The Writer's Muse Ch. 03

"Who is it? What do you want?"

I don't recognise the voice.

"Police sir, could you open the door ... we need ... to speak to you."

I relax a bit before the paranoia kicks in again.

How did they get through the outer door?

"What's it about?"

"We're looking for a missing person. We believe they may be staying here."

"No, sorry, no one here but me."

"Could you open the door please sir, so we can check."

"Not going to happen, come back with a warrant and I'll let you ..."

At this point Chloe, looking adorably sleepy, wanders into the living area and I'm too late to put my finger to my lips to shush her.

"What's all the noise about?"

I make the sign of a phone with my hand and mouth 9 9 9 at her and wave her back to the bedroom. Her eyes go wide in fear as she realises something is not right and scuttles back. Unfortunately the guy outside has heard her as well.

"Is there someone in there with you? You said you were alone. I insist you open the door so we can check."

Fuck! I try to think of some way to resolve this. I don't believe it's the Plod but there is a chance that he's telling the truth.

"Tell you what, you give me your badge number and name and I'll ring Suffolk police to verify your identity."

There's a pause.

"Err ... I'm not with Suffolk Police ... I'm with the Counter Terrorism Branch of Scotland Yard."

Yeah, right, and I'm a Dutchman's uncle.

"Counter Terrorism, why didn't you say, I'll ring Bob Weaver in SO15, he's a big mate of mine, I'm sure he will vouch for you. Slide your warrant card under the door and I'll give him a ..."

There is a loud crash and the door springs open but bounces back against the chain ... so much for it being only an illusion of safety! The door is pushed violently again and a hand comes through to try and disengage the safety chain but I put my weight against it and trap his hand between the door and the frame. There is a bellow of anger and pain and he shoves violently back and I'm knocked into the kitchen area. I grab the carving knife which is lying on the work surface and without any conscious thought, other than to stop him getting in, I pivot my body and arm in the flat arc of a forehand tennis shot that Roger Federer would have been proud of and bury the point through the back of the exposed hand. The force of the thrust has been increased by the momentum of my turn and my anger and the point of the knife penetrates clean through his hand and buries itself into the wood of the door frame.

Surprisingly, there is not a lot of blood but an awful lot of noise as he screams in pain and shock. After a few seconds the initial shock wears off and he realises he has a dilemma as to how to free himself. He whimpers in pain as he tries to get his other hand through the gap to try and pull the knife out but I lean on the door, narrowing the gap, and he cannot reach the handle ... only the blade ... he will cut his other hand if he tries to grab the blade. His dilemma is getting worse as I can hear the sound of approaching sirens ... they've arrived in good time as Plod is not that busy in Felixstowe at this time of the morning. If I can hear them he certainly can and his scrabbling hand disappears and I wonder what he's going to do next.

The answer is not long in coming after he withdraws the free hand and I hear a metallic sound and throw myself sidewards as I reckon it can only be the sound of a gun being cocked. I shout to Chloe that she needs to warn the occupants of the police car that the intruder has a gun just as the muzzle is pushed through the gap and against the chain. He leans his weight against the door and makes the chain taut and I realise that he is going to try to part the chain with a bullet. This will provide him with the ability to open the door fully and have full view of the room and a clear shot at me but also facilitate the removal of the knife from his hand.

I can't let either of those two things to happen.

I look around for a weapon and grab the nearest thing to me, a frying pan on the draining board from breakfast that has not been put away. I repeat the swing I made with the knife and this time Centre Court would be rising to its' feet in adulation as it connects fully with the chain just as the gun fires. The frying pan is thrown violently back and I feel like my wrist is broken and drop the pan and survey the result ... the chain is still intact but the frying pan has a hole in it ... more money off the deposit. However, the worse news is that the gunman knows where I am so I leap backwards against the wall.. just in time as two loud bangs are followed by two holes appearing in the door near the hinges and then further noise behind me as the projectiles impact in the kitchen cupboards and some crockery breaks.

I can hear the gunman panting and cursing as he tries again to shoot through the chain.

It fails again and the bullet ricochets somewhere into the ceiling.

