by J. D. Weston
“I will never talk,” he rasped.
Harvey had hung him in the single shaft of sunlight that broke through the rooftiles. It was as if the man was in a spotlight, a move designed to impair the man’s vision enough for the dark shadows to become as black as night.
The light glanced off Harvey’s blade as he stood before the man, fascinated by the process of death. The blade cut through the man’s shirt with ease and Harvey pulled open the two flaps of material to reveal a muscled torso, adorned with more scar tissue than flesh. Along the man’s flank was the remains of a burn that spread onto his front with shiny, finger-like tendrils. The two scars on his neck continued across his front, and on his far side were fierce, raised lines that were criss-crossed, and, as Harvey moved around the man and ripped his shirt free, he saw the scars continue across his back.
Harvey touched the whip marks with morbid curiosity. He ran his finger along the length of one until it crossed paths with another. The scars were not fresh. Years had passed since they had been inflicted. Harvey could see that by the smooth flesh.
And the man’s strength was apparent. His bravado was not the voice of fear summoning the numbing powers of adrenaline. It was memory, and it commanded respect, which Harvey honoured with memories and pain of his own.
Harvey moved around him until he stood before the man, and he stepped into the light, allowing him to see the empathy on his face.
“Who are you?” asked Harvey.
The man’s nostrils flared as he exhaled. His teeth were gritted, and he fought the pain in his ribs with awesome tenacity.
“I am Asif,” he said
“How did you get those scars, Asif?” asked Harvey.
Asif fought to keep his balance and choked as his toes danced to keep him upright.
“A man like you would never understand.”
Harvey smiled, humoured to be likened to ordinary men. Asif would never talk while he held that belief. There was still work to do to convince him.
“Torturing a man is never pleasant,” said Harvey.
And Asif laughed once before the movement inflicted pain and he choked as his feet sought the concrete beneath him.
“I often find that most of the work can be achieved by letting the victim know just how far you’re willing to go, what lengths you’re willing to reach to get what you want.”
“Many men have tried,” said Asif. “They have all failed.”
Harvey stepped closer, close enough to smell the odour of spices through the man’s skin. He held his gaze and let his smile soften.
“I am no ordinary man, Asif,” said Harvey, and raised his knife to catch the sliver of light.
An ordinary man would have bucked and pulled away. He would have fought against his restraints with every ounce of energy he had. He would have cried out for help, for his mother, or for God.
But Asif was still. Few men had the courage to face death. Even fewer were strong enough to face inevitable agony.
“Who gave the order, Asif?” said Harvey. He spoke as an equal. Asif had earned that much through his tenacity and unwavering fortitude. “Tell me and I’ll make it quick.”
But Asif said nothing. The shine of his eyes was prominent against the shadows behind him. The sheen of his scars appeared moist in that narrow shaft of light and his ragged breath was that of a mortally wounded animal, wild and beautiful, with fight to carry him to the end.
And the end was close.
The tip of Harvey’s knife touched Asif’s brown skin. But the man did not flinch, cry, or call out.
The keen blade sliced the flesh from Asif’s throat and worked its way down. The taut skin fell apart, leaving a deep, angry slice.
And blood found its way to the surface. It followed the cut like water in a canyon, as if it chased the very blade that carved the gorge.
Harvey stopped with the blade poised above the man’s stomach.
“Asif?” said Harvey. “You know what comes next. Tell me who gave the order.”
Despite the man’s strength and tenacity, Asif was fighting an inner battle, restraining his pain and banishing it to the darkest parts of his body with a mental command that left Harvey awestruck.
But even the strongest soldier grows weary.
Asif grew unsteady on his toes, his face was contorted with the fight, and his short, sharp breaths spewed from between gritted teeth with spittle and the faintest of moans.
“There’s no shame, Asif,” said Harvey. He grabbed onto the man’s sweaty, black hair and forced Asif to look at him, wanting him to see the respect in Harvey’s eyes. “You’ve earned a fast death. You’ve earned the right not to suffer. I’ve never seen a man hold on for so long. I can leave you, and you’ll bleed out. Death will be painful. Your body will shut down slowly. All you have to do is say the name and I can make it all go away.”
Harvey searched for some kind emotion in his eyes but found only signs of the battle inside.
“Or I can cut a little more,” said Harvey, and teased the tip of the blade at the lowest reach of the wound where the swell of his stomach pulled at the flesh. The effect was electric, and Asif’s body jolted back, causing him to choke and struggle and to cough and retch when he regained balance. Harvey leaned closer so that his mouth was beside the man’s ear. “I’ll cut out your organs, Asif. One. By. One.”
And there it was. With Asif’s lifeblood oozing from his chest and Harvey’s blade teasing at the wound, Asif sprang into life with the dying fight of that wild animal Harvey admired. He kicked high and hard, but his final efforts lacked the strength of a balanced stance. Harvey caught his leg and trapped it against his shoulder. But before he could react, putting all his weight onto his neck, Asif kicked up with his other leg and began to squeeze.
The effort was gallant. Asif choked as the rope tightened around his throat. He squeezed his legs tight against Harvey’s neck and, in the struggle, Harvey’s hand, slippery with blood, dropped the knife to the floor.
