Full Fury

by Roger Ormerod

  ‘Anything.’

  ‘When it’s over—when you know it’s over—will you phone me? Please. Tell me you’re safe.’

  I touched her hand. ‘I’ll do that.’

  She smiled. ‘There’s another sandwich, if you want it.’ But I was full of sandwiches, and there were things to do. I stood up. She came to her feet, still smiling.

  ‘You can kiss me, David,’ she said. ‘But be careful.’

  She was shaking. I kissed her as an uncle might, because anything more would dislocate my whole programme. She didn’t come to the door with me. I shut it quietly.

  There was no traffic on the road. I drove fast. There was company I yearned to part with, but I had to meet them first.

  It was the busiest hour for Carter Finn Enterprises. The car park seemed full. The rain had eased but you could still feel it in the air. I had a little difficulty parking. Then I sat and tried to decide how best to handle it.

  Clear through the night I heard a woman scream. It seemed to be close. I scrambled out and looked round. Fifty yards away was standing the grey Rover. A woman was at the offside door. She had it open and was looking down at her feet. As I watched, she fell to her knees on the wet tarmac and she screamed again.

  I began to run.

  When I was half-way there I saw it was Karen. She had a cape that looked like fur over her shoulders, and she might have been about to get into the car. She heard me coming and turned her startled face towards me, white in the rim of the light, her eyes staring. There was something in her hand.

  ‘Karen!’ I shouted.

  Then she was on her feet, was stumbling and scrambling, thrust her way clear of the car’s door, and ran from me towards the club entrance. I skidded to a halt beside the car.

  I knew it was Troy at once, by the plum-coloured dinner jacket. As she’d opened the door he had fallen out on her, and he lay now with his legs still inside. His face was turned up towards me.

  I got down on one knee. There didn’t seem to be any doubt about it, but I fumbled round for his pulse. His face was purple, the eyes staring and suffused with blood. There was no pulse. Whiteness glittered between his teeth. I thought at first it was froth, but then I realized it was a paper handkerchief. It had become necessary to stop Troy’s mouth, so they stuffed it full of tissues. They had continued to stuff them in until he had choked to death.

  I thought he would be tidier in the car so I levered him up. Troy had been heavy for his age. The empty box rattled round his feet.

  I reached into his waistband, but it wasn’t there. Then I knew what Karen had been holding. I set off at a run for the club entrance.

  You can’t just blast in at full speed, even in emergency. I caught myself in the entrance and steadied to a fast walk. ‘Karen come through here?’

  Feeney was looking startled. ‘A couple of minutes back.’ I ran my hands over my hair and went on through. There was no disturbance in the atmosphere they were absorbing at the bar, so she hadn’t gone through with the gun in her hand. I followed across the gaming floor. They were still faiting their jeux. I went into the hall, and took the stairs two at a time, the hall at a controlled gallop. I knew now where the button was. The door opened silently. I moved inside.

  Karen was standing a dozen feet to my left, her cape at her feet. She had on a fine check two-piece in red and gold, nicely set off by the gun in her right hand. Across the room, facing her, was Finn, his right hand in the pocket of his slick grey jacket, and he was laughing at her with that shishing noise of his. There was nothing amusing in what she was calling him, but maybe he reckoned he could afford to laugh, because that hard, bulky shape in the fist in his pocket had to be a gun.

  Myra was further across. I didn’t have much time to look at Myra, but I got the impression of white, strained features, and a hand to her mouth.

  There was going to be a time when Karen ran out of words. Behind me, the door closed with a soft swish. Her voice rose to a crescendo and her hair was a wild cascade over her eyes.

  She fired the first shot as I started moving. There was no likelihood that she would hit him. Porcelain exploded and went flying in splinters. She fired again. I was coming in fast. I reckoned he’d allow her three shots. Glass shattered, and in the falling clatter Myra was screaming. Out of the corner of my eye I could see that Finn had his gun out into the open. Karen fired again.

  I got her with my right arm round her hips and my right shoulder into her soft young buttocks. At the same time I heard the heavier crash of Finn’s weapon, and she seemed to twist in my arms under the impact of it. We went on across the room, spinning on to our backs and taking a small table with us, and ended up against the front of the settee. She was on top of me. Blood dripped on to my face.

