Mcniven: The Kingdom Guardian

By PETER SHIP

Set in the near future, 2037, McNiven provides the personal security for the reigning Monarch of the United Kingdom, a position his family have fulfilled for 500 years. Following a devastating terrorist attack on London that leaves almost 400,000 people dead, Queen Penelope secretly unleashes McNiven to track down the terrorists and destroy their plans for additional attacks. The Queen becomes a target for the terrorists and is betrayed by members of her family and staff. There is nonstop action stretching from Hastings in the south to the highlands of Scotland and across the channel into Europe. Unexpected twists and events are bound together by the twin threads of romance and loyalty as McNiven hunts those responsible for the destruction and deaths that were a smokescreen for an even more sinister plot to make London the capital of Western Europe. McNiven races against time to unmask the terrorists and save the lives of the Queen and the G8 leaders and avert a war.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris AU
• Release date: Aug 28, 2014
• ISBN: 9781499018813

PETER SHIP

Peter Ship was born in Queensland, Australia, in 1951. During his varied career in retailing and aged care administration, he has been able to combine his enjoyment of writing with his employment. For the last twelve years, he has been involved in the funeral industry, first as a coffin trimmer and then as a funeral arranger and conductor. In 2008, Peter and his wife moved to Brisbane when he accepted a position to manage one of the city’s finest cemeteries and crematoria. Peter has written several books including a collection of short humorous stories based on his experiences in the funeral industry as well as a book of inspirational short stories for the elderly and several plays for Christmas and Easter. Peter married his wife Fay in 1972. They have two children and two grandchildren.

Book preview

Copyright © 2014 by PETER SHIP.

Library of Congress Control Number:   2014914982

ISBN:      Hardcover      978-1-4990-1879-0

                Softcover        978-1-4990-1880-6

                eBook             978-1-4990-1881-3

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Rev. date: 08/20/2014

Xlibris LLC

1-800-455-039

www.Xlibris.com.au

633254

Contents

September October, Five Years Later

October November

November December

December

December January

January February

February March

March April

April–May

May–June

June July

July–November

December

T he snow had started to fall as the children ran to the waiting buses with their teachers and ten mothers who were tagging along as crowd control and toilet guardians. It was the perfect finish to the school year, a bus ride into London to see a Christmas Play followed by a special dinner at the Windermere Hotel next door to the theatre and now it was snowing. ‘What a jolly perfect day!’ the headmistress kept saying. The eighty-three girls were aged between seven and ten; they had been practising to use the cutlery the correct way for several weeks and were all confident they could discern the difference between a butter knife and a fish k nife.

The manager of the Windermere was delighted when approached by the school, going out of his way to ensure the girls would have an experience they would never forget. Special dietary requirements were catered, and all meals would be served on smaller plates so that the food was not overwhelmed by the larger standard plates. Unknown to the school, the manager had arranged a surprise visit of the characters from the Christmas play during the meal; everyone was excited, especially the children as they gathered at the theatre door.

London had changed; the influx of illegal immigrants since the United Kingdom had withdrawn from the European Union following the financial crisis in 2025 saw two-thirds of the Caucasian population move out of the city into the suburbs and villages surrounding the capital. They only came back for their employment or special events; on those occasions, they preferred to be in groups, especially on the underground where murder and violence were everyday events. The Muslims had little or no respect for the other ethnic groups or the law of the land they had invaded. The men were violent and treated most women like garbage, threatening and even killing girls who dared to attend schools; they imposed their own harsh laws and approved honour killings. London had changed but not improved; if police became involved in investigating an unlawful death, they would be stonewalled by lies.

The children waited patiently for their turn to enter the theatre. They sang Christmas carols and greeted everyone with Hope you have a happy Christmas.

The explosion, when it came, was as shocking as it was savage. Anyone standing within thirty metres of the suicide bomber had no chance of survival. The few that escaped the flying nails and pieces of metal or being brutally flung against brick walls experienced the agony of having the air in their lungs sucked from their bodies by the all-consuming flames that followed the roar of the blast. Others, further away, were thrown across the car park to lie in crumpled heaps of twisted arms and legs. One lady in an evening dress sat propped against a wall, staring at the space where her legs had once been, her life blood pumping from the shattered stumps with every beat of her heart.

