by Bill Kitson
Barry nodded. ‘If you’ve been wandering about outside, it explains why Nell’s been so restless.’
‘Have you been nicking food out of the fridge-freezer in the outhouse as well?’ Shirley demanded.
‘Guilty, but I was only borrowing it. I needed milk most of all. It was too far to go to the Manor sometimes. Most of it I can replace now I can get to my cottage. Now that you’ve scared off the watchers, for the time being at least. But I suspect they’ll be back?’ He looked to Lisa for confirmation. She nodded.
They were interrupted when the mobile in Lisa’s pocket rang. She answered, listened for a while, before saying, ‘Yes, but not all of it. I’ll call you back, shall I? I think he might do.’
She ended the call. ‘That was Inspector Nash. He wanted to tell me he’s had a phone call from York CID. They confirmed the blood on the boiler suit in Brown’s flat is that of Councillor Jeffries. What he wants to know is, have you managed to get any information from Brown, mainly, do you know who’s paying him?’
Marshall gasped. ‘How did he know all that? Did Sir Maurice give me away?’
Lisa shook her head. ‘He worked it out. Worked out you must have Brown. Worked out where you’d run to, worked out Sir Maurice must know, rang him and got confirmation. Worked out that there’s only one reason you’d bury yourself away with the man who was paid to kill your wife, and that reason was, to get information. He wanted to know whether you’ve succeeded.’
‘Blimey!’ Barry exclaimed, ‘That’s close to genius.’ He frowned. ‘But if he’s as clever as all that, what about that phone call? Surely, if you’re under surveillance, your mobile will be compromised?’
Lisa nodded. ‘It might well be.’ She held up the phone. ‘But this is a cheap pay-as-you-go mobile Jack Binns got for me, not mine.’
chapter nineteen
Lisa took the opportunity to explain what was happening. ‘Mike Nash set up the spoof suspension. Superintendent Edwards and the chief constable both know all about it, and they know we can prove your innocence, not only of your wife’s murder, but the others too. Mike did it so that the people who hired Brown will be fooled into thinking we’re still chasing you. I’ve got copies of the papers they found in Brown’s flat. He wants you to look through the press cuttings, see if you can spot anything relevant, any names that might ring a bell. He said the likeliest source of information regarding a motive is you.’
‘That’s more or less what Moran said in his letter,’ Marshall agreed. ‘Though what it was remains a mystery to me. Anyway, let’s have a look. I’ve seen them before, but I only got a cursory look. I saw the clipping about Moran, and Anna’s report. But we might glean something more. I’ve been too concerned with babysitting Brown to give any thought to much else.’
Barry looked puzzled. ‘How have you seen these papers?’
‘I had a day out to York and tried another of my new skills. I’m not very good at burglary though. I got into Brown’s flat, but the police arrived. Luckily, I’d locked the outer door behind me when I went in but I was that spooked I ran like hell the minute they left.’
It was obvious from the papers that Brown had been in great demand. Lisa pulled two of them to one side. ‘Both these might be relevant.’
‘What have you got?’ Marshall asked. He leaned over to study the cuttings. ‘This isn’t a murder. It’s about a road accident.’ Marshall picked up the paper. It was dated eighteen years earlier. It reported the death of a local councillor, killed in a head-on collision with a truck on the Leeds ring road. The inquest recorded accidental death after a police mechanic gave evidence that the politician’s car had a fault on the steering. ‘I’m sorry. I fail to see the significance.’
‘Any report in Brown’s cuttings indicates it was probably foul play. Look at the responsibilities the councillor had,’ Lisa prompted.
Marshall read that section of the cutting again. ‘He was chairman of the planning committee.’
‘Exactly!’ Lisa reached across the table and plucked another cutting from the pile. ‘Councillor Jeffries became chairman of the planning committee straight after the previous chairman was killed in a road accident. I don’t think that’s a coincidence, do you?’
‘It certainly seems suspicious.’
‘Remember what Moran wrote about you knowing more than you realize. What if this is to do with your work rather than Anna’s? Or, a combination of the two perhaps? Remember the victims, a solicitor plus his assistant, and two members of a planning committee. What does that suggest?’
