Authors: Simon Duringer
Stewart Wilson was not having the best week of his life. A father of four daughters and a son
; he took pride in his somewhat simple life. Pride in the fact that he was a complete patriot who had seen out his national service and embarked on his life's quest to provide a humble living for his family. It hadn’t been easy bringing up five children on his income but he had struggled and survived with his pride intact.
At fifty nine, he retained good fitness although his age was beginning to show. His youngest daughter Sue had married during the previous year and since that day, he had an aura of completeness about him. With the last of the children fleeing the nest, it was time for him to finally enjoy the finer things in life that, due to the pressures of parenting, had eluded him to date.
Right now though, there was something very awry with his life. A few bewildering moments two days prior had left him alone. He had not eaten or slept since, sitting by the phone as instructed by the man who had taken Jacqui from him.
He would not go to the police as he was too scared… Scared of the man’s threats and scared of losing everything he had worked for…
But why?
He thought…
What can I possibly have that is so valuable to these people?
He felt so lost.
Trusted and admired for his commitment to his customers over the years, never failing to serve, never feigning illness and never avoiding his responsibilities, he had no real social life, no friends to speak of… Who could he trust with something of this magnitude? The only person like that he could think of had been taken from him. He was too proud to use his children…
To show a chink in my armour? Not likely!
He would have to bide his time and see what these hooligans wanted.
It was four thirty a.m. when the call came. Stewart nervously picked up the receiver, his hands shaking.
“Wilson?” said the muffled voice.
“Yes, who are you? What have you done with my wife?” His anxiety piercing down the phone.
“Shut up and listen and she’ll be cooking your fucking tea tonight. Alright?” was the angry and impatient return.
The phone went quiet. Stewart was old school and not used to such blaspheming. He sensed intimate danger.
“You work Holden Hurst Road right?”
“Yes, that’s right!” Stewart replied, confusion apparent in the tone of his voice.
“There’s a no through road, with a turning place off Lytton Road. Know it?”
“Yes, but what’s this about? Where is Jacqui?”
“Be there at five a.m. with your milk float and spare coveralls.”
“Wait… What about Jacqui?”
“Be there at five or your wife gets it. No funny business, okay?” and with that, Big Benny put the phone down.
The blood drained from Stewart’s face as he began to sense his time was running out.
Marco sat in the back of the Volvo with Jack. He reached beneath the rear of the driver’s seat where he had concealed the weapons and removed a Dunlop sports bag, the type appropriate for the likes of Bjorn Borg to carry onto the Centre court at Wimbledon rather than for gangsters to carry the tools of the trade. Reaching into the bag he produced a 9
mm
Browning with extended barrel. Jack, who was beginning to feel the adrenaline pumping uncontrollably through his body, was naïve in his knowledge of weaponry and was simply aware that it was a
point and shoot
handgun. He could only assume, from what he had seen in movies as a youngster, that the barrel extension was actually a silencer attachment.
Lucio had let him loose with a number of handguns to see which, if any, he was capable of firing. Whilst to Jack, on that day, his weapon was simply ‘a gun’. In the years to follow, he would be specific and adamant about what was supplied for his work. He would become a weapons expert and a perfectionist.
Marco handed him the weapon with two extra full magazines.
“If you need these, my friend, we are all in serious trouble,” he said waving the magazines in his left hand.
“The arrangements are in place. It should be a walk in the park,” said Marco patting Jack’s left shoulder in subtle reassurance.
“…and get the right house,” interrupted Benny loudly “…ain’t that a must, Leo?” Big Benny laughed making him feel better about his pea sized bladder.
Jack ignored this private joke. Maybe another time he thought. “Number twenty nine, right?” he asked looking across at Marco.
“Yeah, Jack. That’s the one!”
“Okay, let’s get it on,” roared Leo as he indicated and turned the steering wheel and led them into Holden Hurst Road. “It’s that one on the left,”
he continued as he approached the Lytton Road turn.
