Warned Off (20 page)

In
a cupboard in the kitchen were some wire-cutters and a pair of heavily padded industrial
gloves. I worked in the darkness. In fifteen minutes I was ready for them.

Ready and waiting. Waiting in the alcove
in the living-room twelve feet from the cold fireplace, six feet from the back
of the worn sofa. Waiting. Tense in the darkness. Cold. Leg aching. On the
mantelpiece the clock ticked, steady and reliable ... the only sound, the only
beat. Tick tock. Tick tock. Two men. How long? Two men. How long?

Twenty minutes. Half an hour. How was
Charmain holding out? Maybe they’d seen her on the way past. What if they’d
caught her? What would she tell them? What would they do to her?

An owl hooted. Twenty seconds later
there was a noise. It seemed loud. On the roof. Someone was on the roof.

My heartbeat doubled.

Another noise above – scrabbling,
scratching, like fingernails clawing their way up the tiles. I stopped
breathing ... I heard wings beat, passing the window, then silence. Thirty
seconds ... a minute. No more noise from the roof.

Then I realised what had happened. The
owl had dropped his catch then swooped low, talons open to snatch it as it slid
away down the tiles. Breathe again ... Beat easy, heart.

The lungs breathed but the heart kept
pumping fast. It must have known something because it was then I heard them
coming.

Footsteps. In the loose gravel by the
road, coming closer, so close I waited to see them pass the  window. They
didn’t. Noises to my right, through the kitchen. They were round the back.
Prowling.

I had hoped they wouldn’t try the back
door. If they came in that way my chances were down by fifty per cent. Coming
from my right they had twice as much floor-space to cross. Twice the chance of
seeing me in the narrow alcove.

I waited.

How long had it been since they passed
Charmain? The longer they took coming in the less time I’d have before she
headed for the village.

No more noise at the back. They must be
circling the building making sure no one was at home. I was at home. So was the
clock. Two men. They’re here. Two men. They’re here.

I heard no more footsteps, just the thin
sound as the lock-pick slid into the mechanism. The click as the lock turned.
The creak as the door opened and the two spiders walked into the web of the
fly.

They were three
steps from where I stood. Everything depended on them taking those three steps
in my direction. They didn’t. They did something even better. They sat on the
sofa.

‘Let’s make ourselves comfortable till
our little friend comes home.’

Their little friend was a yard away
thinking how much their heads above the back of the sofa resembled coconuts on
a shelf. I didn’t even have to step forward. In each hand I held a double loop
of barbed wire, two feet in diameter.

The padded gloves protected my skin as I
reached out and slipped one loop over each head. They both cried out. One full
twist tightened the wire right up to their throats.

‘If you even swallow I’ll rip your
throat open.’

I stepped in close behind them.

‘Start working your way in very slow
movements to the end of the sofa.’

When they reached the end I moved to the
side so I could control them more easily when they stood up.

‘You’re going to stand up very slowly
and you’re not going to do anything silly. It’ll take me a tenth of a second to
twist this little necklace one more time, so best behaviour unless you want to become
a blood donor via your jugular. Stand up.’

They stood. ‘Which one is Bill?’

‘Me.’ said the one on my left.

‘If you raise your left hand to that
wall, Bill, you’ll find a light switch. Press it.’

He did. The light came on and I could
almost hear Charmain’s sigh of relief.

I twisted the wire, forcing him to turn
his head round to look at me and I smiled as our eyes met. ‘Hello, Bill.
Remember me?’

He nodded very carefully.

‘I thought you might. What’s your
friend’s name?’

‘Trevor.’

‘Hello, Trevor.’ I smiled. He wasn’t
reassured. ‘I believe you were at the open-air barbecue too, the night my face
was on the menu?’

Swivelling his eyes he looked at his
partner. ‘I’m not hearing you, Trev,’ I said.

‘Yes,’ he croaked.

‘Well gentlemen, never let it be said that
I don’t return hospitality. As soon as I’ve made you both comfortable I’m going
to put the kettle on.’

