To Kill Or Be Killed

by Richard Wiseman

  It was half an hour after Mason had passed a camera looking at him fully that the DIC watcher at the tower matched him, looking now more like the picture of the morning before, to the image inset on his screen. He sent out a message and other watchers combed the areas CCTV cameras, whilst the roving team were alerted and the police called.

  Along with two quickly assembled extra duty teams were Shadz and Jaz, Tony and Ellie, a thirty year old woman put with the team to replace Terry who was greeting Jack Fulton in Liverpool that night. When Mason’s location had come in they had readied themselves and were given lists of hotels in the Baker Street area.

  Jack’s Deputy Diane Peters came down to brief the teams. Diane didn’t waste words.

  “Be careful, tread softly and carry guns. Find him and get him alive, but if you have to shoot, shoot to kill. Remember how Spencer died, Wally’s murder, Jack Beaumont and what David McKie had to do.” She went to leave the room and suddenly turned. “Everyone to check their weapons.”

  They all un-holstered their Sig 220’s, checked the magazines, pumped a round out, pulling back the casing and releasing, twice in succession, reloaded the magazines, pumped the action again and put them on safety. Tony was first to finish.

  “Good off you go.” She turned on her heel and took the lift to Jack’s office. In the lift a shiver ran down her spine. To her mind it was all getting out of hand.

  They left Euston tower in a three car convoy, each car with four DIC and each DIC pair with a list of hotels and the latest still image of Mason taken from the CCTV footage.

  Chapter 71

  Baker Street

  5-45 p.m.

  April 18th

  Mason walked confidently into the lobby of the Sherlock Holmes Hotel and looked around. A guest passed him on the way to the stairs with a swipe card. He took a detailed, but surreptitious look at reception. One girl was manning it. He noted her having looked at the clock once or twice. It might be time for her break. The swipe card key given to each guest for their room was the one item which defined his plan. Seeing the guest toilets to one side he went in, closed himself in a cubicle and changed into the kitchen uniform.

  He walked through the dining room, catching dark looks from the waiting staff who didn’t like to see kitchen staff in the guest areas. He walked straight into the busy kitchen. Once in he stopped and orientated himself. He saw what he needed to his left, two plates of sandwiches nearly ready to be delivered somewhere.

  “Who the hell are you?” A big red faced man with sweat gathering on his forehead and his apron tied under a round gut came to a stop on his left and turned around barking at him.

  “I’m Marc a temp agency sent me.”

  “I don’t need anyone tonight.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Of course I’m bloody sure!”

  “Alright take it easy. Obviously it’s a mistake.”

  The chef calmed a little. “I tell you what just wait here and I’ll go and check.”

  “Cheers mate.” Mason replied cockily.

  The chef walked off and passed into a door marked office. Mason made his way to the plates of sandwich snacks, walking around as if just taking an interest. He watched the kitchen underling garnish the sandwich plates with salad.

  “Not busy right now mate.” The kitchen underling noted his presence, assumed him to be a temp worker and found a job for him.

  “No.” Mason said putting a helpful look on his face.

  “Good then run these over to the duty manager’s office would you, it’s late arriving already.”

  He handed Mason the plates and Mason unable to believe his luck took the two plates of sandwiches, walked out the kitchen door and over to reception. He braced himself.

  Back in kitchen the underling took the wrath of the Chef, who called the duty manager’s office and asked him to send the man ‘with the sandwiches’ back to the agency. He then turned with full gusto to his evening’s work.

  At reception Mason was his cheery best.

  “Hi there, sandwiches for you apparently.” Mason said armed with his warmest smile.

  “For me?” The girl asked warily.

  “Yeah., you are due a break aren’t you?”

  “Well yes, but I can’t eat it here and I don’t usually get them.”

  Mason put on his very best smile and came round to the staff side of reception. He knew he didn’t have long, but so far all he looked like was an incompetent yet keen kitchen temp.

  “Well I think it’s a treat for not being relieved for a while. I think they want you to eat it here.” He looked around for a staff access pass card and saw it on the desk to her right.

