The Rubicon
A Gripping Crime Novel
By
Andrew Heasman
COPYRIGHT
Published in 2020 by Seahawk Publishing UK.
Copyright © ANDREW HEASMAN.
First Edition
The author has asserted their moral right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.
All Rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, copied, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written consent of the copyright holder, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Also available in paperback format.
Cover design by Warren Design.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
DEDICATION
Also by Andrew Heasman
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
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Legal References
About the Author
Contact the Author
Also by the Author...
Coming Soon...
About the Author
About the Publisher
DEDICATION
To my family – Love as always.
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To all members of the police – past, present, and future – whose families regularly receive abuse and threats simply because of their loved one’s career choice.
Also by Andrew Heasman
Fiction Books –
“Reflex Action: A Thrilling Crime Novel”
(Book #1 in “The Crime Collection”).
Non-Fiction Books –
“Beyond the Waves: My Royal Navy Adventures”
(Book #1 in “The Memoir Series”).
“Single-Crewed: My Life as a Police Officer”
(Book #2 in “The Memoir Series”).
“Gone Diving: My Adventures Above and Below the Waves”
(Book #3 in “The Memoir Series”).
Available now in paperback and E-Book formats from Amazon worldwide.
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* * *
When Julius Caesar led his army across the Rubicon River in 49BC, he knowingly broke the law, committing himself to a war against the Roman Senate and Pompey.
In modern times, to ‘cross the Rubicon’ refers to a limit or an act after which there is no turning back. It results in irrevocable commitment that will strongly influence future events and is often referred to as a crisis point, a tipping point, or the point of no return.
* * *
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Chapter 1
Present Day – 23:25 – Monday 9th January.
Cannondale Drive was silent and still.
By day, it was used as a rat-run, a shortcut, but at this time of night it was quiet, the local residents tucked up in bed, oblivious to the world outside.
Aaron had arrived early. He peeled back the sleeve of his padded jacket to reveal a wristwatch. Five more minutes until the appointed time. He watched and waited. It had already been a stressful day, but now, standing in the freezing air, with a potentially violent confrontation imminent, he felt a relentless pounding in his head, increasing in intensity as his anxiety levels rose steadily.
He was dressed for the cold, his quilted jacket doing an adequate job of keeping the frigid air at bay. However, as he stood beneath the frost-laden branches of an old European Ash tree with a dusting of powdery snow on the ground around him, he questioned the wisdom of wearing all black. His plan to keep a low profile, of sticking to the shadows, suited his attire, but contrasting starkly against the brilliant white of the newly fallen snow, he now felt as if the eyes of the world were upon him.
He cupped his bare hands to his mouth, a cloud of white mist rising as he blew warm air onto his fingers. He shuffled his feet, the cold penetrating his work boots, as he studied the house on the opposite side of the road. Number 75 was a semi-detached red brick building of 1950’s design - just like every other house on the street. The pavement outside it was uneven, the grass verge unkempt, and the road lined with trees and parked cars. It had a small front garden laid to lawn and a narrow driveway that extended from the road, down the side of the premises, presumably to a garage and garden at the rear. It was in total darkness. He scanned the windows at the front, upstairs and down, but there was no sign of anybody within.
He checked the time again. His instructions had been precise - ‘Be here at 11.30pm.’ There was nothing for it, he would have to find a way into the house and see if Greenwood was hiding inside. Slowly, he stepped towards the building, the dull crunch of the crystalline snow beneath his feet echoing loudly as he moved.
He wondered whether he should use the front door, but one look at its charred surface answered his question. He smiled, a feeling of satisfaction wafting over him. Although he had not been there to see it for himself, the fire must have put the Fear-of-God into the house’s residents. It was just a shame that it had not had enough time to take hold before being extinguished. Still, they had got the message - loud and clear.
Aaron crept along the driveway, his eyes darting from shadow to shadow, his ears alert to the slightest sound. Suddenly, he found himself illuminated by a blinding light. He froze mid-stride and then raised his arm to protect his eyes, but it was too late, his night vision had been ruined. Damn the neighbour’s security lighting! He scuttled around the corner into the sanctuary of the darkness shrouding the rear garden.
With his face pressed against the patio doors, he peered through the glass, straining to see beyond his own reflection. He gently tried the door handles. Locked. The back door was within arm’s reach to his left, so he tugged at its handle and to his surprise, it opened with a tiny squeak. That’s careless, he thought. It’s almost as if I’m expected. He entered silently.
