He Died Twice

Well, here it finally is! My first novel, and I hope you will think it’s page-turning fun. Murder! Mystery! Spies! Assassins! Costume changes!

I really wanted to write a thriller with a central character that I could relate to, someone outside of the security services, but who has enough knowledge of their methods to play them at their own game.

Kate Edwards does not enjoy perfect mental health, and she has few resources to fight back with other than her friends and community, her intelligence, and her love of spy fiction. Every day she gets new shocks, and new information. Every day, she has to change her game plan and her identity to adapt to these new circumstances. Can an ordinary person evade pursuit and help to blow the whistle on rogue security agents and her own husband? And will she ever be able to stop running?

A sequel is in the planning stages….

All profits from the sale of this eBook will be donated to the Cornwall Refuge Trust, who provide shelter, advice and support to victims of domestic abuse in Cornwall www.cornwallrefugetrust.co.uk Not all of us are lucky enough to have a safe or loving home to shelter in during this lockdown.

He Died Twice (Chapter 2)


Brockenhurst, Hampshire 50°48’55.5″N 1°34’32.8″W March 23rd 20.22 hrs

Kate turned into the street where she lived. She’d arrived here on auto-pilot, without intention. There was no sign of a police presence. No unfamiliar cars on the street. She pulled up to the driveway and waited for a minute. Nothing moved. Silence. She would risk going into the house. But she locked both doors with deadbolts and drew the security chain across. Inside the house it was very very quiet.

Kate dumped her hat, coat and bags onto the sofa. Her handbag was littered with tiny glass cubes. She just went and ran a bath. She was shivering, freezing, and her mind was blank. In the bath she did not cry, but shuddering dry sobs racked her from time to time. She could not relax. The hot water seemed to make no difference to her body temperature and it stung her scrapes and bruises, but it washed off the blood. She was crazy! Anyone else would have gone to the police! What the fuck had she done, letting her fears take hold of her, imagining all sorts of dark plots like she was in some kind of a thriller? Unlikely. What had actually happened was that she’d tampered with evidence at the scene of a double murder, and made no effort to cover her tracks. There would be footprints, fingerprints … Fuck. Great big bloody footprints. Stupid cow! Eventually the water was cold so she pulled the plug, stood up and showered in clean hot water.

No. Something was very, very wrong here. Bobby was involved in something she’d known nothing about. Something to do with Russians, relationships with people she’d never heard of, guns, and murder. Wrong. Her initial instincts were correct, she felt it. Knew it. Now she needed to be smart. To ignore Bobby’s dressing gown with his smell that twisted her heart and be smart.

The first thing to do was put her bloody clothes into the washing machine with a lot of bleach. She didn’t know if it would get rid of the blood completely, but it might make it harder to prove that she’d been at the Everton house. Then take the batteries out of the phones, her own and Bobby’s. The stranger’s phone was a cheap simple model, brand new by the look of it. She took the risk of switching it on. There was nothing on the phone. No contacts, no saved or sent messages, no call history. She took the battery out.

Now for the two men’s wallets. Bobby’s she knew – she’d bought it for him, and there was a picture of the two of them tucked inside that she’d put there herself. She took out the cash, just over forty pounds, and pulled out the credit cards and other contents. There was a partly-stamped loyalty card from a coffee shop, a couple of business cards that seemed to be legitimate contacts for the sporting events business, driving licence, nothing out of the ordinary. She looked at the other wallet. It was a worn brown leather bill-fold of good quality with no branding on it. Inside it was one thousand pounds in crisp notes and nothing else at all. Nothing? No clues to his identity. Kate sat back on the sofa, rubbing her head as if to massage some understanding, some comprehension into her brain. She was trying not to get carried away, but it seemed to her that the man was deliberately ‘clean’, like an agent about to go into the field. No identifying material whatsoever. Burner phone. Think about it later. Got to keep moving.

