Deadly Odds

by Jean Chapman

‘The son’s further down the lane looking for his father. He told him to go that way before he drove their …’ He indicated the farrier’s van. ‘… which has gas cylinders in it, further from the fire.’

  ‘But nearer the other houses,’ the chief said, ‘we must get it moved.’ He glanced to where his men were working on the fiercest seat of the fire, great flames licked over the collapsed stonework, making it all look like a blaze in a gigantic hearth.

  ‘Go inside, to the backs of your properties,’ the fire chief shouted, ‘and keep away from windows, there’s a danger of more explosions.’

  ‘There’s someone coming,’ Betterson said.

  ‘It’s the son,’ Cannon confirmed.

  ‘He’s found something,’ Liz said, ‘he’s carrying something.’

  Charlie Brown came hurrying toward them, distressed, shaking his head.

  ‘I’ve found …’ He held a small tin chest, an ancient thing about the size of a footstool. ‘It‘s all the old family photographs – and things – so Dad did go back inside.’

  ‘He obviously got out again,’ Betterson commented.

  ‘Yes, but where is he now?’ Charlie asked distractedly. ‘This was in the grass near a tree stump, it’s a wonder I saw it at all – and I’ve called and called.’

  So had Joe Brown gone back inside again? If not, where was he?

  The firemen could do little now but damp down the remaining upright section of the cottage, while others concentrated their water jets onto the fallen roof and floor timbers as they kept reigniting, fuelled by the heat of the fallen stonework.

  The fire chief came to speak to Charlie. ‘Was this some kind of accident with your furnace?’ he asked.

  ‘No,’ Charlie immediately denied, ‘we’d nothing set up here. Our gas canisters were all in our mobile farrier’s van.’

  ‘Cook by Calor Gas?’ the fire chief asked.

  ‘No, electricity,’ Charlie answered.

  ‘We’re finding pieces of red gas canisters all over the place, like bomb fragments, shrapnel you could say?’ the fire chief added, as if posing a question.

  ‘Never known that,’ Charlie said, ‘they can go off like a rocket but usually just split in two.’

  They all instinctively stepped back as yet another outburst of flames shot burning embers high above them.

  ‘Get that van further away,’ Betterson was urging Charlie, as a police car swept into view.

  ‘I requested a dog unit,’ the DI said sharply as a uniformed sergeant and a constable came to join him.

  ‘It’s following us, sir,’ the sergeant said. ‘If there’s something of the missing persons for the dog to scent as soon as it arrives, that will save time.’

  ‘There’s one of Dad’s coats in the van,’ Charlie called, ‘I’ll bring it.’

  The dog handler arrived almost immediately and the coat was presented to a brown and white springer spaniel. The next minutes were tense as the spaniel sniffed the check worsted jacket, tail wagging all the time.

  ‘Find!’ the handler said. ‘Good boy, find.’

  The little group were all surprised as instead of heading down the lane, as they expected, the dog went immediately towards the rear of the cottage, pulling towards the extensive outbuildings.

  ‘Shall we follow?’ the uniformed sergeant asked.

  ‘No, we’ve men there already and Mr Brown told his father, who’s in his seventies, to go further along the lane, out of harm’s way,’ the fire chief decided. ‘We need to make sure he’s not fallen somewhere.’

  ‘I could show them where I found the box,’ Charlie was saying, but before he could set off, one of the firemen came briefly from the rear of the cottage.

  ‘Sir!’ he called. ‘The dog seems to have found something.’

  Primed for the search by Joe Brown’s jacket, the brown and white spaniel stood, nose down, intent on a sizable pile of fallen smouldering stone under a still standing two metres of cottage wall.

  ‘If he’s under that lot …’ the chief began, but Charlie was already there, lifting and hurling the debris away.

  The dog handler was pulled in closer by the spaniel.

  ‘If someone’s cowered down behind that wall, it’s just possible they could …’ Betterson said.

  ‘My men have gloves,’ the chief tried to tell Charlie.

  In seconds, two firemen were at work, debris was moved faster and with a kind of ordered routine, they were a team, neither man hindered the other – only Charlie was in their way sometimes, but no one tried to stop him. He was strong and determined, but as the dog gave voice, he became rash, desperate.

