Jokerman jp-3

by Tim Stevens

  ‘Park and walk?’ she suggested.

  She pulled in by the side of the green. Purkiss felt the sluggish warmth settle over him like a shroud as he stepped out. He noticed Hannah slipping the Glock inside her jacket.

  They walked narrow lanes, the odd passerby glancing at them incuriously. They must look like daytrippers, Purkiss thought, or else possibly a city couple looking for a second home as an investment, neither of which would be uncommon in a village like this. After a few minutes Purkiss peered down a muddy driveway towards a cottage half-hidden by a hedge.

  ‘That’s it,’ he said.

  They made their way down the drive, avoiding neat piles of horse manure. Purkiss wondered whether Arkwright had taken up farming since his discharge from the armed forces. Yes: the driveway opened out into a yard with stables and a small barn. To the left, in a paddock a pair of heavy horses snuffled and drowsed in the heat. On the other side of the cottage, marshland disappeared towards the tree-lined horizon.

  The only vehicle in the yard was a rusting pickup truck on flat tyres, which looked like it was there to be tinkered with but of little further use. Purkiss and Hannah stood still, scanning the cottage. The windows were open, suggesting current habitation, but there were no signs of life.

  They walked up to the front door, a weighty antique-looking affair with a brass knocker. Purkiss rapped hard, three times.

  Immediately a dog’s barking echoed from within. A medium-sized animal, Purkiss guessed: a Labrador or collie. The barking approached the door and continued there.

  Nobody opened the door. Hannah stepped back and gazed up at the windows. No head appeared.

  They did a quick circuit of the cottage, peering in at the windows. Nothing suggested anyone was home.

  Hannah said, ‘Do we wait?’

  Purkiss shrugged. ‘Or we could try the local pub. A place this size, someone there is bound to know where Arkwright is.’

  The pub, The Green Man, bore the traditional emblem of a bearded and slightly sinister face surrounded by leaves and tendrils. The building appeared authentically old, its Tudor beams listing alarmingly. The doorway was low and Purkiss had to duck as he stepped inside, Hannah behind him.

  The scattered late afternoon clientele was as listless as the day outside. Four men sat at the bar counter itself, murmuring their conversation into pint glasses while the florid landlord roved across from them, rubbing crockery dry. A clump of farmers sat around a table to the left, gently joshing one of their number who looked morose. To the right of the counter a girl and a boy, both temporary staff, flirted almost invisibly. A middle-aged tourist couple ate their late sandwich lunches in hasty silence in a booth near the entrance, as if conscious of their outsider status.

  One or two of the farmers at the table glanced round as Purkiss and Hannah entered, their gazes lingering on Hannah before they turned back to themselves. A fresh laugh rose from the table.

  Purkiss eased himself in among the drinkers at the bar, Hannah beside him. The landlord beamed tiredly.

  ‘What’ll it be, sir?’

  ‘We’re looking for Dennis Arkwright,’ said Purkiss, a little more loudly than necessary.

  The low hum of conversation in the pub didn’t quite stop entirely, but there was an almost tangible change in the atmosphere, a tightening. Purkiss was aware, on the periphery of his vision, of faces turned towards them.

  The landlord’s smile had faded a degree, though it lingered as if unwilling to let go of his face.

  Hannah said, ‘Do you know him?’

  After a pause, the landlord said: ‘I know him, yes. But he’s not here.’

  Purkiss half-turned, addressed the room. One or two more people had wandered in since he and Hannah had arrived. ‘Does anyone here know where Dennis Arkwright might be?’

  ‘Who wants to know?’ a voice called. It was one of the farmers sitting round the table. Their boozy cheeriness was gone, and they stared at Purkiss and Hannah with open curiosity and a trace of belligerence.

  Purkiss held up his fake warrant card. ‘Police,’ he said.

  Now all conversation did stop, even the tourists near the door staring across.

  The landlord said, quietly, ‘What’s the trouble?’

  ‘We just need to ask Mr Arkwright a few questions. So if anyone here knows where he might be at the moment, it really would be a great help.’ Purkiss’s tone suggested that, on the other hand, not to reveal where Arkwright was might be seen as obstructive.

