We stopped. I heard him get out. And I lay helpless, hope fading. Waiting for Joe Hawkins.
57
It seemed ages. I struggled, wrestled with the handcuffs but the thin hard band bit into my wrists. I lay still, losing track of time, fantasizing that Mac would have come looking for me, spotted my car abandoned in the woods, followed the tyre tracks of the BMW magically across miles of tarmac. I pictured a ring of armed police outside waiting for Hawkins, waiting to get him before they came and released me.
I worked on that image adding a little extra each time, a police helicopter hovering nearby, night sights on the marksmen’s guns in case he didn’t turn up till dark ... I painted it, embellished it, almost made myself believe it.
A car drew up, squealing brakes, doors slamming, house door opening then closing then within a minute opening again. Footsteps grinding small stones beneath the heels, hurrying toward where I lay. A harsh voice cursing, growing louder, I heard my name then blinding daylight as the boot opened.
I closed my eyes, felt myself being hauled onto my back painfully twisting my arms and hands under me, forcing my pelvis up. I heard a terrible growling, the growling of vicious intent, the sound of pent up anger about to be released.
Then the blows to my face and head, my chest, ribs, groin, face again as he cursed me, slapped me, punched me, frustrated that he did not have more limbs to swing with, more bone to hurt with, the rage building in his throat till he was screaming, slapping and punching my face with both hands in a frenzy that finally drove him to bend slavering across my face and bite viciously into my cheek.
Blinding pain.
His mouth stayed there, panting like a beast. I felt cool liquid run slowly down across my ear. His saliva or my blood. And wondered how many more beatings I’d face before he killed me. And I wondered how long I could keep the screams silent.
The boot lid slammed shut again then two doors and we moved off. He braked hard throwing me back to my original position on my side. I listened to my own panting now as the shock of the attack started gripping. The panting of fear.
For myself. For Kenny. For Avril. That surely was where we were heading. I prayed they wouldn’t be home.
But they were. The car was in the driveway as I walked up. No cuffs now just a gun in my back. They’d killed the engine and coasted the last hundred yards. Parked a bit away from the cottage, cut my bonds, told me to be quiet as we approached. Hawkins, calmer, had given me instructions which I had no intention of following.
Dusk was down. Avril would have locked up. The last person she’d open the door to would be Joe Hawkins and he knew that. He told me to knock and tell her in a calm voice that I’d come to visit.
But I was going to die anyway so I decided I might as well die out here and let Avril stay locked inside where she’d have a chance of calling the police.
I stopped outside the door. Hawkins and his man with the gun stayed close to the wall.
‘Do it!’ Hawkins said.
I knocked. Waited. A minute. No noise from within.
‘Again! Harder!’ Hawkins rasped.
I obeyed and thirty seconds later heard the awful sound of Avril’s small footsteps come through the kitchen. Her voice. ‘Who is it?’
I called out, ‘Avril! Don’t open the door! Call the police! Don’t open the door!’
Hawkins’s man moved and clamped an arm around my throat choking the sounds. He put the pistol to my temple. I closed my eyes.
Avril, scared, said. ‘Eddie? Eddie, is that you?’
Hawkins shouted, ‘Open the door, Avril, or Malloy’s brains will be all over your driveway.’
I tried to call out again but the hard bar of forearm crushed my windpipe.
It must have been a full minute. Hawkins stood calmly. He knew he wouldn’t have to repeat himself. The key turned and slowly the door opened. Avril looked at all of us in puzzlement, trying to figure out the connection. Her face paled as she saw mine: I could see out of just one eye, my jaw was swollen and the bite wound in my cheek was open, smarting in the cooling air. There’d be blood too.
Hawkins smiled at her. ‘Good evening. Nice of you to welcome us. I do hope my dear brother is home.’ He pushed past her and his man prodded me forward.
Kenny wasn’t in the living room. It was dark, felt unlived in, lit only by what was left of the daylight through the front windows. Hawkins turned in the gloom. ‘Where is he?’
