Vengeance

by Donald Phillips

Chapter 20

  The garage was one of a row of identical lockups fitted with up and over doors and belonging to the dingy council flats in whose shadow they rested. They backed on to the main road, which roared along behind them and must have made living there unbearable when the heat of the summer made opening a window necessary. There were sixteen of them, all of which had seen better days and all of which boasted more than one lock. Knowing the area well MacAllister wondered how much stolen property he would find if he had a warrant to search this lot. He waited patiently in the gathering dusk, brushing from his forehead the rain that was so fine it was only really a mist and shifting his weight from foot to foot. The old black gentleman with the snowy white hair who was with him slowly opened the three different locks on the garage door in front of them, one at a time from a large bunch of keys he held in his left hand. As he tried the different keys in the locks he talked in thickly accented English.

  “You understand, Inspector that I have not used the garage for some time, not since I had the badness.”

  He was referring to the stroke that had left him with one eye nearly closed, a constant stream of dribble from the right hand corner of his mouth and a leg that he more or less had to drag along.

  “But I always thought I would be able to go back to the business one day.”

  Simon Kaukauna had run a small food store that supplied many of the needs of the small Ethiopian community in Bristol until the stroke that had laid him low in his seventy eighth year. The garage had been where he stored those articles that he did not have room for in his small shop. MacAllister wondered if they would find anything inside despite what the message on the tape had said. Surely Mitael Khorta knew of this place or would have least asked around to see if anyone in the Ethiopian community knew where Rachel had left the car. The last lock finally opened and the old man stood back breathing hard, even the effort with the keys had clearly been too much for him. MacAllister took a deep breath and reached down for the handle of the up and over door. He lifted and it rose up into the fully opened position easily and silently on well greased runners.

  The dark blue BMW practically filled the garage, sitting there like some powerful animal waiting to be brought back to life although it had a faint coating of dust all over that made it look as if it had been there for years instead of weeks. MacAllister was puzzled until he looked up at the gaps between the corrugated iron roofing and the walls and then realised where the dust had come from as he remembered a main road ran along the back of the garages. The rumble of the passing traffic was constant.

  Simon Kaukauna looked at the car without any expression of surprise on his face. Then he felt MacAllister's attention on him and turned to look at him. MacAllister raised his eyebrows in interrogation, but the other only spread his hands palm upwards and shrugged.

  “I had no idea it was there.”

  MacAllister nodded and took from his pocket the key that he'd borrowed from one of his shadier acquaintances that morning, still amazed that armed only with the registration number the man had been able to supply him with the right key in less than eight hours. But only because he knew MacAllister was now retired, or would be in four more days and had assured him it would not be traced back to him. He squeezed down the side of the car to the rear of the garage and unlocked the boot. It contained a bright red holdall. He unzipped the top of the holdall and peered into it, only the gleam from the interior boot light relieving the gloom of the garage.

  The gun looked up at him from its position on top of the bundles of new and used notes of varying denominations. It was black and ugly and seemed to carry a lethal aura about it, but that was probably in MacAllister's mind with its knowledge that this weapon had already killed at least two men. He took a biro and a plastic food bag from the pocket of his Mackintosh and slipping the Biro through the trigger guard of the gun dropped it gently into the plastic bag. He then placed it back in the holdall and lifted the holdall from the boot. He closed the boot and squeezed back along the car and out of the garage to where the old man, who seen nothing of what he had been doing in the boot of the car, waited

  “You going to leave that car there, Inspector. What if I want to use my garage?”

  “Do you know who that car belongs to, Mr Kaukauna.”

  The old man looked at him for a long moment and then nodded.

  “It is the car of Mitael Khorta. It is just part of the things his ungodly actions have brought to him, but the lord will catch up with him one day.”

  MacAllister looked at him while deciding if this piety was genuine or if he was being stonewalled, but it was impossible to read the old man's face. He tried another tack.

  “You do not approve of Mitael Khorta, Mr Kaukauna?”

