The Button Man: A Hugo Marston Novel

by Pryor, Mark

  “We have an hour’s drive, so be my guest.” He nodded to the driver, who turned in his seat and smiled at Hugo.

  “Nice to see you again, sir. PC Agarwal, from the church in Weston.” He turned back and flicked a switch, starting the overhead light on the car. “Sirens too, sir?”

  “Not until someone gets in our way,” said Upton. He fastened his seat belt and turned to Hugo. “Now, what the hell is going on? And why haven’t you been answering your phone?”

  Hugo told him about the note and his phone, and about Walton being on board the train.

  “An eventful day,” Upton said. “Something doesn’t make sense, though.”

  “Several things don’t make sense,” Hugo said wearily. “Which one are you talking about?”

  “If Walton is some murderous lunatic, why didn’t he slit your throat while he had the chance? He left a bloody note, for heaven’s sake. A note.”

  “I know, and I don’t get it either. Although, even for him, killing someone on a moving train would be rash. He’d certainly get caught. On the other hand, maybe he didn’t have a weapon? It’s not like he could have throttled me, I’d have woken up and beat the crap out of him.”

  Upton smiled grimly. “True enough, but if we’re right about him, the guy’s killed several people in cold blood, and I can’t imagine it’s that hard to find something heavy or sharp enough to kill a sleeping man, even Hugo Marston.”

  “I agree. Maybe he knows that killing cops, or in my case ex-cops, will turn this from a manhunt into something he’ll never get out of alive.”

  “Cop killers tend not to fair well once they are caught, that’s true,” Upton said. “You think that’s it?”

  Hugo just shook his head. He thought for a moment and asked, “What did you find on him?”

  Upton opened a briefcase at his feet and pulled out a manila folder, then switched on the light above his head. “Most of it you know. Grew up in Weston, Hertfordshire, family religious, father—”

  “Skip to the recent stuff if you don’t mind, I’m still hoping for a nap,” Hugo said with a gentle smile.

  “OK, well, you remember how he took a year off, after winning his little bundle in the lottery? Turns out it wasn’t to catch some rest and relaxation, at least not in the traditional sense. He went a little bananas and spent eight months in a mental-health facility.”

  “When was this?”

  “Three years ago. No lasting damage, and he didn’t hurt anyone. Sound relevant?”

  “Hell yes. Was he committed or did he seek treatment himself?”

  “He was committed. Found wandering the lanes, covered in mud, and when some local tried to help him, he started yelling and screaming about God and the church. Then, according to my reports, he just went kind of silent and brooding. For months.”

  “God and the church, eh?”

  “The usual subject for lunatics,” Upton said. “That and aliens.”

  “Anything else?” Hugo asked.

  “Not really. He bought an apartment in London with his winnings, paid his taxes, then bought this place we’re going to in Walkern, and soon after sold the family home in Weston.”

  “Are the two villages close?”

  “Less than five miles, I’d say. Why?”

  “Curious that he’d move from the family home to someplace close by. Any friends there? Is it a fancy new house?”

  “No friends, or lady friends, that I know of. And his new house is pretty much the same as his old one, just in a different village.”

  “Why would he do that?”

  “No idea,” said Upton. “But before I forget, the vicar of the Weston Church confirmed that the grave you found wasn’t intended for one of her parishioners or dug by her gravedigger.”

  “Must have been Walton again. What’s the deal with the vicar, by the way? A woman, and one with tattoos, must be pretty unusual in the countryside.”

  Upton shrugged. “Not really. Not that close to London, and Weston is pretty much a suburb by now. Anyway, she was up front and doesn’t have any connection to these people. Interesting background though, since you’re wondering about her tattoos.”

  “Oh? Do tell.”

  “All rather tragic, actually. She was married to some fellow a few years ago, down in Dorset. He was abusive and one day she got fed up and put a stop to it, with a shotgun.”

  “Can’t blame her for that.”

  “No, except some of the pellets went through an open doorway and killed their only son, he was a toddler, I think. She buried her husband in the back garden but when the police showed up she was cradling that little boy, catatonic. She did some time, not much, and when she got out she turned her life around and, as they say, gave herself to God.”

