48 Hours

“Not exactly, although I realise that this must be rather upsetting.”

“Upsetting!” I felt anger rising inside me. “Upsetting is losing your house keys. Being killed for no reason whatsoever is a little more than upsetting.”

“I really do understand,” the Inspector sympathised. “The problem is this; you have received an anonymous threat by text, which may or may not be a sick joke. I know you don’t see it that way, but we have no evidence to suggest it could be anything more serious at this moment in time. From this Police Station alone, the City of London Police have had to handle over a thousand death threats of all kinds in the City since the banks were bailed out by the government. Some were very specific, others were very graphic, but they all came to nothing, despite time and effort spent trying to find the culprits. As a result, it is our official position that such threats are almost always made by people who are simply letting off steam.” He paused for breath, and to gauge my reaction. “However, I accept that your threat may be a little more credible because it asks for money and because you have clearly been specifically identified and targeted. With that in mind, I propose the following.

First, I’d like you make a detailed statement – while you’re at home this evening will be fine - outlining the threat and naming anyone you can think of who may harbour unfriendly feelings towards you. Concentrate on your business dealings to begin with. For example, your pursuer could be an insured person whose claim you reduced or rejected. Second, we sit you down with a high tech specialist who will try to track the person threatening you by tracing his electronic communications, and third, we will help you with the transfer of the money, being sure to electronically tag it and trail it. That, at least, should help to keep you safe, if the threat turns out to be credible.”

The Inspector was interrupted by three short beeps from my BlackBerry. “Perhaps you’d better take a look at that, given the circumstances,” he suggested.

I took out the phone and glanced at the message. I felt my heart rate increase as I recognised the source. I looked up at the Inspector before saying, “It’s from him.” I read the message out loud. It didn’t make any sense to me, but I felt more afraid than I wanted to be.

“What the hell does that mean? Don’t wear your favourite suit!” I bellowed in the direction of the policeman.

“Josh – er, may I call you Josh?” I nodded. “Whilst you work in the City, you live in Greenwich, and there is very little chance of me persuading the Metropolitan Police to arrange twenty four hour protection for you on the basis of these threats today. We simply don’t have the manpower, for a start. So, let’s stick to the plan for now. Go home and make your statement, being as thorough as you can. Come here first thing tomorrow morning and we’ll see what we can do. The tech guy you’ll see tomorrow is an outsourced sub-contractor and not a police officer, but he is excellent at his job and he will be able to help. Until then, I believe you’ve been told that you will be accompanied by a private close protection operative, is that correct?”

I answered in the affirmative.

“Good. Look, Josh, I’m sure that this is nothing to worry about. It’s probably just an unbalanced individual who has neither the capacity nor the will to hurt you. Try not to worry u

I couldn’t help thinking that Bob knew exactly what he was doing when he allowed only forty eight hours for the whole process. His forecast about my experience with the police was right on the money. How much else was he right about?

I shook hands with the Inspector, who placed his hand on my shoulder, smiled and told me again not to worry.

I was signing out of the building by writing my name again in the visitors’ book when an attractive young woman in a tailored grey business suit approached the desk. The jacket was short and fitted at the waist, and sat above a skirt which was short enough to be interesting, yet long enough to be modest. She had shapely legs and wore low heeled shoes, which made her just a little shorter than me. I guessed her height at around five feet eight, give or take an inch. Under the jacket she wore a plain white blouse, buttoned just low enough to reveal a hint of cleavage. There was a fine gold chain around her neck, with some kind of stone set in the pendant. When my gaze eventually moved upwards to her face, I saw an auburn shoulder length bob framing high cheekbones. She appeared to wear very little make up, and it was my opinion that she didn’t need it, anyway. She had a friendly smile and incredible hazel eyes, and she was looking directly at me.

“Josh Hammond?” she enquired in a crisp Home Counties accent.

“I am indeed,” I smiled as I shook her outstretched hand.

“I’m Dee Conrad of Vastrick Security,” the young woman responded, “and I am your bodyguard.”

Chapter 5

Greenwich, London: Wednesday, 4:30pm.

Bob had never been to Greenwich before and he made a mental note to come back in the future when he had some leisure time, to visit the sights. The place seemed to be awash with maritime heritage and references, as well as being the base for the meridian upon which all world time was measured.

Bob walked up Langdale Road and away from the Underground station. He was heading south. He walked long the Greenwich High Road, occasionally stopping to browse in shop windows. He passed the Greenwich Playhouse and the Pitstop Clinic, bluntly described as a clinic for men who have sex with men. Bob crossed the busy road and headed up Egerton Drive past the Molton Brown Emporium, and as he did so he reflected on the numerous times he had stayed in hotels around the world and used bathrooms furnished with Molton Brown toiletries.

Shortly after the turn off for Ashburnham Grove Bob turned into a small mews development, built in the late eighteenth century when the sea was still king in London. The mews was typical of its type. The buildings were in terraces accessible directly from the pavement, and all were three storeys high with an additional basement or garden flat below. Between each pair of houses was a small alleyway, with a wrought iron gate which led into the rear gardens.

Bob opened the gate between an occupied house and a house being refurbished. He walked between the buildings and checked that the rear access was just as he had remembered. It was. When Bob had first scoped out the ideal position for his venture this location had proved to be ideal. The occupied house was not usually populated until after 6pm most days, when a woman and several children returned home in a Lexus SUV. Around one hour later the husband and father arrived on foot.

Bob took up position in the alleyway and opened his attaché case. Where he stood he would only be visible to a person in direct line with the alleyway, and as the street was deserted he felt quite secure where he was. While he waited for his target, he assembled the odd looking rifle and loaded it with ammunition. Once satisfied that he was ready, Bob leaned against the wall and enjoyed the late afternoon sun.

***

I am always at my desk by seven in the morning, and often much earlier. It is the only way to beat the rush hour these days. In the years I have been commuting from Greenwich, the rush hour has moved further forward and now I need to leave the house at around six fifteen if I want a journey time of forty five minutes or less. Still, it has the theoretical advantage of allowing me to leave the office at four in the afternoon, missing the worst of the commuter traffic on the way home. It also means that I miss the London Tube weirdos. It seems that six in the morning is too early for the crazies, who are presumably resting up and preparing for a day of tormenting fellow passengers, most of whom just want to get to work without speaking to anyone or making eye contact.