Absent All Remorse: A Charlotte Morris Mystery

By Scott M. Stanley

Following the death of her beloved Gran, former Navy JAG officer Charlotte Morris went through some terrible times. She’d become practically a recluse when her best friend, Tanya, dragged her from an emotional coma and taught Charley how to live again. Now, Tanya has been abducted, and the apparent perpetrators have far-reaching, international sway.

 

Joshua Williams was a commissioned officer in the United States Navy for eighteen years. He lived the dream, serving his country while seeing exotic, exciting places. Then, tragedy struck, and Josh sought a reason to keep going. He has now been assigned to assist Charley in her search for Tanya—whether he likes it or not.

 

Charley joins forces with Josh, whom she must trust with her life despite her better instincts. She’s still not sure what politics have to do with Tanya’s abduction, but she doesn’t really care, so long as she can get Tanya back alive. Their investigation takes Charley and Josh halfway around the world, and as they grow closer to their culprit, they also grow closer to each other. However, pursuing Tanya’s captors means pursuing the world’s super powers. This could end in war.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Abbott Press
• Release date: Mar 22, 2019
• ISBN: 9781458222268

Book preview

1

Her Majesty’s Prison Parkhurst

Isle of Wight, United Kingdom

June 1962

T he young, gaunt man shivered violently.

It wasn’t the weather. He could tell that a beautiful, warm summer day was in store. The air was thick with salt and the heavy, overnight fog was still lifting, leaving a layer of damp film that covered everything. A soft, gentle, southerly breeze played with the standards flying from their poles over the formidable outer cement wall that was still shrouded in the morning mist.

No, his shaking had nothing to do with the damp morning air. It was his raw nerves.

He started having second thoughts about what had brought him here to do. At the same time, he knew it was what that he must do. He had mentally captured and dissected every possibility, every outcome, and replayed them over and over incessantly during the entire ninety-mile trip from London.

Now, time had run out.

The two guards he’d encountered at the main entrance to the facility a quarter of a mile back had been extremely thorough in checking his documents, which they’d verified by making a couple of phone calls. During the drive in, he’d counted at least five towers manned with automatic weapons. The terrain around him was completely barren, stripped of all vegetation that allowed for a perfect killing field in every direction.

‘Probably full of mines, too,’ he thought.

All of the spaces in the visitor’s car park were empty. He chose the one closest to the sidewalk and brought his ancient Vauxhall to a stop. As he stepped out onto the pavement, he paused for a moment, gazing up at the imposing gray walls. The shivers returned, and he buttoned the collar of his trench coat around his neck.

He pressed a button on the wall, to his right and chest high. It was directly underneath a small camera pointing directly at him that was fixed at the level of his head, while two other cameras mounted at diagonal angles above him in the small alcove where he stood took turns rotating to his left and right. Their small motors hummed quietly as they panned the area around him. This was only the second level of security he was told he could expect, exactly as he’d been briefed. There were still, if memory served, at least another three checks to go through before he’d finally be admitted into the cell and left alone with the prisoner.

Parkhurst was designated a ‘Closed’ prison by Her Majesty’s Prison Service for a reason. It held only Category ‘A’ prisoners, and claimed a long history of service. It was associated with a distinguished list of notorious criminals who, for over a century, had spent most of their miserable lives trapped within its walls. He knew these were the worst of humanity’s creatures - men who had been convicted of the most grievous of crimes, men whose escape would be highly dangerous to the public and to national security.

Suddenly, he came to a realization. It was almost a sense of relief and real purpose. A feeling of duty struck him. He was here was to kill one of them, one of these vermin. Yes, he calmly reassured himself, he was performing a service. It was an act for which he was certain he would be thanked one day.

The door clicked. A tinny voice crackled from the loudspeaker overhead.

Enter, it commanded him.

He pushed the door open and stepped inside. A single guard stood alone, facing him and holding a Sten 9mm submachine gun at the ready position. A standard issue Webley & Scott revolver rested in his leather duty belt holster.

Good morning, sir. Right this way, if you please. The guard’s voice was utterly emotionless.

He was escorted into an adjoining room where he was told to empty his pockets and strip down to his underwear. He had been expecting this and watched nervously as his clothes were thoroughly examined. Finally, after about ten minutes of standing barefoot on the cold stone floor, he was ordered to get dressed.

After successfully passing through two additional security checkpoints, he was led into a tiny, windowless room with a single metal table in the center and two chairs drawn up to it on either side. The air in the room was stale and smelled like vomit.

Please sit down sir. Someone will be with you shortly.

He nodded and did as he was told. The guard pulled the door shut behind him and he heard it lock.

