They moved silently down the passageway until it terminated at a perpendicular, slightly wider corridor. From his memory of Guy’s improvised map, Morton knew that left would lead them to the servants’ quarters – the direction in which Guy should be heading if he were going to his room. Silently, the pair turned right and followed the corridor until it reached a tightly-closed chunky oak door. Guy stopped and placed his ear at the keyhole. This was the moment when things could go dangerously wrong. Beyond the door was the main downstairs lobby, the heart of the house and the place at which they would most likely be caught. Several armed security guards patrolled the house day and night, and numerous CCTV cameras kept a twenty-four-seven vigil on unpatrolled areas.
Guy was evidently satisfied that the coast was clear. It was the kind of setting where the door should creak loudly, announcing to all and sundry their arrival. But it didn’t, it just opened gently to reveal what Morton could only think of as a magnificent entrance hall that put Mote Ridge to shame. An ornate multi-branched chandelier cast a diffused yellow glow over the room. There was just enough light to see the massive gold-framed portraits of long-deceased Windsor-Sackvilles, glaring down at him, as if they were aware of his potential to destroy everything that they stood for. A grand staircase wound its way up before splitting into two and curving out of sight. An intricate woven rug formed the centrepiece of the immaculately polished mahogany flooring.
‘Impressive, huh?’ Guy whispered, breaking a self-imposed rule that there should be no talking unless absolutely necessary. It hardly seemed necessary to Morton to ask if he found it impressive. A nodded response sufficed.
Guy closed the door behind them and they began the long journey to the door beside the foot of the staircase. If it was going to go wrong anywhere, then it was here. To avoid the CCTV cameras, they had to creep around the room’s extremities, which would take them a whole lot longer than simply walking directly across the floor.
Guy strangely acted like he’d done this before, ducking carefully this way and that, circumventing protruding furniture like a professional dancer. Maybe he had done this before. Morton’s paranoia resurfaced; could this all be a trap? Guy did seem to have a very in-depth knowledge of the internal workings and security of a house in which he was simply a – what was his job? Footman? Butler? Did this sort of a place still have those roles? Whatever, now wasn’t the time to start asking questions; they’d finally reached the door – the door behind which all of the darkest Windsor-Sackville secrets were kept. This was the door into the walled garden to which Peter Coldrick wanted access. Where other genealogists had failed to conquer, Morton was here, on the verge of discovery.
All things considered, the door to the archives of Charingsby offered little in the way of resistance. It was protected by nothing more than an outlandishly large lock, for which Guy had the outlandishly large key.
Five seconds later, they were inside. Guy tapped in another six digit code to prevent the alarm from sounding.
Morton quietly closed the door and took stock of the room. It was huge, effortlessly dwarfing East Sussex Archives. There were no windows and no other exit points other than that through which they had just entered. The walls were lined with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves containing books, box files and folders. A long line of tall, metal cabinets filled the centre of the room. All of this to search in under an hour.
Both men instinctively made their way to the bulky cabinets in the centre of the room and began to search indiscriminately among the files.
‘Where do I start?’ Guy whispered.
Morton exhaled and looked in awe at the room; he had no idea where he should start. ‘I don’t know, just look for anything we can hold against them. Or anything to do with the Coldricks or the war.’
East Sussex Archives had a great number of obvious downsides but at least they had a decent system of cataloguing that made some semblance of sense to the public. Here the system only had to make sense to one person – the archivist.
‘Do you know the archivist at all?’ Morton asked.
‘There isn’t one; it’s just another job for the secretary,’ Guy answered, pushing closed another drawer. ‘That’s that cabinet done. What now?’
‘We’ve just got to keep searching,’ Morton instructed, as a pang of despair crept into his head.
Pushing shut a heavy drawer containing land purchases in the eighteenth century, Morton took a deep breath and looked around the room. Time was running out. There had to be some kind of logic to the material gathered here. His eyes moved slowly and systematically around the shelves, trying to piece together some kind of order from the haphazard assortment of documents. In his peripheral vision, Morton spotted something of interest. Turning to a stack of nondescript folders at the bottom of a nearby shelving unit, he had just selected a red box file when he heard a low unnatural thud behind him. He turned. Any doubts that Morton had about Guy’s allegiances were dispelled; he was lying crumpled in a heap on the floor, possibly unconscious, possibly dead. Morton’s nemesis, Daniel Dunk stood like a demented Bond villain over the body.
For someone who felt so inadequate in so many ways, it surprised Morton greatly to discover that his fight or flight reaction was actually to fight. Without thinking about it – because if he had thought about it he would very likely have reconsidered – Morton picked up a bronze bust statue of Sir Winston Churchill that stood proudly on a lectern nearby and threw it at Daniel Dunk. Sir Winston seemed to cut through the air in slow motion – at least it was slow in comparison with the raft of thoughts firing through his brain. What if Sir Winston struck Dunk on the head and killed him? There was certainly no pleading self-defence. Then again, there were always stories that incited outrage where the burglar got knocked out by a defiant home-owner and the home-owner was the one locked up while the burglar walked off scot-free with compensation. He was that burglar.
