EXCERPT The mid-October evening brought with it a cool chill as the wind
played mischievously with the leaves that had already fallen onto the pavement
and street. It was a grey evening, the cloud cover having progressively become
lower as the afternoon passed. The woman, who was in her early thirties, walked
briskly down the street her footsteps stirring the leaves on the path. She wore
a scarf that almost covered her short blond hair. The grey coat that provided
protection from the chill and her calf length boots made it impossible for any
onlooker to guess at her ethnic origin. She walked briskly, with the air of
someone who was in a hurry but unsure of where she was going.
In a moment she reached the end of the road. For a few seconds she
paused as if wondering which way to turn. She looked behind her and observed the
number on the nearest house. Fumbling for the tenth time in as many minutes in
her coat pocket she retrieved a small white card. On it was inscribed a name,
D.W. Palmer, his profession, and the address for which she was looking. She
scrutinised it as if it were the first time she had read the inscription, when
in reality she knew every detail by heart. This time she held on to the card as
she turned left and continued her brisk stroll. She passed five dwellings, each
almost identical to the last. At the sixth in the terrace she stopped and turned
to look at the door. She paused and looked a final time at the small white card.
Looking up she spotted the neat bronze numbers perched just above the doorway.
She stepped forward and pressed the doorbell to the right of the dark blue door.
Inside the dwelling a double chime sounded. While she waited she shuffled her
feet, not because she was trying to keep warm but because she was nervous.
Inside the building every movement of the woman as she had approached
the house had been carefully observed. From an upper room the man had a perfect
view of what was happening outside. It was not his usual practice to observe a
client in such a way, but the phone call a little over an hour ago had left him
intrigued. As it was clear that time would be of the very essence he had decided
to begin his assessment even before his client had introduced herself.
Damien Palmer had finished business for the day some time before the
phone had started ringing. Indeed he had been in the shower and had only just
managed to intervene before the answer-phone would have taken the message. Now
he was dressed for the evening. Smart casual wear had seemed to him to be the
order of the day. As he watched the woman approach the house he detected the
anxiety in her stride, and the one moment she glanced upwards he saw the strain
in her face. There was perhaps, for a fleeting moment, something else, but
Palmer could not be sure what.
The doorbell rang a second time and Palmer was already at the bottom
of the stairs. He passed his office where the door was still ajar. The
beginnings of the shelves of leather bound books could just be depicted. Had the
door been completely open the full grandeur of his collection would have been
evident. Not only that but the oak desk that grandly occupied the centre of the
room added to the appearance of opulence. On the desk were two objects. The
first looked like it belonged there. The ink blotter had been recently refreshed
and was neatly lined up, a pristine sheet of blotting paper evident to the
observer. The second object looked incongruous, for it belonged to a different
era. The small black box lay closed on the right side of the desk. To Palmer
this was possibly the most important piece of equipment he possessed. It was his
lifeline to so much. Once activated, the lap top computer provided him with a
lot of what was needed for him to do his job.
The door was not locked and even before the tones of the second chime
had passed into history Palmer was looking out at his new client.
“Mr. Palmer?” she enquired purposefully.
“Damien Palmer at your service, and I take it that you are Miss Helen
Cavendish?”
“You take it correctly. Thank you for seeing me at such short notice.
Mr. Goodland spoke very highly of you. I hope you can help.”
“Yes, well he would, wouldn’t he? Oh, I am sorry, do come in.”
“Thank you.” The door closed behind the woman as she entered the
hallway. “And why would he think highly of you, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“Well,” he paused for a moment, “it’s nothing really.”
“It may be nothing to you Mr. Palmer, but as my liberty may depend on
your skills I think I have a right to know.”
“Coffee? Tea perhaps? Please, do go in.” Palmer gestured towards his
office and even pushed the door open.
“Coffee, thank you.”
“Fine. Please do take a seat, I won’t be a minute.”
“But you still haven’t told me why my solicitor thinks so highly of
you.”
“I will do in the fullness of time. Not that we have much of it.
First though, coffee.”
