Seven Days to a Killing

by Clive Egleton

  Burroughs said, ‘Where do you want the radio?’

  ‘In my room. As soon as you have set it up, I’ll tell you when and where to put out the recognition panels and the beacon, and when that has been done, you’ll come back to the house and stay in this room. Got it?’

  Burroughs said, ‘You make it sound simple enough.’

  ‘It will be, if you all do as you’re told.’

  ‘About the boy?’ said Calvert.

  ‘I’m coming to him,’ said McKee. ‘He stays in the cellar until 1230 and then we’ll rig the harness on him and take him upstairs. I’ll need your help to do that.’

  ‘What’s the plan for getting into the helicopter?’ said Julyan.

  ‘We wait until it touches down on the pad, then I go out first with the boy, followed by Silk, you, Paul, Ruth and Calvert in that order.’ He waited briefly to see if there were any other questions, and then he said, ‘All right, let’s get started.’

  *

  Time was working against Tarrant, and yet he was forced to squander it until it was safe to assume that Drabble had been in touch. He waited until ten past ten and then he rang through. Alex answered the phone.

  Tarrant said, ‘Don’t worry, it’s only me. Where’s Harper?’

  ‘He just left.’

  ‘Did he say where he was going?’

  ‘He mentioned something about going into the office, but I’m not sure whether that was just for my benefit.’ There was a note of suppressed anxiety in her voice that alarmed him.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ he said.

  ‘I’m not sure. I have a feeling that Mr Harper was keeping something from me.’

  ‘Oh, why?’

  ‘It was nothing he said, but he seemed distant and withdrawn, and it was almost as if at the last moment he had decided to abandon David.’

  She was close to tears and he sensed that if he was too sympathetic it would only make her feel worse.

  ‘You’re imagining things,’ he said firmly.

  ‘I hope so, oh God, how I hope so.’

  More than anything else, he had to know what Drabble had said, and somehow the conversation had to be led round to that subject without alarming Alex. Tarrant struggled to find the right words, but they wouldn’t come, and his silence betrayed him.

  Alex said, ‘Are you all right, John?’

  ‘I’m fine—just a little tired, that’s all. It won’t be long now.’

  ‘So Mr Harper said.’

  ‘Oh, when was that?’

  ‘After Drabble spoke to him on the phone.’

  It was going to be easier than he had dared hope. ‘Let’s hear what he had to say for himself,’ he said casually.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Play the tape back.’

  ‘I can’t, Mr Harper took it away with him.’

  ‘Can you remember what was said?’

  ‘Does it matter now?’ she said wearily.

  ‘Please,’ he said, ‘I’d like to know.’

  ‘He mentioned a compass bearing of 320 degrees. I’m sure of that because he repeated it.’

  ‘Grid or magnetic?’

  ‘Oh God, I don’t know. Grid, I think—yes, I’m sure he said grid.’

  ‘That would be logical. Drabble would measure it off the map and leave us to do the conversion.’

  ‘I don’t understand…’

  ‘Listen,’ he said urgently, ‘what else was said?’

  ‘Something about wireless frequencies, but I’m afraid I didn’t take much notice of that part of the conversation.’ Her voice was shaky. ‘Why are you questioning me like this?’

  He had bungled it, and now that she was on the edge of panic, the questioning would have to stop. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said quietly, ‘I didn’t mean to frighten you. I’m just anxious to know what arrangements have been made.’ He licked his dry lips. ‘You know how much David means to me.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said dully, ‘he’s everything to me too.’

  ‘We’ll get him back.’

  ‘Do you really believe we will?’

  ‘I’m certain of it.’

  There was a longish pause while each groped for an ending, and then Alex said quickly, ‘Come home, John.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Now. I need you. I can’t see this thing through alone.’

  ‘Your mother hasn’t left you, has she?’ he said incredulously.

  ‘No. But it’s you I want.’

  It was a long time since she had expressed a need for him, and he felt moved. ‘I love you,’ he said softly.

  ‘I love you too.’ There was a catch in her voice. ‘Please come home.’

