ARCHANGEL HAWTHORNE (A Thriller)

by D. M. Mitchell

  ‘You bitch!’ he said. ‘You cut me on the bloody cheek again!’ He bent down to her and grabbed her hair, yanking her head so that he could look deep into her face. ‘That’s something you should never have done. Never.’ He let her go. ‘You want to see that husband of yours? Well, tough, lady, because he’s dead and buried.’

  She stopped her sobbing and looked up at him. ‘No, you said he was alive…’

  ‘Well, who’s the trusting one? He’s dead. I killed him. I helped bury him. And you know what? He was still alive when I put the last spade of dirt on top of his head. Yeah, that’s right, I saw him move.’

  She jumped to her feet, reaching into her pocket as she did so, trying to get hold of the penknife lodged deep in the pocket of her jeans. She was going to ram it deep into his black little heart. But he punched her again before she could get it and she fell back, her hand going to her cheek.

  Jimmy was breathing hard. ‘You’re dead, you know that? As dead as your precious little hubby. So enjoy that bloody sandwich – it’s probably gonna be your last.’

  ‘I’m going to kill you!’ she cried.

  His stare was steely. He didn’t say anything, but his eyes quickly filmed with a lustful glaze. He dabbed away at the scratch marks on his face with his sleeve and licked his lips until they were glossy. ‘I hope Callum gives me the job. I really do.’

  ‘I saw a light,’ said Tom Brody.

  ‘What do you mean you saw a light?’ said Callum, springing from his chair. He joined Brody at the window.

  ‘A car, coming up the hill,’ he said, his breath fogging up the pane.

  Callum waited, watching. ‘I can’t see anything. Maybe you’re imagining it.’

  ‘It was definitely a car’s headlights, way down the road and heading up the hill. It’s gone behind those trees.’ He turned to Callum. ‘You said no one ever came up here…’

  ‘No one ever does. Angelo knows what he’s talking about. He knows this area better than anyone.’

  ‘No one comes here now,’ confirmed Angelo evenly.

  ‘There it is again!’ said Brody excitedly. ‘It’s a bloody car!’

  ‘Clear away as much stuff as you can,’ Callum said hurriedly, ‘and close all the curtains. Douse the lights and turn off the heater.’

  ‘What’s wrong?’ said Jimmy, walking into the room.

  ‘Christ, Jimmy, what happened to your face?’ said Callum.

  ‘The bitch attacked me again,’ he said. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘A car,’ said Brody, rushing to grab a handful of crockery and food from the table.

  ‘Are you sure the truck is locked away in the barn?’ said Callum.

  ‘Yeah,’ returned Brody, his fat face quivering in panic. ‘The barn doors are locked.’

  Callum pulled the curtains across and stared through the gap. ‘It’s a cop car,’ he said.

  Silence fell like a shroud.

  ‘They’re onto us!’ said Brody.

  ‘No, they’re not,’ Callum assured. ‘Angelo, have you locked all the doors?’

  ‘Yes, boss.’

  ‘Then why are they here?’ Brody said.

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe they’re searching for the woman. The cops might have found her car. She could even have been reported missing.’

  ‘Oh, Jesus!’ said Brody. ‘We’re screwed! We’ve got to make a run for it, Callum!’

  He shook his head calmly. ‘No, we’re not. Everyone get down to the cellar.’

  The car had disappeared from view again, and Callum held his breath. A couple of minutes later, he saw it creep slowly through the open gates of the farmyard.

  At that moment, they heard a scream from Trudy.

  ‘She’s seen the car,’ said Callum. ‘Angelo, get down there, shut her up.’

  The Italian loped off, followed by Brody.

  ‘You said we were safe here, Callum,’ said Jimmy.

  ‘It’s your stupid fault we’re in this shit, Jimmy,’ he snapped back. ‘If you’d only kept out of sight and let that woman and her husband go through the yard they wouldn’t be looking for them now!’ He pushed his brother away from the window. ‘Get downstairs and tell everyone to keep quiet!’

  Callum dashed upstairs to the bedroom, where he fumbled in his pockets to retrieve the key to the trunk. His hand shaking, he unlocked the padlock and lifted the lid. He took out a gun and went over to the window, peering through a gap in the closed curtains. The car had drawn to a halt some way from the house itself. No one made a move to get out. The headlights caused the rain captured in them to burn like a shower of sparks.

