***
Manchester was grey as it had been when the aircraft had danced through the heavy overcast conditions on their final approach. Cyril had made out a few landmarks as the ground appeared periodically. He smiled as large B & Q letters stood out on one store roof before being rapidly consumed by the grey, swirling, gossamer tendrils. Owen had begun to look a little pale as the sudden, turbulent rising and falling made him place his hands on the seat in front, after initially checking that he had a sick bag close to hand. He began to sweat more and felt his breathing pattern change. He was transported to his youthful journey to the Isle of Man and again he was trapped in the bouncing box with wings. He wished desperately to be back on solid ground and breathing fresh air.
Manchester Airport Terminal Two was busy. Owen and Gerard, the French Officer, brought the car from the short-stay car park and collected Cyril from the front of Arrivals. He was sitting reading a broadsheet he had just bought, his electronic cigarette firmly between his lips. Phillip was on his way north; the secure van had been waiting. They had been last off the flight and two officers had come aboard to collect the prisoner, whisking him through doors only used in circumstances of this nature, or for diplomats and Royalty.
“Your colour’s coming back. You looked as though you’d seen a ghost when we were coming in to land and then suddenly you were the Jolly Green Giant!” Cyril glanced and smiled. “Dreadful feeling, Owen. I too was often sick as a kid when I travelled by bus.”
“I really thought I was going to lose everything at one point. It’s debilitating, it saps your energy but I feel OK now. I shouldn’t say this but I felt better after I threw up in the car park!” He smiled at Cyril. “I’m ready for home to be honest.”
The M62 was relatively quiet considering the rush hour was only just finishing and they made good progress. Cyril made some comment about Armley Prison as they routed round Leeds, but Owen chose to ignore him and concentrated on getting home, Gerard nodded in the back. The A61 brought them through the centre of Harrogate and Owen pulled up opposite a small passageway leading to Robert Street; the Stray to their left and shops to their right lined the road.
“Early tomorrow, 07:00 and we’ll see if the sights and sounds of Merry England have helped Mr. Jarvis consider what’s best for his future,”
Cyril smiled, collected his things from the boot and tapped the roof of the car. Owen waved and drove away. Cyril checked his watch. He had time for a shower, a shave, and a change of clothing before heading to the local for a couple of pints of Black Sheep. He had thought little of the foreign beer. Maybe a Balti might go down well too.
***
Once Penny was in the car, they headed for Mandelieu-la-Napoule to face Charles. The two, proudly perched pink lions really were gross but they helped to create a look of total over-indulgence of a man’s feminine side. The villa helped to suggest a local persona behind which Charles could hide. The gates opened immediately and Mary drove slowly up the drive before parking in front of the Pink Villa. There was nobody to welcome them.
The front door was open as they mounted the steps. They didn’t knock just entered, Mary leading the way. They stopped immediately that they heard the voice screaming from the top of the stairs.
“What the Fuck is going on?”
They both turned, startled by the noise and looked up to see the red, ferocious face of Charles staring down at them.
“Peter wobbles, Phillip talks to the Police and creates some stupid story about meeting you. From all accounts, that clearly aroused suspicion, so much so, that they send two officers all the way here then quickly calculate from what they see that two and two makes four. No real detective work, no surveillance, not really any police co-operation!” All his feminine side had disappeared.
“We don’t know that that’s the case. Peter’s gone, vanished, as have Jean and Madhul. What the fuck is going on, Charles? It’s not all Peter and it certainly ain’t fucking me.”
Her pent-up frustration and anger got the better of her, she just couldn’t cope any more with this confused madness. Turning, she mounted the steps two at a time before bounding towards the hulk who blocked her way. Screaming, she threw all of her weight in Charles’ direction.
“Well?” she yelled as she tried to push his chest. He stood firmly, simply grabbing her arms and squeezing until he heard her whimper.
