Wrecking Crew

TWO

It was not until the next morning that Stone heard that Charles Rathbone had committed suicide. Fresh from the shower, he was in his kitchen cooking some eggs for breakfast when the local radio broke the story.

“Local war hero and political activist Charles Rathbone has been found dead at his house near Sible Hedingham, in Essex. Police were called to the house yesterday evening after a woman walking her dog reported hearing a single gunshot. Mister Rathbone was discovered lying slumped on his lawn. He was pronounced dead at the scene by a local doctor. A source within the Essex police has confirmed that Mr. Rathbone died from a shotgun blast to the head. Foul play is not suspected. A suicide note was found in his jacket pocket stating that he had recently been diagnosed with an inoperable brain cancer while secretly attending a clinic in America, and that he had chosen to end his life at this time to maintain his dignity. The letter went on to say that Charles Rathbone’s dying wish is that the nation’s desire for ‘True Democracy’ in politics would not die, just because its strongest voice had passed away; to this end he nominated his staunch supporter Sally Field to replace him at the next election.

The son of a farmer and a graduate of the Royal Military Academy Sandhurst, Charles Rathbone had a distinguished career in the British Army. In 2008, while serving with the Royal Engineers in Afghanistan, his squad came under a sustained enemy attack culminating with a large IED explosion. Although badly wounded himself, Charles Rathbone twice entered a known minefield to rescue injured colleagues. For this act of conspicuous courage in circumstances of extreme danger, he was awarded the George Cross. After his rehabilitation, Charles Rathbone retired from the Army and returned to his native Essex to manage the family farm. More recently, he had become a central figure in the growing campaign to change the face of British politics. He was standing as an independent candidate in the general election, under the banner of ‘True Democracy’; he was widely expected to win.

Charles Rathbone was aged sixty-two; he was unmarried and had no immediate family.”

After saying just two words, ‘Good God!’ for the first time since the death of his mother, Eric Stone sat and cried.

His friendship with Charles Rathbone was as deep as siblings, or closer, if that was possible. They had first met at Stone’s dojo in Colchester in the spring of 2009. Eric had just finished teaching a Sunday morning kids class and was in the process of clearing away the equipment, when he noticed a tall man standing quietly, just inside the dojo door. He was wearing a long black raincoat over a sports jacket and waistcoat. Visible below the raincoat, perfectly pressed black pants sat above a pair of highly polished black leather brogues. In his right hand, the man held a rolled umbrella with a curved wooden handle, which doubled as a walking stick and seemed to be helping him keep much of his weight off his right foot.

Stone surreptitiously studied the stranger as he continued collecting the equipment, wondering if he was perhaps a parent or Council official of some description. He had initially thought that the man was angry, as his face was full of dark tension, but on closer inspection, Stone decided that he was suffering some deep pain. Although the day was cool, there was a gleam of sweat on his brow, deep lines under his eyes and his cheeks were hollow, as if he were a recovering drug addict or a cancer survivor. If he was an angry parent, or someone with an axe to grind, Stone felt that the man would have come forwards by now, but he had just remained standing quietly by the door watching as Stone went about his work. After putting the last of the protective headgear and gloves into the storage locker, Stone turned and spoke to the man for the first time.

“May I help you, Sir?”

“I hope you can.” His voice had a full, cultured quality, which spoke of education and confidence.

With some difficulty and barely concealed pain, the stranger brought himself upright and walked twenty careful paces until he was face-to-face with Stone. After hooking the handle of his umbrella over his left arm, he offered his right hand to shake and gave a warm smile.

“Mr. Stone, my name is Charles Rathbone and I would like to engage your services. Recently I lost part of my right leg in Afghanistan. The Army medical people have done all they can but they tell me I will never walk normally again — I want you to help me to prove them wrong.”

“OK, you have my attention,” Stone said politely, “But I’m just a humble karate teacher, how do you think I can help?”

Rathbone smiled and his steely blue eyes glinted with wry humor.

