CHAPTER THIRTY
“You are not getting out of this car, Fred
Winter, until you tell me exactly what you’re up to.” Sadie Chapman laid a
restraining hand on the detective’s arm.
“I’m not Liam, Sadie, so don’t talk to me as if I were
knee high to a flaming grasshopper!” Winter snapped and tried to pull away.
Sadie’s grip tightened. “Is that what you think? That
I’m a cradle snatcher?” Her face fell, became a picture of misery that
genuinely surprised him. “I dare say his mother thinks that too,” she added
with uncharacteristic bitterness.
Winter’s guffaw wasn’t in the least forced. “My dear Sadie,
you’re no more a cradle snatcher than I am!” In his mind’s eye he saw himself
sitting next to the pretty student in the Dane John Gardens in Canterbury (What was her name?) struggling with an
essay about Joseph Conrad. He guffawed again. He could see the girl’s face
clearly enough, but no name sprang to mind. Then the face dissolved, suddenly,
into another, to which he had no problem putting a name. Nor could he look away
from the lovely violet eyes even as he collected himself sufficiently to carry
on talking to Sadie Chapman. Ah, Carol, where did we go wrong? “You
really mustn’t worry my dear. Young Liam has a mind of his own, like his
mother. It’s my guess, that’s how he survived as Harry Smith. If he loves you,
as I am sure he does, neither Carol nor wild horses come into the equation.
Trust an old copper who’s seen it all.” He chuckled and gently prised her hand
free from his arm but made no immediate move to get out of the car.
“You’re not old.” He felt reassured by her mock seriousness.
“I dare say we can both give the devil a run for his money yet,” he remarked
with a grin. “Now, Lovell’s on his way so you’ll soon have some company. Whatever happens, don’t let anyone near the
place until I give the word. I mean
that, Sadie, and make sure Lovell knows I mean it too. No matter what you see
or hear, no one comes barging in until I say so. Understood?”
Sadie nodded, looking far from happy. “You’re mad, stark raving mad.
If this Cotter bloke is in there, he’s not going to stand by and let you hand
him over to the police or anyone else for that matter. He’ll kill you, just
like he killed Liam’s dad. And the partner, how do you propose to deal with
him? Horton’s no pushover from what precious little I’ve managed to piece
together so far. It’s not as if anyone tells me much,” she added darkly.
“Trust me. And don’t worry about Liam. He adores you.” Winter tried
to sound reassuring, but was already easing himself out of the passenger seat
without waiting for a response. He strode, purposefully, towards the house,
trying hard not to grimace with every painful step. At the door, he hesitated but
a fraction before ringing the bell.
No reply.
He tried again, keeping his finger pressed against the buzzer longer
this time.
Still there was no reply.
He bent down and peered through the letterbox. “It’s Fred Winter.
You know me and you know I know you. And I know you’re in there. So you might
as well let me in for a chat as carry on playing silly beggars. Because I’m not
shifting my fat arse and that means you’re not shifting yours either, except to
get off it one of you, and open the bloody door.”
A heavy silence dragged on for so long that Winter began to wonder
whether perhaps his hunch hadn’t been way off target after all.
“You mess with us again, Mr Detective and next time you won’t get
off so lightly,” came a rattled voice from within. Winter recognized Horton’s
voice. A muffled exchange followed between it and another squeaky, protesting
noise that Horton assumed to be Cotter’s.
“Are you mad? If we let him
in we’re done for!” Cotter was saying.
Horton shrugged. “We might as well hear what he’s got to say. Could
be, we’re done for anyway so what have we got to lose?” He went to the door and
opened it, holding on tightly to the revolver as he did so. “Come in, copper,
and make yourself at home.”
“Ex-copper,” Winter reminded him, careful to keep his tone even,
almost friendly. “I don’t mind if I do, thanks.” He stepped inside.
From her vantage point in the car, Sadie Chapman felt her heart skip
a beat and prayed for Lovell to hurry.