  One of the farmers pushed his chair back, the legs screeching on the rough wooden floor. He reached for his pocket.

  Purkiss tensed. A blade? A gun, even? But the man took out a phone. Holding Purkiss’s stare, he murmured into it, then put it away.

  He stood up. Purkiss stepped away from the counter and towards him.

  The man was in his late twenties, burly, with the ruddy face and neck of someone who spent most of his day in the sun. His build suggested a life of physical labour.

  ‘Can you help us?’ Purkiss asked.

  The man appraised him, then glanced past him at Hannah who was close behind. He jerked his head.

  ‘I’m Dennis Arkwright’s son,’ he said. ‘He’ll meet you outside.’

  The rest of the farmers didn’t move. All eyes followed the three of them as they made their way to the door, the younger man in the lead. The tourist couple cringed away, not making eye contact as if to do so would rope them into the situation somehow.

  The man glanced back to make sure Purkiss and Hannah were with him, and turned left, walking along the road in front of the pub. At the side was an open wooden gate leading into the car park, where a few vehicles were scattered about.

  The man stopped, turned.

  ‘He’s on his way,’ he said.

  Purkiss studied him. The photo Vale had sent of Dennis Arkwright had been of low quality, and the man’s features had been so generic that it was difficult to see any resemblance in the son.

  ‘What’s your name?’ said Purkiss.

  The man stared back, said nothing.

  ‘Behind us,’ murmured Hannah.

  Purkiss stepped back and turned, so that he could keep Arkwright’s son in his field of vision.

  Walking towards them from the car park gate were two more men, of a similar age to the one who’d led them there. One of the men was taller and even broader than him. The other was smaller, wiry, his face drawn and tight, his eyes glittering.

  There was a distinct similarity in the features of all three men.

  The bigger man held a crowbar, hanging down by his side so that the end tapped against his leg. A length of chain was wrapped around the fist of the smaller man, the end swinging as he walked.

  The first man, the one whom they’d met inside the pub, reached into his pocket, pulled out a small metallic object. The blade sprang free with a snick.

  The two newcomers stopped ten feet away from Purkiss and Hannah.

  ‘Who are you?’ said the big man.

  Twenty-four

  Using his fingertips, careful not to make the movement look threatening, Purkiss took out his warrant card again and opened it.

  ‘Detective Inspector Peter Cullen. Metropolitan Police.’

  The big man peered at the car from were he stood, but didn’t step closer. He nodded at Hannah.

  ‘Who’s she?’

  ‘She can answer for herself,’ said Hannah. ‘Detective Inspector Hannah Holley.’ Her tone was cold, unyielding.

  The man didn’t drop his gaze down her body, as Purkiss had expected. He glared at her face as if trying to stare her down. Then he turned his free palm upwards, raised his eyebrows.

  ‘So where’s your ID?’

  Damn, thought Purkiss.

  ‘You’re not coppers,’ said the smaller man. He gave the chain the slightest tug so that the end flicked through a circle.

  Purkiss said, ‘You men need to back down right now. There’s no going back if you cross that line. Assaulting a police of
ficer. That won’t be overlooked, or forgiven.’

  ‘Impersonating a police officer’s a serious offence, too,’ said the first man, the one with the knife.

  The small man smirked.

  ‘You’re all sons of Dennis Arkwright, I take it,’ said Purkiss. ‘All we want to do is talk to him. We’re not here to arrest him, or to make trouble in any way.’

  ‘So why are you pretending to be coppers, then?’ said the big man.

  Purkiss looked at Hannah.

  ‘If you’re not going to help us,’ he said, ‘then please let us pass.’

  He took a step forwards. The big man, surprisingly, moved aside.

  As Purkiss drew level with him he saw the man was grinning.

  ‘That proves it,’ he said. ‘If you were real coppers you’d have busted us for threatening you.’

  It was a cliché: go for the biggest one, the leader, first. And usually it was a sound tactic. Not always, though, in Purkiss’s experience. Sometimes the biggest one, the apparent leader, wasn’t the most dangerous. And Purkiss didn’t like the knife, and would rather have dealt with its wielder first.

