by James Becker
That done, he walked back into the kitchen, made a mug of coffee and sat in the armchair in a corner of the room. He’d found a handful of paperback novels in the library, hidden away amongst the collection of weighty and dull-looking leather-bound tomes. He picked a thriller and started to read.
He’d barely got beyond the first page when he felt his mobile start to vibrate in his pocket.
‘I’m in my room at the pub,’ Angela announced. ‘Are you OK?’
‘Of course I am. Don’t worry about me.’
‘I do – that’s the trouble,’ Angela said with a sigh, and Bronson couldn’t help but feel a little bit pleased. ‘We agreed you’ll call every hour, on the hour. If I’ve not heard from you by five past each hour, I’ll call you. And if I can’t get through to you by ten past, I’ll be calling the cavalry, so make sure you answer – OK?’
Bronson glanced at his watch. ‘Agreed. It’s six fifty now, so let’s consider the seven o’clock call made. I’ll talk to you at eight.’
‘Take care, Chris.’ There was a brief, rather strained pause, and Angela rang off.
Bronson drained the rest of his coffee and stood up. It was time to check the house. He wandered through all the downstairs rooms, his feet making almost no sound on the mainly stone floors, and looked out of the windows. Then he climbed the stairs and did the same thing on the first floor, looking inside each bedroom and making sure that the various paintings and pieces of furniture were still there. Apart from a few rabbits hopping around in the long grass at the back of the house, the estate seemed to be deserted. Bronson hoped it would stay that way.
His evening soon settled into a routine. At quarter past and quarter to the hour, he walked all the way through the house, checking every room, which took him about ten minutes. And on the hour, he rang Angela’s mobile.
At ten he called Angela, made another cup of coffee, drank it, and then began his usual patrol. He saw nothing until he looked out of one of the windows in the bedroom at the end of the house, a window that offered a good view of the woodland that ran alongside the estate’s fence.
Then, in the soft darkness that surrounded the house, a sudden movement caught his eye.
Jonathan Carfax stopped just inside the tree-line at the edge of the wood, panting slightly from his exertions. He’d had to bring a long ladder – it needed to be able to reach the first floor of the house – and it was a lot heavier than he’d expected. In fact, he would have to make two journeys – once he’d carried the ladder to the house he would have to go back for his bag of tools and a couple of other bags to hold his booty.
He rested the ladder against a tree, well out of sight of the house, then moved forward a few feet. There were no cars parked in front of the property, which presumably meant that the British Museum people had all gone for the day. Then he looked more closely at the house itself, and spotted a dim glow in both the upstairs and downstairs windows. Somebody had obviously left a light – maybe two or three lights – switched on.
He wasn’t going to go near the house if there was anyone still inside and there was one way he could check this out. He still had the telephone number of Carfax Hall, a hangover from the days when he’d been a welcome guest there, before Oliver had turned against him.
Pulling his mobile from his pocket, he dialled the number. Faintly, across the intervening distance, he could hear the sound of the house phone ringing. If anyone was in the property, he was sure they’d pick it up.
Watching from the upstairs bedroom window, Bronson jumped slightly as the unexpected sound of a ringing phone echoed from the hall downstairs. The only person likely to phone him was Angela, and she’d call his mobile, not the house phone. Just to check, he pulled out his Nokia and looked at the display. His battery showed a full charge, and the signal strength was near maximum.
It was most likely a wrong number or a cold call, he decided. He’d let it ring. He looked again to the edge of the wood, where he’d seen the movement.
A minute later, the ringing stopped and the house fell silent.
18
Bronson had been standing in the same spot for perhaps ten minutes, and the movement he’d seen hadn’t been repeated. He was just beginning to think he’d imagined it, maybe it had been an animal – a fox or a deer, perhaps – when he saw it again.
This time there was absolutely no doubt about it. From the undergrowth an object emerged horizontally, about four feet above the ground, and for an instant Bronson couldn’t work out what it was. Then he recognized the end of a ladder and smiled to himself.
