by Peter Helton
‘Well, congrats, shithead, told you you could do it.’ The grating voice held a sour edge of feigned amusement. ‘And now listen very carefully to what I have to say. The handover will happen tonight. You will be by yourself. There will be nobody with you, there will be no police and none of your mates. And you know why you’ll do exactly as I tell you? Because now I’ve got the brat’s mother. That’s right, shithead, mother and son reunited, only not the way you expected. And you don’t want anything to happen to her, because how could you live with yourself? You still listening, shithead, or did you faint?’
I sat down heavily on my painting stool. This was exactly what I had feared but hadn’t allowed myself to say out loud. But the question that weighed heavier on me was this: why would the kidnapper go to the trouble of snatching Jill if he already had the boy? Why would he need another victim, unless . . . ‘I’m listening.’
‘You’d better. Because now I’m ready for you. Here’s what you do, very simple. One: you’ll secure the Penny Black inside a padded envelope, reinforced with cardboard. Then you’ll tape it safely to the statue. Two: you’ll wrap the lot in several bin bags and secure them with tape so they don’t flap about. Three: you load it on the back of your Land Rover and drive out of your yard at eight o’clock precisely, with your mobile phone charged up and switched on, ready to receive instructions. Four: you talk to no one. You’ll be by yourself and you’ll bring no weapons and no wires. Oh yes, and just so I’ll know you’ll have no weapons or microphones, you’ll be wearing nothing but a pair of boxer shorts. Just to make sure there are no hidden surprises. Do anything differently and the woman dies.’
I drew breath to answer but he had already hung up.
Jill. We should never have left her alone all these days. What happened to the sister . . .? This might still come out right of course but there remained one question that seemed to make this unlikely: why would the kidnapper bother to take Jill, when he already had the boy? Unless the boy was dead.
Chapter Twenty-One
Five minutes to eight.
I felt chilly even though I was still only standing in the hall of my own house. Annis pulled me hard against her. ‘You make sure you come back to me, okay, Honeypot? No heroics, just do as you’re told for once and bring them back. Promise?’
‘I love you, Annis.’
‘I know, Chris.’
This time, apparently, it counted. It also saved me from having to make promises I might not be able to keep.
In the yard, parked as close as possible to the front door, the Landy had been ‘warming up’. I got in and mentally went over everything again. There wasn’t much to check. The stamp in its envelope and the Rodin were on the back, wrapped in black plastic and covered with a bit of old carpet. I myself was wrapped in a scratchy grey blanket, the only one I could find, making me already feel like the survivor of some kind of disaster. Despite the kidnapper’s warning I was wearing basketball shoes. If he objected he could always make me take them off. I had my mobile, as instructed. I had also purloined Tim’s far flashier mobile, and his Bluetooth headset, without bothering to tell him, because I had made no decisions yet about what to do when I got there and was literally going to play this by ear. I put my mobile on the dash, stuck the Bluetooth set on my right ear and let my hair fall over it. I set Tim’s mobile next to me on the seat.
Eight o’clock.
I waved to Annis in the doorway, silhouetted against the warm light of the house, put the engine in gear and rumbled out of the yard.
The heater in a 1960s Land Rover was a well-known joke and Annis’s decrepit example was no exception. Only most people who complained about how bad their Landy’s heater was didn’t usually drive it half-naked through a late-October night.
My mobile chimed its hateful little tune. I answered it. ‘I’m on the move, so where am I going?’
‘Patience. You’re on your lonesome, like I told you?’
‘I am.’
‘And you are unarmed and in your shorts?’
‘Unarmed, freezing cold and half-naked, apart from a pair of basketball shoes.’
‘Who said you could wear those?’
‘You want me to slip on the brake and drive your Rodin into a ditch?’
He grunted reluctant agreement. ‘Where are you?’
‘Top of my drive.’
‘Turn left and keep going until you get to the London Road. Keep the line open. If you disconnect your mobile even for one second then the deal is off and the woman will feel the consequences.’
