Dishonour Among Thieves

by James Pattinson

  ‘You ought to tell the police, you know. It’s your duty as an honest citizen.’

  ‘Like it was your duty to tell them about Fred?’

  ‘That was different.’

  ‘If they catch you, if they take you away, they’ll put you in prison, won’t they?’

  ‘That’s a certainty.’

  ‘For how long?’

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe ten years; maybe more.’

  He heard her sharp intake of breath. ‘Oh God! As much as that?’

  ‘They’re serious crimes. And three men were killed.’

  ‘But you didn’t kill them.’

  ‘I was there. In law that’s almost as bad as firing the gun.’

  ‘They mustn’t catch you,’ she said vehemently. ‘They mustn’t. Do you think they’ll find you here?’

  ‘It could take them some time. If they’d had a lead to this place they’d have been here already. Nobody knows Tom Benton is here. The people in the village think my name is Lain.’

  ‘Then you must stay.’

  ‘You still want me to?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘More than ever. I don’t care what you’ve done. I still love you.’

  ‘I’ve brought you a load of trouble.’

  ‘I don’t care about the trouble. If I had the chance to go back to the way it was before you came, I wouldn’t take it. We’re in this together, Tom; and that’s how it’s got to be.’

  ‘You’re a wonderful person, Jean,’ Benton said. ‘If only I’d met you years and years ago; what a difference it would have made.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘it would. But there’s no point in thinking about what might have been. We’ve just got to make the best of things as they are.’

  She got up from the table. ‘I’ll make some coffee. I think we could both drink a cup. Then we’ll work something out.’

  ‘Yes, we’ll do that,’ Benton said.

  But he was thinking it would take a computer to work out a solution to the problems they had on hand. And even the computer might be stumped for an answer.

  15

  Holed Up

  The first thing Benton did that afternoon was to put the Vauxhall in the barn; there was plenty of room for it in there. Hitherto he had left it parked in front of the house, but now the police would be looking for a green Cavalier and it might be advisable not to leave it in full view from the road.

  ‘I’d better not use it either, at least for the present. That man at the shop in Upmarket may have taken the number and told the police.’

  Jean agreed that it would be wise not to drive the car around. ‘Perhaps I should tell people you’ve gone away. We could hide the car with straw in case anyone went into the barn.’

  Benton considered the suggestion but came to the conclusion that it was not really a good idea.

  ‘I might be seen about the farm. I can’t stay hidden away in the house.’

  He knew that he could trust Jean not to mention his real name to anybody. She was good at keeping a secret; she had kept the secret of Fred Mace’s death from everyone but him. And Joe could not have told anything even if he had wanted to.

  How long it would be possible for him to remain at Pear Tree Farm without being run to earth by the forces of the law there was no way of determining. He made no attempt to look far ahead; for the present it was enough to be living from day to day.

  In a dingy room in a dilapidated cottage on the fringes of a small Norfolk village two young men were standing by a plain deal table on which a newspaper was spread out. Both men had cropped hair and one had a tattoo on his chest; he was wearing faded blue jeans and a sweat-stained shirt with the sleeves rolled up to reveal more tattoos on his arms. The other one had a brass ring hanging from one ear and a gap in his front teeth.

  The newspaper was two days old and looked as though it had been used to wrap something greasy. It was only by chance that the men had noticed the identikit picture reproduced on one of the pages.

  ‘I reckon it’s him,’ the gap-toothed man said. ‘What do you think?’

  The tattooed man seemed less certain. ‘Oh, I don’t know. Could be, I s’pose.’

  ‘Could be? I tell you it is. That’s the bastard what give me a sore toe and ruined a good pair of leather boots.’

  The gap-toothed man was wearing dirty canvas trainers with a hole cut in one of them to take the pressure off his injured toe.

  ‘I’d know him anywhere, and that’s him.’

