Hell's Mouth

by BATEMAN, A P

  “Help me!” Maqsood blurted. His voice was wet, thick with panic and a mouthful of filthy water. “I can’t swim!” he screamed, his voice cut off as he dropped below the surface, then re-emerged, mid-sentence, “…elp me!”

  O’Bryan took a few strokes towards him. His stomach contorted in agony, like cramp in tired, over-worked muscles, sharp jolts of pain tearing at his senses. The water was high in salt content, and Christ knew what else. The stab wound had been both broad and deep. He could feel warmth on his skin, the blood swirling around his flesh, numbed and cold from the icy brown water of the Thames.

  O’Bryan circled around Maqsood, so the man couldn’t pull at him in a panic. He wrapped his right arm around him and started to kick to the south bank. He felt the man relax after a few strokes.

  “Kick, you bastard!” O’Bryan shouted. “You ain’t getting a free ride…”

  Maqsood laughed, water hit his face and he coughed and gagged. “This is why you will lose. This is why you will always lose,” he said. He coughed again, O’Bryan could tell he was spitting out some water. “I did what I did, and again, you weren’t ready! Unarmed police… eunuchs protecting the masses… dickless and ineffective.” Maqsood spluttered, but he had started to kick, adding some momentum to their progress. “I saw you in court. Your evidence was what got me off, you hid details and it made you look like a liar. I thank you for that, without you, I would not have won this great victory for Allah. I did what I did, killed those people, children… and still you save me from drowning! There is no victory for you, no way you will win your war on Islam. Our jihad will be total…”

  O’Bryan stopped stroking with his left hand, swivelled his feet to tread water. He looked at the bridge, now one-hundred metres distant. There were officers on the bank, seventy-metres away. Someone had a life-ring and was uncoiling a length of rope. O’Bryan thought about the woman and the child he had seen, heads all but severed. The blood. So much blood, it seemed unimaginable. He glanced back at the riverbank. The man had got the rope uncoiled and was taking a throw. It fell way short, so he was frantically pulling it back in for another attempt.

  O’Bryan spun Maqsood around. The man tried to grab onto him, but he smashed his fist into the Maqsood’s sternum and the man wheezed and went limp in his arms. O’Bryan ducked down and pulled Maqsood with him by his belt. He kept one hand on the belt, and gripped the other around the man’s neck. He powered downwards, kicking his feet and releasing some breath to counter his buoyancy and control his descent. Maqsood flailed his limbs and stared at him, panic upon his face, and from the speed and ease at which they descended, O’Bryan could tell the man had not taken a breath before going under. O’Bryan swam downwards, his face just two-feet from Maqsood’s the entire time. It was darker, just ten-feet below the surface, but he could still see the panic in the man’s eyes.

  Despite the pain in his stomach and his shoulder, O’Bryan remained calm. In university, on the water polo team, he could hold his breath a full three minutes. He imagined he could still manage half of that, all these years later. He swam twice a week, forty lengths or so each session. He always did a few single twenty-five metre lengths underwater. He released a little more air, levelling out his ballast. Maqsood had gone from panic to realisation, to acceptance. When he took in a deep, liquid breath, his eyes bulged and he gasped like a fish on the riverbank. O’Bryan pulled him close to look him in the eyes. The water had blurred his vision, but he could see the life leaving them. When Maqsood went completely still, O’Bryan spun him over, then pushed him downwards towards the bottom of the Thames and the secrets it held. He brought his feet down on Maqsood’s back and used the corpse as a springboard to push himself towards the surface.

  28

  Sixty-days…

  “By Christ let me make it to sixty-one…” O’Bryan muttered quietly.

  He wasn’t a religious man, but he did ask the Lord for occasional help. He had taken all the steps on his path to recovering, but the Alcoholics Anonymous sobriety program relied heavily upon spiritual guidance, something he had struggled with at first, but later became more relaxed with. He used his daughter as his focus and asked a higher entity for help from time to time, even if he didn’t actually intend to swing from agnostic through to believer. He wasn’t arrogant enough to be an atheist, just practical enough to require further proof. In times of despair, asking for a little extra help certainly couldn’t hurt. In good times he gave no further thought to the matter.

