by Roland Moore
“Where’s your stuff? You didn’t bring a case?” Margaret asked.
Connie winced. Why did children have to say things like that? Vince frowned.
“Thought we were starting again, didn’t I?” Connie brave faced it. “Now, why don’t you let the kid go?”
Vince breathed deeply, considering. “Talking about starting again. There was no safety deposit box, Con. That key you got was just for an old meat locker at Smithfields.”
“I thought there wasn’t any money,” Connie replied. “Just a way of getting me out of Helmstead, wasn’t it?”
“You’re not mad at me? Even though I’ve not got any money?”
“We’ve both made mistakes, haven’t we?”
“We’d have to work the scams again. And hope you can still turn a few heads.” Vince’s attempt at a joke fell on deaf ears. Connie was feeling too edgy to even register he’d made a joke, let alone to laugh at it.
Margaret looked imploringly at Connie. “Why are you going with him?” she asked.
Connie glanced up from the small girl and looked Vince in the eyes.
“I’m not,” she said.
She let the sentence hang in the air, seeing Vince struggling to work out what fresh trickery this was, seeing Margaret trying to work out why Connie had said she was. And then Connie finished it. “Not unless he lets you go. Come on, Vince. I think enough people have got hurt. We can go and get in that car and get out of here.”
Vince mulled this over. He indicated for Connie to lead the way. She opened the front door. Vince followed, his arm around Margaret’s neck. Curran’s car stood yards away. But still he felt that this would be a trick. It was strangely quiet. The birds had stopped singing. Vince edged away from the front door, holding Margaret tightly to him. Cabbage-white butterflies danced around the borders. Vince looked around. He glanced back to the house, where Connie was lingering near the doorway. She looked sweetly at him. Those big brown eyes, the long cascading hair framing milky white skin and a smile that could dazzle the heavens. Vince wanted to believe. He wanted to stop fighting and trust someone. He wanted to trust Connie, standing there in front of a picture-book cottage.
It would be easy for them to get in the car and head to a new beginning. Why was he still suspicious? He had the gun. He had the power here. And yet something was unnerving him. And with a slow, sickening jolt, he realised that he’d seen that sweet look on Connie’s face before. It was the same look she used on the rich old men as she distracted them while Vince was rifling their overcoats. The look that held their attention, while something else was going on.
Misdirection.
He realised that she was distracting him!
Vince spun round to look up the hill. And he saw what Connie had noticed moments before: four men in grey suits running down the incline towards the house. They all had pistols. Vince squinted. They didn’t look like Amos Ackerly’s clowns. These guys were more polished, fresh-faces, neat hair, men plucked from Oxford and Cambridge to join the special services. They all had the same type of pistol, obviously standard issue. Government officers from the War Office.
Vince’s survival instincts kicked in.
He grabbed Margaret tightly and pointed the gun at her head. Connie moved forward to stop him, but he shook his head angrily. “Don’t try it.” And then to the men on the hill: “Stay there!”
The men running down the hill stopped. One of them indicated for the others to take it easy. Vince moved Margaret round, the gun tight against her. A human shield to show all his would-be assailants that they’d better not mess with him. The men were still edging down, but they had slowed to a careful, gradual descent. All eyes were fixed on Vince Halliday.
“You tricked me!” Vince spat.
“You left Henry for dead,” Connie snapped back. “Give yourself up. It’s over!”
Vince shook his head. Margaret’s eyes were wide with fear. “You’re hurting me!”
“Tell them to stay back or I’ll kill her,” he snarled.
“Don’t hurt her, please,” Connie said. “You give up and they’ll just lock you up. You hurt her and you’ll hang.”
“You tricked me!” Rage and loathing bubbled from Vince’s mouth.
Connie’s eye caught sight of something. Hiding behind Roger Curran’s car was Glory Wayland. She was holding her scalpel and sneaking, in small hunched movements, closer and closer. Vince gripped the small girl and spun round, gauging his options, a full three-sixty-degree turn, the gun held against her forehead. Could he escape? Which way could he go? Could he make it to the car and drive his way out?
