by David Woods
Angela looked up. “But I was running away from this man.”
“Grainger didn’t know that.”
Angela shook her head. “I don’t believe your theory.”
“But it’s the only logical explanation.”
“I still can’t believe it.”
“Well, you think about it very carefully.”
“Yes I will. Now tell me which prison he’s in.”
“No idea, old girl. I don’t think it matters.”
“It matters to me.”
Garry decided he had sown enough doubts in her mind for one day and changed the subject. “D’you want to know the details of Mum and Dad’s will?”
“Yes. You’d better fill me in.”
He explained in detail how the estate was split up and Angela was surprised when he said. “You’re the owner of Home Farm House and its buildings, along with the surrounding grass paddocks, and a considerable portfolio of shares — enough to give you a very good income for life with capital to spare.” He finished explaining and said, “I take it you’ll want Osbornes to continue managing your portfolio?”
“Just for the time being.”
“Oh. And what’ll you do then?”
“I haven’t had time to think yet.” She was still stunned by her parents’ death and could not think about money.
Garry and Jane went home, and Angela went up to her room to think about what Garry had said about Jim. She churned the matter over for a long time and still did not know what to believe. She realised her feelings had not changed and still longed to see him again.
The next day Peter took her to Home Farm and she looked around the building, deciding that the cowshed would convert to a very good block of stables, and the dairy to a useful tack room. They opened the back door of the house and a damp smell met them in the rear hall. The walk around the house caused mixed feelings for Angela. It was in poor repair, a leak in the roof having brought down one ceiling and rotted the floorboards, but she imagined how nice it could be if enough money was spent.
She walked into a small rear bedroom and knew instantly that it was Jim’s old room. A picture of his motorcycle was still stuck to a wall, and she looked around the room with a lump in her throat, walking away from the house determined to see him again.
The following day was Monday and she rang the local police station, who advised her to ring the prison service. After lengthy enquiries she was advised that Jim had been released some time ago. In view of what her brother had said, she was surprised and wondered if he knew he was already out.
Peter came into the farm office and noticed her faraway expression. “Penny for your thoughts.”
“Peter, can I borrow the Land Rover this morning?”
“Of course you can. Going anywhere interesting?”
“Back to the hospital for a chat with the staff.”
“That’s a good idea. They’ll be pleased to see you.”
“I just want to find out more about the man they say talked to me and brought me back to life.”
“Oh, I see.”
She set off straightaway and arrived to a warm reception. Nurse Bowen was delighted to see her looking so well. Angela chatted for a few moments and then said. “You met the man who talked me out of the coma?”
“Yes. And I’d like to meet him again.”
“So would I. Can you tell me about him?”
She described him in every detail and Angela tried to think about what he would have looked like without his beard and long hair. “That’s what he looked like, but what about his voice?”
“Oh, fantastic. Deep, husky and very sexy. To tell you the truth he had me in tears.”
Angela knew it was him. “That was my Jim Grainger.”
“But why didn’t he tell me his name?”
“I don’t know and I’d like to find him to ask.”
“If you see him, give him my love.”
Angela laughed. “I certainly will.”
She drove back to the farm desperate to see Jim again, and with no idea how to find him, but then doubts crossed her mind. If he wanted to see her why had he not contacted her? Perhaps he had found someone else. Then Garry’s words came to her and she wondered if he was on the run again, but then she remembered the nurse describing his new working clothes.
That same evening Sue noticed Angela’s worried look, and Angela told her about the conversation with the nurse. “What d’you think, Sue?”
She thought for a moment. “I don’t think he’s on the run from some criminal activity. I think you should put yourself in his place. What would you do?”
Angela thought hard. “Yes, I see what you mean. Perhaps he’s ashamed of killing someone, and can’t face seeing me yet.”
“That could be the problem. So I wouldn’t try to find him yet.”
“I suppose not,” she said glumly. The prospect of not seeing him again made her depressed and she went to bed feeling desolate — her beloved parents were dead and the man she loved was somewhere else, and did not want to see her.
Chapter Thirteen
The country lanes were deserted in the early hours of the morning, and Jim took a different route back in case the four men were waiting for him to pass by. He reflected upon the night’s events and began to get worried about Rosie, whom he thought must be very frightened, and possibly in danger if the gang visited her on the way back. He pressed on as fast as possible, reaching the narrow streets as dawn was breaking. After parking he put the shotgun in the boot, remembering to wipe the barrel with a duster to remove his fingerprints.
Clutching the bag, he walked through a maze of narrow streets and back alleys until he was able to see the back of Rosie’s house. After a few minutes careful looking around, he was satisfied there were no intruders, and he picked his way over the broken back door into the kitchen. The house was quiet and cool, and he walked into the sitting room to find Rosie in an armchair, bent forward with her head in her hands.
“Rosie. Have they hurt you?”
She looked up suddenly. “Jim. Thank God you’re safe.” She jumped up and hugged him and then recoiled. “Blimey, you don’t ’alf stink.”
“I know. I could do with a change of clothes.”
“And a bath if you ask me!”
