CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
“Something’s wrong, I tell you,” Sadie Chapman insisted into the
telephone, “Carol Brady promised she would ring me every evening around nine
and last night she didn’t call. I haven’t even heard from my…” she hesitated
and thought better of going down that path, “…from Freddy Winter either.”
“As far
as I know, Fred Winter is not an investigating officer in this enquiry, snapped
Mike Pritchard, “but I’ll pass your concerns on to my guv’nor when I see him.
His name, for your information, is DI Lovell, that’s Detective Chief Inspector
Lovell. And you are again…? Ah, yes,
well, thank you for calling Miss Chapman. Sorry, Ms Chapman, Yes, I’ll be sure
to pass the message on…goodbye.” Pritchard wearily hung up and decided he
needed a decent take-away before he could walk another step. He dialled a local
pizza company and wondered, absently, why Carol Brady’s name rang a bell.
Undeterred,
Sadie rummaged through her memory cells until she came up with the name of
Winter’s former colleague now living in Canterbury. Rather than call the police station and risk
being put through to a dozen well-meaning but predictably unhelpful contacts,
she dived into the telephone directory. After working through numerous A.
Baileys, she finally hit upon the right one. To her pleasant surprise he wasn’t
in the least dismissive and, if anything, appeared to share her growing
apprehension.
“It could
be nothing, of course,” Sadie felt obliged to tell Bailey, “but, somehow, I
don’t think so. Oh, Carol Brady may have her faults…don’t we all? But I definitely got the impression she’s a
woman who means what she says. If she says she’ll do a thing, wild horses won’t
stop her. Not to ring at all last night,
it’s…well…frankly, Mr Bailey, I’m worried sick.”
“Leave it
with me, Mrs Chapman (she didn’t bother to correct him and only ever called
herself Ms to put the likes of Detective Sergeant Mike Pritchard in his place)
and I’ll get on to it right away.”
“You need
to speak to a Chief Inspector Lovell and don’t settle for anyone less,” she
emphasized and felt reassured by the dry chuckle coming down the line.
“Be
assured, Mrs Chapman, if I can’t get hold of Charlie Lovell I’ll go down there
myself. But try not to worry, okay? Fred
Winter knows his stuff. Blimey, he should, he’s notched up more scalps than
most people have had hot dogs in Hyde Park. Leave it with me and you can take
it as read I’ll be in touch as soon as I find out anything.”
“Make
sure you do,” said Sadie and gave Bailey her mobile number but wryly refrained
from mentioning she was a vegetarian. She put the phone down, promptly picked
it up again and hit the keys with practised precision. “Iris, is that you?
Look, sweetheart, I need a big favour. Can you work tonight? Great, you’ve saved my life. Phil will be in
so you should be okay, just the two of you. Me? I have to shoot off
somewhere…bit of a crisis…you know how it is. What? No, nothing I can’t handle.
Phil will lock up. I have to run now, sorry. And thanks again.”
She put
the phone down and went to find a road atlas, not having a clue how to find her
way to Monk’s Tallow. Fred Winter may be able to take care of himself and she
suspected Carol Brady was of the same brass mettle but Harry was vulnerable and
she couldn’t hang around exchanging trivia with punters all day while the man
she loved could, for all she knew, be in deep trouble. It crossed her mind, as
she flung a coat, on that she must love him even more than she had let herself
believe if a frantic pulse and heartbeat were anything to go by. “Oh, well, in
for a penny…” she muttered, scrabbling around in a drawer with one hand for car
keys only to discover she had, all the time, been clutching them in the other.
Meanwhile,
in Monk’s Tallow, Charlie Lovell was berating his tight-lipped sergeant for
hugging information to himself. “I didn’t think it was important sir,” the
unfortunate Pritchard protested, “but I did remember to tell you anyway…” he
pointed out.
