‘Drop it! Drop it!’ he demanded.
The intruder continued landing blows to the young man’s head, but he hung on regardless and banged the intruder’s wrist on the concrete again and again.
The intruder’s fingers suddenly opened. The gleaming blade with the black handle dropped on to the path.
The young man reached out, snatched it up, put his knee on the intruder’s chest and held the weapon at his throat momentarily.
Mirabelle screamed.
It seemed he thought better of it. He held it behind his back and got to his feet.
‘Get up,’ he said, panting and pulling the intruder up by his shirt.
Mirabelle sighed. She put her hands to her face.
The two men stood facing each other, red faced and struggling for breath.
The young man released his grip on the man’s shirt and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. The intruder looked quickly at his bruised hand, then without a word, dashed off behind the bushes and was soon out of sight.
The young man made to follow him, when Mirabelle rushed forward from behind the bench, her arms outstretched to embrace him.
‘No. Let him go. Are you all right, my darling?’
‘Yes. Yes, oh yes.’
‘You were wonderful.’
He put his hands on her waist and shrugged.
She kissed him passionately on the lips, and even as they separated they came back together several times, then hugged each other, snuggling closer and closer.
‘Did you say your flat was close by?’ she said, her chest heaving.
He smiled and pulled her back to him again.
2.
Wakefield Prison, North Yorkshire. 3.15 p.m. Friday, 30 December
‘You’re very late, Mrs Buller-Price,’ Prison Officer Elloughton said, gently chiding her, as he closed the heavy door and turned the key. ‘I thought you weren’t coming. I’m afraid you won’t be allowed any extra time. Rules is rules, you know.’
She pursed her lips tightly and shook her head briefly.
‘Tut tut, Mr Elloughton, I know all that. This is my third year as a prison visitor,’ she puffed and settled her big frame into the little wooden chair facing the empty table. ‘I’m quite familiar with the rules and regulations, even though there are so many of them. No. No. It was my car, you see. It has let me down. I hope I haven’t upset Mr Rossi.’
‘Do him good, if you have,’ he said callously.
‘Oh no, Mr Elloughton,’ she said disapprovingly, shaking all four chins. ‘You shouldn’t say that. I am only allowed once a month and only for two hours, so time is very precious to him.’
Elloughton frowned thoughtfully then shook his head.
‘Well, I’ve sent for him already,’ he said. ‘He should be here directly.’
‘Ah, good. Thank you. I’ve brought him some scones and a sponge cake. They are in there,’ she said pushing a large white paper bag towards him. ‘If you would be so kind. And a bar of fruit and nut. And forty cigarettes. Although I fail to understand why the government is happy to encourage prisoners to die of lung cancer by permitting them cigarettes, but totally forbids them to die of alcohol poisoning.’
He picked up the bag, nodded and smiled. ‘I’ll put them in the book and see he gets them.’
‘Thank you so very much, Mr Elloughton,’ she said with a cherubic smile.
There was the sound of footsteps and a rattle of keys and the heavy room door opened.
‘That’ll be him now. He’ll have to go back at straight up four, though, you know. Sorry.’
He went out through the door behind her and she heard the door lock.
‘Yes. Yes,’ she muttered to herself. ‘Rules is rules,’ she added and wrinkled her nose.
She looked ahead across the table at the far door expectantly, and deliberately assumed a smile to greet the man. It was opened by a prison officer who followed the door round with the key still in the lock.
A big man stood framed in the doorway. He almost filled it. He looked across at Mrs Buller-Price, nodded and stepped forward. He was about sixty years of age and dressed in denims. He had a head like a sack of potatoes, dropped on a neck as thick as a telegraph pole. He rolled slowly up to the table, then slumped in the chair, glanced at her, yawned and put his hands in his pockets.
The prison officer pulled the door to and locked it. They were alone.
She began with a huge smile.
