The Silent Man: A British Detective Crime Thriller (The Harvey Stone Crime Thriller Series Book 1)

by J. D. Weston

  “Matthew?” said Alison, and her voice was concern. “Matthew, what did she say?”

  He stood and pushed past her. He wrenched open the door to the wardrobe and began pulling clothes out and throwing them onto the bed.

  “What are you doing? That’s Darren’s things.”

  “The boxes, Alison. Where are my boxes?”

  “What boxes?”

  “The boxes I kept in here,” said Myers, and dropped to his hands and knees to see further into the corner.

  “You haven’t got any boxes here. Stop that.”

  Myers stopped. He took a breath. “I kept two boxes here. I didn’t take them with me when I left. Where are they, Alison?”

  “Shoe boxes?”

  “Yes, that’s them.”

  “In the spare room, I think. Unless I threw them out.”

  Myers ran to the spare room. It was the only room in the house that hadn’t been decorated since he’d left. It had the same old wallpaper on the walls and the same hideous light fitting he had always hated.

  There was a pile of boxes on the bed and an old suitcase. Myers sifted through them with disregard for their contents.

  “Matthew, if you tell me what you’re looking for, I might be able to help.”

  He ignored her and pushed away two larger boxes that were in his way.

  And there it was. The box he was looking for. He pulled off the lid and placed the shoe box on the bed. Inside was a small wooden box with his father’s war medals. He opened and closed the box in one movement. It wasn’t the time for nostalgia. Below the wooden box was a folded Union Jack. He pulled it out and laid it on the bed.

  “What’s that?”

  He ignored her questions still. The scenes that were running through his mind were the type that a man should never speak of. This was true twice over for his ex-wife.

  He unfolded the flag, feeling the reassuring weight of the contents.

  He gripped the handle of the old Webley Mk VI revolver as if he were shaking the hand of his long dead father.

  “Matthew, where on earth did you get that?”

  Myers didn’t reply.

  “Has that been in this house all this time?”

  He loaded the cylinder using the loose rounds that were inside the flag.

  “Matthew, you can’t,” said Alison, but she cowered away when he moved toward her, and the road to redemption lay before him, as clear as ever it had been.

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Samantha lay still.

  Harvey sat helpless, staring at her body, the body he had known for the slightest of moments, and a mind that was swathed in shadow and lies.

  The acrid smell that rose from below and poisoned the air had somehow overwhelmed Samantha’s expensive perfume.

  He shuffled in his chair until he could see Donny without using the mirror.

  As expected, Donny was a snivelling mess. He had been stripped of his shirt, shoes, and socks and was tied in the same manner as Harvey. Julios had also been stripped of his shirt, shoes, and socks, but Rashid’s man had gone to additional lengths to secure him. At least twice the amount of rope had been used and the rope around his feet had been tied to a wall-mounted pipe that fed the radiator.

  And a swollen red lump on his arm matched the one on the girl’s leg Harvey had seen before Farhad had carried her away.

  “Harvey?” said Donny. He was breathless. His voice was broken and cracked like the old vinyl records that John listened to. “My feet.”

  Harvey had noticed Donny’s feet were bruised from the beatings. His toes were swollen, some likely broken. But his feet appeared in far greater shape than the rest of him.

  “You should be more concerned about your face, Donny,” said Harvey. It was the first time the two of them had shared humour, though the sentiment was futile given the circumstance. Donny winced when he moved his mouth and to swallow appeared to be giving him some difficulty.

  “Did they drug him?” asked Harvey, and he nodded at Julios. “Just nod. Don’t speak.”

  Donny nodded, then spoke.

  “Three times.” He bared his bloodied teeth then coughed and spat out a concoction of saliva and blood. “They couldn’t put him out.”

  “Okay,” said Harvey, trying to get him to rest his voice. “How are your hands? Can you move them? Just nod.”

  This time, Donny just nodded.

  “Good. Can you shuffle around so we’re back to back?”

