He turned the car around, facing it back uphill, and parked behind a massive grey outcrop, bald of any vegetation and still bearing the scars of the machine that originally cut it. And then he turned off the engine, listened to the breeze blowing up from the abandoned mine, spinning eddies out of loose dust and throwing them at the car. He turned in his seat, looked down at the kid who lay motionless and blood-caked on the back seat. He breathed still, but only just. Was he unconscious, or faking it? Sirius leaned over and nudged the kid’s arm. Nothing. He stretched further and delivered a weak punch, into the kid’s chest. Nothing, at all.
Good. Now he could take care of problem two in the hope that if the police left again after requesting recovery of the Jaguar, he could still use the kid as he first intended. If the police stayed around until the Jaguar was recovered, the kid would take a dive over the precipice.
He climbed from the car, slammed the door and began walking away. Then he stopped, returned to the car and took the keys out of the ignition. He locked the door and went looking for Henry.
— Three —
Christian felt them drive uphill. The car stopped again and the engine died. He lay motionless and wondered what Sirius would do next. He would go and look for the fat one, Henry; obviously his captive was still of some use otherwise he would be dead by now, but how safe was it to leave him unattended? Of course, you would want to know if your captive was faking his unconsciousness, and how would you do that?
Christian tensed his whole body and waited, expecting some kind of slap. And then he heard Sirius turn in his seat, heard the fabric brush against fabric, and then felt the cold eyes of a killer scrutinising him. And now nothing short of his life depended on him being a good actor.
The nudge came as expected, and Christian let his mind float out of harm’s way, releasing the tether it had to his body; he would catch up with whatever happened now, a little later. And then he heard the seat creak and felt the punch in the chest. It almost succeeded in bringing him back into his body, but he fought it, kept away and succeeded in satisfying Sirius. The car door slammed and Christian breathed out. He was about to open his eye when the door opened again!
The keys jangled and the door slammed and locked again. This time he opened his eye quickly, and saw Sirius’s bulk heading uphill towards the car and Henry. He counted to thirty, plenty of time for Sirius to be out of earshot, before he began moving about.
He expected the pain, but he never expected it in quite such a pure quality. Dazzling white lights seared his brain and something like an electric shock jolted his damaged shoulder. Together they made him breathless – but he fought it, wouldn’t be set free by Sirius only to be tortured by his own body.
Everything spun around his mind like a whirlwind of litter on a street. He had to get out of the car, or he had to be able to drive out in the car. Both meant he had to get the ignition on, since nothing electrical worked without it, including the windows and the central locking.
But there was something he could try first. He looked at the front and rear side windows, determined the fronts were larger and so should break easier. He laid across the front seats, took aim with is feet and kicked. And kicked. And kicked. It rippled - the light shimmered as the glass contorted - but it remained defiantly intact; the only change was the new pain in his feet and the bruised ribs from the handbrake lever. He forced the car into first gear and gently took the handbrake off. The car rocked but stayed steady. He tried again, and put more force into his kicks than he had before, but the glass didn’t break. Sweat flicked from his hair with each kick, and it didn’t take long for him to gasp like an old man.
The rental car was a base model Ford D-Max, and there was no boot release lever by the driver’s seat, so no chance of climbing through the folding rear seats and to freedom that way. His only remaining option was to smash the cowling away and try to get the ignition on – at least then, the windows would work, even if he couldn’t open the doors because of the deadlock. He kicked at the cowling, and immediately a split appeared in the flimsy black plastic. One more kick and the cowling cracked wide open, and Christian pulled at the thing until it broke away in his hand. There, up underneath, was the black plastic ignition barrel.
— Four —
Mark looked around the hut, amazed by the smell in there, of old turds and rotting animals, food perhaps for the fox he had almost seen. But the weeds that grew through the disintegrating floor were astounding; huge, rampant. What a good word. He turned around and looked back at the patrol car. Rampant: that’s what Launa was. The old building was derelict, but the Jaguar, well that still had plenty of life left in it. It was only a year or so old; smart green, like British Racing Green but slightly lighter, metallic. Scratched to buggery now, though. All its windows were darkened, adding to the mystery.
He sighed, dreamed of being able to afford such a car, dreamed of being able to afford the insurance! Christ, what a beast, “V8, five-point-four turbo injection.”
Launa spoke the location into her mic; she flicked a switch, putting the radio onto loudspeaker mode. “Okay, Charlie Alfa Six, recovery authorised. Should be 10-6 in thirty minutes, over.”
“10-20.”
“Charlie Alfa Six?”
“Go ahead.”
“Charlie Alfa Six, be aware there’s a ‘preserve for prints’ marker against that vehicle, believe involved in fatal 10-11, over.”
“Yeah, 10-20.” Launa looked at Mark, who wandered slowly towards her, a wicked grin on his face. “XW, can you pass keeper details again please?”
“Charlie Alfa Six; registered keeper is a company: Smyth, Price and Deacon. Insurance affirmed, belonging to that company, over.”
“10-20. Can you confirm primary user status, over?”
“Charlie Alfa Six, primary user is Deacon, Henry, born 16.1.1978.”
