Sinema: The Northumberland Massacre (6 page)

Over the placid shuffle of time, at a pace to relax even the most high-octane, coke-sniffing stockbroker from The City, the residents of Haydon slowly began to get used to his presence. The ever watchful eyes of the nosey-parkers and curtain-twitchers ceased scrutinising him quite so closely. Heads stopped turning as he passed by and skulking whispers moved on to fresh subjects. He waited patiently for guards to slip before commencing with his chores.

The first job was intelligence gathering. That meant surveillance, and that in turn involved breaking out some of his online purchases. All of his more sensitive equipment was stored in a combination-locked titanium luggage case which now lay open on his bed as he sorted through some of its contents.

An assortment of electronic devices had been laid out either side of the open case. There was a large clear plastic bag full of MT-950 ALC telephone transmitters, which were small white plastic devices that plugged into telephone wall sockets, a chrome F-555 High Performance Wall Microphone and two dozen black TK-400P Transmitters, which were about half the size of a pack of playing cards. His high-spec laptop had been set on the desk and was fitted with a state-of-the art radio receiver and recorder that enabled the recording of multiple devices instantaneously, as well as listening while recording.

Every piece of equipment for the experiment had been purchased under his false identity and delivered to a PO Box in York that had also been opened using his false name. With a flair for the dramatic, he had dressed in ill-fitting clothes, a wide-brimmed fedora with a black curly wig beneath, sunglasses and a rather fetching Clark Gable moustache. Amazingly enough, the assistant hadn’t even spared him a second glance. He kept his head slightly angled downwards the whole time and ensured he that he never once glanced towards the security camera. The bounty was retrieved without hitch or incident and, once back to his car, he had laughed all the way back home.

The 950s ran off the power from the phone line, so they would never need replacing. As a result, once in place, the phone bugging would be effortless. Room bugging was a different matter, as room bugs needed an independent power source. Unless you had the resources and contacts of the CIA, adequate technology was pretty restrictive. After a great deal of internet-based research, he finally chose the 400Ps for their extended battery life (one thousand hours in standby mode or sixty-two hours of continuous transmission). They were the best his funds could reasonably run to, but the batteries would still need recharging from time to time which would be risky.

The Miller’s was easy enough to bug with a 950 on the phone and 400Ps in the bar and lounge and both toilets (suckered to the underneath of tables and hand basins). The Post Office, the SPAR, Merlin’s and Little’s were also pretty straightforward for a man with a degree of patience (mainly 400Ps concealed under a shelf here or behind some loose panelling there). A crawling sensation at having to buy some homemade sausages from the Edward and Tubbs double act was the only difficulty. A haircut at Moe’s allowed the placement of a 400P under the barber’s chair and a relaxing rest on the Green allowed a 400P to be attached to the underside of the bench.

Even Belmont’s turned out to be simple enough; he just had to wait for Steve to jump into his old red Porsche to nip off somewhere (probably an illicit meeting with Janet) and then he just strolled into his unlocked portacabin and popped a 400P under his shabby desk. He passed Steve’s salesman, James Falkirk and mechanic, Paul Mason, chatting by the open bonnet of a Ford Granada that was well past its prime. He offered them a friendly wave and walked on. Neither gave him a second glance.

The Duck & Bucket proved a little more testing. The landlady, Tess Runckle, turned out to be a robust woman with big bleached-blonde hair and even bigger breasts. She dripped more gold than Mr T and laughed like Eddie Murphy, but she had a cunning eye and, without any subtlety at all, showed Whitman a look of pure suspicion.

With considerable effort and patience, he did eventually manage to plant a 950 on the phone and 400Ps in the lounge, bar and gents, but the ladies proved to be somewhat of a Stalingrad, as experienced by the Germans in the winter of 1942.

Sitting beneath dozens of framed photographs and paintings, chiefly around the themes of birds and flowers, Whitman shifted in his seat and rubbed his bristly chin. He was growing impatient and beginning to convince himself that it was starting to show. Under the watchful eyes of grey wagtails, sparrows, thrushes and kestrels, not to mention Miss Marple-meets-Bet Lynch, he downed his third
Jack
and
Coke
then stood up casually. He arched his back and let out a resolute sigh. Offering the nosy landlady a sociable smile, which received a pencil-thin one in return, he turned towards the toilets.

