Hellfire- The Series, Volumes 1-3

by Leigh Barker

  The doctor tutted, as doctors do. “There is nothing heroic about being blown up and shot, regardless of where.”

  “So he is going to be all right?” Margaret asked, sounding almost worried.

  “Oh yes,” the doctor said. “The chest wound will heal well enough.” He picked up the chart and looked at it, because that’s what it was there for. “But it’s the trauma to your gluteus medius that causes me most concern.”

  Harry frowned.

  “Buttocks,” the doctor said, noticing — surprisingly — the looks of confusion.

  Harry blew out a breath. “I got shot in the arse?”

  The doctor watched him without speaking. He’d already said that, hadn’t he?

  “Okay,” Harry said. “It’s just my arse. So I’ll be fit for duty in no time, right, Doc?”

  “Harry!” Margaret said sharply.

  “Oh no, no,” the doctor said, adding another “no” in case there was any doubt. “The leg wound, although not life-threatening, is very serious. It will take a long time and a great deal of work for you to walk again.”

  “But I will get the full use back?” Harry asked, though he could already see the answer in the doctor’s frown.

  “There is no reason why you should not recover almost all of your mobility.”

  “Almost all?” Harry asked slowly.

  “Oh, you won’t be able to run far or…”

  “Be a marine?” Harry helped out.

  “Well, no. I’m afraid your military days are almost certainly over.” The good news given, the consultant walked away, perhaps to share his great bedside manner with the other broken soldiers in his care.

  “Well, I for one—”

  “Shut up, Margaret!” Harvey snapped.

  “Well, I never—”

  “I seem to remember you did,” Harvey added, “but I can’t vouch for the last year.”

  Margaret spluttered and thought of a choice retort, but let it go unretorted when she saw the look of dismay on Harry’s face.

  “Don’t worry,” she said in what she thought was a soothing tone, “I’m sure everything will be just fine.”

  Harvey put his hand on his son’s shoulder and ignored the heart-felt reassurance from Margaret. “Let’s do this one step at a time,” he said softly, completely missing the pun. “Get over the next few weeks, and let’s see.”

  Harry was watching him the way he used to look at him when he was a little boy and missed an easy goal, waiting for the familiar look that said it was all okay.

  “Doctors have been wrong before,” Harvey said and smiled. Okay then.

  Harry closed his eyes. His father was right, doctors have been wrong, and this one was wrong now. Count on it.

  3

  Laura tried not to stare at Bob, the young man sitting across the desk, but he was just so hot. Not helpful, him being a burglar and a client. Still, you can’t ignore nature.

  “So, what do you think?” Bob asked with a big grin.

  Laura had no idea what she was supposed to be thinking about, except the X-rated movie that had just been running in her head. She was going to have to get out more. “I think,” she said with a firm nod of conviction, “that you have a very strong case.”

  Bob frowned, tilted his head, frowned some more. “But the cops said they’d got me red-handed.”

  “They can say what they wish,” Laura said, “but it will be up to the court to decide your guilt or innocence. And that’s why you are here, with the experts.”

  “Ah, right, like those lawyers on the telly who always get their man off?”

  Hot and brains, what a combination. Okay, slightly weighted on the hot side, but hey, who’s keeping score?

  “Yes,” Laura said, flashing her best ‘get over here’ smile. “We will need to do some work, of course.”

  Bob smiled back, his blue eyes crinkled and bright. “Okay, can I help?”

  Only if you like warm body oil.

  Laura made an ‘I’m thinking’ face, which was mostly achieved by nibbling her bottom lip and frowning just enough. “I will probably have to debrief you properly,” she said without the slightest tell.

  “Okay,” Bob said brightly. “Any time, you just say the word.”

  Count on it. “I’ll check my diary and let you know when I can get you in.”

  Bob got up, smiled the Smile, and headed for the door, with Laura making sure he was walking okay after the long sit. Yes, everything seemed to be firm… err, fine.

