Deadly Serious

by Jean Chapman

  As some feeling came back into his limbs and more sight to his eyes, he struggled to the edge of his car boot space and gingerly stretched his legs until he was sitting on the edge. Jockey stood, overshadowing him.

  ‘Feel I’ve gone ten rounds with you, Jockey, and I lost,’ he said. Words had got him this far, he knew he mustn’t lapse into silence. ‘You won,’ he added, ‘hands down.’

  ‘Yes,’ Jockey agreed.

  ‘And now we have to go to the house,’ Maddern suggested, putting a little weight on his feet, wondering if he’d be able to stand – and then he heard voices.

  It sounded like a family – children, adults, coming nearer – and he saw the knife, a nine-inch beast, slid into a sheath in Jockey’s waistband. He had a choice here. He was pretty sure if he took Jockey by surprise he could knock him off balance, attract attention and be out of this situation. But he had been a policeman a long time, and he also knew that he was gaining Jockey’s trust, that it was possible he was going to be taken to the place where all the Jakes clan were gathering before they left the country, where apparently the infamous Uncle Sean already was, waiting.

  The voices – the family, calling to each other, laughing – came nearer. Then he realized what they were doing in the wide flat space of the empty car park. They were flying a kite.

  ‘Daddy,’ a young voice piped, ‘I think that man sitting on the car is ill.’

  ‘Is everything all right?’ a man’s voice asked, coming nearer. Jockey stood over him and he could see nothing, but felt the tension in Jockey’s stance. He caught a glimpse of the kite, brilliant as a huge butterfly rising into the sky.

  ‘It’s up! Daddy! Look, look!’ A child’s voice from further away.

  Maddern put his head a little to the side. ‘No, I’m fine,’ he called, and in case he was bleeding anywhere they could see added, ‘Just a tumble,’ then added, ‘nice kite!’

  What kind of fool was he, he asked himself, as the family, the laughter of carefree children, moved away. There was his own family. He could have wished they had not accepted his explanation quite so easily, but they could see he was not alone. He had Jockey – or Jockey had him.

  ‘We have to go now,’ Jockey stated.

  ‘In the car?’ he asked.

  ‘To the station.’

  ‘The railway station?’

  ‘Yes,’ Jockey said and got back into the driving seat.

  He glanced around. The sea was far out. On the windswept beach, there were just a few distant dog-walkers, looking like Lowry figures with long-trousered legs and big boots. The family were on the beach now, the children dancing along, exultant, their kite high and tugging behind them. In the distance that fairground ride stopped again. He took a lungful of the sea air – and went to sit in the passenger’s seat.

  He lifted his hand towards the vanity mirror, the slowness of the action asking permission from Jockey, who was watching him closely. He looked like death and there was dried blood in his hair.

  ‘Perhaps I could have a swill at the station, if we’re going on a train, and a cup of tea,’ he said. ‘Be good for both of us.’

  Jockey did not answer, but started the car.

  The streets were not overly busy but there were people about – shopping, strolling. What he needed was for a local copper to spot his car, make a report. He had no illusions about what he was getting into, knew there would be no sweet-talking Uncle Sean.

  At the station they parked the car, and surely if there was a call out for it, it must be seen here. He had to concentrate to walk normally. Much of him hurt, particularly his side which had tangled with the doorframe. He pulled himself up straight and kept close to Jockey, who gave him no cause for concern. When Jockey bought the tickets for Lincoln Central he helped him out with the right change from his pocket.

  The man in the ticket office glanced at a clock and said, ‘Next train due in two minutes,’ he said, ‘you’ll just make it.’

  ‘Time to get a tea?’ he asked a porter when they stepped out onto the platform.

  ‘On the train, mate,’ the porter answered indicating the train coming into sight, and they were hardly in their seats and on their way before the trolley came. He supposed he was surprised there was still money in his pockets. Margaret always told him off for bundling the odd five pound note and coins all in together; now it stood him in good stead and he bought tea and bacon sandwiches for them both.