Both men had cleaned themselves up and changed their clothes. Moreover, judging by the way shirts and jeans
hung loose on Cotter and fitted tightly on Horton, Winter could only assume
they had raided Sam Bishop’s wardrobe. (Where is Bishop, anyhow?)
Cotter had abandoned his Sarah Manners disguise. It came as
something of a shock to Winter’s system to find himself confronted by this
nervous, balding man who emanated none of the librarian’s authoritative manner
or strident good looks. Without
waiting to be invited, he eased himself into a chair and summoned a leisurely
smile as if he were, indeed, nothing more than old friend popping in for a
chat. “I suppose you thought it was clever to come here? Sorry to disappoint
you,” he began conversationally, “You must realize you haven’t a dog in hell’s
chance of getting away with attempted murder, not to mention the success
stories already notched up. How many is it now - two, three, four? Let’s see…” counting on his fingers, “there’s
Sean Brady of course, then there’s the real Marc Philips and James Morrissey. We
mustn’t forget Ruth Temple either. Bump
her off too did you? Silly question, of
course you did. Oh, and let’s not miss out Sarah Manners. What happened to her,
eh, the real one I mean? It must have
put a spanner in the works good and proper when Liam Brady turned up alive and
kicking? I’ll say! Still, it was a good excuse to try again and maybe even
manage to lose a few more spanners along the way, eh?”
“Not to mention the odd copper,” Horton sneered while pointing the
gun directly at Winter and pretending to shoot. “Bang, bang, you’re dead!” He
gave a loud guffaw. “It’s just like when we were kids, eh, playing cowboys and
Indians…or maybe you preferred cops and robbers, eh, Fred my old son?” He guffawed
again. Cotter, for his part, stayed silent, eyes darting between the detective
and Horton as if he were some faintly hypnotised spectator at a tennis match.
“Weird, isn’t it? All those clues when you’re a kid as to how you’re likely to
turn out and no one picks up on them, just leaves you to follow the trail
yourself. And here we are, at the end of the road, all grown up and still
playing stupid games.”
“It’s the end of the road all right,” Winter agreed.
“For you, too, copper. I only have to pull the trigger and…whoosh…no
more Fred Winter.”
“If that’s what turns you on.” Winter gave a nonchalant snort. “But
then killing people must come as second nature to the pair of you by now. Doesn’t it ever get tedious? Mind you, killing a copper, even an ex-copper,
that has to be a bit special I suppose…different, anyway. You might as well go
out in a blaze of glory since all you’ve got to look forward to is fading
away in some shit hole of a prison.” He looked pointedly at Cotter, “The old
lags will have a field day with you. They’ll think Christmas has come early!”
Cotter took the bait. “I can’t go to prison, Daz, I just can’t!” he
wailed. “You’ve got to get us out of here.”
“I’d say the ball’s in your court, Horton, wouldn’t you?” Winter’s
icy smile belied his casual tone. “So what’s the plan? You can try using me as
a hostage of course, but it won’t help you much. We’re too far into the game
for that and you know it. As for killing me, well, go ahead and see where it
gets you…”
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” said Horton bluntly. Winter
recoiled involuntarily, in the chair. “That’s what this is all about, isn’t it?
You haven’t come to do a deal or talk us into giving ourselves up. You’re got a
flaming death wish!” He threw back his head and roared with laughter.
Winter, to his utter consternation, found himself blushing. “Think
what you like,” he snapped.
“See, Ralph, he can’t even deny it. Why is
that? I’ll tell you, shall I? Because
once a copper always a copper and coppers are always supposed to tell the
truth. You poor arse-hole, life got that damn pathetic for you has it?”
“Hark who’s talking!” Winter countered, forcing a laugh
but feeling horribly exposed all the same. He hadn’t expected this. It was wild, misinformed speculation on
Horton’s part of course. Or was it? Had
some kind of death wish brought him here?
