by Dilys Xavier
After booking out of Hougue Du Pommier, they drove to the nearby headland and parked the car. The sky was full of squawking seabirds wheeling and diving into the sea to feed on the shoals of fish below. The scene silenced any conversation and they both remained immersed in their own thoughts until another vehicle pulled up beside them. Richard drove slowly back to the airport as if reluctant to leave the island. He grasped Cecile’s hand before they got out of the car.
‘We could come back and do it all again.’
‘Yes, I suppose we could.’ She squeezed his fingers. ‘But we might spoil the memory of what we’ve shared.’
‘So we’ll try somewhere different next time?’
‘Yes, unless you want to catch up on the bowling, golf and other leisure activities you missed out on, because you had your mind on other things.’
‘Thanks for reminding me,’ he said, tongue in cheek. ‘Maybe we could try Centre Park or Butlins next time.’
After a traffic-free run from the airport they arrived back at Cecile’s apartment just after nine o’clock. He resisted her invitation to go in for a drink because he knew he would not extricate himself before morning if he did. Instead, he kissed her lips gently and promised to phone the next day.
Nicole’s smile was almost a smirk as she greeted him the next morning.
‘You look like the cat that got the canary. I hope you’re ready for work, because there’s a mountain of letters for you to wade through.’
‘Thanks, that’s all I need right now. Still, I suppose there’s no rest for the wicked.’
‘Exactly. And before you ask, the cheques haven’t been presented for clearing.’
‘So we’ll have to cancel them and apply for all those certificates again,’ Richard moaned.
‘What a pain in the butt. I suppose they’ve been lost in the post, either that or they’re being re-routed through Auckland or some other remote part of the world.’
*
DCI Jones called for quiet as the men assembled in the incident room.
‘Okay, George, let’s hear what you’ve got.’
Sergeant Howells pointed to the first sketch on the whiteboard after explaining that Frankie Butterworth had been able to get a good look inside Murphy’s garage without causing suspicion.
‘This is a general layout of the place. It would appear that they only use the lockup as a rendezvous and somewhere to store the vehicles. They must unload the booze and whatever else their bring into the country somewhere else.’
The next sketch indicated where he wanted the men and cars positioned to secure the area. When he had finished speaking, he turned to Inspector Jones. The man gazed around the room until it was completely silent.
‘Right. Now we are pretty certain that this fellow Murphy is picking up drugs in Belgium.’ He stabbed the air with his pipe. ‘My informant tells me that they often drop the booze off at Lindsbury, and then they meet up with the guy who takes the drugs off them. However, if he isn’t at the appointed place they go back to the garage and presumably wait until another arrangement can be made. That means that if there’s a cock-up somewhere along the line the drugs are still likely to be in the van somewhere.’
‘So, we’re looking for a false floor or a compartment under the dashboard - some place that can be accessed quickly,’ George Howells said, picking up the narrative.
‘Unless the stuff’s in the spare tyre,’ one of the detectives interrupted. ‘It’s easy to trundle a wheel from one vehicle to another and it doesn’t look too obvious.’
‘Good point, Barney.’ The sergeant nodded and then turned towards one of the uniformed policemen. ‘Here’s your chance to pit your sniffer dog against the froggies, Taffy. We might be able to pick up something they’ve missed.’
The rest of the meeting was taken up with working out who would take up what position around the industrial estate. The raid had been timed to coincide with the expected arrival of a van from Europe. They had allowed enough time for the trip from Dover and any other contingency that might arise.
‘Okay, let’s be at it then,’ George Howells said, ‘and remember, keep your heads down. We don’t want a high-speed chase through the country lanes if we’re sprung.’
As soon as the men were deployed, Sergeant Howells radioed into headquarters and requested a blackout on communications. He didn’t want Murphy or his associates picking up any messages that might tip them off about the stake out. As he switched off his two-way radio he hoped that everyone else had remembered his instructions.
