Cobweb (18 page)

I followed this up with, ‘Your theory, condensed, points to only one killer plus a violent burglar. The former killed Giddings for reasons unknown and then Harmsworth because he'd found out the DCI was on to him. He then, with the help of his trusty mole at Woodhill, got rid of Smith, his accomplice, because he was about to confess.'

‘Yes,' Greenway said. ‘That's neatly put.'

‘It means Gray's conviction that Harmsworth was finished off in revenge by someone he'd shoved in the slammer and the list he made of possibilities is a complete red herring.'

‘A very well-intentioned red herring,' Greenway agreed, ‘– unless whoever killed Giddings is named on the list.'

‘But what was the
motive
?' I argued. ‘Most of the men on that list are history – they're old, poor, ill, just out of prison; most of them not remotely connected to the social circles in which Giddings moved. Sorry, but I think Giddings's killer will be found in, or on the edge of, his own circles.'

‘It could have been a contract killing,' Patrick offered, ‘and still carried out by one of the men on the list.'

‘Come on!' I protested. ‘Hit men for MPs are not going to be the old, ill, poor, etc. folk on the list either. They're professionals, ex-services, and so forth, who have gone wrong.'

‘People like me, if I'd gone wrong, you mean.'

‘Frankly, yes,' I told him.

There were a few seconds of thoughtful silence, which I utilized for a little prayer of thanks that he had not. Some of the things he has done, though, sort of in the line of duty …

‘What had Giddings
done
to deserve a ghastly death like that?' I persisted. ‘Hicks is convinced it was a mugger, but what mugger, high on drink, drugs, you name it, would disembowel his victim, cut off his head and chuck it in a litter bin? It's crazy. We pointed a finger at du Norde because he had a motive – he still might be in the frame. Giddings despised him. He'd stopped his allowance. He probably belittled him in front of others. That's just the kind of motive those investigating the crime should be after.'

‘Let's go back to the main line of thought for a moment,' Patrick said, ‘– about the possibility of a further risk to police personnel. I personally think there's every risk while this character remains uncaught.'

Greenway mused for a while. Then he said, ‘OK, I'll go along with that even though my instincts tell me otherwise. As I said just now, I think he'll lie low and not risk himself in further action now he's possibly lost his source of information, and hope everyone goes away.'

Patrick spoke earnestly. ‘So what do we do now? Or rather, Michael, what do you want Ingrid and me to do?'

Again the SOCA man was lost in his thoughts. ‘Go and find the bastard,' he said all at once. ‘Knightly's bloody useless.'

We went back to the list, really to clear it from the line of inquiry. Working into the evening, partly at the nick, we first succeeded in finding out that Peter Forbes, the one whose home had been demolished to make way for new development, had been rehoused by the local authority, the compensation, he himself told us when we immediately went to see him, having been insufficient to buy anywhere else. He was now living in sheltered accommodation, was eighty-one years old and riddled with arthritis. Although this career criminal had been one of Derek Harmsworth's worst ongoing headaches in his time, we rather felt that, as he could hardly walk, was a little confused and could not even remember who Harmsworth was, he was out of the picture as far as the DCI's recent demise was concerned.

Patrick then sent fairly, as he put it, ‘shitty' emails to the police departments making enquiries for us about another three to get some action and just over an hour later had replies. Zak Bradley, like Ungumba Natolla, was back in prison; Anthony Babbington-Jones had inherited a lot of money and a title from his father and was busy on the estate in Wales, and Francis Andrew Applejohn was now a born-again Christian helping at a mission in Nigeria.

‘That leaves Kevin Beardshaw, whom we've already interviewed but who, although apparently seriously ill, hasn't been eliminated from the case, and the Brocklebank brothers,' Patrick said with a sigh. ‘I'm in no mood to mess around with this any longer – if the Brocklebanks are neither in nor answering the door this time, I'm going to break in.'

‘It's pretty late,' I pointed out, not fancying that particular estate at night.

‘Good – all the better to surprise them.'