For a moment he honestly wondered, then (almost) dismissed the notion
from his mind as nothing more than a preposterous fantasy on Horton’s part. Let him play amateur psychologist if he
likes. Fred Winter knows himself better than that. Well, didn’t he? He
missed Helen, of course he did, but…
Winter gritted his teeth, forced draw on
untapped reserves of willpower and professionalism in order to concentrate on
the matter in hand. Turning to Cotter again, he jibed, “Cat got your tongue,
Miss Manners? To think you had us all fooled as a woman who could hold her own
with the best of ’em. Who’d have guessed what you were hiding in your
knickers?”
“Why, you…” Cotter made an impotent lunge towards him. Winter forced
himself not to stir. Cotter stopped suddenly, uttered a yelp and limped
backwards to rejoin Horton. “He can’t
talk to me like that, Daz, can he? You can’t let him talk to me like that. Give
me the gun, I’ll show him, damn me if I won’t.”
But Horton clearly had no intention of surrendering the weapon.
Instead, he continued to taunt the detective with a vicious sarcasm, “Sorry to
disappoint you, copper. You’re free to walk out of here any time you like. Have
a nice day, yeah?”
“And what about you, are you coming with me?” Winter may have been caught momentarily off
guard but he was no fool. Two can play at this game.
Horton guffawed again. “Thanks for the invite, copper but – no
thanks. We walk out that door with you and we kiss our freedom goodbye, right?”
“Try walking out that door without me and you’re dead meat,” Winter
retorted, resisting an impulse to cross his fingers. He glanced at his watch.
Had Lovell arrived on the scene yet, he wondered?
“What are we going to do?” an erstwhile Sarah Manners was sobbing
now. “You said everything would be okay, you promised…” Cotter rounded on
Horton accusingly.
Horton’s eyes hadn’t left the detective’s face. Winter was bluffing, he was sure of it. The old buzzard was right about one thing,
though, he was certain of that too. This is endgame. “You won’t mind if my partner and I have a few words in private?”
Winter shrugged, spread his hands and shook his head. “Go in the bedroom,
flower. I’ll be right with you. No, not that one,” he snapped as Cotter made to
go into the same room where Sam Bishop lay trussed on the bed. “Go on, I’ll be
right there,” he repeated encouragingly, “and shut the damn door.”
Cotter did as he was told but left the door slightly ajar.
Horton turned his attention back to the detective. “You’re not so
clever, copper. You and I both know the score. Ralph and me may well have come
to a dead-end but at least we’ve had a good run. Can you honestly say
that? No, I didn’t think so. It shows,
you know. One look in them baby blues and anyone can see you’re nothing more
than a done-for has-been who’s wondering what the devil it’s all been
about.” Then, after a long pause, “Am I
right or am I right?” he leered.
Winter shrugged, hoping to convey a nonchalance he was far from
feeling. “Think what you like, I’m not the one whose life is on the line here.”
“No?”
In spite of himself, the detective visibly winced. It required a maximum
of effort to keep his voice steady and controlled. “It’s like you said, we both
know the score,” he responded cryptically.
Horton shrugged. “See you later, alligator…” he sneered and followed
Cotter into the bedroom.
“In a while, crocodile…” Winter muttered. But if the other man
heard, he gave no sign.
In the bedroom, Cotter was standing by the window. He was trembling.
Gazing at a flowering hydrangea, gently caressed by shadows in a fast failing
light, he did not turn round upon hearing Horton enter, close the door behind
him and approach.
“We will be okay, Daz? You do have a plan?”
“Have I ever let you down?”
In an uncharacteristic gesture of affection, Horton slipped his hand in
Cotter’s. “It’s you and me against the world, flower, right? What chance does
this fucked-up old world stand against the likes of you and me, eh? We’ve been
there, done that, and what the heck? So
we have to start over...so what? You’re
not going to chicken out on me now, are you?” he chuckled.
Cotter felt suddenly much calmer. It was good to hear the familiar
sound in his ear, feel the large, rough hand squeeze his own so …lovingly? He
had often wondered if Daz really loved him, since he had never said so. Now, at
last, he thought he knew. It was a good feeling. Daz would have a plan. Everything was going to
be just fine. . He half turned, still debating with himself whether or not to
give Daz a big hug and a long, sloppy kiss…when Horton pulled the trigger and
blew his lover’s brains out.
