by M. P. Wright
“Yeah . . . but you ain’t gotta worry ’bout your ole friend Ida comin’ after you fo’ her cut o’ the deal. She’s gone an’ found herself outta the picture, permanently.” I looked out of the office window at my bedraggled hostage sat in the back of Vic’s van and smiled to myself. “Bring me the money at eight and I’ll bring you your cargo. We keep it nice and simple, you never see my black face again.”
I waited while Paxton considered my final words.
“OK, you’ll git ya cash. But you can meet me further inside the woods. I don’t want to be eyeballed by any ole son of a bitch while I’m doin’ business. Bring what you got fo’ me to the back o’ the Swiss chalet that they got erected up inside that woodland, got it?”
“I got it.”
“Good. Just don’t you go thinkin’ you can git wise an’ fuck me over, nigger. You don’t wanna be pushin’ me any more than you already have done. We do the deal tonight an’ we both walk away happy men.”
Paxton slammed down the phone, leaving me with the burring tone singing in my ear. I put the receiver down then rested my chin in the palm of my hand, closed my eyes and began to mull over in my head the deceitful utterances of a man who I knew was already preparing to erase me from this mortal earth with the brutal swiftness of Cain.
I found Vic loading the stovepipe golf bag and a large metal toolbox into the trunk of his latest set of wheels. He dropped the boot lid and stood back from the immaculate vehicle and admired it lovingly.
“Well, whaddya tink? Beauty, ain’t she?” Vic walked around to the driver’s side door and lovingly caressed the paintwork with the palm of his hand. “Nineteen fifty-nine Mark Two Ford Zodiac. Goes like shit t’ru a goose . . . Naught ta sixty in seventeen seconds. Man owed me a few quid. Couldn’t pay up, so he signed the log book over ta me.” Vic jumped in, started up the motor and pumped the accelerator a couple of times, sending the engine into a noisy frenzy. He bounded back out of the car and smiled at me. “Right, I’ll open back up . . . let’s git that nasty piece o’ work outta my garage.”
He pointed to the side of the van then headed for the roller doors. He shouted back at me as he was about to unlock one of them. “That damn woman, she gimme the creeps. She bad t’ru and t’ru, brother. I don’t want no part o’ her, no more.”
I’d never heard my cousin speak with such foreboding in his voice or with so much moral outrage.
I walked around to the back of the postal van and looked inside. Vic had sat Ida Stephens upright against the wall. He had straightened her clothing and cleaned the thick streaks of mascara that had run down her teary face. I leant against the back door and watched as she stared poker-faced at the floor.
“The child gotta have a surname.”
Ida Stephens looked up me. “I’m sorry, what did you say?”
“I was asking ’bout Truth. What is her surname?”
“It’s Mayer. The child was born in Clifton Court Maternity Hospital, I believe. The woman that gave birth to her, as far as I can remember, was a Jew. Her surname was Mayer.”
“Woman . . . Don’t you mean ‘mother’?”
Ida Stephens stared back at me. Her cruel, piercing eyes bored deep into my own. “Mothers have their babies at home, Mr Ellington. Whores have theirs in hospital.”
I pulled on my leather gloves, climbed into the van and walked over to the orphanage administrator. Ida quickly started to panic again and was about to begin screaming. I quickly reached for the old rag at her side, grabbed hold of her face with my hand, pinched her cheeks with my fingers and rammed the saliva-soaked gag back into her mouth. I walked away, leaving Ida to curse and plead unintelligibly behind the dirty cloth. I jumped back out, swung the doors and locked them, then with leaden steps and a desolate spirit made my way back to the cab of the van, feeling as if I had just closed the fiery gates of hell upon Satan himself.
I drove the Commer postal van the short distance back into Bristol city with Vic following close behind in the Ford. All I could think about during the brief drive was how Truth was and how I now knew her surname, Mayer. I parked the van up in a quiet side street close to Bridewell police station and turned off the engine. I headed over to a phone box and put the keys underneath the phone book until I found the number listing for Bridewell police station. I rang my finger underneath the small print on the page then put a coin in the pay slot and dialled. The line rang a couple of times then a cheerful young woman’s voice answered but was cut off by the pips. I quickly fed four one-penny coins into the slot and the young woman repeated her introduction to me.
