He had wanted to tell her, desperately so, but he couldn’t. Now was not the time; the threat remained. They had used violence before, even threatened to use it against his family.
He had known back then that if he escaped, they would use his wife and daughter, to make him reappear. That was why he had chosen to fake a suicide and to live on the street. It had not been the solution he would have chosen, considering that he had been a fastidious man, always obsessing on his appearance and his cleanliness. He remembered his wife’s comments as if it was yesterday: ‘You look lovely. Now hurry up, we’ve got to go,’ she would say. How he missed her and her affection. He had had to endure her having him declared legally dead, then watch her falling in love with another man, eventually moving in with him.
He tried to imagine her reaction if he reappeared, a man back from the dead, but then there’d be questions about what had happened to the man whose name and appearance he had affected for so long. He plotted the way forward, knowing that before the end, if he was there at that time, he would reveal himself to his daughter, be allowed for one time to hold his granddaughter, to give her a sweet and a present without the child’s mother ripping them away.
Big Greg, now answering to his own name of Malcolm, walked away from the café and headed back to the flat he had leased on a short-term basis. He turned on the television and watched the news. Nothing had changed that he could see; there were still wars, distrust and hate. He knew that if he had given them what they had wanted all those years ago, it could have been worse in that they would have in addition a weapon that he had been instrumental in developing. He considered the options.
It was clear that those who had the computer would not stop; he knew them too well, their avarice, their support from the military.
***
‘Remember me?’ Malcolm said as he stood at the entrance to the terrace house on Kensington Park Road in Holland Park. He was surprised the man had opened the door considering the nature of the business he was involved in.
‘What do you want?’ the man replied in a gruff voice. Big Greg looked at him, remembered the last time he had seen him. Back then, he had been tied to a chair, the man in front of him hovering close, threatening to allow another man to inflict pain on his daughter and then his wife.
‘Think back.’
‘Leave or else.’
‘Or else what? You’ll call the police?’
‘Yes.’
‘It’ll be too late by then.’
‘Why?’
Big Greg, much larger than the man standing in front of him, pushed forward and closed the door behind him.
‘You’ve no right to accost me in my house. Don’t you know who I am?’
‘I know only too well who you are. A dealer in death, a man sanctioned to extract information, and you don’t care who you threaten or torture. I was one of your victims. Most don’t live, but I did, knowing that one day I would return and deal with you for what you did to me.’
Chapter 10
Isaac was in his car, preparing to leave Challis Street Police Station. It was eight in the evening. The phone call from Larry Hill caused him to turn right instead of left on leaving the carpark.
‘There’s a body,’ Larry had said.
‘Murder?’ Isaac’s reply.
‘It seems that way.’
‘I’ll be there in ten minutes. Gordon Windsor?’
‘I’ve phoned him.’
A neat white-painted terrace house in Holland Park, just the same as all the others along the street. Isaac knew this part of London; it was where the wealthy lived, where he had seen a few too many murders over the years, and now another one.
Sometimes, when he had the time to consider such matters, he wondered what it was with these people. On the face of it they had all that they wanted, yet they indulged in petty squabbles, occasional violence, the occasional murder, the same as everyone else. At least it was a different street this time, although the procedure was the same: establish the crime scene, keep the onlookers away, put on overalls, gloves, and foot protectors.
After more than once being told by Gordon Windsor, Isaac always made sure he had two sets of protective gear in the back of his car.
‘What’s the situation here?’ Isaac asked the uniform at the door.
‘Male, fifty-two, dead.’
‘Anything more?’
‘Just a name.’
‘And?’
‘George Arbuthnot.’
‘Unusual name,’ Isaac replied to the uniform, a young man, new to Challis Street, who obviously was a man of few words. Not that it concerned Isaac. Some were too wordy, and the man had given him the salient facts, would have told him more if he had asked.
‘The man’s been strangled. It’s a messy job,’ Larry said.
‘What do you mean?’
‘He was tied to a chair in the dining room. There are signs of violence before he was garrotted with fencing wire.’
‘It sounds unpleasant,’ Isaac said as he entered the room, making sure not to impede the crime scene investigators.
‘The man’s been tortured,’ Gordon Windsor said. He had
