by Bill Kitson
He filled the magazine, something he had done so many times before that he didn’t need light to work by. Once he had inserted the final round into the chamber, he looked up. In the short space of time he had been otherwise engaged, the intruders had managed to get the door open, only to be temporarily frustrated by the chain that Tina had wisely ensured was in position. The delay gave him all the time he needed.
The rear door of the cottage was half timber, with glass panes above. His object was to scare them away, and in order to achieve that, he would have to damage Margaret’s property. As he lifted the rifle, the thought that he might hit one of the burglars by accident didn’t occur to him. He was far too good a shot.
He settled the stock into his shoulder and lined up the target, took a deep breath and let it out again, before squeezing the trigger twice in rapid succession. The effect was dramatic, for the night air was filled with a cacophony of sounds that mingled into a horrendous din.
The reports echoed and re-echoed across the space between the shooter and the houses. These were augmented by the sound of breaking glass as the bullets demolished the top half of the door, before continuing unchecked into Margaret’s kitchen. The range cooker opposite the door had a collection of heavy, cast-iron pans hanging above it, and the bullets hit two of these, sending them gyrating on the hooks they were suspended from, until one worked free and crashed heavily onto the tiled kitchen floor, smashing two of the tiles.
The bullets maintained their destructive path, ricocheting from the pans to destroy two glasses, a cola tin, and, in one final act of vandalism, smashing the glass door of the microwave.
‘Somebody’s shooting at us. Run for it!’
The instruction was hardly necessary. As the intruders made their escape, hampered by the tools they had brought, the gunman lined up one more shot. The end terrace had an outside light fixed to the corner of the building. It was about ten feet from the ground, with the lantern-shaped light suspended below.
As the intruders reached the corner, the gunman squeezed the trigger. The shot destroyed three panes of the lantern, showering the couple with glass fragments. The final shot hastened their departure even more and the neighbour watched with satisfaction as their car hurtled recklessly out of the village, close to being out of control.
He turned, and braced himself for the consequences of what he’d done. Already lights were going on in the terrace and the houses nearby. The sound of voices, angry voices, frightened voices, curious voices, reached him as he waited. Only when he saw a light appear at the rear bedroom window of the cottage occupied by Tina did her neighbour abandon his vigilante pose. He thumbed the safety catch of the rifle into the on position and walked slowly towards her back door, which remained ajar; witness to how close the intruders had come to gaining access.
Nash wasn’t sure how long he’d been asleep, or how long the phone had been ringing before it roused him. He groped for the receiver, but only succeeded in knocking it off its cradle. He switched the bedside light on and rescued the instrument from the floor, in time to hear Jack Binns’ voice. ‘Mike, are you there? Mike, come on, wake up, you lazy sod.’
‘Jack, what’s wrong?’
‘Ah, there you are. Sorry to disturb you, but there’s been trouble at Kirk Bolton. Intruders tried to break into one of the cottages and a neighbour spotted them and started letting fly with a rifle. The reports are a bit garbled, but by what I can make out it sounds like the Gunfight at the OK Corral.’
‘Anybody wounded?’
‘I don’t think so, but I can’t be sure. I’ve sent a couple of cars to the village and I’m about to set off, but I thought you’d want to be involved.’
‘I’ll be on my way as soon as I’m dressed.’
‘My apologies for waking you’ – Binns paused, before adding slyly – ‘and whoever else I may have disturbed.’
‘Sorry, Jack, you couldn’t be further from the mark.’ Nash paused. ‘Speaking of being off the mark, you’d better give me the address in Kirk Bolton.’
When Nash reached the village, he realized that the directions had been unnecessary. The flashing lights of three police cars were all the guidance he needed. The uniformed officer standing by the gate greeted him. ‘Sheriff Binns is inside with Billy the Kid and the house-owner’s daughter, a cracker of a girl called Tina.’
