The Assassin's Gift Read online

  The question annoyed her, but it also excited her.

  She lived in a binary world. People lived or they died. Life or death. There was very little grey in-between. To Alessandra the world held few mysteries.

  Could it be that she might have just encountered one of them?

  Opening her eyes, and laughing aloud as the wind suddenly increased in strength and drove the boat forward faster, she made up her mind.

  Instead of leaving Scotland in two days time and flying down to the Med to join the Sea Bream, she was going to stay a while longer.

  Normally, as soon as she killed someone she would leave the area immediately, by as circuitous a route as possible. The original plan had been to drive down south and catch a ferry to Ireland, and from there fly to Greece, avoiding the watch lists and CCTV at any major UK airport.

  Tomorrow however, she would drive back to Loch Ness and see what she could learn about the monster.

  Was she mad? Had days of lying in the grass on a Scottish mountainside somehow affected her reasoning?

  Perhaps.

  But Alessandra didn't care.

  It had been years since she'd had an adventure, and now she'd got one.

  With Salvador gone, it was time for Alessandra Moretti to take a holiday.

  .

  --------------------

  Thursday

  Edinburgh

  St Leonards Police Station

  10.00 a.m.

  DCI Campbell McKenzie stood at the window of his office in St Leonards, staring out of the window at Arthur's Seat, but focusing on nothing in particular.

  In his right hand he held the card advertising the name of the marriage guidance counsellor he had been recommended to call. In his heart he knew it was the right thing to do. In his mind, he couldn't face it.

  Ever since the events of six months’ before, Campbell McKenzie and his wife had been having 'problems'. Not problems caused by anything that Mrs McKenzie had done. She had done nothing. And to this day, she did not yet know what the source of their troubles was.

  Campbell was racked with guilt, and it was that guilt which was poisoning his marriage now.

  Unfortunately it was also not the single act of adultery which he had committed which was the source of the guilt. It was more complicated than that. As with so many things in Campbell's life, nothing was ever straightforward. Campbell's life had been a succession of monumental mistakes, followed by ever more monumental complications.

  Nothing however could top what had happened to him half a year ago, when after having fought and grappled with his lust for a junior colleague for over a year, the stress of the mutual case they were working on had ended up with them falling into bed with each other, and giving into everything which he knew to be wrong.

  That was bad enough. However, within hours of them doing the deed which Campbell had stupidly allowed himself to enjoy more than he could ever possibly have expected, his partner in the crime and beneath the sheets, DI Wessex, had been murdered by her ex-boyfriend. An ex-boyfriend who was sadly only too well known to DCI Campbell, being the focus of his investigations at the time and the second largest crime lord in Scotland.

  But that. Was. Not. All.

  The crime lord, ex-boyfriend Tommy McNunn, had framed Campbell for her murder. It was his - Campbell's - sperm that had been found inside Wessex's body, having been stolen and extracted from the condom he'd used with Wessex the night before and then placed inside her moments after her murder at the hands of McNunn.

  Definitely complicated.

  Made even worse still... because Wessex had been killed so soon after his infidelity, with no real natural opportunity afforded to Campbell for him to regret his actions.

  True. He regretted what he had done, after the fact... but could, would Campbell be able to face his wife and tell her that it had been a one-off? That it would never have happened again had she lived?

  The truth was not obvious.

  Wessex was dead. Murdered. Probably because of him. He felt guilty for that. Too.

  But probably even more so and worst of all was the fact that there had been many times since when he had fondly remembered the night they had 'fucked' each other senseless and enjoyed it. All these months later, he could still taste her skin on his lips. The sense of her nipple prodding gently against his eye. The softness of her breasts. And the sound of her voice as she purred in the moment of orgasm.

  He felt guilty, yes.

  But nowhere guilty enough.

  Her death had ensured that the memory would never tarnish. Her body would always remain perfect, and desirable, and like a fresh rose, the scent of her would never fade.

  So, how could he tell his wife the truth of what had happened?

  Yet, he had to.

  The trial of Tommy McNunn for her murder was due to start in several weeks time.

  The next monumental fuck-up in Campbell's life was just around the corner.

  Either he told his own wife what had happened, or some trial reporter would print it all in the Evening News and she would read it then.

  It had been six months now. Campbell couldn't hide it much longer.

  Time was running out.

  Campbell looked down from staring at the top of Arthur's Seat, the large hill which dominated the centre of Edinburgh, and stared at the number on the card.

  He should call the counsellor.

  He needed to talk to someone about this.

  And he needed to tell his wife.

  Soon.

  Very soon indeed.

  .

  ------------------

  Thursday

  Edinburgh

  Plockton

  The hypnotic demands of sailing are such that no man, - or woman, can remain focused on their thoughts for long. Once the wind picks up, the sails fill, the sea unfurls before the bow, and the white noise of the water and wind rushes over the crew, soon all thoughts are lost and time becomes meaningless.

