by Phil Walden
“I see it.” Start swung the car right. Light shimmered across the water, glistening ripples urging and pulling the car along.
*
Catchpole’s fingers spun the cylinder of the gun. It moved fast and smooth just as it had always done. Catchpole tucked it firmly into his belt, stepped out of the car and moved to the boot. He lifted the lid. The trunk light came on. She lay in the exact same position, on her side with her face angled up, her unblinking eyes questioning and accusing her captor. He looked across at the river, to the spot by the bridge where the porter’s car had left the road, and somersaulted into the water. He peered urgently into the pitch black beyond. He could see nothing. A flash of lightning burst across the sky. And there it was, briefly illuminated. The same clump of trees, the small copse that had been his saviour so many years ago, lay across from the bridge in the nearby field.
Angel did not struggle as she was lifted from the trunk. It was almost as if she knew her fate and accepted it. Catchpole hoisted her onto his rain sodden shoulder and began to tramp towards the bridge, cursed by a grumbling clap of thunder. He crossed, stumbling over a loose stone dislodged from the parapet, and down into the field, his feet slithering and struggling for grip in the slimy mud.
*
Start’s cab was designed to work the crowded streets of the capital city, dodging and weaving on short sharp journeys at low speed for maximum profit. It couldn’t have been more unsuited to this rough terrain. So what on earth, Olivia thought, had possessed him to bring it here; surely not some deep seated sentimental attachment? She had so far seen very little of that emotion manifest itself in him. However, one thing the car did possess was a long headlight beam. To her relief this picked out the collapsed road ahead. Start braked sharply, pulling up just short of the rift.
“There’s no way through,” Olivia said.
He moved to get out of the cab. “Wait here.”
“We’ll just have to walk,” she shouted after him, watching him pull up his jacket collar against the relentless rain and gingerly step around the hole. She watched him bend down. He seemed to be inspecting the grass verge at the side. He turned and jogged back.
“Something’s been through here not long ago. The tyre marks are fresh.”
“Could it be him?”
“Has to be? Who else would be out here on a night like this?” Jumping into his seat, he accelerated hard, steering the car onto the verge and with the back end sliding, careered away.
*
Catchpole staggered towards an isolated copse. He carefully lowered Angel down onto a dry patch of soil beneath the leafy canopy. He began to pick his way through the trees which were even more closely packed than he remembered. Whoever farmed the fields had neglected to carry out any coppicing over the years. That suited him perfectly. The baby boy had been easy to bury. He would not have that option now. Still the density of the thicket would hide a body, especially if it was covered in branches and soil. It might be years before it was discovered, if, indeed, it ever was. Whatever, there could be no link back to him. He would be safe and free to pursue his destiny.
Catchpole’s arms swept aside branches and twigs as he struggled to make his way back to the spot where he had left Angel. He bent down, bracing himself to lift and drag her into the thickest recesses of the copse. His hands moved under her arms and locked around her chest. It was then that he saw the headlights.
*
Even the smothering gloom of a starless sky could not fully hide the white stone of the small footbridge which heaved into view as the cab bounced along the rough and bumpy track. It drew up alongside.
Olivia went to leap out. “This must be Sheep’s Crossing. This is the only bridge.”
Start restrained her. “Wait!” He reached to retrieve the torch lamps. He thrust one at her. “Here. Take this.”
They dropped from the cab, quietly pushing the doors shut, and set off towards the bridge, slipping down the wet sloping bank to the river’s edge. The night had turned quiet, save for the eerie rustle of the reeds in the breeze. There was no sign of anyone or anything.
“His car’s not here. Perhaps he’s been and gone,” Start said.
“We might be wrong about this place. He could have taken her anywhere.”
“Take a look over the bridge. Stick to the bank. You see or hear anything, shout. Okay?”
She nodded. She disappeared across the bridge, her progress marked only by the movement of the swaying beam of her torch.
