He won a limp smile . . . It was that moment. Recognised it.
“What’s that over there . . .?”
Jonas screwed up his eyes, squinted into the middle distance, and his upper teeth bit on his lower lip as if he faced something that puzzled him. He pointed and there was a place on the far bank of the stream where a garden went down to the bank, where already some of the blossom from a tree had been stripped by the night’s rain and the wind.
“You’ll have better eyes than me, young fellow. What is it?”
Would have seemed so banal, so ordinary. He thought he’d done it well. Had indeed done it well. Cameron Jilkes had the line of Jonas’s arm to guide him and he had turned his head away – might have reckoned to humour an old fool – and looked, and would not have seen.
Jonas removed his hand from his pocket, a fast crabbing movement and dropped the dog’s lead at his feet and the dog looked up, confused.
His right hand came from his pocket and there would have been a flash of light as the sunlight caught the chrome. His left hand snaked across his body and took the open side of the handcuffs. Jonas glanced down, located the wrist, and Cameron’s head was still turned away, wondering what the hell it was that the old fool had noticed, what needed identifying.
Done rather expertly.
If anyone had seen the procedure they might have wondered if it were something that Jonas practised. Might have spent hours making sure that it worked as intended, might have . . . He closed the two bars over the wrist and squeezed.
There was a look, first of astonishment, then confusion. Confusion changing to clarity. Jonas saw that Cameron Jilkes understood that he had a closed manacle on his wrist but did not appreciate that he was now fastened to the elderly man who seemed concerned only about the weather that day and the welfare of a small dog. His head had turned, twisted, and his eyes had come alive and blazed anger at Jonas.
Jonas was heaved off his feet. Cameron’s arm swung away as if the speed of its movement would break the irritation of the hold, and Jonas’s arm went with it. Jonas lost balance. He toppled and fell across the bench. He heard the first bellow of fury. No question now that Cameron Jilkes, front line fighter, survivor in a hostile world, had started to appreciate that he had been – stick with the vernacular, Jonas – conned rotten, been taken for a ride and a half by a man he had assumed was no more than a lonely pensioner. He was across the bench then was dragged further forward and his face went down and hit grass and his legs came loosely after him. Had the feeling that if subjected to another such lurch, full force used, his arm would pop from the shoulder joint . . . Not possible that Cameron Jilkes would break free of him. He was dead weight and the lad could not run. A savage kick was aimed at his head and caught Jonas a glancing blow and he felt blood welling in his nostrils. The dog jumped up and down and barked hysterically. More blood seeped in his mouth from a split lip.
Jonas tried to shout, “Thought better of you, Cameron. You disappoint me.”
Thought that Cameron Jilkes was a man held with a ball and chain, dragging it, scraping it along. Still he was pulled, and again he twisted his head too late and only minimised the kick, and Cameron was still moving, but slower.
Jonas called out, “What do you think you’ll do, Cameron? You going to drag me into Canterbury, up the High Street, wait outside a butcher shop . . .”
Felt old and weak.
“. . . hang on there until the big man comes and raises the grille, and you pull me inside and demand he lend you a cleaver . . .”
Jonas had never been more determined, and his voice lost its quaver and he shouted as he was bumped over the grass.
“. . . Then off to the station, with a handcuff on your wrist and my arm hanging down from it. Make you popular on a crowded train . . . It’s all over, Cameron, accept it. All over.”
The guns were approaching. Jonas Merrick saw them and so did Cameron Jilkes.
Chapter 17
Jonas was tugged, shaken, punched.
Not a youngster and probably carrying a few pounds too many, and not particularly fit. Had he merely held onto a rope fastened to Cameron Jilkes, he would have let it go. A sense of survival would have kicked in. He could not, and the handcuff fastened to his wrist had seared the skin and blood ran down the sides of his hand. No possibility of freeing himself – had given away the only key.
