| |
BLUE TOOK IN THE SCENE in his kitchen. It was one of chaos. There was an upturned pine table and three chairs on their sides. There were remnants of smashed crockery and glass splinters spread out in every direction on the cold granite floor slabs. Blue placed Regan’s gun on the stainless steel kitchen drainer when he saw the pool of blood. Then he saw Regan. Blue dropped to one knee and felt the side of Regan’s neck searching for a pulse. Nothing!
Blue packed a small bag with a few belongings, remembering to throw Regan’s gun in there. He walked five hundred yards to the nearest phone box. He cursed living in a remote rural community. Inside the red phone box, he made three calls. The first was ‘999.’
“Which service do you require?”
“Ambulance.”
The second call was to Rachael’s mother’s home.
“Hi Rachael. Look baby, don’t ask me anything but pack a bag. I’ll be there tomorrow. We’re going somewhere warm.”
The third call was to a number only known to three men. The call was answered deep inside Tintagel House.
“It’s me, guvnor. Bill told me you want to speak with me.”
Dennis Marks said, “Don’t call me guvnor. I’m not a cockney cab driver and you are no longer in the Met. Yes, I do. Rick Green from Operation Perfume has been in touch with me. They are about to launch massive raids so get out of there, you understand?”
“I’m already gone, guvnor .... Sorry, Sir!”
Blue settled his family into a two bedroom rented villa in Northern Cyprus. It was Turkish territory and somewhat safe from the dangers of extradition. Once Blue had ensured his family was safe, he bade them adieu to return to England for one final mission.
***
IT WAS LATE FRIDAY evening when Bill Morris parked the car outside Caroline Sewell’s flat in Chelsea. It had been a long, tiring drive from Wales. Bill keyed in the numbers into the security keypad, once to get in through the communal front door and then again with a different combination to let himself into Caroline’s flat. I must remember to get Caroline to change the number. Bill made a mental note thinking of security for her and him. There was a note from Caroline on the kitchen worktop. It read –
See you in The Witness Box if you get back early enough. If not SEE you in BED!
Tired as he felt, Bill decided on a shower, change of clothes and to make the effort to join up with Caroline and her barrister friends. He undressed in the bathroom, folded his clothes up in a neat bundle and threw all of them and his shoes and socks into a black plastic bin bag. He knew the routines of this building. Bill knew if he threw the bag into the communal rubbish chute it would be collected the next morning. By two in the afternoon the same day it would be bulldozed into and under tons of household garbage on some London land fill site and would disappear forever.
It was now ten in the evening and Bill decided to walk to Chelsea Embankment to hail a passing black London taxi. He was in luck as no sooner had he reached the corner of Embankment Gardens and the main road straddling the river, he spotted the tell-tale ‘for hire’ roof top light of a cab. A quick wave of the arm and the cab driver swung in and stopped.
“Yes guvnor, where to?”
“Tudor Street, EC4.”
The driver looked at Bill in the rear view mirror and asked, “Lawyer, are we?”
Bill grunted, “No.”
The driver interpreted that abruptness as a fare who didn’t care much for conversation and drove in silence for the remainder of the journey.
The taxi made progress along a quiet Grosvenor Road and Millbank then in to Parliament Square heading for Westminster Bridge. The driver slipped on to Victoria Embankment and Bill watched the flickering lights of the bridges across the Thames out of the right hand side of the taxi. As the cab drove under Waterloo Bridge, Bill said, “Drop me in Temple Place.”
The driver held up one hand in acknowledgement but determined not to speak. As the driver went past Temple Tube Station, he slowed to walking pace waiting for Bill to speak again. “Just here,” Bill said handing the driver the fare indicated on the tariff meter plus a small tip. “Keep the change,” Bill said, but still no response from the driver, not even a wave of his hand.
