by Jean Chapman
Outside there was the noise of a shoe scuffing on an uneven surface as Cannon scaled the loft ladder. He took one step into the blackness, stood perfectly still, thinking of the debris on the landing below. He allowed himself one shaded second of light from the torch, enough to locate the water supply tank near the middle, saw the pipes from the tank running along an inch from his left foot, and that the roof space was totally boarded in.
There were two contrasting smells in this place, sooty dust and new wood. He moved three steps in the direction of the tank, then stood recollecting what else he had seen in that brief second of illumination: fifty or more years of thick black cobwebs hanging like curtains from the roof timbers, while the whole of the floor area consisted of new planks of wood professionally laid. These were covered with bags – thick hessian bags, not large but well-made with wide, strengthening bands that ran all around and formed the handles. Sort of up-market, eco-friendly, super shopping-bags, but all the same square shape. Whatever filled them was of uniform size.
There was more movement below and the more authoritative man said, ‘We’ll get them all in and upstairs, then I can pass them up the ladder to you.’
‘Me bending my back in the roof,’ the other grumbled, ‘great! Where is everybody?’
‘Other duties, other fish to fry,’ the first muttered.
Realizing they intended to leave the house again, Cannon waited, listened intently, heard them go back downstairs and out, then used his torch again, this time keeping it on long enough to make his way to the far side of the water tank, scanning the double line of regimented bags as he went. What came into his mind he did not accept, did not even let the fantastic idea develop. He put his bolt-cutters carefully down at his feet, crouched and waited. He should get away with this, with luck. Up to now the bags were all stacked on the trap-side of the water tank – though if they were to take the trouble to bring this ‘extra lot’ to his end of the line he could well be in trouble. He let his hand rest over the handles of his only weapon, the bolt-cutters.
‘What gets me is we’ve got to haul all this down again.’
‘You won’t be moaning when you get your share.’
‘It better be spot on.’
‘Your mouth’ll be the death of you,’ the other said matter-of-factly and from the noise and the echoing loudness of their voices, Cannon realized they were both just the other side of the cold water tank.
‘It’s these other hangers-on he wants to get rid of, this woman and her kid,’ the man stated.
‘You could be right about that.’ The quietly spoken remarks of this man were far more chilling than the grumbling rants of the other. ‘We just have to wait to be given the word.’
‘It’s the pay-out I’m waiting for. What d’you reckon this lot is worth?’
‘It’s more what he’ll get – but the boss has good contacts in …’
Cannon felt the man stopped before he revealed more than he wanted the other man to know. The other seemed not to notice. ‘Let’s get out before he wakes up and finds us something else to lug about,’ he said.
There was the sound of the goods they had carried up being put into place.
‘He likes it tidy.’
‘He likes to be able to count what he’s got!’
The voices became more remote as the pair turned away and climbed down the steps. Then Cannon heard them push the ladder up and close the trap-door. He hoped it opened from the inside.
After a few moments he shone the torch onto his watch; from the time they had heard the church clock toll three o’clock, a mere fifty minutes had passed. It felt like several hours, but he would wait a little longer before he explored the intricacies of a loft ladder from a new direction. In the meantime there were the bags. He allowed the ridiculous notion that had tried to edge into his mind earlier to take a more definite hold. ‘But …’ he formed the word with his lips, ‘surely not.’
He took the handles of the nearest bag, lifted it and tested the weight. It was heavy, seriously heavy, certainly heavy enough to cause a bad back. Carefully he lowered it back to the flooring laid specially to receive these bags – he had no doubt about that. He pulled the handles apart and shone his light directly in on the contents.
No one could be unimpressed by gold. It looks like what it is – a fortune in a solid block. It stirs possibilities in the mind of everyman – if only – what if? Cannon blasphemed quietly, then ran his hand down inside the bag, counting, six, six ingots of gold – six in each bag….