‘The construction industry.’
‘Exactly!’ Lisa repeated again triumphantly. She paused. ‘What was the name of the firm you worked for?’
‘Broadwood Construction.’
She pulled another cutting from the pile. ‘Read this.’
Marshall read the report aloud. ‘“Officials from the Health and Safety Executive will today begin investigations into the death of Gary Watson, the Leeds construction worker who fell from the seventh floor of a building site two days ago. Watson’s employers, Broadwood Construction refused to comment ahead of the inquiry. Watson, a thirty-one-year-old married man, was found by colleagues when they arrived for work at the prestigious waterfront office development. It is believed he fell to his death whilst checking for damage following the recent gales”.’
‘That’s yet another connection. How many people has this butcher slaughtered?’
‘Do you mean Brown, or the man paying him?’ Barry asked.
‘Whoever it is, they won’t be short of money,’ Lisa said quietly.
Marshall looked at her enquiringly.
‘Ordering a hit isn’t exactly cheap,’ she told him. ‘I don’t know what the going rate is, but you can work it out from the bank statements. This guy’s paid for three within the last month, as if he was ordering a pizza to go.’
‘What now?’ Shirley asked when they finished examining the documents.
‘I’m going to have another word with Mr Brown. I’m going to get as much information from him as I can.’
‘How will you do that?’ Lisa asked.
‘When I was inside, one bloke in particular taught me a lot. That trick with the guy outside your flat was one. Getting information from someone was another. I’ve no experience, but I’m sure it will work.’
‘If you’re going to see Brown, mind if I tag along?’ Lisa asked.
‘I think it would be better if you stay here. It might be unpleasant. Very unpleasant. Certainly not for the squeamish.’
Marshall was looking at Lisa as he spoke, or rather, as she realized later, he was looking through her. The expression in his eyes made her shiver.
In the end, Barry volunteered to help. ‘I’ll tell you what we’re going to do,’ Marshall instructed him as they walked through the forest. ‘I’ve got a tape recorder; your job begins when I switch it on. I want you to recite names from that list I made from those press cuttings. Pick any at random. Just the name, the year and the method. Say that, and no more. Then wait until I give you the nod and do it again. OK, is that clear?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘Keep all emotion out of your voice.’
‘I’ll do my best.’
‘There’s one other thing you should know. It won’t be pleasant. It won’t look pleasant. It won’t sound pleasant and in all probability it won’t smell pleasant. If it gets to you remember one thing. That screaming, bleeding, shitting prisoner’s the same ruthless bastard who slit my wife’s throat. He did it for a few lousy quid. He’s the man who came to kill me. He’s the enemy. He put me in Durham gaol. He’s ruined most of my life. He’s taken away my career, my youth and my happiness. What’s more, if someone paid him, he’d do exactly the same to you. Get it?’
‘Got it.’
‘He doesn’t look happy, does he?’ Marshall pointed forward as they approached. Brown was standing on the points of his toes. His hands were roped over the branch of an oak tree and his ankles tied to the tru
nk. He was stark naked.
‘What’s the reasoning behind that?’
‘It humiliates him. It makes him cold and it stops him trying to get away. Even if he managed to escape from the ropes, he’d not make it far in bare feet. Not through the bramble, briar and thorn.’
Barry was mildly shocked. Not by Brown’s miserable state, but by Marshall’s obvious satisfaction. Then he remembered the roll of victims this man had slaughtered. And that one of them had been Marshall’s wife.
Brown wasn’t happy. He’d never been so unhappy. For the last week he’d survived imprisonment without problem, even though he’d been tied up and interrogated. The last twenty-four hours had been different. He’d been stripped naked, blindfolded, and humiliated. His misery was partly physical, mostly mental.
‘After we get what we want, I’m going to cut him free,’ Marshall said. ‘Otherwise we’re in danger of him losing his hands and feet.’
‘Cut him free? Won’t that be dangerous?’
‘He won’t be going anywhere. Are you ready?’