Nash walked down the front path, wondering how the officer managed to be so cheerful at this time of night, but then he hadn’t been dragged out of bed. Binns was standing by the fireplace holding a rifle by the barrel and talking to a middle-aged man who had a game bag slung over one shoulder. Nash noted with approval that the sergeant was wearing gloves.
After Binns introduced the man, who he referred to as ‘the neighbourhood gunslinger’, Nash asked him to explain exactly what had happened.
The neighbour hesitated for a moment. ‘I was going out to deal with a rabbit problem on my brother-in-law’s farm and I saw two people trying to get into Margaret’s, er, I mean Mrs Fawcett’s house. They’d almost succeeded, but I fired a couple of warning shots to scare them away. It worked, too. I didn’t know what else to do,’ he added, explaining his dilemma.
‘I understand the problem,’ Nash told him, ‘but discharging a firearm in a way that could have endangered life is a very serious offence and I’m afraid you will have to answer for it.’
Before he could elaborate and explain the precise nature of the trouble the neighbour was in, the door leading to the dining room opened, and a young woman came in, carrying two mugs of coffee.
Binns, who was looking at Nash as she entered, saw the detective’s expression change. The colour drained from Nash’s face as he stared at the newcomer in open-mouthed astonishment. The detective’s mouth moved several times as if he was about to speak but no sound issued forth.
‘Mike,’ Binns introduced him, ‘this is Tina. Her mother owns this house. This is Detective Inspector Nash.’
Tina handed the mugs to her neighbour and Binns before turning to shake hands with Nash. The detective seemed to be in shock from the girl’s appearance, but whether that was down to her undoubted beauty or some other cause, Binns couldn’t be sure.
Nash shook Tina’s hand but maintained his hold on it far longer than politeness decreed. As he continued to stare at her, Tina became uncomfortably aware of his gaze. She let go of his hand, before asking, a trifle awkwardly, ‘I’m sorry, is something wrong?’
Chapter Seventeen
Despite their disturbed night, both Binns and Nash were in work early.
‘What was up with you last night, Mike?’ Binns asked. ‘You looked absolutely gob-smacked when you saw Miss Fawcett. Was it another case of lust at first sight? That has happened before, as I remember.’
Nash explained. ‘You’ve heard the expression, “You look as though you’ve seen a ghost”? Well that was pretty much it for me last night. I’d been looking at a photo of a woman who has been missing for years, and next thing I saw a young woman who could have been her twin.’
When Mironova arrived, Nash was waiting for her in the CID main office. ‘Anything happen last night?’ she asked as she hung her jacket up.
‘It certainly did.’ Nash told her about the Kirk Bolton shooting. ‘Miss Fawcett and the Sundance Kid are due here any time now to give their statements. I want you to be here, especially when Tina Fawcett arrives.’
Clara groaned. ‘Don’t tell me, she’s a gorgeous-looking girl and you fancy the pants off her?’
‘Why does everyone around here automatically think the worst of me?’ Nash grumbled.
‘They call it previous experience, I believe.’
‘She is certainly very beautiful, but it isn’t her looks I want you here to witness. Well, it is and it isn’t,’ he added cryptically. He opened the Max Perry file and placed it in front of her.
At that moment the phone rang. ‘Miss Fawcett and Wild Bill Hickock are here,’ Binns told Nash.
‘OK, Jack, I’ll come down f
or them.’
Minutes later, Clara looked up from her study of Frankie Da Silva’s photograph, wondering why Nash had chosen to give her it at that precise moment, to see him re-enter the room. Her gaze switched to the young woman alongside him. Clara gasped aloud as she saw Tina. Or, as she thought, Frankie Da Silva.
Mironova shook her head in disbelief. This couldn’t be Frankie. The girl was far too young. She looked at Nash, her expression an appeal for help. He nodded, as if in answer to a question. ‘I know,’ he told her, ‘you can imagine what I thought last night.’
‘Would someone mind telling me what’s going on?’ Tina demanded.
‘I’m sorry. Clara, this is Tina Fawcett.’ He reached for the photo.
