The Dead Lie Down (Adam Lennox Thrillers: Book One) (16 page)

"You took your time," accused Adam.

"Dinna worry. I was there just waitin' for the right moment."

The body on the ground moaned and Mitch kicked him for good measure.

"You two know each other?" Adam enquired solicitously.

Mitch raised an eyebrow. "I've seen him around."

Before he could say more, a car appeared at high speed and pulled up outside
without any thought of brake-pad wear. Adam briefly feared another kidnap
attempt but Mitch appeared unconcerned. He dragged Ernest out to the car, opened
a rear door and threw the hitman's gun into the car. 'Ernest' followed in
unceremonious fashion as if he was loading the shopping at Tesco's.

Mitch turned to Adam. "He's Ernest Pratt. Appropriately named. Small time hit
man. Takes occasional contracts in the South East."

Adam raised his eyebrows. "You know him well. Not a business you've ever been
involved in?"

Mitch regarded him with a steady gaze that always made Adam feel slightly
uncomfortable. "I've told you before, I only deal in vermin." He closed the car
door. "I'll take him and dump him on some policeman's doorstep with enough
evidence to keep him off the streets for a few years."

He went to move around the car, then stopped and met Adam's eye. "Does this
business have anything to do with Granger Bartlett?"

Adam hesitated. "Yes I think so."

Mitch opened the car door. "In that case you'll be wanting to know his
background."

"Yes."

"Granger Bartlett was a dangerous fool."

"And?"

"And a member of the IRA."

Chapter 22

Adam drove. Not that he had any doubts about Bel's driving ability you
understand, but he felt that he wasn't in control of events at the moment, and
taking the wheel might be his only opportunity to hold on to some credibility.
That and the fact that it was his name on the car rental insurance. The decision
to drive down to his parents had been a spur of the moment thing on his part. He
knew his father had contacts everywhere and there was no person better placed to
find out details of Granger's life at the time of his death. So, off to
Crowborough, conveniently on the same road as Sevenoaks, residence of Granger's
ex-personal servant, one Gerard Kemp.

"So Lennox. Tell me why I'm here again." Bel enquired with a mild challenge.

"I need an assistant when I interview Mr Kemp," replied Adam.

He feigned concentration on the road. These rental cars were tricky things you
know.

"You still haven't told me what happened after you left Barry Sutton."

Adam considered. He pondered. He cogitated. In the end he decided that honesty
was the best policy, so he told her. And then instantly regretted it.

The car went silent, just the reflection of the car noise off the hedgerows.

Bel broke into the quiet. "So if Mitch hadn't been there you'd be dead."

"No, no. I don't think we can say that with such certainty," replied Adam
quickly. Too quickly. Ouch. Too defensive Adam.

It was a good five minutes before Bel continued the conversation.

"You've faced death before haven't you?"

"Yes."

"In Iraq."

"Yes."

"Tell me about it."

"No."

"Adam, help me understand. I'm determined to bring Fran's killers to justice but
I need to understand where you're coming from."

Adam's resolve faltered. He gazed out of windscreen and saw sand and dust.

"We were advancing through southern Iraq. We had broken through what remained of
the Iraqi defences and all but routed them. We were on a relatively free run to
the outskirts of Basra. Our Challenger tank had four crew. The gunner, loader
and driver were all in their positions down in the hull. I was the commander up
in the turret. The turret hatch was open." Adam hesitated, his mouth dry. He
hadn't spoken of this since the de-briefings after Desert Storm. "Out of nowhere
we got hit by a shell. It penetrated the hull and exploded. The explosion blew
me over the side, 20, 30 feet away."

"What about the others."

Adam desperately tried to concentrate on the road.

"They didn't stand a chance. In those circumstances you never do. The hull's a
death trap. They died almost instantly, even before the tank's ammunition was
detonated and blew the tank apart. I should have died with them."

There was a pause whilst Bel absorbed what he'd told her.

"It's war Adam," she said. "It doesn't play by the rules. Unjust things
happen."

