by Alex Walters
'He was just sitting in the car. Watching. As if he was waiting for something.'
Winterman glanced back at Spooner, whose expression suggested that this was no more than the kind of insanity he would expect to find in a place like this.
'What about the car? Did you get any details?'
'I didn't need to.' For the first time Brain looked pleased with himself. 'I recognised it.'
'It was a local car then?'
'Oh, yes, sir, definitely. It was the professor's.'
'The professor's? You mean Callaghan?'
'Yes. It was his all right. It's a big old thing. Like a hearse, I always think.'
'But there was no sign of Callaghan?'
'No sign of anyone, except for DC Hoxton.'
'Probably crashed it last night,' Spooner volunteered. 'Not surprising, if he took it out in that snow. He'll get one of the local garages to come and sort it out now the weather's warmed up.'
'You're probably right, sir,' Brain said. 'I imagine it'll be something like that. But he'll have to be quick, I reckon.'
'Why do you say that?'
'The water,' Brain said. 'It was rising all the time I was there. I've seen floods round these parts. But not like that. I've never seen it rise so quickly.' He looked up at the window of the police office. The rain continued to lash against the panes. 'If it carries on like this, that car'll be under water within an hour or so. The buildings as well, come to that.'
Chapter 60
The door opened slowly, its lower edge grinding across the stone floor. He blinked as the light grew brighter, and thrust himself further back against the rear wall. His hand grasped the cold metal pipe, half-concealed behind his back.
The large door opened fully, and he blinked at the silhouetted figure framed against the grey light. He was tense, his body poised to react to whatever might be about to happen.
'William?' The figure remained still in the doorway, perhaps to allow his eyes time to adjust to the relative dark.
William moved the pipe further behind his back, his eyes fixed on the figure. He said nothing, waiting for some further clue as to what was happening.
'William? You're awake?' The figure took a single step forward into the room, and William finally recognised him. The policeman, the detective. The younger one. Marsh. Well, that was no surprise. His voice sounded more tentative than William had expected. As if he was also unsure quite why they were here.
'What do you want?' William said. 'Where are we?'
Marsh took another step forward. 'You know where we are, William. You know this place.'
The piping was cold in William's hand. He did know this place. He had known it, subconsciously, even when he had first awoken, in the pitch dark with only the scrabbling of invisible rats for company. When the thin grey light had flooded through the opening door, he had known it for sure.
'What do you want? Who sent you?'
'No one sent me. Who sent you, William? This wasn't your doing. So who sent you?'
William's back was pressed hard against the chill stone wall. 'I don't know what you mean. I don't know what you want with me.'
'I just want to know, William, that's all. I want to know who's behind this. I want to know what games are being played.' His voice was coaxing. As if they were in this together, complicit.
William had been expecting this, or something like this. It could have been any one of them, or someone else entirely. When Winterman had come to interview him, William had thought he must be the one. He had the right background, the right style – unlikely in a policeman. One of the others – Hoxton or Marsh himself – had mentioned that Winterman had moved down here only recently. That would have made sense. Shipped down here to deal with this. Shut it down before there was too much furore. Before the press got hold of it.
Perhaps it still was Winterman. Perhaps Marsh was just an agent, doing the dirty work while Winterman pulled the strings. That wouldn't have been surprising either. That was how the whole thing worked. Those at the top were protected while the minions did what needed to be done.
It didn't matter much now. William had done his best to muddy the waters. To stir up a stink that would bring everything to the light. But they had always been ahead. Fisher's death should have proved that if he'd had any doubts. Fisher's death and the way it had been handled. The removal of the one remaining witness, and William himself apparently implicated in the killing.
He should have realised he was out of his depth. But he had pressed on, one last attempt. Praying the snow would clear and that there would be a chance to expose all this before they closed everything down again.
But if Winterman was one of them and Marsh was one of them, there was no way of knowing how far it all went. It would all just be buried, one more time.
Marsh had moved forward another step, his expression benign. 'I just want you to tell me, that's all. Just tell me who it is.'
