Lionel licked, swallowing her blood. “You’re going to die, bitch, but not yet.” He slapped her face until she opened her eyes, “I’ll be enjoying plenty of clever games first. I’ll have your other tit for dinner, then I’ll start on your arse. I’ll cut off your fingers and maybe your nose. I’ll finish you off tomorrow sometime, but I’ll be ripping you in streamers before that happens. So you do exactly as I say if you want to sleep tonight.”
Unable to move, his foot grinding down into her stomach, Candy screamed and swore. The agony she felt swamped her. Her badly wounded breast and both arms injured, she knew herself dizzy and close to fainting again. But if she fainted, she knew she was lost. She mumbled, “Don’t press. Please. Not – foot – need to piss.”
He smiled. “Stand up, spread your legs, and piss while I watch.” And he moved back.
With both legs urgent and fast, Candy hurled herself backwards as she dug herself into the straw. She could only use one hand, and that sent urgent pains up into her neck, but she kept moving. The rough spikes of broken straw cut and scratched her, and when one short stork bit into the horrible wound on her breast, she had to scream, giving her position. But she kept moving deeper until she was entirely hidden beneath the great piles of cattle feed and rubbish, and her broken fingers touched the concrete floor below it all. Then, very carefully, she wriggled forwards and finally stayed very, very still.
“Stupid cow,” Lionel yelled and kicked away the straw where she was disappearing. “You think you’ll get away down there? Not a hope, bitch. You suffocate yourself, tis your own fault. But I’ll catch you in less than a minute. I can dig faster and deeper.”
It was true since his hands were vast. But instead, he used the spade, jabbing down sharply into the moving stalks. But below the dirt and straw spokes, she had crawled out behind him, and for one minute he hadn’t yet realised. And she had the key to the shed, having grabbed it from the man’s own pocket. Making too much noise as he roared and smashed with the spade, Lionel did not hear the small click as the key turned, and the door opened. But immediately he felt the icy gusts as the wind raged in, turned and lunged towards her. Now knee-deep in straw, his feet kicked free, but it took a moment. In that moment Candy slammed the door behind her and turned the key, locking him inside.
Then she ran. She heard him hammering on the door and cursing her. She kept running.
Following the slick black furrows the car tyres had left in the grass, she found her way to the road and even in desperate pain, she kept running. Adrenalin and terror gave her legs force. She barely noticed the backache, nor the splitting headache, nor even the ragged pain of her torn breast and both arms. She ran until she stopped and vomited at the side of the road. Then she walked on.
The sounds from the little barn faded quickly. Candy was sure that the man would eventually break down the door. With hands and feet like a moose’s hooves, he could probably break down anything. But she took every turning, she dodged over low fences, and she aimed away from the shimmering sunset.
With a sky blazing scarlet behind her, Candy walked through the night and was not interrupted. Able to cradle one hand in her other, she was still vulnerable to the teeth of the wind cutting deeper into her breast. She had no idea where she was going as the country lanes narrowed, twisted, and widened again. Heading east, she hoped to be aiming towards Oxford. If not, it didn’t matter. What she wanted was a police station, a hospital or a large shop where she might use the telephone, contacting both her sister and the essential 999.
The sunset was replaced by the silver sliver of moon, and she kept walking until she tottered, unable to continue. There was a dry stone wall, topped with the craggy line of coping stones as was common in the area of the Cotswolds, and Candy began to climb over. With little grip in her hands, it took both time and scratches to straddle the wall, and then tumble to the other side. Here she was entirely unseen from the road, she was partially sheltered, and she curled, trying not to touch her injured breast. She wasn’t sure whether she slept or fell unconscious, but it was dawn when she woke.
The farmer’s son found her. He gasped, pulled out his cell phone, and called emergency for both ambulance and police. Then he helped Candy up, and half lifted her, half carrying her towards the cottage a quarter mile away.
Chapter Nineteen
Morrison wasn’t there.
“I thought we had an appointment,” said Sylvia. “When do you think Darcey will be back?”