  “Prison tattoos on a vicar? Somehow that tickles me. But I’m glad it’s not been a problem for her there.”

  “She’s no-nonsense, takes care of people day or night, and gives interesting sermons.”

  “I bet.” Hugo thought for a moment but had no immediate questions about Walton. He hoped the search of the man’s house would turn up more. “Anything on Pendrith?”

  “Even more of a blank than Walton, I’m afraid. Single, devoted to his work, fought passionately for the causes he believed in.” Upton held up his hands in surrender. “Other than that, nothing.”

  “What were those causes?”

  “He doesn’t like Muslims much, I gather, not these days anyway.” Upton referred to his notes. “But a few years back it was more domestic stuff, like compensation for victims of crime, especially children. He’s toughened drunk-driving laws. Now he’s on his kick to get inmates out of prison before the system has to take care of them.”

  “What do you think of that?”

  “Me? Sounds like a bloody good idea to me, but apparently I’m in the minority. The idea comes across as soft on crime, and Pendrith was pilloried for it.”

  “In Parliament or the press?”

  “Both. Mostly his colleagues and opponents in government, because some of the liberal press support the idea. But coming across as soft on crime doesn’t get you far these days.”

  “Try it in Texas,” Hugo said dryly.

  Beside him, Upton looked at his watch and reached up to switch the reading light off. “By my reckoning, we have about thirty minutes.”

  Hugo settled back into his seat and closed his eyes. “That’ll do for now.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Upton woke him just as they passed through the village of Weston, offering him a cup of sweet, black coffee from a flask that the driver, Agarwal, kept on the front passenger seat. Hugo took the cup and held it in his hands while the shrouds of sleep slowly fell away, the aroma making his stomach feel at first queasy and then growl with hunger. He sipped at the liquid and relished the warmth and energy it gave him.

  Beside Hugo, Upton reached inside his pocket when his phone rang. The policeman listened, shaking his head. “That’s ridiculous. You’re absolutely sure?” More listening. “Any pub or hotel in Walkern, I don’t care. Just make it close to his house and get me that damn warrant first thing in the morning.”

  “Bad news?” Hugo asked as Upton tucked his phone away.

  “No warrant tonight, we’ll have to hole up until the morning. No judge or magistrate answers the door at this time of night on a weekend, apparently. No friendly one, anyway. My man promises it’ll be early in the morning, when one of them walks his blasted dog or goes for a jog.”

  Hugo grunted, irritated at the delay but deeply grateful for the possibility of some proper rest. Outside, the clear night flashed by, brimming with tiny pinpricks of starlight that were never so visible from the city. At some point, Agarwal had turned off the police car’s flashing light, maybe to let him sleep. As they swept past the rolling farmland, Hugo drained the cup and handed it back to the driver with his thanks. Agarwal almost dropped the cup as his phone rang and he hurried to answer it, listening for a moment and then saying simply, “Yes,
sir.” He reached back and handed the open phone to Hugo.

  “It’s for you, sir. Your embassy.” When he saw a quizzical look on Hugo’s face, he smiled. “We gave them my number, so as not to tie up DCI Upton’s phone when they wanted you. My wife’s the only one likely to be inconvenienced.”

  Hugo smiled. “Very sensible, and give her my apologies.” He liked PC Agarwal, capable, intelligent, and possessing the kind of ever-present humor a good policeman needed. He took the phone, expecting to hear Bart Denum’s voice, but it was the night message service.

  “Mr. Marston?” The voice belonged to a young man, a little wary of speaking to his embassy’s security chief.

  “Yes, what’s up?”

  “Sir, a message was left for you ten minutes ago. When Mr. Denum went home he said that you were on important business, so I thought I’d call and let you know, in case it’s significant.”

  “Who is it from?”

  “She didn’t say, sir, just left what sounds like a code name.”

  Hugo sat up straight. “Merlyn?”

  “Yes, sir.” The young man sounded surprised. “One second and I’ll play it.”

