Dee ignored him and walked straight towards Hickstead, extending her hand.
“Lord Hickstead, we haven’t met. I’m Mrs Josh Hammond. My, you are a handsome man.” She flirted outrageously.
Hickstead, in no mood for this, pointed the gun at her head.
“Not another step, Mrs Hammond. The last time you got close to two of my confederates they needed hospital treatment. I want you to keep your distance.”
Hickstead actually seemed more afraid of her than she seemed of him, even though he was the one holding the gun. He had recognised that Dee was the main danger to his plan, and he was going to neutralise her. I hoped she had a plan, because I had no idea what I should do, and was more than a little worried.
“OK, Sean, stand up and seat yourself against the deckhouse wall.” Hickstead was positioning us where he could cover us all easily. He kept the gun on Dee as he gave further orders.
“Now you, Captain. Sit on your hands until I get a chance to tie you up. Josh, you do the same.” We obeyed, because it seemed sensible to do so. “That’s it, sit on your hands. This is just like Northern Ireland in the 1970s, except I wasn’t allowed to kill them, even though they were killers themselves.”
He removed his leather belt.
“Now, dear lady, turn around, please. I am going to tie your hands.”
Dee giggled.
“Oh, Hicky, I’m not that sort of girl, and I’m married now.”
She held out her left hand to show off her engagement and wedding rings. Old habits die hard, and out of politeness Hickstead looked, as Dee knew he would.
“Shit!” Hickstead shouted, berating himself for falling for the oldest trick in the book.
Before he could look back at Dee’s face and loose off a shot, Dee swung around and whipped him across the face with the cable. Cuts opened up across his cheek. Hickstead fought the pain and brought the gun around, but Dee blocked his swing with her forearm and a shot fired into the superstructure. My new wife grabbed his wrist, and squeezed the pressure points until he dropped the Browning and it skittered across the deck towards the stern.
Hickstead knew that he couldn’t beat Dee like this, and so he decided to use his height advantage. He grabbed her in a bear hug, lifted her up and squeezed. Two of us were on our feet.
“Sit down or I’ll break her back!” He carried on squeezing, and reluctantly we sat down again.
Dee yelled. “Josh! In the lounge…” and then she went limp.
“That’s better,” Hickstead said, relaxing his grip.
But he had been deceived again. Realising that she would not win a battle of brute strength, Dee allowed her body to relax. As soon as her feet touched the deck she launched a vicious head butt into the former Peer’s face. His nose disintegrated and blood sprayed everywhere, but he was fighting for his life and would not let go. She butted him a second time, smashing his cheekbone as he turned, trying to avoid her head. His left eye socket was broken and only skin was holding his eye in place. Still he held on, until Dee took hold of his left arm and forced it backwards to the point where she heard ligaments tear. Hickstead’s left arm fell uselessly to his side, and he moaned.
Unfortunately the double head butt had also disoriented Dee, and they both collapsed on the deck in a heap. Dee was the first to recover and she got to her feet. Apart from Hickstead, we were all on our feet now. It looked as though it was all over. And, still teetering on unsteady feet, Dee looked for the gun.
Her luck wasn’t holding. Hickstead had landed on his Browning. Summoning all the strength he had left, he gripped the gun, pointed it upwards, and without aiming at anything in particular, loosed off a shot.
Dee screamed, stumbled and fell over the rail into the Mediterranean Sea.
***
I looked on in stunned disbelief, standing motionless as I heard the splash of my wife’s body hitting the water. The Captain pushed me towards the lounge and I half fell inside. The Captain dived over the side to save Dee.
I didn’t know what I was looking for until I saw it. I picked it up, set it and stepped onto the deck, aiming at the slowly rising form of an unrecognisable Hickstead.
He had the gun in his right hand and was trying to raise it to a firing position. His face was destroyed and looked like something from a horror movie. The left side of his face had collapsed and the whole of his eyeball was visible.
“Don’t raise that gun or I’ll shoot,” I stated firmly. It was my voice, but it didn’t sound like me.
Hickstead gurgled a laugh from the bloody mouth that hung open to gasp at the air.
“I’m the killer, Josh, not you,” he reminded me as he began to level the gun.
I pulled the trigger on my spear gun and the stainless steel shaft flew straight and true. In a fraction of a second the barbs had penetrated Hickstead’s chest and showed through the back of his jacket.
I thought he would be dead instantly, but he fell to his knees, holding onto the bulkhead for support. I took the gun from his hand.
“Finish it!” he yelled, spraying bright red arterial blood all over the deck.
I left him leaning on the bulkhead and went to find my wife. Expecting the worst, I looked over the side to see the Captain assisting Dee to the ladder. With relief flooding through my body I lifted her into the boat. She was soaking wet, but I couldn’t see any blood. She lifted her left arm and there was a new bullet hole just inches from the other one.
I led her to a recliner and laid her down. The Captain bound the wound tightly, but it was difficult because the bullet had entered underneath her armpit and exited behind the shoulder.
The Captain said he would get the yacht started and we would be back onshore in five minutes.
“I thought Dee had damaged the main ignition cable,” I said, a little naively.
“No, she didn’t. She pressed the emergency fuel cut off in the engine room and came onto the deck brandishing the cooker cable. So I had to get inventive.”
I smiled and held Dee tight. I looked across at Hickstead. There was still life in him, although it was ebbing fast. He certainly wouldn’t make it to shore. As he kneeled, breathing his last, he looked up and saw Dee sitting up, holding her arm. He must have realised at that point that he had robbed me of nothing, nothing at all.
Epilogue
I kissed Dee goodbye at the tube station entrance. She made her way to No. 1 Poultry and I headed off to Ropemaker Street. Dee still had her left arm in a sling, but I knew for a fact that she would discard it as soon as I wasn’t looking.
I arrived at the office to find the Times on my desk, open at the obituary page. I read the most prominent of the articles.
‘Arthur Hickstead, formerly Lord Hickstead, has passed away peacefully whilst on a retreat in Cyprus. Former Trade Union President and European Commissioner, he was a committed public servant. Friends say that the reason the Lords withdrew his peerage was so that he could try his hand at helping Labour back into power as an MP.
At his request the burial was a small family affair. A spokesman for the family said that Arthur never liked pomp and ceremony and so didn’t expect it at his funeral.’
I folded the paper and looked at my messages. DCI Boniface wanted a statement to confirm that Lord Hickstead had admitted to the murders of Sir Max Rochester and Andrew Cuthbertson. I would probably walk over to Wood Street at lunchtime and do what I could to ensure that Charlotte Cuthbertson benefitted from Andrew’s life assurance policy.
We loss adjusters have hearts as well.
J Jackson Bentley writes both fiction and non-fiction books and has been a published author for over sixteen years. He now works as a Legal Consultant in the UK, the USA, the Middle East and the Far East. His spare time is spent writing at home in the UK and in Florida. Married with four grown children he is currently writing a new thriller set in Dubai which has a horse racing theme.