‘I see.’
‘Hence not wanting to distress the other patients. They get upset when they find out that such injury is caused by premeditated violence, rather than accident.’
‘Yes . . . I can understand that.’ Swannell nodded. ‘I did wonder but now I fully appreciate why you have isolated him.’
‘Thank you. Well, as I said, I have seen the like. He was numb last night, wasn’t feeling very much at all according to the nursing notes, but he woke in discomfort this morning. He refused breakfast and I confess that I doubt he’ll partake of lunch. He will get more uncomfortable over the next few days, then the pain will stabilize, but it will remain for a long time. We’ll put him on painkillers but he will still feel something.’
‘How long before he is recovered?’
‘Physically . . . a few months, but mentally . . . never . . . the mental scars will never heal, they just don’t ever heal.’
‘Months!’
‘Oh, yes . . . months. He won’t be here for that length of time, the pressure on beds won’t permit it, but I have known such bruising to take six months to fade completely. He was probably the victim of a sustained assault which lasted a full day.’ Sister Jewell shrugged. ‘That’s the East End. Some of the trainees can’t hack it and transfer to the west London hospitals. It’s not the injury itself you see – it’s the cause that upsets them.’
‘Yes.’
‘Now he is brown all over, that will turn into the mottled mix of blue-and-black bruising, then he’ll turn yellow as if he is badly jaundiced, but once the bruising turns yellow, then at least he is on the healing side of things. But that will still take months. He’s in for a very uncomfortable summer . . . So that’s gangland London, but you know that as much as me – the East End policing itself, like I said. He said he wanted to talk to a Mr Brunnie.’
‘He’s busy. I am his senior officer.’
‘Very well.’ Sister Jewell opened the door and led Swannell into the room. Victor Swannell baulked at the sight which greeted him, and he saw then that Sister Jewell was not exaggerating when she said that even though he was Northern European, Clive ‘The Pox’ Sherwin could be mistaken for an Asian, such was the depth and extent of the bruising. His eyes were swollen shut.
‘Police to see you, Mr Sherwin.’ Sister Jewell spoke softly yet efficiently. There was no sympathy in her voice. ‘One gentleman, I have seen his identity card.’
‘Mr Brunnie?’ Sherwin asked weakly. ‘I can’t see nothing . . . I can’t . . . nothing. I can make out it’s day-time . . . but nothing else.’
‘No, it’s Mr Swannell, Mr Brunnie is busy. He can’t come but you can talk to me.’
‘Well, I will leave you.’ Sister Jewell turned and walked out of the room, closing the door silently behind her.
‘I talked to Mr Brunnie.’
‘Yes, I know, I read the recording of the chat you had. He made you an offer.’
‘Yes, witness protection.’
‘Indeed. The offer is still on the table.’ Swannell drew up a chair and sat beside the bed.
‘Yes . . . Yates did this to me. I never said nothing, and he goes and does this. I’m seen as a grass now. No one gets a slap like this if they don’t deserve it, so no one will believe me when I say I never grassed.’ He choked. ‘I’m finished . . . finished . . . I can’t go nowhere now so I need that protection offer.’ He drew his breath deeply. ‘Blimey . . . and they tell me this isn’t it; they tell me the pain will get worse before it gets better . . . that this is only the start of it.’
‘Sister told me the same thing.’
‘She’s a hard old girl. Met her for the first time this morning when she came on duty. She said, “People who have had a heart attack need this bed”, then walked out. I won’t be leaving her a box of chocolates when I go.’
‘So what do you want to tell me? What can you tell me? Witness protection comes at a price.’
‘Everything . . . everything I know about Curtis Yates and that cow Gail Bowling, she’s the boss, not Yates – but they are partners . . . he’s a little bit junior to her . . . and that import and export business – furniture! Do me a favour, it’s ecstasy pills out and humans in . . . girls mainly from Eastern Europe on their way to the massage parlours.’
‘We thought as much.’ Swannell took his notepad from his jacket pocket and pressed the top of his ballpoint. ‘I’ll get an overview to start with – all the details will come out later.’
‘OK . . . and I can tell you where the bodies are buried. I put them there.’
‘Did you actually murder anyone, Clive?’
‘No, but I was one of Yates’s and Bowling’s undertakers; I got rid of the bodies. Sometimes in cement in the basement of a renovated house in Kilburn, sometimes under a tree . . .’
‘A tree?’
‘A cherry tree; Yates likes them. He had his own take on “green burials” before they became fashionable with the save-the-planet brigade.’ He winced with pain. ‘I’ll tell you everything . . . everything . . . but I need the full package . . . new name, new address and a plod outside that door. Once Yates knows I’m grassing him up, my life’s in danger.’
