Rat Poison

by Margaret Duffy

  There was just a mouthful or so and although I had more purification tablets I could not go down to fetch water without being spotted. After he had drunk it Patrick checked that no one else had come up through the hatch with the other two. It was while he was right down the other end of the loft, as I kept watch out of the window, that there was a pounding of feet on the stairs and three men rushed in.

  Somehow, we fought them off and to my shame my efforts seemed to consist of no more than pecking around, as it were, on the edges of the conflict where I could be sure of not hitting Patrick. Finally, one of them fled and Patrick grabbed my weapon, using it to batter down the other two. One of them had had a knife, leaving him bleeding from a slashed left arm, the only consolation two unconscious, or dead, men – I did not care which by now – on the floor.

  ‘Do I phone now?’ I asked, very quietly, mostly because one of them had caught me with a fist on the side of my head.

  ‘No, not yet.’

  I made no comment, binding up his arm with a silk scarf I had in my pocket.

  ‘Are you still there?’ called a woman’s voice from down in the yard, Murphy almost certainly.

  ‘I’m still here,’ Patrick replied, going nowhere near the door – right now he did not have the strength to.

  ‘You only have your knife, don’t you?’

  ‘You know that.’

  They were trying to force open the trapdoor from below again so I went and stood on it with the oil drum.

  Footsteps approached: she was mounting the stairs. If I stayed quite still she might not spot me here in the shadows. I saw that Patrick was holding his knife, having not resorted to use it in the hand-to-hand fighting, and had seated himself on one of several large chunks of wood. In the next moment Murphy appeared framed in the doorway.

  Someone shouted at her not to be a fool.

  ‘Still getting your kicks?’ Patrick said softly. He was in full view of her, in the light.

  ‘You have to get them where you can,’ the woman drawled with the merest hint of an Irish accent, raising the gun she was carrying.

  ‘You and your filthy brood are under arrest. If you resist arrest . . .’ He left the rest unsaid.

  Predictably, Murphy laughed. ‘Perhaps I’ll just trim you off a little at the edges first, make you a bit kinda frilly.’ She laughed again and I detected a hysterical note to it.

  Patrick released the blade of his knife, that horrible slicing click.

  ‘Sadly, no match against a bullet,’ she sighed and I was sure I saw her finger tense on the trigger.

  ‘I could always throw it.’

  ‘That’s really kinky,’ she said in mock admiration and then uttered a shriek as his arm swiftly moved. Then she fired, wildly, and I heard the bullet thunk into the roof somewhere.

  ‘I thought you liked knives,’ Patrick said, still speaking very quietly, seemingly addressing the blade before him. ‘The ones in your kitchen . . .’

  ‘They weren’t mine. The previous tenant left them behind. Just things for cooking. I don’t cook. Yes, I like knives, but—’

  ‘But not when in the hands of other people?’ Patrick interrupted softly. ‘You’re an exception as the Brits don’t usually like them at all. This one’s Italian. They’re very serious about things like this in Italy. The man who made it for me promised I’d be able to slit someone from throat to belly with it.’ He held it up for her to see. ‘But it is a throwing knife and if I got you from here it might go right through.’

  Perhaps her hand was aching, perhaps not, for she lowered the gun a little.

  ‘What the hell are you doing up there?’ another man shouted. ‘Just kill the bastard and be done with it.’

  There were sudden crashes and bangs as tiles began to be wrenched off one corner of the roof behind me and thrown down to the ground. By the sound of it several people were tearing them off and almost immediately I could see quite a large rectangle of light shining through. I decided that enough talking had been done and put a shot into that general area, hearing a yell of fright, a scrabbling noise and then a thud as someone jumped off the roof. There was another shot and I dived to the floor.

  Peeping around the oil drum through the swirling cloud of dust I had created I could see neither Patrick nor Murphy so crawled towards the doorway, aware that the roof tiles were still being torn off. Brad Northwood, or whoever, was shouting at them to get on with it.

