Cut Throat (46 page)

Suddenly, both Irish and Leo were back. They stood one on each side of Ross and hauled him to his feet. Leo then moved behind him and with a swift tug the rope tying his hands together came undone, remaining attached to his right wrist only.

Ross swore silently. The rope had obviously been secured with a quick-release knot such as were used, for safety's sake, to tie horses' headcollar ropes. If he had known that, there was a strong possibility he might have managed to release it himself.

Leo pulled on the rope, bringing Ross' right hand round in front of him, and reached across to seize the left also. Ross made no move to resist. Irish stood not three feet away, hefting his knife casually in his hand, and he had no doubt Leo still had his gun stowed somewhere about his person. With a deftness that would have brought tears to the eyes of a Boy Scout, Leo tied Ross' wrists firmly together in front of him.

No quick-release knots this time.

A further rope was tied around the one that bound his hands and thrown over a sturdy branch about three feet above his head so that his wrists were pulled upward. Leo tugged on it until Ross was on tiptoe and then tied it off. As the knot slipped tight, Ross found he could stand flat-footed again, for which he was grateful. The strain on his arms and bruised body was quite painful enough as it was and his broken rib made its presence felt with every breath.

Leo stood back with an unpleasant smirk to survey his handiwork.

‘Not such a wise-guy now, are you, Yank?' he observed with satisfaction.

Ross didn't feel at all wise. He watched with a kind of fatalistic calm while Irish rummaged in a haversack Leo had presumably brought with him, and drew out a full bottle of what looked ominously like whisky.

‘This shouldn't be too much of a hardship,' he said, standing up and coming towards Ross. ‘I hear you have a liking for the stuff.'

‘That's right.' Leo grinned unpleasantly. ‘He's got quite a reputation.'

With a jolt, Ross guessed something of what they intended and depression settled on him like a dark blanket.

‘I did warn you to keep your nose out of what didn't concern you,' Irish said reasonably. ‘You really should've listened.'

Leo leaned close. ‘Got any smart remarks now, Yank?'

Offhand, Ross couldn't think of any.

Irish removed the screwtop and stepped to Ross' side. He watched, trying to see something, any little thing that could give a clue to his identity, but the light was fading fast now and somehow all he could see was that bottle.

From the other side, Leo grasped the front of Ross' shirt and shoved him roughly back against the tree, then put a hand under his chin and forced his head back.

Ross tightened his jaw muscles, instinctively preparing to resist. He needn't have bothered. With admirable teamwork, Irish slugged him in the stomach with his fist, and as Ross' mouth opened and the breath left his body in a painful rush, Leo's hand clamped round his jaw. Something cold and metallic forced its way between his teeth, bruising his lips, and any intended resistance was effectively quelled.

‘You know what this is, don't you?' Leo was enjoying himself hugely.

Ross did but he was hardly in a position to answer. He could feel sweat running down his face and body and tried not to think about the horrendous consequences of any slip on Leo's part.

‘Let's get on with it.' Irish seemed as weary of Leo's gloating as Ross himself was.

The neck of the bottle slid between Ross' teeth next to the gun barrel and he closed his eyes helplessly. The strong, smoky-tasting liquid burned over his tongue and down his throat, filling his mouth. He tried not to swallow, breathing through his nose, and a quantity of the spirit ran down his chin and soaked into his shirt. His eyes began to water.

With a muffled exclamation, Irish used his free hand to pinch Ross' nostrils. It became either swallow or drown.

Ross swallowed.

His mouth filled up again instantly. Twice more he swallowed huge gulps of the fiery liquid, then his throat and lungs constricted in panic. He tried to twist away.

Irish seemed to recognise his predicament, for the pressure on his nose released and he drew in a blessed lungful of air. The relief was short-lived, however. Moments later the hand was back and the process was repeated.

Some time later the gun barrel was removed and the hold on his nose ceased. He was beyond resistance. The whisky flowed. Gagging and coughing, he swallowed, though a certain amount dribbled out and soaked his shirtfront.