The men in suits were edging closer. Behind the car, Glory was getting closer.
Then the men stopped. Vince stood upright, trying to sense what was happening. Glory edged around the side of the car, low to the ground. The scalpel was in her outstretched hand. Nobody could see her apart from Connie, as she was shielded from the agents’ view by the car. Vince and Margaret could only see her if they looked down.
Connie prayed that they wouldn’t look down.
Misdirection.
“I’m sorry it worked out like this, Vince,” she said. Vince glanced toward her, momentarily, taking his eyes away from the area where Gloria was edging forward. Then he looked up high, watching the agents on the hill.
Glory kept moving, but then something happened to break the stand off. It all happened in a split second:
The wind caught Glory’s cloche hat. As it whipped it off her head, she instinctively reached up a hand to grab it. Her precious cloche hat. In his peripheral vision, Vince caught sight of the movement of her hand. He spun round, bringing the gun to bear on the new target.
But Glory was quick. She plunged the scalpel deep into Vince’s shin.
With a reflex action, he kicked out with his other leg, sending Glory to the ground. She was on her back. Vince howled in pain. His leg was bleeding profusely, the trouser glistening and dark, the handle of the scalpel all that was visible above the stained fabric. In that instant, the agents started to run down the hill towards them. Vince was about to shoot the prone Glory, but now he was forced to turn the gun back on his hostage. He still had his arm around Margaret’s throat.
Vince indicated for the agents to stop.
“Stay there! Stay!” he howled.
Connie watched the agents. Although still a distance away, they were pointing their guns at Vince. Ready to shoot him if they had to.
“Drop the gun!” The man in charge shouted, with the calmness of voice that indicated this was a daily part of his job. He might as well have been asking for case files or a coffee to be brought to him.
Vince shook his head. “You drop yours!”
He gripped Margaret Sawyer tightly. She looked terrified. “Please,” she squealed.
He pressed the gun to her ear. She could smell the stale sweat on this nasty man, feel the thumping of his heart in his chest. The end of the gun was hurting her head. Glory was on her back on the ground, aware that any movement could get her shot by Vince.
Connie shouted to Vince, and he half-turned to listen, while keeping one eye on the agents.
“You’ve got a choice.”
“Oh yeah, what’s that, then?” Vince barked.
“Give up and live. Or don’t and die,” Connie said.
“What are you talking about?” Vince spat. “Why should I give up when I’m going to escape? I’ve got her, ain’t I?”
“Last chance to let her go. And for you to live,” Connie said. “Believe it or not, I don’t want you to die.”
Vince sneered at her. He shook his head.
“What do you mean, last chance? How are you threatening me? You’re not the one with the gun!”
“No,” Connie said quietly, her face etched with regret. “But I’m the one with the bullets.”
And she slowly held out her hand. In her palm were the four remaining bullets from the gun. Connie had removed them before she had given the gun back to Vince in the
village square.
With horror, Vince realised what this meant.
The agents, with their raised guns, saw the bullets and realised that Margaret wasn’t in danger. There was nothing to stop them opening fire now.
Vince had one chance. He pushed the girl in the direction of the men, to act as some sort of shield and he ran the other way; each step agony because of the knife embedded in his shin.
Vince Halliday jumped the first row of box hedges.
He could see an outbuilding ahead. Ten feet away. If he could just get to that, he’d have cover –
Three neat cracks of gunfire echoed around the valley.
Vince tumbled into the flower bed. Hydrangeas broke underneath him as he fell, the empty gun flying from his hand. The last thing he registered was the smell of the flowers as the pollen puffed out around him.
Connie went to help Glory, but she shooed Connie away. She was all right. Glory brushed herself down and retrieved her cloche hat, placing it back onto her head. Connie ran to Margaret and reached the little girl just as one of the agents did.
