Richard Wiseman - To Kill Or Be Killed

They tossed a coin for the spare room and Beaumont won. Exhausted and troubled Beaumont and McKie went to sleep, David with his hand gun on the arm of the sofa. The slightest of noises woke him all the way through the night.

Just outside Perth

Midnight

It was a sopping wet and exhausted Stanton who stood at the edge of the M90. He had swum three miles down stream, knowing that the thermal imaging helicopter was checking the ground to the south of the station. He heard dogs and sirens, but kept swimming on, freezing and as the night wore on the rain got stronger, a veritable downpour. In the end the weather was to his advantage. He skirted the A94 and crossed fields to get to the Glasgow bound section of the M90 and risking being spotted started walking, soaked and muddy along the hard shoulder. Exhausted as he was he knew that he must keep going, the risk of capture now held years in prison and he had been free too long to suffer a cell.

Cars were few and far between and none would stop for the sopping figure, most having heard the news at least on the radio; man on the run. It was looking grim as at any moment one might connect and do the good citizen thing.

The rain lashed at him and he shivered uncontrollably. It was in his mind to get out of the country. Find a friend and leave this mission behind, money or not.

A sympathetic lorry driver saw the sopping figure way ahead and as Stanton held out his thumb the HGV truck and trailer slowed and pulled into the hard shoulder a hundred metres ahead of him. Stanton gathered his strength and ran to the open cab door and dripping rain water climbed up.

“My god friend you are soaking, wait a minute whilst I put a blanket on that seat.”

The driver turned and delved into sleeper compartment at the back of the cab. Stanton took his chance with the man’s back turned, slid the wrapped weapon out of his coat, and without taking it out of the bag, gripped it and shot the driver in the back of the head.

Blood spattered the sleeping compartment as Stanton made sure of the man with two more shots. He covered the body with the blankets and duvet, spending ten minutes neatening it up, just in case he was stopped. He found the man’s bag of spare clothes and put the baggy items on, just to be dry. He quickly checked the man’s paperwork.

Tom Welby had been fifty-seven years old, driving his lorry from Dundee down to Glasgow. What Stanton didn’t know was that Welby was divorced and hadn’t seen his grown up children in years. He spent most of his time on the road and so he was a lonely man always looking for company. He had paid a high price for his loneliness, his humanity and his sympathy.

Stanton found a towel, dried his hair, put the heaters on full blast, drying himself, though he turned them down when the smell of blood began to pervade the cab.

After a half hour stop to make himself warm, dry and look normal, Stanton rammed the gears home and drove the lorry away, concentrating fully and remembering the HGV training he’d had in the Foreign Legion.

Glasgow

Midnight

Wheeler, light headed as he was, still had enough sense to stay away from the city centre. He’d hidden all day in Kelvin Park, but was still fairly dry having found the shelter of thick bushes and trees. It dawned on him that there was CCTV in the city and he was dressed somewhat oddly. He decided that the best way out of the city was a bus. He headed for the bus station on Killermont Street having skirted the city centre and having walked for miles.

He stopped on the way at a pub for a stiff drink. The bar was full, it being a Friday night. He picked a dowdy, rough looking pub on purpose; they’d not be too fussy about his mode of dress. He played the down and out to the letter, bought whisky, with a frowning up and down look from the landlord and sat in the corner for half an hour watching the screen above him. He had to stay there as long as possible, because he knew he’d be sleeping rough. There was no football, but the sports channel was on. It was around last orders that the breaking news came through about Perth and then the marina killings. Wheeler inwardly groaned. The Secret Service people were on to them for sure and he’d be on their list. He bought another whisky, dipping into the white bin bag for change.

When the pub closed he made his way to the bus station, but aware of CCTV decided to sleep nearby. He chose a building just opposite Port Dundas Place which had trees and bushes at its edge. He found a shielded spot, gathered leaves, grass sticks and branches and in the now pouring rain lay down in a depression in the ground, amongst bushes. He slowly and carefully covered his body with the camouflage materials and lay shivering. His plan was to get fresh clothes, change at the bus station and get on the soonest bus for London.

Wheeler lay sleeping in the bushes unaware the building he was sleeping near was Police head quarters. The police went about their night’s business unaware that the man they were searching for was fast asleep covered by moss leaves and branches at the very edge of their grassed frontage area on the Cowcaddens Road.

Harlington Road Bedfordshire

Midnight

The white plumber’s van chattered discontent as Mason came off the M1 and took the Harlington Road. After a brief drive around he found a wooded area just of Toddington Road and near Harlington Station, which gave him two ways out. With a military approach he camouflaged the van, locked up and settled down in the back with snacks and drinks he’d bought at services along the way. Within the hour he was curled up in the back of the van pistol in his hand. Uncomfortable, but tired enough to sleep like that and happy at least to be safe, he was hidden, and dry, which he knew from long experience was vital if he was to keep up energy and fitness levels.

Manchester

Midnight

Cobb had driven as fast as caution allowed down the M62, switching to the M6 and finally the M56. His plan had been to find a hotel near Manchester airport. He knew he could park the car amongst the hundreds in the car park, stay overnight and get a plane very early.

Having negotiated the car park and got himself a room on the ground floor of the Bewley’s Hotel on Outwood Lane. Even without a booking and at that time of night he was able to get in. The airport located hotel had round the clock staff ready to ‘make a buck’ on the odd hours of travellers.

Once in the room Cobb settled down to eat the cold takeaway and drink a beer.

He began looking at the pictures he had taken from Wally. Surely his face in the sketch was lit by match flare, the light from below. When had they seen him? He recalled the cigarette after landing. Who had seen them? Surely no-one could have been there so quickly unless they were being set up.

He turned to the identity badge. It was an odd one. It didn’t mention which specific branch of the security services the bearer worked for it just gave authority to the bearer and was signed by the Queen. He noted the right to bear arms and diplomatic immunity on the UK mainland. Who gave their people immunity on their own turf? It was a new one on him. They’d been picked up and dropped off by a British navy submarine which to his mind meant that it was someone with authority in the UK, secret service or some such, wanting outside assassins to do a job for them.

He looked keenly at Wally’s face in the picture, then taking up Wally’s wallet he looked at the family pictures. Cobb got off the bed and walked to the window, swigging his beer. This guy with the badge was married, had a kid and was a local which meant that there was some sort of nationally co-ordinated neighbourhood watch scheme. The local guy in Scotland had seen them and he, Cobb, had been tracked to Liverpool. Looking out across the grass to the hedge and beyond the railway tracks to the city lights beyond Cobb felt ‘eyes’ watching.