The man was tall, well dressed, middle-aged, and peered back at them from beneath very thick black eyebrows. “Well, madam, since I am not D.I. Morrison’s secretary, I cannot tell you. Nor am I here to make appointments on his behalf.”
“Oh.” Sylvia blinked. Most of Morrison’s squad knew her and were polite, even when they did not entirely approve of her involvement.
Harry cut in. “Indeed, you can tell we’re much too old to be in the force.” He smiled carefully. “But we’re close friends with Darcey, and we’ve been able to give some small assistance in the past. But there’s no problem. We’ll phone him at home later.”
The man stood frowning, eyes coldly expressionless, barring the way into the briefing room and the surrounding offices. This was the entrance where the lifts, three of them, rang their arrival bells, clanked open, closed again, and rumbled upwards. “Then I must inform you not to return here,” said the man. “Let me explain. I am DCI Cramble, and I am in charge here. You will leave now, contact Morrison privately if you wish, but do not return here. Good day.”
He stood waiting until they turned and headed towards the main doors. Sylvia turned once and stood a moment. “We had information to pass to D.I. Morrison. But only to him. Since you seem entirely uninterested in any such matter, although you have no idea what we now have to indulge, I presume you are not involved with the case of the bodies discovered in the mock-Tudor house some weeks back?”
A couple of Morrison’s team walked past and slowed, watching until the lift closed its doors and disappeared. The DCI glared at Sylvia. Hearing her, Harry walked back and stood beside her. Cramble said, “If you wish to address me at all, madam, you will use my title. However, I must inform you that I have no desire to hear the uncorroborated rumours brought by the public. Nor do I approve of members of the public gaining direct access to senior officers within this station, nor being included in police briefings. Any member of the homicide squad being found passing on private knowledge of crimes discovered or uncovered through secret or undercover will be facing disciplinary charges. These investigations are strictly private.” The senior detective looked down his nose at the two interfering old dears he saw before him, turned, said a sharp, “Good day,” and took the lift, which had just arrived, disappearing immediately into the upper echelons.
Staring, Harry turned to Sylvia. “I don’t think he liked us. I do hope we haven’t got Darcey into trouble?”
Sylvia grinned. “Have they shot him, do you think?”
The voice behind them was faintly familiar. “It’s a new boss sent down from the Met. Gloucestershire is clearly becoming a region of murder and mayhem, so we need a little rigid control. Hence Boss Grumble-bum. Or, to be more correct, Chief Inspector Cooper Cramble. Not our favourite new arrival.”
“They haven’t done away with Morrison?”
“Oh, Lord no,” smiled Detective Constable Napper. “He’s still basically in charge. Grumble-bum just sits at the desk with mountains of paperwork and shouts at everybody. But he’s the senior in charge of the Mark Howard money-laundering case. Not homicide at all. But after that blistering set down, I honestly don’t think you should go in to see Morrison this morning. Phone him up later. If you’ve got something important to tell him, perhaps you wouldn’t mind telling me and I’ll pass it on.”
“Not urgent.” Harry shook his head. “It can wait. Actually, it was more about Mark Howard than the murders. Somewhat ironic. So we’ll phone Morrison at home later. I bet he’s loving this new man sitting s
neering over him.”
“Not actually over him, thank goodness. Cramble is senior, but not homicide, so Morrison is still top man in his own area. I doubt Cramble has the brains for working in homicide.”
“One small consolation,” Harry grinned.
“We’re all so happy,” Napper said softly, “we’re thinking of having a party.”
“Please invite us.” Sylvia and Harry left and bustled out into the bleak freeze. “Let’s go home,” said Sylvia. “I’m a bit fed up with pretending to be policemen. We can phone Morrison and Kate too, and have tea. And I want a hot, hot, hot shower to make my neck move again. It’s frozen dotards, and my shoulders are hunched, I need to relax. I’ve really never cared what other people think of me ever since I divorced years ago, but this Grumble-bum made me feel quite small and insignificant.”