I bound them together, back to back with
thirty feet of barbed wire, double twisted the ends and crimped them with
pliers. Then I went to the kitchen and filled the kettle, lit the gas, and put
it on to boil.

I made them stand in the alcove while I
leant on the mantelpiece facing them. ‘Why did you kill Alan Harle?’

They didn’t answer.

‘I don’t know how much of your school
physics lessons you remember but you’ve got as long as it takes to boil two
pints of water on a full gas flame. If you’re not talking by then, well, I’ve
always supported the eye-for-eye theory ... Though I think boiling water is
even more painful than hot steam.’

They flinched.

‘I’ll remind you of the question. Why
did you kill Alan Harle?’

Silence.

‘Fine. I can wait.’

I started whistling, lightly, watching
them as they wondered if I’d do what I’d threatened. Whistling on in a
deliberate monotone I kept it up till the kettle started whistling, low, then
steadily higher.

‘Catching, isn’t it?’ I said, smiling.

They didn’t seem to find it funny.

I carried the kettle through. Bill saw
the towel wrapped round the handle. I smiled at him. ‘Don’t want to burn
myself, it’s very hot.’

His eyes widened.

I stood very close to him. The streams
of blood stained his white collar and the wire was so tight round his chest he
wasn’t taking full breaths. I stared hard and cold and unblinking into his
eyes. He knew I held the kettle somewhere below but he couldn’t bend his head
to look down.

‘Why did you kill Alan Harle?’

He looked unsure but he obviously
thought I wouldn’t do it because he decided not to answer. It was a gamble. He
lost.

I splashed about a cupful onto his thigh
and he screamed. Trevor’s body stiffened visibly at the sound.

‘My aim was out a bit. I’ll get it this
time.’

I swung my arm back.

‘No! No, I’ll tell you!’

‘Start telling.’

‘It was a job. Just a job, a contract.’

‘Who paid?’

He hesitated. I moved my arm again.

‘Stoke! Howard Stoke!’

‘Why did Stoke want him dead?’

‘We don’t ask for reasons.’

‘Why?’ I shouted in his face.

‘He was screwing around with Stoke’s
wife.’

‘Bullshit!’

‘Honest!’

‘How did you kill him?’

‘Injected him with something Stoke gave
us.’

‘After chaining the poor bastard up in a
filthy stable for weeks!’

‘That was the way Stoke wanted it.’

‘And the customer’s always right, huh?’

He didn’t answer.

‘Harle was already injecting heroin,
wasn’t he?’

‘Yes.’

‘Where did he get it?’

‘We don’t know.’

‘Was he dealing in it?’

‘We don’t know.’

‘Was he dealing in it?!’

‘We didn’t ask him any questions!’

‘Don’t get smart, Bill, you’re on the
wrong side of the wire to get smart.’

He avoided my stare. I spent another
five minutes pumping them but I learnt little. They didn’t know much because
they hadn’t wanted to know. Their only interest had been money.

‘Is it just Stoke you’ve been involved
with or have you done jobs for anyone else?’

‘We take it where we can find it.’

‘Took
.’ I told him. Then I remembered
the others who’d been attacked. ‘Was it Stoke who gave you the contracts on
Bergmark and Kristar Rask ... and Danny Gordon?’

No answer.

I lifted the kettle to eye-level. ‘Tell
me!’

Bill looked at me. His voice was
strained. ‘They were just jobs, nothing personal.’

‘Nothing personal! You crippled
Bergmark, as good as killed Rask and murdered Danny Gordon and you say it was
nothing personal! You fucking bastards!’ I swung the kettle and splashed
another half pint of water on Bill’s thighs, then did the same to Trevor. They
screamed.

My control was going and I put the
kettle down in the hearth because I was sorely tempted to pour the rest over
their heads and they were already writhing. The barbs punctured their skin and
blood ran from their throats and wrists.

I went to the phone. ‘I’m just about to
ring the police but I sincerely hope you fuckers bleed to death before they get
here.’

