by Dick Francis
And now, I thought, it was time for me to meet again with Mr Alex Reece, and I had absolutely no intention of letting him see me coming.
‘When and where are you meant to give this package to Reece?’ I asked.
‘He gets back tomorrow.’
‘From where?’ I asked.
‘Gibraltar,’ she said. ‘He went there with the Garraways on Tuesday.’
So it couldn’t have been him who unlocked the gates of Greystone Stables on Thursday evening.
‘So when are you meant to give him the package?’ I demanded.
She clearly didn’t want to tell me but I stood next to her drumming my fingers noisily on the kitchen worktop. ‘He said to bring it to Newbury on Monday,’ she said eventually.
‘Where in Newbury?’
‘There’s a coffee shop in Cheap Street,’ she said. ‘That’s where we always meet on Friday mornings. Except this week, of course, when he was away.’
Thank goodness for that, I thought.
‘So are you meeting him at the coffee shop on Monday?’ I asked.
‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘At ten thirty.’
It was far too public a place for what I wanted to do to him.
‘Change it,’ I said. ‘Get him to collect it from here.’
‘Oh, no. He won’t ever come here. He refuses to.’
‘So where else do you two get together?’ I didn’t think a cup of coffee or two in Newbury would be quite sufficient to satisfy her other cravings.
‘At his place,’ she said, blushing slightly.
‘Which is where?’ I asked impatiently.
‘Greenham,’ she said.
Greenham was a village that had almost been consumed by the ever-expanding sprawl of Newbury town. It was most famous for its common, and the US cruise missiles that had been based there at the height of the Cold War. Everyone in these parts knew of Greenham Common, and remembered the peace camps erected by anti-nuclear protestors.
‘Where in Greenham?’ I demanded.
‘What are you going to do to him?’
‘Nothing,’ I said. ‘As long as he cooperates.’
‘Cooperates how?’ she asked.
‘If he gives me my mother’s money back, then I’ll let him go.’
I’d also take her tax papers.
‘And if he doesn’t?’ she asked.
‘Then I’ll persuade him,’ I said, smiling.
‘How?’ she said. ‘Will you take photos of him naked, too?’
‘I doubt that,’ I said. ‘But I’ll think of something.’
‘Blitzkrieg’ is a German word that means ‘lightning war’. It was used to describe the attacks on Poland, France, and the Low Countries by the Nazis. Unlike the war of attrition that had existed for mile after hundred-mile of trenches in Flanders during the First World War, blitzkrieg was the surprise and overwhelming attack on just a few points in the enemy’s line. An attack that drove straight through to the heart of political power almost before any of the defenders had had a chance to react.
The blitzkrieg unleashed by the German forces on Poland had started on the first day of September 1939 and, within a week, Wehrmacht tanks and troops were in the suburbs of Warsaw, nearly two hundred miles from their starting point. The whole of Poland had capitulated within five weeks at a cost of only ten thousand Germans killed. Compare that to the advance of only six miles gained in four and a half months by British and French troops at the Battle of the Somme, and at a cost of more than six hundred thousand dead and wounded on each side.
So if the past had taught the modern soldier anything, then it was that blitzkrieg-like ‘shock and awe’ was the key to victory in battle, and I had every intention of creating some shock and awe in the life of one Alex Reece.
15
Bush Close in Greenham was full of those ubiquitous modern little box houses and number 16, Alex Reece’s home, was at the far end of the cul-de-sac.
It was late Saturday afternoon and I had left Julie Yorke in a state of near collapse. I had merely suggested to her that to have any contact whatsoever with Alex Reece in the next thirty-six hours, in person, by e-mail or by phone, would be reason enough for me to send the explicit photographs to her husband, in addition to posting them on my new Facebook page on the internet.
She had begged me to delete the pictures from my camera but, as I had pointed out, it was she and Alex who had started this blackmail business, and they really couldn’t now complain if they were receiving a bit of their own medicine.
