CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
“Max!
Where have you been? I’ve been so
worried about you! You could at least have phoned!” But Max pushed past his mother, ran upstairs
to his own room and began throwing some clothes into a suitcase. His mother
followed, more than a little breathless already. “What are you doing? Where are
you going? Are you in some kind of trouble? I knew it. I just knew it!” She
declared in a whining tone that made Max cringe. He rounded on his mother, a
savage look in his eyes that caused Annie Cutler to recoil, stumble, and almost
lose her footing altogether.
“Yes,
I’m in trouble and I haven’t time to explain,” hesitating a fraction before
adding in a more conciliatory tone, “I need some money.”
“Surprise,
surprise!” exclaimed his mother scathingly. “How much do you want this time?”
“Ten
grand will do for now.”
“What,
ten thousand pounds!” Annie was genuinely shocked, “You expect me to hand over
ten thousand pounds just like that?”
“For
heaven’s sake, Ma, you’re loaded. Ten grand is chicken feed to you.”
“You’re
father earned his money. It wouldn’t do you any harm to try earning your own
living for a change.”
“Change
the record, Ma, and just write me a cheque. I wouldn’t ask if I wasn’t
desperate.”
“I
see. You have to be desperate to ask your own mother for help, is that it?
What’s happened to us Max? We used to be close. Now I hardly see you. When I do,
you’re always in a foul mood and usually more interested in my cheque book than
you are your poor mother.”
“And
whose fault is that?” Max flung the question back at her. “I’m your son, Ma,
not a possession to be exhibited to all and sundry when it suits you and kept
under lock and key when it doesn’t.”
“I
have never kept you under lock and key!” the dumpy woman protested.
“Maybe
not,” he conceded, “but it certainly feels like it!” he yelled back at her, now
piling some shirts into a suitcase that lay wide open on the bed. “When did you
ever let me bring a friend home, eh? Never, that’s when. And shall I tell why,
as if you didn’t know? Because you can’t bear to share me with anyone, that’s
why. You want me all to yourself. Well,
I don’t want to be your substitute toy boy, Mother, I never did. Look at you,”
pausing to give the woman in the doorway a long, critical look. “You were
passably attractive once. Now you’re fat and ugly and no one would look at you
twice. You couldn’t get a man if you tried so you thought you’d work all that
unspent energy off on me. You’re sick, Ma, and you make me sick too!”
“But
rich,” she said so quietly that he barely heard. “Alright, Max, I’ll write you
a cheque this one last time. Once you leave this house I never want to see you
again. No matter how times you come begging cap in hand, you’ll be wasting your
time.”
“Yeah,
yeah,” muttered Max ungraciously. Hadn’t he heard this before countless times?
“I’ll
go and write that cheque now.” Annie Cutler was almost at the bottom of the
stairs when the doorbell rang and she saw a shadow against the glass she did
not recognize.
“Don’t
answer it!” Max yelled from the upstairs landing, but Annie was already opening
the front door.
“Mrs
Cutler?” Annie nodded, “My name is Colin Fox. I’m Nina’s brother and a friend
of Max’s. Is he here?” Annie was about to let him in when a familiar figure
emerged from a car parked right outside the house. She stiffened instantly.
“You…” she hissed.
“Hello
Annie,” said Nina.
Colin
Fox flung his sister an aggrieved look. He had told her in no uncertain terms
to stay put and not interfere in affairs that were none of her damn business.
He might have guessed she would ignore him. Forbidding Nina anything had always
been tantamount to waving a red rag under a bull’s nose.
“Was
that Max’s voice I heard? Max!” She
pushed past Annie and called up the stairs, “It’s me, Nina. Colin’s with me
too. Come down and tell us what the devil is going on. Why are you being such a
prick?”
“Get
out of my house,” Annie Cutler hissed at the woman she blamed entirely for her
son’s latest defection.
“Either
come down or I’m coming up!” Nina ignored her and called out again.
“You’re
upsetting your mother Max,” it was Fox’s turn to shout. Sensing an ally, Annie
gave him a wide smile and was rewarded with a conspiratorial wink. “You don’t
want your poor mother to become even more upset, do you?” he yelled again.
While
Annie Cutler positively beamed at Fox, Nina tough she detected a thinly veiled
threat in her brother’s choice of words. Don’t
be such a drama queen, Nina, she remonstrated with herself, but remained
uneasy all the same. Colin had still not explained to her satisfaction why he
was carrying a gun.
Max
appeared at the top of the stairs.
