by G I Tulloch
"He didn't say what condition you needed to be in when he got back. You and I could have some f.."
His voice trailed off and stopped.
Adam was suddenly aware of a third presence. A Glaswegian accent cut through the atmosphere like a knife.
"Ernest, I think you've already worked out that I've got a gun to yer head. If I was you I wouldn't be doing anything silly that you might be regrettin' later."
Having initially stiffened, 'Ernest' appeared to relax marginally at the sound of Mitch's voice.
"Ah, the redoubtable Mitch. I might have expected this I suppose, but you do realise that I if pull this trigger Mr Lennox dies even before the bullet leaves your gun."
You could almost see Mitch's smile in the gloom. "I doubt you could measure it on a stop watch. It would be such a waste of body parts, ye understand."
There was a pause whilst 'Ernest' considered.
"Indeed you may be right."
Adam meanwhile was beginning to doubt his bladder control and silently wished they would get on with it. Mitch seemed to have all day but then he wasn't on the end of a gun barrel, was he?
"Ah'm askin' you nicely to put the gun down, but ma patience is wearin' thin. Drop it quietly on the floor and kick it away."
There was a short second during which Adam thought 'Ernest' might call his bluff, but there was a muffled thud as the gun hit the floor and Adam got his abdomen back.
No one moved but Mitch was the first to speak.
"Who was writing the cheque, Ernest?"
Ernest started showing reluctance to partake in banter. "Can't say. Woman on a telephone, never met her."
"Her? I think you're pullin' ma leg Ernest. Who wus he?"
"I told you. It was a woman. I don't know." For the first time it looked as if Ernest feared he had misread the situation. "I told you, I never met her."
Mitch wasn't convinced. "Don't give me that. Describe her voice." To emphasise the question the gun inched forward.
Ernest was now looking left and right for a way out of this. "She had a mid-Atlantic accent. That was the only noticeable thing. For crying out loud Mitch, give me a break."
Mitch stepped away and without moving his own gun chopped him on the back of the neck.
Adam watched with satisfaction as the limp body dropped to the ground.
"Is he....?" He asked Mitch.
"Dead? No. He'll be out for half an hour maybe."
"You took your time," accused Adam.
"Dinna worry. I was there just waitin' for the right moment."
The body on the ground moaned and Mitch kicked him for good measure.
"You two know each other?" Adam enquired solicitously.
Mitch raised an eyebrow. "I've seen him around."
Before he could say more, a car appeared at high speed and pulled up outside without any thought of brake-pad wear. Adam briefly feared another kidnap attempt but Mitch appeared unconcerned. He dragged Ernest out to the car, opened a rear door and threw the hitman's gun into the car. 'Ernest' followed in unceremonious fashion as if he was loading the shopping at Tesco's.
Mitch turned to Adam. "He's Ernest Pratt. Appropriately named. Small time hit man. Takes occasional contracts in the South East."
Adam raised his eyebrows. "You know him well. Not a business you've ever been involved in?"
Mitch regarded him with a steady gaze that always made Adam feel slightly uncomfortable. "I've told you before, I only deal in vermin." He closed the car door. "I'll take him and dump him on some policeman's doorstep with enough evidence to keep him off the streets for a few years."
He went to move around the car, then stopped and met Adam's eye. "Does this business have anything to do with Granger Bartlett?"
Adam hesitated. "Yes I think so."
Mitch opened the car door. "In that case you'll be wanting to know his background."
"Yes."
"Granger Bartlett was a dangerous fool."
"And?"
"And a member of the IRA."
Chapter 22
Adam drove. Not that he had any doubts about Bel's driving ability you understand, but he felt that he wasn't in control of events at the moment, and taking the wheel might be his only opportunity to hold on to some credibility. That and the fact that it was his name on the car rental insurance. The decision to drive down to his parents had been a spur of the moment thing on his part. He knew his father had contacts everywhere and there was no person better placed to find out details of Granger's life at the time of his death. So, off to Crowborough, conveniently on the same road as Sevenoaks, residence of Granger's ex-personal servant, one Gerard Kemp.
"So Lennox. Tell me why I'm here again." Bel enquired with a mild challenge.
"I need an assistant when I interview Mr Kemp," replied Adam.
He feigned concentration on the road. These rental cars were tricky things you know.
"You still haven't told me what happened after you left Barry Sutton."
Adam considered. He pondered. He cogitated. In the end he decided that honesty was the best policy, so he told her. And then instantly regretted it.
The car went silent, just the reflection of the car noise off the hedgerows.
Bel broke into the quiet. "So if Mitch hadn't been there you'd be dead."
"No, no. I don't think we can say that with such certainty," replied Adam quickly. Too quickly. Ouch. Too defensive Adam.
It was a good five minutes before Bel continued the conversation.
"You've faced death before haven't you?"
"Yes."
"In Iraq."
"Yes."
"Tell me about it."
"No."
"Adam, help me understand. I'm determined to bring Fran's killers to justice but I need to understand where you're coming from."
Adam's resolve faltered. He gazed out of windscreen and saw sand and dust.