“Okay, I got it.” Jack said, heart in mouth. He began thinking back to the lorry driver colliding with his parents’ vehicle, bringing his hatred levels to fever pitch.
Leo turned into Lytton road and with another quick right into a no through road, the street quite deserted bar a couple of cars and, more noticeably, an agitated man in a white coat pacing by a milk float.
“That’s the guy!” announced Big Benny recalling his triumph at taking a defenceless woman away from her husband. “Bruising’s gone down though!” He added proudly. Benny had punched Stewart in the face whilst gaining access to his house.
All eyes were scanning windows for twitchy curtains and nosey neighbours. If any were seen, a bloody battle would probably ensue, but this night was silent and it appeared all the occupants were either asleep or away.
Leo pulled the car over to block the exit routes and wound the window down. “Okay Wilson. Get in the back!”
“Where’s Jacqui? You promised!” Stewart appeared visibly worried at not seeing his wife.
“Okay, off you go, Jack.” said Marco, giving Jack a fatherly wink as though sending him out to bat his first ball game.
“Get in and don’t cause a commotion. You'll be with your wife soon enough!” There was a chilling side to Big Benny’s voice.
Jack sat in the cab of Stewart Wilson’s milk float putting on the white coat and the caterer’s cap that Wilson had brought on demand. He’d now got tunnel vision. He slipped the 9
mm
in the coat and let off the handbrake, passing the Volvo on his right, he nodded at Marco. He never saw Stewart Wilson again.
It was about twenty minutes before Jack reappeared calmly from the house. He looked different, grey and distant, his pupils dilated and his hands shaking by his side. Moving towards the milk cart, his looks certainly did not mirror those of your cheery neighbourhood milkman, more that of a survivor from a bomb blast, disorientated yet somewhat in control.
Remaining totally focused, he climbed aboard the milk cart and considered the ghosts that he had just laid to rest…
That lorry driver would not enjoy another breath of fresh air again,
he thought, though Jack would destroy this same ghost over and over in the future.
“Dr Stone, your patient is regaining consciousness…” called Nurse Stevens.
The light shone brightly as his eyes flickered open. Still disorientated, the room spinning in and out of focus, he could see some movement around him but blurred as it was, it put him at ease…
Either there is life after death or I’m still alive
… He thought,
either way I’m glad to be somewhere.
His vision began to clear and he could make out the figure of a doctor with a stethoscope around his neck, leaning over him. He was wearing an identification badge that read;
Dr Stone, Royal Devon & Exeter Hospital.
He tried to raise his left hand to reach the doctor but his arm barely lifted two inches off the crisp linen sheets. He inched his head sideways to see another two people; a nurse with her hair in a bundle frantically scribbling on a clipboard, and the concerned look of a mother whose child had been injured. He never could resist a girl in uniform and his gaze lingered on her for a moment before passing his stare to the man standing at her side. He was a rather gloomy man in a trench coat, a man he felt he ought to recognise but could not.
“Who are you?”
His voice was hoarse and barely audible, little more than a gasp. He struggled to comprehend the amount of energy he had exerted in order to expel those three tiny words. His eyes filled with tears and once again he drifted into unconsciousness.
“Okay, doc. When do I get to speak to him?” asked the straight faced man.
“Well, officer. He is fairly stable now but he needs to regain strength. We took him out of intensive care a few hours ago officer… but we will still need to monitor him closely.”
“Damn
…
He is one of the best close protection guys we’ve got… I wish they’d got the Bishop instead!”
“Ahh… Yes the shooting, I heard.” added doctor Stone “What happened?”
“Nothing but problems
…
He is involved with the Italian Carabinieri’s investigations into the Vatican’s lost millions. I guess the Bishop knows more than someone is happy with
…
Jesus
…
” said Inspector Bickley cringing as he swept his brow
“Well, I guess he is no longer our problem, we flew him straight back to Italy after the incident,” concluded the Inspector, knowing full well the Bishop was actually still under police protection in a safe house while investigations continued.
