The Circle Now Is Made (King's Way Book 1)

by Mac Fletcher

  “Would you like a drink?” she asked, pointing to the chesterfield.

  “No thanks, I’m on the wagon for a while. Still have a few vices though.” he said, pulling her close and kissing her passionately.

  The pair didn't lose an instant making up for lost time. Exhausted but relaxed afterwards, they sat back and grinned at each other.

  “I’ve so much to tell you,” said Greg, the most urgent of his needs temporarily satisfied.

  Sarah laughed. “I’m glad you got your priorities right.”

  He then told her of his encounter with the tramp, and his confidence that, with Nigel’s help, he could uncover Penmaric’s secret. “But I need to see Nigel right away.”

  “He’s living with Jacky in Plymouth.” Sarah sat upright and looked seriously at Greg. “If you’re going to trace that fortune you’d better move - the sale’s going through within days.”

  “Is there no way you can play for time?”

  “Too late for that, and do you honestly believe there’s a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow? Be realistic, now.”

  “I’m sure your late husband went to a lot of trouble for some reason,” replied Greg seriously. “Do you think I’d have risked coming here if I didn’t think it worthwhile? Do you…"

  “Sorry,” interrupted Sarah, a finger to Greg’s mouth.

  “Right then,” said Greg earnestly, “tell me again exactly what happened the day Lawson died.”

  Sarah explained how Penmaric had been preparing for one of his monthly trips to Hereford on the morning of his death. He'd planned to start early on, as usual. “To avoid heavy traffic,” she explained. “He didn’t leave as intended, though, because he became ill. Not that I’m surprised: he'd sometimes be out all hours prowling the grounds. God knows what time he’d come in that night - or should I say morning.”

  “Didn't you think that odd for a man of Lawson’s age?”

  “He was rather eccentric, though,” explained Sarah. “I made a lot of allowances for his age. Terribly set in his ways.”

  “Go on,” he urged.

  “Well, when I saw how ill he looked, I insisted we call his doctor.” Sarah sighed deeply. “But the instant the doctor left, the stubborn fool insisted on calling somewhere local on business.”

  “Do you know where?” asked Greg.

  “No, but he was gone for some time. When he got back he looked even worse. He went into his office, and collapsed shortly after. I recalled the doctor but it was too late - he was already dead. The doctor said it was undoubtedly a heart attack. He'd already impressed on Lawson that morning that he could go at any time if he didn’t ease up.”

  “I don’t think it was as simple as that,” said Greg with a frown. “It's strange that he felt compelled to leave a message on the answering machine for Nigel. It seems that, wherever Lawson did go that morning, it was under duress.”

  “You think he was being threatened? With murder?” said Sarah aghast. “Is that what you mean?”

  “It’s no more than a theory, but if he was murdered, the killer had perfect conditions - there being no post-mortem necessary because he’d seen a doctor that day.”

  “Should we call the police?”

  “Not yet.” Greg looked edgily at Sarah. “I need more time. Before I leave, can I borrow the garage keys? I need to check something on the Ulster. Also, have you a diary I can borrow?”

  Sarah sorted the keys from the bureau and handed them to Greg, along with a current pocket-diary.

  “I’ll not be minutes,” he said.

  Greg was pleased the Ulster hadn't suffered as a result of being searched. It was as he’d left it - apart from the fact that his forged passport was missing from the glove box.

  “I hope no-one's interfered with the trip reading,” Greg muttered as he shone his torch on the instrument panel. “Sixty six, fifty five, no need to write that down.” He hurried back to the house, kissed Sarah hurriedly, and was about to leave when they were interrupted by frantic knocking at the main entrance. Jan stood in the porch, gasping for breath.

  “I saw the youth - the one with the eye-patch,” she panted, “but he ran off.”

  Greg hurtled through the trees to where he'd left the van parked near the cabin.

  “The bastard’s stolen it!” he yelled as he stared around in dismay. Slowly, he focused on a ditch at the edge of the field. Barely perceptible in the shadows was the vague outline of the vehicle. He ran quickly to it. It was now more battered than ever; the whole front having crumpled as the van had run into a stout young tree.