  He watched DCI Trevithick leave the building. He looked shabby. Overweight and untidy, a lethargic gait. He was a worried man, or should be. His career of late had more than enough discrepancies. He doubted the detective had always been this way, decisions were everything and there had to have been a watershed moment. A point where a line was crossed and the descent was made. O’Bryan had read the man’s file. He knew that moment, or at least he could cross-reference with the other files he had taken from the man’s computer when DS Hosking had been the last to leave the office. Or second to last.

  O’Bryan got out of the car and stood calmly beside it. He closed the door sharply and DCI Trevithick looked up. Casually at first, but then he seemed to compute. He looked at the car, then at O’Bryan and his face fell. He seemed to grow taller, broaden and when he walked over, it was with a renewed vigour.

  “You faked it!” he shouted. As he walked closer, he lowered his voice accordingly, but he glared nothing but anger and hatred. “Or that old bastard Anderson did…”

  “You won’t talk about him like that,” O’Bryan said quietly.

  “The old sod’s dead,” Trevithick paused. “You never said he was dead either.”

  “You never asked.”

  “You thought I’d see through it if I knew he was dead,” he said. “Thought I’d deduce something was amiss.”

  “Having seen your work, I never thought you’d deduce a thing…”

  Trevithick scoffed. “So who faked it?” he asked. “You or him?”

  O’Bryan thought for a moment. It couldn’t hurt and the trail would be as cold as Anderson’s body. “He did, I guess.”

  “So you’re not Acting Superintendent then?”

  “No. Just a lowly DCI,” O’Bryan said. “Like yourself.”

  The man looked at him coldly. “And you’re not even down here officially? You don’t have the authorisation?”

  “No.”

  “I know. I checked. You’re still on sick leave.” Trevithick looked like he didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. O’Bryan figured a little of both. “No wonder you didn’t want the letter photocopied. So, what, you ran it off on a computer, copied and pasted the headed paper and forged the signatures?”

  “You don’t hear so well,” O’Bryan smiled. “Commander Anderson provided me with the papers,” he lied. “I thought they were originals.”

  “I bet.” He looked at him, seeming to decide his next action. “I could arrest you,” he said.

  O’Bryan shrugged. “You could. But I’d only be out as soon as my brief took a look at the letter. It’s a highly convincing forgery. And I seem to remember thinking it wasn’t legitimate earlier today, since then, I’ve been driving around thinking what to do. A real dilemma. I’ve been taking in the sights, thinking it all through. Then thought I would come and see you personally,” he said. “Which is why I’m here at Camborne police station, hoping to speak to you before the end of your shift.” He looked at his watch. “I take it you want to leave on time?”

  “Well, fuck off then,” Trevithick said. “Fuck off back up country and don’t come back.” He turned and walked across the carpark to his vehicle.

  “Trevithick!” O’Bryan called after him. “What about the exhumation? Just tell me what you found…”

  DCI Trevithick turned around and looked at him for a moment. He shrugged and said, “They weren’t there. You were right all along. Somebody took their bodies…”

  29

  O’Bryan pulled the car up onto
the drive at the Hemingway House. There were two cars parked in front of him. One was Sarah’s Mini Cooper and the other was a sign-written Ford Focus from a domiciliary care agency. The lights were on inside and he could see a woman in a nurse’s uniform talking to Sarah through the kitchen window. He opened the door and smiled at the two women, then looked at Sarah.

  “Sorted?”

  She beamed a smile. “There’s a place for her at Pol-an-Garrick. It’s lovely and Marie here has helped me with the paperwork for funding and means-testing.”

  The woman nodded. “And there will be an initial payment, you say?”

  “Yes,” O’Bryan said. “To cover matters until the funding is in place. It will be transferred tomorrow. Six months, top tier caring. We’ll advise the office tomorrow, all we need are the home’s bank account and sort code.”

  “I have that here,” she said, placing a card on the table.

  Sarah was so happy; she was positively glowing. She sidled up to O’Bryan, rested her head on his shoulder, wrapped an arm around his waist. “Thank you,” she said.