*
Catchpole hit the ground the moment the car pulled up by the bridge. He lay flat, his head angled up to see who the occupants were and what they intended to do. This was no place for lovers, intent on a secret assignation or for anyone passing through who needed a break. They would need a very good reason to be this far off the beaten track. A youngish woman was first out, followed by an older man. The man came round the front of the car to join her. He couldn’t make out what was being said. They were obviously looking for something. Then the beam of the woman’s torch played over the face of the man, long enough for Catchpole to see and study him. He looked back at the car. It had the unmistakeable shape of a London cab. His mind filled with the memory of the small profile picture on the front page of the Eastern Mail attached to Angel and then the photo loyally kept but shredded by Trisha. The man was Joe Start and he wasn’t looking for something but someone.
It was clear Faversham had talked to Start. Perhaps he’d been offered a deal. That man would do anything to save his school. But whatever had been agreed, it made Catchpole’s task much more serious. Killing and disposing of a sick woman no one would miss was a difficult but necessary action. He had long since squared the morality of the deed with his conscience. To kill another two would be dangerous. Did anybody else know they were here? Were the police on their way? He looked back along the track. He listened. Not a sound. How typical of what Trisha had told him of Start. Of course, he would have said nothing. Why would he? He’d want the story all to himself. It was the exclusive he craved, his passport back to London and fame.
Catchpole pushed his face into the wet soil. He told himself he could stop it all now. Just walk out, throw down his gun and let fate dictate the rest. His career would be over but there would be a life of sorts to live and endure. Someone else would surely pick up the baton of change, embrace his vision and deliver the better country of tomorrow. But could they? Would they? The experience of the last twenty years suggested that the dream would fade with Catchpole’s hopes and aspirations mired in the petty squabbles, squalid deals and political opportunism of others. No, he had come too far and too much was at stake to allow that. Start’s glorious return would not be at his expense.
Catchpole watched as the beams of the torches set off in opposite directions, the first stepping up onto the bridge and heading towards him, the other setting off along the bank next to the track. His car would soon be spotted. They would know he was here. He glanced across at the trussed up figure of Angel lying motionless at his side. It was too late to move her now. He shuffled back into the cover of the copse. Anyway the black cab’s arrival solved a problem. Disposing of the baby boy had been straightforward. Angel would be more difficult to hide. But strapped inside Start’s car alongside the bodies of the two journalists provided a neat solution. The cab could then be rolled into the river. So deep was the water, the porter’s car had never been found. Nor would Start’s. It was decided. Regrettably there was no going back. He had to see this through, whatever the cost, whatever the damage.
*
The light of Olivia’s torch bounced back off the darkness in front of her. She aimed the beam down, sweeping it methodically across the ground in the immediate vicinity as she trudged along the far bank. It picked out a set of footprints. She froze. They were deep and looked fresh, their edges sharp and clear. They progressed at a right angle across the field. She looked back at the bridge. Start was nowhere to be seen. Anyway it was probably nothing. Best if she i
nvestigated herself before she bothered him.
She set off to follow them, struggling across the muddy terrain, picking out each footprint in turn. The outline of a densely wooded grove gradually took shape. She swung the torch across the trees and back onto the ground. A small mound protruded just to the left of the thicket. She let the light linger on it. She thought she saw something move. It was almost imperceptible. She paused. It twitched again, more obviously this time. It was unmistakeably a foot. She rushed forward, falling to the floor and turning the body over.
“Oh my God! Angel! Are you alright? Are you hurt?” Olivia saw the tape over her mouth. She gently prised it free. “Don’t worry. Everything’s okay. You’re safe now.”
Her hands tore at the trusses binding the woman’s arms and legs. She had just loosened the last one when the butt of a Smith and Weston revolver smashed across the side of her head, and the desperate pleading look of Angel vanished into darkness.