“Why Mr. Stone, you are too modest by far. I have done my research very carefully and you have been recommended to me by the highest authority. I know that you are highly skilled in a range of martial arts. I know that you are a talented and passionate instructor. I know that your experience and training has given you a unique knowledge of biomechanics, and I know that you are a man who loves to be tested.”

Rathbone thrust his chin forwards daringly and his eyes narrowed as he delivered the challenge.

“So Mr. Stone, they said that I will always limp along with the aid of a stick. I intend to prove them wrong. Will you help this cripple to walk like a man again?”

Stone looked at the man before him with fresh interest. The physical pain that he was suffering was etched deeply into his face. He noticed that despite the firmness of his handshake, Rathbone was visibly shaking in an effort to remain standing. Eric imagined how hard it must have been for this unassuming man to ask for help from a complete stranger. For a full minute Stone looked into Rathbone’s unblinking eyes, while he considered how he would approach such a difficult task. Then, with his mind made up, he gave one sharp, decisive nod.

“OK, let’s do it!”

Over the next six months, through the grueling hours of intense physical training and balance exercises, Charles gradually learned to walk without a stick. At the same time, even though they were very different people, a deep friendship developed between the two men. Though he had done his research before their first meeting, Rathbone was impressed with Eric’s analytical intelligence and quiet determination. He found Stone to be a thoroughly likeable and totally trustworthy person.

Stone, a naturally modest and introspective man, was happy to sit for hours listening to Charles Rathbone’s animated stories of Army life, or his passionate opinions of how the British political system could be reformed. Usually, these discussions took place in the local bar, over a delicious meal and a few pints of best bitter. The two men also discovered that they had some shared interests — vintage cars, target shooting, and beautiful women.

Both men were single and unattached. Although Stone enjoyed the company of beautiful and intelligent women, he was rather shy and had yet to find one that interested both his heart and mind. Conversely, the always-effervescent Rathbone, a widower of fifteen-years, seemed to have a bewildering stable of stunningly beautiful female acquaintances that seemed happy to share his company and his bed, without demanding any further commitment. Whenever Charles invited Eric to a party or a barbecue at the farm, one of these delightful young ladies would bring along an equally attractive friend to act as Stone’s companion. Although these dates were always intellectually interesting and sometimes physically satisfying, few led to anything more than an exchange of phone numbers and a shared lie to keep in touch. For the most part the girls were interested and willing, Stone was after all a handsome man, but he found it difficult to engage in a relationship where that rare but indescribable spark was missing.

Being brought up on a farm in the Essex countryside, Charles had learned to shoot at an early age. For a farmer, a shotgun is as much an essential tool as a paintbrush is to a decorator, or a spirit level to a builder. As a youngster, Charles had shot vermin and game with a shotgun and later he progressed to culling deer with a rifle. He had a good eye and a steady hand, essential skills that were later honed to a fine art in the Army; where he would go on to win several competitive medals at Regimental competitions.

Although Eric Stone disliked blood sports, he thoroughly enjoyed target shooting. He loved the cerebral test of calculating the effect that wind, humidity and gravity had on the path of a bullet, combined with the physical challenge of controlling your breathing and heart rate, as you must if you are going to hit something the size of a tomato from 300 yards. His first experience of shooting came about after a girlfriend had invited him to join her at a corporate getaway at some swanky hotel in the Huntingdon countryside. As a part of the package, the guests had free access to activities like horse riding, quad biking, and golf. There was also a climbing wall, a swimming pool, and a skeet shooting range. Stone had soon tired of chlorinated water, plastic rocks, and racing around in muddy circles, and decided to have a pop at skeet shooting, while his lady-friend was enduring something called a hot mud facial.

After a safety lecture and some basic directions about how to hold, aim, and fire a shotgun, the instructor explained the principle of deflection shooting — the process of aiming ahead of the target so that the shotgun pellets can intersect with the fast-flying clay. When he was ready, Stone shouted ‘Pull!’ for the first time, and to his surprise, hit both of the clay targets with his first two shots. Suspecting a large dose of beginners luck, Stone tried again, and he was delighted to see his second attempt produced the same result.

