by Rick Murcer
***
At nine twenty-three, Constable Sanderson shouted across the hall, ‘They’ve found the Landrover, Sir.’
Vindication, he thought. He crossed his fingers. Please let Tig be alive. ‘Where?’
‘Inglenook Farm, just past All Saints Church on Walton Hill.’
He knew the owners – Terry and Rose Wilson. ‘Come on, Tony.’
‘You’ll wait until CO19 arrive,’ the Chief said.
Inigo had forgotten all about the Chief. Where had he been? He looked dishevelled, but didn’t they all? ‘We haven’t got time to wait for an armed response unit.’
‘I’ll put your confusion concerning the chain of command down to your tiredness, Inspector. We wait for CO19.’
God, he hated jobsworths – it’s more than my job’s worth to let you go out there without backup, Inspector – he mimicked the boy-Chief inside his head. ‘How long will they take to get here?’
‘Three quarters of an hour.’
‘Too long, Sir. I’m going. You can sack me afterwards, if you want. Are you joining me, or staying here, Tony?’
Tony shrugged. ‘In for a penny...’
They made their way out to Inglenook Farm. There were already two patrol cars and four officers there.
‘Have you knocked?’ Inigo asked.
‘No, Sir. We thought it best to wait until you got here.’
‘Okay, here’s what we’ll do.’ He explained what he had in mind, and then sent Tony and two officers round the back. He headed towards the front door with the other two officers behind him.
‘Names?’ Inigo asked over his shoulder.
‘Alexandra Hudson...’
‘...and Calloway Martin.’
‘Nice to meet you. Now remember, no dithering.’
Inigo banged on the door. ‘Police, open up.’
He did this twice more, and after a handful of minutes the door opened a crack. He could see the Wilson’s fifteen-year-old daughter, Sophie, in the gap. She looked petrified, but there was no time to think about that. He barged forward. He wasn’t a great believer in negotiation. The government had it right: ‘No negotiation with terrorists.’ Criminals were simply local terrorists with a different agenda. Morris wasn’t going to be reasonable, nor was he going to release his hostages for a plane and a million pounds. He had absolutely nothing to lose by killing a few more people. A quote came to Inigo’s mind as his shoulder crunched against the door: As You Sow, So Shall You Reap. The only thing that would stop Morris from doing what he’d set out to do, was death.
Hudson and Martin pushed him in the back to add more weight to his forward momentum. The door flew open. He went sprawling, and fell on top of Sophie Wilson. She began screaming. He could hear dogs barking, cows mooing, and pigs grunting in response to the noise. Hudson and Martin trampled him underfoot as they’d been instructed to do. Inigo gently put his hand over Sophie Wilson’s mouth to stop her from screaming in his ear, and said, ‘Sshhh.’
Morris had fallen backwards. He still gripped a knife in his hand, but had released Sophie Wilson’s neck as he fell. He crab-walked backwards until he had space to stand.
Tig was tied to a hard-backed chair. There was fear in her eyes, and a gag tied round her mouth.
Morris stood behind her, put the knife to her throat and said, ‘Don’t come any closer.’
That would have been going against Inigo’s instructions, so Hudson and Martin continued to rush forward. They ploughed into Morris. The chair Tig was tied to crashed sideways to the floor. Morris flew backwards on his backside again. He still clutched the knife in his hand.
A crash came from the kitchen. DS Saunders and the two officers burst in.
Morris scrambled across the floor towards Tig, with the knife raised. ‘If I’m going, my daughter’s coming with me.’
Tony Saunders dived on his back. He grabbed Morris’ wrist holding the knife, and they rolled together across the floor locked in a deadly embrace.
Morris managed to work his wrist free, and slashed Saunders across the side of the neck, but before he could do any more damage, Constable Martin smacked him round the back of the head with a poker he’d found in the hearth. Morris collapsed on top of Saunders like a marionette with its wires cut.
Inigo bent and righted the chair Tig was strapped into. ‘Anybody got a knife...?’
