Nine O'Clock Bus To Brompton

by Kevin Fitzpatrick

  “Well, Mrs Churcher has a message for you,” said Emily.

  “Yes,” the little woman said, “Alan wants you to know he didn’t mean it. He’s very sorry.”

  “Didn’t mean what, Mrs Churcher?” said Don, perplexed.

  “You know, that day at court when he said he’d burn your house down. He was just upset. He’s a good boy really; he’d never do a thing like that. So, he hopes you won’t hold it against him.”

  Don was beginning to see some light in the darkness.

  “I take it the probation service have been talking to him about early release – on parole that is?”

  “Yes, he may only have to do another few months – as long as he’s not a threat, that is.”

  Don knew that, when it came to prisoner release, the Parole Board would make up their own minds without reference to anyone, including him. However, he decided to keep that knowledge to himself for the moment.

  “I can assure you, Mrs Churcher, that I harbour no ill feelings towards Alan. But why did he chose you to deliver his apology? There are a number of other means he could have used without bothering you like this.”

  Mrs Churcher looked vacantly around her, as though searching for an answer.

  “Well, Alan didn’t exactly send her, “said Emily Pritchard. “My friend here called on me this morning, seeking advice, and I suggested we come and see you.”

  “He’s all I’ve got left,” said Mrs Churcher. “I need him home, and I don’t want him getting into any more trouble. That’s why I brought this.”

  She placed the satchel she had been carrying onto the desk in front of her.

  “She found it hidden in the barn where the two young men had hidden the stolen Jaguar motor car,” explained Emily. “I told her she had to hand it in to you.”

  “Tell me Alan won’t be in any more trouble,” said Mrs Churcher, plaintively.

  Don opened the flap of the satchel and poured the contents out onto the desktop.

  The haul consisted of a number of clear plastic bags. Some contained small blocks of a dark, tarry substance that Don recognised as cannabis resin, others held a white powder that he assumed to be cocaine. There was also an old cutthroat razor, a tiny set of scales and a bag with some little weights. There was also a wad of cash – a couple of thousand pounds at least.

  Classic implements as used by drug dealers the world over. Don whistled softly through his teeth.

  The satchel was equipped with two small pockets at the front. Don unbuckled the pockets and checked for contents.

  The left pocket was empty, but Don found a neatly folded piece of paper tucked into the right-hand side. The paper looked as though it had been torn from a school exercise book and contained writing.

  Don examined the paper and went silent.

  “So, you did exist after all,” he said more to himself than anyone.

  “Right, ladies, I have to make some phone calls. But, before that, I need a brief statement from you, Mrs Churcher, explaining exactly how you found this. Don’t worry, you won’t be getting Alan into trouble. It could be quite the opposite, in fact.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Winchester Prison

  The interview room in the prison presented a sparse and functional appearance. The walls had been painted and repainted many times over the years, and the bricks now shone with a stark, pale gloss that harshly reflected the light from the green metallic lamps that hung suspended from the high ceiling.

  There was a large oblong table bolted to the brown vinyl floor that dominated the centre of the room, and similarly secured wooden benches were positioned either side of it. Two metal ashtrays had been screwed to each end of the table.

  The prison officer who escorted Johnson to the room was an affable man of middle years. He opened the door with a large key from a ring attached to his uniform by a chain and motioned with his hand for the detective to enter.

  “I’ll go and fetch Churcher for you,” he said. “Would you like a cup of tea?”

  “That would be great, thanks,” Johnson replied. He sat on one of the benches. He looked over at the door that the officer had left ajar and wondered briefly what it would be like to be incarcerated here. He dismissed the thought from his mind and concentrated instead on the job in hand.

  Faint sounds could be heard in the distance, but otherwise, the room was deathly quiet. After a few minutes, Johnson could hear footsteps approaching along the corridor. The door swung open, and the prison officer entered followed by Alan Churcher, who was carrying two steaming enamel mugs.

  “I forgot to ask if you took sugar,” the P O said. “So we just put one in. Is that okay?”

  “Great, thank you,” said Johnson.

  “Sit yourself down, Churcher,” the officer ordered, and once the young man had complied, he turned to Johnson. “I’ll be outside if you need me. The bell’s by the door.”

  Once they were alone, Johnson took a packet of Embassy cigarettes from his pocket and offered one to the prisoner. Churcher’s eyes lit up, he took the cigarette, and the detective lit it for him. Johnson then left the packet open on the table facing Churcher.

  “Help yourself when you want another one,” he said.

  “I will, Mr Johnson, ta. They said you wanted to see me, but they didn’t say what it was about.”

  “I’ve got some news for you.” Johnson went on to explain about the finding of the receipt, together with the other items that Alan’s mother had handed in.

  Churcher looked crestfallen. “So, that’s where he hid it all – Frank, I mean. What will happen to the money?”

  “That’s not for me to say, but the important thing is this receipt. It puts Steven Hoskins right back in the frame for the killing of his wife.”

  “So, you believe me now, do you? About what happened?”

  “I always did believe you, Alan. I knew you wouldn’t lie to me right on top of the death of your brother. You were too upset to make up stories.”

