Wolf shook his head in disgust. ‘Dudley, you piece of shit. Fucker should get an Oscar for this performance.’
By now the car parks were both full, but everyone was too preoccupied and upset to pay the slightest attention to the grey Skoda. A long line of mourners filtered inside the church doors. A media camera crew who had arrived to grab some sneak footage of the occasion were intercepted by the security team and brusquely turned away. The church doors closed.
Forty minutes went by before they reopened. The coffin came back out, making its final journey towards the cemetery on the pall-bearers’ shoulders. In its wake was Dudley, pale and tight-lipped, clutching his wife’s shoulders as she dabbed her face with a handkerchief. The bodyguards flanked their employer as the sad procession led towards Annie Dudley’s final resting place.
Ben and Wolf watched from a distance as the burial ceremony ran its course. When the coffin containing her daughter’s body was lowered into the grave, Clarissa Dudley made a terrible wailing sound that pierced the air and seemed to linger for minutes afterwards. If she had only known that the man standing beside her, lovingly clutching her hand, had as good as murdered Annie himself. The other mourners at the graveside just hung their heads. Many of them had probably known Annie personally. Whatever her faults might have been, they were visibly in shock that she was gone.
The minister said a few more words. Minutes later the burial was over, but for Clarissa Dudley the pain had only just begun. The crowd slowly dispersed and returned to their cars. The Dudleys and their security detail were the last to leave. Annie’s mother seemed to be having difficulty walking and her husband and one of the bodyguards helped her back to the Bentley. She was crumpled, spent, utterly destroyed. The agony etched on her face looked as though it had been carved there with a knife, so deep the scars would remain forever. Ben’s heart went out to her.
Two of the bodyguards got in the front of the Bentley and the others returned to their Jag. Tristan Dudley kissed his wife, gently closed her car door and walked around to the other side. As he was about to get in, he paused. Turned to gaze back in the direction of his daughter’s fresh grave. And gave a little smile before he slipped inside the car and pulled his door shut.
Ben looked at Wolf. Wolf’s jaw was tightly clenched and he said nothing. Both thinking the same thing.
Then the Bentley rolled away with the Jaguar following.
‘Let’s do this,’ Wolf said. He started the engine.
The Bentley and its escort led away from the church and moved at a stately pace through the quiet, leafy country lanes. Nobody would have noticed the grey estate car tailing them way back in the distance. It wasn’t a long journey. On the far side of Hanbury Dudley’s driver turned off the road and halted outside a pair of gilded gates set into the high, ivied stone perimeter wall of a sizeable property. The gates glided remotely open to let the two cars through, and then glided shut again behind them.
Wolf toed the accelerator to catch up, so they could catch a view of the Bentley and the Jaguar rolling up the driveway towards the house. They’d seen the place before. It was the same fine Edwardian home that Ben and Wolf had seen pictured online, red brickwork with mock-Tudor timbers under the eaves, roof angles jutting out here and there, partly hidden by a great weeping willow tree that dominated the large, mature gardens.
‘Might as well have posted his address on Facebook,’ Wolf muttered as they cruised past the entrance, slowing just enough to get a good look at the place. ‘A very careless man.’
‘Because he has no idea we’re coming for him,’ Ben said. That was soon about to change.
A little way up the quiet road was a woodland with a winding track that led to a leisure spot with some picnic tables and a children’s play area. Wolf eased the Skoda up the bumpy track and coasted to a stop under the shade of the trees. Ben looked at his watch. It was twenty past five. Sunset was a little over two hours away. But he wanted to wait until long after nightfall before he sprang his trap on Tristan Dudley. There was nothing to do until then but bide time, conserve energy and prepare for what lay ahead. Ben racked the passenger seat back all the way and reclined into it, stretched out his legs and closed his eyes.
‘We should be watching the house,’ Wolf said. ‘What if he buggers off again?’