I called the station and they said
detective sergeant Cranley was at home. They wouldn’t give me his number so I
told the duty sergeant where I was and what had happened and warned him that if
he didn’t send a squad car within half an hour they’d be picking up two
corpses.

I left them groaning and gasping and
went to get Charmain.

She’d gone. So had the car.

I
stood staring through the straight black silhouettes of the trees wondering how
long ago she’d left. Wondering if she’d waited to see the light going on, to
see me safe. Wondering if her nerve had simply failed or if she’d been that
desperate for another fix.

Whatever, she had to be heading back to
the boat where the heroin was, and the whisky and the acid. I was beginning to
regret freeing her from that ankle chain.

I hurried back to the cottage where Bill
told me, in a strangled voice, which pocket his car keys were in. The barbed
wire spiked him twice before I got them out. As I left I switched the lights
off, making it even more risky for them to move around. I couldn’t see their
faces but as I closed the door I heard them curse.

The
syringe was on the table. Charmain lay sprawled on the narrow bunk, her right
hand over her head idly fingering the curtain, a half full glass of whisky held
gently in her left.

One knee was drawn up pointing at the
low ceiling, the other leg lay flat. Both were bare as the hem of her nightgown
was up round her waist exposing white underwear.

She smiled at me as I came in. ‘Home is
the sailor, home from the sea and the hunter home from the hill.’ she said.
High as a kite.

I sat opposite her, wincing as the hard
edge of the bunk pushed in the leg wound. ‘And the junkie?’ I asked. ‘Where’s
she home from?’

Still smiling she raised the glass and
drank. ‘Who cares? Who cares where the junkie’s home from? Who cares? Home from
the woods, the junkie’s home from the woods.’

‘Is this why you left?’ I asked, picking
up the empty syringe.

‘Left what? Where? I’ve left a lot of
places, Mr Malloy ... a lot of places.’

Her face was pink from the warmth of the
cabin. The three small gas fires along the length of the boat were lit.

‘Left the woods,’ I said. ‘Where you
were supposed to be watching out for me.’’

‘I watched out ... you were okay.’ The
smile was dropping.

‘You didn’t need me anymore after the light
went on.’ She said. ‘You were the big hero then, weren’t you? The big hero.’

Letting go the curtain, her right hand
came down to rub her thigh. She drank again then closed her eyes and laid her
head back against the panelled wall. She looked almost serene.

Six feet to my left was a step down to
the kitchen area where an old fridge and cooker and a sink unit with a dented
draining board sat on a floor of cracked and curl-edged vinyl tiles. Limping
over I got myself a glass from the shelf above the sink. Charmain opened her
eyes again as she heard the whisky being poured.

‘Help yourself to a drink.’ she said,
not looking at me. ‘Plenty for everyone.’

I sat down again, more carefully this
time, and hauled my bad leg up straight on the cushions. Raising her glass
slowly, she said, ‘Cheers! Here’s to the hero.’

I watched her take a big slug. ‘And
here’s to the heroin.’ I said.

Lowering her glass she half sneered,
half smiled at me, wrinkling her nose. ‘Very witty, Mr Malloy, very witty. You
must be the smartest person out of everyone I know.’ She held her glass up in
mock salute. ‘Smart and brave and virtuous.’ The glass came down, the smile
dropped away and she stared up at the ceiling and said, just loudly enough,
‘Arsehole.’

I let it pass. She was feeling guilty
about leaving me back at the cottage. The fact that she also felt obliged to me
for ‘rescuing’ her from Stoke made her feel worse.

If you ever want someone to resent you
for a long time just do them a big favour.

She wouldn’t leave it alone. Turning on
me again she said, ‘What is it with you, Malloy? What do you get out of all
this?’

I shrugged. ‘My licence back, I hope.’
That silenced her for a minute. She must have been expecting me to spout some
high moral reasons she could ridicule and taunt me with.

I drank, flushing the whisky round my
mouth, burning my gums, and waited for the next assault. But her frown told me
the drug-clouded whisky-soaked brain was struggling to come up with anything
logical.

