Ears of The Wolf

Chapter 1-2

He reviewed the facts so far. Scott’s life carried massive insurance liability, because of the man’s incredible expertise in the field of radar and electronics. Next, according to the old boy’s sister’s earlier statement, there had been nothing amiss. Up to the tragic moment, she was certain it was like any Sunday night - no visitors, no phone calls.

The chimes of the lift bell pinged, disturbing Marty’s scrambled thoughts.

From behind her desk, the receptionist cast a beaming smile as Marty stepped into view. She gave a sigh as her hero walked across the foyer, each smooth stride he made towards the car park taking him further from her. She was nearly ten years younger than Marty. The fact made no difference. If anything it made her more determined. She’d nursed a soft spot for Marty from the first time she laid eyes on him. For most of her sexually aware life she had been told that older men were more experienced and better lovers. Helen, by no standards a precocious girl, wrestled with all the normal curiosity and restless hormones of a healthy, twenty-year old. Marty was that older man in her eyes, just the man to prove the myth while playing out her greatest fantasy. ‘If I’ve got to - okay, I’ll damn well throw it at him if I get just half a chance,’ she whispered under her breath. She sighed again, still gazing with that secret longing at his broad back. Then he was lost to her sight. ‘Just half a chance,’ she murmured.

Marty was convinced that he was on to something big. He could feel it in his bones. That strange phenomenon called intuition, reinforced with what he had learned in his Crime Science lectures, told him that someone was up to no good. That hunch also told him, if it were so, that it could be something far more dangerous than he had ever had to contend with before. Marty was no man to be deterred easily, though. The hot, Celtic blood that coursed his body led him headstrong into adversity with an air of supreme confidence. With that typical enthusiasm, he hoped he would be allowed enough time to indulge in what he told himself was a mere matter of “some serious kick-ass among the ungodly”. But he had only twenty-four hours in which he must do that. Harbin was not going to sanction a minute more.

*

The earlier heinous happenings in Bloom Walk obviously had not made a tweet of difference to the indigenous bird-life of the area. Some hours had passed since the exit of paramedics, police, and the medley of vehicles deemed necessary to mark any unfortunate’s untimely shuffle from mortality. But none of that had discouraged our feathered friends, who twittered and chirped in chorus with the local milk-float as it trundled on its merry way to dispose of its wares. The crisp, clean air was as heady as a good red wine, which made the birdsong doubly contagious.

Marty watched the milk-float rattle to a halt. As he got out of his car he found himself whistling as heartily as a fool. He stopped whistling, red faced, and he gave himself a mental kick on the backside for so openly displaying his lack of respect for the old boy.

The milkman nodded congenially at Marty, at the same time grabbing hold of a cluster of bottles in each hand.

It was an action so very simple, yet skilful, that it fascinated Marty. The feat conjured up in his mind the picture of a pathetic character in a film he had seen of a poor creature, cursed with a bunch of scissors and shears instead of hands.

Marty smiled and motioned the milkman to wait, in order to question him. Hopefully the fellow could point him in the direction of a solution to his first puzzle; the home of the discarded milk bottle cap, complete with splendid thumbprint, that he’d found on his visit to the crime scene.

Very quickly, Marty had the information he needed. ‘Thanks a bunch, be lucky,’ he shouted to the back of the float as it resumed its symphony with the birds.

Edging the Lotus further along the kerb, its powerful engine barely ticking over, he stopped opposite the driveway of the ill-fated Sir Rupert’s house. With a little shrug to abandon any misgivings over what he was about to embark on, he got out and crunched across the gravel. Marty paused at the door, knowing that whatever the outcome of the charade he was about to enact, there was no way he could turn back. His finger hit the bell-push.

‘Hello.’ There was no description more befitting than stunning for the young woman who greeted Marty.

For a few seconds, everything apart from the apparition before his eyes was totally unimportant. Right then she may have been the only girl in the world, the only other person in the world. Marty normally indicated his desire for any woman by the audacity of his chat-up lines. There were few flowery metaphors or clichés that he was reluctant to use, and his readiness knew no equal. But she left him speechless.

He certainly was too absorbed to notice the Jaguar saloon slink past the end of the driveway.

Waiting, he wondered if that sexy velvet song she had made out of a simple greeting was an accident of acoustics, or his imagination. The waiting was no hardship. Her perfume tickled every hungry nerve-end of Marty’s very healthy, very masculine libido.

‘You must forgive me.’ Her voice was such a pleasure on the ears. ‘You have me at a disadvantage. Do you have an appointment with my father?’

‘I’m sorry, Miss. ?’ Marty paused, his mind playing with the delicious prospect of ever having the blue eyed vision at a disadvantage. ‘Sorry to disturb you at such short notice.’ He felt foolish. He knew that he was bumbling. ‘Fosdyke, from Excel Dairies. Running a customer relations survey just a few questions. Won’t take many moments, if you wouldn’t mind?’ He felt uneasy again at the hint of a smile in her eyes.