He sat there in silence for what seemed like an eternity. He stole a quick glance around him. Nothing remarkable. Then, he looked up. No cameras. He was indeed, alone.

The sudden sound and movement of the door being shoved open made him jump.

‘Damn idiot, get hold of yourself,’ he swore under his breath.

Hello. You must be Mr. Gransby, Nigel Gransby. Is that correct?

A small, almost elfish man with a thick, Irish brogue walked into the room. He dismissed the guard with a quick wave. He had a thick, black moustache and a prominent deep scar that ran down the right side of his face, almost from the hairline to the very corner of his mouth. He was holding a file and flipping through the pages as he repeated the question a second time.

Mr. Gransby, I presume? He finally looked up from the documents and glared directly at Nigel Gransby.

‘Are you serious? You know who I am. You’ve had my papers for the last twenty minutes, you arse!’ Gransby, still seated, looked up at the man and stared at him trying his best to hide his contempt.

Yes, that’s who I am. Indeed, I am, Nigel stammered, trying to regain his composure.

Well, that’s all right then. Of course, we’ve been expecting you. Please do excuse the, um, process, the man said in a softer tone, almost apologetically, but it’s all absolutely necessary, I assure you. For your safety, of course. His deep set, dark and penetrating eyes had an almost hypnotic effect on Nigel Gransby.

I understand.

Right. So, Mr. Gransby, I understand you’ve been cleared to meet with one of our more special guests today.

Not breaking contact with Gransby’s eyes, the man pulled out a single paper from the file and held it up, pinching it between his thumb and forefinger.

You’re here to see Mr. Cairncross, Mr. John Cairncross. Is that correct?

Yes, that’s correct. Look, I believe you’ve been able to verify my identity and the bona fides of the individual who cleared my visit. May I just see him now? Gransby was growing impatient.

The man ignored him.

How do you know Mr. Cairncross, exactly, Mr. Gransby?

That’s really none of your concern. What’s your name, anyway? Gransby demanded, all former pretense of decorum now gone.

The man stared back coldly at Gransby. Without replying, he put the papers he was holding back in order and closed the file. Turning to leave, he took a step toward the door and then suddenly stopped. Without turning around, the small man inhaled deeply, and then breathed out slowly.

Mr. Gransby, enjoy the rest of your visit.

He knocked once on the heavy, metal door, nodded to the guard who opened it and then vanished from sight.

Follow me please, Mr. Gransby, the guard motioned.

The hallways were a dimly lit labyrinth of twists and turns. It seemed to Gransby like they had been walking for fifteen minutes, their echoing footsteps loudly bouncing off the walls. Finally, the guard stopped in front of a steel-bar gate. To their right was a thick, bullet-proof window with another guard behind it, seated at an old desk whose surface was badly pockmarked with countless dents and dings. Behind and above the guard inside the enclosure was a single sign that read

‘SOLITARY CONFINEMENT –

CHECK CELLS EVERY TWO MINUTES’

Gransby’s escort tapped on the glass, getting his colleague’s attention.

Nigel Gransby. He’s cleared.

The guard behind the desk nodded. He made a quick entry in his watch log, and then pressed a button on the wall. The gate buzzed and Gransby heard the lock click open.

Number thirty-one. Ten minutes, the seated guard said blandly into the microphone in front of him.

The two men walked past a row of solid, black doors to their right, each one perfectly spaced about four feet apart. It was quite a contrast, Gransby thought as his eyes bounced back and forth between the blinding whiteness of the floor, walls and ceiling, and then to the pitch blackness of the doors. He felt a sudden chill looking at them. It was as if each of these ebony portals were gateways to hell itself. He pictured the grim, lonely worlds that existed beyond them - imagining the pathetic souls inside. Wretched creatures, condemned to repeat every miserable day in seclusion and without hope. He almost felt sorry for them. Almost.

The guard stopped. Looking up at a small stenciled ‘31’ on the wall, he reached out and grasped a small knob at eye-level on the door and slid it open. The opening was screened with steel mesh and the guard leaned forward.

Move to the back of your cell and face the wall! he barked.

After several seconds of watching for signs of compliance from the prisoner inside, the guard removed a key from the heavy chain attached to his webbed belt and inserted it into the lock.

He pulled the door open, his free hand resting on the grip of the holstered weapon at his waist. The guard nodded silently to Gransby, who quickly stepped inside the cell. The door slammed shut behind him.

Neither man spoke at first. Finally, the prisoner broke the silence.

Hello, Nigel. Awfully decent of you to come to see me. He did not turn around to face his visitor.

