Provisional title: An assassin's tale

[Patrick]

OOC: I already have quite a few chapters of this story done, but shall not post all at the same time so as to give everyone a chance to read it. If you want to comment please do so at the Critic's Corner so as not to disrupt story continuity.

 

I'm not quite happy with the title, so when and if I find a better one I shall ask an elder to edit the topic title.

[Patrick]

Chapter 1: A birthday gone sour

 

Little Johnny was nearly seven years old – he was only missing a few hours -and today it was his birthday. His father had gone out to work in the morning, but had promised him that he would be back early that day with a surprise. Although barely able to contain his curiosity Johnny had somehow been able to get through the day. His father normally finished at seven at his work, so Johnny expected him to be home at six, maybe half past six that day. Earlier did mean at least that much didn’t it?

 

Johnny glanced at the digital wristwatch he had received last Christmas. Still only 4:12. He still had at least an hour and 48 minutes to wait he told himself. One hour 47 he thought looking at the watch again. Slowly walking down the stairs he went to the kitchen. He grabbed a bag of sweets from above the fridge and going over to the living room, settled on the couch. His favourite cartoon series was on at 4:30. He switched on the TV, and went through the channels, waiting for his program to start.

 

A news bulletin on the local news channel caught his attention.

 

“Sir Jonathan Waters, the proprietor of the sweets factory, who in the past months has been suspected of trafficking drugs, has been found dead in his countryside home.” – the speaker on TV said, while the face of a police officer, with a microphone in front of him came onto the screen. Johnny glanced at the packet of sweets in his hands. Waters Sweet Factory, Aberdeen, it said on the packet. He turned his attention back to the TV, suddenly afraid that his supply of sweets might run out.

 

“The Police Department received a call from a local, who said he had heard shots coming from the villa of Sir Waters. Arriving on the scene, the officers found the body of Sir Waters, with several gun shot wounds in the chest. That is all I can tell you at the moment.” – and at the insistence of the reporters, the officer added: - “No questions at this time. If we find anything new, we shall inform you.”

 

Johnny glanced at his watch. It was 4:28. He switched over to the cartoon channel and settled into a more comfortable position. Although the episode was quite interesting, his thoughts kept drifting off, fantasising about the surprise his father was going to bring him, and thinking about what he had just heard on TV. At 5:15, when the episode was over, Johnny switched back to the news channel, but they were already talking about some environmental activists, who had chained themselves to a boat in protests over the killing of whales.

 

Johnny turned the TV off, and threw the now empty packet of sweets in the rubbish basket in the kitchen. At that exact moment the phone rang. It was Mister Johnson, one of his father’s colleagues.

 

“Hello?”

 

“Hello, this is Mister Johnson. Is that you, little Johnny?”

 

“Yes Mister.”

 

“Your father asked me to tell you to go into your room and not to go downstairs, when he gets home, otherwise that would ruin the surprise he has planned.”

 

“Ok.”

 

“Promise me you’ll do it.”

 

“I promise Mister Johnson.”

 

“That’s a good boy. Your father’s already on the way home.”

 

Johnny rushed up to his room and closed his door. If his father was already on the way then that meant that he would get here in less than fifteen minutes.

 

 

 

The killer of Sir Jonathan Waters was a professional assassin. He had been hired by an organization competing with the drug distributing ring ran by Waters. The Waters Sweet Factory was a profitable enterprise, but not nearly enough to support the luxurious lifestyle Waters had lived. He had turned to running drugs five years ago, and had recently been looking to expand his influence to the neighbouring town, but in the process crossed the imaginary boundary of the other gang, and had a contract put out on him.

 

Stephen Malcolm had been the one to take the contract, and had completed it just that morning. It had been a relatively easy job, as the bodyguards of the late Sir Waters had proved to be not quite up to the job. But Stephen knew that even if they were, he would have been able to do the job. He was considered one of the best assassins in the country, and had even been called overseas to the States for several jobs.

 

In the civil life Stephen Malcolm was an insurance agent, working in a small branch of a large insurance, and banking company. He had a dull, and uninteresting work as manager of the small branch. It was a position, which allowed him not to go to work on certain days.

 

The Waters contract had come at a bad time for him though. It was his son’s birthday today, and he wouldn’t have dreamt of missing it. His wife had died, when the boy was but two years old, in a tragic car accident. Since then Stephen had brought up Johnny alone. Stephen looked proudly at the picture of the boy on the dashboard of his large Rover company car. The boy was smiling on the picture. The same smile, which he had seen but that morning when he had told the boy, that he was going to get a gift.

 

He was going to be late. He had been held up at a police checkpoint. Still he judged he would arrive around seven.

 

 

 

Johnny was waiting impatiently in his room, when he heard the front door open. He started running towards the stairs, but then remembered that he had been asked not to go down. Nearly bursting with impatience, he went back to his room and sat on his bead, taking his trusted teddy bear in his hands. He listened to the movement downstairs. One, or more people were moving around there, shifting something heavy. Then steps started coming up the stairs.

 

Unable to contain his impatience any longer, Johnny opened his door, expecting to see his father coming up the stairs. But he was mistaken.

 

“Mister Johnson?” – he asked with the surprise visible on his face.

 

“Surprised?” – asked the man, who was dressed in a black, leather coat, and strangely wore gloves, inside the house, during summer.

 

“Was this the surprise my dad had told me about? That’s so lame.” – Johnny said, clearly disappointed.

 

“Oh, I’m sure that you’re father had a different surprise in mind.” – Mister Johnson said with a smile. “But I thought that I’d come here before and give you a different surprise.”

 

Delight was visible on Johnny face, but it quickly turned into puzzlement, when he saw the silenced pistol in Mister Johnson’s hand.

 

“Is that your surprise, Mister Johnson?”

 

“Oh, yes.”

 

Johnny didn’t even have time to scream, as the bullet drove a nearly perfectly circular hole through his skull. Checking the limp body, just to be sure, Alan Johnson turned to his companion, who had just arrived at the top of the stairs.

 

“It’s done. Let it burn.”

 

 

 

Stephen Malcolm spotted the flames from miles away, and realised that something had gone horribly wrong. Pushing the accelerator down hard, he covered the remaining four miles in less than four minutes. His car screeched to a halt, before his house, next to the fire fighter’s trucks.

 

Stephen jumped from the car, and made to run to the flaming house, but the policeman held him back.

 

“I’m sorry sir, but you can’t go any closer.”

 

“MY SON IS IN THERE!” – Stephen shouted.

 

Suddenly understanding the situation the man motioned for his superior to come over.

 

“Mister Malcolm?”

 

Stephen could but nod, unable to speak, after his previous outburst.

 

The officer, in his fifties, had to be experienced in giving news of the death of loved ones to relatives, as he handled the situation nearly perfectly. He put a hand over Stephen’s shoulder and walked him several dozen feet away.

 

“I am Sergeant Kittle.” – the slightly overweight officer paused. – “I’m sorry Mister Malcolm. The fire-fighters got here too late.”

 

Stephen stayed strangely silent. The officer wrote it up to shock. Better tell him all – he thought.

 

“Your son is dead.”

 

Stephen stared blankly ahead of himself, unable to think clearly. Then he managed to say:

 

“It was his birthday…”

 

Stephen reached into his pocket and took out the new portable console he had bought his son. Tears came to his eyes.

 

“Why did he have to die? WHY?”

 

“I’m sorry sir. There was nothing we could do.”

 

“Do you know what caused the fire?” Stephen hoped that it wasn’t his fault. He would have never been able to live with that on his conscience.

 

“I want to see his body.”

 

“I don’t think that would be…”

 

“I want to see his body before it is all sliced up to find the cause of death.”

 

It was always hard. Not only for the family, but also for Sergeant Kittle.

 

“His body is over there.” – he pointed to several policemen next to a small black, body bag on the ground.

[Patrick]

Chapter 2: Black Coffee

 

Stephen’s cell phone rang. He didn’t pick it up. He was in a motel room, just outside of town. Several empty bottles of whiskey showed what he had been doing since his son’s death. Several full ones showed what he still planned to do. The phone rang again.

 

He glanced at the clock on the wall, above the cheap TV-set. It was barely six in the morning. Six rings, and then the phone stopped, but it started almost instantly again. It was more out of annoyance, than interest of who could be calling him that he picked it up.

 

“Stephen Mal…. Malcolm here.” – he said in a drunken voice.

 

“Mister Malcolm, this is Sergeant Kittle. We need to talk. Can I meet you, at let’s say seven thirty in the cafeteria of the motel you’re staying in?”

 

“I’m not in a…state to talk.”

 

“I can hear that, but what I have to ask you is important.”

 

“Oh…all right…” – and Stephen hung up.

 

He needed to sober up, and fast. A cold shower later, he went down to the cafeteria and ordered a black coffee, especially strong.

 

If the coffee didn’t manage to totally sober him up, the news he was given by Sergeant Kittle did.

 

“What did you just say? My son had been murdered? Do you mean the fire was intentional?”

 

“We are not sure yet whether the fire had been intentional or not, but your son was already dead before the fire started.”

 

“What…what do you mean?”

 

“He was shot.”

 

Stephen put down his third coffee a little too forcefully, spilling some of it in his lap. He disregarded the pain he felt because of the hot coffee.

 

“Shot? Why would anyone want to do that?”

 

“That was exactly what I had wanted to ask you Mister Malcolm.”

 

“Stephen, please. Just call me Stephen.”

 

“All right. Stephen, do you have any enemies, or people who would like to hurt you for some reason?”

 

Although the truth was a definite yes, due to the line of work he was in, he couldn’t tell the Sergeant about that. He ventured a more diplomatic reply.

 

“I don’t know. I honestly don’t know.”

 

“You shall have to come in to answer a few questions later today, at the Police Department.”

 

Stephen nodded absently, his mind starting to get into full gear. Sergeant Kittle left him in the cafeteria. Fifteen minutes passed, and Stephen still didn’t know who could have killed his son. Being a good professional assassin he had always been careful not to be caught. He had no idea, even if his son’s killing was connected to his “second job”.

 

“Another coffee?” – the young, female waiters voice brought him out of his daydreaming.

 

“That would be lovely.”

