Chapter 5

Our call ended swiftly as she was rushing to write down what she knew and suspected, for passing to Angie at work. I had my own troubles, for a former colleague had left me a message at one of my dead letter drop sites I checked from time to time. The note asked me to get in touch, giving his phone number.

I rang and spoke to him, “It is me. You left me a message, I believe?” He was quick on the uptake and noticed the lack of names, so he continued in that vein, “Yes. A lieutenant has been threatening some of his privates with bad reports unless they hand over ‘donations’ to a charity, which is actually his bank account, so it is an old-style bully tactic. I can’t get involved directly, as you know, but as you are not officially around, you might be able to intervene. The lieutenant might have an accident, for instance, but anything you might be able to do would help. You will find a sealed envelope at your drop site in the park with the information in our last-used code. Thanks, old friend.” “Nice to speak with you again. Bye.”

Hmm ... this one looked pretty straightforward. Arrange for something nasty to befall the lieutenant, along with a message that such accidents might have a habit of repeating, if he didn’t return the donations to the privates. All I needed was the information in the sealed envelope. But...

It was too easy. That was my second reaction. As my old friend, he could have told me verbally the important information. Doing it this way was an unspoken warning that all was not well. My instinct told me that he had been got at, threatened in some way so he would be forced to cooperate. Being who he is, he knew what would seem out of kilter to me, and use this method to let me know the score. Even someone listening to our chat would learn nothing from it, but I did.

Very well. Now I had to work out what was intended for me. He would have had to give up the site of the dead drop, so he chose the park drop site to give them, as he knew it would appeal to them as a venue for an attack ... The plan was probably to catch me there. Either the sealed envelope was filled with plastic explosive to dispose of me, or the envelope was unimportant, with the explosive stashed near it, to be activated by my presence. Or, the drop was being observed so that my enemy could track me, or kill me with a rifle bullet. Any of these were possible. The story about the lieutenant was probably invented and he was really an innocent bystander.

I would need to think about this whole scenario for a while, so I let my subconscious work on it for now. There was no suggestion of urgency in visiting the drop, so it could wait a while, on the assumption that I might have difficulty, personal commitments or something, in getting to it by a stated time.

I mused over the situation, looking at it backwards and forwards. I expected that the prime mover was the officer who I had outed as a bad apple in the fruit box. Such men always want to get back at the whistle-blower, which is why whistle-blowers seldom make themselves publicly known. Now, did he want me dead, or simply punished with injuries? I would opt for dead, as an injured man can still talk and reveal stuff he knows; a dead man remains silent.

So, explosion in the drop site, or the assassin’s bullet? The explosive would have to be planted beforehand, so that activity was susceptible to being spotted by a member of the public; and an innocent person such as an inquisitive child or a curious squirrel might set off the explosive; bad move in both cases. The odds were stacking up for the rifle bullet, but what to do? I went back to thinking.

If it was an assassin, he would have to be at a higher level, an upper window or a flat roof so as not to have innocents in the field of fire. Trees might also restrict the field of view. I would have to examine the points from where the drop site was observable. Most probably there would be more than one, so I was unlikely to catch him setting up for the kill. If he was professional at all, he would do all the prep in advance, and only come back to the firing spot at times when I might arrive. That usually meant times of darkness. This would make it doubly difficult to search for the sniper, so that option of interception was virtually impossible.

That left me the other option: let him fire at me, but be protected. A bullet-proof vest and a helmet would make me bulky, though; a problem that the sniper would see. Wait a mo; that description might easily fit a motorcyclist, wearing tough cycling leathers for protection in an accident, and a motorbike helmet, and that is common with food delivery riders. The helmet was fine for accidents, but not capable of stopping a rifle bullet. I could fit a bulletproof vest under the leathers and a slightly over-sized helmet could possibly be lined with something like steel plate as protection for my head. Both of these would also make it appear like I had sent someone else, a larger man, to pick up the message, or changed my own appearance as a precaution, and that dubiety would cause confusion in the shooter’s mind; to shoot or not to shoot. Once the message had been collected, I did not have to return there. He would probably shoot.

