by J B Holman
‘Yes. I will ask him: are you Eduard Foxx? If he says yes or if I think the answer is yes, I will put a bullet through his head. Nothing else I need from him. When you grab him, don’t kill him. No bodies on the street. I don’t want the paperwork. Or the publicity. Is that clear?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Shoot him, maim him, injure him, break his limbs, break his back, just don’t kill him. That’s my job. I have a bullet with his name on it.’ There was no shock in the team. This was just another day at the office. ‘Don’t let him speak. Not a word. Gag him and bag him. Have you got that?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘What have you got to do?’
‘Gag him and bag him, sir.’
‘Correct. He must not speak. Speed is vital. Choppers will be standing by. Speed limits don’t apply. Red lights don’t apply. When we find him, get there and get it done. 421 is in a remote rural location. When I’ve finished with him, you will clean up, leave no evidence. Then name your assignment and you will get it. Understood?’
‘Yes, sir,’ said seven voices in unison.
‘There is one more condition. It’s an order. It will be obeyed without exception. You’ve been selected because you’re the best. You have Black Ops experience. And you’re tough. Foxx is half your size, but resourceful and fearless. Each one of you is a one-man army, but the order is this: do not tackle him alone. If you do, he will kill you.
I don’t care if that offends you. It will take three of you to bring him down, and even then, you’ll need to shoot him first. You are not authorised to take him individually. He’s an ultimate danger. He just killed two top ops and put another in ICU. Don’t be fooled by appearances. Any more questions?’
‘How do you know it’s him?’
‘Because I do. And I’m confirming the evidence this afternoon.’
‘Where is he now?’
‘In the wind. Last seen in Brighton, so all we know now is, he’s not in Brighton. We’ll find him. Your job is to fetch him to me.’
‘Do you think he’ll make another attempt on the PM’s life?’
‘Yes. But I know how to stop it.’
‘How’s that, sir?’
‘Kill him first.’
The door opened. She flicked the switch with her long seductive fingers and two dozen downlighters lit the lavish Poggenpohl kitchen. It was morning; she wasn’t long out of bed, sweetly showered, hair brushed, make-up absent. She was beautiful; graceful, fluid, almost sylph-like in motion. Slim, delicate but not frail. Mrs Nickolas Tenby was everything her husband wanted.
She clicked on the coffee maker, flicked on the kettle and set the oven to heat. Her hands were fast and precise: jam from jar to dish, butter curled from slab to plate, milk decanted into jug, croissants and pastries on baking tray in the middle shelf, oranges juiced, table laid, fruit cut, cereal poured. Her actions were deft, swift and effortless. She knew what her man liked and how he liked it.
‘Alexa,’ she said, ‘Morning playlist 7.’ She heard him coming down the stairs. She stopped. Flicked her hair, took an instant look in an almost concealed mirror, straightened her thin silk dressing gown, parted it a little more at the breasts and stood with her back to the door, silk draped sensuously over her buttocks, just as he liked it. The door opened, his eyes approved, she turned and smiled.
‘You look beautiful,’ he said, only slightly lasciviously.
‘Thank you,’ she said coyly, as she did every morning after his ritual and regular compliment. She brought him coffee, orange juice and a kiss. He gave his approval, his hand on her back sliding down to her thigh. She was his porcelain doll, his focus of adoration, a gentleness of curves and softness; femininity defined. And she never let him down, not once in eight years.
She returned to the other side of the kitchen. He watched her move. She bent to take out the croissants and place them on a plate. She was alluringly naked beneath the thin smooth silk, but she didn’t flaunt; there was no overuse of hips nor brashness of stance, she was just her; good natured, smiling, affectionate, natural.
‘Sweetie,’ he said, with more than usual seriousness, ‘I know you don’t follow the news, but you know that someone shot at the Prime Minister on Thursday?’
‘Yes, but they missed, didn’t they?’
‘Yes, my love, they did. They missed the Prime Minister, but they hit and killed someone who was with him; an innocent member of his team.’
‘Yes. I know. I feel so sorry for him.’
