by Bill Kitson
He reached down and started winding the string round the killer’s wrists. To ensure he didn’t try and free himself, Marshall twined the loose end round the man’s neck. If he struggled too hard, all he’d do was strangle himself. Now, what to do with him? The sensible thing would be to hand him over to the police. But that would only achieve half a result. It wouldn’t give Marshall what he wanted: the name of the man who’d employed Brown. The man who’d paid to have Anna killed. Or the motive for her murder. Only Brown could give him those answers, or some of them at least.
He reached into the wardrobe and removed a leather belt from a pair of jeans. He strapped it tightly round Brown’s ankles, grabbed the man’s shirt collar and dragged him unceremoniously out of the bedroom into the lounge. He barely noticed the twinge of pain in his arm. He certainly noticed Brown’s head hitting the doorframe, but if it bothered him, he didn’t show it.
He dumped the killer, who showed no sign of coming to, in the middle of the floor, wondering briefly if he’d overdone it: hit him too hard. He gave a mental shrug; what the hell, if he was dead, so what. He left the comatose figure and began rummaging through the cupboards, removing every item he would need. Every so often he glanced through into the lounge. His prisoner was still showing no sign of life. Marshall turned his attention to the freezer. He took out only those items he could cook simply.
He knew he couldn’t stay here. At any point the police might come along and arrest him. Marshall wasn’t going to allow that to happen. Certainly not until he’d spent some time alone with his prisoner. Time during which, Marshall felt sure, he’d be able to persuade Brown to tell him everything he knew.
During his time in prison Marshall had made few acquaintances. Given his fearsome reputation, most prisoners had steered well clear of him. Only his neighbour, however, had become as close as you could get to a friend in such a place. And from him, Marshall had learned one or two tricks. Tricks he’d never thought he’d need to employ. One of them had been how to dislocate a man’s shoulder. Another was supposedly guaranteed to make even the toughest man talk. And Marshall felt sure his prisoner wasn’t that tough.
chapter sixteen
Tara examined herself carefully in the bedroom mirror. She inspected her appearance critically, although she knew she was at the peak of her attractive best. It wasn’t vanity; she knew she was more than pretty, she was stunningly beautiful. She passed a brush thoughtfully through her long blonde hair, pausing to inspect her carefully manicured and expertly enamelled nails. Satisfied, she stood straight, allowing the sheer negligee to fall open. Her figure was close to perfection but even then Tara wasn’t satisfied. She swung round, brushing the negligee to one side. She craned her neck to inspect her posterior. No sagging: the result of a rigorous exercise routine devised by her personal trainer.
Harry was happy to pay for anything to retain and enhance Tara’s desirability. And Harry did desire her. Tara smiled at the thought. When they had met two years earlier, he’d wasted no time in making her aware of his feelings. It was at a cocktail party; she was married, he was twice divorced. He’d walked across to her and smiled. ‘I’m Harry Rourke and I want to go to bed with you.’
Tara hadn’t known whether to slap his face or walk out. In the end she’d done neither. There was something appealing in the boldness of the statement, the roguish smile that accompanied it. ‘What about my husband?’ she’d objected.
‘No thanks, just you.’
The following day, shortly after her husband left for work, a huge bouquet of flowers arrived. The card accompanying them reiterated the message. She hid the card, put the wrapping paper in the bin and told her husband she’d bought the flowers. Within a month she and Harry had become lovers. Within six months she moved into his mansion on the western outskirts of Leeds. Harry had an appetite for her that was close to insatiable. Tara found no difficulty with this, indeed she enjoyed his attention. It wasn’t until well into their relationship that she realized how wealthy and powerful her lover was.
Recently however, Harry had been less demanding. That worried Tara. Was he tiring of her? She knew she was nowhere near his intellectual equal. Would he weary of her beauty, hanker for something more? Tara wasn’t used to being ignored. She knew he’d a lot on his plate running his massive business, and she was aware that he had some extra problems at work. Tara couldn’t help him with these but realized he worked better when he was relaxed and content. She could think of only one way to help him achieve relaxation and contentment.
