ARCHANGEL HAWTHORNE (A Thriller)

by D. M. Mitchell

  ‘Why the devil does that matter?’ said Arnold Grainger. ‘All it indicates is that the police really ought to get their finger out and catch the blasted criminals who did this. Their failure to do so will have dire ramifications for the jobs and the livelihoods of thousands of workers here at Grainger Forges!’

  ‘That will do, Arnold,’ said Randolph Grainger evenly. ‘I know you are upset, so perhaps it is best if you leave us alone a while.’

  ‘Leave? No, of course not!’

  Randolph Grainger raised a brow and stared at his son. Arnold Grainger huffed loudly and rose from his seat. He closed the door after him rather too firmly.

  ‘Forgive him, inspector,’ said Randolph Grainger. ‘He is passionate about the firm. It is in our blood, you see, and has been for generations. Its current situation is causing him much distress. He blames himself. In the decade since he took over from me and I retired, the company's fortunes have been on a slow decline. But as I explained, there are many external factors over which he has no control. I too have no desire to see this company go to the dogs, but I am far less volatile in temperament than my son.’

  Hawthorne sat forward, his elbows on the polished oak table. ‘It’s a temperament that’s not helping things any,’ he said. ‘So, this thing with the Krauts…’

  ‘The Germans – yes?’

  ‘This thing with the Krauts,’ said Hawthorne. ‘It’s balanced on a knife-edge?’

  ‘You might say that,’ nodded Grainger. The old man took a handkerchief from his top pocket and dabbed at his watery eyes. ‘Not tears, inspector; I find this room far too warm and stuffy.’

  ‘Talking of stuffy, how are the rest of the board taking it?’

  Fraser eyed his superior officer warily.

  ‘They are concerned, naturally. But I constantly assure them that the police will take care of things.’

  Hawthorne nodded. ‘I hope we can meet your exacting expectations, sir. If you don’t mind me saying so, you don’t seem as cut up as your son, given the enormity of the situation.’

  ‘Cut up?’ The old man laughed. ‘I don’t get cut up. It’s not in my nature. I have reached that age when I have learned not to let things worry me too much, especially things I cannot do anything about. Sadly, my son has a lot to learn still. He has an ulcer, you know, with all the worry he puts himself through.’ He patted his large stomach. ‘I have never had such troubles.’

  ‘Pleased to hear it, sir,’ said Hawthorne rising from his chair. ‘We’re finished here for the moment,’ he said.

  ‘Hang on, sir,’ said Fraser. ‘I haven’t finished yet…’

  ‘Yes, you have,’ Hawthorne returned. ‘We’ll be in touch, Mr Grainger,’ he said, putting his trilby back on. ‘Good day to you, and good luck with the Krauts.’

  ‘The Germans,’ said Grainger.

  ‘Them too,’ said Hawthorne.

  ‘You cut that short,’ said Fraser as they walked out of the factory yard and headed for the parked Ford Zephyr. ‘I had more I wanted to ask.’

  ‘I’d heard enough,’ said Hawthorne abstractedly.

  ‘Everything all right, sir?’

  ‘Yeah, why shouldn’t it be?’ he returned, sliding into the driver’s seat.

  ‘The Super called me into his office this afternoon.’ Hawthorne said nothing. He started the car’s engine and drove away. ‘He was quizzing me.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘About you.’ Fraser lit up a cigarette and offered one to Hawthorne, who accepted.

  ‘What about me?’

  Fraser leant over and put a match to Hawthorne’s cigarette. ‘He told me not to mention anything to you.’

  Hawthorne’s mouth twitched. ‘But you’re telling me.’

  ‘What’s going on, sir?’

  ‘He tell you how washed-up I am?’

  ‘Not in so many words, but he did say you needed a rest. He quizzed me about the state of your health. Your drinking…’

  ‘My drinking? The puffed-up bastard. What you tell him?’

  ‘I told him there wasn’t anything to tell, sir. Told him I hadn’t seen anything out of the ordinary. He went on to ask about Callum Baxter…’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Or rather your obsession with him. His words, not mine. But if you don’t mind me saying, sir, you have become a little…’

  ‘A little what?’

