Pan down from the afternoon sky over London. Pull in to close up on an ordinary looking man. You wouldn't look twice if you saw him in the street. Drab coloured hair and nondescript eyes.

Say hello to Mr Grey.

Slowly and silently the door opened and he eased himself inside the room. He was dressed in a dark, nondescript suit and carried a battered attaché case. Without turning on the light he closed the door behind him and walked to the middle of the room to have a look around.

The room was empty of furniture and no carpet covered the unpolished wooden floor except for a small dirty mat in front of the cold fireplace. The only decorations, if they could be called that were some old dust-sheets that hung down in front of the large window. Not that anyone could see in through the window anyway, at least not without a helicopter as this was the living room of an eighth floor flat that had been uninhabited for some months.

He placed the case on the floor by the window and pulled a small flat case from his jacket pocket. A press of a lip on the side and it sprang open to reveal what looked like opera glasses, however, they had cost him a great deal of money and gave a magnified view that rivalled any of the big name brands of 'proper' binoculars.

A twitch of the curtain and a quick sweep up and down the street below showed a normal scene of human life carrying on in its normal, everyday fashion. Cars snarled at each other as the rush hour traffic moved in both directions. A small group of school children in uniform sat or sprawled on the low wall that surrounded the play area talking, laughing and boasting to each other. He watched a policeman in a dark serge uniform with a tall, domed hat stroll in the time-honoured fashion of policemen everywhere at the regulation two miles per hour.

The man nodded to himself in satisfaction. Everything normal and everything quiet. Well that would change soon. In just under two hours he would be injecting a little excitement into a few drab lives.

He wandered into the bathroom and after a grimace of distaste at the state of the sink, he turned the cold tap on. After removing the surgical gloves he wore and placing them in his pocket he thrust his hands into the water and filled his cupped hands and splashed his face. The coldness of the water, although expected, still sent a shock through his face. A sharp intake of breath with eyes wide open and then he looked at himself in the cracked mirror that was inexpertly screwed to the wall above the sink. What looked back was a face. That's all that could be said really. A face of indeterminate age. A grey man. He had an instantly forgettable face, neither handsome nor ugly.

No distinguishing marks, no points of interest.

A truly nondescript man in every respect.

Neutral.

A quick smirk touched his lip and was just as instantly gone again.

Neutral. That was it.

In the past he had blessed his eminent forgetability. It had saved his bacon many times, and once or twice, even his life. To able to blend in the background was a huge bonus to a man in his line of work. In fact, it was the reason he had chosen his nom de guerre.

Little Paul Taylor held Father Thomas's hand and watched solemnly as two coffins were lowered into the double grave. He was seven years old. The only child of Brian and Sarah, who had been killed in a car crash with no other living relatives. This was his final goodbye to laughter. Up until now his had been a happy life, secure in the bosom of two young adults who had loved him dearly.

And now they were gone.

Snatched away from him by the actions of a drunk driver. Worse yet, a repeat offender who was already under a driving ban when he had caused the deaths of Mr and Mrs Taylor.

Father Thomas, who helped place young Paul in the Our Lady's Home for Wayward Children as it was called, recalled later how strange the child had acted on the day of the funeral. Although he was only seven, he had held himself with a poise and calm solemnity through the service that many adults would have found difficult, if not impossible. He considered that the boy was obviously far too young to really understand what was going on.

He was wrong.

Grey stretched and glanced at his watch. An hour and a half and the target would appear. He stepped into the bedroom and found a small wooden stool.

Ideal.

He carried it back into the main room, placed it on the floor by the window and sat down.

Pulling the case onto his lap he opened it, ignoring the rifle with the telescopic sight that nestled in pieces set in a bed of moulded foam rubber, he removed a small flask of coffee and a small pack of sandwiches.

A few thoughtful bites into his first sandwich and he stared into space. He hated this part. The waiting. Not that he was nervous, it was just so boring! At least it usually was. But today was different, today he had something on his mind.