His heart was racing as he approached the two doors, marked subtly with ‘Cocks’ and ‘Hens’. Glancing over his shoulder, he could see that the busybody was no longer in view, but his pulse continued to race nonetheless. A nauseating feeling struck him that seemed at once undeniable. If this were a film, his next action would be known as a story decision. This was a major plot choice that would thrust our faithful protagonist/antagonist further on towards his goal. Suddenly, it was as if everything rested on this one task, which he reminded himself immediately was nonsense. As he reached the doors, he dropped his head down and, taking a deep breath, barged headlong into the ladies. Decision made.

Having positioned himself earlier to keep an eye on both conveniences, he knew already that the hens’ were empty. After a cursory examination, revealing two cubicles and a wash area, he wasted no time in slipping a black 400P behind one of the two wash basins, pressing hard so that the adhesive back on the small device stuck firmly to the ceramic surface. With a sigh of relief, he flashed the back of his hand across his hot forehead. Not wishing to linger, he headed straight for the door, only to be confronted by Ms Runckle herself.

“Lost, Mister Whitman?” Her face was set and her tone accusing.

For a couple of very long seconds, Whitman was dumbstruck. His eyes were wide and staring and his mouth hung open slightly as fireworks exploded inside his mind. Then, recovering quickly, he said, “Little bit disorientated, I’m afraid.” There was a feigned slur to his words. “Missed dinner … I think that last
JD
went straight to my head.”

“Well, you just make sure it doesn’t happen again. I wouldn’t want you scaring my girls now.” Her arms remained folded across her abundant bosom and her tone sustained an icy curtness, but she stepped aside and allowed him to pass.

Brushing past her, he received an eye-watering whiff of an excessive use of
Est
é
e Lauder
. He started to walk away from the toilets, and then instantly realised his error. He spun and strode straight into the gents without so much as a glance in the landlady’s direction.

Tess Runckle continued to watch the closed door to the cocks’ for a moment longer, a look of reservation etched in her face that caused the thick foundation to crease around her pursed lips.

Opportunity Knocks.

A run of mild, overcast days slipped by as he persisted with carefully bugging key areas of the village. The incident with Tess Runckle had shaken him, although he was loath to admit it, but it was a stark reminder of the risks he faced. He re-doubled his concentration and maintained patience and vigilance at all times. His only indulgence, to help pass the time, was to build on his earlier successes with Lisa, maintaining a healthy banter between the two of them. He would make a point to chat to her in the street or in the pub, always flirting, but never over-stepping the mark.

Two blurred and eventful weeks had passed since his arrival when an opportunity arose quite out of the blue.

Whitman was sat at the bar, sipping his fifth
Jack
and
Coke
of the night, and trying to ignore the smell of mould coming from Tam propping up his usual spot. He was staring at the packets of peanuts clipped to a board behind the bar, but his mind was running through hundreds of details on the residents, searching out the important ones that could be used to his advantage at a later date. The night had been slow, only a handful of patrons drifting in and out.

Lisa appeared at his side, a couple of empty glasses in her hands. She winked as she scooped up an empty tumbler beside him. She was dressed in a thin white blouse that revealed the lines of her bra underneath and the usual shortest of short skirts.

Lisa had turned to head back behind the bar, but that stopped her in her tracks. She turned to him, her expression mock-challenging. “I get off at eleven-thirty. Wanna find out?” There was a brief flicker of the tip of her tongue on her glistening lips.

A tingling sensation like static electricity rippled through his loins.
Fuck yes!
were the first words that sprung to mind, but instead, he opted for a more laid back line. “How could I turn down a princess?”

He caught Tam watching him as Lisa went back to work. The old timer had a strange look on his face, a mix of pity and antipathy. It was unexpected and out of place on the old man’s usual slack features.

