by Jean Chapman
Lucas gave a gasp of relief and satisfaction as he hurried towards it, but as he reached the driver’s door, Cannon heard him say, ‘Oh, I thought it would be the boss.’
‘He’s just been called back, not been gone long; with folk arriving he felt he must be there to see. We brought a message from Miss Jane and took his place,’ the driver told them.
‘He didn’t want to go, Lucas knows what he’s like, and he was darned anxious about you two,’ the other said, peering out from the lit interior. ‘Are you OK? You look a bit rough as far as I can see.’
‘We’re not hurt if that’s what you mean,’ Lucas said.
‘We’ll waste no time getting you back, put the old fella’s mind at rest.’
‘Old fella!’ the driver repeated as he put the engine in gear. ‘You wouldn’t say that to his face.’
Unsure how much these men knew about Jonathan, Cannon thought it best not to ask questions. It might trigger a whole lot of awkward questions from them; wisest all round to say nothing.
The house looked lit from end to end and before they had stopped, he could see Jane in the porch doorway, waiting.
‘Jonathan?’ Cannon asked as he reached her.
‘Just in time, the doctor said, just in time, thanks to you.’ She held up her arms to him, and he stooped to kiss her cheek. ‘And are you all right? Both of you?’
‘We’ve covered a lot of ground,’ Lucas said, ‘but if Mr Jonathan is OK, then …’
‘He’ll be in hospital for a time, Babs and Charlie are staying with him for the time being. He needs his mum, Charlie says.’
‘Sure he’s right,’ Cannon agreed.
At that moment, Tom Beale came through from the lounge to the porch, lifting his arms in greeting and thanksgiving.
‘Ah! Thank God! You both all right?’ He too looked them up and down. ‘Sound?’ he asked, and reassured handshakes became back-slapping hugs as he exclaimed, ‘It’s a miracle how you got my grandson out! I owe you!’
‘He was meant to come to his home with his mother,’ Lucas said, ‘and every man on this ranch is going to make sure he’s safe from now on.’
‘Yes, and …’ Tom Beale swallowed hard, ‘and I’m going to make sure you and yours will never want for anything while there’s a Beale on this ranch. I felt bad about leaving my post,’ he went on, ‘I just felt I couldn’t leave Jane to deal with the new arrivals on her own.’
‘I would have managed,’ Jane put in, ‘but it’s John Cannon they’ll both be wanting to see.’
Before Cannon could ask who the visitors were, the intercom from the main gate burbled, and she answered it.
‘They’re at the gate,’ she said to the room, then back to the phone. ‘Yes, let them through,’ she said, and putting the phone down added, ‘our VIPs have arrived. Reckon we should all go onto the porch to give them a proper Bourbon County welcome,’ she said, wheeling herself over to the sideboard and lining up glasses.
Cannon wondered why anyone who could remotely be referred to as a VIP, should want to see him in particular but he could already hear a vehicle approaching and stepped to the edge of the porch, and immediately recognized the car, and Geoff driving it. Then he stepped out, narrowed his eyes to be sure the front seat passenger was indeed who he thought it was.
‘Derek Betterson,’ he mouthed as the tall gangling figure unthreaded itself, climbing out of the car and straightened up.
‘What?’ he began, going to him.
‘Ah! Just the man!’ Betterson exclaimed. ‘They seemed to think you might be lost in the backwoods, but,’ he looked him up and down, ‘just got out, I see.’
Cannon laughed, exhausted, but delighted to see this detective inspector with his dry sense of humour. ‘Good to see you, but why…?’
‘If this operation goes to plan, I’m hoping to extradite Spracks and one or two of his gang swiftly back to the UK for trial and retribution.’ Betterson had stood screening the view of the back seat passenger, but now moved and opened the door for her.
‘And I’m here to extradite you,’ Liz said and as he stood, stunned, disbelieving his own eyes, she put her bag down, adding, ‘it won’t be until the job’s done, of course.’
‘Not until the job’s done,’ he repeated automatically, it had been a stock phrase between them in their Metropolitan days. It had come to mean, both what it said, and that the two of them intended to make up for lost personal time when the job was done.
