Richard Wiseman - To Kill Or Be Killed

Dean was stunned that the pistol had made no sound. There had been no bang and no flash. The silence of the death, as if by some evil magic shocked him greatly. It had been as if Griffith’s head had spontaneously exploded.

“Don’t move. Have you got an auto pilot?”

Dean nodded dumb fear tying his tongue.

“Set course for Aberystwith and put it on. No sudden moves.”

Dean did as he was told under Stanton’s evil gaze.

“Show me the controls then we’ll get the charts and have a chat.”

Dean showed Stanton over the controls with the occasional glance at Griffith’s corpse, oozing blood over the wheel house. When Stanton was satisfied he sat with Dean in the lounge cabin, the two men sitting opposite each other. Stanton ran his eye over the sea between Ardrossan and the Welsh coast.

“What’s this all about?” Dean asked.

“A boat theft.” Stanton said coldly not looking up.

“That’s it? Why kill a man?” Dean’s voice was high pitched and betrayed his fear and shock.

“I don’t leave witnesses.”

“What kind of thief are you?” Dean asked.

“I’m not just a thief.” Stanton raised his eyes from the chart and looked Dean in the eyes. “I’m mostly an assassin. I needed a boat.”

“Oh.” Dean’s face fell. Then suddenly with fear and triumph he said “You’re the man who escaped from Perth aren’t you.” Stanton nodded and Dean fell silent.

His planned route in mind and how to follow it clear Stanton readied himself for the next unsavoury task.

“Get me some sheets from the cabins.”

They went below and collected sheets. Stanton drove Dean at gunpoint back to the wheelhouse.

“Wrap the body in the sheets and drag it to the back of the boat.”

“His name was Mr Griffiths, Tom Griffiths.” Dean gagged as he pulled the body onto the sheets and wrapped the dead man. “I don’t suppose that matters to you?”

Stanton didn’t answer. He knew what was coming he’d been there before, twice. Two times he’d had to listen to the victim’s of his assassinations before he was ready to kill them.

“My name is Dean, Kevan Dean.”

“Just wrap the body and drag it out.” Stanton’s voice was like the scraping of metal on an iceberg.

“I have a family… a wife and children… my son is nine and my daughter is only two… I haven’t done anything…” Dean’s voice was desperate almost a sob.

“Just do as you’re told.”

“Whatever you’re doing… I could offer money… everything I own…” Dean looked into Stanton’s face and saw a little hope in the assassin’s raised eye brow.

“I’d need a million cash?” Stanton barked out harshly knowing that even if Dean had the money and gave it to him he’d still have to kill him.

Dean’s face fell.

“I’m worth that, but not in cash.” He said quietly.

“Too bad.” Stanton shrugged the death sentence.

Dean carried on and dragged the body out of the narrow door and out onto the back of the boat under the evil eye of the pistol. Stanton looked and saw that the coasts were hazy lines a good distance away; they’d just passed the southern tip of Arran. They both stood at the back of the boat, Dean standing over the mummified body of the banker.

“Throw it over.”

“Can I say a prayer?” Dean asked, part stalling and part feeling the need to pray.

“If you think anyone will listen.”

Dean bowed his head, trying hard from memories of church in childhood to get the words right. He crossed himself, wishing that he’d led a more godly life, been less concerned with his business, spent more time with his son. He began to cry, lifting the body he said the Lord’s Prayer out loud. Griffith’s body made a dull smack as it hit the water.

Stanton was expecting tears and begging, it had been the way before, but Dean mustered some pride. He turned and faced Stanton self consciously wiping the tears from his face.

“Do you think anyone will pray for you when your time comes?” He asked Stanton a note of anger rising in his voice.

“Does it matter? Drop to your knees and ask whatever God you believe in to save you or welcome you it doesn’t matter to me.”

“I’ll say my prayers standing. I won’t die on my knees.”

“Then stand on the edge, facing out.”

“No you look me in the eye when you kill me you cold blooded son of a bitch!”

Stanton smiled. “You’re brave. Okay Kevan Dean, as you wish.”

“If and when they find my body I want my son to know that I faced my killer.”

“Touching.” Stanton said aimed the pistol at Dean’s head and pulled the trigger.

Dean knew what was coming and knew he had his chance. He knew the pistol was silent and so focused all his attention on Stanton’s trigger finger, no easy task as the boat rose and fell, but the will to survive can make people momentarily superhuman, sometimes.

Very suddenly he threw his hands to his face covering it, cried out and dropped back as he saw Stanton’s finger tighten. Stanton had fired. Dean fell backwards, unhurt, into the Irish Sea. The boat was doing twelve knots and the bump and ride of its passage made Stanton’s vision unclear. He felt sure he’d shot him dead centre of the head, but he watched the body for a moment and assured that it wasn’t moving went to clean the wheel house. Stanton knew he rarely missed.

Dean lay still on the water for as long as his breath allowed him. When he raised his head the boat was distant. Dean knew he didn’t have long in water that cold, but Arran couldn’t be too far back. Dean swam for his life thinking all the time of his family.

Baker Street

6 p.m.

April 18th

Jaz and Shadz had parked and walked up to the Sherlock Holmes hotel. It was their first hotel check. They went into reception. They were greeted at the desk by an admonished receptionist, no longer eating her sandwich and silently fuming over the temp worker who’d dropped her in it with the manager. She fixed a smile on her face, but struggled to maintain it.

“Hello can I help at all?”

Jaz pulled out the badge and held it up for inspection along with the picture of Mason, captured from the recent CCTV footage in the area.

“Have you seen this man?”

The girl pushed her face closer and squinted at the slightly fuzzy black and white image. Recognition dawned.

“Yes I have. He was here fifteen minutes ago dressed in kitchen staff uniform.”

“Is he still here?” Jaz almost shouted fear suddenly tightening her stomach muscles.

“I don’t know. I could get someone to check.”

“No don’t.” Jaz fast dialled the DIC contact number and spoke hurriedly. “Yeah it’s Jaz at the Sherlock Holmes on Baker Street. Get the rest of the teams here we’ve found Mason.”

The reply was simple. Sit in reception, look unobtrusive and wait for the other teams to get there. Jaz told the girl to say nothing and she and Shadz took places at a table, seated on a small comfortable sofa, backs to the wall.

Half a mile away one of the DIC teams was entering reception at the Bickenhall when they got their call to the Sherlock Holmes. The other teams with five negatives on hotels between them turned and honed in on their team mates on Baker Street.

Mason had spent the fifteen minutes prowling the corridors holding a plate of sandwiches avoiding do not disturbs and had already tried three rooms to no avail. Everyone must have been using the self service combination safes in the top of the wardrobes. He finally entered a room and was about to call out ‘room service’ when the sound of the shower indicated an occupant too busy to hear him. He didn’t close the door, padded on the balls of his feet past the closed door to the small bathroom and came across personal effects on a dresser. He picked up the wallet, put down the plate of sandwiches, turned about and was about to leave when the screech of car tyres in the road below, heard from the slightly open window, drew him across the room. He peeked through the edge of net curtains to see two cars illegally parked outside and busy, hurried looking people getting out. Security, he knew it.