Bloody Reckoning

by Rafe McGregor

  Bavister’s upper lip twisted as he reached for the bag.

  Lawson drew it back again, producing a folded piece of paper from his jacket pocket. “You’ll have to sign for receipt.”

  “Yes, yes, just give them to me.”

  Lawson handed the bag over and unfolded the piece of paper. “Have you got a table or something I can use?”

  This wasn’t a new Lawson, but it was an improved one, more cunning and unorthodox than before.

  “Just give it here; I’ll press on the door.”

  “No, sir, you might damage it.”

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake!” Bavister waved a hand around in a theatrical gesture he’d probably learnt in the drama society of a public school, and stormed off.

  Lawson and I entered. I closed the door behind us.

  Bavister dropped the boots on the dining-room table and turned back to us. “Right, give it to me so I can get this over with. And who in God’s name are you?” he asked me as he grabbed the form from Lawson.

  “Hutt, SIB,” I said.

  Bavister put the paper on the table, scrawled with Lawson’s pen, and thrust both back at him. Then he sneered at me. “Ah, I heard about you. Went native in Afghanistan, didn’t you?”

  Lawson took his pen and paper. “Seeing as we’re here now, I have a question for you.”

  Bavister bellowed over our heads: “Jayne, get Dan on the phone now!”

  “I’m busy, do it yourself!” came the reply from upstairs.

  “Not a good idea to wind the missus up, Chas, not when she’s providing you with your only alibi in a murder inquiry. If Dan is your solicitor, do what she says and phone him. You’ll all end up being late for your court martial. Or you can answer one question for me, and I’ll piss off and leave you to your breakfast. Your call.”

  “This is harassment. Do you know who I am? Who my wife is? I could have your job for this!” Bavister waggled his finger in Lawson’s face.

  Lawson shrugged his thickly muscled shoulders. “Whatever. Am I staying or going? If we’re waiting for Dan, I could do with a cup of tea.”

  Bavister straightened his back and looked down his nose at Lawson. I thought he was going to do something rash, but all he said was: “Your name, rank, and station.”

  “DS Lawson, York CID.”

  “One question, then I’m not saying another word, and you can explain why I’m late to the fucking Judge Advocate.”

  “I knew you’d see it my way. In August 2009 you were acquainted with Private Gordon, a medic at Colchester. He disappeared and his body was found in Chalkney Wood a month later, the evidence indicating he’d been shot in the head. In April last year Private Keogh’s body was found in the woods near Hohne garrison in Germany. Keogh was in your battalion, so even if you didn’t know him personally before he was reported AWOL, you’d have known all about him when he turned up dead. You’d also have known he’d been shot in the head. Then, on Sunday, Lance Corporal Haywood – your guest at the O Club – gets shot in the head while he’s in the woods. That’s three soldiers you either knew, or knew of, murdered in the space of four years. Here’s the question: why didn’t you bring it to our attention? You didn’t even mention Keogh when we interviewed you about Haywood and Gordon.”

  Bavister smiled, entirely sure of himself. “I’d have thought your colleague would’ve set you straight on that, but I’ll spell it out for both of you. I am an infantry officer. My job is to kill the enemy. Your job,” he pointed to me, “is to solve murder mysteries. You leave the fighting to me; I leave the snooping to you.”

  “I don’t know about that, Chas,” I said. “Personally, I’m a soldier first, detective second. But let me just clarify. You’re telling us that the murder of soldiers isn’t any of your business, and you didn’t feel it was your responsibility to inform the police?”

  He shrugged. “You don’t tell me how to fight, and I don’t tell you how to pry into other people’s affairs.”

  We heard a door slam upstairs. “Chas, are those arseholes still here?”

  Bavister gave the ceiling an unflattering look. “I’ve answered your question, now get out.”

  “Chas! Chas! Get them out the fucking house and get up here this instant!”

  Lawson whistled. “Quite the mouth on her for a posh bird.”

  “I’ve also got a question,” I said. “Tell me what happened to Lance Corporal Keenan in 2006.”