‘Cheeky bastard,’ he muttered, easing forward slightly, the better to see the man as he approached the property. He didn’t seem to be in any particular hurry, and was walking steadily across the uncut grass towards the back of the house, the ladder slung on his shoulder, looking for all the world like a workman arriving to do a job. Perhaps his lack of haste was a measure of his confidence that the house was empty – or maybe, more prosaically, it was just that the ladder was so heavy that he couldn’t run or trot with it. In any case, he seemed to know exactly where he was going, and in a few moments vanished from Bronson’s line of sight, moving around to the rear of the property.
Bronson stepped back out of the bedroom, and waited, listening intently for the sound of the top of the ladder being placed against the wall of the house. But he heard nothing, and after a few seconds he walked back to the bedroom at the end of the corridor and peered out of the window.
Then he saw the man again: he was running back towards the tree-line and then vanished among the trees. Less than half a minute later he popped back in to view with a bulky bag clutched in his left hand, and jogged over to the house.
A few minutes later, Bronson clearly heard a metallic scraping sound from the bedroom to his left, and crossed to the doorway. He looked inside the room, checking the window, but the burglar was not yet visible. Bronson slid into the room, walked swiftly across to the rear wall and flattened himself against it, where he knew he’d be invisible to anyone looking in through the window.
He felt in his jacket pocket, checking that the handcuffs he’d collected from the Canterbury station were still there. When Angela had told him what she thought had happened at Carfax Hall, he’d decided that having a pair of cuffs in his pocket made sense. And it looked as if he’d been right.
Using his ears rather than his eyes to measure the burglar’s progress, Bronson could hear the man climb up the ladder, a muffled thumping sound as he put his feet on the rungs. Then there were a few brief moments of silence, followed by a faint rubbing sound which Bronson guessed was the insertion of the screwdriver or chisel or whatever turned out to be his tool of choice for forcing the catch.
He heard an irritated muttering from outside and suppressed a grin. Even the first-floor window catches weren’t that loose. Then a louder noise, a click, as the catch finally gave way, and moments later the unmistakable sound of a sash window sliding upwards.
Bronson kept behind the substantial curtain that framed the window, as the man climbed into the bedroom, an empty nylon bag clutched in his hand, then crept slowly across the bedroom towards the door. Bronson waited until he was about halfway there, then crossed the room in half a dozen swift strides.
As he approached, the man half-turned towards him, a look of sheer panic on his face.
Bronson grabbed his right arm, forcing his hand behind his back and up towards his shoulder.
‘I know it’s a cliché,’ Bronson said, ‘but you’re nicked, my son. I’m a police officer and I’m arresting you on suspicion of breaking and entering and burglary.’
Grasping the struggling man by the shoulder Bronson held him firmly, he snapped the handcuff on to his right wrist, then grabbed his left arm and repeated the process, securing his hands behind his back.
‘We’re going to go downstairs,’ he said, ‘and I’ll explain what’s going to happen.’
Once downstairs, Bronson pushed his captive into one of the kitchen chairs.
‘Now, I’m required to caution you, so please listen carefully. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something that you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence. Do you understand the words of the caution?’
‘Just let me go, you bastard.’
‘I’ll take that as a “yes”, shall I?’
‘I’m not saying another word. I want my solicitor, and I want him now.’
‘Fine,’ Bronson said. ‘That’s entirely within your rights. I’m not going to question you – that will be done under caution at the police station – but I am going to search you to see if you’re carrying any offensive weapons. Are you carrying anything that might injure me?’
‘Go to hell!’
Bronson jerked the man to his feet and checked his pockets, pulling out a small wallet and placing it on the kitchen table.
Then he pushed the man back into the chair, sat down opposite him, and opened the wallet he’d found. Almost the first thing he pulled out was a driver’s licence. Bronson looked at the name on it and smiled.
‘Well, Jonathan,’ he said, ‘Carfax is a name I certainly recognize, so I assume this burglary is more personal than professional. I presume the old man cut you out of his will, so you’re bypassing the legal process and taking what you believe you’re owed.’