Constable Anderson passed him a Swedish penknife.
‘Stupid question really, thanks.’ He took it and cut through the plastic restraints at Tig’s wrists and ankles. She pulled the gag off herself.
He helped her up, and held her as she cried. ‘Call an ambulance and forensics,’ he said to no one in particular.
Tig pushed herself away from him and aimed a kick at Morris’ head. ‘Bastard. Fucking bastard. He was going to rape me again, you know.’ She gave him a second kick for good measure, before Inigo pulled her away.
Morris didn’t move.
Martin turned him over. Morris’ knife was embedded in his chest. ‘He’s dead.’
‘Good,’ Tig said.
‘Come on, let’s go and wait outside for the ambulance.’
‘I don’t need an ambulance.’
‘You’ll do as you’re told, Detective Constable Griffiths,’ he said.
She broke down sobbing. ‘Oh God, I thought I would never have to see him again. I ran away when I was fifteen years old, and changed my name. How did he find me?’
‘He didn’t find you, he found Joy Lawson.’
‘I remember her. She was one of the looked-after children he and my mum fostered.’
‘Well, three years ago Joy Lawson told everyone about him, and although she became someone new like you, he found her. I’m not a great believer in coincidence, but I think that’s what it was when she decided to hide in the same place you were hiding.’
‘Thank God it’s over.’
Inigo bit his lip then said, ‘I’m sorry, but he also killed your mother.’
‘Good riddance to her as well. She knew exactly what he was doing to us, but pretended it wasn’t happening. And I remember now, he used to give those silver hearts entwined to the children after he’d had sex with them. Mum wore one, and then he gave one to me after...’ She broke down again. ‘I’d buried it in my memory.’
***
Jess arrived at the same time as the ambulance. The paramedics put Tig, Sophie Wilson, and Tony Saunders in the back.
Inigo said to Tony before the doors were slammed shut, ‘Once I’ve done the write-up, you’ll get a medal and a promotion for what you did in there.’
‘I’m just glad Tig is OK.’
‘Yeah, aren’t we all?’
Tig was staring into space. Her wrists and ankles had livid lines around them where the plastic restraints had dug into the skin. It also looked as if she’d fractured her right upper arm when the chair had fallen over. Inigo knew she’d need a whole bucketful of therapy before he got her back in one piece, but she was still young, and he’d help her.
Forensics arrived. They found the Wilsons dead in the kitchen. Sophie Wilson was now an orphan.
As the ambulance disappeared up the driveway, he realised Tony had the keys to the car in his pocket. He asked Hudson and Martin to give him a lift back to the Primary School, but before he could leave, Jess caught his attention.
‘Come to my house tomorrow night at seven.’
His brow furrowed. She’d never invited him to her house before. ‘Because?’
‘I’ll cook you a meal, and we can talk about Marielle.’
‘Are you sure you want to do that? It could end in disaster.’
‘I’m willing to take a chance, if you are.’
He rubbed his two-day-old beard. ‘I suppose I’ll get a decent meal out of it.’
‘Hey, don’t do me any favours.’
‘I thought we weren’t going to argue.’
‘When I don’t love you, I hate you.’
‘The feeling’s mutual. See you tomorrow night.’
About the Author of As You Sow, So Shall You Reap
Tim Ellis is a retired soldier, bean counter, and teacher. He has been writing fiction for five years and is the best-selling author of a number of crime novels. He has also written historical fiction, science fiction, and fantasy.
Rum Shot
by Lawrence Kelter
Chapter-1
1963
John Angel swung the steering wheel on his cherry red Thunderbird convertible and turned heads as he made his way onto Collins Avenue in Miami Beach, Florida. The T-Bird was waxed up brighter than a shiny new dime. The chrome front bumper blinded the valet as he pulled up in front of the Fontainebleau Hotel.
The valet recognized Angel and raced around the car to open the door. “Good afternoon, Mr. Angel. So nice to see you again.”
