Julian Merrill grimaced and pulled tighter on the leather belt. He almost passed out with the pain. ‘Okay, so you’ve got it, Hawthorne. You’re very clever. Go to the top of the class.’
Callum Baxter slipped through the shadows, away from the twisted, redundant machinery, hugging the wall, trying to get a better angle on Hawthorne.
‘Eddie Bates was murdered by the very people whose money he was laundering,’ said Hawthorne. ‘Of course, you put the word out that Bates might possibly be in cahoots with Baxter beforehand. Eddie knew his time was up if he didn’t find the money fast. So what’s the plan now, Merrill? You go back to them with their money now, saying you somehow managed to recover it and wasted the ones who took it? With Eddie, your fall guy, out of the way, you proudly step up and into his shoes as the new top dog, taking over a huge chunk of Sheffield’s criminal business. As for the police, they eventually discover a few corpses who look like they’ve fought over themselves, and they never recover the missing Grainger money because all leads go cold. Grainger Forges gets its insurance payout, plus Randolph Grainger receives a huge secret bonus for his help in all this, and everyone’s happy. Back to business as usual, except now it’s not fronted by a number of disparate gang bosses, it’s just you lording it over everyone. All hail Julian Merrill!’ said Hawthorne.
He was forced to duck down when a hail of bullets ripped close by him, one ripping the sleeve of his coat. Callum had found a better spot to take pot-shots at him. He retreated to the other side of the truck, but knew he exposed himself to Julian Merrill’s gun. As if to underline his fear, a couple of shots rang out from the farm’s doorway, one bullet whining off the cobbles near his feet, the other slamming into his upper left arm. Hawthorne staggered against the canvas wall of the truck. He groaned as he dropped the lighter. It clattered on the ground.
‘Before you come any closer, Callum,’ shouted Hawthorne, scrambling to pick up the lighter, ‘you’d better know I’ve got your money here and it’s soaked in petrol.’ Hot blood ran down the inside of his sleeve and dripped from the ends of his fingers.
Merrill stiffened on hearing this. ‘Don’t be a fool, Hawthorne,’ he returned. ‘You don’t have to die. You could be a rich man. We both could. There’s more than enough to pad out your retirement, make your life very comfortable. I can see to that.’
‘Yeah?’ said Hawthorne. The bloody lighter still wouldn’t work. It gasped its sparks out but refused to ignite. Damn, he thought. Oh for a ruddy match! ‘Your plan depends upon you getting the money back, doesn’t it, Merrill?’ he said. ‘But if it’s not there, your credibility goes down the pan. Come one step closer and I’ll set fire to the bloody lot!’
Merrill waved for Callum to stay put. But Callum’s hatred was afire. His brother was dead, so too his father, and the man who was responsible for both deaths was right here before him. He wouldn’t stop until the damn copper was as dead as they were. He fired again, moving from shadow to shadow.
‘I mean it, Callum!’ Hawthorne hailed, crouching low. ‘It’ll all go up in flames!’ He fought to catch his breath, the pain in his ribs and the fresh wound in his arm almost overwhelming. ‘You think Merrill would have let you go free, Callum?’ he said, trying to buy time as he struggled to get the lighter to work. But his fingers were growing numb. ‘What’s to say it wasn’t in Merrill’s plan to kill you and Jimmy, Callum, and then blame you for the robbery? That would have gone down as extra brownie points with his new clients – finishing the hated nark off and getting their money back into the bargain. It would add weight to the lie that you and Eddie Bates were behind the Grainger robbery. Think about it, Callum.’
‘It’s a lie, Callum!’ Merrill called. ‘He’s trying to play with your mind. And neither will he set fire to the money.’ The lawyer felt a faint about to consume him. He fought it, but he was getting weaker by the minute, the blood flow having been stemmed by the tourniquet but not stopped.
‘Don’t bet on that, Merrill,’ said Hawthorne.
