The Legacy (5 page)

Chapter 12

T
he assassin arrived at Guards Polo Club just as lunch was being served in the majority of the marquees. It was a big tournament and there were several thousand spectators present. It was therefore relatively easy to move amongst the crowd and find a spot from which to watch Peter Fairweather. The assassin hadn't seen a polo match before and he was surprised at how civilised it was. As well as the hospitality tents and private marquees, there were lots of families and groups of friends having picnics in the grass car parks that formed two sides of the pitch. The four wheel drive vehicles that the majority seemed to own had their rear doors open, allowing lavish hampers to be unpacked and spread out in the luggage areas. Folding seats and collapsible tables arranged around the open rear doors made for a comfortable lunch in the sunny splendour of Windsor Great Park.

Fairweather appeared to be enjoying himself. Bubble.com spon-sored one of the teams playing in the tournament and, so far, it was doing well. It had already won two of its games and it looked like the third was also going to be a victory. His team were all professional players and whilst they and their strings of ponies cost the company a fair amount of money, Fairweather thought it a worthwhile investment. He enjoyed the recognition that went with owning a highly successful polo team and he felt that rubbing shoulders with the rich and famous, as well as Royalty, was good for his own image, as well as that of Bubble.com. As the third game entered its last chukka, he was holding forth with a group of corporate investors, which included Charles and Caroline Highworth, in the private marquee that he had hired for the day. Corporate entertainment had its detractors but hosting some of the people who had funded the company's recent expansion was, at least to Fairweather, an enjoyable way of ensuring that he retained access to the resources that these people controlled.

Highworth moved closer to Fairweather to ask him how Mymate was progressing. ‘Brilliant,' replied Fairweather. ‘The testing is going better than expected with fewer problems than the team anticipated. We should be able to launch the product early next year as planned.'

Highworth smiled. ‘If only you knew,' he thought to himself. Ever reliable, he didn't doubt that Richards had put the contract in place and that Fairweather now only had a few days to live. He enjoyed the irony of talking to a man about the future knowing that the man would be dead within a few days at his, Highworth's, behest. That he disliked Fairweather, considering him to be vulgar ‘new money', only added to his pleasure.

Though he didn't know him, the assassin saw Highworth talking to Fairweather. He neither approved nor disapproved of Fairweather's obvious wealth. He was simply watching the target to try and learn something more about him. He was reassured that Fairweather didn't appear to be with a partner. Two or three attractive and well dressed women came over to him to talk or to give him a new glass of champagne, but in his expert view none of them exhibited the body language he would expect of a lover. ‘Easier if he's alone tonight,' thought the assassin. Ordinarily, and though he tried to avoid unnecessary deaths, he would have no compunction in killing whoever came between him and his target. But, because this had to look like an accident, he would prefer it if Fairweather didn't have a woman in his bed on this particular night. The assassin continued to watch from the far side of the pitch. Though his attention was focused on Fairweather's marquee, he kept moving his binoculars as the ball was hit around the pitch. He doubted he was being watched but, if he was, he wanted to give the impression that he was taking a keen interest in the ebbs and flows of the game.

The last chukka came to a close. The Bubble.com team triumphed again and a delighted Fairweather joined his team as they collected the trophy from a smiling Prince of Wales. Fairweather ensured that the photographers took lots of pictures of him and the team's captain next to Prince Charles. He was keen to ensure that this month's
Hello
and
Grazia
magazines contained at least some pictures of him and being snapped with Royalty was one way of ensuring this. The Prince gave a short speech of congratulations and then, following a quiet word with Fairweather, he left the pitch and was whisked away in his official Jaguar limousine.

The assassin continued to watch the Bubble.com marquee from the far side of the pitch. Fairweather was in no rush to leave. He was clearly enjoying the moment, savouring the comments of his guests as they congratulated him on his victory and thanked him for his hospitality before leaving to begin the journey home. The assassin noticed that one of the three women he had seen in the afternoon had stayed behind to talk to Fairweather. In her late twenties, she was stunningly attractive with long blonde hair and a short, figure-hugging dress that would have made a monk doubt his vows of celibacy. Fairweather was smiling as the girl spoke. After a few minutes of conversation, the girl nodded and then walked away from him, returning a few minutes later with her coat and handbag. As the last of his guests departed, Fairweather strolled out of the back of the marquee arm in arm with the blonde. The assassin returned to his car. He didn't need to follow Fairweather. He knew where he lived and he could now make the assumption that Fairweather would have company for the night, whether or not he went for supper first.