*
Although Murphy usually had all three vans working the racket, today he was forced to make the trip himself. One of his drivers had been hospitalised after a brawl at a local football match, another was keeping his head down because he had been implicated in a burglary. And the third one had phoned the previous evening to say he was off to Scotland to see his mother who was very sick. Under normal circumstances he wouldn’t take the risk, but his contact had been adamant that the goods were to be picked up today.
He dare not send Brucie on his own because the man couldn’t be trusted to keep his mouth shut if he was stopped by the customs officers. But the ruffian had insisted that he should go too. And now as he waited in vain for his connection to keep their rendezvous, Murphy had a sudden premonition that all was not well. He flicked on the short-wave radio that was tuned to the police frequency and listened to it for a few minutes. It seemed abnormally quiet.
‘Are we going back to the garage, or what?’ Brucie demanded, anxiously. He didn’t like being cooped up in the van for too long.
‘Yes, it’s no good waiting here any longer. Come on you can drive.’
However, Murphy was still concerned that something was wrong. So instead of going through the village, he told his companion to take a short cut along Sudbury Lane, the road that skirted one boundary of the Langley Hall estate. It crossed a stream that was prone to flooding and when it did, the bridge decking often became covered with water. They had only gone about half a mile when Brucie yelled.
‘Hey, this is where I meet Jimbo. I wait for him by that clump of trees.’ He gave a hard laugh. ‘Nobody uses this road. You could sit here for hours and never see anyone. Although I did see a woman on a horse the other day.’
‘What was she doing? Did she see you?’
‘I don’t know if she saw me or not. She was just riding a horse.’
‘Don’t you know who owns this property?’ When Brucie shook his head, Murphy snorted in disgust. ‘It’s part of Langley Hall, where our friend Hamblyn lives. Don’t you know anything? You are so stupid at times, I wonder why I bother to give you space.’
‘I don’t like being called stupid,’ Brucie said, menacingly. ‘If you call me stupid again I’ll smash your face in.
Murphy pulled a knife out of his jacket and flicked it open.
‘Just try it, Brucie. Just you try it, my boy, and you get this in your gut.’ He gestured at the road ahead. ‘Now just drive down the lane nice and quiet like, while I think.’
When they came to the road that led onto the industrial estate, Murphy motioned him to stop again. Something definitely seemed to be wrong. He couldn’t put a finger on it, but he had an overwhelming feeling that he shouldn’t drive into the garages. Stepping out of the van, he walked to the nearest house and looked around, but there was nothing to see. Only a Vauxhall Cavalier with a fellow dozing under a newspaper.
‘Bloody lazy sales reps,’ Murphy muttered. He climbed back into the van and motioned Brucie forward towards a largely unknown back entrance to the estate. Parked across the road by a closed farm gate stood an old Landrover with a few bales of hay on the back seat. There was no sign of the driver, although the motor was ticking away.
‘Get out, Brucie, and get ready to jump that fellow if he comes back before I do. Don’t get carried away, just knock him out.’ Then he dug into the glove box and removed an innocuous looking parcel and unwrapped it. Matching the two components careful
ly together, he slipped the single unit back into the casing.
‘What’s that?’ Brucie’s eyes widened. ‘Hey, I don’t want any part of bombs or things.’
‘Shut up and do what your told,’ Murphy snarled. ‘Now look, I think we’ve been ratted on, and the bill has staked this place out. I’m going to have a quick look. If I come running you be ready to get us out of here quick smart. We’ll torch the van and get away in that Landrover. Okay?’
Not waiting for a reply, Murphy ran silently down between two fences and gazed at the scene before him. He was almost convinced that there was nothing wrong, when something caught his eye. The door of a workshop was open enough for him to see a policeman in the shadows. ‘I thought so,’ he muttered, ‘the bastards are waiting for us to drive into their little trap.’
He ran back to the idling Landrover. Shoving Brucie into the driver’s seat, he eased a cord out of the parcel and then yanked it hard before lobbing the missile through the open window of the van.
