Bloody Reckoning

by Rafe McGregor

  I didn’t think they were one and the same, or that Cowan was either, but I had a second look at Lawson’s notes on her interview. I realised I’d completely overlooked the fact that he and Detective Inspector Flight had interviewed her at King’s Lynn police station, in Norfolk, on Thursday. I wondered how much else I’d missed while I’d been concentrating on Siân and Bell. Cowan had left Harrogate for Norfolk early on Saturday morning, spent the weekend with her grandfather, and returned home late on Sunday evening. She was at work at the AFC when she received news of the murder, and had driven back to Norfolk immediately.

  The second point of interest was the Northern Ireland connection. Adamson-Woods had spent six months there as a senior officer, serving in a logistic support role, some forty-four years ago. It seemed very unlikely he’d have been in a position to make enemies to such an extent that someone would take their revenge after such a long interval. The time scale suggested a grandchild growing up, but Adamson-Woods wouldn’t have commanded any combat troops, or been involved in operations. He couldn’t even have been part of Special Forces, as the first such unit to operate in Northern Ireland had been the Mobile Reconnaissance Force, established in 1971. I thought the alleged line of enquiry was probably a blind, designed to keep the press happy and perhaps lull the real suspect into a false sense of security.

  I’d told Siân I’d ring her back to make arrangements when I’d spoken to her on Monday night. I owed it to Maikel to fetch her as soon as possible, although I wasn’t sure if she’d want to come back and stay with me. She’d asked for help with Bell, and I’d been happy to provide it. Now that she was free, she’d be thinking about starting her life afresh. She was unlikely to stay with her parents, but would probably go to Calum’s, and perhaps remain with him until she felt ready to take her next step. She might even be in Cardiff already.

  I already had a rough plan for the rest of the week in mind. I amended it to take my newfound interest into account. If it was okay with Maikel, I’d make a nuisance of myself in Norfolk tomorrow, visit Staff Sergeant Webber in Colchester on Thursday, and pick up Siân either that evening or the next morning. If she didn’t want picking up, I’d spend a day or two with Maikel and his uncle instead. All I needed was Webber’s number from Mac.

  He obliged when he arrived at twenty to nine, ten minutes late and flustered. “My belly’s empty, I’ve had nowt to eat since breakfast.”

  “Well, I’m not cooking for you. If we leave now, we should make the Mason’s in time.”

  “Aye, if you don’t mind.”

  I shrugged. “Just give me a minute.”

  “I spoke to Steve Webber. He should be in the office for the rest of the week, but give him a call beforehand to make sure. He’s happy to have a chat. I said you’d take him to lunch.”

  I put my jacket on. “Thanks; I’ll ring him tomorrow. Let’s go.” I locked the door behind us and followed Mac down to the street. It was already dark outside. “I’m going to London to see Siân and Maikel in the morning, but I’ve a couple of detours to make – one of which will take me to Colchester anyway. I want to look at another crime scene.” We walked past the Bonding Warehouse – a shuttered-up nightclub – and the little jetty next to it, making for the stone steps up to Skeldergate Bridge.

  “You really think Bavister’s a killer as well as a sex pest?” Mac asked as we crossed Terry Avenue.

  “I thought it was unlikely at first, but now that I’ve met the man, I think he’s arrogant enough for...for anything. You haven’t told me what happened at the court martial today.” There was room enough on the stairs for us to walk together, but Mac was one step ahead of me as I began my ascent.

  “Nothing. I don’t know –”

  Two men in ski masks jogged down towards us.

  “Mac!”

  I had one foot each on the second and third steps – something hit me in the throat. I choked, my tongue caught in my mouth. A cord tightened around my neck.

  The way to survive a garrotting is to get something – a hand, a finger, anything – between the ligature and your throat. It was already too late for that.

  I was lifted off my feet, propelled backwards through the air. I tried to turn to my right, but was hurled face-first onto the road. I broke the fall with my forearms, and tried to spin left. The cord bit again – I was dragged up – a second man kicked me, his safety boot glancing off my left shoulder.