‘What do you know anyway?’ She said,
staring at the wall.

Closing her eyes she rested her head
against the panel, her hair rasping on the rough varnish.

‘Charmain, I need your help.’

Her head came up, eyes blazing. ‘Don’t
fucking patronise me!’

I shrugged. ‘I didn’t intend to.’

She made a face and mimicked me. ‘I
didn’t intend to. I didn’t intend to ... You bastard!’

‘To hell with this,’ I said and swung my
leg off the sofa. Her pink heroin bag rested by her side. I reached across and
grabbed it. Her face froze, open-mouthed, as I sat back again clutching the
bag. She stretched out a hand. ‘Give me that, ‘ she said, in a very thin voice.

‘Shut up.’

She stared at me, knowing she’d pushed
me too far, just as she’d done in the car that afternoon.

‘I need it.’ The voice was pleading now.

‘Too bad.’

Unzipping the bag I took out a
thumb-size, half-full phial of clear liquid. ‘Where did you get it?’ I asked.
The nightdress hem tumbled to her knees as she stood up quickly, still
clutching her drink.
‘Give
me it.’ The tone was strident. Her free hand
reached toward me.

‘Was it part of Greene’s supply or did
you bring it with you?’

‘It’s mine!’ Give it to me!’

Rolling it on my palm, I said, ‘It’s not
yours. If it was yours you’d have used it in the car back in the woods and
saved yourself a long drive. It’s Phil Greene’s, or it was Phil Greene’s. Where
was it hidden?’

She lunged at me. Clutching the phial, I
pushed her away. Losing her balance she lurched backwards and landed awkwardly on
the bunk, splashing her drink on the green cushion. Struggling forward she
tried to get up again.

‘Sit still,’ I said. ‘Or I’ll pour this
down the sink.’ She glared at me then threw her glass at my head. What was left
of the whisky arced out and, as I ducked, I heard it sizzle against the bars of
the fire. The glass hit the panel behind my head but didn’t break.

Charmain sat clutching her drawn up
knees and staring out of the small window into the darkness.

‘Where’s the rest of the supply,
Charmain?’

She ignored me. ‘Tell me.’

She began rocking slowly, to and fro. I
got up and went to the sink. Unscrewing the lid, I tilted the phial. ‘Where’s
the rest of it?’

She stopped rocking and stared at me
wide-eyed, unbelieving.

‘Don’t! There isn’t any more!’

‘I don’t believe you.’ I tipped it till
it was horizontal. ‘Where is it?’

The horror-stricken face had me almost
convinced she was being truthful. But I had to be sure. I let out a trickle and
she screamed and ran toward me.

Falling to her knees as she reached me
she hammered on the dirty tiles with her right fist.

‘Please, please, please ... that’s all
there is! I need it ... For tomorrow!’ She was sobbing, staring at the floor,
she wouldn’t look up at me.

She stopped hammering and pushed her
forearms under her forehead and rocked back and forth on her knees like some
demented jockey. ‘Please, please, please ...’

Screwing the cap back onto the phial I
reached down slowly and helped her up. Standing in front of me with red-rimmed
eyes, tear stained face, runny nose and flakes of dirt in her hair she looked
utterly dejected and beaten.

Reaching for her limp right hand I
slowly brought the open palm up and placed the phial in it. She looked at me
like a grateful animal newly relieved of pain, and two big tears spilled out.
Opening her arms slowly she slumped forward, head on my chest, and pulled me
toward her. I put my right hand round her waist and, with my left, gently
stroked the hair at the nape of her neck.

I felt, as much as heard, her deep sigh
and her warm tears soaked through my shirt.

It took Charmain
a long time to calm down. She’d dry her eyes and try to smile and say she was
fine then burst into tears again. But at least the spite was all out of her.
She looked apologetic and extremely sorry for herself though the feminine wiles
still worked as she decided the troubles were ours rather than hers.

