Authors: Simon Leigh
Out of Promises (20 page)
Valerie watched the outside world going by, tempted to go upstairs to see what was taking so long when Bill came walking down.
‘What happened?’ she asked.
‘He put up a fight. I had to change my shirt.’
She looked at his bloodied hand. ‘What happened to that?’
‘Oh, nothing. Just comes with the territory.’
‘Where is he now? I’d like to speak to him.’
‘Won’t get no sense from him, Val. He’s up there on the floor.’ He smiled. ‘Come on, let’s get some food.’
‘Again?’
‘Can’t think on an empty stomach, you know.’
They walked out into the cold.
‘Which car shall we take?’ he asked.
She had to think. Her car could easily be spotted by Matherson’s men, but Bill’s had bullet holes in and a smashed rear windscreen. ‘Mine.’
‘All right. Give me a few minutes to move mine. Might draw some unwanted attention out here. I’ll park it behind the office in the building’s parking lot. Nobody really goes back there.’
Valerie moved to her car and turned to him. ‘I’m glad you’re OK.’
Standing outside Fosters and Co., Baker said to McGowan, ‘You wait out here.’
‘Hey, we’re together in this. I don’t take orders from you.’
‘This is how I work, you know that. One guy goes in and another waits outside in case our friend makes a run for it.’
Through the window, McGowan watched a man reading a magazine at the counter: Fraser. ‘That guy couldn’t catch an old lady with a busted hip. You can be the guy who waits,’ he said and walked passed Baker.
This isn’t going to work.
The high pitched door bell sounded as they entered.
Fraser was reading guns n ammo, again, but this time he looked up, afraid, and with the knowledge of what had happened at Ada’s house, he feared the worst.
Baker walked to the counter with his ID ready in hand.
McGowan took the lead, which annoyed Baker. ‘I’m Detective McGowan, this is Detective Baker.’
Baker shook his head and said, ‘We’re here about a murder that happened this morning.’
‘Murder?’ asked Fraser as he backed away from the counter.
‘A weapon that was purchased here could have been a murder weapon,’ said McGowan.
Fraser gazed around.
‘Are you all right?’
‘Yes, fine. I’m about to lock up for the day, can we make this quick?’
‘So? Did you hear about the incident this morning?’
‘Not that I can think of.’
‘Where were you last night at between eight and ten?’
‘Home.’
‘The weapon was a revolver,’ said Baker.
‘There are lots of arms dealers in town, why would you think I sold it?’
‘It was purchased when you were the only arms dealer in town specializing in revolvers. The same weapon was also used in a murder six years ago. .357 Magnum rounds.’
‘How could you possibly know that?’
McGowan leaned over the counter. ‘How could we not know that? You of all people should know that bullets leave fingerprints.’
‘I don’t believe you.’
‘We know the same weapon was used because we have the bullet used back then and like we said before, at that time you were the only dealer in town specializing in revolvers.’
‘Well, I’m sorry but I can’t help you.’
‘Do you mind if we look around?’
‘On the shop floor you can and if you get a warrant then you can look in the back, but like I said, I’m about to lock up.’
McGowan could see that Fraser thought himself far cleverer than he actually was.
‘Anything else?’ he asked. ‘If not then please leave my shop.’
Baker’s phone started to ring.
‘Yes?’ he answered.
‘Sir, I have a good lead,’ said an excited female voice.
‘What is it?’
‘A private investigator named Bill Yates and a lady named Valerie Lambert spoke with Father McGregor and stole some evidence. A lock pick with an open winged eagle and the name Fosters and Co. engraved on it. Columbo says he knew Bill from when he was a cop. He gave us his office address on Lord Street. Yates Detective Agency.’
Baker smiled. ‘Thanks. I’ll head over there.’ He closed his phone and turned to McGowan. ‘Do you know who Bill Yates is?’
‘Yeah sure, he used to be a cop. I worked with him from time to time. He was a good man but cocky. Why?’
Fraser edged away from them.
‘Looks like he’s working with my suspect and stole some evidence that had slipped old Father McGregor’s mind.’
‘That doesn’t sound like Bill.’
‘Well whatever it sounds like, we should get to his office.’
‘In a minute.’ McGowan turned to Fraser. ‘Well, Fraser, that’s the proof you’ve been lying to us. We have more evidence linking these murders to this shop. A lock pick with this shop’s name on it. We need to see your records right now.’
‘All right, I’ll get the records,’ Fraser said and walked along the counter passing the door to the backroom and on to the end where he bolted for the front door.
Baker chased after him, tackling him to the ground.
‘Where are you going?’ asked McGowan.
On top of him, Baker read him his rights. ‘Do you understand these rights?’