  According to the text the man depicted in the identikit picture was a certain Thomas Benton who was wanted for questioning in connection with the shooting of three men and a number of other offences. He was believed to be armed with a Beretta .32 calibre pistol and members of the public were warned not to approach him because he could be violent.

  ‘That’s the gun he used to shoot me in the foot.’

  The tattooed man took a closer look, peering at the picture from various angles, as though this might aid recognition. ‘I believe you’re right, Lennie. So what was he doing at that there farm?’

  ‘Hiding from the coppers, I’d say. Holed up with that woman. Nice cushy number for him. Who’d ever think of looking for him in a place like that?’

  ‘Well anyway,’ the tattooed man said, ‘even if it is him I don’t see as it makes any difference to us.’

  ‘No difference to us?’ Lennie stared at his companion in amazement and disbelief. ‘What you got for brains, Sid? Don’t you see? This is our chance to get our own back on the swine.’

  ‘Are you saying we oughter go and help the law?’ This seemed such a novel idea to the one named Sid that he found it difficult to take in all at once. ‘We never done nothing like that afore.’

  ‘I know we never. But there ain’t never been no call to, have there? I’m not saying as it’d be something to take up on a reg’lar basis, but this here’s kinda special. We owe him, Sid, we owe him. Me for my toe and you for that bruise on the side of the napper. We can’t let him get away with it now we got the chance to make him pay for what he done.’

  Sid was still doubtful. ‘I ain’t sure I go a lot on that idea. If we walk into a police-station and tell ’em where to find their man they’ll wanter know how we know. They’ll wanter know what we was doing in that there bedroom at that there time o’ night with that there woman.’

  ‘Oh, for crying out loud!’ Lennie said. ‘Use your nut. We don’t have to walk into no police-station, do we? It ain’t necessary.’

  ‘So how do we tell ’em?’

  ‘Ain’t you never heard of telephones?’

  Sid grinned suddenly. Light had flooded in. ‘Oh, I getcher, Lennie. We make an annynonnymous call. Right?’

  ‘Right,’ Lennie said.

  They made the call from a public telephone box. Lennie did the calling because he was the brainy one. Sid just stood by to lend the support of his presence.

  Lennie dialled 999; that way he could put the call through free of charge. In answer to the question as to which service he required he answered promptly: ‘Police.’

  He was put through without delay and immediately made the statement: ‘I can tell you where to find Thomas Benton.’

  ‘May I have your name, caller?’ the voice at the other end of the line asked.

  ‘Never mind my name,’ Lennie said. ‘Just take the message. You’re looking for Thomas Benton, the man what’s wanted for the supermarket job. I know where he’s holed up. He’s at a place called Pear Tree Farm, near a village called Denningham in Norfolk. Okay?’

  Without waiting for an answer he rang off.

  ‘You think they got it?’ Sid asked.

  ‘They got it,’ Lennie said. ‘I reckon Mr Thomas Benton has got a big surprise coming to him.’

  Sid gave a snigger. ‘He’ll be sorry he done what he did do.’

  ‘Bloody right, he will.’

  ‘Could be a hoax,’ Peters said.

  ‘Of course it could.’ Garner sounded impatient. ‘But it’s the rig
ht part of the country, so it may be genuine. We can’t ignore it.’

  ‘I wasn’t suggesting that, sir.’

  Garner said thoughtfully: ‘A farm. Seems an unlikely place for him to be hiding. But there are some unusual aspects to this case, and it’s no more unlikely than returning the money he stole from the shop in Upmarket. What the devil is he up to?’

  ‘Maybe we’ll get the answer to that question when we pick him up.’

  It was evening when the police arrived at Pear Tree Farm. Benton and Jean were in the sitting-room at the front of the house, and Benton glanced out of the window and caught a glimpse of a car going past in the lane, moving slowly. There were four men in it and it was followed by another.

  He said: ‘I think they’re here.’

  Jean uttered a cry of dismay. ‘Oh no! Not so soon! Are you sure?’