Initially the instructor suspected that Stone was some sharp shooter, planted by friends as a practical joke, but he soon came to accept that Eric simply had a good eye and a natural feel for deflection shooting. To the barely concealed displeasure of his girlfriend, Stone spent most of the remaining time that weekend at the shooting range, stopping only when his right shoulder, unused to the recoil of the shotgun, became too bruised and painful to continue. By that time, he was hooked and committed to joining a local gun club at the earliest opportunity.

Inevitably, the girlfriend proved to be a fad, but his love of target shooting turned into a serious hobby, and Eric soon bought a shotgun and a .22 target rifle; both were kept in a gun safe at his home. On his birthday in July of the previous year, Charles had presented Eric with a very special gift. It was a Barnett Ghost 410 crossbow — identical to the one that Charles owned. The jet black Ghost 410 was a rare and expensive weapon that was manufactured in America using strong but ultra-light materials, more commonly associated with race cars and jet fighters. Sleek, stealthy, and beautifully balanced, it weighed just a few pounds, and yet it could fire a projectile with incredible speed and accuracy. The crossbow was even fitted with a telescopic laser sight that could project the classic sniper red dot onto the intended target.

Eric was delighted with the crossbow, a gift that helped to deepen his friendship with Charles. Over the years the two men spent many happy hours together in friendly competition at the shooting range with guns and their crossbows, or in the bar talking about politics or women, or both, and visiting classic car shows. Through such shared interests and beliefs, based on duty, fairness, and equality, they had eventually become as close as brothers. With a deep sigh, Eric shook his head at the tragic waste of life and the loss of a true friend.

“Come on Stone; pull yourself together,” he said sadly, wiping his eyes.

He splashed his face with cold water at the kitchen sink and wondered what, if anything, he should do next. Although Charles was his closest friend, that relationship held no status in the eyes of the law. Eric was not a relative, and although the news report said that Charles had no immediate family, he presumed that there would be some arrangements in place to deal with the funeral and other matters. Nevertheless, as a friend, he felt that he had a duty to offer his help to whoever was appointed as executor of Charles’s estate. He knew several police officers through his karate club, so after some consideration, he decided that the best course of action was to go in person to the Braintree town police station and ask for some information and advice. Pleased to be doing something positive in his grief, Stone washed and dried the breakfast dishes, brushed his teeth, got dressed and was stepping through the front door just twenty minutes later.

He almost collided with a young and very pretty mailwoman as he turned, and after a mumbled apology and a shy smile, he accepted the proffered handful of utility bills and junk mail, which he took with him to his car. With the engine running, he sat for a moment and watched as the mailwoman continued her round. At that moment, Stone was suddenly aware of just how insular grief was. His world had become dark and depressing, he had just discovered that his closest friend was dead, a tragedy by his own hand to avoid a painful and undignified end; and yet just the other side of the door the sun was still shining, the girls were pretty, and there were still bills to pay. With a shake of his head, Eric snapped out of his reverie.

Realizing that he was still clutching the post, he gave a sad and somewhat ironic laugh and dropped it onto the passenger seat. He was about to put the car into gear when a pale blue envelope caught his eye. The neat careful handwriting was distinctively that of one man — Charles Rathbone. As he picked up the envelope with his left hand, his right hand automatically reached for the key to switch off the engine.

Alan Merry stepped off the train at Reading station and as was his habit, walked directly to the nearest bar. He liked the ‘Three Guineas’; it was an Irish themed bar that had recently been refurbished. It had a great menu, comfortable seating, plenty of space and, most important for Alan, it served a decent pint of Guinness. This early in the afternoon, the bar was quiet, apart from a few businessmen passing some time whilst waiting for their train. Alan had just travelled from London and, as usual, was planning to enjoy a pint and a sandwich before taking a leisurely walk to Reading Borough Council. As part of his responsibility as a Councilor, Alan sat on the Planning Applications Committee every Wednesday afternoon. He found it to be mind-numbingly boring work that was best approached with a slight beer buzz and a full stomach.

