Dead Weight

by John Francome

  Now he could see a figure, dragging one of the machines off the road. A machine with familiar markings - a police motorcycle. Suddenly he had more air in his lungs. He kicked on faster, revitalised by hope. Police! They’d got the bastard now!

  With a roar the quad bike burst into life and was away again, speeding off down the road. Phil could scarcely believe it.

  He almost fell over the man in the road. A motorcycle policeman in a crash helmet and leathers, lying in a puddle.

  `Are you all right, mate?’ he asked, bending down.

  `Oh, Jesus,’ he said as he took in the lifeless face, the gaping hole in the man’s neck and the puddle that he now realised was blood. He pulled off the man’s leather gauntlet and felt for a pulse at the wrist.

  He knelt there in the poor fellow’s blood, desperately searching for a flicker of life.

  Nothing.

  He reached into his jacket pocket for his phone, but the pocket was torn and the phone wasn’t there. He remembered yanking his coat free from the barbed-wire fence and the sound of ripping fabric - he must have lost it then. And Julia’s mobile was back in the car.

  He stared over the body of the policeman, down the road in the

  direction the killer had gone. A few yards away, the motorbike lay on its side, the engine still grumbling.

  He should get on the bike and fetch the emergency services.

  The quad bike was out of sight but he could see its lights above the hedgerow. Julia’s kidnapper was accelerating away on the road ahead. He ran to the motorcycle and heaved it upright. It was heavy but he swung his leg over and kicked away the stand.

  The policeman was dead and there was nothing he could do for him. He opened the throttle and the powerful machine punched into the night.

  Charlie knew events had moved out of his control. Given the nature of the operation that was no surprise. But for things to slip so disastrously through his fingers was another matter.

  Phil’s car had been recovered on the hard shoulder of the motorway. But where was Phil?

  Had Bernie taken Phil hostage along with the ransom? Maybe the rope had been a ruse and he’d not been on the bridge at all? He could have hidden in a vehicle beneath the bridge on the hard shoulder and, right now, be spiriting Phil away along the motorway. In which case, how the hell would Charlie ever find them? They could be halfway to Bristol by now - or Exeter if Bernie had headed back in the opposite direction.

  He had no doubt that both Phil and Julia could end up being murdered by this maniac - just like Rebecca.

  Charlie was looking forward to retirement. But retirement with dignity at the end of a long and productive career. He didn’t want to finish with a case which involved a lost half-million, three corpses and no suspect.

  Right now that was a distinct possibility.

  The rain had stopped but the night was black and getting blacker the farther they moved away from the lights of the motorway. It was sheer stupidity to be charging along unlit roads on an unfamiliar machine without goggles or helmet. He was less protected on the powerful monster between his legs than on a racehorse.

  The darkness gave him one advantage. He could follow the light of the quad bike as it shone over the fields, separated by hedges of gorse and hawthorn. Even when the quad lights vanished, hidden in the lee of a building or behind a stand of substantial trees, he was able to pick it up again. But for how long?

  `Aren’t you coming through, Henry?’ Moira hovered in the kitchen door, a polite smile fastened to her lips. Moira was always polite-even to her husband of forty-three years.

  `No,’ said Carrington.

  `I thought we were going to watch the Morse video.’

  `For God’s sake, woman, you don’t need me to watch television with you.,

  That flustered her a little. He wasn’t often so ungallant.

  `Sorry, old girl,’ he muttered, `didn’t mean to be … you know.’ She knew well enough. She’d closed on him now and had her hand on his arm.

  `Forget about Monty, please, Henry. It’s not worth getting in a stew over.’

  There was a lot he could have said but he bit his tongue and said nothing.

  She sighed expressively. Even ten years ago they might have thrashed the matter out all over again, but not now.

  `I’m off to bed, then,’ she said, turning for the door. `Don’t stay up too late.’

  He knew her eyes were on the level in the whisky bottle.

  `No, dear,’ he said, and waited for her footsteps to recede up the stairs before pouring himself another.

