Nine O'Clock Bus To Brompton

by Kevin Fitzpatrick

  Each of them wore a full-face balaclava helmet with separate holes for the mouth and eyes.

  One of the men had an automatic pistol in his hand; his companion was carrying an Armalite rifle that he now pointed in Steve’s general direction. The first man looked all around the yard then, seemingly satisfied that no-one was around, he started to go back through the door from which he had just emerged. He indicated with the pistol for Steve to follow. Steve did as he was instructed and the man with the rifle followed them both into the barn.

  Just inside, and to the left of the main door, was a separate room the size of a large shed. It was apparently used by workers to store their personal equipment, overalls, etc. A coarse wooden trestle table ran the length of the room, and wellington boots were neatly lined up along one wall. The three men went into this room, and the man with the pistol turned and faced Steve.

  “Right, Mr Hoskins, take all your clothes off please and put them on the table.” He spoke in a matter-of-fact way in a distinctive Belfast accent, like a doctor about to perform a routine examination.

  “Don’t be bloody ridiculous!” Steve blustered. “I’ll do no such thing. In fact, I’ll do nothing at all until somebody tells me what this is all about.”

  The sound of the shot was deafening in the small room and, although the bullet was aimed at the floor in front of him, Steve immediately went into shock. The breath went out of his body, his heart began to race, and he began to shake uncontrollably.

  “I’ll not tell you again, Mr Hoskins. The next one will be through your kneecap. Now get them fucking clothes off!”

  Still polite, but this time the voice was loaded with menace. With trembling hands, Steve began to unbutton his shirt.

  Once he was completely naked, Steve felt more vulnerable and wretched than he had ever done in his life. It became even worse when he was told to hold his hands out in front of him, depriving him the illusion of protection that cupping his hands over his genitals had allowed him.

  The man put his pistol on the table and retrieved a set of handcuffs from a rear pocket.

  Steve looked at the pistol and weighed up his chances of making a grab for it and getting away from these two men. Within the space of a heartbeat any chance of success, however slender, was taken from him.

  “Don’t even fucking think about it,” came a gruff voice from behind, and Steve felt the muzzle of the Armalite jabbed in to the small of his back.

  The handcuffs felt cool on his wrists. They were an obsolete version with an old-fashioned screw-in locking mechanism. Unlike their more modern counterparts, they were fairly slack on his wrists, but still effective. Once his hands had been securely cuffed, Steve was told to face the door.

  Suddenly, and without warning, a black bag was pulled over his head from behind, and he was plunged into darkness. The bag smelt of old oil and had presumably been used to hold tools. The effect was claustrophobic, and Steve felt panic rising within him.

  One of the men took hold of the handcuffs and, with the rifle still being prodded into his back, Steve was roughly pulled out of the room and into the barn beyond.

  The concrete floor beneath his bare feet was cold and gritty, and he felt a definite drop in temperature as he walked twenty paces or so before being told to stop. The man in front kept hold of the handcuffs, but the rifle was taken from the small of Steve’s back and he heard the gunman walking away from him. He then heard chains rattling and the unmistakable sound of a hoist and pulley being operated. The noise of the hoist travelled across the room then stopped immediately above him.

  There was a click followed by the soft whir of an electric motor as the hoist was lowered. The noise stopped, and Steve’s hands were lifted so that the small chain between each of the handcuffs could be attached to a hook. The motor whirred again, and his hands were raised higher and higher until he felt himself being lifted off the floor. Capable hands fastened a belt around his ankles and used it to pull them painfully together – putting Steve in fear of losing his balance.

  The weight of his body pulling on his wrists was already starting to become unbearable, so it gave some relief when the hoist was finally lowered sufficiently to allow the balls of Steve’s feet to reach the floor and take some of the strain.

  Hanging naked and exposed, Steve then heard the sound of other people entering the room. This was followed by the sound of chairs being scraped along the floor as they were moved into place somewhere close in front of him.