  The garrotter wrenched the cord tighter, pulling me further up. He was big and strong, and threw me around with ease. I raised my hands to try and defend myself from the small man in front of me – his fist sliced straight through and hit me on the forehead, just above my left eye.

  I heard Mac bellowing somewhere to my left and a man shout: “You fucking chop!”

  I threw my head back to try and butt the garrotter – and missed. The small man hit me under my right eye. Blood pounded in my skull. I grappled with my assailant, grabbed hold of him, and butted him in the face. He cried out.

  I drew my head back for another go – was picked up again from behind and flung to the right. I saw the river and the town beyond, heard the blood beating louder...then there was nothing.

  “Garth! Wake up, man!”

  I became aware that I was lying on my side, and that my throat, head, stomach, and back hurt. Someone rolled me onto my back, aggravating the injury.

  “Garth!”

  Someone moved my jaw from side to side.

  I opened my left eye, then my right. I started coughing. My throat was on fire, and felt raw on the inside and outside. I retched, closed my mouth, and tried to swallow to ease the pain.

  “Let’s get you up.”

  Mac looked dreadful. His left eye was already almost closed from the swelling, his lower lip was cut, and his right ear bright red. He was kneeling over me.

  “Come on, I’ll give you a hand.”

  I began to speak, then changed my mind and settled for swallowing again.

  I rolled to my right, and levered myself up with my left leg and right arm. Mac assisted me to my feet and we lurched back to the flat. The raging inferno in my throat grew worse with each step, but my level of consciousness improved, and I was able to manage the stairs on my own. I opened the door and headed straight for the kitchen sink. Mac made a beeline for the bathroom. I turned on the tap, and applied water internally and externally. I kept a mouthful of water as I took a cold bottle from the fridge. Then I removed my jacket and collapsed on the kitchen floor.

  Mac joined me a few minutes later, with a bottle of TCP. I took a swig, mixed it with the water in my mouth, and gargled. Mac’s left eye was completely closed now, and his right ear inflated to ludicrous proportions. I couldn’t stop myself from laughing.

  He smiled back. At least he had all his teeth. “What’s so funny?”

  “This is the first time I’ve seen you with a hair out of place. You look like shit,” I croaked.

  “Stay away from mirrors yourself.”

  We both stripped off to the waist to assess the damage, and used my first aid kit and medicine cabinet to patch one another up. Mac was worse off than me. He was mildly concussed, with a sore head, cut lip, and very likely two or three cracked ribs. As the adrenalin wore off, his pain increased. I was battered and bruised about the torso, but other than a scuff mark on my forehead and a welt around my throat I had no broken skin. My ribs were also tender, but at least they were all in one piece.

  “Do you want me to take you to the hospital?” I asked, referring to Mac’s ribs.

  “Fuck that, I’ll get the doc to look at them tomorrow. But if you don’t get me a drink, I’ll have to carry on where your friends finished.”

  “Is that a good idea in your condition?”

  He didn’t dignify the question with an answer. He might have tried to give me a withering glare, but it was impossible to tell with the state of his face. He eased himself onto one of the couches while I came close to filling two tumblers; his with Bells, mine with Drambu
ie.

  I handed him his drink, flopped onto the other couch, and took a tentative sip of mine. Between the numbness in my mouth and the remains of the TCP in my saliva, it tasted horrible. I swallowed gently, and realised it was worthwhile when I felt the warmth in my stomach. Having lost consciousness as a result of violence three times in the last six days, I knew drinking neat spirits wasn’t a good idea. I had another, larger, sip. “What do you mean, my friends?”

  Mac winced at the sting of the whisky on his lip. “You telling me they weren’t your gangster mates?”

  “I fucking hope not. If they were, then I really am in a world of trouble. I’ve got another idea, but you better tell me what happened first. As soon as I called out, some big bastard hooked a garrotte around my throat. He threw me around like I weighed less than Siân while his little friend kicked and punched me. I managed to head-butt the little feller once, but that was it. I don’t even think I managed to break his nose, but that might have been a good thing, because I passed out a few seconds later. What did I miss?”