John, you knew this day would come, Nigel Gransby replied in a lifeless voice.

"Did he send you?"

Yes, of course.

I suppose one of us was eventually going to get caught. Too bad that it was me. Rotten luck on my part, right mate?

Yes, John. Your stupid, rotten luck.

"But still, all of this could have been avoided. You were the one who got sloppy Nigel, not me." John Cairncross sighed as he ran his right hand slowly up the wall, then traced it back down again.

"No, John, what happened could not have been avoided – you’re wrong about that. They were on to us, they were closing in. You knew that as well as I did. One of us had to be sacrificed, for the good of the operation and to save the others. I had to act to protect us all."

Gransby paused, waiting for a reaction. Getting none, he continued.

I’m sure you would have done the same if you had been the one to receive the warning, like I had. Then I’d be the one locked up in here.

"But, you aren’t – are you?" Cairncross snapped back, a bitter tone clinging to each word.

Talisman approved of my actions, John. He sends his deepest regrets, you should know that.

"And that’s supposed to make me feel, what, better?!" Cairncross slapped his open hand against the wall in frustration.

You knew what was at stake, John. You knew the risks. Ever since Talisman recruited us at Cambridge, from the first day we all met, you knew what it meant to be an Apostle. The good of it – and the bad.

"Neither of us has ever even met this, this Talisman. How could he possibly know I was a threat to him or any of us? Besides, I never wanted this. Never!"

Well, regardless, here we are. And, unfortunately, this is how it must stay.

He doesn’t trust me, does he Nigel?

Let’s just say, he doesn’t want any, well, future complications. Nigel Gransby reached down his right leg, his hand finally stopping when it reached his shoe. He kept his gaze firmly fixed on the man in front of him who still had yet to turn around.

And so, Talisman now reckons the easiest way to maintain the status quo is to make sure I keep my silence, I suppose? Which, of course, is why you’re here.

Which is exactly why I’m here, old friend, Gransby said softly. Still speaking, he slipped off his shoe and slid the sole to one side, the small hinge moving without a sound. He removed the needle from inside the hollow heel’s compartment.

Well then, I’m sorry, but it seems you came all this way for nothing, Nigel.

Nigel Gransby had taken a step forward, but stopped abruptly when he heard the puzzling words.

Just then, John Cairncross turned around for the first time.

Nigel Gransby gasped. He was suddenly face to face with something his brain refused to accept. It was so beyond comprehension, his first thought was that he must be having a nightmare.

He was looking at himself.

Paralyzed in disbelief, Nigel Gransby stood frozen and was unable to move as Cairncross quickly covered the three feet between them and moved swiftly up to him until their chests were almost touching. In less than a second, Cairncross removed the thin, stiff wire he had hidden up his right sleeve and plunged it deeply into Nigel’s neck. Swiftly, he removed it, instantly severing Gransby’s left carotid artery. Blood spurted onto the stunned victim’s overcoat, still buttoned up above his collarbone. Nigel Gransby dropped the needle he was holding and instinctively grabbed at his wound with both hands. He staggered forward. John Cairncross casually stepped back and to one side, letting the dying man collapse onto the floor in a heap. He tilted his head slightly and watched curiously as Nigel Gransby desperately struggled to cling to life. A strange gurgling sound sputtered from his mouth as he lay there, fighting desperately for air. He curled up into a fetal position. Finally, his eyes rolled back slightly and then the lids settled down until they were half shut.

"Terribly sorry about all of this – old friend," Cairncross rasped sarcastically as he stood over the lifeless body.

It took John Cairncross only a couple of minutes to exchange clothes with Nigel Gransby, putting everything on except the blood-soaked overcoat which he simply rolled up into a ball. He placed the body on the small cot in the corner, covering it with the thin blanket which had been neatly folded and lying at one end.

It was finished.

Just as he had stood back up, he heard the cell door being unlocked and opened.

Ready? The same small man with the scarred face, who had briefly questioned Nigel Gransby only fifteen minutes before, stood in the doorway.

Yes, I am.

John Cairncross knew that, even as a new life had now begun for him, he felt strangely sad about losing his old one. Anyway, what was the alternative, he asked himself. Spending the rest of his life rotting in prison? And for what, exactly? Simply because he had chosen the wrong side? He was still young, and, if the price were right, he knew there were buyers who would pay for his services. His new life was about to become most profitable, he thought.

