No Ordinary Killing

by No Ordinary Killing (retail) (epub)

At which Payne went to stand behind Annie and placed the barrel of his revolver to the nape of her neck.

  Annie, I am so sorry.

  She said nothing. He could see now. There was a look of defiance on her face. She wouldn’t give them the satisfaction. Finch loved her for it.

  Payne cocked the hammer. The click was the worst sound Finch had ever heard.

  BOOM!

  Another naval gun. The banshee wail of the incoming missile distorted Finch’s eardrums. And then …

  CRASH!

  … Amid the flash of phosphorous white light, they were in a cauldron, a swirling whirlpool of stones and sea and rocks. From on high, large jagged slabs rained down.

  “ANNIE!”

  There was smoke. As it cleared Finch could see she was alive but knocked for six, lying dazed on her side, beside her now … Rutherford? He had been flung there, face down, motionless, his body horribly contorted, twisted under a cairn of limestone.

  He called to Annie but could not hear himself above the ringing in his ears. In the other direction Soames, now a pathetic old man, hatless, covered in grime and dust, was staggering, trying to gather his senses, his watch dangling on its chain. He fumbled vainly for his spectacles in the light of the lantern, its glass broken, lying on its side.

  Finch rose. His ankles were bound, his arms behind his back. But with every ounce of strength he could muster he charged at him. His head butted into the man’s chest, knocking him over, spilling the lantern again.

  In the flicker of it, the man looked petrified.

  There was no sympathy. Finch jumped hard, with both feet, and brought both sets of hobnails down on Soames’ face. There was a sickening crack. Finch, on his backside, shovelled the feet with his body, rolling it over, face down into a rock pool. It didn’t move.

  But elsewhere the water was rising, whirling. As his hearing returned he could hear it roar. White foam crashed in through a gap which hadn’t existed before. With tied limbs Finch tried to get up, but he had poor balance. He toppled over.

  “SIR!” he heard. A cry of warning.

  “Annie, get out of here.”

  “SIR!”

  Payne tumbled right past him.

  On the ground. His gun.

  Finch had staggered against a rock and used it to work his way upright. He looped his bound hands under his feet and brought them to the front of his body. He, too, sprang towards the weapon. The men rolled over on one another. Finch took a sharp elbow to the bridge of the nose as Payne attempted to beat him back.

  Using the only weapon he had at his disposal, Finch bit down on Payne’s good hand, hard … so hard he could taste the other man’s blood. Payne merely kicked him off. Just feet away, Payne dived, arms outstretched and got his hand to the pistol’s grip.

  Slowly he raised it, raised himself.

  Finch was on his side, fully in its sight, completely helpless.

  There was the thin smile of satisfaction on Payne’s lips as he began to squeeze the trigger …

  BANG!

  … But, with the expression of man who’d been jilted at the altar, Payne froze for a moment, before toppling forward, his legs buckling under him and crashed down into the shingle.

  Both Finch and Annie turned.

  Brookman, his own gun arm shaking uncontrollably, was propped on an elbow.

  He dropped his Webley and collapsed onto his back.

  Finch shuffled over; Annie followed.

  He was barely alive, his face bluey-white, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. He groaned.

  “I … I … I’m so sorry.”

  They could hardly hear him, they leaned closer.

  “Finch … Miss … I’m so terribly sorry.”

  “You know Brookman, of all the people, you were the last—”

  But Finch couldn’t find adequate words.

  “Goddamnit man, I believed you, trusted you.”

  Brookman was trying to say something again. Finch looked down at his chest. The wound was massive.

  Finch turned to Annie. She had moved away to retrieve the shattered lantern and now sat with her back to it, holding her rope bindings over the flame.

  She winced as it burnt her. Then she tugged her hands apart and the rope shredded.

  “My pocketknife,” said Finch.

  She reached in his tunic pocket, then set to work on his own hands then both their ankles.

  BOOM!

  The naval guns fired again. But this time it was quieter. There was no whistle. They heard the crash of the shell a distance away. Brookman was still alive. Barely. Finch cradled his head.

  “Was working … for British Intelligence,” he rasped. “Was told you were a spy. Had to keep close tabs … Said you’d double-crossed us … Stolen state secrets … passed them to our enemies … Lives at stake … But they tricked me, used me … I never imagined—”

  There was fluid gurgling in his throat.

  “It’s all right, Inspector,” soothed Finch. “It’s all right.”

  “I mucked it up, Captain. I assumed—”

  His face was motionless, the sparkle now gone forever from the eyes. Finch let him go.

  There was a swirl and a rush. The water was rising fast, the sea flooding in. Lower down, Rutherford’s body was completely submerged now, save for the back of his head and the knuckles of his hands floating out to either side. Soames’ body was bobbing against the rocks. Payne’s would soon be carried off. Brookman would then be swept up.

  “Come on,” Annie said.

  This time it was she who took the lead. She grabbed Finch’s hand and pulled him to his feet.

  “See, up there …”

  There was more daylight.

  “We go up, this way …”

  Five minutes later they had squeezed through the gap. The sun and the light sea breeze caressing them like a doting mother.

  Out to sea the grey naval warships sat. There was a muzzle flash and a muted crack. But this time the guns were aiming away from the shore. There was an old barge two or three miles out. A great white geyser of water shot up next to it.

  The coast was rocky, windswept, tree-less, the coarse grass of the slopes strewn with boulders. In the distance, a pack of baboons charged down the bank, behind them Signal Hill, Cape Town and, beyond, great Table Mountain, its summit shrouded in a fine mist, its ‘tablecloth’.

  To sea again, on the Cape of Good Hope, the breakers crashed, the gulls squawked and the great mass of ocean rolled – nothing between them and the Antarctic, the very end of the Continent.

  They drank in the air and stood in silence.