  Phil had lost him. At least, he thought he had. The countryside was becoming hilly, and it was getting harder to keep track of the quad bike. And suddenly the light ahead vanished.

  Phil drove down the stretch of road where his quarry had disappeared. It was empty, with no turnings on either side. Was this where his foolhardy pursuit finished?

  He drove back down the road, and this time he noticed a gate. He angled the bike’s headlight into the shadows off the road and spotted the track, little more than a ditch between an alley of trees. It was big enough for a quad bike to pass through, however. Where else could he have gone?

  Maybe Bernie had realised he was being followed. Perhaps he was lying in wait for him down there. Waiting to do to him what he’d done to that motorcycle policeman.

  Phil had done his job. He didn’t have to go after the kidnapper. Bernie would let Julia go now he had the money. He’d said so.

  Phil dismounted and opened the gate. He set off into the undergrowth, the wheels crunching over rotten logs and plunging him into sudden dips. A machine like this was built for slick tarmac, not an unpaved switchback full of hidden perils. He was crawling along, aware he might overbalance any moment.

  Then that familiar and paralysing bubble of panic was in his gut, growing larger, pressing up beneath his lungs, squeezing the air out. His breath came in short gasps, and sweat trickled down the small of his back as he clung on to the handlebars, as paralysed as he had ever been on a horse.

  He closed his mind to it. Opened the throttle and bumped along faster. This was nothing compared to a steeplechase.

  He wasn’t going to bottle out now.

  Keith turned off his headlight for the last stretch up the lane to the kennels. He could travel this section blindfold if he had to.

  He sat in the yard on the bike, looking back down the hill. At one point he’d thought he was being followed. But he could see no pursuing headlights, hear no rumble of a car’s engine. And the hounds, who had been disturbed by his arrival, were settling.

  Keith wasn’t foolish enough to think he was home and dry. A long night lay ahead, and a lot of work. All his clothes would have to go in the incinerator, for a start. He’d not anticipated that, but then he’d not thought he’d run into a motorcycle copper. He’d had no alternative but to get rid of him. The man was hardly likely to forget Keith and his eye patch.

  But, by God, he’d dealt with him like a pro. At least, the Beast had. And the Beast had more work to do before the night was over. There was the girl to take care of.

  But before he could continue his night of toil, there was the most important task of all.

  He carried the hold-all into the front room and pulled the curtains. He examined the bag. Had they played straight with him? Someone close by would suffer if this did not contain what he’d asked for. He’d send the jockey’s wife home in little pieces if the money wasn’t here. But it was.

  He unzipped the bag and pulled out a brick of ?50 notes. Incredible. And there was much, much more. Half a million pounds in cash. He’d pulled off the biggest gamble of his life.

  Then the hounds started up. Keith froze.

  The barking grew more agitated, and lights swept across the curtains from the yard outside.

  He had been followed after all.

  Phil had always imagined that coming off a motorbike would be worse than falling off a horse, but he’d had more painful falls on the practic
e gallops. He wasn’t even concussed - at least, he didn’t think so. He’d been lucky, though, there was no doubt about that.

  As he’d driven along, the rutted track had got steeper, picking up water as it progressed downhill. Trying to avoid the wet, Phil had stuck to the side as the pathway broadened, and he’d found himself riding along a raised bank as the track turned into a proper stream. Suddenly the bank veered left under the trees as the waterway diverged and a branch at chest height separated Phil from the bike. He had landed on his back in a mound of pulpy end-of-winter leaves, and the bike had continued its journey without him.

  Now, as he dragged himself to his feet, he heard a fully fledged river flowing some ten yards off to his left. And through the trees he saw a dim glow he took to be the motorcycle headlight. It occurred to him that, if he hadn’t been knocked off, he’d now be in the water.

  The track ahead, he noticed, was paved. He followed it over a bridge across the river and passed through a gate on to a road.

  What the hell should he do now?

