You Think You Know Someone

by J B Holman

  ‘Are you saying Palmer is like Hitler?’

  ‘No, not Hitler, but . . . but I know that you share that view. You spoke about it at a closed meeting last week, and discussed it with two of the Chiefs afterwards, confidentially. The PM’s strategy is seen as bad for the security of this country, Foxx was hired to safeguard the security of this country – and in his mind, that’s exactly what he did.’

  ‘How do you know my views? How do you know what I said at closed meetings and who I met afterwards?’

  ‘I am an investigator, sir.’ Storrington was expressionless.

  ‘Tomorrow, I want you to take me to the building where the shots were taken and run me through all the evidence.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Hoy turned to leave.

  ‘Did he really go to Brighton, or is that another line you fed to the police?’ Hoy turned back.

  ‘It’s our best guess. The Ops Room gave the heads up to the East Sussex Police, so they put a hundred coppers out on the street looking for someone unknown. That’s why I buzzed them the name of Al Akbar J’zeer. At least they have a face to focus on, which left us clear to send in three of our own guys to find Foxx. They messaged me; they had a sighting but needed to lure him in. He was in Brighton Lanes, but it was way too public to take him down. They’ve got to trap him, get him somewhere they can deal with him without collateral damage. But I haven’t heard from them since.’

  ‘Do you think he will kill again?’

  ‘Yes, if he has to.’

  ‘Then find him. I want him. Dead. The police can get Akbar, but I want Foxx put down. Permanently.’

  ‘It will be done.’ Hoy turned and reached the door before Storrington spoke again.

  ‘You know I value loyalty. What about Tenby? Is he a member of the pack?’

  ‘Why are you asking me?’

  ‘You’re an investigator.’

  ‘Tenby’s not a dog, so he doesn’t live in a pack; he’s a snake.’

  ‘Evil?’

  ‘No, a snake’s not evil, it’s just a snake. It does what it does. And handy if you have rats; but Tenby is loyal to one thing and one thing only: and that’s him.’

  ‘Is he after my job?’

  ‘Is Beyoncé a virgin?’

  ‘Who’s Beyoncé?’

  ‘Of course he’s after your job. We’re all after your job, but him more than most. It’s his life’s mission.’

  ‘So he’d stab me in the back?’

  ‘Negative. He wouldn’t stab anyone in the back. He would get someone else to stab you in the back. That’s how he works. That’s politics. But more likely he will just position himself with the right people, coiled ready for when the time is right. Your danger is if Tenby gets too close to the Deputy Prime Minister. If the DPM takes over as PM and appoints a new head of his Special Security Service, that’s when the snake will strike. My advice: Keep Tenby and the DPM as far apart as possible. In the meantime, you have no worries. Tenby will play the game and keep out of trouble.’

  ‘So, he’s not loyal?’

  ‘He has the most beautiful wife I’ve ever seen. She’s a cracker; kind, gentle, loving, generous, thoughtful, affectionate and very good to look at.’

  ‘Your point is?’

  ‘If he can’t be loyal to her, there’s no chance he’ll be loyal to you.’

  Their phones buzzed.

  ‘Holy fuck!’ Hoy spoke first. ‘Yes, he’s definitely in Brighton. Or was. He’s killed the three guys we sent to get him. Well, two of them, one’s in Intensive Care. Holy shit! The local LEOs will be all over it. They mustn’t make a connection.’

  ‘Who did you send? Brekkenfield’s guys or your own?’

  ‘Neither. They’re freelance. Ex-coppers. No obvious links to the Department.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Not really. Three men are down.’

  ‘That’s the least of our worries. Find this turbulent bastard and rid me of him. I will give a thousand ducats to anyone who can bring me his head on a plate.’

  The Astra drove through the night, its occupants drifting slowly further apart. The driver was troubled, he took side roads, a circuitous but cautious route, until they were clear of Brighton and Hove. The passenger said nothing as she tried to understand what was really about to happen. It was late. They pulled onto the deserted A23 and headed north for London. Conversation had long since fallen into a difficult, tense silence. The only sounds were the road and the radio. The music died away.