Online, she transferred all her money and all her available overdraft from her current account to her savings account. She made a written note of all the most important email addresses, then deleted them and her browsing history. She threw folders of her personal paperwork into a bag. Her passport, driving licence and registration documents she left to one side. From up in the loft Kate lowered two suitcases and all the camping gear she could find. Tent, mattresses, sleeping bags, cooking stuff, torch, clothes line, penknife. That reminded her of the flick-knife in Bobby’s pocket. She hadn’t ever seen that before… Stay focussed. Axe, saw, mallet, staple gun. Heaven only knew what she was preparing for, but, by hell, she’d be prepared!

Kate pulled out the storage drawers from under her bed and gathered three wigs and a set of fake dreadlocks she’d once had fastened into her hair, Bobby’s hair clippers and any hair dyes she could find. She packed all her underwear. Clothes: as many different things as possible. Kate had always dressed eclectically; she had many different guises if need be. Her huge and unwieldy wardrobe would now prove its worth. She took her warmest things, a lot of T-shirts, and walking boots. Books – only the essentials: Ray Mear’s Bushcraft and Tom Brown Jr’s The Science and Art of Tracking, The SAS Survival Guide, Food For Free by Richard Mabey. ‘Essentials’ for Kate meant that she needed at least one work of fiction. Scanning the shelves, her eye fell upon her Len Deightons. Nine books in the Bernard Sampson series. Too many to take? They’d been gleaned over the course of years from charity shops – they were many-times-read, tattered old friends. Goodbye, Bernard and Fiona Sampson, spies extraordinaires! And just when she most needed their skills. Bollocks, she would take them.

She thought, in a distracted way: Is someone coming here right now to shoot me? She shook her head as if to dispel those thoughts and re-settle her brains. They said ‘him’; they don’t know about me. Keep doing, stay focussed. Photo albums. Maps.

Out to the garage; it was still and quiet on the street, chilly and damp. Kate drove a sky-blue 1968 Triumph Herald 13/60 that she was still fixing up; she set the battery to charge. She readied it for a journey, inflating a tyre that must have a slow puncture and checking the lights and the oil, water and fuel levels. Into the boot she put in all the spares and random bits and pieces she’d accumulated for it.

Now it was nearly midnight.

Now, with basic preparations made, she thought again about Bobby’s secret life. Kate hesitated outside the door to Bobby’s office to gather resolve. Inside, it felt like he might be back any minute. There was the usual chaos of bike bits and frames, sports wear, magazines and random bolts and things strewn about. A 3-D model of Bobby’s exhibition stand at the London Triathlon Show took pride of place on a shelf that had many race numbers tacked to it. But Bobby’s filing system was well-organised. The box files and folders contained information about the sporting events company that Bobby ran: receipts, bank accounts, proposals, letters; all relating to his business. If she found nothing at all, she would have to call the police and confess everything. She would feel like the most stupid person the world had ever known, and probably be suspected or charged, but she’d have to. The thought of Bobby still lying in that room, cold and bloody and dead, hit her suddenly. She pressed her fist against her mouth and cried. She was the worst wife, the worst friend. A stupid, self-deluding, scared fantasist. Perhaps she was mad.

In the back of the bottom desk drawer, she found another phone and another cash box. A second phone? The cash box was locked. She shook it. Something metal inside. Kate decided to look at Bobby’s secret second phone and powered it up. From ‘Jerry’: Meet as per, Brisleigh Close, 18.00. That was the meeting Bobby had gone to tonight. So the man was called ‘Jerry’. There were messages from ‘Jim’ – maybe the ‘Jim’ Bobby had spoken of in the conversation she’d overheard? – but there were only those three messages in the in-box. Nothing in ‘Sent’. No other notes or information or apps on the phone, only some numbers attached to names she didn’t recognise or that were mythical: ‘Daniel’, ‘Martha’, ‘Sheela-na-gig’ and ‘Odin’. The messages from ‘Jim’ seemed mundane: Fancy a coffee?; Can we meet up today?; Taking Susan and the kids away for a few days. Kate turned the phone off and put it into her pocket.

