Authors: Angie Smith
He finally looked at her. “I don’t want to change
anything. That’s the problem,” he said. “You’ve got everything covered. I
suppose I’m not used to people being smarter than me.”
“I’ve never considered myself as being… My swipe at
Faulkner-Brown wasn’t aimed at you. I hold you in high regard, whereas
Faulkner-Brown, to use your words, is a complete arsehole.”
He laughed. “Now you really are getting used to my
sense of humour.”
She couldn’t help grinning. “We’re nearly there.
It’s just down here on the right.” She indicated, swung the car into a side
street and pulled up. “Are you sure you don’t want to change anything?” she
asked again.
He nodded.
She quickly drew a layout of Bedford’s office and
allowed him to familiarise himself with it. “We’ll go in through the back
entrance; I know the code.”
“I won’t ask how.”
She thought about explaining, but decided against it.
When she’d last exited the building she’d noticed four of the keypad numbers
were clean, giving a maximum of twenty-four permutations, and on trying the
first one — the numbers in ascending order — she’d discovered that to be the
correct code.
“Which building is it?” Woods asked, looking at the
long line of Victorian terraced properties.
She pointed across the road four doors down. “Where
the white Transit’s parked. A recruitment agency has the ground floor;
Bedford’s office is on the first. I’m not expecting anyone else to be in the
building at this time of day.”
He acknowledged the comment. “Come on, get the car
jack,” he said.
They jumped out and she opened the boot. She lifted
up the spare wheel, unclipped the jack and grabbed it. “Do you want to call for
backup?”
He smiled. “Let’s do this on our own.”
At 7.55 p.m. they crossed the road; it was a quiet
Sunday evening and virtually deserted, with only the occasional vehicle driving
past the junction at the opposite end to where they had parked. They quickly
made for the Transit and Barnes crept down the side of it, arriving at the rear
of the property first. She paused while Woods checked the surrounding area. He
nodded a go-ahead and she keyed 2467 in on the door lock. She carefully opened
it and they tip-toed in; she pointed him in the direction of the staircase.
Just at that moment they heard a noise which
appeared to have come from the basement. “What was that?” Woods mouthed,
stepping back into the shadows of an alcove.
She joined him and they both stood motionless,
listening intently. After several seconds of silence Woods gently tapped her on
the shoulder. “Probably the central heating boiler,” he said quietly. “Let’s go.”
“Top of the stairs, first door on the right, brass
plaque,” she whispered.
They ascended the stairs in silence, arriving on the
landing.
Woods looked around. “Ready?” he mouthed.
She nodded.
Woods went to the far end of the landing as she
stood to the side, holding the car jack firmly in her right hand. He ran and
hurled himself at the door. The crack of splintering timber around the lock,
combined with the thud of him colliding with the door echoed down the
staircase. He crashed into the room yelling, “Police! Get down! Get down! Get
down!”
Barnes ran in behind him and as he rolled to the
right she made to the left. Williams clutched an ACP45 semi-automatic pistol
and was aiming at Woods who was on the floor heading towards Plant. She raised
her right arm and, using all her strength, lunged at Williams’ head.
The blow sent him crumbling to the floor, but he had
discharged his weapon. She froze when she heard the thud of the bullet leaving
the silencer.
Woods groaned in pain, but his momentum kept him
moving and he ended up alongside Plant’s chair. He put his left hand to the
wound in his right shoulder as he kicked the drip-stand over and the demijohn
crashed to the floor. It didn’t break, but the contents would no longer be
discharging on to Plant’s forearm.
Barnes, who’d realised Woods was injured, dived on
the floor and grabbed the gun Williams had dropped. She jumped up, quickly
switched off the power on the recording camera and trained the weapon on
Williams; he was down, dazed and trying to stem the flow of blood from the gash
on the side of his head.
“Are you alright?” she called to Woods as she backed
towards him, not taking her eyes off Williams.
“Can you untie me?” Guilford-Johnston pleaded.
She turned the gun on him. “Don’t utter another
word, you spineless snake. You’ve said enough.”
Guilford-Johnston nodded apologetically, as though
he understood her anger.
She refocused the gun on Williams and bent down as
she backed up to Woods. “Are you alright?” she asked him again.
“It’s my shoulder… I’m losing a lot of blood… I
think the bullet went straight through.”
“Ring for an ambulance,” Plant called. “We both need
medical attention.”
“I do not take orders from you!” Barnes snapped.
“No, you take them from me,” Woods said. “Ring for
backup, Maria. We’ve got Williams alive. It’s over; this is the end.”