‘Well you know at the party a couple of weeks ago; Brekkenfield didn’t come, so I invited one of his team? The young man, about your age. I think you took a shine to him. You spent all afternoon with him.’ She looked quizzical. ‘You know, the one I said you were chatting up but you were wasting your time because he was gay.’
‘Yes, Colin. I remember, he was a real sweetie, a lovely boy; so shy. I took him for a walk in the Rose Garden and then spent most of the afternoon talking to him in the conservatory. He has a disabled brother in a home. Yes.’ Realisation slowly dawned on her. ‘It wasn’t him was it?’
‘Yes, my sweet,’ he said, by now at her side, ready with a supportive hug, ‘I’m afraid it was. It was him.’
‘Oh.’ She searched for what to say. ‘Oh my god. That’s a tragedy. Such a shame; such a nice guy. That’s terrible.’ He consoled her by squeezing her bottom. ‘Are we going to the funeral?’ she asked with genuine feeling.
‘Yes, I thought we should.’ Tears, a few slight tears, betrayed her emotion. She had spent the afternoon with him. He hadn’t wanted to be at the party; he wasn’t comfortable around people and she had spent all her time chatting and laughing, prying and confiding, relaxing and entertaining the boy. She had known he was gay, she hadn’t been flirting, she had just been kind. And now he was dead. She had a heart and it filled at that moment with a sadness for a fleeting friend.
‘I’d like that.’ She spoke quietly. ‘He was a sweet boy. Can we do anything, y’know for his family?’
‘I don’t know him. I mean, I didn’t know Colin very well at all. Not really our place. We’ll just show up, pay our respects and be off.’
‘But I would like to do something, if we can.’
‘Yes, I know. You always do. It’s just about showing our faces, that’s all. I’ll buy you a new dress.’ Her thoughts were not on dresses, but on the bereaved and a desire to make their pain less unbearable.
‘Are you doing eggs this morning, because I have to hurry?’ The topic of conversation descended into the mundane until it was almost time for him to go.
‘We’re going to dinner with the DPM tonight,’ he said through a mouthful of heavily buttered croissant. ‘I need you to look your best.’
‘When don’t I?’ It was a rhetorical question left unanswered. ‘It’s not easy being beautiful, y’know.’
‘I need to build a closer friendship with Richard Buchanan, because in the current political climate there may be imminent accession and that results in reappointment of prime roles, so I want to position myself as . . . oh, never mind,’ he said. ‘Just be your wonderful self. We’re going to his house. A mews.’
‘I always do.’
‘What?’
‘Amuse.’
He chuckled.
‘Yes, you do. Constantly,’ he said and finished off his orange juice.
She smiled and asked,
‘What’s he like?’
‘Rather too serious. A lawyer through and through. Very bright, but doesn’t seem to enjoy life. I don’t care for him much. He’s passionate about doing the right thing, if only he knew what that was. But he’s virtually running the country while the PM’s handling Brexit, so it’s worth getting him on-side. Your job is to smile and look sweet. He’s not much of a lady’s man, but if you can get him chatting about something that interests him, that would be good.’
She straddled his lap and started to tie his tie.
‘D’you think he watches reality TV?’
; ‘Doubt he even has a TV.’
‘Celebrity gossip?’
‘No, not really his thing, I wouldn’t have thought.’
‘Fashion?’
‘No.’
‘Then I’m out of options.’ She kissed his forehead and dismounted.
‘Actually, fashion is not a bad option. He has none.’ He readjusted his own tie, leaving it askew. ‘If you could give him some advice on his image without upsetting him, that would be good. He is a man in severe need of help and advice.’
‘That’s lovely, because I love giving help and advice. I’m sure we’ll get on very well.’
‘Let’s hope.’ She remounted his lap, side-saddle and re-tackled his tie. ‘I’ll be ready just after 6.00.’
‘I’ll be there at 5.00. I want to see Lesley. I’ve got a little present for her.’ He sipped the last of his coffee and she followed him to the door, ready to hand him his briefcase.
