by Lee Martin
‘Haywood, have you got a phone number for those people inside?’ asked Margaret.
‘Why would I? I don’t deal with the help personally.’
‘Peter?’
‘They’re Trent’s men.’
‘Jesus. It’ll have to be Mahoney’s phone then.’ She took out her telephone and dialled Mahoney’s number. Inside the cottage, they heard a ringing tone. After a minute the phone was answered. ‘What?’ said a gruff voice.
‘Got your boss for you,’ said Margaret, and handed the instrument to Haywood. ‘Tell him who you are,’ she said.
‘You inside,’ he said. ‘My name is Roger Haywood. You know who I am?’
He seemed to get a positive answer.
‘Tell him to show himself,’ ordered Margaret.
Haywood did so.
The front door to the cottage opened and a man emerged. He was dressed in a track suit with a hooded top pulled up, a scarf covering the bottom of his face.
‘Tell him to come to the gate,’ said Margaret.
Haywood did so.
‘Now tell him we’re coming in.’
Once again Haywood obeyed.
Margaret and Roxie pushed the two men in front of them, forming a human shield and they all walked slowly up the gravel-topped drive towards the cottage.
Just as they drew level with the parked cars, Haywood suddenly pushed Saint Cyr out of the way, and dived between the vehicles shouting ‘Shoot them. Shoot them,’ at the hooded man who lifted his gun. But Margaret fired first and he took a bullet in the arm before running back into the cottage and slamming the door shut.
‘Bastard,’ said Roxie. ‘I’ve had enough now,’ and ran to where Haywood had vanished. He was lying on his back on the ground between the motors breathing heavily.
‘The old jam tart?’ said Roxie.
He could hardly speak, but fearing another trick, Roxie held the gun close to his head.
‘I’m dying,’ he gasped. ‘Help me.’
‘Like you helped all the people you’ve had murdered,’ said Roxie. ‘Fuck you.’
She slammed her hand on his chest – hard.
‘Did that hurt?’ she asked.
He nodded.
‘Good,’ she said. ‘Serves you right,’ and hit him again.
His eyes bulged, and he opened his mouth, but said nothing. He gasped once more, then he was still.
‘Serves you right you old bastard,’ said Roxie.
She crawled back to where Margaret and Saint Cyr were sheltered behind Mahoney’s car. ‘He’s dead,’ she said. ‘Heart attack.’
‘Looks like it’s down to us now,’ said Margaret.
‘We could call the police.’
‘Sure. So far we’re guilty of kidnap, murder, criminal damage, not to mention car theft, leaving the scene of an accident and more speeding than you can shake a stick at. And probably half a dozen more crimes I can’t even think of.’
‘I get your point.’
‘No. We’ll sort this ourselves, and then vanish. Start again.’
‘If we make it.’
‘There’s always that of course.’
‘So what’s the plan?’ asked Roxie.
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‘Right Peter, what about you?’ said Margaret.
‘I could just go. Vanish myself,’ he replied. ‘Things can never be the same again with Haywood dead.’
‘Understatement of the year,’ said Margaret. ‘No. I don’t think so. Give me your hand.’
He did as he was told, and she cuffed it to the door handle of Mahoney’s car. ‘You stay here like a good boy,’ she said. ‘And we’ll sort you out later. And keep your head down.’
He just pulled a face in disgust.
‘Right,’ said Margaret. ‘It’s all quiet in there, but there’s one injured man, and according to Frankie two more. All armed. And then there’s Peter and Susan. It’s not looking good Roxie.’
‘So what do we do?’
‘If it wasn’t for Mahoney and the kids I’d burn the fuckers out. As it is, they don’t know we haven’t called for backup, and are just waiting for SO19 to come steaming in guns blazing, so I reckon they’ll make a move sharpish.’
‘There’s one thing,’ said Roxie.
‘What?’
‘How did they get here? Sharon’s car is here, and Mahoney’s. But they must’ve driven themselves.’
‘Stashed away on the woods like ours.’
‘Right. And that’s what they need.’
‘Clever girl. That means they have to get out of there.’
As if to prove her point, one of the front windows broke with a crash, a gun barrel protruded and three shots were fired in rapid progression, hammering into the metal of Mahoney’s car. Peter Saint Cyr, and the two women ducked down, as a figure emerged from behind the cottage, jumped the fence and vanished into the surrounding undergrowth.
‘Told you,’ said Margaret.
‘What do we do?’ asked Roxie.
‘There’s only two of them inside now. We go in and shoot the shit out of them.’
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‘You stay here,’ Margaret said to Roxie. ‘And give me some cover. I’m going round the back.’
‘For Christ’s sake, be careful.’
‘I will.’
Carrying the two guns they’d picked up in Haywood’s office, Margaret broke cover and headed for the back of the cottage. More shots rang out from the window and bullets dug up dirt around her feet as she ran, then Roxie fired a volley which dug dust from the bricks in the cottage wall, and the firing ceased.