Ben didn’t think so. Eyes still closed he replied, ‘This has been a big day for him. Now the pressure’s off. He’s going to play the role of the dutiful husband for a while longer, until Clarissa has gone to bed with enough sedatives in her to knock her out for a week. Then he’s going to stay up late and pour himself a few drinks to celebrate his success in fooling everyone. That’s when we’ll catch him.’
‘And then?’
Ben said, ‘And then the endgame begins.’
Chapter 52
It was just gone ten-thirty that evening when Clarissa, pumped full of sedatives, unable to eat or do anything much except curl up on a settee and weep her heart out, had finally cried herself dry and started to get drowsy as the pills kicked in. Her ever-caring husband, who had been wondering just how long he was going to have to sit listening to her noise, helped her tenderly up to bed and tucked her in. He sat with her in the darkened room, holding her hand until she was fast asleep.
Freed at last from his obligations, Tristan Dudley slipped out of the bedroom and padded along the dark landing to his study. He closed himself in, went over to his vintage globe drinks cabinet and with great anticipation lifted out a crystal brandy glass and his very best Darroze Grand Assemblage Armagnac. Sixty years old and seven hundred quid a bottle, and worth every drop on an occasion like this. Oh, yes. We are most definitely celebrating tonight.
Now that he no longer had to hide the smile that kept wanting to spread all over his face, he settled happily in a leather armchair to savour the splendid aroma of the Darroze. He raised his glass in a toast to dear, sweet Annie, who had on so many occasions threatened to become his downfall, and had now generously provided him with one of the best turns of events of his entire career. His Pandemonium Club friends were pleased with him. The Grand Master himself had praised him for his loyalty to the Order. He would be seeing his brothers again very soon, and he was looking forward to it. Good things were set to happen in the near future, his prospects had never looked so rosy and poor old Annie, may God take her rotten soul and do whatever He desired with it, was now fast becoming just a bad memory. Good riddance! Dudley had not the slightest glimmer of a regret, even though he could turn on the crocodile tears all day long for the media if that’s what was expected of him. Which it would be, over the next few weeks, but he’d breeze through it. His refusal to take time off would only make him appear all the more heroic.
Clarissa was the only real blot on Tristan’s landscape at this moment. The stupid bitch was taking it even worse than he’d expected. Trust her to dote on a worthless slut like Annie. It shouldn’t have been a surprise, on reflection. Wasn’t as though he’d married her for her brains. But she’d get over it soon enough. Especially once he was made Prime Minister.
After a few glasses of Armagnac, Dudley decided he was in the mood for a little something extra. He got up and went over to the cigar humidor that sat on his desk, opened its heavy lid and selected one of his longest, fattest and most indulgent Havanas, as befitted this happy moment. He clipped the end with his cigar cutter and was about to light it when it occurred to him that he mustn’t let Clarissa smell the smoke. Even though she’d be zonked out on drugs for hours, she’d be bound to detect the lingering aroma when she woke up. She knew he only smoked a cigar when he was celebrating some political victory or other. Who celebrates the loss of a child?
He felt cheated and peeved. Couldn’t even enjoy a special, happy little private moment without interference. He glanced out of the window. It was a beautiful night outside. How nice it would be to take a stroll through the garden. Maybe carry his drink out to the summerhouse on the north lawn and puff away at his cigar while gazing up at the
stars?
Happy again, Dudley poured more of the excellent Armagnac, grabbed the Havana and his lighter, left the study and padded downstairs and out into the starlight. The gentlest breeze stirred the branches of the weeping willow by the house and the night air was perfumed with the scent of springtime flowers. Sometimes it was permissible to appreciate the works of Lucifer’s rival. But what most filled Tristan Dudley with joy and inspiration right now was the deep sense of satisfaction at the way he’d handled the Annie affair. At times like this, he felt like a Master of the Universe. Why, the Great Lord Satan Himself couldn’t have played this one better, or shown more devious skill in manipulating the gullible masses.