William tried to move away, edging along the wall. Marsh's words made no sense to him, but probably they weren't meant to. The tone reminded William of someone enticing a nervous animal. Warm, soothing, seductive. All the time, Marsh was moving closer and closer.
There was no option. William couldn't let himself be caught like this. This wasn't just a matter of self-preservation. Everything depended on him.
He waited till Marsh was within a few feet of him. Marsh's left hand, he noticed, was wedged firmly into his overcoat pocket clutching – what? A revolver? A knife, like that used on Fisher?
As Marsh stepped forward, he slowly withdrew the hand from his pocket. This was it, William thought. I have to do it now.
William jumped forward, swinging the pipe as fiercely as he could at Marsh's head. Marsh moved his upper body back, trying to dodge, the end of the pipe catching him on the temple. He staggered forward, dazed by the impact, as William swung again. This time his aim was truer, and the piping hit the side of Marsh's head. Marsh's body twisted, his eyes registering shock, as William hit him again, harder this time across the back of his neck.
Marsh fell forward, his forehead striking the hard stone floor. His body contorted for a moment and then lay motionless.
William stared with horror at the prone figure, a crumpled black heap on the floor. Marsh's hands, he noticed, both remained empty.
Bile rising in his throat, William dropped to his knees and frantically reached for Marsh's wrist, searching for a pulse. He knew he needed to check properly, calmly, apply his medical training, but all he felt was a growing panic and a certainty Marsh was already dead. As he fumbled with the heavy outer clothes, he realised that the overcoat pocket, the pocket into which Marsh had thrust his hand, was empty also. There had been no weapon.
He looked up and saw that a second figure was standing at the door, calmly watching.
'Oh, dear,' Hoxton said. 'It looks as if you've well and truly buggered things up now, doesn't it, young William?'
Chapter 61
Mary was standing at the front door watching the rain. 'It's raining stair-rods. We're going to get soaked.'
'I can take them instead, if you like,' Mrs Griffiths said.
'Don't be daft, Mam. I'm quite capable of walking half a mile even in this weather. Probably a waste of time anyway. Bet they're still not open. Teachers won't want to venture out in this weather.'
'It's not as cold as it was though.' Mrs Griffiths had come to stand behind Mary, peering over her shoulder.
'Doesn't feel much warmer to me. And that school's as draughty as an old barn.' She looked back into the house. 'Come on, you two. Time to go.'
The children were loitering in the hallway, engaged in some complex private game. Graham looked up as she called, gazing curiously past her out into the daylight. 'It's raining.'
'I had noticed,' Mary said. 'Doesn't stop you going to school though, does it?'
Graham groaned but fastened his duffle coat, fumbling with the toggles. Ann watched him for a moment and then copied him. Finally, the children w
ere ready and Mary led them out into the rain.
She had considered bringing an umbrella, but the bitter east wind would render it useless. Instead, she had donned an old oilskin coat that had belonged to her husband. She pulled up the hood and, clutching Ann firmly by the hand, began the slow walk down towards the village. Graham trotted a yard or two behind, as fascinated by the pounding rain he had previously been by the snow.
The change in the weather was a relief, she supposed. After weeks of snow and below freezing temperatures, the wet air was refreshing. But the surrounding fields were already waterlogged, the network of dykes rapidly filling. Flooding was an everyday hazard in a landscape like this, but she couldn't remember seeing the water-levels rise so swiftly. That would be all they needed.
Graham had stopped, kicking water from a puddle. His trouser legs were already sodden, but he seemed undeterred. The rain was just another new adventure. Ann, by contrast, seemed cowed by the ferocity of the downpour.
'Come on, Graham,' Mary said. 'We haven't got all day.'
Graham looked up at her with an expression which suggested that, as far as he was concerned, that was exactly what they had. Finally, he grimaced and trotted after her. She watched for a moment, and then turned and continued down the lane.