  ‘I will.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘By the first available train.’ It was a lie but a permissible one.

  Tarrant replaced the phone, dried his sweating hands on his handkerchief, and then, taking a protractor, marked off 320 degrees from Wyton and projected a line across the map to the point of no return for the Wessex. He was working on an operating range of three hundred miles, and with a sickening feeling, he came to realise that the Wessex could reach a point north of Manchester and still have enough fuel and time in hand to get back to Lyneham where the VC 10 was waiting. He checked the data the RAF had given him, saw that the transmitting range of the Sarbe beacon was in excess of ten miles, and calculated that the pick-up point could be anywhere inside an area measuring fifteen hundred square miles. He had five and a half hours to find Drabble; dead reckoning wasn’t the way to do it.

  He told himself that no one was perfect, and Drabble was no exception, and that if he really thought about it, there must be something that had been overlooked. He went back to the map, located the Cross Keys and studied the surrounding area. A car didn’t simply disappear into thin air, and the Zephyr must have been a millstone around their necks from the moment they had stolen it. The thief had no way of knowing when its loss would be reported, but in the circumstances, they might have counted on thirty minutes before the alarm was given, and a good driver could make thirty miles in that space of time. On the map scale, thirty miles worked out at seven and a half inches, and a circle of that radius, centred on the Cross Keys, took in Mansfield, Stamford, Northampton, Coventry and Burton on Trent, and that was still a big area to search. It was some time before Tarrant remembered that Drabble’s first telephone call had been traced to somewhere in Northampton.

  Even a helicopter as large as a Wessex could land almost anywhere, but they had asked for a beacon and a set of recognition panels, and they were hardly likely to put those to use in the middle of a built-up area. In their shoes, Tarrant thought he would opt for a landing site well away from any town or village but very close to the place where David was held captive. It seemed to him that an isolated farm was a fair bet.

  There were a number of such farms within the circle he had drawn on the map, and he was going to need all the help he could get if the choice was to be narrowed down. He asked the staff of the Careers Office for the name of the biggest Estate Agent in the area, and they told him that Platt, Swaffen and Mace had branches all over the East Midlands. He didn’t have far to go; their main office was just across the street.

  The girl, who introduced herself as Miss Peters, was very polite but equally she seemed resolved to keep Tarrant at arm’s length, and he regretted not having borrowed a razor. It appeared that Platt and Swaffen were deceased and that Mr Mace was not available, but she suggested that perhaps she might be able to help him.

  Tarrant said, ‘Perhaps you can.’ He produced his ID card and held it just far enough away so that she was unable to see the details clearly. ‘I’m making an official enquiry.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said quickly, ‘I didn’t realise you were from the police. Perhaps you’d like to see Mr Eric?’

  ‘Who’s he?’

  ‘He manages this office for his uncle, Mr Mace. Who shall I say is calling?’

  ‘Tarrant.’

  She smiled quickly. ‘Plea
se excuse me,’ she said, ‘I won’t keep you a minute.’

  She disappeared into an inner room and he caught a low murmur of voices, and then presently she came back and said, ‘Mr Eric will see you now.’

  Mr Eric was not yet thirty and his taste in clothes stopped just short of being trendy. His brown hair rested on the shoulders of a well-cut jacket which had been tailored with a lean figure in mind, and it was obvious from the look on her face that Miss Peters found him attractive. Somehow, Tarrant was not altogether surprised to find that he had a limp handshake.

  ‘What can I do for you, Superintendent?’ he said.

  ‘I’m afraid your secretary is mistaken. I’m a Major in the army.’

  He raised his eyebrows. ‘I wonder how I got the impression you were a police officer?’ he said acidly. He wasn’t very tall, and like a good many small men, he could be pompous and overbearing.

  Tarrant said, ‘I don’t suppose my name rings a bell with you?’

  ‘No. Should it?’

  ‘On Sunday last, two boys were abducted. One of them, a boy called James Stroud, was found near Barnard Castle on Monday morning; the other, my son, is still missing.’