Another thought: If I could make it appear I was a delivery rider, or was pretending to be, that would allow for a bulky pack on my back. The pack could be filled with Kevlar to supplement the Kevlar and armour plates in the heavy vest. If I arrived on a motorbike, that would solve two problems: the weight of the vest and the restricted movement of the whole outfit. All I need otherwise concern myself with, was the flammability of the bike’s petrol tank, as he might target it to kill me with the fuel explosion. I might be able to cover the tank with additional metal plating as an extra protection. I could get a local garage to add that to the bike as a safety measure, appearing to be a biker afraid of explosions in an accident. Add a pair of biker gloves to the outfit and I would be set. There was still a risk, but it was much reduced.

Once the shot had been fired at me, the plot to kill me was evident, and I could go about neutralising my prime enemy with justified vigour. I had been taught how to kill an enemy in a hundred ways, and I was sure I could find the best one for this officer who would not leave things be. I am not usually a killer, but if someone tries to kill me, they make themselves fair game.

Once I was fully equipped, I arrived in the dark of the night at the park with my noise-suppressed motorbike; easily unlocked the old gate with its antiquated lock mechanism, and drove to the gents toilet with its equally easy locked door, but as I stepped off the bike to open the door, I felt a hard punch to my back. Most of the impact was taken by the reinforced back pack, but I pretended to be severely hurt, and allowed myself to fall between the bike and the door, with the petrol tank near my feet rather than my head, and my fall pulling the bike sideways towards the door to further act as a barricade sheltering my body. Appearing to die is an art in itself, my instructor told me, and I had learned well. My head was now on the ground with my face towards the door, protected from the shooter. Sure enough, he ‘finished me off’ with a head shot. I had the helmet hard against the concrete pathway to stop my head being jolted too much. The hit was a glancing blow and not full-on, but still the shock to the helmet reverberated loudly into my head and almost knocked me unconscious. I was certainly dizzy for a little while. My jerking head movement would appear to be a terminal effect, from the view of the shooter, probably outside the park, and he would be convinced I was dead. I would need to lie here for a few minutes while he was extricating himself from his firing position, and then I would be safe to make a move. Meanwhile I tried to get my body to relax from the shock of being hit, and the adrenaline rush that followed. Slow breaths to calm me down, and keep my body as still as possible, feigning a dead man.

A few minutes more, and I felt able to start getting up. Damn, this protective armour vest was so dashed heavy! I had to get myself to my knees, get my head erect, then slowly on to my feet while the heavy vest was partly resting on the path. Once my feet were under me, I eased myself gently on to the motorbike, my back complaining at the hurt it had sustained, much reduced though it was by my protective gear. I ignored the possibility of retrieving the supposed message from inside the gents, as I did not feel physically capable of doing so, even if it actually existed. I could only make my escape and go into hiding again until I was ready to act.

I was thinking straight by the time I had driven slowly and carefully to the lock-up garage I had rented for the bike, so I rang Smith – not expecting him to be awake. I was right, as a voice answered, “Mr. Smith’s phone.”

“Jones here. I need an apparent clean-up crew to wash and brush-up the path outside the door of the gents in St Andrew’s park, to make it look like you were cleaning up blood and removing a body. It doesn’t have to be perfect, just look as if it has been cleaned to hide a killed body and blood. Can you get that done within a few hours? I know it is a lot to ask...” “Not a problem, we have a standby crew for eventualities such as this. I take it you survived?”

“Yes. Two rifle shots, but I was prepared. The shooter needs to think he succeeded, and you have removed the evidence; get me?”

“I understand. I take it you are going to ground?” “Exactly. No contact for the next two days, none at all. I am still bloody sore and need to recuperate. In fact, if you have a man and car available, I could do with a confidential lift from my lockup garage on Jackson street to my friend Euphemia’s abode. Anything I need to know, get it to Euphemia for passing. There should be nothing that I need to get urgently.”

“Got it. We’ll get transport to your lockup asap. He will sound his horn when he arrives, not knowing exactly which lockup is yours, so be outside, ready to climb aboard. Good luck, Jones.”

We concluded the call and I gradually got my damaged back-pack, leathers and protective vest off and dumped on the lockup floor. The helmet came off with difficulty, as it had been cracked inwards, and the plate below dented towards my skull. Fortunately the plate had partially rebounded and was not currently against my skull, so it was just a case of levering the helmet around my sore head until it slid off and crashed to the floor with what sounded to my recovering brain to be a deafening thud. The helmet was certainly dead!

