Tanker (A Tim Burr Thriller Book 1)

by Nicholas E Watkins

  He reached the Barbican but there was no sign of life. The City dies at night and all activity moves to the clubs, bars and theatres in the West End. He continued walking in his quest to find a taxi. He knew that his progress was being monitored on the cameras providing him with the alibi he needed. A living witness would be helpful as well.

  As he walked towards Clerkenwell he began to hear the sound of voices. He followed his ears and the night club entrance came into view. A throng of people were waiting in the hope of gaining admission.

  Three drunken young men were squaring off to the bouncers controlling the door. The three bouncers looked less than concerned and were just facing down the youths, who were swearing and issuing threats which they could not deliver. Tim saw the taxi rank just along the road past the club. There was a small queue and a couple of taxis. He made his way in that direction. A further argument was taking place between a cabbie and a couple of drunks, whom he had no wish to carry for fear of them vomiting in his taxi.

  Tim became aware of the sound of a scuffle to his right as he walked to the rank. He looked down the street and saw what appeared at first to be a group of three people involved in a wrestling match. He then heard a woman’s voice and then a male’s.

  “Stop it, bitch,” shouted the male and then the sound of a slap.

  The scene became clear. Two youths were holding a woman, pulling her dress open and struggling to pull her panties down. She only seemed partly aware what was happening to her. She seemed either high on drink or drugs. She was ineffectively trying to keep hold of her panties and dress while almost collapsing

  The night was turning out to be more than he had bargained for but he knew he had to get involved. It was clear this young woman was not a willing participant and he had no intention to walk on and let a rape occur. He ran towards the group.

  “Stop that,” he shouted.

  “Fuck off, cunt,” came the reply.

  One of the youths, slightly taller than Tim, left his mate to carry on molesting the girl and ran to meet Tim.

  It was clear to Tim that there was not to be a rational discussion on the matter when he saw that his would be assailant was holding a beer bottle by the neck. His intention was to bash Tim’s brains in with it. At last, thought Tim an actual attack with a bottle. He chance to actually put into practice all those years of training in the dojo. He had fought in competitions and sparred but never had he been in a street fight. He dropped into his stance without thinking. The moves were ingrained and required no thought. Hours of performing the Katas, the set routines designed to perfect movement of defence and attack were about to be tested in the real world.

  It was over in an instant. His assailant made no attempt to defend himself. Blinded by drunken rage he merely raced shouting obscenities at Tim. Seeing a man twenty years older he assumed that he could easily intimidate him. He ran straight into Tim’s kick to his chest. He looked surprised as the wind left his body and he collapsed gasping.

  Tim was also surprised that his opponent fell so easily. In his sparring and competition he was used to his opponents being far more skilled at avoiding running into a simple kick. Tim was not in the best of moods and it released a bit of the tension he had experienced earlier from being tied up by a homicidal maniac. He gave the yob a second kick in the stomach ensuring that he wouldn’t be indulging in any more bottle waving.

  He jogged down to the other youth who was still molesting the woman. He realised Tim was there too late as his fist stuck him in the face shattering his nose. Not strictly text book marshal art thought Tim but very satisfying. “Fuck off,” said Tim. The yob looked at his mate rolling around on the ground and fucked off.

  The young woman was in her early thirties and very pretty, with nice eyes, dark brown hair and a pretty mouth. She was tall about five nine or ten Tim guessed. Very attractive, he thought as he put his arm round her and pulled her dress over her exposed breast. He couldn’t help noticing she had lovely breasts as well.

  She seemed completely out of it. He could not smell any alcohol on her breath and she looked far too well dressed to be drug addict. He half carried her to the taxi rank and half dragged her to the front of the line.

  He pushed aside the drunks still trying to force the cabbie to take them. There were disgruntled shouts from the rest of the line as he opened the door and got into the taxi with the woman. The taxi driver was about to say something about waiting in line but decided he had enough of the altercations and he would be better off taking the fare he had on board.

  “Where to?” he said.

  Tim did not know where to. “Just head West while I get the address.”

  He opened the bag she had clung to throughout all the recent events and located her driving license. He gave the driver the address and studied it. She was thirty four and was called Jacqueline. He also found a picture of a small boy about the same age as the boy in the video. This boy did not have the sad eyes and look of fear though. He put the photo back.

  She was beginning to talk. It was clear that she was not a drinker or drug user. He thought her drink may have been spiked, a growing problem in the pubs, bars and clubs in London these days.

  She lived in Muswell Hill and the taxi took the route through Crouched End and up the hill to the Broadway. Tim did not know the area well but seeing Alexander Palace he had a good idea where he was. Her house turned out to be a small semi detached and was modern in contrast to the older houses in the road. The two semis had been built on a site where one older house had formerly stood.

  He helped her up the path and opened the door and aided her inside. The house was small and the front door opened onto a glass lobby with a toilet off, through the glass door into an L shaped living room with stairs on the right up to the bedrooms and bathroom. There was a separate kitchen off the dining area. The house was empty. He would later learn she was divorced with a nine year old son who at that moment was staying at his grandparents.