  A frown creased his narrow forehead. ‘Now you mention it,’ he said, ‘I do remember seeing a small paragraph about it.’

  ‘I think you might be able to help me.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘My son is being held in an isolated farm somewhere within a radius of thirty miles of this city. The farm I have in mind could have a paddock, but on the other hand it might even be a smallholding, but it will certainly be some distance from the nearest habitation. I’d like you to go through your records and find me some likely addresses.’

  ‘That’s rather a tall order.’

  ‘I realise that,’ Tarrant said wearily.

  ‘I don’t think you quite understand. A lot would depend on when this farm changed hands. How far back do we search? Six months? A year? Two years? or what?’

  ‘I don’t know, it could be much longer than that.’

  ‘Quite honestly, Major Tarrant, I think you’re wasting your time. Why not leave this matter to the police?’

  ‘Would you, in my position?’

  ‘I can’t give you an honest answer to that one, I’m not married.’ He pursed his lips. ‘I want to help you,’ he said, ‘if you’d like to call back later this afternoon, say round about four o’clock, I might have something for you.’

  ‘Time is one thing I haven’t got,’ said Tarrant. ‘It’s now five minutes to eleven; let’s see what you can get me in the next hour.’

  ‘We’ll barely scratch the surface in an hour, but if you care to wait in Miss Peters’ office, I’ll get in touch with our other branches and see what we can do.’

  He sat on a bench seat facing a wall covered with colour photographs of other people’s houses, most of which had already been sold. The girl pecked at the typewriter and answered the phone whenever it rang, but Tarrant noticed that her attention was directed at the clock above his head, and he thought that, unlike him, she was probably wishing the time away.

  Between Drabble and Harper, he felt as if he was being crushed in a vice. He was reluctantly being driven to the conclusion that, for all the good he was doing, he might just as well be at home with Alex. At least he might be of some practical use there, instead of which he was waiting on a forlorn hope that Platt, Swaffen and Mace might just turn up something.

  Wasn’t it stupid to go on hoping when Drabble had demonstrated time and again that he was the complete professional? He hadn’t put a foot wrong except perhaps when it came to stealing the Zephyr, and there luck had been with him. Or had it? A man who planned each move with such infinite care would never chance his arm at the final and most crucial stage. At any time, Tarrant could have walked outside and caught them breaking into his car and Drabble must surely have thought of that possibility and taken steps to prevent it happening? And Jesus, Drabble had. He had planted someone inside the Cross Keys to keep him occupied, and that someone was either Calvert, Scotson or Burroughs, or was it Burrows? He began to wonder if any of them happened to live on a farm.

  Tarrant said, ‘Miss Peters?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Have you a telephone directory?’

  ‘Yes, of course; which one would you like?—Leicester, Derby, Lincoln, Nottingham or Northamptonshire?’

  ‘The lot,’ he said.

  Ten minutes later he found what he was looking for: Burroughs, P., Hillglade Farm, Hillglade Lane, near Melton Basset.

  20

  THE LONG HOURS OF CONFINEMENT IN THE DARK CELLAR HAD LEFT THEIR mark upon the boy. His face was like wax, and where he had wet himself, the smell of urine was strong. He had tried desperately hard to control his bladder, hoping that the woman would let him go to the lavatory when she came with his breakfast on a tray, but this morning he had not been fed, and finally he could hold it no longer, and close to tears, he had allowed his body to function. The urine passing through his penis had felt as if it was scalding him but it was nothing to the burning sense of shame he now felt.

  McKee said, ‘You’re going to stink the plane out, sonny. I can see that we shall have to sit you near the tail where we shan’t be able to smell you.’ He could read the fear in the boy’s eyes and he was well satisfied. He knew the true purpose of terror and he subscribed to Lenin’s view that people who were frightened usually did as they were told. He removed the gag, untied him and dragged the boy off the bed.

  Calvert said, ‘He doesn’t look too steady on his feet to me.’