For a long time, Horton knelt in that gloomy room, Cotter’s head in
his lap, wide eyes unseeing that he could not bear to close. Would Fred Winter still be there, he
wondered? Of course he would. The detective, too, had known the whole fucked-up
score. Winter would wait for as long as it took him, Darren Andrew Horton, to
come to a decision. Twice, three times, four times, he raised the gun barrel to
his head and rammed it against his skull.
Each time he lowered it, cuddled Cotter and sought hard and long for a
glimpse of - what? Redemption…justification…blame…love,
even? Had it been love that kept them
together? He’d often wondered…
But the sightless eyes were giving nothing away.
Horton was getting cramp. He shifted his position
slightly. Cotter’s body felt like a ton weight in his lap. He leaned over the
pale, already partially discoloured face and kissed the cold lips.
Once again he raised the gun to his head then changed
his mind and rammed the barrel in his mouth instead. Without taking his eyes
from Cotter’s, his finger stroked the trigger. “You can do it, Daz, you can do
it,” the already stiffening corpse - whose dry, matted hair he had begun to
stroke with his free hand - seemed to be urging him.” He couldn’t resist a chuckle. It wasn’t like
Ralph to sound so confident. There had to be an ulterior motive of course and
he thought he knew what it was. Ralph would not be able to stand being on his
own for long…whether it in heaven or hell. Is there a hell? He had never
given it much thought before but now he wished, fervently, that he knew for
sure. You can do it, you know you can, a familiar voice in his head kept saying.
But, could he?
On hearing the first shot, Winter had resisted
his first impulse to investigate, barely shifting in his chair even, but
waited, expectantly, for a second. When it didn’t come, he helped himself to a
stiff drink then decided it was time he found out what had happened to Sam
Bishop. He went into the main bedroom,
freed the terrified man but held a finger to his lips as he removed the gag.
“Say nothing,” he whispered, “just leave the house, quietly. A friend of mine
is waiting in her car outside. Wait there until the police come, if they’re not
here already. And make sure no one, NO ONE, comes within an inch of the front
door before I give the word. Do you understand?”
Sam Bishop nodded, swallowing hard, having
long since given up even trying to make any sense of the situation. “It’s
nightmare, a bloody nightmare,” he croaked back, “Just get me out of here!” Careful, in spite of a growing desperation, to
keep his voice low, he stammered, “My wife…?”
Winter shook his head. “Later. She’s fine,” he
added, trying hard not to imagine the pale, battered face as he had seen it
last. “Go now, but keep very quiet,” he whispered. Sam Bishop did not need to
be told twice. Seconds later he was gone, his toupee slipping… Like a furry
bat out of hell… Winter chuckled, grateful for a snatch of humour to help
ease his discomfiture.
As soon as Bishop had left, the detective went
and put an ear to the wall. But there was barely a sound issuing from the next
room and no voices. One of them had to be dead, he reasoned. In which case,
what the devil was the other one (it had to be Horton, surely?) playing
at? Or maybe Horton had flunked it and
both were still alive? Anything was possible.
You might as well face it, Fred Winter. Reason has no place in this particular
equation. He returned to the
same chair in the sitting room but not before taking a swig from a half-empty
bottle of excellent white rum on the table. Nor did he let go of the bottle.
By the time he heard the second shot, the
detective had lapsed into a maudlin, if not morbid state. His earlier exchange with Horton kept
returning to haunt him. He had been acting on a hunch, a copper’s nose. There
was no question of any ulterior motive, certainly no death wish. The whole idea
was fanciful, absurd in the extreme.
Sure, he had been unhappy since Helen died and there had been times, now
and then, when he’d wished…that he was dead? No, never that. Even so, it would
have been nice to go first, perhaps…
The second shot continued to reverberate in
his head for some time, far longer than the first.
He had no inclination to go and see whether
Horton had shot himself or flunked it.
