The Dead Lie Down (Adam Lennox Thrillers: Book One)

by G I Tulloch

  "So what do we do? Do we tell him? It'll probably kill him if we do."

  "From what you've said he's close anyway."

  Frank scanned the horizon and moved to the side of the road as rational thought returned to his somewhat stunned mental processes.

  "Gerard?"

  "Yes?"

  "We light the fuse and post the bomb?"

  The reluctance in the voice was quite definite but so were the words. "Yes. We light the fuse and post the bomb. And God help us all."

  Chapter 25

  They sat on a low branch and watched the sun come up behind the tall chimneys of the place Adam referred to as 'the pile'. The fingers of clear early morning light streamed across the lake toward them and bathed the trees behind them in a glow that emphasised the green sheen where they had started to clothe themselves in leaf.

  Bel couldn't resist it. "Didn't they use this as a backdrop for 'Pride and Prejudice'?

  "No," retorted Adam, rising to the bait.

  "Why do you resent it so much?"

  "One day it'll be a millstone that I've got to do something with."

  "So sell it, give it away, decision made."

  "There speaks the voice of emotional detachment."

  "Absolutely Lennox. Step back. Make the cut. Move on."

  Adam stood up. "I thought we agreed not to discuss that, Trent."

  "Okay truce. We agree not to argue until after we find out who killed Fran."

  An argument could well have ensued regardless had Adam's mobile not rung. He took it out of his pocket and glared at the named caller before putting it to his ear.

  "My mobile phone's not supposed to work here," he said.

  DCI Ford dismissed the rebuff. "Tough titty, I need to talk."

  Adam sighed, "You really need to chill you know?"

  "Tell me about it. What do you know of a hit man known as 'Earnest'."

  "You're kidding me," exclaimed Adam. "A hit-man called Ernest. Sounds like a West End Play. 'A Streetcar named Desire' you know?"

  "So you don't know where he was yesterday or how he came to be dumped on our doorstep?"

  "I don't know any Ernest. Do you want to make the introductions or what?"

  Ford sighed and Adam could visualise him wiping a tired hand across his eyes.

  "Can I talk off the record?" asked Ford.

  "Oh hold on. I'll just get them to switch off the wire tap on the phone."

  "Very funny. Look Lennox, this thing is way deeper than you understand."

  "Oh that is deep."

  "Okay. So you say you've never met Ernest and we'll keep that as your official answer but another one like him will turn up eventually and you're history."

  "Your concern for the well-being of the English public is commendable Ford but it's not an original line. Anyway, you'll have to get in line. You're one in a long list of people who don't want me to find out what's going on."

  "I just don't want to have to pick up the pieces."

  "I knew it, selfish to the core. Well the Metropolitan Police can keep the shovel in the cupboard. I have no intention of ending up in pieces."

  "Oh well, you're funeral."

  "Yes. Very good. You write comedy scripts for the BBC in your spare time don't you? Go on. You can tell your Uncle Adam. Your secret's safe with me. I won't tell the tax-man."

  "Take a hike," retorted Ford and promptly hung up.

  Adam turned to Bel and shrugged. "Wrong number or nuisance caller. Probably the latter."

  He looked back at the tree branch they had been sitting on. "When I was six I climbed onto that branch. It was so high I was afraid to jump back down. It took three hours for someone to hear my cries for help."

  "Why are you telling me this?"

  He shook his head. "I haven't a clue. Let's get some breakfast."

  Breakfast was being laid out on one of the many patio areas surrounding the house. Adam maintained that you could use them as a sundial. You could always tell the time by which patio was being used to serve tea in order to catch the sunshine. They were the only ones out of bed and were half way through second helpings of toast when Robert Lennox came out in dressing gown carrying the morning papers.

  "Not watching the horses gallop this morning?"

  His father looked up, acknowledging their presence with a look of surprise.

  "No. Head lad's in charge, grooming him for more responsibility."

