Merrill frowned, lifting Trudy to her feet. ‘We’ll help you,’ he said. ‘Take her and put her up in the cab,’ he ordered the driver. ‘The man who was chasing you – you say he’s up here somewhere?’
She nodded quickly, allowing the burly driver of the truck to escort her to the vehicle. He helped her up into the cab. Julian Merrill followed, sitting in the cab and telling the driver to move on.
‘We have to turn round and go down the hill,’ said Trudy. ‘They’re still after me and they’re armed.’
‘We’ll be all right,’ said Merrill coldly.
In a minute or so they reached the spot where Brody lay by the side of the road. He appeared to be close to fainting, but looked up at hearing the sound of the truck approaching and drawing to a halt beside him.
‘That’s him,’ said Trudy. ‘He tried to kill me.’
Merrill glanced meaningfully at the driver. The driver said, ‘That’s Tom Brody.’
‘You… you know him?’ said Trudy, surprised.
The lawyer nodded at the driver, who climbed out of the truck. He strode casually round the nose of the vehicle, and as he did so, he took a revolver from out of his overcoat. Trudy’s eyes widened in horror as the large man walked over to where Brody lay and calmly lifted the gun, pumping two rounds into his chest. Trudy screamed and made a dash for the open door, but Merrill yanked her back inside. The truck driver blocked her exit, stowing away the gun before he hauled his bulk back inside.
‘Stop struggling,’ said Merrill, ‘and sit back and be quiet.’
Helplessly, her senses reeling, Trudy lowered her head into her hands. The nightmare was far from over.
DCI Hawthorne took a long swig from the small bottle of Johnny Walkers. There was only half an inch remaining in the bottom. He was tempted to drain it all, but stowed it away in his overcoat pocket and opened the glove compartment of the car. He removed an old Webley revolver, checked the barrel to make sure it was fully loaded. There’d be hell to pay if they caught him with this unauthorised and unlicensed weapon, something he’d had since the war, stashed away in his drawer as a memento. He really should have gotten rid of it, but sentiment in this instance had got the better of him, and it rarely did that.
He thought about his lung, the shadow, what the doctor said.
A few years ago, he had a mate die of lung cancer. He was dead within six months of being diagnosed. And he saw how wasted the man became, a cancer-eaten shadow of his former self, until he was unrecognisable. The blasted disease spread all over his insides, like some kind of vile fungus. Even now, if what the doctor said was true, the same could be happening to him.
Hawthorne swallowed, his mouth dry. Well the ruddy thing wouldn’t claim him like it claimed his mate. He wouldn’t let people see him wither away like that. Not that there were many people to see him wither. It was at times like this, he thought, that you realise what a solitary, lonely life you’ve been leading. People were right: he didn’t have friends. There would be no one to miss him, to mourn him. Not that it particularly bothered him, but it was a fact. And who, he wondered seriously, would show up at his funeral? Yet, in the grand scheme of things, did that really matter when he was dead in his grave?
He shook his head and felt for the bottle again, his fingers brushing the warm glass. He pondered over how fast his life had crumbled. His reputation for getting things done, for being a good intuitive copper, kicked aside as if it was no longer of consequence, his job being whipped from under him like it was a soiled carpet, and on top of that, this ruddy cancer-thing.
He was reminded of Gary Cooper in High Noon. Everyone abandoning him, saying he should back off, losing faith in him, until he was the only one left to face up to things. Left to face his demons alone. It must have been at least ten years ago he saw that film at the flicks but it still stuck in his mind.
Gary ruddy Cooper, he thought; that’s who I am. No one else, just me. And if I’ve got to go then I’d rather go down fighting.
