Jack of All Trades Box Set: books 1 to 3

by DH Smith

  His boot was squelching from the blood that ran into it. He was surprised he could still run on it. Though it ached like hell.

  If he could make it to the reeds, perhaps there’d be a chance. Hide in them. But on the island itself, he was simply her quarry.

  Thwack!

  A bolt into his other calf. She was playing with him. Slowing him up for the kill.

  He thought of surrendering. Walking out, hands up. A mad idea. Cathy hadn’t come to take him prisoner but to silence him. That’s why Ellie had lured him here. He would be buried somewhere on the grounds. His tools with him. His van abandoned miles away. How long before he was reported missing? Alison would probably do so in a few days. The DeNeuves would say they’d paid him for his work and that was all they knew.

  Why should anyone think otherwise?

  A wave of nausea rocked him. He was shivering and sweating, legs trembling, liquid in both boots, arms scratched on thorns and briar. He eased down the slope, moaning from aching limbs. Where was she now? He had a fear she might have gone round him. Could be waiting the way he was going. She’d jump out from behind a tree. A final shot to his head.

  He was light-headed, paddling at the water’s edge. There were ducks homing in as he threw out bread, his mother with him singing All things bright and beautiful, All creatures great and small, the Lord God – no, no that wasn’t right. He couldn’t remember the line. Something something, the Lord God made them all. It desperately mattered, he had to remember the line. His mother would shout at him, smack him.

  All things wise and wonderful.

  That was it! The Lord God made them all.

  With the ducks all around him, gobbling bread, water paddling at his feet, he sang:

  The rich man in his castle,

  The poor man at his gate,

  He made them, high or lowly,

  And ordered their estate.

  A swan was coming for him, head forward, beak pointing. It was Cathy. He was on the island, he recalled. She was trying to kill him. There she was, behind that tree, up the slope. The landscape flitted in and out of focus. He slid down, crawled through undergrowth, briar and nettles on his isle of dreams. His mother was somewhere. He didn’t want to go that way. There were the reeds. Moses would be floating in a basket. He would see the pyramids beyond as in the picture in his junior bible. Except there was the landing stage just a few yards to his left. He remembered, he was on the island. He must escape from the Egyptians.

  There was Miriam, in a rowing boat. She was pulling in. She didn’t want to leave the basket in the bulrushes.

  ‘Quick! Quick, Jack. Come on!’

  Yes, he was Jack. Where was he?

  ‘I should never have agreed,’ she cried. ‘Quick, Jack! Please.’

  She wasn’t Miriam, she was Ellie. In a boat at the oars, beckoning. She’d come to save him from the Egyptians who had spears and crossbows. He pushed through the reeds to the landing stage. Stumbled onto the platform, fell to his knees, and Ellie dragged him into the boat. He fell down flat across her knees.

  His feet were liquid, his head full of bees. The land of Milk and Honey. The picnic. Cathy had been trying to kill him. There were arrows in his bleeding calves. Why weren’t they rowing away? Leaving Cathy across the Red Sea. He could hear gurgling. The mud sucking in the reeds. He looked up at Ellie, and couldn’t quite work out what he was seeing. Blood was pouring out of her neck like a bubbling fountain. He turned his head and saw a crossbow bolt through her throat, feathers sticking out one side, the point the other.

  He must row. Could he? He wasn’t in Egypt. He must get away from the island. He took an oar, stupidly pulling it out of the rowlock. The crumpled body of Ellie was in his way. He rose. There was Cathy on the landing stage, the crossbow fixed on him.

  He staggered, twisted and swung the oar with all his remaining energy. It smacked hard at the same time as a bolt slammed into his shoulder, forcing him backwards over Ellie, and down onto the decking. Winded, he lay there.

  The Philistines are coming!

  He lay there for centuries. Where were the Philistines? Were they fighting Caesar’s army? He pushed on Ellie’s knees to lift himself. She was a ragged heap, her neck all blood, soaking into her t-shirt, trickling down her arms.

  The oar was still in his hands, the blade end broken off.

  Jack looked over the side of the boat. By the side of the landing stage lay Cathy, face down in the water, blood seeping from her head, the blade end floating nearby. Her arms were splayed out as if she were trying to swim away. The crossbow lay on the boards of the landing stage like a discarded toy.