  Adam groaned. "Was the pun intentional or just the product of a naturally keen brain?"

  "Don't be ridiculous. Catch me doing something like that this early in the morning on a day off. Good morning my dear."

  This last to Bel who was watching them both with amusement.

  "Any response to yesterday's questions?" asked Adam.

  "Not as yet."

  As if on cue, like the contestant in a quiz show, Adam's mother emerged from the French windows clutching a sheaf of papers.

  "E-mails," she announced. "Printed off two copies. Thought you might want them," and handed them to her husband.

  There was a pregnant pause whilst the contents of the e-mails were digested through reading glasses. Adam's fingers itched to grab the second copy, the impatient younger generation, always in a hurry.

  After a moment his patience ran out. "And?" he demanded.

  Robert Lennox looked at him over his reading glasses and sighed in exasperation. He consulted the emails once again.

  "Apparently there were two deals that Granger was notorious for and my US contact remembers more than I do."

  "Where were the deals?"

  "The first was in South Africa. Granger pulled some political stunt to pick up a major contract in competition with a local company called Ramboks. Apparently there was some trouble between gangs of enforcers that each company had used. Started a mini riot. A man died in suspicious circumstances but the truth was never really uncovered apparently. It was a no go area for the police at the time."

  "When was this?"

  "Back in 1960-ish. Long before the troubles started, when the whites were still very much in control."

  "What about the other deal?"

  "In '64 it seems. Granger attempted a hostile bid to take over a family-owned shipping company, Lakes, in New England. He failed first time but manage to influence enough government contracts that Lakes started losing business hand over fist. Eventually it reached a point that the family either sold to him or went under."

  "He got it?"

  "Yes, but the worst bit is still to come. Shortly after they sold for a song, Lake and his wife committed suicide leaving a young family."

  "Did they know about Granger's meddling."

  "I don't think so. That didn't come out until later."

  Adam swallowed another bit of toast washed down with coffee.

  "Granger certainly knew how to make enemies. He deals dirty in business almost as a matter of course. He promotes, and by all accounts, joins the IRA, with the danger and political consequences that go along with it. I can see plenty of motives for killing Granger but I still can't see a link to Fran's murder, or John's death come to that."

  Bel posed the question that was bothering her. "And it doesn't answer why John was on the Hermes."

  Adam put up his hand. "I have a theory over that. I think John was going to check on something, or someone, that was on the Hermes."

  "That he knew was there?"

  "He either put it there, or had been told it would be there is my guess. The question is who or what it was, and did he find it, alive or dead?"

  Joan Lennox had been listening to this with increasing frustration. "Adam you will be careful, won't you? I don't want to leave all this.." she waved her arm around her at the 'Pride and Prejudice' look-alike. "..to cousin Dennis. It wouldn't be right."

  Adam just looked at Bel and raised his hands to say 'I told you so'.

  Joan insisted on hugging Bel. "Come back soon my dear. You don't have to wait for my delinquent son to invite you, you know. You're wel
come any time."

  Before they left, Adam got hold of Derek Travis on his mobile.

  "Derek."

  "Mr Lennox, you beat me to it. I was about to ring you."

  "Don't tell me. There's something fishy about the ships."

  "There is. Nothing major but definitely consistent and odd."

  "Go on."

  "Two ships, the Hermes being one, always take one day longer on their sailings to the States than any of the others on what is ostensibly the same passage."

  "What? They stop somewhere?"

  "Can't tell. There's no paperwork to suggest they make a port."

  "Anything else that's odd?"

  "Well it may be coincidence but the trips that take a day extra are always signed off personally by Brad Wilding."

  "Are those the only ones?"

  "No, but there is no pattern to the others. On these he is consistent."

  "It is odd isn't it? Thank you Derek, I owe you."

  "Mr Lennox, there is one other thing. Paperwork related to these particular voyages went missing on the night of your wife's death."

  Paperwork. A shiver went down Adam's spine. "And?"

  "Your wife was last to book it out of Records."