Although it was Sunday morning, Harry would be at his computer. For Harry the working week didn’t stop on Friday evening. It was how he’d achieved success. It was the only formula he knew for retaining it. This was all very well, but Tara wanted him. She wanted the Harry she’d met, the Harry who had swept her off her feet. The Harry she had difficulty in matching for the energy of his lovemaking.
Tara stripped off the negligee and removed her bra and pants. She went across to Harry’s wardrobe and selected one of his shirts. She knew this would get him aroused if anything could.
Harry Rourke was sitting staring at his computer screen, exactly as Tara had predicted. He hated these damned things. He was a practical man, a man used to dealing with problems on the ground, not on a screen. There was something impersonal about working through a computer. Harry solved problems best when he could be on site and look into a man’s eyes. Check the materials were as they should be, that the work was being done as he’d ordered it. That was what construction was about, not a row of figures on a screen. He knew he’d have to get to grips with this technology. It was the only way to handle all he was now being pressured to take on.
Tara appeared by his side. She gently eased his chair away from the desk, swivelling it so he was forced to look at her, not at the screen. ‘Harry,’ her voice was little more than a whisper, ‘Harry, how many excavators do you own?’
He blinked in surprise at the unexpected question. ‘Twenty-six.’
‘Is that enough to cope with the work you have on?’
‘More than enough.’ He grimaced. ‘I could do with another couple of contracts to keep them busy, thanks to this bloody recession.’
Tara leaned forward slightly. The shirt gaped open. ‘Well, in that case, darling.’ She straddled his knees with her thighs. The shirt rode up almost to her waist. ‘Do you think you could spare some time to make the earth move for me?’
Much later, as they were sitting in easy companionship in the conservatory, Tara asked him what the problem was. ‘I know it’s to do with work and I probably won’t understand, but maybe just talking about it will help.’
‘I’m sorry I haven’t been my usual self recently. Business is slack and we’re not getting the contracts we should. The problem is I can’t see what we’re doing wrong.’
‘If you’re not getting them, who is?’
‘Coningsby mainly, though it’s not just them.’
‘What do you intend doing about it?’
‘I’ve already taken steps to remedy matters. Very painful decisions have had to be made and I can’t expect others to make them for me. It means dispensing with a lot of people, some I’ve worked with for years.’
‘I’ve received the writ from the returning officer. The election date’s set for April 27th.’
‘That’s one part of the operation under way. I had a phone call from Darren Cowan. He’s sending the draft offer document for the takeover through.’
‘We’ll have to time it right, or we might have to pay too much.’
‘I don’t see that as a problem.’
‘How come you’re so confident?’
‘Leave it to me.’
‘We could do with more work. Contracts aren’t that plentiful. Having said that, I got the figures from the auditors today. Last year’s results will look terrific.’
‘So will ours. The rivalry has done both companies good. When we put them together we’ll do even better. The dip in work looks to
be no more than a seasonal thing, but it’ll help make the price look reasonable.’
‘Where do you think we should pitch the bid?’
‘Somewhere around twenty-five per cent of the valuation Cowan comes up with.’
‘Will we get away with as little as that?’
‘By the time I’ve finished we will.’
‘I’ll be glad when it’s over. For one thing, it’ll make a change to meet in more civilized surroundings than a rain-sodden park.’
Darren Cowan was a manipulator. In some this would be a shortcoming. In Darren’s case it was an asset. He worked in the City and his career was studded with deals he’d pulled off for clients, sometimes against the odds, invariably using his manipulative skills. Recently these had been less in demand than in the heyday of the nineties, but Darren was usually able to keep one or two projects in hand. A new prospect had recently landed on his desk and although the takeover market had been quiet of late this was a deal worth his undivided attention. A hostile takeover bid of one construction company by another would grab the headlines. Not only in the City columns, but also on the front pages of the nationals. It would be Darren’s name that would be associated with it. There were problems, but Darren was well capable of handling them. The deal had taken a while to put together. Secrecy was essential. There had been the added snag of obtaining the necessary information. Both predator and victim were private companies which made the job harder. With public companies it was easy. They had to divulge information by law. Private companies weren’t bound by those restrictions.
