Dead Weight

by John Francome

  `Only if you’d survived.’

  After this conversation, Hugh rang Emma. He’d been ducking her calls. Her assistant put him straight through, so she must have been looking out for him. Guilt, he presumed.

  `Thanks so much for the wonderful flowers,’ she said at once. `I’m not sure I deserved them - it was only shepherd’s pie.’

  `It was a bit more than that. I’m sorry I scared your friend off.’ `Oh.’ She was surprised by his frankness. `It’s true Mandy can be a bit-‘

  `Next time, Em, I’ll supply my own partner.’

  `Great.’ The surprise was instantly replaced by curiosity. `Is there something I should know, Hugh? Or somebody, should I say?’

  `No,’ he replied quickly, and finished the call, feigning a summons from the editor. Let her stew on that for a bit.

  Just after five o’clock on Wednesday afternoon DC Patsy Preece left Greenhills driving the Fowler Peugeot. Though the days were lengthening as spring approached, it was a murky afternoon and almost dark. She intended to fill up with petrol closer to her destination and to be well ahead of schedule. She wore her thick dark hair pinned up. On the passenger seat lay Louise’s anorak and her black felt hat. A brown shoulder bag with a hundred thousand pounds in notes was locked in the boot of the car. She’d never been responsible for that amount of cash before, but she had more pressing things to worry about. Like how she would react when she had to answer the phone and talk to the man who had put Adrian Moore and Gerry Fowler in hospital - and might do the same to her.

  She’d spent a lot of time with DCI Lynch, trying to anticipate this man’s demands. They had discussed whether it might not be better for her to come clean. She could say Louise was too frightened to act as courier and that she was a friend who had taken Louise’s place. That sounded reasonable - but would that make any difference to their man? Reasonable was not likely to cut much ice with a nasty bastard like him.

  In the end they had decided that, if unmasked, Patsy would fall back on the `friend’ excuse, but, initially, she would simply behave as if she were Louise. The chances were she would simply be given directions to a destination where she would leave the money.

  Charlie had made her run through a variety of test calls, and he’d played the part of the extortioner.

  `Turn off your fucking microphone!’ he’d shouted the first time, taking her completely by surprise.

  Next he’d peppered her with personal questions - Louise’s full name, date of birth, her mother’s maiden name.

  `How’s he going to know any of that, though, boss?’ she’d complained.

  He shrugged. `He might not but you’ve got to sound like you do.’ Now, as she drove towards Scratchwood Melmoth, with these matters tumbling around her head, she consciously tried to shut the turmoil out. She slowed her breathing and focused on her driving. She knew her colleagues were watching her but made no attempt to look for them. A lot of money and man-hours were depending on her performance. And, if she played her cards right, there was a chance they’d soon have their hands on the bastard who’d caused so much misery.

  She’d joined the police to experience life at the sharp end. To make a difference. That was why she’d volunteered to stand in for Louise. She was determined not to let anyone down.

  Louise was confined to the house. Since she was supposed to be in Scratchwood Melmoth at 7.30, Charlie had deemed it prudent she stay at home with DC Holly Green to keep an eye on her. It would be the first night Louise had not visited her father, but she’d warned him not to expect her.

  `Got a date, have you?’ he’d said. `No, Dad,’ she’d protested.

  `That’s all right, sweetheart, you have some fun. You deserve it.’ She’d badly wanted to tell him the truth but had held her tongue. The whole business was secret - even her mother didn’t know what was going on, though she must have wondered why a policewoman had taken up residence.

  Ironically, she could have been on a date tonight. It was the evening Kit had offered to take her to Bristol.

  She rang Rebecca to take her mind off things - Holly said it was OK - but her friend wasn’t at home.

  She turned on the television and watched a soap she was long out of touch with. She couldn’t make much sense of the programme any more. Her thoughts were elsewhere.

  Patsy reached Scratchwood Melmoth just before seven. She’d made the journey the day before to check out the location, and now she drove straight to the rear of the Tesco car park and placed the vehicle as she had planned, close to the exit.

