A silver BMW waited at the side of the road, its engine revving as though it was a restrained beast anxious for release. The men threw Bridge on to the back seat. One of them followed him, the other jumped in the other side. In the same second, the driver slammed his foot down. With a final roar, the beast sprang into action, tyres screeching.
Elated, Bridge laughed, shouted above the roar, ‘Good job, boys! Stunning, totally stunning.’
Both men removed their masks. Bridge didn’t recognize them, figured they must be men his sister had hired. So far, in his estimation, they’d been full value for money, no matter how much she’d paid.
‘We’re only half done,’ one of the men grunted, glancing through the window over his shoulder for signs of pursuit. ‘You be ready to get out soon, Charlie!’
‘Soon?’ Bridge queried.
He looked out through the side, then the back window. They were bombing down a deserted road, in what looked like an industrial estate. He shot forward as the driver suddenly braked and they stopped abruptly. The doors to a garage on their right swung open. The driver accelerated again and drove inside. As the doors closed behind them, the driver cut the engine. In the silence and semi-darkness, there was a moment of relief after the frenetic speed and tension. Then one of the masked men spoke.
‘Out Charlie!’
He did as he was told. There were another two vehicles inside the garage, a Land-Rover and an old Primera. In the dim light he could make out an indistinct figure behind the wheel of the Primera.
One of the men placed a hand on his shoulder. ‘We leave you here. You go in the Primera. You already know the driver. He’ll look after you.’
Bridge opened his mouth to say something but was cut off. ‘Just do it, Charlie. Time counts for all of us.’
In the blink of an eye the three men removed their black attire, changed into casual clothing. Two of them clambered into the Land-Rover while the other opened the garage doors. Then the Land-Rover shot forward out of the garage and the doors closed again, leaving Charlie standing there like an abandoned child.
He started towards the Primera. A thin man, long arms accentuated by a polo-necked jumper, climbed out to greet him. He recognized Bill Fraser, an old acquaintance. In the gloom of the garage his gaunt face and high cheekbones were almost ghoulish. After they’d shaken hands Bridge started for the passenger side but Fraser called him back and opened the boot. He leaned forward, lifted a panel which hid a space at the back with just enough room to conceal a body.
‘Custom made for you,’ Fraser said with a sweeping gesture. ‘There’s a flashlight so you don’t get scared in the dark, some sandwiches and a flask of coffee and even a bottle to pee in.’
Bridge groaned his displeasure. ‘I ain’t going to be in there that long, am I?’
Fraser smiled. Something was amusing him. ‘You’re going back to prison, mate,’ he chortled, ‘and you’ll just have to grin and bear it.’
Charlie didn’t see the joke. For a fleeting moment, he thought Fraser had turned against him, was about to betray him for the bounty on his head.
Fraser laughed at his bemusement. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said, ‘it’s all part of your sister’s plan. Get in, man.’
Charlie frowned. ‘Tell me before I do.’
Fraser put a hand on his shoulder. ‘I’m going on my regular prison visit to see a pal. Like it always is, this car will be parked in the visitor’s car park as near those grey walls as it can get. After the visit, I’ll drive the quarter-mile to the shopping mall for my usual leisurely shopping spree. I’ll buy myself a meal and, if there’s time, I might even pop into the cinema.’
‘And I’m in there while you’re enjoying yourself?’ Bridge moaned. He got it now though. Smiling, he patted the vehicle. ‘This is our Trojan horse, ain’t it? We’re hiding right under the enemy’s nose till it cools down a bit.’
‘Your sister’s bright, Charlie. Trust her. Put up with the confinement ’cos it’ll be worth it.’
Feeling better now that he knew the score, Bridge started to climb in. Half-way inside, a thought struck him and he paused.
‘How many dead bodies you had in here, Bill?’
‘Only two,’ Fraser answered, deadpan.
‘Make sure I’m not the third, then.’