He took a stool at the bar and ordered a toasted cheese sandwich with a side order of French fries and a pint of Guinness. Because it was an Irish bar, the barmaid poured the drink correctly — half-filling the glass and leaving it to settle, while she busied herself behind the bar. In a few minutes, she would return to top off his glass. Alan secretly enjoyed the anticipation of waiting for his pint of the ‘black stuff’, so he made use of the time by reading through his notes for the forthcoming planning meeting.

There were the usual residential applications for porches, conservatories, and garages, along with two applications for loft extensions — all fairly routine and acceptable stuff. He noticed that there was an application for a change of use that he thought could cause some discussion amongst the Councilors. A local farmer wanted to convert some stables into bed and breakfast accommodations, presumably to try to cash in on the growing numbers of tourists visiting the area. The previous year the same farmer had an application to open a go-kart track turned down, because of the potential for noise pollution upsetting the residents of a nearby housing development. However, Alan suspected that this application stood a much better chance of getting approval. On the other hand, he was certain that the planning application for change of use at Whitewater farm was going to fail.

Harry Harrington had been battling with the Council for months over his farm — or at least ten acres of it. Harrington ran a haulage business, which mostly seemed to involve buying and breaking old trucks and buses for spare parts. All of which would be fine, if he hadn’t taken it into his head to park almost one-hundred broken and rusty vehicles in a corner of his land. He had never applied for or received planning permission to operate a breakers yard, and recently there had been several complaints about safety issues — particularly since waste engine oil had been found seeping into a nearby stream. The council had already issued several notices ordering him to clear up the site, but they had all been totally ignored — at least until now. Incredibly, today Harrington was formally applying for permission to operate a breakers yard on an expanded site of twenty acres. The barefaced cheek of the man was unbelievable! Not many things in life are guaranteed, but the comprehensive refusal of this planning application most definitely was. Alan’s mood brightened noticeably — perhaps there was something to look forward to this afternoon after all.

With excellent timing, the barmaid carefully placed Alan’s pint on the countertop and gave him a smile.

“Here’s your Guinness love, your sandwich will be along in a couple of minutes.”

“Thanks. I’ve been looking forward to this!”

“Enjoy.”

Alan picked up his pint and held it to his lips, savoring the nutty smell for a moment before preparing to take his first sip. Suddenly, something gave his right elbow a mighty shove. The pint flew out of his hand, bounced on the counter, and fell to the floor. Luckily, the bar had recently started to use plastic glasses so nothing was broken, but the Guinness was lost.

“Jesus Christ!” Alan growled in shock and anger. He was about to turn and let fly at his assailant when a firm hand was placed on his shoulder and a cultured voice spoke into his ear.

“Oh! My dear chap! I am most awfully sorry; I’m such a clumsy buffoon. I trust you are uninjured?”

Alan turned to see a tall sophisticated looking gentleman of about sixty, with a comb-over of grey hair and a short goatee beard. He was dressed in a smart green tweed sports jacket with a beige waistcoat and matching trousers. Hanging between the waistcoat pockets was a heavy gold chain, presumably connected to a gold pocket watch. The man kept his hand firmly on Alan’s shoulder and gave him a dazzling and genuine smile as he waited for a reply.

“Err… No, I’m fine,” Alan responded, “it’s only my drink that’s suffered.”

“Splendid! Splendid,” the man replied loudly, as if Alan had just performed some exotic magic trick. “Now, you must allow me to replace your beverage — BARKEEP! Another two pints here, please!”

“Oh, that’s really not necessary, I am sure it was just a silly accident,” Alan mumbled in a slightly embarrassed tone. The man gave him a mighty slap on the back.

“Indeed it was! Nevertheless, this fortuitous accident has brought us together — let us become friends!” He waved at the barmaid who was trying to mop up the beer. “A Bushmills for my friend as well — make it a double.”

Alan was instantly won over by this man with the friendly smile, as well as the offer of a double of his favourite Irish whiskey.

“Thanks very much,” he said.

“Roger Taylor, at your service.” The man thrust out his hand.

“Alan Merry,” Alan responded, shaking the proffered hand.