He allowed her to enter the room and then made his exit to the
kitchen. In fact he always had a percolator running and the coffee was already
prepared, but this was one of his idiosyncrasies, allowing his client time to
settle down. “After all,” he had reasoned not half an hour earlier, “it might be
the last decent cup of coffee she gets for a long while.” He sat in the kitchen
for a couple of minutes waiting. There was no real need to rush at this precise
moment. The rush would come later. Mr. David Goodland had been quite sure of
that. Palmer already had one advantage over the woman in his study. Goodland had
phoned him while she was evidently in his company. His tone of voice had
expressed the urgency of the matter and he had been very persuasive in getting
Palmer to see his client that same evening. But the real advantage was the fact
that with his client already on her way Goodland had taken the trouble to ring a
second time to give Palmer more comprehensive details of the situation. In fact
the conversation had taken several minutes and Palmer had only just begun to
form a plan of action when the woman had arrived. The coffee ruse was simply
giving him a few moments to think.
“Coffee. I hope you like ground. I can’t stand that awful instant
stuff you get so much of these days.”
“Ground coffee is just fine, thank you.” Cavendish was sitting on the
“interview” seat that faced the desk.
“White? Sugar?”
“White, no sugar, thanks you.” Though evidently nervous, her voice
was clear and polite.
The preliminaries over, Palmer sidled into his well-upholstered
leather swivel chair and turned to face his client.
“Miss Cavendish I understand that you are in the gravest of
situations and that you need my services to help you out of the gravity. Is that
correct?”
“Yes Mr. Palmer, in a nutshell that is correct.” She reached down to
the bag that she had deposited on the floor. She pulled open the top and
rummaged inside for a moment. She withdrew her hand that held in it an A4 sized
manila envelope. She handed it across the desk. “Mr. Goodland asked me to give
you this,” she concluded.
“Oh good, now if you would give me just one moment to look at this,”
he began as he slit open the top of the sealed envelope, “and then you can tell
me all about it from the very beginning.”
He observed that the front of the letter had his name neatly typed in the
middle, and curiously on the top had been hastily scrawled the two words “By
Hand” in black ball-pen. He opened the envelope and carefully extracted the
contents. The two pictures he scanned over and put to the back of the pile. He
hastily read the introductory letter, though there was nothing in its content
that he was not already aware of. He found the cheque that the letter promised.
The thousand pounds would probably cover most of his immediate disbursements and
in any event he knew that the budget for this case was significantly greater. He
then focused on a report. It was not particularly long and having scanned it he
looked up at his new client.
“And so Miss Cavendish, your version of events?” His enquiry carried
with it a smile that was deliberately disarming but not overly friendly.
She took a couple of sips of coffee and began her story. As she
spoke, Palmer made a few notes. He was a quick writer but not particularly neat.
Her story continued for some fifteen minutes and as she told it she slowly, but
perceptibly, became more agitated.
“And the long and the short of it is this,” she said finally. “If you
can’t help me then I will go down for something I didn’t do and the real
criminal will get away with it. In short Mr. Palmer, I need an alibi, because it
was sixteen months ago and I haven’t got a clue where I was or what I was doing
at the time of the accident.”
“Hmm, and why the urgency tonight?”
“Well,” she paused, “after the inquest it looked like the whole thing
was a terrible accident. Now, though, in the past few weeks there’s been that
awful story put out,” and she pointed at the report Palmer was once again
holding. “It’s anonymous of course but it suggests I arranged for them to be
killed, and it’s not true.” By now the woman had started to sob, the faint
streaks of tears falling down her cheeks. Anyway Mr. Goodland found out today
that a writ has been issued for my arrest. Indeed, Mr. Goodland feels it would
be best if I went and surrendered voluntarily, but, oh dear I don’t know what to
do.”
“A tricky one I admit. And you do realise that by giving you this
chance to speak to me your solicitor has placed himself in a very awkward
position?”
“He has?” The woman looked puzzled.
“Of course.” Palmer sounded surprised at the woman’s apparent
ignorance. “He knows about the writ and has had contact with you. He has a duty
to contact the police. In fact, he could well have placed himself in a very
difficult situation.”
