Locked Up

by GB Williams

  It hadn’t occurred to Charlie that such notoriety would be useful, but then it hadn’t occurred to Charlie that that was what he would be notorious for. He didn’t like the idea of acting like – of being – a thug. But, it was a reputation that might have its uses.

  ‘So … what about you answering some questions?’

  ‘I didn’t see anything.’

  Charlie looked at him levelly. ‘Do I need to beat it out of you?’

  Surprisingly, Winehouse’s smile widened at that. ‘You haven’t left your cell for days. That means you haven’t eaten in days. You’ll be weakened by the loss of your son and the lack of sustenance. Right now, Paul could beat you to a pulp. Hell, right now, one lucky punch, and I could beat you to a pulp.’

  ‘Have to be a damn lucky punch. I’m still twice your size.’ He watched Winehouse pulling on his shirt, buttoning the carefully pressed item. ‘You might not have seen anything, but in four days, you’ve probably heard what I haven’t.’

  A minute later, Charlie was careful to leave Winehouse and go to collect his meal alone. He didn’t need anyone thinking he’d chosen a side.

  He would have to get his arse in gear, if he was going to get to the truth of what had happened to Tommy. But, if he did, what would he do with the information? Piper was working on it – what likelihood was there he’d find something Piper couldn’t? The shadow of the man he used to be mentally bitch-slapped him for that one.

  Thanking the server for his overcooked vegetables, Charlie headed for his cell. The dinners here were never the best, and he hadn’t expected to want anything, but as soon as the cooking smell hit his nostrils, the hunger hit his stomach. As bad as the food was, it was, quite literally, a feast to him, the starving man. Glancing up to the top floor, Charlie figured he’d need to go see Keen after he’d finished his food.

  ‘Do you like thin ice?’

  Looking up, a forkful of limp carrot halfway to his open mouth, Charlie saw Teddington entering his cell. He put down the fork and closed his jaw. ‘Why am I on thin ice, Officer Teddington?’

  ‘You finally get up, get clean, and the first thing you do is go to Winehouse?’

  ‘He was closer,’ Charlie pointed out, ignoring the technicality, and re-gathering veg on his fork. ‘I’ll see Keen after. So, you and Sanchez?’

  She frowned, ‘Where did you hear that?’

  ‘Robbins. What’s your husband say?’

  Her look was harder now, her lips compressed. On a man, Charlie would expect that look to precede an attack. He wasn’t sure how to take it, as Teddington stepped up to the other side of the table.

  ‘The coroner has agreed to release Baby Hamilton to me. The boys will be buried in the same plot, but different coffins. I trust you’re okay with that?’

  Suddenly, the lump in his throat wasn’t just the burnt offerings. The pressure of those two lives closed in on him. His fault. ‘Why didn’t you tell me how bad it was?’

  ‘Are you okay with the arrangement, or do you want separate graves?’

  There was a tight-pinched tone to her question. Her jaw was clenched, lips pressed together. She wasn’t okay with all this. Any of it.

  ‘You didn’t answer my question.’

  She swallowed, shooting him a hard, warning look. ‘Nor will I. I don’t have much time. The arrangements?’

  He nodded.

  ‘Right, well. I’m not on during the day again till Friday, so I’ll see you at the funeral.’

  15

  Charlie’s suit was brought out of storage. He hadn’t worn it since the trial. He had to pull the belt a notch smaller, but the shirt and jacket were tight across the shoulders and around the biceps. Apparently, he really had been working out a lot.

  Sanchez and Richmond had been assigned to escort him to the funeral.

  ‘Good holiday?’ he asked despondently, as Richmond put the cuffs on him.

  ‘Great, thanks.’

  The mood was way too dour to allow anything more. They went through processing, all the necessary procedures and forms, then, to the back of the van. Charlie saw the hideous irony of attending his son’s funeral from a prison van. If he hadn’t been in prison, he would have exercised his right to see Oscar, and he would have kept the boy alive.

  His fault.

  He’d chosen to do what he had done, to cross the line, to become a killer. Oscar had paid the price.

