by Nick Oldham
Verner cackled with laughter. ‘You think I’m going to confess all my sins to you, Henry?’ They walked on in silence for a few yards, then Verner said, ‘Course I did.’
Ahead of them at the end of the path was the excavator and the crusher.
Charlotte Wickson had lain terrified at the top of the stairs, straining to listen to the confrontation taking place in the kitchen: the harsh words, the threats, the blast of the shotgun; then the arrival of Henry Christie, then more shouts, then the front door opening again and a man she did not know entering the house with a gun in his hand. She remained in the shadows on the landing, hidden from view.
The man closed the door behind him and stood there, head cocked to one side.
On the landing, not twenty feet away from him, tears streamed down the young girl’s cheeks and she shook as she endeavoured to keep her crying silent, to hold back from uttering something which would have revealed her position. The man actually looked up the stairs. She was sure she would be spotted. If he had turned the light on, he would have seen her.
Then came more voices from the kitchen, raised higher, more desperate, then another shotgun blast, screams, the sound of a scuffle. The man who had just entered the house slid down the hallway out of sight.
Charlotte almost collapsed with tension.
Things went quiet. She could not even begin to imagine what was going on, had no conception of what might have happened.
After all, she was merely a teenager.
One who had recently discovered that the man she thought was her father, wasn’t. Wickson had taken the revelation badly, and so had she. But even worse, he had reacted in such a way that had sent Charlotte spiralling out of control. He hated her. He had told her as much. Hated the fact she was not his flesh and blood, despised her, wanted to disown her, rejected her desire to be loved unconditionally by him, pushed her away and called her horrible names which were more applicable to a prostitute on the streets.
As if it was her fault.
She had been hurt, confused and upset by the revelation. She had known her parents’ marriage was not good, had not been for years, that they increasingly led separate lives. Yet, like all kids, she believed they would stay together.
Her mother had tried to keep things going, and for some reason, although she blamed her mother for the situation, she could not bring it in her heart to hate her.
It screwed her mind. Chewed her up, spat her out.
The drugs had saved her, or so she thought. They were an escape. So was the alcohol. So was her horse . . . her poor horse. Now he had been hurt too.
And then she had been raped.
And now this. What was going on in the kitchen?
It all went quiet.
She came silently down the stairs, knowing exactly where to tread, which steps creaked, which were safe. At the foot of the stairs, she stayed still, listening. Nothing. She walked down the hall to the kitchen door, which she pushed slowly open.
She saw the legs first. Her mother’s legs.
She opened the door wide, ran in and slid down next to Tara, whose face was covered in thick red blood pouring out of a deep, nasty cut on her temple.
‘Mum,’ she cried. ‘Oh, Mum.’ She believed Tara was dead. Then she groaned and moved, spreading relief through Charlotte.
Just then, the young girl glanced quickly round and her eyes fixed on Jake Coulton’s lifeless body.
At first it took a few moments for her juvenile brain to register what it was seeing.
Then she screamed.
The three men heard the scream, even from where they were, almost 200 metres away from the house. All three heads turned to look.
‘My daughter,’ Wickson gasped.
Henry gave him a stare laced with ice, but said nothing.
They had reached the point where the excavator and the crusher were parked up for the night. They looked at the machines, immense pieces of equipment. The crusher was designed to be fed bricks, stone, rubble, boulders or whatever, which it literally crushed to a specified size and then spewed out via a conveyor belt either into a pile, or into another machine called a screener which further sorted the stone.
Henry had often seen them on building sites which were being prepared and cleared of debris prior to building actually taking place. The use of the crusher meant that nothing was wasted. He knew very little about the machines, but could easily imagine the power that the jaw-like crushers would need to exert to break up stones and rocks. He had never before stood next to such a machine. It was huge.
What they might do to a man unfortunate enough to fall into the jaws was unthinkable.
‘OK, John,’ Verner said brightly, ‘climb up on to the machine.’
‘Why?’
Henry almost tutted. Wickson had not got it.
‘Just climb up there and stand next to the jaws.’
Then it dawned on him.
‘No.’ He shook his head. ‘No.’
Verner stepped back and swung the shotgun round to point directly at Wickson’s face. ‘Just remember what this did to Mr Coulton.’
Wickson looked at Henry, who could do or say nothing to help. Whatever happened here, death was inevitable. How it happened was the issue.
Reluctantly, Wickson clambered up the ladder on the side of the crusher and stood gaping down into its huge metal jaws.
Verner pressed a button on the side of the machine. The engine of the crusher coughed horribly and its powerful diesel engine came to life. He pressed another button on the control panel and the crushers started to move, to grind nonexistent substances.
‘Jump in,’ Verner shouted. He raised the shotgun.
Wickson shook his head.
‘Do as you’re told.’
Wickson’s eyes were drawn inexorably to the powerful jaws. He had been working with crushers in the building trade for many years and had stood in this position many times. He knew exactly what the jaws could do.
He turned away, horrified by the thought.