His captive didn’t respond.
‘But it doesn’t actually matter why you did it – it’s still burglary,’ Bronson said. Then he shrugged, reached into his pocket and pulled out his mobile phone. He glanced at his watch. It was almost eleven o’clock, so he thought he’d tell Angela that his mission had succeeded, then he’d call the local police.
‘Hi, it’s me,’ he said, when Angela answered her phone. ‘Just thought you’d like to know I’m sitting in the kitchen looking at your burglar.’
‘Really? Is he – I mean, was there any trouble? Do you want me to call the police?’ Angela asked.
‘No, thanks. I know the form. I’ll have to go to the local police station with him to make a statement and stuff, so I won’t get to the pub for quite a while, but I’ll call you once I’m at the cop shop to let you know how long I’ll be.’
‘OK.’ There was a pause. When she spoke again, Angela sounded uncharacteristically nervous. ‘Will you come up to my room when you get here? I want you to tell me everything that’s happened.’
Bronson smiled. ‘It’s a deal. I’ll see you later.’
But Jonathan Carfax was not looking nearly so happy. ‘This is entrapment. I don’t believe you’re a policeman at all. You’re just some bloody thug the museum staff have employed.’
Bronson pulled out his warrant card and showed it to him. ‘I’m Detective Sergeant Christopher Bronson,’ he said, ‘and I promise you that I’m a real police officer. My ex-wife works for the British Museum and asked me to give her a hand here.’ He reached across the table and pulled the local telephone directory towards him. As he did so, he looked at his prisoner. ‘Just sit quietly and we’ll get this sorted out. Are the cuffs too tight?’
The man shook his head. ‘No,’ he said grudgingly. Then his eyes widened and he looked behind Bronson. ‘Look out!’ he shouted. ‘Behind you!’
Bronson half-turned and, as he did so, saw a sudden flash of grey and then something slammed – hard – into the side of his head.
He saw stars for the briefest of instants, and then nothing at all.
19
‘Chris! Chris! Wake up, damn you.’
Bronson’s head felt as if it was bursting. There was a massive throbbing ache above his right ear, and all he wanted was for the pain to go away, for the pulsing agony to stop.
The voice was familiar to him, but for several seconds he couldn’t seem to place it. Or remember where he was. And then, with a rush, it all came back to him. Carfax Hall. The burglar, and then the kitchen. But he couldn’t remember what had happened next, or why he seemed to be lying on the floor with a splitting headache.
He forced his eyes open. Angela was bending over him, some kind of a pad in her hand that she was pressing against the right side of his head. That hurt, and he raised a hand to stop her.
‘Oh, thank God,’ she whispered. ‘No, don’t touch it. You’ve got a nasty gash on the side of your head. There’s an ambulance on its way.’
Bronson groaned and eased up into a sitting position. ‘I don’t need an ambulance,’ he muttered.
‘Actually, you probably don’t,’ Angela said, ‘but I really called one for him.’ She gestured behind her.
Slumped in a kitchen chair, his arms still obviously secured behind his back, and his face battered and bleeding, was the man he’d caught climbing in through the bedroom window.
‘What the hell’s happened?’ Bronson said. ‘I never touched him. Is he OK?’
‘He’s been badly beaten up, but he’s alive.’
Bronson took the pad from Angela, pressed it gingerly to the wound then struggled to his feet, the pounding in his skull getting worse as he stood up. Swaying slightly, he gripped the back of a chair with his other hand.
‘Just take it slowly,’ Angela said.
Bronson stepped across to the man on the other side of the table. His face was puffy and cut from repeated blows, his eyes closed.
Bronson leaned over him. ‘Can you hear me?’
The man stirred, looked up at him and nodded.
‘Bend forward,’ Bronson ordered. He took out the handcuff key, released the restraints and put them in his pocket.
The man leaned back gratefully, rubbing his wrists. ‘Am I still under arrest?’
