To Kill Or Be Killed

by Richard Wiseman

  Stanton, wet and exhausted hauled himself onto the back platform deck of the boat. The canvas cover was folded back and the door to the cabin was closed. He gathered himself, drew his pistol from the plastic bag. He checked the action carefully and on his knees peeked through the door window. Both men were seated left and right in the wheel house. Opening the door would alert them and there was no way to keep both under the barrel of the gun. He measured strides to the wheel seats and pulled the door open. He passed through the cabin pistol ahead of him and when Griffith’s head was centre of the sight he squeezed.

  There was a shocking explosion of blood against the inside of the wind shield, Dean froze in his seat, gagging at the slumped body of his buyer, a man he’d met less than an hour ago. The body twitched. Dean turned with an agony of fear in his stomach and so much of it showing in his eyes to look down the barrel of the PSS.

  Dean was stunned that the pistol had made no sound. There had been no bang and no flash. The silence of the death, as if by some evil magic shocked him greatly. It had been as if Griffith’s head had spontaneously exploded.

  “Don’t move. Have you got an auto pilot?”

  Dean nodded dumb fear tying his tongue.

  “Set course for Aberystwith and put it on. No sudden moves.”

  Dean did as he was told under Stanton’s evil gaze.

  “Show me the controls then we’ll get the charts and have a chat.”

  Dean showed Stanton over the controls with the occasional glance at Griffith’s corpse, oozing blood over the wheel house. When Stanton was satisfied he sat with Dean in the lounge cabin, the two men sitting opposite each other. Stanton ran his eye over the sea between Ardrossan and the Welsh coast.

  “What’s this all about?” Dean asked.

  “A boat theft.” Stanton said coldly not looking up.

  “That’s it? Why kill a man?” Dean’s voice was high pitched and betrayed his fear and shock.

  “I don’t leave witnesses.”

  “What kind of thief are you?” Dean asked.

  “I’m not just a thief.” Stanton raised his eyes from the chart and looked Dean in the eyes. “I’m mostly an assassin. I needed a boat.”

  “Oh.” Dean’s face fell. Then suddenly with fear and triumph he said “You’re the man who escaped from Perth aren’t you.” Stanton nodded and Dean fell silent.

  His planned route in mind and how to follow it clear Stanton readied himself for the next unsavoury task.

  “Get me some sheets from the cabins.”

  They went below and collected sheets. Stanton drove Dean at gunpoint back to the wheelhouse.

  “Wrap the body in the sheets and drag it to the back of the boat.”

  “His name was Mr Griffiths, Tom Griffiths.” Dean gagged as he pulled the body onto the sheets and wrapped the dead man. “I don’t suppose that matters to you?”

  Stanton didn’t answer. He knew what was coming he’d been there before, twice. Two times he’d had to listen to the victim’s of his assassinations before he was ready to kill them.

  “My name is Dean, Kevan Dean.”

  “Just wrap the body and drag it out.” Stanton’s voice was like the scraping of metal on an iceberg.

  “I have a family… a wife and children… my son is nine and my daughter is only two… I haven’t done anything…” Dean’s voice was desperate almost a sob.

  “Just do as you’re told.”

  “Whatever you’re doing… I could offer money… everything I own…” Dean looked into Stanton’s face and saw a little hope in the assassin’s raised eye brow.

  “I’d need a million cash?” Stanton barked out harshly knowing that even if Dean had the money and gave it to him he’d still have to kill him.

  Dean’s face fell.

  “I’m worth that, but not in cash.” He said quietly.

  “Too bad.” Stanton shrugged the death sentence.

  Dean carried on and dragged the body out of the narrow door and out onto the back of the boat under the evil eye of the pistol. Stanton looked and saw that the coasts were hazy lines a good distance away; they’d just passed the southern tip of Arran. They both stood at the back of the boat, Dean standing over the mummified body of the banker.

  “Throw it over.”

  “Can I say a prayer?” Dean asked, part stalling and part feeling the need to pray.

