Richard Wiseman - To Kill Or Be Killed

Inverness

10 a.m.

April 17th

Peter Mason arrived at Inverness rail station, close to ten in the morning. He knew that he was booked on the night train, but he also knew that he had the option to trade the ticket for a single ticket going south during the day. He’d had enough of trains. He wanted to be more independent. He knew that the credit card would stretch to a rental car, but that would leave a trail.

He caught a bus out of the city going north towards the Moray Firth. Sure enough, within fifteen minutes he’d found himself on the Carse Industrial Estate. After getting off the bus he wandered around the various units, scanning the car parks. He wanted an old car, the kind with visible pull up locks. He found what he was looking for under trees in the car park of a delivery firm. The owner of the mid nineteen-eighties white Alfasud Ti, a classic hatchback, was going to be devastated by the loss of his pride and joy.

Mason pulled up his hood, knowing he looked suspicious, but wanting to avoid the CCTV getting too good an image. He didn’t mind that he had been seen on other security systems CCTV cameras, it was being recorded committing a crime that counted; just being around when it happened wasn’t a crime. He was shielded from the building partly by the small trees lining a pathway, which ran through the estate.

He pulled a 30 centimetre piece of nylon parcel binder from his rucksack, creased it, slid it in through the driver’s side window and worked it down to the knob topped door lock release, on the inside; making a loop, by pushing one end of the binder, he slid it over the lock, pulled both ends tight and lifted the lock. The door opened easily. He learned that trick out in Asia. Most of the cars out there were old and the security was easily by passed with the nylon parcel binder. He angled himself into the car, pulled the door closed and lay hidden below the steering wheel. His six inch lock knife did for the plastic around the key ignition and within moments of rewiring the ignition he was driving out of the estate.

It didn’t take him long to find a residential area. It was there that he swapped number plates. He’d had to find a car with a square plate at the back. Having found a Suzuki Jeep he’d had to lay between that car and the one parked behind to hide from prying windows, it being broad daylight. Walking, casually, the short distance between the Suzuki and his stolen Alfa he fixed opposite plates back on both cars, with an industrial strength, quick drying glue, also from his rucksack; Mason had a lot of neat little tricks up his sleeve, or in this case his rucksack.

With that done he checked a convenient map in the car and drove for Glasgow. Checking the petrol gauge he knew he’d make it. The little Alfasud handled really well and had a good amount of ‘kick’ in the gear box. He sped onto the A9 Stirling bound. Having looked at a map he knew he’d get the M80 into Glasgow from there. After that he’d either get a train or plane, depending on the circumstances.

Glasgow

10 – 30 a.m.

April 17th

Wheeler had been on the ‘eighty-two’ all the way down Loch Lomond and was pleased. He had just enough in the bike’s tank to get him into Glasgow and he was grinning beneath his helmet as the signs for the M8 came up near Erskine Hospital. As he negotiated the roundabout at Erskine a black BMW four by four failed to give way to the right and broadsided the Honda 500 with a resounding metallic ‘crump’. Wheeler, thrown from the bike hit the tarmac and, to the eyes of witnesses, with a gut wrenching, face screwing and teeth gritting bodily slump hit the road. He jerkily tumbled and rolled in a wrenching skid, his clothes ripping, grazes appearing and finally, at just forty miles an hour, his helmet struck the metal barrier cracking and splitting it across the top, knocking him unconscious.

Already out of his dented BMW the driver was on his cell phone. He was smartly dressed, clearly on his way to work and in contrast to his groomed look his white face registered the shock of the accident.

Sure that the ambulance was on its way he gingerly headed for the slumped figure of Wheeler. Other cars had stopped, some had had to, and people getting out headed straight for the hot ‘ticking’ bike, now on its side, mangled in the road. Others headed straight to the oddly angled unconscious rider by the barrier. The BMW driver was there first about to pull Wheeler face up when a young woman called out.

“Don’t move him. He may have a neck injury. I’m a nurse. Call an ambulance. I’ll check his pulse.”

“I’ve already called.” As he said this the sound of sirens confirmed him, ‘dopplering’ their way along the ‘A’ road from Stobhill hospital.

In a few short minutes, still unconscious, Wheeler had been strapped to the stretcher, neck brace on for safety, and driven way.

Police, having taken the Honda off the road, took names of witnesses and some short statements after which they cleared traffic and the blocked tarmac artery to the M8 slowly eased back to full flow.

It wasn’t until the wreck clearance men turned up, fifteen minutes later that the number plate was run through checks and flagged up as ‘important’.

In the ambulance the paramedic went through Wheeler’s bag. He was surprised to find three different passports, in three different names. Even more shocked after a second ‘delve’ he gingerly pulled the dull black, heavy PSS pistol from the bag. His colleague gave a low whistle. The paramedic, a little unnerved by the cold coiled potential of the oiled, hard edged and evil black item, gently lowered it back into the rucksack. He raised both eyebrows at his colleague.

“We’ll call the cops when we get back.”

They pulled into Stobhill casualty unit, just outside Glasgow, and unloaded the still unconscious body of Martin Wheeler. The sliding doors closed behind him and the paramedic took a moment to find a duty police officer. The contents of the bag brought immediate attention from detectives and began a flurry of activity. When the number plate information was added to what Glasgow police knew about Wheeler an urgent phone call was made to Euston Tower in London.

Euston Station

10 – 50 a.m.

April 17th

David and Beaumont sat as comfortably as anyone can on the edge of the Euston concourse, happily eating French bread sandwiches.

“Brie is just a cheese. Technically that’s a cheese sandwich, in spite of the crunchy French bread and the exotic idea of French cheese.”

“That depends on the way you look at things. It’s all about perception and belief.” David replied after swallowing some of the topic of conversation.

“One man’s terrorist is another man’s freedom fighter sort of thing.” Beaumont suggested, somewhat playfully, irony lighting his sharp grey eyes.

“Put like that yes.”

“That’s okay as an idea, but that’s just sitting on the fence. The whole ‘you say tomato I say tomayto’ doesn’t change a tomato, nor does someone believing that murder by bombing is a means of freedom fighting.” Beaumont was into his argument.

“Is state sanctioned killing murder then?”

“No because it’s done by people employed by us to do it.”

“If you had to kill today, say one of these men, would you think you were doing the right thing?” David was suddenly serious and Beaumont sensed that his seriousness was part of some inner struggle he was having about the nature of their work.

“If he wanted to kill me and I got in first, yes. If I thought I’d stopped him murdering an innocent man yes. Are you saying you wouldn’t?”