The Rules of Restraint

by David Wilson

  Suddenly the quiet of her street was shattered by an engine scream, it passed by her house in a pop-pop of deceleration and after-burn, then the sound faded into the distance. It must be Knight returning in his sports car, but the vehicle went by her window with some urgency. She heard it again gathering up speed, coming her way, like the start of a drag race, an engine red-lining, as if the night sky was being viciously torn in half by giant hands. He’ll wake the whole street she thought, perhaps he’s drunk or just mad, a crazy attention seeker. She heard another rat-tat of small explosions and thought of those enormous American muscle cars that spat flame from their exhausts, all manic aggression and unstoppable forward motion. There was a complaining whine as the vehicle passed her house for a second time and then the sound died, and just as suddenly the street returned to silence. She listened carefully, but she could only just make out an occasional pinging that sounded like metal cooling. She lifted the corner of the curtain and peered out of the window. On the other side of the street she saw a vehicle parked, two wheels not four, a motorcycle. It wasn’t Knight.

  There was no sign of the rider and Kate knew there was no one in the street who owned a motorcycle. Bikers had bad reps even though most of them were grey-haired second lifers, but she knew in America there were Hell’s Angels, bad guys in gangs who rode Harley Davidsons and lived the outlaw life to the full. There were drugs and chain fights and sometimes murders. Perhaps this one had dropped by to see his moll and was now having a cup of tea. She drew the curtains to get a better view of the bike – fat tyres or sleek racer? She didn’t know much about motorcycles but she could tell this wasn’t a Harley. She was beginning to relax a little, when a face leapt into view from below the window, its eyes only inches from hers. The disembodied head was wearing a black balaclava but she could see the eyes through round holes and they were an abomination, reptilian, pupils as dark as the darkest black of night, eager, intent but somehow smiling. Kate screamed, her heart jumped into her mouth and she dragged the curtains closed. She fell back against her computer table, knocking her coffee cup to the floor which smashed in two. She couldn’t stop herself from shaking like a leaf, and she felt tears well up. She heard a low moan and then a whimper and realized it was coming from her and that’s when she knew she had to get a grip, take control, work out what was going on. She wrenched the curtains wide open but there was no one there. She craned her neck to see around the corners of the house, stretching as far as she was able. On the opposite side of the road the motorcycle still leant against its side-stand. She pulled the curtains shut and sat down on the chair by the computer table. Coffee was staining the carpet by her feet, her mug was in two pieces, the “K” separated from “ate’s”.

  She heard a tap-tap on the front door, a soft double knock with a firm knuckle against the frosted door glass. Instinctively Kate ran out into the hall and turned the lights out, returning to the study to do the same, leaving the downstairs in darkness. She went onto her hands and knees and crawled to the corner of the room, hugging her legs tightly to her chest. All composure had left her, she started shivering, fighting her mind’s long slow dismantlement. There was a knock at the study window, a more hollow sound, but slightly louder, still with the curled knuckle, two knocks followed by two more. Then footsteps were crunching in the gravel around the base of the house which became fainter as the man made his way around the side of the building. There was a scraping noise and the rattling of a wooden fence rocking in its stays as it was climbed over. Kate couldn’t remember if she’d locked the back door; she sometimes left it open, it just seemed easier that way and there was the fence for security. This time there was a banging, a fist against the solid wood of the back door and shortly afterwards the door handle turned, back and forwards, back and forwards and then a shudder as it shook on its hinges. It was locked, but there was a metallic clacking as the key and key fob slipped out of the inside keyhole and onto the stone floor of the kitchen.

  She didn’t know how long it was before she heard the fence creak for a second time and the footsteps in the gravel became increasingly purposeful, passing along the side of the house, below the study window and to the front door. There was the click of a lighter, a rustle of paper and then a long exhalation. Something was pushed through the letter box. Kate thought she could smell smoke, and as the footsteps receded she couldn’t move. The motorcycle burst into life and revved its way down the street, the engine noise quickly dying.

