by Mike Craven
‘You smashed his elbows and knees with a hammer. You crushed his testicles. All you had to do was tell him you had a shared goal. He’d have told you all you needed to know.’
‘I did and he did.’ Cross was showing no remorse. He’d stopped smiling at least. He was discussing it with Fluke the way a TV repairman might explain why a diode wasn’t working correctly. Calmly, using small words. ‘As soon as I showed him my Ruger, he told me everything I needed.’
‘So why torture him? You don’t strike me as a sadist. Psychotic obviously but you seem to be in control.’
‘I think you know the answer, Mr Fluke.’
‘Humour me or you can humour the inside of Durham nick for the next forty years.’
Cross raised his eyebrows and rolled his eyes. ‘Very well. When I found Diamond, I was improvising. He threatened me with his criminal underworld contacts so I decided to make it look exactly like that. An underworld execution. If you hadn’t found Samantha, you would have no looked no further than a drug’s connection. You certainly wouldn’t have linked it with a rape allegation.’
‘What about Tait though? You used the same gun. We were bound to link them. He’s not involved in the same business as Diamond,’ Fluke said.
‘I’ll help you there, Mr Fluke. I hadn’t decided what to do with him, that’s the simple truth. I considered setting him up for Diamond but couldn’t make it work. I could have made him disappear for a while but someone would have started looking eventually. In the end I put him in the compost heap to hide the smell. By the time I was ready to do anything, you had found Samantha, as you call her. I decided moving him was too dangerous. I sat and waited, to see how close you were getting. And you came knocking. You’ve no idea how close I came to killing you. How’d you like my English, by the way? Courtesy of the CIA linguistics department.’
‘That’s enough, Cross,’ Mortimer snapped. The first thing he’d said during the whole interview.
Cross ignored him. ‘I got through your interview with my fake accent and a bit of computer nonsense. I knew it wouldn’t hold, though, and that I’d have to leave.
‘What did Diamond tell you?’ Fluke said, deciding that he needed to move on.
‘Everything.’
‘Talk me through it.’
Cross ignored him again. ‘You already know. She phoned him. Told him that she’d reported him for rape. Laid out all the evidence the police had and explained the only thing they didn’t have was his name. Fifty thousand pounds would make the whole thing go away. Told him she’d ring with the where and when.’
‘He had that kind of cash?’
‘Not to hand, no, but his family did and, in the meantime, they went looking for her. He put his son in charge of finding her. I don’t know what their intentions were but I suspect her passing would have been cruel and unusual compared to mine. I took his phone and when she rang it was me she spoke to, not him. I’m good at accents.’
‘She told you where she wanted the money?’
‘She did. I had an hour to get there and set up observation. I only had once chance. Fail, and she’d never resurface.’
‘Where was the meeting?’
‘The library in the mall in Carlisle. If you can call something so small a mall.’
The Lanes was Carlisle’s indoor shopping centre. Not big compared to other towns and cities but it had a reasonable selection of cafes and shops. It was also home to the council-run library. A decent enough place for a cash drop. Busy but not crowded. Large windows covering the main approach. Fire exits leading out to the shopping centre but also into the delivery areas.
‘You got there first?’
‘Oh no. She was good. She would’ve already been there. That’s where she would’ve have called from. She’d have been able to slip out quietly if she sensed trouble. If Diamond turned up with help or the police showed.’
‘So how did you get in without her seeing? You didn’t even know what she looked like.’
‘I didn’t know what she looked like but I still knew what I was looking for. I also knew what I’d have done. All I had to do was cover the exit she’d use. No way would she leave by the main exit. If there was someone waiting, that’s where she’d have expected it. She’d be slipping out through the staff exit, into the delivery areas. I waited there for her.’
‘And?’
‘Fifteen minutes after the agreed time, she came out. She was good. Very good. I nearly lost her twice, but I was better it seemed. I’ve been trained to follow the best.’ He paused and looked Mortimer. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Bit too much information there, Mr Fluke. Where were we? Ah yes, she was careful but I followed her home. I watched her flat all night and all next day.’