“But my visit to him was strictly off the record. There is no record
of it, or of my coming here.”
“That’s as may be, but there is always a risk. Someone could have
been outside his offices.”
“But I didn’t meet him there.”
“No. Really?” The question was made with a mixture of surprise at the
revelation and also a degree of incredulity. “Forgive me but this letter of
introduction has been typed, and so has the envelope. Also your solicitor phoned
me from his offices, I checked just to be sure.”
“Oh that was easy. We actually met somewhere completely away from his
offices, just because he was sure they are being watched. He had the letter and
envelope prepared for me before I met him and all he did was set the Call
Forward facility of his office phone to call you, and then he phoned his office
from his mobile phone. I’d have thought you’d have known about those kinds of
things.” Her voice was almost triumphant, but the tinge of anxiety remained and
she continued to sob at intervals.
“That is very clever indeed. Perhaps your solicitor has missed his
vocation. For your sake, I hope he hasn’t. But why all the secrecy?”
“For the simple reason I had to talk to you before I got arrested.
The rest of my life depended on it. You’ve got to find me that alibi.”
“ I see.” Palmer rubbed the back of his neck as he contemplated the
situation. “Now we must consider the idea of turning yourself in. On the one
hand your solicitor is right, but on the other it’s going to make talking to you
a lot trickier. Is there anything you haven’t told me that I should know
about?”
“I don’t think so.”
“And you say your flat was searched thoroughly by the police straight
after the accident and they found nothing?”
“That’s correct.”
“That was sixteen months ago, so they are sure to want to search it
again. I need three hours. Can you give me that?”
“I suppose so.”
“There must be no supposing about it. Those three hours are vital.
Can you give me three hours, or not?
“Yes. I’ll just go to ground for a bit.”
“Excellent. In that case, can I borrow your flat keys for a minute?”
Even as he was asking Palmer was opening a drawer on the left side of his desk.
“Now, you’re not supposed to see what happens next.” With that he took the two
keys that she proffered and lifted the lid of the first of the two little metal
boxes he had extracted. With infinite care he gently pressed the first key into
the waxy substance in the box. That done he did the same with the second. When
both impressions had been made he took a tissue and some spirit and carefully
cleaned both keys before handing them back to the owner.
“Now, Miss Cavendish, do I have your permission to enter your
premises?”
“Of course. What should I do next?”
“Well, I would suggest that you find somewhere to rest for a few
hours, a pub or cafe, and then go home to bed. In the morning you should go back
to Mr. Goodland and ask him to accompany you to the police station. I promise
you, when you get home you will not know I’ve been there.”
With that Palmer rose from the desk. The two boxes lay where he had
left them. He ushered the woman to the door and bade her farewell. As he shut
the door the genial smile on his face faded as he prepared for the task ahead.
He knew he had to work fast and that in all probability he was too late anyway.
He also knew that he had been less than honest with the woman and that it was
very likely she would never know whether he had been to the flat or not, but he
had not the heart to tell her what was likely to happen that evening.
Palmer worked quickly. In a few minutes he had poured a small
quantity of molten metal into the moulds he had made. The metal spat at him as
he poured it in. Then he waited for ten interminable minutes while the metal
cooled. While it cooled he busied himself around his residence. Quickly he
assembled the equipment he would need. He checked the camera was loaded, and
that the flashlight and tape-machine were in working order. For some reason he
also always carried a notebook, though he rarely wrote in it. The entire
collection was soon stowed in a nondescript, brown, top-opening brief case.
Then, and with great care, he lifted the new keys out of the moulds. He looked
at them with the scrutiny of an expert. Satisfied, he placed both keys in his
pocket and in a moment had left his terraced house.
He walked quickly but none too hurriedly to the nearest tube station.
He had a good memory and knew exactly where he was heading. He carried the
address in his wallet but was sure he would not need to check its details. As he
walked he kept watching; watching in case he was being watched. After all, the
writ must have been issued some three or four hours earlier and in any event
from the documents he had seen that evening it seemed more than likely that
someone other than the police were more than a little bit interested in his new
client. Palmer considered that it was quite possible that the woman had been
followed to his house. If so, then he could be followed now. By the time he
reached the station he was virtually sure that he had walked unobserved.
