by Angie Smith
She dropped the phone and took hold of the gun with both hands, adopting the shooting stance position; she aimed at the centre of his forehead. “Do not move a muscle,” she snarled.
Williams stopped.
“Shoot the bastard,” Guilford-Johnston ordered, attempting to struggle free.
Furious, she turned the gun straight at him. “Right, Arsehole! I’ve told you more than once to be quiet. The next thought you’ll have will be the realisation that I… Do… Not… Make… Idle… Threats...” Her fingers tightened around the trigger.
“No, Maria!” Woods roared.
The crack of the bullet shattering through bone evaporated the tension, as did Guilford-Johnston’s blood splattering across the wall. Barnes dropped the gun and fell to her knees.
“Jesus Christ, Maria!” Woods said. “Why the hell did you do that?” He glanced up at Plant, who returned the look, but didn’t comment. The eerie silence was palpable.
THE END
Keep reading for an extract from the sequel
CXVI – SECRETS BROKEN
by Angie Smith
The second title in this trilogy, CXVI – SECRETS BROKEN, will be available shortly and sees Maria Barnes hunted by both the police and intelligence service; she’s wanted for the murder of Guilford-Johnston, the former MP. Only three people could possibly prove her innocence: Greg Woods, Jonathan Plant and Freddy Williams. Will these adversaries work together and come to her assistance, or will her nemesis be the one who saves her? Assuming, of course, that she is innocent...
Mike Hollis, together with the other jurors, made his way slowly into the dingy deliberations room and settled around the huge oval wooden table. The rustling of people sorting themselves out continued as the court usher — a plump, stuffy looking woman in her fifties — reminded them of their duty to select either a foreman or forewoman who would act as their spokesperson. Before leaving she collected their mobile phones, which having just been taken out of the courtroom were already switched off, and placed them in a secure cabinet. Hollis watched her disappear through the door and, on hearing the key turning in the lock, realised the deliberations could now commence. There was a call button on the wall that would summon the usher should they needed assistance, or have reached a verdict.
After spending four long weeks in court listening to the evidence, Hollis was relieved that the process was reaching its conclusion. He’d managed to form a bond with some of the jurors and become friends with them; he’d eaten in the cafeteria with them and chatted during the frequent breaks in proceedings. Everyone seemed friendly; everyone that is except an elderly gentleman who’d kept himself to himself and not entered into any of the camaraderie. The group thought him introverted; some ventured that he was mute, as they couldn’t remember him uttering a single word: when a few of them had said hello, or asked how he was, his response had always been simply to smile and nod. The group had nicknamed him the recluse.
Early in the proceedings Hollis had recognised that two of the other jurors stood out above the rest. A well-spoken woman in her mid-thirties named Marie Tasker, who had a friendly, but forceful personality, and Peter Goldwing, a man in his early forties, dressed in business attire and brimming with self-confidence; he’d appeared to be extremely knowledgeable on legal matters. Both Tasker and Goldwing formed their own separate circle of friends from within the group; Hollis was part of Goldwing’s circle.
It was therefore no surprise when Goldwing addressed the jurors. “Can we first choose a foreman?” he asked.
At this point Hollis shrunk back in his seat, having no intention of volunteering and praying someone else would be selected.
“I’d like to be the foreman,” Tasker said vehemently.
“Okay,” Goldwing replied. “I’d have offered if no-one else had wanted to do it, but I’m happy with Marie if everyone else is.”
Hollis smiled in relief as the jurors nodded to one another, indicating Tasker was acceptable.
“Right,” Goldwing said. “If that’s agreed. . .”
“I’d like to be foreman,” the recluse interrupted, in a calm, clear voice.
Hollis noticed Goldwing and Tasker glancing at each other.
“Err… okay,” Goldwing muttered. “We’ll take it to a vote. All those who. . .”
“Before we do that I’d like to say something,” the recluse insisted loudly.
“What! You’ve hardly said a word during the whole four weeks,” Tasker sneered.
“Well you’d know wouldn’t you?” the recluse responded, his eyes fixed firmly on her.
Hollis sensed the tension building; he let out a nervous laugh. “Come on then, let’s hear what you have to say.”
The recluse stood and began walking around the room, making eye contact with each and every juror. “Can I first say that I have no particular desire to be foreman.”
“So why are you wasting our time?” Tasker hissed.
The recluse cleared his throat. “As I was saying,” he emphasised through clenched teeth, “I have no particular desire to be foreman, but I do have a desire to ensure that neither Tasker nor Goldwing are.”
Tasker looked furtively at Goldwing who kept quiet.
“You see,” the recluse explained. “Goldwing and Tasker are imposters.”
There was a deathly silence and Hollis looked around the room, unsure if he’d heard correctly.
“What..? Don’t be ridiculous,” Goldwing said, shaking his head.
The recluse by now was around the other side of the table and he locked his stare on Tasker and Goldwing. “These two work for the Secret Service, or MI5 as you’ll probably know it, and their role here is to ensure we reach a guilty verdict.”
Goldwing laughed. “The man’s an idiot,” he scoffed.
“This is preposterous,” Tasker added. “I work at the hospital as a ward sister.”
