The Man Who Bit The Bullet

By Stig Larssen

Maddening missing motive.
Enjoying a hard-earned "life of Riley", Max Montford  is crushed when his comfortable world suddenly collapses around his ears, first of all with a police bombshell that he is to be charged with complicity in his wife's murder, and then with an equally dangerous accusation of financial wrongdoing. Some unknown person, with a massive grudge, is targeting him, and he hasn't the first clue who it can be. Forbidden to enter the offices where he works, he needs something to occupy his enquiring mind. Because he is at a  loose end, his boss, Ben Sanders, asks if he is willing to look into the death and disappearance of his brother, Roger, twenty-five years earlier, when he and his Army comrades were about to unveil the dumping place of a hoard of Nazi gold, and offers a minimum of a million pounds for the job. Max, though unwilling, takes on the task, and finds that Roger is not only still alive, but is an international assassin. Taking his life in his hands, he foils Roger as he is about to murder a public figure, They become unlikely friends, and with Roger's help, Max comes face to face with his nemesis, who presents him a life or death choice that he is unwilling to make, but the life of Charleen, his longtime lover, is the price of a wrong decision. He is faced with an impossible situation...

• Language: English
• Publisher: TONY NASH
• Release date: Jun 9, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223562252

Stig Larssen

Stig Larssen is the Norwegian pen name of Tony Nash – acclaimed author of over thirty detective, historical and war novels, who began his career as a navigator in the Royal Air Force, later re-training at Bletchley Park to become an electronic spy, intercepting Russian and East German agent transmissions, during which time he studied many languages and achieved a BA Honours Degree from London University. Diverse occupations followed: Head of Modern Languages in a large comprehensive school, ocean yacht skipper, deep sea fisher, fly tyer, antique dealer, bespoke furniture maker, restorer and French polisher, professional deer stalker and creative writer.

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STIG LARSSEN

Copyright © Tony Nash July 2021

This is a work of pure fiction, and any similarity between any character in it and any real person, living or dead, is purely coincidental and unintentional. Where actual places, buildings and locations are named, they are used fictionally.

All rights reserved.

Other works by this author:

THE TONY DYCE/NORFOLK THRILLERS:

Murder by Proxy

Murder on the Back Burner

Murder on the Chess Board

Murder on the High ‘C’

Murder on Tiptoes

Bled and Breakfast

THE JOHN HUNTER/MET. COP THRILLERS:

Carve Up

Single to Infinity

The Most Unkindest Cut

The Iago Factor

Blockbuster

Bloodlines

Beyond Another Curtain

HISTORICAL NOVELS – THE NORFOLK TRILOGY:

A Handful of Destiny

A Handful of Salt

A Handful of Courage (WWI EPIC)

No Tears For Tomorrow  WWII EPIC)

THE HARRY PAGE THRILLERS:

Tripled Exposure

Unseemly Exposure

So Dark, The Spiral

THE NORWEGIAN SERIES – author Stig Larssen:

LOOT

CNUT – Past Present

CNUT – The Isiaih Prophesies

CNUT – Paid in Spades

CNUT – The Sin Debt

CNUT – They Tumble Headlong

CNUT – Night Prowler

CNUT -  Cry Wolf

CNUT -  When The Pie Was Opened

CNUT – The Bottom of the Pot

CNUT -  Mind Games

CNUT -  Nemesis

CNUT -  Cut and Come Again

CNUT -  The Man Who Did It Doggy Fashion

CNUT -  The Man From Next Week

OTHER NOVELS:

The Devil Deals Death 

The Makepeace Manifesto

Panic

The Last Laugh

The Sinister Side of the Moon

Hell and High Water

Hardrada’s Hoard (with Richard Downing)

‘Y’ OH ‘Y’ and The Thursday Syndrome

The motive-hunting of a motiveless malignity – how awful it is

Shakespeare – Iago

CHAPTER ONE

Charlie’s pretence at sleep was betrayed by her smile, as Max mixed their favourite wake-up call: one finger of Chivas Regal, topped up with Moët, and a dessertspoonful of double cream. Using a patent plug, he re-sealed the Moët bottle, shoved it back in the ice, and gently used the spoon to mix in the cream.

Charlie stirred languidly, turned onto her back, and moved her left arm out onto his pillow, the fingers of her hand outstretched.

Max smiled; he knew the movement so well. Though her eyes were closed, she was wide awake, and waiting for him to join her.

