The Boardman Files

by Gus Ross

  THE BOARDMAN FILES

  BY GUS ROSS

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters and individuals are either the product of the author’s imagination or are fictitious and any resemblance to any persons, living or dead is entirely coincidental.

  The Boardman Files

  All rights reserved.

  Copyright © 2012

  This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United Kingdom. Any reproduction or unauthorised use of the material or artwork herein is prohibited without the express written consent of the author.

  Books by Gus Ross:

  To Whom the Darkness Comes.

  The Boardman Files

  For my long suffering wife and family.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1: The Hit.

  Chapter 2: Autopilot.

  Chapter 3: Curiosity Kills Cats.

  Chapter 4: White Van Man.

  Chapter 5: King Kong, Elton and Old Shark Eyes.

  Chapter 6: Who really understands Quantum Mechanics anyway?

  Chapter 7: Hats off to Mrs Edgerton

  Chapter 8: Big Oil equals Big Power.

  Chapter 9: Mr Snoodles.

  Chapter 10: Don’t you just love GPS.

  Chapter 11: Ulyana Lyalyushkin.

  Chapter 12: Tell me Lies. Tell me sweet little lies.

  Chapter 13: The Set Up.

  Chapter 14: Cleaning up the Loose Ends.

  Chapter 15: Chess.

  Chapter 16: Stern Anderson.

  Chapter 17: Alexander Boardman.

  Chapter 18: Charles Hanson.

  Chapter 19: Time to show your hand.

  Chapter 20: What goes around comes around.

  Chapter 21: Mac Howison.

  Chapter 22: Dear old mum.

  Chapter 23: Sun, Sea and stories about Spies.

  Chapter 1: The Hit.

  It was raining hard. No, it was not even taking time to rain. He had watched it pour in torrents down the angular glass edifice that surrounded him for what seemed like an age. At times it looked like it had almost stopped, but that was just the trick of rain meeting glass in what was now an almost perfectly complete rush of water.

  He found it quite intriguing, as if the complex slopes and angles of the building had been specifically designed and placed with the sole purpose of providing the illusion that perhaps it did not always rain up here in the west of Scotland. And at least the spectacle was providing a brief respite from the latest dull conversation topic.

  The sky outside was as grey as his mood, perhaps greyer, but only just. It was always grey up here; it was the one thing he really hated about the place. Actually there were quite a few things he really hated about this place; like spending the last two hours sitting half listening to a lecture he really should have been giving himself.

  But then he was not really in a position to.

  Thankfully the lecture was now finished and he was glad, but he still had the half hour or so of mingling and exchanging business cards and mindless pleasantries, not to mention the pointless small talk, to look forward to.

  ‘Networking’... that was what they called it... but he had no time for it, no need for it. He had no interest in being there and even less interest in those around him, but he would play the game. Hadn’t he always?

  He was standing in a group of three scientists, each seemingly more interested in expounding the virtues of their own particular theory or hypothesis than in sharing ideas, or learning anything new, and he was bored. He found his mind wandering, almost as much as his eyes, as he continued to watch the forces of nature interact with the manmade glass and steel construction, creating fascinating, infinitely random shapes and forms and angles. He would put up with this for another minute or so before making his excuses.

  As always of late, his ‘driver’, - that was what he would call him if ever he were asked – was sitting within twenty or so paces, like a shadow that wasn’t quite a shadow, a shadow that was just a little too far away to be in any way tied to his form and body, but that moved when he moved and generally in the same direction.

  He bid his final goodbyes to the gathering, having invested the least possible amount of time ‘socialising’ so as not to be considered rude, and made his way to the main foyer. He handed his ticket to the girl and took his coat and umbrella with the briefest of thanks. She was quite attractive and had a pleasant, if somewhat disingenuous smile, but she held no interest to him. He paused to take a further look at the worsening weather outside before pulling on his coat and turning the collar up stiff.

  His shadow had left when he had, moving swiftly to the entrance of the hotel, and was now almost half way through the revolving doors. The man inside would follow once he received the nod.

  He did not really want to go out in that; the wind was stiffening and soon it would be driving the incessant rain in sheets that would slap at his bare face. He could almost feel it already.

  He was still getting used to the whole thing. He understood why they had to keep an eye on him, not all the time mind you, but enough to ensure his safety whenever it was deemed necessary; after all, he was a valuable asset and like all such assets in life, the more valuable you are, the more insurance is required.

  And lately his stock was rising.

  Still, surely this had to be a pretty low security gig? A bunch of foreheads attending a lecture on particle physics in a prominent city hotel was not his idea of high risk. He was not really sure why they had decided that, on this of all days, he had to have such an obvious minder, but it had irritated him, it was irritating him now. In fact, to hell with it, why should he wait on a nod? He had done his bit for the day and now he wanted nothing more than to go home. He moved to the revolving door and would spend the next eighteen months wishing that he had not.

  He would remember the smell of that day: the dampness rising from the hotel foyer carpet where it met the revolving door, a mixture of wet carpet tile and air conditioning on full, the dank dullness that seemed to hang in the air momentarily before the next gust of wind would whisk it away, the perfume of the girl that had given him his coat and umbrella, the smell of blood.