Fortunately, the mood of patience exhausted manifested itself in body language and the kind of eagle stare under the inevitable orange-coloured street lighting that kept any would-be troublemakers at a safe distance. They were present: in the shadows at each end of the underpasses, in stair wells, rustling through the litter and dead leaves beneath the occasional bank of sickly and vandalized shrubs. It might have been my imagination, or echoes off the endless concrete structures, but it seemed that the light sound of the footsteps of watchers were all around us, like the relentless padding of the paws of wolves.

‘So be it,' Patrick said under his breath when, for the third time, there was no response to his ringing the doorbell of the second-floor flat, the batteries of which were probably dead, and banging on the door with his knuckles. He flashed his burglar's torch over the door frame. ‘Interesting. This bears all the marks of having been forced before – by the police, it's safe to assume.'

Less than a minute later both locks had yielded to skeleton keys and, with a hefty push, for it was ill-fitting, the door swung open. All was dark within, the dingy illumination provided by the series of lights along the walkway where we stood, some of which were not working, not being powerful enough to penetrate. There was sufficient light, however, for me to see that Patrick's gun was now in his hand as he leaned within to click down a nearby light switch before jumping back to one side.

Nothing happened: either there was no bulb in the light or the power was off.

‘I've always adored playing murder in the dark,' Patrick muttered. ‘Flash lamp please, and as we only have one with us, do stay out here for a moment.'

Back in the MI5 days I had received instruction in the techniques used for entering darkened spaces with or without a torch. I was not very good at it, ending up by falling over my own feet, the furniture or any soldier or marine lying in wait, usually armed with a wet sponge in lieu of anything more dangerous. It was not thrown and I will not mention the area they invariably went for, especially if one was female, although I did learn to wear very robust knickers.

I stood to one side of the doorway, seeing the occasional flash as the light jumped about in the way I had never mastered, a combination of examining the interior, dazzling any opposition and at the same time staying alive. It requires far faster reflexes than mine and the ability to move like a cat – shaming, really, when one remembers the lack of Patrick's own right foot.

Seconds later there was a flash and a thunderous bang and smoke and fragments of God alone knew what blasted past me out of the doorway.

I suppose I froze to the spot for a moment and must have stared stupidly at the thick smoke that continued to billow out, hardly believing it, but then got down on my hands and knees and went in. Smoke is always less dense nearer ground level. Immediately, I saw the light from the torch, but dimly through the murk. I reached it; it was lying in a corner of the hall. Using it, and coughing on the acrid fumes, I crawled into the nearest room that was in the opposite direction to where the smoke appeared to be emanating from, reckoning that that was where anyone might have been blown. Judging by the tiled floor it was the kitchen or bathroom.

I encountered a shoe, thankfully with a foot still in it and a leg attached, and, only able to feel because the smoke was getting thicker by the moment, groped upwards. There was a heart-stopping moment when there seemed to be just space beyond the knee, until I realized that the leg I was touching was bent under the other. My hand encountered the gun and I shoved it into my pocket. Now I could see nothing at all, could not breathe, but somehow swivelled Patrick around on the floor, his head having been jammed against a cupboard, got him under both armpits and began to drag him out backwards. To do this I had to abandon the flash lamp and knew that if I lost by bearings now we were both finished.

He was horribly limp: I could feel his head lolling.

Dear God, was the man's neck broken?

I still sometimes have nightmares of endlessly being in a smoke-filled maze trying to get Patrick out. That was what it was like: I kept reversing into walls and slipping on detritus on the floor. Then, finally, my back hit the edge of the front door hard. I cannot recollect reaching the outside, only lying on the ground coughing as though my lungs would turn inside out. The next thing that I was aware of was having an oxygen mask placed on my face and gazing at a concerned fireman. He sat me up.

There was no need to ask the question, for the answer was sitting right next to me, also being administered oxygen, holding my hand.