As John Cairncross stepped out into sunlight for the first time in a year, he drew a deep breath of fresh air and rejoiced at the rays of warmth now penetrating his skin. Fiercely squinting and blinking as his eyes struggled to adjust to the blinding light, he headed straight for the car park. He knew he was being watched and turned around. Looking up to the second floor of the prison he saw his handler, staring down at him with dead, soulless eyes. The man in the window removed the pipe from his clenched teeth and nodded once. Cairncross turned away. Climbing into Gransby’s car and starting the engine, he smiled.

It was going to be a beautiful summer day.

2

Washington D.C.

Present day.

C harlotte Morris smiled. She was still surprised at how easy it had been to decide to resign from her job. As a lawyer at the Office of Naval Intelligence, it had been a good fit for her. She felt a slight tinge of guilt in leaving her unfinished workload behind for the others, but knew she’d be quickly replaced. There were plenty of other young guns chomping at the bit to take her job.

Since the death of her beloved Gran, and the significant inheritance she’d received as the sole beneficiary of her grandmother’s English estate, Charley Morris was now independently wealthy. Her Aunt Alison and Uncle Nigel on the other hand, had been left with nothing. Charley accepted the fact that they both despised her for it and how their hatred and resentment of her would probably consume them for the rest of their lives. She knew that someday, it would also destroy them.

Mostly though, she had all but come to grips with the depth of Neil’s betrayal and death. It had been only a few months since he had revealed himself and his true intentions, but to her, it seemed like a lifetime ago. Even after everything he had done to her, the pain and evil he had inflicted, she still believed that at least a part of him had loved her. She knew she had loved him. The fact that he had plotted to marry and then murder her had for a long time, been beyond her ability to completely reconcile. But now, along with her personal liberation came internal struggles she continued to face every day.

Charley had done a lot of soul-searching to begin with. She’d constantly find herself thinking about what their future together might have been like. If only things hadn’t gone so horribly wrong.

Over the last six months, she’d been sure about so many things, she repeatedly told herself and her therapist. How could she have misread things – him - so badly? In hindsight, she saw that the signs had been there all along, but she’d become blinded to the truth and had refused to see them.

The lack of answers haunted her.

Her self-confidence had been shaken to its core. After Neil’s death, Charley suddenly felt more alone and empty than she had ever been before and found herself constantly searching for clues to her future. She had to find some way to fill the void before it consumed her.

Tanya Beaumont remained the only person on the planet that she trusted and counted on, especially now that Gran was gone. She’d become a recluse. Now that her despair was almost behind her, Charley knew one thing for certain – she couldn’t have survived without her friend standing by her. Only Tanya could have finally convinced her to get on with living again. And that she did. They’d revived their girl’s night out ritual, going to their favorite clubs, enjoying small talk about their favorite movies, and culling from the herd of winners and losers trying to impress them at the bar. Tanya even managed to persuade Charley to take up a new hobby.

Within a month, Charley had joined Tanya’s Tae Kwon Do group and started taking martial arts classes. It opened up a whole new world for Charley. Once a week, she eagerly threw herself into the training. She loved the feeling of being in control of herself again, how it sharpened her mind and body. Their friendship and mutual respect had reached a new level.

After the nightmare of dealing with Neil’s betrayal of her friend, Tanya had gone back to work, buried inside the bowels of the Pentagon. Charley tried talking Tanya into resigning her Navy commission as a Judge Advocate General. She almost had Tanya convinced that by using Charley’s new wealth, they could open their own law practice in D.C. and become partners. It was tempting, Tanya would tell her, but she always ended the conversation by saying that she’d have to think about it. Charley respected that. She knew better than to try and push her friend into anything before she was ready. Many had tried, all had failed.

To get better focus and bring more meaning into her life, Charley started going to Mass again too, and began volunteering to do local charity work through her parish It was all good. Finally, after a couple of weeks, Charley settled on the direction she wanted to go. At last, she knew how to begin writing the next chapter in her life.

For the first time in a long time, little by little, she was finally starting to rejoin the human race.

All of that changed the day she got the note.

It was a Saturday, a normal day and just like the thousands of others that had come before it. Charley had come back from the martial arts studio as usual. Sore, hungry and thirsty, she was looking forward to Tanya’s phone call. They’d walked out of that morning’s session together still undecided about where to go out that night.

She didn’t notice anything different in her apartment as she walked into the bedroom and undressed. The shower felt blissfully therapeutic. She took her time, letting the hot water cascade off her skin. As she toweled off and headed back into her bedroom, she suddenly froze. There, lying on her bed, was a single piece of paper. It hadn’t been there before she took her shower, she was certain of that.

A wave of panic gripped her. She wrapped the towel tighter around her and moved quickly to the bedroom door. It was still shut but someone had locked it. She pressed her ear against it, trying hard not to breathe. She listened for over a minute, straining to hear any sounds coming from the living room.