  There is only the sea, the boat, and the wind.

  And so it was with Alessandra Moretti.

  Alone at sea she forgot her background, her life, and who she had become.

  At sea there was no need for multiple names, false passports, and invented lives.

  If she ever did manage to dream or think back on her life, it was the memories of her early childhood that filled her mind.

  Sometimes, when the sun was shining on her face, and the light danced on the waves in front of her, she would once again feel her father's arms around her. Holding her. Teaching her. Reassuring her.

  Perhaps, subconsciously, that is why she loved to sail so much. It gave her a chance to commune with lost memories of the only man she had ever truly loved.

  Her father had been a wonderful sailor. They had their own sailing boat, and as soon as she had learned to swim, which had been when she was very young, perhaps three or four, her father had taken her to sea with him.

  She had laughed then at the thrill of it all, and now when she laughed aloud amongst the waves and wind all these years later, it was the same Alessandra deep inside that responded to the elements and the power of nature.

  She and her father had been very similar. Kindred spirits.

  She had loved her father.

  He had been her rock.

  Before the Mafia had murdered him.

  Alessandra's father had taught her many things.

  Including how to fire a gun. Which, in the end, had been the one thing that he had taught her which had most influenced the rest of her life, and even her choice of career.

  Alessandra had grown up in Sicily, and her father had been a popular Sicilian, loved by many, and also feared by others.

  At the tender age of six, however, she had not been exposed to the fear. Yet, she had easily recognised the love that others had shown him, and had acknowledged the respect that those who feared him had afforded him. For a little girl so young, to see everyone respond to her father so positively made her believe he
r father to be one in a million.

  Then one day, in the middle of a long summer's afternoon, one of her many 'uncles' had come to visit her father. Alessandra had many 'uncles' during those days. Their house was always filled with men, laughing and drinking. That afternoon, her father had sat in the shade on the terrace at the front of their house, surrounded by his lemon trees and grape vines, the smell of citrus heavy in the warm air. Her uncle had sat opposite her father, reclining in the comfortable chairs, and drinking wine from her father's estate.

  Alessandra had listened from her bedroom upstairs, which overlooked the terrace beneath.

  She had heard the discussion get louder and quickly noted the change in the tone of her father's voice.

  He was getting angry.

  Voices were raised.

  Her uncle shouted at her father, and Alessandra heard the sound of a chair being pushed over.

  Her father had shouted at her uncle, who had responded with words that her mother had told her were very bad, and which she must never learn.

  Quietly, Alessandra had tiptoed over to the window ledge and looked out at the commotion below.

  Her father was standing, facing her uncle, who was waving one hand in the air and pointing a gun at him with the other.

  Alessandra knew what guns could do. She knew the danger which her father was in.

  Seeing that her father did not have his own gun, without further thought she turned and flew from her room, down the marble staircase and straight to her father's study.

  Pulling on one of the mahogany desk drawers, she reached inside and lifted the heavy gun from where it lay, and hurried towards the terrace at the front of the house.

  There was suddenly a loud bang.

  A gun had been fired.

  Hurrying out of the hallway onto the terrace, her heart leapt as she saw that her father had fallen forward onto the ground. Her uncle had turned his back and was beginning to walk away.

  Alessandra hurried to her father's side. She knelt down beside him and rested a hand on her father's back. Immediately it felt warm and sticky, and she realised, almost in slow motion, that her hand was red, that there was blood everywhere.

  Looking up at her uncle, walking away from them down the gravel path, past the flowers and the fruit trees, she lifted the heavy gun with both hands and pointed it at his back.

  It was then she had heard her mother scream.

  "No, Alessandra, No!"

  Her uncle had turned around towards them, looking back towards the house, then finally back at Alessandra and her dead father.

  Alessandra had squeezed the trigger.

  The uncle had jerked violently and fallen backwards to the ground.

  Alessandra had screamed, stood up, and dropped the gun on the ground beside her father, then run back into the house and hidden in her bedroom, shaking, but not crying.

  When the Carabinieri had arrived ten minutes later, they had found her father's gun lying under his own hand, his fingers wrapped around it, holding it tightly. There were two dead men, facing each other, a daughter who refused to leave her room, and the wife of one of the deceased who was curled up in a ball, lying on the terrace, staring at her dead husband.

  No proper investigation was ever conducted. No fingerprints were taken.

  It was obvious what had happened.

  The Carabinieri had smiled at each other. Both men were known to them.

  And now that two more of the mafia were dead, the world was surely a better place.

  --------------------

  Alessandra often thought back to the events of that day, and of her mother's intervention to deflect attention from her daughter and to protect her.

  Her mother's actions had been swift and calculated, but from that day forward, her mother had begun to retreat into her own mind, shunning social occasions, and becoming increasingly agoraphobic.

