The Solitary Man (Stephen Leather Thrillers)

by Stephen Leather

  Hutch explained how he’d switched the two prisoners and how Bird and his men had attacked the coach on the drive to the courthouse. Zhou seemed fascinated by Hutch’s ability to pick locks and he asked for a demonstration. He ordered a padlock to be brought to the table and asked Hutch what else he needed.

  ‘Paperclips,’ said Hutch. ‘Or any piece of wire if it’s thin enough.’

  ‘I have paperclips,’ said Zhou. He went over to an ornate desk in the corner of the room and returned with a handful. He stood over Hutch and watched as he picked the lock. It took Hutch thirty seconds of careful probing before he handed the open padlock to Zhou. Zhou held up the lock for everyone to see. ‘Incredible,’ he said. ‘And you can pick any lock?’

  ‘Most. Given enough time.’

  Zhou went back to his seat. ‘And how did you learn such a skill?’ he asked, pouring himself another large measure of brandy.

  ‘I was a locksmith. A long time ago.’

  Zhou sniffed his brandy appreciatively, then gulped it down like a ravenous dog, draining his glass in two swallows. He licked his lips. ‘And how did a locksmith end up in a British prison?’

  ‘It’s a part of my past that I don’t like to think about,’ said Hutch.

  Winter stiffened and he flashed Hutch a warning look.

  ‘But I’d like you to tell me anyway,’ said Zhou, his voice cold and flat. He bared his teeth in a semblance of a smile. ‘If you would be so kind.’

  Hutch stared at Zhou for several seconds, then he nodded. ‘I had a partner. He let me down.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘We installed a security system at a stately home in Sussex, real state-of-the-art stuff. Six months later they were robbed, and whoever did it knew their way around the system. They knew where the sensors were, where the cameras were, everything. It had to have been an inside job. Then the police searched our warehouse and found a painting. My partner fingered me.’

  ‘Fingered?’ repeated Zhou.

  ‘Blamed,’ explained Hutch. ‘He said I did it.’

  ‘And they believed him?’

  Hutch shrugged. ‘He was very persuasive.’

  ‘But surely they would have discovered the truth eventually?’

  ‘Maybe. But by then it was too late.’ Hutch took a deep breath. He didn’t want to continue but Zhou was leaning forward, eager for details. ‘They put me in a prison on remand, until the trial. Three guys attacked me in the showers. For my phonecards.’ He saw Zhou frown. ‘Plastic cards that allow you to make phone calls. They’re a sort of currency in prison.’

  ‘And what happened?’

  ‘They attacked me with a knife. I defended myself. One of them died. The other two guys lied, they said I’d attacked them.’

  ‘And the authorities believed them?’

  ‘It was two against one. I got twenty-five years. For something I didn’t do.’

  Winter chuckled. ‘Parkhurst was full of innocent men,’ he said.

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Zhou.

  ‘It’s a saying we had. No one ever admits to being guilty in prison. Unless they’re up for parole.’

  ‘It was an accident, Billy,’ said Hutch. ‘He came at me with a knife. I didn’t mean to kill him.’

  ‘I’m not talking about that,’ said Winter. ‘I’m talking about the robbery. The stately home. The robbery you always said you weren’t involved in.’

  ‘It wasn’t me. It was my partner.’

  Winter helped himself to another brandy. ‘Let me ask you something, Hutch. Something I’ve always wanted to know.’ He paused and sipped his brandy before continuing. ‘When you escaped from Parkhurst, after everyone thought you were dead, how did you pay for your passport? Where did you get the money from to start again?’

  ‘I had money.’

  Winter shook his head. The old servant appeared with a box of cigars and offered one to Zhou. He took one and used a silver cigar cutter to snip off the end as he listened intently to the conversation.

  ‘But you couldn’t use your bank accounts, could you? That would have proved that you were still alive. The cops would have been all over you.’ The servant offered the box of cigars to Winter and he took his time selecting one. He rolled it between his fingers, then bit off the end savagely, like a cat killing a mouse. ‘So where did you get the money from, old lad?’

  ‘I forget.’

  Winter screwed up his face as if he’d smelled something bad. ‘I know you inside out, Hutch. I know you better than you know yourself.’

  ‘So you keep saying. Can we change the subject?’

  ‘You did the robbery, Hutch. We both know you did. And instead of admitting it you’ve been punishing yourself ever since.’

