by Bill Kitson
‘Hang on,’ Nash objected. ‘Ruth’s only staying at my place because she couldn’t get a hotel room. Nothing more than that.’
‘Really? OK, I’ll believe you, this once. I did wonder, but then I got to thinking about this man Marshall. Perhaps the reason you’re so keen to prove him innocent is you’ve something in common.’
Nash frowned. ‘Sorry, I’m not with you.’
‘Marshall’s wife was murdered, and by the sound of it, he’s never got over that. And much the same thing happened to you. There’s your common bond.’
‘I guess so, ma’am.’
‘Right, in that case I’ll say no more about it.’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘Now, I’ll have to think up some tale for the Chief Constable of Yorkshire Central.’
‘Can you manage not to tell him anything, ma’am? Not yet at any rate. Not until we’ve more proof.’
O’Donnell considered this. ‘I’m not in favour of all this secrecy,’ she sighed. ‘But sadly, given the circumstances, I don’t see how it can be avoided. But, Mike, please try and get this cleared up as quickly as possible. With such an exceptional situation, I’m even prepared to tolerate some unconventional methods, as long as it gets the job done. You understand what I mean?’
When Nash emerged from the meeting, Ruth was waiting. ‘How did it go?’
Nash smiled. ‘Carte blanche.’
All the way back to Helmsdale and long afterwards, Nash remembered the chief constable’s words. Was it true? Was that why he was so prejudiced in favour of a man he’d never met, had only spoken to on the phone once? And although he convinced himself time after time that he’d got over what happened to Stella, perhaps that sort of thing never truly goes away.
The wind that blew across Roundhay Park seemed to be coming directly from the Arctic. Scudding grey clouds threatened rain, or possibly snow. It was no day for walkers and the park was all but deserted. The two figures who met by one of the benches alongside the footpath were muffled tight against the weather. It had the added advantage of making them virtually unrecognizable.
‘Are you sure all this was necessary?’
‘Absolutely. Stop worrying. Everything’s going according to plan.’
‘That’s easy for you to say. You’re not the one who’ll be in the limelight if it goes pear-shaped.’
‘It won’t go pear-shaped. That’s why we’ve taken such stringent precautions.’
‘The latest event is drawing a lot of attention.’
‘We’re playing for high stakes, far higher than before. You know the consequences if we fail. Think about that and compare the risk against the potential rewards.’
‘But was it necessary?’
‘It was prudent housekeeping.’
‘For fuck’s sake, Harry, you make it sound so normal. We’re talking about murder in case you’ve forgotten.’
‘Listen, we’ve both been in the construction industry a long time. If I were to tell you what the bridge supports on the M1 contain for example you wouldn’t be so fucking squeamish about a few slit throats.’
‘It still makes me nervous.’
‘If it eases your political conscience, it should be over now. We’ve achieved almost everything we planned. Once the election and the takeover are done with, we’ll be free and clear. Then the way will be open for us to really clean up.’
‘What if somebody ties us in to those murders?’
‘Who’s going to do that? The point of the whole exercise was to dispose of anybody who could blow the whistle on us. Now they’re out of the way. Nobody else knows anything except the paymaster and he’s too deeply involved to harm us without harming himself. Besides, I’ve enough on him to scare him shitless. He doesn’t even know what’s been going on yet. But he soon will.’
‘Won’t the people we’re paying panic?’
‘It’ll act as a timely warning for them not to step out of line.’
‘What about Brown?’
‘I have my own plan for dealing with Brown. I’ll tell you about it soon.’
‘I sometimes wonder if there’s anything you’re not capable of to get your own way?’
‘You’re happy enough to go along with it, you’ve never complained about the end results.’
‘Yes, and that frightens me too.’
‘I suggest you continue with your campaign, leave the rest to me.’
The ranks of the party faithful attending their candidate’s first public meeting were swelled by a large press contingent. As by-elections go the result was a foregone conclusion, the only speculation being the size of the majority. There was considerably more interest in the candidate, for he was regarded as something special. Political editors have an instinct second to none for such matters, and there’d been whispers.
