Dovetail

by Bernard Pearson

  Lucy came downstairs about seven. She had released her hair from its normal ponytail and brushed it until it gleamed like spun gold. And she was wearing a dress. It was one of the ones she had bought months ago to attend the auctions, and it was a stunner. Bill and Sid were speechless at first, but Lucy seemed unaware of the effect she made. If anything, she felt a bit embarrassed, as though she were a teenager dressing up instead of a woman in her late thirties going out for supper with an acquaintance.

  Hugh turned up right on time and had dressed for the occasion himself, but even so he looked like exactly what he was: a successful but slightly old-fashioned farmer. Lucy was pleased with that, however, and appreciated the fact that there was no side to the man. What you saw was what you got.

  As they left, Bill and Sid wished them a good evening but refrained (not without effort) from ‘if you can’t be good, be careful’ and all the other corny sayings they would have trotted out if things had been different.

  Hugh took Lucy to a nice but not over-the-top restaurant, and was a good host even if his conversation did tend to centre on his farm. The food was excellent and the atmosphere not overtly romantic, which suited them both. Somehow it was understood that they were building a foundation of friendship rather than simply exercising their hormones. Each hoped they would eventually come to know the other better but, without discussing it, they both seemed to know that this was not the time. When Hugh drove her home, Lucy was glad she’d gone, but also glad to get back.

  Bill and Sid were still up, and the kitchen smelled of Chinese takeaway and cider. Lucy started to clear up, but was stopped by Sid, who asked her what she would have to drink. She choose tea and allowed herself to be thoroughly questioned and chaffed about her evening. But there wasn’t just one elephant in the room, there was a whole herd of the buggers. All that had been planned, put in place, and worried over for months would be put to the test next day.

  Of the three of them, the one who seemed least anxious was Bill. In between coughing bouts, there was a brightness in his eyes that both Lucy and Sid recognised.

  But they did not discuss tomorrow.

  Chapter 42

  MONDAY, 5 NOVEMBER

  ‘Remember, remember the fifth of November; gunpowder, treason, and plot!’ carolled Sid as Lucy came down next morning and found him already drinking tea at the kitchen table.

  She poured herself a cup and looked at him as he sat writing on the back of an envelope.

  ‘Making your will?’ asked Lucy.

  ‘Nope, just a list of components I need to set up some floodlights.’

  ‘A bit late isn’t it?’

  ‘Just in time, my love, just in bloody time! It won’t take long to fix up. We have some of the wiring already in place.’ He stood up and flourished the envelope.

  ‘I’m off to B&Q,’ he said, and suited the action to the words.

  Bill came into the kitchen and Lucy scrutinized him. She decided she had seen him looking worse, but she was still worried about what would happen if he didn’t have the strength to accomplish tonight’s tasks. That turned her mind to Skates, and she suddenly thought how awful it would be if the bastard wasn’t home when they needed him to be.

  ‘What time are you planning to call Skates?’ she asked. ‘I was thinking about noon. Why?’

  ‘Phone now,’ she said with some urgency, ‘before his day starts and he has a chance to make other plans.’

  Bill set down his teacup. ‘Good thinking,’ he said, then went to the phone and dialled Skates’s number. He told Skates the chairs were ready, he would deliver them that evening, and he expected his money to be waiting for him, all £10,000 of it and not a penny less.

  Skates wanted to know why tonight; he had planned on going out. Bill said he was putting the final polish on that day, and once it was done he wanted shot of the bloody things. The next day he was going into hospital, so it had to be tonight. After a little more fussing, Skates agreed to seven o’clock. Bill sat down, face flushed and excited.

  Sid was back just before midday. Lucy helped him rig up a powerful spotlight to cover the front of the workshop, and another to illuminate the passage to the meadow gate. The new light over the workshop door illuminated much of the yard even in the soft grey daylight of November. The light down the passage was fixed high up, the switch for it put at shoulder height inside the cart shed next to the passage. Just the place where either Sid or Lucy would be waiting.

