Back-Slash

by Bill Kitson

  Linda turned towards Marshall. ‘You asked a question. You asked if anyone knew a good enough reason for you not to kill him.’ Marshall nodded. ‘Well you can’t,’ Linda told him. ‘Because I have already claimed that pleasure.’

  ‘Go on, then.’ Harrison spoke to her for the first time. ‘Shoot me and have done with it.’

  ‘You’ll die when I’m good and ready, and not a minute before,’ Linda snapped. Then she smiled. ‘But at least I gave you a good send-off. After all I’d heard, Freddie, I still made you your favourite meal, a parting gesture. A really hot, really spicy curry to send you on your way to Hell. Don’t you think that was nice of me, Freddie?’

  Harrison attempted to rise from his chair, trying to fight this strange feeling of inertia. ‘For God’s sake, get it over with,’ he snarled. ‘Shoot me, damn you.’

  ‘No, Freddie. I’m not going to shoot you. I’ve something far better in mind. We’re all going to sit here quietly and watch you start to die.’

  Harrison stared at her, uncomprehendingly.

  ‘I made the curry extra hot and extra spicy, to conceal the taste of the additional seasoning. Of course, it does say it’s odourless and tasteless on the packet, but you can’t always trust what the packet tells you. Can you? I checked it on your computer. It told me what the effects were. The nervous system gets attacked first, but the effects can still be reversed at this stage. You’ll be immobile soon, Freddie. That’s because the motor nerves have been attacked. But that’s not fatal. It isn’t until the convulsions start that the irreversible stage has been reached. Then you’ll know. You’ll know that death is inevitable. But what you don’t know, Freddie, the best part of the joke is that it won’t kill you tonight, or tomorrow, or the next day. This poison is so good it’ll keep you alive for years to come. Just think of it, you’ll have all that time to think about what you’ve done. That’s all you will be able to do of course, because if I got the dose right you’ll be totally paralysed. I do hope so,’ Linda added thoughtfully. ‘I measured it ever so carefully.’

  ‘Where did you get the poison?’ Lisa asked in revulsion.

  Linda turned and smiled. There was a sort of sick horror in the sweetness of that smile. ‘That’s the best bit. I think it’s so appropriate. I got it from Freddie’s own greenhouse. It’s his favourite weedkiller, and look, it’s killing this weed.’ She pointed at Harrison and began to laugh.

  It was then that the first tremors began. It was then he finally realized that it was all over.

  Linda had walked to the lounge door and was through it before Nash reached her. He heard the click of the lock being turned from the outside. ‘Damn,’ he glanced at his watch. ‘Twenty minutes before the rest of the team get here.’ He reached for his mobile and dialled the control room.

  Nash and Marshall tried the windows; the double-glazed units were locked, the keys removed. Linda Watson left the house carrying a small briefcase containing all Freddie Harrison’s disposable assets. Her planning had been meticulous. She waved cheerfully to them as she began reversing her car down the drive. There was nothing they could do to prevent her departure. They stood at the window, watching. None of them gave a thought to Harrison, still sitting helpless in his armchair.

  When Mironova arrived she unlocked the lounge in time for the paramedics to remove Harrison to hospital. With them, they took an empty box of weedkiller Nash had salvaged from the kitchen waste bin.

  At the prearranged time, when the rest of the police and their media entourage were in place, Marshall emerged from the house flanked by Nash and Lisa, who had taken hold of his arm with one hand, and his jacket collar with the other, as though she were detaining him. They were surrounded by uniformed officers, many of them armed. Cameras flashed as the press, TV and radio reporters crowded closer. The officers formed a circle around the trio. In the centre of this group were Superintendent Dundas and DS Smailes. Nash turned towards Marshall, reached out and began to shake his hand. Dundas stood, open-mouthed. ‘Nash, what the hell are you doing?’ he blustered. ‘Arrest him!’

  Nash glanced at Dundas, then held up a hand to quiet the babbling questions from the media. ‘You were told there would be some meaningful arrests made this evening. This man’– he indicated Marshall – ‘is Alan Charles Marshall, who has been accused of murdering three people. And this’ – he indicated Lisa – ‘is DC Lisa Andrews, who has for the last week been working undercover, to bring the persons responsible to justice. I imagine what has happened tonight will give them both great pleasure.’

  Nash nodded slightly to Clara, who signalled to the edge of the crowd. The Chief Constable of Yorkshire Central Task Force, accompanied by Gloria O’Donnell stepped forward. The senior officer began his statement. ‘Officers from a combined task force have this evening arrested Julian Corps. He will be charged, along with Frederick Harrison, with conspiracy to murder and a host of other offences. The murders include those of Anna Marshall, Councillor Jeffries, Stuart Moran and Lesley Robertson. All charges against Alan Marshall have been dropped. The arrests are the culmination of a brilliant operation led by Detective Inspector Nash of Helmsdale CID. He and his small team, although under-staffed, have uncovered a conspiracy to rob and defraud involving millions of pounds over the years. Other arrests will follow.’

  Then the media went wild. The mêlée to get from the senior officers to Nash, from Nash to Marshall, Marshall to Lisa Andrews was so bad that at one point Nash thought riot police would have to be brought in.

  Eventually Nash and Marshall escaped to the police car. ‘We’ll need a statement from you, of course, but I hope this is the end of a nightmare,’ Nash told him.

  ‘I hope so too,’ Marshall agreed. His eyes slipped to Lisa, who was busy fielding questions. ‘Let’s call it a chance to look forward instead of dwelling in the past.’

