by Angie Smith
CXVI
THE BEGINNING OF THE END
Title Page
By Angie Smith
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Keep reading for an extract from the sequel
About the Author
Copyright
Copyright Angie Smith 2015
Angie Smith asserts her rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the author.
This novel is a work of fiction; names, characters, businesses, organisations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Prologue
Monday 30th January.
As the boat’s engine finally spluttered into life Bulmer grinned. He lifted up his head and quickly scanned the horizon for signs of imminent weather change. Today, as most days in Los Cristianos, was beautiful, clear and sunny. He stepped off the boat, untied the mooring and immediately jumped back on board.
“Adios,” he raised his hand and waved to the waiters wiping down the outside tables at one of the nearby restaurants.
“Adios, Señor,” one replied, as the small fishing boat bobbed slowly back away from the quayside and was skilfully manoeuvred in and around the various expensive motor yachts. As soon as he reached open water he pushed the throttle hard and headed out to sea, unaware he would never return to port again.
His favoured fishing location was approximately five miles offshore; he made good time arriving earlier than normal due to the sea being calm and the tide in his favour. He quickly dropped anchor, set up the fishing lines and took an ice cold beer from the fridge, finally settling in the wooden sun-bleached fishing chair. His preference, rather than trolling with artificial lures and going after big game fish, was to bottom fish with two lines using either dead or live baits. He was after sea bream, skate and monkfish which he could sell to the restaurant owners back in port. This type of fishing suited his sedate lifestyle; it was less exciting and less stressful, and he could enjoy a few cold beers and relax.
By ten o’clock he already had a sizeable catch and was on his fourth beer of the day. Although far from being drunk, he was perhaps not as alert as he could have been; nevertheless something in the distance attracted his attention. He squinted into the sun trying to identify it. Then, as it came into focus, he realised it was a motor yacht approaching from the south-east and, as it neared, he recognised it as an extremely elegant looking, fairly new and very expensive Princess 42.
He relaxed back in the chair and took another swig from the bottle. I wonder where they’re heading today, he mused, smiling to himself. He’d seen the yacht a few days earlier, when fishing at the same location, and as it sailed by he’d waved across and exchanged pleasantries with the man and woman crewing it; he intended doing the same today. However, this time as it approached the engine slowed and the motor yacht stopped just off his port-side.
“How’s the fishing today, Skipper?” the man called over.
Bulmer smiled, and with both hands cupped around his mouth shouted, “Good, I’ve got a few sizeable keepers.”
“Any mackerel?”
Bulmer nodded.
“Would you be kind enough to sell me a couple?”
“Sure.”
“Excellent, I’ll drop anchor and come over in the dinghy.”
“Where’s the lady today?”
“She’s down below sleeping off the booze; had a few too many last night.”
Bulmer laughed. “Me too,” he shouted back, seeing the yacht’s anchor and chain disappearing into the water.
When the man appeared satisfied that the anchor was held, Bulmer watched him untie the dinghy from the diving platform on the back of the yacht and push it into the water. Then came the awkward business of getting on board, which was not helped by him holding a carrier bag, though somehow he managed to undertake the task without any mishaps, and once in the inflatable he swiftly sat down on the bench seat and placed the bag at his feet.
Bulmer heard the sound of chinking bottles. Ah... What might that be? he thought, as he chewed his bottom lip. A bottle or two of expensive Scotch would do nicely.
The man pulled the starting cord on the inflatable’s outboard motor and it immediately fired into life; he then made the short journey in the fairly calm blue water across to the fishing boat. “Bill Jones,” he said, standing up and precariously balancing in the dinghy. He held out his right hand and offered the carrier bag to Bulmer with his other, “Something for you to enjoy later…”
Bulmer shook his hand. “Thank you…” he said, his leathery tanned hand taking hold of the gift, “Christian Bulmer; nice to meet you,” he added, busy looking in the bag. “Thank you,” he repeated. “We can’t get this over here; I used to love this when I was in the UK.”
“Did you really? It was a good choice then,” Jones said beaming. “I’ve got half a crate left on the yacht; I’ll get you some more before I go.” He grabbed the side of the fishing boat to steady himself.
“What must you think of me?” Bulmer said apologetically. “Come aboard, let me get a bottle opener and we can share these.” He carefully placed the bag down and held out his right hand to help. “Welcome aboard,” he said as Jones clambered over the rail and tied the dinghy cord to it.
“Nice to meet you, Christian.”
“And you,” Bulmer replied, picking up the bag and disappearing off into the cabin for a few seconds. When he emerged he was holding two open bottles of strong real ale and was smiling broadly, his white teeth shining in the bright sunlight. He handed one to Jones. “We’ll enjoy these and then you can choose what you want from the catch. It’s on the house.”
“Excellent,” Jones said, adding tentatively, “I couldn’t have mine in a glass could I?”