  It only took a second.... less than that.... perhaps as fast as the particle beams that had fascinated him his entire life. Or maybe it took forever, like somehow it had played out in slow motion just so he would not miss any of the gory detail, or perhaps everything had simply got stuck in that moment, as if maybe someone had stopped the world from spinning just to see what would happen and if perhaps we might all fall off. He could not be certain.

  But in some ways they had stopped the world.

  At least they had for his shadow.

  He had taken the bullet that was meant for someone else; for someone who should have waited for the nod. Would it have made any difference if he had waited? Perhaps not, but he had certainly put himself through that little piece of self-flagellation since the moment it happened. But then he supposed that is what his shadow got paid for, and ultimately that would be enough for him to reconcile it; it would have to be enough, there was nothing else.

  The scene would play over in his mind and in his dreams for the rest of his life, but the ending would always be the same, no matter how hard he tried to make it different.

  Chapter 2: Autopilot.

  We all do it.

  And, most of the time, we don’t even know we are doing it.

  There you go, walking down the same route everyday to your humdrum job in humdrum land, at the same time every morning, wearing (as good as makes no difference), the same crappy, cheap fitting outfit you had on the day before and for the last few years come to think of it.

  Just one of life’s little meaningless drones all caught up in your
own tiny soap opera, full of self-importance, and there you go, without the slightest thought or consideration about where it is you are actually going, what is in front of you, or the other equally meaningless people you walk past on your way for that matter.

  Yip, we all do it.

  Human autopilot.

  I suppose it’s what keeps us sane, in a rather paradoxical fashion. Quick, turn off reality and let me escape inside my own head before the utter boredom of repetition finally blows the last few remaining circuits that are wired correctly, and they wheel me off to the loony bin ‘tout de suite’. (I did an audio French course recently).

  I know I am as guilty as the next man.

  Except for the other day.

  A funny thing that autopilot; seems to turn itself off almost as quickly as on whenever something different happens, something really different. And boy did something different happen that day.

  And that’s when things started to go wrong.

  Very wrong.

  Forty two miles each way, one hour ten if there is no traffic, one thirty if it’s busy, nearer two if it decides to pee it down, or the sun is at the wrong angle, or some other catastrophic weather event occurs that immediately incapacitates more than half of the driving public (generally the half that should have their licence revoked anyway as they wouldn’t be safe driving a dodgem, made out of rubber, with a speed limiter that kept them below 5mph!!).

  In what was clearly a conspiracy, somehow all these useless Sunday drivers would conveniently forget what day of the week it was and deliberately take to the road at precisely the same time I set off to, or from, work each day. I don’t even know why it still riles me so much, all you have to do is watch the general public trying to negotiate a busy city centre or shopping complex; half of them can hardly walk without bumping into you or forcing you to take evasive action to avoid collision.

  What are the chances of them being any better behind a wheel?

  I had never really thought about how much of my journey I really concentrated on and how much was autopilot; come to think of it, how would I know?

  But I know what I saw that morning.

  I just wish that I hadn’t.

  “Would you like another cup of tea Sir? Sarge should be with you shortly. Sorry to keep you.”

  The face that popped round the door disappeared as I shook my head. The first cup, most of which remained untouched and still surrounded by the less than inspiring polystyrene container it was delivered in, tasted like someone had wrung out their underwear in lukewarm water and then added some under arm sweat for good measure.

  Twenty minutes I had been there for and the hard plastic chair, on which I was perched, was clearly no substitute for the heated leather bad boy of my Lexus, which I had recently left behind. Whatever inspired me to drive the extra few miles to the local ‘cop shop’ rather than just call 999 was beginning to seem like a big mistake.

  I suppose shock can do that to a man; suddenly you lose the power of rational thinking, almost like another form of autopilot, although now I was firmly in the land of reality and not in any way enjoying the experience.

  But oh, things were about to get a whole lot tastier.

  And then some.

  “Right, Mr Richards is it? Yes, Mr Richards. Now what is this about a body?”

  Sarge was everything you would expect of a Sarge; big bulbous head shaven to within an inch of its life, and currently well on its way to inventing at least half a dozen additional shades of red. He was a big lad, fortyish and, despite being relatively softly spoken, there was already a hint that if you pushed the wrong buttons (or the right ones, depending on your sense of fun), that could change in an instant. A bit like your local thug’s pit bull; all happy doing doggy things until someone looks at it the wrong way and gets their face bitten off for the pleasure.

  I had tried to explain it when I first reached the desk, well five minutes after I had first reached the desk, but old ‘Pug the Pit Bull’ had an earful of phone and no doubt much more important things to address than a dead body!! My continuous attempts at interruption had me promptly removed to the side room in which I now, finally, had the opportunity to inform my soon to be new best friend about the aforementioned body.

  “Well... I am pretty sure it was a body. I mean I was travelling quite fast… not too fast you understand ….but yes, it was definitely a body.” Had old Pug not interrupted I would no doubt have wittered on like a fool until I had convinced myself that I was a suspect.