She searched the desk for a key to the locked box, then checked Bobby’s key ring. No. She went out to the workshop and looked for a key there. She pulled out drawers of nuts and bolts, brake pads and Allen keys. No key. Then, in a tool box, she found some bullets. Ten of them. She collapsed backwards against the work bench. Bullets? What the fuck does a sporting events organiser need bullets in his toolbox for? She knew nothing at all about bullets, but they looked real enough. She was not going to call the police now. Grabbing a penknife, she struggled with the lock on the cash box. She managed to nick her finger, but no luck opening it. So she tried a piece of wire, then an Allen key. Wire and Allen key together. She fiddled around in the lock, and suddenly it turned.

Inside, a small key and an envelope. She examined the key, which was engraved with ‘Bauer, Zurich’, and the number 23346, and put it in her pocket. She opened the envelope. Inside were two printed paying-in slips from a Bournemouth bank with a German name. Just under £8,800 pounds in cash had been paid in with each transaction. An odd figure. She left the workshop and locked it behind her. In that other reality, the moon was visible between the clouds and owls hooted to each other from the trees. So far, no-one seemed to have driven into her street since she’d gotten out of the bath, and the phone had not rung. The police had not arrived on the doorstep.

It was now 2 am. She loaded the rest of the things she’d collected into the car. Back in the house she made tea and a cheese sandwich because she knew she should. Shock had worn off, leaving her feeling sharp. Let’s see what’s in the backpack. Aside from the gun, the laptop, and Bobby’s sweaty running gear, there was a folder with a proposal for a triathlon in the Peak District next March. Sweet wrappers and loose change rattled around in the bottom with Biros and old receipts. She upended the bag and turned it out onto the coffee table, unfolded all the receipts and looked through them. Coffee, magazine, sandwich, mini-statement of current account: £1354.73, Tesco’s shopping, mini statement printed out in Bournemouth a week ago for another account with £149,347.12 in it. Stop. What? Kate pulled the envelope out of her pocket and compared the statement with the slips she’d found in the locked box. The same bank. A hundred and fifty grand?! There was no way Bobby had that kind of money. They lived a comfortable life, but not a wealthy one. If he had, she would have known about it, wouldn’t she? They’d have used it to do things with, or at least to be able to take holidays, buy better cars? Either the money wasn’t his – but then how did he get the mini-statement? – or else here were more lies. Suddenly, she felt very far away from Bobby, further away than she had when she had realised he was dead, on the floor in that awful room. Reality and fiction, life and nightmare, seemed to be switching places.

Hard thinking was what she needed to do now, but she was exhausted and incapable of any kind of thinking, and very cold again. Oh, let the police or the Mafia whoever come and beat the door down and drag me away in the night if they want to! There was nothing she could do right now to stop them; she felt a bone-tired weariness and sickness, such that she just didn’t care. Kate took her oldest and most trusted friend, her teddy bear, from his shelf and wandered sadly into the bedroom. No cuddling up to Bobby tonight. No cuddling up to him ever again. She fell asleep crying.

When the alarm went off, she hoped it had all been a dream. She felt something next to her face, and settled into it. Bobby. All a terrible dream. But the thing was too furry and too small. Not Bobby. Not a dream. Tears welled up again, and she felt tired and helpless, unable to do anything but lay face down and weep. Then she sighed and dragged herself up. Bringing her bear with her, cradled in one arm, Kate went into the kitchen to make tea. The cold light of day and the cold of the quarry-tiled floor hit her simultaneously, waking her fully. “Oh, Ted!” she said, and buried her face into his worn furry head. But she knew what she was going to do.

Kate emptied all the useful food from the fridge and cupboards into bags and went and got dressed, putting on careful make-up to hide her pallor and puffy eyes. She chose a wig and put it into her handbag. Firing up the computer, she looked up the makers’ name on the key to find out what kind of lock it might open. Then she shut the computer down and put the hard drive, the food and faithful old Ted into the car. The car started first time, with its customary racket. Kate reversed out of the garage and onto the driveway and said goodbye to her home in the rear-view mirror.