London
9 – 30 a.m.
April 18th
Mason’s train journey had been a pleasant affair. The April rain was holding off and a mild sunshine was brushing the Hertfordshire landscape with light spring strokes. His view from the window slipped over the jigsaw of fields with neat hedge edges and the trees so recently furnished with leaves, having for the last two days drank in the rain were greedily absorbing the least rays of light.
Mason’s eyes wandered over the commuter crowds, a healthy and unhealthy range of every type, all shot arrow like into London’s heart. At times he envied such mundane existences, but knew his adventurous soul would break free of such a treadmill within months of joining it. An attractive office girl, well made up, pristine, scent of perfume cutting through the musty dry cleaner smell of surrounding suits, caught his eye. He glanced three or four times, drinking in the highlighted honey and chestnut hair, the heavy push of breasts against the buttoned suit jacket and the neat line curve of her lower leg beyond the edge of her skirt.
His mind turned to army days and job or no job he was due some rest and recreation time. The three word contact information, ‘Priory Arms Vauxhall’, fixed in his head could wait until tomorrow. Spencer was dead. Mason hadn’t liked the sneaky ex secret serviceman and had given him a wide berth on the cramped submarine. Stanton he knew had escaped, but surely must be trapped in Glasgow, given the tightness of the net surrounding him and Wheeler, as much as he knew then, was in the same position. Surely even Cobb, given the high media profile of his murders must have gone to ground, if not have quite a numerous task force dedicated to his capture. No even then as he thought of it he must be the first into London.
His train of thought led him to the person who had set up this ‘race’ to London. They had got themselves a team of top assassins, got them onto a British Navy Submarine and inserted them at the other end of the country. Mason ran through the facts he knew. They’d been picked up pretty soon after entry which meant someone had been watching out, either waiting for them or just out of habit. Security services had either been alerted or there was a system he was unaware of for tracking people through CCTV. Certainly it smacked of out and out government dirty tricks. Whoever wanted this job done knew the risks. He knew he’d have to watch himself. The buyer wasn’t one to get themselves exposed by the likes of him and though once in the ‘pipeline’ for the job he knew he’d still be regarded as dispensable. He tried to lighten his thoughts. He was a man of action and too much thought dulled the reactions and the willingness to act.
Another glance at the girl saw her catch his gaze, she frowned and pulled out her cell phone. Spencer taken aback a moment by such an adverse reaction to what he knew to be his reasonable good looks recalled his mode of disguise. He was going to have to polish up if he was going to get himself a girl tonight that was for sure and he was shocked at how unattractive his disguise had made him when his reflection became apparent through the train entering the tunnel around Borehamwood. Behind the tinted glasses his eyes creased at the edges and below them a tight smile appeared, stretching the carefully arranged and, if he did say so himself, expertly created moustache. He hadn’t recognised himself for a moment.
Mason spent the rest of the journey planning his night out. The card he had still worked and a hotel, haircut and new clothes could easily be bought with it. It was cash he needed. He decided that a couple of neat swift hotel thefts would rack up enough ready cash to have a good night out.
His planning passed the time and when the train stopped at West Hampstead he decided to get out and take the Jubilee line. He picked Baker Street as a good place to stop. It was for the most part a journey spent wistfully sizing up and measuring the merits of most of the young women, broken by one cold sweat moment when looking at a national tabloid over the shoulder of a well groomed man to his right he saw his own image along with Cobb’s, Wheeler’s and Stanton’s. Spencer’s image was in a separate inset describing his death. Only by catching his reflection dragged over the tunnel walls was Mason relieved from his sudden panicky thoughts. He glanced back at the paper and realised that he could not be in any way thought to be the man in the photo, but the awareness that St Alban’s CCTV would link him to Glasgow station CCTV which in turn flag him up as having murdered the police officers gave fresh and more realistic reasons for him to smarten up and change his look. He shrugged off the fears knowing that he was close to his goal and the potentially protective wings of whoever was funding this kill and he finally stepped up onto Baker Street with the thrill of a carefree man in a city full of promise on a warm spring day.
He set off for a walking tour of the area, with the particular aim of choosing a hotel and noting the location of others in order to gather some needed cash. He finally opted for The Bickenhall Hotel in Gloucester Place, it was the kind of small hotel he liked. It was easy to place each face and easier to be aware of any atmosphere changes brought about by the arrival of officialdom in the form of police or security services.
He had a shower, a brunch on room service and lay down for a nap. He booked an alarm call for three pm so that he could get a haircut, shop for clothes and get ready for his night out.