48 Hours

She held Dee’s hands firmly in her own, and tears filled her eyes as she looked at the bandages and visualised what was underneath.

“Jayne, Josh and I are pretty stubborn. We would have pursued Hickstead anyway.” I wasn’t sure that we would have, but I let it ride.

“I heard from the Commissioner that the police have enough evidence to put him away for life, even if they can’t link him with my father’s death.” Jayne turned her head and looked at me.

“I owe you a great deal, Josh. You did everything you could and more. I think I would have shot Hickstead myself if he had escaped prosecution.”

Jayne Craythorne sat down and listened as we explained everything that had happened since our last meeting in my flat. We all agreed that the whole episode seemed rather surreal, and only the deaths and injuries turned it into a terrible reality for those who lived through it.

Jayne had heard about my proposal and asked, if it wasn’t too indiscreet, whether we had any plans.

“He might not have any plans, but I do,” Dee stated. “What else is there to do when you’re sitting in a bed most of the day with only daytime TV?”

This was news to me. Perhaps this was one of the things we were going to talk about tomorrow.

“That is such wonderful news,” Jayne said warmly. “You will make a lovely couple, and don’t worry about how long you’ve known each other; I fell for Jonas inside an hour. If you’re having a traditional white wedding I can help. I have lots of friends.”

I almost said that most millionaires probably have lots of friends, but didn’t.

“I might just take you up on that. I intend to have the whitest of white weddings,” Dee said excitedly.

***

When Jayne left I accompanied her to the lift. She held my hand tightly and thanked me again, and kissed me on the cheek.

“When Dee is fit again you must both come over for di

“There was no need. I’m glad we could help.” She handed me an envelope. I slipped it into my pocket and bid Jayne goodnight.

When I arrived back at the room I tossed Dee the thank you card and told her I would have to be going soon.

“Josh.” Dee was holding the card and gri

‘Thanks for everything. It will take months to get your money back. Until then Jonas has wired a quarter of a million pounds to your account. Think of it as a loan. We can discuss repayment over di

Dee then explained that Don Fisher was paying all of the bills for Vastrick, including a six figure sum in compensation for Dee’s injuries. He also wanted to give me my quarter of a million pounds back because his cash would be returned very quickly, whereas my money was tied up until after the trial.

As excited as I was, I didn’t think I could accept the money. Nevertheless, this was the happiest we had been for days, and so I didn’t want to dampen the mood.

Unfortunately the mood wasn’t destined to last. My phone rang. I answered it, and swore. As soon as I had finished the call Dee asked me what was wrong.

“Bloody MI5! They’ve let Hickstead escape! He’s on the run!”

Dee didn’t seem at all surprised.

Chapter 8 9

Bogaz, Northern Cyprus. November 20th 2010, 2pm.

The journey to Turkish controlled Cyprus had been much easier than he had anticipated. Despite security checks at the Port of Dover, the Border Agency staff had not been looking for a Michael Wells and luckily Arthur Hickstead was average height, average build and Caucasian. The crossing was quick, and he was able to secure a taxi to the Aero Porte Calais-Dunkerque at Marck, just a few miles from Calais.

When he arrived at the white painted aerodrome it was deserted but well lit. The restaurant displayed a sign a

Having paid the taxi driver, he had walked towards the only aircraft showing any lights. It was a Cessna 172 with four seats. The pilot was French speaking but was originally from Iraq, judging by his accent and colouring. Hickstead held onto the strut supporting the wing and lifted himself into the small aircraft. He had paid ten thousand pounds for this journey, and to protect his anonymity. Dozing from time to time, he dimly recollected touching down at some deserted airfield to unload something - he didn’t want to know what – and to refuel.

It was light by the time the plane touched down in Cyprus at Ercan Airport, which was a charter airport and so had some basic immigration checks, which were quickly dispensed with when his pilot, Assif, handed an envelope to a Turkish official.

A forty minute drive took him to The Mercure Hotel in Kyrenia, where he slept the day through in a luxury suite.

Now, almost two months later, he regretted his initial extravagance. After a month he had been obliged to move from the hotel into a small rented cottage to eke out his initial funds. He was safe from extradition here. The weather was warm and dry; even in November the daytime temperature reached the mid 20s Celsius. He also had beautiful view over the sea where he could watch the sunset, which made up, in part, for the modest accommodations.

Living as Martin Wells, he had become known as Mr Martin to those locals who had a smattering of English. In the evenings he would sit in the bars at the local hotels and strike up conversations with English tourists. Working class to a man, they would generously include him in their group and buy his drinks.

When his initial cash began to run out he sent off a letter to the Bank in Switzerland that held the Euro Union Financial Enterprises numbered account, requesting transfer of all funds to Mr Martin Wells’ account at the Cyprus Turkish Bank of Commerce. That was two weeks ago, and he had heard nothing yet, but the post from Cyprus was notoriously unreliable and he no longer had internet access.

In desperation he tried to make a withdrawal from his UK Barclays current account, but the account had insufficient funds. Presumably Brenda had cleaned out the four thousand that had been in there. He wasn’t surprised; he had left her high and dry, after all. If he valued his freedom he could not contact her. Brenda had become very fragile of late, and her depression had developed into bouts of paranoia and memory loss. She couldn’t be expected to keep a secret.

He had just worked out that he had enough cash to pay the rent for the next month if he ate frugally, when there was a knock at the door. It would be Bajram, the soup man. It amazed Hickstead that in the heat of the Cyprus day a vendor could come around the streets and sell hot soup to locals, who brought out their own tureens or bowls. He had to admit, though, the soup was good and it cost almost nothing.

He walked to the door and opened it, but it wasn’t Bajram. It was an English face he hadn’t seen in a while. For a moment he was speechless, but finally he found his voice.

“Josh Hammond. This is a pleasant surprise. Have you come to kill me?”

***

The figure facing me now was a lot less prepossessing than the Lord Hickstead I had seen previously.

“No, Arthur, or Martin, or whatever you call yourself. That would be more your line of work than mine.”

“Touché,” he said. “You had better come in.”

I walked along a roughly plastered corridor with whitewashed walls. On one side was a kitchen and on the other a bathroom. The corridor opened into a bright lounge area that was modestly furnished in typical holiday cottage style. There was a radio and a TV but no air conditioning or heating. The view from the large picture window, however, was to die for. It was spectacular. I sat on a cane sofa with flowery upholstery and he sat in a matching chair. From my seat I could see a tiny lobby area leading to two bedrooms.