‘Angelo!’ Callum shouted as they reached the edge of the thick wall of trees that marked the wood’s boundary. The track snaked into the darkness and was lost. Rain continued to beat down on the almost leafless canopy, creating a strange hissing noise like steam escaping from a pipe. ‘Angelo!’ Callum yelled again.
‘How far would he have gone?’ said Brody, shining the torch into the wood.
Without answering, Callum walked carefully down the muddy path, the sound of their boots in the puddles unusually loud. Bright green moss and lichen clinging to tree trunks glowed surreally under their lamps. Then, almost immediately, the rain ceased, as if some kind of heavenly tap had been turned off. It caused both men to look skywards. Everything fell quiet, except for the patter of raindrops percolating down through the canopy to strike the leather-like mat of fallen leaves.
‘Angelo!’ called Callum. ‘Where the devil are you?’
They penetrated the wood a little further, the rich smell of damp soil almost overwhelming.
‘There!’ said Brody. ‘What’s that?’
He pointed his torch just off the narrow, almost indiscernible path, hardly a path at all now, and captured in his torch beam appeared to be at first glance a bundle of clothing. Callum wasted no time and pushed through the undergrowth. He held the lamp up above the body.
‘It’s Angelo,’ he breathed.
There was a rich red stain soaking from the bullet wound in his chest and through his rain-sodden shirt. He lay flat on his back, arms outstretched above his head.
‘Is he…?’ said Brody.
‘Stone cold,’ answered Callum, peering into Angelo’s wide, sightless eyes. ‘His coat’s been stripped off him, and so has his jumper.’
‘The woman did this?’ Brody asked incredulously.
‘No,’ said Callum.
‘No?’
‘The bloody forest goblins did it!’ said Callum. ‘Of course she killed him. Who the hell do you think shot him?’ He checked around the body. ‘His gun’s missing, too.’
Brody stood up straight, shining his torch into the tangled undergrowth. ‘She can’t be far away,’ he said. ‘Can you see her tracks anywhere?’
‘I ain’t bloody Tonto,’ he replied tersely. ‘And anyway, this damn rain’s probably helped wash them away.’ He held up his lamp. ‘Go back to the farmhouse and get Jimmy out here. We’ve got to find her, and find her fast. We can’t afford to let her get away, and we need everyone out searching.’
Brody dashed away, lumbering through the bushes and making a noise like a wounded buffalo, thought Callum. It fell quiet again. Callum put a hand to his mouth. ‘Trudy!’ he shouted. ‘Trudy, where are you?’ There was no reply and he didn’t expect one either. Blast, he thought. He should have done the job himself and not chickened out. ‘We’re going to find you anyway, Trudy, so you might as well give yourself up now! If you don’t, we’ll only make it worse for you when we do find you!’
He looked for a route he guessed she might have taken, but in truth she could have bolted anywhere. It would be a few hours before dawn and they could see well enough to search properly. But, he thought, the dark would also make it difficult for her to get very far. She’d be disorientated, cold, tired and hungry. And scared out of her wits. She might even get completely lost, go round full circle and stumble right into their path. He couldn’t afford to let her go free and reveal what had happened, give away their hiding place. All he needed was a couple of days more and then it would all be over.
Damn! He shouldn’t have been such a coward!
14
Desperation
‘You make a terrible patient,’ scolded the nurse.
She was young and pretty, the white nurse’s hat perched on her dark hair looking quite cute, thought DCI Hawthorne. Maybe it was the slim-fitting dark-blue nurse’s uniform she wore, pinched at the waist and emphasising her splendid waist. The starched white apron, the dark stockings ending in flat, sensible shoes…
He shook his head, as if to clear it of sordid thoughts. But the action hurt like crazy and he groaned.
‘Look, lady,’ I’ve got to get out of here,’ he said, sitting up in bed, but having to clutch his ribcage and gasp for breath when the pain punched him.
‘Look, sir,’ she said, raising a no-nonsense brow, ‘The doctor insists you be thoroughly checked for broken bones. A man your age…’
‘My age?’