*
Start ploughed along the near bank. It was fully fifty yards before he saw it. The unmistakeable shape of a Ford Mustang. He stepped forward warily. The lid of the empty trunk lay open. He pulled it down and ran his torchlight across the number plate. The state of California was blazoned across it. He peered inside the empty cabin. He opened the passenger door. Crumpled brown paper had been discarded in the foot well. What looked like soft felt cloth lay on the seat. He reached in and picked up it up. The words San Francisco Gun Club blasted back at him. Catchpole was not only here but he was armed.
Concerned for Olivia’s safety, Start quickly retraced his steps back to the bridge, anxiously scanning the far bank in search of her. He shouted out her name, once, twice, three times. No reply came. Now he was worried. Had she slipped and fallen into the water? The surface was still and surely she would have called for help. He scrambled up onto the bridge and over to the far bank, where he scanned the ground. Her feet had left deep imprints in the soggy soil. He moved along the bank, until he saw the footprints diverge into the field itself. To his alarm another set of bigger feet with a wider stride ran alongside.
*
Catchpole could not shoot the young woman lying prostrate beside him. That would serve only to alert Start, and Catchpole did not need some frantic cross country pursuit or, worse still, to run the risk of his prey escaping. Olivia’s disappearance would suffice for now. Start would be lured across, pulled within range of the revolver he now gripped with both hands. He waited. He saw Start edge along the bank, bending to inspect what must be marks in the soil, and then turn to walk towards the thicket of trees. He steadied himself. The unflinching barrel pointed directly at Start creeping stealthily across the ground towards him, Catchpole’s finger poised and ready to pull the trigger.
What Catchpole did not see, was the gradual reawakening of Angel. If he thought this remote and hostile spot was ideal for ridding himself of the woman, it was also the only place which could fully trigger emotions and memories long since buried and suppressed. The slight movement observed by Olivia now spread throughout Angel’s body. Her eyes, so dull and dead to any words or actions for so long, began to come alive.
Tucked deep into the grove, flat to the ground and with only his head exposed, Catchpole watched Start come steadily nearer. His revolver was not ideal at this range but years of practice both at school and in the States made him confident. He would need to hold fire, let him come close, to be sure of hitting his target. The gap was fifty yards, then forty, now thirty. He saw Start stop. He’d spotted the bodies of Olivia and Angel. One bullet would be sufficient, just one to take him down and kill him. His hands tightly gripped the gun’s handle, his forefinger closing on the trigger.
Suddenly an anguished scream pierced the air. Its force and intensity split Catchpole’s ears and shook his entire body. His hand jerked upwards. The gun fired, the bullet blasting up into the night sky. Start hit the ground. Catchpole lurched sideways. Angel was kneeling upright, shaking uncontrollably with tears streaming down her cheeks.
*
At first Start did not move. Body flat to the floor, he watched. Angel’s screams subsided into convulsive sobs. Her hands began to claw at the earth, as if, by instinct, she knew she was close to something, to someone, dear and loved.
The prone figure beside her had to be Olivia. But where was Catchpole? In an instant he knew as a shot burst from the nearby copse. He felt the whoosh of the bullet as it whistled past his head. Working his legs to turn his body around, he rolled over and over, desperate not to be seen, eager to put some distance between him and his would be killer. Start fell into a small dip in the terrain. He saw Catchpole emerge from the copse and stride towards him, moonlight glinting on the barrel of his gun. He sprang to his feet and ran, desperate for cover, for a place to hide and a chance to strike back. Moving from side to side, he weaved his way up to the bridge. Another shot fizzed by, zipping off the top of the stone parapet. He ducked low to the ground but instead of crossing, he dropped down the bank and crouched under the arch.