  During their lives, Donny had always been the spoiled only child of John Cartwright. He had developed into a snivelling, sly, and backstabbing wretch that Harvey despised. The man would go out of his way to see other people suffer. He had lied, cheated, and stolen, and made more enemies than friends.

  It was no secret that he and Harvey didn’t see eye to eye.

  But right there, at that moment in time, Harvey would have gladly let bygones be bygones as Donny, with his bruised chest, began the monumental task of turning in his chair. He growled and cursed with every effort. He spat and moaned, and he cried with the agony of what Harvey was beginning to understand were several broken ribs.

  “That’s enough,” said Harvey when Donny had completed ninety degrees.

  His foster-brother let his head sink and he panted like a dog on a hot summer’s day. It wasn’t tears that dripped from his nose now; it was the sweat that only came with endured, excruciating pain.

  “Rest,” said Harvey, and he began to shuffle himself backwards to meet Donny back to back.

  “Harvey?” said Donny when their hands touched. There was a moment of awkward insecurity. Then Harvey squeezed his hand as best he could. “I’m here, Donny. I’m going to get us out of this.”

  “My feet.”

  “I know, Donny. You’ve broken a toe or two. Just stay still.”

  “No,” he said. “My feet. They’re burning.”

  It took a few seconds for Donny’s statement to register. But then Harvey thought of his bare feet on the carpeted floor. He smelled the acrid smell that had tainted the already polluted air.

  “He’s burning the house down,” said Harvey. “Untie me.”

  “I can’t, Harvey. I can’t see what I’m doing.”

  “Try, Donny. Come on.”

  He felt Donny’s weak fingers fingering the knot around Harvey’s wrist. But the attempt was feeble.

  “Donny, come on. Do it for John. Do it for your dad.”

  “I can’t do it.”

  But no matter how many times Donny claimed not to be able to untie the knots, he still continued to try. He hadn’t just given up as Harvey feared he might.

  “Find the loose end, Donny. You can do it. I believe in you.”

  “I’m hurting, Harvey.”

  “I know you are, Donny. I’m with you. I’m not going to let anything happen to us. Just set me free.”

  “Oh, I wish Julios was awake. He could do this. He has strong hands.”

  It was true. Julios had hands like shovels. He could squeeze a man’s head with one hand or break a man’s hands without even trying.

  “Well, Julios has spent his life protecting you and John. Now it’s your turn to protect him. Get us out of here, Donny.”

  “I found it,” he said. “I found the loose end.”

  “That’s it, Donny. Now twist it. Twist until you can’t twist it anymore.”

  “I am. I can feel where it goes. If I can just get my finger…”

  His words were muffled by the damage to his jaw. He inhaled, long and deep, and exhaled juddering breaths as the sharp ends of his broken ribs found purchase in his soft flesh.

  But he was doing it. Harvey could feel his fingers tracing the knot. He felt the loose end of the rope pass over his skin as Donny pictured the knot in his mind and worked blindly.

  And then, like the release of water breaking through a dam, Harvey was able to move. He pulled the rope off his legs and stood, kicking the chair away from him.

  He checked the door. On the wall of the sta
irs, an orange glow was growing stronger. He could hear the flames below as the old, wooden beams crackled and hissed.

  “We don’t have much time,” he said to Donny, pulling his knife from his jacket. He bent and began to cut the rope.

  “Harvey?” said Donny, then waited for him to stop and look at him. “Thank you, Harvey. I don’t deserve this.”

  Harvey listened. He nodded, studying his foster-brother’s face with its wounds and bruises. Harvey had borne similar bruises on many occasions, and he knew how much they hurt.

  “Any other time and I might have agreed,” said Harvey. “But from what I heard today, you deserve more than this.”

  He sliced through Donny’s rope and pulled it free, tossing the rope to one side. He held his brother down before he could move by placing a hand on his shoulder.

  “Stay. We’ll all go together.”

  Donny nodded, and Harvey worked his way around the back of Julios.

  “Harvey,” said Donny.

