by Roland Moore
Then she heard a gasp somewhere behind her. An old woman’s voice by the church notice board. “She’s got a gun!” It was Mrs Gulliver, witnessing the bizarre scene. An execution in the village square. That would give her enough to dine out on for years. But it only distracted Connie for a second. Nothing would stop her now.
Vince and Connie looked deeply into each others’ eyes.
“Go on, then,” Vince urged, fed up with waiting.
“This is how it ends, Vince.”
“Is that right?”
Connie looked along the line of the gun barrel. Vince’s head, his eyes staring at her. Daring her. She felt the impatience of Glory next to her. She realised she couldn’t delay it any longer.
Connie turned the gun around and, holding it by the end of the barrel, she proffered the handle towards him.
Chapter 19
Glory was open-mouthed in shock, and if she could have spoken, she would have surely screamed “What the hell are you doing?” to Connie. What the hell was she doing? This was madness, perhaps the result of a mind pushed over the edge with exhaustion and worry. Vince was equally confused by the gun that was being held out for him to take. He didn’t quite believe it was happening. Maybe he was dead already. But he found his fingers reaching for the handle, as Connie let go of the barrel. What was going on?
Connie put a gentle hand on Glory’s arm, encouraging her to put the scalpel away. But the girl in the cloche hat kept it raised in front of her.
“What you up to, Connie?” Vince seemed more scared than when the gun was pointing at him. He could understand violence, but not this.
“I’m coming with you. Realised I’d made a mistake. This isn’t my life,” Connie said, indicating the village square.
“I knew it!” shouted a triumphant Gladys Gulliver from behind them. “Guns and gangsters! That’s where she belongs.”
“Shut up for once in your life,” Connie snapped, without turning round.
Glory looked betrayed. She stared at Connie, wanting some clarification.
“Henry’s not going to make it,” Connie said, eyes blazing as adrenaline coursed through her exhausted body. “And I’ve got nothing here without him. I’m making the best of things. Sorry.”
Vince’s eyes darted between Glory and Connie. He was finding this hard to cope with. Two minutes ago, he was preparing to be shot dead in the village square. Now, it seemed Connie would be back on the team. They’d be together again. London, the scams, that’s what he wanted, wasn’t it?
“What about her?” Vince pointed to Glory.
“Oh, she wants to kill you,” Connie said simply. “But she wants me to be happy an ‘all.”
Glory’s eyes were blazing with hatred at Vince.
“I don’t trust her,” he said, pointing the gun at Glory. “Maybe I should just kill her.”
Connie shrugged. “You’d hang for it. There are witnesses.” She indicated with her head to where she assumed Gladys Gulliver was still standing, watching ringside.
Vince realised this was a good point. “Get her to put away the knife.”
Connie indicated for Glory to put away the scalpel. As Connie did so, she managed to momentarily turn away from Vince. And she mouthed two words to Glory Wayland that changed everything: “Trust me.”
Glory obediently tucked the knife back in her bag. Whatever was going on, her mission for Amos could wait.
“Come on, then,” Vince said, indicating the recently acquired car. “Let’s get going.”
Connie shook her head. “I’ve got to go back to the hospital. Say goodbye to Henry. Least I can do. Even you can understand that.”
“Well, I can hardly wait here for you, can I? Not with the car and that old bag watching,” Vince muttered. “I’ll drive you to the hospital.”
“Who are you calling an old bag?” Mrs Gulliver shouted. “Who is he?”
“Probably best if you go home!” Connie shouted to Mrs Gulliver. The old woman scurried off to the safety of her house, where her net curtains would still afford a good view of the action.
“No, I don’t want driving. Besides, we need you to keep a low profile with that car, don’t we?”
Connie’s mind was racing. Would this actually work? It was a plan concocted in a moment’s panic. A plan made by staring at a badly drawn poster of a fairy cake. A plan that meant she wouldn’t have to face the noose for killing Vince Halliday. A plan that meant he’d be out of her life forever. She hadn’t had any time to spot any flaws. It was a massive gamble.