  Still, the biggest man was also the nearest of the three, and was the one who was initiating the attack, so Purkiss started with him.

  The man’s crowbar whipped across sideways rather than downwards onto the crown of Purkiss’s head, in a backhand slash aimed at the face. Purkiss stepped back, arcing his neck away, and felt the end of the bar swipe past inches from his face. The movement left the man’s torso exposed for an instant and Purkiss closed in with a one-two punch, the first landing in the man’s abdomen just below the breastbone, the other connecting with the stubbled jaw as it tipped forwards. The man stumbled, his flailing body uncertain whether to drop to its knees or collapse backwards. Purkiss made the decision for it, crashing a right hook into the side of the man’s head, the blow spinning the man round almost one hundred and eighty degrees to sprawl face-down in the dirt.

  Purkiss pivoted just as the chain came whickering down, the end catching his hand as he brought it up in defence. The pain exploded through his knuckles and he leaped back. The man advanced at a crouch, the chain held two-handed like a python, the end whirling.

  Beyond him, Purkiss saw Hannah facing off with the knife man in a similar position, the man’s arm darting slashes at her.

  The problem with a chain as a weapon was that it was inherently unwieldy. A landed blow could cause intense pain and considerable damage, blindness, even, but the flailing end was difficult to control.

  Purkiss watched the links at the end of the chain, not the man.

  They described a sudden figure-of-eight and lashed towards Purkiss’s face. He spun, his back momentarily to the man, moving in past the chain and aiming a reverse kick at the man’s head. His aim wasn’t quite true and he caught the man’s shoulder, heard the grunt of pain. The man staggered back but kept his footing.

  Purkiss hoped the blow to the man’s shoulder would take some of the force out of his swing, and it proved to be the case: the next flick of the chain was slower, less snappy. Purkiss watched the link at the end until the very last moment before he seized the chain in both hands, wincing at the pain in the one the chain had connected with. The metal was slippery in his hands but he held on, winding it around his fists as he pulled.

  The smaller man was strong, and stood his ground, his tiny black eyes blazing. For a few seconds the bizarre tug-of-war seemed to have reached an equilibrium, both men gripping the chain, three feet apart, neither able to pull the other any closer.

  Then the man released the chain and leaped forward.

  The sudden release of the chain caused Purkiss to stumble backwards. He used the bunched mass of links in his hands as a shield of sorts, but it didn’t stop him losing his footing as the man collided with him. Purkiss landed hard on his back on the dusty, stony ground. The man jackknifed his body around the chain mass and sank his teeth into Purkiss’s upper arm.

  In his time with SIS and since, Purkiss had been in more fights than he could remember, or cared to. He’d been punched, kicked, throttled, garrotted, and slashed with sharp objects of various kinds. He’d taken headbutts to the face, elbows to the throat, and knees to the groin.

  But he’d never before been bitten.

  Somehow, the outrage was worse than the agony. His instinct was to pull his arm away but he understood that if he did so, he’d lose a chunk of flesh from his arm. Instead, Purkiss used his other arm, the right, to bring across the length of chain he was gripping in his right fist. It was an awkward move because he had to sweep his arm round the back of the man’s bristly scalp, but he managed.

  The fire in his arm was relentless; he could see blood darkening the material of his suit jacket, staining the man’s face. Like a feral creature the man was snarling, his eyes wide open as he hung on.

  Purkiss couldn’t bring the chain through under the man’s chin because there was no room. Instead, he reached between them and looped it up across his assailant’s chest. He grabbed the end and pulled to the right, tightening it.

  The man’s snarls grew louder. He began to shake his head, like a dog with a downed duck.

  Purkiss hauled on the chain, feeling the links inch themselves across the man’s chest.

  A few yards away, Hannah and the knife man were continuing their macabre, circling dance. She closed in every now and again, landing blows but not incapacitating ones. She didn’t seem to have been cut yet.

  The man was strong, more so than Purkiss would have expected. Despite the tightening of the chain around his chest he hung on, and kept his legs inside Purkiss’s so that Purkiss had no opportunity to bring his knee up into his opponent’s groin.

