Autobiography of an Assassin:: The Family Read online

  Once the realisation of the actual truth of her so called ‘romance’ had fully dawned on her, hurt had turned into anger, and anger had turned into rage – and rage into revenge. Deborah had waited until the annual Christmas party, before presenting her ex-lover’s wife with the receipt for the abortion. Attached to it, a photocopy of a cheque made payable to the clinic, complete with her husband’s signature on it. But Deborah had not stopped there. There had been other high ranking police officers who had also fancied a bit of her ‘tail’. One by one, she had sucked them in and had blown them out like bubbles; ensuring that their wives had always been the very next to know…the very instant that the ‘affair’ was over – terminated with such virulent vindictiveness to ensure maximum public exposure and humiliation. Her almost insatiable appetite for revenge, within the force, had earned her the nickname: ‘The Black Widow’; such had been her ability to bring about the complete professional demise of her high ranking lovers. But it had been a state of affairs – pardon the pun – that could not have been tolerated for long. Deborah had been duly summoned to appear before a disciplinary hearing, at Scotland Yard, for professional misconduct and conduct likely to bring the force into disrepute. But the tribunal never took place. On the very eve of the hearing, Ralph had recruited Deborah into Section 9. At a stroke, he had spirited her away from the public gaze of her pending disciplinary hearing, to the impenetrable anonymity of the Embankment Offices.

  So, in the autumn of ’72, Deborah had joined Patrick and me on the Canadian and Commonwealth Desk, as an Administrator. Dressed head to toe in black, with long black curly hair; it was easy to see why she had acquired her nickname. But she was good at her job, and that is what had counted – nothing else. Yes, she did cast her web at Patrick and me, but we had treated her just like a ‘feller’, so she had taken it no further. We gave her professional respect and she had given us personal respect, in return. However, at first, Deborah did try to suck in other suitable males, within the Section, but they had also treated her with total professional courtesy and respect. Whether it had been naturally spontaneous, on their part, or had been specifically coerced by the dictate of Sir Peter N…, who can tell? Although she had initially missed the cut and chase of Special Branch, within a very short space of time, Deborah had settled down within the Section – and married men had once again been able to walk the corridors of power, without fear of sexual entrapment. Her role as administrator, although fairly sedentary in comparison to her previous position with Special Branch, had been intellectually far more demanding and challenging. She had enjoyed the work, and it had shown – her attitude becoming outwardly warmer to all her colleagues, men and women alike. The cold unforgiving attitude had gone, replaced by a much warmer, friendly demeanour. Over time, Deborah appeared to be genuinely happy. Even her style of dress had changed. Out had gone the widow’s black, in had come the vibrant colours of the seventies. During the whole of the six months, that she had been with Patrick and me on the Canadian and Commonwealth Desk, she had not missed a day, either through holiday or through sickness. It was almost as if Deborah and the Section had become inseparable.

  So, it had come as a bit of a surprise, early one Friday morning, a few weeks after Patrick had left for Ireland, to find Deborah not at her desk. We had both been early birds; living locally and within easy commute. We had both preferred to get into the Embankment Office early, and get sorting through the overnight dispatches, before the rush of day started It was just a bit odd – her not being there. The black Bakelite phone, on the edge of her desk, had suddenly rung out, breaking the silence of the office with its loud peal.

  It had been Deborah, ringing in sick – no excuses; just, ‘I’m not feeling to good…thanks for everything – bye.’ And then the line had gone dead, abruptly.

  Even before I had replaced the handset on to its receiver, I was making for the door of the office – something had been dreadfully wrong. I could tell that from the tone in her voice. Deborah’s voice had sounded perfectly normal, but yet, subtly different in pitch…in inflection – something had been dreadfully wrong.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Deborah’s one bed roomed flat had been close by, just off the Waterloo Road, on the other side of the Thames – less than a mile and a half away.