Several men were attempting to rise to their feet, but their shattered legs would never again support their bodies. Near the door of the theatre, a group of eighty-three school children had gathered so that their teachers could escort them to their seats. Not one had survived the blast; cut down and thrown about, they resembled a pile of discarded rag dolls, strangely dressed in white clothes covered in red stains.

The moments following the blast seemed to stand still for the survivors. The temporary deafness caused by the blast made the silence an oppressive presence weighing down on those still conscious. Slowly, hearing returned, and the true horror revealed itself as the screams and moans from the wounded and dying filled the air.

One woman, in her late twenties, was walking towards the bomber with her three children. The family were about to pass behind him when he detonated the device; all four died instantly and never felt the impact as their bodies landed on the footpath.

The last day of the school year would always be remembered by the people of London as the day 342 people died on their way to see a Christmas play at the Kings Theatre in Piccadilly Circus, 162 of them children.

One school, St. Michaels, lost every enrolled student as well as seventeen staff and ten parents. The school would never reopen; instead, it would be razed to the ground and turned into a memorial park and playground with 110 bronze life-sized statues of the children and adults slaughtered.

As first images of the carnage flicked across the television screens, news photographer, Jack Bradford snatched up his digital camera and ran from his office in Pall Mall, keen to beat the Fleet Street hoard that would be held up in the inevitable traffic jam that would occur. Had Jack known what he was running into, he may not have run so fast.

The destruction and carnage surrounded Jack as he paused to suck in quick deep breaths after his frantic dash from his office. Shattered windows blown inwards by the blast had injured or killed hundreds of workers and shoppers. People were still emerging from their buildings and adding to the congestion and general confusion. Ambulance, Police, Firemen, and any able-bodied citizens were working side by side to help the victims of this outrage.

Jack lifted his camera and began shooting frame after frame, chronicling the efforts of the rescuers. Jack was a rarity among photo journalists; he was always careful to preserve the dignity of the victims. This was why his photos were always in demand from the leading newspapers and magazines; Jack’s photos were often used in preference to those taken by staff photographers. His ability to maintain the humanity and skip past the sensational and gory shots kept him constantly busy.

Parents and grandparents of the children from St. Michaels School for Young Ladies as well as several other schools were rushing into the area in the hope of finding their child alive, only to experience guilt because they thought their child was worthy of living when others were not and then gut-wrenching despair when they saw the complete devastation and not a single child moving. Seeking comfort and support, strangers united, standing in small groups hugging each other so tightly that breathing became difficult.

The lights of emergency vehicles flashed their festive red and blue colours. In the distance, the air was filled with the sounds of sirens as ambulance and police vehicles rushed to the scene from all areas of the city. Three police officers were moving bodies away from the front of a burning building when the front wall collapsed, adding another three victims to the death toll. Overhead, media helicopters swarmed in profusion until they were ordered away to allow air ambulances access.

Moving around the scene, Jack came upon a sight that touched his heart. A mother lay on the footpath with a child beside her; they were still holding hands. With faces unrecognisable from the effects of the blast, Jack concentrated on the hands. Moving in for a closer shot, Jack adjusted his focus which brought the two hands into sharp relief in his view finder. It felt like a giant hand was squeezing his heart as Jack remembered the first time he had seen the ring he had had made for his wife, the three emeralds, one for each of their children, set between diamonds, for the light of his life, his wife, Bianca.

The realisation of what he was looking at hit Jack like a sledge hammer thrust into his chest. Wildly, he looked around for the other two children, and to his growing horror, he soon found them nearby, both dead.

Placing his children next to their mother, Jack sat down beside them to wait for the rescuers. It didn’t take long before Jack’s body was racked with sobs of grief. He was still sobbing uncontrollably when the ambulance officer placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. Are they really dead? Jack asked in a quiet voice.

***

SEPTEMBER OCTOBER, FIVE YEARS LATER

A s Jack entered the private car park, the attendant saw him and hurried off to collect his car, a slightly battered A type Mercedes he preferred to drive in London because of its compact size. The little car allowed him to navigate the narrow streets and lanes with ease, and finding parking places was much sim pler.

