Duty and Deceit - preview by Thomas Crawford Lyrics
Day 1, December 6th, 4:30AM
A man, fatter, older and more cynical than his forty four years, spilled stiffly from an equally tired Ford saloon. The empty, early morning streets of Chelsea London felt hard under his over burdened shoes. Car and driver shared a style that had been contemporary many years earlier. Both hoped someone would soon notice their need for retirement and actively encourage them in that direction. The car groaned as the man stepped from it.
The darkness and isolation of The Vale was punctuated by the occasional taxi one street over on the King’s Road. Glowing street lights pierced a deliberately uninviting gloom, a gloom created by an endless row of imposing and impersonal town houses. The Ford fitted snugly between a wall of Range Rovers and Porsches.
The man coughed in a restrained manner, hoping not to awaken the poisonous fluids resting in his lungs. Thirty years of cigarette consumption had taken their toll. He calmed himself by inhaling deeply on a Marlboro, red tab not light. With impressive co-ordination, he simultaneously exhaled and ground the stub into the frost coated tarmac.
Lungs tamed, he now felt galvanised for the task ahead. Not something anyone would relish but he knew that once he got started it would be over in no time at all. A fried breakfast was only an hour away. By now he’d lost count of the number of times he had done this over the last twenty-five years. Three floors above him, the subject presumably lay sleeping; blissfully unaware of how the man was potentially about to change his life forever.
He reviewed the house. It matched the others on the street, brick by brick for imposingness. Somehow though, it looked more lived in. It had the appearance of a real home rather than a London bolt hole for an overseas financier. The man couldn’t explain why, just instinct. This added an element of humanity and therefore vulnerability to his subject. This uneased him a little. Subconsciously, the man had made this onerous task easier in his head because it involved a wealthy person rather than the usual downtrodden victim.
He glanced back at the car. He signalled with a sideward nod of his head to his younger, fitter, better looking and frankly more optimistic colleague. Time to go in. Time to do it.
With a deft move from the younger man, the two quickly stood shoulder to shoulder before the house.
The older man moved forward and a security light clicked on. Blinking, he aimed a stubby, yellowed finger at the intercom. Two long and determined buzzes were enough to solicit a response after about thirty seconds. A startled and gravelly male voice registered polite but sleepy surprise.
“Hello? Can I help you?”
Older man paused briefly looked at his colleague and then started his spiel.
“Mr Markham?”
Instant fear came over the voice on intercom, “Yes..”
“We are from the police Sir. Detective Sergeant Webber and DC McGregor. I’m sorry about the hour but we need to speak to you. May we come in?”
A man, fatter, older and more cynical than his forty four years, spilled stiffly from an equally tired Ford saloon. The empty, early morning streets of Chelsea London felt hard under his over burdened shoes. Car and driver shared a style that had been contemporary many years earlier. Both hoped someone would soon notice their need for retirement and actively encourage them in that direction. The car groaned as the man stepped from it.
The darkness and isolation of The Vale was punctuated by the occasional taxi one street over on the King’s Road. Glowing street lights pierced a deliberately uninviting gloom, a gloom created by an endless row of imposing and impersonal town houses. The Ford fitted snugly between a wall of Range Rovers and Porsches.
The man coughed in a restrained manner, hoping not to awaken the poisonous fluids resting in his lungs. Thirty years of cigarette consumption had taken their toll. He calmed himself by inhaling deeply on a Marlboro, red tab not light. With impressive co-ordination, he simultaneously exhaled and ground the stub into the frost coated tarmac.
Lungs tamed, he now felt galvanised for the task ahead. Not something anyone would relish but he knew that once he got started it would be over in no time at all. A fried breakfast was only an hour away. By now he’d lost count of the number of times he had done this over the last twenty-five years. Three floors above him, the subject presumably lay sleeping; blissfully unaware of how the man was potentially about to change his life forever.
He reviewed the house. It matched the others on the street, brick by brick for imposingness. Somehow though, it looked more lived in. It had the appearance of a real home rather than a London bolt hole for an overseas financier. The man couldn’t explain why, just instinct. This added an element of humanity and therefore vulnerability to his subject. This uneased him a little. Subconsciously, the man had made this onerous task easier in his head because it involved a wealthy person rather than the usual downtrodden victim.
He glanced back at the car. He signalled with a sideward nod of his head to his younger, fitter, better looking and frankly more optimistic colleague. Time to go in. Time to do it.
With a deft move from the younger man, the two quickly stood shoulder to shoulder before the house.
The older man moved forward and a security light clicked on. Blinking, he aimed a stubby, yellowed finger at the intercom. Two long and determined buzzes were enough to solicit a response after about thirty seconds. A startled and gravelly male voice registered polite but sleepy surprise.
“Hello? Can I help you?”
Older man paused briefly looked at his colleague and then started his spiel.
“Mr Markham?”
Instant fear came over the voice on intercom, “Yes..”
“We are from the police Sir. Detective Sergeant Webber and DC McGregor. I’m sorry about the hour but we need to speak to you. May we come in?”