by Jean Chapman
Given he had the keys, it seemed unnecessary to knock, but he let his knuckles fall onto the door as he turned the key.
The first thing he noticed was a smell, an alien, hospital-like miasma that caught his throat with its sourness, then Austin appeared at his bedroom door.
‘John – thank God – you understood!’
‘Not sure I do,’ Cannon said, ‘but I’m here.’ He thought he must look pretty exhausted, but he had never seen Austin with such black sunken eyes, and his clothes, which usually gave the impression he had the services of a personal man-servant, now looked heavily slept in.
‘Are you all right?’ he asked.
‘I’ve felt better,’ Austin said laconically as their hands grasped and arms went around each other in a brief hard hug.
‘You’re on a case to do with horses?’ Cannon asked.
‘It’s far more than that.’ He laughed wearily. ‘Think of Spracks as a criminal middleman – specializing in intercepting other villains’ illegal goods – then there’s drugs, race-rigging and murder if we could prove it.’
‘Spracks of Morbury Hall!’ Cannon was astonished. ‘So that’s why you’re his security chief – and he’s not just a local villain.’
‘They all start local, but some, like our friend get on, climb the crime ladder, go viral.’ As he spoke he turned back towards his bedroom. ‘And what I was afraid of, was that to keep my cover I would have to leave before you got here.’
If Cannon had thought the two of them looked in a state, the man on the bed was certainly worse. He had absolutely no colour, mouth agape, out for a long count by the look of him, and it was only as he went closer that he recognized the man.
‘Paul? Paul Jefferson?’ He turned to Austin to query of one friend the presence of the other. ‘What’s happened to him?’
‘He was being interrogated in the stables at Morbury House, when I came on the scene …’
‘But how?’ With a gesture to their surroundings, Cannon questioned how Austin had managed to extricate himself and Paul from such a situation. ‘And is he…?’
‘He’s sleeping off the effects of a kicking and a narcotic,’ Austin said.
‘A narcotic?’
‘The sort that brings rhinos down,’ Austin said, ‘but I’ve seen this version used before to get someone out of the way quietly, without killing them there and then.’ He paused. ‘I’m supposed to be doing that.’
‘Killing Paul?’
‘Yes,’ Austin confirmed, ‘it was the only way I could think of getting him out of the situation he’d wandered into. I had him bundled into my car boot to dispose of, his car will eventually be found in some distant quarry. He’s going to have quite a headache and plenty of aches and pains when he wakes up in a few hours’ time, but he will wake up,’ Austin said. He drew in a deep breath, exhaled sharply, then there was both anger and frustration in his voice as he asked, ‘So what the hell made him go to Morbury Hall, and what made him do this?’
He reached down by the side of his chair and picked up a black portfolio Cannon immediately recognized as Paul’s. Austin opened it up and pulled out a single sheet. On it was a sketch of a circular sunburst jump – behind that was a distant representation of Morbury Hall with various figures dotted about.
‘Paul has been commissioned to do a logo for a building society.’ Cannon explained Paul’s extended trip from farm to Morbury Hall. ‘He was told he could see the Olympic jump from the road, and the jump was due to be moved on at any time.’
‘Yes, I know about the jumps,’ Austin said shortly, ‘but what made him do this?’ His finger went from tiny figure to tiny figure spaced around the front of the Hall.
Cannon frowned. ‘It’s what artists do, isn’t it, just for perspective, or extra interest.’
‘Ah, but these figures are real people! The people working for Mr Kevin Spracks could pick themselves out, they are recognizable outlines. Not what those people want, that’s one reason Paul was not believed when he told the story about the logo, that was why he was being interrogated, rather roughly.’
‘You mean …’ Cannon peered more closely at the simply sketched outlines of men, and could see they were all different, one tall, though his legs were not particularly long, another had one shoulder much lower than the other, and an awful lot of hair; a third standing on the steps of the Hall was about medium height but had his head thrown up and back, officious looking, definitely in charge.
