The Complete CV

"Have you got children?" Anne asked. Cassandra shook her head.

"I can't say it's something that's on my horizon at the moment," Cassandra answered, feeling slightly stung by the intonation the question carried. "But my cat can be a real pain at times."

"You don't understand, you do everything for them and they repay you by cutting you out of their life..." Cassandra could see the woman in front of her was distraught – it was something she'd seen before many times from both men and women, yet this time it made her feel uncomfortable.

"Again Mrs Murray, I'm not sure I'm the person you need to talk to about this situation," Cassandra tried to soothe her visitor's jangled nerves, but to no avail. "I know the number of a private investigator, I can tell him you're coming..."

"Miss Vincent, the people I've talked to told me you solve problems." Anne Murray suddenly seemed filled with resolve, steeled by some inner drive that Cassandra didn't quite understand or, as she thought privately, comprehend. "I have money – my husband left quite a sizeable life insurance payout after his last heart attack, so can you solve my problem?"

"That depends," Cassandra mused. "On what exactly it is that you want me to do."

"I want you to kill my daughter and bring me my grandson." Anne Murray answered.

2 hours ago

The car sat idling outside the council house as the rain pelted down. The heavy droplets bounced off the roof, making a hollow and repetitive drumming sound. Cassandra pulled the gloves onto her hands and then looked across to her partner. Sitting in the driver's seat was a young woman who would normally be sat behind the desk in the atrium of Cassandra's professional office. When people first entered the pristine office they were greeted by the sunny disposition of Lacey Staunton. At the moment, her disposition was anything but sunny.

Lacey was an orphan who had been taken in by Cassandra after the death of a close friend and her husband. Her wild anger at the world following her parent's death had been tempered by Cassandra's training, replaced by a staunch discipline and devotion to her mentor.

"So, we're clear on what we're doing?" Cassandra asked her associate. Lacey nodded.

"We go in, I bring the grandson back to the car and you deal with the girl." Lacey sounded assured as she ran through their plan. "Are we going for the drug overdose?"

"According to her mother she's a junkie," Cassandra said as she opened the glove compartment and removed a compact leather wallet. "So that shouldn't arouse too many suspicions when they find the body after a few days." She opened her door and walked along the drive. She heard Lacey follow suit behind her.

Her gloved hand rapped on the doorknocker. Both women stood there for a moment with the rain waiting for some sign of life from the squalid abode. The time seemed to pass slowly as they heard movement from within. A few more minutes of waiting were rewarded by the door being opened – and both women were presented with a pathetic wretch of a human being illuminated by the watery light from the living room.

"Miss Murray," Cassandra spoke with authority. "Can we have a moment of your time please?"

Lacey buckled the seat belt around the young boy's body. Even through his jacket she could feel his bones jangle against his skin. His poor physical condition seemed to be matched by his almost non-existent vocal skills. She reached into the pocket of her overcoat and pulled out a small chocolate bar. Lacey carefully unwrapped it and held it up to the young boy. His eyes lit up.

"Would you like this Sam?" she asked. He nodded enthusiastically. Lacey gave him the treat as well as her best smile. She heard the sound of the front door of the council house closing. Taking that as her cue, Lacey closed the back door and got into the driver's seat of the black BMW. A few moments later, Cassandra joined her.

"It's done." She said. "Let's go."

The Here and Now

"So, that's when I came here." Cassandra said as she lit the cigarette. "We dropped off the boy and Lacey dropped me off here."

"Don't get me wrong," I said as I pulled myself upright. "I'm flattered you came here, but you seem upset by all this and that just doesn't seem like you." She looked at me – I couldn't tell if she was scowling at me or the fact my question was spot on.

"I thought I was cold," Cassandra answered, staring off into the night outside my window. "But she made me think otherwise." She looked at me. "And you've convinced me that there's still something inside me that beats with some degree of compassion, however shrivelled and withered it might be."

"Are you sure that's just a normal cigarette you're smoking?" I asked, trying to lighten her mood. A faint smile drifted across her lips as her next statement dripped from her mouth.

"You know James, I do believe you've found a way to make me smile." She said. "So, what are we having for breakfast?"