  Bavister puffed himself up immediately. His cheeks went bright pink, and he gave me his best parade ground bark: “What the hell has that got to do with anything! Get the fuck out my house – now – both of you!”

  I wiped his spittle from my cheek. Very quietly, I said, “Touch a nerve there, did I?”

  He pushed between us and marched out the room. We heard the front door open. “I said, get out!”

  Lawson looked at me, eyebrows raised, and I shook my head. I followed him to the door.

  “Have a nice court martial,” said Lawson.

  Upstairs, a door slammed.

  Bavister didn’t reply to Lawson and I didn’t say anything. I kept eye contact as I left, but Bavister remained silent. I felt the wind of the front door on my neck before I heard the slam. I left the garden gate open to annoy him and climbed back in Lawson’s car.

  “That the skier?” he asked as we set off.

  “Yeah. I’m glad to see you paid attention to what Marie said.”

  “You can talk. Fun though, wasn’t it?”

  I’d actually been quite impressed with Lawson’s question, though I wasn’t going to tell him that. I’d also been impressed with Bavister’s reaction to my own question, and decided to look into Keenan’s death if I made it through the night. Lawson had arranged to see Cowan at the Army Foundation College at ten, and Vaughan at Imphal Barracks at noon. I only needed a couple of hours with my laptop before leaving to meet Bell, so there was plenty of time. We had breakfast at the Little Chef on the A64 and Lawson proceeded to Harrogate at what was a leisurely pace for him.

  We drove though the spa town itself, gateway to the Yorkshire Dales, and kept on the A59, signposted for Skipton. Lawson turned off as soon as we left the town, making for the village of Beckwithshaw. The AFC is only four miles from central Harrogate, but already in the rolling countryside. A roundabout brought us to Penny Pot Lane, and we soon saw the college on the left and a small housing estate where staff were quartered on the right.

  The AFC is a unique establishment in the Army, catering for those who are sixteen, but not yet sixteen and nine months, the minimum age to enlist as a Junior Soldier. Students are trained to serve in the infantry, artillery, and armoured corps, and the college can accommodate up to one thousand three hundred and fifty future soldiers of both sexes. The AFC had only been open since 2000, and was still considered something of a flagship in the Army Educational and Training Services. As a captain, Cowan was second-in-command of the staff of four hundred and twenty soldiers and civilians.

  We entered the college, parked, and reported to reception. We were asked to sit and wait, but less than a minute later a young corporal arrived and requested we follow him. He led us down a corridor to an office marked, “Capt. T. Cowan OBE”. The corporal knocked twice, opened the door, and showed us in. Theresa Cowan stood up from her desk and walked over to greet us.

  As always when seeing people I’ve seen on TV in the flesh, I was surprised at how small she was. Not that she was small at five foot eight, but I always expect celebrities to be taller. She was also less muscular than I’d expected, slim, with a lithe shapeliness that even her Combat Uniform couldn’t conceal. Her hair was light brown with a hint of auburn, styled short with a long fringe. She wasn’t wearing any make-up, and had good skin, a pert nose, and a hard mouth. She could probably have passed for thirty under normal circumstances, but stress or fatigue had added a few years. Nonetheless, she was pretty, and the hint of a smile she gave as we shook hands suggested an alluring, sexually confident woman in better times. I was ins
tantly attracted to her.

  “I’ve brought your boots back.” Lawson gave them to her. “Thanks for cooperating; would you mind signing for them?”

  Cowan put the boots on the desk and took the sheet of paper from him.

  “My name’s Garth Hutt, I’m a captain in the SIB. Please accept my condolences on the loss of your grandfather.”

  She paused, pen hovering above the paper, and fixed me with her light-green eyes. “Thank you. Have we met before?”

  “No.”

  “Are you sure? I definitely recognise you.”

  “No, I’d have remembered.” She signed the receipt and gave it back to Lawson. “Have you heard any more about the colonel’s murder from the police?” I asked.

  “No, they haven’t exactly filled me with confidence so far. I’m afraid I don’t think they’re doing a very good job.”

  “And why’s that, Ms Cowan?” asked Lawson.

  “Because it strikes me that his murder is just a job for them.”

  “What’s wrong with doing a job?”

