Sleeping Malice Read online

  SLEEPING MALICE

  Adrian Spalding

  Copyright

  Copyright © Adrian Spalding 2018

  Adrian Spalding has asserted his right to be identified as the author of this work.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in any retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the author.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organisations, places and events other than those clearly in the public domain, are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Acknowledgements

  This book would never have seen the light of day, but for the vast support from my friends and family. Especially those who went the whole extra mile to help, Claire, Heike, Anthony, Gavan, Brian and Peter, thank you.

  A special thank you to my tolerant wife, listening to gruesome plots, pointing me in the right direction, editing the book, and having a never-ending faith that I could do it.

  Preface.

  Martin Jackson had less than two hours to live. He walked, head bowed into the wind, face shielded against the driving rain, as the lapwings etched their path across the grey sky. It was January in Brittany; ploughed fields sodden from days of non-stop rain. The lapwings were bouncing to earth in the gusts, waiting for some indistinguishable sign before, once again lifting themselves into the turbulent air.

  Martin had been walking for an hour through the empty country lanes, but for the lapwings there was no one and nothing. He could feel the dampness of his rain-sodden clothes touching his chilled skin, his light summer-weight jacket no match for the driving rain and the grey French skies.

  Martin estimated that he had at least another hour’s walk in front of him. Just a few miles, which he could shorten by cutting across the fields, but which he had declined to do as the mud would slow him down. He stuck to the tarmac track. It would be dark soon. On such a moonless night, it would render him blind along the lonely road.

  Martin thought of his earlier dry steps along the streets of Josselin. Standing in front of the antique shop, admiring the Roman statuette; a tourist souvenir with a broken lance, the shop owner had almost discarded it. House clearances always ended up with ‘tat’ that could be thrown out or put on display at a bargain price, someone might pay ten euros, a mere pittance in this day and age. The statuette had resided in the corner of the shop window, gathering dust for about a year. Shop owners had to be patient: trade was often brisk in the season and Josselin was a tourist town. One statuette in the corner of the window did no harm. But it was Sunday and with heavy rain forecast, the streets were empty of tourists. Shopkeepers had all closed early, choosing to return home and plan for the summer trade.

  Martin could not wait, he had come this far; tomorrow it could all be over. He punched the glass but it only flexed under the impact. He stood back, lifted his foot, and shoved his heel with as much strength as he could gather. The glass shattered, leaving an opening sufficiently large enough for him to insert his arm. Knocking to one side the antique diamond ring, with its four hundred euro price tag, he grasped the Roman soldier by the waist rammed it into his pocket and walked briskly away from the shop back to his rented car.

  A few miles out of the medieval French town, a loud pop and jangling noise developed from the rear of the car. Standing beside the car, he felt the rain start to fall on his head. Martin looked at the punctured tyre; it gave a lopsided slant to the small Fiat 500. It was a car which gave the appearance that you could simply lift it up on its side and change the wheel without having to bend down. Martin had never been the technical sort, filling the screen washer would have been a challenge; a tyre was out of the question, even if he could lift the little car on its side. He started walking. The rain intensified, so did the wind; soon he was battling the elements which conspired against him.

  The sun, hidden behind dark grey clouds, had now dropped below the horizon and the sky changed quickly towards the blackness of night. A starless night that would engulf the surrounding landscape. Before the darkness was complete, a single lamp came into view. It illuminated the door of La Belle Etoile, appearing so close he felt able to touch the yellow light. The weather offered no respite so Martin hurried to the door and rapped loudly on it with his cold fist. As the door opened, Martin felt the rush of heat and light almost overwhelm him. A tall figure blocked the way, his features lost in the shadows; his emotions could not be judged. For a moment both stood in silence, the visitor and inhabitant acting as though the other did not exist. Then the inhabitant asked,

  "Do you have it?"

  Martin did not speak. Instead he fumbled around in one of his deep sodden pockets for the statuette, pulled it from the clinging material and held it triumphantly aloft in the face of the inhabitant. Martin would have smiled had his lips not been so cold that they refused to move. Masculine hands took the statuette and examined it in the light that cascaded from the warm room, so tantalizingly close to Martin. "Very good Martin, it is just what I wanted, thank you." Phillip placed the statuette on a small table to the left of his front door. Martin watched and wondered if he would be invited in to share the warmth. He did not have to wait long to find out. From the table, Phillip picked up a long kitchen knife, its plain black handle sat comfortably in his large hand. In one sweeping movement the knife cut cleanly into Martin’s neck. Simultaneously, a foot pushed into his chest, directing his crumpling body away from the door. Warm blood spurted from his neck, spraying away from the house, mixing in with the heavy rain. It did not take long, just a moment. Martin’s exhausted legs gave way. His loosened head embedded itself into the thick mud. He lost consciousness and slipped into the arms of death.

  The City of London.