Marshall produced a tape recorder from his pocket. As they neared the prisoner, he picked up a bamboo cane that was lying close to the trussed man. Brown heard them approaching. At least he heard something, he wasn’t sure what. Then he heard the whistling, John Brown’s Body. He hated the whistling. Then he heard the voice. He hated the voice, even more than the whistling.
He not only hated the sound of the voice. He hated his surroundings. He hated his own wretched soiled state. He hated the man holding him captive, and he hated the man who’d paid him. The man who’d caused his torment.
‘Now, Mister Brown.’ Brown’s head came up with a jerk. ‘You’ve been very naughty, Mister Brown, very naughty indeed. And you’re a long way from home, aren’t you? What’s the matter? Don’t you like the countryside? Prefer your comfortable flat in York? I bet you wish you were back there, don’t you?’
On and on, the hated voice continued tormenting him until he could have screamed. Eventually he heard the man ask him a question. ‘So, Mister Brown, what do you have to say for yourself, you naughty, naughty man?’
Brown remained silent, a mistake. He heard a sharp swishing sound followed almost at once by an excruciating pain to his testicles. This time he did scream. The tears started to his eyes. He urinated, feeling the shame as the warm fluid trickled down his legs. ‘Speak when you’re spoken to. Those are the rules round here. Now, I’ll ask you once more. What do you have to say for yourself? Be careful how you answer, you know the penalty for giving the wrong answer.’
‘I’ve got nothing to say,’ Brown stated defiantly.
‘Wrong answer!’ Swish, pain, scream. ‘Try again. You don’t seem to be getting the hang of this speaking business. This is how it works. I ask you a question and you answer it. Do you understand?’
Silence. Swish, pain, scream. Silence.
Brown knew he couldn’t stand much more. There was a fierce, wrenching, constant pain from his stomach downwards. His genitals felt as if they were on fire. He was sure they were bleeding. Where was his tormentor? Brown listened. It was all he could do. Silence. Not a sound. He waited, wishing he could at least see. The silence seemed to go on and on. Had his captor gone away? Or was he there, waiting? Dreaming up some other way of inflicting pain?
‘It really is a shame you won’t cooperate.’ The tormentor hadn’t left. ‘That means you’ll be able to help me with a little experiment. You would like to help me, wouldn’t you, Mister Brown? I’m sure you would. Now what do you say?’
‘Go fuck yourself.’ Brown winced expecting the retaliation his words would provoke. Instead he heard his tormentor’s voice once more.
‘Now that wasn’t a nice thing to say. But at least you haven’t lost your voice. That’s good; because I’m sure you’re going to be using it in the very near future. However, to ensure you don’t frighten any of the wild animals round here …’ Brown felt a sharp prod to his solar plexus that drove the wind out of his lungs. As his mouth opened, a rough piece of cloth was thrust none too gently inside. ‘I’m going to gag you,’ the voice said.
‘Now, Mister Brown, this is your final chance to avoid a very unpleasant experience. All you have to do at any time is to nod your head twice. What could be simpler than that? As you can’t speak at the moment perhaps you would indicate by nodding your head?’ Brown remained stock still. ‘I said, nod. Like this.’ Brown’s hair was grabbed tightly and his head forcibly pulled backwards and forwards as his chin hit his chest. ‘Now do you understand?’ Brown nodded.
‘Good, now to business. Like I say, any time you want me to stop all you have to do is nod twice. If I see you, I’ll stop straight away. If not, you might have to keep nodding. I’m sure to see you in the end. Oh, I almost forgot. I was going to tell you what I’m going to do to you. Actually I’ll let you into a little secret. I don’t think it sounds very painful, not to a strong man like you. However, a friend of mine assures me it works every time. I’m told it’s the worst pain in the world. You’ll be able to tell me soon, won’t you? I’m going to take a knife. It’s nowhere near as sharp as yours, but it’ll have to do. Then I’m going to slice down the front of your leg. Right down to the shinbone. Then I’m going to pull the flesh away from the bone. Once the bone’s exposed I shall take the knife and scrape it along the bone. Now that’s the painful bit, or so I’m told. But you’ll be able to tell me yourself, won’t you, Mister Brown?
