Bloody Reckoning

by Rafe McGregor

  He wasn’t, actually, but he obviously made a habit of it. There was a bench at the end, about fifteen metres away, and two more on block-paved terraces with viewing platforms. The lower terrace was in front of a large set of folding doors and the other further to the south-west, almost as high as the roof of the bungalow. A back gate led to a cliff-top walkway, concealed by a tall hedge. I had a clear view of the beach, which was muddy at low tide. There was still no privacy from the north-west, but the slope of the land and vegetation were proof against prying eyes from the B&B and walkway.

  I went up to the first terrace, and noted a sturdy timber shed tucked away in the far corner of the garden, its door open. So were all four glass panels of the folding doors, and curtains flapped in the wind. I stood on the patio and looked inside. The living room appeared to occupy the entire width of the bungalow and was furnished with a surfeit of colourful sofas and beanbag chairs. From what I could see, it was unoccupied. The bright colours and beanbags bothered me. I glanced at the neighbouring house, but couldn’t see anyone. I looked up at the double set of bow windows to my right; no one there either. I listened, but I couldn’t hear any voices above the wind, the sea, and the cry of gulls. I weighed up the options, then made my decision.

  Before I crossed the threshold, I had one more look behind me.

  My circumspection may have saved my life.

  I caught movement from behind, and turned to see a man sprinting towards me with a golf club.

  He roared and gripped the weapon in both hands.

  I spread my legs for balance, left foot slightly forward, and raised my arms in defence. The man was short, but bulging with muscle. Force is mass multiplied by acceleration, and he had a lot of both. I wasn’t fast enough to dance with him, so I’d have to take the club on my forearms. It would hurt, but he’d only get the one shot before I was in close.

  He swung the club back.

  I crouched, lifted my palms higher – he tripped and fell flat on his face.

  His skull hit the stone, the golf club flew off to my left, and he lay prone on the patio, motionless. His head was less than a metre from my left foot and he was out cold before I had time to jump on him.

  I took a second to process the information, then stood up straight, feeling like an idiot in my combat stance. I glanced at the neighbours again, but still couldn’t see anyone. I knelt next to Bourg – I assumed it was him – and moved his head to one side. No bleeding. I felt for a pulse on his neck. Quick, but regular. He was in his mid-thirties, with short brown hair and a goatee; a pint-sized Lawson in build. He could easily have done me permanent damage with the golf club. He was wearing a red Nottingham Forest football shirt, grey tracksuit bottoms, and Nike trainers.

  I couldn’t see what he’d tripped over, but I wasn’t going to waste the opportunity. I scanned the terrain for witnesses one last time, grabbed Bourg’s thick, hairy wrists, and dragged him inside onto his oak flooring. He didn’t show any increased level of consciousness, so I thought he probably had a mid-level concussion, which meant he could be out for anything from two to sixty minutes. Unfortunately, I had no way of knowing whether he was going to wake up in thirty seconds or thirty minutes.

  I wanted to take a look around, but I didn’t want him waking up while I was there. I considered the options again, weighing up the risk of discovery against the chance of finding something incriminating. The former was high and the latter low, so I decided to make short work of it. I knelt down next to Bourg, took off one of my trainers, and pulled off my sock. I put the trainer back on, stood up, and slid my right hand into the sock. There were several doors off from the room and I tried the closest, using my improvised glove.

  The kitchen was also spacious, and included a breakfast nook with a wooden table and four chairs. Although there was another door to my left, the room would have to do. I grabbed Bourg’s wrists and dragged him again. I rolled him onto his back and checked his pockets, hoping for a mobile or set of keys. No luck, but I did find a memory stick, which I put in my pocket. I rolled him back onto his front, put him in the recovery position, and checked his pulse one more time. Slower and steady. The kitchen door opened inward, so I picked up one of the breakfast chairs and removed it to the lounge. Then I closed the door and balanced the chair against it.

  I estimated Bourg had been unconscious for four minutes, and had allocated myself ten, which left me six. I gave myself an extra one for the early warning system I’d just installed, and called it seven.