  “As a civilian, I don’t expect you to understand, but Captain Hutt will. If you’d ever served in the military you’d realise that we have a different take on our work. When we’re on operations we don’t just clock off when the shift ends, or the overtime payments run out. We keep working until the mission is completed.”

  Lawson raised his palms. “Whoa, hold fire. If we’re all clothes hangers, then who do you think killed him?”

  Cowan glared at him. “Don’t you think I should be asking you that question?”

  “Maybe you had someone do it for you, to keep your alibi for Haywood intact.”

  I closed my eyes, covered my face with my hand, and shook my head. I couldn’t believe he’d said it.

  Much to my admiration, Cowan didn’t lose her poise at all. “What comes next? Are you going to sweat me until I confess, or just go straight into the strong-arm stuff?”

  “Neither,” I cut in before Lawson could embarrass me further. “Thank you for your time.”

  She regarded us both with disdain. “I’ll make sure I have a lawyer present next time I see either of you. Good day, gentlemen.”

  Mercifully, Lawson didn’t reply, and we beat a retreat to his car.

  “That went well,” I said as I closed my door.

  “Pit bull, isn’t she?” he replied.

  Even though I’d been mortified in front of Cowan, I couldn’t help laughing. “You’re a wanker, Alex.”

  “I had to try and wind her up, didn’t I? You could’ve put your tongue back in your mouth and lent a hand.” He grinned. “Obviously mutual, though, the way she was looking at you.” He turned into Penny Pot Lane.

  I suppose I had lost sight of the mission for a few moments. Lawson guffawed. “What?”

  He went left at the roundabout, heading back to Harrogate. “No, forget it.”

  “Don’t be like that; what’s so funny?”

  “I just had a thought. Some general somewhere has really fucked up, hasn’t he?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Imagine if Cowan is our player, killing young squaddies for the fun of it. Where do they post her? To the youngest, richest pickings in the Army. Let’s hope she’s a nymphomaniac like you said, not a psychopath. I don’t think any of those sixteen-year-olds stand a chance either way.”

  “Good point. No sixteen-year-old boy is going to turn her down. I wouldn’t have – not that I was ever that lucky in my teens. Vaughan next?” I asked.

  “Yes. No. Listen, I’ve changed my mind. I think I’m going to stand the fucker up. There’s something I want to find out before we talk to him. Are you good for tomorrow?”

  “I should be.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “I’m seeing Bell tonight. In a block of flats called the Quays in Leeds city centre. If you can’t reach me tomorrow, then I’d like you to bear that in mind.”

  “Are you taking someone with you?” he asked.

  “No.”

  “That’s not very bright.”

  “I have an insurance policy.”

  “You’re going to need it.”

  “You haven’t done anything about Hampton, have you?”

  “Why should I? I was never there. No body has turned up yet, and I don’t think that chav’s family are likely to report his disappearance to the cops. Bell will probably sling them some cash by way of a pension and no one will be any the wiser. That going to be a problem?”

  “No, it makes it easier for me tonight. But if you can’t find me tomorrow, I’ve probably been fed to the pigs.”

  “You better not be. I’m not done with you yet.”

  *

  Lawson dropped me back at the flat at half-eleven. I finished my preparation for the evening in just over an hour, had lunch, and spent the rest of the afternoon on the balcony, smoking Tampa Perfectos and reading The Gift of Death by Jacques Derrida. Like Existentialism and Humanism, I’d read it before. They were two of several slim volumes that had accompanied me on tours in Iraq and Afghanistan, and which rewarded each new reading with more ideas and fresh insights. I decided that if I survived the night, I’d read Martin Heidegger’s Being and Time cover-to-cover – something which I’d attempted several times and failed. It would give me something productive to do with the rest of my leave and keep me out of trouble until I could return to my desk.

  At seven, I made myself a couple of chicken and mayonnaise sandwiches, and forced them down even though I was too nervous to feel hungry. I had a long, slow shower, and lay naked on the bed until my skin dried. I put on my black polo shirt, tucked it into a pair of chinos, and laced up my boots, then went into the lounge, hung my leather jacket over a chair, and sat on a couch. I watched the clock, and concentrated on my breathing and keeping calm. I raised my hands, one at a time, and was pleased to see they were steady. I thought of Siân and the pitiful state she’d been reduced to, and I started to get angry.

