Dead Weight

by John Francome

  Charlie had warned him to expect the unexpected. And, as Phil had left, the inspector had gripped his hand and looked into his eyes. `You’ll do a grand job. You do far more dangerous things every day of the week.’

  Phil only wished he could share the policeman’s confidence. He’d ride the National blindfold in preference to this.

  `If you ain’t down here by eight, Jason, don’t bother coming down at all.’

  The girl smashed the receiver into its cradle and glared at Phil. `Had your money’s worth, you nosey prat?’ she spat at him as she stalked past.

  He watched her cross the square, towards the pub opposite. Whatever her problems, he’d swap them for his like a shot.

  The ringing of a phone captured his attention. It was the middle one. He ignored the reek of perfume as he snatched up the receiver.

  `Yes?’ he said.

  There was a pause. Then a soft voice. `Who’s that?’ `Phil Nicholas.’

  `The Phil Nicholas? The champion jockey? I’m honoured.’ The voice dripped with sarcasm.

  `That’s what you asked for,’ said Phil. `I’ve got the package you want.’ It was important to play it straight. He mustn’t allow this creep to unsettle him.

  `One thing before we start. Just so I know you’re telling the truth.’ Phil held his breath. Charlie had warned him this might happen. `Describe your wife’s tattoo.’

  Jesus Christ! `It’s a daisy.’ `And where is it?’ Phil hesitated. `On her left hip.’

  The man chuckled, a rich, throaty sound that in other circumstances might have been appealing. But not now.

  `On her bum cheek, you mean.’ The voice was exultant. `You’re wondering how I’ve seen it, aren’t you?’

  Phil said nothing, though he wanted to put his hand down the phone line and rip the man’s tongue out.

  `Don’t worry, Mr Champion Jockey, I’ve no intention of touching her. But if you don’t play straight with me you won’t ever see her pretty little arse again. Understand?’The voice was loud now, the man’s anger unconcealed. It dwarfed Phil’s own.

  `I understand.’

  `Good. Now listen.’ The softness was back but Phil was not fooled. This man was frightening.

  `Drive north out of town towards Buckworthy. After six miles there’s a pub on the right called the Pheasant. Turn left directly after the pub and drive three hundred yards to a phone box. You’ve got twenty minutes.’ Phil repeated the instructions and the connection was abruptly cut. When he replaced the phone his hand was trembling.

  As he drove he tried not to look out for the surveillance vehicles that would be following. Charlie had warned him to pay his minders no attention. `Don’t worry, we’ll be there with you. You just concentrate on doing what he tells you.’

  The rain was still falling, heavier if anything, and driving conditions were not good. Phil drove carefully, anxious not to miss a landmark, his slow progress annoying a few local drivers. That was too bad; he couldn’t afford to make a mistake.

  Eventually he came to the pub, a large, well-lit building on the edge of a built-up area. He turned up the lane as directed, along a wet and empty suburban street. He reached the phone box with three minutes to spare.

  He waited that length of time and more. The phone didn’t ring. He guessed this was part of his tormentor’s game - to frustrate at every turn. A man approached under a large umbrella. This could be him, Phil thought - anybody could be him. The man didn’t even glance in Phil’s direction as he passed by, a sausage dog waddling at his heels.

  Phil stared at the phone. Ring, you bastard. Eventually it did.

  This time the conversation was short.

  `Go back on to the main road and drive to Buckworthy. Park by the toilet block in the centre and wait by the phone kiosk.’

  For crying out loud! Why the hell hadn’t he been told to drive straight to Buckworthy from Hillminster? He said as much over the radio and Charlie came on the line.

  `He just wants to muck you around. It gives him a thrill.’ `Jesus Christ!’

  `Keep as calm as you can, Phil. Just be prepared for a long night.’ Phil turned these words over in his head as he drove through the rain. At least he’d made contact and the operation was on. There was no point in letting the kidnapper’s mind games get to him. No point in imagining the precise circumstances in which this bastard had seen Julia’s tattoo. Bernie wanted to unnerve him so he could catch him out and get away with the hold-all in the boot of the car without being detected. The hold-all containing half a million pounds.

