The Frozen Circle

by Peter Watt

  Joshua felt sure that by now Maria would have either come into the room or fled from the house. He hoped she had taken the latter option. Under the circumstances it would be useless to reason with the former British major and try to explain that she wasn’t a threat. Locksley’s face bore the look of a man possessed by his mission.

  ‘It matters little why I have orders to kill the woman,’ Locksley said, raising the pistol, his arm outstretched, and pointing it at Joshua’s head a mere couple of yards away. ‘I am executing you for your treachery in aiding an enemy of the King.’

  Sighting along the barrel of the pistol, Locksley began applying pressure to the trigger. On its current trajectory, the bullet would impact directly between the eyes.

  THIRTY-NINE

  Valley View

  Present day

  Morgan’s worst fear was realised when he reached Monique’s house. There, in the driveway, was the hire car he recognised as being driven by Sarah Sakharov aka Locksley. He leaped from the police vehicle, unholstering his service pistol as he did so. He reached the front door and without knocking, eased it open. He could hear voices from the living room and gave a short prayer of thanks that one of them was Monique’s. He also recognised Sarah’s voice. Morgan walked cautiously along the hallway to emerge in the living room, his pistol down by his side.

  The women were sitting opposite each other with coffee mugs between them on the small table. They looked up with expressions of surprise, although Morgan thought he saw a flash of anger in Sarah’s face. Morgan discreetly returned the pistol to its holster.

  ‘Morgan!’ Monique exclaimed. ‘What are you doing here?’

  Morgan felt just a little foolish and wondered what he would say. ‘I tried to call you but your phone rang out,’ he replied. ‘I was just seeing if you were all right.’

  ‘Why wouldn’t I be all right?’ Monique frowned. ‘Sarah just dropped by to say goodbye before leaving town to return home and I must have been outside when you rang.’

  Morgan noticed the overnight bag by Sarah’s feet and stepped forward to open it.

  Sarah rose to her feet. ‘What are you doing?’ she protested. ‘How dare you. That is my private property.’

  Morgan ignored her and rifled through the bag. A change of clothing, a set of surgical gloves, a wig and a pair of sunglasses. There was nothing that could be considered incriminating, certainly no weapons, although the thin, latex gloves and wig bothered him.

  ‘What were you looking for?’ Sarah asked coldly. ‘Drugs?’

  ‘Nothing like that,’ Morgan answered. ‘Just checking to see if you were carrying any prohibited weapons.’

  ‘Have you gone crazy?’ Monique asked. Then she noticed the blood spots on his uniform and hands. Her anger quickly faded. ‘Have you been hurt?’ she asked, moving towards him.

  ‘I’m not hurt,’ Morgan said as Monique took his hands in her own to examine for wounds, her nursing experience apparent in the professionalism of her approach. ‘We had an incident in town. A couple of colleagues were wounded. It is their blood – not mine.’

  ‘What sort of incident?’ Monique asked.

  ‘There was a shooting at the bottom pub when we went to arrest a man,’ Morgan answered, staring at Sarah. ‘A Russian. I believe that you knew the man, Ms Sakharov – or is it Locksley?’

  Sarah paled a little but did not lose her composure. This simple country copper was smarter than he looked. She had lured her unsuspecting target and given a few more minutes would have selected the knife from the rack in Monique’s kitchen. It was uncanny how the policeman turned up each time to intervene in her murderous plan. If she had been superstitious she might have thought that he was some kind of guardian angel to her intended victim.

  ‘I briefly met the man,’ Sarah acknowledged. ‘But that is the extent of my contact with Petrov Batkin.’

  ‘That’s strange,’ Morgan said. ‘I was referring to Petrov Olev. He’s never revealed his identity as Batkin to anyone that I know.’

  Cornered, Sarah remained calm. She had been well trained and silently cursed her critical slip. ‘I have Russian ancestry, constable,’ Sarah offered, ‘Batkin confided to me who he really was and as a journalist I am expected to keep such matters confidential.’

