by Ted Tayler
Phil Hounsell didn’t hear the knock on the door. Hayden Vincent entered the room with an armful of folders.
“Here’s a stack of investigative work to keep you busy until Easter, Orion,” he said, dropping them into the in-tray on the desk. “Sorry, did I wake you?”
Phil shook his head. No, he was wide awake. He had to uncover the truth. How could he believe Zara complicit in protecting Colin Bailey? He must be mistaken.
For a minute there he thought he’d rediscovered his nemesis, alive and well, only a few miles from where he died. Phil Hounsell took a final look through the office window at the wind-blown trees. He shook his head at the fantastic thought, and as Orion, he set to work on the next batch of cases demanding his attention.
CHAPTER 4
Friday, 9th January 2015
“Do you have anything new to report, Henry,” asked Athena.
Another Friday morning meeting had arrived. Each one came around quicker than the last. Did the pressures of the trials and tribulations that faced Olympus cause that? She felt delicate this morning.
“Hugh Fraser advised me of a potential problem regarding security,” replied Henry Case. “Orion reckons someone’s followed him several times this week. His wife has also noticed the possibility that someone is watching the house.”
“What action do you propose?” asked Phoenix.
“We escorted him home yesterday evening. A man in a van will call at the house this morning. Anyone who sees that will think it’s time for a boiler service. Our man will beef up the locks on doors and windows and install cameras.”
“Did he get followed in this morning?” asked Athena.
“Our driver saw nothing suspicious,” said Henry, “but we’ll monitor the situation.”
“The Grid may have switched their focus,” said Artemis. “We’ve made it difficult for them to get to our people here at Larcombe. Orion travels in daily, and therefore he’s become a person of interest.”
Athena glanced at Phoenix.
“That’s a good point,” she said. “We’ve warned our agents around the country, but people like my father are vulnerable. The Grid’s surveillance would have captured visitors such as him and Orion. They could have become targets.”
“I’ll send someone to Burnham today,” said Henry. “Geoffrey won’t know we’re there, I promise.”
“What if you find he’s under surveillance?” asked Athena.
“He won’t know they’ve gone,” said Henry, with a grin.
“Alastor,” said Athena, “what’s the latest on this weather?”
“Hurricane-force winds gusted to over one hundred miles per hour,” said Alastor, “and left a swathe of damage across the north overnight, bringing down trees and power lines. There was widespread disruption to road and ferry travel, and domestic train services have been suspended in Scotland this morning. Around seventy-five thousand homes lost power in the Highlands. It has been the worst storm of the winter so far, causing structural damage to buildings.”
“Is this storm due to head south?” asked Giles Burke. “It’s been windy enough here already, and the rain keeps falling. Flooding has to be a distinct possibility.”
“The winds are forecast to ease over the weekend,” said Alastor, “but they’ll be back with a vengeance next week.”
“Will this impede the missions we have planned?” asked Athena.
“We must allow extra travelling time to negotiate the M4 on Monday,” said Rusty, “but it will take more than wind and rain to stop us.”
While the morning meeting ground to a close, in the stable block Hugh Fraser reflected on the conversation he had just had with Ambrosia. He found it impossible to get hold of her yesterday. She wouldn’t take his calls.
This morning, she called him to apologise. The meeting in Birmingham had been a disaster. She misjudged the reaction to her exposure regarding the lack of input by Phoenix to the Project’s finances.
“I went in too hard,” she cried, “I won’t make that mistake again. Can you forgive me for ignoring you yesterday?”
“Of course,” he replied. “We’ll just have to put our heads together and come up with a better plan.”
“I like the sound of that,” purred Ambrosia, “can you drive up to see me this weekend?”
“Weather permitting, I’ll be there,” said Hugh.
In the office next door, Orion studied the clock. He wanted to get away by one o’clock today. He knew Henry Case had arranged for work to be carried out at home but had no idea how long it would take.
Erica had called to tell him she’d let the agent indoors before she took the kids to school. She was going to her job at the building society straight after. So, he needed to get home to see the guy off the premises, check everything was secure and collect the kids from school.
Once he’d done that, the Hounsell family could look forward to a quiet weekend.
*****
At the Cotswold Airport, near Kemble, Les Biggar sat in his office, reading the newspaper. The weather reports weren’t encouraging when he checked earlier. He’d flown in worse in combat zones, but today was supposed to be a pleasure trip.
Biggles had more than enough flying hours under his belt to cope with most things the British climate threw at him. The weather was a serious consideration for helicopter performance and safety. It restricted visibility and affected take-off and landing. Things might look great at take-off, and then a storm blows up, and matters turn hairy at the other end.
This rain might not affect them today, but it hurt visibility. The wind was always present, so Biggles had had to learn how it affected flight and how to work with or counter winds during a trip. Especially if winds swirled around and changed direction as they did today.
As he waited for his passengers, he checked his projected route. They wanted to fly over the Roman city of Bath; an aerial view of the Royal Crescent was a must. Their destination was Old Sarum airfield two miles from Salisbury. The last must-see on their wish list was Stonehenge.