  Down in the cellar Angelo had dragged Trudy from the tiny slit through which she’d been yelling for help. He had her pinned with her arm behind her back, his hand clamped over her mouth.

  ‘You shut up or I kill you!’ he said close to her ear, taking out a knife, its tip creating a tiny crater where it pushed against the soft flesh of her neck.

  Jimmy came to face her and put a finger to his lips. ‘He means it,’ he whispered.

  They heard a car door slam shut and Jimmy rushed to the tiny slit of a window.

  ‘What are they doing?’ Brody said under his breath.

  ‘Shh!’ Jimmy hissed. ‘There’s just one copper. He’s going over to the barn...’

  Constable Rhys Griffiths tramped in the mud of the sodden farmyard, the rain bouncing off his helmet and his waterproof cape. They’d almost forgotten to check this place for any sign of Trudy and Josh Garner. In fact, Rhys Griffiths had almost forgotten it existed. It was a tortuous drive, too, in this weather. The road which led up to it was little more than a dirt track, and it was a quagmire with all the rain that was coming down.

  It used to belong to a family called the Morgans but had long since fallen into disrepair when the farm was abandoned. No son to pass it on to, apparently, and the daughter didn’t much care for being stuck up here in the middle of nowhere as past generations of Morgans had. To give her credit, she gave it a go after her old man died, but after she got married it wasn’t long before the business collapsed altogether. No one was certain who owned it anymore, but whoever did, thought Griffiths, they obviously didn’t care that much about it to come and check on the old place. It was a ruin.

  He reached the barn and he tested the rusty old padlock. The great double doors were locked. The gaps in the wooden slats were too small to make anything out in the dark barn, but he guessed there wasn’t much to be seen. The ancient stone building looked close to collapse. A tree was growing up and out through the roof.

  Griffiths wandered round the back, but it was terribly overgrown with weeds and bushes that had gotten out of hand and he couldn’t press any further. His boots weren’t meant for the boggy ground he encountered either, so he turned back and headed for the farmhouse.

  Callum Baxter observed the policeman hurry across the farmyard, his body hunched against the rain. He steadied his breathing as the officer was lost from sight beneath his window. Lifting the gun, Callum checked it was loaded and turned the safety off.

  Griffiths tried to peer through the window, but the inside was largely obscured by grimy old curtains, more rags than anything. Again, it was dark inside, so he couldn’t see anything. He went to the door and tried the handle. It was locked, so he knocked on the peeling paint of the door.

  ‘Hello there!’ he shouted. ‘Anyone in?’

  Of course not, he thought, knocking again. The place is in ruins almost. But he had to make an effort, even if all he wanted to do was get back in the car out of this damn rain and head on home to a warm fire and a hot drink. It had been a long day. There’d been a call from Cheltenham to search for the missing young couple, who were probably ensconced in some warm little farmhouse doing what honeymooners do and thinking nothing of the trouble they were causing, while he was chilled to the bone and getting very hungry too.

  He strode round the back of the farmhouse, to be greeted by more blank windows and another locked door. A sudden squal
l made him fold his arms around him. ‘Damn!’ he uttered and decided to call his search off. He ran to his car and threw himself in with a welcome sigh. His backside would be wet through now, he thought glumly.

  With a last-minute glance at the brooding old farmhouse, he started the car engine and backed the vehicle out of the farmyard, its tyres throwing up mud from the many puddles it splashed through.

  Callum watched until the red of the rear-lights disappeared before he put the gun away and went downstairs. He was greeted by Jimmy who was closing the cellar door behind him.

  ‘Everything okay, bruv?’ he asked. ‘Has he gone?’

  Callum floated over to the window and stared out. He saw the car winding down the hill, getting smaller with distance. ‘Yeah, he’s gone.’

  ‘That was close,’ breathed Jimmy. ‘The woman, she could have given us away…’

  ‘I know,’ said Callum.

  ‘We can’t take any more risks.’

  ‘So suddenly you’re the brains, eh, Jimmy?’ he growled. ‘Don’t tell me things I already know.’

  ‘When are we going to leave this place, Callum?’

  ‘As soon as they come to collect the money.’

  Jimmy Baxter touched his brother on the arm. ‘Listen, Callum, we don’t have to do that. We have it now. We have it all. Why the hell give it away?’

  ‘You know why. Because that’s the deal.’

