by Rob Johnson
The two men stopped when they reached the armchair, and Bracewell looked down at Harry’s contorted features. ‘Goodbye, old chap,’ he said. ‘I won’t say au revoir as I very much doubt I shall ever have the misfortune of seeing you again.’
Harry stared up at him with defiant loathing, but his expression switched abruptly to one of surprise when he saw his nemesis slip the still silenced gun into his pocket. ‘Whassup, Julian? Lost yer bottle?’
‘Not at all, dear boy. I simply decided that killing you wouldn’t be nearly as much fun as leaving you to be found next to the body of the profoundly dead Member for Wherever-on-the-Wold. Even if you somehow manage to squirm your way out of this one, I have every confidence that our mutual friends in the constabulary have a rather long list of reasons why you should spend the rest of your days as a guest of Her Majesty.’
Harry hawked and spat, but the distance was too great, and the gobbet of phlegm landed harmlessly on the floor. Bracewell tutted and was about to continue on his way out of the flat when Delia held him back.
‘You don’t think he’ll be able to get out of here before the police arrive, do you?’
‘Hmm,’ said Bracewell, scratching his chin and frowning. ‘Good point.’
The words were barely out of his mouth when he whipped the gun back out of his pocket and shot Harry through his other foot.
‘Fuuuuuuuuuccckkkk!’
Bracewell slowly unscrewed the silencer from his gun and squinted as he watched Harry writhing on the ground and clutching his newly wounded foot. ‘You know, Harry, despite your age and the fact that you could do with losing more than a few pounds around the tummy area, that tan of yours is going to make you awfully popular in the prison showers. Toodle pip, old boy.’
So saying, he set off towards the door with Delia at his side, and MacFarland fixed his eyes on the gun which Bracewell had not yet returned to his pocket. He’d often wondered what it felt like to be on the wrong end of a bullet, and it was well on the cards he was about to find out. Aye well, as long as it wasn’t the stomach. – Oh Jeez, no. Not in the stomach.
‘You okay, Mac?’
‘Uh?’ He’d caught sight of Delia stooping to pick up his briefcase on the edge of his vision, but his focus stayed pinned to Bracewell’s gun.
‘I said are you—’ Delia began again but broke off when he realised the reason for MacFarland’s distraction. ‘Julian.’
Bracewell must have clocked the reproachful tone in Delia’s voice because he instantly looked at his gun as if he was surprised to find it was still in his hand.
‘I say. Sorry, old boy,’ he said, thrusting the pistol back into his pocket. ‘You didn’t think I was going to— Oh dear, that really would have buggered our little entente cordiale, wouldn’t it?’
‘Listen, Mac,’ said Delia, placing a hand on MacFarland’s shoulder. ‘I wouldn’t hang around here if I were you. I’ll be giving the police a bell as soon as we’re clear.’
‘Dinnae worry, pal. I’m just gonna say ma goodbyes and I’m away,’ he said with an exaggerated wink.
Delia turned to go and then hesitated. ‘Give me a call,’ he said. ‘We might have something for you if you’re interested.’
‘Aye? – Well, cheers. I may just take ye up on that.’
As soon as Bracewell and Delia had gone, MacFarland strode over to where Harry was thrashing about on the floor and gave him a hefty kick in the nuts.
‘And there’s one from Haggis Bollocks,’ he said, ‘but ye can call me James Dougal MacFarland.’
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
Patterson and Statham watched in silence as Coleman opened the apartment door, both of them with their hands inside their jackets, grasping the butts of their guns. Over his shoulder, they could see two uniformed police officers.
‘Evening, sir,’ said the taller of the two. ‘I wonder if I could ask you a few questions.’
‘What about?’
‘I think it might be better if we discussed this inside, sir, if you don’t mind.’
Coleman looked back at Patterson, who rolled his eyes and then indicated with a nod that he should let them in. He moved to the side, and the officers stepped into the flat. Patterson could now see from the markings on their sweaters that the taller one was a sergeant and the other a constable.
‘Quite a little party you’ve got going on here,’ said the sergeant, scanning the room and its occupants. ‘Even got your own DJ, I see.’