“This isn’t the end,” Williams announced, getting to
his feet. “This is the beginning of the end.”
Barnes stood and, gripping the gun in her right
hand, fished her phone out of her pocket with the other.
“Don’t ring anyone,” Williams said. “You know what
they’ll do. I’ve still got so much to put right.”
She looked him over. Something about him was
familiar, but she couldn’t put her finger on what it was. He was definitely different
from the picture Bedford had given her. She was troubled by it. “We’ll make
sure they can’t get to you,” she said. “Besides, Dudley’s on the run, and
Faulkner-Brown’s gone missing.”
“They know the game’s up. They’ve left Plant here to
face the music alone. But the authorities will want me silenced, and they’ll
find a way of doing it.”
“Don’t listen to him,” Plant said. “Do as Woods
ordered, call for backup.”
“Maria, you’re intelligent enough to know who the real
criminals are in here,” Williams prompted.
“You’re all as bad as each other.” She glanced at
Woods who was pressuring his wound, but blood was seeping through his hand. He
looked in a bad way; she needed to act fast. “We uphold the law. You lot think
you are above it,” she replied quickly, thumbing through the numbers in her
contact list.
“No-one is above the law; what I’m doing will bring
the unpunished down. Look at him.” He pointed at Guilford-Johnston, who was
perspiring profusely. “He’s the worst kind of all; he gets someone else to pull
the trigger, while he hides in his government office surrounded by his aides.
He’s no better than Faulkner-Brown. At least Plant gets his hands dirty.”
“Like I said, you’re all as bad as each other.” She
glanced at her phone; the number she needed was there.
“Listen, the killings are over; they were an
unfortunate necessity, to get the story on the front pages. . .”
“An unfortunate necessity!” she exclaimed,
refocusing on Williams. “Is that how Faulkner-Brown described the murder of
your family?”
Williams locked his stare on her. “You’re going to
give me the gun, Maria, and I’m going to walk out of here.”
“You are so wrong,” she replied. “I understand some
of what you have done, but having all your family murdered doesn’t justify
taking the lives of seven innocent people.”
“I didn’t have
all
my family murdered,” he corrected.
“I’m surprised you haven’t worked it out.”
“What are you talking about?”
“My paternal father is still alive, and he has a son
and daughter, both of whom are exceptionally talented, highly intelligent,
multi-linguists, with photographic memories and skills most people can only
dream about. Does that remind you of anyone?”
She paused and shrugged involuntarily.
“Think about it!”
Perplexed, she shook her head.
“Maria, I’m your brother - we share the same
father.”
Uncharacteristically, she wrestled with her response.
“No, you can’t be!”
“Yes I can. Your father dated my mother; they were
childhood sweethearts. I’m the result of their first sexual experience.”
“He’s lying,” Plant said. “He’s trying to trick you
and draw your attention elsewhere. He’ll jump you and grab the gun. It’s
textbook.”
“Be quiet,” she snapped, trying to comprehend
Williams’ words.
“For God’s sake, either ring the police or shoot
him,” Guilford-Johnston blurted out.
“Be quiet, Arsehole,” she hissed. She knew things
were getting out of hand; she glared at Guilford-Johnston. “If you speak again it’ll
be you that gets the next bullet, not him.”
“I’m not lying, Maria,” Williams continued. “You can
ask your father. I wouldn’t trick you.”
As she struggled with the concept of the assertion
he moved slowly towards her.
She dropped the phone and took hold of the gun with both
hands, adopting the shooting stance position; she aimed at the centre of his forehead.
“Do not move a muscle,” she snarled.
Williams stopped.
“Shoot the bastard,” Guilford-Johnston ordered,
attempting to struggle free.
Furious, she turned the gun straight at him. “Right,
Arsehole! I’ve told you more than once to be quiet. The next thought you’ll
have will be the realisation that I… Do… Not… Make… Idle… Threats...” Her
fingers tightened around the trigger.
“No, Maria!” Woods roared.
The crack of the bullet shattering through bone
evaporated the tension, as did Guilford-Johnston’s blood splattering across the
wall. Barnes dropped the gun and fell to her knees.
“Jesus Christ, Maria!” Woods said. “Why the hell did
you do that?” He glanced up at Plant, who returned the look, but didn’t comment.
The eerie silence was palpable.
