by Michael Kerr
“Like what you see, uh?” Julie said, readjusting the gown and tightening the belt.
Norman felt his cheeks burn. He had been ogling her, and couldn’t deny it.
“Sorry, love. I’m Norman Bartholomew,” he said. “A friend of Marjory’s. I live about half a mile away from here, and keep an eye on the place for her. She didn’t tell me that anyone would be staying.”
“I’m Jane,” Julie said. “Marjory is my aunt. I needed somewhere to stay for a couple of weeks, and she insisted I use the cottage.”
“Fine,” Norman said. He almost believed her. He liked to pigeonhole people. Thought it likely that her mashed lip was the result of a domestic blow-up. She could be running away from a husband with a short temper and hard fists. But it didn’t sit well. There was a panicky look in the woman’s eyes. She was lying to him.
“I’ll be sure to mention that we’ve crossed paths, when I phone Marjory tonight,” he said. And to Sam, “Come on, boy, let’s go home.”
Lucas had no intention of letting the man wander off with a suspicious mind. There was no way of knowing who he might mention Julie to.
He grasped hold of Julie’s gown by the belt, yanked her back and shot out from where he had been in hiding behind the door.
Norman whipped his head round and froze as the almost naked figure of a man charged out of the cottage towards him. He had never seen anyone so heavily tattooed. His gaze was drawn to the life-size head of a wolf emblazoned on the man’s chest, before focusing in on the poker that was arcing down towards his face.
Reacting instinctively, Norman side-stepped and brought his cane up, grasping it two-handed to ward off the blow.
The cane broke like a rotten tooth, but had taken much of the force out of the blow that struck Norman’s left shoulder.
Lucas had not expected the old man to move so fast. He drew his arm back to strike again, but faltered as the collie darted forward and buried its teeth in his ankle.
He did not need this complication. He swung the poker down, not at the man, but at the mutt’s head. The solid brass shaft cleaved through the animal’s skull. It immediately released its grip, staggered sideways and fell to the ground, paws twitching as blood pumped through the fur at the crown of its shattered cranium.
One down, one to go.
It had all happened so fast. Norman had dropped to his knees, saw Sam attack the man, and was almost back on his feet as his beloved pet was bludgeoned. He put his arm up to defend himself against the next blow, to feel the agony of his forearm being broken. He attempted to scoot backwards out of range, only for his false leg to give out on him. He was on his back, looking up. Time slowed. The poker seemed to take forever to make its journey down to his forehead. It was ironical to him that he should survive war, only to meet a violent end in such beautiful and normally peaceful surroundings. It was not one of the many brass-jacketed bullets that had obviously not had his name on it, but a brass rod that had not been manufactured for use as a lethal weapon. All contemplation ended in a sudden flare of light as his forehead imploded and shards of bone integrated with his brain.
Julie could have run, and might have got away, but the scene that played out in front of her was horrifically spellbinding. She could not move a muscle.
Lucas turned to her. His face and torso were spattered with dotted crimson lines.
“Don’t just stand there with your mouth hanging open,” he said. “Grab hold of his fucking feet. We need to get him and the dog out of sight.”
Julie was tethered again. Sitting opposite Lucas in the breakfast nook. There was a hard rock radio station pumping out heavy metal, and Lucas was tucking into a plate of fried eggs with soft yolks, and beans. Her stomach was lurching. She could still see the old man’s head in her mind’s eye; still see his brains protruding from the split below his hairline. Shortly after the incident she had thrown up in the shower, where Lucas had ordered her to sponge the human and canine blood from his body.
How could the mad bastard eat so heartily, with the corpses of the man and his dog just a few feet away in a chest freezer?
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Matt knocked at the door. Beth and Pete flanked him.
Ethel appeared and squinted at them, able to look directly at Matt and Beth without moving her wayward eyes.