  Initially, I had intended to run the short distance from the Embankment Office, to Deborah’s flat. Diving down the two short flights of stairs into the vestibule entrance, I had crudely calculated that, even though I had been no runner, it would probably take me the best part of fifteen minutes to cover the distance on foot. As I had charged out of the front door of the Embankment Offices, a London Black Cab had pulled up just down the road, to let out a fare.

  Would that be any quicker? I had asked myself.

  The traffic had already been building up. A collection of cars and cabs; taking commuters on their way to the office, the shop, or their place of work – it had been just after quarter to eight, another half hour and it would be total gridlock. The ‘cabby’ had been an older, rotund gentleman, ruddy completion under a shock of white hair. I had stuck my head through the open side window of the cab, told him the address that I had needed get to, and had asked him how quickly he could get me there.

  “Phew,” he had inhaled sharply. “At this time in the morning, it’ll be bit busy round Waterloo Station, guv,” he had said, in a lethargic tone that had seemed almost pessimistic. “I can get you there in abat ten minutes – if that’s any good to yer?”

  “Get me there in ten minutes and I’ll give you a fiver tip,” I had offered, knowing that the cab fare for the total trip would have only been a fraction of that. “Get me there in five minutes – and I’ll give you an additional fiver.”

  “Whot – a tenner tip for getting yer there in five minutes?” All of a sudden the cabby had become visually energised – ten pounds had been a significant amount of money, back then.

  I had nodded. “Yes, get me there in five minutes, and you’ll get a tenner.”

  Without waiting for his reply, I had dived in through the wide rear door of the cab – toppling backwards into the seat as the vehicle had pulled off and accelerated away from the kerb. The enthusiastic cabby had then executed an immediate u-turn, on to the opposite carriage way, immediately under a sign that had specifically prohibited him from carrying out such a manoeuvre. Merging with the traffic coming from the left – or more to the truth, barging in through the traffic coming from the left – we had sped off down the Embankment, before joining a sluggish possession of slow moving vehicles over Westminster Bridge. Then we had been on the move again, darting in and out of the traffic, coursing down side roads and back streets, following a ‘rat run’ that only London cabbies had seemed to know about.

  “There yer are, guv – I make that less than five minutes, door to door,” the cabbie had proudly announced.

  Four minutes – forty seconds, to be precise, according to the timer on my digital wrist watch. “And here’s the tenner I promised you,” I had replied, handing out two crisp blue five pound notes into his eager outstretched hand. But then, with him pointing at his meter, I had given him an additional one pound note, to cover the fare, itself. “Keep the change,” I had added, cynically.

  Deborah’s flat had been on the ground floor of a converted Victorian town house…no stairs to run up – thank God. In fact, the door to her flat and been the first one that I had come to, on the right. Fitted with a simple Yale lock, the white panelled door had been comparatively easy to open with a set of ‘skeleton’ keys – not really keys as such; more a selection of thin specially shaped pieces of hardened steel picks, neatly attached to the rings inside a small flat brown leather case. The door to her flat had opened directly into a small sitting room. A sitting room with a petite, chintzy flower patterned three piece suite, standing on a chintzy flower patterned carpet; surrounded by matching chintzy flower patterned curtains and wallpaper…all pink flowers, of various shapes and sizes, against a cream ba
ckground – not at all in keeping with the image that Deborah portrayed at the office. In soft romantic melodic tones, the Carpenters had been singing a love song from a cassette player, placed in the centre of a coffee table, positioned under the room’s only window. Illuminated by the warm glow of the bright early morning sun, Deborah had been sitting back in an armchair, positioned close to the coffee table and the window. Dressed immaculately in a tight black pencil skirt, black fitted jacket over a brilliant white blouse, with black stockings and high heeled, patent black leather shoes – the only thing that had looked decidedly odd about Deborah had been the clear plastic bag pulled completely over her head, fastened securely at the neck by black electrical insulation tape.

  SHIT! When the fuck did she do this. I had asked in my mind, as I had literally leaped across the short distance that had separated us.

