The Killing Club

by Paul Finch

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Heck said. ‘Thanks for that.’

  Chapter 13

  The village of Stanton St John, in South Oxfordshire, was very picturesque in the early autumn. In actual fact, its peaceful, tree-lined avenues were scenic any time of year, but never more so than when reds and golds were sparking to life amid its lush cottage-garden greenery. And especially on mellow September evenings like this, when sunlight lay in vivid streaks down grassy verges and across the velvet lawns and mullioned bay-windows of its honey-coloured stone houses. There might be a hint of freshness in the air, it may smell of apples and nuts rather than barbecued steak and chicken, but it still bespoke neighbourliness and content: wives chatted over fences; husbands ambled to the pub together; children played happily and safely, barely concerned by the early advance of evening.

  Though it shared a Stanton St John postcode, Woodhatch Gate – the ‘Big House’, as locals knew it – stood about four miles outside the village and nine miles northeast of Oxford. Formerly a Georgian coach-stop, it was now a resplendent but secluded country residence, located just off the main road to Worminghall, at the end of a lengthy gravel drive, overlooking extensive acres of private wood and parkland. Beyond that on all sides, the verdant landscape extended away in a rolling quilt of blue, green and dusky purple.

  It was a tranquil scene – except for the riot of laughter and good cheer inside Woodhatch Gate itself, at the heart of which, as always, was the lady of the house, Mrs Nina Po, currently in her usual place at the head of the table.

  Nina was a pretty, bubbly bottle-blonde in her late forties, but she was also the mother-hen: the chatterbox, the bundle of energy, the arch-organiser. Her husband, Ronald, a consultant heart surgeon at the John Radcliffe Hospital in Oxford, was ten years older than his vivacious wife, and was seated to her right.

  This was an official dinner party, and the word ‘official’ meant something in this company. It wasn’t just a gathering of pals for a natter and a chip supper. It was one of Nina’s ‘special events’; long in preparation, exquisite in execution. However, as Ronald Po wore a jacket and tie all day – when he wasn’t wearing scrubs of course – he made a point of never dressing for these occasions. A tall, trim man with silver sideburns and wavy silver hair, he looked neat enough – he would say – in clean jeans and a polo shirt. He’d also add that this put their guests at ease, helped them relax, and would offer the same explanation for his inertia between courses; not for Ronald the back-and-forth bustle from dining room to kitchen, the ferrying of dirty crockery to the sink, or the more careful transportation of the next amazing dish to the table. His role was to entertain their visitors, talk to them, amuse them; be a warm and convivial host.

  Not that Nina would have accepted assistance from her other half in any case. For that she had her best friend, Mary Entwistle, who, to those who knew her, seemed almost permanently to wear an apron. A legendary cook, Mary aided and abetted Nina in all her culinary creations. Take tonight for instance, with chicken and butternut squash stew, autumn chestnut salad and Moroccan roasted lamb with mint pesto on the menu. Nina had selected the courses, provided the ingredients, the utensils, the work-space and the elbow grease, not to mention the supervisory intellect, and of course was the sole architect of all those delicate last details so typical of a mercurial perfectionist (origami napkins, lilies wrapped in silk as perfumed favours for the ladies, a measure of cognac for each of the men), but it was Mary who provided the gastronomic expertise. She was the same age as Nina but a less lively soul; her barrister husband had abandoned her before she was thirty, leaving her to look after their demanding young daughter, who had now grown up into an obstreperous snob. Despite all this, Mary continued to work full-time at the catering company she’d originally set up with the money inherited from her late father, but the pressure on both these fronts had built so enormously over the years that she was now a semi-anonymous shadow of her former self, and perhaps by her own admission, a little too fond of the G&Ts. But she was still a marvellous cook, and more than happy to be the permanent fixture on Nina’s right hand in her zealous quest to wine and dine the socialites of the county.

  These were the hosts, but there were several other personalities gathered at the dinner table that September evening at Woodhatch Gate, on the outskirts of Stanton St. John.