I watched her. She glanced at me, fear in her round blue eyes but not the terror I’d expected.
‘He’s in his room.’ Her voice seemed strong.
Hawkins said, ‘Tell him I’m here.’
‘He won’t come out.’
‘Tell him I’m here. He’ll come out.’
She walked through into the hall. Footfalls on the wooden floor. She called to Kenny. Twice. No response. She came back. ‘He won’t come out.’
Joe went to Kenny’s room leaving me alone with the gunman.
‘Kenny, come out, I’ve brought your mate along, your great pal…Come on Kenny. Don’t you want to see Malloy before he dies, pay your last respects?’
The gunman smiled, watching for fear in my eyes. I tried to hide it.
‘Kenny, Kenny, Kenny . . .’ falling tones. ‘. . . I told you Malloy would be trouble. I knew he’d be trouble but you didn’t want a hair on his stupid fucking head touched, did you? And I did it for you. For the first time in my life I sacrificed my principles.’
That would have raised a chuckle under other circumstances.
Joe’s voice came again, a steelier note now. ‘Now I want the agreement cancelled, Kenny. The deal’s off. I want you to know all the things he’s done to me…Kenny...Come fucking out here! I want you to know what this bastard has done! It gives me the right to cancel our deal! I want you to say we can cancel it! Kenny!
His voice was getting out of control now.
‘I want your permission! I have to kill him! I want you to say it’s okay! Kennnnyyy!’
He was screaming. I heard him kick the door. Three times. I offered silent thanks that the children weren’t here.
‘Barton!’ Hawkins screamed the name and the gunman hustled me through the doorway along the hall. Hawkins had his hand out, impatient. ‘The gun. Gimme the gun.’
Barton pushed me against the wall, gave Joe the pistol.
‘Kick the door in.’
Barton grabbed my shirtfront and swung me out of his way, slammed me against the wall next to the door. Hawkins took a few steps sideways, pointing the gun but not looking at me, his eyes red with rage and impatience, his prominent ears crimson at the edges. Dried blood, mine, stained his chin.
Avril stood five paces down the hall watching the door handle of all things.
Barton could only get in one stride in the narrow hallway before crashing his boot against the door. It held.
‘Again!’ Hawkins cried.
It held again.
Hawkins moved closer to him, urging him on. ‘Hit it closer to the lock!’ The gun was pointing downwards now, not quite at my thigh, just offline. As soon as Barton broke through, I’d go for it.
Barton’s pale face reddened as he concentrated then smashed against the door, his straight leg carrying all his force. The lock burst, the door swung, Barton stumbled into the room. I made to go for the gun as Hawkins stepped toward the open door.
It must have been before Barton could even catch his balance. There was an air-bursting roar of sound, a thumping explosion and Barton came hurtling backwards through the doorway, his head slamming into Hawkins’s groin as he went down.
Lunging forward as Joe Hawkins bent double, I lashed out kicking him in the face. He squealed and toppled onto Barton who had a gaping bloody hole in his shoulder. The pistol was still in Joe’s hand. He groaned, tried to turn, to get up. I stood on the gun hand leaning forward, pushing all my weight onto my heel, grinding and cracking his bones. He cried out as he let the gun go.
I grabbed it and jumped b
ack instinctively, fearful that he would somehow reassemble himself perfectly and spring up again. I looked at Avril aware then that my eyes were staring almost out of my head. From down the hall she looked at me like I was a stranger.
I got the idea she was going to panic, become hysterical. I raised my left hand slowly, open-palmed. ‘It’s okay. It’s all right, Avril.’
I moved back toward a semi-conscious Hawkins who lay half across Barton who was losing blood in pools. It coursed darkly out along the floorboards seeping through cracks.
Very quietly, in the hope it would stop her panicking I said, ‘Can you call an ambulance? Tell them it’s very urgent. And the police.’
Staring as though seeing me for the first time Avril nodded and went through to the living room. Then it dawned on me that these two men on the floor had filled my mind so horrifyingly, so completely for the past few hours that they still caused everything else to be blanked out. Kenny had been totally forgotten.