  In view of this I risked raising my voice. ‘Patrick, are you all right? Patrick!’

  An arm appeared from somewhere to the rear of the log pile and waved weakly. I crawled over there. Patrick looked to be jammed in a small space on the floor between the wood stack and the eaves of the roof.

  ‘Are you hit?’ I asked, heaving away at the stack, actually heavy sections of a tree branch, while trying to watch the door. Above the sound of the tiles crashing down I thought I could hear vehicles.

  ‘I don’t think so. Just . . . too weak to get out.’

  Frantically, I searched through my pockets and came up with a battered half-bar of Kendal mint cake, thrusting it at him while I hauled away the wood surrounding him with the other hand, sending it bowling across the floor. The vehicles I had heard were arriving, their headlights beaming around and then coming to a stop, revealing, for a moment, that my husband’s face was as white as chalk under the dirt and that his left arm resembled an uncooked joint of meat, scarf and all.

  The sound of gunfire burst out, galvanizing Patrick to free himself from the last of the logs. Then, a shot having smashed through the tiny window, showering us with glass, he grabbed me and hauled me back into the space with him.

  ‘What on earth’s going on?’I said.

  ‘Well, it isn’t the cops, that’s for sure. They wouldn’t behave like this and have the wrong kind of hardware.’

  ‘Shall I phone now?’

  ‘Being as you’re on top and I can’t move . . .’

  I wriggled around to find my mobile and managed to dial our emergency number. In the yard below a gun battle was raging, men shouting, footsteps pounding. I was praying that we had been forgotten about.

  ‘Did you throw the knife?’ I asked.

  ‘No, just chucked myself over here when you fired the first shot. God knows where she went.’

  It was not the kind of phone number that went directly to Greenway and all I could do was report that we needed urgent assistance, giving the location as best as I was able. The operator seemed to think I should know the postcode and I am afraid I swore at her.

  Car doors slammed and an engine revved, the vehicle then smashing into something as it skidded around but it still roared away into the distance.

  After this there was silence and for a long time, during which the pair on the floor crept towards the door and disappeared, neither of us moved or spoke.

  ‘It wasn’t me! I wasn’t even there!’ a man suddenly bawled somewhere down below.

  ‘Prove it!’ yelled someone else. ‘And it had better be good or you’re as dead as cold mutton!’

  ‘I was in the slammer!’

  ‘I know that voice,’ Patrick said.

  ‘Which one?’ I asked.

  ‘The second one. Let me out of here.’

  This was not easy and I had to give him a helping hand.

  ‘Please don’t go out there,’ I begged as he headed a little unsteadily for the doorway. But he did and stood at the top of the stairs, lit as if by a searchlight. I braced myself to hear shots but nothing happened.

  ‘Micky, old chum, do we have you to thank for this?’ he called.

  ‘It’s the cop who breaks necks!’ cried Mick the Kick. ‘Do you mean by that that you have your excellent woman with you?’ His voice came closer. ‘She gave me the nod, you know, told me Carrick was going to pick me up if I turned up in Bath the other night.’

  I went to stand looking over Patrick’s shoulder.

  ‘You are here!’ the man chortled and I realized that he was nowhere near sober
.

  Patrick said, ‘And if you don’t sod off pronto you’ll get arrested right now. Have you disarmed Uncle’s lot?’

  ‘Or shot them,’ said the man with a hiccuping laugh. ‘No, actually most of them threw their weapons down and we’ve banged them up in a garage. We might just chuck in some petrol and make a bonfire of them. But Northwood and the woman got away. I’ll find them.’

  ‘You won’t. The police will do that.’

  ‘You’re not in charge here.’

  ‘Yes, I am.’

  I cannot really explain why this mobster, after a heavy silence, accepted this and can only put it down to the fact that lieutenant colonels have always expected to be obeyed, so generally are. Standing there, bleeding and swaying a little on his feet, Patrick still possessed that presence that drew a kind of grudging respect.

