The Judas Sheep

by Stuart Pawson

  ‘Great. Will I be able to collect the van Saturday morning?’

  ‘We’ll have it ready for you.’

  After ringing Eric I drove into town and visited the market. One of the butchers had been very helpful in our investigations into sheep rustling. Without saying much I led him to believe I was hot on the trail again, and ordered a whole lamb from him, neatly cut into joints and packed in two separate bags. I paid for it, and told him I’d collect on Saturday morning. Then I went to the newsagents and looked for a magazine that might tell me something about crossbows. They didn’t have one.

  On the outskirts of town, south of the tracks, where expectations are low and so are rents, there is a shop that sells guns, just along from Help the Aged and another shop that deals in second-hand furniture. I threaded between the three-piece suites on the pavement and opened the reinforced door of Guns ‘n’ Ammo.

  The proprietor’s T-shirt bore a skull on the front, wrapped in the legend: Will give up my gun when they prise it from my stiff dead fingers. That could be arranged, I thought. A poster on the wall boasted: A Smith & Wesson beats four aces. Brave words, but mainly they sold airguns.

  ‘Afternoon,’ he said. He arms had seen more tattooists than Edinburgh Castle.

  ‘Hello.’ I wandered round his shop, taking it all in. I was out of touch – some of these airguns looked as if they could kill. I turned to him. ‘Do you sell crossbows?’ I asked.

  ‘Crossbows?’

  ‘That’s right. William Tell, all that stuff.’

  ‘No, sorry. No call for crossbows. Got one for a feller about a year ago.’

  ‘But you haven’t got one in now?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Do you know anything about them? What to look for if you buy one: that sort of thing?’

  He looked mystified and shook his head. ‘Nah, sorry.’

  ‘So you won’t have any arrows – bolts – for them?’

  More head-shaking.

  ‘OK. Thanks a lot.’ I turned to go, but changed my mind. ‘Don’t suppose you sell bows, either?’

  ‘No. We don’t sell no bows, or crossbows. No call for ’em, round ‘ere.’

  But presumably there was a call for air rifles with telescopic sights that a Bosnian sniper would swap his samovar for. ‘No arrows, either?’ I repeated, already shaking my own head in anticipation of his answer.

  His brow furrowed with concentration, as if the act of thinking caused him pain. ‘Yeah, we did ’ave some arrers, somewhere.’ He started opening drawers at his side of the counter; then looked in several cupboards.

  They were in a big drawer under the window display, in two bundles wrapped in newspaper. He spread them out on the counter, pleased with his success. There were about a dozen fancy aluminium ones, carefully painted with bands of colour, and a few cheap wooden ones that looked nowhere near as professional.

  I inspected a wooden one, holding it carefully between finger and thumb and sighting along it. The varnish was peeling and the feathers were crooked. ‘I’ll take that one,’ I told him, passing it across the counter.

  Bradley T. Norris approached the Ivy League cheerleader behind the front desk of Jefferson Industries and wondered why he’d ever left America. He felt comfortable in his lightweight mohair suit and regular underwear, instead of those damned thermals he needed in England. And then there were the girls. There was nothing like an earthy Southern belle to warm the parts that British ice-maidens didn’t know existed. He smiled at her and let his eyes wander. She returned the smile, apparently grateful for his appreciation.

  ‘Could you please let Mr Jefferson know that Brad Norris is here,’ he told her.

  ‘Er, yes, sir. Is Mr Jefferson expecting you?’ She’d never been asked to call the President of the company before.

  ‘Yes, he is.’

  She relayed the message, via a secretary, then said: ‘Mr Jefferson will be with you in a moment, sir. Would you care to take a seat?’

  ‘Thank you.’ Norris didn’t sit down, but wandered round the large marble-clad foyer, examining the works of art on the walls. There were prints by Rothko and Pollock, and posters for various events sponsored by Jefferson Industries, from the ballet to stock-car racing. Norris nodded his approval.

  The elevator door hissed open and the huge frame of Jefferson J. Jefferson III emerged, pulling a checkered jacket on over a short-sleeved shirt.

  ‘Brad, old buddy. How’re ya doin’?’

  They clasped hands in a four-handed shake. ‘I’m fine, Jeff, just fine. You sure look well.’