  ‘There are cars in the lane. I’d say they’re there in force. That can mean only one thing; they’ve had a tip-off.’

  ‘But who could have told them?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  He had got up from his chair but was taking care not to show himself at the window. Jean also stood up and looked towards the gateway.

  ‘I can’t see any cars.’

  ‘Two went past; one was unmarked but the other was a police car with uniformed men in it. I’d be surprised if there aren’t others stopped further up the lane. They won’t be taking any chances. I’m a dangerous villain, you know.’

  He gave a grin to tell her this was meant as a joke, but it was a joke that fell flat and he was feeling in no mood for laughing himself. There was nothing amusing about the situation.

  ‘What are you going to do?’ Jean asked, and he could detect the note of concern in her voice. She looked thoroughly scared.

  He had no easy answer to the question. He knew now that it had been a mistake to hang on at the farm; he should have left when he had first proposed doing so; he should never have allowed himself to be persuaded to stay. Well, it was a fine time to think of that now. It was too late; too damned late.

  Or was it? Perhaps it was still possible to get away, though it would have to be on foot across the fields. He thought about it, his brain racing. It was a slim chance at best, but it was all there was.

  Another glance out of the window revealed that no police officer had yet come through the gateway. They were probably out there under cover of the hedge, working out the way they were going to handle things. But it would not be long before they made a move.

  ‘Wait here,’ he said.

  He went out of the room and took the stairs two at a time. In the bedroom where his suitcases were stowed he picked up the Beretta and loaded it. The window overlooked the lane and he could just see the tops of the cars and the heads of some of the policemen, but they were still taking no action.

  He hurried back down the stairs and into the sitting-room. Jean saw the Beretta in his hand.

  ‘You’re not going to use that?’

  ‘Not if I don’t have to,’ Benton said.

  He put the gun in his pocket and looked again out of the window. A uniformed policeman was walking through the gateway. He was a kind of scout sent forward to spy out the lie of the land.

  ‘He’ll come to the front door,’ Benton said. ‘Keep him talking as long as you can.’

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘I’m leaving by the back.’

  She made no attempt to stop him. If she thought it was hopeless now to try to escape she did not say so. There was no time for protracted leave-taking, not even for a parting embrace. He went out of the room and through to the kitchen, and as he opened the back door he heard the ringing of the front doorbell.

  He looked out into the yard and there was no one to be seen. It was a distance of forty yards or so to the barn, and he sprinted across and went inside. The evening was drawing in now and the light in the interior was dim, but he could see that the tall doors on the other side were closed.

  His purpose was to go straight through the barn and make a run for the hedge that was fifty yards away. Then he would scramble through the hedge and run along the dry ditch on the far side until he reached the next field. He hoped that with the evening becoming ever darker he might evade all pursuit and make a clean getaway. It was the only hope he had.

  But when he pushed open the door a few inches and peeped out even that faint hope died. There were two police marksmen wearing flak jackets and carrying rifles stationed by the hedge, and it was apparent that whoever was in charge of operations had foreseen the possibility that he might try to make a break by the back way and had sealed the exit.

  It was what he might have expected. It was the reason why there had been that lengthy delay before the policeman had walked through the gateway; the forces of the law had been getting themselves into position and closing potential boltholes.

  He pulled the door shut again and turned away from it; and as he did so he heard a stealthy movement in the barn away to his left. He glanced in that direction and saw Joe appear from the shadows.

  ‘What in hell are you doing here?’ he said. He had been startled by the sudden appearance of the young man and the question had come out automatically, although he knew he would get no answer.

  Joe came towards him, and Benton could see that he was carrying the twelve-bore shotgun that he had previously seen in the old shepherd’s hut. This really surprised him, and he tried to think of some good reason why Joe should be there with the gun; but he could think of none.