But then, whereas Connie Jameson was a new woman, Connie Carter thrived on taking risks.
“There’s a cottage a few miles away. There’s no one there. It’s called Jessop’s Cottage. I’ll write down the directions.” And Connie nodded to Glory. Confused, the girl took her notebook from her bag and gave it to Connie, who sketched the route to Jessop’s Cottage. “You can wait there.” She tore off the page and gave Glory her notebook back.
“How do I know there’s no one there?” Vince said, taking the piece of paper. “That it’s not a trick?”
“It was where that little girl lived. Remember? The one who turned up at the vicarage. But her family’s gone away now. She’s gone too. There’s no one there.”
“Where they gone?”
“Does it matter? Come on, we haven’t got much time,” Connie said. “I’ll be there in an hour.”
Vince looked impassively at them. He wasn’t sure if something wasn’t quite right here. What was Glory doing here? Why was Connie coming with him? And yet, she’d given him his gun back? She knew they were great together. Of course she did. Shrugging off his doubts, Vince thought that Connie had at last seen sense. His plan had worked. Don’t look a gift-horse in the mouth.
“All right. But if you’re not there in an hour, I’m away. And any tricks, remember, I’ve got this.”
“You’ve got all the cards on your side. Trust me, Vince.”
“I want to believe you.”
“I’ve been through so much, Vince. I just want to come home.”
Vince weighed the gun in his hands. They watched as he climbed into the car and started it up.
He drove slowly out of the village square. Connie watched it leave over the bridge. And then she felt a familiar tugging at her sleeve. A furious-looking Glory had written a new note: “What the hell are you doing?”
Connie shook her head and exhaled. “Taking the biggest risk of my life,” she said.
But before she could explain further, a red-faced Roger Curran emerged from the office of The Helmstead Herald, pointing to the car that was disappearing over the horizon. “Hoy! That’s my car! That’s my car!” he hollered.
Later, Connie was sitting on the other side of the desk in the cramped office of the Helmstead Herald.
“And you’re sure about that?” Roger asked for what seemed like the tenth time.
This was the moment of decision. The moment that would rid her of Vince once and for all. She thought of Joyce’s words about the German she had shot: “I did what I had to do. I had to keep telling myself, he’d have killed me.” And so it was with Vince. He had crossed the line. He had left Henry to die. And now Connie had no choice but to protect herself. She had to get rid of him. And this was the best way which didn’t involve putting a bullet in him herself.
She told Roger that she was certain of what she was saying. “He’s one of the bombers, I’m sure of it. He was stealing your car –” She turned to Glory as she said, “- and we tried to stop him. Didn’t we?”
Glory nodded, having no real idea what Connie was doing.
“And when he recognised me, he started shouting about how I’d driven Michael Sawyer away. How I’d blown the whole thing. I don’t know what he was on about, but then I thought, maybe he’s working with Michael. You know, with the explosive-making and stuff.” Connie felt no prick of conscience at spinning this lie. She wanted Vince Halliday to be arrested, and whereas before she had worried about the elderl
y Home Guard officers or the lone PC Thorne taking him on, she knew that they would send fully-armed professionals from the Secret Service to arrest a bomber. Connie knew that the special agents, with their training and weapons, would be the only ones who could stand a chance of getting Vince Halliday under arrest. He wouldn’t be able to explain the real reason why he was in the cottage. And even if he could, they would find him in possession of a gun; a weapon which might further point towards the nefarious activities of one of the collaborators.
Connie was banking on it being enough to get him put behind bars for a long time.
“I’d better call the London boys,” Roger said. Connie could see that the light had gone back on in his eyes. A real story. Another one of the bombers caught in the bomb-making cottage. This could really make his name! He dialled the operator on his phone and asked to be put through to the War Office. Connie and Glory could hear the woman on the other end of the line trying to make the connection for him. And then they listened in silence as he related the story to the officer on the line.
Glory put a note under Connie’s nose: “But he’s not a bomber.”