‘Well, if you can tell us what you say you can tell us . . . then that is guaranteed, Clive.’
‘Clive.’ The man winced again. ‘Clive “The Pox” Sherwin . . . that name belongs to the past . . . well in the past . . . ancient history.’
‘OK, but for now I’ll still call you Clive.’ Swannell leaned slightly forward and spoke in a soft, gentle tone. ‘The new name will come later.’
‘Alright . . . understand, dare say it took longer than a day to build Rome.’
‘Is a good way of looking at it, Clive.’ Swannell nodded. ‘It is a good way to look at it.’
‘Mind you, I’ll keep Clive . . . I just need a new surname.’
‘I’m afraid you can’t, it doesn’t work like that.’ Swannell glanced around him – the clinical whites and creams, the heavy grade industrial linoleum, the scent of disinfectant, the sound of traffic outside the old Victorian era building. ‘We have the names listed, you can’t mix and match. We need to know which names have been taken, both Christian and surname.’
‘I see.’
‘Never know your luck though, Clive . . . look down the old list and you’ll likely see a “Clive” somebody, though you might not like the surname . . . but it’s a long list, doubtless there will be more than one “Clive” on it.’
‘See what I see, when I see it . . . when I can see. Now I know what it’s like to be blind. They did a good job on me, Mr Swannell. I mean, did they go to town or did they go to town?’
‘They went to town alright, Clive. So tell me what you can. We can start now . . . see how far we get. I can come back as often as need be.’
‘Bring some grapes.’ Clive Sherwin forced a smile.
‘I can do that.’
‘OK, I’ll sing like a canary, but first . . . first . . .’ He winced in discomfort. ‘First off, you don’t have a lot of time . . . You sent a lassie in . . . undercover . . . a female officer. She was rumbled right from the start.’
‘Yes, we thought as much. We don’t know where she is . . .’
‘I do . . . I have an idea where she might be . . . don’t know the old address.’
‘Come on, Clive!’ Swannell raised his voice. He heard it echo within the glass walls of the isolation ward.
‘Her life’s in danger.’
‘If it isn’t over already . . .’ Again Sherwin winced.
‘Clive! Don’t faint on me . . . not now.’
‘I won’t faint. Listen . . . you need to drive north-west out of the Smoke . . . up into Hertfordshire.’
‘Yes.’
‘I don’t know the road . . .’
‘That’s a big help . . .’
‘You have to drive out of Hemel Hempstead, out the other side from the Smoke. I don’t know the road number but I am sure it’s signposted to Leighton Buzzard.
’
‘Leighton Buzzard?’
‘Sure of it. It’s an A road, but just one lane in either direction. I only went there a couple of times. I’m doing my best . . . there’s a white cottage.’
‘A white cottage?’
‘Yes, old building . . . got a date on it . . . 1610 AD.’
‘1610? You sure, Clive?’
‘Certain. It’s my birthday, see – sixteenth October: 1610 – so I remembered it. When I first clocked it, I saw the date and I thought, “well, I never”. Anyway, you turn opposite it up a farm track. It leads to a farm. It’s got a thatched roof.’
‘The farmhouse?’
‘No, the cottage – white, with 1610 on it . . . above the door.’
‘Still a bit of a needle in a haystack, Clive.’
‘You need to crack on. If she’s still alive, she won’t be soon. Curtis Yates has a thing about noon.’
‘Noon?’
‘Yes, he doesn’t like chilling anyone before noon . . . he really prefers the night-time . . . but it’s like deadline noon for him – after midday he starts cooling his victims.’
Swannell took out his mobile phone from his pocket and punched the keys. He stood as his call was answered and turned away from Sherwin. ‘Boss, we need to move . . .’
Curtis Yates lit a cigar and smiled at Gail Bowling. ‘I enjoyed that, a leisurely breakfast . . . now a cigar . . . and then a pleasant drive out to Hertfordshire.’
‘Yes, I know what you mean.’ Gail Bowling smiled. ‘The cherry orchard keeps growing.’
Harry Vicary slammed his phone down, ran from his office to the detective constables’ office. ‘Grab your coats,’ he yelled to Frank Brunnie and Tom Ainsclough. ‘I’ll tell you what’s happening on the way.’
‘Where are we going, boss?’
‘Out to Hemel Hempstead,’ Vicary panted, ‘other side of same. We’ll have to phone the Hertfordshire police – we’ll need some uniforms . . . and local knowledge. We need to find a white cottage; out on the road to Leighton Buzzard . . . dated 1610 apparently. Penny’s there and in danger.’
‘At the cottage?’
‘No . . . I’ll explain in the car.’ He turned and ran down the corridor.