  He tried to remember when he had last had a drink and eaten. He made himself sip his drink slowly at first, but then both food and drink were like nectar and he could have eaten four times as much. After they had both finished their snack, Jockey startled him by digging him in the ribs and indicating the end of the corridor. ‘You’re coming,’ he stated.

  ‘OK,’ he said, rising obediently and walking in front of Jockey along the swaying train to the toilet compartment. ‘You first?’ he asked as they reached the no-man’s land between carriages.

  Jockey hesitated. ‘No, you,’ he said.

  The biro he had in his inside pocket was broken in half, but he could make it work. He lost no time in writing on a paper towel. ‘Police – please ring this number’. The number that came first to his mind, the one he could safely appeal to, was that for The Trap public house. ‘Message: Sgt Jim on train to Lincoln.’

  He folded the towel and put it in his trouser pocket, put the broken pen back in his top pocket, used the lavatory and went out. ‘I’ll go back to our seats,’ he said as a woman with an anxious child came and stood behind Jockey. By the tut she gave she had expected Jockey to relinquish his turn.

  He re-entered the compartment and looked for the most likely person to pass his message on. Then he saw the ticket inspector in the next compartment. He hurried to encounter him in the next section between carriages. The man was in his forties, smart, neat hair-style, clean-shaven.

  ‘I need your help,’ he said.

  ‘Of course, sir,’ and, looking at him more closely, asked, ‘are you ill?’

  He pulled the message from his pocket and opened it for him to read. ‘It is important,’ he said, ‘but say nothing when you get to me in the next compartment.’ With that he turned back and walked to his seat, just established by the time Jockey came swaying back to take the aisle-seat beside him. His face was impassive and he sat back down without comment. Even so, Maddern held his breath as the ticket collector reached them. The man looked down over Jockey’s shoulder, took in his appearance, then, taking the two tickets for inspection, asked, ‘Travelling together?’

  Jockey glanced at him and took the tickets back. Maddern released his breath slowly and soundlessly as the inspector nodded and moved on.

  He guessed the journey would take about another hour, too long to be silent, to let Jockey brood too much about things.

  ‘Have we far to go when we reach Lincoln?’ he asked.

  ‘About twenty miles,’ Jockey answered at once.

  ‘Will someone meet us?’ he asked.

  ‘No, there’ll be a car.’

  ‘I could do with another sandwich,’ he said; it seemed a safe topic.

  ‘There’s always food – and drink,’ Jockey said. He leaned his head back and closed his eyes.

  Where this food would be and whether there’d be any on tap for either of them he much doubted, but it seemed conversation time was over. He supposed Jockey had been up early, had a long day. He leaned back and tried to relax, rest while he could, no chance of him sleeping with so much on his mind.

  As the announcer said they were nearing Lincoln Central station it did occur to him that he could feign sleep and they could both go by the stop, but he nudged Jockey, who woke with a start.

  ‘We’re at Lincoln,’ he said. It took the ex-boxer a moment or two to realize where he was. They had to stir themselves, were last to alight and the doors were already being closed for the train to go on.

  Jockey, who really did seem to need time to get his brain in gear after a sleep, now led the w
ay out of the station. The station car park was right outside, very convenient, but Jockey led the way past the rows of vehicles and began walking along the road. Maddern kept pace with Jockey but his mind was riveted back in that car park. Near the exit he had glimpsed – thought he had glimpsed – a jeep, a Willy jeep. Cannon’s pride and joy, or just another like it? Had there been time for Cannon to get here? If the ticket collector had phoned from the train and Cannon had been near his jeep, then yes, for he would have been miles nearer to Lincoln than a train just leaving Skegness.

  He followed Jockey with his heart racing, but if it was Cannon, had he seen the two of them walking away? Jockey led the way into a side street and he turned to look back the way they had come. There were several people behind them on the same side, and on the opposite side, a man, strolling but taking long strides, covering the ground, glancing his way and then a bus obscured him from view. He could not linger as Jockey turned to indicate a Range Rover parked just beyond the regulation distance for a vehicle near a corner.

  Jockey went to the far side and, stooping, retrieved the key balanced on top of the front wheel.