He was soaking punishment and Cameron was dishing it, and the level of engagement was such that neither now had the breath or the energy to speak. It could not last much longer. The guns were closing on them. They did not come with a sprint but with what seemed to Jonas to be a lethargic jog; would have said in a manual that it was best to stay back, conserve breath and concentration, be able to think clearly. It would not last much longer because he could sense that Cameron’s attack was becoming frantic. His free hand had already gone deep into Jonas’s pockets, trousers and jacket, and his handkerchief was on the grass and the few coins that he carried and his wallet with the ID behind the plastic cover, and his phone, and no key had been found. Poor old Cameron, learning the hard way, that Christmas only came but once a year and this was not the day that he would find a shiny little key fastened to a length of pink ribbon knotted to a ring. He took a beating and did not know how much of it he could endure but the guns were still not near and their control was not yet exercised . . .
They had come to the last moment of the last effort and the anger still ran riot in Cameron, and Jonas was hurt in too many places to feel pain, then . . . hands on his throat. On his windpipe, pressure grew. He heard the dog yelp. Harder to breathe and the force of the fingers tightening . . . remember the damn crocodile, that sort of strength. His eyes misted over and he could no longer see how far away were Dominic and Babs and their rifles. Might have croaked, had he been able to, something about them not shooting, not committing the soul of Cameron Jilkes to the apple orchards in Paradise and the 72 virgins, and all the rest of that stuff – what had been fed into the mind of little Winston Gunn. Failing to breathe and choking . . . He heard the dog growl deep in its throat, like it was gargling medicine, then a squeaky snarl, then a howl from Cameron. The hands came away, the weight was taken off Jonas’s neck. Blinked hard, and looked, and the dog, the dear little dog that had shown it liked little more than to sit on a warm lap, had its teeth tight on Cameron’s ankle.
Dominic hit him, not hard, but sufficient, on the shoulder. An adequate blow and using the extended length of a police truncheon.
Babs had Cameron covered and peered over the sights of her rifle.
And still, Jonas reckoned, a last chance for that Valhalla moment, one more lunge might square it, be good enough for her to say from behind a screen at an inquest that she believed her life, Dominic’s life, and the life of Jonas Merrick, to be in the gravest danger – enough to justify giving him the Paradise ticket.
Jonas exerted himself, found – a miracle – the necessary energy. He rolled. He used his body to cover Cameron Jilkes and he put his hands, one handcuffed to Cameron, over his opponent’s face. He gave her no target.
He sucked air into his lungs and spat and heaved and coughed, spread the phlegm around, and found a hoarse voice.
“What he wants is for you to shoot him. He does not get what he wants. You do not shoot.”
Her finger seemed to be a quarter of an inch from the trigger. It did not move, no flickering movement. He thought the control she exercised was remarkable . . . Dominic flashed the pink ribbon from his pocket. Had his own cuffs off his belt, and yanked Cameron’s arms so that his prisoner would have replacement restraints and Jonas could be freed.
He eased away. He sat on his haunches and rubbed his neck and the dog came up close.
“It would have been what he wanted. A bullet would breed a legend, he would have thought. Quick way out and no pain . . . A martyr is a hero in the minds of enough of them who look for an example to follow . . .”
To Cameron had said, “You will go to prison and y
ou will sit there for days and then for weeks, months, years, and you will be there for the rest of your life . . . No kid is going to take you as an example of how the life of a hero fighter might end.”
Jonas rolled away, and pushed the dog clear of him because its usefulness was over. His phone rang. He reached for it on the grass, picked it up.
The AssDepDG told him, a little breathlessly, that the full surveillance team was now moving out of the police station and would take up position in the housing estate within a quarter of an hour.
His answer, “It is dealt with.” And ended the call.
The phone rang again. Aggie Burns telling him to get to the police station where she was going to do a joint Gold Commander with a police boss.
His answer, “Go back to your breakfast.”
He switched off the phone.
Jonas Merrick took little enjoyment from exercising authority. He did it in a staccato burst of speech. Tristram and Izzy would have liked to fuss around him but were waved away and were told where they should take the dog, find its owner’s number on the collar, should thank them, should return it.