‘They can break a lot easier than in someone younger,’ she carried on, pushing him gently on the shoulders so that he lay back against his pillow. ‘We’re waiting for the X-rays to come through. You were unconscious some time last night, you know. Who knows what damage might have been done.’
‘I’m perfectly all right,’ he insisted.
‘The doctor will be the judge of that. Your colleague, Inspector Fraser, was equally concerned for your health when he brought you in. You had all manner of cuts and bruises that needed patching up as well. I’m told you were involved in a fight. Seriously, a man of your age…’
‘Will you ruddy well stop saying that?’ he said. ‘I used to be in Special Forces, lady.’
‘I’m sure you were, but that was some time ago, no doubt.’
‘I don’t need to be in a hospital bed. I’ve got work to do.’
‘Not tonight, you haven’t,’ she said. ‘You’re staying here until we confirm everything is all right. I’m sure you understand it’s entirely precautionary and for your own good.’
‘I need a drink!’ he said as she swished open the curtain that hung round his bed to reveal he was in a long ward, with more occupied beds to his left and right. The early morning sunshine flooded in, lying in hot rectangles on the ward’s tiled floor.
‘There’s water in a jug on the bedside cabinet,’ she said.
‘Water? I need something stronger than that.’ He winced at the pain as he tried to lean over.
‘Water, DCI Hawthorne,’ she said without turning round.
‘I can’t just lie here!’ he groused.
‘Excuse me,’ said the nurse to the patient in the next bed. The aged man barely acknowledged her. ‘Have you finished with your newspaper?’ He nodded weakly and she lifted the newspaper from the bedside cabinet and plonked it on Hawthorne’s bed. ‘There’s a copy of the Times; read it or have a go at the crossword.’
‘The ruddy crossword? I don’t do crosswords, or read the ruddy Times. It’s all right for those Oxbridge types, but it might as well be Morse to me!’
‘I can’t do anything about that, Chief Inspector Hawthorne,’ she said jollily and walked away. ‘I’m not here to keep you occupied.’
He watched her pretty, plump backside disappear down the ward before moaning and resting his head on the pillow again. He idly opened the newspaper, but he hardly had time to begin reading when a doctor in a white coat walked with the haughty steps of a proprietor down the ward, quite obviously heading for him. Hawthorne folded the paper and rested it on the bed.
‘When can I go?’ Hawthorne asked of the doctor as he came to the bedside and began to pull the curtains back round the bed.
The doctor pulled a clipboard off the foot of the bed and scanned it. ‘We’ve had your X-rays through,’ he said, looking down his nose through heavily rimmed black spectacles at the notes.
‘I once knew this guy who had a girlfriend in the X-ray department,’ said Hawthorne. The doctor eyed him. ‘I don’t know what he saw in her,’ he said with a smirk.
‘Quite,’ said the doctor. ‘One of your ribs was broken,’ he said.
‘No kidding. That accounts for the ruddy pain,’ said Hawthorne. ‘Does that mean I can leave?’
‘You took quite a beating, chief inspector. It’s a wonder there isn’t more wrong with you, but aside from cuts and bruising there doesn’t seem to be too much wrong with you, broken rib aside. However, you were unconscious some time following a blow to the head, so we must keep you here under observation for a little while longer.’ He lowered his chin
. ‘There is one other thing you should know…’
Hawthorne didn’t like the way he said it. ‘Fire away.’
‘You are a heavy smoker?’
‘What’s that got to do with anything?’
‘Your chest X-rays reveal a dark shadow on your left lung. Have you experienced any discomfort, coughing more than usual, coughing up blood?’
Hawthorne frowned. ‘No – well, a cough’s to be expected, I guess. Look, what has this to do with me getting out of here?’
‘The shadow is something that is causing me concern, chief inspector.’
‘So it’s a shadow. Those X-rays are so damn fuzzy anyway. It’s a wonder you guys can make anything out.’ But he knew from the doctor’s serious expression that all was not well. ‘What does it mean?’
‘We’re not sure yet. We shall have to carry out further tests.’
‘Something’s got you worried. What is it?’