  Chapter 24

  They were still sitting in the car talking when Liz called back with a message from a ticket inspector, who had begun by saying, ‘I hope this is not someone messing about….’ She had told him he might well be saving someone’s life.

  ‘For Jim Maddern to resort to such tactics …’ Liz paused, ‘he really is asking for your help now, John.’

  A message for Austin had come hot on its heels. A large group of bikers had tried to bypass one of the roadblocks and, not having managed, were fighting it out, trying to remove stinger and police, who needed assistance. ‘I have to deal with this,’ Austin said.

  ‘Get me back to my jeep, and through the nearest roadblock. The inspector said the tickets he inspected were to Lincoln and they were due to arrive in about an hour. I could be there by then. I’m miles nearer Lincoln here than if I’d been at home.’

  ‘But what’s going on?’ Austin puzzled, as he started the car.

  Cannon shook his head. ‘But thank God it seems he’s still alive,’ he said fervently. ‘Whatever he’s doing, or being made to do I could at least follow, keep in touch….’

  ‘With me, top priority,’ Austin said, swinging the car round. He consulted with his radio contacts. ‘Nearest roadblock is on the B1190,’ he repeated to Cannon, then listened intently, ‘and the block needing reinforcements? Right, I’ll be there.’

  ‘And for the sake of your nearest and dearest get yourself some body armour,’ Cannon advised.

  ‘For the sake of your nearest and dearest I should be telling you to keep out of this,’ Austin said as he dropped Cannon off outside the farmhouse, delaying only to tell him that the road stinger would be pulled aside when the jeep arrived, but he must stop to identify himself by giving CI Austin’s full name.

  ‘Well, it’s like Rumpelstiltskin,’ Cannon said, ‘no one would guess it, would they.’

  The momentary light-heartedness was gone in a second as Austin held out his hand and they shook solemnly, wishing each other ‘good luck’ and ‘Godspeed’.

  He reached the roadblock in less than ten minutes, saw the men were alert and on the lookout for him. He rolled down his window and said to the nearest man, ‘Robert Auguste Austin.’ The man grinned and signalled for the stinger to be pulled aside. ‘And tell them wherever Auguste’s going to provide him with some body armour,’ he shouted as he drove on.

  He reached the station minutes before the arrival of the Skegness train, parked near the exit to the car park, waited, and then very nearly missed the two men who walked away behind the ranked cars. He crossed the road and followed, saw Maddern turn to look back before being led around a corner to a side street.

  A bus obscured his view momentarily and when it had passed he saw a 4x4 come out of the side street. His heart gave a great thump – that had to be Jim sitting in the passenger seat and the huge shoulders and bullneck of the driver must belong to a Jakes. He was going to lose them if he didn’t look sharp, but he forced himself to stand still and register the number of the grey Land Rover Discovery 3. He pulled out his phone to call Austin as he sprinted back to the station car park, wishing for a lapel radio as he fumbled with a parking ticket, keys and phone.

  ‘Are you in eye contact?’ Austin asked.

  ‘No, but he can’t be far ahead – there’s too much traffic.’

  ‘I’ll put out a call for the vehicle to be stopped and detained on sight. I’ve requested help from the Leicestershire force.’

  So, he thought, dropping the phone on the passenger’s seat, I’m on my own until the cavalry arrive.

  Chapter 25

  The way the sun rose high over his left shoulder Maddern knew they were travelling north from the city, north and slightly east.

  ‘You’ve driven to this place before?’ he asked Jockey.

  Yes.’

  ‘By yourself?’

  He saw the slight shake of Jockey’s head. ‘No, bringing Uncle Sean, he set it up. Everything.’ The last word was accompanied by a hand lifted up into the air.

  ‘Clever, then,’ he commented.

  ‘Says I’m stupid.’ Jockey said the words sounding like a hurt child.

  ‘Clever but not kind, then.’

  ‘Never kind to me.’ The words sounded dragged from the depths of old hurts. ‘He tore up all my boxing pictures from the newspapers, one by one, until I learned to drop.’

  ‘Drop?’ Madder queried.

  ‘Pretend to be knocked out in the ring, fall down. He kept making me do it over and over.’