It had been a sophisticated booby trap and Patrick, trained to watch out for wires and other similar devices, had not expected infra-red sensors in what he had been treating as a domestic setting. By a miracle the contrivance had slightly misfired, the full force of the blast having gone upwards, bringing down part of the ceiling. But it had still been sufficient to propel him backwards into the kitchen, where he had stunned himself on a cupboard. The consequences were a few very minor burns on his left hand and face, a bump on the back of his head, utterly ruined clothes and that, like me, he was suffering from smoke-inhalation.

But before discovering these things we had to spend the rest of the night in hospital and were only released the next morning after promising that we would rest for another twenty-four hours. The GP whose home we were temporarily sharing chivvied the pair of us to bed when we arrived at the house, dosed us with pills that we dared not enquire too deeply about, and we slept the dreams of angels until nightfall – whereupon she cooked us a light meal.

I suppose our brains resurfaced at round about that point to take stock of the fact that we now had two cast-iron suspects for Harmsworth's murder, but either because of shock, or the pills, discussed nothing about it, falling into bed again as soon as we had eaten.

It was daylight when I woke and Patrick was in the shower. He was not supposed to get water on his burns but is one of those people who would rather hurt a bit and be clean than the other way round. (Females should heap rose petals in gratitude upon such men.) When he came back into the bedroom he gave me a rueful smile and then came over and added a top-ranking kiss.

‘Thanks for getting me out.' He sat down on the bed. ‘God, I wonder if the doc has some headache pills.'

‘I have.' I said. ‘Who called the fire brigade?'

‘The woman next door. The chief fire officer told me that she and her son actually dragged the pair of us away from the smoke. We must go back and thank them – and to ask a few questions about their neighbours. I seem to remember a large black lady furiously telling me about the “trash we have right on our doorstep”, but whether she was referring to dumped rubbish or people I'm not sure.'

It turned out to be both and Esme was delighted to tell us all about it, having embraced us both with huge enthusiasm, thankful that we were recovering. A lump came into my throat, the way her gaze kept straying to the flowers we had brought. In her life, obviously, there was very little of such things, a reminder of what Vera Harmsworth had said about her husband – that he had cherished every second of beauty: a sunset, a bird, a flower.

W
hile Esme put the kettle on – she insisted on making us tea – we went next door where the Fire Brigade's Arson Investigation Department's team had just arrived. They had, we were informed, done some preliminary work the day before after Scenes of Crime personnel had finished but had decided to return the next morning when their expert on explosive devices was back on duty after a spell of leave. It was this man, ex-army Bomb Squad, who told Patrick exactly how lucky he had been. They were deep in technicalities within the still smoke-reeking flat when the local police came on the scene in the shape of DS Paul Boles.

‘Brocklebank,' he said thoughtfully, when I had brought him up to date on recent events. ‘Yes, but it'll be Clem we're after, not Ernie. Ernie's dead.'

‘But he was on John Gray's list,' I said.

‘I guess John didn't actually have time to check the records too closely but just lifted out as many useful names from the boss's own files as he could find. No, Ernie's dead all right – he was killed in a gang fight about six months ago. It might have been when the DI had a long spell of leave to go to New Zealand. Come to think of it, I don't think we ever got anyone for Ernie's death.'

‘Were the brothers close? I mean, it could be a motive for his hatred of Harmsworth if he thought the police hadn't bothered themselves too much to find his killer.'

Boles shrugged. ‘It's a bit rich, though, isn't it? – when you've lived the life those two have. They should both be inside right now serving life sentences after the things they've done. We know what they've done but proving it and finding witnesses who'll testify against them …' After a pause he added, ‘I can't remember the boss being too upset when someone pumped Ernie full of lead one dark night, mind.'

Patrick emerged and warmly shook Boles's hand. ‘What do you know about Clem and Ernie Brocklebank?' he asked.

‘We were just talking about it,' I said. ‘Ernie's dead.'

Boles said, ‘Clem was always the clever one. Ernie was a bit thick but could be relied upon to roll up when required with a pickaxe handle and wearing his big boots. Clem was the one with the firearms.'