Deadly Virtues

by Jo Bannister

  If he couldn’t, he didn’t. Argyle got a grip on himself, clamped down hard on the stunned expression that had crept over his face, and replaced it with the usual one of rigid, ruthless control. “What are you talking about?”

  “Alice,” said Ash carefully. He’d levered himself pretty well upright against the timber block that held the anvil in the middle of the floor, and if it had cost him blood, at least it had restored to him a little dignity. “Your daughter Alice. Who knows what you did. Who nobody has seen for days. Where is she? What have you done with her?”

  “You’ve been spying on me? On my family?” Argyle heard himself losing his cool again, which wasn’t good. Not that he cared what Ash thought. He cared what his crew thought. They did what he told them because he paid them to, but also because they were scared shitless of him. They’d have admitted as much. It was part of the deal: they probably wouldn’t have worked for someone they weren’t scared of. So it mattered if it appeared that Argyle was not on top of things. That there was someone he was scared of.

  Of Gabriel Ash? Rambles With Dogs? How could a man like Argyle be scared of something like that? He only had to say the word and Ash was history.

  But Ash’s ghost could still come back to haunt him. He needed to know what Ash knew, how he knew it, and who he’d shared the information with. Not the reporter, who’d been dealt with, or the girl, who’d lost to a tree in a head-butting contest, but who else? Who else had he talked to that Argyle knew nothing about? Who does a village idiot talk to when he’s not talking to his dog?

  He hadn’t thought it mattered. He hadn’t thought Ash was capable of rational thought, or that anyone who was would have paid him much heed. But somehow he’d managed to convince both the Whoopsie and the hack. The fact that they’d both been neutralized didn’t blind Argyle to the danger that Ash had also spoken to, and been believed by, someone else. Someone he knew nothing about.

  The only one who could tell him was Ash. He leaned slowly over the man on the floor. “Tell me everything you know, and everything you think you know, and I’ll let you go.”

  Ash rocked his head back and regarded the man laconically. Physically he felt exhausted, drained, and sick. Oddly, his mind felt light. He smiled. “No, you won’t.”

  Argyle blinked. He was an older man than Ash by maybe ten years, of a similar build but more muscular, with thinning black hair slicked back in a manner that was more fashionable once than now. He had brown eyes without a hint of warmth in them. He frowned, puzzled by the smile. “What do you mean? I don’t want you, and the kids are too old for pets. But you’ve been telling porkies about me and I need to set the record straight. Talk to whoever you’ve been talking to and explain how you get things wrong sometimes.”

  It wasn’t a bad pitch. If Ash had done all his thinking inside his own head, he might have wondered if he’d made a fundamental mistake. But he hadn’t. He’d hammered it out with Nye Jackson and Hazel Best, two professional people with their feet firmly on the ground; and now—he didn’t think there was much doubt about this—both of them were dead. By and large, people don’t get murdered to keep them from telling fairy stories.

  He nodded a rueful agreement. “I do get things wrong sometimes.”

  Argyle, too, nodded, and smiled. The smile was as warm as the eyes. “It’s easy done. And you haven’t been well. It’s easy to start imagining things. Let’s talk about it, sort out what’s real and what isn’t.”

  “Then what?”

  “Then we’ll take you home, and I’ll put things right with anyone you’ve accidentally misled.”

  “Put things right.”

  “Yes.”

  “You mean run them down with your car.”

  Argyle feigned shock. “Of course not. Why would I do that?”

  “Hell, I don’t know,” said Ash disingenuously. “The same reason you’ve done it before? To stay out of prison?”

  “I thought we talked about this.” Argyle was speaking through clenched teeth now. “About how you get things wrong sometimes. I’m not going to prison. I haven’t done anything to go to prison for.”

  Ash’s smile broadened. He rested his forehead on the back of his wrist and propped his elbow on his bent knee. “Of course not, Mr. Argyle. It was all a misunderstanding. You’re an upright citizen, an honest businessman, and a loving father, and these people”—his gaze flicked toward the men from the car—“are your valet, your accountant, and your personal astrologer. I may be mad, but I’m not a fool. I know what you did. And I know what you’ll end up doing.”