  O’Bryan nodded, he seemed a little uncomfortable with the gesture.

  “Well, if there’s nothing else?”

  “No, that’s it,” Sarah said. “I’ll give you a hand.”

  The two women walked into the lounge and the old lady looked up at them. She had a cup of tea and a biscuit and was looking extremely confused.

  “Mum, we’re getting you into the car now,” Sarah said slowly. It was evident her mother was hard of hearing. “Marie is going to take you to your new home at Pol-an-Garrick.”

  “But I liked it at The Richmond,” she said. “All my friends are there. Is this your house, Sarah?”

  “No, Mum,” she said patiently. She had explained it before. “This is a friend’s house. Meet Ross, Mum.”

  “Are you and Sarah courting?” the old lady said, a twinkle escaping her eye.

  O’Bryan shook his head as both Sarah and Marie lifted the old woman under her arms and eased her up. “No,” he said. “We’re just friends.”

  “That’s what we all used to say,” she replied. She tapped her nose when she was upright. “I know how it is,” she winked. She had Sarah’s eyes. They were glossy and full of vigour, despite the frailty of her body.

  O’Bryan smiled and nodded a goodbye as the two women helped her along and out into the kitchen. He walked over to the window and watched the jetty on the other side of the creek. The sun was low in the sky and the creek was choppy, a cold wind blowing in from the sea. He watched the buoys bobbing, noticed that further down river there were less boats than when he had first arrived. Each day there had been less and less. He supposed that there were no boats moored this far up in the winter.

  Sarah walked in, a glass of wine in her left hand, a coffee for O’Bryan in her right. “Here,” she said, handing the coffee to him. “Are you alright if I have this?”

  “Of course,” he said. “Why wouldn’t I be?” he added defensively.

  “I noticed, that’s all.”

  “Oh,” he replied quietly. “Well, we all have our secrets.”

  “Isn’t that the truth…” she said flatly.

  “So, are you ready?”

  “Ten minutes to fix myself up and I will be.”

  “No, I didn’t mean that,” he said. “I meant, are you ready?”

  “Oh, I am,” she said. “It’s time.”

  30

  O’Bryan showed his ticket through the open window of the Alfa Romeo and nodded at the security guard as he pointed towards a row of cars nearer the great house. He stared up at the house as he neared. It had started to rain. A misty drizzle that the Cornish called mizzle. It was greasy on the windscreen and he worked the wipers which seemed to make it worse. The house was lit up with spotlights pointing directly at it. Ostentatious to say the least, but perhaps they had been rigged for the event. The house was a Georgian manor, painted white with twenty windows running along both the first and second floors, and a series of large bay windows and solid oak doors on the ground floor, the centre of which was taken up by the imposing granite steps to the front entrance.

  “Did you come here often,” O’Bryan paused, looking at Sarah seated beside him. She was wearing a tastefully-cut red dress. It brought out the red of her hair. “You know, when…”

  “Sometimes,” she said. “His wife rides horses. Dressage and showing. She’s quite often away with her groom at shows all over the country. Ogilvy wasn’t bothered about me staying over. He didn’t seem to care what the staff saw.”

  “Until his wife found out.”

  Sarah sighed. “That changed everything. Don’t get me wrong, I felt for her, but he soon showed his true colours. Worse than me. What he did, I wouldn’t wish on a single soul.”

  He didn’t answer. He knew how people could be. He’d spent his life hunting those who would do harm others.

  O’Bryan parked up and switched off the engine. “Ready?” he asked.

  “It’s time,” she smiled. “Thank you. I wouldn’t have been strong enough for this, without you.”

  The gravel was thick and crunched underfoot. As they reached the highly-polished granite steps, Sarah looked nervously at O’Bryan and reached out for his hand. He took it and gave a little squeeze. At the top of the steps he saw Clive Gowndry shaking hands with arrivals and engaging in small talk. O’Bryan noticed him handing out his business cards. Obviously not one to let charity get in the way of business. Sarah’s grip tightened. O’Bryan squeezed back, then released. He took the invitation out of his suit jacket. He noticed the other men were wearing tuxedos. He couldn’t have cared less. He’d have his tie rolled up and in his pocket before the first plate of canapés came out from the kitchen.