  Purkiss heaved on the chain with renewed force. His right fist, with the end few links of the chain wrapped around it, was up beside the man’s head. Summoning all the strength he could, Purkiss slammed the chain-clad fist into the man’s left ear.

  The pain must have been exquisite, because the man relaxed his jaws around Purkiss’s arm and gave a yelp. It was all the opportunity Purkiss needed.

  He wrenched his arm free, wincing as a gout of blood spilled down the torn material of his jacket-and shirtsleeve. Again he punched the man’s ear, splitting the skin of the scalp. He hauled on the chain again, heard the man wheeze, his breath quicken as his ribcage was compressed.

  Purkiss heaved, rolling the man off him, and staggered to his feet, still holding on to one end of the chain. The man tried to rise with him and Purkiss kicked him in the stomach, doubling him up. Purkiss swept his feet out from under him with a second kick, and flung the length of chain on top of him.

  Satisfied that the man writhing on the ground was out of action for the time being, Purkiss turned to see Hannah kneeling on her opponent, who was prone on the ground, his arm twisted behind him, Hannah’s knee in the small of his back. Her clothes and face were dusty but Purkiss couldn’t see any blood, except at the man’s nose. The switchblade lay in the dirt, several feet away.

  Hannah caught Purkiss’s eye and nodded a warning over his shoulder. He saw the big man, the one whom he’d floored first, on his feet and groping for the crowbar.

  As Purkiss advanced, another figure appeared at the entrance to the car park. The unmistakeable ratcheting sound of a slide-action shotgun made the big man look round.

  The newcomer strode forwards, the shotgun aimed squarely at Purkiss. He stopped ten feet away.

  It was Arkwright, but his face bore only a basic resemblance to the picture Vale had sent Purkiss. The features were horribly distorted by a scar that criss-crossed from one ear to the corner of the opposite jaw, cutting across the mouth and dragging the lips sideways. The man’s head was shaven, and also white with scar tissue.

  His eyes were bright points.

  ‘Back down,’ he said thickly.

  The big man glared at Purkiss and made to swing the crowbar. The scarred man snarled: ‘You too, Dave.’

  He looked down
at the smaller man, who was on his knees, taking long, hesitant breaths, spitting blood. My blood, Purkiss thought.

  The scarred man raised the barrel towards Hannah. ‘And you. Let him up.’

  Hannah stood, the prone man leaping to his feet, grimacing, and turning on her. But he kept back after a glance at Arkwright.

  Arkwright searched Purkiss and Hannah with his gaze. Then, as though making a decision, he said: ‘All of you. Come with me.’

  Twenty-five

  Sometimes coincidences happened, and could be used to great advantage.

  Tullivant had spotted them as they stepped out of the Peugeot next to the village green: Purkiss, and the woman Tullivant had seen earlier, when the car bomb had gone off. The woman who’d knocked Purkiss down, and probably saved his life.

  Tullivant was walking back to his own car at the time, which he’d left in the pub car park. He didn’t dodge out of sight, because there was no need; his face would mean nothing to either Purkiss or the woman. So he continued towards the car park at an unhurried pace, watching the pair as if he was innocently looking at the green.

  They headed in the direction Tullivant had come from, with that typical appearance of people who were looking for a particular address. And Tullivant knew exactly the address they wanted, because he’d just been there himself.

  In the car park, he got his car, a VW Golf, and drove in a circuit until he was heading down the street off which Arkwright’s cottage stood. There were Purkiss and the woman, peering down the lane which led to the cottage. Now they were heading towards it.

  Tullivant stopped the car, leaving the engine running, took out his phone, and watched the pair’s backs. When the woman turned slightly to say something to Purkiss, Tullivant took a quick series of photos with his phone. The angle wasn’t great, but it would have to do.

  He drove on, thinking. They’d knock on the cottage door, find that Arkwright wasn’t home… and then what? Would they force their way in to search the place? Possibly. But they wouldn’t find what Tullivant had left there, because they wouldn’t be looking for something like that. And afterwards? Tullivant doubted they’d turn round and head back to London. More likely, they’d hang around. Perhaps make enquiries in the village.