I turned and drove slowly along the unlit, narrow road through the valley. The worn blades of the windscreen wipers squeaked as they ineffectually scraped at the renewed offering of rain falling out of the blackness. I was once more on the move, on my own, with the spoils from a robbery. My memories of the hold-up on Charlcombe Lane were still vivid in my mind. What was to stop the kidnapper from taking the plunder off me by force when I got to my dark destination, and go on indefinitely with his demands? Now that he had abducted a second victim he could afford to kill one of them simply to demonstrate the seriousness of his threat, if he hadn’t already done so.
As I reached the sodium-lit London Road at Batheaston I put the phone to my ear. ‘I’m there.’
‘Turn right. Drive carefully and at legal speeds. Don’t attract attention. When you reach Bailbrook Lane, turn into it.’
There was not a lot of traffic on the road, it was dark and the rain was hammering down; chances were that no one would remember a dirty old Landy. The goose bumps on my arms were an indication not just of how cold I felt but also of the hideousness of the realization that this time I really was in deep shit, just as Needham had predicted. I had let myself be drawn into the deepest mess of my dubious career and my only backup was Tim’s dinky little Bluetooth mobile. The turn-off into narrow Bailbrook Lane came up quickly. Bumping the car into it I asked for instructions.
‘You know this lane? You must do. Just keep going until you get to the highest point from where you can have a good look over Larkhall and the rest. Then stop.’
He was right, I knew the lane well. It skirted the bottom of Solsbury Hill, made famous beyond its stature by some dippy song. Dark, evergreen hedgerows whizzed past on either side as I hustled the Landy along. A particularly nasty pothole made my load jump on the back and I slowed down a bit. Soon after I’d passed the rusty corrugated iron mission church the view opened out. The lights of Larkhall and Lower Swainswick twinkled below. I stopped. ‘I can see Larkhall below. Now what?’
‘Turn off your lights.’
I did as I was told. At least it might save them having to bash them in with baseball bats. It was baseball, last time, I remembered it clearly. Unlike poor old Albert who’d apparently been hit with a cricket bat. Same result I should think.
‘Now turn them on again and flash your lights. Very good. Just wanted to be sure you were where you said you were. I can see you. Which means I’ll also be able to see any monkey business. Well, what are you waiting for? Come on down.’
It was quieter in the cab because the engine was still in neutral and I thought I heard an engine start up at the speaker’s end. I put the phone on the dash and kept on driving downhill, over the bypass and plunged further down until I reached the bottom.
‘Where exactly are you now?’ he asked after I’d announced my arrival.
‘St Saviour’s to the left. Dead Mill Lane to the right.’
‘You’ve gone too far. Take Dead Mill Lane. Then turn left and take the second turn on the left again. And keep going.’
I had suspected it since he made me leave the London Road and this confirmed it: I was heading into the Lam Valley. Soon the now familiar tracks swallowed me up. I recognized this one in particular. Very soon it would bring me to Jack Fryer’s farm. I slowed down, fingering Tim’s mobile beside me on the bench. The farm buildings hove into view on my left.
Dimly illuminated by a single watery bulb fixed to a telegraph pole i
n the yard the main structures of Spring Farm squatted in the wet darkness like black cattle depressed by the rain. I speed dialled the number for Mill House on Tim’s mobile while driving slowly up to the gate, peering into the gloom beyond. The dial tone snarled in my ear via the headset. I stopped. This didn’t feel right at all.
‘Hello?’ Annis’s voice in my ear.
A door opened in a concrete shed on the other side of the yard. Fryer’s farmhand shielded his eyes against the glare of the Landy’s light, looking puzzled.
‘I’m at Spring Farm,’ I said into the mobile.
‘Hello? Is that you, Chris?’ Annis spoke into my ear.
‘Keep going, follow the sign, don’t stop until you get there,’ came the impatient voice on the other mobile.
This was the wrong place. I hastily reversed back into the lane and drove on.
‘Did you say Spring Farm? Hello? All I can hear is noise now,’ Annis said in a faint voice, to Tim, presumably. Both mobiles started crackling as I drove deeper into the darkness of the valley, then reception died. How would I get my instructions now?
The answer stood at the turn to the narrow track on the left. A roughly made blank finger post had been rammed into the soft verge. It pointed forlornly down towards the ford of the Lam brook. This slippery track led to only one place: Grumpy Hollow. One way in, one way out.