  Unless perhaps Joe had seen the police arriving in force and had taken fright, believing they were coming for him. Jean had often warned him that he should always avoid the police, and these repeated warnings had probably taken root in his addled mind until he had come to regard all blue-uniformed men as his natural enemies.

  So maybe when he saw the police he grabbed the gun and ran for the shelter of the barn. It seemed the only likely reason for his presence in the building; and whatever the explanation, the fact remained that he was there and that he had the shotgun.

  That he was considerably perturbed was made obvious to Benton by the curious sounds he was making. He tugged at Benton’s sleeve and pointed towards the door as if to indicate the danger that lurked outside.

  ‘I know, Joe, I know,’ Benton said. ‘The police are there. But they haven’t come for you. It’s me they’re after.’

  He was not sure that his words were sinking in. Joe’s excitement seemed to increase rather than decrease. He shambled to the door by which Benton had come into the barn and peered through a gap in the woodwork. What he saw appeared to add yet further to his agitation, and he came back to Benton and practically dragged him to the door.

  It was evident from his actions that he wanted Benton to look through the gap, and Benton did so. The view he got from that vantage point gave him no cause for rejoicing; there were three more police marksmen with rifles who had stationed themselves in various parts of the yard from which they could cover the barn door. Even if they were not certain he was in the barn it was pretty obvious that they had strong suspicions that he was.

  He could see the back door of the house; it was open, and standing on the threshold were Jean Mace and a tall man in plain clothes who seemed to have an air of authority and might have been the officer in charge of the operation. This man pointed towards the barn and seemed to ask a question. Benton saw Jean’s lips move as she replied, but he was too far away to hear either the question or the answer.

  He moved away from the door, and he could hear Joe still making those incoherent gurgling noises which were as close to speech as he could ever get. Joe was looking at him as if for guidance, but he had no guidance to give.

  ‘We’re in a fix, Joe. We’re in the most god-awful fix and I don’t know how to get out of it.’

  What he needed now was that tank he had run amuck with in Germany. With that he could have broken out of the barn and gone careering across country, mowing down all oppositio
n like grass. But all he had was the car.

  He thought about the car. He wondered whether it might be possible to use it as a tank and make a dash for freedom. But he knew it was useless; the men with the rifles would have shot the tyres to ribbons or put a bullet through the windscreen. It was unlikely that he would even have got out of the yard.

  He could forget about the car.

  Joe had stopped making noises, and Benton suddenly became aware that he had gone to the door and was thrusting the muzzle of the shotgun through the gap. In an instant he knew what the young man was about to do, and he ran to stop him.

  ‘No, Joe! Don’t do it!’

  But he was too late. Joe fired one barrel and then the other, the blast of the gun like bombs exploding.

  Joe withdrew the gun from the gap, and Benton brushed past him and looked out into the yard. What he saw appalled him: a uniformed policeman was lying on the ground midway between the house and the barn, and he was not moving. As Benton watched two other men ran to him and dragged him away.

  Benton turned back from the door and looked at Joe, who was standing with the gun in his hand and his whole body shaking uncontrollably.

  ‘Well, you’ve done it now.’ Benton spoke sadly. ‘You’d better give me the gun.’

  Joe surrendered the twelve-bore without resistance; indeed he seemed glad to be rid of it. He went and sat down on a bale of straw, shoulders hunched, looking the picture of utter dejection. He was still shaking.

  Benton knew that he had come to the end of the road. Once again he had got himself involved in a shooting, and maybe again it had been murder; the policeman in the yard had looked horribly like a dead man. And Joe of all people had done the shooting; simple, faithful, doglike Joe. It was crazy; it was all so damned crazy; but it was certainly the end for him. Now he could see ahead of him nothing but arrest and trial and a long long time in jail. When he came out he would be old; for him life would have slipped away; for him there was no future that he wanted, no future at all.

  He heard a man’s voice, magnified by a loud-hailer: ‘Come out with your hands up, Benton. Leave the gun.’

  ‘Goodbye, Joe,’ he said.