“By which
time a swallow could have flown south and back again!” Lovell complained
heatedly. At the same time, he had to admit, they had other fish to fry and
Arthur Bailey wouldn’t be the first to get his knickers in a twist over a bit
of skirt. He grinned inwardly. By all accounts, according to Fred, Sadie
Chapman was a bit of all right. “Get over to The Fox and Hounds and see if anyone’s seen Fred Winter or the
Brady woman. And don’t take no for an
answer. Talk to people…and I mean talk. Mike, not interrogate. As soon as you find
someone who has anything to say worth listening to, be sure you damn well
listen, okay? Then get back to me pronto.
“It’s
probably nothing. All the same… Fred Winter’s no amateur and if he’s on to something…better
to be safe than sorry.”
“But sir,
I’ve got a thousand things to do!” Mike Pritchard protested.
“Well, now
you’ve got a thousand and one. So the sooner you sort it the sooner you can get
on with the rest, right? Oh, and take
young Dave Beale with you. He’s another one who looks as though he could use
some exercise,” glancing pointedly at Pritchard’s hint of a paunch.
“Yes
guv,” murmured the hapless Pritchard, saw it was useless to argue and went in
search of DC Beale.
It was
Beale who quickly established that Fred Winter and Carol Brady had been last seen
leaving the car park of The Fox and
Hounds in a hurry, heading off in the direction on Monk’s Porter. Pritchard called Lovell.
“Get over
there,” Lovell barked down the line. “Sniff around the Philips place and see
what you can find out but be discreet.
Let me know if you find out anything or need any help. Oh, and Mike, if
you spot Philips…leave well alone, okay?
If he’s our man, I don’t want him scared off.”
“You know
me, guv, discretion’s my middle name,” Pritchard assured him and hung up before
he could catch the full blast of Lovell’s snort in his ear.
In fact,
Pritchard waited until he had satisfied himself that Horton was armed before
calling Lovell again.
“You did…what?”
Lovell was furious.
“I
thought it best to ascertain…” Pritchard began, feeling aggrieved.
“Yes,
yes, I dare say…” Lovell snapped back irritably, “So what, exactly, have you
ascertained apart from the fact that Horton and Sarah Manners are at the
cottage and Horton could well be armed? Did you see any sign of Fred Winter,
apart from his car, or Mary Bishop, apart from hers? Or Carol Brady, for that
matter, not to mention Harry Smith or whatever his name is…?” He’d heard of too many cooks, but this was
ridiculous.
“No sir.”
“Did you
look?”
“Well, no
sir. But Winter and Mrs Bishop, at
least, must be in the cottage, surely?”
“You’ve
ascertained that for certain, have you sergeant?”
“Whatever,
Horton’s armed, guv. I’m sure of it.” Pritchard repeated doggedly.
“Yes, well,
let’s hope for all our sakes you’re mistaken and this is nothing more than a
storm in a bloody teacup. Because if it isn’t…forewarned is forearmed,
sergeant, and you’ll do well to remember that. Next time, do as you’re damn
well told and leave the war to those who’ve won a few battles in their time.
Now, stay put and don’t move. If anyone leaves the cottage, get young Beale to
follow and tell him to maintain contact but do nothing, NOTHING, sergeant,
until we know what we have here. And if it is just a Mad Hatter’s tea
party, I’ll have your guts for garters, you can bet on it.” Lovell slammed down
the phone and tried to avoid paying too much attention to a tightening of his
stomach muscles while he set about organizing what he prayed would not turn out
to be a hostage situation. What the hell
was going on, for crying out loud? Nothing,
probably, he kept telling himself. Oh, but who am I kidding? Given that Fred Winter was
in the thick of things, something was definitely up.
The phone
rang. Lovell snatched it up impatiently and he found himself talking to Arthur
Bailey. At the same time, he spotted a scrap of paper sticking out from under a
file with a telephone number scrawled across it and a message to call back. He
pulled it out and read Bailey’s name with dismay while the other proceeded to
enlighten him about Fred Winter’s suspicions.