  Helen Taylor stood outside the restaurant, nervously brushing down the imaginary creases on her newly dry cleaned navy business suit. She checked her reflection in the window. Her mole stood out below her high cheek bones. Over the years she had learnt to accept it, as she had her tall body with long legs that attracted the leering looks of men. She put her worries to one side, took a deep breath and walked in. The Thai restaurant was tucked away in one of those Dickensian lanes that were typical of the old city of London. Close to Cannon Street station, just a short walk from St Paul's, here you would be within just a stone's throw of tall bright modern offices. Buildings which appear to be made entirely out of glass, enabling the blocks to see themselves reflected in the mirror-like sides of their neighbours: vain buildings that wallowed in their own reflections. There were simple cubic office blocks close by others, more radical in shape: the Gherkin, the Walkie-Talkie, the Cheese Grater. Whatever their profile, all cast long shadows across the old cityscape. A cityscape with structures built centuries ago, now dwarfed amongst these Goliaths of the present day. However grand these new edifices looked, they did not hold the history or the wisdom of those older buildings. Livery halls, high spired churches that could boast historic celebrities, such as Dick Whittington amongst their congregations. These old buildings stood smugly within the forest of glass structures.

  Helen was not often nervous. She normally had a confident air about her, that some said touched on arrogance. A young woman, she knew what she wanted. Here in this Thai restaurant with its fake furnishings, filled with be-suited businessmen, was the opportunity that she had been working towards. Her late father had been proud of her reaching Greenwich University, studying Modern English Literature and English Language. Communication and the written word were her first love. She could listen for hours, taking in
what people were saying to her, sharing their experiences. Newspaper reporting was the only work she had ever wanted to do. Not long after leaving her studies she had secured a place on the Reading Observer. She quickly gained a reputation for incisive questions that encouraged controversial quotes, strong headlines and memorable stories.

  She espied her lunch companion, wearing a white open-necked shirt, typing on his Blackberry phone, oblivious to the hustle and bustle around him. He looked just the same as the photograph she had seen on the website; research was a key weapon in the reporter’s armoury. Mid-forties, with a smooth shaven angular jaw line, contrasting with his rounded dome of a head that was capped with longish, slightly wild, dark hair with grey appearing along the sides, like silver streaks. A colour that many women would have been happy to pay a small fortune for, he had it free of charge from nature. He was thinly built with long spider-like fingers tapping the phone keyboard; he looked up as he sensed her approach. His piercing blue eyes took her in and drew a conclusion in an instant.

  "Helen, thanks for coming," he stood up, was a lot taller than she had imagined, and offered her his hand, which she shook.

  “Pleased to meet you, Mr Mackintosh.”

  “It’s Bruce, all my team call me Bruce, I hate being too formal.”

  He motioned for her to sit down and together they lunched. They talked about mundane current affairs, finding places to lunch in the City, as well as the merits of boot fairs, although Helen did not really understand how they managed to get on to that subject. That was the attraction of him, easy casual conversation that relaxed you, nothing that was contentious, and nothing that was solemn, just simple dialogue as they ate. Such a contrast to his reputation as a hard-nosed national newspaper editor.

  Over coffee, he ordered a double espresso and Helen a skinny latte; Bruce moved the subject to the real purpose of his invitation.

  "Helen Taylor, the daughter of Richard Taylor, who at one time worked for Barings?" She nodded in agreement, wondering why her father had been mentioned, “My father," he continued, "worked with your father for many years at Barings Bank, before my father took off and worked for Black Rock Investments. He always spoke very highly of your father, and said he taught him a lot about the banking business, the sorts of things that you just can't learn from books. You learn from experience, so when someone takes the time to share their experience with you, it builds a rather special friendship, a trusting friendship, built on mutual respect.”

  Helen had spent many an hour, as a young girl, sitting on her father's knee hearing him talk of the City of London, a city he loved, the integrity of bankers: doing business on the shake of a hand, honouring their word, understanding others and, in the end, making the best they could for their country. She had found it ironic, over the recent years, that the banking industry was now ridiculed and pilloried for the economic crisis that appeared in the UK. Maybe they were just the scapegoats this time, maybe the next time it would be another sector taking the blame; never the politicians, she thought.

  “So when I received your letter and noticed your surname, I wondered about it. Did a little poking around, and found out you were indeed the daughter of Richard Taylor. I thought this might be an opportunity to repay the experience that your father shared with my father through their children; has a little synergy about it, don't you think? I now give you the wisdom of my experience and teach you things that books never could. That is assuming you are a good reporter. "

  Helen looked at his eyes, wide open and full of enthusiasm with a kind of joy, as if he had found a long-lost sister,

  “My father never mentioned your father that I recall. Of course, I know who you are, otherwise I wouldn't have written to you in the first place. This connection I honestly had no knowledge of at all."