Launa’s eyes stared off into the distance. Henry Deacon. The Henry Deacon, MP’s son and would-be SAS operative. Christ how the memories came back; she rubbed her cheek. “10-20, thanks.”
Mark leaned in. “What’s up?”
“Just memories; it belongs to Henry Deacon,” she nodded at the car, “son of the great Sir George Deacon.”
“Lucky bastard. He’ll be pleased to have it back.”
She nodded, “I’m sure he will be, but it has to be SOCOd first.” She looked at him. “It was involved in a fatal knockdown about three weeks ago.”
“They won’t get anything off it after three weeks.”
In the back of her mind was Henry Deacon’s face, how it turned from handsome and placid one minute to snarl and bastard the next, round about the time she said she’d rather not have sex that night. She didn’t mention it was the start of her period, didn’t think she needed to; and that’s when he punched her and knocked her out. She looked down; it happened right about here, strangely enough. She hoped she would be the one to tell Mr Deacon that the police had found his car, but she knew it would fall to CID with it being a big job, and they wouldn’t rush around to tell him; they’d wait for any lab results to get back first.
But then something else struck her: how the hell would they explain being this far out of division?
* * *
Henry stared over the edge and even as Sirius approached in a crouching run that would have been comical had they not been so far up Shit Creek, he couldn’t take his eyes off her. He was sure it was her: Launa Wrigglesworth. My, had she changed. In all the right places.
“Have they called for recovery?”
Henry turned to Sirius. “That’s my old girlfriend down there,” he pointed, “the copper.”
“Not the time, Henry. Now, have they—”
“Yes, yes!”
“Shush, you tit, you want to get us arrested?”
Henry looked up at Sirius, “How the fuck are we going to get out of this, now?”
“You said no one ever came here!”
* * *
Twenty minutes floated by. Henry daydreamed
about Launa and intermittently thought of the Jaguar. Sirius thought about the Jaguar and intermittently about the kid and disposing of him as soon as he got back to his car – no need to keep dead trash. And then he dwelled on Henry’s problem, getting to the car before SOCO did. And then they were pulled from their thoughts as a large lorry, with whole branches of hawthorn sticking out of the roof lights and the bent mirrors, drove slowly up to the police car, turned outside the hut and reversed towards the Jaguar.
Sirius climbed down the far side of the embankment, standing straight at last, and walked back the way he came. Henry shuffled along by his side, sulking. “Don’t ponder on irony, it’ll drive you nuts.” Only minutes passed before they heard the truck revving hard, and then a plume of smoke belched into the air as the driver set off again, down towards the entrance, followed no doubt by Henry’s ex-girl.
* * *
The shard protruded from the ignition barrel and the lights glowed red at him. But Christian was lost in thought. What’s wrong with you? Sirius will be back any moment and you can expect a real beating before they finally kill you.
He shifted quickly, looking for the window switches and then stopped. The car was rocking as though someone outside was gently pushing it from side to side. He cocked his head and listened but heard nothing except a strange crunching.
Christian sat up and looked out of the window. The car was indeed rocking, and the crunching was coming from the wheels as they turned on the gravelly surface. The rocking was caused by undulations as the car picked up speed going backwards, downhill. The ignition light glowed and in the rear view mirror loomed a hole in the earth as large as the Grand Canyon.
* * *
Henry followed Sirius. “Those trees down there are really going to spoil the paintwork.”
“Forget the paintwork; think how we can affect the evidence. That was the only plan I had to get you off the hook.”
“What about the kid?”
“We don’t need him anymore.”
“Can’t we follow the car to the garage and—”
“They have security on, never get him in there, and no, we couldn’t get the car out either.”
They walked west, occasionally seeing the bowed roof of the old hut thirty yards below through breaks in the embankment’s edge. They walked over the crest of the hill and down the gentle incline at the end of the embankment, a strong breeze blowing into their faces.
Up ahead, no more than an hour away, was the dark cloud they had outrun from Leeds. It was heading their way and below it was a band of rain that looked like a shredded grey valance.
Without warning Sirius started sprinting downhill.
Henry looked perplexed and followed at a more leisurely pace.
Sirius was in time to see his rental car fall backwards off the cliff, a very alive, very awake and very scared kid peering through the windscreen at him, one hand reaching out as though hoping for redemption. He didn’t know why, but Sirius raised his arm too, and watched as the nose of his car disappeared over the edge.
Henry stopped at his side. “Please tell me I did not see what I—”
There was a scraping of metal, then a thud, which they actually felt through the earth, more scraping of metal and breaking glass, and then a faint pop. They looked at each other. “I did see what I thought I saw, didn’t I?”
Sirius walked towards the edge.
“I am so sick of fucking walking from here back into town! It took me an hour and a half just to get back to something resembling civilisation, and then a taxi home!”
“Shut up, Henry.”
There wasn’t an edge as such, but there was a steep gradient and he wondered how fast the car would have been travelling as the gradient turned more vertical than horizontal. He couldn’t see the result of that speed, couldn’t get close enough. A blanket of dust and some shiny part of the car blew briefly into view, then nothing.