  “If you think anyone will listen.”

  Dean bowed his head, trying hard from memories of church in childhood to get the words right. He crossed himself, wishing that he’d led a more godly life, been less concerned with his business, spent more time with his son. He began to cry, lifting the body he said the Lord’s Prayer out loud. Griffith’s body made a dull smack as it hit the water.

  Stanton was expecting tears and begging, it had been the way before, but Dean mustered some pride. He turned and faced Stanton self consciously wiping the tears from his face.

  “Do you think anyone will pray for you when your time comes?” He asked Stanton a note of anger rising in his voice.

  “Does it matter? Drop to your knees and ask whatever God you believe in to save you or welcome you it doesn’t matter to me.”

  “I’ll say my prayers standing. I won’t die on my knees.”

  “Then stand on the edge, facing out.”

  “No you look me in the eye when you kill me you cold blooded son of a bitch!”

  Stanton smiled. “You’re brave. Okay Kevan Dean, as you wish.”

  “If and when they find my body I want my son to know that I faced my killer.”

  “Touching.” Stanton said aimed the pistol at Dean’s head and pulled the trigger.

  Dean knew what was coming and knew he had his chance. He knew the pistol was silent and so focused all his attention on Stanton’s trigger finger, no easy task as the boat rose and fell, but the will to survive can make people momentarily superhuman, sometimes.

  Very suddenly he threw his hands to his face covering it, cried out and dropped back as he saw Stanton’s finger tighten. Stanton had fired. Dean fell backwards, unhurt, into the Irish Sea. The boat was doing twelve knots and the bump and ride of its passage made Stanton’s vision unclear. He felt sure he’d shot him dead centre of the head, but he watched the body for a moment and assured that it wasn’t moving went to clean the wheel house. Stanton knew he rarely missed.

  Dean lay still on the water for as long as his breath allowed him. When he raised his head the boat was distant. Dean knew he didn’t have long in water that cold, but Arran couldn’t be too far back. Dean swam for his life thinking all the time of his family.

  Chapter 74

  Baker Street

  6 p.m.

  April 18th

  Jaz and Shadz had parked and walked up to the Sherlock Holmes hotel. It was their first hotel check. They went into reception. They were greeted at the desk by an admonished receptionist, no longer eating her sandwich and silently fuming over the temp worker who’d dropped her in it with the manager. She fixed a smile on her face, but struggled to maintain it.

  “Hello can I help at all?”

  Jaz pulled out the badge and held it up for inspection along with the picture of Mason, captured from the recent CCTV footage in the area.

  “Have you seen this man?”

  The girl pushed her face closer and squinted at the slightly fuzzy black and white image. Recognition dawned.

  “Yes I have. He was here fifteen minutes ago dressed in kitchen staff uniform.”

  “Is he still here?” Jaz almost shouted fear suddenly tightening her stomach muscles.

  “I don’t know. I could get someone to check.”

  “No don’t.” Jaz fast dialled the DIC contact number and spoke hurriedly. “Yeah it’s Jaz at the Sherlock Holmes on Baker Street. Get the rest of the teams here we’ve found Mason.”

  The reply was simple. Sit in reception, look unobtrusive and wait for the other teams to get there. Jaz told the girl to say nothing and she and Shadz took places at a t
able, seated on a small comfortable sofa, backs to the wall.

  Half a mile away one of the DIC teams was entering reception at the Bickenhall when they got their call to the Sherlock Holmes. The other teams with five negatives on hotels between them turned and honed in on their team mates on Baker Street.

  Mason had spent the fifteen minutes prowling the corridors holding a plate of sandwiches avoiding do not disturbs and had already tried three rooms to no avail. Everyone must have been using the self service combination safes in the top of the wardrobes. He finally entered a room and was about to call out ‘room service’ when the sound of the shower indicated an occupant too busy to hear him. He didn’t close the door, padded on the balls of his feet past the closed door to the small bathroom and came across personal effects on a dresser. He picked up the wallet, put down the plate of sandwiches, turned about and was about to leave when the screech of car tyres in the road below, heard from the slightly open window, drew him across the room. He peeked through the edge of net curtains to see two cars illegally parked outside and busy, hurried looking people getting out. Security, he knew it.

