‘The money?’
‘Yes. The money I smuggled into Brussels for you. Grayling got it all.’
‘Max let Grayling have it?’
‘He had no choice. Grayling said it was to pay for the abduction but I think he regarded it as compensation for the robbery he’d planned at the Charnwood. But he wanted it laundered first. He wouldn’t touch it otherwise. He obviously knew where it came from.’
‘So, he ended up with my half a million, did he?’ Doyle had a sudden thought. ‘But he’s dead. What happened to it? I don’t suppose it passed under his will?’
‘I don’t know, but I guess he’s got it.’ She dropped her voice. ‘He seems to have taken over. He’s quite ruthless Michael. And he’ll stop at nothing.’
‘He? You mean Michael’s father? Who is he Jules? Tell me?’
‘I can’t.’
‘So he’s behind all this? Trying to set me up for Dudley’s murder when I’ve only been out a couple of days?’
She nodded. She was close to tears. He grabbed her wrists and pulled her towards him.
‘But, Jules. Can’t you see what you’re getting into? You can’t throw your life away with someone like him. Even if he is Michael’s father. He’ll turn on you in the end. Men like him always do. Look - come away with me, now. We’ve still got time.’
She hesitated, then pushed him away.
‘Please, Michael, don’t. It’s too late.’
‘What about us? You can’t have changed so much. You still love me, don’t you? We were made for each other. You always said that. We were perfect together. What can he give you that I can’t?’
‘It’s over.’
She was becoming more distraught.
‘I won’t accept that. I don’t care if I’m not Michael’s father. I really don’t. I still want you.’
‘It’s not possible. Not any more. I have to think of my son.’
He became deadly serious.
‘I’d kill for you Jules if I have to. You know that don’t you?’
‘Please, Michael. You don’t know what you’re saying. I’m in too deep. Even if I wanted to, I can’t be with you any more. You must go.’
His manner suddenly changed.
‘Why? Got someone coming round have you? Same person who knocked off Dudley? They won’t find it so easy with me.’
He pushed his face into hers as he spoke. There was real bitterness in his voice. Julia stood up and walked to the large window that overlooked the front of the house. She could see down the drive and beyond the still open gates. A large, black Mercedes came into view in the distance.
‘There’s someone coming. I would make yourself scarce if I were you.’
Doyle twisted round. He saw the car approaching.
‘Who is it?’
‘You don’t want to know.’
‘It’s him, isn’t it? I think I’ll wait and find out for myself, if you won’t tell me who he is.’
‘Please Michael, I’ve told you, I can’t. Please go! There’s a path at the back of the house that leads to the other side of the village. Please! You can telephone for a cab from there.’
‘No. I’m staying here. And by the way, the taxi-driver has my name and details. If anything happens to me, he’ll be telling the police about this place. If this is who I think it is, you’d better make sure he knows that.’
He brushed his hand through his hair, moving to the window so he could be seen clearly by whoever was in the car.
‘Please Michael, go. You have no idea what you’re getting into. Please, I don’t want them to hurt you.’
‘Why should anyone want to hurt me?’
Too late. The car halted and two men got out. The driver, a woman with long brown hair, remained in the vehicle. One of the men was much taller than the other. He had dark hair and was dressed in a well-cut grey suit. He removed a pair of sunglasses as he stepped out of the car. The other, short and squat and much older, had a shaved head. He looked menacing. A permanent sneer was fixed to his facial features. Doyle swallowed hard as the front door was pushed open and the two men came into the room. The shorter man remained in the background. The taller man looked at Julia then at Doyle. He sensed there was still something between them.
‘I’m sorry to intrude.’ He smiled but in an unfriendly way. ‘You’re Doyle, I assume?’
‘What of it. Who are you?’
The man did not reply. Doyle looked him over carefully. There was something about his face that seemed familiar.
‘Have we met before?’
‘No. I’m sure we haven’t. And I don’t suppose we’ll meet again. Not if you know what’s good for you.’
He glanced towards the shorter man who took a step forward and grinned, revealing the absence of several of his teeth.
Doyle was not intimidated.
‘You’ll be Michael’s father I suppose?’
‘She’s told you then?’
The man glanced at Julia. She nodded.
‘I think he’s entitled to know in the circumstances. But I haven’t told him who you are, just like we agreed.’
The man said nothing. Doyle continued to probe.
‘That means your first name must be Michael – if the boy is named after you?’
‘Does it, now?’
Doyle was trying to remember who he reminded him of. Then it came to him. ‘Grayling!’ Not the sick invalid who’d died some months before but the younger, physically fit Grayling of yesteryear. He mouthed the word almost silently. The man appeared uneasy and glared at Julia.
‘I didn’t say anything,’ she said, quickly. ‘Honestly.’
He turned his attention to Doyle.
‘That’s not what it says on my passport,’ He glanced at Julia again and snarled. ‘You’ve as good as confirmed it. When will you learn to keep your mouth shut?’
‘You’re Michael Grayling,’ said Doyle. ‘Gus’s son from Australia. You were only about fourteen when I last saw you. His number one son. That’s what he called you.’
The man smiled.
‘His only son, and I haven’t been in Australia for years. You’re very much out of date. And you know far more than is good for you. I only allowed Julia to see you to sort out the business over my son. I was not intending that you should see me.’ He smiled. ‘You took a huge risk coming here. I never thought you’d have the bottle. Pity that. If circumstances had been different we might have been able to do business. But as things stand…’
Doyle stood his ground.
‘You ought to be aware that if I don’t make a phone call before five o’clock, the police will be informed I’m here. I didn’t come here without taking a few precautions.’
‘Is that a fact?’ He smiled. ‘You have been careful. But it’ll do you no good. The police are looking for you. You didn’t know that? They seem to think you had something to do with what happened to poor old Dudley Manning. He was found in the River Trent yesterday morning. Seems that someone shot him. I can’t think how they got it into their heads that it might have been you.’
Grayling looked at his watch then glanced behind him. The short, squat man moved forward, pulling a cosh from his inside pocket. Without a word, he struck Doyle with considerable force to the upper left side of his head, the impact splitting the skin. Doyle fell back onto the sofa, seemingly unconscious. Blood trickled slowly from the wound. The last thing he recalled was Julia screaming.
Chapter Fifty-Four
Hood got the call just after 5.10pm. Detective Sergeant Andrew Hooper had been on duty when the taxi-driver telephoned Leicester Central. Realising this was not a hoax, Hooper got in touch with his chief inspector immediately. On this occasion, Sarah was more understanding and waved her husband off without too much resentment when the car containing both Hooper and Wendy Knight called at their home.
Hooper had prepared a map to make sure they wasted no time in travelling to Barnard House. Wendy Knight had already delved into its history on-line and established it was presently owned by a London property company which had planning permission to convert it into luxury apartments. It had been unoccupied for years and the target of burglars on more than one occasion. She had been unable to establish whether it had been let pending the development.
The CCTV acquired from the hotel in Nottingham, on the other hand, had not progressed the inquiry. The registration number of the black luxury Mercedes S class had been too indistinct to identify and the tinted windows and the arrival of a delivery van had obscured the individuals in the car when Julia Hamilton got in to it. But Doyle’s practice of hiring vehicles was well known. Raymond Craddock had been tasked with checking all the car hire firms in the area, starting with the company Doyle had used on several occasions in the immediate past. Hood was still some miles from his destination when he received information that Michael Doyle had seemingly hired a Mercedes of the same model early on the Saturday morning.
‘Perhaps he was involved,’ said Wendy Knight. ‘It’s a bit of a co-incidence, isn’t it?’
‘But why send a message via the taxi-driver?’ responded Hood.