Austin poked a finger towards that man and said, ‘That’s Spracks, and he recognized himself. He was convinced Paul was working for—’
‘The police,’ Cannon interrupted.
‘No, worse than that in Spracks’s eyes – a rival organization,’ Austin corrected. ‘But I give Paul his due, he never gave any sign he recognized me.’ He inclined his head towards the figure on the bed. ‘He would have made a good policeman.’
This, Cannon knew, was the highest possible praise from Austin, and nodded agreement.
‘I had to get him out,’ Austin continued, ‘so on the pretext of calling for my car to be brought round, I pressed your number, and hoped …’ The look he gave Cannon was of affection and respectful gratitude. ‘And here you are, and here he is.’
Cannon was moved, cleared his throat. ‘So what now?’ he asked.
‘I have a meeting with Spracks at his security company’s London office near Westminster at nine.’ He consulted his watch. ‘Just under three hours’ time, before that I need to go to the apartment I am living in as Frank Austin, pick up some papers and the bag I keep packed. A quick trip abroad is always on the cards,’ he said, adding drily, ‘he has to guard his interests against fellow thieves.’
‘And if Paul is supposed to be … out of the frame, he would surely soon be reported missing,’ Cannon stated.
‘Plans are in place to protect my cover. A car like mine will have been seen at a certain spot, a report of something suspicious thrown into a water-filled quarry, and for frogmen to be brought in. But…’ He looked at Cannon like a man who was going to ask a lot. ‘I wondered if you could get Paul away, hide him in one of your country retreats until this is all over. Spracks does not hesitate to eliminate anyone he is in the least unsure of, he is totally ruthless. He never forgives, I’m not sure how secure this flat is. Spracks has most of his men spied on. He trusts money, knives and guns, not much else. Mine, and Paul’s, will not be the only lives on the line.’
Austin lapsed into his mother’s tongue to express his true contempt.
CHAPTER 6
An hour later, Cannon went to retrieve Liz’s car along a street where the rising sun cut angles of brightness across the intersections, and a small army of the capital’s cleaners was hurrying to prepare for those who came to their work later. Honest folk, caring, and trusted with things not their own, unlike the Spracks of this world whose ill-gotten wealth allowed them to hire an army of people to do all their dirty work.
One or two of the early workers gave him a swift, enquiring glance as he reached the red sports car. This was their daily routine, he was the stranger – and hardly the most inconspicuous vehicle he could be climbing into. Probably think I’m just going home after a night on the tiles, he thought, as he drove round to the apartments and down the steep slope to the basement car park.
He was pleased how quickly the gate slid open as he flashed Austin’s fob in front of the scanner, and closed just as quickly immediately he was through. Then he found a space marked Visitor quite near the lift. All very convenient, he thought, as he locked the car, was in the lift and pressing the button for the fourth floor all in a couple of minutes.
Then a second before the doors closed, a foot was thrust in, breaking the sensor’s beam and a man slid inside. Cannon had time to see he had on a kind of navy uniform with Attendant embroidered on his breast pocket as the man moved to stand behind him. There was no greeting, but that, Cannon reflected, was the norm these days.
‘Which floor?’ Cannon asked coldl
y as the lift moved upwards.
‘Same as you,’ a cheeky cockney voice said, and as Cannon turned to stare at him, the man added, ‘ex Inspector Cannon.’
‘Jack Evans!’ Cannon exclaimed in a surprised whisper. ‘PC Jack Evans. So, you’re … still on the job?’
‘DC,’ Evans corrected.
‘Glad to know someone’s covering Austin’s back,’ Cannon said.
Evans’s face changed, he shook his head. ‘He’s out on a right limb, make no mistake about that. I’m just pleased to see you. Not sure where you fit in, but I know it has to be good you’re around.’
They reached the fourth floor as an immaculately dressed and made-up young woman walked to the lift. So this was the kind of person who lived here, Cannon thought.
‘Mornin’, miss … Beautiful morning, isn’t it?’
She grinned – and looked human. ‘Good morning to you,’ she said.