  She’d already disguised herself in the hat and anorak when she’d stopped for petrol, so now there was nothing for her to do but wait. She knew she was being watched by her colleagues - she assumed that some of the other cars around her would contain police surveillance teams. But it was possible she was also being watched by the letterwriter. It was a scary thought.

  What was to stop him suddenly appearing at her car door and demanding the money now?

  Well, he’d be out of luck because by the time she’d got it out of the boot her back-up would have arrived.

  She flicked the lock on her car door.

  Suppose he pointed a gun through the window? A shotgun or a .22? An arrow from the crossbow he’d used on Adrian Moore could shatter the glass and go straight through her head. Like a skewer through a melon.

  She glanced fearfully from side to side.

  If he appeared with a weapon, she’d have no choice but to let him in the car. She’d have to drive wherever he told her. They’d have police on their tail but she’d be a hostage - and hostages sometimes didn’t survive.

  She looked over the barrier ahead of her at the road and the steady stream of traffic sailing by. An old lady was waiting at the pedestrian crossing, her destination possibly the bus stop thirty yards along the road on the other side. Patsy could see a knot of people standing by the shelter. Five buses had already come by in just over ten minutes. The shopping centre was well provided for.

  Suppose he made her get on a bus? They’d not discussed that. She didn’t know the bus routes - would that matter? Buses were slow. But buses looked pretty much the same, apart from numbers and destinations. There was plenty of room for confusion. She hadn’t realised when she’d volunteered that she’d be vulnerable to such negative thoughts.

  She took a deep breath and forced herself to think positively. If he made her get on a bus she would simply report it. She was wired up to an incident room and also carried a mobile phone. She was prepared to jettison the phone if required. She would deny all knowledge of the concealed transmitter unless she had no choice - like being on her own with the bastard in some dark and lonely place.

  Suppose - and this thought had taken root in her mind without ever showing itself till now - he wasn’t just interested in the money. It wasn’t that much, all considered, as everyone had agreed. Suppose he was mostly interested in furthering his crackpot cause, getting revenge for racing events that had gone wrong. That would explain why he wanted Louise to deliver the money. Charlie Lynch said it was because the guy was a game-player, a manipulative bastard who liked putting people through hoops to show how superior he was. But suppose the DCI was wrong. After her father was attacked Louise had been quoted

  saying the Devious affair was really her fault. Suppose this creep wanted to take it out on her too.

  Suppose the real point of this was to spill Louise’s blood. Which means my blood, thought Patsy.

  She glanced at her watch. Ten minutes to go. Deep breath.

  Think positive.

  At 7.25 Patsy got out of the car, took the shoulder bag from the boot, ran a quick mental check - ransom money (yes), mobile (yes), loose change for the bus if needed (yes) - locked the car and left the car park. She crossed the road and walked to the public phones. There were two of them, side by side, with a Perspex partition between them and a roof to keep off the rain. Neither was occupied. Even the bus queue had gone. Patsy felt exposed and vulnerable.

  She foc
used on the phone farthest from the bus stop and watched as the hand on her wristwatch crept past the half-hour. At any second the phone would ring.

  It didn’t.

  Another minute crept by.

  She heard the sound of footsteps. A teenage boy in baggy sportswear was strolling towards her, wheeling a bike. Could this be him? He was only sixteen or seventeen but big enough to be a threat. He could strip the bag from her shoulder in a flash and be off on his bike, down some back alley.

  The lad ambled past without a glance, lost in his own world. Just a harmless kid. She felt mean for being so suspicious.

  Seven thirty-five, and no sound from the phone. She lifted the receiver to check it was working and heard the gentle buzz of the dialling tone.

  More time went by. It looked like the operation was off. The guy had probably got cold feet. She stamped hers. He wasn’t the only one.

  The ringing tone took her by surprise, and it was a few seconds before she snatched up the receiver. As she pressed it to her ear, the ringing continued.

  `Hello?’ she said, and at once felt stupid. She was talking to the dialling tone.

