ARCHANGEL HAWTHORNE (A Thriller)

by D. M. Mitchell

  ‘The car has been there a number of days now, and no one’s come to collect it. When did you last hear from them, exactly?’

  Armitage thought about it, but his mind wouldn’t work properly with the growing worry. He put a hand to his forehead to massage out the answer. ‘Five days, no six days ago. Trudy telephoned to say how much they were enjoying Wales.’

  ‘And nothing since?’

  He shook his head. ‘No, well I didn’t expect to hear from them. They’re on honeymoon. They’re hardly likely to keep telephoning us, are they?’

  ‘We’ll check with the landlord of the Coach and Horses to see if he’s heard from them.’

  ‘I have a telephone and I have the inn’s number. You can ring from here if you like.’

  ‘Thank you, sir; I will do that in a moment. Can I have your daughter’s full name, please?’

  ‘Trudy Elizabeth Armitage.’ He shook his head. ‘Sorry, it’s Garner now. Trudy Elizabeth Garner. Her husband’s name is Joshua Garner. We call him Josh.’ His head was full of dark thoughts, clouding his senses. This wasn’t happening. It only happened to other people, or on TV dramas like Z-Cars. Not to him.

  The police constable wrote down the names in his notebook.

  ‘Don’t worry, sir; I’m sure there’s a perfectly reasonable explanation for all this.’ He smiled disarmingly. ‘The car probably broke down and they left it to be picked up. They’re most likely staying somewhere else until it’s fixed and they can get on with the rest of their honeymoon.’

  ‘I’m going to ring the inn at once,’ said Armitage, wondering how he was going to tell this to his wife, who was out shopping and totally unaware. She was a fragile woman and likely to go to pieces at the worrying news.

  He went to the large black phone which sat on an oak table, and lifted the receiver. His trembling fingers found the number scribbled on a pad by the phone and dialled, glancing at the police constable as he did so.

  ‘Can I offer you a cup of tea?’ he asked politely. ‘While you wait?’

  The officer shook his head. ‘No thank you, sir.’

  In a few seconds the line connected and Alexander Armitage asked to speak to the landlord of the Coach and Horses. A minute later Armitage was deep in conversation with the man. The police constable watched as Armitage’s face fell pale. He slowly replaced the receiver in its cradle.

  ‘He’s both annoyed and confused. The landlord said they appear to have left without paying their bill. He hasn’t seen them since the day they checked in. They’d booked the room for three nights, and when they didn’t turn up on the fourth, he went to their room to check. Their clothes and suitcases are still in there. He thought it all very odd and was about to phone the police.’

  ‘Have you a photograph of your daughter and son-in-law, sir?’ the constable asked, his face serious.

  11

  Wild Animal

  The bell above the shop door rang shrilly. Facing DCI Hawthorne was a darkly varnished counter sinking under reams of paper, and the familiar smell of freshly laid ink pervaded everything. It was a tiny, dark room, but plainly obvious what its purpose was from all the paraphernalia cluttering it up: posters with different typefaces on them pasted to walls, stacks of printed handbills advertising a local car salesroom waiting to be shipped out, reams of paper. It belonged to that of a printer.

  There was a wooden many-drawered unit standing solidly behind the counter, its brass handles shining dully. The elements of an electric fire burned fiery-orange in a corner doing its best to beat back the autumnal chill.

  ‘Shop!’ shouted Hawthorne impatiently, banging his fist on the counter. Paper slid off and cascaded to the floor as if trying to escape.

  A stocky, small man, grey-haired, his fingers so black with ink he looked to be wearing gloves, popped his head round a door. He didn’t appear pleased to see Hawthorne.

  ‘What is it you want?’ he said shortly, wiping his hands on his ink-stained apron. ‘I’m busy.’

  ‘Everyone seems to be busy when I come a-calling, Louis,’ said Hawthorne.

  Louis Collingwood knew it was pointless arguing with the detective. He made his way round the counter and turned the ‘open’ sign in the door so that it read ‘closed’. He peered out the blinds. ‘I hope no one saw you come in here, Hawthorne,’ he said. ‘It’s not good for business. What do you want from me? I’m legit now, have been for years.’

  ‘I know that, Louis.’ He looked about him. ‘Business good? It looks to be doing okay.’