THE
END
CXVI
– SECRETS BROKEN
by Angie
Smith
The second title in this trilogy,
CXVI – SECRETS BROKEN, will be available shortly and sees Maria Barnes hunted
by both the police and intelligence service; she’s wanted for the murder of
Guilford-Johnston, the former MP. Only three people could possibly prove her
innocence: Greg Woods, Jonathan Plant and Freddy Williams. Will these adversaries
work together and come to her assistance, or will her nemesis be the one who
saves her? Assuming, of course, that she is innocent...
Mike Hollis, together with the
other jurors, made his way slowly into the dingy deliberations room and settled
around the huge oval wooden table. The rustling of people sorting themselves
out continued as the court usher — a plump, stuffy looking woman in her fifties
— reminded them of their duty to select either a foreman or forewoman who would
act as their spokesperson. Before leaving she collected their mobile phones,
which having just been taken out of the courtroom were already switched off,
and placed them in a secure cabinet. Hollis watched her disappear through the
door and, on hearing the key turning in the lock, realised the deliberations could
now commence. There was a call button on the wall that would summon the usher should
they needed assistance, or have reached a verdict.
After
spending four long weeks in court listening to the evidence, Hollis was relieved
that the process was reaching its conclusion. He’d managed to form a bond with some
of the jurors and become friends with them; he’d eaten in the cafeteria with
them and chatted during the frequent breaks in proceedings. Everyone seemed
friendly; everyone that is except an elderly gentleman who’d kept himself to
himself and not entered into any of the camaraderie. The group thought him
introverted; some ventured that he was mute, as they couldn’t remember him uttering
a single word: when a few of them had said hello, or asked how he was, his
response had always been simply to smile and nod. The group had nicknamed him
the recluse.
Early
in the proceedings Hollis had recognised that two of the other jurors stood out
above the rest. A well-spoken woman in her mid-thirties named Marie Tasker, who
had a friendly, but forceful personality, and Peter Goldwing, a man in his
early forties, dressed in business attire and brimming with self-confidence;
he’d appeared to be extremely knowledgeable on legal matters. Both Tasker and
Goldwing formed their own separate circle of friends from within the group; Hollis
was part of Goldwing’s circle.
It
was therefore no surprise when Goldwing addressed the jurors. “Can we first
choose a foreman?” he asked.
At
this point Hollis shrunk back in his seat, having no intention of volunteering
and praying someone else would be selected.
“I’d
like to be the foreman,” Tasker said vehemently.
“Okay,”
Goldwing replied. “I’d have offered if no-one else had wanted to do it, but I’m
happy with Marie if everyone else is.”
Hollis
smiled in relief as the jurors nodded to one another, indicating Tasker was
acceptable.
“Right,”
Goldwing said. “If that’s agreed. . .”
“I’d
like to be foreman,” the recluse interrupted, in a calm, clear voice.
Hollis
noticed Goldwing and Tasker glancing at each other.
“Err…
okay,” Goldwing muttered. “We’ll take it to a vote. All those who. . .”
“Before
we do that I’d like to say something,” the recluse insisted loudly.
“What!
You’ve hardly said a word during the whole four weeks,” Tasker sneered.
“Well
you’d know wouldn’t you?” the recluse responded, his eyes fixed firmly on her.
Hollis
sensed the tension building; he let out a nervous laugh. “Come on then, let’s
hear what you have to say.”
The
recluse stood and began walking around the room, making eye contact with each
and every juror. “Can I first say that I have no particular desire to be foreman.”
“So
why are you wasting our time?” Tasker hissed.
The
recluse cleared his throat. “As I was saying,” he emphasised through clenched
teeth, “I have no particular desire to be foreman, but I do have a desire to
ensure that neither Tasker nor Goldwing are.”
Tasker
looked furtively at Goldwing who kept quiet.
“You
see,” the recluse explained. “Goldwing and Tasker are imposters.”
There
was a deathly silence and Hollis looked around the room, unsure if he’d heard
correctly.
“What..?
Don’t be ridiculous,” Goldwing said, shaking his head.
The
recluse by now was around the other side of the table and he locked his stare
on Tasker and Goldwing. “These two work for the Secret Service, or MI5 as
you’ll probably know it, and their role here is to ensure we reach a guilty
verdict.”
Goldwing
laughed. “The man’s an idiot,” he scoffed.
“This
is preposterous,” Tasker added. “I work at the hospital as a ward sister.”
“Yes,
there is a ward sister at the hospital called Marie Tasker and here’s a
photograph of her.” The recluse threw down a picture of a nurse dressed in a
blue uniform with an ID badge indicating who she was.