  Tim and Trudy Willoughby were the straight couple. Both were in their early forties and keen outdoors folk; if they weren’t camping at weekends, they were climbing, or hiking, or kayaking. ‘The Lakes is our back-garden,’ Tim was fond of saying, usually to the accompaniment of an infectious grin. Despite being only a junior accountant at one of the less important Oxford colleges, he never appeared at any of these functions in anything less than a smartly tailored three-piece suit (though always the same one, Nina had noted). Apart from the mouse-brown tufts behind his ears, Tim was bald and rangy of build – to an ungainly degree, which was a surprise to many as his wife was a natural beauty with flowing red tresses and a curvaceous figure. But Trudy Willoughby wasn’t just a looker; she was incredibly well brought-up. It was impossible to ascertain where she hailed from merely by speaking to her. She never smoked, never swore, never laughed at crude jokes, and always drove because she drank so little (‘One dry-white for me, please, and then I’m on Perrier’).

  Seated at the table opposite the Willoughbys, much to Trudy’s quiet discomfort, were the Hardcastles. Ross Hardcastle was a loud, proud Yorkshireman, fifty years old and foursquare of physique – that was the way he described himself, though much of his former rugby union prop forward’s frame had now run to plumpness. He was MD of a blue-chip software company based at Kidlington, and owner of a Bentley Continental GT, which he insisted on driving everywhere, even when he’d consumed his usual vast quantities of alcohol – ‘There’s more chance of our Sal totalling it when she’s sober than there is of me doing it when I’m pissed!’ For all this, he was an attractive man: bluff, hearty, outrageously amusing, still with a full head of naturally blond hair, a thick blond moustache, and though pudgy in the face, elements of the handsome young devil he’d once been were in plentiful evidence. In professional terms, he was said to be shrewd, calculating and confident; a real shark in the boardroom – though just to meet him, a natural assumption would be that he’d only reached the level of boardroom by pushing and shoving his way there. By contrast, while Ross Hardcastle filled almost every room, both in terms of his body and his personality, Sally Hardcastle was virtually invisible. Pencil-thin, with short grey hair and a dull line in three-quarter-length skirts, flat shoes, grey blouses and strings of beads that were too long, she rarely spoke and certainly never upbraided her husband for any of his more outspoken opinions – he was a Conservative to his back teeth, which was not always to his advantage in a liberal, scholarly town like Oxford. She didn’t even comment when, on occasions like this, he would sometimes play footsie with Trudy under the table – though to be fair Trudy didn’t comment either, because she never wanted to cause a scene.

  But for all the differences between them, it was really the last guest who was the odd one out. He was unmarried and a self-professed bachelor. Nina, Trudy and Mary had always assumed this meant he was gay, but there were no obvious indications of that – he actually lived with his elderly mother. His name was Anton Trevelyan, and he was a fellow of Jesus College, specialising in Classical English Literature. He was in his mid-fifties, white-haired and pale-skinned. A cross-country runner in his youth, it would be a mistake to assume his lean figure meant he was frail, but his athletic days were far in the past, and there was something undeniably wispy and wraithlike about him, even when clad, as now, in bow-tie, frilled shirt and pristine tuxedo. Doctor Trevelyan wasn’t always the most attentive guest. When you pinned him on his pet subject, the Age of Sensibility, he spoke interestingly and eloquently, revealing deep knowledge. But when mundane matters were under discussion, he merely nodded when he concurred, or puffed out his lips and blew long breaths if he dis
agreed. Though he’d chuckle at the occasional quip, he rarely laughed uproariously. Nina said she thought this was because there was some secret tragedy in his past, something tormenting him even to this day – which was odd because, though her husband had known Doctor Trevelyan for many, many years, he’d never thought there’d been anything unconventional in his life. Tonight in particular, Doctor Trevelyan seemed down, only smiling sadly when he smiled at all, and scarcely communicating. Of course, this only increased Nina’s fascination with him – because secretly she’d often thought Doctor Trevelyan a rather good-looking chap. Okay, he might be white-haired, it might be said he’d aged before his time, but there was still something there, something noble but also mysterious, something gracious but also … could she use the term ‘wolfish’? She didn’t mean it in a negative way, especially as he was so well mannered, so civilised … but she felt certain he had a darker side, and at some point she was determined to discover it.

