A Dangerous Life (DCI Jack Callum Mysteries Book 2)

by Len Maynard

  All the doors leading off from the hall were closed except the door to the conservatory. Moving around Hester’s body, she crept on tiptoe across the carpet towards the open door. She approached the doorway, glancing into the room and ducking back out of sight as she saw the tableau inside.

  Lois Turner was slumped face down on the bamboo couch, blood and brains from a head wound dribbling down the chintz upholstery and forming a pool on the Italian-tiled floor. Pressed up against the piano was a wheelchair. There was a figure in the wheelchair, Thomas Usher, his legs covered by a plaid blanket, his greying head slumped to one side, eyes open but staring into nothingness, spittle dribbling down one side of his chin from a mouth that gaped open lopsidedly.

  He didn’t move, not even to acknowledge her presence as she stepped into the room and crossed to Lois Turner to check her pulse. Feeling nothing Myra let the wrist drop, got to her feet and froze as a voice sounded behind her.

  “I must admit, you’re prettier than most of the plods I’ve had on my tail over the years.”

  Myra spun round and stared into Thomas Usher’s very alert and smiling face.

  30 - TUESDAY

  Usher was sitting upright in the wheelchair, his eyes bright and clear. He’d wiped the drool from his chin.

  “I…I thought…”

  The smile widened. “Yes, so did everyone. I think I’ve played the role of the pathetic invalid quite well, don’t you? Better than Tony Turner could have done anyway. Driving is still a problem for me, but one of my lads brought me over here. He’s waiting in the van, just up the road by the phone box so I can call for him to pick me up when I finish here.”

  Myra just stared at him.

  “What’s your name by the way?”

  “Banks. WPC Banks.”

  “Well, WPC Banks, do you have your handcuffs on you?”

  Myra nodded.

  “Good. Go over to the wall behind you, sit down on the floor and cuff yourself to the radiator.”

  As she shook her head and opened her mouth to protest, Usher took his hand out from under the blanket to show her that his fingers were curled around the stock of a black revolver. He twitched it. “I won’t tell you twice,” he said, still smiling benignly.

  When she didn’t move he squeezed the trigger and fired, the bullet kicking up dust and chips of ceramic as it buried itself deep in the tiles at her feet.

  Myra threw herself back against the wall and, winded, slid down until she was sitting on the floor. She took out her handcuffs and threaded one cuff through the pipes of the cast iron radiator, and then closed it around her wrist.

  “And the other wrist.” He twitched the revolver again and watched her closely as she attached the other cuff. The radiator was on and pumping out steady heat. The cast iron was burning her skin and she strained to keep her wrists away from the scorching metal.

  “That’s better.” Usher lowered the gun. “I hate using these things.” He nodded at the weapon. “I always feel it makes me less of a man, but, as you see, I’m hardly in a position to use my strength to persuade you.”

  “I thought you said you were acting.”

  “Ah, you misunderstand me, WPC Banks. My stroke was real, very real, and left me with certain disabilities, but it could have been so much worse, and I’ve let people think that it was.” He gave a short sharp belch of laughter. “At least it got you lot off my tail for a while. ‘Poor old Tommy Usher. He’s a cabbage now I hear’. You wouldn’t believe some of the tales that have built up around me.”

  “You were very convincing. I’ve heard some of those tales myself.”

  “As was my intention. Plods like yourself were never the sharpest chisels in the toolbox. Your governors just use you like blunt instruments, letting you do all the donkey work while they stand around and wait to collect the glory.”

  Myra shifted on the floor. The burning pain in her wrists was becoming unbearable and she bit the insides of her cheek to stop herself crying out. She would not give Usher the satisfaction.

  “What about your governor, Miss Banks, is he a uniformed glory-seeker?”

  “Jack Callum’s a damned fine policeman,” she snapped at him and instantly regretted it as she saw a light flare in his eyes.

