Cut to the Chase

by Ray Scott

  ‘What about your country?’

  ‘I am supporting my sodding country, my country second and myself first. OK?’ Wallace snorted. ‘And what good it will do my country if I’m found dead somewhere in England with the charge of killing Ravindran still hanging around my neck is beyond me.’

  McKay was still sulking when they alighted at Bewdley. They walked down from the station to where the main road wound under the railway viaduct. A bus came around the corner and they sprinted for the bus stop. The bus was fairly full, Wallace sat in the back and McKay was halfway up the aisle so they didn’t make contact until they reached Kidderminster.

  ‘We’ll make for the station.’

  ‘Why don’t we catch a bus to Birmingham?’ Wallace asked.

  ‘I don’t want to go to fucking Birmingham! I want to catch a train to Worcester and then Gloucester.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because we can get to London that way, I reckon they’ll guess we’ll head for Birmingham that’s all.’

  ‘Well I want something to eat, there’s a pub on the corner.’

  ‘All right, we’ll discuss it in there,’ McKay said grudgingly.’ I agree we’ll probably feel better after some chow, how much money have you got?’

  But they didn’t feel better after a snack! The food was all right, the television news on the set over the bar was not.

  ‘The police are searching for two men who robbed a house near Albrighton last night, one of them is believed to be Harry Wallis, who the police wish to interview in relation to the death of an Indonesian national in London earlier this month.’

  As the news item was broadcast a passable picture of Wallace flashed onto the screen.

  ‘The identity of the other man is not known, but he is believed to be another Australian. They were believed to have been seen in Bridgnorth earlier today. The public are warned not to approach these men as they could be dangerous, but to report any sightings to the police.’

  ‘How the hell…?’

  ‘Shut up…keep your voice down,’ hissed McKay. There was a hubbub of conversation in the pub and not many were looking at the television monitor. From what they could gather the local football club, the Harriers, were due to play a match that afternoon and most of the conversation appeared to be about that.

  ‘Getting close to home,’ Wallace heard one man say, who obviously had noted the news item, and his two companions laughed.

  ‘So much for any ideas we may have had for going to the police,’ Wallace said bitterly. ‘They must be pretty sure of themselves.’

  ‘Wait a minute, let me think,’ muttered McKay.

  Advertisements were showing on the screen now, clearly it was a commercial channel. After that there were some sports reports followed by a recap of the news items already broadcast, though it didn’t include theirs. After some international items and the result of a bye election in the London area, they briefly came back to the news item about the two dangerous criminals when it switched to local news.

  ‘A shop-keeper believed he had seen Harry Wallis, the Australian wanted for questioning, in Shifnal and police believe they have traced them as far as Bridgnorth as two men were given lifts there by lorry drivers.’

  ‘What’s that about robbing a house at Albrighton?’ Wallace was puzzled. ‘Would Kalim and his mob report anything like that? Surely they’d want to lie low.’

  ‘If it was them who reported it,’ McKay rubbed his chin thoughtfully. ‘It may have been forced on them. Remember that man in his porch when we were scrapping in that garden, he shouted for someone to call the police. Maybe that’s the house we’re accused of burgling, I can’t see Kalim staying around if the police appear, or welcoming the police into his domain.’

  ‘If we were arrested at least we’d be alive,’ Wallace reminded him.

  ‘True, we would,’ agreed McKay. ‘But think of this. I reckon those computer drives we have could be dynamite, they may not include everything about whoever is chasing us and whoever killed Ravindran, but there could be enough on them to indict Kalim and many others, possibly some in government.’

  ‘But if we’re arrested those drives would be safe,’ Wallace objected.

  ‘Safe is the operative word,’ snapped McKay. ‘They’d be safe all right, they’d be tucked away in the file of the Crown versus McKay and Wallace with regard to the alleged Albrighton burglary, the murder of Ravindran and various wrecked back gardens. Once those memory sticks go into the realms of evidence they’ll disappear from the light of day into some police safe or cardboard box and they’ll never find them again. We need them in London now!’