  ‘This is a special news bulletin on the latest in the Brighton Mass Murders. It’s been confirmed that the dead men were policemen. Their names have not been released. A spokesman said it was a senseless attack on the three innocent victims while off duty. It’s not known why they were in Brighton, but it has been confirmed that they are not with the East Sussex Constabulary. We will give you more details when we have them, but for now it’s back to Soft Rock after Midnight.’

  ‘They were coppers. You killed . . . I mean we . . . Oh god!’

  Shock was not concealed on the driver’s face. His thoughts raced. What should he do? He bluffed confidence and feigned self-defence.

  ‘It doesn’t matter what they did for a job, they were homophobic violent vigilantes. They got what was coming. Which would you prefer: it was you or them on the slab? What’s done is done. Brighton’s behind us. Everything’s going to be fine.’ His eyes were visible from the backseat in the dark of the rear-view mirror: they didn’t say everything would be fine, they said that the biggest trouble was yet to come.

  ‘Why did policemen do that? I mean, why attack me?’ It wasn’t so much a question, more an escape of emotion.

  ‘You wouldn’t believe what some people do. There was this chick in East London, got raped in a park and left for dead. She pulls her knickers up, hobbles towards the nearest person for help and says she has been raped. He thinks Hell yeah, takes her back in the bushes and rapes her again. People, eh?’

  ‘Why are you telling me that story? Am I the girl?’

  ‘Relax. You’re too jumpy by half.’

  ‘Too jumpy? Just how jumpy should I be? They’re dead. They were policemen. We were seen. The old lady.’

  ‘She’ll be tucked up in bed now and won’t know nothing about it ‘til morning. Are you saying we ought to go and see her? Sort her out?’

  ‘What? You want to kill her too?’

  ‘No witnesses. That’s what a professional would do.’

  ‘OMG, are you a professional?’ said the witness in the back of the car.

  ‘No. I’m just messing with you. I told you, they were alive when I left ʼem. Beaten up, but not dead. It’s just, I don’t want to explain that to the police. Keep cool. Everything’s gonna be fine.’ He clicked the indicators and slipped off left, leaving the road that headed straight for London.

  ‘What’re you doing? Why did you turn off?’

  ‘Just taking minor roads, y’know, just in case. What’s your problem?’

  ‘Well, coming this way, to get to London . . . it’s not normal.’

  ‘Sorry mate, right back at you. What is normal after you’ve just beaten up three guys and they wind up dead?’

  The driver had a problem; and that problem was the passenger. He should never have picked her up. They drove through the night, both realising in synchronicity what had to happen next. Conversation turned to silence. There was nothing more to say.

  The phone rang as the nose of the personalised Jaguar F type swept passed the electric gates and up the tree-lined drive towards a sumptuous six-bedroom white stucco mansion.

  ‘Morgan-Tenby? This is Storrington.’

  ‘And what can I do for my esteemed leader at this time of night? Have there been any developments?’

  ‘I’ve been thinking about the fallout. Sensitive situation. Needs kid gloves. Single message. Single line of communication. I will handle the politicos, so you can stand down on any meeting with the DPM.’

  ‘I can handle the DPM. Actually Richard and I a
re getting on really . . .’

  ‘No. Stand down. Think about it. Foxx was your man. I should suspend you. I don’t want your face in front of the DPM. No communication at all with Richard Buchanan. Got it?’

  ‘I hear you loud and clear, chief.’ The last word was lightly laced with sarcasm.

  The car pulled up outside the columned doorway. He clicked off the engine and checked the time. It was after midnight. Too late to call, so he sent a text:

  Hi Richard. Wife and I are looking forward to dinner tmrw night. Will turn up at your mews at 8.00.KR Nicki

  No sooner had he reached the door, than his phoned buzzed the reply,

  Perfect

  The A roads turned to B roads, and the B roads turned out to be devoid of houses, villages, street lights or habitation. The pace got slower. The driver seemed preoccupied, indecisive, reluctant, wrestling with what to do next - or maybe just how to do it.

  The passenger sat in the darkness of the back seat. What to do? For the moment, she had no choice but to sit and wait for whatever was going to happen. Remove all witnesses, echoed in her mind. Could she really believe she was in danger? You wouldn’t believe what some people will do. Did she believe anything that had happened to her in the last day or so? She sat in discomfort, mental and physical, and let herself be distracted by the immediate tensions of a suspender belt that was biting into her. She moved to release it.

