So he was on to a hiding for nothing. And, in any case, action involving another police force would have to be initiated by the detective superintendent after obtaining permission from the assistant chief constable. Connell, rightly according to all the rules, wouldn’t consider such action on this so-called evidence.
But suppose, just for once throw logic away and use sufficient wild imagination to suppose, that all the threads, ambiguous, fashioned out of sky-hooks, did all point together, northwards. Suppose that there was a chance of picking up some of the mob in the Jaguar whilst it was driving north, but that once the cars had arrived at their destination there was no chance at all of locating the mob in time to save Armitage and, if alive, Mrs. Broadbent…He reached across for the telephone. He was probably committing professional suicide. But he had to live with his conscience.
CHAPTER XXII
Harcourt, driver of patrol car Charlie Fox One Zero, on the road between Penrith and Keswick, spoke with all the resentment of a man who’d been told by his wife that morning that she thought she was pregnant yet again. “Look for a this year’s Jaguar XJ six. Colour not known, registration number not known. Perhaps in company with a large Ford, model, make, and colour not known…Do those silly bastards at H.Q. know anything?”
“Not much,” replied Jeans, the observer.
It was a relatively straight stretch of road, running along the crest of a hill, and cars were speeding until they caught sight of the white police Triumph.
“I’m telling you,” went on Harcourt, his voice thick with the flat Cumbrian accent of the middle hills, “if they ran an I.Q. test on ‘em, they’d call in a bunch of monkeys to take their place.”
“Something seems to be biting you hard today, Mike?” said Jeans.
Harcourt was not prepared to give the reason — with five children already, he was the butt of too many jokes. “Listen. How many bloody Jaguars do they reckon are on the road?”
“Were you on the beer last night?”
“Me? Where d’you think I’d get that sort of money from?” Ahead of them were two cars and two articulated lorries. The second lorry drew out to overtake the first, but clearly lacked the speed to get by very quickly.
“What’s he think he’s doing?” demanded Harcourt. “We’ll just stop that lad and tell him a few facts of life.” He started the flashers and drew out.
It was the lorry-driver’s bad luck, thought Jeans, to get Mike on one of his bad days. Mike had a hell of a temper. He half turned as they reached the two cars and noticed the leading one was a green Jaguar XJ6. “There’s a new Jag.”
“To hell with that. I want a word with the driver of that goddamn lorry.”
Jeans was interested to note that both driver and front passenger of the Jaguar stared stolidly ahead. This was odd. The occupants of a vehicle overtaken by a police car usually looked across from interest or because of a guilty conscience. “I reckon we might usefully have a chat with the blokes in that Jag.”
“After I’ve told the lorry-driver a thing or two!”
They stopped the lorry and the other vehicles went by. The driver turned out to be so meek and mild and apologetic that Harcourt felt frustrated. As he returned to the police Triumph, he said: “You want to stop some bastards in a Jaguar? Come on, then.” He stuck out his chin.
*
“There’s that cop car again,” said Carver, looking through the back window.
“Stop fretting,” advised Gates. He checked his speed. Dunder, in the back, said: “’E’s flashing ‘is lights.” Gates checked the speed again. “We’re in the clear.”
“Then why’s ‘e flashing us?” demanded Carver roughly.
“Cool it, Angel. So ‘e wants a chat.” The police Triumph drew alongside and the observer motioned to them to pull in. Gates braked. “Take it gentle,” he warned.
Carver swung round in his seat and faced Armitage. “You remember. Lofty’s in the van and if we don’t get back sharp, Lofty’s going to teach your bit of nookey a lot.”
“’E knows the score,” muttered Gates, as he stopped the car. He wound down his window.
Harcourt and Jeans left the Triumph and walked back to the Jaguar.
“Sorry to bother you,” said Jeans, speaking pleasantly.
“Aw, no bother,” replied Gates. “Something up, then?”
“We’ve been asked to check on all new Jaguars — been a bit of trouble somewhere. Is this one yours?”
“That’s right.”
“May I see your driving licence and insurance certificate?”
“Sure. Always provided I’ve got ‘em with me.” Gates, knowing that the expertly forged papers were in his inside coat pocket, spoke with just the right degree of nonchalance. He took from his wallet a driving licence and insurance certificate, both in the name of Grieves.
Jeans checked the papers and handed them back. “That’s fine, then.”
“You had me worried I was doing seventy-one,” joked Gates.
“Never trouble anyone until they’re doing the ton. Been down south, have you?”
“Just a quick look at the sights, yeah.”
Jeans casually glanced at the other occupants of the car and spoke to Carver. “I reckon we’ve talked before?” It was an idle question, showing casual interest and without special significance. He accepted them as legitimate and intended to do no more than have a quick look in the boot before waving them on.
A man of more experience than Carver would have made some equally casual remark and that would have been that. But Carver was nervous and a braggart. “We don’t know each other, mate. I’m particular.”
Harcourt came forward, hands on hips, an aggressive expression on his face. “Hullo. What have we turned up? A joker?”
Afraid of where the other’s temper might lead them, Jeans said: “Forget it, Mike.”
