Blood Falls

by Tom Bale

  She sat down, brooding while Glenn hunted for the brandy. Without being asked, he brought two glasses over. Poured a generous measure into each. Diana regarded hers with distaste.

  ‘Where is Joe?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ A long pause. ‘Leon wants rid of him.’

  ‘Rid of him how?’

  Glenn sat down, drained his glass in a single gulp and poured another. ‘Just … getting him out of town.’

  Diana’s eyes narrowed. She realised that even now, after all that had happened, she wanted to believe him.

  ‘Joe told me about Alise. What Leon did to her. It’s all true, isn’t it? Alise’s sister, and the girl Roy was looking for …’ Her voice had become too shaky to continue. She swallowed a mouthful of brandy and grimaced. ‘Were you involved?’

  ‘No!’ He turned away, wounded. ‘We both know what Roy thought, but there’s never been any proof.’

  ‘There is now. There’s Alise, beaten up and left for dead. And I want to know if you took part in that.’

  Glenn shook his head. ‘I swear I had nothing to do with it. I’m guilty of lots of things, Di. Guilty of being weak, and stupid. Guilty of turning a blind eye when I shouldn’t have. But I’ve never gone near the sort of stuff Leon does.’ He shuddered. ‘Him and Clive Fenton.’

  ‘What about Derek Cadwell? Does he just “turn a blind eye”, or is he an active part of the conspiracy?’

  ‘He’s close to them. Closer to Fenton than he is to Leon, probably. But they’re all rotten. Rotten to the core.’

  Ashamed, he stared at his brandy as though it could provide the answer he needed. Diana let him brood for a minute. Having initially faked a sense of composure, she now felt genuinely calm.

  ‘You have a big decision to make,’ she said.

  Glenn went for the brandy but Diana got there first, moving it beyond his reach. He didn’t protest; just glanced at her, then hung his head again. A savage gust of wind threw rain at the house.

  ‘Leon’s lost the plot. He won’t listen to any of us. Yesterday he made a complete frigging disaster out of—’ He stopped.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Doesn’t matter. Just something he buggered up.’ A heartfelt sigh. ‘I’m tempted to walk out.’

  ‘Then do it.’

  ‘It’s not just that.’ Now he met her eye. ‘The past couple of days it’s really hit home, you and me splitting up. I don’t want to lose what we had.’

  ‘And what did we have?’

  Glenn heard the coolness of her tone, and seemed surprised by it. ‘I don’t …’

  ‘It was a happy coincidence, was it, you seducing me just as Roy made a nuisance of himself?’

  ‘Who put that idea in your head?’ He snorted. ‘Joe, I suppose?’

  ‘Tell me the truth. Was it Leon’s idea?’

  Glenn gazed longingly at the bottle of brandy. Diana had it clutched in her hand as though ready to club him with it.

  ‘He suggested that I should … get to know you. But I fell for you, Di. Honestly. Hook, line and sinker. Leon wasn’t happy about that. After Roy died he told me to end it, but I refused.’ To her dismay, he couldn’t resist injecting pride into his voice.

  ‘I betrayed my husband in the worst possible way, and now I find out the whole thing was engineered by Leon bloody Race.’

  ‘I’m truly sorry. But my feelings for you were genuine. Would I still be here if they weren’t?’

  He reached across the table and laid his hand over hers. Diana found that she didn’t have the strength to push him away.

  ‘You can’t let this happen, Glenn. You have to do the decent thing.’

  He grunted. ‘I’m surprised you still think I’m capable of that.’

  ‘So am I. Maybe it’s the brandy talking.’

  ‘You’ve hardly touched yours.’ His fingers tightened around hers. ‘We did have some good times, didn’t we? Best relationship I’ve ever had.’

  ‘Then do what you can for Joe,’ she said. ‘For the sake of a fresh start.’

  Glenn stared at her for a long time. ‘You mean that?’

  She nodded. He checked his watch, and Diana automatically looked at hers. It was twenty to two.

  ‘I need to make a phone call,’ he said.

  Seventy-Five

  THEY FED HIM the vodka, slowly and patiently, for what seemed like hours. Joe had no choice but to submit to it. Any hope of survival he had lay not in violent resistance, but in the skills he’d perfected in his former life.

