The Deep Dark Sleep

He reached Strachan and the two men shook hands, Fraser still moving stiffly and looking as rigid as hell. I couldn’t hear what they were saying to each other but I just hoped to hell that Fraser was sticking to the script we had agreed in the car as we’d driven off the Finnieston Ferry. I’d told Fraser to say I’d come to see him and I wanted to do a deal. I wanted out of the whole business and just wanted assurances that they would leave me alone. I told Fraser to say that I had told him I had a complete dossier on Strachan, including his new identity and the photograph Paul Downey had taken, and if anything happened to me it would automatically be sent to the police, so on and so forth. I told Fraser to drop in that I had an eyewitness stashed away to boot. The eyewitness they had planned to bump off.

It was all complete guff – other than me having Paul Downey tucked away in a Largs caravan park – and Strachan would know it, but it was all just something for Fraser to say until I got a chance to get the jump on Strachan. And without his goons to support him, although it was still going to be a dangerous play, it was going to be that much easier.

As they talked, Strachan gazed at the ground in concentration and nodded, as if taking in every syllable that Fraser uttered. Then, suddenly, he held up a hand as if telling Fraser to wait. He walked over to the Mayflower and opened the boot. He hauled a small, slightly-built man with dark hair out of the boot and to his feet.

Paul Downey.

I made a start but then checked myself.

‘Good evening, Mr Lennox,’ Strachan called out into the night, but not in my direction. ‘As you see, I have your witness here.’ The accent, like the tailoring, didn’t have even the tiniest vestige of Glasgow about it. Cut-glass clear and modulated, the same way as my chum who took the window exit. ‘When you told Mr Fraser here to call my men off the search for Downey, all we had to do was to follow you. You’re really not as good as you think. Now, Mr Lennox, please don’t be tiresome. Show yourself. I know that you are here.’

It was then that I heard them: the other two. I turned to see one beginning to search the far side of the pier, starting at the top and working his way towards the water. I heard his chum on my side, further back and nearer to where Fraser had parked his car, working his way through the stacks of barrels and crates.

I kept tight, but I was pissed. I was pissed at being hunted again by these bastards. I felt my anger boil in my chest. If I was going to die here, I wasn’t going to be the only one.

‘Mr Lennox … please.’ He sighed and let go of Downey, who stood, his shoulders hunched, as if suspended by an invisible wire. Strachan now stood with Downey on one side, Fraser on the other. ‘Do you know the Fairbairn-Sykes Timetable of Death, Mr Lennox?’ He spoke loudly but did not shout. He knew I was somewhere on the pier. ‘Standard issue for commando and SOE operatives. He reached inside his jacket and slipped something from his belt. Not a gun.

‘Number One …’ Strachan held the F-S fighting knife, the same type with which my attacker had been armed, to the inside of Paul Downey’s arm, ‘the brachial artery. Depth of cut, just half an inch. Loss of consciousness, fourteen seconds. Death, one minute thirty seconds.’

I could hear Downey sob; see his shoulders shake. With lightning speed, Strachan moved the knife to Downey’s wrist. ‘Number Two … radial artery. Depth of cut, only one quarter of an inch. Slightly slower action, however and a smaller target, so I’ve never gone for it myself. Loss of consciousness, thirty seconds. Death, two minutes.’ He paused. ‘Now, Mr Lennox, please show yourself, or my demonstration might become more explicit.’

I stayed put. If he was going to kill Downey, he was going to kill Downey. I just had to work out how to get the three of us out of there. I heard noises closer to me.

Strachan sighed again. ‘All right, Mr Lennox. Do you know I’ve demonstrated these knife strikes more often than I can remember? All through the war. Now we come to the really quick kills. Number Three …’ The knife flashed and was at the side of Downey’s neck. ‘The carotid. Depth of cut, one and a half inches. Loss of consciousness in just five seconds. Death within twelve seconds. Mr Lennox?’

The guy to my right was getting really close. I slipped the Webley from my belt.

‘Now this brings me to my favourite of all strikes …’ Strachan arced his arm up, again so fast that Downey didn’t even flinch, and the blade of the commando knife was angled down resting just behind where Downey’s collar bone would be. ‘The subclavian. The gladiator strike. Depth of cut two and a half inches. Unconsciousness in two seconds. Death in three and a half. Like I said, my favourite of all cuts.’