  She put the receiver down and realised it was the other phone, the

  one closest to the bus stop, that was ringing. Had she got the instructions wrong?

  She lifted the other receiver.

  `You took your time,’ said a man’s voice. Soft, almost a whisper. Was that an accent?

  `Sorry. I thought it was the other phone.’

  `That’s what you were meant to think. Who are you?’

  `Louise Fowler. I’m sorry - I’m terribly nervous.’ That was true enough. `Is your brother with you?’

  What? `I haven’t got a brother.’ The bastard was trying to trick her. `OK.’

  There was a pause. Was that it? Had she passed the test? `Who came fourth in the Gold Cup last year?’

  Jesus! How the hell was she meant to know that?

  `Oh, please,’ she protested. `Can’t we just get on with it?’ `You answer my question.’ The voice wasn’t so soft now.

  She thought. She remembered watching the race. A big, black Irish horse had romped home in the fastest time since the war.

  `Holy Moses won it,’ she said.

  `That’s not what I asked, Louise.’ There was a sarcastic emphasis on her name. He knew.

  `I’ve got the money here,’ she said quickly. `Made up in different notes just like you asked.’

  Another silence. Then his voice bellowed out of the receiver at such a volume she yanked it from her ear.

  `You can stick it up your arse, COPPER!’

  Then there was just a buzzing on the empty line.

  Keith drove back carefully, deliberately suppressing his urge to put his foot down. He knew he had to stay in control, keep the Beast in check till he got home.

  He told himself he’d done the right thing. He’d made a plan and he’d stuck to it. He knew they’d try to trick him and he’d caught them out. The cheating bastards.

  But she’d had the money. He hadn’t been greedy, he’d just asked for enough. Enough to right the wrongs he’d suffered. Enough to set him free.

  And he’d been cheated again.

  Half an hour later Patsy was sitting in the back of Charlie’s car on the other side of the car park. She had a blanket over her shoulders and was sipping slowly at a carton of hot soup - her second - held in shaking fingers. She didn’t feel like she’d ever be warm again, though it wasn’t the February cold that chilled her.

  `I’m sorry,’ she said for the umpteenth time.

  `It’s all right,’ said Charlie, as he’d said many times before. `You’re not hurt, we haven’t lost the Racing Beacon’s money and we live to fight another day.’

  `But why did he ask me that? How could I be expected to remember what came where at last year’s Cheltenham?’

  `You can’t.’ Charlie was keying a number into his phone as he spoke. `That’s the point. Hello, Holly, it’s Charlie Lynch.’

  Patsy could hear the tinny sound of a voice through the receiver. Even from the back seat she could detect her colleague’s anxiety.

  `It didn’t work out, I’m afraid, he hung up. But Patsy’s fine. She’d like a word with Louise.’

  Charlie passed the phone between the seats. Patsy put her soup on the floor and took it.

  ‘Louise, can I ask you a question? Which horse came fourth in last year’s Gold Cup?’

  `Paris White. Why?’

  Patsy was amazed. `How on earth do you know that?’ she asked, but suddenly it was obvious. She had guessed the reason even as the answer came out of Louise’s mouth.

  “Cos Dad trains him.’ Of course.

  There was more to impersonating someone than simply borrowing their coat.

  Keith butchered the carcass with unnecessary ferocity, raising a mist of flesh fragments and splinters of bone with each downward smash of the cleaver. There was no point in treating the dead calf like this - finesse in the dissection of a carcass made for a better job - except that the thrusting and jabbing of the blade helped relieve some of the fury raging through his skull.

  The Beast demanded it.

  He flung the bloody chunks into the hounds’ feeding trays, imagining it was the body of that policewoman who’d tried to fool him at the handover. Police - did they think he was stupid? Hadn’t he made it clear enough that he was not to be pissed about?

  Maybe he hadn’t. Maybe they needed a further demonstration that he meant business.

  The cleaver rose and fell. Separating flesh from bone. Severing muscle and tendon. Dicing dead meat for the hounds’ dinner.

  Maybe it was time for the Beast to show his real face. They’d do everything he told them after that.