  “Chief Inspector Callum.” He rolled the name around in his mouth, as if he were savouring a fine wine. “He’s your boss? I know the name but not the man. So it’s him you have to thank for your current predicament.”

  Myra tilted her chin pugnaciously and glared at him. “He’s got your number.”

  “Really?” Usher smiled, and cupped a hand to his ear. “And yet I can’t hear the bells of approaching salvation, so perhaps your faith in him is misplaced.”

  “Why did you kill Tony Turner?” Myra said suddenly, trying to steer the conversation away from her boss and his investigations.

  Usher spun around in his chair.

  “Because he was becoming a bloody nuisance,” Usher said savagely.

  For the first time Myra glimpsed behind the urbane mask, and it scared her.

  “His impersonations of me were fun at first and could be very useful indeed, but he took it too far. It’s remarkable that what started out as a skit, a spoof at my fortieth birthday party at the Flamingo, could prove to be such a boon in the years to come.

  “He and a couple of his actor cronies wrote and performed this short comedy sketch with Tony portraying me as some kind of Al Capone figure. I don’t remember the exact details apart from a few gags about tax evasion, but I saw how accurate Turner’s impersonation of me was, and I saw the potential. I realised that here was the instant alibi. Christ, the fun I had, out pulling job after job all over the South and on every one of them I had about twenty or thirty witnesses telling your lot that I was at my club all evening and never left my private booth, not for a second. Tony didn’t complain. His career had hit the skids and was sliding all the way down the toilet, plus he owed me for pulling out of the escort business, leaving me high and dry.

  “But, like all good things, it came to an end once that bastard stroke got me. At least I thought it had. Simon bloody Docherty had other ideas. When they brought me back from Switzerland and Brussels – Christ what a boring country that is – he staged a welcome home party for me at the Flamingo, with a guest list of some of the nastiest bastards in the South London underworld, some of the major faces. There was I in my private booth, the picture of health after my miraculous recovery in foreign parts. In actual fact I was in a nursing home by the coast – bloody Dymchurch of all places. Somewhere I used to go when I was a nipper – Tony Turner took my place that night and for many more nights afterwards. All the guests were sworn to secrecy on the understanding that if news leaked out that I was back in the game, the police investigation would start again, and no one wanted that.

  “You have to hand it to Simon. It was something of a masterstroke. He could carry on with business, supposedly sanctioned by me, but without having to involve me at all. I was out of the way at the seaside so he had a free reign to do as he liked.

  “And it all worked out fine for a while. I was playing the role of the pathetic invalid. Docherty and his bitch of a sister would come to visit me and speak freely in front of me, thinking I couldn’t understand what they were saying, and even if I could I couldn’t do anything about it. But they were wrong. I understood totally what they were planning. Even down to the deals they were making with that piece of slime Albert Klein, that maggot Jew with his drug dealing; getting kids hooked on the filthy stuff without a care that he was probably killing them. Kids like my brother Cyril.”

  Usher lapsed into silence, his eyes brimming with tears.

  If she didn’t know that Usher was a murdering psychopath, Myra could almost feel sorry for him.

  Now he had stopped talking her mind started to refocus on her scorched wrist. “So what did you do?” she said to snap him out of his reverie. “There was Simon Docherty and his sister effectively taking over your business, and th
ere’s you in a Dymchurch nursing home not being able to do a damned thing about it.”

  Usher suddenly snapped back to the present. “Ah, but that’s where they were wrong. I still had people who were loyal to me. Jimmy Dymond for one. Jimmy and I went to school together in Peckham. He wasn’t given much in the way of brains, but he was a big kid for his age, and tough. So when we were growing up he was my protector. In return I saw that his schoolwork was always done on time, and done to a reasonable standard. The school never caught on, so he never got into trouble with them. When we left and I started my own business – money lending it was – I took Jimmy on as my debt collector, and he’s been at my side ever since, loyal to a fault.