Patterson followed his gaze to where Jarvis still sat next to the wall with his back to them, apparently listening so intently through the headphones that he was oblivious to the arrival of their uninvited guests.
‘What is it you want exactly?’ he said, making no attempt to disguise his irritation.
The sergeant was clearly not happy about being spoken to in this way and curled his upper lip like a recalcitrant teenager. ‘You the tenant here, are you, sir? Or perhaps one of your… companions?’ He uttered the word as if it was the verbal equivalent of dog shit that he had just discovered on the sole of his shoe.
‘No, but—’
‘I thought not.’
The speed of the interruption and the smug grin with which it was delivered were unambiguous. The sergeant already knew full well that they were intruders.
‘You see, sir,’ he went on, ‘we’ve had a report from a neighbour that she saw two men entering the flat even though the legitimate tenant is away on a fortnight’s holiday in Majorcal.’
Despite his annoyance, Patterson couldn’t help but smile at the bizarre habit Bristolians had of adding an “L” to words which ended in a vowel. Then, with all the superficial politeness he could muster, he explained who they were and why it had been necessary to break into the flat, keeping the details to the barest minimum. The sergeant, however, was not to be deprived of his moment of glory quite so easily. Even when Patterson and the others showed him their identification, he remained steadfastly unconvinced and expressed his doubts that the ID cards were genuine. Patterson offered to give him the numbers of half a dozen contacts he could call who would verify that they were who they said they were, but he wasn’t buying this either.
‘And how do I know they’re who you say they are?’ he said. ‘I’ll make my own enquiries, thank you very much.’
Several minutes then passed while the constable made a variety of calls over his radio. All the while, Patterson paced back and forth, occasionally pausing to check whether Jarvis had picked up anything of importance, but there was little that he didn’t know already. Although he still had no plan as to how to proceed with the operation, he fervently hoped that the pompous jobsworth of a sergeant would soon get his confirmation and bugger off out of the way.
‘Jesus!’ said Jarvis, once again throwing down the headphones and clutching at his ears.
The cry of pain from the next-door apartment was even louder than the previous one, and Jarvis was certain he’d heard a gunshot this time.
‘Gunshot?’ said the sergeant with an anxious glance at his partner, who had just ended yet another call and was clipping his radio back onto the shoulder of his sweater.
‘Seems like they really are MI5, sarge,’ said the constable.
‘Never mind that now. If there’s people shooting in there, we need to investigate.’
The sergeant was almost at the door when Patterson whipped out his gun. ‘One more step and there’ll be shooting in here too.’
‘Now listen here…’ The sergeant’s words tailed away as he turned to see the pistol aimed at his head.
‘The pair of you. Over by the window.’ Patterson waved his gun towards the far end of the room and rather enjoyed the look of shock on the sergeant’s face and his spluttering protestations as the two uniforms did as they were told.
‘I think someone’s leaving, guv,’ said Jarvis, his headphones back in position.
‘Coleman, keep an eye on these two. Colin, you come with me.’ Patterson led the way to the door, still without any pa
rticular plan in mind but instinctively aware that he should at least check out the situation.
When Jarvis informed him that all he could hear was someone groaning, he decided that any risk was now minimal, and he opened the door as silently as possible. Craning his neck forward, he peered into the corridor. At the far end, a man with a ponytail was hurriedly limping towards the top of the stairs, and even from behind, he was fairly sure it was the Scottish guy that Statham had chased after at the festival the day before.
The second he’d disappeared down the stairs, Patterson edged his way out into the hallway. The door of Number 12 was closed, so he motioned to Statham to open it. He took a deep breath and stretched his gun out in front of him, the butt clasped between both hands.
CHAPTER FIFTY
DS Logan marched along the hallway with Sandra at his side. Trevor followed a couple of paces behind with Milly on a lead, and DC Swann brought up the rear. The door of Flat 12 was already open and so was the door of the apartment just beyond it. Sandra hung back as Logan swept inside with such apparent nonchalance that Trevor could only assume he still didn’t believe their story about the dead MP and had chosen to ignore their warnings about the potential danger.
‘Who the bloody hell are you?’