“Good afternoon, Bristol and Avon Police. How may I direct your call?”
I held the phone close to my ear and spoke. “Could you put me through to Detective Inspector William Fletcher please?”
The young woman initially hesitated after hearing my request and I readied myself for a barrage of questions as to why I wanted to speak to a high-ranking police officer, but then I heard her start to patch my call through the reception exchange. “Certainly, sir, just one moment, please.”
Fletcher’s phone seemed to ring out forever. When he eventually picked up the receiver he sounded breathless, as if he’d had to run up a couple of flights of stairs to answer the damn thing.
“DI Fletcher here.”
“How you doin’, Detective Inspector? It’s Joseph Ellington here.” I waited for the penny to drop and for the policeman to unleash his vocal wrath upon me. I didn’t have to wait long.
“What the bloody hell do you think you’re playing at, Ellington? I’ve got coppers from ’ere to the south coast combing the streets looking for your black arse.”
“That ain’t no surprise, but it ain’t me you need to be lookin’ fo’.”
“Oh, that right? I suppose you’re innocent of all the charges again. Let me guess, who you got holding out an alibi for you this time. Rosa Parks? You’re in deep shit, old son, you need to hand yourself in pronto.”
“Oh, I don’t think so, Mr Fletcher. I’ve already had my fill of British police hospitality. One night in one o’ your cells was enough fo’ me, thank you.”
“Look, I ain’t got the time to be pissing about making small talk with you. Either you hand yourself into the nearest nick or you’re gonna end up as part of a major manhunt, do you hear me?”
I held the phone away from my head for a moment, took a deep breath then put the receiver back to my ear.
“Fletcher, do me a favour . . . I want you to shut your fat mout’ and pin those big ears o’ yours back, cos what I’m ’bout to say, I’m gonna say just once. Git yo’self a pencil and write down what I’m ’bout to tell you.”
Fletcher went to interrupt me, but I didn’t give him the chance to speak and kept rattling out the facts.
“You got more dirty coppers in that station of yours. I got the names of two of ’em. An officer by the name of Martin, David Martin. Him and your ole buddy, Beaumont. Both are up to their filthy necks in some real bad bidness. I found out that the pair of ’em are involved with a bunch of Yanks who are workin’ out o’ an airbase in Gloucestershire. One of the Americans is a military police officer, a real nasty piece o’ work by the name o’ Paxton. He was the guy who murdered Doc Fowler. There’s also two civilians you need to be putting the heat under, a couple o’ fellas who are involved in the kidnap and sale of young children from the Walter Wilkins orphanage.”
“Involved in what?” snapped Fletcher.
“Did you hear what I said ’bout shuttin’ that mout’ o yours? I ain’t got time fo’ your priss-assed questions now. The names o’ the men you lookin’ fo’ are Andrew Balfour and Edward Matherson. One’s a social worker here in Bristol; the other’s some big name in the oil and petrol game. You need to sniff ’em out and haul ’em into your interview room pretty sharpish.” I took a breath and continued. “OK, now git your ass outside and down to Nelson Street. You’ll find a Royal Mail postal van parked up by the side o’ the road. Inside the back o’ the van you’re go
nna find a woman by the name o’ Ida Stephens. She’s an administrator at the orphanage and part o’ all of this madness. She hired me to find Fowler and she was involved with the others in settin’ me up to take the fall fo’ his death. Tell her you spoke to me and put the thumbscrews on her. She’s a cunning piece o’ work so you gonna have to come down hard on her. She’s gonna come screamin’ at you ’bout how I gone an’ abducted her. I had to do what I had to do and I got a recorded confession outta her earlier today where she spills the beans on the whole sorry affair. I’ve got a few other tings to finish sortin’ out, then you can question me. I’ll give you the tape and the woman’s address book sometime tomorrow. For now, you an’ one of your monkeys can sweat the rest o’ the information outta Ida Stephens yourselves. Now git down to that van befo’ that bitch starts cookin’ to death in the back of it.”
I could hear Detective Inspector Fletcher swallow hard on the other end of the line. He was about to hit me with a question. I held the receiver out in front of me then put my finger on the black button in the cradle and cut him off.