Nor had he the slightest desire to stare death in the face. Not his own,
or anyone else’s. Oh, he’d seen plenty
of dead bodies in his time. It went with the territory, after all. He’d long
since ceased to be squeamish about death.
When he’d first looked upon Helen’s pretty,
made-up face in the funeral parlour, it had been hard to believe at first that
she wasn’t asleep. Then he’d caught a glimpse of something immensely sad,
beyond the subtle hairdressing skills and undertaker’s arts – and hadn’t like
what he saw. He’d left abruptly, caught up not only in an overwhelming grief
but also an abiding fear. Yes, he, Fred Winter, was afraid. In his job, he could
expect to be called upon to deal with all sorts. And hadn’t he taken everything
and everyone in his stride? But this…this was personal. Helen’s death (taking
another swig of rum and spluttering on it) had…yes, unmanned him. “Shit!” he
growled, scrambled awkwardly to his feet and, lurching only a little, left the
house.
Sadie Chapman gave a cry of relief, ran
towards the detective, embraced him in a big hug and chose to ignore the
obvious fact that he’d been drinking heavily.
Over her right shoulder, Winter could just
make out Charlie Lovell’s concerned expression as well as Pritchard’s red hair and
some bodiless flak jackets. Mouth wide open, he promptly forgot what he was
going to say then discovered he couldn’t shut it again.
For the second time in less than twenty-four
hours, Fred Winter passed out cold.
EPILOGUE
Come on, Fred, get off your backside and do what a man has to do.
This place is a tip. Helen must be turning in her grave. Winter, sprawled in his favourite armchair, lifted one eye, risked a
glance around the room and closed it again.
For a while longer, he ignored the persistent, nagging voice in his
head. Finally, he could stand it no longer. He got up, made his way through a
jumble of newspapers, magazines, beer cans and dirty plates to the window, took
one look at the garden - and wished he hadn’t.
He went to the bathroom, spared a passing glance at a mirror over
the washbasin and tried to remember the last time he’d had an encounter with
soap and water. “You look rough, my friend, really rough,” he told the sombre
reflection with a total absence of remorse.
The doorbell rang. He ignored it. It rang again, and again, and
again.
“Go away, I’m out!” he yelled.
“I’m not going anywhere so you might as well let me in!” Carol
Brady’s voice shouted back at him through the letterbox.
Winter groaned. Carol was not a woman to take no for an answer. Was
that why, he wondered, he had written her a note all those years ago rather
than tell her to her face it was over between them? He groaned again. Why had
he listened to Julie Simpson? Why hadn’t
he stuck to his guns and told her to find someone else to chase after her
fantasies. Only, they hadn’t been
fantasies, had they? He’d found
himself on a murder trail the weirdest creative mind could not have composed
for the worst pulp fiction. Even if it had, no one would have thought it
remotely credible. And fiction had to be credible, didn’t it? We
mustn’t feel we’re being taken for a ride. Yet, he had been, hadn’t he? He’d been taken for a ride by his own stupid
conscience and Carol Brady was right there in the thick of it, dragging on his
nerves like a carthorse taking coals to Newcastle. Do I love her? “Damn the
woman,” he growled.
“I know you’re in there, Freddy, so let me in!”
No, he didn’t love her. Nor had he ever. Helen meant everything to
him. Now he had nothing. Listen to yourself, you self-pitying slob. What are you, a man or a mouse? No, he
didn’t love her. Oh, but I’ve missed her. Yes, he’d certainly missed her.
Winter sighed. He had missed them all…Julie Simpson, Sadie, young
Liam, Arthur Bailey, Charlie Lovell, even Pritchard and dotty old Audrey Ellis.
It had been good while it lasted, good to feel…useful again.
“Either you let me in or buy a new front door because there won’t be
much of it left by the time I’m through!”
Carol Brady’s voice had an edge to it that he recognized. She meant
business.
Sighing wearily and reflecting that he felt twice his age (probably
just as well since he looked it?) Winter went to the door and opened it a
fraction. “What do you want, Carol?”