  ‘So, who is Petrov Batkin?’ Morgan continued, sensing that he had broken through her well-rehearsed story. ‘And who is Sarah Locksley? Not a descendant of Major James Locksley by any chance?’

  Sarah’s face reddened despite her experience in intelligence work. She was digging a hole for herself and realised that the man questioning her was well versed in interrogation methods. He had once been a member of the Australian Special Air Service, as she knew, and this alone should have been enough warning to avoid him. ‘If there is no other matter to discuss I think that I shall bid you both a good day,’ Sarah countered. ‘Unless you intend to arrest me for being in possession of an overnight bag containing a spare set of clothes.’

  Morgan fumed at the English woman’s sudden break with his line of questioning. She had been well trained in resisting interrogation methods and besides he had no evidence to hold her on any charge. It was not a crime to be unavailable for a police interview. However, Morgan was suspicious of the items in the overnight bag. And he could see that she was eager to leave the house. She could simply depart from the country and disappear anywhere in the world.

  Monique was perplexed by the exchange between Sarah and Morgan. It was like a coded conversation until she remembered something Morgan had said.

  ‘Major Locksley!’ she gasped and looked sharply at Sarah. ‘Are you related to him in some way?’

  ‘I don’t know who this Major Locksley is,’ Sarah replied calmly. ‘I travel under the name of Sakharov for reasons I am unable to reveal, and I strongly suggest that you do not attempt to prevent me leaving right now as I feel you will suffer severe repercussions from your own government if you do so.’

  ‘So you are British intelligence,’ Morgan offered, countering her effort to intimidate him. ‘Or else you would not be so confident of protection. I just wonder if our intelligence services know that you are operating here. All I need to do is make a phone call and we can clear up any misunderstandings.’

  ‘Do that,’ Sarah bluffed. ‘I doubt that you are stupid enough to try to arrest me for no rational reason.’

  Sarah picked up her overnight bag and brushed past Morgan to walk out the front door to her car. He followed her, sensing that had he not arrived when he did he would have found Monique dead. He felt the rage of frustration at having to watch her walk away. Sarah was visibly angry as she struggled with the keys of the car to unlock the driver’s side door. Morgan’s eyes scanned her hire car and settled on the numberplates covered in dead insects.

  ‘Before you leave, Miss Locksley,’ Morgan said, striding towards her. ‘There is just a little traffic matter to settle.’

  Sarah glanced up at him. ‘I have a valid driver’s licence for your country,’ she flared. ‘You have seen it.’

  ‘It’s not that,’ Morgan said mildly. ‘It’s just the matter of the car you are driving.’

  ‘If you check the records you will see that I have signed a contract to hire the vehicle,’ she replied.

  ‘I would ask you to just stand away from the vehicle while I carry out a routine inspection,’ Morgan cautioned. ‘It won’t take a moment, and then you can be on your way.’

  Sarah took a step back from the car, her hands on her hips and a scowl on her face, while Morgan reached for the handpiece of his radio through the window of his vehicle. He contacted the operations room in Hume City, requesting a registration check on the car’s numberplates. Within seconds he received an answer. He turned to Sarah. ‘I am afraid there is a bit of a problem,’ he said smugly. ‘Although the numberplates on your car are not reported stolen, it appears that they are not registered to this vehicle, but to a local farmer’s car. You will have to come back to the station until we contact the registere
d owner to clarify what is going on.’

  Trapped, Sarah swore savagely at her mistake. She had been so careful, changing the plates from the dead farmer’s car to confuse anyone who might note the number when she fled the Larkin house. With a sigh, Sarah held her hands forward to be cuffed.

  ‘You have been watching too many Yank cop shows. We don’t do that for traffic offences,’ Morgan said. ‘And I suspect that you have a lot of questions to answer about how you got hold of the plates on your car. You will need to come with me to the station.’