Tina smiled. ‘I’m afraid you are under a misconception, Inspector Nash, my name isn’t Fawcett, it’s Silver, Christina Silver.’
‘That’s your real name? So where does the Fawcett come from?’ Nash asked.
‘I don’t know. I think it might have been my grandmother’s maiden name, but to be honest I know so little of our family history I can’t be sure.’
If Nash and Mironova had been shocked by the likeness of the photo, the effect on Tina when she looked at it was, if anything, even more dramatic. Only a very close scrutiny of the photograph revealed a couple of tiny variations, otherwise the two were identical.
‘I don’t understand. This is not me, yet it looks so like me. Who is this woman? Even I had to look twice, but I can assure you, that isn’t me.’
‘We know that,’ Mironova reassured her. ‘Even if we hadn’t known who the woman in this photo was, after a while we’d have worked out it wasn’t you.’
Clara looked across at Nash, who nodded. ‘This photo was taken a long time ago,’ Mironova continued. ‘It’s probably coincidence that your hairstyle is so similar, which strengthens the likeness even more.’
‘I was going to have it cut today,’ Tina remarked, ‘I prefer it long, but my mother doesn’t like it.’
‘Any special reason for that?’ Nash asked.
Tina shrugged. ‘Not that I know of. She’s got a lot of’ – she hesitated – ‘strange dislikes and prejudices. I put it down to another of my mother’s whims. She never talks about the past, or our family. So tell me, who is this woman?’
‘She was a nightclub singer who appeared on stage in London during the 1980s. Her name is Frankie Da Silva. She disappeared—’
‘Did you say her name was also Silver?’ Tina cut Nash short.
‘No, not Silver, Da Silva.’
‘Could Silver be the anglicized version? Could this woman be related to me?’
Nash avoided the subject. ‘We’re looking into all sorts of possibilities at the moment. I assumed Fawcett was your father’s name. That your mother took it when she married.’
‘My mother wasn’t married – that much I do know. As for my father’ – she shrugged – ‘I have no idea who he is, or was, and from what little my mother told me, I don’t want to know. My mother took the name Fawcett so that he couldn’t trace her.’
‘Did she tell you why?’
Tina hesitated. ‘She certainly didn’t go into much detail. All she said was that she was lucky to be alive, and if he ever found her, he would probably kill her, unless she managed to kill him first. I know she had a pathological fear of men, and for a long time she couldn’t bear to be alone in a room with a man.’ She smiled. ‘I think she would have been far happier if I’d turned out to be a lesbian. She did her best to put me off relationships with men, told me they weren’t to be trusted and all I’d get from them would be sorrow.’ Tina seemed as if she was about to say more, but then changed her mind. Nash, who was watching her carefully, felt certain she was concealing something.
‘That sounds to me like the consequence of an abusive relationship,’ Mironova commented. ‘Does your mother look like you, or like the woman in the photo?’
‘A little bit, but the resemblance is nowhere near as strong.’
‘Did your mother ever mention if she had a sister, or any other family?’
‘No, like I said, she wasn’t prepared to talk about family matters.’ She frowned. ‘But I believe there was some mystery, something that might happen at any time, although what it was, I’ve no idea.’
‘That sounds strange,’ Nash suggested. ‘Do you know what she was hinting at?’
‘No, all I know is she once told me, around the time I left school, that one day someone might knock on our door and ask for something. If they did, and she wasn’t there, I had to ask them a question, which would act as a password. If they gave the correct answer, I had to contact her immediately, wherever she was.’
‘Didn’t that strike you as odd?’ Mironova asked.
‘Very odd, but then, I was used to her eccentricity by then.’
‘Did she give you any idea what the mysterious object they would ask for was?’
‘No, I did ask, but she said it was better if I didn’t know. She said that the caller would be able to tell me, so long as they had the right answer to the passport question.’
‘Passport question? Would you mind explaining?’
Tina looked at Nash and smiled. ‘I had to ask them to tell me what my full name is.’
‘Your full name?’
‘Yes.’
‘And that is?’
‘Christina Evangeline Silver.’
