‘I have the feeling there’s no point denying it,’ said Harkness.
‘’E murdered my brother,’ said Fry, her face flushed with satisfaction.
‘Perhaps you should get back in the car, Miss Fry,’ said the constable, though it was obvious he had little expectation that would happen.
‘I take it you’re not here to pursue the outlandish allegation Miss Fry’s just made against me, officer,’ said Harkness.
‘I’m here concerning a breach of your bail conditions in London, sir. I’m going to have to ask you to come with me.’
‘If I refuse?’
‘I’ll have to arrest you.’
‘You’ve come rather light-handed, haven’t you? You obviously didn’t expect any problem.’
The constable glanced at Don and French and Zlenko. He did not look reassured by what he saw. ‘Is there going to be a problem, sir?’
‘Perhaps you didn’t expect to find me here. I could well understand if you doubted Miss Fry’s word.’
‘’E don’t doubt me now,’ said Fry.
‘How did you know I’d be here, Wynsum?’
‘Linda ’Ocking trusts me more’n ’er brainless ’usband. That’s ’ow.’
‘Ah, I see.’
‘Are you going to be reasonable, Mr Harkness?’ the constable asked plaintively.
‘Certainly. Mind if I bring my luggage along?’ Harkness pointed to the bags standing on the ground next to him.
‘The bags stay,’ said French suddenly, his voice a shard of ice in the warmth of the morning.
‘They belong to me,’ said Harkness, stooping to gather them up.
‘Leave them where they are,’ said French, grabbing Harkness by the arm.
It was not clear to Don how what happened next actually happened, but one of the bags fell open in Harkness’s grasp and the contents spilt out on to the cobbles.
Nobody spoke for several seconds. Then the constable said, ‘That looks like a lot of money.’
Harkness smiled at him. ‘A tidy sum, officer, yes. And all mine.’
‘Or ’is creditors,’ Fry cut in.
The constable looked round at her, then back at Harkness – and French. ‘Bring the bags along, Mr Harkness. If these gentlemen have any—’
‘The bags aren’t leaving here,’ said French, his tone implacable.
‘In the circumstances,’ the constable said slowly, ‘I think they’re going to have to.’
‘No.’
‘I’m afraid—’
Maybe it was a step – or half-step – the constable took towards the bags that set Zlenko off. The gun, an automatic pistol of some kind, was in his hand – in both hands – before Don was properly aware of it. He fired three times in quick succession. And the constable toppled backwards.
He hit the cobbles with a gasp that was probably just breath being expelled from his body. He did not move. Neither did anyone else. Blood, thick and dark, began to ooze from beneath him, filling and soon overtopping the crevices between the cobbles.
Then someone did move. Wynsum Fry began to run towards the lane. Don turned towards her. Three more shots – then a fourth – boomed out.
The bullets took her in the back. She stumbled and fell, face down beside the police car. A sound came from her mouth – a groan, an inaudible word. Her legs moved, as if she was trying to crawl forward. Zlenko walked unhurriedly over to where she lay and fired two more bullets into her. She was still then, quite still. Soon there was more blood spreading across the cobbles.
‘You shouldn’t have done that, Gennady,’ said Harkness, with no hint of alarm in his voice. ‘This isn’t Russia. Killing a police officer has serious consequences. And you can’t buy yourself out of them.’
Don was too frightened to move. He clung to the precarious notion that they had forgotten he was there – and somehow might go on forgetting.
‘Don’t think I’m ungrateful where Wynsum Fry’s concerned. The woman was a thorn in my flesh. But the policeman? Nice young fellow, wearing a wedding ring, I notice. You might find a snap of his wife and children behind the sun visor in his patrol car, if you care to look.’
‘It was your fault,’ said French. ‘If you’d agreed to leave the money behind, he’d still be alive.’
‘True. But fault and responsibility aren’t quite the same thing, are they?’
‘Now you’ve landed us in this shit, give me one good reason why I shouldn’t let Gennady shoot you here and now and give me the pleasure of never hearing your sanctimoniously superior voice again.’
