by Bill Kitson
DC Andrews seemed happy to accept the chore.
Nash picked up the phone. ‘I don’t see any point in driving out to Drover’s Halt only to find that Thornton has taken his wife to the bingo session at the village hall.’
* * *
The retired reporter looked to be fit and well, and his spritely air belied his age, which was only given away by a luxuriant shock of white hair.
To begin with, it seemed that Jonas might have exaggerated Thornton’s reputation as a font of all knowledge regarding the Bishopton area. Nash could tell that Thornton was intrigued by the reason for their presence, but when he mentioned Wes Stanton, he noticed that the former radio reporter’s expression changed from one of mild interest to a guarded, wary look.
Mironova, adopting her usual role of watching for the interviewee’s reaction, wondered how Nash would break down Thornton’s resistance. Seeing his outward signs of good health, she wondered if the man’s reluctance to talk might stem from a desire to remain that way. It seemed that Nash would have to adopt unusual tactics to extract information, and he did so by imparting some.
‘I’ll tell you why we’re asking, on condition that anything we say doesn’t go beyond this room. That means anything I reveal to you, and likewise, anything you choose to tell us. Is that a deal?’
Thornton agreed, although Mironova could still sense some reluctance. However, when Nash began to lay his cards on the table, any lack of cooperation vanished.
‘So far,’ Nash told him, ‘there have been four deaths. The victims were seemingly unconnected, but when we looked closely into their personal lives we found one area of common ground, and that was their involvement in the trial leading to the acquittal of two men who had been charged with Wes Stanton’s murder. We hope you can shed some light onto what happened back before Stanton was killed, because we feel certain that holds the key to who might be seeking retribution, which we believe is the motive for the recent murders.’
The openness with which Nash presented the facts did the trick — better than even he could have wished for.
Thornton began to speak, his voice growing stronger as his confidence increased. ‘Wes Stanton came to see me shortly before his death. He wanted the inside story about Jack Burrell’s last fight.’ Thornton paused and looked at the detectives. ‘Do you know about Burrell?’
Nash nodded, and the reporter continued, ‘I was able to tell him what the rumours were. Bear in mind, this was only hearsay then, so it can’t be proved now, short of someone confessing, and I can’t see that happening.’
‘What were the rumours?’
‘Wes had found out that Jack didn’t owe any money to bookies. That was said to be the reason for his alleged drug taking. The gossip was that he’d taken a performance-enhancing drug to boost his chances of winning the fight because he’d placed a huge bet on himself and hoped to use his winnings to clear his debt. So, if he didn’t have any debts, and he hadn’t placed that bet, why would he have taken a drug to win the fight?’
‘And what were you able to tell Stanton?’
‘If I tell you this, I want you to swear it will remain between us.’
‘I’ve already agreed to that, but I’m happy to reiterate that promise.’
‘OK, I told Wes that Burrell’s manager was the one who was heavily in debt, and that far from giving Burrell a booster, he was instructed to spike his drinking water with a sedative to ensure he lost the fight. The man he owed the money to was Gus Harvey. I heard that Harvey was furious; ranting and raving because he’d lost a packet on the fight. And for Gus Harvey, a packet means mega bucks, believe me.’
‘Do you think Stanton was murdered because he threatened Harvey over the rigged fight?’
Thornton’s expression became, if anything, even more troubled. ‘I can’t be sure. Don’t think I haven’t asked myself that very same question over and over again. To this day, it still haunts me that the information I gave Wes might have resulted in his murder.’
‘We’re having difficulty finding much detail about Stanton. Can you help there?’
Thornton hesitated, obviously torn as to whether to divulge what he knew. In the end, with a shrug that was almost as much mental as physical, he said, ‘Oh well, I don’t suppose it can do any harm now. The damage has already been done. Wes was murdered and Amy died several years later. She had been ill for a long time. It was some sort of chronic condition, one of those that attack the nervous system, but I reckon she died of a broken heart.’
