Fortitude

Prologue

‘Yeah I got it. Follow him home. Beat him up. Don’t let him see my face or hear my voice. No problem. Shit, here he comes, gotta go.’ I ended the call and watched Frank walk to his Audi A6.

Keep your cool and don’t lose him.

I’m expecting his wife to be out so this should be fairly easy. I swallowed hard and tried not to let apprehension get the better of me as I started the engine. I followed him out of the office car park and through the rainy streets of central London.

This isn’t the way to Poplar.

Slightly concerned, I carried on following him as he made his way over the River Thames and weaved his way through South London onto the A3. The traffic was easing off at this point which made him easier to follow, but it increased the risk of being seen. I lifted off the accelerator and dropped back.

As I wasn’t driving my own car, I had no CDs to play to break the monotony. I switched on the radio but some god-awful modern crap was playing so I switched it off again.

I glanced at the petrol gauge; just over half full. Would that be enough? I decided to switch on the GPS. With no idea where Frank was heading, I wasn’t sure if I’d find my way back. The GPS would be able to let me know where I am if I were to lose my way. It wasn’t easy working my way through the menu system while keeping an eye on Frank. He turned onto the A31 and continued south. I had no choice but to follow him.

I thought of Maria, at home with the kids. She wasn’t expecting me to be home late, in fact, shit, I’d promised to collect Sophie from brownies at half seven. I looked at the clock on the dashboard. Five fifteen. Would I make it back in time? I can’t just stop and turn around, surely that would infuriate the boss. But if I am late home, what’ll I tell Maria? That I was stuck at the office? Yes, that’s it. That’s the obvious choice. I hate lying to her but that’s becoming more and more necessary these days.

The rain had stopped long ago, the clouds thinning out to reveal a misty sun. For a moment I started to enjoy the drive, but then remembered with horror what I’d been asked to do.

I hope Frank doesn’t get lost. If he stops, I’ll have to stop as well and that might give me away. I saw a sign and wondered if it was one that Frank was looking for: Winchester, 5 miles. Frank turned off the A31 before reaching Winchester and drove towards Chilcomb.

Where the hell is he going now? They’ll be angry if I lose him. I have to carry out the job, but I can’t if he carries on much further. I’ve got a life outside work and need to be getting back.

My thoughts were interrupted as I noticed Frank turning right, off the main road. I slowed right down and crept past the same turning. He’d come to a stop next to another car. A well dressed man – presumably the car owner – was leaning on the bonnet. I parked on a grass verge on the opposite side of the road, about twenty yards further down.

After checking that the spot was suitable for a few seconds, and that I couldn’t be seen, I opened the door and squatted onto the damp grass. I closed the car door, but knocked my arm on the door pocket and caused some of the contents to spill onto the grass. I haven’t got time to pick those up now, I’ll do that later. I dashed across the road and peered over a hedge, hoping Frank hadn’t seen me, or disappeared. I was in luck; Frank and his companion were still there, deep in conversation.

I moved along, stopped near the edge of the driveway, and looked towards Frank and the other man. They were looking at a magnificent detached cottage, fully lit in all its glory by a late afternoon sun. I noticed a plaque next to where I stood: Caedwalla Cottage.

Frank’s companion walked towards the front door and opened it; he must have unlocked it earlier. He went inside and Frank followed him, closing the door behind them.

I stayed where I was, leaning into the hedge, completely hidden from view.

After a few long moments, both men reappeared at the front door and walked around the outside of the cottage towards the rear. Once they had returned to the front, Frank and his companion shook hands and said their goodbyes. The companion got back into his car and drove away. I froze until the car was well out of sight.

I moved quickly. Pushing myself away from the hedge, and then leaping over it in one swift move, I landed in the front garden of the cottage and ran towards the target. Frank was still admiring the cottage and was taken unaware by my attack. I pushed him hard, expecting him to fall to his knees, where the requested beating would begin. Instead, he heard the approaching footsteps at the last moment and stiffened, causing him to fall the full length of his six-foot-two frame. He smashed his skull with a sickening crunch on the bottom step of the front door. I watched, horrified, as his body fell, bounced a little and then sagged.

