Deadfall

by Lyndon Stacey

  'Well, actually, I'm in Blandford . . .'

  'Good. Could you meet me later?'

  'Well, yes, I suppose so, but there's really not a lot to say. I've had a better offer and—'

  'Nonsense!' Judge stated briskly. 'Look, I've got to go out to the new site in about, what . . . three-quarters of an hour. Can you meet me there? It's just off the A350. The Meadows Industrial Park, you can't miss it. Come on, you owe me that much at least!'

  Linc looked at his watch. It was nearly five o'clock and he had things to do, but . . . 'I suppose I could. Okay. Quarter to six. I'll see you there.'

  He rang off and sat staring at his mobile in frustration. Why had he agreed? For his part there was nothing more to say, but he had a feeling that he was in for a very uncomfortable session with Judge.

  'Damn, damn, damn!' he said aloud, thumping the Morgan's steering wheel with his fist. He had some paperwork to finish and some e-mails to send, and didn't particularly want to spend all evening in the office. It was a good job he'd brought the laptop. Crispin had helpfully installed all his contact addresses on the computer's memory for him that morning, so there was nothing to stop him working from the car as long as he could get a decent signal on the mobile. Feeling that the industrial park couldn't be any noisier than the town car park, Linc decided to go straight there and work while he waited for Judge to arrive.

  In spite of Judge's assurances, Linc did manage to miss the turning into The Meadows, mainly because it wasn't signposted from the main road. A large board advertised the name of the construction company but the industrial park itself was at the end of a long, wide approach road, and hidden from the highway by an environmentally conscious fringe of trees.

  Linc drove between the open, metal-framed, chain-link gates, noticing CCTV cameras perched on the gate posts and, with no idea which of the plots was to be Judge Haulage's new garage-cum- workshop, he pulled in and parked on the side of the tarmac apron where he hoped he wouldn't be in the way. The industrial park was, at present, not much more than a building site. Three or four vast, cavernous concrete and metal structures had already been erected, there were a couple more partially completed. The rest existed only as piles of bricks, sand and timber, waiting to be built. A Portacabin office completed the scene.

  Surprisingly for the time of day there were a number of workmen still on site but they were moving with an end-of-the-day lethargy, and even as Linc watched one of them switched off his JCB and, with a wave to his colleagues, made for his car.

  Linc unzipped his laptop case and turned it on, plugging the connecting lead into his mobile phone. The noise of an approaching vehicle made him look round but instead of Al Judge it was a white mini-van which, he soon discovered, had come to pick up most of the remaining construction workers.

  In due course it left again, bearing its load of dusty, sweaty men back to their outside lives. A couple of cars followed, the last being a dirty white pick-up truck which slowed up and stopped beside Linc. The window was lowered and a pleasant, weathered face appeared, regarding the Morgan with open admiration.

  'Can't stay there, mate. I've gotta lock the gate,' the man said.

  'I'm waiting for Mr Judge. He said he'd be along about quarter to six,' Linc told him. 'D'you want me to wait outside?'

  The man looked at the Morgan again, and then apparently deciding, with doubtful logic, that the owner of such a car wasn't about to loot the site, said, 'Nah, that's all right. He did say he was coming over. I'll leave the padlock undone and he'll lock it when he's finished.'

  He drove forward a couple of feet then stopped, adding as an afterthought, 'If he doesn't come, can you do it? The boss'd flay me if he found it unlocked!'

  Linc nodded. 'No problem,' he agreed, thinking that if he were the boss he would be less than happy with his foreman's notion of security. Still, thankfully, it wasn't his problem.

  As the dust settled behind the departing pick-up, he looked at his watch. Twenty-five minutes to six. He let his gaze drift over the deserted site, where the fitful wind was making dust devils in the loose cement and lifting odd scraps of paper and plastic in a bizarre, fleeting dance. Cranes, JCBs and forklift trucks stood silently around like so many metal monsters caught in suspended animation. Strange how much lonelier such a place seemed, after hours, than did the open countryside.

  Fifteen minutes later, Linc had sent two e-mails and left an electronic memo for himself, and there was still no sign of Judge. He found himself remembering his earlier conversation with Sandy, and on a whim called up a search engine and tapped in Cockney Rhyming Slang. The result startled him; there were dozens of websites. Picking one of the more promising he struck gold, coming up with a comprehensive dictionary of slang, accessible either from the plain English or Cockney route and listed by initial letter.

  For several long minutes he amused himself scanning the lists, and was surprised to see how many terms in everyday usage actually originated from the slang. Some made him laugh. Apparently one might take one's cherry (cherry hog – dog) for a bowl (bowl of chalk – walk). Chuckling, Linc read on. He looked for boss and found pitch and toss, as Sandy had said. Then he looked for Judge and abruptly the smile died as shock hit him like a bucketful of cold water. There were three variations: inky smudge, chocolate fudge, and Barnaby Rudge.

