by P. F. Ford
‘Out. Now!’ ordered Gregov, waving the gun towards us, just in case we hadn’t already seen it.
Gingerly, we crawled from beneath the hedge and very, very slowly, we climbed to our feet.
‘We wait for you, Mr Bowman,’ said Gregov. ‘Knew you would come.’
‘Ah! Yes.’ began Pete, ‘Well now he’s here, I’ll get out of your way. I was just going anyway. I just wanted to make sure he arrived safely and then-’
‘Shut up!’ said Gregov.
‘Right,’ said Pete. ‘Yes. Of course. Whatever you say.’
‘Is better,’ agreed Gregov.
‘Well, well, well. Look what we have here,’ came a familiar voice as Nasty Nash emerged from the doorway. He was twirling what looked like some sort of pistol around his finger, like an old fashioned gunfighter.
‘I knew you wouldn’t be able to resist poking your nose in, Bowman. You like to interfere and play the hero, don’t you?’
It took a moment for that to penetrate my brain, but suddenly the penny dropped.
‘You mean this is a trap?’ I asked.
Nash turned to Gregov. ‘I told you he’d fall for it, didn’t I?’
They had a good laugh together at their shared joke – me.
‘Fall for what?’ I had a sinking feeling I knew exactly what he meant and I was horrified to have walked into it so easily.
‘Well…’ Nash was beaming. ‘It’s like this.’
He began to explain his theory, using his fingers to make his points. He started with the forefinger on his right hand.
‘First, you find some interfering twat who can’t keep his nose out of other people’s business.’
Middle finger. ‘Then you find some pathetic specimen to kidnap, making sure it’s someone the police don’t give a toss about.’
Ring finger. ‘Even better, you pick on someone whose wife won’t turn to the police because she doesn’t trust them, but who will turn to the interfering twat we want to trap.’
Little finger. ‘And sure enough, Mr Stupid Hero just can’t resist getting involved.’
He waved his hand in triumph as he finished explaining his ingenious plan.
‘All we had to do was wait for you to show up. When Gregov spotted you nosing around the other day, we knew it wouldn’t be too long before you sprung the trap. And sure enough, here you are!’
He looked happier than I’d ever seen him.
‘And don’t you just love the real irony of the venue,’ he said spreading his arms in an expansive gesture to take in the surroundings. ‘I think it’s just perfect that you’re going to be buried right here, in the garden of a house owned by the biggest interfering old twat of them all.’
To create dramatic effect, he adopted a suitably theatrical pose to consider the situation for a moment before continuing.
‘It’s a shame you brought your friend with you though. We only dug enough holes to bury you and Billy. Now we’re going to have to dig another one.’
They had another good laugh at our expense, then Nash raised a finger to indicate the arrival of yet another brilliant idea.
‘Oh, hang on,’ he said, chortling, ‘we don’t need to dig another hole. You can dig it yourselves.’
This provided a further excuse for a good laugh.
My brain seemed to have effectively shut down, or at least, that part which handled things like ‘coming up with a good escape plan’ had shut down.
Unfortunately, coming face to face with not one but two homicidal maniacs armed with guns was not something I was equipped to deal with. Pete seemed to be enduring the same sort of problem.
I was also suffering from an almost overwhelming sense of guilt for bringing him up here. Maybe they were all right – perhaps I was just a big idiot trying to play the hero.
Chapter Sixteen
Nash and Gregov marched us at gunpoint around to the front of the house. I had got Pete into this and I desperately wanted to get him out of it, but all I kept thinking was that this wasn’t how this was supposed to have worked out. Right at that moment, it seemed a totally hopeless situation.
Nash was singing at the top of his voice. It sounded vaguely like ‘Barcelona’. I couldn’t make out the verses, but I don’t think they were relevant. The important part was the chorus, and he made sure we heard that loud and clear. He had replaced the normal chorus of ‘Bar-cel-o-na’ with ‘blow-your-brains-out’. Just in case we were in any doubt as to his intentions.
