Haggard Hawk: A Nathan Hawk Crime Mystery (The Nathan Hawk Crtime Mysteries)

by Douglas Watkinson

  He jerked his head towards Hawthorn Cottage. “Stef told me he'd been working on Kate's loft. There was every chance he'd seen the guns so I went to his yard the next morning, intending to find out and if need be frighten him off. When I got there he was in the forge testing the drive belt on the saw. The blade was running. I didn't even have to think about it. I just picked him up and threw him on it.”

  “You should've left the saw running.”

  He winced, like some kid who'd been caught smoking in a bike shed. “I know. That's the neat and tidy bit inside me.” He smiled at me, like I was a wayward friend in need of help. “Speaking of neat and tidy, what am I going to do with you?”

  “Shoot me, by the look of it. With a pop gun, not a Purdey.”

  “Don't be fooled by its delicacy. It'll blow your brains out easy as pie. I got it from the same amnesty as the Purdeys. Funny the stuff people throw away, don't you think?” He stood up. “We'd better go.”

  “Where?”

  “What did you think was going to happen, guvnor? Did you reckon I'd break down in tears, beg forgiveness, have you march me back to Penman Stables, hand me over.”

  “We can call Charnley, get him here?”

  Mention of the name Charnley pressed the usual buttons and slightly unnerved him.

  “Is that what you've done? Called him, asked him to come here?”

  “No, no...”

  He thought for a moment, then nodded. He came round to my side of the table. I rose and backed away. He stopped advancing, I stopped retreating.

  “Turn round,” he said.

  “And have you do me through the back of the head? I should fucking say so. You want to shoot me, you do it face on. It'll make a man of you.”

  He shook his head, weary of the sarcasm.

  “Turn the fuck round,” he said.

  He grabbed me by the shoulder and turned me himself. His plan, I suppose, was to beat me over the head with ... something, and drag me off to a quieter place but he hadn't factored in, as they say, all the possibilities. He'd turned me to face the door and even as he raised his arm to chop me over the back of the neck the door opened and Hideki walked in.

  I'll remember the next minute of my life forever. I could slow it down to a dead stop and write a ten page essay on every moment of it. I'll spare you that. Hideki stood there, taking stock. I remember that he looked so small and frail.

  Faraday said to him, wearily:: “Jesus Christ, did you have to?”

  Presumably he meant did you have to come back and throw a spanner in the works. Hideki gave his no speak English shrug.

  I started babbling, playing for time.

  “John, this is crazy. This isn't you. Let the boy go, he's going home on Wednesday. What harm can he do you in Japan? He's seventeen, for Christ's sake. His mother, father, think of them ... put yourself in their position, imagine he's your sister's boy. How would you feel? Step back for just a moment...”

  I stopped talking when Faraday made the biggest mistake of his life. He thought about what I'd just said. He considered an act of mercy. And as he lowered the gun and turned to me, with a helpless look on his face, so Hideki ran at him. He rose from the floor and turned in mid-air, like a cat, still flying, until he was parallel to the ground, one knee drawn back, his expression the same as always. As he neared Faraday's face the latter raised the gun again and fired in panic, way off target. The bullet hit the floor - you can see the chip in the flagstone to this day - and went clean through a window pane. At the very same moment Hideki's heel struck Faraday in the face with all the force of the Samurai spirit. Faraday fell sideways over the table. No rock. Hideki turned again in the air and landed on his feet, crouching for further action, but Faraday was out for the count.

  As you might imagine there was a lengthy pause before I was able to ask:

  “Where in God's name did you learn to do that, boy?”

  Ask a silly question.

  “Japan,” he said.

  I was already rummaging in the cupboard under the sink, searching for a roll of carpet tape. By the time Charnley arrived with a few of his finest we had John Faraday trussed up like a turkey. Christmas had come early for him.

  

  There's an e-mail from Hideki Takahashi on my computer in the Keep file. It says: “Hi, Nathan. Thank you for my stay. Hideki.”

  I wanted to write back saying thank you for my life but it sounded so phoney in my head, so un-seventeen. Accordingly, I wrote back rather blandly:

  “Hi, Hideki! Enjoyed your company. It was great to have you staying here. Humdinger. Thanks for everything...”

  Then I thought to hell with it and added:

  “...especially for saving my life. Nathan.”

  I haven't heard from him since. I'm sure I will some day. I hope I will.

  -22-

  The husky voice was saying:

  “Nathan. Nathan, it's six-thirty. Why don't you sit up and drink this.”

  I opened my eyes. October sunlight was knifing its way into the bedroom through the gap between the curtains. Laura went over and opened them. She was fully dressed for the journey ahead of us.

  “You remember...?” she asked.

  “Of course I do.”

  “Taxi's booked for eight fifteen. And there's a man downstairs.”

  “What?”

  “A Mr. Stillman. He insisted on seeing you and wouldn't be dissuaded.”

  “You explained?”

  “To no avail. It'll take five minutes, he said.”

  She stooped to the bed and kissed me on the forehead, then left. A minute or so later I heard mumblings through the floorboards, Laura being polite to our obscenely early visitor.