The tube journey was short, a mere five stops, and Palmer alighted.
With him came a few commuters finding their way home. It was a cool evening and
no one seemed in the mood for conversation, not that commuters seemed to
converse much anyway. As if this was the same journey that he had made every day
for a few years, Palmer strode up the stairs out of the station. At the entrance
was a concourse that led out into the taxi parking area. Beyond the taxi ranks
was the High Street. Palmer walked out of the station and passed the taxis. Once
on the road he turned right as if walking up into Wimbledon Village. Crossing a
set of traffic lights and then a second set he walked quickly as the red bus
came into view. He had just reached the bus stop when the bus pulled up.
“A stroke of luck”, he whispered to himself. “Could have waited ages
here at this time of night”. He entered the bus through the front door and
stated his destination before paying the fare. Looking round he eventually took
a seat at the rear of the compartment and sat back to observe his fellow
passengers. His observations were not totally benign. It was not just that he
had a genuine curiosity about other people, but on more than one occasion his
life had been saved because he had spotted something in time. Now he looked
around, casually but with purpose. The bus began its climb up the hill into the
village.
He watched carefully as the bus passed through the village, the
narrow street with the mini roundabouts at either end, past the familiar pub and
stables on the left, and then on towards the common. The bus stopped briefly at
the allotted places but with so few passengers each stop was more of a formality
than a necessity. Finally Palmer stood up and pressed the red button signalling
the driver he wished to alight at the next stop. He watched purposefully as the
bus slowed down. He knew where the flat was located. It was normally a short
walk of no more than five minutes from the bus stop but he wanted to be sure he
was not being followed. So, instead of taking the short, direct, route, Palmer
decided a more circuitous approach would be preferable. The bus had stopped now
and the doors hissed open. He stepped down onto the pavement and stood there as
the bus continued on its journey. With the road clear he crossed over and began
the route to the flat. Although time was short he wanted to be sure he was on
his own, though once the bus had started up again it seemed evident that he was.
He walked purposefully down the road, taking first a left turn and then a right
turn, until he found himself in the road he was searching for. He passed a grey
Volvo. As he did so he noticed that the driver was reading a street map.
Somewhere in Palmer’s brain an alarm bell started to ring. He was now
less than two minutes walk from the flat and he knew the street map gag of old.
It was one he had performed countless times, and seeing it performed here in the
street as he passed by sent his adrenaline racing to a new level. As a direct
consequence his walk became even brisker. He was fully fifty yards past the grey
Volvo when he heard an engine start behind him. Not looking round, yet listening
with great intent, he continued to walk. He saw the block of flats across the
road from where he was walking, but decided to ignore them for now. The engine
was still sounding behind him; a low, slow sound. When he was a few yards past
the block of flats the car suddenly roared its engine and passed by him. He
breathed a little easier as the car disappeared from view.
Turning back on his tracks he made straight for the flats. He passed
through the gap in the low hedge at the front and stood at the front door.
“Damn”, he cursed softly to himself. “Might have known there’d be one
of those, and I didn’t even think to ask her for the number.” The entry-phone
and combination number pad waited silently. He looked at the buttons and then
around him. He spotted the bundle of newspapers lying to the side of the door
and picked them up. Although the little white name plate next to Cavendish’s
flat number was not filled in it did not bother him. Most of them were blank, as
if the owners were trying to retain some kind of anonymity whilst in their
dwellings. He pressed the top buzzer, more out of habit than anything.
“Hello.” The female voice crackled slightly over the intercom.
“Paperboy,” Palmer introduced himself. “Guardian. Can you let me in
to drop them off.”
“Don’t you normally leave them outside?” The voice sounded annoyed at
having been interrupted by a mere paperboy.
“Yeah, have done up 'til now. But the boss says we have to put 'em
inside if we can, “cause when it rains they get wet otherwise.” Over the
intercom his voice sounded just like a teenage boy to the occupant of the
penthouse flat.
