The following day the same morning routine occurred with Mark being, as usual, last into breakfast in the King household. However, this time, Mark was on the phone to the police and then to Hugo advising him of the mysterious calls. Hugo told Mark the office have been fielding the same calls and that the police were aware and were trying to trace the caller ID, but to not let it deter him and shift his attention away from the case.
Mark made his way to his car after kissing Marie and the children goodbye. Marie watched him go from behind the curtain in the hallway window, concerned about his phone conversation. Mark strode down the small garden path, sandwiched between two small lawns, past the large double garage and towards the car parked on the drive. He stopped suddenly and rolled his eyes as he caught sight of Ian Hawking, who was waiting for Mark again and chased after Mark to his car to get a statement from him. Mark noticed the black Range Rover and turned to Hawking.
‘You, thing, whatever your name is, wait here,’ Mark said sharply. Surprised and taken aback, Hawking did as he was told and watched as Mark marched over towards the Range Rover and knocked on the window. It rolled down to reveal a man with sunglasses on. The man stared at him without saying a word.
‘Yeah, er, hi. What are you doing waiting out here day after day?’ Mark enquired. There was silence from the man as he continued to stare at Mark. Mark tried again.
‘Why are you here? What do you want?’ This time, the man answered in a low, basic English but with a thick foreign accent; Mark thought it to be Russian or Ukrainian, possibly Albanian.
‘What do you want?’ the man grunted.
‘What do I want? What do YOU want?’ Mark replied indignantly, shocked at the man’s attitude.
‘Gardener. Municipal services. We mow grass, cut weed.’ Mark was surprised and felt slightly silly approaching a stranger like this.
He looked into the back of the Range Rover and noted rakes, garden spades, green garden bags and a black plastic rubbish bin. Mark nodded and apologised. The stranger asked Mark again what he wanted, and that was when Mark caught sight of the revolver in his lap and the ID badge clipped to the man’s chest.
‘Roman Vose,’ he said to himself quietly, he would remember that name.
Sensing danger to himself or to someone, Mark tried to take a swing at Vose through the semi open window of the Range Rover. Vose opened the door on Mark and knocked him over before slamming the door and instantly started the engine and tried to drive off. Before he did so, an accomplice in the passenger seat punched Vose violently in the face. Mark saw Vose reach for a knuckle duster and, before he could remove his hand from the open window, Vose had smacked Mark’s knuckles with it before Mark withdrew his hand. Mark winced in pain but wouldn’t give the driver the satisfaction of hearing him make a sound.
Vose got out, and by this time, Hawking was busy snapping photographs like his life depended on it, and Vose was covered in blood. Vose and his accomplice were dressed in gardener’s overalls and played up to Hawking, knowing he was watching, indicating Vose had been assaulted and threatening to press charges. This is just what Hawking had been waiting for and took pictures and statements for them for the papers.
Mark, looking troubled and winded, turned to Hawking and pleaded with him.
‘I swear I didn’t touch him! He had a gun! You gotta believe me!’
‘All I saw,’ Hawking replied whilst writing furiously, ‘was you throwing punches through the window and then the driver got out covered in blood!’
People were rushing about answering phones and Hugo Lever was in his office behind the glass windows with the door shut on the phone having what looked like a very angry and heated conversation when Mark arrived for work, oblivious to the onslaught about to hit him. He stormed past Maggie the receptionist and ignored his PA Penny, who tried her best to prevent Mark from barging into Hugo’s office while he is on the phone. Hugo motioned Penny to stop when she tried explaining to him she couldn’t stop Mark from coming in and Hugo directed his anger first at Penny.
‘Penny, COFFEE!’ he shouted.
Penny dashed out of the room holding back tears of fear. She was non-confrontational and hated arguments, which was ironic considering her profession. She went to make the coffee, whimpering as she went. Various others tried to comfort her as she sobbed and pointed towards Hugo’s office. Hugo finished his telephone conversation, staring at Mark with anger and disappointment. Mark stared back, angry at whoever had made Penny upset. He didn’t care who it was, NO ONE upset Penny.
‘What the devil did you think you were doing?!’ Hugo shouted as Mark desperately searched for answers.
‘This is NOT what it’s been made to look like Hugo, you know the press!’
‘Yes I do, I’ve spent forty years dealing with the press and you played right into their hands like a bloody fool!’
‘I never touched him Hugo, I swear, he had a gun!’
‘If it wasn’t for your hand Mark, I’d believe you but we all know evidence does not lie,’ he snapped, looking terrified and not knowing what to do next. He was red in the face and his fists were clenched.
‘The passenger thumped him to make it look like I did it and then the driver, this Vose guy, wrapped my knuckles with a knuckle duster to make it look like I hit him!’ Mark insisted.