  Kate picked herself up and switched on the hall light. On the mat by the front door was an A5 sheet of paper folded in two. She opened it. It was a flyer, inexpertly designed but professionally printed. In the centre were two glasses of wine dancing and spilling and around them were balloons and a handful of stars. The headline said All Welcome! and below the illustrations were the words, Wine tasting at The White Hart. The date was in three weeks’ time. She turned the flyer over and someone had written in blue biro on the back, “Please come” followed by an “x”. There was a faint smell of cigarette smoke in the air. She tried to remember if the barman of The White Hart rode a motorcycle, and if not, who her secret tormentor could be. She thought about it for a time. She tore the flyer in two and let the pieces drop to the floor.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  It was lunchtime before Munro could arrange a meeting to discuss the profiles Kate had emailed to him. He had invited Knight along to share his views. There were plates of sandwiches on the table in the middle of Munro’s office, ham and mustard and token cheese and pickle for any vegetarians. They were all beginning to curl around the edges. No one was in the mood to eat after Munro had commenced the meeting with a point of fact.

  “Martin Wooldridge’s murder,” he said to Kate. “You’ve written here ‘no gouging or mutilation’. Unfortunately you were misinformed.” He looked at Knight. “Our esteemed ex-leader will be speaking no evil in the afterlife.” Munro poked his tongue out like a lizard and mimed a pair of scissors. “Tongue cut out.”

  “Christ,” said Kate. She felt sick.

  “Hateful,” said Munro. “He liked the sound of his own voice, but…”

  “So what do we think the underlying message is?” said Knight, addressing Munro, allowing Kate a few moments to recover.

  “It’s about as subtle as a brick,” he said. “Who does the most talking around here?”

  “The prisoners,” said Kate.

  “And who encourages them to speak their minds, open their hearts? Who’s been promoting these therapeutic practices for all these years? Who gave you your job Kate?”

  They were silent for a few moments.

  “With good results,” said Kate. “Incidences of reoffending are dramatically lower, Greenbank is a positive and stable environment.”

  “Not anymore.”

  “Cool it Munro, let’s keep this scientific,” said Knight. “As Kate says, the indications are that Wooldridge’s murder was a professional job, almost done to order, slice a bit off, prove it was done, minimal mess. There’s no spontaneity as there was with Danny, no rage and spillage as with Clark. This was planned meticulously, there’s organization behind this killing, perhaps with all of the murders in their own way, perhaps more than one killer working with a team, a head honcho orchestrating everything. Charles Manson may be an old hippie now but back in his day he was a visionary manipulator, his sole purpose in life was to eradicate ‘evil’ as he and his followers perceived it. He wanted a cleansing, a healing of life’s morbidity. Remind you of anyone?”

  “Bobby Lomas?” said Kate.

  “Lomas?” said Munro. “Where the hell is he, have you badge bunnies tracked him down yet? If not, why not?”

  “We’re staking Oxford,” said Knight.

  “Bloody Oxford!” said Munro. “Since when, and why wasn’t I told?”

  “There have been no sightings,” said Knight. “We’re working on a few hunches.”

  “Hunch away, but send a few hunches my way next time,” said Munro. He pulled ou
t his mobile and checked his texts. Nothing from his daughter. He’d texted her twice, last night and this morning. She often didn’t reply straightaway, but right now he rather wished she would.

  The door to Munro’s office opened. It was Prison Officer Brock.

  “Hey Brock, didn’t anyone teach you to knock before you enter the boss’s domain?” said Munro.

  “Sorry Boss,” he said. “I’ve got that report for you about Clark, did it as soon as I could, hard copy, don’t trust email.” He was wearing leather trousers armoured at the knee and padded at the hip, and reinforced boots. Under his jacket he wore a black T-shirt with the words in white: I love my girlfriend CBR1000RR. The word ‘girlfriend’ was struck out with a livid red line. Munro thought he looked like something out of Terminator 2. His hair was a mess.

