by Marcus Alden
Jennifer picked out the index cards from her pocket and looked around in a deliberate way. She spotted Harrier at the fringe of the quire. An old woman lit a candle and smiled at Jennifer, she reciprocated the gesture back. Jennifer turned around. She could almost feel Harrier’s eyes penetrate her back as she pinned the index cards onto the board. Surrounded by hand-written messages to God, the index cards blended in like any other prayer. Jennifer left the cards and walked away. Her eyes swept across the space. Harrier stared at a flyer to avoid eye contact with Jennifer, but as she breezed past Harrier glanced up. Their cold eyes met for a second, though neither of them acknowledged each other in an outward way. Harrier watched Jennifer walk away, and tracked her slender legs with his male gaze.
Jennifer walked from the open space of the south transept through the narrower aisle towards the high altar. She cut through the breadth of the cathedral so as to avoid Harrier. The haunting choristers’ voices filled the expanse. Jennifer’s eyes fixed on the route out.
Harrier swaggered over to the prayer board; it was metres away. Within grasp were the millions Jennifer promised; his millions. Harrier had uploaded all the dirt on Atmore to Jennifer’s secure server and this would be the payoff. Atmore was doomed and Maybury would soon be discredited, perhaps imprisoned he thought, but he and Hawk didn’t need to be. He could split the money; they could separate, and disappear into the shadows. Harrier unpinned the index cards and read them with astonishment.
‘Jesus Christ.’ Harrier threw the cards down. A woman lighting a candle stood aback.
‘This is a house of God. That language—.’ The woman said. She raised her voice, but it was drowned out by the organ. Harrier sprinted after Jennifer. The affronted woman walked over to see what had caused Harrier’s outburst. She bent down and picked up the two pieces of white card. Spread over both of the cards was a recipe for tomato soup.
‘What on earth?’ The woman looked around for the offending man. Harrier powered into a sprint. His muscles pumped his legs forward up the steps. He couldn’t see Jennifer.
Jennifer had anticipated that she would have a matter of seconds from when she left his sight to when she needed to run herself. When Jennifer turned the other side of the pillar she had run through the presbytery in front of the high altar with its carved wooden screen. She descended the steps that mirrored the ones she had just walked up on the other side of the cathedral. With any luck, Harrier too would follow the direction she had left in. The obstruction of the pillars and screen would shelter her when Harrier found the truth of what she had scribbled on the index cards.
Harrier followed her route, but even so, it only bought her a few extra seconds to escape. By the darkened steps Jennifer’s ears were bombarded with the sound of the swelling organ as it pummelled its tune out. She wouldn’t dare turn to see if Harrier had caught up with her. Jennifer ran past the facing audience. The stained-glass windows above the entrance glowed towards her with a distorted contrast that reduced her ability to see detail. Members of the audience that spotted her behind the pillars looked on with bemusement. The music blasted. The voices intertwined with the notes and left Jennifer’s rapid footsteps unheard. Her hazy eyesight fixed on the blurred outline of the windows and the exit ahead. Silhouetted figures milled about; Jennifer shoved her way through to the glass doors of the visitors’ entrance. She ignored the dutiful objections of the volunteers and ran from the shadowy interior of the cathedral into blinding sunshine.
Harrier saw Jennifer leave, but he was still at least twenty metres behind her. He pushed his body harder to catch up with her. Outside, Jennifer sped left and under the narrow arches that flanked the exterior of the cathedral. Harrier halted outside the entrance and scanned the grassy open space in search of her.
‘Did you see a woman running?’ Harrier said to a girl that played on the war memorial in front of the red doors. The girl pointed to the corner arch.