  Hugo turned up the volume and held the phone between him and Upton, so the Englishman could hear. They waited for five seconds, then heard her voice. “Hugo, just wanted to let you know everything is OK. Harry said you’d called him and asked him to make sure I was safe. Thanks for doing that. Anyway, he suggested I leave a message for you here, rather than your phone. I’m keeping mine switched off so they can’t track me. Anyway, I won’t say where we are in case someone hears this message, but he said I could tell you it was the place you’d talked about. In Edinburgh.”

  There was a moment’s silence before the young man came back online. “That’s it, sir. Do you want to hear it again?”

  “No, but I need you to type it word for word and e-mail to Bart Denum, then have him forward it to DCI Upton.”

  “Right away, sir.”

  “What’s your name, son?”

  “Chris Collings, sir.”

  “You did the right thing, Chris, good work.”

  Hugo closed the phone and handed it to Agarwal.

  Upton pulled out his own phone and made a call, giving instructions to have officers watching every stop on the way to, and including, Edinburgh rail station. When he’d finished, he turned to Hugo. “Too many roads to watch, obviously, which is probably how they’re traveling. So, what’s in Edinburgh?”

  “No idea. We never talked about anywhere like that.”

  “You sure? Not even in passing conversation?”

  “We didn’t have much of that.” Hugo frowned, deep in thought, then shook his head. “What the hell is he playing at?”

  “I don’t know,” Upton said, “but we’re here.”

  Another small inn, much like the Rising Moon, but as long as it had beds Hugo was past caring about its other quirks, quaint or not.

  Hugo slept with Agarwal’s phone beside him, but it didn’t ring, or if it did he didn’t hear it. He was woken the next morning by Upton banging on his door, a mug of black coffee in his hand. The coffee was too sweet but welcome nonetheless.

  “What time is it?” asked Hugo, forcing himself to sit up.

  “Six. Get dressed—we’re in business,” Upton said on his way out the door.

  Hugo climbed out of the bed, splashed water on his face in the small sink in his room, and quickly pulled on yesterday’s clothes between sips of coffee.

  He was downstairs in five minutes and they climbed wordlessly into Agarwal’s car. The constable watched him buckle in, then peeled out of the parking lot and drove hard toward Walton’s house, half a mile away, headlights cutting through the morning darkness. Hugo sat forward, looking through the windshield as they slowed, turning onto a smaller road and then nudging between two police cars that blocked off the street. Two more cars performed the same job at the other end, and a dozen officers in military-style fatigues moved like silhouettes in the dark, forming a ring around the house, Heckler & Koch G36 carbines slung across their chests. Agarwal brought the car to a halt in front of the house next to Walton’s. Armed officers opened the car doors, and Upton and Hugo climbed out. One of the officers handed a piece of paper to Upton and said, “Warrant signed, sir.”

  Upton looked over at Hugo. “Ready?”

  “Yes. No one inside, right?”

  “Right.” Upton smiled grimly. “Unless he’s dead in there.”

  “Just for once, I think we’re going to be corpse-free,” Hugo said, returning the tight smile. “So let’s go in slow, no need for the cavalry. I want to see the place the way he left it, not after your storm troopers have turned everything upside down.”

  “We need to let a couple of them take the lead, Hugo. If we’re wrong about it being empty and you catch lead, then I’ll be directing traffic for the rest of my career.”

  Hugo shook his head. “No, your boys can open it and shout loudly, but I want in first.”

  “Hugo.” Upton turned and stood directly in front of him, his voice low but firm. “My op, Hugo, we do it my way. I’m helping you all I can, but don’t push it, OK?”

  They locked eyes for a second, Hugo realizing he was on thin ice. He nodded.

  “Thank you,” Upton said. “We’ll breach with four men at the entry point, then I’ll have just two men clear the place without touching anything. And then you can go in.”

  “That works,” said Hugo. “And you know I appreciate your help, Clive. I guess I just need to work on showing it.”

  “Forget it, we’re both tired.” He looked over Hugo’s shoulder at his men. “OK, let’s get on with it.”