  “When you shouted me, I charged up towards those two tossers, which took them by surprise. I grabbed the tall one and nearly managed to chuck him off the steps, but the other twat caught me with a combination to my ribs. There’s not many that can take on two men, and I’m not one of them. I bust the tall fucker’s nose, but that was all. The two of them were battering me daft when I heard a bird scream. I couldn’t see, but I think it was her that did the trick. They left me, ran down the stairs, and then they all legged it under the bridge. That was all.” His smile became a grimace when his lip started bleeding again.

  “You might need a stitch in that.”

  “No, I’ll be alright once I stop talking.”

  I coughed and had another slug of Drambuie. “Maybe it was Bell reminding me who’s boss, but I heard one of your two shout, and I’m sure he had a Southern African accent.”

  “South African?” Mac asked.

  “I said southern. South African or Zimbabwean.”

  Mac pointed at me. “Lyle!”

  Bavister’s second-in-command at the O Club was from Zimbabwe. “That’s what I was thinking.”

  “Aye, he could’ve been the tall bloke. Wait a minute.” He pushed himself to his feet and walked to the dining table, where he’d thrown his coat and shirt. He took a short piece of olive drab cord from one of the pockets and dropped it on the coffee table on his way back. “That’s what they used on you.”

  I picked it up. It was a length of nylon paracord, pretty much standard Army issue. “Yeah, I see what you’re getting at, but anyone can buy this.”

  “Strong! I bet the bastard who cracked my ribs was Strong. I can’t be sure, but he had the right shape.”

  “Maybe he saw me when I followed him on Friday morning. Or maybe Bavister was pissed off because Lawson and I rattled his cage on Monday. Either way, I think this was my fault, so I’m sorry. But not that sorry. If you hadn’t been there, I don’t think I’d be going anywhere tomorrow.”

  “I can’t say it was a pleasure, though I did enjoy the sound of that tosser’s nose going. You think Bavister was one of the others?”

  “I doubt it. He looks soft. I don’t think fistfights are his scene. If it was Strong with Lyle, then he could’ve recruited the other two from Catterick. No one likes Redcaps. I don’t know.” I felt the Drambuie going to my head, which wasn’t entirely pleasant after the garrotting.

  “If they were grunts, I’ll find them. I won’t do nowt about it – not yet – but I want to know who they are.” He took another swig of the whisky, finishing it.

  “More?” I asked.

  “No, I feel shite as it is.” He stood again, and began dressing.

  “Before we were rudely interrupted, I was asking you about Bavister’s court martial. What happened?”

  Mac put on his shirt, drawing sharp breaths when his ribs moved. “Nowt. The Judge Advocate adjourned for tomorrow, which is strange for sentencing. Maybe they’re going to throw the book at him. I hope so. I’ve just had an idea, mind.”

  “What?”

  “Do you think Strong might be involved in these murders?”

  I pressed my right temple, to try and help me concentrate. “You mean Strong bumped off Haywood and the others?”

  Mac tucked his shirt in and eased into his jacket. “Maybe, but I was thinking more about him as Bavister’s helpmate. We know Strong hates women, but he might hate gay men as well.”

  “But it looks like him and Bavister are mates.”

  “Aye, my head’s a shed, but you know how I feel about Strong.”

  “You’re right, though. Strong and Bavister make a very dangerous combination.”

  I phoned for a taxi and saw Mac out to it ten minutes later, despite his protests. It was the least I could do. When he was gone, I left the flat as it was, and fell into bed. I lost consciousness much quicker than before.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  I slept through my alarm on Wednesday morning, but didn’t let it worry me. My body needed rest and recuperation, as I could tell when I finally surfaced and stumbled to the shower. My torso was badly bruised, back and front, but the inflamed skin on my head, face, and throat had settled down so as not to be too unsightly. My jaw was still sore, courtesy of Lawson, and my skull, courtesy of Spiderman. I had a leisurely shower, and dressed in my black suit. I left my shirt collar open; my neck wasn’t quite ready for a tie. I packed a bag for two days and two nights and checked my appearance again when I picked up my toiletries from the bathroom: at least I looked presentable, even if I didn’t feel it. I was starving as well as hurting, so I decided to begin my journey south by heading to the Postern Gate.

