He noted, as he left the car again five minutes later, that Mrs. Gyles’ house was all quiet – no sounds of shouting, or smashing. This was good for his sense of impeding doom, which had accompanied him all the way back. He strolled up to the front step and put his fist out to knock. As it connected, the door swung inwards unimpeded.

Surprised, Kiwi watched as the heavy door swayed completely open. Lying in front of him on the rug was the hall table, the vase that once stood atop it now smashed into pieces nearby. For some reason, the hairs started rising up at the nape of his neck – and then he knew why. The house was in complete darkness; all the drapes must have been drawn inside. The only light was daylight streaming in through the still- open front entranceway.

"Mrs. Gyles?" he whispered and entered the house, stepping over the stricken table as he went. Receiving no response, he tried again, "Mrs. Gyles, are you there?" He would have preferred to have shouted the words, but for some reason his voice was trapped at the back of his throat, and refused to cooperate.

He instinctively turned into the open doorway that led into the kitchen and looked inside. He thought the room was empty until he looked further down towards the seating area. Protruding off the end of the sofa was one small foot, a feminine shoe on the end of it – Mrs. Gyles’ feminine shoe.

He crept forward, an internal warning claxon bellowing painfully in his head. "For pity’s sake, man – run… run!" Ignoring his overactive internal survival instincts, he rounded the sofa, forced himself to look, and then reeled back in horror at the scene laid out before him.

It was indeed Mrs. Gyles – but not the upset, angry, alive Mrs. Gyles he’d left only ten minutes previously – rather, it was a very dead Mrs. Gyles. A dead Mrs. Gyles with an obviously bruised and snapped neck!

Kiwi shook himself out of his mortification and crept forward to feel for a pulse on Mrs. Gyles’ neck. His fears were confirmed when he couldn’t find one, and the sightless way she was staring up at him, her eyes blank as a china doll’s, was enough to convince him of that, anyway!

He turned to look for a telephone, so that he could call a doctor – an ambulance – the police – whoever! He spotted one on the table at the foot of the sofa, and reached to snatch up the receiver. As he put his finger out to dial, his gaze locked on a photograph which was standing next to the telephone. In the picture, Mrs. Gyles was standing proudly next to her disloyal husband, who was wearing a tuxedo. She was dressed in a blue floor-length evening gown, and a fantastic diamond necklace adorned her neck. Kiwi’s eyes widened as he realized that the jewels were the ones he had just discovered beneath the seat of his Land Rover!

This realization slammed home other painful considerations: the photographs he’d just delivered which were still fanned out on the kitchen counter – the glass he’d been drinking from – the fingerprints he’d been leaving all over the house – the witnesses who could testify that he’d been here…. "Oh my God, I’m being stitched up!"

The telephone receiver slipped in his sweaty palm, and he replaced it gingerly, then backed away from the table, shaking his head in denial of what was plainly apparent. He felt like the proverbial animal trapped in the proverbial cage.

A telltale muffled sound suddenly came to his ears, and he jerked his head up and stared at the slightly swaying light fixture. Shuffling footsteps were moving across the ceiling, and Kiwi followed them instinctively, crossing the living room floor until he came to a halt in front of the door that led to the conservatory. He could now hear the sound of a window being slid open, somewhere above, so he pulled across the drapes, stepped into the adjoining room, and stared up through the glass-paneled ceiling. From this vantage point, he could see two legs protruding from a window, feet groping for a hold in the ivy.

Without stopping to think, Kiwi turned and sprinted from the room, through the kitchen area, down the hall, and barreled out the front door. He ran across the front of the house and then stopped, just short of the corner, before creeping silently forward and peering around the side. He watched a well-built, tall man – not as tall as himself, but larger than average – jump agilely down the last four feet to the ground, and head across the private garden, toward the trees at the back of the grounds. Kiwi knew the back of the property was private from its neighbors, so the possibility of witnesses was remote.

Kiwi ran back to the Land Rover, and opened the back to remove his emergency detective kit backpack…

Reaching the back garden, he found he could no longer see his suspect, who must have been moving at a rapid pace to have reached the trees so quickly. Pulling his backpack over his upper arms, Kiwi picked up speed, and ran. Although big, he had learned to move quickly, and he fancied himself possessing almost feline capabilities. Hitting the trees, he paused and listened. He heard the unmistakable sounds of someone moving through the foliage, so slowed down and continued his pursuit.

Within five minutes, he emerged from the trees, and saw the man climbing into a car, one with a rental-agency banner emblazoned across the side. Not wishing to be spotted this late in the game, Kiwi slipped back behind a tree and continued to observe his quarry. The mystery man was in no hurry, and eventually pulled away, but only after fiddling for some time with his seatbelt, and then checking his hair in the mirror. Kiwi waited patiently until the car was a safe distance away, and then ran into the road and flagged down a passing cab.