Morton was actually slightly relieved, and not at all surprised, that Sir Winston fell short of his target, crashing down at Dunk’s feet. Not even close enough to bruise his big toe but at least it showed Dunk that he was a force to be reckoned with. Well, sort of. The only damage he managed to inflict was on poor Sir Winston, whose nose had been severed from his face.
Dunk emitted a primeval grunt as he lunged across the cabinet that separated them, his hands aimed at Morton’s throat.
Morton again surprised himself by instinctively punching Daniel Dunk in the face. Not only had he punched him but he had punched him hard, sending Dunk to the floor. He had, quite literally, floored someone. Amazing. The last fight that he’d had was with Jonathan Stainer in the third year at primary school. And he’d lost.
Without missing a beat, Morton sent his right foot into Dunk’s ribcage, wincing when he heard what sounded like the cracking of bones. It was enough; Dunk was down and out of action, so Morton grabbed the rucksack and the box file and ran from the room. He didn’t know what to do about Guy but, whether dead or unconscious, he was still left with the problem of a large immoveable Australian. He dialled Juliette; it was time for phase two of the plan.
As Morton ran back in the direction that they had entered the house he could hear some kind of commotion going on nearby, the sound of men running towards him. He hurried down the narrow passageways and reached the large oak door that led to the outside world. He yanked on the handle but it was locked.
The angry shouts of several men were drawing closer; they had entered the passageway and would appear within seconds.
Morton’s fight or flight reaction was now severely leaning towards the latter.
He tried the door again but it was locked fast. Then he spotted the small green button beside the door. He pressed it and the heavy clunking mechanism released the door.
He ran out into the cold darkness of the shingle car park. As he turned to run behind the house, he caught a glimpse of blue flashing lights. Then the sirens started, echoing violently around him, hurtling towards the house. A police car and a
police riot van – both heading this way. Good old Juliette. It was hopefully enough to clot the flow of enraged security guards who would now stop at nothing to hunt him down.
Morton didn’t hang around to find out if the plan had worked or not, he kept on running until he reached the woods that he hoped led past the shooting box. From there he could make his way back to the village and the sanctity of his car.
By the time he reached the shooting box, Morton was sweating and suffering tachycardia. He needed to stop just for a moment to catch his breath. He leant up against the abandoned building and tried to regulate his breathing. He looked out into the dense woodland but could see nothing - it was like staring down a bottomless well with squinted eyes. He hoped that if he were being chased, his assailants would make enough noise for him to know that they were following.
It was time to move on, to get out of Sedlescombe once and for all. Morton ran over to the point in the fence that he had entered by previously but found it had been repaired. He was fully prepared for this eventuality and pulled out the wire-cutters from the rucksack. He hoped that this would be the last time he would have to sabotage the Charingsby perimeter as he snipped a hole large enough to crawl through.
He took one final glance behind him then squeezed himself through the gap into safety.
And just like that, he’d escaped the clutches of the Windsor-Sackvilles. It actually wasn’t as hard as he’d thought it would be.
Having regained his energy, he ran across the field towards the village, which was now bathed in a washed-out orange from the nascent sunrise. The Mini appeared in view and he heaved a sigh of relief. This thing, this monster project that he’d daubed the Coldrick Case was almost over. All he needed to do now was get to the police station. Climbing into the safety of the Mini, he locked the doors and pulled out his mobile. Fourteen missed calls from Juliette in the last ten minutes. He started the car and dialled her back. The phone dialled endlessly, as he sped the car along the deserted street. He began to panic. What if the plan had failed? What if Dunk’s henchmen had realised that the large intimidating riot van only contained Juliette and the accompanying police only contained her partner, Dan?
Finally, the call connected and he heard Juliette’s reassuring voice.
‘Did you find Guy? He was knocked out by Dunk,’ Morton blurted out.
‘Yeah, we found him. He’ll be okay, bit of a bump to the head. Listen, we stopped most of them but a couple managed to escape in a BMW.’
Morton glanced in his rear-view mirror and saw a pair of headlights in the distance. Headlights that were quickly gaining speed.
‘I think I found the BMW,’ Morton said, watching the car zoom closer. ‘Or at least, it’s found me.’
‘Where are you?’
‘Er, just leaving Sedlescombe,’ was all Morton managed, before he dropped his phone from the force of a rear shunt. The Mini lost control and swerved dangerously towards the edge of the road. Morton knew the occupants of the BMW had one aim: to force him down the steep embankment they were currently speeding past. He yanked the steering wheel hard and managed to level the Mini as it bumped the hard curb.
When Morton realised that the BMW was trying to get alongside him for a final swipe, it was too late to stop it. The BMW was driving neck and neck with him.
He knew this was it.
He looked across at his assailants: Daniel Dunk and Philip Windsor-Sackville. He watched, as if detached from the scene, as Dunk wrenched his steering wheel and smashed into the side of the Mini. They had achieved their objective.
His head was spinning faster than the worst of the worst drinking sessions put together. A wave of nausea came and went. His hands felt like they were on fire. He swallowed down against another wave of nausea and tasted blood. A lot of blood. It was too dark to know where he was. He was on his side, pinned in.