Dudley often mused that if the Devil were to assume human form and come to live among people, he’d choose either of the two careers in which he himself had displayed such excellence: the law, or politics. And though Dudley wouldn’t dare to speak such sacrilegious thoughts to his Pandemonium Club comrades, least of all to the Grand Master, he secretly reckoned that in either of those arenas he’d easily give the Devil a run for his money.
I am a badass. The baddest of them all!
Those were the giddy thoughts running through his mind as he ambled towards the far end of the north lawn and reached the three steps leading up the classically styled pavilion summerhouse. He came here sometimes to read a book or work on a speech, during those rare idle moments in a politician’s life when you could be alone. Solitude was at a premium when you spent most of your life surrounded by armed bodyguards. His security team lived in an annexe adjoining the east wing of the house. He hadn’t seen any of them since returning from the funeral, and supposed the current shift were patrolling some other part of the grounds. But he didn’t need them. He felt extremely safe and very, very content. Now he was going to lounge undisturbed in his wicker throne, light up his cigar in fine style and drink a toast to his own sheer brilliance. This is the life, he thought.
Dudley climbed the first summerhouse step. Then the second.
But he never reached the third. He let out a muffled cry of surprise and terror as a hand clamped over his mouth, and then a force that he could not resist pulled him violently backwards off his feet and slammed him to the ground.
Chapter 53
The members of Tristan Dudley’s close protection team were not patrolling the grounds, or doing much of anything else at this moment.
Ben and Wolf’s assault on Dudley’s fortress had taken just over eleven minutes, start to finish. The north end of the property was close to the woodland where they’d left the car. After scaling the wall and dropping down into the flower beds they’d spread out and stalked through the six-acre grounds, communicating via the miniature phone earbuds and mics they’d bought at the motorway services. A few pounds, for everyday civilian technology that was lighter, smaller and better than the state-of-the-art kit they’d been issued during their time with the SAS. Of lesser quality was Dudley’s CCTV camera system, which was quick and easy to disable.
Two of Dudley’s armed guards were on their evening shift. Ben found one of them at the west end of the property, taking a piss behind a tree. Wolf found his at the other side of the house just ninety seconds later. Both guards were put out of action before they knew what was happening to them. Working separately to their prearranged plan, Ben and Wolf quickly, quietly stripped the unconscious bodies of weapons and ammunition, hogtied and gagged them with gaffer tape, stuffed them out of sight among the bushes, and then congregated back at the house.
A smaller building adjoined one wing of the Dudleys’ elegant Edwardian home. It looked as though it had been a former mews or store house that had more recently been converted into a modern annexe. The black Jaguar SUV was parked outside, telling Ben that the annexe served as the accommodation for the security team. While most of the windows of the main house were in darkness, the lights were on inside the annexe. Ben and Wolf crept up to the windows and peered inside. The two bodyguards who’d accompanied the Dudleys in the Bentley earlier were lounging in a living room, watching sports. A couple more were in the kitchen, drinking mugs of tea at a table. With the two already down, that made up the full complement of six.
The annexe door was unlocked. Ben and Wolf slipped through it into a narrow, dimly lit hallway. If they’d made the slightest sound it would have been covered by the sound of the TV, but they were better than that. And far better than anything Dudley’s highly-paid professional protection team could possibly handle. In fact these guys were amateurs, and the evidence of it was clearly visible right there in the hallway. The soldier’s Rule Number One: keep your weapon close to hand at all times. Four shoulder holster rigs with chunky black semiautomatic pistols, spare magazines and detached silencers were hanging from coat hooks near the door, along with a pair of MPX submachine guns dangling by their slings. A collection of walkie-talkie handsets lay piled on a side table. Whoops.