  It was just around nine o’clock when the cups bearing the hostess’s famous palate-cleansing lemon sorbet were cleared away. There was more than bonhomie in the air. Most of the diners already knew each other from past events at Ronald and Nina’s; though it wasn’t always the same combination of guests, there was enough mutual familiarity for the banter to flow along with the wine. Ross Hardcastle was in mid-tirade, mocking the recent Labour Party conference in his usual brash, pseudo-uncouth way, but he kept it light-hearted – to such an extent that even the Willoughbys, who were of a left-wing inclination, had to chuckle. Doctor Trevelyan noticeably didn’t, and, as his political affiliations were unknown, it seemed more likely he was preoccupied with other matters. Ronald, who was also a Tory, thought it utterly hilarious and when he started with his hearty, booming laugh, it was difficult for others not to join in.

  For all these reasons, it was quite a shock when the dining-room window suddenly exploded inward, flecks of razor-edged glass showering the happy band, and a massive half paving stone crash-landed in the middle of the mahogany table, sending flowers and scented candles spinning, scattering crimson claret across faces and hair-dos and the pastel-shaded walls.

  It was even more of a shock two seconds later, when a second missile was lobbed in and landed amid the wreckage with a gentle plop.

  Because it was a hand grenade.

  When it detonated, the hardwood table absorbed some of the downward blast, but mainly ensured that most of it went upward and out. Of course it wasn’t just the flash and flame that did the damage, or the concussive, ear-crunching BANG – it was also the cutlery, the crystal goblets, the shards of glass and porcelain, and even the PVC place-mats, which went flying like mini guillotine blades.

  Nina was in the kitchen at the time, while Mary was halfway along the hall with a covered dish in hand. It wasn’t the first explosion that stopped Mary in her tracks; it was the second one – the one that blew the front door in, hinges, chains and all. It hit her head-on at terrific speed, all ninety kilogrammes of it, knocking her flat beside the foot of the grand staircase, and landing on top of her, a mass of heavy, scorched oak. The first of the masked, khaki-clad figures who came charging in through the smoke-filled entrance initially stepped on top of it. Realising there was someone underneath, he lowered his MAC-10 machine-pistol and drilled a dozen shots through its surface. A second intruder spotted Nina at the end of the hall, framed in the kitchen doorway, mouth agape. He opened fire with his Desert Eagle .44 Magnum. Nina, struck four times, tottered backwards amid a deluge of shattered kitchenware.

  Other intruders, meanwhile, piled past into the dining room.

  The once-ornate chamber had been reduced to a heap of smouldering trash. The encircling shelves and sideboards, and their assorted ornaments had all been demolished. The fine wallpaper hung in blackened shreds, daubed with blood as well as claret. The dining table lay burned and blasted, as did the handsomely carved chairs formerly arranged around it, not to mention those who had been seated in them.

  Ronald Po was the first of these to be found. He was still alive. He even managed to rise to his knees as the intruders milled in around him. But he was badly bloodied, a spear of bone protruding from his twisted right arm. He was also agog with shock. He tried to speak to them, as if they were here to help him – but only nonsense spilled from his mouth, along with globs of reddish foam.

  ‘Ronald Po?’ a muffled American voice enquired.

  Ronald, dazed enough to think they were speaking to him, nodded dully.

  ‘That’s him!’ came a Euro-accented response.

  ‘Welcome to the wages of sin, Doctor Po,’ the American said.

  Still unable to comprehend what was happening, Ronald barely flinched as they grabbed him by his besmirched collar and yanked him to his feet. Only now did he seem able to focus on the rest of the smoke- and wreckage-filled room.

  Directly alongside him, Tim Willoughby writhed on the floor, his face a blistered pulp, both hands clutched on his jaggedly severed windpipe. By the arcing arterial blood, he was certain to die soon, but a Madsen LAR was emptied into him to speed things along. The same fate befell Ross and Sally Hardcastle, though both looked to be dead already. They sat side-by-side on the floor, against the right-hand wall, which they’d been flung into with back-breaking force. Their shoulders drooped, their heads hung down. A fork had penetrated Ross’s left cheek and jutted at a grotesque angle; a shattered segment of PVC was embedded in his capacious belly. Sally bore less obvious fatal wounds, though she streamed blood from both her eyes and her nose. Repeated discharges from a pump-action shotgun ensured there was no doubt in either case.