Nothing.

She turned toward the bed and picked up the note. The words were written in plain block letters. She read it slowly.

‘We have information that you need. People you know well represent a danger to both of our countries. After so many years of silence, they have resumed their activities. We consider them threats and are prepared to take certain actions to stop them, with or without your help. We’d prefer it to be the former and not the latter.’

A ring tone came from the other room, startling her.

Cracking open her bedroom door, she made certain she was alone, then ran to grab the phone out of her purse. Seeing the caller ID, she let out a sigh of relief. It was Tanya.

Thank God you called, I –, she stopped cold as a man’s voice interrupted.

Did you get our note?

The voice was cold and deep. Sinister. And distinctly foreign.

Did you get it? the voice again demanded.

She recognized the accent. Russian.

Yes. I read it. Who is this?

This is not important for you to know. So, he paused for a second, what will you do?

What? Do about what?

Please, don’t try our patience! The note, Miss Morris. The note. Will you help us?

Look, I don’t know who you are or what you want. I’m hanging up and calling the police.

She was just about to end the call when the voice spoke up again.

That would be most disastrous. We would very much like to meet with you to explain.

"Explain what, exactly? Who are the ‘dangerous’ people you mentioned in the note?"

You know them well. They used to work for us and now…, the man hesitated again, …well, now they work for someone else. I’m talking about your aunt and uncle, Miss Morris.

What does this have to do with me? I haven’t seen either of them in months. And I hope I never do again.

Miss Morris. They must be stopped, or many people innocent in your country and ours will die. We need your help.

And why should I help you? Tell me, why?

Tell me, Miss Morris. Do you think that you are ever alone? You are of high concern to us. We have taken great care to ensure that you are never out of our view, lest some unfortunate harm come to you. You see, Miss Morris, we will protect our friends. Likewise, we will not hesitate to hurt our enemies. Silence. Which are you?

Charley heard the phone rustling, and then a small, timid voice. Charley grabbed her throat as a chill shot up her spine.

Charley, please, do what they say. You must help them. Tanya pleaded. Her voice was raspy and almost unrecognizable. I—

The man’s voice came back on the line.

Miss Morris, please do not think about involving the police in this matter. If you do, well, that would be unfortunate for Miss Beaumont. Do not try and find us, either. We will contact you again soon.

But —, before she could say another word there was a loud noise on the other end, as if the phone had been dropped.

The last thing Charley heard was Tanya’s muffled scream, followed by silence.

There was a single click and the line went dead.

3

C harley paced nervously inside her apartment. She felt trapped.

Her cell phone hadn’t left her hand, not even when she was able to finally convince herself she needed to try and grab a couple of hours of real sleep. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d eaten anything.

She life had been hell for the last two days. The events of the previous forty-eight hours had her questioning her own judgement and anyone she thought she had ever known and trusted. It was life after Neil all over again. She fought back the waves of panic that threatened to consume her, their strength ebbed and flowed seemingly by the hour. She was reliving her most awful nightmare, except this time it seemed like there was no escape.

Ever since the chilling phone call from Tanya, Charley’s mind had been on fire. Their conversation, such as it was, had filled here with both hope and despair. Charley had never heard Tanya’s voice so small before and sounding so completely helpless. Tanya’s tone, usually one filled with insurmountable self-confidence, was gone, as if ripped from her soul. And now, Charley tried to organize her thoughts. What options were there? What could she do? What should she do?

On the one hand, she could go to the police. Simple enough. It had always been her first instinct. But, the caller told her that if she did that, then Tanya would suffer. They might even kill her. What about handling this herself then, without the police? What about going to the Feds? She still had contacts in the government after all, better still they were all well-placed within the Intelligence Community. But what would she tell them? That ‘the Russians’ had kidnapped her friend, a Navy lawyer? That her aunt and uncle, both well into their seventies, represented a clear and present danger to the country? Based on what evidence? She could see it now.

‘So, Miss Morris, who exactly are these people?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Why did they contact you, and not us?’

‘I’m not sure.’

‘Why do they think two old people are a threat to world peace?’

‘I have no idea.’

‘We have no further questions.’

‘Thank you.’

Charley winced. It would take more than what little she had to convince anyone she needed help, or that they should even care. Much more.

What else?

‘Think, dammit.’

The note. She still had the note they’d left. That was evidence wasn’t it? Some proof of her story anyway.

She pulled the paper out of her purse and read it for the hundredth time.

‘We have information that you need. People you know well represent a danger to both of our countries. After so many years of silence, they have resumed their activities.