Once their drinks and food had arrived, Roger suggested that they move to a booth. They chatted while they ate, mostly about the state of the economy and the latest situation in the Middle East. Alan found Roger to be affable, humorous, and quite pleasant company. Soon the conversation turned towards their families. Roger asked if Alan had grandchildren.

“Yes I do, in fact they’re my favourite subject. Here, let me show you a photograph.”

He pulled a picture from his billfold and pointed. “Now this is—”

“Emma,” Roger interrupted, “and that must be Suzie with the blonde hair.”

“Good gracious!” Alan said in perplexed surprise. “How could you possibly know that?”

Roger smiled. “Why Alan, I know a lot about you, and I know a lot about your family — and your beautiful grandchildren.”

“But… I don’t understand. How could you know? We just met.”

“Oh Alan… my dear, sweet, innocent Alan. I know all there is to know about you. Would you like to see my photographs?" He opened his briefcase.

“Now… Here is a picture of your lovely wife shopping.”

Roger placed a large glossy photograph on the table. Alan could immediately see that the woman in the photograph was indeed his wife. She was pictured from the side and slightly above, selecting some fruit at a local farmer’s market. The image had a grainy quality, perhaps from being digitally blown up, or because the person taking the picture had used a telephoto lens. Roger placed another picture on the table in front of a stunned Alan.

“In this one I think she was just getting out of the shower. Lovely legs!”

He placed another picture on the table, as casually as someone sharing their vacation pictures.

“Oh… and here is a picture of you with that cute young actress you have been seeing every Wednesday morning for the last month.” Another picture was placed on the table. “Here you are in bed together.”

One more picture was added to the pile.

“And here are your grandchildren arriving at school — they really are most lovely. Children are so fragile at this age. We have to make an extra effort to be sure they will come to no harm.” Allowing the threat to hang in the air like stale cigarette smoke, Roger’s finger stroked the image of little Suzie as if he were softly caressing her blonde hair.

Alan sat staring at the photographs, numb with shock. Finally, he looked at the man sitting across the table. The soft smile and affable joviality had disappeared. Roger’s eyes were as hard as black diamonds and when he spoke again his voice was as cold as steel.

“We know a lot about you… Councilor Alan Merry. We know where you live, what you earn, what you do — who you do it with — and we know about your family.”

His finger tapped the last picture harshly and when he spoke, next his words were deliberately chosen.

“We particularly know all about your grandchildren.”

Roger closed his briefcase with a harsh snap that made Alan jump. The cold voice was suddenly more business-like.

“And that is why I am confident that you will vote in favor of the Whitewater farm application at the planning meeting this evening.” Roger leaned forward towards Alan, until his eyes were just inches away. “Do I make myself clear?”

“What! Is that what all of this is about?” Alan reeled back in shock. “You’re threatening me over some poxy planning application?”

Roger ignored Alan’s sudden outburst. He leaned back and made himself taller in the seat.

“I said… Do I make myself clear? Or do you want me to be more specific about the consequences of your failure to comply?”

Alan sighed in defeat and slumped into his seat. His voice was just a dry whisper.

“No, you have made yourself perfectly clear. I will do as you ask, just don’t hurt anyone — please, please don’t. There is no need.”

“Excellent Alan, that’s just fine. I am glad that we had this little chat.” Roger stood. “You can keep these photographs as a reminder of our agreement, I have plenty of copies. Oh, and another thing. I am afraid that you won’t be seeing your young lady on Wednesday mornings anymore.”

Roger pulled an envelope from his inside pocket and dropped it casually onto the table.

“Such a sweet girl, and so talented — but you know that already. Here’s her invoice. She’ll be expecting payment as specified by the end of next week.”

“Why are you doing this?” Alan pleaded.

For a moment Roger stared unblinkingly, as if he was wracked with some internal conflict; finally he shrugged and closed his eyes.

“For the same reason you are. I don’t want to get hurt — or worse. There are people out there who do these things for a living, bad people, the sort of people you do not want to meet. There are some very dangerous people out there, Alan. They have you on a hook now and that’s a hook that you can never get off.”