  Fraser shook his head. ‘I don’t know. Hard to read, I guess. Like back then, you cut things short. Too short. There was still a lot more that needed to be said.’

  Hawthorne gave a little shrug of the shoulder, focusing on the busy street ahead. ‘I heard all I needed to hear.’

  ‘Begging your pardon, sir, but there are two of us…’

  ‘And one of us is the senior officer, namely me, and you do as your senior officer tells you, no questions asked.’

  ‘You’re not telling me everything you know. I can sense it. You can trust me, you know that.’

  Hawthorne looked at the young officer. ‘No, I can’t. I can’t trust anyone.’ He pushed the accelerator pedal down. ‘I’m going to drop you off at the station. I need the car.’

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘None of your business.’

  Twenty minutes later, Hawthorne pulled the car to a stop outside police headquarters. He flicked the cigarette butt out the open window.

  ‘Be careful, sir,’ said Fraser before he opened the car door and stepped outside.

  ‘I don’t need a ruddy nursemaid, Scottie.’

  ‘I reckon they’ve got it in for you. Don’t give them any opportunity to twist the knife in a little further.’

  Hawthorne saluted. ‘Thanks for the advice, sonny.’ Fraser walked away. The DCI was about to drive off when he cleared his throat and called out: ‘Thanks,’ he said.

  ‘What for?’

  ‘What you said to the Super. You didn’t have to.’

  ‘You’re right, I didn’t,’ said Fraser, looking back.

  Hawthorne wound up the window and hit the gas pedal.

  There was a knock at the bedroom door.

  ‘Come in, Angelo,’ said Callum Baxter. He was lying on the bed looking up at the cracked ceiling.

  ‘You wanted to see me?’ said Angelo.

  Callum sat up, eased his legs over the side of the bed. ‘Yeah, come over here.’ Callum stood up and stretched, arching his back as he did so. He bent down to the trunk at the foot of the bed and lifted the lid. He took out a revolver and handed it over to the Italian.

  The man felt the weight of it in his hand. ‘The same gun I shot Spud with,’ he said, almost to himself.

  ‘You’d prefer something different? Take a look inside the trunk, choose whatever suits you best.’

  ‘This is fine,’ he said, thrusting it into his pocket. ‘It is a good gun.’

  ‘I want it done cleanly and fast. I don’t want her to feel the slightest pain, you understand?’ Callum said, avoiding the Italian’s gaze.

  ‘I understand. When?’

  ‘Tonight. Before it gets dark. Take her to the woods round the back of the house.’

  ‘Sure,’ said Angelo. ‘What about Brody?’

  ‘Just concentrate on the girl, okay? Remember, it has to be quick and it has to be painless.’

  ‘You like her?’

  Callum’s eyes steeled. ‘None of your bloody business, Angelo! Do as I say. Do it now before I change my mind.’

  Angelo Abramco nodded quickly and left Callum alone. He trudged downstairs.

  ‘What did he want you for?’ said Jimmy.

  ‘What it to you?’ said the Italian.

  ‘What it to me, you bloody Eyetie? Talk proper English. Does Callum want you to take care of the girl?’

  Angelo went to a coat hook by the front door and lifted off his overcoat. ‘Is it still raining?’

  ‘Answer me you wop!’ Jimmy said angrily.

  But Angelo didn’t: he strode over to the cellar door with a swagger and a grin that bared hi
s white teeth. He unlocked the door and went down the cellar stairs.

  ‘Damn Callum!’ said Jimmy, his eyes blazing. ‘He should have trusted me with the job!’

  ‘Leave it, Jimmy,’ said Tom Brody. ‘Isn’t one murder enough for you?’

  Jimmy dashed upstairs and burst through Callum’s door. ‘Why didn’t you trust me, Callum? Why give the Eyetie all the bloody glory?’

  ‘Glory?’ said Callum. He sighed. ‘You’ll get your chance soon enough, Jimmy.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Yeah. It’s nearly time…’

  Jimmy’s face changed instantly. ‘Can I have a gun?’

  ‘No, not yet.’