A fresh round of bullets from Merrill saw Hawthorne scramble for cover, but there wasn’t any. Callum Baxter burst from the shadows and fired his gun. The bullets rang out all round Hawthorne, one hitting him in the right side. The DCI staggered backwards, towards the barn doors, firing his gun at the fast-approaching shadow of Callum Baxter, the flames from his gun barrel lighting up his fury-wreathed face like bolts of lightning.
Hawthorne fell over, slipping in Jimmy Baxter’s blood as another bullet tore into his right hand and knocked the gun from his grasp. Callum strode up to the stricken detective, his gun held out and pointed down at the officer’s pain-racked face. Hawthorne breathed heavily, looking up at the man, knowing it was useless to try and retrieve his fallen weapon.
‘Just you and me now, Callum…’ he said, gasping for breath, his body consumed by agony.
‘Just you and me, copper,’ Callum said. ‘You killed my father and you killed my brother.’ He fired the gun at Hawthorne’s left leg and the DCI cried aloud. ‘I told you I was going to make you suffer.’ He fired again, this time at the right leg. Hawthorne’s head sprang back, his teeth bared in agony.
‘Go ahead,’ said Hawthorne. ‘You killed me the day you murdered my daughter…’
Callum Baxter lowered his brows, took aim at Hawthorne’s lolling head.
He pulled the trigger.
The gun clicked on empty.
Callum threw the gun away and stooped down to pick up Hawthorne’s weapon. He didn’t see the barn door open a fraction and Trudy Garner take aim at almost point-blank range with Jimmy’s gun. As Callum rose to his full height, Trudy fired.
The shot took Callum by surprise; it hit him squarely in the chest and he was thrown backwards by the impact, his legs losing purchase, and he fell against the tailboard of the truck. His eyes wide, knowing his wound was fatal, Callum lifted the gun again. It hovered uncertainly as his blurred vision tried to keep Hawthorne in focus.
With one last flick of the thumb on his lighter, Hawthorne was amazed to see a blue flame leap up. He tossed the lighter at Callum, who watched it as if in slow motion as it arced towards him, landing in the puddle of petrol at his feet.
In an instant, there was the sound of the petrol catching alight, and a great ball of fire leapt up to consume Callum and the truck. He screamed as the blaze wrapped itself around his body in seconds, but he could not move. Then his cries died quickly away and he dropped down dead into the fiery maelstrom.
Trudy Garner dashed from the cover of the barn and took hold of Hawthorne under the arms. Straining every muscle, she dragged him slowly away from the growing blaze and laid him on the rain-soaked grass. The flames billowed high into the night sky, sparks floating heavenwards like a plague of fireflies.
17
When You’ve Gotta Go
The graveyard looked almost serene in the sunlight, she thought. It did not remind her, strangely, of death, but of life, and how important that life really is. How often we take it for granted, she thought. How we take people for granted, until they are cruelly ripped away from us forever.
Trudy Garner held the bunch of flowers close to her chest, looking among the rows of headstones. She’d been directed over here somewhere, in this general direction, but now found herself lost. One headstone looks pretty much like another these days, she thought.
At last she found it, the surname Hawthorne standing out against the pale grey marble. She stood before it and said a quiet prayer to herself, kneeling down and placing the flowers on the grave.
‘I owe him my life,’ she said quietly, her breath escaping her lips like tendrils of smoke. She plucked out tiny shoots of weed growing up through the gravel.
Rising to her feet, she gave it one last look before setting off down the winding path that led to the main gates of the cemetery. Outside, a black taxi was waiting. She climbed aboard and asked the driver to take her to the hospital.
She walked down the hospital corridor with some trepidation, pausing on
ly to ask a nurse the directions. After all, might it bring it all back to her? The death of her husband, the kidnapping, her near-death experience in the woods with the Italian. But she knew she had to do this. How could she not?
The double doors opened up onto a long, large ward. She hesitated at the door until a man rose from the side of a bed and beckoned her over.
It was Inspector Donald Fraser.
‘This way,’ he said cheerfully.
‘How is he?’ she asked, approaching the bed slowly.
DCI Hawthorne was lying propped up on a pillow, his eyes closed, his skin pale and almost translucent.