‘See you later,’ he said, gave her a final squeeze and was gone. She stood at the open door, leg showing, hair tumbling and fingers waving, as he drove away.
She closed the door and hurried upstairs to change. She had only six hours to get ready. Today, as always, would be a busy day.
Brekkenfield was tired. He was standing by his bedside, awkwardly kicking off his slippers, about to remove his well-worn dressing gown, when the phone rang. He was his own carer. A strenuous expedition downstairs into his black-beamed Elizabethan front room and his 1950’s kitchen to get toast and tea had proved exhausting. Now, back upstairs, everything ached as he regretted his dutiful trip to the office last night. He answered the phone.
‘Hi Brekkenfield!’ The voice was chirpy. ‘How are you doing? You looked like you were on death’s door last night. I just wanted to see if you’re OK.’ It was Hoy, his team colleague and maybe friend.
‘Surviving. Aching. Still bloody sore, but not complaining. I’ll be fine; just need a few weeks to get back up to snuff. Bad timing, huh? Any developments?’
‘Have you heard about our guys in Brighton?’
‘Yes. Bad that. It’s been a bad week for Ops. I’m still reeling over Colin Lewis. Damn good chap and destined for better things. And the Chief liked him.’
‘Affirmative.’
‘He was the best Resource Manager I ever had - worked all hours. Then, when he wasn’t working, he’d spend every waking hour in the Foxdale Home caring for his younger brother. And gave them most of his money, from what I hear, to stop the home from going under. He was a good guy. Dependable. We need more like him.’
Hoy had stopped listening a couple of sentences ago, but sensing a pause, continued with the conversation he wanted to have. ‘So when did you come out of hospital?’
‘Yesterday morning, about 11.00.’
‘Which hospital were you in?’
‘St Mary’s. Why?’ he said, irritably. ‘Are you investigating me?’
‘Sorry, it’s just my way. I wanted to ask you something about the Chief. You know him better than I do. D’you think he’s OK? These last few days seem to have shaken him.’
‘Storrington? Yes, of course he’s shaken. Who wants an assassination attempt on their watch?’
‘Yes, I get that, but Storrington is usually very measured. Never over-reacts, he’s ice; he’s so cool he could freeze hell; and yet he wants to have a man executed for an assassination which we know he planned, but don’t know he implemented, and for a triple murder without any hard evidence. No trial; just a bullet. It just seems . . . odd. What if Foxx didn’t do it?’
‘You investigators think too much. The simple answer is usually the right one. If it walks like a duck and quacks like a duck, it’s a fucking duck. He’s a killer and he needs to be put down.’
‘But you do think Storrington is acting differently?’
‘Desperate times demand desperate actions.’
‘So he’s a desperate man right now?’
‘God, you don’t give up, do you? You’re like a terrier. I didn’t say he was desperate.’
‘You didn’t have to. There’s something going on with him. I just want to make sure he’s OK.’
‘He’s OK. He’s always OK. He’s Storrington. Solid, but don’t ever forget, he has the weight of the PM sitting on his shoulders. He’d do anything for the safety of the country.’
‘Yes. I’m sure he would.’
The Prime Minister sat in his office in Number 10 surrounded by an avalanche of Brexit papers. His wife sat in their family home in Kent. A solitary policemen stood outside her door.
Outside Number 10, a single, symbolic policemen stood, as his predecessors had done for decades, with a further eight inside, eight more in the garden, a dozen in the short length of Downing Street, thirty on local rooftops and more than two hundred within a half-mile radius – and over a thousand members of the Prime Minister’s own Special Secret Service working on a Saturday to keep him safe.
But he wasn’t.
Safe.
Neither he nor they knew that his death was scheduled for tomorrow, in Oxford.
Security around the Bodleian had been tightened, heightened, reappraised and heightened again. There would be more men with more guns than anyone had previously imagined.
But they wouldn’t stop the person who would kill the Prime Minister.
They wouldn’t even dare shoot at the person who would kill the Prime Minster, because unbeknown to the Prime Minister and all his protectors, the person who had been designated to kill the Prime Minister was the Prime Minister himself.
