He wondered what Dwight Riley was doing. There had been some movement earlier but now the closed curtains opposite revealed nothing of what was taking place behind them. Not even the restless silhouette of a man pacing about.
Occasionally a car hissed by. Even more rarely there was a passer-by. Charlie reached for another Guinness. Funny, he thought, it never has any effect on me. Drink as much as I like but it never seems to catch up. Never so much as a hangover.
He wished he could put on a light, look at the paper, look at the racing results. But again, Alistair Duncan had been most insistent: no lights. Just watch. Just wait. Watch out for anybody entering the flat. Take a note of their car. If in doubt go over. But, above all, don’t let Dwight Riley leave without following him. Oh, and Charlie: don’t let anyone harm Dwight Riley. Whatever you do.
But those orders had been given yesterday. Now he had done three hours non-stop this evening. His legs were aching, complaining of cramp and his curved spine was yelling for a change of posture. The eyes were tired, bored with the strain of watching so little for so long.
He shifted from one buttock to the other and yawned again. Thank God Alistair Duncan would be here soon. That would brighten things up. But it was now nearly nine-thirty. He yawned again, conscious that this was the second night without proper sleep.
He emptied the can and stacked it with the others on the floor and then leant against the wall, moving the box away from it, so that he could stretch out a little more. Yes, much better. Scarcely comfortable but better.
His eyelids drooped and every few seconds he had the sensation of jerking his head to combat the nodding drowsiness which was overtaking him. It was bliss, just to shut the eyes for a second. But no longer. But opening them was hell. To see the same scene, unchanged and with diminishing prospects of ever changing. Just Fords, Renaults, Datsuns, Fords, Renaults, Datsuns, Fords . . .
He looked at his watch. Nine-fifty. That was a quick twenty minutes! It was only a second ago that it had been half past nine. He looked again. No, he wasn’t mistaken. No. Surely no? No, he hadn’t been asleep. Couldn’t have been. But it had been a very quick twenty minutes. But, what the hell? Perhaps he had been.
He peered through the window. The light opposite was now out. Riley’s gone to sleep. Thank God for that. Charlie reached for another can of Guinness and ripped off the ring with a satisfying movement. His mouth opened in anticipation but was to be disappointed. A movement opposite caught his eye, as the door was opened from within. Two men emerged, one in front of the other, close together. The man in front walked in jerky paces along the pavement, his head partially twisted over his shoulder, as if talking to the man behind him. Charlie Wilkinson stared down into the darkness with renewed interest. It wasn’t so much that the action was relevant. It was more that it was action. Something to pass the time till Duncan arrived.
Must be the two students from the top floor going out to the pub, Charlie decided. It was the only flat containing two men. They disappeared from view and, a moment later, he heard a car engine and then silence. Pity. Nothing else to look at. A tabby cat shot across the street, its lesson learned the hard way. This time the Guinness did reach his lips. It slipped down remarkably well, especially with the pickled onion and ham sandwich from the pub.
Moments later he heard the sound of footsteps and, on looking down, saw Alistair Duncan approaching.
He entered the room, his dark hair wet from the weather, his face expectant, despite the lateness of the hour. The fading duffle-coat was so old that even the most destitute refugee would have willingly returned it to the donor. “’Evening, Charlie. Smells like a Dublin pub in here.”
Charlie twisted round, his grin rueful. It said, with no further words being spoken: I know you’re right but you know me and my little ways. “I had the odd one.”
As Duncan moved to the window, he kicked the Eiffel Tower of Guinness cans with a resonant clatter. “The odd one, eh, Charlie?” The voice was almost paternal, although Charlie Wilkinson was old enough to be the solicitor’s father. “So what’s been happening?”
“Nothing. Riley went to bed a while ago.”
“Nothing suspicious? No comings or goings?”
“No. Just two men left. I couldn’t see them very clearly but they would be the ones from the top-floor flat. No one else went in.”
“Did they leave on foot?”
“Yes. But I think they got into a car down the road.”
“Fine. It looks as though my hunch was wrong. I had this feeling that Dwight Riley might have a disturbed night.”
“Guinness?”