“Hi, Ethel,” Matt said. “We’d like to see―”
“Mrs. Walters is not at home,” Ethel interrupted with a disdainful smile tugging up the left side of her mouth.
“Is Mr. Walters in?” Matt said.
“No, sir. Will that be all?”
Ethel was beginning to piss Matt off. She was not the usual obsequious type of servant, who may despise supposed social superiors, but presented a servile, dutiful, and obedient front when in attendance.
“No, Ethel that will not be all. We’d better come in and talk to you.”
“I...I don’t know anything.”
“Oh, I’m sure you know an awful lot about Marjory of the Manor,” Matt said. “Let’s make ourselves comfortable in the lounge and talk turkey.”
“I’d rather not.”
“What you would rather doesn’t matter, Ethel. We are conducting a murder enquiry, and I believe that you are withholding information. Do you know how deep in excrement you can end up in, if it is discovered at some future date that you held anything back, or lied to us?”
Her resolve visibly cracked. She led them through to the same reception room that Marjory had received Matt and Pete in.
“Let’s all take a seat,” Matt said. “And, Ethel, I want to introduce you to Dr. Holder. She is a criminal psychologist, and can spot a lie faster than you can blink.”
Beth gave the maid a piercing look, and did not smile.
Ethel was completely at sea. She was used to being apart from visitors to the house; hardly noticed as she went about her duties. This attention was an emotional assault that she found almost overwhelming. She knew a lot of things, but kept the secrets to herself; stockpiled them, knowing that knowledge is power, even if it could not be used.
“We can make this very quick and informal, Ethel,” Matt said. “Or go into your life with a fine-tooth comb. I might consider that searching your quarters and checking your background is necessary. Or that the ambience of a police interview room would be a more fitting venue to continue my questioning. Your choice, Ethel. Do you want to be seen leaving the estate in a police car?”
Ethel’s resolve to be uncommunicative crumbled from hard rock to fine sand. “What do you want to know?” she said in a sullen tone.
“For starters, where Mrs. Walters is now” Matt said.
“She told me that she was going to the cottage for a couple of days.”
“What cottage?”
“It’s in the Forest of Dean. She calls it her hideaway.”
“When did she go?”
“This morning, early. She should be there now.”
“Did she seem upset or anxious, Ethel?” Beth said.
“No. Maybe a little preoccupied and thoughtful. Not her usual talkative self.”
“Was her trip prearranged?” Matt said.
“No. I’ve only known her to go there for weekends, sometimes twice a month. She likes to be alone once in a while.”
“Has she had any visitors in the last couple of days that you didn’t recognise?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Did you know that she had a nephew?”
Ethel’s surprised look was answer enough. She shook her head.
“Okay, Ethel,” Matt said. “My sergeant will ask you a few questions. We need to know the address of the cottage, details of the vehicle she is driving, what she was wearing when she left, and phone numbers that she can be reached at.”
“She doesn’t have a phone at the cottage. All I have is her mobile number, only to be used in case of emergency.”
“This isn’t an emergency, Ethel. So do not contact her. And be aware that we can trace any calls made to o
r from mobile phones. I don’t want details of our discussion to go outside this room. Am I making myself perfectly clear?”
“Yes, Inspector. It’s not my business. I don’t want to be involved.”
“Do you like Mrs. Walters?” Beth said.
Ethel smiled. “Off the record, Ms, I hate the old cow’s guts. She latched on to Mr. W for his money, and bleeds him like a leech. I wouldn’t be sorry to see her in the excrement that you threatened me with.”
They drove away with an address and a new perspective on the case.
“You think Downey is at this place in the Forest of Dean, boss?” Pete said.
“I’m positive he is.”
“You want for me to phone it in?”
“No, Pete. This is our baby.”
Beth swung sideways in her seat to face Matt. “You can’t go it alone, Matt. It isn’t your call to try and take him.”