She passed the church, glancing through the closed gates with an involuntary shudder. The churchyard was deserted. As in the rest of the landscape, the snow lingered only where the greying drifts were sheltered from the rain. It was a desolate scene, even without the associations it now held for her.
Suddenly nervous, she clutched Ann's hand more tightly and turned to watch Graham. He was still behind her but had slowed down again, distracted by a rapidly thawing pile of snow. A torrent of rain swept across the road, driven by the rising east wind. As the downpour grew even heavier, she had the momentary illusion that Graham's body was fading, becoming less substantial.
'Graham!' Her voice sounded sharper than she had intended. 'We're going to be late.'
After a moment, the boy responded, at first reluctantly dawdling in her wake. Then another thought seemed to strike him and he ran past his mother and sister, splashing hard in the puddles with his wellington boots, down the deserted road towards the village.
Chapter 62
'So what the bloody hell is Hoxton up to?' Spooner was pacing up and down the hallway. 'For God's sake, Winterman, can't you keep any of your men under control?'
Winterman looked at Brain. 'What time was the call this morning? The call you overheard.'
'I didn't notice exactly,' Brain said. 'Early. About five, I suppose.'
'Let's see what we can find out. Do you think it was an incoming or an outgoing call?'
Brain looked momentarily bewildered. 'I don't know. I suppose I got the impression – I don't know – that DC Hoxton was reporting in. Does that make sense?'
'None of it makes sense,' Winterman said. 'But it's worth a try. Hang on.' He disappeared back into the police office, and they heard him speaking to someone on the phone.
A moment later, he stuck his head round the office door. 'We're in luck. The call was made from here and fortunately for us it was just outside the local area, so it was connected by the operator. She took a bit of persuading to give me any information. Particularly given the recipient of the call.'
Spooner looked up, frowning. 'Oh, yes?'
'You're probably not going to like this. Lord Hamshaw.'
'Oh, bloody hell. Not Tommy bloody Hamshaw. You've got a death wish.'
'We don't know that he was talking to Hamshaw himself. Man like that must have staff.'
'Not so's you'd notice, from what I hear. Even Hamshaw's having to tighten his belt these days.'
Winterman recalled his mild surprise that Hamshaw had answered his own front door. 'Hoxton reckoned he'd made some bad investments.'
Spooner snorted. 'Too right. Most of them came in last.'
'It's not been easy for anyone over the last couple of decades,' Winterman pointed out.
'It's been bloody easy for the Hamshaws for most of that time. Living the life of bloody Riley. Don't get me wrong, Hamshaw's not short of a bob or two even now. He's just having to be a bit more careful how he spends it. If you believe the rumours, he allowed himself to become a little over extended with the wrong types.'
'Wrong types?'
'East End boys. Supplied Hamshaw with some of the wine and women, and other stuff besides, I shouldn't wonder. But they weren't so happy when the money began to run out. Hamshaw had to sell off some land to make ends meet, by all accounts, and now he's keeping his head down. Mind you, Hamshaw's ruthless enough when it suits him. He's screwed enough folk round here over the years.'
'That wasn't quite how I'd heard it.'
'And who'd you hear it from?' Spooner said. 'Hoxton? It wouldn't surprise me if Hoxton had his nose up Hamshaw's backside.'
Winterman frowned. 'When we interviewed Hamshaw, they didn't show much sign of knowing each other. A nodding acquaintance was my impression.'
'Aye, and Hoxton would have been doing the nodding. And the forelock tugging.'
Winterman realised what had been troubling him. 'Interesting, though, that Hamshaw already assumed that the latest body we'd found was another girl. Even though he pretended not to know we'd found it. Someone had been talking.' He turned to Brain. 'You said it sounded like DC Hoxton was – what was your phrase? – reporting in?'
'Something like that, sir. The tone was… well, it sounded like the kind of call you might make to a senior officer. Not that he was backwards at coming forward, if you get my drift, sir.'
'I don't imagine Hoxton was ever that,' Winterman said. 'He's always seemed to express his views pretty forthrightly to me.'