  “Yeah, but you still nicked me for murder though.”

  “That wasn’t my decision, and anyway, that lovely barrister of yours got the right result, in the end, didn’t she?”

  Churcher opened his arms expansively and said, “Yeah, a right result. Look around you, I’m as happy as a pig in shit, me.”

  “So, why did you cop a plea?”

  “It was her idea. She said I’d only do a year if I admitted manslaughter. She said I would get a load more if I continued to plead not guilty, and if it all went against me.”

  “To be honest, she was probably right. But now’s your chance to get Hoskins back over here and into the dock.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “If you give me a statement, and support a case against him, I stand a good chance of getting him extradited from Ireland.”

  “But I already gave you a statement.”

  “That was a statement under caution. We call it a VS, or voluntary statement. It can only be used against the person that made it. I need a different kind of statement, a witness statement, if I’m to go after Hoskins.”

  “So, what’s in it for me?” Churcher helped himself to another cigarette. He lit it from the stub of the one he was holding.

  “I can’t promise anything, but I’ll make sure the authorities know you’re helping us when your case comes up for review for early release.”

  “What are the chances?”

  “Like I say, I can’t make any promises, but I’d say they were pretty good given the circumstances.”

  “Right, I’ll do it. It’s not as though I owe that bastard anything, is it?”

  “Good lad, but before we start there’s one thing I’d like you to clear up for me, off the record like.”

  “What’s that then?”

  “That dancing in the woods that Danny told us about. What was all that?”

  Churcher burst out laughing.

  “That’s all about bullshit, Mr Johnson, pure bullshit. When we was boys, our dad use
d to get me and Frank to help him pick things up at the farm. Bits of bone, feathers, smooth pebbles, sometimes herbs. Mum used to sew them into little cloth pouches, and Dad sold them to people who came to the house at night wanting charms and things.”

  “So, your dad was into all that?”

  “He told them he was – but he told us it was a load of nonsense and that they was gullible fools. It paid for his beer and baccy though.”

  “So, what about the dancing?”

  “Well, after dad died, me and Frank found this old suitcase at the house. There were all these robes and masks and stuff, and there was two little notebooks. They were really old with leather covers and had all sorts of funny writing and drawings inside.”

  “Did you understand any of it?”

  “No, our dad never taught us anything like that, but Frank showed one of the books to the mistress, er, I mean Mrs Hoskins, one time and she got all excited. Frank let on he’d been trained and knew all about the rituals and that.”

  “But he didn’t.”

  Churcher laughed again. “No, but he told her he did. So, after that, whenever there was a full moon and ‘the headmaster,’ that’s what we called her husband, was away we’d all go off to the woods and get her naked and have sex with her.”

  “So, Danny was telling us the truth then? He just got the day wrong.”

  “Yeah, it was the week before she died. Frank knew someone was watching us then he caught Danny hiding in the bushes.”

  “That’s what he told us.”

  “I bet he didn’t tell you he was having a wank though.”

  It was Johnson’s turn to laugh. “No, he didn’t tell us that – but he did say Frank got a bit rough with him.”

  “Yeah, he threatened to tell Danny’s sister. That scared the boy more than anything. Frank wouldn’t have done it though, he only said it to frighten him.”

  “What about the night Mrs Hoskins was killed, was that one of these rituals?”

  “No, that was completely different. The mistress liked playing other games as well. She was wicked with that cane of hers.”

  He lit another cigarette.

  “So, it was one of those games, the same as you told me in your first statement?”

  “Well, yeah, but it was less of a game and more a real punishment. She was really angry that we’d taken the boys to see her husband. She said we could all land in prison if we got caught. So, she really laid into us. But then she got really excited doing it, and we all had sex anyway. Then the headmaster turned up.”

  “Right, well, I’d better get some of this down on paper before our time is up and they kick me out. Help yourself to another fag and put a couple in your pocket for later.”

  “Thanks, Mr Johnson, what do you want me to say then?”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  The Black North

  Steven Hoskins paid off the cab and walked into Conleys Bar. The tiny public house was situated in a quiet, run-down area on the outskirts of the city, and it was exactly the type of place that his handlers had, over the years, repeatedly told Hoskins to avoid.

  “Lily-white, Steve, that’s what you are. No police record, no connections to the cause, you stay quiet and wait to be activated. You’re a respectable Englishman, you stay away from sympathisers, and you watch everything you say. Nobody but chosen members of the army council themselves even know you exist. We’ll call you when we need you.”

  Now, as the barman slowly poured out his pint of Guinness, Steve found himself looking across the bar at framed photos of the Republican heroes of the past. The pub reeked of conspiracy, and there were no prizes for guessing who was to be the beneficiary of the huge collection bottle that stood proudly on the bar – boasting no small quantity of five, ten, and even twenty-pound notes.

  Acutely conscious of his middle English accent, Steve said as little as he could as he paid for his drink. He decided to sit at a secluded table, with a view through a window to the street outside.

  It was just before noon, and the pub was as quiet as one would expect for an early Tuesday lunchtime. The only other customers were a small group of elderly men huddled together at the bar, each wearing an ancient blue serge suit – the ubiquitous uniform of the respectable working man of days now past.

