by Jay Gill
“Why does nobody see I am moving on? That’s why I told Monica how I feel. I know it’s time for things to change, and I want her to be a bigger part of my life.”
Dad pushed his pint aside, his face serious. He leaned forward and spoke in a low voice.
“What has really changed? How have you made even the smallest change to show her how much she means to you? All you’ve done is ask her on a date. Well, whoopee-do. What next? You carry on with the same routine? The only difference being that you now share a bed? You’re smart, but you’re avoiding seeing what’s important. Instead, you bury your head in the sand by working every hour there is.
“You need to do some serious soul-searching before it’s too late. Otherwise, you’ll lose her. And in all honesty, if you can’t see what you need to do, and how she needs you to show her you really mean business, then as far as I’m concerned it’s for the best. Just let her go. Let the poor girl move on with her life.” He picked up his pint and downed the remaining ale in one. He held up the glass. “Want another?”
“I can’t lose her, Dad,” I blurted.
“Then you know what to do. This isn’t a time for half measures. I’ll deal with your mother when the time comes. You just get on with making your future the best it can be. No more mucking about. Now, my throat is dry from talking. I’m having another pint. Do you want another orange juice or not?”
I nodded mutely. I knew what had to be done, and in a way I had been simply looking for confirmation I wouldn’t be being stupid.
Dad returned with the drinks and we continued the evening talking about the ideas I’d had of how a future with Monica and the girls might look.
Chapter Forty-Six
The question of how to deal with Patrick Hicks had been plaguing him.
There were certain results he wanted from the whole endeavour. Most importantly, Melanie must suspect, but not know for sure, that the killing of Patrick had been done for her. It should stand as a symbol of how far he was willing to go for her. She must understand how special she was to him and how much he wanted to keep her. Equally, she should be left without any doubt that she meant little or nothing to Patrick. Melanie should know the truth – that she had made a mistake and that her husband forgave her. He needed to demonstrate all of the above without saying as much. Instead, it should be symbolic.
Having decided what was required, everything fell into place. He felt silly for not having thought of it sooner. All he really needed to do was to display the truth. Showing someone the truth was always far more powerful than telling them, he knew. Nobody ever liked being told they were wrong. In fact, this could all be done without him telling her anything. He could let the evidence speak for itself; all he had to do was prepare it. That would be quite fun. In a way he would be providing a public service. How many marriages had Hicks ruined? How many marriages would he ruin in the future if he were left unchecked?
It took Cutler almost two weeks to learn what he could of Hicks’s habits. All this research took time. He couldn’t make a mistake; otherwise it would all be for nothing. Naturally, Hicks worked out a lot. He did a lot of running and circuit training. Ran his classes from three separate sports centres on different evenings; they appeared to be very popular indeed. He had his private clients during the day; some early morning sessions as well as at lunchtime and early afternoon.
In between classes he seemed to enjoy socialising in coffee shops and also spent a disproportionate amount of time clothes shopping. In fact, Cutler was shocked at how much time one man could spend shopping. He hated shopping himself and, as far he knew, so did most other men. But not Hicks; looking good was obviously very important to him, and he invested a lot of time and money in that department. It occurred to Cutler it was a shame Hicks didn’t buy his footwear from Cassley Shoes.
At any rate, Hicks was a very busy boy. Cutler guessed he was in his early thirties and, from what he could make out, had at least six married women besides Melanie on the go.
Some of the private sessions took place in homes, which made it difficult to know what was really going on. Only if there was a clear indication that extra ‘sexy’ workouts were being provided and the woman was obviously married did Cutler add the encounter to the shortlist.
It seemed Hicks didn’t believe in age discrimination. The ages of the women on the shortlist varied wildly, from the soon-to-be-married young woman wanting to look her best for her big day to the retired, more mature woman wanting to remain vibrant.
Under various pretences, Cutler had spoken to each woman, learned her name and followed that up with further background checking, which included speaking to her neighbours and, where possible, calling her place of work. It was all very exhilarating.
The difficulty came in deciding which of those wives would have to go at the same time as Hicks.
Hicks met Shirley, the first on Cutler’s list, on a Tuesday. She was in her sixties, although she could have been older and just looked younger the way fit people often do. She was an estate agent, and it seemed her husband was in a wheelchair. He looked in a very bad way; some sort of degenerative illness. Cutler decided Shirley should be struck off the list because he felt sorry for her husband. If Shirley needed a little downtime to relieve the stress of looking after him, then who was he to object? Cutler scratched her from the list on compassionate grounds.
Wednesday was Carol’s private weights session. For fun, Cutler wrote her on the shortlist as Quickie Carol. Hicks met Quickie Carol outside a converted garage that had been turned into a weights room. The day Cutler observed them, the pair didn’t get much in the way of weights done. They embraced outside the front door, where Carol left her sports bag, which presumably held a change of clothes. It was only after about twenty minutes that Cutler noticed Carol’s bare arm and shoulder reach around the door to grab the sports bag. The garage was at the end of a residential property, and as he scouted around Cutler noticed a couple of security cameras. He wasn’t sure whether they were dummy cameras or not, but he decided it meant Quickie Carol was scratched from the list.
