His voice was tinged in pity.
“You really should have kept to the deadline.”
The world became a blurry cocktail of anguish and pain as Tommy connected with an uppercut to the midsection, before obliterating the broken nose with a high knee to Dilip’s face. As he crashed to the mat, Curtis smiled and urged his brother on.
The lights in the hallway flashed on as soon as Fletcher flicked the switch to the left of the front door. He shuffled in quickly, followed by Lucas who was carrying the folders with ease. Lucas scanned the hallway, seeing the small unit by the wall. Above it hung a photo of a woman, her smile full of love.
Fletcher opened the door just beyond and slipped into the darkness, the light coming on as he flicked the switch. Lucas followed.
The room smelled of old smoke, the ashtray on the coffee table overflowing with cigarette butts. The desk by the window was covered in paper, with a laptop sitting in in its centre, the screen dark. He put the files down on the edge of the desk and picked up a sheet of paper covered with messy scribbles.
“Ah, those are my memoirs,” Fletcher said taking his coat off and dropping it over the edge of the sofa. “Well, the beginning of them.”
Lucas gave a polite smile and returned them to the desk. He slowly circled the room, stopping at the mantelpiece. There proudly sat a photo of Fletcher at his police graduation, the snapshot of history even more beautiful in its black and white glory. Next to that sat another photo of the woman from the hallway, leaning against a tree trunk in an exotic location. Lucas could feel her absence from the house.
“Is this your wife?” Lucas asked, his eyes still fixed on the photo.
“That’s my Susan,” Fletcher said, proud to show her off.
“She’s very beautiful.”
“She was.” Lucas looked at him, realising that the absence was stronger than ever.
“I’m sorry.”
“Thank you.” Fletcher took a breath, remembering Susan for a moment. He then turned to his guest, who stood, arms folded. He hadn’t taken his leather jacket off and Fletcher knew this wasn’t going to be a social catch-up.
“Can I get you a drink?”
He opened up a drinks cabinet, selecting a half empty bottle of Jack Daniels from a number of bottles inside. He pulled out two glasses, filling one of them.
“No thank you.”
Fletcher pulled the glass up to his lips, swallowing the whole drink in one swig. Lucas looked at a photo of Fletcher standing proudly next to a young woman, probably his daughter, at her graduation. Next to that sat a police radio. He looked at Fletcher puzzled.
“Oh that,” Fletcher appeared embarrassed. “I like to know what’s going on. Sad, I know.”
“Each to their own.” Lucas continued circling, until he made it back to Fletcher’s desk. He looked at the dusty folder on top of the stack he’d brought in, seeing his name hidden by dust.
“Are you sure I can’t get you a drink?
“I didn’t come here for a drink.”
The words were firm, each one retrieved from a place full of anger. Fletcher poured another Jack into the glass, knocked it back and then poured another. He left the lid off the bottle as he turned to Lucas. He immediately felt smaller.
“I figured as much.” Fletcher rummaged through the coat on the back of the sofa, pulling out a box of cigarettes. He offered one to Lucas who held up a hand of rejection. Fletcher lit a cigarette and sat on the arm of the sofa. Six feet away from him stood the living embodiment of rage.
“Lucas, I implore you. Please don’t go down the route I know you want to go down. These are people you do not want to mess with.”
A cloud of cigarette smoke floated around the room.
“Who are they? The police seem to know, Fletcher, but they aren’t doing a fucking thing about it. Why?”
“Because Lucas, every now and then you come across people who are above the law.” The look on Lucas’s face told Fletcher it wasn’t the right answer. “You want me to say it, Lucas? Fine. We’re scared to go after them.”
Lucas shook his head and pushed himself away from the desk and to the middle of the room. Fletcher took a long pull on his cigarette.
“Why?” Lucas asked, crossing his arms.
“Because, Lucas, they’re too strong. I hate to admit it, god knows I do, but they’re beyond the grasp of the Met. They have their hooks so deep into the criminal underworld of this city that they’ve become untouchable. The few times we’ve had them up in court, the families of the police officers involved or the witnesses, even the damn judges, have been attacked. This one time, one of the officers who’d arrested them came home to find his wife and daughters hanging from the stairs in his house. He never came back after that. I can’t say I blame him.”
Lucas closed his eyes, imagining the things these people had done. His hand found its way to his pocket and he clenched his fingers tightly around the wedding ring. Fletcher took a sip of his whisky and lit another cigarette before continuing.
“The thing is, these attacks are carried out by people so far removed from the Draytons it can’t be traced back to them. People swear loyalty to them, out of fear. They kill for them just to stay on their good side.”
“The Draytons?” Lucas enquired, his interest piqued.
“Lucas, don’t. Because with them it will not be a case of your anger outweighs theirs. They’ll kill you as soon as they find you.”
“Well, we’ll have at least one thing in common then, won’t we?”
“It’ll be a war, Lucas.”
“No. Not a war.” Lucas’s eyes were burning with pure fury. “It’ll be a massacre. Where can I find them?”
Fletcher took a long draw from the cigarette and let the smoke blow out as he shook his head.
“I can’t tell you that.”
“Fletcher, look at me.”
