Brotherly Blood

by Jean G. Goodhind

  What they had failed to grasp was that there were two aspects to his killing habit. On the one hand he was intent on pursuing those with a hand in the killing of his father. On the other hand he liked killing young women. The real Tarot man only left cards with those he regarded as responsible for killing his father. If they were dead then he killed their immediate next of kin. Blood for blood so a child, brother or sister of that person, though not a wife. Wives were not of the same blood.

  The girls he murdered were a different matter. It struck him as odd that the police had not connected the two aspects of his nature.

  His father had been a double agent finally settling in the Soviet Union where he’d met his mother. It was his father’s old friends from university, agents for MI5 who had plotted and succeeded in killing his father. He blamed them and would always blame them and once he’d found out, he wanted his revenge.

  As for the women he had killed, well as far as he was concerned killing was better than sex.

  He stretched himself in the chair, thoughts of how the last girl had died giving him greater satisfaction than any orgasm ever could. But it wasn’t just the killing; it was the prospect of being caught. As if the day job wasn’t enough, he thought to himself. Moscow knew of his hobby, but although they had admonished him, they had never forbidden it. Neither had they ceased to use him in covert operations against the West. He was good at his day job and they needed him.

  He sighed and stretched, casually considering that it was merely the death of yet one more high class whore and soon there would be another, depending on the weather, but this one, this one, was the greatest prize of all. A little older than his other victims, she was the daughter of the man mainly responsible for his father’s death. Honey Driver.

  He’d watched her for a while, noting her habits, her contacts, both relatives and friends. Unfortunate about the policeman but hopefully he wasn’t that good at his job.

  ‘We will see,’ he muttered as he raised a tumbler of whisky in front of his face.

  After downing his drink he gazed out of the hotel window, sweeping over the traffic to the buildings on the far side of the carriageway.

  He looked down to the kerbside below where taxis deposited guests in front of the hotel entrance, then drove away, their wheels disturbing the surface water and sending it washing into the gutter.

  A taxi rank took up the rest of the kerbside parking, taxis coming, going, disgorging passengers and picking up new ones.

  One car that was neither a limousine nor a taxi, was parked at the kerb. It wasn’t flash. It wasn’t lit. It was ordinary.

  He tensed.

  He moved away from the window, turned off the light and lay on the bed, hands folded behind his head. Closing his eyes, he slept, timing himself to wake up when he needed to. He’d always had this skill; switch on switch off at will. The gulag had influenced his behaviour when he was young. Before his death his father had been political commissar to a load of ingrates, subversives and murderers. Like them he’d felt exiled to somewhere he had no wish to be, trapped and unable to escape. He’d felt he deserved better and had taken his frustration out on the inmates, sometimes on his son, but not as he grew older. As he grew older he had encouraged his son to participate in torturing those who kept him here, blaming the western democracies for every crime committed. ‘They have had so much for so very long, whereas we have so little. So hate them. Despise them. Kill them.’

  His mother had been unknown to him, though his father had hinted that she was still alive, but had fled to the West. ‘High class whore.’

  What he’d meant was that she’d been titled, from good family and had only married him to save herself. Once the opportunity had arisen, she’d escaped to the west leaving husband and son behind. Neither of them had forgiven her, himself less so than his father.

  Exactly four hours later, his eyes blinked open. Without turning on the light, he went to the window. The car was still there. The driver’s side door opened. He saw a figure get out, stretch and enter the broad entrance where the light from reception fell out onto the pavement. Another man got out from the passenger side and followed. Both had the broad shoulders and confident demeanour of purposeful men.

  He held still and counted. Twenty minutes later the figure came back out and got into the car. Then the other man.

  Neither men looked up. There would be no point. They - whoever ‘they’ were - knew where he was. They probably knew more about him than he did himself, he thought, then smiled. Not quite everything.

  Filled with a mix of elation and anticipation, he packed his bag, dragged on his clothes and headed for the stairs. Not the lift. The stairs.

  The stairs kept going until he came to a set of doors and a sign marked private. Staff only. He went on through, past the kitchens, now in darkness. Past the night porter’s lodge, the night porter inside snoring in front of a black and white movie on a portable television.

  It was two in the morning and the rain was still falling. Whoever was sitting out front in the car wouldn’t bother themselves to do a walk round, foolishly believing that their quarry would be reluctant to slip away in the rain. A bad mistake on their part. His judgement, however, had been good. The bad weather was blowing in from the west and he would be travelling to meet it.

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Doherty had found out all he could about the case Monmouth was reporting on.

  ‘Another young girl buried in mud with a rope around her neck. Buried alive according to the pathologist. I asked if the perp left a Tarot card on the victim. The answer was no.’

  Doherty was given further information that brought a dead, disbelieving look to his eyes.

  ‘It’s not the first girl they’ve found buried alive in mud. It’s the fourth.’

  They drove away from The Black Dog, both engrossed in deep thoughts, staring ahead through their own individual car windscreens

  There were comparisons in the deaths. Tarquin was found at the side of the railway line buried in mud with a rope around his neck. It seemed amazing that the same person killing young girls was also the one responsible for killing Lord Torrington.

