Writing It

Jake, Bigsy and Clare took the taxi to Waterloo and walked back to the venue for the rendezvous with the American. They had devised a relatively simple plan designed to keep some initiative with themselves during the meeting. 

At the Martinez, Amelia waited for the doorbell of room 731 to be answered. Apart from the entrance lobby, there was no particular clue to the type of place she was about to enter. As the door opened, she entered a huge apartment. This may be a hotel room, but it was achingly expensive. The person opening the door was a tall, dark-suited blond-haired woman. 

The frontage of the Martinez was more understated than some of the other grand hotels along the front in Cannes. An original art deco confection, it had been substantially modernised over the last years, which meant it was well-equipped with the latest high-speed internet connections and extensive access to most of the world's cable TV.

Fredriksson’s plane from Riyadh was on time. The journey was about five and a half hours according to the schedule, but he also knew that early morning landings at London’s Heathrow could be delayed. In the event, his arrival was punctual, and because he had been seated at the front of the plane, he’d taken full advantage of the available bed.

Cannes was crowded with a trade event. The city famous for the film festival was used for much of the year for other less well-known events and had many ingredients for a good week away from the office for various types of commercial visitors. Whether it was TV soaps, physiology, retail technology or yachts, there was some show or convention and Cannes could provide lavish hotels and a great backdrop.

A few streets away, Jake’s apartment had been watched for around two hours. Two local petty criminals sourced by a mysterious American were looking for the best way into the flat. The two burglars had seen a few people leave during early morning and then and some routine delivery of milk and mail, but the property looked easy enough to enter.

At the Chelsea Police station, Trueman had been going through standard police procedures for this case. A cold-blooded killing, more like an execution than any random violence. No sign of theft and no real crime scene evidence leading towards the killer.

A noisy kitchen scene, Capital Radio burbling, coffee machine fizzing and an occasional bang from some bacon fried on too high heat. Bigsy, with a cooking spatula in one hand, was already on the telephone. "Thanks, mate- I owe you for this one".

Late afternoon near Deauville, Northern France and a little Cessna plane landed smoothly. It taxied towards an edge of the small but rather exclusive airport. 

A dark Mercedes saloon waited while a woman climbed out of the flight. The driver shook hands with the woman who got into the back of the car which edged quietly away. 

The Triangle

Londoners Clare, Bigsy and Jake stumble into an international mystery after one of their friends meets an unfortunate end.