‘We have an appointment that cannot wait,’ Betterson said as he got back into the car next to Geoff. ‘Clean him up, Liz. See you tomorrow.’
Before Cannon had time to reply, or frame the first of many questions he was desperate to ask, the car moved off.
‘Tactical withdrawal,’ Liz muttered.
‘Police briefing,’ Cannon guessed as Liz slipped her arm around his waist and he bent to briefly touch her lips with his.
She clutched him really tight, her eyes now full of questions and concern.
In the privacy of the more spacious double room Jane allocated to them, they just stood and looked at each other for a long silent moment.
‘I’ve longed for you to be here with me,’ he began, ‘but …’
She shook her head. ‘Not now, Mr Beale said it would be about an hour before the meal, so you shower first, get the worst off. I’ll run you a bath with any trimmings I can find – bubbles, candles – I know what you’re like,’ she teased, but could not keep it up, her voice broke. ‘You can have a good soak while I shower, then …’
‘While you scrub my back, we’ll talk.’
‘It’s a deal,’ she said.
‘In wet and dry mode.’ As Cannon put it, he heard that as the focus of attention on Spracks and his gang shifted to America, the opportunity had been taken to move Paul to join Helen and their son to a safe house.
‘And Alan—’ she continued.
‘Hoskins!’ Cannon exclaimed. ‘I might know he—’
‘No, no, to be fair,’ she interrupted, ‘he just said something about life being short, and what was stopping me joining you, “taking my body where my mind is,” then Bozena chipped in with, “no, it was where my heart was.”’
‘And you came.’
‘I also remembered what Betterson had said about Austin needing someone who could pick him out in a crowd, guard his back, knew exactly how he worked, how he thought … these are things I know about you. So if you do that for Austin, I can do it for you. I managed to get a standby seat on the same plane as Betterson.’
Cannon did not answer.
‘If you put yourself in the firing line, you must expect me to follow … it’s….’ She sounded frustrated as she searched for the right word. ‘… it’s habit.’
He stood up in the bath.
‘It’s love,’ he said, stepping out, pulling her into his arms. ‘It’s love.’
CHAPTER 24
‘There’s a poem about no one left and no one came,’ Liz said the following evening as they sat alone on the front porch.
‘“Adlestrop”,’ Edward Thomas,’ Cannon supplied, ‘poem about a railway station where just a blackbird sang.’
‘You still surprise me sometimes.’
‘Babs likes poetry,’ he said idly, remembering the day of her confession about her son as they had sat together in the English countryside, with horses all around in fields and stables. Just as he and Liz were now. ‘The sole occupants of the main house at White Picket Ranch, Kentucky, U S of A,’ he drawled aloud.
‘And very restful,’ Liz added, stretching luxuriously on her lounger. ‘I’m not sorry the Beales decided they must attend their charity dinner. Sounds as if it’s an annual affair for something like our Help for Heroes.’
‘And Jane helps organize.’
‘I’d no idea these races were such a massive attraction. Jane was telling me of some of the other sights and entertainments arranged around the Kentucky Derby,’ she said, ‘perhaps we’ll be able to go to some.’
&nbs
p; ‘I guess so,’ he said, ‘in some capacity or other. I think we have to wait for Betterson’s advice on that.’
He too reclined, stretched, dropped a hand over towards Liz and they lay holding hands, at peace and then the horizon exploded into a huge curtain of golden lights topped with bursts of red, white and blue stars.
‘I heard there’d be fireworks, didn’t know they started a week before,’ Liz said.
‘There’re thousands of visitors here already, and,’ he drew her attention to headlights coming up the drive to the house, ‘it seems we’re about to leave Adlestrop.’
A slick silver car with a slash of blue over its bonnet, a lights bar across its roof and the word POLICE blazoned across its doors, stopped just in front of the porch. They were both on their feet as two officers climbed out.
‘John Cannon?’ one asked, and as he confirmed this was right, he turned to Liz and ventured, ‘Elizabeth Makepeace?’
‘Correct on both counts,’ Liz said, ‘so …’
‘Well, ma’am, first we have a little something to show both of you.’ He looked towards the porch. ‘Reckon Mr Beale won’t mind if we put the lights on in there.’
