by Bill Ward
Connor had left the girl in her hotel room and gone out for a couple of drinks. He’d invited her along but she’d refused. She was treating him like a bad smell and getting right up his nose. He’d told her he was staying with her until he saw her back on a plane to Belfast. That meant he was spending the night in her room. She’d told him in no uncertain terms not to get any ideas. He pointed out he would be working half the night doing her a favour and she should watch her lip, or he might just bundle her straight back home.
When he returned to the room, she was lying stretched out on the bed watching television. At least she hadn’t done a bunk the first moment she was able. She was obviously serious about getting Ashdown. He had thought about taking her with him later but on balance decided it was better to leave her in the room, while he was working. He tried being nice but the bitch wasn’t interested. She wasn’t going to open her legs for him no matter what he did to Ashdown. He felt tempted to take her anyway but she would probably go running to the Chief or her father and that could lead to real trouble.
He took a shower and when he returned to the bedroom with just a towel wrapped around his waist she again ignored his attempts at friendly conversation. He had a couple of hours to kill before he planned to visit Ashdown’s home. He knew how he would like to fill the time. He went to lie on the bed beside her but soon as she realized his intention, she shot up from the bed like a scalded cat.
“What you think you’re doing, “she snapped. “I told you, no funny business.”
“I was just getting comfortable to watch some telly.”
“Well get fucking comfortable with some clothes on.”
The towel wasn’t tied very securely around his waist. He got up from the bed and intentionally let it fall as he crossed the room towards the bathroom. He met her eyes with a smile but she immediately averted his gaze and turned her back on him.
Connor dressed and when he returned to the room, found Sam had moved a chair to in front of the television, where she was now sitting. He hadn’t really wanted to watch television, just to lie next to her and the small room was now getting claustrophobic with her playing the ice maiden.
He fancied another drink but there was no mini bar, so decided to go down to the small hotel bar. No point in asking the girl if she wanted to come. He wouldn’t normally drink much before a job. After a job that was different. He’d have to get a bottle of scotch from the bar to take back up his room, so he could have a drink after his work was done. He’d had two pints earlier in the evening and reckoned a couple of whiskies now wouldn’t hurt. Anyway, he needed warming up. The bloody girl had made the room seem almost as cold as outside with her frigidness.
The Prime Minister, flanked by the Home Secretary, walked out of number ten to confront the press. Despite the late hour, the media was out in force and the bright lights of television crews, from several continents, illuminated the darkness, creating an unreal atmosphere.
As the PM arrived at the lectern, set up in front of the ranks of assembled press, he was met with an expectant silence, similar to that a famous conductor receives when he walks to his podium. He had a short and hurriedly prepared statement to read but first he spoke with emotion of how personally sad and shocked he was, by the news of the death of Lord Bancroft. The lies rolled easily off his tongue.
The statement was unimaginative and factual, reporting the explosion and confirming what everybody already knew, namely that the cause had been a bomb. The PM’s voice managed to quiver with false anger, as he promised that those responsible would be found and brought to justice, although no one had yet claimed credit for the atrocity. He also stressed that these terrorist actions would not be allowed to thwart the aims of the government, to fight terrorism wherever in the world it was found.
Finally, he paid a brief tribute to Bancroft’s contribution to government and especially his time as Minister for Northern Ireland. A barrage of questions from journalists was met with nothing more than an announcement that he was unable to take any questions. Even so, one female journalist, in receipt of an anonymous telephone call, did shout out and ask what was Bancroft doing at the place of the explosion? The PM simply ignored the question and withdrew back into number ten.
“What was he doing there?” the Home Secretary asked, once back inside.
“Seems he was up to his old tricks. He was having a bloody affair with a girl thirty years younger.” The PM managed to sound incredulous. “God knows what women ever saw in him!”
“The press will have a field day,” the Home Secretary remarked thoughtfully.
“Just promise me you never follow in his footsteps.” The PM replied.
The Home Secretary looked aghast at the idea. He was a happy family man. “His poor wife...”
“She should have left him after the first time,” the PM interjected. Then, realising the lack of sympathy he’d displayed, added rather tritely, “It’s always the innocent who suffer.”
In truth the PM was angered more by the fact he would have to change his plans. Bancroft had been pushing to bring together the various security and intelligence services under one umbrella and had been earmarked to be head of the new organization. It was an idea that appealed to the PM. He wanted some control of the spooks who seemed to think they were a law unto themselves. Now he would be back at square one, as there were few viable candidates for such a role.
“There’ll be a large cry of bring back hanging,” the Home Secretary observed. “Something like this almost makes me in favour.”
“I’ve a better idea. Let’s hope the SAS find those responsible.” Seeing the uncertain look on his Home Secretary’s face the PM added, “I’m only joking, Phillip.”
“Of course, Prime Minister,” the Home Secretary acknowledged but didn’t sound entirely convinced.
“Is there any link between this and the attempt to kidnap Melanie Adams?” the PM asked.
