I had decided against taking my sword. I would have loved to have had a weapon of some kind, if only for the shock value, but the sword was impractical and cumbersome. A regulation-issue Browning nine-millimeter sidearm would have been my weapon of choice, but I could hardly run around the English countryside brandishing an illegal firearm, even if I'd had one. In the end, I also elected not to borrow one of Ian's kitchen knives.
It was not as if I intended to kill anyone. Not yet anyway.
At ten minutes to eight I was in position alongside Alex Reece's house, on the dark side, away from the glow from the solitary streetlamp outside number twelve, two houses down.
I had already made a thorough reconnaissance of the area, including a special look at number fifteen, the house opposite, the one with a direct view of Alex Reece's front door. As far as I could tell, the house was unoccupied, but that might be temporary. Maybe the residents were just out for the afternoon.
Most of the other houses, including number fourteen next door, had people going about their usual Sunday-evening activities. I was actually amazed at how few of the residents of Bush Close pulled their curtains, especially at the back. Not that they would usually expect anyone to be lurking in a field, spying on them as they watched their televisions or read their books.
Eight o'clock came and went, and I continued to wait. A fine drizzle began to fall, but that didn't worry me. Rain was likely to keep the other residents inside. I had been unable to tell if any of them had a dog to walk.
At eight-eighteen a car pulled into Bush Close and drove down to the end. I was all ready for action with the adrenaline rushing through my system, but the car pulled into the driveway of number fifteen, opposite, and a couple and two young children climbed out. I breathed heavily, calming myself down, and put the surprise "jack" back in his box.
I stood silently in the shadows. I was pretty sure that no one would be able to see me, although I could see them clearly, the more so when the man turned on an outside light next to their front door. I was close to the wall, and I remained completely still.
It was movement more than anything that gave people away, caught in peripheral vision and attracting immediate attention. My dark clothes would blend into the blackness of the background; only my face might be visible, and that was streaked with homemade mud-based camouflage cream to break up the familiar shape.
There were no shouts of discovery, and presently, the family gathered their things from the car and went inside. The outside light went out again, plunging me back into darkness. I eased myself back and forth, relieving the tension in my muscles, and went on waiting.
Alex Reece arrived home just before nine o'clock, but he didn't come by taxi.
Isabella's dark blue Volkswagen Golf pulled into the driveway at high speed and stopped abruptly with a slight squeal of its brakes. I couldn't exactly see who was at the wheel, but from past experience of her driving on the Bracknell bypass, I was pretty sure it was Isabella herself.
I pressed myself close to the wall and peeked around the corner so I could see.
Alex Reece opened the rear door and stood up next to the car with a flight bag in his hand.
"Thanks for the lift," he called, before closing the door and removing a small suitcase from the car trunk.
He stood and waved as the Golf was backed out onto the road and then driven away again at high speed. I thought the fact that Alex had been sitting in the back of the car implied that there was at least one other person in there, in addition to Isabella. Maybe it was Jackson.
I watched as Alex fumbled in his flight bag for the key to his front door. In those few seconds, I also scanned the road and the windows of the house opposite. No one was about.
It was time for action.
In the instant after he successfully opened the front door, and before he had time to reach down for his suitcase, I struck him hard midway between his shoulder blades, forcing him through the open doorway and onto the floor in the still-dark hallway. I crashed down on top of him, his flight bag sliding across the polished wood and into the kitchen.
"Scream and I'll kill you," I said loudly into his ear.
He didn't scream, but it wasn't only because he was frightened of being killed. I had purposely chosen that type of blow because it would have driven the air from his chest, and without air, he couldn't scream. In fact, he didn't react in any way. Just as I had hoped, my blitzkrieg attack had rendered him shocked and awestruck.
I pulled both his arms around to the small of his back and used the garden ties from my pocket to secure his wrists. Next, I used another pair of the ties to bind his ankles together.
The whole process had taken no more than a few seconds.
I stood up and went outside. I picked up Alex's suitcase from the step, glanced casually all around to check that nothing had stirred, then stepped back inside again, closing the front door. Alex hadn't moved a muscle.
Albert Pierrepoint, the renowned English hangman of the nineteen-forties and -fifties, always maintained that a successful execution was one when the prisoner hardly had time to realize what was happening to him before he was dangling dead at the end of the rope. He had once famously dispatched a man named James Inglis within just seven and a half seconds of his leaving the condemned cell.
Pierrepoint would have been proud of me tonight. Alex wasn't actually dead, but he had been trussed up like a chicken ready for the oven in not much longer than Albert had taken to hang a man.
And now Mr. Reece was ready for a spot of roasting.
I have no idea what you're talking about." It was only to be expected that he would deny any knowledge of blackmail.
He was still lying on the hall floor, but I had rolled him over onto his back so he could see me. I'd patted down his pockets, removed his cell telephone and turned it off. All the while, he had stared at me with wide eyes, the whites showing all around the irises. But he had known immediately who I was, in spite of my dark clothes, hat and mud-streaked face.
"So you deny you have been blackmailing my mother?" I asked him.
"I do," he said emphatically. "I've never heard such nonsense. Now let me go or I'll call the police."
"You are in no position to call anyone," I said. "And if anyone will be calling the police, it will be me."
"Go on, then," he said. "It's not me who would be in the most trouble."
"And what is that meant to imply?"
"Work it out," he said, becoming more sure of himself.
"Are you aware of what the maximum sentence is for blackmail?" I asked.
He said nothing.
"Fourteen years."
His eyes didn't even flicker. He clearly thought he was onto a good thing. He was assuming that I would just threaten him a bit, then let him go and do nothing more.
But one should never assume anything.
I had told Ian that I would be out all night. No one was expecting me back for hours and hours. So I was in no hurry.
I left him lying on the hard hall floor and went into the kitchen to see if I could find myself a drink. Waiting all that time outside had made me thirsty.
"Let me go," he shouted from the hallway.
"No," I shouted back, putting his phone down on the worktop.
"Help," he shouted, this time much louder.
I went quickly through into the hall.
"I wouldn't do that if I were you."
"Why not?" he said belligerently.
I shrugged myself free of the small rucksack on my back and removed the roll of duct tape. I held it towards him and pulled the end of the tape free. "Because I would be forced to wrap your head in this. Is that what you want?"
He didn't shout again as I went back into the kitchen and fetched a can of Heineken from his fridge. I took a drink, allowing a little of the beer to pour out of the corner of my mouth and drip onto the floor near his legs.