by Michael Kerr
Laura poured them both another glass of the ruby-red cabernet. The bottle was now empty, but the crackers, brie, wedges of cheddar and the small wheel of Gouda that she had put out sat untouched and forgotten on the coffee table.
“Do you think you could put up with me full-time?” Laura said.
“I don’t think I could, I know it,” Jim said, reaching across the table to hold her hand. “We deal with Parfitt, and then get on with the rest of our lives, together, right?”
“You really believe that he’s stupid enough to stay around and try something, don’t you?”
“He’ll come, Laura, and soon. He’s driven with a hatred for you that must be stuck in his craw like broken glass. You put it together and identified him. But he won’t imagine that we’ll be ready for him. He knows that he’s expected to run and hide, so he’ll be too confident, and that gives us the advantage. Remember, he’s basically insane, and wants what he feels is justice for what we’ve done to him and his mother. While you’re at the station tomorrow, I’ll buy some self protection items. We’ll be ready to give him a proper welcome.”
“Don’t forget, the cottage is under police surveillance. There are two armed officers watching out for me.”
“He could get past them, Laura. Better safe than dead.”
“You really know how to make a girl feel secure.”
“I don’t want you to feel secure. I want you to feel very ill at ease, until it’s settled.”
Minster Firearms was situated inside the city walls, down a side street not far from the tourist-choked Shambles. Jim pushed open the sturdy security door, to be met by an Aladdin’s cave of weaponry, and the rich familiar, evocative smell of gun-oil and leather. He walked across to the display-case counter and nodded at the bored-looking and bearded guy who sat behind it on a wooden chair; an imposing Orson Welles look-alike with the remains of an unlit cigar clamped between his teeth as he looked up impassively from the girlie magazine that lay limp, well-thumbed and dog-eared in front of him. Jim studied the impressive array of handguns behind the glass, which he could not procure without a firearms certificate. He then looked up at the walls, where among rifles and shotguns he saw a weapon that – although deadly – could be purchased over the counter, without any formalities or attendant paperwork.
He selected a Barnett ‘A.P.’ System Rhino crossbow, incorporating a loading mechanism that would allow him to arm it one-handed. With a dozen bolts, or quarrels as ‘Orson’ called the short heavy arrows, of which six could be clipped into the weapon’s curved structure for speedy reloading, he felt almost equipped to face any adversary, although an Uzi or a .44 Magnum would have been his preferred choice of personal weapon for the confrontation that he was convinced was waiting to be played out in the not too distant future.
Back at the cottage that evening, Jim felt more at ease. He felt confident that he could deal with an attack that could not be a surprise, because he expected it. He had also decided that he had no intention of making any effort whatsoever to take Parfitt alive. He would use extreme prejudice on sight of the man. This was life or death, and he would not hesitate in negating any threat, to ensure that both he and Laura survived to make memories together.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
“IT won’t be for long, Mummy, I promise,” Hugh said, lowering her gently onto the folded blanket in the boot of the doctor’s rover, and placing a pillow under her head before closing the lid. “Sweet dreams.”
With all the unaccustomed handling and movement, the corpse’s left leg had become detached. The paper thin dried skin and rotted tendons had parted at the knee as he had carried her along the hall. But he did not notice the mouldering limb lying on the carpet as he went back for the supplies he had packed. A part of him would always see her complete and in pristine condition; alive and robust, with no disfigurement or impediment. His mind had imbued her with eternal youth, and would allow nothing to blemish his perfect image of her. The lower part of the leg had therefore become completely invisible to him as it fell away from the corpse.
After incarcerating the three nonentities in the cellar and making ready, he had sat for a while on the settee next to his mother, his face slack and without expression as the electrical charges in his brain almost short-circuited, holding him in a state similar to that which an epileptic experiences immediately after suffering a seizure. Only his eyes moved, jiggling rapidly from side to side. And as the mental spell broke, he was confused, taking over five minutes to regroup his thoughts and become aware of who and where he was. It was becoming increasingly difficult to keep his two incongruous personalities apart. Like matter and antimatter they were on a collision course that would prove untenable if and when they met. He was as unstable as a stick of sweating dynamite, on the verge of disassembling by way of a cerebral meltdown that would result from the pending internal explosion.