  It was Phil’s task to comply. That was all. Don’t be a hero.

  He was just a courier.

  `Well, that was a pleasant day out, wasn’t it?’ said Moira Carrington as they turned into their drive. `It was so nice to see Selina and Jumbo again, don’t you think?’

  Henry Carrington grunted. He didn’t mind her repeating herself - and she had said the same thing several times over on their journey back from Derby - it was the way she turned every statement into a question. As if every opinion of her own demanded a matching response from him. As it happened he had also enjoyed catching up with their old friends. He just didn’t feel the need to keep banging on about it.

  `Henry,’ she said as they got out of the car, `you’re not still brooding about old Monty, are you?’

  `I’m not brooding about anything.’

  He turned his back on her as he fumbled with the keys to the garage. As a matter of fact, he was a trifle put out by the Monty business. `Brooding’ was not how he’d put it, however. Hopping mad was more like it.

  `You could have been mistaken, you know. One old horse looks much like another.’

  He snapped his head round. `I know my own damned horse when I see him.’

  She shrugged. `I can’t see what you’re complaining about. You wanted it off your hands, didn’t you?’

  He glared at her. `First of all, Monty is not an it. Secondly, it’s not fair on the horse. He deserves a merciful end instead of being flogged into the ground.’

  `Oh, I see,’ she said in a tone designed to irritate. She’d perfected it over the years.

  She watched as he drove the car into the garage and closed the door. `I’m for a cup of tea. Would you like one, too?’

  `No, I wouldn’t. I’m having a large Scotch.’

  Phil’s journey was now well into its second hour. He must have made half a dozen stops or more, each at a remote phone box on a minor road. No leg had lasted more than ten miles, though he was aware he’d doubled back on himself several times.

  `Don’t worry,’ Charlie told him over the radio. `He’s trying to lose us but we’ve still got you in sight. Just keep going.’

  At the next stop, at the end of a dreary village street, the phone sat in its rest but the cord hung limply to the floor. Vandalised. What the hell did he do now? Was this the end of line? Surely not. Not after all this. He returned to the car and radioed in.

  `Does the phone damage look recent?’ Charlie asked.

  It didn’t. A hard cud of chewing gum was wedged into the connection at the base of the phone.

  `Look around the box,’ Charlie suggested. `There might be instructions on the wall.’

  There weren’t, but taped beneath the metal shelf, was a package. It contained a mobile phone - Julia’s phone.

  He switched it on and it rang ten seconds later.

  `About bloody time,’ said that irritating West Country burr. `Get back in the car and drive straight on till you come to a roundabout.’ Phil did as he was told, relieved that the game was still on. He couldn’t bear to think what might happen to Julia if he screwed up. As the road signs for the roundabout loomed, the phone rang again. He pulled over.

  `See the signs for the motorway? Take it heading north. I hope you filled your tank like I told you.’

  ‘Why?’

  But the line was now dead. He reported the conversation to Charlie and put his foot down.

  In the incident room at Maybrick Street, Charl
ie Lynch and John Petrie were breathing down the neck of a Traffic sergeant directing the surveillance team. They were trying to plot Phil’s erratic journey. There didn’t seem much sense to it beyond the need to create confusion.

  `The bugger knows every back road in Somerset from the look of it.’ muttered John.

  Charlie nodded. It was a relief to think Phil was taking to the motorway, where it would be easier to control the exits. He had a feeling they were getting to the point when Bernie would make his move. Now he looked at the map, he could see that the seemingly pointless back and forth had taken Phil ever closer to the motorway.

  `Have we got anyone on the motorway itself?’ he asked John. `Yeah. Ivan and Terry will pick him up off the slip road and we’ve got motorcyclists watching the junctions. Don’t worry, guv.’

  But Charlie did worry. The operation had had to be mounted at speed and there was a seat-of-the-pants feel to it that petrified him. A few years ago, he realised, he would have loved the buzz. Now he just prayed for a successful conclusion - which meant getting the girl out in one piece. Though there would be hell to pay, he’d even let Bernie keep Hoylake’s money if he could be guaranteed Julia’s safety.

