Assassins

  Gavin’s address to the Scottish Parliament went ahead two hours later than scheduled.

  Standing on the Presiding Officer’s dais, Gavin had in one hand an imitation ermine robe and in the other, down by his side was the brass crown with the glass beads that he had bought off eBay and had been intending to wear. That had all changed.

  Gavin cleared his throat and addressed the hushed audience and the world’s media. This wasn’t the speech he had planned.

  ‘People of Scotland,’ He said, trying to keep the quiver from his voice. ‘This isn’t the speech that I had prepared. I don’t have a prepared speech. I shall be speaking to you from the heart. You all know about my dream to shape Scotland into a modern nation where inequalities and unfairness would be a thing of the past. My plans to tackle the greed and corruption of individuals content only to line their own pockets are put on hold. My time here in Scotland as your King has to end. In truth, I now realise that I am no more than a jumped-up parking attendant born and raised in Essex. It is my wife that I have to thank for reminding me of what is important. Families are what are important. Not Crowns and Ermine robes.’

  Gavin held up his hands to show the world how fake his life had become.

  ‘I had a dream… one in which I saw Scotland as a nation that the entire world would embrace as a sovereign nation in its own right. As your King I had planned to drive forwards a raft of new laws that would meet the needs of the common man as opposed to the privileged few. I haven’t let go of that dream, but I must now hand that job over to others. I came to Scotland filled with hope and ambition… that in the end I now see was more about my own ambitions than Scotland’s. In taking on the mantle of your King I asked too much of my family.’ Gavin smiled when Fi, at his side slipped her arm around his waist and hugged him. ‘The laws that I had planned to implement today have been shelved. If these changes ever got onto the statute books it will be because a democratic government and not a monarch chose this. In closing, I want to thank not just the people I have been working with, but also the people of this great nation that has taken me to their hearts.’ Holding hands with FI, Gavin said. ‘As of this minute, I am abdicating as your King. Fiona and I must move on with our lives. I truly wish Scotland good fortune. This truly wonderful nation, quite frankly doesn’t need a king, nor for that matter, if you want my advice, does it need the EU.’

  Holding aloft his fake crown, Gavin acknowledged the standing ovation and then left the building. On his way out he caught sight of Mary Dewar who was clapping enthusiastically.

  Having smiled all the way through King Robert IV’s abdication speech, Mary Dewar was thinking how well she had done, and with so little bloodshed.

  On the drive home, Mary Dewar was thinking about her lawn and wondering if Tommy’s digger had ruined it?

  After closing the front door behind her and slipping across the security chain that she insisted Tommy fix before he went home last night, Mary walked through to the kitchen and put the kettle on. Looking out the kitchen window the lawn didn’t look too bad. There was a little more mud on the path than she remembered and the earth under the rhododendron bushes where they buried the Swedish Meatball wasn’t as flat as she remembered, but then it was really late by the time the three of them came back inside the house and cleaned up the Swede’s blood that had splashed onto the white floor tiles.

  Mary lifted from the sink the heavy copper-bottomed frying pan, the one Tommy that had used to finish off the Swede. It had been washed and left to dry. Examining the dents in the base, Mary could actually see Meatball’s face in relief.

  When Mary went over to the back door she found it wasn’t locked. She shrugged. With all that had gone on last night, her almost getting killed, it was not surprising she forgot to lock it.

  Looking down at the floor, Scotland’s First Minister frowned at the muddy footprints. Lifting her eyes she tracked the muddy prints and the bits of twigs…. rhododendron twigs out through the kitchen and across the hall where the dirt carried on up the stairs.

  Hesitantly, Mary looked up to the landing. Gripping hold of the handrail Mary was halfway up the stairs when a premonition overtook her. In a panic she turned and ran back through the kitchen and then out through the back door into the garden. As she raced across the lawn her heart was hammering in her chest. Mary gasped when she skidded to terrifying halt at the edge of the empty grave. With her fingers locked into her hair and her eyes wild with fear, Mary spun on her heels and looked back at the house.

  Up at her bedroom widow, Sven, with his face looking oddly lacking in contours smiled down at her through his busted teeth.