  Kate studied him.

  “Interesting garb,” she said.

  Brock rapped his knee with his knuckles, “Would stop a bullet, protection, for use on high powered motorcycles.” He smiled at her.

  “Impressive,” she said. “Can you juggle your balls as well?”

  The phone on Munro’s desk rang. He picked it up. “Yes, who? Never heard of her.” He put his hand over the mouthpiece. “Woman called Penny, Wooldridge’s housekeeper or cleaner or something, anyone heard of her? Is she for real?”

  “Yes,” said Kate. “I’ve met her, sweet lady.”

  “Ok,” said Munro. “Put her through.” A few moments later he put the phone down. “She has some information pertaining to Wooldridge, wants to meet with us, something to do with a note he received just before he was murdered. Knight get someone down there could you, check it out, could be fantasy. Brock, I’ll see you this afternoon, you’re too quick for me. And put some proper clothes on.”

  Brock was already halfway out of the door. He turned. Kate thought she could see a sudden coldness in his eyes.

  “Sounds good sir, will do,” he said and disappeared.

  “This is nice work, Kate,” said Munro, pointing to his computer screen. “Your profiles, we can work with these. I don’t want to be alarmist or anything, but watch your back. Knight, I want to know everything you’re doing to find Lomas, and in particular the status of your search in Oxford.” Munro rubbed his chin, squeezing it hard.

  “I’ll get the station to send you a detailed report, but I know they’re doing a number, house-to-house, dogs, survivalist experts, we’ve got a chopper in the air searching the countryside, internally we’re talking to every prisoner who had any contact with him, even remotely. Oxford we’ve got teams systematically searching the city, street by street, we’ll get him easy if he’s on his own, but if he has help and he’s gone to ground… there’s plenty of places to hide.”

  Munro checked his phone again – iMessage or text? What’s the bloody difference he thought, perhaps it’s got stuck in pending or drafts or just lost in a digital black hole, maybe he should get WhatsApp or Snapchat or Instagram or something, send a picture of a kitten, anything to get her attention.

  “Good,” he said. “Bloody excellent, now get on with it.”

  Outside Munro’s office, Kate suggested she and Knight grab a quick coffee.

  “What kind of bike does Brock ride?” she asked Knight. They were standing by the coffee machine on the M1 corridor.

  “I’ve no idea, why?”

  “Harley?”

  “I doubt it, he’s not rich or fat enough. Mind you I saw a couple of sports bikes parked up here the other day.”

  “Racing bikes? Loud?”

  “Could be if they’ve been modified. What’s this about Kate?”

  “I was harassed last night by a bloke on a bike.”

  “Why didn’t you call me?”

  “That’s not the point. I want to know if it was Brock.”

  “Why the hell would it be Brock?”

  “Why the hell was Wooldridge murdered? And Clark and Danny and Lomas escaping. Got any answers to all that? It’s a funny old world we live in, that’s all I know right now.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Penny heard about it from her husband who heard about it from a guy in the pub who had a friend in the Specialist Crime and Operations police division at the London Met. It hadn’t made the news yet, but then what’s another stabbing in London, she thought, a nasty dangerous city with a smug toff as its mayor. She much preferred the countryside, it was safe and quiet down here, everyone looked after each other. It would hit the local news soon enough though, when they started making connections, then it would become a much bigger story. What was Mr Wooldridge doing with that escaped prisoner? And in Soho, which was a vice den so she’d heard. The things she’d read in the note made her mind boggle, she could hardly think about it. But now he’d been murdered she had to let the new governor of the prison know what she knew, as soon as possible.

