THE IMMORTAL MISS JUDE - PART 3

THE IMMORTAL MISS JUDE

MONDAY. 10:03 AM.

As he looked at the Kessler building towering high above him, Randall suddenly felt very small indeed. It was a glinting silver tower he had passed a thousand times, never once wishing to enter. That was all about to change. Slowly two giant glass doors parted silently introducing him into another world. Stepping inside he felt like Jonah staring into the belly of the whale. Consumed and astounded by the scale of it all.
Ahead of him, shooting from a shimmering floor of black marble, huge steel girders disappeared amongst a tangle of busy escalators. Like the workings of some huge machine they carried columns of lifeless spirits high into an architect’s heaven. Then as he glanced across the foyer he noticed the elevators descending like great glass weights, each one filled with grim faced executives.
With a shake of the head he approached a large octagon-shaped reception desk in the very centre of the foyer where a group of young females hovered, identical in white blouses and fixed smiles.
‘Can I help you, sir?’ said one, aware of his bewildered expression.
‘Yes,’ he said showing his warrant card. ‘Inspector Randall.’
‘Ah, yes, Mr Pimm is expecting you.’ Leaning forward she placed a plastic name badge on his lapel. ‘Level 26, take lift 3.’
He nodded and put away his card. He regretted showing it. Somehow it had seemed an insignificant gesture.
Lift 3, he eventually discovered, was hidden behind one of the many palm trees that dotted the huge foyer. Outside they would have been things of beauty, but there, amongst the steel and glass, they were inappropriate, sorrowful almost, like birds in a cage.
No sooner had the door closed than Randall was moving silently upwards. Looking down at this world of progress he wondered how it had all eluded him. He had spent a lifetime in the capital and watched as it grew around him. Yet somehow he had been unaware of the generations of entrepreneurs that had entered the city and transformed it. All during a time where he had spent each day dealing with the corrupt, the greedy and the ill advised.

Suddenly as the lift slowed to a gentle stop, Randall saw Xavier Pimm for the very first time. He was tall and tanned wearing a pinstriped suit and a broad smile. As the doors opened he stepped forward and offered his hand.
‘Good morning,’ he said taking Randall’s hand. ‘Xavier Pimm, you spoke to my assistant on the phone.’
Randall gave his usual affable smile and followed his host on a tour of Kessler minimalism. Level twenty-six was divided into four sections, each one with an individual theme. Pimm’s segment was oriental, all bonsai, orchids and feng-shui.
‘Coffee?’ asked Pimm leading him into a large open plan room.
‘Thank you.’ Hovering awkwardly in the centre of the room he was suddenly drawn to an almost unrestricted view of the capital.
‘It’s a bit like living next to the sea,’ said Pimm as Randall moved to the window. ‘After a while it loses a little of its wonder.’
‘It’s quite something. I had no idea it could look so . . . ’
‘Peaceful?’
‘Yes, that’s the word,’ he said walking back to meet him. Holding his drink in one hand he carefully placed himself in a ridiculously large leather armchair. ‘Thank you for seeing me at what must be a very busy time.’
Pimm’s smile suggested he had got him where he wanted him. ‘Yes, it has not been the best week of my life.’
‘Yes, I was sorry to hear about Mr Kessler.’
‘He was a fine man.’
Randall knew from the tone of his voice he meant it. ‘What day did he . . .’
‘The early hours of Wednesday morning,’ said Pimm abruptly, looking up from his drink with an empty smile. ‘It came as quite a shock.’
‘A heart attack I believe?’
‘That’s right. He was transferred from Westmoreland Street to Queen Margaret’s Hospice, and seemed to be making good progress . . . then he had another attack.’
‘Westmoreland Street?’
‘The heart hospital.’
‘I see . . . Is there any family?’
‘A brother, Jason. But he died over a decade ago. The only remaining family is Jason’s daughter, Harry’s niece, Lauren. She has spent most of her life in Singapore.’
‘Will she be here for the funeral?’
‘Yes, as a matter of fact she arrives in London today. We are expecting her some time this afternoon.’
‘Did he never marry?’
‘No. He got close a few times but never quite made it all the way.’
‘I see. And how long had you known Mr Kessler?’
‘Known Harry?’ He paused and smiled. ‘Sorry, it’s strange to hear his name used in the past tense. Harry and myself go back a long way.’
‘I believe you first met in Korea?’
‘My we have been doing our homework,’ he said stroking a flash of greying hair by his temple. And was that a look of respect that had suddenly appeared in his eyes? ‘Forgive me Inspector but I was under the impression that your enquiries were regarding an employee?’
‘Sorry, yes. Linda Kraner. You’re probably aware of her murder on Friday.’
‘Of course, terrible business. Any sign of this Hawksmoor character yet?’
‘Not as yet,’ said Randall, awkwardly. ‘What can you tell me about Kraner?’
He walked to his desk. ‘My PA had a root round the archives and dug out what we have.’
As he returned and slid the thin file across the coffee table Randall was drawn to his well-manicured hands. Despite the brown tone and array of golden bands. They were large with thick short digits. More the hands of a labourer than a man of business.
‘What was her position?’ said Randall switching his focus to his coffee.
‘Secretary, I believe. It’s all in the file.’
‘And next of kin?’
‘As far as I can gather we’ve been unsuccessful in tracing any relatives.’
‘Are you aware that her real name was Reed, Barbara Reed?’
‘Is that so?’
There seemed little interest in his tone, which somehow angered Randall.
‘You don’t find that odd?’
‘I don’t follow?’ said Pimm, surprised at his tone.
‘Don’t you check up on applicants?’
‘Now, yes, of course. But not back in the seventies.’
There was a beep from an intercom on the desk.
‘Yes?’ said Pimm, flicking a switch.
‘Hong Kong Mr Pimm,’ said the voice of a young woman. ‘Line three.’
‘Put it through,’ he said before looking over to Randall. ‘If you’ll excuse me for a second.’
As he patronised someone on the other side of the globe, Randall patrolled the office. Like Pimm himself, it was refined and dressed to perfection. On one wall, a wide canvas of orange and gold shapes warmed the room like a fire. Then Randall spotted a group of photographs nestling between two large windows. At first, he saw nothing more than young soldiers smiling in the heat of some distant land. Then on closer inspection, he realised who they were - Pimm and Kessler.
For a moment, he attempted to surmise the location, but then noticed Pimm’s glare in the reflection of the glass. Somewhere deep within there was a sudden warm rush of exhilaration. It was a rare sensation. But one he knew well and one that told him he was moving in the right direction. Looking back at the photograph, he studied Kessler. He was like some Greek god. Tall and muscular with incredibly strong dark eyes.
‘Sorry about that,’ said Pimm finally as Randall returned to the table and picked up the file. ‘More coffee?’
‘No thank you,’ he said suddenly looking up. ‘According to this she was only in your employment for under a year.’
‘Really?’
‘Considering she was with you for such a short period she seems to have been treated particularly well in her retirement. Why do you think that is?’
‘I’ve no idea. As things are at the moment I really don’t have the time to worry about ex-members of staff murdered, living or otherwise. The board has given me temporary control of the company until after the funeral this Friday and until then I haven’t got a minute to think about anything other than the Kessler Organisation.’ He moved round the desk and sat down. Then brushing a stray fibre from his otherwise perfect suit, he looked up and sighed. ‘I’m sorry if that sounds callous but I do have a huge amount of business to deal with.
‘Look,’ he said sliding forward in the chair, his tone a little lighter. ‘We have both worked in similar fields and we both know how easy it is to be sidetracked with irrelevant detail. Is the flat and her various stage names so relevant? The poor woman was murdered after all.’
Before he could reply the door opened forcing the two men to their feet. For a moment Randall was drawn into a trance. Beauty often has that effect. And Randall had found himself face to face with the most beautiful thing he had ever seen in his life.
Lauren Kessler was thirty-five, but with long fine auburn hair and pure ivory skin, she could have easily passed for a woman half her age. She was so slight that it seemed the softest breeze could break her, her whole appearance being so delicate. Yet, despite her size, there was something about her that lit up the room like the sun.
‘Lauren, my dear,’ said Pimm walking to her. ‘We weren’t expecting you until this afternoon.’
‘Well, you know me. Always full of surprises.’
Her voice was deeper and more commanding than Randall had expected, but if anything it only added to her appeal.
‘Oh, forgive me. This is Inspector Randall. He’s making some enquires into a rather unsavoury incident with an ex-employee.’
She smiled and took his hand. ‘Pleased to meet you Inspector.’
‘And you Miss Kessler. I was sorry to hear about your uncle.’
‘Yes, he was a fine man.’
‘Mr Pimm tells me you’ve spent most of your life in Singapore?’
‘That’s right. But it’s always good to be back in England.’
For a moment Randall paused, as if he sensed she was preparing to say something else. But when she did nothing more than smile up at him, with dark penetrating eyes, he found himself searching to fill the silence. ‘I was once there myself,’ he said, eventually. ‘Well, for a short time anyway. I can imagine how tired you must be.’
‘Yes, very,’ she smiled. ‘Which is rather odd considering I slept for most of the journey.’
There was a brief moment of conviviality before Pimm spoke again.
‘Was there anything else Inspector? I really need to get on.’
‘Me too,’ said Randall with a smile. ‘It’s been a pleasure meeting you Miss.’
‘And you Chief Inspector.’
Randall walked to the door, but as he reached it he suddenly turned and clicked his fingers, as if what he was about to utter had just leapt into his mind. But he had planned it from the start, and wanted to see the reaction on Pimm’s face in an unguarded moment.
‘There is one thing I wanted to ask. Does the name Dorothy Kite mean anything to you?’
To Randall’s surprise it wasn’t Pimm that reacted to the question, but Lauren Kessler.
‘She was the actress that was killed in a plane crash in the sixties, wasn’t she?’
‘That’s right, Miss. You do surprise me.’
‘I’m a great reader Mr Randall. I’m sure I read something about her only last year. By all accounts she was quite a woman.’
‘I believe so.’
‘Why do you ask?’ said Pimm after a moment.
‘Because it appears that Linda Kraner, or Barbara Reed or whatever she calls herself, was in fact Dorothy Kites dresser, shortly before she joined the Kessler Orginisation.’ Opening the door, he turned a final time and smiled. ‘But as you say, sir, it’s probably just irrelevant detail. Good morning to you.’

Earlier that morning with the sun breaking across the hills, Donald woke to find two strangers in his room. They were, he was reliably informed, his dressers. He’d had many in his career but none so glum or charm-less. Nevertheless, they were at least efficient, and when he had been wrapped in the uniform hooded linen gown, he was as indistinguishable as they were. From there he was taken down to a large hall, where, quite alone, he ate a breakfast of fruit and bread.
He had slept remarkably well and woken refreshed, his senses more acute than he could ever remember. After a while, Quinn appeared, but to his relief, he seemed to bear no grudge for Donald’s outburst the previous evening.
‘Time for the grand tour Mr Hawksmoor,’ he said wheeling the rickety carriage through the door.
First stop was a small workshop on the far side of the courtyard. Inside there was a space no bigger than an average living room, lined with two long benches. At each one half a dozen or so men, absorbed in various tasks, toiled in dismal conditions.
It was an assembly line where each man built a part and then passed it on to the next point. Peering from his lowly position Donald was straining to see the end result of this industry when he caught the gaze of an ancient creature whittling a piece of wood on the nearest bench. It was clear to see he had suffered a stroke at some point, one side of his face was still sunken and lifeless. With the pain he had endured from the previous twenty-four hours still in his mind Donald felt at one with the poor wretch and gave him a comforting smile. To his surprise, however, this expression of empathy was not reciprocated, as the man suddenly stuck out his tongue and giggled uncontrollably.
‘Brothers,’ said Quinn, stopping the old man’s flow. ‘We have a guest. As you can see he has suffered injury and I have taken it upon myself to help this man in his hour of need.’
‘How very commendable,’ thought Donald.
‘Needless to say I ask you all to show him kindness and warmth as if he was one of our own.’
During this monologue the brothers stared vacantly at Donald as if in a collective dream. Then when he had finished and they turned to face the door, they returned to their work as vultures to a carcass.
‘I bet they’re a real hoot at the Christmas party,’ said Donald, as they crossed the courtyard.
Quinn laughed. ‘Don’t judge others by your own standards Mr Hawksmoor. These men have chosen a path of sacrifice and dedication. But that does not mean they don’t enjoy life, they merely derive it from other quarters. Look around, there is beauty everywhere and happiness for all who seek it.’
‘You want to get a job with the tourist board,’ said Donald as they reached the house. ‘You’re wasted here.’
Suddenly, the door opened ahead of them and Peter and Paul walked out to meet them. Peter glanced down at Donald for a moment before taking Quinn to one side. Watching them from the chair Donald wondered what plans they had for him.
‘How are you?’ asked Paul. His cheery smile a pleasant antidote to Donald’s current concerns.
‘Bloody marvellous,’ Donald muttered, his eyes fixed on Quinn and Peter. ‘What’s going on?’
‘Dunno. Probably Simon. He’s always disappearing. Why do you ask?’
‘No reason,’ he said as the two men returned.
‘I must leave you now, but you will be well cared for by young Paul here. Perhaps you should explore the grounds and take advantage of the sun. God only knows how long it will last.’

From the gardens Donald could now see the extent of the house for the first time. It was larger than he had imagined and at some point had obviously been an impressive ancestral home.
The sun was as hot and the sky as cloudless as the day before and Donald was beginning to feel, despite his aching limbs, a little more like his old self.
‘Where are you from?’ he muttered clenching a blanket under his chin.
‘Bolton,’ replied the boy, a little more reserved than the day before.
‘And what do your parents do?’
‘I never knew my dad and my mum just did cleaning.’
‘There is no shame in that,’ he said staring down at the path. ‘When was the last time you saw her?’
‘Before I went to Prison.’
‘And how did you find this place?’
‘Quinn and Peter met me at the gates of the prison. They told me about the brotherhood and asked me if I would like to join them.’
‘Why were you in prison?’
‘I was a sinner.’
‘Yes, well,’ he said raising his head. ‘We all are in our own little way. But what crime did you commit?’
‘Theft.’
‘Of what?’
‘Everything. Motors really.’
‘Ah, a joy rider, how exciting,’ Donald laughed, which quickly turned to a spluttering bout of coughing.
‘Are you alright?’
‘Leave me!’ Donald growled, waving an arm.
Walking to a nearby bench the boy waited and watched. Who was this man he had found? There was something different about him that he was drawn to. It was something in the way he spoke, and in the way he looked into his eyes. Nobody had ever spoken to him like that, like an equal. He was a man who had faced similar hardship, he recognised the look, it was commonplace in prison, a shared guilt despite the haughtiness.
‘What’s your name again?’ asked Donald after a while.
‘Paul.’
‘Paul, of course, I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to shout. Shall we continue?’
For some time neither of the men spoke. Instead, deep in thought they travelled through the gardens. Past rich borders of milk-coloured delphiniums, and powder blue stars of clematis, now running wild, unchecked among hedges and shrubs. Every now and then, Paul stopped and searched for berries. Donald watched in fascination. He had forgotten how easy it was gather the fruits of the wild. For some time he watched in wonder as Paul showed him all that he had learnt. Soon they had a sumptuous collection of wild strawberry, blackberries, dewberry and stone bramble.
‘What’s that on the hill?’ Donald said eventually looking back towards the house.
They had stopped at a small overgrown terrace where a wooden bench endured the elements, alone. Its struts were so warped it created a small archway, which Paul took full advantage of by sitting at its peak and swinging his short skinny legs. He was playing with the crucifix again and only stopped as he looked back beyond the house.
‘Oh that. That’s the Chapel.’
‘Very quaint. I imagine there’s quite a lot of temptation in there for a little magpie like yourself?’
‘Quinn says if I keep the lord forever in my mind and the devil behind me, I will never weaken.’
‘Does he make all this stuff up himself?’
‘You don’t like him do you?’
‘No, I’m sure he’s a fine man. I’ve just never had time for people who seem intent on changing others, regardless of their own failings. Forgive me, I’m just a bitter old man.’ He smiled gently. ‘Have you ever wanted to leave here?’
‘Why should I want to leave?’
‘I don’t know.’ Donald considered the question for a moment, then sighed. ‘Maybe you’re right. Maybe it’s better here.’
Over the past week, Donald had discovered clarity of mind he had never known before. It seemed as if he had been washed clean and all that remained were the very prerequisites of true wisdom.
‘Won’t you be staying?’ said Paul, suddenly still.
‘I shouldn’t think so. Why don’t you come with me, instead? Cannes is rather beautiful this time of year.’
‘You’re mad do you know that?’
‘The thought had crossed my mind. Who gave you the cross? Quinn?’
‘My mum.’
‘And when did you see her last?’
‘Dunno.’
‘I see,’ said Donald nonchalantly as he stared up at the sun. ‘Damn it’s hot.’
‘Do you want to go back?’
‘No, take me over to the shade of those trees.’
Ahead of them the path petered out beneath a lush green lawn. Bordering it stood a long row of birch trees stretching off outside the grounds towards a patchwork of ploughed fields in the valley below.
‘But Quinn said . . .’
‘You needn’t worry, I don’t have the strength to wander off,’ he smiled. ‘Tell Quinn I just need some time on my own. He’ll understand.’
Reassured with Donald’s performance Paul pushed him across the grass into the shade and returned to the house.
For some time Donald looked out across the pasture. Had all this been inevitable? For too long there had been no sense of consequence, no fear for what life may throw back at him. So, despite his tiredness, he forced himself to face the years he had so thoughtlessly taken for granted. Like a man finding his way out of a maze, he started along the path of his life. Each memory, joyous, heartbreaking or even downright dreary, had its place. Like signposts, each one relevant, a trigger for the next, until finally he had reclaimed his past and was no longer suffocating in the dense fog his life had become.
Preoccupied with the sweet succulent tastes of success and all that it gave, he had failed to notice the changing of the seasons. Somehow, he had grown old and he could already feel the icy chill of winter as it approached.
He knew his chances of survival were less than favourable, but at least now, he could see the way ahead.

