The Graveyard Shift

by Jack Higgins

  She stood in front of the dressing-table mirror for a full minute, examining her magnificent body in detail. The breasts were still high and firm, her flesh unmarked, but there was a perceptible thickening around the waist and the way the skin was starting to bulge beneath her chin boded ill.

  She went into the bathroom and stepped down into the hot water, revelling in the sense of physical release it always gave her. She lay there looking up at the ceiling, going over the evening’s events in her mind, thinking about Ben. The strange thing was that she could form no clear mental picture of how he looked. Still, it had been a long time. She sat up and reached for the soap and was immediately conscious of a slight draught as if the door was open. When she turned, Ben was standing there smiling down at her.

  He stuck a cigarette in his mouth and grinned. ‘A long time, angel, but you still look good to me.’

  And she wasn’t afraid, which was strange because she had thought that she would be. She looked up at him and something stirred in her. A memory of her youth, perhaps, when nothing had ever seemed to matter very much except having a good time. And then Ben had come into her life, this handsome, smiling Irish devil who could put the fear of God in any man who ever crossed him, but who was everything a woman could desire.

  She pushed herself up and stood there, the water draining from her breasts, steam curling from her rounded limbs. ‘You’d better pass me a towel.’

  He was still smiling, the sight of her having no apparent effect. He dropped his cigarette to the floor, pulled a bath towel from the rack and crossed to her. ‘What do you want me to do, angel, dry your back?’

  ‘It wouldn’t be the first time,’ she said calmly.

  He draped the towel around her shoulders, then in one quick movement scooped her up into his arms. She could feel the heart move in her, the hollowness in her stomach as she looked up at him and a sudden indolent warmth seeped through her limbs.

  She slid her damp arms around his neck, the towel slipping to her waist, her breasts crushed against him, and as he turned and walked into the bedroom, her mouth found his, her tongue working passionately.

  She pulled away and rubbed her cheek against his. ‘Ben, oh Ben,’ she whispered.

  ‘I know, angel, isn’t love grand?’ He dropped her on the bed and stood back, a grin on his face. ‘By God, you must warm the cockles of poor old Harry Faulkner’s heart.’

  She lay there, raised on one elbow, the towel covering less than half of her beautiful body and glared up at him, fire in her eyes.

  ‘All right then, what do you want?’

  ‘My money, angel, that’s all. Seven thousand eight hundred and fifty quid. No fortune, but what my old grannie back in County Antrim would have called a respectable portion. Not much to show for nine years in the nick, but it’ll give me a start.’

  She lay there staring up at him, a slight fixed frown on her face, and he stopped smiling. ‘You’ve still got it, haven’t you?’

  She nodded and sat up, pulling the towel around her shoulders. ‘Not here though.’

  He frowned. ‘That’s not so good. I was hoping to be out of town by breakfast. I would have thought that would have suited you, too.’

  ‘I’ve got a motor cruiser moored at Hagen’s Wharf on the river,’ she said. ‘Harry bought it for my birthday last year. The money’s there. I’ll be glad to see the back of it.’

  ‘That’s fine,’ Garvald said. ‘I’ve got a car. I’d say it shouldn’t take us more than ten minutes to get there from here.’

  She got to her feet and stood there, still holding the towel about her. ‘If you’d kindly get to hell out of here, I could get dressed. You’ll find a drink in the other room.’

  ‘Time was,’ he said and started to laugh. He was still laughing when he went into the library.

  The moment the door closed, Bella sat on the edge of the bed and reached for the telephone. She dialled a number quickly and the receiver at the other end was lifted almost at once.

  ‘He’s here,’ she said. ‘We’ll be leaving in ten minutes.’

  The receiver at the other end was replaced immediately and Bella dropped her own into its cradle and dressed quickly in slacks, knee-length Cossack boots and a heavy sheepskin coat. She stood in front of the dressing-table mirror to fasten a silk scarf peasant-fashion around her head.