  ‘Could be better. You’re not helping it any. Say what you have to say and let’s get it over with.’

  ‘Don’t be like that, Louis!’ said Hawthorne, lighting up a cigarette.

  ‘Is it about the Grainger job?’

  ‘My, word gets around. Yeah, it is.’

  Louis Collingwood shook his head. ‘Sorry, you came to the wrong man.’ He lowered his voice, even though there was no one around to overhear. ‘I ain’t your nark anymore, Hawthorne. We had a deal. You said you’d leave me alone to get on with my life.’ He indicated the shop with the flat of his hand. ‘Such as it is. I don’t know anything about the Grainger job. I don’t get involved anymore. I don’t overhear things anymore. I certainly don’t talk to you anymore.’

  ‘Ah, Louis,’ said Hawthorne putting a hand to his heart. ‘That cuts me up really bad to hear you say those things! We were such friends…’

  ‘We were never friends. Anyhow, you don’t have friends. It’s a known fact.’ Louis went back round the counter and sat down on a creaky old wooden chair. ‘So I’m sorry, but it’s a waste of time you being here.’

  ‘I need to tap your brains.’

  ‘I need to get on with my work. I’ve got an order that needs to be done by tonight.’

  ‘False ID papers, passports…’

  Louis Collingwood blinked quickly. ‘I told you, I don’t do that sort of thing anymore. That’s all in the past…’

  Hawthorne held up his hand. ‘Bear with me. I know you’re clean these days. But there was no one better than you at that game. You were always the first port-of-call.’

  A brief flash of pride lit up Louis’ face before he had time to stifle it. ‘Like I say, another man, another life.’

  ‘How easy is it to get a man over here from, say, Spain, with a false identity, false passport, and not arouse suspicion?’

  Louis tapped his blackened finger on the counter. ‘Someone who shouldn’t be over here?’

  ‘Let’s say that, yes.’

  ‘It’s not easy these days. Getting harder. But it can be done. It’s not going to come cheap, if you want quality paperwork that won’t arouse suspicion it will cost you. But getting someone through border control is getting difficult and fraught with problems. Personally, even though I’d set this person up with false IDs, I’d look into getting them into the country some other way.’

  ‘Smuggle them in?’

  ‘Yeah. There are plenty of opportunities to get them into the country and back – trucks, boats, you name it. Trade with Europe is getting bigger. Businesses plying back and forth all the time between here and there. Pay off the right people at both ends and they turn a blind eye.’ He folded his arms. ‘But that’s only me surmising. I don’t hear anything these days and it’s none of my business if I did.’

  ‘Appreciate that, Louis.’ Hawthorne fingered his top lip. ‘When you’re not overhearing anything, did you not overhear anything about anyone being in the market for false IDs?’

  ‘I’m no grass, Hawthorne. Even if I did hear anything, I wouldn’t tell you. I have a business to run. And I like to keep my throat whole.’

  ‘But it’s a possibility someone was asking around?’

  ‘Me being first port-of-call and all that? It’s a possibility they did.’

  Hawthorne stared hard at the printer. ‘I need to know, Louis. I really need to know.’

  ‘That’s all I can say. What are you going to do next if I don’t talk? Put me in hospital?’


  The DCI pretended to look shocked. ‘As if I’d do something like that!’

  ‘As if,’ he said dully.

  ‘What would you think if I said I think Callum Baxter was involved with the Grainger Forges robbery?’

  Anger at the mention of the name seemed to bubble below the surface of Louis’ face. ‘I’d say you’re losing your marbles. He’s a grass, big time. We all know what happens to grassers. Are you trying to twist the emotional knife in me here? You know how I feel about the Baxters.’

  ‘I think it’s true.’

  ‘Then you’re gonna be in the minority. Look, I didn’t like what happened to your daughter. She was a sweet thing. She didn’t deserve to die so young. The Baxters were bad meat. So bad their stink fouled the air for all of us. My son died because of Baxter’s mob.’ His face was solemn. ‘But you know that, so why do this to me? Why bring them up? You deliberately want to hurt me, in here,’ he said, stabbing a finger to his chest, ‘is that it? That’s low, even for you, Hawthorne.’

  ‘I know you loved your son as much as I loved my daughter.’