'He did that all right, but it still sounded as if he was receiving orders. Being told to sort it out.'
Winterman glanced at Spooner. 'We could give Hamshaw a call ourselves. See if we can winkle something out of him.'
'You want to antagonise Tommy Hamshaw, be my guest. Just don't mention my name. He's still got plenty of high-placed friends. On the other hand, you're not on the chief's Christmas card list anyway, are you?'
'Not for a year or two,' Winterman agreed.
The others followed him back into the office, where he dialled the operator and asked to be connected to Hamshaw's number.
The call was answered almost immediately. As if Hamshaw had been awaiting a call. 'Hamshaw.'
'Lord Hamshaw. It's DI Winterman. I visited you with my colleague, DC Hoxton, about Reverend Fisher's death.'
There was a momentary pause. When Hamshaw spoke again, he sounded more tentative. 'Of course. DI Winterman. How can I help you?'
'I'm very sorry to trouble you again. And it's a slightly odd question, I'm afraid. I believe you had a call early this morning from my colleague, DC Hoxton. He called from the station here so I'm assuming it was police business. We're trying to contact DC Hoxton urgently, and we wondered whether he might be with you.'
There was another brief pause. 'I'm afraid not, Inspector. Will that be all?'
'We wondered whether his conversation with you might have any bearings on his whereabouts, sir.'
'Well…' Hamshaw hesitated again. Winterman could almost hear the workings of the other man's mind. 'I really can't help you, Inspector. If you say DC Hoxton called this number, then that is no doubt the case. But I didn't take the call. Perhaps he spoke to one of my staff. I can make some enquiries, if you think it's important.'
'That would be very helpful, sir.'
'If I discover anything that's likely to assist you in locating DC Hoxton, I will of course call you back immediately.'
'Thank you, sir.'
'Good day, Inspector.'
Winterman replaced the receiver and looked up at Spooner and Brain. 'He claims he didn't take the call. Suggests that perhaps Hoxton spoke to one of his staff.'
'As far as I know, Hamshaw's staff these days comprises a housekeeper and a part-time garden
er.' Spooner turned to Brain. 'Did it sound as if Hoxton was talking to Hamshaw's housekeeper?'
'No, sir. As I said–'
'So Hamshaw's lying through his teeth,' Spooner said.
'It would appear so,' Winterman said. 'I think we need to find out what Hoxton's up to, don't you?'
'You can take my car,' Spooner said. 'I'm not liking the sound of this, whatever it is.'
'You're not coming with us, sir?'
'My team is due to turn up any minute. We were all supposed to be meeting to kick things off, in case you've forgotten.'
'I'd not forgotten,' Winterman said. 'We'll try not to keep you waiting,'
'You do that, Winterman. And, yes, I know what you're thinking and you're right. I'll do what I can, but I'm going no further out on a limb than I can help. I don't know what Hamshaw's involved in, but he's still a big fish in these parts. I'm keeping him at arm's length.' His smile grew broader. 'Whereas your career's buggered anyway. So good luck.'
'Thank you, sir.' Winterman's face was blank. 'Good to know you're behind us.'
'A long way behind you, Winterman,' Spooner said. 'But still behind you. And you might eventually be glad of that.'
Chapter 63
'Stand up slowly,' Hoxton said. 'And throw that bloody pipe over here. Gently.' He was holding a revolver which he waved calmly towards William. 'Don't try to be smart. My old pal here's loaded and eager to see some action.'
William showed no inclination to resist. His face was white and aghast, and he was staring down at Marsh's body as if scarcely able to believe what he had done. Still silent, he tossed the metal piping softly towards Hoxton's feet.
'Good boy. Now get over there by the wall.'
As William obeyed, Hoxton moved round, the gun trained steadily on the younger man, and crouched down by Marsh's prone body. Keeping one eye on William, he lifted Marsh's arm and felt for a pulse.
'You're a lucky lad. Not dead yet. You might escape the gallows after all. Nobody takes kindly to people who kill coppers.'