  He helped her to her bedroom and taking her shoes off, left her to sleep. He left his phone number and a short note saying he would not mind meeting up for a drink. He waited outside for Uber to deliver his ride home. “Who knows what might come of it. It would be nice just to be normal for a bit,” he thought.

  Chapter 41

  Annubis sat unmoving, watching Jason as he struggled to consciousness. He thought of his brother, so young so vulnerable so innocent. He thought of his Mother and his Father, of their home that was taken from them along with their lives. He thought of his Country that was now a perpetual war zone fought over by bands of murderous bigots. He thought of all the death he had seen and all the death he had been responsible for.

  Time passed and Jason struggled, unable to cry out with the pillow case stuffed in his mouth as a gag. He was in pain, cramp had set in and the blood flow was cut from his hands and feet with the tightness of his bonds. Annubis watched as he thrashed around. Watched him first piss himself then defecate in fear. He was unmoved.

  Hours passed. Still he waited.

  The sun shone through the French window leading to the balcony. The ducks woke early and with a flap of their wings flew down to the water feature and lake below. A new day dawns and the time ends for Annubis. The years of hate, the years of searching were at an end. He still could not act.

  Hate had sustained him for so long, given him purpose and a reason to be. Now he feared its passing. How would he live? Did he want to live? He had never thought beyond this point.

  He decided to finish it. It roused himself and undressed, he knew he could not leave here and walk through the City covered in blood. Naked it would be easy to shower, redress and leave.

  He picked up the knife and moved towards Jason. He watched, savouring the fear in his eyes. He had planned a slow and agonising death but his rage exploded like a torrent flowing along a jagged river bed. It would stop for nothing, scouring the rocks, destroying any obstacle that sought to slow its course. He stabbed and hacked and carried on
cutting the body after Jason was long dead. The sweat poured from him as he carried on his rampage.

  He stopped, the anger gone. Quiet, now only the beating of his heart filled the silence. He looked at the mutilated body and felt sick at his own actions but cleansed in the blood that covered him. The room was red, walls, ceiling and the Italian marble floor.

  He stood in the shower and allowed the warm water to wash it all away. He sank into the foetal position and began to cry. It seemed he would never stop. The water, the tears and the blood mixed and washed away. It washed it all away. He was Mem again.

  He dressed and with sadness placed the white feather on the corpse.

  Chapter 42

  Wood Street Police Station was conveniently located for the Barbican just off London Wall and opposite the complex. Tim had a phone call earlier in the day asking if he would provide a statement regarding the death of Jason Delonge. Normally the police would have just turned up and asked him questions. However given that he worked in Thames House, MI5’s headquarters, just turning up and wandering in off the street even if you are policemen is not quite that simple. Tim had therefore agreed to attend the police station. That again had turned out to be less than simple. Because Tim worked for the Secret Intelligence Service there was a protocol to follow. He was to be accompanied by a solicitor who specialised in the law and practice surrounding the Official Secrets Act and a senior MI5 employee to advise him on any aspect of National Security.

  Tim, Stiles as the Deputy Head of MI5 and the solicitor sat together on one side of the interview table. A Detective Inspector and his sergeant sat on the other.

  “We should like to record the interview,” said the DS.

  The solicitor intervened. “It is probably best that you don’t. Should Mr Burr inadvertently say something in his reply that has security implications it will be more difficult for us all to rectify the matter? In any event I understand that Mr Burr is being interviewed as a witness only?”

  The tape and video feed were turned off.

  “What was your relationship with Mr Delonge?” asked the DI.

  “Former colleagues at the Paris Embassy, I worked there for two and a bit years while Jason was Ambassador”

  “What was the nature of your work?”

  “Can’t really let him answer that,” said the solicitor.

  “I meant were you in regular contact with the deceased? Did you know him well?”

  “Virtually everyday and we were well acquainted.”

  “Friends?”

  “I would not say that, more associates brought into each others company through our work.”

  “Did you regularly meet up socially?”

  “No not really, it was mostly work related as I said.”

  “And yet we have you on CCTV visiting Mr Delonge on the night of his murder. Why the sudden desire to call round?”

  Tim realised when the Police had called earlier that his visit to Jason would clearly flag up as unusual behaviour and had expected to be questioned in detail about it, especially as he would have been the last person to see him alive apart from his killer. “I had not seen him since Monte Carlo where we had been on a Trade Mission. My departure was sudden and subsequently I was transferred to Thames House. In essence I hadn’t said goodbye. He had returned to London and I gave him a ring and he invited me round for a drink and a catch up chat.”

  “You say your departure was sudden. Was there some sort of falling out or argument between you?” asked the DI.

  “That one I cannot allow to be answered. I can say that Mr Burr was acting under instructions from MI5 and was recalled to London,” said Stiles.