“Never mind what I want,” she returned breezily, “It’s bloody
obvious what you want – a good wash and tidy up for starters!” She
barged her way noisily into the house and he made no attempt to stop her, if
for no better reason than it would have been a waste of time and energy. She
looked around, hand on hips.
So much like Miss Parker on the warpath, Winter reflected and heaved a sigh. For what was he sighing, he asked himself, defeat, resignation, pleasure...? The detective frowned and permitted himself a wry smile. Yes, pleasure was definitely in the frame.
“My, Freddy,
you certainly know how to turn a place upside down. What a mess!” She flung him
an accusing look. “I’ve heard you can tell how a person lives by the way he
looks. Now I know it’s true. What are you trying to prove, Freddy…that old
coppers don’t fade away, they just end up on a rubbish tip?”
“Less of the old,” he complained irritably. She’d always had this
effect on him since the first time they met. He’d never known such a woman for
knowing how to get under a man’s skin.
“You know me, Freddy Winter, I speak as I find.”
“You don’t know the half of it!”
“No, and I haven’t got time to hear it either. Go and get washed and
changed and I’ll see what I can do about making this place halfway respectable.
But you’ll have to look me out an old shirt and jeans or something, I’m not
ruining this outfit to save your face so don’t think for one minute I am…”
He realized then that she was dressed up to the nines and
looked…fantastic.
“You’re looking okay,” he conceded, “Going somewhere?”
“Julie Simpson’s wedding.”
“It’s on then?” He had begun to wonder.
“Yes, and we’re been invited.”
“By ‘we’ I take it you mean, you and Liam?”
“No thickhead, you and me. Besides, Liam’s going with Sadie.” She
glanced at her watch. “They will be here to pick us up in less than an hour so
we’d better get our skates on.”
In Winter’s bedroom, Carol began to undress. He stared, open-mouthed,
for several seconds before it occurred to him to look away. “I haven’t got
anything you haven’t seen before, so gawp all you like. Now, get me a shirt.
Don’t bother, this one will do.” She picked up a striped shirt left hanging
carelessly over the back of a chair, retrieved a pair of jeans from the floor
and slipped into them. Right, that’s me ready for a spot of spit ‘n’ polish.
Now let’s see how long it takes you to get ready for a wedding, shall we?”
“What gives you the right to barge in here and start telling me what
to do?”
“You’re right, I’m out of order. Now, are you going to do me proud
at this wedding or do I have to tell my son and his…fiancée…that I had to give
you up for a bad job?”
She stood, glaring, hands on hips again, the lovely violet eyes
issuing a challenge he could not refuse.
………………..
Miles away, Horton’s eyes were barely open. He could have been
asleep. Only, he wasn’t.
A sound like waves crashing about his ears, Horton turned his head a
fraction, the better to observe a uniformed police constable lolling in an
armchair beside the hospital bed while flicking through pages of a magazine.
In his mind’s eye, Horton saw Ralph Cotter’s face. How could he ever
have thought murder was easy? Killing his lover had been the hardest thing he’d
ever done. Yet, he had no regrets. Poor
Ralph would never have coped with a life behind bars. As for himself…would
he fare any better, he wondered? Why, oh, why had he fired the gun into the bed
instead of his mouth? How can I have so lost
my nerve at the last second? Could it be that fate hadn’t quite finished
with him just yet…?
A young doctor arrived, nodded to the constable and proceeded to curtain
off the bed. Horton pricked up his ears at the sound of retreating footsteps. The
constable had left, to answer a call of nature perhaps?
The doctor was speaking but Horton did not hear a word. The glimmer
of an idea was taking shape in his mind like sunshine penetrating layers of
mist.
Bending over Horton and resting a stethoscope on his chest, the
doctor bowed his head. Caught completely off guard by the attack, he did not
even cry out. Seconds later, he could only manage a low, croaking noise. Nor
did the young registrar struggle for long as large, determined hands tightened their
grip around his neck…
If no one stops me before I
get out of this damn ward, I’m home and dry, Horton
kept telling himself as he walked slowly, purposefully, towards the doors at
the end of the ward, If no one stops me...
No one did.
The End
