 
# Voluntary Assassination (Organic)

# Cliff Keen

# Copyright

_Copyright_ _©_ _2019 Clifford Keen_

All rights reserved

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organisations, events or locales in this novel are either the product of the authors imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.

My thanks to Peter Rogers for casting an expert eye over the text and pointing out a number of improvements. All remaining errors are, of course, my own.

Contact: clifford.d.keen@gmail.com

# One

Andrew and Stewart were on a mission. Their field of engagement was a small park in the outskirts of South London. Their forward position was a hard, wooden park bench on the bank of the duck pond. Their target sat beside another park bench nearby; he was feeding bread to the ducks.

"You know," said Stewart, in his calm, reasonable manner, "I'm not completely comfortable with the name."

Andrew did know. He knew because Stewart had raised the same concern every month for about the last year.

"It doesn't scan well," continued Stewart, "the brackets around the 'Organic', they make it seem like an after-thought. 'Voluntary Assassination, bracket, Organic, close bracket', shouldn't it be at least a hyphen?"

Andrew could see that Stewart was in one of his pensive moods. Or, more accurately, he was in his pensive mood rather than his other mood, which was one of utter focus.

"We have a team meeting tomorrow," responded Andrew, "should I add it to the agenda? Now is not a very good time."

"True, first things first, concentrate on the mission," agreed Stewart. "Ready to roll?"

"Not yet," commanded Andrew, "he's still feeding the ducks."

"Ah, yes," responded Stewart, "I read that in the contract."

They sat in companionable silence for a few minutes. Dressed in their dark, casually formal, outfits of dark windproof tops, pressed trousers, black socks and shining black shoes, a passer-by may have taken them for two office workers who were passing time, maybe early for a meeting. A close observer, perhaps a real office worker with time on their hands, could have noticed that Stewart's shoes were actually heavy soled, highly polished, lace-up boots. Together with Stewart's shaven head and compact frame, belying his fifty-odd years, it may have occurred to them that he was not your average office worker. His companion was twenty years younger, tall, slim, but broad shouldered. His black skin contrasting starkly with Stewart's bleached Anglo-Saxon white; he had an intelligent, attractive, face that fell naturally into a thoughtful, serious, expression.

Chilly gusts of wind blew across the surface of the small, dark green pond, rippling the surface and raising a few old leaves on the paths; everything else was peaceful. The target, Mr Matthews, delved deeper into his bread bag, pulling out the final few crumbs and throwing them, with an uncertain hand, towards the birds that seemed most deserving.

"It's time," said Andrew. He opened his briefcase and turned on the camera, before rising from the bench.

"Handshake?" queried Stewart.

"Yes, handshake," answered Andrew, observing the protocol.

Andrew zipped his jacket up to the neck, to avoid giving any clues, though he wore a dark blue tie, unlike Stewart, who had the more conventional black, and began his stroll down towards Mr Matthews. Stewart would be taking up his own position.

Mr Matthews gaze was on the pond and the ducks, but his thoughts seemed to be elsewhere; his hand rested on the joystick of his motorised wheelchair, but with no sign that he intended to move on.

"Excuse me," said Andrew, as he crossed Mr Matthew's line of vision, "I think I know your son, Dennis, aren't you...".

Mr Matthews, jerked out of his reverie, responded, "Oh, yes, Dennis, I'm his father, Bill."

"Bill...." prompted Andrew.

"Bill Matthews," said Mr Matthews.

"Nice to see you, Mr Matthews," continue Andrew, "I'll tell Dennis I bumped into you." Andrew held out his hand.

Mr Matthews was just reaching out his hand to take Andrew's, when Stewart materialised behind his wheelchair and purposefully pushed a hypodermic needle into the back of his neck. Mr Matthews gave a small start, glanced into Andrew's eyes, and slumped forward with his head on his chest.

Andrew squatted down before the late Bill Matthews, took hold of Bill's hands and arranged them tidily on his lap. Andrew held this position for a few seconds; had he been a religious man, he would have been saying a prayer, as it was, he was just saying farewell. He released Bill's hands and raised himself up.

"I make it 11:37am," said Stewart, looking at the chunky watch on his wrist.

Andrew glanced at his wrist, and said, "Mine says 11:36".

"I didn't realise that thing told the time as well," replied Stewart.

"Shows my emails, alerts my appointments, tells me my heart rate and gives the time," responded Andrew, and added, teasingly, "you should get one."

"Not until it makes the tea," stated Stewart. "Can you call the police on it?"

"It is so clever that maybe it has done that already," replied Andrew. "However, just in case," Andrew pulled his mobile phone from his jacket pocket and dialled the local police station.

"Ask for Peter," suggested Stewart, "or, at least, not Francis, definitely not Francis."

"Hello," said Andrew, into his phone, "my name is Andrew Benson of Voluntary Assassination Organic, I'd like to report an assassination." Andrew gave the location of the park and the duck pond, and then joined Stewart, sitting on the bench next to Mr Matthews in his wheelchair.

"Did they say how long?" asked Stewart.

"They said they would send someone as soon as possible, but they were a bit snowed under at the moment," replied Andrew. "Apparently there is a 'pro-life' demonstration down the local high street."

"Oops," responded Stewart. "Well, I'm not in any hurry, and our friend here looks very comfortable."

They watched the duck pond, and the group of ducks whose lives had just taken a slight turn for the worse.

"I'd consider myself very much 'pro-life'," mused Stewart.

"In what way?" asked Andrew.

"In the way that we move people on from their current life and allow them to progress into their next life," answered Stewart.

Andrew considered this, and replied, "So, you would see Mr Matthews as now heading off into his new life?"

"Not immediately," responded Stewart. "I'm sure there would be a decent interval."

"Even if he is not a Buddist?" continued Andrew. "Not everybody believes in reincarnation."

"You can't resist the way of the world," stated Stewart. "Even if you don't realise it."

"How do you know that Mr Matthews will like his new life?" asked Andrew.

"He looks like a decent sort of bloke," responded Stewart. "He feeds the ducks."

"Could have some dark secrets hidden away," commented Andrew. "Maybe he used to go duck hunting as a young man."

"Well, that's karma for you," concluded Stewart. "It's a bugger; you will be what you are."

As they looked up the path, they saw a sturdy policeman was pacing towards them, notebook in hand. The policeman acknowledged them with a brief wave.

"Heads up," said Stewart. "Oh good, it's Peter."

Sergeant Peter Johnson was a 'proper copper', stout, flat-footed, carrying an air of slight disappointment. He'd seen this, done that and you were not going to surprise him by either your guile or stupidity.

"Morning gentlemen," Peter said, as he reached them.

"Morning Peter," said Andrew, "I didn't hear you coming."

"It's not really a siren and flashing lights job," replied Peter. "It's not as if there's a murder going on."

"I'm not sure everybody would agree with you there," responded Stewart.

"Well, let's find out if it is a murder or not. Who's this?" said Peter, indicating the body in the chair.

"Mr Matthews," replied Andrew.

"He looks very peaceful. Got the contract?" asked Peter.

Andrew produced a tablet computer from his briefcase, prodded the screen a few times in order to display the contract, and handed it to Peter.

"William Matthews," read Peter from the screen, "92 years old, and that certainly looks like him," he remarked, comparing the photo in the contract with the man in the wheelchair. "And the original is..." he prompted.

Andrew handed Peter a business card. "With Mr Matthews' solicitor, here's his address."

"That's all good," remarked Peter, looking at the card. "I'll see if I can pop along there later today. You've got the IOD?"

Stewart had already bagged up the syringe, which he handed to the policeman.

"One syringe, empty," noted Peter, as he took the bag.

"And, may I see the video?" Peter requested, though it was more of a statement.

"That's the video that I don't legally need to take, or submit to you?" said Andrew.

"That would be the one," replied Peter.

Andrew pressed and swiped the screen, to start the video, and handed it to the policeman.

"I assume you are filming this?" asked Andrew.

"Oh yes, of course," replied Peter; he had a small camera attached to the epaulette on his shoulder.

"So, you're filming my film?" commented Andrew.

Peter did not make an immediate reply, and Stewart cut in, "Should I be filming you filming the film?" he suggested.

Both Andrew and Peter shot Stewart a glance. Stewart raised his hands in submission.

Peter watched the video of Mr Matthew's final moments without a flicker. "Looks like a nice, clean job," he remarked. "Any witnesses I should talk to?" Peter asked, looking around.

"Only the ducks, I'm afraid," replied Andrew.

"Makes life easier," responded Peter. "In my experience, witnesses are hopeless, they'd probably say that you mowed him down with a machine gun."

"That would be far too dramatic," commented Andrew.

"Quite right," replied Peter. "We certainly don't need drama, especially in a case like this. What we need is documentation, paperwork, everything in its proper order. Which, I'm pleased to say, is what we seem to have. Do you have the vehicle?"

"Parked just outside the park gates," answered Andrew.

"How are you going to get it in here?" queried Peter.

"We rather thought that, as Mr Matthews has his own transportation, we could wheel him to the car," said Andrew.

"We're all done here, I'll come with you," responded Peter.

A small entourage of Stewart, pushing the wheelchair, Andrew and Peter accompanied William Matthews on his final exit from the park, to the waiting hearse.

# Two

Andrew and Stewart parked the hearse in Malcolm Avenue, a tree-line street of comfortable semi-detached houses; Jasmin was already lingering around number 27, her mission bag slung over one shoulder.

"Looks like a nice area," commented Stewart. "Trees really make a difference. Just goes to show, no matter how urban people become, we still feel a need for a link with nature."

"It is nice," agreed Andrew. "We'll see you in about an hour or so."

"No hurry at all," responded Stewart. He reached into the dashboard, pulled out a small booklet and settled back.

Andrew stepped out of the vehicle and walked over to Jasmin. She was a contemporary of Andrew's, slim to the point of petite and dressed in what she dismissively called her 'mourning suit'; low-heeled black shoes, fitted black trousers, black jacket and a plain shirt. Her cascades of curly red hair were irrepressibly colourful, and there was some essential clunky jewellery, but, for Jasmin, this was ultra-sober.

"Hi, been here long?" Andrew asked.

"Ten minutes," replied Jasmin. "How did it go this morning?"

Andrew could feel that Jasmin was a little tense, "Peter came, which helped," he answered. "He said it looked like a nice job."

"Okay, well, let's get on - 'Sugar', right?" Jasmin queried.

"'Sugar', yes - you alright?" asked Andrew.

"Yes, I'm alright, it's just... you know," replied Jasmin.

Andrew did know, and he knew Jasmin would be fine, different from Stewart, but fine in her own way.

"Are you already on?" Andrew queried.

"Yes, I saw you coming," said Jasmin, and turned up the short path to the front door of number 27, Andrew following behind.

They rang the doorbell, they could hear sounds inside the house, but there was a delay before the door opened. Andrew looked up the street of blank-faced houses, each untouched by the chill, gusty wind, and thought how, for them, it was just another day. The door was answered by an elderly lady, dressed warmly, but not without care for her appearance, steadying herself with one hand on the door lock, and holding in the other two walking sticks. She looked at Jasmin, "Oh!" she said, and looked down at the doorstep. "Oh." she repeated.

"You okay, Mrs Matthews?" asked Jasmin, gently.

Mrs Matthews looked up at Jasmin again. "Yes," she said, automatically, then, with resolve, "Yes, I am okay, very okay, in fact." Straightening up as best she could, she continued, "It's still a shock, a surprise, maybe."

"Can we come in?" asked Jasmin.

"Of course, of course," replied Mrs Matthews, leaving go of the front door and transferring her hand to one of the walking sticks. She turned slowly and walked, with careful steps, into the living room.

Jasmin and Andrew followed, taking in the comfortable, old fashioned, furnishings, the photos of smiling faces propped up in every space, colourful paintings, the computer screen in one corner, which was now sleeping and scrolling through random pictures. Mrs Matthews sank into a chair.

"Shall I make some tea?" volunteered Andrew.

"That would be nice," agreed Mrs Matthews. "I'll show you where things are," she said, attempting to lever herself up again.

"That's okay, Andrew will manage." Jasmin insisted.

"Good," responded Mrs Matthews, resting back, "I didn't really want to get up again."

Andrew left and the two of them sat quietly, until Mrs Matthews started to speak. "I shall miss him, but I'm glad; glad for him, yes, and glad for me," she paused, then continued, "You know, the last few months - since we signed the papers with you - they've been good months. Bill had been looking back a lot, talking about things we've done," she smiled with recollection. "So many things, so many good times, so many happy days - and all those days of nothing special, just together, they were good. I remember before we signed up, it was difficult, the future hanging in front of us, like a sentence, all black - and it wasn't like we'd done anything, just grown old," she paused again, for thought, then spoke, more firmly and directly to Jasmin, "I'm so glad it ended like this, good memories of my Bill." Tears were rolling down Jasmin's face. "Don't upset yourself," said Mrs Matthews, "You've done us the best service ever, it's marvellous what you people do."

Jasmin wiped her cheeks, and said, "I know, I'm silly - I should be comforting you, not the other way around!"

Andrew came in with the tray of tea. "Have some tea," said Mrs Matthews, "we'll all be better with a cup of tea."

Andrew sat down on the far side of Mrs Matthews, opposite Jasmin, and poured them each a cup from a teapot.

"Milk?" asked Andrew.

"Just a little," answered Mrs Matthews.

"Sugar?" Andrew continued.

"No, thanks, not for me," replied Mrs Matthews, automatically.

Mrs Matthews addressed Jasmin, "Tell me how it happened," she said, "Did you do it?"

"No, I couldn't," replied Jasmin. "He would have recognised me and known what was going on."

"Yes, that's true, I hadn't thought of that," Mrs Matthews commented, and turned to Andrew, actually looking at him for the first time. "Was it you?" she asked.

"Me, and another of our colleagues," replied Andrew. "He's sitting outside in the vehicle; you can meet him if you like."

"That's alright, you can tell me," responded Mrs Matthews.

"Mr Matthews was sitting in the park, just by the duck pond," described Andrew. "He was almost surrounded by ducks, because he was feeding them."

"Oh yes," remarked Mrs Matthews, "I remember him telling you how he went to feed the ducks – he never used to, but I think he found it was something to get out for now days, and it made the ducks happy."

"We waited until he had finished feeding, and he was sitting, looking quite contemplative," continued Andrew. "Then, I went to say hello, and as I did my colleague administered the IOD. There is a video, if you want to see it."

"No, no, I don't think so," responded Mrs Matthews. "You've painted a lovely picture, just sitting in his chair, surrounded by happy ducks. That's how I'll remember him. Was it painful?"

"No," said Andrew. "Not at all. He might have felt a pin prick, nothing more."

"Well, with his other aches and pains, I don't think he would begrudge that," remarked Mrs Matthews. "No more pains now, eh."

"No, no more pains," said Jasmin.

"No more pains, and no more worries," said Mrs Matthews. "Not that Bill was a big worrier, but he didn't like being so incapacitated, all that wheelchair nonsense, that was not him at all. I remember how, before we signed up with you, it was really starting to get him down. But once we'd made the decision and signed the contract, it was like he had a new lease of life, somehow." Mrs Matthews hesitated, before continuing, "He became a bit more positive, more of my old Bill. It was like, knowing that he only had a few months left, it was a weight off his shoulders. Maybe it was knowing that he wasn't going to go on like this, and worse, indefinitely." Addressing Jasmin, she added, "I expect you hear this sort of thing all the time."

Jasmin replied, "Everybody is different, it's lovely to hear your story."

"Well, he has been really busy lately," continued Mrs Matthews, "getting everything in order, contacting people – he said to me that it made him realise how many people we had met, really made him appreciate that people were more than just names on a Christmas card list."

"Had Mr Matthews been telling people what you had planned?" asked Andrew.

"Oh no," replied Mrs Matthews, "we haven't told anybody – what would be the good of that – neither friends or family, especially family! They are very dear to us, but they wouldn't understand, they just want you to live forever. It's only natural." She paused for a second, then continued, "I suppose they will find out now, I hadn't thought of that – they'll really be keeping an eye on me."

"Don't worry about that," stated Andrew, adding, "Mr Matthews has put everything in order?"

"Yes, all sorted," answered Mrs Matthews, looking at Andrew, then said, "Have we met somewhere?"

"No," replied Andrew, "I'm pretty sure we haven't – you made all your arrangements through Jasmin."

"You look familiar." Said Mrs Matthews.

"I was on the TV a lot a couple of years ago," admitted Andrew. "In fact we both were."

"But nobody ever remembers me," retorted Jasmin.

"Oh yes, that's right," responded Mrs Matthews, "you're the euthanasia chap, you were really famous back then."

"My fifteen minutes of fame," replied Andrew.

"But not mine," commented Jasmin.

"I guess, being black, I stood out more," responded Andrew.

"You certainly did," agreed Mrs Matthews. "You were in the papers and everything – I thought about joining one of your marches, but they looked a bit dicey."

"They did get a bit exciting sometimes," admitted Andrew. "I couldn't have done it without the support of Jasmin and the others."

"Absolutely," agreed Jasmin.

"I'm not surprised," commented Mrs Matthews. "The religious people hated you, the racists hated you – probably the first time they had agreed on anything!"

"Fortunately, there were enough people who shared our views so that we could get it through Parliament," said Andrew.

"Well done for sticking to your guns," said Mrs Matthews. "Both of you," she continued, with a look at Jasmin.

"Thanks," responded Jasmin. Jasmin glanced across to Andrew, who gave a nod that was so small, it was barely more than a blink of his eyelids.

"I know it's not a good time," continued Jasmin, to Mrs Matthews, "but do you think you could sign a form?"

"Yes, of course, what is it for?" asked Mrs Matthews.

"To release Mr Matthews' body to the coroner," said Jasmin, pushing a piece of paper towards Mrs Matthews. "You just need to write your name at the top."

Mrs Matthews took the paper, adjusted her head to focus on it through her bifocal glasses, and began to write.

"Your full name," said Jasmin, "which is?"

"Mrs Julie Matthews," said Mrs Matthews, as she wrote. "And I sign it here?" she asked.

"Yes," replied Jasmin. "How about another cup of tea?"

Andrew topped up Mrs Matthews cup from the teapot and added a dash of milk.

"Sugar?" asked Jasmin.

"I shouldn't," replied Mrs Matthews, "not good for the waistline."

"Treat yourself," responded Jasmin.

"Just one then," replied Mrs Matthews. Andrew sprinkled in a spoonful, stirred it and handed her the cup.

"Not that anybody will be watching my waistline now," commented Mrs Matthews, "I know that it is for the best, for him and for me – but I shall miss him, I shall miss him." She took a drink of her tea. "I guess you will be coming for me soon?" she added.

"You know how it works, Mrs Matthews," replied Jasmin.

"It will be a complete surprise, I'll never see it coming," stated Mrs Matthews, dutifully. "Goodness," she remarked, "this has hit me harder than I thought, I'm feeling really sleepy."

With that, her head slumped onto her chest. Andrew was ready and caught the cup as it slipped from her hand, putting it, with the remains of the poisoned tea, straight into an evidence bag.

# Three

Stewart heard the police car before he saw it. It swung into the street, swerved half into a spot between two parked cars and the driver was out and heading for number 27 before the sound of his brakes had faded. From across the street, behind a discreetly pulled curtain, a neighbour saw a young man, with a brush of undisciplined fair hair, dressed in a blue uniform which he may, one day, grow into, charge up to the house.

Andrew had also heard the siren, and already held the front door open. The young policeman confronted him on the doorstep.

"Have you called an ambulance? Am I too late? Is she already dead?" the policeman demanded.

"Erm, no, no and I believe so," replied Andrew. "And good afternoon, Francis," he continued.

"Constable Broad to you," responded the policeman. "Where is the victim?" he asked.

"I think you mean Mrs Matthews, she's in the living room," answered Andrew.

Constable Broad entered the room and saw Jasmin sitting next to the late Mrs Matthews.

"Get back!" he ordered Jasmin. "This is a crime scene, all unauthorised personnel are to stay clear."

Jasmin gave him a look that expressed anything but respect for police authority. "How do you know I'm not part of the crime scene?" she asked.

"You may well be!" said Constable Broad, in the tone of 'caught you red-handed'.

"So, if I move, won't the crime scene move with me?" continued Jasmin. "How can I keep clear?"

"Just keep clear, you're contaminating the area!" replied Constable Broad, uncertainly. Reaching Mrs Matthews, he tried another tack, "Why didn't you call the ambulance earlier?" he said, accusingly, to Jasmin.

"Why would I?" countered Jasmin.

"We might have saved her!" stated Constable Broad.

Stewart had appeared in the doorway, "I'm not sure you've really got the hang of the assassination process, Francis."

Three sets of eyes turned on Stewart; one pair expressed, 'you're not helping', another held amusement, the third was irritated.

"I understand that there has been a significant incident here," stated the possessor of the irritated eyes, "and that everyone seems to find it most amusing."

"It's not the assassination, Francis," replied Stewart. "Nobody takes assassination more seriously than we do."

"Constable Broad!" insisted Constable Broad.

Andrew stepped in, "As this wasn't your mission, Stewart, perhaps it would be less confusing for Constable Broad if you stayed in the car."

"Okay," replied Stewart, "you're the boss." This earned him another, different, glare from Andrew, before he withdrew.

"I'm not confused," declared Constable Broad, "this is a crime scene and I'm investigating."

"This is not a crime scene," stated Jasmin. "It's a completely legal assassination, and if you can't see that there is nothing to investigate, then you must be confused."

"Right!" said Constable Broad. "Right!" he repeated, more for want of another expression than for emphasis. "We'll see who is confused down at the station!"

"Are there a lot of policemen there then?" queried Jasmin.

"Of course," replied the Constable, now genuinely confused, "it's a police station."

Andrew stepped in again, "Now, Constable Broad, there's no need for that - we're going about our business, you're going about yours - let's just respect each other's positions and get the job done," he said.

"Don't you 'Constable Broad' me!" said Constable Broad. "We are going down to the station, now!"

"We can't do that," said Jasmin, wearily.

"Are you resisting arrest?" blurted out Constable Broad.

Jasmin ignored this, "What about Mrs Matthews?" she asked.

"Who?" replied Constable Broad.

"Mrs Matthews," said Jasmin, pointing at the body in the chair, "we can't leave her here, or is she accompanying you to the station?"

# Four

Chief Inspector Sands was doing some 'management by walking about'. She'd already wandered into the station canteen and confirmed the sufficiency of tea bags and hot water, without which the station's productivity would decline drastically. She had also looked in at the Personnel Department, to show that she cared about all aspects of the station, not just the operational units. Sargent Peter Johnson was doing his stint as duty officer at the front desk as the Chief Inspector came through. As two solid professionals, they shared a mutual respect, though with more wariness on the Sargent's side; he knew that the only side of the Chief Inspector's to be on, was her good side. Her short, steel coloured, hair was just an outward manifestation of the steel running straight up her backbone and through her soul. The Sargent may be a head taller, but the laser-cut neatness of the Chief Inspector's uniform always made him feel at a slight disadvantage.

"Any excitement, Sargent?" the Chief Inspector enquired.

"Not much, ma'am," Peter reported. "A couple of 'pro-life' demonstrators this morning became a bit too enthusiastic; they are cooling off in the cells."

"Have they asked for their lawyers?" asked the Chief Inspector.

"Lawyers, Court of Human Rights, not to mention the wrath of God - they'll be alright once they've stared at the walls for a couple of hours," replied Peter. "Then we'll send them home with a warning."

"We don't want to be seen as suppressing anybody's right to free speech," stated the Chief Inspector.

"No, indeed," responded Peter. "Other than that, Constable Broad has the 'Voluntary Assassination' crew in Interview Room One for questioning."

"Interesting," commented the Chief Inspector, "what's that about?"

"No idea," answered Peter. "He just rushed in here, asked which Interview Room was free and scooted them in."

"Who's in there with them?" asked the Chief Inspector.

"Constable Dickson was just leaving the desk, so he went with them," answered Peter.

"Think I might just take a look," declared the Chief Inspector.

"The funny thing," continued Peter, "is that I attended one of their assassinations this morning, so I don't see how it can be about that."

"Assassinations!" snorted the Chief Inspector. "What do they think they are, some sort of ninja warriors?"

"More like the grim reaper's little helpers, I would say," commented Peter.

"The grim reaper had managed quite well enough without their sort before now," remarked Chief Inspector Sands, as she walked towards Interview Room One. She looked through the little glass window in the door and could see Constable Broad seated on one side of a small table, opposite Andrew and Jasmin; Constable Dickson was sat in the far corner. The table also held the sound and video equipment for recording the questioning. The Chief Inspector slipped through the door and stood against the wall. Everybody stopped and looked at her, "Carry on, Constable Broad," she said.

Constable Broad turned back to Jasmin, "You say that you have a copy of the 'Voluntary Assassination' contract on your tablet computer," he stated for the Chief Inspector's benefit.

"That is what I meant when I said 'I've got the contract'," replied Jasmin, peevishly. She opened her tablet, typed in the password, found the document and handed the tablet across the table.

Speaking towards the video, Francis stated, "Constable Broad is now examining the suspects tablet computer."

"It can see that, it is a video," remarked Jasmin. "And, I do have a name," she added.

"The tablet computer appears to show a contract for a Mrs Julie Matthews, of 27 Malcolm Street and her husband Mr William Matthews, of the same address," intoned Constable Broad.

"Good, can we go now?" demanded Jasmin.

"How do I know you followed the correct procedures?" insinuated Constable Broad.

"How do you know we didn't?" countered Jasmin.

"It's not my job to know anything, Miss," replied the Constable, smugly, "I just follow the evidence."

"You must know something," suggested Jasmin. "How to swing a truncheon, how to snap on handcuffs, how to waste people's time in Interview rooms - didn't they teach you anything at police school?"

"Now, now, Miss. There's no need for that sort of talk," responded Constable Broad. "This is a serious business that needs to be dealt with thoroughly, and I need to collect all the evidence."

"Perhaps," interjected Andrew, "you could look at the video? We took a video of Mrs Matthew's assassination."

"But," said Constable Broad, triumphantly, "your video can't be produced as evidence."

"It'll show you what happened though!" said Jasmin. "Mightn't that help, just a little?"

"Where is this video?" asked Constable Broad, feeling that he had slightly lost control of the interview.

Andrew took the tablet back from the Constable and prodded it a few times to start up the recording. The images played along with a weedy sound. He handed it back to the Constable.

"This is just you all having a chat and drinking tea." commented Constable Broad.

"What did you expect, Macbeth?" said Jasmin, disparagingly.

"Let me move it on for you," said Andrew, taking the tablet and restarting the recording at the time of the second cup of tea, then handed it back.

The room was silent as the final words of Mrs Matthews played once more, and then the recording finished.

"That does seem to be all in order," admitted Constable Broad.

"Right, let's get out of here," stated Jasmin, rising from her seat.

"Perhaps," spoke up the Chief Inspector, "we should hang onto that tablet for examination."

"That's my tablet!" exclaimed Jasmin, "I need that for work!"

"Oh, you'll get it back," replied the Chief Inspector. "In a few days, once our people have had a look at it."

"Looked at it for what?" demanded Jasmin.

"Tampering with the recording, false timeline," suggested the Chief Inspector, "whatever might have been done with it. You'd be amazed the tricks people play."

"I would, because I haven't played any!" stated Jasmin.

"Maybe we can just leave it here," said Andrew, then, to Jasmin, "You can use the spare for a couple of days." Turning to Constable Broad, he said, "I'll come by the day after tomorrow and retrieve it. I gather that we are free to go now."

"For the moment," declared Constable Broad, feeling that the meeting had turned to its proper form.

"Before you go," interjected the Chief Inspector, "I understand that you performed another assassination this morning?"

"Ah, ha!" cried Constable Broad, irrelevantly.

"Yes," replied Andrew, "it was Mr Matthews, another of your officers attended to us."

"Mr and Mrs Matthews, both in one day - do they have any relatives, do you know?" asked the Chief Inspector.

"Yes, a son and daughter." replied Andrew.

"Not much of a day for them then," commented the Inspector. "Losing both their parents in one day."

"Our contract was with the Matthews, carried out following their wishes and their expressed desires," answered Andrew, clearly and firmly.

"But you get to decide when they live and die - that's a mighty responsibility," stated the Chief Inspector.

"We're guided by the contract, and the law," declared Andrew.

"Mind you are," warned the Chief Inspector. "You can go now."

Jasmin glared at the Chief Inspector as she and Andrew walked out of the room, followed by Constable Dickson, leaving the Chief Inspector and Constable Broad.

"I didn't realise we had any computer geeks at the station," said Constable Broad to the Chief Inspector.

"We don't," replied the Chief Inspector. "But it won't do any harm for their tablet to be sitting in my desk for a few days." She continued, "On another matter; I wanted to tell you that the results of your exams have come in - you've passed. So, congratulations Detective Constable Broad, you'll be moving upstairs to CID now."

"Fantastic!" responded the newly made Detective.

"And when you are up there," said the Chief Inspector, "I want you to keep a very close eye on these people - very close," she repeated, with emphasis. "This whole assassination business may be legal, but that doesn't make it right, not in my book. And the people that do it, they're not right either. There are some officers here that treat the whole thing as just another incident - but I'm not having anybody going around casually killing people on my patch."

# Five

The day following their questioning at the police station, Jasmin wheeled her bicycle up the front path of Andrew's house and unlocked the door to let herself in. It was a typical red, brick-built, Victorian terraced house, with a small front garden and a bay front window, in a typical street in a North London suburb that was full of such streets. There was nothing to suggest that this was the headquarters of Great Britain's original voluntary assassination agency; no noticeboard, no company signage, not even a space outside to park the hearse. Jasmin left her bicycle in the hallway and proceeded through to the kitchen which, on workdays, doubled as the meeting room. The kitchen had not changed much since Andrew had bought the house. The half-tiled walls had been given a brighter coat of paint, and new appliances had been installed between the old laminated tops and ceramic sink. Stewart was already seated at the large, stripped wood, kitchen table and Andrew was setting down a pot of tea and three mugs next to the plate of biscuits and his laptop.

"Hi Jasmin," said Andrew, "good timing, you must have heard me put the kettle on."

"Morning Andrew, morning Stewart," replied Jasmin, "my penultimate team meeting," she added.

"Yes, we certainly need to talk about that today," said Andrew.

"I'm sure it's on the agenda," commented Stewart.

"Can't have a meeting without an agenda," responded Andrew, "otherwise it isn't a meeting."

"What would it be then?" queried Stewart.

"The end of civilisation as we know it," remarked Jasmin.

"Worse than that," replied Andrew.

"I quite like the sound of that," commented Stewart. "But I'm not sure the neighbours would be very happy."

"You're just an anarchist at heart," commented Jasmin to Stewart, "a happy-clappy anarchist."

"There's nothing happy-clappy about being a Buddhist," replied Stewart, adding immediately, "and no, you are not annoying me, I'm just stating the fact."

"Let's start," said Andrew, "much as I hate to interrupt philosophical debate. First item is Retrospective - what went well last month?"

"All the missions went well," submitted Stewart. "Satisfied customers."

"We stayed within the legal guidelines," added Andrew.

"Does 'We are not in jail' count as going well?" countered Jasmin.

"It's not a bad thing, in itself," answered Stewart.

"In the current situation, it does feel like an achievement," agreed Andrew.

"Well it shouldn't," said Jasmin. "We've been at this for a year now, we shouldn't feel like we're getting away with it. We have the law on our side - I mean, we practically wrote the law!"

"It's not us," commented Stewart, "it's the unreconstructed elements of our local force."

"We are talking about 'What went well'," Andrew pointed out, "let's stick to the subject."

"At the risk of anarchy," noted Stewart.

"So, what else went well?" Andrew persevered.

There was a pregnant pause and some studying of the ceiling by all three.

"Jasmin got engaged," ventured Stewart.

"Yes, yes, yes!" exclaimed Jasmin, waving a diamond ringed hand in the air.

"Indeed," said Andrew, "to the Aussy surfer of her dreams."

"He's not an 'Aussy surfer'," responded Jasmin. "Well he is Australian, and he does surf, but not like that - he's a respectable guy, my Dad would have approved of him," she concluded.

"And he is dreamy," teased Stewart.

"Super dreamy," agreed Jasmin, "absolute dreamboat."

"Well I can't approve of him completely," said Andrew, "as he's taking you away from us."

"You'll manage," replied Jasmin, dismissively, "anyway you're recruiting, how's that going?"

"Yeh, let's talk about the applicants," agreed Stewart.

"That's later," stated Andrew, "we're still doing the Retrospective."

"Okay," sighed Stewart, "you're the boss."

"I am not 'the boss'," blurted out Andrew, despite himself, "as I've said on a number of occasions, we are a team of individuals that self-organize around the task at hand."

"Where do you get this stuff?" exclaimed Jasmin.

"You can't run a 21st century business with 19th century ideas." replied Andrew.

"Okay," said Stewart, "if you say so."

"It's not..." started Andrew, rising to the bait, then, controlling himself, continued, "Let's move on, where are the 'Room for Improvement'?"

"What about the name?" asked Stewart.

"Oh, not the name again," moaned Jasmin, "what is it with you?"

"That's later," interrupted Andrew, "come on, what should we be doing better?"

"How about getting more clients?" said Stewart. "We've only had four missions in the last month and how much dosh did they bring in? We can't be making any money."

"Businesses take time to become established," responded Andrew. "Especially one like this, a new concept in a new market."

"And it's not all about profit," responded Jasmin.

"I'm not saying it is," replied Stewart. "But we can't go living off Andrew's inheritance for ever, this business has to pay its way."

"You know that we are not allowed to advertise or market," responded Andrew, "we are going to spread mainly through word of mouth and by gaining a good reputation."

"This business doesn't really lend itself to repeat customers though does it," said Stewart. "Maybe we need to branch out more."

"We're not getting rid of the 'Organic'," stated Jasmin, bluntly.

"Let's not get too dogmatic," interjected Andrew. "We have to leave space for an appreciation of each others ideas and to allow ourselves flexibility."

"I didn't march in the streets and face up to all the loony fringe groups around just to see those principles sacrificed as soon as things got a bit tough," remonstrated Jasmin.

"Just for clarity," commented Andrew, "the marches were actually for the passing of laws to allow voluntary euthanasia – the 'organic' approach was something we decided on later."

"As a principle of running a socially aware business," replied Jasmin. "Not as something that could be dispensed with if it seemed a slight inconvenience."

"Wow, steady!" said Stewart. "I didn't actually say we should get rid of the 'organic', just that we needed to branch out."

"You were going to say it though," replied Jasmin.

"Well," responded Stewart, "depends if we think that the cardboard coffin thing might be putting off customers."

"Or attracting customers!" stated Jasmin. "There are some people with principles out there."

"Okay!" interrupted Andrew. "I think we can say that we agree that we should be open to ideas to extend the business – even if we don't know what they are as yet." He received an angry look from Jasmin, and a quizzical one from Stewart. "So, let me tell you that I have been contacted by Miss Wiggins of 'Wiggins and Sons Undertakers' who would like to meet to discuss 'items to our mutual advantage', as she put it."

"Wiggins," commented Stewart, "they are the big outfit on the high street, aren't they?"

"That's just a branch," replied Andrew. "I'm going to their head office."

"What do they want with us?" asked Jasmin.

"I guess I'll know that when I meet her," answered Andrew.

"When is that happening?" asked Stewart.

"Tomorrow afternoon," responded Andrew.

"So you were just going to do this, without telling us?" accused Jasmin.

"I am allowed to go to meetings, and I am telling you," replied Andrew.