  “Wait, Donny.”

  He bent down to the big man’s giant, bare feet and sliced through the rope.

  “Harvey?”

  “Donny, shut up.”

  He pulled at the lengths of rope and cast them aside, freeing one of Julios’ massive limbs with each stroke of his blade.

  “Harvey?”

  Harvey sighed. He stopped what he was doing and looked across at Donny, who was staring at the door with wide eyes and the all-familiar fear etched into the lines of his face.

  It was then that Harvey heard the tell-tale click of an old six-shooter revolver being cocked.

  Chapter Forty-Five

  “You,” he said, and the silent man turned to meet his stare. “It’s you. I knew it was you.”

  The silent man was in the process of untying a man Myers recognised from John Cartwright’s property, who was sleeping like a hibernating bear. It was then that the woman caught Myers’ eye.

  Keeping the gun on the silent man, Myers leaned forward to feel for a pulse.

  “You don’t want to do that,” said the man, and for the first time, Myers heard the cold snarl in his voice.

  They locked stares.

  “It’s not what it looks like.”

  Myers considered the woman, whose deathly gaze betrayed an expression of content. He stepped away, suddenly unsure of the situation, and even more aware that Harriet was nowhere to be seen.

  “Where is she?” asked Myers. “Where’s my daughter?”

  Behind him, smoke rolled through the doorway. He could hear the crackles and pops of the blaze and the silent man recognised that there was little time for conversation.

  “Blonde. Five foot six. Slim. Pretty, but young,” said the man.

  Myers cocked his head but said nothing. He held the gun aimed at him and his hand trembled at Harriet’s description.

  “They took her.”

  “Who did?”

  The man didn’t reply. The knowledge was a bargaining chip that, he knew, once spent, left him worthless.

  “Rashid Al Sheik?” said Myers, growing angrier by the second. “Was it? Tell me, damn it.”

  The man said nothing. His silence infuriated Myers even more. His hand shook and sweat trickled down the side of his face. He moved his aim to Donald Cartwright, who had beads of sweat on his forehead from the heat emanating from downstairs. A sheen of moisture across his bare and hairless chest along with the wounds on his scrawny body gave him the look of a beaten slave or a prisoner of war from one of the old wars films Myers’ father used to enjoy. Myers moved the gun to the huge, sleeping bodyguard and back to the silent man, who, with the growing heat, had also developed a sheen, but with his strong mass and prominent brow, he appeared as the slave master. All he was missing was the whip.

  “Are you going to kill us?” asked the silent man, who stood between the two bare-chested men dressed in cargo pants, boots, and a thick leather motorcycle jacket.

  And Myers knew that jacket.

  His voice conveyed no fear, and his face was as it had been that night in Myers’ memories, cold and expressionless.

  He shook his head. “No. No, just you. These two will go to prison.”

  “What about your daughter?”

  “Where is she?”

  “Close.”

  “You’ll tell me,” said Myers, and his hand flexed involuntarily. The gun fired and a bullet buried itself into the lintel above the window behind the man.

  “Further,” said the man.

  “Don’t play games with me. I let you get away once. It won’t happen again.”

  “Do you know who she is?” said the man, and he nodded at the woman who had found her peace. The woman who had escaped the terrible affair.

  Myers stared at her, searching for pity. But no such pity remained in Myers’ body. He would find his daughter, and nothing would stop him.

  “She’s the one who groomed your daughter, Detective Inspector Myers. She’s the one who tricked your daughter into this. She’s the one who knew you’d come running. She’s the one who took her to Rashid Al Sheik to be drugged and-”

  “Stop,” said Myers. “I don’t want to hear it.” He let the gun fall to his side as he considered the acts he couldn’t bear to hear.

  “You don’t want to hear what they did to her? You don’t want to know the things they made her do and how they fed her with drugs to keep her coming back for more?”

  “I said stop.” He raised the gun once more. But this time, his hand was steady. He was focused. He was angry. His finger squeezed the trigger and the hammer began to move.