“Laura,” he whispered. “Must deal with the bitch. She is a betrayer; a modern-day Delilah.”
With the shotgun, a box of cartridges, a hammer, six-inch nails and a selection of the darkest clothing that Dominic had owned all secreted next to his mother in the boot, Hugh locked up the house and drove away. He now wore a pair of the doctor’s horn-rimmed glasses, with the lenses removed. And with his now dark hair and swollen, broken nose, he bore little resemblance to the man that the police would be searching for.
Driving past Laura’s cottage at first light, Hugh noted the unmarked Vauxhall Cosworth that was parked almost opposite, up on the berm and in the deep shadow of the low, thick limbs of a mature oak tree. Behind the partially misted windows of the car, he caught a glimpse of two figures, who he knew would be armed coppers, probably special branch.
The Yank’s Jeep Cherokee was in Laura’s drive, so it was obvious that they were taking no chances, and had prepared for the unexpected. He would make preparations and return after dark. He determined that the police presence would prove more help than hindrance.
Eric and Molly Champion had parked their car and caravan in a lay-by on the A166 adjacent to a large picnic area that was set well back from the road amid trees that shielded the tables, benches and vehicles from sight, and dampened the noise of passing traffic. They had driven up from Birmingham the day before, their plan being to stop off at several spots along the east coast, then cut back inland from Whitby to cross the North York Moors. They were seasoned caravaners, but liked privacy, and so tended to avoid overcrowded official sites, preferring to stay in quiet, usually deserted locations. They were both fifty-nine years old, and were looking forward to retirement the following year from the social security office jobs that had brought them together thirty years earlier.
Up at six a.m., Molly had put the kettle on to boil for tea, before stepping outside on to the dew-laden grass at the side of the caravan. She stretched and yawned, enjoying the fresh and invigorating morning air. A sudden movement caught her eye, directing her gaze to a man who emerged from the bushes and walked across to the vehicle that was parked up behind them. Molly grinned. It was obvious that the guy had been for a leak, or maybe to take a dump, due to there being no toilets in the lay-by, and the fact that he was zipping up his trousers. The man gave her a quick glance; looked a little embarrassed, as if knowing what she was thinking. Another few seconds and in his cab, and the lorry’s engine roared into life. Molly watched as the large eighteen-wheeler passed by her, to rumble out on to the road, heading west.
There was only one other vehicle in sight, a green Rover parked about thirty yards in front of them. It crossed her mind that it was probably a sales rep that had stopped for a couple of hours’ kip during the night, and no doubt slept for longer than planned.
The whistling summoned her back on board. She moved quickly for a big woman, stepping up into the caravan and turning the steaming kettle off before it woke Eric up. She put tea bags into the brightly coloured Garfield pot, and filled it with the boiling water, before turning the portable radio on for a fix of easy listening, cou
rtesy of Radio Two.
Sitting at the small dinette table, Molly looked ahead to the day that she and Eric could leave Birmingham permanently, to perhaps set up home somewhere in North Yorkshire. They had lived in the same semi in Smethwick throughout their marriage, but both preferred the countryside; hence the forays into it at every opportunity. There was nowt so queer as folk, Molly thought. Their next door neighbours, Colin and Joan Miller, had accompanied them for a long weekend to the Welsh borders the previous summer, and had both been on the verge of having panic attacks. They viewed anything other than the comforting, overpopulated brick and concrete habitat that they had spent their entire lives in as unsettling and in some way threatening. The great outdoors was obviously not everyone’s cup of tea. Funny how wide open spaces could in some way disconcert townies.
