through the edge of the forest to continue his watch.
As darkness closed in and the temperature fell, Marcus decided to get closer to the house. He knew he would have to be alert for any kind of alarm system there might be, or even dogs.
There was very little in the way of security around the perimeter; simply a stout wall made from Norfolk stone. It was a little higher than six feet, but it proved no obstacle for Marcus, and as he landed on his feet inside the rear garden, he dropped flat and lay still.
He heard no alarms ringing and no dogs barking, so after five minutes he ventured closer until he was up against the outside wall of the double garage. He was about to edge round the front of the garage when he heard the sound of a car pulling into the drive. Its wheels crunched across the gravel and it stopped outside the front door.
Immediately, the front door opened and the man who Marcus had seen earlier that day in uniform came out of the house. He greeted the man who was climbing out of the driver’s side of the car and they both turned and went inside.
As soon as they had disappeared, Marcus ran across to the car and peered through the windows to make sure the car was empty. He had noticed that the driver hadn’t bothered to lock the car, probably comfortable with the idea that while it was on the premises, it was safe, or he had simply forgot.
He eased the car door open and, using the small Maglite torch he had purchased from the supermarket, began checking through the glove box and under the seats to locate the car’s documents. He pulled out a plastic folder from beneath the passenger seat. Flipping it open he saw the certificate of insurance and other sundry paperwork. He slipped the certificate into his pocket, put the wallet back beneath the passenger seat and went back to the far wall of the garage.
Marcus began to consider his next move. He had no way of knowing if the visitor to the house was simply a family friend or someone who was in league with the American who lived there. At the same time, he still didn’t know if the Mercedes used in the attempted hit on Cavendish was actually in the garage or not, and he had to find out. He did think about following the visitor once he had left the house, but with the man’s car insurance certificate in his pocket, there was no need for that. So he decided to wait until the visitor left and then he would go back to Thetford, stay the night and come back to the little copse of trees in the morning.
Just then Marcus heard the sound of a door closing somewhere. He realised it was coming from inside the garage, so was almost certainly the internal door. He heard the muffled sound of a car starting and then a slight squeal as one of the garage doors began to open.
Marcus hoped it might be the Mercedes, but instead it was the Volvo, and it was the same woman he had seen that morning who was driving. She roared out of the garage and disappeared down the drive. Marcus seized his chance and ran into the garage as the automatic door began its slow drop until it was closed.
He pulled the Maglite out of his pocket and switched it on. The Mercedes was there. He checked the licence plate; it was the same one. He then tried the passenger door and found it was open. He began searching for the car documents and eventually learned that the car was registered to one Danvor Grebo. His occupation was given as ‘Airman, USAF’.
He put the paperwork back and began a cursory check around the garage. His torch beam fell on the internal door, and immediately Marcus thought it might be a good opportunity to get into the house unseen and undetected.
He tried the door, turning the handle very slowly and felt it give until the catch was free of the striker plate. He eased the door open and found he was looking into a utility room. He could see a washing machine, tumble drier and a hot water boiler. There were a lot of boots and shoes lying about around the edges of the floor, golf clubs, a golf trolley and a great deal of impedimenta one would expect to find in a utility room. Hanging up with the other outdoor clothes was also an American Air Force uniform jacket and top coat.
Marcus crossed the room and gently opened the far door, which led into a kitchen. He could now hear voices that sounded like the two men. He walked across the kitchen floor and stopped beside the work surface by a serving hatch. He could hear them quite plainly. The visitor was American.
He stood by the hatch for about ten minutes, listening to what could only be described as desultory conversation. Then he heard the sound of someone getting out of a chair and Marcus immediately went back to the internal door to the garage and pulled it closed behind him. As he did so, the kitchen light came on and he heard someone moving around there, probably getting a drink or something.
He then heard the sound of the kitchen hatch being opened and a voice said, ‘When is the shipment due in?’
A voice from the lounge came back. ‘Couple of days, Kings Lynn Docks. It’s quiet there; not a lot of traffic and we have the right customs man on that night.’
‘What’s the return?’
‘Couple of crate loads; semi automatics, RPG’s. Fairly low grade stuff. Shouldn’t give you too much trouble Danny, shipping that lot out.’
‘Where is it?’
‘In the warehouse at Feltwell.’
Marcus heard the man in the kitchen, who he presumed was Danny Grebo make some kind of comment as he went back to his companion in the lounge.
Marcus crept back into the kitchen. Grebo had left the hatch open.
‘Who’s handling the exchange?’ Marcus heard Grebo ask.
‘Station Chief.’
Marcus peered carefully through the hatch, taking care not to let himself be seen. He kept himself to one side and was able to see the back of Grebo’s visitor.
The two men started laughing at a remark one of the men had made that Marcus had not heard. Grebo stopped suddenly as though he had seen or heard something. Then he shook his head and carried on talking to his visitor.
Marcus decided it was time to get out, but how? The garage was now a cul-de-sac. He looked through the open, kitchen door along the passageway that led to the front door of the house. He could see from his vantage point that the door into the lounge was closed. This meant that Marcus could get to the front door without being seen and, with luck could get out of the house with the two men being none the wiser.
He made his way down to the door that opened on to the entrance lobby. He opened it quietly and stepped into the small area. He then took hold of the front door handle and began to turn it.
Then a man’s voice said, ‘Where the fuck do you think you’re going?’
Marcus swung round and found himself looking down the twin ends of a double barrelled shotgun.
Maggot put a cup of coffee in front of Susan and sat down at the table facing her. He had a coke and took a sip before taking up the subject of Marcus.
‘Let me get this straight,’ he began. ‘You went to Marcus because you thought he could help you find your brother; is that it?’
Susan shook her head. ‘It wasn’t quite like that. I wanted someone who was experienced in security to advise me and keep an eye on me while I went out to Afghanistan. I wanted to find out if David was still alive. I didn’t know if Marcus had the necessary experience; all I knew was that he sounded quite confident on the phone.’
Maggot arched his eyebrows. ‘Hardly a reason for trusting someone,’ he remarked. ‘All Marcus was doing was running a glorified escort agency. He had no- one on his books; did most of the escorting himself.’
Susan’s mouth fell open. ‘He wasn’t a gigolo, was he?’
Maggot laughed out loud. ‘No way; Marcus just needed something to do to relieve his boredom. He’s financially independent, you know.’
‘It’s just a hobby for him then?’ she asked.
He watched her as she stirred the coffee and lifted the cup to her lips. ‘You could say that. He kept threatening to find something ‘in the city’ as he would say, but Marcus is a very impromptu man; very instinctive. He’s had his so called security firm for about a year. Chances are he will give it up before another twelve months has passed. It doesn’t make him any money; just gives him a tag he can hang on himself.’
‘You sound disparaging.’
