The Zimmerman Cypher

Editors Explanatory Notes

I was, out of the blue at the beginning of the new millennium, asked to arrange the incredible memoirs belonging to a Lieutenant Colonel (Retired) Simon Boeck, this being the second package. After the first, this patch goes a long way to explain some of the subtle clues contained in the first book: Moves with Spirits. In this package I’ve tried to stick to Simon’s own words as closely as possible. He wants you to know his incredible story as, in Simon’s lifetime, he has done some amazingly dangerous things, had truly fantastic adventures and at times faced terrifying foes.

You will see that I’ve added a number of factual explanatory footnotes and a number of endnotes. There are also a few appendixes which aim to give you some insight pertaining to Simon’s outlook on all things psychic/supernatural as well as the original Zimmerman Telegram and its incredible background. Other than that I have only gone through, correcting spelling and grammar which, for the most part, was minor.

Throughout, Simon is adamant about protecting the real identity of individuals mentioned in these memoirs. To ensure this, with the exception of two individuals, he has changed their names. Simon assures me both have given their written consent to be identified. Those Simon did use are simple puzzles of their correct names. If anyone recognises their name or themselves, living or dead (other than the two mentioned above) this is purely a coincidence. I recommend you now hang on. Believe me, after Moves with Spirits, this is a truly compelling read and remember..….. Donte vert ort ures imo nboe cka she sgo tdea dl yfrie nds !

ND Scott

Prepare to be drawn in, captivated, hopefully not losing too much sleep over the frighteningly real events which took place during 1992-93. During this period the North of England was plagued by an Albanian gang who enjoyed committing acts of sexual torture, kidnapping and even brutal murder. Also, the desperate hunt mounted by a damaged Detective Police Inspector and his team in their attempt to catch these men, one of whom was a cunning, ruthless, assassin. Why is a pillar of society, Lieutenant Colonel (retired) Simon Boeck, involved? Finally, find a lot more about the ex

Special Forces agent with deadly psychic powers

Contained within The Zimmerman Cypher are any number of hidden meanings and questions. For example, what does the 1st chapter have to do with The Bible? Are Albanian gangs as organized, deadly and ruthless as that? Is it an anagram? Regardless, does Markov Ransky really exist? Does the famous Rose Window actually contain mystical healing powers? Or more likely, hold the forgotten coded message detailing the location in the tunnels running beneath Durham Cathedral, where, during the reign of King Henry VIII, monks hid their fabulous treasure. The ‘loot’ is yet to be discovered by the way! If you can, go and have a look, the John Tann safe really does exist in Coxhoe. The ponies were definitely there the last time I checked the field opposite Witch Quarry. Finally, The Coldpits Public House does, possibly, serve the best pint of beer in the North East and, oh yes, there is a major clue, to help crack The Karpthec Cipher, staring at you from behind the bar!

The Zimmerman Cypher (normally referred to as The Zimmerman Telegram) without doubt radically altered the outcome of The First World War. The purpose of placing this and The Karpthec Cipher (American spelling) on the cover is by way of creating, in effect, two separate journeys. Additionally, the reader can embark on the ever more complex unfolding conspiracy which started way back at the beginning of 1917. Throughout The Zimmerman Cypher there are a number of cyphers which start simply enough. The front cover is, for example, to be honest, the easiest code of them all. The only clue, to get started, is that it is a corrupted, numerically increasing form of Caesar cipher.

Clues to other codes are all there if you look. Crack one and follow the path in order to gain the keys to eventually, possibly, unlocking the detail and implications of The Karpthec Cipher. Cryptologists amongst you shouldn’t bother with the Kasiski test or, for that matter the Kerchhoff method as this would be a complete waste of time. Nicolai was far too clever to fall foul of simple frequency analysis. Computer analysis will also fail. Not as complicated as the Zodiac Killer’s infamous 340 character cipher, its ingenuity and security lie in the seemingly random nature of the key shifts. Oh yes, just in case you start to get close, watch out for a couple of traps. I even challenge members of the Cryptanalysis and Racketeering Records Unit in the FBI or the smartest amongst the American Cryptogram Association to decode it. Back in 1917 William Montgomery in Room 40 succeeded in decoding the cypher; therefore clearly it is not impossible. As a result, to the first person to successfully decode all the links and ultimately The Karpthec Cipher, I make the oath to reward that extraordinary person with a gold sovereign from the period.