“Mary, Mary, calm down! We need to sit and talk this through before Phillip tips everything on their table in the hope of getting a light sentence...Believe me, if he’s in a corner that’s what he’ll do, trust me. I’ve watched the little shit when he’s been here and believe me his balls haven’t dropped. Loyalty isn’t a word in his vocabulary.”
He released Mary and she rubbed her wrists. Her aggression didn’t surprise Charles, in fact it excited him. To his amazement it had given him an erection which made him smile. He looked down. “Well fuck me!”
“I’d rather not if that’s OK with you. Not even when my broken wrists have healed.”
Charles suddenly realised what he had said and to Mary’s astonishment, he blushed.
“First,” he said, regaining his composure, “we need to attend to the twins. Penny can take them to the boat, they’ll be safe there if we get any sudden visitors here. They’ve been on the boat before so it won’t be strange to them. Then you and I need to have a chat. We need to close down our operation here, do it quickly and do it now. We can talk when they’re safely away.”
The twins were collected and taken to the car. Mary and Penny drove them to one of the boats registered to Charles’ yacht charter company. The girls looked excitedly at the luxury vessel as they scrambled from the car and smiled. It was then that Mary realised just how young they really were. Suddenly, for the first time, she realised that she was, in fact trafficking children. She watched them laugh and giggle as they crossed to the stern of the boat and she involuntarily shook her head.
“Penny will look after you both. I’ll be back tonight. Have fun girls!”
On Mary’s return, Charles was sitting with Jean. They both had a glass of red wine and were talking excitedly. A third glass was placed on the table. Mary was confused and her face clearly bill-boarded the fact.
“Sorry, my dear...Madhul and I fly out this evening, but we felt it right to leave the house early. We’d heard on our ‘paid’ grapevine that Police Officers had arrived from England and were asking questions about you and Phillip. We thought it prudent to get the diamonds away sooner rather than later.”
“Prudent, what’s all this fucking prudent? Why didn’t somebody tell Phillip?”
“Because, my dear, we know that it was his careless talk that brought them here and of course your bringing in Penny, as you did, didn’t help...Jesus! If you spread apples on the woodland floor you’ll get pigs, lots and lots of pigs. Vous comprenez? We’ve been acting like amateurs, besides what would he have done? Gone to Monaco or Menton? He’d have led them to two further places we’d rather keep to ourselves, for the time being at least.”
“And Peter? What’s happened to Peter?”
“I’ve absolutely no idea. Jean tells me that he was there when Phillip left and then the next minute he’d gone...you tell me! You know his psychological state was totally skewed, he was acting irrationally and out of character. Who knows what he’s done or what he’s up to. Right now, we look after ourselves. The accounts in Monaco are secure and the safe houses there too haven’t been compromised at least as far as we are aware. There’s also the boat. Our priority now must be to get the twins to their buyer and call it a day for a while, unless, that is, you have some marvellous plan that can turn the clock back?”
“So, Charles, as usual, you have all the fucking answers. Who handles the girls and when?”
“The buyer wants them by Friday, the deal’s already been done. They will be sent to Gstaad. Half the payment has been secured.”
“Let me guess. Penny and I drive the girls and you disappear on the boat!�
� Her voice quivered with anger and resentment. “We drive to Gstaad, keeping our fingers crossed that we’re not stopped. Then, if we manage that hurdle, we try to get back into Turkey without setting off any whistles and bells. Can’t happen and believe me, it won’t happen. Unless, that is, you have a fail-safe plan to repatriate us after the twins have been collected?”
Charles just smiled. “Have I ever let you down?”
He walked towards the study, returning with four passports, two British and two French. He threw them on the table. Mary picked one up, it was for one of the twins. She studied the details before finding the girl’s photograph. She tossed it back on the table, then picked up another. She noticed her own face staring back, unsmiling from the photo page.
“Carol Halsall, journalist. Do I look like a fucking journalist?” She tossed the passport back onto the pile. “Not good enough.”
