by George Sims
Madoc said, ‘Come on. Hand over the notebook. Stop scaring yourself with all this rubbish. I’ve as much right to the book as you, and I’m going to have it.’ He raised the automatic so that the barrel pointed straight at Buchanan’s throat. ‘One way or the other.’
Buchanan had a sensitive ear that could detect a faint ring of perplexity or doubt in a voice. Now his belief was that Madoc’s threats, even though backed up by a Luger, were not as firm as they should be. Madoc seemed to be bluffing. Buchanan had been close to death several times in his motor-racing career, and faced by Madoc’s gun he did not feel that stomach-churning knowledge; he sensed that, strange as it seemed, there was fear in Madoc’s voice. He said, ‘Yes, you buried Chard somewhere here. You were “Mr Quentin” too, tried to have me put out of the way. Perhaps I’d better…’ With his left hand he fumbled with his jacket zip as if reaching inside and then hurled his torch at Madoc’s chest. A moment later he leapt forward expecting to hear the boom of the Luger, but instead grappled with Madoc as he fell down the steps.
In a moment they were wrestling with each other in the dark among the rubbish. The only light came in weird flashes as Madoc tried to use his torch like a club. Madoc was shouting out ‘Now you see’ and ‘This time’ like a maniac. Buchanan took some hard blows on the shoulders but concentrated on tearing the Luger from Madoc’s right hand and throwing it backwards into the water. Then he brought his knee up into Madoc’s groin. He did this with all his strength and the savage blow made Madoc scream out. Madoc’s ravings changed into sobs and groans. Buchanan punched away solidly with his right fist as he tried to hold off the torch with his left. Madoc yelped with pain and swung the torch round wildly in an arc penetrating Buchanan’s defence, laying open a cut across his forehead so that blood poured down into his eyes. Another blow hit him on the side of the head and he blacked out.
After falling into darkness for what seemed like a few seconds he realized he was alone in the cellar. The only light was the one he could see dimly through the entrance. He brushed his face with his sleeve to clear the blood from his eyes and scrambled up the steps. When he came out into the cold rain it cleared his head. He caught sight of Madoc running away as fast as he could, still shouting out wild threats to the night sky.
Buchanan’s legs felt numb but he forced himself to chase after Madoc who had nearly reached the iron gates. The impulse to follow was the illogical and primitive one of revenge. His face was covered in blood and he could taste it continuously. He kept on thinking: I’ll make him pay. He had no plans other than to stop Madoc.
When Buchanan stepped warily round the iron gates he saw that Madoc was already seated behind the wheel in the cherry-red Volkswagen which had followed the Mangusta along the A30. The driver’s door of the car was still wide open but Madoc had started the engine; he was moving about in the front seats like a lunatic, holding his head and shouting something incomprehensible. Suddenly the small car leapt straight at Buchanan, who waited a moment and then threw himself sideways towards the stone wall, banging his right shoulder hard against the ancient pillar which bore the Trewartha coat of arms.
Madoc must have driven with his foot right down on the accelerator because the car shot across the small patch of grass in front of the gates and off the track as if it were taking flight. It landed in the desolate area of bog and Buchanan heard a soft thud and chilling screams. He raced down to the edge of the track shouting: ‘Get out, you clown! For Christ’s sake get out!’
He reached the end of the Volkswagen’s tracks in the wet rank grass in a few seconds but already the car had sunk in the bog above its wheels and liquid mud was pouring in through the open door. Madoc seemed to be wrestling with something unseen as if trapped by an invisible hazard and unable to leave the sinking car. Buchanan called out again to him, looking around desperately. The Volkswagen was some twenty feet out from the track. He sat down on the edge of the bank and lowered his feet into the bog, trying to find a part that would take his weight. His feet sank wherever he put them and it took all his strength to pull them out. He saw a hummock of sphagnum moss about four feet away and turned on to his side to reach it, but it broke under the pressure of his foot and was immediately covered in water.
Madoc was drowning in the liquid mud. His contorted face, as if frozen in a silent scream and covered in black muck, was visible at the top of the open door for a few moments, and then sank out of sight.
The car was vanishing with a ghastly sucking noise. Buchanan was as close to a feeling of panic as he had ever been in his life. The frustration of not being able to do anything to help was practically unbearable but he knew that if he entered the bog he would drown too. His mind was jumbling up terror and pity, and the violence of his emotion was such that he was hardly conscious of what he was doing. The last image of the top of the red car covered by an ever thickening veil of muddy water was a loathsome one. With tears in his eyes he ran back to the ruined house to fetch the coil of rope. He knew that any action towards saving Madoc was doomed but he had to do something, no matter how futile.
Chapter XXII
On a perfect autumn day, in the last week of October 1973, Ed Buchanan walked along the Mall and turned into St James’s Park. The park was in ambling distance for Detective Chief Superintendent Jack Collier who would be coming from the New Scotland Yard building in the Broadway at Victoria. It was a good public place for a strictly private meeting. Buchanan did not plan to do any shouting but he wanted to speak his mind, preferably in a place where he could not be overheard or recorded on tape.
