The Man Who Couldn't Lose

by Roger Silverwood

  The Man Who

  Couldn’t Lose

  Roger Silverwood

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  By the Same Author

  Copyright

  ONE

  Bromersley, South Yorkshire, UK, 23.15 hours, 18 October 1970

  The young couple were in the dark, sheltered archway of the Theatre Royal on Bradford Street, leaning against the closed emergency-exit door. The second house had long since finished. The theatre had emptied. The lights were out. The street was deserted.

  His arms were round her, and he pressed his hard body against her and gave her a long, tender kiss. When their lips parted, she sighed, and ran a hand through his hair. He was a big, strong, athletic young man with a distinctive lined face.

  ‘Joshua,’ she whispered breathily.

  Through the darkness he could just see the whites of her big eyes. He sighed, smiled, pulled her back to him and nuzzled into her hair while his fingers eagerly explored her vertebrae; at the same time, she rubbed her hands up and down his arms and shoulders. The only sound to be heard was the heavy breathing and pounding of their hearts. Their loving thoughts were turning to ecstatic dreams as they floated gently in each other’s arms.

  Suddenly, there was the loud bang of a door being shut, close by, followed by a rattle of keys, then the sound of heavy shoes on stone steps.

  They came back abruptly to earth. They froze in the dark shadow of the doorway, hoping not to be discovered.

  Someone had come out of the front door of the theatre and was standing on the pavement.

  They turned and edged forward. They could just see his outline in the moonlight. He was a portly man in a long coat. At the same moment, a car raced up seemingly from nowhere and stopped at the door with a squeal of brakes. The driver got out, leaving the engine running, and came round to the theatre door. The headlights showed him to be a slim man in a light-coloured raincoat.

  The young couple, only twelve feet away from the car, held on to each other motionless, yet listening, wishing the two men would go away and leave them undisturbed.

  ‘You are late,’ the hard voice of the younger man began quietly.

  ‘Got held up.’

  ‘Got the money?’

  ‘Got the stuff?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Where is it?’

  ‘In the boot.’

  ‘Show me.’

  There were footsteps to the back of the car. There was a click of a catch as the boot lid was raised.

  ‘Where?’

  There was no reply.

  Suddenly, there was a gasp and the older man said, ‘What’s that? No!’ he said urgently. There was fear in his voice.

  The younger man’s voice hardened.

  ‘Drop the money in the back and step away from the car.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Do as I tell you.’

  ‘If you pull that trigger, you’ll waken half the town. The cops’ll be here in no time.’

  ‘I mean it. Do as I say.’

  ‘You wouldn’t dare.’

  ‘Put that down! Stand back!’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Drop it or I shoot.’

  Then there was the clatter of metal hitting metal, the whooshing of a .202 leaving the barrel of a Walther PPX fitted with a silencer, the rattle of an iron bar clattering on the road, followed by the sound of two men slumping to the ground.

  The young couple in the shadows of the doorway stood motionless, their lungs tight with air.

  The only sound to be heard was the ticking of the car engine.

  The young man disentangled himself from the girl and peered round the corner of the doorway.

  ‘What’s happened?’ she whispered.

  ‘Stay there, Myra.’

  Joshua looked down at the two men. One lay on top of the other. They were motionless. An iron bar lay on the road, reflecting the light.

  He licked his lips. Then stepped gingerly out from the safe cover of the doorway onto the pavement. He looked up and then down the short street. All was quiet. The noise of the pistol shot didn’t seem to have disturbed anybody. He leaned over the two men and rubbed his chin. He touched the neck of the younger man, searching for a pulse. His fingers felt hot and sticky. He was touching blood. It was oozing out of the man’s head and running down his neck. Joshua gasped. He unrolled the man’s fingers from round the Walther PPX and shoved it into his pocket. He picked up a brown paper parcel from the road and threw it in the car boot. Then he went deftly through his pockets and found a wallet. He pushed the younger man off the top of the other man with his foot and then swiftly crouched down and lifted his wallet from his inside pocket.