Dodging passers-by, Harrier ran under the stone arches and past an old-style lantern that jutted out from the cathedral wall; he still couldn’t see her. The arches opened up into another large grassy space with a road that led round it. Harrier saw Jennifer’s black outline, not running, but walking towards a car that pulled up to the pavement. The dark grey saloon with tinted windows hummed by the roadside. The thug sprinted again and fired random shots towards Jennifer, but it was no use as she was too far away. Jennifer got into the car and shut the door; the doors locked. Harrier stepped off the pavement and onto the snaking road. Harrier ran across the road as the car accelerated away from him and the Cathedral, away from Winchester for good. Harrier’s arms flailed as he stopped running. Out of breath, the thug stood in the spot where the car had just been. He watched as the sleek car curved around the close. Jennifer looked out from the back window. She saw the thug as he lifted his hands behind his head in despair; her eyes smiled. Jennifer turned and looked forward to the driver.
‘Frank, what time is the meeting?’ Jennifer said.
‘4pm Miss,’ replied the chauffeur.
‘And Winstanley is expecting me?’ The driver looked in the rear-view mirror and nodded without saying anything.
Chapter 20
The car’s back window smashed into pieces as the bullet soared through it. Maybury, who hurried to put his bag into the boot of the saloon, looked up in terror. He knew it was one of them.
Maybury’s heart pounded in his chest. He looked around from left to right and back again; there was nobody there. Without hesitation, Maybury slammed the boot down and ran to the driver’s door. The panicked man slid onto the smooth cream leather seat and locked the doors. A series of shots fired towards the tires. Maybury slammed his hands down onto the steering wheel in anguish. His mind raced, his heart thumped. Looking around again his eyes flashed towards the driveway entrance, across the lawn, and back to the house; the absence of a person terrified him. He could run, but not knowing what direction his attacker was coming from was what worried him the most; he might run straight towards him. Maybury counted to three in his head to force himself out of the immobilised car. The car door unlocked, he swung it open and sped for the house. Maybury stumbled one foot in front of the other, petrified that a bullet would land between his shoulder blades. The short distance from the car to the house felt like miles stretched out in front of him. The distance taunted him for every second it took to reach the portico.
Maybury reached the front door without another shot. He slammed the door behind him, and bolted it for extra measure. Maybury leant his grey hair against the thick slab of wood. His eyes darted around checking every door, every opening. The coast was clear. His breath was shallow as he tried to control it from bursting out of him.
Maybury listened for signs of an intruder, but there was only the sound of his own breathing. He weighed up the options he had; either call the police or attempt to get his wife’s keys to her 4x4, wherever they were.
‘I can’t call the police, I can’t. They’ll arrest me, not him.’ Maybury looked down the hallway towards the kitchen. There might be a spare key. There has to be a spare. He focused on the idea to convince his anxious doubts that he was right. Angela, the housekeeper, emerged from a room.
‘Angela, call for help.’ The woman looked back at Maybury perplexed. Another smashing of glass jolted Maybury away from the front door and catapulted his half-baked plan into action. Another window, he was unsure of which one, had smashed. It sounded as if it came from the same direction he found himself running in, but his footsteps compelled him forwards not heeding the warning. Angela screamed and ran away.
Maybury spun into the kitchen. The Victorian conservatory was flooded with light from the garden. He skirted around the kitchen island that had a black granite worktop; his sweaty palm left a smudge mark on its mirrored surface as he propelled himself towards the utility room. Maybury turned into the cold room and threw the door back so he could reach the wall hooks. If the key was to be found, he thought, it would be there. Maybury
faced an array of hooks with keys squashed onto the small rings and looked for the key fob. His fingers searched for the chunky plastic block, but his eyes knew already that it wasn’t there. Maybury looked down and saw a ceramic bowl full of junk; coupons, phone chargers, elastic bands, and envelopes. The sound of the doorbell rang again and again, followed by forceful bangs from the brass knocker which summoned Maybury to his doom. Hawk toyed with the ageing man like a cat does before it devours a mouse; taunting with its claws before it rips open its flesh. That’s it. She will have put it in here. It wouldn’t fit on the hooks, of course. How could I not see that? It’s obvious. Maybury recognised his panicking as he talked to himself; he placed words where there needn’t be any to reassure his mind that he was ok. I’ll run out from the back door, down the side of the house, and get the bag. Then I’ll get in the 4x4. Maybury played the sequence of events in his head, but the anxiety clawed at his certainty and the seconds.
