The Cubicle

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I think this works as a stand alone story but it also slips into the The Barber Shop Quartet after part 1. See that story here.
The door creaked as it closed and footsteps echoed down the corridor, slow and steady. Then the only sound was the drip of water into one of the cisterns; plop, plop, plop. 
Henshall-Jones had told the others he needed thirty minutes to deal with Clifton, thirty-five tops. They all knew he was guilty, but there were procedures to go through. Faced with Henshall-Jones suspects usually confessed but then, he had to decide if they would be better off alive or dead. They’d stay alive if he thought they could be deployed as double agents, but if they were too flaky or too bolshie, then the only answer would be a bullet to the forehead. 
But with Clifton it was different. There was something about Clifton that told Henshall-Jones it would be better to have him on the run. 
He looked at his watch; he had plenty of time. He had to be back in Belanger’s office in forty minutes; any longer and they’d come looking for him, any sooner, it would look suspicious. He went over to the urinal and relieved himself and then washed his hands. He then went into the cubicle and locked the door. He knew what he had to do, but he didn’t like it. He put the seat down and sat down. Water dripped into the cistern behind him. 
Would they believe his story? Would they believe that Clifton, a seven stone weakling, had overpowered Henshall-Jones the great spy-catcher? They had to believe it, and hopefully, his was the only version of events they would ever hear. But he had to make it believable, and that was the part he wasn’t looking forward to. 
He stood up and unlocked the door, then knelt in front of the toilet bowl. He gripped it hard and then tried to head-butt the ceramic ridge. The first time he failed; it’s hard trying to hurt yourself. The second time he hit his head but not hard enough. The third time he did it; he threw his face at the toilet and knocked himself out. 
“H-J, H-J!” Someone slapped his face and tried to sit him up. “H-J, what happened? Where’s Clifton?” 
Henshall-Jones slowly came round blinking in the light. Fardy-Russell was just about to slap him again. 
“Where? What?” Henshall-Jones said. 
“Where’s Clifton?” Fardy-Russell barked again. 
“Let’s get him to my office, give him a brandy and we’ll find out what’s going on,” Belanger said. “Grab his arms.” 
Henshall-Jones felt himself being lifted up and carted out of the toilets. His head ached but he was glad Belanger had suggested brandy; that would sort him out. 
They slumped him into a seat and he heard the glug of liquid passing into a glass. The glass was placed in his hand, and he took a swig. 
“So what happened?” Fardy-Russell barked. Henshall-Jones looked at him. He was a Harrow boy, not to be trusted. 
“He swung at me, then smashed my head into the toilet, I passed out,” Henshall-Jones said. “Where’s my gun? Where’s my gun?” he added patting his pockets. 
“Go to see if the gun is in the toilet,” Belanger said. 
Fardy-Russell went out of the door, glancing back at Henshall-Jones as he did so. 
“Everything’s okay, old chap.” Belanger patted Henshall-Jones on the shoulder. H-J took another sip of brandy. What did that mean? Did Belanger believe him or did that mean he knew more. 
“No gun,” Fardy-Russell was back. 
“Okay,” Belanger said. “Put out an all-points bulletin and gets some cops over to his house, let them know he’s armed. Let’s catch him ASAP.”
Henshall-Jones stole a glance at his watch. He’d promised Clifton an hour; he’d delivered fifty minutes. Belanger turned to H-J “let’s get the doc to check out that head then we’ll have a full debrief.” Henshall-Jones stood up and headed towards the door. “Oh,  and tell the doc you slipped and fell eh?”
H-J nodded and left the office.
In the corridor, Fardy-Russell was waiting. “I don’t believe a word of it H-J; something smells rum. No one overpowers you, especially not a fool like Clifton.” They stood nose to nose. They looked like a mirror image of each other, neither man blinked. 
Then Henshall-Jones smiled. 
“It doesn’t matter what you believe; I can have you eliminated in seconds,” he said, and headed for the sick bay. 
"Is that a threat?" Fardy-Russell yelled after him. 
"No, it's a promise," Henshall-Jones replied. 
For  part 2 click here 
For part 3 click here