For more detail regarding The Karpthec Cipher and Ambassador Walter Page’s involvement you need to read Appendix A at the back of the book.

Key J 9 I 4 W J R G 0 3 4 P E board?

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© Copyright 2010 N. D. Scott.

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ISBN: 978-1-4269-4424-6 (sc)

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Library of Congress Control Number: 2010914066

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Cypher, Cipher, Codes

It is fact that each of us uses codes every single day of our adult lives. Bank pin numbers, zip/post codes, phone locks and multiple computer passes are all a form of cipher. Codes in one form or another have existed since man wanted to keep secrets from each other. Over the centuries nearly all encryptions have ultimately been breakable. There are however a few notable exceptions, most famously the Voynich Manuscript. A cipher manuscript rediscovered in 1912 by a London rare-book dealer, Wilfrid Michael Voynich, among a group of illuminated works in a remote Italian castle. The intricate illustrations, charts and cursive script captivated Mr. Voynich, a medieval expert, who thought perhaps it was a type of natural science encyclopaedia from the late 1200’s. The characters were however not part of any recognizable alphabet and the drawings, lush flowers, astrological and astronomical symbols, and many naked women were equally baffling. Since then some of the most brilliant code breakers have tried yet failed to decipher the secrets contained within its pages.

My own research has led me along many incredible cipher journeys. From the ancient Greek historian Herodotus, Julius Caesar, throughout the middle ages, Mary Queen of Scots’ cipher or nomenclator as used in the Babington Plot. Albert Myer in the American Civil War. Of course both World Wars, most notable the use of Arthur Scherbius’ Enigma machine and the cryptologists based out of Bletchley Park (Station X). I was fascinated by the unbreakable Zodiac Killer Ciphers. I have used his own encryption techniques to conceal the killer’s true identity within these pages. Even today, secret information is still encoded either digitally or in more manual methods. Recent interest in Da Vinci has sparked an enormous upsurge in all things ‘codes’. This book, as mentioned, contains at least 5 hidden codes/ciphers of increasing difficulty and complexity. Once the written word between the covers have been read and enjoyed, embarking on trying to find the hidden codes and then deciphering them will prove an intriguing challenge. This further journey will be a fascinating one which will keep The Zimmerman Cypher at the forefront of your thoughts long after the fate of Simon Boeck has been determined….

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR

ND Scott remains in his 40s, an ex British Army Officer with, including military operations, experience all over the world. Some special intelligence training. Recipient of a commendation for bravery. Previous published work includes an account of his travels to remote Peru and his first critically acclaimed 2006 novel: Moves with Sprits. Nic has three degrees including a MSc in HRM, majoring in the psychology of selection and non verbal communication. He is a highly experienced psychic, expert psychometrist and practising Master Reiki healer.

For more information visit www.ndscott.com

Special Thanks:

The wonderful and patient reference staff at Durham Clayport Library. Cleveland Constabulary. Optometrist, Simon Berry. Unnamed (their request) staff at a North East high security prison. Unnamed Albanian citizen awaiting extradition for murder, currently residing at HMs pleasure. My now tried and tested subject matter experts: Helene (psychic stuff), Dr SN Evetts (Special Forces stuff), DI Sue Parish (police stuff), the grandson of Nicolai Karpthec (historical fact and cryptology stuff). Also a massive thank you to my test readers: Leisa Radamaker and the best advisor of them all, Carolyn Ganzevoort. Finally, never forgetting Debbie.

