The Pandemic Plot

by Scott Mariani

  ‘You see how compliant he can be, Hogan?’ Clarkson said. ‘You pull his teeth, he’s as compliant as a lamb. Now, Major, let’s see you get down on your knees.’

  Ben was counting the seconds in his head. Very slowly, with his hands still laced together on his head, he sank down until he was kneeling on the floor like a man awaiting execution. He was still counting the seconds. Five minutes since he’d checked in with McAllister. His radio deadline was up.

  Ben said, ‘You’re enjoying this, aren’t you, Clarkson?’

  ‘Oh, very much so. It’s even better than I imagined. But don’t expect it to last, Major Hope. I have a fairly low boredom threshold. Soon enough I’ll lose interest in humiliating you, and I’ll just blow your brains out, like the worthless piece of scum you are.’

  ‘Where’s the money?’ Ben said. ‘I thought we had a deal.’

  ‘Games, games to the last,’ Clarkson chuckled. ‘Let me tell you something, Major. You should never bluff a bluffer. I suppose you brought along your cast-iron proof of my guilt, did you? As though you actually thought I’d fall for that one.’

  ‘It’s somewhere safe,’ Ben said. ‘You shoot me, there’s no telling where it might end up. And then the whole world will know what you’ve been up to.’

  ‘What I’ve been up to,’ Clarkson sneered. ‘What gives you the right to judge me? I’m a businessman, nothing more. I sell legitimate, tested and approved beauty products to the highest bidder and it’s no concern of mine what my customers choose to do with them afterwards.’

  ‘It seems that your illustrious ancestor wasn’t too concerned about the consequences of his actions, either,’ Ben said. ‘Your drug addict daddy never hurt anyone but himself, so I’m guessing the psycho gene must have skipped a generation.’

  Clarkson’s sneer melted into a look of anger and his cheeks flushed at the mention of his disgraced parent. ‘Don’t give me that moralistic crap. Yes, and so what if my grandfather’s patent killed millions of people? Who even remembers them now? They’d be dead anyway.’

  ‘They might not have died in agony with blood pouring out of their ears and eyes and their lungs turning to mush,’ Ben said.

  ‘We’ve all got to die of something, old chap. Some idiot gets a deadly virus; whether it was manufactured in a lab or created by nature, what difference does it make? Some other idiot, such as is imminently about to happen in your case, gets a bullet from my gun.’

  ‘One more here, one more there,’ Ben said. ‘What does it matter in the great scheme of things? I think I’m beginning to understand how your mind works, Clarkson.’

  ‘You’re absolutely right. As far as I’m concerned, the human race is nothing more than vermin and its members only matter worth a damn if they can make me richer. Otherwise, to hell with them. And as for the ones who stand to make me poorer—’

  ‘Like Carter Duggan?’ Ben cut in.

  Clarkson snorted contemptuously. ‘There’s another idiot. Thought he could carve himself out a nice fat slice of my fortune. Didn’t work out too well for him, did it? But the biggest idiot of them all was that imbecile of a son of yours. Though, in actual fact, he did me a real favour. If he hadn’t blundered in and gone and incriminated himself the way he did, I’d have had far more work to do covering my tracks. Now I gather he’s managed to escape from jail, which suits me well as it only makes him look even more guilty. Good luck to him. He’s going to need it.’

  ‘Looks like you beat us all,’ Ben said.

  ‘Yes, I did,’ Clarkson replied. ‘I always win. It’s what I do. And to the victor belong the spoils. Now, Major, I have to say I’m getting somewhat tired of this conversation. I did warn you that I get bored easily. So I think we’ll end it on that note, and I’ll shoot you. Goodbye.’

  Ben had been counting in his head the whole time. Nearly eight minutes since his last radio check-in with McAllister. At the same time, he was coming up with his plan for just how exactly he was going to get that pistol out of Clarkson’s hands and prevent himself from getting shot, with a rifle to his back. It wasn’t a bad plan. It might even have a ten per cent chance of working.

  But Ben wasn’t going to need it.

  Chapter 49

  Before Clarkson could pull the trigger, the farmhouse door crashed open and the hallway was suddenly filled with a wild snarling flurry as Radar came streaking in from outside. The German shepherd didn’t need long to evaluate the tactical situation. Like a canine guided missile he launched himself at Clarkson, who was standing nearest the entrance.