Fraser said, ‘Yes,’ and McGowan walked him out of the shop and into his car.
‘Next time, wait outside,’ said Baker.
‘I don’t take orders from you.’
‘You take him back to the station. I’m going to Bill’s office.’
McGowan nodded, only because he wanted it that way.
Baker took out his phone. ‘This is Detective Baker, have someone meet me at Yates Detective Agency on Lord Street.’
Cyrus waited behind the tinted glass of the lobby in a building over the road from Bill’s office. He watched them get in the car and leave, paying close attention to Valerie like a tiger stalking its target, never averting his eyes from her until they left his sight.
And that’s when he made his move.
His owner was afraid of the unknown and hated secrets being kept from him. Everything had to work like a well-oiled machine. If one part wasn’t working then the whole machine would stop, thus bringing him here to Bill’s office.
The office door was closed, so after making sure the coast was clear, he pushed gently, expecting it to be locked, but it swung open freely showing Sharpe’s unconscious body collapsed on the chair with his head down and long, syrupy drips of blood hanging from his mouth, swaying from side to side with every hard fought breath he could manage.
Cyrus smiled. He knew who Sharpe was. He walked up to him, his glass shredded scalp on display with hair matted with blood. Leaving him there for now, he had a look around.
The desk gave nothing to him. The bathroom had a small red blood stained towel on the floor with a shirt. He picked them up with a sigh of disappointment, folding them into his pocket. A mirrored medicine cabinet above the sink contained the usual stuff you would find in medicine cabinets: painkillers, toothpaste, mouthwash, and a toothbrush. Nothing interesting.
He moved back into the office.
‘Sharpe?’
He stayed quiet.
‘Are you dead, Sharpe?’ He laughed and lifted his head up for a clearer look. ‘You look like shit.’
His eyes opened and closed, flickering like a busted light.
‘Sharpe, what did Bill say to you? I know you can hear me.’
He moaned faintly.
‘Good, you’re alive.’
His head fell back, looking at the ceiling. His mouth fell open to reveal his half missing tongue.
‘Well, it’s pointless me asking you anything now isn’t it?’ he said, laughing again. ‘No need to answer, it was rhetorical.’
As Sharpe was one of Matherson’s men, Cyrus knew what he had to do.
He took out a switchblade.
‘You know what this is?’ He cut his arms free and reached into his jacket pocket for a notepad and grabbed a pen from the desk. ‘Tell me what Bill told you and I’ll make this easy.'
Sharpe tried writing something on the pad, nothing of any coherence.
‘Come on, you can do better than that.’
He tried again, fumbling with the pen and dropping it.
Cyrus picked it up and put it in his hand. ‘I’m getting bored now.’
It was third time lucky as he managed to write three letters: P, R, and E before trailing off.
‘Preston?’
Sharpe nodded.
‘Come on, what else?’
He wrote: ALIVE?
‘Alive? Yes, Preston is alive.’ He laughed. ‘Would you like to talk to him?’
He called Preston.
Sharpe’s eyes widened.
Preston answered. ‘Cyrus, did you find anything?’
‘Sir, I have someone here you might like to talk to.’
‘Who is it? I don’t like games.’
Sharpe stared vacantly with dreaded anticipation and disbelief.
‘Believe me you’ll like what I found. I’ll put you on loudspeaker.’
Sharpe made some noise.
‘What the fuck is this?’
Moving the phone closer, he said, ‘Sir, say hello to your brother.’
‘Sharpe? Is Sharpe there?’
‘He’s here, but he can’t speak. His tongue is missing.’
Preston let out a sinister chuckle. ‘How the devil are you, brother?’
He tried to talk again, his eyes full of deceit and anger.
‘Sharpe, you were always the favourite. Probably because you had your nose so far up Matherson’s ass you could get lost. Even our parents favoured you. Well, not anymore. Look where Matherson has led you now.’
‘What shall I do with him, sir?’
‘Kill him. Goodbye Sharpe.’ Then the phone went dead.
Cyrus put the phone in his pocket and grinned, showing his unclean, smoke ridden teeth. Resting the switchblade on Sharpe’s neck, he said, ‘Orders are orders, I’m sure you understand.’
Before Sharpe could make a sound, the blade was in his throat, slicing through his flesh with blood curdling ease and he began choking, powerless to do anything. His arms wildly clutched at his throat, trying to push the blood back in, but it just gushed out and down his shirt to join the pool already gathered.
Then he stopped.