‘Ah. Dear Mr Rossi, I am most dreadfully sorry to be late. I know that our little chats every month are so valuable to you and enable you to while away the lonely hours more easily after I have gone. I am most dreadfully sorry to say that our time, alas, will be limited today because my dear car, my beloved Bentley has let me down. It is, of course, getting on a bit … like me … dear me … yes. It was bought by my husband in 1976, just before he died, and has served us very well. I vowed I would keep it and run it as long as I could, but I fear it may be in need of a major repair. But what actually happened was that I had finished taking the milk down to the lane end on the little trolley and had hoisted the churns on to the collection platform as usual, fed the dogs, changed my shoes and coat, got the baking off the slab, put it in the back of the car and went to start it and, blow me, I couldn’t get a peep out of it. I tried and tried. Eventually, I phoned my friend Mr Lestrange at the garage, he came out promptly with a battery, coupled it up and did things, but it still wouldn’t start. Meanwhile, of course, the clock was ticking and I was thinking of you. Anyway, he towed it down to his workshop, with me steering. It was jolly hard, I can tell you. It’s power steering and it was quite a struggle to take the corners. Anyway, he had a good look with his … whatever it is … and said it needed a new something or other; he’d have to get one, if he could. Being such an old model, he wasn’t sure. Meanwhile I would be without transport. That was quite a blow. Well, dear Mr Rossi, I live out in the country you may know. To be without a car out there is a minor disaster. I’ll have to take a taxi everywhere. And they are not always available to me. One would have to come all the way out from Bromersley, that’s five miles away and the meter would have started out there too. Anyway, I said I would need a taxi to bring me here immediately. He rang round from his garage but there was no one available instantly to come out to Tunistone so Mr Lestrange himself agreed to bring me. And here I am, better late than never … with humble apologies, my dear Mr Rossi.’
Stefan Rossi nodded, looked at his watch and yawned again.
She smiled and said, ‘Now then, Mr Rossi, you must tell me what sort of a month you’ve had. I thought of you, at my prayers at midnight mass and then afterwards, during Christmas day.’
He didn’t reply.
‘Well, I got back from church about one thirty in the morning. I don’t pretend I was not a little nervous. Anyway, I have the dogs. I went to bed then. Very late for me, so I got up a little later. I must say it was very cold. I milked the cows and walked the dogs. Then I filled up the coal buckets. I didn’t want to have to turn out again. I had a piece of steak which I cooked with a few onions and some carrots which was very nice. At a few minutes to three, I sat down; I listened to the queen’s speech and opened a bottle of Chardonnay, those new wines are quite good, you know, no age, no body, but it was very good. I’m afraid I had a drop too much, and fell asleep in the chair. It was pitch black when I woke up. The television was blaring out some dreadful music. The fire was very low. I let the dogs out. There was a sinkful of pots I had to wash up and the pans. I went to bed. It was all jolly nice, though … if not a bit on the quiet side.’
Stefan Rossi didn’t reply. He squinted at her through small, black piggy eyes from the lumpy face.
‘Now, you must tell me what you did,’ she continued. ‘I hear you have decorations, and carols and a proper turkey dinner and everything.’
He nodded.
There was a pause.
‘Good. Good. Hmmm. Now, Mr Rossi, it might be a bit difficult next month. If I don�
�t get my car repaired and returned to me, if Mr Lestrange can’t get the parts, I’m not quite sure how I will get here. It is all very worrying. But I will definitely come. Don’t be worried about that. I will definitely be here. I will hire a car, if need be. So you are not to worry about that.’
Rossi yawned.
‘Now, before I forget, are there any messages you want me to take out for you? To your wife or your family or friends or anybody? It’s as well to keep in touch, you know. Anything you tell me will be in absolute confidence … you don’t have to worry about that, you know.’
Stefan Rossi shook his head, hardly at all.
It was ten minutes past five on Monday morning, 2 January. The sky was as black as an undertaker’s hat, as Mrs Buller-Price descended the farmhouse stairs carrying the beaker that had contained the previous night’s drinking chocolate.