"How comes it's 'Miss Wiggins' of 'Wiggins and Sons'?" queried Stewart.

"I don't know – maybe she has had a sex-change!" replied Andrew, peevishly.

"Alright, just asking," said Stewart.

"Sounds a bit odd," commented Jasmin.

"I don't know," responded Stewart, "I heard something the other day about us now being in a 'gender continuum', that old notions of male and female are too restrictive."

"Not the sex-change thing, who cares about that," replied Jasmin. "The 'mutual advantage' thing."

"Well," said Andrew, "on the face of it, they are in the burying dead people business and we are in the making people dead business, so there could be opportunities for vertical integration."

"So, in a 21st century business," commented Jasmin, "do people speak English?"

"Once I've had the meeting, I'll tell you about it," stated Andrew, with finality.

"Fine by me," commented Stewart. "You're the ...," he hesitated before completing his sentence, "you're the man for the job."

'I think you mean the self organised non-specific gender continuum for the task at hand," laughed Jasmin.

"All right, all right," said Andrew. "Let's take a break, I'll make another pot of tea and then we can move on to 'Future Facing'."

Andrew got up and busied himself with the kettle and teapot.

Stewart took a biscuit and asked Jasmin, "How're the plans for Australia going?"

"Slow," responded Jasmin. "Thank goodness we are going there to get married, I can't think that I would stand much chance of getting into the country with a profession of 'assassin'."

"Does Australia have an euthanasia law?" asked Stewart.

"Not like ours," replied Jasmin. "It's complicated, some States have their own laws, the government has other ideas, it's a bit mixed up."

"Another campaign, eh?" responded Stewart.

"Not immediately," said Jasmin. "First it will be setting up home and settling in, but after that. There's already a movement, but I want to kick some life into it."

"They were great days, you know," responded Stewart. "Marching and shouting, stirring everybody up – nothing can resist the power of the people once they find something to rally behind."

"Plenty of people tried to resist," replied Jasmin. "You remember that big bloke, sort of cross between a skinhead and a monk?"

"Yep, Charing Cross Road, just outside the station," mused Stewart. "Massive turn out, thousands of people."

"One second he's broken through the police lines," recounted Jasmin, "and is charging at us, all big boots and swinging a wooden crucifix – next second, he's flat on his back!"

"He tripped," explained Stewart, "those long robes and over-excitement."

"He tripped and landed with your foot on the back of his neck?" asked Jasmin.

"Just didn't want to him get up too quick and have any further accidents," answered Stewart. "Not with that big crucifix, that could be nasty."

"I think 'nasty' was what he had in mind," said Jasmin. "You'll have to come to Australia, Stewart, once things kick off, just in case there are any other nasty people!"

"Yeh, Australia," replied Stewart, "been there, not very spiritual."

"Never mind spiritual," responded Jasmin, "just as long as I get a suntan."

"Perhaps, in your next life, you can come back as a deckchair," suggested Stewart.

"It would have to be a stripy one," replied Jasmin.

Andrew plonked the fresh pot of tea on the table, "Okay," he said, "Future Facing, what's coming up?"

"I received an enquiry from a potential in South London," responded Jasmin. "I'm planning to go and see them this afternoon."

Stewart winced, "Ooh, South London – where abouts?"

"Croydon," answered Jasmin.

"Croydon!" echoed Stewart. "I didn't think anybody survived there long enough to need our services."

"Let's not get into your opinions about the desirability of London suburbs," interjected Andrew. "We've got a potential client, and they can be on the Moon and still be attractive, as far as I'm concerned."

"That would be a step up from Croydon," agreed Stewart.

"On the subject of clients, Mr Findleyson rang up yesterday," said Andrew, "he wants to defer for another 3 months."

"What again?" said Stewart, with exasperation. "How many times has he put us off, two, three?"

"He told me that, now that he knows he has only a few months to go, he's enjoying life more than ever," replied Andrew. "In fact, he is even thinking of not being assassinated at all."

"Ironic," sighed Stewart. "A casualty of the Western world – unable to live in the moment until they have just a moment left, and only then they find what life really is."

"Very philosophical," commented Jasmin, wryly, "I feel it was worth me getting up today just to hear that."

"Perhaps," said Andrew, jumping in, "if we stick to the topic we will finish this meeting sometime today."

"Ooh, get him," said Jasmin, to Stewart, "so masterful."

"I expect to hear from a couple of potentials I spoke to last week," Andrew continued, relentlessly, "other than that I've nothing to report."

"No other missions?" queried Stewart.

"Not at the moment," answered Andrew. "The next Commitment is the beginning of next week, there could be a couple in that."

"Okay," said Stewart, "I'll just be sharpening my knives then."

Andrew gave Stewart a 'don't say that' look, but carried on. "Other business, then," he said, "first item is our name."

"Yes? What about the name?" shouted Jasmin, glaring at Stewart.

Stewart considered for a second, then answered, "Nothing, nothing about the name – lovely name."

"And we are never going to hear about the name again?" demanded Jasmin.

"Well," said Stewart, "never is a long time."

"Moving on," interjected Andrew. "What did you think of the applicants - Caroline first."

"She was very," said Stewart, pausing to find the right word, "committed."

"You make that sound like a bad thing!" returned Jasmin. "She has principles and she lives by them, what's wrong with that?"

"I think the issue may be whether we want to live by them," suggested Andrew.

"Okay," replied Jasmin, "maybe she was a little over the top, but perhaps you need someone with new ideas, someone to shake you up a bit."

"Jasmin," said Andrew, in his 'I'm trying to be reasonable even though you are being ridiculous' voice, "she wanted us to only use natural poisons. She was especially keen on the slime of South American frogs, if I recall correctly."

"Who's going to look after the frogs?" demanded Stewart. "We already have a rabbit," he added, towards Jasmin, accusingly.

"She didn't kill Scarlet," pointed out Jasmin. "Which was a very useful test, in my opinion."

"She may not have done away with Scarlet," responded Stewart, "but she didn't spare my ears - how long did she go on about animal rights and how Scarlet should be hopping about the fields, not in an office with people threatening to stick needles into her?"

"I think," said Andrew, "despite the worthiness of her views, she could introduce an unhelpful tension into the business."

"You mean she's bonkers, don't you," responded Jasmin.

"Utter fruit cake," commented Stewart.

"She was a bit much," conceded Jasmin. "But the world could use more people like Caroline."

Andrew took the opportunity to move on, "Brian," he said, "what about Brian?"

"He killed Scarlet!" cried Jasmin.

"He's just a bit keen," defended Stewart.

"He didn't even hesitate," continued Jasmin, "it was just rabbit, needle, plunge, all over - it was like he killed fluffy animals for a hobby."

"Just because you came up with this rabbit assassination test, doesn't make it the be all and end all," stated Stewart.

"I thought you liked Scarlet," responded Jasmin. "You named her."

"I think what Stewart is saying," interjected Andrew, "is that we should consider all of each applicant's qualities, not just their performance in the rabbit test."

"I wouldn't want to share an office with a rabbit-murderer," said Jasmin, "creepy."

"What do you think, Stewart?" asked Andrew.

"Look, he's a young lad, trying to find his way," said Stewart. "You can't blame him if he got too enthusiastic. He's got some good experience."

"You mean his time with the Territorial Army," responded Andrew.

"In what way are we like an army?" queried Jasmin. "Other than your boots?"

"Let's not get distracted onto footwear," warned Andrew.

"Well," replied Stewart defensively, "they kill people, we kill people."

"They kill people who don't want to be killed!" responded Jasmin. "That's a pretty big difference!"

"He did seem very focused on the killing part," said Andrew. "His question on our choice of garrottes was disturbing."

"Inexperience," stated Stewart. "If he'd ever been near a garrotte he'd know it's not the tool for our job." He paused, and added, "So I've heard."

"What did you do before you joined us again?" asked Jasmin.

"Civil Servant," replied Stewart, with finality.

"Glad you didn't process my unemployment claim," commented Jasmin.

"Let's get back to Brian," interrupted Andrew. "I didn't think he was in tune with the philosophy of our organisation."

"He's a vicious little git," stated Jasmin.

"He'd need a lot of guidance," conceded Stewart.

"Okay, Brian's out," said Andrew. "Which brings us to Mary."

"She's so old!" blurted out Jasmin.

"What! Ageism?" retorted Andrew, shocked.

"No," replied Jasmin, defensively, "just information."

"She's what, late fifties, early sixties?" said Stewart.

"Looking at her CV, she must be about that," replied Andrew.

"It could be good, having a senior person," commented Stewart.

"Why's that?" asked Jasmin.

"We deal with a lot of senior people, they might find it easier to talk to someone of the same generation," responded Stewart.

"True," said Jasmin, "she'd never do a mission though."

"She certainly didn't kill Scarlet," commented Andrew. "She was the only one who realised it was just a test."

"Yeh, she's smart," stated Stewart. "I wouldn't be so sure, she wouldn't do a mission - maybe not at first, but after a while."

"What did she do before?" asked Jasmin.

Andrew made a few clicks on his computer, and read from the screen, "Civil Servant."

Both Andrew and Jasmin gave Stewart an enquiring look.

"Don't look at me," Stewart said. "There are loads of people in the civil service, it's a big place."

Andrew returned to the computer and continued reading, "She said that after a career serving the people through the government, she now wants to serve people directly."

"Nice," said Jasmin. "She was nice, actually."

"So, what do you think, Stewart?" asked Andrew, "Could you work with Mary?"

"Will she work with us?" commented Stewart. "We're not exactly a standard office job."

"I guess we'll need to ask her that," stated Andrew. "We could start her off on the admin side and see how she goes. Is that agreed then, we'll make an offer to Mary?" He looked around, to affirming nods from Jasmin and Stewart.

"Does Jasmin have a vote in this?" asked Stewart, mischievously, "I mean she's not going to be here is she?"

"Shut up and die, Stewart," answered Jasmin.

"And that concludes our business for today." said Andrew. "More tea?"

"I should head off to Croydon," replied Jasmin. "If I never return, I bequeath my bicycle to you, Stewart."

"I'm deeply touched," responded Stewart. "I'll walk you to the tube."

Stewart and Jasmin pulled on their jackets, left the house and walked up the quiet road, past the line of tightly packed houses, towards the High Street.

"Big changes for you now," said Stewart, "are you sorry to be leaving the business?"

"Yes and no," replied Jasmin, speaking seriously and low.

Stewart waited for Jasmin to offer more details.

"The euthanasia campaign has been a massive part of my life," continued Jasmin, "I feel like I've lived it and breathed it. All we wanted then was a just law that returned choice about how people would end their life back to the people themselves. Then, after the law, Andrew came up with this idea of VA and now it's not just a principle, it's a reality. And it's important, it's important work."

"But?" prompted Stewart.

"But," responded Jasmin, "it's exhausting, Stewart, emotionally exhausting. Like now; I've got to go and talk to somebody who is thinking about ending their life. I don't know whether it will be a positive thing or tragic, but I know I will be dragged into their lives and their feelings. It seems like I'm better at the euthanasia theory than the actual practice."

"You need a bit more professional detachment," advised Stewart.

"Well that's it!" responded Jasmin. "How can you do that, how can you not become involved? Look at Mrs Matthews yesterday. Lovely lady, an ideal client, and there's me with tears running down my stupid face. You're not like this, Stewart, you keep it all repressed, you're not blubbing away over a dead client."

"I wouldn't call it repressed," answered Stewart. "The way I look at it, they've got a special job they would like me to do, and I do it - as long as I've done everything neatly, everybody is happy."

"You're not installing kitchen cupboards here," responded Jasmin. "This is the second biggest thing that will ever happen to them."

"All the more reason to do a good job," stated Stewart. "Glad it's us and not some cowboy operation."

"But don't you feel some responsibility?" continued Jasmin. "The result of your job is to end somebody's life."

"Life is beginning and ending," said Stewart. "It's not optional, it's inevitable. When it's their time, I just give them the little nudge from this life into their next."

"I need some of what you've got," replied Jasmin, "I need a dose of that happy-clappy."

"You can't catch it," said Stewart, "you have to become it."

They walked in silence for a minute.

Jasmin spoke up, "You know what I really want to know?" she asked.

"What?" responded Stewart.

"Why did you call our rabbit Scarlet?" queried Jasmin.

Stewart replied, in a chanting manner, "Captain Scarlet."

"What?" said Jasmin.

Stewart continued his singsong delivery, "Captain Scarlet indestructible man!"

"Who the hell is Captain Scarlet?" asked Jasmin.

"Haven't you ever seen it?" said Stewart. "It was this TV show. Captain Scarlet was a puppet and every week he'd be sent on some suicidal mission, but he always came back."

"What's that got to do with our rabbit?" challenged Jasmin.

"Well we send Scarlet into interviews and invite people to kill her," responded Stewart, "but she never dies, she always comes back."

"Oh," said Jasmin, "and I thought it was because she looked like Scarlett Johansson."

"Who?" said Stewart.

# Six

Caroline was sitting in her vegetable allotment. She had spent the morning weeding and hoeing, and had stopped for lunch. This was also a good time to read her emails, the sun was high and it provided enough power through her solar cell array to start-up her laptop computer. She saw one was from Andrew at VAO and clicked on it. The structure of the message was familiar, '... thank you for applying.... will not be pursuing... more suitable candidates...'.

"More suitable!" muttered Caroline, to no one. "More willing to sacrifice the planet for their own selfish ends they mean. They're just ethically and morally bankrupt, the whole lot of them."

Meanwhile, Brian was feeling rather irritated. Some ramblers, thinking that his decoy pigeons looked unnaturally static, had lobbed a few stones their way. Naturally, being stuffed, they had not flown off. Fortunately the ramblers had left it at that and wandered away, slightly bemused. They had not noticed Brian, sitting in the shade of the trees nearby, which was one good thing, it showed that his camouflage outfit worked well. It had not been a very successful morning for Brian, and it was about to get worse. A few pigeons had flown down into the field, and normally he would have had a shot at them with his hunting air rifle, but today he was trying a new weapon. He had equipped a small drone with a crossbow and a camera. The intention had been that he would fly the drone over to where the birds had landed, track one as it strutted about, close in and, _Wham_! stick it with a crossbow bolt. During the morning he had learned that pigeons do not like drones, and would flutter off as soon as it approached. He had tried chasing, but the crossbow made the drone so unmanoeuvrable he could hardly even follow them, never mind getting them in his sights. In annoyance, he'd attempted to shoot one of his decoy birds, which at least stood still, but again found the drone to be so unbalanced that he could not aim steadily. The crossbow remained frustratingly unloosed.

His phone pinged as an email arrived. Normally he would not interrupt a hunt, knowing that a warrior stayed focused on the task at hand, but today had been a bit of a disaster, so he opened it. He was pleased to see it was from the people at VAO, only to become bewildered and disappointed as he scanned the text. How could they not want him? He'd done so well at the interview - dispatched that rabbit like a professional - what more could they want? They'd be sorry, he decided, once they realised what they'd lost, they will come back for me.

Mary was nearing the end of a mornings Bridge session. She had finessed the Queen, so that the King fell under her ace, and her small cards were now ruthlessly taking tricks as her opponents floundered. "Nicely done," commented her opponent on her left at the end of the hand. "I was lucky with the distribution," answered Mary, as her phone chimed the arrival of an email. There was one more hand to play, and some small talk and arrangements to make with her Bridge partner, before she reached her car and could look at her messages. She read the one from VAO, and saw that she had been offered the role of 'Assassination Co-ordinator', and at a meagre salary, not that she needed the money. "Well, Richard," she said, to no one, "now see what you've made me do."

# Seven

Andrew opened the door of 'Wiggins and Sons', and went over to the reception desk. The room was draped in black cloth. Between the heavy vases of sad, pale, lilies, down-lights illuminated pictures of grand funerals. One showed black horses with gleaming silver tack pulled a black carriage along a cobbled street, trailed by sombre mourners, another a headstone supported by two life-sized marble angels, one looking down at the grave, the other up to heaven.

At the reception stood a brooding young man, apparently a fan of the 1950's with his hair greased back and gleaming.

"How can I assist you at this time, Sir?" enquired the young man, gloomily.

"I'm here to see Miss Wiggins," answered Andrew, "I'm Andrew Benson from VAO."

The young man consulted a ledger, and showed some satisfaction. "Ah yes, Mr Benson," he said, with the merest twitch of a smile, "could you follow me."

The young man parted the curtains behind him, and led Andrew along a wood-panelled corridor of doors, until they reached one bearing the title 'Innovation', which he indicated to Andrew, before withdrawing.

Andrew knocked on the door, and heard a 'Yoh!' from inside, which he took as an invitation to open the door and enter. In contrast to the dim corridor, this room was positively flooded with light. The entire ceiling glowed palely; the walls were flat white, displaying paintings that appeared to be sweeping white lines across a white background. Across the thick, cream carpet, stood a transparent desk, on one side of which was a large, white leather, high backed office chair. On the other side of the table, there were two visitors chairs made of some sort of white meshed wire. A sinuous, light grey, sofa curled into a corner, and there was a huge television screen, which was showing a series of snowy winter landscapes.

"Andrew," said a young woman as she advanced across the floor towards him with her hand extended. Andrew took a second to register her vivid red, artificial looking, hair, her pale blue business suit, neatly cut over her very English pear-shaped figure, and golden shoes.

"Miss Wiggins?" Andrew responded, uncertainly, finding that his 'business casual' dress now felt more like a monks sacking habit.

"Come in, come in, come in," she ushered, grasping his arm and leading him towards the wave-like sofa. "I've been dying to meet you, we are going to do such great things together," she added.

Andrew tried to find a secure position on one end of the sofa, as she draped herself into the contours of the other end. "Well, you said it was a matter of mutual interest," he said, thinking that he was not really matching her level of enthusiasm.

She was out of the sofa and on her feet again, pointing a blue-tipped finger at him. "You, Andrew," she declared, "you are the future."

"You think so?" queried Andrew.

"You and me," she continued. "We will take Undertaking to a whole new level, to places where people have never even dreamed."

"Really?" Responded Andrew, inadequately.

"We," she said, leaning in close to his face, "will be the Bill Gates and Steve Jobs of the Funeral industry. Doesn't that excite you?"

"Perhaps," replied Andrew, steadying himself, "you need to give me a bit more background."

Miss Wiggins set off again, striding around the room, gesticulating. "Look at the Undertaking industry, look at 'Wiggins and Sons', what do you see?" she demanded.

Andrew paused, considering a diplomatic answer, and she continued, "Old, black, sad, dull, boring, dull, sad, sad, sad – isn't that it?"

Andrew figured, rightly, that this was rhetorical.

"And why?" she said, immediately. "Because somebody has died, unexpectedly, and all the people are sad, so sad. It doesn't matter that the person was 145 years old and hadn't blinked an eye or eaten solid food for fifteen years – they have died and we are all so surprised and sad, so let's have a sad, dull, black, boring funeral."

With this, Miss Wiggins sat neatly at the end of the sofa and spoke, in almost schoolmarmish fashion, to Andrew.

"But now, things can change, because of you and your Assassins," she said.

"People still need funerals," responded Andrew, trying to sound sensible, rather than negative.

"Yes," Miss Wiggins replied, "but what type of funeral, and what about the pre-funeral?" She rose up out of her seat again, and her arms gave into grand gestures, expressing the enthusiasm which was more than her alone voice could convey. "No more surprise, no more sadness! I've reached the conclusion of my life and I'm in control of the end of it! Let's celebrate! We celebrate birth, we celebrate weddings, we celebrate every major milestone of our lives, so let's celebrate the final act."

"People are still sad though," commented Andrew, feeling the need to express his view of reality.

The blue tipped finger was aimed at him again. "That is why," she responded, "we are revolutionaries."

Miss Wiggins regained her seat, and her composure. "We will change minds," she said, "all this sadness, it is a conditioned response – oh, they've died, how bad for them, I'm so sad, let's have a funeral. We can change this – oh, they've chosen to be assassinated, they have finished their lives, good for them, let's celebrate! Do you see? Just flip that little switch in people's heads, and everything changes."

"Everything changes," intoned Andrew, finding his reality less solid than a moment ago.

"Everything," Miss Wiggins repeated. She must have caught some doubt in Andrew's face, for she continued, "Take gravestones," she said.

"Gravestones," repeated Andrew, automatically.

"Gravestones – so dull! So boring! Here lies blah-blah, born in whenever, rest in tedium, is that really what people want marking their life?"

"And the alternative is?" queried Andrew.

"Not stone for a start, so ancient! How long have people had head 'stones', forever! There are new materials, more fun, more modern," she continued, barely taking a breath. "Like acrylic, for example. With acrylic we don't have to have just words, we can 3D scan a portrait and laser-cut it into the acrylic. You can walk around your loved one. And why stop at the head, why not the whole body, in some favourite pose, fishing or gardening or playing their Xbox, whatever! Once you start thinking about this, Andrew, it is endless. How about a little film of their life, or a slide show, or them reading a favourite poem, from a screen imbedded in the headstone. I mean graveyards would be transformed – they'd be lively, they'd be fun!"

"Wow!" responded Andrew, as it was the only word in his head.

"And it all starts when we flip that switch," Miss Wiggins concluded.

"You think people are ready to flip that switch?" returned Andrew.

"It has already started, or rather, you have already started it," she responded, "you and your voluntary assassinations."

"We have?" said Andrew, querulously.

Miss Wiggins came and sat close beside him on the sofa. "Death was nature's way of ending a life. It was fickle, unreasonable, unpredictable and incredibly unhelpful. But now we have assassination - sensible, humane, and organised. Now people can see that death doesn't have to be something that's done to them, now they can take control, they can make choices, and you know what that means."

"It means...." responded Andrew, though without knowing quite what it meant, to Miss Wiggins at least.

"It means," she continued, as if teaching a five year old, "that death is marketable, and even more so, pre-death."

"Pre-death marketing," repeated Andrew, unhelpfully.

"Oh you are so coy, butter wouldn't melt would it?" she responded, playfully. "Don't tell me that you haven't been dipping your toes into this. All those services you can sell to your clients before the big day, writing their wills, getting their finances in order, tax planning, I know you are already providing them with caskets, but that's just the tip of the iceberg."

"We don't provide the caskets," corrected Andrew, "we just draw their attention to environmentally friendly options."

"Well then," continued Miss Wiggins, happily, "it shows how much you need me! We can build the original one-stop assassination experience. We could become household names. Who knows, in the future people might even talk about being 'Wiggined' instead of assassinated, or," she added hurriedly, "'Andrewed'."

"'Bensoned'," responded Andrew, absently.

"Oh yes," she continued, "that's perfect, 'Fetch my best suit dear, I'm being Bensoned tomorrow', sounds like a wonderfully English thing to do."

"But they wouldn't know," countered Andrew, "that's the thing about VA, it's unexpected. Even we don't know who is going to be assassinated until a couple of weeks beforehand, when the Commitment results come out."

"Yes, that will need to change." Miss Wiggins.

"Why is that?" asked Andrew.

"It's so inefficient," she answered. "Really, my whole life has been in funerals and it's chaos. One month people are sitting around with nothing to do all day then the next month we've got more bodies than we can handle. Imagine what that means in overtime and stock control! Now, with assassination, we've got the chance to get a handle on this, a regular, predictable, supply of dead bodies."

"That's not how the VA regulation works," contended Andrew. "The whole idea is that the assassinations are organised independently. We supply our list of clients to the Home Office, and they schedule the assassinations through the Commitments process. It stops any concerns of conflicts of interest."

"And you would know the regulations," respond Miss Wiggins, "because you were the one who campaigned for them and got them through Parliament."

"Not only me," said Andrew.

"And they are lovely," she continued, "very noble, very altruistic. But are they business-friendly? It's time to move beyond the ideals into the real world. Nobody would expect to get such complicated regulations right the first time. These ones need amending, or refining, or upgrading, or whatever other phrase you need to get them changed."

"Me?" Andrew blurted out.

"Of course you," said Miss Wiggins, kindly. "You are the acceptable face of the euthanasia movement. You are the trusted messenger. You have been there before, you know how this works, you can do it."

"There was a great deal of thought and discussion put into the regulations," said Andrew.

"And the marketing restrictions," she continued, ignoring his comment, "they have to go - no advertising, how ridiculous!"

"When the regulations were drawn up," commented Andrew, "there was a lot of concern that death should not be commercialised – that this is not just another business and it needs a special level of respect."

"And who is that helping?" responded Miss Wiggins, sarcastically. "People don't want restrictions, they want to go crazy! Look at giving birth! A hundred years ago it was all under the covers and a lot of sweating and screaming – now women drop them out while sitting in a hot tub and listening to whale music. Ten minutes later the whole things on YouTube and they are sipping a turmeric latte."

"It shows what can be achieved in a hundred years," agreed Andrew, "but not in two years and probably not in ten. I don't think that the general population is ready for such a change. They've only just accepted euthanasia. Going too fast could risk a backlash, and that wouldn't be in the best interests of VA."

"They would be in your best interests," she responded, "and they would be in my best interest, what more is there to say?"

Seeing that Andrew remained unconvinced, she continued, "It's going to happen Andrew, you can't hold this back. Progress, change, innovation, they are inevitable, unstoppable. What I'm offering you is a chance to be a leader of the change, in the vanguard. And when you are leading, then you can effect the direction; you can determine where this movement will go. If you are not leading, then you are just being dragged along, it's like..." she paused whilst she considered a suitable analogy, "...it's like you are a second class carriage at the end of a train. How much better is it to be the engine driver at the front?"

"And you would be like the controller switching the points on the track?" responded Andrew.

"A train doesn't get anywhere without track, Andrew," she replied. "This is why we are such a perfect fit. You need the power of 'Wiggins and Sons' to smooth the way ahead, and I need you as my steady hand on the wheel, keeping us on the right course."

"Well," said Andrew, with finality, "you have certainly given me something to think about." He stood up and extended his hand to Miss Wiggins.

Miss Wiggins looked at his hand for a moment, before herself standing and taking his hand in both of hers.

"The train is leaving, Andrew, make sure you are on board," she said, and then led him towards the door. From the top pocket of her jacket, she pulled out a pale blue business card with red lettering and handed it to him. "This is your ticket to ride," she said, "don't waste it."

Once Andrew had left, Miss Wiggins returned thoughtfully to her desk. Picking up a pencil, she absently began sketching a locomotive speeding along a railway track. When this was done, she looked at it for a while, and added a small cow, straddling the track, it's head down, chewing grass as the engine powered down towards it. She added a brand to the side of the cow, 'VAO'. Then she screwed up the drawing and threw it into the bin.

Andrew walked along the corridor towards reception, and looked at her card. 'Gloria Wiggins', it said, in swirling red script, 'Director of Innovation, Wiggins and Sons'. He re-entered reception, and found the brooding young man still standing at the desk. The young man looked round at Andrew and enquired, "I hope you had a satisfactory visit, Sir."

"Absolutely," replied Andrew, "very.... innovative." Andrew was heading for the front door, but stopped just short. "Could I ask you something?" he said.

"Certainly, Sir." responded the young man.

"How can this be 'Wiggins and Sons' if there is a Miss Wiggins?" Andrew queried.

"The original Mr Wiggins had two sons, Sir," the young man replied. "One of them has two sons of his own, and one has a daughter."

"So," responded Andrew, "it should really be called, 'Wiggins and Sons, and the Sons Sons and the Sons Daughter'".

"Possibly, Sir," said the young man, unmoved.

# Eight

"Dark ops," said Stewart, "love it."

Andrew and Stewart were sitting in a rather tired-looking movie theatre in an unglamorous suburb of North London, at the afternoon performance; the lights had just gone down over a scant audience.

"When have you been involved in 'dark ops'?" asked Andrew, genuinely interested.

"The game," replied Stewart, "you know, on the computer."

"No, I don't." Stated Andrew, "I'm surprised that you do, didn't see you as much of a computer gaming geek."

"Not so much now," responded Stewart, "previously."

"When you were in the Civil Service?" suggested Andrew.

"Possibly," answered Stewart.

"Single action or multi-player?" continued Andrew.

"Very multi-player," said Stewart.

"With other Civil Servants?" suggested Andrew.

"Sometimes," replied Stewart.

"Vis-à-vis nothing at all," said Andrew, "what's the Buddhist position on telling the truth?"

"I'm a bit more of a utilitarian there, myself," answered Stewart.

"SHHHHH!!!" This came from a gentleman in the row behind, directly into Andrew's ear. Andrew felt that this was a bit strong, it was only the advertisement for the local curry house that was playing on the screen. Even so, it stopped Andrew finding out anything more about Stewart's, rather unhelpful, answer. Andrew and Stewart now sat quietly to watch the feature. Every now and then Andrew glanced along the row to where Ann Parsons was seated, just to check that she was still there.

The film finished, and people started to leave their seats before the lights had come up.

"What did you think?" said Andrew to Stewart, "Enjoy that?"

"I think that I experienced it rather than enjoyed it," replied Stewart.

"Really?" responded Andrew.

"It was all about a set of cartoon fish that can speak, having an adventure that seems very unlikely for your average sea creature," continued Stewart.

"It's very popular," commented Andrew, "the man behind me was sobbing by the end."

"The weakness of people's grasp on reality is a bit of a concern," said Stewart. He added, "What about Ann?"

"She likes to watch to the end of the credits," said Andrew. "Once the lights come up, I'll start recording and we can go."

At that point, the cinema brightened, and Andrew pulled his briefcase onto his lap to turn on the video camera.

"Did you enjoy the film," stated Stewart, their code for this mission.

"Did you enjoy the film," agreed Andrew.

Andrew got up and turned walked along the row towards Ann, who looked like she had nodded off, and was sitting very peaceably with her chin on her chest.

Momentarily Andrew though how pleasant it would be to inject her now, as she dozed, a seamless transition from sleep to death. However, there were procedures to follow, and he needed to confirm her identity.

Andrew said, "Hello, Mrs Parsons?", and shook her gently by the shoulder. She did not wake up, just wobbled in her seat, her head lolling from side to side.

Stewart had appeared in the row behind where she was sitting.

"She's dead," pronounced Stewart.

"How do you know?" said Andrew, reflexively.

"There're no signs of life," replied Stewart. "Normally a bit of a give-away."

Although Andrew didn't doubt Stewart's expertise, he still made another attempt to awaken the corpse. He shook her by the shoulder again, more firmly and said again, more loudly, "Hello, Mrs Parsons!"

"I think resurrection needs a bit more than that," suggested Stewart.

The scene had attracted the attention of an usherette who was sweeping up spilt popcorn from between the seats. "You alright, love?" she asked the group.

"She's dead," said Andrew, indicating the late Mrs Parsons.

"I'm not surprised," responded the usherette. "Beats me how half of them make it out of here, the afternoon crowd. They all look like a sudden shock would be the end of them. I always think that when the lights come up there are going to be rows of them, all pegged it." She gave a brief impression of a corpse, lying back with its mouth open. "It was probably the scene with the shark, that's what's done for her," she concluded.

"I guess we should call an ambulance," suggested Andrew.

"Same thing happened to my aunty, Doreen," said the usherette. "Mind you, she works in a supermarket. Right as rain one minute, next thing slumped over the checkout – right fuss, apparently her head had rested on the screen and she'd charged some bloke for two thousand kilos of potatoes."

Andrew took out his mobile phone.

"You can't use that thing in here!" instructed the usherette, "It's a cinema."

"What would you do if this were your mum?" Andrew asked her.

"My mum!" replied the girl, "She doesn't like animation. Romcom is all she'll come to see."

Stewart came down the stairs, though Andrew hadn't been aware that he had left. "I've called the ambulance," he said.

"We should wait, and keep Mrs Parsons company," suggested Andrew.

"You can wait, nothing to do with me!" protested the girl. She turned and walked away down the stairs. "And you can't leave her there!" she added, as an after shot, "There's another show in 20 minutes."

# Nine

"I guess this is a smaller set-up than you are used to?" said Jasmin to Mary. Jasmin was showing Mary around the office, which was in the back room of Andrews's house. One door from the room led into the kitchen, another into the hall, a tall window looked out into the rear garden. A couple of pale trestle tables served as desks, on and beside which stood computers. There were a tangle of wires hanging down and across the floor, and a small filing cabinet in the corner. A large stuffed lounge chair, left when Andrew took the house, sat against one wall. The whitewashed walls added brightness, but not cheer, to the room.

Displaying this to Mary, Jasmin realised how temporary and unsophisticated it looked. At the same time, she felt very protective towards it – this was their business that they had built from the ground up.

Also, somehow, Mary made Jasmin feel rather nervous, or perhaps inadequate. Mary was so still, she exuded an aura of calmness against which the chaos of the world could beat in vain. The rather random nature of the room clearly didn't fit naturally with Mary. Also, when Jasmin explained things to Mary, it felt like she was instructing her mother how to cook.

"I've worked in all sorts of places," replied Mary, "though this is the most... homely."

"Homely and friendly, one big family," said Jasmin. "Andrew is very keen on this being a modern environment. Not so much bosses and workers but everybody doing whatever needs to be done, sort of self-tasking..." Jasmin trailed off, unable to recall what Andrew had said.

"Self-organizing groups working on the highest priority tasks," provided Mary. "Who looks after the rabbit?" she asked.

"Mainly me," admitted Jasmin, "Scarlet was my idea, so it sort of fell to me. I like rabbits," she added, unnecessarily.

"Scarlet?" queried Mary.

"After Captain Scarlet," said Jasmin, feeling foolish.

"Oh," replied Mary, "of course, very apt." Mary smiled at the fun of it, and Jasmin immediately felt happier as well, as if they had made a connection.

Before Jasmin moved on with the tour, Andrew came in through the front door, and walked through the office on his way to the kitchen.

"Hello Jasmin," said Andrew. "Hello Mary, welcome to VAO."

"Hello Andrew," replied Mary, "thank you. Jasmin has just been showing me around."

"You might find us a rather informal," responded Andrew. "We don't have a proper induction – in fact, you are the first person we have taken on."

"I'm sure Jasmin will cover everything," answered Mary. "Perhaps that is something I could work on, as I'm settling in, writing an induction program."

"I'll include that in our next Stand Up," said Andrew, "we can see what people think."

"How often do you have a 'Stand Up'?" asked Mary.

"It should be every day, but it is more like whenever everybody is here," replied Andrew. "Stewart is coming in this afternoon, so we can try to have one then."

"It's like a team meeting," explained Jasmin, "and we don't stand up, we sit down."

"We did stand up for the first one," stated Andrew.

"And bloody silly we all felt," continued Jasmin. "The three of us standing around in the kitchen as if we hadn't been introduced and we hadn't any furniture."

"They are supposed to be very popular," said Mary, "these days."

"Talking of recruitment," continued Mary, changing the subject, "have you seen this?"

Mary reached down to her satchel, and pulled out a piece of paper, handing it to Andrew.

"No, I haven't," replied Andrew, scanning the page, "how did you find this?"

"Just doing my research before coming along today," said Mary. "It was on a recruitment site."

"What is it?" said Jasmin, snatching the sheet from Andrew.

"It is a job advertisement from 'GW Assassination Agency'," answered Mary. "They are looking for staff."

"Never heard of them," stated Jasmin.

"Judging from the contact details," continued Mary, "I would say that the 'W' stands for 'Wiggins' of 'Wiggins and Sons' the undertakers."

"And the 'G' stands for 'Gloria'," stated Andrew.

"Wasn't that the mad woman you went to see?" Jasmin asked Andrew.

"I'd probably say 'innovative', rather than mad," replied Andrew.

"Sounded bonkers to me," responded Jasmin. "Look at this," she continued, reading from the sheet, "We are seeking high-calibre, paradigm-shifting adventurers, who want to be at the forefront of a new agency which will radically redefine the world of assassination and undertaking."