Margaret threw herself into a forward roll and ended up by the fence that surrounded the cottage’s small back garden. The hedge and rose bushes planted inside had been allowed to grow wild and gave her perfect cover, except for one narrow gap that led to a hole in the fence. At the back of the building was a glass-panelled door that she remembered led into the kitchen, one window on the ground floor, and two upstairs.
Betcha there’s one of them up there, she thought. Well, here goes nothing, and she stood. That window also blew out and more bullets smashed through the foliage in front of her. She pushed through the gap and ran for the back door. Christ, don’t let there be anyone waiting there, she said to herself as she kicked the door open.
Inside the kitchen was empty.
She charged across the floor and saw Mahoney through the doorway, huddled on the sofa. He was bound with his own handcuffs, and next to him, with eyes like saucers, her niece and nephew. Then from the hall, the hooded man stuck his head round the door and Margaret let off a volley of bullets that drove him back out of sight. The small room was filled with smoke and her ears rang with the noise of the shots. ‘Get down,’ she screamed at Mahoney. ‘Get the kids down on the floor.’
He reacted with speed, and although his wrists were tied together he wrestled the children to the floor, then lay over them, his body protecting them.
Margaret saw his eyes on her, and she smiled, then heard footsteps from the floor above. The cottage was old and the ceiling in the kitchen was plaster – so she bet that the floor above was wooden. Mags fired through the ceiling and heard a scream of pain and a heavy thump and plaster gently fell around her like snow.
She looked back into the living room. All was quiet for a moment, so she dropped to the floor and crawled over to Mahoney and the children. She pulled the keys to her cuffs from her pocket and miraculously they fitted Mahoney’s. He threw them aside and she thrust one of her guns into his hand. ‘I hope you can use this,’ she said.
‘Where did you spring from?’ he asked.
‘No time. There’s one outside.’
He nodded, as they heard the front door open only to be answered with more shots from Roxie’s gun, then the door slammed again. Margaret made for the hall door and peered round to see the hoodie facing her, his gun arm raised. He fired and she fired back, knocking him to the floor. The silence was broken by the sound of a gun being cocked up the short flight of st
airs. Mahoney appeared behind her, fired, and the gun bounced down the flight – followed by a body.
‘Thanks Mahoney,’ she said. ‘Looks like we had a result.’
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But she spoke too soon as they heard the sound of a heavy engine outside, and a man’s voice shouted to Roxie to drop her weapon. ‘What now?’ said Margaret, going to the window but keeping well out of sight.
Outside, she saw a Land Rover parked next to Mahoney and Frankie’s cars. A man she’d never seen before was outside holding Frankie tightly with a gun pressed to her head.
‘Christ,’ she said, feeling the familiar irritation. ‘Can’t that bloody sister of mine do anything right.’
‘You inside,’ shouted the man. ‘Come out, hands raised. All of you. The children too.’
‘Come on,’ said Margaret to Mahoney. ‘Do as he says.’
The four left the house and walked down the path.
‘Where’s the rest?’ demanded the man. ‘My mates.’
‘Didn’t make it,’ said Margaret.
‘Who the fuck are you?’ said the man.
‘My sisters,’ said Frankie.
‘A couple of birds, I don’t believe this. So what’s stopping me killing all of you?’
Suddenly Saint Cyr jumped up from the side of Mahoney’s car. ‘Don’t shoot her,’ he yelled. ‘She’s got the…’
The armed man turned his gun on him, and as he did so, Roxie pulled the .38 from the back of her jeans and, just like she’d done in Spain to Tony, shot him on the eye.
He dropped like a stone, but as he did so he pulled the trigger of his gun, the bullet flying off to take Saint Cyr in the chest.
The tableau was silent for a moment, then Frankie said, her voice wavering, ‘Thank you Roxie. You saved my life.’
‘That’s what sisters are for,’ Roxie replied, then turned to Margaret. ‘So what now?’ she asked,
‘I could call the station,’ said Mahoney. ‘I know what happened.’
‘But there’s more,’ said Margaret. ‘Much more.’
‘I’ve got the money,’ interrupted Frankie. ‘We could just vanish.’
‘Not a bad idea,’ said Margaret. ‘Take that Range Rover and get to France.’
‘Then Spain,’ said Frankie.
‘Actually,’ said Roxie. ‘I don’t think Spain is such a good idea.’
‘If you’re going I’m going with you,’ said Mahoney to Margaret.
‘It’s love,’ said Roxie. ‘I knew it.’
‘You’re a sweet bloke Mahoney,’ said Margaret. ‘But I don’t know.’
They all stood amongst the carnage, until Margaret said. ‘Well everybody, let’s make up our minds. What’s it to be?’
Copyright
First published in 2009
by No Exit Press
an imprint of Oldcastle Books
P O Box 394,
Harpenden, AL5 1XJ
www.noexit.co.uk
This ebook edition first published in 2011
All rights reserved
© Lee Martin, 2009
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ISBN
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