Russian cigarettes, Sobranie Yellow citrus menthol Russian cigarettes to be precise.
He, or they, were quite close by. Carefully watching where I put my feet I moved away from the tree and made my way towards a clump of thick greenery a short distance away, glad that the breeze would blow any trace of the perfume I was wearing away from them. There was very little alternative cover other than a small group of silver birches, too skimpy to be useful.
In very, very slow motion I reached the clump, actually a towering Rhododendron ponticum, and managed to get myself inside it – old specimens are often like umbrellas with no foliage in the middle. Looking between its large leaves I saw Thomas and his henchman around fifteen yards away across another little glade, the pair seated at an angle to me with their backs against a large, fern-bedecked fallen tree. Thomas had what looked like a small vodka bottle in one hand which he now passed to his minder, who took a hefty swig, finished the last drops as an afterthought and threw the bottle hard so that it bounced off a tree and fell down with a thump. They were chuckling softly.
Thomas drew on his cigarette and, on the light wind, I heard him say, ‘The fool’s lost himself.’
‘Probably can’t even find his own arsehole when he’s had a shit,’ growled the other man.
They both dissolved into more chortles and then the Russian shushed frantically, a finger to his lips. ‘No noise. We go now. To hell with Dessie, he finds his own way back.’
‘Those blokes we spotted in the distance can’t have been the filth but just fitness nutters doing their thing.’
‘You’re right. You were too nervous.’
‘I thought it was my job to protect you,’ was the truculent reply.
Thomas clapped him on the shoulder and stood up a little unsteadily, brushing leaves off himself. ‘You are right, Ricky.’
‘I wouldn’t mind the pay you seem to keep forgetting about.’
‘You shall have it.’
Ricky struggled to his feet. ‘When?’
‘When I give it to you!’ Thomas retorted sharply. ‘Now, go on ahead. Have a good look round while I stay here and tell me when it’s safe.’
‘If it wasn’t for that madman Hamlyn we wouldn’t have to—’
‘Just do as I tell you! Go!’
Alone, Thomas relieved himself by a tree and then lit another cigarette. I held my breath when he flicked the match aside, thinking he might start a fire but there were no thin trails of smoke.
The breeze sighed in the branches, making them dip and sway, and Ricky did not come back. Thomas began to pace nervously up and down, making enough noise scuffing through last year’s leaves to cover the sounds I made as I shifted position slightly to try to ease the cramp in my right leg.
It seemed to me that at least another five leaden minutes went by, but, more realistically, it was probably two. Then, silently, Patrick appeared without warning on the far side of the glade. Other than having the Glock in his hand he was relaxed and gave every appearance of having known the Russian was there all along.
‘But you’re dead!’ Thomas gasped.
‘Not yet,’ Patrick said.
Thomas then grabbed a gun from his coat pocket but I had already taken aim and now put a shot into the ground near his feet. Ye gods, we have rehearsed scenarios like this enough times and I had pushed a hand through the greenery and waved to show Patrick where I was. The man threw down the weapon as though it had suddenly become red hot.
‘You’re under arrest,’ Patrick said quietly. ‘If you resist and try to run my partner will put a bullet in you – itching to actually, aren’t you, petal?’
Petal resolved to tackle him about this designation later and left her hiding place.
‘I want Hamlyn,’ Patrick murmured, getting a big handful of the front of the Russian’s designer shirt together with his tie. ‘Where is he?’
‘I know nothing of that lunatic,’ Thomas scoffed.
‘Otherwise, in the short time before there’s a police reaction to that shot having been fired I shall take you apart. To explain your resulting injuries I shall say that you tried to escape by climbing that tree down there by the archway to get up on to the road above and sadly fell out of it. What shall we say? Broken ribs, punctured lung, broken arm?’
A little shake was administered but sufficient to make the mobster’s teeth rattle together.
‘You – you can’t do things like that,’ Thomas stammered.
‘I know you’ve heard of the NKVD,’ Patrick continued silkily.
‘Almightly God, yes.’
‘I work like that – do things that the ordinary police are too . . . squeamish to handle.’
Another shake, more meaningful this time.
‘All I want from you is Clement Hamlyn.’ And when the other remained silent, Patrick yelled, ‘The man assaulted and then tried to kill my working partner, damn you!’
Thomas’s eyes swivelled to me. ‘This woman?’
‘Yes, this woman.’
I could almost hear Thomas’s thoughts. He too, plus his henchmen, had been involved in trying to kill this woman . . .
‘She is . . . formidable . . . and beautiful,’ he whispered. ‘Hamlyn is mad and someone has to stop him. He is at a dacha he has in the country.’
‘A holiday cottage in the countryside?’
‘Yes.’
‘Where exactly?’
‘By the sea, in the south somewhere.’
‘Where though?’
The man performed a shrug as well as he was able due to the restriction in his shirt front.
‘Think!’
The Russian shook his head helplessly. ‘That’s all I know. Except that there was a murder there, more than one perhaps. He bought it because it . . . amused him.’
Then, and I am not mistaken about this, Thomas shuddered. He looked quite relieved when Patrick formally arrested him.