  This time the old man's face showed all the expression he could wish for. It tightened up into an expression of absolute hatred to the extent that MacAllister feared for the old man's heart.

  “That scum was trying to marry my niece. He wanted to lead her into his ways of filth and evil. It is better that she died before he could taint her. God saw the evil he was doing to her and took her away to keep her safe.”

  MacAllister allowed his surprise to show.

  “Rachel is dead?”

  Simon told him of the girl's death in Ethiopia. MacAllister checked the dates against his pocket book and suddenly it all made sense. She had died before he could speak to Khorta and MacAllister had taken the only message she had managed to leave for Khorta when he had removed the answer phone tape. He gave a grim smile to himself.

  “Do you have anything in the garage of value, Mr Kaukauna?”

  “No. Unless you include the car.”

  “Look, Mr Kaukauna, I think it might be best for you if you were not involved in this. You leave the garage unlocked until this time tomorrow and I will guarantee the car will be gone when you come back again to lock it. No one will ever know it was hidden here and you will avoid any problems with the police.”

  He caught the old man's expression and hurried on.

  “I need to make sure that Mitael Khorta gets his property back and I do not want him to come to you to ask about how it got here. He is a ruthless man and would kill to avoid conviction for his crimes.”

  The old man looked at him with suspicious eyes, but it was clear he did not relish trying explaining to Khorta how the car had got into his garage and convincing him that he knew nothing of it. He nodded his agreement and turned to go. He stopped some twenty yards away and turned back.

  “Only twenty four hours, Inspector and then if it is still here I phone the police station.”

  John Morton came back from the antique drinks trolley with a large glass of twelve-year old Scotch and placed it in MacAllister's hand. He carried another glass of the same liquid in his other hand which he took with him to an identical wing chair to the one MacAllister was using and settled back into the green leather upholstery. For a few moments both men sat sipping their drinks in silence while MacAllister took in his surroundings. The room was what Morton had called his study, but it was as big as MacAllister's front room and furnished without regard to cost. The desk and chairs would have graced any home and were matched to the exact shade of their green leather by the full-length velvet curtains. Apart from the fireplace window and the doorway, the rest of the walls were covered by built in bookcases apart from one corner, which held a small table with a computer and printer on it. An artificial log fire burned in the grate with only the occasional blueness of the flames revealing it was not genuine. The whole room was strong in masculine comfort and MacAllister could imagine the power deals that had been concocted and consolidated here. Morton turned from his appreciation of the whiskey and broke the silence that had reigned since they had entered the room.

  “So John, what is it you think I might be interested in? Looking for a job are you?”

  This was a reference to let him know that Morton knew of his imminent retirement and probably the reasons, no doubt through his contac
ts within the force. It annoyed MacAllister and he came straight to the point.

  “The last time I saw you, you were rubbishing the whole of the police force and the justice system for allowing Shane Flinders to walk free. Do you still feel like that?”

  Morton's knuckles went white on the glass and his convulsion of anger spilt whiskey over his hand. He hissed his answer at MacAllister.

  “I would have thought you had enough reasons for hating a little yourself, John. After all, you buried two of your family.”

  Satisfied that he had punctured the others air of all knowing superiority MacAllister refused to let the angry taunt get to him. Since he had already made his own decisions on what he was about to suggest he had felt an icy calm invade his whole mental process. He looked steadily at the other man, waiting for him to get his own angry breathing under control and when he thought Morton had calmed down enough he continued.

  “Somewhere out there in Bristol is a desperate criminal. He is desperate because he killed two people while robbing a bank, but has now carelessly lost his car along with the money he got from the raid and the gun he did the killings with. He would do anything to get his possessions back, even kill again.”

  John Morton digested that information for some time and a peculiar light came into his eyes. His guarded response however, was as expected.

  “What has that got to do with me or Shane Flinders, John, or are you suggesting something I shouldn't be listening to?”