“Sure,” Bulmer replied, placing his bottle down on the staging and heading back into the cabin. “Too posh to drink out of a bottle are we?” he shouted through the window, before retuning with a grubby looking glass.
“Thank you,” Jones said, pouring the beer; he chinked his glass against Bulmer’s bottle, “Good health.”
“Cheers.”
Jones headed down the boat towards the rods and Bulmer followed. They drank the ale as they discussed the merits of the various types of fishing gear, then at Bulmer’s behest Jones was allowed to reel in one of the lines, re-bait it and cast out, but the fish were no longer biting. While Bulmer was chatting he noticed Jones taking an avid interest in him, then mid-sentence Bulmer stopped speaking
. I think I’m gunna throw up, he turned seawards, steadying himself against the rail. Jesus my head’s spinning… What the hell’s wrong with me? He shook his head and caught sight of Jones staring at him. Who is he..? Oh my God… Where am I..? What the f..? He retched over the side, but produced nothing. For Christ’s sake, he stooped and clutched his abdomen; then his legs started to give way and he tried in vain to grab onto the side-rail. He just managed to stay upright, although he was staggering around.
“Are you alright Christian?” Jones’ voice echoed in his head.
Bulmer tried to speak, but could form no words, he was losing control of his abilities; I can’t breathe… I can’t breathe… I’m…
Jones quickly grabbed him from behind, and then slowly moved him towards the side-rail.
BANG!!!
Bulmer’s head slammed down hard on the warm wooden rail; he felt the impact as the pain shot through him and immediately lost consciousness. He was unaware of being lifted over the side-rail and dropped into the clear blue water…
Jones stood motionless, waiting a few minutes, watching as Bulmer’s lifeless body remained submerged and slowly drifted away from the boat. He looked around, scanned the horizon, paused and then took a cloth. He wiped his fingerprints off the fishing gear, cleaned the glass that he’d handled and gathered up the two bottles he’d brought, placing them back in the carrier bag. He wiped the side-rail where he’d clambered over and using the cloth he carefully collected an array of empty beer bottles from the cabin, where Bulmer had left them, along with four full bottles which he emptied overboard, and arranged them all around the fishing gear.
Before disembarking with the bag, Jones took a black marker pen out of his pocket and very neatly wrote MDXVI on the glass in the cabin door. Then, being careful not to leave any fingerprints on the side-rail, he climbed back into the dinghy and returned to his own craft. He started the engine, drew up the anchor and sailed slowly away towards the south-east.
Chapter 1
Wednesday 7th March – Thursday 22nd March.
Dr Smith had spent the past two and a half hours seeing patients at the surgery, which he held at Orchard Croft Medical Centre. There had been the usual array of health related matters to deal with, none of which were too taxing for a senior GP of twenty-five years’ experience. He had worked at the centre for the past decade and taken the time to really get to know his patients.
While sitting at his desk, busy tidying up his notes and checking through e-mails, there was a quiet knock at his door. “Come in,” he said.
“Sorry for troubling you Dr Smith.”
“What can I do for you, Gillian?” he enquired, smiling. “I was expecting coffee.”
“Sorry. I’ve just received a call from the duty manager, Mrs Hoffman, at Cliff Crest. She said to let you know Jim Broadbent died this morning, and asked if you would go and certify the death.”
Smith glanced out of the window momentarily, and then looked back at his secretary, who was waiting patiently. “Let Mrs Hoffman know I’ll be there within the hour,” he said, rubbing his chin. “I’d hoped he might pull through; I was due to see him tomorrow. What a shame, he was such a nice old gentleman.”
“Yes he was, Dr Smith,” his secretary replied half smiling. “I’ll get you that coffee,” she added, closing the door behind her.
At 12.30 p.m. Smith parked his car outside Cliff Crest Residential Home; he walked up to the glass-fronted entrance and Mrs Hoffman, who had seen him pull up, was waiting to greet him. After exchanging pleasantries she escorted the doctor upstairs to the EMI Unit, where she walked with him down the corridor to Room 21.
“Do you need me to stay with you?” Mrs Hoffman asked, her keys jangling as she unlocked and opened the solid cream door.
Smith shook his head and they both entered, “I just need to ask you a couple of quick questions and then have a few minutes to complete the examination. I’ll lock the door when I’ve finished.” Then, placing his case onto the bed, rolling up his sleeves and reaching for his notepad, he asked, “What time did he die?”
“Sometime between 10.00 a.m. and 10.48. It was Jackie Capestone, one of the care workers, who discovered he’d passed away; she’d come to check on him at 10.48 and collect his mid-morning teacup.”
“So he was alive when tea was served, at 10.00?”
“Yes.”
“How did he seem?”
“Jackie said he was very quiet and sleepy, but responsive. Much the same as usual.”