Her five dogs began to jump around and bark as they heard movement on the tread. They could always hear her progress however quietly she moved. She reached the stairs door, opened it and smiled as they crowded round her, barking and jumping up. She switched on the sitting-room light and they followed her, grateful for a simple acknowledgement of them in her soothing, comforting voice. She opened the door to the hall, made for the front door, turned the key and let them pour out into the yard. As she closed it and turned back, she felt something hard and unusual through her carpet slippers. She looked down. On the doormat there appeared to be a small keyring with a key and something the size of a small matchbox, black and plastic, threaded on to it. She bent down, picked it up, and turned it over in her hand. She didn’t recognize it. She pursed her lips. It didn’t belong to her. It wasn’t a key for the farm or any of her outbuildings or anywhere else she could think of. She looked back down at the carpet and then at the door. It had obviously been pushed through the letterbox. It must have been done quietly, very quietly, so quietly that the dogs had not been disturbed. She looked at the hall clock. It was just after 5.15 a.m. It had been dropped through the letterbox between ten o’clock or so the previous night and 5.15 a.m., the present time. She fingered the keyring as she made her way towards the kitchen. She put the find on the kitchen worktop and switched on the electric kettle and the radio and thought no more about it.
She had breakfast, fed the dogs, scrubbed up for milking, donned her plastic apron, her big old coat, Wellington boots and waterproof hat, and made her way through the cool early morning darkness out of the farmhouse across the yard to the stable to milk and feed her six Jerseys.
An hour later, she was crossing the yard complete with the dogs, returning to the farmhouse for a recuperative cup of tea and a sit down, when she heard the powerful extension telephone bell, secured high up on the apex of the barn, ring out its loud, persistent jangle. She glanced up at it and wondered who could be calling at that unseemly hour; it must be an emergency of some sort. She increased her speed across the yard and into the house, becoming increasingly worried with each step she took. She observed from the hall clock that it was 7.25 as she passed it and made a beeline for the sitting-room, where she snatched up the phone.
‘Yes. Alicia Buller-Price speaking. Who is this?’ she said with a sense of foreboding.
A man’s voice spoke very quickly and said, ‘Ah yes. There’s a car in your barn, love. Came up in the night. Didn’t want to disturb you. We put the keys through your letterbox. It’s there for you to test drive for a month or two … to see what you think. No obligation. Goodbye.’
There was a click and he’d gone. No opportunity for her to ask any questions.
She stood there, still holding the handset, her mouth wide open, her head shaking. ‘But I can’t afford a new car,’ she said indignantly, to nobody at all. She banged down the handset.
‘Oh dear,’ she said. The corners of her mouth turned downwards. ‘Oh dear. Oh dear. Oh dear,’ she said as she wandered into the kitchen. She saw the keyring with its appendages and snatched it up. She turned smartly and marched straight out of the house to the open barn where only three days ago her beloved Bentley had stood. Dawn was breaking, and in the early morning light she gasped as she saw a large, sleek, black limousine with shiny bonnet and doors, with a gleaming chromium-plated radiator grille and bumper.
*
Police Station, Bromersley, South Yorkshire. 8.28 a.m. Monday, 2 January
The solid steps of Detective Inspector Michael Angel echoed up the station corridor.
Cadet Ahmed Ahaz had been in the CID room listening out for his boss and he rushed to the door to waylay him.
‘He’s here, sir,’ Ahmed said, urgently. ‘I’ve seen him. He wants you to go to his office as soon as you come in.’
Angel stopped in the corridor, turned slowly to face him, screwed up his eyebrows and began to unbutton his raincoat. ‘Who? Who wants to see me?’
Ahmed’s mouth dropped open.
‘The new super, sir, DS Strawbridge. You hadn’t forgotten. He starts here this morning … well, he’s already started!’ he said, his eyes popping out like a cartoon cat. ‘He’s in the old super’s office.’
Angel wrinkled his nose and sniffed.
Ahmed was surprised that the inspector was so relaxed about the arrival of the new boss.
If truth be known, Angel wasn’t as relaxed as he appeared. His predecessor, DS Harker, had been such a hard taskmaster, utterly charmless, mean and miserable, that he was delighted when he heard he had been promoted to Chief Constable in the Potteries somewhere and was glad to see the back of him. Of course, he was curious to see what sort of a man had been appointed his successor. He had heard that Strawbridge had come from the Smoke with something of a reputation as a crime fighter. He’d been made up one from a chief inspector. The change could only be an improvement, but he would have to see.