“What I do know is that your language is certainly that of a journalist, certainly not becoming of a lady. Today you’ve to make one of two choices. The first choice you have to make right here and right now is whether you say yes or no to this offer. Failing that, the second choice is that you’ve no choice, none. I can drive the girls with Penny’s support before she disappears forever and I return to the boat. Nobody is looking for me, they want you and now, having put Penny in harm’s way, they want her too. To lower myself to your linguistic level, my dear, in a language you clearly understand, Fuck it! I can also take the female prerogative and change my mind. The choices,” he paused, “are now no longer yours to make.”
He turned to Jean who removed a suppressed, Heckler and Koch Mark 23 semi-automatic pistol from beneath the table. He flicked off the safety catch before pointing the gun directly at her forehead.
“You were just too late making up your mind,” he whispered, before nodding to Jean. Jean’s finger lightly and expertly squeezed the trigger. Mary stood momentarily not taking her eyes off Jean. She opened her mouth about to speak, when the bullet drilled a fine, immaculate hole to the left of the bridge of her nose. It then, as it was specifically designed to do, travelled through the frontal lobe, spreading and disintegrating whilst at the same time catastrophically destroying her brain. Mary crumpled as if suddenly sucked to the floor, her eyes fixed forward, more in surprise than fear. She folded, marionette-like, onto the Turkish rug on which she had been standing, her limbs now bent in unnaturally strange configurations.
“Pity that!” Charles sniffed and looked at Jean. The smell of cordite lingered in the air.
There was no exit wound to the rear of the cranium, therefore little forensic evidence. Only a small trickle of deep, red oozed into the eye socket before making a haphazard pathway down the side of her cheek. The trickles landed like small seeds from a pomegranate onto the patterned rug.
“She wanted Turkey, she got Turkish at least, silly cow. Once we’re at sea we’ll put her in the water, remove her hands, feet and head before weighting and sinking the body. There’ll be less evidence of butchering when submerged.”
They picked up their glasses and tapped them together.
“To calmer waters and plain sailing from now on, my friend.”
They quickly wrapped her body in the rug and carried the parcel to the boot of Charles’ car. Later in the day Jean would do the butchering but as he had promised Phillip, he would retain one of Mary’s hands.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Lawrence folded the news cutting he had removed from the wall of shame at the far end of the workshop. He placed it on the work-bench next to a phial on which was a named label. Although three carers had been cited and removed from the care home for traumatising and humiliating Dementia patients, he had selected the most senior to chastise, the one who should have known better; besides it was she who had tipped them from their wheel chairs and had left them soiled for long periods. The case had been a top local news story in the North East and not only was the Care Quality Commission involved, the police were too. The perpetrators would eventually come to court, but wheels grind particularly slowly in such cases, where the crime involves people rather than cash, so there appeared to be little progress in the investigation.
As he methodically collected his belongings, his mind kept flashing back to his dear mother, loved and cared for, protected and sheltered in her twilight years. That, at least, is how it should have been...he had failed her, failed to see what was going on and failed to blow the whistle. However, as he wiped away a small tear, he was putting it right now. He knew that he was drawing attention to the fact that some of these evil, despicable carers were suffering because of their cruel and callous actions. As the police grew more anxious to find the perpetrator, then more media focus would be turned to some of the country’s care homes and the plethora of problems within, providing, of course, that they could put the clues together and determine how all the victims were connected.
Into his bag he placed everything he needed, checked and double checked before he polished his glasses. As usual the light above his head continued to buzz; only the closing of the iron door quietened its constant drone.
***
The train was on time and this helped calm Lawrence’s nerves; stations were dangerous places, there were too many cameras and too many officials. Lawrence’s sanctuary was a crowd and he always tried to blend with the pack.