“Just a swig. Thanks.” Duncan bent down and opened a can from the collection. In doing so, he made a mental note of the number of empties which had rolled from the pile that Charlie had been building. The drink problem was getting worse. It was a pity. While Duncan had always believed in loyalty, never forgetting a favour, never forgetting a friend, nevertheless business judgment had to come first. He was about to drink when he looked across the road.
“I thought you said the two men from the top-floor flat had gone out.”
“I did. Why?” There was no concern in Charlie’s voice.
“Take a look.” The agent stared at the garret room window. The light had come on and two people could be seen walking about.
“Bloody hell!” said Wilkinson. “I don’t understand it. No one went in. Two men came out. The only people in that building are the two students on the top floor and Dwight Riley underneath. The ground-floor flat’s empty. The tenant’s on holiday.”
“I know that.” Duncan voice was brusque.
“Let’s go. If two men left and the top-floor people are still there, then they might have been Riley’s visitors.” There was no time for an inquest, no time for explanations.
Duncan bounded down the stairs, followed by the agent, who stumbled as he crossed the empty room. Though Duncan noticed it, he said nothing but Charlie felt the need to explain. “Cramp!” he called down.
Duncan said nothing. It was no time for a showdown, with Riley’s life at stake. If it were not too late.
The solicitor glanced at the three floors of the darkened, sandstone building, at its communal front door, giving on to the staircase. There he waited till the agent caught him up and they stood together, both big men, though there was something of a stoop taking away from Charlie’s slim height of yesteryear. The curve of the shoulders was accelerating to meet the curve of the stomach.
“I’ll go ahead,” said Duncan. “His door’s on the left, at the top of the stairs, isn’t it?”
“Yes.” The voices were hushed.
“Give me ten seconds and then you follow.”
“What do you think?” His breath was beery as Charlie leant forward to share the whispered conversation.
“I don’t know. If two men left the premises, then two men probably entered. Who knows?” With that, Duncan eased open the outer door, causing a few more flakes of paint to fall from the rotting wood. There was a resonance as the door shuddered free of its frame. Could it be heard upstairs? Duncan wasn’t sure.
Standing in the narrow lobby, he waited for his eyes to attune to the darkness. Ahead was the staircase, which twisted back on itself halfway up and, applying the technique taught him by a senior detective, he mounted the stairs standing on the very edge of each ‘going’ as he did so. His progress was swift and silent until he reached the door of Riley’s rooms. From within there was no sound, no light. If all was well, then the door would be locked.
A steady push on the handle and the door swung open. His heart thumping, his throat parched, his eyes wide with fear at what he would find, Duncan listened. Despite the open door, there was still no sound. All the while his right hand was searching for a light switch, crawling up and down the wall’s surface, until at last he had it. From behind he heard Charlie Wilkinson, whose progress was helped as Duncan flicked on the light.
Duncan saw a room in good shape, sparsel
y furnished but not disarranged. It was faintly warm. Table and chair were to one side, closed curtains over the window to the other. In the middle was an old armchair and it was empty.
With Charlie Wilkinson at his shoulder now, Duncan walked to the door leading into the bedroom. It was shut. For a moment he listened, ear pressed close to the woodwork, hoping to hear the sound of Dwight Riley’s gentle snoring. There was nothing. Again he swung open the door, allowing the light from the living-room to illuminate the bedroom. A double bed was revealed, its cover in disarray, the surface littered with a newspaper, an ashtray and a pair of socks. There was nothing else. No intruders, no nothing, no Dwight Riley.
Wilkinson looked under the bed in disbelief, flung open the cupboard doors. Empty. Only then did the two men look at each other. Duncan’s anger was obvious, for the look on his face was one which Charlie had never seen before. There was a narrowing of the eyes, a set of the jaw, which spoke louder than anything which he could say. The agent looked at the ground, scuffed his foot on the threadbare Axminster. “Must have nodded off,” he muttered. “But only for a second or two.”
“Yes.” Duncan voice was strained, clipped, even the single word showing the contempt which he felt. “And, if Dwight Riley’s dead . . .” He left the thought lingering in the half light of the bare inadequate bulb.