  Last of all, she moved across to a bureau, unlocked a drawer with a small key and took out a Smith & Wesson .38 calibre automatic. For a long moment she looked down at it, gripping the handle so tightly that her knuckles gleamed white to the bone, and then she slipped the gun into her pocket and went into the library.

  Bluey Squires sat at the kitchen table and stared vacantly into space, a glass in one hand, a bottle in the other. He was thinking about his dog and he looked across at the bundle in the corner by the fire covered with an old sack.

  The strange thing was that he didn’t blame Garvald. It was all Manton’s fault. Manton and that wall-eyed bastard, Donner. If they hadn’t brought Garvald to The Grange in the first place, the whole damn thing would never have happened.

  There was the sound of a car drawing up outside in the yard and he got to his feet, went to the window and peered into the rain. The Jaguar was parked a couple of feet from the front door and he unlocked it quickly.

  What happened then was like something out of a strange, distorted dream. The nearside door of the Jaguar opened and a large man moved out with surprising speed, a man with creased, weatherbeaten features which Squires instantly recognized.

  He stood there with his mouth open and a hand like a dinner plate wrapped itself around his throat and Grant said softly: ‘Where are they, Bluey? I want ’em and I want ’em quick.’

  He released his grip and Squires took a great sobbing breath. ‘Upstairs, Mr Grant. Manton’s got an office on the first floor. It’s the only other room in the house that’s furnished.’

  He moved back as the room seemed to fill with policemen and Grant said, ‘Right then, Bluey. If you want to come out of this with a whole skin, this is what you’re going to do.’

  Manton swallowed his whisky and looked at his watch for the fifth time in as many minutes. ‘He’s taking his own sweet time.’

  Donner laughed harshly. ‘Maybe the scuffers have got him.’

  He sat on the edge of the desk, the shotgun across his knees, a cigarette smouldering in one corner of his mouth, his good eye half closed, the other fixed, staring unpleasantly. He was more than a little drunk and he reached for the bottle to pour himself another.

  ‘Lay off that stuff,’ Manton said angrily. ‘You’re going to need all your wits about you if we’re to see this night through.’

  ‘Your days of telling me what to do are over, Mr Manton,’ Donner said, pouring himself another whisky.

  Manton took a step towards him and pulled up short as someone knocked on the door. He moved across quickly.

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘It’s me, Mr Manton,’ Bluey Squires called. ‘Jango’s back.’

  Manton felt the relief surge through him in a great wave and he turned the key. In the same moment, the door swung in on him. He was aware of Grant with a face like some avenging God and Miller at his side, eyes like dark holes in a bone-white face. And beyond them, the others, big men in blue uniforms surging forward like a tidal wave, pouring over him.

  Donner started to swing the shotgun too late. As it came up, Nick tossed an office stool that deflected the barrel and the weapon discharged harmlessly into the floor. Grant jumped the last ten feet, one great fist connecting solidly high on Donner’s right cheekbone.

  A moment later, Donner was struggling on the floor beneath the weight of four good men. It took another two to get him down to the van.

  Chapter 20

  As they neared the centre of the town, the fog became thicker and Garvald turned the Mini-Cooper off the main road and continued towards the river, keeping to the back streets.

  ‘Where did you get the car?’ Bella
asked.

  ‘A friend loaned it to me.’

  They continued in silence for a little while longer and then she spoke again. ‘It’s been a long time, hasn’t it, Ben? Since we were together like this, I mean.’

  ‘Too long, angel,’ he replied and there was a sharp finality in his voice.

  She seemed to realize it, took out a gold case and put a cigarette in her mouth. ‘What are you going to do next?’

  ‘Once I have the money?’ He grinned. ‘I’m going home, Bella. Back to the old country. An uncle of mine has a farm in Antrim and no one to follow him. I’ve had enough of cities.’

  She stared at him in genuine astonishment and then started to laugh. ‘You, a farmer? I’ll believe that when I see it.’

  ‘Stranger things have happened.’

  ‘Name me one.’

  ‘You selling yourself as an old man’s bed warmer,’ he said with a brutality that stunned her into silence.