  Across the room, Finn was just lining up his forty-five revolver for a second go at it.

  I shouted: ‘No! You’re too late.’

  He shrugged, and slid it into his pocket.

  Karen whimpered. I moved from under her. Judging by the tattered holes in the material, the wound was neatly through the fleshy part of her right upper forearm. Her face was puckered and she seemed to be drawing in her breath in one long and continuous intake.

  ‘Easy now, easy,’ I said.

  She screamed. My face was close to hers, and I couldn’t take it. I slapped her hard and it cut off short.

  Then Myra moved into my circle of vision. She had obviously handed in her resignation as hostess at The Beeches, and was wearing a pink housecoat over lounging pyjamas. The legs were pouncing past my face, and I saw where they were heading. Troy’s gun lay on the floor a few feet away. I scrambled sideways and reached for it, but all I could get to it was my left hand. It beat hers by a fraction of a second, but I’d got no grip. For a moment we were still, she with her delicate hand clamped over my dressing.

  ‘Let her have it,’ said Finn sharply.

  I let her have it. She came up straight, and from where I was her face was carved and cold. Finn was watching her. He had both hands and no gun showing, and there was still a smile left out of the laughter he’d thrown at Karen. Myra’s gun was steady as a rock and levelled at his head. He began to walk towards her, his right hand outstretched.

  I heard the click of the firing pin on the empty breech.

  He said: ‘He did everything in threes. Why d’you think we called him Troy?’

  Then he took it from her hand casually, turned, and walked with it to an inlaid table next to the bookcase Karen had blown the front from. I would not have wished to turn my back on Myra. His nerves were doing fine. Mine were in tatters.

  Myra sat suddenly on the settee and put her face in her hands. I got to my feet. Karen was sitting whimpering on the floor, her left hand over the wound, and blood running from between her fingers.

  ‘Oops,’ I said, and got her up beside her mother.

  Finn went to pour himself a drink. He showed Karen the concern that a bullock gives to a wounded bird.

  Myra was emerging slowly from her personal shock. She looked at Karen with wild eyes, and only then seemed to realize. I heard her breath hiss in and she gave a moan that might have been a word, but I didn’t catch it.

  ‘Brandy,’ I said to Finn over my shoulder.

  Myra was up like a flash and heading for the bar. Finn was coming away from it with a glass in his hand, and she swept through him as though he wasn’t there. He raised his eyebrows at her.

  Brandy doesn’t help with wounds. But Karen looked as though she needed it, Myra too, and while we’re at it, I could have used a shot.

  Myra came back with one glass. Karen’s blood had ruined the tricky little two-piece, and was doing the same to the settee covers. She gulped down brandy, and choked. We prised her fingers from her arm and got the jacket off her. It was a nice, clean wound.

  ‘Bandages,’ I said. ‘Something to bathe it with.’

  Myra looked at me sightlessly, but she got up and went away.

  I said to Finn: ‘You ought to r
ing a doctor.’

  ‘I’ve got my own doctor.’

  ‘I’m sure you have. Then phone him.’

  He looked at me. That gun of his wasn’t going to stop me dialling 999 and getting an ambulance there, and he could see it. He nodded and went over to the phone.

  ‘Is it bad?’ I said.

  ‘Kind of hot,’ Karen whispered. But the pain would come.

  I got her stretched out on the settee, just as Myra came back with a roll of bandage and a plastic basin full of steaming, milky liquid smelling of antiseptic.

  ‘Get something to cover her with,’ I said.

  She went away again. I cleaned the wound. Pain was getting through, and Karen clenched her teeth. The best I could do was put a tight dressing on it and cut down the blood flow. Myra hovered with a lemon-coloured blanket with satin edging. Then we settled her down, the blanket over her, her face ghastly just over the rim of yellow satin.

  ‘Bed,’ I said. ‘Could we get her to bed?’

  ‘No,’ Karen said in a surprisingly strong voice. She gave me a weak smile. She was intending to listen to what Dave Mallin had to say. A lot of good it was going to do her.