  They stopped at a pub, parking the MR2 and the bright yellow Citroen side by side outside.

  As usual in this isolated part of the world, heads turned when they entered; such as them were seldom seen in those parts.

  They took two drinks and sandwiches to a corner table out of the earshot of the few other people in the bar.

  Honey apologised for swinging at him with her handbag. ‘I think I’m glad you turned up.’

  He reached out and stroked her face. ‘I’m glad I did. Our man in the tweed suit checked out too quickly not to arouse suspicion.’

  Honey shivered. ‘You don’t need to tell me that. I’ve already guessed he was after me. I just don’t understand his reasons.’

  ‘I’m going to tell you a story,’ he said.

  ‘About this Tarot Man?’

  He looked away. Honey sensed his reluctance to continue but also his steely determination that he had to go ahead.

  ‘From my brief talk with Shropshire police, it seems the Tarot Man targets upper class girls.’

  ‘Oh, is it something to do with our dress sense?’ she quipped, an attempt at overcome her rising fear.

  He accepted right away that the jokiness was all front. He was frightening her and she needed to put up some kind of shield that would help her cope better.

  His expression and tone remained serious.

  ‘No. Killing classy women is his hobby.’

  ‘Great. Why couldn’t he latch onto stamp collecting or snooker?’

  There was great power in the look that held her gaze as though he knew damned well that she was going to take all this as total bullshit.

  ‘The Tarot Man is the son of one of the old time Soviet spies.’

  ‘Peter Orlov. Son of Ivan. You’ve seen the photograph.’

  Honey was almost afraid of the determined
look in his eyes, but also peeved. He’d played things close to his chest, but there was more to it than that.

  ‘So, besides getting my daughter involved on the technical side, did you break into a government department? I take it they still have filing cabinets.’

  ‘I do have a few favours to call in and the Shropshire police were pretty forthcoming. As for Lindsey, she’s just looking out for her mother.’

  He looked away. She was sure she saw his shoulders heave. It could have been a shrug. It could have been a sigh. She wasn’t sure.

  ‘So what do we do next?’

  ‘You do exactly as we say. Neither of them had seen Dominic Christiansen and two other well dressed men enter the pub. All of them looked resolute, Dominic more than any of them.

  ‘I’m going back to Bath,’ said Honey. She got up so swiftly, the chair toppled slightly. Dominic caught it before it hit the floor. ‘I have a hotel to run.’

  Dominic pressed her shoulder hard so she couldn’t help but sink back into her chair. Doherty knew better than to attempt anything. He just shook his head disconsolately and muttered a few choice words beneath his breath.

  Dominic’s voice was resolute. ‘Perhaps I didn’t make myself plain enough. You’re coming with us. You have a job to do.’ His pronouncement was directed at Honey.

  Honey cocked her head defiantly. ‘I don’t work for you.’

  ‘You do now.’

  Doherty was told to stay put. One of the agents was to stay with him.

  Honey was manhandled outside and shoved into the back seat of the shiny black BMW next to the other agent. Dominic sat in the front next to the driver.

  ‘Almost an army to collect me. I must be important,’ she declared loftily though inside she quivered like reeds in the wind.

  ‘You are.’

  Never had two words of confirmation been so chillingly given and also received. Her mind was clear. All the bits and pieces had clanged into place. MI5 wanted to apprehend the man they called the Tarot Man. She could understand them wanting to apprehend him. The man was a killer. Unfortunately he’d taken it in his head to kill her - a fact she was far from happy about.

  ‘So I’m the Judas goat. Am I right?’

  Christiansen hesitated before answering.

  ‘We didn’t want to get you involved, but he is not an easy man to flush out. His prime target was Lord Torrington.’

  Honey gazed out of the car windows without really seeing anything. Everything was a blur with the exception of the intention of this man and the plan that had been concocted to flush out the killer.

  ‘That wasn’t Professor Collins who got killed at his house was it? That scenario was for my benefit. The Professor was Tarquin’s cousin. He was the body in the funeral pyre.’

  ‘Whatever makes you say that?’

  Honey glared at him. ‘Because the Professor was coming onto me really strong and that, my dear Mr Christiansen, was out of character. The real professor was gay, but Tarquin most definitely was not. Tarquin is still alive. Am I right?’

  His silence said it all. She was correct, but Tarquin was an important man in their operation, more useful alive than dead. The Tarot man had to be stopped, but without arousing suspicion. She knew beyond doubt that their quarry would not live long enough to stand trial. They would put him down just as they might a mad dog.

  In the meantime she was the bait to lure him, the daughter of the man who had played a part in his father’s death.

  An hour and a half later the castellated battlements of Torrington Towers loomed before them.

  ‘How will you lay the trap?’ she asked sounding a lot braver than she actually felt.

  ‘You’ll be staying in one of the cottages on the estate.’

