Beacon Hill

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Beacon Hill Page 11

by Colin Campbell


  “Compassionate leave. As much as you need. Go sort out her affairs.”

  Grant’s voice was still dry and croaky. “Thanks. Won’t take long.”

  “As long as you need.”

  Grant wondered where to begin. Her apartment, he reckoned. He put his cup on the tray and stretched his neck. Bones cracked in the quiet room. Hoyt surprised Grant again.

  “Use Sam’s car. I’ll take him back.”

  Kincaid held out the keys. Grant took them and nodded. There was nothing else to say.

  The apartment felt empty because it was. The two-storey duplex in South End was clean and airy and as tidy as Terri always kept it. Coming in the front door without her being there to greet him felt strange. The silence was deafening. It started from deep in his chest and sucked the life out of the room. He felt hollowed out. Empty. Done. He had lost people before, but never felt like this.

  He stood at the bottom of the stairs and half expected her to be standing at the top in her bathrobe. Waiting to wash his back and relieve his tension. That would never happen again. The finality of that thought forced a sigh from his lips that came all the way from the depths of his chest. He didn’t want to check the bedroom yet. That would be too personal. The kitchen and living room were safer options.

  He walked along the short corridor into the lounge and stood still. He didn’t know where to start. This was her apartment. Even though he stayed here most of the time, he hadn’t gone through her drawers and cupboards. Those were her private places. Having to look through them now for clues about her parents felt like an invasion of privacy.

  The phone in his pocket saved him from having to try. It vibrated twice, then began to ring. He took out the cell and flicked it open. Kincaid spoke into his ear.

  “Glad you’ve started carrying your cell.”

  Grant wasn’t ready for small talk yet. “What do you want?”

  Kincaid didn’t sound offended. “We’ve tracked down the Irish family. They’re staying in Winthrop.”

  Grant called up the map in his head. Winthrop was east of Boston on the other side of Logan International. The airport blocked any direct route from Beacon Hill. Quickest way to get there by car was to head up past the T North station and across the Charlestown Bridge.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  The house on Oceanview Street was a holiday let that barely qualified as a house. Grant reckoned it was supposed to look like some kind of frontier cabin but it fell down on that description too. It did have a rough wilderness feel to it, but only because whoever built it hadn’t got a single angle straight. The front porch was crooked. The wooden stairs and railing leading up to it didn’t look safe. The red, white, and blue of the stars and stripes hanging out front was the only pristine thing on the entire building.

  Grant parked three houses down on the opposite side of the road. Calling the street Oceanview was a misnomer too. Winthrop was a flat bulge of land jutting out between Broad Sound and Boston Harbor. A narrow spur with a single road to the Deer Island Treatment Plant jutted south even further. Oceanview Street was in the middle of Winthrop. You’d have to stand on the roof with a ladder to see the water.

  Grant wasn’t interested in the water.

  He was interested in the blue Ford parked in the driveway.

  Angler flushed Grant’s throat and bristled the short hairs at the back of his neck. He reached into the back of his belt and pulled out his service weapon. The one Captain Hoyt said shouldn’t be kept in his locker at E-13. It wasn’t there now. Grant had swung by Jamaica Plain and collected it. This wasn’t a day for talking people down. This was a day for meting out justice.

  Grant paused with the gun still halfway out of his belt. He breathed in through his nose and out through his mouth. Twice. The anger subsided, but not all the way down to placid. Somebody in that house had killed Terri Avellone. Somebody was going to pay. In his professional life, Grant could think calmly and rationally. Take the sting out of situations and pour oil on troubled waters. This wasn’t professional. It was personal.

  He scanned the house and driveway. The front aspect had the porch and steps. One window next to the door and a smaller one upstairs. Front bedroom. Those were the danger points out front. The driveway ran along the side of the house to a ramshackle garage that doubled as a tool shed. The door was slightly open, revealing a workbench and tool rack. No movement. Secondary danger point. Somebody had been in the garage recently. Side aspect of the house had too small windows with closed drapes. Too small to be a living room or kitchen. Maybe a bathroom. Minimum danger. People rarely looked out of the window when they were taking a leak. That left the rear aspect that Grant couldn’t see and the far wall that was so close to the next house that it wasn’t an issue.