  When his face turned away, Mary, in her mind could see him running out the room heading for the stairs. He was coming after her! She looked round at the garden fences and knew she wouldn’t be able to shin over them in time. Turning full circle, she saw it was a mistake running into the garden. Going back inside the house was not an option. Her eyes fell on the side gate. Hearing Sven roar like an injured animal, Mary sprinted for the gate. Crying now, Mary couldn’t slide back the rusted bolt. Finally she got the gate open and ran down the side of the house.

  With one of his eyeballs knocked out of kilter, leaving his vision a little skewed, Sven anticipated Dewar’s escape plan. At the bottom of the stairs he headed for the front door. He planned to grab her when she came round the corner of the house.

  He almost did!

  Mary, in full flight, screamed when lunged at her.

  In his tattered, muddied trousers and wearing no top, Sven looked like an Icelandic version of the Incredible Hulk.

  It was a long time since Mary competed at the Highland games where the best she ever did was in the 100 meters hurdles, picking up a bronze medal. How she managed to swerve from his bloodied groping fingers and leap over the front gate she had no idea. Her heart felt about to explode from the amount of adrenalin that was pumping through her veins. Landing the far side of the gate she almost stumbled.

  Sven didn’t bother jumping the gate, he ran through it.

  Mary screamed again when his fingers curled with murderous intent tried to gab her.

  As she rushed out into the road she hadn’t seen the lorry.

  When a woman shot into the path of his truck, the lorry driver slammed on his brakes. Above the sound of squealing tires he heard a sickening thump.

  Chapter Forty-three.

  London.

  After losing the vote on Brexit, and then failing to prevent the Scots from declaring independence Sir Roger Bottomley’s position as Prime Minister was untenable. His attempts to convince the public that Scotland posed a threat to the UK, failed at every level. Last night, in a meeting of the 1922 committee, the group of Tory MP’s who decided these things, told the Prime Minister he had to go.

  In his private office at Number 10, Sir Roger Bottomley feeling depressed told his staff he wasn’t to be disturbed.

  The Prime Minister pulled out a desk drawer and removed a half bottle of brandy and a gun. Sir Roger was thinking about Adolf Hitler and his final days in the bunker in Berlin. He put the big cigar that he had been saving for just such an occasion between his quivering lips and pointed the gun at his mouth. With no regrets, he pulled the trigger.

  *

  Truck driver, Stan Cheesley, could do nothing to prevent the collision. Suitably shocked the driver climbed down from his cab went round to the front.

  ‘Oh God!’ He gasped seeing the woman that he thought he had hit climbing out of a ditch. Pulling a face, Cheesley took another look at the mangled body under his cab. What he had hit was a man!

  Chapter Forty-four

  Edinburgh.

  D.I Guardo, taking charge of the operation to deal with the body, began barking out orders. Because he was dealing with possibly the most dangerous poison know to man he ordered a mile-wide exclusion zone around Holyrood. The DI, over the years had seen a lot of corpses but none as horrific as this. Bending to examine, but not touching the broken selfie-s
tick lying beside the corpse, Frank saw the attachment that had held the hypodermic needle.

  Holyrood now on lockdown, Gavin, Fiona and Iris were moved into the Clarridge hotel situated on the outskirts of Edinburgh. From their suite of rooms they had great views over the acres of rolling hills and the Botanic Gardens.

  Two days after the attempted assassination, Mary got in touch with Gavin and insisted that she and Cruid met him at the hotel he was staying in.

  The minute they stepped into the hotel lobby, two armed cops stopped and searched Mary Dewar and Cruid.

  Without offering to shake either of their hands Gavin indicated the two padded chairs. Fiona, who wasn’t letting Gavin out of her sight, joined her husband on the sofa.

  Mary wasn’t happy about the Detective Inspector sitting in on their meeting.

  ‘You don’t need to sit in on this Inspector,’ Mary said, dismissively. ‘Gavin is quite safe and you must have a million other things you should be getting on with?’

  ‘Why are you here Mizz Dewar? ‘Frank, said coldly. ‘I thought I made it clear to you both, that Gavin and his family were to be left alone.’

  Angered by that, Mary did her best not to show it. ‘I absolutely respect their need for privacy Inspector. And the poor things have been through so much, however, we have brought news I fear Gavin might find distressing.’