By the time she had left it was nearly lunchtime. As I prepared to leave my apartment I noticed that my spare set of keys were no longer hanging from their hook above the kettle in the kitchen. I couldn't help but smile when I realised that this wasn't the last time I was going to see Cassandra Vincent.

Untraceable

Sarah scooped up the plate from the table and pocketed the two-pound coins that were lying next to the money set aside to pay for the bill. She hummed absent-mindedly as she saw him come into the café. He'd come in every day this week at 11 o'clock. His punctuality was disturbing – particularly as he wasn't one of the normal "regulars" who frequented the establishment.

If she had to guess, she'd have said he was in his late thirties to early forties. He always wore the same dark coloured business suit – which struck Sarah as strange considering the temperatures outside was into the low eighties. His general appearance was that of some sort of businessman, complete with a brushed steel briefcase that he carried with him. She watched as he made a beeline for the same table that he occupied each day – in the corner where he could see everyone else in the establishment.

"What can I get for you today?" Sarah asked, already knowing what his order would be.

"One pot of tea and an egg custard." His response was brisk yet friendly. He looked up at her as she made a note of his order. "How are you today Sarah?" His question shocked Sarah – he'd never made conversation with her before, why now?

"Er, how do you know my name?" She asked, feeling uneasy.

"Your name badge," His answer made her feel foolish. "And I heard Ernie calling you a couple of times the other day."

"Jeez, sorry," Sarah mumbled. "I'm good thanks – you do know that you come in here at the same time, order the same thing and sit in the same spot everyday don't you?"

"Yes – except that today will be my last day in here." The man replied. "I shall be leaving tomorrow."

"Oh, right." Sarah said, slightly downcast, after all the mysterious customer was in the habit of leaving generous tips. "Well, I'll get your order for you."

****

He took fifteen minutes – just like clockwork – to eat the egg custard and drink the tea. As Sarah moved across with the bill, he did something unusual.

"May I have a quick word with you Sarah?" he asked. She stopped in her tracks as she looked at him. He seemed sincere enough; then again, she was sure that Dennis Nielsen had been with his colleagues at the Job Centre before he turned out to be a serial killer.

"Sure." She said. He pushed a chair out for her to sit down.

"My name is Thompson," he said, formally introducing himself. "I represent a group of people who think that you might be able to help them."

"What? What are you talking about?" Sarah asked. "How could I...? Oh, I get it, no, no way – I'm not into that sort of thing..." She got up to leave, only for Thompson's hand on her arm stopped her.

"It's not what you think." He said. "Please, sit back down and hear me out." Sarah slowly returned to her seat. "How much do you owe in university fees since you dropped out last year?"

"What? That's none of your..."

"Six thousand, seven hundred and twenty three pounds and four pence." Thompson said. "That's not counting the month's rent you currently owe, or the interest that's accumulating on it." Sarah looked at him, shell shocked at his knowledge of her financial position. "Let's take a walk shall we?" Thompson got up, picking up the briefcase.

****

Sarah found herself walking next to Thompson in silence. Despite the fact she had told Ernie where she was going, something about the whole situation didn't feel right. Eventually they entered the park about a quarter of a mile from the café. Thompson sat down at a bench and beckoned Sarah to join him.

"I was sorry to read about your mother." Thompson said quietly, not out of concern for anyone who may over hear him, more out of respect.

"How do you know about that?" Sarah asked. Her emotions were mixed between anger and sadness. "How...?"

"I know a great deal about you, Sarah Daniels," Thompson said. "I know that your father died in prison, the innocent victim of a cruel attempt at exploitation that wasn't dismissed until it was too late and that your mother died less than a year later as a result of lapsing into alcoholism under the stress of it all." Sarah found herself shaking, tears rolling down her face. "I know that your sister is in and out of a drug rehabilitation program and you haven't spoken to your brother for three years now." He handed her a handkerchief.

"Inside this briefcase," he said, patting the container. "Is a picture of the man who pursued the prosecution of your father on child abuse charges. His name is Marcus Brunell. He was confronted with the evidence of your father's innocence a full week before he committed suicide, and did nothing about it for fear of looking bad in front of his superiors. There is also a gun, sixty untraceable rounds and ten thousand pounds."