‘Okay,’ he yelled. ‘Let’s go.’ As the vehicle lurched forward, he grinned. ‘That’ll keep the bastards busy; they won’t have time to chase us.’
They had barely passed the Vauxhall Cavalier when the bomb exploded. The old Landrover shook the as a ball of fire erupted from the exploding van and hurled a shock wave after them. Brucie took one terrified look in rear view mirror and flattened the accelerator. Before Murphy had a chance to tell him which way to go, he had headed back the way they had come; down the lane at the rear of Langley Hall.
Murphy was just about to berate him again when he recognised where he was.
‘Stop,’ he cried grabbing the man’s arm. ‘Stop the car.’ He looked across the fields toward the manor. ‘I’ll bet that bastard ratted on us.’ Flinging the door open he leaped to the ground. ‘I’m going to settle him once and for all.’
Brucie clambered out of the vehicle and ran after Murphy.
‘Come back you stupid bastard, you’ll only make things worse.’
‘Let me go,’ Murphy snarled, as the man grabbed hold of his arm. ‘Let me go, or I’ll do you too.’ Shaking himself free, he pulled the knife out again and flicked it open. ‘Stay here. I’ll be
back as soon as I fix that bastard.’ Then climbed over the fence and ran towards Langley Hall.
*
Catherine was on her way to the stables when Peter called to her.
‘I’m going to the hospital to have these stitches out. I shouldn’t be too long.’
‘I don’t like the idea of you going out on your own, Peter,’ she said, quietly. ‘Why don’t you wait until I’ve finished exercising the horses, then I’ll be able to come with you.’
‘Look, I’ll be all right; there’s no need for you to worry.’ Then as an afterthought, he added. ‘If I have time I’ll pop into the Frogley’s garage and see if someone can fix this seat belt catch. It’s always jamming.’
‘Peter, I don’t ...’ Catherine stopped short of saying she didn’t want anything else to happen to him. She watched a faint smile light up his face as her eyes ranged over him; it were as if he was declaring that he didn’t care how he looked anymore. The old suede coat, that had seen better days, hung open to reveal a crumpled blue shirt and the green spotted tie that Anna had given him for Christmas. The belt that held up his trousers had been pulled in two more notches because he had lost weight over the past few days. Even his shoes seemed ill matched and scruffy. Unable to chide him for looking so disreputable, she choked back a sob and kissed his cheek gently. ‘Take care now.’
A feeling of apprehension swept over her as he drove away. She fought back an impulse to chase after him in her own car, but as the sound of the exhaust note faded away she knew it was too late. The sound of a horse whinnying reminded her that she had been on her way to the stables.
Unbeknown to her, Murphy had seen them talking as he crept along the side of the stables. He had been just about to run out and stop Peter climbing into the Jaguar, when something made him hold back. Unsure of what to do he hesitated for a moment. But as he turned to run back to where Brucie was waiting with the Landrover, Catherine walked Misty out of the yard, right in front of him.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The man’s sudden appearance took Catherine completely by surprise, but she managed to keep her composure.
‘Who are you and what are you doing here?’ she demanded.
Without saying a word Murphy grabbed the reins out of her hands and pulled her from the saddle. In a desperate effort to regain her balance, Catherine clutched at his jacket. He brushed aside her outstretched hand and then kicked her legs out from under her. When she fell to the ground he mounted the horse and urged it into a gallop.
Brucie was still standing by the side of the road when the Irishman reined up the horse. Jumping off the animal, he threw the reins at the horse’s head and then clambered through the fence. While Misty skittered away the sound of an approaching car caught their attention. The distinctive exhaust note of the Jaguar was easy to identify.
Peter Hamblyn had unwittingly turned left when he reached the main road instead of taking the turn to the right. And now he was heading down Sudbury Lane, and ahead of him stood the stolen Landrover and the two men who had beaten him up.
As soon as he crossed the bridge over the little stream, Peter realised his mistake. Maybe Catherine had been right, he was too fuzzy in the head to drive. Never mind, he thought, There’s a small clearing further up the lane; I can turn around easily enough. It was at that precise moment he saw a vehicle blocking the way ahead. It was only as he drew near that he recognised who they were, but by then it was too late. Murphy had seen him.