  She’d called the prison but they weren’t very friendly to start with, probably rushed off their feet with this and that. She’d picked up rumours of murder and suicides going on there recently. Must be hell being banged up all day, who wouldn’t go crazy or decide to call it a day? Thank goodness for wide open green fields and country lanes that could take you anywhere you liked, only a bicycle ride to the sea if the spirit took you. She loved cycling to Lyme Regis in the summer with its fishing boats and beaches and bacon sandwiches from the stalls on the sea front, the waves gently lapping, glistening in the sun. Life was good on days like that, but mostly it was a slog, a struggle to make ends meet. She had two cleaning jobs that afternoon, three hours each, hopefully she could be home before dark. She had lights on her bicycle, but she was nervous riding down the narrow lanes at night.

  Poor Wooldridge, how shocking. He was a gentleman, although not really her usual type of person. He was a bit complicated and had strange tastes. He gave her a book once, called On Chesil Beach, set not far from where she lived by an author whose name she had forgotten. It upset her. What’s the point of telling stories like that? All the fumbling and gushing. Some things between people ought to remain private, although with her job that was difficult sometimes. She found the strangest things in people’s bedrooms, complicated sex gear, masks and ropes left lying around like they were getting ready to commit a crime.

  They were sending a policeman to interview her as soon as possible, but at this rate it was going to be tomorrow. She couldn’t miss these two jobs, she needed the money, they were cut to the bone as it was. Her husband hadn’t worked in months, he was taking it hard. He spent most of his time in the pub talking to anyone who came along, but mostly he was on his own with nothing much to say. Poverty is a kind of prison sentence she reckoned, unemployment like doing time with no release date. She pushed her bicycle along the pavement, past boarded-up shops here and there, the library about to close, the pub on its last legs.

  She checked the traffic and eased off on the pedals, riding down the street towards the outskirts of town to the next job and then she’d visit the big house further out nearer the sea, the final job of the day.

  *

  The A303 was a breeze on a good day. From London to the M3 motorway then remembering to veer left going past Popham Airfield. Mostly two lanes until it squeezes into one and that’s when tempers fray. In summer, caravans and tractors hauling hay can drive you nuts. Stonehenge was a bastard with rubberneckers searching for something spiritual emanating from a bunch of rocks, kids seeing the real thing for the first time pointed out to them by know-it-all dads who slowed right down. He was stuck in a jam and he had no time to waste.

  He’d been given a toehold but the odds were stacked way too high against him with this job. If it all came together in a bizarre alignment of energies and synchronicities then he’d be quids in, stinking, time for timeout. He’d raised the price accordingly: cost of travel – bumped up to premium level wear and tear and psychic aggravation – subsistence to the max – he didn’t have a chance to finish his lunch, Little Chef on the way wasn’t going to do it – but most eye-wa
tering of all was the “poodle factor”. He didn’t complain, it wasn’t in his nature, it was yes or no to an assignment, nothing in between, no fluff hiding along the edges of the ego and the id, it was a straight line, an underscore. But if someone was going to jerk his chain like a contestant on Crufts then he’d make them bleed. He watched a kestrel hovering above the central reservation, almost motionless, wings making tiny adjustments in the wind, tail feathers fanned in counterbalance. Suddenly it dropped, as invisible as a bullet, into the grass and it was away with something dark and terrified in its claws.

  He was moving again, into second and then quickly through the gears up to top, cruising.

  “Right now.”

  “I’ll have to drop other jobs.”

  “What, painting and decorating?”

  “Kitchen refurb to be precise.”

  “You hooked up to gas and elec where you come from?”

  “No need.”

  “Must be some good coming from Birmingham.”

  “Racist. You want to send me on a long journey.”

  “Easy.”

  “There’ll be bolt-ons.”

  “Get your spanner.”

  “It’s going to come out looking like Frankenstein.”

  “Just don’t leave a mess.”

  Approaching Sparkford he saw a buzzard flapping lazily over a field, harassed by two crows. Why did crows bother trying to bully a large bird with talons and a sharp beak? The buzzard couldn’t care less.