by G I Tulloch
But blood was coming from somewhere, he could feel it sticky on his face and hands. He scanned the area to see who else had survived but as his memory came back to him of the moment the shell had struck he knew that no one else could have survived the detonation inside the hull of the tank. That he had survived this far was in itself a miracle.
He detected the roar of Challenger engines approaching, the rest of the unit moving in fast in support and before long voices and hands started to arrive, distant and indistinct. As he lost consciousness more explosions echoed in his brain as the remains of his tank blew itself apart.
And now here he was in the field hospital, full of morphine and God knows what else. Still couldn't hear in one ear and the other was still muffled. One hand was covered in bandage. He hadn't seen it but the doctors told him he had lost a finger, torn away by flying shrapnel., which was strange because he was sure he could feel all ten fingers. Two others had been sown back together but bizarrely the other hand wasn't scratched at all.
He hated the smell of hospitals, the standard smells of disinfectants, unwashed bodies and canteen food. He might be in the middle of the God-forsaken desert but the smell was there just the same.
He brought his good hand up to the bandages covering one half of his face where flying burning metal shards had sliced open his cheek. He longed to scratch the itch. He looked past his leg in traction, broken in two places apparently, and tried to attract some attention. The burns on his chest were giving him hell.
But he was the lucky one. As the tank Commander sitting in the open turret he had been blown clear when the incoming shell had struck. Down in the hull the driver, the loader and the gunner had no chance against the devastating percussive detonation of the shell and died instantly not even realising what was coming. The tank's own ammunition and the massive diesel tank had made short work of what was left. The others had told him that you could have posted the whole thing through a standard letterbox afterwards. No need for the recovery vehicle, only a brush and shovel.
Someone was playing pop music over the tannoy. Anger welled up inside him. Didn't they know that people were going through hell here? Didn't they realise? Uncontrollable tears started to stream down his face, soaking bandages, and he didn't care. He didn't care about anything.
He wished he had died as well. Rationally he knew there was nothing he could have done, and he didn't subscribe to the captain going down with the ship unnecessarily, but he had lost his best friends in that tank and he didn't deserve to outlive them.
He managed to attract attention at last and the murmur of background conversation died as a doctor came over to him. He looked as if he was only out of short trousers but Adam had come to respect him all the same in the three days he had been there.
And the MPs had arrived, as they always did, to address security issues and issued stern warnings. The Regimental CO had also arrived and warned him that he had achieved celebrity status. There was an investigation as to who had fired the shell because it sure as hell wasn't the Iraqis. In the meantime say nothing, to anyone.
At that point he had wanted to give up, but despite everything, something deep inside him rebelled at the thought, and so now he was going out on the next medical helicopter to Kuwait and from there back to UK.
As the saying goes 'for him the war was over'.
Adam looked at Gerry and then back at Sutton. His voice when he spoke had ice on it.
"They never found out one way or another."
"But the Iraqis were nowhere were they?"
"I can't talk about it."
"Can't or won't."
Adam leaned quietly over the table and grabbed Sutton by the lapels. "Three of the best men I've known died in that tank, the most horrific death you can imagine and I'm not going to sully their memories by discussing it with you." He paused. "Do I make myself clear?"
He let him go.
"So you don't want to know what else I found out then," said Sutton, straightening his jacket, the makings of a sneer playing around his mouth.
Adam stopped. "What do you mean?"
"I looked into the circumstances around your wife's death whilst I was at it."
Adam stiffened, going quite still. "And?" he asked guardedly.
"There were funny aspects to that as well." Sutton replied tentatively.
Adam motioned for him to continue, whilst privately debating whether he wanted to hear it or not. Was this going to help, or just confuse the issue? Would it help him overcome grief or cause him to wallow in it? He was getting fed up of that coin.
Sutton watched him carefully, aware of the potential minefield he was treading through.
"There were inconsistencies that the police couldn't quite resolve. The internal police report remarked on the lack of skid marks on the road but came to the conclusion that the driver, presumed drunk or under the influence of drugs, didn't see her and therefore didn't brake at all." He hesitated, watching for any reaction on Adam's part.
He continued, "this didn't hang together with the fact that the car had stopped immediately afterwards. There were conflicting witness reports as well. Did you know that Brad Wilding was the last person to see your wife alive?"
Adam shook his head, afraid to say anything.
Sutton drained his glass as if considering his words carefully.
"A colleague of your wife's claimed that she was seen walking out of the building with a sheaf of papers. Wilding maintains that she had no paperwork when he saw her get into the lift. The first police on the scene after the accident swear that there was no paperwork either on the body or in the vicinity."
Adam interjected." Is it possible she left them at reception on the way out?"
This time it was Sutton's turn to shake his head. "The night porter said no. He couldn't remember noticing any paperwork or not. Chances were that he was asleep, or buried in a book."
Adam rubbed his eyes as if to make sense of it all.
"Was any paperwork reported missing?"
"No."
"Why didn't this come out at the inquest?"
"Pass. I suppose that it didn't seem important. By that time an accident verdict was almost a foregone conclusion."