Adam glanced briefly across at her.

"The Iraqis had gone, and they didn't have armour piercing ammunition."

Bel opened her mouth to say something and then closed it again.

Adam said, "looking death in the face doesn't harden you. It's still as
terrifying every time. Your heart still pounds and your mouth still goes dry and
your mind thinks of all the things that you would have liked to do before you
die, believing at that instant that you won't get the chance."

"So do we avoid fear altogether?" challenged Bel.

Adam glanced at her again before returning his eyes to the road.

"Some people allow themselves to be defined by fear, limiting themselves to the
safe option, or worse still allow themselves to be overcome by fear and becoming
powerless in the process."

"But some people don't fear death itself, just the process of dying, suffering
if you like," she responded.

Adam nodded. "And yet there are those who live in constant fear but also have
hope. Some people fear knowing the truth whilst others fear uncertainty. What is
fear to one man is normal life to another."

There was a silence.

"If we drop this now, maybe they'll leave us alone," suggested Bel.

"Possible but unlikely."

There was a pause.

"Adam, you could be dead." Bel's voice began to rise in pitch. "We can't live
like this. I can't live like this."
He glanced at her. "That's why we have to
finish it," he said, with an air of finality, but strangely, little doubt.

He concentrated on driving. The driver's seat was a nightmare and his neck was
beginning to ache. When Bel could stand the silence no more, she asked the
question to which she didn't want the answer.

"So the IRA are involved in this?"

Adam glanced quickly across at her to gauge her mood. "I don't know. It would
explain the Irish connection, but the IRA's involvement in mainland UK finished
a long time ago, so I'm not convinced." Not quite. Adam, you're a fibber, who's
deluding who?

"In that case, although it might explain Granger's death, I don't understand how
it explains John's death."

Adam negotiated a junction off the M25 before replying, narrowly missing two
Hells Angels motorcycles and a minibus full of women, flying football scarves.
Now what was that all about?

"I see it this way," said Adam over the engine noise. "However Granger was
involved with the IRA, it involved his business. Possibly money laundering,
channelling support from the USA, something like that. Granger may have been
killed for creaming off too much or double-crossing his masters, I don't know.
It would help to explain the rise of Bartlett's business in what were lean
times. After Bartlett died it must have carried on otherwise we can't explain
the recent deaths."

Bel interrupted. "Are you saying that John knew about criminal activities in the
company and carried on with it?"

"It's one explanation."

She shook her head vigorously. "It's the wrong explanation Lennox. That's total
shit. Whatever John was, he wouldn't have suffered that, let alone support
it."

"I seems the most likely reason for his death." argued Adam.

"You didn't like John, did you?"

"We got on as business associates. He was never on my wavelength."

"Don't misjudge him Adam, he was a good man."

Adam risked a prolonged glance at his passenger to determine the feelings behind
her words but the light wasn't good, leaving him in the dark.

They approached Sevenoaks, which of course was in fact now Twooaks since the
great storm of 1987, but the Council didn't seem to find political correctness
as sufficient reason for re-naming the town.

Gerard Kemp lived on the outskirts, in a semi-detached in need of attention, on
a housing estate in need of attention. Peeling paint on the window frames and
the flaking rendering gave it an air of hopelessness, whilst the avenue of trees
by the roadside seemed to try and mask its decay with their growing canopy of
leaves.

Somehow Adam had expected grey lace curtains and an overgrown garden but there
was a surprising neatness about the place.

A
knock at the door brought a small grey-haired individual to open it. Adam was
surprised that despite the grey hair Kemp was younger than he had imagined, mid
to late fifties perhaps, thought Adam.

"Mr Kemp, my name is Alan Stevens. I rang earlier explaining that I am
researching for a book on 20th Century businessmen. This is my research
assistant Beverley Adams."

Bel almost forgot to nod and smile as previously instructed.

Adam had come up with the storyline himself, Bel had tried not to laugh out loud
and failed. Adam was nothing if not stubborn.