  ‘Don’t you dare,’ came a stern voice from the front. He seemed to see through the dark with eyes in the back of his head ‘You’re not changing in my car.’

  ‘Sorry, I was just . . .’

  ‘We’ll stop somewhere up here, so you can change, then I’m going to drop you at Gatwick. There are trains twenty-four hours a day. I need to get back to Brighton. There’s something I have to do.’

  A jolt of adrenalin shot across her heart. Distant dread became immediate threat. Remove all witnesses. This was it. ‘No, I’m fine. I can change in Gatwick. Really.’

  ‘Yeah sure, a guy in a dress at the scene of a triple police murder goes to Gatwick Airport that’s full of coppers to get changed. Nah, you do what I say. I’ll stop up here somewhere.’

  ‘No, I’m good. Don’t stop. Drop me at Gatwick.’ The request was ignored. The car drove on into the darkness.

  ‘Shut up!’ said the driver with increasing tension in his voice. ‘Everything’s going to be fine.’

  They were the last words they would say to each other. She felt the car slow and take a left. The road was narrow, the hedges high. She watched the driver looking for a place to stop. The car drove slower, as her heart beat faster. Her eyes closed as she weighed up her options. She didn’t have any.

  She saw the driver lean forward to pick something up from the footwell floor and put it on the passenger seat. It was the knife. It was in grabbing distance. She leant forward, planned her move, but the driver looked round. She sat back, waited for a minute, then leant forward again to seize her chance. But before she could grab it, the driver slid his hand onto the passenger seat, picked up the knife and put it in the glove box. A hundred yards later the car turned.

  They had left the road and joined a farm track. It was slow, deadly slow; and dark around the beam of the headlights. A clump of trees appeared in a barely visible silhouette some distance ahead. The driver turned off the headlights and drove between open fields lit only by the moon. They were no more than a few yards from the end of their journey. The driver watched in his mirror and saw weakness, a defenceless vacuum; he saw helpless panic dig deep.

  Storrington had walked home. At full march, it took but moments. He cold-showered, as he always did, laid out his clothes for the morning and stood clad only in boxers in his stark, dark bedroom. The floor was bare wooden boards, ill-fitting and rough-hewn. The bed, wooden framed and old, was a man’s bed. The two cushions were not. The bedside table to the left was draped in Liberty print and an ornate clock. The hands had stopped. The bedside table on the right was bare except for the photograph. His gaze rested on the far side of the empty, desolate mattress. A tear formed unshed in his eye. He turned to the picture of his wife on the bedside table, said goodnight and laid out his bedroll on the floor. He knelt, murmured to himself and settled silently on his bedroll. He lay there for fifteen minutes, waiting for the anguish to subside, but the torment wouldn’t stop. Sleep avoided him. He rose slowly and drifted to the window.

  ‘I love you, Pookey,’ he whispered almost silently, letting his breath leave heavy condensation on the glass, ‘like I never loved anybody. And I always will.’ He turned to the bedside table and picked up the picture of his wife. ‘I’m sorry for what I’ve done, so sorry. I know you would have disapproved, but it’s something I needed to do. And it’s not over. I need to see it to the end. I have to.’

  Remorse turned to anguish, anguish to anger and anger to rage. He laid the picture gently on the bed, face down, spun on his heels and strode purposefully to the opposite corner of the room. He threw an almighty punch at the boxer’s speedbag that hung from the ceiling. As it rebounded, the face etched on it was just visible in the half light of London darkness. He punched again. For a five full minutes he punched. Then he stopped. He held the target still and stared at it with venom.

  ‘Foxx, I am going to find you. And I’m going to kill you.’

  The night felt darker, sense and civilisation had slipped ever further away, as she found herself alone in the night, in the back of a car, with no lights, as it bumped over the potholes of a deserted barren farm track in the middle of an isolated nocturnal nowhere. Her heart beat louder. Trust in the driver had long since faded. Silence prevailed. Had the driver just killed three people? If he had, he didn’t seem to care. Had he taken them out with his bare hands? Was he going back to Brighton, pre-meditated, to kill an innocent old lady? He had spoken of silencing all witnesses, then claimed it was a joke. He was a kidnapper, but was he a cold-blooded killer? He was ex-special forces, a fighter, dishonourably discharged, drunk, deadly.

