ARCHANGEL HAWTHORNE (A Thriller) Page 6

  ‘What kind of business?’ she asked.

  ‘My father’s business,’ he replied, his hand clasping the cold metal of the gun in his trench coat pocket.

  That was 1947. Fifteen years ago. And revenge still burned as bright and as corrosive as if it had happened yesterday.

  6

  Settle the Nerves

  She was sitting in a corner of the cellar, her head in her hands, her chest aching from the constant sobbing, her throat hoarse from the shouting. She was shivering, for the first time noticing how cold it was in the damp, dark room. The only light came from a small oblong slit the size of a brick, high up in the wall, which looked out onto, and on a level with, the farmyard beyond. But now dusk was fast approaching and the room grew steadily darker by the minute.

  Trudy Garner folded her arms around her and hunched her legs up close to her chin. It was all a nightmare. It wasn’t happening, she told herself. She would wake up and it would all be over, and Josh would be there right beside her in bed, and she’d turn over and snuggle up to his warm, comforting body and everything would be all right again.

  But she knew it wasn’t a dream. It was all too real.

  She couldn’t get the image of Josh’s shocked face out of her head. He looked straight at her for a split second before keeling over. And each time his face sprang to her mind, she’d collapse into tears again and call his name over and over, blaming herself for not being able to stop him walking across the farmyard. If only he’d not been so pig-headed, she thought. If only she’d been forceful enough to tell him she was turning back. If only they hadn’t climbed over that gate in the first place, none of this would have happened.

  She gave a gasp as she heard the key turning in the lock of the door at the top of the stairs, and backed even further into the corner, as if hoping the darkness would conceal her completely. As the door opened and light poured in, she saw the tall shadow of a man drape itself on the wall. Panting breathlessly, she searched around, looking for something to defend herself with. But there wasn’t a thing on the bare stone flags of the cellar floor except dirt and coal dust, the same filth that had found its way onto the pale features of her panic-stricken face from her feverish hands.

  The man held up a paraffin lamp and descended the stairs cautiously.

  ‘Don’t be afraid,’ he said. ‘You mustn’t be afraid.’

  ‘Where’s my Josh?’ she cried, her fear overcome by her desire to be with her husband. ‘What have you done with him?’ She rose to her feet, her legs shaking, barely able to take her weight. Anger started to boil in her veins. ‘What have you done with him?’ she said, louder this time.

  Callum Baxter reached the bottom of the stairs. ‘Don’t you worry about your husband,’ he said. ‘He’s all right.’

  ‘That bastard shot him!’ she said.

  ‘He’s doing just fine,’ said Callum calmly, holding the lamp up so he could see her better.

  ‘He’s not dead?’ she said, suddenly hearing what he was saying. ‘I thought he was dead!’ her hand went to her mouth. ‘Oh, thank God!’

  ‘He’s not dead,’ Callum lied. ‘He’s lost a lot of blood, but he’s being looked after. We have people here who can take care of him.’

  She almost collapsed to her knees in relief. ‘He’s not dead?’ she sobbed again. ‘My Josh is not dead?’

  Callum shook his head. ‘He’s alive,’ he said.

  She was a pretty thing, he thought. The prettiest bit of skirt he’d seen in a long time, now he had the time to look her over.

  ‘He needs a hospital,’ she said. ‘I saw the wound on his neck, all that blood…’

  ‘Looked much worse than it actually was,’ Callum said, approaching her.

  ‘Stay back!’ she screamed. ‘Stay away from me!’ She went to the hole in the wall, stood on her tiptoes to see out and yelled: ‘Help me! Help me someone!’

  ‘No one can hear you,’ Callum said. ‘Better stop that screaming and shouting.’

  ‘Who are you?’ she asked, her eyes at once blazing with fury, her emotions flipping all over the place.

  ‘That’s none of your business, lady,’ he said, placing the lamp on the floor. He took a packet of cigarettes out of his pocket, offered her one. ‘Smoke?’

  ‘My Josh needs to go to a hospital,’ she said.