  ‘Get on with it Dewar,’ Gavin snapped, tired of her games. He thought she looked frazzled. As if she had had a fall, there were grazes on her knuckles. He then saw some of her fingernails were broken.

  ‘Mary I don’t trust you, and Cruid, I don’t actually trust you either.’

  Cruid sighed. ‘I don’t blame you Gavin. In terms of your protection we didn’t exactly cover ourselves in glory, but all’s well that ends well eh?’

  Gavin shrugged. ‘If you two had done your homework before you made me King, you’d have known that Gavin Brewson, ancestor of Robert the Bruce, was never going to be a pushover.’

  ‘Ah…’ Cruid said, ‘that brings me to point of this meeting.’

  ‘Oh,’ Gavin said his eyebrows rising. ‘This is not just about the Royal Assent bill then?’

  ‘I needed to speak to you about your ancestry.’

  ‘What about my ancestry?’ Gavin said, suspicious of the sly old man.

  ‘Yesterday, I met up with a group of genealogy people. You know how it is Gavin,’ Cruid fidgeted on his chair. ‘When people in authority, such as ourselves, make an important pronouncement, one that creates controversy, there will always be people, screaming, conspiracy…’

  ‘You are talking about the doubters, the people that have always said the DNA tests were flawed?’

  ‘Precisely.’

  ‘But you had them double-checked… didn’t you? That’s what you told me?’

  ‘Ah, yes, I did tell you that and I did intend to have the tests re-evaluated. I just never got around to it.’

  ‘Get to the point Cruid.’ Gavin snapped.

  ‘The tests were flawed.’ Mary leaped in gleefully. ‘You are no more an ancestor of Robert the Bruce than I am.’

  It came as a surprise, this news, but it didn’t floor him. In fact if he was honest with himself, Gavin was a relieved. When he looked round at Fiona she looked positively delighted by the news.

  ‘So, will you now look for another monarch?’ Gavin asked conversationally.

  ‘No,’ Mary Dewar said flatly, ‘the circumstances that required us to become a monarchy have changed. After the resignation of that idiot Sir Roger Bottomley, there has been a series of behind-the-scenes negotiations and the Scottish Government has resolved many of the difficulties that existed between our two nations. In exchange for greater devolution the Scottish government has agreed to defer their plans for independence. Scotland has no further use for a king.’

  ‘Oh,’ Gavin said a little surprised. ‘What about the Queen, is she happy with that outcome?’

  ‘I imagine so,’ Mary said sniffily. ‘Seeing as she was the one who handled all the negotiations.’

  ‘I bet she’s pretty miffed at me?’

  ‘I don’t think Her Majesty is thinking of having you thrown in the tower Gavin.’ Cruid said, and actually smiled.

  Cruid put on his hat and got up to leave. He said. ‘What about your plans Gavin? Will you go back to Essex, back to your old job?’

  Gavin felt Fiona squeeze his hand. He remembered that she had said not to give anything away.

  ‘What our plans are is none of your concern.’

  Cruid shrugged. He couldn’t blame Gavin for not trusting him.

  *

  Once Dewar, Cruid and Frank had left, Fiona turned to Gavin and planted a kiss on his lips. ‘Even if you’re not of royal descent, I still love you Gavin Brewster.’ Fiona said, and patted her husband’s knee. ‘King Gavin!’ She laughed. What on earth were we thinking?’

  *

  In his private office at Number 10 Downing Street, puffing on the cigar he’d lit with the gun-shaped cigarette lighter, Sir Roger deleted the email he had just read.