Everyone had been surprised at how he had turned out. When he first arrived at the Home, he was seven years old, quiet, polite, industrious and solemn. He rarely smiled and spoke even less unless spoken too first. But over the years he changed. He darkened. The more street wise of the boys had started on him on his arrival and he had accepted everything they could throw at him. The taunts, the bullying, the way they made free with his personal belongings and the swift retribution if he complained.

But the one thing they had never been able to do was make him cry. And they had tried, oh they had really tried.

Paul had accepted it all until his eleventh birthday, at 12.35 p.m.

Joe Perkins was acting tough with his mates in the corridor. He had seen Paul go into his room holding the birthday card from Father Thomas and decided that he fancied a bit of sport. He followed Paul into his room and snarled, "So, the old pervert's given you a card has he?"

After a quick glance behind him to ensure that his cronies, who were crowded in the doorway could watch the show, he held out his hand and snapped his fingers, "Hand it over then. Lemme see."

Silently, Paul gave the card to the older boy and watched without expression as Joe read the message inside. He continued to watch as Joe's gaze returned to him, his face holding the familiar smirk of a bully secure in his control of the situation.

Studying Paul's face as he did so, Joe tore the card slowly into several pieces and dropped them one by one on to the floor.

"You don't have nuthin' unless I say so, ya little bastard. An' that includes this."

Paul examined the remnants of the small gift where they lay strewn around Joe's feet and then slowly, deliberately returned his gaze to Joe's face.

Joe was a little disturbed by the reaction that the younger boy was showing today. He never looked at you directly. He always kept his eyes to the floor no matter what torment or humiliation he was enduring, and Joe didn't like it. It looked like a challenge and Joe considered himself more than equal to the task. He clenched his fists.

"Summat to say, Bastard?"

Joe never noticed the small iron bar drop from Paul's sleeve into his hand and the first inkling he had that today the young boy had been pushed too far was when that same piece of piping swung in a swift arc and shattered the left side of his jaw. He dropped like a stone and squealed in pain, clutching his face as blood poured from his split cheek.

Paul knelt on the floor beside him and hit him with the metal bar again, and again, and again.

Joe's cronies stood in shock in the door as they watched their leader battered. They were by no means innocents, each one guilty of many acts of violence and petty larceny. But this was different. A fight was supposed to involve shouting and threats. Promises of the damage you were going to inflict. Basically, the need to work yourself into the frenzy required to fight so that you could overcome the fear and concentrate on winning.

It was not supposed to be an instant change from passive acceptance to explosive violence like this. They were also aware that Paul did not intend to stop. He had already won the fight. Joe's head and neck were awash with blood as he lay unconscious on the floor. But still Paul hit him. There was a loud cracking sound as the bar made once last connection with Joe's head.

Paul dropped the bar on to the floor next to the body and stood up to stare at the wide-eyed crowd.

Flatly he said, "Go away."

They scattered.

Without another thought or a backward glance towards the unconscious thug, Paul hurriedly grabbed all his belongings he could fit into a hand-all and left the home, never to return.

Grey, suddenly sat up straight on the stool, dropped his sandwiches back into the case and stood up.

"Oh my God!" he said to himself. He had made a mistake. He had not replaced his surgical gloves after he had splashed himself with water. Fingerprints! Where? The tap, the bathroom door handle. Did he touch anything else, of course! The stool.

He stood up, put his gloves back on and used a handkerchief to wipe everything that he had touched whilst his hands had been uncovered. Although he knew his prints were not on file anywhere he still got rid of them. It was a part of the thoroughness with which he carried out every job that had kept him from ever being caught, or in fact even under suspicion.

In the trade, he was renowned for two things; His careful reliability and the fact that he had never missed.

He prided himself on the care with which he set up and completed his jobs. Meticulous study of the victim. Careful examination and exploitation of their routine for a quick, painless and above all unsolved murder.