In memory of

Gwynedd Mavis Pratchek

1936 – 2002

A percentage of profits from this book will go to cancer research

N. D. Scott

The

Zimmerman

Cypher

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

CHAPTER 1

Odour of Death

Battle Farm, 15 miles East of Durham City, England – October 1992

The crunch, momentary grind, as tyres proceeded slowly up the pot holed single track tarmac road had an unnerving similarity to the driver and tenant farmer’s life. Luke Darling[1] world was a cauldron of despair, swirling towards rock bottom. As the four year old Subaru, which the loan company still owned over sixty percent of, lurched up the slope, Luke somehow knew in the depths of his mind that he was at the end. Having just visited Barclays Bank on the corner of Blackgate East Street in Coxhoe, the meeting had been a one way passage of sad, regretful insistence on the manager’s part. Whilst waiting to see the manager, Luke had glimpsed the bank clerk swinging the incredibly thick John Tann safe door open, exposing the root cause of his woes, money or in Luke’s case the lack of. Wondering back down Church Street Luke knew there was no tomorrow and any further advance wouldn’t be forthcoming. The bank wanted its money and was no longer prepared to keep extending credit and, as the house wasn’t Luke’s, there was certainly no chance of a mortgage. These thoughts permeated his very being as the tall, gaunt, middle aged farmer crested the hill on the final quarter mile towards Battle Farm.

The shitty irony of the farm’s title not lost on the driver. Life was, had been for a number of years now, an all encompassing campaign which, having defeated so many enemies in the past, had finally culminated in the financial onslaught. With no emotional ammunition, strength, or now seemingly will, the reality was that Luke’s war had been lost.

A few sheep scurried away from the battered, similarly tired estate car as Luke closed in on the farm house. Moments later rounding the corner of the six-foot high wall next to the side of the extensive, local stone built farm house, welcome party absent with no one outside. It was as if somehow the family occupants were aware of his woes.

The first member Luke came across was his son. The lad was pushing a wheel barrow full of cow shit towards the back of the out building where a fresh pile of steaming manure wallowed.

Seeing his father’s car, Mathew put the barrow down on its sleds and sauntered over, "Dad look I’ve nearly finished moving all the cow poo. You said you wanted it out of the cow shed by the time you got back and this is my twenty-fifth and last trip. Have I done well?"

As if opening the car door somehow lifted the weight of depression and resignation from hunched shoulders, Luke smiled at his son. Mat was such a bloody good worker, never ever complained, tireless no matter how demanding or manual the labour, and excellent with the sheep especially during lambing. His large rough hands as gentle as a child’s. With a tired grin Luke looked up at Mat, yes child was the correct description.

Mat was eighteen and had Downs Syndrome.

"Yep, Mat you have been a good boy."

"Man dad, I’m a man now. Eighteen means I can vote for the mayor if I want."

Luke didn’t have the strength to correct his son, yes, sorry son you are a man now and work as well as any man I’ve ever known.

Luke recognized, instinctively knew that Mat was, in a tangent almost abstract sort of way, smart. That said, most people who had only limited experience of individuals with Downs Syndrome, took one look and seeing those big eyes and broad crooked grin instantly, ignorantly thought he was a simpleton, mentally damaged, disabled. How wrong they were.

The farmer and his wife, Mary, had come to understand that, although some things were plainly beyond their son, he had other skills and amazing attributes. Actually Mat’s only disability was that he trusted people and just wanted to be friends and love, in an innocent way, just about anyone he came into contact with. The other thing the Darlings’ had, over the years, come to recognise was that their son had other talents, amazing skills some of which, on a tough hill farm, were a blessing. Although not tall, at only about five foot six, Mat had shoulders broad enough to do justice to any Durham City rugby team front row. His strength was impressive, yet it was his stamina which was without bounds. Luke was never quite sure if this was due to the workings of his brain or the fact that Mat was genuinely bloody fit. His other talent being music, something which had absolutely no benefit to the farm, yet Mat’s little sister just loved.

At that moment, as if by simple telepathy, Eve Darling came skipping out of the house’s side door and leapt, limpet like, to her father. Looking down into those early morning sky blue, flecked golden innocent loving eyes, Luke still couldn’t believe that, even at the age of forty nine, considering all his wife’s other illnesses, she had produced a perfect healthy daughter. Of course the sibling had been an accident after far too much whisky four Christmas’ ago, however the joy she brought was a shining beacon in his otherwise dark monotonous struggle of life. Eve on the other hand was the love of his life, for it was her and her alone who kept him struggling on, in a desperate attempt to make the farm work.