  Steve picked up his glass, took a sip, then wiped the white, creamy foam from his upper lip. He stared out of the window at the row of mean single-storey terraced houses opposite him. A builder’s van pulled up across the road, and two beefy workers emerged from the rear. They each took a shovel out of the vehicle which they then proceeded to lean on before engaging in a conversation that involved much pointing up and down the road.

  “I wouldn’t drink too much of that if I were you, the boys won’t be happy if they have to keep pulling over to let you out for a pee.”

  Startled, Steve looked around to find one of the men from the bar standing behind him. The old codger must have moved as stealthily as a cat to creep up on him the way he did. Steve opened his mouth to speak, but the man held up a warning hand to stop him.

  “Listen, I’m just a feckin messenger boy. I don’t want to hear one feckin word from you. I’m just to ask if you’re the man from the crossroad and, if you are, to tell you to go out there and pick up your transport.”

  “Crossroad” was Steve’s correct activation code, the word used by the anonymous telephone caller the night before when he was ordered to this meeting. He got to his feet and began making his way to the door.

  “Don’t worry about your Guinness, I’ll see it doesn’t go to waste.”

  Steve’s frown deepened as he walked out through the door and across the street.

  The two workmen replaced their shovels in the back of the van then stood by the open rear door to wait for their passenger. Steve got the message and silently climbed into the vehicle. The Transit van had been designed for utility rather than comfort, and the wooded slatted seats that ran down either side were hard and unyielding.

  As Steve sat down, he saw that there was a third man in the driver’s seat. This chap seemed a bit more sociable. He turned in his seat and smiled back at Steve, revealing a neat row of large white teeth.

  “Are you all right back there, Mr Hoskins?”

  Steve nearly jumped out of his skin. He made to get up, but the two men with him made it clear that leaving wasn’t an option.

  “Am I under arrest, Sergeant Rogan?” Steve said as he slowly regained his composure. “I didn’t think I was wanted for anything in the Republic.”

  “No, no, no, stop worrying. There’s nobody on duty here. We’re just taking you to meet some people. Just for a bit of a chat, nothing to fret over.”

  “I’d be happier if I knew where I was going,” Steve replied.

  “Ah, you’ll know that soon enough – but I warn you it’s a bit of a stretch, and we’ll be using some roads you never knew existed.”

  Steve felt a moment of panic.

  “You do know that I can’t go to the north, don’t you? The British police are still after me – or is that what this is all about? You kidnap me and take me to your colleagues north of the border?”

  “All in good time, Steven, all in good time. Now just you relax and enjoy the ride. It’s a grand day for a trip to the country.”

  The conversation was over. Rogan turned back to the wheel, started the engine, and pulled out into the empty road.

  There were no seat belts, and Steve soon found himself bouncing painfully when the van picked up speed as it made its way out of the city. In contrast, his companions on the other seat, and either side of him, sat motionless as though glued to their seats.

  The journey seemed to last forever. True to his word, Rogan drove along country lanes, some of which were little more than cart tracks. Endlessly winding into the featureless countryside, these byways had existed for generations, and very few maps revealed their existence.

  After a couple of hours, Rogan stopped at a field entrance and let his passenger
s out to take a brief comfort break. The four men took turns relieving themselves in the bushes, with Steve under constant surveillance.

  Rogan produced a pack of Sweet Afton cigarettes which he handed round. Steve felt inordinately grateful to be included in Rogan’s generosity, and he relaxed even more when one of the other men offered him a light. Rogan was as garrulous as always and chatted away about such items as the weather, the price of beef – anything but the purpose of their journey.

  It was another hour and a half before they reached their destination. Steve, like all professional photographers, was aware of the position of the sun in the sky at any time of the day and this told him he had travelled north and west since leaving Dublin, but exactly whereabout he was, he had no idea. All he knew for certain was that he was deep into the countryside.

  The van eventually pulled off the road at the site of an isolated group of buildings that were nestled into the side of a grassy hill. The complex was obviously used for the storage and maintenance of agricultural vehicles, several of which were standing abandoned and partially dismantled, in an area set aside for scrap.

  Rogan drove in through a metal gate and came to a halt on a hard standing of concrete outside a wooden building the size of a small aircraft hangar.

  “Right, lads, this is it. It’s as far as we go,” said Rogan.

  He went to the rear of the van, opened the door, and motioned for Steve to get out. The other two men made no effort to move.

  “What? You’re leaving me here?” said Steve. “How do I get back?”

  For once, Rogan had nothing to say. He waited for Steve to alight then silently closed the door behind him. He then climbed back into the driver’s seat and, without any further ado, drove out of the gate and disappeared down the road.

  None of the three men in the vehicle could bring themselves to look at Steve as they left him standing, forlorn and abandoned, watching them drive off.

  After a few seconds, Steve heard the creaking sound of a door opening behind him and he turned around to see two men coming out of an access door that was set into one of the two large sliding doors at the front of the large barn. The men were identically dressed in army-style green fatigues and black boots.