by Mark Arundel
Both men were experienced. The sanctioned termination roster had contained their names for many years. One of the men specialised in this specific type of assignment. He was not ex-military. The other man was. They had worked together as a two-man team several times. Their ability at deception was the reason the office had chosen them. They had heard pleading before and the offer of money and other things too. They had never failed to complete an assignment.
Leaving Charlotte gagged and lying bound on the floor the two men went about their work. ‘I’ll prepare the apartment while you find something we can use.’
‘Did you lock the door?’ The answer came by way of a nod.
The two men began their task. Now, they both wore tight fitting gloves. The one with the chocolate button eyes searched the kitchen and the master bedroom.
His gruff colleague pulled the cord to close the curtains in the living room while remaining out of view from anyone who might see in. The switch on the wall produced an atmospheric glow through the ornate glass lamp suspended from the ceiling rose. The man stared up at it and considered. Then he examined the furniture. The ceiling was high and so were the windows.
He returned to the kitchen. The other man joined him. ‘Can you see anything obvious?’ he asked. His colleague shook his head. ‘All I’ve found are two dressing gown ties, but they’re not really long enough.’
‘Look for a stepladder,’ the other man said.
‘There must be someplace where all the maintenance and cleaning stuff is kept,’ he replied and then went off to search.
Finally, he found it. It was a small storeroom outside in the hallway. It looked like a janitor’s “Aladdin’s cave”. It contained everything a “Mayfair” janitor could wish to have in a penthouse apartment on Upper Grosvenor Street.
The man searched the storeroom thoroughly and found two stepladders of differing heights. He took them both.
‘Bring them over here,’ his colleague said with an appreciating nod. He was standing beside the tall French doors on the mezzanine floor, which opened onto the roof terrace. He had already closed the curtains. As the man carried up the two stepladders onto the elevated floor, his colleague pointed above his head to the original oak beam that ran the length of the eaves from wall to wall. It was perfect.
‘We’ll use the cord that opens and closes the curtains,’ he said holding up a big, sharp knife he had found in the kitchen.
Behind him, the chenille drapes fell in thick folds from ceiling to floor. For a second, the chocolate button eyes almost melted into a smile.
Charlotte’s sobs had dried on her cheeks. She lay on the floor in her unlit dining room and tried to stare down her own mortality with the same trepidation and weak courage as the many before her who had taken their final steps on the scaffold.
She listened to the two men moving about inside the apartment and heard their low voices but could only make out occasional words. It was pointless to struggle. She had tested the restraints. They were tight and secure.
Deep breaths slowed her heart rate. Bravery was not an easy attribute, but Charlotte was determined not to show fear. She thought of her parents and her grandfather. It brought her sadness.
Was Meriwether the target of a sanctioned termination too? It was almost certain he was. He had seen it coming, of course, and arranged Xing as protection. He had also arranged to have at his home, at exactly the right time, the one man who Charlotte knew Meriwether could rely on to save his life. She wished that man was with her now. It was ironic, Charlotte thought, that she was going to her death at the hands of her own intelligence agency for a reason that she did not fully understand.
Had Meriwether known they would target her too? She had jested with Monty about it. That, too, was ironic. She would not believe it of Meriwether. She would not die thinking ill of the man she considered a friend. What was it he had said to her on the telephone? Charlotte, thank you for all your help and for everything you’ve done.
Whatever the two men had planned for her, they were taking their time. She wished it over. The waiting was unbearable. She closed her eyes and tried not to think about how they would do it.
The two men continued their work. The meticulous and methodical preparation was essential if the completed assignment was to satisfy the police and their forensic team. Both men understood the importance of ensuring the police could explain away everything they found. When they examined the scene it had to convince them the woman acted alone. It was primary to a successful operation.
The two men maintained a disciplined approach and questioned everything they did: who, what, where, when and how? It must all appear as if done by the woman’s hand.
Once they were certain that all they had done was accurate, they went into the dining room to get her.
Charlotte heard them coming and fought the nauseous feeling of dread. They appeared silhouetted in the doorway. Charlotte could not see their eyes. They were faceless executioners. She knew with chilling certainty their resolve was unbreakable.
Neither man spoke. They lifted her from the floor and then carried her through to the breakfast room.
To see was to know. Charlotte kept her eyes shut. The apprehension destroyed her conscious thought and left it raw. She felt them carry her up the steps and then stop in the gallery. They placed her feet down. One of the men used his arm to hold her balanced. To Charlotte, it was a strangely caring gesture from a man who was about to put her to death. The seconds seemed like hours. She had to open her eyes. It was impossible for her to keep them shut any longer. What she saw very nearly destroyed her resolve to keep strong.
Suspended from the oak beam was a length of cord. Charlotte recognised it immediately. The men had cut it from the drapes. One end they had secured around the beam with a knot. The other dangled above Charlotte’s head and they had tied it into a simple noose. At Charlotte’s feet was a step stool. They were going to hang her. She felt her legs weaken, but the man’s strong arm kept her upright.
Charlotte would not die quickly. It was a means of killing that took time. She would feel every painful tightening of the noose as her body weighed on the intricately woven threads and they sank deeper and tighter into her throat choking her life away.