  She watched the door close behind him and took a moment to regain her composure. “For God’s sake, girl, you’re losing it,” she said, sighed, and turned the laptop round to see her diary. Drat, no free time during the day, so that would mean an evening meeting, a late discussion, a protracted intercourse, get to the bottom of it. All the facts would need to be brought out into the open—

  “Laura?”

  She returned to earth to see Harvey standing in the open doorway. “Ah, oh,” she said and coughed — that’ll cover it. “Harvey, you’re back.”

  “Not much gets past you, does it?”

  “I was just, err…”

  “Yes,” Harvey said, glancing pointedly over his shoulder, “I believe I saw, just err… in the hall.”

  The air-con was clearly faulty. “How is Harry?” she asked quickly.

  Harvey let out his breath slowly. “He’s going to be okay,” he said, but his tone said otherwise.

  “Getting shot in the butt might be a joke in films, but in reality…” Laura shrugged. “He’ll be retired from the marines on medical grounds?”

  Harvey nodded. “Apparently he’ll be almost as good as new, but not good enough to be a marine.” He looked at the window without seeing it. “It was his life, you know?”

  “Yes, but he’ll adjust, other people have come home in body bags.” Oh, great going, girl, full marks for tact. She closed her eyes and wished she could press the recall button.

  Harvey smiled a tired smile. “It’s okay, I know what you mean.”

  “What’s he going to do now?”

  Harvey watched her for a moment whilst he thought about it. “He’ll come and work for us.”

  “We don’t have much call for snipers.” Sometimes stupid comes in sets of three.

  Harvey laughed, which was just so unexpected, Laura chuckled too.

  “Sometimes I think we could do with one,” Harvey said, turning to leave, but stopped and looked back. “The young man?”

  “New client,” Laura said.

  “Oh,” Harvey said, “anything interesting?”

  “They say he burgled some woman.” She looked down at her pad. “Lady Lucinda Druce-White, whoever she is.”

  Harvey stepped up to her desk, picked up the brief and scanned the bullet point summary. “That will be the Druce-White horsey friend of the Princess Royal.”

  “Oh,” Laura said.

  “Oh, indeed. And Margaret’s friend, as it happens.” He shook his head at the thought. “I trust he didn’t do it.” Harvey waited for the confirmation.

  “Guilty as sin.”

  Bugger.

  “Did you know Margaret has a new man friend?” Laura asked, in an effort to lighten the mood, and to cause a little mischief.

  “How do you know that?” Harvey asked, surprised and doing a poor job hiding it.

  “Grace told me.”

  Harvey attempted glaring, but did a poor job. “I do hope you don’t discuss my affairs with Grace.”

  “No,” Laura said, checking that her nails were… well, nails. “Not that you have any affairs to discuss. Except that one time, of course.”

  Harvey looked around before he could stop himself. “Let’s not go into that again.”

  “Yes, I can see how you’d want to let that disappear down the plug hole.” She raised her eyebrows. “And anyway, Grace is your partner’s junior, so of course we discuss things.”

  “Things yes, me no.”

  Laura raised her eyebrows. “Tr
ust me, Harvey, life’s too short.” She ignored the look. “Anyway, doesn’t it bother you that your ex is off on the razzle?”

  “She’s not my ex, and she is free to do whatever she wishes,” Harvey said haughtily and a little miffed. “And please try not to use such base terms.”

  “Wouldn’t hurt you to get a bit razzled,” she said with a quick smile.

  “I’ll have you know I have many female friends,” Harvey said — at the worst possible moment.

  “Really?” Margaret said, coming into the office perfectly on cue. “That’ll be a first.”

  “I hear that,” Laura said half under her breath.

  “Good day, Laura,” Margaret said, her face smiling, but her tone icy. “You look tired, dear. Did you go to bed too early?”

  Laura mirrored the warm, sincere smile. “It’s the burden of youth, I suppose.”

  Margaret’s lips tightened to their usual line, and she turned her attention back to Harvey, who was trying to edge to the door without appearing to move. “I understand you have taken the Robert Doyle brief?”

  Harvey glanced past her at Laura, who gave him a big nod. “Yes, it would appear so.”

