Waking Caliban

by Mike Cartlidge

  His eyes widened and I saw him glance towards the far end of the alley.

  “You wouldn’t get a dozen paces before I caught you,” I said.

  He managed to look frightened and furious all at once. The boy peered at me and I nodded to him. “Best get out of here and forget you saw either of us.”

  He turned and ran off just as I reached Roden and pushed him into a recessed doorway. He pondered for a moment and then selected bluster from his repertoire of irritating mannerisms. “You work for me. You have no right to interrogate me.”

  I gave him a small nudge to encourage him to rethink the bluster approach. “Two men are dead. Children are missing their fathers. I’m curious to know why.”

  “I don’t know anything about any of that.”

  “And, while we’re on the general subject, I took a crack on the head for you the other night. I assume the lads who came into my hotel room at 2 A.M. might have had some connection to you…”

  “I told you, I don’t know,” he repeated.

  I looked around. We were alone in the alley but there was no saying how long that would last. I pressed him against a battered wooden door, secured on the outside by a rusty metal padlock. Through a murky window beside the door, I could make out a shelf containing a line of tastefully-painted statuettes of Mr. and Mrs Shakespeare and family.

  I thought of breaking off the lock and taking him inside where we’d be less likely to be disturbed, then decided against it. Breaking and entering weren’t on the approved list of activities in the agency’s policy manual. Instead, I wrapped my right hand around his and squeezed.

  He shuddered and squinted into my eyes. “I can guess who those people at the hotel were.”

  “You can guess?” I squeezed a little harder.

  “All right. They were looking for me. When you left me that evening, I made a phone call to someone I know-”

  “Who?”

  “I need to explain.” He was almost stammering now and saliva was racing beads of sweat down his chin, like drops of rain water on a waxed car door. “I came to Stratford to examine a piece of Shakespeare memorabilia-”

  “Bakst told me.”

  “Bakst was interested in buying it but-”

  “You thought it might be of interest to someone else.”

  “There’s this man who made an endowment to my college some years ago. He’s very wealthy. A collector…” His eyes flickered sideways. “Maybe you and I could resolve this unpleasantness by talking to him. Perhaps I could convince him to extend his generosity to you-”

  “I only work for one employer at a time.”

  “I’m not talking about a few hundred pounds here, or whatever it is you’re used to working for. This thing could be worth hundred of thousands. Millions, even.”

  His customary arrogance was returning. I moved my free hand and slid it around his throat. “One of the men who died the other day was a friend of mine.”

  “This other collector … I called his people from the hotel. It was stupid: I wasn’t thinking clearly. When I thought about it later, I realized they’d be able to trace the number back to me.”

  “Why would that be a problem?”.

  “These people tend to make their own rules.”

  “So you packed your bags and buggered off, leaving me behind to take the beating.”

  “I didn’t know they’d come after you,” he pleaded.

  “Would you have cared? What about the rest of it? Why did our men get shot?”

  “They must have been on my trail. After I left the hotel, I stayed in the cottage in Shottery. I only moved out of it a few hours before the shooting.”

  “How did you manage to find yourself somewhere to stay at such short notice?”

  “It’s owned by a man I know.”

  “What man?”

  “The one I met in the hotel garden on our first day here. My guess is, your people somehow found out about the cottage but someone got there before them.”

  There was a sudden gust of wind and a sheet of abandoned newspaper blew up the gloomy alley, flirting with my legs before it went on its way. “Who did the shooting?”

  “I don’t know. Honestly I don’t.”

  I always get suspicious when people like Roden start using the word ‘honestly’. I tightened my grip on his neck and he went on quickly. “I wasn’t there. I’d decided to keep moving until I’d finished my business. I knew your people and Bakst and God knows who else would be trying to find me.” He coughed and I eased up the pressure on his throat. “Would your men have been armed?”

  I shook my head.

  “Ah, well,” he said. “Their time was out of joint.”

