Having paid the taxi driver, he had walked towards the only aircraft showing any lights. It was a Cessna 172 with four seats. The pilot was French speaking but was originally from Iraq, judging by his accent and colouring. Hickstead held onto the strut supporting the wing and lifted himself into the small aircraft. He had paid ten thousand pounds for this journey, and to protect his anonymity. Dozing from time to time, he dimly recollected touching down at some deserted airfield to unload something - he didn’t want to know what – and to refuel.
It was light by the time the plane touched down in Cyprus at Ercan Airport, which was a charter airport and so had some basic immigration checks, which were quickly dispensed with when his pilot, Assif, handed an envelope to a Turkish official.
A forty minute drive took him to The Mercure Hotel in Kyrenia, where he slept the day through in a luxury suite.
Now, almost two months later, he regretted his initial extravagance. After a month he had been obliged to move from the hotel into a small rented cottage to eke out his initial funds. He was safe from extradition here. The weather was warm and dry; even in November the daytime temperature reached the mid 20s Celsius. He also had beautiful view over the sea where he could watch the sunset, which made up, in part, for the modest accommodations.
Living as Martin Wells, he had become known as Mr Martin to those locals who had a smattering of English. In the evenings he would sit in the bars at the local hotels and strike up conversations with English tourists. Working class to a man, they would generously include him in their group and buy his drinks.
When his initial cash began to run out he sent off a letter to the Bank in Switzerland that held the Euro Union Financial Enterprises numbered account, requesting transfer of all funds to Mr Martin Wells’ account at the Cyprus Turkish Bank of Commerce. That was two weeks ago, and he had heard nothing yet, but the post from Cyprus was notoriously unreliable and he no longer had internet access.
In desperation he tried to make a withdrawal from his UK Barclays current account, but the account had insufficient funds. Presumably Brenda had cleaned out the four thousand that had been in there. He wasn’t surprised; he had left her high and dry, after all. If he valued his freedom he could not contact her. Brenda had become very fragile of late, and her depression had developed into bouts of paranoia and memory loss. She couldn’t be expected to keep a secret.
He had just worked out that he had enough cash to pay the rent for the next month if he ate frugally, when there was a knock at the door. It would be Bajram, the soup man. It amazed Hickstead that in the heat of the Cyprus day a vendor could come around the streets and sell hot soup to locals, who brought out their own tureens or bowls. He had to admit, though, the soup was good and it cost almost nothing.
He walked to the door and opened it, but it wasn’t Bajram. It was an English face he hadn’t seen in a while. For a moment he was speechless, but finally he found his voice.
“Josh Hammond. This is a pleasant surprise. Have you come to kill me?”
***
The figure facing me now was a lot less prepossessing than the Lord Hickstead I had seen previously.
“No, Arthur, or Martin, or whatever you call yourself. That would be more your line of work than mine.”
“Touché,” he said. “You had better come in.”
I walked along a roughly plastered corridor with whitewashed walls. On one side was a kitchen and on the other a bathroom. The corridor opened into a bright lounge area that was modestly furnished in typical holiday cottage style. There was a radio and a TV but no air conditioning or heating. The view from the large picture window, however, was to die for. It was spectacular. I sat on a cane sofa with flowery upholstery and he sat in a matching chair. From my seat I could see a tiny lobby area leading to two bedrooms.
“Sorry about the accommodation. I’m taking a villa on a new development just along the coast. It’s amazing what you can get in Northern Cyprus for around fifty thousand pounds.”
As I had been told by Inspector Boniface, Hickstead still believed that he had over half a million pounds safely secreted away in the Euro Union Financial Enterprises account. That account had been closed some time ago, but the security services had asked the bank to keep that information to themselves until he gave the bank his permanent address.
“So, Josh, what brings you all the way to Cyprus?” the peer asked conversationally. “Surely you haven’t flown all the way here just to gloat?”
“Not at all, Arthur. I was in the area on my honeymoon and thought I’d call in and keep you up to date with the news from the UK.”
“Well, well, I would have thought you would have taken the lucky lady somewhere a little more exclusive. After all, I imagine you now have your money back.”
“To be honest, Arthur, Cyprus is just one port of call. An old friend of yours has generously allowed us the use of his family yacht and crew to cruise the Mediterranean for two weeks.”
The former peer frowned in puzzlement, and so I expanded on my brief explanation.
“Jayne Craythorne and her husband Jonas have become good friends of mine, thanks to a common interest in what happens to Lord Hickstead. In fact, you’ve done me more than one favour.”
“Really?” His confusion was as enjoyable for me as his despair would be later.
“Oh, yes. When you threatened to kill me I was given a bodyguard, Dee Conrad, who as of last weekend is now my wife. You probably remember her as the woman you had kidnapped and shot twice.”
The peer blanched and it looked as though he was going to distance himself from the actions of the Dutch thugs in Tottenham, but he obviously decided against it.
“I notice that your Navitimer has gone. It was once a fixture.”
“Well, there really is little need for a watch these days, especially here. I rise with the sun and sleep when I’m tired. Anyway, what a poor host I am. Would you like a glass of wine?”
Pain showed in his eyes, a regret at having to sell his watch simply to survive. A regret, I fear, he had not experienced when he killed Sir Max Rochester or Andrew Cuthbertson.
“Actually I have something better than the local wine,” I told him. “It’s a small gift.”
I lifted a bottle of Clés des Ducs Armagnac from my bag and handed it to him.
“How perceptive of you!” he beamed, surprised. “It’s my favourite. Would you like a glass? It is an excellent brandy.”
“Actually, the brandy is a gift from DCI Coombes and the newly promoted DCI Boniface. They noted your preference when they cleared your belongings from the Chief Whip’s apartment.”
The forlorn figure facing me took the bottle. He opened it, and poured a generous portion into a tumbler. As he took his first taste he closed his eyes. The pleasure he took in savouring the taste was obvious. This was just one more thing he missed from his old life.
“Well, Josh,” he said after a few moments. “I imagine you would like to get back to screwing your wife in the master suite of the Craythornes’ yacht, so what’s the news you are bringing to me?”
I ignored his jibe and his vulgarity.
“Well, first of all you’ve been listed as missing, not dead, and so all of your assets are taking some sorting out. Brenda’s sister has sold the house and the furnishings, as Brenda is unable to do so herself. If you’re interested, Brenda is in a really pleasant care home on the edge of the Yorkshire Moors, and she is now well enough for her sister to take her shopping and on outings. I went to visit her a little while ago and she thought I was someone called Danny.”
I paused when I saw him flinch. His sister in law had explained that he and Brenda had one child, Daniel, who had died in his cot, and with no apparent cause of death his passing was ascribed to Sudden Infant Death Syndrome. They had never been able to have more children, but Brenda was adamant that he had survived and had grown to adulthood.