‘Fuck it,’ Verner said. ‘I knew this would happen.’ He fired the shotgun. The blast punched Wickson in the stomach, as though he had been hit by a fist. He staggered backwards and dropped into the mouth of the crusher, into the jaws which immediately began to devour him, churning him into an unrecognizable mush, swallowing him into its belly. He was passed underneath a powerful magnet designed to sort out any metallic objects from the rubble, then he was disgorged on to the conveyor belt, as though it was serving up a meal.
The magnet had lifted his Rolex watch up.
There was nothing left of Wickson that was discernibly recognizable as human. What remains existed were deposited on the pile of shale that had once been bricks and rock.
‘My god, you fucking brutal bastard,’ Henry said, deeply shocked.
‘Name of the game . . . Now it’s your turn, Henry,’ he shouted over the engine noise. ‘They’ll never be able to tell you apart when you both get slopped together in a bucket. Now get up there and jump in, or I’ll shoot you and carry you up there myself. I’m good at the fireman’s lift.’
Verner backed away from Henry, cautious, keeping him covered all the while. Henry reached out to the crusher and placed a toe on to the ladder on its side.
The sniper had seen the three males emerge from the rear of the house and walk towards the stables. Looking down the telescopic sight of the AW sniper rifle, he recognized Henry and John Lloyd Wickson and then – unbelievably – Verner.
He swore.
He had not seen Verner enter the house. How good was that? Hell, he must have been dozing or something. How had he got in without being seen? The sniper was sure he had been looking hard and concentrating, but sometimes you can try too hard and then miss very simple things. Maybe that’s what he had been doing. Alternatively Verner could have got in through the back of the house somehow.
The sniper smirked as he watched the three men progress towards the stables, Verner taking up a position between them,
shotgun in hands, pointing loosely at Henry.
A good move by Verner. It gave him just enough protection.
The sniper’s mind raced: what the hell had gone on inside the house? Where was the wife, the daughter?
On reaching the site machinery at the stables, the men disappeared out of his sight completely behind the crusher.
Next thing, Wickson was standing on the platform on top of it and the crusher fired up moments later.
Why?
Then Wickson seemed to jump backwards and fell into the machine, which ate him up and then spat him out.
The sniper’s stomach churned at the horror. It was more than horror, it was revulsion, complete disbelief. But he only had a matter of moments to take in what had happened to the millionaire, because Verner suddenly came into view, stepping out from behind the cover of the crusher, brandishing the shotgun, presumably at Henry Christie.
The sniper had to settle quickly, get over what he had just witnessed, concentrate. Regulate the breathing, keep steady.
And fire.
At first Henry did not realize what had happened, and nor did Verner – but it was the latter who caught on first. It seemed like magic as the shotgun was somehow driven from his grasp by an invisible force and dumped on the floor.
Verner and Henry, for the most fleeting of moments, looked each other in the eyes, their brows furrowed, and then, just a fraction of a second before Henry, Verner put two and two together and computed the answer: he was being shot at.
Verner dived to the ground, wresting his pistol out of his waistband.
Henry saw his chance. He scrambled up the side of the crusher and jumped on to the platform on top, hoping to hell that whoever was shooting had not been sent to kill him, or that he would not be mistaken for Verner.
He ran across the width of the crusher, trying not to look down at the gnashing jaws which seemed to want more food, and dropped down the other side, literally leaping down the dozen or so feet to the floor. He landed hard, stumbled a few steps and raced towards the stable block that had survived the fire.
Verner rolled under the protection of the crusher, an expression of annoyance creasing his face.
His first thoughts were that someone had been sent to eliminate him because he was of no further use, now that the cops knew who he was. They would always be on the lookout for him and that was not good for a hit man, a profession that required a high degree of anonymity and blandness. His face would be plastered all over the country and maybe Europe and therefore his use was now limited. It was often the way with professional killers who had passed their sell-by dates. They knew too much and if they did get arrested they might talk and broker deals, so they had to be disposed of to make way for the next kid on the block. It made professional sense. That’s what his controller had hinted at when he’d made his phone call.
He laughed and hoped that the gun in his hand, the one he had acquired from a backstreet car park, worked. Henry slammed against the wall of a loose box, panting heavily, options coursing through his mind. Who the hell was up there – probably in the same spot Verner had occupied only days before?
It looked like Verner’s time had come.
But Henry was under no illusions that his own time might have come too. Whoever was up there, sniping away, was probably just as likely to pot him, he suspected . . . although he hadn’t done so yet.
Henry knew he had to do two things: get himself out of here and try to get Tara and Charlotte out of the way as well. There was no quick and easy way back to the house – in cover, that was.
The direct route was out. That was just too open. The only way would be to skirt around the outside of the stables, head across the field to the old farm buildings behind the house, and use them as cover to get to the rear of the house itself.
He moved. There was no time to waste.
The sniper on the hillside seethed with frustration at himself. He could not believe he had missed Verner. The cross hairs on the sights had been bang on Verner’s head, but as he squeezed the trigger, something somewhere went ever so slightly wrong. Maybe he pulled the rifle, moved a fraction . . . maybe, maybe, maybe. The fact was he had missed but at least he had managed to knock the shotgun out of Verner’s hands.
