A Lethal Quest

By A. W. Lambert

The slaying of a foreign diplomat and a London cabby bequeathed £250,000 by a mother he hasn't associated with for years.

Unconnected incidents? So it seems, but when Frank Barnes, asks where and how his mother died he is drawn into a dark, frightening world where nothing is as it seems.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wings ePress, Inc.
• Release date: Apr 20, 2023
• ISBN: 9781597050043

Book preview

Prologue

Omar Hanif carefully screwed the top onto the gold fountain pen and rolled it affectionately between his fingers, admiring the delicate engraving of his name along its side as he did so. He sighed contentedly. As usual it had been a busy day, but nothing out of the ordinary, nothing he was unable to cope with. In fact, on a day-to-day basis, almost without exception, that was always the case. He cast his eyes across the desk, its dark, polished surface almost obscured by the layers of endless paperwork. There was still much to do, but then there always was, one day’s tasks forever spilling into the next. Such was the life of the diplomat in service. But it was the life Hanif had chosen many years before. It was the life he loved. He was a happy man and considered his life to be comfortable and secure. In a word, he was truly content with his lot. Unfortunately that contentment was born out of ignorance, because what Hanif did not know, as he slid the fountain pen securely into his pocket, was in less than one hour that comfortable and secure life would be brought to a brutal end.

Hanif had been in post for a very long time. Throughout his career his involvement in most diplomatic scenarios had gained him the experience, the knowledge and the guile required to benefit from the senior position he now held. He would go no further, he knew that; age was now against him, but Hanif had never wanted more. His aim had always been to achieve just enough power and control without being the public face of the party. At his level he was a threat to nobody and yet still a valued and necessary member of the hierarchy.

He recalled the philosophy that had held him in such good stead for so long: Ninety five percent of all diplomatic problems were trivial. The trick was to spot the other five percent.

Over the years Omar Hanif had become the master at spotting that other five percent. Of course, the five percent might not always relate to your own people, but within that lay the secret. Over time his contacts across the whole international diplomatic spectrum had become widespread and behind the scenes, covert arrangements were happening all the time. For the right information, both friend and so-called foe were always grateful. In Hanif’s position, the right word in the right ear, be it ally or otherwise, could be very rewarding indeed. Yes, the work was hard, and extreme caution was necessary at all times. But for the faceless diplomat, particularly in a foreign country, the benefits could be huge.

Smiling to himself, Hanif carefully cleared the desk, meticulously sorting the paperwork into piles and placing them in the desk’s drawers. Locking the final drawer he pushed back in the chair and stretched languidly. His eyes roamed the room, from the high, ornate ceiling down to the thick, noise-deadening carpet, appreciatively taking in the trappings of his position so dear to his heart. The expansive, dark wood desk spreading broadly before him, his beloved porcelain artefacts strategically placed within his own line of sight, and the imported, softly padded chairs and sofa surrounding the gleaming glass topped coffee table that dominated the centre of the room.

Then there were his pictures, valuable paintings every one. Every one bar one, that was. The obligatory portrait of his leader holding centre stage. It was a new leader now, of course; some would say a weak puppet of the west. Some would also say to have served the previous regime would have negated his chances of continuing in post. But Hanif was highly respected across the political divide, known as a true statesman, loyal to his country whoever the leader.

He would never forget the old regime of course. How could he? How could anyone? Even away from home, away from the carnage that had occurred on an almost daily basis, the reminder had always been there. Oh yes, the old picture that had hung in his office for so long, commandeering the room, glaring triumphantly down on him, demanding his attention, had been a constant reminder. How the once mighty had fallen and been so ignominiously disposed of.

He checked the exclusive wafer-thin watch, like the fountain pen a present for past favours, and a smile of anticipation touched his dark, handsome features. Only so much could be done in one day and now was the time when work came to an end and the pleasure commenced. It was the time he liked most. It was when the day’s grind of appointments, meetings and interviews ended and the paperwork was neatly locked away. Now he was able to abandon himself to life’s other enjoyable pursuits.

A shave, a shower and a change of clothing, he thought, then he would commence his evening with a meal. He leaned back considering possible restaurants, finally nodding to himself, happy with his selection. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a mobile telephone and punched at the numbers. The voice that answered was soft and very female.