Queen Margaret’s Hospice, or as it is affectionately known in the upper echelons of London society, “the departure lounge,” was a remarkable Victorian building of light brown stone that glowed like corn in the late morning sun.
Parking up and crossing the pristine lawn, Randall entered the elaborate entrance to find himself in a foyer that would not have been out place at the Hilton. There he was confronted by a vision in pink. A handsome woman of mature years (although with a heavy layer of foundation plastered from hairline to jaw, it made it difficult to be exact) arranging a vase of flowers from behind a long ivory-coloured reception desk. Noticing Randall she took off her tortoiseshell glasses, allowing them to swing gently on their chain across her large bosom. Smiling and stroking her pencil thin eyebrows, she then wished him good morning with an odd nasal whine.
‘Good morning,’ said Randall, suddenly aware of the contrast of white neck and orange face.
‘Who is sir visiting today?’
‘Actually the person in question is no longer with us.’
‘Oh, I am so sorry.’ This was uttered with great humility and honed to perfection. ‘Was it a recent demise?’
‘Yes, very. Harry Kessler.’
‘Oh, yes, a fine man. Are you a relation?’
‘No,’ he said, showing his card. ‘I just wanted to ask a few questions.’
Suddenly adopting a more reticent demeanour she replaced the glasses on her rather large roman nose and clasped her hands on the desk. ‘Yes, Inspector.’
‘When exactly was Mr Kessler admitted?’
‘Last Monday evening, he was transferred from the heart hospital in Marylebone.’
‘And when was the first heart attack?’
‘The initial attack was on the previous Friday I believe, but he had improved sufficiently to be transferred. It wasn’t until Tuesday morning that the situation worsened.’
‘So he did regain consciousness before he died?’
‘Oh, yes. He was in a bad way, but he was able to speak. Would you like to see the doctor?’
‘No, thank you. You seem more than well informed.’
‘I try my best,’ she said with a proud grin, patting her tight perm.
‘Tell me, do you have a list of all visitors?’
‘Of course, all visitors must be signed in.’
‘Do you have a record?’
‘Yes, but there’s no point, there was only one. A Mr Xavier Pimm.’
‘Ah, Mr Pimm.’
‘You know him? A delightful man, most courteous.’
‘Yes,’ said Randall, with a weak smile, ‘and you are certain there were no others?’
‘Quite.’
Flipping through the book, she revealed the relevant page. It was just as she said. Thanking her, he walked out and made his way to the car. Ahead of him, pushing a noisy metal linen trolley, he could make out the unnaturally red face of a middle-aged man. It wasn’t until Randall reached the car that he realised he knew it well.
‘Louie?’
The man stopped and stared for a moment. He was short and stocky with virtually no hair, and although he was overweight, it was still possible to distinguish a fine muscular frame beneath the blubber.
‘Mr Randall?’ He had a mild speech impediment, in that instead of pronouncing the letter R he substituted it with a W. ‘Well I don’t believe it. What are you doing here? I thought you’d retired.’
‘Not quite. How are you?’
‘Fine, you nicking me for aggravated burglary was the best thing that ever happened to me.’
‘Really?’
‘Oh, yes,’ he said, leaning against the cage and producing a half smoked roll-up. ‘You see whilst I was inside my girl had a kid. Imagine that, me a grandfather.’ He took a photograph from his wallet. ‘Look at her, a real angel.’
‘She’s got a look of you, Louie.’
‘Do you think so Mr Randall?’ Randall didn’t think so. If the poor child had anything remotely resembling Louie Parsons she was in for a tough life. ‘Yes, you might be right. Anyway when I come out of stir, the last thing I want to do is go back to the old life. So, I managed to get a job here and I’ve been straight ever since.’
‘That’s good to hear.’
‘What you doing here then?’
‘I was just looking into a former patient. Harry Kessler.’
‘Old Harry Kessler, eh? Did you go to reception?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you met up with old tin knickers, eh? What did you want to know?’
‘What visitors he had.’
‘There was one bloke, executive type. The nurses were quite taken with him.’
‘Xavier Pimm?’
‘That’s him. Yes, he was here everyday.’ Blowing a circle of smoke into the still air, he smiled broadly and winked. ‘What’s it all about then, Mr Randall?’
‘You know better than to ask me that,’ he said watching the smoke as it spread wide before them.
‘I know. But I only ask because there were others.’
‘Other visitors?’
‘At rather unusual hours.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Well,’ he said tapping his nose, flattened by too many knocks. ‘I was on nights the week he died, and every night, in the early hours mind, I was sent to do work at the other side of the hospice. It was all very secretive, I thought it odd at the time.’
‘Why keep it quiet?’
‘Well, let’s be frank Mr Randall. Kessler was a very wealthy man, and when money’s involved, there’s always a need for privacy.’
‘Do you know who they were?’
‘No, we were all out the way. I doubt if any of the doctors even knew. All very suspicious,’ he said snuffing out the cigarette with his fingers and putting it back into the top pocket of his overall.
‘Why do you say that?’
‘Because you’re here, Mr Randall.’
With a wink he prepared to move off. Before he could though Randall put a foot on the trolley and took out his wallet.
‘Thanks Louie. Get that grandchild of yours something nice, eh?’

Sheltered from the hot sun by the perfectly spaced trees, Donald slept for some time. He couldn’t remember the dream but suspected from the memories of his youth now flooding his mind that it had been of happier times. Slowly he was waking.
How he longed to be out of this nightmare and back to the normality of life in London. There he could start again. Act, write, live. Anything but exist beneath this cloud of fear. How he longed to be in a production again where everyone knew their place and each scene was played out with perfect symmetry. Now life for him was nothing more than an improvisation, one on a grand scale that required a performance nothing short of perfection.
Allowing his mind to wander unrestricted for most of that afternoon, he was suddenly brought back to the present by a silhouetted figure amongst the trees. Still and ghostlike, it seemed as if Hern or some ancient spirit of the forest had been roused by his thoughts, and had come to study the source.
‘Who’s there?’ he called out.
There came a reply but it was lost beneath the rustling of the trees. Then it moved, transforming itself in the strong sunlight. This was no spirit. It was a young man in his late teens with long brown hair and a pleasant, almost feminine, face.
Donald relaxed. ‘Which one are you then?’
‘Simon,’ he said, slowly approaching the chair.
‘Didn’t your glorious leader tell you it’s rude to stare?’ For a moment, the boy simply stared down at him as the wind played with his hair. ‘Well, what can I do for you on this fine morning?’
‘It’s afternoon.’
‘A minor point,’ he said looking off into the distance once again, his fear now abated. ‘I was listening to you sing yesterday, quite beautiful.’ There was no response but Donald was aware that since the boy had appeared in the trees he had not once taken his eyes off him. ‘Your fellow disciples have been looking for you.’
‘I’m not a disciple.’
‘I see,’ he said glancing up. ‘Do I sense the rumblings of a mutiny?’
‘Are you laughing at me?’
‘Wouldn’t dream of it, old boy.’
He said this almost mockingly, prompting the boy to raise his voice.
‘It’s easy for people like you, isn’t it?’
‘People like me?’
‘People with no faith.’
‘I see.’ Donald had no strength for an argument, especially an ecclesiastical one. ‘You’re Paul’s friend aren’t you, the one who found me on the railway track?’
‘Paul’s not my friend.’
‘Right,’ he said looking away again.
For a moment there was an awkward silence until suddenly, to Donald’s surprise, Simon sat down on the grass next to the chair.
As he glanced down Donald noticed he was staring off towards the distant hills. ‘What’s over there in the next valley?’
‘Amersham,’ he said plainly.
‘Is that where you sell your produce?’
‘Yes, we have a market stall.’
‘Is it far?’
‘I don’t know . . . we’re not allowed to go.’
Donald sensed something in his voice that suggested he wasn’t telling the whole truth. He glanced down at him as if to read his face, but as he did he found him staring back with empty eyes.
‘There you are,’ said Paul suddenly. Donald looked back and watched as he approached. ‘Everyone’s looking for you!’
For some reason his voice suddenly rose and it wasn’t until Donald looked back that he saw Simon had returned to the shade of the trees.
‘What’s up with him?’ asked Donald.
‘He’s always a bit like that.
‘Is everything alright?’
‘Yes,’ said Paul pushing him back towards the path. ‘Quinn says it’s time you had a lie down, says you need rest.’
‘Well, old Quinny knows best, I suppose.’
Glancing back at Simon, who was once again a shadow amongst the trees, he clenched the blanket tightly under his chin as he became uncomfortably aware that all was not well.

Pulling the Rover into the police compound Randall prepared for the pack of journalists that always gathered at times like these. In the way vultures sense the end of a life - they could sense the end of a career. Now it would be common knowledge his retirement was imminent. Tomblin would see to that. But he had to face facts. As things were, Tomblin would go to any length to oust him. One of his (many) maxim’s was that no man was bigger than the department. And he knew that included Chief Inspectors. For once Randall could see his point. Maybe it was time to go. Stopping the car, however, he was surprised to find station compound quite deserted.
Going inside and reaching the first floor, he studied a group of detectives looking forlornly into their screens. Suddenly, a young woman, that he didn’t recognise, sat up and started rearranging paperwork.
‘Anything?’ he muttered hopefully.
‘Nothing, sir,’ she said almost with embarrassment. ‘Mr Tomblin was asking for you.’
‘Ah,’ he said before walking off along the corridor.
As he turned towards his office, he saw David Tyler talking with Sergeant Marlowe before an ancient coffee machine. Noticing him approach Tyler waved. He was in his usual garb of raincoat and trilby, and waved when he noticed Randall.
‘Afternoon Elliot.’
‘David, to what do we owe the pleasure?’
‘If you’ll excuse me gentlemen,’ said Marlowe. ‘I’ll leave you to it. Oh, by the way sir Mr Tomblin was asking for you.’
Randall was aware that a storm was brewing. Tomblin didn’t like his unorthodox methods, especially his spur of the moment excursions. Thanking Marlowe and treating Tyler to a coffee they went to his office, where Tyler produced an envelope and dropped it on the desk.
‘Some information on the Kessler Organisation.’
‘Good, anything on A.B Holdings?’
‘Other than the fact that they went out of business in nineteen-seventy, nothing. Nobody’s talking.’
‘What about Fraser?’
‘Same thing, plenty before nineteen-seventy . . . nothing afterwards. The man just seems to have disappeared.’
‘Could he have gone abroad? That’s where he spent most of his time after all.’
‘It’s possible.’ Slowly drawing his head back he scratched his long scrawny neck. ‘There’s actually someone who can help us on that one.’
‘Really?’
‘I’m not sure where I could find him, but I’ll keep my ear to the ground.’
‘Good.’ He picked up the envelope and shook the contents. ‘Anything interesting?’
‘Nothing that isn’t already documented elsewhere.’
‘What about this club you mentioned.’
‘The Carlton?’
‘Yes, any mileage in that?’
‘Possibly, I’m not a member myself and to be honest I don’t know many that are, but I could ask around.’
‘Yes, do that, it might bring us something.’
Suddenly, the door opened and in walked Tomblin, his face, normally pasty and sour, was now animated and crimson.
‘Where in gods name have you been? I’ve been trying to contact you all bloody day. Hello David,’ he added, noticing Tyler by the door.
‘Yes, sorry about that,’ said Randall pushing the envelope into a drawer. ‘I’ve been having trouble with my mobile, I really need to get it looked at.’
‘Don’t start that crap with me, Elliot. I know where you’ve been and why. Now if you think I’m going to allow you to go toddling off when you like you can think again.’
‘I felt it necessary . . .’
‘Well, if you felt it necessary, why in gods name didn’t you tell me?’
‘Because,’ said Randall taking off his jacket, ‘I thought you might overreact.’
‘Well, I’ll leave you to it,’ said Tyler awkwardly, as he shuffled out of the door.
‘Take care David,’ said Tomblin matter-of-factly. ‘Now, Elliot, you were put on this case for two reasons: one, because you witnessed one of the murders, and secondly, because the Commander felt you were the right man for the job. You’re a good reliable copper. Now, why in gods name are you allowing yourself to be sidetracked with all this Dorothy Kite nonsense? Do you actually believe she’s alive?’
‘Of course not, I just feel there is something going on’
‘Elliot, Hawksmoor is, and his recent behaviour confirms this, off his rocker! Now I don’t know what he told you, but whatever it was, I would have thought you would have been the last man to fall for it. He’s a killer and a clever one.’
‘I take it Mr Pimm has been in touch?’
‘Xavier Pimm and the Commander are old friends.’
‘I see.’ Sitting down he started to sift through a pile of paperwork, much to Tomblin’s annoyance. ‘I wanted to find out as much as I could about Kraner.’ Hoping to lessen the melodramatic tone, he smiled before he continued. ‘There are elements of this case that trouble me.’
‘Come on then, let’s have it.’
‘Okay, Hawksmoor claims to have seen Dorothy Kite in a flat owned by the Kessler Organisation. Then, two days later he kills Linda Kraner in the same flat. Then I discover Kraner isn’t her real name at all. Her real name is Barbara Reed, who, back in the sixties just happened to be Dorothy Kite’s dresser.’
‘And?’
‘What do you mean, and?’
‘Elliot the most relevant part of what you just said is, two days later he kills Linda Kraner. He’s a killer and likely to tell you anything. Even one about a woman restored to life after thirty years.’ Nervously he began to rub his balding scalp as he paced the room. ‘This is really out of character for you. Look, I’ve spoken to the Commander about this and we feel this is all getting too much . . .’
‘Oh, I see.’
Suddenly he stopped pacing and checked his watch. ‘Look there’s a press conference in an hour.’ Randall reached for his jacket. ‘No, I think it would be better if you stayed on here.’
Walking towards the door he turned, ‘you’re a good copper, Elliot . . . Do what you’re good at.’
As the sound of Tomblin’s footsteps receded along the corridor, Randall sat down at the desk and stared across the tiny space. The storm was no longer brewing, it already begun.

That evening Donald woke to the song of the blackbird. As if revived by some magical source he felt incredibly fresh and alive. Getting to his feet he looked up at the hills and wondered if this ancient land had played some part in his rejuvenation. Then he caught sight of the chapel, which only the day before had seemed welcoming, almost reassuring. Somehow, despite a backdrop of deep blue sky, it had become remote and soulless. Something else was different too. Tonight the bird sang alone. Simon’s angelic voice was conspicuous by its absence.
Filling a large glass with apple juice, he reflected on his time with the boy that afternoon. There had been something in the way he had looked at him, as if he could see the ghosts deep within, or the fear he hid beneath the surface. Emptying the glass and filling it again, he suddenly heard footsteps out in the corridor that slowed to a stop at his door. For a second or two there was silence, and then it came, a hesitant knock.
‘Come in.’
The door opened quickly and in slipped Paul closing it silently behind him. He seemed nervous, which in turn made Donald so.
‘What’s the matter?’
‘Nothing.’
‘That’s the spirit. Where’s the warbler this evening?’
‘The what?’
‘Simon? He with the golden larynx?’
‘Oh, I don’t know they can’t find him . . . again.’
‘What do they want him for?’
‘For tonight.’
‘Tonight?’ Donald suddenly felt very tired and rubbed his eyes.
‘We are to be called to the chapel. Are you alright?’ Donald shook his head and was aware that the room was starting to spin. ‘Sit down if you don’t feel well.’ Sitting on the bed, he noticed his throat was incredibly dry and that his breathing was becoming very shallow. ‘What’s the matter with you? I need to talk to you. What you said this afternoon about taking me away from here, did you mean it?’
Suddenly there were footsteps out in the corridor approaching the room. With fear in his eyes, Paul scrambled onto the floor and disappeared under the bed. There from his lowly position he watched as the door opened and Quinn walked in.
‘Come,’ he commanded, prompting his entourage of brothers to enter the room.
‘Is he ready?’ he said as Peter walked to the bed.
‘He’ll give us no trouble.’
‘Good,’ said Quinn, his voice as steady as ever. ‘Has everyone been instructed?’
‘Yes.’
‘And is there any sign of Simon?’
‘No,’ said Peter. ‘But he’ll turn up, you know what he’s like.’
‘Well, make sure he does. What about Paul.’
‘I saw him in the garden a few minutes ago,’ said a man.
‘Good, prepare him and yourselves.’
Paul watched as the men pulled Donald to his feet and walked him towards the door. Then with steps more measured and lighter than the others, Quinn too walked out, leaving the Paul to wonder what was being prepared up on the hill.

‘Everything alright, sir?’
Hodges had come into the room, but Randall was deep in thought and had only noticed him when he spoke.
‘How do you mean?’
‘Well, you just seem a bit distant today.’
‘No, I’m fine.’
‘Did you see the news?’ he said positioning himself on the edge of the desk.
‘Yes,’ Randall said leaning back in his chair. ‘Apparently it’s only a matter of time before we get our man. Talk about hedging your bets.’
‘Mr Appleby gave you an a glowing endorsement.’
‘I saw it more as the chairman’s vote of confidence.’
‘No, I think he has a soft spot for you. You both go back a long way don’t you?’
‘Appleby? He joined the force in the seventies as I remember. Good man, done well for himself. Speaking of which.’ Hodges jumped up as Appleby and Tomblin approached the office.
‘See you later.’
The men entered the room like a firing squad; determined and full of purpose. Randall gave his usual amiable smile, but with probably a little too much self-assurance for Tomblin’s liking.
‘Elliot,’ said Appleby with a nod. He was in uniform, immaculately so, with Malacca cane, hat and gloves clutched in one hand.
‘Could I get you a coffee . . .’
‘Elliot,’ he said again sitting down across from him. ‘Time is of the essence, so I’ll be frank. We go back a long way. And I’ve given you more time and space during investigations, especially this one, than others ever would. Why? Because I know how you work and how effective your methods can be.
‘Now, I received a call this afternoon from Xavier Pimm, who tells me you’ve been asking questions about Harry Kessler. Now what the hell has Harry Kessler got to do with Hawksmoor?’ And why are you spending so much time on the Kraner woman. She’s dead and Hawksmoor killed her. It’s his past we should be looking into, not hers. Don’t look so surprised Elliot, I may spend much of my time in the corridors of power but I am well informed. What is this fascination with Hawksmoor? He’s a killer, simple as that. You were even present at one of the murders.’
During the whole of the speech Appleby had been crossing and uncrossing his legs in the most agitated manner, which had fascinated Randall. Despite the distraction he had heard every word - the only surprise was that it been so long in coming. From the moment he had looked down at the blood soaked body of Lizzie Paillard he knew his time was short. Nevertheless, he knew he wouldn’t go without a fight. Because deep down inside he knew something was terribly wrong.
‘It’s just that there are elements of this case that I’m not comfortable with,’ he said finally, sitting back in the chair, his eyes fixed on Appleby’s.
‘Elaborate on that,’ said Appleby. Somehow he had transformed himself and was now stillness itself.
‘The two men at the café?’
‘A couple of bounty hunters after the reward.’ said Tomblin.
‘Oh, please!’
‘All right you two, that’s enough,’ said Appleby. ‘Elliot, I’m getting pressure from up above and without any results the press are turning on us. It’s no secret your retirement isn’t far off.’
‘Somehow I think I know what’s coming next.’
‘It’s just that I don’t want you suffering at the hands of the press. Take a back seat now. Frank, will take over and I’ve been promised more man power.’
‘I’m very happy for you.’
For the first time Randall showed genuine disappointment. For a moment, there was an uncomfortable silence that nobody seemed prepared to break. Then the door burst open and in strode a breathless Detective Constable Hodges.
‘We’ve got him!’
‘Where?’ said Tomblin.
‘In a religious retreat, up in the Chiltern Hills. They call themselves the Brotherhood of Christ.’
‘What’s the nearest town?’ said Appleby getting to his feet.
‘Amersham. About thirty miles.’
‘Right,’ he said putting on his hat. ‘Tell them to get their people down there as soon as possible. But make it clear they do nothing until we get there. Understood?’
‘Yes, sir,’ he said rushing out again.
‘Right then,’ said Appleby leading Randall and Tomblin out into the corridor. ‘I want you both down there, and lets get him.’