The random objects swirled around in the dish. Maybury took a breath of relief as he clutched the key hard in his hand. He ran back through the kitchen, but his intruder stood in the doorway that led to the hall.
‘What do you want?’ Maybury said, his voice quivered with fear. He stared Hawk back in the face. The bulky man blocked the exit out of the room.
‘I think you already know the answer to that.’ Hawk produced his gun from the inside of his jacket. Maybury followed the end of the metal pistol with his eyes. Maybury stepped backwards and felt the sharp edge of the granite worktop poke into his back. He moved his hand behind him to feel the edge of the island as he slid round behind it; Hawk walked closer. Maybury stood back against the cupboards and looked for something to catch hold of as a weapon. He knocked over a pot of utensils. Spoons with holes in and spatulas spread across the work surface.
‘Planning to do some cooking, eh Maybury?’
‘Get away from me,’ Maybury said as he ran towards the kitchen door in a second attempt.
‘Why make this more complicated than it is? You know what I’ve got to do and I’m not leaving till I do it,’ Hawk said as he walked after him.
Maybury scrambled for the front door and unbolted the locks he had just put across a few minutes before. Sweat gathered on his forehead and he could feel heat around his shirt collar. Hawk emerged from the kitchen door and took a shot at one of Maybury’s legs. The solicitor squealed with pain as the bullet embedded itself in his calf muscle. Maybury tumbled to the floor. The key dropped out of his hand and skimmed along the floor. Blood oozed from the wound as the pain rippled up and down his body. Maybury couldn’t speak; he couldn’t remember any words. The epicentre of pain was all he could focus on.
The wounded Maybury dragged himself across the floor into the front sitting room. Shards of broken glass from the window glimmered on the dark wooden floor. His hands had no choice but to scrape over them. Maybury whimpered as pieces of glass embedded in his palms. He clambered his way to a padded armchair as he heard the heavy, precise footsteps of Hawk walking across the hall. Each movement seemed to hurt more than the last, but Maybury forced himself forwards and reached the chair leg at eye level. Hawk stood in the doorway as Maybury pulled himself up on the seat pad with all the effort he could summon from his aching body. Blood had soaked into his suit and he could feel the sensation of it running down the inside of his trouser and into the top parts of his sock. Maybury turned to see his attacker.
Hawk stood in the doorway and looked unsympathetic. Maybury sat slumped in the armchair with his neck pressed into his chest and his legs splayed out. Even though he was feet away, Hawk appeared to tower over the reduced man like a giant. Maybury looked up to the thug.
‘Atmore sends his regards. He had to dash but didn’t want to leave you having to deal with the police. There would be questions and investigations.’ Hawk trailed off. ‘Don’t suppose you have any cash lying about do you, Maybury?’ The thug looked down at his gun and wiped a dusty mark off of it. Words started to form in Maybury’s mind as he adjusted to the pain threshold.
‘Take it, there’s thousands.’ Maybury paused with the pain. ‘Thousands in the bag—, the bag in my car,’ Maybury forced the words out. ‘Just take the money and leave me alone.’ Hawk smiled.
‘Good to know Maybury,’ Hawk said as he took a step forward into the sitting room. ‘But you know I can’t do that.’ Maybury panicked at the finality of the situation; he was going to be killed in his own house. The idea of the housekeeper walking in to find his dead body and blood on the floorboards was too much for Maybury to bear. He pushed down hard on the arms of the chair and lifted himself up. Maybury made a hobbled run for the second door in the room that led back into the hall. His shoes slipped on the polished floor; the pain seared his entire side.
Three shots fired in quick succession and struck Maybury in the back. The solicitor smacked face down onto the wooden floor. The pain could not be expressed in sounds or yells; he had been defeated. Maybury’s eyes glazed in shock as his lips twitched; pools of blood poured out from him.
Hawk stood over the wounded man; Maybury’s lungs gurgled. Hawk left the room and the man that had once been Maybury behind.
