by Bill Kitson
‘Oh dear, poor you,’ Clara sympathized. ‘You get all the worst jobs, don’t you? Speaking of which, how’s Dr North?’
‘I spoke to Jessica a couple of days ago. They’ve rented a bungalow on the outskirts of town. She gets the keys tomorrow. She’s hoping to move in the day after, and bring her father home then. Apparently he’s much better now the drugs are out of his system. It’ll take a long time for him to make a full recovery of course, but there is hope. Jessica said the worst thing is coping with the shattering of his faith, by the betrayal of people he trusted.
‘The other thing that bloke from the MOD told me is that any further experiments along the lines of the one at Helm Pharm wouldn’t be sanctioned. He said there might even be legislation against it, which is another good thing to come out of this mess.’
It was exactly an hour later when the receptionist rang through to tell Nash the prisoner had arrived. Nash and Mironova hurried downstairs. As Clara was completing the formalities of the handover with the military policewomen, Nash spoke to Dunning. ‘You know what, Colonel? Now I can hear the fat lady singing.’
three months later
The man dressed in Taliban fighter’s distinctive clothing glared at his captives. The two men were seated, the rocks hot and uncomfortable under them, their backs hunched away from the searing heat given off by the panels of the scout car. Their wrists were bound tightly, their uniforms, once neat and clean as was expected of British soldiers, now dusty, sweat bedraggled and bloodstained.
They stared back, dumb defiance all they could manage in the face of their captor’s obvious and implacable hatred, and the rough cloth gags stuffed into their mouths.
The fighter bent over his prisoners, rummaging through their pockets. He removed a small bottle and looked at it for a few moments, examining the tablets and capsules inside. He shrugged and tossed it into their vehicle, before resuming his search. There was little of interest, although he smiled as he pocketed a cigarette packet. When he’d completed his search, he gestured with his Kalashnikov. He didn’t need to speak; he knew one of his prisoners wouldn’t have understood him if he had. Besides, the weapon in his hands and the hostility in his eyes said all that was needed.
They stumbled to their feet, awkward from their bonds, and the length of time since they’d been allowed to move freely. He gestured again, pointing towards their vehicle. They climbed in; the cab was like a furnace. The gunman stepped forward, up to the man in the passenger seat. He placed the rifle against the soldier’s temple and pulled the trigger.
The man’s companion recoiled, as a pulpy mass of brain and blood spattered across his already soiled uniform. The second shot came as the first was still ringing, the echoes reverberating round the empty, barren landscape. The fighter regarded his victims for a moment before stepping well clear of the vehicle. He raised the Kalashnikov and fired a third shot. It punctured the fuel tank.
A devout Muslim is denied the sinful pleasure of alcohol. In its place, tobacco rates highly. He lit a cigarette from the packet he’d liberated from one of the dead men, his nose wrinkling momentarily at the unfamiliar taste. He let the match burn down for a second, before tossing it into the widening pool of diesel.
He turned away, using his shaal to shield his head from the blast. He watched the vehicle burn for a few minutes. Then he turned his eyes to the distant hills. He sighed, before he began to move. It was a long walk home.
Jessica was sitting at the breakfast table. Her father was seated across from her. The small bungalow they’d rented on the outskirts of Helmsdale was a far cry from their last house, but it would do, certainly until her father recovered. He was staring into his bowl as she watched him, pushing the cornflakes around without making much effort to eat them. His breakdown had been severe, a retreat from the harsh realities of the shock upon shock his brain had finally refused to cope with.
Jessica’s thoughts were interrupted by the click of the letter box. She got up and walked through to the hall. As she returned to the kitchen, she was already scanning the paper. She found the item she was looking for inside the front page. She began to read:
‘The names of two British soldiers, missing in Afghanistan for over a week were released by the Ministry of Defence yesterday, 24 hours after their bodies were found in the burnt out scoutcar they had been using on patrol. The two men were Major Anthony Smith and Sergeant Steven Hirst.’
Jessica’s eyes filled with tears, she felt nausea rising in her stomach. What had Steve been doing, what had he been thinking of, going on patrol with Smith? And what had happened between them, out there in that arid wasteland? She tasted bile in her throat and stumbled out of the room, vision blurred as she headed for the toilet.
Dr North picked up the paper his daughter had left open. He scanned the page, without seeing anything that might have upset her. But Jessica was distressed, and that was something he couldn’t cope with. He began to tremble, tears coursing down his cheeks. Then Jessica was back. She cradled his head in her arms and began to rock him, gently as with a baby. ‘It’s all right, Daddy,’ she told him, her tone as soft and loving as a mother’s. ‘Don’t be upset, Daddy, everything’s all right.’ She smoothed his hair with her hand. ‘You’ll see. Everything’s going to be all right now. We’ve got each other, haven’t we?’
But she was lying. To herself as well as to her father. It wasn’t all right. How could it be after news like that? She felt the tears well up again, and dashed them away angrily. Tears were a weakness she could not afford.
Nash read the news as he was sitting in his office. Mironova walked in as he finished. She saw the look of sadness on his face. ‘Something wrong, Mike?’
He passed her the paper. ‘I don’t think Smith’s much of a loss, but that’s bad news about Hirst,’ he said as she read the article. ‘He was a really decent bloke. We’d never have brought Dunning to trial, let alone stopped that vile experimentation, if it hadn’t been for him.
‘What I can’t understand is what he was doing anywhere near Smith. He knew what Smith was capable of. Would you go out on patrol with someone you knew was a cold-blooded killer? One who you knew had already shot one of your mates in the back? Makes you wonder what exactly went on out in that desert, doesn’t it? One thing’s for sure, we’ll never prosecute Smith now.’