  ‘We’re rich men. We could take everything, every penny of it, and scarper. They’ll never find us. Why give up a chance like this?’

  Callum glowered at Jimmy. ‘I’ll pretend I didn’t hear any of that. You know the rules of the game, don’t try changing them.’

  ‘Okay, so what about the girl?’

  Callum lowered his gaze. His brow clouded over. ‘I don’t know…’

  ‘What the hell do you mean, you don’t know?’ said Jimmy, his eyes bright. ‘Christ, Callum, you haven’t fallen for her, have you?’

  ‘Don’t talk crap, Jimmy.’

  Jimmy smiled. ‘You have, haven’t you? You’ve let her sink her hooks into you!’ Then his face darkened just as quickly. ‘She’s gotta go, now more than ever. You can’t hang around. Look, why not take what you want from her first? She’s yours for the taking. Why brood about it?’

  Callum stared hard at his brother. ‘What happened to you, Jimmy? What happened to make you such a cold-hearted bastard?’

  ‘If you don’t want her, let me have her…’

  With a quick flash of his hand, Callum slapped Jimmy on the face, so hard it made him stagger. ‘You keep your filthy little hands off her, you hear?’

  Jimmy’s face was consumed by his fiery anger, but he held it in check as if it was a lunging dog on a chain. ‘You do that one more time, Callum…’

  ‘And what?’

  Jimmy averted his gaze, lowered his chin. ‘Don’t ever do that again,’ he said in a low voice before skulking away.

  Callum watched his younger brother throw himself down onto the old sofa. He’d made up his mind. He had to shake off the hold the woman had somehow got on him. He was only putting off the inevitable and he knew it.

  ‘Angelo!’ Callum shouted down the cellar.

  ‘Yes, boss?’ he called up.

  ‘Leave the girl and come up here. I need you.’

  Angelo pushed Trudy away. She struggled to catch her breath, her face sore from where Angelo had had his hand pressed. A tiny cut oozed blood on her neck. Brody followed the Italian up the stone cellar steps, casting a backwards glance at Trudy.

  She was not cowed, as he expected. She glared at him like she was a wild animal awaiting its opportunity to pounce.

  12

  Poison

  Inspector Donald Fraser held out a small transparent plastic bag. Inside it was a pinkish-brown ten-shilling banknote.

  ‘You recognise this?’ he asked.

  His voice had a slight echo to it. The boardroom was large, a huge English-oak table taking up a great deal of its middle. Dull grey light, like dirty dishwater, puddled the room, soaking into empty chairs that circled the table. Blotting-pads and inkwells had been carefully placed before each chair. There was a smell of wax polish and age in equal measures. Scowling portraits of past Graingers looked down in judgemental silence at the four men seated below them.

  Arnold Grainger, managing director, raised a brow and glanced at his old father sitting imperiously beside him. Randolph Grainger, now well into his eightieth year, didn’t grace his son with a response. Arnold Grainger coughed lightly.

  ‘Seriously?’ he said.

  ‘Seriously,’ said Fraser.

  DCI Hawthorne sat back in his chair. It was stately but uncomfortable. He guessed they made them like that purposely, to keep board members from getting too comfortable, to keep them awake and remind them this was hard business. Old man Grainger sure looked hard, a face like a slab of frozen lard. Can you actually freeze lard, he wondered idly?

  ‘Inspector,’ said Arnold Grainger, ‘it’s a ten-shilling note. It looks precisely like any other ten-shilling note. Why would I recognise it?’

  ‘Actually, they’re not all the same, as I’m sure you are very well aware,’ said Fraser, putting the note on the table before him. ‘They each have an individual serial number…’

  ‘Don’t patronise me, inspector!’ he said stiffly. ‘I’m fully aware of that!’

  ‘Arnold…’ said his father, his voice obviously a shadow of its former self, but it carried with it the weight of authority all the same and his son reacted accordingly, taking a deep breath.

  ‘I am a very busy man,’ said Arnold Grainger. ‘Is this the only reason you have called this meeting, to show us a ten-shilling note? Are you any nearer to finding the blighters who stole our money?’

  ‘This note was the one found in your safe, left behind by the criminals who stole your money, Mr Grainger.’

  ‘Obviously,’ said Grainger. ‘So?’

  ‘Your money.’

  ‘Of course it’s our money, what’s left of it. Where is this going, inspector?’