Start waited. If necessary, he could use the water, swim upstream and surface amongst the reeds. The cab was too far away. To try and reach it was simply too dangerous. Anyway, he would not leave Olivia. This was his best, his only chance of survival. It was only seconds before he heard the footsteps pounding on the hard stone surface of the bridge. It had seemed much longer. There were no words, no exhortations to come out with hands held high in meek surrender, just the silent, relentless pursuit of a hunter, honing in on his target. The footsteps stopped directly above him. They turned and retraced their steps. He knew Catchpole would look under the arch. Would he go left or right? Could Start exit the other way and ambush him? Which way to choose? He went right, up two steps and crouched down under cover of the wall. He peered over to see a head disappearing on the other side. He fell back and braced himself.
The footsteps were slower now but loud and hollow, reverberating around the vault of the arch. Catchpole was more wary, afraid even. The barrel of a gun crept into view. Instantly Start seized Catchpole’s wrist, wrenching it upwards. The gun fired. He fought to prise the weapon free but Catchpole proved too strong, dragging Start into the open and up on to the bridge.
They fell to the floor, grappling, one fighting to keep the gun held high and away from him, the other to wrestle it down to deliver the fatal shot. They rolled over and over, fighting for control. The barrel twisted and turned in line with his head, but each time Catchpole moved to fire, Start summoned all his strength to bend it outwards. The final time a bullet whistled past his temple in a deafening roar. In a flash, Start turned Catchpole over, his fist dashing the gun from his grasp, sending it flying towards the centre of the bridge. Catchpole’s knee slammed painfully into his thigh and he, in turn, was thrown aside. Catchpole struggled to his feet and staggered to retrieve the stranded gun. As he bent to pick it up, a last ditch tackle smashed his legs from under him.
At last, an exhausted Start had control. His legs clamped either side of his opponent’s body. His weight crushed his chest. A final fist to the jaw left Catchpole seemingly motionless. Start momentarily relaxed, just long enough to miss the hand closing on a large piece of stone dislodged from the parapet of the bridge. It swung in a long wide arc, gaining momentum before crashing into Start’s temple and throwing him unconscious to the floor. Catchpole angrily shook himself free. Breathing heavily, he clasped the stone in both hands. No need for the gun. Save the ammunition for the women, he told himself. He raised the stone high over his head. He would smash it down, finish Start, once and for all, here and now.
A single shot rang out. It struck Catchpole, hands aloft. The stone dropped from his grasp. Blood oozed from the front of his throat. He spun round. He saw Angel holding his gun firm and steady. His face creased into a smile of grim resignation. So now she was playing the game? Had she known there was but one bullet left? Had she spun the cylinder one more time? Taken aim? Pulled the trigger? Got lucky in this, their final game of Russi
an roulette?
Catchpole spat blood from his mouth. He stumbled towards her. He lost balance, falling back in a despairing attempt to stay upright. His legs collided with the parapet wall. His body arched back and splashed down into the river below. There it floated, arms widespread, still hopeful of rescue and resurrection, before sinking below the surface of the fast flowing water.
A low, full moon emerged from the clouds and peered under the bridge. Protruding from its stone arch was a carved, weather worn Puritan cross. It served as a warning then and now. A warning to all who sailed under, and to all who passed by, that the king may govern but did not rule, not here in this wilderness, not here in this land.
Chapter Twenty Four
Deacon had exited The Shard without incident. None of the zealots were anywhere to be seen and the security guard had disappeared, probably with the same haste as the group he had been protecting. Whoever or whatever they suspected caused the noise on the floor above, they dare not risk a scene. Deacon had caught the first train back, snatched a few short hours of sleep before being woken early in the morning by a call from Paula King, detailing the events which had unfolded in the Fens that night. He had called in at the office to be fully briefed before setting off to locate the scene. He had all but exhausted his range of expletives by the time he arrived at the bridge. His satellite navigation had given up the ghost long since and he was forced to drive up and along a series of roads which seem to have three things in common. They were narrow, straight and seemed to lead nowhere. Eventually, he had stumbled across the water tower and bumped along the track to the scene of the night’s dramatic events.