Harvey held him there. The effort opened Asif’s wound even further and as the man hung from his neck with blood pulsing from his chest, he seemed to push back, forcing the rope tighter.
With every second that passed, the hopes of Asif spilling a name slipped away. He tried to pull the man’s legs free, but they were clamped on with an iron-like grip with his feet entwined behind Harvey’s neck. Harvey tried to pull away to release the rope, but Asif saw it and held him tighter. He pulled Harvey closer, grunting and choking with the effort and seemed to roar as his core tightened. His wound stretched open and he raised his body up so that he was looking down on Harvey with the slackened rope trailing behind and all his weight on Harvey’s shoulders.
Breathless and with eyes wilder than ever, Asif seemed to grin through his bloodied teeth, as if he relished the pain and welcomed the cold rush of death that would sweep through his body.
“I will never talk. I am Asif,” he rasped.
Then his body tightened further as he contracted his muscles and summoned every ounce of energy that remained.
Harvey saw it coming but was powerless to do anything. With the full weight of Asif on his shoulders, he tried to drop to his knees to reach the knife, but Asif was fast. Though his body was broken, his mind was true and keen.
“I am Asif,” he said again.
With a speed as fast as when his legs had wrapped around Harvey, Asif once more sprung into life. He pushed back, hard, and slammed his neck down. The rope whipped and snapped taut with a deathly crack of spine, and his legs fell from Harvey’s shoulders to hang limply and graze across the bloodied concrete floor.
Chapter Twenty-One
“Do you mind if we ask you a few questions, sir?” said Myers. “I appreciate the timing is awful, but if we’re to catch the killer, we’ll have to act fast.”
The man seemed lost. He was standing in the centre of the lawn on his own watching the ambulance drive away. His arms hung by his sides in that despondent pose borne only from the weight of loss
.
“Were you close?” asked Myers, as he too tracked the ambulance as the driver manoeuvred through the array of chairs and onto the gravel with as much care as he could.
The man turned to stare at him. His face seemed to twist in disbelief. His fingers flexed and he faced Myers with repulsion.
And only then did Myers see the boutonniere that was fastened to the man’s lapel. His eyes were glazed and reddened by hot tears.
“I’m so sorry,” said Myers. “I didn’t realise you-”
“Get out,” said the man, and he strode towards Myers filled with rage. “Get off our land.”
He shoved Myers in the chest, forcing him to take a step back to maintain his balance, and Fox intervened in time to stop the man’s assault, but for her efforts, she received the back of his hand across her face.
“Right,” said Fox, and in a few quick moves, she locked his arms behind his back.
“Sir, I must warn you,” said Myers, holding his hands up to both fend off another attack and to show he meant no harm. He reached for his ID wallet in his pocket and let it fall open. The man stopped fighting. “I’m Detective Inspector Myers and this is Detective Sergeant Fox. I’m sorry, I assumed-”
“What? You assumed what?” said the man.
His rage was easing, but his bitterness still held true.
Myers nodded for Fox to let him go and she dabbed at her mouth with a tissue. Behind her, at the top of the steps of the house, was Sergio, John Cartwright’s legal adviser. He saw them and made a move.
“Are you the groom, sir?” asked Myers, hoping to make some progress before the interfering man reached them.
But he was too late.
“Donny?” called Sergio from nearly fifty metres away. “Donny, don’t say a word.”
“Sir? I asked you a question,” said Myers.
And he nodded.
“Did you see what happened? It’s Donny, is it? You must be Donald Cartwright. Is there anything you can tell me?”
Any son of John Cartwright would have been taught from an early age to say nothing to the police. It was their way. The us and them split was ingrained in the blood of men like Donald Cartwright. It was a wonder that resources were even spent on helping them. They would offer little help, if any, and would show even less gratitude if Myers actually found the culprit.
“They killed your wife, Donald. I’ll find them. Just give me something to go on.”
“Can I help, Detective?” said Sergio, as he approached. It was a question designed to reinstate his position as legal adviser for Myers’ benefit and to inform Donny that Myers was a cop if he didn’t already know.
“It’s okay. I was just hoping to get a head start on finding the man who killed Mr Cartwright’s wife,” said Myers, and rolled his eyes as Fox opened her mouth. “We’re here to do a job, but if you’re only going to make it difficult, then perhaps we’ll move on.”
“I understand, Mr Myers.”
“Detective Inspector Myers,” Myers corrected.
“We’ve had a traumatic day, Detective,” said Sergio. He placed a hand on Donny’s shoulder and began to lead him away.
“I’m trying to help you,” Myers called after them. “Mr Cartwright, if you know something that might help…”
Donald Cartwright stopped and turned. It was the response Myers had been looking for. It was emotion. Emotion never lies.
“Donny, don’t-” said Sergio.
But Donald was re-incensed, and Myers prepared for him to fly at them both again. He found himself stepping forward to protect Fox.
“All I know is that my wife was shot dead today.”
“So help me find her killer.”
“You won’t find them,” said Cartwright, and his eyes darted left. It was a subtle movement, involuntary at best, but in that tiny flick of nerves, he said more than he had with his bitter words. “The only thing you lot can find is the gate on your way out.”