Chapter 13

Fairweather looked at the girl sat opposite him. She was truly stunning. Her blue eyes were accentuated by large sapphire ear-rings and an even larger sapphire necklace that nestled in her ample cleavage. She was, at least in Fairweather's mind, very desirable and he'd therefore chosen this restaurant deliberately to impress her. Expensive, discrete and only five minutes' walk from his house, both the food and the service were exquisite. Over the last few years he had become something of a regular, so they agreed that he should order for both of them. Whilst they waited for the food to arrive, he set about charming his attractive companion. ‘So, Camilla, tell me more about your latest exhibition.'

The blonde girl smiled. She'd known Fairweather for about six months and, while she hadn't seen a great deal of him, she'd grown to like him. She'd first met him when the gallery that exhibited her work had contacted her to ask whether she would be prepared to paint two large paintings to adorn the offices of Bubble.com. She had agreed, not just because Fairweather had offered to pay her extremely well but because she liked the idea of being associated with such a modern, cutting edge company. Lots of people visiting the company headquarters and seeing her two striking works had to be good for business. ‘The exhibition is in the Mall Galleries on Pall Mall,' she said. ‘And you'll like the pictures because they're all nudes.'

‘Male or female?' asked Fairweather.

‘Both,' answered Camilla. ‘I took my nieces to the Victoria and Albert Museum a few months ago and was struck by the beauty of the statutes on display in the main hall. It set me to thinking that so much has changed over the last six hundred years or so but our bodies have remained basically the same. What was beautiful then is still beautiful now. When you look at Michelangelo's sculpture of David, which was commissioned over five hundred years ago, you see a perfectly proportioned and beautiful man who wouldn't be out of place today on the cover of
GQ
magazine. The same is true of Raphael's Three Graces. People thought them beautiful then and still think it now. So I've developed the theme a little and painted naked figures through the ages. I've tried to contemporise the figures by painting them in surroundings that indicate the age they are from and I've also given them attributes that were thought particularly attractive in the period they represent. So my girl from the nineties is slim and waif-like, like a young Kate Moss, whilst my woman from the eighteen hundreds has a fuller, more shapely figure.'

Fairweather was genuinely interested in what Camilla was saying. He liked her work. The two paintings she had done for him were huge, bright canvasses that drew comment from almost everybody who came to his offices. Fairweather also saw Camilla as a personal challenge. He admired her intellect and her enthusiasm but he was truly captivated by her body. He was determined to get her into bed. This was one reason he was taking such an interest in what she was saying now. ‘That sounds fascinating,' he said. ‘If I meet you at the galleries on Monday, will you give me a personal tour and explain which of the paintings are for sale?'

Camilla agreed. The prospect of a sale was a definite incentive, though, in truth, she also found Fairweather attractive. He was good looking and well dressed but his confidence was what she most admired. She'd noticed it again at the polo. He seemed to have a magnetic personality, dominating the people around him to become the centre of attention in an unforced and natural way.

It was late when they finished their meal. Fairweather ordered coffees and brandies for both of them and, putting his hand over hers, suggested she come back to his house to give him an artist's view of a painting he had recently bought. She knew it was a ruse but she was excited at the prospect of spending the night with him. And if this meant he bought a few more of her paintings when he visited the gallery on Monday, then that was no bad thing.