"Looks like the offer of a merger is off then," observed Andrew.

Mary looked at him quizzically.

"She wanted us to merge with Wiggins and Sons, and be their assassination arm," explained Andrew. "Though it was more like an alien invasion than a merger. I wasn't very keen."

"So now she is starting up her own agency," responded Mary, "in competition."

"Only if she gets any staff," stated Jasmin, "or 'adventurers' rather. Who would want to work for this sort of outfit?"

"Unemployed people, I would think," answered Mary.

The doorbell rang.

"That will be Stewart," said Andrew, and headed for the front door.

"Doesn't he have a key?" queried Mary.

Andrew opened the door, to find it was not Stewart standing outside.

"Oh, Francis," explained Andrew, and then, noticing Francis' casual clothes, "is this a social visit?"

In response, Francis brandished his police badge at them. "Detective Constable Broad," he announced, "I'd like to ask you some questions about an ongoing investigation."

"Detective Constable! Is that a promotion, Francis?" asked Andrew.

"Well, not technically," replied Francis, "constable and detective constable are on the same grade, but it's a step forwards, you know."

"Well come in, Detective," invited Andrew, leading him into the back room.

"You know Jasmin," said Andrew, gesturing toward Jasmin, "and this is Mary, who has recently joined us." He completed the introduction, "Mary, this is Detective Constable Broad."

"Detective!" interjected Jasmin, "Does that mean, you are, like Sherlock Holmes?"

"No," responded Francis, "I'm not Sherlock Holmes."

"Miss Marple?" suggested Jasmin, "Inspector Morse? Philip Marlow? You wouldn't want to be Marlow, he gets beaten up far too much."

"I'm here to talk to you about a serious matter!" exclaimed Francis, "Investigate," he said, correcting himself, "I'm here to investigate a serious matter."

"More Miss Marple then?" continued Jasmin.

"Perhaps you should ask us your questions." suggested Andrew.

Francis pulled his notebook from his pocket and consulted it. Addressing Andrew, he said, "You are Andrew Benson of 27 Malcolm Avenue?"

"It's good to know you recognize me, Francis," replied Andrew.

"Constable... Detective Constable Broad!" returned Francis.

"What would you like to know?" continued Andrew.

"Where were you yesterday afternoon, between 3:30pm to 4:30pm?" enquired Francis.

"I was in a cinema and then I was returning here," replied Andrew. "Is this about Mrs Parsons?" he added.

"So, you don't deny being in the cinema with Mrs Parsons yesterday afternoon?" stated Francis.

"I wasn't really with her," corrected Andrew, "but we were in the same cinema."

"And why did you choose to see that particular film, at that particular time?" asked Francis, probingly.

"I didn't," answered Andrew, "we were on a mission, for Mrs Parsons, in fact."

"You were on a mission!" exclaimed Francis, "For Mrs Parsons!"

"Mind like a steel trap!" interjected Jasmin, receiving a glare from Andrew, and a hint of a smile from Mary.

"Why then," continued Francis, "did you report Mrs Parsons as dead, rather than that you had assassinated her?"

"We didn't assassinate her." Replied Andrew, "We just found her dead in her seat."

"So you are telling me," asserted Francis, getting more into his stride now, "that you were about to assassinate Mrs Parsons but you found she had already died?"

"That's right," agreed Andrew.

"Rather convenient, wouldn't you say?" pressed Francis.

"Maybe from Mrs Parsons point of view," replied Andrew. "Not very convenient for us. Though we did get to watch the film."

"Not convenient? Why would you say that?" continued Francis.

"Because, if she had died earlier, then we wouldn't have gone out on the mission," answered Andrew. "Whereas, if she had died later, well she wouldn't have died later, because we would have assassinated her."

There was a pause, as Francis attempted to write this into his notebook.

"What would you say," continued Francis, "if I told you that Mrs Parsons did not die?"

"I'd say," returned Andrew, "that I'm surprised, she seemed lifeless at the time. The ambulance people thought she was dead."

"She did not die," said Francis dramatically, "because she was murdered!"

"Murdered!" repeated Andrew.

"She was murdered?" queried Jasmin.

"Indeed!" declared Francis. "And does it not strike you as highly suspicious that a group of assassins was there at exactly the time when this poor woman was done away with?"

"Really?" said Jasmin, "You think it was us?"

At this point, the front door opened and Stewart walked into the room, and looked a little surprised at the scene that he found.

"Stewart, Francis thinks that we murdered Mrs Parsons!" exclaimed Jasmin.

"What, metaphorically?" replied Stewart.

"No literally - that we stuck the knife in!" said Jasmin.

"Seems a bit redundant," responded Stewart. "She was already dead when we got to her - and there's not much call for knives anymore."

"So you were planning to stab Mrs Parsons!" Francis accused Stewart.

"Wait, wait," said Mary. "This is all new to me, so can I just clarify a couple of things?" everybody paused and looked at Mary, so she continued. "Andrew was on a mission to assassinate Mrs Parsons, in a cinema. Once the film had finished, you went to assassinate her, but she was already dead."

"That's right," said Andrew, "except it was Stewart and me."

"And you," Mary continued, addressing Francis, "think that this points towards Andrew and Stewart having been the culprits?"

"Highly suspicious," agreed Francis.

"Highly stupid!" stated Jasmin.

"What would you say was their motive?" asked Mary, ignoring Jasmin.

"They went there with the express purpose of killing Mrs Parsons," replied Francis.

"You think that Mrs Parsons was assassinated?" queried Mary, gently.

"No, she was murdered!" returned Francis.

"That wouldn't have been done by an assassin, then, would it?" pointed out Mary. "I mean, if an assassin had done it, wouldn't they have just reported it as an assassination?"

"Well," replied Francis, a little flustered, "he said himself that it was," he consulted his notebook, "inconvenient."

"I don't think that Sherlock Holmes has got to much to worry about," said Jasmin.

Andrew stepped in, "Francis," he said, "in response to your questions, Stewart and I were in the cinema, we were there on a mission for Mrs Parsons, and we did find her dead. Now, is there anything else we can do to help you with your investigations?"

"I shall need the details of your assassination contract with Mrs Parsons," hazarded Francis.

"I'll send it to you," agreed Andrew. "Do you still have the same email address, or does your new rank have a new email?"

"No, same one," said Francis.

"Anything else?" asked Andrew, "Or would you like to stop for tea?"

"Nothing else - for the moment," answered Francis. He paused and looked around the room, as if expecting to see something incriminating hanging from the walls, before turning and heading for the front door.

Stewart followed Francis out and stopped him just as he was opening the door. "You know," Stewart said to him, "let's just suppose that we were a band of vicious murderers and that we had slaughtered poor Mrs Parsons in her seat." Stewart's face was close to Francis' and he clapped his hand onto his shoulder, "What would be the chances of you getting out of here in one piece?" he asked. Francis froze and looked alarmed. Stewart smiled and opened the door for him. "Just a procedural thing," said Stewart, cheerfully, "something to bear in mind."

Back in the office, Jasmin was fuming. "If he had more than one brain cell, he'd be dangerous!" she said.

"What about Mrs Parsons," commented Andrew, "what happened there?"

"That's a turn up," said Stewart, returning to the room, "someone getting to Mrs Parsons before we did."

"You don't suppose it was another assassination agency?" Asked Andrew.

"Why would they just shoot off after the job," replied Stewart, "they'd be there to report it and get the paperwork sorted out."

"And why would anybody commit themselves to two assassination agencies?" commented Mary.

"Yes, you're right, silly of me," agreed Andrew. "Must be catching."

"Unless," said Jasmin, "the other agency made a mistake! They had a commitment for another little old lady, killed Mrs Parsons instead, realised they'd got the wrong person and just got out of the cinema quick before the lights came up!"

"It really is catching," commented Stewart.

"What! It could be," replied Jasmin.

"And it could be a hundred other explanations," said Andrew.

"Generally," commented Mary, "it's a good idea to start with the simplest and move on from there."

"So, what is the simplest?" asked Jasmin.

"That somebody had an issue with Mrs Parsons," answered Stewart, "and did away with her."

"Mrs Parsons!" objected Jasmin, "How is anybody going to have an issue with Mrs Parsons? I signed her up and she was a lovely person."

"It is hard to imagine how somebody who liked watching films about cartoon fish being particularly nefarious," agreed Stewart. "But, you can't escape your past."

"Why did she want assassination?" asked Mary.

"Terminal cancer." replied Jasmin. "Rather than waiting to end up in hospital she wanted to enjoy the time she had left."

"What would be the point of murdering somebody with terminal cancer?" pointed out Stewart. "Why take the risk? You'd just leave them to die - unless it was timely."

"Timely?" asked Andrew.

"Needed to be done now, before they could do something they had planned," answered Stewart.

"Now you're making out she wasn't only a gangster in the past, but she was still a gangster now!" protested Jasmin. "Did she look like gangster to you?"

"She was a bit short of bling," agreed Stewart. "But then, do we look like an assassination agency?"

There was a moment of introspection, as everybody considered this proposition.

"I think," said Andrew, "that we can conclude that this has nothing to do with us. Mrs Parsons was killed by somebody, for some reason, but it does not involve VAO in any way."

"I don't think Miss Marple sees it that way." Said Jasmin.

"We know that we are not involved," replied Andrew, "so, in time, he's bound to come to the same result."

"It is quite a coincidence though," commented Stewart, "that she just happened to be killed when we were there on a mission."

"Coincidences happen," replied Mary.

# Ten

Jonathon walked smartly through the open plan office. Today was his light grey suit day. The series was light grey, navy blue, black, then back to light grey. All three of the suits were now seven months old and had lost their newly-pressed freshness. He favoured the light grey, it went well with his pale skin and fair hair. Being tall and very slim, almost narrow, it made him look less like an exclamation mark than the darker colours. And, it meant that he could wear brown shoes rather than black, perhaps advertising that he was a free-thinking type.

It was still a half hour before the workday started, and there were not very many people around. He said 'Good Morning' and smiled at those who caught his eye as he made his way to his desk, which was over the far side, next to the window. He wondered whether some of those who greeted him were doing so just because of who he was, a young, fast-track administrator, parachuted into the department for a swift six months for experience, before flying off to his next assignment and greater things. He also wondered whether some of those who avoided looking at him did so for the same reason. In his mind was the comment made by his aunt, who similarly worked for the Civil Service. She had said that 'his sort' were a complete disruption. They suddenly arrive, make lots of changes, then moved on before they have to deal with the consequences. Like the SAS, she had said; they charge in, make lots of noise and smoke, then they are gone. So there was his dilemma, he needed to make his mark – after all, how could he be seen as effective unless he effected something - but any significant change he implemented stood every chance of being detrimental.

Jonathon's start to his day was routine and precise. First he turned on his computer. While that was powering up, he took his notebook, pens and phone out of his daypack and arranged them on his desk. Then he took his Tupperware box of sandwiches out to the kitchen, to place in the fridge, and made his first coffee of the day, to take back to his desk. Now he would look at any new emails, see what meetings he had, and make his 'things to do today' list.

Last thing yesterday the Head of Department had pushed an item his way. A member of the public had made a complaint, and he was being asked to look into it. The first question Jonathon asked himself, was the nature of the assignment. Was he being asked to look into it because it was a problem which really needed to be addressed, or was he being asked to look into it because it was a nuisance that they would really rather ignore? If it was the former, then a comprehensive investigation and solution proposal would earn him the kudos he needed, but if it were the latter, then anything more than swift despatch would be looked on as a display of naivety. He could ask, of course, though this involved another careful judgment, this time regarding the personality of the Head of Department. He had briefly met the lady when he had joined, their conversation had been cordial and only as long as absolutely necessary. He didn't think that she would particularly take to him dropping by for a casual enquiry.

The other option was just to do what he wanted. This was attractive to him, but only as long as, should he be challenged, he could come up with a good justification. The complaint was about an assassination agency. If he took it seriously, then he could get to learn about the whole assassination operation, which would be very interesting. Plus, it would get him out of the office, which he would like. As for the justification, some ideas about the high level of public concern, the need for the department to be seen to be positively engaged and actively monitoring; he was confident that he could fashion an appropriate form of words if necessary. He squared up to his keyboard, and searched out the details for 'Voluntary Assassination (Organic)'.

Jonathon had read that assassination agencies kept a low profile, in order to avoid the attention of pro-life and other unwelcome groups. Even so, later on, as he stood before the front door of an entirely unremarkable terraced house, he wondered if he had the right place. He tried to imagine that, once inside, he would find the modest exterior concealed a bustling, futuristic, organisational nerve centre, like a villain's secret high-tech lair in a spy novel.

Jonathon rang the doorbell. From inside he heard voice call out, "I'll get it."

When the door opened, he was faced with an upright lady of late middle age, who regarded him silently. The fleeting feeling of being a child, and asking at a school friend's house whether they could come out play, went through him. Just as quickly, it was replaced by his assurance that he was a graduate, a first class one at that, on a fast-track career path and, most importantly, he was wearing a suit. To all extent and purposes, he was a serious person.

"I'm Jonathon Woods, here to see Andrew Benson?" he said.

The lady gave him a small smile, then with one breath said, "Certainly, please come in." With another she called out, "Andrew, it's for you."

Once in the hallway, Jonathan could see that the house looked just like a house, with carpeted stairs, painted walls and the doorways that led off, it seemed, into a lounge, a back room and a kitchen. A tall, black-skinned man came out of the kitchen, flashing a broad white smile and extending his hand. "Hello, I'm Andrew," he said, "you must be Jonathon, from the Ministry. Shall we go into front room?"

Jonathon followed Andrew into the lounge which was, to all appearances just a lounge, with large, stuffed furniture, a bookcase full of paperbacks, a television in the corner and bay window looking out onto the street.

Andrew motioned him to sit, while staying standing himself. "Would you like a cup of tea or coffee?" he enquired.

"No, thank you, I'm fine," replied Jonathan, at which Andrew settled himself deeply into the seat nearest him.

"Did you find the place alright?" asked Andrew.

"Yes, I just caught the tube up, it was easy," replied Jonathan. Thinking that he should be taking the initiative, he carried on, "I've been asked to come and see you as your organisation has been brought to the attention of the Ministry."

"In what way?" responded Andrew.

"I'm afraid I can't tell you that at the moment," answered Jonathon, not quite sure whether this made him sound mysterious or ridiculous.

"I can probably guess," returned Andrew. "Have you spoken to the police?" he added.

Jonathon had no idea that the police were involved, but didn't want Andrew to guess his ignorance. "I wanted to see you first, and go to them afterwards," he said.

"Okay," replied Andrew, "how can I help you?"

"Perhaps you could just tell me about it from your point of view," suggested Jonathon.

For the next few minutes, Andrew took Jonathon through the events of Mrs Parsons' death, of how they had set up the mission in the cinema, only to find Mrs Parsons already murdered in her seat.

"That must have been quite a surprise," offered Jonathon.

"We didn't know at the time that she had been murdered. We just thought she had passed away," commented Andrew. "It wasn't until the police came that we found out what the real situation was."

"That's an amazing coincidence," stated Jonathon. "That you were there to assassinate her, but somebody else murdered her."

"The police certainly seem to think so," responded Andrew. "What can I say, we were just going about our business."

"I shall need to see your accreditation and contracts," said Jonathon, "to make sure that everything is in order, from the Ministry's point of view."

"Sure," replied Andrew, as he pulled out his phone to make some notes, "I can email them to you - you want accreditation, Mrs Pearson's contract, anything else?"

"Some other contracts, just for completeness," replied Jonathon, "Mr and Mrs Matthews would be good."

"Certainly," responded Andrew.

"And," said Jonathon, as an afterthought, "a list of your employees."

"Oh, okay," said Andrew, "they are all registered with you anyway."

"I'm sure they are," replied Jonathon. "One other thing would be useful - do you have a particular contact at the police station, to save me hunting around?"

"Oh yes, we do," responded Andrew, "we've had the pleasure of Detective Constable Broad. He's based at the station on the High Street."

"Great, thanks for your help," said Jonathon, standing up to go.

"Let me know how it goes, and if you need anything else," replied Andrew, as he showed him to the front door.

Jonathon walked up the road to the High Street, and sat down in the first cafe he came to. Opening his Ministry-issued laptop computer he made some notes, while they were still fresh in his mind. First he entered, 'Mrs Pearson - murdered' and then 'DC Broad'. The afternoon had taken an unexpected turn; he had only visited following the complaint from Steven Matthews, about his father and mother both being assassinated on the same day, and here he was being told all about a murder mystery. Of course, he needed to be careful that he was not accused of going beyond his remit and wasting his time. Could he justify looking into the murder, he asked himself? Some phrases around 'a complete and full investigation' and 'other potentially suspicious activities' drifted into his mind, certainly enough to make up a justification. Somewhere, or from someone, he had been told that there were two ways of building your career. Either you planned it, stepping from one promotion to the next, systematically gathering the experience you need for your final position; or, you just took opportunities as they came along and you ended wherever they took you. Jonathon liked to be organised, but he could not countenance the years of his working life set out like the instructions for assembling a piece of flat-pack furniture; his life would be decorated with a mix of whatever lovely chairs, cupboards and maybe even attractive pieces of driftwood that opportunity placed in his way. The murder of Mrs Parsons felt like it should be an opportunity. As he considered, he saw that it could be the solution to his dilemma. He needed to make his mark in the department, but without disrupting its operations by making changes. Now this murder-mystery had been dropped in his lap. If he were to solve the murder, it would give him the kudos he needed, and even raise the profile of the department. It was an opportunity, he couldn't let it pass. So, he would solve the murder.

# Eleven

Chief Inspector Sands had chosen a small table, over in a far corner of the station canteen, and had already fetched herself a coffee, but restrained from having a biscuit with it, before Detective Constable Broad arrived. It was mid-afternoon, a quiet period between the lunchtime rush and the change of shifts. The canteen was almost empty, just a few pairs of desk workers scattered around and the odd uniform. She saw DC Broad come through the swing door, acknowledge her presence and collect a cup of tea on his way to the table.

"Hello, Francis," said the Chief Inspector, indicating the seat opposite her.

"Afternoon, ma'am," returned Francis, as he sat down.

"Relax, Francis, I'm not going to bite you," stated the Chief Inspector, though without any intention of humour.

"I never imagined you would, ma'am," replied Francis.

"Good, quite the opposite, in fact," returned the Chief Inspector. "How are you getting on in CID?" she asked.

"Very well," stated Francis, "I've already been given my own case to work on, a murder; pretty serious, as you can imagine."

"Yes, I got you put on that case," the Chief Inspector informed him. In response to Francis' surprised look she said, "When the report came to my desk saying that Mrs Parsons had been murdered, and it had those VAO people down as witnesses, then you were the obvious one for the job. I had a word with your Head, I've known him for years, he used to be one of my coppers as well."

"Oh, well, thanks very much," responded Francis.

"Don't thank me," replied the Chief Inspector, "this is how we need to do things here. We need to have you guys upstairs and my people on the street working together, we're all part of the same force."

"Indeed," agreed Francis.

"Quite a few of your lot don't see it this way," continued the Chief Inspector. "They are so busy chasing around, so busy with building their reputation, they forget that the purpose of the police force is to solve crimes. And that the best way to do this is together."

Francis nodded sagely.

"So, how's the investigation going?" asked the Chief Inspector.

"I'm not sure that I can share the details..." replied Francis.

"Look, Francis," said the Chief Inspector, "take some advice. You're the new kid up in CID. Most of those guys you're working with would be only too happy if you fell flat on your face with this one."

"They seem very friendly," responded Francis.

"If you are going to get on up there, you are going to need all the help you can get," continued the Chief Inspector, "so, don't bite the hand that feeds you."

"It seems a bit unorthodox..." protested Francis.

"How do you think your Head got to where he is now?" said the Chief Inspector, with a knowing nod.

"Oh," responded Francis.

"We work better when we work together," stated the Chief Inspector. "What did forensics say about the murder weapon?"

"Probably just an ordinary syringe. She had been given a huge dose of a tranquiliser, delivered into the back of her neck," replied Francis.

"A professional job," responded the Chief Inspector. "This isn't some hoody after her pension money."

"Nothing was taken, as far as we know," confirmed Francis.

"Most people don't wander around with syringes full of tranquiliser – unless you are one of those assassins, of course," continued the Chief Inspector. "Have you interviewed the VAO people?"

"I went to see them the other day," said Francis.

"What did they say?" asked the Chief Inspector.

"They were evasive," replied Francis, "kept trying to twist what I said. Bunch of smart Alec's."

"Did they have alibi's?" asked the Chief Inspector.

"They were in the cinema to kill Mrs Parsons, but they found her dead in her seat. They don't have an alibi as they were at the scene of the crime the whole time," answered Francis.

"So they had gone to assassinate her, but found her dead instead," repeated the Chief Inspector. "Someone else having killed her in the meantime."

"This is what they claim," agreed Francis.

"I'm not sure what a jury would make of that," stated the Chief Inspector, "but never mind, circumstantial evidence is not enough. Have you found the syringe?"

"By the time it was reported as a murder, the cinema had been cleaned up," said Francis.

"Speak to the cleaners?" asked the Chief Inspector.

"I did speak to one of them," replied Francis.

"And what did they say?" urged the Chief Inspector.

"She said that I wouldn't believe the things that they found in the aisles after a performance and that I shouldn't expect her to remember every single thing," answered Francis.

"You'd think that she would remember a syringe!" queried the Chief Inspector.

"I'm not sure she would even have noticed the dead body," stated Francis.

"Glad I took up a relatively peaceful career in the police and didn't go into the cinema business," responded the Chief Inspector, wryly.

"Why?" asked Francis.

Ignoring Francis' question, the Chief Inspector continued, "What other lines of enquiry are you following up?"

"I've been looking at the CCTV footage of the people who came in and out of the cinema around that time," answered Francis.

"Any good?" queried the Chief Inspector.

"Useless, it's just the tops of people's heads and half of them had umbrellas up," replied Francis.

"Anything else?" asked the Chief Inspector.

"I guess that I can try to find out about the tranquiliser used," suggested Francis.

"Yes, you should do that," stated the Chief Inspector. "You should be following up on anybody else who was in the cinema as well, they might have noticed something."

"How can I do that?" asked Francis.

"Talk to the people that work there, they might have been in the cinema, or maybe there were some regulars they can put you onto. Then there is the mobile phone records, you can do a search on phones that were in that location – you'll need your Head's permission for that," suggested the Chief Inspector.

Francis wrote some notes, "Okay," he replied.

"And, you should be thinking motive," instructed the Chief Inspector. "Find out more about Mrs Parsons and what was going on with her, why was she signed up with the VAO bunch anyway? Talk to her relatives. Then there is VAO, is there any reason they would want her dead instead of assassinated?"

Francis made more notes, "Right," he said.

"Detective work needs solid effort, Francis," schooled the Chief Inspector. "It's about sifting the gems of information from the tons of material; it's spotting those little anomalies and tracking them down. Any minor thing that's out of the ordinary could be the key to solving this case."

"Absolutely," responded Francis, "I'll get sifting."

"Anything else to report?" enquired the Chief Inspector. "Anything else on your mind?"

"I had a strange call yesterday, it was from the Ministry," answered Francis.

"Go on," instructed the Chief Inspector.

"He was very sketchy. But they are doing some sort of investigation into VAO, and he wanted to talk to me about the Mrs Parsons case," said Francis.

"Where did they get your name?" asked the Chief Inspector.

"That's a good question," replied Francis, starting a new list of notes.

"Interesting. I wonder what else VAO have been up to," continued the Chief Inspector. "When he comes to see you, you should be getting as much information out of him as you can."

"Good thinking," said Francis, "I need to find his anomalies."

The Chief Inspector stood up, "Get to it, Francis – and keep me up to date." She walked out of the canteen, glancing at the people at the tables on the way, as if marking them down as slackers.

# Twelve

Brian was standing waiting in Gloria Wiggins' office. In this brightly lit, radiant room, he stood out like a thick shadow, in his head to foot black clothes. Ever since he had been taken on as an 'Assassination Operative' by GW Assassination Agency, he had found that he was wearing black more and more.

Gloria swept into the room, like a burst of sunshine, searing yellow being the order of her outfit for the day. "Brian, tell me everything!" she exclaimed, and curled herself into a corner of the sofa.

"As instructed," responded Brian, in a clipped, military tone, "I have been performing a surveillance and investigation into Voluntary Assassination bracket Organic close-bracket, and..."

"Goodness, this is wonderful!" interrupted Gloria, "It's like we are some undercover agency, and you are my very own spy. Isn't it exciting Brian?"

"Yes," agreed Brian, rather thrown from his prepared account, there was something about Gloria being in the room that scrambled his brain. "Anyway," he continued, "I've been conducting a surveillance and... I've got some pictures." He pressed the TV remote, and brought up a photo of VAO's office.

"Pictures, marvellous! What's that?" said Gloria.

"This is where VAO operate from," answered Brian.

"That!" exclaimed Gloria. "How ingenious, it looks just like an ordinary house."

"It is an ordinary house," explained Brian. "Their office is in an ordinary house," he repeated, for clarity.

"How fabulous," said Gloria. "Is this like, the next thing? You know, a sort of post-commercialism, a reaction to the excessive corporate image driven world. That Andrew, I knew he had something. I can see that this is him, this is 'see my business as a house'. That's so powerful."

"Could be," replied Brian, who was looking for an answer that said 'no', but without him having to actually say 'no'. "On the other hand," he continued, "it could be because they want to keep the location of their headquarters a secret."

"But, if they want to keep it a secret," responded Gloria, "how did you manage to find it?"

"When I had my interview with VAO," answered Brian, looking please with himself, "I met them at a tube station and they took me to an office that they had hired. So, I went and hung around the tube station, figuring that it must be near their office. Sure enough I saw Andrew come out. I trailed him to this house."

"Clever boy!" responded Gloria. "What else did you discover?"

Feeling more confident, Brian continued, "I have established that there are at least four members of staff operating out of this building." Brian clicked on the remote to show the next photo, one of Andrew coming out of the front door carrying his shopping bags. "Andrew Benson, founder and CEO of VAO," Brian added.

"I know Andrew," responded Gloria. "What's he doing there?"

"He's going round to the supermarket," replied Brian.

"Amazing!" declared Gloria. "He's really thought this through, 'my business is a house, so I go shopping', it's revolutionary."

Brian brought up the next photo, of Jasmin getting onto her bicycle, "Jasmin Harper," he said. "Rank unknown. But I do know that she has been with Andrew for several years, right back to when they ran the campaign to introduce euthanasia."

"Something going on between Jasmin and Andrew, do you think?" asked Gloria. "Maybe..." she pondered, "maybe she is why he couldn't join up with me, she wants to keep him away from any temptation."

"I don't think so," returned Brian, boldly, "she is engaged to be married."

"Really, is that so," remarked Gloria. "I wonder how Andrew feels about that; a bit abandoned maybe, a bit wounded? This is marvellous stuff Brian, where did you get all of this?"

"You can find out a lot about people, if you know where to look," replied Brian. He wanted to sound mysterious, whereas what he'd actually done, was to type Jasmin's name into Google. "And, for the photos, I have been performing a reconnaissance of their office for several days." With this, he displayed the next picture, of Mary walking along the street. "Mary Jenkins," he stated.

"So, do they all live in this house?" asked Gloria.

"No," replied Brian, "as far as I could tell, Andrew stays there, the others come and go each day."

"Of course," said Gloria, "the next step after 'working from home', this is 'my work is my home', or 'my home is my work'."

"Yes," said Brian, for want of a better remark. "There is one more," he continued, and showed a picture of Stewart.

"Who is that?" enquired Gloria.

"I don't know," admitted Brian. "He comes and goes most days and he has a key, so he must be staff."

"Mystery man," stated Gloria, getting out of her seat and advancing towards the television. "What secrets do you have I wonder? Mr Big behind the scenes perhaps, looks like he could be a Russian," she pondered.

Brian was ready with his first big revelation. "There is this," he said, and clicked to the next picture. Brian had found it whilst browsing through old newspaper stories on the Internet about Andrew. It was a photo from an euthanasia rally. It had been taken from a high angle, looking down on the march, a tightly packed river of people, all wrapped up against the London winter. They held banners, 'My Life, My Death', 'Euthanasia Now' and 'I want a happy ending'. The street was lined with police, holding back the counter protesters. They had their own placards, 'God damns you', 'No to licenced killing' and, more directly, 'MURDERERS!'. At the front of the rally walked Andrew, with Jasmin, wielding a megaphone, next to him. Just behind them, half hidden in the marchers, was Stewart.

"Well, there he is," confirmed Gloria. "Mystery man had been behind this all along, right from the very start. You know what this means, Brian?"

It had never occurred to Brian that this meant anything other than that the man was just another member of staff. He decided to go with a reply of, "It could mean a number of things."

"What it means is that our friends at VAO are just a front for a foreign power to infiltrate the UK!" Gloria said excitedly. "Think of it Brian, it could be that this whole movement, the whole euthanasia campaign, has been directed by these shadowy figures from abroad!"

Gloria began to pace around the room, gesticulating with her hands. Brian stood dumb, for the moment literally speechless.

Gloria continued, "Who knows what their purpose is? Maybe..." She was struck by the enormity of her own idea, "Maybe, they are using VAO to kill off targets here! Maybe Andrew doesn't even know! He and his staff are just innocent puppets - they think they are doing voluntary assassination, but actually they are rubbing out people for this mob." Her use of the word 'mob' sent her off on another direction. "Brian," she continued, "they could be the mob, it could be mafia! Christ, what are we getting into? Look at him, Brian." She pointed at Stewart's picture, "What do you think, criminal or traitor?"

Brian was actually thinking chauffeur, or bus driver, or undertaker, maybe betting shop owner, at the outside. "There's something else," he said, and brought up his final picture, saving the best to last. It showed Jonathon coming out of the house.

"This gentleman," announced Brian, "is from the Ministry."

"From the Ministry?" responded Gloria, doubtingly. "He doesn't look like Ministry, far too thin, more like an accountant - what on earth makes you think that he is from the Ministry?"

Brian had been looking forward to this part, "As he was walking away, I slipped in behind him and followed him up the road."

Gloria looked at him blankly, trying to join the dots between Brian trailing him and knowing he was from the Ministry. "So," she said, "you think he walks like someone from the Ministry?"

"No, no," snapped Brian, with more exasperation than he wanted to show, "I followed him up the road, and he went into a cafe. I just casually settled into the cafe myself, where I could see him - he had a mocha."

"Nobody from the Ministry would ever have a mocha, Brian," stated Gloria. "Where do you think we are, Rome?"

Brian persisted, "Well he opened up his laptop and all across the top was this label, 'Property of the Ministry'," he concluded, triumphantly.

"Anybody could put a label on a laptop," countered Gloria.

Brian was stumped by Gloria's response to his big discovery. Desperation led him on, "He was wearing a Ministry tie," he lied, "and Ministry cufflinks - you can't see them in the picture."

Gloria stopped and considered, "Well, well," she said, "but why would the Ministry be visiting VAO?"

"Could be just routine, or maybe they have stepped out of line in some way," suggested Brian. "Perhaps they are in some sort of trouble?"

"It would be very convenient if the Ministry were to close them down," stated Gloria. "It would save us a lot of trouble. What we need to do is give the Ministry something that will point the finger at VAO. What do we know about VAO that is really juicy?" she asked.

Brian struggled to think of anything. "They operate under pretty strict rules, I don't know if there is much room for juicy goings-on," he replied.

"Everybody has something, Brian," responded Gloria, "even you I'll bet. VAO have got to have some skeletons in the cupboard."

"Maybe they had a kebab once?" joked Brian.

Gloria stared at him, uncomprehendingly.

"Not very 'organic'," explained Brian.

"Don't be fanciful, Brian," replied Gloria, straight-faced. "If not them, then maybe their clients. What do we know about their clients?" she asked.

"Nothing," replied Brian, "they are secret as well."

"Somebody must know," responded Gloria, "they must be written down somewhere."

"They will be stored on their computer systems," stated Brian, "probably not written down, that would be too insecure."

"Can't you get into their computers, Brian?" responded Gloria. "I mean, isn't everybody hacking into everything these days?"

Brian had absolutely no idea how to hack into a computer system. But, he thought, she was right, how hard could it be, it happens everyday. "Maybe," he replied.

"We could tell them about the mafia man," suggested Gloria, "about Mr Big behind the scenes."

Brian thought hard; he really would need to come up with something, and pretty quickly, before Gloria took her flights of fancy to the authorities.

# Thirteen

Jonathon was at his desk, in the early morning, before his work hours began, and thus, in a way of thinking, in his own time. He needed to get on with solving the murder; things had been pretty busy at the Ministry and he needed a quiet period to get his thoughts in order. Yesterday he had managed to meet up with the Detective Constable on the case, for some reason he had wanted to talk in a coffee shop rather than at the police station, but at least this meant that Jonathon had been able to get a decent cup of coffee. The Detective Constable had been surprisingly communicative; he seemed very impressed by Jonathon's position with the Ministry and spoke openly. Jonathon had learned about the manner of Mrs Parsons' death, by an overdose of strong tranquiliser delivered with a syringe into the back of her neck, but otherwise the police enquiries had given nothing or were on-going. Jonathon had remarked on how strange it was that a woman with terminal cancer should be murdered. This apparently was news to the Detective Constable, clearly he had yet to read VAO's contract with Mrs Parsons. Apart from that, the Detective had seemed very interested in him, asking him lots of questions about why he was involved with VAO. Jonathon had explained about the complaint that had been made, but otherwise kept things necessarily vague.

How do I solve the murder? He asked himself. He needed a process, something to guide him on the path towards the answer. An often quoted phrase from Sherlock Holmes occurred to him, that 'when you had discounted the impossible, then even the most unlikely possibility was the answer' - or that was the gist of it anyway. What he needed to do, was to discount impossibilities and register possibilities.

He opened his laptop and began a fresh document. At the top he typed 'Mrs P's death' and underlined it. On the line directly beneath, separated across the page, he entered, 'Natural' and 'Unnatural'. This was the start of his flowchart, he would solve this murder by flowcharting the possibilities, and whatever could not be discounted would be the solution.

Was Mrs P's death 'Natural'? Clearly not. Nature has many bizarre and often frivolous ways of killing people, there was even, Jonathon randomly recalled, something called the 'Darwin Awards' for individuals who had done away with themselves with the most excessively foolish acts, and thus removed their genes from the evolutionary pool. However, even they did not stab themselves in the back of the neck with a loaded syringe. So, he could comfortably discount 'Natural' and only consider 'Unnatural' deaths.

On the line beneath 'Unnatural', again separated across the page, he typed 'Self-Inflicted' and 'Murder'. Once again, a simple choice; Mrs P had not injected herself, so that was discounted. Only the 'Murder' branch need be considered.

Mrs P would have been murdered either by someone who knew her, or by someone who did not, so these titles became the next line. Jonathon considered these for a while. Strictly he would have to admit that either was possible. Mrs P could have been killed by a random person who chose Mrs P as their equally random victim. Jonathon could see a looming problem with this, it didn't easily lend itself to his 'disproval' approach. In order to find a random killer by disproval, he would have to go through everybody, other than Mrs P, and show they hadn't done it. When a single person remained, they were the killer. Or, he said to himself, he could just forget about the random killer, take the 'someone who knew her branch' and carry on.

Jonathon recapped; his flowchart showed that Mrs P's death had been 'Unnatural', that it was 'Murder', and this had been performed by 'Someone who knew Mrs P'. Hardly surprising results, he admitted, but it felt like a solid progression.