"Follow that car!" Kiwi snapped, leaping into the back seat…

The cabbie looked back over his shoulder and curled a lip. "Are you serious, mate?"

"Yeah – step on it, before he gets away, dude!"

"YES, SIR!" The driver exclaimed and saluted. "This is bonza! I’ve been waiting my entire career for someone to say those words!" He laughed in delight as he gunned the engine, setting the wheels spinning in pursuit.

Kiwi spent the entire journey attempting to persuade the cabbie to stop driving like a madman – for the driver was taking his role as pursuer in complete seriousness! All Kiwi wanted was to follow the fleeing man without attracting undue attention. Luckily, his suspect seemed unconcerned about the possibility of being trailed, and was keeping strictly to the speed limit, not even bothering to check behind him.

Eventually, by consulting passing road signs, Kiwi ascertained that their destination was the airport. The cab driver followed the man to the car rental agency, waiting unobtrusively while the car was returned. Then the man set off on foot, heading for the main terminal building. At that point, Kiwi exited the taxi, and handed a hefty wedge of money to the over-eager driver, who had evidently had the time of his life!

"Wait till I tell my wife and kids about this!" the driver enthused, pumping Kiwi’s hand up and down enthusiastically. "Cheers, mate!"

Kiwi followed his quarry through the airport to a check-in counter. By loitering nearby, he was able to ascertain that the man was checking in for a flight to New York, which was due to leave in just three hours. He watched as the stranger was checked in and then processed through to the departure lounge, leaving Kiwi still standing nonchalantly at the end of the counter.

Now that the man was trapped in Departures, and going nowhere fast, Kiwi was left with the luxury of time to consider his options.

First: he could telephone the police and report what had happened. The major pitfall of this being, unfortunately, that all evidence pointed to him as being the perpetrator. Kiwi wasn’t so naïve as to assume he wouldn’t be arrested on the spot—and proving his innocence from a prison cell would be an impossibility – and, of course, the man would be long gone by then!

Second: he could follow the guy onto the plane, get the evidence to clear his name, and then report it to the police.

He knew which option he was going to pursue…and it wasn’t the first.

Kiwi took his passport from his backpack and purchased a plane ticket on the same flight as the man he was pursuing. He then went to a bank of telephones near the terminal entrance and put in a call to Fiona, who evidently was still out shopping. He left a detailed message for her, telling her everything that had occurred, and instructing her to contact Mark and Rob Randall immediately.

Remembering that Mrs. Gyles’ husband was not due to return for a week, he further instructed his girlfriend to wait for 36 hours before telephoning the police – from a pay phone away from the town in which they were residing – to leave an anonymous message regarding the body in the Gyles’ house. He told her not to worry, and that he would be in touch with her as soon as possible – through his friends in England. He didn’t dare leave a trail for the local police to follow!

Kiwi finished by telling her to delete the message as soon as she had listened to it, that he loved her, and he’d miss her…and then he disconnected the call. He went to an ATM machine and withdrew as much money as possible, knowing this was his last chance to get funds.

And then Kiwi Dave went through the departure gate himself.

*****

Over 24 hours later he was finally staggering, mentally and physically exhausted, off the plane in New York City, U.S.A. He had always hankered for an opportunity to visit the States, but he would have preferred his first visit to be under much happier circumstances.

Much to his frustration, the cabin crew had only allowed deplaning one row at a time, which allowed those seated in the front of the airplane to leave a good 15 minutes ahead of those in the back sections.

Kiwi had purposely kept his backpack with him as carry-on luggage, for the sake of speed, but this made no difference now, for by the time he’d exited the plane and been pushed through Customs, there was no sign of his suspect. He spent some time striding about through the airport searching for him, but the man had evidently already left.

Defeated, he realized it was time to start his secret life.

A first step included disguising his appearance. He was forced to surrender to having his hair cut short, and also having it dyed a darker color. He bought a cheap "junker" car – using the false ID he always carried with him – so that he wouldn’t have to depend on public transport.

He shunned human company, realizing that his accent would be a dead giveaway. Also, he didn’t want to put anyone in the position of having to protect him from the police, or run the risk of being ‘dobbed in.’ His only real human contact – other than occasionally buying food – was keeping in constant touch with his friends in England, via the Internet, from a cyber-café he started to frequent. It was a necessary existence…but extremely lonely. He heard that Fiona had arrived in England, and she, along with Mark, Rob, and Helen, was in turmoil about him. Both Randall brothers offered to come directly to New York, to try and help, but Kiwi refused. He knew it would only draw the police straight to him.