‘He’s doing just dandy,’ said Hawthorne weakly, opening one eye. ‘Hello, Trudy. Good to see you.’
Fraser pulled up a chair for Trudy to sit on. ‘I’ve been to the cemetery to take some flowers to your daughter’s grave,’ she said uncertainly. ‘I hope you don’t mind me doing that?’
He stared at her, then grinned. ‘I don’t mind at all. Thank you. You shouldn’t have…’
‘I felt I had to,’ she said. ‘I’ve since learnt how she died. I’m so sorry. It was the least I could do. You saved my life.’
Hawthorne studied the pretty young woman, now aged, it seemed, by her ordeal. ‘I’ve a lot to thank you for, too,’ he said. ‘You know,’ he added after a moment’s thoughtful silence. ‘You remind me of my daughter,’ he said. ‘Something about the eyes.’
‘How long before you get better?’ she asked, reaching out her hand and putting it on his. His fingers curled around hers.
‘I’d be out tomorrow if I could,’ he grumbled. ‘But they insist on keeping me cooped up here. What the ruddy hell do doctors know anyway?’
Fraser smiled. ‘He won’t be bothering us for a long time yet,’ he said. ‘His body’s like a bloody colander.’
‘Language, Fraser!’ Hawthorne snapped. ‘There’s a ruddy lady present!’
‘Anyway, I’m not staying. I just wanted to call and say thank you,’ she said. ‘That’s all really.’ She got to her feet, tears beginning to film her eyes.
He could see how difficult it was for her. ‘Sure, pet, you do that,’ Hawthorne said tenderly. He knew the affair had affected her terribly, would continue to affect her even many years from now. But she bore it all very stoically, he thought proudly.
Proudly? He smiled to himself. It was like she really was his daughter. Except this time, he’d managed to save her life. He blinked. Maybe that would make him feel better about himself, he thought.
Maybe.
He squeezed her hand one last time and she said goodbye, both of them knowing they would never see each other again.
‘Now that’s a lovely young woman,’ said Hawthorne as she left the ward.
‘Yes, sir,’ he replied.
‘Merrill is still alive?’ he asked.
‘Yeah. Lost a lot of blood, but they managed to pump enough into him to keep the slimy beggar going. He’ll stand trial. Randolph Grainger has been arrested, too.’
Hawthorne nodded, satisfied. ‘I told you, Fraser. I told you Baxter was involved.’
‘Yes, sir. We were all pillocks and you were Saint Hawthorne.’
‘Archangel Hawthorne,’ he reminded.
‘Yes, sir. Archangel Hawthorne.’ He sat down on the chair, shuffled uncomfortably. ‘Look, sir, this isn’t quite over yet. Everyone’s over the moon you managed to rescue the girl and get the bad guys, but there are questions being asked about the gun you didn’t have paperwork for, and what exactly happened when you shot and killed Jimmy Baxter.’
He harrumphed. ‘So what? Let them ask questions. I did what I had to do.’ He looked up at Fraser. ‘You’re not unlike me, Fraser,’ he said. ‘You remind me of when I was a young ‘un. Don’t let them grind that away and you’ll be a good copper.’
‘I’ll try and remember that, sir,’ he said.
‘Trudy’s a lovely young woman,’ Hawthorne mused, almost absently. ‘So like my Isobel. She could do with a nice young fella to take care of her now.’ He looked at Fraser meaningfully.
‘You can’t mean what I think you mean, sir…’
‘Why not? She’s a lovely young thing, not like the butch girlfriend you’ve got now. Someone like Trudy, she’d be good for you and you’d be good for her.’
‘My girlfriend’s not butch I tell you!’ said Fraser, keeping his voice low. ‘Stop saying that!’
‘She ruddy well is, Fraser,’ he said. ‘I know about these things.’
‘You know everything about everything,’ Fraser said sarcastically.
Hawthorne closed his eyes. ‘You leaving yet? I’m knackered.’
Inspector Donald Fraser rose from the seat. ‘Guess I’ll be off then,’ he said. Hawthorne didn’t open his eyes so he plonked his hat back on his head and started to march away.