“I don’t want some out of the way cottage in the back of beyond surrounded by dozens of armed officers,” Matt replied. “Julie Spencer deserves a chance to walk away from this in one piece, if she is still alive. And if Marjory Walters is there, then we have a double hostage situation to contend with. Less is more, Beth. We have more chance of resolving this in our favour if we go in without warning, and not mob-handed.”
“I’ll come with you,” Beth said, knowing that any further argument was just a waste of breath. He would not be swayed. “I have no intention of sitting around at home chewing my nails.”
“You don’t chew your nails.”
“It’s never too late to start.”
“And if I say no?”
“Then I go anyway. I heard Ethel give Pete the address. Or maybe I should give Tom a bell.”
“You wouldn’t do that.”
“Maybe not. But don’t bank on it. This isn’t just your case, Matt. It isn’t something you’ve bought in a shop for your own personal use or entertainment. It’s a team thing.”
“If you come along, it’s just for the ride. You stay the hell where I tell you to, and keep out of the line of fire. Understood?”
“Yes, boss,” Beth said.
Matt folded a stick of gum in his mouth as he headed for the M40.
“Get hold of Phil,” he said to Pete. “I want him and Errol on the road in five minutes. Tell him to bring Kevlar vests for all of us, and to make sure that no one else knows what he’s up to. We’ll meet them at...” he picked up the open road atlas from the wide dash and studied it. “Cinderford. There’ll be a church. Tell them to park outside it and wait.”
While Pete jacked it up, Beth tried to start up a conversation with Matt. She couldn’t. He had become laconic, answering her with cutting brevity, or just grunting.
“You need to lighten up, Barnes,” she said. “I’m only trying to protect my investment. I can’t afford to buy Orchard Cottage on just my salary.”
“You two finally going to―” Pete started.
“Shut up, Pete,” Matt said. “You don’t need to know what we are or are not doing. Concentrate on the job at hand.”
“Not until you promise to invite me to the housewarming party.”
The quip broke Matt’s mood. He glanced into the rearview mirror and saw Pete smiling back at him.
“You think I want a bunch of drunken cops messing the place up, spilling drinks, breaking stuff, getting their legs over in the bedrooms and puking all over the lawn?”
“Sounds good wholesome fun, boss. And you can always have the ‘do’ before you redecorate and move any decent furniture in.”
“Beth can psychologically evaluate all of the team, and leave any potential Oliver Reed-type off the invite list.”
“Jeez, boss, that would rule just about all of us out.”
“Exactly,” Matt said. “I always said that you were quick to cotton on.”
Marjory stopped off twice on the way. It was a long drive, and she was in no hurry. She phoned Vincent from a Little Chef east of Cheltenham and told him that she was distraught over the death of Candy, a mare that had suffered a fatal heart attack, and that she needed a little space at the cottage to grieve in.
“Do you want me drive down and spend some time with you, darling?” Vincent said.
“No, Munchkin. Honestly. You know what I’m like. A little solitude always helps me to get my head around things.”
“You need more than a couple of days away, darling. When you get back, we’ll fly out to Antigua for a week or two. How does that sound?”
“You spoil me.”
“I like to see you happy, that’s all. Give me a call tomorrow. I’ll be at the office all day.”
“I’ll do that. Take care, my love.”
“And you. Bye for now. I love you.”
He meant well. She knew that. But Vincent was an inconvenience. Truth was, she would be happy when he snuffed it. His heart was shot, and he was a month short of his seventy-third birthday. Once everything was in her name, she might spend more time with Norman. He was her kind of man. And he even knew how to pop her cork. Maybe it was the leg. She got a thrill out of undoing the straps and easing it off the stump; peeling off the sock like a condom, and running her fingers over the soft, fleshy knob. It always got her juices flowing. The disablement made him in some way vulnerable. Yes. She would see a lot more of Norman when Vincent’s pump finally blew up.