On the next line down, he categorised people who knew Mrs P. He wrote 'Family', 'Friends', 'Acquaintances'. The 'Acquaintances' felt rather ill defined, so he replaced that with 'Business Acquaintances' and 'Casual Acquaintances'. After a little thought, he realised that he had left out a category, for people who knew Mrs P, though she did not know them, so he added 'Unknown to Mrs P'.

Jonathon stared at this list for a while, wondering how he could rule out any of these sets of people. There didn't seem to be any evidence on which he could decide that Mrs P had not been killed by a 'Family' member, or a 'Friend', or any of these categories. He couldn't even decide, for example, that it was highly unlikely that someone 'Unknown to Mrs P' had done it and discount them on that basis, as all of the types of people were potentials. If he were the police, then he would have the manpower to interview lots of people and ask them where they were at the time of the murder. This allowed them to rule out a swathe of people; but he did not have these resources. Even as he thought this, he realised that, as in every crime story, the killer would lie about their whereabouts. So, this only worked if you not only asked people where they were, but also crosschecked and verified every alibi. Even for a single person like Mrs P, the amount of effort, if you were to try to cover everybody who knew her, would be enormous.

He deleted the line with 'Family', 'Friends', etc., as it was not helping. Jonathon asked himself how else he could break down 'Someone who knew Mrs P'. Detectives in novels always look for who had a motive for the crime, so that sounded promising. On the line below, he typed, 'Motive', 'No Motive'.

It was vaguely possible, Jonathon admitted, that 'Someone who knew Mrs P' but had 'No Motive' could have killed her. It required him to imagine a person who carried a loaded syringe around, just in case the whim of doing away with somebody came over them. In this case, they would have seen their friend Mrs P in the cinema and just acted on impulse. His minds eye also equipped this person with a gun, an axe and a sledgehammer, in addition to the syringe, as, presumably, their whim could take many forms. Jonathon decided that he could exclude people who had no motive.

What types of motive could there be? Jonathon asked himself. When the crime involves money, then we think of the perpetrator gaining some sort of advantage from the act, whereas more personal crimes could be down to a grievance against that person. On the line beneath 'Motive', Jonathon entered 'Advantage' and 'Grievance'.

In themselves these categories were not very illuminating, so Jonathon tried to break them down further. The number of different types of grievance that one person could have against another was just endless. Various categories immediately sprung to mind, 'Real', 'Imaginary', 'Justified', 'Unjustified', 'Prejudice'. Listing these didn't look like an immediately promising way forwards, so he turned his attention to 'Advantage'.

The obvious advantage that a person could gain from killing an elderly lady would be for an inheritance. Other than this, nothing else easily occurred to Jonathon. Surely, he said to himself, there must be other possible advantages than just inheriting her money. He told himself he needed to think more creatively.

He wrote 'Inheritance' on a piece of scrap paper, and stared at it. Quite randomly, it felt, he wrote 'To free up accommodation'; Mrs P must live somewhere so an advantage could be that it would now be available. Resisting the urge to analyse the sense in this, he willed his mind to come up with any other advantages. 'Business for an Undertaker' joined the list, shortly followed by 'Pleasure of killing'. Jonathon knew he was not a naturally creative person; he was not the sort of person who would do well if asked how many uses he could find for a dead parrot. He had always found parlour games and the more frivolous forms of job interview to be painful experiences. He relied, instead, on trying to see things from another angle. He could then make logical suggestions from the new angle, and it looked like creativity.

What was the other angle here? He pondered. He could feel it was there, almost a pressure in a different part of his brain that wanted to break out. All of the advantages he has so far were things that may happen as a consequence of Mrs P's death, the other angle was things that would _not_ happen because she had died. What things would not happen because of her death, Jonathon asked himself. She wouldn't get the bus home, she wouldn't cook her evening meal, she wouldn't feed her cat – in fact a whole universe of things. He needed to be more specific.

He could express it more as a motive if he said, 'Prevents a future disadvantage'. Once again, he tried to think what sort of disadvantage could be waylaid by killing Mrs P. Perhaps Mrs P had been thinking of changing her will, and she had been knocked off by a relative that had fallen out of favour; or did that sort of thing only happen in movies. He shouldn't discount, he told himself, the popular theme of science fiction stories, where someone was murdered by an assailant from the future, in order to stop them creating an army of killer robots, or some such thing. On second thoughts, he did discount the 'killer from the future' idea.

Time was passing, and soon the working day, and its procession of emails and meetings, would begin. Jonathon didn't want to put his flowchart down; only now did it feel like he was really getting somewhere.

Until this point, he had been rejecting categories based on the general nature of people. At the level of 'Motive', he should be applying more specific knowledge of the case; he needed to squeeze every last piece of information to rule people out.

A particular thing about Mrs Parsons, he realised, was that she had terminal cancer and would not live for much longer. Would this help if he applied it to the 'Motive' category? Jonathon started on the 'Grievance' side. Was it possible, he asked himself, that you would murder someone who would die shortly, because you had a grievance against them? It was, he admitted, possible, though this seemed to lend itself more towards the 'Advantage' of 'Pleasure of killing'. There was a careful distinction to be made, between someone who kills purely to satisfy a grievance, and between someone who takes pleasure from the killing because it satisfies a grievance. He decided, after some thought, that it was unlikely that someone would have killed Mrs P purely to satisfy a grievance, when she would not survive for much longer anyway. In a bold step, not entirely justified by cold reasoning, and motivated more by an impatience to see results, Jonathon decided to discount the 'Grievance' side of 'Motive'.

Back to his flowchart; Mrs P was murdered by someone who knew her, and whose motive was an advantage that her death would bring. The 'Advantages' he had come up with were; 'Inheritance', 'Free up accommodation', 'Business for an Undertaker', 'Pleasure of killing' and 'Prevention of a future disadvantage'. As with 'Grievance', he applied Mrs Parson's imminent death to these ideas.

Would anybody murder somebody for their inheritance, when they would be getting it in a few months anyway? He asked himself. It was possible of course, if somebody had a looming gambling debt or something. Even then, he reasoned, inheritance does not arrive overnight, it would be months before the murderer had the money. He discounted 'Inheritance'.

Jonathon discounted 'Free up accommodation', as just too unlikely to be worth consideration. Almost as quickly, he discounted 'Business for an Undertaker'. He could only imagine a desperate Funeral Director, with coffins stacking up and graves freshly dug, unable to wait any longer, going out to create themselves some corpses. Rather too fanciful, he thought.

Could the motive be 'Pleasure of killing'? It certainly could, given the almost random nature of the murder. This possibility was unsettling, as it would give very little direction to any investigation, but it needed to be retained.

Finally there was 'Prevention of a future disadvantage'. This was a very broad category, and Jonathan would need to learn a lot more about Mrs Parsons to understand what the 'future disadvantages' might be, and exactly who would have been disadvantaged. This was also retained.

Jonathan reviewed his work. His analysis set out that; Mrs Parsons had suffered an 'Unnatural' death, that she had been subject to 'Murder', which had been performed with a 'Motive' and the motive would have been to the 'Advantage' of the murderer. Possible motives were for the 'Pleasure of killing' or for 'Prevention of future disadvantage'. Jonathon sat back, this felt like real progress to him. With just a minimum of facts and evidence he had narrowed the field of suspects down immensely; a far more effective approach than canvassing the area for people's alibis or looking through hours of CCTV. If Sherlock Holmes had been there, Jonathon was sure that he would have been sitting back in his tall chair, dressed in his tweeds and strange hat, blowing fragrant fumes from his pipe, giving Jonathon a little smile and nod of approval.

Jonathon's reverie was interrupted by a 'new mail' symbol appearing at the bottom of his computer screen. He clicked on it; it was from the Head of Department. "Jonathon," it read, "I thought you were dealing with VAO? We have had another complaint about them, they have been advertising. Sort it out." Beneath this was a link, which took Jonathon to the online version of a local newspaper. In the classified section, between the advertisements for 'Vanguard Cleaning Services' and 'Vulcan Dry Cleaners', was a large blank area, with 'Advertisement withdrawn' stamped all over it. Half an hour later, after a phone conversation with the editor of the newspaper, who had been defensive, apologetic and accusative in turn, he had a copy of the advertisement in front of him. It was very straightforwardly written, stating the nature of their business, giving assurances of their discretion and the phone, email and address where they may be contacted.

After a little contemplation, Jonathon sent off an email to Andrew, to arrange for another meeting. He also forwarded the details of the advertisement to the Detective Constable; it made sense to keep him close, as the Detective might find out something useful. Then he had to consider how to respond to his boss. Her email to him had been rather short, almost critical of his efforts with VAO. What she would definitely not want would be a long reply describing everything he had done so far with VAO. So, this is exactly what he now prepared himself to type out. This was partly because it meant that if he had missed anything the blame would now be on her for not pointing it out to him, and partly as a small revenge for the abruptness of her note. He was not going to mention the murder investigation, of course.

# Fourteen

Dora yawned, she wasn't used to being up so late, and she was rather nervous. She wasn't really a 'direct action' sort of person. She knew that the youngsters liked to talk about it, when the meetings got a bit heated. But she had always seen herself as one of the silent, calming, influences. And yet here she was. It had been Derrick's idea, of course, once he had seen that advertisement. He had really become rather excited about it, walking up and down, calling those assassins all sorts of names. He had sat down to write a strong letter to the newspaper, when he suddenly jumped up and said it's not enough - that they should be doing something! Dora had told him that a strong letter was doing something. 'The pen is mightier than the sword', she had said, which she had felt pretty pleased with. 'Not if you are trying to cut somebody off at the knees!', Derrick had replied. It was unusual for him to be so animated.

First they had to go to the hardware store. They didn't want to go to their local one, as Derrick was bound to be recognised; he just loved to wander the aisles looking at the different door hinges or fingering the various types of rope. At these times, Dora retired to the café upstairs for a tea and a bun and left him to it. They had driven to one on the outskirts of town, but even that had been a little nerve wracking. What if somebody asked them why they were buying all these cans of spray paint? What would they say? Aren't there laws controlling who buys these things? Dora had decided that they would say, if challenged, that they were street artists. Derrick had said that that was silly, that nobody over the age of fifty went out spray-painting the underside of railway tunnels. Dora wondered if she should wear a baseball cap, backwards, like she had seen on the television; but she didn't own a baseball cap. This was why they had six canisters of paint, of various colours. Derrick had wanted to get just yellow, but Dora had objected; "What sort of artist paints in only yellow?", she had said. Derrick had replied that we may be painting daffodils, or canaries, but now he was being silly. They had to get facemasks and gloves and goggles. Dora wanted to buy an apron, because she didn't want the paint getting on her clothes. But they only had white ones used by decorators, and Derrick said that they would be too obvious. Dora had wanted to say that dressing up in a facemask and goggles and carrying a spray can of paint would be quite obvious, but she could see that Derrick had made up his mind and it was best to go along with it.

In fact, the person at the checkout was a very bored young boy and he didn't give their purchases a second glance. Dora thought that it was no wonder that there was graffiti all over the place, if nobody took any notice of who bought what.

Derrick had gone through his cupboards and managed to find an old pair of black jeans and a sweater that was dark blue. The only black shoes he had were a shiny pair of formal shoes, for weddings and the like and he didn't want to wear them in case they got spoiled – not that they had been to a wedding for ages. He'd put on his walking boots instead, and he had pulled out a black woollen hat, complete with bobble. She'd told him that he would be too hot wearing all that, but he didn't listen. Dora didn't know what to wear, black wasn't her colour at all; with her complexion, she was more pastels. She decided on her all-weather walking coat, it was dark green at least, and she thought that any paint might wipe off it if she were quick. She kept a couple of packets of wet-wipes in the pocket anyway. She didn't want to wear her walking boots, as they were new and were rubbing a bit by the toes, so she went for her gardening wellingtons, which were deep blue, with a pattern of small white umbrellas. At least she would be okay if it were to rain. She didn't have anything for her head, but she could put the hood up on her jacket, if Derrick really insisted. Mind you, for all that 'being camouflaged', their car was white, and there was nothing they could do about that.

They had parked just around the corner of the street, so as not to be too conspicuous. Derrick had gone to find the house, so Dora sat in the car by herself. What would she say if somebody noticed her there, she wondered. Not that there was a soul around at 3am, just a few cats on the prowl. She decided she would say that she was 'waiting for someone', which was almost true, she was waiting for Derrick to come back. She hoped that they wouldn't think that she was a drug dealer, or a prostitute. If she was dealing drugs they would be anti-arthritis, and as for a prostitute, she was vaguely wondering what sort of prostitute would wear wellington boots, when Derrick returned.

"Okay, I've found it, let's go," said Derrick, leaning in through the window of the car. They opened up the hatchback, pulled out the facemasks, gloves and goggles and chose what they hoped was the yellow canisters of paint, it was difficult to tell under the yellow of the streetlights.

"Shall I put these on now?" asked Dora.

"Just the gloves," replied Derrick. "It would look suspicious walking down the road in facemask and goggles."

"It will look pretty suspicious wearing rubber gloves and carrying spray cans!" exclaimed Dora.

"Carry the cans under your coat," directed Derrick, "and put your other hand in your pocket – and put your hood up."

"Let's just put them in here," Dora said, she kept a plastic shopping bag in the pocket of her jacket, as they are always useful. She hoped Waitrose wouldn't mind. So they loaded the paint, goggles and facemasks into the bag and set off down the street, like two people who have just flown in from a very cold climate and have been out for a few provisions to tide them over.

"This is it," said Derrick, stopping outside a house.

"It doesn't look like an office," responded Dora, "it's just a house."

"Well, this is the address," insisted Derrick.

"I can't see a number," replied Dora.

"Half of these houses you can't see the number," replied Derrick. "I've been wandering up and down looking for 43."

"How do you know it is this one?" questioned Dora.

"See that one down there, just past the two modern ones, that's 37 and further down is 35," responded Derrick, then, counting off the houses, "37, 39, 41, and this must be 43."

"It just looks like a house," repeated Dora.

"They all look like houses, they all are houses," returned Derrick. "They must run their business out of a house. Come on," he continued, pulling things out of the bag, "we can't be here all night."

They put on their goggles and facemasks, and selected their spray cans.

"You have to shake them first," instructed Derrick.

They vigorously shook their cans, in silence, until, as the paint thinned and the ball inside became free, sending out an almighty rattling noise down the street. They froze. They looked at each other. They looked up and down the street. Only a cat was looking at them, disdainfully.

"No more shaking," said Derrick. "Quick, let's get this done. You do the front wall, I'm going to paint their windows."

Dora approached the low wall forming the fence of the house from the street. "What shall I write?" she asked.

"Murderers", answered Derrick, "in big letters."

Dora eased the top off of her paint canister, felt around to find which direction the nozzle was pointing, and sprayed a splotchy 'M'.

"No wait," said Derrick.

"Wait!" replied Dora, "I've already done the 'M'."

"'Murderers' could mean anything," continued Derrick, "make it 'Assassins' – no 'Assassins Out'," he clarified. "I'm going to do the windows." With that he entered through the latched gate into the small front garden and up to the building.

Dora put a cross through the 'M', and started on the 'Assassins'. She could hear Derrick spraying away. As she completed the 'Assass' she could see that she was running out of space, so angled the 'ins' letters upwards, then she could squeeze 'Out' beneath it. After a little thought, she added a full stop, and then extended it into an exclamation mark. She stood back to look at her work.

Derrick came out of the front garden. Dora could see that he had sprayed 'Pro-Life' across the top of the front window of the bay. It looked a bit ghoulish, as the paint was running down the glass, a bit Halloween. Across the three bay windows he had written 'You', 'Are Not', 'God'. Because of the angle of the windows, you had to walk around to read it all. From any one angle it said 'You Are Not', or 'Are Not God'. Directly from the front, it read 'Pro-Life Are Not'. It reminded Dora of some modern art she had seen at the local gallery.

"Let's go!" said Derrick. They walked down the street, stripping off their facemasks and goggles and stuffing everything into their bag, leaving behind a cloud of paint fumes.

Once in the car and driving away, Dora realised that she didn't feel tired anymore, in fact she was smiling. "That was fun," she said.

# Fifteen

As Jonathon walked down the road towards the VAO office, it was obvious that something was amiss. A police car was parked at the curb, with a uniformed constable standing by a front gate. A couple of people in casual clothes were also standing and looking at the house, exchanging a few words. Somebody else was taking photos. It looked like one of those incidents that requires quite a few people to stand around, but little actual activity.

As he came closer, he could see paint had been sprayed on the downstairs windows of the house next door to VAO, and on the front wall. From his angle of approach, he could see 'God' in yellow dripping letters, but couldn't make out the rest. Jonathon didn't want to draw attention to himself, so slipped up to the VAO office as discretely as possible.

Andrew opened the door and, without any ceremony, drew him inside.

"What's going on out there?" Jonathon asked.

Andrew let out a long sigh, and led Jonathon to a seat at the kitchen table, before replying. "It looks like our location here is no longer a secret," he said. To Jonathon's quizzical look, Andrew continued, resignedly, "You should have a look, if fact, it would be rather strange if you didn't have a look."

Andrew led Jonathon out to the front of the house next door, so that he could inspect the vandalism himself.

"What does that say?" asked Jonathon, "Assass-ins, Assass-outs?"

"I think it is supposed to be 'Assassins Out'," answered Andrew. "Though it could as easily be 'Assassouts In'".

"What about the 'M' with a cross through it?" asked Jonathon.

"I've no idea," replied Andrew.

Jonathon studied the windows, "You Pro Life Are Not God", he read out.

A man approached them. He looked life-worn, with thinning dark hair, bags under his eyes and a slight stoop. His raincoat had a badge attached to the lapel and he was carrying a camera. "Are you a resident here?" he asked them.

"I live there," replied Andrew, nodding at his house next door.

"Any idea who might have done it?" continued the man, addressing Andrew.

"No," replied Andrew, with finality.

"Did you see anything?" he persisted.

"No," repeated Andrew.

"Who are you?" the man asked Jonathon.

"I'm a visitor," responded Jonathon, picking up on Andrew's guarded responses.

Turning back to Andrew, the man asked, "How does it feel to be living next door to somewhere that has been sprayed with Pro-Life graffiti?"

"It is sad that these attacks take place," replied Andrew.

"Are you worried that your house will be next?" the man continued.

"I have to go," said Andrew, and began to lead Jonathon back to the VAO office.

"Hang on," interjected the man, to Andrew, "don't I know you?"

"I don't know you," replied Andrew, and walked off.

Back in the kitchen, Andrew slumped into a chair. "Who was that?" Jonathon asked him.

"Press," replied Andrew, shortly.

"He didn't say that he was Press. Aren't they supposed to tell you before they interview you?" said Jonathon.

"Believe me, it was Press," continued Andrew. "If it sounds like Press and looks like Press and smells like Press, it is Press – I've seen a lot of Press." Heaving himself out of his seat, he asked, "Would you like tea?" Andrew began filling the kettle without waiting for an answer.

"Yes, please," answered Jonathon. "How do you think this will affect you?" he enquired.

"We won't be able to carry on working from here," replied Andrew.

"Just because of one graffiti attack?" queried Jonathon.

"It means that our address has become known; I guess it was bound to happen eventually. We were probably lucky that it was just an inept graffiti gang, there are a lot worse out there. Do you know," he continued, "there are abortion clinics in America where people gather outside every single day and shout abuse at the people going in and out of the building. When we were leading the euthanasia campaign, we used to get every threat under the sun made to us. They damned ourselves, our souls, our mothers and fathers, in fact all of our forbearers and everybody who may come after us. Most of it was hot air, but it only takes a couple that get over-excited, and then they maybe come out with paint sprays, or maybe something else. And there are the neighbours as well; how are they going to feel when they find out they have an assassination bureau just up the street?"

"I don't know why you do it," stated Jonathon.

"Don't know why I do what?" responded Andrew.

"Why do you do the whole assassination thing, if people just hate you for it?" clarified Jonathon.

Andrew finished filling the cups and adding a dash of milk, before setting them down and seating himself.

"During the campaign," he said, "I think we were so energised, it felt like we were at war anyway. These threats were just something else to deal with, another obstacle to overcome. There was so much momentum building, we couldn't stop – once the end was in sight, how could we?"

"And now?" continued Jonathon.

"Now?" replied Andrew, "All those people who voted for us are still out there. We may not be in the news every day, but that doesn't mean that things have changed. This is still what people want, still what they asked for. The fact that there are a few doubters who won't accept that shouldn't really deter us should it? Where would we be if we allowed the radical few to control how we lived?"

"That sounds fine," replied Jonathon, "if you were standing with all of your supporters around you on one side, and the radical few on the other. But actually it is the radical few on one side and just you on the other."

"Yes, and I guess that is why we have to leave," responded Andrew.

"Shouldn't the police be protecting you?" asked Jonathon.

"I think that in this sort of case, the police tend to be more reactive than proactive." replied Andrew. "Which is sort of protecting us, but not in a very comforting way."

They were interrupted by the doorbell. Andrew answered it, and, from within the kitchen, Jonathon could hear Andrew say, "Francis!" with a response of "Detective Constable Broad!" before they both came into the kitchen.

"Hello, Constable Broad," said Jonathon.

"Mr Woods," replied Francis, "I wasn't expecting to find you here."

"I've come to talk to Andrew about the advertisement," replied Jonathon, "but found all this excitement when I got here."

"Advertisement?" exclaimed Andrew.

"I'm not here about the advertisement," replied Francis, "but I heard about the potentially terrorist-related attack and I was sent down here to deal with it."

"Terrorist attack?" exclaimed Andrew.

"Potentially terrorist-related attack," said Francis, gravely. "I think we all need to be fully cognisant of the extent of the situation that is unfolding as we speak."

"I can see some words sprayed on the wrong house," replied Andrew. "Are you aware of anything else?"

"No specific threats have been made at this time," answered Francis. "But the situation may still be developing."

"Have you had any non-specific threats?" asked Andrew.

"Not as such yet," said Francis, "but the possibility in the future cannot be ruled out."

"Yes, I guess that is generally true," responded Andrew. "At least you haven't heard anything particular."

Jasmin opened the back door from the garden and came into the kitchen. "What the hell is going on out there?" she asked. "In fact, what the hell is going on in here?"

"I need to catch up with you on this, later." replied Andrew.

"Ooh, okay, I know my place," responded Jasmin, with mocking humility, "I'll let you men get on with your important business, I'll go through to the office and do a bit of dusting or knitting or something. By the way, I've got a text from Mary, she's in the café at the end of the road, she'll come in once all the kerfuffle has died down."

"Kerfuffle?" queried Andrew.

"Mary's word, not mine," replied Jasmin, and went out into the office in the front room.

"So, you have not received any actual threats," Andrew picked up the conversation with Francis.

"No, nothing specific as yet," agreed Francis. "But we need to urgently review the on-going situation, in particular, running an assassination agency from these premises."

"Yes, I agree," replied Andrew. "As you haven't heard anything specific, then we probably have a few days, but we do need to move to somewhere else."

"I realise it is difficult for you to close down your business," continued Francis, "but in the light of current events, it may be the best course."

"Close down the business!" repeated Andrew, shocked, "Why would we want to do that?"

"With all this and everything else that has happened," replied Francis.

"Everything what?" accused Andrew. "We had nothing to do with Mrs Parsons' murder, and that has nothing to do with the spray painting of next door – or do you know that these events are connected?"

"I don't have any information to that effect," admitted Francis.

"This isn't just any business, you know!" continued Andrew, heatedly. "Even if we wanted to close down - which we don't - we have commitments to our clients; we have contracts, employees. Plus, we have a moral obligation to continue. Do you think that we should give away all that just because somebody has sprayed a few words on a wall?"

"Well, no," replied Francis, defensively. "But what with everything."

"What are you going to do about the spray painting?" Jonathon asked Francis, to cool things down a bit.

"We will investigate thoroughly," offered Francis.

"Any clues at the moment?" continued Jonathon.

"We don't think they are professional sign-writers," responded Francis. "The poor consistency of the paint and the squashed up lettering – I think it is probably kids."

"Really?" responded Jonathon.

"Did you see that crossed out 'M'?" continued Francis, "That's a 'tag'."

"A 'tag'?" repeated Jonathon.

"Yes, it's like a signature that kids place on their work," replied Francis. "All we have to do is look out for other crossed out 'M's and we will be homing in on the culprit."

"So you will be going out and reading all the graffiti in the area?" said Jonathon.

"Exactly," stated Francis.

"Didn't you say that you thought this was a terrorist act?" asked Andrew.

"Kids can be terrorists," responded Francis, "all the more reason to catch them now, whilst they are still young."

"I feel safer already," commented Andrew. Turning to Jonathon, he asked, "What's this about an advertisement?"

Jonathon reached into his bag for a print out of the local paper advertisement and handed it to Andrew, Francis peered at it over his shoulder.

"This appeared in last week's edition of the local paper," Jonathon said. "It got out without the editor noticing, but once he saw it, he contacted us."

"And yet you, as an assassination agency, are not allowed to advertise," stated Francis, unnecessarily.

"Yes, I'm aware of that, Francis, thank you," answered Andrew. "We did not place this advert."

"It's got your name on it," pointed out Francis.

"Have you any ideas where the advertisement might have come from?" asked Jonathon.

"Well the content is very familiar," said Andrew. "The words have been lifted from our web site – except for the address, we don't reveal our address anywhere."

"So," responded Francis, "how can the person who placed this advert know your address, if it is such a secret?"

"I imagine that will be one of your lines of enquiry," replied Andrew. "Maybe you will see it sprayed on a wall somewhere."

Jasmin wandered into the kitchen and picked a biscuit from the tin, then paused to look at the advertisement.

"Who's been posting us all over an advert?" asked Jasmin.

"That's just what Francis here is going to find out," replied Andrew.

"Unless it was someone here that did it!" said Francis.

"How was the advert placed?" Jasmin asked.

"According to the editor," replied Jonathon, "an envelope with the details and the money were pushed through the paper's letterbox overnight – it's not that unusual, apparently."

"Wouldn't have been us then, would it," responded Jasmin.. "Why would we need all the cloak and dagger stuff?"

"Unless you were trying to hide your intentions!" said Francis.

"There's no fooling Miss Marple, is there," responded Jasmin.

"If you didn't do it," continued Jonathon, "who do you think might have placed the advert?"

"Anybody who wants to discredit VAO," replied Andrew. "There are lots of groups that don't like the assassination business – religious, pro-life, right wing, left wing, take your pick. They may not have been trying to particularly get at us, it could be assassination generally."

"But they would need to know your address?" pointed out Jonathon.

"Yes," agreed Andrew, "somehow they needed to find out we were here."

"Who knows that you are here?" asked Francis.

"You do," interjected Jasmin.

"Your secrets are perfectly safe with me!" responded Francis.

"Who would ever suggest that there might be a corrupt policeman?" replied Jasmin.

"Let's keep this on track," Andrew directed. "Who knows our address – the police, the Ministry."

"And you," added Jonathon, "you know your address."

"It's not one of us!" scoffed Jasmin.

"No, he's right," stated Andrew, "for completeness sake, the police, the Ministry and us."

"What about the tax people?" asked Jonathon.

"No," answered Andrew, "we don't give them our address, just the Ministry."

"That could be quite a few people," said Jonathon.

"At least one too many," responded Andrew.

"I've been thinking," said Jonathon, he wanted to tell them about the analysis into Mrs Parsons' murder that he had done, and the conclusions he had derived about the possible motives of the murderer. He had gone through it in his mind during the journey to the house, and it had seemed so logical and sensible. However, now, faced with presenting it, it felt very academic and rather peculiar. As he had started speaking, he now had to continue, "about Mrs Parsons' murder," he added.

They all looked at Jonathon expectantly.

"Just working through it," continued Jonathon, "I had thought that there could be a couple of different motives for her murder. But now that this advertisement has been put out, and the graffiti attack, it really feels like somebody is making a concerted attack on VAO. Perhaps Mrs Parsons' killing is part of that."

"So you are saying," clarified Andrew, "that Mrs Parsons was murdered just to stop us completing our contract with her."

"It's a possibility," replied Jonathon.

"Which would make VAO accessories!" blurted out Francis.

Andrew ignored Francis and continued, "Okay, it's a possibility, and I guess it would fit in with the spray-painting and the advertisement. You said you had some other potential motives?"

"I just had two others," answered Jonathon. "One was to stop Mrs Parsons from doing something in the future."

"Stop her doing something in the future?" queried Andrew.

"Yes," clarified Jonathon, "by killing her now, you stop her doing something undesirable in the future."

"Like what?" asked Francis.

"Like giving birth to the anti-Christ," suggested Jasmin.

"I was thinking more like changing her will, or something," replied Jonathon, and continued, "The second is less specific, it could be that the killer just liked killing."

"Sounds like Brian," said Jasmin.

"Who?" said Jonathon and Francis, simultaneously.

"Brian," answered Andrew, "was a chap we interviewed for a job here."

"He killed Scarlet," Jasmin said to Francis.

Francis was hurriedly pulling out his notebook. "Scarlet has been murdered!" he exclaimed.

Andrew gave Jasmin a look, "Scarlet is our rabbit," he said to Francis, "and she has not been murdered."

"Brian would have murdered her though," continued Jasmin, ignoring Andrew.

"What do you know about this Brian?" demanded Francis.

Andrew sighed, and answered, "Brian applied for a position here, we interviewed him and decided he wasn't the right person for the job. I'm sure he has nothing to do with all this."

"Everybody is a suspect until proven otherwise," responded Francis. "That's how the police work."

"I'll tell Scarlet," said Jasmin. "She'll need to work on her alibi."

"And what is the suspect's relationship to Scarlet?" continued Francis.

Andrew was now fixing Jasmin with a steady gaze, daring her to make further trouble. "As part of the interview process," he said, "we asked the candidates to give a rabbit a supposedly lethal injection – it was not lethal, just a mild tranquiliser – in retrospect it was a pretty poor idea."

"Scarlet is the rabbit, and Brian gave her the injection," clarified Francis.

"Yes," confirmed Andrew. "But no harm was done."

"I need to speak to this Brian," declared Francis. "Do you have his details?"

"I've got his cv." replied Andrew, resignedly, "I'll email it to you."

"I'm going to get onto this right away," stated Francis, rising from his seat.

"I'll come with you," said Jonathon, picking up his bag and also heading for the front door. "Don't forget to notify the Ministry once you have a new address," he added, to Andrew.

"And the police," said Francis.

"Once I know, you will know," responded Andrew, as he opened the front door to let them out.

As they stepped out, the reporter was there to meet them.

"You're Andrew Benson, the assassination guy," he said, accusingly, to Andrew. "How does it feel to be responsible for damage done to your neighbour's property?" he demanded.

"No comment," replied Andrew, and ducked back into the house, closing the front door.

"Who are you?" the reported said, turning on Francis.

Francis adopted a peculiar formal stance, head up, feet apart, hands behind his back and looking away over the reporters right shoulder, as if he were preparing for a firing squad.

"I am Detective Constable Broad of the Metropolitan CID." Francis replied.

The reporter took Francis' photo and talked at the same time. "Who do you think is responsible for this spray paint attack? Was it a local Pro-Life group? Do you have any suspects?"

"We are continuing to investigate matters surrounding a serious crime," intoned Francis. "We urge any members of the public who have any information to come forward at this time. Other than that, we have no comment to make at this time," he added.

"So, at this time," responded the reporter, "you must be thinking that this is a Pro-Life attack, what with Andrew Benson living next door? What were you talking to Mr Benson about?"

"Mr Benson is helping us with our enquiries on a serious matter," replied Francis.

"Is this serious matter something other than the spray painting of his next door neighbour?" asked the reporter, sensing a bigger story.

"I can't comment on an on-going police investigation," responded Francis, and made to walk away.

The reporter stepped across Francis' path, and continued, "Do you have any suspects?"

"I am actively following up a number leads," Francis replied, as he pushed past the reporter and reached his car. Jonathon had gone around the other side and was waiting at the passenger door to be let in.

"Who are you?" demanded the reporter, turning his attention to Jonathon.

"I'm a visitor," repeated Jonathon, as he ducked into the sanctuary of the car.

The reporter took another couple of pictures of the back of the car, as they drove away.

As they turned the corner at the end of the street, Jonathon said to Francis, "I'd like to have a talk with you about how we can work together on this case."

"Don't like to talk when I'm driving," replied Francis. "It pays to keep your mind on the road."

"There're a couple of cafés in the High Street," suggested Jonathon, "why don't we stop in there."

A few minutes later, after a careful examination of the parking regulations and a longer, and more difficult, consideration of the vast selection of coffees and other drinks available, they were seated in a corner of the half empty café.

Jonathon opened the conversation with, "I think that we should really be working together on this case."

"I can't share any confidential information with you," replied Francis.

"You already have," Jonathon pointed out, "when we last had a coffee and you told me all about the death of Mrs Parsons. No harm came of that did it?"

"No, not as yet," responded Francis.

"Do you think that I'm the culprit?" Jonathon asked.

"No," replied Francis, "you work for the Ministry."

"Well, I don't think you did it either," commented Jonathon. "It can only help if we work together. You need to know what information the Ministry has to help you solve the murder, and I need to know what the police have in mind to help me sort out what's going on with VAO. What do you think?"

Francis took a contemplative sip of froth from his latte. "As long as it is clear that the murder is a police investigation, and you are assisting me with our enquiries," he said.

"Of course," replied Jonathon. "So, do you think that this Brian is a real suspect?" he asked.

Francis leaned into Jonathon, conspiratorially, "What people have missed about Brian," he said, "is that it is the same MO."

"What?" replied Jonathon, surprised.

"Modus Operandi," clarified Francis. "The syringe and the tranquiliser, the rabbit and Mrs Parsons. It struck me as soon as they started to talk about it."

"But, do you think that Brian could have been responsible for everything, or just the murder?" asked Jonathon.

"Could be. It's hard to say at this stage," replied Francis.

"It depends on whether you think that each of the murder, the advertisement and the spray painting are separate incidents, or that they are all part of one strategy," suggested Jonathon.

"They all involve VAO," said Francis, "I suppose they could be linked."

"In which case," pressed Jonathon, "Brian would have needed to have done all three. Do you think he could have done that?"

"Maybe," replied Francis.

"How about we try to break this down a bit," said Jonathon. "If Mrs P's death is related to VAO, then the killer would have needed to know that she was on VAO's books – who would know that?"

"Your lot, the Ministry," replied Francis.

"And the police," said Jonathon.

"No, not the police," responded Francis. "We don't know what they are up to until they call in to tell us to come and look at their latest victim."

"Only the Ministry would know?" repeated Jonathon, rather shocked at the implications. He pressed on before he became distracted, "Okay, the advertisement; anybody could set up the advertisement and get the wording off of the VAO web page, but who would know the address of VAO?"

"Your lot," repeated Francis.

"Yes, the Ministry," agreed Jonathon, "and the police, would the police know this one?"

"Yes, we can look up their address," said Francis. "Provided you have the right access, or know the right people."

"What about the spray painting, who could have done that?" continued Jonathon.

"Absolutely anybody," responded Francis. "Except that you need to be over the age of sixteen to purchase spray paints – not that that has ever stopped someone."

"If we presume that all three acts were performed by the same person," said Jonathon, "then this means that they must have been from the Ministry and over sixteen years of age." As he said it, Jonathon realised that it sounded pretty ridiculous. He felt hard done by; his education had always led him to believe that applying logic to a situation would provide a sensible result. At the same time Sherlock Holmes' phrase about 'the least likely must be true' wandered through his mind. Was he just repelled by an unpleasant suggestion?