“Did he drink any of the tea?”
“Yes, but only a small amount.”
Smith nodded as he scribbled down notes.
“We’ve been expecting the worst, as you know he’s been so ill, but it was still a shock.”
Smith nodded again, “Have the family been informed?”
“Yes, they’re on their way, they said they’d be here later this afternoon.”
“Do you know if they will be requiring an interment or cremation?”
“I’ve checked the records and it’s a cremation.”
The doctor made a note. “Right, thank you,” he said. “When I’ve finished I’ll pop down and see you in the main office.”
Mrs Hoffman left the room and Smith spent a few minutes formally examining Broadbent’s decrepit body; he found no signs of life and after another ten minutes the examination was complete. Death was to be attributed to myocardial infarction due to ischaemic heart disease. However, before completing the Medical Certificate, he picked up the telephone in Broadbent’s room and called Reception. Two minutes later there was a knock on the door and Mrs Hoffman appeared.
“You wanted a word Dr Smith. Is there something wrong?”
“I don’t think so. As far as I’m concerned this is an expected death; in other words where the cause is quite clear and I’ve attended the deceased during his last illness. But I just wanted to ask if you’d seen this?” he held out the palm of Broadbent’s left hand.
Mrs Hoffman came closer to get a better look and then shook her head, “I didn’t spot that. What does it mean?”
“One thousand, three hundred and sixteen, if I’m not mistaken.”
Mrs Hoffman shrugged and looked blank.
“Would a member of staff have written it?”
“I can’t imagine so; maybe Jim did it, sometime after washing… Look, there’s a pen.”
Smith glanced at the tray, “I wonder what significance one thousand, three hundred and sixteen has to him.”
“Perhaps it’s a pin number or a security code, or an amount of money. Maybe, realising he was nearing the end, he scribbled it on his hand so his family would know.”
“It’s an unconventional way to write it though.”
“Yes it is. Perhaps it’s in code. I’ll mention it to the family and ask if it means anything to them.”
Smith scratched the side of his nose and regarded her for a moment, “Right, I’ll make a note of it and I’ll complete the Medical Certificate and the Formal Notice.”
It took him another couple of minutes to deal with the paperwork. He handed the relevant copies to Mrs Hoffman and they both left the room, returning to the main entrance foyer.
“Let me know what the family have to say,” Smith said, preparing to leave.
“I will. And thank you for coming so promptly.”
Dr Smith went out to his car and drove the short distance back to Orchard Croft Medical Centre. It was 1.27 p.m.
Pauline Crean stared at the windscreen of her Range Rover, which was parked in a secluded, wet, litter-strewn lay-by just off the A65 in North Yorkshire. She was watching the rain droplets slowly descending the screen, and, whilst aware of her new acquaintance speaking, she wasn’t listening. She was thinking about Gerrard, what they’d done together, where they’d been, how she missed him, and what they’d be doing now if he were alive.
“Pauline. Pauline, are you alright?”
She snapped into focus and looked across to the passenger seat. “No, I
’m sorry, I’m anything but. It’s me, I don’t want any more pain, and this isn’t going to work. You deserve better.”
“Shouldn’t I be the judge of that?”
She glanced in the mirror as a large HGV pulled into the lay-by and parked up behind her. The rear wheel on the trailer unit was steaming and the driver jumped out of the cab, pulled up the collar on his high-vis jacket to protect him from the rain, and went to investigate. She looked back to the passenger seat, “I’m so screwed up… I don’t know what I’m doing half the time.”
“You’re still grieving.”
“It’s been two years.”
“It takes a long time to get over someone you’ve loved; someone who’s been such a major part of your life. Listen, we don’t need to rush things, if you prefer we can be friends; I’ll be there if you need someone to talk to, a shoulder to cry on.”
She blinked away a tear and smiled softly. “You’re a sweet young man and you have such a wise head on those broad shoulders, but I need to have some space; some time to sort myself out. I don’t want to string you along, particularly when you could be enjoying life; I’ll run you back into town.” She leant towards him, kissed him on the cheek and, sensing he was about to speak, put her index finger across his lips and slowly shook her head.
He indulged her wishes, and during the journey back to town neither spoke; again she was thinking about Gerrard as she pulled up in the square. She looked over, intending to apologise and say goodbye, but the passenger door was open and he was jumping out. The door closed with force and he walked away without looking back.
She felt tears welling up and pangs of guilt burning inside; she hit the accelerator pedal and drove towards home. Things need to change, and fast, she thought, pulling up at the farmhouse entrance gates.
Thursday 22nd March.
Hussain glanced at his watch, Blast; I’m going to be late. He quickly threw the paperwork in the bureau drawer. “I’ll have to sort this out later, I need to hurry darling.” He picked up the car keys and grabbed his bomber jacket from the back of the chair. “Can you text James, let him know I’m running late?”
