by JJ Franklin
‘Bloody hell.’
‘Can’t you get Tilly out of town for a bit?’
‘She’s got a scan in two days. She won’t miss that. It’s late ’cause she had the flu. Then maybe she could go to her sister’s in Barford.’
‘Good. Make sure no one follows you.’
‘I’d better go, make sure she’s safe.’
‘Will you tell her?’
‘We don’t have secrets. The police told us about Vinny James already.’
‘Best we don’t meet up ’til…’til this is all over.’
‘Yep. You take care, Harry.’
‘And you.’
After Nick left, Harry lingered over his pint, reluctant to go back to Stratford where the man could find him. Still, he had nowhere else to go, so he drained his glass and headed off to the train station, making sure no one was tailing him.
Chapter 56
Tilly went into the nursery, paused to run a finger over the crib rails. She loved this room, the soft primrose walls; well, that’s what it said on the tin, chosen before they knew the baby was a boy.
Once they knew she was pregnant, they’d thrown themselves into preparing the nursery. The border and stencils showed frolicking animals, from puppy dogs to piglets. One night, Nick surprised her by bringing home an old rocking chair. She wasn’t thrilled, wanting everything new and shiny in the nursery, but now he’d renovated it, it had become her favourite. She sank into it and tried to imagine holding her son, feeding and singing to him.
By the time Nick came in, she had almost rocked herself to sleep. She stood as he enfolded her in a bear hug and wondered at the intensity of it. Pushing him away, she looked at him, trying to read what was wrong, while not wanting anything to spoil the moment. ‘What is it?’
‘Come and sit down.’
‘No. Tell me what’s wrong. Is it Harry?’
‘He’s fine.’
Tilly allowed him to lead her into the tiny living room. Seated on the sofa, she demanded, ‘Tell me.’
‘Harry knows who killed Jon.’
‘Good. Is he going to the police?’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘It’s not that easy.’
‘Why?’
‘Because of what we did.’
‘The man…that died?’
‘Yes. It was his mother, Kathy Wylde. She’s got a list and we’re all on it.’
‘Oh my God.’ Of course, it was how she would feel if anyone harmed her son. She held her abdomen as if to protect him. ‘So why did the police warn us about Mr James?’
‘I guess it made sense to them, after…after Dave.’
‘Did she kill Dave?’
‘No. Harry was next on the list. But then she decided she liked him.’
‘That would be easy.’
‘The trouble is Mr James. He’s still out there and he probably killed Dave. I don’t want you, or him,’ he paused to rub her tummy, ‘in danger. Can you go to Lynn’s after your scan?’
‘Yes, she’s always asking me to stay. But what about you?’
‘Do you think I’m going to miss out on seeing our son? I’ll take great care and I want you to do the same. You’re taking a taxi everywhere from now on. No argument.’
Tilly nodded, feeling like crying, the wonderful dreamy mood of before completely lost.
Chapter 57
At last, they had an idea who was working with Vinny. If they could trace Harold Harper-Jones, he might lead them to Vinny before he killed again. Grant had started the process and they should have some leads soon.
Matt was still musing on how to deal with Kathy Wylde as he drove home. While she could possibly be guilty of the murder of Jonathan James, he was certain she hadn’t physically beaten Dave Beeson to death. Yet, if she had been on the scene, she could be working with someone else. Deciding that he would have her brought in for questioning tomorrow, he turned to the problem of Angela. He was disappointed that he hadn’t had time to find a solution and hoped Eppie had had more luck.
He entered to find the flat quiet, although Eppie should be home by now. Trying to recall if she had mentioned working late, he removed his jacket and hung it in the hall closet. Moving into the living room, he found her, curled up like a child, fast asleep on the sofa, still in her working suit. Having Angela around was really taking it out of her. He wondered where Angela was now. Any sort of mother would be preparing dinner and helping out.