As he spoke, Bronson could see that he’d lost a couple of teeth in the attack. Bronson shook his head, then wished he hadn’t as another stab of pain shot through his skull. ‘No, as far as I’m concerned, we were here in the house together this evening and somebody attacked us.’
‘Are you sure, Chris?’ Angela asked.
‘Yes. Burglary’s a minor offence compared to what’s just happened. And you won’t be trying it again, will you, Jonathan?’
‘Jonathan?’ Angela’s face registered her surprise. ‘Do you know him?’
‘He was careless enough to bring his wallet and driving-licence with him tonight. This is Jonathan Carfax, and I presume he’s one of Oliver’s numerous disinherited relatives. In other words, he’s an amateur, not a professional burglar.’
At that moment, they heard an engine outside and the noise of tyres on the gravel drive. A few seconds later the main doorbell rang.
‘That’ll be the ambulance,’ Angela said, getting up.
‘OK, Jonathan,’ Bronson said. ‘Let’s get you checked over in the local casualty department. If anyone asks, we were here in the house together, locking up after the British Museum team, when a man burst in and attacked us both. You’ve no idea who he was or what he wanted. He beat us up and then ran away. Just stick to that – nothing more and nothing less, OK?’
Jonathan Carfax, his face largely obscured behind bandages, pads and sticking-plaster, folded his frame into the rear seat of Angela’s Mini. Bronson got into the front passenger seat and strapped in as Angela started the engine.
‘Where to?’ she asked, starting the engine.
‘The nearest pub,’ Carfax insisted, his words slightly slurred. ‘I need a drink.’
‘The doctors said no alcohol for you two,’ Angela pointed out.
‘All the pubs will be closed by now, but a drink’s a bloody good idea,’ Bronson agreed. ‘We can go to the hotel and get something there.’
‘Right,’ Bronson said a few minutes later, cradling a brandy schooner. ‘The last thing I remember about this evening was looking at your driving-licence in the kitchen at Carfax Hall, Jonathan. What the hell happened next?’
Carfax took a sip of brandy, and closed his eyes. ‘You were just about to call the police,’ he said, his voice slightly distorted due to his missing teeth and probably compounded by the effect of t
he painkillers he’d been given. ‘The door behind you opened – the kitchen door, I mean – and a man walked in, carrying a cosh or club of some sort. I tried to warn you, but you turned very slowly. And then he hit you on the side of the head, and you just dropped flat on the floor. I really thought you were dead.’
‘And then?’ Bronson prompted.
‘And then he started on me. He checked to make sure I couldn’t defend myself – thanks to the handcuffs you’d snapped on me, I was completely helpless – and then he started asking me questions that I couldn’t answer.’ Carfax’s voice quivered slightly.
‘Can you describe this man?’ Bronson asked.
‘I doubt if I’ll ever forget him. He was slim, over six feet tall, maybe six three. Black hair, cut very short, almost a crew cut, dark brown eyes and quite a big, straight nose. A good-looking man, really. From his accent, he’s American or Canadian, probably American as he had far too many teeth, and they were very white.’
‘What did he ask you about?’
‘Like you, he looked at my driving-licence, so he found out my name. He assumed I would know all about my family, but I really don’t. I’m only a cousin of old Oliver, and I didn’t know his father.’
‘You mean Bartholomew?’ Angela interjected.
‘Yes. All this man seemed to be interested in was Bartholomew’s Folly – you know, the way the old man squandered the family’s money on his treasure hunts.’
‘And what did you tell him?’ Bronson prompted.
‘Everything I know,’ Carfax said simply, ‘but that’s not a lot more than was printed in the local parish magazine when Oliver died, and this guy seemed to know all about that. When I didn’t tell him what he wanted to know, he started hitting me, hard. And every time I told him I didn’t know something, he hit me again.’
‘But why would a few unsuccessful treasure hunts that took place well over half a century ago be of the slightest interest to anyone now?’ Bronson asked, almost to himself. The whole thing made no sense at all.
‘I asked him that,’ Carfax said, ‘and he yelled at me that just because Bartholomew didn’t find the treasure, it didn’t mean it wasn’t there.’