Loveless & Godstone Regret

LOVELESS & GODSTONE REGRET

Published February 2013

Text Copyright © Mark Williams 2012

The moral rights of the author have been asserted

All rights reserved

No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying or otherwise, without the prior permission of Mark Williams the author.

Smashwords Edition, Licence Notes

This ebook is licenced for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient.

Thank you for respecting the work of the author.

To watch the animated promo

for Loveless & Godstone Regret please open below:

http://www.markwilliamsnovels.com

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Promo

Chapter 1

In the early Monday morning rush on the only dry day in June, a line of passengers spread out along platform four of London's Vauxhall railway station. The Victorian station had seen generations of commuters driven to despair at the failings of the transport system. But it was all going to end and it wouldn't end well.

The depressed horde all knew where to wait. Some speed walked to the end, thinking that when the train arrived the far carriages might be less crowded. Others lined up against bollards on the opposite platform or flecks of paint on the floor, knowing from experience that when the train pulled in, they'd be stood in front of the doors and might for a brief moment have a chance of getting onboard. Newcomers to the station inadvertently standing on one of those secret markers, paid for their crime. The revulsion of the Monday morning had already led to one pushing and shoving incident in the south end of the platform. A regular customer at the north end, using the excuse of falling onto the track, wasn't fooling anyone as he climbed back up a full twenty metres from where he fell and shoved his way into his favourite spot over the cracked section of tarmac.

There was one last jostle of position and a sharp elbow in the rib of an unsuspecting pregnant woman as the automatic station announcement declared that the train was delayed and would arrive in… one… minute, they were sorry for any inconvenience caused.

Unknown to the irritated crowd and the long dead voice over artist, there was a much greater inconvenience about to be caused and for once it wasn't because of the incompetence of the rail company.

In the station's very last minute of existence a conversation took place on the platform that would give an insight into this great inconvenience. The conversation should have taken place in a secure government briefing room or clandestine laboratory. The fact that it actually took place at Vauxhall Station was perhaps a coincidence. But when it also took place at the precise time of the forthcoming event, it showed it was more than just chance, it showed it was connected. Not connected in the sense of usual conversations relating to a great inconvenience, such as:

'The pins come out of that grenade!!'

'No it hasn't!!'

'Yes it bloody well...'

The actual conversation was connected more distantly and by its remoteness it could be dismissed as simply an oddity. However an open minded person examining the facts with a good knowledge of probabilities may well realise that the more unlikely the coincidence, the more likely that it pointed to the existence of forces of nature that we can only begin to imagine.

The revealing conversation in question was between Professor Forsythe, Head of Forensics at the Ministry of Justice and Kate Davis a mid-level Military analyst at the Ministry of Defence. They had met they thought by accident on the platform as they were in fact not due to see each other until the afternoon. However as everyone on the station was watching a fight taking place between a Goldman Sachs stockbroker, who had accidentally trod on the toe of a peace activist, Forsythe and Davis felt they were quite safe to discuss their confidential business in public.

'So you've had a good look at it?' asked Davis.

Davis was referring to a severed finger she had sent the Professor.

'What my department need to know' she continued 'is do you think it's possible to have the same fingerprints in different people?'

'Well I think a recent study reckoned it was something like 10 to the power of 9 against' said the Professor, not realising he wasn't speaking English.

'What d'you mean?' asked Davis.

'Chances of a duplicate being 1 person in 1 billion or is it 10 billion hang on...'

'So two people on the planet could have the same fingerprints?'

'Yes, if it's 1 in 1 billion then mathematically there's 6 people walking around on the planet today with exactly the same fingerprints.'

'So by that you're saying, for example, someone in the past could have the same fingerprints as someone today.'

'Well yes of all the people who have ever lived, that's a huge amount of people, so mathematically there's no reason why you can't have someone with exactly the same fingerprints as Anne Boleyn, although she had six fingers so probably not her... Captain Hook.' The Professor stopped as he could see Davis had no sense of humour.

'What about DNA?' she asked.

'Different kettle of fish, that's much more unlikely more like 1 in...'

The Professor paused as he watched the peace activist, who was in a headlock, break the usual rules of engagement by putting his hand down Goldman Sachs's suit trousers. There was a gasp along the platform as it became clear the hippy pacifist was trying to perform a rudimentary vasectomy using his CND badge.