"What...what...?" Sarah's mind raced from the information that Thompson had just imparted to her. "What do you want me to do with that?"

"The people who employ me also employed Mr Brunell for a short while," Thompson said. "Unfortunately he has been somewhat indiscreet in his business dealings and the risk of exposure is great. My employer would rather that this didn't happen."

"You...you want me..." The words stuttered from Sarah's mouth.

"If you kill Mr Brunell with the weapon provided, my employers will pay you a further ninety thousand pounds and provide you with a new identity. They will also ensure that your sister receives treatment and counselling." Thompson said. "Unfortunately, they cannot do anything about the fact that communication between your brother and yourself has broken down."

"What if...I get caught?"

"You don't need to worry about that Miss Daniels," Thompson said with a slight chuckle. "My employers have sufficient influence to prevent any police investigation locating you once the matter becomes public. It will be written off as one of those unpleasant things that happen in today's modern world."

She balled up her courage to allow the words to slip out of her mouth. "What if I agree to do it?"

"Then you have to ensure that Mr Brunell is shot and killed in a public place, and it has to be tomorrow." Thompson said coldly. "He will be in your café at eleven o'clock tomorrow morning. Once you have executed him you will walk out of the café to a black BMW that will be waiting for you outside. That will be the last time you will ever set foot in Ernie's Café for the rest of your life."

"Why?" Sarah felt foolish asking questions. In fact, she expected to see a policeman appear out of the corner of her eye at any second. "Why me?"

"It's a mutually beneficial situation." Thompson said. "My employer's privacy is ensured and you have the opportunity to right a wrong inflicted upon you." He stood up. "Your father didn't have to die Miss Daniels. If you choose to do nothing then feel free to dispose of the pistol in the briefcase – I trust that the money will be enough to ensure that this conversation is not repeated to anyone." Thompson looked around at the lunchtime population of the park. "Good day to you Miss Daniels." And with that, Sarah was left alone.

****

She had spent the night fretting in bed, her fitful sleep interrupted by dreams of her childhood, of her mother's face the morning when the family had learned of the death of her father. She relived the funerals and the traumatic trips to the hospice in the final days of her mother's life. By the time she woke up it felt like she'd been through the three worst days of her life in the space of eight hours.

By the time she arrived at Ernie's it was just before ten. One part of her had screamed to leave the briefcase at home – to just forget about it and donate the money to some charity somewhere – but the other part of her mind, the sleep starved part of it, had enabled her to pick up the brushed steel container and deposit it at the back of the kitchen.

Her morning was a blur of normality. She served the customers and brushed off several comments from Ernie about her zombiefied state as she moved around the café on autopilot.

Then she saw him.

She'd spent hours looking at the photograph last night – burning the image into her brain – yet when she had woken up this morning Sarah couldn't remember his face. He ordered some sort of pretentious coffee – the sort she hated preparing because the customers usually complained that they were never quite right. Sarah fired up the coffee maker and made the drink that he'd ordered.

As she placed it down on the table he ignored her, not even bothering to say "thank you". Sarah backed away from him and returned to the kitchen. She watched him through the serving hatch. He seemed to be oblivious to the world around him as he chatted away on his mobile phone, irritating the few remaining customers in the café.

He asked for the check. Sarah walked up to him and presented to him. Brunell glanced down at it and dropped several coins on to the plate before returning to his phone conversation. Sarah scooped it up and placed it on the counter before returning to the kitchen. She heard Ernie ringing up the bill on the till as she picked up the briefcase.

Brunell laughed at the crude joke his colleague told him over the phone. He looked around at the clientele in the café.

"There's a waitress in here that's got a fantastic arse," he said as he saw the plate containing his change deposited on the table. As he looked up he found himself staring into the barrel of a snub nosed .38 revolver. Sarah stared down at Brunell as his mind registered the reality of his situation. She squeezed the trigger.