He led the way and flicked on the lights, he knew his way around.
Cannon appraised him. He had that deceptively easy manner, but wore what the British bobbies always felt was a casual looking uniform, with some style.
The officer grinned at him. ‘Approved?’ he asked.
‘Sure thing,’ Cannon replied, and they all laughed.
‘Well, that’s a sure good start,’ the lesser built man said, ‘so now to the reason we’re here.’
‘We’ve got a passport, you might say.’ The first man opened his fist to reveal a small wrapped parcel, which he proceeded to undo.
Cannon gave a gasp of surprise. ‘That’s travelling around,’ he said.
‘Yeah, they thought the car, the uniform and my charm might not be enough to convince you, so …’
Liz moved forward to examine the little shot glass. ‘You brought that off the shelf in the bar! I never missed it.’
‘I guessed Austin would never question a message if it came with that and it’s already changed hands several times. More than served its purpose.’ Cannon held out his hand.
The officer shook his hand. ‘Orders to bring it, and to ask you both to come back with us to our station … tonight … and right now would be good. We’re pretty busy this close to the Derby.’
‘What’s happened?’ Cannon asked.
‘With the gangsters we’ve got around, things are happening all the time, but your detectives are … well, still in place, but they’d like you to come in with us to look at a few things.’
‘Things?’ Liz queried.
‘You’ll see,’ he said with a shrug.
‘We can’t just leave the place, the house, empty,’ Cannon began.
‘Lucas is acting as chauffeur, we’ll have to leave someone in charge.’
‘Yeah! I’ll get Gerry,’ the other officer said and strode out towards the bunk house.
Everything was arranged pretty quick, no time for a goddamn debate as Tom Beale had put it earlier. Gerry was left in charge of the ranch house, Cannon and Liz were driven back to a suburb of Louisville Cannon had not seen before.
The police station was long, low built, but substantial with a well-lit glass fronted entrance hall. Inside, two officers were, between them, trying to keep a man on his feet. A tired looking desk sergeant saw the new arrivals and gestured them on. They were expected. Their man led them along a corridor to an interview room.
‘They won’t keep you waiting long,’ the big man said, ‘been nice meeting you.’
‘So what do we expect?’ Cannon asked as they sat side by side, facing two empty chairs.
‘Mug shots, guys to look out for,’ Liz said, ‘what else could there be?’
The door opened and DI Betterson came in carrying what looked chillingly like the evidence boxes they used in the Met. This one was the size of a large square hatbox.
‘You look cleaner,’ he said to Cannon. ‘No jet lag I hope, Liz?’
‘We’re rested,’ Cannon confirmed, and nodded to the box. ‘Bearing gifts?’
‘Like the Greeks,’ he muttered.
‘I was afraid so,’ Cannon growled. ‘What’ve we got?’
‘Forensics have had a turn,’ Betterson said, ‘but I wanted you to have a look – get your verdict.’ He placed the box on the table, pulled two pairs of plastic gloves from his pocket, put one pair on himself and handed the other pair to Cannon.
He lifted the lid, folded back some wrapping, then stood back, giving Cannon the nod.
Cannon found himself looking down at a dark mass, which at first he could make nothing of, then he carefully put his hands down inside and drew out the dark mass.
‘It’s hair,’ Liz said, ‘black hair.’
Cannon raised it higher, withdrawing his fingers fastidiously from the base of it, so he cupped his hands around it rather than touching the underneath. ‘It’s a scalp,’ he said, ‘and …’
‘And?’ Betterson queried, carefully taking it from Cannon and holding it so the full double tier of hair stood as it might have done on a head.
‘This man came to the barn when we were getting Jonathan Beale out. We tied him up and put him in one of the feed bins they used to chain Jonathan up in.’ Cannon paused. ‘He attacked me, I knocked him out, and he’s the man – Topknot – Paul saw at Morbury Hall and sketched. He’s Spracks’s plant in the Valdes set-up.’
‘He was,’ Betterson said, lowering the exhibit back into the box.
‘So … did they make him talk?’ Liz asked quietly.
