Catalyst

by Mark Eklid

  Who did you think you were kidding, trying to convince yourself you could disappear and leave unfinished business behind? You would never have been content, knowing that he’d got away with causing you so much grief. That man has stolen your legacy, Cranford. It’s your right – no, it’s your obligation – to take retribution. That’s why you ordered him to be killed in the first place and the only mistake you made was to put your trust in a third party. If you want something doing properly, do it yourself. Isn’t that what you’ve always said?

  ‘Bloody right,’ he snarled.

  33

  The house was dark and quiet. Hardstaff trod carefully through the slushy snow on the rising path to the front door but had little hope there would be a reply if he knocked, so he did not even try.

  Never mind. I can wait.

  It’ll be worth it.

  He considered what to do next as a gust of wind disturbed the last stubborn brown leaves on the beech hedge which divided Martin Bestwick’s home from the one next door. In the old clothes he kept at the cottage for when he needed to do manual work outside and with five days of stubble on his chin, he looked such a contrast to the image of the statesman he had always sought to portray to the outside world. He was happy for the disguise. He had taken a chance by bringing the Range Rover back into the city where so many people wanted answers from him, especially as it had a distinctive personalised number plate, but the roads, clearer of snow than they had been out in the countryside, were quiet and he had made the trip without attracting unwanted attention. He left the car parked down a quiet side road a short walk away, where he hoped it could not be spotted by a passing patrol car. Doing what he needed to do and getting away without being noticed at all was crucial.

  His only stop on the way in had been at a quiet rural garage, where he filled up with diesel ready for the drive south and turned on his mobile phone – just long enough to check if he still had the text to Hughes with Bestwick’s address. It was still there and though he realised he should probably have deleted it long since – just to be safe – he was grateful he hadn’t. He memorised the address, deleted the text this time and turned off the phone again.

  Hardstaff sized up the silent old brick detached house in front of him. Ideally, Bestwick would have been home but his absence opened other options.

  Perhaps, if he could break in somehow, he could be inside waiting when Bestwick did return. Maybe he could position himself in an armchair, casually leaning his head on hand in a thoughtful pose with the axe menacingly on his lap, like a Bond villain. Or he could wait to pounce behind an internal door, with maniacal eyes, like Jack Nicholson in The Shining.

  Heeeeeere’s Cranford!

  It was an enticing fantasy but breaking through the external door with the axe would not exactly fit in with the hoped-for element of surprise and Hardstaff was well aware that the days when he might force open a downstairs window and squeeze his large belly through the small gap were long gone.

  He had to find somewhere to hide. Somewhere he could watch the house and remain out of sight, so that when Bestwick arrived he could go through with the plan as he had conceived it.

  Knock on the door, barge through, pull out the axe he had secured with his trouser belt and strike.

  Then back to the car, find a quiet pull-off about an hour’s drive away where he could change into normal clothes and dump the old ones, then off to Folkestone for the Eurotunnel.

  Thirteen hours after disembarking at Calais, he would be at the villa in Tuscany. It would be a long time on the road but he could always sleep in the car if he needed to and he was excited by the prospect of the trip, rather than daunted. It felt like an adventure.

  He edged back down the slippery path to the road and looked both ways. To his right, the road fell towards the city centre and options for cover were few, other than in people’s front gardens, but to his left was a T-junction. On the opposite side of it was a row of bungalows behind a neat long privet hedge and then an entrance to a driveway.

  He headed towards there. The driveway led to a council-run care centre but what had caught Hardstaff’s eye was the curved high stone wall to the right of the driveway, protecting the boundary of the centre’s grounds. A cluster of tall old oaks waved gently in the wind behind it, their branches reaching over the wall as if trying to escape its restraints.

  Hardstaff stood at the wall. The view to Bestwick’s house from there was unrestricted and as long as the ground on the other side rose high enough to allow him to peer over the wall, he could watch completely hidden from sight. He walked up the driveway to find out what the view was like from the other side of the wall.