‘Please, won’t you step in, Mr Fosdyke?’ she said. There, again, was that hint of amusement in her voice as she spoke his name. ‘I’m sure we are satisfied, but if the subject is dairy produce, well that’s more in Annie’s domain, she’s our housekeeper. I am sure she can be of help.’

The apparition ushered Marty into the front reception room. With yet another fleeting smile, and sensuous swing of her hips, she made her exit.

Fantasy was replaced within seconds by reality. A middle-aged lady, who Marty knew could only be the redoubtable housekeeper, appeared in the doorway.

‘Morning Annie. Just checking to find out if our deliveries are correct. Satisfactory condition, punctual, that sort of thing?’

Annie seemed a bit flustered. She was not accustomed to interview, especially by a personable young man such as the questioner. Her brow creased as she fumbled for the right words. ‘Well, sir, last thing I want is for Len to get in trouble, but I was saying to Miss Andrea before you called.’ she hesitated, still perturbed.

‘It’s alright Annie. Nobody’s job is on the line here.’ For reassurance he treated her to one of his disarming specials, a dimpled, boyish grin.

‘Well, I was on my day off yesterday I don’t work Sundays. And Miss Andrea, she was with friends in the country, and the Air Marshal, God bless him, he had to stay at his yacht-club in Southampton for some reason.’

Marty smiled, put a hand on hers which were tightly clasped.

She continued, ‘Yesterday I think Len must’ve forgot Cleopatra’s, that’s the cat, he forgot her milk. A gold-top. There was only the others on the step this morning, the usual Monday order. But he should know she drinks the ordinary at a push.’ Annie stopped. She took a long look at Mr “Fosdyke” searching his face for any sign of ill-favour she may have unwittingly directed the milkman’s way.

‘It sounds to me like you’re altogether satisfied with our services, Annie. I’m sure the little hiccup with Cleopatra’s milk is a one-off. Your concern for Len’s efforts is recommendation enough. I reckon he’s doing a great job for us.’

Annie mumbled ‘Thank you, sir, goodbye.’ She could not hide the relief on her face as she realised her ordeal was over.

As Marty pulled himself out of the armchair, the leather creaked its gratitude in that unique way genuine leather does. He closed his organiser and patted her arm. ‘Thank you Annie, you’ve been very helpful.’ He watched her scuttle back into the depths of the house down the hallway.

He was left standing in the vestibule. The collection of military antiques on view was too rare to be ignored. It included various wheel-locks and powder-balls, around a central display of Colts. Among these was a legendary “Frontier” model and an M15 officer’s pistol. Marty’s passion for weapons and militaria enabled him to recognise most of the collection. The display was in a satinwood cabinet which stood on a Kashan carpet. The splendour of it all struck him as a paradox. The sum total of the precious pieces’ reason for existence, as purveyors of death, was so conveniently sanitised in the trappings of wealth and privilege. Marty wondered exactly how many terrified souls’ misery had been terminated for eternity by the devices nestling in the elegance of their setting. Life is one helluva crazy carousel, he thought.

‘I do hope Annie was of help in your enquiries, Mr Fosdyke.’

Marty jumped. Not noticeably, but he was startled sufficiently to catch his breath. The dreamboat Andrea had drifted up behind him. He couldn’t imagine how he had not, at least, detected the scent of her perfume.

‘Yes, most suitably, Miss…., Damn fool, he thought, why didn’t I ask that milkman her surname? He still felt unusually nonplussed in her presence.

‘Thompson. It’s Andrea Thompson. But really, you should know. After all, as customers of longstanding you should have it on record?’

She was mocking him, and plainly getting amusement from the exercise. Marty could see that. He disliked it intensely. A hasty retreat seemed the most sensible option. ‘Good day to you, Miss Thompson, and thank you. It has been my very great pleasure meeting you.’ He quickly noted the hall telephone number.

‘Likewise, indeed, Mr Fosdyke, I’m sure. By the way, I do love your Lotus. And it’s such a distinctive shade of red, just like the one parked opposite earlier this morning. Wasn’t that such an awful thing to happen?’ Her eyes misted momentarily. Then, with the flicker of a smile and toss of her golden tresses, she closed the door.

Marty had the feeling he had missed something out. There were a million questions he would have liked to ask the girl, but he felt that there was a vital one he had overlooked. He felt that they must meet again, but could not be certain that his reasoning was more from a basic desire than the necessity to further his case.

The Lotus purred away from the kerb. It moved effortlessly down the avenue of deciduous trees that were already waking from their winter hibernation. In contrast, the gears in Marty’s mind were crunching as he wrestled to recapitulate and correlate what he might of the information he had accumulated so far. He knew that Scott, a man of rigid habit patterns as outlined in “Savant” magazine, ended every day at eleven pm and retired to his bed. His sister, who had watched her favourite television program till nearly midnight, confirmed that the Sunday evening was no exception. She had then woken at the commotion caused when her brother fell. The sister appeared to reluctantly agree to the police surmise that her brother could not sleep so had made himself a nightcap. Then, completely out of character, at past one o’clock in the morning he had decided to unlock the front door to put out an empty bottle.

