my escape.’
‘You’ve got no chance,’ Staff Nurse Louise James said as she came in pushing a trolley in front of her. ‘Everybody – the doctor, nurses and patients – they all like having you here so much that they’ve signed a petition to keep you here at least until the end of the month.’
‘See what I have to put up with, Stick. You didn’t know Lucifer was an ugly bitch from Goodmayes, did you?’
‘I’m sure . . .’
‘Don’t start defending her. She’s done nothing but make my life a misery since I came in here.’
‘Nothing except save your life you ungrateful . . .’
‘See how she talks to me. I’m sure there are rules about the patient always being right.’
Stick stood up. ‘Well, I think it’s time I went.’
‘And you’re really going on holiday and leaving me to fend for myself in this cesspit?’
‘I’ll send you a postcard.’
‘That’ll really cheer me up. I wouldn’t be surprised if Nurse Ratchett here hadn’t put you up to leaving me on my own . . .’
As he wandered down the corridor he heard her shout after him . . .
‘They’re going to remove part of my brain while you’re away, Stick. They’ll cover it up by saying . . .’
He wheeled the luggage trolley through the automatic doors.
‘There’s some perfume I want to buy when we get into the departure lounge.’
‘French, Mademoiselle?’
‘Of course, Monsieur.’
There was a small queue when they joined the check-in line for the Maldives.
Jennifer sat on a case while they waited.
Eventually, it was their turn.
‘Passports and tickets, please?’ the smiling check-in woman asked.
He handed their passports and tickets over.
She glanced at them, nodded at two men standing behind her, who stepped around the counter.
‘Rowley Gilbert?’ one of the men asked.
‘Yes.’
They both showed their warrant cards. ‘Please come with us.’
‘What for?’
‘Rowley Gilbert,’ the taller of the two men said. ‘I’m arresting you for the murder of Chief Inspector Ezra Pine and three other police officers.’
They turned him round and put on plastic restraints.
‘You have the right to remain silent, but anything you do say will be taken down and may be used in evidence against you.’
‘What’s happening, Monsieur?’ Jennifer asked.
‘I wish I knew, Jen.’
***
Villa Provençal the Cote d’Azur, France
In the future
He felt a hand over his mouth and the point of a knife digging into the soft flesh of his throat. A pair of dark eyes stared at him in the darkness.
A warm breeze caressed the drapes.
They dragged him out of bed.
Gabrielle – his wife – moaned in her sleep and turned over.
There were two of them.
He was force-marched through the villa until they were standing on the patio overlooking the garden and the swimming pool.
He’d meant to put the kids’ toys away, but had forgotten.
‘Take anything you want,’ he said.
They didn’t speak.
His hands were tied behind his back.
Something soft was rammed into his mouth and kept in place by a tie around his head.
What did they want? Was it a robbery? God! He hoped they left his wife and kids alone.
A rope was tied around his left ankle and he was slowly hauled up until he was hanging upside down from a branch of the old oak tree in the garden.
Pain stabbed at his left knee and he thought it was going to burst open any minute.
What the fuck was going on? What did they plan to do to him? Who were these people?
There were more than two people now.
Too many to count.
He felt something sharp being pushed through his left leg and tried to scream, but no sound could get past the gag in his mouth.
What the fuck?
‘For Josh Adams,’ a woman’s voice said.
Another stabbing pain in his right leg.
‘For Jane Wilson.’
‘For Esme Robbins,’ a man said, pushing a twelve inch spike through the palm of his hand.
Jesus! Tears of pain ran from his eyes.
He was being skewered like a suckling pig. Each time one of them stabbed him they said a name . . .
‘For Sarah Rose and Talia Justice.’
‘For Billy Crockett.’
‘For Helen Merriman.’
‘For Morgan Bush.’
‘For Chelsea King.’
There were many more, including Mathew Lee and Sally Bowker.
As the last skewer was forced into his heart, and the parents of the children he’d stolen away stood silently waiting for him to die, he hoped they wouldn’t take his own children.
####
About the Author
Tim Ellis was born in the bowels of Hammersmith Hospital, London, on a dark and stormy night, grew up in Cheadle, Cheshire, and now lives in Essex with his wife and four Shitzus. In-between, he joined the Royal Army Medical Corps at eighteen and completed twenty-two years service, leaving in 1993 having achieved the rank of Warrant Officer Class 1 (Regimental Sergeant Major). Since then he has worked in secondary education as a senior financial manager, in higher education as an associate lecturer/tutor at Lincoln and Anglia Ruskin Universities, and as a consultant for the National College of School Leadership. His final job, before retiring to write fiction full time in 2009, was as Head and teacher of Behavioural Sciences (Psychology/Sociology) in a secondary school. He has a PhD and an MBA in Educational Management, and an MA in Education.
Discover other titles by Tim Ellis at http://timellis.weebly.com/
Also, come and say hello on his FB Fanpage:
http://www.facebook.com/#!/pages/Tim-Ellis/160147187372482
Warrior: Path of Destiny
Warrior: Scourge of the Steppe
The Knowledge of Time: Second Civilisation
Orc Quest Book I: Prophecy
Solomon’s Key
Jacob’s Ladder
Raga Man
As You Sow, So Shall You Reap
A Life for a Life
The Wages of Sin
The Flesh is Weak
The Shadow of Death
His Wrath is Come
The Breath of Life
The Dead Know Not
Be Not Afraid
The Twelve Murders of Christmas
Body 13
The Graves at Angel Brook
The Skulls Beneath Eternity Wharf
Footprints of the Dead
The Terror at Grisly Park
The House of Mourning
The Gordian Knot
Through a Glass Darkly
A Lamb to the Slaughter
Collected Short Stories/Poetry/Anthologies/Non-fiction
Untended Treasures
Where do you want to go today?
Winter of my Heart (Poetry)
With Love Project – The Occupier
The Killing Sands (Anthology)
The Writer’s A-Z of Body Language (Non-fiction)
Summer of my Soul (Poetry)
Also planned for 2013/2014:
Mortis Obscura: Scavenger of Souls (Farthing & Trask 1)
The Timekeeper's Apprentice
Silent in the Grave (Parish & Richards 12)
Orc Quest Book II: The Last Human
Whispers of the Dead (Tom Gabriel 2)
The Enigma of Apocalypse Heights (Quigg 6)
The Sword of Damocles (Stone & Randall 3)
The Song of Solomon (Harte & KP 2)