Hawk didn’t wipe down any surfaces for fingerprints or attempt to move the warm, lifeless body from its final resting place. If, and when, Maybury’s body was found, Hawk would be far away. Besides, Hawk thought, this murder was no more severe than other crimes he had committed. If the police ever caught him they could take their pick from the catalogue of his crimes; this one death made no difference at all. Hawk’s mobile rang; it was Atmore.
Chapter 21
‘How can we find Jennifer? She must know more than Maybury,’ Dan voiced his thoughts out loud. Dan felt his mobile buzz and realised it had done that several times in the last ten minutes but, being distracted, he had ignored it. He looked at the scratched screen. ‘It’s Will; he’s been trying to contact us.’
The Finkleys’ car kangarooed up to a red traffic light and stopped over the white painted line. Dan and Sarah drew closer to the mobile screen while the car was still. Dan read the texts aloud.
‘It’s Will. I’ve seen her, the blonde woman. The one that works for the man you asked me to watch. She was in the cathedral and so am I.’ Without hesitation, Dan called forward to Mr. Finkley in the front.
‘Forget the directions I just gave you, can you take us to the cathedral?’
‘Righto, no problem,’ Mr. Finkley replied as he looked in the mirror back at Dan. The car shuddered as it turned.
‘Why would Jennifer be at the cathedral?’ Sarah asked. Dan shook his head, but Mr. Finkley, who had become fascinated with his guests, chipped in.
‘There’s a performance. They do it every year. Margaret doesn’t like to go out you know, and I don’t like to leave her on her own, so I don’t go,’ Mr. Finkley said.
‘What’s that dear?’ Mrs. Finkley had heard her name mentioned.
‘The concert, at the cathedral Margaret,’ Mr. Finkley laboured his words. His wife looked at him with a blank expression. ‘You know, the boys from the college do a special concert don’t they? Remember, you used to like going to hear them sing?’
‘Oh yes, such lovely voices. John used to take me, but you see I don’t like going out much.’ Dan and Sarah agreed with a hum. They passed the dark grey statue of King Alfred the Great that presided over a line of parked cars. Sarah recognised that they were close to the cathedral and unclipped her seatbelt. Dan looked at her perplexed.
‘You do realise who is driving, and that we’re still moving?’ Dan said.
‘We’re almost there.’ Dan looked up at the statue king with a sense of confidence he hadn’t felt for a long time; his battle would be over soon.
Mr. Finkley swerved into a side street and turned again into a parallel road that served the back of the shops. He screeched on the brakes to dodge a cyclist that emerged from behind a lorry. The cyclist shouted and waved his hands in protest at the near miss, but Mr. Finkley s
ped away unflustered.
‘It’s no entry ahead. Don’t worry we can get out here and walk,’ Sarah said. But Mr. Finkley gave them no choice and accelerated straight past the no entry signs into the narrow one-way street. ‘You really shouldn’t—.’ Sarah covered her eyes as the car fled up the lane.
‘Don’t worry dear. John has never had a crash in all the years he’s been driving,’ Mrs. Finkley said.
‘Quiet down Margaret, I’m concentrating.’ They turned again. Mr. Finkley blasted the horn for the pedestrians to move out of the way. The chaotic car sped through an open gate and into the cathedral grounds.
‘You can stop now. It’s fine, we can walk from here,’ Sarah said.
‘No, no, I’ll take you to the door,’ replied Mr. Finkley.
‘That’s what I was afraid of,’ Sarah said under her breath. The gold car raced along the tree lined open space of the cathedral grounds and forced idle walkers to move. He blasted the horn which caused birds to flutter up from the grass and children to turn in surprise. Sarah felt ashamed and yet amused at the same time.
Mr. Finkley pulled the car up to the tall red doors of the West front. People took photos and sat about on benches as others sipped from paper cups and read books. Music drifted out of the cathedral. Mr. Finkley left the engine running and turned around in his seat to see that Sarah had already left the car and Dan was close behind her. He stalled the car; it spluttered forwards to a stop.