  The door swung open before Henry had even pressed the bell. Keith Jeffries stood in the doorway.

  He looked a sight, even more dishevelled and scruffy than usual, with dirt on his hands and face and that ghastly eye injury. Why Adam Jellicoe employed him, Henry couldn’t imagine.

  He was big, though. And menacing. He stared down at Henry with barely concealed malevolence.

  `What the hell do you want?’ he said.

  The words hit Henry like a slap in the face. `I beg your pardon, Jeffries?’

  The man glared at him insolently. `Don’t pull rank on me, you old git. Say your piece and bugger off’

  Henry took a deep breath. `It’s about my horse. He’s alive. I saw him myself this afternoon.’

  `So what?’

  `You lied to me, Jeffries, that’s what. You took my money and broke your word. And, I’ve no doubt, money changed hands when you sent my hunter to Derbyshire.’

  Jeffries took a step forward, angry and threatening. Henry wasn’t a man to be intimidated, but it took all his nerve to stand his ground. `Wait here,’ the big man said, and turned into the house.

  A few seconds later he was back, holding some banknotes in his hand.

  `Here’s the eighty quid you gave me to put him down. Plus five hundred, which is half what I got for him when I flogged him off.’ He twisted the notes into a roll and thrust it into Henry’s breast pocket. Henry stared at him, confused at this turn of events.

  `It’s all right, Mr Carrington, there’s no need to say thank you. Just bugger off.’

  Henry’s heart was pounding in his chest. This wasn’t good for his blood pressure. He crossed the yard to his car, telling himself to retire with dignity. As he started the engine he lowered the window.

  `You should take a look at yourself, Jeffries. You’re a disgrace.’ `Fuck off, you nosey old fart.’

  Really!

  `I shall be speaking to Captain Jellicoe about your behaviour. I wouldn’t bank on being employed here much longer, if I were you.’ The man shouted something back but Henry didn’t catch it over the car engine and the racket the dogs were making. He put the car in gear and drove carefully back down the lane, conscious that he was probably a peg or two over the limit.

  As he drove he calculated. Fancy Monty fetching all that money. He was going home ?580 better off. And he’d given that insolent oaf a piece of his mind.

  He’d always believed it paid to stick up for yourself.

  Phil stared at the road. The man on the quad bike could have turned left or right - he had no way of knowing.

  As he pondered his options, he became aware of noise - a loud barking that split the night. He tried to pinpoint the sound. Dogs meant dwellings and telephones. He could knock on the door and ask to make a call.

  Lights flickered ahead, from behind the trees that bordered a sloping pasture. Headlights lit up the sky, then were hidden again.

  Suddenly, a car emerged from a break in the hedge twenty yards to Phil’s left, on the other side of the carriageway. For a second Phil considered flagging it down and begging the driver to get him to a phone.

  But the car was too far off. It turned smartly on to the road and sped off in the opposite direction.

  Too late. But up that lane must be a house. He set off.

  As Phil walked up the hill the barking of dogs grew louder. There must be a hell of a lot of them to be making such a noise.

  He remembered his conversation with Charlie about Rebecca, when the detective had said she’d been covered in dog hairs.

  The quad bike need not necessarily have taken the road below. It could have come up this lane. To the house with the dogs.

  At the top of the hill the road ended at an open gate. Phil stepped cautiously through the gateway into a yard flanked by a field and a cluster of buildings, among them a sprawling two-storey building - the main house, Phil guessed. The front door was open and light spilled across the yard, illuminating a parked vehicle.

  A quad bike.

  Was this the machine he’d been following? He couldn’t tell for sure. He bent low as he ran across the yard, keeping in the shadows. He placed his hand on the bike’s engine casing.

  It was hot.

  He was convinced now. This was the bike. So where was Bernie?

  He eyed the house and its dark windows. And the open front door. The kidnapper could be in there.

  And so could Julia. He’d not be able to save her standing out here.

