Nine O'Clock Bus To Brompton

by Kevin Fitzpatrick

  The brothers may have looked similar to one another, but their demeanours couldn’t have been more different. Alan, sitting next to Don, was grinning and jovial, as though enjoying a private joke. His brother, Frank, who was driving the car, was, on the other hand, apparently in an angry rage. He kept hitting the dashboard of the car with his open hand and repeated the word “fuck” over and again.

  Don looked at Alan and said, “Don’t you think you two are in enough trouble without kidnapping a police officer? Why don’t you just pull over and let me out?”

  Frank hit the dashboard again and shouted, “We are NOT in any trouble. We’ve done nothing wrong, and we’ll let you out when we bloody well get there.”

  “What? You don’t think killing Mrs Hoskins and stealing this car is doing anything wrong?”

  For some reason, Alan thought this was hugely funny. He burst out laughing and said, “What? Us? You think we killed the mistress? We wouldn’t do that, would we, bruv?”

  “No, we bloody wouldn’t, and we didn’t nick this motor neither!” shouted Frank. “And now you’ve fucked it right up with that bloody van. It’ll cost a fortune to get that back end fixed. I hope you’ve got insurance on that police car of yours.”

  “If you’ve done nothing wrong, why didn’t you stop when I signalled you?” said Don.

  “I tried to bloody stop, and you crashed into the back of me.”

  “That makes it your fault, don’t it?” said Alan, to Don, with a grin.

  Realising that this nonsense was getting him nowhere, Don changed the subject. “So, where do you think you’re taking me now?” he asked.

  Frank turned around in his seat and said, “Just sit still, you’ll see where we’re going when we get there.”

  He turned back to face the road and shouted, “Oh, Shit!”

  A tractor that had been approaching them had started turning right across their path into a field. Frank swerved to his offside to go past it, but suddenly realised that the tractor was actually drawing a trailer – and consequently both sides of the road were now blocked. He slammed his foot on the brakes as hard as he could in an attempt to stop before the car hit the tractor.

  Nothing happened.

  The pedal went straight to the floor with no resistance at all. Frank frantically pumped the brake, but by the time it finally operated, the car had shot behind the trailer and collided with the high grass banking at the side of the road.

  The car mounted the bank, went up onto its nearside wheels, carried on forward, then rolled over onto its roof. It then bounced back onto four wheels before continuing its corkscrew motion. The badly damaged vehicle slid on its side on the tarmac and finally came to rest lying on its offside with its wheels still spinning.

  After a few seconds the engine cut out, but the warning light on the dashboard showed that car’s ignition was still live – and Don could hear an ominous dripping sound coming from the front end of the car.

  Suddenly Don smelt petrol and, at the same time, realised he was lying sideways across Alan who was unconscious and lying under him in the back of the car. Don looked forward and saw that Frank was pinned to the front seat, trapped by the collapsed roof of the Jag.

  His head and neck were at a strange angle, his sightless eyes were open and staring.

  Drip, drip, drip. Petrol? Don knew he absolutely had to get out of the car – and fast! He first reached upwards and tried to push and turn the handle – but the door and its mechanism were buckled and jammed.

  He frantically looked around him and saw that the shotgun had been thrown loose between the seats. He grabbed the fore end of the weapon and used the barrel to hit upward in an attempt to smash the side window.

  It was hopeless. He simply didn’t have enough room to get a swing at the glass. Then he had a brainwave. He wriggled round and placed the muzzle of the gun against the glass. He squeezed the trigger.

  Click. Nothing happened.

  He could now detect the acrid smell of burning wires, and the dripping was getting louder. Try as he might, he just couldn’t stretch forward far enough to reach the ignition key in order to break the circuit.

  He resumed hitting the window with the gun and, finally, after what seemed an age, he heard the sound of someone banging around outside the car.

  “Can you stand?” came a man’s voice. “You need to get out of there, mate – and bloody quick!”

