‘Are we playing or what?’ said Tom Brody. His double chin wobbled as he angled his head sharply.
‘Eh?’ said Spud, turning back to face Brody. ‘What, playing? Oh, yeah. Is it my turn?’
‘Where the bloody hell are you, Spud?’ said Brody. He slapped his cards down on the table. ‘This is a waste of time.’
Spud stared dolefully down at the scarred tabletop, the curled edges of the well-thumbed playing cards, the matches that represented money. Strange, he thought, how they were all rolling in dough now, but they still had to play for matches. No one was allowed to even sniff the money they’d stolen, risked everything for, no one except Callum. He kept it locked down a hole in one of the barns, the wooden trapdoor padlocked. Even Jimmy wouldn’t dare cross his brother over that and try to pick the lock. You’ll get your share all in good time, Callum had told them. When the time was right. Until then, it stayed where it was, and they had to stay where they were, too. But it was all going terribly wrong. The sight of that poor young man being shot like that. He was sure he was still alive when Brody dragged his still, bloody form and buried him in the boggy ground round back. Or maybe that was all in his tortured imagination.
But that girl downstairs in the cellar. She was very much alive, and her horrified, pathetic white face burned into his mind like a white-hot coal. Her tears shone like diamonds on her cheek.
‘What do you think they’re talking about, Tom?’ Spud said to Brody.
Tom Brody deliberately avoided the man’s gaze, made a pretence of arranging his cards on the table. ‘You know what they’re talking about.’
Callum, Jimmy and Angelo were outside in the yard. Through the window Spud could make out the glowing tips of their cigarettes, floating like fireflies in the dark. They were deep in conversation.
‘You think they’re going to kill the girl?’ Spud said.
‘Why don’t you just play?’
‘I don’t feel like playing.’
Brody sighed heavily. ‘Look, I don’t like this any more than you do, Spud. But what else can we do?’
‘There’s got to be another way.’
‘We’ve been through all that. And you keep going on about it like you are will really make Callum pissed. You don’t want to piss him off, do you?’
Spud shook his head. ‘We could all be hanged for this.’
‘If we get caught. We’re not going to get caught.’
‘I don’t want to die, Tom.’
Brody slammed his hand down hard on the table. ‘Christ, Spud, give it a bloody rest! You’re getting me all on edge, and it’s bad enough us having to be cooped up here in this dump without you twittering on all the time. Shut your bloody mouth!’
‘We could take our money and run, leave the girl behind.’
Brody reached out a hand and grabbed Spud by the collar of his ragged blue jumper, dragging him over the table. ‘Shut your face up, I said!’
‘Lovers’ tiff?’ It was Jimmy Baxter coming through the door, flicking his cigarette butt into the yard. He was grinning.
Brody let the man go. ‘He’s a bad loser,’ he said, glaring at Spud.
‘Where’s Callum and Angelo?’ said Spud.
‘What’s it to you?’ said Jimmy. He went over to the kettle which was sitting on an open fire, taking a cloth and wrapping it round the hot handle. He sloshed the boiling water into a mug and added instant coffee. The only time they could light a fire was at night, when it masked the smoke from the chimney.
Callum entered the cottage, his face devoid of emotion, Angelo Abramco slouching in after him. The Italian glanced at the men sitting at the table, but didn’t say anything. He ran his hand through his oiled black hair and silently padded up the stairs.
‘What’s going on, Callum?’ said Spud.
‘Nothing,’ Callum said absently. He went into what constituted the living room and closed the door behind him.
Spud rose from the table and went to the door.
‘Leave him alone, Spud,’ Brody advised. ‘You can see he doesn’t want to talk.’
Swallowing, Spud knocked gently on the door. ‘Callum, it’s me. I need to talk to you.’
Jimmy smiled and shook his head, sitting on a chair and putting his feet on the table, downing his coffee noisily.
‘Come in,’ said Callum.
With one last look at Brody, Spud entered the room and shut the door. He stood there, not sure what he should do next.
‘What is it, Spud?’ said Callum. He was sitting on a moth-eaten sofa, facing away from Spud and staring at a cold, dead fireplace. Cobwebs floated across the maw of the fire, where ashes lay in a grey mound.