  ‘But if it’s nearly time…’

  Callum Baxter closed his eyes tight, but the cracks in the ceiling still lingered in his mind. They would not budge. Then a white moon of a face sprang from nowhere and impressed itself over them. Her face. Isobel Hawthorne’s young, dead face. ‘Leave me alone!’ he said to her. But she would not go.

  ‘Please…’ said Jimmy.

  ‘Okay, take a bloody gun,’ said Callum, ‘but you keep the thing to yourself and out of sight.’

  Jimmy Baxter’s hand dipped into the trunk and came out with a shining black handgun. He ran a tongue over his lips. ‘There’s still time, Callum. Let me…’

  But Callum Baxter was fast asleep.

  ‘Where are you taking me?’ said Trudy Garner, resisting Angelo Abramco’s yanking of her arm. ‘I don’t want to go!’

  ‘We’re going to see your husband,’ he said. ‘You want to see him?’

  ‘That horrid little man told me he was dead!’ she said, pulling hard but having no effect.

  ‘Don’t believe him.’

  ‘You’re going to hurt me!’ she said, her words almost choked before they left her throat.

  Angelo pulled out the gun and pressed it to her forehead. ‘Stop struggling, damn you!’ he snarled. ‘You do as I say and everything all right. You fight me and everything not all right. You understand?’

  She squeezed her eyes shut and nodded quickly.

  ‘Now get upstairs,’ he snapped. ‘And don’t try anything silly.’

  Trudy mounted the steps, heading towards the open cellar door. The urge to make a break for it and run was almost overwhelming, but a shadow at the door just before she reached it swamped any such urge. It was Jimmy Baxter. He was grinning broadly.

  ‘Going for a stroll, lady?’ he said, unconsciously touching the scratches on his face.

  She stared hard and unforgiving at him and his smirk dropped ever so slightly under its withering intensity. ‘I’m going to kill you,’ she said.

  Angelo pushed her in the back and she blinked at the relatively bright light in the small room at the top of the stairs. She saw Tom Brody. He was in a chair, his back to her. It was as if she didn’t exist for him, she thought. He was avoiding looking at her.

  ‘Where’s Callum?’ she asked.

  ‘Outside, lady. Your husband waiting for you outside,’ said Angelo.

  ‘I want to speak to Callum!’ she insisted.

  ‘He doesn’t want to speak to you,’ said Jimmy.

  Angelo pushed the gun into Trudy’s side. ‘What did I tell you about causing trouble?’

  She bowed her head and went where she was directed, eventually reaching the front door to the farmhouse. She opened the door. The rain rapped her on the face.

  ‘I need a coat,’ she said.

  Angelo grunted something in Italian and reached one down from the peg for her. ‘You can borrow Tom’s raincoat,’ he said.

  She slid her hands into the waxed coat. It was far too big for her and there was a smell of sweat springing up from it as she buttoned it up and fastened the belt around her slender waist.

  ‘Okay, we go now,’ said Angelo.

  They stepped outside, the rain bouncing off the stone cobbles of the yard and splashing in the many boiling, muddy puddles. Angelo told her to cross the yard to the main gates. By the light of a rising moon, to her right, Trudy made out the gate over which her husband and she had climbed that fateful day. Terror cramped her stomach; terror and grief, for she knew Josh was dead. She’d known all along, but she had not wanted to admit the harrowing fact. And she knew she too was being led by this man to her slaughter.

  She put her hand in her pocket. The penknife, which until now had been useless, was all that stood in the way of her being killed, but she felt it was small and insignificant against the gun held at her back by the ominously silent Italian.

  They left the farm behind them and headed for what looked to be a black wall against the fractionally lighter sky, but which in fact was a dense wood. When he directed her over towards a tiny path that seemed to cut through it, she knew she had but minutes to live. The realisation caused her to go weak in the legs, and she almost collapsed. Angelo took her arm and lifted her up brusquely. Soon, the path was reached and she stopped and looked back at him.

  ‘What are you going to do?’ she asked tremulously, her eyes pleading.

  ‘Nothing. Go on,’ he said, waving the gun.

  ‘Tell me.’

  He lifted the gun and pointed it at her. ‘Go on,’ he said coldly.