Once he had double checked that he had missed nothing, Grey placed the handkerchief back in his pocket, checked his watch (still a while yet) and resumed eating his sandwiches.

The young man looked around the back room of the night-club Fonteyne. It was the office of one Mick Fonteyne. Erstwhile night-club owner and Kingpin of the local organised crime scene.

"Grey! Come in, I wanna talk to ya. Got a job needs doin'."

Grey crossed the room to stand in front of Mickey's desk.

"Yeah? What is it?"

"Terry Butcher. He ain't gonna pay up and I won't stand for that."

Grey, his face unreadable, regarded the old gangster where he sat at his desk. A battered face, pepper and salt hair, a broken nose and a crumpled, gravy-spotted shirt. Although no emotion touched his face, Grey felt a certain disgust at the sight before him. "Sloppy," he thought to himself, "Very sloppy. One of the most powerful men in London and I could end him right now and get away with it."

His choice of words in his mind was an indication of the man he had become. Since his parents had been killed and he had entered the new and frightening world of the under classes, he had lost something. He didn't know it, but it was true nonetheless.

End him, Grey had thought. Not kill him, not murder him, ice him, do a job on him. No, end him. Ever since he had left the children's home and drifted into low level street crime living by his wits in the urban jungle, he had seen a lot with his neutral eyes. Too much. From the first time he had rolled a drunk for pennies in an alleyway so he could eat another day, to his first time with a prostitute in his mid-teens.

His mind drifted back to that encounter. He had just made a good score from an American tourist who was in the wrong place at the wrong time and had decided that there was enough in the fat wallet for a little treat. Besides, he was eighteen and it was time, he felt, that he broke his duck. As the opportunities for romance were almost non-existent for someone in his position, he decided to try one of the girls who worked the streets in his neighbourhood.

Grey wandered up to the first woman he saw and asked how much. She responded with a sum that was well within his grasp and so they had retired to an alleyway to conclude the business.

It was not all he had expected it might be. The woman had a strange odour about her, and her breath was rancid. His first view of a pair of real breasts was a disappointment as well. Small and saggy with blue veins that looked like tattoos, they were so dark. They had coupled with her back against the wall and him between her legs supporting both their weight, thrusting away at her loose sex.

There was no finesse, no real emotion, it was a business transaction nothing more. Yes he kneeded her breast with his free hand. It was warm and that's all that could be said for it. Grey's first handful of womanly tit flesh and he was underwhelmed. He rather liked the feel of her vagina wrapped around his hard cock, gripping him slightly as he thrust in and out, but for the life of him, he really couldn't see what all the fuss was about. So he just continued to move back and forth rapidly, pushing the woman against the wall of the alley until he reached the moment of ejaculation. Then she had firmly but gently disentangled her self and said, "There. Give me the money then."

Grey tucked himself away and straightened his clothing before handing over the cash. A quick count and she was gone, back into the street to continue her night's work.

It was then that Grey experienced his lowest ebb for some years.

The woman, he didn't even know her name, had been empty. He suddenly hated her, throughout their frenzied sex, she had talked to him like a lover, but it was a lie. As soon as he was spent, all pretence was dropped and she asked for her money.

A bitter tear began to sting his eye, she had stank, that was true, the sensations he had experienced although pleasurable while they lasted now left a taste like ashes in his mouth. She had not even been particularly good looking, but this thought was dismissed as unworthy, after all, Grey knew he was no real oil-painting himself. But none of those were the real cause of the tear.

It was her eyes. They were dead, she had seen too much, experienced too much and it had killed her inside. And he had been able to feel that deadness with every thrust. He felt that she was only capable of the false emotions she had displayed while they had sex, but there was nothing inside her any more that could connect to any other person. And he had felt himself beginning to feel the same way. She wasn't a person any more, she was a robot marking time until she died, just like him.

His emotions switched off.