Spud walked round to Callum’s front. ‘You’ve been talking to Angelo and Jimmy…’ he said.
‘So?’
‘What have you been talking about? Is it the girl?’
Callum looked at Spud from under his brows. ‘What if it is?’
‘So there’s no turning back, no changing your mind?’
‘We’ve had this out before, Spud,’ Callum said tiredly. ‘You know how it’s got to be.’
Spud nodded. ‘Sure I do. Sure I do. You’ve been put in an awkward position. They shouldn’t have been snooping around then none of this would have happened.’
‘Is there a point to this, Spud? If so, get round to it or get out.’
He coughed lightly. Blew out a breath. ‘I don’t want to be here when she’s… Well, I don’t want to be here.’
Callum’s head turned slowly. ‘So where do you want to be, Spud?’
‘I want out of here.’
‘Meaning?’
‘I can’t stand it, Callum. I didn’t sign up for murder. I‘m not that kind of a man. Hell, I’ve got a daughter of my own, not much younger than that girl down there. Look, there’s no reason I can’t take my share and disappear. You know me, you can trust me. I just don’t want to be here, that’s all.’
‘You’re too soft, Spud,’ said Callum. ‘You let her get to you.’
‘Yeah, that’s me, too soft by half. So how about it, Callum? I earned my share like anyone else. I deserve it. And when I’m gone, you can do what you like.’
Callum nodded. ‘That’s generous of you, Spud.’ He rolled his tongue over his front teeth. ‘Tell you what, you forfeit five thousand pounds and you can take the rest and go.’
Spud’s eyes widened, his lips breaking out into a nervous smile. ‘Really? You’d let me do that?’
‘Like you say, Spud, I can trust you. You’re not like the others. But you have to promise to keep your mouth shut if you’re caught. One word from you grassing us up and we’ll come and kill you, you understand?’
He nodded quickly. ‘Yes, yes, I understand.’
‘Leave it until tomorrow, eh?’ said Callum. ‘I’ve got a headache and things to sort out. We’ll get you your share tomorrow morning and you can leave.’
‘Thanks, Callum. Thanks a lot.’
He backed out of the room.
‘You look happy, Spud,’ said Jimmy. ‘Like the cat that’s got the cream.’
Spud sat back down at the table and picked up his cards. ‘Right, shall we play?’ he asked Brody.
‘Sure,’ agreed Brody.
Jimmy grinned broadly.
DCI Hawthorne hated to think of his little girl out here, cold and alone in the dark. She’d never particularly liked the dark, he thought. As a youngster, she’d come running into their bedroom in the middle of the night and snuggle up next to them in bed, complaining about bad dreams or bogeymen, and he could still feel her icy-cold little feet rubbing up and down his legs.
He bent down to the headstone, drawing his fingers over the deeply carved initials. The cold wind ripped across the cemetery, rippling the short grass which grew at the graveside.
‘Dad’s here, Isobel,’ he said, his voice trembling.
The sounds of the city intruded, a dull hum from motor cars and people, the street lamps casting their garish glow over the houses in the
streets beyond the walls of the cemetery. Life still went on, even at this time of night, he thought glumly, in a city that rarely slept.
He took a bottle of Johnny Walkers and swigged from the neck, sitting down on the grave with his back against his daughter’s headstone. He felt like crying, but he had no more tears left. He was empty. Totally hollowed out. He wasn’t a man anymore, he was like one of those fossil things, gave the impression of being a man. But that was when he was alive, many millions of years ago. Before his Isobel died, taking his life with her.
His free hand scraped away the gravel and dug into the dirt beneath. He wanted to reach right down and touch her again, because in his mind, she was as whole, as warm and as pretty as she’d always been. She wasn’t dead, rotted, mere bones, her casket collapsing into pieces about her.
‘It’s been another shitty day,’ he told her. ‘But I’ve got this young guy working with me. You’d like him. He’s got those sorts of good looks film stars have – you know, all square, straight lines, perfect teeth. He’s Scottish, mind, but you’d still like him. He’s the kind of man I had in mind for you. Except you really shouldn’t marry a copper. Look at the trouble my job caused your mum and me. But there are plenty of other blokes out there…’
He stopped himself. Wiped his dirty hand on his trousers.