He paused, looking down at the photographs with genuine sadness in his eyes.

“You may not believe me, but for what it is worth, I am truly sorry.”

“It won’t help you,” Alan said defiantly.

“What won’t?”

“All of this,” he said waving his hand at the photographs, “All of this won’t help you. I am just one vote — you need a majority to get the planning application passed.”

Roger sighed and put his hand on Alan’s shoulder.

“It will pass. We have a majority now. Your vote was the last one we needed. Just do what I have asked, and everything will be all right. Goodbye, Alan.”

Roger gave Alan’s shoulder a gentle squeeze.

“Until the next time,” he added in a chilling postscript as he left.

Alan sat alone in the booth, stared at the pictures and cried quietly, until it was time for him to leave for the planning meeting.

Stone curiously studied the envelope before him. As people sometimes do, he found himself trying to guess the contents without opening the flap. He knew Charles’s distinctive handwriting from the cards he always sent for Christmas and on Eric’s birthday in July, but it was too early for the first event and too late for the second. The envelope obviously contained a greetings card of some sort and the postmark clearly showed that the envelope was posted on the day of Charles’s suicide. Stone rested his forearms on the steering wheel and held the envelope in his fingertips so that it was at eye level. He felt unwilling to open the flap, realizing that it probably contained the last words that Charles wrote, just minutes before he committed suicide. Cold dread squeezed his heart as he anticipated the contents; perhaps it was a personal suicide note, or instructions for Charles’s funeral. Stone pursed his lips and drew a deep breath. With a deft flick of his finger, he ripped open the envelope and extracted the contents.

It was a simple birthday card. On the front was a picture of a classic car, a red Jaguar ‘E’ type, and the words, ‘Best wishes on your birthday’. Inside Charles had written, ‘Happy birthday — you old fart!’ — The exact words that he had written on an identical card back in July. However, this time there was also a small slip of yellow paper, folded twice, with ‘Phone me — now!’ written in the same handwriting but with a different ink.

“God, I wish I could!” Stone whispered.

He wondered if the note was a desperate plea from a suicidal mind sickened and twisted by cancer, but he quickly decided that it was not. Around a month earlier, Charles had told Eric that he would be out of touch for a while as he was working on some important new project. Yet, just four days ago he had still found the time to phone Eric to send on his best wishes to three of the karate club’s students who were about to take their black belt grading. The call was short, but Charles was his usual effervescent and humorous self.

The more Eric thought about Charles’s death and the weeks leading up to it, the more questions he found he wanted to ask. Where had he been for the last month? What was the new project that suddenly seemed more important than Charles’s beloved True Democracy? Exactly when did Charles discover that he had cancer? Why had he decided to keep the diagnosis a secret, even from his best friend? Why did he deliberately copy the original birthday card so exactly, but then send it on the wrong day? Moreover, perhaps the most important question was — why would Charles ask Eric to phone him when they both knew that Charles never took incoming calls. Although he always had the latest model smart phone, Charles despised receiving calls in public and kept the phone permanently on silent mode, preferring to use his cell for email, texts, and banking — so Charles always called Eric.

Stone was still contemplating the significance of this message from beyond the grave, when he felt a small bump within the folds of the note. He carefully unfolded the paper and discovered that on the rear there was a short strip of clear tape covering what appeared to be a small oblong of thin black plastic. Confused, he used his fingernail to unpick the tape and pry the plastic oblong free for closer inspection. In the dulled light within his car, Stone had to squint to overcome his mild short-sightedness. Slightly smaller than his little fingernail and as thin as a business card, the little oblong of plastic weighed almost nothing.

Although three sides of the plastic oblong were perfectly square to each other, Stone could see that it was slightly wider at one edge and the bottom had a slight saw-toothed look with a step in the center. There was also a slight ridge on the left edge, just high enough to trap with a thumbnail. On the surface, printed in light grey, there was a seemingly unreadable stylized logo and a small arrow pointing to the right. Examining the other side, he could just make out eight gold irregular strips around a tenth of an inch long, and three lines of writing too small to read without a magnifying glass. However, if Eric’s suspicions were right, two readable letters would help solve this evolving riddle. The letters were ‘CE’. Often seen but seldom noticed, the ‘CE’ mark is a key indicator of a product’s compliance with European Union legislation — and it is a common mark on most electrical items.