Wednesday afternoon saw Hicks meet another woman at the same Premier Inn where he had met Melanie. This venue was too public, so Cutler didn’t bother finding out more.
Thursday he once again followed Hicks. No wonder Hicks was so fit, with a schedule like this, thought Cutler incredulously. This time Hicks drove out of town for a good hour, where he met Nicole Jenkins for a forest run and no doubt some outdoor fun. Nicole was married to a long-distance lorry driver, and while he was out trying to keep a roof over the family’s head, she was out in the woods with Hicks getting back to nature.
It all seemed ridiculous to Cutler as he leaned against a pine tree and watched the coupled pair thrusting and gyrating, their pale bodies trying to get into a comfortable position. It was bit a like a BBC wildlife documentary gone wrong. He doubted even a voice-over from Sir David Attenborough would help. He tried to add his own voice-over in his head but started to giggle and had to stop.
For Nicole Jenkins and Patrick Hicks, alas, this would be the last time they stepped off the trailway into their secluded spot for a few minutes of pleasure. The seclusion of the location was perfect, and Cutler decided there was no time like the present. After all, he had other business to attend to. By getting this done now, he would remove any further hours of surveillance eating into his own precious time.
He’d brought along a large kitchen knife for the task. He was confident that the sight of the large, shining steel blade would add extra shock value.
He waited until they’d finished and were lying breathlessly side by side, looking up at the trees.
Blade in hand, he marched over and, without hesitation, set to work. After a few deliberate slashes and thrusts of his blade, Nicole was on her knees trying to stop the blood gushing from her throat. Hicks had one hand where his genitals had been and the other hand moving between a sliced jugular vein and a gushing femoral artery. For his own private amusement Cutler took out his phon
e and filmed their panicked final moments.
“Patrick, Patrick – could you look this way please? That’s better. I need you to know this only happened because you couldn’t stay away from other men’s wives, including mine.
“Nicole? Look this way, sweetheart. Lovely. Your husband – remember him? Big fella? Drives a truck? He will sadly not only learn of your untimely death but that it happened here in this wooded love nest with Patrick Pants-Down. I’m sure he and the children are going to be very, very upset for a while. But they’ll get over it. They’ll move on. Sadly, you won’t.”
He made no attempt to hide the bodies. No doubt they’d be found by a dog walker or a jogger or a family out for a picnic.
It would be interesting to see Melanie’s reaction when she heard of the circumstances surrounding Patrick’s death. All in all, he thought as he got back on the motorway, a very satisfactory result.
Chapter Forty-Seven
He was ready. It would all end today. Ex–Royal Marine Sniper Sergeant Jared Vaughan had been in position for close to nine hours. He raised his binoculars and scanned the church and surrounding fields. A police helicopter hovered over the road leading to the church before moving off and sweeping over the fields. Other than security personnel, who had swept the church then remained on site, the only people he’d seen in the last few hours had been a couple of women arriving with flowers for the church and, more recently, the vicar. He checked his watch. Two hours until showtime. He was happy with this vantage point. The light was right, and he could see the small stone church, the graveyard, the car park and the narrow lane that passed a single farm to the north of the church before reaching the nearby village of Little Wilton.
As it had been for generations of Brannons, the tiny rural churchyard below would become the final resting place for Deputy Prime Minister Duncan Brannon. The village of Little Wilton, where Brannon was born, was just a stone’s throw away, and several members of the community who remembered the family would be in attendance. If it weren’t such a sombre occasion, today’s visitors would be hard pressed to imagine a more picturesque place to be on such a beautiful summer’s day. The rich green fields and gently sloping hillsides were the essence of a British countryside idyll.
It was to be a small private ceremony, no press. The only attendees would be family and close friends. Friends made during a lifetime in politics, including several retired and serving politicians from all political parties, also wished to pay their respects. Prime Minister Lafferty was guaranteed to make an appearance, and that was what today was about. Today was the big one. There could be no mistakes. Everything was set, and everyone would have to do their part.
Two nights ago, he’d once again visited Norton. This time Norton had looked like a man one step away from eternity in hell, ready to make a deal with the devil.
On arrival at the Norton home, he’d hog-tied George’s wife then left her gagged, bound and belly down at the foot of the stairs.
As George walked through the front door he was greeted with the sight of his hysterical wife and a gun pressed to the side of his balding head.
“Hello, Norton. I bet you’re surprised to see me. I guess I’m back from the dead. The only reason you’re not dead already is that I would like some information. If you can’t provide that information then I have no use for you. Do you understand?”
Norton nodded.
“Good. Now, you’re going to tell me everything. I want to know who’s involved. I want names, dates, telephone numbers and email addresses, the lot. Do you understand?”
Norton nodded again.
“Then, if I’m happy with what you’ve told me, we’ll renegotiate our agreement. Understand?”