  ‘Neither would you,’ said McKee, ‘if you’d been through what he has.’ He looked at David and smiled bleakly. ‘I expect you’ve got pins and needles,’ he said. ‘We shall have to restore your circulation, won’t we? Suppose you start running on the spot.’

  There was a moment of hesitation and McKee smacked his face. It was not a hard blow but it was enough to show that he expected to be obeyed. The exercise period lasted for ten minutes and by the time it was over, David’s face was brick red, his hair was dark with sweat and his chest was heaving.

  McKee gave him a few minutes to catch his breath before they rigged the harness around his stomach and shoulders. The three silver bells at the waist should have been a reminder of innocent childhood, but instead they lent the final obscene touch to the macabre set of reins. They were a tight fit, and the leather straps bit into and bruised his skin.

  McKee said, ‘We’ve been feeding you too well.’

  David licked his lips and then nervously, he said, ‘The lady didn’t bring me anything to eat this morning.’

  ‘It’s just as well she didn’t, otherwise we’d never have got you into this harness.’

  He cast a professional eye over the fourteen canvas pouches which between them contained seven pounds of plastic explosive and satisfied himself that the firing circuit would not malfunction. He picked up the length of cable which had been attached to the push-pull switch and waved it under David’s nose.

  ‘You see this,’ McKee said harshly, ‘it’s your tail; step on it accidentally and there will be nothing left of you.’

  Little now remained to be done. They would pinion the boy’s arms and gag him and then he would be led upstairs and placed in the end room where he would be guarded by Calvert. McKee would be like a commander watching over the battlefield from an observation post and he needed his hostage to be close at hand in case anything did go wrong at the very last minute.

  *

  They were a stick of eight, and they had practised getting in and out of the Wessex helicopter until their leader was satisfied that their timing could not be bettered. They struck the aircrew as being an oddly assorted bunch, for they wore no recognisable uniform and yet each man was armed, and it was evident that they were a tightly knit and highly disciplined group of men. Their ages ranged from the early twenties to the mid-forties, and a few of their number spoke with marked foreign accents. The pilot,
inclined to think that some of them were refugees from Eastern Europe, had mentioned this to Harper in jocular fashion, and had regretted it ever since.

  Harper, deep in thought, stood apart from the others. A top official who was determined to cross over was always a difficult man to detect before the event. Edward Julyan was not a low- grade clerk or junior officer who was obliged to photograph secretly the information he proposed to sell; he carried everything in his head like a walking computer. He had no need to send for files which he was not authorised to see; everything concerning Eastern Europe automatically came to him and all he had had to do was to memorise the details. After his defection was made known, any number of people would say that of course the security services were slipping because it must have been perfectly obvious to anyone that Julyan had been living above his means. These same people, he thought bitterly, would raise a shrill scream of protest if their own private lives were put under a microscope in the interests of security. In a democracy, you have to respect the rights of the individual and accept a degree of risk or else you were fast on the road to becoming a police state.

  He wondered if Drabble had already persuaded Julyan that, as an act of good faith, he should part with some of the information he had stored away in his mind. Harper was familiar with the technique of ultra-high-speed transmissions and he knew that the chance of intercepting and jamming any message sent to Moscow by this means was remote. As far as the SIS were concerned, this would really put the cat in amongst the pigeons, but on balance, he thought it unlikely that Julyan would deliver anything until he laid his hands on the diamonds.

  He was personally satisfied that he had taken appropriate steps to see that Drew and Vincent and their teams were suitably equipped, but he wished to avoid the use of force if possible. He had a strong feeling that he was up against a number of highly trained KGB operatives, and a lot of useful information was there for the asking if he could take them alive. He planned to isolate the hide and then talk them into surrendering, and he had taken steps to prepare the ground for this. At half-hourly intervals starting at 1330 hours, the BBC news bulletin would contain a reference to the tragic death of Mrs Melissa Julyan. A wolfish smile appeared on Harper’s face; Drabble and his friends might think it was a lie, but they couldn’t be sure, and he could imagine what it would do to Julyan, and that in turn was bound to have an effect on the others.