"How many people work at the Ministry?" asked Francis.

"Lots," replied Jonathon, "and they are all over sixteen."

"Nice try," continued Francis. "You see now why these things are best left to the professionals."

Francis' phone whistled. He looked down and swiped the screen a few times. "That is the email from Andrew with Brian's details," he said. "I'd better be off. Let me know if you come across a killer when you get back to your office."

Francis was already walking away when Jonathon called after him. "Except..." he said, "except if it was one of VAO. They know all of this."

"Inside job," responded Francis, "wouldn't surprise me, bunch of killers."

# Sixteen

Later that day, Andrew held a meeting with all of the VAO staff, around the kitchen table. There was a big pot of tea and a large plate of biscuits, as he knew this would not be a pleasant get-together.

"You've all seen the graffiti outside," stated Andrew. "The first thing I've got to say is to Mary - really, this is the first time anything like this has happened. When we offered you a job here I had no idea it would turn out like this."

"Please don't worry unduly about me," said Mary, coolly, "this affects everybody."

"And how do you all feel about it?" asked Andrew, generally.

"Not the redecoration I would have chosen for next door," responded Jasmin. "That shade of violent yellow, it's very difficult to carry off."

"Seriously!" insisted Andrew.

"Oh, come on Andrew!" replied Jasmin. "You've had people throw rocks at you before, what's the big deal?"

"That was different," said Andrew, "that was during the campaign, that was, well, war - this is peace."

"So, you're worried about innocent bystanders?" suggested Stewart.

"Yes," confirmed Andrew. "And us as well. It's not the graffiti, it is what comes next."

"You're expecting an escalation?" asked Mary.

"There are a lot of people with very strong feelings about VA," replied Andrew. "To some we are nothing short of murderers."

"Murderers," repeated Mary.

"I know this must be a shock to you," Andrew said to Mary. "Thinking back now, I'm not sure we had the right to bring you in."

"Oh, I know all that," replied Mary, dismissively. "'Murderers', that is what the 'M' is. They were going to write 'Murderers' but changed their mind."

"You don't think it's a 'tag' then?" asked Andrew.

They all looked at Andrew as if he had two heads. "Don't mind me," continue Andrew, "just a silly idea."

"You were talking about an escalation," prompted Mary.

"Yes," continued Andrew, "for a start, the whole street will soon know that they have an Assassination Agency down the road, and they aren't going to be happy about that."

"Not if it means more spontaneous redecoration," agreed Stewart.

"And then who knows what?" said Andrew, "Protesters, blockades - that's if we're lucky."

"You can't run a business under those conditions," stated Mary.

"No, we can't," agreed Andrew. "The question is, what do we do with the business?"

"What do we do with the business, what?" repeated Jasmin, uncertainly.

"I believe what Andrew is asking," said Mary, "is whether VAO should carry on operating."

"Is that right?" responded Jasmin, aghast, then slowly and deliberately, "You are not REALLY asking that!"

"At first, it didn't even enter my mind," replied Andrew. "But then I realised that it is not just me, it is all of you. It's one thing for me to be dragged into whatever this turns out to be, but it's not right to expect all of you to be dragged along beside me. I mean, this could be dangerous."

Jasmin was glaring at Andrew, for want of something heavy and sharp to throw at him. Stewart took a sip of his tea. Mary was looking down at her notepad, doodling small, interconnected, circles.

"We can move VAO to my house," said Mary. Now they all stared at Mary.

"There isn't much equipment, so that shouldn't be a problem," continued Mary. "You'll have to move in as well, Andrew, until you can find another place. Gosh, what will the neighbours say," she continued, airily, "moving a younger man in just a couple of years after Richard has died, and a black one at that!"

"Room for a rabbit?" asked Jasmin.

"I have a big garden," Mary replied, "rabbit heaven; though I might have to do something about the foxes," she added thoughtfully.

"Need somewhere secure for the drugs," commented Stewart.

"I have a small safe, these days all it has in it is my passport," responded Mary.

"Wait, wait, wait!" interjected Andrew. "We can't let you do this, Mary. I mean, I'm very grateful for your offer, but you've only been here a couple of weeks, we can't take over your life."

"Where else are you going to go?" questioned Mary. "Jasmin is packing up to leave, she doesn't want lots of equipment and a lodger. I presume Stewart's place isn't suitable."

Stewart shook his head, "No room in my gaff," he confirmed.

"Whereas I have a large house with rooms I hardly even go into," Mary continued. "Don't worry, you can have your own bathroom."

"It's too much, Mary," objected Andrew. "Very, very generous; but we've got to find somewhere else."

"Really?" commented Mary, "You'll find new offices in the next couple of days, and in secret so that nobody knows what you are up to and where you've gone?"

"But people will know we've gone to your place." Andrew pointed out.

"How?" asked Mary.

"They will know you work here and work out that we've gone to your house," replied Andrew.

"How?" repeated Mary. "How will they know that I work here and how will they knew where I live?"

"Well...." Andrew responded, doubtfully.

"Unless," said Stewart, "they had been staking out this place previously, spotted you and followed you home."

"That's what you would do is it?" asked Mary, of Stewart.

"Some people might," replied Stewart.

"Putting aside the circumstance where I've been stalked," continued Mary, "nobody knows about me or my house."

"They will be able to follow the van when we move," said Andrew, with inspiration. "They will know exactly where we have gone."

"I can handle that," said Stewart.

"It's," said Andrew, struggling, "just too big an imposition. We can't disrupt your life."

"Ah, too late for that," replied Mary, wistfully, "disrupt away. It won't be for ever, just until you can sell this place and buy another quiet little house somewhere."

"Well," said Andrew, defeatedly, "what sort of Internet connection do you have?"

"Just normal broadband," replied Mary.

"We will have to boost that up," Andrew responded.

"Talking about addresses," said Stewart, "how did they find out we were here?"

"Somebody posted an advertisement in the local paper," answered Jasmin, "with our address."

"Oh," responded Stewart, "interesting."

"The police think that local kids saw it and targeted us," said Andrew.

"The police?" queried Stewart.

"Francis," answered Jasmin.

"Right," responded Stewart, "it's not kids."

"Why not?" asked Andrew.

"The fact that Miss Marple thinks it is, is good enough," interjected Jasmin, "bloody halfwit."

Ignoring Jasmin, Andrew looked at Stewart for an explanation.

"If it was local kids," said Stewart, "they would know the street; they wouldn't spray the wrong house."

"Nooo...," replied Andrew, doubtfully.

"And," continued Stewart, "if you were fourteen and had a spray can in your hand, what words would you write? Something with four letters and less punctuation."

"You think so?" asked Mary, teasingly.

"So I'm told," responded Stewart.

"Who do you think did it?" Mary asked Stewart.

"Well, we know somebody is out to nobble VAO, now," replied Stewart. "But we don't know if it is one person or lots of people."

"We don't know that everything is connected," responded Andrew. "We can join up the advertisement and the graffiti, but we don't know whether Mrs Parson's death is part of it."

"Yes," agreed Stewart, "it doesn't add up."

"Looks like we won't solve it here," stated Mary. "Perhaps we should begin packing?"

"Start with the office?" suggested Jasmin.

"I need to make some calls," said Stewart, and went out the back door.

"I'll clear up here," said Andrew, but he didn't get up out of his seat at the table.

Jasmin and Mary left Andrew in the kitchen and went through to the front room to begin packing.

"Poor Andrew," said Mary to Jasmin, "this is pretty disturbing for him."

"He'll bounce back," replied Jasmin. "Once he gets used to the idea. For someone who wanted to overthrow the system, he's not very good with change."

"Men can be complicated." Stated Mary.

"Like Richard?" replied Jasmin, "Was Richard complicated?"

Mary looked at Jasmin kindly, and let out a sigh; with it went her defensiveness as she found she that really she wanted to let Jasmin in.

"Richard," Mary said, pulling open a drawer and beginning to empty it, "was Richard \- thank goodness."

"Husband?" enquired Jasmin.

"For thirty years," replied Mary. "I'm sure that sounds an eternity to you, but it feels like a long afternoon to me."

"And he died two years ago?" continued Jasmin.

"He died a bit before that really," continued Mary. She stopped pulling things out of the drawer and stood holding a stapler in her hand. "Richard was such a vibrant man," she said, "full of ideas, very artistic - completely different from me - he drove me mad." She laughed, shortly, "Every day you never knew what he would come up with, something new, something novel, exciting. We were so different. Opposites attract, as they say."

"What happened?" Jasmin continued.

Mary began to pick items out of the drawer again. "He contracted a wasting disease, nobody knows why. First his body went, then his mind. It took a long time. Not a nice way to go."

"That must have been awful," responded Jasmin.

"Awful for everybody," replied Mary. "Richard raged against it; he was so angry that this should happen to him, so frustrated when he couldn't do things and finally so desperate when even his brain was betraying him."

"Awful for you as well," continued Jasmin.

"Honestly, half of me wanted to run away," said Mary. "It was not just that I hated seeing his pain, but I was so afraid that all I would remember of Richard was the little bit that remained of him in his final days. Not that I did, run away, that is. I saw it through as best I could. I couldn't have managed without the nurses, they were godsends – but even then I resented how, well, nurse-like, they were with him. Richard ended up as just a patient, and that's not my Richard, not at all."

"Did it affect how you remember him?" asked Jasmin.

Mary paused and looked, unseeing, out of the front window, considering. "Yes," she answered, "I keep trying to bring back the old memories, of how we were before. God knows we weren't the perfect couple and there were bad times and good, but those final years were too much sadness."

"Did you ever consider euthanasia?" queried Jasmin.

"Considered it, enquired about it, discussed it, at least while he was still rational," replied Mary.

"But you didn't follow through with it," stated Jasmin.

"Richard had a very healthy understanding of his own limitations," explained Mary. "Once we had sat down and described the process, how he would have to be packed up and taken abroad, then get the permissions after doctors examinations, and then, finally, to be in a room with the lethal dose or the lethal injection or whatever it was. He knew he wouldn't go through with it. Somehow we expect ill people to be very brave, but Richard knew he was not brave enough. He was stuck, didn't want to die slowly and couldn't die quickly."

"Would he have wanted assassination?" continued Jasmin.

Mary gave Jasmin a sidelong look. "Of course, this was before your time, assassination was not an option," she said. "I think he would have. Not just for himself, but for me as well, he didn't want me to have to go through all the pain of those years. I have this daydream sometimes, of Richard trundling out into the back garden to look at his sculptures – the garden is full of his creations – he used to go round and touch each one. He used to say that touching them brought back all the feelings that he had put into them. They were like memories made solid for him. I imagine that he goes round and touches each one, and then that is the end, his life is finished and he never comes back into the house. What a better ending that would have been."

Jasmin reached out to touch Mary's shoulder, but Mary slipped away, and the absent look in her eye was replaced by a firm return to the present.

"Now you know," said Mary, pleasantly.

"This is why you are here, with us," stated Jasmin.

"It certainly isn't for the tea and biscuits," replied Mary.

"And, it is why we can move into your house," continued Jasmin.

"As I say, you are not really going to disrupt me," answered Mary.

Stewart was passing in the hall, on his way out and stuck his head in through the doorway. "I'm just going to get the van," he said, "I'll be back in a couple of hours."

"Before you go," said Mary, "there is something I wanted to ask you."

Mary joined Steward out in the hall, by the front door, as Jasmin continued packing.

"What doesn't add up?" asked Mary of Stewart.

"How'd you mean?" replied Stewart.

"When we were talking about the graffiti," continued Mary, "you said that it doesn't add up, what did you mean?"

Stewart's eyes moved to check that there was nobody close by and said, low, to Mary, "If these people want to finish VAO, and they are prepared to kill Mrs Parsons, why don't they just kill Andrew?"

"Yes, I thought that was what you meant," replied Mary.

Two shadows blocked off the light through the glazing on the front door, and the doorbell rang. Stewart opened it to find a couple of men in uniforms.

"Good afternoon," the man at the front said, "we are from the Royal Society for Prevention of Cruelty to Animals."

# Seventeen

Brian was sitting in his car, at the far end of the street where VAO had their office. Normally he would have parked a bit closer, so that he had a better view of the comings and goings, but there had been a lot of activity around the house that morning, so he had backed off. He had just returned from a reconnoitre of the VAO house. Walking purposefully, not to fast, but not dawdling, he had passed by VAO, his phone held casually in his hand. He had fired off a stream of photos as he had gone by. Safely back in his vehicle, he could now have a look and see what he had taken. Mostly rooftops and sky, some of the front of the VAO house, with the usual netted windows, nothing to see there. A couple had caught the house next to VAO, rather ill focussed, but he could see a lot of yellow paint splashed about, they looked like words, but were difficult to make out.

Brian's phone rang, a 'withheld' number, he saw, as he answered it. "Good afternoon," said a voice, "is that Mr Brian Tonbridge?"

"Yes," responded Brian, warily.

"This is Detective Constable Broad of the CID, I'd like to speak to you on a matter of some urgency," Francis said.

Brian's heart went to his mouth, "Oh!" he said.

"Hello?" Francis continued, "Are you still there?"

"Yes," replied Brian, "I am."

"Where are you at the moment?" asked Francis.

Stay calm, Brian told himself, think Marlow, think James Bond. "I'm at work," he replied.

"Could you give me your address?" responded Francis. "Perhaps we can talk there."

"I'm very busy at the moment," replied Brian. "I'm in a meeting," he added, and immediately regretted it; after all, if he was in a meeting, why was he answering his phone?

"This is a matter of important police business," continued Francis. "Would you be available later today, or would you prefer to come to the police station?"

"Perhaps I could come to the police station," answered Brian.

"Okay," said Francis. "Would three o'clock be suitable?"

"Could you tell me what this is about?" enquired Brian.

"We are following up an investigation and believe that you can help us with our enquiries," replied Francis. "That's all I can tell you at the moment. Don't worry, you are not under arrest or anything."

"No, I didn't imagine I was," replied Brian, feeling utterly guilty already.

"Three o'clock then?" said Francis.

Brian listened as Francis gave him the details of the police station, including how to get there, where to park and what to say to the officer at the front desk. Brian took a few scribbled notes and ended the call.

Brian sat for a moment, shocked, his thoughts jumping around inside his head like Irish dancers in red-hot slippers. What had he just done? He'd lied to the police - sort of, he was at work, but he wasn't in a meeting. Damn, damn, why had he said that? What did they want? What did they know? He hadn't done anything illegal had he? Watching somebody's house, that wasn't illegal. What about following Mary back to her house and looking through her dustbin to find a letter with her name on it - was that illegal? Probably. Definitely suspicious. But the police couldn't know that, could they. Could they? What about operation 'Splat'? He needed to get a grip on himself. What would Marlow do? He'd lounge in his chair in a darkened interrogation room, picked out by a spotlight, and blow smoke in their faces. That didn't help. Or maybe it did, think like Marlow. Be cool. The police think they can pump him for information, no chance! They don't realise who they are dealing with.

Brian returned to his phone and rang Gloria.

"Brian," said Gloria, as she picked up the call, "what have you got to tell me?"

"Thought I'd let you know that the rozzers are on my tail, I'll be swinging by the station this afternoon," drawled Brian.

"What?" responded Gloria. "Speak English! Are you ill? Who is Rozzer?"

"The police," explained Brian, as Marlow faded into a cloud of his own cigarette smoke. "They want to ask me some questions."

"The police!" exploded Gloria. "What have you done? Where are you? What did they say?"

"I'm in my car, keeping an eye on VAO," replied Brian.

"Did they catch you there?" responded Gloria. "What did you tell them?"

"No," answered Brian. "They just rang me. They want me to help with their enquiries."

"How do they know your number?" demanded Gloria.

"I don't know," said Brian, "somebody must have given it to them."

"Well, it wasn't me!" replied Gloria, defensively. "Who else knows your number?"

"Lots of people," said Brian, feeling that this conversation was drifting off course. "The point is, I'm going to the police station to talk to them this afternoon."

"Do they know my number?" asked Gloria.

"When they rang," continued Brian, ignoring the question, "I said that I was at work, so you have got to cover for me."

"What have you told them?" enquired Gloria.

"I haven't told them anything yet," answered Brian. "I just told them that I was at work so I couldn't talk until later."

"They didn't say anything about 'Splat'?" continued Gloria.

"No. They said that I wasn't under arrest, just helping with enquiries," replied Brian.

"Well, could be anything." said Gloria, "could be a traffic incident, could be a dog gone missing – why do I have to cover for you?"

"I told them that I was at work," replied Brian.

"You are at work," agreed Gloria.

"I told them I was in a meeting," continued Brian.

"Who with?" asked Gloria.

"I wasn't in a meeting with anybody," answered Brian.

"You just said that you were," continued Gloria.

"Ah," said Brian, as inspiration struck him, "I'll say that I was going to a meeting, that's why I couldn't talk to them now."

"Another meeting," said Gloria.

"No, no," repeated Brian, with uncontrolled emphasis. "There wasn't a meeting at all, but I am on my way to one."

"With the same people?" queried Gloria.

"With you," replied Brian, "I'm on my way to have a meeting with you, I'll be there in a half an hour."

"What are we meeting about?" asked Gloria.

"A work update, to catch up on things," replied Brian. "I'll tell you about the yellow paint on VAO's house."

"Yellow?" said Gloria, with surprise, "That's so last year."

"I'll see you in half an hour or so," responded Brian, as he ended the call.

# Eighteen

Jonathon arrived back at the Ministry to find, unsurprisingly, half a screenful of emails requiring his attention. One was from the department head, entitled, "Enquiry into Voluntary Assassination (Organic)". The thought that this was a very precise title slipped through Jonathon's mind, the head usually preferring brief, or even absent, titles to her emails.

The email began by explaining that the Ministry had been contacted by the RSPCA, to obtain the address of VAO, so that they could investigate a claim of animal cruelty. It then contained a message of encouragement, "I would like to assure you of my complete support as you perform the enquiry into the affairs of VAO. Do not hesitate to draw on the resources of the department, or myself, as you bring this important affair to a timely conclusion."

Jonathon's heart sank. The meaning of the message was clear; the heat was on over VAO, get it sorted out quickly and if it goes wrong, you are on your own.

Jonathon considered his alternatives. The clearest and easiest, would be to bring down VAO. There was already enough evidence, actual or circumstantial, for him to spin together a justification for getting them deregistered. It was far safer, from the Ministry's viewpoint, to get rid of a potentially troublesome agency than to wait until they did something that brought the Ministry into disrepute.

The alternative, was to show that the forces against VAO are even more disreputable. This had the advantage of probably being true, but was much more difficult, especially as he had no idea of who these forces are. It also appealed to Jonathon's sense of righteousness, something that he hoped to cling on to during his career.

He read the email again. It referred to a 'timely' conclusion rather than an 'immediate' one, so he had some time to find out who was against VAO. What he would do if the time ran out and he still didn't have any culprits was a question he would defer until that time came.

Jonathon's mind turned once again to his detective work. The last session with Francis hadn't been very satisfactory - deciding that the villains were either from within the Ministry or one of VAO staff. Thinking now, he wondered why he found these ideas unsatisfactory. They were perfectly valid and possible. Was this what a detective referred to as their 'gut' feeling, basically, something that didn't fit into their construction of the world? Jonathon didn't see Sherlock having any truck with that! He resolved to keep a logical approach, and that these two were potential suspects.

Now he had another piece of the puzzle; somebody had reported VAO to the RSPCA, probably, he abruptly realised, because of the rabbit business. This meant that the person must be very aware of the workings of VAO. Yet there was an inconsistency that troubled him. The RSPCA had contacted the Ministry to find out the address of VAO. How could someone, who knew the operations of VAO so well, not know their address? Or, perhaps they had known it, but forgotten to tell the RSPCA when they made the complaint. Once again, this seemed odd. On one side was the murder of Mrs P and the placing of the advertisement. These had both been performed with careful and considered preparation. On the other side were the graffiti and the call to the RSPCA, which seemed sloppy in execution. It occurred to him that Francis had talked about 'modus operandi'. He could feel that he had a natural reluctance to give credence to anything that Francis thought. However, he had attended plenty of training sessions where he had been encouraged to treat seriously even the opinions of the most ignorant person in the room, as they may have a valid contribution. Perhaps Francis should not be written off. Perhaps this was a case of two different 'modus', one careful and considered, the other more wilful and haphazard. In which case he should be looking for two people.

Not that this changed the scope of his suspects. If he was to get any further, he needed to know more about the backgrounds of the people in VAO, and he needed to start looking around for dubious characters within the Ministry.

# Nineteen

Francis and Brian were sitting across a table in one of the interview rooms of the police station. It was a typical, anonymous, interview room; hard table, hard chairs, hard floor, bare walls, strip lights and a high window so that you could look up to see the grey sky. It meant that you were halfway to prison already.

Francis sat up at the table, his notebook open before him. Brian lounged, as best he could, in his chair, hands half in his pockets. Behind Brian, in a corner of the room, stood a uniformed constable.

Francis pressed a button on a small console that was built into the table and said, "This is a video and audio recording of an interview between Detective Constable Broad, CID, and Brian Tonbridge. Constable Peer in attendance."

"Shouldn't you say the date and time?" asked Brian.

Francis eyed Brian in way that, he hoped, conveyed that he was fully in control of the situation and, moreover, that he already knew everything there was to know about Brian, down to what he had eaten for breakfast that morning.

"That's all automatic." Francis replied, "I think you can leave all the policing side of this to me," he added.

"For sure," commented Brian, "we all know we can trust the police, right?"

Francis ignored this remark, and started on his list of questions. Pushing a calendar across to Brian, he pointed to a spot nine days ago, it was the day that Mrs Parsons had been murdered.

"Mr Tonbridge, can you tell me your whereabouts on this day?" asked Francis.

"That's over a week ago," stated Brian, "I guess I was probably at work."

"What about in the afternoon," continued Francis.

"Probably at work," repeated Brian.

"And other people at your work place can verify that?" asked Francis.

"Well, I could have been out of the office," answered Brian, vaguely, "It's hard to say. What's this about?"

"An elderly lady was murdered on that afternoon, Mr Tonbridge," replied Francis, dramatically. "And I need to see if you can help us with our inquiries."

"What!" exclaimed Brian, sitting up. "You don't think I had anything to do with that?"

"As I say, I have inquiries to make," responded Francis, enigmatically. "Where do you work?"

"I work," Brian paused as if considering, "for an undertakers."

"And their name is?" said Francis.

"Wiggins and Sons," replied Brian.

"Just up on the High Street?" asked Francis.

"No, at the head office, in Camden," responded Brian.

"The address of 'Wiggins and Sons' in Camden is?" continued Francis.

"It's not actually called 'Wiggins and Sons', it's an affiliate," said Brian.

"The name of the affiliate, then?" pursued Francis.

"GWAA," said Brian.

"GWAA?" repeated Francis.

"Gloria Wiggins Assassination Agency," said Brian, finally.

"Assassination Agency," repeated Francis. He sat back and gave Brian his 'we've got you dead to rights' look.

"A lot of people don't like the assassination agencies," explained Brian. "We tend to be a bit quiet about it."

"I don't think that you should consider the police to be 'people', Mr Tonbridge," replied Francis.

"But you are people," said Brian, "underneath."

"Don't think of me as Detective Constable Broad," stated Francis, leaning on the table towards Brian. "Think of me as the whole institution of the law sitting opposite you."

"Right," responded Brian.

"Let's go over this again," stated Francis. "On the afternoon in question, you were at work at the Gloria Wiggins Assassination Agency in Camden?"

"I might not have been in the office," replied Brian. "I might have been out."

Francis looked at Brian, and waited.

"Probably out," continued Brian.

"Probably out of the office," repeated Francis, "and can anybody corroborate where you probably were?"

"No, I was on my own," replied Brian, "but I'm sure that my boss will back me up."

"Of course," responded Francis, "but they weren't actually with you, out of the office?"

"No," admitted Brian.

Francis sat for a moment, nodding gently in Brian's direction, then continued. "What do you do at the assassination agency, Mr Tonbridge?" he asked.

"Well, bit of everything, really," replied Brian. "There are only the two of us, Miss Wiggins and me," he explained.

"Miss Wiggins being your boss," Francis stated, "of Gloria Wiggins Assassination Agency."

"That's right," agreed Brian.

"Part of 'Wiggins and Sons' undertakers," continued Francis.

"An affiliate," said Brian.

"Are you an assassin, Mr Tonbridge?" asked Francis, directly.

"Well," replied Brian, hesitantly, "not really. I mean, I haven't assassinated anybody."

"But you are employed as an assassin?" continued Francis.

"An 'Assassination Operative'," admitted Brian.

"Ever used a hypodermic needle?" pressed Francis, "Are you familiar with giving injections?"

"Well," said Brian, "sometimes."

"When have you used a hypodermic needle?" continued Francis.

"Sometimes, if a pigeon is injured, I'll finish them off with an injection," admitted Brian.

"Pigeons," responded Francis. "Have you ever injected anything other than pigeons, a person perhaps?"

"No!" replied Brian.

"But you would," continued Francis, "as part of your work as an assassin?"

"Maybe," answered Brian.

"Why 'maybe'? Isn't that what assassins do?" stated Francis.

"Yes but, there are other ways of killing people," responded Brian. "Not that I killed this lady – I didn't have anything to do with that!"

Francis sat back again, pulled his notebook towards him and paused while he referred to it.

"Have you heard of the Voluntary Assassination bracket Organic close-bracket agency?" Francis asked.

"Yes, I had an interview with them," responded Brian.

"And how did that interview go?" continued Francis.

"What has this to do with the murdered lady?" asked Brian.

"Why don't you tell me?" demanded Francis.

"I don't know!" exclaimed Brian, "I told you, I don't know anything about her."

"How did that interview go?" repeated Francis.

"It went, fine, I think," said Brian.

"Good, you were pretty happy with the interview?" continued Francis.

"Yes," replied Brian, "it was okay."

"You didn't mind the rabbit?" asked Francis, accusingly.

"The rabbit!" responded Brian.

"You killed the rabbit, didn't you, Mr Tonbridge!" demanded Francis.

"They gave it to me, it was just part of the interview," protested Brian.

"You killed it, without a second thought!" insisted Francis.

"I wanted to be an assassin, and they said I had to kill the rabbit," replied Brian.

"You wanted to be an assassin, and you weren't going to let a rabbit get in your way," stated Francis.

Brian didn't answer; he sat back into his chair again.

"You killed the rabbit, but you still didn't get the job," said Francis. "How did you feel about that?"

"I thought it wasn't very fair," replied Brian.

"So you decided that you needed to take revenge on VAO," stated Francis.

"Not like that!" Brian blurted out.

"Not like what?" challenged Francis.

"Not like, whatever you are saying," replied Brian. "not by killing an old lady."

"And how do you know that the killing of Mrs Parsons has anything to do with VAO?" charged Francis.

"I don't!" protested Brian, "I don't, it's just what you said."

Francis paused, for effect, before resuming in a calm voice. "I think that's all Mr Tonbridge," he said, adding, "for today at any rate. Constable Peer will see you out."

Once Brian was back on the street, he texted Gloria, "I'm out. Heading back to the office." He returned the phone to his pocket, but soon heard it ping with a reply.

Gloria : "What happened?"

Still walking, Brian sent back, "He asked me about a murder and the rabbit."

Gloria : "What murder?"

Brian : "I don't know. You've got to back me up that it wasn't me."

Gloria : "Do they think it's me?"

Brian : "Maybe."

Gloria : "What did you say?"

Brian : "Nothing."

Gloria : "Why do they think it's me?"

Brian swerved to avoid a combination of a pram approaching him and a lamppost, eyes still on his phone, his foot slipped over the edge of the curb. Flinging his weight to one side, he managed to avoid rolling his ankle, but his outstretched arm struck the lamppost, dislodging the phone from his hand. In a mere single second he suffered the crushing blow of seeing his phone fall, and then, with impossible precision, slip gracefully between the gratings of a drain, and be lost.

# Twenty

Stewart was in the kitchen of Mary's house, sipping a cup of tea and staring out of the window at the tree-lined street. It was a spacious room, well lit by the large window, walls a warm pastel with modern, functional, cabinets and a sweeping pale work surface. If there was a party, it was the room where many people would spend their time. Mary came in from the hallway.

"How are you settling in?" asked Mary.

"Very nice," responded Stewart, "very comfortable. Certainly a step up from Andrew's two-up-two-down."

"It's more than I need," replied Mary, "but I like the area, and it's home. Rather an indulgence really, but now it has come in useful."

"Do you get a lot of crime?" enquired Stewart.

"No, it's quiet around here," answered Mary.

"Plenty of CCTV," said Stewart, nodding towards the cameras that covered every wall of the house.

"Oh, that's just from a previous life," responded Mary.

"Useful now any road," commented Stewart.

"You think we will have more trouble?" asked Mary.

"I don't suppose they are going to give up easily," replied Stewart.

"No," agreed Mary, "but they won't know that we are here."

"Not for a while at any rate," stated Stewart.

"I wish I'd seen Andrew's face when you turned up in a hearse!" laughed Mary.

"Made sense to me!" Stewart responded, smiling. "Move stuff out into a van and everybody knows that you are leaving."

"Whereas everybody watches you taking a couple of coffins out of the house, but they don't think they are full of office equipment," said Mary.

"Especially when they know it's an assassination agency," continued Stewart. "What else would you be moving in a coffin."

"Where did you switch into the van?" queried Mary.

"A quiet cemetery," answered Stewart.

"That might have looked suspicious," continued Mary, "taking things from a hearse into a van."

"Might have done," responded Stewart, "if there had been anybody to see."

"You weren't followed?" said Mary.

"Not a sniff," replied Stewart. "What happened with the RSPCA?" he asked.

"Oh, they were very nice gentlemen," replied Mary. "They must see a lot of shocking things in their line of work and deal with some nasty people. Once they saw Scarlet happily running around in her pen, they couldn't have been more pleasant. They did like to chat though, we must have gotten through a pot of tea and a packet of biscuits."

"They didn't mind about the assassination thing?" commented Stewart.

"Hardly," responded Mary, "they love animals, but they need to put them down all the time. They have a very clear view on cruelty."

"Funny world," said Stewart.

"Perhaps we need a RSPCH," ventured Mary, "a royal society for prevention of cruelty to humans."

"That's us, I think," replied Stewart.

"Well, mention us to the monarchy, next time you see them," suggested Mary.

"Think my knighthood got lost in the post," responded Stewart.

"You'll get your reward in heaven," Mary replied, "or where-ever," she added, as an afterthought.

"I've been meaning to talk to you," continued Mary, "VAO has been suffering a lot of attacks lately, and I was just wondering..."

"If it was time to fight back," said Stewart, finished her sentence.

"Unless it is against your principles?" queried Mary.

"Valuing harmony, peace and universal understanding doesn't mean not having fun," replied Stewart.

"Exactly which incarnation of Buddha said that?" teased Mary.

"Haven't you seen all those laughing Buddha statues?" responded Stewart.

"I thought that was Feng Shui," commented Mary, "anyway, the point is, who to fight back against?"

"There does seem to have been a lot of random stuff going on," observed Stewart.

"Get rid of the distractions and concentrate on the main event," directed Mary. "Who is the killer?"

"Somebody who knows a lot about VAO," stated Stewart.

"Yes," replied Mary, "somebody who knew that Mrs Parsons was our client, and who had access to our records about where she went and when would be a good time to strike."

"That doesn't leave many people," commented Stewart, "I mean, it's not Andrew and it's not Jasmin."

"It's not me," continued Mary, "and it's not you."

"Could be me," said Stewart, "I'd be a very good suspect."

"If it were you, then we would all be dead and VAO would be burned to the ground," responded Mary. "You wouldn't go around killing little old ladies to scare us."

"Possibly not," replied Stewart.

"As I understand it," continued Mary, "this information is only here, on our computers. How can anybody have access to that?"

"Well, either technical or human," answered Stewart.

"I don't think the leak is human," responded Mary, "it would have to be one of us four, and we wouldn't talk shop to anybody."

"Maybe Jasmin," suggested Stewart, "bit of pillow talk?"

"That would mean that her fiancé was a plant, and would be working for somebody who is out to get VAO," replied Mary. "Certainly not impossible, but rather elaborate. It's hard to think that the Russians care about VAO."

"Or the Americans," commented Stewart.

"Hah," responded Mary, disdainfully. "Technical then?" she asked.

"Tricky," answered Stewart, "Andrew's done quite a job of keeping stuff secure. As you know, there's one computer that handles all the Internet business, but all the real information is stored separately, and the only thing that is connected to is electricity – he even had the wifi service taken out."

"What about the tablet computers people take out on jobs?" asked Mary.

"Same thing," responded Stewart, "no wifi, and not only passworded but completely encrypted."

"Okay, no remote hacking," agreed Mary. "So, to get at the office computer you would have to break into the building and physically sit at the keyboard."

"I kept an eye on the old place," commented Stewart, "never any sign of breaking in or anything."

"Which doesn't necessarily mean that it hasn't happened," stated Mary.

"True," agreed Stewart, "but a tricky thing to pull off."

"It still doesn't span out," said Mary. "It would take a proper team to carry out that level of infiltration – and a proper team wouldn't be wasting time and money by taking out the odd client."

"Unless it was the end of the budget year and there was still a few quid in the pot," suggested Stewart, unhelpfully.

"I'm sure there would be better things to spend it on," remarked Mary. "I don't think this is a team, I think we are looking for an individual. Probably somebody who is not working for an organization, but who wants to get rid of VAO for their own reason."

"That's not narrowing it down much," responded Stewart. "A lone fanatic, tedious."

"Well, let's not forget, it has to be someone who can get information on VAO," said Mary, "who has details of VAO?"

"The Ministry, mainly," replied Stewart, "and the police, a bit."

"We have had a Ministry chap visiting here, haven't we?" asked Mary.

"I haven't met him," replied Stewart. "Jasmin's said a couple of things about him, he's young apparently, smart."

"Someone to bear in mind," responded Mary, "what about our police friends?"

"Unless Francis is a lot cleverer than he looks, then it's not him," replied Stewart. "He's a right teapot."

"Teapot?" queried Mary.

"Chocolate," answered Stewart. "Chocolate teapot - as much good as."

"As much good as a chocolate teapot," clarified Mary, "where do you get these expressions? Anyway, we were saying that this is an individual and probably connected to either the Ministry or the police."

"So, what do we do now?" asked Stewart.

"Keep our eyes open," answered Mary.

# Twenty One

"How is the Mrs Parsons case?" queried Chief Inspector Sands. She and Francis were meeting again in the police canteen. The Chief Inspector had her cup of coffee, and this time a biscuit to accompany it.

"Sorted," replied Francis.

"Really?" said the Chief Inspector, genuinely surprised.

"Turns out that it wasn't VAO, but someone who works for another of those assassination mobs," responded Francis.

"Which agency?" demanded the Chief Inspector.

"GWAA – the Gloria Wiggins Assassination Agency," answered Francis.

"That's interesting," commented the Chief Inspector, "what's the evidence?"

"It was partly the evidence," replied Francis, "but mostly it was about having the detective gut instinct - it is not really something you can learn, you have to be born with it."

"Spare me the digestive details," replied the Chief Inspector. "What's the evidence?" she repeated, more firmly.

"I found out that this particular individual has a history of using hypodermic needles, so I had him in for questioning," answered Francis. "Turned out that not only did he have a grudge against VAO, but he was also an assassin! I put the screws on him and he fell apart, practically admitted it there and then."

"So he has a motive, and he has the capacity," said the Chief Inspector. "Do you have anything that actually links him to Mrs Parson's death?"

"He's got guilty written all over him," replied Francis.

