Face Down

by Garry Bushell

  Broadwick pulled a face and sulked. But not for long. He had passed out within about ten minutes.

  “Thank fuck for that,” I said. “No more bleating and belly-aching.”

  “If you hear them coming again, make out you're out cold too.”

  “It was fuckin’ cold last night. As cold as an Eskimo's ice-hole in here.”

  “I haven't been so cold since the lodger stole the duvet.All you could hear was the sound of brass monkeys weeping and of soppy bollocks moaning and groaning in his sleep.”

  “He wouldn’t be much use in your game, John. Imagine him under interrogation, he’d spill like the Exxon Valdez.”

  “He’s like the class grass. Every time that pair of pricks come down here I expect him to put his hand up and say, ‘Please sir, I heard Baker threatening to “bash the granny out of an old cunt” and I think he means you’.”

  “What do you make of Bat Ears?”

  “Bats in the belfry too, seems like dementia to me.”

  “Yeah. He’s losing it.”

  “A short-arse little fucker, ain’t he?”

  “Yeah, we’re definitely talking Napoleon syndrome, short man compensating.”

  “Let’s hope he’s prepared to meet his Johnny Too Waterloo.”

  “What about the girl?”

  “Well, you've spoken to her.”

  “In Stringfellows, pissed, when she had me iron like a lion in Zion.”

  “But smart?”

  “Very. She's a bright one, very sharp.”

  “And quite capable of violence.”

  “I don’t doubt it. But he’s the one, in’e? He’s the nut-job, the fruit loop. The daughter is obviously just going along with what he wants to keep the old man happy. Got to be...If we had time to separate them, talk to her rationally.”

  “Yeah, big if though mate. I don’t think we do.”

  Johnny glanced over at Broadwick. “Funny thing is, he’s got a lot of fans inside. The old cons, they’re suckers for all that hang ’em, flog ’em stuff.”

  “He fights a bloody good fight, behind a keyboard.”

  “Don’t they all?”

  “So what now? You got a plan?”

  “Not much of one,” Johnny Too said, taking one of the spoons and squirreling it away in his suit pocket. “But it’s better than none at all.”

  72

  Gary Shaw asked Neale to take him down to the Stevens farm. They observed the place through Mick's bird-watching binoculars for about an hour and a half in the drizzling rain, but there was no sign of any activity other than the old man watching TV. Certainly nothing suspicious, and the rumbling, grumbling skies above threatened worse weather ahead.

  “Maybe come back in the morning,” suggested Mick. “We can think of a reason why I'd turn up unannounced. Maybe the boiler, they had problems with it last Winter. You could be a plumber.”

  Shaw nodded. He liked Mick Neale. He was solid, as hard as cave-aged cheddar and reliable with it; a good man to have around.

  “Okay, good idea. If we can get through the door it’d put my mind at rest. I’ve got to go into the office first though. I'll call you.”

  73

  Monday’s newspapers found a dozen different ways to headline the impending horror –Day Of Judgement, Hours From Death, YouTube Euthanasia – but the Sun said it most starkly and succinctly; its splash screamed Execution Day. Most reported that the public vote was overwhelmingly in favour of the DIY death penalty, although the Guardian report went bigger on Twitter, where #butcherBaker had trended early but was rapidly overtaken by a #SaveJT campaign.

  The Mail ran a piece by Richard Littlejohn, a long-time opponent of capital punishment, calling for restraint; the Daily Star with cheery insouciance, ran a spread helpfully featuring their artist’s impressions of the different ways the execution could be carried out: rope, axe to the head, gassing, poison, acid bath, barbiturate overdose, home-made guillotine or shotgun. An online bookmaker ran with it and was offering odds on how it would happen.

  Sky News, meanwhile, had rounded up friends and relatives of the hostages, including an Express colleague of Broadwick’s who testified to the columnist’s resolute nature and “courage under fire”. Kay Burley also interviewed a dietician claiming to be an ex-fiancé of Harry Tyler, ex-cop Rachel Freeman-Hartley (née Freeman, formerly Rachel Morley, remarried 2012, currently separated) who described him as “the love of my life” in a voice with a strong Salford twang. They’d had a one night stand in 1986! Still it was a nice plug for her latest diet book, Mind Over Platter – Think Yourself Thin.

