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  He was disgusted by what she had been subjected to, and reflected that if she hadn’t killed Les he would most certainly have done so himself, but Nick would have taken his time over it. Les would have suffered; he would have made quite sure of that. There was, however, one more thing he could do to protect his niece.

  Nick had taken Gillian home, and on the journey he explained what he was going to do. She just smiled at him and hugged him.

  “I love you, Uncle Nick,” she said, kissing him on the cheek. Nick blushed, knowing that anything he had to do to protect his niece would be worth it.

  ***

  The next morning Nick stood by as the scene of crimes officer declared that it looked like a suicide, and that it had probably happened yesterday afternoon when Nick was at the races.

  The man in charge seemed to be Sergeant Grahame, who was everyone’s idea of the avuncular country policeman. In Nick’s favour, Les Vaughan had been responsible for about half of the Sergeant’s workload since he was a kid.

  “It looks like he had a few drinks. He stinks of whisky, and this empty bottle has his prints all over it. Then he evidently sat against this tree, placed the both barrels under his chin and blew his brains out with his shotgun. There is GSR all over his hands - sorry, gun shot residue. Using both barrels means he has pretty much ruled out the need for a post mortem, because there isn’t much left of him to examine.”

  Nick had no regrets about using Les’s own shotgun to obscure the real cause of Vaughan’s death, but he did wonder what impact the shooting of another human being would have on his sweet natured niece.

  Two weeks later, after a cursory and largely unsympathetic investigation, the eventual official conclusion was that Les had committed suicide. To the despair of his parents, his wife refused to attend the funeral.

  Chapter 13

  Tallgarth Manor, Stratfield Turgis, Hampshire. 2003

  Gil, as she was now known to her colleagues had returned to the family home, not to see her parents but to see Uncle Nick. He was still only middle aged, almost fifty, but cancer had eaten away at his insides for years and, being a tough countryman, he had never considered seeing a doctor, until it was too late.

  Incurable and inoperable was the prognosis that had brought Gil running to the only man she had ever really cared for in her short life. Two years ago Nick had written his will, stating his desire to pass all of his worldly belongings to his niece on his demise, and a family row had ensued.

  Gillian had been told in no uncertain terms that whilst she was their daughter the family estate must pass to a male heir, her cousin Raymond Madison. She asked whether this was because she was adopted. Her parents answered yes with their eyes while saying no with their words. Nick had been disgusted when he was told that his share of the Davis estate was held in a trust that could only be divested if all trustees agreed. Gillian’s father, Harold, was the other trustee.

  Nick had hit back by using his trust funds to send Gillian to the best university possible to study combined sciences, when her parents wanted her to attend Reading University and study land management. Since then, relations between all concerned had been cordial but strained.

  Gil wandered through the woods towards the lodge and entered into the clearing that the locals called ‘the pasture’, largely because deer could often be found grazing here. As she broke through the ash, elm and oak trees into the clearing she saw Nick kneeling beside a distressed roe deer fawn, which was lying on the ground.

  Gil walked slowly and quietly towards the scene so as not to alarm the fawn, and saw that Nick was massaging its belly and pushing occasionally. The poor fawn was sweating and trembling, its eyes wide in fear and pain. Nick continued his work patiently and unerringly, not even acknowledging his niece’s presence, and then miraculously the fawn bleated, shuddered and tried to get to its feet. Uncle Nick steadied the fawn as it first stood and then began to walk uncertainly, but before long the little deer regained full mobility and darted off.

  “What was that all about, Nick?” Gil asked as she hugged her ailing uncle and kissed him gently on each cheek. Nick pointed at a brightly coloured plant that had leaves the shape of dock leaves and a stunning red clover like flower. It was probably a weed but it was pretty.

  “Redweed,” Nick answered knowledgeably. “It was probably named after the plant of the same name in HG Wells’ book War of the Worlds, except that this redweed is very real and very toxic.”