“Oh well, in that case I suppose I’d better open it for you.”
“Thanks.” Even as he spoke he heard the buzzer indicate that the
magnetic lock had been released for a few seconds. He pushed on the door and
entered the block of flats. Once inside he held the door for a few seconds and
then let it shut behind him.
The flats were arranged on four floors. There were four flats on each of the
first three floors, with a single penthouse suite on the top floor, filling the
eaves of the five years old building. Cavendish lived at flat 7, which, Palmer
had reckoned, was on the first floor. For a moment as he started to climb the
stairs he wondered how well the occupants knew each other. Quite well, he
guessed, as he reached the first landing. He pushed open the fire door and
entered the common landing for flats five to eight. The flats were arranged two
on each side, with a window at the opposite end of the landing to the fire door.
He walked towards the window and glanced out. It looked quiet outside, probably
because at that precise moment it was.
His gloved hand rummaged in his pockets and sought out the two keys
he had fabricated a little over an hour earlier. Holding the keys he glanced at
his watch briefly before inserting the “Chubb” type key in the lower lock.
Gently he started to turn it. The key moved a fraction and then stuck. He tried
turning it in the other direction but was greeted with the same result. He
removed the key from the lock and held it up to the landing light for closer
inspection.
The key had a small fragment of moulding covering one of the gaps
between the key’s teeth. Palmer reached into his pocket and extracted the small
file that he had learned to carry for such events. He gently filed the fragment
of metal and after a minute re-inspected the key under the light. Satisfied
with his work he again tried the key in the lock. This time it turned easily
and he heard the lock slide open. He withdrew the key and was about to turn his
attention to the upper “Yale” type lock when he heard the outer door open below
him. Breathing somewhat more quickly he placed the second of his keys in the
lock. With a quick and silent prayer that this one would work he started to
turn it. He could hear footsteps on the stairway below. The key began to turn
but the lock seemed unduly stiff. Whilst Palmer did not want to turn the key
too aggressively, as he was aware that his home made varieties were not that
strong, the urgency of the situation demanded speed rather than expediency.
“Here goes nothing,” he muttered as he exerted more pressure on the
key. The steps were now getting closer. The door gave as the latch yielded
under the turning key. Palmer passed inside without a pause and gently closed
the door. From within he placed the first key into the lower lock and in a
moment the door was securely locked. Palmer heard the fire door on the landing
opening and then heard one of the other flats being entered. Finally he dared
to breathe. Still wearing the light gloves he pulled the small flashlight torch
from the right pocket of his coat. Switching it on he quickly picked out the
details of the hallway of the flat. It was just as his client had described
it.
He felt in his pocket and turned on the tape recorder. He pulled the
slim tie-clip microphone out of the pocket and fastened it to his lapel.
In a matter of a few moments Palmer had entered the woman’s bedroom.
His examination was as swift as it was thorough and all the time he muttered his
observations into the microphone. In less than two minutes he had checked the
drawers and wardrobe. His gloved hand felt between the bed base and the
mattress but found nothing. The carpet was stuck to the concrete floor and so
could not be used for hiding things under. In seconds he had entered the
bathroom. Again his examination lasted a couple of minutes and again he exited
the room having found nothing of interest. There were now two rooms left and a
small storage cupboard. The cupboard was neatly arranged. Sheets, blankets and
towels were neatly stacked on the upper shelf. Below the shelves was a vacuum
cleaner, an ironing board and a couple of large, blue vases. Again Palmer made
a quick examination but found nothing. He glanced at his watch by the
torchlight but appeared unconcerned. With luck, he thought, he had another hour
and a half before he might be disturbed – with luck.
The kitchen was clean and tidy. The cupboards contained exactly what
would be expected in a kitchen, and nothing else. Palmer methodically examined
each and every drawer and still he continued to talk into the microphone.
Finally he had completed his search of the kitchen and still had not found what
he was looking for.
