A smoky single malt, with notes of regret.

I like scotch.

There, I’ve said it. Nothing wrong with a little drinky now and then.

No, I am not an alcoholic, I just like a drink.

There’s not a lot in the world that’s better than settling into a nice comfortable chair at the end of the evening with a good book and a nice glass of scotch, and on this particular evening I was settled into a very comfortable chair with a very good book and a very nice glass of scotch.

The chair was a green leather wingback number, probably late Victorian, well worn but well cared for. The book was The Long Dark Tea-Time of the Soul, by Douglas Adams, and the scotch was Talisker Skye, heavily peated like all Taliskers are, smoky and yet also sweet. Overpowering at bottle strength, it came alive with a drop of water in it.

I’d just flipped the page after Dirk had driven his Jaguar into Kate Schecter’s car after a bout of holistic navigation when I looked up and noticed that the guest chair in my library was far less empty that it had been fifteen seconds before. I wasn’t expecting any visitors and my cleaner had left hours ago so it was a bit of a surprise, to say the least.

The visitor was tall and pale, or was it just that he looked pale because he was light-skinned and wore a black three-piece suit with a black shirt and a crimson tie? His close-cropped black hair came to a widow’s peak on his forehead, and his cheeks and chin displayed a five-o’clock-stubble that suggested he was very much still working even at this late hour.

“Good evening, Benjamin Warrington.”
“And who the Devil are you, sir? How dare you break into my house!”
“It is an occupation, shall we say? I am here to ask you to come with me.”
“I suppose you’re from MI5? MI6? Special Branch?”

The stranger shook his head curtly at all my suggestions and noted only that he was here because powerful interests had sent for me, interests that he indicated it would be highly unwise to disobey or keep waiting.

Six years ago, I had precipitated a minor scandal in the pages of the British press by leaking - entirely anonymously, of course - a series of Cabinet briefings that made it clear that the upper echelons of Her Majesty’s Government were fully complicit in covering up a series of state-sponsored extrajudicial murders which had silenced prominent critics of the Democratic Republic of Buranda. The DRB is a small African country with vast, unexploited mineral wealth that British companies and taxpayers were in a position to profit from handsomely given the Burandans weren’t able to mine following an economic collapse.

This would all have been fine except some bleeding-heart liberals had gotten squeamish about the country’s human rights record and started protesting. With cash and goodwill on the line, the Cabinet had secretly authorised a few “disappearances”. Planning to blame Burandan terrorist groups if anyone put the links together, they sealed the documents under an unusual and little-known portion of the Official Secrets Act that provides for the material to be released to the public only after nine hundred and ninety-nine years.

I’ve been complicit in a lot of things, but I wasn’t going to have blood on my hands, and so I leaked the documents and saved four of the seven people on the list. The three who I didn’t save weigh heavily on my conscience from time to time - often late in the evening when I sit in the wingback chair I was gifted on my retirement from the Civil Service as the longest-serving Cabinet Secretary in seventy years.

The scotch that my generous pension pays for is, as I tell myself, the least thanks that a nation can offer for one who has shouldered many burdens in a lifetime of humble public service.

And I thought I’d gotten away with the leak until now.

“We are short of time, Benjamin Warrington.”
“Can I finish my drink before we go? Seems a shame to waste it. And you might as well call me Ben.”
“I do not see why not. Do you wish to play a game to pass the time whilst you finish it?”
“Oh, don’t patronise me. I don’t play games, I’m far too old for them.”
“Suit yourself.”

I swirled the Talisker again and took in the aroma for what I considered would likely be the last time. There were clearly serious resources behind this fellow.

“Did you want a drink as well? Seems a shame to let all of this go to waste, given that I won’t be around to enjoy it.”
“You are no fool.”
“And you didn’t answer the question.”
“If you are offering, I will accept a glass of Highland Park 25.”
“Not cheap that stuff. I’ll just get it for…”
“No, you sit. I shall fetch the drink.”

The stranger stood and retrieved the bottle of Highland Park, and with thin, bony fingers removed the cork and decanted a small amount into the bottom of a tumbler. He retrieved a cloth from his pocket and wiped the bottle clean as he replaced it on the shelf.

“It would not do to identify myself. Complicating the situation would only distress your loved ones.”
“Pah, the grasping little shits? All four of them want this place to sell it and the land it stands on to be demolished for flats.”
“We understood your children are estranged.”
“If they don’t count now, they will soon - the will cuts them all out and leaves this place and the grounds to our local heritage foundation, who are very interested in turning it into a museum and exhibiting my - if I do say so myself - extensive art collection.”

I noticed my drink was getting low and the stranger hadn’t poured himself a lot in the first place. He sipped the last and stood, wiping the glass clean of prints and DNA, drying the inside and returning it to the cabinet.

“Drink up, Benjamin Warrington, time at the bar!”

He smiled a wry smile as I swigged the remainder of my Talisker, and led the way down the stairs and toward the front door. I put my shoes on whilst he waited, then let us out of the front door.

There really wasn’t much point in locking it behind us, but it felt wrong not to.

We walked across the gravel drive in the windy, rainy darkness towards a car as black as the stranger’s suit - a Jaguar XJR that looked about as close to brand new as it was possible to get without stealing one from a showroom… ah, yes. Untraceable, and probably as doomed as I was.

The stranger held the door open for me and I slotted into the rear passenger-side seat. He sat beside me and tapped the driver on the shoulder to signal we should set off.

“So where are we actually going? What are you here to do to me?”
“I am not here to do anything to you, Benjamin Warrington. I am simply here to collect you.”
“It’s your employer who’s doing the dirty work then?”
“There would be little point in killing you.”

Maybe my eyebrow arched slightly, but the stranger picked up my puzzlement.

“You just suffered a fatal heart attack. Now, we must make haste, the Styx will be difficult to cross in this weather.”