by Oliver Tidy
He was hit again by another pang of incredulity at the death of Tallis. It served to increase and focus his rage on those responsible. He ran his hand across his cheek to feel the swelling of his kicked face. Exploring his mouth with his tongue, he felt the gap where the molar had been dislodged. He knew he would torture this man when he caught him, suppressed him. There would be no easy simple death for him. No gentleman’s version of any conflict’s conventions. Out here in the middle of nowhere, he would do what he had to do for information. There would be no rules of engagement, no pity for the man, who would not leave the forest alive.
Perhaps five dragging minutes had elapsed before Sansom realised that something was making its laboured way towards him. The noise of the disturbance of the forest floor increased at the approach. Sansom readied himself, again putting himself behind a mature trunk. This time he was standing. As the man came near, Sansom fell on him. The breath burst out of the man in one grunt. There was the briefest struggle before Sansom had his pistol jammed into the other’s neck. It was evident from the pathetic resistance the man had put up that he was weak. Sansom searched him, feeling for his weapon, but he must have lost it.
‘You fucker.’ It was Osman.
‘Where are you hit?’
‘Guts.’
Sansom stuck the muzzle of his weapon into the nape of the other’s neck as he knelt astride him. ‘Why?’ said Sansom. ‘Why kill him?’
‘Don’t be stupid,’ managed Osman, through gritted teeth. ‘Loose ends.’
‘Whose orders?’ said Sansom, fighting his urge to smash the man’s skull with the butt of the pistol for such a pathetic reason.
‘Fuck you.’
‘You can still live,’ said Sansom. ‘Tell me who sanctioned this. I’ll get you back to the car and a hospital. My word on it. You don’t have to die for them.’
Sansom waited perhaps twenty seconds for a reply before he realised that Osman was dead. He felt his neck and found it devoid of pulse. He rolled off him, on to his back. He lay in the darkness on the forest floor next to the dead man, his face to the heavens, and let the rain mix with his tears for the death of DI Tallis.
***
6
The grey light of the new day crept up warily. The rain had ceased some hours before, having done its job of turning everything into a mire. Sansom was thankful for the temperature of the season at least. He was still cold from his soaking and exposure but his paced labours had kept his circulation moving, kept him warm. With the rest after his activity, he was now aware of how tired, cold, hungry, filthy and aching he was.
He couldn’t have left while it was still dark. He had sat in the car waiting for daylight, dozing fitfully in the heat of the fan, but it had been an uncomfortable, troubled and unsatisfying experience.
The batteries of both torches had faded before he had finished his responsibilities – cleared up the mess, disposed of the detritus from the previous evening, as every good citizen following the Country Code should. His rubbish, however, he couldn’t take home with him. His rubbish had to be buried.
He hauled himself out of the car, able now, in the growing daylight, to get some idea of his general physical surroundings. It was all nature in one form or another.
He re-trod the track he had been forced along the previous night, following his trail back to the shallow grave of Sharp and Osman. He took some dark satisfaction from the knowledge that neither would get a decent burial with any form of ceremony or recognition. There they lay, entombed and embracing, rotting and decomposing into each other. They deserved the ignominy of it if only for the unnecessary and unforgivable murder of his friend. As he had dug their grave, Sansom had wondered what other horrors they had committed with the same ease; how many other lives they had ended in such callous style.
While the artificial light had lasted, he had set about finishing the grave that Osman had started him on. Evidence of what had happened here had to be hidden. One couldn’t go anywhere in England without sooner or later bumping into another human, often someone out with their dog. To have left these two lying where he had killed them would only compound his problems when some Sunday rambler stumbled upon them.
He had removed what clothing of theirs he felt he could make use of for when he had finished the filthy job of grave-digging. They had no need of anything any more. He wore it now. Still damp, ill-fitting, but better than his own and not covered with the blood of his friend. The only other things he had retained were Sharp’s pistol, cash from the men’s wallets, the SIM cards from their phones and the car keys. He hadn’t been able to locate Osman’s pistol in the darkness. It was part of the reason he had waited for light. The mobile phone that he had taken from the services as well as both Osman’s and Sharp’s he had smashed and sent in with the dead men. He didn’t want technology being used to find them or him. As well as finding Osman’s pistol, he also needed to satisfy himself over the grave’s concealment. What might have looked good enough in semi-darkness might not look so good in daylight.
He spent time making aesthetic adjustments – a little levelling, spreading of fallen foliage – and in the gathering light went in his final search for the second weapon. He found it near a patch of bloodied ground.
Satisfied that he had done all he could to return the place to what it had been before they had arrived, he traipsed back to the car. He wiped off the pistol, hid it with the other, cleaned his shoes and drove away without a backward glance, back down the track that had brought him to this killing ground.
He had some idea of where he was, despite having journeyed unconscious in the boot of the car. A motorist’s atlas of Britain had been left open on a page and thrown on to the rear seat. Clearly, the men, when faced with having to dispose of his body, had needed to find somewhere remote enough not to risk being disturbed.