They say your life flashes before your eyes when you die, and Sharpe’s was no different. He saw his mother and father through a child’s eyes; his teenage years and his first kiss followed by his first sexual encounter; his first fight and his acceptance by Matherson; Northbrook with Rodriguez and Nicky. But the last thing he saw was the last time he saw Preston, just before he left to meet Freddie six years ago. He said goodbye to him as he left the office. And with that, he drew his last gargling breath and sat, slumped in the chair, staring at the floor through cold, dead eyes.
Seventeen years ago after casing Northbrook Children’s Home in gasoline, Preston stayed behind to start the fire that would live on forever in Southbrook’s history as a gas explosion.
At the truck ready to leave, Preston closed the truck’s rear doors and Sharpe climbed into the driver’s seat.
‘You take off back to the depot,’ Preston said. ‘I’ll start the fire.’
‘What are you talking about? Cops could be all over this within minutes. We need to go.’
‘More of a reason to get this truck away from here. If they come I’ll make a run for it through the woods.’
‘Fine, see ya later then,’ Sharpe said and started the truck, heading along the half mile track to the road.
Preston, with his lighter in hand, left the loading bay and grabbed some dried grass from the overgrown areas, setting it on fire in his hand. Smoke covered his face, choking him as he tossed it into the loading bay, standing back to watch the room light up beautifully within seconds. Flames raced to the ceiling sending scolding heat out through the shutters and up into the night air. He watched the flames burn the bricks and metal around the doors and race down the corridors devouring everything in sight.
Finishing with that area, he worked his way around the home smashing window after window throwing burning grass or wood inside. Up on the second floor screaming children banged and clawed at the windows. He felt no guilt; an order was an order. He blocked the screams from his mind and did his job.
After making a full circle back to the loading bay, he headed for the driveway to collect the boy from the staff room, hoping that he’d listened to him and hidden in the bushes.
Where the driveway hits the road, he looked back at the building half a mile away, the bright orange glow from the fire lighting up the sky.
He searched for the boy.
‘Hey, kid?’
No answer.
It began to rain. Just a light shower.
‘Hey,’ he said, louder this time.
Still nothing.
He looked everywhere around the road’s end, but there was no sign of him. He knew couldn’t just leave him, especially if he escaped as Freddie had. Giving up with this area, he walked the half mile back to the fire, scouring the edges on the way with his time running out.
As he approached the home, he found the window he’d smashed to get inside when they first arrived. The fire was blazing and impossible to see through making him cough as he braved the suffocating vacuum. He shouted for the boy again through harsh smoke with still no answer.
Then he heard something inside: a barely audible noise over the roar. It was coming from the window above, where Freddie had escaped.
Covering his mouth with a handkerchief, he took a run up, grabbing the shattered windowsill with his feet hanging behind him.
The smell of fire and gas tickled his nose and he saw the boy cowering in the corner.
‘Hey!’ he yelled.
The boy just looked at him.
‘Come over here. Just run to me, OK?’ He held out a struggling hand, but he didn’t move.
He tried to climb up, only, his feet wouldn’t grip the wall and his arms were weakening. Behind the door, the corridor was burning and he knew the fire would soon spread into the room. ‘Dammit, come here, now!’
He still didn’t move. Helpless and frightened, he stayed in the corner.
Preston dropped down, stood a few feet from the wall and began a longer run up when he heard the child scream.
Shit.
He watched in horror as the boy approached the windowsill covered in ravaging flames. His clothes were burning and his arms flailed madly to dampen the smothering pain. Then, at the edge of the windowsill, the pain got too much for him and he lost consciousness, collapsing from the window to the ground.
Preston ran towards him, taking off his coat and covering the boy, suffocating the fire. The clothes were burned into his skin and the smell was sickening, but he was breathing.
Carrying him, Preston ran to the main road.
Elsewhere, at the back of the home, a chair was thrown through a ground floor window followed by a man with a burning child in his arms. The boy was unconscious and wasn’t breathing.
While keeping the child close to his chest, he ran through the light rain to the safety of the trees sixty feet from the rear of the building.
‘Don’t you fucking die,’ he said to the kid, putting his ear to the boy’s mouth to feel for a breath that never came.
Come on.
He tried pinching what was left of the boy’s skin to get a response and felt for a pulse – both with no success.
Giving up, he sat next to the boy’s lifeless body, weeping.
The child in Preston’s arms was growing heavier as he neared the road. Once there, he laid him on the damp ground, took out his cell phone and called an ambulance claiming to be a passer-by who found him like that.
Inevitably, he knew, there would be police inquiries, but it was either let the boy die or answer some questions. He also had the risk of Matherson finding out about it. He lied about his name and address and left as soon as he had the opportunity.
It was also his plan to get the boy out of the hospital once he had recovered. But with the burns the boy had sustained, recovery could take days, weeks, or even months.