  The ground under the trees was still deep in virgin snow which had drifted with the wind against the wall. Hardstaff sunk mid-calf with every laboured step but, when he reached the point of the wall closest to the main road, the reward was that it came only to shoulder height. He could see the house easily. Perfect.

  He created a small clearing in the snow from where he could stand and watch for however long he needed to, without fear of detection. The tall trees creaked above him but their noises gave nothing away as he set himself for his vigil, rubbing his gloved hands and kicking against the wall occasionally to keep warm, dipping low whenever he saw a car or a pedestrian approaching.

  Even in so many thick layers, the cold began to penetrate to his bones but Hardstaff was alert and eager. Clearing the snow from around the car and on the drive at the cottage had been made much more of a trial by his alcohol excesses of the night before but he had slept for three hours in his chair by the wood-burner after that and awoke feeling much better. He was even able to tolerate the thought of food, and so he had made his delayed meal of pasta, baked beans and hash browns before setting off for Sheffield.

  Locking the door felt as if he was bringing an era to a close. The next person to enter the cottage would be the estate agent, after he issued the instruction to sell from Italy, but Hardstaff felt no sadness in that realisation. He was still in control. They had exposed him and sought to shame him but they had not managed to bring him down. He was still free to do as he liked and Bestwick was soon to feel the power he still wielded.

  He was too smart for them all. They would not conquer the great Cranford Hardstaff.

  He pulled back his sleeve to look at his watch. It was a few minutes before eight. He had been there for over an hour. Though his commitment to staying for as long as it took remained firm, he wished Bestwick would do the decent thing and come home to be killed soon.

  As the darkness fell deeper, the cold bit harder and Hardstaff stamped to get the stiffness out of his knees. There were still no lights on at the house and as the hands on his watch crept slowly closer to half past eight, Hardstaff began to wonder if his victim was going to return home at all.

  But then he saw the single light of a bicycle weaving up the hill and a figure in a bright yellow jacket dismounted outside the house. Hardstaff’s eyes strained to be sure it was the right man but there was no need. The figure pushed the bike up the path towards the front door.

  It was him.

  Give it a minute, he told himself.

  But he was impatient to get it done now, the final act of closure before he headed away to make a fresh start. He restrained his impulse to move for a few seconds more until the thumping surge of eager anticipation coursing through his body could be denied no longer.

  Let’s go!

  The roads were quiet and the weather still, as if holding its breath in anticipation. Hardstaff trudged the short distance from his hiding place, hunched with his hands deep in the pockets of his overcoat, feeling the ease of movement slowly return to his chilled legs, his teeth gritted in resolve for the task ahead.

  The bottle green wooden front door was in front of him again and he raised his hand to knock, but stopped. Maybe the door did not have to be opened for him. He gripped the rounded brass doorknob and twisted it slowly. Must not make a sound. Surprise will add an
extra layer of satisfaction to the kill.

  The doorknob creaked, barely noticeably, in his hand until he could turn it no further. Hardstaff pushed tentatively against the door and it moved – no more than a few millimetres, but it moved. It was unlocked. He pushed again, a little more forcibly this time, and the door opened.

  Hardstaff eased the heavy old door open wider until he could step through it and into the hallway. The house was dark and cold but, ahead and to the right, light seeped through from the crack of a door leading to one of the lower floor rooms. Beyond it was the sound of activity – drawers being opened and pans being set down on hard surfaces.

  Hardstaff grinned and his pulse quickened. There. Bestwick is through there.

  He slowly pushed the front door closed behind him so that it held against the frame. No point shutting it fully and risking making a sound.

  The stairway was to his left and, leaned against the same wall, was a bike, with a helmet dangling by a strap from the handlebars. Good. The helmet would have offered no protection against the axe but he was happy it would not be in the way at all.