"We were advancing through southern Iraq. We had broken through what remained of the Iraqi defences and all but routed them. We were on a relatively free run to the outskirts of Basra. Our Challenger tank had four crew. The gunner, loader and driver were all in their positions down in the hull. I was the commander up in the turret. The turret hatch was open." Adam hesitated, his mouth dry. He hadn't spoken of this since the de-briefings after Desert Storm. "Out of nowhere we got hit by a shell. It penetrated the hull and exploded. The explosion blew me over the side, 20, 30 feet away."
"What about the others."
Adam desperately tried to concentrate on the road.
"They didn't stand a chance. In those circumstances you never do. The hull's a death trap. They died almost instantly, even before the tank's ammunition was detonated and blew the tank apart. I should have died with them."
There was a pause whilst Bel absorbed what he'd told her.
"It's war Adam," she said. "It doesn't play by the rules. Unjust things happen."
Adam glanced briefly across at her.
"The Iraqis had gone, and they didn't have armour piercing ammunition."
Bel opened her mouth to say something and then closed it again.
Adam said, "looking death in the face doesn't harden you. It's still as terrifying every time. Your heart still pounds and your mouth still goes dry and your mind thinks of all the things that you would have liked to do before you die, believing at that instant that you won't get the chance."
"So do we avoid fear altogether?" challenged Bel.
Adam glanced at her again before returning his eyes to the road.
"Some people allow themselves to be defined by fear, limiting themselves to the safe option, or worse still allow themselves to be overcome by fear and becoming powerless in the process."
"But some people don't fear death itself, just the process of dying, suffering if you like," she responded.
Adam nodded. "And yet there are those who live in constant fear but also have hope. Some people fear knowing the truth whilst others fear uncertainty. What is fear to one
man is normal life to another."
There was a silence.
"If we drop this now, maybe they'll leave us alone," suggested Bel.
"Possible but unlikely."
There was a pause.
"Adam, you could be dead." Bel's voice began to rise in pitch. "We can't live like this. I can't live like this."
He glanced at her. "That's why we have to finish it," he said, with an air of finality, but strangely, little doubt.
He concentrated on driving. The driver's seat was a nightmare and his neck was beginning to ache. When Bel could stand the silence no more, she asked the question to which she didn't want the answer.
"So the IRA are involved in this?"
Adam glanced quickly across at her to gauge her mood. "I don't know. It would explain the Irish connection, but the IRA's involvement in mainland UK finished a long time ago, so I'm not convinced." Not quite. Adam, you're a fibber, who's deluding who?
"In that case, although it might explain Granger's death, I don't understand how it explains John's death."
Adam negotiated a junction off the M25 before replying, narrowly missing two Hells Angels motorcycles and a minibus full of women, flying football scarves. Now what was that all about?
"I see it this way," said Adam over the engine noise. "However Granger was involved with the IRA, it involved his business. Possibly money laundering, channelling support from the USA, something like that. Granger may have been killed for creaming off too much or double-crossing his masters, I don't know. It would help to explain the rise of Bartlett's business in what were lean times. After Bartlett died it must have carried on otherwise we can't explain the recent deaths."
Bel interrupted. "Are you saying that John knew about criminal activities in the company and carried on with it?"
"It's one explanation."
She shook her head vigorously. "It's the wrong explanation Lennox. That's total shit. Whatever John was, he wouldn't have suffered that, let alone support it."
"I seems the most likely reason for his death." argued Adam.
"You didn't like John, did you?"
"We got on as business associates. He was never on my wavelength."
"Don't misjudge him Adam, he was a good man."
Adam risked a prolonged glance at his passenger to determine the feelings behind her words but the light wasn't good, leaving him in the dark.
They approached Sevenoaks, which of course was in fact now Twooaks since the great storm of 1987, but the Council didn't seem to find political correctness as sufficient reason for re-naming the town.
Gerard Kemp lived on the outskirts, in a semi-detached in need of attention, on a housing estate in need of attention. Peeling paint on the window frames and the flaking rendering gave it an air of hopelessness, whilst the avenue of trees by the roadside seemed to try and mask its decay with their growing canopy of leaves.
Somehow Adam had expected grey lace curtains and an overgrown garden but there was a surprising neatness about the place.
A knock at the door brought a small grey-haired individual to open it. Adam was surprised that despite the grey hair Kemp was younger than he had imagined, mid to late fifties perhaps, thought Adam.
"Mr Kemp, my name is Alan Stevens. I rang earlier explaining that I am researching for a book on 20th Century businessmen. This is my research assistant Beverley Adams."
Bel almost forgot to nod and smile as previously instructed.
Adam had come up with the storyline himself, Bel had tried not to laugh out loud and failed. Adam was nothing if not stubborn.
Gerard Kemp gave the impression that he now regretted agreeing to see them, but as they weren't going to leave his doorstep willingly he showed them through the hallway and into a living room which had seen better days but was tidy nevertheless. A shabby three-piece suite showed signs of feline residents, which weren't in immediate evidence. The classic writing bureau and flying ducks on the wall gave the place an air of a 1960's sitcom set. Adam half-expected Hatti Jacques and Eric Sykes to walk in.