That smell, he knew it. Clear, fetid, like ammonia. But what was it? Petrol. Something in his brain, something intense was able to push through the soupy confusion and tell him that he needed to get out of the car. But there was another, separate reason why he must escape. Something to do with the rucksack that he found his face buried in. Grab the rucksack and get out; that was all he knew.
The door was welded shut. The window? He ran his hand around the door, knowing that there should be a handle or a button, something to make the glass move. Then he realised that there was no window; it was just an open space that led out into darkness. Trees. What was he doing in a wood? He caught a flashback of the shooting box at Charingsby. Was that where he was? Something to do with Sir Winston Churchill. And Daniel Dunk.
The pungent stench of petrol sent a fresh wave of sickness surging around his stomach. He grabbed the rucksack and pulled himself towards the vacant space beside him.
There was talking nearby. Men. That was it; the reason why he needed to get out. The men mustn’t get their hands on the rucksack.
He tugged furiously at it but it wouldn’t budge. Besides which, he couldn’t actually move. Was it his injuries? Was he really so badly hurt? He tentatively felt around his torso, tapping his fingers over his jacket. No, he wasn’t so damaged to prevent escape. Then his turbid brain realised: it was the seatbelt; that was what was pinning him in. He fumbled for the release button and slumped forward as the belt pinged back over his shoulder. He spat out a mouthful of blood and held his stomach to prevent him from being sick.
The men were talking more loudly, moving towards him.
He pulled at the rucksack but it was stuck fast. He couldn’t remember quite why but he knew that he couldn’t let them get their hands on it. Then he caught sight of something glinting at his feet – it was the rucksack buckle.
Another flash of clarity and he realised that he’d been pulling on the flaccid airbag.
Morton lunged at the rucksack, wincing at the pain in his hands, and wriggled out of the open window, flopping heavily down onto something prickly.
The merry-go-rounding inside his head and the surging waves of nausea were too much – he vomited beside the car.
His frangible, addled brain was able to decipher some of the men’s voices. ‘He has to be dead,’ one of them said. He recognised the voice, then recalled the last two faces he had seen. It belonged to one of them but he couldn’t remember which.
‘About bloody time, you kept him alive too long,’ the other said. ‘I told you to get rid of him days ago. You didn't have this much trouble with Peter.’
As Morton lay on the prickly plant beside a pool of his own vomit, he knew, with certain lucidity, what he had to do. He dipped his painful right hand inside the rucksack and rummaged until he found the box of matches.
The men had fallen silent but for their heavy breathing. They had almost reached him; Morton was out of time. He struck a match and threw it towards the car’s underbelly. For a moment the match laid on the ground, the flame flickering, as if deciding whether or not it was up to the task. A second later a growing lozenge of flame flowed like a river towards his car. His brand new car.
Morton knew that he had to move. He began to drag himself and the rucksack along the woodland floor, just as a massive explosion ripped open the carcass of the Mini.
From the torn fabric of his mind, Morton thought that it sounded like some of his attackers had been caught in the blast. One thing he knew, they were making a hasty retreat back up the bank. Morton dragged himself further and further into the enveloping woods.
Then he vomited again.
Then everything went dark.
Morton Farrier left the Conquest Hospital shortly after one o’clock in the afternoon with the assistance of Juliette, who was dressed in full superhero PCSO uniform. He climbed into the police van holding his bandaged hands awkwardly out in front of him, partly to elicit sympathy from Juliette and partly because they were hurting like hell. That dastardly Paul from the Mini showroom had failed to warn him during his spiel about the car’s many features that, by clinging onto the steering whee
l at the moment of any possible collision, he would end up in a hospital with first-degree burns to his hands and wrists from the firing of the airbag. Aside from the burns, he had also suffered concussion and a three-inch gash to the left side of his head, which required five stitches to seal the gap. As the nurse meticulously wove the black thread through his gaping skin, Morton hoped that the cut would scar nice and visibly, giving him something of the hard edge of Daniel Dunk. The doctor wanted to make sure that Morton was fully compos mentis and asked him the day of the week, which he was unable to give and he was unable to satisfy the doctor that this had nothing to do with the head injury. He was finally released after correctly answering the ironic question as to who the Secretary of Defence was. It would have taken a full lobotomy for him to forget the name of Philip Windsor-Sackville.
‘Right, to the station, then,’ Juliette said rather fatalistically as she brought the throaty police van to life, the same van that she had used to storm Charingsby a few hours previously. Morton noticed that she had parked in a disabled bay and not paid for parking. Oh the joys of being above the law.
‘We just need to do a quick detour first,’ Morton said.
‘Oh, for Christ’s sake, what now?’
Morton went to explain when his mobile rang.
Dr Baumgartner’s name flashed up onscreen.
The results.
Morton carefully carried the chunky red box file towards the house. He had told Juliette to keep the van running – what he had to do would only take a moment. He banged loudly on the front door of the imposing townhouse.
Hiding the Past (The Forensic Genealogist series Book 1) Page 25