“Perhaps he’s gone out.”
“Of course he’s bloody well gone out. He’s not here, that’s for sure. But why? Who with? Most of all, why did he open the door? There’s no sign of force. He knew not to open the door. Frankly, it’s a right bloody cock-up” The solicitor’s face was florid, his arms were punctuating his words with vicious jabs into the stale air. “Can’t you remember anything about the two men? One of them must have been Riley.”
“I don’t know. I just assumed they were the students. Didn’t take much notice. Hadn’t realised I’d missed a chap going in.”
“If I’m right, then Dwight Riley quietly disappears. For ever. Not voluntarily, but just as permanently. And it’s your fault, you stupid, beer-swilling slob.” For a second Duncan’s emotions carried him along, relishing the outburst of feeling. “If I’m right, then Riley will be grilled, made to talk. So his captor can find out what he knows. Then it’ll be the single bullet, or similar.”
“Where do you think they’ve gone?”
“Gone? How the hell do I know where they’ve gone? But we’ve got to do something. Thanks to you the mouse has escaped with the cheese.” Duncan moved suddenly towards the door. “It’s curtains for you, Charlie, but we’ll sort that out later! Let’s get to that phone-box on the corner. There’s no time to lose. We’ve got to get the police involved.”
20
Monday, 4th February
BRISTOL
Dwight Riley lay in the back of the car, feet tied together, hands tight behind his back. The strip of adhesive crossed his mouth, completely encircling his head and he could imagine the pain when it would be ripped free. That’s if he were alive.
He could see nothing, the whole of his head covered by sacking, but he sensed that he was travelling at a constant speed, Bristol left far behind. His face was bathed in perspiration from the fruitless struggles and the smallness of the sack. He’d given up. Now he lay silently, trying to piece it all together, his hands awkwardly contorted between his body and the seat back, the flex which bound his wrists sharp and intrusive.
An hour ago? Half an hour ago? Yesterday? Well, anyway, some time, he could recall awakening in the chair. There had been a knocking. Yes, that was right, persistent knocking. He’d stood up, bleary-eyed and disorientated. The light was still on. Someone was at the door and Alistair Duncan had said not to open it. No way. Just sit tight and Charlie Wilkinson from over the road would arrive. He’d agreed to be the honeypot, reluctantly at first, not really understanding and, with a shrug, he realised that he didn’t care. Alistair Duncan had been pleased. Sit tight and you’ll be all right. Simple.
The banging on the door had persisted. Someone wanted him very much. Riley struggled to remember what happened next. What did I do? That’s right, I called out. “Who’s there? Who is it?”
“It’s me. Alistair Duncan. For God’s sake let me in.”
He hadn’t waited for a second. Since Hillyer’s death Riley’s world had been riddled with fear and confusion and Duncan had represented a whisker of normality. Without hesitation he’d unlocked the door. That’s right. And then confusion. Instead of the lawyer’s friendly, battered face, he’d found himself staring at Patrick Cowle—a Patrick Cowle he’d never seen before, with a cold stare and a squat, automatic pistol in his hand.
It had been Cowle who had spoken first. “Get inside. Into that armchair.” Meekly, and with no sense of heroics, Riley could now recall doing just that. He remembered the gun coming down across the back of his head. He’d barely lost consciousness, or so it had seemed, but when he came round, his lips were sealed by tape, his hands behind his back. But his legs were free.
“Get up,” Cowle had said. That had been difficult. His head spinning, his hands bound, balance had not come easily. “You will walk down the stairs in front of me. At the gate—turn left. You will climb into the back of my car and then lie down. When we are away from here, I shall tie up your legs. Later, I shall want to talk to you.”
Riley remembered nodding his head in understanding. “But the slightest snivel of bother and I shoot.” As if to emphasise the point, Cowle had thrust the gun forward, so that its cold muzzle nestled by his right ear.