  As they approached the river, they saw no other traffic and moved into an area of dark canyons flanked by great warehouses shuttered and barred for the night. Garvald braked to a halt at her direction underneath a lamp in a narrow alley beside a gate. Through the iron bars he could see the riding lights of barges moored on the far side of the river glowing through the fog, but the only sound was the lapping of water against the wharf pilings.

  ‘We’ll have to walk from here,’ she told him.

  He got out and moved round to join her. The main gates were locked, but a small judas at one side opened to her touch and they passed through.

  One or two ancient gas lamps bracketed to the warehouse walls gave some kind of light, but the fog rolling in from the river reduced visibility considerably.

  They passed a door with a sign above it which read Hagen’s Wharf – General Office and continued across the black shining cobbles to the final lamp at the end of the old warehouse. Beyond that, the railings and wooden planks of the wharf disappeared into the fog and darkness of the river.

  ‘Damn!’ Bella said. ‘The light’s out at the end of the pier. You can’t trust these blasted watchmen for more than ten minutes at any one time.’

  ‘Is the boat tied up out there?’

  She nodded. ‘You wait here. I’ll go back to the office for a hand lamp. I’ve got a key.’

  She walked away quickly, the sound of her leather boots on the cobbles dying away almost at once. Garvald took out a cigarette, lit it and stood there staring gloomily into the fog.

  By rights, he should have been feeling great because for the first time in his life he was really trying to break out of something. Instead, he felt strangely sad. The lamp above his head, the wharf in front of him stretching into darkness, seemed unreal and transitory as if they might dissolve into the fog at any moment.

  The years that the locusts have eaten. As the quotation jumped into his mind, it carried with it a memory of his old grandmother, her Bible on her knee, reading on a Friday night to a boy who still had life ahead of him with all its hopes and dreams and breathless wonderment.

  He heard her steps on the cobbles again and started to turn. ‘That didn’t take long.’

  He was aware of only one thing in that final frozen second of life when time seemed to stand still – the muzzle of the gun that was thrust out towards him. Flame exploded in the night and he staggered backwards against the wooden railing of the wharf. He half-turned, clutching at it for support, and as the railing splintered and broke the second bullet caught him in the back and sent him over the edge into an eternal darkness.

  Chapter 21

  When Harry Faulkner went into the main CID office at Police Headquarters it was exactly four-fifteen. The first person he saw was Chuck Lazer, who sat at a vacant desk playing Patience, a mug of tea beside him.

  ‘What in the hell are you doing here?’ Faulkner demanded in bewilderment.

  ‘I’m what they call an aide to the CID,’ Lazer said. ‘Fascinating work, but the pay stinks.’

  The door to Grant’s office opened and a young constable came out. ‘In here, Mr Faulkner. Superin­tendent Grant would like a few words with you.’

  Grant was sitting at his desk in his overcoat. Sweat glistened on his forehead and he wiped it away with his sleeve, took a strip of Aspro from his pocket and popped two into his mouth. He swallowed some tea from the pint pot at his elbow and made a face.

  ‘Fill it up with something drinkable, there’s a good lad.’

  The constable took the pot and retired and Faulkner sat down in the chair on the other side of the desk, a frown on his face.

  ‘And what’s all this about then?’

  ‘We’ve arrested Fred Manton,’ Grant said, applying a match to his pipe. ‘I thought you’d like to know, you being his employer and so on.’

  Faulkner was too old a bird to be drawn. He took a cigarette from his case and lit it with a brass lighter. ‘What’s the charge?’

  ‘At the moment I’d say attempted murder of a police officer.’

  Faulkner’s face went grey. ‘You know what you’re doing?’

  ‘Too bloody right I do,’ Grant said. ‘If you’re interested, he was going to do a bunk with all the ready cash he could lay his hands on. Your money, of course.’

  ‘The bastard,’ Faulkner said. ‘After all I’ve done for him.’

  ‘I’m sending a couple of officers to the Flamingo now,’ Grant said. ‘They’ll have a warrant empowering them to make a thorough search of Manton’s office and apartment. I think you should be there as owner, just to confirm that everything’s in order. I’d particularly like to see an inventory of the contents of the safe.’