‘What are we going to do?’ she asked,
sipping a fresh drink.

I could play that way too.

‘Before we can plan anything I need to
know more about Howard and his business ... and his connections.’

She nodded and after some gentle
prompting told me how she’d met Howard at Sandown three years ago when she’d
backed a winner with him. Okay, he was much older but he had money and big cars
and nice houses. She wasn’t embarrassed about admitting she was a gold-digger.

She said Howard kept his business
affairs to himself. Very few people visited him at home and when they did he’d
never discuss business in front of her. Things had been fine for the first two
years. He’d taken her out, bought her things, treated her well. It all started
going wrong when Harle came along.

‘What happened?’ I asked.

She shrugged and stared at her feet. ‘We
became lovers.’

‘You and Harle!’ I hadn’t meant to sound
so incredulous but when I thought of them together ... Harle’s small greasy
slyness and her, well, I suppose beauty was too strong a word, but she was very
attractive, though when it sunk in that she’d slept with Harle she seemed a lot
less so. Maybe I was just jealous. And mad with myself. The girl I’d thought
too gorgeous to even approach at school falling for the likes of Harle ... At
least she’d taken Stoke for money.

She caught the tone in my voice and
looked hurt then defiant. ‘He was good in bed,’ she said, almost accusingly.

‘You don’t have to explain to me.’

‘It sounded like I did.’

‘My bad manners showing again. I’m
sorry.’

She pouted and drank. ‘You men think sex
isn’t important to a woman ... well, to some of us it is. I didn’t love Alan, didn’t
even care all that much for him, but he was brilliant in bed.’ She drank again
and looked angry, then repeated, ‘Brilliant.’

I stayed silent waiting for her to get
it out of her system.

‘Howard was impotent,’ she said quietly,
staring at her empty glass. ‘From the day we were married. It terrified him.’

I bet it did. It went a long way toward
explaining his crazy jealousy and manic over-protectiveness of her. ‘Did he
know you were sleeping with Harle?’

She nodded very slowly. ‘I think he did,
but he’d never have challenged me. He was too scared of the truth.’ She spoke
quietly with no hint of satisfaction.

‘But not too scared to make sure Harle
never saw you again.’ She stared, unblinking, into her empty glass. I filled it
up with what was left in the bottle.

‘How did you meet Alan?’ I asked.

‘Howard introduced us at a party. He
kept calling Alan his boy, his best boy.’

‘When was this?’

‘New Year’s Day. We’d been to
Cheltenham.’

‘What was Alan doing for him? What was
the connection?’

‘I don’t know. I assumed he was just a
friend, or maybe a hanger-on. I didn’t ask questions.’

‘Didn’t Alan tell you anything?’

‘Sometimes he’d ramble on when he was
drunk about how rich he was going to be, how everything was going to work out.’

‘Drunk or high?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Was he injecting?’

Tilting her head back she rested it on
the wall and closed her eyes. ‘What does it matter? Alan’s dead ... What’s the
point?’

I let it rest for a while. ‘You know
Alan rode for a very rich owner?’

She nodded.

‘Nobody seem to have met this guy
Perlman. Didn’t Alan talk about him?’

Wearily she shook her head.

‘Did he ever even meet him?’

‘I don’t know.’ She sounded very tired.

I changed tack. ‘Alan was injecting. I
only asked you to see if you knew.’

She nodded.

‘How often?’ I asked.

‘I don’t know.’

‘Did he offer you any?’

She hesitated. ‘He didn’t offer ... I
asked if I could try it ... he didn’t want me to.’

She looked own and fingered her glass.

‘But you talked him into it?’

She sighed deeply. ‘In the end ... I tried
my first fix the week he disappeared.’ She looked to be going on a downer
again. I kept up the questioning. ‘Was Greene injecting, too?’

‘No.’

‘You seem pretty definite.’

‘He wanted to stay clean. He’d seen
Alan’s behaviour when he needed a fix. Phil Greene didn’t want to do anything
that would stop him being champion jockey.’