There were a few raised eyebrows when the rest of the trio were retrieved from a deep, steep-sided ditch at the base of the road embankment, a few fallen branches, other pieces of woodland detritus plus a couple of small chunks of the Roman Empire having been loaded on top of them to discourage attempts to climb out. The men were conscious when found but because of the circumstances, helpless, their language appalling. That of their captor when remonstrated with about possible infringements of the suspects’ human rights, I have to confess, was more inventive but worse. The one who had been referred to as Dessie was then promptly threatened with an additional charge of assaulting a police officer having aimed a kick at the constable concerned for his welfare who had been assisting him from his hole in the ground.
Patrick owned up to firing the shot – it is still iffy as to whether I am supposed to have the ex-MI5 Smith and Wesson – and no one checked his Glock. He made a short statement to the officer in charge of those at the lake, promised to put it in writing to his immediate superior, the temporary cordons keeping the general public away were removed and everyone but Patrick and me departed.
‘Sorry, you’re too heavy for me to give you a piggyback,’ I said sympathetically to a beyond exhaustion husband. ‘But I did see a wheelbarrow somewhere over there.’
Patrick had got as far as the raised dais and seated himself on it. He smiled wryly up at me.
‘That was really clever,’ I told him. ‘Appealing to the romantic side of that hoodlum. No one’s called me formidable and beautiful before.’
‘I’ve told you you’re beautiful,’ he protested.
‘No, you haven’t.’
Then the gardeners returned and, obviously completely oblivious of what had taken place, irately told us that the public were not permitted to enter the enclosed areas and ordered us to leave immediately.
Patrick made it back to the pub.
We were not directly involved in the continuing hunt for Clement Hamlyn. It was left to the various police forces whose jurisdictions stretched from Margate to Land’s End. Over the next few days it was establish
ed that no less than sixty-nine properties near the south coast – Brighton had a tally of twenty-four – had been connected with murder cases, and that only during the past fifty years. These were duly investigated, which took over a week, during which time Patrick and I went home.
Patrick’s mother, Elspeth, had taken one look at her son’s continuing haggard and weak appearance and declared that I was not feeding him properly. His protests that it was not my fault as we had been living in hotels and eating out fell on deaf ears. While this was perfectly true he still seemed to be having very dark moments, sometimes for a couple of days at a time, torturing himself, perhaps subconsciously punishing himself, for what had happened at the culmination of the Sussex assignment. In my view he was not consuming enough to keep a gnat alive. Vast steak and kidney pies, shepherd’s or cottage pies, were placed before us at dinner by Elspeth, a roast at the weekend, followed by perhaps an apple, treacle or chocolate sponge pudding. I was not at all offended and prepared all the trimmings and vegetables as I had fielded the wink this very wise woman had sent in my direction, becoming part of her conspiracy. And of course I paid her for the extra food. So with the children demolishing all this at speed and under the gaze of his wife Patrick started to eat.
Hamlyn was finally discovered, dead drunk, in a remote, and filthy, barn conversion in Dorset. He was sobered up, ordered to have a bath and pack a bag and brought to London. Once there, and having recovered some of his usual arrogance, he insisted on making an off-the-record statement, refusing to answer questions until his wish was granted. Commander Greenway, when sounded out about this, confessed himself curious.
FIFTEEN
‘You’re both dead!’ Hamlyn raged when he could speak for shock.
‘Anthony Thomas said that to me when I arrested him too,’ Patrick replied.
‘So you are a cop.’
‘Sort of.’
‘Why is she here?’ This with a crude gesture in my direction.
‘We work together. You should have realized that by now.’
‘I demand to see someone else.’
‘You’ve got me, and as you requested, it’s right off the record. But the fact that this interview is taking place has been noted in the case file and if I have to give evidence in court I shall have no choice but to tell the full story. That’s as far as we can go or we’ll be in breach of regulations. Also, I shall use what you say to me as groundwork for when you’re officially questioned, perhaps in a couple of days, by me and also others.’
‘That’s not good enough.’
‘You’ve already been treated far better then you deserve.’
‘Is this being recorded?’
‘No. Which means that I can say this to you: forget the police, forget SOCA, this is me with a personal mandate to put you and your assorted scumbags out of business. Personally I don’t care if the whole lot of you end up in the Thames like some of your recent victims.’
This conversation was taking place at the remand centre where Hamlyn was being held. He looked pale and nervous, his hands a little shaky, but that might have been because he could have no alcohol here.
No one here had said that I should not be present having seemingly not realized that, along with the prospective interviewer, I was actually one of the suspect’s victims. But I had been told, by my husband, whose run in with Hamlyn seemed to be regarded as being all part of the job, that I should not take notes, not a tragedy as I have a very good memory. In early days I was PA to an elderly, and forgetful, director of a family-run company and this had given me excellent training.
‘If you’re hoping to frame me for the attack on da Rosta I was not responsible for that,’ Hamlyn said.
‘No, I know who that was,’ Patrick informed him. ‘And now you’ve mentioned it I’ll tell you that it was very useful, just a flesh wound that’ll keep him nice and safe under police protection until he’s jailed after helping with enquiries in connection with an unrelated murder case. We know from him that you’d been demanding money with menaces and the proprietor of the club he frequents saw a man closely fitting your description talking to him. Then there’s the matter of the jewellery.’