Even with a pocket of blue sky over in the west, Donald could already make out the flickering of distant stars in the darkening sky. He was on a stretcher with three men on either side. Unlike before, however, this journey was away from the house. He could see that at the bottom of the hill, and despite his aching eyelids, he could make out its shape as dusk quickly turned to night.
As the incline became more severe and the men struggled to hold the stretcher, Donald grabbed the rails for added security.
‘Keep it straight!’ he heard Peter call out, as a rush of cold wind carried down the hillside.
Before long the path levelled off and it was then that Donald saw the chapel he had studied since his arrival. Beyond it, eating away at the network of stars, a bank of cloud was approaching from the east.
As they passed through an ornate metal gateway Donald then saw the two men that had led the procession with burning torches stop before the large wooden doors of the chapel. After a moment the procession stopped too and Donald was slowly lowered to the ground. Mumbling some pathetic defiance he was pulled aloft and carried towards the Chapel. More than anything he wanted to kick and lash out - but it was beyond him.
Instead, as the flames became ever more prominent in the darkness, he reflected on what was to come. As they reached the chapel doors he was suddenly aware of a singing from within. Singing? No, he realised, chanting. Slowly the doors opened. At first he could see very little, then, as he his eyes became accustomed to the dim light he saw it all.
The chapel was filled with the brothers. This time hooded and chanting as they watched the procession with darkened faces. There was one face he could make out, however, that of Paul’s. Tears ran down his young face, but he would not look at Donald as he was carried aloft down the aisle.
The chanting was louder now; and how he longed to wake from this nightmare. As if to stir himself from it he looked away, only to find his pain reflected in the crucifixion painted high on the chapel ceiling. Suddenly, almost simultaneously, both the procession and the chanting stopped, and for a moment the only movement Donald could see was the flickering torches in the darkness all around. Outside the breeze had been replaced by gusting wind that pulled at the Chapel doors and whispered thought the eaves like spirits. Then he saw him. He had appeared at the top of a pulpit directly above him and was looking out with wild eyes; a king before his people. After a moment, and without looking down, Quinn pointed to the procession below until Donald was slowly lowered on a long stone altar.
‘Each man here was brought to me by God. Of that I am certain. Each of you had no life before you came to this Eden, this Brotherhood of Christ. Now you all have a new life, a new love and even a new name. Each second we have spent together has been a necessary moment in time, a preparation for this day.’
Slowly he descended the winding pulpit steps.
‘Brothers, evil is amongst us.’ There was a stir throughout the chapel. ‘But be strong in the knowledge that the lord is by your side.’
Slowly Donald was coming to his senses as he watched Quinn circling the altar like a man possessed.
‘Yesterday this man was thrown into our peaceful existence and long did I search for the reason. I prayed for guidance . . . my lord did not let me wait for long. In a dream I was shown the future of all mankind.’ Donald tried to push himself up, but Quinn, who was now behind him, forced his shoulders down onto the stone slab. ‘Chaos and terror will be the new masters! Nation against nation, race against race. Brothers we must be prepared. Satan comes in many forms; he twists the thoughts of good men, until they know not what they do. This is how madness will be brought upon the world.’
Donald tried to push himself again, but Quinn had the strength of an ox.
‘Take your bloody hands of me!’ Donald shouted..
‘Watch as he spews his venom! Brothers! We are the last of the few; we are to be the saviour of mankind. Together, we will take the fight to the evil one and we will rid the world of him!’
Donald’s anger had now all but extinguished his fear. He kicked and lashed out to free himself of Quinn’s grasp. ‘Let me go you bloody madman!’ Peter and a group of men suddenly rushed forward and held Donald down.
‘Brothers!’ said Quinn, now holding a silver cross above his head. ‘It was revealed to me in the dream that this man had committed crimes most heinous. He has pursued a path of blood, a trail littered with destruction. Three innocent souls have been taken by this mans hands.’ There was a collective gasp from the hooded men. ‘But do not judge him for he is possessed by evil,’ he said slapping his spare hand back onto Donald’s forehead. The pain made him yelp. ‘Listen as the demons squeal within!’ With his eyes tightly shut he then drew back his head and roared into the darkness. ‘Fear me Satan, for I come in the name of God! Out Beelzebub! Out Idl! Prepare for thy doom!’
‘You really are wasting your time you know!’ shouted Donald. ‘Let go of me!’
‘I demand thee! In the name of the father, the son and the holy ghost, reveal yourself, let me smell thy foul stench.’
Suddenly, a cold wind entered the chapel, disturbing the burning torches. Quinn stepped forward and peered into the darkness at the rear of the chapel. Something was moving in the shadows and with the cross at arms length before him, he slowly moved towards them.
‘There,’ he said, his eyes flashed with madness, pointing at the shapes. ‘There in the darkness! Watch how they lurk, preparing to strike. You will not have this man’s soul, demon!’ He brought his spare hand onto the cross and drew it above his head. ‘Strike them oh lord! Strike them with a mighty blow . . .’
There was sudden deafening explosion, where in the same moment Quinn’s head snapped back and blood gushed from a gaping wound in his throat. Even before his head smashed against the stone floor, he was dead.
Within seconds there was chaos in the chapel as the brotherhood scuttled for survival.
‘Stay! Fight!’ shouted Peter in a futile attempt to regain order. He pushed through the chaos and took up the now blooded cross from Quinn’s side. ‘In the name of god leave this place!’
Somehow in the chaos Donald had been thrown to the floor and it was there as he peered around the altar that he saw Peter take a bullet in the head. Then he watched in horror as the demons stepped out of the shadows. First Tindle, a panther ready to pounce, and then Lott, a jackal with more bullets for the victims.
Dragging himself around the long stone altar he then saw Simon running down the aisle towards the opened door of the vestry. But before he was even close he crumpled under a hail of bullets.
‘There he is!’ shouted Lott, pointing at the altar.
Jumping up and stumbling forward there was shot and a shower of masonry before Donald fell into the vestry. In a second he was up again and rushing through the open door. Ahead he could see the metal archway and brothers rushing through it. Suddenly, there was another loud crack and then a cry as someone fell heavily behind him. Donald’s chest was so tight he could barely breathe, but on he ran until he reached the archway where he fell forward onto the dewy grass.
He may have given up there, exhausted and gasping for breath, had gravity not taken a fateful hand. His fall had taken him onto the downward slope of the hill and as he looked up he was aware that the stars were slowly moving away from him.
His decent down was so smooth and exhilarating that for a brief moment he was convinced (in his drugged state) that he was flying in the night. Reality took over, however, when a small ridge halfway down the hillside threw him skywards and he returned to earth with a painful crack. Clawing fruitlessly at the grass he watched in horror as he sped ever downwards into the shadows below, until finally he flew through a pocket of conifers and landed on the stabbing shale of the drive below.
How many times he had cartwheeled he wasn’t sure but as he collapsed in a heap he realised he had been embedded with a thousand stones.
Now all was still.
There were shots and screaming on the hill, but there on the drive as he lay motionless on his back, there was silence. Despite his injuries, he felt strangely restful and wanted to do nothing more than sleep. Just sleep, there under the stars and amidst the chaos. Sleep.
But there would be little chance of that he thought as an engine roared into life near the house. First he saw the lights and then the van as it pulled onto the drive. Like rays of the sun the glare of the headlamps was blinding and he put out a hand to shield his eyes. He could do nothing as it bore down on him, its wheels spewing gravel in its wake.
Then, when it was almost upon him, it suddenly veered to one side and stopped.
‘Get in,’ screamed a voice from inside.
‘Fuck off!’ scowled Donald. ‘Just leave me can’t you? I’ve had enough, damn you!’
Closing his eyes he curled into a ball and began to suck his thumb.
‘Get up!’ said the young man, jumping out of the cab. Donald opened his eyes to see Paul pulling at his arms. ‘Get up and get in the van, they’re killing everyone.’
‘And I won’t disappoint them. I’ve had enough I tell you!’
‘Come on!’
‘But I will be as a bridegroom in my death, and run into’t as to a lovers bed!’
‘You don’t know what you’re saying they’ve drugged you!’
There was a shot and a crash at the bottom of the hill as an unfortunate brother smashed headlong into the ground.
‘Get up!’
‘No more sweet lord, no more!’
Suddenly one of the windows on the van shattered and sprayed them with broken glass. Paul, despite his size, leant forward and pulled Donald onto his knees, whose only response was to burst into tears.
‘Take me home Mrs Kelly, I want a drink.’
As bullets buried themselves in the gravel around them, Paul made one final tug and then pushed Donald up into the opened door. Clambering over him into the van he forced it into gear until it shot forward along the drive, with Donald’s long legs thrashing through the opened doorway.

Chapel hill, illuminated by light towers run by noisy generators, was now under a surreal twilight beneath darkened skies. Crime scene tents, like shrines to the dead, indicated where the men had fallen, whilst at the summit, the chapel itself, white under fluorescent light, shone like a beacon to the carnage.
‘Hodges, what‘s the count?’ asked Tomblin.
‘Eight dead.’
‘Wounded?’
‘None.’
‘Bloody hell, what a mess.’
The three men were standing on the drive as above them a snaking line of forensic men in white overalls searched the hill for evidence.
‘Who made the call?’ asked Randall.
‘A kid called Simon.’
‘Is he alive?’
‘We don’t know, we’ve only got one survivor so far, and we had to drag him out of a bush. He’s says the devils looking for him.’
‘Where is he now?’ asked Tomblin.
‘I’ve just left him with the medics up at the chapel.’
‘Have forensics finished up there yet?’
‘I think so.’
‘Right,’ he said starting up the hill. ‘We better get up there. You stay here Hodges, if you find anyone else, bring them to me.’

Inside the chapel a single officer stood guard over a line of corpses, whilst on the steps next to the altar a medical crew administered first aid to the survivor: the wild old man Donald had seen in the workshop earlier that day.
As Tomblin and Randall walked in they could barely believe their eyes. All but one of the pews were upturned, whilst in the centre of the aisle there was a wide pool of coagulating blood.
‘There’s even more out on the path,’ said the officer.
‘Jesus,’ said Tomblin rubbing his brow. ‘What happened here?’
‘I’m afraid he’s the only one who can tell you . . . and from the look of him he’s not been coherent for some time.’
The old man was alone now with his arms wrapped around his knees rocking silently to and fro. Walking over to him Tomblin knelt down and smiled kindly.
‘What’s your name?’ There was no response as the man rocked and stared ahead. ‘I need you to tell me what happened here? Did Hawksmoor do this?’
‘Demons,’ said the man with a murmur.
‘What’s that?’
‘Demons . . . they killed ‘em all.’
‘Well, if it was a demon,’ said a voice from the shadows. ‘He uses a handgun and he’s a pretty neat shot.’
Evelyn Slater had been busy. All of the bodies had been located and each one examined for the cause of death. There they shared a terrible similarity.
Appearing from the shadows wearing a hooded white overall he walked down the aisle towards them.
‘Bit of a bloodbath, eh? I must say Randall your man Hawksmoor’s a busy boy.’
‘From now on Hawksmoor’s my problem,’ said Tomblin abruptly. ‘I’m now in charge of this investigation and I haven’t got time for juvenile remarks. Now, an update.’
‘Right,’ said Slater, obviously taken aback. ‘Eight dead, all with a single shot . . . apart from the big fella over there and the one next to him.’
Suddenly Hodges appeared in the doorway with a young man.
‘Who’s this?’ asked Tomblin.
‘This is Daniel,’ said Hodges, leading the man forward.
‘What happened here?’
For a moment the boy stood motionless, as he stared around the chapel. .
‘Where did you find him?’ asked Randall.
‘Hiding in the house,’ said Hodges.
‘Who was in charge here?’
‘Quinn,’ said the man, his voice quivering.
‘Is he here?’
‘Over there.’ He pointed to the row of partially shrouded corpses, indicating that the biggest was Quinn.
‘Any idea what calibre the guns were?’ said Tomblin, suddenly.
‘You’ll have to speak to ballistics about that,’ said Slater. ‘But if Hawksmoor has done this you’ll have to add marksman to his list of skills.’
‘Surely, you don’t think Hawksmoor did all of this,’ Randall said in disbelief.
‘And why not?’ snapped Tomblin.
‘Come on, he’s a lot of things but he’s no crack shot.’
‘With that sort of attitude it’s no wonder he’s still on the run killing people.’
‘What about Simon?’ said Hodges to Daniel, attempting to break the tension.
He pointed to a body next to Quinn’s. Simon’s face was puffed and swollen, barely recognisable.
‘What happened here?’ said Tomblin, again.
‘They came for us all.’
‘Who did?’
‘The demons.’
‘Bloody hell, don’t you start.’
‘Describe them,’ said Randall calmly stepping forward.
‘They came out of the shadows . . .’
‘Go on.’
‘Quinn confronted them and they . . . they just killed him.’
‘What did they look like?’
‘I only saw one of them. He was tall and slim.’
‘Grey hair?’
‘That’s right.’
‘And did you see anyone else?’
‘No.’
‘But you think there could have been others?’
‘Yes.’
‘And what about Hawksmoor?’ said Tomblin impatiently.
‘Who?’
‘Hawksmoor.’ Tomblin held out his hand to Hodges who quickly produced a photograph from his pocket. ‘Him.’
‘That was the man they came for. He has been with us since yesterday. Quinn said he had done terrible things.’
‘Well, Quinn certainly knew what he was talking about,’ he said glancing at Randall briefly. ‘And what were you all doing in here?’
‘We came here to save his soul.’
‘I see,’ he said rolling his eyes. ‘Did you see were Hawksmoor went?’
‘No.’
‘Okay, get him cleaned up and I want a full statement.’ As Hodges led him away Tomblin suddenly pointed to the old man on the steps. ‘And you can take Benn Gunn with you as well.’
As all three went out Randall turned to Tomblin.
‘It’s the men from the café.’
‘And?’
‘They’ve done this trying to get him.’
‘I’d already worked that out, thank you.’ He went over to the corpses and looked down at Quinn. ‘Well, they certainly won’t be eligible for a reward now.’
‘These aren’t bounty hunters, they’re trained killers. They’re trying to kill him. Why?’
‘I don’t care.’
‘What?’
‘I don’t care. Who do you think is going to get the blame for all of this? Us, or should I say, me. This is the result of your failure to capture him. Spending god knows how long on pointless leads. Now we’re looking for two more killers.’
Randall said nothing for a second or two and then walked closer to him. ‘Okay I’m willing to take the blame for not bringing him in, but I’m not about to be accused of avoiding the facts.’
‘And what the hell do you mean by that?’
‘Trained killers don’t go out of their way to eradicate a wanted man because of their affection for law and order! They’re trying to kill him because he knows something and they, or somebody, want him dead.’
‘And you believe that do you?’
‘I didn’t until tonight.’
‘Well, I’m sorry Elliot but I think you’re sadly mistaken. He’s our man and until I get him and the men responsible for this carnage, there’s a bloody good chance we’ll be getting trigger happy copycats doing the more of the same.’
‘Elliot,’ said Slater suddenly. ‘You were there when he killed Paillard.’
‘I’m not denying what he’s done, I just know there’s more to this than we realise.’
‘We haven’t got time for this,’ said Tomblin.
‘I have,’ said Randall.
‘What did you say?’
‘I’m sorry, but if you’re not going to look into this I can’t be part of the investigation.’
‘I see.’ Tomblin narrowed his eyes and studied Randall for a second. ‘Well, I expect that leaves you with only one option.’
There was no hesitation from Randall as he turned and walked out of the chapel. But deep inside, and probably for the first time in his career, he felt a deep sense of betrayal.

As the village church of Anglebury struck midnight, a black e-type jaguar entered the grounds of Worsley Hall. It was a prominent landmark on the nearby hill, which dominated the scenery for miles around.
Pulling to a stop at the entrance a tall elderly man appeared from the house and opened the rear door. Serenely, and almost as pale as the moon, Lauren Kessler stepped out, her auburn hair glistening in the silvery light.
‘Good evening, ma’am.’
‘Hello Wilde.’
‘I take it the trip was a successful one?’
‘As well as can be expected. Is everything arranged?’
‘Yes, the master bedroom has been prepared and I have a organised the study as you suggested.’
‘Good,’ she said stepping inside. ‘Ask cook to organise some sandwiches and a large pot of coffee. I’ll need to work through the night.’
With a dignified smile the old man opened the study doors and watched as the young woman walked inside. He had watched her grow for over a quarter of a century, yet he never tired of her beauty.
As the doors closed she leant back against them and glanced around the room until her eyes set upon a portrait above the redundant fireplace.
For a while she stared at the young face and then said, almost in a whisper, ‘what a mess . . . what a mess, my dear.’
Suddenly the phone rang and she walked to it not once taking her gaze from the painting.
‘Yes?’
‘Mr Pimm, ma’am.’
‘Put him through.’ Sitting on the edge of the desk she listened until she heard the familiar click at the other end of the line. ‘How did it go?’
‘Fine.’
‘Will it be a problem?’
‘I think not.’
‘I hope not. We can’t afford any more accidents.’
‘He’ll give us no more trouble, I can assure you of that.’
‘Good.’
‘Did you make contact?’
‘Yes,’ she said, finally looking away from the portrait. ‘Everything is arranged for a week today.’
For a moment there was silence. ‘Is that enough time?’
‘It’ll have to be,’ she said, her young voice suddenly intimidating, almost menacing. ‘And this is how we’ll do it.’

TUESDAY. 6:23 AM.

Apart from a narrow road splitting the landscape like a fold in a book, forest and hills dominated the horizon. Not far from the road, maybe a hundred feet or so, there was a small opening in the canopy where a thin spiral of smoke drifted slowly towards the rising sun.
On one side of the clearing, it was just about possible to make out a car in the shade of the trees. It was old and pock marked with rust and during the night its wheels had sunk into the peaty soil. It seemed abandoned until suddenly a face appeared at one of its windows. For a while, Donald stared into the morning bleary-eyed, and although his cheeks were dotted with cuts and bruises, the pale and lank air of torment was still apparent.
‘Teas up,’ said a voice from nowhere. The surprise was such that Donald threw his head back against the car roof, sending a roosting dove flapping noisily into the morning light.
‘I couldn’t get any milk,’ said Paul emerging from behind a tree. As the bird darted across the clearing, Paul placed a cup of steaming tea onto the bonnet and looked into the car. ‘I said I couldn’t get any milk, but I’ve made it nice and sweet.’
Rubbing his head, Donald stared at him as if he had risen from the dead.
‘Good sleep?’ said the boy smiling cheerfully.
‘What?’
‘I said did you have a good sleep?’
‘Sleep?’
‘Are you all right?’ Donald was far too disorientated to answer any questions. ‘Look, why don’t you get dressed and bring your drink over to the fire.’
‘Drink?’
‘Why do you keep repeating everything I say?’
Again, Donald stared at him blankly.
‘Look just get dressed and I’ll see you over at the fire.’
As Paul walked away, Donald got out of the car and stared across the clearing like a dazed rabbit caught in the beams of an oncoming car. Slowly his head dropped and for the first time he saw his bare feet against the wet grass. For quite some time he simply stood there bewildered in the tattered gown trying to understand how the night before could have resulted in this.
‘Where in gods name are we?’ he called out eventually.
‘Somewhere in Lancashire,’ said Paul without looking round
‘Lancashire!’
Suddenly he grabbed his head and scowled. There was a large patch of dried blood on his scalp and as he looked at the dark red flakes in his palm, he frowned at the memory of the previous night. He closed his eyes as if to hide, but in the darkness it was even more vivid. Tentatively he stepped into the sun.
‘Where’s the van?’
‘Oh, I had to get rid of that. I thought the estate would be better. It’s quicker and it won’t be reported missing until breakfast time.’
Donald eyed him curiously. ‘Why didn’t you just go to the police?’
‘Because the police are looking for you,’ he said as Donald rubbed his head again. ‘Sorry, that’s my fault. You fell over when I pulled you out of the van. I was surprised the crack didn’t wake up half the street. Anyway hurry up and get dressed before your tea gets cold.’
‘Dressed? Dressed in what?’
‘Look on the passengers seat. We passed a camp site a while ago and I just took what I could find.’
‘You are a regular Artful Dodger aren’t you?’
‘Who?’
‘Never mind,’ he muttered as he walked back to the car.