  Here at last was the elusive Barnaby!

  All he could do for a moment was sit and stare at the screen, his mind racing. Surely it couldn't be a coincidence.

  Al Judge and Barnaby, one and the same. And just that afternoon he'd seen Marty Lucas driving one of the Judge Haulage lorries; Marty, who seemed to spend a good deal of his life around greyhounds and greyhound tracks. Should that have set the alarm bells ringing?

  Probably not, he decided. The link was tenuous at best, until you knew about Barnaby Rudge. No wonder Sandy had been uncomfortable with Judge drawing attention to his Cockney nickname!

  Linc's heart sank. Sandy. If Judge was the kingpin, it was impossible to believe that Sandy wasn't involved . . .

  First things first. Rockley had to be told. Linc disconnected the laptop and found the policeman's number in the phone's memory.

  Once again he was told that the DI was busy.

  'Can you please make sure he gets my message, then? It's important. Tell him Alan Judge of Judge Haulage is Barnaby. Have you got that?'

  The voice on the other end assured him that it had and repeated the phrase to prove it to him.

  As he rang off, it occurred to Linc that, in the light of what he'd just discovered, a deserted building site in the middle of nowhere really wasn't the best place to be – especially with Judge on his way. Slipping the phone into the pocket of his leather jacket, he closed the laptop and put it behind the passenger seat, then reached for the ignition key.

  He was already too late.

  In his rearview mirror he could see, coming up the approach road, a familiar white BMW, a pick-up, and one of Judge's lorries. His hand dropped away from the key. If he tried to make a run for it now, it would be clear to Judge that he had somehow made the connection, and Linc wouldn't like to bet money on his chances of getting past that little lot. His best chance was to stay calm and hope to bluff it out. After all, he had no reason to believe Judge meant him any harm at this juncture.

  The three vehicles swept through the open gates and stopped, with the lorry, which had been bringing up the rear, somehow carelessly blocking the exit. It wasn't a promising start.

  As Linc got out of the Morgan, trying to appear relaxed and unconcerned, Al Judge climbed out of the BMW. The other two vehicles disgorged Marty Lucas, looking lean and surly in black jeans and a leather jacket, Scott 'Beanie' Phillips, and a biggish man who Linc recognised as the site foreman he'd spoken to earlier. No wonder he'd been so casual about leaving a stranger with the run of the place.

  Suddenly the construction site felt like the loneliest place on earth.

  'Linc. Hi! Sorry to keep you waiting.' Judge came forward with
a smile on his face, as if the presence of the other three was somehow incidental and held no significance.

  Linc wasn't fooled. The fact that the businessman was openly acknowledging his alliance with Scott Phillips indicated that he suspected Linc either knew of or was close to discovering it. That was disturbing.

  'That's okay. My people know where I am,' he returned coolly.

  'Ah,' Judge nodded approvingly. 'You told them where you were going. Very sensible.'

  'I did.' Linc wished to goodness he actually had, but at the time he hadn't thought this anything more sinister than a meeting with an over-pushy businessman. 'However,' he went on, striving to keep things as natural as possible, 'I do have rather a lot to do this evening, and as I really don't feel we have much to discuss . . .'

  'Ah, yes, I understand, you're a busy man, I'm sure. But you can spare me a few minutes, surely? Come. Walk with me a little way. I'm a busy man, too, and I came here primarily to check on the progress of the building work.'

  Linc hesitated, glancing at Judge's silent companions, uneasy somehow at leaving the vicinity of his car. Realistically, though, it offered no security and no real prospect of escape, with the lorry parked where it was. He was just as vulnerable here as he would be anywhere on the site.

  With a shrug he gestured to Judge to lead on, stifling the impulse to warn the waiting men not to tamper with the Morgan. It would probably be all the encouragement they needed and, besides, what could he do to stop them?

  After a few strides he turned his head, feeling uncomfortable, but the other three weren't following. The foreman appeared ill-at- ease and looked away when Linc caught his eye, but Marty Lucas and the youngster were laughing about something, and when he saw Linc watching, Marty provocatively perched himself on the bonnet of the Morgan.

  Smothering irritation, Linc ignored him and walked on, his mind racing. What had put Judge on his guard? Even if 'Beanie' Phillips had run straight to him after Linc recognised him in Blandford that afternoon, why should Judge have felt threatened? Knowledge of the boy's name wouldn't have given Linc any clue as to whom he'd been working for. Had Judge been worried that, under pressure, Scott might give the game away? Or had Sandy called, warning him of Linc's interest in his nickname? Even though they couldn't be certain his curiosity would take him any further and lead him to Barnaby Rudge, there was always a chance it would, and Judge didn't strike Linc as a person who would leave too much to chance.

  Whatever had tipped him off, the thing that was occupying Linc's mind most forcefully just at the moment was, what did Judge intend doing about it? What manner of leverage or warning did he have in mind this time?