  Time-check: 16:27; I’d bug out at 16:34.

  I tried another door, on the landward side, and found myself in a corridor leading to the front entrance and stairs. I trotted up the stairs. In spite of my urgency, I couldn’t entirely shake the feeling of dread and the fear of what I was going to find. There was a landing on the mezzanine level, for the bungalow. I kept going to the first floor, reaching a larger landing with four doors. I remembered the bow window at the back, and guessed the main bedroom would be the second door on my left. It was, but I didn’t have time to rifle his cupboards and the rest; I was after his computer.

  I tried the second room, froze. It was decorated and furnished for a young child. A bunk bed, bright blue walls, a superhero theme. The next room had blood red walls and a pirate theme. The fourth room was the same size as the master suite, and had been converted into a play area, with a plasma TV, games console, and shelves stacked with sports equipment. I felt nauseous.

  Time-check: 16:29.

  I left the first floor for the mezzanine, and entered the bungalow. It was bigger than it looked from outside, but the second door yielded Bourg’s study. There were two computers – a laptop and a PC – along with the usual accessories, and a cordless telephone. The laptop was open, but switched off, and the PC in sleep mode. I shook the mouse and waited precious seconds for the screen to come to life. Password protected.

  Time-check: 16:31.

  The laptop was an Apple, slim and silver. I pulled my shirt out from my belt, used it to cover my left hand, opened the computer, and hit the power button. While it booted up I rifled through Bourg’s desk and shelves, searching in vain for a diary or filofax of some sort. There were two stacks of CDs, but most of them appeared to be software for the computers.

  Time-check: 16:32.

  The laptop was also password protected. No good to me. There were four photo albums on the topmost of the three shelves. I reached for the closest – heard a crash from downstairs.

  I stopped, my sock-covered hand in mid-air.

  I reflected on the bedrooms and playroom. Assuming that the mad golfer was Bourg, and that this was his house, there could be no question of his brief spell in jail having reformed him. Several of my cop colleagues had told me that paedophiles used prison as a place to network, learning tricks of the trade and making allies for future enterprises. Bourg had served less than a year for each child he’d molested, and was now living in a five hundred thousand pound playpen by the seaside. I had good reason to believe no one had seen me enter the house. My car was out of sight. Bourg was a big, strong feller, but I knew I could take him. A minute’s work, maybe two if he wasn’t habitually clumsy. I could go downstairs, confirm has identity, and save an unknown amount of children from torture. Or I could wait here and let him come to me.

  But I’m not a vigilante. I would’ve killed Bell for Siân if necessary, because she was my friend and had asked for my help. She had been worth the risk. I’m afraid that anonymous potential future victims were not.

  I walked over to the open window.

  I was too much of a coward to kill Bourg, but I’d walk away, not run. I couldn’t have lived with myself if I’d done the sensible thing and dashed across the lawn. I heard him knock over something else downstairs. I climbed out the window, onto the slope between the terraces. I removed the sock from my hand, put it in the pocket with the pen drive, and tucked my shirt in. The curtains were still flapping in the wind to my left, but there was no sign of Bourg. He’d ei
ther left the house by the front door, or was headed upstairs to the study. I’d leave it in the hands of fate.

  I ambled across the garden towards the sea. I kept my eyes front and my ears open. Maybe Bourg was watching me from one of the windows or maybe he was going for another golf club. I kept walking. It was his call. I reached the back gate and paused, giving him one last chance to attack me in the safety of his own home. I waited a second or two, then hopped over the gate and joined the ramblers on the pathway.

  I made for the pier and didn’t look back.

  *

  An hour after returning to the Bank House, I was sitting at my laptop, browsing through a folder of fifty-four photographs. I’d been physically sweating when I plugged the pen drive into the USB port, but none of the images were pornographic. Every single shot included at least one young male aged somewhere between five and thirteen, however. Some of the younger ones were naked and some of the older ones fully clothed; most wore swimming trunks. All the photos had been taken at a beach and I thought I knew which one, because I could clearly see the outline of the Minack Theatre in at least two of the images.

