ARCHANGEL HAWTHORNE (A Thriller)

by D. M. Mitchell

‘No you don’t. Do you really want to turn out like your father, a murdering scumbag?’

  ‘He wasn’t a scumbag!’ he yelled. ‘He was my father!’

  ‘You’ve got a choice here, Callum,’ he said calmly, though inside he was starting to get worked up at the young man’s state of mind. ‘You put that thing down and leave it with me and walk away. I’ll not pursue this. Or you pull the bloody trigger and get it over and done with.’

  Callum Baxter stared down the sight of the gun, Hawthorne’s unflinching form so close he couldn’t fail to miss. But something made him hesitate, his finger stuck unmoving on the trigger as if it was frozen.

  ‘Dad!’ came a scream from behind Callum.

  Callum turned instinctively, saw a slender figure running towards him, his gun-arm swinging round to face the unexpected threat.

  The gun went off. Callum had never intended it to. It all happened as if someone else’s finger had pulled the trigger, not his. The loud retort caused him to drop the weapon immediately.

  The young woman, dressed as if she’d been downtown, her white handbag looking incongruously stark against her dark coat, staggered a step or two, and then dropped like a dead weight to the pavement.

  ‘Isobel!’ yelled Hawthorne. ‘Isobel!’

  He ran to her, dropped to his knees beside her still-squirming body.

  Callum Baxter stared horrified at the scene, putting a hand to his mouth to stop the gagging. He ran away, aimlessly and as fast as he could, leaving Hawthorne to administer what aid he could to his wounded daughter.

  She died of her wound six hours later in hospital. Her final words were that she was worried something was going to happen to him when she saw the strange man with a gun. Why do that, Hawthorne asked her? Why run at him like that? She didn’t answer. She fell into a coma and never came out of it.

  Callum Baxter went on the run for three weeks before they finally caught him. They wanted manslaughter, a lesser sentence, arguing the shooting wasn’t intentional, but he got sent down for murder. Thirty years. But Hawthorne’s life would never be the same. His marriage broke up four years later; his wife just couldn’t come to terms with the fact that his job had killed her only daughter. She gave him an ultimatum: the job or the marriage. He was even more determined to clear Sheffield of scum, and he couldn’t give that up – it gave him a reason to live, something to fight back at the tremendously crippling hurt and guilt he felt at losing his own sweet little Isobel. So the marriage crumbled.

  Then drink took over, the job never going to be enough to stem his fevered emotions and blot out the memories. He’d been going down the pan ever since, hardly bothering what happened to him any more. His policing methods grew increasingly unorthodox, but he didn’t care so long as he got his man, took another bastard off the streets and put him behind bars where he belonged.

  But to add salt to his wounds, Callum Baxter got out early, seven months ago, after doing just fifteen out of the thirty. He made some kind of a deal – early release in return for names, lots of them, his promise of testifying in court eventually putting many of Sheffield’s biggest scum behind bars. So where had that come from? Hawthorne had been quick to ask the question. Where and when did young Callum Baxter ever get that kind of insider information? And why wait fifteen years to let it all out? But that was never fully answered. He guessed the means justified the end, and people didn’t care as long as they got what they wanted. The streets were that little bit cleaner with a few big fish out of action. But to Hawthorne it wasn’t worth it. He wanted Callum Baxter to die behind bars, just as he had died on the day the young thug had killed his daughter.

  How he wished Baxter had pulled the trigger on him instead of his girl. What cruel bastard of a God could do this to someone? What the hell did he need to live for? He had nothing, and that scumbag Callum Baxter was as free as a bird, the word circulating that he’d even got help with some kind of safe haven somewhere, given a new identity, maybe, hidden away from the many gangland members in Sheffield that now wanted the grasser dead. Baxter got his chance at a new life. Me, he thought, I’ve got the shredded remnants of the old one to hang on to. Christ, life was a damn pisser!

  Hawthorne wiped his hand over his head and sighed. He could do with a bath – he stank to high heaven. What would Isobel think of him if she saw him now? She’d not be pleased, that’s for sure. She’d tell him off. Tell him to get his act together.

  ‘You’re right, little girl,’ he said, rising from the sofa with some difficulty. ‘You were always right.’

  He lifted the photograph frame from the TV and kissed the image. ‘Sleep tight, Isobel. I’m going to get in the tub…’

  He kicked over the line of beer bottles as he came back across the carpet.