Myers nodded and let Donald re-join Sergio. He allowed him to walk a few steps further.
“Mr Cartwright?” he said. “Just one more thing.”
Both men stopped.
“It’ll only take a few moments. I promise.”
Cartwright turned and Sergio followed a few seconds after, his face displaying all the impatience of a man with everything to hide.
“Something’s bothering me,” said Myers.
Cartwright’s expression said all that was needed to say. He raised his eyebrows expectantly, as if giving permission for Myers to carry on with his muses.
“I’m sure you loved your wife, Mr Cartwright, and I hope you cherish those few short moments with her.”
“You’re treading on dangerous ground, Detective Myers,” said Cartwright, but his advance was halted by Sergio, who placed his hand flat against Cartwright’s chest.
“Make it quick, Detective,” said Sergio. His voice had lost its mock-friendly and innocent tone.
“Well, it strikes me that if it were my wife that had been killed, I’d be in that ambulance with her. In fact, I wouldn’t leave her side until I lowered her into the ground,” said Myers. He lowered his voice and his tone deepened at the thought of Alison being carted away. “Even then, they’d have to drag me away.”
The two stared at each other, Myers searching for some kind of guilt, and Cartwright with his eyes dancing from left to right and back to Myers, never resting in one place for long.
Cartwright’s voice was filled with the phlegm of genuine grief and the fatigue that would haunt him for days and weeks to come.
“We all grieve in different ways, Detective,” said Cartwright, then he turned, and it was he who led Sergio away towards the house.
“Cutting it a bit close, sir,” said Fox under her breath. “He has a hundred reasons to make a complaint.”
“Shut up, Fox.”
Myers didn’t face her. He watched Cartwright walk away. He studied him as the man fixed his jacket collar and smoothed his hair and adopted the confident stride of a man who had life handed to him on a plate.
“I only need one reason to nail him,” said Myers, and he turned away from the house.
Fox walked beside him, matching his stride. She held herself well, and Myers was pleased she hadn’t pushed for an assault charge, but he wished she’d hold her tongue until she’d learnt the ropes. This wasn’t the sticks. This was London.
“How’s your lip?” he asked, seeking distraction more than a response.
“I’ve had worse,” she replied. “Are we heading someplace special?”
Myers laughed, but it wasn’t a laugh of humour. It was more of a snort to avoid answering.
“Something funny?” she asked.
Myers stopped.
“Men like John Cartwright are, for the most part, untouchable, Fox. Do you know Frank Carver?”
“DI Carver, sir? Of course. Everyone knows Frank. He works in organised crime.”
“Exactly. He’s been onto John Cartwright for years. Carver probably dreams about the day he can walk these grounds. Men like Cartwright keep men like Carver at arm’s length.”
“Keep your friends close, sir?”
“Exactly, Fox, and keep your enemies closer,” said Myers, and nodded at the roof of an outbuilding at the foot of the hill. It was surrounded by trees save for a gap where a small track led out and up the hill. “Let’s take a look around, shall we?”
Chapter Twenty-Two
The barn door creaked open and filled a portion of the barn with bright light. An elongated shadow stretched across the concrete floor and then split into two.
From the confines of John’s hidden room, Harvey watched through a narrow slit in the wood as two people moved into the barn. From the size and shapes of the shadows and the clicks of heels on the concrete, Harvey surmised it was a man and a woman.
“He did say we should stick to the estate, sir. The buildings are off-limits,” said the woman.
Something passed in front of the slit and block
ed Harvey’s view. It stayed there, close enough to reach out and touch and close enough to hear him breathe.
“He said a lot of things,” said the man. There was a familiarity to his voice. “They know more than they let on.”
The man moved away from the slit and the heels of his shoes clicked a slow circle around John’s car.
“The man in the car a few miles away hadn’t fired a single shot. Therefore, there are two possibilities. The first is that he worked for John Cartwright and went after the man who killed Julia.”
“And failed,” added the woman, still out of Harvey’s view.
“The second possibility is that the man in the Jaguar was with the killer. A driver maybe? But things went wrong. He had to get away.”
“And Cartwright sent his men after him,” said the woman.
“Something like that. Did you see the way Cartwright’s eyes darted about? He couldn’t look me in the eye. He’s hiding something.”
“His wife was killed, sir.”
“Exactly. And why aren’t there any guests here?” said the man from the far side of the barn, where the shadows were deep. “Did you see the chairs scattered on the ground? There must have been two hundred people here. Where are they now?”
“Scared? I’m not sure if I’d want to hang around after a shooting, sir.”
“They were scared alright. Scared of what John Cartwright and his men might do if they opened their mouths and said the wrong thing. Two hundred people with two hundred versions of what happened. That’s too much even for Cartwright to control. No. No, he got rid of them. Something happened and he made sure nobody was here to talk to us.”
“You mean they killed the killer?”
“Imagine it. The wedding is going well. The bride and groom are in love. The guests are smiling. And the sun is out. The band is playing. And John Cartwright’s ego is riding high.”
He paused to let the image take shape. It was something Myers did when he had a point to make.