  MacAllister allowed himself to smile inwardly. He knew from that last question that Morton was hooked. He waved his empty whiskey glass in the direction of the drinks trolley and stood up to get a refill at Morton's answering nod of permission. It was with his back to the other that he continued.

  “What I am suggesting to you, is that this man is desperate for the return of his property and would kill again if he thought that would ensure its safe return.” He turned and looked squarely at Morton. “In fact I am suggesting that he would kill anybody you asked him to if he could get his property back. He needs the money, and the gun could get him locked away for more years than he would care to think about.”

  Morton played along.

  “It’s all very interesting John, but why come to me? I haven't got his property.”

  MacAllister grinned a savage grin at him, eyes brilliant with triumph.

  “I know that, John. You haven’t got it, but I have.”

  Morton sat looking at him for some time. Then he got up from his chair and walked across to his desk. Opening a drawer he took out a compact tape recorder and removing the cassette it contained, handed it to MacAllister before switching the machine off and returning it empty to its drawer. He gave an apologetic shrug.

  “Sorry, John, but I thought you had come here to ask me to get you your job back and as I would have refused to get involved in that, I thought I had better tape the conversation as a precaution. With what you are saying now though I think it would be best if there were no recordings.”

  MacAllister looked at the other with new eyes. He had not thought about recordings. He shivered at what might have happened if Morton had just recorded their conversation and then given the tape to Bill Reid or Walter Hart. Morton had not done that though, which meant he was interested. He took his glass back to his seat, pushing the tape cassette into his pocket. He was getting quite a collection of them. Morton waited until he was settled before speaking again. He tried to sound nonchalant but could not hide the underlying eagerness in his voice.

  “What are you suggesting, John? I can see that you want me to do something for you or involve myself some way, so you had better give me the whole story.”

  MacAllister lay back in the chair with the whiskey cradled in his hands in his lap and reflected that he didn't know exactly when his grief, anger and frustration had turned first to hatred. Was it when he first looked down at Kirsty lying injured on the pavement? Was it when he had discovered Jean's body or was it when Bill Reid and Walter Hart had kicked him out of the only thing he'd had left His job. Perhaps he had been slowly learning to hate for years, little by little at each injustice or evil he came across in his daily work. All he knew was that when he had woken up the morning after Jackie Ward had brought him his Macintosh and consequently Khorta's tape, the hatred was there inside him completely formed. It now sat there cold and hard in his breast, hatred and the desire for revenge. He closed his eyes and taking a deep breath began to talk in a low, intense voice.

  “Over the last few months several things have happened that once upon a time I would have just have put down to experience and then got on with the job, telling myself that you can't win them all and some of them are bound to get away with it.”

  He took a small sip of his whisky.

  “There was Shane Flinders. This young thug has a history of violence to other people that culminated in his killing your son with a hammer when he was unlucky enough to catch the little bastard smashing up his neighbours cars. Did he get done for murder or even manslaughter? No. Justifiable homicide was the result, just because your lad happened to be carrying a jack handle and was a big man.”

  He took another sip.

  “Before that there was the case of Alison Jenson. Alison was a fifteen year old with the hots for a certain singer with one of the local rock groups, so after one particular concert she followed him out to their bus and practically undressed him. She had him all right, but being a young kid she hadn't reckoned on the rest of the band wanting their share and to her surprise when she told them no they just held her down and raped her. We couldn't even bring the case to court because of her past sexual history even though it had nothing to do with this case. The result of that was that she got her own revenge by stabbing one of them through his grollies with a boning knife and now she is in Pucklechurch remand home doing six months, and has a criminal record round her neck for the rest of her life.”

  He stopped and stared down into the whisky glass with unseeing eyes, his chin sunk onto his chest. Morton prompted him gently.

  “Go on, John.”