‘There are actually several good reasons, Amos. We can start with a subject close to your heart. The money.’
‘What about the money?’
‘You can’t spend it.’
‘Why the fuck not?’
‘I’m afraid it’s all in withdrawn notes. The Swiss National Bank has been busily issuing new notes over the past couple of years. And those in the bag are old stock. Redeemable at the bank, of course. But nowhere else. I’m not sure you’ll want to jump through the bureaucratic hoops necessary to realize their face value. There could be a lot of awkward questions for you to answer.’
French looked as if he could not decide whether to believe Harkness or not. ‘Why would you tell me that now?’
‘Because, if you take me to Wortalleth West, I can open the panic room and give you what Quintagler want. Then you’ll still come out of this with a healthy profit. Whatever cutting gear you’ve got hold of, it’ll take you longer to get through the door than you want to spend in the area after what’s happened here. Fortunately, there’s an emergency opening mechanism. And I can show you where it is.’
‘What’s in the room?’
‘A computer system that operates a continuous rolling sweep of my assets, moving them from account to account, from jurisdiction to jurisdiction, faster than anyone can keep track of. But you’ll have the access codes to pass on to Quintagler, so it’ll be job done as far as they’re concerned.’
French paused and thought for a second. Then, to Don’s horror, the phone in his pocket started ringing. He pulled it out and switched it off. But French was looking at him now. And so was Zlenko.
‘I’ll cooperate only if you agree to let both of us go after you’ve got what you need,’ said Harkness. ‘There’s to be no more killing.’
It occurred to Don, as he felt sure it must have occurred to Harkness, that French could easily give such an undertaking, only to break it later. All Don could do was hope Harkness had taken that possibility into account.
French was still looking at Don. ‘Toss the phone over here,’ he said flatly. Don obeyed. French pocketed it, then turned to Harkness. ‘Yours too.’ Harkness handed his over. ‘And the keys for Wortalleth West.’ Harkness surrendered those as well.
‘OK,’ French continued after a pause. ‘Get us into the room. Get us the codes. Then you and Don walk. Agreed. But if you pull any more tricks …’
‘No tricks, Amos. I just want this over.’
‘Amen to that.’
Don realized he was trembling uncontrollably. The morning was still and bright, the sunlight strong on his back. The sight of the two dead bodies lying in the yard seemed to have no place in the silence and serenity by which they were surrounded. But they were there. And so was he.
Suddenly, the silence was split by the buzz of a Royal Naval helicopter, moving low across the sky away to the south-west. French watched anxiously as it flew on, then said to Harkness, ‘We need to get these bodies out of sight. You and your friend can move them into the garage. We’ll stow the patrol car there as well.’
‘You’re the boss,’ said Harkness.
‘Yeah, I am. So, get to it.’
The garage was the only part of the barn conversion that had been completed. Zlenko opened the doors and stood by while Don helped Harkness carry the policeman and Wynsum Fry into the building. It was a gruesome and arduous task. They ended up dragging the policeman on his heels. Blood trailed ac
ross the cobbles behind him. Carrying Wynsum Fry face down left Don grasping her ankles, with her skirt riding up around her mottled legs as they went. He tried to pretend the horror he was caught up in was not actually happening, but his senses told him otherwise. The touch of her flesh against his hands made his stomach heave. He had to stop at one point when a wave of nausea swept over him. He wondered if the spell Fry had cast on him the week before could still be affecting him.
Harkness seemed to guess what he was thinking. ‘None of the special powers she claimed to have were any use to her, were they, Don?’ He spoke in an undertone, as Don leant forward, breathing heavily and resting his hands on his knees. They were just out of Zlenko’s earshot and French had gone into the cottage. ‘Life and death are realities even she couldn’t deny.’
‘Why … did you … refuse to leave the money?’
‘I couldn’t think of any other way to stop myself getting arrested. I had no idea how Gennady was going to react.’
‘So, what he did … wasn’t your fault. But you were responsible.’
Harkness smiled grimly. ‘I can’t argue with my own words, can I?’
‘Are you … planning something?’