  Wallace nodded gloomily, he could only agree with that.

  ‘So what do we do?’

  ‘Get to bloody London, some bloody how or other, even if we have to fly there.’

  ‘Why don’t we pass the things onto the High Commission? We could mail them.’ Wallace suggested.

  ‘That won’t save our necks if Kalim and Rivera catch up with us.’

  ‘Maybe not, but at least it will enable the information on them to reach the High Commission…and then bloody Bramble!’ Wallace added viciously.

  ‘Well…maybe,’ McKay considered the possibilities and then shook his head. ‘Good idea, but we have a problem, it’s Saturday afternoon now and the shops are shut. So we can’t purchase an envelope, and so is the Post Office so we can’t buy any stamps.’

  ‘Maybe we could buy stamps from a milk bar.’

  ‘We’re not in Australia now, I don’t know if you can.’

  ‘So now what?’

  ‘Catch a train.’

  They made their exit from the pub and went out separately. Since the news items had mentioned two men in company and given some descriptions they assumed that the citizenry would be looking for a duo. They made their separate ways to the station at the top of the hill. McKay had gone ahead of Wallace to the booking office. Wallace suddenly realised he was heading back towards him at the double.

  ‘They’re here!’ he hissed. ‘They’re waiting at the booking office.’

  ‘Who are? The police?’

  ‘If only it was, it’s bloody Juan and two of his men.’

  ‘Did they see you?’

  ‘I don’t know…Christ!…Yes!’

  Wallace saw two men heading their way; they looked ugly customers and were dressed in dark trousers and heavy jackets. Wallace couldn’t recall seeing them before but it was clear who they were after. Wallace saw one of them turn and start waving in the direction of the car park.

  There was a taxi in the station forecourt, Wallace ran over to it and opened the rear door.

  ‘Take us to the town,’ he snapped to the cabbie, and indicated McKay who was cantering towards the cab. ‘Pick him up on the way as we pass him.’

  ‘Right,’ replied the cabbie who looked a little startled. ‘What’s the hurry?’

  ‘We’ve got to catch a bus to Stourbridge.’

  ‘What’s wrong with the train?’ asked the cabbie, but Wallace wasn’t in the mood for logical debate.

  ‘Just pick him up, and take us to the town,’ Wallace said. The driver shrugged, who was he to reason why? He drove up to the running McKay, Wallace opened the door and McKay piled in, the cab headed down Comberton Hill towards the centre of Kidderminster.

  ‘Make it fast,’ Wallace called out. ‘How much will it be?’

  ‘About three quid.’

  ‘Plus a flaming tip,’ muttered McKay as the cab headed down the hill.

  ‘A tip?’

  ‘Yes, a tip…for the second time, we’re not in Australia now.’

  Wallace looked through the rear window. The two men were heading for their car in the car park. The car hadn’t moved as yet, maybe the driver had been taking a nap, then he lost sight of them as the cab headed down the hill. It swung around a bend to the right and they found themselves entering the main town area, like so many towns in England the railway station had been placed some way from the town centre.


  When the 19th Century railway builders had been laying the tracks from A to B, meaning the larger population centres, any country towns near to which the lines passed had had to build their stations at the nearest point at which the track passed by, a good example being Stourbridge Junction where a single track shuttle line had had to be built to take passengers into the town centre some distance away. There were many such situations in England Scotland and Wales, Kidderminster was one of them.

  ‘This’ll do,’ shouted McKay as they found themselves in a narrow street.

  ‘But the bus station is further down, past the end of this…’ protested the taxi driver.

  ‘No hurry!’

  ‘But your mate said you were in a hurry to catch…’

  ‘Don’t worry about what he said, this’ll do us,’ repeated McKay.

  ‘Thanks mate,’ Wallace said to the cabbie and handed him two pounds, all that was on the meter.

  ‘Oh thanks! Having hard times are you?’ the driver remarked sarcastically.