They both blocked the doorway. I had to bend forward and look in. Kenny was in his wheelchair by the bed. The room was dark. The rectangle of light from the hallway lit him, framed him. Thin wraiths of gun smoke drifted around him. The smell of cordite was strong. Kenny was leaning forward, the stock of a shotgun resting between his useless feet. His thumb was on the trigger. Both barrels were under his chin.
His only body movement was a blink as his eyes turned from his brother to my face. He was haggard. A week’s beard growth beneath dark ringed eyes, hopeless eyes that registered nothing when he looked at me, nothing when they swivelled back to his brother’s prone body.
I glanced again at the thumb on the double trigger and hoped Avril would not come back just now. I didn’t know what to do or say, couldn’t be sure that even the mention of his name might tip him over, make him fire.
I heard Avril’s footsteps. She came into the hall. I looked up, stopped her with my eyes. She stood still. I looked back at Kenny poised to blow his own head off. I was going to have to say something.
He spoke first though not directly to me. ‘Been dying to do that for weeks. Dying to pull that trigger.’ At the sound of his voice, Joe moaned and turned onto his back, tried to raise his head to look at his brother.
Kenny’s voice strengthened. ‘Dying to pull the trigger! Do you hear me, Joe? Dying to pull the fucking trigger!’
His face was working now, coming manically alive, and his jutting lower jaw making strange adjustments to let him speak, to accommodate the twin barrels firmly jammed underneath.
I said, ‘Kenny, it’s going to be okay.’
He ignored me, stared at Joe who was groggily regaining full consciousness. Slowly, Kenny raised his chin, pushed the barrels forward, brought them horizontal, and aimed them at his brother.
‘Look at me, Joe,’ he said. Joe tried to raise his head but it lolled back, eyes closed, bloodied nose pointing at the ceiling. Kenny put the gun between his legs again and eased the squeaking wheelchair forward till it reached the doorway.
Calmly levelling the shotgun again, he stretched and pushed the barrels under Joe’s exposed jaw. ‘How does that feel, Joe?’ Kenny smiled. I wanted to look at Avril but couldn’t take my eyes off Kenny.
‘I know how it feels and I wanted you to know. Before I pulled the trigger. I just wanted you to think about it.’
I considered grabbing the barrels. I had no love for Joe Hawkins but if Kenny killed him, it was going to be awful hard to keep him out of prison. If the ambulance got here soon it might be in time to save Barton whose breath was shortening.
‘Can you feel it, Joe?’
Joe’s eyes opened.
‘I’m going to pull the trigger now. Goodbye, Joe.’
I reached down but was too late. Kenny pulled the trigger.
And the hammers clicked on empty chambers.
Kenny smiled and let the gun fall from his grip. Joe raised his head, narrowed his eyes at his brother. I doubted Joe even realized what had been happening. Kenny said to him, ‘Gave both barrels to your friend. Funny how everybody else but you always ends up suffering.’
Avril came toward him as he started crying.
58
Six pints of blood saved Barton’s life though he lost his right arm. He’s on remand along with his boss. Both deny killing Conway but I traced Sholto and he testified that Barton had been one of the men who’d abducted Conway from the basement that day. The police are hoping Clemence will crack and admit that Conway’s body was in the packing case that went overboard from Archangel.
They’re also plea-bargaining with Clemence to build a solid case against Joe’s attacks on Silverdale Insurance. The prosecution is relying on Kenny’s word that Joe boasted of crippling Silverdale. One of the director’s secretaries at Silverdale admitted passing information to Joe in exchange for money. That should help too in securing a long sentence for him.
While everything was happening at Kenny’s that night the Silverdale Board were holding an emergency meeting and they approved a reward of £250,000 for the conviction of the perpetrator who’d cost them so much.
If they’d waited till the Tuesday morning they could, and probably would have saved themselves that quarter of a million. Avril wants to give me half of it but I’ve told her that if it comes through they should give fifty grand to Sholto Barclay and use the rest to try and get their lives back together.