'So if the finger has the same finger prints, same DNA...' said Davis.

'It's a match.' interrupted the Professor. 'I don't know what you're matching it against, but if you've got the same DNA, same fingerprints, it's an absolute match, no question. Any court in the world would convict on that evidence, what's your problem?'

'The problem is that the evidence is just so hard to believe.' said Davis.

'Why? Who does it match to, what's the crime? Is it Prince Harry's finger, where did he leave it?'

'The finger matches a serving Inspector in the Metropolitan Police.' said Davis.

'And he's a criminal? Come on that's not hard to believe. Scotland Yard's full of them. You shouldn't be so naive my dear.' laughed the Professor.

Kate Davis was annoyed the Professor was a patronising old fool and she took relish in delivering the crux of the case.

'It's hard to believe because his finger was found in an archaeological dig, preserved in peat and this is the problem. Carbon dating says it's around 370 years old, yet the fingerprints and DNA match a policeman who's alive today.'

'Well the carbon dating must be wrong, not the fingerprints.'

'It isn't.' said Davis 'I've had nearly a hundred different tests run on it, it's that old.'

'Well it must be wrong.'

'It's not wrong we were hoping it would be wrong, but with the same DNA, fingerprints and the same tattoo...'

'Tattoo? The Roman numeral?'

The Professor was flustered and rummaged through his briefcase. He pulled out a photograph of the severed finger, the finger was swollen and had a waxy flesh. A faded blue tattoo was on the front of the finger, it was a Roman numeral, a large I.

'And the policeman has the same tattoo?' asked the Professor.

Davis opened her ipad and swiped to an image of two hands that had the tattoo 'MILL WALL' across both hands. The second index finger sporting the 'I' from 'MILL' was a dead match.

'Well have you asked him how he lost it?' asked the Professor.

'I haven't asked him anything, do you know how crazy this sounds I could get fired, but according to his fitness report he hasn't lost it, he's still got it?'

Goldman Sachs screamed.

'We think the only way his finger winds up in an archaeological dig and ageing by 370 years is by him...' she paused as she looked around 'is by him or at least his finger travelling in time.'

'But that's impossible... Where is this Police Inspector?' asked the Professor.

'He's disappeared.' said Davis.

Suddenly the Professor's jaw dropped along with half the platform. Goldman Sachs was bleeding from the groin but nobody was looking at him. The delayed incoming train was trundling into view. It was a massive black 1944 class German locomotive train, billowing smoke and steam as it slowed along the length of the platform.

This was obviously for a film being shot, because not only was there a huge steam train where their normal slow, rickety and ironically named 'Thames Turbo' train should be. There were large Nazi Swastika banners and flags festooned on every spare plate of livery. As the train stopped, people started to ask questions.

'What's going on?'

'These swastikas aren't allowed are they?'

'Where's the film crew?'

'I hope there's still a quiet carriage?'

'Is this UKIP?'

But what the Professor, Davis or anyone else failed to ask was, how many seconds did the red LED countdown, connected to the very large bomb onboard have remaining? If they did, they wouldn't have long to think about it. Because the countdown had just three seconds before it reached zero. The station, very near to the river, not too far from the London eye and Parliament, was peaceful when viewed from the air, but it was about to change and nothing would look the same again. The countdown reached two, then one, then zero. The black cast iron steam train suddenly turned to dust and a shock wave set off on the fastest journey ever recorded from Vauxhall. The explosion was large, it was a nuclear explosion. A mushroom cloud rose high above the capital as the shockwave below rippled through the dying city.

Chapter 2

Two days earlier Jack Loveless had not had a good day and his evening was getting worse. It was getting dark and in central London it looked like it might rain. He'd never scuba dived before and the transit van he was driving was very much out of his comfort zone. The seat was cramped and he'd just lost his wing mirror by swiping a bus. An irate Hell's Angel was chasing him. It could have been for any number of driving offences he had committed in the last 15 minutes. The seat was cramped because he was wearing an aqua lung on his back but none of these things bothered Loveless as much as the bomb he had strapped to his chest. Loveless was 35 and he prayed he was going to make it to 36. He was wearing a bright orange wetsuit and an orange crash helmet which looked like it was manufactured on the request of the marketing department for a Satsuma company.