  “He’s done it on purpose – released the handbrake,” Greg gasped as Jan and Sarah joined him. “How do I get back to Bromyard now?”

  “Well you could have taken the Ranger,” said Sarah, “If Nigel hadn't already.”

  “I'll have to take the Ulster!”

  “But you can’t Greg,” snapped Jan, “you’ll be recognised immediately, and it's almost certainly being monitored.”

  "They missed that bastard, Jan!" Greg was adamant. “I can be back in Worcester long before daylight. I’m leaving now, but I'll call at Nigel's on the way.”

  Both women protested to no avail, though Jan was more vocal:

  "I hope they do lock you up Greg," she said tearfully, "for your own good!"

  “The quicker I get going the better then - hope I’ll have more time when this lot’s sorted.” He kissed each on the cheek, and hugged Jan closely on leaving… never noticing her reddened eyes as he walked away.

  Before collecting the Ulster, Greg took an immense risk by visiting the pub to see Eddy. He entered the tiny passage and tapped warily on a near-redundant off-sales hatch.

  “Bloody hell!" Eddy was astounded. "What are you doing here? Best go through into the snug, there; it's never used. Be with you in a tick.”

  Greg waited in the musty snug room for a few seconds before Eddy appeared from behind a tiny counter. “Taking a risk aren’t you, mate?”

  “Yes, but there are things I need to sort.” Greg thumbed through the diary he’d acquired. "As discreetly as you can, will you and the lads keep a look out along the shoreline - especially over the next few nights? I've no idea of the date, but if you see a boat - or an inflatable moored a distance out - try to get some ID and notify police. But don’t call them too soon - if anyone gets wind, they may never be caught. And whatever you do be careful – they might be armed.” He paused for a second and added: “Sorry if I sound as if I'm teaching my granny to suck eggs, mate, but if things go well we might round up the drug ring and save the estate all in one go.”

  "Greg, I don't want to sound as if I doubt you…"

  "But you do!" cut in Greg forcefully. "I haven't time to go into everything, Eddy, but there is something going on here, and if you're half the bloke I think you are, you'll at least try …"

  "Okay." Eddy saw the conviction in Greg's eyes. "I'll give it my best shot: there've been undercurrents here for years, long before I arrived, but it's always seemed a touch cloak and dagger to me…"

  “It still seems that way to me, but please, if only as a favour, keep an eye out,” entreated Greg.

  “I’ll have a word with Bart and Si, and one or two of the lads from the club as well,” said Eddy. "Oh, and the Mendez twins - I’ll ask 'em to keep their diving gear handy.”

  “Don’t let any info get to the wrong ears,” urged Greg as he prepared to leave, “and remember, don’t take risks - but on the other hand, don’t call the law too soon.”

  “OK. But keep your granny's eggs in mind.” Eddy fished a battered mobile phone from a shelf above the bar. "It's perfectly safe to call me with this; it has my number in it. There's only a few quid on it, so don't use it unless you really need to, and don't try to top it up whatever you do."

  "Cheers." Greg pocketed the phone. He knew better than ask questions.

  He lost no time collecting the Ulster and making for the address Sarah had scribbled. He was surprised to find that Baxter Street contain
ed a number of upmarket four and five floor apartment blocks lining either side of the road. He quickly parked at the rear of the block he wanted, Edgecumbe House, and scaled a short flight of marble steps to a lift in reception. On reaching the top-floor flat he saw that the door was already open and the lights were on inside. "Must have a party going," muttered Greg on hearing Dixieland jazz blaring away. "The music sounds like Nigel's choice."

  Unable to make himself heard, Greg nosed his way cautiously in. "There you are." Greg heaved a sigh of relief on seeing Nigel seated near an open window in the seductively lit lounge, his back to Greg, a whisky beside him on the glass-topped table. “I was getting worried, didn’t you hear me knock?” It became suddenly clear that Nigel had heard nothing. Greg almost passed out when he saw his face. Or what remained of it. Nigel had apparently been seized from behind and a gun fired into the back of his neck. Much of his face was spattered over the open curtains. Greg fled the scene in horror, praying no one had seen him, though sickeningly aware of a CCTV camera in the lift area. He took the stairway. For the first time since his drunken nightmare, he needed a stiff drink, though fortunately his most pressing need was to flee the awful scene. Mercifully, Greg didn’t find out until later that Jacky’s body lay in a poo1 of blood in the main bedroom. Yards from Nigel… A pistol in her hand.