  ‘Anything to help,’ Faulkner said calmly. ‘You know me.’

  ‘Somehow that’s what I thought you’d say. You’ll find Detective Constable Carter and a uniformed officer waiting for you downstairs.’

  Faulkner moved to the door, opened it and stood back as the young constable entered with Grant’s tea. ‘Just one more thing, Mr Faulkner,’ Grant said. ‘If you could return here with the two officers when the search has been completed. I’d like a general statement from you concerning Manton.’

  ‘Is that really necessary?’

  ‘I’d appreciate any help you can give me. Any help at all.’

  Faulkner looked at him, a slight frown on his face as if he couldn’t quite understand which way things were going and then he shrugged.

  ‘See you later, then.’

  The door closed behind him and Grant reached for the pot of tea and carried it to his lips. He made a face and hurriedly put the pot down again.

  ‘It’s freshly made, sir,’ the young constable said defensively.

  ‘It’s not your fault, lad,’ Grant said. ‘It’s me. I’m getting too damned old for this game. I last saw a bed twenty hours ago, I’ve a temperature of 102 and my mouth tastes like a Russian wrestler’s armpit.’

  ‘Is there anything I can do, sir?’

  ‘Yes, find yourself a decent job while you’re still young enough to get out.’ Grant got to his feet, moved to the door, opened it and turned. ‘If you quote me on that, I’ll have you skinned.’

  As he moved through the outer office, Lazer looked up and shook his head. ‘You look like something the tomb just threw up.’

  ‘Nothing to how I feel.’

  Grant walked along the corridor, opened the door of the Interrogation Room and went in. Manton sat at the table in the centre, his head in his hands. The uniformed constable in the chair by the door got to his feet. Grant nodded, moved across to the table, sat in the chair opposite Manton and lit a cigarette.

  Rain drummed against the window and the grey-green walls seemed to swim out of the shadows. There was a smell of stale cigarette smoke and fog, sharp and acrid. Manton’s head was aching and when he touched the side of his face, there was a three-inch split in the skin, swollen and tender where someone’s fist had landed during the fight at The Grange.

  ‘All right, we’ll try again.’ Grant’s v
oice seemed to come from deep under the sea. ‘From the beginning.’

  ‘I want a lawyer,’ Manton said in a washed-out voice. ‘I know my rights.’

  ‘You’re going to need one before I’m through with you,’ Grant said. ‘Now let’s have it.’

  ‘All right, damn you. For the third time, it was Ben Garvald. He was upstairs at the club visiting me when Brady arrived. Garvald wanted to get away and Brady tried to stop him. It was as simple as that.’

  ‘So Garvald tossed him downstairs?’

  ‘They were fighting. I don’t think Ben meant to play it that way. It just happened.’

  ‘And what a sweet touch that remark is. They broke the mould the day they made you.’

  ‘That’s my story and I’m sticking to it,’ Manton said stubbornly.

  ‘Until Jack Brady regains consciousness. What happens if he tells us something different?’

  ‘Maybe he won’t come round. He fell a long way.’

  ‘Tell me again what happened after the fall. I like that bit.’

  ‘Garvald had a car parked round the back. He thought Brady was dead so he carted him away over his shoulder. Said he was going to dump him somewhere and make the whole thing look like an accident.’

  ‘And you and Donner and Stavrou just stood around and watched?’

  ‘Garvald told us to stay out of it. He said he might just as easily swing for two as one.’

  ‘Which frightened you all to death, I’m sure.’

  The door opened and Nick entered. ‘How’s he doing? Still the same yarn?’

  ‘Word for word. He and Donner must have been doing their homework together.’

  Nick handed him a foolscap form without a word. Grant read it quickly and started to laugh. ‘This is fine by me. Let our friend here see it, then take him downstairs and book him.’

  He slapped the form down on the table and walked out without a word to Manton who picked it up with shaking hands, a frown on his face.