A light blinded him and he raised that same hand to shield his eyes.
‘You can’t stay there,’ said a firm voice.
Hawthorne blinked, recognised a policeman in his cape, shining a torch at him.
‘Sorry officer, I was just leaving…’
He struggled to get to his feet, the drink having turned his senses to mush. He steadied himself on the headstone.
‘Is that you, DCI Hawthorne?’ said the policeman.
Hawthorne turned his head away. ‘I came to see my daughter, fell over in the dark and couldn’t get up…’ he said, his words slurring into each other.
The policeman put a hand under Hawthorne’s arm, helping him to his feet.
‘Yes, treacherous ground in the night,’ said the policeman. ‘Steady as you go now, sir.’
Hawthorne thanked him and gave him a wave as he wandered uncertainly away.
‘Do you need a hand, sir? Are you all right?’ asked the policeman.
The DCI’s arm waved in the air and he staggered down the gravel path that led to the exit.
‘I once knew a girl who looked almost exactly like you,’ said Callum Baxter.
Trudy Garner didn’t reply. She shivered beneath her woollen blanket. The air had grown decidedly chillier. She couldn’t stop shivering and she found it was impossible to take her eyes off the man, whose face was bathed in the soft glow from the paraffin lamp on the floor. He looked almost angelic, she thought, in a perverse way. Callum was picking at the nails of his right hand.
‘Thing is, I knew it from the minute I clapped eyes on you, but maybe I didn’t want to admit it.’ He smiled thinly. ‘You’re a dead-ringer for her, you know that? Is that weird or what?’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Trudy responded tiredly. ‘I don’t care to hear what you’ve got to say.’
‘Do you believe in Fate?’ said Callum.
‘Where’s my husband?’ said Trudy. ‘Take me to my husband.’ But the fire had gone out of it. They were just words now, so often repeated that they’d almost lost their meaning.
‘I never used to,’ he continued. ‘I thought Fate was for dreamers, people who couldn’t control their lives. Fate was for losers. But you turning up like this, it’s caused me to reconsider things.’ He shuffled closer and Trudy would have backed away hadn’t she already had her back to the wall. ‘Don’t be afraid. I just want to look at you more closely.’
Callum lifted his hand and gently wiped away the hair from her forehead. ‘You look uncannily like her,’ he said. ‘She was called Isobel. Isobel Hawthorne. She was the daughter of a copper. I killed her…’
She gasped, her breathing ragged.
He shook his head. ‘I didn’t mean to. It was an accident.’ His eyes hardened. ‘And I did my time for it. Fifteen years.’
‘You should still be in prison, you bastard,’ said Trudy.
‘I shouldn’t have to pay for it still, I’ve done my time,’ he said. ‘So why send you?’ He wiped a hand over his mouth. ‘Why send you?’
‘No one sent me,’ she said.
He studied her. Maybe you’re not like her at all, he thought. Maybe I think you look like her because I want you to.
‘I can still see the look on her face,’ he said. ‘It’s like it’s been painted inside my skull. She looked so shocked. I wanted to run to her, I really did, but I couldn’t. First, I was frozen solid, and then I ran away.’
‘That’s because you’re a coward, and cowards always run. You’re running away from something now, that’s why we’re here. That’s why you won’t let us go.’
‘I hated Hawthorne,’ he said. ‘I hate him to this day. But I never intended his daughter should get hurt.’
‘So what do you want from me? Absolution? You can go hang yourself,’ she spat.
She toyed with the penknife in her pocket. She was thankful none of them had thought to search her. In her mind, she was thrusting it deep into the man’s eye. But she held her nerves in check, let go of the penknife and slid her hand out of her pocket.
‘Whatever you’ve done,’ she said, changing tack, ‘it can be put right.’
‘Yeah?’ he said, blinking.
‘Yes. It doesn’t have to be like this.’ Slowly, she reached out and placed her hand on his. It felt warm to the touch, though she shuddered inside as her fingers made contact with his flesh.