I looked out of the phone box window into the street just as Vic pulled up on the other side of the road. I walked across the street and got into the passenger seat of the car, then my cousin and me drove off and quickly blended into the rest of the city’s bustling afternoon traffic.
Vic wound down his window, rested his arm on the sill and looked across at me. “You doin’ all right?”
I nodded. “Sure.” I stared down at my feet, desperate to avoid my cousin’s enquiring stare, all too aware that my heavy-hearted reply was fooling nobody.
41
Vic drove us along the Portway Road to a place called Sea Mills, a peaceful, leafy suburb about three miles outside of Bristol. The village was hushed and anonymous and was the perfect place for the two of us to lay low for the rest of the day. We turned into a small side street and made our way down a thinly gravelled road that ran parallel to a stretch of disused railway track. On the right-hand side of the road, nestled in next to the sidings of the railway tracks and the tail end of a large, twin-arched red-brick bridge, was a small workman’s lock-up.
Vic drove underneath the bridge then pulled up close to the side of the old rail worker’s storeroom and got out. I followed and watched as Vic went to the boot of the car, opened it up and took out the golf bag and toolbox. My cousin stood at the door of the lock-up and looked suspiciously up and down the desolate gravel road before fishing out a large bunch of keys from a drawer in the top of the large metal toolbox. He stuck a small Chubb key into a brass padlock and opened up the place up.
I walked in and shut the door behind me just as two light bulbs flickered into action. Inside was yet another Aladdin’s cave of knocked-off goods, illicit booze and antique objets d’art. I turned and looked at Vic.
“How many o’ these places have you got?”
“Look, mister detective, I needs places to store my goods and somewhere to git my head down if tings git a little heated with the law. Man got a right to some privacy, ain’t he?”
“Privacy? You must have some sort o’ shed, garage or lock-up in every part o’ this city. How’d you do it?”
“None o’ your damn bidness how I do it. Just be grateful I got ’em!”
Vic walked over to a small bench and dropped the bags. He opened up the smaller of the two and pulled out a couple of heavy-looking cloth-wrapped parcels. He laid them out in front of him then carefully peeled back each of the cloths to reveal two pristine Colt .45 automatic pistols.
“You carryin’ that ole police pea-shooter revolver o’ yours?”
I reached around into the waistband of my trousers and pulled out the Smith & Wesson .38.
Vic reached out to give me one of the automatics. I took a step back and waved away the pistol with the palm of my hand. I looked down at my old .38, squeezed its wood grip and weighed it in the palm of my hand then looked at my cousin and smiled. “No thanks . . . I’ll stick with what I got.”
Vic shook his head “What you got there ain’t good enough . . . This ain’t no game, JT. We do this my way or we’re both gonna end up dead. You git me?” Vic rubbed his mouth, never blinking once. He let the .45 hang by his leg for a moment before lifting it up in front of his face. He chambered a round, clicked on the safety then pushed the pistol firmly at my chest and held it there. “Now, take the fuckin’ gun!”
I hesitated for a moment then reluctantly took the blue-steel Colt from him and stuffed both of the guns into the back of my waistband. Rather than get into a huge argument with my volatile cousin about my preference of firearm, I took the path of least resistance and decided to keep my mouth firmly shut.
In matters concerning violence and the application of it to others, Vic was a master and it was no use trying to argue against any decision he’d made when he had bloodlust coursing through his veins. I casually leant against the wall of the lock-up and watched as Vic undid the canvas golfing bag and drew out a sawn-off shotgun. He cranked open the breech and loaded two twelve-gauge shells into the twin chambers. He snapped the shotgun to and laid it on the top of the bench next to his own automatic then turned and walked over to where I was stood and rested his back against the wall next to me.
I reached into the inside pocket of my jacket and handed Vic a small slip of folded, lined paper. “I need you to do something for me.”
He took the note from me and stuck it into the back pocket of his trousers without even looking at what was written on it then stared down at the ground.
“If anyting should happen to me, I want you to go get Truth from Mrs Pearce and take her down to the address I’ve written down on that paper. It’s in Porlock, in Devon. The woman you’ll be takin’ the child to is Loretta’s kin. Her name’s Estelle Goodman. She’ll sort everyting from there. You just need to drop Truth off and leave.”
