by Vera Morris
The other alternative was to set out on his own. Get to a corrupt state in Africa, and offer himself as a mercenary. There’d been good pickings in the Congo, Angola, Mozambique, and news was Libya was hotting up. If you enjoyed killing this was an ideal way to indulge yourself and not get sent to prison. But that was not what he’d been looking forward to. Tucker had assured him he’d have a job for life in the KGB, and his special skills would be appreciated. He’d fooled him, talking about the life style he’d have: the important post, the luxury apartment and the best whores in Moscow. The Russians mustn’t have wanted him. Or had Tucker lied about him? Not told them he was the man who did all the dangerous and difficult work?
The veins in his forehead throbbed as he realised what he’d lost. He stood before David Pemberton’s door, the little shite – spoilt rotten by Tucker. He’d feel better when he’d killed them. Wash away the boiling fury with their blood. They’d be cowering in the bathroom. That’s what he usually did. He could easily kick that door in. It was a confined space, but he could manage. He’d kill the woman first, she was tall and fit, but no match for him. No. He’d kill the boy, then he’d play with her. She was a fighter. She’d fought the mad headmaster. It would be a pleasure to take her. Then he’d strangle her – slowly. He took one of the keys he’d found in Tucker’s jacket and pushed it into the lock.
Chapter 35
Laurel was cold and stiff. Not only from being confined under the bed, but stiff and cold with fear. She’d never felt so scared. She remembered being left with the unconscious Mabel on the beach, guarding her against the return of the person who’d tried to kill her while Frank went for help. She’d crouched beside her, talking, trying to help her survive, a stone in her hand, ready to lash out if the murderer came back. She’d been scared then. She’d been scared when Nicholson had attacked her. But this was different. She’d had too much time to think.
She tried to rub her arms and legs to keep the circulation going, but the space under the bed was constricting her movements. She wasn’t just fighting for her life, she’d be fighting for David’s, too. It was still difficult to take in what Tucker had done. He’d saved David’s life by imprisoning him, but at what cost to the young boy? What damage had been done to his psyche? Locked in a room for nearly two years. Yet he seemed remarkably resilient. It was incredible how he’d coped with the isolation and perpetual fear. She knew she’d only have one chance. If Hager came into the room and thought they were both in the bathroom, then she must act. Close her mind to what she had to do. No thinking – just do it. She must stab him with deadly intent. Thrust quickly and deeply. She decided to go underarm, like throwing a rounder’s ball, thrusting upwards into his heart.
There was a metallic click. Her body went rigid. She peered between the draped bedclothes. The door slowly opened.
Hager used his right palm to push open the door. He made sure it went as far as it could go in case one of them was hiding behind it, waiting to jump him. His mouth twitched at the thought. Surely, they weren’t idiots? He waited on the threshold for a few seconds, senses alert. The room was silent. He walked in. He was right. The room was empty. They were in the bathroom. He flexed his shoulders, then his right leg, loosening it ready to kick the door in. Perhaps he wouldn’t have to do that, he might be able to trick them into coming out. He smiled. That would be nice.
He looked round. The bed was unmade, the bookshelves untidy. The room looked a shambles. He sniffed. Give a woman a couple of hours and she’d create chaos. He put his ear to the bathroom door and listened. No sound. He tapped on the wood.
‘Miss Bowman, David, it’s Mr Hager here. It’ll be safe for you to come out in a few minutes. Mr Tucker has sent me to say we’re leaving. Miss Bowman, there’s been a phone call from your friend, Mr Diamond. Mr Tucker’s told him to come and collect you. I’m leaving now. Goodbye, Miss Bowman and David. I’m sorry you’ve been kept here, but it was Mr Tucker’s orders. Wait two minutes and then you can come out.’ He walked to the bedroom door, closed it with a thud, then tiptoed back to the bathroom door.