"It would certainly help if criminals did," commented the Chief Inspector, "though even that wouldn't be enough for the courts." Continuing, she asked, "Do you think it was a personal thing, or was he working for his agency?"

"Well," said Francis, considering this new possibility, "I had thought it was just him, why would it be the other agency?"

"To discredit VAO," answered the Chief Inspector, patiently, "to interfere with the opposition, to clear the field."

"Okay, yes, sort of like a contract," responded Francis, still considering.

The Chief Inspector changed tack and asked, "Did you go and see VAO about the graffiti attack?"

"Yes," responded Francis, "I think we can rule out terrorism."

"VAO thought it might be terrorists?" queried the Chief Inspector.

"I was pretty much able to put their minds at rest about that," replied Francis. "Certain aspects of the attack point to it being a local issue."

"Really, you were able to reassure them," stated the Chief Inspector. "They must have been concerned though."

"They were talking about moving office," said Francis, "they were pretty spooked by it all."

"Moving office," repeated the Chief Inspector. "They are going to carry on operating then?"

"Andrew, the bloke who heads up VAO," continued Francis, "acted like it was his moral duty to continue. As if murdering people was a great gift to society."

"I know who Andrew is," responded the Chief Inspector, "I guess I shouldn't expect him to be easily dissuaded."

"Definitely worried though," said Francis, "what with the murder, the graffiti and the advert, it looks like somebody has got it in for him."

"What advertisement?" asked the Chief Inspector.

"Somebody posted an advert for VAO in the local paper, the guy from the Ministry was down there to see them about it," answered Francis.

"This is the same Ministry guy that wanted to talk to you?" queried the Chief Inspector.

"Yes, I've got a bit of a result there," replied Francis. "He's my mole, my man on the inside. What the Ministry knows, I know."

"What does he want in return?" asked the Chief Inspector.

"I just feed him a few snippets, enough to string him along," replied Francis.

"Always good to cultivate contacts and we want to keep the Ministry on side," commented the Chief Inspector. "But don't forget that this is your investigation, Francis."

"He's just an amateur, playing detective - really, he thinks the whole of the Ministry are involved - he hasn't got a clue," answered Francis.

"What's his name?" asked the Chief Inspector.

"He's my nark, I can't reveal my sources," responded Francis.

"I built you up, Francis, and I can bring you down again," replied the Chief Inspetor, then, more conciliatory, "We are both on the same side, the better I know, the more I can protect you. It won't go any further than me."

"Just between us then, he's called Jonathon Woods. I've got his card here somewhere," said Francis, and hunted around his pockets until he produced the Ministry business card.

The Chief Inspector studied the card and recorded some details on a small pad, before handing it back to Francis.

"Tell me about the advertisement," said the Chief Inspector.

"There's not much to say," responded Francis, "somebody posted an ad, and the Ministry were following it up as it's against the rules."

"Any leads on who posted the ad?" asked the Chief Inspector.

"VAO say it was not them," answered Francis, "but I'm not that easily fooled."

"You don't think it was the other assassination agency?" suggested the Chief Inspector.

"Why would one agency want to advertise another one?" asked Francis.

The Chief Inspector studied Francis for a moment before replying. "To get them into trouble," she said. "Because assassination agencies are not allowed to advertise."

"I see where you are coming from," replied Francis, nodding.

"You have to get inside the criminals mind," said the Chief Inspector.

"Think like a criminal," responded Francis, "I get it. One agency pretending to be the other agency so that the other agency gets the blame for things that are done by the first agency."

"Something like that," agreed the Chief Inspector. "You already suspect the other agency for being behind the Mrs Parsons murder, perhaps they did the advertisement as well?"

"Maybe they did the graffiti?" suggested Francis, catching on.

"Maybe, definitely worth following up," said the Chief Inspector, "let's face it, people who are involved in assassination aren't going to have many business scruples."

"That all fits," said Francis, "it's like a turf war, like the mafia."

"Anything else?" asked the Chief Inspector.

"No." replied Francis, "I'm going to see Wiggins Assassination Agency this afternoon, it should be a very interesting visit."

"Wiggins, that's the other agency," confirmed the Chief Inspector.

"Yes, quite a big outfit, I believe," said Francis.

"Do you know VAO's new address?" asked the Chief Inspector.

"We haven't heard anything from them yet," replied Francis.

"Make sure that you do," commented the Chief Inspector. She picked up her notebook, cup and plate, now empty of biscuit, and left the canteen.

# Twenty Two

Francis blinked as he entered Gloria's brightly lit office from the dim light of the corridor. Gloria, in black jacket and skirt, black shoes and white blouse, but the same flaming red hair, stood behind her glass desk. "Detective Inspector Broad", she said, in greeting, and indicated a chair opposite her.

"Constable... Detective Constable," replied Francis, advancing and trying to take in the rather other-worldliness of the room. He sat gently into a chair formed of interlocking wiring, which sunk and recoiled as it took his weight.

"Amazing office you have," said Francis, still bouncing slightly in his seat. "Bit of a step up from what we have down at the station."

Gloria reclined into her throne-like leather chair, which swivelled from the pressure of her heel on the ground. "How can you excel if you are surrounded by mediocrity?" she replied.

"Yes, indeed," agreed Francis, "I don't care for too much mediocrity, myself."

"Before we start," said Gloria, "I can tell you that I have had nothing to do with anybody being killed."

"I thought this was an assassination agency?" responded Francis.

"What if it is?" replied Gloria.

"Doesn't an assassination agency kill people?" asked Francis.

"Do you have any evidence that I have anything to do with it?" queried Gloria.

"It is called the 'Gloria Wiggins Assassination Agency'," replied Francis.

"That doesn't mean that we go around killing people," asserted Gloria. She stood up, "Now, if you've nothing else, I'm very busy, I have an assassination agency to run."

Francis stood up as well. "But, I do," he said, "have other things... I have questions." He opened his notebook and tried to focus on the first one, "How long has she known Brian Tonbridge?" he read.

Gloria sat down again. "Brian is an employee," she replied.

Francis also sat down, bobbing gently in his seat. "How long has he been an employee?" he enquired.

"I don't know," responded Gloria, "he might have been an employee lots of times. He just works here, I don't run his life."

"How long has he been your employee?" corrected Francis, feeling he was getting more to grips with proceedings.

"Two or three weeks," answered Gloria. "As I say, I hardly know him."

Francis referred to his notebook again. "Would you say he has homicidal tendencies?" he asked.

"Why ask me?" responded Gloria.

"You did employ him, as an assassin," pointed out Francis.

"I don't know what you are trying to insinuate," responded Gloria, "I've told you that I had nothing to do with the murder."

"I'm just asking whether, when you employed him as an assassin, you were looking for somebody who could, well, assassinate?" continued Francis.

"You're saying that he is some sort of cold-blooded butcher!" said Gloria, then as an idea stuck her, she blurted out, "Do you think he might be after me as well?"

"No, no, no," responded Francis. "Well, maybe," he added.

"What!" exploded Gloria.

"I don't know, I don't know," replied Francis, feeling the interview spinning out of control again. "I just want to ask a few questions about the murder of Mrs Parsons," he said, a little desperately.

"I want police protection," demanded Gloria.

"There is no evidence that Mr Tonbridge is planning to kill you," stated Francis.

"But you do know that he killed Mrs Parsons," said Gloria.

"Do you know that he killed Mrs Parsons?" returned Francis.

"No, of course not," replied Gloria. "What sort of people do you think I have working here?"

"I'm following up on enquiries," replied Francis, ignoring Gloria's comment. He went back to his list, "Can you account for Mr Tonbridge's movements on the day of Mrs Parson's death?" he asked.

"Probably not," replied Gloria, "when was it?"

"Ten days ago," said Francis.

"Ten days ago," repeated Gloria, thoughtfully, "Brian had only been working here for a few days. He was out, I think, I'd have to check."

"Out where?" pressed Francis.

"North West London, somewhere," responded Gloria.

"So, you weren't with him?" queried Francis.

"No," admitted Gloria.

"So he could have been anywhere?" asserted Francis.

"I think he took some photos," said Gloria, remembering the pictures of the VAO house that Brian had shown her.

"Photos," repeated Francis, "where can I get them?"

"They are on his phone," answered Gloria. "No wait," she continued, recalling, "he has lost his phone."

"Lost his phone!" gasped Francis. "Destroyed the evidence! When did he lose his phone?"

"Just after he'd spoken to you," said Gloria.

"Right!" said Francis, standing up, "I've got to get onto this!" He was heading out to leave, when Gloria suddenly said, "Wait!"

Francis stopped, and looked at her. "I've got to tell you about 'Splat'," Gloria said, adding, "it was Brian's idea."

Quite stunned by the unexpected turn of events, Francis stood mute.

"I know you know about the rabbit," continued Gloria. "That was us – though it was Brian's idea. He did everything, really. And anyway, we were genuinely concerned for the rabbit's welfare. Protecting rabbits isn't a crime."

"What's this got to do with the phone?" asked Francis.

"I don't know," responded Gloria, "rabbits don't have phones."

Francis backtracked, "I know rabbits don't have phones," he continued. "What has this rabbit to do with the lost phone?"

"I suppose the rabbit might be in one of the photos," said Gloria, helpfully.

"Mr Tonbridge took photos of rabbits on his phone?" asked Francis.

"It's not a crime," repeated Gloria, "we just wanted to look after the rabbit."

"I'm sure that society will be very pleased by your concern for animal welfare," stated Francis, "but I have a murder investigation to attend to and I must be on my way."

"Just so that you know," responded Gloria.

"Indeed I do," said Francis, and proceeded to leave. With his hand on the door, he stopped and turned, "One more thing," he asked, "do you know the address of VAO?"

"What am I, a directory?" replied Gloria. "Look it up if you want to find out."

"So you don't know?" repeated Francis.

Gloria rolled her eyes, "Do I look like I know?" she said.

"Okay," ended Francis, opening the door.

"You could ask Brian," commented Gloria, casually.

"Brian!" said Francis.

"Maybe, he's more of the retentive type," replied Gloria.

"Brian," repeated Francis, "Brian knows VAO's address?"

"You're the detective," said Gloria, "why do you keep asking questions?"

"Okay!" said Francis, with emphasis, then continued, "Okay, now I know!" With that he swiftly left.

Once Francis had gone, Brian came into Gloria's office. "How did it go?" he asked.

"He was a very strange chap," replied Gloria, "one mention of your phone and he rushed out of the room."

"What did you say about my phone?" asked Brian.

"I said that you had lost it," answered Gloria.

"Well I have," responded Brian. "What did he say about the murder?"

"He said that you might be a homicidal maniac and that I ought to get police protection," replied Gloria.

"What!" gasped Brian.

"He doesn't have any evidence though, so I'm not worried," continued Gloria.

"You don't think that I'm a maniac?" demanded Brian.

"He did say that you were an assassin," responded Gloria.

"What do you mean, an assassin?" barked Brian.

"I'm just telling you what he said, no need to get all drama queen on me," replied Gloria. "And I told him about 'Splat'," she continued.

"What did he say?" asked Brian, dreading more bad news.

"He said that he was pleased with our concern for animal welfare, or something," answered Gloria. "Really, he was more interested in the rabbit photos."

"What rabbit photos?" said Brian, desperately.

"The ones on your phone," replied Gloria. "Your lost phone," she corrected herself.

"I can't understand this," complained Brian. "I talked to him about the rabbit, it's not a crime is it?"

"I told him, 'It's not a crime'," agreed Gloria. "Anyway, you need to tell him VAO's address."

"Why?" asked Brian.

"Well, I don't know it, do I?" replied Gloria, slightly exasperated.

"No," continued Brian, "why does he think I know the address of VAO?"

"He's a detective," responded Gloria.

"Oh no," moaned Brian, putting his head in his hands, "what am I going to do?"

# Twenty Three

The night was dark, overcast and rather chill, but that didn't concern Roger, he had his fur to keep him warm. This was his usual late walk just before settling down for the night; around the block, across the green and back via the shops. Roger's fur was black, now greying at the whiskers and ears, and curling slightly. He remembered, or rather, there was a fleeting image, of another dog, younger, sleeker, pure black - had that been him? The image slipped away without leaving even a shadow, as he continued his slow plod along the street. His eyes were cloudy now, his hearing dulled, but his wet nose still picked up every scent, each nuance of the surroundings. By scent alone he built up a picture as detailed as any for finding his way. His leader walked beside him, loosely holding his lead, as it swung between them. Roger paced slowly, a pace that seemed to suit his leader. Another brief image, of a yellow ball being thrown and chased, just for joy of running, of movement. He could feel the stiffness in his waddling hips, the labouring of his breathing. Roger felt a contentment to be walking, with his leader, it was the natural order of things - his leader walks, and he walks with him. The street was quiet, and they crossed onto the green; nicer scents now, organic, not as harsh, wet earth and all the things around and under it. His tail wagged lazily a couple of beats; he had no idea why it did that.

Mr Findleyson walked on the path, while his dog paced beside him, exploring the grass. It was dark, but Mr Findleyson had walked this a hundred times, across from the streetlights on this side of the green to the others on the far side. Until quite recently, the walk had been one of, if not despair, then emptiness. He could feel the insistent pain of sciatica running down his left thigh, and a grinding in his right knee, he needed to hold his head just so to see correctly through his multifocal lenses.

Images came to Mr Findleyson's mind, of a younger, slimmer, fitter man, endlessly active, effortlessly busy, breezing through life. Previously these images had haunted him. Where had he gone? What was he now? And the future, he wasn't getting any younger. He had sought out a counsellor, and they had talked. It had been very reasonable, sensible even, but somehow the guidance they offered of adopting hobbies and interests wasn't convincing. He still felt an emptiness, and the time ahead was a looming, ominous, void. He'd contacted the assassination people, not out of despair, but more as a good plan. They'd talked with him a lot, and to his counsellor and his doctor, and then they had drawn up the agreement. Mr Findleyson still felt that it wasn't quite right about Roger. He wanted his dog put down at the same time as him; he was an old dog as well, and wasn't going to start a new life anywhere. He liked to think that Roger wouldn't want to take up with someone new, but who knows what goes on in a dog's head. The assassination people had told him that they could assassinate him, but not his dog. Funny thing that. They said they would take Roger to the RSPCA, who would know what to do.

Strolling along now and thinking, he could see that signing the assassination agreement had been a turning point for him. At first it had galvanised him. He knew that he had three months and then, wham! Or not wham, because, as they had explained to him so carefully, it could happen any day, or not. And he wouldn't see it coming. Quite why this should make him feel free, or carefree, he couldn't quite pin down, but it did. It felt like he now had a 'Get out of jail free' card, even if he wasn't going to be the one to play it. And then, suddenly, he had a lot to do. Three months to sort his affairs out, get everything ready for when he was gone. There was so much! No time to be nostalgic; finances had to be put in order, his will updated, old belongings thrown out or taken down to the charity shop. He'd never even thought about how much sheer stuff he had accumulated, and how the weight of it had borne down upon him; pulling him back into the past, like sucking mud, clinging and resisting. The more he threw out, the less he needed, the more room for the future. And, of course, he had to say goodbye, there was family and half-forgotten friends. Naturally, it couldn't be goodbye, they didn't need to know his plans, so it was just a catch-up, just a 'I haven't seen you for a while, why don't we get together'. People had been so pleased, it didn't feel like goodbye, it felt like hello.

When he was clearing out, he had found that list, the one of the books that he wanted to read, a bit lofty some of them, but why not give them a try. Not now, of course, he only had a few months left, no time for reading. He'd kept the list though, he didn't know why.

After a couple of months things were taking shape, but there were a few things to do; he wanted to see his old aunt in Cornwall and, while he was there, perhaps do that stretch of the coastal footpath he'd never walked, he could make it a last holiday. He'd taken the train down and bought one of the books from his list, for the journey.

The walk reminded him that Cornwall was very hilly, in fact all hills; it was as if, as they got to the end of building the country, they had a load of unused hills, so slung them all into Cornwall. The hills, especially the downhill, had played gyp on his sciatica, so he went slowly, rested and took in the view. The silence was different down there. Just a few months before and the silence when he was sitting on a bench, looking out over the sea, would have pressed down upon him. The silence would have been critical, chastising him for his idleness, for his failure to fill it with a meaningful sound, and foretelling all the empty silences to come. During that final walk, he had looked at the view, appreciated the peace and being there and the sheer experience of that moment – no other moment, not tomorrow or in ten minutes, just this, for this would, soon, be his last. He found he was content with it; if this were his last moment, it was well spent.

He had read the book for a bit during the train journeys. It was quite interesting to start, but after a while it became too clever. It was as if the author was arguing a case, not because they especially believed it, but because they liked the sound of their own writing. It would be heavy going, and there was still two hundred pages left. As he had come out of the train station, he'd seen a recycling bin, and just dropped the offending book into it. That was another weight that was lifted off his shoulders. His time, he realised, was precious. He only had a limited supply of it and didn't need to waste it fulfilling somebody else's desire to write a load of words.

That evening, his neighbour, Henry, had popped his head in. Henry said that he had a delivery arriving sometime tomorrow and, as Henry would be at work, would he wait around and receive it for him. He'd done this before, after all it was good to help out the neighbours, but this time, waiting around, for the whole day? Henry had been almost affronted when he said he couldn't, "because he was busy". "Busy doing what?" Henry had said, the cheeky sod. He still didn't know where his next response had come from, as he'd never been one for repartee, "Busy living, Henry", he'd said, which had shut Henry up.

As the three months came to a close, things weren't as tidied up as he wanted them to be. His Aunt had her birthday in a few weeks, and it would be good to send her a card, maybe even a little present – that would surprise her! He also had an unaccountable desire to redecorate his living room. The room just felt so, well, dead. He could get easily see that it was the most stupid thing to do. For a start, he wasn't even very good at decorating and getting up and down ladders was going to be no fun, plus, of course, where was the future in it, he'd be gone in a few months. What the hell, though, the last thing he needed now was to be sensible! So, he had rung up the assassination people, and asked them to put it off for three months. He thought he'd have to justify it, for the trouble he was putting them to, but they didn't seem to mind, just a bit of documentation to fill in.

That had been six months ago, and he had put it off twice since then. The next time was going to be it, cancel the whole thing. For the moment at least, he had too much living to do to think about assassination. He'd lose his deposit of course. The thought made him smile, how stupid could he be to worry about that. It was probably the best money he had ever spent, it had literally bought him his life back again.

Meanwhile, Roger was in his own little world of damp green scents, the hard concrete footpath, dark night air, decaying leafs, he could almost smell the pin pricks of the street lights they were trundling towards. The dog was aware of the person approaching up the path from behind. It was the same sense that let him know that his leader was coming in the front door in five minutes, so that he could be there to greet him. Roger also knew there was nobody else around, apart from a cat, lurking by a tree. These days, he could ignore the cat, though he could sense it was anxious about him. The person behind was in a hurry, and excited, or nervous – tense anyway. Roger let this flow through him; the why's and wherefores of people had long since ceased to be one of his concerns.

The person caught them up, hesitated for a moment before continuing on down the path. Then his leader lay down. Roger lay down next to him, happy to stop for a while. Something slipped through the back of his mind, that his leader wasn't going to get up and move again. But, that was okay, this was his place, beside his leader.

# Twenty Four

'Gloria Wiggins, is she a suspect, an accomplice, a witness, a bystander or other?' Francis pondered the question on his computer screen. Around him detectives were holding discreet phone calls with their snitches, or tooling up for a raid, or pondering forensic reports for that vital piece of evidence, but here he was filling in interview forms. This was all his boss seemed concerned with, 'keep the admin up to date', he'd been instructed; departmental targets were, apparently, to have all interviews entered into the system within twenty four hours. That meant that Francis had one hour and thirty minutes to get this done.

Francis tried to click on both 'suspect' and 'accomplice', because, he thought, he did suspect that she might be an accomplice, but the system wouldn't let him; it would only accept one answer. Francis pictured Gloria, with her weirdly red hair and iridescent office, and selected 'Other', which best described her, he decided. Generally, Francis didn't mind a bit of quiet administration. He liked the orderliness and sensation of control from fully completed forms. Today though, he was anxious to get going, he should be out there, fighting crime, not doing twenty questions at his desk. This never happened to Marlow, he thought, you never read about Marlow waking up after being slugged unconscious and needing to decide whether he had been 'struck' or 'battered' or 'other'. Marlow's only concern was whether to have a cigarette, a whisky or both.

Francis' phone vibrated and then let out the sound of a police car's siren, he hurriedly answered it.

"Francis, listen to me, I've got another murder for you," Francis recognised Chief Inspector Sands' voice.

"Fantastic!" responded Francis.

"It's a murder, Francis," commented the Chief Inspector.

"Yes, terrible," Francis corrected himself.

"It seems that your assassins have been busy again," said the Chief Inspector.

"Really," replied Francis.

"It has just come in this morning, same MO, needle in the neck and a lethal dose of anaesthetic," continued the Chief Inspector.

"Serial killer!" blurted out Francis.

"That's for you to find out," answered the Chief Inspector, "who would you suspect?"

"Brian, it has got to be, he's panicking since I had him in," responded Brian.

"Who is Brian?" queried the Chief Inspector.

"He's the assassin who works for GWAA, he knows I'm on his tail," explained Francis.

"GWAA, that's the agency that you thought were out to get VAO?" asked the Chief Inspector.

"I went to see them yesterday," replied Francis, "they were nervous as kittens and they are trying to cover their tracks."

"Sounds suspicious," agreed the Chief Inspector, "but what links this murder to VAO?"

"Same MO," responded Francis.

There was a short pause, and the sound of a deep breath being taken, before the Chief Inspector spoke again. "When Mrs Parsons was murdered, VAO were there, that's why we could link it to them. VAO were not at this new murder."

"Oh, I see," responded Francis, "that's awkward."

"You'll get used to it, Francis," continued the Chief Inspector, "often the suspects do not hang around at the crime scene until the police turn up."

"Right, yes," responded Francis.

"So, how are you going to find out if this new murder had any connection to VAO?" repeated the Chief Inspector.

"I could ask them," suggested Francis, feeling unsure of his answer.

"If they are involved, do you think they will admit it to you?" responded the Chief Inspector. "Is there anybody else you could ask? Somebody else who knows about assassination agencies?"

"The Ministry," replied Francis, this time with more confidence.

"Good idea," said the Chief Inspector, "why don't you get onto him. I'll send through the details of the latest victim. Let me know how you get on." The Chief Inspector ended the call.

Francis sat back in his seat. He could hardly believe it, his first case as a detective and he was on the trail of a serial killer. Never mind Marlow, once he cracked this everyone would be talking about Broad, or 'DI Broad', or 'Broad of the Yard' – it was all just waiting for him, he had to get out and get detecting. Or rather, he realised, he had to complete his interview reports, he had just one hour remaining.

# Twenty Five

"That's interesting," remarked Jonathon. He was on the phone with Francis, and, at his request, was looking up Mr Findleyson on the Ministry system.

"What's interesting?" he heard Francis respond.

Jonathon asked himself whether he should be divulging information to Francis. On one hand, it was confidential, but on the other, unlikely as it could seem, Francis was making an official police request. Plus, murder is a serious business. If he were seen to be less than cooperative just because of the niceties of protocol, it wouldn't go down well.

"Mr Findleyson is a client of VAO," replied Jonathon, "but he has not been given a commitment date."

"Commitment to what?" asked Francis.

"It's the date when they are to be assassinated" clarified Jonathon.

"So," Jonathon could hear that Francis was struggling to take this new piece of information on board, "VAO tell you when they are going to knock people off?" Francis concluded.

"No," replied Jonathon, "not at all, it is the other way around. The Ministry sets the dates when clients can be assassinated. It is called the Commitment."

"Right, I see," responded Francis, "and this Mr Findleyson, he hadn't been Committed?"

"No," agreed Jonathon.

"So, what does that mean?" asked Francis.

"It means he was not due to die." Scanning the rest of the details on his screen, Jonathon continued, "In fact he had recently put off his Commitment, for the third time. It looks like Mr Findleyson was not going to go through with it at all."

"He'd signed up with VAO, but got cold feet," said Francis.

"It looks that way," agreed Jonathon.

"VAO wouldn't like that, would they?" suggested Francis.

"I don't know what VAO would think of it," replied Jonathon, feeling that he had already been more than helpful and he didn't need to involve the Ministry in any random speculation.

"No, but it makes sense, doesn't it?" continued Francis, "People signing but not being killed, it's bad for business."

"Assassinated, not killed," corrected Jonathon, "voluntarily assassinated, there is a big difference."

"All ends up as dead though," responded Francis, as if making an insightful point.

"Is there anything else I can help you with, Detective Broad?" queried Jonathon, wanting to bring this to a close and limit any more hazardous conversation.

"Detective Constable," replied Francis, automatically.

"Well, if you find out anything else involving assassinations, or if I can help, get back in touch," concluded Jonathon, and ended the call.

Jonathon continued gazing at his screen while he took in what he had learned from Francis. There has been another assassination and, as he now knew, it was also one of VAO's clients. There really couldn't be any doubt that VAO were right in the centre of this. What did this new piece of information reveal to him? Whoever did this needed to know that Mr Findleyson was one of VAO's clients. This wasn't anything new. They had already decided that the culprit needed inside information on VAO, and that this limited it to being either someone from VAO itself, or someone from the Ministry. The same inside information would allow them to know about Mr Findleyson, so this assassination didn't make it any clearer. The only difference was the murder of Mr Findleyson was more ruthless. Somehow to kill Mrs Parsons, who would shortly die anyway, didn't seem as bad as doing the same thing to Mr Findleyson, who was not only not due to die, but had positively chosen to live on. Who would be capable of doing such a thing, he asked himself. Certainly VAO. They were professional assassins, so presumably well able to handle their conscience; administrative niceties wouldn't deter them. Even as he considered this, it didn't feel right to Jonathon. The people he had met at VAO were exactly the sort of people who had to make peace with their conscience and who would have qualms about the difference between Mrs Parsons and Mr Findleyson. There was also the fact, he admitted to himself, that he liked the people he had met at VAO, and he didn't want to think of them as criminals. Perhaps that was why Sherlock Holmes was so famously anti-social, his clinical thinking wasn't muddied by personal preferences. But, if not VAO, then he was just left with the murderer being someone from the Ministry. Not too surprisingly, nobody he had met so far had come across as partial to cold-blooded murder. His colleagues, and especially his superiors, had a streak of ruthlessness, but their weapon of choice wasn't a loaded hypodermic needle, more likely a carefully honed and viciously barbed email. What motive could they have anyway, he asked himself. Unless somebody had a personal grievance against VAO, or voluntary assassination generally - and if they had, Jonathon would never guess it. If it was not personal, then it would need to be organisational, that somebody was doing this because they had been told to by their superiors. Which led him to speculate about why would anybody in government would care about VAO. He could assume that Andrew was not a favourite within the corridors of power. Ordinary people who led a popular campaign, did not endear themselves to the mandarins who believed they were in charge.

Jonathon realised that this sort of speculation could go on indefinitely, it was the sort of thing thick detective novels or long television crime series indulged in, and he had more pressing concerns. He was now in possession of a new piece of information, that Mr Findleyson, a client of VAO, had been murdered. Jonathon needed to work out what, in his day-job sense, he should be doing with it. His boss needed to know; either he could tell her or he could wait until she found out from another source. This was easy, much better to tell her and both get any kudos that was associated with delivering the information and avoid the danger of being accused of withholding it. What was the correct delivery mechanism? Phone, email or in person? Not phone, apart from his own dislike of telephone conversations, his boss's office was only thirty yards away, calling made no sense. Email was definitely his preferred method, but this was news, it had to be timely, it couldn't sit halfway down a screenful of meeting requests and status reports. There was no way around it, Jonathon was going to have to talk to her. Briefly, he tried to frame the conversation in his mind, then gave up, got out of his seat and walked over to her office doorway.

The door was, of course, open, it was unthinkable that a manager should be so unapproachable as to keep their office door closed, no matter how unapproachable they wanted to be. His boss was seated facing towards the wall, staring intently at something on her computer screen that mildly disappointed her, like a Sudoku puzzle when you realise that one of the numbers appears twice. She was sharply turned out, as always, business formal rather than business casual, though the precisely styled hair, deep blue jacket and chunky necklace were all he could observe from the doorway. Her office was also kept unnaturally tidy, a couple of framed photographs, a small pile of folders and a little clock were all that were allowed to occupy her desk. Jonathon wondered whether he was looking at a future vision of himself.

"Hi, could I have a word for a moment?" asked Jonathan, from the doorway.

His boss kept her eyes on the screen as she replied, "Is it important?"

'No, I just want to be a nuisance,' thought Jonathon, but what he said was, "Yes."

His boss, her face utterly expressionless, swivelled round to face him across her desk and commanded, "Come in, sit down, close the door."

Jonathan obeyed, though not in that sequence. "There has been another assassination style murder, involving VAO," he said, and then related his information about Mr Findleyson.

His boss listened closely, then asked, "How did you find this out?"

Jonathon didn't feel the need to mention his police contact, so went for a less specific response, saying, "I heard about the murder and, given everything that has been going on, I checked out the victim on VAO's records."

"Does anybody else know?" queried his boss.

"I haven't told anybody else here," replied Jonathon, carefully.

"I'd like you to send me an email with this information, once you get back to your desk," she instructed. She then continued, "You've been handling VAO, haven't you?"

"I've been looking into some issues with them," agreed Jonathon, not feeling very happy about the direction this was taking.

"And have you reached any conclusion?" she asked, adding, "Or rather, does this latest death help you towards a conclusion?"

"I've collected quite a lot of information about their operations," replied Jonathon, inadequately.

"You don't need every piece of information to make a decision," his boss responded. "you just need enough. I don't want the Ministry to be seen as sitting on its hands while events unfold elsewhere. You may like to review what you have and decide what to do with VAO."

"Right," replied Jonathon.

"Thank you for bringing this to my attention," said his boss, with the same lack of expression as in the whole of their conversation.

Jonathon took this, correctly, as his dismissal. He stood up and walked the long thirty yards back to his desk, feeling that the meeting had gone about as badly as was possible.

# Twenty Six

The dining room in Mary's house had been turned into the office for VAO. The dining table supported two computer screens with their keyboards and mice, various connector cables reached up from the processor boxes beneath and a thicket of wires dangled down and ran across the floor. Although this, and the rather upright dining chairs, were not ideal for an office, the room did offer a lovely view down the garden.

Stewart found Mary standing by the window, gazing unseeingly at the long lawn, a piece of paper held loosely in her hand. Stewart was carrying yet another mug of thick tea.

"Penny for them," suggested Stewart.

Mary took her attention away from the window and onto Stewart, "I'm sure you have more effective interrogation techniques," she replied, and continued, "is that for me?"

Stewart looked at his mug of tea, and back to Mary, "Yes," he said, and handed it over.

"How considerate," Mary replied. "Sit down, Stewart, there's something I need to show you."

Mary sat down in front of one of the computer screens, Stewart positioned himself beside her.

"It's not the one with the singing cat, is it?" asked Stewart. "That one just slays me."

"More slaying than cats, I'm afraid, and probably more interesting," responded Mary. "Look at this."

Mary had brought up a screen which showed various details about VAO, including their new address at Mary's house.

"I've been letting the police and the Ministry know our new address," Mary continued. "The information isn't shared between them, so you have to enter it twice, once on the police site, once on the Ministry site. This is one site."

"Okay," remarked Steward.

Mary clicked the mouse a few times, and displayed another screen, "And this is the other," she said. "Do you notice any difference?"

Stewart took the mouse, and clicked back and forth between the two screens a couple of times. "One address has five lines, the other has four," he answered.

"Very good," responded Mary, "go to the top of the class."

"That'll be a first," grunted Stewart.

"One address allows you to enter your local town, the other doesn't," continued Mary. "And this," she said, laying down the sheet of paper, "is the advertisement that was placed in the newspaper which gave away VAO's old address."

"Its got the local town in it," observed Stewart.

"Yes, which tells us where the killer got their information, and where they are from," concluded Mary.

Stewart considered this for a couple of seconds. "There could be other situations," he said. "Could be that the killer had access to both sites and just took the better address, or maybe they hacked into the other site, or even they just got the address in another way completely."

"Could be all sorts of could be's," responded Mary. "Could be that this tea wasn't for me at all, but you just handed it over anyway."

"Nah, that would never happen," replied Stewart. "So, what do you want to do?" he asked.

"I want to see if we can flush them out," answered Mary. "And to do that we will need a PR43."

"Which you want me to get for you," stated Stewart.

"Get for us," corrected Mary. "It's not as if I can just fill in a requisition form."

"I could get you a requisition form," answered Stewart. At Mary's reply of a solid glance, he capitulated saying, "Or, I could get you the PR43. How are you going to deliver it?"

"We" said Mary, pausing for emphasis, "will work out something."

"What about content?" continued Stewart.

"It has to be something that the killer will find irresistible," replied Mary. "I think some CCTV footage from inside the cinema where Mrs Parsons was killed would work."

"Sounds gripping," commented Stewart. "How are we going to get any of that?"

"I'll leave you with the operational details," answered Mary. "When can you be ready?"

"Let's see," said Stewart, adopting the slightly painted expression used by any tradesmen when asked to quote for a job, "couple of days to get the device, then two or three days to get or make some CCTV video – I don't even know if they have any CCTV inside the cinema – so, four or five days, shall we say?"

"What I meant," clarified Mary, "was how quickly you can be ready, not how long could you take. Two days sounds reasonable, unless you think that is too generous?"

"Okay," agreed Stewart, fearing that any further discussion would only result in the period getting shorter.

"Good," concluded Mary, "and in the meantime, we can be thinking about delivery."

Stewart rose out of his chair, "I'd better get busy," he said, "I'll just have a quick cuppa, and then I'll head off."

Mary stayed seated in front of the computer, as Stewart went out into the corridor for the kitchen. She heard Andrew's voice, "Ah, Stewart, where are you headed? Kitchen? Good, stay there, I need to have a chat."

Next thing Andrew was in the dining room, talking to her, "Mary, have you seen Jasmin?" he asked.

"She was down the bottom of the garden, making a phone call," answered Mary.

"Fine, I'll get her," responded Andrew, and continued, "could we meet in the kitchen, there's something I want to tell you about – or discuss, rather."

Mary went into the kitchen, where Stewart was putting the kettle on.

"Sounds ominous," commented Stewart, "you want another?"

"Your tea capacity is unlimited, isn't it," replied Mary.

"Hollow legs," responded Stewart, "anyway, I haven't just had one."

"That wouldn't make any difference though, would it?" stated Mary.

"Certainly hope not," concluded Stewart.

Andrew came into the kitchen, "Jasmin is just coming," he said.

"What's this all about?" queried Stewart.

"Perhaps we should wait for Jasmin," Andrew replied.

So, they waited. Stewart finished making his tea, Mary wiped some surfaces and put a few things away, Andrew stood and stared out of the window to the street.

Jasmin came in and saw them all gathered, "Team meeting," she said, "what's on the agenda?"

"No agenda," answered Andrew.

"No agenda!" responded Jasmin, "It must be a crisis!" she quipped. Taking in Andrew's tense stance and his short reply, she continued, "I think I'd better sit down. This is a crisis, isn't it?"

"It's important," agreed Andrew. Choosing his words carefully, he continued, "I've just had Mr Findleyson's solicitor on the phone. Mr Findleyson has been killed, from the looks of it, it was an assassination. More accurately, another assassination."

"But Mr Findleyson wasn't due to be assassinated!" interjected Jasmin.

"Same MO?" asked Stewart, "Injection in the neck?"

