by Frank Smith
‘Don’t know what they’re talking about.’ Gerry’s eyes shifted to one side, and Bernie knew he was lying.
‘But you do know about Newman, don’t you, Gerry? Because that was his van you brought here. His van they found your fingerprints on.’
‘You going to believe everything they tell you?’ Gerry flared. ‘There’s no way they can have my prints on there, not after . . .’ He cut his own words off and shook his head. ‘There’s no way!’ he repeated.
‘I should call the police and tell them you’re—’ Bernie began, but the words were cut off when Gerry grabbed him by the throat and squeezed – hard!
‘You make that call, mate, and it will be the last call you ever make,’ he hissed. ‘Now, if you want me out of here, I’ll need money. I need a thousand quid, and Shirl is going to go out and get it for me, while you, my friend, will stay here with me. Got it?’
Bernie gasped for breath as Gerry eased his grip on his throat. ‘A thousand quid?’ he squeaked. ‘I don’t have that much. I can’t get that much. The banks are closed, and I?’
The hand was at his throat again. ‘But the bank machines never close, do they, Bernie?’ Fletcher hissed. ‘And I know you’ve got it; because I did a little recce around the house last night while you were asleep, and I just happened to take a look at your bankbook and that bundle of credit cards you keep in the bottom drawer. I know exactly how much you’ve got, and if you mess me about I’ll tell Shirl to double it. I’m being kind to you, Bernie, though you don’t bloody well deserve it after shopping me. Now, let’s go and talk to Shirl.’
Gerry Fletcher spent all day Sunday watching the street from behind the curtain. He’d hardly slept at all during the night, starting up at every creak and crack in the house, wondering if it was Slater creeping up the stairs. He’d make the stairs creak all right, big man like him. But Luka wouldn’t. He’d be up there without a sound, and that thought alone was enough to keep anyone awake.
He’d wedged a chair under the door handle, but he wasn’t sure how well the legs would hold against the carpet if someone was determined to come in, so he’d spent much of Saturday night and the early hours of Sunday morning pacing between the door and the window, listening and peering down into the street. But the street lights were old and there were too many shadows for him to see anything clearly. There could be a hundred men out there waiting for him – or none.
Perhaps Slater had decided he was wasting his time and had left after dark. On the other hand, he could have simply moved his car and was waiting somewhere else for Gerry to make a run for it.
He spent the rest of the day either at the window or sitting on the edge of the bed with his head in his hands, waiting for nightfall. He was dead tired, but afraid to lie down in case he fell asleep.
At the window again, he glanced at the sky. A fitful sun had come and gone throughout the afternoon, but now the clouds were heavier and it would be dark in an hour; dark enough to make a run for it if he could summon up the courage.
He heard footsteps on the stairs, then a light tap on the door as Shirley announced herself. He opened the door. His sister came in, carrying a tray. ‘I knew you wouldn’t come down, so I’ve brought you some supper,’ she told him as she set the tray on the bed. ‘There’s some hot tea the way you like it. I know you’ll have to be going soon, and I don’t want you going off on an empty stomach.’
He reached out and touched his sister’s hand. ‘You’re a good sort, Shirl,’ he said. ‘Sorry to cause you so much trouble, but you’re right, I will be gone soon.’
‘You’re in real trouble this time, aren’t you, Gerry?’ she said quietly. ‘I’m not going to ask you what you’ve done or why you did it, but wouldn’t it be better if you went to the police? They’re not such a bad lot; they’d protect you.’
Gerry shook his head. ‘No good, Shirl,’ he said. ‘They might try, but they couldn’t protect me. I’d be dead inside a week if I go to gaol.’
Shirley drew in her breath. ‘You didn’t . . . It wasn’t you who killed that man they were on about yesterday morning at the door, was it, Gerry?’
He shook his head. ‘No, Shirl, I swear, that wasn’t me. I’ll admit I’ve done some rotten things in my time, but not murder. Trouble is, I know who did; I know what happened, and they don’t like that.’