  ‘His death is what made me determined to go straight. He’d never have gotten into bad ways if I’d been a better dad. While I was in prison, he got in with Baxter’s boys and next thing I know they tell me he’s been found face down in the canal, a knife in his back. No one found out exactly what happened, and no one but you cared.’

  ‘There was not enough proof to convict anyone,’ said Hawthorne.

  ‘But you tried. Which is more than the rest of those bastard coppers ever did. They washed their hands of me. I was another nobody doing time, and my son was a dead nobody. But you didn’t care about that. You didn’t give up. Even though no one was brought to trial for my son’s death, we both know the Baxters were behind it. Callum Baxter in particular.’ Louis’ fingernail scratched the surface of the desk. ‘These days, I really miss having a son to follow me into the business. The family business, not the old ways. I sometimes get to thinking I’d like a sign above the door that says Collingwood and Son. But that ain’t gonna happen, is it? The Baxters took that away from me.’ He looked up at Hawthorne. ‘You really think Callum came back here?’

  Hawthorne was thinking about what Louis has said, about a son following in the footsteps of his father’s career. ‘I do. Something in my gut told me as soon as I saw the tunnel at Grainger Forges. Then they found empty bottles of stout with my prints on them at the scene.’

  Louis smiled. ‘Your prints?’

  ‘Soon as I saw the bottles, I knew. I just knew. Mackeson Stout is my second drink of choice, after Johnny Walkers. Someone found out where I lived and filched the empties from my dustbin and left them at the scene. Someone who wanted to rub my nose in it. Make a little gesture. And I thought of Callum Baxter. I felt it in my ruddy bones, Louis. It was him that planted them there.’

  ‘Taking a bit of a risk if it was him.’

  ‘He’s playing games with me. He knows nobody will believe me when I say he’s involved, and it turns out he’s right.’

  ‘Could be someone else pissing up your back. You’ve made a lot of enemies looking to get one over on you.’

  ‘Could be, but it isn’t. It’s Callum all right. It’s a fight between him and me now, and I don’t intend losing.’

  Louis gritted his teeth angrily as he thought about the man. ‘Okay, let’s say someone did ring my shop, asking for some very special paperwork doing.’

  ‘Let’s say they did,’ said Hawthorne.

  ‘And let’s say they offered a lot of money – and I mean a lot – for this special paperwork.’ Hawthorne remained tight-lipped. ‘And let’s say some of that paperwork had to do with getting someone over from Spain and Italy – would that prove beneficial?’

  ‘Italy? You sure?’

  ‘Italy, yes.’

  ‘Then it would be very beneficial,’ Hawthorne said.

  Louis Collingwood stood up from his seat. ‘Well, too bad I never had that phone call, isn’t it?’

  ‘Too bad,’ said Hawthorne.

  ‘That everything? Any printing I can help you with?’

  ‘Not that I know of, Louis, but you’ll be the first shop I think of when I do.’

  ‘Don’t bother. Don’t come here again,’ said Louis. ‘We had a deal. I’m going straight. I’ll never go back to the kind of life that killed my boy. I need you to stay away.’

  ‘You’ve got my word,’ said Hawthorne, turning to leave the shop.

  ‘I had your word last time, as I remember.’

  Hawthorne grinned. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll not be back. Ever.’

  The DCI said it like he was going somewhere and never planned on returning, thought Louis. ‘One other thing…’

  ‘Yeah, Louis?’

  ‘If it is Baxter, kill him for me.’

  Hawthorne narrowed his eyes. ‘I’ll kill him for both of us,’ he said.

  The shop bell shrieked at Hawthorne’s exit.

  It was mid-afternoon, but the overcast skies made it look a lot later. The rain pelted down, rattling on the slates of the old farmhouse, cascading over blocked gutters and running down the walls. It dashed against the windows, every now and again taken by the stiff wind and thrown doubly hard, making a sound like a series of firecrackers going off. The inside of the farmhouse was getting colder.

  ‘We need to light a bloody fire, Callum,’ said Tom Brody, sitting close to the paraffin heater, the front of his legs burning, the rest of him shivering.

  ‘You’re not lighting one and that’s final,’ Tom, said Callum Baxter.