Nash’s biro clattered as it fell on the desk.
Although Tina pressed him, Nash refused to explain their reaction. ‘We need to speak to your mother,’ he said, ‘does she have a mobile phone with her?’
‘My mother doesn’t own a mobile. She’s a complete technophobe. She can’t even work a video player. When DVDs came out, she was first in the queue, because she could just about manage one of them. Strange, really, that I should finish up working in computer software when my mother can’t even switch one on. She’ll be home in a couple of days, though. Won’t it keep until then?’
‘I think it would be better if we were able to speak to her before, if possible. Do you know which coach company she was travelling with?’
‘I assume it would to be the local one. She certainly won’t have booked online.’
‘In that case, I feel sure the courier will be contactable. Either him or the driver. Failing which, the company will know their itinerary, and we could try the hotels they’re stopping at en route.’
‘Please don’t take this the wrong way, but if you need to talk to my mother about anything personal, I think it would be better if Sergeant Mironova was the one to speak to her. She is still not comfortable around men, especially if the subject matter is delicate. I also think I’d prefer you to wait. If she gets the idea that I might have been in danger she’ll be fretting all the time until she gets home. I don’t want what happened last night to spoil her holiday. After all, I didn’t come to any harm.’
Nash accepted Tina’s advice. ‘OK, we’ll leave it for the time being. Sergeant Mironova will get hold of the contact details, but I promise we won’t use them unless we have to. How’s that sound?’
Tina smiled her appreciation.
‘I’ll go get the details now,’ Clara said.
When they were alone, Nash said, ‘I think it would be best if you were to move out of the cottage until this is cleared up, or at least until your mother returns. You could book into a hotel in Helmsdale and I’ll make sure you’re protected there. I really wouldn’t be happy about you staying at the cottage, even with a police guard present.’
‘I don’t understand. Why would I need a guard?’
‘Let’s just say I don’t think this was a burglary – it may be connected to something in your mother’s past and I think we should take precautions for your safety.’
Tina studied him for a moment and realized he wasn’t about to explain any further. ‘That’s all very well, but I have nothing with me. I’d have to go back to collect some clothing and other things I might need.’
‘OK, if you’ll agree to stay in town, we’ll leave your car here and I’ll drive you back to Kirk Bolton to get what you want after I’ve seen to your gun-toting neighbour.’
‘Is he in trouble?’
‘It’s not my decision, but going by the strict letter of the law, he should be charged.’
‘But that’s so unfair. He only did it to protect me. Heaven knows what might have happened if he hadn’t scared those horrid people away.’
She leaned forward, her expression pleading. ‘Couldn’t you use your influence on his behalf, Mr Nash? If he hadn’t intervened, you could have been investigating my murder. Surely, you wouldn’t have wanted that, would you?’
Nash looked into Tina’s eyes. A mistake. Never the most resolute in the face of female charms, Nash was unable to deny Tina this request. He wondered fleetingly if Ray Perry had felt like this when he met Frankie Da Silva.
‘Inspector Nash,’ Tina’s voice was little more than a whisper as she edged even closer to him. ‘Please do it, for me. I would be ever so grateful.’
‘OK, you win. I’ll let him off with a caution.’
Nash wondered if the increase in his blood pressure was directly related to the radiance of Tina’s smile.
Nash explained his plan to Mironova, and after collecting Tina’s neighbour, set off with his passengers.
There was little conversation on the journey to Kirk Bolton apart from Tina once again thanking her neighbour for his intervention. ‘And it’s thanks to Inspector Nash that you didn’t get into trouble for firing your gun,’ she added.
‘No, that was down to you,’ Nash corrected her. ‘I couldn’t resist your pleading. Besides, I think justice would hardly have been served.’
Tina set off down the path and unlocked the front door, whilst Nash paused for a word with the constable on guard duty. The officer was standing alongside his car, which was parked close to the gate. His uniform jacket was lying on the back seat, and Nash guessed that prior to their arrival, his tie would have been loosened.