"Yes," answered Andrew.

"And the solicitor wanted to know whether it was us?" queried Mary.

"Yes. I had to tell him it wasn't, that he had been murdered," replied Andrew.

"Poor Mr Findleyson," commented Jasmin.

"And his relatives," said Mary. "This is a lot to cope with."

"That's right," responded Andrew, "this will hurt a lot of people, which is why..." Andrew paused and drew in a breath, "it cannot continue."

"Oh, Andrew!" exclaimed Jasmin.

"Somebody is killing our clients," continued Andrew, "I can't let it carry on, and I can't leave them out there not knowing what is happening."

"If you tell our clients," said Mary, "then they will cancel their contracts and leave."

"Yes," agreed Andrew, "but what else can I do?"

"Which will be the end of VAO," stated Mary, "because they are certainly not going to come back."

"And we can't recruit any new ones," said Andrew. "So, that's it, the end."

"Is this a discussion?" commented Jasmin, "Don't we make these decisions together?"

"I can't think of another way," replied Andrew, quietly, "what's more, I can't delay."

"So the killer wins!" responded Jasmin.

"This isn't a movie," answered Mary. "In real life sometimes all you can get is the best outcome, not the right one."

"In what way is this best?" Jasmin contended.

"Whoever is doing this," replied Andrew, "they are just going to continue as long as VAO exists. This way, hopefully, there will be no more deaths."

"The killer will still be out there," pointed out Jasmin, "after VAO, what next? Another assassination agency and then another until the whole thing disappears? Is all of our euthanasia work going for nothing because of one lunatic?"

"I can't think about that," replied Andrew. "We don't have a choice. Who knows what will happen in the future."

"Perhaps the police will catch up with them," suggested Stewart, "or somebody," he added.

"Great!" replied Jasmin, "Everything depends on Constable Plod! The only way he will find the killer is once everybody is dead and he might just work out that it must be the last man standing!"

"At least you are out of this, Jasmin," said Stewart, gently. "Off to Australia, new life and all that."

"But I'm not!" protested Jasmin, "That was what that phone call was about. My bloody wonderful future husband is so marvellous that his company want him to take on a great big fantastic job over here for two more years. He can't say no, so we are staying."

"Looks like we will all be brushing off our cv's," stated Mary.

"What's the natural progression after assassin?" moaned Jasmin.

"Estate agent?" suggested Stewart.

"Shut up," responded Jasmin, "I'm trying to be miserable."

"Well, one things for sure," said Mary, "there will be a lot of admin to do." She looked at Jasmin, "Let's get busy." Turning to Andrew, she said, "I'll get you the contact details of our clients. I presume you will be ringing them?"

"Yes," agreed Andrew. "This is probably the only time that I'm glad that our list of clients is so short."

# Twenty Seven

Why am I doing this to myself? Thought Jonathon, as he walked up the tree-lined road to Mary's house. He didn't have to be here, he could have stayed safely in his office, written his report, sent it out, gone home, and that would have been it – job done, move on. He could probably blame his parents. They had not so much taught him a sense of decency, but it had suffused into him by simply being in their house, from being around them. The accepted norm was that good people behaved well towards others. To behave otherwise would be not so much scandalous, but disappointing. And, who wants to disappoint their parents?

Another, less patient, part of his brain, told him to stop over-analysing and get on with it. In half an hour it would all be over, and here he was at the front door.

Andrew was expecting him, and, after the usual offer of tea, led him through to the lounge. This room has hardly changed with the arrival of VAO into Mary's house. There was a television in the corner, comfortable sofa and chairs, a rug on the floor, a bookcase and pictures on the walls. For Jonathon, the comfortable surroundings didn't go well with the message he had come to deliver. Andrew sat in one of the deep chairs, Jonathon perched on the edge of the sofa.

"What can I do for you?" Asked Andrew, pleasantly, though there was a certain rapidity to his delivery that suggested he had other things he would rather be doing than speaking with Jonathon.

Jonathon studied the pattern of the rug as he composed his words, "I have some bad news for you, and I wanted to deliver it personally, before you are officially informed."

"Will our little talk have any effect on the outcome?" queried Andrew.

"No," answered Jonathon, then added, "unless you have any new information."

"Let's hear what you have to say first," stated Andrew.

Jonathon drew in a breath as he continued, "The Ministry, or rather, the report I'm writing for the Ministry, will be recommending the termination of VAO's licence."

It was difficult to read anything from Andrew's reaction to this, maybe a touch more weariness around his eyes.

"On what grounds?" enquired Andrew.

"Lack of internal controls, breaches of confidential information and inappropriate advertising," replied Jonathon.

"We haven't actually done any of those things," commented Andrew, more conversationally than challenging.

"They have happened, and all to VAO," responded Jonathon.

"So, this has nothing to do with the murders then?" continued Andrew.

"The murders are criminal acts, nobody is suggesting that you were responsible," stated Jonathon.

"Nobody?" queried Andrew.

"The Ministry are not suggesting that you are responsible," clarified Jonathon, "I can't speak for the police."

Andrew got up, took the couple of paces over to the window and gazed down the garden for a few seconds, before turning and addressing Jonathon. "Normally, I'd hang you out to dry for this," he said. "I'd be talking to the papers, the television, we'd be having challenges in the court, questions in Parliament and anything else I could dream up to throw at you."

Jonathon sat quietly, taking in the depth of the big black hole that Andrew was describing to him. Up until now it had felt all quite procedural, more of a matter of the right documentation and manoeuvres. What Andrew was talking about was war.

"However," continued Andrew, "we've already decided, just this morning, that the only thing we can do is to shut down the business. I've been on the phone to our clients this morning telling them the situation."

Jonathon physically felt the flood of relief run through him. "Okay," he responded.

Andrew spoke again, "What I need to know from you," he said, "is whether we can close down the business ourselves, without any need for the Ministry's termination?"

Jonathon had no idea. Would his boss be happy that VAO had quietly closed its doors, or would she want blood? "I'm sure, in the circumstances, there will be no need for a termination notice," he said, as he couldn't bring himself to say anything else.

"Good," responded Andrew, though his voice expressed no pleasure at all. "Well, thank you for coming to see me, I appreciate that you didn't have to."

Jonathon stood up and gathered his bag and jacket, "It wouldn't have been right to do otherwise," he said. As he was shown out of the house he commented, "And, all the best for the future."

"Thank you," replied Andrew, "though I've no idea what that may be."

As soon as the front door had closed and Jonathon had turned to walk down the driveway, Mary appeared around the corner of the house. "Ah, Jonathon," she called, "have you been to see Andrew?"

Jonathon was perplexed, apart from the time when Mary had opened the door to him, back in North London, he had never seen her, never mind spoken to her, yet here she was collaring him. "Yes," he replied.

"Good to see you found our new whereabouts," continued Mary, "it's my house, actually."

"Very nice," responded Jonathon, automatically.

"Have you seen the garden?" asked Mary, "I must show you, it's so nice this time of year." Without waiting for a response, she guided him through the side gate and down to the rear of the house. Jonathon dutifully trailed her as she walked him through the first lawn, pointing out and naming any plant that was showing any colour. Then they passed through into the more sheltered orchard.

"What did you come to see Andrew about?" Mary asked him directly.

"Just some Ministry business," replied Jonathon, clumsily evasive.

"Probably that you were going to file a report to close down VAO?" suggested Mary, "Nice of you to come and tell him, a lot of people wouldn't."

Jonathon couldn't immediately think of a reply that was both affirmative and noncommittal. However, Mary spoke again without waiting for his response.

"When they work for the Ministry" she said, "a lot of people lose sight that their work effects people, that it is not just forms and filing."

"It might be easier if it just was," responded Jonathon. Later, when he reran this conversation through his head, he would ask himself why he had answered so personally, why he hadn't brushed it off with some normal Ministry-speak. Perhaps he had still been affected by his conversation with Andrew, or maybe part of him wanted to talk about this, and the privacy and security of the orchard had drawn him out.

Mary spoke again, "Easier but pretty fruitless, wouldn't you say?" she asked. Once again, she continued before Jonathon fashioned a response, "You are not doing any good by putting the paperwork in order. You are only really making a difference when you are helping good people, or stopping bad people."

"I haven't come across any bad people yet," replied Jonathon.

"What about good people? Have you found any good people you'd like to help?" queried Mary.

"It's been mainly paperwork, so far," responded Jonathon.

"Except for VAO," continued Mary.

"Yes," agreed Jonathon, "I'm glad I came to see VAO."

"Good people, would you say?" pursued Mary.

"Definitely, admirable," said Jonathon.

"It must have been very difficult when you were told to close them down," suggested Mary.

Jonathon struggled to find, not only the right form of words, but an answer that accurately described his dilemma and gave an acceptable rationalisation to, what felt like, an act of weakness on his part.

Again, Mary continued without waiting for Jonathon's response, "On the one hand, you've been told to close VAO down. To not do so would be career suicide, or at least limiting. On the other, you know that VAO are blameless and deserve support, not punishment. And, closing down VAO means that the bad guys win. That's not how the world is supposed to work, is it? The bad guys aren't supposed to win?"

"No," agreed Jonathon. Listening to Mary was just hearing the argument that had been running around his mind ever since his meeting with his boss.

"How would you feel about stopping the bad guys?" asked Mary.

"That would be great," replied Jonathon, reflexively.

"Would you help?" continued Mary.

"Yes," said Jonathon. "If I can," he added, more guardedly.

"If you can," repeated Mary. "Meaning, provided it doesn't inconvenience you or threaten to interrupt your career or life in any way?" she challenged.

"No," replied Jonathon. "I'm not like that," he added.

"No," agreed Mary, "I didn't think you were." More lightly, she continued, "So, are you in? What I have in mind isn't dangerous, the risks are very unlikely, but the need is great."

"Perhaps you'd better tell me what this is about?" replied Jonathon, knowing, with one phrase, he had thrown in his lot with Mary.

Mary took his elbow, leading him through the trees, and began describing his task.

Stewart was waiting in the kitchen, when Mary returned. "Did he go for it?" he asked.

"Yes," answered Mary, and continued, "I thought he would, or I hoped he would."

"Will he go through with it?" added Stewart.

"I believe so," responded Mary.

"You don't really know yourself until you're in the midst of it," commented Stewart. "Bullets flying, bombs going off, shouting and screaming, that's when you find out."

"I think you are over dramatizing, this is not the Somme," answered Mary. "You know," she continued, "I think we've done some good work today. Maybe today we have rescued a soul that was heading off down the corridors of faceless bureaucracy, or who could have just given up altogether. I think we might have reminded him what this is all about and that it is worth doing."

"Sounds like great karma all round," replied Stewart.

# Twenty Eight

Jonathon viewed the phone handset and the battered metal buttons with some repulsion. As far as he could recall, this was the first time he had ever used a public call box. It was hardly surprising, finding one alone had been a challenge. He had wandered up and down the High Street before thinking to look in the railway station. No doubt the phone was provided here so that late night revellers could ring for taxis, or parents, or anyone else who would accommodate drunken, stranded, people. Jonathon thought about all of the sweaty, greasy heads that the earpiece had been pressed up against, and the volume of spittle that had been projected onto the mouthpiece. A voice inside his head told him that he was just being paranoid by not using his own mobile phone. Another voice replied, 'Just because you're paranoid, doesn't mean they aren't out to get you'. He found a few coins, and took the plunge, tapping in the office phone number for Detective Constable Broad. The phone rang, unanswered, half a dozen times, and Jonathon was about to put it down, satisfied, when a voice abruptly sounded in his ear.

"CID," said the voice.

"Hi," replied Jonathon, "is DC Broad there?"

"No," answered the voice, briskly and slightly impatiently, "he is away from his desk at the moment, can I take a message?"

"No," repeated Jonathon, "I'll contact him later."

"Sure?" asked the voice, "If you've any information I can get him to ring you back, or you can talk to another of the detectives here?"

"No, it's fine," replied Jonathon. "It's personal," he added.

"Okay," agreed the voice, but persisted, "can I tell him who called?"

"No problem," responded Jonathon, slightly desperately, "I'll call him back. Bye," he concluded, and hung up the phone. That had been harder than he had expected. He rather wished that he had ended the call after a few rings, once he had confirmed that Francis was not there and before it had been answered. Anyway, it was done now, and he needed to get on. Jonathon knew he was not a natural liar, quiet the opposite in fact, and he doubted that he was a good one. The key, he told himself, was that the other person should have no reason to suspect he was lying, all he had to do was talk.

Sargent Peter Johnson was at the desk of the police station when Jonathon came in. It had been a quiet morning, the sort he liked.

"Good morning," began Jonathon, "could I see Detective Constable Broad, please?" he asked.

Sargent Johnson glanced at a smeary whiteboard behind him, which displayed a list of names and 'In' or 'Out' in much erased and overwritten marker pen.

"I'm afraid that he is out," responded the Sargent, "can I be of assistance?"

Jonathon produced a small flash drive from his jacket pocket and held it out to the Sargent. "I have some evidence that he might be interested in," Jonathon stated.

The Sargent took the flash drive, regarded it, turned it over, and placed it on the desk. "And what sort of evidence would this be?" he enquired.

Jonathon had run through the next statement a hundred times in his head, and he made an effort not to gabble it out, but speak normally. "I work for the Empire Cinema, where a lady was killed a couple of weeks ago. Detective Constable Broad came to investigate and he took away copies of the CCTV from the entrances to the cinema. We thought that he must have been going to look for the murderer on them," Jonathon paused, to let this sink in.

"Yes," commented the Sargent, patiently.

"Well," continued Jonathon, "we have just remembered that there is another CCTV, at the door of screen itself. We use it to check ticket collection. It shows everybody that went into the screen for that performance. We thought it might be useful." Jonathon finished his spiel and motioned at the flash drive.

"This murder was two weeks ago," noted the Sargent, "but you are only bringing this in now?"

Jonathon had prepared for this, as he hoped he had prepared for every question that might arise. "We don't use this CCTV much, and we only thought of it when we came to change the DVD," he answered.

"So, you think the image of the murderer may be on this," clarified the Sargent.

"It shows everybody that went into that performance," repeated Jonathon.

"How many people would that be?" asked the Sargent.

Jonathon hesitated, he hadn't expected this question. He had gathered that the murder took place in an afternoon performance, but how popular were they? He had never been to a matinee show at the cinema; did that mean that nobody went, or were they full of retirees, night workers and others that were outside of the nine-to-five workday?

"It varies," answered Jonathon.

It was the Sargent's turn to hesitate. He looked directly at Jonathon for a moment while he digested this reply.

"I don't quite see how the number of people attending a performance can vary," the Sargent said, finally, "not unless they evaporate during the film."

"No," responded Jonathon, quickly, "I meant that the number of people who go to afternoon performances vary."

"So, you don't know how many people are shown on this CCTV footage?" queried the Sargent.

"No," answered Jonathon.

"It could be none?" continued the Sargent.

"It must be at least one," countered Jonathon, "it must show the murderer."

"I think two would be the minimum," suggested the Sargent, "the murderer and the victim. We generally find they come at least in pairs."

"Yes, two," agreed Jonathon, "but there could be more."

"You haven't looked at the footage?" enquired the Sargent.

"No," answered Jonathon, trying to avoid any further pitfalls from elaboration.

"You just found the DVD, copied it onto this device, and brought it in," stated the Sargent.

"Yes," responded Jonathon.

"Should we find any useful informational on this," said the Sargent, indicating the flash drive, "then we will need the original DVD."

"I can bring it in," replied Jonathon, "later."

At last, the Sargent seemed satisfied. He picked up the flash drive and took it to his side of the desk. "I'll just need some details, sir," the Sargent said, taking a notepad and pen, "name?"

"John Whitcham," answered Jonathon, these details, at least, Mary had supplied him with.

"Contact number?" asked the Sargent.

Jonathon gave the number of the Empire cinema.

"Thank you, sir," concluded the Sargent. "If you have any further information, please be sure to bring it in to us as soon as you can."

Feeling admonished, and relieved, Jonathon took this as his dismissal and left.

Sargent Johnson swivelled his chair around to the computer screen and steadily typed in the details. After this, he needed to take a photograph of the flash drive, bag it, complete the evidence form, and secure it in an evidence locker; he'd need a cup of tea before launching into all of that. He knew that he shouldn't have teased Mr Whitcham, who was public minded citizen doing what was best, but it had been a quiet day and it was good to pass the time.

Outside of the police station, Jonathon took out his mobile phone and rang Francis on his direct number. When it was answered, he said, "Hello Francis, how are you?"

To Francis' response he replied, "Yes, DC Broad, of course. Anyway, I'm afraid that I'm running a bit late. I'll be there in thirty minutes."

Francis replied and Jonathon continued, "Yes, I realise that police time is very valuable. You'll just wait for me there?"

Francis again replied, and Jonathon concluded, "Okay, see you soon," before hanging up.

Jonathon then made another call, a very brief one. He merely said, "Curtain up," and ended the call.

# Twenty Nine

Mary and Stewart were sitting in the car park of the supermarket, near to the police station. Mary's phone rang, she answered, listened to it briefly and put it down.

"We're on," she said to Stewart.

Stewart flipped open a laptop computer, positioned it between them so that they could both see the screen, and clicked on an icon. A dark window opened on the screen, with only the words 'No Connection' in the centre.

"How long do you think we will need to wait?" asked Stewart.

"If they are there, then not long," answered Mary. "If they are not, then we might be waiting until Francis finishes with Jonathon and gets back to the station. I don't think you will starve," she added.

Stewart had visited the supermarket and returned with two packets of sandwiches, a Danish pastry, some crisps and a large takeaway tea.

"Stake-outs always make me peckish," responded Stewart, "must be the nervous energy."

"Indeed," commented Mary, "the thrill of sitting in a car and starting at a blank screen."

"If they do come through," asked Stewart, "what's the plan?"

"As a minimum, we need to find a way of identifying them," answered Mary. "After that, ideally, we persuade them to turn themselves in, or at least to stop killing people. Also, I'd rather like to know why they are doing all this."

"And if they won't turn themselves in or stop?" responded Stewart.

"Then we will need to consider our position," stated Mary.

"Sounds promising," said Stewart.

Chief Inspector Sands was inside the station, at her desk, gazing at her computer screen. 'Could I recategorise theft from a car as a 'Traffic Incident' rather than 'Stolen Property'?' she asked herself. She pondered the underlying meaning of these definitions, to see what flexibility she had. The problem was that the figures for 'Stolen Property' for this month were too high, whereas traffic had been unusually well behaved. She stared hard at the numbers, as if she could intimidate them into becoming more acceptable values.

The minutia of life in the station scrolled along the bottom of the screen. She read that a police car had been summoned to a domestic dispute in Woodside Grove. Rather posh, she thought, for domestics, perhaps the Aga hadn't been cleaned properly. The next message was far more alarming, 'Parsons murder – flash drive with CCTV footage of cinema audience, potentially showing suspect.' The Chief Inspector sat rigidly as the text rolled out of the right side of the screen. Years of being caught up in police incidents meant that keeping calm was second nature to her. She repeated the message in her head. She'd thought that the whole CCTV angle at the cinema had been thoroughly dealt with. On the other hand, it had been Francis, so anything was possible. The message had said 'potentially', so this could be nothing, and CCTV was generally terrible anyway. Or, it could be everything. Would it be worse to risk finding out, or be too late to learn that it was something after all?

The Chief Inspector left her desk and walked out to reception. She found Sargent Johnson, just returning with his cup of tea.

"Not too busy, Sargent?" she remarked.

"Pretty quiet, ma'am," replied the Sargent.

"Let's see the Register," said the Chief Inspector, as she swivelled the book round towards her.

The Sargent watched as the Chief Inspector scanned the list of the day's activities at the desk.

"You've had some evidence handed in?" asked the Chief Inspector.

"Just now," confirmed the Sargent, "a flash drive."

"People have been telling me that we are becoming slack recording evidence," said the Chief Inspector.

"I find that hard to believe," replied the Sargent.

"Exactly what I said," responded the Chief Inspector, "what's happened to this one?"

There was a slight hesitation, then the Sargent opened his desk draw and pulled out the flash drive. "It's here at the moment," he said, "ready for processing."

"In your drawer. Very secure," commented the Chief Inspector, with a steady look. "Go on then, show me how it is processed."

The Sargent felt the weight of the Chief Inspector gaze as he carefully photographed, bagged and recorded the flash drive.

"Very good," said the Chief Inspector. "I'm going past the Evidence Room, I can lodge it for you," she held out her hand for the flash drive, expectantly.

Sargent Johnson only hesitated for a moment; he knew this wasn't strictly the procedure, but Sands clearly had a bee in her bonnet about something and if you can't trust a Chief Inspector, who can you trust? He handed over the flash drive.

The dynamics of two people sitting sharing a stakeout needed delicate handling. Attention needs to remain on the task at hand, whether it be watching a closed door, a curtained window or a blank computer screen. Boredom is an enemy, as minds will wander, as is too much entertainment, which will be distracting. Most importantly, you don't want to be thinking how much you dislike the other person on the stakeout, and close proximity for extended periods is fertile ground for cultivating objections to their behaviour.

Mary and Stewart had agreed that Mary could have the afternoon play on the car radio, at a low volume. Stewart had made a mental note to himself that, despite the plot revolving around the investigation of a bank robbery, he would comment neither on the unlikely coincidences or inconsistencies in the story, nor on the futility of the protagonists for seeking personal gain through the acquisition of money. In return, Mary had agreed that Stewart could eat his sandwiches in the car, but only the ham one, not the egg as it was too smelly. Otherwise it was companionable, and watchful, silence.

The computer screen flicked from black to the scene of an office, though most of the picture was filled by a frowning, middle-aged, strong-faced, lady, dressed, as far as they could see, in uniform.

"Heads up," said Stewart, cheerfully, "we're on."

The lady continued to look, with a confused expression, into the screen.

"What images did you put on the PR43?" asked Mary.

"I didn't have long," replied Stewart defensively. When Mary did not respond, he continued, "I just looked for footage of cinema audiences."

"And you found?" persisted Mary.

"It's the red carpet from the opening of the latest 'Fast and Furious' film," admitted Stewart.

"No wonder she's looking a little perplexed," commented Mary. "Oh, look, she's wearing a name tag." Mary zoomed in to get a clearer view.

"Chief Inspector R.G.Sands," read Stewart. "Well there's turn up," he commented.

They could see the Chief Inspector's expression changing to a mixture of relief and disgust as she registered that there was no incriminating evidence on the flash drive.

"Time to open the box," said Mary, as she clicked on an icon on the screen. "Chief Inspector Sands, your killing spree is over," she said, into the computer.

These words, sounding so unexpectedly from her screen, caused the Chief Inspector recoil in surprise, then in alarm as the force of the words themselves hit her. After a moment, they saw her reach towards the screen.

"Don't turn me off," commanded Mary, "it's too late for that."

"Who the hell are you?" demanded the Chief Inspector, her voice made reedy by the speakers of the computer.

"We are the people who know that you have committed two murders," replied Mary. "It is over now, Chief Inspector, you must have known that you would never get away with it."

"What nonsense!" exclaimed the Chief Inspector, regaining her composure. "You have hacked into a police computer, which is a very serious offence. You need to tell me who you are and what it is that you are up to."

"We didn't 'hack', we set a trap," responded Mary. "Designed to catch the person who is murdering the clients of VAO, and here you are."

"I have no idea what you are talking about," replied the Chief Inspector. "Whatever it is that you think you are doing," she continued, "you are sadly mistaken. Now you need to explain yourselves before you get into even more trouble."

"There is no point in fighting this, Chief Inspector," said Mary, patiently, "it's time to face the consequences for your actions. Why did you do it, by the way?"

"I don't know where you have gotten your wild ideas from but they are completely mistaken," stated the Chief Inspector. "You have no evidence that I've done anything."

"We know that you killed Mrs Parsons in a North London cinema, and Mr Findleyson whilst he was out walking his dog," replied Mary. "They were both clients of VAO, and you injected them both with a legal dose of tranquilliser. Why are you targeting VAO?"

"That's all supposition," responded the Chief Inspector, "you have nothing. Did VAO hire you to make these accusations?"

"We have plenty," countered Mary, "and we have this conversation with you. You need to accept that there is no escape now, you won't be doing any more murders."

"This conversation!" scoffed the Chief Inspector, dismissively, "As if this would stand up in court. You are the ones that need to be on the look out, because I will be tracking you down, believe me."

"We know what you have done, Chief Inspector, we know," emphasised Mary. "You can bluster all you like, but don't think that we are going to go away. It's finished, you are finished, the only question now is how it ends."

"Look," said the Chief Inspector, in a more reasonable tone, "somebody has led you badly astray here, this is all a huge mistake. Let me arrange for one of my detectives to come and talk to you and let's get the whole thing sorted out. Maybe it will even help us to catch the real killer!"

"We can guess who that detective would be!" muttered Stewart, quietly.

"What I really don't understand," said Mary, "is why a Chief Inspector of the police would engage in a killing spree. Even more when there appears to be nothing that you could gain. You must have a powerful reason driving you. For these deaths to mean anything you have to come out and tell people why you did it. All you are now is a murderer, tell people why you had to murder and let them judge you properly."

"This isn't getting us anywhere," concluded the Chief Inspector. "I'm telling you again that you have this whole thing wrong. You may think that you are doing the right thing but throwing accusations around doesn't help anybody. Nobody is going to believe you and you will end up looking even more ridiculous and in even more trouble. Go away and don't bother me again."

The screen went blank, then showed the 'No connection' message.

"How did that go?" Stewart asked Mary.

"I'm just considering our position," answered Mary.

# Thirty

Chief Inspector Sands stared at her black computer screen, momentarily stunned by what she had just been through. She had been brash and assertive while she was talking, but that was just the adrenaline, the fight or flight response, in her case, always fight. Now that her opponents had gone, that energy had gone with them.

Without a conscious thought, she pulled the flash drive out of her computer and looked at it, as if it's blank exterior would tell her something. She had been trapped, apparently, into inserting this flash drive. The steps in the scheme ran through her mind; somebody had brought this device in and reported it as identifying the killer, she'd seen the notice on the information service, she'd intercepted the device on its way to the Evidence Room. It seemed a long time ago, almost inconsequential now.

She rallied, this was no time for slackness, what she needed was discipline, clear-headed analysis, purposeful action. Around the rigidly steady centre of her brain, she could sense a cascade of random, alarming, panicky, thoughts – she would not let them in. She had been through lots of stressful situations, this was just one more; that this was so personal, that she was, uniquely, on the other side of the law, that this was entirely different, she couldn't let that undermine her. She may be in the wrong according to the law, but she was right according to justice, truth, decency, all those things which she had respected and protected as a police officer; no, that she still protected! It wasn't her fault that the world had gone mad.

Focus, focus. What had actually happened? She had placed a rigged flash drive into her computer and some unknown woman has accused her of the VAO murders. No, be clear; some unknown woman had said that because she had looked at the rigged flash drive, then the woman said that proved that she was the killer. So, without the flash drive incident, they had nothing! All she had to do was to come up with some vaguely sensible reason why she had looked at the flash drive, maybe that she wanted to help out the investigation, or she had accidentally swapped this flash drive with another – both reprehensible, but not criminal – and she would be in the clear. But, this would be more lies, more lies, how deep could she bury herself before it all came crashing in?

Analyse, think; there was more. They had planted the flash drive at the police station, so they must have suspected the killer was a policeman, but they had not known who. Had they even known it was this police station? Had they tried this at other stations? But, they had left the flash drive for Francis, so they knew, or guessed, that it was someone here? And, they knew it wasn't Francis, or thought it wasn't Francis; no surprise there, Francis, as they say, couldn't find his ass with both hands, never mind be effective enough to kill people.

Action, come on, what should she do? Had she been entirely innocent, she would have reported the incident upwards, to her superiors. Or would she? Could she say that she just thought the whole thing was an absurd prank and that she had dismissed it? She may be accused of a lack of judgement, but then these things can be argued both ways. Of course, that was only if her superiors found out, and if she didn't tell them, who would? Who were these people? Who was that woman? Would she be bringing a recording of their conversation into the station? The Chief Inspector looked at the flash drive again, it was blank, shiny, anonymous. She asked herself again, who were these people? They weren't hackers, they weren't kids, but they are not normal members of the public either. If they had suspicions, why didn't they just go to the police? Well, the fact that they think that the killer is in the police doesn't help, but there are other police forces, other avenues. Why all the mysteriousness? What are they afraid of? More importantly, are they so afraid that they won't report her? It seemed a reasonable bet. The Chief Inspector ran the conversation she had had with the woman back through her mind. The woman had kept saying that it was all over, it was no use, but without saying why or what would happen next. It was as if the woman needed her to hand herself in, as if this was far as they were prepared to go.

The Chief Inspector felt calmer. It really did seem that her best action was no action, sit tight and let them make the next move, if they ever did. She knew that she would need to show nothing, to just carry on her day-to-day duties, just be normal. At work, she could do this, acting like a Chief Inspector was half pantomime anyway. It was at home, in the evenings, when it was only her and her cat, then it would be harder, then the doubts would drift in, taking her peace and contentment. But, she told herself, she had no reason for doubts! She hadn't done anything wrong! Her only motive had been to try to shut down that murderous assassination agency, which the world would definitely be a better place without.

Still, the Chief Inspector thought, it did no harm to tidy up. She opened a drawer in her desk and pulled out another flash drive. This one was not anonymous. She had been given it at a training course, it had 'The Police Academy' printed on it. The Chief Inspector had repurposed it, using it to take a copy of all the files from that VAO girl's computer. She could remember it very clearly. She hadn't been working to any plan, just following chances that came up. She had been reviewing the video of the interview with the VAO people after the 'assassinations' of Mr and Mrs Matthews. She had been seething inside. Killings of two people, and all 'lawful' apparently. It was wrong! Nothing could give them the right, nothing was a good enough excuse. And, in her territory! Was she expected to just sit on her hands! On the video, the Chief Inspector had seen the girl type in the password on her computer, it was just the angle of the camera and the tilt of the computer that it happened to be face on. The Chief Inspector had zoomed in, and she could make out the letters that had been typed. Now she knew the password, and sitting on her desk was the girls' computer, which the Chief Inspector had quite randomly confiscated.

That had been the moment of decision, the point of deflection. Should she keep the law, or do what was right? Of course, she should not open the girls' computer and see what she could find, but if she didn't, was she just being complicit when chance had presented this opportunity to her?

On the computer, the Chief Inspector had found the case files for VAO's current clients. She had thought the clients to be sad, deluded people. They were prepared to throw away a gift that had been bestowed on them, as if it were just theirs to take and leave as they idly pleased. Mind you, it was VAO that were the perpetrators, like drug peddlers, serving up the poison to their hapless addicts.

And so, the plan had come about. VAO had to be stopped, this evil needed to be driven out. The Chief Inspector had seen that VAO had two more 'commitments', as they called them, planned. Would it be so wrong to cut these people down early, they were due to die shortly anyway, and use their small sacrifice to destroy VAO? She would be making her own sacrifice, putting herself on the side of the right rather than the law. She would never expect anybody else to understand, but how was this so different from the purpose that she had always wanted to achieve through her police work. In fact, wasn't this the ultimate, the time when she would most make her mark? And nobody would ever know, it would be her secret to warm her in her old age.

The Chief Inspector got up out of her chair, she needed to put the bugged flash drive in the Evidence Room and destroy her flash drive that held the VAO data.

# Thirty One

Police stations, observed Stewart, always have big car parks. This was because the police don't like to commute using public transport. Who could blame them, he mused, at best they may have to put up with somebody telling them what a wonderful job they think they do, and at worse, well, they might have to make an arrest.

This was why Stewart had positioned himself at the rear of the police station, parked up in one corner, where he could see that back door. Mary had left him a few hours before, as surveillance was more his thing. It was getting dark, but the bright lights around the station easily revealed C.I.Sands leaving for the day and walking over to her car.

Stewart trailed her steadily, not too close, not too far away, for a dozen miles out to solid suburban streets and the Chief Inspector's house, stopping close by. He reached down and picked up a little box from the well of his car, flicked it open and gently lifted out a small, black drone, not much bigger than the palm of his hand. Stewart had mixed feelings about the drone. He appreciated that it was tremendously effective and it could be terrifically efficient. Had he known the Chief Inspector's address he wouldn't have even needed to be in her street, he could have been back his living room and run everything from there. No need for any more sneaking through gardens, avoiding pets and security lights. He didn't miss being cold and wet and muddy, but there was no doubt that in the old days it had been more fun.

He launched the drone out of his car window, controlling its flight from his mobile phone, had anybody seen him, they would have thought he was just checking his emails.

The windows at the front of the house had net curtains, but even so, Stewart could see the Chief Inspector go upstairs and change out of her uniform. She went downstairs again, and Stewart had to quickly flit up and over the house to find her now in the kitchen at the back. He had a clearer view now; the back windows were not overlooked and there were no curtains. The Chief Inspector picked something out of her satchel, something small and shiny. She placed it on the kitchen worktop, then got out a heavy wooden chopping board, and placed the item on that. The Chief Inspector hesitated, then found a piece of newspaper, unfolded it, placed that on the chopping board, and the small item on top of the paper. Stewart saw the Chief Inspector reach down and pick up a fluffy cat, which must have been prowling around her ankles, and carry the animal out the kitchen. In this interim, Stewart took the chance to zoom in on the item. It was glossy, smooth, deep blue, plastic, half the size of a cigarette lighter. There was some lettering on it, and it needed careful guidance to enlarge it enough to make out the words. The crushing blow would have startled almost anyone, but not Stewart. Carefully trained discipline and self-control meant that when the hammer fell onto the item, smashing into his close-up view and instantly turning the neat piece of electronics into a mess of chips of plastic and broken circuit boards, he neither flinched nor exclaimed, just a flicker of the eyelids registered his surprise. Not that this made any difference, seated in his car, he could have sung 'Hallelujah' and nobody would have noticed.

The Chief Inspector folded up the paper, along with all the debris of the item, and slipped the packet back into her satchel.

The remainder of the evening was more routine. Stewart observed the Chief Inspector feeding her cat, making herself a meal, eating it in the flickering light of the television, then picking up a book to read for a while before going upstairs to bed. He packed up and headed home, though his evening was not finished. He needed to write up a report of this evening's surveillance, including the interesting parts of the video, and send it to Mary, before he could get to his own bed. Then he would be back, early tomorrow to continue the observation of the VAO killer.

# Thirty Two

Francis had parked three blocks away, in a quiet residential street, where he could easily see anybody who was around. He'd glanced up and down the street, as if casually looking for something, as he had got out of his car. There was a mother and small child, with a pushchair, going into a house, struggling with door, keys and pushchair. They looked innocent enough, Francis thought, but he lingered until they had gone inside, just in case.

As he had parked so far off, he was now a little late, but he didn't want to rush as that could draw attention. Play it cool, Francis thought, think Marlow, be like a ghost, drift down the road. Cool was not a good description of Francis' emotions. The pleasure of excitement was mixed with the suffering of anxiety. On the phone, Jonathon had been so vague, taking about the need to 'bring him into the mission', and a 'critical development'. Then, when he'd set up the meeting, Jonathon warned Francis to make sure he wasn't followed. Francis had felt the hairs raise on the back of his neck, or at least, what he imagined hairs raising on the back of his neck should have felt like, if they ever did. This was it, this was the breakthrough, he knew it.