  The floor of the passage and surrounding yard had benefited from the light breeze and a gentle soaking of rain that had fallen since Sid had buried the trap. If you knew where to look, you could see some disturbance to the area around the gate, but at night it would be unnoticeable.

  Lunch was a quiet affair. Sid did what he could to add a bit of cheer, but when he got up to clean and check the weapons, it couldn’t help but focus their minds on the coming festivities. ‘Well, it’ll be a fireworks night to remember,’ he said as he stripped the guns, oiled them carefully, checked the mechanisms, and did all the things his days in the army had taught him to do.

  The day wore on. Sid took Clive out for a walk; Bill sat in his armchair by the stove pretending to read. The clock on the wall ticked the seconds, minutes, and hours away as it had done for a century or more.

  About four, as it was reaching dusk, Miss Templeton arrived. She had replaced her usual flowing garments with flannel trousers, a dark jumper, and an ex-army garment with lots of pockets, some of which bulged. She was wearing sensible shoes rather than her normal plimsolls, and instead of her voluminous patchwork cloth bag she carried a small rucksack, again of army issue and nearly as old as she was.

  Returning from his walk with a muddy and worn-out Clive, Sid took one look at Miss Templeton and said, ‘Bloody hell, a commando tunic! I haven’t seen one of them in donkey’s years.’

  Lucy made tea. She didn’t feel hungry, nor did Bill, but both of the professionals insisted they eat something, so she made a pile of sandwiches. She decided it was probably the strangest meal she had ever eaten. Around a table piled with a variety of firearms and boxes of ammunition, they discussed the best way to pickle onions and whether a hollow-point bullet was as destructive as a cross-cut dum-dum round.

  Sid went over the plan one more time. Bill could have done without it, but he listened with good grace. In reality he just wanted it over, one way or the other.

  ‘You’ll go in with the chairs first, one at a time, and in no obvious hurry,’ Sid told Bill. ‘If there’s anyone else in the house, they’ll probably come out to look at the chairs. Curiosity doesn’t only kill cats! Skates has waited so long to see these he’ll be all over them, and so will anyone else who’s there. Then out comes your little helper and bang, bang, bang.’

  ‘Do get as close as you can,’ reminded Miss Templeton.

  ‘If Warren’s there, take him down first,’ continued Sid. ‘He’s the one most likely to be armed. If the other goon is about, the one we caught in the field, him next, and–’

  Suddenly Bill interrupted him. ‘And if there’s a fucking dance going on, I’ll shoot the bloody bandleader!’

  He appreciated Sid’s concern, but the truth was he was wound up now and ready to go. Lucy made sure he had his mobile phone charged up and fixed, so all he had to do was press a button to call home. Sid had told him about a field entrance just down the road from Skates’s place where he could park and phone them right before he drove in.

  The final preparations were made, and Sid loaded up Bill’s van. The two gas cylinders went in first, along with two Jerry cans of petrol; these were concealed with the dark grey army blankets Bill used to cover furniture. Then the chairs, swathed in more blankets and wedged in with old foam cushions.

  The unaccustomed weight of the revolver in his right jacket pocket made it feel conspicuous, but Lucy said it didn’t show. The safety was off but the hammer wasn’t cocked so it would be safe enough, yet easy to fire.

  Before he left, Bill went back insid
e alone and put a folded note on the mantelpiece over the stove, saying nothing of it to anyone. Then he phoned Skates and told him he was leaving. It was 6:35. It was a cold night. There had been rain earlier, and the road shone under the headlights of his van. There was little traffic once he left the main road and entered one of the narrow sunken lanes that criss-crossed this part of Somerset. Bill drove slowly, more slowly that he normally did, not because of his cargo but because for some mad reason he saw himself skidding off the road into a ditch and not being able to keep all the promises he had made.

  Eventually he recognised the description Sid had given him of the lane that ran past Skates’s house. Up ahead a short distance was the gate leading to Skates’s drive. He almost missed the field entrance and had to reverse back. Slowly and carefully he backed into the space as if there were a deep chasm each side rather than straggly hedges. He had just turned off his lights and was reaching for his mobile to call home when he saw a flash of headlights and heard a loud roar as a motorcycle sped by. He couldn’t tell for sure if it was Warren, but whoever it was, they were going very fast.