Vic shrugged his shoulders and tapped at the paper in his pocket with the palm of his hand. “Got it.”
“I’ve made a note of where Truth is stayin’ in Portishead on there for you too.”
We stood in silence for a moment until Vic looked at me and spoke.
“Don’t sweat it, I got it covered.” Vic made a nervous coughing sound and cleared his throat then put his hand on my arm. “JT?”
I looked at Vic, surprised by his sudden tactile gesture. “Yeah, what is it?”
“Just so you know . . . Ain’t nuttin’ gonna happen to you out there in those woods. You got my word on it, cuz. Just be cool.”
Vic stared back down at the ground then sauntered back over to the bench and picked up the shotgun. He raised it up in front of his face then looked at me with his delinquent, impish brown eyes and grinned.
“So, come on, tell me . . . How we gonna play it wid these Yankee fuckers out in the woods?”
*
Just after seven, we bundled ourselves into the Ford Zodiac and Vic followed the same route back to Bristol, travelling south-west towards the city and over the Clifton Suspension Bridge. Grey clouds hung heavily high in the evening sky, which was quickly turning to dusk. A dense mist that had been low lying, just above the fast-running water of the River Avon, had slowly begun to rise up behind us out of the gorge and filter through the trees as we approached Leigh Woods. At the western end of the suspension bridge we drove past red-bricked walls to the grounds of Burwalls house and then turned right down into a long avenue of young copper birch trees, which eventually led into the mouth of the woods.
Vic continued to drive down a dirt track until we reached a slight incline, which led down to a circle of hazel trees and thick coppice growth. Vic turned off the car’s engine then let the motor slowly freewheel itself to the bottom of the coppice and bring itself to a halt near the dense thicket. We got out, and Vic opened up the trunk and took out the sawn-off from inside the canvas golf bag then filled the pockets of his long leather jacket with handfuls of shotgun cartridges and brass .45 shells from the toolbox. He grabbed the tarpaulin from
the back of the car then quietly shut the boot lid and handed me the keys. Vic unfolded the large green waterproof sheet and the two of us quickly draped it over the body of the Zodiac. We then pulled up as much undergrowth and loose foliage as we could find and threw it over the tarp, camouflaging the motor. Vic pulled the slide back on his Colt and chambered a round then stuck the gun through his trouser belt. He looked at me and winked.
“OK, this is where I gotta leave ya. I’ll have me eye on ya. Stay sharp, ya hear me?”
My mouth was as dry as a bone. Unable to speak, I nodded to my cousin that I understood him. I cautiously began to walk into the thick undergrowth of Leigh Woods. A few steps in, I turned to give a silent thumbs up of reassurance to my cousin, but as I returned my gaze to where he had just been standing, Vic was nowhere to be seen.
I reached into my jacket and took out my .38, slipped the safety off and tucked it back into my waistband then dipped my hand into my back pocket and pulled out the Puma knife that Mrs Pearce had given to me. I opened up the blade then bent down, pulled up my trouser leg a little and put the knife inside my sock. I pushed down onto the top of the knife butt so that the tip of the blade went through the fabric of the sock into the sole of my shoe. I straightened my jacket then continued to walk further into the centre of the woods until I caught the dimming light that was seeping through the top of the thin tree canopy at the furthest edges of the wood. I finally reached a path that took me along the grassy slopes above the river and led to a bluff overlooking the bridge and the rear of the grounds of the mock Swiss chalet that Paxton had told me to meet him at. I walked to my left and looked up at the suspension bridge looming out in front of me, then peered down through the thick bracken at my side into the gorge below.
“Quite some view, ain’t it?”
Paxton walked out from shadows created by the high fencing that separated the chalet from the woods. He walked onto the path then stopped abruptly. He was stood about fifteen feet from me. He was wearing blue jeans, tan leather gloves and a beat-up brown leather military bomber jacket. The jacket was unzipped and I could see the butt of a pearl-handled revolver sticking out of the top of his trousers. Behind him followed four white men, all dressed casually, all carrying guns of varying size and model. The men drew into a loose semicircle behind Paxton and began to scrutinise me like buzzards eyeing up rotting carrion lying in the road.