  The hood was roughly jerked from his head. The fresh air he sucked into his lungs felt wonderful, but the sudden harsh white light that emanated from the overhead lamps was blinding.

  “Hello, Steven.”

  He couldn’t make out the speaker’s face to begin with, but the voice was unmistakable. A voice he had fervently hoped he would never hear again. The cold fear he was already feeling now became abject terror as he realised that he was at the mercy of a psychopath. A genuine sadist, a woman highly skilled in the art of causing pain.

  “Irene,” he said despairingly. “Oh God, of all people. It had to be you...”

  As well as Irene, there were now four men in the room, including the two who had stripped and bound him. The newcomers were also sporting balaclava masks and were sitting behind a trestle table either side of the red-haired Irene who was wearing a sober-looking grey trouser suit.

  “Ah, Irene,” said the woman, smiling. “I’ve not heard that name in a while. I left Irene Silver back in London years ago.”

  “So, who are you now?”

  “Oh, you can still call me Irene, Steven. For old time’s sake, I mean.”

  “Well, for old time’s sake, can you please tell me what I’m doing here – and why can’t I keep my trousers on?”

  “Tell me, Steven, did you really kill Suzanne? To be honest, I didn’t think you had the balls for it.”

  “I didn’t mean to kill her. I lost my temper and hit her a bit harder than I intended. You of all people know how she could wind people up. Anyway, I thought you hated her?”

  Irene laughed. “That old witch? I hope she burns in Hell! I’d have done it myself, given half a chance.”

  Steve was confused. “So, why am I here?” he asked her.

  Irene spoke calmly and quietly. “Steven, cast your mind back a few hours to that pub where you were picked up. Did you notice the big bottle on the bar?”

  “Yes, a collection for the cause.”

  “Yes, exactly. And the cause could not survive a single day without those contributions. The contributions of decent working people. Some of them often put their entire week’s wage into that bottle. To them we are heroes, freedom fighters, patriots. They genuinely believe that God is on our side.”

  “Yes, Irene, yes, and they’re right. You, I mean, we are heroes. We have a just cause.”

  Irene carried on as though Steve hadn’t spoken. “So, how motivated do you think would these folks be on their way home from Mass if they associated us with stuff like this?”

  She stood up and took a large brown envelope from the handbag beside her. One by one she removed photographs from the envelope. She placed them face up on the table in front of her, where Steve could clearly see them.

  “Irene, I can explain. It’s not what it appears. There were these two perverts who used to supply drugs in our village. I didn’t know it, but they were having an affair with Suzanne. They told me they could get me models; I didn’t know they were children. Honest to God, I didn’t. They told me they were jockeys and just looked young. I’m not a kiddy-fiddler, honest I’m not. I never have been. Oh God, please, please don’t hurt me. I’m innocent, I swear I am.”

  The woman known to Steven Hoskins as Irene stood up and slowly walked around the table. She went over to her helpless captive, looked him in the eye, and smiled.

  Steve frantically looked around the room for support, desperately seeking some glimmer of human compassion from the people in the room. Finding none, he began to writhe and twist in a v
ain effort to break free.

  “D’you know, Steven, I almost believe you. But I’ll know the whole truth soon enough, don’t you worry.”

  “You don’t need to do this, Irene.” He started crying. “I’ll tell you anything you want.”

  Irene just stood there, apparently amused. Still smiling, she clicked her fingers behind her and one of the henchmen walked over to a corner. He returned with a large wooden toolbox that he opened on the table in front of him. Inside the box lay a seemingly innocent selection of everyday tools – including drills, pliers, and even a small blowtorch.

  Steve stopped crying and his eyes opened wide in terror.

  “They were just a couple of young tearaways,” he shouted. “Yobbos from London. Nobody cares what happens to them! Surely I’m worth more to you than this? Or is that it? This is a warning, isn’t it?” He actually began to feel hopeful. “Well, you’ve made your point. Message received and understood. Now let me down so we can get on with the serious work we both believe in.”