Kenny has started psychiatric treatment and it looks like he’s going to be okay. He’s had a lot of encouragement from three successful trainers, all wheelchair-bound.
I haven’t found out if Jeff Dunning was Joe Hawkins’s weighing room informant. Not that it matters any more. Everybody knows now that Bill Keating was no heroin addict and no quitter either and that means a lot to me.
Silverdale made me a good offer to go and work for them as an investigator. But I was never tempted. I’ve just come home from two weeks’ proper holiday in Barbados, tanned and fit and with memories that make me smile when I think of the nights spent with Kari Parsons, the demon groom.
She had a lot of fun comparing the healing bite scar on my cheek to the old one on hers.
I nagged Broga into giving her her first ride for the stable while I was there and we cheered her into a close third at the Garrison.
Charles is back from Scotland raring to start the new season training. I enjoyed watching him bustling around the new horsebox helping to load today’s runners with his usual enthusiasm.
I need to lose three or four pounds so it’s black coffee for breakfast. Then it’s out into the sunshine with my kitbag and best light saddle for the drive up to Bangor.
It’s the first day of the new season.
I’ve got three rides there.
And I can’t bloody wait.
The Third Degree
The first three chapters of the next Eddie Malloy book
1
At Newbury racecourse on a bleak November day, Eddie Malloy was legged up into the saddle of a 16-1 chance named Chatscombe. Eddie’s previous sixty-two mounts had been losers and, as his toes in paper-thin boots automatically found the cold stirrup irons, he’d already resigned himself to loser sixty-three.
Riders in Eddie’s league get used to several winners a week. When that ratio drops, the doubts take hold and savage your confidence and, sometimes, your nerve.
Chatscombe’s trainer, George Bloomfield, held his hat on with one hand and slapped Eddie’s black-booted leg with his other. ‘Good luck! Come back safe!’ Eddie rose and gripped the reins, biceps strained by the hard-pulling chestnut as they headed to the start against a rising east wind.
As he pulled up, a rainsquall spattered his flimsy yellow silks. Grimacing, he lowered his head and a barrage of heavy drops echoed inside his crash helmet. He smiled wryly, wondering why he persevered in trying to carve a living from this bone-breaking, dangerous business.
He gathered Chatscombe’s reins. The horse pricked his ears and they took their place among the circling horses. The win
d sang in the starting tapes. The starter waved them forward. Eddie eased his goggles down.
Chatscombe had spent his career so far as a hurdler; this was his first time over fences. Hurdles are easy to knock down, fences impossible.
A change to bigger jumps can rejuvenate a jaded horse or scare him into a heavy fall. Eddie set off on automatic pilot, pivoting as one with his mount who took the stiff fences in his stride.
Chatscombe’s rhythmical gallop and safe jumping nursed Eddie through the first two miles four furlongs in a dreamy state. When the blur of colour materialized into a shouting, waving mass in the grandstands, Eddie found himself in contention, just three lengths adrift of the leader.
Had Eddie been riding winners recently, he would have relished timing his challenge to burst through yards before the finish. But he was a man short on confidence, and went straight for his whip, whacking the surprised Chatscombe down the flanks.
The blow shattered the gelding’s concentration and he crashed through the last fence, buckling sideways, bumping his main rival who landed awkwardly.
The natural rhythm Eddie had unwittingly established with Chatscombe was gone. As he scrubbed and kicked, he realized he and the horse were out of synch. But they inched closer to a breathless Bobby Tobin on the sweating, half-winded mare, a neck in front. As they crossed the line, Eddie knew he’d failed by inches to end his bad run.
His sixty-third loser.
Eddie cursed as he pulled up and turned the horse for the exit gate. Tobin, on the winner, cantered alongside, panting and loosening his chinstrap a notch, ‘That was hard work!’
‘Yeah, you’re getting past it,’ Eddie said.
‘And when did you last ride a winner?’
Running Scared (The Eddie Malloy series Book 4) Page 23