  They moved up the short path to the front door, the four-man breach team taking the lead, Upton behind them, Hugo taking up the rear. Walton’s house was a stone-washed row house, probably built in the 1930s and touched little by time. Small cracks had been filled in with mortar over the years, but it had been a while since the window frames had seen paint. The front door looked solid enough, but the front two policemen and their designer battering ram made short work of it.

  Hugo waited beside Upton and two cops in battledress, trying not to show his impatience, and in just three minutes the advance pair returned and assured Upton the house was clear.

  Hugo entered first, Upton in his wake. They moved along the hallway, which ran the length of the house, a staircase to his left. Hugo started his search in the small sitting room, which held a desk and a two-drawer filing cabinet beside it.

  “Take the desk, I’ll look at his files,” Hugo said. He pulled the top drawer open and ran his fingers over the row of hanging folders, starting at the front and working his way back. “Household stuff, phone and electric bills, tax stuff . . .” He got to the end of the drawer and slid it shut, opening the bottom one. Beside him, Upton was opening and closing desk drawers, leafing through stacks of papers on the desktop. “You got anything?” asked Hugo.

  “I’m not entirely sure what I’m looking for,” Upton said, “but nothing stands out.”

  “Me neither. Anything with Pendrith’s name on it, any kind of diary, or ramblingly insane manifesto.” He saw Upton’s raised eyebrow. “Hey, it could happen. Just ask the Unabomber.”

  “Here.” Upton pulled a slender laptop computer from the desk’s bottom drawer. “This might tell us something.”

  “Great, have a look through it, if you can.”

  Upton pulled a chair to the desk and sat, opening the little computer. Hugo went back to the file cabinet. Walton had kept meticulous records of his freelance work, photocopies of checks, a ledger with dates and payments, and copies of everything of his that had been published, each article carefully pasted to a sheet of paper and inserted into a scrap book.

  At the back of the drawer, Hugo found what looked like a manuscript, a ream of paper covered in type, held together with a red ribbon tied around the middle. Like an old-fashioned legal brief, Hugo thought. He pulled it out and ran h
is fingers over the front page. Typed, not printed from a computer.

  “Anything else in that desk drawer?” Hugo asked Upton.

  “No, not that I saw, except an old typewriter.”

  Hugo stood by the desk, the manuscript in his hands, and undid the ribbon. He began reading, laying the pages face down on the desk as he finished each one. Upton stopped what he was doing and looked up.

  “The manifesto you’d hoped for?”

  “Not exactly,” Hugo said. “I’m not sure whether it’s a biography, an autobiography, or fiction. But either way, it’s about his father.”

  Upton picked up a page from the desk. “He typed it? On that typewriter?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why would he do that when he has a computer?”

  “I think it was very intentional. And I’m seeing a pattern.”

  “What pattern?”

  “Our man Walton is a throwback. An anachronism.” Hugo read another page. “It seems like . . . I think he’s turning into his father.”

  “How’s that possible?”

  “Anything’s possible if you have the right state of mind. Or the wrong one.”

  “Hugo, what the hell are you talking about?”

  Before Hugo could answer, Upton’s phone rang. He listened for a moment, then closed it. “The men are in place.”

  “Men?”

  “Yeah, Edinburgh, remember?”

  Hugo stroked his chin. “Call them off. They’re wasting their time.”

  “Why?”

  “Walton’s not going to Edinburgh. Merlyn maybe, but she’s by herself and he’s not going to hurt her. He never planned to hurt her.”

  “Hugo, for heaven’s sake, what are you talking about?”

  “She was a distraction. A red herring. He wanted us to go charging up to Scotland to save the damsel in distress.”

  “Even though he was never planning to hurt her, according to you.”

  “Right. Precisely.”

  “OK, so he wanted us out of the way. Why?”

  Hugo set the manuscript down on the desk. He looked up and met Upton’s steel-gray eyes. “The book starts with a story about Walton’s christening. About the role of the church in the lives of him and his father after his mother’s death. It’s not literature, but he’s going somewhere with it, you can feel the anguish, anger even, bursting out from the page.”