The meeting wasn’t much out of the ordinary but the candidate was certainly impressive. The pressmen, more interested in style than content, watched keenly. He gave a short speech, starting with what was becoming a likely catchphrase: ‘Let me begin with my surname. It is pronounced like a body of men, not a man’s body.’ This was obviously intended as an ice-breaker before inviting his audience to ask questions. Abandoning the stage, and with the aid of a roving microphone, he took to the body of the hall. He sat on a chair facing his questioners. There, at the same level as the audience, he answered their queries about his background. He told them how he’d started in the construction industry, how he’d built up Coningsby Developments, and imparted some of his philosophy along with his biography.
There was little new in what he said, nor, to be fair was that the issue. It was the candidate who was being judged, by both the party members and the press. Neither was disappointed.
The passengers felt the change as soon as the aircraft touched down. The contrast between England and Barbados in January was stark. Even with the terminal building to protect them, they shivered from the cold.
Having queued with typical British patience at passport control, they formed a massive discontented scrum around the carousels of baggage. There is something about the reluctance of these devices to disgorge luggage that brings out the worst in people. The Barbados passengers were no exception. Eventually, with the safe recovery of their cases completed, they got through customs clearance into the spartan surroundings of the arrivals hall.
Such is the nature of British holidaymakers that the first things they require on returning home are a newspaper and a cup of tea. Nor were the Barbados passengers about to break this tradition.
One of the passengers walked purposefully across to the kiosk and queued for a paper. Having bought one of the tabloids he returned to his wife who was standing sentinel over their luggage. On his way he glanced idly at the paper’s front page, then stopped dead. He skim-read the text, muttered, ‘Good God!’ and continued to the baggage guardian. ‘What do you say we go get the car and head straight home?’
‘Why, Chris, is something wrong?’
‘No. But the car will be warm, the house will be warm and this place is bloody freezing.’
Even after long years of marriage Julie Davidson was never sure when Chris was lying. There surely couldn’t be anything in the lurid headlines to upset him?
‘We’ll have to stop somewhere to buy milk.’
‘No problem. Let’s get out of here.’
As he drove, Davidson couldn’t get the newspaper’s front page out of his mind. The sooner he got to a telephone the better.
‘Hello, boss. It’s Chris Davidson.’
‘I thought you might be in touch today. I take it you’ve read the papers?’
‘Yes, boss. They gave me one hell of a shock.’
‘I can imagine. I would have forewarned you, but you will go swanning off on these fancy holidays.’
‘Is there going to be trouble?’
‘No, why should there be? The action we took was precisely to avoid any trouble.’
‘I don’t like it, boss. It makes me nervous.�
��
‘Relax, Chris, it’s over now. That side of the operation at least. There’s plenty more to do in other areas. We can start moving now there’s nobody in a position to pose a threat.’
‘What about my contacts? They’re going to be as twitchy as hell.’
‘That won’t do any harm, so long as they twitch in silence. Make sure you get that message over to them. That’s your first priority. Tell them what’s happened is a result of people twitching. Make them aware that if anyone breaks ranks we’ll deal with them. That should keep the twitching unobtrusive. You might also remind them what they stand to lose: their liberty, for example.’
‘Yes, boss, but I must say I’m still nervous.’
‘I don’t have to remind you what you have to lose, do I? They tell me your sort get a rough time of it inside. The other prisoners make sure of that. I don’t need to remind you exactly what evidence I have, do I?’
‘No, boss.’
‘I’m so glad about that. It would have been an added burden to replace you at this stage of proceedings.’
Chapter Fifteen
Lisa was in Helmsdale CID suite before anyone else arrived and began reading through the files. The phone rang.
‘There’s a man on the phone insisting he speaks to someone in CID,’ the community support officer told her.
‘DC Andrews speaking. Can I help you?’
He identified himself before stating, ‘I’m a private detective. I was covered by client confidentiality, but that no longer applies. I can tell you that Alan Marshall has been living at Woodbine Cottage on the Winfield Estate since his release from prison. I was asked to keep an eye on him.’