Francis also knew that he needed this. He had given this investigation everything, chasing down every avenue, watching hours of CCTV, wading through incident reports, visiting graffiti sites, talking to kids, taking statements, recording and cross-referencing it all. But vague leads just propagated into further vague leads, potential connections turned into a web of confusion and nothing, and, more importantly, nobody, emerged. He'd told the Chief Inspector that Brian was the main suspect, but he hadn't managed to find anything to really hang on him, and he had an alibi, of sorts.

The other detectives would ask him, in passing, how he was getting on, and he had always answered positively, that he was 'hot on the trail', just 'getting the ducks in a row'. They had not looked convinced, and Francis knew it was past time to deliver. Otherwise he would seem like a fraud, not a real detective after all.

Francis spotted Jonathon sitting inside the cafe, he was at a small table in a corner, his back to the window. Acting innocently, as if he were just another customer, Francis bought a frothy cup of coffee, and carried it to Jonathon's table.

"Did you have any problems getting here?" asked Jonathon, without preamble.

"No, everything's sweet," answered Francis.

Jonathon leaned in towards Francis, until there were only a few inches between them, and spoke quietly. "You are not recording this, are you?" Jonathon queried.

Surprised, Francis exclaimed, "No! Not at all."

"Let's keep our voices down," instructed Jonathon.

"Okay," replied Francis, more quietly.

"As I said on the phone," continued Jonathon, "it's time to bring you in. And I need you to understand that we are only doing this because we think you can handle it. But, if you want to pull out, now's the time."

"No, no!" responded Francis, "I want in. I'm ready. Into what?"

"You know I work for the Ministry?" Jonathon asked.

Francis answered with a nod.

"Then you will know that the Ministry isn't just administrative, that it has some more, shall I say, 'active' departments," stated Jonathon.

Francis had never heard this, or imagined it, but he nodded sagely anyway, as if Jonathon was confirming a long-held expectation.

"You are the public arm of the law, Francis," said Jonathon. "Everything you do can come out in court, in the papers. It's all out there in the open, you are what make people feel safe and secure and trusting in society."

"It's just who I am," responded Francis.

"And you'll know that sometimes this isn't enough, that sometimes, to do the right thing, you need to bend the rules a little," said Jonathon.

"Well, they say, rules are made to be broken," responded Francis.

"Yes," replied Jonathon, "that isn't quite what I'm talking about. What I'm saying is that we don't necessarily want everything we've had to do to come out in court. It's information that the public is better off not knowing. It's like the SAS, you never know who they are."

Francis sat back and regarded Jonathon carefully. "Do you mean..." he said.

"No," Jonathon interrupted him, "we are not the SAS. It's just that not everything needs to be made available to the public, for their own good.

"Of course," agreed Francis.

"Okay," replied Jonathon, as he drew Francis in close to him again, so that he could speak quietly. "We know who the VAO killer is." Jonathon said.

Yes, yes, yes! Thought Francis, this is it, this is the breakthrough!

"Who?" Francis said, too loudly.

In reply, Jonathon dipped his finger in a puddle of water that had formed around the base of their bottle of water and traced some letters on the tabletop.

"Cis?" said Francis, bending round over the letters.

Jonathon gave Francis a look, and placed his finger on his lips, to shush him, then wrote again.

"Cisads?" queried Francis.

Jonathon tried again, tracing out each letter slowly. Francis spoke them along with him.

"C", "dot", "I", "dot", "S", "g", said Francis.

Jonathon stopped, rubbed out the last letter, and wrote it again, larger.

"What's that?" asked Francis.

This time Jonathon wrote using capitals.

"Oh, A", exclaimed Francis.

As Jonathon continued, Francis followed on. "N", "D", "S".

Jonathon looked questioningly at Francis. Francis stared down at the wet, ill formed, letters that covered half of the table. "C", "I", "S", "g", he said.

"No!" said Jonathon, pointing at a capital letter.

"A", corrected Francis, and continued, "N", "D", "S". He paused to collect the letters in his head. "Cisands?" he asked.

At Jonathon's pained look, Francis pulled a pen out of his pocket and took a napkin. "Hang on," he said, "I'll write it down."

Jonathon's hand did move to stop him, then, despairing, relaxed.

'CISANDS', Francis wrote. Jonathon's took the pen and added the full stops after the first two letters.

"C", "I", said Francis. Jonathon stopped him, by placing a hand on Francis' arm, and putting a finger to his own lips.

Francis reacted alarmed, as the meaning of the letters became clear. He stared at Jonathon, then reached out and put his finger in the, now rather depleted, puddle of water. He traced out, "N", "O".

"Yes," answered Jonathon, reverting to speech as a better means of communication.

It was Francis' turn to lean in and speak quietly. "It can't be! She's the one who put me on this case, she's been helping me solve it."

Francis saw Jonathon's eyelids blink a few times, like registers clicking over as the thoughts span round inside his head.

"Perhaps she's not been helping you?" Jonathon suggested.

Francis rocked back in his chair as the implications of what Jonathon had said sunk in. "No wonder I haven't solved it!" Francis said, "She's been leading me up the garden path."

"It's the only explanation that makes any sense," replied Jonathon, without a hint of a smile, rather with an unnatural fixity to his expression.

"Well, I'll be," said Francis, still absorbing the idea and running through all the conversations he'd had with the Chief Inspector in his head.

"The thing is," continued Jonathon, "although we know, it's not evidence that we can bring to court."

"Because?" prompted Francis.

"Because we obtained it by bending the rules a little," answered Jonathon. "This is where we need you. There is a killer out there and it is up to you to stop her."

Francis stood up from his chair, as if to prepare to leave. "Right!" he said, "Leave it to me!"

"Sit down, sit down," instructed Jonathon. "We haven't told you what we want you to do yet."

Francis regained his seat, "I need to pull her in for questioning," Francis said. "I need to get the truth out of her."

"All in good time," responded Jonathon. "What we need first is more evidence. We need you to search her office and see if you can find anything incriminating."

"Catch her in the act," stated Francis.

"Search her office," repeated Jonathon. "We need you to search her office – and without anybody noticing. Do you think you can do that?"

"All part of a day's work. Easy." responded Francis.

"Good," replied Jonathon, but without the pleasurable invective that normally goes with the word. "Whatever it is will be hidden, maybe at the back of a cupboard, or behind a filing cabinet. Okay?"

"I think you'll find not much gets past me," answered Francis.

"Back of a cupboard or behind the filing cabinet. Okay?" emphasised Jonathon.

"When I search, places stay searched," responded Francis.

"And tell me how you get on," instructed Jonathon. "Call me, and just say 'toasted sandwich' if you find anything. Just 'toasted sandwich', nothing else."

"And if I don't? I will, of course, but just in case," queried Francis.

"Dry sandwich'", said Jonathon.

"'Toasted sandwich', 'dry sandwich'", repeated Francis.

"You're our man on the inside now, Francis, we are relying on you," said Jonathon.

"Set a thief to catch a thief, eh!" replied Francis.

"You haven't murdered anybody," pointed out Jonathon. Before Francis could fashion a reply, Jonathon continued, "It will be best if we leave separately. I'll go first, you give it a good five minutes, have another coffee if you want."

"Better not," responded Francis, "Too much caffeine, won't do to be over excited, I need to keep calm, clinical. I might have a tea."

Jonathon picked up a napkin and wiped the water letters from the tabletop. He got up to go, as a parting shot, as he passed Francis, he leaned down close to his ear and whispered, "Call me when it's done, and remember, this meeting never happened."

Outside the cafe, Jonathon paused briefly to make a call of his own. When the phone was answered, he said, "Missile launched," and ended the call.

# Thirty Three

A badge and a briefcase, thought Stewart, that's all you need to get into anywhere. He had made his badge that morning and laminated it himself. He'd used an old passport photo and had roughly stamped over the whole thing using the bottom of a jar and some beetroot juice. It was a large badge, and clearly established him as a 'Maintenance Executive' with 'R.P. Office Equipment', it swung untidily across his chest as he walked into the police station.

A young constable was manning the desk, still settling into his evening shift, ready for a long night.

"You got a photocopier," Stewart said to him, then looked at his phone and read out from it, "serial number XFS37804?"

"How would I know?" responded the constable.

"Double tray, feeder problem?" continued Stewart.

"Who are you?" asked the constable.

Stewart held out his badge, "R.P. Office Equipment, you reported a problem."

"Who reported a problem?" said the constable.

Steward held out his phone, which showed a pro-forma document with hand-written details in the columns, it was headed 'Maintenance Request', there was a scrawled signature in the bottom corner.

"Probably a jam," continued Stewart, "Double feeders, always jamming. Mind you half the time it's not the machines fault. People don't line the paper up, or they reuse it! That's the bane of my life people putting paper through a second time. It warps you see, pressure of the rollers and the heat. Then you pick it out and put it in again, what happens?" Stewart looked expectantly at the constable.

"It jams?" answered the constable.

"That's right, and then they blame the machine and who has to fix it?" continued Stewart.

"You're quite late," stated the constable, "This time in the evening."

"You're telling me," replied Stewart, "I had to come half way across town for this one. Got to finish your day though. If I leave this one today, then I'm starting behind tomorrow, then what happens?"

"Yes, I see," answered the constable.

"Then I'm late tomorrow," continued Stewart, "And if I start late, then I'm going to get even later, and I'll never catch up with myself. Fourth floor is it?"

"I can't just let you in," said the constable.

"Are you going to bring it down here then?" asked Stewart.

The constable regarded Stewart for a moment. "I need to see what's in your case," he said.

Stewart placed the deep briefcase on the desk and opened it. The top half was paper-work, folders and a note book, underneath was a nearly laid out set of fine tools and a packet of disposable plastic gloves. The constable inspected them with little comprehension.

"Can you show me where it is?" asked Stewart. "Fourth floor it says here."

"I can't leave the desk," remarked the constable.

"Okay," responded Stewart, "Well if Mohammed can't go to the mountain and mountain won't come to Mohammed, then the mountain, or photocopier, in this case, stays unconquered, or jammed, as it may be. It is for events such as this that we have the "Denied Access" form, so if you can sign that I'll be on my way." With this, Stewart started to shuffle through the files and papers in his briefcase.

"What's that?" asked the constable.

"It just says," answered Stewart, looking up from his briefcase, "that I've attended, you wouldn't let me in, then you get charged, I get paid, I get to go home and everything is hunky-dory – except for photocopier, which stays jammed, which, from a professional point of view, is a very undesirable situation, but, all things considered, is the best outcome we can achieve today."

Another constable walked through the reception area. "John!" the desk constable called out to him, "Can you take this gentleman up to the fourth floor, he's here to fix a photocopier." The constable stopped, said, "Alright", and waited.

The desk constable pushed a form towards Stewart, "Name here, sign here," he indicated, "and don't forget to sign out when you leave."

Stewart and the constable, John, rode the elevator to the fourth floor in the respectful silence which seems appropriate when you are suspended by wires in a box over a deep chasm. As the doors opened, Stewart remarked, "Do you know, this is the first time I've been inside a police station?"

John did not respond, and just led the way down a corridor between offices. Stewart continued, "Of course, you know what you think it's going to be like, from all the TV shows. It is surprisingly the same as any other offices though, look, 'Meeting room one'," he read out the nameplate of a door as they went past. "'Meeting room two'", he continued, "'401', '402', '403', 'Inspector Hemmings', well at least that is a bit more police-like, 'Inspector Hind', 'Chief Inspector Sands', 'Incident room A', 'Incident room B'"

John halted by a photocopier, "Is this it?", he asked.

Stewart carefully placed his briefcase on the floor, flicked it open, extracted a pair of disposable gloves and ponderously pulled them on, making sure that each finger fitted snugly, then wiggling them, like a surgeon, to check for proper flexibility. He pulled open a panel on the front of the machine, pushed down a green lever, which made something spring down inside. Stewart bent down, studied the internals carefully and tutted. "You see this," he said, pointing and encouraging the constable to take a look, "you see that corrosion there, you know what that is? Acid paper, that's what it is. I don't know how many times I warned people! Acid paper, it's like running your car without oil. You wouldn't do that would you! Look, I'll show you what it does."

"I'll leave you to it," said John, and walked away, back to the elevator.

As soon as the elevator door had closed, Stewart picked up a blue folder from his briefcase, went back to Chief Inspector Sands' office, and opened the door. Inside, he found a simple office, quite bare, a desk, a chair, a couple of less comfortable visitor's chairs and a window looking out over the car park. There was no cupboard, but there were two filing cabinets. Stewart slipped the blue folder into the gap between a filing cabinet and the wall behind it.

He had only just returned to the photocopier, when the elevator door opened again, and Francis stepped out. The both froze for a moment, in mutual recognition.

"Francis!" said Stewart, "Fancy seeing you, you come to help me with this photocopier?"

"Detective Constable Broad," replied Francis, reflexively. "You're that assassin chap, what are you doing here?"

"Not much call for assassins at the moment," answered Stewart. "VAO's closed down, so I'm in a new line of business."

"Repairing photocopiers?" queried Francis.

"Steady work, and marginally fewer poisons," responded Stewart. "What are you doing down here?"

"I..., I work here," said Francis.

"Doing the night shift?" asked Stewart.

"No," answered Francis, "just working."

Stewart flipped the tray of the photocopier back into position, clicked the panel closed and started to pack up his briefcase. "Well, I'll be off," he said, "I'm done here."

Francis didn't move. "So this is working again is it?" he said, patting the top of the photocopier as if he were petting a square, plastic, dog.

"Careful," said Stewart, "they are very temperamental."

Francis pulled back his hand, and stood quietly to watch Stewart finish packing, and walk down to the elevator. No sooner had Stewart disappeared behind the sliding door, than Francis took a sharp look up and down the empty corridor, went to Chief Inspector Sands' office and let himself in.

Stewart reached his car and made a phone call, "Bread delivered," he said.

# Thirty Four

Not an email this time, but a card. It was heavy, pure white, with an embossed edge. The message was hand-written, by fountain pen, in a confident, if wavering, hand, 'Mr Wiggins requests a meeting with Mr Benson, formerly of VAO, to discuss matters of mutual advantage', it read. The remainder of the card was given over to details of time and place, and a flourish of a signature that resembled nothing more than an embellished 'W'.

Once again at the sombre reception desk of 'Wiggins and Sons', with the same brooding young man to greet him. Andrew handed over the card, the young man took it, scanned it briefly and ushered him inside with a 'Please follow me, Sir.'

This time they turned right after going through the curtains, to the very end of the corridor, reaching a door without a nameplate. His guide knocked, and on hearing a reply, opened the door enough to push his head through and say, "Mr Benson, Sir." Andrew did not catch the response, but the door was opened and he was directed inside.

The room was half-panelled in dark wood, pendant lamps hung from the ceiling with frosted glass shades, framed certificates and oil paintings of rural scenes decorated the walls. Across the dark, patterned carpet, a heavy wooden desk, topped by a green leather blotter and surrounded by stuffed brown leather chairs. Behind the desk, sat an elderly man, broad shouldered, but thin to the point of wasting away. He was immaculately dressed in a black suit, white shirt and black tie. His pale, lined face and wispy grey hair contrasted with the dark leather of his chair. Two eyes looked at Andrew over half-moon glasses, as one hand placed a document onto the desk. Translucent tubes led from his nostrils down to an unseen oxygen tank, somewhere beneath the desk.

"Mr Benson, thank you for coming to see me," said Mr Wiggins. "Excuse me if I don't get up, please take a seat." He waved at the leather chairs in front of the desk.

Andrew sank down into the chair. "I was intrigued by your invitation, Mr Wiggins, I once received a similar one from your granddaughter."

"Gloria," responded Mr Wiggins, "And how did that go? Lots of big ideas I expect!"

"She certainly had an alternative view of Undertaking," agreed Andrew.

Mr Wiggins grinned tightly, "Alternative views, I'll bet she did. Did you go along with any of them?" he asked.

"I thought she was a bit ahead of her time," replied Andrew.

"Hah!" exclaimed Mr Wiggins cheerfully, "Bonkers you mean! I know, I know. Gloria, she's a good girl in her own way, her heart's in the right place, shame I can't say the same about her head. Anyway, I didn't ask you here to talk about Gloria."

Andrew sat silently, to hear what Mr Wiggins had to say.

"Wiggins Undertakers has been going for fifty years now. Its grown to be the biggest and, dare I say it, the most successful undertakers north of the river. You're a businessman, Mr Benson, what do you think accounts for our success?"

Andrew felt like he was in an unannounced interview, but there seemed no harm in playing along. "Successful businesses come about in various ways," he said. "The modern world places a lot of emphasis on being entrepreneurial, finding a new niche that nobody has exploited before."

"Hardly applies to Undertaking," chipped in Mr Wiggins, "people have been dealing with the dead for as long as there have been people. Nothing new there."

"That's true," conceded Andrew, "though Gloria thought there were a lot of unexplored opportunities."

"Only adventurers and thrill seekers like the unexplored," remarked Mr Wiggins. "Not qualities normally found in Undertaking."

"A lot of successful businesses focus on their brand," continued Andrew. "They don't sell products so much as they sell an impression, a lifestyle."

Seeing Mr Wiggins eyebrows raise questioningly, Andrew corrected himself, "Perhaps lifestyle doesn't apply to your business."

Andrew continued, "Then there is value, of course, offering the right price-performance, or at least, better than the competitors."

"Price is important," agreed Mr Wiggins, "though it's a funny thing. What's the right amount of money to spend on the send-off of your nearest and dearest? For some any amount isn't enough, and for others every penny is a penny wasted. And it's not just down to how they felt about the deceased, I can tell you. I've seen the biggest and grandest funeral processions with barely tear shed, and terrible grief over a simple box in the ground."

Mr Wiggins paused, collecting his memories, then continued, "They are all good answers, Mr Benson, but they're not what's made Wiggins Undertakers. The reason we've done well, and the reason people bring us their grandparents, and their parents, maybe even their brothers and sisters, is that they know they will get a decent, respectful, sending off. Doesn't matter who they are, what they've got to spend, whether it's a hundred people or a quiet cremation, we will do it properly. And we don't do this because it's our marketing plan, or because it's our 'USP'; we do it because it's who we are. We do it because that's what being an Undertaker really is. The modern world might be full of 'Customer Service' and 'have a nice day', but we really care, in here," he said, slapping his chest, "in our hearts. We couldn't do a bad funeral any more than we could swallow our own heads."

"I see," responded Andrew.

"I've been keeping a bit of an eye on you, Mr Benson, and your assassination agency," said Mr Wiggins. "I've met a lot of people over the years, and not only dead ones, so I can ask around, get all sorts of information. You've been in business for over a year now, but you still don't make any money."

"It takes a while to become properly established," replied Andrew.

"And now you've been driven out of business by somebody killing off your clients," continued Mr Wiggins.

Andrew looked at Mr Wiggins, wondering where he got his information, but made no comment.

"Except that you didn't have to close down, you could have carried on," stated Mr Wiggins.

"We decided that it wasn't acceptable to continue, in the circumstances," replied Andrew.

"I didn't hear it was 'we', I heard it was you." Responded Mr Wiggins, "So, answer me this, Mr Benson, if you'll be so kind, what sort of person keeps an unprofitable business afloat at their own expense, but then shuts it down just because it is the right thing to do?"

"I'm tempted to say, 'not a successful one'," responded Andrew.

"Or, you could say, one that cared for their clients more than their business," suggested Mr Wiggins.

"Which has added up to the same thing, in this case," answered Andrew.

"Well, that's an interesting thought," continued Mr Wiggins. "If you had carried on and made lots of money, perhaps at the expense of a few clients, would that count as success to you?"

"It wasn't a risk we could take," answered Andrew.

"No, I don't think that would be any kind of success to you," said Mr Wiggins. "I think that assassination is more than a business, I think it is something you believe in, something that has to be done right or not at all. That's why I want you to come and work for me."

"What?" said Andrew, startled.

"I say for me, let's call it with me, alongside me, whatever you want. It wouldn't be called 'Wiggins', it could be 'Bensons' or something," continued Mr Wiggins.

"Why would you want to do that?" asked Andrew. "Don't you already have an assassination agency?"

"That thing set up by my granddaughter," replied Mr Wiggins. "No, she's finished with that, something happened that she didn't like. I didn't look into it too closely, glad she's given up the idea."

"Right," responded Andrew. "So, she's back to Innovation again?"

"No, no," answered Mr Wiggins. "I had hoped that 'Innovation' would keep her out of mischief, but she seemed to make some anyway. We've found her something else. She loves horses, you know, always has, so now she's in charge of the stables, I've got old Jack down there to look after her."

"So, that's all finished," commented Andrew.

"Yes, and we found a place for the other chap, her supposed to be assassin," continued Mr Wiggins. "I didn't think we would be able to, but it turned out that we were looking for somebody who could fly a drone. It's quite the thing now, having the procession filmed from above, all the vehicles and people and the laying to rest."

"And now you want to get back into it again?" asked Andrew.

"No, that's not it," said Mr Wiggins. "I don't want to be in it, I want you to be in it. Personally, I do think there should be some alternative to having to suffer out every last day of your existence. Believe me, I've seen enough exhausted shells of bodies loaded into coffins. And, if we are going to do it, we have to do it properly, for the right reasons. That's why you have to do it."

"Well, what are you offering?" asked Andrew.

"What do you want?" replied Mr Wiggins. "You can have an office, not here, somewhere else. Furniture, equipment, vehicles, staff. Staff are up to you of course, it's all up to you."

"You know that it won't make any money?" stated Andrew.

"Let me worry about the money," replied Mr Wiggins. "Not that I will."

"Oh, and be quick about it," Mr Wiggins commented, "I'm not getting any younger."

# Thirty Five

Francis was in position. He had chosen a remote corner table in the canteen, far enough away not to be overheard, familiar enough not to rouse suspicion. His phone was out on the table, next to the blue folder. He had his back to the window, so that the sun would be in her eyes. This morning, before the mirror, he had spent a while practising his facial expression. Confident, insightful and commanding was the combination he was going for. He very much wanted the Chief Inspector to realise that the boot was on the other foot, it was him that was in control now.

"What is it Francis?" demanded the Chief Inspector, as she suddenly appeared, striding towards the table, "I've got five minutes for your 'very important matter'. Make it good."

"Sit down, Chief Inspector," said Francis, adding, "Please." He then worked his face into the expression he had settled on this morning, ready for the interview to commence.

"Five minutes," replied the Chief Inspector as she sat down, adding, "Have you got wind or something? What's the matter with your face?"

Francis launched into his pre-rehearsed phrase, "Certain matters have come to light that I need to seriously address with you," he said, then corrected himself, "No, certain serious matters have come to light that I need to address with you."

"What are you blathering on about?" responded the Chief Inspector, "I'll be the one who decides what is serious – and it's certainly not you."

Francis flipped open the blue folder, pulled out the top item, a small scrap of paper and laid it in front of the Chief Inspector.

"Exhibit one," Francis said.

"We're not in court, Francis," said the Chief Inspector. "What's that?"

"It is a cinema ticket," stated Francis.

"Yes. And?" demanded the Chief Inspector.

"It is a ticket for the performance when Mrs Parsons was murdered," continued Francis.

"And does this contain some vital piece of evidence that I need to know about?" queried the Chief Inspector.

"It was found, in your office," replied Francis.

"What do you mean, 'it was found'? Found by who?" demanded the Chief Inspector.

"I found it," answered Francis. "I was in your office, and I found it."

"Found it!" exclaimed the Chief Inspector, aghast, "Searched you mean, you've searched my office! My God, Francis! I don't know what has gotten into you, but you are finished! You're not going to be able to serve as so much as a parking attendant from here on!"

"And this," said Francis, hurriedly, pulling two newspaper clippings from the folder.

The Chief Inspector picked up the clippings and inspected them. They were both from the same newspaper. One gave instructions on how to lodge an advertisement in the classified section, the other was the VAO advertisement that appeared in the paper, complete with VAO's address.

The Chief Inspector replied in a vicious, hushed tone, designed not to be overheard, "What are you trying to pull, Francis? This has got nothing to do with me!"

"And these," continued Francis, this time pulling a pair of thin disposable gloves, stained with bright yellow spray paint, and a page torn from a London street map book.

Francis pointed at the map, "That's the park where Mr Findleyson was killed," he said.

"This is a set-up, Francis! You know that don't you?" stated the Chief Inspector, quietly but insistently.

"And then there's this," Francis dug into the bottom of the folder and produced a small, royal blue, flash drive. It had the words 'The Police Academy' engraved the side.

"Where the hell did you get that?" asked the Chief Inspector, startled.

"This contains a full set of documents from VAO," said Francis, "and it was found in your office."

"No, I've dealt with..." started the Chief Inspector, before resuming, "No, I've never seen that before."

"These are handed out at Police Academy training courses," said Francis. "So, you must have seen it before?"

"Yes, but," replied the Chief Inspector, carefully, "I've not seen that one, they all look the same."

"But they don't all contain VAO data, and they are not all found in your office," stated Francis.

In a more reasonable, appealing tone, the Chief Inspector replied, "You're being used, Francis, can't you see that? Somebody is using you to get at me."

Francis began to put all the items back into the blue folder. "Well then, I'm sure that the investigation will clear you," he said.

The Chief Inspector sat back and continued in a tone that was both sad and patronising, "Francis, Francis, you're just young, you're new, I can see that this must be very exciting for you, but this is serious. It won't do you any good to start up any such silly investigation. It won't harm me, but it will destroy your career before it has even got started. Give me that folder, let's just forget about it and get on with catching the real killer."

"It's due to you that I haven't already caught the killer!" said Francis, accusingly.

"What do you mean?" asked the Chief Inspector.

"All those false trails and red herrings you had me chasing down," replied Francis. "No wonder you wanted to be involved with my investigation. Without you messing things up, I'd have solved this long ago."

"Nonsense, Francis! Don't try to blame your failures on me!" responded the Chief Inspector. She watched as Francis continued to place all the items of evidence back into the folder, then said, "Alright, Francis, perhaps I have not been as helpful in your investigation as I could have, but have you thought that there might be a good reason?"

Francis finished packing the folder, and then looked patiently at the Chief Inspector.

"I need to tell you some things, some real-world things," she said. "I know that police work is quite straight forward to you; on one side are the baddies, and they are the ones we lock up; on the other side are the goodies, or the ordinary people, and they are the ones we protect. That's fine in a nursery tale or a children's book, but we are in the real world, and things can be more complicated. Sometimes we know that somebody is a criminal, but we don't lock them up. Sometimes we work with them so that we can catch the bigger criminal. You know that don't you?"

"Of course," responded Francis.

"It's not just black and white," continued the Chief Inspector, "a proper policeman sees the bigger picture."

"Right," replied Francis, guardedly.

"Take this VAO case," said the Chief Inspector. "It's easy to see this as someone is murdering their clients, so they have to be caught."

"That's right," agreed Francis.

"But what's the bigger picture?" asked the Chief Inspector.

Francis pondered this for a while, before saying, "That...", and drying up.

"Who is the real villain?" suggested the Chief Inspector.

"The murderer?" replied Francis, uncertainly.

"We've got a group of people here, in our patch, who are going around poisoning people right on the streets, even in their own homes!" stated the Chief Inspector. "Does that sound right to you? What are they other than a bunch of licenced killers? Calling themselves 'assassins' and having an office doesn't change anything. They are killing people, and it seems they think that they can just get away with it."

"So, VAO are the villains?" asked Francis.

"Well, what other word is there for a group of murderers?" replied the Chief Inspector. "And now," she continued, "there is somebody out there who has managed to put them out of business. They've put a stop to their nasty operation, and what's wrong with that?"

"Well, they killed people to do it," responded Francis.

"But who, Francis? Look at the big picture," insisted the Chief Inspector. "They killed people who were just about to be assassinated. These people didn't have any life ahead of them, they just died a little earlier – for Mrs Parsons it was only an hour or so. But the big picture is that this small wrong resulted in a much greater right. Surely you can see that?"

"So, you're saying that we don't have to catch this murderer?" queried Francis.

"Well, what's the point?" answered the Chief Inspector. "I would say that they have achieved what they set out to do, VAO's finished, and we'll never hear from them again. Why waste police resources chasing them down, only to prosecute someone who is no danger to the public. Let's tidy this up, put it away, you can get on with a real case and we'll have done the right thing."

"We don't have to catch this murderer because they only killed people who were just about to die anyway?" clarified Francis.

"Yes," replied the Chief Inspector, impatiently, "I can see that it is seeping in. They did a small wrong in order to achieve a big right. There's no danger to the public, we can just forget about it."

"What about if the people were not about to die?" asked Francis.

"What about, what about?" replied the Chief Inspector with exasperation, "Both those people were within hours or days of their death, so let's not sit here debating the finer points."

"Not Mr Findleyson," stated Francis.

"What?" exclaimed the Chief Inspector.

"Not Mr Findleyson, he wasn't due for assassination," repeated Francis.

"Of course he was!" insisted the Chief Inspector.

"No, he wasn't," said Francis.

"He was," responded the Chief Inspector, "it was in his.... records."

"No, he'd changed his mind," continued Francis.

"Changed his mind? When?" asked the Chief Inspector.

"A few days before. He'd contacted VAO and told them that he didn't want to go ahead. In fact, he'd changed his mind about the whole thing," answered Francis.

"Oh," said the Chief Inspector, stunned by the news and the realisation of what she had done. "How was I supposed to know?" she said.

"You wouldn't, why would you want to?" replied Francis.

The question remained unanswered, as the silence lengthened and the Chief Inspector appeared to be engaged in some internal, troubling, dialogue.

When she spoke again, it was without any of her usual force or positivity. "Well, that's as maybe, Francis, there is no reason to continue with this," she said, and made to rise from her chair, when her eyes fell upon Francis' phone on the table.

"Have you been recording this?" the Chief Inspector demanded.

"Yes, every word," answered Francis.

"I knew you were a bloody fool, Francis," said the Chief Inspector, aggressively, "but even I didn't think you were this much of a bloody fool. This," she gestured towards the phone, "is worth nothing! It's unwitnessed, unverified and just as useless as you are."

"But the thing is, Chief Inspector," said Francis, as he reached into his shirt top pocket, "I've got two phones." He pulled the second phone out and showed it to her. "And at the end of this one," he said, "is the Head of CID." Francis placed the phone to his ear and spoke into it, "Did you hear all that, Sir?" he asked, listened for a few seconds, then held the phone towards the Chief Inspector. "He'd like to speak to you."

# Thirty Six

This was Jonathon's third cup of coffee in the day, and it was only eleven thirty in the morning. He didn't deliberately keep a limit on his consumption, but he still felt that it left him with only one more cup to help him get through the whole afternoon. The whole VAO affair was making it difficult to concentrate. The fact that they had to close down their business, when they were the victim rather than the perpetrator, was disturbing. In films and plays the virtuous were always saved at the last minute, they didn't just go under. He knew that real life did not need to be so kind, but had he actually failed in his role? Was he supposed to have been the white knight that rode in and rescued the situation? Or, more fittingly, the detective that solved the mystery in the final scene? And then, there were the things he had done, dropping off the flash drive at the police station and playing out that little drama with Francis. Would that turn out to be his undoing, if people found out? Recalling the scene with Francis made him smile, it had been great fun; perhaps he has missed his vocation and he should have been on the stage, not behind a desk. All these ruminations made focusing on the administrative task at hand difficult, thus, more coffee.

"Hello Jonathon." Jonathon turned to find his Head of Department beside him, which was a surprise, he had not thought that she ever left her office, not to eat, sleep or any other physical function.

"Stocking up on the caffeine? Late night last night?" she asked, light-heartedly.

"No. Somebody's got to keep the coffee machine busy," replied Jonathon, rather lamely, but it was the best he could come up with on the spur of the moment.

"The VAO business turned out well," the Head of Department commented. Jonathon stayed silent, as an unspoken request for more details.

"Without any apparent intervention by the Ministry, they closed down and took the whole problem with them. Very much the way we like to do things," she continued.

"The Ministry moves in mysterious ways," responded Jonathon, matching her jocular tone and avoiding any particular reply.

"And then," she went on, "the Head of Section mentions to me that she has heard some favourable things about you."

"Did she say what?" asked Jonathon, before he could help himself.

"Just something vague about you being helpful to other departments," she replied, as she topped up her coffee cup.

"Oh, well, that's nice," commented Jonathon.

"Yes, it seems that you are quite the coming young man," she said as she turned to leave. Then she smiled at him, and Jonathon realised that she was younger than he'd thought, and more pretty and human.

"I'll have to watch out for to you," she concluded, and went back to her office.

# Thirty Seven

Stewart span round in the office chair; it was brand new, even still having the plastic covering on it.

"Flash office," he said, to Mary, who was occupied plugging the various leads of a computer into place.

At that moment, it was more of an empty box than an office. The walls were all painted a neutral cream colour, the overhead lighting from florescent panels glowed bright onto a pale floor of artificial wood. It was actually a box, a converted container in a fashionable 'box park' complex in an up-an-coming outer London suburb. Their office was in the third tier, containers stacked unevenly upon each other in a vaguely anarchic fashion. The view from the window showed red brick railway arches, formerly occupied by car repairers, now Ethiopian restaurants and artisan bread outlets.

"Not as homely as our old place," replied Mary, as she sat down at her computer keyboard, "but that's probably not a bad thing. Makes us seem more like a business."

Stewart walked to the window and looked out over the street market, "Nice area too," he said.

"Surprisingly convenient," agreed Mary, as she clicked away.

"Especially if you want an acai bowl," commented Stewart.

"Or a guava frappé," continued Mary, "right up your street really."

"I'm going guava free for Lent," replied Stewart, as he continued to peer out of the window.

Mary stopped typing and turned around towards Stewart, "What's on your mind, Stewart?" she asked.

Stewart leaned back against the window, looking into the office, "I'm thinking of moving on," he said.

"You need to fill in some more dots for me," replied Mary. "Are you talking physically, or spiritually, or, seeing that we are here, celestially?"

"No, no," responded Stewart, "physically. Though we never stop our spiritual journey."

"What's brought this on?" asked Mary.

"I don't think I'm cut out for this undercover work," answered Stewart.

"Do you think they are suspicious of you?" continued Mary.

"It doesn't seem like it, though I've dropped enough clangers whilst I've been here," replied Stewart.

"So why haven't they seen through you?" said Mary.

"Don't know," answered Stewart. "It's like I'm just 'old Stewart' to them and they can't imagine me as anything else. You say that maybe this will be more of a business now, but it's been more like family, and you keep trust in your family."

"They will be sorry to lose you," commented Mary.

"I'll miss them, but, hey, that's the life of a soldier. Always moving on," replied Stewart.

"What will you do next?" Queried Mary.

"Haven't quite decided yet," responded Stewart. "Could be back to active service, or go on a retreat and give the inner world some attention."

"Mayhem or meditation," commented Mary. "Jasmin will miss you," she added.

"Little Jasmin, yeh," said Stewart. "She'll be okay. She's going to be Sheila to her Bruce now. Anyway, you'll look out for her."

"When will you tell Andrew?" asked Mary.

"Probably later today, when I find the right time," answered Stewart. "Then just slip off."

"Say goodbye properly like a regular person," instructed Mary. "You're not here to seem mysterious."

"Okay," replied Stewart. "You know, Mary, there's something I've been wondering."

"Yes," responded Mary.

"When I was assigned to infiltrate VAO, was it to protect them, or to stop them?" queried Stewart.

"I don't think anybody has a good answer to that," replied Mary. "We knew that the voluntary assassination agencies would face a lot of challenges, on the other hand it could have all gone rogue. I would say the thinking was that we wanted a player in the game."

"Alright, makes sense," responded Stewart. "Good that it worked out positively."

"Indeed," said Mary.

"You have retired now, haven't you Mary?" he asked.

"Of course," Mary replied, "what else would I be doing here?"