“Max,
darling, are you alright?” Nina found herself asking with genuine concern.
Before
Max could reply, Colin Fox has pushed past Annie Cutler and was charging up the
stairs. Caught off guard, Max hesitated as if trying to decide what to do next
before dashing back to his room and slamming the door.
Fox
was not only there before Max could turn the key on the inside but also wasted
no time putting his shoulder to the door and pushing against it.
Below,
Nina tried to follow her brother but Annie Cutler gripped her arm with a podgy
hand and would not let go. “Max is in trouble. You have to tell me all you
know. Don’t I deserve to know? I’m his
mother for heaven’s sake. I need to know. I deserve better than this,” she
wailed and became hysterical.
Reluctantly,
Nina led the woman whom she detested into the lounge, deposited her
unceremoniously on a sofa and sat beside her. “I don’t know any more than you,”
she had to admit, “but carrying on like this is helping no one so pull yourself
together, woman, and let go of my bloody arm!”
But
the fat, ringed fingers retained a surprisingly firm grip. “It’s your fault,”
Annie Cutler shrieked at Nina, “My Max was a different person before he met
you. He was kind, considerate. Now he’s beastly to me and always asking for
money so he can keep up with you, you bitch, you…whore!” Nina slapped the
little woman’s face with her free hand. The gargoyle face turned purple with
rage, bulbous eyes all but popping out of their sockets. “Oh!” wailed Annie
Cutler and promptly burst into floods of tears. Forgetting that Nina was public
enemy number one, she collapsed, sobbing, into the younger woman’s arms.
Upstairs,
Colin Fox heaved his shoulder against the door one more time and it gave way
sufficiently for him to burst into the room.
The
two men glared at each other. Fox kicked the door shut behind him and pulled
the gun from his pocket. Max Cutler’s handsome face turned very pale. “There’s
no need for that,” he said in a low, choked voice and swallowed hard, unable to
tear his eyes from the weapon, its metallic glitter emphasising the threat as
if any emphasis were needed.
“I’ll
be the judge of that,” Fox snarled. “Now, where are the letters?” Cutler nodded
towards a small red box on the bed. “I’ll never understand what Wiseman saw in
you,” Fox sneered as he edged towards the bed, gesticulating with the gun for
Max to keep his distance. “It takes all sorts to make a world, I suppose, even
one with queers in it.”
“If
you say so,” said Max, calmer now and able to look Fox in the eye. He had only
met Nina’s brother once before and had disliked him intensely at first sight,
not least because he made no secret of his contempt for his boss’s sexual
preferences. If Wiseman was aware of this, he chose to ignore it. Colin Fox, he
had repeatedly assured Max, was a man whom it was a good move to have on your
side and a very bad one to alienate. Max, on holiday in Miami at the time, had
been content to let sleeping dogs lie. Later, he would find hard to believe
Nina could have such a nasty piece of work for a brother.
At
first glance, Max had to admit that Colin Fox was pleasantly, almost boyishly
good looking, with an untidy mop of hair and an engaging smile. It was the eyes
that gave him away. They were a steely blue-grey. You felt they were looking
right through you and not liking what they saw one bit. Max shivered
involuntarily. Fox was not a man who bluffed or carried a gun he had no
intention of using.
When
he, Max, had discovered the full, global extent of Klaus Wiseman’s drugs
racket, he had caught the next plane back to London. Among the messages on the
answering machine at his mother’s house was one from Fox. It just said, “Fox
here. Enjoy being home, Max, while you can.”
The deceptively mild voice had made Max’s flesh creep just as it did
now.
All
this had taken place long before he’d had a fling going with Nina. By the time
he’d made the connection between the two Foxes, it was too late. He had already
underestimated ‘Gypsy’ and Steve Williams had been assigned to ‘sort’ the pair
of them. Besides…and now a thought hit Max with some surprise as he licked his
lips with growing apprehension. He had fallen in love with Nina by that time.
It
had never entered his Max Cutler’s head that he could love a woman with
anything like the same intensity, never mind passion, as a man. Intensity and
passion were all very well and made for good sex, end of story. Love had never played
any part in his relations with men… Or
women like Pip Sparrow, he reflected ruefully. Nina, on the other hand, was
different to anyone he had ever known, man or woman. At first the main
attraction had been her looks and her money, nor necessarily in that order. Somewhere
along the line, though, the goal posts were moved. We were good together Nina and me. Could they be again, he wondered, and doubted
it. Cutler sighed. Trust him to find
love for once in his life…after he had already blown it.