Lovell
was about to dismiss any link between Sarah Manners and the death of Liam Brady
years ago as nonsense when Bailey dropped his first bombshell. “You’re joking!”
Lovell shouted down the line as it began to crackle and break up just as the
other man was coolly informing him that the body in the grave bearing Ralph
Cotter’s headstone was not Cotter’s. It was, to say the least, an unexpected
blow. He had been on the Brady murder case himself and
remembered it well.
Barely
had Lovell recovered from the first, when Bailey dropped his second bombshell.
“For heaven’s sake…”was all he could say as he listened, incredulously, to the
gruff, earnest voice repeating itself several times until satisfied Lovell had
heard him correctly. Liam Brady, Carol Brady’s “deceased” son - the very same
who had witnessed his father’s death all that time ago - was apparently not
only alive and well but using the name of Harry Smith… that same Harry Smith,
it would seem, last seen in Monk’s Tallow with Fred Winter talking to Mary
Bishop, whose distraught husband was convinced she had run off with Sarah
Manners. It occurred to Lovell that maybe she had done just that and they were
hiding out at the Philips place. But Winter’s involvement - not to mention
Winter’s car found parked some distance from the cottage - put the mockers on
that little theory as sure as eggs was eggs.
“Yes,
yes, Arthur, as soon as I hear anything you and Sadie Chapman will be the first
to know,” he told Bailey, replaced the receiver then grabbed it again. “…Yes, sir, I did say armed officers…” he
found himself repeating seconds later while struggling to keep his tone
respectful “…and, no, I can’t guarantee the situation warrants it, you’ll just
have to trust me on this one sir. Yes, yes, I appreciate my head will be one of
the first to roll if it turn out to be a wild goose chase. No sir, the press
have not – and will not – be informed unless…Yes sir, I understand the need for
caution…but Fred Winter…yes sir, Fred Winter, he’s one of those we think…yes
sir, I’ll get on to it right away…”
Lovell
hung up, not unimpressed to discover that Fred Winter’s name still carried
clout in high places. As his chief had said, he could be an oddball at times
but he’d also been a damn good copper. Nor
does a damn good copper suddenly stop being one just because he takes early
retirement. He kicked open the door, slipping into his jacket as he went,
and burst into the main incident room. “Okay now, you lot, listen here…”
…………………...................
Horton
gave a loud guffaw and let his tongue loll like a panting dog’s. Behind him,
two women on the bed remained collapsed in an untidy heap.
On the
floor, Liam Brady lay inert with a sticky red stuff pouring from a gash on the
side of his head. Ahead, a grim-faced Fred Winter allowed the knife in his left
hand to prick Cotter’s throat without drawing blood. His right arm tightened
its grip on Cotter’s neck. It had
to be Cotter, he knew for sure now. It couldn’t be anyone else. Certainly, this
was no woman’s body pressed hard and impotent against his, rage and terror
coursing through the veins, vying for supremacy like a cornered animal’s.
Cotter
yelped.
“Throw
the gun over here, Horton. One stupid move and I’ll slit the lady’s throat…or
should I say your boyfriend’s?”
Horton
paled at the jibe, reached in his pocket and slowly withdrew the gun. At the
same time, his surly mouth broke into a broad, lopsided grin. He pointed the
weapon directly at Winter.
“If you
want to shoot me, go ahead,” the detective growled, “That is, if you want to
watch your boyfriend bleed to death. Believe me, I’m not bluffing.”
“Oh, but
I think you are,” Horton jeered. Cops don’t slit people’s throats. It’s not in
the manual.”
“Ex-cop,”
Winter corrected him, “…and one with nothing to lose.”
“Please,
Daz, do as he says,” Cotter croaked, face bright red and tears rolling down his
cheeks.
Ignoring Cotter,
Horton refused to let his attention waver from Winter’s fierce, penetrating
stare. “What about the others?” he taunted Winter. “Who’s going to save them if
I kill you?”