  Don twisted his head around and saw a face looking down at him through the side window of the car. The man was gesticulating and shouting whilst heaving on the door handle.

  “It’s stuck, I can’t open it,” the man shouted in panic. “The car’s on fire. I’ve got to get you out of there.”

  “Smash the glass!” shouted Don. “Smash the bloody glass!”

  The man looked dubious but, after a moment, yelled. “Okay, cover your face!”

  He raised his fist and repeatedly hammered hard down on the window, but the toughened glass refused to break. Time and again, the man repeated the effort, but it was no use. Eventually, Don could see the man frantically looking around. He then disappeared before returning a few seconds later with a large brick in his hand.

  Using both hands, the stranger lifted the brick high above his head and smashed it down as hard as he could. Don covered his eyes with his hands as the heavy brick fragmented the glass that now showered his head with hundreds of small glass crystals.

  Ignoring the broken shards of glass at the edge of the window, the rescuer reached into the vehicle. The glass cut viciously into his unprotected hands and arms, but with superhuman effort, he pulled Don up through the broken window then onto the grass verge.

  The two men now heard Alan Churcher screaming in terror from inside the car. They quickly staggered back to the vehicle and between them managed to pull the frantically thrashing young man to safety.

  “My brother’s in there!” Alan screamed. “We’ve got to get him out!”

  As Alan began to stumble back to the car, the men could see a line of burning fuel running backwards along the upturned underside of the car toward the petrol tank.

  Don, who’d seen too many car fires in his time, knew exactly what was about to happen. He grabbed Alan’s shoulders from behind and jerked him back, throwing him none too gently onto the ground. Just then they heard a loud whoosh, and the tank exploded.

  In a matter of moments, the car was well and truly ablaze, radiating fierce heat and sending plumes of black smoke high into the midday sky.

  Ignoring the still screaming Alan, Don staggered to the middle of the road and sat down.

  His head began to swim; the world went out of focus. Don tried to fight it, but he knew he was losing consciousness. He heard a buzzing in his ears and, for the second time that day, he had no choice but to allow the warm, cosy darkness to overcome him.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Newbury District Hospital

  The first thing he was aware of as he came out of the darkness was the muffled sound of voices. But it was cosy where he was, and Don didn’t want to wake up. He was reluctant to leave the warmth and the comfort that the darkness provided. He felt safe in its embrace, like being back in the womb. However, try as he might, the warm sleep was slipping from his grasp, and consciousness was not to be denied.

  As the sensations of touch and sound slowly returned, Don reluctantly abandoned his cosy haven and opened his eyes to re-join the real world.

  “Ah, looks like you’re back with us, young Don,” came a familiar voice. Don realised he was lying in a bed and staring up at the smiling face of Dave Johnson. “Nice to have you back, you had us worried for a while.”

  “Where am I?” croaked Don through parched lips.

  “Here, mate, have a sip of this.” Dave held a glass of water to Dons lips. “Don’t try to move too much, I’m told you may find it painful.”

  “I’m in hospital then?”

  “Newbury District. You’ve got a room all to yourself. VIP treatment no less.”
>
  “Newbury? That’s good,” said Don weakly. “If it was too serious, they’d have taken me to Reading or Oxford. So, I suppose I’ve been lucky. How long have I been here?”

  “Couple of days, that’s all. Your mate Ian’s been in with you most of the time. I only got here an hour ago.”

  Memories of the accident flooded back, and Don said, “How’s Alan Churcher? I know his brother’s dead, but I didn’t see how badly Alan was hurt in the crash. Also, there was a guy who helped us.”

  “The man who helped you was the tractor driver. He was just treated for cuts to his hands and sent home. As for Alan, don’t worry about him. He’s safely banged up in the cells. The magistrates have given us a three-day lie-down while we sort out the charges.”

  “Has he admitted the murder?”

  “Look, Don, I’ll tell you everything, but I need your statement first. I’m sure you understand. I can take it down in shorthand and get it typed up for you to sign when you’re feeling a bit better. Are you okay with that?”