  In South London, Johnny Baker's angry friends and family had been assembled by Slobberin’ Ron. Tempers were running high. The word had gone out across the manor and beyond – from Kidbrooke to Camberwell, Bermondsey to Tulse Hill, Rotherhithe to Lee: ‘John’s in trouble’. Old faces, young faces, bits of kids who only knew of the Bakers as an underworld legend; all of them were on standby.

  There wasn't much they could do yet, but they were tooled up, they were scanning internet coverage and watching Sky News, ready and waiting.

  74

  Tonbridge, Kent; 9am

  Rhona Watts had been doing the Telegraph crossword as she waited for Gary Shaw to arrive at the station. She had news. Essex CID had finally sent through CCTV footage of Simon Loewry on the day of his murder. It showed him leaving a pub and a wine bar with an attractive dark-haired woman. Shaw got straight on the phone to Mick Neale, who arrived fifteen minutes later in a Peter Tosh T-shirt and a flying jacket.

  “Is it Glastonbury time already?” laughed Wattsie.

  “Very funny Rhona. You should be on the stage.”

  “Mick, we think we’ve got the killer,” Gary Shaw said urgently. “And I think I know who she is, but I need you to I.D. her. Do you know this woman?”

  Wattsie hit play on the DVD in her PC. Mick peered at the screen, wishing he’d brought his bins, hoping the image was clear enough for him to see her face. It was.

  “It’s her, Gary. That is our Charlie.”

  “Are you certain?”

  “100 per cent.”

  “Loewry mentioned he was seeing a Lotte to an employee.”

  “Exactly. Charlie is a Charlotte. Charlie, Lotte...they’re both...”

  “Derivations of the same name...so her and the old man are working together as a team.”

  “Certainly looks that way.”

  Gary Shaw paused and thought about his options. It didn’t take long. “Right, Mick can you come with me back to the farm? Odds on that’s where they've got their hostages.”

  “In the cellar, I’d have thought Gary. She had me clear it out a while back. Not conclusive, but it has brick walls just like the place where the YouTube scene was shot.”

  “And it’s our best shot. Rhona, get on to everyone – S015, the Armed Response Unit, the Chief Super, anyone who can get there quickly. But tell them I’ve gone on ahead because that execution is planned for about half an hour’s time. What’s the address, Mick?”

  Mick Neale wrote it down for her.

  “I'll tell the boss, guv, make the calls and see you there.”

  “Wear body armour.”

  “What about you?”

  Shaw was half-way out the door already. “No time,” he shouted back.

  Rhoda Watts glanced down at the near completed crossword on her desk. The final clue was ‘Keep tabs on spouse’. The solution, she knew, was Checkmate. She hoped to hell it was a sign.

  75

  Charlotte Stevens had been an only child, ferociously intelligent and cute enough to wrap every male she ever met around her little finger. The death of her mother at ten years old had traumatised both her and her father. Her time in state education system ended soon after. Charlotte’s Dad hated the comprehensive school system which had “signalled the death of excellence”, and as he couldn’t afford to send her private, the girl was home schooled by a retired English teacher Gulliver knew from their local church. She
taught the child maths, English, history and science; he passed on his political and social views along with an interpretation of Christianity which was heavy on Old Testament values.

  A talented but self-sufficient girl, Charlotte seemed uninterested in making friends with children her own age. She only mixed with other kids at church and at her karate lessons. An outside observer might have thought her obsessive; almost certainly Charlotte was somewhere on the autism spectrum. By the age of seventeen she was a black belt, at eighteen she added four A levels to her haul of eleven GCSEs. She could have breezed into any University in the land, instead she signed up for an Agriculture and combined Farm Management BSc course.

  Sexually, she had been a late developer, but her appetite for cock was ravenous. Her father would never have approved, so she developed her alter ego Lotte on dating sites and Facebook, meeting strangers for sex as often as possible. Married men were safest, and the most grateful.