  They lay there, like brittle brown reminders of his sad little life.

  Life was a pisser. Men like Callum Baxter, and his father before him, they should never have been born. But they ended up getting everything, while the good guys get nothing.

  He straightened. It isn’t going to stay like that, he thought bitterly. He was determined to put things right, whatever it took, whoever he had to trample over to do it.

  But first he needed a bath.

  Then perhaps one more drink before bed, to settle the nerves.

  7

  Turbulent Wake

  ‘I’ve brought you these,’ said George ‘Spud’ Wainwright.

  Trudy Garner looked up. She was still sitting against the wall in the dark. She’d no idea what time it was. Her eyes burned, because she couldn’t sleep, didn’t want to sleep. She eyed the man warily.

  ‘Who are you?’ she asked, her voice almost cracking.

  ‘I’ve brought these for you,’ he repeated, coming down the stairs, in one hand holding up a lantern, in the other a galvanised metal bucket. She continued to stare, her eyes severe. ‘It’s a bucket,’ he said, rather pointlessly, ‘in case you need to… Well, you know. Do your business. There’s some toilet paper inside, and a blanket. And there’s a bit of food, too. A sandwich.’ Spud placed the bucket down on the floor, the sound of metal grating against stone seeming discordant and harsh in the empty room. ‘Do you like cheese? It’s cheddar.’ He dipped his hand into the bucket and took out a grey army blanket and a thickly cut sandwich.

  ‘I don’t want your food!’ she said, turning away from him.

  ‘You must be hungry,’ said Spud. ‘Go on; eat something, just a little bit. I made it myself. It’s fine.’

  ‘I said take the damn stuff away!’

  Spud looked almost hurt by her reaction. ‘I’ll leave it here, shall I?’ he said, turning the bucket upside down and placing the sandwich gently on top of it. ‘Do you want a cup of tea or anything?’

  Trudy was about to tell him where he could put his tea when she saw his expression, like that of a dog about to be whipped. ‘Where’s my husband?’ she asked, sensing the man’s inherent gentleness.

  ‘He’s…’ Spud, sucked on his lower lip. ‘He’s doing just fine.’

  ‘I want to see him.’

  ‘We can’t let you see him, not just yet.’

  ‘Is he all right?’ There was something in his hesitation, in the way he turned his head briefly away to look at the bucket that made her heart lurch. ‘Is he all right? Tell me!’

  ‘Look, stop that shouting, because it ain’t gonna do you any good in the long run. Not with Callum and Jimmy…’

  ‘Is he still alive?’ she asked, the words threatening to swell up in her mouth and choke her.

  ‘Alive?’ said Spud. ‘Sure, he’s alive! He’s been asking for you…’

  ‘He has?’ She swallowed. ‘Then let me see him.’ She got to her feet and went over to him, and he backed away a step.

  ‘You stay right there, miss. No further.’

  ‘What’s your name?’ she said gently.

  ‘Spud,’ he replied.

  ‘I hope that’s not your real name,’ she said, smiling.

  ‘A nickname,’ he
answered.

  ‘What’s your real name?’

  He shook his head. ‘Sorry, I’m not that stupid.’

  ‘Okay, Spud, we’ll leave it at that. Look, you seem like a really nice man to me. I don’t know what you’re doing with the likes of those other people, but you don’t appear to me to be the same…’

  ‘I’ve gotta go,’ he said.

  ‘No, wait!’ she begged. ‘Please, not yet. It’s cold, it’s dark, and I’m afraid…’

  He blinked, looked straight at her wide, tearful eyes, her partially outstretched hand.

  ‘No need to be afraid,’ he said. ‘Honestly…’

  ‘I’m Trudy,’ she said. ‘My name’s Trudy.’

  ‘I’ve gotta be going, Trudy,’ he said.

  ‘Are they going to hurt me too?’

  He took in a sharp breath. ‘No. They’re not going to hurt you.’

  ‘The other one looks like he wanted to.’ Her gaze was steely. ‘The little ginger-haired one.’

  ‘Jimmy? Well, he ain’t gonna hurt you,’ he said.

  ‘And you can stop him?’

  Spud’s voice grew stern. ‘Will you just put a sock in it? Can’t you see, the more you cause trouble the more…’

  ‘The more what?’ she said. ‘The more likely it is something’s going to happen to me?’