  “It was Jimmy who came to tell me that Docherty, Klein and Turner had restarted negotiations with those American Micks, the O’Briens, and I didn’t like the sound of that. I needed to know what they were planning, but the meeting last Tuesday was a strictly private affair, so Jimmy and a couple of his lads followed Turner back here to Letchworth and took him over the Common to find out what they’d been discussing. As I said, Jimmy’s not intellectually blessed but he does have a knack for extracting information from reluctant subjects.”

  “So he nailed Turner to a tree and tortured him,” Myra said.

  “Did I mention that Jimmy has got an awful temper? I don’t think he intended to kill Tony at the outset, but Jimmy had watched them playing out this bloody game for so long, he figured they were just taking the piss out of me, and his natural protective instinct just got the better of him.”

  “So Jimmy Dymond killed Tony Turner, not you.”

  Usher nodded his head. “But that’s not the way it will play. I have my reputation to think of. Mind you, had I done it myself I would have cut off his balls and sent them to that bitch of a wife of his.”

  “I heard she spoke very highly of you too.” Myra shifted her arms again.

  Usher gave another bark of laughter. “My word, I like you, WPC Banks. You’ve got spunk. I’ll give you that. Not a lot of sense, but spunk. I admire that in a woman.”

  31 - TUESDAY

  Usher wheeled himself across the floor until he was a yard away from her. He reached down and lifted one of her wrists, pulling it as far away from the radiator as her other cuffed hand would allow. She winced as he ran his finger over the scorched skin.

  “Nasty. I think that’s going to blister,” he said matter-of-factly and let her arm drop.

  “Are you going to kill me?”

  He looked at her steadily, raised an eyebrow but said nothing. Instead he turned the wheelchair to roll back to the centre of the room.

  He turned to face her once more. “There’s no rush is there? I rarely get a chance to talk to people these days, keeping up this bloody charade. You don’t mind me bending your ear, do you?”

  “I’m only too happy to listen.” She was buying time. If she could just keep him talking, she might be able to find a way out of this mess, and in doing so save her own life.

  “Good.” Usher clapped a hand down on his knee.

  “I’d be happier though if I could move away from the radiator. The burning is distracting me.”

  A thoughtful frown creased his brow. After a moment he said. “All right.” He rolled back to her and held out his hand. “Key?”

  “It’s in my tunic.” She nodded at her left-hand breast pocket.

  He reached into the pocket and took out the key and slipped it into the cuff securing her right wrist, at the same time he produced the gun again.

  “When I unlock it, very carefully take the cuff from behind the radiator and secure yourself again. If you try anything stupid, or reckless I’ll put a bullet between your eyes. I may not like these bloody things but I know how to use one, as I’m sure you noticed when you came in.” He twisted the key in the lock and the cuff fell free.

  All thoughts of making a dash for it froze in her mind as he tapped her gently on the forehead with the barrel of the revolver. With a resigned sigh she hooked the cuff over her wrist and closed it again.

  When she was secured once more he said, “Now, what shall we talk about? As you can see, I’ve killed Lois and the old biddy that lives with her. Perhaps I’ll tell you what I’m planning to do to her brother. If he thinks he can bring the O’Briens’ filthy drugs onto my manor, he has another think coming.”

  “Yes, Tommy, tell us how you plan to kill Simon Docherty,” Jack said from the doorway. “I’ve already heard enough to see that you finish your life at the end of a rope.”

  Anger flared in Usher’s eyes and he raised the gun, his other hand thrusting down on the wheel to turn himself, ready to fire. As he turned Myra kicked out with both feet and connected with the wheelchair, sending it spinning. The impact jarred him and his finger jerked on the trigger, firing the revolver. Myra grunted as the bullet slammed into her and she fell backwards onto the floor.

  Jack launched himself across the room, diving on top of Usher, knocking the gun from his hand, the momentum carrying both men to the floor, where they landed in a tangle of arms legs and wheelchair. Jack tried to move but his body was trapped beneath Usher’s and, as he tried to heave him off, Usher’s hands came up and grabbed him around the throat. All urbanity had gone from Usher face which was now a mask of white hot rage as he pressed his thumbs into Jack’s windpipe, cutting off his air supply, and no matter how much he bucked and kicked out he could not shift Usher’s dead weight.