‘What’s hold-up?’ Zlenko called before Harkness could reply.
‘No hold-up,’ Harkness shouted back over his shoulder. ‘We’re coming.’
They heaved Fry off the ground and staggered on towards the garage. Harkness caught Don’s eye and winked. Trust me, he might almost have said. We’ll be all right.
But how could they be all right? Zlenko had killed three people already. Why should he hesitate to kill two more? There was no way out of this horror as far as Don could see. None at all.
As they lumbered past him, Zlenko said something to Harkness in Russian. And Harkness smiled.
‘What was that?’ Don whispered as they reached the rear of the garage and lowered Fry to the floor beside the policeman.
‘I’ll tell you later,’ Harkness replied.
Later. In that moment, it sounded to Don more like a place than a time. It sounded like the promised land – which he might never reach.
TWO
WE’RE ON THE motorway, heading top speed for Zug. Filippo’s tried to talk the taxi driver into going even faster, as far as I can tell from their exchanges in German, but he isn’t having any. There’s not much traffic, though. We’re eating up the miles. There was a long tunnelled section after we left Zürich. Now we’re in the open, surging along in silence.
I’m in the back with Jane. No one’s saying anything. Filippo’s squirming and twitching and eyeing the satnav like it’s hiding something from him. But Jane’s still as a statue. Occasionally, she pushes back a strand of hair from her forehead. Otherwise, she’s just super-chilled. I tried to ask her some questions right after we set off, but she shook her head and whispered, ‘Not here.’ Then I tried telling her a few things, about her father and sister. She soon cut that off. ‘Don’t talk to me about them.’ That was what she said, with a kind of hollowness, a distance in her voice.
I don’t understand her. Maybe I never will. Or maybe, when we get to Harkness HQ—
My phone rings. I pull it out of my pocket, relieved Don’s called back.
But he hasn’t. The caller’s withheld his number. It’s someone else. And no one else should have my number. I feel sick looking at the pulsing call symbol on the screen. Do I answer?
Shit, yes. I have to. ‘Hello?’
No voice at the other end, just a faint crackle.
‘Hello? Who’s that?’
They cut the call. They’ve heard enough. Shit, shit, shit.
‘Your friend?’ murmurs Jane.
‘No.’
‘You look worried.’
I am. But I’m not going to admit that to her. I turn the phone off. ‘I thought you didn’t want to talk.’
She gives me a cool, calm, superior glance. ‘I don’t.’
I return the glance with knobs on. She gets the message. But she probably sees through it too. There’s something in Jane that reminds me of Harkness. It’s like he’s moulded her in his image.
‘You could phone the hospital,’ I suggest, partly to get under her defences, partly because I’d like to know how Gareth is and she’ll be able to find out much more easily than me. ‘Check on Gareth.’
She looks like she’s actually considering it, then says, ‘Not now.’
‘No calls,’ Filippo cuts in, leaning back over the seat. ‘No chiacchierata.’ He flaps his thumb and fingers together, then slashes his hand through the air. The driver glances at him warily, but Filippo doesn’t notice. He’s looking straight at me. ‘No nothing till we’re there. OK?’
I shrug. ‘OK.’
The driver flexes his shoulders, like they’re aching. Maybe the tension’s getting to him too. There’s plenty of it about. How far is it to Harkness HQ now? I peer past Filippo for a view of the satnav. 5.27 kilometres. That’s all. We’re nearly there.
Don’s brain refused to obey him. It continued to replay, over and over, the deaths of the police officer and Wynsum Fry. It dwelt on the blood and the seeping bullet wounds and the clammy touch of Fry’s flesh and the staring blankness of the young man’s eyes. What it would not do, bludgeon it however Don liked, was devise any way out of the nightmare he was living through.
They were in French’s land-cruiser, driving west from Chybargos towards the main road. Harkness was at the wheel, with French alongside him, holding a gun, a smaller, stubbier-barrelled weapon than Zlenko had used. Don was in the back, next to Zlenko. From the main road it would probably take less than twenty minutes to reach Wortalleth West, though they might as well already be there for any difference thinking about it was likely to make.
