Stealth

by Margaret Duffy

  I wanted to share this with Patrick but could hardly sit nattering on my phone in a garden in which, strictly speaking, I was trespassing. And, having just arrived for his course, leaving work behind for a few days, he would probably be disinclined to hear my musings on that subject right now. But my guilt at acting alone caught up with me and I rang his number. All I got was the answerphone. So be it.

  Another thought . . . In none of her letters had Miss Smythe mentioned going next door and peering in through the kitchen window, or lurking in the garden generally, again presumably when the gates had been left open perhaps because more ‘guests’ were expected, the reason she had been given the ASBO. Embarrassment? According to her niece she had not been too bothered about it. What else had she done? Her last letter had mentioned that she still hoped to provide evidence, that all-important word.

  Evidence. As we had already noted, all the letters had been about things she had seen with her own eyes. Not hearsay, no gossip. If that was the case, on the occasions she had been in the Trent’s garden or looked through windows she had seen nothing that furthered her cause. The events she had mentioned had occurred when she was in the tree house. I found myself asking if, after she wrote the last letter SOCA received, Miss Smythe had investigated further but not lived to tell us about it. It was only a theory but I did wonder what, if anything, this lady could have seen or done that forced them finally to kill her. Something highly incriminating to them. Hard evidence.

  I simply had to know who was in the house.

  The moon, not full but almost so, made up my mind for me by appearing through a large gap in the clouds and I did not need my torch to walk down the rest of the garden. I took a narrow meandering side path, the tall shrubs on either side of which would conceal me from the house. The realization went through my mind that if a new lock had been fitted to the back door I would not be able to get in. But I did not really want to get in, just find out who was inside.

  The light was on in the kitchen, blinds up. Standing to one side of the back door and endeavouring to mask my face with the ivy growing thickly on the wall by it I looked in the window. No one was in the room but through the open doorway I could see that a light was on beyond. Moving carefully – there were plants in pots everywhere here – I turned to the door and, praying that it would not squeak, turned the heavy knob. There was just a tiny click and the door began to open under the slight pressure of my hand. All remained silent within the house.

  Then, I heard the clack of high-heeled shoes on the tiled kitchen floor and quickly pulled the door closed, praying that the inner door of the little lobby was shut so whoever she was would not notice. I waited, only realizing that I had been holding my breath when I had to gasp for air. Then, I risked another peep, moving very, very slowly, peering through the ivy.

  In the room a slim, fair-haired woman stood with arms akimbo, her pretty face like thunder, nervously biting her bottom lip and looking towards the open doorway into the hall. She was well-dressed as if going out for the evening in a grey sparkly top and black trousers, a small beaded evening bag clutched in one hand resting on the opposite arm. There was a slight tremor about her as though she was either tapping a foot – I could not see – or shivering.

  ‘For God’s sake, hurry up!’ I distinctly heard her say in a loud stage whisper.

  At a snail’s pace I moved back, not daring to remain where I was any longer in case she spotted me. Moments later I heard other footsteps, probably a man’s, and there was a heated, whispered conversation of which I could only catch the odd word.

  ‘So now what do we do?’ the woman finally asked, louder.

  ‘We’ll have to come back later,’ the man replied.

  Furiously, the woman said, ‘But we can’t keep coming in here! Someone’ll see us!’

  ‘Keep your voice down!’

  I decided that I had every right to join in this conversation, opened the outside door, pushed the inner one wide and went in. For a moment they were so engrossed in their argument they did not notice me. When they did, their expressions were ones of total shock.

  ‘What the hell are you doing here?’ Hereward Trent shouted.

  ‘Do keep your voice down,’ I said, soothingly.

  ‘Who is this?’ Sonya Trent demanded to know of him, her mind, I was convinced, racing more along the lines of ‘other woman’ than anything else just then.

  He momentarily lost the ability to speak, so I replied for him. ‘I’m with the Serious Organised Crime Agency and please leave out all the stuff about being good neighbours checking on the empty house next door or thinking you saw a burglar in here.’