‘Signs are the scalp was not removed cleanly, or in one go,’ Betterson said, ‘then it was delivered to Spracks’s mansion, but our man got it out to Geoff before anyone else saw it. We don’t want Spracks going off on a tangent at this late stage. Austin’s not the only one undercover; men are working as grooms, assistants in shops and restaurants, and they’re stretched,’ he said, adding as a kind of aside, ‘show me a police force that’s not.’
‘Austin is the reason I’m here,’ Cannon said simply, ‘so what’s the plan? Can I help? How can I help?’
‘How can we help?’ Liz corrected.
‘I’ve some mug shots for you to study,’ he began.
Liz gave a smirking nod at her partner.
Betterson cleared his throat as if disapproving, and revealed that there had already been two double tit-for-tat murders. ‘A Valdes groom, then a Spracks driver; then a Valdes driver, and a Spracks groom.’
‘For God’s sake,’ Cannon exploded, ‘they’re like evil, devilish, selfish children …’
Liz sought to be calmer, more businesslike. ‘Just so I’ve got this clear,’ she said, ‘Valdes snatched Jonathan Beale, Spracks still thinks they have him. Right? Valdes knows someone has snatched him back and has proved, to his satisfaction at least, that it was probably masterminded by,’ she indicated the box, ‘Topknot, one of Spracks’s men.’
‘Right, and it’s all coming to a great pus-filled head,’ Betterson said with utter distaste. ‘The showdown will be Derby Day.’
‘A three-horse race, the Harvester, Spracks, and the police,’ Cannon said grimly.
‘I wonder how many fallers there will be,’ Betterson added quietly.
‘Austin’s not going to be one of them,’ Cannon vowed.
‘We could help cover his back, be two more contacts for him,’ Liz added.
Betterson looked from one to the other. ‘You must have been quite a partnership in the Met. Austin – all of us – we’re lucky to have you here.’ He cleared his throat after that brief moment of sentimentality and went on briskly, ‘I’ll have the mug shots brought in. Take as long as it takes – and I’ll sit in with you. Remember, these faces may mean the difference between life and death—’ He broke off to stretch out a hand and pressed the button on the edge of the desk.
The photographs, mostly from identification line-ups, some from newspaper libraries, had been assembled in two folders, one for each gang. Just moments after they had begun, Liz pointed to a long-faced man in Spracks’s selection.
‘I recognize him, he’s been in The Trap. I remember particularly because he came in early and sat in Hoskins’s seat – for a moment or two, until he was put right.’
Cannon moved Liz’s hand aside and peered at the man’s high cheek bones with deep triangular hollows below. ‘I don’t remember him.’
‘You were in London,’ she said, and tapped the photograph again. ‘He never spoke after he ordered a drink, sat over it all night, watched and listened, then left.’
‘We have to remember a contingent of men accompanied Spracks over here, and if he is one of them he would recognize you,’ Betterson reminded her.
‘How is this all going to work,’ Cannon questioned, ‘with 100,000 visitors?’
‘You will know exactly how, when and where Austin and Spracks will arrive at the Churchill Downs on Derby Day, their exact location for the race …’
‘Because Spracks’s security man – Austin – has arranged it all,’ Cannon finished for him, then questioned, ‘but surely the police can’t move into action in the middle of those race crowds?’
‘No, but the Derby lasts two minutes,’ Betterson said, ‘and for that time, eyes will all be focused on some twenty horses, so …’
The significance of what he was about to tell them showed in every line of his face, every tense muscle of his body. He seemed transformed from flesh and blood to some rigid, steel-like construction.
‘So,’ he continued, ‘as the race reaches its climax, Austin is to slip away from Spracks’s side, his job is done. He’s to get out.’
‘And if we’re on the spot, this is where we would be the most help,’ Cannon said.
‘Yes.’ It was a simple answer to a situation that could have innumerable complications. ‘For the rest it will be a tailing operation,’ Betterson went on, ‘until Spracks and his men, Valdes and his men, are clear of the crowds. Spracks will receive a message from one of his “grooms” that his security man has gone back to the mansion to deal with a problem, and there will be a final net there and at Valdes’s ranch to scoop up escapees.’