When Fraser put the panel back in place and closed the boot Bridge was shrouded in darkness. He could feel the torch beside him, was grateful it was there if he felt the need. The worst of it was that he couldn’t stretch his legs fully, had to lie with them bent. A few hours like that and he figured rigor mortis could set in. He closed his eyes, hoping he would sleep because that would make the time pass more quickly.
*
Bridge slept fitfully. The hours passed slowly. There was a buzz knowing that on the first stop, when the engine cut, he was only a few yards from his former residence: one in the eye for the opposition who thought they could hold on to Charlie Bridge. The coffee and sandwiches, wolfed down in torchlight, helped to alleviate the boredom a little.
Then the engine started up again and he was aware that they were driving away from the prison. When Fraser turned on the radio he could just hear it. A newscaster was announcing that the hunt was on for an escaped prisoner. All major roads were being watched. Well, as far as he was concerned, they could watch all they liked. His sister had been too clever for them.
The vehicle soon stopped again. He heard the door slam and resigned himself to another long wait. After what seemed an age, he fell asleep. A noise woke him with a start. Disorientated in the dark, he thought he was in his cell until he realized it was Fraser opening the boot and not some officer doing the rounds. By now his whole body was aching, as though the last hours had been spent confined in a straitjacket.
Fraser’s voice reached him, ‘How you feeling, Charlie?’
‘How do sardines feel?’ Bridge grunted. ‘At least they got company. How long left in this hole?’
‘We’re heading towards the moors, all the quiet roads. Your sister will meet us there.’
Behind the panel, Bridge groaned with feeling. ‘Another hour?’
‘Yeah! But it’s for the best. Even if we’re stopped, they ain’t likely to find you if you keep your mush shut. I’ve got no record, Charlie, so they won’t suspect me.’
‘Let’s do it then.’
The journey was tedious. At last, Fraser stopped and cut the engine. Bridge figured they must have arrived and felt a surge of excitement at the prospect of being released from his alternative prison.
He heard Fraser get out, slam the door and open the boot. When the panel was removed, Fraser reached in to help him. His legs felt unsteady when he stood and his back muscles protested. Leaning against the vehicle for support, he waited until a semblance of normality returned to his body.
The moon was behind them. Clouds hovered, guardians of its silver light, threatening to obscure it. A breeze tugged at the trees on either side. Stars twinkled in flirtation with the darkness. Bridge grinned his satisfaction. This was what he called freedom; no more artificial light, no grey walls, just that fresh breeze on your face and the universe looking down on you.
Fraser pointed. Bridge saw a car further down the lane. Its lights were off but he could make out a figure standing beside it and waving at them. He knew it was Bella.
Fraser patted him on the back and shut the boot. ‘Get going and thank your sister for her hard work.’
Bridge grinned ruefully, ‘Not to mention the money she’s paid out to arrange all this.’
‘There’s always that,’ Fraser stated. ‘It took money to get you out. But you already know that.’
‘Way of the world. Good job we’ve plenty to spare,’ Bridge said and started to walk down the lane towards his sister.
Bella held out her arms in welcome and embraced her brother.
‘Masterly!’ he said, pulling away to scrutinize her. ‘Up to your usual standards.’
She smiled, broke away, reached inside the
car, brought out a long coat which she handed to him.
‘Put this on, brother. We need to hide those stinking prison clothes just in case we’re stopped, which is extremely doubtful now.’
He did as he was told and then went to the passenger door while she climbed in the driver’s side. When he was settled she started the engine, switched the headlights on and drove slowly down the lane.
Rubbing the stiffness which lingered in his arms and legs, he said, ‘Where to now – Spain, Italy, South America?’
Bella’s eyes flickered in his direction. ‘Charlie dear, I’m your sister not your personal holiday rep. You know they’ll be watching the airports and ports. You’re going to have to be patient and trust me. I’ve a place to hide you for now – not very salubrious but I’ll be close by and able to keep an eye on you. When I’m convinced the search has cooled off, we’ll move on.’
Bridge hid his disappointment. He was impatient to leave the country but he knew his sister was a wise one, less impulsive than he was. She’d never let him down, always had his best interest at heart. He was lucky the bond formed during their itinerant childhood was so strong. Best then to trust her good brain and survival instincts.