Jack had purchased the Heaton Place unit with some of the compensation the government had paid the families of the victims of the terrorist attack. Just how they had been able to calculate the value of a life was beyond Jack’s understanding, but he guessed that they used the same formula that had been worked out following the First World War when the victors demanded compensation for the men killed in battles.

Alone in the unit, Jack told himself for the thousandth time he must sell the home he had shared with Bianca and the children, but still, he could not bring himself to take that step. It was as if selling the home would cut him off from his family completely, yet he knew that day would come soon enough. Even now he had difficulty remembering their faces before they were shredded by the bomb. Fumbling with his wallet, Jack withdrew the crinkled photo and held it to his chest as the nightly sobs descended in waves upon him until finally he would fall into an exhausted sleep.

For the next two weeks, Jack rested and worked out while he waited for his phone to ring. Finally, on the fifteenth day, the call he was expecting came. Tonight, eleven o’clock at the Golden Pig in Lambeth Way, the man you are looking for will be at a birthday party.

At last, things were beginning to happen; Sparrow Collins had finally located the man Jack had been searching for. Jack’s heart began to beat faster as the surge of adrenalin kicked in. ‘What would the night bring?’ he wondered.

Sparrow Collins, his real name was Rubin but he preferred Sparrow, was a most unpleasant man. Born into an abusive home fifty years earlier, he had been physically abused by his drunken mother from the day she brought him home from hospital. The father’s sexual abuse did not start until the child was four, around the same time as the mother died. Sparrow’s hatred of his father grew over the years until on his fifteenth birthday he added poison to his father’s heroin.

That night, when his father staggered into Sparrow’s room high on heroin, Sparrow watched in fascination as the effects of the poison manifested themselves in convolutions, vomiting blood, and cramps. As his father entered the final stages of death, Sparrow knelt beside him and whispered into his ear, I poisoned your drugs, old man. No one is coming to save you, so rot in hell next to that bitch mother of mine.

Sparrow moved to the couch where he sat crossed legged for the next three hours, watching as the life oozed from his father. It wasn’t until the body became cold to touch that sparrow called the police and told them he had just arrived home and found his father dead.

A cursory investigation by an overworked detective, who knew Sparrow’s father was a drug user from previous encounters, concluded that it was an overdose death and no further action was required.

Since then Sparrow had despatched eight more men who had abused him, and each time he considered he was doing the city of London a service, along the lines of the garbage men but more beneficial to society.

The only redeeming thing about Sparrow Collins was his loyalty to money and the people who gave it to him. Sparrow had never betrayed or killed anyone who paid him for information or sex. To Sparrow, these two items were the same as the stock in Harrods is to the owner, without stock there would be no cash flow.

When the man with grey hair had approached him, Sparrow had at first been suspicious and had played dumb until he saw the bundle of twenty-pound notes the man was carrying. Then suddenly his memory returned, and Sparrow sang a pretty tune.

Withdrawing a photo from his coat pocket, the grey haired man showed it to Sparrow and asked, Have you ever seen this man around here?

Sparrow studied the face in the photo for several minutes. It was of a man in his early sixties, receding grey hair and a beard, small eyes, and a sly mouth. This was not a person Sparrow would trust, especially wearing a tailored pinstripe three-piece suit.

I have seen him but not here. He usually hangs around the lanes further along the river where the whores take their clients. This one likes to watch, but he does not like to pay.

Do you know where I can find him?

What do you want him for, he ran off with your girl?

The look on the stranger’s face sent a chill down Sparrow’s spine. Suddenly, the atmosphere had changed, and Sparrow knew he had said the wrong thing and now he might never get his hands on the money this man was holding. For long minutes, the cold blue eyes bored into Sparrow’s head as if the man was reading his mind.

Do you know where I can find him? the question was repeated quietly.

No, but I can find out for you, Sparrow volunteered.

Taking out a card, the stranger handed it to Sparrow along with ten of the notes. I am told you are a reliable person when it comes to providing information. Phone me any time on that number on my card. When you do, I will pay you the same amount again, but if your information is not correct, I will expect my deposit back and I won’t care how I get it. The thinly veiled threat was spoken in a tone that turned the blood in Sparrow’s veins to ice.

I understand. I will be in touch, sir.