  “Ok Mr Richards, let’s take it a step at a time. And, for your information, I have zero interest in whether you were speeding or not. Just tell me what you saw and where you saw it, and we will take it from there. I’m Sergeant Watt and my colleague DC Buckfield will be joining us shortly, so let’s start from the beginning shall we.”

  It all sounded quite simple when you put it like that. Maybe I had been a little harsh on Sergeant Pug. I started to tell him what had happened when DC Buckfield decided to join us, so I started again. By the time I had finished I reckoned I was pretty much getting the hang of it, a seasoned pro. And without as much as implicating myself for forgetting to, ‘mirror, signal, manoeuvre’, or whatever it was you were supposed to do.

  Then came the questions.

  “So, Mr Richards, you were travelling along the B4696 at around 6.30 am. Is that correct?”

  I nodded, slightly irritated, as I had clearly just articulated the same and had watched keenly as Sarge scribbled it all down, albeit somewhat illegibly. I suppose I was still slightly disappointed that the old tape recorder thingy hadn’t been switched on. They always have one on The Bill! Maybe the provincial ‘cop shop’ budget did not stretch to such wondrous technology.

  “And you were the only car on the road at that point?” Sarge continued.

  “Yip.” I could hear the monotony in my own voice despite trying desperately not to let it show.

  “And as you came on to the straight stretch up to the River Churn, that’s when you saw the taillights of the van and two men disposing of the body. Is that right?”

  “Yes, it was a dark van, pulled up on the hard shoulder, and there were definitely two of them.”

  “But you didn’t catch the registration number, not even the first few digits?” It was the DC’s turn to pitch in.

  “No, as I said, it was too dark and I was moving too fast, well not that fast …” I cut myself off this time.

  “And the men, both about 6ft and medium build? You didn’t notice any other features, faces, anything?”

  “No, it was dark and very hard to see anything to be honest. But I did see a body. I’m sure of that much.”

  In all honesty, the more I thought about it the less convinced I was about what I had seen. They could just as easily have been throwing a bag of cats over the bridge as a dead body. But no, I was sticking to my guns. It looked like a body and so it was a body, until such time as the local constabulary fished a bag of dead cats out of the Churn and I got myself done for wasting valuable police time that was.

  “Ok, I think we have got the gist of it Mr Richards.” Pug was nodding his head knowingly and the DC was already on his feet and halfway out of the door.

  “What happens now?” I asked incredulously, as if they had just responded to the ramblings of a mad man and were intent on taking things no further than filing Sarge’s spider scrawl notes at the bottom of the stack of some arcane filing system.

  “Don’t worry Mr Richards, DC Buckfield’s going to take a run down there and have a thorough check of the scene; we will have a good look around and see if we can find anything to help substantiate what you saw.”

  The thought that the body could be half way out to sea by now crossed my mind but I stifled it. Anyway, in all good crime stories the body gets snarled up on some rocks, or washes ashore ten feet from where it was disposed of, or gets caught on the line of some half daft fishermen who thinks wading into ice cold water in the middle of winter to catch some poor f
ish on a hook is sport. Yes they would find the body and then it would be all over the local news.

  For the first time my thoughts turned to my wife and then, almost immediately, to my job, for which I was now more than an hour late (I always hated the 8 am start). No point in phoning the good lady, she would be well up to her ears in her work by now and that lot were never really keen on domestic phone calls, even if this one promised to be a good bit more exciting than, “what’s for dinner?”, or “what time will you be home?”, or other equally mundane chitter chatter. Anyway she was away on business for a few days; no doubt I’d have the usual hotel room download of the day’s events to look forward to later… be sure to make just enough “uh huh” and “mmh hmm,” and “yes” noises and you could just about get away without listening to a single word.

  No, leave that for now and call the boss, let him know the news and get myself on the road again. I presumed I was free to go, but felt I should confirm it just to be on the safe side. Sure enough, having left some contact particulars, presumably in case I did become a suspect, or was to be prosecuted for wasting valuable police time, I was free to go. I left the shabby little building that looked like a cross between a war time prefab and a large Portakabin with a pitched roof, intent on returning to my Humdrumville job, albeit in my nice comfy, heated seated, 4x4.

  The feeling in the pit of my stomach, which I foolishly dismissed as a natural reaction to the few mouthfuls of the worst tea in the western world that I had just had the delight to accustom, should have been enough for me to realise that Humdrumville was soon going to be a very long way away indeed.

  Further than I could ever have imagined.

  Chapter 3: Curiosity Kills Cats.

  The day’s work, thankfully already shortened by my detour to visit Holmes and Watson, came and went fairly quickly, which was a blessing; by the time I had recounted the tale of two mysterious men dumping a body in the river for what seemed like the twentieth occasion (not to mention the obligatory slices of embellishment along the way, solely for the purposes of keeping me sane, you understand), I was beginning to bore myself to tears with the whole sorry subject. Of course the usual accompanied questioning had done little to calm my nerves, and in fact I was beginning to worry about all sorts of things: