by Rob Johnson
Taking him by the arm, the cabbie guided him onto the pavement and set the suitcase down next to him. The blind man pulled a wallet from the inside pocket of his jacket and handed the driver a couple of banknotes. After a brief exchange of words, the cabbie got back into the car and drove off.
With his wallet still in his hand, the passenger raised his sunglasses so that they perched on top of his head and looked up at the block of flats. Then he removed a small piece of paper from the wallet and studied it for a moment. Returning his glasses to the bridge of his nose, he picked up the suitcase and started to cross the road. As he went, he glanced repeatedly up the street in the direction from which he’d just arrived and occasionally tapped his long white stick on the ground in front of him.
Jarvis and Statham were partially blocking the doorway and stepped to the side as the man approached.
‘Thank you,’ he said and pushed open the glass door.
Patterson immediately began to give Jarvis and Coleman their instructions, and only Statham continued to watch the blind man as he crossed the entrance hall and pressed the button for the lift.
‘Something very odd about that bloke,’ he said.
Patterson broke off from what he was saying to the other two. ‘What?’
‘The way he took off his dark glasses and looked up at the flats for a start. And I’m bloody sure he was reading something on that bit of paper he took out of his wallet. If you ask me, he’s no more blind than I am.’
All four of them peered through the glass as the man prodded at the lift button once again, and Patterson realised that immediate action was called for when he saw him turn away from the lift and head towards the stairs.
‘Right, Jarvis,’ he said, ‘you get after him and see which flat he goes to. Coleman, you go and fetch whatever surveillance gear you’ve got with you. I don’t want you two barging in on anything yet, so get yourselves into an adjoining flat and just listen in for now till we know what’s going on.’
‘Okay, guv,’ said Coleman and hurried off towards his car.
Jarvis waited until his quarry had disappeared from view up the stairs and then set off in pursuit.
‘I only wish I had a bit more faith in those two,’ said Patterson with a slight shake of the head. ‘Come on then, Colin. Let’s find out if that bloody tracker really is working.’
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
They climbed the short flight of steps to the bright red door at the top, and Trevor rapped three times with the heavy brass knocker. Moments later, the door was opened by a woman in a blue pirate-style headscarf, paint spattered T-shirt and jeans that were torn at the knees. She was wiping her hands on a grubby piece of rag, and Trevor caught a strong whiff of white spirit.
‘All right, Janice?’ he said as Milly shot past her into the house.
‘Well, look what the cat dragged in,’ she said.
‘Sorry I didn’t let you know I was coming.’
His sister shrugged. ‘You’ll just have to take me as you find me, that’s all. I’m in the middle of decorating.’
‘So I see,’ said Trevor, taking the rag from her and wiping a smear of lime green paint from the tip of her nose. He handed the rag back to her and noticed she was looking beyond his right shoulder. ‘Oh yes, this is a er… friend of mine. Sandra.’
Sandra stepped forward and held out her hand.
‘Best not,’ said Janice with a warm smile and indicated the streaks of paint on her palms. ‘Nice to meet you though.’
She flashed Trevor a look, and the question in her eyes was unmistakable, but the exact nature of his relationship with Sandra was none of her business, so he ignored her.
‘Any chance of a cup of tea?’ he said and hoped the unspoken “and maybe a sandwich and a bit of cake” would be taken as read.
Janice ushered them into the hallway, the floor of which was covered with a variety of old bedsheets. A pair of aluminium stepladders stood against the wall she was painting, and an open five-litre can of emulsion lay on its side close to the bottom rung, its contents still adding to the spreading puddle of lime green paint.
‘Bloody hell,’ said Janice and grabbed the almost empty paint tin to set it upright. ‘That dog of yours is a sodding menace.’
‘How do you know it was Milly?’ said Trevor, who feared the worst and therefore failed miserably in his attempt to sound indignant.
By way of reply, his sister pointed at the trail of lime green paw prints which led from the scene of the crime and continued on through the open doorway on the left.