  While I waited for breakfast I phoned Staff Sergeant Webber, and he agreed to meet me at noon tomorrow, in the Hub Café in central Colchester. It sounded expensive, so there was even more reason to hope he had something on Bavister. I phoned Siân next and asked if Thursday evening would suit her. I was half expecting her to say it wouldn’t be necessary, or to tell me she was in Cardiff, but she didn’t do either. She was still in Gunnersby with Maikel and in no rush to leave. I wanted to speak to Maikel so I could check I wasn’t inconveniencing him, but he’d gone for a run. I asked Siân to tell him I’d ring later to make arrangements, and for him to ring me if there were any problems. It was a stupid thing to say, but I wanted him to know I wasn’t taking his friendship for granted.

  I didn’t mention last night’s fight to Siân. There was absolutely no point. Even if it had been Bell’s men, he still wouldn’t have had any way of finding her at my friend’s uncle’s house, so she was safe at present. I didn’t want her to start worrying all over again when I’d only just told her the nightmare was over. There’d be plenty of time for that later if I was wrong. Meanwhile, I fervently hoped it wasn’t Bell. It could easily have been a reprisal from Bavister, Strong, the two of them together, or another party I hadn’t considered. Perhaps Vaughan had grown some balls after I’d helped Lawson humiliate him. They were all preferable to having Bell go back on his word.

  I set off from York at half-ten, my spirits sinking with the altitude after Lincoln. I’m not sure why, but I always find mountains invigorating and the flat, featureless terrain common to Lincolnshire and East Anglia depressing. My route took me through the fenland along The Wash, where the land has been reclaimed from the sea. I skirted around the old port of King’s Lynn at two o’clock, following signs for the A148 and Cromer. There was a welcome return of some low hills as I headed back into the countryside, before the landscape levelled out into the Norfolk Broads. I wasn’t going that far. According to the map on my mobile, I had only a few more miles left. I enjoyed the change of scenery and the sunny spring afternoon as I passed the villages of Hillington and Harpley.

  West Rudham came next. It looked as small as Askham Bryan, perhaps smaller. There wasn’t even a post office or corner shop, just a solitary pub. The village was gone in the blink of an eye and a few more seco
nds brought me to East Rudham. It was bigger, but only barely, the village centre comprising a Post Office Stores and two shops opposite the Cat and Fiddle, on the other side of the A148. The post office was nothing more than a sturdy shed sitting in the front garden of a large detached house. I parked outside the neighbour’s garage, greeted a couple of men packing bags of fertiliser into a four-wheel drive, and entered.

  A middle-aged woman sat reading behind the till. We exchanged pleasantries and I bought a Diet Coke, the Eastern Daily Press, and The Times. As she rung the items up, I explained that I was an Army Investigator, and asked if she could direct me to the colonel’s house. She was glad to help, though strangely reluctant to add anything else. She was pleasant and chatty, and I didn’t think East Rudham had seen a murder in several decades, so I expected her either to question me or volunteer an opinion. She did neither. I thanked her and returned to the car.

  Fifty metres further down Station Road I saw a sign for Tatterford. I turned left into Broomsthorpe Road, passing Rudham House Manor and the Former Rectory. I’d already left the village behind for a winding country lane. On the right there were about half a dozen large detached houses set well back from the road with tall hedges or walls affording substantial privacy. On the left were several grey stone houses: two semi-detached followed by what looked like a farmhouse with out-buildings. I cruised past a fourth property on my right, Dragonfly Cottage, and pulled up outside Minden House.

  My view was partially obscured by trees and thick bushes, all meticulously groomed and a perfect match with the appearance of the rest of the road. The gravelled driveway was about thirty metres long; the house itself was a combination of grey stone and red-brick, with five sets of double windows framing a white door set under a small porch. This was my second crime scene in as many weeks and I wondered how it would compare with Bishop Wood. More than anything else, it is the crime scene that links the detective to the murderer. Both are present in the same place at a different time and it’s the detective’s job to bring them back together in a different place. Bishop Wood hadn’t exactly been revealing, but it had convinced me of the sexual nature of the crimes.