Daddy, daddy I’ve painted you a picture. Mummy says you look just like a horse, come and see.

Oh really, do I indeed? OK in a moment poppet, Daddy needs to put the car away and must move the cows out into the field. Once I’m done I promise to see your painting.

Oh Daddy please, Mummy says it’s such a good picture. Will you come Mat?

With a wide grin full across his gentle face, her devoted brother replied, "now Eve, you heard Daddy. When us men have finished in the fields I’ll help you paint a picture of Mummy, alright?"

This seemed to work as innocence prevailed. Eve unclamped herself from her father before scampering back towards the side door to the large and, on a spring morning actually almost impressive, Victorian farm house. Swivelling straggly, sandy locks to look back as she pushed the battered door open, don’t forget you promised.

I won’t, Luke replied before turning to his son, Mat I’ll need you to ride the quad bike, I’ll take the tractor. We must move those cows in the top field back down towards the beck before it gets dark.

Whatever you say Dad, you know I love riding the bike, with that Mat pulled his Wham cap tight over unkempt jet black hair as he moved round the corner to the shed.

The children’s father climbed back in the idling car, drove over to the open shed round the back of the house. Here the car was dwarfed by the high corrugated covering which formed part of the quad square of out buildings. The remainder was comprised of a vast open hay loft, two large cluttered sheds and a covered gloomy shed where the farms muddy Daff tractor stood.

Having worn a thick herringbone tweed jacket, slightly faded cords and strong badly scuffed brogues to go into town Luke couldn’t be bothered getting changed.

Climbing up and into the cab he recalled six years earlier, not being convinced by the salesman that they needed the ‘farmer friendly cab’. His choice, basic with only an air compression chair and simple radio for luxury. Switching it on he drove straight out and up, following Mat who was now belting along the back lane, toward the crest of the hill. A couple of minutes later, with the steel gate shoved open Luke drove straight through. After clattering it shut, Mat followed with Blackie, their one and only sheep dog, bounding ahead of both of them, eyes sharp and alert, already certain of the imminent requirement to utilise his natural herding instincts.

The two men followed, driving up the muddy field. In the near distance, standing at the top, thirty heifers, only marginally interested, looked up. Luke stopped the tractor twenty feet from the nearest animal, next to Mat, who was standing up on the bike whistling, not at the dog but a quiet lullaby he particularly enjoyed humming for Eve when she lay safely tucked up in bed.

Regaining his son’s focus, Mat, you go round the back up yonder, nodding towards the far wall, take Blackie and I’ll drive them down through the field. When you get there drop into the bottom field and shut the gate after.

No problem, with that Mat skidded off at speed followed, easily, by Blackie.

As he watched his son zoom off, Luke’s melancholy like the racing, menacing clouds above, returned. Why did he have to have a son like this? Mat was such a gentle lad yet knew nothing of business and certainly could never be left alone with any wholesaler or passing salesman. On a number of occasions he’d had to phone a departing, delighted salesman to apologise and tell them that they did not in actual fact need another tractor.

Recalling previous events, Luke watched as Mat and Blackie worked in harmony, almost as one, shepherding the cows, who although irritated knew that they would probably be better off in the bottom field under cover by the small stream. As the herd wandered, jostling through the open gate Luke engaged the gears and rumbled down the hill. The herd now without machinery, or a human form to cajole them were giving Blackie some physical resentment as the dog barked and skipped towards their hooves.

Once through the entrance, the requirement for sheep dog abilities no longer required as the cows trotted down towards the vast large open shed. They recognized this would be shelter from the rain which instinctively they understood would be forthcoming fairly soon.

Stopping only half way down the muddy hill, Luke swivelled in his chair to see Mat come scooting towards him at the same time as Blackie came dashing back up the hill, his work now complete.

Mat, you head on home and help your mum, I’m going to take a turn around the bottom fields to check on the sheep, alright?