‘How much will it take?'

The words sounded echoing and distant, like someone calling through a tunnel.

‘A little more. We don't want him getting out and wandering off.'

That was a different voice, he felt. Not Irish or Leo but familiar all the same. How many more people had come to watch?

Ross opened his eyes but his head was still tipped back and all he could see was a pattern of light and dark blotches moving about hypnotically.

They didn't make sense. Nothing seemed to make sense.

Later still, he realised that the bottle had gone and he was sitting down. He tried to open his eyes again but someone had attached lead weights to his eyelids. He thought hazily that he'd better get going, that he'd be late, but he couldn't remember where he was supposed to be going or why.

Moments later, or it could have been minutes, he found himself lying face down in the leaf mould. It seemed fairly comfortable so he stayed there.

Ross couldn't precisely say when consciousness left him or when it returned. The sensation was more that of drifting on the borders – sometimes one side, sometimes the other. The first vaguely tangible thing that made it through to the reasoning part of his brain was a dazzling light, which was shining uncomfortably, straight into his eyes.

He blinked owlishly.

‘This one's well gone,' a voice remarked from behind the light.

The light hurt and Ross closed his eyes again. Perhaps it would go away.

It didn't.

‘Come on, son. Sit up.' A hand caught hold of his shoulder and tipped him back. Pressure that he hadn't been aware of on his chest now eased and something softer supported his back.

‘No sign of injury. Smells like a distillery,' the voice said.

‘Shall I get the breath box?' Another voice.

Ross opened his eyes once more but couldn't see a thing.

‘Waste of time. He couldn't blow a candle out. We'll have to take him in.'

‘Do you think he drove here like that?'

‘Yeah. Bloody marvellous, isn't it? I suppose we should be glad he wasn't on the motorway.'

‘You can say that again!'

The light swung away. Ross could now see the windscreen of the jeep, but beyond it, pressed against the glass, was a tangle of leaves and stems.

He couldn't remember why it should be like that. He stared, puzzled.

Somebody leaned in front of him, switched the jeep's lights off and removed the ignition key.

Careless of him to leave them on. Not like him. He tried to look up at the man but his head was too heavy.

‘Come on then. We'll take a little ride, shall we?' Strong arms reached under his armpits and lifted.

Memory stabbed back.

‘No, please . . . No more,' Ross said thickly. ‘For God's sake . . .' He turned his head away.

‘I should say you've had enough already,' somebody said with grim amusement.

‘Bastards!' Ross said suddenly, vehemently, surprising even himself.

‘Yeah, yeah, and life's a bitch,' the nearest voice said patiently. ‘Come on, mate. Bring that bottle, Steve.'

Ross half-walked and was half-carried towards a blue flashing light which made his head hurt. The ground seemed to roll away under his feet. He closed his eyes and was hazily aware of being laid on something soft before oblivion closed in.

More lights. A rough blanket beneath him. Voices echoing off cream-painted walls. A king-sized headache.

‘Is this the RTA? What have you brought him here for?'

‘No other vehicles involved. Just drove quietly into the hedge. No injuries I could see.'

Somebody grunted. ‘Better get the doc to check him over. Need a blood test anyway.'

‘Why bother? Just light a match and stand well back.'

Someone obviously thought that funny. Ross didn't. He tried to say so but it didn't come out right.

‘He's coming round again.'

‘Has somebody gone for the doc?'

‘He's on his way.'

Ross opened his eyes a fraction more. Vision was a kaleidoscope of colours and lights. He blinked and the colours grouped themselves into vague shapes. It was like looking through the glasses of an acute myopic.

He tried to concentrate. Four dark blobs resolved themselves into two police uniforms. The effort made his head pound and he groaned, feeling abysmal.

One of the uniforms bent over him.

‘I think he's beginning to see the error of his ways,' he remarked. ‘Can you hear me, sonny? Can you tell me who you are?'

