Norfolk Noir by B.S. Tivadar - HTML preview

THE END

On his return home Blunt noticed his ansaphone blinking in the dark.

There was an urgent message from Flint and Saeed. He decided to call Flint immediately. Within an hour she and Saeed were sat in Blunt's sitting room.

Flint spoke first,

'John, Beaumont has been in touch'

Blunt nodded

'He has advised me to distance myself from you. He says that it is believed that you passed on information to the Israelis that you should have discussed with our Security Services or at the least informed Strumpshaw. They're going to throw the book at you. When you return to the office you're going to be arrested.'

Blunt got up and poured himself a whisky and sat back down before responding. 'is that all?'

'No said Saeed' pausing

'Go on' said his boss

'Saddiqe has been whisked away by the security services. We've been ordered to wrap up any action against her. In fact we've been ordered to act as if she never existed.'

'What about her testimony regarding Morski and Pidrik?' Blunt asked wearily

'Never existed. A deal is apparently being stitched together whereby they are tried for prostitution etc. and then transferred to a Russian prison. Banderovsky will then no doubt deal with them.' continued Saeed

'Why am I not surprised?' whispered Blunt

'And there's more' interrupted Flint looking at her boss who just stared into space considering the fickleness of fate, 'We've all been suspended. The two paedos have complained about us and we've been accused of a cover up'

'And that smug bastard Khan rang me to tell me that he had warned me how it would all end if I didn't do what he wanted' Saeed butted in.

'I think he meant for you tell me' answered Blunt quietly.

He struggled to hold his thoughts and his emotions together whilst sitting in front of his team. The depression had taken such a grip on him that he found it difficult to speak clearly and in whole sentences. His tear ducts interrupted the process. He knew that he could not complete a whole sentence before his voice would quiver with the emotional strain of the depression.

His team sensed his agony but felt powerless. He got up from his chair and walked to his dresser and poured himself a drink. He didn't look at any of them. In halting and strained words, interspersed with sips of whisky, he briefly informed them that he would look to sort things.

He then asked them to go. Afterwards he sat at his dining table. His head ached with pressure and all sorts of thoughts tumbled around his head. He did not feel like doing anything: all motivation to do anything had seeped away. He couldn't concentrate and he couldn't relax. He seemed to be in a constant state of flux. He felt a husk of the man he had been.

He forced himself to concentrate. He had to try and do everything he could for Flint, Saeed, Leibnitz and Cushion. He wrote through the night and attempted to exonerate each member of his team. He wrote that he, and he alone, was responsible for their actions. He had bullied and ordered them into doing things that they objected to.

The blackbirds singing heralded the dawn and the beginning of a new day. He carefully placed the sheets of paper in a brown envelope, sealed it and wrote 'TO WHOM IT MAY CONCERN' on the front. He then left it in a prominent position on the table.

He walked into his conservatory, looked out over the garden and pondered over the last twenty four hours. He had been shaken by the hand by two of the most senior statesmen in the world and someone who would probably be the most powerful man in the world come the end of November. And here he was in Stalham. His world.... his life... in tatters. The Black Dog had won. It had been coming for years. It had never been a case of 'if', it had always been a case of 'when'.

He went over to his oleander plant. He plucked a handful of leaves. He knew what he had to do. He knew that it would always end this way. It had just been a matter of time. He had no fight left and indeed he had nothing to fight for. Every day felt like a struggle. Every day was devoid of any enjoyment. At least the battle in his head would now cease. He would have some peace now. If there was an afterlife he would join Anjii.

Within half an hour of taking his concoction Chief Inspector Blunt slumped in his conservatory easy chair and slipped out of consciousness.