  ‘But we are checking that all is well with the house,’ Trent protested.

  ‘You’re lying! You didn’t care a toss about this old lady when she was alive!’ I raged at him. ‘How did you get in?’

  Sonya Trent burst into tears.

  ‘It’s no good cracking up now!’ her husband bawled at her, shaking her by the shoulders and making everything worse as he was hurting her.

  I thrust him aside – I loathe bullies – saying, ‘It’s too late for lies, posturing and denials. Who gave you the key? What are you doing here? What are you looking for?’

  Trent sort of deflated. ‘I – er – no, it’s not – er – what you think. We’re—’

  ‘Shall we go back to your house?’ I suggested.

  Sonya, sobbing, made the decision by marching out through the back door and, after hesitating, he followed. I quickly turned the lights off and locked up, having found a set of keys, including a pair of new-looking ones, on a nearby worktop, and hurried after them. I caught up with them almost immediately as they could not see their way in the dark and went in front, switching on my torch. The thought crossed my mind that if Patrick had not left the gate unbolted they would have had to risk being seen entering the house from the street.

  There were security lights in their garden which came on as we approached. I stayed close to pre-empt any notion of slamming their rear door in my face and followed the pair through the conservatory and into the living room where Trent immediately poured himself a large Scotch. He did not ask his wife if she wanted anything and paced stiffly away from us back into the conservatory. Sonya wilted into a chair and carried on crying.

  Trent came back into the room, glanced at an ornate wall clock and said woodenly, ‘Perhaps . . . we . . . ought to talk.’

  ‘I wonder how many people other than Miss Smythe have died as a result of your little venture?’ I said to neither of them in particular, my anger surfacing again. ‘Several London mobsters for a start – although you probably don’t count them as they’re scumbags and beneath your notice. Almost deserve to be finished off really and no problem if they didn’t die immediately when someone torched their car with them in it – they could have screamed a bit, but no matter. And the men who were thrown in the Thames might not have quite expired after having been shot or their heads bashed in. The same, no doubt, applies to the waste-of-space Spaniard in France who did drown, slowly probably as he could swim, after he’d been beaten up on Cannes waterfront.’

  Sonya Trent was gazing at me in absolute horror.

  ‘And then there’s your pet psycho,’ I continued. ‘Hamlyn. He might not have finished off the others but in my view he did murder Miss Smythe – with your certain knowledge – because she’d been watching this place from her tree house. This, as we now know, was mysteriously sabotaged. It collapsed when she was inside it and she broke her leg, also suffering cuts and contusions. That was your first attempt to get rid of her.’

  ‘This isn’t true!’ Sonya shrieked. ‘Herry, tell me it isn’t true!’

  Stony-faced, Trent said, ‘Not one word.’

  To me, Sonya whispered, ‘Hamlyn isn’t our pet psycho. Just a crime writer we happen to know. He’s been here a few times, that’s all.’

  ‘Hardly the perfect dinner guest though, is he?’ I retorted. ‘He has a criminal record, oafish manners a
nd drinks himself into the ground at every opportunity.’

  Trent, who had gone a little pale, fidgeted in his seat and, again, looked at the clock. Then he said, ‘I know it looks bad but we weren’t in the house next door for the wrong reasons. As to everything else you’ve said, it’s nonsense, nothing to do with us.’

  ‘You said you wanted to talk,’ I reminded him. ‘So, talk.’

  ‘Yes, these are matters that I must clear up with you. I have my reputation to consider.’

  ‘How did you get the keys?’

  ‘From Jane Grant, Miss Smythe’s niece.’

  ‘To what end?’

  ‘She asked us to check the place now and again to save her driving over.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Mrs Grant doesn’t share her late aunt’s views about us and came to apologize after the police became involved. She said the old lady was in the first stages of dementia.’

  ‘And?’

  He shrugged. ‘Nothing. That’s it.’

  ‘Just now, next door, I distinctly heard you say, “We’ll have to come back later” in reply to your wife having asked, “So now what do we do?” Were you looking for something?’