  “Am I to understand that you have taken this on a pro bono basis?”

  Again the glance and the nod. “Yes, I have decided that the facts of the case warrant—”

  “So, once again you have taken a pro bono brief without discussing it with me.”

  True, but nobody was going to say it.

  “We take pro bono work,” Harvey said quietly. “At least this part of the chambers does.”

  “You are aware, are you not, that I am prosecuting this case?”

  No, not a hint.

  “Yes,” Harvey lied, “but I don’t think—”

  “No, Harvey, you don’t,” Margaret said, beginning her usual stamp up and down the office. “That’s always been your trouble, you don’t think. Well, can you bring yourself to think about the obvious conflict of interest this raises for the chambers?”

  Harvey put his hand on his chin and rubbed it to signify deep thought. “I must say that I can’t see one, dear.”

  Ooops.

  “Don’t call me dear,” Margaret hissed through clenched teeth. “You lost that right when you were caught with that… that tart!” She cut him with a practiced look. “Very well,” she said, making a visible effort to control her temper, “let us proceed, and may the best man win. Who, in this case, is a woman.” She swept out of the office, reached for the door handle to give it a good pull, missed, tripped, and disappeared out of sight.

  Laura checked her nails again, but her shoulders were rising and falling as she stifled her laughter until eventually it subsided enough for her to speak. “Note, she was very specific about being caught with the tart,” she said without looking up. “Implying that, had you not been caught at it, you may both still be together.”

  Harvey sighed. Yes, he’d been with that… err… okay, that tart, but nothing had happened, it was just a silly prank at the club, that was all. Too much drink, and too many dares — which at his age was a bit… well, sad.

  He looked at Laura, who looked back with a ‘told you so’ expression, that being mostly raised eyebrows and puckered lips, but familiar, oh so familiar. What on earth had possessed him to employ a female junior so that he was now surrounded by them. They didn’t think like ordinary people.

  “Allow me to interpret semantics,” he said at last. “I’m the QC here?”

  “Better start interpreting, then,” she said, tidying up the Robert Doyle paperwork. “Because it looks like you’re going head to head with Margaret on the Bob the Burglar case.”

  “Please do not refer to our client as Bob the Burglar.” Harvey was tired; it had been a long helicopter flight to the hospital. Forty minutes, true, but forty minutes in a confined space with Margaret was enough to exhaust anyone, leaving aside the trauma of seeing his son connected to tubes and machines.

  “Why not?” Laura asked with a shrug. “They have him banged to rights.”

  “And in which law book did you read that precise definition?”

  “Fact. He did it. He’s going down.”

  Harvey looked upwards. Why me, Lord? But the Lord was playing golf with a chap from Wales. He looked at Laura and decided it could be worse. He just couldn’t think how just then. “We shall see,’ he said, just to end the conversation politely.

  “Ah, right, you think you can get him off?” Laura said with a sarcastic chuckle.

  Harvey shrugged.

  “Okay then,” Laura said. “Let’s look at the facts, shall we?” She stood up and leaned on the desk as if addressing the jury. “One.” She began counting off on her fingers. “Bob was caught with property from a half-a-million jewellery heist.”

  “Perhaps he found it and was returning it to its rightful owner.” Now, not even Harvey could make that one sound plausible.

  “Two,” Laura continued, with a look of contempt at Harvey’s opening defence. “He’s a known criminal with a rap sheet as long as an Andrex toilet roll.” Which wasn’t entirely true, but she wasn’t about to let truth get in the way of a good prosecution.

  “Irrelevant and inadmissible.”

  “And his fingerprints are all over Lady LDW’s belongings.”

  Harvey avoided the obvious and went for the non-committal shrug.

  “Not to mention that Lady LDW is next to royalty.”

  “She sits next to one, if that’s what you mean,” Harvey said, happy to have pulled it back to forty-fifteen.

  “And,” Laura said, followed by a long pause, “you say Lady LDW happens to be one of your ex’s coven.”