Told Dominic and Babs what they were to do, authorised the action they should take. Did not thank them, not a habit of his – wished them well, but gruffly. He stood up, retrieved the items rifled from his pockets and walked, briskly, to their car to take out his bag: then he would walk to the station. Would rather not accept a lift?
Cammy shouted, “You bastard.”
Jonas did not turn.
Cammy saw the man lift a bag from the police car before heading away and across the road in front of the Leisure Centre.
Cammy told the policeman who had hit him, then handcuffed him, that his shoulder hurt.
“I expect you’ll live.”
Told the policewoman, who had the rifle, that his ankle hurt from the dog’s bite.
“Maybe you’ll get rabies. But that’ll be the least of your problems.”
They had him on his feet. He looked back at the stream and the bench, he thought he saw his mother on the pavement on the far side of the stream and beyond the line of bungalows, going slowly towards a bus-stop.
And looked forward where a car was parked and a young pair, a guy and a girl, stood with the dog, and thought that he saw the Hunter family, the mother and the father and the two kids, and none of them would have known what it had been like to run in the Syrian heat, with the whip-crack of incoming fire around him: all in ignorance – and scared of him because they all looked away as soon as they realised he had locked eyes on them.
He was put in the back seat of the police car. The handcuffs were adjusted so that his wrists, still pinching, were in the small of his spine. The seatbelt was fastened for him.
Babs said, “You give me grief, Mr Jilkes, and I’ll fucking belt you with my stick.”
And Dominic said, “And, along with it, Mr Jilkes, you’ll get a dose of pepper spray.”
They told him that he’d be going for a ride now, courtesy of the gentleman’s instructions and that he should sit tight, and enjoy it. The siren went on and they were both laughing. They passed the front of the Leisure Centre, and Cameron saw them. They stopped and turned and she was carrying the baby, and her husband had his arm around her shoulder – Vicky and Gavin. The siren was deafening. They came to a junction, and then a roundabout and again the driver needed to slow.
He saw the old man. He was walking quickly, short steps, and the car’s siren would have blasted his ears. Didn’t turn, didn’t acknowledge it.
“Really sorry, was held up. Buses were a nightmare this morning,” Sadie Jilkes said to her supervisor.
Dave Hunter said, “I don’t want to remember any of that. It’s gone and should be forgotten . . . it’s like somewhere and something far away and outside our experience. We’re safe, and that’s the end of it.”
At the side door of Thames House, each holding a plastic container of coffee were Tristram and Izzy.
It did not have to be said, but Tristram did. “That’s that, then.”
He did not have to be answered, but Izzy said, “Gone, swallowed into that great electronic mouth – good riddance.”
They had talked it through all the way back to London. Had taken a taxi, with the dog, had argued with the driver about his willingness to ferry it, and had given him both barrels. Had dropped it off, no word of explanation and left the string of questions hanging . . . Had turned their backs on Sturry after collecting the office car from down the road from the Hunters’ house. Had driven back to London and had chewed it.
He’d said, “No way I’m suited to it – tried it and failed it.”
She’d said, “A war without end and I haven’t the stamina to go the course.”
“Takes people of a sort to fight that war, Izzy, and I don’t want to be like them.”
“Good for him, though – for old Merrick, Eternal Flame, Wobby and all that crap. Not for me.”
Two armed police sidled up to them, would have come from the back entrance on Thorney Street. Said they were Kev and Leroy, said they had been told to be here, at around this time, not given an explanation: had weapons hanging from their shoulders and belts. Tristram shrugged, Izzy grimaced, no answers offered . . . They had each written a letter of resignation, identical. Had offered their judgements that they were not suited for the work involved. Each had pressed Send. Alea iacta est, he had said, and she’d replied that he could be a pompous prat, then had kissed his cheek: they were an item. They would confirm that status as soon as they could get the paperwork done and be clear of the building: might be at her place or on the bed in his flat. And they’d also had time, coming into London, to take the first steps in future planning: maybe health and safety in the private sector, maybe social work . . . where victories could be counted.
