Ashes by Now

by Mark Timlin

  ‘What the fuck is all this about?’

  ‘Isn’t it obvious?’ I asked. ‘The skeletons have started rattling in the cupboard.’

  ‘Someone said a reporter tried to get me on the phone…’

  ‘You should have called back,’ I said.

  He held the paper in one hand and said, ‘But what does it all mean?’ He looked as if he’d aged ten years since answering the door.

  ‘It means it’s all up, Paul,’ I said. ‘They know everything.’

  ‘No one knows everything,’ he replied.

  Pretty profound for someone looking ruin in the face, I thought.

  ‘Aren’t you going to invite me in?’ I asked.

  After a heartbeat or two, he stepped back to allow me entry.

  I followed him into the living room. He walked over to the windows, and drew the curtains tightly.

  There was a quarter-empty bottle of Scotch on the table, and a single glass next to it, half full.

  ‘Want a drink?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m choosy who I drink with,’ I said.

  ‘You never used to be.’ He picked up the glass and took a sip.

  ‘I never used to be lots of things.’

  ‘Collier should have killed you when he had a chance,’ he said.

  ‘You know about that?’

  He nodded. ‘I know. Collier always kept me informed about what was going on.’

  ‘That was good of him.’

  ‘He liked to keep in touch. Liked to make sure that I never forgot what we did together. As if I would.’

  ‘Did you ever have a reunion? I believe there’s a nice little boozer next to the cemetery where Carol Harvey is buried.’

  ‘You bastard.’ He took another swallow from his glass. ‘Yes. He should have killed you when he had a chance.’

  ‘We all make mistakes,’ I said.

  He nodded. I think he knew that very well.

  ‘So why don’t you tell me about everything, Paul?’ I asked. ‘Before we decide what to do with you.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You said just now that no one knows everything. Cast your mind back twelve years or so and tell me your version. Why you let the bastard that raped and murdered that girl go free, and helped bang up the poor pathetic sod who didn’t.’

  He licked his lips. ‘It all happened so quickly. Collier made it sound easy.’

  ‘You were his superior officer,’ I said. ‘You could have stopped him in a second. I always wondered why you let him take over that night.’

  ‘It was Byrne. He made me. He knew some things about me.’

  ‘Jesus Christ!’ I exploded. ‘Was everyone in that nick bent in those days?’

  Grisham took another mouthful of Scotch. ‘It was something and nothing. A misunderstanding. I thought it had all been forgotten. But Byrne kept the paperwork. I doubt if I would even have been reprimanded if it had come out. But it could have held up my promotion.’

  ‘A backhander?’

  ‘No. Nothing like that.’ He sounded offended at the suggestion. ‘I altered a statement. I knew the bloke was guilty –’

  ‘A touch of the old verbals,’ I interrupted.

  ‘Something like that. He deserved to be put away. He would have been next time.’

  ‘You just altered the timescale?’

  He didn’t know if I was being sarky or not.

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘So you’d had plenty of practice when it came to getting a bent confession out of Sailor Grant.’

  He didn’t reply.

  ‘And because you were worried that you might have to wait another year or so for your promotion, you let that murderer stay out.’

  ‘Do you think I haven’t lived with that knowledge all this time? What it’s done to me?’

  ‘Spare me that. I’ll be in bleedin’ tears in a minute, and I haven’t got any Kleenex with me.’

  Now he knew I was being sarky.

  He went on the attack then. ‘And what about you?’ he said. ‘You’re no better. You were there. You could have done something.’

  ‘Sure. Just me against the four of you.’ But of course he was right. And that was something I had to live with.

  ‘And look at what you did in the end. That drugs thing. How can you judge me?’ So he knew about that too. My fame had spread far and wide.

  ‘Because no damned rapist and murderer went free because of what I did. And when I got collared, I took my medicine,’ I said.

  ‘You should have got five years.’

  He was right again, of course. There was no arguing with that either. So I didn’t. But I knew there was all the difference in the world between us.