  On one of the easy chairs Myra was hunched up, hugging herself with her hands tight on her shoulders. I went a walk round the room, Finn’s eyes watching me heavily. When I got to the bar I got a brandy for Myra and put it in her hand as I passed her.

  ‘You make a good entrance,’ said Finn.

  ‘It wouldn’t have helped you.’

  ‘Such a reliable witness?’

  ‘You wouldn’t have got away with it. In fact, you’re not going to.’

  ‘Self-defence,’ he protested.

  I laughed. ‘You knew the kid couldn’t possibly hit you with the thing. You reckoned you’d give her three. In fact, you knew she’d only got three. Oh, it took some nerve, I’ll grant you that. But you’ve got nerve.’ I watched him nod. ‘So you let her have her three shots, then you’d have got her, clean between the eyes.’

  I heard Myra gasp. Finn didn’t take his eyes from me, but he made a small, silencing gesture towards her.

  ‘Self-defence,’ he claimed again.

  I shook my head. ‘You certainly hate her.’

  ‘She interferes.’

  ‘Not enough for hatred like that.’

  I looked across at Myra. She was caught in a tangled mixture of emotions, because she knew, at once, what was sufficient to goad Finn into such hatred. He loved Myra. Whatever else he might be—aggressive, coarse, tough—he nevertheless loved her, and resented the closeness between the mother and daughter. I could see it there in the eager reaching of Myra’s expression, the awareness of what that meant to her. But only a few feet from her, her daughter was lying, in pain now because of him, and she could not forgive him that.

  ‘But she interferes,’ he repeated harshly.

  I sighed. ‘I haven’t enjoyed any of this business. Not one minute. I haven’t even known who I’m working for and what’s been expected of me. There’s been some mossy old stones I’ve had to turn over, and what’s been underneath hasn’t appealed to me at all. But I’ve done Paul Hutchinson’s job for him. He wanted the truth about his father, and why he was dismissed, and I’ve cleared all that. So my job’s done. It’s a pity it had to get so messy on the way.

  I smiled around. ‘So I’ll just say good night.’

  It was not conceivable that Finn would simply let me walk out of there. I’d only moved a yard when the gun made an appearance again.

  ‘You can’t imagine…’ he began.

  ‘I can’t imagine you ever having one thought,’ I agreed. ‘It’s got to be guns, hasn’t it? The answer to everything. Bang, bang—another problem solved.’

  He gestured with it. I was two yards from him.

  ‘But who d’you think you’re protecting, Finn? Tell me that. Yourself? But you’ve got everything covered, I’m sure. Troy, out there in the car? Where’ll that body be in a couple of hours? Or the shooting of Karen? I’m sure you’ll fix that, somehow or other. You’ll persuade her. You’re great at that. So she’ll cover for you—say it was an accident or something. So what’s scaring you, Finn?’

  The gun wavered, but only to a point between my eyes. Myra said hoarsely: ‘Let him go, Carter.’

  I watched his eyes. He was suddenly uncertain.

  ‘He’s worried about Paul Hutchinson,’ I told her over my shoulder. ‘There’s still the murder of Paul.’

  ‘Murder?’ he said.

  ‘I’m the only witness, remember? I can say it was murder. So all right, you shoot me, and you’ll be safe.’

  ‘Me?’ he shouted. ‘What the hell you mean?’

  ‘Then who else are you protecting? Somebody from here did it. They watched Paul drive away, then followed in the Rover.’

  ‘Troy. Troy could’ve—’

  ‘Oh no. That was not his way. I admit it’d be convenient —for you. And anybody could say Troy’d not be too keen on watching Paul and Karen disappearing into the conservatory. But if it’d been Troy, there’d have been no messing about with cars. One clean shot, that was his mark. Not Troy, mate.’

  ‘You’re not pinning this on me.’

  ‘I agree. I’m not. So why are you waving that gun at me? It couldn’t have been a man who killed Paul.’

  There was short silence. Finn’s eyes moved past my shoulder. ‘Sit down,’ he said. I didn’t move. His face hardened. ‘Why couldn’t it have been a man?’