  He drove blindly away, aware that if he was stopped he'd end up in a cell. Possibly for life. Seized with sheer panic, he was unable to reason for a while. Except that he must stay clear of major roads and get back to Bromyard. Nigel’s body was certain to be found within hours, he reasoned. By morning at the latest.

  Slowly, a pattern of reason and logical order of progress began to form in Greg’s head. Whatever course he now took, he decided, Nigel was history, so he'd be best employed sorting out the rest of the mystery in relative safety. Likely to be more difficult without the info Nigel might have provided though.

  It was around three when Greg arrived back at Wyndham’s cottage. He immediately concealed the car in a derelict cowshed at the rear of the building, confident he'd not been followed. He then knocked Wyndham up and impressed on him the importance of keeping quiet about the car.

  “If the police should come along for any reason, just act dumb!”

  Wyndham eyed Greg suspiciously, obviously wondering if there wasn’t a hint of sarcasm behind his words.

  Greg bedded himself down on the settee and tried to get some sleep, though he found it almost impossible, and it was still dark when he decided to make tea. He was quickly joined by his host though - who insisted on cooking breakfast despite Greg's protests that he felt sick.

  The pair sat at the scrubbed pine table while Greg explained, as plainly as possible, what had happened, though he avoided relaying too much of the horror for fear of alarming Wyndham.

  “So I’ve got to find this spot on the map as soon as possible.” Greg pointed to the location in the book, “But we’d better walk, I think - I don’t want to risk using the car.”

  “I walked a lot farther 'n that to find tramp,” said a predictably excited Wyndham.

  The spot was a short distance out of Bromyard town - and several miles from the cottage, so the pair wasted no time getting started. It was almost eight-thirty when they reached the location: a fork in the road near the middle of the Downs, a high open area with few trees.

  The popular beauty spot looked bleak and desolate on the drizzly March morning as Greg stood scratching his head. “Nothing much here,” he said staring around. “The message says this is the location for the drop - but when? How could Nigel, or anyone, be expected to know when this drop takes place?”

  “What do you mean?” It was now Wyndham’s turn to scratch his head.

  “Oh nothing.” Greg had no wish to confuse his friend further. "I'm sure Nigel would have known something. In fact I'm sure the whole message must have made sense to him, but he’s no longer available, is he?"

  The pair trudged despondently back to the cottage, wondering where to go from there.

  “Time’s not on our side,” sighed Greg, “but I haven’t come this far to give up now. Even if Penmaric’s legacy's worthless, I’m determined to find out what it's all been about.”

  “Shall we have a look at car again?” suggested Wyndham. “P'r'aps there’s summat been missed.”

  Greg shrugged. “Nothing to lose.”

  The pair examined the car thoroughly for an hour or more, scrutinising almost every inch, inside and out. Wyndham, much to Greg’s annoyance, seemed fascinated with the large toolbox, carefully inspecting each item with meticulous care.

  “I don’t know what you expect to find in there,” said Greg as the giant gazed with fascination at each of the contents in turn. A compartment in the box contained wire-wool, a pot of black paint, a small bottle of thinners, two touch-in brushes, and several squares of thick flannel; Wyndham examined them one by one.

  “We’re getting nowhere!” said Greg impatiently, “There's nothing of value here, and had there been it would have been found before now. Let’s go and have some coffee and think about it.” Greg felt frustrated, desperate, helpless, and Wyndham wasn't the brightest of people to look to for inspiration.

  “I’ll go and put the kettle on,” said Greg as his angular friend began looking over the car again, “see you when you're ready.”

  Greg was on his second cup when Wyndham appeared in the doorway. The gormless smile had returned, and he smelt strongly of petrol, or thinners… or both.

