friend-3

"I..I think it would make things steadier for us both, Charlie", came the reply from a wife who desperately hoped to hear her husband say the things she wanted to hear.

The man who had done more for the art of bankrobbery than Bonny or Clyde gazed fondly on his wife. "Ordinary life is so ...ordinary Jo!" he blurted out, knowing that he would have to make a decision soon, "I get a 'high' from just planning a job, never mind when we go into action, do you know of a suitable occupation for a retired bank robber?"

Sensing victory, Joanne pressed home her advantage, knowing that her man was wavering, "Come on, Charlie, with what we have right now, you could set up as ...anything, and make it work for you, and the kids would not have to see their name in all the papers".

Unknowing, his wife had, by mentioning the children, provided the final catalyst for Trench to make a decision. "O.K., sweet, I'll call it a day. There are very few strings to tie up, mainly because I've had an enforced holiday from the game anyhow. It won't take long to sort out". His wife's squeal of joy told him that the right answers had been made and all he had to really do was contact his long time friend to tell him of his choice. The couple passed into the house, the night-shift team of watchers stretched their cramped legs in their observation van, parked to gain a maximised view of the main house and garden, so no-one saw the stealthy approach, during the deep darkness of the Thames at night, of the canoe alongside the motor cruiser which was moored at the riverside dock. A big figure was silhouetted briefly against the twilight sky, but quickly rolled on board the cruiser, tying off a line to moor the canoe, then lifting a small haversack from the floor of the craft, disappeared into the cabin area and then to the engine space. Working fast with only a penlight to guide his actions, the man busied himself, first at the blower, the fan that automatically checked and cleared the bilges of petrol fumes, then, hoisting himself up, spent a further ten minutes in the area of the upper bridge controls. He descended briefly below to the engine space again, checked all round and departed, as quietly as he had arrived. The canoe was silently turned round and, against the current, moved steadily back upstream.

At ten the next morning, a small cruiser was moored about two hundred yards upstream of the riverside dock occupied by the motor cruiser that had been briefly visited the night before. The occupant, Steven Hardy, was relaxed in the stern of the craft, with a cool-box full of soft drinks, a hamper with a selection of cold meats, fruit and snacks. His gaze, assisted by high-power binoculars, wandered frequently over the approach to the dock from Trench's house. Ranged before him on the small table were a digital remote control set, of the type used by model aircraft enthusiasts, a small but very powerful radio transmitter with a coded tape playback device keyed into it, and a break-down snipers' rifle. Surveying the equipment before him and reviewing his plan, both what he had achieved the night before and what was ready for action now, he reckoned that all alleys were covered. Being the professional that he was, and knowing Murphy's Law backwards, he was ready to improvise, or to abandon, any line of attack at any time. The river was moderately busy at mid-day when the Trench family came noisily down the steps towards the cruiser. The assassin did not blink or hesitate when he spotted his target together with his wife and children, to Hardy this was the luck of the