  He pushed the button on his mobile as he’d been taught and the phone was answered immediately by Lucy. He told her where he was and what he had seen, then rang off and drove on.

  The large, brick pillars of the gates came into view, and he turned into the drive. The gates were open, and the whole front of the house was illuminated. He turned his van around and parked it with the back doors facing the porticoed front steps. There was a wide, shiny door with small bay trees on either side, and the windows on the entire ground floor were lit. Next to the house was a garage, its door open and a white Range Rover parked inside.

  Bill got stiffly out of his van. As he did so, the front door opened and through it walked the man he had last seen being thumped by Sid. He was dressed in some form of track suit, and Bill thought he looked bloody enormous.

  ‘Mr Skates is expecting you,’ said the man curtly.

  Bill nodded and opened the back doors of his van, unwrapped a chair, and put it down on the gravel. The big man just stood there, looking neither surprised nor interested. Bill took out the other chair, stacked it seat down on the first, then closed the doors.

  ‘Take them in, will you?’ he asked, then walked behind the man as he did so, making an enormous effort to refrain from putting his hand into the pocket that held Sid’s revolver.

  He followed the man through a large hall that boasted a massive chandelier and a staircase wide enough to take a horse, and eventually ended up in a dining room. It held a vast mahogany table so highly polished that it reflected the lights from a number of antique sconces that adorned the walls. Between these were large oil paintings and, against one wall, a serving dresser that to Bill’s experienced eye looked very good indeed. He could not say the same for the dining chairs, however. They were Hepplewhite in the same way that Skates’s manservant was human: they might pass from a distance but would not have borne close examination. Skates emerged from a doorway somewhere in the back of the big room and came forward to meet them. The man set the chairs down in front of him and stepped back. Skates nodded to Bill but otherwise made no acknowledgment. One by one he examined the chairs, turning them around, lifting them up, rocking them on their legs from side to side and backward and forward.

  Finally, he sat in one of the chairs, looked at Bill, and said, ‘They reek of fucking polish, Sawyer.’

  ‘Of course they do, and they will for about a week, depending on where you keep them. But it’s beeswax, not polish, and you’d smell that in a church on pew-cleaning day, so it’s nothing out of the ordinary.’

  Then, in a more conciliatory voice he asked, ‘So what do you think of them?’

  Skates moved to the other chair and sat on it, running his hands on the wood under the seat.

  ‘Not bad. Which one’s the repair?’

  ‘I can’t tell from here,’ said Bill and moved closer. In fact, he really couldn’t tell without getting close to the back carvings.

  ‘Yeah, all right,’ grinned Skates. ‘You’ve made your point. They’re good, I grant you that, but then I knew they would be. That’s why I insisted on you doing them.’

  He turned to his bodyguard. ‘Bring in the other two.’

  Bill said, ‘They’re not here.’ As casually as he could, he sat down on one of the dining chairs on the opposite side of the table from Skates, who suddenly looked fit to blow a gasket.

  ‘What the fuck do you mean, they’re not here!’ he shouted, his normally sallow face becoming scarlet with rage.

  Bill sat back, wishing he could pull out the gun and shoot the pair of them now, but he hadn’t got his money yet. Instead he raised both hands in a conciliatory gesture.

  ‘Hang on, they’re perfectly fine,’ he said. ‘But if you think I’m daft enough to come here on my own, hand over those chairs, and expect to get paid, or even walk out alive if your Mr Warren has his way, you’ll need to think again.’

  He sat back and took his pipe out of his top pocket. He needed to do something with his hands to stop them shaking. ‘The other two chairs are in my workshop, all nice and safe, providing I get back in one piece and with my cash.’

  ‘And if not?’ sneered Skates.

  ‘Then they burn. Easy enough to arrange when you’ve got all the right kit, and I’ve got all the right kit. By the way,’ he asked, still fiddling with his pipe as if thinking about lighting it, ‘where is good old Warren tonight? Out torturing kittens somewhere?’

