The Becket Approval by Falconer Duncan (best big ereader .TXT) 📗

‘I asked you what the cause of death was,’ the hooded man said, taking a step closer.

‘Suicide,’ Birch said.

‘A suicide you caused.’

‘That’s utter rubbish,’ Allenby cried.

‘You created false evidence which caused him to take his own life,’ the man said coldly, taking another step closer. He gripped the rod in both hands and raised the end up.

‘We work for the Ministry of Defence,’ Birch argued, somewhat desperately, taking a step back. ‘We’re public servants.’

‘You paid Iraqis to falsely accuse British soldiers of murder and torture.’

‘That’s not true,’ Allenby said, swallowing. ‘The men were convicted by the courts.’

‘And you got paid a lot of money for your part in it. You’re worse than any terrorist.’

‘What do you want?’ Allenby asked.

‘Have a guess,’ the man said.

‘We have money.’ Allenby was desperate. ‘We’ll pay you.’

The man mimicked the ‘wrong answer’ sound of a TV game show and took a step to within striking distance.

Allenby dropped his panic button.

Birch raised his briefcase in sudden fear-inspired anger. ‘Get him!’ he shouted.

Birch threw his case at the man as he lunged forward. The man neatly sidestepped, swung hard and struck Birch on the back of his neck breaking the base of his skull and snapping his cerebral cortex. Birch was dead before he actually hit the ground.

Allenby went on the charge too but the man displayed the elusiveness of a professional fighter and swung at Allenby’s leg, smashing the kneecap. The lawyer went down with a piercing scream. As he hit the concrete, his eyes met Birch’s a few feet away. He could see his partner was dead and that he was in a most dire situation.

He rolled onto his back, breathing rapidly, filled with such terror he could hardly feel the pain of his broken knee. The man leaned over him. Allenby could see his pitiless eyes through the woollen slits.

‘Whatever you want, I can give you,’ Allenby said in desperation.

‘I want you to apologise to the soldier who killed himself because you destroyed his life,’ the man said.

‘How can I?’ Allenby said, starting to cry. ‘I can’t bring him back.’

‘I know,’ the man said. ‘That’s why I’m sending you to him.’

The man raised the rod and brought it crashing down onto the lawyer’s skull.

 

 

Chapter 14

Gunnymede stood on his apartment balcony in the boxer shorts and t-shirt he had slept in sipping a cup of hot, weak tea. The sight of the old Thames barge in full red sail cruising past was a pleasant but minor distraction. He needed to try and clear his mind.

He stepped back into the living room where a pair of trainers and workout gear, their labels still attached, lay on a couch. Ten minutes later, he was pounding the riverbank at a comfortable pace. He came across a patch of green with an outdoor workout stance and dived into it, punishing himself with various exercises until he felt the pain. He was breathing hard and glistening with sweat but it wasn’t quite enough. Heading back along the footpath he aimed for a distant lamppost and sprinted as fast as he could towards it, determined not to slow down until he reached it. He only just managed it and, dizzy and exhausted headed back towards the apartment building entrance as a powerful motorbike pulled up.

The biker removed his helmet and ran his fingers through his thick, grey hair. It was Aristotle. He climbed off the bike and unclipped a briefcase from the seat.

‘I didn’t peg you for a bike man,’ Gunnymede said as he arrived and proceeded to stretch the back of his knees.

‘I’m not. It’s a pool bike. I hate London traffic. What do you have planned for the day?’

‘Nothing planned. I wait to serve.’

Aristotle gave him a look and headed into the apartment building.

‘Nice to see you too,’ Gunnymede said sarcastically. His phone chirped. ‘There you go,’ he called out. ‘Has to be work. I have no friends.’ He pulled the phone out of his shorts pocket and looked at the screen. ‘Maybe I have one friend,’ he said as he put it to his ear. ‘Bethan.’

‘Devon.’

‘My Albania buddy.’

‘How’s your wound?’

‘Fine. Yours?’

‘I’m suing you. It’s crooked.’

‘Can we settle out of court?’

‘Sure. When are you free?’

‘Just say where and when.’

‘There’s a case I’d like to talk to you about. Are you in London?’

‘I am.’

‘What are you doing right now? Can I pick you up?’

‘Erm ... sure. Why not?’

‘Half an hour?’

‘I’ll send you the address.’

‘Perfect.’

He disconnected and stiffly hobbled into the apartment building. Half an hour later, he was on the corner of the street watching oncoming traffic, the collar of his weatherproof jacket turned up against drops of rain that had just begun to fall.

A car drew up to the kerb, Bethan at the wheel. Gunnymede climbed in and she pulled away.

She smiled on seeing him. ‘All I could think of while driving here was our adventure in Albania. Probably nothing to you, but it was pretty cool for me.’

‘I thought it was pretty cool too,’ he said, buckling in.

‘That where you live?’

‘Yep.’

‘Nice digs.’

‘Company flat.’

‘Free accommodation on the river. Can’t be bad.’

She eased the car through traffic as the rain got heavier.

‘Where are we going? I’m starving,’ he asked.

‘To a farm just north of London.’

‘A farm? This is to do with Albania?’

‘Kind of, maybe, sort of, possibly. Maybe not.’

‘Those are the kind of clues I’m used to working with.’

‘So when a case gets cold what we sometimes do is look for relationships with other cases.’

‘Connectivity.’

‘Exactly. For instance, I’ve got a pool of cases that are all homicides related to British military personnel.’

‘Which the Albanian case could possibly fall into.’

‘This farm