Paul Taylor, eighteen years old, no longer a virgin, known on the street as Grey. Already with a reputation for calm solemnity that could explode into murderous violence that kept even the known hard men off his back, died.

A turtle shell grew on his back and as his emotions switched off, the shell hardened. He lost the belief in the value of human life as all he had been through over the past few years washed through him.

If it lessened him, he didn't care.

A cough and Grey's thoughts returned to the here and now. Fonteyne was looking at him quizzically, "Well?" he asked.

Although Grey had been thinking of the past, he had taken in all the information that Fonteyne had been giving him. He paused in further thought for a second and then said, "He'll be dead within the week."

Exactly four days later, Terry Butcher was found dead on Wandsworth common with an ice pick in his head. No witnesses, no fingerprints and apart from the ice pick which was a dead end anyway, no clues at all.

As Grey had made his way back to his luxury flat in Chelsea (his only ostentation, even though he lived quietly and modestly within his means) that evening, he smiled mirthlessly to himself and said, "A toast. Something I'm good at."

Grey was awakened from his reverie by a loud sound from the street below. A glance outside showed that two drunks were having an argument by the front door of the block of flats. No problem. A policeman would move them on or arrest them soon. No need for concern.

Another glance at his watch showed only fifteen minutes to target. He began to assemble the rifle from it's constituent parts. Slow and steady, careful and with no wasted movements. The final part to be snapped into place being the high-powered telescopic sight. Then he fed a cartridge of six rounds into the breech, placed the rifle across his lap and waited.

A successful career in the murder business over many years had certainly put butter on Grey's bread. For £500,000 a hit bought a lot of butter. He lived in a luxury Chelsea flat. He surrounded himself with rare and expensive Objet D'Art and wore only the best Saville Row made to measure. At least when he wasn't working. As far as his neighbours knew, which wasn't much as he rarely spoke to them, he was man who had been left a large legacy in a will and lived very comfortably off the proceeds.

Grey felt very happy. Although he was totally alone in the world, he was happy. He thought of other human beings as merely temporary interruptions to his view of the world. He was secure ... except ... What? Something was not right.

One day while he was ironing a shirt, it came to him.

His image was wrong. He was supposed to be an independently wealthy man of leisure. Ironing his own shirts? Cleaning his own sink? It was but a small chink in his armour but it would need to be dealt with. Grey decided to get a maid or whatever they were called now.

He weighed the pros and cons. He would be giving up his precious solitude, but it was a small price if it added to his camouflage. It wasn't as if he had a space problem. And there was no real danger of the maid seeing or hearing anything untoward as no business was ever, ever done from his flat.

Decision made, Grey picked up the yellow pages and rang the first agency he could find and told them of his needs. Once they had supplied him with a name, he wasted no time in checking her out with all the resources at his disposal. A young single woman called Donna Caldwell, 22 years old, unmarried and still living with her parents, and no connections to law enforcement either by association or by relations. But more importantly, no connections to the criminal underworld where Grey spent his life. She was, to all intents and purposes an ordinary person.

A few days later, a young woman approached his front door and rang the bell.

Grey opened the door and looked at her. She was in her early twenties with shoulder length blonde hair and piercing blue eyes surmounted just above a cute little button nose. She was wearing a pair of white pedal-pushers and a cream V-neck tank top that showed just a hint of cleavage and hugged her figure tightly.

She smiled shyly and said, "Mr Grey? I'm Donna Caldwell. From the agency."

"Right. Come in."

Grey led her through into the living room and sat her down on the Chesterfield sofa. Before he himself stood in front of the bay window looking out.

"Okay. Light cleaning, dusting. Some cooking. Can you cook?" Without waiting for a reply, as he already knew she held several minor qualifications in the culinary arts, he continued," You can have your own room, it has its own en-suite facilities so you can have privacy. A privacy I will respect and I expect the same consideration from you. You are free to entertain whomsoever you wish, but they will enter the flat from your own outside door and will not enter any other part of the apartment. Shall we say £250.00 a week?"

