One of Us Is Dead

84 Tuesday 18 October 2022

Paul Anthony, wearing his leather jacket, lined gloves, jeans and helmet, wheeled his Ducati out of the fourth garage along in his row of lock-ups and into the pre-dawn darkness. He stood for a brief moment and reflected, wryly, that it was fortunate he wasn’t the sentimental type.

Three Musketeers. Then two. And now it was about to be just one. One dead man not quite as dead as most people thought. But which one of us is actually going to die, Jamesy? Let me tell you something, it ain’t going to be me, old mate. Sorry.

The sky was clear and he could see the lights of a gazillion stars above him. It was going to be a beautiful day for flying. He smiled. A beautiful day for dying. For plummeting out of the sky.

A pannier hung either side of the motorbike, one containing all the few possessions he was taking with him, together with a yellow hi-vis jacket and an orange hard hat. The other containing the weapon that would kill James Taylor. Both weighed a similar amount. Symmetry. He liked symmetry.

Closing and locking the door for the last time — not that there was a lot of point in doing that: smartyboy Detective Grace or one of his colleagues would get here, eventually. By which time he would be safely ensconced in his beautiful hillside property on the outskirts of Marbella, and smartyboy’s team would be looking, once again, for someone who no longer existed.

He mounted the machine, then switched on the ignition and lights and fired up the Panigale V4’s engine, letting it warm up for some moments, enjoying the burbling rumble as sweet, to his ears, as any of the finest orchestral symphonies. Then he gave the throttle a couple of sharp twists, just for the hell of it, the exhaust crackling like a firework in the silent, still air. He glanced at his watch: 6.03 a.m.

Shannon had left fifteen minutes ago, towing a large suitcase on wheels, to rendezvous with a taxi on the main Shoreham Road a few hundred yards away. It would take her to Gatwick airport, where she would board the 10.05 easyJet flight he had booked her on to Malaga. And from there the Blacklane limousine he had also booked would whisk her the few miles to his villa. He would arrange for his loyal hound, Montmorency, who he had put temporarily into kennels, to be collected and join them later.

He clicked the bike into gear, twisted the throttle, released the clutch and accelerated away, feeling the sense of exhilaration he always got on this machine, but keeping to the speed limit, despite the temptation to blast up through the gears on the quick-shifter. By tonight, all would be good again. No more Fiona to pester him. No more James Taylor to worry about. And Shannon. Well, he would decide about that soon.

Downloaded onto his phone, zipped securely in his breast pocket, he not only had Taylor’s calendar, but also his flight plan for this morning, from Shoreham to Jersey. It was all prepared, ready to be filed when Taylor got home. Shannon had done a brilliant job of sucking out the entire contents of his phone in the brief journey from the parking lot of his apartment to his floor in the communal lift. Taylor, totally unwitting, had even chatted pleasantly to her while she was doing it.

Minutes later, he heeled hard left at the roundabout in front of the Ropetackle arts centre, crossed the Adur, and shortly after, at the next roundabout, moved over to the right and slowed down as his headlights picked up the first speed bump on the narrow Brighton City airport approach road. He accelerated again, past several private houses, then slowed right down as he passed warning signs, one of which said: WEAK BRIDGE. And another: CAUTION BRIDGE SURFACE SLIPPERY WHEN WET.

On the far side of the bridge, the road dipped down beneath a short tunnel and he gave the bike another playful burst of speed, loving the echo of the exhaust against the walls and roof. Then he immediately slowed as he saw rows of industrial buildings ahead and the poor state of the road. He passed mostly modern warehouses, the BlueSky Shoreham Business Centre, then a row of buildings that were little more than dilapidated sheds, before the shadowy shape of the white Art Deco terminal building came up on his left. No lights were on in any of the windows. Good. He knew the airport went live at 8 a.m. but had been hoping there wouldn’t be too many people around at this hour. Just a couple of security guards, with a big area to patrol, Shannon had found out for him.

He cruised slowly on past the terminal, the engine barely on tickover now, looking left and right for somewhere to park the bike where it wouldn’t be noticed — for long enough, anyhow. A little further on was the heliport area, where he’d once kept his own Agusta. But before that he saw a messy-looking open space to his right, between two old and shabby warehouses. He pulled up, switched off the engine, kicked down the stand, dismounted, removed his helmet and placed it on the saddle, then removed the contents of the panniers — the black leather bag containing his laptop and several other items, and a black velvet bag. It looked innocent enough, the kind of outer bag an expensive handbag might come in. But its contents were a lot more deadly than a handbag.