  ‘I’m freezing my bloody bollocks off,’ groused Brody, holding his hands out to the fire. ‘How long have we to stay in the bloody dump?’

  ‘We stay as long as I tell you to stay,’ said Callum shortly.

  Jimmy Baxter looked briefly up from the newspaper he was re-reading. ‘Give it a rest, Tom,’ he said. He glanced at his brother who had prepared something to eat. ‘Want me to take that stuff down to the woman?’

  Callum nodded. He wanted to avoid looking at her face. ‘Sure, take it.’

  He rose from the table, stretching out and yawning. ‘When are you gonna take care of her, Callum?’ he asked matter-of-factly.

  ‘When I say so,’ he replied.

  ‘Not getting cold feet are we, bruv?’ said Jimmy.

  Callum eyed his younger brother. There was a nasty light burning in his expression that he hadn’t ever wanted to see. When had his kid brother changed? He used to be so different. Even his outward appearance looked as if he’d been dipped in a callous frosting. It was as if something precious had passed away, a time he could never reclaim, a time before their father had died. Now the innocent young man he’d known displayed a sickening relish in his eyes whenever he mentioned the young woman’s imminent fate.

  Imminent, yes. It had to be. But though he had his finger on the trigger, he found he could not pull it. With Spud it had been far easier. He hadn’t even had to think twice about it. There was no way he was ever going to let Spud just disappear with his money and hope for the best. His money! If only he’d known. If only Tom Brody knew! The money they thought they’d stolen for themselves was never intended to line their pockets. They were never intended to live beyond the next few days. Tom Brody would join Spud soon enough, and that didn’t cause Callum Baxter a moment’s distress. But disposing of the young woman down in the cellar – that was a very different matter. And the worse thing was he didn’t know why. But soon, very soon, he’d have to commit. He was only putting off the inevitable.

  Jimmy Baxter came across and took hold of the tea tray which bore a single mug of lukewarm tea and a plate with a sandwich.

  ‘Why bother?’ he said. ‘I mean, why feed her? What’s the point?’

  ‘Just take it down to her,’ said Callum bluntly. ‘And no stopping to talk.’

  ‘I wonder what Spud’s up to,’ he said idly.

  Callum looked at his brother.

  ‘W
hy’d you let him go?’ said Brody, wariness in his voice. ‘Why did you risk letting him go, Callum?’

  ‘Because my brother’s got a heart of gold,’ said Jimmy.

  ‘Did you let him go?’ said Brody without looking away from the cold, empty fireplace.

  ‘Yeah, I let him go,’ said Callum.

  ‘I saw Jimmy and Angelo unloading Spud’s money back into the barn from the back of the truck, Callum. I’m not stupid.’

  ‘Then don’t ask stupid questions, Tom,’ said Callum. ‘Jimmy, take that down to the woman. Make sure she’s warm…’

  ‘I’ll take a hot-water bottle, shall I?’ he said.

  ‘No lip, Jimmy. Just do as I say.’

  Jimmy Baxter smiled, and, whistling, went to the cellar door and unlocked it. He shouted down: ‘Honey, I’m home!’ and went down the stairs.

  Trudy Garner rose from her place by the wall. She looked vacantly at him.

  ‘Brought you something to eat and drink. Callum wants to know if you’re warm enough.’

  ‘I want to see my husband,’ she said weakly.

  ‘Christ, can’t you change the bloody record every now and again?’

  ‘I want to see my husband!’ she said, louder this time, approaching him, the blanket she had draped around her shoulders falling to the floor. ‘You horrid little man!’

  Jimmy laughed. ‘Horrid! How quaint! Yeah, that’s me, a horrid little man. Here, have your tea while you can.’

  She froze. ‘What do you mean while I can?’

  ‘I didn’t mean anything. Just shut up and eat the bloody sandwich.’

  Anger crept across her dirty features. ‘I want to see my husband!’ she cried shrilly.

  She ran forward, taking Jimmy by surprise, and she tried to rush by him. He grabbed her, but she flailed with her hands and caught him on the cheek with her nails. She dug deep and drew long lines of blood. He yelped in pain and lashed out at her, catching her on the head with his fist. He bent over her as she almost toppled to the floor, and he pummelled her heavily on the back until she collapsed. With a final kick to her side, he clutched his bleeding face.