The problems were more than offset by the potential rewards. Darren knew he’d get a massive commission if the bid succeeded. Equally important, he’d recently learned it was likely to give him considerable favour in political circles. The head of the bidding company was a by-election candidate and Darren had discovered that once the man was returned to Parliament he would be in the ascendancy. Darren loved power. The power he could wield himself, and association with others who could command higher levels of influence. If Darren pulled the deal off he’d be able to swing considerable weight in Westminster. He wasn’t about to risk losing the opportunity of grasping at the coat tails of someone on their way up. He’d bent his not inconsiderable talents to consideration of the bid details with renewed enthusiasm.
Acting on his client’s instructions he’d put together a bid based on a conservative estimate of the target company’s worth and sent them for approval. He’d been expecting his client to agree an offer price in excess of that. Now he stared at the figures in disbelief. What on earth was the client thinking of? There was no way the bid could be successful on the terms they’d suggested. Whatever Darren thought his client’s reaction would be, he’d not been expecting a bid price set below the basic market valuation; and certainly not as low as this. He knew he’d have to check that the bidder hadn’t made a mistake before he authorized the typing of an offer document.
Darren wondered how his client, a shrewd businessman, had justified arriving at such a low figure. He was used to the wheeling and dealing that accompanied takeovers; was used to the strategies that went along with them. He couldn’t make sense of the reasoning and logic behind this one. He reached for the telephone.
The early morning light filtered round the edges of the curtains. Harry Rourke lay on his back wide awake. Tara’s head was on his shoulder, her hair tickling him slightly. She stirred in her sleep and her leg brushed against his in an unconsciously erotic movement.
Harry was unable to resist. To be fair, he didn’t make much effort. He turned and began to caress the smooth curve of her waist. Tara muttered something, low and unintelligible. A protest? If so he ignored it. Seconds later he realized it hadn’t been a protest.
Later, when he’d left the bedroom, the phone rang. Tara answered it. ‘No,’ she told the caller, ‘he’s taking a shower.’ She listened. ‘OK, I’ll tell him the minute he comes out.’
‘Sid Robinson wants you to ring him on his mobile,’ she told Harry when he emerged. ‘Said it was more than urgent. He sounded to be in a panic. Who is he?’
‘He’s the site supervisor for our Wakefield contract. It’s not like him to panic. I wonder why the mobile, there’s a landline on site.’ Harry reached for the phone. ‘Sid, what’s the problem?’
He listened for what seemed an age. ‘Oh shit, no. How the fuck did that happen? You’re joking! Bastards! Send the men to that café down the road until we find out what’s going on. Set up a meeting with whoever’s in charge. I’ll be there as fast as I can.’
He put the phone down and stared unseeingly at her. Tara had never seen such an expression on his face. Not so much bleak as ruthless. ‘What’s gone wrong?’
‘Sid got a call-out half an hour ago. The site cabin’s been gutted. Police and fire brigade reckon its arson.’
Building sites aren’t the tidiest of places. When Harry Rourke pulled his BMW as close as he was allowed, he saw the extent of the damage immediately. He identified himself to the police officer and ducked under the incident tape. Sid Robinson hurried over with a senior fire officer and a uniformed policeman at his heels. He introduced them. The fire chief took over. ‘We believe somebody opened the tap on the diesel tank, let the fuel flow towards the cabin, then torched it. The first thing to go up was the tank, but the cabin wasn’t far behind.’
‘What a bloody mess. And because it’s arson the insurance won’t pay out, so we’ll have to stand the loss,’ Harry said grimly.
‘Mr Rourke, have you any idea who might have a grudge against you?’ the police officer asked.