  ‘Oh, you know …’ They walked out through the revolving door without a backward glance at the girl. Jefferson’s car was already waiting for them. ‘Ruth’s Chris,’ he told the driver. Turning to Norris he said: ‘I’ve told Krystal we’ll meet her there. We can always move on to somewhere else, if you wish.’

  Ruth’s Chris is a well-known chain of steakhouses. Fortunately their steaks slide over the tongue more easily than their name.

  ‘Ruth’s Chris is fine by me, Jeff,’ Norris told him.

  Jefferson said: ‘Look, er, Brad. I’d just like to say how sorry we all are about Marina.’

  ‘Thanks, Jeff. It’s good of you to say so.’

  ‘You know that if there’s anything we can do …’

  Norris wondered about a formal introduction to Jefferson’s receptionist, but decided against it. ‘Thanks. Everybody’s been so kind.’

  Jefferson rambled on: ‘If you don’t want to talk about it, Brad, just tell me to button up, but we’re all mystified over what happened to her. We heard she just vanished. Haven’t you any idea where she went?’

  ‘Well, there’s a bit more to it than that, Jeff. First I knew was when someone phoned me to say my Rolls-Royce was in a certain parking lot, and would I collect it. I thought it was the police, but it wasn’t. I collected the car, and Marina never came home that night. Fact is, Jeff, things hadn’t been too good between us, so I wasn’t surprised. A couple days later they found the body of my chauffeur, with his head blown off. Those limey cops play with their cards close to the chest, but I think they’re working on the theory that it was a bungled kidnap attempt. Deep down, I know she’s dead.’

  ‘Jesus H. Christ! That’s a helluva thing to happen to a guy.’

  They rode the rest of the way in silence. As they waited to be seated in the restaurant, Jefferson said: ‘So what do you think of the Rolls-Royce? Is it as good as the Brits reckon?’

  Jefferson Tobacco was founded by the first J.J.J.’s father, who was called Schmitt but was eager for Americanisation. ‘Tobacco’ in the title was dropped in favour of ‘Industries’ in the late 1970s. Diversification of interests was the excuse, but the real reason was to change the company’s image – tobacco products still provided eighty per cent of their profits.

  They declined to order when the waitress introduced herself. ‘Not just yet, thank you,’ Jefferson told her. ‘We’re waiting for a colleague.’

  ‘Did Krystal fly in last night?’ Norris asked.

  ‘Yeah. Phoned me this morning.’

  ‘So how is she? Still as big and outrageous as ever?’

  ‘She doesn’t change none.’

  Krystal Wallach was head of the LMW Group, formerly LMW Tobacco. Once again the family firm had passed down the line, but it jumped a generation when Krystal’s father, last of the LMWs, found igniting space rockets more exciting than lighting cigarettes. He was a prominent physicist, and became a bigwig at NASA, allowing the company to pass from his father to his daughter. Ethics had nothing to do with it – he was still a major shareholder.

  ‘Any men in her life?’ Norris asked.

  ‘Not so as anyone has ever noticed.’

  ‘Seems a helluva waste to me,’ he declared, shaking his head.

  ‘No disrespect, Brad, but she’d eat you for breakfast and spit the pips out.’

  ‘I was thinking about you. You’re more her size.’

  ‘Me!’ Jefferson laughed.
‘Hell, no. I once tried bull riding at Carson City Cowboy Daze. Lasted two-point-four seconds and couldn’t pee straight for a week. Krystal Wallach is more than I’d care to try taming.’ They both threw their heads back and guffawed.

  ‘She’s here,’ said Norris, wiping his eyes. The hostess was directing her towards the booth where the two men sat.

  In the Land of Big Women, Krystal Wallach was regarded as tall, standing six feet two in her bare feet. She was wearing jeans tucked into snakeskin cowboy boots and a white silk shirt. The jeans cost three hundred dollars and the boots well over a thousand. Dangling from her ears were baubles that looked as if they were looted from Montezuma’s treasure house and her black hair flounced over her shoulders. Every head in the restaurant turned to follow her, and the two men rose to their feet.

  ‘Brad,’ she said, holding out her hand.

  ‘Krystal. It’s good to see you.’

  ‘Jeff.’

  ‘Krystal.’

  Norris said: ‘Glad you could make it, Krystal. I don’t think you’ll have wasted your time.’

  ‘Oh, I’ll fly five hundred miles for a free steak any day.’

  ‘Good girl. Shall we order?’

  It was lobster and steak all round, with salads. It’s a myth that American steaks are bigger than European ones. Cows are much the same size all the world over. The Americans just cut the meat thicker, and don’t incinerate it.

  While they were waiting for the lobster hors d’oeuvre to arrive, sipping Californian Chardonnay, Krystal said: ‘Brad, I have to say something about Marina. I’d like you to know how sorry we all are. Have you any idea what happened to her?’

  Norris coughed and shook his head. ‘No, er, no. Thanks for asking, though; I appreciate your concern. I’ve told Jeff about it all, so maybe he’ll fill you in with the details. I’m sure you’ll both want to discuss what I have to say to you.’

  ‘OK.’

  On the surface their three companies – Shenandoah Incorporated, Jefferson Industries and the LMW Group – were deadly commercial rivals, who between them stitched up over half of the tobacco sales in the USA. They knew the difference between competition and destroying each other, though, and in the face of a common enemy they showed a united front. That enemy was all around them, for the industry that made them wealthy was now regarded by many as the pariah of the Free World. In the United States alone, an estimated 300,000 people died each year from smoking-related diseases, and the number was growing. The worldwide figure was probably approaching three million.

  Fortunately for Norris, Jefferson and Wallach, the trade had one powerful weapon in its favour. Money. No government or political party so far could manage its books without the colossal contribution made by the sale and taxation of tobacco products. Health warnings and restrictions on advertising were merely cosmetic inconveniences. Tobacco was King; long live the King.

  They cooperated with each other in many other ways. Jefferson sponsored classical music and car racing, so LMW supported rock concerts, and Shenandoah poured large amounts into horse racing and football. They didn’t compete in advertising, one using billboards, the others magazines and newspapers. At a recent meeting they’d carved up the Third World markets to save duplication of effort.

  Shipping billions of cigarettes across the Atlantic Ocean is expensive, so arrangements had been made. Red Wing, Shenandoah’s market leader, was now made in England; but to save transport costs, Jefferson made a cigarette with the same name right there in North Carolina. In return, Shenandoah rolled, packaged and marketed Garfields for Jefferson. LMW were involved in a similar agreement.

  They finished their steaks and ordered a bottle of Bordeaux instead of puddings.

  ‘We’ve seen the figures, Brad,’ Krystal said. The Liverpool plant is on stream and achieving its targets. It was a good move, so why have you called this meeting?’

  It would have been natural for the men to light cigars, and Krystal to have smoked one of the long dark cheroots she was often photographed with, but they didn’t. This wasn’t a public performance. Norris waited until the waitress had delivered the second bottle and left them, before saying: ‘We could have trouble brewing. The injuns are restless.’

  ‘Would this be one particular injun called Andrew Fallon?’ Jefferson asked.

  ‘Got the bastard in one, Jeff. He’ll be British Prime Minister in less than a year, carried along on a floodtide of woolly intentions and lofty prose. He’s big on foreign aid, but says it should be a hand-up, not a hand-out.’

  ‘Reagan said it first,’ Krystal interrupted.

  ‘Oh, I wish he were Reagan, Krystal, I wish he were. Where on earth are we finding these guys? He says the poor nations should be growing food to feed themselves, not tobacco to export and then buy back as cigarettes.

  Cigarettes that will, he claims, ruin their health.’

  It still hasn’t been proved,’ Krystal asserted, shaking her head and enjoying the feel of her hair brushing her neck. ‘And there’s no other crop that will give those farmers the returns they are guaranteed from tobacco.’

  ‘Heroin? Marijuana?’ suggested Jefferson with a grin.

  ‘Yeah, you got it, Jeff. Illicit drugs. Tobacco is legal.’

  ‘The bottom line,’ Norris said, ‘is that we need them to grow the stuff, and they need to grow it to survive. We provide them with a market for their crop, earning good ol’ American dollars for them. Fallon disagrees, of course. He’s promising to cut off aid to tobacco-growing countries. Then he’s going to tax our exports and tax our profits. He won’t be happy until he drives us extinct. He’s on a crusade, and right now Britain is looking for a crusader.’