 

Stephen approached the problem from a different perspective, but again arrived at the conclusion that he was lacking information. He couldn’t go to the police, which only left the possibility of his employers. He reached for his phone and dialled a number from memory.

 

“Office of Walter McCluney.” – the voice of a man announced on the end of the line. Walter McCluney was an antique dealer, along with being involved with organised crime over most of the north of the country.

 

“I’d like to speak with Walter.”

 

“Who should I tell him is calling?”

 

“An old friend.”

 

The man on the other side of the line was not only a secretary, but also an associate of McCluney, and knew not to ask questions. The code phrase, “an old friend” was used for business, which had to go to the “boss”. With a click, he put Stephen through.

 

“This is Stephen.” – he simply announced.

 

“I’ve heard the bad news.” – was the reply. Walter McCluney had an uncanny ability of being able to acquire information at unimaginable speeds.

 

“It was murder.”

 

“I know that also. You should know by now, that I have sources in the police also.”

 

“I want to know who did it.”

 

“We’re working on it. I’ll let you know if we find out anything.”

 

Stephen hung up. He had never felt so helpless in his whole life.

 

“Mind if I sit here?”

 

The voice belonged to a tall red-haired woman, whose blue eyes were so like his late wife’s eyes. Even though that familiarity appealed to Stephen he was inclined not to let her sit at his table, but then he saw that all tables were taken, and with his left arm motioned one of the chairs at his table.

 

The woman thanked him, and sat down. She ordered eggs and bacon, with a coffee. All of Stephen’s insides were turning all over at the thought of food.

 

“You look like you’ve had a rough one.” – she said.

 

“Do I?”

 

“You should see yourself.”

 

Stephen didn’t need to see himself to imagine what he looked like. Three bottles of whisky tended to make even him badly hung over.

 

“I had one too many probably.” – he said.

 

“Girlfriend leave you?” – she asked.

 

What had gotten into her? Why did she have to ask all these questions?

 

Although Stephen hardly wanted to tell her about it, he knew that he needed to talk.

 

“No. Worse.”

 

“Oh?” – she asked, with genuine surprise.

 

“Wife find out about mistress then?” – she asked with a wink.

 

“My wife died five years ago.” – he sipped some of his coffee. He was already much calmer than the previous night. Being an assassin gave him strong nerves.

 

“I’m sorry.” – she replied. She really did have the same eyes as his wife had had.

 

“Saw the fire last night?” – he asked her, then without waiting for an answer he added: “It was my home.”

 

The previously talkative woman suddenly couldn’t find anything to say. She fidgeted with the strap of her handbag.

 

“My son was inside the house.” – Stephen said, and tears started appearing at his eyes. Stephen stood up, preparing to leave.

 

“Waiter!” – the woman called, and hastily explained to him that she had to leave and gave him a twenty-pound note, paying even for Stephen’s coffees.

 

She caught up with Stephen at the door of the cafeteria. She put an arm on his shoulder.

 

“I can take you to my place if you want.”

 

“I’ve got my own car here.” – he replied pointing to his Rover at the other side of the parking.

 

But just then a deafening boom sounded and some invisible force threw them through the glass door of the cafeteria.

[Patrick]

Chapter 3: Rachel O’Donaghey

 

Stephen stood up. His ears were ringing. He looked around. Where previously his Rover had stood, there now was but burning wreckage. All the windows of the cafeteria were broken, and the scene around him was a scene of utter chaos, with people moving around, in shock.

 

Stephen helped the woman up. Luckily both of them had escaped the passing through the glass door, with only minor cuts and bruises.

 

The police got there fourteen minutes later. Stephen half expected to see Sergeant Kittle to be with them, but the plump officer wasn’t there. The bomb squad arrived a few minutes later while a lieutenant was questioning the people from the cafeteria and paramedics were taking away the seriously wounded.

 

Stephen saw that several people were being taken away in sealed body bags.

 

“Would you mind answering a few questions, sir?” – the lieutenant asked him.

 

“My name is Stephen Malcolm, and that was my car.” – he said without waiting for the questions.

 

“I’m sorry about your son.” – the lieutenant said.

 

Stephen didn’t reply, but let the uncomfortable silence drag on.

 

“Would you mind coming down to the Department, so that we can ask you a few questions? I could take you in my car.”

 

Stephen nodded and made to follow the lieutenant, but then felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned and saw the red haired woman.

 

“Give me a call if you need something.” – she said, handing him a card with her name and phone number on it. Her name was Rachel O’Donaghey and she worked in a small store in the city centre. Stephen pocketed the card and went to the lieutenant’s car. The drive to the Police Department took fifteen minutes and Stephen was told that the officer was called Lieutenant McNeil. He was young for a lieutenant, barely thirty, Stephen judged.

 

At the Police Department Sergeant Kittle was waiting for him.

 

“It shall only be a few questions, Stephen. About what you had done at work and during your trips.”

 

In the next three hours, Stephen told him about his life as an insurance agent, and gave him the cover stories for his trips.

 

“That shall be all, Stephen.”

 

“Thank you Sergeant Kittle.”

 

“Just call me John.” – he added with a smile.

 

“Oh and if you happen to remember something you forgot, just give me a call. My number is in the phone book.” – the officer said.

 

Stephen stepped out from the Police Department. All that had been his life had been destroyed. His son, his house, his car - all gone. Who could he have angered so much? He half-thought of calling Walter again but knew that the man would have told him if he had found out anything. Instead he decided to call into work to tell them that he won’t be going in for a few days.

 

“Northern Insurance, how may I help you?”

 

“Is that you, Sean?”

 

“Stephen, I was horrified to hear…”

 

“It’s ok. Could you tell Alan, that I won’t be going in for a few days?”

 

Alan Johnson was his secretary.

 

“I’m sorry, but Alan has called in sick for today.”

 

“Can you tell people who look for me that I’m not in then?”

 

“Sure, Stephen. Here at the agency, we’re all with you. If you need anything just give us a call.”

 

“Thanks.”

 

Traffic and life was going on as normal around him. Yet for Stephen life had come to a halt. All he had lived for was now gone. His only son, so brutally taken from him, had had so much more to get from life. Stephen wished that he had died instead.

 

On a sudden impulse he took Rachel’s card from his shirt pocket. The same shirt he had worn last night. All his clothes had also been destroyed in the fire, and his jacket in the explosion of his car. He now only had what he was wearing, and he felt that he really needed a shower.

 

“O’Donaghey.”

 

“This is Stephen Malcolm. We met in the cafeteria this morning…”

 

“Yes, I remember.” – the voice on the other side of the phone line was so warm and welcoming.

 

“Could I ask you a big favour?” – Stephen asked.

 

“Sure.”

 

“Would it be a problem if I stayed at your place for a few days? Just until I manage to get myself going again?”

 

For a few moments there was silence, but then the voice sounded again.

 

“That wouldn’t be a problem at all. Where can I pick you up?”

 

“I’m just outside the Police Department.”

 

“I’ll be there in half an hour. I need to just take care of something.”

 

She arrived in a small, red Ford.

 

“Hop on in.” – she said to him as she stopped on the side of the road.

 

“Thanks.” - Stephen replied.

 

Rachel stayed silent for several long minutes. She was clearly feeling ill at ease.

 

“I’m sorry, but I don’t really know what I could say.”

 

“That’s ok, I don’t really.” – at that moment Stephen’s phone rang.

 

“I’m sorry.” – he said, then picked it up.

[Patrick]

Chapter 4: Pizza at nine

 

“Son? Is that you?”

 

“Dad, this isn’t really the moment to call.” – Stephen replied. The last time they had spoken to each other was at the Stephen’s marriage. His father hadn’t even come to her funeral three years later.

 

“Stephen, I know that we have had our past differences…”

 

“I don’t want to talk to you.”

 

“I just wanted you to know that your mother is ill. She might not last long.” – George Malcolm paused waiting to see whether his son was going to say anything, but getting no reply he continued. “So, just hop into your car and come and visit her. If you want you don’t even need to talk to me when you’re here.”

 

“I don’t have a car anymore.” – Stephen was feeling overwhelmed. How could all this be happening to him now? Was it punishment for all the deaths he had brought, by some superior force? Stephen wasn’t religious, but that didn’t mean that he didn’t believe in fate.

 

“Want me to go and pick you up?” – his father asked.

 

“I’ll get there somehow. How bad is it?”

 

“The doctors are saying she might not last the week.”

 

“I’ll try to get there as soon as I can.”

 

“She’ll like that. I’ll go tell her you’re coming soon. Oh and I tried calling Johnny yesterday to wish him a Happy Birthday but you didn’t pick the phone up. Could you tell Johnny his granddad wanted to call him?”

 

This was what Stephen had feared. He had to break the news to his father.

 

“Johnny is dead.” – he said simply, and unable to cope with his emotions any longer, he hung up.

 

He turned to Rachel and saw that she was handing him a handkerchief.

 

“Thanks.” – he said taking it and wiping the tears away. “Looks like a pretty crap week so far, doesn’t it?”

 

“My boyfriend also left me just this Tuesday.” – she said. “But I shouldn’t be telling you of my problems, when you also seem to have so many of your own.”

 

Stephen wondered whether she was telling the truth or not. She had seemed so suddenly friendly in the morning. Had he known her, he would have known that she was always that trusting, and her friendship once given, was very strong.

 

“Oh, but please do tell. I need something to take my mind off all that has happened in the last twenty four hours.”

 

Rachel glanced at him for a second, then turned back to concentrate on her driving.

 

“We had been together for three years, Peter and I. But just two days ago, which was on Tuesday, when I got home from work, there was a note on the kitchen table telling me that he had left me for another woman. He was sorry for not having told me of it previously, but he wrote that he hadn’t found the courage to tell me face to face.”

 

“The bastard…” – Stephen whispered.

 

“I’ll have to agree with you on that.” – she replied. “We’re nearly there. My house is at the end of this row of houses.”

 

“I hope I won’t be intruding on anything.”

 

“Oh, don’t worry about that. Some company shall do me good.” – she said with a smile, as she pressed the remote of the garage.

 

 

 

“Well this would be it.” – she said after having showed him the small house. On the ground floor there was a small kitchen, from which a door opened to the living room furnished with a pleasant, light brown sofa, and a matching colour carpet. The door in the garage opened into a small ante-piece, which also connected to the living room.

