Bob walked across the deep pile carpeting and slipped into his Burberry mackintosh. It was London, it was August, and rain seemed inevitable. Carrying the briefcase, he exited the suite and headed towards the West End to do a little shopping before his five o’clock appointment.
Chapter 4
City of London Police HQ, Wood St, London: Wednesday, 2pm
I sat in the lobby on an old carved wooden bench in the historic building that housed the City Of London Police, and which probably had not changed much in the last hundred years. Unlike London’s busy Metropolitan Police stations, this station was quiet, and the occasional uniformed policeman who passed by me was exceptionally smartly dressed. The plain clothes police here would have looked at home in a bank anywhere in the City.
A man approached the bench. He was smiling. I took in the smart suit, the pale blue shirt with the cutaway collar and the dark blue woven silk tie. My contact looked like a Conservative politician. He was perhaps in his mid-thirties, rather tall, with short cropped hair and steel coloured eyes He came to a halt in front of me and so I stood. The man extended his hand.
“Mr Hammond.” It was said as a statement. “I am Inspector Boniface; perhaps we could talk in my office.” I accepted the invitation to follow the Inspector to his room, and we walked side by side along a sterile corridor with walls half tiled in sickly green glazed tiles which would not have looked out of place in a Victorian public lavatory. The woodwork was dark stained and equally gloomy.
The policeman followed my gaze, and seemed to read my mind. “Awful, isn’t it? But we can’t change it. This is a listed building and the interior fixtures are of historic interest, apparently.” His tone of voice suggested that he didn’t share that viewpoint. I rather liked him already.
We reached an office with a half glazed door and walls. The glass was ridged with bevelled vertical strips that were frosted to permit light transfer to the corridor without invading the privacy of the office’s occupants.
The policeman ushered me inside, where the modern office furnishings and technology appeared starkly incongruous. This was a room that Sherlock Holmes might have used for consultations. The outside windows were glazed with the same small opaque panes of glass used elsewhere in the building, and they were raised at least four feet from the ground, so that no-one could see out or in easily. The radiator was of the old hospital column variety, and set in the back wall was a black painted Victorian fire surround and grate.
I sat down in a modern chrome and leather swivel chair, and he took his place in a matching chair on the opposite side of the modern beech desk. At the invitation of Inspector Boniface I retold my story so far, even though it was obvious that the Inspector was familiar with events to date. When I had finished speaking I waited hopefully for his response. A look of resignation crossed the Inspector’s face, and I guessed what was coming.
“Mr Hammond, I have to be honest with you here. I’m not sure that there’s very much we can do to help you yet.”
“You mean until after I’ve been killed?” I replied. The tension in my voice was tangible.
“Not exactly, although I realise that this must be rather upsetting.”
“Upsetting!” I felt anger rising inside me. “Upsetting is losing your house keys. Being killed for no reason whatsoever is a little more than upsetting.”
“I really do understand,” the Inspector sympathised. “The problem is this; you have received an anonymous threat by text, which may or may not be a sick joke. I know you don’t see it that way, but we have no evidence to suggest it could be anything more serious at this moment in time. From this Police Station alone, the City of London Police have had to handle over a thousand death threats of all kinds in the City since the banks were bailed out by the government. Some were very specific, others were very graphic, but they all came to nothing, despite time and effort spent trying to find the culprits. As a result, it is our official position that such threats are almost always made by people who are simply letting off steam.” He paused for breath, and to gauge my reaction. “However, I accept that your threat may be a little more credible because it asks for money and because you have clearly been specifically identified and targeted. With that in mind, I propose the following.
First, I’d like you make a detailed statement – while you’re at home this evening will be fine - outlining the threat and naming anyone you can think of who may harbour unfriendly feelings towards you. Concentrate on your business dealings to begin with. For example, your pursuer could be an insured person whose claim you reduced or rejected. Second, we sit you down with a high tech specialist who will try to track the person threatening you by tracing his electronic communications, and third, we will help you with the transfer of the money, being sure to electronically tag it and trail it. That, at least, should help to keep you safe, if the threat turns out to be credible.”
The Inspector was interrupted by three short beeps from my BlackBerry. “Perhaps you’d better take a look at that, given the circumstances,” he suggested.
I took out the phone and glanced at the message. I felt my heart rate increase as I recognised the source. I looked up at the Inspector before saying, “It’s from him.” I read the message out loud. It didn’t make any sense to me, but I felt more afraid than I wanted to be.
“What the hell does that mean? Don’t wear your favourite suit!” I bellowed in the direction of the policeman.
“Josh – er, may I call you Josh?” I nodded. “Whilst you work in the City, you live in Greenwich, and there is very little chance of me persuading the Metropolitan Police to arrange twenty four hour protection for you on the basis of these threats today. We simply don’t have the manpower, for a start. So, let’s stick to the plan for now. Go home and make your statement, being as thorough as you can. Come here first thing tomorrow morning and we’ll see what we can do. The tech guy you’ll see tomorrow is an outsourced sub-contractor and not a police officer, but he is excellent at his job and he will be able to help. Until then, I believe you’ve been told that you will be accompanied by a private close protection operative, is that correct?”