Biggles reckoned the flight would take an hour. He was expecting a family of four: two parents and two pre-teen children. The money was better than good, it was great, which swayed him to take the booking. Biggles didn’t recognise the name. There were so many oligarchs in charge of football clubs these days he’d lost track.
A maroon limousine moved alongside the helicopter outside the office. The tinted windows prevented him from seeing its passengers. Les Biggar folded his newspaper, collected his kit and walked outside to greet them. A man emerged from the passenger door of the car and stood, waiting by the doorway.
“Mr Mikhailov?” asked Biggles.
The man looked to be in his early forties, with typical Russian features and a solid build. He wore a heavy jacket, jeans and a thick woollen beanie. Biggles had imagined oligarchs always wore expensive suits. Perhaps this guy owned a lower league football club? Or maybe something got lost in translation over the phone.
Biggles hoped the wife and kids weren’t overweight too, or he may have underestimated the load he would be carrying. Why hadn’t the kids got out and climbed inside? That was his experience with most kids of that age. They couldn’t wait to get in the air. Then at least one of them puked in the first ten minutes. He kept reminding himself the money was excellent.
“Are we good to go?” asked Mikhailov.
“I’m happy to fly in this weather if you and your family still wish to travel,” said Biggles.
Biggles opened the door and climbed inside the helicopter.
“Let’s get everyone seated,” he said, “then I’ll run through the safety checks, and we can be on our way.”
The rear passenger door of the limousine opened, and an older man climbed out. He lumbered towards the doorway. The man-mountain looked trouble.
“Change of plan,” said Mikhailov, “Sergei will look after you, while I pilot this thing.”
Biggles turned. He was staring at the barrel of a GSh-18, the close
combat handgun used by the Russian Special Forces in the Nineties. Before he could think of an escape plan, the giant Sergei had pinned his arms behind his back. He found himself face down on the floor of the helicopter. Mikhailov’s driver delivered something from the boot of the limousine. Things looked bad.
“Lie back and enjoy the flight,” said Mikhailov. “Don’t worry. We’re sticking to the flight plan you logged. You are a very experienced flyer, yes? They call you Biggles? I too am an experienced pilot. I flew Hips on many missions in the Second Chechen War. We’ll be passing over the beautiful Royal Crescent in around thirty minutes. Sergei will help you up, so you can take in the view.”
Les Biggar couldn’t answer. Sergei had stuffed a cloth in his mouth and wrapped duck-tape around his face. The fabric from the boot now enclosed his body and feet in a cocoon. The ropes tightened, and he was unable to budge his arms or legs. As they arrived over Bath, Sergei levered him up, so his head was level with the window.
“We are descending now,” Mikhailov shouted above the roar of the engines, “we are paying your friends a surprise visit.”
Les Biggar recognised the terrain. They were approaching Larcombe Manor.
“My driver is making for Old Sarum. We might have to hang around for thirty minutes until we go home. I’m looking forward to seeing Stonehenge from the air. I’m afraid you won’t see it; we’ve reached your stop.”
Sergei opened the door.
Hayden Vincent was leaving the stable block; he fancied an hour’s exercise in the pool. Kelly was resting; her pregnancy was progressing well. A deep, throbbing sound rose over the sound of the wind; he looked skywards. It was a helicopter Hayden knew well. He hadn’t realised Biggles was due to drop in today.
A cylindrical shape appeared below the helicopter. Something didn’t look right; Hayden ran. Even at this distance, he heard and felt the sickening crunch as the object struck the lawn.
The helicopter rose in the sky and continued on its way, Hayden had his mobile in his hand in a second and sent the emergency call. Not to the emergency services in the city. The call alerted everyone on the Larcombe estate that a major incident had occurred.
As he reached the broken body that had been Les Biggar, Hayden saw a dozen people running across the lawn to join him.
*****
Phil Hounsell left his office at one o’clock as planned. His escort followed him into Bath. Midday traffic in a city still without a bypass made it impossible to keep close on his tail. Phil had to guard himself, but he never saw a dark saloon nor a van that looked familiar.
He entered the busy road where they had lived for the past four years. There were vehicles parked everywhere, as usual. A hundred yards from home he checked for cars with drivers still sat in their cars. He saw none. Every vehicle was empty.
Phil edged onto the driveway to park alongside a van. The vehicle carried the logo and details of a firm that purported to provide a comprehensive central heating service at competitive prices. It had to be the man sent by Olympus to increase their security.
Phil wondered how much longer it would take. He looked at his watch. Less than two hours before he needed to leave again to pick up Shaun and Tracey from school.
“Hello there?” he called out as he entered the house.
He heard someone moving upstairs. As he stood at the foot of the stairs, Phil could see the loft hatch doorway open. This guy was conscientious and prepared to go the extra mile.
Phil carried on walking into the kitchen. An empty mug stood on the draining board. Erica must have made the man a hot drink before she left. That was hours ago. The poor chap must be thirsty by now. As he intended to get himself lunch, he thought he’d at least get the guy a coffee. He heard footsteps on the stairs.
“How’s it going,” he asked, “are you nearly finished?”
“Just one job left to do,” came the reply.