Angel swung his legs out of the car and dusted the lint off of his sharkskin slacks before he stood up. His jacket shirt was crisply pressed and flawless. He stuffed a few bills in the valet’s pocket. “Park her in the shade, Sonny.”
“Very good, Mr. Angel. I’ll find a nice spot for her.”
Angel strode through the hotel’s massive open-air lobby—his slipstream hair was impervious to the strong winds that blew off the Atlantic. The sixty-five-hundred-square-foot pool area stretched out in front of him. Beyond the pool, the turquoise water of the Atlantic sparkled as if it was filled with emeralds. Tito Puente was playing on the Fontainebleau’s outdoor sound system. Angel spontaneously broke into a cha-cha as he stepped into the sunshine.
A pretty brunette in a calico bikini looked up from her lounge chair and caught a glimpse of Angel as he tripped the light fantastic. “You’re light on your feet.” She smiled and held up a bottle of baby oil. “Would you?” she said. Her expression was an invitation to apply the baby oil and more.
Angel flashed his pearly whites. He knelt so that he could look directly into her eyes. “What’s your name?”
She smiled sweetly. “Honey.”
“Really?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Well, Honey, it’s so hot down here the lizards carry parasols. Baby oil is the worst thing you can put on your skin.”
“It is?” she said, with an air of helplessness in her voice.
“It is, but if you give me your room number, I promise to stop by later and show you a good use for it.”
She gasped.
“You seem shocked,” Angel said.
“I am,” she said and then brought forth a devilish smile. “Room 710. What time should I expect you?”
“Hard to say; I’m working right now.”
“I’ll be waiting. “
“That’s a good girl,” Angel said. He gave her cavalier pat on the butt as he walked off.
He pulled out a roll of cash. The sound of the crisp bills stopped a waitress dead in her tracks. “Can I help you, sir?”
“Where can I find Roger Hollister’s cabana?”
“It’s on the ocean side. I’ll take you.”
Angel dropped a few bills on her serving tray. “Bring me a seven and seven. Back it up in exactly ten minutes.”
She took note of the bills on her tray and smiled. “My pleasure. Follow me.”
Angel followed the waitress as she zigzagged through the sunbathers and lounges to Hollister’s cabana.
A dark-haired woman almost knocked Angel over as she burst from the cabana.
“Get out!” Hollister bellowed. His voice was resentful and filled with indignation, “Gypsy! Charlatan! Get out!”
The fortune teller rushed through the pool area and disappeared into the lobby.
“What the hell was that?” Angel said. He looked at Hollister as if he were crazy. He entered the cabana. “I can’t believe you’re still into that mumbo jumbo. I guess she didn’t give you any good news.”
“Not even the winning horse at Hialeah.” Hollister’s voice sounded more normal. His heavy English accent was once again discernable.
“You know it’s all bullshit. Why did you get so mad at her?”
“Ah hell, Johnny, the gypsy was spot on,” he said with frustration in his voice. “Washington’s been pressuring 10 Downing Street for months now. America will be in the Vietnam War by this time next year. Officially, the Labour Party is against going to war in Southeast Asia but that doesn’t mean that MI5 won’t be involved. We’ve been discussing the situation for months.”
“And Her Majesty’s Secret Service wants you up close and personal?”
“Correct. England has to do something to endear itself to the White House.”
“Well, do you want to live a long, happy life, or do you want to die a hero?”
Hollister broadcast a dashing smile reminiscent of Errol Flynn. “I’ll take a hero’s funeral anytime.”
“And the gypsy knew all that?”
Hollister shrugged and then patted Angel on the back. “There’s nothing like a cold war to keep everyone on their toes.”
“It’s still hot here in Miami.”
“Indeed, the Bay of Pigs Invasion, Russian missiles just ninety-miles off shore—you Floridians must sleep with one eye open.”
“I sleep just fine.”
Hollister smiled. “Glad to hear it. Thanks for coming.”
They sat down at a bridge table within the cabana just as the waitress returned with Angel’s drink. She stirred it with a swizzle stick while it was still on her tray and then handed it to him. “Another bottle of water for you, Mr. Hollister?”