Every night for almost two weeks, Sparrow prowled the alleys, but his quarry never showed up. Somewhat disheartened, he was about to give up for another night when he caught sight of the man walking away from his car.

Sparrow watched as the man disappeared into one of the alleys where the whores were busy working. That takes care of him for at least an hour. Sparrow thought to himself. Plenty of time for me to check out his car for an address, and if I find nothing, I can always follow him when he leaves here.

The older model silver Ford was easy to break into. All Sparrow had to do was lift the door handle and insert a thin screwdriver into the hole provided by the manufacturer for those times when keys are accidentally locked in the car. The lock released, and the driver side door swung open, much to Sparrow’s delight.

Slipping into the driver’s seat, Sparrow was about to open the glove compartment when he noticed a card resting on the instrument panel covering the speedometer. Reaching out, he opened the card and read the invitation for Roger Trippet to attend a party that night. Elated with success, Sparrow quickly replaced the invitation before locking the car and walking away, his mobile phone already in one hand and a business card in the other.

***

Around the world, there are numerous terrorist organisations with unknown numbers of followers. Some of these groups deal only in their own domestic situations, while others take on a higher profile that gives them international status.

The thing that makes FOG (Fist of God) unlike the others is the fact that even though they operated internationally, they were unknown to any of the local authorities. They flew under the radar in all countries simply because they never claimed responsibility for any of their terrorist activities and where possible implicated other terrorist cells.

The atmosphere around the table at FOG headquarters was electric; one by one the ten board members gave their reports, and one by one they had been cut down and humiliated by their leader. The Chairman, as the unknown person preferred to be called, had found fault with everything the board members had prepared so far. If we are to succeed in our ultimate goal of a white European community, you all need to be far more diligent with the tasks I have already set for you. There must be no more slip-up like this Nelson affair. We are on a schedule that does not allow for failure or postponement. The remaining incidents leading up to our final victory must go ahead as planned. The Nelson affair is cancelled as we cannot wait until next October for the celebrations to commemorate Nelson’s victory at Trafalgar to occur again. Mr Johnstone, stand up please, the Chairman said in a calm voice that was neither male nor female, just electronically disguised.

An ashen face man in his mid-forties slowly rose to his feet, nervously glancing at his fellow directors for support only to find them all staring at the intense light at the head of the table from behind which the disembodied voice of the Chairman emanated. Mr Johnstone’s eyes squinted against the harsh light as he tried for the thousandth time to see what the Chairman looked like.

Your failure to set off the device at Nelson’s Column was unacceptable, but allowing the police to almost get their hands on it was unforgivable and could have seriously undermined our entire operation. It is just fortunate that I have contacts that were able to divert attention elsewhere.

The roar of the gunshot startled the men seated around the table; Mr Johnstone was flung backwards over his chair as if by some giant hand, his limp body falling in an untidy pile on the polished wooden floor.

There will be no more mistakes, the Chairman announced in a menacing tone. Now, let us review our timetable for the remaining nine incidents.

Thankful for the distraction, the remaining directors opened the folders that were handed to them by the Chairman’s personal assistant who then proceeded to roll Johnstone into a body bag so that he could be taken to a friendly crematorium assistant for disposal.

Our next event is scheduled for 5 November. Detail your arrangements for the occasion.

An animated discussion followed during which the mood gradually changed as the men forgot about the earlier incident with the unfortunate Johnstone. After several hours of exhaustive discussions, the Chairman was satisfied everything was in order and the meeting broke up. As the directors were leaving, one of them was asked to remain for a few minutes.

Our agent Trippet, I am informed there is someone showing interest in him. Have you heard any rumours about him? the Chairman asked the most trusted director.

My sources on the street tell me Trippet has been somewhat indiscreet of late, drinking more than usual and talking about the Kings Theatre incident. As a matter of fact, I was intending to talk to you about him. I think it’s time Mr Trippet was relieved of his duties."

I agree. I also want you to make enquiries about who is showing interest and deal with the situation in whatever way you feel necessary. We have come too far to have loose lips scuttle our plans.

***

Scotland Yard has a reputation the envy of police forces the world over. Established in 1829, it was originally located on the Victoria Embankment in a red-and-white brick Gothic-style building. Some of the Yard’s more celebrated cases include the Brides in the bath murders, Jack the Ripper, and the Kray Gang, the notorious twins of unstable mental condition that fed their lust for violence with beatings and stand-over tactics that escalated to murder.