Adam sat motionless for a minute or more. He didn't know what to make of it but he needed to get out.
On leaving the pub Adam stopped and took several lungfuls of fresh air, needing to step back and assess what he had heard.
He turned to Gerry. "What are the chances of two unexplained deaths related to the same company?"
Gerry zipped up his jacket against the cold air. "Probably higher than you think. Don't read too much into it Adam. You're too close to be objective and you'll draw the wrong conclusion. The chances are Fran's death was just what it appeared to be, a hit and run drunk in the wrong place at the wrong time."
Adam was shaking his head. "No. No. No. It wasn't an accident. I know it wasn't an accident."
"You don't want to believe it was an accident."
"You're right. I don't want to believe it was an accident. But my emotions don't explain the Irishman on the phone telling me that I'll end up like Fran or Granger if I don't lay off."
Gerry shrugged.
Adam poked him in the chest. "So I don't intend to lay off and we'll see what happens."
And with that he strode off toward Ludgate Hill, his heart pounding and a maelstrom of emotion consuming his thoughts.
Which is why he almost missed the call on his mobile, set to vibrate. He hit the answer button.
"Yes?"
"Mr Lennox?" Adam did a double take until he recognised Derek Travis' voice.
"Yes Derek?"
"It may be nothing but I've been looking through the accounts for the period after Granger Bartlett's death."
"And?"
"One of Mr Bartlett's manservants remained on the payroll for a considerable number of years even after Mr Bartlett's death."
"An oversight perhaps."
"No it doesn't look
like it. What is odd is that there has been a clumsy attempt to disguise the payments."
"Strange. Do we have an address for this person?"
"Yes, and bizarrely it was updated only two years ago."
"I think we'll need to pay our friend a visit. Can you e-mail me the details at my office?"
"I certainly can."
Adam rang off. Another piece of the jigsaw for which he didn't have the picture.
Chapter 21
Adam walked without haste up through Bank and Cheapside back toward the office. The side streets were virtually empty now. Adam had a habit of sorting out his thoughts whilst walking the streets of London (not whistling the tune, no) which was often profitable despite the odd altercation with a lamppost.
Okay, so four deaths. Three 'accidents' and a murder, all centred around the common ground of Bartletts. So far so good. Tick in the box.
One accident twenty-six years ago. One three years ago. Two deaths in the last week. Things seem to be accelerating uncomfortable quickly. Epidemic proportions.
Adam side-stepped a lamp-post at the last moment and became aware he wasn't concentrating. There were too many obstructions on the pavements these days, what with pillar-boxes, parking meters and waste paper bins, not too mention bus stops and traffic lights. Sometimes he felt he was safer walking in the road.
All right Adam, clever clogs, what happened twenty six years ago and why has it triggered events some twenty three years later? So what does it all hinge on? Got to be Granger's death, who killed him and why.
So what was going on at Bartletts twenty six years ago and why was it still important?
Adam Lennox. Specialist subject 'skeletons in Bartlett's cupboard 1960-1201', two minutes, starts now. Heck.
All right Adam, current situation:-
One. Facts. At least four people have died in suspicious circumstances; the only thing connecting them is Bartletts.
Two. Assumptions. Granger and John were both involved in, or aware of, something that led to their deaths; whatever it was, it was inherent to the business and wasn't personal; Fran stumbled on some secret or other that threatened someone and therefore she was killed. The thought stopped Adam in his tracks as Fran's death became more focussed. Her killer was still out there. Dangerous emotions started to run through his mind. What would he do when he found out whoever he thought was responsible?
He moved on.
Three. Questions. Why was John killed? Revenge, or to stop him spilling the beans? Why was Granger killed? What was he involved in thirty years ago? Why was Fran killed? What had she found out and who was so scared that they killed her for it? Where did Brad fit into all this? Who was the Irishman? And who the heck was Anna Low? (Adam was becoming increasingly frustrated at how often this question came up, or was it just the fact that he was repeating himself?)
Bartletts had secrets that held the key to it. Adam just hoped that Derek would manage to find out what it was before the stakes were raised and caused another death.
Now Adam considered himself of reasonable intelligence and wit but did not consider that he was prone to words of knowledge or premonitions which is why what happened next, despite his thoughts, came as a complete surprise.
The hand that grabbed Adam's collar and pulled him roughly into the darkened doorway was well manicured and soft, but the metal cylinder thrust into his abdomen was uncompromisingly hard and rough. He had only had a gun pulled on him once before but it was a sensation that you didn't forget in a hurry.
A voice whispered in his ear and was no less threatening for all its cultured tones.
"Don't make any sudden movements Mr Lennox."
Adam swallowed, endeavoured to appear nonchalant, and failed.
"Wouldn't dream of it. I'd hate to pull a muscle or put something out in the current circumstances." Adam's voice belied his gut feeling. Like, shit why have I been this stupid? Why didn't I listen to Mother and get the bus? Why didn't I listen to the Irishman on the phone? Why couldn't I mind my own business for once? He came back to earth from high geostationary orbit.
"You were given a warning, Mr Lennox." hissed Mr Culture.