‘Brink’s Mat’ he mouthed, his fingers going to his lips. ‘Come on,’ he told himself, ‘that was in 1983’ – but this much gold? One day in November, six men had burst into the depot of the Brink’s Mat security firm at Heathrow. They had disabled the security system, thrown petrol over the guards and threatened to set them alight unless they gave them the combinations of the safes, and while some of the thieves had been fairly quickly caught, since then there had been at least five gangland murders believed to be linked to the case … and the gold, the missing gold? Cannon seemed to remember reading a report by an eminent journalist that only eleven of the two thousand six hundred gold bars had so far been recovered.
Was he looking at a cache of some two hundred more?
The whole scenario of violence and ruthlessness linked to stolen gold in this quantity made him sure of one thing. He had to get Danny and his mother out of this place pretty damn quick.
He flashed his light all around the roof-space, the bags, the incongruous tower of shiny metal steps, a ladder to nowhere, and felt something like the curse of the Midas touch creep over him. Here he was, surrounded by the wealth some men would kill for, had killed for, but like the unfortunate Midas, having touched it, gold might well dominate his life for some time to come.
He walked back to the trap, bent over, then knelt down. The square was not only closed, it looked hermetically sealed. There was no catch on his side, not even the hinges were visible, but perhaps downwards pressure might do it? He applied it cautiously at first, then with more and more force. The thing never budged, but then as he pushed himself upright again, it opened and he not only nearly nose-dived through but saw the ladder above him sliding slickly down and likely to act as guillotine to whatever part of him was in the way. By sheer force of will and muscle-power he pulled himself back and out of the way.
Below him, Danny’s mouth was wide with concern, the hooked pole that released the ladder still in his hand. Retrieving his bolt-cutters, Cannon made his way down, his knees slightly shaky, and it was certainly no time for such weaknesses.
‘Heard you go up when the men came,’ Danny explained.
‘It’s OK,’ he said, putting his finger to his lips to remind the boy they must whisper. ‘But we must hurry. You go to your mother first, reassure her.’ He let the boy get inside the second bedroom, heard him speak, then followed, closed the door, flicked on the light switch and stood aghast.
He’d seen tidier violent murder scenes than this. It looked as if anything and everything the boss had not wanted in the lounge downstairs had been roughly thrown in here: a table lamp, its shade broken off; a coffee table, legs broken; a magazine rack and a strew of newspapers and magazines; a red and black pouffe, and a couple of wooden armchairs. Cared-for things had been thrown about, wilfully broken, but he forgot all this when he saw the woman on the bed. She too, he thought, was strewn on the bed as if carelessly thrown aside. She was forty perhaps, red-haired, a large woman, deeply unconscious and her facial skin sagged as if she had lost a lot of weight fast – and where the hell did the ankle-shackle and chain she wore come from?
They were monstrous, a broad anklet of iron attached to a long, thick, hand-forged chain which was woven around the foot of the bedstead. There were two padlocks: one on the chain, the other securing the clasp on the anklet. It was like something from an eighteenth century chain-gang.
‘I hear that chain all the time,’ Danny whispered, ‘even at school.’
/> Cannon had to take a moment to let the red mist clear from his eyes, and to stop himself taking the hefty thirteen-year-old into his arms. It was definitely not the time for that.
He motioned the boy to his side, then picked a cushion from the floor, lifted the woman’s foot and with the utmost care turned her foot gently sideways on it. ‘Hold your mother’s foot firmly like that,’ he whispered, ‘don’t move at all, not a fraction. I am going to have to use real force to cut through that padlock.’
Danny knelt by the bed, held the foot but closed his eyes as Cannon stood over him and positioned the jaws of the cutters on the loop of the ankle padlock. He concentrated first on getting a steady grip with the cutters, sent a plea heavenwards for them not to slip and applied all the force he could. He felt the veins in his temples throbbing and his teeth hurt with clenching, but still the iron hoop did not give.
Danny opened his eyes as he felt Cannon relax. ‘Can you do it?’ he asked anxiously.
Cannon nodded and applied all his strength again. He felt his bottom jaw jutting, a primeval man with brutish determination, as Danny’s words came back to him, ‘I hear that chain all the time’. He thought he heard himself snarl and then the jaws of the cutter closed with a final swift snap. Cannon staggered.