He left the track to join a minor road and headed in the direction of the rising sun. If, as he believed, he was somewhere in the New Forest, that direction would take him roughly in the direction of London.
Signposts detailing obscure little villages, names that he recognised, staggered the way. A B-road led to an A-road. The A-road eventually led him to a motorway. He had no qualms about using the car. He doubted that any law enforcement agencies would be looking for it and, like so many other decisions he found himself making, he had little choice.
The thought occurred briefly to him that he could hand himself in to the authorities but it had gone too far for that. With Tallis alive he might have had a chance of explaining the events surrounding his return, of getting a fair hearing, of being believed. But Tallis was dead and Sansom was in no doubt that Osman and Sharp would have left evidence at the scene incriminating him in Tallis’s murder – probably forced the gun that ended his life into Sansom’s unconscious grip and dropped it conveniently by the body – so he had little expectation of being anything other than guilty until proven innocent. And with the way arrangements had gone for him thus far, he also had no hesitation believing that those who wanted him removed would have little trouble finding some way of getting to him and snuffing out him and his testimonies. Besides all that, how would he explain the bodies of Osman and Sharp buried in a shallow grave? Who would seriously believe his tale? There was no one that he could turn to or rely on. No, he understood that once again he was in a situation where his liberty was essential to fulfil his new purpose.
Eda would plead with him to quit, go to ground, seek refuge somewhere, wait for the manhunt that would already, doubtless, be well established to ease off in its intensity, and then find a way to get out of the country. She would urge him to make his way back to her, however he could and whatever it took.
Tallis had tried similar persuasion in Bodrum to divert the soldier from his course of revenge and Sansom had ignored him. Sansom had got the justice that he had sought there. The men directly responsible for the deaths of his wife and child had paid the only price Sansom had been willing to accept – their lives. Even now, that
felt good. There was no guilt or regret, just satisfaction and an element of closure.
Now, he would settle for nothing less for Tallis, whether the old man would approve or not. Besides, there was still more than a little self-interest for him. Those who had perished in Bodrum for their involvement in the deaths of his family had also implicated in the deaths of his wife and daughter those who had sponsored and sent him as an avenging angel from England.
Sansom was sickened by them all. He also had his own long-term future to reconcile. Part of his reason for coming back to the UK was to clear his name, put the record straight. That need hadn’t gone away, only the means by which he planned to achieve it.
As he drove, he considered the practicalities of his situation. He needed food and fuel. He needed shelter. He would need money, a phone, clean transport and clothes. He had no choice: he had to contact Gerald. There was no one else.
Unwilling to risk another services, he used the map to navigate his way to a small settlement off the motorway. There he found a petrol station and, covering himself up as best he could with sunglasses found in the glove compartment and the collar of his borrowed coat, he refuelled the car, grabbed some sandwiches, bottles of water, paid and left.
Driving through the village, he saw a group of youths idling in the square. He stopped the car with an idea, got out and approached them. ‘Any of you lot got a phone?’ He sensed the open hostility of a comfortable majority on their own turf to an outnumbered outsider, a stranger.
‘What’s it to you?’ said a big lad, turning to face him.
Sansom held up a twenty pound note. ‘Mine’s on the blink. I need to make a call, quickly.’
There was a drawn out moment of silence as the gang contemplated the offer.
A short, confident girl Sansom guessed to be about twelve stepped forward. ‘You can use mine,’ she said. ‘But don’t think I’m gonna let you touch me or nufink.’ The boys broke into laughter and Sansom had to smile at her bravery and wit.
‘I’m only interested in the phone,’ he said. ‘Not all grown-ups are perverts.’
She half-smiled, amused. She held out her hand for the money and Sansom gave it to her. Taking the offered phone, he dialled the number imprinted on his memory from years of calling. The voice that eventually answered was not his father-in-law’s. He checked that he had the right number. He did. He enquired after the gentleman whose number he believed he had dialled. He was informed that Gerald had died some weeks ago, a result, apparently, of falling down stairs. The woman at the end of the line offered her condolences and asked if he was family. Sansom thanked her and hung up. He handed the phone back to the girl.
‘Bad news?’ she asked. She had stood guarding her property and listening to the conversation that Sansom had seen no reason to hide from her.
He believed immediately that Gerald’s death had been no domestic accident. For the second time in twelve hours a horrible sadness welled up inside him. He was responsible for Gerald’s death, as responsible as if he’d pushed him down the stairs himself.
His eyes filled with tears. ‘Yeah,’ he said and his voice caught in his dry throat.
‘Shit. Sorry,’ said the girl, and she seemed it.
Sansom tried to smile at her for her simple sympathy. ‘Thanks.’
‘Here,’ she said, offering up the money. ‘I don’t want this. Call didn’t cost fifty pence.’
‘Keep it,’ he said. He turned to leave. Then another thought struck him and he turned back. ‘Can that phone make international calls?’
‘S’pose so,’ she said. ‘Never tried. Don’t know anyone abroad, do I?’
Sansom fished in his pocket and brought out another twenty. ‘Mind if I try?’
She looked at him though narrowed eyes. ‘You sure you’re not a pervert just building up to it?’