He was clearly round the bend, but that was little consolation. Knowing he was crazy and carrying a pistol just made him even more dangerous.
As we turned the corner to the front of the house, the moonlight seemed even brighter. I could clearly see the grand front door and the driveway, overgrown with weeds, curving away from the house and disappearing off down the hill.
There were two cars parked out front opposite the house. One was the little jeep Gregov had been driving yesterday. I recognised the other as Nash’s own car.
Our feet were crunching on the gravel drive and Nash was still singing, but I was sure I could just make out another sound and it was getting louder. Then I recognised it as the sound of an engine approaching.
Nash suddenly stopped singing. He seemed to have heard it too.
‘Wait,’ he said. ‘Listen! What’s that noise?’
We all stopped walking and crunching gravel. Now we could hear it quite clearly. A vehicle was making its way up the drive at high speed. And it sounded like nothing was going to stop it. Whatever the vehicle was, it could be heard crashing through the vegetation which had taken over the old driveway.
Then, just before it shot over the rise and onto the front drive, I clearly heard the engine noise. I recognised it instantly. It sounded just like a highly-tuned V8.
I couldn’t quite believe it, but the cavalry had arrived, in the very welcome, but completely unexpected, form of Nugent the Nutter.
The powerful car crested the rise in spectacular fashion, all four wheels off the ground, headlights and roof-lights blazing. As it shot onto the drive, I could make out the top half of someone sticking out of the roof. It was Nugent. He had the sunroof rolled right back and he was standing on the passenger seat, operating the roof-lights to search out his prey.
With the lights shining in our eyes, I could barely see him, but it almost looked as though he was armed with a pump action shotgun. I swear I heard him yell ‘Yee, ha!’ It was like a scene from some bizarre modern day western.
This all happened so fast the four of us seemed frozen to the spot, mesmerised by the blinding lights shining in our eyes. Nash was first to move, taking up the appropriate stance and firing a round at the advancing car. Cool as a cucumber, he aimed and fired again and again, but all we heard were useless clicks. He’d only loaded the one bullet to use on me.
‘Fuck!’ he roared. ‘Fuck, fuck, fuck!’ In frustration, he threw the useless pistol at the car then stood to face it as though he could repel it by sheer force of will.
The car roared across the drive straight at the defiant Nash. Pete and I dived towards the house, out of the way, certain that Nash was going to be flattened. But whoever was driving knew exactly what he was doing and he expertly spun the steering wheel so the car turned broadside to us, skidding to a halt just a few feet from where Nash stood.
There was an ear-splitting boom and, firing from the hip, Nugent reduced the windscreen of Nash’s car to tiny fragments of glass. Swinging to face the house, he let go another huge boom and the tired old front door of the house disintegrated into matchwood.
My ears were ringing from the two shotgun blasts, but I clearly heard the ominous sound of another shell being pumped into the chamber. Then there was stillness and an almost deathly silence.
Suddenly, there was the sound of rapidly retreating footsteps and Gregov was off like a shot. He showed a remarkable turn of speed for such a big man as he sprinted back the way we had come, down the side of the house, and into the darkness.
Nash was livid. ‘Come back here, you bloody coward,’ he roared at the disappearing giant’s back.
He made to take off after Gregov, but another ear-splitting shotgun blast stopped him in his tracks. He fell in a heap on the ground and for a moment I thought Nugent had actually shot him, then I realised the gun was pointing harmlessly away from all of us.
Nugent’s loud, distinctive voice boomed into the night.
‘Just where do you think you’re going, Nashy boy?’
‘You wouldn’t dare shoot me,’ called Nash, but the confidence in his tone didn’t match his words.
‘But you’re not sure, are you?’ sneered Nugent. ‘I’m bloody good at this you know. I could blow one of your feet off from here. Or your head if I felt like it. I certainly wouldn’t miss, that’s for sure. Excuse my paraphrase, but as someone once said, go ahead, arsehole, make my day.’