‘Hang on,’ Nash said. ‘Who is Amy?’
‘I only met her a couple of times, in the days when she used to go out and about with Wes, but I can tell you that Amy White was a beautiful woman, and to match her beauty she had a gentle, sensitive nature. She didn’t deserve any of the trouble in her life. The only good thing to happen to Amy was meeting Wes. From what he told me at the time, it sounds as if Amy’s marriage had been a disaster. I never knew who her husband was, but by what Wes told me, he sounded like an unpleasant, sadistic character. Apparently, he knocked her about so badly that she ended up in hospital three times. Sadly, there wasn’t much attention paid to domestic violence in those days. In the end it got too much for her, and she ran off with Wes. The problem was, as a staunch Catholic, she couldn’t or wouldn’t divorce her husband, which made life intolerable for her. Then she became pregnant, and things got even worse.’
‘Worse in what way?’
‘It was during her pregnancy that the illness was diagnosed.’
‘Do you know what happened to the child? Was it a boy or a girl?’
‘I have no idea. Wes and Amy drew a veil of secrecy over their affair and everything concerned with it. Amy went away during the months up to when the baby was due, and for a long while afterwards. I suspected she might have gone to Wes’s family in Leeds, but it was never said. Wes used to visit her as often as he could, I believe. Eventually he persuaded her to return, because she was becoming increasingly less able to manage on her own.’
‘And you’ve no idea what happened to the child?’
‘No, Wes never mentioned the baby, so I guess the child might have died, been stillborn even. That’s hardly surprising after what Amy had been through. I never got up enough courage to ask Wes outright, but I reckon any parent would want to talk about their offspring, don’t you?’
Thornton sat for a moment in reflective silence, then looked at Nash. ‘I know your prime target has to be the person who committed these murders, but if you manage to get Gus Harvey put away in the process you’ll be doing the people of this area a great favour. And doing wonders for the reputation of the police force in and around Bishopton, which that detective, Hoyland, left at rock bottom. He and Harvey were two of a kind, I reckon. But if you do come up against Gus Harvey, better watch your backs. He’s evil, through and through.’
They thanked Thornton for his help and stood up to leave. As he was showing them out, Thornton gave voice to a thought that had just occurred to him. ‘Funny, isn’t it, you coming to me for information. In all the years I knew Frank Hoyland, that’s something he never did. But then, I don’t think he’d have recognized the truth if it had bit him on the backside.’
As they drove back to Helmsdale, Clara said, ‘From everything we’ve learned it seems more and more important to try and get Gus Harvey behind bars, but I can’t think of any way of doing that. What’s more, I don’t see how it will help us solve the murders.’
Nash was in total agreement, but for once, both of them were totally wrong. However, they could never, in their wildest dreams, guess how they would achieve their desired objective.
* * *
‘Is everything sorted?’ the man asked.
‘I’d say so. I can’t think of anything we’ve missed.’
‘How do you plan to deliver this?’ He indicated the small container on the table.
She smiled. ‘I’m going to leave it on his doorstep overnight so he’ll get it first thing in the morning.’<
br />
‘That should put him off his breakfast.’
She stared at her companion for a moment, surprised by his comment. ‘Do you really think so? I’m not so sure. In fact I’m beginning to wonder if we’re being wildly optimistic in what we’re asking him to do. How can we believe that a man capable of all the monstrous things he’s done will buckle because we have a hold over him?’
‘I can see your point, but if what we’re holding doesn’t do the trick, the alternative is straightforward. We simply go to our backup plan and dispose of the next two and finish it off by claiming the ultimate prize. That was always in our minds when we started. It just seemed that this way was better, but if it doesn’t happen, so be it. That’s really your call.’
‘Because you might not be able to continue?’
‘I wasn’t thinking of that. I meant that so far it’s all been about me. The next bit is for your benefit.’
He was wrong. The first part had been as much about her as him, but even he didn’t know that. It was a secret she would not share, even with him.
‘Either way, let’s hope he doesn’t dig his heels in,’ she said.