  “Fucking rozzer!” Usher hissed at him and gritted his teeth to make one last effort to kill him. Then, as if someone had thrown a switch, a shadow moved behind his eyes, the left side of his face sagged and he gave a strangled cry, pitching forward, his finger’s releasing Jack’s throat, his ruined face smacking into the tiled floor.

  For a second or so they lay there, frozen in the moment, and then Jack finally managed to roll Usher off of him and get to his feet. Without a backwards glance at Usher’s dead body he crouched down beside Myra, cradling her head in his arm while he searched his pocket for a handkerchief. He found it quickly and folded it into a pad that he pressed against the hole in the shoulder of her tunic from which blood was leaking in a steady flow.

  “Bloody hell!” Fuller exclaimed as he walked into the room. “What happened here?”

  Jack spun round. “Call for an ambulance, Eddie!” he shouted.

  Fuller stared down at the dead body on the floor. “I think Usher is beyond their help.”

  “It’s not for him. It’s for Myra!”

  Fuller stared and the full importance of what he was seeing finally struck home. He turned and dashed out to the car to use the radio.

  “Myra,” Jack said softly, and her eyes fluttered open.

  “Hello, sir,” she managed to croak.

  “That was quick thinking, kicking the chair like that. You saved my life,”

  “It’s the same chair my dad has.” She said weakly. “They turn on a sixpence if you give them a shove. Wasn’t counting on getting shot though.” She glanced down at the bloody handkerchief, gave a soft sigh and passed out.

  Somewhere in the house a telephone started to ring. After a few seconds a disembodied voice sounded.

  “This is a recording. Lois Turner is not here at the moment to take your call. If you would like to leave a message, you can do so after the tone.”

  There followed a short beeping sound.

  “Lois, it’s Simon again. Lois? Lois? Damn it, Bláthnaid! Pick up the bloody ’phone! I hate these machines. Okay, perhaps you’re not there. Well, I’m still at the hotel, but I have to leave now to get to the airport. Our flight leaves in just over an hour. If you don’t make it in time I’ll leave your ticket at the check-in counter. Hopefully you will.”

  The line went dead.

  “Looks like you’ll be travelling alone, old son,” Jack said quietly as the bell of an approaching ambulance cut through the afternoon silence.

  Jack and Fuller sat in the car and watched the ambulance, its bell ringing
urgently, pull out of the gates and take a right onto the road.

  “Is she going to be all right?” Fuller said.

  “It was a clean shot to the shoulder. The bullet went straight through, missing her collarbone so, according to the ambulance-man she should make a full recovery. It means she’ll be out of commission for a few weeks, and in considerable pain for a few weeks longer than that, but it could have been a lot worse. She was lucky.”

  “You sound relieved.”

  Jack frowned. “I am. It doesn’t say a lot for my leadership skills when one of my officers makes a rash decision and puts her life at risk.”

  “I don’t think you could have foreseen her actions. I think Myra had something to prove.”

  “Such as?”

  Fuller leaned forward and started the car. “It doesn’t matter.”

  “On the contrary, Sergeant, I think it matters a lot.”

  Fuller made great play of putting the car into gear and following the ambulance out through the gates. “Just let it lie, Jack.”

  “Sorry, not good enough, Eddie. You’re keeping something from me. What did I say to you the other day about me being able to trust my sergeants? Spit it out, man.”

  Fuller pulled onto the main road and took a breath. “I suppose you’re aware of the gossip going around the station about you and Myra?”

  Jack laughed. “Yes, Eddie. I’m aware of it.”

  “And it doesn’t bother you?”

  “If I was bothered about all the old toffee that’s said about me, I wouldn’t be able to do my job.”