He entered the final room of the flat a little more than ten minutes
after he had entered the flat. The lounge/diner was again clean and tidy. The
furniture comprised a two-seater sofa, a casual chair, a dining table and four
chairs, a bookcase, TV and Video ensemble and a midi hi-fi unit. Palmer
observed all this and then turned his attentions to the bookcase. There was
only one shelf of books, the other shelves containing glassware and other
assorted ornaments. Palmer duly began to methodically examine each book in
turn. Removing the book he turned it upside down and then shook it. The first
half dozen books yielded nothing. The seventh book was a slim paperback and as
Palmer performed his ritual act of shaking the book a small piece of paper fell
to the floor. Palmer picked it up, smiled slightly and carefully placed it on
the table. His small pocket camera was soon retrieved from the brown case and
in a moment he had recorded the contents of the piece of paper. This action
complete, he returned the piece of paper to the book and returned the book to
the shelf. He continued with the search and found three further pieces of paper
that interested him. He meticulously photographed each item as he uncovered it.
All the time the tape recorder was noting down his audible observations.
Finally Palmer turned his attention to the sofa. He removed the
cushions and felt carefully down the side. On the second side he examined he
withdrew his hand holding a small dark-blue pocket diary. Looking at it he let
out a soft whistle. He thumbed through the pages. It was indeed a diary. A
diary for the previous year, and as he looked at it he noted that his client was
one of those people who kept notes for virtually every day. He reached the back
of the book and found the address pages. On them were neatly scribed the names
of more than thirty people. Palmer looked at it as he spoke.
“This diary,” he continued to speak into the microphone, “contains
far more information than I can copy at this time. It will have to be removed
from the scene for more detailed examination and then dealt with at a later
date. I simply don’t have the time to record all its details at this time.”
Palmer then placed the notebook in a clear plastic envelope that he
then folded and placed carefully in his inside pocket.
He turned to leave the lounge and as he did so he heard the buzzer on
the outer door as its sound broke the silence of the evening. He waited quietly
in the dark for two minutes until he could be sure that whoever was entering the
building had also entered their flat. He reached the front door of the flat and
out of habit peered through the spy-hole. Standing outside the door were two
tall gentlemen dressed in the uniform of the Metropolitan Police. Palmer
stopped breathing and very quietly retreated back to the lounge.
He waited for perhaps five seconds before he heard the first knock on
the door. As it sounded his heart began to beat faster. He could do nothing
but wait and hope that they would not try to gain access to the flat. If they
did, he reasoned, he could face a few difficult questions about his presence
there, and his possession of the diary. He waited quietly, listening for any
sound. The lounge door was open and he heard the second knock, a shade harder
than the first but still polite.
“Can’t see if there’s any lights on inside.” Palmer could just see
the landing light as one of the gentlemen outside pushed open the letterbox to
look inside. “Doesn’t look like it, I can’t see a thing, and it’s so dark.”
“Hmm. Let me have a look.”
The letterbox was closed momentarily as the two gentlemen outside
swapped positions.
“Nah, you’re right. She can’t be in. Better radio it in. Oscar two
zero to Charlie Foxtrot Lima, over.”
Palmer could almost hear the crackling, muffled noise of a
response.
“There’s no response from the flat Serge. Appears to be in darkness
and there’s no sounds within. What now, over?”
Again the muffled crackling response was virtually inaudible from
within the flat.
“Oscar two zero, understood.”
“Well?”
“We have to wait outside for a bit. They’re still trying to locate
her brief but he isn’t at home either. So we wait. Let’s go.”
Palmer heard the fire door on the landing being opened and then
closed, and a few seconds later he heard the buzzer as the outside door was
opened. He stood up and carefully went to look out of the darkened window. He
saw the two police officers return to their car that was situated just to the
left of the flats.
“Right,” he said to himself, “time to go.” With that Palmer quickly
returned to the front door, peered through the spy-hole and in less than thirty
seconds had passed through the door and re-locked it. He pocketed the two keys
and began to descend the stairs. His brown case swung loosely at his side, and
he looked exactly as if he were an insurance salesman leaving a client.