  Then Cannon glimpsed a boot … Charlie also saw and gave a cry like an injured animal – became reckless, twice as strong, as he tossed the hot stones aside. Both firemen instinctively made a grab for him, hampered rather than stopped him, but both yelled at him.

  ‘Leave it to us, mate,’ one said and as Charlie pushed him aside, the other yelled.

  ‘Look, man! Look.’

  Cannon realized what they had immediately seen, there was a chance that the remaining wall would fall if Charlie continued the way he was going.

  For just a second, Cannon thought Charlie would shrug the men off, but the chief stepped in, put his hand on Charlie’s shoulder and said, ‘Work all together from this end, men, and everyone else stand back.’

  The work went with greater care, but just as speedily.

  The elderly man was finally uncovered. He lay close in at the bottom of the still standing wall. The fire chief was first to him, but after a few seconds he turned, shook his head.

  Charlie fell to his knees beside his father, lowered his head, a man in mourning, motionless, and as timeless as a blackened church effigy. The others stood, heads instinctively bowed and held the stricken silence with him.

  ‘He didn’t deserve this,’ Charlie said at last, his voice breaking.

  During the whole of his police career, Cannon had never been sure whether it was more upsetting seeing a strong man cry, or a young mother over a child. He had found any accidental death deeply distressing, but now as ever there were others to look after.

  After a few moments he looked to Betterson, who nodded his approval as Cannon moved to encourage Charlie to his feet. He finally rose, but awkwardly, not using his hands to assist himself. Cannon saw how even the farrier’s calloused hands were blistered and bleeding. He walked him away towards the ambulance which had joined the row of vehicles.

  ‘My father, I …’ Charlie said.

  Cannon raised a hand to a medic and indicated the farrier’s hands.

  ‘My dad …’ Charlie began again.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ the medic said, ‘we’ll be waiting. Climb in and I’ll just put something on those hands.’

  Cannon stood and watched him aboard, aware that behind them a police photographer was taking pictures of the body, and that Charlie Brown had come to a very, very, difficult time in his life, trouble and loss doubling up.

  Sitting on one of beds in the ambulance, Charlie looked at him and said, ‘I’ve lost everything.’

  ‘I’ll go in with him, Liz,’ Cannon said.

  ‘I’ll follow in the car,’ she answered.

  CHAPTER 9

  ‘There was nothing we could do,’ the doctor said quietly, ‘nothing anyone could do.’ He put his hands on Charlie Brown’s shoulder. ‘Come now and let me dress those burns properly.’

  Charlie shook his head as if nothing mattered to him any more.

  A Sister in light grey uniform came to the doctor’s side. ‘You’ll be able to see your father again, make a proper goodbye,’ her Irish accent soft as she put a hand under his elbow. Her gentle patient attention succeeded and Charlie rose and went with her.

  ‘We’ll wait for you,’ Cannon called after him.

  ‘So what do you think?’ Liz asked as they sat together in an annex of the crowded A & E department.

  ‘He must have gone back for that box, put it somewhere safe awa
y from the fire,’ Cannon said, ‘and then I wonder if he saw something, or someone, that made him investigate around the back of the cottage.’

  ‘That’s not what I meant,’ Liz said, ‘or who I meant. I’m talking about Charlie, the man we’re waiting for. He’s not going to be admitted because they just won’t have the beds, not for someone who’s on his feet. I think we should take him back with us, give him time to sort himself out and for his hands, time to heal.’

  ‘And we have Alamat and Bozena to help …’

  ‘And each other,’ Liz added quietly, ‘and he has no one.’

  ‘That’s the most important,’ he answered the intimacy just as quietly. Then his phone vibrated. ‘I’ll just go outside and answer this,’ he said, taking it from his pocket.

  Once outside the A & E entrance, he stood to one side and saw that it was Betterson calling.

  ‘What’s happening?’ the DI asked.

  Told that they were waiting for Charlie Brown, and that it was likely they would be taking him back to The Trap for care, he asked, ‘Does he understand the position as regards his father?’

  ‘He understands that the exact cause of death will have to be established.’

  ‘Nothing’s going to be quick,’ Betterson confirmed, ‘too many complications in this case for that. So you’re willing to take on his care?’