Ross knew perfectly well who he was. He wasn't stupid. Telling them proved to be a different matter. With the best intentions, all he could manage was an unintelligible mumble.

‘Where . . . ?' He frowned with the effort.

‘Nought out of ten for originality,' the nearest uniform said. ‘Harnham Police Station. Cell three.'

Still Ross couldn't grasp it. ‘What for?'

‘I'll give you three guesses,' the uniform said sarcastically.

Ross blinked stupidly at him.

‘Give it a rest, Steve. He's in no fit state.'

Another voice said, ‘This the new arrival?'

Ross rolled his head to look. A mistake. When the room steadied again he saw a weary-looking, grey-haired man regarding him with scant pity.

‘Has he said anything?'

‘Nothing that makes much sense.'

Grey-hair put a bag down and opened it. ‘Any injuries?'

‘None apparent.'

He sighed. ‘Better check.' He unbuttoned Ross' shirt and pressed a cold disc to his chest. ‘There's some old bruising here. Where did you find him?'

‘Got a tip-off and found him draped over the wheel of his car. Had an empty bottle on the seat beside him. Whisky.'

‘I can smell it,' the doctor confirmed. After a moment he put the stethoscope away and produced a slim torch, which he proceeded to shine into each of Ross' eyes in turn.

‘That looks okay. No concussion.'

His strong, practised fingers moved over Ross' scalp and touched the bruise on his neck.

Ross winced.

The fingers paused, pressed again.

He winced again.

‘That hurt,' the doctor commented. ‘He's got a bit of bruising there too but he'll survive. Better take some blood.'

Ross couldn't see the logic in this. His sleeve was pushed up and he felt the prick of a needle.

‘Smells as though he's bathed in it,' the doctor said, wrinkling his nose. ‘It's early too. I wonder what his story is. Well, I think he's fit to be detained but keep an eye and call me if you're worried. I'll look in on him in the morning.'

The sounds receded and a door banged. Ross groaned and rolled over.

The next time he surfaced, his head was clearer. Unfortunately, sensation had returned to the rest of his body with a vengeance too.

He looked around him. Four walls, the bed and a john. It was hardly the Hilton.

With an effort, he slid his legs over the side of the bed and sat up. At once, his head set up a hammering that would have done a pile-driver proud. He groaned. The back of his neck was stiff and tender, as were his shoulders and arms, and his ribs told of new damage. The way his stomach felt, he couldn't contemplate ever facing food again.

He sighed and tried to recall the events of the previous evening but it was all a muddle of confused images. He remembered Roland following him and he remembered somebody in a balaclava, but couldn't see the connection between that and his being where he was now. His mind skittered over the period in between as if afraid to face it.

The door rattled and opened.

A fresh-faced young PC looked in. ‘Cup of tea?'

‘No, thanks,' Ross said with feeling.

The door opened wider and the grey-haired police surgeon of the night before came in. He took the cup from the youngster and held it out to Ross. ‘Better drink it, you know. It'll help.'

He doubted whether anything short of a hefty dose of chloroform would help but he took the cup obligingly and sipped. His mouth was cut and bruised, and felt as though it had been scrubbed out with wire wool, but if the hot tea sat a little heavily on his stomach, at least nothing cataclysmic happened.

‘So. How are we this morning?'

‘Well, I can't speak for you,' Ross said flippantly, ‘but I've had better mornings.'

‘I'm not surprised,' Grey-hair said. ‘You'd polished off the best part of a bottle of Scotch, apparently.'

Ross frowned as a memory flickered on the edges of his consciousness. He shook his head. ‘I didn't. I mean, I . . . I don't even like the stuff.'

‘Well, you certainly gave it a fair trial, I'll say that for you,' the doctor observed sardonically. ‘Now, do you have a name?'

Ross bit back another facetious reply and sighed. There was nothing to be gained by antagonising them.

‘Ross Wakelin,' he said. ‘But I assume you've got my wallet and driver's licence, so you already know that.'