  'Now, about this sponsorship deal,' Judge interrupted his thoughts. 'Can't I persuade you to think again?'

  'I have thought it through, and I'm not interested.' Linc spoke quietly but firmly.

  'Now that's a pity. I had hoped we could come to some arrangement. It would have saved so much – what shall I say? – unpleasantness.'

  Linc's pulse rate, already above normal, stepped up another notch.

  'There's no need for unpleasantness,' he said, putting an element of bewildered surprise into his tone. 'I've just had a better offer, that's all. But if you're set on sponsoring someone, you'll certainly have no problem finding another candidate.'

  'Ah, but we both know that's not the real issue here, don't we?' Judge countered. 'This was more in the nature of an insurance policy, wasn't it? A case of, I'll scratch your back if you don't stab me in mine.'

  Linc didn't pretend to misunderstand him this time. 'You mean, you'll fund my riding if I ignore the fact that you nearly killed my girlfriend's sister!'

  'Not me, Linc. I didn't touch the girl.' Judge kept his tone even. 'Besides, I hear she's doing well now. Back at home and on the mend, no lasting harm done.'

  Linc could hardly speak for the fury that was rising in him. 'No harm done? She nearly died, you evil bastard!'

  'Come on now. There's no need for name-calling. It was regrettable, but an accident after all. An error of judgement made under stress, you could say.'

  They had been walking down a tarmac roadway between plots of building land in various stages of development. On their left, vast empty shells stood, rapidly filling with shadows as the light failed, whilst on their right, some were as yet just so many piles of building materials in designated plots. Now Judge stopped in front of one of these that had just had the hard standing laid; a vast expanse of concrete gleaming wetly in the setting sun.

  'This will be my new garage,' he told Linc. 'In a month or so, this unit will be finished and full of people and vehicles, and no one will give a thought to what might be under their feet.'

  Linc glanced sharply at the businessman, frowning slightly as he tried to decipher this cryptic remark. The only explanation that presented itself was almost unbelievable; it belonged in the realms of TV and films. Didn't it?

  'Ah, I see you understand me,' Judge said, nodding. 'I knew you were a bright lad. It's a pity you're so stuffy with it. Such a waste . . .'

  This casual confirmation of his fears took Linc's breath away and for a moment his brain refused to function sensibly. Then reason reasserted itself.

  'You are joking?' he prompted.

  Judge didn't look particularly amused. 'What do you think?'

  'But, I told you, people know where I am.'

  'People,' he mused. 'Oh, yes, you said you told someone where you were going – that was quick thinking, but not quite quick enough. Who's to say you ever got here?'

  'The construction workers saw me, they won't forget my car in a hurry,' Linc pointed out.

  Judge shook his head sadly and adopted a tone laden with regret. 'Yes, I did arrange to meet Tremayne, officer, but I'm afraid I was late and the site foreman had to ask him to leave so he could shut the gates. I don't know where he went then. He certainly wasn't around when I got here . . .'

  'And what about the foreman? He doesn't look too happy about all this. Is he going to stand by and let you commit murder?'

  'Ah, yes. The foreman. Cursed with a conscience is poor old Ray. But also, unhappily for him, cursed with a nephew who's building up quite an impressive criminal record for one so young. You've met young Scott before, I believe. If the coppers got to know about some of the stuff he's done for me there'd be no keeping him out of the slammer and that would cut Ray's sister up something rotten!'

  Beanie's uncle. Not much chance of help from that quarter then, Linc thought with gathering despair.

  'They've got CCTV,' he stated, remembering.

  'Ah, yes. I must remind Ray to switch that on when we leave.'

  Balked at every turn, it began to dawn on Linc that he might actually have to physically fight for survival and, struggling to retain a grip on reality, he backed a couple of steps away from Judge and looked round to see where the others were. He didn't have to look far. Some twenty yards behind him and closing, was the hefty figure of the foreman, with Beanie swaggering at his side, and when he looked beyond Judge, it was to see Marty strolling nonchalantly into view round the end of the closest building. Linc swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry. He'd been hoping for a chance to get far enough away from Judge to use his mobile. Not much chance of that now. Even getting away across the site involved going towards one or other party first, unless he attempted to wade through the wet cement, and he had no idea how deep that might be.

  Then, in his jacket pocket, as if in answer to a prayer, his phone began vibrating silently. Could it possibly be Rockley, returning his calls? What to do now?

  Thanking providence that he hadn't activated the ringtone again after leaving Hopgood's, he put his hand up to rub the back of his neck, then casually down into his pocket, deftly flicking the flap of the phone open.

  'Okay, Judge. So I'm trapped,' he said immediately, and as loudly as he dared. 'So what now? Maybe you can dispose of a body in a couple of feet of concrete, but the Morgan won't be so easy.' As he spoke he moved back closer
to the businessman, unsure of the effective range of the phone's built-in microphone.