Richard Wiseman - To Kill Or Be Killed

Most people wouldn’t look back; they’d walk away, climb down and close the doors without a glance. Self preservation for the mind and protection from a wounded psyche, but Stanton had seen too much death close up and he stared with intensity at the clouded, glazed eyes of the unfortunate man. Stanton justified the murder in his mind, taking in the livid purple stripe across the man’s throat and reminded himself that in his line of business, innocent or not, witnesses must not live. Having satisfied himself of the necessity of the death he dropped out the back and closed the doors. He removed a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the door handles. After doing the same on the driver’s door handle he climbed into the cab. He pulled a shower bag from his raided rucksack, took out surgical gloves and quickly put them on. In a moment with some alcohol from a small bottle he had wiped all he had touched. He started the engine and switched on the refrigeration.

With the gloves still on he started looking for maps. He found a flask with tea and the dead man’s sandwiches. He took advantage and worked out a few facts and details about the journey whilst he enjoyed the dead man’s lunch. As he hungrily munched his way through the cheddar and piccalilli in white sliced bread, washing it down with the slightly stewed in the flask tea, all too sweet for his taste, he thought of the corpse in the back. Having noticed the worn gold band on the driver’s ring finger he ruefully, though not guiltily, thought of the wife who might have made the lunch, not to mention any children who were yet to be grieved by their father’s unsolved and unexplained murder. Ten minutes later, having wiped the flask cup and disposed of the sandwich wrapping in a hedge the truck pulled out of the lay-by and onto the roads leading to Inverness. He hadn’t seen another vehicle yet.

No he wasn’t best pleased. He didn’t have time to properly dispose of the body, and even if he did there were risks in that process. He knew he was going to have to hide the truck well enough for its delayed discovery to be surpassed by his having done the job and escaped. With that thought in mind he turned the refrigeration unit up to maximum. A frozen body would take time to give away tell tale smells. He had seen three car parks on the map where the truck could be dumped in the middle of Inverness. Oddly he had often found that given as long a pay and display ticket as the machine allowed a body could be more easily hidden in a built up area than a remote location. As he never left evidence and he was usually a long way away when the body was found car parks could become quite useful temporary cemeteries. Still, he had to kill a civilian and too early on. Trevor Stanton wasn’t happy with himself.

‘Stupid man’ he had thought, ‘stupid, stupid man.’

Inverness

8-15 a.m.

April 17th

The ride in the ‘chopper’ from Plockton air strip had taken Marco Spencer roughly as the crow flies to Inverness, skirting Loch Ness and to his mind making the land beneath him look like a rapidly scrolling version of the satellite map he’d studied as part of his preparation. The pilot had been too busy for conversation and Spencer was lost in thoughts. The ‘ride’ didn’t register. He’d been on that many helicopter flights, mostly across the Middle-East, and even then in ‘khaki company’ in semi darkness, fearing hand held missile attacks, ready to be dropped, army style, in disguise, meeting contacts and watching his own back weeks on end until ‘extraction’, usually by chopper again, to a debriefing where he had offloaded the intelligence he had gathered and explained any killing he had had to do, or at least those of note or those likely to cause any fuss.

This chopper hovered and settled with a mild bump at Inverness Airport one hour after his arrival in Scotland. Being an internal flight, there was no clearing of security or customs. He’d entered the country and slipped into society with barely an eye brow being raised.

When the blades had stilled Spencer climbed out, thanked the pilot and with the casual attitude of a rich man he made easy strides into Inverness Airport, to get a coffee, not to mention a good breakfast, and think carefully about his next move.

He was going to buy a ticket for Gatwick, on a Flybe flight at nine forty-five, but that was an obvious move. There was the train, the night sleeper, but that put him behind again and Mason was booked on that train. The whole ‘not all the eggs in one basket’ situation had been made clear to all of them. Having been part of the espionage network in the UK he knew about DIC, the secretive watching agency, and was aware that he could be ‘tagged’ coming in. He hadn’t told the others, it was ‘every man for himself’ as far as he was concerned.

Irish Sea

8- 45 a.m.

April 17

Charley Cobb had not had an easy journey down the coast towards Liverpool. For a start there had been a sudden squall amongst the isles of Rhum, Coll and Tireee, a possibility well known to sailors on that part of the coast. It wasn’t stormy, but Charlie felt the small sea going boat’s engine strain as he passed Islay and pushed through the North Channel. It had crossed his mind to make a stop at the Isle of Man when the Irish Sea threw a mild tantrum, but Charlie was made of sterner stuff. He knew the sea well and took the heavy splashing rain, forceful waves and sudden dips and rises as part of the work to be done, just a journey and not an adventure. The small boat made sturdy progress towards the mouth of the Mersey with Charley’s bitter blue eyes reflecting the spray and drizzle.

Loch Lomond

8- 45 a.m.

April 17th

Martin Wheeler had enjoyed the Honda’s responses to the highland roads. The bike really kicked and he had lost himself in the rollercoaster adrenaline experience of a fast bike on empty open roads. The south bound route he took went over a short stretch of the Grampians. The empty mountain scenery flashed by in his peripheral vision. At those speeds, even with a couple of stops he knew he’d be in Glasgow in two or three hours. He pulled the hot bike over, ticking and sizzling in the drizzle, at guest house on the northern shores of Loch Lomond. The cooked breakfast, with Scottish sausage rolls, firm pork patties with a distinctive flavour in heavy rolls, washed down with hot sweet tea, took him a good half hour to enjoy. He felt good and the thrill of being the killer amongst the low chatter and clatter of forks and plates in the rest house dining room brought sharpness to the day and the business in hand. He enjoyed the feeling of being the outsider, the mission man, amongst the everyday people.

Well fed he went back to the bike and his race to the London meeting point. His thought was that it was all too easy. He slipped into traffic on the eighty-two and twisted back his wrist. The bike and the money pulled him south. Dewey’s alert had the motorbike registration listed as a wanted vehicle; stop on sight being the instruction.

Rail Line between Duirnish and Inverness

8- 45 a.m.

April 17th

Even under the shelter the niggling drizzle had blown at Peter Mason. When the train did arrive, fifteen minutes late, it was gone eight am. The train journey seemed to wind on forever. He bought tea and biscuits from a trolley, which surprised him at that time in the morning. Mason was bored and cursed the straw picking ceremony for transport. His mind turned to Stanton as he waited for the scalding hot, watery tea in the too thin cardboard cup to cool, cursing his hunger for opening the short cake packet, leading to thirst and ultimately burnt fingers and a scalded mouth. Stanton had chosen to hitch; the slowest possible means. Mason wondered why? Did Stanton know something or was he just avoiding any camera spots? Stanton was the oldest, he looked it; maybe his face was registered in places?