  Her mother openly mourned her husband, and without any further thought of shielding her daughter from the truth of who he was, she explained to Alessandra the truth about her father: that he had been a senior member of the mafia family in Sicily, that a rival member had started a feud with him, and ordered her father's death; that the man who had killed her father was only a foot soldier, and not the one truly responsible.

  The loss of her father had weighed heavily upon young Alessandra, and as her mother became increasing less of a mother and more of a burden, Alessandra began to become angrier with the world, and swore to take revenge upon anyone who had anything to do with her father's death.

  In the following years, Alessandra grew up quickly. Outwardly she maintained a calculated air of innocence, taking advantage of her reputation as the 'poor bereaved daughter' so that she could get access to those she needed, without suspicion.

  With her father gone, their business interests were slowly taken over by other rival members of the mafia, and the importance and standing of Alessandra's family diminished.

  Alessandra became something of a curiosity to others. She was frequently invited to dinner parties, and gatherings of other mafia family members, where members of the faction that had supported and won the feud over her father's business interests, often gave her gifts. Sometimes out of pity. Perhaps, sometimes, from guilt.

  Alessandra took advantage of every opportunity to learn about those who were responsible for her father's death, and in private moments in her bedroom at night, she drew up a list of twelve people.

  Then one by one, she started to kill them.

  Chapter 4

  Sicily

  Many years before

  Killing the first three people had been tricky. She was very young, and the tools at her disposal were limited. Alessandra would later discover that as she grew older, the opportunities to kill would present themselves more frequently: she would have more weapons to choose from and more power to facilitate the time and act of killing. With the passing of her years, the gift of death would come easier to her.

  The act of killing in itself, did not disturb her in any way. On the contrary, she was eager to eradicate those who shared the responsibility of her father's death from surface of the planet: they deserved to die, and they would. However, Alessandra very early, at the age of eight, had assumed a sense of responsibility for her mother, and did not want to be caught by the Carabinieri, lest losing her daughter in such quick succession to her husband then tipped her mother over the edge.

  The good news was that Alessandra was clever beyond her years. She knew that her age and innocence were her greatest assets, and that she must use them to her maximum advantage.

  From day one, she realised that the best way to succeed and then not be caught, was to ensure that she was never associated with the victim.

  No one should ever see her with the person whom she would kill around the time of their death.

  This was a strategy that she adopted throughout her future career.

  Another important point she accepted was that time was on her side. She didn't need to rush. Planning and patience were paramount. Once she had decided who would die, she did not set a timescale. Having decided their ultimate fate, Alessandra was able to continue the process of growing up, taking opportunities as and when they presented themselves, but never taking undue risks.

  The first of her uncles to die met with an unfortunate accident while walking with Alessandra along the cliffs one day. Alessandra had been out cycling, when she had seen one of the people on her list, walking a dog, alone and without protection.

  "Hello?" she had cried, waving heartily at him as she approached along the cliff path.

  The uncle, an older man in his sixties, had smiled at her appearance. Alessandra had set her bicycle against a tree, declaring they could pick it up on the way back, and she had walked with the man for thirty minutes before she saw the opportunity.

  Being a 'gentleman', the uncle had walked on the side closest to the cliff. When they came to a part in the path where they were very close to the edge, Alessand
ra had pointed to a fishing boat on the horizon, and asked why the boat was firing off rockets.

  There was no fishing boat, and no rockets, but Alessandra had learned about the nautical distress call earlier that week in school, and improvisation was a skill that she would hold dear to her heart in later years.

  "Where?" the uncle had asked, looking out to sea, his focus and attention now completely diverted.

  "There... look, over there!" Alessandra had exclaimed, stepping a little closer to him and raising her hand, momentarily pointing.

  Retracting her hand, she had put her full weight behind the old man and pushed his back.

  It had been surprisingly simple.

  Even better when the man had held tightly to the leash and pulled the dog over the edge of the cliff with him.

  Skipping back to her bicycle she had cycled quickly away from the cliffs across the fields and was soon back in her bedroom.

  The man's body was found two days later. No questions were ever asked.

  Accidental death. Most unfortunate.

  --------------------

  Six months later, inspired by the simple act of pushing, Alessandra had one day developed a thirst whilst cycling past the house of another 'uncle'. She knew that he was mostly alone, both sons having been killed over the years in pursuance of mafia activities, and his wife had died of cancer.

  There was a well in the courtyard.

  A deep well.

  Alessandra saw the man standing near it.

  Alessandra was thirsty.

  The man was helpful.

  His body was never found.

  Only Alessandra knew where it was.

  --------------------

  The third uncle to die at her hand since the evening of her father's death, - her fourth victim in all -, was the most risky she would undertake for many years. From the experience she would learn two important lessons: know your own weaknesses and do not take unacceptable chances.

  She was eleven at the time, had started another growth spurt, and with her new found height and strength, and successful track record to date, had perhaps become overconfident and was due for a fall.