“Yes, there is a ward sister at the hospital called Marie Tasker and here’s a photograph of her.” The recluse threw down a picture of a nurse dressed in a blue uniform with an ID badge indicating who she was.
“That doesn’t prove anything,” Tasker said.
“Where do you live?” the recluse asked.
“Adel.”
“26 Maidstone Avenue?”
“Yes. Why?”
Here’s a photograph of 26 Maidstone Avenue, taken yesterday morning at 8.00 a.m. with the same Marie Tasker that was in the previous picture coming out of the front door.” The recluse threw the image on the table. “And before you say anything else, here’s a photo taken at the same time of these two coming out of the Marriot Hotel, where they are both staying… she in room 226 and he in 227.”
Hollis asked to be shown the photographs that Tasker had snatched off the table and was gripping in her hand.
“These are fakes,” she said, reluctantly handing them over.
“Let me explain what these two have been up to,” the recluse said, again wandering around the table. “All your homes have been bugged, your telephone conversations listened to, and your movements closely monitored. . .”
“What!” Hollis exclaimed, staring in disbelief at the recluse, who continued.
“About a week before the trial started a couple of men came to my house claiming to be from the electricity company. They had the appropriate ID and said they needed to check my circuits as some anomalies had been identified. They then proceeded go through the whole house. Later I discovered they’d left concealed electronic bugging devices in the living room, bedroom and kitchen; they were located behind the wall socket in the kitchen and inside the light fittings in the living room and bedroom.”
“Hey, that happened at my house; someone came to check the electrics. I remember it now,” Hollis said.
“Yes, it happened at my house too,” said another juror.
“And mine,” another three simultaneously said.
“Since that time they’ve been listening to your conversations; anything you have discussed linked to th
e trial has been analysed and logged.”
Hollis looked at Tasker who appeared paralysed and unsure what to do.
“Also, you might have noticed that at each coffee or lunch break Tasker and Goldwing have been vociferous — even though the judge warned against it — in discussing the evidence presented that day and asking for your individual thoughts. You must have noticed that both of them are vehement supporters of a guilty verdict.”
Hollis turned to Goldwing. “What the hell are you two up to?”
But the recluse wasn’t finished. “Each night these two report back to their superior. All the day’s events and your opinions are dissected; they are given instructions on who or what to focus on the following day. Listen to this,” the recluse said, placing a small audio transmitter in the middle of the table. “It’s last night’s conversation between the three of them.” He pressed play and a discussion commenced; it was clearly Tasker and Goldwing having a conference call with another man. It had obviously been recorded the day before, as the content was about yesterday’s events in court and the thoughts of various jurors and how they might vote when it came to the verdict. Tasker and Goldwing were given instructions on how to convince jurors the female defendant was absolutely guilty.
“I want these two thrown off the jury,” Hollis said, standing up.
“So what do we do now?” asked another juror.
The recluse looked down at his watch. “There will be a knock on the door shortly and Goldwing will be informed that he has an urgent phone call and we’ll be asked to stop deliberating while he goes to the main office.”
Just at that moment there was a loud knock.
“Exceptional timing,” the recluse said, smiling.
The court usher entered and instructed everyone to stop deliberating. She asked Goldwing to follow her to the main office.
“Bye,” Hollis said sarcastically, waving at Goldwing. He turned to the recluse. “How did you know that was going to happen?”
“Because Tasker has a listening device in her handbag; every word we have just spoken has been relayed to her colleagues.”
Hollis grabbed hold of Tasker’s handbag.
“Hey!” she shouted, trying to snatch it back.
He ignored her protests and promptly emptied the contents onto the table. “Where is it?” he demanded.
“That’s it,” the recluse said, gently tapping his pen on a gold coloured make-up compact.
Hollis picked it up off the table, threw it on the floor and stamped on it; the compact smashed, revealing electronic wiring and circuiting. “So how do you want to play this?” he asked.
“We wait. Goldwing will be getting advice and they’ll be deciding what to do.”
“What can they do?”
“Basically, anything they want to. They could plant false information about any one of us and claim a retrial, or they could have the jury dismissed and one of us thrown in jail. The important thing is that we all stick together and back one another up. Luckily I’ve got the listening devices that they left in my house, with fingerprints and DNA, locked away securely, along with the photographic evidence of these two cavorting in the hotel, and the recordings of all their telephone conversations.”
Hollis threw a sideways glance at Tasker.
“Who are you?” she asked the recluse.
“You know who I am, or at least you think you do!”
About the Author
Angie Smith was born in Doncaster and educated at Huddersfield University where she graduated with a First Class Honours Degree in Education and Training. After a long career in adult education, training and performance management she retired early to pursue other ventures.
She travels extensively, and was nominated for an award on her knowledge transfer partnerships work, during which she co-produced and presented a journal article at the International Social Work Conference in Durban.
Unfortunately in 2013 she was diagnosed with breast cancer and, following a year of extensive and gruelling treatment, her desire to write was rekindled. The novel, CXVI - The Beginning of the End, is the first in this crime thriller trilogy.
She currently lives in West Yorkshire with her husband, youngest son and two dogs.
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