  How long. More than six minutes and her not breathing might well become permanent – less than six minutes, then there was still a chance. I had started to rationalise as I had looked down at her. She made the call to me and then she would have prepared herself – sat down in the chair – made herself comfortable – put the bag over her head and taped it firmly at her neck.

  The front of the plastic bag had been pulled in at her mouth, where her last forced gasp for air had sucked it in. I had stabbed at the stretched plastic material with the index and middle finger of my left hand, tearing a hole in the bag, directly over her mouth. There had been little condensation in the interior of the bag – a good sign; the bag had not been on long – but how long?

  Picking her up, under both armpits, I had practically hurled her limp body face up on to the carpeted floor. Tilting her head back, I had torn away more of the plastic bag covering her mouth and nose. Pinching her nose, between index finger and thumb, I had taken a long deep breath before I had placed my mouth directly over hers. With slow progressive exhalation, I had breathed into her mouth for a full one second. Pausing, I had lifted my head up and had looked straight down the line of her chest, in time to see it rise and fall. I repeated the process again, each time checking the rise and fall of her cheat, showing that her lungs were inflating and deflating, with each breath – each exhaled breath of mine containing at least some oxygen content. After performing five ‘rescue’ breaths, I had then moved to her side, placing the heel of my left hand directly over her sternum with my right hand on top of it. Clasping the fingers of both hands together, I had straightened both my arms slightly and locked my elbows – ready to perform chest compressions.

  “Don’t you bloody dare!” Deborah had suddenly cried out, choking and gasping in the process. Sitting bolt upright, she tore at the remains of the plastic bag still wrapped around her head.

  “Easy. Take it easy,” I had tried to reassure her, gently grabbing hold of both wrists to prevent her from scratching her face with her long manicured nails, as she desperately tried to free herself from the clinging plastic that had still stuck stubbornly over most of her head.

  “Can’t breathe,” she had gasped, her chest and shoulders heaving violently, uncontrollably.

  “Relax – you’re safe now,” I had continued to reassure her. “Just relax and breathe slowly,” I had encouraged.

  Gradually, Deborah had calmed down, her breathing eventually settling to a normal rhythmic pace. With my lock knife, I had gently cut away the remains of the plastic bag and the black electrical insulation tape, which had been still wrapped tightly round her neck. Once her breathing had become normal, I had helped Deborah to her feet and guided her over to the two-seater settee, facing the window. Sitting down next to her, I had taken hold of both of her hands in mine, gently rubbing the backs of them, as I did so.

  “I’m so sorry,” she had apologised. “I’m so sorry.”

  “What for?”

  “Putting you through all this,” she had said.

  “You didn’t put me through anything,” I had replied, before adding. “Now, if you had messed yourself…then that would have been different – then I wouldn’t have touched you with a barge pole.”

  “Bugger, you,” she had smiled. Then, for a brief moment, she had become very pensive, withdrawn deep into her own silent thoughts. “How?” she had suddenly asked. “How did you know?”

  It had been my turn to be pensive. The interlinked heightened receptiveness of all my senses: the enhanced ability to see, hear, smell, taste and perceive those things that most could not, had always been something that I had kept secret from others…apart from Anne – that is.

  “Come on, Martin – how did you know?” Deborah had asked again, this time she had been rubbing the backs of my hands.

  “It was something in your voice – your tone,” I had eventually replied back. “Something wasn’t right – that’s why I came straight round,”

  “I’m glad you did.”

  “Why did you do it?” I had asked, and then had immediately regretted asking, as a crushing sadness had come over her face and her dark eyes had welled up with tears.

  For a moment, her eyes had turned to look up to her left, as if seeking inspiration, or perhaps guidance. “Bloody anniversaries,” she at length had finally replied.

  “Anniversaries,” I had queried. What anniversaries? I had thought.

  “Twelve months ago, to this very day – I had an abortion,” Deborah had begun to sob, her tears flowing freely down her flushed cheeks. “Twelve months ago, to this very day, I killed my unborn daughter – twelve months ago, to this very day, I murdered my little girl!”