  “Yeah, no problem. Where should I begin?”

  For the next hour, Dave Johnson sat by the bedside and asked questions. He scribbled away in his notebook throughout the interview. Don did his best to remember everything that was done or said from the time he first spotted the Jag.

  “I can’t understand how the accident happened,” said Don. “I know we were motoring, but we weren’t going so fast that we shouldn’t have been able to stop.”

  “I can answer that, funny enough,” said Dave. “Believe it or not, the vehicle examiner has figured it all out.”

  “What, from that burned out wreck?” said Don incredulously.

  “Apparently, it’s happened to a few of these new Jags. The problem is to do with the fact that it has disc brakes all round. When he drove off from the accident with your van, it seems Churcher didn’t fully release the handbrake. According to the examiner, you only have to leave it on by one notch for the discs at the back to get red hot from the friction. If the wrong type of brake fluid has been put into the system, it can boil and cause a thing called vapour lock. When you apply the footbrake, the vapour compresses, and the brakes simply don’t work.”

  “And that’s what happened?”

  “Yes, so it would appear. The examiner found the handbrake setting then checked with the local garage in Brompton, the firm who last serviced the car. They’ve coughed to using standard fluid when they adjusted the brakes – according to them they didn’t know about the problem.”

  “Okay, but what about the murder? Has Alan put his hands up?”

  “Not exactly. He reckons that for some time he and his brother have been giving Mrs Hoskins a good seeing-to. It happened whenever hubby was away. Pretty wild, some of it. Running naked in the woods, canes and whips, that sort of thing.

  “The morning she was killed, the three of them (Alan, Frank and Suzanne that is) are playing a game in Bluebell Wood when hubby turns up in his Jag and catches them at it. Bloody great row follows, and she storms off. Hubby picks up a stone and whacks her on the back of the head.”

  “So, Hoskins is guilty after all?” said Don.

  “I don’t think so. It doesn’t add up. Alan reckons the brothers helped Hoskins hide the body – and in return for that, and driving him to the airport, sold them the Jag for the princely sum of one pound.”

  “What! That’s ridiculous.”

  “Absolutely, it’s a load of cobblers. Alan reckons Hoskins even gave them a receipt – no sign of it, of course.”

  “Because it never existed! What does he say happened to it?”

  “He reckons Frank had it and it must have burn in the wreck. All very convenient, as indeed is having someone who’s safely across the Irish Sea to put the blame on.”

  “So, what are we charging him with?”

  “Well, as his fingerprints are all over the Hoskins house we feel pretty confident charging him with murder, as well as stealing the car – oh yes, and kidnapping you, of course.”

  “Is he saying anything about that?”

  “He says his brother wasn’t used to driving automatics and hammered the footbrake with his left foot trying to de-clutch – hence the sudden stop that caused you to crash into the back of them.”

  “Has he said what they were going to do with me?”

  “He reckons they were scared you were badly hurt, so they decided to take you to the doctor’s surgery in Chieveley. According to him, that’s where they were taking you. He totally denies any intention to kidnap you.”

  “Bullshitting little bastard!”

  “That’s what we think as well.”

  “What about the drugs and the kiddie porn?”

  “All that’s subject to further enquiries at the moment. We’ll see about them later.”

  Dave smiled and packed his notebook into his briefcase. He walked over to the door and opened it.

  “Right, I’m off back to the nick,” he said, “but, before coming here, I made a quick call on someone and straightened a few things out. You’ve got a visitor.”

  “Come in, Mrs Barton,” he called out of the room.

  As she walked in through the door, Rosemary took a long look at her husband lying in the hospital bed, his head swathed in bandages. With tears in her eyes, she walked over to him and took his trembling hand in hers. Don looked up at her, completely stunned. A powerful wave of emotion overcame him. Unable to control his feelings, he began crying himself.

  “I’ll leave you two to have a good weep,” said Johnson from the open door. “Catch you both later!” And off he went.