  ‘Your Josh will go to a hospital as soon as you’ve answered a few of my questions.’ He struck a match and put the flame to the end of the cigarette. He flicked the match out and a wisp of blue smoke curled off its end like a streamer. ‘So he’s Josh, is he? Josh who, exactly?’

  ‘Josh Garner.’

  ‘And you?’

  ‘I’m not talking to you. You’re scum, all of you!’

  He drew in a lungful of smoke, casually blew it out. ‘You’re wasting time, lady. Precious time that your beloved Josh doesn’t have much of. You understand what I’m saying?’

  ‘I’m not talking to you!’

  ‘Fine, have it your way, but it’s Josh you’re hurting, not me.’

  ‘It’s Trudy. Trudy Garner.’ She lowered her gaze. ‘We’re on honeymoon.’

  He studied her. ‘Newlyweds, eh? Some honeymoon. Wales is a dump.’

  ‘And you’re rubbish that’s been dumped here,’ she retorted.

  He like her fire. Rare in the women he’d known. She reminded him of his mother. ‘You’re here on holiday, then?’

  ‘You’re fast,’ she said with disdain.

  ‘Where’s home?’

  ‘None of your business. We’ll be found, you know, and then you’ll pay for what you’ve done to us.’

  ‘So where’s home?’ he persisted.

  ‘I want to see Josh,’ she said defiantly. ‘Before I say anything else, I want to see him.’

  Callum shook his head. ‘I can’t let you do that, not just yet,’ he said. ‘Look, have a fag; it’ll calm your nerves.’

  ‘I don’t want a blasted fag! I want to see Josh!’

  ‘And I said I can’t let you,’ he replied sternly, tossing away the cigarette. ‘You’ve got two choices, lady: either you tell me what I need to know, or I’ll make you tell me.’ He took a step towards her and she backed away. ‘You want to keep your Josh alive, don’t you? Well, don’t you?’

  She nodded fervently. ‘I just want to see him…’

  ‘And I’ll let you do just that,’ he said, his voice softening a tad, ‘if you play ball and answer these simple questions. You don’t really want me to get rough, do you? There really is no need to let things go that far, is there?’

  ‘We come from Cheltenham,’ she said in a rush. ‘Home is in Cheltenham.’

  He sucked on his teeth for a moment. ‘Posh, eh? Must have money, you and your hubby.’

  ‘We have savings,’ she said. ‘Not that much, about three hundred pounds between us, but you can have it all if you let us both go. We’ll not say a word about this to anyone,’ she said hopefully. ‘We’ll say Josh was in a terrible accident. We won’t mention you.’

  He shook his head. ‘You can keep your money, lady,’ he said. ‘I’m just not that short of a bob or two.’ He put his hands in his trouser pockets. ‘How long have you been married?’

  ‘Three weeks,’ she said, her eyes sorrowful. ‘Let me see my Josh, please.’

  ‘Ah, three weeks,’ he said, his lips stretching into a thin smile. ‘Young love, eh? Two little turtle doves. What are you, nineteen, twenty?’

  Her face darkened. ‘Go to hell!’ she said.

  ‘You’re very defiant,’ you know that? He’s gonna have trouble with you in the future. So, I’m guessing lots of people back in Cheltenham know where you’ve gone for your honeymoon. How long were you going to stay in Wales? A week, fortnight?’ She remained tight-lipped and silent. ‘Can’t be more than a fortnight,’ he surmised. ‘So what kind of honeymoon are we talking here? Hiking trip?’

  ‘Yes,’ she murmured. ‘Josh loved hiking in places where there weren’t lots of people. He liked to be alone.’r />
  Callum grinned. ‘That’s the case up here all right. Where are you staying in Wales?’

  ‘We had a room in a pub.’

  ‘Can you be more specific?’

  ‘The Coach and Horses, in a little village called Llangynidr. We were only staying there a few nights before we moved on.’

  ‘I think I know it,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘You’re way off the beaten track, aren’t you, up here? Your Josh really did like to be alone. Did anyone at the Coach and Horses know you were coming here?’

