The Path of the Bullet

by M C Jacques

And as the rear yard, which had once been the public house’s car park, teemed with the hiss and crackle of radio traffic, with flashing blue lights and armed police, McKay could not possibly have noticed a trace of a tear in the eye of his prime saviour as – from a safe distance – he viewed Mark McKay, motionless, only just breathing, being rushed to Accident and Emergency. It wasn’t simply because they had been pals through infant, junior and secondary schools, nor simply because they had helped each other out of innumerable scrapes over the years, some memorable, some best not remembered at all, but it was because it was a friend who placed no conditions upon their friendship. A friend whom he knew would give everything and accept only what was willingly offered in return.

  He continued to stare down as the paramedics settled his friend into the vehicle and the rear doors of the ambulance were closed. Thank God, the old native called us! he thought, thank God! And then he was gone.

  50

  Burrows, Mountfitchet, and a January morning

  On the 4th January, 2001, Mark McKay had been out of hospital for almost two weeks. He had spent most of that time at his bungalow at Anderby village, about a mile’s walk from the Lincolnshire coastline at Anderby Creek. Healthwise, unsurprisingly, it had been the most miserable of Christmases; certainly the worst McKay could remember. The only highlight was that, between Yuletide and the New Year, he had felt able to take the train from Peterborough and ‘snatched’ a few days’ respite at his favourite hotel just outside the centre of Carlisle. And to be sure, as he had strolled along Hadrian’s Wall near Housesteads Fort, the steely bite of the antiseptically cold air had promoted a definite recuperative sensation! He was on the mend. It had been a tremendous boost, a real ‘shot in the arm’ for him. Moreover, the various daily dosages of remedies and painkillers had subsided accordingly, albeit gradually, and that was another boon.

  So as he stood staring across the rime-iced meadows between his bungalow and the sea wall, known as Roman Bank, with good old Helios peeping over the due east horizon, he sensed, no, he knew that the day bore promise; it was going to be a good one!

  Having collected his things prior to departure, he surveyed the handful of Christmas and Get Well cards – one in particular – atop his Victorian writing bureau and allowed himself a broad grin. He was ready on time, even slightly prematurely.

  It was the earliest he had arisen since leaving Addenbrooke’s following his painful ordeal at the hands of Zara Mueller. He had showered by seven-thirty and breakfasted by eight and when he heard Mountfitchet’s old Rover crackling along the gravel drive, and then the front door bell of Badger’s Rest ringing, at around eight-fifteen, it was confirmed that he was about to have another special day. Not least of all because the curiosity which had been eating, gnawing at him for the past few weeks was about to be laid to rest. To their credit, neither DI Burrows nor the Wing Commander had wanted to report matters over the phone, by mail or by email. Now here they both were to collect him and to deliver him back to Cambridge. Improved though McKay was, he was not yet able to drive. Not being able to fly any longer, there was little that Mountfitchet enjoyed more than driving; driving his P6, of course.

  It was only a minute or so after the spasm of embraces and handshakes that McKay had slumped into the copious, burgundy leather, armchair-like rear seat of Mountfitchet’s vintage Rover P6, the normally aspirated ‘breathing’ of the large, silky-smooth engine propelling the car effortlessly through the village, along the snaky Sea Road, and then southwards towards the corrugated coastal road, aside the Roman Bank, which would lead them through bright and breezy Chapel St Leonards, which Burrows had ‘always wanted to see’, then sweeping south to Ingoldmells and then on through the centre of Skegness, brushing around its very own ‘leaning tower’ wherefrom they would head inland towards Sleaford.

  It was Paul Burrows who made most of the verbal running on the way down to Cambridge. He made it clear that he had no intention of addressing what he referred to as the ‘more official matters’ until they were seated comfortably around a table with Mountfitchet’s hands and mind free from the encumbrance of driving responsibilities. In fact, the Detective Inspector revealed altogether blither and more munificent aspects of his character as the Rover rolled along the A17 towards Peterborough. “You two really like your old-timers, don’t you? I mean, look at this lovely old bus, and that Scimitar of yours is no slouch, is it, Mark? Eh? Oh yes, our traffic lads and lassies had their eye on you once or twice during the autumn, let me tell you!” He beamed munificently at his two companions successively and, had they been able to compare thoughts in closed session, they would have concurred that the DI had taken, without doubt, more than a couple of discreet quaffs from some well-concealed hip flask!

