Short Story: The Chase

Short Story: The Chase

Carla Britten is the essence of simplicity and elegance. Her lengthy stature is accentuated by the flowing lines of her soft, woollen clothing. Purple, tapered with grey, reflecting her warm skin tones and rose coloured lips. Red glasses, with modern, minimalist frames hinting at joy and confidence. A solitary ring on one hand with a jangling arm of entwining bracelets framing the other. She is confident in her skin and people are drawn to her. What better person to organise your big event - the wedding of the year, the local town twinning receptions, traditional corporate do’s?

“You remind me of someone,” is an often heard comment. “I have one of those faces,” is the often heard reply. Throwing her head back in a hearty laugh, her head for business and attention to detail are subtly masked. Although never ostentatious, she can afford to be relaxed about her daily routines, literally. A single woman with means. In control of those around her, a master player in the game of gossiping and as such, people had now forgotten their itching questions of how she had appeared so unexpectedly on their well charted scene. Everyone knows everything about everyone here. Yet Carla knows more about everyone and everything than anyone else will ever know.

That had been her job after all. Some skills should never be lost, never be unused and laid to waste. You should always be aware of the escape routes. She would always know. How had they not foreseen her escape? How naive people were. To commit the perfect crime, track the criminals, learn from their mistakes. To hide well,and to learn from the seekers.

The reality was that Carla was genuinely happy, for the first time in a long time. People actually seemed to like her. She enjoyed the monotonous routine of a nine to five-ish job, drinking endless cups of decent coffee with potential fun seeking clients. A job as events co-ordinator was an inspired choice, especially one tucked away in a backwater of the Highlands. A job within which she could remain unknown to outsiders except for the selected and well-vetted few.

She had chosen a modest hotel, which nevertheless managed to attract a steady footfall and which she had, incidentally, transformed into a relatively sought after event attraction within six months. Six months. What a difference.

Now she was on a stage, building a set around her, fleshing out her character into a three dimensional being. Nothing is too much trouble, at the right price. She was reassuring with a gentle squeeze of an arm, generous of nature with a broad welcoming embrace, earnest with intense attention. Eye to eye, face to face, gently persuasive. It was all in the mind of the observer. If you perceive it to be real, it is real. Body language was the gateway into the soul. Personal space could be gently eroded and even welcomed by wallets waiting to be opened. Here there were no threats, no dark corners, and no temptation to steal more money. The trick was knowing when to stop. Greed was not an attractive trait.

She would give it a year, enjoying the life, the money and all that came with it but then she should up sticks and reinvent herself again.

She had illicitly opted out of the Witness Protection Program, affectionately called the WPP, because they were well intentioned but in reality could not secure her safety. It was her choice. She simply did not want to move abroad. A choice which, six months in, had proven to be a wise one, as the Scottish summer complimented her internal climate.

There were things that she did miss however. When she had first left Scotland Yard it was difficult not to conspire with new colleagues, mostly ex-old bill, all buried together in the role of ‘heir hunters‘ digging up unsuspecting, soon to be wealthy, relatives of the sorely missed deceased. Everyone tacitly acknowledged the communal longing behind their favourite phrase, “I miss a good murder”. But it was more than that. They missed being in the know. Knowledge was power and they all knew it. You were nothing unless you knew everything. It was funny how this mantra now extended out into her new life. Her fleece-lined comfort blanket of a life. As a point of note, she did still miss a good murder, but that was the fun side.

What she really missed was the polystyrene cups of instant coffee huddled over specialised technologies, working into the small hours of the morning, searching and learning with like minded people, predominantly men.

Men. She missed the men. The banter, the strength and inspiration. Yet up against it, the competition was on as to who could evidence the most credible theories, who could stay the course, no cracking, no weakness in the face of cross examinations by their peers. Open, honest and persuasive. Results mattered.

It goes without saying that things changed. Events around her changed. Sometimes there is such a thing as being too clever for your own good. There was no elegance back then. No soft woollen clothing and designer jewellery. Outside of the corridors of power they faced different realities. One worthy case had backfired into untenable threats and the advise from on high was to cut and run.

Some knowledge is simply enough to overload the grid and the repercussions are electric shocks reverberating through what were formerly well insulated channels. The irrevocable damage caused by her investigations would be avenged and her being the target had been an unwelcome consequence.

At Heir Hunters salvation had come from an unexpected quarter. It was an open and shut case. The family was conveniently untraceable, time was up and the money was going to the government. A substantial legacy of some £76,000. Money. What could that get you? A means of escape, without the worry of support from the WPP. The moral debate only took a minute. Identity theft was child’s play and Karen Morgan was rapidly brought to life to claim the precious prize. Several other ‘lucky’ benefactors followed, sporadic cases with varied revenues and extenuating circumstances. Then, time to cut the cord. She had gained enough for now.

Carla Britten, or ‘Little Miss. Google’ as she was dubbed by her hotel team, fed her mind with broad-ranging information dredged daily from the mass media. Newspapers were too tiresome, too obvious.

She could not release herself from both the daily challenge of keeping her wits about her and the need to update and review her security. She still hankered after the dramatic, the secrets, the thrill of the chase. There was no doubt she was content, or as content as she could be and whilst she secretly revelled in her new audience’s response to her own private Oscar winning performance, she also had to fight the boredom. The odd visit to London had provided her with the required dose of adrenaline, using event management as cover of course, but now a blasé glance at the coming week end’s guest list brought London straight to her.

The name was too unusual to be coincidental. Theodore Galpin. Her breath caught in her throat. A former team mate. A real team mate. An unexpected surprise. There could be no distractions here. The event would have to be perfect to keep her unwanted, unseen. Unseen, until she wanted to be revealed. A chance for playtime. The anticipation was unbearable. She had to prepare. It was time to be ready.

And ready she was. She enthused with the host, pressing through the details of the day, anticipating the night’s delights. Not a hitch in sight. She was ready to go. Picking the right moment was the key. She had all the cards, the total advantage, she was expecting to see him, she knew where he would be seated, strategically placed. He on the other hand would need a moment to register the reality in front of him. He had not seen or heard of Cathy Barker for two years now. When, as Becky Chalmers, under his protection, she had left the heir hunters, it was sudden and unexpected. They had lost her. Tonight he would triumph in his discovery, the game would be back on. She would have to return with him, all thoughts of a good night out extinguished. How stupid was she? No one could hide forever. Everyone made mistakes if you gave them long enough. The glory of the find.

The dinner had not even been served yet. She opened the door from the butler’s corridor into the buzzing dining room. She waited patiently, smiling benignly to all, but focussing on one. He was but five metres from her.

It only took a couple of minutes before he felt a presence and he glanced over to check out who was watching him. He simply stared. Within a couple of seconds he blinked and rubbed a finger across his left temple. He didn’t need a second glance to realise what he was party to. Carla, Becky, Cathy, take your pick. She mouthed “hello” and retreated into the corridor closing the door with assured confidence. He was simply too slow.

Morag Donaldson is the essence of simplicity and elegance. Her lengthy stature is accentuated by the flowing lines of her soft, woollen clothing. Her attention to detail is remarkable. Even Mr. Morgan realised he had achieved a coup inviting her onto his team. Few people of her experience were willing to move to such a backwater in Mid Wales. Yet, he recognized that in his line of work, it was sometimes better not to ask questions.