I cranked the wheel over and plunged the ghostly signpost back into darkness as I followed its direction down towards the Hollow.
When I reached Gemma Stone’s herb farm I turned off both mobiles. I no longer needed them.
I had arrived.
Chapter Twenty-Two
I let the Land Rover crawl slowly down the slope to where Gemma’s old Volvo was parked. The narrow beam of my headlights picked out her car, with its hatch at the back wide open, the shepherd’s hut and the caravan in sharp, rain-glistened detail, while appearing to pour black ink over everything else. When I had brought the two cars nose to nose I killed the engine but left the lights on and cranked down the window. Earthy smells of dank vegetation rushed into the cab, replacing the oily fug thrown up by the engine. All I could hear was the thrumming of rain on the cab’s roof and the splashing and trickling all about. I got out into the mud and rain, pulled the blanket closer around me and approached the caravan. The door was wide open, a rectangle of blackness against the dirty white of the exterior.
‘That’s close enough,’ came the commanding voice from inside. ‘Stay right there.’
The surge of a powerful engine behind me made me turn around. Headlights on full beam dazzled me as I tried to make out what and who was approaching from behind. What eventually slowed and stopped close to the Land Rover was a black luxury van with wide tyres and permanent four-wheel drive. The engine stopped, the lights remained on, sending their beams deep into the plantation.
‘Who said you were allowed to wear a blanket?’ the voice from the caravan demanded as quiet returned. ‘Drop it!’
I let the blanket slide into the mud.
‘I see. Give us a twirl then, we all saw Die Hard.’
‘No, that’s all right, love, he hasn’t got anything squirrelled away up his backside,’ came the much-loathed voice of Detective Inspector Deeks from the side of the van. He coughed. ‘I’m glad I don’t have to speak in that stupid voice any more.’
Jill stepped out of the caravan, wearing a blue plastic rainproof and jeans with knee-high boots. She was holding a big lump of a revolver with both hands and gestured with it towards the Landy. ‘Go on, fetch the Rodin and stick it in the van.’
‘Watch where you’re pointing that gun, love, keep it on him.’ Deeks slid open the side door of the van.
To say that I felt exposed, cold and narked would sum it up neatly. ‘ Where’s Gem Stone, Deeks? What have you done with her?’
‘I’m all right, I’m in here.’ Gemma’s voice came muffled from inside the shepherd’s hut. ‘Sorry I couldn’t warn you, the bitch said she’d shoot you on the spot if I did.’
‘That’s okay then,’ I called back. I turned to the bitch in question. ‘Your son, Louis?’
‘There’s no such person, thank God.’
‘Jill’s not the least bit mumsy,’ Deeks said cheerfully. ‘Good at amateur dramatics, though. Go on, you heard what she said. Move the statue into the van.’
Jill gestured with the big revolver which seemed a little heavy for her. I stared at it hard.
Deeks noticed. ‘Looks familiar, doesn’t it? Stuff goes missing from police stations all the time, you know. Like your confiscated gun.’ Jill was pointing my own Webley at me. How annoying were these people?
‘You’ve given up on being a copper then? I’d heard you were bent but this is insane. You’ll never get away with it.’
‘That’s exactly what I’ll do, get away. Internal affairs have been sniffing about, I was warned by a loyal soul at Manvers Street. Time to get out, we thought, with a good starting capital. You’d be surprised what sterling still buys in some countries. Just a sec.’ Deeks tore a hole into the covering of the Rodin bundle and felt about until he had the envelope containing the Penny Black. ‘Carry on.’
I lifted the Rodin off the back and squelched across to the van. ‘You might find that the proceeds from this lot won’t go very far,’ I hinted.
‘That won’t matter much. I only wanted the stuff in Telfer’s safe because after we put his brother away he claimed to have video evidence he would use against me if he was ever arrested. Which was possible since I’d taken a bung from them more than once. I hate that arrogant shit so I came up with the idea of killing two birds with one stone, and you’re just as arrogant a shit as Telfer.’
The van was crammed full of boxes and one or two small pieces of antique furniture but there was just space for the Rodin near the door. I dropped it heavily into the van. ‘That haul disappeared into the night, presumably back to Telfer’s. So where’s your starting capital coming from?’