  Nick pulled the weed and handed it to Gil.

  “It’s OK to touch, but if it’s ingested it can be fatal. Years ago my dad catalogued the redweed and sent a sample to Kew Gardens, who hadn’t seen it before. They concluded it was probably a hybrid, local to the area. It seems it has medicinal qualities similar to the poppy, which can produce morphine, opium and cocaine. Kew Gardens gave it a Latin name; Stylophorum Belgae, which is a combination of Stylophorum, the genus of the tree poppy, and Belgae, the Roman name for this area of Roman Britain.”

  “So how did you save the fawn, if the weed is so deadly?”

  “Come on, Gillian, you’re the chemist. You tell me.”

  “OK, my guess would be that the active ingredients are deadly when distilled or taken in large enough doses, but the symptoms are transitory if taken in small doses.”

  Nick smiled. He loved this girl. He was glad that she wouldn’t be tied to this dying estate; she had a greater calling, in his opinion.

  Nick explained that the symptoms of redweed included partial or total paralysis. First the local area is paralysed, usually the mouth and nose due to the high concentration of exposed pores in both, then the paralysis moves down the body as the poison passes into the gut. Fortunately it is usually ingested in small quantities because of the bitter taste, and so the paralysis is usually temporary. Unfortunately, one of the first areas hit is respiration and so the victim has to force air into their body by using the diaphragm, because the automatic breathing mechanisms are frozen or numbed.

  “By forcing the fawn to inhale and exhale air by pressing on its diaphragm, I was able to keep it alive until the paralysis wore off,” he concluded.

  Gillian helped him to his feet, and with her hands on his cheeks she kissed him. There were tears in her eyes, knowing what was to come.

  “Nick, you are brilliant. You are utterly wasted here. You could have done anything you wanted. I love you so much.” His niece linked his arm as they walked back to the lodge; Nick was smiling and blushing at the compliment.

  ***

  It was dusk already and the two of them had enjoyed a ploughman’s salad for dinner, uncle and niece sitting in companionable silence. They walked over to the sofa and sat down. Nick was tall and muscular; he had never really carried much fat as he was exercising all day. His dark hair was greying and thinning but his eyes were bright. There were few outward signs of his critical illness. Gillian had been told by the consultant that Nick could have treatment that would prolong his life by as much as six months, but that he was refusing all medical advice on the topic. Instead he had chosen to have palliative care only, in his home, via a Macmillan Nurse.

  Gillian asked her favourite question of Nick, knowing that he would never tire of giving her the answer.

  “Nick, tell me how I came to be the future Lady of the Tallgarth Manor?”

  Nick embarked on the story that had been familiar to his niece since her infancy.

  “Andrea Bailey was the brightest and prettiest woman ever to adorn this manor house. She was employed as estate manager, following a spell at Windsor Great Park and after obtaining her degree at Reading University. She lit the place up and she made it pay for the first time since my grandfather’s time. Harold was useless and Bernice was even more useless; she could spend money and boss people around, but she had no idea what she was doing. Andrea changed everything. She lived in this lodge at the time, and I had a bedroom in the main house.

  All was well when Denton Miles III turned up to understudy Andrea before returning
to Virginia to manage his family’s estate, about twenty times the size of this one. I adored Andrea, but we became so close as colleagues that any romantic allusions were just that, allusions. Denton was a great kid, likeable, intelligent, funny and so caring. Despite the age gap of about ten years, I guess Andrea just fell for him. He stayed the summer and headed back to the USA when he was told that his mother was ailing. They both knew that returning with a fiancée ten years his senior would not play well with his parents, and so they said goodbye and parted as friends.

  Andrea didn’t realise she was pregnant until weeks later, when the sickness started and didn’t stop. She was determined to go ahead with the birth and she asked me if I would be a surrogate father to her child. I would have done anything for her, if I’m being honest.

  Investigations into the continued sickness led unfortunately to a diagnosis of cancer, ironic now considering my present situation, but she refused chemo because it would have probably terminated you.”