His sister turned away; tears glistened in her eyes and there was a catch in her voice as she said, ‘Eat your supper before it goes cold. I’d better get back downstairs and keep an eye on Bernie before he does something stupid. He’s been wanting to ring the police all day, and I have to keep reminding him that he’ll be in a lot more trouble than he is already if he does. Trouble is, he doesn’t know when to leave well enough alone.’
Shirley dug into her apron pocket. ‘Here,’ she said, shoving a wad of notes at him. ‘You’ll be needing this. Don’t say anything to Bernie. I took another five hundred out after I took out the thousand, and I’ve only given him the bank slip for the thousand. I’ll pop the other one in his book later.’
Gerry picked up the mug of tea. ‘Thanks, Shirl,’ he said, and meant it. ‘You might not be hearing from me for a while, but I’ll be in touch when things cool down.’
His sister moved to the door. ‘Do you have somewhere to go? Will you be all right?’
‘I’ll be fine,’ he said with more assurance than he felt. ‘Don’t you worry, Shirl; you know me. I always land on my feet.’ He took a swig of tea and set the mug down before turning his attention once again to the window. ‘Anyway, I’ll be down shortly and be on my way. Oh, yeah, tell Bernie I need to borrow one of his screwdrivers and an adjustable spanner. Well, not exactly borrow, because I’ll be taking them with me. Medium sizes should do.’
Shirley looked puzzled. ‘What do you want them for?’
‘Plates,’ he said. ‘Plates for the bike. They know the ones I’ve got, so I’ll have to nick someone else’s every so often, at least until I’m far enough away that it doesn’t matter.’
Gerry waited until it was pitch black outside before slipping out of the house and into the yard next door. He cupped his hand around the small torch his sister had given him, and picked his way through an obstacle course of old wooden forms, a water tank, broken slabs of concrete and bricks half buried in weeds, to where the bike was hidden beneath a tarp and a stack of wooden pallets.
When he’d been forced to leave the cottage in such a hurry, he’d had to leave his regular riding gear behind. But he had his leather jacket, and although he hadn’t had time to put it on when he’d roared out of the shed, his helmet was hanging from the handlebars, so at least he had that. Later in the day, a small shop in Bromyard had donated a pair of leather gloves – although the shopkeeper was unaware of the donation until the following day – but he would have to buy some all-weather gear once he was far enough away.
He pulled the wooden pallets away from the bike, stripped away the tarp, and wheeled the bike up to the gate. He eased the gate open and stuck his head out to look up and down the street, but it was impossible to tell if anyone was out there.
Fletcher sucked in his breath. It was now or never, and if he got away quickly, and there was someone out there, he could be gone before they were able to take up the chase. He swung the gate wide and walked back to the bike.
His leg was halfway over it when he thought he saw movement. He started to turn, but suddenly the helmet was ripped from his head and an arm the size of a small tree trunk wrapped itself around his neck and squeezed. He felt himself being lifted clear of the bike before being slammed to the ground. He lay there half stunned, unable to move. A great weight held him down and a large hand covered his mouth. He couldn’t breathe, and the rushing noise in his ears made it hard to hear.
But he recognized the voice, and his blood turned to ice as consciousness began to slip away. ‘Going somewhere, were you, Gerry?’ it said. ‘Sorry about this, mate, but this is going to hurt you a lot more than it will me.’
It
felt as if his head was being torn off. If he’d had the breath, he would have shrieked in agony, but the arm around his throat held firm, and all that came out was a stifled sob. He felt something warm and wet running down his face. He opened his mouth to scream; to suck in air – and sucked in blood!
His blood! He was choking on his own blood!
His body sagged. A low, gurgling sigh escaped his lips as feeling left him and he slipped away.
Inside the house Shirley Green sat on the edge of her chair staring into space, fists clenched on her knees as she waited for the quiet of the night to be shattered by the sound of Gerry’s motorbike. She glanced at the clock. Twelve minutes since she’d whispered goodbye to her brother at the door, and still nothing. Surely he should have been on his way by now?
On the other hand, she told herself, it would take time to uncover the bike and wheel it out to the gate. She’d offered to go out there to see to the gates herself, but he’d said no. Fourteen minutes, and still no sound. Something must have gone wrong. Perhaps he’d tripped and fallen over something in the yard. Perhaps he’d banged his head and was lying there, unconscious. But then, she told herself, he had the torch, so he was probably just being extra careful, taking his time, making sure there was nobody out there before making a run for it.
