The Secret Dawn

by Solomon Carter

  Brett Reville wasn’t supposed to die – be exposed as a liar, yes. And he’d expected to force the man out of his business. He had also expected to find Sabine had gotten bored with him and wanted him out of her life. That too would have stung badly, but Grant had imagined the situation so many times in advance, he was almost prepared for it. But losing her like this? It was beyond him. The detective had said Sabine had been grieving for him… she still loved him. Now there was talk of murder – and she was gone. He took a cigarette in a shaking hand and lit it with a new lighter. He took a deep lug of the cigarette into his lungs – hot smoke raked his throat and curdled in his lungs. He coughed and spluttered and looked at his cigarette doubtfully, but when he took a second drag, it was far easier. The third one almost felt good. But his head ached and his face was set in a frown. He left the country lane and edged around the back of Flowside towards the doors, wondering what his next move might be. Gurney. Yes, yes, call Gurney. Get that useless little man to go and earn his keep. Meanwhile, Grant would stay at the lock-up and run the search from there. After a few days in hiding the remote little den almost felt like home. A respite away from the world. Hogarth had warned there would be media attention and Dawn didn’t want any of that at all. At least not until Sabine was safe.

  Grant padded along the gravel lost in thought, the smoke of his cigarette dragged away in the breeze. But he stopped in his tracks when he saw the back end of the white Audi jutting from the back edge of the building. His brow dipped over his eyes and he blew out a blast of white smoke which was quickly whipped into the air and dissipated.

  He walked towards the car, passing the front door of the building without a glance. Another mistake. If he’d looked, he would have noticed the damage and drawn conclusions, but his mind was in too many places at once. Dawn’s feet crunched on the gravel. He reached the end of the building and looked through the car’s rear windscreen. The Audi was empty but familiar… the interior was creamy-beige leather and there was a string of plastic pink beads on the dashboard.

  “Yvette?” he muttered, and he looked up.

  There was a subtle crunch of gravel behind him. Grant Dawn wheeled around to see who was approaching, but he was too late. In the moment he turned, Dawn caught the briefest glimpse of Yvette George’s face. Her eyes were intense, her teeth were bared. She was nothing like the Yvette he knew. She brought the gleaming wrench down on the side of his head with a clunk, and down he went, his face striking the gravel a moment before the world blinked into darkness.

  Hogarth’s Insignia slowed as he got within touching distance of the lock-up. He slowed from sixty miles an hour down to thirty, then twenty. After another few yards he slowed to a barely audible crawl. He aimed the car towards the gravel entrance of the driveway, then thought better of it, and pulled the car onto the quiet shoulder of grass verge, stopping just short of a ditch. “We play this carefully. We haven’t got a clue what we’re going to find in there.”

  Palmer nodded and Hogarth opened the car door. They stepped out into the wasteland as a sea breeze ripped in from the nearby waterways, snatching hold of his lapels and hair. Hogarth pushed the door shut quietly. Palmer clunked her door shut too loudly for his liking and Hogarth shot her a look of warning.

  He pointed around the side of the building, where the gravel led around to the rear driveway and he tested the gravel with his shoe. It crunched loudly, so he next pressed his foot in gently and it made a low-level noise he hoped would be covered by the wind.

  He took a few steps and waited for Palmer to follow. She was quieter than him now, more fleet of foot.

  “There it is,” he whispered, quiet as a bird watcher in their hide. They had passed the corner of the building and Hogarth nodded to the white car visible at the end.

  “So it is her,” said Hogarth, his voice quiet. “We’d best check the car first…”

  It was a long walk past the building and the effort to stay quiet was a strain. Hogarth tripped on one hidden rut and a scattering of pebbles were sent into the air, a few rebounding from the rustic brick walls. Hogarth bit his lip and cursed himself, but after a moment had passed, reckoned he’d gotten away with it. That was when he noticed the edge of the entrance door. Right beside the lock, the wood of the door had been squashed and splintered by a forced entry. The paint had been chipped away altogether, the ancient wood damaged and exposed.