Thinking of dinner, he moved into the kitchen to investigate the fridge and freezer, looking for ideas. Deciding on a frozen chicken pie – Eppie always made double and froze one – he wondered what heat to set the oven before choosing the middle range to be safe.
Twenty minutes later, he was pleased with himself: the pie was in the oven and the delicious aroma was starting to spread through the kitchen, making his stomach rumble. The broccoli was sitting in a pan of cold water and while he stood debating whether to have rice or salad, he felt her arms reach around his waist.
‘Sorry.’
Turning to hug her, he bent to kiss her. ‘Hey, no need. You’re allowed to be tired. Besides, it is good for me to remember my way around the kitchen.’
‘Something smells good.’
‘Chicken pie. Not sure of the temperature though.’
Eppie turned to check the oven, moving the dial to a higher range. ‘You take it easy, I’ll take over now.’
‘Yep, now it’s all done,’ Matt teased.
‘Go on, get out of here.’
‘Where’s…?’ Matt nodded towards the bedroom.
‘Out to dinner. Don’t ask me where or with whom.’
‘Wouldn’t this be a good time to…?’
‘I’ve thought about it, but not like this, Matt.’
‘Just a thought.’
Matt turned to answer his mobile, hoping it wasn’t work. The caller sounded like Grant, but it was hard to hear and he sounded like he was in the middle of a fight. He moved out of the kitchen to try to hear better.
‘Matt – trouble. Golden Acorn, Wa—’
‘Grant, where are you? Grant?’ Matt listened, hearing only a background of scuffles and thumps. Various scenarios ran through his head – was Grant drunk, had he dropped his phone, or had it been taken from him by force? Why would Grant call him? Matt couldn’t recall him ever doing so outside of work for the entire time they’d worked together.
The rest was impossible to hear, just more scuffling before the phone went dead. He recognised the Golden Acorn pub from Grant’s list of the places where Vinny used to hang out. What the hell had Grant got himself into? He’d warned him to stay well away from the pubs on the list.
There was no time to worry about that now. Grabbing his jacket, he dashed back to Eppie.
‘Sounds like Grant’s in trouble. Let Sam know I’m going to the Golden Acorn pub in Warwick. I have him on speed dial – I’ll only ring if in trouble and need backup.’
‘Got it – but, Matt—’
Matt kissed her and left.
The Golden Acorn was tucked away in a side street, next to a scruffy bookies shop. It looked anything but golden, more grey and in need of a coat of paint. The minute Matt walked in he sensed something was wrong. The volume of chattering voices dimmed so he could hear the sound of his feet across the sticky floor. There was a feeling that everyone knew who he was and expected him. He was the main floorshow. Matt made a mental note of the areas of the room to avoid if he needed to make a quick exit. On his left, three elderly men sat next to a passageway marked by a faded toilets sign. Matt guessed the passageway led to a rear entrance with an enclosed yard.
To his right, next to the door, a party of six lads, the oldest in his mid-twenties, sat watching him with wary eyes. They might be a problem if he had to get out of here fast.
<
br /> There was no sign of Grant. Matt wondered if he had come to the wrong place, but his instincts told him not. He hadn’t picked up much from Grant’s phone call, but the Acorn bit had been clear and there were no other pubs around here of that name.
Matt moved to the bar where a young dark-haired girl stepped nervously forward. He gave her a smile and ordered a half and she scurried to serve him. After he had taken a sip, he leant on the bar as if completely relaxed before venturing, ‘I’m meeting a friend. Thought he’d be here by now. You might have seen him – brown hair, five ten, stocky?’
The scared shake of her head told him that Grant was here somewhere. He watched her eyes dart to a small alcove near a staircase where two burly men sat. Matt guessed this was where the power lay. Picking up his glass, he smiled at the girl and went to join them.
‘This space free?’
The men glared at him.
‘Waiting for a friend. I think you know him.’
The men seemed fazed at this head-on approach. Eventually, the larger of the men, arms and neck heavily tattooed, spoke.
‘Nope, nothing to do with us.’