  Keith checked the diesel in the incinerator. Once he pressed the start button the doors would lock and it would burn for twelve hours straight, reducing everything inside to ash. In a way it was a bit like a washingmachine, but with better results. This machine got rid of everything, not just dirt.

  He considered the tasks that remained. First he had to kill the girl - a ligature round the neck would be simplest. He’d put her out of her misery in the shed and carry the body through for burning. He’d have to load all her clothes as well, and the straw and blankets she’d been sleeping on, just as he’d done with the other one. And when he’d done all that, he had to add his own gear. And the bag the money was in.

  Which reminded him - he’d forgotten about the money. That stupid old fart Carrington had distracted him. Just as well he’d fucked off when he had or there would be another corpse for disposal tonight. And that would have been a disaster. Once he’d got rid of Julia and hidden the cash he’d be in the clear. But Carrington would have been traced to him for sure.

  He trudged back across the yard. He knew a few good spots round about where he could bury the money, but he’d wait a day or two. In the meantime, he had just the place to hide it from sight.

  The house smelt. Of stale food, sweat, dogs - and neglect. Phil looked into the front room, off the hall to the left. It had probably once been quite cosy, but most of the floor and the furniture - a three-piece suite and glass coffee table - was covered in bundles of newspapers, empty food packets and crumpled beer cans. The room on the other side of the hall was dark, but he could make out a table and computer equipment and piles of books on the floor.

  Julia wouldn’t be here on the ground floor. Maybe there was a cellar. He looked for a door but found only a back room littered with coats and boots, a small, foul toilet and the kitchen. He ignored the mess and peered into drawers for a weapon. He found a carving knife.

  He hesitated at the bottom of the stairs. Once up there he’d be trapped by a killer. A man who’d already slaughtered a policeman tonight. What chance would he have?

  But suppose Julia was up there? The man might be about to kill her too.

  Phil took the stairs as quietly as he could.

  Facing the staircase was a bathroom and next to it a bedroom. He noted a double bed with dirty sheets. Clothes heaped on the floor. An overflowing wastepaper basket and a halfempty bottle of Scotch.

  The door opposite was closed. Phil tried the handle and it swung open. The smell of must and
damp was worse in here. He peered into the gloom, trying to make out the shapes. A dressing table and a floorlength mirror. Clothes racks full of dresses and coats. A heap of shoes - high heels and sandals and fluffy mules. Plastic bags from designer boutiques, overflowing with female underwear, leotards and tights. An exercise cycle with a pink cushion and a pair of small dumb-bells. All women’s stuff.

  But no Julia.

  He heard the sound of heavy footsteps coming up the stairs.

  Julia’s torment seemed endless. She’d been lying on the straw bed since the afternoon, bound and gagged but able to see this time. So it had been late afternoon, she guessed, when the monster had gone off-in a different-sounding vehicle to normal, setting the dogs barking. Finally they’d settled down, and she’d been left to watch the light thicken in her grim prison.

  It had been a relief when he’d left. He terrified her so much. She hoped he’d never come back. Perhaps he’d have an accident or be struck by lightning or - wasn’t this possible? - be caught by the police. Then someone else would come to tend to the dogs and find her.

  She tried to fill her mind with good things and happy times - of riding ponies as a little girl and the excitement of her wedding day and the look on Yvonne Mitton’s face when Callisto had strode magnificently down to the start at Kempton.

  But these thoughts didn’t stay in her head. Not even the loving look on Phil’s face and the sweet sound of his voice. Instead she thought of the girl in the papers - Rebecca Thornton - and how she must have lain here, too, cold and miserable, listening to the dogs, waiting for the monster to come back and snuff her life out like a candle.

  Then she’d heard the unfamiliar vehicle come back and a commotion from the kennels shortly after. Her heart had leapt when shed caught the sound of a car and a different voice raised over the barking. But shed heard the monster too. Then the car had gone and the dogs had calmed down.

  He hadn’t come in yet, but she knew he would. Was he going to kill her tonight?

  Or would her torment drag on?