The man lifted her onto the step stool and then held her up a few inches. From behind, the other man fitted the noose over Charlotte’s head and pulled the slipknot so the cord tightened under her chin. The man lowered her down again until her toes were resting on the stool. Above her head, the cord lost its slack and she felt it press into her neck. The two men had calculated the length well using the height of the step stool, the height of Charlotte and the height of the beam. To assist with authenticity, they had cut one other curtain cord of a different length and left it discarded on the floor.
All that the men had to do now was remove Charlotte’s gag and knock away the stool. She would dangle and die. They knew from experience what to expect. The coroner would not have any doubts.
Charlotte was not dead yet, though. There yet remained fight in her belly. An anger that Charlotte had not expected came from a secret, hidden place. She refused to make it easy for her killers. She understood as well as anyone how the sanctioned termination office worked. Home suicides were notoriously difficult and unpopular as a result. Mistakes were too easy.
Would a woman hang herself in her home with a full bladder? It was an interesting question. Charlotte wondered upon what answer her two murderers would decide. She had wanted to go from when the man first attacked her and now she intended to allow that relief.
The urine ran in a warm stream. It passed through her knickers, down her leg, over her foot and onto the step stool. The odour was unmistakable.
‘Look, she’s pissing herself,’ the gruff one said. The other one watched dolefully, but something about his breathing made Charlotte think her action was half expected. ‘What do we do?’ the gruff one said. ‘Do people piss themselves, you know, when they hang themselves?’
‘Even if we clean up, the forensic team are still going to find it and then everyone will start to ask questions. They’ll want to know who cleaned it. We’re better off just leaving it.’
Charlotte felt despair.
‘Make sure you don’t step in it. We mustn’t disturb the natural pattern or leave any footprints.’
‘How are we going to pull out the gag and knock over the stool then?’
‘Go round the other side; tread carefully.’ The man studied the floor and the urine before each step. ‘You can reach from there.’ He leant over and stretched out a hand. The cloth gag came free from Charlotte’s mouth and then using his hooked toe the man pulled the stool from under Charlotte’s feet and it toppled over onto its side.
Charlotte dropped.
It was only an inch or two, but it was enough. The cord tightened, the noose found its limit and Charlotte kicked involuntarily. She fought to draw breath. Her windpipe constricted and the stretching pain was horrifying. She kicked again.
32
FRIDAY, 18:15—18:23
Using Grace’s K106, I called Charlotte’s phone. Nobody answered. Someone had switched it off. How long would it take to track the phone’s location, and would Charlotte and her phone be in the same place?
I must have leapt forward although I do not remember making a conscious decision to do so. Both my hands were on the man. The wrist restraints I had secured earlier were still in place holding his arms behind his back, but his feet were free. Not that he could run. One hand gripped his jacket and the other his upper arm. I shook him. His swollen face threw back an unnatural expression. He was not a man easily alarmed, but I had alarmed him. It must have come from what he saw in my eyes.
‘Where is she?’ I said. ‘Where are they doing it?’ The fervour with which I communicated my questioning brought an immediate response.
‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘It’s probably another home job. If I had to guess then the same as this one or maybe a suicide. Does she live alone? How old is she?’ I left the man and turned to Meriwether.
‘Can you stop it?’ I said. His normal pink colour, which had always reminded me of a washed and peeled radish, now resembled a sliced onion. Seeing Meriwether without something to say did not help my unease. I wondered whether his inability to accept that Charlotte’s life was possibly over had anything to do with guilt. Men from the sanctioned termination roster may have already killed her. If not then we could only have minutes to save her. ‘Meriwether,’ I said loudly. His eyes were stuck on my face. ‘Who can you call? Who can get it stopped?’ His eyes focused, but his mouth remained closed. ‘Bradshaw, can he call it off?’ Meriwether finally spoke.
‘No, not Bradshaw, there is now a new man,’ he said.
‘Yes, his name is Robert Treadwell,’ I said.
‘Yes, Treadwell, he’s Monster’s man. I cannot think of anything. I should have protected her.’
Who was “Monster”? We were using up valuable seconds. I had to make a decision. It was a decision on which Charlotte’s life depended. I had to decide from the information I had and my instinct.
‘Why do you think it’s a home job?’ I said.
With his one open eye holding my intense gaze the man said, ‘It makes sense. The office wanted both jobs done at the same time. The easiest way to coordinate that is to make them both home jobs. It gives the best amount of flexibility.’ What the man said made sense.
‘Meriwether, where’s your car?’ I said.
‘I told Parsons he could use it this evening.’
‘Do you two have a car outside?’
‘No, we used public transport.’
What was my fastest way to Charlotte’s home? The distance was over a mile, across town, at just after six on a Friday evening. The answer was simple. I had seen several bicycles chained up in the gardens and along the railings beside the pavement.
‘Meriwether, where’s your toolbox?’
‘...toolbox?’ he repeated.
‘Yes, your toolbox; where do you keep it?’
‘It may be in the cupboard in the laundry room beyond the kitchen.’ I ran to it. He was right. I found the box and inside I found a pair of pliers and a decent hacksaw. I took them both. I ran back.