Donna was stunned to say the least. A room to herself. Privacy. Oh joy, her own bathroom. Very easy sounding work ... And £250.00 per week. She sat on the sofa open mouthed.

Noticing the silence, he turned to her and asked, "Well?"

Donna's mouth opened and closed a couple of times before she managed to squeak, "Yes, lovely, erm ... When shall I start?"

Grey reached inside his pocket and produced a small door key, "Now," he said handing her the key, "That's for your outside door."

He was about to say something else when the phone rang. A look of irritation crossed his face before he said, "Right. That's settled then. Move your stuff in as soon as you can and start immediately, there's a list for you on the fridge door. I have to attend to business now, see yourself out please."

Without another word he crossed the room and picked up the phone, he listened for a moment and then said, "Yes, half an hour," before replacing the receiver and then striding from the room and out of the front door.

Donna still sat on the sofa. The man was strange, she thought. Polite enough, but there was something odd about him that she couldn't quite put her finger on. Then she realised ... it was his eyes.

She had deliberately worn her tank top today as she knew it suited her well and showed off her figure to best effect, whilst still remaining suitable for a job interview. She was not very experienced in the world, still being something of an innocent, but she was aware that a nice female figure, well presented could not do any harm. And he had not done what most men did, either stare so hard, with no pretence so that she became uncomfortable or even the surreptitious sideways glances as they tried to imagine the bare treasures that lay beneath.

She knew he had looked at her while she stood there, but it was almost as though she were a specimen under the gaze of a rather disinterested scientist. Then she shrugged, perhaps he was gay. Still, not that she minded in the slightest about that ... Not for £250.00 a week and her own bathroom. She could finally move out of the house she shared with her large family in the East End and have a bit of freedom.

She stood up, still clutching the key he had given her and wandered around the room looking at all the decorative items. There were one or two artfully placed original paintings and several small yet exquisitely fashioned ornaments, but none of them were to her taste. They seemed dull for all their obvious value. Donna felt like she was in a museum, rather than someone's home.

Opening the door into the kitchen, which was well maintained and well stocked like a busy farmhouse kitchen, she reached walked over to the refrigerator and removed a small hand-written note. In a careful copperplate script was a list of the duties she was expected to carry out. All the usual suspects were included with no surprises, which in itself was a surprise.

For the money and perks she was getting for this job, she thought there would be an undesirable inclusion. She didn't know what, looking after a large and unruly dog perhaps, or cleaning up the bodily fluids after some rich and pampered old sot who could barely remember his name. Both of which had been unmentioned before arrival in previous jobs, and for a lot less money as well.

Not that she was complaining, even if she did have to help him bury bodies in the garden, she was willing to put up with it for the much needed money.

Donna half smiled, half grimaced at her little joke. "You stop that Donna Caldwell," she chided herself, "He's alright so far, just a bit cold. You've worked for worse."

With nothing further to do here for the moment, she left to go home and collect up her belongings. She knew her parents would worry, now that she was leaving home, but she also knew that they really needed the space, what with Granddad and everything. And as she did not intend to look this gift horse in the mouth, it was her intention to move in tonight and have everything ready before she had to ... a quick look at the list ... make breakfast of toast and boiled egg to be ready for 7.30a.m.

Meanwhile, Grey had climbed into his car and was on his way to a meeting. The message had been the usual one. "Grey, we have a job for you."

That was all. But that was all he needed. Another briefing, another task, another life ended, another £500,000 in the bank. Grey sighed happily to himself, life was good. But for once, there was an itch, something in his back brain was screaming silently to be heard and he couldn't quite grasp it.

By the time he got to the place of the meeting it was beginning to annoy him a little bit.

Grey glanced at his watch and then took another look out of the window. It was time. The target had arrived. He could see a large, black car making its stately way down the street towards the flower shop on the other side of the road. It pulled to a halt, Grey pressed the butt of the rifle into his shoulder and placed his eye square against the rear of the telescopic sight.