Sure Dad, looks like rain. See ya, with that Luke’s son revved up the quad bike before zipping off, spraying mud up the side of the tractor as Luke rapidly closed the glass door.

Cocooned inside his tractor, with the radio blasting out drive time easy listening, Luke set off on the ten minute tour of the bottom side of his tenement farm. The journey somehow a tour of resignation. Soon all this would be gone and he and his physically and mentally demanding family would be stuck in some council house possibly on a featureless council estate somewhere in Hartlepool or maybe worse the concrete new town Peterlee.¹ Both prospects involuntary caused Luke to shake his head.

Twenty minutes later, in the cab, depression hung like a near visible thick cloud. No amount of early evening music was going to release him from mounting gloom. Having quickly climbed back in after closing the final gate, Luke splattered along the dirt track. Now with the full headlamps on as the darkness, as Mat had predicted, induced sheets of driving near sleet crashing against the windscreen.

Rounding the corner to the back of the farm, Luke could see the twinkling welcoming light from within the house, the side kitchen door wide open. ‘What the hell’ they might as well turn the heating full on as Luke knew he would probably never be able to pay the final red demand before the courts inevitably declared him bankrupt.

With the rain and radio blasting he swung into the quad, shifted the gears before smartly reversing into the shed. The rain, seemingly straight off the North Sea, continued to blast into the windscreen right up until the moment he switched off the tractor, before jumping down.

As Luke dashed over to the farm house he failed to notice Eve’s latest picture lying only just visible, splattered and smudged under the large tractor wheel.

Slamming the door shut on entering the warm vast cluttered kitchen, I’m home where is everyone? Sitting, Luke picked up a worn kitchen towel and dried his hair and face. Removing the wet towel he watched his wife enter the room, slowly.

Mary’s speed a result of the crippling osteoarthritis which had, over the past three years, ravaged her body. Hands with grotesquely twisted knuckles now resembling exposed gnarled tree roots. Her ankles contorted into non bio mechanical positions. The two solid brass tipped walking sticks tap-tapping on the stone floor accompanied by the shuffle of Mary’s near useless feet.

Hello darling, please tell me things went well at the bank?

Before Luke could raise his eyes to reveal the answer, Mat came striding in, you haven’t left Eve out in the rain have you dad, she’ll catch a terrible cold out there.

It was something indicative about the events of the whole day which swept the crescendo of concern over Luke’s consciousness.

Well if you won’t let her in, I will, with that Mat quickly dashed to the back door, flinging it open to let his sister in. Instead, all that re-entered was driving rain, accompanied by bone biting wind.

Where is she? She went out to surprise you when you came back?

Instant concern now permeated the walls as all the occupants understood something was not quite right. It was freezing outside and Eve could easily open the door on her own, so why hadn’t she come back indoors?

I’ll go and fetch her, Mat’s voice failing to mask innocent worry.

Body and mind so very tired, Luke stared trance like up at the clothes rail swinging below the ceiling. Everything, the rain, his wife’s inability to do anything apart from love him. Love didn’t make the tea’s, tidy the house or do any of the domestic chores which farmer’s wives traditionally undertook. He didn’t resent her but love alone was now not going to save them. Neither was his son, as there was no way Mat was ever going to be anything other than a willing burden to the unsuccessful running of Battle Farm.

Luke’s lame smile met his wife’s gaze as she slowly lowered herself into the high rocking chair. The solid worn mahogany chair was the only seat in the kitchen Mary could get out of without assistance.

As Luke started to speak, in the distance he could hear Mat evidently starting the tractor. With a slight frown, the boy knew not to use it unless his father was around?

The scream shrill even above the rain buffeted panes of glass. Luke instantly alert, leapt up at the same time as the kitchen door burst open.

Eyes bulging, innocence unable to comprehend the enormity of the mutilated, gurgling body Mat bore in his strong arms.

…

Eve died from horrendous crush wounds less than twenty minutes after Mat brought her mangled body into the kitchen, and well before the ambulance turned off the main road.