  Palmer followed his eyes, and glancing back towards the white car, she was first one to notice the spotting of brightest red among the shingle near the end of the barn. It was almost lost in the camouflage of the stones.

  “Guv…” she whispered.

  Palmer tapped him on the arm and nodded towards the patch in question. Hogarth frowned and stepped towards it. He ran his eyes over the stones and saw the patch of red surrounded by a few lesser spots. He dropped to a crouch and put his little finger into one small red bead to test for freshness. He rubbed it between his fingers.

  “Blood. And it’s fresh…” He followed the line of one subtle rut in the gravel as it wound towards the front door, and to one side of the rut he found a half-smoked cigarette, a ghostly tendril of smoke wisping up into the breeze.

  “We’ve got to get in there now!”

  “She jimmied the door to get in,” said Palmer.

  “Whoever it is, they won’t want guests. It’ll be locked.”

  He stood up and craned his head, attempting to hear sounds from within the old building. But he remembered the walls had been dry-lined and insulated. Even if people were suffering inside, the only way he’d hear them was via the front door. “We’re getting in there no matter what,” he said. He started walking back past the building towards his car, taking care not to make a sound.

  “Guv?” said Palmer.

  “I’m looking to find a way in,” he said.

  “Or we could draw her out,” said Palmer.

  “Easier said than done,” said Hogarth. “If we aren’t very careful, this could turn into a bloody siege…”

  Yvette George smiled. She sat on the edge of the corner desk and looked at the two Dawns sat in the middle of the empty space where the Ford Capri had once been. Sabine Dawn’s face was streaked with tear tracks, but there were no tears now. She watched her husband’s bloody head slowly loll from side to side and was grateful to see him moving. Her eyes flashed with emotion, and she looked at Yvette George on the other side of the room with nothing short of hate.

  “See,” said Yvette. “I told you he’d be okay. That’s the trouble with this one. He’s got nine lives.”

  “You. All the people we had working for us – I would have always trusted you the most,” said Sabine. “What did we ever do to you?”

  Yvette George swished her red hair and leaned back in thought. There was a confidence about the woman’s body language which Sabine had never seen before. It was as if she was meeting a new Yvette for the very first time. Or a clone with a new personality.

  “Do to me? What did you do to me? Funny you ask,” said Yvette. “Because you never did anything to me, per se. Nothing except for taking me for granted at every turn. For the last ten years, I’ve always been there, haven’t I? Did you ever notice that? I never had a day off, apart from when I was really, really ill. And even those efforts never ever got noticed. Why? Why was I there? Why did I keep fighting just to come in and work? Because I gave a shit about the business when no one else did. I was there doing what had to be done, while you sat at home living off the proceeds, drinking yourself to oblivion every day of the week… and he was off pretending to be a high flyer, showboating while he creamed off the proceeds of my hard work…”

  “Creamed off the proceeds!” snapped Sabine. “The business was ours. That business should have been flying!”

  As Sabine shouted, Grant Dawn’s eyes finally opened. He blinked on the sticky blood which had leaked from the wound above his temple into his right eye. The eyelid was sticky, but he kept blinking until he could see. Sabine looked at him.<
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  “Grant made that business. It was his to do with whatever he liked. And he wasn’t creaming a penny of it. Someone else was doing all the creaming. And I bet you know who that was, don’t you, Yvette?” said Sabine.

  Yvette George’s eyes sparkled at Sabine. She smiled.

  “You found out, did you? Well, I don’t suppose it really matters now, does it?”

  “Brett must have leaned on you and pulled you into it… didn’t he? After all Yvette – you never did have an opinion. I bet you just nodded your head while he robbed us blind. That business was never supposed to fail. It was Brett who was making it fail, and you turned a blind eye because he was your boyfriend. Didn’t you?”

  Yvette shook her head and her smile stayed in place.

  “Do you think you’re in a position to upset me, Sabine?” said Yvette. She let her words linger on the air. “And you’re wrong.”

  Sabine frowned but stayed silent. Grant groaned and looked around.

