basket and without cringing waded through the linen. Sure enough there were aprons, blue check trousers and white cotton tops, even white kitchen caps, at the bottom. He held a number of them up to look at, senses alert to the possible arrival of an employee. The third pair of trousers he pulled out, tomato stained and mucky around the trouser cuffs, were his size roughly and he found a white top with a variety of splashes and smelling of stale sweat which was roughly the right size too. The sound of the lift hurried his decision. He took the items, rolled them under his arm and climbed the steps into the fresh air.
Just around the corner from his hotel on Montagu Row he found a hair salon. The girl wasn’t impressed by his badly cut and poorly dyed hair. He needed an appointment and as the receptionist had taken pity on him when he’d told the story of a stag night binge and waking to find his hair damaged and dyed. They had a stylist available and she said she’d fit him in at five. She frowned at rolled bundle of dirty chef’s clothing and his shabby clothes. He’d shrugged his shoulders knowing she’d assume the worst.
The tube took him to the Oxford Circus, where he knew he’d get some clothes. He was also looking for a launderette. He walked amongst the crowds aware of the CCTV cameras watching, but knowing that he could not be spotted in the huge crowds of shoppers. Thanks to the brown hair and even without the fake facial hair he was the wrong shaped needle in a haystack.
He picked out the Diesel shop and bought himself a much more in touch look. The shop assistant gave him sad looks, thinking that it was another middle aged man having a trend crisis. Mason spent over four hundred pounds including a leather coat and shoes.
When he paid it struck him that he ought to change now.
“Do you mind if I change here?” The assistant raised an eye brow and Mason gave him the deadest of cold stares, hardening his face. The youth looked down
“Yeah sure no problem.”
Having used the cubicle to change in and feeling more human and much more like himself out of the Oxfam clothes he strode over to the counter. The youth was serving a customer.
“Bin that lot mate. Ta.” Mason said breezily.
Mason dumped the bag full of old clothes on the counter and walked out. He was feeling fine. Tonight he was going to have fun and tomorrow he was going to make contact and make a million pounds on one hit.
It took him five minutes to find a launderette two streets away in Marshall Place. It was fully attended so he left the small bundle to be washed and ironed and decided, looking at his watch and seeing it was four thirty, to find a bar and have drink. A short walk down the road he found the John Snow Pub. It was half full. He ordered a pint of lager and sat at the bar watching the clock. He caught his reflection in the mirrored surface behind the bottles on optics and frowned at himself. He looked down at his new clothes and smiled. ‘Nearly there.’ He thought.
Within half an hour he had collected his stolen kitchen uniform and caught the underground back to Baker Street. He had just about run out of ready cash.
Chapter 68
London
4 p.m.
April 18th
After the landing at Stansted Airport David was taken by car around Long Border Road, along Coppice Road and through the Avenues to the airport plane parking area where there was a helicopter waiting to take him into central London.
The trip was different to the outward journey and David noted that London looked rather more mundane from air by daylight than it had at night. He mused on the fact that perhaps he had been full of expectation on the night journey out and on this return he was deflated and jaded.
As the helipad came into view below them David got more of a sense of the scale of the building than on the outward journey. He was not dwarfed or made to feel insecure by the sense of the huge machine of which he was a part. He felt a certain relief and comfort in coming in to land on the top of his base. He had felt alone and isolated at times on the ‘mission’, but as the helicopter bumped down the strength of the department and the threads of its power stretching across the country imbued him with a sense that the remaining assassins would be brought to book one way or another.
Out of the helicopter it was windy on the roof and he quickly made his way to the lift and into the warm conditioned air. After the short lift ride he made his way to Jack’s office. Magda told him to wait in a chair and gave him a warm smile.
David was lost in his thoughts for some minutes when the sharp opening of the office door and Jack’s friendly tones beckoned him in.
“David. Good to see you back safely come in. Magda hold all calls until further notice.”
David sat in the chair opposite Jack’s and looked at the grey sky and gloomy clouds held at bay by the thick protective glass of the DIC building. Jack sat opposite. David looked at the desk and saw a Sig 220 and two full magazines of ammunition lying beside it. They were stark against the scattered papers. He refocused his eyes on his boss’ face.
“Well the good news is that Jack Beaumont will make a full recovery. I’ll need a report, but you can type that and e-mail it tomorrow. By all accounts Wheeler was a nasty piece of work and the kill was necessary, even unavoidable. I’ve seen the bus station CCTV. I’m amending procedures for active rota at the moment since the last two incidents.”
“I’m sorry Jack it was all a bit intense and not at all as easy as it appeared to be at first sight.” David said.
“You needn’t be sorry. Aside from the lack of DIC fatalities you did the job well. I can tell you that everyone in this building is speaking highly of you right now.” Jack said looking at McKie with keenly focussed eyes.
David raised an eyebrow.
“Oh yes.” Jack continued. “There are less than fifteen people in this building who’ve had to kill either as a part of this job or the job they had when we head hunted them and they are the most impressed. You join an elite cohort of DIC workers who’ve had to use a weapon and the immunity to prosecution that the DIC badge bestows. If you like the David McKie legend begins here.” Jack finished tapping his desk.
“I hope it ends here too, sorry, but this is a little more brawn and much less brains than I had bargained for.” David replied quite seriously.
“I’m glad to hear that or you’d not be the man I hired, but I hope you’re not going to leave us. I know you were in at the deep end from the start, but I have every faith in you, in fact no-one could have handled that duty ‘mission’ better. Many would have hesitated to pull the trigger. Most would be awed by the responsibility of such a task.” Jack was taken aback by David’s remarks and it showed in the tone of his voice.
“Thank you. No I don’t want to leave, but I would like to go home and spend time in front of the screen monitoring.”
“And you will David. I’ve had your things packed and there’s a car waiting to take you to Charing Cross station. The counsellor will call next week to make sure that you don’t get post traumatic stress disorder.”
“Any news on Cobb, Mason or Stanton?”
“No. Cobb’s certainly in London. Mason must be here by now if the police car in St Albans is his handy work. Lord knows where Stanton is. Perhaps Monty will run him to earth.” Jack rose from his seat speaking. “Well it’s time for you to go home and I have things to do. I have to arrange for my deputy to take over whilst I go to Wally’s funeral.”
“I’m sorry about that. Did you know him well?” David asked glancing at the pistols on the desk.
“Yes he and I were partners on a DIC active rota in the eighties. He saved my life. He was one of those staff I mentioned who killed in line of duty.” Jack paused and picked up the pistol turning it over in his hands. “Sadly because of the shock of the kill he didn’t like to carry his gun after that, nor did he like the idea of killing again.”
Jack Fulton laid the Sig gently on the desk and suddenly reminded by the unused pistol David got up and grabbing his bag pulled Beaumont’s pistol, in a plastic police labelled bag, from his rucksack. He put it on the desk.