  An undercover cop is essentially an actor, and Joe had prided himself on his ability to inhabit a character, living as a criminal among criminals, for days or weeks at a time. That had often meant drinking heavily, matching his associates pint for pint, but in a situation where any slip-up could be fatal he’d developed a strategy to avoid becoming hopelessly drunk.

  During the first stage his surface persona would exhibit the full effects of the alcohol, while underneath the real Joe remained sober and sharp. To achieve this, he set himself memory challenges and conducted mental arithmetic, even as his eyes lost focus and his mouth became slack.

  He’d had a bacon sandwich for breakfast, plus two cups of coffee with milk. Not a bad intake in terms of fat and protein to line his stomach, though a fry-up would have been better still.

  With just an inch of vodka left in the bottle, Bruce fetched a box of paracetamol and a mortar and pestle. He began to grind the tablets into powder, whistling like a busy chef.

  Reece objected. ‘It’s too early. He could be dead before we get there.’

  ‘So what?’

  ‘That’s not the plan.’

  ‘Ask Clive?’ Todd suggested, after the other two had spent a long minute glowering at each other.

  Reece sloped away and returned looking smugly vindicated. ‘We’ll give him the last bit once we get there.’

  Joe was glad to hear it. He had a method for fighting the booze, but not pills.

  ‘I need a piss,’ he declared, his voice slurred, but not too slurred. When playing drunk, he knew the tendency was always to overdo it.

  ‘Fuck off.’ Reece consulted his watch, and told the others: ‘We’re about ready to go.’

  ‘Imeanit,’ Joe said, lolling his head slightly. ‘Gotta go now. Or wet myself.’

  Bruce groaned. ‘I don’t want him pissing in the Range Rover.’

  ‘What if he tries something?’ Reece complained.

  ‘What?’

  ‘We should keep him cuffed.’

  ‘So how’s he gonna …?’

  ‘I ain’t holding it for him,’ Todd said quickly. ‘Or going in with him.’

  Bruce took the lead. ‘For Christ’s sake. As long as he can’t get out the window. There’s three of us. Better to let him take a leak so we don’t have to clean up the car.’

  Reece nodded reluctantly. He kept a close eye on Joe as the other two removed the cuffs and hauled him to his feet. Joe felt his head spin and realised he was quite genuinely inebriated: never mind the performance. And yet there was also the sober core of him, perhaps half in control: like a car being operated by a learner driver and an instructor at the same time.

  * * *

  They led him into a bedroom with an internal en-suite shower room: no windows, no escape route. One up to them.

  Being macho men, none of them wanted to get too close to the doorway after they shoved him inside. He stumbled back against the door, flicking his heel to make sure it shut while giving the impression it was down to clumsiness.

  He didn’t have long. The need to void his bladder was real enough, but there were other, more important considerations. The next stage of his strategy was to empty his stomach, very rapidly, and without drawing attention to himself. If they heard him retching they’d only force more vodka down his throat to replenish what he’d lost.

  After urinating, Joe shoved two fingers down his throat while simultaneously pushing the lever to flush the toilet. In the gurgling rush of water he crouched dow
n and vomited, with a minimum of noise. This was the method that had once enabled him to drink the Mortons and their associates under the table.

  Then he turned, gripping the sink as black spots danced across his vision. He could feel another spasm coming on but fought it back. The gurgle of the cistern refilling wasn’t loud enough to disguise a second bout. Instead, running the cold tap, he cupped his hands and frantically drank as much water as he could throw into his mouth.

  The door started to open. An angry voice called, ‘Get a frigging move on.’

  ‘Yeah.’ Joe bumped against the door frame on the way out, still fumbling with his zip. His hands left damp patches on his jeans and the men around him instinctively recoiled.

  They directed him back to the landing and down the stairs. Once or twice Joe tripped and had to be held upright by Todd and Bruce. He kept his mouth tightly shut so they wouldn’t smell the bile on his breath.

  There was no one in sight as they reached the hall, and the office door was shut. Joe wondered if all the other staff had been banished.