Thompson had provided her with a few rudimentary notes on the use of the pistol inside the briefcase, but she couldn't have been prepared for the recoil. The gun kicked upwards, however the bullet did more than enough damage. It tore through flesh and bone, splattering blood and brain matter across the café window and the table. Brunell's body seemed to topple in slow motion, falling backwards and crashing to the floor.

Sarah's heart was pounding and her arms shaking as she saw what she had done. Her mind was filled with a mixture of elation and revulsion at what she had just done, however something seemed to take over inside her. She grabbed the briefcase off the floor and walked as calmly as she could from the restaurant and the screaming that she was suddenly aware of.

The fresh air hit Sarah like a brick, clearing her nostrils of the smell of blood and sulphur. She felt like she was in a trance as she saw the black BMW parked about twenty yards away from her. As she approached it the passenger door swung open. Sarah got in as the car revved up and pulled away.

****

She wasn't sure how long she slept, however the muscles in her neck told her that she had been resting against the window on the passenger side of the vehicle.

"Nice to see you awake." The voice was unmistakeably that of Thompson's. "How are you feeling?"

"Sick." Sarah said as she looked around, not recognising her location.

"You'll get over that." Thompson replied. "The briefcase on the back seat contains your money and all the identification that you'll need for your new life. My employer was extremely pleased with your performance."

"Where the hell are we?"

"Minford, one of the less affluent areas of town." Thompson said. He drew Sarah's attention to a run down block of council flats that was across the street from them. "Inside flat number 224c is one Joey Reynolds. He was the young man who told the police that your father abused him, although this was after your father refused to pay him under his ludicrous extortion scheme."

"What do you want me to do here?" Sarah asked, her stomach feeling knotted.

"Nothing," Thompson answered as he opened the car door. "I just thought you should know where you are." He got out of the vehicle and tossed the keys back inside. "Keep the car Miss Daniels, consider it a bonus for a job well done." Thompson closed the door and walked away. Sarah watched him walk down the street and make a right turn, disappearing into a side street. Then she returned her gaze to the block of council flats.

Four days later

Thompson sat inside the dark blue BMW as the engine idled. The passenger door opened and a brunette woman dressed in a similar style business suit to his own and carrying a brushed stainless steel briefcase got in.

"Reynolds is still alive." She said. Thompson nodded.

"I suspected her moral compass would prevent her from killing him," Thompson said. "Reassuring in one respect."

"What do we do about her?"

"Nothing," Thompson answered as the car pulled away. "She did exactly what we wanted her to do so we honour the agreement we made with Sarah Daniels. Marcus Brunell is out of the way in what appeared to be the act of a random psychotic killer. Case closed."

"So, how do we deal with Reynolds?"

"Miss Jackson, you're far too impatient." Thompson said as he drove the car along several streets before pulling up at a large franchise pub. "This job is all about subtly, knowing who to push and when, understanding who are more susceptible to manipulation and who require good old-fashioned brute force to march according to our beat."

"I'm sorry, it's just..." Jackson began to speak.

"You're young, you want to make a good impression – I can understand that." He said. "At least you want to learn, unlike that last associate they partnered me with." Thompson rubbed his temples to stave off a headache. "Now, back to the question of Mr Reynolds. I can think of several people who could be persuaded to inflict bodily harm upon him; for example he stole a large number of drugs from a doctor's office that resulted in several patient deaths. He has also been mugging pensioners in their homes, one of whom is in hospital in a critical condition." Thompson checked his watch. "Then we have the ex-girlfriend who suffered a miscarriage as a result of his abusive behaviour towards her. Now, who would you approach?"

Jackson paused for a second, considering the three options Thompson had presented her. "I'd go for the ex-girlfriend. Tap into the emotional aspect of her miscarriage."

"Good girl!" Thompson congratulated her. "You're going to go far in this business. Now, why don't we get a drink?" They both got out of the car. "Oh, bring the briefcase with you Jackson, you never know who might be working behind the bar."

Special Delivery

The last package was loaded up into the back of the brown Dodge Sprinter van and Bernie took a minute to examine the day's deliveries. He took a look at the delivery schedule and shook his head – sixty-five packages to deliver. This job was definitely getting worse over the years. He turned around – and saw a young woman walking towards him. He didn't recognise her as she smiled at him.