  He saw Myra’s feet. She was standing next to him, hands in her pockets.

  ‘Are they dead, Joshua?’ she said.

  He looked up at her.

  ‘Yes,’ he said quickly.

  ‘Oh,’ she gasped. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Get in the car.’

  ‘Where’s the nearest phone?’

  ‘Get in the car,’ he snapped. ‘Hurry up.’

  ‘What you going to do? Aren’t you going to phone the police?’

  ‘Get in the car!’ he bawled.

  They heard the clatter of footsteps running in the distance.

  His pulse raced.

  Myra hesitated.

  ‘What you doing?’ she said, her eyes flashing.

  Joshua opened the car door

  ‘This is our chance!’ he yelled.

  He pushed her into the car.

  The running footsteps were louder.

  Joshua dashed round the rear of the car, skirting the two bodies and accidentally kicking the iron bar as he scrambled to the driver’s door.

  Lights inside the foyer of the theatre burst into life. The silhouette of a man’s head and shoulders was framed in the glass door.

  Joshua saw him and it made him catch his breath. His heart pounded.

  He slammed the car door shut; his hands were shaking.

  ‘There’s somebody coming,’ Myra squealed.

  He fumbled in the dark to find the clutch, the gear stick and then the handbrake; the big car jerked with a loud squeal of rubber away from the kerb into the night.

  Sebastopol Terrace, Bromersley, South Yorkshire, UK, 13.15 hours, 19 March 2007

  Joshua Gumme, sitting in the back of the Bentley, pressed a button on the armrest and lowered the internal privacy window behind the driver.

  ‘Stop here. Number thirteen. This is the one, Horace,’ he growled.

  ‘Yes, Mr Gumme.’

  ‘Hurry up and get my chair out.’

  ‘Yes, Mr Gumme.’

  Horace ‘Harelip’ Makepiece pulled on the handbrake of the Bentley outside the little terraced house and switched off the ignition. He dashed out of the driver’s seat, slammed the door, rushed to the rear of the limo, opened the tailgate and lifted out a wheelchair. He bounced the wheels on the pavement, pressed down the seat to open it and make it rigid and then manoeuvred it up to the nearside rear door of the car.

  Joshua Gumme, immaculately dressed in a plain clerical grey three-piece suit, white shirt, dark tie and black Homburg, smart as paint but forty years out of date, swung his large frame out of the car on to the wheelchair and immediately rolled the wheels impatiently towards the door of the little ho
use.

  Makepiece closed the boot and the car door and dashed across the pavement to grab hold of the wheelchair handles.

  They were soon at the house door. They didn’t have to knock. It was swiftly opened by a slim young woman in a shapeless dress, sloppy sandals and with mousey-coloured hair, a clump of it flopping across one cheek. She was wearing a delicately carved necklace comprising twenty or more small heart-shaped garnets, each in a delicate old gold setting and connected by pretty leaf motif chain links. Her face was red and sweaty; her eyes were tired. The chatter of children and occasionally playful screaming could be heard from the kitchen behind her.

  ‘Yes?’ she said commandingly, looking down at Gumme in the chair then glancing at Makepiece standing behind. ‘You’re back again. What you want? My husband’s out, looking for work. And if you’re wanting money, we haven’t got any.’

  Gumme’s lips tightened. He cleared his throat.

  ‘Young lady,’ he began sternly.

  She put her hands on her hips and said, ‘We’re never going to be able to pay you any more, Mr Gumme.’

  ‘Mrs Tasker,’ he said icily. His eyes suddenly alighted on the garnet and gold necklace twinkling slightly on her white chest. His eyes narrowed as he looked at it but he said nothing. He looked quickly up into her face.

  ‘Yes. I’m Mrs Tasker,’ she said proudly. ‘And I’ve got two children to show for it. And my husband can’t possibly pay you.’