  She quickly guessed it would be one of the ones close to where Adrian Sayle lived. It was funny but she hadn’t seen him for a while. The last time she’d seen him he’d been in the company of Miss Vincent, the latter gazing up into his face like a loyal cocker spaniel.

  ‘So I just have to sit there until he comes calling.’

  ‘Something like that. Don’t worry. We’ll be close by.’

  ‘What if I don’t want to do this? There are such things as civil liberties aren’t there?’

  Dominic Christiansen looked at her as though she was naive to the point of stupidity.

  ‘There are special dispensations,’ he said grimly.

  Doherty sat passively in the back of the car as they hurtled back towards Bath.

  He knew there was no point doing anything else. The door locks would be automatic. The man left to guard him was sitting in the passenger seat next to the driver. If there had been only one man left to guard him he might have chanced an attack. As it was there were two of them and he had no doubt they both carried guns. His own had been taken off of him.

  In police training he’d been taught to gain the trust of terrorists and kidnappers by keeping calm and talking. Let them think you’re totally calm and that they are in control. Eventually they might regard you as a friend.

  That was what he did now.

  ‘So. Any chance I might have your names? Just in case anything goes wrong and I have to make out a full police report.’

  Their jaws remained clamped shut, their eyes stonily staring at the road ahead.

  ‘So you’re definitely not Flying Squad. By now I’d know your names and what time you left the pub last night. Or your old woman’s bed. Or your girlfriends.’

  Still no response which brought him to the conclusion that their training in this situation had been at variance with his own. They’d been told to keep their mouths shut.

  ‘Oh well. Might as well catch up on the kip.’

  Folding his arms, he stretched out his legs, settled himself comfortably in the seat and closed his eyes. Ten minutes later he began to snore though only lightly. He’d had a hard time away in the Brecon Beacons and he was due a rest. His eyes were tired. So was his body. His ears remained sharply tuned to whatever the two men up front might say to each other and also to the speed and sound of the car.

  The journey back was along convoluted roads before joining the motorway. They pulled in at a service station. One by one each went to relieve themselves, though they insisted one of them would accompany Doherty.

  On their way into the concourse, they were faced with a band of football fanatics. In the normal course of things Doherty would have skirted them, partly because it was quicker, and partly because barging through would cause trouble.

  On this occasion he barged through, breaking into a sprint half way.

  ‘He’s a pig and he’s trying to arrest me,’ he shouted, waving his hand in the general direction of the agent and using the colloquial term.

  The gaggle of football fans were not fond of the police force.

  Shouting obscenities for past grievances that may or may not have occurred, the agent was overcome. Doherty charged onwards, finally gaining a lift with a Polish lorry driver who gratefully accepted the fifty pounds he offered.

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  There was food in the cottage, the heating had been turned on and her car had been parked outside, driven there by one of the spook brigade. All in all very cosy. These guys had thought of everything. Her car was here so she was here. The Tarot Man would know that.

  Christiansen stood in the middle of the living room. His presence made it look crowded albeit a tad upmarket.

  He was wearing a crisp white shirt, a knitted silk tie loosely knotted. His jacket was of dark burgundy, his slacks navy blue. The whole outfit was complimented by dark blue loafers and his silky slick hair. She still thought he looked like a medieval knight even though she was not attracted to him as much as she had been.

  She made herself comfortable in a chintz covered armchair carefully adopting an optimistic air. Nobody was going to bump her off without a fight.

  ‘So. Where will you be?’

  A suspiciously wishful look came to his very blue eyes.
/>   ‘Close by.’

  ‘And what do I do?’

  ‘Just act natural.’

  ‘Can I have a gun?’

  ‘What?’ He looked as though he were about to burst into laughter.

  ‘To protect myself.’

  Smiling he shook his head. ‘No. There’s no need. We’re fully armed and here to protect you.’

  ‘No, Mr Christiansen. You’re not here to protect me.’

  ‘Whatever makes you say that? We’re here to apprehend a murderer.’

  She shook her head. ‘No you’re not. You’re here to kill him.’

  The smile diminished. His confidence remained, worn like armour against the slings and arrows of anything Honey or anyone else could throw at him. He had the confidence of a man who knew he played an important part in this world. He’d probably had that air of self importance from a very early age. Perhaps, like Tarquin, he too was titled.

  He left quietly, leaving her sitting in the chair. All pretence of being unruffled vanished with him. She stiffened at the thought of what she was here for. She’d been told to be compliant, but she’d never been that in her life. Never been submissive. Never done as she was told but rather what she wanted to do, and right now she had no intention of being the bait in the trap. The question was, could she escape this predicament without these professional protectors of the realm noticing her leaving?

  It had been impossible to escape their presence in the car, but she’d weighed things up on the way down once she knew she was to be installed in the cottage to await her fate.

  The thing that had most surprised her was that she was to be left here alone. She had expected someone to supply the muscle, not just to protect her but to prevent her from escaping.

  Her conclusion was that whatever was guarding her was electronic. There had to be a camera somewhere; some kind of surveillance that would flash like a Christmas tree if she even so much as moved.