  ‘You’re a prick, Paul. And you’re finished,’ I said, instead.

  He didn’t bother to argue any more. He must have seen the look in my eyes. ‘What shall I do?’ he asked.

  ‘Get in your car and drive to the local nick. Tell them the lot. I’ll come with you.’

  ‘I’ll phone Collier,’ he said.

  ‘It’ll be a waste of a call.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Collier’s dead. So’s Millar.’

  ‘Fuck. No.’

  ‘Fuck. Yes.’

  ‘You killed them?’

  I shook my head. ‘Not me. Someone else. Collier was trying to kill me.’

  ‘Again? Christ, I didn’t know.’

  ‘No one does. Except us and the bloke who killed them. And he’s long gone.’

  ‘What about Byrne?’

  ‘He’s next on my list for a visit.’

  ‘I’ll call him.’

  ‘No you won’t, Paul. You won’t call anyone. Like I said, you’re finished. Do as I say. Go in and cough the lot. It’ll make you feel better.’

  He looked at me through red-rimmed eyes. ‘I had to do it. You know that, don’t you?’

  ‘Bollocks,’ I said. ‘You were going for the main chance. You and Collier and Millar – all of you. You all had a result out of it.’

  God, when I thought of all the laws that had been broken by those four bastards: perverting the course of justice; perjury; kidnapping; false imprisonment; attempted murder; rape; underage sex; ABH; GBH. And how many more that I couldn’t even think of? And then there was poor fucking Sailor. They stole his life in more ways than one. And all the people apart from him that had been screwed up to satisfy Byrne’s lust for young girls, and the other three’s lust for power: Carol Harvey; her sister Jacqueline; their father; Toby Gillis. And me.

  ‘Just go, Paul,’ I said tiredly. ‘The first editions of the paper hit the street in a few hours. If you don’t go to them, they’ll be coming to you before morning.’

  He picked up the glass of whisky and drained it.

  ‘All right,’ he said. ‘I’m going.’

  ‘I’ll follow you in my car,’ I said.

  He nodded. It was all too easy; I should have known that something was up.

  He collected his keys and left the house without turning off the lights. He got into the car parked in the driveway, and headed south. I followed.

  Grisham didn’t drive fast, and I kept up easily. Too easily. Coming up to Crystal Palace, he faked me out at a set of red lights, did a screaming, and highly illegal, turn over the central reservation, into the stream of traffic crossing in front of us, and left me blocked in by a BT van with my thumb firmly up my arse, listening to the sound of angry horns from the cars he’d cut up.

  It was sheer luck I found him again. I was just cruising the streets. I decided that I’d waste another ten minutes looking, then head for Byrne’s. I turned down a long, straight road that ran alongside a railway line, when I saw the Saab, parked neatly up beside the bottom of a pedestrian bridge over the tracks, with all the lights off.r />
  I stopped behind it, turned off the engine of my car, opened the door and got out. I walked over to Grisham’s motor and looked round for some sign of him. There was none.

  I kicked at the ground, and decided to go up on the bridge to see if I could spot him. As I climbed the steps, I saw him and stopped. He was leaning on the wall of the bridge looking down the line in the direction of central London. There was a lit lamp just above where he was standing, and I could see that he looked like warmed-over shit.

  Then I heard it, far off in the distance, the two-tone klaxon of an inter-city express. He heard it too, and his expression changed, and I knew what he was going to do.

  I remained where I was until I heard the sound of the train itself. I suppose I could have walked up the last few steps and said something to him. Tried to talk him out of what I knew he was going to do.

  But I stayed where I was, as the train rounded a bend half a mile or so away from the bridge, and Grisham heaved himself up on to the edge of the parapet.