Stone quickly stuffed the mail into his pocket and carefully folded the plastic card back into the sheet of paper, before climbing out of his car and jogging back to his house. Once inside he went directly to a drawer in his kitchen where he kept those items that even the most house-proud man finds difficult to discard. He sorted through batteries of indeterminate age, instruction manuals for products long since discarded, and several miscellaneous electrical leads, until he found the magnifying glass he was looking for. With the aid of the natural sunlight shining through the kitchen window and the magnifying glass, he was able to study the tiny plastic oblong more closely.

He quickly deciphered the logo as the word ‘Micro’ curved around the letters ‘SD’ and just to the right ‘64’ was printed over ‘GB’. Stone was not particularly tech savvy and so it took a moment before he realized that ‘GB’ did not stand for Great Britain, as he would have expected, but in this case, it meant Gigabyte. He was holding a micro SD card for a cell phone. The message ‘Phone Me — now!’ was not a request to make contact, but a direction to put the SD card into a smart phone.

Although he had acquired a 3G smart phone as a free upgrade when he had last renewed his cell phone contract, like many people of his age, Stone had little knowledge of the internal workings of his device. Apart from sending the occasional text messages and using a couple of pre-installed Apps to check on his emails, or play music while he was out running, he really only used his phone to make calls. Consequently, it took him a little while just to get the back cover off the device, and several more minutes to locate the correct slot for the SD card, but after that, things got a little easier. Although he had never noticed it before, right in the center of the screen was a familiar icon marked ‘My Files’ which, after several attempts, allowed him to view the contents of the SD card.

There were four files:

Money.doc

Wreckingcrew.pdf

Myteam.doc

Openmefirst.mpg

Eric tapped the last file and the operating system automatically selected the correct application to open the video player. There before him, reflected in a mirror, was Charles Rathbone sitting at a desk in what looked like a budget motel room. He smiled, waved, cleared his throat, and began to speak.

“Hello, Eric. Please excuse the cloak and dagger theatrics with the birthday card, but I can assure you it was most necessary. They would do anything to stop you, or anyone else from getting this message.

If you are watching this, then I am dead — hopefully without pain and by my own hand. For this act, I can only apologise.

Eric, you are my closest friend and confidante, the person I trust the most, but I could not tell you what I was working on, or what was happening to me. It was simply too dangerous to the two things that I hold most dear, you and True Democracy. I sincerely wish that it could be another way. I have thought long and hard about what I am about to do, but there is no other option. I have read that suicide is believed to be the ultimate act of cowardice, don’t believe it Eric; this is the hardest thing I can imagine anyone having to do. There is so much to live for and so much that I still want to achieve. I almost died once before, with your help and friendship I learned to walk tall again. Now it is all going to be wasted — I am so sorry, but I have no other choice.

It is my idea you see, the idea of True Democracy. The simple little idea that means the public can finally have real influence over how the country is run. That idea is such a threat to some people that it just had to be stopped. They had hoped that it would simply lose momentum, and for a while, it seemed that it would. Then they became impatient and tried to kill it with that game show, but they miscalculated and suddenly it was too late. So, they had a problem. How do you stop an idea? How do you make people un-think a thought? Then they realized that dear old Charles Rathbone was the public face of True Democracy. To stop the idea, they had to stop me.

Of course, killing me would create a martyr. No… that would not work. That would only make things worse for them. Then they struck on what seemed like a perfect plan — discredit the man and you discredit the idea. Comprehensively discredit the man; convincingly convict him of something so heinous, so monstrously shocking, that nobody in their right mind would want to be associated with his politics ever again. Do that and the idea is dead in the water — cold, lifeless and sunk to the bottom, never to be discussed again. They planned a killer headline — ‘Charles Rathbone, pedophile, and child molester!’”