  ‘I never said that.’ He placed the paraffin lamp on the floor. ‘The boss says you can have this.’

  ‘This is kidnapping, you know, keeping us here like this. And heaven help you if anything happens to Josh, because if he dies then you’ll hang. You do know that, don’t you? But if anything does happen to my husband then you’d better hope the hangman gets to you before I do.’ Her chest was heaving and there was venom in her voice.

  The door at the top of the cellar steps opened and light dashed in.

  ‘Spud, what’re you doing down there?’

  ‘Nothing, Jimmy,’ he replied. ‘Just coming up.’

  ‘Then get a move on and get your arse up here.’

  Spud gave one last glance at the young woman before mounting the steps. Jimmy Baxter blocked his path. The youth leant forward and whispered: ‘Don’t get any ideas, Spud.’

  ‘What kind of ideas?’

  ‘Pretty little woman flashing her eyes and tits at you. A man like you can get his head turned by a tart like that.’

  ‘Bollocks to you, Jimmy!’ he snarled, pushing by him.

  Jimmy Baxter looked down at Trudy. ‘Try to keep the noise down, eh? Your hubby needs peace and quiet.’ He grinned. ‘He’s a lucky man. You’re quite a catch.’

  She didn’t reply. She wouldn’t give him the pleasure. So she turned away to face the wall, hands shoved into the pocket of her jeans.

  Jimmy studied her slender form, her narrow waist and wide hips, the long legs. With a grunt, he left the room, the door closing with a resounding thud.

  Trudy Garner’s fingers closed tightly around the small penknife. She’d had a mad, vague idea of charging at Spud with it, disabling him, dashing upstairs and finding her husband. But what then? Would she be able to do enough damage with the tiny knife to actually floor Spud, who was quite a large man? She decided against it, and so the knife remained concealed in her pocket. Glancing at the sandwich, her stomach gave a tiny rumble of protest. Instead of giving in to it, she grabbed the blanket and took it over to her place by the wall, covering herself with it and hunkering down against the cold. The paraffin lamp guttered, the smell of paraffin both comforting and disquieting. She looked over to the small slit in the wall, wondering how long it would be before morning came, and what fresh horrors a new day would bring.

  He loved the mornings. And thank the Lord he did, because it would have been a devil of a job being a postman in rural Wales if not. Okay, so some mornings were damp, cold and miserable, and riding this damn bike in those conditions wasn’t fun. But, on the whole, thought David Williams, he didn’t mind being the local postie. He’d done worse in his time, been down the mines until he was thirty-something, and had almost buggered his lungs in the process. But this job had helped him a lot. He’d seen men his age grow old before their time, seen a lot of close friends succumb to that slow, coughing death called silicosis. But he was as fit as a fiddle, he liked to think, coming up to his fifty-ninth birthday and still able to shoulder the heavy bag and peddle up and down the same hills he’d played among as a child. Well, almost. He was feeling it a bit nowadays. Not as easy on the knees as it used to be. But he was determined to last out as long as he could: it meant a lot to an old nosey parker like him.

  He grinned as he let the bike freewheel down one of the long, narrow roads that snaked across the hills. He liked being at the centre of things, part of the close community hereabouts. He enjoyed talking to people on their doorsteps about anything and everything, guessing what was in their letters, their parcels, reading their postcards from relatives away on holiday. Kids shouted out to him and waved. They called him Williams the Letter. He liked that. Some called him Williams the Nose, on account of the fact he seemed to know just about everything to know about everyone’s business. But he took all that in good part, and he was never short of a drink or two bought for him at the local by people wanting to keep on the right side of him.

  There was a thin, almost spectral blanket of mist in the valleys this morning, and the birds were trilling away like it was their last morning. The sun was out, burnishing the autumn leaves, his bike wheels rolling through great banks of them gathered up by the wind and placed at the roadside. The crisp sound they made under the tyres was quite satisfying, he thought.

  The car caught his attention again. A light-blue Ford Anglia parked across the gateway to one of Bryn Jones’ fields. He’d seen it yesterday afternoon as he’d pedalled home following his deliveries, and hadn’t paid it much attention. But it was still here the next day.

  He put the brakes on and brought the bike to a halt beside the car, nimbly stepping off before it had stopped. He looked around him. There was no sign of anyone in any of the fields, on any of the hills. David Williams leant the bike against the Anglia and took a look round the car. It was in good condition, almost new. He peered through the windows. There was nothing out of the ordinary in there. A woman’s cardigan on the back seat. A road atlas of the UK left on the passenger seat.