  He showed his invitation to a middle-aged woman in a ball gown. He’d printed his tickets off, but noticed most of the guests were just showing their smartphones. He hadn’t trusted the Cornish mobile phone signal. The woman admitting the guests wore a name tag: Lucinda Ogilvy. She was what he would have described as ‘horsey’. She would have been late-fifties and lived an outside life. It wouldn’t have been a stretch to see why Ogilvy had had his head turned by Sarah. They stepped closer and he noticed she did not bat an eyelid when she looked at Sarah. Perhaps they had never met. Sarah hesitated, looked worried at the prospect of being this close to the woman whose husband she had slept with for over a year. Lucinda Ogilvy took their tickets and smiled at them both. “Enjoy your evening,” she said with a smile and then looked past them both at the couple behind.

  “I take it you never met the wife,” O’Bryan said quietly.

  “No.”

  O’Bryan caught Clive Gowndry’s eye and walked over. The man had a faint recognition of him and O’Bryan could see he was trying to place his face. “This morning,” O’Bryan said. “The property in Portreath…” He turned to Sarah. “It is Portreath, isn’t it?”

  She stepped out around him and smiled. “Yes, that’s right.”

  Gowndry looked at Sarah, and it was easy to see he was lost for words. His hawk-like eyes looked her up and down with distaste.

  O’Bryan held out his hand and Gowndry shook it. O’Bryan didn’t release, gripped tighter. “Freemason?”

  Gowndry hesitated. “No…”

  “No? I would swear that’s a freemason’s handshake,” O’Bryan paused, squeezed a little harder. “The way you’ve linked your finger. Like if I hooked my middle finger, we’d have a little handshake within a handshake thing going on…”

  Gowndry shook his head. His weasel-like features did not hide the fact he was scared and unsure what was going on. “No, I…” he stopped and winced. “You’re actually hurting me now.”

  “So what would I get out of being a freemason? I’ve always been intrigued.”

  “I said you’re hurting me!”

  O’Bryan squeezed some more. He watched the man’s legs buckle and he dropped around six-inches in height. “A secret club. A mafia of the un
derachiever and overlooked. The mediocrity of the working and lower-middle classes, bolstered by the belief they have made it to a social elite. Am I right?” O’Bryan smiled and shook his head. “No, I couldn’t join,” he said. “I certainly wouldn’t want to join any club who would have me as a member,” he laughed. He had enough strength to double the pressure he had on Gowndry’s hand. He knew the man’s curled-up finger would be squashing in on itself. “You’ve met my date, by all accounts.”

  Gowndry sneered. “Who hasn’t?” he managed to goad.

  “It’s over,” O’Bryan said.

  “We’ll see about that.”

  O’Bryan kept up the pressure, pulled Gowndry’s hand towards him. “Her mother is no longer in the home. She’s away from both yours and Ogilvy’s influence…”

  “Did I hear my name?” Ogilvy dropped down a set of thickly carpeted stairs and stopped in his tracks when he saw Sarah. “What the bloody hell…”

  O’Bryan eyed Ogilvy as he gripped with all his might and Gowndry’s middle finger snapped with an audible ‘crack’. He released his hand as the man dropped to his knees and howled. People were staring, but they hadn’t stopped drinking the free champagne. O’Bryan extended his hand to Ogilvy.

  “I didn’t recognise you without my telescopic sight,” Ogilvy said dryly. He stared hard at O’Bryan and accepted his hand. There was no secret finger and O’Bryan kept the pressure to about normal. Well, perhaps a little firmer.

  “I didn’t think you recognised what was in your sight then,” O’Bryan said. “Or perhaps you did and you’re just a lousy shot.”

  Ogilvy scoffed, looked at Sarah. “Hello, my dear. Trading down?”

  She shook her head. “No, just keeping better company.”

  O’Bryan looked at Gowndry. The man was cradling his disjointed and broken finger and doing his best to stand. He was perspiring and his face had turned red. “You’ll find some ice for that at the bar, I’d imagine…”