He was on cloud nine. Unlike many of his peers in the financial world, his conscience was perfectly clear.

The enforced crimes of his childhood, removed from his conscious mind by countless sessions of hypnosis, lived on only in the nightmare, which had last raised its terrifying head more than ten years ago, but could never be permanently erased.

At that moment, those crimes were the furthest things from his mind.

For him, the sun was shining; God was in his Heaven, and all was right with the world.

He was blissfully unaware that the very last strand of the weak cord that suspended his own personal sword of fate, like that of Damocles, was at that moment the merest smidgen from breaking point.

Before carrying the drinks over to the bed, he gazed at his lover for a few moments, thinking, as he so often did, how damned good she looked for a 39-year-old.

Fine, naturally wavy, corn-blond hair, worn in a bob ever since he had known her; eyes the powder blue of the sky on an early spring morning – brightly intelligent eyes, whose tender gaze had always been able to relieve him of anything that was worrying him, and reduce him to jelly; a sweetly sculpted nose, an enticing, wide mouth, which held a tongue that could do magic, perfect teeth, and the body of a fit teenager.

She had never needed or considered body or facial enhancement.

The greatest thing was that she was his, and had been for over twenty years, whenever he wanted her, even before he fell in love with Petra.

His to make love to, or just to be with, when he needed her, or she needed him.

There was no urgency, no necessity, no hassle, and no commitment, except that of deep, mutual friendship.

They had been an item from the first time they had looked into each other’s eyes, except for the oh-so-short period that he and Petra had been together, and for four months after her murder, when he had been unconsolable.

They knew each other so intimately – their bodies, their likes and dislikes, their inner fears, every detail of  their dark, hidden histories, their strengths and weaknesses, their deepest desires, and their Achilles heels - that they fitted together as comfortably as a well-worn pair of old slippers.

They did not love each other in the traditional sense, and never had. What they had was something far more profound, based on total trust and absolute truth. They had an intimacy in which sex played its part, but was by no means the most important part. Their deep mutual attraction was more akin to the total blending of two souls.

It was not uncommon for them to spend long periods of time together without engaging in the sex act.

Did boredom have any chance of ever destroying the relationship – same old, same old?

No way.

The excitement for both of them was still as alive as a bawling new-born, not only every time they slept together, but every time they were together.

Charlie accepted his long affair with his secretary, Sally Weeks, and his string of on/off girlfriends, and he accepted that she needed the occasional one-night stand with other men. Those things did nothing to affect their relationship.

Her husband, and the boss of both of them, Ben Sanders, had always known of the arrangement, which had his tacit approval, though he and Ben had never spoken of it openly.

Ben’s marriage to Charlie was unusual too.

At the necessary meetings and conventions he had to attend, Ben had grown tired of the snide comments about homosexuality, the mutterings behind his back, the stares, and the innuendo, being one of a very few men present without a wife, or at least a female companion. He needed arm candy, and Charleen Blake, a newly appointed director in his company, suited the bill well.

He put the proposal to her one sunny morning when he was sixty-seven, and she was twenty-eight, calling her into his office shortly after she arrived, and telling her to sit down.

She had wondered what was coming, expecting that it was something to do with work, but was flabbergasted when he came straight out with, ‘Would you marry me, Charlie?’

The kinder members of the firm called him a confirmed bachelor – others thought of him as a loner, or as a closet homo. He had never been seen in close contact with a woman – or a man, come to that.

Charlie shook her head in disbelief, and told him, ‘I’ve had all kinds of weird proposals from men throughout my life, Ben, but believe me, that one definitely takes the biscuit.’

He nodded, smiling. ‘I imagine that it does, and I need to explain it in more detail. It would be purely a marriage of convenience, and one convenience for you is that I would make no physical demands of you. Though I would not like it repeated outside these four walls, I am no longer capable of the sex act, and have no sexual requirements of any kind. In that respect, you will have the same freedom that you have now, though I would, of course, require you to be extremely discreet.

What I need from you is to be a companion to me in public, and particularly at meetings. You are an extremely attractive woman, who will make my peers envy me, and I shall be proud to have you on my arm.

I will expect you to share a roof with me most of the time, but not my bed, unless you wish for some sexless night time company. We can dine together, and spend time together, either at home, at the theatre, ballet, opera, Wimbledon, racetrack, or not, as you desire.