  ‘You’re full of shit.’

  ‘Am I? Look at the new life you made for yourself. Dogs in cages. With exercise runs. A security gate. Closed-circuit television. Don’t you see it, Hutch? You built your own prison. Just like I did. I bought my big house and I sit in one tiny room. You escaped and ran straight into a prison of your own making.’

  ‘No,’ said Hutch quickly. ‘We’re not the same.’ Winter laughed dryly. The sound annoyed Hutch more than the man’s words. ‘Fuck you, Billy.’

  They were interrupted by the sound of clapping. It was Zhou, standing at the head of the table and applauding the two of them. ‘Excellent entertainment, gentlemen,’ he said. ‘Excellent. But I think I can do better. Come with me, outside.’

  The men got up from the table and followed Zhou to the door. Zhou shouted commands and half a dozen men ran off. They reappeared with the two prisoners whom Hutch had seen earlier. They were shaking with fright. One of them had wet himself.

  ‘Billy, do we have to watch this?’ asked Hutch.

  ‘We do exactly what he wants,’ whispered Winter.

  ‘He’s going to kill them.’

  ‘Eventually, yes.’

  Zhou marched down the steps, his riding boots clicking on the hard wood. His men grabbed the prisoners and half-dragged, half-carried them to the entrance to the compound.

  Winter, Hutch, Harrigan and Bird followed apprehensively. More of Zhou’s men emerged from their huts carrying blazing torches. Soon there were more than a hundred men following Zhou as he strode out of the compound.

  Two wooden poles had been prepared, each more than twenty feet long and sharpened to a point at one end. The two prisoners knew what was going to happen and they began to scream for mercy. Hutch and Harrigan stayed at the back of the crowd.

  Harrigan was shaking. ‘What’s he going to do?’ he asked.

  ‘Impale them,’ said Hutch.

  ‘Jesus Christ.’

  They looked on in horror as the pointed stakes were pressed against the men’s stomachs. Ropes were used to bind the men to the poles, then, when Zhou raised his arm, the poles were swung upwards. Both men screamed in pain as their own bodyweight forced them down on the spikes. Their legs kicked, but the more they wriggled the more they impaled themselves. Harrigan put his hands over his ears trying to blot out the noise.

  The poles were slotted into holes in the ground and earth shovelled in. Blood dripped down the stakes as the men’s cries began to fade. After a few minutes they were both still, their hands and feet pointing towards the ground.

  ‘Are they dead?’ asked Harrigan, taking his hands away from his ears.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ said Hutch. ‘I think it’s going to take a while.’

  Harrigan shuddered and turned away. ‘He’s crazy, isn’t he?’

  ‘I’d say that was a pretty accurate assessment, Ray.’

  One of Zhou’s men pointed down the hillside and shouted something. A convoy of uniformed men and mules was approaching. ‘Now what?’ asked Winter.

  The new arrivals came along the trail and up to the compound. The leader was a stocky soldier with a leather jacket and a brand-new M16 slung over his shoulder. He went up to Zhou and began talking earnestly to him. Zhou slapped him on the back and walked over t
o one of the mules. His men gathered around him.

  There was something tied across the back of the mule. Hutch moved forward to get a better look. It was a body, the hands and feet tied with ropes.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Harrigan.

  ‘Another victim, I reckon,’ replied Hutch.

  Zhou reached down and grabbed the hair of whoever was tied to the mule. He pulled the head up, grinning cruelly. Hutch caught his breath as he saw who it was. Chau-ling. He took a step backwards as if he’d been struck in the chest.

  JAKE GREGORY TAPPED HIS fingers on the field desk. He looked at his wristwatch for the thousandth time. There was a quiet cough at the entrance to his tent. Gregory looked up. It was Peter Burden. The pilot nodded at the radio receiver on Gregory’s desk.

  ‘What’s it they say, a watched pot never boils?’ he said.

  ‘That’s crap. Any pot will boil eventually.’ Gregory gestured at the radio. ‘But I’m starting to wonder if I’ll ever hear from my man in the NIO.’

  ‘Me and the boys were planning a poker game. Do you wanna make up a five?’

  Gregory cracked his knuckles. ‘Nothing I’d like better, but I’ve got to stay close to this baby. Once the transmitter goes off, I’ve no idea how long it’ll stay on.’

  ‘Because of the battery?’