  Chapter 26

  Adam jogged away from the door of the flat in singlet, shorts and running shoes. He liked to think he had that hip, trendy appearance. He failed, and deep down he knew it, but one had to try. Deep down he didn't care. He did however find that jogging helped him to think, unless it was freezing or raining cats and dogs, in which case he got fit or caught cold, one of the two. He turned the corner and pounded along the pavements, thinking not for the first time that, given the state of the pavements, climbing boots might be more appropriate than running shoes. He looked down Brixton Street and marvelled at the Cosmopolitan neighbourhood where he had set up business and home.

  The local Pizza & Pasta Restaurant was 'Toni's', owned by an Irishman known as Mick for some reason but reputed to be an O'Shaunessey from Limerick. The head chef was a Ukrainian, always addressed as 'The Count', a genial giant who only turned nasty when you criticised his pasta, which fortunately was rare as he was the best pasta chef north of the Thames and east of Tower Bridge.

  Across the road was the local watering hole, 'The Black Swan', aptly named if politically incorrect, whose publican was a Nigerian. A man, who would have been invisible in a brightly lit coal cellar but for the wide grin of white teeth that habitually decorated his face, he had earned the pseudonym Errol Flynn for reasons that were lost in the mists of time.

  Down past the bus station was the local baker, an Italian, Giancarlo, who could turn out the most traditional English cakes that were the ultimate challenge to the local dieting fraternity. At certain times of day Adam's jog could be an assault on his olfactory senses.

  The local betting shop, tucked between the railway bridge and the bakery, or the 'Wager House' as the proprietor liked to call it, was of course a Cockney affair, run by Fred Bassett (no, honestly) who had rarely stepped foot beyond the audible radius of Bow Bells. He and George were of course like brothers, with a lot of give and take, depending on who was winning and who was losing at any particular point in time.

  Two miles into his run and on the point of turning back he was slowing to a walk when he was aware of two cars passing him and drawing to a stop ten yards ahead. Black Range Rovers with darkened windows. Someone had been watching too many American FBI movies, or was that Adam? As they pulled to a stop the rear vehicle's front passenger door opened, effectively blocking Adam's path. The occupant, a tall individual complete with broken nose slicked back hair and sunglasses, jumped out and confronted Adam.

  "Get in the car."

  What? Two times in as many days, that's too much even for a crime-busting maverick. Maverick? Okay strike that from the record.

  Adam checked the skyline to make sure he was still in London and not New York. He shook his head thoughtfully. "No, I don't think so."

  His prospective 'dinner date' opened his jacket, revealing a gun in its shoulder holster, with ominous overtones.

  Adam cringed. "No, I definitely don't think so." He pointed to the gun.

  "Is this supposed to reassure me or what?"

  At this point he turned away and started to walk, not quite sure what to expect. Behind him there was the sound of an electric window and a familiar voice reached his ears. "Adam, just get in the car."

  Adam stopped. Why does that always happen? You're making the perfect getaway and all of a sudden the pretty girl makes you change your mind.

  Anna Low repeated. "It's okay Adam just get in the goddam car."

  This, he thought, had better be good.

  He turned and moved back to the car without haste. As he reached it he tripped on the uneven pavement and stumbled against the gangster look-alike. When they had untangled themselves, Adam found himself holding the gun by the barrel, pointing at himself. He looked at it in surprise and looking up said, "Yours I believe."

  He ignored the restrained fury that crossed his adversary's face and got into the car beside Anna.

  He turned and met her gaze. "We can't keep meeting like this."

  "We need to talk."

  "I thought we might."

  They let him sit on a seat and look out of the window, which was a significant improvement on his last ride.

  They headed down to the river and across Tower Bridge and ended up in some down trodden office that looked like a stage set out of 'Who framed Roger Rabbit' even down to the half glazed office door that looked as if it should have 'Private Investigator' stencilled across it.

  They had sat in silence on the journey. Adam wondered if Anna was concerned that his witty repartee might upset the front seat passengers.