The gun stashed in one pocket, the bottle of Johnny Walkers in the other, he stepped out of the car. Crossing the small road, he peered up what was little more than a track, as constable Griffiths had said. Something large had been up here recently, he surmised, looking down at the deep tyre imprints in the mud. Constable Griffiths had been up here in his car, but these recent tracks were far larger, heavier. A truck. One at least. Maybe more. To say the farmhouse at the track’s end was derelict, there was a lot of traffic using this. He decided to leave his car parked by the verge and walk the rest of the way. Two miles, the constable had said. That wouldn’t take him long, and he didn’t want the car being spotted from the farmhouse if his theories were correct and Baxter was holed-up there with his cronies. It was more than coincidence that the Garner couple had gone missing in the same area as the Morgan farm, he thought, especially as it was linked in the past to Bruno Abramco. He reckoned the Garners had stumbled upon something they shouldn’t have.
Starting out at a pace, his ribs giving him hell, he’d gone about a mile down the overgrown track when he heard the familiar sound of shots being fired in the distance, like the flicking of a whip. Hawthorne stopped. His army training kicked in. Four shots. Light arms, certainly not shotguns. This wasn’t some local hunting pheasants or rabbits.
Clutching his chest to ease the pain, he broke into a hurried trot, but he had to slow down as he became breathless and the agony of his wounds wagged their fiery fingers at him.
‘Bugger!’ he said, coughing and racked by pain. He dug out the Johnny Walkers and finished off the bottle, wiping his wet lips on the back of his hand. ‘That should help numb things a little,’ he said.
Taking out the Webley, Hawthorne resumed his steady climb up the steep track.
The truck pulled into the farmyard and Jimmy Baxter went over to meet it. He had his gun at the ready but quickly put it away when he saw Julian Merrill’s face in the cab. He was surprised to see the Garner woman being manhandled from the cab by the driver.
‘What the hell is going on?’ said Merrill angrily, marching up to Jimmy. ‘Get the woman inside,’ he ordered the driver, and Trudy Garner was dragged bodily across the farmyard to the house. ‘Where is Callum?’
‘He’s out searching for her,’ he said, pointing at Trudy.
Jimmy saw two more men jumping down from the rear of the canvas-covered truck.
‘Find Callum for me,’ said Merrill sharply.
‘I’m here,’ Callum Baxter said marching up to them. ‘I heard shots.’
‘Me too,’ said Jimmy.
Callum glanced at Trudy as she was taken past him. She glared angrily. ‘Where’s Brody?’ he asked Merrill.
‘Never mind Brody, is what she says true?’ fired Merrill.
‘I don’t know what she’s told you,’ he returned.
‘Don’t play games with me, Callum!’ he shouted. ‘What the hell were you thinking? You were supposed to keep your bloody head down.’
‘It was an accident. We’ve got it taken care of.’
Merrill gritted his teeth. ‘Like shit you have, Callum. It’s a bloody mess as far as I can see.’
‘You’ve got the girl, haven’t you? And we have the money. Nothing’s changed. The girl isn’t a problem. She’s easily taken care of.’
Julian Merrill glowered at Callum. ‘You don’t touch her until I hear the full story and can think this through.’
‘Where’s Brody? I heard his gunfire.’
‘Brody’s dead,’ he said. ‘A little earlier than planned, but that doesn’t matter. Where are the other two?’
‘Angelo Abramco is dead, and so is Spud Wainwright,’ said Callum. ‘The woman killed Abramco.’
Merrill raised an eyebrow in surprise, and then smiled thinly. ‘Then I guess she did us a favour. Just you and Jimmy left…’
‘It’s how it was always supposed to be, so, like I told you, nothing’s changed.’
‘Where’s the money?’ Merrill asked.
‘I
n the barn.’
Merrill turned to the two men who had emerged from the rear of the truck and were awaiting orders. ‘Follow Callum. He’ll show you the money. Load it into the truck. I want to be out of here before it gets dark.’
‘Clear that board and make a clean start of things,’ said Superintendent Lloyd, deliberately loud so as to be overheard by the rest of the squad who were within earshot. ‘We’ve been down one dead-end too many. Get this investigation back on track.’ The superintendent placed his arms behind his back and stood rigid, turning to address the men in the office. ‘I want results. I don’t want idle speculation. Our reputation is at stake here.’
With that, he marched from the office. People looked at his back as if he’d left a bad smell in the room.
‘Okay, you heard the man,’ said Inspector Donald Fraser. ‘We’ve got work to do.’
