Barbara was pleased with the attention of course but thought it rather excessive at times. She did, however, put his chivalry to the test one day. “Marcus, darling,” she said, coyly, wrapping her arms around his waist. “Naomi and I are going to a music festival for a weekend. You will love it. We camp out, and hardly wash for two days.” Unable to keep a straight face she turned to Marcus and saw his face full of horror, contemplating the scene.
“You are joking . . . tell me you are joking, Barbara.” Marcus said in a stunned voice.
Barbara raised her head and looked Marcus in the eyes. “Of course, darling. We are staying with our friends, Mark and Christina, in Shepton Mallet.”
“Not funny, my love.” Marcus grinned and kissed her forehead. “What type of music festival is it? Anything I would like?” he asked, giving the idea some credence if Mark and Christina were to be involved.
“It's at a place called Glastonbury, and Mark told me over a thousand people turned up to hear all sorts of great music last year; rock, folk, blues - everything . . . and this year it's going to be even bigger, with David Bowie and Joan Baez . . . please come, Marcus, it will be fun . . . you do do fun sometimes.” Barbara teased. Marcus's apparent enthusiasm suddenly became deflated. “I have never heard of the place, let alone any of the names you mentioned . . . I don't think it would be for me, but of course, you and Naomi go and have a good time.” Barbara cocked her head, thinking. “You could always stay with Christina at the cottage while we girls have fun,” she suggested, hoping the idea would appeal to his more licentious way of thinking.
“No,” Marcus said, “you're a big girl now, I am sure a music festival will be safe. So go and have fun.”
“And what will you do all weekend?” Barbara asked, out of curiosity.
“I am sure I can find a good book and curl up on the sofa,” he replied, but really only thinking of one alternative option.
*
There was always a problem standing around, waiting and watching someone in the middle of the night, no matter the month; it was damn cold. How much longer was he going to be in there, and what the hell was he up to? Occasionally he would take one hand out of his coat and feel under his waistband for the old Colt M1911 he had bought from the back of a car and prayed it worked.
Now numb with cold, he retraced his steps back to his rental car and decided to wait for Mr Hartstein back at his hotel in the Dunstall Hill area of Wolverhampton.
He knew his chances of a clean shot were more promising when his hands were warmer.
Kershaw had been keeping a close watch on Marcus ever since his aborted attempt to drive him off the road. Not satisfied with just scaring him, Kershaw was prepared to wait until he was sure of a successful kill. He had spent the past couple of months renting a small bedsit in Thornton Heath, north of Croydon, but in easy reach of central London or south, to Shirley Heights. His ex. girlfriend had been less than helpful when he called on her for a loan, threatening him with the police. Bitch! He would deal with her again, after Hartstein. Ten years in a prison cell does wonders for sharpening the brain. Planning revenge. Revenge for the killing of his superior, and friend, Major Ferris. He would make Hartstein pay for his mistake, and remind him that it was he, Kershaw, who killed the Star's, not Ferris. Honour must be restored - the guilty destroyed.
Kershaw sat in his hotel room in the dark looking out over the car park, waiting for his target to return. What the hell was he doing? Kershaw had no idea that Marcus was handing out retribution of his own - how could he? There was some irony in the scenario that no one could appreciate. Each was dispensing their own punishment. One by a bullet - quick and satisfying - the other more measured and meaningful - more suited to the crime in hand.
Kershaw's patience was rewarded when a car pulled into the car park at 3.20am, and Marcus slipped into the hotel, eager for sleep. He had used a medium-size hotel where guests are just numbers and not remembered, hopefully. Kershaw's problem was finding Marcus's room number. He knew Marcus would recognise him on sight, so stalking was not an option. Plan B always worked - bribery. He had fed the receptionist a line that his brother had left his wife, and as a concerned relative wanted to help him through his problems.
Twenty Pounds usually does the trick, but this time it cost him fifty. Somehow the guy behind the desk was not one-hundred per cent convinced with Kershaw's story, but fifty pounds was a week's wages. “Room 305 on the third floor,” he said, pocketing the cash.
Marcus dropped his holdall on a chair and threw his overcoat on top of it. He felt totally fatigued, as well as thankful that all had gone to plan, again. He had learnt from the Daniel Mace case first times can always be improved upon. On reflection, the removal of Christopher Searle went like clockwork. The cattle prod worked better when deployed at the side of the neck, Marcus noted, not sure if he would need it again, but worth remembering.
Searle had been a tall, skinny specimen of a man. Marcus had noticed how dry and thin his hair was as he hauled him up the stairs to the first-floor landing. Searle also looked undernourished, and Marcus, for a fleeting second, felt sorry for the wretched man, but quickly re-focused on the task at hand. Like Mace before him, Searle naturally begged for his life, although when Marcus looked into his watery eyes just before the fateful push, he sensed that Searle was resigned to his fate.
Marcus undressed down to his underpants, and was about to collapse onto the bed, exhausted when he heard a light tapping on the room door. Marcus put his ear to the door just in case he was mistaken. “Mr Star. Urgent message came while you were out this evening.”
Marcus was suddenly awake. Adrenaline pounded through his veins - survival instincts kicking in, just as he had been trained by MI5. “Slip it under the door,” he whispered. Marcus knew that Barbara was the only person in the world who knew where he was, and the name he used. “I need a signature, sir.” Came the whispered reply. Marcus silently reached for his holdall and grasped the cattle-prod, hoping the batteries had not run-out.
“OK, just a second,” Marcus replied, as casually as he could in a life-threatening situation. Marcus turned the key in the latch with his right hand, then the door handle. Kershaw burst in with all his strength as soon as he saw the door move an inch, pinning his prey behind the door.
Marcus's left arm was aloft with the cattle-prod and came down swiftly onto Kershaw's right hand causing him to drop the gun he was holding. Kershaw squealed in agony as Marcus grabbed his arm and dragged him into the bedroom, closing the door as quickly as possible, before kicking the weapon across the room.
Kershaw's next mistake was to turn towards Marcus, clutching his arm which was throbbing with an electrifying pain. With one direct fist to the chin, Kershaw collapsed onto the floor. He woke to find he was gagged, and tied to the bed, with no sign of Marcus. Kershaw struggled with his bindings to no avail and eventually collapsed back on the pillow wondering his fate. As soon as Marcus had secured Kershaw he had wiped the room of fingerprints and packed his overnight case, toiletries and holdall. Satisfied everything had been removed and cleaned, he switched off the lights and closed the door behind him, leaving a Do Not Disturb sign hanging on the door handle.
On the M1 motorway, Marcus stopped at the Watford Gap service station and made a quick telephone call. “Dyke, there is a package for you in room 305 Best Western Hotel, Dunstall, Wolverhampton.” He had considered killing Kershaw but preferred him now to serve his sentence, probably now without remission which gave Marcus some satisfaction. He realised too they had not exchanged one word. Perhaps that was for the good, he thought. A conversation could have led to raised voices and the outcome would have been a lot different. He sat in his car pondering the night's events, wondering if Kershaw's intervention would have any long-term consequences on his dealings with Searle. He was sure Dyke would not document his name regarding the tip-off, and the hotel did not have his real name - he drove south earlier than intended, but happy in the knowledge that he had not left any incriminating evidence.
*
From the Watford