‘I think you are suffering from stress as a result of this case Mark, it happens to all of us.’
‘Hugo, which hand do I write with?’
Hugo failed to see the relevance of this question and reacted angrily to Mark’s question, shaking his head in disbelief.
‘That’s not relevant to what we do next.’
‘HUGO! Answer the question,’ Mark shouted, getting Hugo’s attention.
‘I don’t know, the left.’
‘Exactly!’ exclaimed Mark triumphantly ‘and the bruised knuckles are on my RIGHT hand, I’m LEFT handed.’
‘I don’t care!’ Hugo argued. Mark’s blood pressure was rising.
‘Damn it Hugo LISTEN TO ME!’ Mark screamed, banging his fist down on the table, virtually nose to nose with Hugo. Hugo stared at Mark, terrified at his behaviour. Slowly he backed away towards the other side of the office, not taking his eyes off Mark. He buzzed for security.
‘Maggie, get security to escort Mr King off the premises.’
Mark couldn’t believe what he was hearing as he desperately thought of ways to get out of this. It couldn’t be happening, not now, not on THIS case. Hugo turned to Mark and spoke slowly.
‘You are suspended on full pay pending an investigation. If the CPS takes action against you, I am afraid there will be no more I can do for you. You’ve always had an issue with authority which would explain why you were removed from Sandhurst!’
‘But the Azidi case! My clients!’ Mark protested, his blood boiling. Hugo took a file from his filing cabinet.
‘I have assigned the case to a new representative until we can somehow manage the fallout from this. You may well have ruined the case, Mark. In the meantime, I will make an appointment with a friend of mine, a counsellor in anger management.’
Mark went dizzy with the thought of it. The case of his career, and he KNEW Azidi was guilty. He simply couldn’t believe it. He left the room looking helplessly at Hugo.
Breathing heavily and sweating, Mark closed the door of Hugo’s office and made his way through all the staff that were still standing silently, staring at him. An office junior who got in Mark’s way froze in fear as Mark walked towards him. The office junior moved silently out of the way, scared that Mark might assault him as he walked towards the exit. Penny rushed up to Mark, and he smiled at her, clasping her face in his hand he kissed her on the cheek.
‘Everything will be OK. I promise.’
Hugo sat down at his desk looking like he hadn’t slept all night and reached for some tablets in his top drawer and the glass of water on his desk. Penny arrived with a tray of coffee and put it down on Hugo’s desk nervously. She attempted to talk to Hugo about the day’s diary when just a look from Hugo silenced her instantly. She left the room apologising, taking a loving, lasting look at Mark on the way out.
The hustle and bustle returned as people took calls, panicked and worried, trying to field calls from the press and news agencies about Mark’s assault on the gardener.
At reception, Maggie the aged receptionist spotted Mark and sternly stared at him. Mark knew to be wary of this, as he had known her a long time and saw their relationship like a teacher/favourite pupil understanding. He had a lot of love for Maggie and she, him. She tried to be angry at him but she couldn’t keep it up and instead embraced him. She reminded Mark a lot of Professor McGonagall from the Harry Potter films Mark saw with the children recently.
‘You can’t dictate to him like that, you know, Mark,’ she said softly. Her wisdom always helped Mark when he was in a tight spot.
‘I did nothing wrong, Maggie!’ he pleaded, like a child to a disciplining parent.
‘I’m sure you didn’t, but they don’t know that, and they want blood,’ she said pointing outside to the swathes of reporters and TV crews outside the offices. Mark sighed and shrugged as Maggie took him by the hand.
‘Go home to Marie and explain everything,’ she suggested.
‘I’m sure she’ll understand?’
Mark nodded and smiled at her. He had a lot of love for Maggie; she had been there since the beginning and went back along way with Hugo. If anyone could make him see sense, it was her.
‘Can YOU talk to him Maggie, make him see sense?’ he asked, desperate for Hugo to see he was being manipulated by the media. Maggie sighed not looking hopeful.
‘I will try my best my dear. You know, you were his prize student,’ she explained, picking up a photograph from the reception desk of Mark and Hugo when Mark was presented with his practice licence.
‘He is very proud of you,’ she chuckled, holding back a tear.
‘He has high hopes of handing the firm over to you soon.’
Her remarks didn’t make Mark feel any better. In fact, it made him feel worse. He didn’t look hopeful.
‘Hugo is a stubborn man, Mark; I remember when he was in your shoes once. However, he has a daily battle, not just with the Justice Department, but with politicians, especially when it comes to cases like this.’
Maggie looked at Mark and he spotted tears in her eyes. She knew how hard it was to come back from an event like this and she really felt for Mark. They hugged tightly and Mark left the offices not sure when, if ever, he would return.