  At just after eleven o’clock, the sky above Cambridge still a dazzlingly bright Adriatic blue, Mountfitchet parked his stately automobile just off Jesus Lane in one of the very few remaining ‘unrestricted’ parking areas within the city centre, viz. a Reformed Church car park. Mountfitchet was first out of the car, inhaling and exhaling deeply as he took in the sandstone panorama about him. Burrows had checked that McKay, despite his awkward and ungainly manoeuvres, was basically okay and able to hobble along unassisted. “Being whacked repeatedly on the shins with a wrought iron poker doesn’t seem to have done Mark much good!” whispered the exuberant DI to a momentarily disapproving Mountfitchet who eventually submitted a wry grin in return.

  Having rounded the corner of Jesus Lane and ambled along a busy Sidney Street, Mountfitchet stalled at Magdalene Bridge. Turning with his back to the famous structure, the old airman clapped his large hands together with a thud. “Right! Let’s get ourselves perked up with a good strong coffee or two, and then beat a track round The Backs, before that bright orange disc in the heavens disappears or clears off! Then we’ll check in at the Gonville. And after tea, we go for the mother of all sessions at Secret Rooms. Okay, chaps?”

  And it was as they were seated in the little Italian riverside bar-ristorante, that Burrows slipped back into character, albeit a slightly more amiable, gentler even, version of the sometimes curt policeman both of his companions had experienced on occasions.

  “Regretfully, of course, the true identity of Lisa Fothergill had slipped under our radar entirely,” explained the wistful Burrows, staring down hard into his nearly half-drunk, frothy cappuccino. “You see, at the moment, what we think of as the police national database is really a composite. The ability of one police force to find information about a person, a criminal, which was entered by another force into their own computer, depends on them, this second force, formatting their search in a similar or an identical manner to that in which the information was entered by the first force, if you follow my meaning. I’m not very good with the technical side of police work, between these four walls, but Sutton has made me reasonably cognizant! I believe that she’s been in touch with you once or twice, Mark – to see how you’re getting along!” His own eyes briefly collided with Mountfitchet’s unusually wide ones at this point, provoking a choreographed cough from the senior gent. McKay smirked, but remained impassive, his hands binding his Gaelic coffee, still steaming up in its glass mug.

  “Well anyway, we assumed her name was, in fact, Lisa – we had no good reason to do otherwise, so far as we were aware – and her name was Lisa, on one level, but Matt Fothergill, in one of his more tempestuous moods, had screamed something like ‘For God’s sake, get in touch, Elisabeth!’ on her mobile’s answerphone and good old Sutton then discovered from ‘Records’ that our Mrs Lisa Fothergill was, in fact, the same person as Elisabeth ‘Liz’ Banning – that was her maiden name and, strictly speaking, is her current name – with two convictions: one for attempted bodily harm and another for causing actual bodily harm!” Burrows’ eyes flew to Mountfitchet’s, shaking his head incredulously, even though he had picked up some of this previously through phone calls and impromptu meetings with Paul Burrows.


  “And it becomes even more interesting when we hear who the last victim was, only a few weeks over a year ago, the Christmas before last!”

  “But just hang on a minute,” put in the old airman, straightening himself and replacing his mug firmly upon the marble-esque table top. “Surely Lisa and Matt Fothergill have been married for years!” His eyes purged those of the DI, seated directly opposite him.

  Burrows, now firmly at the helm, leant back, nodded gently and smiled, but only just detectably. “Well, it would seem that our friend, the irascible Matthew Fothergill, was a mite economical with the truth in the curriculum vitae he’d tendered to the RWM. For respectability’s sake, I suppose, he claimed that Lisa and he were married in July 1995. It’s bunkum, of course, but that sort of deception is far more common than you think – even within official circles, so I’m told! The Royal War Museum’s London Head Office checked out all of his professional credentials, every last detail, so I’m assured but, crucially, not his marriage status. Needless to say, they’re revising their screening process after they’ve wiped the egg off their faces! Mind you, you can see their point; why should they have bothered about Fothergill’s marital status? As far as they were concerned they’d found the right person for the job – it was as simple as that!”