  There was a desk. There were two chairs and a coffee machine. And that was all. They sat down and looked at each other. Anna was dressed for business in suit and open-necked white blouse.

  Adam looked around and used the classic ice-breaker that always got the girls. "Nice place you have here."

  Anna appeared uncertain as to how to proceed. They continued the sponsored silence. Adam decided that she looked almost as good in a suit as in the bathrobe. Almost. The open necked blouse displayed enough to bring back memories for Adam. Anna caught the look and smiled.

  "You might have guessed by now that it wasn't co-incidence that I was in that ditch in Suffolk."

  "Suspicion is an ugly word."

  "In fact I'd been in that goddamn ditch for three hours waiting for you."

  "And now you're going to tell me why, aren't you?"

  "Yeah, but first, coffee." She moved over to a coffee machine that probably had 'Made in the Ark' stamped on the bottom. "You're going to need a drink."

  Adam grimaced. "And this is the strongest thing you've got?" He shook his head. "Government cut backs I suppose." He paused. "It is Government isn't it?"

  "It is. How did you know?"

  Adam slapped his knee in delight. "I must put in for 'Who Wants to be a Millionaire?'. I feel lucky."

  Anna brought back the coffee. Adam eyed it suspiciously. There's coffee, and then there's coffee. Drink it anyway, throw caution to the wind.

  "Adam. You're not taking this seriously."

  He tried the coffee. Well, anyone can make a mistake. "So. Tell me why I should take it seriously."

  "You're in too deep Adam. You don't understand what it is you're involved in and you're going to get hurt."

  "My prerogative?"

  "Not when you get other people hurt as well."

  "Meaning?"

  Anna came around to his side of the desk and leaned against its edge.

  "I know about the hit-man."

  Outside nothing changed. Inside Adam's brain went up several gears. How did she know? How could she possibly know, or was she just guessing?

  "Give it up for Bel's sake if not your own. You know it's only a matter of time before one of you gets seriously hurt."

&nb
sp; He met her eyes with a question. "Is that a threat?"

  "No."

  Adam crossed his legs, sat back and looked relaxed. Remembered that it's bad for the circulation. Uncrossed his legs again. Game on.

  "So let's suppose you tell me what it's all about and convince me it's too dangerous. Then I'll decide whether to drop it."

  Anna returned to her chair. This was obviously going to take some time. Adam's coffee was going cold, but not fast enough.

  She began, strangely, at the beginning.

  "Six months ago the US Coastguard got a tip off that some UK registered ships were involved in smuggling."

  Adam interrupted. "Smuggling what?"

  "They didn't know. I got seconded to the UK Customs Investigation branch to liaise."

  "Ah."

  "What?"

  "That explains the Government cutbacks."

  "Do you want to hear this or not?"

  Adam tried to look contrite, failed, ham actor.

  "Sorry. Carry on."

  "We had a number of ships under suspicion. We engineered a vacancy on each ship and put one of our people on board each ship."

  "And one was the Hermes."

  She nodded. "And one was the Hermes. The night John Bartlett took the Hermes back from Holland, our man found what he was looking for. Semi-automatic weapons, grenades, small rocket launchers. All new, all manufactured in Eastern Europe."

  "And all heading west." Adam chipped in. "But not for the US. It's already awash with the stuff. So destined for Ireland perhaps. The IRA, or a loyalist paramilitary splinter group." As he talked, all sorts of uncomfortable pennies were dropping into place.

  "We suspect so but we've no proof. They never reached the US that's for sure."

  "So what went wrong that night?"

  "Our man sent a radio message out to our twenty four hour listening station."

  Adam frowned. "A bit risky wasn't it?"

  "The message was encrypted so that its content couldn't be intercepted, but we believe that the radio message was detected and alerted the crew."

  "And he was murdered."

  She shuddered. "His throat had been cut, with considerable violence. His body was found in a crate in the hold, by John Bartlett."