By the 1960s, the old building was cramped and inadequate, so Scotland Yard was moved to a plain stainless-steel-clad office block that, unlike their previous home, has absolutely no character or charm. The only thing that has any character is the famous revolving sign that continues to complete 14,000 revolutions every day.

Isabella Ross was the youngest woman ever to be promoted to the rank of chief inspector. Tall for a woman at 182 centimetres, Bella, as her friends called the thirty-year-old auburn-haired beauty, was not only liked by her colleagues, she was respected by them as well. Over the last five years, Isabella had personally guided her team to successfully prosecute over forty high-profile cases. The only blemish on this outstanding record was the Kings Theatre case that still remained unsolved after years of frustrating dead end leads.

Her frustration with the case had boiled over earlier in the day when Lord Dennison, the police commissioner, had asked for an update on the case and then without discussion announced that Isabella was no longer on the case and that she had to bring all her files on the case to the commissioner’s office so that he could reassign it to someone else.

Bella had often suspected that her promotion had more to do with political correctness than it did with her abilities. The commissioner had never wanted a woman in a leadership position, and from his not so subtle comments from time to time, he left her in no doubt that he was anxiously waiting for the day she failed so that he could humiliate his political masters by demoting her.

Lord Dennison was a firm believer that women only served two useful functions in life, neither of which involved the police force in any way. Dennison deliberately assigned the most difficult cases to Bella in the hope she would fail. To his growing annoyance and frustration, she had been spectacularly successful in all but one case. However, he decided that it was time to start to undermine Bella in the eyes of her colleagues by taking the Kings Theatre case away from her.

Carrying an arm full of manila folders towards the lift, Bella’s mind was churning over the meeting with the commissioner when she collided with the mail boy causing the top three files to fall to the floor. Retrieving the files amid a flurry of apologies on both sides, Bella was about to walk away when the boy handed her a photo.

This must be yours, miss, the boy said in a rather breathless voice common to most males coming into contact with Bella.

Thank you, Paul, Bella replied with a smile that caused a surge of blood to rush to the mail boy’s face. The use of his name was almost too much for his adolescent hormones which probably explained why the mail was late for the rest of the day and mostly delivered to the wrong offices.

Bella glanced at the photo and was about to slip it into one of the files when she changed her mind and placed the photo of Rodger Trippet in her coat pocket.

Later that day, Isabella Ross parked her mini and walked a short distance to one of the famous red postboxes of London where she pushed six envelopes through the slot after checking to make sure they were all stamped. Five of the letters had her own address printed in her neat writing, but the sixth was addressed to Jack Bradford and contained a photo of Rodger Trippet and an anonymous note advising that the subject had never been identified but he was suspected of being involved in the Kings Theatre outrage.

As Bella drove away, she hoped her little display of checking all the envelopes had been enough to convince the watchers that she was only posting personal mail. Bella had no idea why she was being watched, but she felt Lord Dennison was behind it. One day soon she would get the answers, Bella promised herself.

Bella drove through London like a demon-possessed madman, darting around buses and taxi to zip down side roads, never giving an inch when confronted by another vehicle in a narrow street lined with cars on both sides. Bella would flash her lights and force the other driver to go back or seek urgent refuge on the footpath. There were numerous police officers who had sat white-faced and nervous beside her as they raced to the crime scene. On occasion, one or two had lost their most recent meal when the car finally stopped. However, all of her fellow officers agreed, they would rather have Bella driving in a police chase than any other person.

Arriving at her Piccadilly road flat overlooking the beautiful Green Park, Bella found a vacant spot to park her car for the night. As she alighted from the mini, a silver taxi painted to resemble the flag of the United Kingdom slowly cruised past. These people should really show a bit more imagination and use different cars, she thought to herself.

To be able to rent a flat overlooking the park and within sight of Buckingham Palace was unheard of on her salary, to actually own a flat was the prerogative of the rich and famous. Isabella Ross was neither of these, but her bachelor uncle who had doted on Bella since the day she was born was rich and along with a considerable fortune, he had left the flat to Bella when he died ten years earlier. The truth was Bella never needed to work, but she loved her job and its many challenges stimulated her brain, equally, she had never met any man she would have wanted to share the flat with.