Harcourt ignored his observer and stared down at Carver. “Would you like to tell us your name?” Then he looked past Carver into the back of the car and saw that one man — Armitage — was sweating. “I reckon it’d be a good idea if you all got out of the car so as we could have a closer look at you.”
Gates spoke in a very conciliatory voice. “I’m sure Jack didn’t mean nothing…”
“It’ll be better if you leave him to tell us.”
Carver, belatedly trying to repair the damage he’d caused, stepped out of the car. The others didn’t move and for the moment Harcourt didn’t press them.
“What’s your name?” asked Harcourt.
“Wright,” replied Carver.
“What Wright?”
“Albert Wright.”
“Is that all?”
“Yeah.”
“Then just explain something. Why did your mate call you Jack?”
The observer, still on the other side of the car, said suddenly: “I’ve put some facts to the face. The last time I saw his mug, he’d been nicked for helping out with a heavy mob.”
Escape was their only hope now and Carver belted Harcourt in the stomach. Harcourt grunted explosively and half doubled-up. Gates began to jump out of the car, but Jeans shut the door on him and caught his knee, pinning it against the sill and knocking him back and sideways so that his head crashed against the roof of the car. Harcourt was about as tough as he looked. He overcame the blow to his stomach and brought his knee up into Carver’s groin in time to make Carver mistime a second blow. Carver collapsed to the grass verge, clutching himself. Harcourt whirled round for the next fight, but Dunder was standing very still by the side of the car, Gates was only just recovering his senses, and Armitage hadn’t moved.
“Sit down on the grass so as we can be certain you’re going to be all nice and peaceful,” said Harcourt, now in good humour.
Carver already lay on the grass. Dunder hurried to sit down beside him, Gates limped round and then virtually collapsed.
Harcourt went back to the car and spoke to Armitage through the open front doorway. “If it wouldn’t be troubling
you too much, mate?”
Armitage didn’t move.
Harcourt’s voice quickened. “Get out of the bloody car before I pull you out.”
Armitage said wildly: “You blind fool!”
Harcourt’s good humour finally slipped. “All right, if that’s the way you want things…
“You’ve just killed her.”
*
Over the car’s radio, H.Q. had confirmed all that Armitage had said. Harcourt and Jeans were shocked at the situation they had precipitated, yet uncertain how it could have been avoided. Both policemen hoped C.I.D. would soon be along to take over and remove the job from their shoulders.
“You’ve got to let us go,” said Armitage wildly. “I’ve told you what they’ll do to her if you don’t.”
Harcourt moved, to stand over Carver. “Where is she?”
Carver stared into space.
“I’ll give you to just three to start talking.”
“And then what?” sneered Carver. “And I don’t know nothing about that bit of tit he’s on and on about.”
Harcourt shifted his weight, as if about to kick.
“You so much as touch me,” shouted Carver, “and my mouthpiece‘ll fix you, good and proper.”
Jeans looked warningly at Harcourt. Whatever their feelings, wherever their sympathies lay, they dare not touch these men now.
“Make ‘em talk,” demanded Armitage.
Harcourt jammed his massive fists into the pockets of his trousers.
“If you won’t, I will.”
“Sorry,” said Jeans, speaking brusquely to conceal his emotions.
“Didn’t you hear what they’re going to do to her?”
“Yes, but…”
“But? Suppose it was your wife?”
Jeans had already supposed that. If his wife were involved, he’d have smashed these men into a bleeding pulp to make them talk. Yet, with bitter irony, if Armitage tried to touch them, he and Harcourt would have to restrain him.
“They’re going to rape her and…”
“She’ll love it all,” jeered Carver.
Armitage flinched.
Gates spoke thickly. “I’ll tell you where she is.”
CHAPTER XXIII
As he drove the Jaguar up the narrow lane, bordered by drystone walls, with the hills visible whenever the rolling cumulous didn’t obscure the moon, Armitage could feel his stomach churning and he thought he’d either be sick or have to stop the car and dive behind one of the walls.
“Take it easy,” said the detective sergeant by his side.
How in the name of hell could he?
The headlight of the car — only the one was working: they’d carefully driven the Jaguar into a concrete bollard to make it seem it had been in a crash — showed them the stone walls were now in considerable disrepair. An old apple tree, gnarled, leaned over the road. Above the humming of the engine, they heard the mournful hoot of a long-eared owl.
“Remember,” said the detective sergeant, “you tell whoever comes to the door that you had an accident and two of the blokes are in hospital, but the third one’s with you. Give him a name. How did they call Gates?”
“Alf.”
“You say Alf’s with you and you need help to get him inside. If you catch sight of Lofty Weir and he’s not in a hurry to come out, just tell him he looks like a Hottentot pygmy. From all accounts, that’ll get him out of the house like a dose of salts.” The detective sergeant chuckled.
A rabbit scuttled out into the road and became hypnotised by the car’s headlight. Armitage only just missed it. They rounded a corner and saw a rotting gate and beyond that an overgrown track which ended in front of a rectangular, stone-built house.