Rosie ran a bath whilst he took off his slimy stinking clothes. Twenty minutes later he was dressed again, eating a slice of toast and drinking a cup of tea.
Rosie fussed over him. “You ought to get some rest. Why not go up to bed?”
“I can’t do that in case they come back.”
“D’you think they will?”
“Yes. I’m absolutely certain.” He told her briefly what had happened and then said, “I’m going now. If they return, tell them to meet me in the old grain mill next to the school building site.”
“Whatever you say. But I ’ope they don’t come back ‘ere.”
“They won’t if I can get to a telephone before they leave.” He gathered up Rosie’s bag of tools and a coil of rope he had found earlier in the cellar.
Rosie looked at him and frowned. “What d’you want all that for?”
“I want to prepare a surprise or two for them.” He walked out of the back door promising to repair it on Sunday. He had the coil of rope over his shoulder, a bag in each hand and he found a telephone box nearby to ring the number he had heard the woman use. After a long wait a gruff voice answered. “Yeah? Speak to me.”
Jim spoke clearly and slowly. Jim Grainger here. If Briggs still wants to see me I’ll be in the old grain mill building by the new school site.”
“Too right, he wants to see you.”
“Tell him to be there by 9 o’clock” He rang off, found the black car and sat for a moment, feeling tired and apprehensive. He started up the engine and began the short drive to the derelict old building, parking outside.
He looked up at the tall red brick structure with several doors opening out to the open air. Each door had a small gantry above it, which used to have
a chain hoist attached, to lower sacks of flour down to the lorries parked below. Rats and mice scurried about as he strode over empty sacks to a shaky wooden staircase, and went up to the first floor, finding a trap door with a notch in one side. Each floor had a similar wooden hatch, which was used to lift sacks of corn up from the ground floor. A long chain was attached to the full sack, lifting it up, and when it came up against the hatch it was lifted automatically, letting the sack pass on up or be detached on that floor. When the mill was in use the endless chain would run all day. All the metal parts of the mill had been sent to the scrapyard, but the wooden machinery and thick dust remained.
Jim opened his tool bag and started work, stopping to listen from time to time, thinking they would arrive to surprise him, He carried on altering the wooden trap doors until he was on the top floor and, looking down, he could see through the top hatch which was near to the stairs. He could also see out of the top external door, which gave a view across the building site and beyond. When he had finished he sat down on the floor with the money and tool bag beside him. He glanced at his watch to find it was 8:30, and he had just one more job to do.
He got up and looked out the open door to see two cars driving slowly towards the building, stopping fifty yards away. Jim shuddered when he saw eight grim faced men get out, all carrying cudgels. He went across to the stairs, broke the top six treads by stamping heavily with his boot and then scrambled back up to wait. The men had disappeared inside and he heard the sound of hob-nailed boots on wooden boards. He hid the two bags under a pile of sacks and, peering down through the hatch, he heard a voice shouting up at him.
“Grainger, where the ’ell are you?” A lot of swearing followed and Jim’s heart thumped painfully as they got nearer. The floor below him creaked as the first man got to the stairs and shouted down. “He must be on the top floor.” A voice from below replied. “Right, we’re coming up.”
Jim lay on the floor, looking down through the slot in the hatch where the chain used to pass through and waited until he heard the voice of Briggs.
“Grainger, get down ’ere right now, or we’ll set light to the building.”
Jim had not thought about them setting the place on fire, but stayed calm. A man walked across the room and stood directly below him, looking up through the chain slot “He’s up there, guv.”
Jim heaved on a rope. The man bellowed as the trap door beneath him gave way and he landed on the floor below, with a bang which echoed through the building.
There was a commotion from below and one of the men shouted, “I’m going up there to kill ’im.”
Jim jumped to his feet and threw a coil of rope out of the open door. One end was tied to the gantry above and he looked back to see a red-looking face appear at the top of the stairs. Grabbing the rope and hoping the gantry would stand his weight, he swung out, but as he looked down he saw to his horror the rope was well short of the ground. It was too late to return so he wrapped the rope around his legs and slid down, the bottom of the rope being ten feet from the road. He lowered himself hand over hand as low as possible. He was just about to jump when the rope gave way and he fell heavily, hurting his ankle, with the rope landing on top of him.
He recovered and looked up to see a man peering down with a knife in his hand. Jim hobbled as fast as he could into the building, reaching the stairs just as a man was about to descend. He grabbed the wooden boards which held the stair treads and lifted, as they were not fixed very well to the floor. He then pulled to one side using the wall for leverage, and the two nails he had left in position pulled out easily, the stairs crashing to the floor with a man falling on top. Jim heard a sickly crack as a leg broke on impact. The man screamed and clutched his leg, groaning before passing out. By this time the remaining men were on the first floor, getting very bad tempered. Briggs shouted down through the stair hole. “Grainger, you despicable bastard. I’ll kill yer for what you’ve done.”
Jim felt a little more confident. “Come on then. What are you waiting for?”
A man above was trying to open the sack hatch, but found it was nailed shut, so their only means of escape was through the open hole where the stairs were, or a door to the open air on the next floor up. Jim retrieved the rope and threw an end up through the stair hole, one man caught it and shouted down.
