Fit For Purpose by Julian Parrott (scary books to read .TXT) 📗

of difficult paperwork on my desk to deal with. But that journalist, Kirov, may have been disappeared or found dead under some mysterious circumstances. As far as Ms Williams and Major Price are concerned, their part in this clusterfuck is all over. It’s best that they move on, together I think.”

Patel faced the DD with questioning eyes, “And that last piece of advice to Ms Williams?”

“Ahh, that was just part of the service,” the DD answered. “The things we do for love.”

“Really, ma’am?” Patel couldn’t keep the incredulity out of her voice.

The DD faced Patel, “You ever been in love Patel, real love?”

“I-I don’t know,” Patel stammered a little embarrassed.

“Then you haven’t,” the DD said. “I have friends who have been married twenty years or more who don’t have half the connection I saw Price and Williams have. I hope she stops being silly about it.”

The lift stopped and the DD nodded a goodbye to Patel as she got out of the elevator. The DD crossed the busy floor, cubicles buzzing with activity, and closed the door to her office quietly. She stood for a moment in front of her office window that overlooked the hive of activity across the analysts and communications officers’ section. They were always busy and getting busier. The DD felt the fatigue of her responsibility. The domestic threat web continued to expand almost exponentially; jihadists sneaking home after the fall of the Caliphate, the SVR, FSB and the GRU treating London as if it were a St Petersburg Saturday night, the Real IRA sharpening swords, all along with the usual suspects of home-grown threats.

The DD flipped a wall switch that turned her office glass opaque then sat in silence for a moment. She booted up her computer and Tom’s file appeared on one of her monitors while Nia’s appeared on another. The DD liked these two people. In a different time, a different life, she thought, she could have imagined meeting them at a dinner party. She so very much wanted them to be happy, to be happy together. But, she thought, I have a man of action, bruised and battered, but someone who can still operate to the highest level of professionalism and someone adept at assuming the roles and personas of others. Together, they’d be a great team, a great MI5 asset. The DD clicked her mouse and saved the files to a desktop folder she had labelled ‘future prospects’. She sighed. “Done… done for now Ms Williams,” she whispered to herself. The DD moved her mouse and brought up a minute-by-minute review of how her team was doing in a Europa League match. She smiled; they were winning.

***

Llangollen Canal, Two Days Later

Engine compartment checked, Tom gingerly lowered the cover, difficult with only one good arm. He pressed the start button and the engine coughed into life. Tom went back into the cabin to let the engine warm up. The shoulder ached as he took his arm out of the sling. The physical pain that shot through his body was a welcome relief from the deep, emotional pain that gnawed away at his core.

He removed the sling and threw it on the little cabinet that stood at the foot of the bed. The sling landed next to two small framed pictures. There was a framed photo of Nia, laughing in the snow, on the morning after their first night together. Next to it was the photo of him as a young platoon leader in Afghanistan surrounded by twenty-five servicemen and women. All were smiling. His air pods lay on the cabinet unused; there was no playlist to assuage this pain. The oft-read letter Nia had written from the inn in Brecon, which professed undying love, lay under the air pods.

“Okay Jack,” Tom shouted. “Morning piddle.”

***

The black Porsche Carrera snaked through the narrow country lanes as smoothly as if it was a slot car racer. The driver changed gears effortlessly and well. The engine responded to the subtle press on the accelerator, the large disc brakes slowing the car down when the driver’s phone beeped with a speed camera alert. The Porsche pulled into the scenic overlook and stopped abruptly, skidding ever so slightly on some loose grit. The valley spread out below like a quilt. Frost glittered. To the right, across the valley and up on the hill, a castle’s sandstone walls reflected the morning sun back across the valley. The silence could almost be felt. The Porsche’s driver stepped out and observed the canal below through small binoculars. The watcher was patient and, eventually, patience was rewarded as a narrowboat emerged from the woods that shielded the canal down to the watcher’s right. The watcher changed the binocular’s optics and zoomed in onto the narrowboat. There, on the bow, a happy dog wagged its tail, barking at something in the water or on the unseen towpath. The watcher then moved the gaze down the boat’s polished green paintwork to the man at the tiller. It was Tom. The watcher smiled involuntarily.

“Gotcha!” she said as she lowered the binoculars. Nia let out a sigh. “Oh, thank God,” she said out loud as her heart pounded in her chest. She raised her binoculars again and watched Tom. Nia thought he looked older and fatigued and her stomach hollowed. He was pale, had dark circles under his eyes, and wore a scruffy beard and she noticed that he occasionally grimaced as he pushed or pulled the tiller. She observed him until the Periwinkle moved behind a canal-side copse of trees and she could see the boat and Tom no more.

Nia was relieved she had found him. Earlier that morning, she had stopped at Periwinkle’s home marina and the staff were reticent in sharing any information with her until one of the grounds’ crew recognised her. He thought Tom was heading for a slow trip to Ellesmere and an