‘Thank you, but we are already aware of that.’ She smiled as she replaced the phone and looked up, startled. She’d been so engrossed she hadn’t noticed Superintendent Edwards enter.
Ruth smiled. ‘You’re still wondering what’s going on, I’ll bet?’
Lisa nodded.
‘OK, let me fill you in with a few details. You’re going to be rather surprised. Particularly when I tell you what has happened, and what’s going to happen. You know a fair amount already, but there’s more to it than that: much, much, more.’
Later, Nash received copies of the documents removed from Brown’s flat. Attached to them was a note from Charlie Russell asking Nash to ring him.
‘That was a very interesting flat,’ Charlie said when Nash reached him. ‘And there are a set of prints on the documents belonging to, of all people, Alan Marshall.’
‘Really! The thought did cross my mind, but I dismissed it.’
‘We’re still waiting for the analysis of the boiler suit, but it has been confirmed that the stains are human blood. Apart from that, we found an array of weapons in a secret compartment at the back of a wardrobe. These included seven knives and three automatic pistols. Ballistics confirms that two of the pistols match ones used in unsolved murders here, believed to have been contracts. I’ll let you know more ASAP.’
Nash sat pondering the new information. How had Marshall known where to go? Had Brown returned and caught him? Now, they had both disappeared. So where were they?
A week later it was a question being asked by others. It was being asked by Barry and Shirley Dickinson and by Lisa Andrews, by Superintendent Dundas and DS Smailes as well as those who were paying Brown. Friend and foe alike were equally baffled. Marshall hadn’t phoned, nor had he communicated in any way with his allies. Nor had they been able to contact him. Lisa had tried, Barry Dickinson had tried, but Marshall’s mobile remained unanswered. They scanned the papers, listened to news bulletins expecting to hear news of his arrest. Day succeeded day with no news as their concern grew. It seemed Marshall had performed a disappearing trick worthy of Houdini himself. If Nash had asked the right question of the right person he would have known. But the thought didn’t occur to him until it was almost too late.
Marshall had been both lucky and unlucky. On his return to the station he spotted a police car parked on the forecourt. He considered catching a bus, but felt the danger of being recognized and trapped was too great. Nor would his cash run to the expense of a taxi, besides which that was almost as dangerous. There was no alternative but to risk walking, at least for the first part of the journey.
His luck changed once he was clear of the city. He knew the centre of York well, from when he and Anna had spent much of their leisure time there. The ancient city had hardly changed, and by using a complicated series of back street short cuts he was able to avoid contact with much of the pedestrian traffic until he reached the outer ring road. Beyond that his luck was definitely in the ascendency as he reached a small transport café.
It was one much frequented by lorry drivers. There was risk involved in going inside, but he was hungry, and had just made up his mind to brave the danger when he was approached by the driver of an HGV that had just pulled into the parking area. ‘Excuse,’ the driver’s English was heavily accented, ‘you are of local area perhaps?’
Marshall looked past the man at the lettering on the curtain-sided truck. ‘Certainly nearer than Warsaw,’ he suggested, then saw the man’s puzzled frown. ‘Yes, I’m a local,’ he added.
‘I am trying,’ the man held up a clipboard for Marshall to read, ‘to reach a place called Helmisdale. Do you know of such?’
Marshall stared at the sheet in disbelief. ‘Helmsdale,’ he corrected automatically. ‘Yes, I know Helmsdale very well. In fact, that’s where I’m going. If you give me a ride there, I’ll show you the best way; take you right where you need to be.’
The driver smiled. ‘Then today is my fortunate day.’
‘You and me both,’ Marshall agreed.
After the driver dropped him off at the junction of the Helmsdale to Kirk Bolton road, Marshall tried the Dickinsons’ phone, but with no success. From there, he would have to walk. He glanced at his watch. The time he’d gained by getting the lift meant he should reach his destination before dark, even with the short hours of daylight at that time of year. He wondered briefly if the police would have maintained a presence at Woodbine Cottage; then remembered something Lisa Andrews had told him, about how short-staffed they were due to the flu epidemic.