  The Minack is an open-air amphitheatre which has been chiselled into Cornish cliffs a little more dramatic than those of the Cromer variety. The theatre overlooks Porthcurno Beach, which I’d been to a couple of times, once with my mother, and once with my fiancée. Whoever had taken the photos hadn’t added any information to them, but the camera automatically recorded various particulars. I accessed them by right-clicking the JPG file and selecting ‘Properties’ from the pop-up menu. One of these details was ‘Date taken’ and the first photo in the batch was labelled: 07/05/13 11:38.

  Adamson-Woods had been murdered at seven-thirty on the morning of the 7th May. There were plenty of loose ends that would require checking, but if Bourg had been taking photos of little boys on the beach in Porthcurno at half-eleven, he couldn’t have shot Adamson-Woods in East Rudham four hours before. Porthcurno was a stone’s throw from Land’s End, more than four hundred miles away. So unless Bourg had a helicopter to hand, it looked like Fielding was wrong.

  But if Bourg hadn’t killed the colonel, then someone else had.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Maikel phoned while I was dressing for the funeral on Friday morning. He was leaving London to visit our old battalion in Colchester this evening and suggested that I meet him at Hyderabad Barracks tonight. He’d already arranged accommodation for both Siân and me, and we settled on the sergeants’ mess for nine. I reconsidered my options as I knotted my tie. I’d ask Mr Harris if he’d mind me checking out late, so I could come back and change after the funeral. Then I’d drive down to Colchester, find Chalkney Wood, and do a little detective work at the Gordon crime scene. Tomorrow morning I’d attempt to hunt down Webber. There was a good chance he’d be at the barracks over the weekend. He wouldn’t be happy about me turning up, but he might tell me what I wanted to know. If I failed to find him on Saturday, I’d try again on Sunday.

  Fielding barged into the Bank House Hotel at twenty-five past ten, wearing an even louder tie with his leather jacket. Fakenham was forty minutes away and the funeral was due to begin at eleven. He apologised for his tardiness as we headed for my car, blaming a combination of domestic and professional disputes. I believed him: he still had the dishevelled look, though he’d been more careful with his razor this morning. I steered for the A148 again, asking him if he’d managed to find anything else out about Adamson-Woods. When he eventually stopped laughing, he told me that he’d only just met his deadline for an article about a Norfolk butcher supplying 3 SCOTS – formerly the Black Watch – with haggis.

  Perhaps journalism wasn’t as glamorous as I imagined.

  While I retraced my route to East Rudham as quickly as safely possible, I related my encounter with Bourg. My narrative was interrupted with a variety of exclamations and interjections by Fielding, the net result of which was that he seemed to hold me in some kind of awe. I completed the effect by dropping the pen drive in his lap and mentioning my theory about the time and place. I continued past East Rudham for about another five miles or so and it was five past eleven by the time I found parking in Fakenham town centre. I paid and displayed, and quick-marched to the Parish Church of St Peter and Paul, with Fielding breaking into a trot to keep up. I’d never been to the town before, but he’d already pointed out the Decorated Gothic tower, which was behind the market square. It wasn’t nearly as high as Cromer’s, but it was still visible for miles. We arrived ten minutes late.

  Given the length of Colonel Adamson-Woods’ service, I expected the church to be to be full of his old comrades in arms. Even allowing for the allegations of paedophilia, the turnout was pitiful. There were seven people inside, and that was counting the priest. I led Fielding down the aisle, and slipped into the fifth row of pews. The seats were hard and uncomfortable. While the priest went through the motions with little enthusiasm, I tried to identify the mourners.