Apart from a rather unsavoury encounter with a pair of hookers in Frankfurt back in ’73, Donald hadn’t run into many criminals in his life. However, in Paul he knew had found a true professional.
The horde consisted of waterproof trousers and jacket, a jumper, a hat, boots, socks and a large pair of pink knickers. All of them (except for the knickers) were too small but he put them on, happy to be clothed again after days of gown wearing.
As he approached the centre of the clearing, he smiled. Paul, who was sitting on a tree trunk dangling a rasher of bacon from the end of a stick, was the epitome of country living. Arriving at his side Donald sat down and began to pick the burnt pieces of wood from the food, but his hunger was such that in a very short period of time he gave it up and stuffed the pieces into his mouth.
‘Do you realise,’ he said between chews, ‘there is a large women waking, probably as we speak, to discover she has no clothes and no breakfast?’ Paul beamed with pride. ‘And you call yourself a man of god.’
‘Looking at the size of her knickers I think she’ll survive without food for a few days.’
‘Young man, not only are you my saviour you are also a philosopher.’
‘Thank you very much.’
‘Where’s the tea?’
‘Down there,’ he said, flicking the final rasher off the stick. ‘Next to the newspaper.’
Donald’s chewing slowed, but he didn’t look round. ‘Today’s?’
‘Sunday’s.’
‘And have you read it?’
‘Yes.’
‘I see. And what does it say?’
‘It says you’ve killed three people.’
‘Is it three? I’d lost count.’
‘And one of the newspapers have put up a reward for your capture.’
He turned to look at the boy, his face suddenly filled with curiosity. ‘Really?’
‘Twenty five thousand pounds.’
‘How much!’ Donald was outraged. ‘Only twenty-five grand? Jesus, I think I’m worth a little more than that! Do they know I’m wanted for three murders? Good god.’ Slowly he shook his head and stared vacantly across the clearing.
‘Ah,’ said Paul not quite appreciating Donald’s distress. ‘Take no notice of them. I know you’re no killer.’
‘How can you be so sure?’
‘I’ve been inside don’t forget and I’ve met killers. There’s something about them.’
‘Maybe I’m a psychopath. Maybe I can change at the drop of a hat?’
‘I can’t see it myself. I don’t think you’ve got it in you.’
Two defamatory attacks on his character in the space of a minute were too much for Donald to take lying down. ‘I am an actor!’ he said in a growl, his expression swollen with pride. ‘I can play any character I put my mind to.’
Paul smiled and as he did Donald realised how pompous he had sounded. Slowly a smile grew across his face and as he looked at Paul he saw how in such a short period of time the boy had changed. There was an air of self-confidence about him. “Adversity does that,” thought Donald. And nobody knew that better than he.
‘Drink your tea and try to rest,’ said Paul.

For a while neither of them spoke. Above them the final veils of morning mist were disappearing in the morning sun and slowly the temperature was rising.
Donald had entered another chapter. His life was changing so incredibly fast he could do little more than hold on and watch as fate pulled him from one hell to another. Yet still he was alive. How? Why?
‘Why were those men trying to kill you?’ said Paul after a while.
‘Because of someone I saw,’ he said looking down at the dying embers of the fire. ‘Someone I thought was dead but for some absurd reason is alive. Is that why?’ The comment, uttered in a barely audible whisper, was directed to himself. ‘Maybe I’m already dead. Maybe this is what death is, a long tortuous struggle. A way of cleansing oneself for a lifetime of sins.’
‘They’re a bit old for that sort of thing aren’t they?’
For a moment the comment didn’t seem to register, until Donald suddenly looked round. ‘You saw them too?’
‘Yes, I couldn’t watch what they were doing to you, so I sneaked out and went down to the house. But when I got on the hill I saw them coming up with Simon.’
‘Simon?’
‘It was when I reached the house I heard the shooting and rushed to Quinn’s room for the keys to the van.’
‘Why didn’t they see you?’
‘I hid in bushes when I saw them coming up. I didn’t know who it was at first, and I was afraid I’d be made to go back into the chapel.’
‘Well, your god certainly moves in mysterious ways.’
For a long time they studied the fire, their thoughts as one mingling with the flames. As they did a rook high in a treetop, motionless and black against the blue of the sky, stared down at them like a spirit of the forest.
‘How did these men know I was at the chapel?’ said Donald in time. Had you seen them at the house before?’
‘Never. Maybe they called asking for you when everyone was at the chapel.’
‘And only Simon was about?’
‘Yes, he did what he wanted anyway. Quinn had had words with him before.’
‘About what?’
‘Nobody knew, but I think it was because he’d been into the town.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Because I saw him. One night when he thought everyone was asleep I saw him climb out of the dormitory window.’
Donald said nothing for a few moments, and then turned to Paul again. ‘Is there a police station in the village?’
‘No, I think the nearest is in Amersham.’
‘And there is definitely no phone at Orchid house?’
‘No, but Quinn took me to market once and there’s one on the way.’
‘Near enough for Simon to make a call and get back to the house quickly?’
‘About ten minutes.’
Donald slowly stood up. ‘What a fool I’ve been. They’re all in it together. They’re intelligence people and the police are just showing them where I am. It’s a conspiracy. She’s still alive and I’m the only one who knows. Bunny and the others are all dead . . . because of me. What have I done.’
Sitting back on the tree he cupped his head in his hands and sobbed. The tears, some a lifetime in the making, appeared through his blistered fingers and ran down his hands. Paul saw it all and could do nothing to take away the pain. Like a child watching an adult at a funeral, the moment was beyond his comprehension.

For a long time Donald said nothing. Instead, he seemed mesmerized with the glowing embers of the fire. Somehow, in that brief time he too had changed. Changed forever.
Suddenly, he leant forward and stared into the cinders.
‘What is it?’ asked Paul.
‘I,’ he whispered. ‘I thought I saw something.’
‘Are you alright?’
‘Yes,’ he said after a moment. ‘I’m sorry if I upset you.’
‘It’s okay. Sometimes I cry. My mum used to say it’s good for you, getting it all out. Makes you real again.’
‘A wise woman your mother.’
‘Yes, I suppose she is. I never really thought about it before.’
Getting up and patrolling the clearing Donald suddenly looked up at the sky and looked over to Paul.
‘Do you have a watch?’
‘It’s six thirty,’ said Paul.
‘I don’t need it for that.’
Many years ago, much to Bunny’s annoyance, he had played an RAF officer shot down behind enemy lines. Apart from it’s low budget, and three wet months in the Norfolk broads, he could remember very little of the experience. Apart, that is, from one useful piece of information regarding the wristwatch and it’s effectiveness as a compass. He knew it off by heart. Indeed, it had found its way into his extensive library of anecdotes.
Holding a watch horizontal and pointing the hour hand at the sun, it is possible to give a north – south line by bisecting the angle between the hour hand and the twelve mark.
‘It isn’t digital is it?’ said Donald suddenly alarmed.
‘No, why?’
‘I need it.’
‘Quinn gave it me.’ This realisation suddenly brought about a very quick reaction in the boy. ‘Yes, you can have it.’
Donald took the watch and on tiptoes peered over the trees in search of the morning sun. Once found, he put the watch to work and discovered that south was roughly behind them in the direction of the car, which meant his journey north would be through the forest.
Sensing an imminent departure Paul began to gather the possessions.
‘Which way do we go?’
‘We don’t go anywhere. This is were we go our separate ways.’
‘But I thought . . .’
‘Yes, I know what you thought, and that is a very fine thing. But it’s now time for me to help myself. I can’t thank you enough. You’ve saved my life and for that I’ll be forever grateful. Leaving me now is good for your health; trust me. The men who are looking for me are ruthless. You’ve seen it with your own eyes. But they don’t know who you are.’ Now it was time for Paul to shed the tears. ‘Now, there’s no time for that.’ Taking him by the shoulders Donald smiled down at the boy. ‘Come on, no more of that. Have you got everything you need?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good.’ Suddenly Paul held out his hand. ‘What’s this?’
‘It’s for you.’
There gleaming in the sun was the boy’s cross. He felt like crying again.
‘Thank you,’ he said taking it from him and fumbling with the clasp.
‘I’ll do it,’ said Paul. Standing on the fallen tree he placed the chain round Donald’s neck and jumped down. ‘A perfect fit.’
‘I will treasure it always, thank you.’
‘What shall I do now?’
Donald smiled. ‘Easy. Find your Mother.’
There was an awkward silence for a moment that even the bird up above seemed to sense. Then, like the sun that had suddenly appeared above the trees they were gone, and the clearing was silent once more.

Randall hadn’t slept a wink. Bed had seemed a pointless exercise when his head was crammed with so many unanswered questions. Instead, he had positioned an armchair by the window and watched the sunrise, all the time contemplating his unplanned redundancy.
Thoughts of Emily were uppermost in his mind. Since her death, retirement had been nothing more to him than an inescapable nightmare. How would it be now? She was his sounding board, his light in the darkness – his friend.
Hoping to clear his head, he walked into the garden. The sunshine was warm and soothing and stretching wide he felt a pleasant, but brief, surge of energy. It was in that moment a jet, hidden above a film of white cloud, filled the morning air with the roar of its engines. For a second Randall seemed to freeze. Then, like a coil suddenly released, he rushed back into the house.
Searching through a pile of paperwork on the mantelpiece, he pulled out a white envelope and emptied the contents onto the table. It was, as described by Hodges, a collection of outlandish theories on the mystery of flight 417. Prominent amongst these were the views of one retired RAF serviceman, Ronnie Cope.

After nearly an hour, Donald reached the outskirts of the forest. Saplings, shooting from the forest floor, reached boldly for the long shafts of sunlight that permeated the now thinning canopy. It seemed to draw the very life from the ground and give colour to what normally would have been shade and gloom.
As he appeared from the cover of the trees, he stopped to marvel at the beauty. Before him, dominating the horizon stood the lush hills of the Pennines, a constant spine that reached forever northwards.
Faced with an almost insurmountable journey ahead, he was suddenly filled with fear. The whole situation seemed ridiculous and for a while he stared at the hills stretching far off into the distance.
Like ghosts, Bunny and Lizzie lingered in his mind. With each passing day, they became more and more vivid, as if in some way he was getting closer to them. And he may have wavered there, at the very first step, had it not have been for the memory of them.
After a while, he noticed a ribbon of water running deep into the valley from the hills. It seemed to suggest the way forward and in a moment, he was moving again. Consuming what fresh water he could he moved on until finally he reached the ridge. There he could see the world, green and pure. The forest, a thick brush stroke where in the centre the bristles had missed the canvas and a small pocket of beige stood out.
From the clearing, he followed the road as far as he could until he saw a tiny figure making its way into another life. Tracing the outline of the cross, he smiled before turning and making his way north.

It had taken Randall over three hours to reach the south coast village of Bofill. After a brief interrogation of the Post Mistress he was happy to discover that the ex-RAF man was not only a resident, but lived in a small pocket of council houses just behind the post office.
Finding the home in question, a yellowing detached box, he opened the garden gate and stepped onto the path. Halfway up it, however, he was distressed to find two large Alsatians approaching him in a pincer movement.
‘Heel!’ came a voice from the house.
Randall, not certain if the order was directed at him or the dogs, froze rigidly to the path not daring to look down.
‘You’re in luck,’ said a short balding man appearing in the doorway.
‘How can you tell?’
‘You’re still standing,’ he said stepping outside.
He had long greasy grey hair complete with string vest and Roy Orbison type sunglasses. Randall wondered if he had come to the wrong house.
‘Mr Cope. Mr Ronnie Cope?’
‘That’s right,’ he said taking off the glasses. ‘What do you want?’
‘My name is Randall, I just wanted to ask you a few questions.’
‘About Donald Hawksmoor?’ He saw Randall’s surprise and smiled. ‘Yes, we do have televisions out here in the sticks you know.’
‘Actually, no it wasn’t. Not directly anyway. I just wanted some details on flight 417.’
Cope narrowed his eyes briefly before flicking his head towards the house.
‘Nimrod! Vulcan! Your beds.’
Randall waited until the dogs were well out of sight before he continued up the path and into the house.

As Randall entered the hallway he was hit by an unusual stench, an unlikely mixture of sprouts and diesel. Unfazed he moved into the shadows only to find himself confronted with an assault course of engine parts, piles of newspapers and, next to a narrow staircase, three tall towers of beer crates.
Avoiding them all he entered the living room only to find himself face to face with the dogs once again.
‘Don’t worry about them,’ said Cope, reappearing from another room with an armful of cardboard folders. ‘They know their masters voice.’
Randall smiled weakly and sat down in across from him. He had never been comfortable with dogs. His fear had been born in the early days of his career where having foiled a robbery and giving a good account of himself in a punch up, two police Alsatians had appeared on the scene and attacked him.
‘Nice dogs,’ he heard himself say.
‘Well, they’re company for me. You got any?’
‘No,’ said Randall, swallowing at the thought of it.
‘Well, this is quite a day for me, I can tell you. To have police recognition after all this time is quite,’ he paused, and walked over to a chest of drawers and picked up a photograph ‘Well, I’m quite emotional. My Betsy would have been very proud, bless her soul.’
Randall smiled awkwardly as he blew his nose. He hadn’t intended to use his former position to gain the information, but now the misunderstanding had taken place, it seemed pointless going back.
‘Could we talk about the flight?’
‘Yes,’ said Cope, stroking his hair in a large Budweiser mirror. ‘Yes, of course.’
Sitting down in a heavily worn armchair with the Alsatians either side, Randall decided he looked a little like some ancient Egyptian relic residing by the Nile.
‘It was Christmas Eve, nineteen sixty-nine, bloody cold and bloody dark. I had been on duty since nine that morning and was looking forward to a few pints down the Merry Spinster.
‘You were ground crew?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Who was with you?’
‘On that night just George, George Sims and me. And before you ask, no you couldn’t, because he passed away five years ago.’ Randall nodded sympathetically as the old man continued. ‘We were just making final checks as the crew boarded. Now we were under the impression that the plane, a De Havilland Devon, a lovely plane, was being taken to Kinloss with a skeleton crew. But at the last minute a Land Rover appeared and four people boarded.’
‘Including Dorothy Kite?’
‘Yes, the actress Dorothy Kite.’
‘You’re certain?’
‘Yes, she was the only one I could definitely identify.
‘Was it common to get last minute passengers?’
‘To be honest yes, the top brass would always be bringing someone along.’
‘So there was nothing unusual in what you saw?’
‘No, but I was surprised to see Miss Kite. I was a big fan of her show “The Immoral Miss Jude” Randall tried not to smile. ‘Never missed an episode. She was a good looking woman.’
‘Yes, please go on.’
‘Well, it was dark as I say, low cloud and snow was forecast.’
‘Not ideal flying conditions?’
‘I’ve seen worse. Anyway, one of the other three was European and in uniform.’
‘RAF?’
‘Wouldn’t like to say. He had a broken arm though, or an arm injury of some sort, it was in some sort of sling, you see.’
‘Did George get a better look?’
‘Not of him, no; but he did of the other two and was in no doubt they were middle-eastern.’
‘How could he have been so certain? Not Indian or African? It was dark after all.’
‘George spent ten years out there, and believe you me he knew his darkies,’ he leant forward and opened one of the files. ‘The rest as they say is history. Now, these are just some of the cuttings I’ve come across over the years,’ he passed a handful to Randall. ‘Sorry, could I get you a whisky, sir?’
‘That would be nice, thank you,’ he said, studying the headlines.
‘I’ve got a nice malt upstairs, somewhere . . . I’ve been saving it for a special occasion.’
As Cope disappeared into the hall, Randall poured through the mass of cuttings until he came to a front page.

EVE OF DISASTER!

THE ENTERTAINMENT WORLD IS IN MOURNING TODAY AFTER THE NEWS THAT THE EVER POPULAR TV STAR DOROTHY KITE WAS KILLED IN A CHRISTMAS PLANE DISASTER. THE ACTRESS, KNOWN TO MILLIONS AS THE IMMORTAL MISS JUDE, WAS FLYING TO SCOTLAND COURTESY OF THE RAF TO PARTICIPATE IN CHARITY WORK WHEN THE PLANE DISAPEARED FROM RADAR. WRECKAGE LATER FOUND IN LOCH ERINE CONFIRMED FEARS THAT ALL ABOARD HAD PERISHED. BLIZZARD CONDITIONS SEEM THE LIKELY CAUSE. PHOTO’S PAGES 3,4,5 AND 23.

Before long, Randall looked up from the dated newsprint to find the dogs asleep by the armchair. The scene suddenly put him at ease and he got up to study the room.
It was dark with dust that seemed to permeate every inch of the crowded room. Boxes and suitcases filled every space except for a small area around the three-piece suite. Across from him behind the dogs he could see a vase of dirt encrusted plastic flowers that hinted at happier times for Cope and his wife, whilst on another wall next to a dartboard he could make out a pock marked painting of a dark skinned woman he knew he had seen a hundred times before.
Suddenly the dogs sat up as Cope appeared at the door carrying two small glasses of whisky. The bottle, thought Randall, would survive a little longer.
‘Now let me get this right,’ said Randall, taking the glass. ‘Officially the only people who should have been on that plane were the crew of four and Dorothy Kite?’
‘That’s right.’
‘But your claim is that there were not five but eight.’
‘Correct.’
Randall sipped at his drink for a moment.
‘You’ve had a long time to think about what happened I suppose?’
‘That’s right.’
‘And your conclusion?’
‘Some sort of cover-up, obviously.’
‘Why?’
‘Well, let’s say for arguments sake two of the eight were Middle Eastern, they were obviously here for secret talks on something or other, otherwise why not just announce their deaths and apologise to the respective governments.’
‘So they just cover the whole thing up?’
‘That’s the best I can come up with.’
‘Did you mention any of this at the inquiry?’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because our testimonies were inadmissible.’
‘In gods name why?’
‘Because . . .’ he picked up the paper clippings and folders and walked into the kitchen.
‘Mr Cope?’ he said following him.
‘Because we, that’s George and myself, had had a few Christmas tipples that day.’
‘You were drunk!’
‘Well, it was Christmas Eve. But we weren’t drunk. Look you have to believe me! I saw exactly what I told you.’
‘So nobody believed a word you said?’
‘Obviously not,’ he said throwing the files on a kitchen table.
‘Was there a separate investigation?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Oh, come on, MI5, Special Branch. You must have been approached at some point.’
‘I spoke to a lot of people at the time, and it was thirty years ago so please forgive me if my recollections are a little vague.’
‘They’re damn accurate when it comes to passengers in the dark though.’ The raised voices had brought the dogs to the doorway. Aware of them Randall changed his tone. ‘Okay, let’s go over this again.’
For over an hour the two men talked and in that time Cope went out of his way to convince Randall that what he saw was true and not the imaginings of an old man with nothing left. Finally, Randall got up and walked to the door.
‘Tell me something. If you were in my shoes would you believe a word of this?’
Running his fingers across the newspaper clippings Cope looked up and shook his head forlornly. ‘Can’t say I would.’
‘No, I didn’t think so.’
For a moment, Cope was devastated. Then he looked up again and said in a whisper. ‘I know what I saw. We had a drink, sure. But if you ask me that was simply used to stop us from testifying. Powerful people can do that, you know. They can make the most innocent of people look guilty of anything they want.’ For a moment, Randall stared at him. ‘Can I ask what this got to do with Hawksmoor?’
‘To tell you the truth I don’t know if it has. But I’m one of those old fashioned types that likes to give the benefit of the doubt, despite the facts.’ He strode awkwardly over a gearbox near the door and then stopped suddenly. ‘Listen this man in uniform. Could he have been a soldier?’
‘It’s possible. It was a military plane after all’
‘A military plane?’
‘Yes, aeroplanes are not the sole property of the RAF you know.’
‘I had no idea,’ he said, as he turned and the dogs silently ushered him out of the house.