Laurel tried to swallow her fear. Slowly and carefully she edged from under the bed. She lay on the carpet trying to flex her limbs, conscious of the silence and that the faintest sound would alert Hager. She got into a kneeling position and focused her mind on what she had to do. Don’t think of him as human, imagine he’s a dummy. You’re a new recruit in the army and you’ve been given the command to stick the stiletto into the dummy, a dummy full of sawdust, not muscle, bone and blood. She raised her head. He was standing by the bathroom door. Talking to what he believed were the occupants. She prayed David wouldn’t be taken in by his soft, reasonable words. She ducked down as Hager crossed to the bedroom door, slammed it, turned and tiptoed back to the bathroom, poised like a panther waiting for its prey to emerge.
He was looking at his watch, his back to her. His body tensed, he rolled his shoulders and flexed his legs. He was preparing for action. Time seemed endless. She couldn’t breathe.
‘Well, Miss Bowman and David. I’m growing impatient. I’ve given you five minutes. Come out in thirty seconds or I’ll have to come in for you.’ He started to count.
Now was the time. She steadied herself, resting her left hand on the bed, and grasping the stiletto with her right. She crouched, as though she was on the starting blocks for a race, then launched herself across the room, the stiletto held waist high and slightly behind her. She flung herself on him, put an arm round his neck and thrust the dagger into the left side of his back. His body arced. He screamed. There was resistance. The dagger wasn’t going in.
Hager was preparing to take the door down when a body hurtled into him, throwing him against the door. An arm shot round his throat and something thudded into his back, partly penetrating the protective vest and sending a red-hot pain through his muscles.
He screamed with rage, caught hold of the arm and twisted it, forcing the attacker onto the floor. The woman. She was fighting and kicking. She slashed his face with the knife. In an instant he’d wrapped his legs round hers and put a lock on them and pinned her wrists to the floor. He squeezed the right wrist so hard she cried out and the knife dropped from her grasp. Her head was thrashing from side to side, her eyes full of hate.
She must have been under the bed. He winced at the pain from his back and face. She’d been aiming for his heart. If he hadn’t worn the vest she’d have killed him. Tucker hadn’t wanted him to wear the vest. He must have given her the knife. Betrayed again and again. Sod the lot of them. He felt hot blood running down his back and trickling down his face. The vest should have done better than this. His breathing slowed. He had her. Now he could take his time. And after, he’d deal with the little shite in the bathroom.
He looked down at her face. Her fury was fading. What was taking its place? Fear? He hoped so. If she wasn’t frightened now, she soon would be. He looked down. Her legs were bare. No skirt.
‘You’ve prepared yourself for me, have you, Miss Bowman? So you mustn’t blame me if I become a little excited. Shall we complete the striptease? See what the rest of you looks like?’ He leant down, putting his full body weight onto her, and pulled her left arm across so he was holding both wrists in his left hand. She tried to fight back, he increased the pressure on her legs and wrists. She was a fighter. He’d never had a woman fight back like this. Some men. He could knock her unconscious, but he wanted to see her eyes as he took her. Should he rip her top off? He glanced down. The t-shirt, obviously one of David’s, had ridden up, showing her flat stomach and flimsy knickers. His breathing increased and he smiled. He pressed his swollen cock against her belly and saw the terror in her eyes. He reached down and grabbed the edge of the blue knickers.
She bucked like a wild horse, jerking a knee into his balls. He lost his grip on her left wrist. She threw back her head and screamed blue murder.
Frank was on the fifth stair. There was a terrible scream.
‘Get off me! Get off me! You
filthy bastard.’
Laurel.
‘You bitch!’
Hager?
A thud.
Then silence.
Frank ran up the stairs. One door was open. There were grunting sounds. He raised the revolver, and with the cricket bat in his left hand, silently entered the room.
Hager was on top of Laurel. She wasn’t moving. He was astride her, looking down at his crotch, his hands in front of him.
Blood pulsed through Frank’s forehead, his veins bulging with rage and hate. He wanted to pull the trigger and keep pulling it until Hagen was no more than a heap of dead flesh. The years of training and discipline took over. He needed to get him away from Laurel. He put the bat on the carpet and held the gun with both hands.
‘Hager. Police. I have you covered and if you don’t get up I’ll shoot you. This is a warning. Now get up,’ he shouted.
Hager’s back went rigid. For a second Frank thought he’d turned to stone. Then with a roar he sprang up and faced Frank, flies open, eyes bulging. He leapt towards him, his right arm raised, hand horizontal.