  “Her relationship with…” He caught himself before he called Margaret his ex, but it was already out there, flapping about like a fish on the desk. “That Margaret knows Lady LDW is irrelevant and has no bearing on the case. And remind me, what property was Bob… Robert Doyle found in possession of, and on which his fingerprints were allegedly found?”

  Laura sat down again, having addressed the jury, and waited.

  “It was a dog, wasn’t it?”

  “True,” Laura said innocently, “but it was Lady LDW’s dog.”

  “That remains to be seen.”

  “It has been seen,” Laura said, pointing at the photograph half visible in the file. “It’s a shitzu.”

  “Bless you,” Harvey said with a smile, the first real one of the day.

  Laura frowned an exaggerated frown and then snapped her fingers. “That was a joke, wasn’t it?” She shook her head. “Tell me next time, so I’ll know when to laugh.”

  “The point is,” Harvey continued, a bit disappointed at the response to what he thought was actually a rather funny pun, “one shitzu looks very much like another.”

  “Perhaps, but have you ever heard of a burglar owning a fluffy white doggy named Puccini?”

  “Just because we haven’t heard of it, doesn’t mean it hasn’t happened.”

  A reasonable argument.

  “Right. That would go down well at the Cut Throat Tavern. They’d throw him out of the burglars’ union.”

  “There could be a perfectly reasonable explanation.”

  “Yeah,” Laura said, “that being, he nicked the pooch with the jewels.”

  “Nice to see my junior council has such an open mind,” Harvey said, walking to the door.

  “Fifty says he’ll be banged up before you can say M’Lud.”

  “Hardly ethical to be wagering on the outcome of our own case.” He opened the door. “Fifty it is, then.” He waited a few seconds, clearly thinking. “Do you actually have fifty pounds?”

  4

  The hotel room was freezing, which struck the Russian sitting with his feet on the low table as odd. Odd because this was Kabul, and since the Americans and the British smashed everything in sight to get to the Taliban, nothing worked anymore, least of all the air-conditioning. It was odd, too, that the quiet Arab who was watching him from
across the table would want to be cold, but Arabs aren’t very bright. He’d learned that as a major in the Soviet army of occupation; what he hadn’t bothered to learn was that Afghans are not Arabs. And now he wouldn’t learn it because the not-very-bright Afghans had kicked him and the rest of his army out. But some things are important, others less so.

  Valentin took his feet off the table and stood up stiffly. He was old, even though he resisted the idea, and a cold room plays havoc with aging joints. He was sure he used to be taller, but now he seemed a little bent, barely five foot eight, with hair that had long since passed the greying at the temples stage and was now white and thin. But what he disliked most about getting old was his eyes, which were once sparkling and clear, but now were yellowish and bloodshot. And peeing… well, don’t even go there.

  “Then we have an understanding?” he said, trying to ignore the clicking sounds from his knees as he stood.

  The quiet Arab stood up in a single fluid move that clearly irritated the Russian. “We do,” he said in perfect Oxbridge English that jarred with his traditional thawb robe and black-checked keffiyeh headdress. “And I shall ensure that all goes well.”

  The Russian nodded. He wanted to get outside into the sunshine; he’d been in the cold too long. “Timing is everything.”

  The Arab nodded slowly. “It always is, Major, it always is.”

  5

  The first time Harry swung his legs off the bed and stood up between the crutches, he almost fainted, which would have given the boys in the squad a hooting fit, but he gritted his teeth and waited for the room to stop spinning.

  “You may feel a little dizzy at first, Harry,” the nice young physiotherapist said helpfully, if a bit late.

  “No, I’m fine,” he lied. “Now how do these work?”

  The physio stepped closer and adjusted the crutch under his left arm. “There. Now push them forward and swing your right leg.” She smiled, close up to his face. “That’s the good one.”

  Oh, that was a joke. Harry grimaced, which was as near to a smile as anyone was going to get while he was pratting around on these things. Okay, you can do this. Like there was an alternative. He put the crutches forward a foot or so and stepped his good leg up between them, his shot leg he held up and back. Later for the heroics.