“It’s all everyone is talking about around here! They are hailing Harvey as a local hero,”
replied the Doctor.
“They don’t know the half of it
…
” stated a stern faced Inspector Bickley.
Harvey Walters had begun his career in the Met in 1980 at the age of 19. His proud mother had looked on from the stands at Middle Moor Police camp whilst her son marched out to display the skills their class had learnt during the course of initial training. She’d cried tears of joy during their final march past, as her eyes met his, and the corners of his mouth turned up in recognition of one of her proudest moments.
His upbringing hadn’t been easy. She had told him that his father had died when he was a toddler, but in actual fact, he was the product of an illicit affair and though he’d not known his father, he had died much later.
Although being the
other
woman, Harvey’s mother liked to believe that she had been totally satisfied with the relationship. She was always wined and dined and totally adored for years, yet she knew from the outset, that there would be no chance of marriage. However, her years of loyalty were repaid as, even in death, he had looked after her. There were caveats in his will setting up an income for her, an income that, unbeknown to her, originated as a series of lump sum investments, deceitfully labelled to appear as charitable donations.
Whilst accepting the inevitable and regardless of her belief, she
had
gone through bouts of depression where hours of loneliness and paranoia towards his marriage had left her heartbroken.
Harvey had never understood why she hadn’t attempted to remarry after the apparent death of his father. Even in his later years he tried to arrange dates for her with his elder colleagues. He had no lack of volunteers as even in her fifties she exuded a somewhat majestic presence. She would attend on occasion but would always shy away from them, finding it ever more difficult to bear continuing the charade for her son.
In the early 1980’s she took a downward turn metamorphosing into a state of recluse, never leaving the apparent safety of her home and regularly breaking into tears, given the slightest reminder of her past love. Harvey had offered her to move in with him and his wife Jenny and their two children, Chloe and Rob, in the hope that Jenny might become her soul mate and lift her spirits. She had of course refused on the grounds that she was not prepared to lose her independence. Even so, Jenny started making regular visits and they did indeed, become good friends. Playing with Chloe and Rob seemed to act as a good rehabilitation tool for her, giving her a new lease of life.
Harvey’s first big involvement in a case had been a practical disaster. He had been involved with a large squad of detectives and was called to the scene of a horrific murder involving a small time thief and his sister in Bournemouth. The main suspect, a milkman named Stewart Wilson, had disappeared and was assumed to be still at large.
There was however, no apparent motive for the murders. The horrendous manner in which Stewart had allegedly dealt with his victims had sent shockwaves through the whole of the United Kingdom. A national manhunt was launched but he and his spouse Jacqui, whose possible involvement in the murder was never established, were never found. There was even speculation that he may have murdered his wife too and gone on the run overseas. Every lead seemed to go nowhere and to the current day the case remained unsolved.
Harvey had the unenviable pleasure of being one of the first to the scene.
He had checked in to the Waterside Hotel at seven a.m. on what had started out to be a beautiful Friday morning. The Bournemouth sea air had been a treat. Harvey was attending a seminar on criminal psychology at the hotel with his partner Greg Bickley when his pager sounded off.
“Can’t hide anywhere anymore, Harv!” chuckled Greg, knowing how much Harvey hated his pager.
Harvey sneered and took his leave to go to the hotel phone.
“Aw, shit!” muttered Greg a moment later, as his own pager started bleeping at him heartlessly and, he grappled with his belt strap where the pager was innocently attached to turn off the high pitched alarm.
Seconds later, Harvey burst back into the second floor room quite out of breath.
“
Greg, get your arse in gear. We are about to make history.”
“Yeah! Already have by missing my breakfast,” sneered Greg as he rose to his feet and lurched towards the door.
“Come on… We’ve got to get there before they start messing with the scene…” yelled Harvey. Greg’s candour clearly bothering him.