  ‘Yes, well,’ he replied, rubbing his chin. ‘We’ll see about that. I’ll come back when your husband’s in,’ he said curtly.

  ‘He’s out looking for work,’ she said, running the tip of her tongue lightly across her lips.

  He looked back at Makepiece and waggled a finger.

  ‘Give her a card,’ he snapped.

  Makepiece whisked out his wallet, found a business card and passed it over to Mrs Tasker.

  She wrinkled her nose as she took it.

  ‘Tell him to phone me at that number, tonight, Muriel,’ Gumme said, staring hard into her face. ‘Tonight!’ he repeated loudly. Then he whisked the wheelchair through 180 degrees, dragging Makepiece round with him, and pushed the wheels vigorously towards the car.

  Muriel Tasker shivered and felt her pulse quicken. She went back inside the house, closed the door and leaned back against it, breathing unevenly with a hand on her chest.

  Doncaster Rail Station, South Yorkshire, UK, 08.40 hours. 20 March 2007

  The voice on the tannoy bawled out: ‘The train arriving on Platform One is the 6.05 from King’s Cross.’

  A few people were waiting on the platform to greet it. Among them was a big man who was leaning against a pillar in front of the waiting room reading the Sporting Life. As the train rolled in, he stuffed the newspaper into his jacket pocket and stepped forward.

  Carriage after carriage rolled past with passengers gathering at the doors.

  The train squealed to a halt.

  At one door, a severe-looking man in large black hat, clerical collar and black suit, carrying a large black case, an umbrella and a black book inscribed in gold leaf with the words ‘Holy Bible’, descended the steps.

  The big man saw him and rushed forward. He looked round to see who was near and then, in a loud voice, said, ‘Are you Father Ignatius of the Little Brothers Of The Poor?’

  The man in the black suit and the clerical collar smiled graciously down at him and said, ‘Indeed I am, my son.’

  The man nodded and returned the smile. He didn’t know why. He didn’t feel like smiling.

  Out of the corner of his mouth, the man in black said, ‘Why don’t you offer to take my suitcase, you great lump-head?’

  The big man’s eyes froze momentarily. He knew not to mess with the man in the black hat.

  ‘Oh. Can I take your case, good Father?’ he stammered loudly.

  ‘Very well, my dear friend,’ the man replied with a show of teeth and a flourish of the hand. ‘I am sure that your kindness to a humble cleric will be rewarded in heaven.’

  ‘Oh?’ He blinked and bowed. ‘Yes, sir. Thank you. This way, Father.’

  The big man bustled along the underpass with the case, and up the steps through the ticket barrier to a car waiting outside, while the man in black strode slowly and deliberately behind him in his own time, gripping the Bible in one hand and using the umbrella as a walking stick. The big man unlocked the car, put the case in the car boot, then opened the front nearside door for the man and waited by it. The man in black ignored the open door and instead opened the offside rear door. He wedged the umbrella between the seats, climbed into the car and, nursing the Bible on his lap, reached out and closed the door. The big man, seeing what had happened, closed the door, ran round the car and got in the driver’s seat.

  Once they were on their way, the man in black said: ‘Now remember, you always call me Father Ignatius. OK?’

  ‘Whatever you say, boss,’ he said, without thinking.

  The eyes of the man in black glowed like hot cinders. His fists tightened. ‘I said you call me Father Ignatius, you bloody idiot!’ he hissed like a snake about to bite.

  When the driver realized what he’d said, his blood turned to ice. He licked his lips and gripped the steering wheel more tightly.

  ‘Sorry, sir. Father Ignatius, I mean.’

  The man in black sighed heavily.

  They travelled the ten miles to Bromersley in silence. It was only when the driver stopped outside the front door of the Feathers Hotel that the man in the cleric’s clothes said, ‘Now listen, son. And listen good. You know nothing about me. If you are asked by the police, or anybody else, all you know about me is that my name is Father Ignatius and that I come from Ireland. That’s all you need to know. If I find you’ve been shooting your mouth off, I shall come looking for you. Understand?’