Hollister winked. “Straight away, Love.”
The waitress walked away immediately.
Hollister admired her as she moved off. “She’s got a lovely bum, that one. I might ask her out for a drink.”
“Forget the broad. You actually pay for water?”
“You must try this, John. It’s called Perrier. The Fontainebleau is the only place in the states that has it. It comes from France and has bubbles.”
“Around here we call that seltzer.”
“It’s lovely; really, you must try it.”
“How much?”
“It’s not cheap.”
“Someone should talk to the prime minister about your expense account, Roger. Who in their right mind would spend big bucks on water?”
“Take pity on me, I’m here on a hazardous assignment,” Hollister said playfully. He sounded as if he were begging for sympathy.
Angel took a long sip of his cocktail. “Yeah, I guess. So what does British intelligence need from a local guy like me?”
“Read the papers much, Johnny?”
“Every morning.”
“What do the words ich bin ein Berliner mean to you?”
“I just told you that I read the newspaper. It’s a quotation from the speech JFK made in Berlin last month. It was an endorsement of the West Germans.”
“Correct. What a lovely piece of oration that was and so heartfelt. He’s a great speaker, that one . . . Jack Kennedy loves Berlin, did you know that?”
“No.”
“Well, he does; he likes it a great deal, especially the female population, savvy?” Hollister tapped a cigarette out of a fresh pack and gripped it between his lips. “Care for one, Johnny? They’re Turkish.”
“No, thanks. So, what does the First Lady do while JFK is out satisfying his cravings for pretty German women?”
“She has tea with the German chancellor’s wife, cuts ribbons, and does whatever else dutiful wives do if they want to ignore their husband’s indiscretions and continue to be the First Lady.”
Angel finished his drink. “I’m listening.”
“Her name was Kristina Braun, an absolutely stunning little blonde with lovely legs.”
“You said, ‘was.’”
“That’s right, she’s dead, and that’s why I asked you here.”
“Roger, I’m just a local PI. International politics and the president’s dead mistress are a little over my head. Now if you need someone to track down a bail jumper, I’m your
man.”
Hollister tapped Angel on the knee. “Forget the high-level stuff; that’s not why I need your help.”
The waitress returned with Angel’s second drink and Hollister’s bottled water. Angel had asked for a second round to remind him that ten minutes had passed—to cut the meeting short if he wanted to. Now, however, he felt himself intrigued with Hollister’s tale. He tasted the fresh cocktail. It was much stronger than the first. He waited for the waitress to leave. “You’ve got an audience; go on.”
“Kristina wasn’t German. Her actual name was Christine Kersey. She was a Brit from Manchester, in fact. She was one of ours. We positioned her in Berlin and made her accessible to old Jack. He took a fancy to her straight away.” Hollister poured his bottled water into an ice-filled glass and drank without removing the unlit cigarette from his mouth. “As we figured he would.”
“All right, Roger, it’s time for you to connect the dots for me.”
“Well, don’t you see, Johnny, women who don’t object to putting out for the Crown, don’t object to putting out at all. Jack arranged for her to make a trip stateside. He set her up down here and . . .”
“And what?”
“Well, all that sneaking around must have worn thin on old Jack. In no time at all, he stopped taking the midnight flight to Miami.”
“Really, he got tired of her that fast? DC to Miami is only ninety minutes in the air.”
“A high-functioning man like Jack Kennedy? I’m not surprised. I suppose Kristina got bored just as fast. So, here she is, a beautiful, young woman in Miami; her last lover was the President of the United States, and well . . . hell, man, how do you follow an act like that?”
“I’m clueless, Roger. Tell me, what did she do?”
“She found someone with money and power, someone who could make her feel like she was on top again. Figuratively speaking, that is.”
Angel smirked. “So who was the lucky guy?”
“Sal Bobano.”
Angel’s mouth dropped. “Ah, shit. . . really? She goes from the commander-in-chief to a Cosa Nostra boss?”