I answered in the affirmative.
“Good. Look, Josh, I’m sure that this is nothing to worry about. It’s probably just an unbalanced individual who has neither the capacity nor the will to hurt you. Try not to worry unnecessarily, and tomorrow maybe we’ll be able to track him down and lock him up, if we have to.”
I couldn’t help thinking that Bob knew exactly what he was doing when he allowed only forty eight hours for the whole process. His forecast about my experience with the police was right on the money. How much else was he right about?
I shook hands with the Inspector, who placed his hand on my shoulder, smiled and told me again not to worry.
I was signing out of the building by writing my name again in the visitors’ book when an attractive young woman in a tailored grey business suit approached the desk. The jacket was short and fitted at the waist, and sat above a skirt which was short enough to be interesting, yet long enough to be modest. She had shapely legs and wore low heeled shoes, which made her just a little shorter than me. I guessed her height at around five feet eight, give or take an inch. Under the jacket she wore a plain white blouse, buttoned just low enough to reveal a hint of cleavage. There was a fine gold chain around her neck, with some kind of stone set in the pendant. When my gaze eventually moved upwards to her face, I saw an auburn shoulder length bob framing high cheekbones. She appeared to wear very little make up, and it was my opinion that she didn’t need it, anyway. She had a friendly smile and incredible hazel eyes, and she was looking directly at me.
“Josh Hammond?” she enquired in a crisp Home Counties accent.
“I am indeed,” I smiled as I shook her outstretched hand.
“I’m Dee Conrad of Vastrick Security,” the young woman responded, “and I am your bodyguard.”
Chapter 5
<
br /> Greenwich, London: Wednesday, 4:30pm.
Bob had never been to Greenwich before and he made a mental note to come back in the future when he had some leisure time, to visit the sights. The place seemed to be awash with maritime heritage and references, as well as being the base for the meridian upon which all world time was measured.
Bob walked up Langdale Road and away from the Underground station. He was heading south. He walked along the Greenwich High Road, occasionally stopping to browse in shop windows. He passed the Greenwich Playhouse and the Pitstop Clinic, bluntly described as a clinic for men who have sex with men. Bob crossed the busy road and headed up Egerton Drive past the Molton Brown Emporium, and as he did so he reflected on the numerous times he had stayed in hotels around the world and used bathrooms furnished with Molton Brown toiletries.
Shortly after the turn off for Ashburnham Grove Bob turned into a small mews development, built in the late eighteenth century when the sea was still king in London. The mews was typical of its type. The buildings were in terraces accessible directly from the pavement, and all were three storeys high with an additional basement or garden flat below. Between each pair of houses was a small alleyway, with a wrought iron gate which led into the rear gardens.
Bob opened the gate between an occupied house and a house being refurbished. He walked between the buildings and checked that the rear access was just as he had remembered. It was. When Bob had first scoped out the ideal position for his venture this location had proved to be ideal. The occupied house was not usually populated until after 6pm most days, when a woman and several children returned home in a Lexus SUV. Around one hour later the husband and father arrived on foot.
Bob took up position in the alleyway and opened his attaché case. Where he stood he would only be visible to a person in direct line with the alleyway, and as the street was deserted he felt quite secure where he was. While he waited for his target, he assembled the odd looking rifle and loaded it with ammunition. Once satisfied that he was ready, Bob leaned against the wall and enjoyed the late afternoon sun.
***
I am always at my desk by seven in the morning, and often much earlier. It is the only way to beat the rush hour these days. In the years I have been commuting from Greenwich, the rush hour has moved further forward and now I need to leave the house at around six fifteen if I want a journey time of forty five minutes or less. Still, it has the theoretical advantage of allowing me to leave the office at four in the afternoon, missing the worst of the commuter traffic on the way home. It also means that I miss the London Tube weirdos. It seems that six in the morning is too early for the crazies, who are presumably resting up and preparing for a day of tormenting fellow passengers, most of whom just want to get to work without speaking to anyone or making eye contact.
Normally my busy work life means that, on work nights, I drop in at home, get changed, and arrive at the gym, swimming pool or the squash centre by five thirty. As I grow older I have discovered that I have to be in bed by eleven if I want to have any chance of making the early Tube, and so my midweek socialising is strictly limited.
As the Tube train rattled into the Greenwich station, Dee, my new close Protection Officer (bodyguard), set out the plan for our return to my house.
“Josh, just take your normal route back, walking at a steady pace, and I’ll hurry ahead, taking a short cut through Ashburnham Place. I should get to Ashburnham Mews before you. I’ll leave the front door on the latch, and then I’ll go up to the first floor and check out your flat before you get there. We can’t be too careful.”