  He was definitely too old for this.

  On the motorway, Phil put his foot down. It was a relief to be on a broad and friendly carriageway without having to keep an eye open for some barely visible turn-off. He knew this route well. The next exit was a good ten miles ahead.

  The bleep of the phone cut through the purr of the engine. He pulled into the inside lane and answered it with one hand. He had the radio open to the incident room.

  `There’s a bridge marked with a blue light coming up in the next two miles. Stop on the hard shoulder beneath the bridge. Do you understand?’ ‘Yes.’

  Phil repeated the instruction, hugging the inside lane and trusting that the police were picking up his side of the conversation.

  `Can you see him, Tel?’

  Terry had never much liked being called Tel. He’d once bollocked a boy at school about it and after that everyone had taken the piss, addressing him as ‘Terrance’ in a la-di-da sort of voice. Yet here he was being called Tel by his partner, a detective on a high-profile kidnapand-murder case. And loving it.

  `There’s a white saloon in the inside lane about a hundred metres ahead,’ he said. `Could be a Saab.’

  Ivan moved into the slow lane, putting an old VW Beetle between them and the white car. They were closer to it now.

  `That’s him,’ said Terry. `I saw the registration.’

  `Good stuff. So if we just sit tight here … Aye-aye, what’s he up to?’ The Beetle in front suddenly pulled into the middle lane without signalling and they found themselves heading for the rear of the rapidly slowing Saab.

  Ivan switched lanes too, taking them past the white car, which seemed to be standing still as they drove under a bridge across the carriageway. `He’s stopping on the hard shoulder, Sarge,’ cried Terry. `Shouldn’t we pull over?’

  ‘Not unless we want to cock up a possible handover. It could be going down.’

  Phil only spotted the light at the last minute and stamped on the brake, causing confusion in the traffic behind. He came to a halt just before the bridge. He picked up the mobile from the passenger seat and spoke into it.

  `OK,’ he said. `I’m parked by the bridge.’

  `Can you see the rope hanging down below the light?’ `Yes.’

  `Get out of the car and bring the money bag. Tie the handles of the bag to the rope. Then get back in the car and drive off’

  He repeated his orders for the benefit of the police. `What about Julia?’ he said. `Will you let her go?’ `When I’ve got the money.’

  Phil took the hold-all from the boot and walked up to the bridge. He stared at the circle of light on top of it, hoping to catch sight of his tormentor, but there was no one in sight.

  The end of the rope was coiled at the base of the steep bank of the cutting. He slipped it through the handles of the black canvas hold-all and tied it on firmly. He tested the knot to make sure it would hold, then let go.

  He took two paces backward, towards the car. The bag lifted off the ground.

  Phil looked up. He still couldn’t see anyone - the bastard must be standing back from the parapet. But he was up there somewhere.

  The bag was ascending in jerks, a few feet at a time, turning slowly in the eerie light. Half a million pounds disappearing into the grasp of the man who had killed Rebecca Thornton. And held Julia’s life in his hands. Phil just had to hope he would keep his word.

  That wasn’t good enough.

  The concrete base of the bank was wet and slippery. The first few feet were easy to climb, then the slope got steeper. His fingers scrabbled for purchase as he assaulted the coarse gradient, his knees scraping on the hard surface even through the thickness of his jeans.

  He had scrambled halfway up the bank when the man-made face turned into earth and stone. The ascent was almost sheer, but now it was easier to grip. He hauled himself up by his hands, his feet skidding, one leg flailing in the air before he rammed it into the wall of earth.

  He looked around.

  Below him the headlights of motorway traffic swept by, the sound of tyres washing over him like waves. Above and behind him the rail of the parapet shone in the blue light, wet with rain. The hold-all was no longer in view.

  He had to hurry.

  He reached above him, feeling the surface for a hold and finding a mass of roots. He plunged his hand deep. Then gripped and pulled. Inch by inch, he rose upward, breathing hard, desperate. His hands were in foliage now. Brambles and soggy leaves. He was panting with effort, lying half over the edge of the embankment.