I then hear a huge crash from downstairs as the police burst through the front door. I don't need to remind them that he has a gun as it is withdrawn through the gap and a shot follows. I assume he has fired one in the general direction of the stairwell.

I try to reason with him.

"Give it up mate ... Plod are downstairs ... they may not be armed but they will have called in an Armed Response Vehicle from Police HQ at Martlesham by now ... ETA I would say about 20 minutes ... which gives you time ... but the guys downstairs will have tasers. You ain't getting out of here."

"Fuck you ... cunt ... and the freak!"

I see the gun come back through the gap and he lines it up with the fixing for the chain on the frame and I push on the door but he pushes back and holds the gun steady and fires. The fixing explodes and the chain hangs free on the door ... even the illusion of security has now gone.

Now we both have a problem. He has to put the gun away to be able to use his other hand to pull the knife. However, I can't do anything until I know he's done that because he'll just shoot me through the door. He also knows that the police can get close enough to use their tasers if he puts the gun away. The odds are still in favour of the good guys but he has to make the first move.

I try reason again by stating the bleeding obvious.

"You're fucked mate. They get you if you put the gun away and you can't free yourself with the gun in your hand. Give it up, it ain't worth it."

His snarl is no less defiant than before.

"Fuck off ... this isn't over."

"See reason mate. You won't get out of here."

I hear him breathing hard and the occasional moan of pain as he involuntarily moves the hand pinned to the door frame as he tries to keep an eye on the stairwell and what I might be doing.

Eventually, he reaches the logical conclusion that the situation is hopeless and I hear a muffled curse followed by him calling out to the police.

"Fuck it. I'm throwing the gun down. Come and get me."

I hear the sound of the gun hitting the floor and then more bumps as it obviously descends a few levels on the stairs. There is silence for a few seconds and then I hear cautious steps on the stairs and then a quavering voice.

"Lay down on the floor with hands on your head. I am armed with a taser and will use it if you do not comply."

The gunman snorts in derision.

"I can't lie down this cunt has stuck me like a fucking butterfly."

Sir, lie down ..."

"I can't you stupid bastard ... I'm stuck ...eeeecccccch."

Over his scream I hear a buzzing sound and something heavy falls against the door with enough force to pull the knife from the door frame and the twitching hand flops to the floor. There is now a lot more blood.

My ears are still ringing from the gun shots but everything else is perfectly calm for about 30 seconds until I hear two voices whispering.

"Fuck ... looks like he was telling the truth. You went too early.

"Fuck it ... I couldn't risk it."

I sigh ... Britain's finest at their best!

"Guys ... I'm coming out ... I'm unarmed ..."

Suddenly they are all business-like.

"Sir, we are equipped with tasers ... we will use them if you make any sudden movement. Come out slowly with both hands behind your head and then kneel down. Is there anyone else in the property?"

"Yes ... my girlfriend. She's hiding in the bedroom at the moment."

"OK ... ask her to wait in the property until we have processed you."

Processed! Like a piece of meat!

I look over my shoulder and see Chloe peering round the bedroom door. Her eyes are wide with fear and confusion.

"It's OK babe. He's down ... I think we're safe."

She rushes over and I gather her into my arms as we hug each other like we never want to let go. The policemen are keen to get us outside and subdued.

"Sir ... please exit the property ... one at a time ... with both hands behind your head and the kneel down."

We break apart and Chloe kisses me and looks at me with so much love.

Chapter 20

Sleepy Suffolk is no better or worse at the bureaucracy of dealing with gunmen and key witnesses than any other police force that I have encountered. Probably less so because they get so little practice.

I looked at the gunman, still twitching on the floor, as we stepped out of the flat as one of the policemen puts handcuffs on him, but he was a complete unknown to me. Once the whole dog-and-pony show gets underway we are taken in separate cars to the HQ where we are separated and treated like suspects to begin with ... empty your pockets ...fingerprints ... remove shoelaces ... the whole nine yards. I guess they need to check out that we really are the good guys.

My first interview with DI Rowe and DC James is nothing more than a formality to ascertain who I am and what I am doing in Felixstowe and an outline of what had happened in the flat. I explain about the book on the County Lines and they are interested in the possible connection and then go away to make further enquiries.