‘It could be cancer, and judging by the size of it the tumour – if indeed that is what it is, and I’m not saying yet one way or the other – could be in its advanced stages. However,’ he said, holding up his hand, ‘we cannot know for certain until we carry out those tests.’
‘It can’t be cancer…’ he said, momentarily stunned by the news.
‘You are a heavy smoker.’
‘You don’t believe all that smoking-causes-cancer guff do you?’ he laughed. ‘Fags are good for you – it’s been proven.’
‘There is much and growing evidence, chief inspector. Anyway, no need to get so worried just yet,’ he said clinically. ‘As I say, we have tests to carry out. We’re keeping you in to perform those, so I’m afraid you won’t be going anywhere for a while yet.’
The doctor said more, but Hawthorne didn’t hear exactly what, simply a long droning sound like someone sawing wood in the distance. Cancer? Had he heard correct? Next thing he knew the doctor had been whisked away by a nurse, disappearing through the closed green curtains and leaving Hawthorne alone to digest the news.
He didn’t know quite what to think. It felt like it was happening to someone else, not him. Christ, why get him worried like that? It was a ruddy shadow on the X-rays, that’s all. And doctors made all sorts of mistakes. It was a ruddy smudge, that’s all, done during development, or whatever they do with X-rays. So he picked up the paper to divert his attention, and scanned idly through, but it didn’t fully work, for he could hardly make sense of the headlines.
Until one small headline, tucked away in a corner, caught his attention.
Search Goes On for Missing Couple in Carmarthenshire
Something about the scant article snagged his attention and he read through the couple of paragraphs with mounting interest.
‘That’s it!’ he said, rapping the paper with the back of his hand.
At that moment, the curtains swished back and Inspector Donald Fraser breezed in. He pulled them back in place again. He had the smell of the street on his overcoat, thought Hawthorne.
‘Good morning, sir, how are you?’ he asked, taking off his hat and holding it by his side. He stroked back his oiled hair. ‘It’s warm in here. Why is it always so warm in hospitals?’ He looked decidedly uncomfortable.
Hawthorne regarded him darkly. ‘ How come you were there last night, Fraser, to save my skin?’
‘I guess there’s a thank-you in there somewhere,’ said Fraser.
‘You were sent to keep an eye on me, right?’
‘I sent myself, sir,’ he replied.
‘I don’t need a ruddy nursemaid.’
‘Listen, a couple of things I’ve got to tell you: Eddie Bates was found dead last night, fully-clothed and in his bath. His tongue had been cut out and he’d been drowned.’
Hawthorne nodded. ‘I expected it.’
‘You did? Do you think there’s a connection between his murder and those who tried to kill you?’
‘There’s a connection all right, but the mob that attacked me wasn’t the same as murdered Eddie Bates.’
‘So let me in on it, sir,’ he said.
‘Later.’ Hawthorne held up the newspaper. ‘Fraser, take a look at this. I think I know where Baxter is hiding out.’
‘Sir, there’s something else I have to tell you…’ said Fraser.
‘Are you listening, man?’ He held up the newspaper. ‘What I want you to do – ‘
‘I can’t do anything, sir,’ he said quickly. ‘That’s what I’ve really come to say.’
Hawthorne was puzzled. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Exactly that, sir. I can’t do anything for you.’ He coughed lightly, looking at the small gap in the curtains. He lowered his voice. ‘You’ve been taken off the case, sir.’
‘What?’ Hawthorne bellowed.
‘Sir, keep your voice down, please. Look, it wasn’t anything to do with me. I tried to cover for you…’
‘I don’t need covering for!’
‘You’re off the case, sir,’ said Fraser firmly. ‘And suspended from duty until further notice.’
‘On whose authority?’
‘The Super’s, sir.’
‘ That arsehole Lloyd? He can’t do that. Who has he put in charge?’
Fraser looked away. ‘Me, sir, temporarily, until they get someone else in to take over.’
