One of Us Is Dead

37 Monday 3 October 2022

The row of ten run-down-looking lock-up garages Paul Anthony owned, where he had his office, were pretty much tucked away. They were situated a short distance north of the Shoreham Harbour main road, along a weed-strewn track between a modern furniture warehouse on one side and the rear of an equally modern industrial estate on the other. It was a tiny pocket of land that time, and the world, appeared to have forgotten.

He’d bought them from a man who restored classic race cars, who had moved his business to more prosperous premises near Goodwood, twenty-five miles to the west, but left behind his name. Chris Snowdon Garages, Portslade was the address.

Inside his office, accessed through a door to the left of the up-and-over — which was firmly sealed shut and airtight — was a plush, windowless world that belied the shabby exterior. Well insulated, air-conditioned and sound-proofed, with wall-to-wall carpeting and a Bang & Olufsen sound system.

A bank of six computer screens, each with its own dedicated server, sat above a wide desk, on which were a keyboard, mouse and a framed photograph of his twins, Robert and George. He sat for a moment, with a pang, staring at their mischievous faces beneath their messy blond fringes. Dressed in T-shirts, jeans and trainers, they were perched on one wing of his precious ice-blue Singer Porsche 911 Turbo. He missed the boys and he missed his cars too. One day he’d figure a way to get the cars back. The boys would be a bigger challenge. He might just have to accept their permanent loss and compensate by becoming their secret, mysterious benefactor.

The rest of the space was taken up by a sofa, a recliner armchair, a kitchenette with a quality coffee machine, a fridge-freezer, a well-stocked bar and a cigar humidor. There was also enough tinned, frozen and long-life food to enable him to stay here for six months, if not longer, in the event he needed to go to ground. Behind the sealed up-and-over door of the adjoining garage was an en-suite bedroom and bathroom. All in all, he thought, it wasn’t a totally shit place for a dead man to have to hang out in.

He never used one computer and server for more than one job, destroying and replacing them straight after, to make it even harder for the police to track him down, if they were trying. Not that they had much of a chance as every email he sent, and every web search or instruction, was routed through twenty-two servers around the world, each with its own firewall to keep out prying electronic eyes. And many of those servers were located in countries that weren’t exactly known for helping police — whether local or international — with their enquiries.

But despite all the high tech in here, at this moment Paul Anthony was peering at his phone, at the top stories of the online version of the Argus newspaper. Anxiously waiting for news of Professor Bill Llewellyn.

Right now, no news was bad news.

And there was no news. Plenty of news of other stuff: of Green MP Caroline Lucas and environmental issues; of a bunch of lowlife scum who had set fire to a homeless person in a churchyard; of a potential big-money purchase of a footballer by Brighton & Hove Albion.

No Professor Llewellyn.

It was 1 p.m. and he was getting impatient. Had it all gone wrong? He took his lunch out of the fridge, a pastrami and Swiss on rye he’d bought earlier from a deli in Kemp Town and, because it amused him, a can of Diet Coke. As he popped the tab he raised the can. ‘Cheers, Bill! Down the hatch, eh?’

He was planning to tell Shannon about the professor’s demise and how he had done it. They would be bound together in conspiracy to murder — whether she liked it or not. It would be an end to that tiny bit of love, commitment, affection — whatever — that she always seemed to hold back. He would now have her loyalty and affection and adoration, one hundred per cent. They were now bound together, with the future all mapped out.

She had proven herself to be a fine wingman, great front of house for him. She was brilliant at taking care of the 3D printing of handguns — and orders were coming in at a decent rate. As well as screening their customers. Villains were fine, terrorists were not. If people didn’t like his moral code they could fuck off. Terrorists could fuck off, anyway.

But at this moment he had a very much bigger fish to fry. Dermot Quince Bryson. Who the hell named their child Quince, for God’s sake? Whatever, that wasn’t his problem. Dermot Quince Bryson’s ex-wife, Kimberley, was willing to pay one million pounds for him to be killed. And she was serious. And she had the means, as she had already demonstrated.

Five hundred thousand pounds’ worth of Bitcoins had been deposited into his crypto-wallet three weeks ago.

And she was one sassy piece of work.

One of his requirements was to see each client’s face before he agreed to take them on, but of course they could never see his. He always conducted this via an encrypted FaceTime meeting, in which he sat in semi-darkness, his face pixelated, and spoke through a voice modifier.

In this potentially very lucrative meeting, Kimberley Bryson had told Mr Oswald, as she knew him, everything about her husband she thought might be helpful. First and foremost of which was that Dermot Quince Bryson appeared to be a total shit. That, at any rate, was her press release. Did he believe her? Actually, yes. And even more so after meeting him. There were few things Paul Anthony liked less than unpleasant people who had made a fortune and then wanted to show the world how rich they were. It would all add to his pleasure in despatching him. And there was something else that would add to it even more, something that went back in his past... He broke off his thoughts mid-bite of his sandwich as the headline flashed up on his phone: BREAKING NEWS. BRIGHTON PROFESSOR FOUND DEAD IN OFFICE.

Paul Anthony froze for an instant. Then, his heart racing, he put the rest of the sandwich down on his desk and read on.

He was halfway through reading the article when he was interrupted by a sharp knock on the door.

He frowned, momentarily on edge. No one ever came here, apart from one person. All his small amount of post, which was mostly utility bills, was delivered to a poste restante address. Instantly, he tapped the keyboard, to pull up the image from the concealed CCTV camera above the door. Moments later, he smiled with relief. But not joy.