  ‘No. We were – are – late for a dinner date and I hadn’t had time to look in the loft where the roof leaks sometimes when the rain’s in a certain direction and a bucket has to be emptied.’ Jerkily, he stood up. ‘I don’t think we need detain you any longer.’

  ‘Sorry, but it’s me detaining you,’ I told him, also rising. ‘If you like I can arrest you and call out any number of sirens and flashing blue lights and you’ll be questioned at the nearest police station. If, on the other hand, you cooperate with SOCA and admit that you’re involved with serious crime but are being forced into it by dangerous criminals because they have some kind of hold over you and our investigations prove that to be correct . . .’ I smiled at him, leaving the rest unsaid.

  ‘If we—’ his wife began.

  ‘Leave this to me, Sonya!’ Trent snapped then lapsed into silence for a moment before continuing with: ‘Yes, all right. I’ll talk to someone in authority – but here, not at a police station, as these are very sensitive matters. Also, it might be very dangerous for us otherwise.’

  ‘Do I really have your word that you’ll cooperate with us?’ I persevered.

  ‘Yes, you do.’

  Watching them carefully, and not trusting Trent for one second, I found my mobile: this was no time to worry about Patrick’s preferences and I was praying he would answer this time.

  ‘Farley’s Rusks’ help desk,’ said my husband. He knew it was me as he has programmed his phone to make various animal noises depending on who, in the family that is, is ringing him. Mine’s a moo. There was laughter in the background, probably for that reason.

  ‘The Trent’s place,’ I said. ‘Please get here.’

  ‘Now?’

  ‘Now. He’s said he’s going to cooperate.’

  ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Yes, perfectly.’

  ‘Is it just you and the Trents there?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’m on my way.’

  How long would it take him to get a taxi? How long before he arrived? I guessed it was around ten miles by road and the traffic at this time in the evening would not be light.

  Sonya had dried her tears but still appeared to be very shaky.

  ‘This has come as a real shock to you,’ I said to her, thinking that keeping up the pressure was no bad idea. ‘And you’re being blackmailed after the episode at the golf club.’

  ‘You can’t know about that!’ Trent shouted.

  ‘Someone you’ve never met does though,’ I told him.

  Carrying on talking to Sonya as she was the weak link, I said, ‘You’ve been forced to have mobsters in your house, store weapons and stolen property for them, and had to host the kind of gatherings that must be your idea of hell.’

  She had her mouth open to reply, probably to tell me that I was right, when Clement Hamlyn strode through from the conservatory entrance.

  ‘Bloody hell!’ he exclaimed, coming to a sudden stop. ‘It’s the little scribbler. What’s she doing here?’

  ‘She’s with the police and investigating the old woman’s murder,’ Trent explained tersely. ‘Surprised us next door and appears to know what’s going on. Thank God you’re here.’

  It had been a very bad mistake to leave the Smith and Wesson in the car.

  ‘With the police?’ Hamlyn echoed in disbelief, staring at me. ‘Prove it!’

  ‘The Serious Organised Crime Agency,’ I said, showing him my ID.

  He barely looked at it and began pacing the room. ‘Damn! I knew that bastard you were with was a cop.’

  ‘Is that who’s on his way?’ Trent asked me.

  ‘Yes,’ I said, adding, and I hoped not as desperately as I felt, ‘but not alone.’

  I heard approaching footsteps and three men entered though the same way as had Hamlyn: Anthony Thomas by the look of him, his minder, plus a lesser cranially challenged mortal, a dead giveaway due to the fact that his eyes were too close together and about half an inch from his hairline.

  There was a lot of shouting, during which Sonya Trent edged away from Hamlyn, obviously completely unable to cope with the situation. Our eyes met and I deliberately then gazed at the group of lights switches on the wall near where she was now standing. She either did not understand or pretended not to.

  Silence fell and they were all looking at me.

  ‘Get rid of her,’ Hamlyn said to the man from Thugs Central Casting.