 

Stairs led up from the living room to the upper level, where there were two small bedrooms and one larger one, along with a bathroom.

 

Rachel showed Stephen to one of the small bedrooms.

 

“Will this room be ok for you?” – she asked. “We had intended it to be the room for our first child, with Peter.”

 

“You are too kind Rachel. Taking me in, even though you barely know me…I couldn’t ask for more.”

 

“Oh don’t even mention it.” – she said with a smile and disappeared into her own room. Moments later she reappeared with pink bed clothes. “I’m sorry that I only have pink now, but the other set is in the washing right now.” – she looked at him with those blue eyes of hers. Those eyes, which reminded Stephen so much about his late wife. He simply couldn’t resist those eyes.

 

Acting as if under a spell, Stephen put an arm around Rachel’s neck, and stared, hypnotised into her eyes. He dreaded what her reaction to his act would be. He feared she might throw him out. But he was very pleasantly surprised. Rachel, still holding the bedclothes with one hand, put her other hand behind Stephen’s head, and drew him closer. Then they kissed. Briefly at first, being both still surprised at what they felt. The second time lasted much longer, as they savoured the taste of the kiss, letting it linger.

 

Two hours later, Stephen looked at himself in the bathroom mirror. He was naked, as was Rachel, who was showering next to him. She had managed to make Stephen forget for those two hours, all of his problems, but now reality was intruding again. Rachel finished her shower, and stepped out, dripping wet next to Stephen.

 

“I’m so glad you’re still here.” – she whispered, while Stephen handed her a towel.

 

“Why would I have left?”

 

“Today for me is as if it were a dream come true.”

 

Stephen waited for her to explain, but she didn’t, and he did not press her further.

 

“I’m starved.” – he said.

 

“Well I wasn’t expecting to have someone here, at the morning, so I don’t have much to offer, shall we order something?”

 

 

 

About an hour later, they had finished their pizzas and were on the sofa, Rachel lying in Stephen’s lap, watching the news.

 

“The killer of Sir Jonathan Waters is still on the run, police sources have confirmed. Police have asked that if anyone has any leads to offer on this crime they call the police on the number you can currently see on your screen.”

 

The picture changed and showed scenes of last night’s fire, and Rachel quickly reached for the remote control and switched off the television.

 

“I’ll have to go to Glasgow tomorrow.” – Stephen said. “To visit my parents. I might have to stay a few days.”

 

They lay there on the couch, not saying anything, both lost in their thoughts. Rachel thinking about Stephen, imagining what life could be with him, and Stephen thinking about Johnny, and what life would have been with him.

 

“I think I love you Stephen.” – Rachel broke the silence, looking up at Stephen from his lap.

 

He caressed her face, and then leant down to kiss her, but said nothing. At the moment he couldn’t understand his feelings at all.

 

“Rachel, I think I need some time before I can start my life anew. But I sincerely hope that there shall be a place for you in my new life.” – he said after a long pause.

[Patrick]

Chapter 5: A long-due meeting

 

“Dad, I’m on a bus heading to Glasgow. Can you pick me up when I arrive?” – he needed to shout in the phone to have him be heard over the sound of the bus.

 

“When do you arrive?”

 

“At half ten.”

 

“I’ll be there.”

 

It was hard to say it, but Stephen finally managed to: “I’m looking forward to seeing you Dad.”

 

His father didn’t reply, and just simply put the phone down, unable to cope with his emotions.

 

 

“Taxi sir?” – he was asked as he made his way through the crowded hall of Glasgow’s Buchanan Bus Station. He declined with a sign of his head.

 

His mind was in turmoil. All during the bus-trip he had been thinking about Johnny and, he admitted to himself, Rachel. He knew that he still hadn’t really come to grips with the death of his son, and that it was possibly this, which had pushed him into the arms of Rachel. Since the death of his wife, Jessica, Stephen had consecrated himself totally to his son, and hadn’t had a new companion. It might have also been the need for a companion, which had finally taken a hold of him. Stephen didn’t know. Through his job, he was good at analysing the feelings of others, but to master his own feelings, was a feat he had never been capable of, sometimes he could not even understand them.

 

He bought The Times at a newspaper stall in the station. The explosion of his car did make the front page, albeit only the bottom of it, with the title of “Businessman’s car blows up”. Luckily neither his name, nor his initials were mentioned, and the press hadn’t managed to take a picture of him. Even luckier was that the press didn’t know that the fire in his house and the explosion of the car were connected. A thought, which had occurred to Stephen and the Edinborough Police also.

 

“Stephen?” – the hesitant voice of Thomas Malcolm asked, and Stephen looked up from the paper he had been reading. There was a third page article about the tragic death of a young boy in a so far unexplained fire in Edinborough. Stephen lowered the newspaper and looked at his father for the first time in eight years.

 

Age had been kind to Thomas Malcolm. He was nearing sixty but could have still been mistaken for forty. His hair was still a rich brown, albeit upon closer inspection some white strands could be seen. Since Stephen had last seen him he had put on a slight bit of weight, but since he had always been a rather thin man, he still wasn’t overweight now.

 

“You look great, Dad.” – Stephen said, and they shook hands.

 

“Stephen, Stephen.” – the old man was nearly speechless, almost completely overwhelmed by emotions he had had to push under the surface for long years. “You look…” – he had almost said troubled, which would have been accurate, but in the last moment changed his mind: “…changed.”

 

“Changed?” – Stephen asked.

 

“Never mind.” – Thomas said. “Want me to carry one of your bags?”

 

“I’m supposed to be the young and strong one, Dad.” – Stephen said with a smile. “I’ll manage.”

 

“So, tell me about what happened to Johnny!” – his father said once they were in the car. He had always been a very direct man, fast to get to the point.

 

“I had been in Aberdeen two days ago, and when I got back home I saw the house was in flames.” – recalling these painful memories so soon after the tragedy wasn’t easy for Stephen and he had to pause to get himself together. “Johnny was in the house.” – he fell silent, unable to continue.

 

“So it was an accident? Or can’t the cops tell yet?”

 

“Wasn’t an accident. Prior to the house burning he was shot in the head. I learnt that yesterday morning. Just before my car was blown up outside a cafeteria.”

 

“That poor boy. I had just been talking to him two days before he died. He had seemed so happy.”

 

“You talked to Johnny?” – Stephen asked, quite surprised.

 

“Sometimes we talked when you were away, and he needed someone to talk to. The first time he called me was when he had found my number out of accident in your bedside table.”

 

“I already miss him.” – Stephen was close to tears, but managed to restrain himself.

 

“He was the grandson I never saw, but knew better than all the others.”

 

“How are Susan and Mary?” – Stephen asked referring to his two sisters.

 

“Both of them are married, Susan has three girls, and Mary a boy and a girl. Both your sisters are here to see your mother.”

 

“I’ve missed so much. Why did we drift so far apart?”

 

“I’m not exactly sure. There was that thing, when we missed the funeral of your wife for some stupid reason and things really went downhill from there. Probably we both misunderstood each other. I don’t think it was anyone’s fault.”

 

“It’s good to hear you say that. I had thought you would think that it was my fault.”

 

Memories of the old times spent with his father were slowly coming back. But his recollections were cut short.

 

“So do you think it’s connected to your work?”

 

Thomas Malcolm was one of the very few people, who knew about Stephen’s other job. He did not totally approve, but since those killed were nearly always criminals – Stephen did have some selection over which jobs he took – he did not disapprove either.

 

“Probably.”

 

“Anyone you can think of in particular?”

 

“I’ve already asked myself the same questions, Dad. I’ve even got Walter looking into it for me.”

 

“He’ll probably find some lead to follow. What do the cops know?”

 

“Not much. They’ll probably realise that Johnny’s death is connected to the blowing up of my car…”

 

“They blew up your car?”

 

“Oh, I forgot that I hadn’t mentioned that. Happened yesterday morning in front of the motel I had been staying at.” He didn’t mention Rachel. He didn’t want to mention her. Not when he himself wasn’t sure about the whole thing either.

 

“So that’s why you couldn’t come by car. Hmmm…Seems like someone really wants to hurt you bad.”

 

“Unfortunately it does.”

 

They stayed silent for the rest of the drive, both of them lost in their thoughts.

 

The Malcolms lived in the outskirts of Glasgow, in a large family house. Thomas left the car in the drive as in the garage there were already two other cars. Stephen guessed they were his sisters’.

 

Susan and Mary were making lunch when he arrived.

 

“Stephen!” – Susan explained in surprise. “You took long enough to get home!” It was a comment with intent to chastise, not to hurt and Stephen took it that way, but his father didn’t.

 

“Now, now, girls. Let Stephen be. I’m sure he wants to see his mother, and while he does I’d like to have a word with you two.”

 

Stephen understood this to be his father wanting to explain a few things to his sisters and went to the upstairs bedroom. His mother was asleep; yet even in sleep she looked very ill. She was pale and from the curves of the bed sheet, Stephen could see that she had probably lost a lot of weight.

 

Not wanting to wake her he sat on the chair, which was placed next to the bed and just looked at her peacefully sleeping.

[Patrick]

Chapter 6: Two funerals

 

Laura Malcolm, born Laura McNara stirred in her sleep. Stephen took hold of her outstretched hand, and as he did, his mother opened her eyes.

 

“Stephen?” – she said incredulously. “You’ve come? Am I in that bad a state?” – she said half-joking. The doctor had been there just that morning and had told her how long she had left.

 

Stephen bit into his lower lip and said nothing. He had never been a man of words. His mother had read his reason for being here correctly. And after what had happened to him in the last few days, he was unable to deny that she was right. Neither was he going to confirm it. He decided not to mention all that had happened to him. She need not be troubled with all that.

 

“I came to see you, Mother. I neglected my duties as a son in the last several years.”

 

“Don’t blame yourself for what has happened, Stephen. Your father is as much at fault as you are.”

 

“I had been telling him the same thing in the car.” – came Thomas’s voice from the door to the room. He went to his wife’s side and gently caressed her hair. “How are you feeling?”

 

“Considering that this is the first time that I’m seeing my son in eight years, I’m feeling good. Considering that the doctor told me this morning that I had less than a week left…” – she left the end of the sentence unfinished. “But mind you, I plan on seeing as much of my family in that time as possible. That reminds me! Where is Johnny, Stephen? Did he come with you? I would very much like to see him, before I die.”