  ‘You could say that,’ Wallace responded with some heat as they clambered out. The driver drove off with an angry crash of gears, obviously thinking of the fares he could have had. They dodged across the road, into a small café and headed for its rear end before sitting down. They saw the pursuing car as it flashed past.

  ‘What now?’

  ‘We’ll sit tight for now and have a cup of coffee,’ McKay looked around and appeared to be satisfied. ‘There’s no TV in here, that’s one good thing. They’ll probably catch up with that cab and see that it’s empty. Then they’ll start searching the streets, we’ll be safer off the streets and sitting in here.’

  Chapter 24

  But when they did venture out into the streets it was not as safe as they had thought. Either whoever was leading the search for them had used his head and decided to take a risk, or else they had been spotted at the pub, or maybe the cab driver had decided that they were suspicious characters since they didn’t give tips. In any event, they discovered that the police were out in force, and it was odds on that they as well as Rivera could be looking for them.

  ‘It could be them taking a calculated risk,’ commented McKay as they tried to merge in with the various passers by on the pavements. ‘Or maybe someone spotted us and reported us, who knows. But if it was Kalim & Co who tipped off the cops, they could feel like I do. Anything in our possession can either be taken back if Kalim gets hold of us, or else it will finish up in a police station safe somewhere, either way the people who matter won’t get hold of it.’

  ‘Like the French Connection’, Wallace hazarded brightly.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘When the New York Police Department carried out a drug bust they confiscated the heroin as evidence. When they went to collect it for use in court, someone had nicked it.’

  ‘Ah yes, I remember that, Hollywood made a film about it,’ McKay nodded. ‘Obviously that was an inside job. I can’t see that happening here, but what worries me is the possibility of just plain bungling.’

  ‘You reckon Kalim would take the risk?’

  ‘He may not, but Rivera will.’

  ‘Who is this Rivera?’

  ‘I’ve told you, he’s a professional hit man, he is good at his job, the bastard,’ said McKay. ‘He has the advantage of working just for money; he couldn’t really care less whether Kalim or any government ministers are compromised or not.’

  A police car entered the end of the street, McKay entered a nearby shop and hissed, ‘Keep walking straight and don’t look round and about.’

  Wallace did so, marching almost like a guardsman without looking to his left or right. As the police car passed by he eyed it curiously, just moving his eyes and then marched on with a prickling in the back of his neck. He continued on and in a shop window saw its reflection turn a corner at the end of the street. McKay emerged from the shop carrying a newspaper and followed. Wallace stopped and waited for him.

  ‘For Christ’s sake, don’t hang around waiting for me like a dog, they’re looking for two men in company.’

  ‘Oh get stuffed!’ Wallace retorted angrily, his anger was more directed at himself than at McKay because he knew he was right.

  They walked briskly down the next street, McKay overtook and was walking a few yards ahead but found that another police car was parked at the other end.

  ‘Through here,’ snapped McKay and led the way into a churchyard. They walked up the pathway up to the church and entered it. Wallace risked a backward glance, the police car was still there; he could just see its roof over the top of the churchyard wall.

  ‘What now?’

  ‘We could always pray,’ was McKay’s cynical comment.

  ‘How does the Almighty view murderers and burglars?’

  ‘He looks kindly on all, so I’ve been told,’ McKay grinned broadly. ‘But I don’t know how he’d view Kalim and Rivera.’

  They made their exit through a side door at the end side of the church. Another police car was outside.

  ‘Bugger it!’ McKay muttered and uttered a few more choice expletives as they sidled along the side of the building. Wallace looked uneasily over his shoulder at the imposing building behind; he had had enough indoctrination as a child to fear that if anyone up there heard McKay’s profanity on hallowed ground a thunder-bolt may strike them down. There was another door further down the building away from the police car, they scuttled down the path between some gravestones and tried the door. It opened.

  They found themselves in a passageway with several doors opening from it. McKay peered cautiously into one of them and beckoned. They entered the room, there was a very large desk, a high backed chair that was well upholstered, and there was light oak decoration all around the walls which had several cupboards. McKay opened a wardrobe and found there was a surplice hanging in there.