  ‘And if you didn’t get it right, he tore up—’

  ‘A picture, one by one.’

  ‘That,’ he said quietly and with some feeling, ‘was really spiteful.’

  ‘Carol says he’s a devil.’

  ‘You like Carol,’ he said, beginning to feel that this and Jockey’s hatred for his Uncle Sean were the two things he could be sure about. Jockey nodded with great emphasis.

  Maddern had seen what unkindness, cruelty and mistrust could do to people, but he was a fervent believer in the power of love, love that could move mountains.

  ‘And Danny?’ he asked.

  ‘I could be his uncle, his kind uncle, like you said.’ Jockey smiled, a heart-warming but grotesque sight on such a ravaged face.

  ‘Jockey, when we get to this place, what are we going to do about Sean?’

  The car slowed down as if Jockey had forgotten he was driving. Though they were now on a deserted country lane and hampered no one, it was alarming as he appeared to switch off completely. The 4x4 hit the grass verge, bumped in and out of a water gulley and back onto the road.

  ‘Perhaps we should stop and talk about it before we get there.’

  ‘Yes,’ Jockey agreed, and stopped the car.

  ‘I …’ Maddern began, startled at the immediate reaction, then asked, ‘so, are we nearly there?’

  ‘Next turn.’

  He could have wished it was further, given him more time for these next negotiations. ‘First, Jockey,’ he said, ‘your uncle won’t expect me to be with you.’

  ‘No,’ Jockey agreed, ‘I should’ve killed you.’

  ‘So we mustn’t let Sean know you haven’t …’ he said, and curved his mouth into something he hoped resembled humour, going on to ask, ‘So what were you told to do?’

  ‘No one to make any phone calls to or from the pad, phone calls can be traced. I have to come to be told,’ Jockey said in monotone as if he had learned this by rote.

  ‘Jockey, if you do what I say I’ll help you to a life free from Uncle Sean and your family.’

  ‘With Carol and Danny,’ Jockey said, nodding.

  ‘That would have to be for Carol to say.’ His life might depend on this but he could not bring himself to give this man unrealistic unattainable hopes.

  Jockey sat still, silent, brooding.

  ‘I t
hink, like you, she has been made to do things she did not want to do, live in places she did not want to live in. Carol must be given the chance to choose, as I am giving you the same chance to choose. Maddern sat quite still, waiting for some word, some decision, while at the same time watching Jockey’s hand in case he went for the knife in his belt. There was no word, no movement.

  ‘If you want to be free of Sean you must leave me here, go to the pad,’ he used Jockey’s word, ‘then just do as your uncle tells you….’

  ‘Keep him sweet,’ Jockey stated.

  ‘You’ve got the idea. Keep him sweet, until I have help to take him away.’ He saw Jockey’s chest rising and falling more rapidly as he thought about this.

  ‘He won’t know?’

  ‘Not until it is too late – and I won’t be far away.’

  ‘You get out now,’ Jockey said and with another of these surprisingly quick decisions restarted the car.

  Maddern released his seat belt and got out, staggered by his sudden freedom as Jockey drove off immediately. He lifted his head skywards and felt a sense of deliverance. Deliver me from evil, he had prayed as a child. It felt like that.

  There were two things to be done, one to locate exactly where Jockey had gone, two to make contact with Cannon or the police – that meant finding someone with a phone.

  He stepped off the verge into the road as he heard a vehicle coming, a lorry or a tractor – or perhaps both – but someone he could hopefully ask for assistance. The engine noises increased and he stationed himself in the middle of the road, while reminding himself he was not in uniform and wondering whether anyone would stop for such a disreputable-looking individual.

  The first vehicle was a milk tanker, and the driver did begin to slow – but then Maddern saw the vehicle immediately behind, and quickly waved the tanker by, indicating to the driver he really wanted to stop the jeep coming behind him.

  Cannon made the worst emergency stop he had ever made in his life, stalling the engine and throwing himself forward hard into his belt. He truly felt he did not believe his eyes. ‘Jim,’ he mouthed to himself, ‘it is you, isn’t it?’ He released his belt and got out calling, ‘It is you, thank God.’