‘What damned jewellery?’
‘Miss Smythe’s jewellery that you stole the night you killed her: a gold watch chain, another chain with a locket and a diamond ring. Da Rosta said you offered him the two chains in exchange for a discount on the money you were trying to force him to pay you.’
‘Well, he’s lying, isn’t he? Setting me up.’
‘Odd then, that his description exactly matches that of missing items that he cannot have known anything about. He said he thought they were hot. They were. How did you manage to get rid of them in the end?’
Hamlyn just shook his head.
‘And the diamond ring,’ I interposed. ‘Did you give that to your somewhat bandy-legged girlfriend?’
He still said nothing but his restlessness increased, his limbs making jerky movements.
‘Do you want to make your off-the-record statement now?’ Patrick enquired.
‘You have no case against me. That’s the gist of my statement.’
‘That sounds like time-wasting and self-aggrandizement to me. OK, none of it’s anything to do with you. Right, we’ll discount for the moment the deaths of Tom Berry, or Jerry, Fred Jones and a guy calling himself Rapla on the grounds that the world is a better place without them, postpone until later the murder of Alonso Morella in Cannes and consider the brutal killing of Miss Rosemary Smythe. You killed her and that’s quite enough to send you down for life. But first tell me why you changed your mind about staying with Jane Grant, her niece.’
‘I just did.’
‘You told her you’d had a fire at home. I was there when she rang you and suggested what she said. There’s no damage to your house. The police have been watching it for getting on a fortnight.’
‘Damn you.’
‘I suggest that you were going to kill her. You’re hooked on killing.’
‘Don’t be a fool.’
‘What were you ultimately hoping to get from her? Money? Some of her inheritance? To find out for sure that her aunt hadn’t told her exactly what she’d seen going on at the Trents’ place?’
‘I’m not answering any more questions.’
‘Their house is being searched this morning, right now, in fact, and it’s expected that weapons and possibly drugs and stolen property will be found.’
‘Nothing to do with me.’
‘So what’s the reason for all this, if indeed there is one? Is it just revenge for past perceived slights and injuries or a good way to earn some readies on the side to pay for all that booze?’
‘Go to hell.’
‘We don’t think you’re the brains behind this now, even though you might have been in the beginning, mostly on the grounds that some of your thinking processes are now severely compromised.’
‘They are?’ Hamlyn hooted in surprise ‘How d’you reckon I write the books then?’
‘Oh, there doesn’t appear to be anything wrong with your imagination. Let’s talk about the book. How does it end?’
‘With your deaths,’ Hamlyn said through his teeth.
‘I’m writing the end of your novel for you,’ I interrupted sharply.
‘You’re not listening. I’ve already done that,’ Hamlyn retorted, staring through me in the most unsettling fashion. He tapped his forehead. ‘It’s all up there.’
‘I think you’ve written in Jane Grant’s death. She’s staying alive.’
‘She can’t. She’s Clive Grant’s wife. She told me his name.’
‘They’re separated and he’s living in Luton.’
‘No.’
‘No?’ Patrick said quietly.
‘He’s as good as dead. He has to be – he used to be with Fred Jones’s mob.’
‘The man’s a civil engineer!’
‘Not a chance. The pair of them, him and her, were right there when I was gra
ssed up for a murder I didn’t commit.’
‘Who was murdered?’
The crime writer shook his head. ‘I’ve forgotten – it was back in the bad old days.’
‘But you’ve never done time for murder.’
Hamlyn seemed to emerge from a daydream. ‘Er, no, you’re right.’
That happened in the fourth of his novels, I seemed to remember.
‘And Clive Grant?’
A shrug.
‘You were going to kill Jane Grant and then go and look for him.’
‘I might have done.’
‘Who told you he was a member of Fred Jones’s gang?’
‘I just knew.’
‘Was it Anthony Thomas?’
‘Bloody hell, the man’s little more than a posing imbecile! Look, I said I didn’t want any more of your damned questions!’
‘So you’re going to take the blame for all these killings?’
‘Blame! What d’you mean, blame? I merely created them.’
‘Which is why they’re in the book,’ I said.
‘Of course. It will come right then. Completely on the line, a brilliant crime story written with hands-on experience.’
‘How long have you been drinking heavily?’
The man again appeared surprised. ‘Another stupid question from a stupid woman. Always. All writers drink. If you drank more you’d write much better novels.’
‘As has just been mentioned, it appears to be affecting your mental stability. Had that occurred to you?’
Slowly, he shook his head. ‘No. Why should it?’
‘Tell me exactly how the book ended before I rewrote it,’ I requested.
‘How can I now?’ he suddenly roared, making me jump. ‘OK, I lied, it was all in my head, very neatly too. But you’ve shitted it up. Da Rosta’s alive without paying a penny and apparently that idiot Morella drowned when he was supposed to swim to safety and tell the police that Danny Coates had tried to kill him. And now you’re still alive!’
Stealth Page 18
