by Jake Cross
It beat doing this, Brad realised. Liz Grafton was Mick’s little pet obsession, not his. He didn’t really want to go break a stranger’s nose. But neither did he really want to do the alternative job. So, he said okay.
He got out, and into the back seat of the T3 via its rear hatch. Some owners would use this contraption as a bus and leave the rows of seats, while others, because it was popular as a weekend adventure ride, turned the interior into a bedsit. This pair of jokers had gone for just the sitting room part. An armchair against each side wall, under the curtained windows, facing each other. The floor was carpeted. Brad ignored the chairs, walked between them with his head bowed, and knelt behind the cabin seats. Floppy gave him a quick look, and a thumbs up, and said: ‘Hold tight and don’t sing.’ The brute turned his head almost 180, and glared again at Brad.
‘Let me save you some confusion,’ Brad said to him. ‘It’s you.’
‘What the fuck you talking about?’ the guy replied, his accent thick Irish.
‘You’re sizing me up and wondering if me and you got into it who would end up screaming for mummy’s help.’
That made Floppy laugh. But it also made the brute face forward.
‘Name’s Sink,’ Floppy said. Also an Irish guy. ‘Pleased to meet. This is Guff, my blood. Let’s do this.’
Seventy-Five
Karl
‘So, if you don’t mind a blunt question—’ Karl started, and Danny cut him off.
‘Bike crash. No, I don’t mind. People wonder. Some people get an IED in Afghanistan story. Those who know I worked for Ronald Grafton think I got done over by him because he kicked me out. That’s not true, either. I simply fell off a bike.’
‘I did wonder if Liz’s husband—’
This time the ringing phone cut Karl short. He almost jumped for it. But it was right by Danny, and he got there first.
‘I understand,’ Danny said after listening for just a few seconds. Then he hung up. Not Katie, then, but the solicitor. Karl knew it was a delay even before Danny said so.
‘Six o’clock. Court stuff.’
Karl was in a state of SAS-like readiness, but it was a drain on his energy. Liz seemed withdrawn, barely aware. Danny was taking it all in his stride, as if he escorted fugitives to jail every day.
‘I’ve got Monopoly,’ Danny said.
Seventy-Six
Mick
Last he knew, Theo Timberland worked at a yacht repair unit at Gillingham Marina in Kent, and according to a Google search he was still there. Assistant manager now, at just twenty years of age. Probably that brash attitude of his. The same one that had made him bully Mick’s son during primary school. On the map, he drew a line from Ramirez’s home to Ramsgate and that line passed nicely by Gillingham. As he’d said to Brad: if this wasn’t a sign of Fate, no such beast existed.
His mobile rang. He looked over at the target building, and it was still dark. Still empty. He answered the phone.
‘We’re here,’ Sink said. And then there was a pause.
‘Don’t make me ask,’ Mick said. ‘Just talk.’ He spotted movement on the darkening road. A mangy dog, snout on the ground, hunting for food or a mate. It was the only life he could see, and it gave the quiet land a surreal ambience, a post-apocalyptic-world sort of feel.
Sink said: ‘Semi-detached place. Posh kind of poncy street. Pathway down the side of the house. Lights on in the living room, none upstairs. No sign of anyone. Should we watch a bit or go in now?’
The dog passed before his car, twenty feet away, and his eyes followed.
‘How’s that memory of yours? Wait for my call, that’s what I said. Knock on the door and hide, see if it’s him who answers. Just try to make sure there’s not a party going on in there. Call when it’s done, and just tell me straight out, okay? Don’t make me ask. And double-time it back here. But none of that until I give the word. That part is very important.’
He hung up. The dog had vanished.
Decided, then. After the bitch and Seabury were dead, he’d head north ten miles to Ramirez’s home, end that bastard, and slip east to Gillingham. He may as well tick another enemy off the list. Once Theo Timberland was well and truly sorry that he’d ever messed with Tim McDevitt, Mick would continue east to Ramsgate where he’d decided he would try to get a trip across the water to Dunkirk or Calais. After that, Germany and a new life.
Seventy-Seven
Karl
He knew it was the solicitor again, but still flew out of his seat like a pilot who’d thumped the eject button.
Danny answered the phone. An even shorter call this time. Five seconds. ‘He’ll call us when he’s back home,’ he told his guests. ‘But he thinks about seven o’clock now. Two hours.’
Liz was on Danny’s mobile. He wondered if she was looking at news of her husband’s murder, but didn’t want to ask.
Danny was on his desktop computer, looking at Google Earth. He looked up and said: ‘I’ve found a spot where we can wait. Round the back of Gold’s house, over a field. There’s an access road, and we can watch Mr Gold’s house without being seen. That way we can be there in five minutes when he calls.’
‘But it might be hours, right?’ Karl said.
Danny looked at him. Long and hard, and Karl knew that his plan, which he’d just come up with, was written all over his face. He had called Katie’s dad’s house again ten minutes earlier, only to be told she was home now but asleep again, and no, her dad was not about to wake her, not after the ordeal Karl had put her through. So, it was probably pretty obvious what Karl wanted to do.