Fifteen minutes.
Shirley got to her feet. ‘Something’s wrong,’ she burst out. ‘I know it is, Bernie. You should have gone out there with him. He wouldn’t let me go, but you could’ve gone. There hasn’t been a sound!’
Bernie looked up from his paper. ‘Oh, for God’s sake sit down, woman,’ he said irritably. ‘What the hell did you expect? That bike of his would wake the dead. You didn’t expect him to start it up in the yard, did you? ’Course he won’t. He’ll go out the same way he came in. We never heard him come, did we? He cut the engine at the top of the road and wheeled the bike in. First thing I knew was when he knocked on the door, and my big mistake was opening it.’
Bernie went back to his paper. ‘He’s gone out the same way,’ he said. ‘Pushed the bike to the end of the road where there’s traffic and nobody will pay any attention when he starts it up. He’ll be well away by now, so sit down and stop worrying, and just be thankful he’s gone. I know I am, so let it be!’
Eighteen
Monday, March 24
Shirley Green couldn’t wait for Bernie to be gone. Her husband hadn’t been out of the house since Gerry had turned up unannounced on the Friday night, because Gerry had refused to allow him out of his sight. Even so, Bernie didn’t seem to be in any hurry to leave this morning.
‘No telling what that Dave got up to on that weekend job,’ she’d prodded. ‘Probably been sitting around chatting instead of getting on with it while you’re not there to keep an eye on him. You know what he’s like.’
Dave was Bernie’s helper. He wasn’t a bad worker, at least not while he was being watched, but he was easily distracted, and the offer of a cup of tea could keep him idle for an hour or more.
‘I talked to him yesterday,’ Bernie told her from behind his paper, ‘and he said he’d all but finished in the parlour, and there was just the skirting in the hall left to do, and a bit upstairs.’
‘Yes, well, you know what “a bit upstairs” could mean, don’t you? You’ll probably find he hasn’t even started on it.’
Bernie sighed and folded the newspaper. ‘Yeah, well, we’ve been a bit preoccupied with your brother, haven’t we?’ he said. He glanced at the clock. ‘Still, I suppose I’d better be off. Did you do my boots?’
‘They’re at the back door like always,’ Shirley told him, ‘so get them on and be off with you. I’ve got a lot of work to do myself. This place is a proper mess.’
‘Looks all right to me.’
‘Yes, well, the roof would have to fall in before you’d notice,’ she told him tartly.
Bernie shot her a hard glance. ‘If you’re still worrying about Gerry, you can forget it,’ he said. ‘He’s well on his merry way by now, isn’t he? With my thousand quid and all. So if you want something to worry about, start worrying about how we’re going to get that back, because I don’t see him sending us a cheque in the post.’
He finished lacing up his boots, put on his heavy jacket, then left without another word.
Shirley watched from the front window as her husband backed the car out of the garage. No one had ever accused Bernie of being swift, but he seemed to be even slower than usual this morning, and Shirley could feel the pounding of her heart against her ribs as she silently urged him on.
There. He was gone.
Without even bothering to put on a coat, Shirley dashed out of the front door and into the street. It was quicker than going round the back, and she couldn’t see Gerry stopping to lock the gates after him.
She was probably being silly, she told herself. Bernie would have thought so, and she’d had enough of his remarks about her and her brother these past few days to last a lifetime, which was why she’d waited until he was out of the house. He might be right; Gerry could have wheeled the bike up to the main road before starting it, but she had to go and see for herself that he had really gone.
The wooden gates were shut but not locked. At least that was a good sign. She pushed them open.
Her hand flew to her mouth when she saw the bike. It lay on it’s side just inside the gate. There was a wet patch on the ground beneath the tank, and she could smell petrol as she moved closer.
Shirley looked around frantically, searching for . . . For what? Gerry? No. She stood there, trying to think. The bike! There must have been something wrong with the bike and he’d had to leave it. He hadn’t come back to the house because that would mean he’d be trapped again. He must have made a run for it while he could. Probably gone up to the main road and hitched a lift.