  The following day’s Netherdale Gazette carried only one story, headlined: POLICE BLOW THE WHISTLE ON BIG BUSINESS, a story that had been carried across the national press that morning. It showed photographs taken the previous evening and statements issued by both chief constables. Under a separate banner headline, PARLIAMENTARY CANDIDATE ARRESTED, the article described the detention of Julian Corps in lurid detail. There were photos of Corps being led away from the rally in handcuffs alongside election posters of him. Another shot had Nash chuckling. The photo showed the deputy leader of Corps’s party peering furtively from behind the curtain of the theatre hosting the rally, as police swooped to make the arrest. The caption read: SHADOWY CABINET MINISTER. Further down the page Nash read another piece with equal interest. ‘In an operation linked to this investigation police raided the offices of Leeds solicitors, Hobbs & Hirst, and removed a quantity of documents. The Netherdale Gazette has also learned that another man involved in what is being described as a massive conspiracy was found unconscious at his home in suspicious circumstances. He is being treated under guard at hospital. Police are anxious to interview a woman, Mrs Linda Watson, who they believe may be able to help them with their enquiries’.

  Nash closed the paper and handed it across his desk to Ruth Edwards. ‘Thank goodness that’s over. All we need to sort out now is the possible involvement of Smailes. But that’s not down to me; that’s your department. Then, perhaps we can return to some semblance of normality. Who knows, I may get a day off.’

  Ruth smiled. ‘And I can return to my proper job. Not for the first time, you’ve used some fairly unorthodox methods, Mike. I realize they’ve been necessary, but I’d hate to go away thinking that’s how you normally go about policing this area.’

  Nash shook his head. ‘We’ve been through some fairly trying times over the last few weeks,’ he pointed out. ‘But I wouldn’t change anything.’

  ‘I’d better get off then. I’ve still got my packing to do.’ She smiled again as she stood up and turned to leave, but paused and looked back at Nash. ‘No regrets, then?’

  ‘That you’re leaving? Of course, but I’ll always have the memory
of us working together. And who knows, one day we might do so again.’

  He reached to answer the phone. ‘Hello, boss, it’s Viv. I’m fit enough to come back to work. Thought you might be a bit pressed without me?’ Pearce stared at the phone in confusion, listening to the laughter and wondering what Mike Nash found so funny.

  After Ruth left his office, Nash thought about all that had happened. It had been the second time he and Ruth had worked together. On this occasion she’d even stayed at his flat. Normally, the presence of such an attractive woman in such close proximity would have set his pulses racing, but that hadn’t happened. Was it simply because she was a fellow officer? Or could it be that he was getting old? Nash smiled wryly, a smile that was interrupted when he sneezed violently, once, twice, three times.

  chapter twenty-five

  Three months later the postman delivered a letter to Woodbine Cottage. Earlier that week Corps and Harrison, the latter brought from hospital in a wheelchair, had been remanded for trial in what the papers referred to as ‘The Coningsby Affair’. Brown would stand trial alongside them on several counts of murder. Davidson was implicated in the sabotage plot and as paymaster for the corruption. He had far more serious matters to worry about, as he’d also be standing trial on charges of child sex abuse. Several officials in local and regional government departments had either been sent for trial or suspended from duty. Although most of them were unknown to Marshall, one name on the list of those awaiting trial caused him quiet satisfaction: that of Detective Sergeant Donald Smailes.

  Marshall opened the envelope. It contained a cutting from the financial pages of one of the papers. Under the headline: BROADWOOD SNAPS UP COLLAPSED RIVAL it described Harry Rourke’s acquisition of Coningsby Developments. Purchased from the receivers for what was described in the article as a ‘nominal sum’ and gave space to Harry’s announced intention to form a public company.

  Attached to the cutting was a Broadwood compliments slip on which was scrawled the message, ‘I said I owed you. I always pay my debts. Harry’. Pinned to the compliments slip was a share certificate. Alan Marshall had been granted a twenty per cent stake in Broadwood Holdings Plc.

  Marshall smiled. The acquisition of Coningsby had been the final chapter of the revenge he’d cooked up with Harry Rourke. It had been Marshall’s idea to turn the tables on the plotters and do to them what they had planned to do to Rourke. Once the conspiracy failed, it would only be a matter of time until Coningsby Developments folded, and when it went into receivership Harry could pick it up for a fraction of its worth.

  The plotters would know beyond all doubt who’d master-minded their downfall. They’d also be painfully aware that none of this would have happened if they hadn’t murdered Anna. Marshall’s ambition was for them to fret their lives away in prison, year after year. Knowing it had been in vain. The knowledge that their grubby little scheming, the slaughter they’d paid Brown to commit, was all futile would gnaw away at them for the rest of their lives. That was the greatest revenge Marshall could imagine. Knowing it gave him a deep sense of satisfaction.

  He picked up the recently installed phone and dialled a local number. ‘I’ve something to celebrate. Fancy a dirty weekend?’

  ‘Whereabouts?’ Lisa demanded.

  ‘Anywhere but the Golden Bear!’

  ‘That sounds wonderful,’ Lisa agreed. ‘Oh, just one thing. Who’s calling?’

  The Mike Nash Series

  Depth of Despair

  Chosen

  Minds That Hate

  Altered Egos

  Copyright

  © Bill Kitson 2011

  First published in Great Britain 2011

  This edition 2013

  ISBN 978 0 7198 1158 6 (epub)

  ISBN 978 0 7198 1159 3 (mobi)

  ISBN 978 0 7198 1160 9 (pdf)

  ISBN 978 0 7090 9316 9 (print)

  Robert Hale Limited

  Clerkenwell House

  Clerkenwell Green

  London EC1R 0HT

  www.halebooks.com

  The right of Bill Kitson to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988