At two in the morning, her radio alarm woke Angie. She cursed, tossed the duvet back, and wandered half-asleep to the bathroom. With lashings of cold water splashed on her face, any trace of sleep faded. She tottered to her kitchen and switched on the percolator. As she dressed, the aroma of coffee wafted its way to the bedroom. One wakening cup, two slices of toast and fifteen minutes later, Angie left her flat. The taxi she ordered arrived as she locked the door.

Davy was at the drop-off point when she arrived. He grabbed her bags and dumped them on his trolley.

"What do we do now?" she asked.

"Sit and wait." Bored, they watched passengers arrive, check-in and vanish towards security.

***

One hour passed, and another. Angie gave him her passport. "I'm off to the loo."

Curious, Davy turned the pages. The photo was terrible, and cropped hair did nothing for her. He calculated her age from her date of birth.

Angie returned and stood next to their luggage and took her passport. Couples arrived; families dragged their baggage and checked in without any trouble. The final call time drew near, and he wondered if his plan was going to work. Chaos resulted as a young blonde woman wearing a skimpy pale-blue T-shirt and ultra-mini skirt arrived at the check-in desk.

"Bingo! A full house." Davy jumped up from his seat and charged across the concourse. "Come along, darling, we're late."

She shook her head, stood and strolled towards the check-in desk.

Two trolleys crashed; suitcases and bags tumbled in every direction across the concourse floor.

Davy took the initiative. "I'm so sorry. I didn't look where I was going. Let me help you with those cases."

The woman screamed at her children, "Shut up. I can't hear myself think." She smiled at Davy. "No problem; accidents happen."

Angie retrieved their cases and shuffled to the desk.

Davy stared into the blonde's eyes, "What lovely children. They can't be yours. You're far too young. When my wife and I check-in, I'll help. If it's okay, I'll carry the little one."

The blonde nodded.

"I must apologise for my stupidity," he said. "You must let me buy you and your children a drink. A coffee or something stronger. For the children, a can of juice?"

"Great, cokes for the kids, and I'll have a large Bloody Mary."

At the desk, a calm young woman completed the paperwork. Once they were inside the departure lounge, Davy went across to the bar.

On his return, he handed out the drinks and made the introductions. "I'm Davy Jones, and this," he pointed, "is my wife, Angie."

The blonde crossed her legs and leaned back into the seat, her wide mouth, covered with bright-red lipstick, parted with a cheeky smile. "Joan Carney. Pleased to meet you. She pointed, Tommy, Terry, and the toddler's Tiger: after Tiger Woods the golfer. My old man couldn't make it, so I decided to go without him. The hotel can look after these three."

Davy cringed as he asked, "Where are you staying?"

"Don't know. The rep will tell us when we get there. If it's not much cop, you cause a stink, and the rep puts you somewhere else."

"No problem. Please, let me know. I'm good at most things."

Joan's eyes twinkled, "I'm sure you are. Thank you."

He turned to Angie and whispered, "This could be our mule."

A mechanical problem delayed their flight for half an hour, making it possible for Davy to get to know the children; he gave them what they were lacking – attention.

One hour later, they were on their way, heading across the South Downs at thirty-five thousand feet. Davy glanced around the cabin and noticed Joan a few rows behind him. As their eyes met, he winked. This minor infidelity might heighten her expectations. He relaxed and read the freebie newspaper. The headline read; Police discover bomb-making factory in an abandoned farmhouse. It appeared that the local village sergeant had received a tip-off and contacted his city colleagues. There was little on possible targets or the religious or political faction behind the factory. He thought to himself. They don't have a clue; at least the IRA gave warnings.

Angie dozed until Davy interrupted her thoughts. "We must find out where she's going."

"What you mean is I do the donkey work."

"We have a job to do with no guarantees, no promises, with a one hundred per cent risk it might go wrong. You have to agree. My way, albeit crude, is effective."

When the plane began its descent towards Alicante Airport, Davy knew the next two weeks could go well or be a total disaster.

The confusion at the airport enabled Joan to disappear. By chance, Angie spotted her and the brats wandering across the car park towards a waiting coach.

Davy turned to Angie. "Make yourself scarce for ten minutes, and I'll do the necessary."

He caught up with Joan and did not have to ask the name of her hotel. She gave him a slip of paper the moment they met.

Davy found a cab, allowing Angie to get in first. It was just before two in the afternoon when the airport taxi turned into their hotel car park. They exited, and Davy paid the driver. He looked up at the white-painted concrete creation rising skyward in front of them and shrugged. The reception was fast and efficient, and a porter took the bags to their room as they signed the register.