Jack Loveless worked as a video editor, editing daytime television programmes that nobody watched, he amused himself by adding fart sound effects to presenters he particularly disliked. He was six foot and thought he was averagely good looking, but he wasn't. He worked in solitary and lived for the weekend, which is where the trouble started. The previous Saturday his natural clumsiness brought him to the attention of 4th rate gangsters, who decided to use him to do their dirty work.

Loveless accidentally cost the gangsters a small fortune by arguing with a Gypsy fire breather at a music festival in the port of Dover. The fire breather turned nasty and Loveless caused the gang's first foray into drug trafficking to turn sour. The big Gypsy fire breather blew a flaming jet that missed Loveless but did hit the gangster's drug trafficker. He happened to be meeting the gang in Dover having just arrived from the continent. The flames caused the mule's bulky drug laden coat to be incinerated. Loveless argued that if anyone was going to be blamed it was the big Gypsy. But the gang weren't that tough, and why add to their troubles by starting a Gypsy war when they thought Loveless would do a good a job. They were going to be proved very wrong.

'What?' Loveless shouted whilst his nervous sweaty hand slipped off the van's steering wheel. He couldn't make out his instructions that were being barked at him through his earpiece. He grabbed the side of his orange helmet, in an attempt to push the cheap headphone that had been secured in his ear with playdoh and gaffer tape. He finally heard his frantic instruction.

'Right, okay I'm doing it!!' he replied.

He jammed on his brakes. Cars in the early evening traffic narrowly avoided him as he skidded to a halt near the Soho square branch of Bruleys bank. Loveless had a degree from Preston University but unfortunately for him, it was in history, not bank robbery. He struggled out of his seat and manoeuvred his way to the back where a DIY hatch had been cut in the floor. He lifted it up and was grateful the plan was working, he had stopped where he was supposed to, over a manhole in the road.

***

Inside a shabby office on the top floor of a building that hadn't seen a lick of paint in forty years, two men sat across a desk looking at each other. One of them was Inspector Harry Godstone. He was politely described in some circles as a man who'd lost his way, by others who were quite sure that he couldn't hear them, he was described as a vehement lunatic with a screw loose when it came to violence. His fingers were tattooed with the notorious football club MILLWALL. The tattoo was a permanent reminder from a misunderstanding when setting up a disguise from an undercover job he once took into curbing football violence. The undercover assignment to infiltrate a gang of football hooligans unfortunately elicited no convictions. Thanks to 'Operation one goal', later nicknamed 'own goal', the club's violence increased significantly with Inspector Harry Godstone's involvement. The real low of the operation and a PR disaster for the Police force was when he was named and shamed by The Sun newspaper after they printed his photograph on their front page, stamping on a paramedic at an away game.

He didn't care about anyone anymore, least of all himself and because he was a policeman, he was a huge menace to society. A home office review into officers carrying weapons demanded that he be disarmed.

The other man sat at the desk was Ford, he was the tenant of the shabby office and unfortunately for him, Harry Godstone hadn't lost his gun as he had illegally kept it, but he had just lost his temper. Ford looked like some mid level accountant, probably for organised crime due to the fact that Harry Godstone was in his office. Although Harry; even though he was a Police Inspector, hardly ever investigated the mob. He was always passed over for the prestigious jobs. Judging by Harry's recent collars, Ford was probably a male prostitute or someone who had shat themselves on the train or both. But either way, Ford was in trouble.

Harry Godstone picked Ford up from his chair and rammed him against the wall.

'Okay you asked for it, I'll show you I'm serious!' shouted Harry.

He pulled out his revoked police issue revolver and held it under Ford's chin.

'Officer I believe you! Don't kill me!' pleaded Ford 'I'll tell you what you want to hear'.

'Too late, you had your chance!'

Harry kneed Ford in the groin, freeing both his hands to load two bullets into his unusually empty revolver. He span the chamber.

'Officer!' Ford spluttered. 'Don't do it!'

'Quiet!' snapped Harry.

Harry slammed the revolver shut and then turned the gun on himself, he pulled the trigger twice. The gun was aimed at his heart but failed to find the bullets. He lowered the pistol and stared at Ford.

'…How does that make you feel?' Ford asked slowly after a long pause.

'I'm disappointed.' said Harry.

'Well, your hour's up!' said Ford nervously.

'Doctor, that's no way been an hour!' shouted Harry.