Another puff of smoke plumed out of Fletcher’s mouth and he looked up, meeting Lucas’s eye. His eyes were red; angry tears forming in their corners. His stubble-covered jaw was quivering slightly.
“These men abducted my Helen, Fletcher. They took her from the street and they snatched her from her world.”
“I know, Lucas. But…”
“They raped my wife. They raped her and then left her to die alone and in the dark - her and my unborn child. And I was so far away there was nothing I could do. I could have protected her, Fletcher, and that much I failed her on.
“But these people are literally going to get away with murder. And I owe it to her, the love of my life, to make sure that doesn’t happen.”
Lucas stood powerfully in the centre of the room, his eyes fixed on Fletcher through the tears. The old man sat, struggling with what was being asked of him. Fletcher could feel the sadness flowering, he felt the pain emanating from the recently widowed.
He thought of Susan.
He thought of Helen.
“She did so much good for you, Lucas. I’m so sorry she’s gone.”
“Don’t be sorry. Be helpful. Give me a first name.”
“I can’t.”
'Give me a name, or I’ll burn this city to the ground ‘til I find them.”
“I can’t, Lucas. I can’t.” Fletcher’s voice broke, tears trying their best to choke him. “I know what you’re capable of, remember?”
“You have no idea what I’m capable of.” Lucas squatted down to Fletcher’s eye-level, his voice taking on a softer tone. “Give me one name, look the other way and you’ll never see me again.”
Fletcher pulled the last cigarette out of the box, crushing it in his hand and throwing it on the table. It clattered against the ashtray, the overflow of butts spilling across the oak. He clicked the zippo, and once more smoke choked the air in the room. Fletcher took a moment, a tear rolling down his cheek.
“I remember when I came to visit you in the hospital. You were so young then and you were so excited.” A smile formed on his face. “You kept telling me about Helen, how in love y
ou were falling. You told me about your first date, that magical first kiss you guys shared in front of your statue.”
Lucas stood up straight, his nostrils flaring in anger as he thought back to a memory with someone consigned to history. Fletcher took another puff, allowing the smoke to billow from his nostrils.
“It was at that moment, Lucas, that I thought you may have a future after all.”
Silence filled the room, both men allowing themselves a few moments to grieve. Fletcher sighed.
“If I give you this name, you can never come back here, you understand? Everything that happens after this moment is going to be beyond anything you could imagine.”
“I’m fully aware of where I’m heading. I’m just going to make sure I bring them with me.”
Fletcher nodded, almost reasoning with himself.
“What do you plan to do?” he asked, the words wreathed in smoke.
“I’m going to show them why it’s called a pain threshold.”
Fletcher almost chuckled, knowing none of these threats were empty. One name is all it would take to set off a chain of events that would shake the city to its foundation.
“Lewis Drayton.” Lucas’s eyes flashed with interest. “He runs the ‘Golf in Class’ driving range in Sudbury.”
Fletcher stood up as Lucas extended his hand. He took it, shaking it firmly. A purpose took hold of Lucas and Fletcher could see the fury driving him.
“Thank you, Fletcher.”
Lucas turned and headed to the door. Fletcher took a few steps after him, his body cutting through the smoke hanging in the air.
“Be careful Lucas. This family is powerful in I’ve never seen before. They’ll come for you with everything they have. It’s how it’s been for years.”
Lucas pulled open the front door. The rain had decided to return to London, it’s hard, cold beads shooting down from the night sky. The air felt fresh. Fletcher emerged into the hallway.
“These people have nothing to fear.”
Lucas took a few steps down the driveway, heading off on his mission. He stopped and turned, the rain crashing against his face, three more words before he disappeared into the night.
“They do now.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Fletcher managed to walk through the door to the station at a minute to nine, and relief set in. The drive had been straightforward, but the weather was continuing its mischievous game with the world by beaming bright sunrays from a blue sky. The traffic was almost non-existent.
It was the hangover that was the problem.
That, plus the overwhelming sense of regret of what had happened the night before and his recklessness in sending Lucas in the right direction. The potential danger he’d put Lucas and the Draytons in. The prison sentence he would surely face for mentioning the Draytons to the grieving husband.
The certainty that something had happened.
However, Fletcher found the office to be quiet, almost peaceful, especially for a Monday morning. A few officers were situated on the reception desk, booking in a young offender caught in possession of a knife. Some of the administrators were typing away, sending out communications with great precision. McCarthy was leaning back in his chair, a half-complete crossword puzzle in his hands and a frown on his usually welcoming face.
Nothing had happened.
Fletcher got to his desk and lowered himself into his chair, the ache in his back flaring up with small stabs to the base of his spine. After Lucas had left, Fletcher had continued to empty the bottle of Jack Daniels and had woken up on the sofa with an empty glass on his lap.
His mouth still felt dry; a whole night spent chain-smoking had made his mouth feel like a desert.
He could smell the alcohol on his warm breath, could feel the cigarette smoke clinging to his creased work shirt.
“Christ, Fletch. You look like you fell out of bed this morning.”