Harry squeezed her arm. “You may be hunched, dependant on contact lenses, and married to an idiot my dear. But insignificant – no. Certainly not.”
“And the wrinkles?”
“They match my own.”
Morrison answered the phone himself. “You met my friendly superior,” he said as Harry muttered about their welcome. “But I certainly want whatever news you have for me, and for once, I have some for you.”
Harry explained. “It’s Kate Howard, Teacher Maurice’s wife. We didn't think she knew anything secret before, but now we believe she knows about Mark’s activities, and she’s been purposefully giving us clues about him. The C-U of his new house. When he’s arriving – and not left. And so on. Now she’s told us that Mark’s coming to visit them at home this coming Wednesday. Sorry to be a bit late with the news, but we came first thing this morning and got thrown out by your sweet boss. Can you set up surveillance or something?”
“Exactly what I shall do, and I’m exceedingly grateful for the tip,” Morrison answered. “On the previous occasion, he changed his plans at the last moment, presumably guessing he’d been grassed. But this time it might work. Any idea what time?”
“No. But he’s supposed to be taking Maurice fishing, so presumably really early. Or overnight. But it could be the night before or the one after.”
“We’ll set up a forty eight hour watch,” said Morrison. “Wednesday? Today is Friday. I’ll pass this on, but in the meantime, if you hear of any changes or any further details, clearly it’s important. Let me know anything and everything.”
Harry promised. “And your news, Darcey?”
“Ah, yes.” There was a pause. Then, “Your friend Lionel Sullivan has resurfaced. He managed to catch another girl, but she was too quick for him. After receiving some terrible wounds, she managed to escape. She was found and taken to a police station in a village over on the Oxfordshire border, and now she’s in hospital. Her condition is serious, but not life-threatening. So both horribly unfortunate, and yet extremely lucky. Sullivan has not yet been recaptured.”
Unable to answer for some minutes. Eventually, Harry muttered, “Cheers, Darcey. Good luck for next Wednesday.”
He told Sylvia. They both sat looking at each other in silence for quite some time. Eventually Harry woke himself up, crossed over to sit beside Sylvia and put both his arms hard around her, easing her head to his shoulder. She was crying tearlessly. Whispering, she said, “I thought he was locked away for life. I thought no poor creature would ever be hurt by him ever again, not even his wretched wife.”
“It’ll happen,” Harry growled. “Morrison isn’t a fool. Or at least, it’s not him – but whoever it is. The police can’t be idiots. They have to catch him quickly. Now.”
“That poor girl will tell them where he is. They’ll be out in force already, in bulletproof vests or something.”
They were. Immediately word reached the Cheltenham Station, a team of four detectives and four uniformed police drove to the village of Brabbington, and most remained there two hours speaking to the local police, while two of the detectives drove on to the large hospital nearby.
“Miss Anna Libansky is unable to be questioned at the moment, detective,” the head nurse told DCI Latymer. “She’s in Surgery, and will be unconscious for some time, possibly several hours.”
“I’ll wait,” Latymer said, nodding to his companion. “Get us some tea and sandwiches, Bobby. We’ll probably be here all night.”
Candy awoke in the middle of the night with a bewilderment of both pain and numbness leaving her both dizzy and frightened. She felt trapped. She had been restrained, and so immediately looked around for the man who had grabbed her. The bed where she lay was comfortable, but since she was strapped in, clearly she was once again a prisoner. It was dark. She could see almost nothing, but far beyond the lurking black shadows, a tiny pink light flickered. She tried to scream but found that her jaw was wired. Wondering whether she had been horribly tortured, wires perhaps thrust through her mouth, she wrenched herself upwards, attempting escape.
“Are you alright, dear?” murmured a soft feminine voice. “How do you feel? A little confused I expect.”
Candy could not see anyone. “What?” She could barely speak. Even the one word was unclear.
“You’re in hospital, my dear,” said the voice. “You’ve had surgery, and that has all been entirely successful. The doctor will come and see you in the morning. You should sleep now.”