  For what seemed an age, Don and Rose just stared at one another, neither able to speak without welling up and choking back tears. Don’s grip on his wife’s hand, even in his weakened state, was so strong it left Rosemary in no doubt that he wasn’t planning on letting her go anytime soon.

  Finally, he was able to ask her about being there.

  “Sergeant Johnson came and saw me this morning over at Mum’s house. He must have got her address from somewhere. He told me what happened to you. He’s a really nice man, isn’t he, like a favourite, wise old uncle?”

  Don laughed. “Well, I’m not sure about that, but he is a pretty decent bloke, I suppose. Mind you, he’s the sharpest detective I’ve ever known – and I’ve met a few!”

  “Well, Mum likes him. She even made him a cup of tea.”

  “Crikey, he must have really turned the charm on!”

  “That’s not fair, she’s always nice to people.”

  “Only joking. Look, Dave mentioned something about straightening a few things out. I still don’t know what it was that needed straightening – and that’s the truth, Rose, honest.”

  Rosemary blushed and went quiet for a moment.

  Finally, she said, “Right, I’ll tell you what happened.”

  “I wish you would. I’ve been beside myself.”

  “Do you remember that day you went off to Ireland?”

  “The day you left me. How could I forget?”

  “Well, you know I was going for lunch with Jenny. We decided to go to The Green Lion over on the Wantage road. Jenny had heard it was under new management and that the food was brilliant.”

  “Oh yeah, I know the place.”

  “Anyway, we drove over in her car, and we were just walking into the pub when another car pulled into the car park, and guess who got out of it.”

  “I’ve no idea.”

  “Only that fucking bitch of a policewoman!”

  “What! Not Diane?” Don was shocked. It wasn’t at all like Rosemary to use profanity.

  “I recognised her straight away from that time you brought her home for a meal break. Well, she took one seriously guilty look at me then jumped back in her car and was out of there like a scalded cat.”

  “Bloody hell, Rose! As God’s my witness, I have no idea what she was doing there.”

  “No, I know that now that Mr Johnson’s told me what was going on. But at the
time, I was sure she was there to meet you.”

  “How could I have been meeting her? Even if I hadn’t been going to Ireland, I’d have been at your parent’s house with you.”

  “Come off it, Don. How many times have you let me down at the last minute because you were called in to work? You could easily have had a ‘surprise’ phone call then packed me safely off to Mum’s leaving you clear to get up to all sorts.”

  “So, what’s Dave said to you to make you change your mind about it?”

  “I’ve no idea how, but he seemed to know exactly what she was up to – and it was nothing to do with you. But she actually was meeting up with a married man, another policeman. Dave wouldn’t tell me who he was, but it seems he used to be her sergeant over at Bracknell when she first joined.”

  Don had a lightbulb moment. “I think I know who she was meeting,” he said quietly. “Can you remember what car was she driving?”

  “A green one, a Morris or something, you know, the one up from the Mini.”

  “Could it have been an Austin 1300?”

  “Yeah, that could be the one.”

  Don went silent as it dawned on him just what a complete fool he’d made of himself. It wasn’t Mrs Hoskins that Mollington had been shagging in Bluebell Wood that night; it was Diane.

  Of course, it all made sense now. Mollington had turned up at Newbury just after he got promoted and transferred from Bracknell. He must have been Diane’s shift sergeant back at his old nick. Now, it would seem that he had been having an affair with her even back then. It came as a shock to realise this must have already been going on the same time Don had flattered himself that it was he who had been the answer to a poor maiden’s prayer, the glamourous white knight on a shiny motorcycle.

  So, he’d had no need to be worried about meeting her at Ascot after all. It was apparent now that there was no danger of Diane having fallen for him. Actually, thinking back to the attention she was enjoying from all those young men in the meal tent, it made him wonder how many other lovers had been taken in. To Diane, Don was no more than a notch on her bedpost, a bit of fun, something on the side – a casual conquest.