  “You haven’t been taking anything to pieces have you?” Greg blenched as the giant nodded in affirmation.

  “'Aven’t took too many bits off, an' I can remember most on 'em,” said Wyndham, a look of boyish guilt on his face. He leaned sideways to pick something up from beside the doorway. Something he meant to surprise Greg with. And surprise him he did.

  Slowly the raw-boned creature raised his arm, and held it forth. Dangling from his hand was a white, sausage-like arrangement doubled into a loop - rather like sheep’s intestines. Greg shuddered, almost wishing Wyndham hadn’t found it. The package comprised of eight sausages - each about four inches long - a white powdery substance encased in each of the thick, polythene skins. Each of the 'sausages' was further encased in a long ‘outer tube’, pinched at intervals with cable-ties to form the string

  “Oh Christ!” whispered Greg, “enough cocaine to get us locked up forever. Where was it?”

  The giant expounded, in his deliberate manner, that he’d wondered why someone would carry paint in a toolbox. “So I decided to see if it 'ad ever been used.”

  "And?"

  "It has, but on'y in one place!"

  Wyndham led Greg back to the car and showed him the flange and screws around the petrol pump, mounted on the body at the rear of the car - completely exposed on the immodest veteran. The flange and each of the screws, when carefully examined, were meticulously touched in, though slightly less glossy than surrounding paintwork.

  “I found these an' all.” The giant showed Greg a number of neatly cut, hand-made sealing gaskets. “In tool box.”

  “They're spares for the petrol pump,” said an astonished Greg. “It’s so obvious...” he faltered “...well now it is… that the pump's been removed times over - and any signs of disturbance carefully touched in. That was the modification to the tank Nigel mentioned – to allow more storage space no doubt!”

  Greg watched as Wyndham re-fitted the pump, though felt humbled in doing so, and congratulated him.

  “Wyndham, you have a knack for seeing the obvious - problem being now that we’re saddled with a load of cocaine we never wanted.”

  “Weren’t expectin' drugs,” replied Wyndham apologetically. "Thought it might a' been jewelry or summat."

  Although Greg was no closer to the elusive buried treasure, he was confident Penmaric had been near the centre of the ring, probably having met his death at the hands of one of the gang – as he was sure had been the case with Nigel. He shuddered to thin
k that the haul must have been in the Ulster as he'd driven it across Spain.

  “The thing I don’t understand, Wyndham,” Greg said as they walked back to the cottage, “is why police haven’t found the cocaine. They must have checked the Ulster thoroughly.”

  When they reached the cottage, Greg decided to re-check the dates against an elaborate Lunar Almanac that Wyndham produced. "Given to mother it were."

  "Very different from your average calendar, if you don't mind me saying," remarked Greg.

  Wyndham looked sheepishly at the floor, as if embarrassed. "Were from my aunt as I call her – she's a Lady of the Earth."

  "I see," Greg, puzzled but seeing no mileage in pursuing the matter, looked up the date of Penmaric’s death on the calendar, then cross-referenced it against the desk diary.

  "That's what it is, Wyndham!" he exclaimed as he looked for the date. In the front planner section was, among others, a Hebrew Lunar Calendar highlighting the old-moon and new-moon periods in pink and green respectively. "It's Rosh Hodesh, not Rose Hodesh. Rosh is pronounced Roash: Isaac obviously thought that was a name, too! The period covers the moonless and new moon nights. He commented on it being dark when he'd last seen the dinghy, and Penmaric died the following morning, of course."

  "Isaac said it were night before circle were cast," said Wyndham.

  "Yes he did; what would he have meant by that?"

  Wyndham looked concerned, as if betraying a confidence. "'T'were always new moon when my aunt cast 'er circle."

  "I'm assuming that has something to do with a Pagan or Wiccan ritual," concluded Greg, not wishing to press Wyndham further. "But it confirms what I thought. The consignment must always arrive on a moonless night. The gang obviously use a fixed constant to lessen the need for messages - and a moonless night would be invaluable to bring the stuff in. After he’d landed each consignment, Penmaric must have driven up here later in the morning to drop off his cut." He pointed to the calendar. "First crescent day.”