‘All you have to do to avoid this is to tell me what I want to know. Now doesn’t that sound simple? I can’t understand why you’re so shy. Tell me what I want to hear and you can avoid all that pain. I’m going to tell you what we want you to talk about, or rather, my colleague will.’
Marshall nodded to Barry, who cleared his throat and began to call the roll.
‘Simon Dale, October 1983, strangled.’ Brown heard the words with a shock. It was so long ago he could barely remember it. He waited. Silence. Followed by more silence.
‘James Edwards, February 1984, shot dead.’ Brown remembered that one only too well. He’d nearly been caught, and had been forced to lie low for a while.
‘Liam O’Grady, May 1984, throat slit.’ The list went on remorselessly, interspersed with the silence until Brown wasn’t certain which was worse. He wasn’t sure, but the silences seemed to be getting longer. He wasn’t to know that Marshall was carefully orchestrating the roll call. After what seemed an age he heard one final name. ‘Anna Marshall, November 1999, throat slit.’
Brown felt himself thrust violently against the trunk of the tree from which he was suspended. ‘That was my wife, Mister Brown.’ The voice hissed in his ear. ‘I’m sure you’re aware by now just how much trouble you’re in. I could slit your throat and bury you in these woods. Your body would never be found. I will do, too, unless you tell me what I need to know. So, why don’t you consider your options, whilst I go fetch my knife?’
Brown attempted to make one last defiant gesture by urinating on his tormentor. Unfortunately for him the gesture was as empty as his bladder.
Marshall released his captive from the tree and watched him crumple to the floor. Brambles were growing there and Brown felt every thorn in a thousand small pinpricks of pain. Then he felt his leg grasped. Then he felt the knife point against his skin. Then he felt the point scratching away at his skin. Then below the skin. The agony increased. The nerves shrieked protest to his brain as the tissues of his flesh separated. When the pain became intolerable he began to nod, and nod and nod and nod.
Half an hour later, Marshall walked away. Towards the end of Brown’s confession he’d heard what he needed to know. He’d heard the name of the man who paid Brown to murder Anna. He’d heard it, but did not believe it.
There was a council of war that evening at the Dickinsons’ cottage. The only item on the agenda was Brown’s confession. After the tape recording had been played several times everyone was convinced Brown had told all he knew. Everyone apart from Marshall.
‘Look, Alan,’ Barry insisted. ‘What Brown said was real. I was there, remember. Do you need to hear the tape again?’
Lisa shuddered. ‘Barry’s right, Alan. Why would Brown say it if it wasn’t true?’
‘Brown’s got no chance of escaping. Nobody’s coming to his rescue. What option has he but to tell the truth,’ Shirley backed her. ‘I know loyalty’s admirable, but don’t you think you’re carrying it too far?’
All three stared at him, willing him to admit the inevitable. ‘I’m sorry, but it’s not right. I hear what you say, but I don’t accept it.’
‘Why would Brown lie?’ Barry asked.
‘I’m not saying Brown’s lying.’
‘You are. You keep saying it, over and over. You’ve just said you don’t believe what Brown said was true.’
‘That’s not quite the same. You don’t get the point do you? Maybe he believed it, but that doesn’t mean it was true.’
‘I’m sorry, Alan, I don’t follow.’
‘OK. Try this. Lisa, tell everyone what happened after you took me to hospital.’
Lisa looked blank for a moment, whilst the others looked totally nonplussed. ‘I went back the following day and they told me the name I’d been given for you was wrong. What’s this got to do with Brown’s confession?’
‘I’d told everyone my name was Andrew Myers. I hadn’t been asked to prove it. Everyone accepted it. Don’t you see? That’s the weakness in Brown’s confession. Do you honestly believe whoever paid Brown would give their right name? Brown got his money, so he wouldn’t be bothered. He wouldn’t care if the bloke said his name was Mickey Mouse. If the cheques had bounced he’d have been a whole lot keener. Failing that, Brown’s not going to worry who paid him.’
‘That’s all very well, but you keep saying you don’t believe this man Harry’s the culprit. The evidence still points to him. Brown named him and you haven’t offered an alternative,’ Barry insisted.