My darling, he purred, his voice a deep baritone. It has been a long day and I am tired and hungry. I am also very lonely. He listened to the smooth encouraging words in his ear. Good, good, I will pick you up in, shall we say, half an hour? There were more soft enticing words before Hanif, a gleam in his eye, ended the call. Oh yes, he thought, the benefits are endless.

The Embassy building was quiet, most of its staff having long left, but some areas never slept. Hanif pushed the button marked ‘Security’ on the desk telephone.

The voice sounded thin and metallic over the small speaker. Yes, Mr Hanif?

I shall be leaving in twenty minutes. Have my car ready.

Yes, Mr Hanif.

Hanif kicked off his shoes and padded across the room to the personal dressing room adjoining his office.

Twenty minutes later, immaculately dressed and looking forward to an evening of promise, Omar Hanif was let out of the Embassy into the darkened London street.

Have a nice evening, Mr Hanif, the security guard said, holding the door.

I intend to, Joseph, Hanif replied with a smile. I do intend to.

For May it was particularly mild, but a fine drizzle drifted in the dark, late evening air. The car, its tinted windows glistening blindly under the street lights, its engine quietly ticking over, stood waiting obediently at the curb. Hanif pulled open the door and slipped quickly into the back seat. He leaned forward and slid the glass interface panel to one side. The select Pimlico address he gave the driver was little more than ten minutes from the Kensington Embassy building.

As the car slid silently away from the curb Omar Hanif closed his eyes and relaxed back into the soft leather upholstery. He thought of the evening to come. A fine meal and then... His pulse increased just a shade.

It was just a few moments later, when the car glided to a gentle halt, that Omar Hanif, only mildly surprised, opened his eyes. He peered at the illuminated clock set in the upholstery in front of him. It was too soon. He leaned forward, again pulling the glass divide to one side. Was there a problem?

The driver turned and only then, as he looked into hard, expressionless eyes, did Hanif realise he did not recognise the man as one of the regular Embassy drivers. Only then, for just a single heartbeat, did he realise the identity of the driver was of little consequence anyway because the pistol pointing directly between Omar Hanif’s eyes, its silencer screwed firmly in place, was already spitting its first lethal missile.

Though it was unnecessary, the pistol spoke for a second time, its handler, though not British himself, believing in the old British adage that if a job was worth doing, it was worth doing well. Satisfied with the evening’s work, he slid the pistol back into his pocket and eased himself from behind the wheel. He closed the door quietly behind him and without a backward glance strolled unhurriedly away from the car.

One

Frank Barnes leaned against the promenade wall and looked out across a leaden grey North Sea. Dark, swollen clouds hung low over a heavy swell and Frank shuddered as a chilled drizzle, slicing uncomfortably on a stiff, keen-edged inshore breeze, found its mark. He pulled the zip of his anorak higher.

A single craft, little more than a blip in the vast expanse, made its way across the distant horizon, its progress almost imperceptible and Frank thought how tiny and vulnerable it looked. He wondered about the people on board. Who were they? Where were they going and what twist in their own personal fate had taken them aboard that particular boat. Was their journey planned or, like him, had some unexpected turn of events dictated it? He sighed, a worried frown creasing his forehead. We think we manage our own lives, control our own destiny, but in truth we’re pushed along a route mostly determined by things beyond our control, sometimes even beyond our understanding. Certainly, he thought, he was having difficulty understanding what was happening to him right now.

The brine-saturated air stung his nostrils as he breathed, pulling his mind away from the lone craft and his own situation. Funny, it was just the sea, like any other, but somehow it was typically English. The familiar smell; stronger and somehow fishier. To Frank it was just how seaside air should taste. It was how, to a Londoner, it had always tasted. It instantly took him back: him and his Gran, and Brighton, always Brighton.

There ain’t nothin’ you can’t get in Brighton, the old lady would tell him every year. We’ll always ‘ave a good time in Brighton, boy. And they always did.

Frank’s meandering thoughts stalled as his Grandmother’s image came to him: a larger than life, redoubtable figure whose coarse and vociferous reputation demanded respect throughout the East End of London, their home turf. Talk to anyone and they’d tell you.

Grandma Barnes? A diamond. Then with a grin. But don’t cross her, mate, or she’ll have your balls for earrings.