  The other two thought about what he’d said until Jefferson broke the silence. ‘You make it sound real bad.’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘So what are you suggesting?’

  Norris twirled his glass between his fingers. ‘I don’t want to be too specific,’ he said, ‘but I’d like you both to contribute to a fighting fund.’

  ‘A fighting fund?’

  ‘Yeah. I’ve been talking to some guys. Professionals. For a price, they can solve our little problem.’

  ‘How much are we talking about?’

  ‘Three-quarters of a million bucks each, plus a few expenses.’ They took the news as if they’d enquired the price of a new hat. Norris went on: ‘You’d have to lose it somewhere. Would that cause a problem, Jeff?’

  ‘No, no problem. I’d just give the race team an extra million and tell them I wanted eight hundred grand back, in used tens. They can spend that much on tyres.’

  ‘Krystal?’

  ‘No problem, Brad. I’d lose it in the advertising budget.’

  ‘OK. Are you both in, then?’

  Jefferson looked puzzled. ‘So what’s it to be?’ he asked. ‘A dirty tricks campaign?’

  Norris said: ‘No, Jeff. Dirty tricks are not straightforward enough for a simple country boy like me.’

  Krystal turned to face Jefferson. ‘I think what Brad has in mind, Jeff, is solving our problem – how shall I put this? – the American way.’ She pointed at him with a forefinger and raised her thumb, imitating the hammer of a pistol.

  Jefferson said: ‘Oh. Jeez!’

  ‘All I want is your money,’ Norris told them, quietly. ‘For that, I’ll guarantee our problems will go away. You won’t need to know anything about anything. Can I count you in?’

  Jefferson nodded. ‘Count me in, Brad.’

  Krystal Wallach raised her glass. ‘I’d like to propose a toast,’ she said, pausing for the others to raise theirs.

  ‘To the American way.’

  They clinked glasses. ‘The American way.’

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Saturday morning I collected the Transit from Merlin Couriers. Eric wanted to chat, but I escaped as politely as I could. The butcher handed the two bags of lamb over to me and I went home. Nigel had left a message on the ansaphone. I rang him at the station and he told me
that he had dropped the key off at Number 1, Longdyke Cottages. Kevin Jessie would be in all day.

  I snapped the arrow into three pieces, leaving the pointed end about six inches long, and the bit with the feathers about two. I trimmed the feathers to half size with the kitchen scissors. Carefully removing the white Sellotape from around the neck of one of the bags of lamb, I selected the largest piece of meat in there. I pinned it down on the kitchen worktop with my left hand and drove the pointed end of the arrow through it. It would have been easier to have broken it after I’d stabbed the joint, but you live and learn – all this was new to me. I rubbed the short piece of arrow, with the feathers, in blood and dropped it into the bag, putting the large piece of meat back in with it. I washed my hands and re-sealed the bag with my own, clear, Sellotape. The fish and chip shop was open, so I lunched before driving the ninety miles to the cottage.

  The Merlin Couriers Transit wandered about on the motorway like a drunkard in a gale. It had done 187,000 miles. I did some mental arithmetic. That was nearly eight times round the world. More, if you didn’t count the oceans. It rattled like an RSPCA collection tin at a foxhunt, and a draught from around the window threatened to sever my head. I pulled into the drive at the side of Number 2 with a raging pain behind my right eye and frostbite in my ear.

  I sat for a few minutes with the engine running and slowly thawed out. The headache subsided, too, I’m pleased to say.

  Jessie came to the door before I knocked. I started to ask him if the estate agent had left a key with him, but he just held it out towards me. He hadn’t done too well in the Good Looks Grand Prix. He was about five-ten and podgy with it, with a face like a suet pudding, framed by lank mousy hair. Age? About thirty-five, gone to seed.

  ‘Er, cheers,’ I said, taking the key before he closed the door on my outstretched arm.

  The cottage was nice inside. ‘Cottage’ is a bit grand. It was a two-up, two-down semi, but it had a certain charm. The morning sun would catch it, and you could see the river in the distance. Could be spooky when the fog rolled in.