Once they were in the hotel bedroom, Davy said, "You'll need to buy a suitcase similar to that woman. Any information on the pick-up location?"

Angie stared through the patio doors out to sea.

"Did you hear what I said?"

"Stop treating me as if I were a child. Don't forget. I'm the professional."

"You don't say."

"What do you mean?"

"Okay, you find a mug to take the package, and I'll sit on the beach. Oh, by the way, you might have to sleep with him to make it convincing, or aren't you into sex?"

"You're a gold plated bastard. If I want sex, I can get it. But unlike most men, I'm picky with whom I sleep."

"Angie, you're shouting, and it's starting to annoy. We need to have a serious discussion. Let's call it a truce. You are the professional. I'll keep madam happy. Remember, trust goes both ways, and somewhere in the middle, there's us."

"Okay, but every day we discuss progress or whatever."

"Agreed."

"You'll have to sleep with her."

"You won't mind, will you?"

She frowned. "You have no idea who she slept with last week."

He tapped his back pocket. "Got them at the airport."

***

Janice Porter arrived back from France, determined to find David Jones or his body. Meetings with the Customs and Excise proved fruitful. They provided her with a comprehensive list of corpses returning to the UK. Under the pretext of being an official, she contacted every next of kin. She removed every name from her list except David Jones, or was it, David Jenkins?

So why and who had paid? His body had arrived via RAF Brize Norton. More research revealed a nearby firm of undertakers in Swindon.

The Funeral director, Jack Ainsworth, welcomed her direct approach, and he enjoyed talking to a beautiful woman. In his many years in the job, rarely did anyone ask questions regarding his profession.

As a cover story, she told him she was writing an article for a national paper. He cheerfully informed her of the procedures from the moment of death to the interment.

"Any from abroad in the past three months?" she asked.

"Funny, you should ask," he replied. "There was a sailor killed in a boating accident. One of those water-scooter things. I collected his body from the nearby base. The Royal Navy acted as his family, and the local MOD unit kept his body for a few days as a mark of respect. He got the full military funeral and everything. You don't get much pomp nowadays."

"Did you see the body?"

"Oh yes, an oldish man, early sixties. Whoever prepared him did an excellent job. My job was to transfer him from a utility coffin to a pine one with brass handles. Funny, they insisted on brass handles. Most people don't care: the cheaper the box, the more money in the inheritance. Still, one thing's for sure; the Ministry gave him a decent funeral." Jack put in plain words the funny and sad aspects of his job.

"Did he have many mourners?"

"Who, the sailor? Oh yes, they had more brass on their hats than the coffin. The local paper had a good photo. Around here, no one pays much attention to funerals apart from getting a mention in the obituary column."

"Jack, do you fancy lunch?"

He glanced at his watch. "The local pub makes the best steak and kidney pie in the world, and it should be ready to serve."

"Sounds good to me."

The Hare and Hounds was a typical old English pub, its floor local stone worn smooth by its patrons. The plaster discoloured by years of cigarette smoke. Behind the bar, thirty-plus bottles of spirits stood proud on the shelves.

She suggested that they sat by the old-fashioned open hearth and talked. As they waited for their meal to arrive, she found Jack easy to listen to and full of helpful information. "This pie is wonderful; I've never tasted a more succulent steak and kidney pie."

"The owner uses local ingredients, Malden Beef and organic vegetables," said Jack.

"Is it possible to switch a body?" she asked, between mouthfuls of juicy meat.

"Why?"

"Well, suppose I wanted to bring home someone alive but pretend they were dead, and at this end replace them with a dead body?"

"What are you going on about?" asked Jack. "When you move a corpse anywhere, the paperwork is horrendous, and you require a doctor's signature on every sheet. The local police are also involved." He stopped and thought. "Mind you. No one ever questions the military. But why anyone might want to transport a live body in a coffin, I've no idea."

Janice had her answer. The minions in the military obey orders, and no one asks questions.

With lunch over, she paid the bill, thanked Jack, and watched him wander along the road, no doubt to prepare someone else for their final journey.

Janice's next stop was the nearby library. In a copy of the local paper, she found David's obituary:

David Jones, a tragic loss. No flowers.

There was a good photograph of the funeral; now, she needed the original.

After a few minutes with the editor of the local paper, she left with the negative. Next, she needed the names of those who attended.