  Sarah complied, her mind racing to think of how she could extract herself from the situation. No doubt the police would find the farmer dead on his bed and also notice the marks on his neck. This did not prove that she had killed him – as she had been careful to clean up before leaving – but the damned registration plates incriminated her. A matter so simple had brought her down. She would need a good lawyer and a lot of luck to get off a murder charge.

  Morgan escorted her to his police vehicle and drove back into town which by now was swarming with police cars and the local television crew. Police shootings always became the lead story for any TV newscast. As Morgan drove down the main street to his station through the crowd of locals now milling around the armada of emergency and media vehicles, hardly anyone gave him a second look. Their attention was fixed on the hotel where all the action had happened. Then the storm clouds rumbling around the valleys and hills broke, scattering the curious crowd of onlookers to the protection of the shop overhangs.

  London

  Present day

  Early morning

  It only took a few hours before the arrest of Sarah Locksley hit the desk of Harry Stanton. It was the first item left on his desk by the previous shift. According to the report lifted from the Australian media on the internet, it seemed that she had been picked up on a minor traffic matter which led to her arrest for the murder of a farmer at his isolated house north of Valley View. The report went on to say that she was also linked to the murder of a British citizen, Daniel Kildare, whose body was found on a riverbank near the town.

  Harry let his coffee go cold. The bile in his stomach was playing hell with his hiatus hernia and he reached for the anti-acid pills in his top drawer. So Sarah had finally turned up and if she talked he knew that MI6 was threatened with exposure of their covert operation to the world. It had all gone so wrong. Her private mission threatened relations between Canberra and London. It was time for damage control and some discreet approaches to the Aussie government to explain how she was a rogue agent acting on her own. But no matter what they attempted to do to calm the situation it would leave a sour taste between the two governments.

  How had she stayed one step ahead of him? Harry bit down on the sweet tasting pill. It was as if she was keeping in contact with MI6 for her information. He stood and walked to the window with a view of the Thames below. He knew that he would not be remembered as one of the great British spymasters after this debacle but he would find whoever was responsible for keeping Sarah Locksley updated on their moves.

  ‘The chief wants you upstairs, Mr Stanton,’ his personal assistant said, after knocking and popping her head around the corner of his door. He nodded, groaning inwardly at what the summons meant to his career. No doubt the chief had been briefed on the fiasco in Australia and he would be on the carpet answering some very tricky questions.

  Sam Briars!

  The name hit him like a sledge hammer. It had to be Briars who had been feeding her the information to keep her one step ahead of his efforts to sabotage her attempts to kill Monique Dawson. Harry remembered how the young computer man had been seen drinking with her in a wine bar in London’s inner city. The information had been a line in a routine security check on the movements of staff and it had been his duty to review the report in the spirit of maintaining security.

  Harry returned to his desk and sat in front of his computer. Coding in his security clearance, he pulled down the file on his screen and read the report. Not only had Briars been observed socialising with Locksley but the observer had noted he also appeared to be besotted by the beautiful young woman. Some damned computer geek had screwed him and Harry was not a forgiving person. Gathering his thoughts, Harry Stanton left his office for the meeting with the chief. Briars had been judged and found guilty in the span of minutes by the experienced MI6 man. It was up to him to address the issue of the young man’s treachery.

  FORTY

  Valley View

  November 1920

  It all happened in the beat of a heart. Joshua was staring at certain death and steeled himself to die. But he did so knowing that Maria must have fled the house, as she had not appeared at his side after the shots had been fired. His oath to always protect her had been satisfied.

  Locksley had no expression on his face as he pointed the pistol directly at Joshua’s head.

  ‘This is not right,’ George said. ‘It’s bloody murder. There are questions to be answered. I am not going to let you gun Joshua down like some mongrel dog.’

  He advanced on the major and only a pace separated them when Locksley realised the danger he was in. He swung around and finished squeezing the trigger. The bullet slammed into George’s forehead and he crumpled with a look of surprise on his face. Immediately Locksley swung back to fire at Joshua, who had little chance given the severity of his wounds to overpower his would-be executioner.

  ‘Joshua!’