Fluke hadn’t yet made any notes. Up to then, everything Cross said fitted with the facts.
‘I waited until she went out. I got into her flat quickly enough. I avoided the crude anti-intruder alert under her doormat and the lock wasn’t challenging. I waited in her living room. Two hours later, she came back. She came in carefully but the potato chip under the mat was undisturbed. She wasn’t expecting anyone. She ground some coffee and filled her filter machine. She came into the living room to wait for it. I treated her with respect. She was dead before she knew I was there. One shot to the back of the head. I caught her before she fell. No noise.’
Fluke had heard nothing comparable before. He’d heard killers confess. Normally crimes committed in anger or passion. The perpetrator wanting to talk, to get it off their chest. Sometimes he’d heard confessions from murderers whose lies had talked them into such tight corners, only the truth was left. Cross was different. He could have been telling him how he’d got rid of the weeds in his lawn. It was descriptive rather than emotive. There was no pride. There was no remorse. He was just telling him what happened.
‘You’ve seen the golf bag I’d brought with me. A marvellous invention for my trade. No more rolled up carpets for contract killers,’ he said, smiling wryly at his own joke. Fluke didn’t join in.
‘What could be more innocent than someone taking their golf clubs to their car?
‘When did you write down your blood test results?’ Fluke asked.
Cross looked surprised. ‘So that’s how you found me? I was wondering about that. I got the phone call when I was waiting in her flat. Jotted them down, more habit than anything else. I’m cured now. Well, in remiss—’
‘You took her body in Diamond’s car?’ Fluke interrupted. He didn’t give a shit about his health.
Cross looked mildly hurt. ‘No, Gibson Tait’s,’ he replied.
There was a natural pause in the conversation.
Cross spoke again. ‘How did you find her, by the way? I’ve been doing this a long time and not once has a body been found that wasn’t supposed to be, and not once did I have anywhere near as good a place as that.’
It wasn’t quid pro quo. Cross could die wondering. ‘Why does it matter? We found her,’ he said.
‘Professional curiosity,’ Cross replied. He waited for an answer with a bemused expression. ‘Can I assume by your reticence that there was a witness? It can’t have been that boy who lived opposite her. He didn’t see me, I know that. Even if he did, all he’d have seen was me walking out with a golf bag. He didn’t know where I was going. It could only have been someone on the site. It must have been that office.’
Fluke said nothing.
‘Don’t worry, Mr Fluke, I won’t be arranging retribution.’ He waited for Fluke to speak. ‘Oh, well. Sloppy work on my part but I thought the site was ironclad. No way was she being found. Not for centuries.’
He reached for his glass of water. Because of the angle of the handcuffs, he struggled to get a proper drink. He coughed. Fluke thought the restraints were a bit of overkill but knew it was pointless arguing with anyone. Cross didn’t deserve any of his compassion anyway.
Fluke yawned, a big one that he couldn’t stop. He hadn’t realised how tired he was.
‘
Who was your contact in the police?’
Cross gave him a name that meant nothing to him. For the first time, he made a note. It would be someone for the team to arrest at least.
Mortimer looked at his watch and stood up. ‘Time’s up, Inspector. You got everything you need?’
‘One more thing, Mr Mortimer.’ He turned to Cross. ‘Do you know who she was. What her real name was? Where she was from?’
Cross looked at Fluke. ‘I have no idea. I told you she was a ghost. English is my bet. She fled to where she knew when she was in trouble. Other than that, I can’t help you.’
Fluke had been expecting that. It was possible her real identity would always remain a secret. He’d always remember her as Samantha though.
‘That it?’ Mortimer said.
‘For now.’
Cross smirked. ‘There’s no for now, Mr Fluke. This is it. As soon as I can get on a plane, I’m out of this shithole. Time to get Stateside, see what type of deal they’re offering.’