  “It was my idea, sweetheart,” said George. “I thought of it as compensation for all the times you used me without a second thought. You really did underestimate me, didn’t you?”

  “Used you?” muttered Grant. “We paid you to do a job!”

  “You paid me a pittance to hold that company together! You paid that wretched tart Emily Flount three times what you paid me for half the bloody hours! Did you really think I didn’t know? I saw it all. I was that business!”

  Grant frowned. “Brett was supposed to run the numbers. He said he was better at accounts, so you let him do it.”

  “Grant – Brett thought he was better at everything, but it didn’t mean any of it was true. Men talk. That’s what they do. They boast. They patronise. But I was always the one who got things done. And I gave him all his best ideas. I knew you’d listen to him, Grant. But he was lazy. Don’t get me wrong. I loved Brett well enough, but I always knew his limits. I knew I had to help him all the way…”

  “You helped him?” said Sabine, shaking with emotion “You helped him rob us blind!”

  Grant tugged his arms from behind the back of the chair. His found his wrists bound to the chair, with hardly any give, but the knot was almost within touching distance… He looked across at Sabine, saw the sweat on her lip, saw the strained and fearful look in her eye. And even through it all he saw she was trying to soothe him with a few stolen looks. Even in the middle of a nightmare, her eyes were trying to reassure him that it was all okay.

  Dawn nodded back, stunned by the pain in his head and the horror of his guilt. He tilted his head and looked down to see Sabine’s arms tied at the wrists, like his own. They had been tied with plastic electricity cables, probably cut from appliances around the lock-up.

  Grant looked at his wife through the haze of his thinking. They looked at one another again and their eyes lingered.

  “Oh, stop it, you two,” said Yvette with an air of irritation. She picked up the shiny wrench from the desk and hefted it in her hand. A moment later she laid it back on the desk and picked up another implement. The one she’d used to cut the cables off the fridge and kettle. A sharp cutting knife. She raised the knife and held it close beside her face, so they couldn’t help but see the blade.

  “You know, Grant, it would have been much easier if you’d just stayed dead. Especially for you. I mean, dying twice doesn’t sound like my idea of fun.”

  “What are you saying?” said Grant.

  “But… maybe you don’t have to die.” Yvette stood up and let the smile slowly fade from her face.

  “Because this time you’ve got a choice.”

  “A choice… What are you talking about?”

  “Wake up, Grant. I’ve only ever wanted the one thing. I already run that business. I am that damn business. And now I want you to give it to me.”

  “Give it to you?” said Dawn. His face cracked a pained smile. “Are you completely insane?”

  Yvette didn’t smile, and Grant began to regret asking the question.

  “We can arrange an official handover right here. Good job you had a little printer here because I really wasn’t expecting to see you. See, I’ve already composed a little letter on your behalf. Writing for you just like I always did. Only this time I’m writing it for me too. This little letter…” she said, raising the piece of typed paper along with another few typed sheets attached by a staple, “and this document here represents a legally binding contract. I was going to force Sabine to sign it over, but then I didn’t know you were alive then… and seeing as you were so kind as to drop in you may as well sign it yourself and make the transfer complete.”

  “How did even you know about this place…?” muttered Dawn, blinking against the pain in his head.

  “Oh, I’ve always known about it, Grant. I’m the one who controls the details, remember? In fact I always thought this would be the perfect place to conclude our bit of business.”

  “It doesn’t matter if anyone signs that nonsense,” said Grant. “Blackmail and extortion will make that document worthless.”

  “But if you ever dared to make such a claim in public, there’d be terrible consequences. Maybe I’ll give you a few seconds to think about what could happen to you. Or to Sabine. And after you’ve considered that, I want you to sign it. Here, I’ll make the decision even easier for you. What should I bring over there? A pen? Or this knife?”

  The woman let her words sink in.

  “You’ve never given me anything, Grant. No bonus. No dividend. No shares. Nothing beyond a few meaningless platitudes. But now I want what you owe me. Especially after what happened to Brett—” The woman’s mouth crumpled at the mention of his name. She turned her fiery gaze on Sabine. “I think you both owe me more than ever, don’t you?”