Outside the office swathes of reporters and media, TV crews and newspapers gathered, all trying to question Mark about the “assault”. Naturally, Ian Hawking was right at the front of the queue with a smug look on his face as he mocked Mark.
‘Not such a hot shot now are we, Mr King? Could you tell me how you feel now you’ve been removed from the Azidi case? Do you feel that your actions have put the case in jeopardy?’
Mark ignored him, but inside his blood was boiling over. If anyone would be hit, it would be Hawking. He lit a cigarette and wound the window down, exhaling the smoke out and breathing deeply. He sat back in the driver’s seat and closed his eyes, wishing he could go back and change his reaction the day before. His phone buzzed repeatedly, and he checked it to see if it was Marie that had seen the media fall out and called him. It was an unknown number, so it was probably the media as his office line was still on divert to his mobile phone. He shut it off and put it in the inside pocket of his jacket before taking another lung full of cigarette smoke. He felt terrible and, as he looked in his interior mirror to adjust his tie, he looked as bad as he felt. What was he going to do now, wait and see what happened, sitting at home, with this hanging over his head? He couldn’t bear the thought of that. He HAD to do something, even if it wasn’t work related.
He decided he was going to the shooting range. As far as he remembered, his membership was still valid. He usually drove there after work to let off steam. Before he started the engine, he attempted to call Marie. It went straight to voicemail, so he left a message saying he was leaving work early and would be home around six.
A short drive later, Mark arrived at the shooting club and had calmed down slightly but was still red faced. He reached for his ‘emergency’ packet of cigarettes in the glove box and lit another one up as he walked from the car to the main entrance. Once inside, he requested his personal sniper rifle which he had used here since he had left Sandhurst Military Academy when he was in his twenties. Mark was an expert marksman and still held the record for the country’s best shot.
He entered the club and walked down the lavish, red carpeted hallway to the dark mahogany desk and security gate at the far end. Adorning the walls either side were glass cabinets filled with trophies for various competitions and Mark’s trophy stood, as always, in pride of place along with a picture of him with his target and rifle, next to Reynolds, the manager. He stopped and smiled at it, remembering fondly the day he won the title for the best shot in the country. It was the only thing that made him feel good about himself all day and he wondered if he should enter this year’s contest. He was an exceptional marksman and would enjoy the competition. His mind wandered back to Sandhurst and his sniper training days. It was intense, but he enjoyed it. It challenged him mentally and physically and he had put everything he had into it. He was on his way to leading a unit of eight other snipers and advising his commander where they could be put to best use on the battlefield.
He had undergone weapons training on nearly every single firearm and had been comfortable with any weapon, especially a rifle. As one member of his unit had said, if he was armed with a rifle, no one was safe. He could lie still for hours at a time and his sight was excellent, using a multitude of methods to disguise him, while he scoped his target. It took a special and specific mental capacity to be a sniper, to accept that, just by pulling the trigger, you can end someone’s life without them ever knowing where the bullet came from. Not all of his battalion could do that and many dropped out partway through their training. Mark, however, stayed the distance because he was disciplined and when he put his mind to it, nothing would stop him. Perhaps that’s why he was a good lawyer, he thought to himself as he slowly made his way along the rows of trophy cabinets towards the reception desk.
He gave a nod to the familiar face that greeted him.
‘Mr King, what a pleasure to see you again,’ said Reynolds, the manager, a well-spoken ex-army Major who had known Mark for several years.
‘Nice to see you, sir,’ he replied, instantly standing to attention as the two men shook hands.
‘Now Mr King, I have told you to stop calling me sir,’ he smiled whilst Mark looked around, avoiding eye contact.
‘I know sir but it’s a hard habit to break,’ he replied. Reynolds laughed but then looked concerned.
‘Mr King, I couldn’t help but notice the news. Is everything OK?’
Mark pulled him to one side and whispered, ‘Not really, Reynolds. Do you have a range free for me this afternoon? I need something to take my anger out on.’
He entered the seventy-five-yard indoor target range with his rifle and small sidearm. He liked to keep up with the hobby. It had been drilled into him at Sandhurst that he should always take any opportunity to hone his skills. He hooked up the paper target and watched it wind away from him. He picked up his rifle, loaded it and pulled back the hammer, watching through the telescopic sight as his target got further and further away. Once the mechanism had stopped, he slowed down his breathing and lined up his cross hairs, aiming at the head of the black and white torso hung on the hook. He relaxed his body and cleared his mind of everything except the target. He could hear the voice of his commanding officer in his ear talking him through each assessment he had at Sandhurst.
Gently, he squeezed the trigger and hit the shoulder.
‘Damn,’ he cursed, thinking the sight must be off. He adjusted it and calmed himself down.
He lifted the rifle and, again, aimed at the centre of the head. Caressing the trigger until his breathing had slowed down further, he pulled the trigger.