  ‘This ten-shilling note is stolen.’

  Arnold Grainger’s bottom lip dropped slightly. He looked at his father, who yet again didn’t respond. ‘What do you mean, stolen?’

  ‘It is part of a haul that was stolen some time ago.’

  ‘But that’s impossible!’ he flustered.

  ‘But true,’ said Fraser. He caught a glimpse of Hawthorne with his finger to his lips, apparently chewing his fingernail.

  ‘How on earth could that have gotten there?’ said Arnold Grainger.

  ‘Precisely what we were wondering,’ said Fraser.

  ‘Quite plainly, it’s got in by accident. I mean, these criminals have clever ways of disposing of stolen cash, and it’s clearly going back into circulation.’

  ‘The money in the safe came from the bank, did it not?’

  Grainger blinked. ‘Of course.’

  ‘Then it is doubtful there were any notes reported stolen being amongst that.’

  ‘Oh come on, inspector, the banks deal with thousands of notes, one could have slipped through. What other explanation is there? Unless, of course, you are accusing us of having stolen the money.’

  ‘I am not implying that at all, sir. But you do understand we have to pursue this?’

  He nodded begrudgingly. ‘The criminals must have left it there.’

  ‘Why would they do that?’ said Fraser.

  ‘I don’t know, do I? I’m not a police officer. I thought you were supposed to have the brains necessary to carry out this sort of thing?’

  ‘Arnold, the officer is only doing his duty,’ said Randolph Grainger.

  ‘I don’t like his tone,’ said Arnold Grainger.

  Fraser offered an apologetic lifting of the hands. ‘I wasn’t aware my tone was anything but calm and professional, sir,’ said Fraser, secretly relishing the man’s discomfiture. ‘It is a line we are bound to pursue, sir,’ he said, ‘and may be an impor
tant clue as to the whereabouts of your money, which, naturally, you are keen to get back.’

  DCI Hawthorne hid a smirk behind his hand.

  ‘So what do you think, inspector?’ asked Randolph Grainger. ‘How do you suppose a stolen banknote got into our safe?’

  Fraser avoided answering the question by asking another of his own: ‘Is it true the future of Grainger Forges depends a great deal upon this contract with the Germans going through? A merger, I believe.’

  Wide-eyed, Arnold Grainger gave a grunt of disapproval. ‘A part-merger. What has that got to do with our stolen money?’

  ‘It has everything to do with it, sir. Such a huge loss could delay the merger and accompanying contracts going ahead. It might even damage the deal altogether. Finding a similar amount at short notice is no easy undertaking, and, having spoken to your head of finance, I would say nigh on impossible, given the current state of affairs at Grainger Forges.’ He took out a notebook and studied his notes. ‘You have been forced to close one factory and I understand that another has been earmarked. The union is not best pleased and there is the threat of industrial action, is there not?’

  ‘You have been snooping a little too deeply for your own good, inspector!’ snapped Arnold Grainger, his face turning red.

  ‘Snooping?’ said Fraser, stern-faced.

  ‘My son does not mean that,’ said Randolph Grainger. ‘He is naturally upset at the theft. It has upset all of us and we would like a speedy resolution to things so we can get back to business as usual.’

  ‘While we are on that,’ said Fraser, ‘you have to admit, business has not been too good of late, has it not?’

  Randolph Grainger nodded, his eyes grave. ‘It is true, we are finding ourselves in open competition with new competitors, yes. Japan and Germany, so very recently our enemies in war, are now producing steel in massive quantities and often far cheaper than we are able. And you think the Chinese will limit themselves to tinplate toys? Times are changing. You can already see that our motor car industry is beginning to suffer at the hands of competition from abroad. How long can that hold out? People scoff and say that we need not worry about these fledgling suppliers, but I say we should worry very much. As the economy recovers from years of wartime austerity, we are importing goods from abroad in ever increasing numbers – fridges, washing machines, televisions and many more items. These commodities use steel, sir, and we produce steel. If there is no call for our steel, or it becomes uncompetitive, we will go out of business. It is only going to get worse if we are not competitive and embrace our competitors rather than fight them every step of the way. So yes, the merger, though small, and the contracts it will bring, is extremely important for us. And I cannot hide the fact that in recent years we have seen a downturn and our overall financial stability has suffered as a result. The loss of the money is a real body blow to us.’