‘Ah,’ said Trevor and followed the trail into the lounge, praying that the hall carpet under the bedsheets wasn’t the same shade of pale beige.
‘Oh Christ,’ he heard Janice say from behind him. ‘It’s gone right through. Beige bloody carpet as well.’
Trevor flinched and easily resisted the temptation to tell her she could have bought some waterproof dustsheets from Dreamhome Megastores for just a few quid. Instead, his eyes tracked the paw prints across the spacious living room. He gained a modicum of relief when he saw that the intensity of the green gradually decreased until the trail vanished altogether immediately in front of the settee on which Milly was now lying. She was on her back with her legs in the air and Trevor’s nephew, Josh, was stroking her chest.
‘Hey, Josh. How’s it going?’
The boy brushed a hank of black hair from his forehead and looked up from the television, which was blaring away from the corner of the room next to the window.
‘Hi, Uncle Trevor,’ he said with a broad grin. ‘Cool thanks.’
‘Rovers or City?’ said Trevor, nodding towards Josh’s red and white football shirt.
His nephew glanced down as if to verify what he was actually wearing, and his smile widened. ‘City of course.’
‘Expensive, aren’t they?’
Josh briefly eyed the shirt once again. ‘Dunno. Mum gave it me for my birthday.’
‘Oh, right. Yeah, I’m sorry I missed the party.’ Trevor remembered that the lad had turned ten back in February, but despite being very fond of him, he’d been at quite a low ebb at the time and decided he couldn’t face a houseful of shrieking kids.
‘’Sokay,’ said Josh and then suddenly sat upright from his slouching position at the end of the settee. ‘Hello.’
Trevor turned to see that Sandra had entered the room and was staring at the trail of paw prints across the carpet.
‘Hi,’ she said and then switched her attention back to the splodges of paint. ‘I think you’d better get a cloth or something before your sister sees this.’
‘Too bloody late,’ said Janice as she appeared in the doorway. ‘And get the damn dog off the sofa, Josh. – Now.’
With obvious reluctance, the boy half pushed and half slid Milly onto the floor, which was no easy task as she seemed equally reluctant to relinquish her state of perfect bliss on the settee.
‘She your girlfriend?’
It took Trevor a moment to register that his nephew was talking to him, and he felt the heat blast into his cheeks.
‘What?’ he said and instantly regretted the nervous laugh which probably sounded more like a coquettish giggle. ‘Oh no, no. Just a er… friend. That’s all. We er—’
He decided to shut up before he made more of a blushing idiot of himself than he had already and stole a look at Sandra. She was gazing down at her feet, and from the angle of her face it was impossible to tell whether she was smiling or frowning. His mind raced to find something to say which would divert attention from the unwelcome topic in hand, but his mental floundering was mercifully interrupted by a loud knock at the front door.
‘Oh great. Why don’t we all have a bloody party?’ said Janice and thrust the paint sodden rag at her brother. ‘Here. Make yourself useful for once.’
He took the rag and surveyed the lime green marks on the carpet. ‘I think this’ll make it worse if anything.’
Janice clasped a hand to her forehead. ‘Jesus, T
revor, I know all men are useless, but you—’
‘Have you got a clean one we could use?’ said Sandra.
Janice was momentarily fazed by the interruption to her tirade. ‘Er… should be one under the sink in the kitchen.’
Trevor was out of the lounge before his sister had even finished the sentence, and he reached the kitchen at the far end of the hallway just as she was opening the front door. He made straight for the cupboard under the sink but froze as he crouched down to open it.
‘Sorry to bother you, madam, but we’re looking for a Mr Trevor Hawkins.’
It was a man’s voice and one which was instantly familiar.
‘And you are?’ Janice’s tone sounded polite but curt.
There was the briefest of pauses before the man spoke again. ‘Detective Sergeant Logan, Metropolitan Police.’