Carrying the bags and knowing exactly where to go from the map Shannon had made, he strode back, guided by the beam of the small Maglite torch he’d brought with him, and checking his watch as he crossed the deserted car park in front of the building — 6.21 a.m. He passed the green-framed windows of the Hummingbird cafe and glanced at the opening hours, thinking he could murder another coffee. But like the airport itself, it didn’t open until 8 a.m.

He carried on, heading towards a mesh gate between two corrugated-iron buildings. It was about seven-foot high — the kind of entrance gate you might see on any public tennis court, he thought. It was hardly going to keep anyone determined out. There was a large yellow sign on it that read: PILOTS’ GATE — THIS GATE TO BE KEPT CLOSED AT ALL TIMES. It was held shut with a large padlock. To the right was a plethora of warning signs. NO HI–VIS NO ENTRY... CAUTION, NOISE LEVEL OF 85 dB(A) OR ABOVE. CAUTION, AIRCRAFT MANOEUVRING AREA AHEAD.

He debated for some moments whether to pick the lock, then decided it would be just as easy to climb over. He first slung his laptop bag over the top, guiding it down the far side carefully, in stages, with his fingers through the mesh, then repeated the process with the black velvet bag.

Then he caught a sweet whiff of cigarette smoke.

He froze.

Another whiff of smoke. Laughter.

Shit.

It was coming from the end of the passage between the two buildings. The building on the left, he knew from the map, was part of the main airfield hangar. The one on the right housed the firefighting vehicles and equipment.

He pressed himself against the wall on his right and held his breath, listening. Don’t come this way. DO. NOT. COME. THIS. WAY.

He was close to hyperventilating. If they came down here they would find the two bags. He cursed his stupidity. His laptop, for God’s sake! His laptop lying the other side of the gate, out of reach. With everything on it. And the velvet bag. Jesus.

Was he losing his touch. Had he lost the fucking plot?

Then he saw a tiny flare of red, like a laser dot, followed by a shower of tiny sparks. The cigarette butt hitting the ground. More laughter. Two males, maybe twenty yards away, both with deep voices, their conversation crystal clear in the silent early morning air. They were talking about football, about Brighton and Hove Albion’s chances in the game this coming Saturday.

To his relief, the voices became quieter. They were walking away.

He continued waiting. Until he could no longer hear them at all. Then he hauled himself up and over the gate, jumped down on the far side and stood and listened again, shivering a little from the cold, despite his fleece-lined leather jacket.

Silence.

He picked up both bags and hurried along the passageway between the two buildings and came out into the open space in front of them. The vast structure of the hangar was to his left, and to his right was a much smaller building. The pre-dawn sky was beginning to lighten. Within half an hour he would no longer have darkness to hide in.

He checked again and still could not hear any voices. He risked briefly switching on the torch and shining it on the hangar doors. They were shut. Shut and no doubt locked. He went over and tried them, just in case, and they would not budge. As he had expected. But they would be opened soon, well ahead of the airport going live at 8 a.m., he was sure, in order to start towing out the aircraft that would be flying this morning. He needed somewhere close by where he could lurk.

Then he saw it, the perfect place! A hundred yards or so across the apron he saw, in the steadily increasing light, the silhouette of the parked refuelling truck appearing out of the darkness like a developing Polaroid photograph. He hurried over to it.

Standing on the far side, he removed the yellow hi-vis tabard from his bag and donned it. Then he put on his orange hard hat. Wording printed along the front of it read: CAA INSPECTORATE.

Across the chest of the tabard were the words CIVIL AVIATION AUTHORITY INSPECTORATE.

Craving a coffee even more now, a strong one, a double espresso or an Americano, he perched on the vehicle’s front bumper and settled down to wait. As he did so he thought about a US serial killer he’d read about, long ago in his former life, who had been sentenced to death by a US judge. The venerable judge had asked the man if he had anything to say, and he’d replied, ‘Yeah, have a good time on earth, sugar.’

He’d always thought that was a cool response. And he was thinking now, and it brought a big smile to his face, about James Taylor.

Have a good time on earth, Jamesy. All two hours of it, or so, that you have left.