At midnight the assassin started to climb up the scaffolding at the back of Fairweather's house. Wearing gloves, black jeans, a black t-shirt and black hoodie, he also had a black balaclava in his pocket and the tools he would need to force entry into the house in a small pack on his back. He climbed easily. It was quiet and he was confident that he hadn't been seen. When he reached the top of the scaffolding, he moved carefully across the tiled roofs until he was above Fairweather's house. He started to move the slates aside. It was easily done. Though the house was old, it had been re-roofed within the last ten years and there was therefore little danger of the slates crumbling in his hands. He removed four slates and sawed quickly through the thin wooden slats to which the slates had been attached. He put the loose pieces of wood in his pack and then cut through the felt that formed the waterproof barrier underneath the slates. Within twenty minutes of starting the climb, he was lowering himself slowly into the roof space of Fairweather's house. Once inside, he switched on his head torch and found the trapdoor into the house. He now had two options. He could either wait in the relative safety of the roof space for Fairweather to return or he could lower himself into the house now and hide in one of the rooms. There were advantages and disadvantages to both options. On balance, he decided that the risk of being heard opening the trapdoor and getting into the house once Fairweather had returned outweighed the possibility of him setting off an alarm by lowering himself to the upper floor of the house before Fairweather came home. He tied a piece of thin rope to the bottom rung of the folding ladder attached to the trapdoor and used this to slowly lower the door open. When it was fully lowered, he climbed down through the hole, hanging from the frame before dropping the few feet to the corridor beneath. Taking a telescopic hook from his backpack, he extended it and used it to push the trapdoor closed behind him.

He moved down the corridor, careful not to touch any of the doors in case they were alarmed. He continued down two flights of stairs until he found what was obviously the master bedroom. Having had a quick look around, he then found a guest room and hid in the large walk-in wardrobe that led off the room. Closing the door, he opened his backpack and took out a pistol and silencer. He screwed the silencer into place, checked the magazine and sat down to wait. The silencer would do little to muffle the sound of a shot going off indoors but it made the pistol look more menacing and, if all went to plan, this was all that was going to be required.

Two hours later Fairweather opened the main door, allowing Camilla to enter the house first. ‘Go on in', he said, ‘I just need to switch the alarm off and I'll be with you.' He opened a sliding panel hidden behind a picture on the wall of the inner hall. He entered the code and the flashing red light turned green.

‘Welcome to my humble abode,' said Fairweather, rejoining Camilla and ushering her up the opulent staircase to a sitting room on the first floor. The room was richly appointed with antique furniture and comfortable sofas. The walls were adorned with a mix of contemporary and traditional works of art. Camilla was impressed, recognising an early Hockney, two Lichensteins and what looked to be an original Dali. She accepted the glass of champagne that Fairweather offered her.

‘Cheers,' said Fairweather, clinking his glass against hers. ‘Now let me show you this painting.' He disappeared off to another room and reappeared carrying a heavily framed picture. ‘I've just bought it,' he said, turning it round so she could see it. Camilla gasped then leaned in to study it more closely. It was a beautifully done painting of a horse. An original Stubbs. It wasn't as magnificent as Stubb's famous painting of the prancing Whistlejacket but it was a close second.

‘I remember the sale being covered in the press,' said Camilla. ‘The buyer was anonymous. We assumed it was a Russian or Chinese billionaire!'

Fairweather smiled. ‘No, I bought it but I wanted to keep it quiet. Notwithstanding the two paintings of yours that I bought for the office, I buy art for me to appreciate, not others. And I like to keep my acquisitions reasonably quiet so I don't attract the wrong sort of attention.'

Camilla nodded in understanding. As surprising as it might seem, art theft was on the increase. Camilla's hand closed over Fairweather's on the gilded frame. ‘You have an excellent eye for beautiful things,' she said.

‘Thank you,' said Fairweather. He avoided the obvious response but leaned forward and kissed her gently on the lips. She responded, putting her arm round his neck and pulling him towards her, returning his kiss with a passion that surprised and delighted him. He stood up and, taking her by the hand, led her upstairs to his bedroom.

The assassin could hear the sound of muffled voices downstairs. He was in no rush having long ago learnt that patience was indeed a virtue, particularly when you were waiting for the right moment to kill someone. He had a plan but knew that he would have to improvise. One of the first things he had learned in the military was that things never worked out as you intended. The benefit of detailed planning was not the plan itself but the myriad possibilities that were considered during the planning process. Done thoroughly, this meant that you were ready for whatever happened when the plan started to fall apart. He could hear footsteps on the stairs and then the sound of the master bedroom door opening. Fairweather listened harder, straining his ear against the wall. He could hear quiet, intimate laughter and then the sound of clothes being removed. He had seen the blonde through his binoculars. Stunningly attractive, he envied Fairweather. ‘Not a bad way to spend your last night,' he thought to himself.