  She sat and felt the fear, as the Astra slowed by a dark deep woodland. The car rolled over the final bump and came to a harrowing, heart-thumping halt. She watched the driver click open the glove box.

  Her heart almost burst her eardrums. She tried the door handle, no escape. She tried the electric windows, no movement. She tried not to think about what was about to happen, but she knew only too well what had to happen. No choice. No way out. No way at all. She braced herself and took a breath; a deep, deep breath. This was it.

  4

  Tea and Sympathy

  It took but a second. The battle was on, like landing a defiant devil fish intent on her destruction. In the dark, her action was deft. The stocking she had slipped off her leg looped around the neck of the man with murderous intent. She pulled. She twisted it round an upright of the headrest, leant against the passenger door, keeping low to avoid the flailing hands of the driver, and pulled. She pulled harder. The nylon squeezed, the pressure increased. She pulled. Panic, choking, squealed screams, violent resistance, adrenalin, fear . . . until at last it was over.

  It was as gruesome as it was devastating. Pure horror. But better it being the other guy on the slab. She pulled more and pulled longer. The driver was still, but she wanted to be sure, like her life depended on it. When she was certain, she loosened the grip. Nothing. She loosened it more. Still nothing. She let go. The driver slumped forwards, head on steering wheel, limp, depleted . . . safe.

  She leant forward, unclicked the child lock, scrambled out of the far side, opened the front passenger door, entered the glove box and grabbed the knife; but left the torch that lay next to it. The light in the car shone on the collapsed and deflated body of her hitherto protector and potential assailant. All threat had gone.

  Two minutes later, the body had been dragged into the woodland. Where should she dump it? She ran back to the car to grab the torch. It was only a moment, but when she returned, there was nothing, no body; nothing but darkness. Fear grab
bed every part of her. She swirled round. Darkness surrounded her.

  The thin pencil beam of the torch light flicked in all directions looking for the danger. She searched for the threat. She spun round 360 degrees, then backed up to the car. Her heart missed a beat until at last the torch light settled on the body, still and motionless, just where she’d left it. Darkness had disorientated her.

  There was a quarry, a small lime quarry in the midst of the woodland, a pit thirty feet across and twelve feet deep, with rocks, building material, corrugated iron sheeting, bottles and random refuse at the bottom, now engulfed in brambles, nettles and nature’s reclamation. She dragged, positioned, then slid the body over the edge. It fell, landing hard, head hitting rock and body slithering down the iron sheets to a halt, half bound in brambles amidst the tin cans and empty booze bottles.

  ‘Yes, SAS, don’t mess with a man in a dress!’ she said, not feeling even half as brave as her words suggested.

  She hurried back to the car. She didn’t feel the bravado. Had she just been a hero or a villain? She didn’t feel like a hero. She felt regret and remorse. What had she done? She asked herself over and over: what had she done? The answer was simple.

  Survived.

  Storrington woke with a start. He sat bolt upright on his bedroll on the floor. He felt like his world had just changed. Something was different. He could feel it, but couldn’t see it or touch it.

  He chided himself. It was his mind playing tricks on him. Nothing had changed, it was still the same; the man would die. He would make it happen by his own hand.

  As he sat there in his bed and the darkness, a decision formed. He would not trust the police, nor Operations. He would build his own team to hunt and kill the enemy within. Eduard Foxx was the target, he was a danger; a danger to Storrington. Storrington needed to see him dead. It was the only safe and sensible course of action. Storrington lay back and let thoughts fill the vacuum that sleep had left behind. He thought about Prime Minister Palmer, about his irresponsible Defence Strategy and how it had to be stopped. But he thought about his own responsibility to serve and protect the Prime Minister. He felt guilty. He thought about Eduard Foxx, about where he might be right now. He pictured what he would do to him and rationalised that it was for the good of the State, not just for his own self-interest. It was for the best, the right thing to do.