‘When people are on the run, they’re expected to head to people they know. Right now, pal, every relative and friend and work colleague you have is an island in shark-infested waters. If you’re real lucky, you’ll at least get a glimpse of your wife’s dad’s house before a ton of cops come down on you like a ton of bricks.’
‘Why hasn’t she called?’
‘Asleep, you said.’
He grunted. He hated waiting. But he knew he couldn’t call her dad again.
‘It’s better this way,’ Liz said, her first words for half an hour. ‘We’ll get you to see your wife, don’t worry.’ Said without even looking up from the phone.
A half-hour trip from here as opposed to a five-minute trek from whatever secret spot Danny had found would mean a twenty-five minute delay in getting to Katie. Karl stood up and looked out of the window. The sky was aflame with red as the sun set. That, more than the ticking clock on the wall, was a reminder that time was pushing on.
‘So let’s go,’ he said.
Seventy-Eight
Mick
Myriad newbie detective days of stake-outs in cars and empty flats had made Mick a patient man, but this was different. He couldn’t relax. He climbed into the cargo area to get one of his bags, and the photo he wanted. Then he got some Sellotape from the glove box and his knife. He coated the back of the photo in tape because he didn’t want to ruin it.
Dangling from the keys in the ignition was a micro torch which he turned on so that the beam lit up his knee. He slid the A4 photo beneath.
The little circle of light illuminated the head and shoulders of Ronald Grafton. In his wedding suit and smiling at the camera, because why wouldn’t he? He was rich, powerful, invincible, marrying the girl of his dreams.
He shifted his arm to one side and the beam slid across the A4 photo to spotlight Liz Grafton. In her wedding dress and smiling for the camera, because why wouldn’t she? She was marrying the rich, powerful and invincible man of her dreams.
Mick slit the photo down the middle, separating the lovers, much as he had torn the couple apart last night. He wrapped tape around the paper Grafton, securing the photo to his thigh. Same with the bitch on the other side. Lots of tape, nice and tight, but none around their heads and shoulders. He swung the torch like a pendulum, lighting up Grafton, then the bitch, Grafton, then the bitch. Helpfully, the curve of his thighs lessened their flat, 2D ap
pearance.
With one hand pressing down on the photo taped to his right thigh, he slit his own leg. One inch, deep enough to let loose blood immediately. It seeped up through the gash in Grafton’s paper neck slowly. He raised his leg so the blood ran down Grafton’s torso, over his suit. Grafton continued to smile. Throat cut, suit ruined, but still he grinned. Mick ripped the photo off his leg and stuffed it against his mouth like a starving man, and bit the face right off. No more smiling from Grafton.
Then he moved so that the light splashed over the bitch, and picked up the knife again.
Seventy-Nine
Katie
It wasn’t often someone woke from a near-death nightmare to find the real world far more frightening. But Katie would have gladly wished for her only problem in the world to be a runaway car with no brakes.
She was in the spare room which her father used for his pottery wheel and storing junk. No indication that it had once been her bedroom except for a small hole in the ceiling where she had poked a crutch at age ten. It brought back memories of the trampoline accident that broke her thigh. She would have gladly accepted a busted leg instead of the reality facing her.
A knocking at the front door. Maybe that was what woke her. She heard her father speaking. Something about a washing machine. And then the door slammed shut. The clock said 6.18 p.m., which meant she had been asleep for only a few hours. But her body ached as if she had been out for half a day.
Movement in her belly erased all negative thoughts. In the dream there had been no pregnancy, so maybe the real world was a better place after all. There was still a chance that Karl could beat the murder charge. If he was still alive.
That got her moving.
Her father heard her on the creaky floorboards and was at the bottom of the stairs by the time she reached the landing. He made a drinking motion, smiling. She made the same forced smile back and gave him a thumbs up.
After a minute’s silence at the kitchen table, he said, somewhat deadpan: ‘Karl is going to come by the house soon, before he goes to the police.’
Mother, bless her, had always approved of Karl, even when he stepped out of line. Father, though, had retained a neutral air, speaking neither negatively nor positively about him. It meant he never praised him, but neither did he shoot him down. Mother had gone berserk when he passed his driving test at twenty, on his fifth try, and she would have gone berserk about today’s situation. But not her father. Karl got his business loan approved. Karl’s wanted for murder. Same blank face. She didn’t know which reaction she would have preferred.
‘He’s innocent, Dad.’
He stroked his thick grey beard, thinking of a suitable reply. But she saw the doubt in his eyes, and then he confirmed it with: ‘I’m sure your ma would have said the same.’
Was that his way of saying he didn’t believe it? She didn’t ask. ‘Did he sound okay?’
He shrugged. ‘I guess. I’m sure he’s okay. But are you?’
She patted her belly in answer but father’s next line was: ‘You should get checked out again about that.’
What a thing to say. Sure, he was concerned, his only grandchild and all, but he should have known how worried she was. The hospital had performed an ultrasound, but that couldn’t highlight all possible problems, could it? She had to remind herself that the car crash hadn’t caused any harm to her belly, and neither had running from that madman.
‘I’ll come to the police station with you,’ he now said, looking a little ashamed, as if he had realised the error of his words.