  This individual walked towards me, sniggering. I forestalled whatever he was going to do by kicking him in a delicate place and then clouted him on the back of the neck with both fists clenched together, the exact spot crucial, and he predictably folded up like a clothes airer on to the carpet. Then I leapt for the light switches, first shoving Sonya into Hamlyn on the way with one hand and slamming shut the door into the hall – there was a light on there too – with the other.

  Darkness, a shriek and a loud thump as though Hamlyn had lost his balance and the pair had fallen over together. Someone grabbed me in the gloom – the minder, probably – but I had a hand free and poked him in one eye. He hung on to me, swearing, but I let his other eye have it and was suddenly free. Jinking but staying close to the left hand wall of the room, I made my way towards where I could see dim moonlight through the plants in the conservatory, feeling a tiled floor beneath my feet when I reached it. Then I ran into someone large with stinking breath just short of the doorway to the garden. Hamlyn had thrown Sonya on to the floor, hadn’t he?

  There was no point in struggling; he would only lose his temper. He lost it a bit anyway, slapping me around the head a couple of times, hard and then, someone having put the lights back on, threw me on to a sofa and hit me again for good measure – a punch in the face this time. I felt my lip split and then life became vague for a while. When awareness slowly returned, my head feeling strangely numb, I had the sense to remain inert, glad – yes, glad – that there were others present so it was unlikely he would rape me.

  ‘He’s a damned long time,’ said someone, possibly Thomas. ‘Are you sure she rang him?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Trent’s voice. ‘She did.’

  ‘What did she say?’

  ‘Not a lot.’

  ‘Not up to much, are they?’

  ‘SOCA won’t miss them then,’ Hamlyn said with a loud laugh. ‘Tie her up and we’ll all wait for him outside – I should imagine he’ll come in the back. Did you leave the gates open? You lazy bastards usually do.’

  They had.

  ‘He looked as if he might be able to take care of himself if in real trouble,’ Hamlyn went on. ‘But with five of us, OK, four and half with Dessie not too good—’

  ‘My eyes hurt,’ guess who whined.

  ‘All right, three and two halves.’

  ‘You can count me out too,’ Trent said. ‘I’ve never offered violence to
anyone in my life.’

  ‘You’re in this!’ Hamlyn shouted. ‘Right up to your designer-aftershave-reeking neck.’

  I opened my eyes to slits in an effort to gauge what was going on. I could not see Sonya in my limited field of vision but did not want to move and reveal that I was conscious. Someone approached and I closed them again. I was heaved face down on to the sofa, my hands wrenched round behind my back and several turns of thick string were tied around my wrists. Too tightly.

  In normal circumstances Patrick should be able to survive the odds, even in the dark, I told myself. But Hamlyn, Thomas and his sore-eyed minder were big men and if he himself had been drinking – and why should he not? – it would make a difference. That said, the circumstances, coming into ‘enemy territory’, would ensure that he was highly alert. And surely he would have his Glock and knife.

  Hopeless thoughts, perhaps, as the weapons would probably be locked in the room safe, the course organizers having promised security staff in view of the importance of some of those attending, people like Richard Daws. A tear trickled down my cheek and disappeared into the hugely expensive fabric of the sofa. It was all my fault . . .

  I did not witness what happened. A while later I heard yells first outside and then in an adjacent room, Thomas – who had a strong Russian accent – shouting, ‘That’s the man who was in the pub and caused all the bother when my boys were picked up!’

  Just after this Hamlyn came back into the room, gulped down some whisky directly from a bottle on a drinks tray and then hit me again as a postscript.

  ELEVEN

  I could see nothing and there was an odd humming, rumbling noise in my ears, a vibration with the occasional swinging and swaying to my little world that made no sense. It went first one way and then another when I slid for a short distance, to and fro, on something that smelt sickeningly of fish and rubber. It took a long time for me to realize that I was lying on the floor of a van being driven at speed. I saw in the dim light what appeared to be – everything was well out of focus – the toes of a pair of shoes a few inches in front of me. Moving very slowly, I wormed myself away from them.