One of the detectives in the back sent out a message over the portable radio to say they were approaching the house. Reinforcements would now be sent on their way.
“All right,” said the detective sergeant, “leap to it.” He wriggled down as far as he could out of sight. In the back, one of the D.G.s dropped to the floor and the other, with a bandage tied round his head, huddled in the corner.
They drew up, on weed-filled gravel, in front of the house and as Armitage switched off the headlight he saw someone look out of the right-hand upstairs window.
“And the best of British luck to one and all!” murmured the detective sergeant.
Armitage opened the driving door and the interior light went on. From the house, only the man in the back, huddled in the corner, was visible. Armitage stepped out and slammed the door shut. On the house, the outside light above the door was switched on.
“What happened?” demanded a voice he recognised as Weir’s, from the upstairs bedroom.
“There…there’s been an accident.” Tension and fright made his voice shake and unwittingly it added veracity to his words. “Alf was driving and there must have been a spring because the road was suddenly wet and he skidded and hit a wall. The others had to be taken off to hospital, but Alf wasn’t bad enough. The police don’t suspect a thing.”
Weir studied the car. “It don’t look to have been in a bad crash.”
“It’s much worse than it looks. It was a job to get here but I had to make certain nothing’s happened to Patricia.”
The window was shut.
Armitage waited by the car, cold sweat beading his body and head.
The front door opened and Weir came out, followed by Farnes. It was immediately obvious that, with some animal-like sixth sense, Weir suspected a danger, yet couldn’t be certain why. He walked up to the front of the Jaguar. “This hasn’t been in any bad crash.”
“But I tell you, I was only just able to drive it here.”
“What d’you mean? The wheels ain’t touched. What’s going on…?”
The car doors were flung open and the detectives spilled out. Even though this was so totally unexpected, Farnes’ reactions were so quick that he countered a blow from the nearer D.G. and landed one in return which dropped the detective to the ground, where he lay twitching, grabbing at his stomach. Farnes kicked out at the detective sergeant and although he didn’t land squarely, he still sent the other staggering backwards. Weir had a flick knife with which he faced the second D.C.
They’d given Armitage a truncheon, purely as a morale booster. He reached inside his coat, dragged it from the waist of his trousers, and tried to strike Farnes. Farnes side-stepped easily and hit Armitage high up on the shoulder with a blow that sent him backwards. The detective sergeant, showing great courage, threw himself at Farnes and landed a karate blow that seemed to leave Farnes unhurt and Farnes gained a vicious hold on the other’s head and dug in his thumbs to try to force the eyeballs out of their sockets. Armitage came back again and swung the truncheon and by luck it caught Farnes’ nose and broke it, making him bellow from the sudden agony. The detective sergeant drove home a right well below the belt and Farnes gasped, gagged, and collapsed.
The detective sergeant went to help the D.G. facing Weir, but Weir was flicking the knife from hand to hand, with expert timing, making it impossible for them to close. Armitage came up behind and slammed down the truncheon on Weir’s head. The D.C. jumped in and grabbed both Weir’s hands and twisted and Weir, in his weakened state, didn’t have the strength to resist. The knife fell and the D.C. released Weir.
Suddenly, Armitage knew a blood-lust. He slammed the truncheon into Weir’s face, kneed him, heard the high-pitched scream with a pleasure almost sexual, hit him again to knock him to the ground, and kicked him.
The detective sergeant dragged him away and sanity returned. They ran into the house and as the D.C. slammed open the front door, they heard the rising note of an approaching car. Aaron, Ricard, Hyman, Beaver, and Fegan stood in a tight bunch in the hall. The detective sergeant said, with harsh confidence: “Just keep quite still and you won’t get hurt.”
Aaron and Hyman made it clear they weren’t going to start anything, Beaver and Fegan were undecided, Ricard obviously wanted to fight b
ut found himself on his own.
“Where have you got her?” Armitage shouted.
They stared at him, but no one answered.
There were stairs at the back of the hall and he ran up these, automatically assuming they’d have imprisoned her upstairs. There was a small, square landing and to the right of this was a short passage in which stood Bert Smith, a knife in his hand. They heard the oncoming car brake to a tyre-squealing halt and the noise of a number of men jumping out and a shouted string of commands. Smith dropped the knife to the floor.
Armitage rushed past Smith, found the door behind him unlocked, slammed it open, and went in. Patricia lay on the bed, a sheet covering her. She stared at him for several seconds, as the previous wild hope grew into certainty, then she began to cry. He took her into his arms and discovered the little clothing she wore was tom to ribbons. Her flesh was bruised. When he hoarsely asked her what they’d done to her, she cried more wildly, but wouldn’t answer.
*
It was June. Glorious, flaming June. Only the sky was a dirty grey and it was raining. In the sitting-room of his flat Armitage stared out at the wet, dismal scene for a time, then he turned. “But you can’t,” he said vehemently.
“Please, George, try and understand.” Patricia spoke entreatingly. There were new lines in her face to mark the suffering she had known.
The Colour of Violence Page 15