  Maybe he was still hoping to impress me but I was in no mood for more Hamlet. “What is it you’re all after? And what was that piece of paper someone faxed to you? It’s a fake, right?”

  “I won’t know for sure without seeing the original: so far, the fax is all we’ve got. If it’s real, it’s part of the greatest literary discovery of all time.”

  “Bakst told me about a find in the ruin of some house that belonged to a friend of Shakespeare’s.”

  “Hamnet Sadler.”

  “And the find was?”

  “I really can’t tell you.”

  “I really think you should.” I tightened my grip on his throat again and his face reddened.

  “All right,” he croaked. “It was a roll of papers, sealed inside a lead cylinder. The papers are supposed to include Shakespeare’s will and something else, something he called a ‘testament’.”

  “And this testament?”

  “I haven’t yet seen it. All I’ve seen is the fax. I’ve been trying to negotiate some sort of arrangement…”

  I eased my grip and held him loosely by his tweed jacket. “You mean, you’ve been trying to sell to the highest bidder.”

  He rubbed his neck, glaring at me reproachfully. “The thing about the testament is that it’s a confidential addition to the will that’s never before come to light. It’s a massively valuable document in its own right, especially if it’s in Shakespeare’s own hand.”

  “What does it say?”

  “It describes other papers that Shakespeare gave to Sadler for safekeeping. The inference is that Shakespeare didn’t trust his wife to look after them after his death. He wanted his legacy to survive and ensure his immortality. It’s these papers that are the real prize. The first find could be worth millions but the rest of it…”

  I stepped back and he moved away from the door, brushing cobwebs from his jacket. “Who’s this other collector?”

  He opened his mouth to speak but something distracted him. I followed his eyes and saw a man coming towards us from the entrance to the alley. The natural light was behind him, so that all I could see was his silhouette, and the wind picked up again and blew leaves and litter around his legs. As I strained to make out his features, Roden took advantage of my momentary distraction. It was my own fault, I guess: I figured him for a pretentious little bugger and just didn’t think he’d do something as coarsely proletarian as knee me in the groin.

  I reacted quickly and half-blocked his leg but it still felt as though an elephant was tap-dancing on my stomach. I began to double over, trying impotently to grab him as he pushed past me and half-tumbled into the alley.

  A second later, I heard a muffled phut and a grunt of surprise.

  I looked up and saw Roden drop to the cobblestones. I heard two more of the silenced spits. I’d already pushed myself back into the doorway but I didn’t need to look twice at Roden’s body to know he’d sneered at his last inferior being. Whoever was out there in the alley had a heavy caliber firearm on the far end of his silencer: from the mess it had made of the professor’s chest and head, I’d guess at a .44 or .45, probably loaded with soft-nosed ammunition. Very nasty.

  I ignored the pain from my groin and took a quick glance around the edge of the doorway. The gunman had moved forward and I could see him more cle
arly now. He was about my height and build and was wearing a black raincoat, dark glasses and a scarf pulled up over the bottom half of his face: not exactly an inconspicuous costume during the tourist season in Stratford-upon-Avon but not so silly if you’re planning a massacre. He was also, I noticed, left-handed. He swung the pistol in my direction. I ducked back, heard the phut again, together with the thud of the bullet as it hit the brickwork behind me.

  I leaned back against the door, wondering what he’d do next. He must, I thought, have had Roden down as his target. I hoped he’d figure that I couldn’t possibly identify him and that his best option now was to do a runner. Otherwise, the news for my life insurance company wasn’t looking too brilliant.

  I still had two things going for me. If he was the pro I thought he was, he’d assume I was armed. And the state of the rusty old lock behind me gave me some small chance of an escape route.

  I pushed myself along the door as far as I could without exposing myself to the gunman. I went too far and, as I ducked my head back, was able to confirm that he was still there, another foot or two closer, and was still interested in remodeling my skull. Fortunately, holding the pistol in his left hand affected his line of fire. Another shot went inches wide and I ducked away, raised my right foot and kicked at the lock.