‘How long a list do you want? I’m running a business. I make enemies. People I’ve fired, competitors, environmental objectors to construction; you name them, I’ve upset them.’
‘Anybody specific, that you’ve crossed swords with recently? Anybody who’s made any threats against you personally, or the company?’
‘No one in particular,’ Harry answered. ‘How did they get access to the site? It should have been secured overnight.’
‘I can answer that.’ Robinson pointed across the site. ‘They cut a hole in the security fence behind those bushes. Must have used a big pair of wire cutters, took out a six-foot section.’
‘That doesn’t sound like kids or chance vandals,’ Rourke said. ‘How long before we can get back on site and start trying to tidy this bloody mess up?’
‘The forensic people will want to be in as soon as the site’s safe and the temperature round the cabin and the tank has cooled. They’ll need a fair amount of time. I reckon you’ll be looking at the day after tomorrow.’
Rourke groaned. ‘More expensive delay.’ He turned to Robinson. ‘Right, I’ll organize a new cabin, another tank and set delivery for the day after tomorrow. In the meantime I want that fence securing. Properly mind, not a patched-up job. Then I want the whole site checked over, every inch, and I want you to organize site security. Get on to the phone people and have their engineers here for the day after tomorrow. I want this site up and running by lunchtime. Any problems, call me at the office.’
An incident involving an arson attack on a site operated by Alan Marshall’s former employers might have seemed significant if the CID team had made the connection. However, the report didn’t reach any of the officers who were familiar with the Marshall case.
chapter seventeen
Extra pressure had been caused by the arson attack. If Harry Rourke’s hopes were for an improvement, they were dashed by another phone call. The call came from Sheffield where another Broadwood Construction site was due to start operating. The site manager was almost incoherent with rage and mortification as he reported the calamity.
‘We brought the machinery down from Leeds as you ordered. We had the two excavators, the loading shovel and the dump trucks ready to start work tomorrow. I got a call from the police an hour ago. I’m at the site now. Somebody cut the fuel lines on all the machines and torched the lot. All that’s left is a pile o
f twisted metal, fit only for scrap.’
‘Oh fucking hell, not another. If I get hold of the bastard who’s doing this I’ll bloody kill him. I’m on my way. Make sure the police and fire people are still there. I’ll be with you in about an hour.’
‘What is it this time?’ Tara asked.
Harry seethed as he told her. ‘One,’ he added, ‘I could have put down as a random act of vandalism, two looks like a deliberate campaign.’
‘Will it cost a lot?’
Harry grimaced. ‘I don’t want to think about it. We’re talking six figures for the damage at Wakefield alone. Fuck knows what this will cost. I can’t go on losing money like this.’
Broadwood Construction’s head office personnel were dreading another incident. Harry Rourke’s volatile temper was on continuous fast boil these days. Business was tight anyway and the company had missed out on several massive contracts. They were contracts Harry had been confident of getting. To lose out to their main rivals Coningsby was especially galling. As if all that wasn’t bad enough, the vandalism was the last straw.
Even Freddie, Harry Rourke’s trusted right hand man, had been unable to placate him and if Freddie couldn’t, nobody could. When news filtered through of the third and most violent attack to date many of those working in Broadwood’s impressive head office building began wishing they’d chosen a less stressful occupation, such as a Formula One racing driver.
‘They’ve really done it this time.’ Harry slammed the phone down.
‘Go on, Harry, tell me the worst,’ Tara said quietly.
‘If I could get my hands on the bastards I’d kill them. They’ve only rammed a fucking excavator into the sodding wall of Kirkbridge Shopping Centre, that’s all.’
‘Oh God, is it badly damaged?’
‘I don’t bloody well know until I get there. The site manager reckons the wall will have to be completely rebuilt. That’s going to cost a mint. Apart from that, the centre’s due to open in two months. There’s fat chance of that happening, which means we’ll incur penalties for late completion. The bill could run into millions.’