I stood there, waiting for him to move. I panicked as I realised I’d forgotten the balaclava, still on the front seat of the car. Frank must not turn round. I stood there, watching over his still body. I turned round quickly. Had I been seen? I couldn’t see anyone and there were no other houses nearby. After a couple of minutes I was more than a little agitated. I gently kicked his leg, then his torso. He didn’t respond.

‘Frank?’ I called out hopefully but vainly. ‘Shit.’ I knelt down to feel for a pulse. Nothing. I then studied the head and face. The nose was clearly broken. The bones of one cheek and jaw had been smashed and forced upwards into the eye socket. One eye was open, bloodshot and lifeless.

‘Oh fucking hell, I’ve killed the bastard. Fuck. Fuck! FUCK!’

Now I’ve got a body to deal with. Slowly, I looked around again, and although I couldn’t see anyone I was well aware that we could be seen from the road. I decided to move Frank round to the back of the cottage, where I could gather my thoughts.

Once in the quiet of the back garden, I could hear running water. I looked around and saw a stream through a rickety fence surrounding the lawn. That’ll have to do; I’ll dump Frank into that and then scarper.

What the hell will they say back in London?

One

Tuesday 2nd June 2009

‘Bloody hell,’ remarked Fiona. ‘Raining is it?’ She sniggered as she opened her front door to Simon.

‘Very funny,’ Simon said as he followed her in. Fiona had a ground floor flat in Chase Farm, conveniently close to Simon’s house.

‘Wife not at home tonight?’ she asked with a hint of sarcasm as she handed him a towel from the bathroom.

‘Yes, Emma’s there, which is why I’m not.’ He vigorously rubbed his hair and face with the towel as he said this, then passed it back to Fiona.

‘Oh?’

‘Well, who’d want to spend an evening on a frosty sofa followed by a night in a frosty bed?’

‘Things are that bad between you, eh?’

‘Yep.’

‘Why?’

‘Dunno, we’ve just drifted apart I suppose. I think its cos we’re so different.’ Simon was talking quietly, as if Emma was somehow listening and might hear him.

‘I haven’t eaten yet,’ interrupted Fiona, ‘would you like to have some dinner?’

He smiled, remembering what a good cook Fiona was. ‘Yes please.’ They walked through to the kitchen at the back of the flat. She went to a cupboard and unloaded some pans and gestured to the wine rack. Simon watched her while she did this. She was still in her office clothes, which were always black yet stylish and went with her jet black short cropped hair.

‘So you were saying about you and Emma – how are you so different?’

Simon collected two glasses, a corkscrew and a red wine. ‘Well, when there’s a problem at home...’

‘...what sort of problem?’

‘Anything, doesn’t matter, she’s the same every time and it’s really frustrating. I believe the best way of removing a problem is to deal with it head on.’

‘Like you do at work?’

‘Yeah, I’m sorry,’ he smiled as he poured the wine, ‘I work with computers,’ he reflected, ‘and the sooner problems are fixed, the better. Emma on the other hand, being the creative type,’ he made inverted comma signs with his fingers as he said this, ‘has to be in the right mood to solve a problem. And she’s never in the right mood, so things never get fixed.’

Fiona decided to cook minute steaks, partly because Simon had chosen the red wine and partly because it was fairly easy.

‘What instrument does she play again?’ Fiona asked with genuine interest.

‘Violin. She started a new job with a travelling orchestra recently and is currently on a tour of the country. The next leg is the Lake District which starts this Thursday.’

‘She must be really good to get a job as a violinist.’

‘I’ve never even seen her play,’ Simon admitted sheepishly.

‘What? She’s your wife!’

‘I know, I know.’

‘You’ve never been to one of her concerts and watched her?’

‘Well, classical music isn’t really my thing so I just leave her to it. I’ve heard her practise but never heard her play in a full symphony.’

‘Simon, that’s terrible,’ Fiona scolded. ‘Emma has this whole side of her life that you are completely unaware of.’ Her tone softened to one of teasing as she smiled at him.