I sit and drink tea for about an hour before they come back.

This time DI Rowe is a whole lot more interested in the actual incident and my actions ... like why I'd stabbed the guy ... to which my reply is 'well, duh, he was trying to get in to the flat and I was worried he was going to kill me and Chloe'. That doesn't seem to be a sufficient excuse to them and I start to get worried at the direction their questions are heading. They don't respond to my questions as to the identity of the intruder other than to say he is known to the police.

I'm left alone again. The tea is weak and lukewarm this time.

The third interview is a whole lot more intimidating with their base assumption that I'm not as innocent as I make out. At one point I ask whether I'm a suspect in something and do I need a lawyer from the paper's defence team. I don't know whether it is the mention of a lawyer or the paper but they suddenly get all pally again and apologise for any misunderstanding.

I'm left alone again for at least two hours ... with no tea of any description ... until they tell me I'm free to leave after signing my statement. I collect my belongings and my shoelaces.

Chloe is not waiting for me when I walk out and I assume she is still being interviewed but they will not confirm that, which I think is a bit odd. We had not replaced the phone which she had left behind when she escaped from Mason, so I have no means of communicating with her. I don't want to miss her when she eventually leaves so ask the desk sergeant if there was a cafe or pub nearby where I can wait for her. He tells me there is a pub down the road but is reluctant to pass on my whereabouts to Chloe when she comes out. He relents when I suggest to him that the story I am about to write for the paper might throw a bad light on Suffolk Constabulary and its' treatment of innocent victims of crime. I scribble a note and leave it for her.

I find the pub and sit down with a pint and see that BBC News is running and wait through the 30 minute loop but there is no mention of the incident in Felixstowe ... the media is still too hung up on the Evans case. I had received a call from Simon when I was in the police station and ring him back. He sounds cautious.

"What are you up to George?"

"How do you mean?"

"Well, I've had Plod here this afternoon asking questions about you and the only surviving relative of Tommy Ecclestone ..."

Fuck!

"That wouldn't be the child of a dead celebrity we were referencing earlier would it? If so, it would make the manager of said, dead celebrity, who allegedly may be involved in crimes of physical violence, one Ron Mason. If it is the aforementioned Ron Mason that you are protecting your 'waif and stray' from, then be very careful. I'm older than you so know that he was involved in the East End gangs back in the 70's; he got 10 years in the Scrubs for the novel use of a nail gun against the head of the 10-year old son of a rival gang member. He's been legit (cough) since then but there have been a number of close associates who seemed to have mysteriously disappeared over the course of the intervening years."

Fuck! Fuck! No, make that ... Fuck Fuck Fuckity Fuck!

"Err ... what do they know about Ecclestone? Did they mention Mason?"

"I have no idea what they know about old Tommy but I suggest you ask your 'waif and stray'. However, they implied that you're not the squeaky clean guy you appear to be ... anything you want to say to that?"

"That's bollocks Simon and you know it. My record of investigative journalism shows no favours to hardened criminals or disgraced politicians. I've been scrupulously fair and honest with everyone I've ever gone after. There's nothing in my work of the last 20 years that I'm ashamed of."

"Yeah, I guess, but they certainly seem to have a hard on for you ... just watch your back. Now, why don't you fill in a few missing pieces for me ... by the way, there was no record of a 'bottling' victim turning up in A&E anywhere in South East England in the last few days, and no bodies fitting the outcome of such an attack have been found. However, if Mason is involved then I'm sure he would have the means to make a body vanish."

I ponder the new information. Mason, given his criminal background, had obviously been ripping Ecclestone off over the course of their relationship and didn't want the scrutiny that a new principal might bring. This just reinforces the suspicion I had developed when Chloe and I had been discussing her father's net worth. I break the conversation with Simon telling him that I will give him a definitive story once this all over.