Connie scribbled a reply. “But he’s a lot of other things.”
Glory snapped shut her note pad, as Roger Curran came off the phone. He smiled reassuringly at the women. “They’re sending a squad of agents over from Birmingham. Be here in thirty minutes. They know the way to Jessop’s Cottage because the police were there taking away all the explosives and things. Been busy coming back and forth. They brought a van down the other day. Well, we may as well have a cup of tea while we wait.” He looked at Connie, remembering her abysmal efforts with a kettle and winced. “I’ll make it, shall I?” Roger headed off to the kitchen.
“Yeah, that’ll be lovely.”
Connie felt a need for fresh air. Her head was swimming with the enormity of what she had just done. She stepped outside while Roger made the tea.
Her hopes of some quiet time to reflect were dashed by a thin figure with a hat and a sour smile who wafted over like a nosey ghost.
“What’s going on, then?” Gladys Gulliver usually looked judgemental as she asked that question, but this time she looked angry, as if she’d been personally affronted. “What were you doing in the square?”
“It’s too complicated to go into.”
“You were waving a gun around.”
“Full marks for observation,” Connie said, trying to close the conversation down. Glory stepped out of the newspaper office to see what was going on. But this provided more fuel for the fire for Mrs Gulliver.
“And who’s she? She had a knife.” Gladys glared at Glory, who stared right back at her. “What’s the matter, cat got your tongue, young lady?”
“She can’t speak. It’s a long story.” Connie sighed. “Look, we weren’t going to hurt anyone. I just needed to get rid of him, all right?”
Gladys Gulliver was full of questions, but for once, she’d seemed to have soaked up enough gossip to not ask anything further. Guns, knives and showdowns in the village square. This was a step up from gossip about Mrs Bradshaw having dirty nets. Connie supposed that Gladys might be in shock from what she’d seen.
“I’m going to bed. Had quite enough for one day.” The old woman started to shuffle away. Connie just had time to smile at Glory before Mrs Gulliver turned back. “Oh, before I go, you know that young girl who was in the photograph with you? Well, she was here half an hour ago, asking if I’d seen you.”
“What did you say?” Connie feared the worst.
“I told her to steer clear of you. Don’t worry, I didn’t tell her why. I didn’t think she needed to know all about the guns and things that you get up to. Heaven forbid that a young mind needs that.”
An awful thought struck Connie: “Did she say where she was going?”
“Said she was going home. That was the message. Tell Connie Carter that I’m putting on a brave face and going home. You let her go, that’s my advice. Guns indeed!” Gladys Gulliver turned and walked away. She didn’t see Connie’s desperate expression. Margaret was going back to the cottage! But by the time Roger came out of his office to say the tea was ready, Connie and Glory were racing across the bridge, out of Helmstead.
Connie had been awake for so long, running on pure adrenaline, that she no longer knew what time it was. But she knew that every muscle in her body felt tired and the skin on her face was stiff with fatigue. They ran over the fields of rain-soaked grass until they reached the brow of the hill that looked down on the patchwork fields around Jessop’s Cottage. She couldn’t see any signs of life in or around the cottage. Connie wondered if she’d made a dreadful mistake. Was Margaret there? Or had she been and gone before Vince got there? What would Vince do if he saw her? Maybe Mrs Gulliver had got it wrong?
If she was there, Connie had to get Margaret away from the place before the special agents arrived. But how could she do that? For once, Connie, feeling drained and desperately tired, ran out of ideas.
Glory dropped to the ground and indicated for Connie to do the same. They were behind a small rise on the brow of the hill overlooking the valley. They could see the entire cottage and surrounding grounds from up here. Connie felt uneasy at staying where they were, exposed.
“I can’t just stay here and watch. If they come mob-handed to arrest Vince, and Margaret’s there with him, he’s got a ready-made hostage, ain’t he?” Connie couldn’t allow that to happen. She knew that despite the dangers, she had to save Margaret Sawyer for a second time. She didn’t have a plan, but she knew she had to do something fast.