  Two years ago, when her father told her that God had spoken to him, she hadn't been fazed, in fact she believed him. The Almighty had told Gulliver Stevens that William Broadwick was His herald, His John the Baptist and that he should interpret his writings and act upon them, for the humble farmer was the new Messiah. And recently, as the cruel curse of ageing had nibbled away at his mind, leaving it too fogged up to do God's work, Charlotte was happy to step into the breach, using any means necessary, including debasing her own body, to rid the world of evil. Wearing her father's clothes, she had executed the child killer, planted bombs and rained fire and brimstone on the travellers. His work was important. It was a divine mission; it had to be finished.

  ***

  Johnny Too had spent half the night working away at the screws that kept his chain attached to the wall with the end of the metal spoon. “It’s like Colditz all over again,” he’d muttered, before tunelessly whistling the Dambusters’ March. When he finished, I did the same. It must have been dusk by the time I’d worked the last screw out. We then placed them loosely back into position. We didn’t bother with Broadwick's chain; he had been comatose throughout, snoring like a buzz saw cutting through a steel pipe.

  The plan, such as it was, was for me to distract our cranky captors and him to jump whoever had the gun.

  “And if it doesn’t work...” I’d started saying.

  “Better to die on your feet that live on your knees, H. The crack of a whip is a sound I’ll never get used to.”

  “I'm with you on that.”

  “I know you can't see it, but prison did change me, Harry. I used the time. I even started to appreciate things like Hinduism. They’re right, life is a wheel of eternal frustration, struggle and – if we’re lucky – upgrades through reincarnation.”

  “What would you be reincarnated as?”

  He thought for a moment and replied: “A pigeon.”

  “Why, to shit on the bastards below?”

  “No because pigeons fuck forty times a day – that’s something else I learnt in there.”

  ***

  William Broadwick came around late morning, grumbling and grunting. To make matters worse, he needed a crap. We averted our eyes as he perched his fat arse over the bucket. The stench was dreadful, almost painful.

  “Christ, what died up your arse?” asked John, who began to shout and holler to attract our captors' attention.

  “I should nick the bastard for dumping toxic waste,” I moaned. “Christ. This place needs ventilation.”

  “All three of these cunts need ventilation, with 9milimetre bullets. COME ON! GET DOWN ’ERE!”

  Charlotte appeared first, with Bat Ears behind, clutching his shotgun and looking out of sorts. He had a face on him like a forgotten tennis ball that had been left greying for a year in the Wimbledon guttering.

  “Can you get shot of this shit sharpish, please?” John asked. “Pretty please?”

  She came down the stairs, taking care to stay out of John’s reach. I distracted the old man by shouting “Sir! Behind you!” – yeah, that old one. Only there was actually something behind him, a small but aggressive-looking Burmese cat. As Bat Ears turned, John jack-knifed to his feet and ran at the woman, jerking his chain from the wall and taking her by surprise. The old fella swung round, whereupon the cat jumped on his head, digging his claws in. The shock made him discharge his weapon harmlessly into the ceiling. The blast added to the mounting confusion. I was deafened by it, I guess we all were. Broadwick jumped to his feet and accidentally stepped into the bucket of crap. The cat then jumped on his head, claws extended. Broadwick made a noise like a vegetarian drowning in a cauldron of meat madras, simultaneously scared, pained and disgusted, before sliding back down to the floor.

  John slapped Charlotte to the ground and squared up to Bat Ears, who looked suddenly lost and vacant, shaking his head as if he had cerebral palsy. I took the opportunity to push past him and rush up the stairs to the door.

  John took the shotgun from his hand and was about to chin him with the butt when Charlotte jumped up and crowned him with the shit bucket, leaving a trail of faeces across her father’s lumberjack shirt. Baker was a big, muscular man and heavy set but she caught him easily enough – on top of her martial arts training, a decade of boxercise and yoga had left her with incredible upper body strength. She dragged the gangster back to where he’d started from.

  “Dad,” she snapped. “DAD! DAD!”