His braying laugh filled the night, and I began to really understand why he was called ‘Nutter.’ He certainly sounded as unhinged as Nash, and he was beginning to worry me.
‘Now get up,’ he said to Nash. ‘Go sit in your car. And don’t try anything funny, coz trust me, I will blow your head off. And you know I mean it.’
Only one of the roof-lights of the car remained lit now, so it was a bit easier to see what was going on. Nugent reached his hand down into the car and produced a pair of handcuffs wrapped in a plastic bag. He threw them across to me.
‘There’s a pair of gloves in the bag. Put them on and then cuff his hands to the steering wheel,’ he told me.
When I’d finished and Nash was secured in the car, Nugent shooed me away and spent five minutes talking to Nash. His demeanour suggested he was probably threatening his captive, but I couldn’t actually make out what he was saying.
Pete was sitting on the drive, still somewhat shocked by what had happened. He was clearly not happy about Nugent arriving on the scene.
‘But he just saved our lives,’ I said, stating the obvious.
‘Yes, I know that,’ explained Pete, ‘but I was doing okay up to then. I mean, even with guns pointing at me I was keeping it all together. Then that lunatic turns up and starts firing that bloody cannon all over the place.’
I really couldn’t figure out his problem. I mean, we were alive, weren’t we?
‘So what’s the problem?’ I asked.
‘It was so loud I wet myself when he fired the bloody thing. Now I’m wet on the bloody inside too.’
Ah! Right! What could I say to that?
When Nugent had finished threatening Nash, he came over to us grinning like a maniac.
‘Well, that was a bit of alright,’ he said, laughing. ‘It’s been a while since I’ve done anything like that. I’d forgotten how much fun it is being out in the field. Are you both alright?’
He made it sound like he was some sort of executive going back on the shop floor, but then I suppose he was really.
‘We’re fine,’ I said. ‘Shaken but not stirred. Well, not too much anyway’
‘You made me piss myself, arsehole,’ snapped Pete, ungratefully.
Nugent sighed. ‘Well, pardon me for saving your life, you ungrateful old sod,’ he said. ‘Next time I’ll just sit back and watch you two amateurs get murdered. Would that suit you better?’
For once I agreed with Nugent – Pete was being ungrateful – so I thought it best to change the subject before it turned into an argument.
‘Made a mess of your car.’
I nodded at the filthy vehicle, covered in an assortment of vegetation, mud, and general filth. A bullet appeared to have passed clean through the windscreen and out through the back screen, leaving a perfectly round hole in each, surrounded by just a small amount of crazing.
‘Yeah, shame about that,’ agreed Nugent. ‘But it’s going back tomorrow so it’s not my problem.’
‘Going back? Don’t you like it?’
‘I love it, but they paid their debt.’ He sounded almost sad. ‘But it’s no good anyway. Not enough cup-holders.’
Pete fell for it. ‘Not enough cup-holders?’ he said in disgust, ‘Not enough bloody cup-holders?’
‘Ha!’ said Nugent, pointing at Pete. ‘Gotcha, you silly bugger! D’you really think I give a damn about cup-holders?’
His braying, donkey-like laugh echoed around the grounds.
‘Anyway,’ he said, serious now. ‘You two need to agree a story. I suggest you say you got here and found Nash where he is. Someone had beaten you to it.’
‘Why would we do that?’ asked Pete, reluctant to lie to the police.
‘What about Billy?’ I asked.
‘You two are so bloody dim at times,’ he said, in exasperation. ‘Just how are you going to explain all this away without involving me?’
Before we could think of an answer, he added a warning, ‘And I’m telling you now, you’d better not involve me.’
‘Ah! Right. Yes,’ I said. Of course we couldn’t mention him, could we? Not without getting all of us into a whole lot of trouble. ‘But shouldn’t we make sure Billy’s alright?’