  "I guess your father would have nurtured and taken under his wing countless young bankers. Although he must have had you later in life, my father couldn't wait to start a family. I was one of five; well the first of five to be precise. Three boys came along first followed by two girls, which put paid to handing down clothes and football boots," he laughed, a warm laugh that endeared him to her.

  "I was the younger of two girls,” Helen contributed, “my father was a lot older than my mother, well ten years, but she was always considered to be old for her age. It is nice to hear you talk about my father with such kindness."

  Helen held fond memories of her father, even though he was considered to be a 'weekend father'. He would spend most of his working week in the City, staying overnight in his small flat in Kensington. Every weekend, he would be home with his family, beside his two daughters; riding or walking across lush green fields, giving them financial advice and ribbing them about the fashions they wore. Then Monday morning arrived and he would return to his city life. Helen knew how unhappy her mother was, yet it was a subject that was never openly discussed. Mother had Harry to look after the garden and do odd jobs around their period manor house. Then there was Florence, a middle-aged Italian, who cooked and cleaned the home, enduring constant snipes from Mother, all of which seemed to just roll off Florence’s slightly arched back.

  “Can I just add,” he interjected, “I was devastated when I heard what happened to your mother, it must have been such a shock for you.”

  “Thank you, but it has been many years since the accident.”

  “Even so, you would only have been a young girl when she died. How old were you exactly?”

  Helen faltered, that sounded like a question a reporter would ask during the early stages of an interview, and Bruce was no ordinary reporter. Cautiously she answered,

  “Twelve years old.”

  He nodded, “I know your father was devastated. At least that was what my father told me after the funeral. But being alone in the house with her when it happened, it must have been a terrible shock for a twelve-year-old girl who loved her mother?”

  Another question; concern was welling up in Helen's mind. Was he really being generous inviting her to lunch on the strength of a speculative letter she had sent him asking for a job? Or was this something else? A manoeuvre to uncover more about her mother’s death. Did he have doubts about the accident? Did he have new facts? She felt her palms dampen,

  “It was a long time ago, but the memories are still very painful to me, as I’m sure you will understand. Could we change the subject?”

  "Of course. I’m sorry for being a little blunt; journalists like us are naturally forward with our questions. So back to the reason we are here. Not looking at the past, but looking to the future. Although I will be taking you under my wing, I would rather you kept the fact that our fathers knew each other just between us. People will consider that I am doing you a favour, which I suppose I am, but I have seen the way you write and the way you handle stories so I am doing this for the benefit of my paper; my motives are purely selfish.” He smiled, finished his coffee and continued, "So starting Monday, you'll be on some basic feature writing to begin with. Interesting, still important, no hard news as yet, which I know you are itching to get on to. I like my reporters to work up to hard news, to know just about every aspect of the paper first. That will give you a good foundation, plus, when you are on hard news, you know who does what and when at the paper, those who will help you through a story and who will drop you right in it.”

  "Starting Monday? Are you offering me an actual job?" Helen was enthused and relaxed as the subject had moved away from her mother.

  "Well of course, I'm an editor of a national newspaper, I only do HR work on very special occasions, and you Miss Taylor, are one of those special occasions. So yes, you start Monday."

  Maybe he was doing her a special favour. Part of her wanted to be proud and say that she secured the job because of her skills. Others, if they knew of the connection, would jibe her that it was only because of her father she was now being offered a post on the Daily Mirror. Either way, Helen did not care, this is what she wanted. Even if it was a favour, similar f
avours were being offered and taken across the city all the time. For Helen Taylor, this was her big opportunity and she was taking it, she had no concern about what anyone thought. The words of her father that came back to her were: “Dreams are the destinations that we plan to travel to." She hoped that her father was watching her now. He would have been so proud.

  “I do need to give four weeks’ notice," she added as a caveat.

  "Helen," he leaned forward, held her hand in a fatherly sort of way, "you must know just how much of a small family journalism is, and a very close knit family at that. Your boss, Terry, we did our time on the same local paper. He was upset that I was going to steal one of his best reporters, but he still saw the bigger picture and there is just one condition attached to you starting next Monday, that is you plan your leaving do this Friday, come what may, and buy him a double malt whisky. I thought that was a small price to pay. Welcome to the Daily Mirror!"

  “Did he also tell you that I am away in France the week after next? I’m meeting an old friend from University that I haven’t seen for a while. I can reschedule, see her later in the year,” as the words left her lips, Helen regretted mentioning it, she should have just cancelled her leave, what was she thinking?

  He interrupted her, “no problem at all Helen, I guess you have flights or ferries booked. Some things are worth waiting for, and I sense that you are one of those special reporters who come along once in a while, I can wait a week or two.” Then he hesitated, thought for a moment, “I have an even better idea. Start Monday, spend a few days getting to know people and then off to France. Danny, our larger-than-life news editor, has been looking to do a feature on the retired English living in France. So perfect, that can be your first assignment. I’ll tell Danny to arrange things.”