Standing as still as a statue, he listened intently for any telltale noises whilst surveying his surroundings. He had entered the kitchen. In darkness, he moved through to the hallway, his passage illuminated by what little moonlight had managed to penetrate the frosted glass panels of the front door. Opening a glazed internal door to his right, he edged into the lounge. With his right hand, he groped along the wall, feeling for a light switch. There it was. He flicked it, but nothing happened, it remained dark. With a cursory glance into the shadows,
he returned to the hallway and headed for the stairs.
Sliding his left hand along the wooden banister, he climbed upwards, his eyes never leaving the wall at the top of the landing. One step, two steps, “CREAK!” The sound was deafening. If anyone had been hiding from him, he had just given away his location. Aaron was angry with himself for making such an error. He was also angry with Greenwood. Where was he? He should not be late; it was him who had arranged the time for the meeting.
At the top of the stairs, the narrow landing stretched to the left with 5 identical oak veneered doors facing towards him. One at a time, he opened a door, stepped into the gloom, and searched for the elusive Adam Greenwood. The first door opened into a child’s room - faded pink wallpaper, a Princess bed, and toys scattered across the floor being the giveaway. Room number two was an adult’s bedroom - a double bed, wardrobes, and clothes piled neatly on a chair. The third room was clearly a box room, a dumping ground for unwanted and unloved knick-knacks. That left two other doors - and the loft space, of course - but why would he be hiding up there? HE was the one who had arranged the rendezvous.
Turning back onto the landing, Aaron’s heart leapt into his mouth and he gave an involuntary jump to the rear. The furthest door, the one leading into the bathroom, was now open and silhouetted against the light from the window was a shadowy figure of a man.
“Jes... What the fuck are you doing? I nearly had a heart attack, man.”
The shadow made no reply.
Aaron spotted the landing light switch and turned it on, but again, there was no power. The house remained in darkness.
“What’s going on Greenwood? It is you, isn’t it?”
Silence.
Aaron was becoming unnerved by the lack of response. He was also becoming annoyed, angry even. Was Greenwood taking the piss?
The figure was dressed in dark clothing, a hood pulled up to conceal his facial features. His arms were tensed by his side, but there was something else, he was holding an object in his right hand. As the moonlight glinted off its surface, it suddenly dawned on Aaron what it was – a knife – a BIG knife! Fear took over. In such circumstances you tend to do one of two things; fight or flight. His only escape route was beyond the shadow man and so was not an option. To fight against an armed person when he had no weapon, himself, would be suicidal. The only thing that he could think to do was to blag his way out of the situation, use bravado and bluff to talk himself into safety. If he pretended that he still had the upper hand, he might be able to turn the tables on him.
“You called me here, so why all the drama? What’re you hiding for?”
There was no reply.
“What you gonna do with that blade? Kill me?” He chuckled to himself, but there was fear in his humour. “You harm me and your family will die!”
Still no reply.
“Did you hear me? Of course you did. Anyway, enough of this bullshit, you’ve got my money. Hand it over and maybe we’ll forget about this stupidity. Who knows, I might even leave you and your family alone.”
The shadow man made no acknowledgement that Aaron had spoken.
“Oh, nice touch with my boy earlier.” A sinister expression descended over Aaron’s face. “You’ll regret messing with my family. Or maybe you already have? How’s Jennifer, by the way? Has she woken from her coma yet?” There was an intimidating tone to his voice.
Whether Aaron had intended to force the shadowy figure to become enraged, not even he was sure, but it had failed. He continued to stare at Aaron, unspeaking, unmoving, and cold. Threats had not worked, maybe sarcasm would?
“Strong silent type are we?” He smirked. “Let’s stop all this crap. Give me my money and I’ll be on my way.”
Aaron held out his right hand, palm upwards, and stepped towards the man. As he did so, he felt a dull thrust to the stomach. It was like a push, there was no pain, but the wind had been knocked out of him. The shadow man held him upright, supporting his weight. Aaron had been involved in fights many a time, but this did not feel right, this was different. He glanced down. The knife was sticking out of his stomach, the blade hidden from view, its hilt gripped firmly in his attacker’s gloved hand. Realisation hit Aaron like a lightning bolt – he had been stabbed! He raised his eyes towards the man’s face. He made eye contact with his assailant. Then a searing pain shot through him as the knife was forcefully twisted deep within his body.
Suppressing a scream, Aaron stared with disbelief into the man’s dead eyes. He clawed at his shoulders, but his energy was draining fast. His knees buckled and he slumped to the floor, his own hands replacing those of the knifeman on the weapon’s handle.
“Help me, plea...” he attempted to say, but the look on the man’s emotionless face stifled his words. Greenwood looked down on Aaron, uncaring and without remorse.