‘I hope we’re in time.’ Ainsclough ran behind him, followed by Brunnie.
‘You hope we’re in time!’ Vicary replied angrily. ‘You didn’t send her there.’
Penny Yewdall stiffened at the sound of car tyres arriving and moving slowly over the rough surface of the farmyard. She heard the dog bark aggressively.
‘They’re here,’ Billy Kemp whined. ‘They’ve come too early.’
‘Early?’ Penny Yewdall glanced at him. It was by then, she estimated, about noon. ‘What do you mean, early?’
‘Yates has this thing about killing during the day. I told you, he doesn’t like icing geezers until after dark. I thought we’d have a few hours yet. How do you think they are going to do it?’
The door of the barn opened and winter sunlight illuminated the interior; the rats were heard to scurry for the shadows. Billy Kemp cried out in panic.
Penny Yewdall did not know whether to laugh or cry, when, in the next instant, Harry Vicary stepped into the barn.
‘Oh good.’ Vicary smiled softly. ‘I was very worried that we would be late.’ Brunnie and Ainsclough stepped into the barn behind him; the officers spread out making sure the building was clear of felons.
Yewdall blinked against the sudden rush of light. ‘How . . .?’
Harry Vicary held up his hand, ‘All in good time . . . but for now let’s just say that Victor Swannell met a man who told him where we were likely to find you. He gave excellent directions . . . turn right at a white cottage dated 1610 AD. We could hardly miss. He told Swannell about a row of cherry trees . . .’
‘Yes, they’re just outside behind the barn. I’ll show you. Where is Yates?’
‘He’s being arrested. Gail Bowling as well. We have officers going to their house in Virginia Water. It’s all over, Penny. The nightmare is over.’
Later that same year, as the sun sank over fields of freshly baled wheat in north Norfolk, a man and a woman, walking arm in arm, returned from their stroll and entered the village in which stood their hotel. They entered the bar of the hotel and each had a glass of orange juice; they then went to the restaurant of the hotel and were directed to a table for two. They had agreed upon an early dinner before retiring for an early night.
‘Well,’ the man said, ‘as I was telling you, they all started collapsing to save what they could of themselves, and each privately vowing to kill Clive “The Pox” Sherwin for being the first one to squeal, but Henry Packer, the guardian of the farm in Hertfordshire, saw the opportunity to save himself and, like Sherwin, he too is living under a new name somewhere north of Watford. The principal players collected life: Yates, Bowling and ‘Rusher’ Boyd. Lesser players like Sonya Clements and Felicity Skidmore got lesser sentences, and Josie Pinder went back to the North of England to complete her studies. She had her eyes well-opened and realized that Salford isn’t such a bad place after all.’
‘Their property?’ The woman studied the menu.
‘Oh, confiscated,’ the man replied without looking up from his copy of the menu, ‘all of it has been seized under the proceeds of crime legislation. So if they do come out of prison at some far distant point, then they will come out to the dole queues and hostel living. Quite a fall from grace.’
‘And others got closure?’
‘Yes, that is the pleasing thing. Mr Halkier can now visit his daughter’s grave, and Mr O’Shea can now visit his wife’s grave. Victor Swannell found out what happened to Charlotte Varney, who disappeared some years ago and who was linked to Curtis Yates. It was one of his cold cases you see.’
‘Ah . . .’
‘And a girl called Jennifer Reeves, an early victim – her remains and the remains of Charlotte Varney being found under a cherry tree . . . and of course their relatives now also have closure. Tragic that they lost their daughters in that way, but at least they now know what happened . . . it is some comfort, some little comfort.’
The couple stopped talking and leaned back in their chairs as a waiter wearing a starched white tunic approached their table. ‘Would you like to see the wine list, sir?’ he asked pleasantly.
‘No, thank you,’ Harry Vicary replied. ‘Just a pitcher of chilled water for us both, please.’
‘Water . . .’ The youthful waiter scowled. ‘Water? Yes, sir.’
‘Restaurants only make money on their alcohol sales,’ Vicary explained to his wife when the waiter had departed. ‘The profit from food sales is slim to zero.’
‘So we won’t be popular customers?’ Kathleen Vicary smiled.
‘Nope, but we are paying through the nose for our room if you ask me. We could get cheaper in London. Mind you, they don’t call this part of Norfolk “Chelsea North” for nothing.’
‘Yes, can’t help but notice the cars; our little VW next to those Ferraris. So, it is all wrapped up? Case closed?’
‘Yes.’ Vicary smiled. ‘All wrapped up, all done and dusted. A whole criminal empire we hardly knew existed brought down in a matter of days, because a man chose to commit suicide by lying down in the snow right on top of a shallow grave he had dug some ten years earlier.’
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