‘To put us off the scent,’ interrupted Andrew Hooper. ‘He’s probably seen the TV news and doesn’t want to come forward himself. This may well be another wild goose chase.’
Hood had calculated it would take at least thirty minutes to get to Barnard House. He had requested the police helicopter to fly over the immediate area and arranged for uniformed officers including a team of specialist firearms officers to make their way to the village. Two dog handlers were also en route. But the helicopter was grounded in Worksop and would not arrive for some little time and it was a message from the Fire Brigade that eventually alerted Hood to the state of things at Barnard House, just as they entered the village. The house was ablaze.
* * * *
Michael Grayling had acted quickly after Doyle was rendered unconscious. His carefully planned departure with Julia to Portugal was simply brought forward. Contrary to what he had told Doyle, he had fully expected him to visit Julia. Now he had to get rid of him, but not before taking advantage of his presence to obstruct the police investigation into the death of Dudley Manning. Grayling always had a fall-back position. He had learnt at his father’s knee the importance of always having more than one option available. His original intention had been to have Doyle killed while he was still in prison. He was aware of Doyle’s own scheme to create the impression that he was at risk while he remained in custody. He simply made his own contribution by getting a prisoner at Colchester to contaminate Doyle’s food. Unfortunately, rapid medical intervention had saved him. But there were other ways of dealing with Doyle, of course. And his arrival at Barnard’s gave Grayling the opportunity of putting his alternative plan into action.
He had given full instructions to Maxine Kruger the day before. It was essential, he had informed her, that the gun she had used to kill Manning should be found in Doyle’s possession when he, too, was eventually fished out of the river. A nice touch that, he thought. Both Manning and Doyle discovered in the same river within forty-eight hours of each other. Hopefully the police would then treat Doyle as the major suspect for the murder of Manning. Even if they eventually excluded him, it would put them off the scent for a sufficient period of time for him and Julia to fly to Portugal. The injury to Doyle’s head would no doubt be explained by the spectacular crash into the river which Maxine had devised. She had already identified a suitable spot - an unlit track which ran directly on to the bank of the Trent from a lane off the A1. It would be surmised that Doyle must have panicked, turned off the main road and crashed into the river. The waters were still swollen and fast flowing, and the river was narrower at her chosen location. But it was still deep. Deep enough for most of the car to be submerged. Any DNA from anyone other than Doyle would vanish in the water. Fingerprints could also be washed away, of course, but to guard against latent prints on the gun disappearing completely, she was told to ensure the weapon was safely secured in the inside pocket of Doyle’s waterproof coat with the silencer conveniently attached.
‘Do you want Jamie to come with you?’ Grayling had asked.
‘Of course not,’ replied Maxine. ‘I can manage perfectly well. He won’t be waking up before I deposit him in the river, will he?’
‘I can guarantee that,’ replied the short, squat Glaswegian who had moments before rendered Doyle unconscious.
‘And you’ll be able to get him into the driver’s seat?’ queried Grayling. ‘He looks pretty heavy.’
‘Of course. Pity about the Mercedes, though. I enjoyed driving it.’
‘It’s hired. And in Doyle’s name. No worries on that score,’ replied Grayling with half a smile. ‘I’ll get you another one when you come to Portugal.’
Julia, who had heard most of this, wondered if there was anything the father of her child could not fix. She fully realised now why he’d encouraged her to see Doyle. So he could be set up for the murder of Dudley Manning. She was already beginning to regret throwing her lot in with this man, father of her child or not. Perhaps Doyle was right about him, but there was nothing she could do about it. She had no room for manoeuvre, not if she wanted to see her son again. The irony of her position almost overwhelmed her. She had felt closely confined in Holloway and her freedom had been cruelly curtailed there. But would she be any freer with Michael Grayling? She doubted it very much. But she had made her bed. There was no going back.
