The two Iraqis sat down opposite the peer and gawped at their surroundings before their client could attract their attention.
“You have the papers?”
“Yes, here they are.” Faik, the young Iraqi whom Hickstead had been championing for residency, handed over an envelope.
Hickstead looked at the papers. All were genuine; the passport had his photo and carried the name Martin Wells. Even the next of kin section had been completed with the epithet ‘Janine Wells, Daughter’. In addition to the passport he also had a birth certificate, marriage certificate, library card for Hounslow Public Library, a National Insurance Card and an E111 EU Medical Card.
The Iraqis had done well. Hickstead had given them a good start but they had done most of the work. Martin Wells had served in Northern Ireland under Hickstead and had taken a sniper round to the head. He was now in a half-way house for psychiatric patients in Camden. Martin had turned up at a public meeting where the peer was speaking, and to his credit he hadn’t asked for anything, he had simply wanted to greet a familiar face.
Hickstead had bought him a meal and listened to his terrible story. This was four months ago, and Hickstead spotted an opportunity to provide himself with a completely new identity without the chance of being caught with fake documents.
He said that he needed Wells’ documents so that he could raise his case in the House and hopefully save other soldiers from suffering the same indignities. Wells cooperated fully, handing over dirty, tattered and torn certificates and an old driving licence.
Fail and Ali had set to work obtaining new copies of all the certificates and applying for a passport and a new style driving licence. With the photos of the new Martin Wells, authenticated by a Lord, the applications were successful and Lord Hickstead was now looking at his photo in Martin’s passport.
Hickstead asked if they had everything in place. They said that they had, but there was a small problem. Their contacts wanted ten thousand pounds, not five thousand as previously agreed.
Lord Hickstead was livid, but his two guests were insistent that there was nothing they could do. Reluctantly he opened his briefcase and paid them half the money he had in there.
“If your friend isn’t there when I land, the two of you will be back in Basra by the weekend. Understood?”
They nodded and left.
Time was tight, and he needed to move quickly if he was to make the ferry.
Chapter 8 8
Highbury Clinic, Blackstock Rd, North London. Monday, 8pm.
I could have stayed the night, and I wanted to stay, but tomorrow I had to show my face at the office and clear my desk, ready to start work again. With that in mind, we reluctantly agreed that I would go home and that we would talk more tomorrow. We had plans to make and now that Hickstead was out of our lives for good, we could move on. I was on the verge of leaving for the night when the bedside phone rang.
Dee answered it, and listened intently before saying, “Send her up, by all means. We would be pleased to see her.”
Jayne Craythorne walked into the room with an elegance and assurance that spoke volumes about her status. She was dressed elegantly but casually. She was every inch the multi millionaire’s wife that Jason Craythorne had married. I looked into her face as she approached Dee, and fancied that I could see some resemblance to her late father, Sir Max Rochester.
“Dee, I’m so sorry. I feel responsible for this. If I hadn’t asked you to pursue Arthur Hickstead you wouldn’t be here. I never imagined so much violence would intrude into my world so quickly.”
She held Dee’s hands firmly in her own, and tears filled her eyes as she looked at the bandages and visualised what was underneath.
“Jayne, Josh and I are pretty stubborn. We would have pursued Hickstead anyway.” I wasn’t sure that we would have, but I let it ride.
“I heard from the Commissioner that the police have enough evidence to put him away for life, even if they can’t link him with my father’s death.” Jayne turned her head and looked at me.
“I owe you a great deal, Josh. You did everything you could and more. I think I would have shot Hickstead myself if he had escaped prosecution.”
Jayne Craythorne sat down and listened as we explained everything that had happened since our last meeting in my flat. We all agreed that the whole episode seemed rather surreal, and only the deaths and injuries turned it into a terrible reality for those who lived through it.
Jayne had heard about my proposal and asked, if it wasn’t too indiscreet, whether we had any plans.
“He might not have any plans, but I do,” Dee stated. “What else is there to do when you’re sitting in a bed most of the day with only daytime TV?”
This was news to me. Perhaps this was one of the things we were going to talk about tomorrow.
“That is such wonderful news,” Jayne said warmly. “You will make a lovely couple, and don’t worry about how long you’ve known each other; I fell for Jonas inside an hour. If you’re having a traditional white wedding I can help. I have lots of friends.”
I almost said that most millionaires probably have lots of friends, but didn’t.
“I might just take you up on that. I intend to have the whitest of white weddings,” Dee said excitedly.
***
When Jayne left I accompanied her to the lift. She held my hand tightly and thanked me again, and kissed me on the cheek.
“When Dee is fit again you must both come over for dinner. We don’t get a lot of ‘real’ people over these days, and Jonas is very down to earth. He soon tires of the trendy set and their affectations. Oh, by the way - a thank you card.”
“There was no need. I’m glad we could help.” She handed me an envelope. I slipped it into my pocket and bid Jayne goodnight.
When I arrived back at the room I tossed Dee the thank you card and told her I would have to be going soon.
“Josh.” Dee was holding the card and grinning from ear to ear. “This isn’t just a card. There’s a note, too.” Dee read the note and passed it to me with a smile.
‘Thanks for everything. It will take months to get your money back. Until then Jonas has wired a quarter of a million pounds to your account. Think of it as a loan. We can discuss repayment over dinner some time. Jonas and Jayne.’
Dee then explained that Don Fisher was paying all of the bills for Vastrick, including a six figure sum in compensation for Dee’s injuries. He also wanted to give me my quarter of a million pounds back because his cash would be returned very quickly, whereas my money was tied up until after the trial.
As excited as I was, I didn’t think I could accept the money. Nevertheless, this was the happiest we had been for days, and so I didn’t want to dampen the mood.
Unfortunately the mood wasn’t destined to last. My phone rang. I answered it, and swore. As soon as I had finished the call Dee asked me what was wrong.
“Bloody MI5! They’ve let Hickstead escape! He’s on the run!”
Dee didn’t seem at all surprised.
Chapter 8 9
Bogaz, Northern Cyprus. November 20th 2010, 2pm.
The journey to Turkish controlled Cyprus had been much easier than he had anticipated. Despite security checks at the Port of Dover, the Border Agency staff had not been looking for a Michael Wells and luckily Arthur Hickstead was average height, average build and Caucasian. The crossing was quick, and he was able to secure a taxi to the Aero Porte Calais-Dunkerque at Marck, just a few miles from Calais.
When he arrived at the white painted aerodrome it was deserted but well lit. The restaurant displayed a sign announcing its permanent closure, and another building announced that customs had to be contacted twenty four hours in advance of any arrivals to arrange attendance. The aerodrome was in the middle of grass pastureland but it had a well maintained tarmac apron, taxiway and runway.