Bill took in the fresh night air as he made the five minute walk through Middle and Inner Temple, exiting the grounds of the Inns in Tudor Street. There on the corner stood the Witness Box pub. It was a pub frequented by barristers and the odd hack. The hacks usually congregated in the Olde Cheshire Cheese close to the Daily Express offices in Fleet Street. On occasion, the crime reporters would wander down to pubs like the Witness Box if they needed some inside information on ‘the trial of the moment.’ Bill walked down the stairs to the lower ground floor as he knew that was where Caroline and her cronies would be merry making after a hard week’s work.
Bill spotted Caroline as he reached the foot of the stairs. She was sitting with two women dressed in the same outfit as Caroline, the black jacket and black skirt look that defined their profession. There were also four male barristers dressed in dark suits, wearing collar and ties. All were seated at the large pine table nearest the stairs. The alcohol fuelled laughter was raucous. Caroline looked up and called, “Hi Bill! Over here,” then turned to the bar counter and shouted at the barmaid behind the bar, “Pint of best bitter.” The bar maid glared back at the source of the commanding voice without a trace of civility in the tenor of the request.
“Get my note?” inquired Caroline.
“Yes, thanks.”
“And you couldn’t wait to see me, is that it?”
“Yes and no. I also needed a drink.”
“Baby, what’s the matter? You look stressed.”
“Later, Caroline. I’ll tell you when we get home. Right now I need a drink and to listen to all the boring barrister ‘war’ stories.”
Caroline laughed. She knew Bill had been in this type of company so many times she was sure he knew all the standard barrister jokes. That view was strengthened when she heard Bill utter the time honoured barrister punch line to the question always put to defence counsel, “How is your case going?” Bill, without thinking came straight out with it, “It was going fine until my client started to give evidence.” This got more of a laugh amongst the gathered legal types because it had been answered by an outsider.
Bill remained immersed in thought for the rest of the evening. The group split up shortly after eleven and wandered their separate ways towards Fleet Street to catch a bus or hail a taxi. Caroline and Bill sat in the back of a London taxi cab with Caroline regaling Bill about her day in court.
Caroline punched the keypads. Once more Bill omitted to remind her about changing the code to her flat. He had other things on his mind.
On entering Caroline’s flat, she said, “You seem edgy tonight.”
Bill replied, “Pour me a glass of that wine, please, baby.”
She poured one for Bill and one for herself then sat down on sofa. Bill said, “Turn the music up a little, please.” Caroline had tuned in to her favourite FM station. He added, “Look, Caroline, we have no secrets, right?”
She answered, “Now you’re scaring me.”
“I shot a man dead today.”
“Oh, baby! That must be awful. But surely the Customs investigation will exonerate you. It was justified, right?”
“I wish it was as simple as that. I killed a cop. An undercover cop.”
Caroline Sewell froze, then reacted, “What? Nothing, I mean nothing, can be allowed to link this fuck up with me. It would ruin my career. You have gone too far this time, Bill, too far. I need to think on all of this. Maybe put some distance between you and me.”
Bill queried, “Are you saying that’s us finished?”
“I am saying just that. I’ve shunted the whole coke scenario off to Callum. I’m out of that scene. I will not allow anything to stop my career. You understand?”
Bill grabbed the barrister’s throat and squeezed, realised what he was doing and released his grip.
Caroline shouted, “Fuck off out of here now! I mean it, fuck off! You are so fucked up, Bill. Playing your games of deceit isn’t enough. You have to go kill a cop! You need treatment. You need help for heaven's sake. Go tell them all about it or I will.”
Bill said, “Go fuck yourself! You have no fucking idea.”
Caroline yelled back, “Fuck off!”
Bill picked up his coat and left the flat. He took a taxi to his flat in Finchley.
Bill Morris brooded all night. He was unable to sleep. Caroline’s words “Go tell them all about it or I will,” whirled constantly in his head. His only thoughts were, I can’t take any chances. How do I solve the problem of Caroline?