‘In that case, Jamie, you can take Julia and me to the airport in the Range Rover. It’s parked in the barn. There’s a private plane standing by for us at Baginton. You can follow us to Portugal during the week. Bring the Range Rover over on the ferry via Santander like before.’
He glanced at his watch.
‘We’d better get off, before the police arrive. We’ve got twenty minutes assuming Doyle was telling the truth. You can manhandle Doyle into the passenger seat, if Maxine has no objection?’
Maxine had not.
‘Nae bother,’ replied Jamie, picking up Doyle as if he were a sack of potatoes and carrying him to the Mercedes. He sat him upright in the front passenger seat and belted him in. Doyle’s head slumped forward. He adjusted the angle of the seat and then returned to the sitting room.
‘And don’t forget to torch the place, Jamie. I don’t want anything left here that could identify me. There’s plenty of petrol in the hallway. I’ll load Julia’s things while you get on with it.’
He nodded for Julia to follow him. She did so, very reluctantly. As she passed through the front door and walked briefly alongside the Mercedes she took what she assumed was her final look at Doyle. He was lying back in the passenger seat, his head to one side. He would never see her again nor she him. She wiped a tear from her eye.
‘We could leave Doyle here, you know,’ shouted Jamie from the front door as he splashed petrol about. ‘It would make it easier for Maxine. The fire would do a good enough job.’
‘Leave the thinking to me, will you, Jamie?’ insisted Grayling. ‘I want the police to find him intact, but dead.’
Julia felt a chill go through her body as she heard these words. She climbed into the rear seat of the Range Rover and placed the seat belt in position. There was nothing else she could do. Fifteen minutes later, the smoke was just starting to escape from Barnard House as the two vehicles sped through the gates, the Range Rover in the lead with Doyle still propped up in the front passenger seat of the Mercedes. But there was one small but important discrepancy in all this fine planning. Doyle had a very thick skull. His teachers had remarked on it when he was still at school and it had served him well after the accident in Hull. The several blackboard dusters that had hit him with considerable force while he idled away his schooldays had never caused him a moment’
s concern. They simply bounced off him. He even stopped bothering to duck. Besides, he had anticipated Jamie’s assault and had turned his head slightly in sufficient time for the blow to strike him in a less vulnerable area. He had pretended, of course, that he was still unconscious but he’d come round in sufficient time to hear most of the conversation that had taken place about his imminent demise. Despite the intense pain in his head, he’d also heard Julia’s protests, although her appeal that he should not be hurt was summarily rejected by Grayling.
‘He knows too much,’ he’d said. ‘He’s more dangerous to us than Manning.’ But Julia’s distress, at least, gave Doyle hope. She was not lost to him yet, not altogether. As the Mercedes hurried north along the A1, he was already calculating a quite different conclusion to the day’s events than the one planned for him by Michael Grayling.
Chapter Fifty-Five
By the time Hood and his team arrived at Barnard House it was well ablaze. The fire officers were doing their best, but there was, in truth, nothing they could do to save the building. Hood stood down the firearms officers and the dogs. There was little prospect of finding anything of evidential value in the debris and it would be several hours before it would be safe to enter the shell of the building.
‘Arson,’ the Senior Fire Officer told him. ‘No doubt about it. You can still smell the petrol. Someone didn’t want you finding anything of use in this place.’
Hood nodded his gratitude. ‘This can’t be down to Doyle,’ he said. ‘Let’s hope we don’t find his remains in there.’
‘Or anyone else’s,’ echoed Wendy Knight. ‘We’ll never identify anyone caught in this blaze.’
‘He could still be responsible for this,’ said the cynical Hooper. ‘As I said, a wild goose chase. He’s probably up to something somewhere else. This could simply be a diversion.’
Hood sighed. ‘I don’t think so, Andrew. This doesn’t look like Doyle’s handiwork to me. But we’re no further forward. We have to find him.’ He turned to Knight. ‘Do you really think Doyle hired that Mercedes?’
A Private and Convenient Place Page 42