His mate, a smaller carbon copy, nodded in agreement.
Matt wondered if he should leave and call for backup. Yet what would he tell them? He thought his colleague was in trouble, trouble of his own making, that he might be lying drunk somewhere or had fallen in with the wrong crowd. If he was right, then it would be the end of Grant’s career. If he was wrong, he would look a fool. He made up his mind: he was on his own, just like Grant had been when he tried to save Eppie.
‘Then you won’t mind if I take a look around,’ he said, rising in one swift movement and striding towards the stairs.
Both men leapt to their feet, but they weren’t fast enough and Matt made the stairs first, taking them two at a time, aware the men were scrambling after him. Ahead, he could hear shuffling and a thump followed by a groan coming from behind a door to his right. He kicked open the door and burst in.
The first thing he saw was Grant, barely on his feet, sprawled against the wall, with a bruiser preparing to land a right-hander. From the look of Grant’s bloody face, he’d already suffered many blows. Matt banged the door shut and shot forward to deliver a swift uppercut to the bruiser’s jaw. It hardly fazed the man, who shook his head as if a fly had landed. Matt, realising this wasn’t going to be easy, positioned himself as if for a rugby tackle.
The bruiser looked across the room to the man seated at a small table. Matt recognised Harold Harper-Jones. He posed no physical threat and appeared completely at ease, oozing a quiet sense of power and control. The light caught his bald forehead and intelligent but cold bespectacled eyes.
Harper-Jones gave a nod and the bruiser turned to Matt. As the door began to open, Matt kicked out, hearing a yelp as it caught one of the men from downstairs.
Bruiser threw a punch at Matt’s head that he dodged without difficulty. Grant seemed to recover a little. Matt nodded towards the door and was relieved when Grant got the message and staggered to lean his weight against it.
Matt wondered if it would be any use declaring that he was a police officer and telling Bruiser he was under arrest. He should cover himself, but didn’t think it would work. They probably knew Grant was a police officer. He’d get Bruiser into an arresting hold and then tell him. Although his punches might be deadly, he was slow and he wasn’t keeping up a good guard. If Matt could dodge the next punch, he figured he could seize his arm and turn it into a subduing hold.
The man’s heavy fist shot forward, Matt stepped backwards and ducked, then moved forward to seize his free arm, bringing it up behind his back. The man cursed and tried to pull away, but Matt held him firm.
‘I am arresting you for assaulting a police officer. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence—’
‘Really, Inspector Turrell, there is no need for such formality. This was just a little falling out amongst friends. No harm done, none at all.’
Harper-Jones spoke in almost a whisper. His voice had a singsong quality that would have been pleasant in another situation. To Matt’s ears, it sounded sinister. ‘Call off your dogs then.’ Matt glanced towards the door. He could see Grant wouldn’t be able to hold it shut much longer, not with the renewed attack from the men outside.
‘Of course. Of course. When you have released my friend.’
It was a stalemate, as Matt did not intend to give up his advantage. Grant was tottering, either drunk or damaged by his attacker. The men would soon burst in. Matt doubted that he would be able to get Bruiser past them. He must ring Sam. If Grant could reach his mobile. Twisting himself around, he prayed that Grant would understand. ‘Grant. Mobile, top pocket, speed dial one. Backup.’
It seemed an age before Grant acted and Matt was conscious that Harper-Jones had stood and taken a step forward.
‘That really won’t be necessary.’
‘Grant.’
Finally, Grant had the phone in his hand. Matt saw him hit the number. After a renewed battering, the two men burst in, knocking Grant forward towards Harper-Jones. Bruiser gave a twist, trying hard to break free. Matt maintained the hold but found himself attacked by Tattoo.
Grant was on the floor and Harper-Jones reached forward to take the phone from his hand. Carbon Copy kicked Grant hard in the ribs. Matt had no idea if he had managed to get the call through. A stinging blow from Tattoo caught his eye. He turned Bruiser around to shield himself and had the satisfaction of Tattoo’s next blow landing on Bruiser’s nose.