I sit back and drink my beer and wonder how the hell they had found us. I berate myself for not having considered the implication of Mason having access to Chloe's phone and purse as I'm sure he would have been able to join the dots from that personal information. The gunman had referred to her as a 'freak' which I presumed meant that he knew she was Trans. However, what link was there between her and the flat? I think back to the times she went out shopping and realise she could have called someone on any number of occasions from a payphone ... if she could find one ... but she was paranoid about being found by Mason so I discount that theory. As I review her expeditions I suddenly realise that her trip to the health centre to get her HRT stuff was probably the weak point. She would probably have given the details of her own doctor back home and also the local address ... bingo! How Mason got the information is irrelevant but it would be available and accessible to someone with the right skills.

I wait an hour and it is now getting dark meaning Chloe has been in the police HQ for over 10 hours which makes no sense. Her story would have been even less interesting than mine as she was hiding in the bedroom for most of it. I ring the number of the Desk Sergeant but the guy refuses to tell me anything.

"So what do I have to do to find out where she is ... ring the Chief Constable ... get a writ of habeas corpus?"

His laugh is humourless.

"Good luck with either of those, sir. Now, is there anything else I can help you with?"

Unfortunately you cannot slam a phone down any more so I break the connection in a dignified manner. I call an Uber to take me back to Felixstowe hoping that she might have gone back herself.

Nope.

There is no police presence as they have obviously done all of the scene-of-crime stuff they are planning to do. The only evidence of the fracas is the broken catch on the outside door, a patch of dried blood in the entrance to the flat and the busted chain which rattles when I open the door. The flat echoes emptily as I call Chloe's name, more in hope than expectation.

No answer.

I spend the next several minutes ... moping.

That's the only word for it.

Moping.

In just a few days I have got so used to her presence that her absence is like a huge hole in my life. I lie on the bed and hug her pillow to try and recapture her warm-body smell but it is fleeting and ephemeral.

I can't be arsed to cook anything and call for a Deliveroo from the chinky.

15 minutes later the buzzer from the outside door heralds the arrival of my dinner and I go onto the landing to yell that it is open. I leave my flat door ajar and go back inside to get the pre-warmed plate out of the oven and hear the sound of footsteps on the stairs. The front door bounces open and I turn to welcome the delivery guy only to be faced by two very large men carrying very large guns ... pointing directly at me.

Chapter 21

There is nothing I can do. I offer my wrists and they put a cable tie round them.

I don't say anything and the two guys don't start any conversation.

The car journey takes about an hour, back down the A12 past Ipswich, Colchester and Chelmsford to arrive at Brentwood.

What a surprise!

Chloe is right, the house is big, set in lavish grounds. The electric gates and the walls have razor wire on top but I suspect that it is to keep people in rather than people out. Any self-respecting local villain is not going to have a pop at Ron Mason's house, not if they value their life or the functioning hands of their offspring.

They free my hands and I'm locked in the same cellar. I know this because they have made a very half-hearted attempt to clean up the blood stain by the wine racks. I'm only in there a few minutes when Mason comes in himself. He's not very big but has a certain charisma to him ... well, perhaps whatever the antithesis to charisma is. I'm not restrained but he's not worried enough by me to have any back-up.

"OK, cunt. Where is ... she ... see I had to check myself there ... I almost said 'he' ... fucking freak! Now, if you value all you limbs you'll tell me ... and then I'll be disappointed ... because I really like it when some cunt think I'm bluffing."

He has the air of man who thinks that he's invincible.

I smile at him and walk towards him.

"Well ... Ron ... I may call you Ron ...?"

He's taken aback, not just by my question but the fact I'm moving towards him. He takes a step back. His eyes betray he is off-balance.

"Fuck, cunt, you can call me God Almighty if you like. So where's the freak?"

I smile and I can see he doesn't like my attitude. He feels the need to regain control and calls over his shoulder.

"Smiffy, get in here. This cunt is getting frisky."

One of the big guys comes in.

"Now, cunt! Where is she?"

I nod at the guy.

"Is that your penis extension, Ron? Or is that your 'penis'? What are you, the bottom or the top? Are you an arse or cock man?"

He is starting to get agitated and he comes towards me looking to inflict some damage. However, for me this has gone on long enough and I need to get out of here. I say two words that rock his world.