As it was the middle of the night, I couldn’t wake up Phemie to tell her I was coming, so I reconciled myself to a cold night outside her door until morning. I had sweated under the leathers and armoured vest, so I was also in need of a shower, as soon as I was able to cope with that. My sore back and sore head were my first priority, so I would ask Phemie for paracetamol, and codeine if she had that stronger drug. Ibuprofen might also be useful for helping my damaged back muscles. Most folk had such painkillers at home.

My ride arrived as I stood there wrapped in my leathers, having left the vest inside the now locked garage. I was now bareheaded, having neglected to leave myself a warm hat for my head. The female driver asked if I was Jones, and when I confirmed it, was asked to climb aboard. She asked the address to go to, and I told her, so she put it into her phone and was shown the route to go. We were there within half an hour, and I thanked my driver for the assistance. She said little, just handed me a woolly hat for my head with the words, “Smith said to give you this,” then it was a thumbs up, and she drove off. Typical of Smith’s people: no names of operatives as far as possible, to keep security tight. I made my way into the block of flats, found Phemie’s door and slumped down, knitted hat now on my head to slow down heat loss. Within seconds I was asleep with exhaustion, and was woken by Phemie opening her door in the morning. She exclaimed her panic at finding me on the cold floor, but I got in quick with “I need to pee, Phemie. Can I use your loo?”

The change of topic changed her outlook, for she swiftly ushered me in and pointed to the bathroom door. “You know where it is, Alec, Once you come out, I want to know what has happened.”

After I had relieved myself, I came out to find Phemie caught between wanting to quiz me and wanting to get to her work. “Well?” she demanded, “Why are you here at this time of day? You have got me worried, Alec!”

I looked her straight in the eye and told her, “I need a place to hide out for a few days. Someone tried to shoot me, and I am a bit bruised and need to recuperate, but the shooter most likely thought he killed me, so I need to be out of sight for a little while. I thought you might be best for that, as you have no connections to me, on the face of it.”

Phemie’s face look conflicted, then she said, “Of course you can hide out here. The only thing is, I only have one bed, and of course one shower and toilet facilities. That could make things awkward, you see...”

I braced myself as I said, “I am used to sharing with a woman, Phemie, just a bit out of practice. I realise you live alone, but I would not be a nuisance. We can work out the sleeping arrangements, but don’t you have to get off to the academy now?”

“Oh ... Oh yes ... let me see. There is nothing important today, so I can call in sick with a migraine or something. I seldom take a sick day, so there will be no comeback, Now, am I right in thinking you need a shower, somewhat soon?” She gave a pointed sniff to emphasise her words.

“Uh, yes, you may be right, Phemie. I was in a situation that was not desirable, and a shower was not possible until now. May I take a shower here?” “Naturally, but what about a change of clothes? What are you going to wear?” “I should have thought of that earlier, Phemie. If you are taking a day off work, can you visit a charity shop or two, and buy me what I need? I will pay you back as soon as I have access to my funds.”

“I don’t know; what clothes, in what sizes, Alec? How am I going to cope?”

“Men are easier to shop for than women, so I can tell you the sizes, Phemie, and leave the rest to you. All I need is two sets of underclothes, medium; two shirts, medium again; several pairs of socks, medium, a decent pair of trousers – measure the trousers I am taking off, and a jacket that will go with the trousers. As for shoes, I have no preferences, so whatever you think will suit me will be fine, size 8 and a half; trainers, brogues, dress shoes, it doesn’t matter; it is just footwear.”

“Very well. First, I have to telephone the school and cry off for today; then you WILL tell me what happened exactly, that led to this ... situation. THEN I can go and do the shopping. I’ll have to do some grocery shopping as well, as I had not planned to be feeding you for days on end. Agreed?”

“Agreed. I’ll pay for the groceries as well, Phemie, I can guarantee that. My pay goes into an account that doesn’t have my name on it, and there should be plenty in it.” She took charge, assuming herself to be my woman and acting on it, listing her tasks for the day: “Phone the school, make out a shopping list for groceries while you shower. Oh, I have a spare dressing gown that you can use temporarily. I’ll lay it out near the shower. Tell your tale, briefly, before I go shopping: that is a must.”