  I hit the rusty metal squarely and the hinge screeched and swung loose. I’d have to risk enemy fire if I was going to move but it couldn’t be helped. I stepped across and, putting my back to the wall nearest the shooter, swung the door towards me and open. There was another shot and I felt an impact on the edge of my right shoulder. I clutched my hand to my arm, feeling stickiness on my fingers and a new wave of pain to go with the one in my groin. The bullet had torn a chunk out of my jacket and sliced a half-inch gouge through skin and flesh, but I didn’t think it had cut any arteries. I ignored the pain, threw the door open and rushed into the building.

  The room was full of shelves containing Shakespeare souvenirs, ranging from the familiar plaster busts to models of Anne Hathaway’s house and paperweights displaying cheery messages from Stratford. No doubt there were more of these artistic artifacts in the cardboard boxes along the other shelves but I decided to contain my curiosity until I’d dealt with the homicidal shooter on my tail. I saw a door at the far end of the store room, put my head down and ran towards it.

  As I grabbed at the door handle, I glanced back in time to see the left-handed man appear outside the door. He was crouching and moving sideways, the pistol now clasped between his hands. I dived sideways behind one of the shelving units as he fired. Poor old Will took it for me, plaster clouding the air as the bust disintegrated.

  The man outside kept moving, rolling sideways, obviously still working on the assumption I might be armed. It was textbook house-to-house combat stuff: move and shoot, get out of the line of fire, check your options, move again. A Para would have worked the same way and I wondered where my new friend had learned his trade.

  It didn’t seem like a good time to ask him. I had milliseconds before he came out of the roll and returned for another shot. I picked his pistol for a Colt Gunsite, a heavy-duty automatic with an eight shot magazine. That that, even if he hadn’t reloaded – and, with this guy, it was quite likely he had – the next thing I could expect would be a series of shots sprayed into the room. Things didn’t look too good for me or Will’s remaining likenesses.

  I had to keep moving. Blood on my hand made my fingers slip on the door handle and I had to grip it with both hands. There was another shot and a thud on the wall, inches from my head. I tugged the door open and dived into the corridor beyond, forcing myself not to cry out as my aching groin and sliced-up shoulder joined forces and sent my brain a protest about the mistreatment they were getting.

  I heard a crash behind me as the gunman charged through the store-room. He must have decided by now that I was unarmed. I climbed up and threw myself at another door, opening it and diving forward as he emerged into the corridor and aimed another shot at me.

  I suppose I must have looked a bit out of the touristy ordinary when I plunged into the small shop beyond the door. I glanced at the attendants’ faces and pressed myself against the wall, beside the door, waiting to see what my would-be assassin would do next. Being a pro, I hoped he’d finally cut his losses and leg it. You never know with maniacal killers, though. It’s what makes them such fun.

  Seconds passed. I took another glance at my ripped sleeve. I could see the furrow in the exposed flesh, just below the tip of my shoulder, and knew I’d been lucky. Given the sort of weapon the gunman was using, a solid hit could have taken my arm off. I leant my head against the wall while the shop assistants and customers gazed at me in shocked silence.

  Finally, the bravest of the shop assistants, a young Indian woman with straight black hair, took a step towards me and raised her hand towards my shoulder. I gave her my best brave-little-soldier smile. “I think you’d better call the cops, love,” I said.

  Chapter 9

  The Stratford police sat me in a different interview room this time but the décor and furnishings weren’t much of an improvement. A young constable stood watch as a flustered-looking medic prodded at my shoulder and gave me a local anesthetic, a line of stitches and a nice new bandage. I asked the doctor if I could go ahead with my plans to enter a hammer throwing competition on the weekend. He handed me a plastic bottle of painkillers and left without saying a word.