Preparing her evening meal, Bella’s mind churned the events of the day over. ‘What would Jack Bradford do with the photo? How could he identify and locate someone the Yard had not been able to trace in two years,’ she wondered. You must be mad, girl, she mumbled to herself as she drained the water off the vegetables. If Dennison found out, he would take your badge.

Sitting down with her meal in her lap, Bella switched on the television to watch the local news and was startled to see a photo of Jack Bradford behind the news reader who was saying, Bradford’s retirement was not unexpected, but his talent and integrity as a photo journalist would be greatly missed in an industry overflowing with paparazzi only interested in sensation sex and scandal. Oh well, it was worth a try. I’ll just have to leave it up to the commissioner, Bella decided.

***

Lambeth Way was shrouded in a thick blanket of fog swirling in from the river. Fingers of fog like some giant octopus tendril curled around the light poles before creeping on to engulf another building or the occasional pedestrian. The neon sign above the weathered door flashed its electronic message announcing that you had arrived at the Golden Pig Tavern. One glance at the exterior of the building would send any self-respecting tourist scurrying for another house of hospitality and the hope of surviving the meal they served.

Inside the Golden Pig, they had obviously not received the memo advising that smoking was prohibited in areas where food was served. The grey cloud that filled the room was almost as thick as the fog outside. At a table near the front windows, two men sat eating from plates crammed with mashed potato and vegetables that had been boiled so long most of the colour had been leached out and what was left were peas, beans, carrots, and turnips that all had a yellow tinge and were so soft a fork could not pick them up. Covering this congealed mess were sausages of unknown origin that could have been cooked up to a week prior.

A drunk sat nursing a bottle and a glass in one of the rear booths, his head bent low over the table as he quietly snored. The bartender didn’t really care what the man did. His money was good, and he had given a thirty-pound tip on a bottle of scotch worth twenty pounds. As far as the bartender was concerned, the drunk could sit there all night drowning his sorrows.

Suddenly, the door burst open and a group of people staggered in; already half-drunk, they shouted loud greetings to the bartender as they settled into the chairs set around a table that had been decorated for a birthday party. Where’s the birthday boy? We want Rodger. We want drinks, they shouted over and over until the drinks were delivered to their table.

Just one step up from the gutter they were born in, the bartender thought to himself as he set their drinks down. It’s just as well Rodger Trippet is paying for his own birthday drinks, he mumbled as he walked away almost colliding with the swaying drunk as he made his unsteady way to the door.

Once outside, the drunk miraculously became sober as the door closed behind him. Glancing at his watch, he noted it was 11. 05 p. m.; the bastard was late for his own party. Looking both ways along the street, he saw the only parking place close to the Golden Pig was directly across the road. Crossing the road, he quickly concealed himself in a doorway and waited with the fog swirling around him. The sound of the car’s rusted exhaust alerted the man in the doorway that the wait was over and his target had arrived. Patiently, he waited as the silver Ford pulled into the space in front of him. Fortunately, the driver had followed the common practise and parked on the wrong side of the road so that he could alight on to the footpath.

Trippet opened his door and swung his legs out but never made it any further as he was flung backwards with a searing pain in his chest; moments later, blackness engulfed him in its warm embrace.

Rodger Trippet knew the moment he regained consciousness that something was very wrong. When he opened his eyes, he began to scream like a madman, but he could not hear himself, his mouth was held shut by a leather hood that only had holes for his eyes and nose.

Stop wriggling like a stuck pig, Rodger. You might unhook yourself and fall and that would be a shame as we have only just begun to get to know each other, a well educated voice said.

Trippet concentrated his mind on calming thoughts; however, it was difficult when suspended upside down from a crane thirty stories in the air. Without warning, Trippet began to plummet towards the earth, but just as he was sure he was about to be smashed against the ground, he came to a jerking stop followed by a rapid ascent. At the top, the crane swung him over to the roof of the building where he was lowered on to his back with his feet still in the air. Several minutes passed before Trippet heard someone approaching.