  The man’s blood ran cold. He sat in the driver’s seat as still as a corpse and wished he was anywhere but there.

  ‘Yes. Sure. Father Ignatius.’

  ‘Right. And don’t phone me. Never phone me. If I need you, I’ll contact you. Right?’

  ‘Right. Yes. Sure, Father Ignatius.’

  He slammed the car door and shot into the The Feathers.

  The driver watched him swish through the revolving doors. He sighed, grabbed himself a can of Grolsch from under the dash, tore off the ringpull, slung it through the window, took a big swig from the can and then hopped out the car to open the boot as the hotel porter appeared.

  There was a card on the lift doors that read, ‘Out Of Order’, but old Walter, the hotel porter, wasted no time and bustled up the stairs with the suitcase to room 102, closely followed by the man in black.

  The old man led him into the room, put his luggage on the case stand and said, ‘Dinner is served from six until eight-thirty, and room service is all day until ten o’clock. Will there be anything else, sir?’

  ‘No, thank you, my son,’ he replied with a flash of teeth. Then he opened the cover of the Bible and took out a small card about two inches by four inchees. It had a beautifully printed colour picture of an angel on one side and the words ‘May the good Lord preserve you and keep you’ on the other.

  ‘There you are,’ he said, handing it to the old man.

  Walter gawped at him and took the card. He stared at it.

  ‘Never neglect to say your prayers each night, my son, and you are certain to go to heaven and enjoy the fruits of paradise.’

  Walter had never met a character like this before. Unusually, he was lost for words.

  ‘Yes, sir. I will, sir. Thank you, sir.’

  He handed him the room key and went out.

  As soon as the door was closed, the man rushed over to it, inserted the key and locked it. He then dashed across to the window, peered out of it then ran to the bathroom, checked that it was empty, and tried the window but it wouldn’t budge. Came back into the bedroom, looked in the wardrobe and then under the bed.

  Then he sat on the edge of th
e bed and sighed.

  After a moment, he threw down the Bible, dragged his hat and wig off, scratched his bald head vigorously for thirty seconds, and unfastened his collar and let it hang loose.

  Then he reached out for the Bible. He opened it, took out the Smith and Wesson .38 from the cut-out cavity and pushed it under the pillow.

  Bromersley, South Yorkshire, UK, 22.50 hours. 20 March 2007

  Peace and quiet descended on Edmondson’s Avenue, a quiet street of semi-detached houses on the new council estate on the Barnsley side of Bromersley. The landlord of The Fat Duck on the corner had long since called ‘Time, gentlemen, please’, Fletcher’s fish and chip shop had sold out and emptied the deep fat fryer, and Mr Patel at the off licence had sold the last six-pack of Carling for the night and cashed up. Most residents had switched off their televisions. Dogs had been let in and cats put out. Doors had been locked and barred and lights extinguished. In fact, it was as quiet as death and as black as a joiner’s thumbnail.

  A man in a dark raincoat made his way swiftly and noiselessly along the street to the red postbox, outside number twenty-six. There was a small light from the hallway showing through the front-room window. He opened the paling gate and made his way down the concrete path round the side of the house to the back, tapped three times lightly on the door, waited a second then tapped three times more. The light in the house went out and the door opened. The man slipped inside and quickly closed and locked the door behind him. Then the light went on to reveal a big woman standing behind him. She had one hand on the light switch and the other holding a glass, half filled with a clear liquid.

  On the kitchen table was a bottle of Polish vodka, a glass and a bowl of ice cubes.

  The man turned round from locking the door, his eyes flitted round the little room blinking in the bright light.

  He noticed the window.

  ‘Draw the curtains, Gloria, for God’s sake.’

  She pursed her lips.

  ‘There’s nobody around at this time,’ she said, looking closely at him with a sour face.

  ‘There might be, you never know.’

  He pulled a small parcel out of his raincoat pocket and put it on the table.