‘I’ll take you straight back down to the car deck, miss,’ Evans offered.
He ignored Cannon as he left the lift, which was away so quickly Cannon felt momentarily abandoned in that sumptuous place, solitary, as he had never felt out on the broad empty acres of his beloved Lincolnshire marshes.
Letting himself back into the flat, he found Austin in a pin-striped business suit, the stripes slightly too wide to be classy, but perfect for a dodgy security manager. He proffered the fob and the keys.
‘No,’ Austin said, ‘it’s a spare set, you keep them. You never know, you might need to get back in again after I’ve left. I doubt I’ll be coming back here again.’
Cannon looked sharply at him.
‘Until it’s over, I mean, over,’ he said, ‘all over.’
‘You have Evans here,’ Cannon stated.
‘Oh! You’ve seen him.’ Austin grinned. ‘He’s the best DC I’ve ever had, bit of a clown, why he’s never got promotion … but he’ll look out for you too now.’ He grasped Cannon’s forearm. ‘Get away as soon as you can.’
He walked to the door, then turned, and held out his hand. ‘I’ve respected and trusted you ever since we were together in the force. There was no one I regretted losing more than you when you resigned to look after Liz – just go on doing that, dear boy.’
The second handshake was brief but fierce and then Austin too was gone. Cannon stood, his hand still stretched out, with the memory of that other larger, stronger, hand still imprinted there, lingering, but a memory already.
He felt the childish urge to kick a few things around. He didn’t want to let Austin go like this, did not want him involved – out on a limb – not knowing when he would encounter him again. Even though these days they rarely saw each other, life was better for knowing Austin was just around – somewhere.
Come on, he told himself, get a grip on the job in hand, and went to check on Paul.
Paul had moved, his head was turned to one side on the pillow and one bare arm was outside the covers. He watched for a minute or so, but he seemed settled, was breathing as well as he had been before, which was a little raucously from time to time, like a drunk.
Cannon left him to search Austin’s kitchen. One thing he knew for certain was that he needed something to eat and drink before he faced driving anywhere.
There was bacon unopened and long-life milk in the fridge and sliced bread in the freezer. He switched the kettle on, found loose tea – shades of Liz – then he found a box of teabags next to a stack of mugs. He prised four slices from the loaf, put four slices of bacon under the grill, and was sipping tea when he heard a loud thud, a groan, a noise more animal than human.
He ran to the bedroom in time to see Paul on his hands and knees by the side of the bed. He was trying to get to his feet, but his legs would not obey, splayed sideways, and he went down again like a wild thing darted for capture.
Cannon hurried to help him, had to get his shoulder under Paul’s chest to lift and heave him back on to the side of the bed. It was a clumsy operation and by the time Paul was lodged on the edge, Cannon was breathless and Paul looked dreadful. He narrowed his eyes as if to try to focus on Cannon, but there was no recognition there. Then he looked around the room and shook his head.
‘Don’t worry, just lie back,’ Cannon said.
This was obviously the last thing Paul intended to do, he looked at Cannon as if he was some old-time jailor trying to push him back into a dungeon.
‘No, leave! Leave!’ Paul shouted, his voice thick, blurred, terrified, as he lashed out at Cannon.
The only way Cannon could control him was by throwing himself bodily over him. Holding him down, he shouted into his ear, ‘It’s John! John Cannon!’
Paul went limp, so slack, so lifeless, so suddenly, Cannon thought he had died. He pulled himself up, put his hand near Paul’s nose, for seconds nothing, then he gave a gasp of relief as he felt warm breath passing over his fingers. He had seen the result of drugs in many a police cell, but this sudden switch from fight to unconsciousness in a second, had scared him. Scared him because it was Paul. Still, his overwhelming instinct was to summon help, go public, get Paul to a hospital – do all the things Austin had asked him not to do.
He bent over his artist friend until he was convinced he was no worse than before his brief return to consciousness. Perhaps this was how it would be, a return to wakefulness, then a relapse – hopefully with the length of wakefulness lengthening each time.