Inside the farm house Mat wailed like the child he was. Eve’s mother just sat in the rocking chair quietly swaying back and forth, shock engulfing her every thought, her very being.

It was only Luke who appeared to have any sense of reality. Staring, not listening to the Police Sergeant’s kind yet professional words about what appeared to have been a terrible accident. For Luke, it was he who had killed the innocent child whilst not concentrating, hurriedly reversing the tractor. In doing so he had destroyed the very thing which his mind had clung to for hope. Without Eve, Luke had nothing. Now, as far as he was concerned, life was no longer worth living.

-

Ten days later after the necessary post-mortem, the funeral, like Eve’s coffin, was a tiny affair with only Mary’s sister and husband attending.

The formal proceedings at the crematorium were not followed by a wake or even any kind of family gathering.

Hours later back at Battle Farm, the remnants of the family were almost silent. Any conversation an insult to the events of the day. Luke had insisted Mat take a mild sleeping tablet. His only child now lay upstairs in bed, quietly sobbing on the verge of sleep. His tears just audible throughout the house.

Within ear shot Mary just sat in her chair, total and utter desolation etched deep across her dry wizened face, creaking backwards and forwards.

Also in the kitchen, Luke, with face in hands, could clearly see through his tear ridden fingers to the table, a pile of final notices and a plainly labelled ‘urgent - private’ letter from the bank. There was no going back and seemingly no going forward – he had finally lost the war. Clenching his fingers in a failed attempt to squeeze out the problems, Luke knew now, he had failed.

Sitting there wringing tear damp hands Luke gazed at Mary, his mind had finally plummeted to a warped pit of disrepair. Any sense of reality destroyed by the pain from what he believed to be all his own doing.

.-

Sometime later, long thin rough hands wiped crusty salty tears from cheeks as Luke slowly rose. Almost with a contented smile he stared at his wife. He didn’t receive a response.

The ex farmer then stepped through out of the now claustrophobic kitchen into the large hall, passed the back sitting room where nearly two weeks earlier they had lain his daughter’s broken, crumpled body, in her last few throws of earthy physical life.

In a flash events replayed in his mind.

Daddy, daddy I’m really cold and frig.. her words curtailed, replaced by excruciatingly painful wheezing. It’s alright poppet the ambulance will be here soon.

Where’s Mummy?

She’s gone to phone the ambulance again. Don’t worry she’ll be back in a moment. So you just lie still.

With her eyes tight shut the tiny slip of a girl just managed to force out a last few words, Daddy, I can’t see you or Mummy. Where’s Mat? Will….., broken by yet more terrible gurgling pants, will Mat sing for …

With this her frightened voice trailed off as the effort of speaking took a back seat to the physical effort. Eve made to gasp, a final few breaths of life before the shallow bloody breaths pathetically, desperately petered out.

Pulling the sitting room door shut as he passed in a physical gesture to distance himself from the events, Luke moved over to the large Victorian wooden creaking stairs. Moving up them, round past the other bedrooms, before gently pushing open the door to his son’s room.

Quietly Luke sat on the edge of the bed studying his, oh so gentle, son. The lad could understand but was unable to take on the enormity of the events of the past few weeks. His tears, bouncing off the duvet reawakened a deep love for his traumatised son. Gently he lent forward to kiss Mat on the forehead. Then, without disturbing him, Luke quietly moved the pillow from under his son’s head toward Mat’s face. Carefully at first then with considerable force pushing down. His exertion forged from a lifetime of pressure and unrelenting toil. Luke knew he had failed to save his beloved daughter. Deep down now realising there was no way he would ever be able to care for everyone.

A chasm in his brain kept echoing, ‘it’s all your fault’.

Luke’s mind was awash, flooded by shame and remorse. It was he who had created this family and it was he who now must undo that which he had created.

Pushing, Mat began to rouse.

Gently at first then instinctively, with considerable strength, he struggled against the lack of oxygen. It was all that Luke could do to keep the pillow in place. After a few moments however, as if somehow Mat knew what his father was doing, he relented and just lay there juddering as the lack of breath induced involuntary convulsions. Finally stillness, accompanied by Luke’s deep breaths and the near intrusive patter of drizzle on the window.