Donald had walked for nearly two hours, but thanks to the occasional rasher of bacon, his spirits remained remarkably high.
Apart from a thin border of cloud far off to the south, the sky was pure blue. And it was beneath this that he was filled with an energy that he had not known in a lifetime. He had found clarity of mind that put him at peace with himself and everything before him. He had lived a lie for too long. Excess had left him empty. But there, surrounded by the mystery of nature, he was like a child again.
His thoughts drifted wildly, taking him to a place he had only found in his dreams. He whispered to the spirits, sang to the gods and cried with an intoxicating sense of joy. Long forgotten poems fell from his lips and filled the air. He had become one with nature, filled with joy for life and every living thing. He walked with Socrates, Solomon and Alexander. He had survived so much and now, in an almost blinding flash, he had understood why. The gods were with him and like a man with sight restored he saw the world anew.

As Randall drove back a comment made by Cope had stayed prominent in his mind. No matter how hard he tried, he could not rid his mind of it. It permeated every thought until eventually he used it as a template for everything he had seen over the past week.
When he finally returned home that afternoon, he discovered David Tyler on his doorstep.
‘I’ve been looking for you. Are you alright?’
‘Never better.’
‘I called earlier,’ he said, before following Randall inside.
‘Yes, I nipped down to the south coast.’ Tyler gave a puzzled stare. ‘Well, isn’t that what retired people do?’
‘Yes, to die’
Randall laughed. ‘I’ll explain later. When did you hear?’
‘This morning, the departments in utter chaos. Tomblin’s like a banshee spitting orders at anything that moves. Even Appleby is keeping his head down. I’ve never seen so many terrified coppers in one building.’
‘What were you doing at the station?’
‘Looking for you. What the hell happened?’
For over an hour Randall explained what had occurred since that first meeting with Donald. His doubts, his theories but also the growing belief that Donald Hawksmoor was an innocent man.
They had settled in the living room, where in a world of pink chintz, unchanged since his wife’s death, Randall stared across at Tyler, lost in thought.
‘I’ve been a fool,’ he said finally, his eyes sorrowful and dark. ‘I’d had my doubts, but it was this morning when Cope said something. Something about powerful men affecting the lives of others. He said: “They can make the most innocent of people look guilty of anything they want.” Like Tomblin I wanted to think Hawksmoor was a killer.’
‘Elliot you were present at the killing of the Paillard woman.’
‘I was there, but I didn’t see him do a damned thing. He pulled the knife from her, but no one saw him put it in. I did the very thing that I’ve always condemned in others - presumption. When we found Nichols and Reed any sensible enquiry into what happened in the theatre disappeared.’
‘What happened to the indisputable evidence Tomblin was spouting?’
‘That? Nothing more than traces of Hawksmoor’s hair on the three bodies. Not exactly conclusive, anyone with access to his flat could have collected as much as they wanted.’
Tyler nodded gravely. ‘Now you put it like that. . .’
‘David, people, professional people, are going out of their way to make it look as if Hawksmoor is responsible for everything that has happened. I really have been a bloody fool.’ There was an awkward silence as he stood up and walked to the window. ‘Why were you looking for me?’
‘What?’ said Tyler, still shocked by Randall’s remarks. ‘Oh, yes. It was about the Coup. But I expect. . .’
‘The coup?’
‘Yes, I did a little reading up, but I presume . . .’ He stopped himself as he realised what he had said.
Randall smiled ‘David this morning I went to see a man who claims he saw four passengers, not one, but four passengers get on the plane that supposedly killed Dorothy Kite. But, and here is the rub, he swears that two of the group were Middle Eastern.’
‘Good lord.’
‘My sentiments exactly, now tell me about Oman.’
‘Well, as you know the current Sultan Qaboos came into power after a palace coup orchestrated in 1970 by the British. Now the consensus is that it was basically all down to oil. In the late sixties, the Qaboos’s father granted oil exploration rights for the Dhofar region to the Americans, instead of Shell and British petroleum. Now as you can imagine, for a man who had always worked closely with the British, this came as quite a shock. Especially, to those interested parties in Whitehall and beyond. But they needn’t have worried because although the Americans did find oil, it wasn’t in sufficient enough quantities to make it commercially viable.
‘Now the irony of it all is, the yanks were looking in the wrong place. Shortly after they’d toddled off into the sunset huge quantities were discovered, and not too far from where they’d been looking.’
‘So this is all down to greed?’ said Randall fixing two drinks.
‘Isn’t it always? Mind you when it comes to likes of Kessler it’s also got a lot to do with national pride. Men like him aren’t going to stand around and watch the sun set on the once mighty British Empire. The whole thing attracted ex-colonials, executives, ex-army you name it.
‘Now, for some time the Sultan, with the help of the British, was engaged in what was known as the Dhofar war.’
‘Civil war?’
‘Of a sort. Insurgents, supported by the Saudi’s, Soviets, Chinese and god knows who else, were all out to bring down the Sultan and his British friends. And for a time they were doing a pretty good job.’
‘Was Kessler and the SAS involved in all of this?’
‘Yes. But to their frustration the Sultan wouldn’t release sufficient funds for heavy equipment. So with this in mind, and oil already found, it was decided the old boy had to go. Pressure was put on the prince and the rest as they say is history.’
‘How come they had so much influence on the kid?’
‘He spent a great deal of time in Britain. Studied at Sandhurst and became a very close friend of . . . ‘
‘Harry Kessler?’
‘Give that man a coconut. The Prince knew the situation pretty well. The Kingdom was virtually in the middle-ages and I’m sure he knew that with the new found oil and with help from the British he could not only defeat the rebels but bring the country into the twentieth century.’
‘So what happened?’
‘It was impressed upon the British contingent within the country, indeed within the palace, that it should not be a British hand that forced the abdication but an Omani one, and a distinguished one at that. A chap by the name of Sheik Braik bins Hamood Al Ghafri. He knew the Sultan well and once prompted by the Brit’s he requested an audience, got it and consequently asked the old boy for his abdication. What actually happened next is all a bit unclear but somehow the Sultan was shot, as was Sheik Braik. They weren’t serious wounds but as the day went on, with Whitehall on tenterhooks, the word came out that the Sultan had seen the end and was willing to abdicate. But only to the British.’
‘The wily old fox.’
‘Exactly.’
‘So what happened to him?’
‘He, along with Sheik Braik, were flown out of the country to an RAF hospital at Murhararaq. Following medical treatment Sheik Braik returned to Oman whereas the Sultan was flown to Brize Norton in Oxfordshire. Following his recovery he was taken to his place of exile, the Dorchester Hotel, Park Lane.’
‘Is he still alive?’
‘He died two years later. He’s buried in Brookwood Cemetery in Woking.’
‘Bloody hell.’ He stood and walked to the table and picked up the envelope of conspiracy theories given to him by Hodges. ‘I had no idea.’
‘Not many do.’
‘David,’ said Randall cautiously, ‘do you know if any of Kessler’s associates were amputees?’
‘Could you be more specific?’
‘Someone lacking an arm, for instance’
‘Which arm?’
‘The right one,’ said Randall, turning excitedly.
‘No. But I know a man that might. His name is Weasel. He’s a snout; or rather, he used to be. The only problem is I’ve been trying to locate him for a couple of days, with no success.’
‘Is he reliable?’
‘He’s a down and out.’
‘So how could we trust him?’
‘Because,’ said Tyler, getting to his feet, ‘he’s ex-SAS and if my memory serves me right, he fought under Kessler.’
‘What about the club you mentioned? Is it still running?’
‘It shut down in the early nineties. But I’m just on my way to meet an old pal who used to be a member.’
‘David,’ Randall smiled, ‘you never cease to amaze me.’
‘Yes. It’s the military training, you know?’

Donald had walked for most of that afternoon. There had been the occasional food stop, which unfortunately for him were disappointingly brief (7 rashers of bacon being somewhat limited fare for a man of his size). And apart from being in almost continual pain from blisters and worn skin from the undersized boots, he was now suffering from sunburn from the relentless sun.
To his surprise, there had been no encounters with hill walkers or farmers, only sheep and the occasional buzzard. This was just as well. For twice, his concentration had lapsed and he had found himself wandering down into the valley like a madman.
The real scare, however, had occurred towards the latter end of the afternoon.
There had been no water for some time, not even the smallest of pools. It was as if the hills had simply swallowed up the streams, leaving nothing but grass and fern, and for the first time that afternoon his doubts had returned.
Yet even then at that lowest of points, he knew the spirits would not abandon him.
Moving off again he had stumbled upon a pool of clear water hidden beneath a crescent of tall reeds. Like an elixir it had revitalized him, but more importantly, it had reinforced his belief that he was destined to survive and find the answers.
As he rested he became aware of the cloud he had first noticed earlier that day. Like a hunter, it had silently pursued him until now it was almost above him, billowing in preparation for the rain that was waiting to fall. The sun, not extinguished by the cloud but retreating beyond the horizon, blemished the approaching cloud with an unearthly scarlet hue; slowly darkness was descending.
Studying the shadow lands of the east Donald could see a long chain of pylons, like washerwomen hitching up their skirts, straddling the horizon. Then he noticed the light. Like another sun, this one distant and remote, a dot of gleaming white that could be the difference between life and death.
It was a risk, but one he had to take. So the first drops of rain started to fall he started down the slope toward the distant star.

It was nine o’clock as Randall woke to the persistent buzz of the doorbell. Staggering into the hall he peered through the glass to see Tyler with a carryout and a bottle of whisky.
‘Just thought if we were going to bring the down the government, we’d better get our facts right,’ he said as Randall opened the door.
‘Quite,’ said Randall with a yawn. ‘I’ll get the glasses. How was lunch?’
‘Very productive,’ he said following him inside. ‘I have the name of an old steward from the club. He was there for over twenty years and if he’s still alive, and that’s a big if, he could prove to be very helpful.’
‘Can you track him down though? What with him and this Weasel character, this is becoming more of a missing persons investigation.’
‘You needn’t worry. Because not only did I get the name of the steward, I also discovered Weasels present lodgings.’
‘Great, where?’
‘Soho, but I wouldn’t like to commit myself on which doorway.’

An hour later, with the table littered with half empty cartons of cold takeaway, the two men deliberated over their drinks. It had been raining since late afternoon and now it was at its heaviest.
‘So,’ said Tyler, for the umpteenth time, ‘this all begins with Hawksmoor walking into that flat on that night and seeing what he did?’
‘Something like that.’ Randall was lying on the sofa, his eyes fixed to the ceiling.
‘The thing that gets me is Kite. Why her?’
‘I wish I knew, that’s that one thing that doesn’t tie up. What was she doing on the plane?’
‘Coincidence?’
‘Don’t believe in them.’
‘No, me neither,’ said Tyler with a yawn. ‘I saw her once, you know? In a restaurant in Mayfair before she . . . well, you know what I mean. I was out with a right little cracker I’d been trying to date for weeks. And what did I do? Spent the whole evening gazing over at Miss Kite.’ He took a large mouthful of whisky and stared down at some papers he had spaced out on the coffee table. ‘Harry Kessler dies on the 20th. Hawksmoor claims to have seen Kite in the early hours of the 21st in a building owned by the Kessler Organisation, and three days later, a woman, who calls herself Kraner, but whose real name is actually Reed, is killed in the very same flat. Subsequently, we discover that not only was she an employee of Kessler, but she was once involved with the theatre and knew Dorothy Kite.’
‘You can see why I’ve been getting a little confused with the whole affair,’ said Randall, massaging his forehead.
‘What’s your view on conspiracy theories?’
‘Well, you know me,’ said Randall. ‘I’ve never been too taken with magic bullets and grassy knolls.’
Tyler put down his glass and started to slowly pace the room. ‘If we could only find some connection between Kessler and Kite.’
‘This has to be connected to the coup. Cope said there were three others on the plane. Now let’s just presume the one in uniform was military; possibly a friend of Kessler?’
‘And the foreigners?’
‘Omani officials representing the prince? The plane gets into difficulty, crashes and the government is forced to cover the whole thing up.’
‘But why Kite?’ said Tyler, suddenly stopping at the window and looking out at the rain.
‘I don’t bloody know! There must be some connection; otherwise she wouldn’t have been on the plane. Maybe she was going to an orphanage. Maybe there is no connection.’
‘Well if there isn’t why the hell do two men butcher a whole lot of innocent people?’
‘Unless . . . she recognised someone on the plane.’
‘Our one armed mystery man, perhaps?’
‘And having survived the crash she knew they’d be looking for her?’
‘Otherwise why hide someone away for thirty years. She has to know something that has forced these people to kill.’
‘But what happened in Oman is well documented. There are god knows how many books on the subject.’
‘Well there must be something.’
‘What about this Pimm character?’
‘Oh, he’s involved. He knows a lot more than his tan’s giving away.’
‘Could he be the man orchestrating all of this?’
‘He’s got the right criteria, rich, smug and in love with himself. He was born for the part.’
He walked to the table and filled his glass. Outside the wind was driving the rain hard against the window and far off a rumble of thunder filled the night.
‘Let’s just say for one minute that Kite survived that crash and she knows something that could bring them all down.’
Randall was staring into the darkness and rubbing his forehead with the empty whisky glass. It was almost possible to see him picking through the tangle of threads in his mind.
‘Wouldn’t there be an awful lot of nervous politicians and businessmen? There would have been a great deal of money made from that oil. You said yourself there were investors queuing up, maybe it’s all a lot more sordid than has been documented.’
‘And they’re all sitting pretty until Hawksmoor speaks to you?’ said Tyler slowly turning to him.
‘Now that’s a damn good reason to hide away for over a quarter of a century.’
For a moment the two men stared out into the night as the distant storm lit up the night.

By the time Donald reached the light it had been dark for hours. The rain that had first fallen gently and silently was now heavy and drumming out a rhythm across the landscape. The light, he quickly discovered was a security light on a decaying farmhouse on the slope of a small hill. From its beam he could see a small cobbled yard surrounded by a horseshoe of outbuildings. None of them seemed particularly inviting, but in view of the situation he decided he had little choice. Finding enough energy for one final push, he forced himself through the line of overgrown hedges and slowly approached the yard. On one side it was clear to see from the light that none of the buildings had roofs and the rain was pouring out of the opened doors like rivers onto to the cobbles.
Hoping for better things, he scurried to the opposite side, where to his relief he found a stable block with roof. Peering into the darkness he was suddenly gripped with terror as he saw eyes staring back at him. For a moment he simply stood and stared at the light reflecting on the glassy flesh. Then he understood. These were not human, but equine.
Giving a huge sigh, and with one eye on the farmhouse, he crept inside and searched for a bed for the night. His luck was in. To the right of the door was a large pile of straw. He wasted no time. Sodden, exhausted and in full view of the horses he collapsed onto the pile and closed his eyes.
Wrongly taking this to be the farmer bringing them a midnight snack the two animals walked over and stared down at Donald. But this was no treat. For in seconds he was fast asleep and snoring loudly.

WEDNESDAY. 4:26 AM

The crow of a cockerel announcing the dawn of another day carried across the farmyard, waking Donald with a start. Pulling his head through a blanket of straw he stared ahead like a mad man before flinching and falling back onto the hay. He was wet and weak and, from the intense pain between his shoulders, aware that he had slept rather awkwardly during the night.
The rain had stopped but in its place there was a hint of autumn in the air. As if forewarning the change that was to come it carried across the landscape and onto the farm. Leaves and straw, caught in the swirl of the wind, danced in the air, until finally they were carried off towards the trees beyond the hill.
Pushing himself up and tentatively peering over the stable door Donald could see the house and its out buildings clearly for the first time. It seemed a lifeless place. Somewhere where depression hung like a cloud. Where even on summer days there would be a dark soulless tone that the joys of nature could not penetrate.
Checking the farmhouse for activity one final time he unlatched the old wooden door and stepped out onto the cobbles. All seemed quiet, and he was preparing to move off again when a muffled cough from the far side of the yard sent him scurrying back into the stable. Terrified he closed the door and peered out. For a moment he saw nothing, then, from one of the derelict buildings on the far side, an old man appeared. He was hunchbacked and incredibly bony, but more worryingly for Donald he was making his way to the stables.
Rushing to the horse’s pen he carefully got in and made his way into the shadows. Crouching down against the wall he listened to the hobnails tapping out a terrifying rhythm of inevitability on the cobbled yard.
In a moment the man was unbolting the door.
‘Good mornin’, my beauties,’ he said dropping a bucket heavily onto the stone floor. Then growling up a lungful of phlegm he directed it out of a broken window with an audacious flick of the head.
His face was red and his hair, wild and grey. He reminded Donald of himself. Once during his repatory day he had played a yokel in some obscure comedy. Unknown to him he had based his character on reality.
‘How are you Cuddy? And what about you Mr Baker? You seem a little restless this mornin’ . . . ’ Suddenly he stepped back from the pen. ‘Hello, what’s this then? What’s been going on here? Those bloody foxes again. Bloody straw everywhere . . .’
He scuttled out into the yard and Donald saw his opportunity. Moving forward in preparation for an escape he approached the nearest horse.
‘Steady there old girl,’ he whispered, his breath visible in the cold air.
He could hear the old man mumbling outside. It was now or never. Craning his neck around the back of the beast he reached out for the gate, when, quite to his surprise, he felt a hot thud on the back of his neck. With a yelp he looked up to see the horses tail raised and ball of dung coming his way. Pow! Spluttering and coughing he fell back onto the floor disturbing the horses.
In seconds the farmer was back. This time with a broom.
‘What the bloody hell,’ the old boy seemed startled. Although with the red face and wild hair it was difficult to tell. ‘I’ll have you, you bugger!’
Leaping forward he stabbed the broom through the bars. Amazingly Donald was unaware of the threat as he crawled beneath the agitated horses, blind with a face full of manure. That was until the old boy caught him hard in the ribs. Howling with pain he dived forward to escape another thrust only to smash his forehead against one of the bars. The pain was as excruciating as the first and it forced him back against the stable wall to catch his breath from the double blow.
Suddenly all was quiet.
Scraping the remnants of the dung from his eyes he looked up to find the stable empty and the farmer out in the yard yelling for assistance.
Knowing his chances was slipping from him; Donald struggled through the bars and ran outside. In the centre of the yard the farmer was jumping up and down and shouting towards the house.
‘Maude! Maude! Get Beryl! Get Beryl!’
After a moment the door of the farmhouse opened and out ran an old woman. It was then as she scurried down the slope towards her husband that Donald realised Beryl wasn’t a female relative - but a double-barrelled shot gun.
Rushing towards a narrow passageway between the buildings on the far side of the yard Donald almost fainted as he heard the double explosion. Shards of brick ricocheted around him as he ran out onto a muddy lane, made narrow by a long border of overgrown hawthorns. He ran left only to find the bushes so thick it gave him no option but to turn hurriedly and run up the hill towards the farmhouse.
To the strains of, “come here you bugger,” Donald struggled through the thick mud until he reached the house and saw the farmers wife once more. Dressed in curlers, slippers and a long pink dressing gown, she ran towards him.
‘He’s here Bill. He’s here!’
Glancing over his shoulder Donald could see the farmer halfway up the lane, reloading.
‘Hurry up Bill! He’s getting away. He looks like one of those asylum seekers!’ she said, tossing a plant pot at Donald’s head.
‘I’ll give him asylum,’ Donald heard the farmer say as another explosion fired out and shot hissed by his ear.
Reaching the top of the hill he launched himself forward as another volley fired out and hit the ground behind him. Rolling down the other side and entering the forest at speed he crashed into a fir tree, sending roosting birds skywards. Crying out he grabbed his arm and scrambled behind the tree.
For a moment all was still. Then he saw the couple appear at the top of the hill. They growled like a pair of old dogs as they stared down into the trees. The farmer, mumbling incoherently, was watching for movement along the barrel of the gun. He wouldn’t find any. Donald was spent. So much so in fact he was not even aware of the rain that now fell heavier and more persistent than the night before.
It was probably because of this that the couple had decided not to pursue their quarry. Nevertheless it seemed an eternity before they went back to the farmhouse. When they had, Donald wasted no time.
Getting to his feet, he set off into the forest. For if he had learnt anything that week, he had learnt that keeping moving was about the only thing a desperate man can do.

