Revenge

experience of such places was strictly limited to his imagination.
He initially sat at the first vacant table but then found a strange feeling compelling him to instead choose a table at the back, where he could observe everyone entering the premises. He knew he was being foolish and couldn’t quantify his concern but felt better once he’d moved. So is this what it’s to be like for the rest of my life, he thought; scared of normal everyday situations for no good reason.
Tom spotted mostly familiar faces as he surveyed the various tables at which people were gathered. They were a predominantly male group, which suggested that like Tom they lived alone. One or two met his gaze and nodded a greeting. A mixture of nationalities and cultures brought together by great coffee and freshly baked pastries.
The café was run by a Lebanese family who had fled their country many years ago. Rafiq the father baked; Zaina the mother ran the service counter and two children served the tables. They all worked very long hours but they always had a warm smile of greeting. Tom was used to hearing conversations in several languages and this morning was no different. Despite the bad weather or maybe even because of it, he knew that come the middle of the day seats would be at a premium. The clientele were not generally early risers. Once seated however they would linger for hours over their dark coffee, food and conversation. Tom loved the animated vibe of the place and had been returning regularly for longer than he could remember.
He had picked up a newspaper as he entered and having ordered a latte and a full English breakfast turned his attention to the headlines; MELANIE ADAMS IN FOILED KIDNAP ATTEMPT. He’d expected to find the story on the front page and in that respect wasn’t disappointed but the large photo of Melanie, he felt entitled to think of her now in first name terms, still came as something of a shock. He read the article with some amusement as it described how an unnamed passerby had intervened and bravely risking his life, had tackled the gunmen.
He glanced around to see several others engrossed in the story. Weird, he thought, that they are all reading about me but don’t know I’m sitting next to them. A quote from Melanie had indeed been unequivocal in claiming he had saved her life and she would eternally be grateful to him. He was a bit surprised to see she had already spoken to the press. The last he’d seen of her she was fighting back tears sitting in the back of the police car. He’d then been driven back to the police station to make his statement and he’d seen no sign of Melanie Adams, so assumed she had been allowed to go back to her hotel.
As he turned the pages there wasn’t much information about the two attackers, although a source close to the police was credited with admitting they were known to the authorities. The paper had no doubt that the motive was kidnapping, rather than terrorism, given that she was one of the richest women in Hollywood. There was lots of background information about her life and career, which to Tom highlighted how uneventful his own life had been by comparison. He had read the article for the third time and was about to turn to the racing pages, when it hit him that quite possibly the previous evening would turn out to be the luckiest evening of his life.
He contemplated how fate worked. If it hadn’t been Colin’s turn to pay this year and if he hadn’t chosen a restaurant in Knightsbridge then Tom would never have been in the right place at the right time. This story would be major news for some considerable time and the one thing he knew for certain, was that the papers would be willing to pay handsomely, for the privilege of printing his version of events. Blimey there might even be appearances on television and a book. Okay, slow down, he said to himself. He needed some advice and Cliff Maxwell was the man who everyone always seemed to use in these situations. Tom hurriedly finished his breakfast feeling much better about life. This might just be a memorable Christmas after all.
Geoffrey Miller had been Head of SO15, the Counter Terrorism branch of the Met, for three years. He had worked in Special Branch for many years and when it was merged in 2006 with the Met’s Anti-Terrorist Branch to form SO15, he had continued to prove his worth until eventually being promoted to run the new organisation.
He considered himself a proper old fashioned policeman. He had joined the force straight from school. He didn’t have a degree and not been on any fast tracked career path. He didn’t wear flashy expensive suits but then he thought that those who did often put style over substance. He would be the first to admit he didn’t dress stylishly. He never had done. He liked to wear simple off the peg blue suits purchased at high street chains. He kept his grey hair cut short, preferring to visit his local barber once a month rather than any expensive hair salon. Being of average height and build, he knew he looked very ordinary to anyone who met him and sometimes he had been able to use that to his advantage.
He was thrifty by nature and the glasses he wore for reading were purchased from various supermarkets, rather than expensive opticians. But when he had a criminal in his sights, he was terrier like in his dogged determination to pursue him until he brought him to justice. His career had flourished as a result of his undeniable successes and he had climbed steadily through the ranks. He could be blunt and wasn’t afraid to tell it how he saw it, which meant he wasn’t universally popular but he didn’t mind. He was