“Who’s
going to save me if you don’t?” Winter countered, drawing the flat of the shiny
blade across Cotter’s throat.
“Daz,
please…” Cotter begged.
“You’re
bluffing, Winter…” Horton took aim and focused entirely on the detective’s
expression. Was it his imagination or did it falter a fraction? He tightened
his grip on the gun handle and loosened the safety catch, just like he’d seen
them do in the movies. The cold metal
pressing against his hand began to feel as if it was a part of him. There was
some comfort to be had after all.
A
gurgling sound rose in Cotter’s throat and Horton was reminded of a baby with a
dummy in its mouth. He began to laugh. No wonder Ralph had used a gun to kill
Sean Brady. This was fun, the best he’d ever had. You should have told me
what fun it is. He threw an accusing look at poor Ralph who was not only
sobbing but dribbling now too. You disgust me. As soon as the thought occurred, Horton
was genuinely shocked and filled with remorse. Yet, did he really care if Fred
Winter carried out his threat? But if
poor Ralph bled to death, that would leave him, Horton, all alone. He would
hate that. No, he could not allow that. “You haven’t got the bottle, copper...”
he sneered, forefinger lightly caressing the trigger as if it were a lover’s
nipple.
Without
warning, Horton shifted the weapon slightly in his hand and pointed it at Liam
Brady. His eyes, though, did not leave Winter’s face. “Go ahead, cut his
throat. I’ll still have a few bullets left after I’ve killed your girlfriend’s
little lad here…” He began to squeeze the nipple.
Winter
did not lose his nerve. At the same time, he felt old. He’d had his fill of playing
mind games and doing battle with his conscience. Well, it has to be
something like that doesn’t it? The
truth was, he would never know why he dropped the knife and let Cotter go.
Inconsequently, he felt bound to say, “She’s not my girlfriend.”
Cotter
hastily retrieved the knife and waved it in Winter’s face, “I ought to…” he
spluttered, visibly recovering fast from his ordeal.
“Leave
it, Ralph, we don’t have time for that. We’ve got a plan to put into action,
right?”
“Right,
Daz,” Cotter giggled, dropped the knife and kicked it across the floor before
going to stand by his partner.
“Kneel
down copper. Let’s hear you beg. And get those big hands of yours up where I
can see them,” Horton snarled.
“You’ll
have a long wait,” Winter retorted but sank slowly to his knees. He did not
raise his hands, however and ignored repeated gestures from Horton to do so.
“If you’re going to use that thing you might as well use it now. Never shot
anyone before, though, have you Daz?” He was guessing but had clearly hit a
nerve. Horton got angry, held out the gun at arm’s length, mouth and nostrils
smoking, eyes red and flaring like a pony Winter had once seen rip its belly on
a barbed wire fence at his uncle’s farm years ago.
Horton’s
rage dissipated as quickly as it had arisen and he burst out laughing. “No such
luck, copper, no such luck. Tie the
bugger up, my turtle dove. We don’t want any more distractions do we?” He
laughed again until tears were streaming down his face.
Winter
continued to observe Horton intently, even as Cotter tied his hands then ankles
behind his back. He was quite mad of course. But that was the least of the
detective’s concerns. A fine mess you’ve got yourself into this time, Fred
Winter. Let’s see you wriggle out of this one then. He winced as Cotter
linked the ropes that bound his wrists and ankles, jerking his legs
sharply. Falling on one side, he bit his
lip rather than give his captors the satisfaction of hearing him cry out. Cotter pulled the knots tighter.
Winter
was facing the bed. In the gloomy space underneath, he caught a glimpse of something
shiny. His heart leapt. It was the kitchen knife. Out of the corner of one eye
he thought he saw Carol Brady move slightly. She was the only one with her
hands still free. Winter allowed himself to feel a trifle optimistic, only to
have his hopes dashed when Horton, too, must have spotted something and ordered
Cotter to tie the woman’s hands.