In the cottage, Margaret Sawyer was in her bedroom. Her small case lay open on the bed. This time she had packed more sensibly than before, packing a loaf of bread in greaseproof paper along with her dolls, as well as a change of dress. She had been staying with various school friends in Brinford, but now realised she had to go elsewhere. She was pondering whether to try Connie Carter again. Looking at Connie’s smiling face in the photograph in the newspaper cutting made Margaret desperate to see her heroine again. Yes, maybe Connie would let her stay this time. That would be nice. She could live with Connie Carter.
Suddenly there was a creak on the floorboards behind her.
Fearing that Michael or Vera had come back, Margaret turned, ready to argue her case. She would tell them she had been staying with one of her friend’s mums in Brinford. She wouldn’t mention that her friend’s mum had told her to go home to face the music.
But to her surprise it wasn’t Michael or Vera coming up the stairs. Instead, a bullish man in a dark suit was standing by her bed. One of his hands was wrapped in a dirty bandage. It took Margaret a few moments to recognise him. It was the nasty man from the vicarage. She didn’t like him. He had mean eyes and he made Connie Carter unhappy. What was he doing here in her house?
“What do you want?” Margaret said, in what she hoped was a strong and warning voice.
“I’m waiting for Connie,” Vince said softly. “Where are your parents?”
Margaret shook her head. She didn’t know.
“Why don’t you know?”
“I ran away. But I came back.”
“Obviously.” Vince smiled. He had too many teeth when he smiled. Margaret thought he looked like a pike fish.
“I’m packing my case.” She wondered where Michael and Vera were. It was usual for Vera to go out, but never Michael. Maybe he was in one of his sheds. But what was this man doing here? Margaret felt a wave of unease. Something wasn’t right. “Is Connie Carter coming here?” Margaret said, focusing her thoughts on happier things.
Vince nodded, staring out of the window, across the fields, seemingly having lost interest in the girl. “Why is she coming here?”
“Got a lot of questions, ain’t you?” Vince said. “We’re running off together, if you must know. Like grown-ups do.”
Margaret pulled a face. “Why would she do that? She said she wanted you gone. That’s what she said.” And then, when Vi
nce’s brow darkened, Margaret Sawyer realised she’d said the wrong thing.
Vince’s attention turned from the window to what the girl was saying. From the mouths of babes. He tried to process it. Maybe the girl had got it wrong? “Is that what she said?”
“No.”
“You said that’s what she said. When did she say that?”
“When she walked me home after I stayed at the vicarage.”
Vince tried to process this. Maybe she’d misremembered it? No, she seemed certain. Well, all right then, she might be remembering it correctly, but then Connie had seen sense since then and changed her mind. “She said she wanted you gone.” The words echoed in Vince’s head. What other options were there? Connie secretly hated him. Connie was coming with him. Or Connie was tricking him in some way.
There was a knock at the door. Vince peered out of Margaret’s window. Below, on the front steps, was Connie Carter.
She was coming with him!
“Looks like you can ask her yourself,” Vince said. Margaret took a step towards the bedroom door. Vince pulled his revolver out from his pocket and waved it threateningly. “Be good to find out what’s going on, though, won’t it?” Suddenly, Margaret wished she’d stayed in Brinford. They went down the stairs together and Vince indicated for Margaret to open the front door.
The small girl lifted the latch. Connie’s face fell when she saw Vince with his revolver pointing near Margaret.
“What you doing?” Connie barked.
“Insurance,” Vince replied. He indicated for Connie to come into the house. It was the last thing she wanted to do. Ideally she wanted to get Margaret and herself away from the cottage. Time was ticking away. The special agents would be here soon.
But she didn’t have a choice. Connie went inside. Vince closed the door.
“What’s going on, Connie?” Vince’s steely blue eyes searched for any hint of a lie or a trick. She had seen him like this before, almost feral in a heightened state of anxiety.
“I came. Like I said I would,” Connie said, smiling at Margaret, trying to reassure her.