‘Actually, I’ve had an idea about that. Trying to ensure we achieve the maximum effect, I mean. We’d have to delay our delivery slightly, but for no more than a day, hopefully.’
She listened as he explained, and he could tell that his plan was receiving qualified approval.
‘I think it’s a great idea, but I’m damned sure I’m not going to touch either of those reptiles as you suggest. Even being in the same room as them makes my skin crawl.’
He nodded. ‘I wasn’t going to ask you to. I’ll do it.’
‘Are you certain you’re up to it?’
‘Of course I am.’ The tetchy rasp of his voice told her he wasn’t being entirely truthful. She remained silent, staring at him, until he relented. ‘OK, so maybe a couple of painkillers to get me through it. I was going to save them for our guests, but now I don’t care how much they suffer.’
‘Good for you. OK, take your medication and let’s get on with it. As you said, it’ll mean delaying delivery for another twenty-four hours at least, but that’ll only get the target even more wound up, and hopefully, that will result in his being more amenable.’
* * *
Scaling the wall surrounding Harvey’s property at night was easy, as she’d predicted. Although it was over eight feet high, the lack of mortar in the drystone wall offered plenty of toe holds. Besides which, she was fit and her ability was far better than most. Once inside the grounds, she made her way to the front of the house, using the route she had taken previously. By keeping close to the wall of the building, she avoided the movement sensor on the PIR light and was soon able to deliver the articles she had brought with her.
She switched on her head torch momentarily, inspecting the two envelopes and the small parcel she had placed on the doorstep. When she was satisfied that the display was as she wanted it, she switched the torch off and returned to her car. She folded the small plastic bag that had contained the items, removed the surgical gloves she had worn, and stuffed them all in her pocket.
She picked up the pay-as-you-go mobile she had bought the previous afternoon and dialled a number she had written on a scrap of paper. The message she delivered was short and to the point. Her wait was not a long one. Minutes after making the call, she saw lights appear at windows on the front of the house, then the PIR light flooded the front of the property in a harsh glow. Satisfied that her task was done, she started her car and set off on the short return journey.
Chapter Eighteen
Every enquiry Gus Harvey made about his son met with a wall of silence. In this instance, it wasn’t the silence of people wishing to conceal the unpalatable truth from him, but the silence of those who knew absolutely nothing. No matter what threats Gus issued against them and those they held dear, they were unable to provide him with an iota of information. Whoever had taken Dale prisoner had done so without recourse to or involvement from anyone close to either Gus or his son.
In desperation, Harvey had been tempted to call in the police, despite the kidnappers’ warning against that course of action. There had been a time when the police would have been his first resort, but that had been in the days when Frank Hoyland, like many others, was on Gus’s private payroll. Harvey thought of making a similar approach to the man who had come to see him, but he was a sufficiently good judge of character to know that any attempt to bribe Nash would be fruitless, counter-productive even. If he was going to contact the police it would have to be done properly, through official channels.
Harvey had picked the phone up several times with the intention of doing just that. On one occasion he actually went as far as to begin dialling the number, until common sense prevailed. Knowing the fate of the other victims whose captivity and torture he had seen on the disc provided by the abductors made the threat to Dale sufficiently powerful to prevent Gus from acting rashly. He was left with the only alternative, unpalatable though it was; to sit and do nothing until he heard what the kidnappers’ demands were.
He had no doubt that it would involve money, and a large amount of it at that. Aware of this, he had even forewarned his bank manager that he might need to make a large cash withdrawal or transfer at a moment’s notice. The thought that the kidnappers would not want money in exchange for Dale’s freedom never occurred to him. That wasn’t the way his mind worked.
Many of those who came in contact with Gus Harvey believed that he was a man completely devoid of conscience or feeling, incapable of experiencing emotion, let alone expressing it. Their opinion was that he cared for no one but himself. However, they were wrong. Gus had cared for two people in his adult life. He had loved his wife, to begin with, and although that love turned to mutual loathing and hatred, he worshipped the son she had borne him. Despite what others thought about him, Gus had reared the child, moulding the growing boy into his own ways, and had come to love him as much as he loved himself. The parental urge to protect his child was as strong in Gus Harvey as it was in any other father.