“Hospital? Safe?”
“Oh, yes indeed,” murmured the nurse. “You’re in a private ward in Babington General Hospital, and just coming round from the anaesthetic after surgery. You’ll soon be feeling quite yourself again, my dear. A few days perhaps, and you’ll be well looked after.”
She managed to say, “The man? Caught?”
But the nurse shook her head. “I don’t know all the details, I’m afraid. But the police will be in to talk to you tomorrow, once you feel better. They won’t be permitted to bother you until you’ve had a chance to recover and have a good breakfast. Only a liquid breakfast I’m afraid until your jaw is mended. But I’m sure you’ll want to tell your story.”
The nurse helped her sip some water, tucked her in comfortably, and quietly trotted from the room. The door was left open and there was another shuffle outside. A guard then, perhaps a constable, to stop – who? The monster she’d escaped or even the press. And Candy fell fast asleep.
She woke late and found herself being addressed as Miss Libansky, a name she had avoided using for some time. Anna.
“No. I’m Candy.”
“As you wish,” said the doctor, a young cliché in his white coat and stethoscope necklace.” Now, how do you feel?”
The usual procedures, the usual questions, a quick but careful examination. Then it was breakfast. She managed half a bowl of mashed something with yoghurt and a glass of orange juice. It was about fifteen minutes later that the police were admitted for a strict ten minutes and no more, and she was forced to remember everything she would yearn to forget in the years ahead.
“He was big. All over. Tall and wide. Belly fat. Huge hands. Big face and big nose. Everything except his eyes. They were screwed up little slits.”
DCI Latymer sat politely on the small chair at the side of the bed. “You’ve been a great help, Miss Libansky. Thank you. And if you remember anything else, please do let us know. Get in touch if you need any further help yourself.”
“He was driving a BMW. Not the latest model, but a good car.”
“That was a stolen vehicle, Miss Libansky. But it hasn’t been found yet.”
“Sorry. But he drove for some time. I don’t know where we ended up. I only know it was a little shed, but the door locked. It was all hay and straw inside. Dirty and smelly. Outside was just fields and grassy weeds, except for the swivel tyre marks in the mud.”
“Don’t worry, Miss Libansky. You’ve been most helpful. But as I said, should you remember anything else as you recover further, please do let us know. As you can tell, this man is highly dangerous and must be caught as soon as possible.”
At some distance from the
Babington Hospital, Maurice Howard was talking to a different police force concerning a very different matter.
“We wish to know your twin brother’s address, sir,” said Superintendent Cramble. “This is important. Your brother, as you must surely know, is a dangerous international criminal. We intend taking him into custardy without delay. We know he came to this country from Dubai, and presumably, this would have included a visit to his only living family. Identical twins are known to be close, but I need information, and I shall hold you for obstructing the police in their duty if you refuse to answer, sir.”
Sitting in the white painted minimalism of the interview room, Maurice Howard was lounging back on the small chair and had just finished his second cup of tea. But the detective who was being the nice one, and who had supplied tea, had now strode off and the chief had replaced him. Cramble was not playing nice. The teacher, tweed elbow to the stained plastic topped table between them, simply shook his head. “You can say whatever you like, sir. It doesn’t alter the truth. I have no idea what my brother’s business involves, but to the best of my knowledge, it involves nothing criminal whatsoever. Yes, he visited from Dubai, partially for business, but also to spend some time with me. We like to go fishing. Golf too, sometimes. My wife loves Mark’s visits, and she finds them comical since he looks exactly like me. I’ve seen him a couple of times, but not often, and I believe he’s renting a cottage in Scotland at present. I don’t have the address as I know he intends flying back to Dubai shortly. I don’t have a date for that. He may already have gone.” Maurice leaned forwards, checked his empty cup, sighed and leaned back again. “Incidentally,” he added, “my brother isn’t a volatile character at all. He’s calm and organised, like myself.”
Ashes From Ashes Page 16