  ‘Somebody’s coming,’ Wallace hissed. They looked desperately around for escape. There was another door on the other side of the room. They tried it and it opened, McKay passed through it and Wallace followed him. Some steps led upwards, they climbed them after Wallace had stealthily closed the door. He caught a glimpse of a tubby man in a dog collar entering the room as he eased the door shut.

  On the next level there were three more rooms, they tried the first one and found themselves in a storeroom, it was full of candlesticks, bibles, hymn books and choirboys’ gowns. In the corner was a broken pew, with a hammer and chisel lying beside it together with a lathe and some uncut wood. There was also an old arm chair with the stuffing coming out of it. McKay sat down on it with a sigh.

  ‘We can’t stay here,’ Wallace said irritably.

  ‘Why not, can you think of a better place?’

  A better place did occur to Wallace, he thought of Liz’s house, preferably with her in it. As he ran the thought around in his mind he felt his groin twitch, and hastily diverted his thoughts elsewhere. He sat down sulkily on a cushion and as he did so realised how tired he was with the incessant walking, running, worry and fearful tension.

  Wallace awoke with a start, there was a shaft of reddish sunlight and his bladder was full. McKay was still sleeping in the armchair, from his tousled appearance he had also been sleeping.

  ‘There’s a toilet further down the passage,’ he said. Wallace acknowledged and headed for it, peering nervously from side to side before creeping furtively down the passageway. As he returned to the box-room he realised he was ravenous, and mentioned it to McKay.

  ‘That makes two of us, we’ll have to scavenge…listen!’

  Wallace cocked his ears and listened, he could hear the sound of singing coming from below.

  ‘That must be coming from the main church.’

  ‘Probably the morning service,’ commented McKay.

  ‘They’re a bit early aren’t they?’ Wallace said. ‘What time is it?’

  ‘About half past eight,’ grinned McKay. ‘It may be early for you, but not for them.’


  ‘But the choirboys’ gowns are still here.’

  ‘These are either throw outs, or here for repair,’ grunted McKay. ‘Look at the rents and holes in them.’

  ‘I saw worse holes than these in the choirboys’ gear at my wedding.’

  McKay grinned broadly.

  ‘Ah yes, but that was an Australian wedding, you probably saw the choir boys after the fight.’ They both chortled gleefully.

  ‘Come on, let’s have a recce,’ said McKay. They crept out of the door; the doors to the other rooms on the upper level were locked. They headed down the stairs and after a cautious peep through the doorway, after opening it by a mere crack, re-entered the office. They peered into all the cupboards but didn’t find any food. McKay rifled the desk drawers and gave a growl of triumph. There was a packet of custard cream biscuits, with only two gone from it, and some butterscotch sweets. They wolfed down the biscuits, there was an odd number and they solemnly divided the odd one down the middle. There was a carafe of water on the buffet; they washed them down with that then they had a butterscotch sweet apiece. McKay scooped up the remainder and placed them in his pocket.

  ‘There’s some keys here,’ Wallace produced them from a drawer in the desk. McKay examined them with some interest.

  ‘They could be for the rooms upstairs.’

  ‘Let’s have a try.’

  They did, and they were. They seemed to have gained access to two more storerooms, though in these rooms the stock and the gowns were in better condition. Maybe they were kept locked to stop the choir boys gaining access to them before the fight. McKay found a cupboard full of black surplices and he tried one on.

  ‘How do I look?’

  ‘Ridiculous,’ Wallace snapped. ‘Look, we’ve got to get out of here, not start dressing up in drag.’

  McKay handed what looked like a monks’ cowl to Wallace.

  ‘Put that on,’ he said. ‘No, I’m not fooling about, I mean it.’

  He gave Wallace a hand to put it on which he did suspiciously, still not sure if he was playing the fool. Wallace surveyed himself in the mirror by the door.