Frank aimed for his chest and pulled the trigger. The sound of the gunshot in the restricted space was deafening. Hager staggered backwards, clutching his left breast, his knees buckling. Then he seemed to summon up strength and stumbled towards Frank.
Christ! He’s not going down. He pulled the trigger again. The second shot was as loud as the first. Hager tottered back, almost falling over Laurel. Frank was desperate to get to her. Had he killed her? Hager was coming at him again. What was the man made of? Then it dawned. He was wearing body armour. He pulled the trigger for the third time. There was a click, but nothing happened. Jammed.
He dropped the gun, picked up the cricket bat and strode towards Hager, as though preparing for a full toss. He drew back the bat and hit him under the chin with the hardest drive he’d ever made. Willow connected with jaw bone. Hager’s head seemed to lose contact with his neck. His body hit the floor and Frank knew he’d killed him.
Cricket bat in hand, he bent over Hager and checked for a pulse. He’d seen too many scary movies were the villain popped back into life when you thought they were dead. There was no pulse.
He threw down the bat and rushed to Laurel, pressing the tips of the two fingers against her neck. A steady beat. Blood was running down her face from her scalp. He placed his ear close to her mouth. She was breathing. Tears of relief welled from his eyes. He gently turned her into the recovery position, and pulled a blanket from the bed and wrapped it round her.
He held her gently. ‘Laurel? Laurel? Can you hear me? It’s Frank. You’re safe. Hager’s dead.’ He stroked her hair into some semblance of order and kissed her cheek. He needed to get an ambulance. Hopefully Stuart and Revie would be arriving soon, but he daren’t wait.
There was a banging on the bathroom door. He jumped up and grabbed the bat. Who was in there? It couldn’t be Tucker, he was dead. Were there three of them? Had he got to kill someone else?
‘Laurel! Laurel! Are you all right?’ the voice cried. It was a young, male voice.
He went to the bathroom door and knocked. ‘Come out. I won’t hurt you.’
‘Who are you?’
‘Frank Diamond.’
‘Laurel’s friend?’
‘Yes.’
‘Where’s Hager?’
‘He’s dead.’
‘Really?’ The voice sounded pleased.
‘Yes, he’s dead.’
‘Where’s Laurel?’
‘She’s here, but she’s unconscious. Could you come out and look after her? I need to call an ambulance.’
There were sounds of something being moved, muttering and swearing. ‘Damn, can’t move it. Ah, yes!’ A cry of triumph and the door swung inwards.
A tall, thin teenager came out. His long, black hair was dishevelled round his pale face. Deep blue eyes stared at Frank.
No, it couldn’t be!
The boy looked at Laurel; he rushed to her, and knelt down.
‘Laurel, Laurel,’ he cried, echoing Frank’s words. ‘Please don’t die. Not now. I wouldn’t want to live if you died. It wouldn’t be right.’
His words seemed to have more potency than his, for Laurel raised her head and groaned.
The boy grasped her hand; tears splashing onto her face.
‘David. Brave man. We did it,’ Laurel croaked, then her head fell back and her eyes closed.
David! He looked at the boy again. Those eyes. The same eyes as Carol’s. It was David Pemberton. Frank couldn’t take any more and he flopped onto the floor beside them.
‘Are you David Pemberton?’
He was still holding Laurel’s hand and her fingers had curled round his. ‘Yes. Shall I get Laurel some water?’ ‘If you would, thank you.’
David got up. He pointed at Hager’s body. ‘Are you sure he’s dead?’
‘Yes. He’s dead.’ He couldn’t believe he’d killed him. He felt like joining Laurel and passing into oblivion. His stomach clenched. He’d killed someone. What would happen now? God, he hoped there wouldn’t be a trial. When he’d decided to leave the police and become a private investigator he’d never imagined he’d encounter someone like Hager. A professional killer. He shivered. What might have happened to Laurel if they hadn’t discovered the cassette, and heard the dead voice of Sam Harrop? What if he hadn’t found the gun? The bullets hadn’t killed Hager, but they’d slowed him down, allowing him to finish him off. Death by a cricket stroke. Would that be a first? Would he be in the Guinness Book of Records? The shivering increased. He shook his head. This was delayed shock. He heaved himself upright. He needed to get Laurel to a hospital.