  Then there was the car.

  Grant was looking at the Ford when a low rumble started in the distance. It built to a subtle roar and just kept building. The ground began to shake. The roar became a scream that hurt Grant’s ears. The noise was so all-encompassing, it was difficult to tell where it was coming from. Then a low flying passenger jet came over so low that Grant thought it would take the chimney off. Perspective was thrown by the sheer size of the airplane as it headed for the airport just across the harbor. The noise diminished and the plane was gone. The squeal of tyres on the runway didn’t carry this far but everything else did. Living under a flight path for Logan International must be a nightmare. No wonder the holiday let was crooked and rundown. Another plane was already lining up for its final approach.

  The dark blue Ford.

  Grant crossed the street and approached along the hedgerow of the neighboring house. The car was parked front end out but had only reversed as far as the first side window. Nobody could look out from the house and see Grant as he examined the accident damage. That was when the first doubts set in. There was a scraped indentation along the passenger side that ran from the front wheel arch to the rear door. Paint had been scratched off and there were several streaks of white paint from the other car.

  And that was all.

  There was no front-end damage from all the collisions between Charles Street and North station.

  There was movement at the top of the driveway, out of the corner of Grant’s eye. Somebody came out of the garage and closed the door. A man with hunched shoulders and a rolling gait. Grant dropped to his knees beside the car and drew his gun. The back door to the house slammed shut. Footsteps inside moved towards the front room.

  The low rumble began to build in the east again. The next flight coming into the east-west runway. Grant looked over the top of the car. The curtains were still drawn in the side windows. He kept the gun at his side and walked calmly towards the garage. Mature trees that looked grey and unhealthy provided extra cover. Grant stood beside a mottled trunk and checked the rear aspect. The house was longer than it looked from the street. There was no rear porch, just wooden steps from the back door. A wider window than out front. A bedroom window above that. No movement in either one.

  The rumble became a roar. The air pressure squeezed Grant’s ears. The windows rattled in their frames. The ground shook. Grant’s eyes did a quick circuit of the danger areas.

  Side windows: All clear.

  Garage: All clear.

  Rear bedroom window: All clear.

  Rear lower window: All clear.

  Rear door: Movement.

  The roar grew louder. The back door began to open, inward. Grant crossed from the tree in four easy strides. The noise was deafening. It dulled the brain and covered the sound of Grant’s footsteps. Whoever was opening the door would be clamping down against the pressure, not concentrating on the door. It was natural. Like closing your eyes at the sound of an explosion.

  Grant burst through the door, gun in hand.

  And sent the little old lady flying backwards.

  The noise outside had been loud, but in here, it sounded like the world was coming to an end. The jet swooped
overhead. The light fittings swayed from the ceiling. Glass rattled and doors creaked and the noise echoed through bare plasterboard walls which weren’t very secure in the first place. It sounded like giants were stomping in the bedrooms, loud and angry and confusing. It was the confusion that saved anyone from getting shot.

  Grant caught the little old lady before she banged her head on the floor. He darted forwards and down. Shot his arms out and crouched at the knees. Her backside hit the carpet. Her shoulders were halfway there. Her head lolled on a neck too thin to give any support. Grant jerked sideways to get one hand behind her head and felt a muscle spasm in his lower back. The woman soft-landed with her head cradled in Grant’s hand.

  The man standing in the living room doorway didn’t see somebody who had saved the old lady. He saw an intruder who had knocked her flat on her back. The noise of the jet receded but the house was still rattling. There was a brief moment when confrontation could have been avoided. The man simply stood and stared. Grant knelt with the old lady’s head in his hand. Nobody moved. Nobody spoke. Then the man went for his gun, and blood was going to be spilled.