  “You know what today is?” said Finch eventually.

  She shrugged.

  “Happy New Year,” he offered.

  “No,” she corrected. “Happy New Century.”

  Epilogue

  Kimberley, Cape Colony – February 20th, 1900

  In the main square, across from the great, deep hole of the Kimberley Mine, the regimental band of the Royal Garrison Artillery gave its recital.

  Mbutu recognised the tune. He had heard it many times – Rule Britannia, a jolly imperial jingle. The whites always enjoyed it, discreetly clapping along while the cheery conductor waved his baton, throwing a smile of appreciation over his shoulder.

  Lining the thoroughfares they were a fine sight, these masters and mistresses, you could not deny it – silks, satins, bows, white gloves; servants to hoist frilled parasols and protect the ladies in their high Parisian fashion; men preening in their well-cut morning suits, with starched collars and hats – toppers and homburgs.

  The streets were thronged. People ecstatic. Paper Union Jacks fluttered everywhere, folks waved them frantically on wooden sticks, pushing and jostling to see the approaching parade.

  “He’s coming,” said someone, and the buzz spread.

  And then there he was, up high, on his charger, leading the column, a king in all his vainglory.

  “God bless you, Mr Rhodes,” he heard s
omeone yell, a man almost in tears with admiration.

  The crowd swelled, the cheers rose, the soldiers marched on – the Kimberley Regiment, the Lancashires, Royal Engineers, then the Royal Artillery, their field guns creaking and lumbering on their great heavy carriages.

  “It’s Roberts! It’s Roberts!” went the cry. And then there he was, too, in his khakis and pith helmet on his impressive chestnut horse – his face red, moustache bushy and white, nodding acceptance of the plaudits.

  The Major-General … French … the one whose cavalry had entered five days ago, was now in hot pursuit of the retreating Boers, it was understood. His force had already pushed on into the Orange Free State. It was only a matter of time …

  Then, at the back, the dignitaries, hastened up from Cape Town – pale men in dark suits, civil servants and mandarins, accompanied by their wives following in their landaus, looking uncomfortable in the great outdoors, embarrassed at being there.

  * * *

  With Annie called back to the Kimberley Hospital, Finch watched alone. In Sir Alfred Milner’s absence, Sir Frederick Hancock’s coach passed by. Lady Verity sat next to him, gazing out under the ostrich feathers of an oversized hat.

  “Enjoying the show?” came a voice.

  “Officially or truthfully?” Finch replied.

  Jenkins smiled.

  “See the report exonerated that chap,” added the Welshman.

  “As a matter of fact that’s why I’m here.”

  Finch had been looking up and down but knew he’d find him eventually. And there he was, in the shade of a jacaranda … set back from the crowd, smoking and watching – in a state, Finch fancied, of reluctant acceptance.

  Standing proudly, he had on a pale blue corduroy suit, riding boots and a slouch hat pinned up on one side with the stub of a red feather in it – loitering near him two MFPs, the Boer officers having been granted a privileged status over the ordinary POWs, paroled in the daytime upon their honour, though on this auspicious occasion with minders hovering just in case.

  “Excuse me, sir,” Finch emphasised, turning to Jenkins.

  “Now, now, Ingo,” Jenkins admonished. “No need for that in private.”

  But Finch was gone, striding over.

  “I believe it’s written in our stars,” he declared.

  The man looked up, extinguished his cigarette and smiled. He extended a hand to shake, the MFPs began to move in, but Finch signalled that it was okay.

  “Swanepoel, I want to thank you,” said Finch. “The casualties reached Bloemfontein just as you promised. They have been well cared for. I understand several have been repatriated. Some spoke up for you personally.”

  “As did you.”

  “I’m just sorry that—”

  Swanepoel waved a hand in dismissal.

  “It was an unscrupulous trick, a stunt by a superior of which I thoroughly disapproved. Designed to antagonise. It did its trick.”

  “Look, if there’s anything I can do … your family, any letters, please don’t hesitate.”

  Swanepoel nodded his thanks.

  “Oh, and there’s this …”

  Finch reached into the side pocket of his tunic … a full, sealed quart bottle. He handed it to him. Swanepoel admired the label.

  “Talisker,” he sighed. “Twelve years old.”

  “I believe I also made a promise,” said Finch. “When you drink it you will think of me.”

  Both men smiled.

  “Good luck Swanepoel.”

  “Good luck, Captain Finch.”

  * * *

  Mbutu sat on the wooden steps of the veranda of the general store. On the flat roof of the warehouse opposite was a small man in a yellow suit. He had two colleagues with him, hunched over a big box camera on a tripod – unlike anything Mbutu had seen – one of them cranking a handle.

  “Perfect,” the man was enthusing, his accent unfamiliar, his manner most excitable. “Beautiful. Now get the guy on the horse … No, the guy on the horse!”

  Below, on the dusty road, played children, a knot of them running, shrieking with joy – girls in pinafore dresses, boys cavorting despite their uncomfortable suits and knickerbockers. They had grown bored with the parade and were chasing after a wooden hoop which one girl, a blonde girl with big blue eyes, propelled with a stick.

  She saw Mbutu and waved, nearly losing control. Mbutu waved back. Then he hugged his own son, blissfully asleep on his lap.

  Treachery and valour in these explosive Second World War thrillers by James Barrington, writing as Max Adams

  To Do or Die

  Right and Glory

  Operation XD

  First published in the United Kingdom in 2017 by Endeavour Press Ltd.

  This edition published in the United Kingdom in 2018 by

  Canelo Digital Publishing Limited

  57 Shepherds Lane

  Beaconsfield, Bucks HP9 2DU

  United Kingdom

  Copyright © Jeff Dawson, 2017

  The moral right of Jeff Dawson to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN 9781788631907

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

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