He reached the front door of the block of flats and pressed the door
release button. The sound of the buzzer became muted as the door closed behind
him. He walked briskly, but not too quickly, past the police car. He noticed
that the car still contained two occupants. He remained unchallenged as he
walked back to the bus stop. There was something he had to do, and he had to do
it soon, but he could not do it where he was. His task would have to wait until
the end of the bus ride. The urgency of the matter was still occupying Palmer’s
mind as the red bus pulled up at the stop. Palmer ascended the step and paid
the fare back to the station. As he did so a second bus drew up though this was
travelling in the opposite direction. Palmer noted the young woman standing on
the second bus and went to sit at the back of his own bus. He looked out of the
back window, distracted for a moment.
“Damn,” he muttered to himself as he recognised the woman. “Less
time than I had hoped. What the hell is she doing back here so early?” His
voice was hushed and totally inaudible to the person sitting at the front of the
seating area. “She could have given me another hour.”
The bus began its journey to the station. Palmer became aware of a
dark coloured car that seemed to be following the bus. He glanced out of the
window but could not obtain a clear view of the car’s driver. Also the car was
travelling at a sufficient distance to make the index number hard to decipher.
Palmer discretely maintained his observation as the bus passed through the
village and then descended the hill towards the station. At each stop along the
way the car overtook, but regained its position after the next side road. Palmer
removed his gloves as the bus neared his stop and then retrieved his return
ticket for the train. There was little point in running, he had decided, as the
frequency of trains at that time of evening meant if he was being followed that
his pursuer would have ample time to purchase a ticket and follow him. He
formulated a strategy as the bus slowed to a halt. As before on the journey,
the car passed the bus and Palmer noticed there were two occupants. They looked
young and were casually dressed.
Palmer descended from the bus. The dark car was now some fifty yards
ahead of the bus and travelling slowly. Palmer observed that the passenger was
looking back at the bus. As Palmer stepped off the bus onto the pavement he saw
the passenger door start to open. The bus stop was no more than fifty yards
from the entrance to the station and Palmer covered the distance in less than
ten seconds. As he ran he imagined the car’s passenger following him. He
entered the station and quickly passed the ticket barrier. He surmised that if
he was being followed then there was a realistic chance that whoever was
following him would know where he lived. He looked quickly at the information
monitors and simultaneously heard the voice announcing the imminent departure of
a train. He ran for all he was worth onto the platform and just made it to the
last carriage as the automatic doors were closing. Breathing heavily he sat
down on an empty row of seats. After a moment he looked around and realised he
was quite alone in the carriage.
“Thank God” he panted. He reached into the inner pocket of his coat
and withdrew his mobile phone. “And thank God for you too,” he muttered as he
hastily dialled a number. After a moment he made contact.
“Goodland?” His voice was still affected by his breathless state, and
though his question was terse it was nonetheless as polite as he could
manage.
“Yes,” came the equally short reply.
“Where are you, this is Palmer.”
“I know.”
“Can you talk?”
“Not really, it’s a bit chilly up here and I can’t hear you very
well.”
“Are you alone?”
“Not exactly, can I ring you back?”
“Yes. Before you go, mission accomplished.”
“Sorry.” Palmer could not be sure if the voice was apologetic or
questioning his last utterance.
“I said mission accomplished. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
This time there was no response and the line went dead. Palmer
replaced the phone in his inner pocket and sat back to contemplate the evening’s
events.
The train passed through several stations. Palmer decided that he
would deliberately not alight at his own stop just in case someone was waiting
for him, which seemed likely following the events in Wimbledon. The train
continued its journey towards the very heart of London. Palmer knew precisely
where he was going and had already decided what he had to do next. The brown bag
stood on the train’s floor neatly sandwiched between Palmer’s legs. As the
journey progressed he began to relax.
Finally, after about forty-five minutes, the train pulled into
Victoria station. Palmer alighted and made his way to the Northbound Victoria
line platform. The “blue line” train turned up a few minutes later and Palmer
continued his journey. He could be certain now that he was not being followed.