  “You know about my troubles. A spoilt tearaway kid killed my daughter with a stolen car and that drove my wife to suicide. It has also cost me the love of my son and finally my career, with a little help of my own. All he got was two hundred hours community service because his Dad cried while he was giving his evidence. That's just in these last few months. I having been watching similar things happen for years and locking up the same thugs and perverts time after time as they are released after a few years with reformed or cured labels hung around their necks. I suppose it took my own grief to bring home to me just how disillusioned and pissed off with it all I have become.”

  “And how does this all tie in with the man who's property you have?”

  MacAllister's head snapped up and his eyes were back in Kestrel mode. This time it was a policeman talking.

  “You remember that bank raid in Swindon a while back. The one where the ex-mayor's wife got shot and killed along with a young policeman who was unlucky enough to be outside when they left?”

  Morton nodded.

  “They killed one of their own as well, as I recall.”

  “That's right, and he also used a couple of pounds of Semtex blew to blow two more of his so called colleague to pieces in their car just outside of Birmingham, if I have read the clues right.”

  “And you have his gun, money and car, John?”

  MacAllister grinned at him, but it was not at all humorous.

  “The car is parked on your drive right now, Mr Morton.”

  Morton blinked at him, but showed no further reaction.

  “What are you suggesting to me.”

  The soft Scottish voice explained.

  “Khorta, that's this scumbags name, Mitael Khorta, must be desperate by now. He knows that the car and the other things will be found sooner or later and he really needs to disappear somewhere abroad. However, he only got fifty-seven thousand pounds that from the bank
job, which I have anyway, and he would need a lot more than that to make a fresh start somewhere else. He could sell his luxury penthouse to raise the money, but with the current state of the housing market that could take time that he doesn't have.” He gave a little smile that didn't reach his eyes as he turned his head to look the other straight in the eyes. “I thought we might return his belongings to him and make his cash up to about one hundred thousand pounds, which would be enough to get him safely away from England. After he has done a couple of little jobs for us, that is.”

  Morton began to see where the conversation was going and his eyes glittered like black jewels. He leaned forwards in his chair, plainly eager to know more.

  “If I wanted him to do a certain thing for me, John, how much would it cost me? I couldn't make up the whole difference, not forty thousand pounds. Not without someone noticing and asking questions about where the money had gone.”

  MacAllister held his hands out in front of him with the palms outwards.

  “Calm down, no one is expecting you to foot the entire bill. As I see it there are two or possibly three of us in this thing. You, and me for a start and Alison Jenson's father could also be interested. There is also fifty-seven thousand pounds in that holdall.”

  He indicated the red sports bag he had brought in with him and left just inside the door. “That means our costs will be anywhere between sixteen and twenty thousand each, depending on how many of us want a favour done.”

  Morton seemed to indicate that was possible as he nodded and pulled at his lower lip.

  “When are you going to approach this man, Khorta?”

  “As soon as the first person agrees to go along with it. I can afford up to twenty thousand, or I will be able to after next week.”

  He watched the expressions flit across the other's face until the desire for revenge won.

  “OK, John. I'm in, but I must be sure that it will not be traced back to me. The loss of her son was enough for my wife and if they put me away as well because you got careless it would kill her.”

  MacAllister shrugged.

  “I ought to tell you that if we do what we are planning to do and you get caught, you usually get the same sentence as the hired gun.”

  Morton looked a bit shocked at that, but MacAllister put his hand on his arm and addressed him by his Christian name for the first time.

  “Don't worry about it, John. I will see that it never touches you. You just have the money ready when I ask for it. I will let you know the amount by the end of the week.”

  He stood up and headed for the door, picking up the holdall as he went.

  “Can you look after these for a few days and if my meeting with Khorta goes wrong and I wind up dead, see that they get to Clive Sayers somehow and for Christ's sake do not touch either the gun or the money.”

  He handed the bag to Morton, giving a wry grin at the cautious way in which the other accepted it and then took his leave.