Adam launched into the script he had been rehearsing in his mind for most of the journey. Where's the auto-cue when you need one?
"We've done as much research as we can in the public domain but what we're looking for is a human angle on Granger Bartlett." Very hip.
Kemp nodded imperceptibly.
"Mr Kemp, am I right in saying that Granger Bartlett inherited the business from his father?"
"That's right, but when he took it on it was a struggling company. He grew it into what it is today."
Adam started to take notes on a pad brought specially for the occasion, in true researcher fashion.
"By all accounts he did an excellent job."
"Yes he did."
Adam had a vision of teeth being drawn and groaned inwardly. Bel concentrated on her note pad, head down.
"Was he a good employer, Mr Kemp?"
"He was very good to his employees if that's what you mean?"
"What. Christmas bonuses and that sort of thing."
Kemp shrugged. Take that to be a 'yes' then.
Adam changed the subject.
"Many businessmen of that era went into politics or openly supported political parties. Did Granger Bartlett ever consider politics?"
"No."
"But he held views?"
Kemp began to eye Adam suspiciously. "We all hold views."
"How did Granger feel about Northern Ireland for instance?"
"I don't know. Mr Granger didn't share his personal opinions with his employees."
Adam picked up on the avoidance tactics but decided not to push it.
"How long did you work for the Bartletts, Mr Kemp?"
"Twelve years more or less."
"It must have come as a major blow when Granger died." suggested Bel.
"The household staff were devastated."
"How did the workforce react when they heard of his death?"
Now Kemp hesitated noticeably. "Some were bothered about their jobs, others couldn't care."
"And you?" queried Adam.
"I decided on a change of career around that time so I wasn't really concerned."
"How good was your relationship with Granger Bartlett."
"Mr Bartlett never had a bad word to say to me. I couldn't have wished for a better employer. I knew as soon as he was dead that he was going to be missed."
Adam nodded enthusiastically.
Bel looked up from her auto-cue. "Mr Kemp did the, eh, accident come as a shock?"
Adam thought he saw a narrowing of the eyes as Kemp measured his response more carefully.
"Of course the accident was a shock, why shouldn't it have been?"
"Was there ever any doubt in your mind that it was an accident?"
Kemp edged forward in his seat. "No, why should there be?"
"It was you that identified the body I believe wasn't it?" Adam asked, and pretending to look at his notes missed further narrowing of Mr Kemp's eyes.
"It was," Kemp replied slowly, after some hesitation.
There was a prolonged pause. Kemp rose to his feet.
"Look, I don't know who you are but you're not a writer. I think it's time you left before I call the police."
Adam took a gamble.
"Just before you do. My name isn't Alan Stevens. My name is really Adam Lennox."
"So what are you doing here?" demanded Kemp, but already there was recognition in his eyes.
"Three years ago my wife was murdered and I have reason to believe that her death was connected in some way to Granger Bartlett's. I'm trying to find out who killed her."
Kemp eyed him suspiciously for a moment but eventually sat down. Adam continued.
"You can call the police if you want but I'm guessing that the payments you've been receiving from Bartletts all these years haven't come to the attention of the tax-man."
Kemp laughed. "Don't threaten me Mr Lennox, you're wasting your breath." His voice took on a more serious
note. "But I am truly sorry about Fran's death." He paused to acknowledge Adam's surprised look. "Oh yes I know all about it and who you are, but be assured that your wife's death is not in any way connected to Granger's."
"How can you be so sure?"
"I can't tell you that. You'll just have to take my word for it. I know there's no connection."
"We've been threatened by the IRA. They've implied that Granger was murdered, and we may go the same way." Okay, poetic licence, but he was clutching at straws.
Kemp seemed totally unmoved.
Adam considered for a moment.
"I don't believe that Granger's death was an accident."
Kemp's eyebrows rose. "You think there was foul play?"
"That or suicide under duress."
"No. Believe me you've got it wrong," insisted Kemp vehemently. "He lost control of that car of his and it left the road, no question. Killed the best employer I've ever had."
Adam met Kemp's eyes and held his gaze.
"Mr Kemp. I am going to find out the truth whatever it takes."
"And whatever that truth is."
"What do you mean?"
"Has it occurred to you that the truth when you find it may be totally unpalatable?"
"I'm prepared to take that risk."
"And you don't think I'm telling the truth?"
"Mr Kemp, I know you're not telling the truth."
Kemp stood up. "Then I can't help you any more, and I think it's time you left."
Adam and Bel started moving out into the hall, almost knocking over the umbrella stand on the way. Adam turned to face Kemp one last time.
"Mr Kemp, what do know about John Bartlett's murder?"
Kemp stopped in his tracks as if hit by a truck. After a pause he gave a strangled cry, staggered back into the living room and collapsed into a chair. His glazed expression and virtually catatonic-like state gave Adam the distinct impression this was news to him, and it hurt.
"Well I thought that went rather well."
They stood on the doorstep having satisfied themselves that Kemp wasn't going to have a cardiac arrest.
Bel's eyebrows disagreed. "Except that you achieved nothing more than giving an old man distressing news."