  The old man came out of his trance.

  “Tie him up again by his arms and feet and gag the bastard. He can stay like that until the main event.”

  She grabbed the gun and went looking for the escaped prisoner – me.

  76

  Outside the farm, Gary Shaw and Mick Neale heard the shot.

  “That's it, come on, we're going in,” Shaw said urgently. “Give me your baton and grab a tool of any kind.”

  Mick handed over his police issue cosh and picked up an axe handle, following the detective to the back door of the farmhouse. Shaw turned the handle and pushed it open, slowly and quietly. Inside, dogs were barking and a parrot was squawking. Above that racket, no one heard them come in. Shaw motioned for Neale to check the ground floor, while he edged his way up the stairs.

  77

  There had to be a weapon somewhere. Coming out of the cellar, I kicked open a couple of downstairs doors, then headed up to the bedrooms. People like this would be odds-on to keep some protection where they slept. I dived into the first room, rolled over the bed towards the side that was furthest from the door and dropped down into the narrow gap between the bed and the wall. The bottom of the bed was low but I managed to get my left arm under it, feeling around until I reached something hard and barrel-like.

  “Come out now!” A woman’s voice. Charlotte. I grabbed my tool and pulled it out triumphantly. It was a Rampant Rabbit. So I’m guessing this was her room then.

  “Get up now, or I swear I’ll shoot you clean through the bed.”

  I stood up, letting the vibrator clatter to the floor. Charlotte was pointing the gun straight at me. This was it then. Looks like my last few grains of luck had clean drained away. Karma? Karma’n’get-me.

  Both of us heard the Armed Response Unit vehicles screech into the farmyard, and skid to a scrunching halt. I listened to the car doors slamming and tried to work out how many cops there were. At least eight I reckoned, the odds were getting better. Charlotte stood on the bed, trying to look over my shoulder and clock the scene below. Suddenly Gary Shaw came charging into the room with his baton drawn. He rugby tackled her, sending her flying. As Charlotte fell back, she dropped the shotgun but put her hands over her shoulders and pushed herself back upright with striking athletic grace. I went to grab her and was knocked flying by a powerful kick. Shaw caught her other leg and was rewarded with a heel kick to the kidney. As he rolled in agony she inserted two fingers into his nostrils and fish-hooked him off the bed. Fucking hell, that had to hurt. The gun was back in her hands.

  Charlotte motioned for me to raise my ha
nds. I complied. I didn’t have much option.

  “You can still get out of this,” I said. “Give me the gun, Charlotte. Let your Dad take the rap.”

  “Shut up!” she snapped.

  “He’s not well, he won’t go to jail. He needs psychiatric treatment, he’s not right in the head.”

  She pointed the piece at me, her mouth a perfect curve of disgust. I felt vulnerable, dominated; and for a moment that in itself seemed unexpectedly exciting. No. Stay focused. From behind her Gary Shaw made another lunge, but she heard him. She spun round and fired. The round grazed the outside of his left thigh and as he fell back he hit his head on the wall and sparked right out. My ears hurt like buggery. It occurred to me that that was her last shot, but she’d realised it too and had leapt over his body to get the Beretta out of her bedside drawer. She was up on the bed again, the pistol aimed at my head...

  78

  The door to the cellar was wide open when Mick Neale passed. He looked down and was unsurprised to see Johnny Too bound and gagged.

  A sudden noise behind him, made him spin around. It was Gulliver Stevens, holding a Luger.

  “Michael my dear boy, how are you?”

  “I’m fine Mr Stevens, I’ve erh, just popped round to sort out those things you asked me to take care of. I was going to start down in the cellar. Is that okay?”

  “Of course. You get started, my boy. I’ll make us a pot of tea.”

  Silly old doddery fool, thought Mick. He started down the stairs. He made the first two steps before the stock of the Luger connected with the back of his skull, sending him flying into a mess of human waste. He was out cold.

  Gulliver Stevens shut the cellar door and locked it. Then he retired to his office and sat behind the desk, rocking to and fro and whistling softly.