But who would stop and pick someone up late at night like that?
Shirley stood there looking down at the bike, then bent to examine it more closely. There were blotches on the metal, dark brown blotches that looked like . . . dried blood? There was more on the leather seat, on the handlebars – and on the gravel beside the bike.
She stood up and backed away slowly, then turned and ran to the house, where she searched frantically among the clutter for the card she’d seen Bernie drop on the hall table.
Shirley Green was there to meet them when Paget and Tregalles arrived. A uniformed policewoman was with her. ‘I tried to get her to come inside the house,’ the constable told Paget, ‘but she insisted on staying out here until you came.’
‘I told Bernie something was wrong,’ Shirley Green burst out. ‘I knew it last night when I didn’t hear the bike start up. I could feel it in my bones, but Bernie wouldn’t have it. “Oh, no,” he said. “He’ll be all right. Always lands on his feet, does Gerry.” But Gerry wasn’t his brother, was he? Wasn’t his own flesh and blood, not like he was mine. See? See?’ she said, dropping to her knees to point out the dried splotches of blood. ‘See where they . . .’ she choked on the words as tears streamed down her face.
Paget motioned for the constable to move the sobbing woman back from the scene so they could take a closer look. ‘Looks like they got him all right,’ Tregalles murmured as he examined the bike and the ground around it. ‘From the marks in the gravel I’d say he was dragged through the gate to a car. Forensic should be able to test the blood against his sister’s DNA, but I don’t know how much help SOCO will be. Doesn’t look as if whoever did this left too much in the way of clues.’
‘Better give Charlie a shout, anyway,’ said Paget. ‘And I know Mrs Green is upset, but she seems anxious to talk, so let’s get her down to Charter Lane before she changes her mind. And find out where Bernie is and have him brought in as well. I think it’s time we had some explanations from both of them.’
Back at Charter Lane, they had to separate the pair. Bernie Green was furious when they finally located him and brought him in. ‘You had to do it, didn’t you, Shirl?’ he
grated. ‘Couldn’t leave well enough alone, could you? I just wish to God I’d never set eyes on that brother of yours.’
‘So why were you harbouring him?’ asked Paget.
‘Not because I wanted to, for Christ’s sake!’ Bernie burst out. ‘He threatened the both of us, and I don’t doubt he would have killed us if we?’
‘That’s a lie!’ Shirley broke in savagely. ‘Gerry’s not a killer. He might have got in with the wrong crowd, but he’s not a killer, and you know it, Bernie. If you’d let me go out there last night to see?’
‘That’s enough from both of you!’ Paget snapped ‘Get them into separate rooms,’ he told Tregalles, ‘then let them sit there for a while until they cool down. They’ve both got a lot to answer for.’
‘Any luck with the two songbirds?’ Ormside asked when Tregalles appeared later in the day.
‘That Bernie’s a stubborn little sod,’ Tregalles said. ‘Had to drag everything out of him, but his wife was more than willing to tell us everything she knew. Not that you’ll ever convince her that her brother might have had a hand in killing someone, but she did give us a detailed account of what’s been happening these past few days. She says Fletcher knew the house was being watched, and decided to make a run for it last night. But they must have been waiting for him to do just that, possibly Slater if what she’s telling us is correct. She said he mentioned an Australian.’
Tregalles sighed heavily. ‘I tell you, Len, this case is beginning to get me down. They – whoever they are – seem to be one step ahead of us all the time.’
Ormside’s phone rang. He scooped it up. ‘Yes, what is it?’ he demanded.
He listened for a few moments, then looked at Tregalles and shook his head as if he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. His expression was grim as he began making notes.
‘Right,’ he said and hung up. He rubbed his face hard with both hands, then blew out his cheeks. ‘Never rains but it bloody pours,’ he growled. ‘Better get Paget down here. That was a report from Lyddingham. Gerry Fletcher’s girlfriend, Rose Ryan didn’t show up for work today, and there was no answer when they tried to phone her. So the owner of the shop where she works asked his son to stop by the cottage on his way to town to find out why. The lad found Rose’s body in the bathtub. It could be suicide, but the First Response people are treating it as a suspicious death.’