I had parked Ian Norland’s car out on Water Lane in Greenham and had walked round the corner into Bush Close. I was carrying a pile of free newspapers that I had picked up at a petrol station, and I walked down the road pushing one of them through every letterbox. The houses were not identical but they were similar, and number 16 had the same style of plastic-framed front door as all the others.
‘What time does Alex get back?’ I had asked Julie.
‘His plane lands at Heathrow at six twenty tomorrow evening.’
‘And how does he get home to Greenham?’
‘I’ve no idea.’
I lingered for a moment outside the front door of number 16 and adjusted the pile of remaining newspapers. I glanced around, looking for suitable hiding places, but the short driveway was bordered by nothing but grass. I looked to see which of the other houses had a direct line-of-sight to the front door of number 16, set back as it was beside the single garage.
Only number 15, opposite, had an unobstructed view.
I walked away from number 16 and pushed newspapers through the front doors of a few more houses, including the one opposite, before moving off down the road, back towards Ian’s car. However, instead of immediately driving away, I walked through a gateway and into the adjacent field. Alex Reece’s house, together with all the other even-numbered houses in Bush Close, backed onto farmland and I spent some time carefully reconnoitring the whole area.
I looked at my watch. It was just after five thirty and the light was beginning to fade rapidly.
Alex Reece couldn’t possibly be back here the following evening until eight o’clock at the earliest, and it would probably be nearer to nine if he had to collect luggage at the airport. And that was assuming his flight landed on time. By eight o’clock, of course, it would have been fully dark for hours.
Keeping in the shadows of some trees, I skirted round the backs of the gardens in Bush Close until I arrived at number 16. There were lights on in the kitchen of number 14 next door and I could see a man and a woman in there talking. That was good, I thought. No one can see outside at dusk when they have the lights on inside, due to the reflection in the window glass, and especially when they are busy talking. There was little or no chance that they could see me watching them.
I quickly rolled my body over the low back fence and into Alex Reece’s garden. It was mostly simply laid to grass with no tangly flower beds or thorny rose bushes to worry about.
I moved silently to the back of the garage and looked in. Even in the fast-disappearing light I could see the shiny shape of a car in there. So Mr Reece would probably arrive home by taxi, either direct from the airport, or from the railway station in Newbury.
And I’d be waiting for him.
‘Did we win?’ I asked Ian as I walked in through his door at seven o’clock.
‘Win what?’ he said without taking his eyes off the television screen.
‘Oregon,’ I said, ‘in the race at Haydock.’
‘Trotted up,’ he said, still not turning round. ‘Won by six lengths. Reckon he’ll be hard to beat in the Triumph.’
‘Good,’ I said to the back of his head. ‘What are you watching?’
‘Just some TV talent show.’
‘Have you eaten?’ I asked.
‘Had a pizza for lunch,’ he said. ‘From the freezer. One of them you bought yesterday. But I didn’t have that until after the race. I was too nervous to eat before.’
‘So are you hun
gry?’
‘Not really. Not yet. Maybe I’ll have a Chinese later.’
‘Great idea,’ I said. ‘I’ll buy. Again.’
He turned round and smiled, and I guessed that was what he was hoping I’d say.
‘How long are you staying?’ he asked, turning back to the screen.
‘I’ll find somewhere else if you want,’ I said. ‘You know the house guests and the three-day-smell rule, and my time is up tonight.’
‘Stay as long as you like,’ he said. ‘I’m enjoying the company.’
And the free food, I thought, perhaps ungraciously.
‘I’ll stay another day or two, if that’s all right.’
‘As I said, stay as long as you want, if you don’t mind the couch.’
I didn’t. It was a lot more comfortable than some of the places I’d slept, and warmer too.
‘Can I borrow your car again tomorrow?’ I asked.
‘Sorry, mate. I need it,’ he said. ‘I’m going to Sunday lunch with my folks.’
‘Where do they live?’
‘Near Banbury,’ he said.