  “I’m not going to kill you!”

  “I don’t mean killing me,” Ash said dismissively. “I know you’re going to do that. You have to. I mean, killing Alice. Because eventually you’ll have to do that, too. Eventually it’s going to be her or you, and when you can’t make her toe the line, you’ll kill her.”

  Mickey Argyle slapped his face. That shocked his crew as much as what the dummy had just said. They’d seen Argyle deal with people who crossed him in a number of different ways, involving everything from lump hammers to concrete galoshes. If he’d kicked Ash to a bloody pulp, then cleaned up the mess with a welding torch, they wouldn’t have turned a hair. But he slapped his face. That made it personal, and they struggled with the idea of their boss having personal feelings.

  And, a little, with the possibility that the dummy might be right. Fletcher said, “Boss?” uncertainly, as if seeking reassurance.

  Argyle didn’t spare him a glance. All his attention was on Ash. He loomed over the man on the ground like a thunderstorm. “Who have you talked to?”

  “The reporter—Nye Jackson.”

  “Yes. And?”

  “Constable Best.”

  “Who else?”

  Ash considered for a moment. He didn’t expect to walk away from this. If he talked, it would be over fast; if he didn’t, it would take longer. Faster would be easier, but slow held out the faint hope that something might happen. That someone might come to his aid. It was only a very faint hope, but it was the only one he had. He lifted his head to meet Mickey Argyle’s stare. “I may have mentioned it to my dog.”

  CHAPTER 27

  HAZEL FELT MORE human with every mile that passed under the big, comfortable car’s wheels. Not enough to feel equal to whatever lay ahead, perhaps, but enough to try some joined-up thinking.

  “I tried to get through to you, sir. I couldn’t. But DI Gorman could?”

  Fountain was concentrating on the road. It wasn’t designed for speed, although speed was what they needed. “I switched my phone back on after I left the meeting.”

  “I don’t want you to think I went behind your back.”

  “You did what you had to do.”

  “Yes. There wasn’t much time.”

  “Hazel, it’s all right. I’m just glad I was close enough to help.”

  “Me, too.” She frowned. “I’m glad I wasn’t waiting for the local guys to arrive. They don’t seem to be treating it with much urgency, do they?”

  “They’d a long way to come. When I get a minute, I’ll let them know we’ve left.”

  Hazel nodded carefully. “I suppose, after ten years, you must know Mickey Argyle better than most people. Well enough to know about this blacksmith’s shop, for instance.”

  Fountain shrugged like a bear, hunched over the wheel, reading the road. “A lot of info crosses your desk in ten years. Even if you can’t always use it, you don’t forget it.”

  “Do you think he’d kill his daughter?”

  Fountain risked a brief sideways glance. “God, I hope not!”

  “He killed her fiancé. And she must know he did. And he must know he’ll never be safe while she’s alive.”

  “She may be in danger,” conceded Fountain. “But not while you and Rambles are still around.”

  “He has Ash and he thinks I’m dead.” She didn’t want to ask, but she had to. “He’s going to kill Gabriel, isn’t he?”

  A slig
htly longer look. “That matters to you, doesn’t it?”

  Hazel was taken aback. “Of course it matters! It’s my job to keep him safe.” She refrained, just barely, from adding: “It’s your job, too.”

  “I know that. I mean, it’s personal now as well. You’ve become friends. You’ve got fond of him.”

  She was about to deny it, when she realized that would be lying. “I suppose I have.” She sounded surprised. “He’s a good man. He’s a clever man. Yes, we’ve become friends, but that isn’t really the point. We—the police—would have the same obligations to him if he didn’t have a friend in the world.”

  This time he looked her full in the face, for so long that he had to snatch at the wheel as the road came around unnoticed. “All right. Listen to me, Hazel Best, and listen good. When we get to this forge, I will do everything in my power to save Gabriel Ash. But you will stay in the car. There’s nothing you can do to help, and you’ll only put yourself at risk if you try.”

