Richard Wiseman - To Kill Or Be Killed

He walked out of the airport in a foul mood. The April drizzle might have cooled his hot head, but its niggling needle like drops only increased his annoyance. He checked the thin black wallet for cash and cursed the expensive breakfast, newspaper and coffee for taking nearly ten pounds of the thirty cash they had been given.

The flight was twelve pounds, but the surcharge and taxes took the price up to twenty four. He didn’t have the money for the flight. He wondered why they had been given so little cash and then became angry when he realised that the organisers had assumed that the credit card would work. His didn’t and he had no way to contact then to get it sorted.

He stood briefly in the rain, exasperated, wondering what to do when a taxi stopped in front of him.

“Going into the city my friend?”

The pale, podgy, pudding faced taxi driver called from his open window.

Marco Spencer smiled, but his eyes were predatory and his mind made up. Well he wanted the million. The man looked close to a coronary anyway.

“Sure. I need to go to…” He let it trail off.

“Yeah?” The taxi driver was tired.

It was the end of his night shift and he’d done extra hours; too many really. His last fare had taken him to the airport, so in greed he was looking for a fare to take back, so as not to waste the drive; it would be the last of his shift.

“It’s an address on the east side of the city.”

Marco got in.

“I’ll need better than that.”

“Have you got a map?”

The driver ‘tutted’.

“Sorry friend. There’s a twenty in it if you help me.”

Enthused at least a little by the promise of extra cash the driver got out a map. Spencer made a play of forgetting the exact address and by the time he’d looked at the map he had picked his spot.

“The business man I’m meeting lives on the front, just off the 96 on the way to Milton of Culloden.”

“Sure enough, but it’s gonna cost ya.”

“That’s fine.” The taxi driver took in the long black cashmere coat and smart look of his fare. He thought that the money was there alright.

The taxi driver swung the car around and pulled onto the road thinking he’d soon be at the end of his shift.

In the back, under cover of his smart black coat, Marco pulled the famously silent Russian PSS pistol out of his inside pocket and released the safety catch.

The taxi driver tried to make conversation, but Spencer’s short replies soon put him off. Spencer and his pale, unhealthy taxi driver drove pretty much right around the outskirts of the city and then drove along the ninety six A road in silence. Finally the car turned onto the road by the Moray Firth coastline. Spencer’s pulse quickened and his eyes hardened.

“You sure this is right no?” The taxi driver looked anxiously in the mirror.

Spencer checked for witnesses and there were none. It was a thick drizzle that would keep even the most ardent dog walkers and joggers away from the stretch of coastal roadway.

“I said…”

The PSS round passed through the sweat impregnated foam where the base of the podgy driver’s neck rested. The bullet passed through the seat, the man’s spine at the base of his skull and lodged in the grimy ceiling covering, above the sun visor. The man arched his back briefly, but suddenly becoming instantly quadriplegic he lost control of his limbs and his lower body. The driver was about to fall forward onto the car horn when Spencer’s hand grabbed the hair at the back of the man’s head. Spencer twisted the head into the gap between the seats; the driver’s eyes were wild with fear and desperate with the need to scream as Spencer held the pistol muzzle to the left eye and squeezed. A black hole replaced the bloodily disintegrated eye and the light in the right eye went out as skull, brain matter and blood spattered the passenger seat, the bullet passing through head and seat, ripping and tearing, finally lodging in the metal frame of the seat.

Spencer had killed innocent people to keep cover and killed for money, but this was a little different and Marco felt it to be so. He felt he’d crossed a line. In his work it was often kill or be killed, but the only danger from the man was second hand smoke fumes. The driver wouldn’t have the kind of money on him that Spencer got for contracts, but he needed the money to move on. He steeled himself and thought of the million waiting. Enough to retire on he knew well enough.

The shame for the driver was that a simple mugging was out of the question as Marco couldn’t leave a witness to identify him.

With brutal efficiency Spencer bundled the body into the boot of the taxi, having taken the jack out and lifted nearly a hundred and fifty pounds in notes and change from the man’s pockets. Spencer also took all that could identify the man quickly.

He knew the man had radioed in their trip from the airport to the coast. He sat in the driver’s seat practised a rough version of the driver’s voice. Then as quickly as possible called in

“Two – zero d. o Highland”

A voice crackled back.

“Okay Tommy, now away home to your bed.”

A quick “Aye” and the job was finished.

Spencer once again stood in the slashing, drizzling rain. He put his briefcase and long black coat down by the road. He turned the car to face the sea. There was no sea wall, just the pavement and beyond that a pebbly slope down to the choppy waters.

Spencer got out leaving the engine running; he jammed the accelerator down with the jack, popped it into gear, stepped back and watched the car high rev off the road, in first gear, into the Moray Firth. At this point on the coast the shelf was shallow enough for the car to roll a good distance under water and be hidden for some time.

Spencer dusted himself off, put on his now much damper cashmere coat, plucked his briefcase from a puddle and drizzle spattered headed back into Inverness. He decided to walk back, there’d be no witnesses to his return from that area and now he had transit money. He decided against the plane as he’d be linked to the driver at the airport. No he’d get the night train down to London. Even though he was wet and cold he thought with joy of a sleeper berth, a restaurant car and a hot meal. It was getting on for ten in the morning and he knew he had to find a quiet place to spend the day before buying his train ticket.

Euston Tower London

9- 20 a.m.

April 17th

With the tour of Euston Tower over David and Jack Fulton went to the refectory for coffee. As the work involved monitoring, staff in the building took breaks in shifts. There were quite a few people in what was a large and friendly room. There was none of the uncomfortable plastic and chrome furniture like most office canteens. The well decorated, light and airy refectory was littered with club chairs set around solid well made tables. The DIC refectory was self service, funded by subs from wages. The building’s workers were happy to ‘divvy’ in and DIC couldn’t have a catering firm do the work on the grounds of secrecy. Cleaning was undertaken by a team of ex DIC watchers living in the London area that were mostly retired or looking for less demanding work with DIC. No-one working for a firm of regular caterers or cleaners would allow themselves to be so thoroughly investigated and questioned in the way that DIC would need to for the sake of security.

Sandwiches and take away were delivered to the reception frequently throughout the day and were thoroughly checked by security before being allowed in. Buyers had to pop down and collect their orders.

Jack and David made themselves some coffee.

“Hello Jack.” David and Jack turned to be faced with a rather thin woman, in her late sixties, with piercing sharp little hazel eyes.