But Patrick Cowle? Why him? First, it had been Ronnie and Kenny. Now it was Cowle, with a gun. But what did he, Dwight Riley, know? What had he seen? Why did Cowle want him? Where the hell had Charlie Wilkinson got to? He wriggled to make himself more comfortable but succeeded only in half rolling off the seat, so that his head and shoulders were jammed into the well behind the seat in front. The blood rushed to his head as he tried to manipulate himself back from whence he had fallen. But the frantic thrashing achieved nothing except more discomfort. Cowle turned round and saw the victim upended. Riley heard the laughter but not a word was spoken.
21
Monday, 4th February
SHEPTON MALLET
Alone among the endless expanse of fitted carpets, Rosemary Cowle lay sleeping, but it wasn’t a natural, pleasant sleep; rather it was a drugged sleep, induced by the sleeping-pills, to which she had grown addicted for several years. There was a telephone by the bed, pale blue to match the Wedgwood walls and fitted units. Like everything in the house it was perfection but perfection billowing over into boredom.
It was 10.20 p.m. The burglar alarms were set, the lights were switched off, the house silent until the telephone burred out its urgent message. She rolled from her side on to her back, her long hair cascading across the pillow as she did so. For a moment it seemed that the depths of her slumber had been penetrated, as her arm moved almost involuntarily towards the receiver. But the moment passed and, after two minutes of ringing, the telephone fell silent.
In Bristol, Alistair Duncan put down the phone. “It’s not our night, no reply there. But, if I’m right, then Patrick Cowle’s out on his own and his wife didn’t strike me as the sort to go out on her own.” He thought for a moment. “I’m going to Shepton. I might be able to eliminate one of the cars. Or maybe Cowle’ll be there, in which case we’re stumped.”
“You’re sure it’s Cowle?” asked Wilkinson.
“Yes. But I’m not explaining it now. You’d never take it in after all that Guinness.” Even in the squashed interior of the telephone box Charlie wasn’t sure whether Duncan was joking. He said nothing so Duncan continued. “You ring the police. All we can tell them at the moment is that they ought to keep a look out for Cowle’s Rolls-Royce or for a green Marina. You’ve got the numbers.”
“And tell them what?” Charlie’s confidence in his own judgment was shaken.
“Tell them it’s a suspected kidnapping. At least.”
�
�If you’re wrong, then Dacombe’s going to be narked.”
“I’ll chance it. We’ve got to involve him. He’s been so off-hand, though. I’d hoped to hand him Cowle’s head on a plate. Now we’ve probably got another death on our hands.”
After Duncan had driven off, Wilkinson decided to go to police headquarters in Bridewell Street, where he was well known. He might get a sympathetic hearing there. Much better than telephoning and he knew that he had some redeeming to do.
As Wilkinson drove towards the city centre, Alistair Duncan was already exceeding the speed limit on the dual carriageway through Whitchurch. Traffic was light and he made Shepton in just under half an hour and, knowing exactly what he had in mind, he parked his car down the road and then hurried back to Cowle’s front drive. The gates were open but all was in darkness. The gravel-chip drive crunched under his feet as he walked to the double garage. The doors were partially closed. A glance inside revealed the Rolls, parked in its usual place. The car was dry. Clearly it had not been used that evening. But the Marina was missing.
Duncan hesitated no longer and went straight to the front door. The lion’s head knocker thundered throughout the house and made Duncan look over his shoulder in apprehension. There was no response. He stepped back and could see that the curtains in a front, upstairs bedroom were shut. In contrast, those on other upstairs windows were open. Duncan banged again and then, as an encore, threw a giant clod of earth at the curtained window. It hit the glass with a thump and Duncan followed it with a series of similar blows, interspersed with more knocking at the front door.
Five minutes passed, maybe six, before Duncan was rewarded with a light in the room, dimly seen through the plush thickness of the curtains. They were pulled back, revealing a figure in a nightdress, peering down, face unseen, due to the light behind her. Duncan waved his arms to attract attention. The woman leant forward and started to open the window, a movement which set off the burglar alarms. Rosemary Cowle’s drowsiness was gone. The slow, stolid movements of a moment before were transformed and she disappeared from sight. A few seconds later the noise subsided and she reappeared at the window and looked down.
The Scaffold: The sensational legal thriller everyone's talking about (Alistar Duncan Series Book 3) Page 9