Phil filled the kettle. The accent told him that even Olympus found it easier to use a Polish electrician in these changing times. When he left school, there had been dozens of lads off to start apprenticeships as plumbers, bricklayers and electricians with local firms. On second thoughts, that accent was further east than Poland.
Phil sensed the man right behind him.
The noose fashioned from electrical cord looped around his throat before he could move. The kettle fell onto the draining-board and bounced onto the floor as his hands automatically transferred to his neck. Phil knew he had only seconds to act before lapsing into unconsciousness.
His police training kicked in, and he tried to smash his elbows into his assailant’s face and kick back at his shins. The confined space in the kitchen gave his attacker a vital advantage, and Phil found himself trapped against the floor unit as the pressure on his carotid arteries increased. He knew his brain was deprived of oxygen.
The pressure was relentless, resistance futile.
Phil Hounsell’s last conscious thought was of Erica and the children.
His killer continued with the one task he had left to complete.
Afterwards, he wiped clean every surface he had touched, closed the front door behind him and walked one hundred yards up the road to his parked car.
Inside the van on the Hounsell family driveway lay the agent sent by Olympus. His work had been interrupted while he fetched a tool from the van. Someone delivering charity bags door-to-door dropped an envelope onto the doormat.
As he turned to watch him leave something struck him over the head. He had slumped against the floor of the van. He was semi-conscious when the hard barrel of the gun touched the back of his head.
As events unfolded at Larcombe Manor, eight-year-old Shaun and six-year-old Tracey reached the end of the final school lesson. They and the other schoolchildren gathered in the playground ready to make their way home. Some children were collected by their parents and walked towards the nearby housing estates. Others stood in a queue as it inched forward to the door of the bus waiting to ferry them further out of town.
Shaun and Tracey followed their usual routine. They watched the pantomime of the school run as flustered mothers stopped in the most inappropriate places to avoid their kids having to walk five yards more than necessary. Several were in such a rush to get home to that chilled glass of Prosecco they moved off before their kids had closed the door behind them.
“I hope Dad’s not late again today,” sighed Tracey.
“At least he doesn’t have to work weekends now he’s not a policeman, or running that security firm,” said Shaun, “he can help me with my homework.”
The bus moved away, so did the pedestrians. They were the only children waiting to be collected. A teacher called out from a classroom doorway.
“Why don’t you come inside to wait?” she called. “It’s wet and windy out there. Who’s picking you up today?”
“My Daddy, Miss,” said Tracey, “he’s forgotten.”
The teacher called the administration office. They found Mrs Hounsell’s work phone number and made the call.
“Erica?” called one of her colleagues at the building society, “it’s the school. Your children are still waiting for you to collect them.”
“Damn,” said Erica, thinking Phil must have been late finishing today. Why couldn’t he have called her? “Tell them I’m on my way.”
Traffic was lighter near the school, but it took Erica fifteen minutes to get out of the city centre. It was four o’clock by the time they arrived home. With Phil’s car, plus the van on the driveway, she had to waste more time hunting for a parking space near their house.
Her mood did not improve as she reached the house to find it in darkness. Surely, these security issues didn’t need them to be without lighting? How long was this going to take?
The kids crowded onto the doorstep as she slid her key into the lock.
“Hurry, Mummy,” said Tracey, “I need a wee.”
Erica opened the door and stepped into the hallway. The silence was deafening. She shoul
d hear power tools, conversation, the television? The place felt deserted. Something wasn’t right. She found the light switch for the hall and landing and strode towards the kitchen door.
The children’s screams chilled her to the bone. She rushed back to the foot of the stairs.
Tracey had wet herself. She and Shaun stared at their father’s body hanging by the neck from the rafters inside the loft space. Erica dragged the shivering and shaking youngsters into the lounge and closed the door. She somehow kept hold of her phone to dial 999.
The paramedics arrived eight minutes later. There was no rush, thought Erica, as she heard the sirens approach.
She had known her husband was dead the second she set eyes on him.
The first police officers arrived twelve minutes later. Erica and the children clung to one another on a settee. She could hear the paramedics whispering in the hallway. Erica thought they were discussing whether they should have cut down the body. Was it a crime scene? The senior paramedic tapped on the door and beckoned Erica to join them.
“We’re very sorry, Mrs Hounsell,” he said, “there was nothing we could do. Your husband is dead.”
Erica nodded that she understood.
The front door opened, and a young female police officer entered.
“I’m the family liaison officer — my name’s Charmaigne. I’m sorry for your loss,” she said, “are your children through here? My colleague, James, is outside. A detective is right behind us.”
Erica opened the door to the lounge. The young PC held her hands out to encourage Shaun and Tracey to join her in the dining room at the far end of the house.
Erica helped them on their way; they were in a daze.
She knew how they felt. Nothing seemed real.
“It’s okay, kids, Mummy needs to talk to the policeman,” she told them as they shuffled towards the young woman.
A familiar shape had followed the liaison officer through the lounge door.
It was Callum Wood.
Callum had been one of Phil’s best friends when he worked at Manvers Street Police Station. He had been best man at their wedding, and he was the children’s godfather.