And a lowly unwitting civil servant.
7
Buying Pencils
‘So Julie Connor, how long have you been a civil servant?’
She was lying under a duvet, bound and spread-eagled; not a position conducive to conversation, but his tone was incongruously warm and seductively pleasant, like the man she’d met in the supermarket.
‘Just under fifteen years,’ she replied, seeing conversation as part of her agreed obedience. ‘I joined straight from university.’ He removed the duvet. ‘Manchester,’ she added, as a rush of cool air flowed over her still naked body. He cut one of the cable ties and indicated with a look and a nod that she could slip her hands from the handcuffs.
‘And you buy pencils? For schools?’ He rubbed her released ankle, the red ring sore from the unforgiving edge of the plastic cable ties.
‘And rubbers. I’m very versatile,’ she added.
‘I have no doubt you’re very versatile where rubber is concerned. Is it an exciting job?’ He massaged the length of her right arm, knowing it would be tingling with the pins and needles of handcuffed captivity.
‘It has its moments.’ There was a pause in conversation as he brought the life back to her other arm and she rolled over to take a more foetal and protective position.
‘Would you like me to cut the other cable tie?’
‘Yes. It hurts.’
‘Then tell me the truth. The more you lie, the more you get hurt.’ A thought flashed across her mind, about the men in her life. It had always been: The more they lie, the more I get hurt. ‘Are you a civil servant?’
‘Yes.’
‘Correct. Do you buy pencils for schools?’
‘No.’
‘So, what do you do?’
‘Typing, filing, emailing and organising, mostly. Not very exciting.’
‘Correct. Except for the not very exciting part.’ He sliced through the remaining tie that was cutting through her ankle and, without thinking, rubbed it caringly. ‘You’re not to leave the bed, do you understand?’
‘Yes.’
‘Are you pleased to be free of the ankle ties?’
‘Yes, very pleased.
‘Then hug me.’ He sat on the bed and twisted round towards her. The request disorientated her. She hesitated. This man made no sense. He was a killer and she definitely did not want to hug him. She wanted to hate him. And probably did. But nor did she want to die, or be hit, or stabbed. Ma
ybe this was the gentle start to rape. If that was his plan then she would not allow it. She would rather die. But she thought about her mother and little Alec and all her friends. She drew up her legs in self-sacrifice, twisted round, leant over and hugged him.
He had showered. He smelt good. He held her gently. At first her skin crept but after only a moment, with one of his hands on the small of her back, she felt bizarrely comforted. This didn’t feel like rape. She pressed her fingers against him to pull him closer. It felt like seduction. His hand very slowly slid soothingly up the length of her spine to the back of her neck.
Then it changed.
He gripped her neck, gently at first, then firmer, then too firm; not brutal, but controlling. He whispered quietly in her ear. ‘Do not lie to me anymore,’ and released his grip. She felt momentarily abandoned, then paused for permission or instruction, but in the absence of either she lay back, pulled the duvet around her and sat up in bed.
‘Do you work in Cheltenham?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you work for GCHQ?’
‘No.’
‘Let me ask you again. Answer honestly and you get fed. Lie to me and your mother loses a finger. Do you work for the top secret Government listening organisation, GCHQ?’
‘No,’ she said emphatically. ‘I do not.’
He smiled.
‘I guess that is technically true. Do you work in the GCHQ building?’
She paused, then answered, ‘Yes.’
‘Do you work for GCHQ-2?’
‘What’s that?’ she said, displaying apparent ignorance.
‘GCHQ-2 is an organisation so secret that over 98 per cent of people who work for GCHQ do not know it exists. So secret that even people who work for GCHQ-2 do not know who works for GCHQ-2, because everyone uses a code name. It’s based in Newbury, but has representatives in GCHQ offices in Bude, Scarborough and, of course, the particularly senior ones in the Doughnut building in Cheltenham; the building in which you work. So I repeat, do you work for GCHQ-2?’
She said nothing. She was thinking.