‘You’ve done it, Mr Cannon,’ Danny said grinning but with tears streaming down his face, and before Cannon had recovered his balance he had opened the shackle and gently lifted his mother’s foot free.
‘We’ve a long way to go yet,’ Cannon said. They still had to smuggle this unconscious woman from the house and to Liz’s car. ‘Put the loft ladder up out the way, then come back and stay with your mother,’ he ordered gently. ‘I’m going to check downstairs. We must be quick and quiet.’ He glanced at the window, the fitful moon was being replaced by a general lightening of the sky.
Once down the stairs Cannon first stooped to sweep his hand several times across the floor tiles behind the front door until he found the offending piece of needle-sharp grit and placed it on the hall table. He listened outside the sitting-room, then very slowly opened the door. The man he had last seen getting into a stretch limo was lying in some style, covered by a fur rug on a wide, French-style chaise longue such as Cannon had only ever seen in films before, but he was just as unconscious as his victim had been upstairs. Cannon closed that door then opened the front door, wide, propping it open with a coat from the hall pegs, then hurried back to Danny.
‘I’ll carry your mother over my shoulder. Once I have lifted her I need you to go ahead, make sure there is nothing and no one in our way. Right!’
The whispered instructions were taken in with repeated nods. ‘Right! Ready!’ Danny said and carefully prevented her arms from falling about as he helped Cannon lift his mother from the bed.
‘Right,’ Cannon said and Danny was immediately at the door, and with constant glances back did exactly what Cannon asked, three steps ahead, no faltering, no unnecessary pauses as they negotiated stairs, front door, front path, broken gate.
Once outside, Cannon had trouble keeping up with the boy. He struggled with the weight, glad of two things – that he was fit, and that all Reed St Thomas appeared to be sleeping, including Thompson, Cannon hoped.
Chapter 8
‘But why should you…?’
It was well into the afternoon before Liz and Cannon could have a proper talk to Danny’s mother and be sure she understood what had happened.
‘Because you were being held against your will, and I feared for your safety,’ Cannon replied. ‘Someone had to move quickly.’ If he had to, it would be the reason he would give to Inspector Jones later.
‘And because he’s like …’ For a moment, Danny sought for a description. ‘Because he’s like a gladiator,’ and he imitated the force Cannon had used to sever the chain on his mother’s ankle.
‘Alamat said like a knight in shining armour,’ Carol Smithson added.
‘Yes,’ Danny enthused.
Cannon scowled, almost squirmed. Liz let him suffer for a moment then helped him out of the spotlight by saying, ‘He just can’t mind his own business.’
‘Until today, my boy’s been the only one who cared,’ Carol said.
‘Mr Thompson’s been kind,’ Danny reminded her.
‘Yes,’ she nodded in agreement, ‘in his way, he was, but …’ she looked around the newly emulsioned apartment, ‘letting us be here, I …’ she paused again to look at Liz, ‘I can see what a trouble it’s been.’
Liz glanced at the sheets put up to curtain the windows, the blow-up mattress and the old camp-bed, bedding, electric heaters, a kettle and a few pots, all rapidly gathered together with Alamat’s help while Cannon was at Reed St Thomas. She had wondered what Alamat’s reaction would be as she had woken him from such a short sleep and asked for his help.
‘Ah!’ he exclaimed. ‘Mr John Cannon is on another mission,’ and rubbed his hands as if he could not wait to get started. ‘This is a good place, people know I live in this block and now we hide these people away in the farthest corner, the one apartment all decorated.’
‘It must be secret, very hush-hush,’ she had impressed on him, feeling his enthusiasm could be dangerous.
He had made the now traditional zipping motion across his mouth, then grinned hugely.
‘Hopefully we can make things a bit more comfortable,’ Liz said.
Carol shook her head. ‘I’m just so grateful to be away from that old man …’ Her lips trembled but she turned the emotion into hate as she spat out, ‘And his sons, and the other men.’
The policeman in Cannon knew this woman and her son had a lot of valuable information, much more probably than they realized, but for the time being he thought it best to let them talk, relax a little. Questioning would have to come, but not quite yet.
