The Alex King Series, A BATEMAN [good books for high schoolers .TXT] 📗

there before, many years ago. The city was now several rungs down the desirability ladder, but he reflected many places had gone the same way since the recession and austerity measures. If towns and cities like Winchester could feel the effect, then it wasn’t such a stretch to see why people supported Anarchy to Recreate Society.

Liam Jameson. A little boy, suffocated in his bed. Collateral damage to their cause. The memory was all it took for King to discount the thought, remind himself of what he stood for.

 The couple had dropped him off at the train station. It was a kind gesture, taking them twenty-minutes or more out of their way. King had quietly tucked a twenty into the dashboard of the van and thanked them. He hadn’t wanted the awkwardness of offering fuel money, and he was grateful for the lift, as well as the cover they had unwittingly afforded him.

The station was small. But the trains ran to London every forty-minutes or so and the journey only took an hour, so it was a popular station for commuters.

King ordered a cup of tea and as he paid, he picked up an oversized cookie. He found an empty seat and took out his phone, scrolled through as he ate and drank. He dialled, but Caroline’s number went straight to voicemail. His text had not been answered either. For the first time since they had been in their relationship, he felt worried. He was tempted to break protocol and call Simon Mereweather, but it would be the death nail to them working as a couple. Mereweather was no fool, and tolerant though he was, and suited by their relationship as he had often been, he would see that the line had been crossed. Both King and Caroline could not afford to be seen to care too much, too publicly. They had to maintain professionalism always. His thumb hovered over Mereweather’s details, but he resisted, locked the phone and slipped it back into his pocket.

A train was announced on the speaker system as passing through and a few minutes later it travelled through the station at speed. King felt the draught from it, watched the head-down commuters returning from London. He checked his watch. Five minutes until his train arrived. He looked each way down the platform. It was habit. He took people in, remembered them. He would know who had remained, who was new on the scene or who had moved on. He could look through people, guess at the lives they lived. He was seldom wrong. He had years of experience.

Which was why he noticed the man at the end of the platform.

There was nothing noticeable to most people. But King wasn’t most people. King noticed the man’s reaction when he made eye contact. A visible flinch. Like a mild electric shock. His interest in the wall next to him. King looked at the wall. Victorian block work. Mainly limestone. Neat and well made by experienced stone masons. Not that interesting, yet the man stared at it as though his life depended on it.

King was using his peripheral vision now. The man was looking back his way. King wasn’t going to test him. Not yet. He had another couple of minutes until the train arrived and people were already getting up and standing at the yellow line on the platform. King checked his watch again. He stood up and walked down the platform to a space among the scattering of people. He held his bag in his left hand. He always did. He could shoot and fight with both hands, but he was right-hand dominant, and he always kept it free. He kept looking left, then glanced to his right, like he was trying to spot the train. He caught the man looking at him again, the sudden snatch as he found something else to look at. He touched the top of his head too, and turned halfway around. He walked to a vending machine, studying the array of things he didn’t want and made a show of checking his pockets for change.

King was intrigued, not so much worried. The man wasn’t in the same league as he was used to dealing with, but he could hear the gruff Scottish voice of his mentor, Peter Stewart, the man who had recruited him half a lifetime ago, admonishing him for being complacent. The thought worried King. A ringer was a practice MI5 used back in the troubles with Northern Ireland. An obvious figure to draw attention away from the real pros. King cursed himself. A year of surveillance and investigative duties and he could feel his edge wasn’t as sharp as it had been. He was in his early forties and was suddenly feeling old. He was fit and strong, but he was double guessing himself. His sharpness was being eroded.

He checked his watch. There was less than two minutes until the train arrived. He didn’t bother checking for his tail. He turned around and walked to the gents. He found the cubicles empty, chose the far left nearest the wall and went inside. He dropped the seat and placed the bag on top. He rummaged through, dropped his clothes onto the filthy floor. He checked the inside of the leather holdall.

Nothing.

King turned the bag over in his hands, examined the seams. There were a few loose threads. He looked at them closely, then took out his knife and slipped the blade into the stitching. The blade was scalpel-sharp, sharpened and stropped regularly. It glided through the stitching and when he had opened it up enough, he slipped his fingers into the section between the soft leather of the bottom of the case and the reinforced leather of the base. King found that the base was made from cardboard. Not the material he’d have expected for two-hundred pounds-worth of luggage, but that was the least of his worries.