  Hazel found herself gaping. “You can’t go in on your own! I’ll call for backup.…”

  “I already did,” said Fountain calmly. “While you were out cold. They’ll arrive soon after we do. I’ll be fine. I can look after myself. I can probably look after Ash. I’m not sure I can look after all three of us.”

  She bit her lip. “Are you armed?”

  “Don’t be silly,” snorted Fountain. “Mickey Argyle isn’t stupid. He can’t murder a chief superintendent and hope to get away with it. He’ll compromise.”

  Hazel couldn’t see any room for a compromise. “He’s killed already. We know he’s killed already. If we walk away, he doesn’t, and vice versa.”

  Fountain sighed. “You have the makings of a good police officer, Hazel, if you’ll just stop seeing everything in black and white. There’s always somewhere to compromise. If it’s only giving him five minutes of a head start before I call it in. To a man facing life in prison, a five-minute head start can look pretty attractive.”

  “I thought…” She didn’t finish the sentence. “You know, when I got this posting, I was thrilled. I don’t want to embarrass you, sir, but the reason was you—what you’ve achieved in Norbold. It’s remarkable. Ten years ago the town was mired in crime of every variety. Now it’s not. You must be very proud of that. I know Division is.”

  Fountain kept looking ahead, concentrating on the road. “You do what you can.”

  “If you could get Mickey Argyle, it would be a perfect score. The drugs scene would collapse overnight. We’d round up the little-league players who’d try to move into the vacuum, and Norbold would be as close to a crime-free town as anyone’s ever likely to see.”

  “If,” grunted Johnny Fountain.

  “Of course,” Hazel said quickly. “I’m not underestimating the scale of the task. I mean, you’ve been trying for ten years. You must have tried every trick in the book. You’d almost think the bloody man was fireproof.”

  “He’s good at his job.” Fountain shrugged. “As good at his job as I am at mine. He’s been doing it nearly as long. It matters to him as much.”

  “Stalemate.”

  “I suppose.”

  “Today, somebody’s going to lose.”

  He flicked her a quick look. But of course she was right. What happens when an irresistible force meets an immovable object is that you find out which of them was all mouth and no trousers.

  * * *

  What Mickey Argyle didn’t understand was that his threats were meaningless to the man at his feet.

  Gabriel Ash had no fear of dying. If the God botherers were right, he might find his family again. Even if they were wrong, it would end his torment. He had nothing left to live for, only the remote chance that one day he might learn what had happened and find those responsible. For four years, not much more than habit had kept him breathing in and out.

  It wasn’t that he wanted to die, more that staying alive barely seemed worth the effort. If he’d wanted to die, he could have killed himself. He’d had time and opportunity enough. But if someone was prepared to do the job for him.… It was like clearing out your cupboards because your neighbor has hired a Dumpster. It seemed a waste not to make use of it.

  Except … except … there was the dog. Six months ago he hadn’t had a friend in the world, and no one would have mourned his passing. No one except Laura Fry would have noticed, and she’d have filled his slot within the week. (This assessment was both unfair and inaccurate. Laura Fry would not only have grieved for him; she’d have lost sleep wondering if she could have helped him more.) But now there was Patience, and Ash knew she would miss him. She might never find another owner who could hear her.

  On top of that, there was Alice. If he died, no barrier remained between Alice Argyle and her father’s self-interest. Argyle wouldn’t harm his daughter until he’d removed every other threat to his safety. But when he realized that the only one left who could bring him down was a young girl—a strong, purposeful girl—grieving for her murdered lover, Mickey Argyle would begin to contemplate the unthinkable.

  Gabriel Ash wasn’t afraid of death. He wasn’t afraid of being dead. He wasn’t even afraid of dying. A bit of him thought he deserved to suffer. A bit of him believed, like the witch finders of old, in the redemptive power of pain. He thought—and he knew he could be wrong about this—he could take the worst Argyle could do to him because it still wouldn’t make up for what in his single-minded arrogance Ash had done to his family.

