‘My client will not answer to unproven allegations,’ Rushton said.
‘We didn’t know. All three of us needed money, and when Codrington put forward his idea, we went for it.’
‘Even though it was illegal?’
‘We didn’t know that.’
‘Are you telling me that you, a successful businessman, did not smell a rat?’
‘It’s the truth.’
‘Did you agree to the murder of Allerton?’
‘No. We thought it was alright with Allerton, and that he was going to do nothing for another week. Codrington told us he was finished with the business and for us to give him three weeks. Allerton’s death frightened us.’
‘You and Fortescue?’
‘Yes. If Codrington could kill him, then he could have us killed.’
‘And still you did not come to the police.’
‘To say what? That we were criminals in fear for our lives?’
‘Are you in fear now?’
‘Keith Codrington, wherever he is, could still deal with us.’
‘Are you willing to make a confession?’
‘Not to murder.’
‘I need a confession stating that Keith Codrington was a major drug trafficker and that five people to your knowledge were killed as a result of his instructions.’
‘I will say that we never knew the nature of the business or of the deaths. We were purely men who trusted a fellow Etonian; allowed ourselves to be hoodwinked.’
‘That’s fine,’ Donaldson replied.
‘What will happen to me?’ Griffiths asked.
‘You will be charged.’
‘Not with murder.’
‘You will be charged with the lesser charge of drug trafficking.’
‘But I didn’t know. Rushton, what should I do?’
‘Give them their confession stating clearly all the facts. They’ll not be able to prove that you’re actively involved.’
‘How long?’
‘Two years, maybe five,’ Rushton said.
He’ll be lucky if it’s less than ten, Isaac thought.
***
Miles Fortescue was arrested later that day. For once, he had stood up in Parliament to make a speech. The one day when he should have felt some pride in his political career; the one day when he suffered the ignominy of being led from the Houses of Parliament to a police car, his hands cuffed with police regulation handcuffs.
Two days later, Keith Codrington was walking along the beach in Abu Dhabi. He was aware of what had happened in London with his former friends. He smiled. The extradition laws were weak, and he had contacts; contacts who would protect him for a price.
He did not see the car parked to one side of the beach. If he had looked, he would have seen the window wound down, the barrel of a gun, its telescopic sights trained on him.
The gun fired, and Codrington collapsed to the ground.
The man who fired the shot turned to his colleague in the driver’s seat. ‘The man never paid us the full amount for the last shipment,’ he said in Russian.
The End
.
Murder is the Only Option
Phillip Strang
Chapter 1
Nobody ever doubted that Big Greg was anything other than an educated man. In the homeless shelter where he occasionally bedded down, he had become something of a legend with his reciting poetry as well as occasionally playing an old, out-of-tune piano that sat forlornly in one corner of the main room.
He didn’t often grace the premises with his presence, preferring on most nights to find a spot under a bridge not far from Paddington Station, with heat from a fire in an old metal dustbin.
Big Greg would not have been in the shelter that night under normal circumstances, but the weather had gone against him. It was the beginning of November, and for London it was cold.
Those who knew him would tell you that he was a cheerful man, always ready with a good story and a smile. Not that any of them knew much about him. There were some things that he never spoke about: where he had come from, what his real name was, and why he was on the street. It didn’t concern Big Greg, a title he had been given in part because he was tall, in part because of his commanding voice. Many on the street looked to him for assistance whenever the police came to move them on, or the social services wanted them to get a job.
Big Greg, a man who apparently enjoyed living on the street, showed none of the vices that afflicted so many others. There was never a time when he could be found drinking a bottle of cheap alcohol. Those who knew him estimated his age at between fifty-five and sixty, but even that was unreliable as he had an unkempt beard and a closer examination was not possible.
‘What is it with you, Big Greg?’ one of his street-dwelling friends asked.
‘I mind my own business. I suggest you do the same.’ It was the standard reply from the man that most regarded as a friend, even if his smell could be off-putting at times, the main reason that the local homeless charity was reluctant to allow him to stay for more than the one night at a time. One of their rules, archaic according to Big Greg, was that every person who stayed there had to have a shower, with plenty of soap, and clean clothes. Even though the charity offered to take his clothes, threadbare and worn-out with patches covering the holes, and to wash them for him, he always refused.
Any questions about why he did not want the benefit of their assistance were always met with the standard reply: ‘I mind my own business, I suggest you do the same.’
As far as anyone knew, Big Greg