And they weren’t joking. To Frank she was little short of an angel. A rough, granite-edged angel, but an angel nonetheless. She had raised him, taught him the harsh, East End realities of life and prepared him for adulthood. She had been the cornerstone of his early years and Frank doubted he would ever meet anyone like her again. She had been gone for some time now, but still the very thought of those early years brought a smile to his lips.

He turned his back to the sea, his gaze following the central high street back into the little coastal town. Sheringham was not Brighton, but the slot machine arcade, gift shops, the sticks of rock and of course the obligatory fish and chip shops were all there. He thought Gran would have liked it here.

Glancing down at his watch, he realised he had fifteen minutes before his appointment. He pushed himself away from the promenade wall and strolled toward the high street, his thoughts turning to those unexpected events a week earlier. Events that had led him to this seaside rendezvous.

He recalled it had been an unusually long day and he was tired, bone weary in fact. The holiday season had started early and the passengers, mostly visitors to the capital had kept on coming. The taxi rank from which he operated had been moving constantly with little time to rest. It was past eleven by the time he’d garaged the cab and wearily let himself into his flat. Dropping his keys onto the hall table, he wandered wearily into the sitting room. He saw the light flashing on the answer machine, but resisted the temptation, deciding first to climb under the shower and scrub away the London grime. Later, with a doorstep cheese sandwich and mug of hot, sweet tea he slumped down on the sofa and stabbed at the play button.

There was just one message, the voice thin and officious. It introduced Merchant, Merchant and Landseer, Solicitors and requested that, if he was Frank Arthur Barnes, son of the late Katherine Jane Barnes, he should make contact as soon as was convenient. A telephone number was rattled off and the call terminated.

Chewing thoughtfully Frank played the recording twice more, each time listening carefully, making absolutely sure the voice really had said the late Katherine Jane Barnes.

The following day he made the call. He was put through to a Leonard Penrose, the solicitor dealing with his case. Penrose, his words clipped and precise, had confirmed that subject to proof of identity Frank did indeed feature in his mother’s will. Details could not be given over the telephone, of course, not prior to proof of identity. Frank would therefore be required to visit the solicitor’s office. He had walked on hot coals for several days until he finally received the solicitor’s letter confirming the appointment at the office in the small seaside town of Sheringham on the North Norfolk coast.

The large, square Norfolk flint house was just a few minutes walk from the high street. It was set above and back from the road and bordered with rhododendron bushes, their huge buds bloated and on the point of bursting into bloom. A path led up through sloping, sparse lawns to the front door where a rather tarnished brass plate confirmed the offices of Merchant, Merchant and Landseer. On entering, Frank was met by a mature, pinched faced secretary who smiled dutifully, and ushered him through a door at the far end of a drab hallway, its fading décor badly in need of refreshment.

The office was not large and housed the minimum of furniture: a cluttered desk, several randomly placed chairs and two crammed bookcases standing sentry-like at either end of the room. The furniture was ancient and Leonard Penrose — Frank read the name on the door as he passed through — fitted perfectly with his surroundings. Sixty’ish, he sat hunched behind the cluttered desk, his paunchy figure wedged between the arms of a well-worn leather chair. He wore a dark, shiny, pinstriped suit and his rounded shoulders sported a generous measure of dandruff that seemed to drift constantly from sparse, straw-like hair. Bulbous, ruddy cheeks hung below little piggy eyes that peered out above half-rimmed spec’s perched precariously on the end of a stubby nose.

The man had yet to say a word, but already Frank didn’t like him. A good start there then.

Penrose made no attempt to rise and his greeting was little more than a half smile accompanied by a twitch of his head toward a vacant chair opposite. Watching the moist eyes flick impatiently between him and a folder on the desk, Frank lowered himself obediently onto the straight-backed, wooden seated chair. He couldn’t think why, but the name Piggy Penrose came involuntarily into his head. He suppressed a smile.

Identification was quick: no more than a cursory glance at Frank’s birth certificate, driver's licence and one or two other documents he had brought with him.

That was easy.

Penrose pulled a photograph from the folder and laid it on the desk. Today is just a necessary formality, Mr Barnes. Much of the detailed work has already been carried out. Independent identification, your army record, that sort of thing.

The photograph was of Frank leaving the flat. He was dressed for work. He looked up at Penrose.

Taken in the mornin’, right?

Penrose nodded, the corners of his mouth twitching just slightly.

And recently?

Within the last week or so.