 

“Johnny couldn’t come. He had to stay in Edinborough.” – Stephen said.

 

“Why?” – came the question that he did not want to answer.

 

His father came to his aid.

 

“Stephen told me in the car, that Johnny had been playing in the yard, and had sprained an ankle. He had to stay in bed, so Stephen left him at some friends of his. What were they called?”

 

Needing to make a name up in a hurry, Stephen took the first one, which came to his mind.

 

“The O’Donagheys.”

 

“Ah yes!” – was his father’s reply.

 

His mother did not notice the lie she had been told and was satisfied with the improvised reply.

 

“Give him my best wishes, when you see him Stephen.”

 

“I will mother.”

 

“Now leave me, I need to rest again. Oh and Thomas!”

 

“Yes, my dear?”

 

“Call for the priest, would you? I’d like to make my last confession, in case I don’t have the chance anymore.”

 

The two men left the room and looked at each other.

 

“What is it?” – asked Stephen.

 

“She smoked too much. Was first diagnosed with lung cancer seven months ago.”

 

Stephen put a comforting hand on his father’s shoulder.

 

“How have you been taking it?”

 

“Bad. I simply don’t know what I’ll do once she is gone. I’ll only have my children and grandchildren left.”

 

“Only?” – Stephen asked with a smile. “We’ll take good care of you dad.”

 

“Now, don’t think I need taking care of, I’ll just need some company at times. Now, off you go and see McCluney, you probably have business with him.”

 

“My place is here Dad. I’ve neglected my family enough, to need to now salvage my own conscience by staying here.”

 

Laura Malcolm died that night, just as supper was being served. When Susan went up to take her some of the food – which in the last week she had always rejected – she found her unresponsive, and when the ambulance arrived a few minutes later, all they could do was confirm her death. Stephen’s father was shattered. Kneeling at her bedside, tears streaming down both his cheeks, he could not let go of her hand, could not take his eyes off her face, even when her hand had already become cold, in the morning.

 

The next day her body was taken away to be prepared for the funeral, which was fixed for the end of the week. Stephen phoned the Police Department in Edinborough and arranged his son’s body to be transported to Glasgow to be buried in the family grave. He did not want the two funerals to be at the same time, however, because many people knew his mother, whom he did not know, and he only wanted family to be at his son’s burial.

 

Once his son was buried, three hours after his mother and everyone had left the cemetery, Stephen knelt down at the grave. He remembered all the happy times he had passed with his son. The first time he had walked, the first time he spoke, his first Christmas. As he remembered, he also recalled Jessica being there then. Everyone had said, that they had been the perfect couple. Why did he have to witness so much death? He took the gift from his pocket. The gift, he had wanted to give his son for his birthday, but never got the chance. He placed it on the small grave.

 

He left the family crypt and since he was the last to leave, locked the door to it. As he turned the key he spotted the man watching him from the corner of his eye.

 

“Hello Stephen.” – the voice said. It was strangely familiar, yet at the same time, Stephen could not for the life of him remember who it belonged to.

 

“Who’s there?” – he asked, pocketing the key.

 

“We need to talk, Stephen. And you’ll need a few stiff ones, because you won’t like, what I’m going to tell you.”

[Patrick]

Chapter 7: Walter McCluney

 

They were in an inn, officially owned by a man called Toby McLean. In reality it was one of the establishments owned by McCluney, but weren’t on his name. He did not like publicity and paid people to act as owners instead of himself. The barman however knew who was boss, and served McCluney his usual shot of scotch.

 

“For you sir?” – the barman asked Stephen.

 

“The same.”

 

They sat at the corner table, out of the regular drinkers earshot. Walter McCluney was a fat, tall man. He was over 6 feet tall. Albeit his size could be intimidating, his reputation was more so. His short, beard and moustache were associated with many criminals’ nightmares. And it was said, that no one, who crossed his path lived.

 

“First let me offer you my condolences for your losses. Second let me offer my congratulations for the Waters job. Thirdly…”

 

“Let’s not talk about the Waters job. Had I not done it I might have been able to save Johnny.” – Stephen interrupted.

 

“Let’s not talk about the Waters job then. As I was saying, thirdly I have some information for you.”

 

He paused while the barman brought them their drinks. Although he was one of McCluney’s men, they did not want him to overhear anything.

 

“Does the name Alan Johnson ring a bell for you?”

 

“One of the co-workers at the insurance agency.”

 

“Now, I don’t have anything for certain, only word on the street type stuff, but I’m pretty sure it shall interest you.”

 

“Go ahead.”

 

“Word on the street has it, here in Glasgow, that Alan Johnson is a big fish. He doesn’t belong to any specific organisation, but works for several. And sometimes works for himself. They say he is a pretty ruthless chap. Some rumours link him to the Doherty-job three years ago.”

 

Lance Doherty had been an up-start businessman in the pharmaceutical industry and he and his whole family had been brutally murdered in their home.

 

“You think he might have killed my son?”

 

“What I had said earlier was only rumours, but this info I’ll tell you now is rock solid. It comes from my half-brother who works for the Glasgow police force. Alan Johnson is also an undercover police agent. Two years ago he was sent to Edinborough to investigate rumours of an assassin living there. He might have gotten through your cover, Stephen, and then follow some other orders he got from someone not on the police force. You’ve been a problem for our enemies for some time now. I myself have heard rumours that you have a hefty price on your head. So far they did not know your face, or your name, but Johnson may have.”

 

“Do you know where he is?”

 

“He took a plane to Paris two days ago. I’ve sent three guys after him. They are to catch him alive.”

 

“I’ll go to Paris. I’ll kill that son of a…”

 

“I need you elsewhere, Stephen. And besides, I don’t want you involved in this affair anymore. I want Johnson alive, and I’m not sure that you would have the force not to kill him.”

 

“I guess you’re right. Might I suggest, that I help at least? I can give him a call, pretending not to know anything. He might reveal a few things to me.”

 

McCluney caressed his beard. Stephen had a point.

 

“Do it.”

 

The phone was picked up on the fifth ring, when Stephen was starting to give up.

 

“Hello Stephen.”

 

“Hi Alan, I was wondering, did Sean give you my message?”

 

“What message?”

 

“I had wanted him to tell you that I wasn’t going in to the office for a few days.”

 

“Oh. Why?”

 

Walter McCluney was leaning close to Stephen’s ear, also listening in on the conversation.

 

“I had to come to Glasgow to see my mother and then go to her funeral.”

 

“I’m sorry to hear that. Didn’t Sean tell you that I was sick?”

 

“He did.” – then acting on an impression, he added. “But wait a moment, isn’t that people talking in French that I can hear behind you?”

 

Alan was silent.

 

“Are you slinking off to see the French girls, while pretending to be sick?” – he asked with a slight humorous tone in his voice.

 

“Let me tell you a pretty strange thing, Stephen. I’m sitting in a cafeteria here in Paris, wondering when McCluney’s men get here, and then you call me. From the sounds behind you, I gather you are in one of the fat slob’s pubs. He’s probably sitting next to you, listening in on the conversation. And you’re trying to get information from me. Come on, it was much too obvious.”

 

“Why did you do it?”

 

“Why did I do what? Burn your house, blow up your car, or kill your son? Well let me guess: you’re talking about your son. A pretty bright boy. When I phoned him to tell him you were bringing him a surprise and to stay in his room he did so.”

 

Stephen was trembling with anger. It was only McCluney’s hand on his shoulder, which kept him from bursting out.

 

“He didn’t even beg for mercy. Might be because I didn’t leave him the time. He probably still thought, when he died that the gun was my gift to him on his birthday.” – Alan laughed. “Let me give you one bit of advice, Stevie. You don’t mind if I call you Stevie, do you? Get out of Scotland. Even better, get out of the UK. If you don’t I’ll go back and kill the rest of your family. Not because I hate you or anything like that, but because this is what I’m being paid to do. I have nothing against you personally Stephen. Nothing at all.”

 

“Who are you working for, Alan?” – Stephen managed to say.

 

“Come on, Stephen! You’re pathetic. I won’t tell you that.”

 

McCluney suddenly took the phone from Stephen’s hands.

 

“This is McCluney speaking.” – he said.

 

“Hi, you fat slob.”

 

McCluney did not react to the remark, which was very strange.

 

“I just want you to know one thing. We’ll get you eventually.”

 

“Oh, and wait a moment, how does the rhyme go? If McCluney wants to get you, get you he shall? Or is it if McCluney wants to get you, he’ll fall fat on his face? I can’t remember. But I remember that those paying me said, that they were going to cover me. I would stay out of this, if I were you McCluney.” – and with that, Alan hung up.

 

Walter McCluney handed the phone back to Stephen.

 

“Well we know that he did it, we know he’s in Paris, and I have a pretty good idea of who he’s working for.”

 

“Who?”

 

“The only person in the UK, who has the man- and firepower to come after me.”

 

“You mean Davis from London? Or the IRA boys from Northern Ireland?”

 

“The IRA boys wouldn’t have hired someone for the job. It’s not their style. The other thing is that when we had worked together, Davis used to call me fat slob also. I’ll have to sniff around Davis’s headquarters.”

 

“You had said when I offered to go to Paris, that you needed me elsewhere.”

 

“Yes I did. Now let me explain. I need you to go to La Coruña. You shall be going on a ship journey to Gibraltar from there. The ship shall arrive from Rio de Janeiro. Your target goes by the name of Michael Taylor.”

 

“The Michael Taylor? The actor turned politician?”

 

“No. This man is a drug runner. He had been accompanying a shipment of drugs from Asia to Brazil, but was caught along with the shipment. Then, probably due to the corrupt Brazilian police he got out, and now he is en route to Europe. Remember the people, who gave us the Waters job? Well this one is from them also. They don’t want Michael to reach Gibraltar.”

 

“Was that the catch that made worldwide news?”

 

“Oh yeah, went all over the media. There were well over sixteen tons of drugs.”

 

“Wow. So pretty straightforward job?”