  Gregory shook his head. ‘Because I don’t know how long it’ll be before Zhou Yuanyi discovers what’s happening. If he finds the transmitter . . .’ He left the sentence unfinished.

  ‘We were wondering,’ said Burden. ‘The guy that activates the beacon. Does he know what’s going to happen when he presses the button?’

  Gregory looked at the pilot with unblinking eyes. ‘Enjoy your game, son.’

  Burden turned and went back outside. Gregory began tapping his fingers on the desk again.

  HUTCH CLOSED THE LATRINE door. An oil lamp was hanging from the rafters in the centre of the room and it cast a flickering shadow against the wooden walls as Hutch walked towards the foul-smelling pit. His mind was filled with visions of Chau-ling meeting the same fate as the two men Hutch had seen killed: impaled on a stake, screaming for her life. Hutch knew that he had to do something. He had to get help, and there was only one way he could do it. He had to summon the DEA’s helicopters and hope that they would get to the camp in time to rescue them.

  He knelt down beside the pit and stripped off his sweatshirt. He turned his head to the side as he plunged his arm into the brown, treacly mess. His stomach heaved and he tried to think of something else as he groped around in the faeces. His arm went in all the way up to his shoulder and he still hadn’t touched the bottom. The smell was a hundred times worse now that he’d disturbed the surface and as he slowly withdrew his arm the liquid sucked at his flesh with a loud slurping noise. Hutch stood up. He held his arm to the side as he went over to the tin bath where he washed his arm and then stripped off the rest of his clothes.

  He went back to the pit and took a deep breath before lowering himself in. It clung to him, wet and cold and lumpy, and he tried to distance himself from what he was doing because if he thought about it he knew he’d be sick. He held on to one of the planks and felt around with his feet, his toes squelching on the solid matter at the bottom. The smell was worse than anything he’d ever smelled before, worse than anything he’d ever had to deal with in the kennels. He’d shovelled up more than his fair share of dog shit, but this was something else; this was human waste and his mind reeled with the awfulness of it. His right foot nudged against something and he screwed his toes around it and lifted. It slipped and he tried again, pushing the metal box against the side of the pit until he got it up to knee-height, then he reached down with his hand. It was the transmitter. He stripped off the shit-smeared plaster and pressed the button as Tim Carver had demonstrated. There was no click, no buzz, no sound or flashing light to let him know that the beacon had been activated, no way of knowing if it was working or not. He tossed the transmitter on to the ground and pulled himself out of the pit, gasping for breath.

  HAL AUSTIN WAS HOLDING three queens and had just thrown ten dollars into the pot when Jake Gregory rushed into the tent. Austin and his three colleagues jumped to their feet, the poker game forgotten.

  ‘It’s on,’ said Gregory.

  Austin smiled tightly and nodded at the others. ‘Rock and roll,’ he said.

  Gregory handed slips of paper to Warner and Lucarelli. ‘These are the co-ordinates. I’ll confirm over the radio once you’re airborne.’

  The four men headed outside. ‘Good luck,’ Gregory called after them.

  It was a clear night with a quarter moon and myriad stars overhead. Austin jogged towards his Apache, Warner at his shoulder. ‘Okay, Roger?’ said Austin.

  ‘Fine and dandy,’ replied Warner. ‘Nice night for it.’

  They climbed over the Apache’s starboard wing and into the cockpit, Austin taking the rear seat and Warner dropping into the co-pilot/gunner position. Warner’s seat was some nineteen inches lower than the pilot’s, giving Austin an unrestricted view, though the two cockpits were separated by a transparent acrylic blast barrier. Austin shut the cockpit windows and settled into his seat between lightweight boron armour shields. He flicked on his avionics switch. Green and orange lights illuminated the Apache’s instruments. He slipped on his helmet and swung the radio mike up close to his lips. ‘Check, check, check,’ he said.

  ‘Loud and clear,’ said Warner.

  They quickly ran through their pre-flight check list, then Warner used the data entry keypad to programme the internal navigation system and enter the laser codes that would help send the laser-guided Hellfire missiles to their target. As the gunner initiated the Apache’s weapons systems, Austin looked over to his right, where the main rotor blades of Burden and Lucarelli’s Apache had already started to spin. Austin started his own turbines.

  Gregory’s voice came over his headset. ‘You’re cleared for take-off,’ he said.