Fletcher looked up from his desk to see the hulking figure of Sgt. Bailey standing over him, his beefy arms folded across his broad chest. Fletcher raised his eyebrows and smiled, pushing his glasses up his nose.
“Sorry. Rough night.”
“You're too old for rough nights,” Bailey smiled.
“I'm too old for a lot of things.”
“Not retirement apparently.”
Fletcher politely smiled again, wishing to be left alone to deal with the throbbing pain in his forehead, and the feeling that the alcohol had shrunk his skull by a third of its size.
“I need to speak to you.”
Bailey's voice carried serious overtones and suddenly Fletcher felt a sharp twinge of panic, his old heart beginning to beat faster. That overwhelming feeling of being accountable for whatever Lucas had promised trickled into his mind. Coherent thoughts and strong excuses all deserted him. He coughed a little, nervously clearing his throat.
“You okay, Fletch?” Bailey's concern seemed genuine.
“Sorry. I'm feeling a little unwell.”
“Maybe you should head home?”
“But you needed to speak to me?” Fletcher looked up at Bailey, trying to maintain an honest eye contact. The man was impossible to read and reaffirmed to Fletcher why he was a great Sergeant. His conscience was screaming through, piercing the hangover, and impaling itself through his brain.
“Tell him! Tell him what you’ve done.”
“Well, that can wait,” Bailey said, taking an authoritative stance by Fletcher's desk. “I was just going to ask you to explain that goddamned filing system you put in. I can't find a goddamn thing.”
Fletcher exhaled, relief surfing on the air filtering out of his lungs. He felt his heartbeat rectifying itself, beating over the ever-growing screams of his guilt.
“Come on, go home,” Bailey ordered. “I don't want to deal with the death of an OAP first thing Monday morning.”
“Thank you, I think,” Fletcher said, not even bothering to turn on the computer as he eased himself up, visibly wincing with pain.
“And go and see a doctor about your back, for Christ's sake.”
Fletcher nodded and Bailey strode away purposefully out of the office, his subordinates parting like the Red Sea to let him by.
“TELL HIM! Tell him you sent Lucas after the Draytons. Tell him what’s coming.”
“Sir?” Fletcher called out as he pulled his thin, summer jacket over his untidy outfit. Bailey stopped and turned around. Fletcher swallowed and took a deep breath. This was the moment, a glittering career and a twilight within the force that had garnered him so much respect, about to be ripped apart by his own stupidity.
Lucas did deserve his retribution.
Fletcher deserved to face the law for his actions.
“What is it, Fletcher?”
Bailey stood impatiently, shrugging his large, rounded shoulders to hurry the old man along. Just as Fletcher was about to admit his crime, he glanced at his desk. A photo of Laura, his estranged granddaughter, stared back at him. The beautiful blue eyes watching as he was about to bury any chance he had of holding her in his arms.
Annabelle would never bring her to visit him. He would die in prison alone.
“Thank you sir. I'll be back in tomorrow.”
“Just get better.” Bailey's compassion was not always gentle. He continued his march, disappearing round the corner and into the day ahead. Fletcher gathered his things, battling the increasingly powerful voice within.
“He’ll find out. You started this. You’re responsible. Tell him what’s coming.”
What was coming not even Fletcher was prepared for.
'Golf in Class' was set back from the main road, the gravel path cutting through the green hill lining the dual carriageway. Five minutes down the road was Northwick Park hospital, the building having seen better days, which sat on the outskirts of Harrow. Surrounding the substantial golfing establishment were vast swathes of green fields, a few farm yard animals patrolling them.
The sports facility itself had undergone major surg
ery since Curtis Drayton had bought it, the once run-down driving range had boomed again since the cash injection. The main building was brand new, the entire front of it being made up of large sheets of glass, allowing the oncoming customers to see the plush interior. The 'Golf in Class' logo stood proudly above the door in big, white letters, underlined by a cartoon golf club.
To the right of the main facility was its unique selling point. A sizeable mesh dome had been built down a sloped pathway housing eight separate batting areas opposite ball-pitching machines. Customers were lined up, all eager to get in and practice their baseball swings.
Inside, the reception area was spacious and airy, a large comfy seating area with small tables taking up the majority, with potted plants dotted between them. A long marble counter ran along the near wall, the sales assistants’ backs to the glass frontage. To the left was the club shop and the offices of the two pro-trainers who gave private lessons at extortionate rates.
To the right was the Sports Café, a themed restaurant, all oak with maroon cushions. The bar was well stocked, with beer pumps of the most popular brands poking up from the counter like metal fingers. The staff were young, mainly students from the nearby Westminster University campus.
Opposite the main door was the entrance to the driving range: segregated areas where golf enthusiasts filed out to hit balls as far as they could onto an immaculate range, sign posted to measure distance. A net fence sat around it to protect the surrounding grounds from wayward shots.
The range was particularly busy, the Bank Holiday Monday combined with the pleasant weather summoning plenty of customers.
A number of them were treading the short stone-paved route to the right of the main building near the recently refurbished cages, customers carrying protective helmets that gleamed in the sun and dragging metal baseball bats which clunked against the stone.
One by One: A brutal, gritty revenge thriller that you won't be able to put down. Page 15