  The gun was on a cabinet in the living room. The door was partly open, slowing the man’s access. Grant was on his knees with only one hand free. The jet landed at the airport. The next plane wasn’t on final approach yet. The house fell silent. Grant saw everything unfold in slow motion.

  The man reached the gun and aimed along the hallway.

  Grant dropped the woman’s head on the floor.

  The man jerked the trigger.

  Grant pushed up and sideways.

  The gun went off.

  After that, things moved fast. The gunshot sounded muted after the roar of the low-flying airliner. Muted, and badly aimed from jerking the trigger instead of squeezing it. No wonder the guy had blasted six holes in Hunt’s front wall and missed Dillman at the café. Grant aimed in one swift movement as the man was lining up for another shot. Grant fired twice.

  The shots sounded loud again. Ears that had adjusted to the quiet of the house were assaulted with a cacophony of noise. Two shots. Close quarters. The woman screamed. The man dropped the gun. Grant’s shots blasted wood and splinters from the floor three feet in front of the man: Warning shots. In the floor, not the ceiling like in the movies. Bullets will keep on travelling after wooden ceilings and walls. The floor was the safest place.

  The woman shuffled back against the wall.

  The man’s shoulders sagged, resignation on his face.

  “You’re from him. Aren’t you?”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Grant picked the discarded gun up off the floor and held it down at his side. Not prepared to shove it in his belt until he’d checked it was safe. Best way to shoot your dick off, sticking an untried weapon down your trousers. He backed against the corridor wall, keeping his gun trained on the man while watching the old lady with his peripheral vision. He wasn’t worried about her, but he’d learned from long experience with domestic disputes that women had a funny way of changing their allegiances when their man was arrested.

  Grant wasn’t arresting anyone.

  “I’m from hell come to visit if you don’t answer my questions.”

  The man looked like hell was a place he knew very well. His face was haggard beyond his years. Thirty-five, maybe. Haunted eyes stared out beneath beetled brows. Grant held the man’s gun up, dangling by the trigger guard.

  “This your only gun?”

  The man nodded. Grant wasn’t foolish enough to believe him without checking first. The pistol was a snub nose Smith and Wesson .38. Five shot cylinder. He flicked the cylinder open and dumped the bullets. They bounced on the floor and scattered. Leaving the cylinder open, Grant tossed the gun through the doorway onto an easy chair.

  “Turn around.”

  The man held his hands away from his body and turned around. Grant shoved his service weapon in the back of his belt and quickly patted the man down. Short of doing a cavity search, there were no other weapons. Unless it was a very small gun, a cavity search wasn’t necessary. The man turned to face Grant again. His voice had a soft Irish accent.

  “You don’t look like one of his usual cronies.”

  Grant faced the man. “I’m nobody’s crony.”

  Doubt crossed the man’s face. “But you are from him?”

  Grant was having doubts of his own. “Which him are we talking about?”

  “Dillman.”

  It didn’t surprise Grant that the man might think Grant came from the man he’d tried to kill. Made perfect sense. The man had shown his willingness to shoot first and ask questions after but the numbers weren’t adding up. Grant just couldn’t fathom why.

  “Dillman’s a piece of shit, should have been put down a long time ago. I’m here because of him. Not from him.” Grant nodded at the .38 in the easy chair. “So tell me your story.”

  The man drew his shoulders back and took a deep breath.

  Grant looked at the .38 again and the numbers came to him. Too late. The shooter had blasted six holes in Daniel Hunt’s front wall. Aim as poor as when he’d just taken a shot at Grant. No doubt in Grant’s mind this fella was the shooter. But the .38 wasn’t the gun he’d used. It had a five-shot cylinder. Not enough. And it didn’t eject the shells that had been left at the scene. There was another gun.

  The noise of the slide being racked was loud in the silence. The little old lady had moved to Grant’s blind side. No threat at all until she pointed the gun at the back of his head.