The next morning Grey returned to his flat. It was just after seven in the morning, the meeting had gone on a while and then he had decided to amuse himself in the casino. Never a high roller, and he usually lost at the tables, but he always enjoyed himself.

Grey let himself inside and immediately caught the smell of brewing coffee. Startled at first, he remembered his new employee. "Eager," he thought. He could appreciate that. He walked into the kitchen, where Donna stood with her back to him at the far work surface. There was a pan of water ready to boil on the stove and she was humming to herself as she buttered some toast.

"Good morning," he said making her jump. Donna span round, saw who it was and then, placing a calming hand on her chest replied, "Oh I'm sorry Mr Grey, you made me jump."

He looked at her where she stood, she was wearing a pair of jeans and a blue 3 button, sweat top. His eyes dipped to the shadow of her chin where it lay on her partially exposed collar bone, before moving back up to her face.

"Sorry," he said blandly. Donna got the impression that he had said it for something to say rather than to express any genuine feeling. But she flustered, "Oh don't be silly. It's my fault. Anyway, your breakfast is nearly ready. Where do you normally eat please?"

"In the main room will be fine. I normally have it on a tray while I watch the morning news ... I like to keep an eye on the stock prices you know." The last was said with artfully bluff camaraderie, the more she thought she knew about him the better. And if she thought he made money on the markets without appearing to have to do much of anything then that was all to the good. It would explain in her own mind how he could afford to live the way he did.

Donna nodded and continued with the food preparation.

Grey left her to it and walked into the living room to turn on the television. That part was true, he did usually breakfast in the way he had said, but he had no interest at all in share prices. He just liked to start the day with his window to the world wide open. He stopped and stared at the coffee table that sat in front of the Chesterfield.

"Miss Caldwell," he called out and waited until she popped her head round the kitchen door.

"Yes Sir?"

Grey pointed at a large glass vase on the table that was filled with a riotous arrangement of wild spring flowers.

More puzzled than annoyed at the unexpected intruder into his inner sanctum of order, he asked "What is that doing there?"

Donna's look followed his finger to the colourful monstrosity, "Oh," she said smiling, "I bought them as a thank you for giving me this opportunity, and I thought they'd brighten the place up a bit. I love flowers, don't you? Mum always has fresh flowers at home."

Grey watched her face as she spoke silently. Under his steady gaze her words ground to a halt before she continued, "Do you not like them? I'm sorry. I should have thought." She made to enter, "I'll get rid of them."

Grey was a little nonplussed. He noted that she was embarrassed and it made her cornflower blue eyes darken slightly as her pale skin flushed pink.

"No," he replied, "They're ... lovely. Leave them where they are ... Thank you."

A quick smile flitted over Donna's features and she ducked back into the kitchen. Grey was a little disturbed at the moment. He had been looking at her face and now that itch was back in his head. But this time he knew what it was. It was her eyes. They were alive. She was embarrassed and they had darkened, but then she had smiled and they had danced.

Donna Caldwell's eyes had not seen the things he had seen. Grey was quite disturbed to see how much he was affected by that. Embarrassed himself now, he silently accepted the breakfast tray that she brought in and trying to ignore the flowers, watched the news, until a cough made him look up.

"I'm going to do some shopping this morning, Mr Grey. Is there anything you need especially?"

"I normally get it delivered," he answered.

"Oh. Okay then ... erm well, there's nothing on the list for this morning. Have you anything else you need doing. I do like to be kept busy."

Grey nodded thoughtfully, eager and industrious. Maybe he had made a good choice after all. Slowly, almost diffidently, his eyes travelled back up towards Donna's face where she stood next to him. He paused at the junction of the bottom button of the shirt momentarily, he noted that she was still a little flushed from the awkwardness with the flowers, and then continued upwards. If Donna was in any way discomfited or even aware of his inspection she made no show of it.