“Okay… what have we got?”
“Double murder… I’ll fill you in on the way!”
Greg’s head sprang up. His piercing eyes staring at Harvey, clearly shocked at the severity of the situation.
“Jesus Harv… Let’s go!”
They both sprang to their heels and without regard to anything in their path, ran through the hotel reception and out to their car.
The crime scene wasn’t far from where they had been staying but, as Greg climbed into the passenger seat through force of habit, he turned on the car radio system and attempted to establish which incident channel number information was being passed from police headquarters to
all available officers.
Most of the force was already on high alert, and for several hours, random stopping of innocent travellers would become almost routine as descriptions of the suspects were distributed across the network and the force searched for leads.
As they drew close to the house, blue lights could be seen all over the place. Cordons were in place for a hundred yards either side of the normally busy road.
“That’ll cause merry hell for some traffic cop,” Greg said in sympathy for the PC.
“No kidding,” replied Harvey.
Harvey pulled up at the cordon and wound down his window “DC Walters and DI Bickley,” he said holding up their identification.
“Okay sir. Park just over there and walk up,”
he said, pointing to a space on the other side of the road. “We are still waiting for forensics to arrive. I hear it’s messy, sir…”
“Thanks,” said Harvey nodding grimly.
They parked the car and walked across to the house where they found a very pale police constable standing at the front door, looking as though he had recently vomited.
“Did you find the bodies?” asked Greg.
“Yes, sir…” replied the PC with which he clutched his stomach and ran to the garden fence to wretch once again. Harvey looked at Greg.
“Are you ready for this?”
“Come on, let’s get it over with,” replied Greg.
Harvey opened the door and edged in. The first thing that caught his eye was the toppled side table in the hall beside which were the fragmented remains of a china vase. Directly ahead were the stairs. Harvey motioned Greg to go up them while he would search the downstairs rooms. He reached into his pocket and retrieved a set of surgical gloves, stretching them over his already well-worn hands, he reached to open the door.
The refreshing scent of Bournemouth sea air was instantly consumed by a foul overwhelming stench of rot. He turned his head sharply putting his hand over his face, pausing momentarily in an attempt to acclimatise himself before proceeding. As he walked carefully into the room the sight was bizarre. He’d never witnessed so much blood.
The room was darkened with the curtains still drawn, the overwhelming smell making Harvey wince. His foot brushed the bottom of the sofa and a swarm of blue bottle flies took flight.
Aargh!
Was the noise he produced as he swiped at these parasites aimlessly.
“You okay?” Greg called from upstairs.
“Yeah…” lied Harvey, his heart rate accelerating furiously.
With the flies dispersing, Harvey bent down to take a closer look at what they had found so interesting. Squinting in the darkness he lurched over the blood strewn sofa but saw nothing
…
must just be the blood
…
he thought.
Looking around further, there was a grand old fire place with a large mantel piece, the centre piece of the room. His eyes were becoming accustomed to the dark now. He could see ornaments and in the centre were two bizarre mannequin heads…
“Oh no
…
oh my God
…
no
…
” Harvey staggered backwards tripping and knocking into a coffee table. He toppled and fell like a brick, crashing into a settee next to the entrance to the kitchen. His right hand reaching out to break his fall, making contact and sinking into something cold, his heart racing at capacity. If it got any faster he felt sure he would have burst his own blood vessels. He recovered his right hand, the blue bottles had begun a new frenzy around the room, his glove was sticky, he looked around and there it was… between the settee and the kitchen entrance was a headless torso, lying on its front, with one huge laceration from shoulder to shoulder and a pool of blood where Swifty’s head had once been attached…
“Well, there’s nothing up there…” announced Greg as he walked into the darkened room. “Jesus Christ…”
Harvey jumped to his feet, his cheeks beginning to swell. He pushed past Greg and ran to the front door, trying to hold in the vomit as long as possible so as not to do any
more
damage to the already compromised crime scene.