Goodness me, Rodger, I do believe you have wet yourself. You have a nasty yellow stain on your shirt. I guess you should not urinate upside down. Rodger Trippet’s humiliation broke down all his resistance; he had no fight left in him.

Kneeling beside Trippet, the stranger spoke in a calm and quiet voice that frightened the bound man even more than he already was. Now you know some things about me, Rodger. You know I can work the crane, you know I am willing to drop you, and you know I am willing to give you a wild ride all night until you answer my questions or have a heart attack. What you don’t know, Rodger, is who I am, so let me introduce myself, and then I will remove the gag from your mouth so long as you promise not to shout. Do we have a deal? Good man, I thought you would be helpful. My name is Jack Bradford, and you, in some way, are responsible for the death of my wife and three children as well as hundreds of other innocent people five years ago at the Kings Theatre. I want you to tell me everything you know.

I don’t know anything. You can’t do this to me, Trippet blustered.

Jack placed his finger against Trippet’s lips. Be quiet, and listen closely. I know you know things and names, and if you are smart, you will buy your freedom with the only currency you have that is worth anything, your life. If you won’t tell me what I want to know, I will just drop you off this building. Do you understand me, Rodger?

The threat was made in such a cold tone of voice that Trippet unwittingly voided his bowels. His resistance was finished and the floodgates opened.

My job was to carry the bomb to the theatre because the police were doing random body searches on people of certain ethnic backgrounds. We both had identical backpacks, his with clothes and mine with the bomb. I had found a place where the CCTV cameras didn’t cover, so we met there and exchanged packs. That way I would be recorded walking away before the blast.

But why did you do it? No one ever claimed responsibility. What did you gain? Jack asked.

It was just a practise run. They wanted to see how much damage could be done with a bomb that size.

So what have you been doing for the last five years, who do you report to and who do they report to, and what’s going on?

I report to Mr Beauford, Mr Llewellyn Beauford, at his chemical plant down at Little Flagstone in Kent. They have been planning something big. They don’t say much, but the amount of special explosive stuff they have made me bring up from Beauford’s plant to a warehouse in London could start a war.

Where is this warehouse? Who else is involved? And don’t say you don’t know. Men like you make it their business to find out things. It’s your get out of jail free card for times like now, so talk.

Trippet gave the address in London and then went on to say, Their next event is in a few days on 5 November. I don’t know what happened to the one on 21 October. Something must have gone wrong with the Nelson thing. I only know one other name, a fellow called Rollingard. He’s the head of some board, and none of them know the identity of the board Chairman. I once overheard Rollingard talking to several men telling them not to concern themselves with the Chairman’s identity, just to be thankful they have such a powerful leader.

You called it special explosive stuff, what’s so special about it? Jack demanded.

It’s liquid and extremely powerful. The bomb that killed your wife and all those others only contained 500 millilitres. It has no odour, so dogs are no good, Trippet replied.

Do I have to tell you to leave London and never come back and not to speak about our talk tonight, because if you do, I will track you down and finish what I started tonight?

No, sir, I will be gone by sunrise. One other thing, that warehouse, it has dozens of crates stacked in it. They are real heavy, but I don’t know what they are for.

What’s in them, and don’t tell me you haven’t looked?

No, sir, I looked all right. They are full of ball-bearings.

Good, wait for ten minutes after I cut you down and then go.

As much a Jack despised the man for carrying the bomb that destroyed his family, he could not bring himself to kill him in cold blood. That would only lower Jack to Trippet’s level.

***

Trippet waited ten minutes and then made his way down in the cage elevator the workers used. As he exited the construction site, he was surprised to see his car parked near the gates. The ride home to his dingy little flat was the worst ride in his life. The smell emanating from his trousers made him feel nauseous, and it was with relief that he found a car park close to his home. Not wanting to meet anyone in the elevator, Trippet ran up the three flights of stairs to his flat and let himself in and rushed to the bathroom where he stripped off and stood under the warm water of the shower.

Somewhat confused, Trippet watched for a few moments as a red stain spread down his body from the hole that had suddenly appeared in his chest, then his legs gave way, and he sank into the bath. The last thing Trippet heard was a voice saying, Mr Rollingard sends you his regards, and then the top of his head burst open.