He couldn’t hold out for long against all of them. Grant was out of the picture, lying still on the floor.
The door was ajar. If Matt could get his back to it, he might be able to reach the stairs. There was a chance for him to escape, but what of Grant? There would be no way he could carry or drag him down the stairs, not while fighting all three. However, if he could get away, he could raise the alarm.
With a heave, he shifted Bruiser around so Tattoo was directly in front, and gave a violent push so that the two men collided. Feeling backwards for the door, he raced through it while the men fought to become free of each other. Carbon Copy turned from Grant and lashed out. Matt thought he caught the glint of metal.
Over his shoulder, he shouted to Grant.
‘Hang on, Grant. I’ll be back.’
Clattering down the stairs, Matt recalled the layout and people in the pub. As long as the group of older men didn’t join in, he thought he might have a chance to reach the street. The group of young men were a problem, but years on the rugby field gave him the speed and he shot past them before they had chance to stir.
Racing to his car, he could hear shouts behind him and, as he fumbled with his keys, one his attackers burst out of the pub and turned towards him. Just as Matt flung open the door and tumbled inside, Carbon Copy caught hold. Matt chopped at his fingers. With a curse the man let go, giving Matt time to slam and lock the door. Carbon gave a vicious kick to the side panel. Matt shot the car into reverse and executed a screeching turn towards Warwick. In his rear-view mirror, he was pleased to see the bullies watching, helpless.
Something warm ran down his arm and without looking, he knew from the stickiness it was blood. The flash he had seen was a knife. Dismissing the injury as non-urgent, he pulled into the side of the road so that he could call control.
Even as he made the officer asking for urgent assistance call, he could hear approaching sirens. Grant must have got through to Sam after all. Relieved that help was on the way, he turned the car around and headed back to the pub, desperate to make sure Grant was alright.
Matt wasn’t feeling the effects of the fight yet. It was like being on the rugby field, when all that matters is winning. You only noticed the bruises afterwards. Besides, he was worried about Grant and felt like a heel for leaving him. He tried to tell himself it had be
en the only way, although it didn’t sit well. At least Grant would soon be in hospital and well taken care of.
Matt could see two patrol cars blocking the road and Sam’s car nearby, while an ambulance was flashing towards him from the opposite direction. He drew up alongside Sam’s car and jumped out.
Inside, the pub was nearly empty. Only the terrified barmaid and the older men remained. One uniformed constable was coming from the toilet corridor.
‘No one through there, sir. Entry door open. Signs a couple of cars had been parked in the alley outside.’
Matt’s heart sank. Surely the men couldn’t have moved that fast. He turned as footsteps thumped down the stairs, pleased to see Sam.
‘Seems they all ran like rats. Sorry, Matt.’
‘Grant. What of Grant? He was badly injured.’
‘No sign.’
‘Shit.’
Matt sank down onto a bench, his mind racing. Why would they take Grant? If caught kidnapping a police officer, the stakes would be high and any judge would throw away the key. He felt tired and aware of an ache in his arm. One of the uniformed constables approached.
‘Sir, we’re about to put out an APB, can you give us descriptions?’
‘Of course.’
Matt gave descriptions of all the men involved, while Sam and the other uniformed officers spoke to the terrified barmaid and the older men. When he had finished he sat still until Sam came over to him.
‘That arm doesn’t look good, Matt. You’re dripping blood all over the floor. I’ll get a paramedic.’
Matt would have liked to stop him, but Sam didn’t give him a chance. He didn’t feel like being prodded and poked for a mere flesh wound. Sam returned with a paramedic.
‘Let’s see what’s going on then, sir.’
Matt resigned himself and allowed the man to remove his jacket. His shirtsleeve was starting to stick and Matt winced as the man tried to ease it away.
‘Best we do this in the ambulance. Make it easier. From the amount of blood think it’s going to need stitches too.’
‘Damn, I haven’t got time for this.’