  That was the part Argyle couldn’t understand—would never understand. That there were people who had more to worry about than annoying him.

  But Mickey Argyle hadn’t got where he was today by quitting at the first hurdle. He looked at Ash angrily, as if the man was being deliberately difficult. “What the blue blinding blazes is wrong with you?” he demanded. “Why are you doing this to yourself?”

  “I’m not doing it to myself,” mumbled Ash.

  His eyes were swollen shut and his lips were broken, the blood sticky on his chin. He was half lying, half propped against the anvil, its iron horns thrust through his bent arms. From the start—and he was no longer sure whether that was minutes or hours ago—he’d been able to do nothing to protect himself. Now he couldn’t even see the blows coming. Sometimes they used fists, sometimes boots, sometimes iron bars. They’d broken several of his fingers—he’d lost count now, though he’d been acutely aware of each as the bone snapped. He’d yelled, but he’d given Argyle nothing. Nothing to make him think there was no point continuing. Somewhere in the cool center of his brain where a fragment of pure personality remained aloof from the pain, Ash was quite proud of that. Less so of the yelling.

  “You can stop it.”

  “You can stop it.”

  Argyle scowled. This wasn’t going the way it should. His first instinct was always to blame someone, but in all fairness he couldn’t fault either Fletcher or the Rat for lack of effort. Any more enthusiasm for the job and they’d kill the dummy stone-dead, and before that Argyle needed to know how much Ash knew. How he’d worked it out. Who he’d told, and if any of them were still alive. So he kept asking. He just wasn’t getting any answers.

  Soon, Ash wouldn’t be capable of giving him answers even if he wanted to. Argyle needed another approach before it was too late. More leverage.

  Unfortunately the girl was dead. Fletcher had described how they’d smashed her into a tree. If they’d grabbed her instead and brought her with them, Ash would have talked. Argyle had shouted at them for that, but his heart wasn’t really in it. He couldn’t have imagined that the dummy would need this much persuasion, either.

  The girl … the ghost of an idea crossed Argyle’s angry, murky, conscienceless mind. Suppose he told Ash he’d sent men back to the cottage and his friend was still alive. Suppose he fetched Alice from the blacksmith’s cottage and told her to pretend to be the woman constable. To beg and scream a lot. If Ash could still see, it couldn’t be much, not enough to tell one distraught
young woman from another. If he thought they were going to do to her what they’d been doing to him, his resolve would break.

  It was getting increasingly difficult to tell Alice what to do.

  Then forget the deceit. If Ash was so worried about Alice, Alice would do. Argyle wouldn’t have to hurt his daughter, just frighten her. Just make the dummy think he was hurting her. He’d talk then. He’d answer any questions Argyle could think of.

  His hot, angry eyes never leaving the human wreckage at his feet, Argyle growled, “Go get her.”

  Pausing, noticeably breathless, Fletcher frowned. “I told you, she’s dead.”

  “Not her. Alice. Go get Alice.”

  The big man’s eyes widened. Stillness held him. “Boss—are you sure?”

  For only the second time in this whole violent day, Mickey Argyle struck out. His forearm swung up, knotted fist at its end, until it rapped his lieutenant across the chest. The blow was inconsequential to a man of Fletcher’s scale and profession, but it shocked him nonetheless. If anyone else had hit him, they’d be picking teeth out of their lip by now. He wasn’t going to hit Argyle. But he wasn’t going to forget, either.

  He said in a low voice, “All right. Just remember whose idea it was.”

  Which made Argyle blink. Fletcher never talked back to him. No one did. He’d have done something about it if he hadn’t had more urgent matters on his mind. And if Fletcher hadn’t already left the forge by the back door.

  Argyle nudged Ash with his foot. Even the most scrupulous wouldn’t have described it as a kick. “This is your fault. You remember that. Your fault, not mine.”

  “What is?” It wasn’t that he hadn’t been paying attention, or that information was leaking out of his battered brain. He wanted to make Argyle say it.

  “What happens next.”

  “Which is?”

  “That we stop hurting you and start hurting her.”