Sharp shootin’ at its very best, he thought cynically.
Next thing, Verner had rolled out of sight before he could send another bullet screaming at him and Henry Christie had cleared the crusher like some sort of athlete, although his very dicey landing was not graceful at all.
The sniper could easily have taken Henry as he ran to the stables, but he allowed him to reach his destination unscathed.
Verner was his target. He was the man he had been sent to kill, wanted to kill, was determined to kill.
Verner scrambled away from the crusher, keeping the machine between him and the sniper, and dropped into the drainage channel which ran parallel to the path all the way back to the house. It was cold and very wet in the bottom of the ditch, smelly too, reeking of rotting vegetation. Keeping low, Verner started to creep back in the direction of the house, but moving as quickly as his elbows would take him in the slush and mud, and keeping his gun out of it.
Henry pitched himself headlong into the field, using a low hedge for cover, not once daring to raise his head. The sobering thought that he might get it blasted off was good motivation to remain hunkered down. He stumbled on the uneven ground, falling forwards on to outstretched hands, which sank with a slurp into the soft, wet earth. He made it unscathed to the point where the field met the concreted yard by the dilapidated farm buildings where Wickson carried on his illicit trade in fuel laundering.
Keeping to the shadows, he rose wet and dirty from the field and ran to the gable end of the nearest building, then scuttled his way around the back of it. His intention was to skirt all the way around and re-emerge near to the back of the main house, where he knew he would be on open ground when he ran to the kitchen door. A risk he would have to take.
Charlotte Wickson had been transfixed by the spectacle of the dead man in the kitchen. It took her a long time to look away from him and back to her injured mother. Tara’s eyes opened. They were vague, bloodshot, distant. They closed again.
‘Mum . . . oh, please, Mum,’ Charlotte begged.
As if by magic Tara’s eyes flipped open again. This time they were clearer, more focused. ‘Charlie,’ she wheezed.
‘Mum, we’ve got to get out of here.’
Tara put a hand on her wound. ‘I know . . . Help me up.’
Charlotte supported Tara to get to her feet.
Henry had never been a particularly fast runner. He had been a rugby player in his younger years, but had succeeded in that through sheer bloody-mindedness, guts and willpower rather than through anything such as speed and agility. As he pinned himself against the old farm building, he could see that the kitchen door was at least a hundred metres away, across a wide expanse of manicured lawn and concrete patio – and that there was no other way to get to the house. He had to sprint like hell, out in the open, to get there.
He wondered where Verner had got to.
The crusher was still gnashing away near to the stable block. Presumably there was still a sniper up on the hillside. Verner was not to be seen as Henry cautiously peered out from behind the safety of the stone building.
Where was he? Still pinned down behind the crusher?
Henry doubted it. He was too resourceful to let that happen to him – which is why Henry wanted to get to the house and get the females out of there somewhere safe and sound. He knew that Verner would see Tara as unfinished business as she was a witness against him, one who needed to be eliminated, even though Henry believed that nothing she had seen would have registered with her. Verner did not leave people alive.
Henry counted to five, then launched himself out of the shadows and into the open.
The back of the house seemed to be a very long, long way away. More than his estimation. Felt like half
a mile.
He felt very naked and vulnerable, exposing himself like this.
His arms pumped, fists clenched, expecting something very bad to happen to him.
He hit the back wall of the house running, breathless, heart and ears pounding with blood.
He twisted through the kitchen door, sliding the bolt across to lock it. He found the room empty with one exception: Jake Coulton was where he had been left, sitting up raggedly against the wall, his massive head wound exposed dreadfully.
Repulsion at the sight made Henry queasy for a moment.
‘Unlucky, pal,’ he said and crossed the kitchen to the inner door which led to the hallway, picking up his mobile phone from the table as he passed.
The sniper used a combination of uncorrected vision – his eyes – his telescopic sights and his night binoculars to comb the area below him for Verner. He scanned from the house, along the path to the stables, and back towards the old farm buildings. He had watched Henry Christie make his way across the field and then disappear around the back of the barns, but his main concern was the whereabouts of Verner. He had lost him completely.
A little bit of panic set in.
Verner could not be allowed to get away.
He searched desperately for a glimpse of his target, kicking himself for not having blown his head off when he’d had the chance. That was what lack of practice did – made you stale.
Verner lay deep in the ditch, having inched the full length of it, so that he was at the point where it ended close to the house. He was perhaps twenty metres away from the gravel-covered parking area at the front of the house. The fact he had made it so far reassured him. It meant that the gunman on the hill could not see him and did not know where he was – but he was under no illusion that as soon as he emerged from the mud, there was a good chance of him being picked off.
He was deeply curious as to who had been hired to take him out of the picture.
Ramirez was good. He was a Spaniard who had worked around the world for various organizations, but he was expensive, probably too costly to be doing a job like this. And last Verner had heard, Ramirez was somewhere in Latin America.