The old man turned away without comment and started rolling a cigarette with trembling, nicotine-stained fingers. As his swollen, arthritic joints worked to construct the smoke, he started humming a tune.

It took Whitman a few bars before he recognised it.
Devil in Disguise
… Elvis.

You look like an angel,

Walk like an angel,

Talk like an angel,

But I got wise,

You’re the devil in disguise
…

He had sunk another couple of whiskeys by the time Lisa appeared with her denim jacket and (fake)
Louis Vuitton
bag. “Ready to walk us home, Hannibal Letcher?”

“You gotta love that razor-sharp wit,” Whitman retorted, taking her arm in his.

Tam had long since shambled back to his pit and Big Joe offered a farewell wave as they walked out into the cool night air. Whitman smiled back and saw no judgement or disapproval on the old soldier’s tired features.

Instead of heading back to her flat, Lisa led him towards the park. The trail was in pitch darkness as they made their way to the clearing. Lisa shivered and clung on tighter to Whitman’s arm, angling her face up to reveal a deeply contented smile. There was no breeze to rustle the canopy above their heads, so the only sounds were the crunch of their footfalls and the occasional hoot from the trees.

As they entered the clearing, Lisa abruptly broke away from him and ran towards the roundabout. Smiling, Whitman followed at a stroll.

“You’ve got to be old enough to be me dad,” she shouted merrily, giving the creaking roundabout a gentle shove. It was an old wooden affair with gun metal grey hand rails. The faded red paint on the boards was cracked and peeling from regular use and the elements. Her gaze was distant and dreamlike as she watched it slowly rotate.

“You’re a cheeky sod!” Whitman replied, catching up to her and grabbing her round the waist from behind.

Squealing, she drew her gaze away from the hypnotic wheel and turned around to face him. Moonlight twinkled in his intense, auburn eyes and she caught her ghost-like reflection there. There was a moment’s pause as they gazed at one another in the darkness, then she moved closer and kissed him, forcing her tongue into his mouth. Pressing close against her firm body, he returned the kiss with matching fervour, savouring the taste of her slightly minted saliva.

Whitman forced her back against the roundabout, grinding it to a sudden halt as the intensity of their kiss grew. Her felt her hands move from around his neck down his body, caressing his chest then moving around to his buttocks. Pulling away from her mouth, he moved to her earlobe, licking and sucking the soft pink flesh. Then, leaving a silvery trail in his wake, he bore purposefully down the side of her neck, where the veins were pulsating with the sudden increased blood flow. She squirmed beneath him as their breathing intensified with every lungful of air.

Moving down to her chest, he continued to kiss and lick her hot arched body at the bony ridge between her breasts. He lifted his face away from her cleavage for a moment and, with a leering grin, ripped open her blouse. Lust overriding patience, he didn’t trouble himself with unclipping the plain white bra, instead forcing it upwards, exposing her small, pert breasts. He descended upon her eager nipples, causing her moans to grow louder, laced with a deep hunger.

“Ah, yes, suck them hard,” she hissed through clenched teeth, her tone guttural.

His face flushed with anticipation as he roughly yanked up her tight skirt, exposing a tiny black thong. Without pausing, he wrenched the briefs down to leave her fully exposed.

He felt her tugging eagerly at his jeans and, in a moment, they were dropping to his ankles. His boxer shorts followed quickly to reveal the extent of his excitement.

“Fuck me,” she snarled as her hands clawed at him.

Tossing her thin pale legs over his shoulders, Whitman jerked forward, plunging deep inside her and causing them both to cry out. Thrusting hard and fast, Lisa screamed out his name, urging him on. She bit on his lower lip as his groin slammed against hers and their groping hands gripped each other with wanton desperation.

As they both hastily approached a climax, a voice from the shadows behind them shouted, “You whore! What do you think you’re doin’?”

Whitman’s heart lurched into his throat and he instantly withdrew. She screamed again, but this time in shock, rather than ecstasy. Roughly pulling his jeans up, Whitman turned to face the intruder. “Who the hell are you?” He was breathing hard and red faced, but anger was rapidly overshadowing his embarrassment.