The car arrived, lights flashing behind the front grille, and another had been at a crazy angle on the roof, and they had the siren blasting. Tristram took her mug and walked the few paces to the café and dumped his and hers on a table: rude, but it did not matter; he could not imagine they would use the place again. He told Kev and Leroy that he was taking charge of a prisoner who was being brought up in police custody from Kent, and what their role would be.
The car pulled up on a double yellow.
The AssDepDG had materialised behind them.
In the car, sunk on the back seat, his hands awkwardly fastened behind him, was Cameron Jilkes. Tristram thought it hardly a glorious end to the man’s work. Like the defiance was knocked out of him, like the fight had already been crushed. Threatening? Hardly. A hazard to public safety? Did not seem to be.
He heard a murmured voice behind him, “Not much to write home about, is he? Bit of a let-down, I’d say. But that’s how they all are when their ego takes a dive. Well done, both of you. I expect you’ve enjoyed it, being alongside old Jonas, my Wise Old Bird. Quite a privilege. You’re very lucky.”
And he was gone. Tristram wondered how far Jonas Merrick, Wobby, had travelled on the train, whether he was into London yet, and how his face was, and his bruises. Izzy had the paperwork on a clipboard.
Cameron was helped from the car. New handcuffs were put on him, and the original pair were handed back to the policewoman. There was a moment when the prisoner seemed to lift his head, look up at the sky above Horseferry Road, then tilt and look further and see scudding clouds over Lambeth Bridge, and might have sniffed at that air. Then Kev had a hold of one arm and Leroy had the other.
Leroy’s question, “Is this down to old Merrick? Bet it is. He’s a fucking guy, that one. Proper special.”
Kev quipped, “Amazing guy. Like the man said, ‘You’re very lucky’. Too right.”
Izzy had them sign for delivery, and added her own signature, handed it over. What to say? Nothing. The car drove away. The prisoner would be held in a waiting area until the anti-terror police arrived and he could be taken into orthodox custody.
There would be a brief interview with each
of them by Human Resources. Would admit that they did not feel suited, would be shown the door and have their ID cards mangled. Would go to find a bed somewhere, his or hers, and would accept that they had failed the career test.
She said, “Didn’t much look like a crocodile, that Jilkes, did he?”
He said, “Nor would Merrick seem to fit the bill for an intrepid crocodile hunter.”
On the east side of Grantham is the local crematorium. Good car parking available, and minimal camera surveillance at the extremes of the site.
Wolfboy parked his van under trees. He had come in with a convoy of mourners, would not have been noticed, had attracted no attention . . . He should have had a call by now . . .
He waited.
Two funerals later – and no call on his phone – a camper appeared. Wolfboy saw the couple in the front, and a woman was pointing at him and directing the old guy beside her.
Wolfboy had walked around that part of the parking area and there had been no suspected surveillance vehicles and no one loitering and smoking, no one with a wheelbarrow and broom endlessly sweeping the same ground. He met their eyes. For a couple of minutes, the guy ignored him, looked the other way, and the woman took out a thermos. No call came on his phone. Should have been told that the link guy, the one referred to as Kami al-Britani, was off the train at St Pancras station in London, had crossed to Kings Cross, was on the fast train, a 67-minute journey. A dicker should have identified him, tracked him to the platform, seen him board, then called.
A quarter of an hour passed. Maybe it was the woman in the camper who thought time was up. She climbed out of the front and dragged open the side door, and started to raise the bench seat. The man gave a peremptory wave and Wolfboy was summoned. No pleasantries, no introductions, no laughs. A package was manoeuvred clear of the space under the seating. They heaved and gasped to shift it, and Wolfboy had his rear door open. There was enough floor space for the package and it would fit alongside the customised sheets of metal, what should have been the necessary armour-plating. He saw that both the man and the woman wore gloves, professional. Imagined there would be a place far away where they could dump their vehicle, load what little they had into another car, then torch the camper.
The Crocodile Hunter Page 37