She nodded.
‘I need to drop something at the theatre,’ he said. ‘But I’ll run you a bath first. Have a good soak. I’ll only be an hour. Will you be okay?’
She told him not to fuss over her. To go about his business, because she was going to be fine, didn’t need him by her side constantly. He stroked her hand, got up, and pointed at the phone on the wall.
‘Karl’s waiting for your call.’
Eighty
Karl
As Karl was calling Katie’s dad’s house and getting a dead tone, Danny turned the van into a cul-de-sac in a Bromley housing estate. Karl looked up from Danny’s mobile. It seemed they were going to the solicitor’s house, not his office. He scrutinised the houses and took a guess, but the van didn’t stop. Then they were at the turnaround at the end, and he stared at a detached house that he thought befitted a solicitor’s wage and standing, but the van didn’t stop. The vehicle mounted the kerb and drove down a path between two houses. There had once been a bollard to thwart cars, but all that remained was a concrete stub. Space was tight, and Danny drove slowly.
As Karl was getting no answer from Peter’s mobile, the path delivered them onto a hammerhead turnaround on a wide road that ran straight ahead. There was no street lighting. On the left were commercial businesses, large and lit by lamps, while on the right were smaller buildings, shrouded in gloom, that looked like houses, apart from the fact that each had a tiny car park out front.
As Karl was cursing the same dead tone from the landline, Danny stopped the van and pointed down the road. ‘On the right.’ He counted: ‘Fifteenth place.’
Karl counted. Fifteen was a long way, about 600 feet. There was a single car parked out front. At this angle they couldn’t see the front of the building, but there was a pinprick glint of light on the side of the lone car – a reflection from a lit window. It seemed to be the only place that might be occupied.
‘This is way out of the way for a solicitor’s office or house,’ Karl said.
‘He likes the peace and quiet,’ Liz said.
‘And a city office would attract all manner of scum,’ Danny said.
That made sense. A man with clients like Ronald Grafton would not want to deal with ASBO breakers and car thieves.
He looked down the left flank of the road and saw what appeared to be an end to the commercial properties because the world turned black.
As if reading his mind, Danny said: ‘Where it gets dark, just after the businesses end on the left, there’s a food warehouse called Gustafson Foods that’s got no lighting on the exterior, so it’s the darkest spot here. The best place to hide and watch, so that’s where McDevitt will be lurking, if he’s here. By coming the way we did, we avoided the entrance to this road, which they’ll be watching. If they’re there, that is.’
He sounded pretty happy with this turn of events, but the optimism didn’t last.
‘The problem is they can see the entrance, and they can also see Gold’s house. If we drive right up there, they’ll spot us long before we get close. There’s light on us and none on them, so they’d also see us before we saw them. There’s no creeping up.’
‘So, we can’t get there?’ Liz asked.
Danny grinned at them both. ‘Think I came all this way without a plan?’
He outlined his idea. Liz was up for it. Karl was dubious because he sensed something like gloom in Danny’s voice.
He understood why when Liz touched Danny’s arm and said: ‘I know you want to do this, Danny, but we’ll be fine.’
So her pal was worried that he was sending these two amateurs out there alone. Karl grew extra respect for the man.
‘If I honk,’ Danny said, ‘it means trouble’s coming, so run for a galaxy far, far away.’
Liz threw open the door and slipped out. Danny turned off the interior light before it really got a chance to come on.
‘Are we not waiting here?’ Karl said, worried.
Liz said: ‘We’ll wait around back, in the fields, so we’re closer when he calls.’
Karl paused. He didn’t want to go anywhere until he’d spoken to Katie.
As if reading his mind, Liz said: ‘We’ll call your wife from Mr Gold’s phone.’
He nodded.
Danny said: ‘Once you’re in, call the police, lock the doors and stay there with Gold until they come. I’ll wait here and watch until they arrive, then be off. Luck be with.’
‘Thanks, Danny,’ Karl said to this man who had saved him. A world of supervillains and superheroes, and normal old him in the middle. He’d never felt weaker in his life.
Eighty-One
Brad
The junction seemed to be some kind of boundary where council workmen took a lunch break during slum clearance. On the far side was what Sink had called a posh kind of poncy street. Old detached houses with garages and bay windows. On this side were cramped terraced houses with no gardens.
A break on both sides of the terraced street had been used for retail. Nine-to-five joints like hairdressers’ and post offices, now closed and dark, faced nocturnal beasts like mini-marts and takeaways alive and bright. Teenagers with nothing to do hung around outside. Sink’s T3 lurked on the other side, in the gloom, but no one paid it any heed. Up front of the vehicle, Sink and Guff were playing a card game Brad couldn’t work out. But he wasn’t watching anyway. He was looking beyond, eyes on the third house on the money side of the street.
Eight minutes ago, Sink had knocked on the door, just like Mick asked. The bay window had prevented Brad from seeing who answered, but according to Sink, who had pretended to be collecting old washing machines, the owner was some old guy getting ready to go out. Now, Brad saw the guy, tall, grey beard, leaving the house and getting into his car. And then Mick called, perfect timing, as if he knew.