‘How long before we leave the country?’
‘Probably weeks. Then it’s sunshine all the way for us.’
‘Can’t grumble,’ he said and leaned back, forcing himself to relax. ‘I’m out. That’s what counts, eh!’
Bella took one hand off the steering wheel, touched his arm in an affectionate gesture.
‘Poor you,’ she cooed. ‘Locked up with all those sex offenders.’
‘Wouldn’t wish it on an ordinary, decent criminal,’ he said, stretching.
A silver shaft of moonlight touched his sister’s cheek. Bridge noticed her perfect teeth as her mouth drew back in a smile.
‘What does that make you, brother?’
He laughed. ‘Extraordinary and indecent. It runs in the family, of course. Didn’t you know that?’
She joined his laughter as a cloud hid the moon.
Chapter Sixteen
The day after the escape, Alex was sitting in his office with a hangover. He felt like a condemned man awaiting his execution. Yesterday, only an hour or so after the news came through, the prison rumour mill started grinding away; he’d heard various theories from Joyce, who’d heard them from prison officers. Trying to ferret out whether anyone had been hurt, he’d pressed her for substantial details but she hadn’t known any.
Last night, while he waited for the news on the television, to anaesthetize his conscience he’d drunk himself silly. There’d been a marked absence of detail in the reports, other than an outdated photograph of a smiling Charlie Bridge which had made him want to put his boot to the television and smash the image to smithereens. The whisky hadn’t helped and failed to obliterate pessimistic thoughts about what wasn’t being said in those reports. He expected a home visit from the police at any time but it never came. Maybe they wouldn’t tie him in with the escape, but deep down knew it was too much to hope that suspicion wouldn’t fall his way. He figured the police must be too concerned with the search in these early stages.
The summons he was expecting came an hour into his working day and was almost welcome because he was certain he’d hear something at last to fill the vacuum of doubt which was making him nervous. Liberally dosed with peppermints, which he hoped would hide any smell lingering on his breath from his drinking bout last night, he made his way to the governor’s office as commanded. Composing himself, he knocked on the door and, when a voice called out, entered with a prayer that no real harm had been done.
Governor Baker was sitting behind his desk, his face as grey as the suit he was wearing. Black shadows under his eyes that looked like tiny birds’ wings told of a sleepless night. His shoulders, normally military-straight, were hunched inwards so that he looked shrunken. Another man was sitting on the governor’s right. He was bulky, his shoulders fitting a dark suit almost to bursting. Coal-black hair, trimmed short, gave emphasis to blue eyes which, fixed rigidly on Alex, made him uncomfortable as he crossed the room.
‘Take a seat, Doctor Macdonald,’ Baker said, his voice too formal for Alex’s liking as he gestured to the chair in front of his desk. ‘This is Detective Inspector Johnson. He’s investigating yesterday’s escape and would like to ask a few questions.’
Alex and the detective nodded at each other. There was something about the detective he didn’t like. Or was that just a manifestation of his own guilt surfacing?
‘You know Charlie Bridge escaped, Doctor?’ the detective said, leaning forward.
‘I heard it on the radio and saw it television.’
‘And you were the one who sent him out of here – to hospital?’
There was just enough of a whiff of accusation in the way the detective said it. Was it to disconcert him? Did he know something? Suspect something? Or was it just a policeman’s acquired manner?
‘I suspected a heart problem. His pulse was racing and he was in pain. I concluded he needed to go to hospital post haste.’
The detective’s tongue prodded the inside of his cheek, worked its way round with slow deliberation as though searching the crevices. His eyes had never left Alex’s face.
‘Because you wanted to be on the safe side. Proper procedure and such. Covering yourself,’ Johnson’s sardonic tone and manner implied more than the meaning of the words themselves.
‘I was being professional,’ Alex said, ashamed of his own hypocrisy, doing his best not to let it show.
‘But Bridge had come to see you two days earlier complaining of pains. That’s right isn’t it?’
Alex hesitated, fractionally. Where was this going?