Fraser was also acutely aware of the men regarding him like he’d done the dirty on Caesar and stabbed him in the back. DCI Hawthorne might have his faults, but the men respected him. Fraser was now the young usurper, all along planning to snatch the crown from the king’s head. There was an uneasy atmosphere building, so thick even a knife would have trouble cutting it.
He sighed. He’d never asked for any of this. In his own way, he too respected Hawthorne, prickly, cantankerous, unpredictable devil that he was. Silently, he stood before the board on the wall that Hawthorne and the team had been filling with mugshots, names and addresses, maps and anything that might remotely be of importance to the case. It had been done in Hawthorne’s inimitable manner, seemingly haphazard, needing his guiding hand to lead you through it. Maybe that was deliberate, thought Fraser. Maybe the old man liked to keep an air of mystery about things that only he knew how to fully solve. It made him feel important.
Fraser shook his head at the thought. He was being disingenuous. Hawthorne didn’t need to be made to feel important. He just didn’t care a jot about what others thought about him. And that was his allure.
He reached up a hand to begin to strip the board bare so that they might start all over again, his fingers hovering over the mugshot of Callum Baxter, whose face stared emotionless down at him. But instead of taking it from the board, Fraser stood back and folded his arms, studying the photo. Then that of the dead nightclub owner and local kingpin Eddie Bates. The names of Bates’ lawyer and the factory owners nearby. Hawthorne had made some kind of connection here that was lost on him, he thought.
For long minutes he stared at the board, thinking about what Hawthorne had told him at the hospital, then pulled up a chair and sat quietly in front of it, stroking his chin, leaning forward to look at a detail more closely and then leaning back studiously. Somehow, Hawthorne’s brain had made sense of all this. Fraser rubbed his eyes. No, he was getting drawn into Hawthorne’s world again, and that world might be twisted and flawed, motivated by grief and retribution, not hard, dispassionate policing.
Then, while thinking of the stolen ten-shilling note, it hit him, as if a veil had been lifted and he was seeing things clearly for the very first time, all the pieces of the puzzle fitting neatly into place. He couldn’t understand why he hadn’t been able to spot it before.
He rose quickly from his chair, standing before the board, grinning to himself. You sly old devil, he thought. You were right! You have to be!
‘Sir,’ someone shouted across the room to him.
‘Not now,’ said Fraser. ‘I’m busy.’
‘It’s someone wanting to speak to the officer in charge of the Grainger case. I guess that’s you now,’ he added with a drop of acid in his voice.
‘Take a message.’
‘It’s a police constable with Carmarthen constabulary. He says he needs to speak to someone about DCI Hawthorne.’
The body was still warm, thought Hawthorne. Hell, the man had taken a few rounds, almost as if he’d been used as target practice. One to the shoulder, one to the groin area, the fatal wounds being to the chest. The corpse was lathered in blood, and a sticky pool of it was finding its way from the grass verge where he lay and running down the track. The murderer hadn’t even bothered to hide the body away, no doubt thinking no one used this route often enough to cause worry. Or they wanted it on display, wanting it to be found eventually. That would fit in with what Hawthorne had in mind. That he was on the right track was now without doubt.
He glanced at his watch. It was four o’clock. Starting to get duskier. He estimated he had about half a mile to go now. He rose from the dead body, the pain in his chest causing him to double up momentarily. But it didn’t quash his resolve. He moved forward at a trot up the track, listening for anything out of the ordinary. Some ten minutes later, he saw the farmhouse on top of the hill, the track ending at a gate framed on either side by high, mature trees. The track cut across a grassy field up to the farmhouse, a number of old barns and outbuildings clearly visible. Hunkering down near the trees, at first he couldn’t hear or see anyone. The place did indeed look completely deserted. But a truck’s tyre prints in the mud looked recent enough, he thought.
Tracing a path along the edge of the wooden fence, he gave the farmhouse as wide a berth as possible, keeping it in sight at all times but not wanting to be seen by anyone on lookout from the small windows. His gun at the ready, Hawthorne took up a position where he could see the main entrance to the farmhouse and one of the larger barns. A large truck was parked in the farmyard, its rear pushed up close to the barn. One of the barn doors was wide open.