“You her mother?” he asked.
Margaret gave a wistful look. If only.
Connie hugged her close and kissed her head.
Chapter 20
Connie was fighting to stay awake, her eyes glazing over at the small text of the book she had in her hands. It was taken from the shelves in Henry’s room as she waited for him to wake up from his nap. Sleep hadn’t come easy for her, and she assumed she might actually be too tired to sleep, if that was possible, after everything she had been through. Emotionally and physically, it had all taken its toll and she felt threadbare. Henry had woken properly for the first time this morning and they had shared a few words before he dozed off again.
“Connie?”
“I found you, Henry. I came and got you.”
“Thank you.” And he’d smiled contentedly as he drifted off to sleep. Connie had felt his hand grip hers tightly for a moment before it let go. She had sighed in relief.
Since then she had stayed, waiting for him to wake again. And when his eyes opened this time, she could see that he had more energy, more awareness of what was happening. Connie filled him in quickly with the practicalities of what had happened: how she’d found him, how she’d got Dr Beauchamp, how she’d waited for him to wake up.
“And Vince?” Henry asked, with a furrowed brow.
“Vince is dead,” Connie said flatly, squeezing his hand. “And I promise you, there are no more skeletons in my closet. No one else is going to turn up. I promise.” She scanned his face for a reaction. He was looking towards the end of the bed, taking it in, perhaps considering what he felt.
“But I’ve put you through so much, Henry. No one deserves what’s happened to you on account of you hitching your wagon to me. So I’ll understand if you want me to go.”
A long moment passed. Henry licked his lips, trying to find the saliva to speak. Connie realised that he was thirsty, so she poured him water from his bedside jug, managing to soak the arm of his pyjamas in the process. “Sorry, Henry, I haven’t got any less clumsy.” Henry smiled and drank the water, taking so much of his energy that he had to compose himself afterwards, catching his breath.
“So do you want me to go?” Connie asked.
“It’s what you want that matters,” he whispered.
“I could have gone with Vince. That’s what it was all about, him wanting me to go back to London. And I know that world, I know what makes it tick and how to survive in it. But I didn’t want to –”
Connie trailed off as she realised that Henry was asleep.
The train was going to London.
The clackety-clack of the train wheels was weirdly hypnotic, and Connie Carter found herself fighting a battle against sleep. She pinched her fingers to force herself to stay awake. It was a hard battle as she was still exhausted from the last few days, both emotionally and physically. After the events at Jessop’s Cottage, Connie had told her friends at Pasture Farm what had happened, right from the start. She started with an impromptu conference around the kitchen table, where she told the girls, Esther and Finch. There was no way it would stay a secret, so she thought it best to tell her version of events. A few days later, Roger Curran ran a story in The Helmstead Herald about how plucky Connie Carter had foiled a vicious criminal.
Connie hoped that this one wouldn’t make the nationals.
She felt a contented yawn coming and stifled it behind the back of her hand. Margaret Sawyer giggled as Connie pulled an unintentionally funny face as a result. Then Connie got out some biscuits that Esther had made for their journey. Margaret took one, but Connie encouraged her to take a spare one for later. Margaret liked Connie Carter. She wished that she could have kept her. She’d be an amazing mum. But Connie couldn’t take in the young girl. It would be better if they could find some of her extended family in London instead.
Connie smiled warmly at the third person in the carriage.
Henry.
They had survived their darkest hours and had been reunited, and Henry was fighting his way back to full health. He was still tired a lot of the time, but each day he was getting stronger. Connie liked the way the kaleidoscope of sunlight dappled on his face through the passing trees. She had longed for him to be all right and to be back by her side. And now her prayers had been answered. They hadn’t managed to discuss what was said at the hospital, and Connie didn’t want to push Henry into a conversation before he was ready. It was enough that she was there to support him; they could discuss their future another time.