Frank couldn’t be sure if the sudden annoyance that rose in his throat was due to the covert photography, an unauthorised intrusion into his private life, or the smug expression on this horrible little man’s face.

That usual is it? he asked, trying to keep the irritation from his voice. Diggin’ into people’s lives without them knowin’?

We have to be sure, Mr Barnes. Penrose steepled his fingers below his chin, his eyes directly locking Frank’s for the first time. As you will see, it is all to your advantage. He continued quickly, allowing no time for a further challenge. Now, the will is uncomplicated, indeed very simple. Your mother’s estate equates to a little over £250,000. To be exact, £250,736-97 pence, including current interest. There are no other beneficiaries.

All thoughts of violations to his civil rights instantly drained at the solicitor’s words. Frank realised his mouth was open. Sorry, would you say that again? he finally managed.

Penrose smiled openly for the first time, a squinty, lopsided affair. With no other beneficiaries, it’s all yours, Mr Barnes.

No, not that bit, I mean the money. How much did you say?

£250,736-97 pence, including interest as at this morning’s listings.

Jeez, that’s...er, that’s more than a quarter of a million.

That it is, Mr Barnes.

Frank tried to collect his thoughts. So how’s it made up?

Sorry?

How’s it made up? Frank repeated, his brain slowly beginning to function. Property? Money? What?

Cash, Mr Barnes. As I said, it’s all very simple. Your inheritance consists only of cash.

Just cash? Nothin’ else? Frank was conscious of his coarse, ignorant sounding London accent, in complete contrast to the solicitor’s soft, precise tones, but there was little he could do about that. He ploughed on. No house, nothin’ like that?

No, no house, just cash.

So when did she die?

Penrose peered across the top of the spectacles. When did she die? I’m afraid I have no details regarding the time of your mother’s death, Mr Barnes. I naturally expected you to have known... He paused, a frown creasing his forehead. You didn’t know your mother had passed away?

Frank shook his head. Not ‘til I got your phone call, no.

The solicitor shifted uncomfortably in his chair. Dear, dear, he muttered. Most unfortunate, I had no idea. I was, of course, instructed only to process the will, you understand.

So you don’t know when or how she died?

No, I’m afraid I have no idea.

Is that normal? I mean, don’t you guys usually have all the details?

Well, circumstances differ from case to case, of course...

What about a death certificate?

Penrose shook his head.

Frank sighed disappointedly. Can you find it for me?

Yes, of course. It may take a little time, but I will certainly investigate.

By the time Frank left the solicitor’s office the chilled drizzle had stopped and the sun momentarily had found a small break in the clouds. He paused at the door, raising his face, absorbing the fleeting warmth of its rays. The sun was shining and he was better off to the tune of more than £250,000. He should have felt on top of the world.

Yeah, he should have. But life was never as simple as that, was it?

Two

Over the years Frank had meant to make contact with his mother, had intended too many times. Somehow it just hadn’t happened. There was no specific reason; no arguments, no family disputes, just no contact. Gran had raised him and though his Mum had visited from time to time, she’d had very little to do with his upbringing. He’d known no different. It had always been that way.

He leaned against the wall outside the solicitor’s office and lit a cigarette, taking the first drag, holding it deep in his lungs before releasing it slowly, like a long sigh, through his nostrils. He remembered how, as soon as he was old enough to understand, his gran had told him about his mother. Straight from the shoulder. It was only right, she’d told him without a single blush, he should know where the money that kept them both came from.

She might be a prossy, she’d growled, aggressively protective of her daughter. But she ain’t no old slapper. She’s high-class, that’s what your mum is. Works all the top London hotels, only big knobs for clients.

Frank remembered how he’d sniggered at the unintentional pun and how gran had clipped his ear, but only gently.

Don’t be rude, she had chided, unable to keep a broad grin from her face.

Then there was the day when he’d asked why his skin was a shade darker than most of his schoolmates.

The only slip up your mum ever made, son, gran had told him with her usual blunt honesty. She never told me everything, never said who, but I know it was an Arab. She’d smiled that mile wide, wicked smile he loved so much. Knowin’ your mum, though, he was probably a sheik. Then she had cupped his face in her rough, work worn hands. But it don’t matter who he was, ‘cause what you’ve got is no more than a good suntan, right? You’re an East Ender through and through, boy, and don’t you ever forget it.