  Clarkson jerked the gun away from Ben and fired at the pouncing dog, but missed in his panic. Then he screamed as the dog’s long, sharp fangs sank into the forearm of his gun hand and he was dragged to the floor. Radar shook his head violently from side to side as though he was killing a rat, with Clarkson’s arm clamped tightly in his jaws. The pistol spun out of Clarkson’s grasp.

  By then, Ben was already on his feet. Hogan was yelling like a lunatic as he pointed the rifle this way and that, unsure of who to shoot first, the ninja SAS assassin or the wild wolf that was savaging his boss. But Hogan was unable to fire it at all, because the safety catch was still on and he didn’t know how to work the gun. Ben ripped it out of his hands and smacked him down hard to the floor with the butt end.

  Clarkson was still screaming, pinned on his back and desperately kicking as the dog remained latched onto his arm. Ben used the command McAllister had used, ‘Radar, off!’ and the dog instantly let go and backed away a step, eyeing Clarkson as if he’d like nothing more than to have a gnash at the rest of him.

  That was when Radar’s master appeared in the doorway, dripping with rain and out of breath from the quarter-mile run to the house. ‘Missed your call, buddy. Thought you could use a little help.’

  ‘Welcome to the party,’ Ben replied. There were times when the police turning up at your door was actually a good thing. McAllister clipped Radar up to his leash.

  Clarkson was still on his back, gibbering in pain and fear and nursing his ripped arm. Ben scooped up the fallen pistol, made it safe and tossed it to McAllister. Not to use, but as evidence. He asked, ‘Where’s Jude?’

  ‘Here,’ Jude said, stepping into the house. He scraped back his wet hair, eyed the two men on the floor and asked, ‘So, which one of you bastards do I have to thank for ending up in the clink?’

  ‘Both of them,’ Ben said. ‘But this one here is the main man.’ Ben stepped up to Clarkson, reached down and jerked him roughly to his feet.

  ‘Can I clobber him?’ Jude asked, clenching a fist.

  ‘You’d have to ask the cops,’ Ben said, pointing at McAllister. ‘You’re in his custody now, remember?’

  ‘As if I could forget. Just let me hit him once. Please?’

  McAllister shrugged. ‘Jeez. If it makes you happy, go for it.’

  ‘Are you the police?’ Clarkson yelled at him. ‘You can’t let him do that to me. It’s illegal!’

  ‘Shut your hole or I’ll clobber you myself,’ McAllister warned. Clarkson was about to yell something more when Jude’s fist cracked into the side of his jaw and decked him back down to the floor. Hogan still hadn’t got up.

  ‘That’s enough of that, now,’ McAllister said to Jude.

  ‘Confession time,’ Ben said to Clarkson. ‘You’re going to repeat everything you just admitted to me.’

  ‘I’m not saying a word!’

  ‘Suit yourself. Then we’ll let this dog eat you alive.’

  ‘Oh, please don’t say a word,’ Jude told Clarkson with a nasty glint in his eye. ‘I want to see you get gobbled up.’

  Clarkson gaped in horror at Radar, who was straining so hard on the leash to get at him that McAllister had to hold on with both hands. ‘This is extracting a confession!’

  ‘Works for me,’ McAllister replied. ‘Now I’d do what the man says, if I were you. Make this easy on yourself and start talking.’

  The prospect of being devoured alive worked wonders on Greg
ory Clarkson’s loquacity. Every word was recorded on McAllister’s phone as the details came babbling out: the illegal drug deals with terror contacts and corrupt regimes in several countries. The murder of Carter Duggan, perpetrated by one of his hired killers, a man called Todd Pearce.

  McAllister paused the recording and said, ‘If you think you’re going to make this easier on yourself by squealing on your pals, you’re wrong. But thanks anyway for the tip-off. He won’t be at large for very long.’

  ‘You can arrest that man there for Pearce’s murder,’ Clarkson yelled, pointing at Ben. ‘He killed him. You’ll find the body somewhere on this farm!’

  ‘Wrong,’ Ben said. ‘If Pearce was one of the men you brought here today, he’s alive and well, just like the other four.’

  ‘You’re lying! You killed them like you did the others! Arrest him!’