“Well there is the Irish connection but with no one claiming any responsibility who knows. It could be a new cell operating over here.”
The PM was already on the back foot with the economy but at least he could argue that was a global problem. Now he was going to be facing difficult questions about law and order. He couldn’t believe his bad luck. The opposition would no doubt have a field day, blaming the recent budget cutbacks as undermining security operations but they would have an even better day when they learned, as they undoubtedly would, that Bancroft was having a further affair. The PM’s credibility would be questioned for bringing him back into government, after the first time his affair had been plastered all over the front of newspapers.
“I need some concrete information,” the PM demanded. “And quickly. We can’t return to the old days of bombs going off all over the place. This could really hurt us in the polls.”
CHAPTER SIX
Tom knew there was a problem, as soon as the taxi turned into his road. A handful of people were gathered on the pavement and a couple of uniformed policemen were keeping them back from the house. He felt an instant panic brought on by the fear of the unknown. He was sure something terrible had occurred but what? The taxi slowed to a halt.
“This yours?” the driver asked concerned.
Tom handed him a ten pound note and didn’t wait for the change that was due. As he hurried from the car, heads were turned in his direction and knowing whispers exchanged. Tom knew most of them but he headed straight for the nearest policeman and introduced himself, enquiring what had happened.
“Could you come with me please, Sir,” the policeman instructed politely and turned towards the house.
“What’s happened?” Tom repeated as he followed. “Where’s my brother?”
The policeman looked long in the tooth to still be a constable and he obviously knew his place in the hierarchy. It wasn’t his job to deliver bad news and Tom realised he wasn’t going to prise anything from him.
“They’ll be able to answer all your questions inside, Sir,” the policeman
smiled, patiently.
Tom imagined several different scenarios all equally disturbing as he followed the policeman through his front door. He knew with certainty that only a very serious incident would attract so many police and he offered up a silent prayer nothing had happened to Colin.
“Just wait here a moment, Sir,” the policeman instructed, once inside.
Tom felt strange standing in his own hallway, watching strangers hurrying about his home. The lack of any sign of his brother was a worry. Where was Colin? He hadn’t been outside. Why hadn’t he come to meet him?
Two men appeared from the direction of his lounge. “I’m Chief Inspector Parkin,” the older of the two men announced and shook Tom by the hand. He was about fifty years of age wearing a nondescript grey suit that didn’t quite fit around his large belly. He was bald, unshaven and Tom guessed had been called from his bed in the middle of this night. There was a look of recognition in his eyes. It was a reaction Tom had come to expect over the last couple of days.
“This is Sergeant Grant.” Parkin waved a hand in the general direction of the second man. He was much younger, probably no more than thirty, with a slim build and he stood with his hands nonchalantly in his pockets.
“Can you please tell me what’s going on?” Tom asked. “And where’s my brother?”
“I’m afraid there’s been a serious incident. Your brother has been taken to hospital, along with Mr Harding.”
Tom was confused. The questions all flowed at once. “What kind of incident? How bad is Colin hurt? And why is John Harding involved?”
“Best as we can work it out, it seems Mr Harding spotted someone sneaking around the back of your house. We learned that from his wife. He called the police and then rather foolishly came across here to see if you needed help. His wife says he brought his baseball bat with him.”
Tom listened in silent shock. John Harding lived directly across the road and ran the local neighbourhood watch scheme. Tom remembered ignoring him just the other day when he was getting in his car and said he was in too much of a hurry to speak. He felt bad about that now. John was a decent man of about sixty five who had once been in the army and retired a few years earlier. He carried out his neighbourhood watch duties with diligence and enthusiasm. On more than one occasion he’d spotted Tom had left his car lights on and come across to tell him, saving him having to wake to a flat battery in the morning. He was also the man you could turn to when you wanted someone to keep an eye on the house while you were on holiday.
Chief Inspector Parkin continued, “When we arrived we found Mr Harding lying on the kitchen floor. He’d been shot twice. We found another man, whom I now assume is your brother at the top of the stairs. He too had been shot. This is pure conjecture but it’s possible Mr Harding disturbed the intruder, probably thinking him a common thief, and was shot. The commotion brought your brother out of his bed and he was shot before the man made his getaway.”
Tom gasped at the news his brother had been shot. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know the answer to his next question. “Chief Inspector, how is Colin?”
“Your brother is seriously ill but alive. The bullet appears to have entered his chest but I can’t tell you any more than that. Mr Harding I’m afraid, died in the ambulance on the way to hospital.”
Tom was dazed and bewildered by the news. Before last Friday he’d never seen or known anyone shot. Now in the course of a very short space of time there seemed to be shootings and bodies all around him.
“Why?” was all Tom could think to ask.
“It’s too early to speculate but in view of your recent involvement in a shooting in London, I think we have to consider they may be linked.”
Tom’s shoulders slumped and he put his hand to the wall to steady himself. “Are you saying the gunman was after me?”
“It’s a strong possibility. Unless you can offer some other explanation?” Parkin replied.