  ‘Because whoever killed Paul went on to his place and pinched a letter he’d got. That letter was important, they thought. It was from Paul’s father, and Paul had made quite a fuss about what his poppa had said. So it seemed important. Maybe it was, but poor Paul had been giving the wrong impression around here. There’s no doubting he wanted to stir something up. But not here. He’d got his sights on a certain ex-copper called Crowshaw. It was all a damned waste, because Paul was killed for nothing. Just for that letter. But the point is that only that letter was taken. It was in an envelope. A man wouldn’t have done that. He’d have pocketed the lot. But a woman—a woman in evening dress with a dress handbag no bigger than your hand—she’d have taken only the letter, because she wouldn’t have had room for any more. So now who’re you protecting, Finn? Myra—or Karen?’

  I was getting to him. His jaws moved as he chewed on it.

  ‘Well maybe you thought it was Myra,’ I said easily. ‘But it had to be somebody who knew there was a letter. Up to then, Paul had only said something about where the gun was found. And who’d know he was getting his information from a letter? Who was in the best position to extract information from him? Who was the expert at it? Who else but Karen?’

  I had to reckon that his hatred for Karen was strong enough to override his personal considerations. If he let me walk out of there, he knew I’d run for a phone. I looked round. Karen’s eyes watched me from over the top edge of the settee. Myra stood still and erect. Two people would have shot me out of hand. I turned back. The third one was smiling gently. One person hated Karen enough.

  He tossed the gun, caught it in his palm, made a stiff, ironic bow, and began to move aside.

  I went forward towards the door. ‘Carter!’ Myra screamed, and she started to run towards him. She wanted that gun. I brought my left arm up as hard as I could, and met his face on the way down with its bow.

  I don’t know what it was like from his end, but I’ll never forget what it did to me. Pain shot up my arm like a sword thrust and came out of the top of my head. I’d intended to dive for his gun. So much for intentions! For two seconds there was a blinding whirl in front of my eyes, and when it cleared all I could see was a big round hole a foot from my face. Myra’s expression behind it held little hope of my survival.

  I was sitting on the floor. Beside me, also sitting, was Carter Finn. The only satisfaction in it was that he was worse than me. They’d never build a nose out of that mess, and his lips were a nasty opening. But Myra needed him now.
She needed his help, if I was to be removed, as a dead body.

  ‘Carter, get up,’ she said.

  He couldn’t get up. She turned on him and lashed at him with a bit of expert language, but he only groaned and covered his face. She didn’t know what to do.

  My head was clearing, though there was nothing but horrible pain below my left elbow.

  ‘He knew,’ I said. ‘He must have known all along. Else why’d he hate Karen so much? Because Karen had killed Paul, that’s why, and all to save her mother from getting pitched back into the Neville Gaines’s mess.’

  Myra’s face softened. ‘There was no need,’ she whispered. Then she backed off, feeling behind her for the edge of a chair. I got myself twisted round, reached my right hand under me, and levered myself up. Gently, oh so gently, because that hammer was cocked and it’d need only a nervous twitch to blow my head off. I moved sideways.

  ‘No need,’ I agreed. ‘You’re right there. It’s achieved nothing, because it’s all going to come out.’ I slid on to a chair beside the telephone. Finn was crawling across the floor. ‘Crowshaw is going to reveal all. It’ll stink from here to… to Pentonville.’

  She flinched. ‘I don’t want to hear.’

  But she was going to, if it was the last thing I did. ‘How Neville Gaines was railroaded to the scaffold,’ I went on, relishing the words. ‘You’d like to hear that.’

  The gun was now resting in her lap. Myra had had about enough. I gave her some more.

  ‘For instance, the two guns. Let’s just think about those. There were two guns mentioned at the trial, the one Neville got from Lovejoy, and the one that turned up on the second search.’

  Myra muttered: ‘I remember.’ Karen said nothing. Her eyes were nearly closed. Finn was levering himself into a chair. The front of his shirt wasn’t pretty.

  ‘You can forget the gun the second search threw up,’ I said. ‘It was planted. That’s where Crowshaw came in. But it did give the idea, at the time, that Neville had gone out and bought himself two guns.’ I glanced at Karen. ‘But I now know he’d owned a gun of his own for years.’

  Myra fluttered her eyelashes.