Richard Wiseman - To Kill Or Be Killed

He closed the curtain and looked around the room. It was clean enough, but it was all worn, like the arm chair sat in by a thousand people and the bed slept in by the same and it was all so impersonal. The white mug and tea pot washed a thousand times for a thousand different people sat impersonally on the courtesy tray with the sachets of coffee and sugar. Cobb reflected that he’d seen at least a hundred rooms like this and had thought from time to time as he had left them to go and do a job that it might be the last place he’d have taken refuge in before he died.

Cobb shook his head and settled on the bed, pistol within reach and put the television on. Having found a repeat of ‘Where Eagles Dare’ just starting Cobb leaned back on the pillows and switching his mind from the day’s events, the impersonal and jaded furniture of the room and, as the third beer took effect, the direction his life had taken, Cobb watched Richard Burton and Clint Eastwood blast their way through German positions until he became drowsy and fell asleep.

It was around one a.m. when one of two returning drunks, singing down the corridor, fell heavily against Cobb’s door which ripped him from his sleep and pulled him upright, off the bed his cocked PSS pistol pointed at the door. He stood frozen in attitude, ears straining for other sounds and the tell tale noises of security forces gathering at the door. There were none and he relaxed on hearing the shutting of the door of the next room and a room further up the corridor. His pulse was just slowing when he became aware of BBC News 24 running on the television and caught the words ‘Mersey marina’.

With a certain amount of personal interest and horror he saw his face from the sketch on the screen and a picture of the Peugeot with the license number listed beside it. They had found the bodies very quickly. He became more than concerned when the news went on to the Perth shootings and had a growing sense that this spy network in the UK was highly organised and efficient to a deadly level.

Knowing that he’d be in the papers the next day Cobb had a cold shower, made some hated instant coffee from the courtesy tray and sat cleaning and loading his pistol whilst planning.

After cleaning up and packing Cobb took a long look at Wally’s government pass. Manchester airport would give him no need for a passport, but with the right glasses and the right wig he could pass for Wally and the ID badge would get him through quickly, especially with diplomatic. There’d be a lot of security around the airport and they would be looking for him so a disguise was needed. Cobb knew well that as far as security was concerned the right hand hardly ever knew what the left hand was doing.

Cobb removed Wally’s credit card and went to look at the hotel room door lock. They didn’t have the swipe keys here yet. He took his key, locked himself out and listening carefully to the corridor, reassured, he set about opening the door with the card. He practised the movements four or five times, went back into his room, got his bag ready and read the lay out of his room.

The drunk in the room next to him had shed clothes on the way to bed and had slumped onto his bed at an awkward angle. Cobb had managed the door easily and silently and stood in the room eyes adjusting to the dark for some thirty seconds. The whistling snores put him at his ease and having left the door pushed to, but not closed, he made his way to the bedside. Sure enough keys, cell phone, wallet and change on the bedside table. The key was a ‘bleeper’ type with a Citroen tag. He gathered the items quietly and exited the room.

Cobb checked out of the hotel via his window, made his way round to the car park, which was in full view of the front of the hotel, but that couldn’t be helped. He pressed the key as he walked around and the indicators lit up on a Citroen C4. He popped his bag on the back seat and started the engine. He fired up the Satnav and scanned a map of the area. His eye hit on the Daisy Nook country park and he punched in the destination. It was just outside the city on the M60, close enough to get back in early and far enough out to hide him and the car.

Glasgow

6 a.m.

April 18th

Stanton had driven all night, down the M90, onto the A90 and then onto the M8, one short break of a half hour along the way, in a lay by to make a phone call, using the dead man’s cell phone, hadn’t given him any respite at all. He was getting exhausted, but pushed on taking the lorry on the A899. His target was the A72. An old Legion buddy lived in Motherwell and Stanton had been this way before some years earlier.

On the last part of the exhausting trip he had opened the window as the bodily fluids of the deceased were beginning to make a stench. Stanton mused on the fact that he would probably go down as serial killer having killed two truck drivers and a dog handler in one day.

Clarky was expecting him. He hadn’t gone into details, but Clarky owed him and was glad to help out such a good army buddy.

Stanton steered the big lorry up the Bothwell Road and into the Hamilton Park racecourse. He’d had this in mind earlier when he’d thought of Clarky. They’d had a good day out here when he stopped by, years ago, and Stanton roughly knew the lay out in his head. He entered via The Paddock and swung the lorry through a tight circle. It was six am and the whole place was empty. He parked under a line of trees and spent a while wiping the cab. He locked the doors on exit and walked to Hamilton West train station. There were CCTV cameras so he kept his head down and faced away, though he was getting too tired to care. It was a chilling and nerve racking wait, but a short one, before the early train screeched to a halt. He was drifting off when the train arrived and the brief journey saw him to Motherwell station with ease.

Clarky opened the door of his house on Parkneuk Street to an exhausted friend.

“Hey Trev. My god you look wasted. Better come on in.”

“It’s good to see you my friend.”

Stanton took a look around at the street before he walked in. The only thing which caught his eye was the oversized white satellite dish on the roof of the house opposite.

Harlington Road Bedfordshire

6 a.m.

April 18th

Mason was awake very early. The back of the van was freezing and the rain drummed on the metal roof like a hyperactive Phil Collins. He checked his watch it was six-thirty. He unfolded himself from the back of the van and stretched. All was quiet, the van was scantily camouflaged, but he needn’t have worried it wasn’t a much visited spot. He walked off through light drizzle and relieved himself behind a tree.

Sitting in the van’s cab, engine running and heaters going full blast with radio four on Mason hungrily wolfed down a packet of Pork Scratchings and washed it down with a sachet of orange juice. News headlines at seven had him nearly choking mid swallow and exhaled orange juice ran down his chin. The news of the Perth shooting and Cobb’s handiwork in Liverpool, along with the report that security forces were looking for Wheeler and himself sent a cold shiver down his spine, especially when listeners were directed to the Today website to see pictures of the wanted men.

He wiped his face and looked in the rear view mirror; he knew he didn’t look like any picture they had of him and he wasn’t far from London. They’d probably have tagged the stolen van, though they couldn’t know who it was that had stolen it. He decided to head for greater London and dump the van and the sooner the better. With that in mind he drove onto the A road and then back onto the M1. With any luck he’d hit St Alban’s without a hitch, then a he’d get a commuter train to London. Once in London he could very easily become lost from sight, especially if he was careful.