Tom knew the Chief Inspector was correct in his assumption. Even if Colin had enemies, which Tom was sure he didn’t, they wouldn’t have attacked him in Tom’s house. He seemed to have become a magnet for trouble.
“I guess they must have been after me,” Tom agreed. “Nothing else makes any sense. Was it some sort of revenge attack for what I did in London?”
“It’s too early to say for certain but that would be my first thought. By the way, might I ask where you’ve been tonight?”
“I’ve been at the Casino at the Marina.” It was a simple statement of fact but led Tom to feel a huge surge of guilt that he’d been playing poker while his brother was shot. Had the gunman confused Colin for himself? If he’d stayed at home John Harding might also not be dead.
“What time did you go out?” Parkin probed gently.
“Colin and I went out for a meal earlier. I brought him back home a bit the worse for wear and put him to bed about eleven. Then I went out to the Casino.”
Tom noticed the second policeman had removed his hands from his pockets and was writing his answers in a note book.
“If you’ll excuse me now Chief Inspector I need to get down the hospital to check on my brother.”
“Of course, Sir. I’ll have one of my officers take you. We can speak again tomorrow.”
A policeman in plain clothes suddenly hurried up to Parkin and whispered in his ear.
Parkin turned back to Tom. “Sergeant Grant will organise your lift for you. We’ve had an anonymous tip off that just might lead us to the gunman.” Without further explanation Parkin turned and was gone.
Sam waited in the room unable to sleep and wanting to know how Connor had got on. It was just past two thirty in the morning and she had resigned herself to the thought of spending the rest of an uncomfortable night, once he did return, getting a little sleep on the bathroom floor. She didn’t trust that pig Connor to behave and at least the bathroom had a door she could lock.
Right now though she was watching a boring film on television while her mind travelled to the idea of Paris with Eduardo. She would make the most of the chance to spend a week in a five star hotel at someone else’s expense. And she was sure he would take her shopping when she pointed out she had nothing suitable to wear to a smart restaurant. She’d buy a beautiful dress and some nice shoes and enjoy some five star luxury. And then she would drink champagne and go to bed with Eduardo.
She wondered what he would be like as a lover. Would he be kinky and demanding? It was a thought that sent a tingle through her body and her hand slid down between her thighs. She stroked herself with her fingers on top of her jeans and then undid the zip. She slid two fingers inside her panties and felt the moisture that signalled her desire. She laughed and forced herself to stop. She didn’t want Connor coming back and finding her in the midst of playing with herself. It would be like rocket fuel to his libido. She fastened her jeans and lay back with her hands behind her head. The anticipation of Eduardo was sufficient excitement for now. She didn’t doubt for a second that he would give her what she wanted. Maybe after their time in Paris he would even invite her to go back to Spain with him and just maybe she would accept. After all, Belfast only offered the likes of Connor.
Sam heard the key turn in the lock and knew Connor was back. She jumped up from the bed excited by the anticipation of his news and stood facing him as he entered. He ignored her and went straight for the bottle of whisky he’d left on the table.
“So…?” she asked impatiently.
Connor took a large swig from the bottle and wiped his sleeve across his lips before responding.
“Ashdown’s history.”
He took another large swig of whisky. He wasn’t going to tell the bitch it hadn’t gone entirely according to plan. Anyway, at least he had got Ashdown. Who the fuck the other bloke was who attacked him with the baseball bat, he didn’t know or really care.
“How?” Sam asked simply.
“Don’t fucking matter how.”
Sam didn’t like Connor but she was pleased with th
e news. With Ashdown out the way she would have to apologise to Eduardo for him wasting his trip and promise to make it up to him. She smiled at the thought of what that would entail. She would be able to lose Connor the next morning at the airport if not before. Then it would be straight to London to see Eduardo.
“Fancy a bit of that, do you?” Connor leered, interrupting her thoughts.
Sam followed his gaze to the television screen. A naked bum was moving up and down at a rapid rate that was causing the young woman underneath on the ground, to make loud appreciative noises. Connor’s gaze was now fixed firmly on the screen and the late night movie that was playing.
Sam hoped he wasn’t going to become a nuisance. She tried ignoring him.
“I forgot. I’m not good enough for you,” Connor sneered.
“Piss off,” she said, as she made to head for the security of the bathroom.
He lunged for her and grabbed her arm, pulling her down beside him on the bed. She twisted and lashed out with her feet and hands but he covered her with his much larger body, making it impossible for her to escape.
“The more you fight, the more I like it,” Connor warned.
He had hold of her wrists and there was no way she could escape, so she gave up struggling and lay limp under his weight. She could smell the whisky on his breath as he leaned close to kiss her. She turned her head to the side trying to avoid his lips, then suddenly relaxed and turned back, smiling encouragingly. For a second he thought he’d won, then she spat venomously straight into his face. His jaw fell open, then he composed himself and didn’t even bother wiping away the spittle running down his cheek. He smiled and she knew then that she was in deep trouble. He hit her with an open palm hard across her face.