It began to rain, a fine mist that moistened his face and leaked into his narrowed eyes. ‘Bugger,’ he said under his breath, hating the rain. His hand ran across his repaired rib, the crouched position not helping him any.
Finally, he saw someone walk out of the barn. He rubbed his eyes clear of rain to make out the blurred form. Yes, it was him! It was Callum Baxter. He was right after all!
The elation was short lived. The pain hit him again and he felt faint with it.
Callum Baxter’s voice floated over to him. He was giving orders to someone in the barn, but exactly what he couldn’t say. The man walked over to the farmhouse and stepped inside.
A light burnt in one of the windows and Hawthorne observed Baxter cross in front of it. He made out the shadowy shapes of two others inside the farmhouse but they quickly disappeared from view.
There was no sign of the missing couple. If his hunch was right, they should be here somewhere. They could be inside, he thought, wondering how he should play this. The men were probably armed, and anyone being held in there might get hurt if he went in all guns blazing. And given that he was already outnumbered, he had to think about this carefully. In an hour the place would be in the dark.
If he stood the slightest chance of pulling this off, he thought, first he had to even the odds. He set off at a crouch towards the barn.
16
Fireflies
She found herself in the same place she thought she’d escaped, being pushed roughly down the cellar steps so that she almost stumbled on her injured ankle and fell on the uneven stone. Trudy Garner turned on reaching the bottom, faced the young man.
‘You think you scare me anymore?’ she said, her face screwed up in anger. ‘Do you?’
Jimmy Baxter resisted the urge to strike her across the lips with his pistol. Instead, he merely stared right on back at her. ‘You should be dead,’ he said evenly. ‘That damned Italian messed things up.’ He smiled. ‘But when they’ve finished talking upstairs, there’s only gonna be one outcome for you.’ He lifted the gun when he saw her body tense. ‘Don’t even think of rushing me with those bloody nails of yours. This time I’ll blast your bloody head off your shoulders.’
He left her in the dark, locking the door after him, only the tiny brick-sized slit of a window lending any light. Trembling, she did not know what to do. She knew his words to be true, and felt her life was but minutes away from ending and she was powerless to do anything about it. The leaden light fell onto her face
as she approached the window. A cool breeze wafted in, accompanied by the spattering of rain. The sky was growing darker as evening gave way slowly to night and soon she might not be able to see anything of the outside. It frightened her. She stood on tiptoe and looked out of the hole to the dreary world beyond, so tantalisingly within reach, so far away, wanting to hold onto it for as long as she possibly could before it slipped forever from her grasp. This might be the last time she ever saw the daylight, she thought bleakly.
A figure of a man, creeping stealthily across the farmyard, seen for an instant before being lost to the encroaching black shadows.
She frowned, peering through narrowed eyes into the gloom. There he was again, separating from a bush as he approached the barn doors. The man clearly didn’t wish to be seen by anyone. He had something in his hand – it looked like a gun!
And for the first time since making her bid for freedom after shooting the Italian, she felt hope light a new fire in her breast.
DCI Hawthorne reached the barn wall and flattened himself against it, a precautious glance at the farmhouse satisfying him he hadn’t been seen. He slid quietly around the side of the barn to the open barn door, for the first time able to see inside the rear of the truck parked outside the barn. The tailgate was down and a number of bulging sacks had been stowed in it. He carefully looked inside the barn, where he saw another truck – ex-army issue, he surmised – lit up by a lamp burning on the muddy floor. Up above, a large part of the roof was missing and the rain was coming in and running off the canvas of the truck and gathering in puddles near an open trapdoor.
Hawthorne stole inside, approaching the trapdoor. More lamplight shone up from inside the small room concealed below the floor of the barn, and voices and the sounds of movement drifted out. A quick glance down revealed the heads of three men, busy lifting heavy sacks and placing them by the ladder that reached up to the trapdoor.
ARCHANGEL HAWTHORNE (A Thriller) Page 18