  “No, mister. You tell us your story.”

  They had to wait for another jet to pass before anyone could speak again. The house shook. The fittings rattled. The roar was deafening. The old lady kept her distance while the man took Grant’s gun, then stepped aside. Grant risked a glance over his shoulder. The woman was halfway down the corridor next to the kitchen door. Maybe ten feet. If she was as bad a shot as the man, there was a chance she could miss if Grant moved fast. No point risking it if they wanted to talk first. Grant tried to diffuse the tension.

  “You’re like that old Indian in Josey Wales. Sneaking up on people.”

  The old lady shook her head. “Don’t know any Josey Wales.”

  “Clint Eastwood. Western. The Outlaw Josey Wales.”

  “Don’t like westerns.”

  “You like sneaking up on people like an old Indian though.”

  “I like keeping my grandson safe.”

  That confirmed the family dynamic. “Then maybe you shouldn’t go around Boston shooting Irishmen.”

  “You think that would make life safer?”

  Grant nodded. “Safer than having the police kick your door down.”

  The gun wavered in the old lady’s hand but the weight sagging her shoulders was much heavier.

  “Safer than shopping with your son when the bombs go off?”

  That confirmed the missing family dynamic. Grant said nothing. The woman lowered the gun.

  “You’re that copper on TV. One that killed the dog.”

  “That wasn’t my fault.”

  Grant shifted his position and felt a twinge lance through his lower back. He winced and tried to stretch his spine but that only made it worse. His right leg buckled and he had to lean against the wall. The woman let sympathy play across her face.

  “I’ve got something can help you with that.”

  Grant didn’t know what the ointment was but it felt cool and wet and eased the pain. Didn’t smell as bad as Deep Heat either, the muscle warming balm that stank up men’s changing rooms across Yorkshire. This stuff numbed the pain and cooled the back and smelled of mints. The woman drew the line at applying it so Grant rubbed it in himself.

  After that, it was tea and biscuits like this was a family visit. The guns were on the kitchen table. Kalene Dunsmoor and her grandson Greg sat on one side. Grant sat on the other, keeping his back straight and his mind open. The grandmother’s story
was brief and to the point.

  A family day out in Birmingham. Husband, wife, and son. And grandma. The wife went off to buy some lingerie. Young Greg wanted to stay with his dad. Tommy was happy to take his son to the toyshop down the street. The street was a pedestrian precinct with trees and park benches and solid metal rubbish bins to keep Britain tidy. Kalene tagged along. Since her husband had died, she spent a lot of time with her son. Tommy was a family man. He loved Greg and his mother and kept them both close. He was also a tidy man. Young Greg dropped his sweet wrapper on the floor and Tommy picked it up, wagging a disapproving finger. He left the boy and his grandma on a park bench and went over to the rubbish bin.

  The next thing the boy knew was waking up in hospital with half his face burned and one eye blinded. The grandmother had been luckier. She only broke a leg and three fingers. Both survived. The mother was never found. Three other bombs had gone off simultaneously. One of them right outside a sexy lingerie shop. That was the Dunsmoors’ story.

  Grant shifted in his chair. His back felt better. The woman had a gift for healing. She hadn’t been able to heal the family. Greg Dunsmoor had the tight, smooth skin of a burn victim and a milky eye that Grant hadn’t noticed before. It meant that Greg looked at things from an angle, partly for a better look but also to hide his shame. Not ashamed of the smooth skin, but the fact it was his sweet wrapper that got his father killed. He said as much when Grant asked him about it. Grant shook his head.

  “It wasn’t the sweet wrapper got your dad killed. It was the heartless bastard set the bombs off.” Greg let out a sigh. “Mike Dillman.” Grant looked at the damaged pair. “Peace campaigner.”

  Kalene snorted a laugh. “Don’t you believe it. That man hates the British more than life itself. Why else would he target innocent children to prove his point?”

 

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