‘Positive.’
After a moment’s hesitation, she said, ‘Make the call. We’ll see how much it costs after. That do you?’
‘Fine. Thanks.’
He pulled out the crumpled and damp piece of paper with Eda’s numbers on it, dialled and waited.
She answered almost immediately, ‘Acer?’
He could hear clearly the anxiety in her voice. ‘Eda.‘
She cut across him, ‘God, Acer. What the hell is going on?’ I’ve seen the news. Stan Tallis is dead. They say you did it.’
‘I was there. I didn’t do it.’
‘I know that.’ She sounded almost angry at him.
Sansom held up his finger to the girl signalling that he needed a little privacy. He turned and walked a yard, covered the mouthpiece with his hand and said, ‘Listen, Eda, I’m calling to let you know that I’m alive and free – for now. But I’ve got nothing, no one. I don’t know what to do. If I hand myself in, I think they’ll find a way to kill me.’
‘Right, listen to me. I’m going to tell you somewhere safe that you can go. I’ll arrange it, you just get there. Do you understand?’ Her forcefulness was magnificent. ‘You remember I told you about my father’s brother in London?’
‘Yes.’
‘Can you get to London?’
‘Yes.’
She dictated the simple address to him and made him repeat it back to her.
‘These people are powerful, resourceful and they are murderers, Eda. You have to take care. Stay out of sight until this is over. Don’t use credit cards or ATMs and you must get rid of your phone. It might not be safe any more. It’s a way they could find you. Promise me you’ll ditch it.’
‘But how will you find me if you need me?’
‘Through the number you gave me for your paper. Are there people there you can trust?’
‘Yes.’
‘Remember the name, Daniel Fallon?’
‘Of course.’
‘When I can, I’ll be in touch.’
They said their emotional goodbyes, neither acknowledging to the other the possibility that it could be the last time they spoke to each other.
Sansom handed the phone back to the girl and waited while she discovered what the call had cost. It didn’t make the twenty pounds that she already had, but Sansom forced another similar note on her anyway, thanked her and left.
Mentally shored up, he made the decision to navigate the rest of his trip off the motorway. Driving across country would put time on his journey but balanced against the now-pressing thought that the motorway was too easy to police it made more sense. The fact that Eda had seen the news in Turkey and the implications of that for him gave him grave concern to vie with his miserable thoughts.
*
In the bowels of a highly-secure government building in a three-digit-numbered, windowless room, a security-cleared telephone operator made a call to the gentleman she was to report to the moment anyone called the number Sansom had dialled for his father-in-law. The conversation was brief. Yes, the story had been relayed. No, the man chose not to prolong the conversation. Yes, she had the number he had called on. No, it was not the same number he had used before. Yes, she would have the registered keeper of the phone identified and relayed to him immediately.
*
Forty minutes later a large, dark family saloon car pulled up in the same village square that Sansom had stopped in. The gang of youths were still there in various states of repose. Empty chip cones and chocolate bar wrappers littered the area around them and most of them were sucking on ice lollies. As one, they eyed the two serious, suited men who got out of the vehicle and walked towards them.
‘Which one of you lot is Lucy Mead?’
Most of the group looked straight at the girl whose phone Sansom had used. With little choice, she stood up.
‘I am.’
‘We need to talk to you.’
‘Who are you?’
‘Police. Come here.’
Behind her, the youths fidgeted. Lucy stood her ground.
‘You don’t look like police. Show me ID first.’
The men shared a laugh at her br
avado.
‘You after the other bloke?’ said the big lad, sensing a chance to earn some money.
The two men switched their attention to him.
‘Which bloke?’ said one of them. ‘Describe him.’
The boy gave a good enough description of Sansom to convince the two men that he had been there. They knew how long ago. Now they needed to know where he went.
The big lad walked over to them. ‘Where’s my money then?’
‘What money?’ said the talker.
‘What I just told you. It’s gotta be worth twenty, ain’t it?’
The men laughed harder this time.
‘Listen, fatty,’ said the talker, ‘you want money for information, ask for it first. That lesson’s free. Now, where did he go?’
‘Fuck you,’ said the fat boy, wounded deeply by the double insult.
He turned around and walked back to the bench. The talker made to go after him. Lucy sensed evil in these men. She liked Troy even though he could be such an idiot sometimes.
‘I know where he went,’ she said.
The talker stopped and looked at her, all attention for the fat boy gone. ‘Where?’
‘Now, that information has got to be worth twenty quid, don’t you think?’ she said. ‘The tight git only gave me a fiver to use my phone.’
The man smiled without warmth at her, reached into his wallet and brought out a twenty pound note. She took it from him.
‘He asked us the quickest way to Portsmouth, didn’t he?’ She turned to the rest of her group. There were mumblings of agreement as the brighter caught her lie.
‘And what did you tell him?’ said the man.
‘Mister,’ she said, meeting his stare, ‘I’m thirteen years old. How the fuck would I know how to get to Portsmouth?’
He nodded appreciatively at her logic. ‘Any of you lot see what car he was driving?’ said the talker.