  ‘He’s out with some friends. I sent him away because I know you two don’t get on.’ Skates shrugged, almost back to normal now. ‘Wait here.’

  He walked to the door at the far end of the room but, before disappearing through it, asked Bill if he wanted a drink. Bill was as dry as a bone and decided he really could do with one, so he said yes. Skates nodded to his man, who wordlessly went to the sideboard, poured a large measure of amber liquid into a crystal glass, and brought it across. Bill drank some without even sniffing to find out what it was. Not that it would have mattered: he was suddenly so parched he’d have drunk bath water. It was whisky, however, and a good one at that.

  Skates had not pulled the door to all the way, and in the reflection of the huge mirror over the sideboard, Bill could see him pick up a phone and make a call. He couldn’t hear what was said, but the conversation was short. The minder, seeing Bill’s interest, moved to block his view, but Bill was already sure Warren had been told there were still two chairs to come.

  Skates came back with an envelope and placed it next to Bill’s glass. ‘And when do I get my other chairs?’ he asked.

  ‘You can send Sonny Boy here for them tomorrow morning if you like. Not Warren, though. I don’t want that bastard anywhere near me, understand?’

  Skates just nodded.

  ‘And don’t get any clever ideas, either. There’ll be someone with me in the morning until I go to the hospital, and they’ll be at my place all day until I get back.’

  ‘Fine, fine,’ said Skates, adding ‘Not that you have anything to worry about, providing I get my other chairs.’ He walked over to get a drink from the sideboard and, like a guard dog, his minder swivelled his head to watch him.

  Bill’s mouth was still bone dry despite the whisky. The two men were close together and no more than six feet away, possibly less. Close enough.

  Time seemed to slow down as he rose to his feet. He put his hand into his pocket and felt for the grip of the revolver. Pulling out the gun in what felt like slow motion, he pointed it at the big man in the track suit and pulled the trigger. The sound was deafening, terrifying, and Bill saw a large red stain grow on the man’s belly before he folded up and lay face down on the carpeted floor.

  Bill’s arms had been driven upward by the recoil of the gun. With ears still ringing, he brought them gun back down into the firing position. Skates had already started to run towards to the door at the end of the room but Bill stepped forward and squeezed
the trigger.

  The gun fired, and at first Bill thought he must have missed because Skates kept moving. It turned out he had only been falling forward, though, twisting as he did so, like a worm impaled on a garden fork.

  Bill was about to take another step in Skates’s direction to follow Sid’s injunction to shoot everyone thoroughly whether they were dead or not when his right ankle was wrenched out from under him. He fell backward, his head missing the dresser by inches, and landed painfully on his backside. Winded and in shock, he realized he had dropped the revolver. He now sat looking into the face of Skates’s minder, who had dragged himself over from where he had fallen. Holding Bill’s ankle in an iron grip, his face contorted in pain and hate, the man was using his powerful arms to crawl nearer. Bill tried to edge himself away, but his back was against the dresser. The carpet, rough under his hands, provided no grip, but as he put his right hand out to stop himself from slipping sideways, his fingers brushed the barrel of the pistol. His assailant also saw the gun and made a herculean lunge for it that took him across Bill’s legs.

  Bill, pinned beneath the thug, could smell the man’s stale breath and hear the snarl that rattled in his throat. But he got to the gun before his attacker did and, closing his eyes and turning his face away, placed it against the man’s head and pulled the trigger. Luckily, most of the resultant gore ended up on the underside of the dining table rather than on Bill. Trying desperately not to look at the ruined head only inches away from him, Bill disentangled himself from the corpse and lurched to his feet.

  He immediately collapsed, panting, onto a dining chair. He set the revolver on the table next to the glass of whisky he had drunk from… how long ago? A minute, an hour, a lifetime? It was so quiet now, and there was only the faintest hint of gun smoke in the air. He drank the remainder of the whisky and got to his feet. He picked up the revolver and walked over to Skates. Then, thinking he heard a moan, he emptied the gun into Skates’s body.