  ‘I meant what I said,’ Patrick went on quietly. ‘We’ve phoned in. It’s only a matter of a few minutes before armed cops arrive. All I can do is to give you a head start. If you’re caught I can do no more and when Cookson finally catches up with you I can’t do anything for you then either. And I must warn you that if you now attempt an armed stand-off I shall personally blow your bloody head off.’

  They all got into a huddle and after not a little muttering had taken place they got into their cars and drove away. I shall always remember the ironic little salute their leader gave Patrick as he went.

  I fixed some purified water for him and we stayed where we were, sitting on the top step, he too weary to do anything about the garaged gang members although there were heavy bangs and thumps in the distance as they tried to break out. Soon, we heard sirens and together made our way towards the house, Patrick going indoors to look for his Glock before the police grabbed it as Exhibit Z. Amazingly, he found it, together with a packet of biscuits and a pint of milk, not reckoning them to be particularly important forensic evidence. Anyway, by the time the law arrived we had wolfed them down.

  This was not the first time I had booked into a hotel only to arrive the next morning with a dishevelled and unwashed man, introducing him to a bemused young woman behind the reception desk as my husband, when in fact there was every indication that I had picked him up in a hostel for the destitute. But Patrick gave the alarmed girl a smile and told her the truth: that he was a policeman who had been working behind the scenes on the local murder case and had cut his arm. We were told that the village, where it apparently makes banner headlines if someone falls off a bus, was even at this early hour rocking with the news.

  Formalities with Sussex Police – after all he had killed five men – had taken almost three hours. The bodies in the house had been found to be armed with handguns, plus a knife, all the fingers of both hands wearing heavy rings to inflict maximum injury. Those outside, in the ditch near the barn, were a slightly different matter. They too had been armed, with handguns, two of which he had thrown over the hedge, keeping one in case he had needed it. But Patrick had been able to provide the DCI in charge with all the background information to the case which would probably save them a lot of work. There would of course have to be a full investigation by the complaints department, especially with regard to the bodies in the ditch as, strictly speaking, he had not killed these men in self-defence. But for now he was free to go. We had been given a lift back to the hotel and I had then driven him to Worthing Hospital as his arm needed a few stitches, the paramedics in one of the ambulances called for the wounded having provided a temporary dressing. With the journey time this took almost another three hours.

  Casualties suffering from gunshot wounds among the gang members had been extremely light considering the amount of shooting that had taken place, with only one man seriously wounded and two slightly. Fifteen were found in the garage, including Colin Andrews, some in the kind of state that suggested they had tried to storm a barn and failed dismally. Another three were subsequently found wandering, completely lost, in the countryside by the Mounted Branch; a fourth made it back to Steyning where he tried to break into a cottage only to be beaten off by an old lady with her walking stick. He was arrested shortly afterwards. The rest – Patrick had initially counted around thirty – remained unaccounted for.

  But that was all for the future.

  When we were back in my room at the hotel I reported all this to Commander Greenway and persuaded him that no, we could not drive back straight away to London to report personally and that Patrick needed several hours rest as he had lost blood.

  ‘You should rest as well,’ Patrick pointed out, having overheard the conversation.

  I voiced my worries. ‘You humiliated that woman – in her eyes, that is. It’ll be eating into her – like acid.’

  He became very serious. He takes my remarks concerning the female mindset very seriously indeed.

  ‘You knifed those two henchmen right in front of her eyes. I should imagine no one’s done anything like that before. Then she chickened out of shooting you because she was terrified you’d get her first.’

  ‘That was the general idea.’

  ‘She’s raving mad, Patrick. Remember what we found in her flat?’

  ‘You reckon she’ll come looking for me?’

  ‘Yes, I do. She might talk him into it too – unfinished business.’

  ‘We’re assuming that neither of them was injured.’

  ‘It’s safer to assume that they weren’t.’ I had a truly horrible thought. ‘It’s possible they’ll go to Hinton Littlemore rather than risk coming back here.’

  Patrick shot to his feet. ‘We must go!’