  “I can get her back,” said the man, watching the gun’s hammer. There were fractions of an inch to play with. An old gun like the one Myers held was unpredictable. He knew that. The man knew that. But right there and then, Myers cared little for consequence.

  It must have been the gas supply that caught the raging fire because, at that moment, the house shook, and beyond the door, the walls were bathed in a fervent orange glow. The fire was spreading fast, although the glow had retreated, the flames having devoured the flammable gas in the air. But Myers knew it wouldn’t be long until they would be trapped on the first floor with no way out.

  “We don’t have much time,” said the man, and he watched as Myers considered his options. His chest rose and fell with the calm confidence of a predator. Myers’ heart beat like the drum of wild tribesman. It was the difference between a man like Myers and a stone-cold killer.

  Time and exposure to the life had hardened the silent man to death. He appeared prepared for it. Ready to embrace his fate. Myers was not hardened to such a life. He may have stopped killers and imprisoned hundreds of villains in his career, but it was the first time he had held death in his hands. The man seemed to recognise the indecision in his eyes.

  “I’m on your side, Myers. This time, I’m on your side. Let me get her back for you. I’m your only hope and you know it.”

  Rage and frustration boiled inside Myers. His entire body shook, and his face twisted as he agonised over his next move.

  “I can get her. I know I can. You know I can. Let me go.”

  “You’re a killer,” said Myers, and the hammer teased its way back a little further.

  “I’m your only hope. I’m the only one who can get her back. Think about Jennifer Standing and the others. Put the gun down, Myers. You’re going to have to trust me.”

  An explosion of rage and fear and frustration spewed from Myers in the form of a roar so wild and raw that he felt the tears begin to stream down his cheeks.

  He lowered the gun and Donald let his head fall back in relief. Myers stared at him, the bodyguard, and then at the silent man.

  “Help me get them out,” said the man. “We don’t have long. This whole place is going up in flames. Help me get them out and I’ll find Harriet.”

  Myers swayed on the decision. He could kill them all now. But what chance would he stand of finding Harriet alone?

  It was Donald C
artwright who, from some place deep inside of him, found an inherent strength that belied Myers’ opinion and everything he’d heard about the man.

  “No,” said Donald, speaking out for the first time. His feet were black, bruised, and swollen. His chest was marred with lashes and red sores from countless beatings. And his face was covered in a layer of thick, dried blood. With gritted teeth and animal-like tenacity, he pushed himself from the chair, holding onto the silent man for support. He sucked up the pain and grimaced with every move. But he stood defiant and turned to the silent man. “The detective and I will get Julios out.” He turned to the man who, until that point, Myers had referred to only as the silent man, and there was a connection between them that Myers couldn’t place. “Go, Harvey. Go get her.”

  The silent man stepped forward.

  “It’s your call,” he said to Myers. “You can either shoot me now and take your chances or let me get your daughter back.”

  And Myers nodded.

  Part III

  Chapter Forty-Six

  The glorious summer sun that had shone upon Donny’s wedding was warming the souls of people someplace far away. But in the distance, amid the midnight blues, was a fusion of oranges and reds, as if somebody had spread the colours across the horizon with a butter knife. In the wake of the sun, dark clouds had formed above the abattoir. It was the meeting place of two very different skies and two very different worlds. It was a place of death.

  The first rain drops dotted the concrete and Harvey pulled his bike up beside an old, fat oak at the top of the drive and killed the engine. He removed his helmet and let the fat drops of rain wet his face.

  He hung the helmet from the handlebars and stood before the abattoir and he let the wind carry Myers’ file from his hand. The papers, the photos, and Myers’ disjointed thoughts fluttered and flapped and were carried away.

  “Like lambs to the slaughter,” said Harvey, but his voice was lost to the wind.

  The peaked roof and protruding dormers were black against the sky, tall and dominating in shape and size. A chorus of raindrops sung from the tiled rooftops and small puddles were already forming on the dry ground.