‘That’s correct.’
Johnson lowered his eyebrows, ‘But on that occasion you did nothing, Didn’t prescribe anything. Just . . . talked.’
A bead of sweat gathered on Alex’s forehead. To him, it felt like an excrescence of his guilt. Not wanting to draw attention to it, he had to resist the temptation to wipe it away.
‘On that occasion, I examined him thoroughly and couldn’t find a problem. I believed he had indigestion, a bad case of indigestion which would pass.’
The detective angled his head, scratched at his temple and shut one eye, like an imitation of Peter Falk in Columbo.
‘Clearly your professional opinion was wrong.’
The words, intimating incompetence, hung on the air. Alex glanced at the governor but his face was impassive, his eyes looking right through him. He met the policeman’s gaze again. The smile lurking at the corner of his mouth was like an assassin’s, cold and knowing.
‘These things can never be precise. Perhaps on the day it was indigestion or perhaps it was an indication of heart trouble on the way.’
‘Yes, of course – perhaps. We hear that word a lot in my profession as it happens.’
Alex cringed inwardly. This detective was a master of indirectness, of speaking in a way that implied other connotations. Maybe it was his way of goading you, making you lose control so you’d say more than you should. If it was, Alex wasn’t going to fall for it, no matter how guilt-ridden he was feeling.
The detective continued. ‘Did you prescribe anything for his indigestion?’
Alex thought quickly. ‘I believe I gave him a spoonful of medicine.’
‘Must be good stuff,’ the detective snorted. ‘According to the escorting officer, he walked back to the block with a spring in his step, like a man who has just struck gold. The opposite of the way he came to you, he said.’
Alex decided attack was the best form of defence. ‘Are you implying something here, Inspector?’
Shaking his head, the detective shrugged. ‘Merely wishing my doctor was so . . . productive.’
Alex couldn’t read his expression. Again, the words were invested with just enough sarcasm to distort what was said and imply other, more sinister, possibilities. Was he on a fishing expe
dition, or did he know something?
Alex’s eyes flitted to the governor. His eyes seemed as glazed as those of the addicts under his charge. Silence swelled to bursting point in the room. Wanting to be out of there, Alex took the initiative.
‘Was there anything else?’
‘Later maybe.’ The detective grunted. ‘What about you, Governor? Any questions?’
Baker’s body gave a little jolt as though he was dreaming he was somewhere else, was reluctant to return. He didn’t speak, just shook his head.
Alex stood up. His insides were churning from Johnson’s prying and the governor’s haunted, broken look, which brought home his own guilt. But there was something he wanted to ask, had postponed under the barrage of awkward questions from the detective. At the door, he turned sheepishly and addressed the governor.
‘Was anyone . . . hurt?’
The governor looked down at his desk and, dredging for his words, said, ‘Officer Clark received blows to his head. Presently he’s in a coma. We’re all very concerned.’
Johnson couldn’t resist the opportunity. ‘We wondered if you’d ask. It may interest you to know, Doctor, that after the officer was struck Bridge made a remarkable recovery from his heart problem and leapt like Lazarus from his bed.’
The announcement shocked Alex. He stood there realizing those words about nobody getting hurt had meant nothing to the gangster. A weight gathered inside him threatening to root him to the spot for ever. What he had been fearing most had come to pass; a man was badly hurt, might die because he, Alex, had helped Bridge. Why hadn’t he just stood up to the gangster? Yet how could he have with his family in danger? Had he really had a choice? In his torment and confusion hatred for Bridge gathered momentum and he was overwhelmed by a burgeoning urge to strike back, make him suffer—
‘Doctor!’ The governor’s voice, thin and reedy, brought him right back to the moment. ‘If only you’d. . . .’
He didn’t need to finish because the implication was clear enough. He suspected Alex of, at least, incompetence. If that was in Governor Baker’s mind, no doubt others would be thinking it too. The detective inspector would be no exception. He tried to find something to say but nothing would come because he was guilty and nothing could change that. Instead, he just opened the door and walked out, his head hanging low.
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