‘Meriwether, do you have a set of keys for Charlotte’s apartment?’ I said. He nodded and left the room.
Since we had learnt of Charlotte’s likely sanctioned termination, Xing had watched me silently. Her eyes were on me now. ‘Give me your Glock and the suppressor,’ I said. Without a word, she handed them to me. She also passed me a spare magazine clip.
Meriwether returned and I took the keys from his outstretched hand. ‘Try and get it stopped,’ I said. They were my last words before I left the house.
I ran to where I had seen the bicycles. Two boneshakers and an expensive mountain bike gave me Hobson’s choice. I used the hacksaw, which took at least a minute of strong effort to achieve the necessary result.
I pulled the bike free, made a running start north-west, jumped on and pedalled hard.
With smooth changing gears and superior engineering, the mountain bike carried me through the London streets like a rider wearing a yellow jersey.
Trading speed for safety a near miss while cutting inside a double-decker near Piccadilly Circus almost cost me a leg and an arm.
I left Maddox Street with the tyres making a satisfactorily fast noise and raced onto Grosvenor Street.
I could not have been riding for longer than three minutes when I sped past Grosvenor Square and hurtled onto Upper Grosvenor Street.
Ahead, in the streetlight, I could see Charlotte’s apartment building. My thigh muscles pounded the last stretch of tarmac and then I snatched fiercely on the brakes. The bike reacted like a snake and I almost lost control before my feet went down and I skidded to a halt.
I dropped the bike, ran up the steps and entered reception. John cast a disapproving eye over my energetic entrance. ‘Shall I call up, sir, and inform Miss Miller you’re on your way?’ It was clear to me that John was not aware of anything unusual, so I decided not to question him.
‘No, John, that’s okay. Charlotte knows I’m here. She’s expecting me,’ I said without stopping. It was important my arrival remained unknown to whoever may be in the apartment.
Ignoring the lift, I went directly to the stairs and ran up each flight. At the top, I slowed to a more cautious speed and came out on Charlotte’s landing. I went to her closed apartment door and listened. The only thing I heard was silence.
I retrieved the Glock from my pocket, fastened the suppressor and prepared the weapon to fire.
I tried the door and then used Meriwether’s spare key. The bolt withdrew from its shackle and I turned the handle. The door opened. I listened again and then peered through the crack. The alarm was not set. There were lights on and the hallway was empty. I entered quietly and left the door ajar.
A sense of urgency powered out from the deepest level of my brain. It sent a clear signal down my spinal cord that exploded into my arms and legs. Perhaps the faint odour of urine was the cause. I moved quickly forward. It was too quickly. The first doorway I came to was the living room. It was lit, but empty.
The hallway turned and all I saw inside the kitchen were shadows. The dining room and master bedroom were both in darkness. Still trading haste for caution, I entered the kitchen. Brightness outlined the breakfast room doorway and took my attention. I held up the Glock and stepped ahead without checking.
The man rugby tackled me from behind and to the side. His size and weight together with his locking arms took me down like a skittle in a bowling alley. Bodily entwined his momentum sent us sliding across the heated kitchen tiles. Before we came to a stop, I twisted my torso in a defensive manoeuvre. Despite the man’s bull-like charge, there was one thing I was never going to drop. In the turn, I raised the Glock with the single-minded intention of p
utting a bullet through his ribcage.
The floor slide had put us in front of the open breakfast room door and an image in my line of sight brutally clawed deep, gauging wounds into my gut. The viciously cruel image was like the horror of a torturer’s smile.
On the gallery, suspended by a rope cord I saw Charlotte. She was bound and hanging by the neck. The thought of shooting my attacker between the ribs vanished. Charlotte kicked. She was still alive, but for how long. I raised the Glock one-handed, extended my arm as far as my position allowed, aimed for the cord above Charlotte’s head and fired. If ever I needed a true shot, it was then.
The cord was narrow, my attacker hampered my shooting arm and the distance seemed further than the world triple jump record. I only nicked it. Threads came free, the cord swung and Charlotte’s face turned towards me. I saw her closed eyes. Her kicking had stopped. I made to shoot again but the prop forward stopped me. He pushed on my arm and swung his fist at my face. My reflex action was pure. It must have come from an ancestor ten thousand years before. Not a single cognitive function had anything to do with it. The feat was animalistic. The strength I produced was subhuman. My head moved forwards and down. The punch flew over me. I snapped my head back up and connected like a bison in the rutting season with the man’s chin.
He dropped cold, but even before he had finished falling onto me, I had pushed him away with my shoulder, raised the Glock double-handed and taken aim on the cord.
The man appeared from further inside the kitchen. He must have been out of sight in the utility room or hidden in the shadows. He raised his pistol with both hands and pointed it at my head.
I never hesitated. It was the easiest decision I had ever made. My concentration remained fully on taking the shot. I was going to cut that cord. I confirmed my aim. I fired.
The other shot happened simultaneously. It came from a pistol without a suppressor and the bang was loud. My shot was accurate. The bullet tore through the cord, the woven threads broke with a snap and Charlotte fell lifeless to the floor.