Trevor recognised the voice. He joined Sandra in the doorway and saw that Patterson was pointing a gun at Logan’s chest.
‘Well, well,’ said Patterson, swinging his pistol in Sandra and Trevor’s direction. ‘And if it isn’t our little friends from Baader-Meinhof. Decided not to blow his brains out after all, eh?’
‘DS Logan, Metropolitan Police,’ Logan said in answer to Patterson’s original question. ‘And you are?’
There was a pause as Patterson appeared to compose himself, but the anger in his voice was plain to hear when he finally spoke. ‘Forgive me if I’m mistaken, but I thought you were told to keep out from under my feet.’
Trevor watched the light dawn on Logan’s face. ‘Ah, so you’d be MI5 then,’ said the detective and nodded towards the overturned armchair. ‘And this would be the dead MP, would it?’
‘What do you know about—’
‘Are one of you useless twats gonna get me a fucking ambulance or what?’
The words which interrupted Patterson were uttered through gritted teeth from behind the armchair, and Trevor edged sideways to see if his suspicions were correct. They were. It was Harry, sitting in a puddle of blood with his knees drawn up under his chin and clutching his shins.
‘And who’s this then?’ said Logan, who had also shifted his position to see who had spoken.
‘None of your business,’ said Patterson.
‘None of my business? I’m stood here in a flat with a gun pointed at me, a dead Member of Parliament and some bloke who’s been shot in the foot…’ Logan leaned forward to take a closer look. ‘…Feet. And you tell me it’s none of my business?’
Trevor began to feel like he was watching a tennis match as he looked from Logan to Patterson and back again while the two men spent the next few minutes trading threats and insults. So intent were they on their argument, he even wondered if he might be able to slip away unnoticed. He quickly dismissed the idea, however, when a glance over his shoulder told him that DC Swann was still in the doorway, and he was also aware that Patterson’s pal in the denim jacket was keeping half an eye on him from his position by the window at the far end of the apartment. At that particular moment, he appeared to be talking into his sleeve, although he was too far away for Trevor to make out anything intelligible. He transferred his attention back to Patterson and Logan, both of whom looked as if they were about to throw down their racquets and storm off the court.
‘What you don’t seem to understand,’ Logan was saying, ‘is that I’ve got a murder investigation on my hands here.’
‘And I haven’t?’ said Patterson, waving his gun towards the corpse in the overturned armchair.
‘’Scuse me, guv.’
Patterson rounded on his colleague with an expression that reminded Trevor of John McEnroe when he’d just been foot-faulted on match point. ‘What is it, Statham?’
‘Jarvis wants to know if we need any help.’
‘Not unless he’s exceptionally skilled in communicating with the terminally stupid, no.’
‘Righto. And he also says the plods have had a call to investigate an anonymous tipoff about a murder in Flat 12.’
‘This very one in fact,’ said Patterson with heavy sarcasm.
‘Uh-huh.’
‘Oh terrific. So much for covert bloody operations. I don’t know why we don’t just send out invitations.’
‘And send for a fucking ambulance while you’re at it. I’m bleedin’ to death ‘ere.’
Trevor had almost forgotten about Harry, his constant moans and groans having merged into the background some time ago.
Patterson ignored him. ‘Tell the plods to report back that they’ve checked it out and there’s nothing doing. False alarm.’
Logan began to splutter his dissent, but Patterson ignored him too. Instead, he wiped a weary palm across his face and stared down at the floor. After several seconds, he looked up. ‘Listen, Hogan, I’ll tell you what I’ll do—’
‘Logan.’
‘Yes, yes,’ said Patterson with a dismissive wave of the hand. ‘Now, whilst I would dearly love to take these two for a long walk off a short pier somewhere, I’m prepared to make you a deal.’
Trevor was in no doubt as to who he meant by “these two”, although he wasn’t at all convinced he was going to like Patterson’s alternative proposal any more than the short pier one. He gave Sandra a fleeting look to gauge her reaction, but there was none.
‘You can have your wife murderer and his girlfriend,’ Patterson continued, ‘so long as you all bugger off right now and forget everything you’ve seen or heard. No dead MP. No Harry Vincent. No nothing. Okay?’