‘I used to think my parents were boring,’ Carol was saying. ‘I thought my life was deadly dull, that’s why I ran off with Danny’s father, and that killed them, you know, my parents. Killed them.’
Liz shook her head, made a disbelieving noise but Danny’s mother insisted,
‘No, it is true, it did kill them. They just gave up….’ she nodded vigorously, confirming the truth of what she said. ‘They never made a lot out of their small boarding-house in Skegness. For one thing, they never charged enough. After I ran off, my mam and dad gave up. I was their only child. Things went downhill. Our old neighbours told me at the funeral. Apparently they tried every way to find me,’ her face hardened as she went on, ‘those neighbours, they made a point of telling me that it made my father an old man. My parents sold out and just had enough to buy that house in Snyder Close. They saw the furniture van away from Skegness, and were driving there in our old Hillman Husky when they were both killed in an accident, an articulated lorry jack-knifed in front of them as they came round a corner. So they never lived in Snyder Close, and neither did I until the Jakes lot found me and Danny last year and made us come here. They’ve ruled our lives ever since.’
‘I think you can say that time is over,’ Cannon promised.
‘I’m never going back,’ Danny declared.
‘No,’ Cannon confirmed, ‘but we must be careful. Danny obviously can’t go to school or do his paper round. Neither of you must be seen. Alamat’ll be working on the other apartments in the daytime and he sleeps in the small place just inside the entrance to the stable-block, so he will be a kind of sentry. This is the safest place I can think of until I have seen Sergeant Maddern,’ Cannon said, and as Carol looked sharply up at him he added, ‘you have nothing to fear from the police, you have done nothing wrong.’
Carol’s stillness drew all their attention. She put a hand into the pocket of the cardigan she was wearing over an ancient pair of grey interlock pyjamas, then held out a clenched fist towards Cannon. He stretched out his hand and she dropped a solitaire diamond ring into it, the stone big enough to draw a gasp from Liz, and the question, ‘Is it real?’
‘Oh yes,’ Cannon
said, ‘unfortunately.’
Danny told the story. ‘I just wanted Mam to have something nice,’ he said, ‘but I should have thrown it back at him.’
‘Yes,’ Cannon confirmed, ‘but I’ll put it in the pub safe for the time being.’
‘And we must go, it’s very near opening time,’ Liz said. ‘Alamat will bring you supper later, and you can always send us message by him if you need to.’
‘And he’ll entertain you,’ Cannon said, wishing to lighten the woman’s stricken expression. ‘He’ll tell you all kind of things about the sayings of the English language if you give him a chance. He’s working on “coming a cropper” at the moment. But he does know when to … hold his tongue.’
They shared a precious brief moment of laughter.
‘I think he is a good man,’ Carol said, ‘and it would be nice to talk to someone in an ordinary way.’
Cannon wondered just how traumatic this woman’s life must have been to think of her present circumstances as anything near ordinary.
Once they had walked out under the archway, Cannon’s phone was in his hand ‘Where is Jim Maddern? Why doesn’t he answer his phone?’
‘He could be driving, or just so exhausted he’s not hearing it,’ Liz said. ‘Just do what I know you are itching to do, drive over there.’
‘I really don’t want any involvement with the police until I’ve seen him, and I’m particularly keen to avoid Jones.’
‘Just go,’ she said, ‘I know you won’t rest, or hear what anyone is saying to you in the bar or anywhere else until you’ve settled this.’
‘I don’t deserve you,’ he said and left her shaking her head as he ran towards his jeep. He blew her a huge theatrical kiss before he opened the jeep door, feeling guilty because he already had the keys in his pocket.
When he reached Sea Lane he came to an abrupt stop, unsure whether to beat a tactical retreat or drive on. He did neither, he parked and walked towards the police car parked outside Maddern’s house. He was just two properties away when he heard the sound of a door opening and men’s voices. Instinctively he turned back, pulled up his collar and hunched his shoulders; one of those voices was that of Inspector Brian Jones.