 

“Not exactly. Michael Taylor works for a Dutchman, living in London, who is a partner of Davis. You must under all circumstances hide your true identity. You shall be travelling under the name of Basil Nevers, a mid-aged Scottish businessman. Your plane leaves Glasgow airport on the morning, two days from now, and it is that night that the ship gets to La Coruña. It is an ocean cruiser, called the Sea’s Pearl. Since your weapons cache is pretty much inaccessible at the moment, buried beneath the rubble of your home…”

 

“You knew that?”

 

“Of course.” – Walter McCluney replied with a broad grin on his face.

 

“A man called Abel Asevedo shall meet you on the ship, with the usual weapons. He is the security officer in charge of the ship, but has taken on a few extra weapons at my request.”

 

“Right.”

 

Stephen took the forged passport and the tickets.

 

“Stephen, if at any time you feel you can’t do it, just give me a call. I know what you must be going through. Remember, I lost my son when he was only three years old.”

 

That was the first affectionate moment Stephen had ever seen from the crime-boss. It didn’t last long. Walter McCluney stood up and threw back his third whisky, draining it till the last drop.

 

“When you get back, we shall hopefully have Johnson.”

 

“Who’s on the job?”

 

“Hickley, and the McNamara twins.”

 

“I know Hickley. He’s good.”

 

“He sure is. He was the one, who had tracked down all the info about Johnson.”

[Patrick]

Chapter 8: Lieutenant McNeil’s discovery

 

Edward – known to his friends and colleagues as “Eddie” McNeil was a passionate man. He was passionate towards his wife, and even towards his work. He had been the one at the Edinborough Police Department, who had gotten assigned the case, which quickly became known as the “Malcolm” case, even though Stephen Malcolm wasn’t a suspect.

 

The Police had quickly established the connection between the explosion of the Rover, and the murder of Johnny Malcolm. They were looking for someone, who could have had a grudge against Stephen. They had started by questioning his co-workers and neighbours, and not surprisingly they found nothing. It all appeared as if Stephen Malcolm had lived the perfectly normal life of an insurance agent, bringing up his son alone, occasionally travelling abroad to attend to conferences, or to see a promising overseas customer. His superiors spoke well of him, and even his subordinates said that he was a good boss.

 

It all seemed very good. Almost too good, was Eddie McNeil’s thought, a thought he had quickly put aside. Stephen Malcolm wasn’t the suspect here; he was the one against whom these crimes had been committed.

 

The evidence was pretty straightforward and pointed to a professional job. Johnny Malcolm had been shot nearly exactly between the eyes, by an Israeli-made, silenced Desert Eagle. The house wasn’t simply set afire; some explosives were set off in the kitchen, in an effort to create the impression that it had been a gas-explosion. The traces of explosives were the same as those, which had been found on the remains of the underside of the Rover. Military grade, high quality explosives. The tests had shown that they came from the shipment, which had been stolen four months previously, when a separatist branch of the IRA had attacked a military convoy outside of Londonderry.

 

That could have suggested an IRA connection, but Lieutenant McNeil knew that he didn’t have to jump to conclusions. The explosives could have been sold to anyone throughout the UK, and even outside it. He did have to send a request over to the Belfast PD, asking them to look into it, but he honestly doubted that anything would come from that lead.

 

Eddie sighed and pushed his chair back. Looking at all this evidence wasn’t getting him anywhere. They simply didn’t have enough leads. Then his phone rang. He was expecting a call from the ballistics lab, so he picked it up, even though the hour was getting close to midnight, and he had told his wife that he would get home early. He made a mental note of calling to tell her, he might not be able to go home that night.

 

“McNeil.”

 

“Lieutenant McNeil, this is Sergeant Heathers from the Aberdeen Police Department. I was told that you were the only officer in at this time and my superiors have asked me to send some information they want your Department to check against your records sent over. It’s about the Waters killing. We need some vehicle registrations checked out, and our computer systems have just died. I was wondering whether you could possibly check the information in your databases?”

 

“Send them over.”

 

The list turned out to be a list of about three-dozen vehicle registration numbers, some of them only partial. Probably turned up by a routine sweep, or some eyewitness accounts. Eddie called over a simple cop to have them checked out and sent back to Aberdeen and plunged back into his case, forgetting to call his wife.

 

When his phone rang again, he really thought that it was going to be her, instantly regretting not having called. But it turned out to be Sergeant Kittle.

 

“Hi Eddie, you had asked me to check Malcolm’s movements over the last few years, right?”

 

“Turn up any dark chapter in his past, which would need a closer looking into?”

 

“Unfortunately no. He seems to be as clean as he says he is.”

 

Lieutenant McNeil let out his breath. He had been hoping for a lead. “That doesn’t get us anywhere. But John, I don’t know, I have a feeling. Just a feeling, nagging at me, that he is hiding something from us.”

 

“Want me to take a closer look?”

 

“If you wouldn’t mind.”

 

“I’m just an old man, with nothing else to do Eddie. I’ll have a look.”

 

They laughed. Then Kittle’s voice changed in tone suddenly, as he spoke to someone next to him.

 

“Wait a moment. Show me that paper, will you?” Some rustling of papers and then a hiss of the intake of breath were followed by an excited voiced remark. “You’d better come and look at this Eddie.”

 

Eddie McNeil hurried to Kittle’s office, which was just at the other end of the corridor from his.

 

“What is it John?”

 

“Malcolm’s car is one of those the Aberdeen PD asked us to check out. They only had a partial registration number, but only one grey Rover, in the whole of the UK matched that.”

 

“Good spot.” – Eddie, said to Kittle. Had the Sergeant not noticed the name of Stephen Malcolm on the sheet, which was just about to be faxed to Aberdeen it would have gone totally unnoticed, as in Aberdeen they knew nothing about Stephen Malcolm.

 

“So, while someone was killing his son, Stephen Malcolm was in Aberdeen. That rules him out as a suspect.” – said John Kittle, seeing only the most obvious consequence of what they had just found.

 

“He didn’t mention going to Aberdeen when he spoke to you, John. Yet that day was one you went over in great detail. What had he said for that day?”

 

“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” – was Kittle’s remark as he shoved papers out of the way, looking for the transcription of the interview with Stephen Malcolm. “Ah, here it is. Let me see…ah yes. He said that he had to go to see a customer on the outskirts of Edinborough personally. The customer, a certain Harry George Dickson, a retired English army officer confirmed his story.”

 

“Could you pay him a visit in the morning, John? Go home now, while I go over some more of this. You’ll need to be sharp with this guy, I feel.”

 

“Sure, Eddie. See you tomorrow.” – he stood up from his table and made as if to leave his office. “Oh, and for heaven’s sake, give your wife a call. Let her know everything’s ok.”

 

“Thanks for reminding me.”

 

He made the call, and escaped with only a minor telling off. Ms McNeil knew the extremes, which came with her husband’s job, and had gotten used to him sometimes staying at work during the whole night. She wasn’t completely happy with the situation, but she wasn’t like those police wives you could see in some films, who divorced because of this. She really did love her husband.

 

Over the course of the next few hours Lieutenant McNeil delved deep into Stephen Malcolm’s past. Slowly, he started to see an emerging pattern. The stories Malcolm had told the police were always rock solid. He could back himself up with several witnesses. Yet almost always, when he had travelled abroad, a murder would take place. Nothing could connect him to these murders, and since they were mostly killings of people, who were either known as or later were found out to be crime lords, could be attributed to gang wars wherever they happened no one would have suspected him. If it weren’t for his car having been spotted in Aberdeen.

 

The puzzle was starting to be solved in Lieutenant McNeil’s mind. If, as he supposed Stephen Malcolm was an assassin-for-hire, then anyone could have found out about him. Suddenly, he then remembered that Detective Alan Johnson had been looking for some mysterious assassin, who had committed several assassinations over the UK and abroad. He would have to call him in the morning. For now he needed to write up a memo for the chief before he collapsed from exhaustion. It was already four in the morning, and there was only him, the night watch crew, and a cop helping him there.

 

Hi finally finished the memo at half past four and handed it to the police man, telling him to put it on the chief’s desk. He then literally collapsed in one of the beds in the room, reserved for officers staying in for the night, and fell asleep in less than a minute.

 

Peter McAdam, who had been handed the memo, curiously took off the top cover sheet and started reading the last page.

 

…In light of all described above, I request the immediate issue of an arrest warrant against Stephen Malcolm. He is probably going to be armed, and dangerous given the information I have found…

 

It was upon reading that that Peter McAdam decided that he needed to immediately call Walter McCluney in Glasgow.

[Patrick]

Chapter 9: A hurried departure

 

Stephen was passing one last night with Rachel before he had to go to Glasgow again, and take the plane to Spain. He hadn’t given her a reason yet and had planned to do so in the morning. As they both lay asleep, next to each other Stephen’s cell phone rang.

 

“Is that yours or mine?” – he grumbled being brought out of sleep.

 

“I switch mine off at night.” – was the soft-voiced reply.

 

Still half-asleep, Stephen got out of bed and fished for the phone in his trousers pockets. He thought of not answering it, when he saw who was calling. It was very rare for Walter McCluney to be up at this hour.

 

“Malcolm.” – he said simply. It was the code used between the two of them, for the fact, that he couldn’t speak entirely freely, being with someone. “You’d better have a good reason for waking me.” It was all for Rachel’s sake. McCluney would know that he needed to keep his cover.

 

“You have to leave Edinborough now. A car shall be waiting for you outside the station in half an hour and bring you to Glasgow. Can you make it?”

 

“Yes. What happened?”

 

“A tip-off from an informant inside the PD in Edinborough. They’ve established a connection between your trips, and so far unsolved assassinations.” – McCluney’s voice was rushed, betraying a need for speed.

 

“Does this mean that we are cancelling the preparations for tomorrow?”

 

“I still need you to go forward with that Stephen. I need the job done, and you’re the only one available at the moment. At the moment I’m thinking of taking you over by boat to Ireland, and you would fly from there.” – he then stayed silent.

 

“See you in a few hours time.” – said Stephen, realising that the conversation was over.

 

“What was all that about? Do you need to go off again? And what were you preparing for tomorrow?”

 

Stephen looked at Rachel. She was staring at him, genuinely curious.

 

“It would take too long to explain, Rachel. I’m sorry, I’m not totally who I appear to be.”

 

He quickly grabbed his clothes and started hurriedly dressing.