  He thought of getting it, but the effort, and to what end? Instead, he took out his phone. It was soaked in blood and it would not work. Of course. The Ancient Egyptians did not have phones. He must row up the Nile to Memphis. Find Potiphar.

  His head was pulsating, the world vibrating. This was not Egypt. He was not Moses or Jacob. He was Jack. He was bleeding to death. He saw Ellie’s phone in her belt. He pulled it out. It was blood spattered but alive. He dialled 999. And waited.

  Was this modern times yet?

  Tears welled when a female voice answered, ‘What service do you require?’

  ‘Ambulance and police,’ he said. ‘I’m bleeding to death.’

  ‘Ambulance first then, sir.’

  He was put through and explained where he was, not in Egypt but at Bramley, and that he’d been shot with a crossbow. When he said it wasn’t an accident, they asked more questions. He could not cope.

  ‘Please! please!’ he cried. ‘Just get here.’

  They said they’d come with the police.

  He lay the phone on the thwart. Ellie was splayed out on her back, mouth wide open, blood dribbling from it down her cheek. He could barely move, aching and weak. There was a bolt through each thigh. Symmetry, he thought. Quite right for Cathy, the mathematician. Pythagoras’s theorem, congruent triangles. A piece of bone was poking out of the fabric of his shirt.

  He wasn’t carrying any bones. He’d come for a picnic with Ellie.

  A face loomed up at him. It was George in a rowing boat.

  ‘What a dog’s dinner!’

  ‘Ellie’s dead,’ Jack said feebly. ‘The crocodiles are eating Cathy. Can you row me to Memphis?’

  ‘Sure, mate. Lay on your side. Can you do that?’

  ‘I think so.’

  He wriggled until he was stretched out on his side, his head cushioned on Ellie’s thigh.

  ‘I’m going to tow you back,’ said George. ‘You’ll be alright, mate. Leave it to me.’

  At which point, Jack gave up. Neither in Egypt nor Bramley. And just dimly aware of a rope being attached. Less aware of the movement of the boat across the water. Completely deaf to the sirens and to the efficient paramedics who stretchered him to the ambulance. And set off, siren blaring and at full speed, to the hospital.

  Chapter 53

  Vicky came down from the house. She’d heard the sirens and the vehicles arriving, and knew there was trouble. She’d been out in the garden weeding her vegetable garden. She’d gathered radishes, spring onions and beetroot to have later. Her hands were still dirty. She should’ve washed them. It wouldn’t have taken a minute.

  She got down to the boathouse as Jack was being taken away on a stretcher.

  ‘Is he alive, Mr Grove?’ she asked George.

  ‘Just about.’

  Quickly, Jack was loaded in the ambulance. And it shot away, the sirens crying out its urgent mission. Out of the school gates, the wail dying away over the next minute.

  She sighed. ‘Just about’ wasn’t good enough. It had to be all or nothing. She should have washed her hands.

  And then she saw Eleanor splayed out at the bottom of the rowing boat, her flesh blue-white. She was going to call for someone to do something, when the puddle of blood and the bolt through her daughter’s neck checked her.

  Vicky wept, leaning against the boathouse sobbing uncontrollably
. Her beautiful Eleanor gone forever.

  Recovering for a moment, she looked up to see George rowing two policemen out to the island. She feared to ask anyone why they were going there, dreading the answer. But watched compulsively. It was difficult to see clearly what they were doing out there, beyond pulling something into the boat.

  And so she waited with the others, like a fisherman’s wife awaiting at the quayside for news from the lifeboat crew, as George rowed back to the shore. It would be Catherine they had picked up. Was she alive or dead? It had all gone wrong, so quickly. Eleanor had been so full of life barely an hour ago. She’d told them that Jack knew everything and was going to the police after their picnic. It seemed a simple idea to dispose of him on the island. Out there, and Catherine so proficient with a crossbow. She’d won cups and prizes.

  It had almost worked. Jack was pretty far gone. Just about alive. And then something had gone awry.

  Eleanor had been shot.