It was eleven a.m. The morning mist had cleared and been replaced by hazy sunshine but the air was still crisp and seemed to generate energy. Buchanan strolled along a path in the park with a strong awareness of the physical world about him and pleasure in its appearance. He enjoyed the sunlight flashing on the lake and seagulls circling above it, the faint sounds of a military band, the perfume stealing from a bed of tobacco plants and stocks, the bright colours of the dahlias. Everything about London seemed to be contrived for pleasure. His life was taking shape at last and making sense. Being treated as a prospective partner by Ken Hughes had made a lot of difference to working at the Bathwick Mews garage, and he had a much more important partnership lined up with Katie. They were to be married in three months’ time and had already put a deposit on a tumble-down cottage in rural Bucks where he would be able to work out his ambition to put old buildings into shape. It was ironic that Leo Selver’s death should have led to his own chance of happiness. Buchanan had unpleasant memories of Trewartha Place and a permanent reminder of it in the shape of a scar above his right eyebrow, but these were unimportant while his relationship with Katie had given his life direction.
‘Well, what’s up, laddie?’ Jack Collier, looking very spruce in a dark brown suit and cream shirt, was already on the bridge where they had planned to meet. There was no one else in sight and Collier called out his greetings in a loud voice. His tone was amiably negligent as if nothing could be much wrong on such a perfect day.
Buchanan walked up to him without saying anything and his answering grin was devoid of warmth. They shook hands and began to walk to and fro on the bridge, like the sentries pacing in front of Buckingham Palace.
‘That inquest on Madoc…’
‘Yes, Machin said you weren’t happy about that. So for old times’ sake, I looked into it. We’ve got to keep you happy, you see. Particularly now I hear you’re joining the down-trodden majority. It’s true what Machin said about the wedding bells?’
‘Yes, early in the New Year. You’ll get an invitation.’
‘Good.’ Collier stopped walking and took out his tobacco-pouch and pipe, going through the ritual in silence, dealing with it in unhurried thoroughness as he mentally dealt with the situation that had worried Buchanan. He pointed with his pipe at the antics of the moorhens, then said quietly, ‘That inquest in Launceston was concerned with
the death of Madoc. Just that. The accidental death of one Richard Madoc, born of an illegitimate union in 1938, brought up in an orphanage in Plymouth, dishonourably discharged from the R.A.F. Police in 1970 with a dodgy record, the sole proprietor of Alpha Security. Madoc’s dead, right? He died from misadventure. You’re not going to argue about that?’
‘Nothing was said…’
‘Nothing was said about a lot of things because there was no point in it.’ Collier had the tone of someone used to official sympathizing and explaining. ‘Look, Madoc drove off a track into a bog. Right? You saw it and you tried your best to get him out. You skinned your hands badly on a rope pulling yourself out in the end. That was your story and everyone believed you. You were a good witness.’
‘It’s being swept under the carpet.’
‘Rubbish. It isn’t. Madoc’s death was dealt with quite properly, due process of law, that sort of thing. It just wasn’t the appropriate place to go into everything that Madoc may or may not have done. You believe that he killed Sidney Chard and that he may have been involved in the deaths of that young girl and your friend Leo Selver. You put it all together like a watch. You’re probably right, though I doubt if we’d ever convince a jury. Madoc was clever, he didn’t leave any dabs and he’s not going to come back and give us a good cough. You think Mr Chard and his Rover may be in that bog too. Probably right again, but we’re not going to the expense of digging up that bloody morass to prove the point.’
‘I feel it’s all being quietly dropped, filed away because of that list of names in the notebook. The list with “Court-Card” on it. Because it might make trouble.’
‘Just not true. Selver and Chard can’t be tried for blackmail because they’re not around any more. Madoc can’t be tried either…’
‘I’m not sure it was Madoc who did all of it. The man who attacked Freedson was wearing a mask.’
‘Doubts of course. That’s what this business—my business—is about. Doubts, ifs, maybes. But it all makes good sense. Selver very foolishly got involved in this blackmailing lark but didn’t have the nerve for it. He worried himself into thinking he was being followed, went to a private detective and had the bad luck to pick the rottenest apple in the barrel—Richard Madoc—a psycho who’s been working nasty fiddles for most of his adult life. Madoc got interested in Selver, latched on to him and found out what was going on. If you’d seen Madoc’s flat in the Barbican you’d be convinced that he was the one. Full of bugging equipment, facsimile guns, photographs of drunks, lunatics and stiffs. Depraved—now that’s not a word I often use, but it describes Madoc’s Barbican set-up. Besides, his Chinese secretary admitted to contacting the Latimer girl. What more do you want?’
‘It all seems to have been silenced. As if there had been orders from high up.’
Collier shook his head from side to side. He regarded Buchanan with a cool but not unfriendly gaze. ‘I read something the other day that reminded me of you, Ed. “Those in authority find it intolerable to have a subordinate who has a mind of his own.” Well, you do have a mind of your own and it’s a good one. But you were too impulsive and headstrong for us. What’s more important, you don’t seem able to absorb the idea that other people—even those high up—have good minds too. I didn’t say anything about that list being ignored. You can take it from me that no one is going to be charged in 1973 for a treasonable act that took place in 1940. But everything has been looked into and considered.’
‘Court-Card too?’
‘I don’t go a bundle on that Court-Card. You’ve got to realize that Trewartha was a paranoiac. Probably liked the idea of having such a powerful conspirator—that doesn’t prove anything.’
‘So the case is closed.’
‘For the time being. There may be other developments. If so, then we shall call on you. Meanwhile, you will smile and say nothing, laddie.’
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