  The cottage was the end one of a row of four that nestled against the side of the hill below a large outcropping of granite. There was nothing to show why anyone had ever thought it necessary to build them here, no farm no industry and as far as he could see no other anything except for mile upon mile of rolling grass covered valley. He had stayed overnight in Carlisle and had left at about eight o'clock after breakfast. Driving the hired Focus at a moderate pace he had arrived ten minutes ago as the dashboard clock was approaching twelve. He sat parked on the verge outside the cottages behind an ancient Landrover and wondered how the original inhabitants had made a living. Sheep perhaps.

  The door of the cottage opened and he saw Martin Jenson standing just outside the doorway, filling it with his wide shoulders and six feet odd of height. MacAllister switched off the engine and got out of the car. By habit he locked the door although why a car thief would be hanging around in this God forsaken spot he didn't know. He passed through the gateless opening in the low stonewall that fronted the cottages and walked up the brick path. Jenson didn't stop to greet him, but turned and entered the house. All the way up from Bristol MacAllister had been trying to work out how he was going to approach this dour man and was still without an answer. Perhaps he should just come straight out with it and let the other say yes or no. He wasn't a man with whom you could beat around the bush.

  He passed through the doorway and found himself directly in the front room of the building. It was bigger than he would have expected from the outside until he noticed that it had two front windows. Someone had knocked two cottages into one. At least it gave him an opening line. He nodded to Jenson who was standing in front of the fireplace with his back to the flames.

  “I'm not surprised you bought a double, a man your size would have trouble fitting into just one of these.”

  There was no answer so he filled in the silence by asking the question that had come to him when he was parking the car.

  “Why on earth did anyone build four cottages here in the first place?”

  “Shepherd, Gillie, Gamekeeper and Groom.”

  The answer was snapped out. MacAllister was surprised.

  “For who?”

  “For the big house. It’s away on the other side of this granite outcrop although it’s almost ruined now. It belonged to some minor English Lord who fancied a retreat in the highlands to do some salmon fishing. He was killed at Mons and the rest of the family didn't share the same enthusiasm for Scotland. The house gradually fell into disrepair until about six years ago the family sold the lot off by auction. These cottages were cheap so I bought two of them. Some artist bought the other two and we shared the cost of converting them and restoring them between us, but she is only here now and then. I look after her place for her.”

  He indicated a bunch of keys hanging from a hook on the mantle shelf and then turned back to MacAllister.

  “What do you want?”

  Following the explanation of how the cottages came to be there this last short sentence was so direct and to the point it threw MacAllister. He rubbed his nose while he looked up at the other. He made his decision.

  “A spoilt tearaway stole a car and ran my daughter down. She died of her injuries and a week or so later my wife gassed herself. As a result of that my son has decided, not entirely without reason if you listen to his arguments, that I am to blame and refuses to talk to me. In a few short weeks I have gone from have a complete family to having nothing. I have even lost my job because I was stupid enough to bash this tearaway's father's head against a wall.”

  Jenson just stood and waited. MacAllister bit the bullet.

  “The kid, well not really a kid because he is sixteen years old and at that age I was earning my living, anyway the kid walked Scot free.”

  His emotion threatened to choke him and he had to turn his face away until the attack was over.

  “He did two hundred hours community service for killing my Kirsty and maiming one of her friends.”

  He stood there panting from the emotion his outburst had raised within him and Jenson turned to a side table and taking a bottle and a glass poured him a measure of whisky. MacAllister accepted it gratefully and threw it down in one swallow. Jenson watched him and then repeated his earlier question, but in a more gentle voice.

  “What do you want with me, Mr MacAllister?”

  MacAllister set the empty glass down on the table and looked the other right in the eye.

  “I want what you wanted when they raped your daughter.”

  He watched as Jenson stiffen and his eyes turn to hard blue glass.

  “I want revenge.”

  This time Jenson poured two whiskies. He turned and handed his visitor the glass.

  “Sit down Mr MacAllister and lets discuss how you intend to go about that and how I come into this.”

  He waved his guest to an easy chair.