  Nick reached across and took Gillian’s hands in his.

  “She died when you were just four months old. She never achieved her dream of celebrating your first birthday. Harold and Bernice didn’t have children of their own, and the option of having a child without the inconvenience of sex, pregnancy and delivery appealed to them. I’m not entirely sure Harold knows what to do with a woman in bed, anyway.”

  Gillian and Nick both sniggered, but she caught a flash of pain cross his face.

  “Are you OK?” she asked, her voice laden with concern. Nick nodded, and reached over to pick up a bottle of morphine laced brandy. He took a generous swig and waited for the pain to subside.

  Gillian looked at the prescription label and sighed.

  “You do know that this is suicide juice, don’t you? They give it to terminal patients, instructing them to take a tablespoonful every six hours, at the same time warning them that three spoonfuls at once will lead to unconsciousness and death.”

  “I know, Gillian. But I don’t have long, and as a gamekeeper I wouldn’t let an animal suffer like this. I want you to let me go.”

  “Why me?”

  “Because you’re the only one who loves me enough to miss me.”

  ***

  Nick died two days later. After a few days the family gathered for the reading of the will. Despite her parents’ best efforts, Gillian inherited over a hundred thousand pounds in cash, along with another one hundred thousand pounds from Nick’s life insurance policy.

  Her parents, aggrieved that their suggestion that she donate half of the money to the upkeep of the estate was ignored, made her pay for the funeral. The funeral was lavish and sentimental. No-one in the Hampshire area had a bad thing to say about Nick, and Gillian was surprised to hear from a number of women whose husbands had not beaten them again after Nick had ‘had a quiet chat’ with them.

  A man who could easily have been a clone of Nick, except for his close cropped hair, took Gillian to one side and introduced himself.

  “James Mellanby. I served with Nick in the Army, special services section. Your uncle wanted me to have a word with you about your future.”

  Nick’s old army friend knew all that there was to know about Gillian, and so his next invitation was not unexpected.

  “Gillian, we have your health records, your psych report from University, we know about your academic achievement in science, and I had one of my colleagues watch you compete in the shooting world championships last year. We would like you to come to London and speak to a recruitment officer for the Special Intelligence Services.”

  So it began. Gillian Davis trained hard and qualified as a spook, a spy or an intelligence operative whilst completing her Masters Degree and Doctorate. Her speciality was ‘authorised assassination’; the Americans termed it ‘wet work’ or ‘termination with extreme prejudice’.

  The British Intelligence Services were more circumspect, using ironic terms such as; ‘Retirement’, a seemingly natural death using no weapons, ‘Redundancy’ where the assassination was intended to send a message that one of the world’s security organisations were involved, and finally, “Permanent re-assignment” where the assassination left clues implicating another person or agency.

  Gillian took to the work with relish, and found herself working in internationally diverse teams, but her most regular partner was the best sniper in the business, Douglas Mc Keown, who insisted his surname was to be pronounced as Mc Ewan. All of which was irrelevant, because he was always called Mac or Scotty.

  Chapter 14

  Barbican Tower, City of London. 2008

  Gillian had been with the Agency for almost five years when she received her latest assignment.

  Perry Jensen was about to be permanently re-assigned, but he didn’t know it. He probably believed that at thirty two he was too young to ‘move on’. If that was the case he should have been more honest, or more careful.

  Jensen had been a hacker as a teenager, a geek as a student and a playboy as an adult. His lifestyle was funded by his company, which in large part was reliant on Jensen’s encryption software. Who better than a hacker to protect your secrets?

  Perry had worked for most major companies, at one time or another, providing encryption software, at very high prices too. If greed and pride had not overcome common sense he would have lived until a ripe old age. Unfortunately he had provided bespoke encryption software to a company he knew only as Thames Consulting Partnership, but which was actually a front for MI5. Even then he would have been fine if he had then left them alone with his complex encryption software, because they believed it was world class, but sadly he could not resist the old temptations.