With her back to the door, Molly looked out through the opposite window. She smiled at the sight of two grey squirrels. The cute rodents scoured the tops of the picnic tables and investigated a waste bin, looking for scraps left by the previous day’s visitors. This, as usual, was a world away from the stress of city life, with its frenetic pace and attendant noise and pollution. Molly was positive that without these tranquil breaks, the pressure of their jobs – dealing with men and women that demanded benefit in the form of money, and who became angry or distraught if they did not qualify for payment – would overwhelm them.
As Molly thought to take Eric a cup of tea, something clamped her mouth from behind and dragged her up onto the balls of her feet.
“Listen to me very, very carefully,” Hugh whispered in her ear, showing her the knife that he held in his other hand, before pressing the edge of its cold, keen blade against her cheek, with the point almost piercing the fleshy pouch under her right eye. “If you follow my instructions precisely you will not be harmed. Do you understand?”
Molly could not move or respond. Her heart trip-hammered and a ringing sounded in her ears as her high blood pressure rose to signal a dangerous artery-bulging level. She felt as if a geyser of hot liquid had surged into her brain, compressing it, incapacitating her, suspending her on the brink of unconsciousness. She was at once sweating yet shivering, held in rigid mortification and a brittle spasm of fear.
“Do you understand?” Hugh said for the second time.
Molly somehow found the will to give a slight nod of her head.
“Good girl. I’m going to take my hand away from your mouth. And when I do, I want you to tell me your name, and who else is on board. Keep in mind that it’s very important that you don’t lie to me or call out. If you scream, it will be the last thing you ever do.”
The pressure of the hand eased, allowing a gap through which she could smell her own warm, mint-scented breath, rebounding from the cool palm.
“My n...name is...is M...Molly. There’s just Eric...my husband and me,” she said in a library whisper. “He’s still in bed,” she added.
Eric’s low, evenly modulated snoring stopped abruptly in a loud snort as Molly – under instruction – shook his sheet-covered foot. His eyes snapped open in surprise, and he grunted; a slow smile dying on his face even as it formed, on seeing the figure standing behind his wife, holding a knife against her throat.
“Good morning, Eric,” Hugh said to the thin, balding man, who reared up into a sitting position and stared at him as though he was Freddy Kruger. “I’m afraid that I’m going to have to interrupt your vacation for a while. I don’t intend to harm you or Molly, but I need you to understand that if you cause me any inconvenience whatsoever, then I will kill you both. Do I make myself clear?”
Eric’s mouth dropped open, his lower jaw instantly weighted with stupefaction. He was speechless, unable to readily comprehend the scenario at the foot of the bed.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” Hugh said. “Here’s what we’re going to do...”
A little later, Hugh went for the Rover. Parked it almost bumper to bumper with Eric and Molly’s Citroen and transferred his mother and other effects to the caravan, before properly inspecting his new temporary home. The twenty-two-foot long Gazelle Road King had a large dinette-come-living area, partitioned off rear bedroom, and a generous sized bathroom complete with shower. The furnishings and fittings were in immaculate condition, which indicated that the caravan was almost new. After carrying out a meticulous search of the vehicle, he found a further five hundred pounds in cash to add to his kitty, and a pair of Ray-Ban metal wrap, steel-grey framed shades that were a vast improvement on the doctor’s glasses, which he binned.
Later, having feasted on bacon and eggs and enjoyed two cups of tea from the smiling Garfield pot, he set off for a day at the coast. The abandoned Rover would soon be just one of many vehicles parked at the picnic site, raising no suspicion until at least late evening. Even when found, it would give up no worthwhile clues as to his whereabouts, as by then he would be many miles from the area.
Horizontal stripes of light seeped through the louvered doors, allowing Eric and Molly to look into each other’s eyes. They were sitting face to face in the dim, cramped confines of the stuffy, narrow, built-in wardrobe. Their wrists were taped behind their backs; legs overlapping, taped together, joining them. Their mouths were also taped, to stifle any ill-advised temptation to cry out for help.