Those happy memories were as clear as yesterday, but they were not the reason why now, despite the huge inheritance, Frank was unable to raise a smile. No, it was later, the last days, the compassionate leave before being posted abroad allowing him to be by his gran’s hospital bedside. It was her frail, bony hand in his, her voice little more than an urgent whisper, reminiscing, grasping again at the good times before, for her, it was all over. It was the once powerful coarse cackle, now reduced to little more than a feeble croak, frequently breaking into bouts of weak coughing. Most of all it was her urgent plea, repeated over.

Promise me you’ll try and keep in touch with your Mum, won’t you, son? Whatever they say about her, whatever they think, she’s a good girl and one day she’ll need you.

Frank had promised.

He had meant to, he really had, but over the years his feelings had see-sawed between guilt and annoyance. He should find her, make contact, she was his mum, wasn’t she? But then, why? As far as he knew, she hadn’t even visited his grandmother in hospital. In Iraq, during Desert Storm, when the message had come to him that his grandmother was gone, he had heard nothing from his mother. So did she really give a damn? Had she even bothered to attend the funeral? On his return to the UK he had asked the question. Nobody, friend or neighbour, had seen her on that day. So why was it up to him? If his mother didn’t care, why should he?

Dropping the cigarette butt, he ground it under his heel and turned disconsolately back toward the town car park. He should have cared, of course he should. Deep down he had always known that. But it was too late now because they were both gone and the promise he’d made was, and always had been, just a bunch of empty words.

It was a three-hour drive back to London, but already, as he dropped down onto the M11 and headed south, the CD’s that usually sustained him during long journeys had lost their appeal. Frank needed to concentrate, to bring some order to his jumbled thoughts. He punched the off button on the CD player, welcoming the sudden quiet. The unusual emotion he had felt on leaving Sheringham had waned, but a feeling of deep unease refused to leave him and worrying questions were forming in his mind.

Why had his mother left him all that money? Sure, as far as he knew he was her only child, but he wasn’t even certain about that. They’d never been close and he hadn’t seen nor heard from her in more than fifteen years. Even if there weren’t any other kids, surely there had to be someone else, someone closer to her than him. Maybe not a husband, her profession probably precluded that, but surely someone. And why only money? He could understand she may not have owned property, but what about personal belongings, things to touch, to look at, to remember her by. Surely there had to be clothes, jewellery, photographs; a whole host of things that accumulate during a lifetime, things that would give him an insight into her life. Had all those things gone to someone else? A closer someone? He shook his head. Surely that couldn’t be so, not if, as Penrose had told him, he was the only beneficiary?

Frank thought for some moments about Piggy Penrose. There was little doubt he was who he said he was, it would be stupid to think otherwise. Yet there was something that, to Frank, didn’t seem right. Shouldn’t a solicitor have known more, even during the processing of a simple will? Penrose professed to know little, just the basic contents of the will. He didn’t even know when or how Frank’s mother had died. Yet, conversely, he’d had Frank thoroughly investigated; even taken covert pictures before allowing him anywhere near the Sheringham office. Was that normal for a simple will? Somehow Frank didn’t think so and as he drove more questions lined up, scorching through his aching head, one above all uppermost: When and how had his mother died? He needed to know the answer to that before anything else.

He settled in the slow lane and calculated. His mother would have been around fifty-two or fifty-three years old, still relatively young. So was it illness or accident that had killed her? Whichever, it certainly wasn’t old age. Frank’s stomach sank as he again recalled his gran’s words.

Whatever they say about her, whatever they think... One day she’ll need you.

He’d let his gran down, that was for sure. And what about his mother? Had she needed him? Now he would never know. Suddenly his eyes stung and he became aware of his hands aching from the savage grip he had on the steering wheel. He cleared his throat, the cough loud in the confines of the car, and tried to relax. What the hell was the matter with him? He was an ex-Para, wasn’t he? Here he was almost blubbering like a bloody school kid? So Piggy, with his flying dandruff, couldn’t tell him where and when his mum had died. So what? So he’d have to find out for himself, wouldn’t he?

He had over a quarter of a million pounds, for Christ sake. With that sort of money he could do anything. Couldn’t he?

Three

For the second time in as many weeks, Frank exited the M25 and headed north on the M11. He’d heard nothing more from Penrose, but earlier he had checked his bank account and the money, all £250,736-97p, was there. He had no idea where