Angel nodded at Ahmed, removed his raincoat and threw it at him.
‘Right,’ he said turning towards the corridor.
He looked back.
‘Finish that stuff on my desk and get it off to the Crown Prosecution Service. And rustle up some tea, smartish?’
‘Right, sir,’ Ahmed said, and bustled into the inspector’s office with the coat.
Angel strode purposefully down the green corridor towards the superintendent’s office. He sniffed and then sighed as he wondered what sort of chap this Strawbridge was going to turn out to be. He had worked under a dozen or more superintendents in his time but had never met one that he really liked. Of course, the force had changed a lot. It wasn’t like it used to be. There were days he could recall when there was some fun in the place. Now it’s full of rules and regulations, do’s and don’ts, disagreeable customers as well as overbearing superiors. His father used to talk about camaraderie? There didn’t seem to be much of that these days. He wrinkled his nose. Undertakers and rat catchers have more fun; he wondered what the going rate for a tail would be. He really didn’t want to have to get to know a new face. Not that morning. He felt caught between a trip to the Inland Revenue and the dentist’s. He arrived at the door, took in a deep breath and knocked on the door.
‘Come in,’ a determined voice called out.
He pushed open the door.
A big, tall, dark-suited man with a white, pock-marked face, and a thick head of dishevelled black hair, looked up from the desk at him. His eyes were black, small and cold.
‘Come in,’ he said, staring hard into Angel’s eyes. He put down the file he had been reading, half stood up and held out his hand. ‘You must be Michael Angel. I’m Strawbridge. Sit down. Sit down.’
Angel eyed the man carefully. His noticed that his mouth twisted into a leer when he tried to smile.
‘Yes. Good morning, sir.’
He shook the hot, sticky hand and took the chair facing him. The desk was heaped with files and papers. Strawbridge sat down, nodded towards the file he had been reading. ‘This is your file,’ he said.
Angel nodded.
‘You’ve had a lot of experience, I see,’ he went on. �
��And your father was in the force before you. Hmmm.’
Angel nodded again. What was there to say?
Strawbridge closed the file and dropped it on to the desk. He looked into Angel’s eyes a few seconds and then said, ‘Well, inspector, I’ve got a very special job for you.’
Angel always liked to do something special, picked out for something … different. Sounded good. He wrinkled up his nose. Huh! Probably just a load of old cock robin.
‘What’s that, sir.’
Strawbridge tried for a smile again; it was difficult for him. He pursed his lips, then began: ‘You’ll have heard of the Rossis?’
Angel nodded.
It was already beginning to sound grim. That family was always bad news. The Rossis were one of the UK’s elusive family of murderers, thieves and fixers, slippery as quicksilver, they came and they went. And nobody knew where they lived. They were reputed to have numerous homes and houses and properties, and daily flitted from one address to another, never sleeping in the same place two nights in succession. They had to dodge other gangs as well as the police. There were always jealousies and old scores to settle.
There was one Rossi behind bars, however. He was the eldest, Stefan Rossi. The family never visited him. But nevertheless, close contact was maintained. It was suggested that he ran the mob from behind the bars. He was never visited by any of them, for fear of being followed by a relay of police, eager beaver crime reporters or other mobsters. Addresses and rendezvous were always closely guarded secrets. Messages were passed by word of mouth, expensively paid for in cash or favours, or via mobile phones, frequently illegal in prison. No one ever knew how or who was carrying a message to or from one Rossi to another, in or out of prison. And no one dared to ask.
‘Yes, sir. Stefan and Gina, father and mother, and Rikki and Carl, their sons. Manchester mob. Stefan’s doing fourteen in Wakefield. Know of’em. Not worked this part of Yorkshire, as far as we know anyway. Rikki shot a policeman, an inspector, in Castlecombe, further up Thirsk way. Rikki was caught and arrested, but couldn’t make it stick. Had to let him go.’
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