  One evening, when he was bored and sitting in front of his computer, he decided to see what Thames Consulting did for a living. Opening up a back door he had created in the software, he went in and looked around. He saw nothing of interest and he moved on quickly to another site, but his presence had been noted. Even at this point he may have been merely spoken to by his client and warned, had he not arrogantly accessed the highest level file in the system, which contained codes allowing nuclear submarines to ‘go dark’ and change their rules of engagement to include initiating a launch.

  Of course, Gillian did not know any of this, and so her task was simple. Kill him, leave false clues, mislead the police and ensure the crime is never solved.

  ***

  Gillian entered the tower through the bin store at ground floor level. The bins or refuse skips were large plastic containers with wheels, which allowed the refuse collectors to move them into position for the truck to lift them. Gillian walked behind the empty containers and came to a metal door; it was locked and protected by a key code. Gillian typed in the key code, which was hardly a secret as every refuse truck in the city had a list of the key codes for each tower block.

  She was now inside the refuse bay where the skips in use were placed. There were two skips, one green and one blue, each one situated under a galvanised metal chute. As she picked the simple lock leading to the emergency staircase a black bag came hurtling down the chute, crashing into the almost empty green skip.

  She left the door closed but unlocked. The emergency stairs were bare concrete and at ground floor they smelled of refuse and rotting food, courtesy of the bin store. Gillian ran up the stairs to the third floor and removed her jumpsuit and cap, letting her hair fall loosely around her face. She took a quick look in the compact mirror and touched up her make-up. She left the jumpsuit and the cap in the emergency stairwell, which was rarely used, and placed her makeup back into her shoulder bag.

  Happy that she was looking her best, she stepped into the corridor and knocked on the door to apartment 314. A slightly overweight man answered the door; he was in his thirties with thinning blonde hair. His eyes dropped immediately to the ample cleavage his visitor displayed, and then eventually his eyes rose and met hers. Gillian smiled, and in her best Sloane Ranger voice said, “Hi, I’m Mandy. I’m staying with th
e oldies down the corridor and they said you were a computer genius. Can you help me?”

  Jensen stepped aside and invited the beautiful woman inside, closing the door behind her. As she walked in, appraising the apartment and its show home appearance, Jensen was rubbing his hands with anticipation and checking out her butt.

  “Do you have a problem with your laptop, is that it? I can see that your software is in good order,” he quipped, looking again at her chest.

  Gillian smiled sweetly and then threw out her hand so swiftly it was a blur. Her fingers were curled into her palm and the heel of her hand hit Jensen in the centre of his forehead.

  His head rocked backwards and then rebounded forwards. He was unconscious and concussed by the time he hit the floor. The simple martial arts technique that Gillian had utilised was intended to shake the brain around in the skull so that it collided front and back, shutting down to protect itself.

  Gillian took a pair of yellow Marigold plastic gloves out of her bag and slipped them on. If her mother could see what her daughter got up to in her marigolds she would have a fit. In the kitchen she found what she needed - a large pair of scissors - in an unused knife block. Taking the scissors firmly in her right hand, she plunged them deep into Jensen’s chest, puncturing his heart. His body jerked, expelled some air and collapsed flat on the floor again.

  Now Gillian had time for some fun.

  She found a banana in the fruit bowl and snapped off half of it, eating the piece in her hand, and the remaining half she left on the TV table. Moving to the cupboards, she removed a wine glass and two whisky tumblers. She put a splash of whisky from the spirits shelf in one glass and a healthy serving of sherry in the other. She then took two different lipsticks from her make-up bag and smeared Boots No.7 Red Crystal on the rim of one glass, and then she smeared L’Oreal Purple Pearl on the rim of the other. Finally, she filled the wine glass with a rich red Bordeaux before throwing it in the face of the dead man and dropping the glass beside him.