  Chapter Eight

  Rebecca woke with a smile on her face. Milky sunlight lit the curtains, filtering around the edges, sneaking across the carpet. The alarm clock on her bedside table told her it was 8.40 - two hours past the moment it had first summoned her from sleep. She’d shut it off then and fallen back into desperately needed slumber. Now she was late, but that wasn’t her only sin. She’d been a bad girl. Her smile grew wider as she recalled the details. It had been worth it.

  Kit had left her bed before dawn. His goodbye kiss still lingered - the scrape of stubble on her cheek and the sleepy taste of him on her lips. She spread her naked limbs across the bed, burrowing into the hollow where he’d been. She’d get up and face the day soon, but for the moment she couldn’t bear to break the spell. After all, how often did you have a perfect first date?

  They’d hit it off from the moment he’d picked her up. On his own, he was talkative and funny and, well, rather wicked. They’d had a few laughs at the expense of Leo. Rebecca had felt a bit disloyal, but it was true that Leo was a bit of a fusspot, and he did have a habit of mentioning his uncle, who was a half-famous actor, at every opportunity. And when they finished pulling Leo apart, Kit had moved the conversation on to Carol, the girl who’d been with him on Valentine’s night. Rebecca had rubbished her gleefully, and Kit had laughed so hard at her impersonation of Carol’s goofy giggle that he’d pulled the car over to the side of the road so they wouldn’t have an accident.

  All that had been before they’d even reached Bristol. Jules et Jim was a bit of a museum piece but sort of sexy, which set the mood for their candlelit dinner. Kit told her she had a mouth every bit as beautiful as Jeanne Moreau’s, but he said it in a French accent so she wasn’t sure

  whether he was joking. Later, outside her flat, he’d said he meant it and proved it with a long, serious kiss.

  She shouldn’t have invited him up, not on a first date, but it was an hour’s drive back to his parents’ house and it didn’t seem fair just to send him packing after such a great evening. So she hadn’t and had sneaked him inside, the pair of them giggling as they tiptoed past Mrs Mason’s door, before tumbling on to her bed in a sudden fever, all joking set aside. And there he’d remained, in her arms, until dawn.
/>   The phone began to ring. It had gone once before but she’d ignored it, pulling the pillow over her head and stuffing her fingers in her ears until it finally stopped.

  This time she reached for the receiver. She knew who it would be. Time to face the music.

  `Sorry, Louise,’ she began. `I overslept.’ `Are you all right? I rang earlier.’

  `I know. I was too tired to answer.’

  `I shouldn’t have asked you to do this job. I know you’ve got a ton of college stuff to do.’

  Ouch. Now Louise was really making her feel bad. `I’ll be there in twenty minutes.’

  `If you’re sure. Pick up the Western Echo on your way.’ ‘Why?’

  `You’ll see.’

  Rebecca thought no more about it as she pulled on jeans and a sweater. She splashed water on her face and wound her thick brown curls into a single strand which she pinned on top of her head. At least working at a stable meant she could look like a scruff. What would Kit make of her now? she wondered. She didn’t look much like a French film star this morning.

  Oh, Lord, Kit. How on earth was she going to tell Louise? But she must, and the sooner the better. She’d not mentioned Kit’s invitation on the basis that it could well have been a one-off, so what would have been the point? But now it had turned out to be something special she ought to come clean. Unless, and the thought punctured her afterglow like a knife between the ribs, it was a one-off after all. He’d not said anything about a next time.

  Sod it. Now was not the time to worry about that. She’d give him

  twenty-four hours. And if she’d not heard from him she’d turn up at his house and kill him. It was simple.

  Mrs Mason gave her a sniffy look as they passed on the stairs and Rebecca offered her biggest grin. Every silver lining had a cloud, but she wasn’t in the mood to worry about it.

  The Western Echo led with the story under the banner POLICE FOILED IN HORSERACE STAKE-OUT.

  Over 100 police officers surrounded Scratchwood Melmoth retail park yesterday in an attempt to capture a man holding horseracing to ransom.