  Before they left, his captors put on thick plastic coats, overtrousers and boots. Heavy-duty waterproof gear, designed to protect them from the elements. Joe wore only jeans and the thin plastic jacket he’d bought in Bristol, a week and a lifetime ago.

  Joe was marched quickly to the Range Rover. The other three ducked their heads, while Joe turned his face up to the sky, the rain so hard and fierce that he could barely keep his eyes open.

  ‘Thirsty?’ Reece gave a scornful laugh. ‘You’re gonna have all the water you can drink soon enough.’

  He was put in the back, forced to crouch in the footwell behind the passenger seat. Reece took the seat next to him. He held a leather sap. ‘You just give me a reason, all right?’

  From the driver’s seat, Bruce tutted. ‘We ain’t supposed to mark him.’

  ‘What’s it gonna matter if his head gets split open? The rocks and tide’ll make a mess of him.’

  They set off, the windscreen wipers struggling to combat the torrent of water, Bruce grumbling about the driving conditions, Todd about how unpleasant their task was going to be, and Reece just sitting silently, staring at Joe with murder in his eyes.

  The footwell was a tight space, so Joe wasn’t thrown around too badly, but the motion of the car did little to ease his nausea. It was worse with his eyes shut, so he kept them open, staring at Reece’s booted feet and thinking: I’m sober. I’m sober. I’m sober.

  He tested his muscles as best he could, flexing one or two at a time: tiny cautious movements. He played out how the attack might develop, like a choreographer preparing several permutations of a dance routine. If he got a chance – when he got a chance – it had to be exploited without hesitation.

  He stayed positive, except for the odd moment when an image of his wife and daughters broke his concentration and left him with the desperate, heartbreaking knowledge that one day they might be informed of his suicide and not doubt it for a second.

  They would believe that Joe had given up on them, and somehow that thought was more unbearable than the idea of death itself.

  Seventy-Six

  WHEN CADWELL TURNED up Joe was still having the booze poured into him. Leon affected surprise at the news of the funeral director’s arrival. ‘I’m too busy to see him now.’

  Fenton stayed by the door, fighting the temptation to plead. Leon glared at him till he left the room, and was then beset by doubts. Wasn’t this reaction going to supply more fuel for the conspiracy against him?

  To demonstrate to himself that he was a reasonable man, he went back over it all. It wasn’t too late to rethink. They could keep Joe here. Phone Danny Morton and see what was on offer.

  But every time he played it out, all he saw was Morton sneering at him. Calling him a fucking hick. Calling him a dumbfuck yokel.

  And Leon couldn’t do it. He couldn’t give Morton the satisfaction. No matter how much money was involved, Morton would feel he’d got the better deal. He would come out the winner, and Leon – the dumbfuck yokel – would be the loser.

  There was no way he’d let himself end up like Victor Smith, begging for whatever scraps Morton cared to throw him. No way on earth.

  But Joe had to go. Leon had no qualms there at all. One way or another Joe was determined to bring him down, and he possessed the skills to do it. For the sake of Leon’s own survival, Joe had to die.

  * * *

  It was twenty to two when they took Joe out. Leon slipped upstairs, stood at a bedroom window and watched the Range Rover drive away. The rain was churning the gravel driveway into a series of miniature lakes. Perfect conditions for the task ahead.

  Back downstairs, Fenton met him in the hall, his face grave. ‘You need to see this.’

  To Leon’s surprise, he was beckoned in the direction of the basement. His first reaction was to suspect a trap. Were Cadwell and his men hiding down there …?

  He made Fenton take the stairs first, stayed alert for any sound or movement. But the den was empty.

  He sniffed. Pulled a face. ‘It stinks. What is it?’

  ‘This.’ Fenton placed his palm against the outer wall, next to the plasma TV. When Leon looked closely he could see that a patch of the wall was darker than the rest. He laid his own hand on it. Damp.

  Fenton said, ‘The river level must have risen above the damp-proof membrane.’

  They inspected the rest of the room. In the toilet there was a puddle of water on the floor.

  ‘Glenn guaranteed this would be waterproof,’ Leon said. ‘He can bloody well get it fixed.’