  “If only it was that simple! Was Liz Banning where I thought she’d be?” put in McKay switching his eyes back to the DI who drew a deep breath, ready to recommence his narrative.

  “Indeed, Mark, indeed! Tied up in Zara Mueller’s own flat. A desperate act. And she’d given her a good hiding as well, my word, for trying to implicate her in Jilly Prestons’ murder, if that’s any consolation? No, I don’t suppose it is. Still, Fothergill’s, and Lisa, sorry, Liz Banning has come clean, at least; she’s admitted to both seducing Andy Fordham, and to getting him to improvise that rifle device to shoot Prestons…”

  “But panicked when the shot had only grazed and stunned Prestons, so rushed back to The Old Forge, swiped her husband’s gun and shot Prestons through the head to make absolutely sure. You were going to say something about Lisa… Liz Banning’s second victim, just over a year ago.”

  “Ah, yes! So I was, so I was! Well, her married name was Cathy Evans…”

  “Nee Catherine Fordham, Andy Fordham’s half-sister,” uttered McKay in a deadpan manner, devoid of enthusiasm.

  “How on earth did you get..? I’ll kill Sutton when I see her!”

  McKay grinned towards the now marginally irate policeman and shook his head slowly. “It was just pub talk, Paul, and something Graham Locke had said to me, which I didn’t really rate as highly as I should have, at the time. I’m not at my best… personal stuff, you know.” Burrows paused, drew breath, frowned blinkingly and reframed himself ready to resume.

  “Well, whatever, be that as it may, Mueller certainly thought that she had good cause to give Lisa, Liz, a good beating and she certainly did. In fact her trial won’t be until Easter time, at the very earliest, because of the extent of the injuries she sustained at Mueller’s hands! The prosecution thinks the judge may go soft on her if she’s still black and blue when she’s in the dock.”

  “And the note that was found with Jilly’s body?” tendered Mountfitchet, rather softly for him.

  Burrows nodded. “Yes, well, that took a bit of working out and a little bit of good old footwork, too!” He took a sip of coffee and looked around him for a waiter.

  McKay turned awkwardly to view Burrows square on, or as near as he was able to. “Liz Banning killed Jilly Prestons – with the besotted Andy Fordham’s help – because she believed that she and her supposed husband, Matt Fothergill, were having an affair, right?” Before the wide-eyed DI was able to interject, McKay had summoned the energy to carry on. “But Banning was well off the mark because Matt Fothergill was actually dating Chelsea Robinson, after a fashion, yes?”

  “Indeed, that winsome young thing in one of the museum’s cafés – only a slip of a thing really!” The Wing Commander’s lips pursed and eyes narrowed as he contemplated the Fothergill-Robinson union. “And he was after a good deal more than her fashion, if you ask me, by jingo!”

  Mountfitchet and McKay’s eyes convened in a look of utter incredulity. Burrows coughed. “Anyhow, in order to cajole us into believing that it was Mueller who had arranged to meet Prestons there, where she was shot, Liz Banning used exactly the same Arial font – and the same size of font – which she’d seen on the memos Mueller had sent to Matt Fothergill – still can’t quite decide what to do about him; wasting police time, perhaps, a couple of minor firearms charges maybe?” he pondered. “Anyway, the thing was, the ink and the precise form of the lettering was different, even though they had Mueller’s office’s template on them. Eventually, the lads and lasses in the lab proved that the note received by Jill Prestons and found near her body was printed on Lisa Fothergill’s, AKA Liz Banning’s, own Kodak printer at The Old Forge on RWM paper, not on the Lexmark in Mueller’s office!”

  “And what about her?” enquired McKay, his voice rich with disdain.

  “Ah well, now that’s one of the reasons the Wing Commander and I wanted to meet with you face to face, Mark, as soon as you were well enough, lest there be any misunderstandings or misgivings. We didn’t want you to think that we might be ducking and diving.” His sallow, hapless look towards the senior man pleaded for urgent assistance.