Removing the pillow from his dead son Luke once again kissed him very gently on the cheek, "Mat you’re better off there with your sister."

Then, with almost lightness in his step, as if somehow by, in his mind, releasing his son, Luke had alleviated some of the despair, he moved back down the stairs towards the kitchen. As he did, in the near distance, Luke could hear Mary quietly rocking. As he entered, this time, the farmer’s wife stared at him. A gaze, which as if by telepathy, encompassed a sense of knowledge. It was as if somehow she knew what her husband had just done.

Both childless parents now had tears streaming down their cheeks. No words were spoken as the now mentally collapsed farmer went over to the Argar stove, reached up and removed the shot gun from its resting place. Not even checking to see if it was loaded, he knew it was always kept safe, away from Mat’s innocent intrigued hands. Now moving across to the tatty Welsh Dresser, Luke took out his key ring and unlocked the cluttered central drawer.

Moments later stood behind his wife, leaning forward, the gun in one hand, so that he could stroke, no check, the teardrops gliding down Mary’s thin cheeks.

Mary looked up and smiled, a sad resigned final smile, before closing her eyes.

Moving back behind his wife Luke held the barrel to the back of her head, shut his own eyes and pulled the trigger.

The violent force flung Mary forward out and against the far wall, the chair rocked viciously, before her body flopped to the floor twitching slightly, before a gooey near purple mess started to drip, ooze down towards her crumpled body.

Luke no longer saw any of this, in his mind all he could see was a happy smiling family, sat round the kitchen table, laughing as they had done in year’s gone bye. With an unheard clunk he placed the gun on the table, stepped over his now still wife and opened the cellar door. Clicking the switch, releasing partial light which illuminated the surprisingly large m shaped basement cellar.

Not even the cold dank smell broke his illusion of tranquillity as Luke reached the bottom step and the cold massive two hundred year old paving stones. Looking round he found what he was looking for. Throwing the thin strong green bailing twine over one of the Victorian plumbing pipes he tied it off. Now almost serenely the broken farmer dragged over, superficially scratching the stones beneath, the dusty damp chair from the corner.

Standing, he doubled up the rope tie before tying a simple slipknot and placed it over his head. Eyes fixed with an utterly empty stare, Luke kicked away what he thought was the end of his worthless, earthly life.

.-.

The sun glinted, darting sporadically from behind racing frightened clouds. As they did John Birch left the main road and proceeded up the bumpy partially tarmacked track. In doing so his thoughts were clear, it would almost certainly be a ‘no sale’, yet the lure of a sale, even a small one, greedily spurred him on. The rumours were out, the farmer he was going to make a call on was no more likely to buy the supposed wonder fertilizer than he was to win the Pools which, his wife insisted would, one day, free them from his relentless travelling sales existence. He’d been to this particular farm a few times. On most occasions he’d quite enjoyed, in a cruel way, meeting the farmer’s spastic son. John was hard old school and actually didn’t know any better and in any case didn’t care so long as there was the possibility of getting rid of some of his old stock. The simpleton lad was always good for a laugh (at – and silently at that). The farmer on the other hand was altogether different. Tough, matter-of-fact and typical of many of the hard pressed farmers on John’s books. Parking the nearly new 4 wheel Volvo, essential to get to some of the more remote farms on his patch, John climbed out. Instead of any kind of greeting all that met him was an eerie silence broken only by a distant crow’s guttural pitched bellow. Gathering his shoulder bag from the passenger seat along with a few pointless brochures and samples he briskly went over to the back door.

Strange?

Normally by now he’d either be greeted by at least the family sheep dog’s enthusiastic bark, or more likely the weird looking lads welcome.

Rap, rap on the door. In doing so, not that the wind had played any part in the movement, the solid door swung slowly open. As if invited to enter, John obeyed. An action which for many years John would regret ever taking.