 

“Stephen! I love you! And you had told me the same thing the last night. Why can’t we be honest to each other?” – she was clutching the bed sheet, as if this dishonesty pained her.

 

Stephen paused, halfway through putting his shirt on. When he had said that he loved her he had meant it. But was that enough for him to blow his cover? What would she do, if she knew the truth? Such questions were rushing through his mind, while he made his decision.

 

“Rachel, I need to get to the railway station in about twenty five minutes. If you take me I’ll tell you while we’re going there.” – then seeing that she wasn’t moving added. “Please. It’s urgent.”

 

She finally reacted, and started dressing. They both stayed silent until they had gotten into the car. She didn’t have to ask for him to speak, he spoke by himself.

 

“Some would consider me a very bad man, Rachel.” – he glanced sideways at her. “But I do have a certain morality. That is one thing I have managed to keep throughout the years.”

 

“What do you mean? You’re a criminal?” – there was a glimmer of tears to come at the edge of her eyes.

 

The roads, at this hour of the morning were nearly totally deserted and they were going fast.

 

“Yes.” – eventually it hadn’t been as hard to say, as Stephen had imagined it would be. “I am a criminal.” Now came the hard part. “I get given jobs and do them.”

 

“Jobs?” – she dreaded the answer.

 

“I kill people. I am a murderer, Rachel. I made a point of only accepting jobs, when the target had also committed crimes, though. I’m sorry. I hadn’t wanted to tell you, didn’t want to trouble you with it.”

 

“You mean you would have lived down a life alongside me, without ever telling me anything?” – she was working herself up. “Don’t I deserve at least that much honesty?”

 

The tears were still there, but weren’t coming. Rachel fell silent. She wasn’t reacting to this the way Stephen had expected her to. He had expected her to stop the car, and throw him out.

 

“I would understand if you don’t forgive me. I should have never gotten this close to you. I don’t deserve what you have given me. Not after all that I have done. I know I have done wrongs, Rachel, but…”

 

She swerved viciously around a corner cutting him off, as he needed to grab hold of something to stop him from hitting the window.

 

“Do you mean that you don’t love me?” – she asked through her teeth.

 

“As much as I love you Rachel, I fear that all I shall be able to have is a memory. I need to leave the country.”

 

She suddenly braked to a halt. They were now only four corners away from the station. She turned to face Stephen.

 

“I thank you for being honest with me, Stephen. That is something Peter never gave me. I think it was one of the things that led to our break-up.”

 

The tear, which had been at the edge of her eye, finally started rolling down her cheeks.

 

“But I think I need some time now to think. I might give you a call, and then again you might never hear from me again.”

 

She started going again, and stopped at the corner across from the station. A black Volvo was parked there, and Stephen suspected that it was McCluney’s men.

 

“Goodbye Stephen.” – she said, now unable to hold her tears back, which were flowing freely.

 

“One thing before I go, Rachel. As recent events…” – here his voice nearly faded away. “…have shown, it is dangerous to be close to me. If you ever tell anyone about having met me, don’t use my real name, or it might be dangerous. I would suggest you go to the police and ask for protection. I’m sorry Rachel, sorry to have dragged you into this.”

 

He opened his door, and the chill night air blew in.

 

“Goodbye Rachel.” – he said before closing it. He waited until she had disappeared around the corner before crossing the street. He wiped away the tears from his own eyes as he reached the Volvo. The back door opened and he was motioned to sit in.

 

Barely had they left, when Stephen was handed a phone. The voice of the blond man next to him told him that it was McCluney.

 

“Yeah?”

 

“The boat is waiting on the western coast of Scotland. It shall take you slightly north of Dublin. Since I didn’t have the time to get you a ticket you are flying one of the low-cost airlines from Dublin to La Coruña. After the job I suggest you lie low in Spain, or Portugal, or even better, go over to Africa from Gibraltar.” McCluney was a superb organiser. “And remember that you are now Basil Nevers. My men have the wig and the false beard. Good luck.”

 

“Thanks.”

[Patrick]

Chapter 10: The Sea’s Pearl

 

When Basil Nevers boarded the Sea’s Pearl at eight p.m. in La Coruña he was one of several dozen, rich looking businessmen and women. He had no beard now, having gotten rid of it in the hotel room. He had slept through most of the day, exhausted by the events of the night, both physically and emotionally.

 

The Sea’s Pearl was a luxurious cruise boat, with the decorations all over the passenger accessible areas showing that it wasn’t for the poor. Some people in fact lived on the ship. Rich pensioners, whose life dream had come true with this, Basil Nevers thought.

 

He had barely set foot on the ship when waiters came, offering him cocktails. He took one, and once out of sight of the waiter threw the liquid inside the pot of a plant. He needed his mind to be clear. This time in two days the ship would be in Gibraltar, and he would be getting off it.

 

Dinner was served shortly after they had boarded the ship. Stephen sat alone at his table and ordered seafood, as did many of the people around him. When the food arrived a band went to the stage and started playing some jazz music. From the paper on his table, Stephen could see that each night a different band played. The next night it would be a rock band.

 

After dinner he went to his room. When he entered a man was already waiting there.

 

“Who are you?”

 

“Mr McCarthey had said that this was going to be your cabin, Mr Nevers.” – said the man, and then introduced himself as Abel Asevedo. He had a thick accent, one characteristic of Mediterranean people. McCarthey was the name used by McCluney at times.

 

“What have you got for me?”

 

“I guess you haven’t seen Mr Taylor yet. He usually stays in his cabin and has his food delivered there. He keeps to himself, as do some others on the ship. He has cabin 47.” – he handed him a snapshot of Michael Taylor. The target looked to be in his late twenties, and there was nothing remarkable about him. Then again, rarely were the high profile criminals remarkable.

 

“What about the hardware?”

 

“I have put them under your bed, Mr Nevers. Good luck. Kill this bastard of a drug dealer.”

 

The security officer left his cabin. Stephen, known on the ship as Basil Nevers wondered how much he had been paid. Not that it mattered much. He had played his part and wasn’t needed anymore. It troubled him however that the security officer knew what he was going to do. Normally McCluney did not tell that much to the one-time helpers.

 

Under the bed, Stephen found a pistol, and a sniper rifle, both of Russian make. Although they weren’t the best, they would be adequate for the job. He checked them for ammunition. The rifle only had four bullets, while the rifle two. He would manage with them.

 

On his inspection of the surroundings of cabin 47, the following morning, Stephen found that the job wasn’t going to be that easy. The window of the cabin faced towards the water, and the door was sturdy. If Michael Taylor did not move out from his cabin, it might even prove to be impossible.

 

That day Michael Taylor came out to have lunch. He conversed fluently in Spanish with the waiters, and to Stephen gave the impression of not being English at all. His physique and facial look also suggested that he was rather South American. When Stephen accidentally dropped his handkerchief next to his table, he had however picked it up and told Stephen in an accent-laden English that it was no problem at all.

 

During lunch, the so-called Michael Taylor spoke with a Spanish, or South American woman, and it appeared to Stephen, sitting five tables away that they had arranged a rendezvous.

 

He needed a plan. He spent the whole day in his cabin thinking about it, and in the end had it. He had even surprised himself. It had to build on his quite weak Spanish knowledge and a Spanish dictionary, but he was pretty sure it would work.

 

He made his way to cabin 47, and knocked firmly.

 

“Quien es?” – came a voice from inside.

 

“Me llamo Juan. La signorita me ha dicho de venir aqui. Tengo que decir a usted que para ella no esta bien esta tarde. Y tengo que dar a usted un papel donde ella ha escrito algo.”

 

A key was turned in the lock, and then the door opened slowly. Michael Taylor peeked out.

 

“Tu no eres Juan! Tu eres el ingles!” – he exclaimed suddenly and tried to shut the door, but Stephen put his foot between the door and the wall, and with his right hand punched Michael in the face, knocking him backwards, forcing his way through the door.

 

“And I’m also pretty sure that your real name isn’t Michael Taylor.” – said Stephen.

 

“Who are you? Are you from the police?” – the man asked, cowering against the wall of his cabin. His accent was definitely of someone of Spanish, or Latin American origin.

 

Stephen replied, while locking the door from the inside.

 

“I’m not from the police.” The so-called Michael Taylor sighed in relief, but when he heard what Stephen had to say next he regretted that sigh. “I’ve been sent by McCluney.”

 

“I guess from the fact that you have told me, who sent you that I am to die?”

 

Stephen nodded. He could see panic on the man’s face. He didn’t enjoy seeing his victim’s suffer and so brought out his gun, with the silencer on it, pointing it at the man. He was just about to pull the trigger, when he heard a knock on the door, and a female voice came from outside.

 

“Abre me Miguel. Soy Maria.”

 

Stephen muttered a curse under his breath and pulled the trigger. Now he had to take care of the woman also.

 

“Un momento.” – he shouted through the door, and went to the bathroom and flushed the toilet.

 

He then went to the door and opened it, stepping out. He motioned for her to go in, trying to make her think he had just been visiting Miguel’s room. She took the bait and stepped into the room. He heard her intake of breath upon seeing Miguel’s corpse, but then he pushed her into the room and followed, locking the door again. She had slightly thinner eyes, and an altogether Asian look to her.

 

“Do you speak English?” – was the first thing he asked her.

 

“Yes.” – was the tentative reply.

 

“Right, that makes it easier for me. Look, I have nothing against you, and don’t want to kill you, ok? You just came here at the wrong time. Do you get me? I don’t want to kill you.”

 

He could see terror in her eyes, and it was because of this that he wanted to make sure that the message had gotten across. She nodded, and he continued.

 

“I don’t want to kill you, but I can’t let you go either. You see I have to leave this ship before people find out about what has happened to Michael, or, as you know him Miguel here. Now, I’m getting off in Gibraltar, but I shall have to tie you up so that you only get out of this cabin about a day later, with enough time for me to make my escape. I’m not doing this to hurt you, but to ensure my escape, ok?”

 

She nodded again, then to Stephen’s surprise spoke. And if he was surprised that she had spoken he was even more surprised at what she said.