  ‘It seems there’s no one else,’ Cannon said. ‘Charlie Brown now has no living relative in the world.’

  ‘That’s damn sad,’ Betterson muttered.

  ‘On the care front we’ve got Alamat and Bozena. I’ll speak to them—’

  ‘I saw them when I went back for my car,’ Betterson interrupted. ‘The message is don’t worry, they will look after everything.’

  ‘I know they will,’ Cannon said.

  ‘I hope to be in your area tomorrow,’ Betterson said.

  Cannon glanced at the time as the call ended, it was already past four o’clock, no wonder he felt drained and ravenous. On the way back inside, he bought two ham rolls and coffees from the volunteer helpers’ stall, went back to share them with Liz.

  ‘We’ll just get Charlie back to The Trap as soon as we can,’ Liz said, ‘then I’ll put him, and you, to bed. Things’ll look … well … let’s say we’ll deal better when we’re not so exhausted.’

  Hands mummified with pristine bandages, Charlie was discharged into their care, along with a prescription for painkillers and a sedative, to be collected from the hospital’s dispensary. It took an age.

  Charlie sat between them, a man tense with anger – the frustrated anger of total bereavement, a second person he loved snatched from him. Sometimes the farrier stared down at the floor, then he’d look up, glowering into the distance, sometimes shaking his head, as he went over and over every moment, every incident, of that day. He seemed quite unaware of who was with him, or all the comings and goings around him.

  He made no comment as they left the hospital, but once they reached The Trap, Charlie made one request. ‘I must speak to Alan Hoskins as soon as he comes.’

  ‘Ah! No,’ Alamat reported, ‘we have phone call, he does not come tonight.’

  Cannon immediately thought of Paul, hoped he had not had any kind of relapse. Charlie’s response was more dramatic. He slumped forward over the bar and began beating the heels of his bandaged hands on the counter.

  ‘No, no,’ Liz pleaded, putting her arm around him, ‘that will not help. If it means so much to you I’ll take you in my car, now.’

  He looked at her for a moment, thought about it, then shook his head. ‘No,’ he decided, ‘it can wait.’

  ‘You sure?’

  Cannon was curious, more to this than met the eye, he thought, but said, ‘He needs his bed.’

  ‘The apartment next to us is all ready,’ Bozena said, ‘he could sleep there, I can look after, while you look to your man. Never have I seen him so tired, so old!’

  ‘Thanks!’ Cannon said, but the word was taken as sanction to the suggestion, and, one either side of the stricken farrier, the Croatian couple began to escort Charlie to his bed. He made them pause, turning to say, ‘I must pay.’

  ‘There’s no need …’ Liz began.

  ‘I’d feel better to,’ Charlie said.

  ‘We’ll see,’ Cannon said, ‘but not now.’

  ‘What heaven did those two come from?’ she asked later, when Alamat was back in the bar and Bozena looking after Charlie, and she and Cannon were upstairs in their private quarters.

  ‘It wasn’t any heaven they ran from when they left their own country,’ Cannon said matter-of-factly, but fell gratefully into his own bed.

  The next morning was not to bring the clearer view of things Liz had hoped for. She woke at the usual time, and slipping from the bed so as not to wake John, heard an urgent whispered debate going on downstairs.

  ‘We should tell them now,’ she heard Bozena raise her voice a little to say.

  She hurried down and confronted the pair who looked like conspirators when they saw her.

  ‘Mr Charlie,’ Alamat said, ‘is gone, and …’

  ‘He did not take his sleeping tablet, I find …’ Bozena’s fists were clasped tight to her cheeks. ‘We are not good nurses!’

  ‘Gone!’ Liz exclaimed loudly and the next moment, Cannon was by her side.

  ‘What’s this?’ he asked.

  He listened to the brief facts and asked if Charlie had said anything before they left him to sleep. They shook their heads.

  ‘He was upset not to see Mr Hoskins last night. He looked very …’ Alamat thought, then produced one of the English sayings he was always practising, ‘… down in the mouth.’

  ‘That’ll be where he’s gone,’ Cannon declared.

  ‘But how would he get there?’ Liz asked.