“That
doesn’t prove anything,” Tasker said.
“Where
do you live?” the recluse asked.
“Adel.”
“26
Maidstone Avenue?”
“Yes.
Why?”
Here’s
a photograph of 26 Maidstone Avenue, taken yesterday morning at 8.00 a.m. with
the same Marie Tasker that was in the previous picture coming out of the front
door.” The recluse threw the image on the table. “And before you say anything
else, here’s a photo taken at the same time of these two coming out of the
Marriot Hotel, where they are both staying… she in room 226 and he in 227.”
Hollis
asked to be shown the photographs that Tasker had snatched off the table and
was gripping in her hand.
“These
are fakes,” she said, reluctantly handing them over.
“Let
me explain what these two have been up to,” the recluse said, again wandering
around the table. “All your homes have been bugged, your telephone
conversations listened to, and your movements closely monitored. . .”
“What!”
Hollis exclaimed, staring in disbelief at the recluse, who continued.
“About
a week before the trial started a couple of men came to my house claiming to be
from the electricity company. They had the appropriate ID and said they needed
to check my circuits as some anomalies had been identified. They then proceeded
go through the whole house. Later I discovered they’d left concealed electronic
bugging devices in the living room, bedroom and kitchen; they were located
behind the wall socket in the kitchen and inside the light fittings in the
living room and bedroom.”
“Hey,
that happened at my house; someone came to check the electrics. I remember it
now,” Hollis said.
“Yes,
it happened at my house too,” said another juror.
“And
mine,” another three simultaneously said.
“Since
that time they’ve been listening to your conversations; anything you have
discussed linked to the trial has been analysed and logged.”
Hollis
looked at Tasker who appeared paralysed and unsure what to do.
“Also,
you might have noticed that at each coffee or lunch break Tasker and Goldwing
have been vociferous — even though the judge warned against it — in discussing
the evidence presented that day and asking for your individual thoughts. You
must have noticed that both of them are vehement supporters of a guilty
verdict.”
Hollis
turned to Goldwing. “What the hell are you two up to?”
But
the recluse wasn’t finished. “Each night these two report back to their superior.
All the day’s events and your opinions are dissected; they are given
instructions on who or what to focus on the following day. Listen to this,” the
recluse said, placing a small audio transmitter in the middle of the table.
“It’s last night’s conversation between the three of them.” He pressed play and
a discussion commenced; it was clearly Tasker and Goldwing having a conference
call with another man. It had obviously been recorded the day before, as the
content was about yesterday’s events in court and the thoughts of various
jurors and how they might vote when it came to the verdict. Tasker and Goldwing
were given instructions on how to convince jurors the female defendant was absolutely
guilty.
“I
want these two thrown off the jury,” Hollis said, standing up.
“So
what do we do now?” asked another juror.
The
recluse looked down at his watch. “There will be a knock on the door shortly
and Goldwing will be informed that he has an urgent phone call and we’ll be
asked to stop deliberating while he goes to the main office.”
Just
at that moment there was a loud knock.
“Exceptional
timing,” the recluse said, smiling.
The
court usher entered and instructed everyone to stop deliberating. She asked Goldwing
to follow her to the main office.
“Bye,”
Hollis said sarcastically, waving at Goldwing. He turned to the recluse. “How
did you know that was going to happen?”
“Because
Tasker has a listening device in her handbag; every word we have just spoken
has been relayed to her colleagues.”
Hollis
grabbed hold of Tasker’s handbag.
“Hey!”
she shouted, trying to snatch it back.
He
ignored her protests and promptly emptied the contents onto the table. “Where
is it?” he demanded.
“That’s
it,” the recluse said, gently tapping his pen on a gold coloured make-up
compact.
Hollis
picked it up off the table, threw it on the floor and stamped on it; the
compact smashed, revealing electronic wiring and circuiting. “So how do you
want to play this?” he asked.
“We
wait. Goldwing will be getting advice and they’ll be deciding what to do.”
“What
can they do?”
“Basically,
anything they want to. They could plant false information about any one of us
and claim a retrial, or they could have the jury dismissed and one of us thrown
in jail. The important thing is that we all stick together and back one another
up. Luckily I’ve got the listening devices that they left in my house, with
fingerprints and DNA, locked away securely, along with the photographic
evidence of these two cavorting in the hotel, and the recordings of all their
telephone conversations.”
Hollis
threw a sideways glance at Tasker.
“Who
are you?” she asked the recluse.
“You
know who I am, or at least you think you do!”