For over an hour he had walked aimlessly beneath the canopy of the forest where even the driving rain could not penetrate the dense branches. Even so he was still cold and sodden. More worrying than that was that he was lost. Where he had discovered glimpses of the sky it was only to find the sun still hidden by a thick rolling bank of cloud that seemed to stretch across the world.
He had continued on the best he could until he found himself in a part of the forest so thick with trees that even the light was shut out. It was a twilight world of gnarled oak and downy beech, normally unseen, yet a place that seemed to him, welcoming and safe. Slowly moving on, staring deep into the bluish faint light he wondered then if he had already died and was now entering the next world. Suddenly he stopped and stared at what appeared to be a huge slain dragon before him. Then he relaxed as he realised it was the shell of an ancient oak. Once it had stood proudly, now it rotted, fed upon by creatures of every kind. Walking to it he discovered a deep hollow, one deep enough for him to climb inside and rest. But if he did, he knew, like the tree itself, he would never rise again.
Swinging his arms in a vain attempt to rid himself of the cold, he set off again. In time he found the stillness of the forest strangely compelling. The immutable mystery of it all touched him deeply and once again he felt one with the spirits. He had barely stopped all morning, but instead of sapping his energy the surroundings had seemed to revive him and soon his mind was as fresh as ever. Memories, thoughts and notions, drifted from him out into the wood until they returned clearer and purer, like a river cleansing his mind.
Regardless of everything, however, one image had remained constant. And at first it didn’t seem to make any sense. Then as thoughts of his childhood had filled his mind he had understood. It was something he had read as a boy, words on a faded page from a long forgotten book. Words that at some other point in his formative years could have gone unnoticed. But as a lonely child in a new country it had touched him deeply, and sparked a fire that had changed his life. Now the meaning was even more poignant.
For most of that morning there had been a clear image of a young Alexander the Great in his minds eye. That remarkable young man that had conquered most of Asia by the time he was twenty-five. Donald had marvelled at his adventures and now, prompted by the image in his head, he had remembered his extraordinary resolve. How he taken on the mighty Persian Empire and won. How he had forced himself on and on to the ends of the earth. And how, even though he had defeated Darius the Persian king in battle, he had hunted for him night and day for vengeance
For Donald it was as if the flame had lingered for this moment. He to would go on. Despite the pain and the hardship he would follow his path until death alone extinguished the fire.

Through the café window Randall watched a fleet of swans patrolling the lake as the rain gently fell. In the café garden moorhens and squirrels hustled for scraps despite the rantings of the owner, rescuing damp paper menus from the tables.
In spite of the weather, Regents Park was as tranquil to Randall as it had always been. It was there he had asked Emily to be his wife and for that reason alone, it had always held a special place in his affections.
‘It’s bloody raining,’ said the owner, flapping himself out of a wet jacket.
He was middle-eastern and quite charmless. Randall ordered a coffee and returned his attention to the park as the man grumped through to the kitchen. After a minute or two he reappeared and turned on the radio in time for the morning news. Randall listened intently. Still there was no mention of the massacre at Orchid House, and now not even a mention of his removal from the investigation. Suddenly the host reappeared and placed a cup heavily before him.
‘Enjoy,’ he demanded and disappeared into the kitchen once again.

Soon the headlines gave way to loud pop music, prompting Randall to check his watch. At that very moment the door opened and in walked David Tyler, shaking the rain from his trilby.
‘Good morning,’ said Randall.
‘It is if you’ve got a bill,’ said Tyler taking off his overcoat. ‘Sorry I’m late.’
‘Not a problem. Why all the cloak and dagger?’
‘An hour ago I went to the home of one Charles Quilby.’
‘The Steward?’
‘The very same?’
‘He’s still alive?’
‘Died five months ago.’
‘Damn.’
‘I met his widow though. A lovely lady, made me breakfast.’
‘I’m very pleased for you.’
‘Then she brought me some old files of his days at the club.’
Randall eyed him curiously for a moment. He could see in his eyes he had found something but dared not ask in case he was wrong. Suddenly Tyler took out a large manila envelope and dropped it onto the table.
‘What’s this?’
‘You’ll see,’ said Tyler, as the café owner reappeared. ‘You there, tea and pronto.’
The man gave Tyler a vicious stare before mumbling something in Arabic. Randall was unaware of conversation. He was too busy staring at the file.
‘I take it the journey was worthwhile,’ said Randall.
‘You could say that. Mind you I was beginning to feel quite the opposite after an hour of hearing what an incredibly fine ballroom dancer he was, and how proud she was of his prize-winning marrows. Then when I was about to depart she announces that Charles was also a talented amateur photographer. “Possibly I’d like to take a look?” She suggests. “Some were even taken at the club I was asking about.” “The Carlton club?” Say I. “Yes,” she declares. “Should she bring them down?” “Of course she bloody should!” I say to myself.’ Despite his excitement Randall had to smile. ‘Most of it was pretty uninspiring stuff. That was until I came to the last file.’
Tapping the envelope melodramatically he slid it across the table. Inside Randall discovered a pile of ageing black and white photographs. The first showed a group of men sitting with drinks in hand.
‘Carlton club?’
‘Yes, recognise anyone?’
Randall looked closely. Instantly, he saw a young version of Xavier Pimm. And unless he was mistaken they were from a similar period to those he had seen in his office. Then he recognised the man sitting next to him.
‘This is Harry Kessler. Why did Quilby keep these.’
‘Memories I suppose. According to his wife this was the opening night of the Carlton club. Sometime in 1969.’
‘Which would be around the time that the Kessler Organisation was set-up.’
‘Keep looking.’
Tyler watched as Randall slowly studied each one and then dropped it on the stained tabletop. Finally as he reached the last photograph Randall slowly leant forward.
‘There,’ said Tyler. Randall stared at the picture in his hand. ‘Take a close look at that.’
This picture differed from the others in that it featured a smaller group.
‘What do you see?’
‘Kessler and Pimm.’
‘And the other man?’
‘Never seen him before.’
‘Take a closer look.’
The man was middle-aged, well built and well dressed. It was then as Randall noted the man’s attire that he saw it. Even from the angle the photograph was taken, it was impossible to miss the fact that his right sleeve was pinned flat to the shoulder.
‘Dear god.’
‘Yes.’
‘Who is he?’
‘Charles Cassel, Foreign Office. Don’t know why I didn’t think of him before.’
‘What was his relationship to Kessler and Pimm?’
‘These three men served in the SAS in Korea. Now Cassell as I remember was quite a linguist and fluent in at least two or three Arabic dialects. After he was invalided out of the service it was inevitable he would go into some sort of diplomatic service.’
‘Was he on the Kessler payroll?’
‘Not that I’m aware of. But that doesn’t mean he wasn’t.’
‘Could he be our man?’
‘I’d be amazed if he wasn’t.’
‘What was his official demise?’
‘Car crash. Apparently, his chauffeur had a heart attack at the wheel.’
‘When?’
‘I’d need to look into that.’
‘Did you ever meet him?’
‘I bumped into him a few times, nothing more.’
‘Any idea who this fourth character is?’
Sitting next to Pimm was another man; tall and lean. Only he had his head turned away from the camera.
‘No idea.’
‘Could he be important?’
‘It’s possible, I suppose.’
‘Did Quilby keep anything else?’
‘Difficult to say, she’s in the process of moving house at the moment. If she finds anything she’s going to give me ring.’
Randall finished off his coffee and glanced down at the photograph.
‘Cassell and the Omani’s this is all beginning to make sense . . . but why Kite?’
Tyler took up the photographs and slipped them into the envelope. ‘Maybe we’ll find out when we see Weasel this evening.’
‘You’ve found him?’
‘We’re meeting him tonight.’
‘Will he come?’
‘He’ll come, we’re meeting him in a pub. He likes to drink.’
‘What can he tell us?’
‘When it comes to the SAS, almost anything. But I suppose more importantly he can tell us all about ‘Mad Dog’ Fraser.’
‘Look David, I really appreciate all of this, but you don’t need to get any more involved than you are. If I had any sense I’d give it up myself.’
‘So why don’t you?’
Randall smiled. ‘You should know better than me. You never really retire at all, do you?’
‘No,’ said Tyler, with a smile, ‘and this is only your second day.’

After some time he stopped to catch his breath. Then for no reason he could readily explain, an image of Annabelle suddenly appeared in his mind. He closed his eyes to see her more clearly, to savour the moment and marvel at her young smiling face. But when he opened his eyes again and scanned the forest, he was faced with the shell of the decaying oak tree off to his right.
He had been walking in circles and the realisation washed the newfound enthusiasm from him. For quite some time he stared at the tree. Then as the cold became too much to bear he walked to it and climbed inside. There he curled himself tightly into a ball and closed his eyes.
He had no idea how long he had slept, but when he woke he was aware that the light within the forest was very different. Staring up through painful eyes he saw that the wind had eased and the sun had finally broken through the cloud and was now straining at the canopy for access.
Aching all over he stumbled out onto the forest floor. He felt weak, very weak, and his head was throbbing terribly. Cupping his hand he rubbed his face in a vain attempt to bring himself back to life, but stopped suddenly as he heard a noise in the distance. Initially, he dismissed it, thinking it to be a fox, but when it came a second time, this time louder and more chilling, he knew it was human.
Although it didn’t seem that far off it had a muffled tone to it. Steadying himself he took a mouthful of air and slowly moved forward to investigate. Approaching a small ridge that ran across the length of the forest he saw a large hollow made deeper by wide banks of olive coloured ferns. Crouching down and pushing them aside he peered over the edge. The hollow seemed just that. Then leaning forward to get a better view he saw someone sitting against the bank, just below him. But before he could make any sense of the situation the ground beneath him suddenly gave way and he was tumbling towards the shape below.
Hitting the wet ground with force he cried out before sitting up and gasping for air. It was then he discovered the source of the cries, a girl in her late teens. Wet, terrified and very pregnant.
‘Oh, Jesus,’ he muttered.
The girl said something unintelligible and then screamed holding her stomach.
‘Shhhhhh!’ he said, crawling to her.
‘Te rog nu ma rani’ she moaned sitting herself up.
‘What?’
‘Te rog nu ma rani’ she repeated, panting for air.
‘I don’t understand. Do you speak English?’ she groaned loudly and fell back onto the wet grass. Moving forward he stared down at her. ‘I can’t stay here, do you understand?’
‘Ajuta-ma, nu ma lasa,’ she said, and then screamed again.
‘I can’t help you, I’m sorry.’ Getting to his feet he turned and began to cross the hollow. But then the girl spoke again.
‘Please . . . help me.’
These words, uttered so desperately, stopped him in his tracks. She was reaching out to him, her hand dirty and blooded. Like him she was alone. She screamed again, this time more intensely than before, and in that moment he knew he wouldn’t leave her.
‘You bloody fool Hawksmoor,’ he muttered, before slowly walking to her.

It had taken over an hour of pushing and weary encouragement, before a blood coated mop of black hair emerged into the morning light. Donald, exhausted and pale, took off his jumper and wrapped it around the baby before placing it in the girl’s arms.
Sitting back and catching his breath he watched as mother and son spent their first moments together. It may have been the setting or his recent experiences in the wild, but as the child had appeared screaming and kicking deep in the heart of the forest it had seemed that nature herself had lent a guiding hand.
As the child’s cries filled the forest Donald smiled filled with a mixture of wonder and exhaustion. The girl cried now less out of pain and more out of joy, and for the first time she smiled warmly at him.
‘I want to be thanking you,’ she said, pulling the baby close to her.
‘What’s your name?’
‘Magdalena.’
‘Well, Magdalena, what are you doing here? Where do you come from?’
‘Romania.’
‘I see,’ he said, looking down at the child. ‘Well, first things first we need to cut that cord, do you have anything sharp?’
‘No, she doesn’t,’ said a voice from above.
Donald looked up to see four men on the bank. The smallest of the quartet was a stocky old man with short white hair and a face the colour of teak. Despite his advanced years he had huge Popeye-like arms. Which at the end of one them, in a hand that seemed disproportionate to the rest of his body, he held a long jagged blade. In a second Donald was rushing across the hollow, but he was barely halfway across when they were upon him. One of them (a giant of a man) held him tightly in a headlock where Donald’s struggling was of no use. Nevertheless he fought on regardless. That was until the giant grabbed his hair and drew his head back violently.
It was then that he saw the old man who had first spoken descending the bank. He was short, but heavily built, with a comical grey walrus-like moustache. Donald didn’t feel like laughing when the old man stopped before him and hit him hard across the mouth with the handle of the knife.
‘Papa,’ screamed the girl.
‘Who are you?’ Donald was in too much pain to reply. ‘Who are you to dishonour my daughter in this way? Is it you she has been disappearing to see in the night!’
‘Sir,’ said Donald, with a mixture of desperation and anger. ‘I can assure you I have never laid eyes on your daughter before in my life.’
‘You are a liar!’
Again he lashed out with the knife, and again the girl pleaded with him to stop. There was a brief exchange between the two before the old man turned to Donald again and put the knife close to his throat.
‘You will die for this English.’
‘No,’ said another voice.
During the drama, a women and a boy had appeared on the bank. The woman was of a similar age to the old man, whilst the boy seemed to be in his mid-teens. The old man yelled out again, this time at the woman on the bank. She yelled back and then in no time at all everyone was yelling; except of course for Donald. During all of this, with the blade pressing ever closer to his throat, he had begun to feel decidedly odd.
The lack of sleep combined with the cold and the yelling, not to mention a busted lip, had all conspired to send his head spinning. Like being in the centre of a vortex and seeing everything fall towards him he began to feel very, very sick and closed his eyes. But there was no escape. Even in his mind the banks of the hollow, the trees, even the sky high above rushed towards him.
Then as they closed in, Donald sensed he was fading away, giving in to its overwhelming power.

Later, when he next opened his eyes again, Donald was astounded to see the old man, smiling broadly and holding his hand. He was even more amazed to find himself, not in the cold damp forest, but in a warm dry caravan.
‘Good mornings,’ said the man, with a lighter tone than Donald had anticipated. ‘My name is Vasile, and I would like to apologise for grave mistakes.’
Donald said nothing. He was unable to. Over at the open door he could hear voices and tried to turn his head to see what was happening. But he didn’t have the strength.
‘What is your name?’ Vasile asked.
Donald, thought quickly, but frankly struggled with, what to most, would have been a simple lie. Fortunately, at that moment someone entered the caravan.
‘Ah, a guest for the guest!’ said Vasile jumping to his feet like a young boy.
Glancing across Donald quickly saw that it was the older woman from the forest. She was holding the baby, who, like Donald, was now comfortable after his ordeal. Like Vasile the woman was small with a pleasant round face. Leaning forward she whispered to the old man until he put up a hand and turned to Donald.
‘I, as you say in England, got the bad end of the stick. I was thinking this child was the product of you - but no. It was another, and we are much thankful for the good you have done.’
The woman whispered again and Vasile interpreted.
‘My wife, Maria, would like to thanking you, also. She has prepared food and hopes you are much stronger to dress and join with us.’
It was only then Donald realised he was quite naked beneath a thick blanket.
‘My clothes?’
‘They are wet. We have some warm dry clothings for you.’
‘Thank you,’ said Donald, feeling rather embarrassed.
‘We will leave you now. Take your times.’

When he had dressed, Donald studied himself in a mirror on the caravan wall. His hair was greyer than he’d ever seen it, whilst his face was thinner, with a reddish glow from his days in the sun. Vasile had supplied him with a thick pullover and trousers, but still he was stuck with the boots Paul had purloined; which, although drier were still far too small.
Looking down from the doorway he was surprised to see a group of people sitting before a large table. His appearance seemed to cause something of a stir and within seconds an uneasy silence spread amongst the crowd. Nervously he descended the steps until he realised, to his great surprise, there was a broad smile on every face. At first he wasn’t sure what to do and so stood there and smiled back. And there it remained, until suddenly a little girl broke from the group and ran towards him with a bunch of flowers. Slightly put out by the whole experience he took them from her with a nervous smile before she turned and ran back. As she did the crowd applauded and Donald bowed as if he’d won an award.
‘Come,’ said Vasile. ‘Join us.’
It seemed Donald was the guest of honour and was consequently offered a seat at the head of the table. He was still quite unsure of what had occurred to bring about such a remarkable transformation in his fortunes, but as the first hot food he had seen for over a day was placed before him, he decided he would leave his enquires until later.
As the honoured guest, every dish that appeared was offered to him first. Never one for shirking his responsibilities Donald accepted them all with a vigour that thrilled and touched the host and hostess.
‘We do not know your name,’ said Vasile finally.
Donald was expecting the question and had decided, after much thought, that someone who had been in his thoughts over the past day or so would be suitable.
‘Alexander,’ he said, picking up a chicken leg. ‘But please call me Alex.’
‘Alexander. That is a fine name. Your parents were students of history.’
‘Yes,’ he said, gnawing at the meat. ‘What are you from?’
‘We are Romanian, of course,’ replied Vasile, in a surprised tone.
‘And what are you doing here?’
‘We are travelling to Edinburgh in Scotland. (He pronounced it Scotchland). Every year we take part in the festival.’
‘Aren’t you a little late for the festival?’
‘Your country is closing its borders, it’s not as easy to get in as it once was.’
‘But as I remember the festival ends on the last day of August?’
‘On Saturday, that is true. But things are bad this year because of my daughter who becomes pregnant and then runs away?’
‘How long was she out in the open?’
‘Two days.’
‘Two days?’
‘She is Neculai, she has the iron in the blood.’
‘She also had a bun in the oven, how did you miss that?’
‘A bun in the oven?’
‘She had a child in her belly, how did you not notice?’
‘Ahhhh!’ he nodded. ‘You have seen more of my daughter than I, you must be agreeing, she is big. I tell my wife, “she is too friendly with the food.” But girls will be girls, yes.’
Donald ate and drank constantly for at least ten minutes before speaking again.
‘What do you do?’
Vasile laughed loudly, as did the group when the question was interpreted.
‘We are The Zburatori Neculai - The Flying Neculai. We are acrobats and trapeze. My father and his father were the same. We travel all over Europe to all of the festivals.’
Donald could now see the hand painted designs on the vans and lorries. Then he noticed the large man that had held him in the headlock earlier that day.
‘Ah, this is my son, Seby. He doesn’t say much,’ he whispered to Donald, ‘so just smile.’
‘Gladly,’ said Donald, as the man took his hand and nodded.
‘He’s a big lad.’
‘He grows up, my daughter grows out.’
‘How is the girl?’
Vasile stood up before replying, ‘Ask her yourself.’
There was a sudden cheer from the crowd and he turned to see her amidst the huddle with the baby in her arms. At her side was the young man he had first seen with Maria in the forest. The trio were applauded passionately until they reached Donald, where the noise receded.
‘Alexander, this is my daughter Magdalena and Anton . . .’ he stopped and gave the boy a rather disdainful glare. This, however, was cut short by a kick to the shin from his wife, Maria. ‘This is Anton the sons father,’ he added hopping on one leg.
‘I must be saying sorry,’ said Anton stepping forward and taking Donald’s hand, ‘for all the troubles I have caused during this time.’
‘This partnership,’ said Vasile, ‘that as come as a great surprise, was done in a manner that was unknown to me.’
‘I see,’ said Donald, raising an eyebrow.
‘That is why,’ he added bashfully, ‘I was accusing you of this underhand transaction.’
‘That’s alright,’ he smiled. ‘All’s well that ends well.’
He leant forward and gently stroked the baby’s cheek, which was odd behaviour for a man who had always maintained a deep dislike for children. But since his experience earlier that day in the forest he was now aware of a mellowing of that attitude. ‘And how are you my dear?’
‘I am okay. Thanks to you.’
There was a glow of admiration on her face and Donald was aware that a bond had been made.
‘I hope you, Anton and your beautiful child . . .’
Vasile interpreted loudly to the crowd.
‘Will live happy contented lives.’
The crowd applauded and Donald, always conscious of a receptive audience, continued with the felicitations.
‘May your gift to mankind be wise to the mysteries of the world. May he be compassionate, honourable and courageous. And may your union continue to be a fruitful and happy one.’
On that the crowd cheered noisily as Donald fell back into his seat and began to devour yet another chicken leg.