  ‘Maybe,’ she said, her jaw stiffening. ‘Yes, lots of people. We told lots.’

  He gave a dry chuckle. ‘Nice try, lady, but you’re one hell of a bad liar.’

  ‘I’m not lying. We told the landlord.’

  ‘Told him what exactly?’

  ‘Where we were going.’

  ‘So where were you going? Where is here?’ He angled his head.

  She breathed heavily down her nose. ‘The police will find you…’

  ‘You’ve no idea where you are,’ he said. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulling out Josh’s map. It was stained with his blood, and Trudy gasped at seeing it. ‘Looking at this, you’re quite some way from Llangynidr,’ he said. ‘You came part of the way by car, right? Then hiked over the hills to get here. You had to have driven by car.’

  ‘This is kidnapping!’ she said, her voice going up an octave as she started to panic again.

  ‘So where’d you park the car?’ He handed her the map. ‘Show me where you parked the car.’

  ‘I don’t know!’ she said. ‘Josh drove me here as a surprise. He wanted to show me something. He didn’t tell me where we were going!’ She stared at the still-fresh blood smeared on the map. ‘How badly hurt is he?’ she asked.

  Callum folded the map and put it away. ‘I told you, he’s doing fine.’ He turned his back on her and picked up the lamp.

  ‘You’re not going to leave me here, are you?’ she said. ‘Take me to Josh. I told you all you wanted to know; now you have to keep to your end of the bargain.’

  ‘I don’t have to do any such thing, lady. Now if you want to see your Josh again, you’d better stay quiet and behave yourself. I’ll let you both go in time. When I’m good and ready.’ He trudged up the stairs, taking the light with him and leaving Trudy enveloped in dark shadows. ‘I’ll send someone down with blankets and something to eat and drink,’ he said.

  He closed the door behind him and she heard the sickening turning of the key in the rusted lock. With a hollow cry of desperation, she sank to her knees and put her forehead into her hands. She was aware of light rain beginning to beat at the flagstone yard outside. Rushing to the tiny oblong slit, she reached up on tiptoes and put her face to it. She felt the rush of cold air on her warm cheeks, smelled the mustiness of damp soil and grass, saw the plum-blue dark of the sky as night started to draw in.

  She yelled. Yelled until her voice cracked and could yell no more.

  Sinking to the ground, her back shoved tight against the wall, she pushed her cold hands deep into the pocket of her jeans. She touched something metallic, took it out.

  It was the small penknife Josh had given her.

  DCI Hawthorne watched TV until transmission ended and the national anthem blared out, and then he stared blankly the tiny white dot in the centre of the dark TV screen, listening to the high-pitched whine.

  His eyes were blurred. He rubbed them, but that didn’t make them see any better. The booze didn’t help, he told himself, holding up a bottle of stout. How many had he had? Four, five? He bent over the side of the sofa to count the empty bottles lined up on the floor. Six. Plus God knows how many shots of Johnny Walker straight from the neck. There was an ashtray close to overflowing sitting on the coffee table. Another cigarette burning away on its rim. Christ, you’ve gotta get a hold of yourself, he admonished silently. This isn’t good for your health, you know. In between the fags and the booze you really ought to eat a little, too. And I don’t mean another round of fish and chips because you can’t be bothered to fix yourself something decent.

  ‘Ah, shut your face,’ he said, his words slurred. ‘I don’t need a bloody mother.’

  He realised he was talking to himself again.

  The house was dark, but he couldn’t be bothered getting up and turning on a light. Saves electricity, he thought, lifting the bottle to his lips and draining every last drop. He placed the empty bottle alongside the others. The only light came in through the open curtains from the streetlamp outside; an insipid sulphurous yellow. It fell on the photograph in its frame standing on top of the TV. A black-and-white photo of a young woman – an attractive young woman, he thought. So damn pretty. Good head on her shoulders, too; had too many brains for her own good. As he stared into the eyes of the young woman, he swore he saw her wink, in the cheeky way she used to.