  He took a first step towards the room and his oblivious prey. The chipped mosaic Victorian tiled flooring absorbed the impact of his vast weight without offering a clue of his advance, but he stepped as lightly as he could anyway until he was almost there at the door. He was so close that the light from inside shone in a broad strip against the length of his body. So close that the sounds of movement from the room filled his senses. So close that he could almost taste his revenge.

  Hardstaff flicked open the buttons of his overcoat, a gunslinger relishing the final moments before the rush of proving once again that he was not a man to be challenged. His fingers tightened around the wood of the axe handle where it met the heavy metal blade and he pulled it carefully free of the belt around his waist, holding it firmly in his left hand.

  Ready to strike. Ready to make that bastard pay.

  He leaned against the door, poised to burst through, drew a final deep breath and flung it open, stepping into the room. There will be no escape this time.

  The man in the yellow jacket was on the opposite side of the room but he was not taken by surprise. He was not petrified. He was not helpless.

  He was not Bestwick.

  He was pointing a handgun at the intruder.

  ‘Armed police. Drop the weapon. Now!’

  Hardstaff was frozen. He stared blankly at the figure opposite, who stood arms outstretched with two hands wrapped around the weapon that was aimed at the torso of the intruder, his stare uncompromising and steely down the line of the barrel. He had been outflanked. He was the predator but he had walked straight into a trap.

  ‘Drop the weapon!’

  From behind him, Hardstaff could hear heavy footsteps advancing through the front door and he turned to see two more armed officers, wearing bulky protective vests over their black combat jackets and squinting down the sights of menacing black submachine guns. They yelled commands so loud and urgent that he could hardly make out the confusion of words but he understood their meaning.

  Hardstaff bent his knees deliberately, cautiously, to lay the axe on the floor and rose slowly upright again with his hands raised.

  ‘Hands on your head. Do it!’ commanded the policeman in yellow.

  As Hardstaff did as he was told, other officers surged into the room. One wrenched Hardstaff’s hands behind his back to secure them in handcuffs while another collected the axe.

  A third stood directly in front of the deposed council leader. DS Will Copson wore a protective vest over his normal clothes and stared deeply into the eyes of the subdued but resentful face before him. This was his moment of victory.

  ‘Cranford Hardstaff. I am arresting you on suspicion of attempted murder…’

  ‘Woah, woah, woah!’ interrupted Hardstaff and Copson fell quiet. ‘You don’t think I was intending to kill him, do you? I’m a politician, not a maniac. I’m a man of peace. I was coming here to clear up any misunderstanding and bad feeling between myself and Martin and the axe, well, that was a sort of joke. Bury the hatchet, see? I wouldn’t do anything as stupid as…’

  ‘Save your breath, Hardstaff,’ said Copson firmly. ‘We’ve had surveillance cameras on this house since Mr Bestwick came forward to tell us he believed you intended to make an attempt on his life and so we saw you creeping about the place earlier this evening. We watched you go and find a hiding place to wait for what you thought was him coming home, so don’t give me that garbage. We know what you’ve been up to. We’ve already secured a full confession from your accomplice, Wesley, and we know all about your sordid dealings at the council. You’re finished, Cranford. Not even a professional bullshitter like you can get out of this one.’

  With the formalities of the arrest completed, Hardstaff was led from the house by officers holding him by the arms. The flash of blue lights from the police cars on the street made him blink as he emerged into the cold evening and he bent his head to avoid the glare of their scrutiny, meekly allowing himself to be directed down the path and towards the open back door of one of the waiting cars.

  As a hand was placed on his head to encourage him to dip and climb inside, Hardstaff glanced upwards again. On the steps of the house opposite stood a frail old woman, wrapped in thick clothing but still cowering against the chill of the night. Beside her, his arm pulled closely around her shoulder in comfort and mutual support, was a short man with straight dark hair and a straggly beard. They were both glaring at him: terror, not triumph, in their eyes.

  Hardstaff saw him but could not muster even a final defiant flare of hatred to launch in the direction of the man who had brought him to this.

  What was the point?

  It was over.

  34

  ‘Good turn-out again.’