'Get out of my office!!' said Ford, realising that he couldn't take anymore.

'Well okay I'll see you next week then'

'No way, you psycho, that's the last straw!! You can find another Psychiatrist!!'

***

Loveless stood in the back of the transit van and stared down at the manhole in the road. He looked up and could see through the tinted rear windows that cars were swerving around his van, they were tooting their disgust at his parking. But he didn't care about a traffic misdemeanour he had bigger things on his mind. He could hear the crackle from the earpiece and he could make out the breathing of the man who was behind his current predicament.

That man was Terence, he was the fourth rate gangster that had chosen Loveless instead of a fire breathing Gypsy. He lived inside a block of flats that would look better after the upcoming nuclear explosion. He was a fat man and he was sitting at a table in the back bedroom of one of the dampest eighth floor apartments. He was surrounded by cheap and unreliable electrical equipment. There were eight computers with their corresponding monitors displaying vault schematics, heart monitors, blueprints and ten pin bowling. The sound of a police scanner filled the bedroom. Electrical cables, old crisp packets and pizza boxes all gathered in the corner of the bedroom towards the single overloaded plug. Terence was in control of this fire hazard, and like Loveless he also had a degree, but unfortunately it was in home economics, not bank robbery. He took some dog biscuits out of a box on his cluttered desk, threw one to his Doberman and ate the rest himself.

There was a microphone mounted on his desk, he grabbed it and barked into it, 'Loveless! How you getting on?!' This was like asking a McDonalds crew member if they really were 'lovin it'.

Loveless was struggling with the manhole, the hole cut in the floor of the van wasn't big enough. The exhaust pipe that was crudely bent around the hole was melting his wetsuit and burning his leg. The aqualung and bomb weren't making it easy to bend and now the voice of Terence was in his ear, asking him 'How you getting on?!'

'Fine.' he lied as he managed to lift the man hole with a stolen crazy golf club, the incorrect tool he'd been given for the task.

Inside the flat, Terence looked at a man in the corner of the room, he was in his late fifties, he was Loveless's father and he was tied to an office wheelie chair. He was wearing an identical bomb to that of Loveless. The red LED was displaying a timer that was synchronised with Loveless's, it read one hour, twenty eight minutes and was counting down to detonation. Terence reached for the microphone again.

'Loveless the clock is ticking, do this right or you and your Dad are dead!'

Loveless was squeezing his shoulders out of the van and was trying to climb down the steps of the manhole, making his descent into the sewer.

'Don't hurt my Dad!! Tell him nothing is going to go wrong!'

A taxi suddenly hit the back of the van, shunting it forward. Loveless screamed like a baby, as the van and taxi shot over his head. He watched to see his van hit a car, which he gathered was an unmarked police car as its lights started flashing with the impact. Loveless cowered in the road with just his head above the ground.

'Crap it!' he shouted.

At that moment the irate Hell's Angel rode into Soho square. The actual driving offence which caused the rider's rage, was when Loveless mounted the pavement and hit a row of vintage Harley Davidsons parked outside a bikers bar in Mayfair. Which meant that the Hell's Angel, wasn't a Hell's Angel at all. He was like the rest of the clientele from the Mayfair bar, a middle aged stock broker deep into his mid life crisis. In his pursuit of speed and revenge he hadn't noticed the back of Loveless's bright orange helmet. He hit it and flew over his handlebars. Loveless fell downwards into the sewer.

As expected before Loveless embarked on this misadventure, all the recent rain meant the water was deep. Of course describing this as water was entirely wrong, it was in fact the most disgusting water in Britain. Soho square was a smelly puke covered cesspit above ground, below it was far worse. Loveless always imagined scuba diving would be a wonderful experience, swimming amongst fast brightly coloured fish, where he could discover the monsters of the deep. Well there were monsters in the sewer, monsters the Victorian designers didn't envisage. Half the modern population using the Soho sewers were burger eating tourists, the other half were high fibre munching gym addicts. The result was the worst experience Loveless had ever encountered; strangely it was exactly 10 metres below his second worst experience. Eight years previously in Soho square Loveless had fallen asleep and awoken to find his drunken body being used as the ball in the unknown secret sport played by tramps after midnight of 'hoochney'. It was similar to rugby but much more violent. There were only two rules to the game, firstly there were to be no spectators, anyone watching was quickly