  Cowan was wearing a black skirt-suit and had avoided make-up again. The choice was sensible, because she cried softly and continuously, occasionally dabbing her eyes or nose with a hanky. Her features were distorted with anguish. She was sitting in the front row, next to an older woman to whom she bore a strong resemblance, and a tall, well-built man in his fifties. I guessed they were her parents. A frail, elderly couple of a similar age to Adamson-Woods himself sat immediately behind the Cowans. Lastly, a mixed race woman of about my own age sat in the third row. I thought she might be a police officer.

  Fielding leant over and whispered in my ear, “Christ, I hope this isn’t all I have in store at the end of my three score and ten.”

  I shook my head slowly, pointed to the woman in front of us, and whispered back: “Is she a cop?”

  “DS Beverley Warby, from the Major Investigation Team. A bit of all right, but she’s got a tongue like a whip. Got a soft spot for me, though, has Bev.”

  It’s standard procedure for at least one detective to attend the funeral of a murder victim. Most people are murdered by family, friends, or colleagues rather than strangers, and the funeral is often revealing when it comes to the dynamics of the victim’s relationships. In addition, there’s also the chance that if the murderer is a stranger, he’ll be stupid enough to turn up and gawk at his handiwork.

  “I assume Cowan is sitting with her parents?”

  “Yeah. That’s Woody’s younger sister and her husband behind them.”

  Fielding had raised his voice a little and Mr Cowan turned his head. The contrast with his daughter was stark; his face showed no feeling whatsoever. Mercifully, the priest didn’t prolong the pathetic spectacle. There was no eulogy or speech, and he started wrapping up the service a mere fifteen minutes after our arrival.

  “C’mon,” whispered Fielding, “let’s get out of here.”

  “Not yet. Wait for me outside if you want.”

  He left as everyone else except DS Warby rose. The elderly couple scurried past me, following Fielding, while Mr and Mrs Cowan spoke to the priest. Theresa stood apart from her parents, staring through a pointed arch at one of the stained glass windows.

  Her eyes and nose were red, and she looked as if she hadn’t slept much since I’d seen her. She’d stopped crying, but her regained composure did little to conceal her distress. She wouldn’t have made it to the Olympics without iron self-discipline, and would be accustomed to overriding her emotional impulses, so her restrained demeanour spoke volumes. I felt acutely sorry for her. Then I remembered the way she’d dealt with Lawson and thought it was probably more admiration than pity that I was feeling.

  I was about to go and speak to her, when I changed my mind, and made for the exit. I joined Fielding in the courtyard, which doubled as a small car park.

  “Well?” he asked.

  “I want to speak to Theresa. Can you hang around for a bit?”

  “You must be bloody joking, but Bev will give me a lift back.”

  On cue, D
S Warby strode from the church. She was wearing a light grey trouser-suit over a white blouse. Her complexion was the colour of milky coffee and she had short hair, large eyes, and a full mouth. She was tall and slim, and moved gracefully. Fielding was right: an attractive woman. She approached us, and addressed me. “You in the Job?”

  Her local accent was a little more pronounced than Fielding’s. “No, I’m an Army Investigator.”

  She frowned. “What’s your interest?”

  “Hello, Bev,” said Fielding.

  “Fuck off, Fielding.”

  I looked at him and raised my eyebrows.

  “Don’t be like, that,” he said.

  “It’s DS Warby to you, or Beverley if I’m in a good mood – which I’m not. Now, Mister…”

  “Garth Hutt,” I volunteered.

  “You haven’t answered my question.”

  “I know Captain Cowan.”

  “Didn’t look like it to me. Socially or professionally?”

  “Professionally.”

  She glared at me. “I hope you aren’t going to be poking your nose in where it doesn’t belong?”

  “No.” I smiled and shook my head.

  “Good, because you’re already keeping bad company.” She indicated Fielding.

  “Hey, come on Beverley, that’s not fair.”

  “He was just telling me you had a soft spot for him.”

  She flushed and turned the glare on Fielding. “Oh, was he? I don’t want to find either of you interfering in our inquiry.” With which she strode off.

  Fielding waved a finger at me and then ran after her. “Hey, Bev – Beverley – I need a lift. Come on…”