When he could consume no more and the group had dispersed, Donald sat by a fire that had been used to cook the meal and drank strong sweet tea. After a while Vasile joined him and together the listened as the forest bustled by the wind roared like a mighty choir. The camp, a crescent of vans, lorries and caravans had been made at the very edge of the forest to make full use of the shelter. It was a happy scene, one were children and adults alike went about their business contentedly and carefree.
‘How many of these people are your family?’ asked Donald.
‘All but one.’
‘I hope that one is Anton.’
‘He is,’ said Vasile, chuckling and slapping Donald on his back. ‘If he and Magdalena had been related I would have killed him. But she is a good girl, and I suppose so is young Anton. But don’t tell him I told you so, eh? Do you have children, Alexander?’
‘Me? No, never quite got round to it.’
‘That is unfortunate, I think you would make a good father.’
‘Bit too old now, I’m afraid.’
‘Remember one thing Alex, the best tunes are played on the oldest fiddles.’
‘Quite,’ he said glancing around the small encampment. Off to the right he could make out a dirt track that traced the edge of the forest. Next to it, like something from a fairy tale stood the caravan in which he had slept. Brightly painted with ornate colourful designs it was exactly one would expect to find in a gypsy encampment.
‘Thank you for the accommodation. . . most comfortable. I love these old things, how many generations has it been in the family?’
‘Eh?’
‘The caravan?’
‘The caravan? I bought it from a fellow in Shipton Mallet last week, and at a very reasonable price too. But they don’t make them like they used to, uh?’
‘I suppose not,’ said Donald, rather disappointed.
‘Where are you from Alexander? Are you in trouble?’ Donald remained silent, but more than anything longed to tell the old man of his plight. ‘What do you do in the rain with no jacket and the ladies underwear?’ Vasile winked as Donald smiled awkwardly. ‘Don’t worry, the secret, it is safe with Vasile.’
Under normal circumstances, he would have made his excuses there and retired. But he simply didn’t have the strength. Instead he sank into the chair and enjoyed the sun that was now smiling through the broken cloud, warming his face. A moment like that only weeks before would have passed by unnoticed, but now it was everything to him. Another reason to rejoice. Another day alive.
‘You are tired, let me help you to your bed,’ said Vasile getting to his feet.
‘Could I stay here before the fire?’
‘But of course, I will get you a blanket.’
Closing his eyes Donald could hear the fire as it crackled, and the trees swaying in the wind. He knew that moment would stay with him forever, for these were the sounds of freedom.

‘Good afternoon Mr Hodges, can I get you a drink?’
The detective appeared as lost and forlorn as a freshly caned pupil.
‘No, thanks sir,’ he said following Randall inside. ‘I just wanted to see if you were okay.’
‘I’m fine. Not much on the news this morning,’ he said wryly.
‘No, there was a general consensus that putting a gagging order on the press for a few days would be sensible. We think if anything the press have been helping these . . .’ He hesitated, ‘these bounty hunters.’
‘Yes, I suppose so. And it also keeps the pressure off Tomblin?’
‘Well, there’s that as well.’
‘And your new boss is treating you well I take it?’
‘Fine, just fine.’
‘That’s good to hear,’ he said, fighting off a smile. ‘Any news?’
‘We’ve had another sighting of Hawksmoor.’
‘Where?’
‘Yorkshire.’
‘Yorkshire?’
‘Yes, a farmer discovered someone sleeping rough in one of his stables. Thought he was a asylum seeker, later realised after seeing a photo of Hawksmoor, that he was our man.’
‘So what are you doing in London?’
‘Holding the fort whilst Tomblin goes north to investigate.’
‘I see. Are you sure you can rely on this farmer?’
‘The local nick had him looking at more photo’s and he seemed pretty sure of himself.’
‘Right, Hodges . . . look what is your Christian name?’
‘Rob.’
‘Okay Rob, tell me, how did these two psychopaths know where Hawksmoor was? Has Tomblin looked into it?’
‘No, he’s blaming the press for everything. Says if it wasn’t for this reward it wouldn’t have happened.’
‘I wasn’t aware there were any sightings of Hawksmoor in that area?’
‘Maybe not nationally, but god knows what the local squeaks are scribbling. They’ll be printing every rumour there is.’
‘You know I’ve been thinking long and hard about these two. They seemed to be extraordinarily well informed. There always one-step ahead of us…or should I say you? They nearly had Hawksmoor at the café, and they were first on the scene at Orchid house. Now how did they get there before us? Why were they only minutes away?’
‘Coincidence?’
Randall looked out into the garden, ‘if I didn’t know any better, I would say that they were getting a steady stream of information.’
‘What do you mean, from our department?’
‘Or another. It’s just a theory. But I suppose it doesn’t really matter what I think anymore, does it?’
‘No I suppose not,’ said the young man with a faint smile. He had something to say. He’d been building up the courage for over a week since Tomblin came to the house. He had been put in an impossible position and now felt he was responsible for Randall’s situation. Before he could say a thing the front door suddenly opened and there were footsteps in the hall.
‘Zoe, come in love. You remember Detective Hodges?’
‘Is everything okay?’ she said, eyeing Hodges disdainfully.
‘Look sir, I better go.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes, I’ll be in touch.’
As he walked out Randall shook his head. ‘There’s something on the kid’s mind.’
‘Well, don’t worry about him. You’re the one who was kicked out.’
‘Yes, but he didn’t do it, love.’
‘Makes no difference dad, its time you started thinking about yourself.’
Up until his wife’s death their relationship had always been strong. She was a loving daughter in awe of her incredibly warm and kind police father. He and Emily had created a pleasant environment, an atmosphere in which any child would have benefited. But when she died it was as if he had to. At first there was the denial, then the guilt and now the refusal to see any future without her.
‘You’re retired now, try and remember that.’ Randall smiled weakly and walked into the kitchen. ‘I’m sorry dad, it’s just that you seem to think of everyone else but yourself. You’ve gone through a lot over the past year. You need a rest.’
‘You sound like your mother.’
‘I know. And you know I’m right. It’s over now. She’s gone and you’ve retired. There’s nowhere to hide now, dad. Just face it.’
For a moment he just looked at her. Never once had she spoken to him so directly, so openly and for a time he wasn’t sure what had upset him most – her honesty or her manner. Whatever the effect he knew deep in the heart of him, she was right. Like two strangers they faced each other in silence for moment, until slowly she walked to him and held him tightly.

The fire was nothing more than glowing embers when Donald woke an hour later. It was mid-afternoon now and although the breeze was cold it was warmed by the sun shining down from a cloudless sky.
Someone, probably Vasile, had placed his feet on a chair and stuffed a cushion behind his head.
In front of him on a piece of open ground the troupe tumbled and flipped back and forth in the sun fascinating Donald – he of course never having been the athletic type. And beyond them, with the forest as a backdrop, children ran and played in the sunlight.
Surrounded by these contented souls he forgot his problems and smiled. Then he noticed the little girl who had given him the flowers earlier that day. Dressed in a white frock with hair in bunches she was the very image of innocence. Again he smiled. Then, without warning, she turned and entered the forest. Running along a narrow path through alternating strips of sunlight and dark shade amidst the trees, her movements became momentarily still and vivid. Then in an instant, she was gone. Quite terrified he sat up and peered into the shadows. He was about to call out for help when suddenly she reappeared, ball in hand smiling and happy. Donald did not sense any relief – something else had taken its place. Like a shroud draped across his mind, a terrible sense of apprehension had descended on him. So heavy and suffocating in fact that it would not allow him to raise his spirits no matter how hard he tried.
‘Ah! The sleeper awakes,’ said Vasile, appearing with a pot. ‘How are you feeling Alexander?’
Donald was still so affected by the attack he could barely speak or move. Vasile spoke again but he couldn’t do a thing. Then he stared up at him.
‘Alexander, are you alright?’
‘Yes . . . just a feeling a little stiff,’ he said eventually as he sat himself up in the chair.
‘Drink this, you will feel better.’ Passing a steaming cup of black coffee to Donald he sat down beside him. ‘May I ask you a question?’
Donald said nothing.
‘Where are you going?’
‘I can’t say.’
‘Is it far?’
‘It would be better if I didn’t tell you anything.’
‘That is okay, I did not mean to pry.’
‘I know that, I just can’t tell you.’
‘Are you in trouble?’ Again, Donald remained silent. ‘Please let us help you. There must be something we can do. Why don’t you come with us?’
‘No, it would be too dangerous.’
‘What is this problem that troubles you so?’
Donald put down the cup and slowly stood up, ‘Are my clothes dry?’
‘Yes.’
Walking towards the caravan he suddenly stopped and looked up. Somewhere further along the dirt track a car was approaching the camp. For a moment Donald was lost and could do nothing but look back at the old man who was now on his feet studying the approaching car. Suddenly it appeared between the trees, its orange stripes clear for all to see.
‘Police!’ said Vasile looking over to him. Donald’s expression said more than he ever could. ‘The caravan, hurry.’
Darting forward Donald saw the car as it reappeared between the vans, then within seconds he was clambering up the wooden steps into the caravan.
‘Hide,’ he heard the old man say as the door closed behind him.
Looking round for somewhere to hide he discovered quickly his options were somewhat limited. Beneath the bed seemed the only logical place and so squeezing himself beneath it, he lay motionless waiting for the inevitable.
Outside there was chaos. Vasile, like a general in battle, shouted orders to everyone and everything reminding Donald of his first encounter with him in the forest. Then, as the noise receded, he heard a voice he had not heard before, an English voice.
Jammed below the bed, gasping for breath Donald suddenly felt a rush of anxiety. What was he doing trusting his future to a group of strangers? Why would these people help him? Of course, he had helped the girl, but would their gratitude hold strong when they discovered there was such a high price on his head? Suddenly the stream of doubt was halted as he realised the voices were getting closer.
‘What’s in here?’
‘Nothing,’ said Vasile. ‘It is where my wife reads fortunes at the festivals.’
‘Well, we better take a look.’
The door swung open and Donald watched as the black polished shoes of a policeman entered the cabin.
‘What sort of fortunes does she do?’ said the officer.
‘She reads the palms, the cards, the leaves . . .’
‘The leaves?’
‘The tea leaves.’
‘Oh, you gypsies do that as well, do you?’
‘Oh, yes. My wife has a particular gift in that operation.’
‘Does she really?’
‘Maybe, sir, would like her to read yours now?’
‘Yes, why not. I could do with a cuppa.’
‘Come this way, sir,’ said Vasile leading the man out.
‘I used to have an aunt who read tea leaves.’
‘Really,’ said Vasile, closing the door.
‘Yes, went mad eventually,’ Donald heard him say as the door closed and the voices drifted away to the other side of the camp.

When they had gone, Vasile and the others reappeared and helped Donald to his feet.
‘Thank you Vasile.’
‘It is the least we could do.’
‘Now I must leave you.’
‘I think not.’ Donald looked nervously at the faces in the doorway. ‘The police are looking for you. You were taking a big risk helping my daughter, and for this I will never forget. Now, tell me where are you going?’ Donald sank down onto the bed. ‘If you want to get to where you are going, you must trust us Alex.’
He should have felt relief, but he didn’t. He had been saved again and was now in a position to talk about his ordeal. But there was a sense of him hanging above a void, a seething hell from which he felt he would never escape. Each day it got closer. Up until that afternoon before the fire he had denied its existence but now he felt it deep within him, like a cancer eating away at his soul.
‘There is a woman I need to find.’
‘Where is she?’
‘She used to live on the outskirts of Edinburgh.’
‘Used to?’ said Vasile looking quizzically at his compatriots. ‘What is used to?’
‘What I mean to say is, the last time I saw this woman was nearly thirty years ago.’
‘How can you be sure she still is in this place?’
‘I can’t be sure. But the house had been in her family for many years. And if she is still alive, I am sure she will still be there.’
‘What is the name of this woman you risk your life for?’
‘Her name is Virginia Kite. I was very close to her sister a long time ago.’
Vasile sat down on the bed next to him. ‘Is this Kite a woman of influence and power?’
‘No,’ he smiled, for the first time. ‘But she just may hold the answer to a great mystery.’
‘Well, in the name of all that is good, Vasile Neculai will make sure you find this woman!’
Not once through this exchange did Donald look at Vasile. Not once did he raise his head, and even as the old man jumped to his feet and shouted orders to the onlookers, did he stir. The darkness was closing in on him, and he could almost sense the murmur at its core

Randall had spent most of that afternoon in deep thought. Outside the sun was shining brightly and the world seemed as it should, calm and peaceful. It had taken him a lifetime to get used to that. For men like he, men who had witnessed man’s inhumanity up close, it had always been a constant struggle to fight off that numbing of the senses. Each day he watched society and its obsessions with celebrity and fashion, knowing all the time that underneath that thin layer of normality, simmered chaos.
When Emily had been diagnosed with cancer, he had felt more pity for himself than for her. Most of his life he had worked hard for success and when finally he had achieved it, the thing he held dearest was slowly and painfully taken from him. He couldn’t stop her suffering, and it had been nothing more than guilt that took him to his desk everyday.
Suddenly he was broken from his thoughts by a flash of red. He looked out across the garden and saw the robin he hadn’t seen for over a week. It’s cocky bold movements suddenly made him smile and he leant forward to get a better look. It was then as he watched the bird that he thought of Donald. Was he really so far north? Where was he going? And was it possible that powerful people within the establishment were going to such extraordinary lengths to hunt him down?
A lifetime of experience convinced him that it was.

On the long journey north the convoy had stopped often. Initially, this had filled Donald with panic for the fear of capture. But as the day progressed and the breaks continued, this had subsided into a realisation that a traveller’s life was anything but an interesting one.
With the light fading fast and all his food gone, the caravan suddenly drew to yet another stop, sending Donald into a wild fit of indifference. Then suddenly the door opened and the foul smells within the cabin escaped to be replaced by the hot scented air of a summer evening.
‘How are you my friend?’ said the old man.
‘I could do with stretching my legs.’
‘Wait until the sun sets, then we will eat.’
Donald sighed and lay back on the bunk, cheered only by the prospect of food. ‘Why all the stops?’
‘Women stops, children stops, baby stops, water stops. It is not an easy life for Vasile.’
‘You seem to manage well enough.’
‘Of course, I try my best.’ With his leg up on the step he leant forward and placed an elbow on his knee, and for the first time Donald saw his face in profile. His chin was long and pointed, but was put into the shade (literally) by his huge nose, which was ridiculous and magnificent all at the same time. ‘Today there was also another stop. A police stop.’
‘Really?’ said Donald attempting to hide any reaction that had slipped unnoticed through his defences.
‘These police were not like the other ones. They explain for who they search. They say the man for which they look, is called Donald - a very dangerous man that has killed many peoples. This man, I think, I do not recognise. I know of a man who is also running from the police, but his name is not this Donald, but Alexander. Alexander is a great warrior, a courageous leader of men. What is Donald? Donald is a duck. This name I do not like.’ Scratching his chin the old man looked up at the sky. ‘But this is not our concern Alexander. We have known each other only a small time, but we are, as they say . . . kindred spirits.’
Slowly he straightened and began to close the door. ‘Prepare yourself my friend. Soon we will eat.’