  I think I could still have saved him. A shout might have done it or, on the other hand, made him do it earlier. I’ll never know. As the train swept along towards us, he jumped, with a wild whoop. Of what? Triumph? Fear? Relief? Joy? Don’t ask me. I didn’t hear him hit the ground, or the train hit him, for the noise of the engine. All I heard was the scream from the wheels on the lines as the driver slammed on the brakes. I didn’t look either. By then I didn’t care.

  I just went back down to my car and got behind the wheel.

  47

  I drove straight to Redhill. Every light in Byrne’s huge house was on as the Jaguar crunched up the long gravel drive towards it. There were two cars parked on the turnaround in front of the building, and two men stood in the porch, their shadows long and black across the crushed white stone that sparkled in the spill from the house lights.

  I stopped the E-Type, picked up a copy of the paper, got out and walked towards them.

  Even with the light behind him, I recognised the bulk of Byrne standing in the doorway, and then with a start I realised that the man on the step below him was Doug Harvey. He half turned at my approach, and I saw a gun in his hand.

  ‘Stop right there,’ he ordered. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘It’s me,’ I said. ‘Nick Sharman. We just spoke on the phone,’ I added. As if he needed reminding.

  ‘You,’ he spat. ‘I should have known you’d turn up.’

  He raised the gun and pointed it in my direction.

  I was beginning really to hate having guns pointed at me. ‘Careful,’ I said. ‘Is that thing loaded?’

  He nodded an affirmation.

  I slowed, but didn’t come to a halt completely. As I edged towards him, I saw that the gun was a huge old Webley & Scott – a big weapon, with a hell of a kick to it.

  ‘Why did you have to stick your nose in?’ asked Harvey.

  If I’d been looking for any thanks for what I’d done, I was obviously going to be disappointed.

  But what did I expect? In a sorry situation like this one, there was no credit for anyone. No winners, only losers.

  ‘I didn’t,’ I said. ‘I was invited to the party. I didn’t want anything to do with it, believe me. Getting involved in all this again was the last thing I wanted.’

  ‘Sharman,’ said Byrne. ‘I know that name.’

  ‘I was a DC under you, years ago,’ I said. ‘When all this happened,’ and I threw the paper at him.

  It hit him in the chest, and he grabbed it, and looked at the front page in the light from the open front door. His face was in shadow, but I would have bet he paled when he saw it.

  I heard him sigh, and he let the paper go, and it fluttered to the ground.

  ‘I thought that was all forgotten,’ he said.

  Harvey turned the gun back on him at his words, much to my relief. ‘Is it true?’ he said bleakly.

  Byrne didn’t reply.

  ‘Well is it?’ His voice was louder then.

  Byrne nodded.

  ‘Then I’m going to kill you.’

  ‘Don’t waste a bullet on him,’ I said. ‘There are other ways.’

  Harvey looked at me. ‘Why did you have to come here?’ he asked, and his voice was desperate.

  On the other hand, I think Byrne was quite pleased I’d arrived. Maybe he thought that a third party, a witness, would help defuse the situation.

  ‘Listen, Doug,’ he said. ‘Why don’t you just put the gun down now? We can talk, have a drink.’

  Harvey turned back in his direction. ‘Shut up, you,’ he said. ‘Just shut up.’

  ‘I’m sorry about what happened, Doug,’ Byrne went on, ignoring what Harvey said. ‘I really am. I don’t know what came over me. I was suffering such stress at work at the time –’

  ‘Stress. You bastard,’ interrupted Harvey furiously. ‘Stress.’ His face seemed to crumple in on itself, and the gun shook in his hand, as if the weight of it was too much for him. Or the weight of something at least. ‘I’ll give you stress. I trusted you with my daughters, and you did what you did to them. What sort of stress have Jackie and I been under all these years? Answer me that.’

  ‘I know,’ said Byrne. ‘What can I say?’

  Not what you are saying, I thought. You’re asking for trouble.

  ‘Why don’t you, Mr Harvey?’ I said. ‘Just put the gun down, please. It’s all over for him and the rest of his crew.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Byrne.