At Green Park Palmer alighted and made his way to the surface. He walked
briskly to a block of flats and pressed the doorbell of the flat he wanted. He
waited. After a minute he pressed the bell button a second time. After a few
seconds there was a crackling sound on the intercom.
“Uh-huh.” The voice from inside was barely audible.
“Jane, its Damien, can I come in?”
“Uh-huh.” The voice sounded weary and disinterested but in a moment
the lock on the front door to the block of flats was released and as Palmer
slipped inside the sound of the buzzer faded into the night.
Although a fairly modern block of flats the inside of the woman’s
flat was sparsely furnished, functional rather than homely. The door was open,
waiting for him, by the time he had climbed the two flights of stairs. He
pushed the door wide, and closed it firmly behind him. Once inside he took off
his coat and went into the lounge.
“Trouble?” The woman’s voice came from the kitchen area to the side
of the lounge and dining room.
“Sort of, but it’s nothing for you to worry about.” Palmer lied, but
he didn’t want to worry the woman.
“Yeah, sure it isn’t. Coffee, or something stronger?”
“Something stronger if you have it, and coffee would be nice too.”
“Good old Damien, never change, do you?”
The woman appeared in the archway that separated the kitchenette from
the lounge. Dressed in a night shirt and hastily adorned bathrobe, her
dishevelled long brown hair gave Palmer the clear impression that she had
retired for the night some time before his arrival.
“Sorry, Jane, did I get you up?” His question was meant to be
rhetorical, but it still received a response.
“Not really, I was just reading. Nothing on worth watching so I got
ready for bed early. Hang on a tick.” With that she disappeared into the
kitchenette. The disembodied voice continued, “You know where the booze is.
Help yourself, and I’ll have a whisky while you’re at it.”
“Okay. Anything in it?”
“You should know the answer to that by now.” She reappeared in the
archway holding two mugs of steaming coffee. “I take it neat, just like my
men.” She smiled wickedly.
Palmer missed her smile as at that moment his back was turned away
from the kitchenette while he concentrated on pouring the Whisky into the half
size straight tumblers.
“Now, tell me what the trouble is.” The woman had sat on the sofa
and beckoned to the detective to join her.
“Not much really, I was just doing a job for someone tonight and
things got a bit out of hand. Actually I was followed by a couple of unsavoury
blokes and had to use the trains to get away. Now, cheers.” With that he
raised his glass and took a mouthful of the brown liquid.
“So, are you staying over?”
“Depends on you. I certainly can’t go back home tonight. Just in
case they know where I live.”
“And you weren’t followed here?”
“No chance.”
“Sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure. It took me the best part of two hours to get here
and I’m absolutely sure that no-one, and I mean no-one, was following me.”
“Well, I hope you are right.” The woman moved a shade closer to the
man and gently placed a hand on his knee. “ Okay, you can stay, if you’re
sure.”
“I’m sure, and thanks.”
“That’s all right. It seems a long time, but then what are friends
for.” Her voice sounded hurt, but Palmer knew that this was just her way.
They sat and chatted for several minutes, as if passing the time of
day. Having known each other for over seven years they had plenty to talk
about. Finally the whisky had been drunk and the mugs were drained of the
coffee.
“Right,” the woman said,” I’m for bed.” She stood up and Palmer
stood with her. She turned to look at him and instinctively took a half step
towards him. She reached up on tiptoe and in a moment had given him the
briefest of pecks on the cheek. “Night then,” she continued as she feigned to
pull away. As she did so he reached an arm around her back and pulled her close
to him. He felt her firm, shapely body pressed against his and he looked into
her face. He bent forwards slightly until his face was looking straight at hers
and then he drew her even closer. Their lips met in a long and passionate kiss.
Finally he released his hold on her.
“It’s been a long time, Jane. Too long.”
“Yeah. Too long.” She reached forward and again their lips were
joined in passion, though this time the contact was more frenetic. They were
still holding each other as she led him to the bedroom.
“Just for tonight,” she whispered as she kicked the bedroom door shut
behind her. In less than two minutes the bedroom light was turned off, and with
it the night descended.
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Children`s Fiction
Non-Adult Fiction