As Aaron’s blood pooled on the landing carpet, events went into slow motion. It was as if he was watching the scene unfold from above. The pain vanished, only to be replaced by a bitter coldness that engulfed his entire body. He watched as his assailant crouched, leaning towards him, his lips moving. His words were disjointed, but what was said sent shockwaves through Aaron’s entire body. He knew that he only had moments to live, but he remained defiant to the last.
Aaron had heard that your life was supposed to flash before your eyes at times like this. He had been told that he would see a tunnel with a light drawing him in. But to Aaron, his death was a disappointment – no life images, no lights of redemption – just darkness closing in on him as he faded into oblivion.
Part Ⅰ
The Good Samaritan...
Chapter 2
Three months earlier – 01:00 – Monday 1st October.
He sighed deeply.
Adam Greenwood peered through the crack in the curtains, staring into space, frustrated at being unable to sleep. He had been awake for nearly an hour, silently pacing around the bedroom, avoiding the squeaky floorboard by the radiator, and trying desperately not to wake Sarah, his wife. He turned to look at her, the gentle rise and fall of the duvet as it moved in time with her breathing, highlighted in the amber glow from the streetlights outside. Not a care in the world.
In complete contrast, the pressures of being self-employed had taken their toll on Adam, playing on his mind. Six years ago, it had all been fun, fresh and exciting. He had returned from his travels with his soon-to-be wife, and he had retrained as a locksmith, establishing his own business. He had totally fallen for the hype. “Be your own boss,” they had said. “Answer to nobody.” “Be in control of your own destiny.” What they had failed to mention was how long a new business venture took to establish itself, living on edge the whole time, wondering when the next customer would appear. Even after he had managed to secure a loyal client base, even after he had cultivated regular contracts with local businesses, his troubles had not ended. Cash flow was a big problem. Some clients took weeks - months even - to pay their invoices, yet those requiring outgoing payments wanted them instantly. It was a constant juggling act trying to keep everybody happy, something that he had not been prepared for, especially with all of the stress associated with it. He would have loved to have shared his concerns with Sarah, but it was his business, his problem, something that he had to work out for himself. It was better that she continued to think that everything was fine.
He returned to the window, carefully brushing aside the curtains so that he could clearly see the street below. All was quiet. Not a breath of wind, not a rustle of a fallen leaf. There were no signs of life, no dog walkers, no urban foxes, no movement at all - it was past midnight, after all. Through the skeletal branches of the tree outside his window, Adam looked down on his pride and joy, his work van, partially parked on the grass verge, sandwiched between his neighbour’s cars. Directly opposite was the entrance to a cul-de-sac, its road so narrow that the residents of its 1950’s style houses struggled to pass two cars side by side, let alone actually park in the street. Luckily, they all had driv
eways, not that you could actually see them as most properties were hidden behind tall privet hedges and neatly trimmed conifers. It gave the neighbourhood an overgrown, almost claustrophobic ambience. By day, the streets were dark, sombre, industrial, but by night, bathed in the yellow light of the streetlamps, they looked warm, cosy, and welcoming.
Adam loved the hours of darkness. Night shifts had always been his favourite. As he stared into infinity, his mind drifting, his worries dissipating, he could hear the distant wail of a police siren. To many, this would have been a source of concern. What trouble might they be rushing towards? Was somebody injured, or worse? But to Adam, this sound was one of reassurance, of comfort, a familiar memory from the past, from a time when he wore that same uniform and rushed through the night protecting those who slept blissfully unaware of what was going on around them.
He closed the curtains, a slight smile on his lips as he remembered the good old days, and headed for the bathroom.
He stopped abruptly. He could hear the faint, but rapid thud of footsteps in the distance. They were getting nearer. Somebody was running, he surmised. No - more than one person running - two, maybe. His dormant police instinct had been roused. He sensed trouble. Suddenly, the silence of the night was broken by a shout.
“STOP - Police.”
It was a female voice, high-pitched and out of breath. Why do they always shout that? Adam wondered. Nobody ever takes notice. It was a strange thought to pop into his head, especially with something potentially serious unfolding outside. But having come from a police background, it was something that had always niggled him. He had shouted it himself many a time. I guess it’s some sort of instinctive reaction, he thought. He moved back to the window to see what was happening.
The first thing to catch his eye was the fluorescent yellow of a police high-visibility jacket to his left, completely out of place in its dark surroundings, charging down the slight incline of the hill, in the centre of the road. Wrapped within it was a police officer, her utility belt clearly bouncing up and down around her waist as the unfastened blouson billowed out behind her. The rest of her attire blended into the darkness, her bulky body armour, her hat, black combat trousers and calf length boots.
The Rubicon Page 1