‘So what time will you be back?’ I asked.
‘It’ll be before five,’ he said. ‘Evening stables are at five on Sundays.’
‘Can I borrow the car after that?’
‘Sure,’ he said. ‘But it might need more petrol by then.’
‘OK,’ I said. ‘I’ll fill it up.’
I could tell he was smiling, even though he didn’t turn round. Why didn’t he just ask me to pay for the use of his car? I suppose it was a little game.
I could have gone to fetch my Jaguar, but it was a very distinctive car, and I wasn’t particularly keen to advertise my whereabouts to anyone. Ian’s little Corsa was far more anonymous. I just hoped my Jaguar was still sitting in the car park in Oxford, awaiting my return.
I spent Sunday morning making my plans and sorting my kit. I had been back into Kauri House on Saturday afternoon after leaving Julie Yorke, and before my excursion to Greenham.
The house had been empty, save for the dogs who had watched me idly and unconcerned as I’d passed through the kitchen, stepping over their beds in front of the Aga. My mother and stepfather had been safely away at Haydock races but, nevertheless, I had remained in the house for only fifteen or twenty minutes, just time enough to have a quick shower and collect a few things from my room.
I did not really want my mother coming back unexpectedly and finding me there. It was not because I didn’t trust her not to give away my presence, even unwittingly – it was more that I didn’t want to have to explain to her what I was going to do. She probably wouldn’t have approved, so it was much better that she didn’t know beforehand, if ever.
Ian left for his Sunday-lunch trip at eleven, promising that he would be back in time to start work at five.
After I was sure Ian wasn’t going to come back, I sorted the equipment I would need for my mission. Bits of it I had owned previously, but some things I’d driven into Newbury to buy specifically the previous afternoon on my way to Greenham.
I laid out my black roll-neck pullover, a pair of old, dark blue jeans, some dark socks, a black knitted ski hat, and some matching gloves that I’d bought from the sports shop in Market Street, where I’d also obtained a pair of all-black Converse basketball boots.
Next to the clothes I placed the rest of my kit: a small dark blue rucksack, some black heavy-duty garden ties similar to those that had been used to bind my wrists in the stables, a small red first-aid kit, three six- by four-inch prints of the mailbox-shop photos, a certain metal ring with a piece of galvanized steel chain attached to it by a padlock, my camera and, finally, a roll of grey duct tape.
There is a saying in every organization of the world, either military or civilian, that if something doesn’t move when it should, use WD-40, and if it moves when it shouldn’t, use duct tape. Originally designed during the Second World War to keep gun magazines and ammunition boxes watertight in jungle conditions, duct tape has since become the ‘must-have’ kit for each and every mission. It was even used to fix a fender on the Apollo 17 Lunar Rover when it was broken on the moon, as well as making the circular CO2 scrubbers ‘fit’ square holes to save the lives of the crew of the stricken Apollo 13.
I had decided against taking my sword. I would have loved to have had a weapon of some kind, if only for the shock value, but the sword was impractical and cumbersome. A regulation-issue Browning nine-millimetre sidearm would have been my weapon of choice, but I could hardly run around the English countryside brandishing an unlicensed gun, even if I’d had one. In the end, I also elected not to borrow one of Ian’s kitchen knives.
It was not as if I intended to kill anyone. Not yet, anyway.
At ten minutes to eight I was in position alongside Alex Reece’s house, on the dark side, away from the glow from the solitary street lamp outside number 12, two houses down.
I had already made a thorough reconnaissance of the area, including a special look at number 15, the house opposite, the one with a direct view of Alex Reece’s front door. As far as I could tell, the house was unoccupied, but that might be temporary. Maybe the residents were just out for the afternoon.
Most of the other houses, including number 14 next door, had people going about their usual Sunday-evening activities. I was actually amazed at how few of the residents of Bush Close pulled their curtains, especially at the back. Not that they would usually expect anyone to be lurking in a field, spying on them as they watched their televisions or read their books.