“Oh, and
with what?” Cotter demanded.
“I don’t
know, do I? Use your socks for all I
care, just do it and get on with it. It’s high time we were out of here. “Oh,
forget it. She’s dead to the world anyway,” he grumbled as Cotter continued to
flap. “That is, if she isn’t now, she soon will be,” he added then flung his
head back and guffawed. Winter gave an
involuntary shiver. It was, he thought, one of the most menacing sounds he had
ever heard.
Carol
moaned softly appeared to give her captors no further cause for concern.
“Come on,
let’s go.” Horton went to the door, but paused long enough to fling Winter a
long, evil look. “Enjoy the fireworks,” he cackled then was gone, Cotter panting
at his heels. Winter heard a key turn in the lock. Not long afterwards, he
caught the first, strong, unmistakeable whiff of petrol…
He looked
around. Liam was stirring. One glance at the ashen face and glazed expression,
however, was enough to tell the detective that he couldn’t be relied upon for any
immediate help. Mary Bishop was, as far as he could tell, still unconscious.
“Carol?” he called out, “Carol, can you hear me? Wake up, Carol.” He could smell
burning now. Shit, they’ve set the place alight.
“Carol, wake up you stupid mare!” he yelled.
Carol
opened her eyes. “What the…?” she groaned and thought she heard Freddy Winter’s
voice calling her.
“Carol!” There it was again. Slowly, her eyes began to
focus. She became aware of someone’s breathing next to her and found herself
staring at a woman she did not recognize.
“Carol! It’s
me, Freddy. I’m down here, on the bloody floor. Pull yourself together woman!”
Winter yelled again. He was feeling very tired, his movements, such as they
were, were sluggish enough without being encumbered by the cords that had him
trussed like a roasting chicken. In spite of himself, he could not resist a
rueful grin. It wasn’t the most reassuring of comparisons to make in the
circumstances, he had to admit.
Smoke had
begun to drift under the door.
“Carol,
for heaven’s sake...!”
Shakily,
Carol sat up. Slowly her vision cleared. She saw Winter and attempted to
grapple with the implications of his being apparently tied up. Then she looked
at the woman lying beside her again and saw that she, too, had been bound. Her
face looks a mess too, poor thing. She began to cough and looked
enquiringly at Freddy Winter but neither saw nor heard his plea for help as her
heavy eyes focused on Liam lying, unconscious and bloodied, inches away from
the detective. “Liam!” Her breath quick
and rasping, she forced herself to clamber off the bed, dropped to her knees
beside her son and cradled his head in her lap.
“Carol,
the knife, under the bed…. Get the knife, Carol!” Winter found himself yelling
although she was right next to him.
She gave
no sign of having heard but leaned over to kiss her son’s bruised face, ran her
fingers through the hair, damp with blood, and kept saying, “Liam, Liam. Oh,
Liam, my poor darling, what have they done to you?” She started coughing again.
Her eyes turned instinctively but blindly to the door. By now smoke was pouring
through the tiny gap between its base and the floor carpet.
“Get
something to stuff up the gap, Carol, Carol, can you hear me? Do as I say,
woman, before we all choke to bloody death! Carol, for pity’s sake, listen to
me damn it!” It crossed her mind that it
was so typical of Freddy Winter to lose his temper. “Carol, snap out of it or we’re done for, all
of us, Liam too. You have to make an effort Carol, for Liam.”
Make
an effort, for Liam? Of course I must make an effort for Liam. He’s my son, isn’t
he? What the hell does Freddy think he‘s
playing at, talking to me like this? She coughed
again. Only, this time it struck here why she did it. For a moment she could
only stare at an ugly black cloud rising from what had become a rush of
thickening smoke under the door.
Carol started screaming then, and did not stop
until Liam opened his eyes and murmured, “Mum?”
To be continued
