Richard Wiseman - To Kill Or Be Killed

“No thanks. Could you find me some cereal?”

“I’ve got porridge.”

“That’d be grand.”

David left the room.

“Healthy man eh?” McFarlane raised an eye brow at Beaumont.

“He is that. I’ve not known him long, but I can tell you now I do feel safe near him. He’s big, fast strong, but happily a thoughtful and intelligent man. He’s not at all Gung Ho and he is a good listener. I’d like him healthy. I’ve a feeling I’m going to be safer if he’s on ball.”

“I’ll make that call to Jack and get the helicopter for you.”

When McFarlane had left the room Beaumont looked over at McKie’s Sig220 lying heavily on the sofa arm. He stopped mid bite of a sandwich and stared a moment. Either David was taking the threat very seriously or he was highly strung. Beaumont continued chewing and decided the former fitted the bill. He thought he himself had better try and do the same; with that in mind he picked up Stanton’s photo. Sure enough this man had killed a police dog handler without hesitating. On an impulse he put down the sandwich and the photo and wiped his hand. He drew out his own Sig 220 pistol and started checking it over.

Glasgow

8-30 a.m.

April 18th

The sound of traffic on the Cowcaddens Road woke Wheeler from a heavy sleep. He checked his watch. It was eight- thirty. He was as stiff as a board, a little more wet than damp and his head ached. Camouflage leaves and sticks tumbled off him as he sat up. He quickly checked to see if he was visible to the building or the road and was sure that he wasn’t. Which given the nature of the occupations of the building’s residents was something of a shame.

He gathered up the white bin liner and brushing himself off he jumped down from the wall and grass bank and made his way to the bus station just up the road. He was overtly aware of the CCTV, but on finding that the first National Express coach had left for London at eight-fifteen and the next was at eleven am he decided to get into the city and get a disguise.

He stopped for a cup of tea in cafe, drawing no more attention than any other down and out at that time in the morning. A visit to the ticket office yielded the knowledge that the ticket to London was fifteen pounds and being happy with the cash he had to get to get a ticket, better clothes and items for changing his appearance, he bought it and with near enough two hours to be ready he left for the Sauchiehall Centre on the 88 bus, having asked where the nearest shopping centre was and had been told in detail with many sorry looks at his state of dress and appearance.

On the bus he thought about the fact that he was badly dressed and that he’d have to use cash to get clothes as use of a card would almost certainly arouse suspicion. Deadbeats didn’t have bill addresses.

M1 near Hemel Hempstead

8-30 a.m.

April 18th

Mason was just outside Hemel Hempstead when the police Volvo S70 T5 ‘lit up’ behind him and he heard the siren’s quick blast. He knew he wasn’t speeding so it had to be either fact that it was stolen or the bungee cords on the back doors. Either way things were about to get nasty.

Mason took the exit off the M1 onto Breakespear Way and seeing signs for the Hemel Hempstead Industrial Estate turned right onto its main route in. Whilst pulling over he pulled out his PSS, tucked the pistol in his back trouser pocket, it was an easy fit as the especially silent Russian made pistol was designed for easy concealment. As he slowed down the police Volvo pulled past him, about six metres in front and he braked and stopped.

He watched a very large traffic cop in standard uniform, knife vest, baton, tear gas and cuffs, squeeze out of the driver’s side. Mason quickly popped the door open and stepped out.

“I’m sorry officer it’s the bungee cords I’ve meant to get that back door fixed” Mason called out walking towards the big man.

“Can you get back to the van and get your license and registration documents please?”

Mason closed the gap a little too quickly and the officer began a process of sudden awareness, starting in his eyes and spreading to his face, and Mason knew he had to act before the awareness spread to the rest of the man’s body. He reached for his back pocket.

“I’ve got my license here in my wallet.” Mason’s hand reached back. The danger sign movement put the officer on guard, he reached for his baton.

“Stand still hands where I can see them.” The policeman’s last words echoed on the morning empty road as the PSS, presented at chest level, spat out a 7.62 round with a whisper of sound.

The big man creased and folded, weakening as the hole in his heart haemorrhaged blood.

Mason pushed passed the falling corpse stepped up to the Volvo and shot the woman police officer in the heart through the window just as she pressed the transmit button on the car radio.

Unsure as to whether the bullet had done enough damage, being slowed down by having to shatter the car window first, Mason aimed again. The woman writhed, her face an image of agony as Mason shot her through the eye. She slumped against the passenger seat.

Mason took a moment to look around him. There was no traffic, but some people might be working in the units. Mason quickly grabbed the sports hold all from the van. He opened the back seat passenger door of the Volvo and dragged the heavy man from the road and stuffed him onto the back seat. Mason dropped into the driver’s seat and adjusted it for his thinner frame then he tightened the seat belt on the woman police officer in the passenger seat and pulled her hat over her eyes.

He put on a green high visibility vest and the dead officers cap. It was a tight fit, but from the waist up he’d look the part. He started the 2.5 litre turbo charged Police pursuit Volvo and turned a tight U turn, back onto Breakespear Way and he accelerated onto the M1 and with four wheel drive and 225Bhp the car quickly put fresh air between him and the scene of his crime.

As an added measure he put the siren on. The vehicle’s call sign was repeatedly requested by the radio centre and Mason knew it was a matter of ten or fifteen minutes before all hell broke loose.

He flipped on the Satnav and punched up the St Alban’s rail station. He froze it on map and zoomed out to get a route over view. With one eye on the fast scrolling road, morning traffic around him slowed his progress, most of the traffic moved for the siren though.

Looking at the Satnav he could see that up the rail tracks from the station was the wooded Beech Bottom Dyke. Mason took the car off the M1 and turned the siren off. The traffic was building up and he winced each time traffic nearly stopped him thinking of drivers seeing the dead police woman, but he kept his eyes front acting normally.

Within ten minutes he was past the Hemel Hempstead Road and heading along Bluehouse Hill. Within fifteen he was on Batchwood Drive and at fifty he made Beech Road quickly. There was a track opening just along Beech Road and he pulled into it. The heavy green trees, thick trunks, leafy branches dripping with the night’s rain swallowed him up as he drove through a gap in the trees along the edge. He got out and looked down into the ancient earth works. It had to be thirty feet deep here. The ancient earthworks were built for defence purposes but now they were covered in places with moss and rough grass. There was an earthy morning fresh smell and at the bottom a layer of sticks and fallen leaves gave off a damp mouldy woodland odour.

The harsh luminous colours and the stark angles of the car were at odds with setting. Mason was suddenly aware of the contrast and was thankful that the dyke was so deep. Hiding a police car at short notice was no easy matter. He reached into the car and removed the hand brake. It was a heavy car and a hard push, but once the front wheels were on the down slope the car rolled away from him into the deep earthworks, crunching into the mud at the bottom, glass shattering and the front folding and crumpling. He saw the bodies thrown forward and away from his view blood spilled across the unbroken areas of glass. The car lay at the bottom, hind end up, nose buried, like a coffin slipped from a ship in a sea burial just before the waves took it down.