Taking the tube to Marylebone Station, Randall then followed Tyler’s directions until he found The Quayle’s Egg. It was a mock Tudor affair with an abundance of flower baskets stood in a row above the entrance and windows. In the rain, which had started again with a steady drizzle, it seemed as perfect as it must have been the day it was built. Crossing the high street polished clean by the rain, Randall then saw how dowdy and cheap it really was. Suddenly he saw Tyler lurking in the shadows just ahead. Not wanting to hurt his ego he pretended not to notice him and carried on to the pub.
‘Elliot.’
‘David!’ said Randall feigning genuine surprise.
‘Sorry, didn’t mean to creep up on you, old habits die-hard. Just wanted a word before we go in.’
‘I see.’
He moved close to him, checking the street for onlookers. ‘Initially, let me do all the talking. He’s a wily old sod and apt to make awkward comments to size you up.’
‘Fine.’
Opening the door Randall was hit by a blast of warm air laced with cigarette smoke and stale beer. The room was dimly lit with dusty orange lamps and a glowing oblong bar surrounded by regulars, deep in conversation. Tyler pointed to a solitary figure in the corner of the room below a broken lamp. As they reached him he glanced up from an empty tumbler and stared at them with weary eyes. He was a withered shell of a man who reminded Randall of every vagrant he had ever had the misfortune of meeting. Then, to Randall’s surprise, he gave a warm toothless smile.
‘Good evening gentlemen.’
‘Weasel,’ said Tyler as they sat across from him. ‘This is the man I mentioned earlier.’
‘Mr Randall, late of the yard I presume.’
‘Cut that out, Weasel.’
The little man’s smile suddenly disappeared.
‘That was unfair Mr Tyler, I was only stating a fact.’
Even though his London accent was strong, his voice was almost a whisper. Randall had encountered a thousand men like him, but would never have believed that the man before him was a former member of an elite fighting unit.
‘No harm done,’ said Randall, clearing the air. ‘Now what are you drinking?’
‘A double whisky would do very nicely. I sense autumn is in the air.’
‘Water?’
‘Wouldn’t touch the stuff, fish fuck in it you know,’ he smaned with an asthmatic wheeze. ‘W C Fields said that.’
‘I expect it was funnier from him,’ said Tyler.
‘A double whisky it is then. David?’
‘A pint of Abbott’s, for me.’
Randall returned after a minute or so to find the atmosphere even more uncomfortable than when he’d left. He handed Weasel his drink. His hair was long and greasy, which gave him a look of some ancient wizard or alchemist. But did he have any gold for Randall?
‘I believe you were a friend of Hamish Fraser?’
‘Friend wouldn’t be the word I would use, Mr Randall. Associate would be closer to the mark. Mad Dog didn’t go a bundle on friends, you see.’
‘When was the last time you saw him?’
There was a slight pause as Weasel downed the whisky in one.
‘Oh, that was nice, really warms you through.’
Tyler took the hint and took the empty glass to the bar.
‘The last time I was under his wing, as it were, was back in nineteen seventy. The Oman situation.’
‘You were involved in that?’
‘Mad Dog was organising something big out there and there was a lot of money involved.’
‘How do you know?’
‘I knew of boys who’d been out there before, but this was different.’
‘Go on.’
‘We were to fly out there when we got the nod. We were in lodgings near Heathrow for weeks.’
‘I was under the impression it was only serving SAS who were over there.’
‘With all due respect Mr Randall, you seem to be very naive in the ways or the government and foreign policy.’
The sudden clank of a whisky tumbler brought a smile to the old mans lips and he picked it up as if it was a precious stone.
‘So what happened was we were at Heathrow ready to fly out to Bahrain, we were instructed to go in small groups you see. Anyway, we get the call to get to the airport and when we arrive we were all picked up by special branch.’
‘Why?’
‘Didn’t hang around to ask.’
‘Well, what were you charged with?’
‘That’s just it, we weren’t.’
‘And what happened to Fraser?’
He brought the glass to his lips, dramatically, ‘he was never to be seen again.’
‘What sort of interrogation was there?’
‘None. We were simply kept in custody for a couple of weeks and then released without charge, I was not a very happy gentlemen I can tell you,’ he said sinking the whisky as if to banish the memory. ‘I would have made a tidy packet there I can tell you. That would have set me up, that would. I blame my current predicament on that, gentlemen. It was a fall from which I never quite recovered.’
His mouth drooped melodramatically and Randall wasn’t sure what to say next. He looked to Tyler for assistance, only to catch him rolling his eyes.
‘Snap out of it Weasel. Remember who you’re with, that doesn’t rub with me. Now, what we would like to know is, what was the situation between Mad Dog and Harry Kessler.’
Weasel stared at his empty glass prompting Randall to reach for his wallet.
‘Another double?’
‘That would be nice Mr Randall. But it appears to me that I’m giving you an awful lot of information here, and I’m getting nothing but whisky in return. Now, as lovely as it is, for successful men like yourselves, that must be a drop in the ocean.’
‘Weasel . . .’ grizzled Tyler.
‘It’s all right David. Let me get these. Same again, Frank?’
‘Frank? Nobody’s called me that in a long time Mr Randall. Do you know what I’d really like, Mr Randall? A nice bottle of Macallan, a nice big steak smothered in onions, and then a lovely warm bed for the night.’
To the man’s astonishment Randall put down his pint and took out his wallet. Passing Tyler some money he indicated with a nod to the bar, to leave them for a while.
‘Now you’ll get what you want when you tell me what you know, and I want facts.’
‘I have nothing else to give Mr Randall.’ He adjusted himself in the chair and brushed a long greasy fold of hairs from his eyes. ‘Well, it was clear that Mad Dog did not like Mr Kessler. They were opposites, you see. Mad dog was a real mercenary; he would take any job. But to do that he needed a group of real cutthroats. Professionals, don’t get me wrong, but cut throats never the less. I do not class myself as one of these unsavoury characters myself you understand.’
‘That goes without saying.’
‘Now Kessler was a different kettle-of-fish. He was a real gent’. Had his standards, you see. Rumour had it that old Ian Fleming based double-o-seven on him. Kessler would only kill for blighty.’
‘They came from different worlds.’
‘You could say that. “The Dog,” as we called him, well, he did it for fun and would have probably done it for free.’
‘Had they worked together?’
‘They had at some point, I can’t say when.’
Tyler then reappeared and placed the drinks on the table, cheering Weasel to the core.
For nearly two hours Weasel talked, each story more extravagant and dramatic than it’s predecessor. Randall listened intently until Weasel, realising no more alcohol would be forthcoming, made his excuses and sauntered out in search of lodgings and fare for the night.
‘Quite a character.’
‘That’s an understatement.’
‘What’s the next step?’
‘Not sure. This takes an awful lot of getting used to,’ he sighed, and then looked directly at Tyler. ‘What are your plans for the rest of the evening?’
‘I haven’t any.’
‘Good, drink up.’
‘Where are we going?’
‘Barbara Reed’s flat.‘
‘What for?’
‘To take a look.’
‘Steady on,’ he put his glass down heavily, then looked round. ‘I presume you’d already been in the flat, the forensic boys must have taken everything relevant away.’
‘That’s right. But we’re not interested in the flat itself.’
‘We’re not?’
‘No,’ he stood and put on his coat. ‘I’ll explain on the way.’
‘Are you sure this is a good idea?’
‘Probably not,’ Randall said, helping Tyler into his overcoat. ‘But doesn’t the thought of it stir your sense of adventure?’
‘Can’t say it does,’ muttered Tyler, as he followed him out.

‘What is this?’ asked Donald, dunking large chunks of crusty bread into a bowl.
‘Ciorba. How you say, soup.’
‘Bloody nice,’ he said.
As Donald looked back towards the crescent of vehicles he noticed a deserted building silhouetted against the sun. Then as he looked down at the concreted floor he realised they were parked on a disused airfield. The runway, now partially overgrown with grass and shrub, stretched off towards farmland a mile or so away; once it had been significant – soon it would be gone.
There was no doubt in his mind they had found this place because of him. These people that he barely knew were taking incredible risks to help him and for that he would never forget them.
The wind was now colder and filled with dust collected from the harvested fields to the east. Donald pulled up his collar and returned to his food.
‘Who does all the cooking?’
‘This fine woman’s,’ said Vasile grabbing Maria around the waist. For a moment they struggled playfully until she broke away from his probing lips and spoke breathlessly.
‘Maria would like to be knowing if you would like some more.’
‘Rather.’
Vasile nodded to Maria who reached for the pot.
‘Vasile, I envy you.’
‘What is this word?’
‘Envy - jealousy.’
‘You are jealous of poor old Vasile?’ he laughed and told Maria as she ladled the soup.
‘Yes, I am. You are richer than any man I have ever known.’
‘How can this be true, I have nothing?’
‘On the contrary, you have everything. You have this wonderful wife, happy children, close relatives all around you. You all seem to live for each other, outside society and its rules and its madness. Yes, you are a rich man.’ Taking the bowl from Maria he winked, ‘you are a fine cook my dear.’
Vasile interpreted until she blushed.
‘How is the child?’
‘He roars like the lion!’ said Vasile, chuckling.
‘He has his grandfathers spirit.’
‘I am not the only one with spirit I think. How long have you been in the wild Alexander?’
‘A few days.’
‘What are you looking for my friend?’
‘I thought we’d talked about that.’
‘Yes,’ said Vasile, reaching for a bottle. ‘I know where you are going, but what do you search for.’
Donald studied him as he filled two glasses. He had only known him for a day, yet the old man could read him as if he had known him a lifetime.
‘I don’t know how to answer that.’
‘In my country it is said that a man that does not know himself, will never truly know another.’
‘It’s very true, I’m sure. But I’ve never really been good at talking out my problems.’
‘Until now, eh? Cheers.’
Donald took up the glass and sank it in one. The reaction was immediate and he coughed and spluttered until the hot burning pain in the back of his throat subsided.
‘What the bloody hell was that?’ he asked in a whisper. Vasile didn’t hear a word, he was to busy laughing.
‘Palinca, my English friend, like whisky, only stronger! More?’
‘Only if you’ve got enough for the lorries.’
Vasile laughed again as he filled up their glasses and the two men talked into the early hours.

It had only taken Randall and Tyler a matter of minutes to get into the building, and even less to get into the flat. Opening the lock on the balcony doors however, proved to be a little more of a challenge. Finally, with a surprisingly loud click it opened and in seconds they were out on the balcony. As the drizzle fell Randall reminded Tyler of Donald’s alibi.
For a moment they stood in silence and attempted to visualise how Donald had moved from balcony to balcony. The drizzle was so dense now it was like rain, filling the tread of the cars of the wealthy as they passed by on the street below. Taking a small torch from his jacket pocket Randall walked to the far end of the balcony. Dropping onto one knee and directing a small beam of light onto the stone floor he scanned the wet surface. In no time at all he found what he was looking for.
‘My god, there it is.’
Illuminated by the light a long smear of dark blood ran across the balcony floor, glistening in the rain.
‘What is it?’
‘There, do you see it?’
‘Yes, is it where he said?’
‘Yes, I think so.’ Moving the light up the stone supports he suddenly stopped and moved closer to the light. ‘Look at that.’
On the inside of one of the balustrades there was another line of dried blood, this one maybe ten inches or so, coating a length of stone.
‘How come your boys missed this,’ whispered Tyler.
‘Because when I spoke to her the day before she was killed, she said she had never had a key for those doors, and she’d never been on the balcony.’
‘So she was doing all the lying?’
‘Looks like it.’
‘Pity you didn’t believe Hawksmoor at the time. I could have had a quiet night in.’
‘Thanks for that.’
‘Anytime. Can we go now?’
‘Hang on a sec’.’
Taking out a small knife he scraped at the stone until it tiny flakes of dried blood fell into a small plastic bag. Putting it into his inside pocket he stood slowly and glanced over to the next balcony. He could almost see the comic image of Donald making his way along the thin shelf and, despite the situation, smiled to himself. In a second it was gone. On the very balcony that Donald had appeared the door suddenly opened, sending them both diving to the floor.
‘Bloody hell!’ said Randall in a whisper.
‘And there it is,’ they heard a voice say. ‘The balcony of the murdered woman.’ It was Seth. With an umbrella above his head he was directing a group of people in anoraks out onto the balcony. ‘It was in that very flat that Donald Hawksmoor; the “entertaining executioner” performed his deadly deeds. A man that I knew well, and a man that still owes me twenty quid.’
Tyler peered through the ivy. ‘It a bloody murder tour! There must be about ten people there.’
‘Time to go I think,’ said Randall as they began to crawl across the wet cold balcony.

By the time they reached the golden-domed mosque at Regents Park, the rain had stopped and the only sounds to be heard were the occasional passing car. They had walked in silence for some time, their minds mulling over the significance of their find. Then Randall looked along the high street for a taxi.
‘So when do you think we should share our discoveries with world?’ said Tyler, with more than a hint of mockery.
‘When we’ve got enough evidence to prove that this is more than an elaborate fantasy; made up by two senile pensioners.’
‘You speak for yourself. Anyway, I would have thought what we’ve discovered tonight was pretty convincing.’
‘What we’ve seen and heard so far proves nothing.’
‘A DNA test would prove things quickly enough . . .’
‘That would be a waste of time,’ he said waving at a passing taxi. ‘Bugger. That was Donald Hawksmoor’s blood, there’s no doubt in my mind. But all that proves is that he was there when he said he was. The night before Barbara Reed was murdered.’
‘Okay, fair point. So what do we do now?’
‘I don’t know. But I’d really like to know where Hawksmoor’s making for.’ Finally, after a particularly frantic flourish from Randall, a taxi slowed and pulled into the kerb. ‘Can I drop you off?’
‘No thanks, could do with the exercise’ he said as Randall got inside. ‘I’ll give Quilby’s widow a ring first thing, see if she’s found anything.’
‘Good. Ask if her husband was on speaking terms with any of the men in the photograph. She may recognise the fourth man.’
As the car pulled away Randall turned to see his friend disappear into Regents Park. Then sitting back and wiping the rain from his glasses he wondered what he had got them both involved in.

After much eating and drinking, people drifted off to their respective vans and trucks, leaving Donald, Vasile, Maria and Anton lingering under the stars. Donald, slightly worse for wear, chatted animatedly; cheering his new found friends. The dark veil of despair that had descended on him only that afternoon was now nothing more than a half forgotten dream.
Clearly the Palinca had helped and clearly he was drunk, but it was somehow different from his usual inebriation. Sure he still slurred the words and as always his stories were bound in an erroneous extravagance, but for the first time his mind was exceptionally clear. For a moment he sat back and watched the others as they talked. Vasile, a short portly figure that would not have been out of place in a child’s fairy tale, was as drunk as Donald and just as animated. He was trying to talk to Anton but due to a sudden bout of uncontrollable laughter he was finding the whole exercise impossible, which as a result made him laugh all the more. Anton, who was never one to see the funny side of anything, seemed lost. Possibly because at that same moment Maria was attempting to read his palm and he was unsure of where his focus should lie. It was a comic scene that was not at all lost on Donald.
‘Many years ago, you know, I was in a horror film where my character . . . the name escapes me now, had his fortune told by the Tarot. I’ve always fancied having mine read ever since. How would you like to read mine for a bit of fun, Maria?’
It was as if Donald’s despair had returned but this time had descended on the group. None of them said a thing as they stared at him, the fire flickering in their eyes.
‘Fortune telling for you may be fun but for us simple people it is a way of life.’
‘Sorry I didn’t mean to upset anyone.’
Vasile’s grave expression suddenly relaxed and was replaced by a smile. ‘No harm done. But are you sure this is what you want? It may reveal more than you would like.’
‘Vasile, I am a man walking in a world of shadows; I think I know my future. Maria would merely be confirming it.’
‘As you wish,’ said the old man.
After a while Maria returned from the one of the caravans and placed a well-thumbed deck of tarot cards on a wooden box by the fire. Then with Anton holding a candle above the proceedings Vasile asked Donald to cut the pack. Placing the half back on the table he looked up and studied Maria as she looked down at the cards. Her blank gaze was disturbing. Suddenly a scream pierced the darkness and Donald was filled with fear.
‘Relax,’ said Vasile, placing a hand on his shoulder. ‘It is a fox.’
Donald smiled nervously and glanced around. He then saw the same blank gaze on the faces of Vasile and Anton. Somehow the mood had changed. As if they had been inexplicably transported back to some darker time.
Placing seven of the cards face down in a horseshoe shape, Maria slowly drew her head back and whispered into the heavens.
‘She asks for clarity of thought,’ explained Vasile
‘Fascinating. Any more wine?’ Vasile stiffened and for the first time since that morning in the forest Donald saw anger in his eyes.
‘This is not a game Alexander. We are respecting to the things we do not understand.’
Again Donald felt a pang of guilt. A sensation that was as unfamiliar to him as it was sobering.
‘Forgive me.’
Slowly Maria reached for the first card.
‘This,’ explained Vasile, ‘is your past.’ Turning the card over Maria nodded slowly and spoke in a whisper. ‘The lovers; love and physical attraction – for either good or ill.’
‘No shortage of those,’ said Donald trying to force a smile.
Moving her hand to the second card, Maria seemed to almost caress it before revealing it to the group.
‘This card is the present,’ said Vasile.
The card showed a castellated tower being struck by lighting and from it two human figures were falling to the ground below.
‘The tower. This card is joined with the gods of war, the mighty planet of Mars. There is much conflict here.’
Donald was suddenly fascinated and moved his chair forward to study the detail of the cards under the candlelight.
‘Yes, I see. That’s right.’
The next card, said Vasile represented the hidden factors. The hidden factors of what Donald wasn’t sure, but after the first two cards he was aware of a growing fascination for the coming five.
‘The queen of Swords – reversed,’ said Vasile, narrowing his eyes at Donald.
‘Reversed? Is that bad?’
‘Every card has two meanings; this card in this way describes a woman, separated or a widow, who is lost and lonely. Alone in a world of spirits.’
‘My god,’ he said, then in a whisper uttered Dorothy’s name.
‘Obstacles,’ continued Vasile,’ as Maria turned the fourth card. ‘The king of swords – reversed. Beware of this man Alexander, a wicked man. A man of power.’
The fifth card denoted the attitude of others, and this time Donald saw a card he recognised.
‘The hanged man – reversed.’
‘Reversed again! I don’t believe it!’
The Palinca was getting to him. In the short period of time it had taken to read the cards Donald had become a fanatic and craned his neck to study the intricate designs on each face.
‘The hanged man can mean pain and suffering. This card can also explain the feelings of the masses. The thoughtless and uncaring mob.’
‘That’ll be the bloody public. I’ve given my life to them . . . ’
‘Now, Alexander,’ he said cutting Donald’s flow. ‘This next card will show you the right course of action.’
‘I’m ready. What ever it is, I’m ready.’
Maria turned the card and all five of them stared down.’
‘What is it?’ asked Donald.
‘The six of cups – reversed,’ said Vasile after a pause.
‘Bloody hell! Reversed, again!’
‘This card is many times difficult to explain. For it is reliant on the final card. Your future is unclear.’
Maria, now almost in a daze mumbled and Vasile nodded before turning to Donald.
‘You have no control over the end, but you have much to say about the days before it. Are you ready Alexander?’
‘Of course,’ he said attempting to recapture some composure.
Slowly and determinedly Maria turned the last card. Suddenly she screamed and tossed it forward into the fire. Donald, stunned by the sudden change of events, watched in horror as she ran towards the trucks.
‘What is it! What is it!’
But Vasile and Anton were not listening. Instead they stared down at the glowing embers of the fire. And as Donald turned to do the same, he suddenly saw the smiling figure of death writhing in the flames.

Despite the hour Randall didn’t feel tired in the slightest. It was well past three but with so many thoughts in his head he knew sleep was an impossible dream. Instead he had befriended a single Malt that had stood on the shelf unopened for too long; an anniversary present from another life. Together they shared the empty night and in the silence his mind had given voice to every doubt and memory. There had been, however, that stood out amongst all the others. It was a comment made the previous night and it had stayed with him ever since, mocking him, shaming him.
“You seem to be very naive in the ways of government and foreign policy, Mr Randal”.
The little man was right. How much had he chosen not to see? How much of his career had he spent looking down at the petty criminal, whilst the true offenders, the faceless men of government and beyond, stood over him, invisible in their cloak of power? It was a moment of numbing realisation that in the darkest hour of the night he had reached the lowest point of his life. He had changed forever.
Yet even then he knew there was a part of him that would always remain pure.
In his life he had witnessed more than any man should, but, despite everything, he still had the belief that good could triumph over evil. Maybe that was the most naïve belief of all, but it was the one thing he would always came back to.

For all of that night he struggled with his conscience. Like a man suddenly thrust upon the shore of a distant land, he was lost and unsure how to proceed. Then, as the night slowly gave way to the dawn and exhaustion took over him, he found the burden lifted. Somehow allowing him a brief respite from the voices in his mind.
Then as the sun broke across the city and light filtered through the window he noticed a package by the TV. It was the video given to him by Hodges - the video of Donald and Dorothy.
With the final dregs of energy he turned on the television and watched an old show with a new curiosity.
‘Miss Cecilia Jude,’ said the dramatic voice over, ‘world renowned art critic and international sportswomen, has her glamorous lifestyle brought to a sudden and dramatic end, when the plane she is piloting crashes into the mysterious depths of the Amazonian forest. There, her days should have ended, were it not for the lost race of Kacaca.
‘But not only do these extraordinary people bring her back from the brink of death, they also bestow upon her the gifts and secrets handed down to them by their ancestors. And it is with these remarkable talents that Cecilia Jude has sworn to defend the weak and fight evil wherever it thrives. For fate has made this woman - The Immortal Miss Jude.’
After various establishing shots of swinging London Donald makes his first appearance. His dark hair and tanned leaned body give him a Mediterranean appearance.
It is obvious from his demeanour that he is in some sort of trouble, and then it becomes clear that he is being pursued. The men are heavily built and armed with revolvers. They speak briefly before splitting up, prompting Donald to run into an alleyway. By the sudden change of tone in the music, this is clearly a bad idea. He is trapped and in no time at all he is beaten to the ground. All seems lost. Then, suddenly, a Maroon Bentley appears from the shadows and a strange mist fills alleyway. Looking up Donald watches in horror as the car stops at his side and a red glow colours the now swirling mist.
‘Come. Come to me,’ says a female voice from within. Then the door opens, ‘come, I will give you sanctuary. Stand while there is time, and come to me.’
As if drawn by some invisible force Donald gets in before the door closes and the car rushes off into the night, leaving the crooks cursing their luck.
With more reasons than one, the moment is incredibly surreal. For nearly a week Randall had studied their lives and now there they were before him, untouched by the ravages of time. Two pieces of an intricate puzzle he could not solve. Two young people, so alive and carefree, yet oblivious to their own terrible fates.