Lines etched deep across his entire forehead, almost stumbling backwards, the smell smacked him right across one of his sensors. Every sinew of John’s very being alert now, something was definitely not right. If he’d listened to his instincts the salesman would have gone straight back to the car and phoned the police. Possibly by way of a punishment for previous silent thoughts? The insults towards the farmer’s son dampened his intuition, so holding a hand tight over his nose John walked into his future recurring nightmare. The first thing out of place was that the cellar door was wide open and, even though it was only three in the afternoon, the light was obviously on down below. Scanning round his eyes juddered to a halt in utter disbelief as another sensor took the full force of the vision. A rat was gnawing a slightly decomposed, half eaten face which was protruding from behind the kitchen table. A tar black pool of dried blood spread across the stone floor. Almost fixed to the spot, John’s eyes then took in a shotgun and where the pattern of deep purple stain had drained down the far wall. Taking this in John lurched away from the visual hell.

Moments later, outside doubled over and gasping for air, his lungs tight shut refusing to allow oxygen to enter. Staggering away, splashing through the muddy yard he reached the car and shakily dialled 999.

Not daring to return to the house John sat frozen, fixed to the seat. Almost motionless apart from a tiny half crazed shaking of his head. A natural response to the enormity of what he had just witnessed as it kicked into his involuntary fear system. Even though his car was twenty odd feet from the now wide open kitchen door, the lingering foul odour invaded his nostrils.

Obviously this odour of death only just restrained, ingrained in the very atmosphere, permeated deep within the building’s very walls. ²

Chapter 2

Deadly Havoc

Newcastle upon Tyne – September 1993, Wednesday just before 8PM

To the casual onlooker, the two silver van’s appearance, proclaiming to be from a local company, were basically insignificant. Yet the significance was simple, they were indeed insignificant, forgettable, anonymous. Yet contrary to the advertising adorning the side, proclaiming to be A Cut Above - Carpet Fitters, enclosed, sprawling in their interiors, almost entwined like a nest of vipers, waited a violent deadly cargo. Each van had been stripped out and now contained six sweating, armed men. Parked in Crudas Park[2]car park, just over a mile west of the Central Train Station, no one paid the vans more than a fleeting glance.

-

The front passenger in the marginally cleaner transit, who went by the name of Johnno, flippantly flicked his Regal fag butt with practiced precision out of the smoky front cab window into a nearby drain. With that, he scratched greasy, shoulder length, naturally wavy dark hair. Next he slipped out and partially slid open the side panel of the van. As the two vehicles were facing opposite directions and less than ten feet apart, Johnno stepped over, and did the same to the other transit. Instantly a sweating tattooed head poked out before leaning back and gruffly telling the others to follow suit and join him in the gap between the two Ford Transits.

Once they’d all slithered out, some lighting cigarettes, Johnno spoke, "right listen you lot, I nar I’ve already explained what’s gan ta happun but I just wana gan ower it one last time exactly what I expect ta happun."

Speaking, Johnno cast his gaze from one tough face to the next, then the gathered men’s boss continued, "tha aim isn’t tee kill, it’s only ta scare the shite outta them. That said if someone gets killed then, with a shrug of his sizable shoulders, that’s their fuckin’ bad luck. His candour raised a few grunts of amusement. Ignoring them, that however isnee the intention. What I want ta see is clarit’, preferably theirs and loweds afa it. At this he received a few more broken grins. I want them al se terrified that they winat ever forget oow little visit."

Listening now intently, the twelve men were anything but your run of the mill hired thugs. These guys were different, the majority having some quantity of brains to combine with their considerable fearless brawn.

The designated leader of the other van spoke up, "yer mate divant fuckin worry thy sell, as ther’ll be plenty ‘a blood flying aboot when we gan inside." As if to emphasis his point the thug slapped the curve of a baseball bat into a rough, grubby palm, nicotine yellow fingers easily curling round the fat end.

Looking around amongst them, Johnno could see two other bats, a splintered stubby broken snooker cue, the odd machete and two partially concealed crude long swords.

Johnno continued, "remembu it’s important that ya divunt speek. I don’t want anyone ta realise where ya from. If anyone is ganin ta de any tarkin its gana be me, reet?" Johnno, the gang leader, was himself under orders