I suppose it could be worse, Trevor thought, the heat rising in his cheeks as he heard Sandra referred to as his girlfriend for the second time in less than an hour. It was pretty clear now that Patterson really was MI5 and that he was seriously pissed off with him and Sandra. He had no idea what he really meant by the short pier thing, but he was sure it wouldn’t have been pleasant, so escaping his clutches was definitely the preferred option. The same went for Harry in spades. Trevor was very well aware of what he would do if he got his hands on them, but judging by his current state, it seemed unlikely that this particularly gory scenario would ever be played out. That just left Logan and the murder thing. Yeah, just.
DS Logan was putting up a variety of objections to Patterson’s offer and firing off a host of questions, but Patterson was having none of it. Trevor had already sussed Logan as the sort of person who hated anyone getting the better of him when they were back at Janice’s, but he guessed this was simply a show of bravado before he eventually backed down. He did, and he was partway through his not-at-all-happy-about-this-but capitulation speech when there was a loud bleeping sound from somewhere in the kitchen area.
Statham hurried over from the window and flipped open the lid of a small notebook computer which was lying on top of the breakfast bar.
‘Oops,’ he said. ‘Seems like the boss wants a word.’
Patterson sighed and looked up at the ceiling. ‘Oh Christ, that’s all I need. – Tell her I’m busy and find out what she wants. In fact, don’t let her know I’m here at all. – And use the earpiece. I don’t want all this lot listening in.’
Statham fished in his pocket and took out a thin black lead, inserting one end into the notebook and the other into his ear. He pressed a button and leaned forward to peer at the screen, supporting himself with both hands on the edge of the work surface. ‘Evening, ma’am.’
‘Are you listening to me?’ said Logan, breaking off from his speech when he realised that Patterson’s attention was now exclusively devoted to Statham and the back of the notebook screen.
‘No. So shut up
.’
The expression of stunned rage on Logan’s mug was a joy to behold. Trevor had no reason to favour either of these two men over the other, but Logan was the one who reminded him most of the playground bullies he’d had to suffer in his childhood, and it was always good to see one of those bastards get their comeuppance. He smiled to himself as the image of the enormous dog from the Tom and Jerry cartoons superimposed itself onto Logan’s face, snarling and growling and with steam gushing from its ears.
At the same time, his own very real dog made a sudden lunge forward. Milly had been straining at her lead from the moment they’d arrived at the flat, clearly intent on a more detailed exploration of her new environment, and Trevor had struggled to keep her in check. On this occasion, however, he was distracted by Logan’s humiliation and was unprepared for the abruptness and power of Milly’s surge. The end of the lead was wrenched from his grasp, and she hurtled across the room and disappeared behind the breakfast bar.
‘Get that damn dog under control,’ Patterson said in an exaggerated stage whisper.
Trevor skirted the breakfast bar to find Milly snuffling manically at the base of one of the kitchen units. He bent down to grab her lead, and as he began to straighten again, he glanced indifferently at the notebook display. But his indifference was short-lived. Thrusting his head forward, he stared in disbelief at the face on the screen.
‘Blood-ee Nor-a,’ he said, each syllable pronounced with slow deliberation.
The woman’s dark brown eyes angled towards him, and her forehead creased into a frown, her head tipped slightly to the side as if straining to get a better view. Her lips moved soundlessly, but Trevor thought he could make out the words “Who’s that behind you?”. He reached for the worktop to steady himself.
‘Imelda? Is that… you?’
* * *
Patterson watched from the window until he was sure that Logan and the others had left the building. While he waited, he pondered his future and tried to convince himself it wasn’t as bleak as it seemed, even though it was abundantly clear from Statham’s conversation with his boss that a letter of resignation would not be unwelcome. So what? He was sick of the job anyway and had only hung on till now to boost his pension by a few more quid. Okay, he wouldn’t exactly be able to live a life of luxury, but at least he only had himself to worry about. Maybe he could get some kind of part-time job. It would be something to do after all. He detested golf and gardening in equal measure, and other than these two activities, he had no idea what retired people did with their time.