 

“Did McCluney send you? I’m just guessing from your Scottish accent.” – she spoke with a perfect, London accent. Stephen pointed the gun at her. She made no sudden moves, but continued speaking. “Miguel Hierra, small time Argentinean drug dealer, had gotten too big. He had even managed to bribe his way out of the Rio de Janeiro prison. He took on the identity of Michael Taylor and wanted to go to Gibraltar, and from there get back to London.” She paused waiting to see a reaction on Stephen’s face, but there wasn’t any. “He was a problem for my boss, so I was sent to get rid of him, but it seems you had gotten there before me.”

 

“Who are you? And who the hell do you work for?”

 

“I work for Davis, and my name is Leanne Hiu.”

 

“Hiu?”

 

“Chinese father.”

 

“I see.” He still kept the gun on her, not risking anything.

 

“You’d understand that I need to make a call?”

 

“Go ahead.”

 

Stephen was just about to call Walter McCluney from his phone when he realised that if the cops were after him by now then his phone would be tapped.

 

“You have a phone?” – he asked Leanne.

 

“Yes.” – was the reply.

 

“Give it to me.”

 

She didn’t ask any questions, but slowly took her phone from her handbag and handed it to Stephen.

 

“McCluney.” It was rare for Walter himself to pick up the phone, but probably the secretary had already gone home.

 

“This is your man on the Sea’s Pearl.”

 

“What’s happened. Have you run into problems?”

 

“The mission is accomplished, but it would seem that I wasn’t the only one on the job. I have someone here, who says that she was sent by Davis to kill Michael Taylor, also known as Miguel Hierra.”

 

McCluney swore badly on the other side of the line, and then took a moment to regain control of himself.

 

“It seems I’ll have to call Davis now. What name did she give?”

 

“Leanne Hiu.”

 

“I’ll call you back in ten minutes.”

 

Stephen put the phone on the table.

 

“Sit down on the chair, and give me your handbag.” – he said to Leanne.

 

She did as told and handed him the handbag. Stephen placed it next to the phone on the table and then searched her with one hand, while keeping the gun on her with the other. He found no weapons on her. Then he searched the handbag, and found the small automatic among all the womanly things. He handed back the handbag without the gun. Then he settled back, waiting for the call to come.

[Patrick]

Chapter 11: Sleeping with the fishes

 

Pieter van Huydink had moved to London with his parents, when he was a kid of seven years in 1985. The transition had been quite easy for him and in less than a year he had mastered the language, something his parents had never been capable of. His parents were killed during a mugging, when he was twelve, and by the age of thirteen he had joined one of the Chinese gangs operating in London. He would have been condemned to work for them for life, had a certain Ian Davis – who was thirty-three years old at the time – not bought him from the Chinese.

 

Ian Davis had already then, in the early 1980’s been setting up, what would eventually become his crime empire. He had a hand in nearly every pie in London. All except drugs. He never smuggled or sold drugs. It was a question of personal pride and honour for him. He had had a big problem with drug addiction in his early teens, but had managed to come out of it by himself and didn’t ever want to see any more of them.

 

Ian Davis took in Pieter and took care of him. He gave the boy small jobs as taking papers here or there, maybe delivering a package. He never told the boy about the bigger picture, but Pieter was a bright lad, and being close to Ian Davis figured out quite a few things on his own. It was when he turned twenty that Ian let him in on the how’s and why’s and also the not-to’s of the business. He had specifically told him, that while he was working for Ian Davis he shouldn’t touch drugs.

 

Ian Davis was now forty-seven years old. He was the most powerful crime-lord in London, and certainly among the most powerful in the British Isles. His name was enough to induce fear in any simple thug or thief, and at times his reputation was enough to resolve certain problems. He had ties with the Chinese and the other criminal gangs in town, and in a sort controlled them. He had done them so many favours, that when he asked for something in return he always got what he wanted.

 

What he wanted right now was to kill a man. A man, he had gotten to know as a young boy, and had saved from the Chinese. Ian Davis had just learnt that Pieter van Huydink had lately turned to importing drugs. Pieter had long been independent from Ian, but had never gotten free from his influence. After the police it was probably Ian Davis, whom the drug dealers feared most in London, since he was known to send his hit men after them, trying to free the town from what he considered the worse thing invented ever since fire.

 

But now he wasn’t going to send his hit men. This was something he wanted to take care of alone. His men were needed to take care of the organisation van Huydink had set up under his nose.

 

“Sean!”

 

Sean was Davis’s liaison with the more peaceful of the IRA operating in Ireland and Northern Ireland, those who had turned away from terrorism and settled for more profitable crimes. He worked for both Davis and the Irish.

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Do your other bosses have anyone in Rotterdam?”

 

“They might. What would need doing?” Sean O’Murphy was Irish, and looked it. He had red hair and a freckled face, which wouldn’t have looked out of place in any town in Ireland.

 

“I need to take care of a few drug suppliers there.”

 

O’Murphy’s bosses, although not directly involved in drug trafficking were probably close to some, who were, as Davis suspected, but it was a necessary evil he had to live with. If someone were flooding London with drugs as van Huydink was, then it would also be in their interest to get rid of the suppliers.

 

“You’re taking care of the problem here?” – the Irishman asked.

 

“Yeah.”

 

“I’ll make a phone call.” – Sean said and left the small room.

 

So did Ian Davis. He called his right-hand man, William Hicks, or as some in London knew him, Bill the Butcher. He had earned the nickname after a particularly vicious show down between Davis’s gang and a rival gang in the early nineties, but several years had actually passed since he hadn’t killed anyone. Davis had lifted him above the rest of his men after those clashes, to keep him from harm’s way. Since then William Hicks had solved many a situation while his boss was away. And solved them well. He wasn’t only a good fighter, but he also had brains.

 

“Bill Hicks.” – the man simply said over the phone. From the background there came the giggles of one or several women. Women were the one weakness of Hicks.

 

“I hope I haven’t disturbed anything.” – Davis said, with a chuckle.

 

“Nothing I can’t get out of. You need me?”

 

“I need something taken care of. And I want you to come with me.”

 

“I’ll be there in half an hour.”

 

O’Murphy knocked on the door shortly afterwards. Ian Davis actually had a large office in a modern office building. The office was that of director of Davis Wood Shipping and Handling, which was a company, who imported and treated wood from South America. It was a completely legitimate business, which brought moderate profits. It wasn’t even used for money laundering; Davis had other businesses for that.

 

“Come in!” – Davis called.

 

The Irishman came in. Davis had always thought that he looked awkward in a suit. He was too bulky for them.

 

“We’ll send a few guys over to Rotterdam. Give me the names of the guys you want capped.”

 

Davis told him, and O’Murphy left the office. Davis looked over papers of Davis Wood Shipping and Handling. Business had been good lately, with a large order from a furniture company, who it was rumoured had won the contract to refurnish the ministries in London. But this business wasn’t his. His son, Tim had taken over two months ago, and it was only nostalgia, which still brought him back.

 

Tim Davis was in French Guyana at the moment, on some business or other to do with the company. Ian half-remembered it being about the quality of the last shipment, but wasn’t sure.

 

He was brought out of his daydreaming by a firm knock on the door. Before he could answer Bill was in the room.

 

“Pour yourself a stiff one Bill. This one had once been a friend.”

 

The man did so, and then asked whom Davis was referring to.

 

“Pieter.” – was the reply, and there was a hint of sadness in Davis’s voice.

 

“I thought that he was one of your favourites.” William Hicks was tall and thin and could have looked like anything but a criminal. He had an honest face, which didn’t change even when he told the boldest lies, and nothing in his manner betrayed how vicious and brutal he could become if he wanted.

 

“He was.” – and Davis put the emphasis on the past tense. “He has been flooding the Chinese quarter with imported heroine. He was bringing the drugs in through Rotterdam taking from the shipments going to continental Europe. He built on his contacts in the Chinese quarter from many years ago. I have already sent men to take care of the chinks.”

 

“Where is Pieter?”

 

“I’ve set up a meeting with him at a warehouse. Told him there’s a shipment he has to see.”

 

Bill nodded. He never asked unnecessary questions. Neither did he speak when it wasn’t needed. He was measured in everything he did. Just as Davis. Hicks finished his whiskey and the two men left the building.

 

“What if he brings a few of his men?” – Hicks asked in the car. He was driving. He always did, when he was with Davis. Not because he was a subordinate, but because he was a bloody good driver, as Davis had once said after a particularly fanciful getaway.

 

“I have men around the warehouse. You know I always do. I must admit I did send a few extras though.”

 

They reached the warehouse, and made towards the meeting place. They arrived first. They didn’t have to wait for long. Pieter van Huydink came with two of his men, who stopped at a respectable distance, and the Dutchman came along alone.

 

“Ian, it’s been a long time since I last saw you! How are you? And Bill! Nice to see you too!”

 

“Pieter, it has indeed been a long time…” – then Davis’s phone rang. It was McCluney from Glasgow. The two of them had met once, several years ago and hadn’t parted on the best of terms. McCluney was the biggest fish in Scotland and Davis hadn’t taken to it well when he had kept his territory shut to Davis. At the time he hadn’t pressed the issue, and since his anger had much lessened. It was still a surprise when he heard the Scotsman’s voice.

 

“McCluney.” – the voice announced, and then continued. “We need to talk.”

 

“I’m listening.” – Davis said. He didn’t ask how McCluney had gotten his number, as these things were trivialities for their like.

 

“Does the name Leanne Hiu say anything to you?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“She is on the Sea’s Pearl right now, correct?”

 

Davis frowned and walked away from Hicks and Van Huydink.

 

“How do you know that?”

 

“It would seem that she had the same target as one of my men. And my man has her at gunpoint right now. However he had the brains to call me asking what to do. Do you have anything to suggest?”

 

“That depends on who your man is. If it is Malcolm, whom I happen to know left Scotland rather early by boat two days ago, then I might have something to offer to him in exchange.”

 

Now it was McCluney’s turn to pause. Davis continued using the silence to his advantage.

 

“I wasn’t the one, who wanted to take him down, although he has been a problem a few times in the past. I do know who the man on the scene was though. A certain Alan Johnson, if the name means anything to you.”

 

“I’ve sent my men after him to Paris.”

 

“If you mean the McNamara twins, then they’re dead. Was all over the Paris newspapers this morning. Two Scottish tourists murdered on the Montmartre, all of their money taken from them. Although you and I know that it wasn’t a simple robbery.”