  “But do we, Steven? Do we really both believe in it? I know I do – but how can I be sure about you?”

  “You know me, Irene. You can trust me. I swear to God you can!”

  Irene became aware of the sound of shuffling feet behind her. Her companions were becoming impatient.

  “Well, Steven, I’ve enjoyed our little chat – but I really must get on.”

  She took a large pair of pincers from the toolbox, then took a long hard look at her captive. Her eyes roved up and down his body, like a butcher sizing up a side of beef.

  “Now, where should I start?” she mused.

  Steven Hoskins began screaming.

  Epilogue

  Thames Valley Police HQ

  It was nearly four o’clock, and Headquarters canteen was quiet following the afternoon rush. The staff, mostly middle-aged ladies wearing white coats, were busily cleaning the tables, and one or two small groups of people were standing around, huddled together and engrossed in hushed conversations.

  Don picked up a cup of coffee at the counter and walked over to join DS Johnson, who was sitting alone at a corner table.

  “Hi, Don,” said Johnson. “Grab a pew. Thanks for coming, I know it’s a pain, but I’m so busy at the moment I just couldn’t get the time to drive down your end to see you.”

  “No problem, Dave, it’s not much more than a half-hour drive, and I don’t often get to see the Taj Mahal these days,” Don replied, employing one of the many nicknames enjoyed by the HQ building complex.

  “So, how’s it been going, anything interesting happening down your way?” Johnson asked him.

  “Well, they’re keeping me busy – but it’s mostly crap.”

  “It’s a bloody waste keeping you there, I could do with you up here working with me. I thought you and I made a good team last time.”

  “Mr Merryweather didn’t think so, as I recall. I doubt he’ll ever forgive me for the cock-ups I made.”

  “Nonsense! Once he realised you weren’t actually shagging half the females in the county, he decided he quite liked you. The governor’s a bloody shrewd bloke you know – and a brilliant detective. He knows a good copper when he sees one. There’ll be CID boards coming up soon. If you’re interested, I’d be happy to put a word in.”

  “Thanks, Dave, I really appreciate that, but Rosemary would go ballistic if I applied for a job with you blokes. She’s decided she likes having me home once in a while – especially now.”

  “Does that mean what I think it means?” said Johnson with a grin.

  Don smiled and nodded. “About four months gone, we reckon.”

  “That’s bloody marvellous, congratulations! I’m really pleased for both of you.”

  “Rosemary says I’m to ask if you’d like an invite to the christening when the day comes. A bit soon to ask, I know. But …”

  “Don, I’d be honoured. Thank Rosemary very much for me.”

  “Oh, it gets worse. If it’s a boy, she wants to call him David.”

  “I don’t know what to say, I’ve come over all emotional, not like me at all.”

  “Well, if it weren’t for you…”

  “You’d have sorted it all out yourself,” Johnson finished for him. “So, how’s the application for a transfer coming along?”

  “It’s going nowhere at the moment I’m afraid, and neither am I. The powers that be reckon I’m in no danger now that Churcher has withdrawn his threats. And he’s started coming up trumps with his info on the drug gangs. In fact, it’s him they’re more worried about than me now. I could see him being whisked off to a secret hideaway before long.”

  “So, the bottom line is you’re staying in Brompton? What about your CICB claim, did that ever get settled?”

  “Yeah, I actually got a good pay-out. Enough for a small deposit on a house – Rosemary and I would like to get on the housing ladder – if we weren’t stuck in the tied police house.”

  “Would you stay in the area?”

  “Yes, it’s a great place for kids, and I’ve made a contact with a local estate agent. Actually, he’s the same one that’s dealing with the sale of the Hoskins house. Not easy, he reckons, given the story.”

  “I bet! Anyway, that’s what I wanted to see you about. You must be wondering what’s been happening since you sent me all the gubbings that Mrs Churcher gave you?”

