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The food service outlets had pulled down their shutters over an hour ago and there were just three people waiting on the platform, including himself. One was a youngish guy mid twenties wearing wide baggy cargo trousers, who was transfixed by his phone. He was perched on an uncomfortable looking steel bar that circled the lower edge of the darkened caf He tapped the screen only with his thumbs, frowning in deep concentration. Colin Fisher couldn't see the display, but he guessed it was some sort of fighting game. Zombies, maybe. The other person on the platform was Gita Wisocki.
The drunk brought a fat sweaty palm straight down hard on Colin's left wrist. ''In the SAS, they teach you things.''
The drunk finished the can and then crushed it, as though it was the most perfectly natural thing to do.
BRITISH train stations were draughty places, even in the summer months. Colin Fisher had never quite worked out why, but maybe it was something to do with the design. What he did know was that he was shivering on platform 3A at Derby station, waiting for the 11.50 night train to Plymouth. And this was August.
slipped it into her designer handbag. The train was well lit and practically deserted, just as he'd expected. Combat Guy sat in the bicycle booth, in the front carriage, even though he didn't have a bicycle.
''Are you telling me to dump this in the bin? Like right now?''
He unzipped the front pocket of his holdall and pulled out a crumpled copy of The Times, placed it on the table in front of him, open on the crossword page. Then he plucked a silver Paper Mate from the breast pocket of his summer jacket. The pen actually worked, but it wasn't its primary function
''They teach you how to hurt people,'' he said. ''Without weapons.''
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Colin sensed danger. And possible discovery. Gita Wisocki sat two table seats in front of him, staring out of the window. He was unseen to her. It needed to remain that way. He gave the briefest of smiles before taking a can and popping open the tab.
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''You know much about the Military? Special Forces? SAS?''
''I need to use the toilet,'' he insisted.
The top of the Gucci was wide open. Colin knew it was a perfect opportunity. A chance for him to capture the curled stack of banknotes that were in there. All He knew he should get out of his seat, head for the toilet, but the drunk was pinning him to the seat with his dead eyed stare.
It was fortunate that Gita had seated herself close to the door, because directly above her seat, slightly to the left, was the information screen. Colin clicked the pen as though readying Nike Dunk Unkle himself to start a puzzle. The micro camera, hidden in the shaft, captured the image perfectly, along with the time tag of 11.52pm.
to capture the details. Vague and grainy photographs all too often didn't count as evidence in the divorce courts.
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''I'm not telling you to do anything. Just saying that there's a bin down the aisle.''
It was just after they pulled in to Burton on Trent when Gita checked out her mobile again. She'd opened the Gucci and appeared to be searching the inner pockets. Colin was about to capture another image when a bruised and sweaty man chose the seat opposite to him, completely blocking his view.
Leszek Wisocki wanted full chronology. Blow by blow, half hour by half hour, all recorded. Gita was meeting her lover at Birmingham New Street station. From there they were to fly into some kind of sunset. That much had been established so far. What was yet to be established was the identity of the lover and exact location of the sunset. Leszek Wisocki wanted names, places, trails. Considering what was hidden in the Gucci, Colin didn't blame him.
''You want to share a beer with me?'' the drunk said, indicating the cans. ''Promise I'll put my empty in the bin.''
''Sorry about that,'' he said. ''Been a long night.''
The drunk pushed himself to his feet, gave Colin a look and lugged his weight to wards the bin. When he returned he sat down hard in the seat and reached into his Army style travel bag, pulled out a four pack of the same strong lager.
When the Plymouth bound Cross Country pulled in, Gita slapped her phone shut and Nike Foamposite Navy Blue
Colin's watch was starting to dig into his skin. ''I really do need to pay a visit.''
fifties, heavy eyed, paunchy, wasted. The bridge of his nose was seriously cut and there was a spreading bruise just below his left eye. He placed a green Army style canvas travel bag on the table between them, ignoring the overhead storage rail. He clutched a can of strong lager and was already spilling some of it on the table as he squeezed his bulk into the opposite seat.
Gita chose a window seat closest to the door. She placed her Gucci on the aisle seat rather than the luggage rack. Colin lugged his Kangol overnight holdall down the aisle and decided on a table seat, facing her, a respectable distance away.
Gita stood, folded her mobile, slipped it into the Gucci and marched towards the front carriage, away from the information screen.
Colin did not. But he guessed what was coming. Drunks were often Walter Mitty characters who embroidered colourful pasts for themselves when talking to strangers.
Even in the shadows, she was one hell of a looker. Tall, slim, catlike. She was 35 and until this morning had worked in the accounts department of her husband's mini market grocery chain, Leszec's FoodMart, mainly catering for the Polish market. The heavy looking bag hanging over her shoulder was top end Gucci and the shoes were Jimmy Choo.
Colin glanced over the big man's shoulder and saw Gita now was talking on the phone. One moment she was smiling, the next frowning. Her lover, perhaps? Anticipating their Birmingham New Street rendezvous?
''There's a bin just down the aisle,'' Colin said, checking the screen of his Samsung. The camera pen had instantly sent the jpeg to his digital library.
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