Marty was sure the inconsistencies pointed to somebody luring Scott to his death. The motive had to be the vast amount of money for which he was insured by Global Avionics Technologies. It had to be an extreme, but straightforward case of company fraud. The police, in their wisdom, had been content to disregard the foil bottle-cap that Marty had found, despite its grubby thumbprint. The cap, in Marty’s opinion, that the assailant had discarded after purloining the bottle of milk from the doorstep of the house opposite while waiting for the moment to strike. The police, dismissive and unwilling to entertain his contribution to the case, were going to be of no use. Marty knew he would have to use a lot of persuasion to get his connections to disclose to him if the print was of use to identify the probable assailant who had been lurking in the darkness. Knowing that would be a vital factor towards the proof of his theory.

Marty instructed his voice-activated phone. ‘World News’. Within a few seconds he was through and a woman’s voice answered. Marty said, ‘Can I speak to Neil - Neil Travis? It’s Marty Rebel here.’

‘I can give you his cell phone number in Afghanistan. He’s been sent out there to replace, well, you wouldn’t know him, a guy we lost a couple of days ago.’

‘Jeez, I’m sorry to hear that, on both counts.’ Marty was thinking hard for a way to overcome this setback. He had been relying on his friend to help with some of the City information he needed, fast.

‘You must be the guy he refers to as Paddy?’

‘Himself in the flesh,’ replied Marty.

‘He warned me I might be hearing from you, now and then. So what can I do you for?’ She gave a husky little chuckle. ‘Name’s Dixie Montcliffe, by the way.’

Yes! No panic, thought Marty. ‘I can’t explain everything right now, but it’ll help save my life if you can get me the latest on Global Avionics Technologies, what they’re into up to this minute. Anything you can get on contracts, market predictions. Any gossip, whatever no-good s**t you can dig up. The old boy that’s just copped it, Rupert Scott, any rumours on his latest projects. I know we’re opening up a new slate, so I’ll owe you one if you can.’

‘Don’t worry none,’ said the reporter. ‘Just make sure you leave that Lotus that I’ve heard about to me in your will.’ She chuckled again. ‘When’s your deadline, then, Marty?’

‘Ten am tomorrow.’ He was fascinated by the girl’s earthy tones. Her husky voice whet his curiosity. He tried to put a face to it as he waited for her reply.

‘I’ll get what’s available, either on the records or buzzing on the wires about your friends at GAT. In fact I’m on it already, no time to sit talking to you, Marty.’

Marty listened to her chuckle again as she rang-off. He smiled to himself. ‘End,’ he said to the car phone. As he negotiated the London traffic, the complexity of his task loomed ever greater. He instructed his phone to get Lion Holdings. ‘Hello, Helen. It’s Marty, Marty Rebel. I wonder, if you could, would you do me a great big favour?’ There was no immediate answer. He continued, ’I need all my hard-copy files on GAT, and unfortunately I won’t be able to get back to the office. Grab them for me, take them home with you. I’ll call in at yours to collect them later, treat you to a nice meal, as a kind of thank you. If you can do that for me I’ll make sure we have a good night.’

‘You know I’d love to do anything for you, Marty, of course I shall.’ She blushed, realising she was probably betraying her eagerness to spend time with the man of her dreams. But she had even more fear that her feelings might not be so readily reciprocated by Marty. She knew very well that if she was ever going to strike up a relationship with him he would have to be encouraged to forget about work and his paperwork when they met.

Marty had not taken much notice of the girl behind the receptionist’s desk; not until that moment, anyway. But her anxious, suggestive attitude had titillated his male appetite, which, within the hour, had been so lusciously teased. His well known liking for “thrills in frills” was working overtime. Suddenly he was looking forward to what could turn out to be an extremely pleasurable evening.

He told Helen how to access his filing cabinet, and identify the material he needed. She told him the whereabouts of her flat.

‘That’s a date then, Helen. See you at yours round eight-thirty, bye.’ He switched off with a self-satisfied smile. Life was looking good to Marty at that moment. Life always looked good to him when he had the prospect of attractive, female company.

Behind the Lotus, at sufficient distance to avoid arousing Marty’s suspicion, the ubiquitous Jaguar S Type maintained pursuit. Pelops sat in silence beside the driver, seat rammed as far back as possible, the prosthetic limb resting on his thigh. He watched the intermittent blip from a display on the dashboard. It was the signal from a tracking device that the driver, an MI5 operator, had planted on Marty’s car while the young Irishman performed his amateur theatricals at the Thompson house.

Marty’s interest in the recent events in Bloom Walk had not gone unnoticed in more remote, more sinister circles. His reluctance to accept that Sir Rupert Scott’s death was innocent had become a troublesome obstacle in the greater schemes of the men in grey-flannel suits. He had become an MI5 mark. In the plainest of terms, he had become a nuisance that their assassin Pelops was obligated to remove