Stone found that he had involuntarily jerked back in his seat with the shock of what he was hearing. He tapped pause on the video player, so he could take a moment to splash his face with cold water from the faucet in the kitchen. Then he paced up and down the hallway for a full minute in an attempt to cool his rising anger. He splashed his face a second time, dried off with a hand towel, grabbed a bottle of orange juice from the fridge, and returned to his seat. To help clear the tension that he was feeling, Stone shut his eyes, took a deep breath through his nose, and slowly breathed out through his mouth. He repeated the exercise three more times, until he felt that he had his emotions under some semblance of control. He leaned forward and tapped the screen to resume the video playback.

“Dearest Eric,” Charles continued, “you must believe me when I say, that these allegations are a hideous lie, totally untrue, just fabricated propaganda based on planted evidence. I don’t know how they did it; I just know that they did.

A dear friend in the police put herself in terrible danger, both professionally and physically, to warn me of what was about to happen. She told me that the British police had been given a copy of a report, recently filed by the Afghan police. The report stated that three unnamed Afghani children, two boys and one girl, were claiming to have been raped by one Charles Rathbone while he was serving in Afghanistan with the Royal Engineers. There was no explanation as to why the accusers had waited so long before making a complaint, or how they had originally named their attacker. The report did claim that an investigator had positively confirmed the identity of the alleged rapist, with the use of a photograph.

The report made difficult reading, particularly the graphic details of what was allegedly done to these poor children. Worse still was the casual footnote stating that the accusers were no longer available for interview, as they had been killed along with eleven others when their school bus was blown apart by an IED landmine. Obviously, I found this dreadful accusation to be deeply upsetting, but there was more to follow.

The next day, investigators at the Pedophile Unit of the Metropolitan police, received evidence from the FBI showing that a credit card in my name had been used to make purchases from several online purveyors of child pornography. Although I have never owned or applied for such a card, or accessed such web sites, the next day a payment to that credit card company was traced to my checking account. Faced with such compelling evidence, the police applied for a warrant to search my house and computers.

Yesterday I received another call from my friend. She told me that initial scans of my computer and tablet had revealed substantial quantities of child pornography, along with evidence of regular visits to web sites known to sell such dreadful materials. My friend was kind enough to reiterate her continued confidence in my innocence, stating that even the investigating officers had thought the trail of evidence to be too convenient and easy to follow. Nevertheless, such evidence could not be ignored; steps must be taken. The police were planning to make an arrest within days, to be followed with an immediate press conference. At that point, all hope of protecting True Democracy would be gone forever. I knew then that the only way to save True Democracy was to sacrifice myself.

Of course, there is a risk that they will still try to publish these allegations, but I believe that risk is acceptably small. For their plan to work, Charles Rathbone needed to be publicly exposed and humiliated. Any attempt to besmirch my name and reputation posthumously, or attack my successor, would probably have the conspiracy theorists climbing out of the woodwork to join the party.

I have nominated Sally Field to take over as leader of True Democracy. Sally was my most vocal supporter. She is an intelligent and charismatic girl, if she decides to contest the election, I am confident that she will win her seat.

Now that I am dead and True Democracy is in safe hands, I can reveal the truth. In doing so, I must ask you to put yourself and others in grave danger. It is my hope that you will see the need to eradicate the evil menace that has directly caused my death and that of many others. Please consider what I have to tell you very carefully and with an open mind, before you decide how to act. Eric, I have left you a considerable amount of money to fund this endeavor, but should you decide against it, please, please, take the money and run as far away as you can.”

Charles leaned closer to the camera.

“I do not know how the evidence against me was planted. Nor do I know the identity of the person who gave the order for my reputation to be destroyed, or the person who paid for this foul and cowardly act. That is something that I hope you will be able to discover. However, I am confident that this devilish deed was perpetrated by an organisation so secret that almost nobody knows of their existence and yet they have contracts with Governments throughout the world. They are a group of people that take no sides, offer no favours, show no conscience, and lack any moral compass; they simply work for the highest bidder. They must be stopped.”

Charles’s face filled the small screen.

“They call themselves ‘The Wrecking Crew’.”