  I drank the tea she'd brought and dug into the nearest suitcase for my razor and toothbrush. Maggie had always packed our stuff like that, in reverse order, things you need first at the top.

  Through the window I could see the goats on the green, heads in buckets of fresh ... whatever goats eat, I suppose. Will and Prissy had kept pretty much to themselves, the last month or so. Fine by me. Stef and Bella had gone. Without a word. One day they were there, next day the place was empty with a For Sale sign in the front garden. Also fine by me. There'd be new neighbours to cope with by the time we got back, though...

  Kate Whitely wasn't up yet. That had all gone pear-shaped, the thing between her and Martin and she was suffering a bit. Sharon had been a tougher nut to crack than either of them had bargained for and Martin went back to her, settling for the quieter, unhappier life.

  As for the rest, well, Gizzy and Tommy had put an offer on a restaurant in Oxford and were waiting to hear the outcome. What I knew for certain was that one day Gizzy would realise her dream: Tom would be the Marco Pierre White of a restaurant where she called the tune and counted the profits. I couldn't help but admire.

  Jean Langan? Well, Jean and I were ... polite to each other. Don't get me wrong, there was no latent animosity between us, in fact she was looking after Dogge while we went off to L.A. But I'd never quite recovered from the dreadful things I'd accused her of concerning Jack. All in the line of duty, of course.

  I bet what you really want to hear about is the book, though. “The History of the Hamford Crime Squad.” Who can blame you? But you'll have to wait...

  “Nathan? You haven't gone back to sleep, have you?”

  No. Life was a bit too good at the moment to waste unseemly amounts of it sleeping.

  

  John Stillman was a stick of a man, no more than sixty years old but if you'd told me he was seventy-five I wouldn't have argued. Sleepless nights followed by days of worry had taken their toll, if the hollowed out face was anything to go by. He rose to greet me as I entered the kitchen.

  “Mr. Hawk?”

  “Yes.”

  “John Stillman. Freddie Taplin said I should have a word with you.”

  “Oh.”

  Stillman smiled. “Yes, your good lady said that you might be rather ... terse at this
time of morning.”

  “Old habits,” I said. “How can I help?”

  “Freddie said you were superb at what you did... at well, you know...”

  He looked at me for assistance.

  “Sticking my nose in other people's business?”

  “Yes. I'd like you to stick it in mine if you would and find my daughter for me. She's been missing for six months now. I'd like to know if she's dead or alive and if the latter ... well, I need to see her...”

  His words dwindled as Laura placed a rack of toast on the table and surreptitiously tapped the face of her watch.

  “Something happen between you?” I asked Stillman.

  “Me and Teresa? No, no, far from it.” He looked away and began to rephrase the hasty denial. “I guess you mean am I in any way responsible for her disappearance? No, not that I'm aware of.”

  “But you're not sure?”

  He wasn't too keen on being pushed for an answer.

  “I thought you were in a hurry...”

  “I can eat toast and listen.”

  “She was the odd one out in her group, Mr. Hawk. Not especially clever, not especially talented, not especially ... anything and I suppose I kind of ignored her because of it. Then, four years ago she surprised us all by starting her own business. Designing and building gardens. She took to it like a duck to water and it brought in some serious money, I can tell you. Then six months ago, she suddenly disappeared...”

  “You told the police, I take it?”

  “Yes, yes. In theory the case is still open but in practise, well...” He shrugged with his hands. “Will you find out what's happened to her, Mr. Hawk?”

  “I'm going abroad...”

  “To Los Angeles, your good lady said. I didn't ask, though: business or pleasure?”

  I wanted to say I'm going to see my kids, mate, but it didn't seem appropriate in the circumstances.

  “Bit of both,” I said. “Why don't you call me when I get back. We'll talk then.”

  It was meant as a polite brush-off and most people would've taken it that way. Not John Stillman. It seemed to make his day.

  “I'll do just that,” he said, keenly. “Thank you. Thank you.”

  He shook my hand across the table, then rose and headed for the front door. Just before he reached it he turned and said:

  “Oh, by the way, have a good trip.”

  I nodded. “We will.”

  We did.

  There other Nathan Hawk crime novels available:

  Easy Prey

  A local barrister hires Hawk to find his missing daughter, Teresa Stillman. The search takes Hawk on a journey to the Outer Hebrides. And, like everything else in his life, the hunt for Teresa isn’t as straightforward, or as safer, as it first appears.

  Scattered Remains

  An orthopaedic plate, found in a neighbour’s field, was once attached to a brilliant young engineer called Patrick Scott. Has Patrick been murdered? Why do people in high places want the world to believe that he never existed? Against his better judgement, Hawk decides to find out.

  Evil Turn

  An old police acquaintance, Tom Blackwell, asks Hawk to house a witness in a forthcoming murdering trial. But are Blackwell’s motives quite as honourable as he makes out? Almost certainly not and Hawk soon regrets his willingness to assist a former colleague.

  A fifth book, provisionally entitled Market Force, is due out early in 2016

  I’d love to hear from you. You can connect with me online:

  Website: www.douglaswatkinson.com

  Twitter: twitter.com/DAWatkinson

  Facebook: www.facebook.com/authordaw

  or email me at: authordaw@gmail.com