  The drive to the cemetery was lost in pointless self-flagellation. He couldn’t go back, couldn’t change things. All he could do was try to do better from here on in. Then, Richmond was opening the cage, cuffing their wrists. As he stepped from the van, he was surprised to find Teddington standing talking to Sanchez. It was a punch in the gut to see how natural they looked together, how damn good Teddington looked, all in black, smart and demure, incredibly attractive. Her hair was up, but much softer than the way she wore it in work. There was a handbag at her side, but the shoulder strap ran beneath her jacket. When she turned her head to look at him, her neutrally glossed lips parted slightly. She stepped over to him, stopping his progress past the door of the van, and when she spoke, her voice was low and tight.

  ‘Apparently, the local TV and press have no respect, they’re filming. So, don’t react to them. Don’t speak to them.’

  He nodded his understanding; no words were getting past the lump in his throat anyway. She lifted up her right hand. Richmond looked from it to Sanchez, who nodded silently, and the cuff was moved to Teddington’s wrist. As he watched, Charlie noted she wore a thumb ring, but no wedding ring. There was another on the third finger of her right hand, a ring with an amber-coloured stone. Could be amber, could be topaz, he wasn’t knowledgeable enough to know which. Looking at her again, there were matched stud earrings, and a similar pendant resting in the small V neckline of her black silk blouse.

  She looked up at him. ‘Okay?’

  How the hell was he supposed to be okay? They were about to bury his child, but he couldn’t expect her to understand how that felt. No parent could, until they had to, and he wouldn’t wish this on his worst enemy. Of course, he wasn’t okay. He nodded in answer to her question.

  ‘Good.’ She stepped back, and they were side by side. As they moved around the van, she whispered, ‘Miss Hamilton is also here.’

  Another punch to the gut. But, he could see the flashes of photographers – photographer, he amended; there was only one. He spotted the cameraman as he moved beside Teddington towards the waiting graveside service, the two tiny coffins flanked by pall bearers he didn’t know. As they approached from one side, he saw the other prison van beyond the grave, and from this, appeared first one burly uniformed female officer, then Cathy, then a second officer. None of them looked happy; angry would be closer to the point.

  He hadn’t seen Cathy in years; she’d lost too much weight, and gained the sunken eyes and sickly pallor of a junkie. That explained a lot. She was so different from the vibrant young woman he’d had an affair with. Was this his fault too? Was there anything he could have done differently to help her, help them? No, that annoying voice in his head reminded him. Once an addict always an – Oh, shut up.

  Their steps carried them forward, and Charlie barely registered the movement, as Cathy looked up at him, hate in her eyes, but as she glanced to Teddington, the hate overflowed. Her nostrils flared, her lips drew back in a snarl, and she pulled at her restraints looking to attack.

  ‘You bitch!’

  Teddington stopped, so Charlie had to.

  ‘This is your fault!’

  Charlie couldn’t allow that, but as he took breath to respond, Teddington moved, her left hand on his chest, standing before him, her eyes blazing a warning. Her words were low, forced through lips that barely moved, she didn’t want the over vigilant camera crew hearing.

  ‘Do not jeopardise your parole.’

  He clamped his jaw, as Cathy cursed vilely at them in words and ways that could teach a soldier a thing or two. He unfurled his fists and looke
d down to Teddington. With a small nod, he indicated his readiness, and her tiny acknowledgement was grateful, as she moved back to his side, and they paced calmly down the gentle incline to the graveside.

  He was aware that Sanchez and Richmond flanked them, but they kept a discreet distance back. He wasn’t about to run, not when he was still cuffed to a serving prison officer. That was what he had to bear in mind. She was here as a matter of duty; she wasn’t here because she cared about him. It wasn’t Teddington and Bell; it was Teddington and Sanchez. That was how it should be. To be fair, it should be Teddington and Mr Teddington, but he wasn’t in a position to judge. He watched Cathy across the way.