  He rubbed his eyes again. He’d had too much to drink. He really ought to get ready for bed. He had to be at the station early tomorrow. But Hawthorne couldn’t sleep, and hadn’t been able to get a full night’s kip since…

  He squeezed his eyes closed. That was fifteen years ago. You’ve gotta get over it, let it drop. It’s just eating away at you, like acid dissolving your very soul, until all that’ll be left of you will be an empty shell.

  ‘I can’t,’ he said. ‘I can’t forget her. How can I forget my little girl Isobel?’

  How old would she be now? He worked it out – thirty-two. Christ, she’d be thirty-two. She’d be married, no doubt, and have kids of her own by now. He’d be a granddad. He liked that idea. Unlike other people he knew, he looked forward to being a granddad. Didn’t make him feel in the least bit old. Bouncing a little babe on your knee again, telling it stories, playing games. Isobel always said if she had a boy it would be called James. Baby James. Hey, kid, how about a game of footy? Fancy catching a fish on the line? Don’t know how? Don’t you fret about that, your old granddad will show you…

  Isobel was seventeen when she died. No age at all. Hardly had time to live her life, and so much to look forward to. Everything cut off short, and all because of what happened that fateful night.

  In spite of resisting them, the rising tide of his memories overcame his weak defences and poured over them to cloud his vision again.

  He remembered hearing the shouting from outside in the street. Someone calling out his name…

  ‘Hey, you, bastard Hawthorne, come out here!’

  His wife looked nervously at him. ‘Who is that?’

  Hawthorne, off duty, relaxing at home, shrugged his surprise. The voice sounded familiar. ‘You stay right here. It’s probably nothing.’

  He rose from his seat, placing his newspaper down on the sofa and his wife got up and went to the curtains. ‘It’s a man standing in the middle of the road. He looks drunk. Do you know him? He’s calling your name.’

  He pulled her gently from the window. ‘It’s all right, dear. You go into the kitchen until I sort this out.’

  ‘Please be careful,’ she said as he left her and went to the front door.

  ‘Where’s Isobel?’ he asked before he opened it.

  ‘She’s out with friends,’ she replied. ‘Who is he? What does he want?’

  He reassured her with a smile and said it was nothing, a storm in a teacup. Hawthorne went outside, closing the door after him. He knew his wife would be watching from the window.

  ‘How’d you find out where I live, Callum?’ he said, striding up to the tottering young man, stopping some ten yards away from him.

  ‘I’ve got contacts,’ Callum Baxter said, his words smeared into each other by the effects of drink.

  ‘What are you doing here? Go home before you get yourself into trouble.’

  Callum grinned devilishly. ‘How’re the wife and kid?’

  ‘You leave them out of this, Callum. You’re drunk – go home and sleep it off.’

  ‘At least your daughter’s still got a dad. My dad’s dead, and you kille
d him.’

  ‘I didn’t kill him, Callum. He had a dickey heart.’

  ‘You think I’m gonna believe that? I know what happened in that cell. You’re all the same, you coppers. You’re bloody animals.’

  ‘Animals? There’s the kettle calling the pot black. You want to know the truth about your dear old dad? Want to know what he was really capable of?’ said Hawthorne.

  ‘No one believes anything you say, Hawthorne. You’re a damn liar.’ He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out his German Lugar, aiming it squarely at Hawthorne’s chest. ‘I’m gonna kill you for what you did.’

  Hawthorne, momentarily taken aback, quickly regained his composure. ‘Put that gun away, you young fool. Don’t do anything you’re going to regret.’

  ‘I won’t regret anything I do, Hawthorne. You’ve had this coming a long time, and it’s up to me to give it to you.’

  ‘That’s the drink talking, Callum. I know you. You’re not like your old man, not really. You’ve got a chance to make something of yourself. Don’t throw it all away because you can’t hold your ruddy booze.’

  ‘You making fun of me, copper?’ he stretched out his arm, the gun wavering as he squeezed tears from his eyes. ‘I’ve used these many times already. I was in the damn war, too.’

  ‘I know. And I know what it did to people. Put the thing down, Callum, and we’ll say no more about it.’

  ‘I have to kill you…’ He swayed uncertainly.