  ‘I mean they’re all dead. Collier and Millar were shot last night, and Grisham just threw himself under the nine-fifteen from Victoria.’

  I didn’t know what train it was, but the more I talked the better chance I had of Harvey putting the gun away without hurting anyone. Particularly me.

  ‘Christ,’ said Byrne.

  ‘And you’re finished too,’ I said to him. ‘You’re going to go to prison for a long time, Mr ex-Assistant Commissioner. A very long time. And Sailor Grant told me what they do to people like you inside.’ I looked at my watch. ‘Put the gun down, Mr Harvey. The papers are out on the streets now, and his little game is up. Jacqueline wouldn’t want you to go to prison. She needs all the support you can give her. This is not going to be an easy time.’

  ‘Why did Jackie speak to you?’ asked Harvey. ‘Why after all this time did she choose some stranger to talk to? Why not me?’

  I didn’t tell him what she’d told me. About the way she thought he would have taken it. And the fact that she didn’t trust him. That would have definitely driven him over the edge if anything would. ‘It’s easier with strangers. I just said the right things to her at the right time,’ I said.

  Pushed all the right buttons, in the right order, I thought. But I didn’t tell him that either.

  ‘Dead,’ said Harvey. ‘They’re dead, you say.’ And he smiled. A terrible death’s head of a smile that contained not one degree of humour. ‘That’s good. I like that.’

  ‘So there’s no need for all this. Give me the gun, Doug,’ I said, using his Christian name for the first time. ‘No one needs to know you had it. He isn’t going to tell.’ I looked at Byrne. ‘And I’m certainly not. We can call the police from here, and let them deal with it.’

  I think he almost did too. Almost gave me the gun, and let the mills of justice, like the mills of God, begin to grind in their slow and small way.

  Except Byrne didn’t know when to keep his mouth shut.

  ‘That’s it, Doug,’ he said. ‘Listen to Sharman. He’s right. Put the gun down. I’m sure we can sort everything out.’

  His words hung in front of us like dry bones rattling together in a breeze that stank of corruption.

  ‘No,’ said Harvey. ‘No more sorting things out. Not for you. Not for me. I’ve had enough of all that. No police. Not any more.’

  And he
pointed the pistol he was holding in his hand towards Byrne, and he pulled the trigger.

  Once, twice, three times.

  The gun belched gouts of orange flame, and the noise of the explosions crashed off the brickwork of the house, and echoed across the darkness of the long front garden, until they were lost in the trees that surrounded the property, and only the ringing in my ears reminded me of them.

  The heavy calibre bullets ripped into Byrne’s upper torso, blowing him back against the doorframe, where he stood erect for a moment, before falling forward to lie still on the smooth porch tiles.

  Harvey stood for one brief second and looked at the fallen body of his brother-in-law, before, with a sort of half-smile in my direction, he put the hot barrel of the still-smoking gun into his mouth, and pulled the trigger one last time.

  The bullet blew his head almost off his shoulders, and he dropped like a stone to lie next to Byrne.

  In the silence that followed the noise, I stood alone.

  So it was finally finished, I thought.

  The dreadful events that had started all that time ago had finally come to their bloody conclusion.

  Except for one detail.

  I looked down at the two bodies lying next to the sheets of newsprint that Byrne had dropped, and took Toby Gillis’s Browning out of my pocket and unwrapped it. I bent and put it carefully into Doug Harvey’s inside coat pocket, trying not to catch the stink coming from his corpse or leave any of my prints on the gun.

  It might not work, but at least it would confuse the issue.

  As I stood up again, I heard the sound of a distant siren.

  I’d have to tell Jackie what I’d done. And why. I was sure she’d understand in time.

  At least, I hoped she would.

  copyright

  This ebook published in 2015

  by No Exit Press,

  an imprint of Oldcastle Books

  PO Box 394, Harpenden,

  Herts, AL5 1XJ, UK

  noexit.co.uk

  @NoExitPress

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