He drew in a deep breath – then held it in alarm – sniffed again, and raced back to the kitchen.
He was greeted by a pale wisp of blue smoke coming from the grill. He snatched out the pan, the bacon was blackening and curling – another minute … He had rushed to Paul without thought.
‘Idiot,’ he muttered as he struggled with the window catch, opened it wide, grabbed a tea towel and fanned the blue haze well away from the smoke alarm.
He was not making a good start, and he was ravenous. He put some of the black bacon crisps into a slice of cold bread and ate the disgusting charcoal-like sandwich, that would linger in his teeth for a bit.
It was nearly an hour later when Paul stirred again. Cannon was by the bed when he took two, three deep breaths, like a man coming up from a long swim underwater. Cannon held his own breath as Paul opened his eyes, stared straight up at the ornate plasterwork of the ceiling, before looking slowly around at furniture and fittings he did not know. Then he found and focussed on Cannon.
‘Paul?’ Cannon ventured.
Paul’s lips parted as if he might speak, but no words came, only his stare became more and more focussed, as if pleading for explanation, so different to the wild aggression of his first awakening.
‘You’re safe,’ Cannon heard himself say and amended it with, ‘for now, we’re fine. I’m looking after you, don’t worry.’
‘Where?’ The word came like a blessing to Cannon, at least his friend was not asking who he was or trying to fight him off.
‘In Austin’s apartment,’ he said tentatively, ‘in London.’
Paul gave a noise like a laugh as if it must be a joke, but he did not question who Austin was; this was progress, and he seemed to still have his sense of humour.
Cannon was heartened, took up the carafe of water and poured a little into a glass. ‘Just wet your lips for a start,’ he said.
‘London?’ Paul queried after a second sip of water. ‘How?’
‘Do you remember going to see the Grangers?’ Cannon asked.
‘Yes.’ The reply was assertive, as if demanding to know what that had to do with anything.
‘And from there?’
Paul stared hard at him, and Cannon could see from his face he was really remembering. ‘… From there to sketch an Olympic jump, and …’ Paul raised himself in the bed, Cannon shoved another pillow behind him, propped him higher, waited, and watched recollection bring many fleeting emotions.
‘I had done the jump,’ Paul said, ‘wanted to add the house and figures to give it scale. I climbed over into the field to get a
better view.’
‘So you drew the house and figures just as you saw them,’ Cannon commented.
‘Yes,’ Paul frowned, ‘why not, they were well grouped and …’
‘Highly recognizable, Austin said.’
‘So?’
‘Do you remember what happened after you’d finished sketching?’
‘I didn’t quite finish,’ Paul said immediately, but went on with less certainty. ‘A Land Rover came speeding over, two men in it. I asked them if they’d come to collect the jump.’
Cannon groaned inwardly, the old leading question get-out. ‘They said they had,’ he guessed.
‘Yes,’ Paul agreed, ‘they looked at my sketch, and then one of their mobiles rang. The man answered, listened, then gave the other one the nod back towards the house. They said as I was so near I might as well go and see the stables and the horses. I was curious …’
Cannon gave him another sip of water.
‘There were quite a few men, and horses, horses on drips, I’d never seen that before. There was a man with a bucket full of syringes. And then,’ he exclaimed, ‘’then I saw Austin. He sort of gave me a fractional shake of his head …’
Paul lay back on the pillows, and Cannon could see the talk was exhausting him. ‘I think I can tell you the rest of the story,’ he said quietly.
‘Someone injected me …’
‘Yes,’ Cannon said, ‘Austin rescued you from a very bad situation.’
‘And Helen?’ Paul asked. ‘Does Helen know?’
Cannon confined himself to, ‘Not the detail. You can tell her that when we get you home.’
‘And when …’
Cannon glanced at the brilliant sunshine outside, then at his watch, it was past midday. ‘When you’ve had another sleep and something to eat and drink.’
Paul nodded and closed his eyes. ‘Feel as if I’ve been hit by a sledge-hammer.’