  ‘I know this man,’ McAllister declared solemnly, flashing a sideways glance at Ben. ‘He’s a law-abiding citizen and never killed anyone in his life. You’re another story.’ He pocketed the phone. ‘I think we’ve got enough here to be getting on with. Gregory Clarkson, I hereby place you under arrest for the murder of Carter Duggan.’

  ‘Don’t forget all the others,’ Ben reminded him. ‘Suzie Morton, Joe Brewster, Emily Bowman, her housekeeper and her manager, and whoever else it will turn out he’s hurt. Not to mention all the poor bastards who’ve been poisoned by his company’s illegal toxins.’

  ‘Sounds like we have a lot to talk about, Mr Clarkson,’ McAllister said. ‘We’ll figure that out as we go along. And I’m sure that the boys from the National Crime Agency will want to get in on the fun, too.’

  Next, Ben hauled the half-dazed, snivelling and miserable Hogan to his feet and McAllister arrested him too. ‘Shite, I forgot,’ he said. ‘I’m not carrying any cuffs.’

  ‘Try this,’ Ben said, taking more of the baling twine out of his pocket.

  Jude stepped forward eagerly. ‘Allow me?’ With McAllister’s permission he tied Clarkson’s wrists behind his back, then Hogan’s. His knots were pretty good.

  ‘We’d better gather up the others,’ Ben said. Jude and Radar stood guard over the prisoners while McAllister joined Ben in the task of hauling the debris of the collapsed milking shed roof off the bruised, battered but still perfectly alive bodies of four of Clarkson’s men. The fifth, who would later turn out to be Todd Pearce, the hired assassin responsible for murdering Carter Duggan, was duly dragged out of the big barn and dumped with his trussed-up associates.

  With that job completed, it was time to bring in the troops. McAllister called Billie Flowers.

  Chapter 50

  Within an hour Black Rock Farm was swarming with scores of officers and the track and yard were jammed solid with police vehicles and ambulances. The Devon and Cornwall force’s helicopter thudded overhead while the remains of the Galliard one went on quietly burning. Ben watched from a distance as McAllister spoke with the local commander and his detective sergeant from Thames Valley, who was a petite and very attractive Afro-Caribbean woman in her early or mid thirties. She seemed somewhat perplexed by McAllister’s presence here in the middle of the Cornish countryside, when he was officially supposed to be laid up at home with a dental emergency. He was going to have some explaining to do.

  Ben anticipated that the cops would have an awful lot of questions for him, too, but for the moment he was left alone to watch from the sidelines. As the uniforms milled around the house and outbuildings and a forensic unit combed through the scene gathering evidence, the Galliard Group’s CEO and vice-director and their five henchmen received on-site treatment from paramedics for their minor injuries before they were restrained with proper handcuffs, loaded into separate vehicles and taken away. So was Jude – but this time, as the apprehended fugitive set off on his journey back to jail he was grinning from ear to ear. Before they closed him into the back of the van he gave Ben a last wave and a thumbs-up.

  Ben had been right about the ton of questions he’d have to face. He and McAllister travelled separately to the Bodmin police hub, thirteen miles away, where a sour-faced local plainclothes inspector called Parfitt accompanied Ben and a pair of uniforms into a windowless interview room, sat him down at a table, and the interminable grilling began. Ben was ready for their interrogation. He was polite, calm and cooperative. The account that he gave them was plausible enough, being mostly accurate with just a few omissions and embellishments. He consistently stuck to his version of events down to the last detail, secure in the knowledge that Tom McAllister would be doing the same in another room within the station.

  He and McAllister had had plenty of time before the cops’ arrival to get their stories straight. McAllister’s report would state that, as a result of Mr Hope’s lawful personal investigations into what he believed was the false imprisonment of his son, Gregory Clarkson and his associates had travelled to Cornwall with the intention of protecting their crooked business interests by killing him. This was fully backed up by the recorded confession of the Galliard Group CEO, which admitted culpability for a host of crimes and was clear evidence that Jude Arundel was innocent of the murder of Carter Duggan.

  As for that shining example of a law-abiding citizen Mr Hope, McAllister would bear witness to the fact that he had used no more than the minimum of reasonable force to protect his own life, as well as Jude’s and that of a police officer, namely McAllister himself, who had also come under fire from Clarkson’s armed thugs. Naturally, anything that the suspects tried to assert to the contrary would be just a pack of lies.