In the hospital, Henry had come round after two days of intensive oxygen and nutrition therapy. Connie had been the first one to see his eyes open. She’d cried with joy at seeing the first fluttering of his eyelids; the moment when he came back to her. Henry had stayed at the military hospital for ten days, getting stronger and stronger, before being allowed back to the vicarage under Connie’s care. She had done her best to feed him back to health, cooking hearty stews and soups.
And she tried to get better at making cups of tea for him. But that hadn’t gone well.
Being a popular young reverend, it wasn’t only Connie who found herself looking after him. The trio of Mrs Arbuthnott, Mrs Fisk and Mrs Hewson would pop round regularly, often with some hot dish under a tea towel, to enquire how he was getting on. They would all talk at once, asking a thousand questions. On other occasions, Frederick Finch had popped round to see if Henry fancied a game of cards. But no cards were played and instead Finch spent his time drinking the vicarage brandy. It was the thought that counted, though. Esther had kindly taken their washing twice a week, laundering it up at the farm and bringing back freshly ironed linen and shirts.
Connie didn’t mind all the visitors, all the intrusions motivated by kindness. But she felt out on a limb, as she had always done. Did she belong here? Could she ever fit into this world?
Henry was dressed in his best suit, and Connie had her maroon jacket and skirt on. Margaret, who was wearing her best dress, felt nervous, unable to settle. She had mixed feelings about returning to London, worried about the visceral reminders of seeing the places she and her mother used to go. Margaret wasn’t happy, but she could hardly stay in Jessop’s Cottage on her own, with Michael gone and Vera facing prison. Connie hadn’t found the right moment to tell Margaret what had happened to Michael. The troubled man had shot himself in the forest. The agents from Birmingham had linked him to the bombing of the train tracks and later found his body. Although they’d initially assumed that Vince Halliday was one of the gang, they knew that one member was still at large. The accomplice who helped Michael Sawyer laid the bomb on the tracks. But they would find him. They always got their man eventually.
Margaret stared, trying to focus on the fast-moving collage of places and lives behind the window pane. She offered a stoic look to Connie, trying to be brave. Perhaps Connie and Henry would change their minds if she showed how grown up she was? Secretly,
she knew that they wouldn’t change their minds. They couldn’t.
Taking her to London to find someone she knew was the best idea and all they could do in the circumstances. Despite her misgivings, she trusted Connie Carter; the marvellous Connie Carter who had saved her life, not once but twice. Connie would make sure it was all right.
Margaret hadn’t been to London for three years. As she had only been six at the time when Vera had come to the school to tell her teacher the shocking news about the Grey Horse pub on Talbot Street, her thoughts and memories of the time were hazy now. Where did they used to live? Could she really remember it? Could she recognise any of her aunties or uncles if Connie managed to find them? It worried Margaret that she wouldn’t be able to remember the places but also that she would, and she’d feel upset at the fact her mum wasn’t around any more. Her stomach knotted. Connie gave her a kind look.
“It’ll be alright,” she said.
“Yes,” Margaret said bravely, not believing it.
“Eat your other biscuit.”
Connie’s thoughts turned to Gloria Wayland. The damaged young woman in the cloche hat had been promised her freedom by Amos Ackerly if she murdered Vince Halliday. Well, that was one happy ending that Connie was able to make come true. As their train thundered closer to London, Connie imagined Glory scrubbing the front step of Jessop’s Cottage. Connie had given her the set of keys she had for the place. Glory had always dreamt of living in a cottage, and now, for a time at least, she could make that dream become a reality.
Connie glanced at the young girl beside her and wished, with all her heart, that she could give her a happy ending as well.
Connie remembered the final hand. All or nothing. George Butler looked more nervous than she did. The grey-haired man sucked his cigarette so hard that Connie feared he’d suck it right into his mouth, scorching his cheek. The wiry man smiled when the first playing cards were turned over. He had a king and yet Connie, the flashily dressed young woman who’d tried to hustle them, only turned over a five.
George Butler furrowed his brow. This wasn’t a great start.