‘Go in there,’ said Nugent, pointing at the house, ‘and you’re bound to leave some
evidence of some sort, aren’t you? Trust me, Billy will be fine. The whole thing was designed to lure you up here. Billy was never going to get hurt as long as he behaved himself. The Old Bill will find him when they get here. You two just need to make sure you forget I was ever up here. You don’t know what happened, this is how you found it. Right?’
He climbed into the car and sank back into his seat.
‘Come on, Tosser,’ he said to his driver. ‘We’d better make ourselves scarce before the plod arrive.’
As the engine roared into life, Nugent leaned out of the window.
‘Right. The plod will be tipped off in a couple of minutes. I’ll make sure Dave Slater gets the message. Just remember, if anyone asks you what happened, you know nothing, and nor does Nash. As far as anyone knows, it could just as well have been the Scarlet Pimpernel that caught him and cuffed him. You got that?’
‘Why would Nash agree to that?’ I asked. ‘And what about the other guy, the giant?’
‘Nash will do what I told him,’ said Nugent with certainty. ‘Why? Because he’s going away for a long time and I know some people who can make that a very uncomfortable long time. As for the other bloke, I don’t reckon you’ll see him again. Anyway, just remember you haven’t seen me for weeks. Know what I mean?’
He sat back in his seat and the window closed. As the car started to pull away I could still hear his braying laugh filling the night.
Somehow I couldn’t see Dave Slater buying this idea that we had just stumbled across this scene and had nothing to do with it, but that was going to be the story, and we were going to stick to it.
Chapter Seventeen
Nugent had been right about it not taking long for the police to arrive. But this time, the ascent up the hill was a painfully slow one as DC Steve Biddeford carefully edged his way around the undergrowth and assorted rubbish that littered the drive.
In the passenger seat, an irritated DS Dave Slater was grinding his teeth in frustration. His bloody dinner had been interrupted yet again. It was as if there was someone watching him when he was on call at night, holding all the bloody phone calls until he started eating. This was going to be another dinner paid for and gone to waste. Why couldn’t they just let him eat for once?
And why were they going so slow? Was there something wrong with the car? Or perhaps it was the driver.
‘Can’t we go just a bit faster?’ he snapped at his young partner. ‘I’m sure a bloody snail just overtook us.’
‘When you’re driving, you can go as fast as you like,’ retorted Biddeford. ‘But tonight I’m responsible
for this car and I’m not going to get another bollocking for taking it back in a shit state.’
Just two days ago, they’d been chasing a suspect vehicle and, urged on by Slater, Biddeford had cut across a pristine village green only for them to sink up to their axles in the mud. To say the duty sergeant had been annoyed would be something of an understatement. He was in no rush to repeat that particular experience, so tonight it was a case of softly, softly.
‘I bet this is some wild bloody goose chase anyway,’ said Slater, bitterly, ‘just to get me away from my dinner.’
He leaned forward to take a closer look at the driveway they were following.
‘I mean, look at this place. Does it look as though anyone ever comes up here?’
‘Someone’s been up here recently,’ said Biddeford, pointing out some flattened vegetation up ahead. ‘Must have been some sort of four-wheel drive effort to have gone straight through all this crap and vegetation.’
As well as being overgrown, the driveway had obviously been used for fly-tipping. There were piles of rubbish dumped here, there, and everywhere. It was a wonder it was still possible to drive up here at all.
At last, they crested the rise and emerged at the top. A big old house was over on their right and there were two cars opposite, one of which Slater recognised as Nasty Nash’s. The familiar figures of Alfie Bowman and Positive Pete were leaning against it.
‘What the hell are they doing here?’ asked Slater of no one in particular.
‘It wasn’t those two that phoned,’ said Biddeford.
‘Who was it, then?’
‘Anonymous,’ said Biddeford.
Slater turned in his seat to look at his partner. Sometimes he just couldn’t tell if Steve Biddeford was plain stupid or what...
‘And that definitely rules these two out, does it?’ he said, his irritation loud and clear.
‘Ah. No, I suppose not,’ came the mumbled reply.
Slater loudly sighed his exasperation.