‘Bloody hell,’ he muttered under his breath as another wave of recollection hit him, bearing the exact sound of the policeman’s body hitting the cobbles at Chybargos.
‘What’s that, Don?’ French glanced back at him.
Don swallowed hard. ‘Nothing.’
‘Where’s your friend Blake?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Sure about that?’
‘Leave the poor chap alone,’ Harkness cut in.
French gave him a theatrically wide-eyed stare. ‘Well, pardon me all to hell. I guess you don’t like my idea of light conversation, Jack.’
‘Not much.’
‘Let’s change the subject, then. The Fry bitch. Tell me what made her think you offed her brother. And did you, by the way?’
‘What does it matter? He’s dead. Now she’s dead. End of story.’
‘You said she was a thorn in your flesh. What kind of thorn?’
‘She caused me as much trouble as she could. But it was never anything I couldn’t handle.’
‘Why’d she call you the King of Spades?’
‘Oh, she fancied herself as some kind of fortune-teller. Card readings, that kind of thing.’
‘She looked quite a handful to me. In the short time we were acquainted.’
‘She was a witch,’ Don said, his voice dull and almost, to his own ears, disembodied. In the second after he had spoken, he did not know why he had spoken at all.
French frowned at him. ‘The real thing, you mean? Spells? Cures? Curses?’
Don nodded feebly. ‘The real thing.’
‘Well, I declare. Hear that, Gennady?’ French grinned at Zlenko. ‘You killed a witch. Is that a first for you?’
Zlenko responded initially with silence, then: ‘Witch?’
‘The old woman was a witch. Y’know. Eye of newt and tongue of frog.’
‘Toe of frog,’ Harkness corrected him.
French scowled. ‘Is that right? Well, happen to know the Russian for witch, Jack?’
‘Vedima,’ Harkness fired back.
‘Great. There you go, Gennady. The old woman was a … vedima.’
More silence from Zlenko. Then a sudden burst of Russian. He did not sound happy, a point he emphasize
d by leaning forward and grasping Harkness’s shoulder so tightly he had to correct a sudden swerve.
‘Watch what you’re goddam doing,’ French complained.
But Zlenko took no notice. ‘Is true?’ he rasped. ‘Vedima?’
‘A lot of people thought so.’
Zlenko released Harkness and rounded on Don. ‘You. You said it. Is true? She was … witch?’
Don shrugged. ‘Yeah.’
‘How you know?’
‘She put a curse on me when I wouldn’t do what she wanted.’ Zlenko looked worried now and Don saw no reason not to worry him some more. ‘Maybe you should watch out.’
Zlenko’s mouth flapped open. His face suddenly lost a lot of colour. His eyes revolved helplessly. ‘Nyet,’ he murmured. ‘Nyet.’ Then he crossed himself and mumbled something in Russian. And then he grabbed Harkness again and shouted, ‘Stop car.’
‘We’re not stopping till we get to Wortalleth West,’ snapped French.
‘Stop car.’
Harkness was being pulled so far out of his driving seat by now he had little choice but to brake sharply to a halt. The car bumped up on to the verge, the roadside hedge scraping against its metalwork and the gas cylinders clunking together in the luggage compartment.
They were all pitched around and French dropped his gun, which he retrieved with an oath.
‘What the fuck are you playing at, Gennady?’ he demanded, whirling round to confront his partner.
‘She was witch,’ Zlenko replied, as if that was an explanation in itself.
‘So?’
‘So … we have to … do something.’
‘We are doing something. Our job. Now shut the fuck up and let’s get on with it.’
‘No.’ Zlenko pressed at his throat, as if he felt sick. ‘You cannot … look away from eye that never blinks.’
‘What?’
Zlenko slumped back in his seat, almost visibly deflating. ‘I am dead,’ he muttered.
French offered no sympathy. ‘For fuck’s sake pull yourself together.’
‘Fuck you,’ growled Zlenko. ‘I shot her. Not you.’
‘Well, we’ll sacrifice a goat later if it makes you feel better. Meanwhile—’
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