 

“There was one other also.” McCluney managed to mask his surprise. This was news to him. He scribbled on a paper to his man next to him to check whether Hickley was also dead, or not.

 

“Come on Walter, let’s end all this secrecy. Clearly you need my help, and my girl on the Sea’s Pearl needs yours. Why not share information?”

 

Grudgingly McCluney accepted. Halfway through the conversation he was whispered that Hickley had been reached in Paris. The death of the McNamara twins had been news to him also. He had agreed to wait for further orders before acting.

 

“Right, both of us have learnt quite a lot, haven’t we Walter?”

 

“I’ll have to agree with you.”

 

“I’ll call Stephen. It will be better if he hears, what he has to hear from me. I’m not sure he’ll like what we’ve agreed upon.”

 

“All right.” It was as if Davis had won an argument, when there had been nothing they had argued about.

 

“Now if you’ll excuse me, I have other business to attend to.” Davis hung up and walked back to Hicks and van Huydink.

 

“Sorry about that, some business I had to take care of. I’ll need to make another phone call in a few minutes, but lets finish here first, shall we Pieter?”

 

“Right…” – there was a certain hesitation in the Dutchman’s voice, as he clearly had no idea why he had been called here. He had seen no sign of any shipment. “So where’s the shipment?”

 

“There is no shipment, Pieter.” It was Hicks who said this.

 

“Why did you have to turn to dealing drugs, Pieter? Why? After all that time! For God’s sake. I warned you. You can’t say I didn’t warn you.” Davis wasn’t furious. He was disappointed.

 

Pieter lifted his hand as if to sneeze. Upon the signal his two men reached for their guns and came running. Several silenced shots pierced the silence and van Huydink’s men fell to the ground.

 

“Come on Pieter. We’re in my sector. Here it is I, who determines the rules. Your men could have survived if not for your foolishness.”

 

Van Huydink spoke. His voice was calm, but his posture betrayed that he was now terrified.

 

“Ian, you must be wrong. I haven’t been dealing drugs. It’s too dangerous.”

 

Hicks laughed. “Dangerous? Don’t kid me! Extortion is more dangerous, and as far as I have heard you’ve been doing quite a lot of that lately. Word on the street has it, that you have extorted over half of the shop owners in Chinatown.”

 

Van Huydink was getting desperate.

 

“Ian, think about our friendship! Won’t you give me another chance?”

 

“You have thrown away the friendship I once gave you, Pieter. Thrown it away for what? Some more money through the drugs? Didn’t you have enough? You could have asked me for more money if you wanted.”

 

“You…” – Pieter stammered.

 

“Oh, shut up!” – Davis said, and motioned for Hicks. From the suit, out came a silenced Lüger. Hicks’s favourite weapon. He had brought it at an auction, and had made the silencer himself. Although it was more than 60 years old, it was still a perfectly good weapon. Before van Huydink had the chance to say anything more Hicks pulled the trigger.

 

“Clean up!” – Davis ordered and his men came out from among the crates and sacks, where they had been hiding. “Throw van Huydink’s body in the river. Let him sleep with the fishes!”

Edited September 13, 2005 by Patrick Durham

[Patrick]

Chapter 12: Police protection

 

The response to Stephen’s call took longer than ten minutes. With nothing better to do, he started talking with Leanne. She turned out to be quite sympathetic. She was born in London to a Chinese father and a Welsh mother. Her parents were now retired and lived in a small village not far from Coventry. She had been to university and had finished a course of Far-Eastern culture and languages. Stephen learned that she spoke fluent Japanese, Chinese and Korean and conversational Spanish, French and German along with her flawless knowledge of English. Stephen told her his Basil Nevers cover story. Before he heard anything further from McCluney he wasn’t going to tell her more than necessary.

 

Finally the call came. But it wasn’t, whom Stephen had been expecting.

 

“Hello Stephen. This is Ian Davis.” – the sounds on the other side of the line betrayed that Davis was now sitting in a car. “I was sorry to hear what had happened up in Edinborough. I assure you, that it was not of my doing. Now, you must be impatient and wondering when I shall get to the point. Don’t worry I won’t keep you waiting. I’ve just been on the phone with Walter McCluney, and he has told me about the situation you are in currently. I understand that you have Leanne at gunpoint, right?”

 

“Yes.” – Stephen wondered why McCluney had agreed to Davis calling him.

 

“Good. Keep the gun pointed at her if you want, while we are talking, if it reassures you.”

 

“What do you want?”

 

“Alan Johnson is in Paris. He has already killed the McNamara twins. I want you to go to Paris to get him. McCluney has already agreed. Hickley shall also be there to help, and I shall send some men over also. You need to get to Paris, but if you get off in Gibraltar, you won’t be able to travel. You are now a wanted person in the UK, and your cover of Basil Nevers shall not last long.”

 

“You clearly have a plan.” – Stephen could sense that he wasn’t controlling this conversation. He never had. But he had to follow what Davis was saying, as it seemed that he and McCluney had somehow reached an agreement.

 

“You get off the boat in Barcelona. From there you get to Lyon by train, and from Lyon you take a TGV to Paris. The boat gets to Barcelona in two days time, add another day for you to get to Paris, I say you meet Hickley at the Eiffel Tower at midnight three days from now. Me and McCluney shall arrange our side of things and Hickley shall have his orders.”

 

“McCluney hadn’t wanted me to go after Johnson. He feared that I would kill and not capture him if I met him.” – Stephen wasn’t an idiot. If he noticed something, which didn’t add up, he wasn’t happy.

 

“That’s why I’m sending Leanne with you. She should be able to control you.”

 

“Clearly you have thought of everything. Anything else I need to know of?”

 

“Nothing, which can’t wait until Paris.”

 

“All right.”

 

Davis had already hung up. Stephen looked at Leanne.

 

“Ever been to Paris?”

 

“Never before, why?”

 

“Well I’ve just spoken to Davis.” – he handed her gun back. She took it, surprise on her face. “We are to get off the ship in Barcelona, then go by train to Paris, through Lyon. We need to capture Alan Johnson.” – he then filled her in on the details.

 

Leanne nodded when he finished.

 

“You’re Stephen Malcolm, aren’t you?” – she asked.

 

“Yes, and don’t say that you’re sorry about my boy, because I’m getting sick of hearing people telling me that.”

 

From the expression on her face, Stephen could tell that she was just about to say it.

 

“I think we should just lock this cabin door, and put out a don’t disturb sign. We still have two days until we reach Barcelona.” – Leanne said, changing the subject of the conversation.

 

“I have cabin 62, if you need to see me.” – Stephen said, and walked out of the cabin, leaving Leanne alone. He needed to be alone. And he needed to talk with Rachel. The door opened behind him.

 

“Could you give me my phone back?” – Leanne asked, walking after him.

 

“Mind if I keep it tonight? I need to make a call.” – he said. She motioned that he could keep it.

 

“My cabin is cabin 29 by the way.” – Leanne said trying to get Stephen to talk, but he didn’t reply and went to his cabin.

 

 

Rachel was just in the Edinborough Police Department, having finished the interview with Sergeant Kittle.

 

“I’m pretty sure we shall be able to give you the protection. Don’t worry if you see a few plains clothes police men outside your house, Ms O’Donaghey. Oh and, I need you to sign these papers.” – he handed them to her, and she signed them. She turned to leave, just when her phone rang. Still within ear range of Sergeant Kittle, she picked it up.

 

“Hello Rachel.” It was Stephen’s voice. Sergeant Kittle had also recognised it unfortunately and with a sudden move of his hand snatched the phone from Rachel, just as she said “Hi.”

 

“Stephen, this is John Kittle. Don’t hang up!” – he said hurriedly as he had felt Stephen moving the phone. “Rachel has just been here to ask for protection, as you had asked her, and I recognised your voice. I just wanted to have a word with you. We have found out about the real reasons of your trips.”

 

“Why should I listen to you? You don’t need time to trace the phone. Now that you have the number, you can probably trace it to within ten meters of where I am. That’s not what you need. What do you want, John?”

 

Sergeant Kittle was thinking furiously. He had spoken with Stephen before. He hoped that he could get him to cooperate.

 

“Stephen, if you come in and confess you could get less jail-time. If you confess about those who you have worked for you might get a deal, which excludes prison time, even.”

 

“I wouldn’t betray anyone. I’m not the type.”

 

“What about Rachel? Are you going to leave her?” – Kittle was trying to play on Stephen’s emotions. Stephen didn’t reply. “Stephen, if you told us everything, we might be able to catch the person who killed your son.”

 

“I’m going to get that man.” – Stephen said, ending the call.

 

 

Sergeant Kittle looked at Rachel and sighed, and then wrote down the number Stephen had called from. They would have to watch that number as they watched Stephen’s known cell phone.

 

“I’m afraid we’ll have to keep your phone for a few days, Miss O’Donaghey. We shall have to have our tech people have a look in it.”

 

She nodded. She was on the brink of tears, but didn’t want to show it. She had wanted to talk to Stephen herself. She had wanted to tell him of her decision, but he had called at the wrong time. She excused herself and went out to the bathroom. John Kittle called for Lieutenant McNeil.

 

 

Stephen went from his cabin to Leanne’s. She let him in after he had knocked. She was wearing nothing, but a towel, and was still wet from a quick shower she had taken.

 

“What is it?”

 

“Your phone. It’s going to be traced. Get rid of it.” – he said handing the phone back. At the same time he went to the open porthole of Leanne’s room and threw out his own phone.

 

“That’s great. So we’ll be out of touch, until we reach Paris?”

 

“It seems very much like it.”

 

She threw her phone after his.

 

 

Rachel left the Police Station a quarter of an hour later, when she had managed to master her emotions. Luckily she did not meet Sergeant Kittle. She went home and ordered some food. Even the act of ordering some food reminded her of Stephen, and when they had eaten pizza together. At ten that evening her bell rang. It was a young policeman, who told her that he and two of his companions had been sent to protect her. She thanked him and offered them coffee, which they declined, saying that they had their own.

 

Rachel decided to watch a film. She leafed through her collection of DVD’s and finally found one that she fancied. She fell to sleep in front of the film at midnight.

Edited December 12, 2005 by Patrick Durham