  With regard to the perplexing matter of the destroyed helicopter, on which the cops focused with particular suspicion and were obviously gunning to try to pin on Ben considering his known background and degree of expertise, McAllister would attest to the fact that one of Clarkson’s men had accidentally blown it up himself during the incident, with a stray bullet that had been intended for Mr Hope. At no time had Mr Hope fired a shot or used a firearm in a threatening manner. The forensic evidence would show that none of Mr Hope’s fingerprints were to be found on any of the weapons recovered from the scene.

  The grilling dragged on until ten o’clock that evening, by which time Ben’s interviewers had run out of steam and reluctantly had to admit there was nothing they could hold him for. ‘All right,’ muttered Detective Inspector Parfitt. ‘Then it would seem that you’re free to go. Thank you for your cooperation, and have a safe journey home.’

  As Ben emerged from the police station wishing he had a Gauloise, he found McAllister sitting waiting for him on the wing of the Plymouth Barracuda parked outside. Radar’s tail thump, thump thumped on the ground as Ben walked over to them.

  McAllister said, ‘There you are at last. Thought they’d keep you in all night. How’d it go?’

  ‘Fine,’ Ben replied. ‘What did you expect? I’m a model citizen.’

  ‘That Parfitt’s a bit of a gobshite, isn’t he?’

  Ben shrugged. ‘What about you? Are you in the shit with your superiors at Thames Valley?’

  ‘Bah,’ McAllister said with a dismissive wave of his hand. ‘No more than usual. Forbsie will likely want to tear a strip or two off my arse when I get back, but there’s not a lot he can do to an officer who’s just taken down a corrupt corporate executive who was consorting with terrorists and warlords and having folks bumped off left, right and centre. I’ll be the hero of the hour, so I will.’

  ‘Congratulations.’

  ‘Aye, all in all, not a bad day’s work,’ McAllister replied, looking pleased. ‘And you even managed not to shoot anyone for a change. Maybe you’re learning, Hope. Who’d have thought it?’

  ‘I resent that accusation.’

  ‘Which one?’

  McAllister’s phone started burring in his pocket and he fished it out. ‘Just got a text message from Billie.’

  ‘Is she back in Oxford?’

  ‘No, she’s at a pub just down the road and wants to meet us for a drink.�
�� McAllister smacked his lips. ‘Just the thing I needed. Jesus, what I wouldn’t do for a jar or two of real Cornish ale on tap.’

  Ben’s mouth felt parched after hours of talking to the cops. ‘I reckon I might try one of those myself.’

  ‘My treat.’ McAllister slid down from the wing of the car and yanked open the driver’s door, jerking his chin at Ben to get in the other side. ‘Come on, let’s go. Billie’s a great gal. You’ll like her.’

  ‘You say she sings jazz?’ Ben asked.

  Chapter 51

  Following several sessions of much more intensive questioning than Ben had had to undergo and involving the joint forces of Thames Valley Police, Metropolitan CID, the National Crime Agency and counter-terrorism elements of British Intelligence, Gregory Clarkson, Jasper Hogan, the five men employed in the assault on Black Rock Farm and eight more senior executives made full confessions of their parts in the company’s many illegal activities and were charged with a variety of criminal offences including, in Clarkson and Hogan’s cases, attempted murder, conspiracy to murder, bribery, firearms offences, corruption, and aiding and abetting terrorism and war crimes. Meanwhile, dawn raids on addresses across London and the south-east led to the arrest of a further seventeen less senior Galliard Group staffers who were implicated in the company’s botulinum racket and faced only slightly lesser charges.

  More than a hundred company employees in total were questioned. Those accused faced the prospect of years of trials and a couple of centuries behind bars between them. Miles Redfield was looking forward to being there in court the day the judge’s gavel fell and watching Suzie’s murderer get what he deserved. Then, and only then, would Miles be able to start putting his life back together.

  Meanwhile, Galliard’s stocks plummeted so sharply within forty-eight hours of the news breaking that financial analysts forecast the early bankruptcy and almost inevitable closure of the company. After more than 110 years in business, Sir Elliot Clarkson’s proud firm would soon be no more.