Suggesting it had been the doing of those he worked for, Norton had blustered and sworn he knew nothing of the attempt on Vaughan’s life until it was too late to stop it. Norton reminded him they needed each other, that they were a partnership. He went so far as to apologise (a rare thing for politicians) for his previous outburst and poor choice of words, putting it down to pressure. He hoped Vaughan’s daughter was doing well and would personally guarantee the money he needed. Immediately.
Vaughan had then patiently explained to Norton what he needed from him. The last name on the kill list would be dealt with but, for that to happen, he would require assistance from Norton on the day. Norton was instructed to tie a small red ribbon to the branch of a tree close to Brannon’s grave. The ribbon would serve two purposes. Firstly, it would help Vaughan calibrate wind speed for his long-range shot. Secondly, and most importantly, it would serve as the green light to kill the United Kingdom’s serving prime minister.
Vaughan raised his binoculars again and watched as the first few cars began to arrive. First came more security, then the guests started to arrive. There were more moving parts in this operation than he would have liked, but all he could do now was finish what he’d started and pray everyone kept their word.
Chapter Forty-Eight
The funeral service took a little over an hour. The notes of the final hymn carried over the open fields, across the churchyard and high up the hillside. Here they were greeted with the mechanical and deliberate final preparations of the marksman. Vaughan peered through the binoculars and watched as the coffin was taken from the church to the grave. Guests spilled through the church doors, some retreating for a cigarette, others gathering to talk and reflect on the service. The distraught widow, Rowena, who was being assisted by family, followed her husband’s coffin. The prime minister and her husband, Phillip, were talking quietly together as they walked slowly to the grave for the final part of the ceremony. Angela Lafferty had clearly been crying and made no effort to hide it.
Norton was alone. Unsurprisingly, Mrs Norton wasn’t well enough to attend. Vaughan watched as Norton slid away from the main group. He quickly made his way to the graveside, where he turned his back on the grave and discreetly tied a red ribbon to the low branch of a beech tree. That was the green light Vaughan had been waiting for.
Vaughan continued to watch Norton as he spoke briefly to a young couple before circling around and making his way to the back of the gathered attendees.
He knew Norton would have a backup shooter, some insurance. Vaughan’s heart pounded as he swept the binoculars from left to right. The prime minister would soon be in position; just a few minutes now to the big kill. Vaughan narrowed his eyes, trying to find the second shooter. He looked over the car park; nothing. He scanned surrounding fields; nothing. The only logical position would be one similar to his: a high vantage point, giving a bird’s-eye view of everyone below. From such a high position it would be like shooting fish in a barrel.
Vaughan ran the binoculars along the hillside to his left. This stretch was exposed, and although it was a better location for exiting after the kill, it fell away sharply and didn’t lend itself well to ensuring a clean shot.
He carefully rolled over and swept the binoculars along the hillside to his right. There was more cover this side, but from this position the view of the grounds below was hampered by an ancient yew tree at the far end of the churchyard. Vaughan swore under his breath. Where was he? He had no idea how long he had before the marksman decided to take things into his own hands.
An imperceptible movement caught his eye. Partway down the sloping bank to his right was what looked like a dead tree trunk. He checked again. He studied the shape, and the more he studied it the more his trained eye revealed the shape of what could only be Norton’s backup shooter.
There. Another movement.
He had him.
Chapter Forty-Nine
Vaughan turned to me and gave me the position of Norton’s shooter. I called it in, and the trap was sprung. This had been the biggest gamble of my career. Vaughan and I had worked as a team, and the police marksman, who lay beside Vaughan, prepared himself to take out the shooter if need be.
Unmarked police vehicles now raced to the position of Norton’s shooter. The helic
opter hovered overhead; officers with dogs and counter-terror agents were on him in seconds. There was no contest. In the face of such an overwhelming show of force, the shooter stepped away from his weapon and was quickly arrested. Who he was didn’t matter; he was most likely a second-rate sniper, a mercenary or professional hitman hired by those in partnership with the day’s real prize, Home Secretary George Norton.
I watched as the prime minister was escorted to safety. I had met with her twenty-four hours before and, after her initial shock at the extent of the conspiracy Norton had orchestrated, she had quickly agreed that the operation should go ahead. Her words rang in my ears as we watched the gunman being led away: “The actions of this government will not be dictated by fear. I want business as usual. I will attend the funeral of my good friend, and that’s final. Good people have died; a cloud of fear and uncertainty hangs over our entire country. I will not shirk my responsibility. If those involved can be brought to justice, let’s get on with it.”
I admired her grit. With all the evidence that her life was in imminent danger, there would have been no shame in bowing out. She knew as well as anyone that with any tactical operation there were no guarantees. In all likelihood her life had been in grave danger, but the prime minister had been willing to participate to end the bloodshed. It had then been up to me to make sure she wasn’t harmed and those responsible were stopped.
I handcuffed Vaughan, almost reluctantly, and he and the constable and I walked down the hill to where Norton stood beside a squad car.
“You have your answer, Inspector,” said Vaughan as we walked.
“In what way?” I asked.
“The bullet in your daughter’s school bag. Only a low-life piece of shit would do something like that.” Vaughan nodded towards Norton.