  Mountfitchet coughed and fidgeted slightly before seizing the baton. “You see, Mark, old boy, cases like these are very involved, extremely complicated…”

  “Cases like these?” the reddening McKay asked in a deadpan tone. And he was perfectly aware that he had just cut his dad’s old colleague, and his own mentor, short.

  “Well, yes, old man. You know that this thing’s tied up with all sorts of nasty gremlins, terror groups, I mean; what’s that lot called who operate out of Holland?” He looked across at Burrows, quizzically, but it was McKay who supplied the answer.

  “De Jordaanse Nenazijihadgroep. For whom, poor old Mr Dickinson was unwittingly to have transferred hundreds of thousands of dollars, if I am not very much mistaken. And while we’re on the subject of Mueller’s catalogue of male victims, I haven’t heard from Jay for a few days now. I presume he’s recovering well? I owe him a few drinks.”

  “Tush, old man! He’s a boxer! As right as rain!” Mountfitchet was attempting to lighten the sullen mood of his younger friend, and his late best friend’s son. “Mark. They’re going to let her go. They’ve got to nail the big guys, not the operatives! And she’s now compliant.” McKay nodded slowly, reluctantly and resentfully. Nevertheless, the first flashes of resignation had begun to invade his hitherto resolute scowl.

  “And her fanaticism, no doubt, will beat a path to the main quarry.” The other two senior men remained pokerfaced, silent. “I need a drink. A jolly good one. And where’s Sutton?”

  Cautiously, Mountfitchet and Burrows submitted faint grins and quaffed, out of relief and almost simultaneously. The senior one then rose to his feet and marched to the bar to recharge their glasses.

  Burrow turned to the now tired, tad greyer-looking McKay and asked, “So, Mark, is it back to Lincolnshire for you? Or do you fancy some sort of holiday in warmer climes?”

  It wasn’t just the recuperative infirmness which delayed his reply, but McKay was giving the DI’s question protracted consideration. The truth was that, in Cambridge, McKay had found a place – he dare not call it ‘home’ yet – which he had started to love; physically so, but spiritually, too. Whether it was wandering ponderously, sometimes aimlessly, around its mediaeval, wall-straddled and uneven streets, or marvelling, somewhat pathetically, at the sequestered St Clare’s Fellows’ Garden from across the Cam, he had become enchanted.

  Confessedly, much of what he knew about the place had come from his late father, the old cad! That was, certainly, a mark against it! Yet McKay himself had seen enough of
Cambridge to clock that he was starting to love it all – from capstone to cobblestone!

  Mountfitchet had just reclaimed his seat, having laden the table with a substantial, shiny cargo of beverages, when McKay’s demeanour quickened a little. He had spotted WPC Amy Sutton striding across to their table, beaming with her airy summer dress swaying all about.

  “We’ll need another drink, Wing Commander! A diet something or other, I’d wager!”

  McKay reflected Amy’s direct and unfettered smile measure for measure but, as far as the previous discussion was concerned, he felt that there really was nothing more to be said.

  Cambridge Evening Chronicle, Friday May 17th, 2002

  Bonnie and Clive get mural than they bargained for!

  A Cambridge couple were shocked to uncover a mural of swastikas and other NAZI imagery and slogans whilst decorating their flat on Mill Road.

  “We bargained hard with the landlord before we could even afford to buy our flat off him and we didn’t expect to find anything like this,” said a shocked 32-year-old Bonnie Hargreaves, a telephonist at CUP.

  “I mean, you expect to find the odd flower pattern or bright 1970s’ colour when redecorating, but nothing like that stuff we found!” said bricklayer husband Clive.

  DI Paul Burrows of Cambridgeshire CID commented, “We have no evidence that would stand up in court proving exactly which of the previous occupants put that stuff on the wall. Neighbours inform us that, when under the previous tenant, there were numerous visitors to the flat at all hours of the day and night.”

  He added, “I should point out that what are believed to have been the remains of the previous tenant’s assassinated body were recently discovered buried in woodland near Amsterdam. Sarah Millar’s assassin is known to Interpol and is still at large but is not believed to pose a threat to anyone currently in the UK.”