‘Fraser,’ Hawthorne called.
‘Yes, sir?’
‘Thanks. For everything.’
‘You’re welcome. Take care of yourself.’ And with that, he left the ward.
Hawthorne opened his eyes and took in a deep breath. The warmth of the ward was overpowering. Beyond the window, he saw flakes of snow drifting down. The next thing he knew, he was being roused from a light, fitful sleep by the sound of someone’s voice. His eyes focussed and he made out the familiar face of the doctor looming over him.
‘Ah, you’re awake, Mr Hawthorne,’ the doctor said chirpily. He closed the curtains round the bed.
‘That’s got to be bad news, closing the curtains like that,’ said Hawthorne sullenly.
‘Just trying to give us a little privacy,’ said the doctor, coming to sit in the chair by the bed. ‘We have the results of the tests we carried out on your lungs.’
Hawthorne nodded. ‘Yeah?’
The doctor coughed lightly. ‘I’m afraid it is cancer, and it’s as I thought: it’s in its advanced stages. We could operate, but it has spread to your other lung and so that’s out of the question.’
The man in the bed shrugged. ‘I guess that’s that then. How long have I got?’
‘Four, maybe five months at the most.’
Hawthorne’s bottom lip shivered but he hid his emotions. ‘Still got time to win the football pools then.’
‘Have you anyone you can talk to, who will support you through this? Family? Friends?’
The DCI smiled. ‘I don’t have friends or family.’
‘Perhaps we can help here at the hospital. I shall see what I can arrange.’
Hawthorne held up a hand. ‘That’s not necessary, doctor. When you’ve gotta go, you’ve gotta go.’
‘Very stoical, Mr Hawthorne, but I know how things like this hit people.’
‘Actually, I do have someone…’ he said, his eyes lighting up.
‘Yes? That’s good. Do you want us to contact them?’
He shook his head. ‘Nah. That’s fine, doctor.’
‘So who is it, if you don’t mind me asking?’
Hawthorne smiled broadly. ‘It’s my daughter Isobel. I’ll be seeing her soon.’
‘Excellent,’ said the doctor as Hawthorne closed his eyes, and the doctor took it as his cue and ghosted away.
Hawthorne waited until the man had gone and then called out to a nurse. ‘Can I get something to ruddy eat here? I’m bloody famished. And none of that crap you mistakenly call food – I’d like something proper this time!’
Dear Reader,
Thank you for purchasing ‘ARCHANGEL HAWTHORNE’.
It’s been late in coming, I know (I really had to get with the times), but you can now follow me on Facebook for news on latest releases, free book offers and general stuff! I’d love to hear your thoughts.
You can also visit www.dm-mitchell.com for a full list and description of all my books and short stories.
If you enjoyed this novel, I would be grateful if you could take the time to let other people know and put a review on Amazon. I try to read them all and take every review very seriously. As readers your
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Yours,
Daniel M. Mitchell.
If you liked ARCHANGEL HAWTHORNE, you might also like MOUSE:
It’s the summer of 1976 and Vince Moody is a quiet and unassuming projectionist at the run-down Empire cinema in the small town of Langbridge in the middle of the Somerset Levels.
His life is a drudge, and he’s going nowhere; the only female attention he gets is a stream of cruel jokes and jibes from the Empire’s cleaners, and especially from the obnoxious Monica Andrews. But his life is about to change dramatically when he sees and falls secretly in love with Laura Leach.
Laura lives all alone in an 18th Century folly known as Devereux Towers; a brooding old building sitting alone in its field a few miles from Langbridge. Recently returned to the area to bury her father and having inherited Devereux Towers, Laura is something of a recluse. The local children call Laura the ‘Witch of Devereux Towers’; some people call her ‘damaged goods’. She too is lonely and unassuming, a desperately troubled woman haunted by her dark, secret past. Haunted by what lies behind the locked, blue-painted door in Devereux Towers…
ARCHANGEL HAWTHORNE (A Thriller) Page 20