  ‘We need the other!’ the accented voice bellowed. ‘Find Trevelyan!’

  But the next survivor they uncovered was Trudy Willoughby, huddled underneath the table. Though incoherent with terror, she was largely unscathed. She’d taken her lead from Doctor Trevelyan, who, on first seeing the grenade, had reacted more quickly than anyone else. Perhaps, maybe – just maybe – he had been expecting something like this? He’d ducked beneath the table, and Trudy had done the same. The table, a tough slab of mahogany, had then taken huge damage, but had still provided enough of a shield for the duo to survive.

  ‘Hah!’ laughed the intruder who hauled Trudy out by her long, red hair. He was the size and shape of a Russian bear, with an accent to match. He threw his Borz submachine gun over his shoulder, and ungloved a big, dirty paw, with which he mauled the fulsome breasts beneath her smoke-stained evening gown. ‘The last time I see a face so pretty, I drive a steam-roller over it! Happy days in the Balkans, uh!’

  ‘Sergei … no fucking around!’ the Euro voice commanded.

  ‘Ach … sorry babe,’ the Russian said, before wrapping his brawny left arm around Trudy’s head, then twisting and jerking it sideways, her neck snapping like a branch.

  Only now did Ronald Po scream, which merited him a punch in the stomach and a dizzying blow to the back of his skull.

  ‘Find Trevelyan!’ the Euro voice roared.

  Booted feet stomped all over the handsome house. Cupboard doors were kicked in. Shots were discharged through curtains and pillows, underneath beds, into the backs of closets. But it was the Russian who got lucky. He barged through a door from the dining room into a rear annexe; a beautiful, moonlit conservatory filled with exotic plants and wicker furniture, and immediately sensed movement – only a few feet away, he detected a ragged, white-haired figure cowering behind a wrought-iron stand filled with orchids. Laughing, he hauled Trevelyan out.

  The good doctor struck desperately with his fist. His captor retaliated by viciously and repeatedly head-butting him. Other intruders appeared in the conservatory door, the limp, bloodied form of Ronald Po still tight in their grasp. A tall figure in dark khaki and a woollen balaclava shouldered his way through.

  ‘No more playtime,’ he instructed curtly, and his was the voice with the Euro accent.

  The Russian kicked the figure of Trevelyan – now badly cut around the face – away fr
om him. Ronald Po was pushed across the conservatory as well, so that for several seconds the bedraggled twosome stood together.

  ‘We’ve been looking for you fellas,’ their chief captor said with faux-cheerfulness.

  Even in his shell-shocked state, Ronald found himself wondering about the guy’s nationality. German maybe? Swiss? Scandinavian?

  ‘Maybe you’ve been expecting us,’ the guy said. ‘Maybe you weren’t. I bet when you heard the big boss was loose and a load of cops dead, you started shitting your pants … wondered how it would work out, yeah? Like, would the case get blown wide open again, would the trail lead back to you this time? Well … perhaps it would, perhaps it wouldn’t. You understand … we can’t take that chance.’

  ‘They’ll get you,’ Trevelyan said, at first querulous but his nerve tautening as the inevitability of his fate grew on him. Angry blood frothed between his shredded lips. ‘You think this will save you? Don’t be too sure. You can’t go around committing crimes like this …’

  ‘Could be worse,’ the Russian chuckled. ‘We could be rapists.’

  ‘You fucking moron!’ Trevelyan spat. ‘They’ll catch you. They’ll put you somewhere that’ll make your gulags look like kindergarten …’

  ‘Sergei,’ the chief captor said, tiring of the conversation.

  The Russian unslung the Borz from his shoulder and emptied its entire magazine, catapulting the two doctors back across the conservatory with such velocity they exploded out through a twinned pair of double-glazed windows, and landed side-by-side on the rear patio.

  Their task complete, the eight intruders filed back out via the front of the house, where a dark, nondescript van was waiting at the bottom of the drive, blocking in all the other cars, which would now never be driven away again by their rightful owners.