‘Well I’m aware of it,’ he said, trying to justify his lack of interest, ‘just not involved in it. I don’t think she wants me to be involved either.’

‘Why not?’

‘Probably thinks I’ll be her biggest critic, you know how sensitive these talented types are.’

‘So you think she’s talented then?’

‘Oh yeah, like I said, I’ve heard her practise and she does sound good.’

‘Maybe you should go and see her in concert. You know, surprise her. I’m sure she’d love that.’

Simon thought for a few seconds. ‘Yeah, maybe,’ he said dismissively.

The meal over, Simon cleared the table and filled the dishwasher, while Fiona opened a second bottle of red wine. They moved to the sofa in the living room, switched on the TV and found a music channel. Fiona sat at one end while Simon laid his head on her lap. She started to stoke his hair.

‘Mmm that’s lovely,’ he remarked sleepily. ‘I used to love it when you did this at uni.’

‘Me too,’ Fiona replied with equally fond memories. ‘It was the perfect aphrodisiac to put you in the right mood for great sex.’

Simon let out a small snort of laughter; he was glad she remembered. They had studied the same course at university and had dated in the final year until Fiona returned to her family in Bristol and Simon to his in London. A warm glow ran through him as remembered the first time they had slept together; a cold October night, a full student bar and a skin-full cider. That was all that was needed for either of them.

A thought came to him and he sat up. ‘Where’s your boyfriend tonight?’

‘He’s still at work. I’m getting a bit worried about him, actually.’

‘Why what’s he done now?’

‘He’s started to say weird things.’

‘Such as?’

‘Well for a start he says that he doesn’t want me to scratch him during sex.’

Simon turned to stare at Fiona and blinked. ‘And you say he says weird things.’

She ignored him and continued. ‘As you know, I like to start by caressing my men with my fingernails, and then scratch harder and harder.’

‘Yes, I remember,’ Simon smirked as his loins twitched.

‘Malcolm used to like it, but recently he’s asked me to stop doing it. And he’s shaved off most of his hair. And pierced his nipple.’

Simon absorbed all this new information, and then came to his conclusion. ‘He’s gay.’

‘What?’ chirped Fiona in seemingly genuine surprise.

Simon explained his deduction about Malcolm. ‘The brother of one of my ex-girlfriend’s came home one night with a pierced nipple and a new friend called Nigel. Nigel was more camp than Julian Clary and the two of them were carrying on like a couple of giggling schoolgirls. All the signs were there,’ he ended with mock-sarcasm.

‘So,’ said Fiona, ‘after seven girlfriends and so much raw energy and passion in bed that he’s the only man to ever have given me an orgasm – sorry – you think he’s gay now because of one pierced nipple?’

The words cut Simon deep. She’d never been so forward about the other men she’d slept with, and her resolute defence of Malcolm came as a shock. He tried not to show his feelings. ‘What does he do for a living?’

‘He works in a shop.’

‘What kind of shop?’

Fiona hesitated before answering. ‘A wool shop.’

‘A what shop?’ Simon’s brow creased involuntarily to show a lack of comprehension.

‘His dad owned a clothing factory and opened up a shop to sell the surplus wool, which was run by his mother. He used to work there at weekends and in the school holidays and stuff. When his father died a couple of years ago, his mother went to run the factory and he took over the shop.’

‘Oh I see. Kind of a natural choice really.’

‘Exactly.’

‘How big is he?’

‘Six foot one.’

‘Wow. But I didn’t mean that.’

‘Oh, sorry. I don’t know. Big. Bigger than average.’

‘Bigger than me?’

‘Yes.’

Simon looked hurt.

‘Well if you will ask these questions…’ Fiona teased with a twinkle in her eye.

‘So,’ Simon began to summarize, ‘a strapping lad with a big todger surrounded by wool all day and working with elderly ladies. Of course he’s gay.’

Fiona smiled and hesitated before continuing. ‘Well, there is something else.’

‘What?’

‘I found this in his wallet.’ She held out a card and as Simon took it from her he said ‘you searched his wallet?’