  “Oh well it’s the usual disorganisation with staffing. Are you new?” The girl asked a little charmed by his smile and friendly demeanour.

  “I’m a temp.”

  Putting down the sandwiches in his right hand he stood behind her, placed her sandwiches on the desk with his left hand to her left and whilst her eyes watched it being placed and knowing her to be distracted he took the staff access pass card with its fob from the desk on her right and slipped it into his pocket.

  “I’d better go. Enjoy.” Mason picked up the second plate and walked away.

  “Could you get me a drink, some mineral water will do?”

  “Sure.” Mason said and winked.

  Mason made for the restaurant, looked back saw her head dip below the level of the desk to take a bite of the sandwich and he doubled back swiftly to the guest staircase and made his way to the rooms. Once upstairs he started to look for a suitable room. He knew he’d have to be quick.

  Chapter 72

  Dover

  6 p.m.

  April 18th

  David McKie’s train had taken nearly two hours to get to Dover, nearly half an hour longer than it usually took. There had been a security alert at Charing Cross station and the police, all of them armed, had been checking tickets and faces, making the boarding of the train a slow affair.

  It had been a long, start stop journey from there and the train became less and less crowded as it got further south until only David and an old couple with suitcases, obviously headed for the ferry, were left in his carriage. The final run through the cliff tunnels had infused him with memories of home so strong that when the train emerged into the setting sunlight at Dover Priory Station he felt the satisfied journey’s end feeling all travellers encounter when so close to home. It grew uncomfortably stronger when the taxi pulled up outside his house in Markland Road. Having paid the taxi he saw Mary at the window and waved and when hr got to the door it opened in welcome.

  “Oh I’ve been so scared. It’s good to have you home.” She said as she embraced him tightly.

  He said nothing and let the smells of the house and its warm familiarity of embrace him as passionately as he embraced her. He drank in her familiar smell, Obsession perfume mingled with fabric conditioner and her herbal shampoo. He buried his nose in her blonde, untidy hair. He felt the bump against him and deliberately touched the safely covered womb protecting his unborn child.

  “Where’s Conor?” He very suddenly said.

  “He’s asleep. He knew you were coming home and he was so excited all day he fell asleep.”

  “Something smells good.” David said to allay guilty thoughts of his son’s disappointment.

  “It’s steak and kidney pudding. I made it myself.”

  “Lovely. You’d better sit down. I’ll sort everything else out. I’ll just pop up and see Conor.”

  David took his bag upstairs and put it in their room. He felt as if it had been an age from home. He went into the next room and saw his son curled up on a small bed with a small, light blue fluffy blanket covering him. The floor was strewn with toys; a fluffy Pooh Bear lay across a bright blue Thomas the Tank Engine toy and everywhere brightly coloured bricks lay at odd angles in strange piles and shapes.

  He leant over and kissed his son’s warm forehead. The boy didn’t stir. David
wiped a lone tear from his cheek. The sheer relief of his return washed over him. He thought of the families of the murdered men and he flushed with shame at his joy at being home. When he got to the door he looked back, sighed and for a moment was taken over by the strength of a resolution, a strong desire to be a protector. He knew it to be his job to be one of the people who protected families from men like Wheeler, Spencer and Stanton, though as he descended the stairs he wondered for how long.

  Down stairs Mary was sitting back on pillows on the only chair she found comfortable. He went over and kneeling put his head in her lap. She stroked his head.

  “I had to kill a man Mary.”

  There was a pause and her hand stopped moving for a second or two then resumed.

  “Better him than you Davey.”

  He raised his head and she saw his eyes were awash with tears.

  “I don’t know if it’s the job for me you know.”

  “Oh sure it is. You weren’t just lucky. You’re a strong, fast and determined man, just like your father.”

  “I could have been killed.” He said and she looked him in the eyes.

  “You weren’t though. You’re tired and you’ve had a hard time and you’d not be a good man if you didn’t have feelings like that and I married a good man.” He went to speak, but she put her finger to his lips.