  The ceasing of the shower focussed his attention, he padded quickly to the door, lifted the fawn mackintosh and tweed hat from back of the door and left, quietly closing it. The room’s occupant emerged a micro second later and began drying himself, looking at himself in the full length mirror. It was whilst putting on his pants that he suddenly noticed the sandwiches.

  Out in the corridor Mason recalled that his clothes were in the gents’ toilet near reception. He pulled the coat around him and sure from the map in his mind that the lifts were opposite the toilet he took the lift to ground floor.

  DIC staff were gathered in the foyer. The decision not to call police had been made higher up. Shadz was given the job of watching the reception area, others were sent to the exits and Jaz with another was to sweep through the hotel floors. The DIC teams split to their tasks as Mason, hat on head, emerged from the lift and went into the toilet. Locked in a cubicle he began changing as quickly as possible.

  Shadz stood in reception looking around, somewhat tense. He kept the image of Mason in his head and suddenly noticed from the mental image that Mason was dressed as a temp worker, kitchen clothes. Shadz decided to check the toilet to see if he had changed there. Learning the lesson from Glasgow bus station he drew his Sig as he entered only to find himself pointing it straight at Mason’s head as he emerged fully dressed from the cubicle.

  The two stood staring at each other and Mason grinned as he saw the slight shaking of the hand holding the weapon and the slow gulp Shadz made as he swallowed his nervously rising bile.

  Mason tensed his muscles, then relaxed them and took a single step towards Shadz.

  “Don’t move Mason! Put your hands in the air!” Shadz spoke nervously.

  “Or what?” Mason’s reply came with a wry smile.

  “I’ll shoot. I swear I’ll kill you.”

  “Shoot an unarmed man? You don’t have the balls.”

  Mason stepped towards Shadz and made a scissor movement with both hands, sweeping them into Shadz’ gun holding wrist. The impact knocked the Sig from his hand and Mason followed with a forward kick to the stomach. Shadz folded exhaling through his teeth. Mason grabbed his head, rammed it down onto his up coming knee, rocking Shadz with a powerful blow and smashing his nose. Mason swept his hand under Shadz’ head, tilted his chin up and broke his jaw with a ram rod downward blow. Shadz crumpled. Mason watched the body slump, picked up the Sig, slid it into his belt below his coat, checked his reflection and walked straight out. There was no-one to be seen. He walked out of the hotel and hailed a passing taxi.

  Time for that rest and relaxation he thought to himself as the taxi drove away in the direction of Camden.

  Back in the hotel on the second floor Jaz found a man standing outside his door holding a plate of sandwiches and talking to a member of the waiting staff.

  “… gone and my coat and my hat and these were on the table. I want the manager, now!”

  Jaz pulled out her badge.

  “What’s going on?” She asked.

  The man was half way through his story when Jaz connected the theft, the temp worker at reception, the sandwiches, the man’s words as she approached and the flash image of a man in a coat and hat entering the toilet from the lifts just as she left the foyer. She pulled out her phone and called Shadz on fast dial; it rang twice before she leapt to the stairs and tumbled down them into reception.

  She dashed across to the toilet door, drew her Sig, off safety, and entered the toilet. Shadz lay in a pool of blood on the floor. Jaz nearly cried out and pulling herself together and holding his wrist felt a flood of relief feeling the weak, but regular pulse. Once more on the phone she called an ambulance and then the rest of the DIC team. Then she checked Shadz. He was unconscious, damaged, but clearly alive.

  She waited with him and called DIC centre. The check on CCTV was stepped up. A trace on the taxi was begun too.

  Chapter 75

  Claridge’s Hotel Mayfair London

  6 – 15 p.m.