  Vivienne moved beside Martin and slipped her arm around his. They looked out over the community hall together with satisfied smiles like proud parents as the banks of chairs slowly emptied and inquisitive newcomers picked through the information leaflets that had been laid out for them. A queue of at least twenty waited patiently for Diane and Richard to process their new membership application forms.

  They had anticipated the surge in interest at the April meeting, coming as soon as it did after all the publicity of the Swarbrook Hill exposé, but there were even more new faces at the May meeting, if anything. The achievements of the Sheffield Environmental Action Network were there for all to see and, if the numbers in the hall and the traffic to the website were anything to go by, people wanted to associate themselves with a group that got things done.

  ‘We’re going to have to think about finding an even bigger venue in the future at this rate,’ said Martin.

  Vivienne laughed. ‘The days when we were all able to fit around a table in a small corner of your café seem a long time ago.’

  ‘You’re not wrong,’ he agreed. ‘It’s been a crazy couple of months, hasn’t it, but we always said we thought we could make a real difference one day and, well, here we are.’

  They watched the activity of the room in silence for a few happy moments more. So many opportunities lay ahead of them, so many plans waiting to be pursued. This was worth every ounce of the effort they had put in through the early days. Their voice, at last, was hard to ignore.

  ‘Have you heard any more about the trial date?’ Vivienne asked.

  Hardstaff. Martin had been so afraid of that name in the days after Helena Morrison had visited him at the café and left him with a warning. It still send a shiver down his spine, even since the night of the arrest.

  ‘Not a thing. It’ll be some time yet, I guess. They’re probably still counting how many charges they’re going to try him for.’

  ‘You’re OK, though?’ Vivienne was happy to hear his attempt at disarming humour but clung on to nagging concerns for her old ally.

  ‘I’m fine, honestly,’ he said, attempting a reassuring smile. ‘I’d be lying if I said I�
�m completely over it because I still don’t like to be on my own in the house. It feels like he’s still there, you know? Lurking in dark corners. I’ve taken to leaving all the lights on, which is no good for my carbon footprint but I need it for now. I’ll get over it, I guess.’

  ‘You know there’s always a spare room at my place,’ she said.

  ‘Thanks,’ he gripped her arm tighter to show his appreciation. ‘It’s only a short-term thing, I’m sure. I have to get used to being back to normal some time.’

  A familiar elderly couple, hand in hand, were moving towards them and Martin’s face lit up with delight when he saw them.

  ‘So glad you could make it,’ he said, hugging them in turn.

  ‘Vivienne, I’d like you to meet two very special friends of mine. This is Frank Elliott and this is… well, what should I call you now? Mrs Dawes or Mrs Elliott?’

  The old lady shot him a mildly reproachful glance.

  ‘Evelyn. You should call me Evelyn.’

  The couple exchanged handshakes with Vivienne as Martin continued the introductions.

  ‘Mrs… Evelyn used to live opposite me but now she’s moved in with Frank. How is life at Silverwood Court?’

  ‘It’s lovely,’ she said. ‘There’s so much going on all the time. It’s great to have so many new friends but we still want our old ones to stay in touch, don’t we Frank?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ he confirmed.

  ‘In fact, I’ve looked into setting up a vegan cookery group at the Court and I wondered if you’d be able to come by and give us a talk.’

  ‘I’d be delighted to,’ said Martin and he hugged Evelyn again.

  Over her shoulder, he spotted a lone figure, lingering nervously at the back of the hall. He was slim and petite, dressed in crisp dark jeans and a dark blue jacket. His light-brown hair was streaked and styled in a new way now and his skin was tanned but Martin knew him in an instant. It had been twenty-one months, one week and six days since the split. After almost eighteen years together, what was to one secure and blissful had become to the other stifling and unfulfilling. He wanted to travel. He wanted to sell up and, after they had seen the world, he wanted them to buy a bar on a beach and share a new life in the sun. But Martin did not want that and so they had to accept, reluctantly, painfully, that they had reached the end.