Trevor shot upright like a popped champagne cork. Shit, he thought. How the hell did he get here?
‘Police?’ said Janice. ‘What’s it about?’
That’s it, sis. Keep him talking while I make my escape.
Escape? Escape? What in God’s name was he thinking of? But even as the absurdity of the notion occurred to him, he scanned the small, neatly kept back garden through the window above the sink. It was surrounded by a tall wooden fence with a door set into the furthest corner.
‘I suppose you’d better come in then,’ he heard Janice say.
Trevor realised it was now or never and hesitated only long enough to consider the predicament that Sandra might be in. It’s not her they’re after though, is it? It’s me they want.
And thus having satisfied his conscience, he was out of the back door and across the garden in a matter of seconds. He reached for the black metal handle on the gate but froze once again when he saw the latch rise slowly of its own accord. He stepped back as the gate opened inwards, and straight away he recognised the smartly dressed young woman who stood before him.
‘Going somewhere, Mr Hawkins?’ she said.
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
Having decided to take Jarvis and Coleman’s car because it was nearer, Patterson now sat hunched forward in the passenger seat of the stationary blue Mondeo, his arms straight down by his sides and his forehead resting on the top of the dashboard.
‘Why me? Oh God, why me?’ he muttered every so often and at the same time raised and lowered his brow against the warm stickiness of the vinyl.
‘You all right?’ said Statham without diverting his gaze from the small notebook computer propped against the steering wheel in front of him.
Patterson rolled his head sideways and stared at him. ‘If your definition of all right is that I am quite content to be in charge of an operation which has turned into the most monumental cockup in the entire history of the Secret Service, then my answer would have to be no, Colin, I am anything but bloody all right. In fact, if you want the honest truth, I am seriously considering the advantages of taking my gun out and ending it all right here and right now.’
‘Could be worse,’ said Statham, pointing at the flashing red dot in the centre of the computer screen. ‘I mean, at least the tracking device is working.’
‘Oh well, everything’s all just tickety-boo then, isn’t it?’ said Patterson, his forehead reacquainting itself with the dashboard. ‘There is, however, one teensy tiny problem which may have escaped your attention though. And that is that the teensy tiny device you so expertly attached to their car appears to be in the same frigging place opposite the block of flats.’
There was a pause, and he could hear Statham tapping some buttons on the computer keyboard. ‘Hmm,’ he said at last. ‘Bit of a conundrum that.’
‘Conundrum, he says. Conundrum.’ Patterson’s snort of laughter was more like a demonic cackle, and his head-banging intensified before he suddenly threw himself backwards in his seat and addressed himself to the roof of the car. ‘It’s not a conundrum. It’s a typical Colin Statham bollock-dropping balls-up. That’s what it is. Plain and simple.’
‘Oh come on. I don’t see why I should take all the blame.’
Patterson rounded on him. ‘Well forgive me if I’m wrong here, but I seem to remember you were the one who was supposed to fix the tracker under the car. Now, assuming that your box of tricks there isn’t telling a great big porky, I can only guess that you didn’t do it properly and the little bugger is currently lying at the side of the road and bleeping merrily away to itself.’
‘It was the dog.’
‘The what?’
‘The dog. All that barking and stuff distracted me. If you’d warned me that there—’
‘Oh I see. So it was all my fault, was it?’ Patterson folded his arms across his chest and turned away to look out of the side window, barely registering the taxi which pulled up in front of the block of flats or the three men who got out of it.
‘I’m not saying that. It’s just—’
Statham was interrupted for a second time when the onboard radio hissed and crackled into life: ‘Hello? Jarvis here. Come in, guv. Are you there?’
Patterson took no notice and continued to stare out of the window.
‘You want me to get that?’ said Statham.
‘Laurel and Hardy reporting the latest bloody disaster? Help yourself.’