  ‘Walk,’ Cannon said, ‘no great distance …’

  ‘In the dark, and after the day he’d had?’

  ‘He’s an angry man,’ Cannon said adding meaningfully, ‘and it depends what he has on his mind.’

  ‘Must have been something very important then,’ Liz commented.

  ‘Yes,’ Cannon agreed. ‘I’ll get dressed and go over there.’

  Ten minutes later, with half a cup of coffee drunk as he dressed and a packet of crisps snatched from the bar, he was on his way; another ten minutes saw him drawing up outside the cottage.

  Hoskins came out to meet him. ‘I thought you’d turn up,’ he said.

  ‘Charlie Brown?’ Cannon said.

  ‘Well…’ Hoskins began, ‘he was ’ere …’

  ‘So where is he now?’ Cannon asked sharply. ‘He’s in no condition to be wandering about.’

  ‘You’d best come in,’ Hoskins said, and led the way through his hall into the kitchen.

  ‘It started with this,’ he said and indicated the small tin chest Cannon last remembered seeing in Charlie Brown’s hands.

  ‘You’ve been back for that during the night,’ Cannon guessed.

  ‘Yes,’ Hoskins said with a shrug, ‘Charlie was worried about the money.’

  ‘Money?’ Cannon appraised the tin box with new eyes.

  ‘Under the photos and old papers,’ Hoskins confirmed, ‘a lot of money. He said he stuffed the box out of sight in a gulley when the police arrived. He was anxious to know it was still there.’

  Cannon raised his eyebrows. Cash from doing odd jobs, and perhaps not declared for tax purposes, he imagined. ‘So you went and recovered it.’

  ‘He told me exactly where it was, I took a sack and some rope, tied it to the bike, it wasn’t a problem.’

  He shook his head gently as he appraised the old poacher; no, he thought, to Hoskins it wouldn’t be.

  ‘And he needed this money to move on,’ Hoskins added.

  ‘Move on? What do you mean, move on?’ Cannon’s senses suddenly seemed to range beyond the kitchen. It was all too quiet – it felt empty.

  ‘They both left a while ago …’ Hoskins began.

  �
��Left!’ Cannon exclaimed. ‘Both left! What do you mean? Not Paul …’

  ‘He wouldn’t let Charlie go on his own, said he must see him safely on his way. I couldn’t keep them prisoners,’ Hoskins said defensively. ‘Paul promised to be back before anyone knew.’

  ‘Where did they go?’ Cannon demanded, his promises to keep Paul out of sight broken, and the possible consequences for Austin – deadly.

  Hoskins shook his head. ‘The two of them must have had a real heart-to-heart while I went to recover Charlie’s box, they were like long-standing buddies when I got back.’

  ‘But they had no car, no van, how did they go?’ Cannon demanded.

  ‘I put Charlie on the early bus to Boston,’ a voice said from the doorway.

  For a moment Cannon did not recognize Paul. The casually elegant man had disappeared under one of Hoskins’s old stained macs and a faded multi-coloured woolly hat. A wave of anger and relief left him speechless for a moment.

  ‘Why Boston?’ Hoskins got in with the first question.

  ‘He has a friend there, retired, on his own, who he says will drive him wherever he wants to go. He mentioned the Grangers. He kept asking what happened to me,’ Paul went on. ‘In the end I told him everything. All I’d seen at the stables – those buckets full of syringes. He didn’t seem surprised, even put names to some of the drugs they would probably be using, and mixing: dermorphin, ketamine, dimethyl …’

  ‘They call it DMT,’ Cannon said, ‘been used on the racing circuits for years.’

  ‘Charlie said Tilly Anders had told him about the drugs. She also believed Spracks was heavily into buying and selling them,’ he paused, ‘made me rethink some of the remarks I heard in those stables. The men were talking about “big trouble” coming. They said they were glad they were not “over there”, and when one mentioned a man they called “The Harvester”, they all went quiet.’

  ‘There was a Mafia gang leader called “The Poleaxe” because he disposed of everyone who stood in his path,’ Hoskins supplied.

  ‘He died in prison,’ Cannon added.

  ‘And that’s where Spracks ought to be,’ Hoskins said vehemently. ‘Charlie says he’ll be behind all the trouble the Grangers are having.’