  April 18th

  Claridge’s hotel in Mayfair was just what the doctor ordered for Cobb. The contact had dropped Cobb off at the grandiose entrance and had the porter pull a glossy set of luggage from the boot of the Honda. Cobb out of place in his rough looking clothes, carrying the lumpy black bag with weapons in it, drew disparaging looks from the severe receptionist until his reservation under a diplomatic booking, no less than first class and a suite at that, quickly changed her mind.

  Cobb’s luggage was carried ahead of him into the lift and onward into the well designed and impressive one bedroom Claridge’s suite.

  Cobb tipped the porter, though not too generously and waited for the man to leave. He took a turn around the rooms, found the mini bar and poured some Bourbon into a glass and dropped some ice in. He took a long drawn out swallow from the drink to feel the ice rest against his top lip before it dropped back into the glass.

  He smiled almost manically.

  The first class treatment suited him well. To the victor the spoils he now knew to be true. He unpacked the black leather cases to find full sets of clothes, which he unpacked and put away. There were two suits, one dinner suit and a black single breasted wool rich suit. He briefly checked the sizes and was impressed at the accuracy. There were clean cotton socks and boxer shorts in plain sober colours and the shirts were well made and comfortable looking. There was a stainless steel Rolex Oyster in its box, white gold cufflinks and Cobb’s favourite after shave, Calvin Klein Contradiction. There was a set of Gillette’s best disposables and every other type of bathroom self grooming product. There was also an envelope with five hundred pounds in notes and change, all used. Finally to his great joy there was a carton of Lucky Strike and a stainless steel Zippo, already primed and fuelled.

  Cobb opened the carton slit open a new soft pack, flicked a cigarette out, did a neat trick lighting the Zippo with a finger click, drew in and pushed out the smoke in a heady sigh and went back to the mini bar. After having poured and drunk another glass of Bourbon he began to try and book a table in the restaurant only to find that it had already been done. Having also established that there was a Casino nearby he headed for the bathroom.

  It was half an hour later that he emerged and dressed himself in the dinner suit. He checked his reflection. He’d made a few small changes to his appearance, not much, but enough to make the ‘search pictures’ vaguely inaccurate. He checked the time with the speaking clock and set the Rolex, slipping the expanding strap comfortably over his thick wrist.

  He sat for a moment with the PSS pistol laying on a hand towel. He took it apart and cleaned it. He had only four rounds left, but he did have the black bag with the sub machine gun under the bed, there were three clips of ammunition too. Cobb put the silent PSS pistol into the waist band at the back of his trousers and turned his reflection in the full length mirror this way and t
hat. Sure that he looked great and that the pistol didn’t show he picked up the cash and his key and walked to the lift.

  The Gordon Ramsey restaurant was expensively low key and Cobb was amused that they’d booked him a reservation, that couldn’t have been easy. Cobb knew that the cost of the dinner would go with the room and someone else was picking up the bill. It was all gravy from there and he felt sure he’d make the hit and take the million. With the hardships of the last days in mind, like Mason, he set his heart on some rest and recreation. He settled down in the 1930’s style restaurant, plush red chairs and bright white linen creating a blood stain contrast, the irony of which was not lost on him. When the food was drifted in by waves of waiters it was exquisite, as was the well chosen wine.

  Chapter 76

  Kildonan

  Isle of Arran

  7 p.m.

  April 18th

  Kevan Dean was cold, shivering and shaking, and dripping water as he crawled onto the rain spattered ground at Kildonan. It was getting dark and there were lights on behind curtains in nearby houses. He plodded heavily over rocks and up to the road. A short, but heavily walked distance down the road he reached the nearest house and leg muscles giving out as he got there entered the garden got to the door and rang the bell.

  There was a long pause after he heard the bell ring inside the house. Dean rehearsed what he was going to say to have most impact. A big man opened the door.

  “What do you want?”

  “My name is Kevan Dean, I’ve escaped from a boat where I witnessed a murder.”

  “What?”

  “Please help me. I’ve swum for miles. I’ve witnessed a murder and escaped with my life.”