  ‘Hello there!’ he called out. ‘Anyone here?’

  A couple of birds, startled by his cries, took to the air with a hurried cracking sound.

  He shook his head. It was a good job this place was so quiet and hardly anyone came along. Anywhere else and they might have had it broken into. He hadn’t time to mess around, so he climbed back on board the bike. Later that morning, he’d be delivering a letter or two to Bryn Jones up at the farm, and he’d tell him about the car. Maybe he knew something about it.

  Pushing off and tipping his peaked hat back on his head, David Williams began to whistle a little tune his mother had taught him a long time ago, the car already fading from his thoughts as the resulting breeze carried the damp smells of autumn into his weathered face.

  ‘You look like shit, sir, if you don’t mind me saying,’ said Inspector Donald Fraser.

  DCI Hawthorne looked up from the paperwork on his desk. ‘I do mind you saying, Fraser,’ he grumbled like distant thunder.

  ‘You’re in early,’ said Fraser, hanging up his coat on a coat stand by the office door. He took a packet of cigarettes from out of the coat pocket. ‘Couldn’t you sleep?’

  ‘A good policeman never sleeps, didn’t they teach you that in school?’ said Hawthorne sarcastically.

  Fraser smiled, lighting up a cigarette. ‘If you say so, sir,’ he said. ‘Want a fag?’

  Hawthorne was tempted, but he was making a determined effort to cut down. He’d already smoked half a packet of Woodbines and it wasn’t even a quarter to eight in the morning. He shook his head as a reply and sifted through paper. A phone rang on an officer’s desk, but there was no one around to get it. Fraser
went over to answer it.

  ‘Leave that alone and look at these,’ said Hawthorne.

  Fraser came over. ‘What have you got there?’

  ‘Mug shots,’ said Hawthorne shortly. He went to a well-used notice board dotted with drawing pins, and plucked a few of the brass tacks out. He placed three photos on the board, jabbing them with pins to fix them in place. ‘Nev Murray, Bas Conway and Billy Joe Kidman.’

  ‘I know who they are, boss,’ said Fraser. ‘They’re all doing time, so what have they got to do with the Grainger Forges robbery?’

  ‘Every one of them fingered by Callum Baxter.’

  ‘Yeah, boss, I know that, too.’ He raised his brows and cocked his head. He’d heard about Hawthorne’s past dealings with Callum Baxter, and the hatred that floated like froth on a beer on Hawthorne’s lips whenever he mentioned the man’s name. ‘So what about it?’

  ‘This morning, while you were still in the middle of your beauty sleep, I went to visit one of my narks. Didn’t much care for being roused from his bed before the cock had crowed, but we had ourselves a good chin-wag. Give him enough money to get himself blind drunk and usually he’ll sing like a budgie, but this morning he was different. His mouth was clamped as tight as a nun’s arse. Had the devil of a job getting anything out of him. Never seen the blighter as nervous before.’ Hawthorne stared at the red knuckles of his right hand and flexed his fingers. ‘He talked eventually.’

  Fraser gave a quiet sigh. He’d seen Hawthorne’s uncompromising methods before, and though he knew it was necessary to occasionally give a demonstration as to how heavy the police could be, Hawthorne’s approach was more akin to a sledgehammer, and getting worse in the short time he’d known his senior officer. Even Hawthorne’s narks had grown wary of the man and almost afraid to do business with him. No doubt Hawthorne employed blackmail and threats alongside the frequent use of his fist and wallet to get them to comply with his demands. But recently they hadn’t been at all reliable. Not that Hawthorne would have any of that. He stood by his tried and trusted, if quite frankly old-fashioned and increasingly out-of-touch methods. The police force was changing, and Donald Fraser represented the new guard in that respect. His assignment to Hawthorne’s squad didn’t go down well with the blunt older copper. Their relationship still bumped along at the bottom of the tank some six months later. Fraser had been shoehorned into the squad in order to inject something of the new into proceedings, and it hadn’t only been Hawthorne he’d had to deal with. He was the only Scot in a sea of granite-faced Yorkshiremen, and each and every one of them not only admired their superior, but at times it was sickeningly akin to a form of hero worship. Bringing this place into the modern times was going to take more than one lonely Scot.