  The constable turned out to be as taciturn as he was youthful. I gave up trying to get him to shed light on my immediate prospects and slumped in my chair, running recent events through in my mind. It was clear that the left-handed gunman had been following me, just as I’d been following the boy. I had no doubt that Roden was his real quarry but why then had he gone ahead and shot him? Maybe Roden had contacted more people about his supposed treasure trove than he’d let on. Maybe he’d been trying to start an auction. So, who else could he have contacted? He’d mentioned the man he’d met in the pub garden, that lunchtime on our first day here. I told myself I was stupid for not getting his name when Roden had brought him up but, then again, I had meant to ask sometime. It was just that Roden had inconsiderately got himself killed first.

  I felt more than ever that I owed it to Thorpe’s memory to make sure that his killers were held to account. The police didn’t inspire confidence. They were dealing with professionals who were unlikely to leave too many clues to their identities. And they were constrained by having to act within the law, a restriction that didn’t necessarily apply to me.

  The door opened and the detectives who’d interviewed me and Isbey, three days earlier, strolled into the room. The older one with the lined face was, if I remembered correctly, the detective sergeant. Tench. His mate was, of course, Rainbow: he was still in gray from head to foot, apart from scuffed black shoes, and I could smell the odor of cigarette smoke from across the room. The two of them sat opposite me and Tench gestured for the constable to leave before tapping the buttons of a tape recorder and beginning a mechanical recitation which covered the who, when and why of the coming discussion.

  “So,” Rainbow started. “You’ve managed to create quite a bit of excitement in our sleepy little town, haven’t you, Mr. Hastings? On top of the earlier carnage, we have another man dead and you wounded. Blood all over the cobblestones.”

  I tried to look sympathetic. “I bet the local tourist board is thrilled.”

  “What can you tell us about this latest incident?”

  “The dead man was-”

  “Robert Findlay Roden,” Rainbow finished for me. “His wallet was still in his pocket.”

  “So theft wasn’t the motive,” Tench said. He leaned across the table and stared at me. “Perhaps you’d like to run through what happened this morning, Mr. Hastings? Starting at the beginning?”

  I told them everything that had taken place since I had lain in wait in the hotel lobby. They heard me out and then started with the questions. What else did
I know about Roden’s business in Stratford? Who was he working for? Who had he met since he’d been here? Did I have any idea why he might have wanted to disappear, after we first came to the town? And, most of all, did I have any idea who might have wanted him dead? I pleaded ignorance in response to all the above, either because I genuinely didn’t know the answers or for reasons of client confidentiality. After they’d heard my brief non-answers, we started going over the whole thing again.

  So it continued for the next couple of hours. The only thing that changed was that the anesthetic in my arm gradually faded and a throbbing pain kicked in. Otherwise, I stuck to my story and, although the detectives weren’t impressed with my inability to provide insights into Stratford’s latest crime wave, they eventually tired of repeating the same old questions. They stood up and Tench turned off the tape recorder while Rainbow asked me to wait in the room until someone came to get me. I shrugged, felt another jolt of pain from my shoulder, sat back and watched them leave.

  A few minutes later, Tench returned and told me I was free to go. I guessed I still wasn’t top of his Christmas card list but he was proper enough as he led me through the station building. He asked that I keep in contact and I gave him my mobile number and he told me not to leave the country without police permission.

  And, he told me, I could expect to hear from him and Rainbow again. Which, all things considered, made it the perfect end to a perfect day.

  Chapter 10

  To be more accurate, it was almost the perfect end to a perfect day.

  It was spitting with rain when I walked back out onto the street and called Isbey on my mobile. From the silence when I identified myself, I guessed he was still annoyed about my earlier insubordination. I pretended not to notice and gave him an update on the day’s events.

  “We must,” he said at length, “regard this as an extremely serious development.”

  “I think Roden would agree with you. If he was still in a position to.”

  A truck went by, blowing diesel fumes into my face and drowning out part of his reply. “…understand what I mean. We need to question whether the agency should continue to involve itself in this affair or simply leave it to the police to conduct their investigations.”