‘Waterboarding and black sites would be my guess,’ Fluke said.
‘Ah, Mr Fluke. But you don’t know what I know. I have things my country wants and I only want my freedom in return. And access to my money of course. They’ll deal, we both know that.’ He smirked. ‘You never know, we may meet again one day.’
Fluke turned and walked out.
‘Nice place,’ Bridie said, eventually. The first thing anyone had said since Fluke had finished telling them about the interview with Cross.
Fluke looked over at her. She was hugging her knees to her chest and staring into the fire. She was wearing a black vest and her tattooed arms seemed to be alive as the flames danced in the darkness. Her skin was a creamy white. She was beautiful. More Guns and Ammo than Vogue but stunning nonetheless.
He nodded sadly. ‘Yep. For how long, though, I don’t know.’
She looked at him quizzically. Fluke explained the situation with his illegally built cabin. To his surprise, she laughed.
‘Is that all? I thought you were going to say something serious.’
‘It is serious,’ he protested. ‘I’ve got a court date.’
She burst out laughing. ‘You’ve just singlehandedly taken out an international assassin and you’re worried about the county council. You crack me up.’
‘You think he has a case?’ Towler asked.
She stopped laughing. ‘You’re serious? Are you telling me the pair of you have been worrying about this?’
Fluke nodded and saw Towler do the same.
‘Listen. I think I can handle the county council’s planning department.’
‘Yeah, you do international law. This is local. It’s different,’ Fluke said.
‘The only thing that’s different is that they’re terrified of a court case with someone who knows what they’re doing. They can’t afford it for one thing. I’ll send them a letter first thing tomorrow saying I’m representing you, and I’ve instructed Mr Tinnings to act on our behalf.’
‘Who?’ Towler asked.
‘My secret weapon. A barrister friend of mine in London who owes me a favour. Charges ten thousand pounds a day.’
‘I can’t afford that!’ Fluke burst out.
Bridie smiled. ‘We won’t need him, silly. Just the name will terrify their solicitor. They won’t risk losing and having to pay his fees.’ She looked at them both. ‘The law’s not always about who’s right and who’s wrong. Sometimes it’s about who has the most to lose. And anyway, I’ve only just got here. You think I’m letting them take it away? Not a chance.’ She smiled at Fluke.
They fell into silence once more. Fluke felt a strange peace settle over him. I may even get some sleep tonight, he thought.
Abi broke the silence. ‘What’s a stalker?’ she asked.
‘Where did you hear that word, Abi?’ Fluke asked.
‘Daddy says that Bridie’s yours.’
What could have been an uncomfortable silence was broken by Bridie roaring with laughter. Before long, Fluke had joined in. Towler, embarrassed, eventually grinned as well.
‘Yes, I am, Abi. Your daddy’s right,’ Bridie said when she’d stopped laughing.
Fluke offered Towler a cigar and they lit up. A sense of peace settled over them all.
‘This is beautiful,’ Bridie said. ‘I bet you get a different view everyday. It’s a shame about that dead tree there, if you took it down you’d have an uninterrupted view across the lake. I have a friend who’s a tree surgeon. She’d take it down for you for a cup of tea. I’ll give her a call if you want.’
This time it was Fluke and Towler who laughed and Bridie’s turn to look confused.
‘You want to tell her why we can’t chop that tree down, Abi?’ Towler said.
‘That tree?’ she said pointing. ‘That’s where Hooty McOwlface lives.’ She giggled delightedly at Bridie’s obvious astonishment.
‘There’s a tawny owl that lives there. He’s out hunting at the minute but he’ll be back later,’ Fluke explained. ‘He’s out getting a nice fat mouse for Abi.’
‘Yuk,’ she shrieked.
Fluke got up and to pour more wine. Towler put his hand over his glass.
‘I’m driving mate.’
As they sipped their drinks and looked out across the lake and fells, it dawned on Fluke that Bridie hadn’t covered her glass. He knew she didn’t drink and drive. She must be planning to stay the night. Apparently Towler had also come to the same conclusion. He gave Fluke a crude wink.