  “Go have a wash and we’ll get the tea on. We can talk when you’ve had a rest. Jack Fulton phoned and said you’d need time and TLC for a day or two. He said you’d not be going back on duty rota until November. Now go wash. You’re home now.” She took her finger away kissed it and put it back to his lips.”

  He stood up and left the room, stopping to turn and blow her a kiss. When he had gone she crossed herself looked to the ceiling mouthed a ‘thank you’ and wiped the gathering tears from her eyes.

  Chapter 73

  Glasgow

  6 p.m.

  April 18th

  It was a pleasant drive across to Ardrossan on the Atlantic coast. Clarky owned an ex army nineteen eighty- four Land Rover series three, used in Northern Ireland, but with the ‘mesh’ protection removed. It still had the ‘high velocity’ HV protection of the armoured wind shield. Clarky was very proud of it, though to make it less obtrusive he had re-sprayed it dark blue.

  They had left Motherwell at four thirty in the afternoon. The A72 took them out of red brick and house crowded Motherwell onto the A71 and they traversed Scotland westwards into the pretty green fields of Ayrshire. The Ayrshire dairy cows scattered amongst the greenery flashed a camouflage pattern across Stanton’s eyes as a steady fifty miles an hour took the two men in mutual silence into Kilmarnock.

  Cold as it was getting in the pre night cooling Stanton felt the warmth and comfort of the Landy’s heaters and felt cocooned behind the strong metal and the bullet proof glass. Ahead of him were some unknown dangers, the usual companions in his otherwise single existence, and several times he looked at Clarky thinking of their Legion days, the brutal punishments and harsh training which had hardened their bodies and the bloody deeds that had hardened their minds. For a moment warm and calm he reflected that it might be time to quit, but at just over an hour they entered the outskirts of Ardrossan and Stanton felt his destiny inexorable draw him back into the ‘game’.

  As Clarky pulled up in the Ardrossan town railway station car park he turned to his friend.

  “Here we are. The marina is up that way.” Clarky pointed up Prince’s Street.

  The moment was pregnant with unspoken thoughts. Neither man wanted to impose his thoughts on the other, but both sensed the other’s fears.

  They had trained together and served in the First Foreign Cavalry Regiment and seen action in the first Gulf war. After their short, but intensive Legion training he and Clarky had found themselves in the Persian Gulf in September of 1990. Both had left the Legion around the same time; Clarky had made senior corporal and yet of the two only Stanton had seen the carnage of Rwanda, in his case a special transfer.

  Having left the Land Rover both men stood looking at each other.

  “Is this mission sacred?” Clarky volunteered echoing the Legionnaires’ code.

  “No not really. No honour and no fidelity I’m afraid.”

  Clarky suddenly stepped forward and embraced Stanton. Stanton somewhat unwillingly embraced his old comrade.

  “We are still family you and I. We are still brothers.” Clarky said. “Take the boat, but whatever the prize at the end of this ‘mission’ is you must consider sailing away.”

  “I’ll think about it, take care of your self my friend." Stanton replied and then he watched Clarky get into the dark blue light armoured vehicle and drive away with the lowering sun on its back window.

  This moment defined him; always alone. As an orphan his only family had been the Legion and after that there had been no-one. He shrugged off the thoughts and claimed new ones, those of stealing a boat.

  It was half five as Stanton headed for the station cafe; in a bag Clarky had given him were his weapon, still in the plastic bag, tools and a map of the area. He ordered coffee from the half hearted woman behind the till and sat in the dim light on a high stool in the corner of the small empty room.

  The map showed him the marina and its sea ward entrance. He knew that he couldn’t simply take a boat. He would be spotted, even after dark. Looking at the landscape he saw a better plan. To the north of the marina was Mariner’s View which had a path towards the end of which was the northern half of the narrow marina entrance. Stanton felt sure that if he could wait on a boat leaving, in the dark, he could drop into the water and steal aboard the boat from that point, as it passed. He sipped his coffee and wondered on the likelihood of a boat going out at night from the Marina into the uncertain waters of the Firth of Clyde. His plan B was to swim the marina from that point and climb aboard a boat after dark, circumventing the watchman and the locked jetties. There was no ‘gate’ to the sea and though sailing out under motor power was noisy he felt sure he could get away with the night to cover him and the loss of the boat wouldn’t be noticed until morning.