  On purpose or by accident? Considering her daughters, it could be either. Her beautiful Eleanor. So talented, so full of promise.

  And Catherine? Might there be hope for one, oh please God, one of them.

  The rowing boat pulled into the landing stage by the boathouse. George stepped out and tied up. And the two policemen dragged and carried Catherine onto the stage. Vicky sank to her knees; they gave her space.

  ‘My poor girl.’

  She stroked her daughter’s head, she could feel a crack in the skull. Her flesh was as pallid as a chicken hanging from a hook, blood congealed in her hair. Her mouth had an ooze of froth between the lips.

  Both gone.

  She shivered. It was all so pointless. Her family evaporated. What good was Bramley without them? What good was she on her own?

  A policewoman came over to offer commiserations, but she held her off.

  ‘Please, leave me be. I’m going home.’

  And she stumbled back to the house. She couldn’t stand all the people, gawping at her daughters. At her misery. Seeing her sin out there in the plain air.

  An hour later, a detective sergeant came up to interview her. Water was seeping out the front door. There was no answer to his ring, so George took him round the back, through the garden and into the house that way.

  The water was running down the stairs in a steady stream, coursing over the marble floor. They followed the stream back up the stairs to the first floor bathroom. There was no answer to their call, so they broke down the door. And found Vicky in the bath, her wrists slashed with a barber’s razor.

  Chapter 54

  George sat awkwardly on the plastic chair. He held a bunch of flowers and some grapes but didn’t know what to do with them.

  ‘Leave them on the side there,’ said Jack pointing out the space. ‘I’ll get the nurse to put the flowers in water and wash the grapes when she comes round.’

  George did as he was told, grateful to be rid of his burden.

  ‘How are you, mate?’

  ‘Not too bad, considering,’ he said. ‘A broken shoulder bone, two calf bones pretty cracked up. I lost a lot of blood but once they had me in here, I was not in any real danger.’

  ‘You heard about Mrs DeNeuve?’

  ‘I read it in the paper. She killed herself.’

  ‘Me and the policeman broke down the door of the bathroom,’ said George. ‘She was under water, the bath filled to the brim, taps running full, water pouring over the side, and her wrists slashed. Razor on the side, empty bottles of pills lying about, she was making sure alright. Too late to do anything. Drowned, poisoned, bled to death. Take your pick.’

  ‘Whole family gone,’ said Jack. ‘First her husband…’

  ‘Then Catherine, we fetched her over from the island. The bitchy one.’

  ‘She was the one out to kill me.’

  ‘Killed her sister,’ said George.

  ‘That was an accident,’ said Jack.

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘She was shooting at me,’ said Jack. ‘Ellie got in the way.’

  ‘Not everyone thinks that,’ said George. ‘Not that it matters in the way of things. Catherine killed her whether she meant to or not. And we can’t ask her.’

  The images were too clear to Jack. Ellie sprawled out in the boat with a bolt through her neck, her sister coming at him with a crossbow. That was the vision he’d woken to several times in the night.

  ‘The school’s finished,’ said George. ‘Down the drain. The receivers are in. A dead headmaster they would have got over. But his missus too? She was going to be the new head. And on top of it, the head of maths and science going berserk with a crossbow, killing her sister, head of English. The place has gone bung. The phone’s ringing non-stop. No one to answer it. It’s a waste of time me doing it. What can I say? I’ve got no authority.’

  ‘So what’s happening to you and Jenny?’

  ‘Not as bad as you might think. Receivers don’t act that quickly. And we saw a solicitor and he said hang on in there. They have to give reasonable notice, especially with a family. And if they don’t, then we take ‘em to court. The court will be sympathetic. Give us six months, maybe more.’ He slapped his thigh. ‘I was worried sick when I heard the receiver was coming. Well, he comes. And I take him over the school, tell him about what’s happened and everything. Put him in the picture, take him back to our place, give him a cup of tea. He’s quite a nice bloke. He says the school needs security, and as I’m on the spot – will I do it? No point saying no to that, was there? All considering.’

  ‘Glad you’re not out on your ear, George. At least you’ve some time and a bit of cash coming in.’

  ‘That’s the way I see it, mate. Could’ve been a lot worse.’