  Cathy was why they were here; her and her habit, her inability to be a decent mother. She had killed any affection he’d once had for her, and now, she had killed the last thing he cared about – his son. She had killed another man’s son, too. With any luck, that poor bastard didn’t know, wasn’t having to suffer the pain Charlie felt at burying his child.

  Cathy continued mouthing off, and the officers at her side did nothing to stop her. Peripheral vision showed the camera crew were focusing on Cathy. Her explosion would make the best story. It was the priest who reproached her; an old man, his hair white, his face lined by years, but his spirit was strong, and so was his sense of right.

  ‘If you don’t calm down and show some respect, I will have you removed.’ Apparently, his voice was strong, too.

  ‘Fuck you. They’re my fucking kids, you can’t fucking ban me from my own kids fucking funeral!’

  There was so much wrong with that statement, Charlie didn’t know where to begin.

  ‘Cathy!’ His bitten word seemed to get to her. Although she continued to glare and snarl, she stopped chafing at being handcuffed, and she shut up.

  As the vicar began the service, Charlie let it wash over him. As the two tiny white coffins were lowered gently into the ground, he was aware tears streamed down his face, but he couldn’t stop them; he didn’t want to. Oscar deserved more than his tears, and he had no pride left to salvage. As his eyes shifted, he became aware Teddington was doing everything she could to control her own tears. They still sparkled in her lashes.

  There was an odd sound then a thud. An open palm appeared in his peripheral vision. Numbly, he looked around. Officer Richmond was laying on the grass, his eyes open, and blood leaking only slightly from the bullet hole in the middle of his forehead. That odd sound repeated.

  Everything happened at once. Teddington calling first for Richmond, then Sanchez. As time seemed to slow, Charlie turned to see the other officer was down, red colouring his white shirt, flowing from his back on to the grass. Distantly, women were screaming. There was a pull on his left wrist – now, Teddington was down.

  ‘No!’

  He knelt beside her. Her jacket was newly torn, blood flowed from her right shoulder. She turned to face him, white with shock. The ground beside her exploded under the impact of another bullet. A bullet from a silenced gun. That was what the odd noise was. They were under fire.

  Charlie didn’t even have to think about it. The handcuff wasn’t coming off, and he had to get out of here. Scooping her unceremoniously up, he threw Teddington over his shoulder and headed for the only cover he could see – the prison van. The window screen spider webbed, then shattered, and the dead driver slumped forwards.

  Charlie turned towards the other van. The vicar was crouching, the far off mutter of prayer spilling from his lips. The camera crew had disappeared, but the camera remained on its tripod filming. The female guards and their charge were already bundled inside their van, but as Charlie took two steps towards them, the vehicle sped off, and the grass at his feet exploded again.

  Charlie ran.

  He dodged behind grave stones, zigzagging his way towards the thick trunks of a line of oaks at the edge of the cemetery. Breathing hard, he turned into the protection of one heavy tree. He was trying to think.

  ‘Charlie?’

  Thank God. Twisting, Charlie bent and put Teddington on her feet. She leaned against the trunk, still needing him to hold her upright. Her skin was pale and glazed with sweat against the blood flowing up her neck and face from being upside down over his shoulder.

  ‘My car,’ she managed. ‘Black Golf, there.’

  He turned to see the small car waiting on the roadside outside the cemetery boundary wall. The brick wall was only three feet high, so he picked her up again, the carry awkward with them being cuffed. Richmond had the cuff keys. His long legs carried them quickly to, and over, the wall.

  ‘Car keys?’ he asked, Teddington still over his shoulder. But, as he stepped up, he heard the car automatically unlock.

  He put her on her feet and yanked open the door. With haste and no concerns about propriety, he half threw Teddington in. As she scrambled across to the passenger seat, he climbed in, saw the pushbutton start. It had been over three years since he’d driven, but with adrenaline pumping through his system, he didn’t even think about it.

  The car shot out of the space and flew down the road, as though the legions of hell were on their tail. For all Charlie knew, they were.

  16

  Pain, pulsing, writhing, alive. It stalked through Teddington’s world. She wanted to back away from it, but she knew she couldn’t. She had to hang on, no matter how difficult. She could feel weight on her, the harsh breathing of another being; something was pulling at her shoulder, something else at the unhurt one.