I couldn’t help smiling as I agreed to the cloak and dagger scheme that seemed to me to be both overly complex and melodramatic. Nonetheless, Ms Conrad did have a point. If she went on ahead, anyone watching the house would think she was another tenant and would be unaware that I was being guarded.
***
Bob heard the ‘clack clack’ of a woman’s heels coming along the street at a brisk pace; he opened the gate and pantomimed the checking of the lower hinge. His face was obscured by his bent back as Dee passed by. As soon as she had passed him, Bob stepped back into the alley and closed the gate again. He watched her as she walked along the street. Her skirt was tight enough to show that she was all woman, and the way she walked showed some class. Bob was still watching when Dee opened the door to one of the three story properties that were split into four or more flats. He was interested to note that she lived in the same building as Josh. Living in Greenwich obviously had its advantages.
If Bob had lingered on Dee’s rear any longer he would have missed seeing Josh round the corner into the mews. Bob had to work fast. He took the gun and pressed himself against the wall of the alleyway with the gate closed. The gun was concealed by his side. There was too much background noise to hear Josh’s loafers lightly treading the mews pavement, and so Bob had to rely on his eyes. A moment later Josh passed by the alleyway, staring straight ahead, seemingly lost in thought.
Bob stepped out onto the pavement with one large step, levelled the gun and fired three shots in quick succession into Josh’s back. There was virtually no sound, just the pop, pop, pop of three projectiles leaving the barrel.
Bob saw his target go down, and watched as three bright red patches bloomed on Josh’s back as he lay on the pavement. Bob stepped quickly back into the alley and shut the gate, locking it with a padlock he had brought with him. The owners would be annoyed when they discovered that their gate had been padlocked and they had no key, but Bob couldn’t care less about that. He did it simply because it ensured his safe getaway. In the end the padlock proved to be unnecessary, as it seemed no-one had witnessed his part in the unfolding drama.
Bob packed the gun into the attaché case as he strode through the back garden and walked fifty metres along a cobbled backstreet onto Devonshire Drive. Once he was sure no-one was following, he slackened his pace and moved casually towards the bus stop, about a hundred metres away on Greenwich Street. A bus was already taking passengers on board and so Bob hopped on, swiped his Oyster card and sat down. He didn’t know where the bus was going, but he would eventually get to an Underground station he recognised, and soon after that he would be heading back to the City.
***
I rounded the corner into the Mews just in time to see Ms Conrad close the door to the house. It was certainly a pleasant sight. Far from being worried about my blackmailer, I was mildly excited. I was looking forward to an ‘evening in’ with the lady who was protecting me and whom I fancied like mad. As I walked along the path I planned my moves for the night ahead. Perhaps the ransom demand wasn’t all bad, after all, if this was a consequence.
I had just walked past the Pattinsons’ house, which was being refurbished after a fire, a fire for which I was the loss adjuster - very convenient for site visits - when I felt what seemed like a punch in the back. It was followed by two more hits before I found myself gasping for air and dropping to my knees. Feeling dizzy from a lack of oxygen, I fell face forward and in another few seconds blackness overtook me. Oddly enough, just before I passed out, the last thing I remember thinking was, “How does Bob expect to get his quarter of a million pounds now?”
***
Dee checked the apartment for intruders or any unexpected messages or parcels. The apartment was clear. It took no time to check because there was virtually no furniture in the place. What little furniture Josh had was minimalist but stylish. The apartment was bright with light neutral colours dominating. The decor was neither masculine nor feminine. It looked like a show home, rather than the archetypal bachelor pad she had been expecting.
Having satisfied herself that the flat was clear she walked to the first floor window to look for Josh, and that was when she saw him. He was lying face down on the pavement, his dark suit punctuated with three closely grouped hits to the back that were bubbling bright red. Dee’s heart skipped a beat. She flung off her shoes and ran barefoot down to the ground floor and out of the do
or.
***
I wasn’t at all sure how much time had passed, but when I next became aware of my surroundings I was sitting on the pavement with my back against the wall. An assortment of concerned and curious neighbours had gathered around. Dee was kneeling at my side, encouraging me to breathe deeply. I looked at her hands. They were covered in red. “Is that my blood?” I asked, not really wanting to know the answer. She looked concerned, guilty even, as she answered my question.
“No, Josh, it’s paint.”
I wasn’t sure I understood, or whether I had heard her correctly. The neighbours looked puzzled, too, and I was somewhat irritated to note that some of them even seemed a little disappointed that this wasn’t the drama they had thought at first. Dee explained.
“Someone apparently thought it would be amusing to shoot you with a paint gun. You’re not hurt, Josh, just winded.”
The neighbours were already speculating amongst themselves, something about it probably being kids from the council flats up the road, but I was totally bemused. I voiced my thoughts.
“I’ve been paintballing a dozen times and nothing hurt like that. I thought I was dying.” Dee helped me to my feet.
“Josh, the paintball guns used for those games are toys. This gun was probably the army version. High velocity paintball guns are used in the Middle East, mainly by the Israelis, for controlling violent crowds. I suspect that’s what was used here.”