It was dusk when she pulled the Mercedes into a break in the hedgerow. She would walk the last few hundred yards. She got out and went to the boot. Pulled on a wax jacket, swapped her court shoes for sturdy walking shoes, and then broke the over and under Remington, loaded both barrels with heavy gauge cartridges and set off through the trees, more than ready to blow the shit out of her despicable nephew.
Lucas was sitting in the lounge, eating a cheese and onion sandwich. He had a glass of milk on the coffee table in front of him, that he kept noisily sipping from. Julie was still on a twine leash, but now had a proper collar around her neck, courtesy of the collie.
“That can be your new name,” Lucas said, spitting crumbs as he talked; reaching out to flick the brass disc that was engraved SAM, with the address and phone number beneath. “I’ll call you Sam from now on. Think of a new name for me.”
As directed, Julie was tending to Lucas’s ankle. She had bathed the deep puncture holes, then dried the bite wound and used a cotton wool bud to apply antiseptic. Everything they had needed was found in a first aid box stored in a kitchen cupboard. Many names that she would like to have called Lucas sprang to mind. But she refrained from suggesting them.
“How about Sean?” she suggested. “You have a look of that actor, Sean Bean.”
“Sounds Irish,” Lucas said. “I’m not a fucking Mick.”
“Neither is Sean Bean,” Julie argued. “He’s from Yorkshire. Sheffield I think. And what about Sean Connery, isn’t he Scottish?”
“Still sounds Irish. I don’t like it. Think of something better.”
“Nick,” Julie said.
Lucas said the name aloud. “Nick...Nick,” and liked the sound of it. “Nick it is,” he said. From now on we are Nick and Samantha...Walker...no, Edwards. Okay?”
Why ask me, you murdering bastard? “Yes, Nick,” she said, finishing up wrapping a self-adhesive bandage around his ankle.
He let go of the twine. Undid the collar and threw it into the hearth. It was time to put Jul...Samantha on trust. If they were to be together for any length of time, then he could not keep her tied up or restrained indefinitely. If she fouled up, then she would wind up like all the others. Ultimately, it would have to be her decision. He would still drug her at night, and would be vigilant, always ready for her to do the unexpected. It would keep him sharp.
Marjorie could not find a gap in the curtains to look through. She could hear the radio playing, so knew that Lucas was inside. She had hoped to creep up under cover of darkness and shoot him through the window, but it was not going to be that easy. She took a spare key from her pocket and carefully eased i
t into the lock, to turn it with the feather-light touch of a safe breaker manipulating the dial of a combination lock. Withdrawing the key and silently opening the door and entering the hall, she held the shotgun at waist level, her finger curled around the trigger. She was an excellent shot, and this would be a lot easier than skeet or pheasant shooting. There would be no talking or preamble. The second she saw him, she would blow him to kingdom come.
Outside the lounge door. She took deep breaths and licked away the beads of sweat that were forming on her top lip. The advantage was wholly with her. When she burst in, she would be ready to act immediately, whereas Lucas would be caught by surprise, and dead before he could react to the attack.
One...two...three. Marjory threw the door open and took less than a second to target the figure on the settee.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Matt stopped once en route to fill up with petrol. They all used the garage toilet, and bought coffee to go.
Before Matt started the car to continue the journey, his mobile rang. He sighed as he saw the caller ID. “Yeah.”
“Why aren’t you here?”
“We got a lead, Tom. Thought I’d follow it up before heading back.”
“What lead?”
“Marjory Walters. She’s done a runner. Left home a few hours ago. We’ve been trying to track her down.”
“And you call that a lead?”
“It could be. She might be with Downey.”
“And she could be on her back in a hotel room with a toy boy.”
“Yeah, well. The timing makes me suspicious.”
“Have you got anything to warrant my holding off on the short list of properties we’ve highlighted?”
“No.”
“Then I’m authorising raids on them. Any problem with that?”
“Can’t think of one. Just make sure they try to bring Julie out on her feet and not in a body bag.”