‘You? You can’t be serious!’ He tried to sit up, but the pain caused him to halt. ‘He can’t do that! Fraser, listen, forget all that crap, it’s a storm in a teacup – I know where Callum Baxter is hiding out. Check out this article in the Times. Someone was copying Bruno Abramco. That much was obvious. But it was something I got told by one of my ex-narks, about a son following his father into the family business that got me thinking. See, I checked up some more on Bruno Abramco, and it turns out on one of his trips to Italy, unknown to his Welsh wife, he had this other son by another woman, an Italian. It’s who he ended up marrying when he got divorced from his wife. I think – In fact, I’m so certain I’ll bet my left testicle – it’s Abramco’s son that is following in his father’s footsteps. He learnt the tricks of the trade from his father before his old man kicked the bucket. The toy angel is a tribute to him. That would account for the false Spanish and Italian papers needed to get someone over here. It has to be Callum and Abramco. But Callum Baxter isn’t the brains behind all this, like I initially thought.’
Fraser cut him off. ‘It’s largely because of all this with Callum Baxter, sir, that’s gotten you into bother.’
‘Forget what Superintendent Lloyd has told you…’
‘He can’t do that, chief inspector,’ said Superintendent Lloyd coming through the curtains. ‘You may leave now, Fraser. I’ll take it from here.’
With one last look at the red face of DCI Hawthorne, Fraser put his hat back on and was about to leave.
‘Fraser! Check out that article!’ he called, tossing him the newspaper. Fraser caught it.
‘Fraser, ignore him,’ said Lloyd.
‘And check out where Abramco used to live when he was married to his Welsh wife.’
‘He’ll do no such thing, Hawthorne,’ said Lloyd stonily, holding his hand out for the paper and waving for Fraser to leave immediately.
Fraser left the two men alone.
‘What the blazes do you think you’re doing?’ said Hawthorne angrily.
Lloyd’s brow collapsed into a scowl. ‘What am I doing? What on earth did you think you were doing last night?’ He tossed the newspaper to the floor. You barged into Mavis Baxter’s house, damaged her property, handled her roughly, slapped her across the face – an old woman, for Christ’s sake – and accused her son of being involved in the Grainger Forges robbery. Again. And what’s more, you threatened to kill him if you found him. Didn’t you listen to a word I told you? I told you to leave off the Baxters. But you can’t, can you? You ignore me and go off like a bomb in a sewage works, fired by your own personal vendetta. Well enough’s enough, Hawthorne. You’re suspended indefinitely, and you’ll be lucky if I can sav
e your arse this time. Christ, Hawthorne, what is it with you? Why throw away a good career like that?’
‘Listen…’
‘No, you listen!’ He stabbed out a finger. ‘I’ve had it up to here with you, Hawthorne. It’s over. I’ll try and salvage something out of this, pull a few strings for you, but I’m afraid it won’t help much.’
‘I know where they’re hiding out.’
‘You live in a dream world, Hawthorne. I’d have blamed the knock to the head last night, but it’s been happening for years. You’ve reached the end of the line as a police officer, and that’s final. As of now you’re on sick leave due to your injuries, but you won’t be coming back. Do I make myself clear?’
Hawthorne glowered silently at Lloyd. ‘You have no backbone, Lloyd,’ he said.
‘Don’t make it worse for yourself, Hawthorne,’ he spat. ‘I’m your only friend at the moment.’
‘I don’t have friends,’ he rumbled. ‘Least of all people like you. Sir.’
Lloyd placed his hands behind his back and stood straight. ‘Who were the people who beat you up? Recognise any of them?’
‘I didn’t get formally introduced.’
‘You must have an idea.’
‘My ideas are worthless. You just said so.’
‘You might have deserved to have the shit knocked out of you, but I don’t condone the beating-up of police officers. Probably someone with a longstanding grudge against you. Let’s face it, there are plenty of those. I’ll send someone round later to take a statement from you.’
Hawthorne lifted the paper and pretended to look at the crossword. ‘Two across, slang word for excrement, four letters – got any ideas, sir?’
Superintendent Lloyd shook his head with a look of mock sorrow and bowed out of the curtains. Hawthorne closed his eyes tightly. This is not happening, he thought.
Then in an instant he was sliding his legs from under the bedcovers.
‘Where do you think you’re going?’ scolded the nurse. She carried a bedpan with a cloth over it.
ARCHANGEL HAWTHORNE (A Thriller) Page 16