“How far down is it?”
“How should I know?”
“Do you think he’s dead?”
He turned. “I am not a fucking psychic, Henry.”
“But we need to be certain, don’t we; can’t have—”
Then a sound came from down the empty quarry that shut them both up. The car erupted in a whoosh that made the air ripple, and close behind it was a mushroom of putrid smoke. They looked at each other again.
“He was inside it, wasn’t he?”
“Yes, Henry, he was.”
“He’s toast. Let’s go.”
Tuesday 23rd June
Chapter Thirty Two
— One —
The sound of gravel and quarry dirt grinding under the tyres stopped. The car was airborne. There was only something that approached serenity. Air whistled past the car with the odd ‘tink’ as grit from the spinning tyres hit the inner wings. Christian whimpered.
For an eternity, Christian saw nothing but blue/grey sky. He felt pressure against his back as the car tilted from horizontal towards vertical. And then there was a shocking bang as the falling car caught an outcrop; the view through the windscreen changed considerably then. The sky disappeared, and the grey subsoil of quarry loomed large. Christian landed against the ceiling of the car as it went into a flip. Papers and coins hit the ceiling around him.
Christian was going to die very soon. And then, in the eeriness of the falling car, things changed again. All the papers, the maps, the pens and coins, fell against the windscreen – a windscreen full of a grey smear that quickly came into focus. Christian fell onto the steering wheel and dashboard. He screamed, his shoulder smacked the dash and his cuffed wrist punched the screen as the car hit the haul road head-on.
In a microsecond, the two airbags deployed and Christian thought he’d been shot. The explosive charges that set the airbags off deafened him and punched him on the ribs and the knees. Surely death would snatch him now.
The car teetered on its nose for a moment and then gracefully toppled onto its roof. Christian hit the ceiling again, hard, and the side windows buckled and then blew out. Cold air streamed in along with dust and fragments of toughened glass that made him screw his eyes shut and hold his breath.
Christian opened his eyes expecting to see Sirius and the fat one, Henry, standing there with the wind whipping their fancy suits around their legs, smiling, pointing a gun into the car.
There was nothing. Just the eddies being tossed about by the wind.
All his senses reported back: there was mild pain in his left knee, massive pain in his left shoulder and arm, more blood trickling into his ear, an ache in his head like someone had mistaken it for an anvil. And a strange smell.
Petrol.
Cubes of shattered glass stuck to his hands and knees as he crawled out from the wreck. And as he did so, he looked up and saw the summit fifty or sixty feet above him. “Thank you,” he said to whoever had pulled the strings. And when finally he stood on shaking legs at the side of the car, and noticed the fuel dribbling from a split in the tank, and looked around at his prison cell – the small version of the Grand Canyon with the thin ribbon of grey haul road winding its way around the mile-wide hole – he cursed.
The first few drops of rain patted his head. “Bollocks.”
— Two —
The rain flowed down his face as he looked up at her. She held him there, studying his eyes until it made him feel uncomfortable.
The tears subsided, the wrenching in his chest grew fainter, the sobs came less often. But still her eyes looked at him. He looked away, saw the Styrofoam cup brigade in the doorway and watched as even they lost interest and ambled back inside for the resumption of their weekly fix.
“He spoke to you, didn’t he?”
Eddie chose to ignore the question.
He felt invaded, he felt dirty; as though his inner thoughts had been plundered by a rapist. And now, instead of grief being the prevalent force inside him, anger took over and made him stand.
Jilly caught hold of his arms, “Answer me
.”
“That fucker is reading minds.”
She let go and her face fell away. “Right,” she whispered.
“Come with me.” Eddie clutched Jilly’s arm and walked her inside the Memorial Hall. Two pairs of wet footprints followed them over the parquet floor and stopped at the freak’s desk. “Excuse me, do you mind?” Eddie pulled the freak’s new customer out of the chair and asked her to “Leave us alone for a moment, please.” The woman protested, but Eddie stamped on her words like damp confetti into coarse asphalt. “Would you jump in my grave that quick? I haven’t finished here, now give me some space!”
Looking back over her shoulder, the customer shuffled away to her coffee-sipping cronies in the corner and shared disconsolate words and reproachful looks.
“Eddie,” the freak began.
“Don’t fucking Eddie me,” he sat, “I want to know where you got your information about Sam.”
The freak looked up at Jilly, smiled almost apologetically in recognition.
Eddie nodded. “So, you two know each other, eh?”
“I now know that you and Jilly are Sam’s parents.”
“Were Sam’s parents. And you’ve been pumping her for info, haven’t you? And when dear old Daddy walked in like some schmuck, you gave it right back through both barrels.”
“Eddie,” Jilly said.
“But I didn’t know then that you were Sam’s father.”
Eddie stared.
“Did I?”
“Eddie,” repeated Jilly.
“Shut up.” Eddie stood, looked down at the freak. “Now I’ll give you one last chance to tell me where you dug all this shit up from and then I’m gonna make your face look like melted plastic.”
The Third Rule (Eddie Collins Book 1) Page 31