Statham took the microphone from its mounting on the dashboard. Then he closed his eyes and listened while Jarvis recounted how he had followed the blind man to Flat 12 on the second floor. One of the apartments next to it was unoccupied, and he and Coleman had broken in and set up the surveillance gear. They’d only got audio, but they hadn’t heard any voices yet, so it was more than likely the guy was on his own in there.
‘Where are you anyway? You caught up with the Peugeot yet?’
Statham leaned forward and spoke into the microphone in little more than a whisper. ‘Er… not as such, no.’
‘Don’t tell me the tracker didn’t work. Jeez, the guv’nor must have— Hang on a minute. There’s something…’
Jarvis’s voice tailed off into a barrage of radio static but returned a few seconds later. ‘Seems like he’s got company. Two or three of ‘em by the sound of it.’
This was surely too much of a coincidence, thought Patterson. It must be the three men who’d got out of the taxi just now. Come to think of it, there’d been something shifty about the way they’d looked up and down the street before they’d disappeared into the flats. And the fattish bloke in the black overcoat. He knew him from somewhere, he was almost certain of it.
He threw open the car door. ‘Come on, Colin. We might be about to salvage something from this unholy mess after all.’
* * *
MacFarland wasn’t in the least surprised that Julian Bracewell was already in the flat, nor that he was pointing a gun at them as they came through the door. Harry’s tanned complexion, on the other hand, turned a pale shade of grey.
‘Well, well. Julian Bracewell as I live and breathe.’
MacFarland couldn’t be certain, but he thought he detected a hint of a tremor in Harry’s voice. He stared at the man he had first met as a tramp outside the hotel in Sheffield only a few hours earlier. Clean shaven now and looking twenty years younger, he was half perched on the narrow window sill at the opposite end of the room, dressed in a dark blue suit and red tie. Eyeing Bracewell’s gun, he contemplated reaching for his own but instantly abandoned the idea as not only a futile gesture but very probably a suicidal one.
‘I must say you appear to be in remarkably good health for someone who’s supposed to be dead, old boy,’ said Bracewell, raising and lowering his gun in Harry’s direction like it was some kind of long distance body scanner.
‘Not lookin’ so bad yerself in the circumstances.’
‘Can’t complain, Harry. Can’t complain. But speaking of the dead, would this chappie here have anything to do with you by any chance?’
Bracewell nodded towards the armchair in the middle of the room, only the back of which was visible to Harr
y and the others.
‘Dead? What the fuck are you talkin’ about?’ Harry seemed to have forgotten about the gun that was being aimed at him, and he strode over to the armchair. ‘Jesus Christ. What did you do to ‘im?’
‘Nothing to do with me, old boy. He was like that when I got here.’
‘And where the hell are Carrot and Lenny?’ Harry’s eyes darted around the flat as if he thought they might be hiding somewhere.
‘Who?’
‘The two muppets who were supposed to be lookin’ after ‘im.’
‘Just me and the stiff I’m afraid,’ Bracewell said with a shrug. ‘Can’t get the staff these days, eh, Harry? Present company excepted of course.’
MacFarland felt awkward at the wink and the beaming grin that was directed at him, uncertain whether to return the smile or not.
‘How’s the old war wound by the way?’ Bracewell waved the barrel of his gun at MacFarland’s feet.
‘Aye, well,’ he said, looking down at his injured foot, which still shot a bolt of pain up his leg whenever he put weight on it. ‘I guess it’s nae so bad now, ta very much. Mind you, I have tae—’
‘Oh shut up, ‘Aggis,’ Harry interrupted, his face contorted with contempt. ‘Nobody gives a toss about your bleedin’ foot.’
Bracewell’s smile vanished instantly, and he whipped the gun round to aim it at Harry’s chest. ‘I beg your pardon, old boy, but I do believe I was expressing an interest in our Scottish friend’s podiatric wellbeing.’
‘Whoa, whoa, whoa,’ said Harry with a forced laugh, throwing his hands in the air in mock surrender. ‘Let’s not get hasty, shall we?’