  She snivelled, her breath coming in short bursts, and she stumbled down the path, the trees on either side like black-clad sentinels lining the route to her inevitable doom. Finally, he told her to stop. She stood there, her body wavering slightly, like a reed in a breeze, her eyes closed and expecting the worse. But nothing happened. She opened her eyes. The moon could just be seen through the bare treetops, balanced precariously on one of the scratch-like branches.

  ‘Turn around,’ said Angelo.

  She did so. He still had the gun aimed at her chest. So too were his gimlet eyes.

  ‘Take off the coat,’ he said, the rain dripping down his black hair. He had to keep blinking it away. She did as she was told. He looked at the enticing mounds of her breasts. ‘Now your T-shirt…’

  ‘No,’ she said.

  He held up the gun again. ‘Take it off!’

  Self consciously, Trudy lifted the T-shirt over her head with some difficulty, the rain having plastered it to her body. She dropped it to the ground with the coat, placing her arms over her bra to try and cover herself.

  ‘Now the bra,’ he said.

  She shook her head. ‘No! If you’re going to shoot me, shoot me!’ she shouted. Then realised what she’d said. ‘I didn’t mean…’ she whimpered.

  ‘Down!’ he ordered. ‘Lie down on the ground!’

  She did as she was told. He came to stand over her and undid the belt of his trousers, then the buttons on his fly. Angelo knelt down, his knees sinking into the soft, wet grass, and he tugged at the button on her jeans, yanking them open, his cold hand running over her bare stomach, which twitched at the touch. He dropped heavily on top of her, his lips going to hers. She screamed and pushed his head away, but he pressed the gun into her temple.

  ‘Take off your jeans!’ he growled.

  Her hands went down to her waistband, but one hand slipped into the pocket of her jeans. His tongue slid over her lips, over her cheek, down to her neck where his teeth bit her hard.

  She grabbed the penknife, lifting it free, and with her other hand reaching over Angelo’s back, she opened the blade. She waited. Angelo pushed the gun to one side, let it go so that he could hook his fingers into her jeans to pull them down. She thrust the knife downwards into his back.

  He yelled at the sudden pain. In an instant, Trudy lashed out with the tiny blade and stuck him in the hand that snapped out to retrieve the gun. He dropped it immediately. She was able to slide from his grasp, scrambling to her feet. Angelo was dumbfounded, staring at his wounded hand.

  ‘You bitch!’ he cried.

  His jaw snapped shut as Trudy’s foot met it with a sickening crunch. His head was thrown back and he groaned as he fell flat on his back. In a second, Angelo was shaking his head and trying to get up. When he was on all f
ours, he looked up to see that Trudy had the gun aimed at him.

  He held up a hand, attempting a smile. ‘What do you do? Let me have the gun, eh?’

  ‘Stay there, you bastard!’ she said.

  ‘You are a nice lady. You don’t need gun!’ He rose to his feet, uncoiling like a serpent, his attention riveted onto the wavering revolver.

  She pulled the trigger and shot him, the recoil knocking her unexpectedly off balance. When she lifted the gun to take another shot, she knew he was already dead, his eyes lifted skyward, unblinking, with the rain bouncing off them. Her breath coming in snatches, she found her sodden T-shirt, fastened her jeans and picked up the raincoat. She looked about her. It was almost complete blackness in the wood. She had no idea where she was or where to go.

  Then her face hardened. She was consumed by an overwhelming anger, coursing through her like poison. Josh’s poor face as he tumbled to the ground dying staining her emotions black.

  13

  Molasses

  Only three years ago, just off Martin Street there used to be a maze of slums. Now, in their place and newly finished last year, rose the brutal, hard-lined high-rise flats Sheffield City Council had chosen to replace the old, unsanitary back-to-back houses. Unsightly, ghastly, he thought, though very modern. Very up-to-date. Well, if this was up-to-date and the best the future held then DCI Hawthorne wanted none of it. Ruddy ugly, he thought. People were never meant to live stacked up one on top of the other in chicken boxes. Even though the slums had been dreadful, and he should know it having been brought up on Burlington Street not far away, at least they had life. There had always been people milling around, people standing on front-door steps chatting away, exchanging gossip, kids playing in the street unhindered by the motor car, which in itself was an infection gradually reaching epidemic proportions. Where was that now? Where were the people?