  They were silent a little while. Jack was achy and shifted in the bed. It was hard to get comfortable with his shoulder, and his legs in plaster. They’d given him sleeping pills last night. But he wasn’t the only one uncomfortable. George was rubbing his hands together as if they were cold.

  Jack said, ‘You might have been able to save Cathy.’

  ‘I thought she was dead,’ said George, looking down at his feet.

  ‘You could’ve dragged her onto the landing stage.’

  ‘I thought she was dead.’

  ‘You left her to drown.’ He paused, then added, ‘The second person you’ve done that to.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ His head jerked up.

  ‘I mean Mr DeNeuve. You saw the three of them drowning him and you saw your chance to do a deal.’

  ‘How can you possibly know that?’

  ‘Ellie told me.’ It was a lie, but he chanced it.

  ‘She’s dead.’

  ‘And so conveniently is her sister.’

  George was sucking his lips, struggling which way to go. He raised his hands as if to surrender.

  ‘OK, I’ll tell you. I was out walking the dog. And I saw ‘em all down by the lake. And I thought why should I rescue the bastard. So I did a deal.’ He stopped, and stared at Jack. It was all out. ‘You going to tell anyone?’

  ‘No. I don’t see the point. And I doubt if they could prove it with the family all dead.’

  ‘I appreciate that, Jack. Thanks, mate.’

  He wasn’t sure he wanted thanks. If George wasn’t a murderer, he was the nearest thing to it.

  ‘What’s happened to my tools and van?’ he said.

  ‘They’re all safe. I collected up the tools. They’re in the house. Get ‘em and the van whenever you want.’

  ‘I’m here another couple of weeks. At least. And I won’t be driving for a while. My van’s safe for a while at the school?’

  ‘No problem. You mend. I’ll keep your stuff safe.’ He leaned in closer. ‘I was wondering whether you might need a bit of cash…’

  ‘I got paid for the job,’ said Jack, ‘but that won’t last long.’

  George said, ‘I could give you a loan, no rush to pay it back. I’ve come into some money…’

  ‘Let me
guess. From the sale of computers?’

  George shrugged. ‘What’s the point giving it to the receiver?’

  Jack thought about it. It was tit for tat. George was thanking him for keeping quiet. Not that he was going to the law anyway. Should he take it? The DeNeuves were well and truly dead. The receiver didn’t need it. Just some anonymous creditors who could claim off the insurance company.

  ‘The loan would be useful, George. Be a couple of months before I can work again. So, yeh, to tide me over. Thanks.’

  George looked at his watch. Jack doubted he was in a hurry to get anywhere else, but he’d come to do what he had to. And he knew himself that hospital visits always get to the boredom stage, when words run out.

  ‘I’ll come and see you next week,’ said George.

  ‘I might be walking by then.’

  Chapter 55

  After George left him, Jack was low. He didn’t like taking George’s money, but couldn’t afford pride. Or too much morality. Things were going to be rough the next few months.

  At least he was alive. That hadn’t seemed a likely outcome when he was running about the island with Cathy taking pot shots. George was suggesting that she’d killed Ellie on purpose. That hadn’t occurred to him. But then he’d got a lot wrong when it came to Ellie.

  She’d come back for him. Dragged him into the boat. If she hadn’t done so, then most likely he’d be dead and she’d be alive. That last moment, the instant when both he and Ellie had been alive, when Cathy was coming in for the kill. But to kill whom? Seeing her sister trying to rescue him…

  Did she shoot Ellie to stop the two of them getting away?

  Or had it been an accident? Well, hardly an accident, but she was aiming for him, and Ellie got in the way.

  As she always did.

  It hardly mattered, as George said. Cathy had killed her and Cathy was dead. Who she’d been aiming for would never be known. But her father’s murder was clear enough and her attempted murder of Jack was proved beyond doubt by the crossbow bolts they’d pulled out of his legs and shoulder. Two counts would take her down.

  If she were still alive.

  Why did he care? Ellie was dead. Her betrayal hurt as much as the crossbow bolts. So happy, so free and open as she rowed out on the lake – all the time leading him to Cathy. But then she’d come back for him. At what point, as she was rowing back, did she turn about and think, I can’t let my sister do it?