  Forcing her head forward, she opened her eyes, but her sight was blurry. Logic told her Charlie was going through her shoulder bag.

  ‘Don’t have the cuff keys.’

  ‘Not looking for them,’ he told her. She felt so slow. He sat back and figured out how to use phone, before she worked out what he was doing.

  ‘That can be traced,’ she pointed out.

  ‘I’m counting on it.’

  As she watched, he dialled and mentioned the name Piper. Her car fob and house keys hung from his little finger. He gave a succinct report on what had happened, and the fact he hadn’t had any part in it. He said he was calling from Teddington’s phone. Teddington had no idea what he was playing at, as he slipped the phone under her driver’s seat. He spoke to her, but she couldn’t figure out what he was saying. His hands were cold on her face, the light tapping was his attempt to rouse her.

  She was slipping away. This is it. She’d just seen her oldest friend slain, a colleague murdered. She was handcuffed to a convicted killer, and she was slipping towards death. A stupid smile pulled at her lips. Hell of a way to go.

  She closed her eyes.

  ‘Don’t you bloody dare die on me,’ Charlie growled.

  Between the close confines of the car, the new tightness of his clothes and the damn handcuffs, pulling her from the passenger seat so they could get out was the damnedest thing – but he managed it. He was sweating, as he kicked the door closed and managed to lock it. As he’d promised Piper, he left the keys under the front wheel arch. He shifted again, and put her over his shoulders. A fireman’s lift was the only way to carry her, given how they were cuffed.

  He’d parked on a passing spot in a quiet country lane, but the police should be here soon enough to collect the car after that call. He headed across the fields, knowing exactly where he was going. He passed through the twenty yard deep run of woods, and stopped facing the house. He’d dearly like to put Teddington down; she was a solid weight pressing on his spine – he prayed she wasn’t a dead weight. But, with the cuffs, putting her down was pointless; he’d just have to take her up again, and that would take too much effort. Instead he bore the weight and watched the house. There was no one in; exactly as he’d hoped. The old Land Rover was parked out the back. As usual, the vehicle was covered with mud, both licence plates obscured. Sometimes, knowing the local lowlifes was an asset.

  Charlie ran across the open ground, the gravel on the driveway crunching beneath his feet. He reached the vehicle and tried the driver
’s door. It wasn’t locked. He pulled the door open, and with more care then he’d shown anyone in a long time, he eased Teddington from his shoulders and into the seat then across of the other side of the vehicle, before he could get in properly himself.

  He paused one second to wipe her hair from her forehead. ‘You hold on,’ he told her, but she was inert.

  His heart hammering for a million reasons, he checked the ignition, no keys, but they fell into his lap when he pulled down the sun shade. He crunched the gears in his haste to get out of the farmyard and on the road. He watched the road, overly aware Teddington was being yanked about like a marionette every time he changed gears.

  ‘Hold on, babe. I’ll get you to help.’

  Teddington was cold.

  Something was pulling at the skin of her shoulder. It didn’t hurt, but it wasn’t comfortable. It was the cold that was getting to her. Her right breast felt odd. Reluctantly, she turned her head and opened her eyes. Things didn’t form right; they were just shapes, blobs of dark and light. She blinked. A man was leaning over her.

  ‘Charlie?’ She didn’t like how weak her voice sounded.

  ‘Sorry, my dear. He’s next door.’

  She didn’t recognise the voice. Fear gripped her, and she blinked again. Each time, her sight was getting clearer. She tried to raise her head. The man gently held her down.

  ‘Don’t move, or you’ll end up with a really nasty scar.’

  Looking down, she saw her blouse had been unbuttoned, the cup of her bra pulled down, her whole right breast exposed – unnecessarily, she thought, since the wound was several inches higher.

  ‘You a doctor?’

  ‘Was a surgeon.’

  Maybe she’d lost a lot of blood. She certainly felt lightheaded. ‘Was?’