  ‘Probably have to wait until the storm passes.’

  ‘Whatever. Anyway, he should have picked up Joe’s stuff by now.’

  Returning to the office, he tried Glenn’s mobile, but there was no answer. He was dimly aware of noise in the hall: that must be him.

  Then Fenton came in, Derek Cadwell looming over his shoulder. He was wearing a dark suit with a white shirt but no tie, and a black fedora glistening with rain.

  ‘Not now, Derek.’

  ‘You don’t have a choice.’ There was more steel in Cadwell’s voice than usual. Always grim, the funeral director had a bleak determination on his face that gave Leon pause, but the conciliatory approach wasn’t his style.

  ‘I’ve been over it with Clive. I’m not changing my mind. Anyway, you’re too late.’

  Cadwell pulled out one of the conference chairs and sat down, while Fenton took his usual position on the sofa. Enough space between them that Leon couldn’t look at them both at the same time. Was that a deliberate tactic? he wondered.

  ‘This isn’t about Morton. Or Joe Carter.’ Cadwell sounded weary, as though he’d spent so long time building up to this conversation that he barely had the energy to go through with it.

  ‘No?’

  ‘No. It’s about you and me, Leon. Our working relationship. It’s been far too uneven for far too long.’ Cadwell reached into his jacket and produced a USB stick. ‘This,’ he said, ‘is going to restore the balance.’

  Seventy-Seven

  JOE WASN’T ABLE to see out of the Range Rover’s window, so he couldn’t track his route. All he had was a rough estimation of the direction and the time it took them to get there.

  At first they ascended, driving south out of Trelennan, then turned left, heading east. For ten or fifteen minutes they travelled on flat, winding terrain, the rain hammering on the roof and gusting against the windows. Then the road dipped and rose and dropped again more violently, twisting through a series of switchbacks as they descended towards the coast.

  Joe guessed they were about four or five miles east of Trelennan. The coast along here was rocky and inhospitable, with only the occasional hamlet or farm nestled in the hills.

  Finally the Range Rover came to a halt, Bruce ratcheting the handbrake, and then there was only the sound of the rain, trying to pummel the world into submission.

  ‘Come on.’ Reece was the first to
get out. Rain blew into the car, hitting Joe in the face. Reece shut his door and stood by it to prevent Joe from escaping.

  Todd opened the rear door on Joe’s side, and Reece joined him as Joe manoeuvred himself backwards out of the car. Bruce was last to appear, abandoning the fight to keep his hood up.

  Joe stood in docile silence, swaying in the wind. Cold rain poured down his neck but he tried not to shiver. Drunks tend not to notice the cold. With heavy-lidded eyes he took note of his surroundings.

  The Range Rover had descended a steep wooded hill and parked on a muddy track beside a narrow river mouth. A grassy bank led down to a spit of dark grey slate, curving out to sea as if directing the river to its rightful home. In both directions Joe could barely make out the shore, lost in the spray of a raging sea. There wasn’t another living soul in sight.

  ‘This is some shitty weather,’ Todd complained, shouting to be heard over the crashing waves. He and Reece took hold of Joe’s arms and escorted him around the Range Rover towards the riverbank. Then Reece stopped abruptly and yelled at Bruce: ‘The vodka.’

  Joe said a prayer: Thank God they hadn’t forgotten it.

  Bruce returned to the vehicle and retrieved the bottle, while the other two fumed at the delay. Every second out here made them colder and wetter and angrier.

  As Bruce approached, Joe was turned to face him. He now had Reece to his left, standing side-on to the riverbank, and Todd to his right, on the path directly in front of the Range Rover. Joe could feel their grip on him relax a little. He knew they would tense up again as Bruce made him drink the spiked vodka.

  Anticipating that response, Joe let his body sag, his shoulders slumping and his arms bending at the elbows. He kept his hands suspended just above his waist. Shut his eyes and rehearsed the move; trying to allow for the fact that, despite his best efforts, he wasn’t fully sober. His coordination wouldn’t be at its best.

  Bruce slowly removed the bottle’s top; of the three, he seemed the least affected by the rain. He grinned at Joe, eyes shining with malice.