As he recalled the horror of the images of the prisoners being tortured, one after the other, until they confessed their part in his machinations, Gus felt helpless to counter the threat posed by the kidnappers. The images were shocking, gruesome even, but he was more affected by the sight of Dale and his friend being held in the same way as the killer’s victims.
As he endured another night where his dreams turned into nightmares, Gus was woken by the insistent ringing of the telephone. He fumbled for the receiver and grunted, ‘Hello, who is it?’
‘Check your front doorstep.’
Before Harvey could speak, the terse message, delivered by a low voice that was unidentifiable, was followed by the sound of the dialling tone. He stumbled out of bed, flung his dressing gown on and hurried downstairs at a pace little short of a gallop. As he removed the chain from its socket and slid the bolts back, his heart was pounding, the panic sending his blood pressure dangerously high. Were his worst fears going to come true? Would he open the door to find Dale’s body outside? His hands were trembling so violently he needed to use both of them to turn the key in the lock.
His sense of relief as he stared at the items on the step made his head swim so that he had to lean against the doorpost for a few seconds to alleviate the dizziness. Whatever message the killer had brought him, it could not have been as bad as the one conjured up by his imagination, that of his son’s lifeless corpse lying there on the cold concrete.
He peered into the pre-dawn gloom. The sky was overcast, and beyond the scope of the security light, the shadows were dark, deepening to pitch-black in places. He bent to scoop the items from the step, his head raised, watching for movement in the shadows; movement that could spell danger. He retrieved the objects and returned inside unchallenged. Only when he had slammed the door shut, locked, bolted and chained it, did he feel marginally safer. Nevertheless, the fact that
an intruder had got so close with apparent ease made him feel nervous, the feeling compounded by wondering what was inside the box and envelopes.
He opted to attend to the box first. The oblong shape was covered in wrapping paper with a romantic theme to it. As he turned it over, he saw a label with a similar motif stuck to the underside. It read, “To Gus, from Georgina”. What sort of sick joke was this?
After removing the wrapper, he prised open the box and stared at the contents in horror. Pinned to the uniquely shaped object inside was a cocktail stick with a paper pennant attached, the sort used to identify tasty treats at cocktail parties. Printed on the pennant was the wording, “You hold my heart in your hand”, and on the obverse, “Georgina Drake, RIP — Remain in Purgatory”.
The killer had sent him Georgina’s heart.
Harvey, the man a lot of people considered unfeeling, reeled away from his desk and vomited into the waste basket, overcome by the obscenity of what he had seen. Eventually, when he had recovered sufficiently, he turned his attention to the first of the envelopes, knowing he had to overcome his revulsion for Dale’s sake. Before doing so, he moved the box to one side, where he could not see its grisly contents. Out of sight — but a long way from being out of mind. He was certain, beyond all doubt, that the object inside the box was as stated. No wonder the police had refused to release details of how the victims had died. He wondered if each of them had suffered the same fate.
The first of the envelopes was a small, padded one, the contents of which, by comparison, appeared innocuous. It was a DVD, and the thought of what might be on that disc was what troubled him. He loaded it into the DVD player, his hands still trembling after the series of shocks he had received. Having pressed play, he watched the now-familiar scene unfold. On the twin tables inside what appeared to be an operating theatre were two naked figures, both bound hand and foot. Harvey had no difficulty in recognizing the prisoners. His son Dale was lying on the nearer table, the other being occupied by Chad Wilkinson. He stared at them closely, before freezing the shot to examine something that puzzled, then disturbed him. On each man’s chest a circle had been drawn with a felt-tipped pen. Gus’s stomach heaved again as he realized the significance of the marks. They were the sort used by a surgeon to identify the site on which he was to operate.