  Austin clicked his microphone switch. ‘Cleared for take-off,’ he acknowledged. He rotated the handgrip on his collective-pitch lever with his left hand. Above his head the rotors whirled faster and faster. He pulled the collective up, altering the pitch of the main rotors, and the Apache began to lift off the ground. Austin kept the helicopter within ground effect as he pushed the cyclic-pitch stick forward. The Apache’s nose dipped down as it accelerated over the grass, towards the tree line. He pulled on the collective and increased the power and the helicopter leaped into the air like a thoroughbred eager for the off.

  HUTCH COULDN’T GET THE smell of the pit off his skin no matter how many times he rinsed himself. He shuddered to think what diseases he could have picked up by immersing himself in human faeces. He used a plastic bowl to splash the last of the water in the tin bath over his legs and then shook himself dry as best he could before putting his clothes back on.

  He slipped out of the latrine and headed for Zhou’s building. No one saw him: almost all of Zhou’s men had congregated at the front of the compound. He threw the transmitter under the building, close to one of the massive stilts. Carver had said that the satellite would pick up the signal to within ten feet, so he wanted it to be as close to Zhou as possible.

  Hutch peered around the stilts. Half a dozen men were carrying Chau-ling’s body towards the hut where he’d seen the two prisoners earlier in the evening. He ducked out of sight and watched from underneath the building as the men took Chau-ling inside the hut. A few minutes later they reappeared. He waited until they’d gone before dashing over to the hut and looking through the barred door. Chau-ling was hanging from the roof by her arms, unconscious.

  ‘Chau-ling,’ he hissed. There was no reaction. Her head was slumped down on her chest, her eyes closed. ‘Chau-ling!’ he said, louder this time. He looked around, but there was no one within earshot. ‘Chau-ling!’ There was still no reaction. Hutch examined the lock on the door. It was an old brass padlock, similar to the one that Zhou had given him to pick
. Hutch checked his pockets but he had nothing he could use. He cursed and slapped the bars in frustration.

  THE OLD WOMAN WOKE with a start. ‘Grandmother, Grandmother,’ said an urgent, frightened voice by her side. ‘Wake up.’

  The old woman licked her chapped lips. Her eyes felt gritty and her throat was sore and she could tell from the ache in her bones that she’d only been asleep for a few hours. ‘Go to sleep, child,’ she said.

  ‘Ghosts,’ said the little girl. ‘Ghosts are coming.’

  The old woman rolled over and blinked her eyes. ‘What? What did you say?’

  ‘Ghosts. Can’t you hear them?’

  ‘Child, what are you talking about?’ The old woman strained to see her grand-daughter in the light of the flickering oil lamp that hung from the rafters of their hut.

  The little girl knelt down beside the old woman. She was shaking. ‘Can I sleep with you, Grandmother? Please.’ Her voice trembled as much as her body.

  Before the old woman could answer, the little girl threw herself on to the sleeping mat and slipped her arms around her grandmother’s waist. The old woman raised her head. She could hear nothing out of the ordinary, just the wind rippling through the trees and the night-time insects buzzing and clicking. The little girl buried her face in the old woman’s neck.

  ‘I heard them,’ she whispered. ‘They flew through the air, like . . . like . . . like dragons.’

  The old woman smoothed her hair and settled back on the sleeping mat. She was eighty years old but could remember when she too was frightened of ghosts.

  WINTER LOOKED AT HUTCH as he walked into the room. ‘Where’ve you been, old lad?’ he asked.

  Hutch patted his stomach. ‘Tummy trouble,’ he said.

  Winter grinned wolfishly. ‘That impaling business got to you, didn’t it?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  Zhou and Bird were standing together with their backs to him. He walked over to the table. The plates had been taken away but the candles still burned in their candelabras and the wine and brandy glasses were still there. He stopped dead when he saw what Zhou and Bird were looking at. A man was sitting on the floor, his hands tied behind his back. It was Tim Carver. His hair was matted with blood and his left eye was swollen. Carver showed no recognition as he looked at Hutch. Zhou drew back his arm and slapped Carver, then backhanded him. The two slaps echoed like pistol shots. Hutch’s mind whirled. What on earth were Carver and Chau-ling doing together, and what had prompted them to cross over into Burma? It made no sense, no sense at all. She was supposed to be back in Hong Kong. And Carver was supposed to be in Bangkok, waiting for Hutch to operate the beacon. How had the two of them got together, and what had possessed them to cross the border?