that he hoped might get him closer to the organisation that sent the bogus Covington to release him from the jail in Thetford.
Marcus had the hit-man’s wallet and the car keys to the Mercedes. With the car’s documents and the driving licence, he now knew where the guy lived, and decided to go to the man’s address.
Marcus knew the score: not to approach the house until he was convinced it was empty and he wouldn’t be noticed. To that end he needed to spend some time watching the premises without being seen; the watcher being watched.
The house was in Elgin Avenue at Maida Vale. Marcus found somewhere to park his car and walked to the Elgin public house. The pub was situated on the corner of the street. There were tables and chairs on the corner and from there Marcus was able to sit and watch with a soft drink in his hand. He knew he couldn’t sit there all day, but he had to spend as much time as possible until he could be certain it was safe to enter the house. He had bought a daily paper so was able to adopt the classic stance of pretending to read while keeping an eye on the place.
His patience was rewarded when he saw someone leave from the front door. It was a woman who Marcus assumed to be the man’s wife or partner. When she had gone, Marcus got up from the table and walked down to the front entrance. He walked up the short garden path and rang the doorbell. There was no reply, so Marcus tried again. When it was obvious there was nobody in, Marcus walked away and went back to the Elgin pub.
Marcus gambled that there would be nobody watching a house, so he retraced his footsteps and went back, but this time he walked up to the front door and opened it with the key that was on the Mercedes key ring.
He pushed the door open and stepped over the threshold, pulling the door closed behind him. He then waited for at least two minutes, not moving, but listening carefully for any sound that might suggest there was still somebody in the house.
There was a staircase in front of Marcus, which he assumed led up to the bedrooms. He went up as quickly and as quietly as he could and opened the doors that all faced on to the landing running alongside the upper stair well.
There was nobody about so he went back downstairs and into the front room. It was furnished tastefully and expensively, which didn’t surprise Marcus considering the profession of the man who, he believed lived there. He saw a bureau against a far wall. He went over to it and began looking through it, lifting out letters, documents and the odd receipt and bill.
He then went through to the dining room and began searching through the Welsh dresser that was in there. Once again the drawers were haphazardly filled with impedimenta relating to bills, addresses, TV licence and the like. But there was nothing he could see that could link the man to the organisation he knew Cavendish was investigating.
Marcus began to realise it was a reflection of the man’s professionalism that he would leave nothing incriminating that could link him to any organisation involved in anything illegal. It was disappointing to say the least that he could find nothing that he could take to Cavendish.
He closed the drawers and cast around once more before trying the kitchen and the bedrooms. But his search was fruitless there too; nothing. He came down the stairs and went back into the front room for one more look in the bureau. And that was when he came across something he least expected to; something that shook Marcus to the core.
It was a photograph jumbled up with a few others that Marcus had ignored. It was of two men. They were standing in front of what looked like an Indian temple or something of that nature; Marcus couldn’t be sure. But what he could be sure of was that one of the men in the photograph was the bogus Covington who had planned to kill him. The second man in the picture was a Pakistani; of that Marcus had no doubt.
It was Maggot.
Susan had settled herself down in front of the television to watch her favourite soap when the doorbell rang. She moaned to herself and went to the front door. When she opened it she saw Marcus standing there.
‘Marcus! What on earth are you doing here?’
Marcus didn’t wait for an invitation but brushed past her and waited for her to close the door, which she did.
‘I’m sorry about this Susan,’ he told her. ‘Are you alone?’
‘And what if I’m not?’ she snapped at him. ‘Haven’t you heard of the telephone?’
He thought about the phone tap on his father’s line but said nothing about that. He thought that might scare her more than she could bear.
‘Please forgive me, Susan, but I have to talk to you.’
Susan pushed past him and went through to her part of the house that she rented as a flat. She stood by the door.
‘Well, are you coming or not?’
Marcus went inside and sat down on one of her armchairs. Susan came in, set the DVD to record and switched the television off.
‘I’m sorry if I’m interrupting something,’ he said.
Susan shrugged and tossed the remote control on to the sofa. ‘It’s nothing,’ she told him. ‘Now, what is it you want?’
‘Why are you angry with me, Susan?’
The question was unexpected. Susan didn’t know what to say for a moment so she settled herself down in an armchair facing Marcus and composed herself.
‘I’m not angry with you Marcus,’ she began, ‘but things happen when you turn up. My life hasn’t been the same since we met. Just when I think I might make some sense out of everything, you somehow manage to, oh I don’t know, break the moment.’
He agreed and was sure Cavendish would agree as well. ‘Fair enough Susan, but hear me out this time and I’ll walk out of your life altogether. Promise.’
She sighed. ‘What do you want, Marcus?’
‘Do you remember the first letter, or writing you received from your brother?’ he asked her.
‘The one that Cavendish brought to me?’
He nodded. ‘Yes. Do you have it?’ When she said she did, Marcus asked her if she would fetch it so he could read it.
She brought the pages to him and he read through them. When he had finished he lowered them on to his lap and closed his eyes.
‘Maggot,’ he whispered softly. ‘I can’t believe it.’
Susan peered at him. ‘What’s the matter?’
He looked over at her and passed the pages back.
‘Maggot would go back to Pakistan from time to time,’ he said softly. ‘Always on family business, so he said. He would never explain; just say, ‘something like that’.
‘Marcus, what are you saying?’ she pressed.
He had been looking at Susan but not seeing her. It was as though he was staring straight through her. He shook his head and drew himself back to the present moment.
‘A man tried to kill me yesterday; a professional.’ Marcus was talking in a matter of fact way, as though it was an everyday occurrence. ‘He didn’t though, obviously. I found out where he lived and went to his house.’ He saw Susan’s mouth open as she began to say something. He put his hand up. ‘There was no-one there. I looked around, found nothing incriminating. Then I came across a photograph. It was the hit man, the guy who tried to kill me, and a Pakistani guy. The picture was taken somewhere in India or Pakistan. They were standing together, smiling. Lovely picture really. Maggot would have been proud of it.’
‘Maggot?’
Marcus nodded. ‘Yes, he was the other man in the photograph. Did you know, Susan, that Maggot has the little finger of his left hand missing?’
‘Yes,’ she answered, looking surprised. ‘I noticed it the other day.’
‘I can remember reading that your brother was shot by a man with his little finger missing. It’s not conclusive, Susan, but when you see a photograph of him with a man who has just tried to kill you, and when you