  “Well, now Churcher’s out of prison, I did rather suspect his cell would be occupied by Steven Hoskins by now. Did we ever apply for extradition, or was it all swept under the carpet?”

  Johnson was miffed. “There was never any danger of that, Don. We’re not that cynical, you know.”

  “Sorry, mate, I know I say stupid things sometimes, no offence.”

  “No problem. Anyway, it turns out things were a bit more complicated than we realised.”

  “Really? How come?”

  “Do you remember Partridge, the Special Branch bloke?”

  “Yeah, of course I do.”

  “Well, gave me some of it the day we flew over to Ireland, but I’ve got the full story now.”

  “And?”

  Johnson grinned. “You know what I’m going to say next, don’t you?”

  “Yeah, yeah, keep your gob shut, Don, all highly confidential.”

  Johnson laughed. “You learn fast, are you sure you don’t fancy giving those boards a try?”

  “Quite sure, thank you. I’m chasing promotion these days. I’m really getting on with studying for that sergeants exam.”

  “I wish you luck, but listen, it turns out Hoskins was a bit of a hero according to SB.”

  “Hoskins? A hero? You’re having me on!”

  “Responsible for saving loads of lives it seems. A sort of double agent inside the IRA. That’s what we’d call him, but PIRA would probably call him a traitor and an informant.”

  “What did he do?”

  “He got recruited a few years back when the troubles were just kicking off. His job was to recce and photograph suitable sites for planting bombs in London.”

  “Bloody Hell!”

  “Well, he completely bottled it and turned himself in to SB. They turned him and persuaded him to carry on, but report everything back to them.”

  “Christ! He had to have some balls to do that!”

  “Well, he hasn’t got them now. Take a look at these.”

  Johnson handed Don a packet of photographs, but then put his hand over it. “Be careful, Don, we don’t want to give the canteen ladies bad dreams.”

  As surreptitiously as possible, Don looked through the pictures. He went pale as each shot proved to be more graphic than the last.

  Finally, in a hoarse voice, he asked, “I take it this is definitely Hoskins? We’re completely sure are we? I mean you can’t tell from these, can you? It’s just a bloody carcass.”

  “The RUC sent them to us. The body was found by a farmer on a remote hill in the border area, and Hoskins was identified by fingerprints.”

&nb
sp; “Do they know who did it?”

  “If they do, they’re not saying. It’s been put out as a routine sectarian killing to the media over there, not even worth a mention in the mainland press. We’re doing what we can to trace next of kin, etc.”

  “Isn’t that a job for the Met?”

  “Hoskins’ last known address was on our patch, so we cop for it, for now anyway. It’s not your problem though, Don, and I probably shouldn’t have filled you in on it.”

  “So, why did you?”

  “Well, besides the fact that I think you deserve to know, I suspected you’d be shaking the tree sooner or later trying to find out what was happening.”

  “People are going to find out he’s dead though. You can’t expect that to stay secret.”

  “No, we won’t even try to do that. It’s just the gory details you need to stay schtum about – that and the Special Branch connection, of course.”

  Don felt totally deflated. He hadn’t particularly liked Hoskins, but he wouldn’t have wished the horrific end the man had come to onto anyone.

  “So, that’s it then?” he said.

  “Afraid so, mate, there’s nothing more we can do. Go on back to Rosemary and get on with your life.”

  “Thanks, Dave, and thank you for trusting me. I may as well clear off then.”

  The men shook hands, and Don headed back to Brompton.

  It took Don forty minutes to get home. He pulled up onto the driveway outside the police office and took his official notebook out from the back pocket of his trousers. Before making up his notes for the day, his mind drifted back over the events of the past few weeks.

  Three people were dead, one was in prison and several other people’s lives had been forever changed.

  But, in the big scheme of things, had Don made a difference?

  He wasn’t sure.

  He decided to call it a day, the pocketbook entry could wait. He picked up the radio handset and depressed the toggle.