  Joshua half-turned his head to see Maria step into the room, his old service revolver in her hand and raised in the same manner as that of Locksley, whose expression of shock was now clearly written in his features. The shot that reverberated in the room dropped the British agent. Maria’s aim was true and the bullet smashed into Locksley’s brain, killing him instantly.

  Joshua could feel his heart pounding in his chest as if he was back on the battlefields of Europe. Maria stood with the service revolver still outstretched, her face ashen as Joshua slowly made his way towards her and took the pistol from her hand. She was shaking and he held her to him, whispering soothing words. Joshua knew that their haven of peace and security was no longer. If Locksley had found them, who was to tell if others would not follow to complete the unfinished mission.

  ‘We have work to do,’ he said to Maria. ‘Pack all that we will need for a long journey.’

  Joshua kneeled hopefully by George’s body but quickly saw that he was dead. While Maria put together the essentials for what she knew was ahead of them, Joshua dragged the two bodies out of the house. The rain had eased to a drizzle and he took a shovel to dig two graves. He toiled in pain until he was satisfied that the graves were deep enough to conceal the bodies for all time. He rolled Locksley’s body into the first hole and unceremoniously shovelled soil onto his corpse.

  He gently lowered George’s body into the earth and crossed his hands on his chest as a gesture of respect for an old friend who had sacrificed his life to save them. Joshua stood back and tried to think of what he should do next. He remembered his military identity discs in his pocket. Joshua had long considered them as his good luck talisman.

  ‘Thanks, cobber,’ he said, quietly placing the discs on George’s chest. ‘You were a great soldier and a true mate. Take these with you to heaven and I will get them back when we next meet.’ It was all he could think of to say.

  When the task of concealing the bodies was complete, Joshua turned his thoughts to disposing of the automobile parked in his driveway. Although the killing of Locksley was done in self-defence Joshua had no intention of reporting the matter to the local constabulary. His priority was to leave Valley View for Maria’s sake; any police investigation would only expose their existence to the British intelligence community. Too many questions would be raised and that would put Maria in dire jeopardy.

  Joshua went inside where Maria was packing suitcases. ‘I will go to see Bill Crawford,’ he said. ‘I will not be away for long.’

  Joshua drove George’s car to
Bill’s garage in town and knocked on his door. It was late but Bill had been working on a tractor repair job.

  ‘Bloody hell!’ he said when he saw Joshua’s hands. He held the door open. ‘What happened to you?’

  Joshua slumped into a rickety chair by a work bench covered in greasy car engine parts. ‘You got a beer to spare?’ he asked.

  Bill hurried away to fetch two bottles. They were not very cold but the bite of the beer in his throat made Joshua feel better. In the space it took to consume the brew Joshua told the story of how George and Locksley had been killed. He also explained why.

  Bill’s eyes grew wide. ‘Jeez, it’s all so hard to believe,’ he finally commented. ‘But if you tell me it’s true then I have no reason to disbelieve you, skipper. How can I help?’

  ‘I need to dispose of the car,’ Joshua said. ‘And I need someone to manage the house and estate for me. Maria and I will be away for a long time. I will post documents back to you to authorise your position as manager. Maybe rent out the house and sell the stock. Can you do that?’

  ‘Given all that you have done for me from the trenches to home you know that is a stupid question,’ Bill replied, finishing the last of his beer.

  ‘You also know that you can never speak of what has happened tonight,’ Joshua cautioned. ‘Our lives would be in dire peril if you did so.’

  ‘Skipper, if you had not been our boss back in France then I would not be here today – need I say anymore.’

  Joshua rose from his chair and extended his good arm to his friend and business partner. ‘Bill, you don’t know how much your friendship means to me,’ he said, gripping Bill’s hand firmly. ‘It was an honour to lead you and the rest of the mob during the war.’

  Bill Crawford looked at his friend, tears welling in his eyes. ‘We are going to miss you, skipper,’ Bill said. ‘You need to see a doctor about your arm.’