  He pushed a fringe of grass out of his face and raised his head. In front of him was a fence topped with barbed wire, acting as a barrier between the field and the motorway cutting. Across the angle of the irregular-shaped pasture stood a low hedge which bordered the road leading to the bridge, just a few yards away. Was the kidnapper still there?

  Phil eyed the barbed-wire fence. He’d come this far and he wasn’t going back. He pulled off his jacket and threw it on top of the jagged spikes, which bit into the material as he clambered over. He yanked hard at the jacket on the other side, hearing the material rip as it came free. Then, in a few strides, he was pushing through the hedgerow on to the road.

  The sound of motorway traffic had receded. It was still loud but not as loud as the engine noise that burst upon his eardrums from a few feet away.

  As he scrambled through the hedge, a quad bike shot across his vision, down the road that ran away from the bridge, into the darkness on his left.

  He was too late. Bernie had got away.

  Charlie knew they had to act fast. They’d heard Phil repeat the kidnapper’s instructions.

  He turned to the Traffic sergeant. `Can you get people on the bridge?’ ‘On their way already,’ the sergeant replied. `And I’ve got bods on the motorway. Do you want them to go in or hold off?’

  What the hell.

  `Go in. There’s no point in hanging back now.’

  Si Pritchard got the call to check out the bridge at Cowcroft as he was heading for the White Leigh motorway turn-off. It was a stroke of luck, as the junction was a good ten minutes away by these little roads and he was right by Cowcroft.

  He went round a stand of tall pines and turned left to pick up the bridge road. He saw the lights of a vehicle ahead and flashed him. For a moment he was confused by its shape, then he realised he was looking at a quad bike.

  He slowed his motorcycle to a halt and parked it on its stand in the middle of the narrow carriageway, leaving the engine on. Then he dismounted and signalled to the oncoming vehicle with his torch. This joker wasn’t going anywhere till he’d checked him out.

  The quad bike slowed to a halt and Si’s torch beam picked out the bulky shape of a man.

  `Would you please turn off your engine and walk away from the vehicle,
sir,’ he called.

  The man hesitated, as if he were considering whether to comply or not. Then the motor died and the man got off. He was big, taller than Si, who was a size himself, especially in his cycle kit.

  `Evening, Officer.’ He sounded friendly enough. `What’s the trouble?’ ‘No trouble, sir. I’d be grateful if you’d-‘Si stopped in mid-sentence as the torch beam illuminated the man’s face. An ugly gash ran from the top of his ear to the corner of his left eye, where it disappeared beneath a black eye patch. The gash was only half scabbed over, and a stream of blood coated the stubble that covered the man’s leathery cheek.

  `What have you done, sir? That looks like a nasty wound.’

  The man stepped up close, turning his head so Si could get a good look.

  Then he moved quickly. He must have had something in his hand and Si hadn’t noticed. Too bloody busy playing the Good Samaritan, he thought, as a needle of ice slid into his neck, into the unprotected chink between helmet and leather collar.

  Keith leant on the motorcycle policeman with his full weight, pinning him to the road as he coughed and shook. The knife was sharp and efficient. It had dispatched many other mammals; this one just happened to be larger than usual.

  When he was certain the man was dead he got to his feet, avoiding the worst of the blood.

  He turned his attention to the copper’s motorcycle, wrestling it out of the middle of the carriageway.

  It was an interruption he could have done without. It had set him back five minutes. But he could live with that.

  Phil watched as the quad bike accelerated away. He’d come so far, he’d got so close - to miss him by a whisker! He couldn’t bear it.

  The road curved ahead and the bike was soon out of sight, though he followed the progress of its lights above the gorse bushes that bordered the carriageway. Then the light seemed to hesitate in the sky and he heard the pitch of the engine change. The bike was slowing down!

  He took off after it, sprinting towards the bend and the lights. There was a lot of light, he thought, for one vehicle. Then he realised that there were two, one pointing its single headlamp across the road, illuminating trees and fields.