Even
while such thoughts were running riot in his head, culminating in the unlikely
discovery that he was in love with Nina Fox, Cutler had continued to watch her
brother with all the attentiveness of a cornered animal facing extermination.
As Colin
Fox reached for the red box, his eyes darted towards it and were momentarily
distracted from Cutler. Max saw his chance and seized it, diving forwards to
grapple with Fox at the very moment the latter’s fingers closed on the box and
before his line of vision had time to revert.
The
two men fought.
Downstairs,
Nina and Annie heard the blast of a gunshot. The latter screamed and let go of
Nina’s arm. Nina ran out of the room and dashed upstairs.
Hearing
movement behind one of several doors, Nina did not hesitate but turned the
handle and flung it wide open. “Oh, my God!” she cried. Max was lying at a
curious angle across the eyes closed, blood pouring from a chest wound. “Colin,
what have you done? What have you done?” she repeated, her voice risen an
octave or two as she quickly crossed to where Max lay and felt for a pulse.
Unable to find one for a second time, she turned and stared wide-eyed at her
brother.
Fox,
still gripping the smoking gun had to struggle to find his voice. He had liked
carrying a gun, not least because it made him feel important, better and bigger
than the Colin Fox most people saw, good looking enough but insignificant,
nothing more or less than another face in a crowd. He had never shot anyone
before. Nothing could have prepared him for the way he felt. Where he had
expected to experience an exhilarating sense of power and satisfaction at
having demonstrated it, all that gripped him, churning up his stomach, was an
immediate need to vomit.
Watching
Colin throw up all over the floor, Nina’s feelings were very mixed. On the one
hand, she wanted go to him, hug him protectively and reassure him that
everything would be all right while, on the other, an intense loathing welled
up inside her. She hated her brother even more than she had once hated their
father. Besides, she reflected grimly, everything was far from all right. “Give
me your mobile,” she held out a trembling hand.
Colin
Fox started to reach inside a pocket, and then changed his mind, seemed to pull
himself together and stared disbelievingly at his sister. “You’d call the
police?”
“Never
mind the police,” she retorted, “We need to call an ambulance.”
“He’s
dead,” said Colin Fox in a flat, toneless voice.
“It
looks like it,” Nina agreed, “but I’ve made that mistake once and I’ll be
damned if I’ll make the same mistake again. Now, give me the bloody phone.”
But
Fox simply stood stock still, staring at the body sprawled on the bed and
oozing blood over a pale grey duvet cover. There was blood, too, on his own
shirt, trousers, hands, even smudges on his forehead and cheeks where he’d
tried to wipe away the sweat that continued to soak his face, making the skin
blotchy as if he had eczema.
“Why,
Colin? What’s going on? What haven’t you told me?” Nina yelled, “Why shoot Max,
for God’s sake?” She spotted a red box on the floor. Absently, she bent to pick
it up.
“Don’t
touch that!” Colin Fox shrieked at her like madman. Before she could say
another word, he had bent down and picked it up, clasping it to his chest with
his free hand as if for dear life.
“What’s
in the box?” Nina demanded to know, “Is that what you’re doing here? Is Max
blackmailing you?” she voiced the first suspicion that came to mind.
“It’s
complicated,” muttered Colin Fox weakly.
Nina
shrugged, calmer now. “If you don’t want to tell me, fair enough, I dare say
I’ll find out sooner or later. Right now, though, I don’t have time to listen
anyway.” She got up from the bed, blood on her hands and dress, to confront her
brother with all the confidence of an accomplished actress making the best of a
poor script. “I’m going downstairs now to phone for an ambulance. For all we
know, Annie may already have done so or called the police. Mind you, the poor
cow is in such a state that I doubt it,” she added with a humourless laugh.
“I’ll give you ten minutes, Colin, not one second more. That will give you time
to freshen up a little, borrow some of Max’s clothes and get the hell out of
here before I call the police.”
“You’d
shop your own brother?”
“Oh,
grow up, Colin!” she snapped before starting to panic and had to fight to catch
her breath. All at once, she felt composed and incredibly calm. “You’ve just
shot a man for heaven’s sake,” she flung at her brother, “I suggest you do
something about it and fast.” She turned her back on him and left the room with
neither thought nor fear for her own safety.
Annie
Cutler was waiting at the bottom of the stairs, her short, fat legs visibly
trembling. “I heard a gunshot,” she whimpered.
“Go
and sit down,” Nina told her,” I’ll be right with you as soon as I’ve called
for an ambulance.”