  The anger built until there was no more room for fear.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  I turned off for Quarry Hill, but continued past the parking lot, bearing left and then right into Kirkgate. As the sun set, I kept left again for the Calls, which became Swinegate. Concordia Street is a small crescent running parallel to the north bank of the Leeds and Liverpool Canal. I didn’t want the first entrance, opposite the Golden Lion Hotel, so I turned left into Sovereign Street. Another left a hundred metres further on brought me into Concordia Street from the west, from which I had a clear view of the whole road. The Quays loomed above, a combination of dark glass and red-brick with balconies on both sides. Bell’s penthouse occupied the entire length of the roof, and was concealed behind dozens of potted plants.

  I pulled into an empty bay in the single row of parking at the western end of the building, catching a glimpse of the canal before I reversed the BMW. I hadn’t seen any signs, but I was sure the parking must be restricted and hopeful that an overzealous traffic warden might be on the prowl. Tonight, I wanted a parking ticket, anything to provide proof of my presence. I switched off the engine, unclipped my seatbelt, and watched the main entrance. The Quays was a recent development, and appeared to cater for a combination of luxury office space on the lower floors, and homes for the affluent on the upper. I couldn’t even begin to calculate how much the penthouse must have been worth. I didn’t see Collier or his Punto anywhere.

  Five minutes later a car turned off from Swinegate, drifted over to the right-hand side of the road, and stopped opposite the Quays. As soon as the headlights went off, I saw it was a blue Fiat. Collier climbed out and walked across the road. I let him wait for a couple of minutes before I debussed. He heard the car door close and stared at me, hands deep in his pockets as he shifted his weight from foot to foot. He was dressed the same as he’d been a week ago, except that the shirt was cotton with a rib stripe pattern. The designer stubble hadn’t grown a millimetre.

  He frowned at me, started to say som
ething, then jerked his head. He produced an access card from his pocket, fitted it into a metal panel mounted between two glass doors, and entered the one on the left.

  I followed him into the reception area and he swiped the card to open a second door, which led to a service lift. He pressed the button, the door opened immediately, and we stepped inside. Three full-length glass mirrors made the lift seem even more spacious. Collier slid his card into a slot and hit the button for ‘10’. The door shut silently and we began our ascent.

  “You’re dead,” he said. I could see him smirking out the corner of my left eye.

  My anger had been simmering until I saw Collier, when it started to boil. The blood throbbed louder in my head as we rose. I considered Collier’s obvious familiarity with the building and thought about all the times he must have come here with coke for Siân. Free coke to keep her enslaved to Bell. I drew a deep breath in through my nose in an effort to keep calm. It didn’t help. The contrast between the Siân I knew and the woman who’d knocked on my door was too great. There was also a good chance that Collier was right, in which case this was my last opportunity.

  As the lift started to slow down, I turned my head very slightly to my left. His temple was about half a metre from own, a couple of inches up. I balled my right fist at my side, pivoted on my right foot, and hit him as hard as I could, driving my first two knuckles into his skull. His head snapped left, he cried out, crashed against the wall, and slumped to the floor.

  In that moment, I hoped I’d killed him.

  The lift halted. Despite Collier’s groaning, I heard a soft sigh as the doors opened.

  They revealed a white palace, with a stone-tiled floor, marble pillars, and a viewing gallery overlooking the canal. Everything in the enormous entrance hall was light grey, cream, or white – with the exception of one of the four occupants, who wore a black turtleneck and black trousers. The other three were wearing white shell suits. Bell was standing directly in front of me, ten metres away, his arms folded and a Glock 17 in his right hand, barrel pointed at the ceiling. It was very James Bond, and I suspected he’d rehearsed it. Putnam, in black, stood to his left, with another nine-millimetre in a holster on his right hip. Napier and Spiderman waited on either side of the lift. The room was lit with recessed spotlights and white blinds covered the glass walls.