The benefits to you will be full access to my not inconsiderable fortune and belongings, and in the pre-nuptial agreement, which will be a very simple one, it will be stated that no matter what happens in the future, even if we divorce, you will, on my death, be the sole benefactor from my will. It will make you a very rich woman indeed. If you wish to add any of your own requirements to the document, I will accept them, without reservation or modification.

You have, I understand, the odd fling, but only one semi-permanent lover: our mutual friend and respected colleague, Max, whom I look on as a son.

That need not change.’

Charlie sat in silence, her mind whirling.

She would, of course, and quite ironically in the circumstances, be seen by all as a blond gold-digger – the young broad who has inveigled her way into an old man’s affections by giving him her body.

Did that bother her?

She was no longer the hyper-sensitive, badly dressed, and badly abused twelve-year-old, who had been bullied every day by a gang of girls until, on her fourteenth birthday, she had snapped, and slammed her fist into the nose of the head bully so hard that she broke it, giving her a shed load of street-cred, and ending the bullying for good. It gave her a new resolve.

A week later, after reading avidly in the crime section of the local public library every day, she killed her father, by shoving a six-inch hair pin into his ear hole and through into his brain, when he yet again entered her bedroom in the middle of the night, and climbed naked and sexually aroused on top of her.

She carefully wiped the hair pin, and pushed it under the edge of the carpet, cleaned the tiny amount of blood out of her father’s ear with a tissue, which she flushed down the toilet, and then rang the police, and told them her father had had a heart attack while sexually abusing her.

Having read as much as she had about the scientific investigation of sudden deaths, she fully expected a forensic pathologist to find out what she had done, and was prepared to go to prison, but the detective in charge of the investigation into the death had been abused herself as a child, and with her assurance that the demise was natural, the death was written off by the coroner as a heart attack while committing a sexual offence.

It had been the start of a new life – one in which she was determined to take no shit from anyone.

University had had its own financial and sexist problems, which she had overcome, like all the other problems in her life, and fighting her way up through the business world – a female, in a man’s environment, had finished the hardening process. Now she had an impenetrable shell, except when with Max.

Being seen as a blonde gold digger would not bother her in the least.

Ben had been kind to her since she joined the firm as a young attorney – introduced, as it happened, by Max, and she was sure that it was mainly his and Ben’s influence that had seen her promoted to director – by far the youngest in the firm.

Ben said nothing further, which was typical of him: throw an idea out, and wait to see what it spawned.

At last, she told him, ‘Give me twenty-four hours to think about the pros and cons, Ben, but I think the answer will be yes.’

You mean give you time to run it past Max.

Ben’s smile was genuine, ‘Thank you, Charlie.’

That was eleven years ago.

The arrangement had worked admirably. She had found living with Ben easy and enjoyable. He was good company, and his tastes in food, wine, music, and the arts matched her own. The luxury living was not to be sneezed at either. She soon realised that he was the ideal husband, if one ignored the lack of sex.

He had never once interfered with her private arrangements, never questioned her movements, nor ever hinted of his disapproval.

She came to love him in a way, as she had once loved her father, until he began abusing her, when she was seven.

Max carried the two glasses over to the bed, placed them on the bedside table, leant down, and placed his lips on hers.

Her mouth opened immediately, and their tongues explored each other.

When he drew back, and knowing the answer, she asked, ‘What has my lover made for me?’

‘The elixir of love.’

She pulled herself into a sitting position.

‘Mm. Give me, please.’

He picked up the glasses, handed her one, and they clinked glasses before drinking.

As he drained his glass, he slurped loudly and deliberately, and she laughed.

‘Pleb!’

He took her glass, ‘Does my lady wish for more champagne, or...?’

She chuckled wickedly, ‘Oh, we’ll go for the ‘Or’ every time, my lord.’

He placed the glasses on the bedside table, threw off his light robe, pulled the coverlet off her naked body, and joined her on the bed.

Almost an hour later, after a light breakfast, they left his Chelsea mews in different cars, and drove to the offices of Sanders International Investment, on Canary Wharf.

Max had arguably the best office, on the higher of the two floors that the firm occupied.

It was on the corner, with striking views over the city and the river.

Ben’s office was next to it, and twice the size, with almost panoramic views of the river.

Sally Weeks was, as always, already at her desk when Max arrived, ten minutes early, in good time for the opening of the Stock Market.