Gerard Kemp gave the impression that he now regretted agreeing to see them, but
as they weren't going to leave his doorstep willingly he showed them through
the hallway and into a living room which had seen better days but was tidy
nevertheless. A shabby three-piece suite showed signs of feline residents, which
weren't in immediate evidence. The classic writing bureau and flying ducks on
the wall gave the place an air of a 1960's sitcom set. Adam half-expected Hatti
Jacques and Eric Sykes to walk in.

Adam launched into the script he had been rehearsing in his mind for most of the
journey. Where's the auto-cue when you need one?

"We've done as much research as we can in the public domain but what we're
looking for is a human angle on Granger Bartlett." Very hip.

Kemp nodded imperceptibly.

"Mr Kemp, am I right in saying that Granger Bartlett inherited the business from
his father?"

"That's right, but when he took it on it was a struggling company. He grew it
into what it is today."

Adam started to take notes on a pad brought specially for the occasion, in true
researcher fashion.

"By all accounts he did an excellent job."

"Yes he did."

Adam had a vision of teeth being drawn and groaned inwardly. Bel concentrated on
her note pad, head down.

"Was he a good employer, Mr Kemp?"

"He was very good to his employees if that's what you mean?"

"What. Christmas bonuses and that sort of thing."

Kemp shrugged. Take that to be a 'yes' then.

Adam changed the subject.

"Many businessmen of that era went into politics or openly supported political
parties. Did Granger Bartlett ever consider politics?"

"No."

"But he held views?"

Kemp began to eye Adam suspiciously. "We all hold views."

"How did Granger feel about Northern Ireland for instance?"

"I don't know. Mr Granger didn't share his personal opinions with his
employees."

Adam picked up on the avoidance tactics but decided not to push it.

"How long did you work for the Bartletts, Mr Kemp?"

"Twelve years more or less."

"It must have come as a major blow when Granger died." suggested Bel.

"The household staff were devastated."

"How did the workforce react when they heard of his death?"

Now Kemp hesitated noticeably. "Some were bothered about their jobs, others
couldn't care."

"And you?" queried Adam.

"I decided on a change of career around that time so I wasn't really
concerned."

"How good was your relationship with Granger Bartlett."

"Mr Bartlett never had a bad word to say to me. I couldn't have wished for a
better employer. I knew as soon as he was dead that he was going to be
missed."

Adam nodded enthusiastically.

Bel looked up from her auto-cue. "Mr Kemp did the, eh, accident come as a
shock?"

Adam thought he saw a narrowing of the eyes as Kemp measured his response more
carefully.

"Of course the accident was a shock, why shouldn't it have been?"

"Was there ever any doubt in your mind that it was an accident?"

Kemp edged forward in his seat. "No, why should there be?"

"It was you that identified the body I believe wasn't it?" Adam asked, and
pretending to look at his notes missed further narrowing of Mr Kemp's eyes.

"It was," Kemp replied slowly, after some hesitation.

There was a prolonged pause. Kemp rose to his feet.

"Look, I don't know who you are but you're not a writer. I think it's time you
left before I call the police."

Adam took a gamble.

"Just before you do. My name isn't Alan Stevens. My name is really Adam
Lennox."

"So what are you doing here?" demanded Kemp, but already there was recognition
in his eyes.

"Three years ago my wife was murdered and I have reason to believe that her
death was connected in some way to Granger Bartlett's. I'm trying to find out
who killed her."

Kemp eyed him suspiciously for a moment but eventually sat down. Adam
continued.

"You can call the police if you want but I'm guessing that the payments you've
been receiving from Bartletts all these years haven't come to the attention of
the tax-man."

Kemp laughed. "Don't threaten me Mr Lennox, you're wasting your breath." His
voice took on a more serious note. "But I am truly sorry about Fran's death." He
paused to acknowledge Adam's surprised look. "Oh yes I know all about it and who
you are, but be assured that your wife's death is not in any way connected to
Granger's."

"How can you be so sure?"

"I can't tell you that. You'll just have to take my word for it. I know there's
no connection."