‘No, I was searching his coat...’

‘…you searched his coat?’

‘...and his wallet fell out, so I picked it up and was putting it back into the pocket when I noticed that card sticking out.’

Until then, Simon hadn’t registered the card in his hand, but he now looked at it. It was a flyer-card from a local pub, Principles. ‘So he goes to a cheap and tacky pub?’

‘Pub by day. Nightclub three nights a week.

‘Nightclub?’ This was something Simon didn’t know.

‘Gay nightclub,’ she said.

‘Ah.’ The fog was beginning to clear in Simon’s mind.

‘Well, gay-friendly anyway,’ she continued. ‘Look at the back of the card,’ she said.

He did as he was instructed and noticed some writing. It was a phone number and a message: ‘Great to see you again. Call me. Love, Max.’

Simon looked up, open mouthed, at Fiona, who was looking back at him with a worried expression. Even if his suspicions were correct, he realised that this was something Fiona was uncomfortable at discussing.

‘Could be Maxine,’ he offered trying to put her mind at rest.

‘I rang the number.’

‘Oh my god.’

‘A woman answered.’

‘Oh my god.’

‘I asked to speak to Max.’

‘Oh my god.’

‘She said she would just go and get him.’

‘Oh my god!’

Two

Wednesday 3rd June 2009

‘Come on Pippa,’ Pete called to his energetic Labrador. A chef in a local hotel, he likes to walk his dog first thing in the morning, before he starts the breakfast shift. Neither he nor the dog had a problem with the crisp morning air at five thirty, although his wife was less in favour of it.

Pippa slept in a basket in Pete’s room at the hotel and so he was the first to know when she wanted a walk. There she had sat, like every morning, at the foot of the bed with the lead in her mouth and a forlorn expression on her face.

Twenty minutes later they were making their way to the foot of Magdalen Hill Down, through the underpass of the A31 and onto the sports ground. Pippa ran enthusiastically towards the stream behind Chilcomb Lane, as she did every morning. A swim was usually followed by the lapping of what seemed like a gallon of water and this morning was to be no different as she got to the bank of the stream and launched herself in.

It took a while for Pete to catch up as he had started to dawdle, knowing that Pippa was perfectly safe. He got to the bank and noticed two things; firstly his dog, cavorting about in the water without a care in the world, and secondly a dead body, washed up on the opposite low-lying bank, clearly visible among the weeds.

He could tell it was dead from the moment he saw it. Although from a distance of ten yards, the body was laying on its back, exposing a disfigured face.

Pete looked left and right for a way to cross the stream. There was no rush and so no need to jump in. While looking for a bridge that he knew didn’t exist, he realised he didn’t really want to get any closer and probably shouldn’t anyway.

‘Pippa, this way,’ he called, wanting to get his dog out of the stream before she noticed the body and went to sniff it out. She swam over to him, loyal to his call but equally disappointed by it, jumped out and shook herself dry. Pete shielded himself from the inevitable shower of water as he retrieved his mobile phone from the back pocket of his jeans and called the police.

DI Sharon Jefferson and DS Toby Adams stood over a body bag which contained Frank’s rotting corpse. They both looked up as their boss, DCI Carl Finnegan, strode quickly towards them.

‘Shit, here comes the gaffer,’ Adams said under his breath.

‘So, what we got?’ Finnegan asked as he reached them.

‘There’s been a murder, sir,’ Jefferson said with clarity.

‘Anyone we know?’

She reached in her top pocket for her notebook and took a few moments to reach the correct page. ‘Frank Hutchinson, sixty-four year old white male from Poplar, London.’

‘Has the area been searched?’

‘Yes, and we found some blood on the front steps of a nearby property.’

‘Which one?’

‘That one over there sir.’ Jefferson pointed in the direction of the cottage. ‘It’s the only house on this side of the road for a hundred yards in either direction so we started with that one and found the blood fairly quickly. SOCO have got a sample of it, and also a lock of the victim’s hair, and are carrying out a DNA check on it now.’

‘I take