  “Brett?” said Dawn. “Whatever happened to Brett had nothing to do with us.”

  “Oh, I know it had nothing to do with you, Grant,” said Yvette, slowly stepping towards them, knife in hand. “It was Sabine’s fault. It was her.” Yvette George’s eyes fixed on Sabine.

  Hogarth peered into his car boot, and pulled out his never-used, never-to-be-used set of golf clubs. They were second-hand, and the bag was split down one side. He peered into the depths of the black leather bag before he tossed it onto the grass, along with a squashed straw trilby – his holiday hat – an oil stained towel, and a coffee stained, creased copy of the Murder Investigation Manual 2006. He dumped all the items in the same pile, then pulled up the boot lining carpet and twisted the clips on the plate covering the space where the car jack was housed.

  “The jack? That’s not going to open the door,” said Palmer.

  “You got any better ideas?” he snapped. But looking into the car jack bag, he knew Palmer was right. Hogarth dropped the jack back into his boot and looked around by their feet. A golf club could be useful for causing some damage, but not for opening a door. He groaned and paced around the side of the car and caught sight of something half buried in the primroses and weeds of the dry ditch. He blinked at a small, solid flat line of brown rust. It had a circular blob attached at one end. He looked at it, reached down and groaned as his back protested, then he hefted the thing out of the ditch. The weighty thing scraped his thumb, and the rough flaky metal drew blood.

  “Ow! Tetanus would be the last bloody straw, I mean it.” Then he hefted the thing in his palm.

  “What is that?” said Palmer.

  “Looks like it came off the arse end of some old boat.”

  “A rudder?” said Palmer.

  “Don’t be stupid. It’s metal. Probably a broken piece of propeller. Look. The other two parts are missing.”

  Palmer looked and saw the broken edges on the empty sides of the heavy circle.

  “Excuse me for saying, but what do you think you can do with that?”

  “Improvise, that’s what.”

  Hogarth dipped his hand in the boot and picked up the car jack with his other hand. He started walked towards the lock-up with intent. Palmer sho
ok her head and followed. Hogarth kept his feet light on the gravel as he crossed towards the door. This time they both heard the shouting from within. Hogarth moved fast and put his ear to the door. It was barely necessary. Voices were raised loud enough to hear quite clearly through the gaps in the door.

  “And after what happened to Brett – I think you both owe me more than ever… don’t you?”

  “Bloody hell,” said Hogarth. “The woman’s lost the plot.”

  He stood beside the door and pressed the thin end of the broken old propeller into the wood where the door had already been jimmied out of shape. There was just room to fit the big old propeller into the widened gap. Hogarth wedged it in hard.

  “You’ll sign it or else,” said a voice from inside.

  “Or what?” said a sleepy, pained male voice.

  “Or else I’ll kill you right here, right now. Look at me. Do you really think I’ve got anything to lose?!”

  Hogarth looked at Palmer, wide eyed. He took a deep breath and left the propeller hanging from the door. In one movement he pulled his arms back, like a man well-used to performing the golfer’s swing. He held the end of the jack, the flat side of the heavy hinge aiming for the rump of the broken propeller. He measured his angle, kept his aim, and narrowed his eyes on the target and then held his breath as he took the swing. The jack arced in hard, slamming against the rusting metal, driving the whole propeller wedge deep between door and frame, forcing both apart. The door held and Hogarth grimaced. For the briefest moment, the world was nothing but the sound of gulls and the rush of the breeze.

  “What the hell…?!” said a voice inside. And then he heard the rush of footsteps patter across the concrete. Hogarth gritted his teeth and smashed the jack down club-like on the propeller, and the propeller cut down and fell away. The wooden door burst open and one of the old sliding bolts burst in to clatter onto the concrete floor. Pale grey light washed into the dim interior. Hogarth and Palmer rushed in behind their shadows. Their eyes adjusted and Hogarth saw everything. He raised an open hand to plead for calm.