The assassin removed the silencer from his gun while he made a swift but efficient search of the flat. Finding nothing of interest, he checked his appearance in the filthy hall mirror, adjusting his hat to shade his eyes before casually walking down the stairs.

***

The commissioner has assigned you to a murder case in Lambeth, Miss Ross. Your team are already on their way and will meet you there, the duty officer informed Isabella as she arrived at work.

Annoyed, Bella snatched the file out of the officer’s hand and marched away towards the car pool. Perhaps I should have a talk to the assistant commissioner about the way Dennison is treating me. However, she dismissed the thought almost as soon as she had it; the assistant commissioner was a toffee-nosed ass whose only ambition in life was to lick his master’s boots so that he could retain his privileged position. Bella could not stand men with weak handshakes. Randal Burlington’s handshake was not only weak, but also moist, and this really gave her an uneasy feeling about him. No, I will play the commissioner’s little game and be a good girl. I won’t let Dennison or his lapdog, Burlington, get the better of me.

Miss Ross, Miss Ross, a high-pitched falsetto voice called, the commissioner wants you to provide a daily report on the progress of this case. Just leave it with my secretary, and I will see he gets it.

Certainly, Mr Burlington, Bella replied. Would you like it in triplicate or just a single copy?

A single copy will suffice, Burlington snapped as he turned away.

With her back to the assistant commissioner, Bella allowed herself to smile. She truly enjoyed setting the little man in his place. It helped relieve the frustration she felt at times.

Arriving at the scene of the murder, Bella was escorted to the upstairs flat by a young constable anxious to please but not prepared for his first encounter with a man whose brain matter was plastered over the wall tiles and dripping off the edge of the bath. The young man’s legs gave way as he fainted, and Bella only just managed to stop him from falling onto the corpse in the bath.

Great save, Gov, a familiar voice stated. Perhaps you should take him home. He looks like he could do with some tender care.

Bite your tongue, Harris, and tell me what we have and who the dead man is.

Harris had been Bella’s assistant for three years. During that time, they had built a solid friendship and respect for each other’s abilities. In his mid-fifties, Harris had been passed over for promotion on a number of occasions because of his lack of respect for the assistant commissioner whom he had public humiliated in the foyer of the Scotland Yard building one morning.

Never one to tolerate fools easily, Harris had waited for the assistant commissioner to arrive and then thrust the severed head of a young woman brutally killed by a man Burlington had insisted should be set free because his father was a cabinet minister and Harris had not provided strong enough evidence to link him to the crime. Had Burlington waited just another twelve hours, the results of DNA tests would have established the link. Set free, the killer had disappeared into the underground world of the tunnel dwellers only to reappear weeks later to claim another life before taking his own by jumping from the top of an office block to escape capture by the police.

Harris had been the one the girl’s parents had abused when they came to identify the body; in their grief, they accused him of murdering their daughter. Harris had accepted the abuse in his usual quiet manner, but after the family had left, he had taken the severed head and waited for Burlington to arrive whereupon he had thrust the bloodied orb into Burlington’s chest declaring in a loud voice, You alone are responsible for this, you little bastard. The next time her parents come in here, I will bring them to your office so you can explain why you forced me to release a man we all knew was guilty.

White-faced and nauseous, Burlington had stood speechless as Harris stormed off towards the lift. Of the thirty people in the foyer at the time, not one offered to help the assistant commissioner, several refusing his demand for assistance on the grounds that carrying severed heads was not a part of their job description. Left with no alternative, Burlington was forced to cover the head with his own coat and take it to the morgue himself. Riding alone in the elevator to the lower ground floor, Burlington plotted the future for Harris; it was not a bright picture he painted in his mind.

Well, Gov. we have a dead man, shot twice, once in the chest and as you can see once in the top of his head. I’m no expert, but I doubt that the chest shot killed him, probably just got his attention. Perhaps the killer wanted to give the guy some message before he finished him off, who knows? The dead man is Trippet, Rodger Trippet, Harris informed his superior.

Isabella glanced at the body in the bath. Recognising the man immediately and feeling like she had been hit by an invisible fist, she involuntary took a step back and thought to herself, Oh my god, what have I done? I never thought he would do this.

You all right, Gov. Harris asked.

"Yes, I’m fine. Let’s just get finished up here, and Harris, you go on to the post-mortem, and we