A
telephone was sitting complacently on a table in the hall. Nina grabbed the receiver from its cradle and
would have dialled 999 but Annie pulled at the sleeve of her dress with such
force that she stumbled and the plug came loose from its wall socket. “What are
you playing at?” Nina yelled, “We need a bloody ambulance!”
“It’s
Max, isn’t it?” the woman cried, near hysterical, “He’s dead isn’t he? That
bastard has killed my son.”
“No
one’s dead,” Nina told the woman tersely, “but they soon will be if you don’t
shut up and let go of me so I can call for an ambulance.” Annie Cutler tried to
say something, but no words came. Eyes bulging, her mouth kept opening and
shutting. Like a bloody great fish, Nina thought as the other woman collapsed
in a heap at her feet. “Oh, shit!” she muttered, resisting an impulse to burst
into tears.
The
front doorbell rang.
“Oh,
shit!” Nina swore again. Some sixth sense came to her rescue and she stepped
over the unconscious Annie to open the front door. “Carol!” She began to weep with
sheer relief and fell into Carol Brady’s arms.
“Where
are they?” A familiar voice came from behind her. Nina swung round, startled,
to find Fred Winter standing there looking grim-faced. She managed to pull
herself together long enough to blurt, “Upstairs. Be careful, Colin has a gun.
He shot Max. I think he may have killed him. But my brother is no killer, Mr
Winter. Please believe me, he isn’t…”
Winter,
who had taken the extra precaution of entering the house by a rear window, ran
upstairs.
“Colin
isn’t a killer,” Nina repeated to a stunned Carol. On the floor, Annie Cutler
moaned and attempted, unsuccessfully, to get to her feet.
“Help
her while I call for an ambulance,” Carol told Nina sharply.
The
cutting edge of Carol’s voice had a sobering effect on Nina who duly proceeded
to help poor Annie to her feet, and then supporting the obese woman as best she
could, led her to the same armchair she had vacated less than ten minutes
previously and sat her down.
“Brandy,” Annie croaked, “I need a brandy. In
the cabinet over there,” pointing.
Nina
fetched a large brandy but not before pouring one for herself. She drained the
glass and then poured another. A glass in each hand, she approached the
pathetic heap perched on the edge of the armchair. She handed one to Annie
before band then, still sipping at the other herself, rejoining Carol in the
hallway.
Carol
was peering anxiously up the stairs, but made no move to ascend.
Above,
Winter took in the situation at a glance. He thought he detected a flicker of
life in the inert Cutler who nevertheless remained unconscious, and was
bleeding profusely. “Give me the gun lad,” he told Fox gruffly. “There’s no
point in making a bad situation worse, that’s what I always say. If Cutler
pulls through, at least you won’t be facing a murder charge.”
“And
if he doesn’t?” Fox’s whole body was shaking, but his voice retained a
semblance of calm as he coolly pointed the gun at the detective.
Winter
shrugged. “Do you really want to take that chance?” He nodded towards the body on the bed. “If he
doesn’t get help soon, it’s academic and you’ll be going down for a damn long
stretch anyway. So why not give me the
gun and make things as easy on yourself as you can? ”
“I
couldn’t handle prison,” Fox admitted between clenched teeth. Winter shrugged
again, but said nothing. “I couldn’t and I won’t!” Fox said quietly. “So move
aside and let me pass.”
“Or
what…?” Winter growled, “You’ll shoot me? I don’t think so. Look at you, man,
you’re shaking like a leaf. Your sister’s right. You’re no killer.”
“Nina
said that?” he sounded mildly surprised, pleased even, and dropped his guard
for an instant. Winter saw an opportunity and leapt forward.
Both
men fell heavily to the floor.
Fox
was first to recover his wind and reached for the gun that had fallen from his
hand and lay within a fingertip’s touch on the carpet. Winter, though,
astonished the younger man with his agility. Soon, they were both wrestling for
control of the weapon.
Downstairs,
a second gunshot galvanized Carol into action. Brushing aside a whole army of
reservations, every last grain of native commonsense along with them, she
dashed upstairs. Nor, in all honesty, would she be able to claim later that she
had acted intuitively. Stumbling not once but twice on the upstairs landing, she
reached the bedroom in a blind panic. Colin Fox pushed her roughly against the
door as he ran past and scuttled down the stairs. “Freddy!” Carol thought she
heard herself scream although, in reality, could barely manage a croaking
sound.
Winter
lay perfectly still on the floor, his eyes closed, jacket and shirt covered in
blood.
To be continued on Wednesday