  Tim was glad for the intervention. He could hardly have answered that Jason had set him up for the chop by the Turkish Secret Service and ISIS and still sounded like they were friends.

  “Turning to the night of the murder, would you tell us exactly what occurred?”

  “I got to Jason’s and he invited me in for a drink.”

  “Do you remember what it was exactly you had to drink?”

  Tim realised that he had created a problem for himself. He had no idea what drinks Jason had in his flat. If he said he had a whisky and there was no whisky he would be caught in a lie. He had no choice but to guess a beverage, “white wine.”

  “Did Mr Delonge have a drink as well?”

  “Yes.”

  The DI looked down at the file in front of him. “And yet there were no used glasses found at the scene?”

  “He must have washed up after I left.”

  “Possibly, there were no wine glasses in the dish washer. It was loaded with other dirty dishes which the cleaner takes care of when she comes in daily to tidy the flat,” said the DS.

  “What did you talk about?”

  Stiles coughed and the DI changed the question. “Was Mr Delonge concerned about anything? Was he agitated in anyway?”

  “It was a perfectly normal conversation. We laughed and joked about some of the goings on when we were in Paris. You know just a drink and a chat.”

  “Was there nothing at all odd in his behaviour?”

  “Nothing”

  “Did he say if he was expecting anyone?”

  “No, when I left I had the impression that he was going to go to bed.”

  “So he was fit and well when you left?”

  “Definitely,” he lied. Well as fit and well as anyone could be, tied up and naked with a knife wielding homicidal maniac keeping you company, he thought.

  “Where did you go after leaving?”

  Tim gave his account of the incident outside the night club and taking the young woman home in the cab. The Police had recovered the CCTV footage from the club and the surrounding area and had already traced his movements.

  “Thank you for your time,” said the DI

  They took their farewells and they headed back to Thames House by taxi.

  “He is lying about something” said the DS

  “Obviously, but there is nothing we can do. The video evidence clearly places him nowhere near the murder scene. The autopsy shows that Delonge died hours after he left. “But he knows something but there is no way for us to be able to pursue it further.”

  Chapter 43

  “Hello”

  “Is that Anthony Burr?”

  He replied that it was but was slightly suspicious as he did not recognise the voice which usually meant a call centre and a tedious conversation about a prize he had won in a competition he had neither heard of nor entered.

  “This is Jackie, the person you rescued and took home? I found your note and rang to thank you.”

  He had been pleased to hear from her and the conversation had gone well. He was sat in a small French Bistro style restaurant in Hampstead. He made an effort and looking in the mirror before he left he decided he was passable. It was a warm evening and he had decided on the casual summer look. Light trousers, brown loafers, a light blue shirt with a jumper. He had not been on a date in over a year and felt a slight lack of confidence that comes from being ignored by the opposite sex for a long period.

  He saw her enter and recognised her immediately. She was very pretty, far more attractive than he remembered. He had to admit though the last time he had seen her she had not been at her best. He also had to admit he had been in an unusual frame of mind having just left Jason’s flat.

  He waved to her and seeing him she crossed the dining room to his table. He stood up and greeted her with the customary three kiss, kiss, and kiss on the cheek greeting. Her hair was nicely cut and framed a beautiful face with large eyes and full lips. She wore a soft white shirt and a light warmer skirt that fell just below the knees. Attractive but classy he thought.

  “Hi,” she said. She looked at him and smiled.

  It was a nice smile and Tim knew he really liked the look of this woman. “Can I order you a drink?”

  “Just water,” she answered. Tim, who had driven to the restaurant, was also on water. The waiter appr
oached and handed them the menu and took the drinks order

  “I do not usually drink,” she continued.

  “But when you do?” he left the sentence hanging.

  She smiled slightly embarrassed. “I had not been drinking when you found me outside the club. I really don’t know what happened. I had gone out after work with some colleagues to celebrate getting a new audit client”

  “You’re an accountant?”

  “I know, not very exciting is it? I’ve just been made a junior partner in a small City firm. What do you do?”

  “A civil servant, even less exciting, I am afraid. Please continue.”

  “I had one glass of Champagne in the local by the office and some food. At closing a few decided to go onto the club. Now I haven’t been to a nightclub in years. Why not I said to myself? My son Daniel was staying round my parents, so for once I did not need to be home.”

  “Your son, how old is he?”

  “He is nine? Before you ask his Dad is not about and hasn’t been about for years.”

  Tim realised that she was observant. She was right he was angling to know if she was unattached and she had answered his question. He put out his situation to let her know that he was on the market. “I am divorced and my wife has remarried.”

  She looked at him and smiled. He was encouraged. “Where was I? Oh yes my wild night out. I remember going to the club and thinking I am too old for this and deciding I would call it a night when a chap came over and offered me a drink. I thought what the hell, he was quite good looking.”

  She paused, “That sounded bad, I am not in the habit of picking up random strangers.”

  “Apart from me?” said Tim.