Matthew Dunn - Slingshot

Sporting a pencil mustache and wearing a camel overcoat, immaculately pressed trousers, and Church’s shoes that had been polished to the standard required of parade grounds, the old soldier looked at Will with disdain. In the same tone he no doubt would have used when dressing down a new recruit, he asked, “How’d you do that then?”

Will tried to appear embarrassed. “I went for a jog along the Thames; broke my ankle stepping off the curb.”

Major Mountjoy jabbed the tip of his rolled umbrella against the wooden flooring. “You’ve spent too long behind a desk. Civvies like you become a liability when it suddenly occurs to them to get some exercise under their belt.”

Will smiled. “Maybe you could give me a military exercise regime. It might knock some shape into me.”

Mountjoy huffed. “Bit late for that. Best you get back to flogging more of that dodgy life insurance to upright people like me.”

“It’s not dodgy.”

“It damn right is, Sunny Jim. My Agnes saved every spare penny to set us up for retirement. During her last weeks, you bastards didn’t pay out a thing and we had to use all of our savings to make her comfortable before the end.”

The widower swept his umbrella up, so that it was perpendicular under his armpit, and strode out of the property.

“Shit, shit, shit!” David the mortician was running down the stairs as fast as his flabby body would allow. Food stains and loose cigarette tobacco were on his sweater. “Another bloody call-out.” The divorce ran past Will, glancing at his injury. “Don’t let it get infected; otherwise you could be visiting my mortuary.”

As the front door slammed behind David, Will began the painful and slow ascent of the stairs. It took him two minutes to make the first flight. Breathing fast, he reached out to grab a handrail, and when he did so one of his crutches crashed to the floor. Cursing, he picked it up and fixed it back into position.

Phoebe opened her door and looked at him with concern. “Poor darling.”

Will gave her the story about the jogging accident.

The thirty-something art dealer was dressed to kill, which usually meant she’d be going out to watch a middleweight boxing match somewhere in town. She took a sip of her champagne. “You want me to help you up the stairs?”

Will looked at her six-inch heels and smiled. “I think we both might struggle with that.”

Phoebe wagged a finger. “Us girls are used to it, darling.”

“It’s okay, I’ll manage. Are you picking up a Chinese takeout tonight?”

“Of course, but not until after the fight. You want me to get you some?”

“That would be very kind.”

Phoebe placed a hand on her hip, striking a sexy pose. “You suggesting we make a night of it?”

Will laughed. “I think you’d be picking the wrong guy for that. It’s been an exhausting few weeks, I’ll probably be asleep by nine. If you could leave the takeout outside my door, I’ll settle up with you in the morning.”

“Nonsense. You can return the favor and cook me a meal one evening.”

Will lied, “My cooking’s dreadful. Tell you what, though-David’s a great cook, and he’s in need of some company. I bet he’d be delighted if you knocked on his door one evening.”

Phoebe considered this. “He’s not my normal type, although. . that might not be a bad thing. But what about you? When you’re here, you always seem to be on your own.”

Will blew her a kiss. “I’m used to it.” As he continued hobbling up the stairs, he called out, “Szechuan chicken with noodles, if they have it.”

He entered his apartment and was immediately struck by the changes to the place. He limped through the hallway, past the bedrooms that now contained new lamps, Egyptian cotton bedding, framed drawings, and new paint on the wardrobes and chests of drawers. He smiled as he stared at the living room. Joanna had done an incredible job. Everything had been unpacked and carefully positioned to add contours, depth, and different dimensions to the room. His antiquities were prominent but cleverly located to match the different styles and colors within the place.

It looked like a real home.

He picked up his German lute, sat on the sofa’s arm, and rested the instrument on his injured leg. Quietly, he began playing Bach’s Lute Suite No. 1 in E minor, while continuing to take in his surroundings.

His front door buzzed, meaning someone was outside the communal downstairs entrance. Probably David had suddenly realized he’d left without his keys, a usual occurrence. Will placed his instrument down, picked up the intercom handset. “Yes?”

A woman answered. Will hesitated, then buzzed her in.

One minute later, Sarah was standing before him in his living room. “What happened?”

“I got shot, doesn’t matter.”

Sarah recalled Alfie’s comment about Will’s line of work. “One day, a bullet’s going to hit you in a place where it does matter.”

“Probably.” He looked at her. “Why are you here?”

“James and I are moving to Edinburgh in two days’ time. Our law firm’s secured us a fully furnished house in the country.”

Will’s heart skipped a beat. “That’s great.” He smiled. “When can I come and visit?”

Sarah broke his gaze, looked uncomfortable. “Betty told me what you do for a living.”

“Did she, now?” Will sighed. “Perhaps she was right to do so.”

“Maybe.” Her lower lip trembled, face flushed, trying to hold back tears. “I thought about it, told myself that maybe it changed things knowing that your job required you to do something. .” She frowned, trying to think of the right word. “ Noble .” She wiped her face with the back of her hand, now looked angry. “But there’s nothing noble about seeing three men burst into a house and put bullets into a woman’s head!”

“Sarah, that wasn’t my-”

“Fault?” She pointed at him. “Then whose fault was it?”

Will was silent, felt wretched.

“Whose bloody fault?”

He opened his mouth, but no words came out.

“I was right next to her when it happened. Her blood was all over. .” She looked at the palms of her hands and rubbed them against her skirt. “You’ve made your choices, Will, just as I’ve made mine. James and I don’t want you in Scotland. We don’t want you anywhere near us!”

As Will watched her storm out of his home while crying loudly, tears rolled down his own cheeks. As he’d predicted in the Dutch hospital, Schreiber had killed his relationship with the last remaining member of his family.

Six weeks later, Will stripped out of his sweat-drenched tracksuit, turned on the shower, and walked quickly to his front door as he heard the mail drop onto the mat. He’d been checking his mail every day in the vain hope that Sarah had written to him, changing her mind about him coming to visit. In his heart, he knew that it was false hope, but the notion had kept him going during the preceding weeks of recuperation and physiotherapy. His leg was now fully healed, and a week ago he’d been able to start going for daily early-morning runs.

He leafed through the mail, then froze. An envelope that had no stamp or address on it, merely his full name written in ink.

Another letter from Kurt Schreiber?

The psychopath was still loose; no agency had been able to trace his whereabouts.

He tore open the envelope and withdrew a sheet of paper.

It’s taken me some time, but I’ve found him. Are you fully fit? You’d better be, because I’m gifting you the opportunity to obtain justice. Timings must be precise. 1200 hrs GMT on the day after tomorrow. But be very careful. His place is heavily guarded. I’ll be watching over you and will help where I can. Address overleaf. Do not approach from the north side or I will not be able to see you.