Jill waved the gun towards the shepherd’s hut. Deeks pulled an irritated face and took it from her, then pointed it firmly at me. ‘Go on, in the hut. Speed is of the essence, as they say. Amphetamines, Honeysett, is what they made at Lane End Farm, supplying Bristol and half the West Country. A nice little laboratory hidden among all those shipping containers. Only they’re a load of chemistry nerds, so Blackfield and I managed to rip them off to the tune of half a million each. Then I managed to rip Blackfield off, only he doesn’t know it yet, and now it’s time to go.’
Shivering and dripping, with Deeks prodding me from behind with my own revolver, I stumbled up the little steps and into the shepherd’s hut. Gemma, wearing nothing but black knickers and T-shirt, had been firmly tied with rope to the narrow armchair in the corner. Her black eye had turned a hellish shade of yellow now but I was glad to see there was no fresh evidence of violence on her face.
‘Take a seat, Honeysett,’ Deeks invited me.
I sat on the chair by the little table full of books. Jill squeezed into the overcrowded hut with a roll of nylon gardening twine and started by tying my hands behind me, then winding the thin but strong twine around me with an irritating grin on her face. ‘There you go, you can keep each other company for a while.’
Deeks growled. ‘Stop enjoying yourself and get on with it.’ There came a dull rumble, like distant thunder. ‘There goes the lab. Bit early. Time to go.’
‘Okay, I’m done.’ Jill ruffled my hair. ‘Nice knowing you.’
‘Just one thing,’ I asked. ‘Who killed the old guy, Albert?’
‘No time to chat, I’m afraid, that little woomph was the speed factory catching light.’ Deeks scooped up an armful of Gemma’s books. ‘You won’t need these any more.’
The moment the door was slammed shut, leaving us in semi-darkness, we both started trying to struggle out of our bindings. Jill really had enjoyed herself too much, the cord cut deeply into my chilled skin.
‘It was Blackfield,’ said Gemma.
&nbs
p; ‘What was?’ I was too busy wriggling to pay attention. I hadn’t liked the sound of ‘You won’t need these any more.’
‘Blackfield hit Albert to discourage him from cycling along his fence in search of mushrooms. He came off his electric bike. But he didn’t kill him, at least that’s what Deeks said.’
I could hear van doors sliding and slamming, then the sound of the big engine starting. Deeks and his girlfriend were leaving.
‘I’m a bit ahead of you in the wriggling game,’ Gemma said, grunting with effort. ‘I had a lot of time to try and get out of these while they were waiting for you and this is rope, there’s always some give. I think I’m nearly there.’
The engine of the van surged outside as Deeks turned and churned it up the hill, taking most of the light that fell through the little window with it. I had stopped shivering, not feeling quite so cold now. It took me only a few seconds to realize why when the first wisps of smoke rose from the floorboards.
I stated the obvious. ‘Shit, we’re on fire. I can smell paraffin, too.’
‘I use it for heating the greenhouse. At least it’s not petrol.’
The nylon cut my skin as I pulled and pulled. I didn’t manage to snap it but the twine stretched a little around my ankles. ‘It’s still raining, that’ll slow it down a bit.’
‘It’s not raining under the hut, though, is it?’ Gemma argued.
‘Good point.’ The hut began to fill with smoke and both of us started to cough. We’d die of smoke inhalation about five minutes before burning to a cinder. ‘Those gas bottles outside, they’re empty, right?’
‘Yup. All except one.’
‘Great. If I know Deeks at all then he’ll have stuffed it under the hut. At least it should be quick.
‘ I rocked the chair back and forth on to the front legs, hind legs, front legs, until on the last swing I ended up on my feet with the chair attached to my behind. I waddled the short distance across and threw myself at the cast-iron stove as hard as I could. I heard an encouraging crack and despite the pain joyfully threw myself at it again. One chair leg came adrift. It was enough to loosen the entire net of twine around me and I managed to kick and pull myself free. I opened the door. Flames were kindling the steps. The inrush of cold air helped me breathe easier, though every lungful made me cough. I grabbed Gemma’s armchair and dragged it to the door, yanked it outside with one big heave while the flames licked about us and we both tumbled over.