On the train he faced forward, retrieved a paperback from his pocket and settled his head down as if he were reading, thereby erecting an invisible barrier in the hope that he wouldn’t be bothered by others. The journey would be quite straight forward, providing the timings worked. He would walk through Newcastle to Eldon Square and collect a 684 bus to Hexham Road, Throckley, a journey of approximately twenty minutes. He knew the address and he had ‘walked’ it on Google Maps, Street View many times. He had planned three ‘escape’ routes but had little confidence in any should the police helicopter be scrambled immediately, another risk he had assessed and chosen to ignore. He also knew that the victim lived alone and assumed that she had a couple of cats, a cabinet containing cheap vodka and a bin containing empty bottles. He knew that he might have assumed too much already.
He was determined not to risk waiting to chastise her at a time when she was away from home. He was going to do it on her own doorstep. He was keen to be bolder, push the outside of the envelope, strike when people were at their most vulnerable, when they least expected trouble.
He had located the place along the route where he would put on his mask and prepare for the chastisement. Apart from noting the three different ‘escape’ routes, he also had two timetables for transport back to Harrogate. One was via Newcastle but the other was via Carlisle; a bus to Hexham and then a train to Carlisle, a long and circuitous route, but one the police would not be expecting should the alarm come a little prematurely.
***
Liz had gone through the names of those connected with Willow Gate Nursing Home after the computer had regurgitated its data. There were six possibilities, two of whom were staff, three were of past patients’ relatives and one was a patient! She discarded that one. Dr. Lawrence Young fascinated her, mainly because of his medical connections. She didn’t know what a Clinical Scientist specialising in Cytogenetics was, but any connection with science had to be a lead. She tapped the screen and typed in Cytogenetics and read the results. His mother had died in the home, she was suffering from Dementia. He had no police record. All she knew was that Paula Jones had been a responsible nurse with carer, Jane Ashcroft, and made a note to get someone to interview Ms Ashcroft as soon as possible; the first officer arriving would receive the job. Other possible suspects brought up were an architect, a pilot, ex RAF now a teacher, strangely enough, Head of Biology at the local High School. He seemed on the face of it part of the establishment but he had a Police record stemming from his post RAF days; arrested during a student demonstration in London when he was well past the age of the average banner holder. She raised her eyebrows, believing that he could
possibly have the bottle. All people within the frame would be interviewed but their connections would be investigated initially, to ensure that the findings were relevant. She drew a line under her list and set the process into operation. She tapped her pencil against her teeth and then, after a few moments, she wrote Lawrence’s name onto the whiteboard in red. Call it female intuition.
***
Lawrence had never before worn a flat cap, his mother had remarked that they were for the common man whom ever he might be, possibly one of Lowry’s matchstick men! As he caught his reflection in one of the shop windows, he liked what he saw. Suits you! he whispered to himself as he pulled it more over his face at a rakish angle. He smiled but then straightened his face, as he felt that he might be betraying his dear mother by going against her wishes. He carried on walking towards the Haymarket Bus Station, trying to avoid the main roads and therefore the possibility of cameras.
The bus was on time, he settled into an empty seat, newspaper to cover his face and ensured that he looked at as few people as possible. The day was bright and the sun felt warm on the side of his face. The bus approached the roundabout and the supermarket to his left told him his stop was next. He looked down as he folded his paper, rang the bell and moved to the side doors, keeping his face lowered at all times. He was on Hexham Road.
Looking around, this part of Throckley was nothing special but he was familiar with the setting. He took a deep breath, as if preparing himself for the coming task, but he was only rewarded by a lungful of diesel exhaust fumes as the bus pulled away. Walking away from the bus stop, he headed up the road before turning down a rough passageway between two buildings. To his left was an undertaker’s establishment and that made him smile, visualising himself as the Grim Reaper, sand-clock in one hand and scythe in the other. He walked down to a small piece of parkland that skirted the car park of a graffiti-defaced social club. From here he could see the terraced row, his target. Apart from a few motorists in parked cars, he had seen no one since leaving the bus and with luck nobody had noticed him.
Only The Dead: an explosive new detective series Page 19