It was curious, he reflected, that he’d started thinking of her as Lisa, rather than DC Andrews. She was a very pretty girl, and if circumstances had been different…. That in itself was strange, because Marshall hadn’t thought of a woman in that way for a long, long time. She knew the worst about him, but that hadn’t seemed to deter her. Was that because she found him attractive? Marshall took himself to task. No way would a girl like Lisa be interested in someone like him. She was merely being kind-hearted.
Almost before he realized it, Marshall reached the lane leading to the cottage. If things had been normal, he would have headed straight down the lane. Instead, he pushed his way through a gap in the hedge, skirted the field, where the ruts caused by the tractor contained puddles that were beginning to ice over. It was going to be a bitterly cold night, no weather to be out in the open. His breath was already forming a slight mist in front of him as he walked. He reached the edge of the field where it bordered a strip of woodland. The wood stretched all the way to the cottage and beyond. To anyone less familiar with the area, the dense entanglement of briar and bracken would have presented a formidable obstacle, but Marshall knew them well; knew where to find the narrow deer paths; knew which routes to follow that would enable him to reach the cottage without being seen. Moreover, he knew the vantage points from which he’d be able to spot anyone waiting in or around the cottage.
Brown was annoyed. More than that, he was cold and uncomfortable. He hated the countryside. He was used to cities, with all their hustle and bustle of activity. Out here in the wilds, the silence was eerie. Worse still, just as he was becoming accustomed to the silence, some creature or other would let loose an unnerving screech or yelp. For a cold-blooded killer, Brown was close to fear, something he was more used to inspir
ing in his victims. Despite that, he’d a job to do. His orders were to dispose of Alan Marshall. He felt certain sooner or later Marshall would return here, and when he did, Brown would be waiting. His certainty was based on one stark fact. With police forces throughout the land searching for him, the fugitive had nowhere else to go. Brown sneered at the thought that the police hadn’t the sense to work that out. He had, and when he completed his work he would be well paid for it. The sum he’d demanded was a huge one, but he knew his employer was extremely wealthy. Men like Harry wouldn’t flinch at the price. That was how they got where they were.
Brown examined his surroundings and wondered how Marshall could stand living here, could stand the silence and the solitude. The place was little more than a hovel by Brown’s standards. No TV, none of what he would class as luxuries. Very few necessities even. No modern conveniences; how on earth did Marshall manage? And how did he amuse himself, out here alone on those long winter evenings? Sure, there were books; plenty of them, although the titles of most of them were incomprehensible to Brown. And there was a good quality hi-fi, but when Brown turned his attention to the CD collection, he found they were of music he’d never heard of. Almost all of them seemed to be classical.
It was as he was examining the discs that Brown felt a faint draught. He turned and glanced towards the front door, his hand reaching automatically for his knife. He slid the weapon, with its wickedly long, wickedly sharp blade, out of its sheath. The front door was closed. The draught hadn’t come from there. He looked to his right, from where he could see through into the kitchen. That room too was deserted, but he thought the kitchen door might be slightly ajar.
Brown felt that familiar sensation that gripped him before he went into action; the clawing of nervous tension in his stomach. He moved slowly, cautiously towards the kitchen, slid almost sideways through the door, the knife held out in front of him, ready to strike. The room was empty. He frowned, certain he’d closed the door. So, how had it come open? He crossed the floor in three lithe strides and slammed the door shut. He reached forward and tugged at the handle. The door came open. He repeated the manoeuvre a second and third time. Obviously the catch wasn’t engaging properly. Like everything else in this tumbledown ruin, he thought. He closed it and slid the bolt across. Now, no stray gust of wind could cause it to open accidentally. Had Brown known more of the countryside, or possessed a little fieldcraft, he would have realized that on a still, frost-laden afternoon, the door would not have opened of its own volition.