  "Sorry to have to inform you, agent Gent failed in his mission. He fell victim to his own poisoned needle. You could say he came to a “stickie” end. Pun intended. Should save us some money: –)

  After lunch, Sir Roger had Charlotte Sweetwater and Terry Beaumont come to his private study. The Prime Minister wanted their help compile the Prime Minster’s Resignation Honours list. The way these things worked, Sir Roger was expected to move out of Number 10 the same day. In a belligerent mood and angered by the people who had stabbed him in the back, (metaphorically speaking), he decided the usual suspects would get nothing. The names that Sir Roger insisted that Charlotte take down were deliberately provocative and controversial. The list included: Phoebe Miller, the woman who cleaned the Number 10 toilets who was to get a CBE. His hairdresser, Pedro Sanchez, was to get an OBE, and for keeping his tax down to zero, a MBE was to go to his tax adviser Simon Killarney. Similarly, his Hedge fund adviser was to get a knighthood, and his neighbour, Ted something-or-other was to be made a Lord. Malcolm his brother-in law was to get a CBE for being a decent chap. The other name on his list sure to be controversial was, Gavin Brewson, who in recognition of his sterling work disrupting the illegal ambitions of the Scots, was to become Lord Gavin of Marbury Essex.

  Sir Roger was supervising the packing of his personal possessions when he took a call from his wife. Dame Edith who explained: ‘I am calling to say that Marcel and I are moving to St Tropez, and that I am suing for a divorce.’ She added: ‘I am telling you this over the phone because I know how much you hate people doing this in an email.’

  Sir Roger wasn’t the least bit bothered. He’d always suspected that Edith and Marcel were having an affair. He was now thinking that this might work out rather well for him. Charlotte had always insisted: “Sir Roger, I could never have hanky-panky with a married man.” Now, she had no reason to deny him.

  Exhilarated at the prospect of telling Charlotte the good news that his wife had left him, thus paving the way for the two of them to finally consummate their relationship, Sir Roger went in search of his PA. Now that he was no longer to be the Prime Minister, the two of them could go off and do what they had always dreamed of, which was retire to the country and have hens, a goat and make love at least once a month… providing that level of frequency wasn’t too taxing? Then, he supposed, she could do the humpy-bumpy bit.

  Sir Roger, found Charlotte in the office of Huw Bedfellow, the floppy-haired, suntanned successor to his premiership. She was sitting on the edge of his desk the way she would on his. Charlotte coloured up. Huw Bedfellow merely grinned.

  ‘Sir Roger, do come in,’ Huw said with a wave of his hand. ‘I never heard your knock!’

  ‘That’s because I didn’t,’ Bottomley said, turning the corners of his mouth down at this incestuous scene. ‘Let me remind you I am still the PM and I don’t knock on anyone’s door.’

  ‘You are indeed still the PM, Huw
conceded. ‘Until you move out…’ Huw grinned wickedly. ‘How is the packing going?’

  Sir Roger could feel his blood pressure rise. He turned on his PA who was keeping her eyes on the floor and swinging one leg.

  ‘Charlotte, can I see you for a moment … in private?’

  Charlotte sighed. She allowed her eyes to linger on Huw’s as she slid off his desk. She drew her fingernails lazily across the leather inlay of his desk. Her voice became darkly sensuous. ‘Please excuse me for a moment Huw.’

  Sir Roger saw her flutter her eyelashes at his usurper the way she would do with him.

  Out in the corridor, twice, having to move out of the way of the removal people, and keeping his voice down, Sir Roger said. ‘Charlotte, good news, Edith has left me. She has run off with Marcel what’s-his-name and she is suing for a divorce. Kittikins, at long last we can be together.’

  ‘ Sir Roger,’ Charlotte said, hesitantly. ‘Please… I don’t know how to say this, but I now love Huw.’ Her eyes were huge and misty. It is written in the stars that Huw and I should be as one.’

  ‘Bollocks.’

  ‘There you are,’ Charlotte said hoisting her chin. ‘That is the difference between you and Huw. You are a coarse man Sir Roger, whilst dear Huw is a gentleman and so dynamic, always wanting me for this and for that. I swear, he has my head in a spin.’

  ‘I bet he does.’ Bottomley said childishly, feeling everyone he once trusted had deserted him. ‘Charlotte did you not hear what I said? I said my wife has left me.’

  ‘You should go after her,’ Charlotte said, adopting a cool manner. ‘You should try and woo her back.’

  ‘Well, you’ve changed your tune.’ Sir Roger snapped. ‘How many times have you begged me to leave Edith, saying our love was written in the stars, and that, when Edith was out the way we would set up home together, that I could do that thing with you?’

  Charlotte giggled. ‘What can I say Sir Roger? Who in this world can say what goes in the beating heart of a woman as it flutters like the wings of a dove?’