David came back from the bathroom with a cup of water. ‘Sorry it took so long, we’d filled all the mugs and glasses with water and paints to throw at Hager.’
What was the boy talking about?
David giggled. ‘We filled some with pee. Pity I didn’t get a chance to douse him in that.’
Frank was dying to ask him how he came to be here, but he thought it would be a long story. ‘I’ll find a phone and get—’
‘I can hear sirens.’
It was true. There was the sound of the front door being broken down. Frank smiled. They could have gone round the back, but Revie would have enjoyed forcing his way in. Footsteps pounded up the stairs. Revie barrelled into the room. Stuart was behind him. He pushed Revie aside, his face grey with worry. He bear-hugged Frank. Then he looked at Laurel. Her eyes were open.
‘Laurel.’ He knelt beside her and gently took her hand.
She tried to smile. ‘I’m all right, Stuart. Frank came in time. Saved me from a fate worse than death. So they say,’ she whispered.
Stuart pointed to the body. ‘Him?’
She nodded.
He turned to Frank. ‘Did you kill him?’
He was conscious of Revie glowering behind Stuart. Could he claim someone else was responsible? ‘Yes, I shot him twice and finished him off with the cricket bat when the gun jammed.’ He looked at Revie. ‘Going to arrest me?’
Revie smirked. ‘No. I’ll see you get a bloody medal. Who’s this?’ He pointed to David.
‘Allow me to introduce you to David Pemberton, the missing boy.’
Revie’s mouth opened and his chin dropped. ‘Well, I’ll go to our back door!’
The floor seemed to be undulating, the walls rippling. He sat on a chair. ‘I think I’ll join you,’ he said.
Chapter 36
Stuart watched as an ambulance, with a police escort, took Frank, Laurel, and David to a hospital in Ipswich. Tucker’s house was swarming with police.
Revie put down the phone in the hall. ‘Ansell, the pathologist, is on his way.’ He pointed to the pile of large envelopes on the hall table. ‘What’s all this about?
‘I was wondering that, myself,’ Stuart said. He rifled through the pile. ‘Seems every major newspaper’s been covered. Shall I open one?’ He was dying to know what they conta
ined.
Revie frowned. ‘Best if I do it.’ He opened an envelope addressed to the editor of the Daily Telegraph. He pulled out a sheaf of papers and photographs. He moved away from Stuart, shielding the contents. But his face showed disgust, astonishment and then concern.
‘Can I have a look?’ Stuart asked.
Revie shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, Elderkin. This is really bad. I wish I hadn’t opened it. Left it to my chief constable. This is going to cause a stink.’
He picked up the telephone. ‘Sorry, I need to make this call in private.’
He’d never seen Revie so serious or so worried. What was in the envelopes? Blackmail details? Why send them to newspapers? He couldn’t imagine what the contents were to cause Revie such consternation.
Stuart returned the car he’d borrowed from Mabel’s son at the fish and chip shop in Aldeburgh, and got into the police car which had followed him from Tucker’s house. They drove to the Pemberton’s, and pulled up outside. Frank, with Revie’s permission, had asked Stuart if he would go to the Pembertons to give them the good news David was alive and well.
Stuart opened the police car door. ‘I think it’s best if I go by myself. I don’t think there’s any need for you to come with me,’ he said to the PC at the wheel. ‘I’m presuming they’ll want to go directly to the hospital to see David, so I shouldn’t be long. OK?’
The PC looked disappointed. ‘Pity. Makes a change to bring someone good news, I was looking forward to doing that.’
‘Sorry, mate, but the sight of a uniform might give them the wrong impression, at least to begin with. You can have a chat with them on the way to the hospital. Remember this was our case, and we did find him.’ Even if it was inadvertent, he thought.
He rang the bell. He was looking forward to seeing the Pembertons in the flesh, and especially Carol Pemberton. Was she as beautiful as her drawing? He didn’t suppose she’d fancy him: too old and too fat for her tastes. He wondered if Mr Pemberton had any inkling of what she was up to.