Ben and Wolf pocketed the pistols they’d taken from the guards outside and silently took down the MPXs. Full-auto configuration models, capable of 850 rounds a minute, each one fully bombed up with integral sound suppressors, thirty-round magazines, tactical lights and lasers. If anything could be called an improvement on the old Heckler & Kochs that they’d cut their teeth on in the regiment, this was it. Wolf flashed Ben a golden grin.
Ben pointed at the living room door and counted off with his fingers, three – two – one. Then he swung the door open and they stepped into the room. The two guys watching TV turned to gape at them as though they were apparitions. Ben clubbed the nearest one hard over the head with the forend of his MPX and trained the weapon on the other, while Wolf stormed through to the kitchen. The man Ben had hit fell to his knees and then tried to scramble to his feet, so Ben put him down harder with a kick to the throat. The other one had the sense to remain perfectly still. Ben put a finger to his lips. ‘Shhh.’
Wolf had little trouble with the other two, once he’d slammed one of them into a wall and broken the other one’s nose with his weapon. Seconds later all four were prostrated on the living room floor and Wolf was tearing strips off his roll of tape while Ben held them at gunpoint. Wolf started with their wrists and ankles, then bound their knees together, taped their arms to their sides and wrapped a length around each man’s face to gag him.
‘Sweet dreams, boys,’ Wolf said with a leer as they turned out the living room light.
A connecting door from inside the annexe led into the main part of the house. The place was larger and somewhat grander than Anthony Abbott’s home. Ben and Wolf swept through the downstairs, and found every room empty. The house felt hushed and asleep, and Ben was wondering whether the Dudleys had gone to bed. He motioned to Wolf and pointed upwards, signalling that they should move up to the first floor.
From the marble-floored main hallway, a broad central staircase with carved banisters led upwards into darkness. Ben and Wolf were heading towards the stairs when a light came on from above, and they heard footsteps coming down from the first floor. They quickly retreated out of sight.
Moments later, Tristan Dudley appeared. He was still fully dressed; if anyone had gone to bed already it was his wife Clarissa. Dudley was holding an unlit cigar in one hand and a large crystal glass containing what looked like brandy in the other. From the slight shuffle in his step, it seemed as though he had already consumed a glass or two of the stuff. Which might have been a normal thing to do on the evening of his daughter’s funeral, but there was nothing mournful about the satisfied little smile on his face. Dudley appeared pretty pleased with himself – and he had absolutely no idea he was not alone.
As Dudley reached the foot of the stairs and started walking across the hallway, Ben emerged from the shadows behind him. The unsuspecting politician was just six steps away. Ben was ready to pounce when he realised that Dudley was heading towards the front door. The unlit cigar suddenly made sense.
What Ben had in mind would require space and privacy. He decided that rather than jum
p Dudley indoors, it would be easier and more discreet to wait until he was outside, further from the house. He motioned to Wolf and they held back. Dudley reached the front door and stepped outside, paused to gaze up at the night sky, breathed deeply and gave a contented sigh. Leaving the door wide open he ambled off up the garden.
Ben and Wolf slipped out of the house after him and followed, flitting through the shadows cast by the bright moon. Dudley crossed the ornamental gravel yard onto a neat lawn and kept walking. It looked as though he was heading somewhere in particular. Without realising it, he was leading them in the direction of the perimeter wall adjacent to the woodland north of the property, where they’d come in.
The pavilion summerhouse was bathed in milky moonlight. Dudley was heading right for it, evidently intending to quaff his brandy and puff his cigar there. Ben glanced back at the house, now some distance behind them. The upper windows were all dark. There was no sign of life. Nobody watching.
Dudley had reached the summerhouse steps when Ben decided to make his move. He strode up fast behind him, clamped a hand over his mouth and jerked him backwards off his feet. Dudley let out a muffled cry. The crystal glass fell to the lawn and broke. Ben dragged him to the ground and thumped him twice, blows intended just to stun him momentarily without knocking him unconscious. He wanted Dudley awake and alert.
The Demon Club Page 28