  “You can always have another,” I had naively suggested, unintentionally patronising her.

  “No,” her tears had stopped for a moment as she had steeled herself for what she had been about to say next. “Two weeks after the abortion, I developed an infection – a very bad infection,” Deborah had explained, calmly, in matter of fact manner. “They cut away my womb, Martin – they cut out my womb and threw away my motherhood.” Gasping, she had collapsed into deep uncontainable bouts of sobbing, again.

  I had taken her into my arms, gently holding her as she wept out all her grief…all her pain – all her guilt. I had held her there for minutes that had felt like hours, just holding her, saying nothing, just letting her heart ache all flow out.

  Deborah had suddenly pulled away, she had stopped crying, the briefest of smiles gracing her bow-shaped lips. “I bet I look a right bloody mess.”

  “Yep.”

  “There’s no need to agree with me,” her smile had initially broadened, and then she had become pensive again. “You’re going to have to report this to Sir Peter, aren’t you?”

  “Report what?” I had asked back. “Report you for having a streaky face – I don’t think so.”

  “But what do we do about this?”

  “That’s easy for me – I get to do nothing. But it’s much more difficult for you, though.”

  “Why – have I got to report myself?” Deborah had looked concerned.

  “No – daft, bugger,” I had laughed. “You have got to try and repair your face and make yourself look attractive. That’s where the difficulty comes in.”

  Deborah had started to smile again. “Thanks,” she had addressed me directly.

  “For what?”

  “For being here.”

  “Just go and fix your face and put some lippie on, woman,” I had replied. I am not very good with emotional stuff…never have been – never will be. “We’ve still got the world to save before we can go home tonight,” I had added, flippantly.

  And that is precisely what we had done. After Deborah had reapplied her makeup, we had taken a slow leisurely walk over Waterloo Bridge and along the side of the Thames, before crossing over the busy road to the Embankment Offices…returning back to save the world, yet again.

  That weekend, Deborah had returned with me back home to the Manor – and did so every subsequent weekend, after. She had been warmly welcomed by Anne – and soon, they had both become the very best and closest of
friends. I had encouraged Deborah to tell Anne what had happened that Friday, which she did, and had felt the better for doing so. Anne had been understanding and caring – she empathised how Deborah must have felt, and how lonely and isolated she must have become. During the week, when Deborah had been in London, she had always stayed at her flat, alone. Anne had suggested, on at least more than one occasion, that Deborah should consider moving into the London House, with me – and save on the cost of renting a flat. Anne’s underlying motive behind her suggestion had not been based on any fiscal frugality; but on securing Deborah some companionship, during the long potentially lonely nights, in London – London, can be one of the loneliest cities in the world. But Deborah would have none of it – she had wanted to maintain her own independence.

  It had been with some trepidation, in the early August, that Anne had told Deborah that she was pregnant. Because of Deborah’s inability to have her own children, neither of us had known exactly how she would react to the news. But we need not have worried. Deborah had been fantastic. She had been like a mother hen, to Anne. Ushering her around and, in the latter stages of the pregnancy, helping to massage the cramps from Anne’s legs, back and shoulders – apparently, my attempts at massage had been too sensual. Deborah had become a surrogate mother in waiting – of sorts. Deborah had been so enthusiastic…so excited, about the forthcoming birth – she had even taken up knitting!

  Deborah would later to become my rock.

  ***

  Deborah had also joined me, along with Patrick, in the April of ’74.

  Currently, Deborah’s primary and only role, within the Family, is that of Administrator and Facilitator. She runs the ‘Office’ and is the administrative backbone of the Family, a backbone that we could ill afford to be without. And that is all that Deborah does for the Family. She has no active involvement in any of the commissions or operations that we undertake, other than providing comprehensive administration and logistic support. As she had once remarked, when asked if she would like an ‘active’ involvement in the Family business: ‘I killed once, before – I didn’t like it…I’ll never do it again!’