Adam stalled. "What warning?"
"Don't stall, Mr Lennox." This guy was good. "You know what I'm talking about. You were warned to steer clear of Bartlett's business and you've ignored the warning. My friends don't like being ignored. That's why they've sent me."
Adam felt it time to interrupt. He had an uncomfortable feeling he knew where this was going.
"To deliver another warning?"
"I'm sorry Mr Lennox, but my friends only ever give one warning, as John Bartlett discovered."
"John Bartlett?"
"You're stalling again, Mr Lennox. Now you're going to have to say a permanent goodbye."
The gun ground another inch or two and Adam feared for his appendix.
"I'm not alone." Clutching at straws Adam.
"Ah yes. The lovely Bel Trent. I shall enjoy taking care of her later. Perhaps tonight." He paused and considered. "Yes perhaps tonight."
A car pulled up beside them. A very old Mark three Cortina with rust everywhere. Rather a conspicuous car to use for kidnapping but Adam's was not to reason why. He was bundled in to lie on the floor in the back, whilst Mr Culture kept one foot on his neck. He wasn't even offered a seat belt.
From his somewhat contorted position he could see very little of the passing scenery. He tried to recall where they had picked him up and navigate by the turnings of the car but he could tell very little other than they seemed to be heading into the East End. He made a mental note to memorise the A-Z in case he ever found himself in this situation again.
The journey lasted less than fifteen minutes by his reckoning. When the car stopped he realised they were in an industrial estate, by the look of it largely disused. He unfolded himself from the car when instructed and the silent driver motioned him into a building that looked due for demolition. They stopped in a large cavernous room that appeared to be an old machine shop by the look of what had been left.
Adam began to doubt his future. He noticed blood stains on the ground and deduced they hadn't been a result of an industrial accident. This was someone's killing ground.
The driver, who seemed to be in charge motioned to a chair.
"Sit down Mr Lennox."
Adam didn't move. The voice had stopped him in tracks. This was the voice on his phone. The Irish intonation was unmistakable.
"I said sit down Mr Lennox."
He sat.
"You torched my car," said Adam.
"Ah yes. The Lotus wasn't it. I'm not a lover of cars but all the same it was a shame to destroy something so nicely made. The upholstery badly needed cleaning by the way."
Adam was only half listening to what was being said. He suddenly realised that this man held answers.
"You bastard. What has this got to do with the death of my wife?" Realisation dawned on him. His voice growled an accusation. "You killed my wife didn't you?"
Reilly just smiled.
Adam lunged at him oblivious of any danger and the pile-driving punch into his midriff doubled him up in agony. Shooting pains coursed through his torso and he was convinced when coherent thought became possible, that he had ruptured some major organ. Then the fist that caught him on the side of his head felt as if it had knuckle-dusters attached. Pain erupted in his head and the power of the blow took him off the chair and writhing onto the floor.
He braced himself where he still had muscles under control but the assault didn't continue. This was a measured softening up. Phrases from his army training on interrogation techniques came back to him. Rough hands lifted him back into the chair and his vision slowly returned to normal.
"Mr Lennox. You are an irritation to me." Reilly continued. "But you may be of use after all. What did you learn from John Bartlett?"
"Nothing that's of any use to you, besides, you're going to kill me anyway."
"That's not yet a foregone co
nclusion depending on what you can tell me. What was Bartlett looking for on that ship?"
Adam looked up. "I don't know. I would have thought that you would."
"Ah, now I might and then again I might not. Did Bartlett ever mentioned important papers that he has, or where he keeps such things."
"No. I assume he keeps them in a bank vault somewhere like everyone else."
"So you can't tell me anything?"
"I can tell you lots of things, mainly to do with your parentage but I don't know anything about any papers, no."
Reilly smiled, it wasn't a pretty sight. "How about we go and get Bel to join us. You can watch whilst my friends and I have some fun taking turns with her. She's a very attractive lady now isn't she? Very nice body. What's she like in bed I wonder? Do you know?"
Adam's reactions were still dulled by the previous blow and he was only half way out of the chair before another blow sent him sprawling on the floor.
His brain was confused now. Should he pretend to know about the papers to stall for time? Papers. Papers. Something rang a faint bell in the back of his mind but nothing was clear any more.
"I still don't know what you're talking about."
"I thought that was probably the case." Reilly checked his watch and frowned. "A shame. I have to be somewhere else."
He turned to Mr Culture. "Wait until I've gone and then get rid of him. Then deal with the girl Trent."
Adam's wits were starting to return and he could see that gambling was the only option he had left, bluff his only weapon.
"Wait. I know a man that Bartlett trusted. If he ever had anything that he would want kept safe then he's the man he would use."
"Where do I find him?"
"I haven't the details with me but I know where I can get hold of his address."
Reilly checked his watch again and cursed in frustration.
"Keep him here until I get back." And he disappeared through the doorway.
Mr Culture stepped forward and jabbed the gun into Adam's ribs, a manoeuvre he seemed fond of.
"Watch it," said Adam. "That thing goes off and we're both in trouble."