  His coffee finished Stanton walked up Prince’s Street and up to the marina. There was little activity. He looked at the usual security systems, metal spiked gates and punch code entry systems. There was a marina office with a watch man and CCTV pointing only towards the boats, sitting like white sardines tied to floating wooden jetties. Stanton noted the CCTV angles with DIC in mind. He thought of Spencer.

  He looked across the harbour to Mariners Walk scoping for witnesses. There were four cars parked there, but no-one walking the path.

  Ten minutes later he found himself on the spit of land along Marina’s walk as the sun began to set slowly. To his surprise and annoyance, as it was still light, he saw a boat pulling away from the jetty furthest south, a man at the back had just cast off and was heading for the wheel house. It was a long white and blue ocean going cruiser. Stanton looked around, scanning the cars parked behind him and looking for people nearby. An elderly couple had left their car parked and had walked past him, intent on the sunset, two minutes before he got there. They were standing at the seaward edge with their backs to him.

  The boat slowly rippled its way to the entrance. Stanton knew it was his only chance for plan A. He looked down into the Marina waters by the wall below him. The sunset cast shadow into the dog leg of the wall and entrance spit. He looked around one more time and thinking of the buffer buoys on the side of the nearing boat he dropped into the water feet first with a well practised lack of splash and barely surfacing his head, submerged from the nose down he hugged the shadowy corner ready to spring.

  On the harbour wall the old man looked around wondering if he had just seen something or not. His wife’s warm mitten gripping his cold bare hand took his mind away from the thought and back to the sunset.

  In the wheel house of the boat Kevan Dean, the boat’s owner, was momentarily distracted by his passenger, a buyer for the boat wh
om he was unhappily taking for an impromptu trip. The man had called earlier in the after noon and had arranged to take a short sail around four, but the man, a banker named Griffith, who’d travelled from Inverness that day, had been very late. Dean needed to sell the boat and Griffith clearly had the money to buy it. Happy or not Dean agreed to take him for a half hour trip. Luck was on Stanton’s side as Dean was in such a hurry that he hadn’t pulled in the bump buoys, such was his keenness to get out and come back quickly. Griffith had asked about the controls and looking briefly away from the harbour entrance Dean missed Stanton’s drop and, too busy focussing on his exit point, he gave no thought to the now empty harbour wall, though the missing figure, noted a moment before, jarred his reality before priority thinking glossed it over.

  The engine sound loud in his ears and the wash of the boat against his stroke Stanton struck out from the wall and fast crawled the four metres between himself and the passing boat. Two powerful kicks of his feet and an upper body thrust gave him the momentum to rise out of the water and grab the rope threading the bump buoys to the side of the boat. He twisted his wrist around the rope and he hung by the boat’s side an arms length down allowing his body to be hidden by the water as he was dragged away into the Firth of Clyde.

  The water was cold, but he wanted to clear the Marina before getting on board. To the old couple watching the boat leave he was just extra surf thrown up as the boat speeded up on exit.

  “This Landguard Nelson 33 is a rare find and I know it’s pricey, but you get a lot for the hundred and thirty thousand. Built to take the seas rough or smooth, she’ll cruise at 15 knots, but you can push her to twenty one. You’ve seen the four berths and there’s even a shower. It’s a real peach. When we get into open water I’ll let you steer her, she handles really well.” Dean spoke with his eyes fixed on the water ahead.

  It was fair to easy going. There was only a slight swell and Dean was right that the boat was built to take the sea. Outside as the boat picked up to ten knots Stanton was struggling. From his view of the boat he couldn’t climb directly up the side as he’d be in full view of the wheel house. Spray filling his mouth and his grip slipping he went hand over hand down the side of the boat. Luckily he was on the passenger seat side and so Griffith, an inexperienced sailor didn’t notice the random knocks of Stanton’s body against the hull.