An hour later, the sounds had stopped. He assumed that passion now spent, the lovers were sleeping soundly. But he took no chances and waited another hour before starting to prepare himself. Placing his silenced pistol down the back of his trousers and opening his backpack, he removed a bottle of chloroform and a pad of cotton wool. He placed these in his hoodie pocket, slipped on his balaclava and walked slowly out of the guestroom towards the master bedroom, stepping lightly on the outsides of his feet to minimise the sound of his movements. The bedroom door was open. Though the lights were off, there was enough light from the hall for him to see that both Fairweather and the blonde were fast asleep. Fairweather was lying on his back. He had pulled the white duvet up to his chest, leaving the blonde barely covered. She was lying on her side facing away from Fairweather. She was truly beautiful. The assassin stood for a few minutes, listening to their regular breathing. He took out the chloroform and cotton wool, opened the bottle and soaked the pad. He then moved quietly over to the blonde and held the pad over her mouth and nose for a few minutes. She stirred briefly but then her breathing slowed and her body relaxed. She was in a very deep sleep. Chloroform might be an ‘old fashioned' drug but it still worked and its use was hard to detect afterwards. Satisfied that the blonde was now out for the count for at least the next hour, he replaced the chloroform and pad in his pocket and moved round to Fairweather's side of the bed.

He took out the pistol and slowly shook Fairweather awake. ‘Mr Fairweather,' he said, ‘I need to talk to you urgently.'

Fairweather's eyes opened slowly. He blinked several times then, when he saw the gun and the balaclava clad face, his eyes widened in fear. ‘Who the fuck are you?' he shouted.

‘Be quiet Mr Fairweather or I will kill you,' said the assassin in a quiet and measured voice. ‘Get up, put your dressing gown on and come downstairs with me,' the assassin ordered. Fairweather complied, stumbling out of bed and scrabbling for the gown on the back of the bedroom door. The assassin directed Fairweather down the stairs and into the sitting room.

Although the lights were off, the assassin could see the Stubbs leaning against a sofa. ‘A beautiful painting, Mr Fairweather, it must have cost you a great deal.'

‘What do you want?' asked Fairweather. ‘I've got money upstairs.'

‘I don't want your money Mr Fairweather, I want to talk to you,' replied the assassin.

Fairweather was starting to regain his composure. He reasoned that if the intruder was wearing a balaclava to hide his face, then he wasn't intending to kill him.

‘Open the windows,' ordered the assassin, waving his gun at the left of the two identical French windows. ‘Wider. Now step onto the balcony and stretch your arms above your head towards the building across the square. Then come and sit down here.' Fairweather did as he was told, assuming that he was sending a signal of some sort to the intruder's accomplice. Fairweather sat down and watched as the intruder took out a glass phial and laid a line of what Fairweather assumed was cocaine on the glass topped table. ‘It's just coke, it won't hurt you, take it,' ordered the assassin.

Fairweather looked at the intruder. ‘Fuck off. Why should I?' he asked.

‘Because it will make you more receptive to what I'm going to talk to you about and because I've got the gun and I'm telling you to,' said the assassin. Though his voice was quiet, there was no mistaking the menace that it contained.

Fairweather was no stranger to drugs. He dipped a finger into the powder and put it on his tongue. Satisfied, he took a small silver tube out of a cigarette box on the table and took a long snort.

‘Again,' ordered the assassin. Fairweather complied and sat back on the sofa as the drug started to bite. The assassin watched Fairweather visibly relax. ‘I need you to signal my partner again to prove that you are OK before I tell you why I'm here.' Fairweather stood and walked slowly over to the open window. He stepped onto the small balcony again and raised his arms as before. As he did so, the assassin came up behind him and, bending down, wrapped his arms round Fairweather's thighs. He straightened up with a grunt and lifted Fairweather off the ground, tipping him over the balcony rail. It happened so quickly that Fairweather barely uttered a sound before landing on the pointed railings below.