She grinned and asked cheekily, ‘A good night, lover?’

He smiled and shrugged, ‘I would say so. Anything arrive?’

‘One from Biggles. It’s on your desk.’

Biggles was Max’s code name for Harry Slater, one of his freelance agents.

He sat down behind the huge antique mahogany desk, resplendent with a much newer, but equally impressive mahogany sign that read, MAX MONTFORT, CHIEF INVESTMENT OFFICER.

Max had wanted it to read, CHIEF INVESTIGATIVE OFFICER, which more accurately described what he did, but though Ben agreed with the thinking, he could not condone a public announcement of Max’s real job: industrial espionage.

Max’s acquaintance with Ben, and the reason for his entry to the firm, and his marriage to Petra, Ben’s niece and ward, had come about as the result of an investigation Ben had requested from Max’s old boss, John Hanson, who ran the misnamed Worldwide Investigations from a run-down office block in Islington – an investigation that Max had handled successfully.

The firm’s success had been great in one respect: clients were stacking up, but stacking up a bit too well, and John was having to turn down lucrative jobs – unable to take them on because he just could not cope. He had been looking for at least one more investigator for well over a year. Of the few applicants whose CVs made it seem they met his demanding specifications, none had inspired him with their personalities at interview, and he had decided on a new approach.

An old school friend was a professor of law at London University, and John gave him a list of his requirements, and asked him if he could recommend any of his students.

He recommended two.

Max, and one of his friends, Peter Blackstone, were close to taking their finals, intending to join legal firms when they had their qualifications.

John arranged to meet with them, told them what he did, and what he needed from his employees.

The idea immediately appealed to Max, but not initially to Peter, who joined the firm of Kenlish Law and stuck it out for two months, before realising that the boredom was not for him, and joined John’s firm too.

Max found that though John was one of the old-time investigators, he was ready not only to take on young people who were, to put it bluntly, hackers, and in some cases criminals, but, realising he was behind the time, had made it his business to learn from them.

The most brilliant of the youngsters, Damon Mashona, was just fourteen when Max first met him, and saved him from a life of violent crime, and probably an early death, either from the drugs he was taking, or from another knife in the guts.

Driving home late one night, after working on an important case, Max had had to slam his brakes on to avoid a body lying in the road.

He switched his warning lights on, jumped out, and found out that the body was that of a teenage boy, who was alive, but unconscious, and seemed in a bad way. He had a large bloodstain on the front of his shirt.

Max called 999, and waited until an ambulance came and took him to hospital.

The next day, Max went there, to see how the boy was doing.

Enquiring at the A&E reception desk, he was told that the patient, who was still nameless, was on Halling Ward, on the fourth floor.

There, Max stopped a passing nurse, and told her, ‘I found a lad unconscious in the street last night, and called an ambulance. I’ve been told he is on this ward. I would like to see him.’

She shook her head, ‘You won’t be able to do that, unless you are family, and since you are a different colour, I don’t think that is the case.’

‘Could I speak to his doctor?’

She chuckled, ‘You could, if you want to wait about five hours, when he does his next rounds.’

‘So the lad is not critical?’

‘I didn’t say that, did I?’ She relented, ‘Look, I can understand why you feel in some way responsible for him. Stay here, and I’ll go and check how he is.’

She disappeared round the end of the corridor, and came back less than two minutes later.

‘He is out of danger, and was lucky. The knife blade missed his heart by less than an inch.’

‘He was knifed? I thought he’d been hit by a car. Is he conscious?’

‘Yes, but very weak. The police want to speak to him too, and the doctor told them that they would have to wait at least another day. I imagine that you will be told the same thing.’

Max thanked her, and added, ‘I’ll come back tomorrow.’

He had gone back the next day, and every day for a week after that, having been allowed to speak to the lad after the police had done so.

Black as the ace of spades, with a ring through his nose, and two more in his left ear, unwashed dark hair down to his shoulders, a gangsta vocabulary, and a decidedly antagonistic attitude, he would not, on first acquaintance, have been Max’s choice as a road sweeper, never mind an investigator, and yet, Max was impressed by the lad’s intelligent answers to his questions.

At first, Damon was extremely wary, despite having thanked Max for saving his life, but after several hours of talking, he admitted wanting to get out of the culture he had been used to, and agreed to let Max find him somewhere to stay, away from the area he had been living in.

When he was discharged from hospital, Max had arranged and