He looked down at her delicate hand, grimy now, her long, slender fingers beautiful, he thought. He saw the wedding ring and immediately retracted his hand.
‘I’ve got to go now,’ he said. ‘I thought you might like something to eat, that’s all.’
‘How long have I got to stay here?’
He got to his feet. ‘A little while longer.’
His voice had had its edge chiselled off, she thought, and a change had come over his gaze; she didn’t know why he now regarded her with deep sorrowful eyes. It frightened her.
He could not get over the similarity to Hawthorne’s daughter. Even though he rubbed his eyes and blinked, he could not erase that similarity. It was as if he was being toyed with by unknown powers, tormented and teased. She was becoming more like her every time he saw her, and that was not possible.
‘When? When can we leave?’ she asked.
He turned his head away. ‘Soon,’ he said. ‘Very soon. And then it will all be over.’
10
All Very Odd
‘I need to know,’ said DCI Hawthorne.
‘No you don’t,’ said Superintendent Lloyd.
‘Where’s Callum Baxter?’ Hawthorne persisted.
‘You know I can’t tell you that,’ said Superintendent Lloyd patiently, clasping his hands in front of him on the desk. ‘So it’s no use bellowing like a bloody bull in heat trying to get it out of me. I’m not going to tell you and that’s final.’
‘He’s involved in the Grainger robbery.’
Lloyd smiled thinly, for a moment avoiding looking directly at the red-faced DCI. ‘That’s absurd and you know it, Hawthorne. Look, I’m going to be honest with you, I’ve had Eddie Bates’ lawyer bleating to me on the phone about how you beat up two of Bates’ men – even putting one in hospital with a broken jaw – and openly accusing Bates of not only being involved in the Grainger Forges robbery, but linking him, extraordinarily, to Callum Baxter. Now, I don’t really care what that scum Bates has to say ordinarily, but to hear you obsessing publicly about Baxter is not only unhealthy for you but potentially damaging to the force. Can’t you see how bonkers it all sounds? No one more than me knows how much pain it causes you to see Baxter walk free before his time, but Baxter’s testimony helped put away three major pains-in-the
-arses, and Sheffield’s a lot better for it. As for Callum Baxter, he’s dead if he shows so much as a whisker anywhere near the city. He has a price on his head so high that there are going to be a lot of takers out there looking to claim it. So Baxter might be free, but it comes with a price. If you want my opinion, he won’t be free for long, no matter where he is. They’ll find him and then it’s goodbye and good riddance Callum Baxter.’
Hawthorne’s face betrayed his inner turmoil. ‘He’s involved, sir.’
‘He’s not, Hawthorne. You’d like him to be involved, but he’s not. It’s in your head,’ he said, tapping his temple. ‘You’ve not a shred of proof except that of your own wild imagining. Anyhow, he can’t be involved. He’s not even in the country.’
The DCI blinked. ‘He’s abroad?’
‘As part of the deal, we found him a new identity, a new place somewhere. But he decided England wasn’t safe enough. Last we heard, he moved abroad. To Spain. Out of our hair for good. There’s no way he’d ever come back.’
‘Spain?’
‘Like I said, Baxter cannot be involved in the Grainger robbery.’ Lloyd leant forward and sighed. ‘Listen, Hawthorne, you’ve had a long and successful career, and you have the respect of your men - just. But you’ve not been yourself for a long time. Look at you – you’re a damn mess, and you stink of booze. That’s not the way I want my officers to behave. Gone are the good old days, Hawthorne. Times are changing, and the police force is changing with it. I’m determined it’s going to change. You’re fast becoming a dinosaur, Hawthorne. And your Tom-Mix-the-cowboy, hang-‘em-high methods are not something I fully approve of. Given your past record and what you’ve contributed to the force, I’m prepared to turn a blind eye every now and again. But lately you’re getting out of control. All this with Baxter has had a real effect on you, and not a good one at that.’ He looked down at the desk. ‘I know how it affected you, the death of your daughter. But that was fifteen years ago, and you need to let it go, or at least not let it affect your work. Sadly, I can’t see that happening. So I think it’s better for you to seriously consider your future.’
ARCHANGEL HAWTHORNE (A Thriller) Page 10