  I drove and we did the journey without stopping. I was glad that after leaving a message on James Carrick’s mobile Patrick slept for most of the way, waking only as we ghosted down the village high street at just before seven forty-five. All seemed very peaceful: a few early commuters setting off, a paper boy on his round. Following Patrick’s suggestion I parked by the church and we walked across the churchyard and through the gate into our own garden. A man armed with a Heckler and Koch stepped out from behind a hedge.

  ‘Gillard,’ Patrick said quietly.

  ‘No problems here, sir,’ the man responded. ‘There are three of us watching the place.’

  ‘Try to stay out of sight of those indoors – but I will warn them.’

  ‘I suggest a pause for thought before we go in,’ I said as we approached our back entrance.

  Patrick stepped aside so that we stood beneath the stone archway that is situated between the garden and the paved yard, smaller now the conservatory has been built.

  ‘Where are they?’ I said. ‘I mean, here we have what is probably a very physically unfit bloke with a woman who probably fanatically works out in a gym. He’ll be a drag on her and the pair of them could have been drinking. If they drove here without having a rest he, at least, will be knackered.’

  ‘If they’re in Hinton Littlemore at all.’

  ‘Yes, quite. But it might be . . . profitable to assume that they are. So, as I said, where are they?’

  ‘They wouldn’t want whichever car they’re using to be visible from the road.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘The pub? They could have got the keys from Colin Andrews. And as we already know it does have two lock-up garages plus a yard where vehicles can’t really be seen unless you go right in there.’

  ‘And there’ll be food of some kind and drink left behind, plus somewhere to get a couple of hours’ sleep.’

  ‘Here’s hoping that if they’re there they’ve hit the bottle again,’ Patrick muttered, setting off back the way we had come. He waved to the man to whom we had just spoken, saying, ‘Forgotten something in the car.’

  Stolidly – I knew he was still feeling weak – Patrick headed for the old gate in the far side of the churchyard boundary wall that we had used on the night we had entered the Ring o’ Bells not so long ago. At least it was broad daylight this time, our surreptitious journey no more than what would normally be a pleasant
walk in the English countryside using ancient byways. With the pair of us hyper-alert it actually felt more like a commando exercise.

  Like the previous time, we said nothing. There was nothing to say.

  On the climb out of the railway cutting Patrick sat down suddenly and put his head between his knees.

  ‘I’m too old for this kind of thing now,’ he murmured.

  ‘No, you lost more blood than anyone realized,’ I told him, actually feeling a bit dizzy myself from lack of food and sleep.

  ‘Any more Kendal mint cake?’

  ‘Sorry, no.’

  ‘Who knows, there might be a packet of crisps in the pub.’

  After a couple of minutes we carried on and were soon walking down the lane that ran past the rear of the pub. I had to keep looking round, convinced I could hear footsteps behind us. But no one was there. Perhaps I was hallucinating.

  The building came into sight, the gates closed as we had expected. This was actually to our advantage as it screened us from the eyes of anyone looking out of a downstairs window and those on the upper floor were obscured by the lower branches of the oak tree in the small customers’ car park. And if we succeeded in getting right up close to the gates, which were quite high, no one indoors would be able to see us either.

  ‘I happen to know,’ Patrick said quietly, ‘that there’s a hole in the left-hand gate where a knot in the wood has fallen out.’

  ‘To look through, you mean.’

  ‘Umm. Matthew told me.’

  ‘In case you needed to spy on the place one day, presumably.’

  ‘Well, as we’ve discovered, the pair of them have been snooping around here for weeks, if not months.’

  By a slightly roundabout route we reached the gates, feigned interest in the overhanging tree as a car drove by, and then Patrick looked through the hole, having to bend down slightly.

  ‘No cars,’ he reported in a whisper. ‘But it could be in one of the lock-ups.’ He straightened, adding, ‘If they are here I shall endeavour to arrest them. I’m reluctant to call for backup in case they aren’t and there will be no time between finding out for sure and . . .’ He shrugged.