Peter stamped on the brakes and as the Jaguar slewed sideways he reversed the lock and flattened the accelerator. The sedan bounced across the verge narrowly missing a couple of trees. It then clawed its way back onto the road and snaked its way forward, its rear wheels scrabbling for grip on the wet grass.
‘There’s the bastard,’ the Irishman yelled, as Peter headed off in the opposite direction. Pushing Brucie towards the Landrover, he jumped behind the wheel. ‘Come on, get in. We’ll run him down.’
‘In this? You’re crazy.’
Murphy ignored his companion’s remark as he slammed the old vehicle into gear and dropped the clutch. Ordinarily the he would have had no hope of catching the faster car, but the Jaguar’s tyres were full of wet grass and mud and by the time it began to pick up speed they were right behind it.
‘Gotcha, you bastard,’ Murphy roared, ramming into the back of the sedan. The Landrover shuddered and almost stalled as the Jaguar lurched to one side. He pumped the accelerator madly, shoved the vehicle back another gear and dropped the clutch. ‘Here’s some more for you,’ he yelled, as they hit the sedan again.
Peter snatched a glance over his shoulder and saw the menacing pair bearing down on him again. Trying not to panic he wrestled the vehicle back to the centre of the road, but as it righted itself the Landrover loomed up in the rear vision mirrors again. Sweat poured into his eyes, blurring his vision while he cursed his ineptitude. He had no idea why had he driven down this road, nor why those two rogues were on this little used country lane. Nothing made sense. Then the steering wheel was nearly wrenched out of his hands as the Jaguar was knocked sideways yet again.
‘Next time,’ Murphy screamed, shaking the steering wheel in his rage. ‘I’ll put you in the ditch next time.’ He shot a look at Brucie. The man opened his mouth to say something, but when he saw the determined look on his companion’s face he closed it again. The Landrover rebounded from the rear of Peter’s car and almost stopped before lurching forward again.
‘Oh, please God,’ Peter prayed. ‘Don’t let him get me.’
The fearful recurring dreams that had plagued him for the past week filled his mind as he tried desperately to escape from the pursuing vehicle. Just when there seemed to be no possible escape he saw the bridge. If he could make it across the old wooden struct
ure he should be able to out-run the Landrover. While Peter tried to engage the semi-automatic gear lever, Murphy hit him again. Unable to control the Jaguar with one hand he felt it drifting across the road.
‘Oh, no,’ Peter groaned, reefing at steering wheel. He managed to straighten the vehicle, but it had run onto the grass verge, slipping and sliding sideways as the wheels spun on the wet vegetation. The bridge was dangerously close now and the car was directly in line with the railings that ran along the left-hand side of the structure. It would take a miracle to get it back on the road in time.
Somehow or other he managed to achieve the near impossible manoeuvre and had just got the front wheels onto the bridge when the Landrover hit him again. The impact drove the car through the wooden railings and into the stream below. Meanwhile Murphy fought desperately to control the old vehicle from careering across the decking and into the other railing. With a sickening jerk, it impaled itself on the superstructure; he opened the door and hurled himself across the road towards the stricken Jaguar.
Sweat poured into Peter’s eyes as he fought to release the seatbelt, but despite all his efforts it remained jammed. Meanwhile the car continued to slide nose first into the river. The water was already up to his shoulders and threatened to engulf him completely. A shadow fell across the window moments before he heard his name being called.
‘Now die, you bastard,’ Murphy screamed, clamping one hand on Peter Hamblyn’s neck.
In a desperate effort to free himself, Peter tried to prise the Irishman’s fingers free as his head was forced beneath the water, but his efforts were in vain. A desperate cry for help formed on his lips and then everything went black.
Murphy held him face down until there was no movement and then climbed back up onto the road, a look of triumph on his face. He almost strutted over to where Brucie leaned against the shattered bridge railing.