‘At least we’ve got his boss. Dunning was the architect of the evil. Putting her on trial will do a lot to help those such as Dr North, to say nothing of the servicemen’s families who were affected by that wicked bitch.’
‘That reminds me, I didn’t get chance to tell you, with you being off yesterday. CPS rang. Dunning’s changed her plea to guilty. The trial starts next week, but it’s a formality now. With a bit of luck sentencing will take place before the end of the month. As you said, it’ll give closure to some people.’ Nash glanced down at the paper. ‘Unfortunately, not for everyone.’
eighteen months later
Jessica was alone when Sonya phoned. Her father had just left for work. In the year and a half since their ordeal, Jessica had matured even more. There was a depth of character in her features that marked her out from others of her age.
Part of this had been due to what she’d been through, but mostly it was from having to nurse her father through his breakdown and back to some semblance of recovery. It had been a slow, painful process, with many relapses along the way. He was better now, but his health was fragile. Going back to work had helped; Richard North had been hesitant about accepting a teaching post, but he’d taken to it well enough for Jessica to hope it marked a turning point in his fight to recover.
‘Hi, Jessica, how’s things?’
They’d become friends after Steve’s return to active service. The bond between them had been strengthened further after the news of his death. ‘Not too bad. I’ve just seen Dad off to work, and I was thinking about taking a bath.’
Sonya sighed. ‘Talk about the idle rich. Listen, do you fancy coming for coffee this morning?
If you can delay your ablutions, that is.’
‘OK, give me an hour.’
Sonya looked well, better than Jessica had seen her for a long time. ‘You’re looking good. What’s that down to? Don’t tell me, let me guess. The long arm of the law?’
Sonya grinned. ‘Mike only pops in now and again.’
Jessica laughed. ‘Pops what in?’
Sonya blushed slightly. ‘I mean, he comes to keep me company occasionally. He only stays for a bit.’
‘A bit of what?’
‘Oh, all right, so Mike and I spend a night together now and again. It isn’t serious, with either of us; just a bit of harmless fun. There, now I’ve confessed my sins, are you satisfied?’
‘You certainly seem to be. He must be doing you good.’
Sonya’s eyes were dreamy. ‘Oh yes, he sure is.’
‘Sonya!’ Jessica pretended to be shocked, but spoilt the effect by giggling. ‘So what’s the panic this morning? I can tell you’re up to something.’
Her friend’s eyes sparkled. ‘You know that motorhome? The one Steve left to you? You haven’t sold it or anything have you?’
‘No, why?’
‘I had this great idea. Came to me this morning. How do you fancy going on holiday? You and me, I mean, together? If we take the motorhome it wouldn’t be wildly expensive.’
‘That’s totally weird. I was only thinking last night that I ought to use it. And I reckon a holiday’s what I need. But what about the kids?’
‘Well, I suppose we’d have to take them as well.’
‘It’d be a bit cramped, but I suppose we could manage. Have you got anywhere in mind?’
‘Not really, I thought we could just point it and go. We could take it in turns to drive, that’d make it much easier.’
Jessica was watching the children playing. She bent down and scooped the youngest up, swinging him onto her hip like a veteran. Sonya smiled. ‘Your little Stevie’s really growing, isn’t he?’
Jessica laughed. ‘Growing into a little monster, aren’t you, nuisance face?’ The infant chuckled with glee as his mother tickled him. ‘So, come on, give me some clue about this holiday. Where do you fancy?’
‘Have you ever been to the Lake District?’
Jessica swung her son to cradle him. ‘No, never. You?’
‘No, we’d planned to, but then….’
‘Let’s give it a go then.’
The hotel was part of a leisure complex, more of a clubhouse really. All summer long, campers, caravanners and fell walkers thronged the site. Now, as the season was nearing the end, the place was quieter.
It was that dead hour after the lunchtime trade had ended. A time for leisurely tidying, washing glasses, and other small chores before the first customers of the evening. The barman was polishing glasses, staring out of the window. The bar overlooked the lake; the water rippled in the warm autumn sunshine. Around the shores, the belt of woodland was beginning to take on a golden hue as the leaves turned colour. Above the tree line, the majestic Cumbrian hills towered, splendid in their gaunt, dark livery.
A motorhome drove slowly past on the service road, breaking his reverie and stirring up memories. It was a similar colour and shape to the one….
He frowned and set the glass down before taking out his wallet. Flicking it open, he stared again at the photo in the clear plastic window.
He’d taken it surreptitiously, using the camera on his mobile phone. It was the act of taking the photo that had caused him to realize how much the girl had come to mean to him. Much more than a mere comrade in arms, a colleague on a mission. He looked at her face, eyes aglow with the satisfaction of what they’d achieved, excited by what they still had to do.
He reached for his phone, as he’d reached for it a dozen times before. He’d brought her number up on the screen before he paused. He took a long, deep, shuddering breath. No, better not go there. To all intents and purposes he was dead; had died that day in the blazing Afghan heat. Buried, with full military honours.
Better to remain dead. Better not to go back, to change things. She had the rest of her life before her. So much to do and see: so much to achieve. The last thing she needed was a permanent reminder of the past. He sighed and switched off the phone, stuffed the wallet back in his pocket, picked up the towel and another glass.
THE END
The D.I. Mike Nash Series
Book 1: WHAT LIES BENEATH
Book 2: VANISH WITHOUT TRACE
Book 3: PLAYING WITH FIRE
Book 4: KILLING CHRISTMAS
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