Eight o’clock came and went, and I continued to wait. A fine drizzle began to fall, but that didn’t worry me. Rain was likely to keep the other residents inside. I had been unable to tell if any of them had a dog to walk.
At eight eighteen a car pulled into Bush Close and drove down to the end. I was all ready for action with the adrenalin rushing through my system, but the car pulled into the driveway of number 15 and a couple and two young children climbed out. I breathed heavily, calming myself down, and put the surprise ‘jack’ back in its box.
I stood silently in the shadows. I was pretty sure that no one would be able to see me, although I could see them clearly, the more so when the man turned on an outside light next to their front door. I was close to the wall and I remained completely still.
It was movement more than anything that gave people away, caught in peripheral vision and attracting immediate attention. My dark clothes would blend into the blackness of the background; only my face might be visible, and that was streaked with home-made mud-based camouflage cream to break up the familiar shape.
There were no shouts of discovery and, presently, the family gathered their things from the car and went inside. The outside light went out again, plunging me back into darkness. I eased myself back and forth, relieving the tension in my muscles, and went on waiting.
Alex Reece arrived home just before nine o’clock, but he didn’t come by taxi.
Isabella Warren’s dark blue Volkswagen Golf pulled into the driveway at high speed and stopped abruptly with a slight squeal of its brakes. I couldn’t exactly see who was at the wheel but, from past experience of her driving on the Bracknell by-pass, I was pretty sure it was Isabella herself.
I pressed myself close to the wall and peeked round the corner so I could see.
Alex Reece opened the rear door and stood up next to the car with a flight bag in his hand.
‘Thanks for the lift,’ he called before closing the door and removing a small suitcase from the boot.
He stood and waved as the Golf was backed out onto the road, and then rapidly driven away again. I thought the fact that Alex had been sitting in the back of the car implied that there was at least one other passenger. Maybe it was Jackson Warren.
I watched as Alex fumbled in his flight bag for the key to his front door. In those few seconds I also scanned the road and the windows of the house opposite. No one was about.
It was time for ac
tion.
In the instant after he opened the front door, and before he had time to reach down for his suitcase, I struck him hard midway between his shoulder blades, forcing him through the open doorway and onto the floor in the still-dark hallway. I crashed down on top of him, his flight bag sliding across the polished wood and into the kitchen.
‘Scream and I’ll kill you,’ I said loudly into his ear.
He didn’t scream, but it wasn’t only because he was frightened of being killed. I had purposely chosen that type of blow because it would have driven the air from his chest and, without air, he couldn’t scream. In fact, he didn’t react in any way. Just as I had hoped, my blitzkrieg attack had rendered him shocked and awestruck.
I pulled both his arms round to the small of his back and used the garden ties from my pocket to secure his wrists. Next I used another pair of the ties to bind his ankles together.
The whole process had taken no more than a few seconds.
I stood up and went outside. I picked up Alex’s suitcase from the step, glanced casually all around to check that nothing had stirred, then stepped back inside again, closing the front door. Alex hadn’t moved a muscle.
Albert Pierrepoint, the renowned English hangman of the nineteen forties and fifties, always maintained that a successful execution was one when the prisoner hardly had time to realize what was happening to him before he was dangling dead at the end of the rope. He had once famously despatched a man named James Inglis within just seven and a half seconds of his leaving the condemned cell.
Pierrepoint would have been proud of me tonight. Alex wasn’t actually dead, but he had been trussed up like a chicken ready for the oven in not much longer than Albert had taken to hang a man.
And now Mr Reece was ready for a spot of roasting.
‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’ It was only to be expected that he would deny any knowledge of blackmail.
He was still lying on the hall floor but I had rolled him over onto his back so he could see me. I’d patted down his pockets, removed his mobile telephone and turned it off. All the while he had stared at me with wide eyes, the whites showing all round the irises. But he had known immediately who I was, in spite of my dark clothes, hat, and mud-streaked face.