Later that morning, sitting on a cliff top a couple of miles north of Scarborough and looking out to sea, where the smudge of an oil tanker ploughed a slow path across the horizon, Hugh grinned with boyish glee. When night fell he would cause mayhem, get even with Laura – who had fucked up his career and his life – and give the far too clever FBI dropout a display that would probably tear his mind apart. He would then head south, settle down with his mother (his one true love) and keep a low profile as he adopted a new way of life and a respectable front. He would refrain from killing for a while; suppress the urges that built up like the magma under a volcano. And when he did resume, there would be no further games or interaction with the plods. Bodies would not be found in future. He would take only strays and runaways with no fixed addresses or reasons to be missed; flotsam that society overlooked and turned its back on. The killing would be a public service; pest control, clearing the streets of scrounging, scumbag no-hopers, who were of no discernible use to themselves or anyone else. Everything was looking decidedly brighter. He felt invincible. It was as if the world revolved purely to serve his needs and desires; a table of plenty; hors-doeuvres to be sampled at his leisure.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
MARTY Drury snapped the mag back into his Glock 17 and returned the weapon to the shoulder holster under his left armpit. The interior of the car was illuminated with a brief flare of light as he then proceeded to light a cigarette, before turning to Vic Buchanan, who was already dozing only ten minutes after they had relieved the two-till-ten shift.
The handover had been a gruff verbal report from Herbie Parnell, to the effect that the female copper and her boyfriend were inside the house and had no plans to leave the cottage again till morning.
“For fuck’s sake, wake up, Vic,” Marty said.
“I am awake. I was just resting my eyes.”
“Yeah, yeah, and I’m the jolly green giant. If you think I’m going to check in every hour while you get your ugly sleep, then you’re wrong.”
“Christ, chill out, Marty. We’re babysitting a split-arse DI and a bloody Yank, not guarding a fucking royal. Parfitt isn’t going to show. He’ll have done a runner and be keeping his head down. He knows that every bobby on the beat between Lands End and John O’Groats will be looking for him, hoping to get a bloody medal or promotion for being the one to collar him. The sooner they catch the bastard or blow him away the better, and we can get back to something less boring than sat out in the fucking sticks, freezing our balls off.”
“It’s pigging red hot, you dummy,” Marty said, opening his window almost all the way, flicking the half-smoked cigarette out, to watch as the red end sparked briefly in the darkness.
&nb
sp; “What time do we do an external check of the house and then get coffee off the tart?” Vic said.
“Eleven. After we’ve radioed in,” Marty replied, tweaking up the volume on the car radio a notch, to pierce the silence of the night.
Marty was already bored out of his skull. It was hard to be expectant, keyed-up and ready for action when it was obvious that nothing untoward was going to happen. Most of his working life was spent waiting, watching and doing fuck all. Years ago, when still in uniform, he had envied the gung-ho, gun-toting cops in civvies that seemed to have an adventurous life, beset with intrigue and danger. The truth was, he had been far happier as an overworked PC. He had just spent the best part of a year as a small cog in an operation to smash a large drug cartel, only to see it all come apart and go down the drain. It could be soul-destroying work, and did little for the ego. He was tempted to jack it in and join the firm of an ex-flying squad officer he knew, who had offered him a job in the growing field of personal protection for celebrities, politicians and the like. He could see himself as a highly paid bodyguard. He might try to work a medical retirement and give it a go. At least that way he would then have a pension of sorts coming in, should it not pan out.
The car door opened, and even as Marty began to turn his head, the blade of the knife was driven into his ear, to imbed deeply in brain tissue.
The attack was so fast that Vic thought for a second that his partner had opened the door; was maybe going for a piss. But Marty let out a thin, strangled whine and slumped forward in his seat. It was only then that Vic saw the figure, dimly lit by the dome light over the rearview mirror.