Bridie looked at Fluke and raised her glass in his direction. He looked back at her and raised his own.
In the distance, an owl hooted.
Epilogue
Six weeks later.
HMP Durham.
Dalton Cross was wearing a suit. He was still on crutches but he was fit to fly. He was being moved from hospital to Durham Prison while a specially chartered flight was being arranged.
‘Cross. This way, please. Grab your things. Follow me!’ the prison officer barked.
He picked up a bag containing prison issue toiletries, blankets and a pillow and followed the prison officer.
‘Now. You’ve been told that our remand wing is full? You’re going to have to go onto general population with convicted prisoners for now. We’re putting you on the lifer wing though, it’s a bit calmer, and remember, you’re still a remand prisoner so you still have remand rights. You can wear your own clothes, you’re entitled to more phone calls and more visits. You can spend more money. With any luck, you’ll be where you need to be by the end of the week.’
He wasn’t worried. He’d been in far worse places and he’d be back in the States within the week. He hadn’t been lying to Fluke. He had information he hadn’t told anyone about yet. Enough for a deal. He had passports and funds tucked away in case of emergencies. If he played it right, he might even get a nice CIA pension.
The wing he was brought onto could have been lifted straight out of a scene from Porridge, a sitcom he’d enjoyed since coming to the UK. He knew it wasn’t a new prison but it looked more like a film set than somewhere to spend the night. He shrugged. It was better than that gulag in the Ukraine he’d once had to spend a month in.
The prison officer stopped outside a cell halfway down one of the landings. He took a bunch of keys out of a leather pouch on his belt and unlocked the door. He stepped aside and waited for Cross to walk in.
‘There’s a button to call if you need something. This red one here. Press it for anything less than a fire and you’re in the shit. We’re locked down for the night. You have your breakfast in the bag you’ve just been given. Eat it tonight and you go hungry in the morning. Don’t eat it tonight and someone’ll take it off you. Your choice. Doors will be unlocked at eight am. Sleep well, Cross.’
He watched as the door shut with a heavy clang. A sound only a prison door can make. A sound heard by thousands before him. A sound that made good men despair and brave men cry. Cross smiled. It was going to be easy.
He stared at the door for a second before turning to survey his cell. To his surprise he wasn’t alone.
Someone was getting up from the bottom bunk. A small, shaven-headed man. He was wearing a pair of shorts and nothing else. Crude tattoos covered his body. He had the look of someone who’d spent a lifetime in institutions.
Cross nodded at him and smiled. He might be on crutches but he was still capable enough to put the idiot down if he tried anything.
The man smiled back. ‘You want a brew, mate?’ He had a thick Geordie accent.
With nothing else to do, he said ‘yes’. While the man busied himself making the drinks with the in-cell kettle, Cross settled his meagre belongings on the top bunk and tried to put the sheets on the rubber mattress. They seemed too small and he eventually gave up.
‘Here ya gan, mate,’ the man said. Cross got down and reached forward for the drink he was being offered.
Before he could take it, the man hurled it at him. It struck him on the bridge of his nose. The cup smashed.
Cross screamed.
Boiling water covered his face. Some went down his throat and he instinctively swallowed. Excruciating pain exploded in every nerve ending. He tried to wipe it off but it was sticky. Sticky and burning. His hands stung as well. Even through the pain, he knew what it was.
Sugar and boiling water.
Prison napalm.
He could feel parts of his face melting and he tried to scream even louder. Nothing happened. His vocal cords had been damaged. His throat swelled and he gasped for breath, clawing at his face, trying to remove the blistering mask he was wearing.
One of his eyes went dark as molten sugar fused his eyelids together.
Cross fell to the floor, still frantically tearing at his face, incapacitated.
The man stood over him, watching calmly.
Cross could see he was holding something. Even with only one eye, he recognised what it was. It was unmistakable.