“What are we supposed to do with this?”
“Tie it to something and slide down one at a time.”
“You must be joking,”
Jim listened as the men discussed their strategy in muffled tones, one of them pulling on the rope and tying it to a timber pillar. Jim stood back waiting patiently, his body tense and his mouth dry. Suddenly a large man appeared above and swung out on the rope, sliding down as if he had done it many times before. When he landed he lunged at Jim, who kept his nerve and crashed his huge fist into the man’s ribs. They cracked and the man collapsed in a heap, groaning and clutching his side. The men above watched, horrified by the force of his punch, and started arguing, but Briggs said “Right, who’s next?”
“Don’t be bloody daft. He’ll murder us one by one,” said one man.
Briggs got angry. “You’re a load of frightened old women. Get down there.”
A gruff voice replied. “You’re the big boss. You go first.”
A heated argument followed and then a fight developed. Jim listened as men cursed each other and fought with cudgels and knives. A man screamed and fell, landing at Jim’s feet with a knife buried in his chest and blood spurting out. The man looked at Jim with glazed eyes, his face snow white, and his last words were a feeble “help me.”
Jim was sickened at the sight of the man dying and the violence still going on above, but suddenly a group of uniformed police ran into the building, shouting at the men to stop. Jim helped lean the broken staircase back and watched as the policemen advanced slowly upwards.
Inspector Green stood at the bottom of the stairs with Jim and grinned. “Rosie said she thought you might need some help.”
“That was nice of her.”
“Yes but it seems they’re killing each other instead of you.”
“Yes. Look at this poor chap.”
They bent over the still body and the inspector felt his pulse. “He’s had it.”
Suddenly a shout from above made them look up. Briggs ran down the stairs with a knife in his hand, lashing out at Jim and embedding the knife in his left shoulder. Jim gasped and staggered backwards, with Briggs running out towards the school building site, pursued by Brian Green. Jim pulled the knife out and ran after him, his anger overcoming the pain, and he caught up with the inspector who was getting short of breath. It had started to rain half an hour ago, and already the depressions in the ground were filling with water.
Jim splashed forward with powerful strides, gaining on the shorter man who, when glancing back, was stricken with horror when he saw the big man bearing down on him and ran towards a pile of bricks. Jim dived and grabbed a pair of legs with his good arm, and Briggs fell forward with his face buried in yellow sticky mud. Jim sat on him and wrenched his face up so he could breathe. Briggs spluttered and choked but said nothing, and a uniformed policeman handcuffed him before leading the mud-plastered villain away.
Jim was suddenly overcome with pain and tiredness, his shoulder throbbed with pain and his stomach felt weak and queasy. The inspector looked at his pale face and said, “Come on Jim. You must sit down and rest for a while.”
Jim just nodded and walked unsteadily back to the old mill building, holding his painful left arm. Blood was trickling down his chest, sticking to his shirt, his knees felt weak and he was relieved to sit in the back of a police car. Brian Green, who was sitting in the front, turned around and looked straight into Jim’s eyes. “Now tell me exactly what happened here today.”
Jim related the full story from when he was captured the previous evening and then said, “Will I be prosecuted for injuring those men?”
“Good heavens, no. You’v
e done us a tremendous favour.”
“Well, what about the money in that bag hidden up on the top floor?”
“You didn’t steal it, did you?”
“No, I did not.”
“That money was extracted from illegal gambling clubs by Briggs, whose protection racket is well known. And the people he protects will never admit they gave him money.”
“Will you try and give it back?”
“Yes, of course. But not until after Briggs comes to trial.”
They stopped talking and watched the uninjured gang members being loaded into a police van, handcuffed to police officers and looking very downhearted. The inspector broke the silence. “The ambulance will be here in a minute and, in the meantime, I’ll look for that money.”
He walked off, leaving Jim feeling relieved that Briggs was captured, but sickened by the unnecessary violence and death. He felt very tired and wanted to sleep, but his left shoulder was painful. Brian Green returned, giving instructions to a police constable before getting into the front seat again.
An ambulance took away the injured men and the inspector drove Jim to hospital where he was stitched up, his left arm put in a sting and a police car took him home. Rosie was delighted to see him and had food ready, but Jim could not face much and went to bed. Waking very late the next morning to the rasping sound of a saw downstairs, he looked out of his window to see one of his building workers cutting a new back door to make it fit. He got dressed carefully and put on his sling. His shoulder still hurt and he felt weak. Rosie fussed over him and explained that Billy Bradford, one of the first workers he had recruited, had called into see him and offered to fit a new door.
Jim was both surprised and delighted. “Thanks very much Billy. Where did the door come from?”
“It’s second-hand. Came from a demolition job I did recently.”
Jim watched the dark haired man in his twenties work on the door until it fitted perfectly. “Billy, you did that a lot better than I could have done.”
“I enjoy working with timber,”
“Why aren’t you a chippy, then?”
“I didn’t do an apprenticeship. That’s why.”
