Catching Up With Murder - Chapter 30

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

Catching Up With Murder - Chapter 28

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

“Something’s wrong, I tell you,” Sadie Chapman insisted into the telephone, “Carol Brady promised she would ring me every evening around nine and last night she didn’t call. I haven’t even heard from my…” she hesitated and thought better of going down that path, “…from Freddy Winter either.”

“As far as I know, Fred Winter is not an investigating officer in this enquiry, snapped Mike Pritchard, “but I’ll pass your concerns on to my guv’nor when I see him. His name, for your information, is DI Lovell, that’s Detective Chief Inspector Lovell. And you are again…?   Ah, yes, well, thank you for calling Miss Chapman. Sorry, Ms Chapman, Yes, I’ll be sure to pass the message on…goodbye.” Pritchard wearily hung up and decided he needed a decent take-away before he could walk another step. He dialled a local pizza company and wondered, absently, why Carol Brady’s name rang a bell.

Undeterred, Sadie rummaged through her memory cells until she came up with the name of Winter’s former colleague now living in Canterbury.  Rather than call the police station and risk being put through to a dozen well-meaning but predictably unhelpful contacts, she dived into the telephone directory. After working through numerous A. Baileys, she finally hit upon the right one. To her pleasant surprise he wasn’t in the least dismissive and, if anything, appeared to share her growing apprehension.

“It could be nothing, of course,” Sadie felt obliged to tell Bailey, “but, somehow, I don’t think so. Oh, Carol Brady may have her faults…don’t we all?  But I definitely got the impression she’s a woman who means what she says. If she says she’ll do a thing, wild horses won’t stop her.  Not to ring at all last night, it’s…well…frankly, Mr Bailey, I’m worried sick.”

“Leave it with me, Mrs Chapman (she didn’t bother to correct him and only ever called herself Ms to put the likes of Detective Sergeant Mike Pritchard in his place) and I’ll get on to it right away.”

“You need to speak to a Chief Inspector Lovell and don’t settle for anyone less,” she emphasized and felt reassured by the dry chuckle coming down the line.

“Be assured, Mrs Chapman, if I can’t get hold of Charlie Lovell I’ll go down there myself. But try not to worry, okay?  Fred Winter knows his stuff. Blimey, he should, he’s notched up more scalps than most people have had hot dogs in Hyde Park. Leave it with me and you can take it as read I’ll be in touch as soon as I find out anything.”

“Make sure you do,” said Sadie and gave Bailey her mobile number but wryly refrained from mentioning she was a vegetarian. She put the phone down, promptly picked it up again and hit the keys with practised precision. “Iris, is that you? Look, sweetheart, I need a big favour. Can you work tonight?  Great, you’ve saved my life. Phil will be in so you should be okay, just the two of you. Me? I have to shoot off somewhere…bit of a crisis…you know how it is. What? No, nothing I can’t handle. Phil will lock up. I have to run now, sorry. And thanks again.”

She put the phone down and went to find a road atlas, not having a clue how to find her way to Monk’s Tallow. Fred Winter may be able to take care of himself and she suspected Carol Brady was of the same brass mettle but Harry was vulnerable and she couldn’t hang around exchanging trivia with punters all day while the man she loved could, for all she knew, be in deep trouble. It crossed her mind, as she flung a coat, on that she must love him even more than she had let herself believe if a frantic pulse and heartbeat were anything to go by. “Oh, well, in for a penny…” she muttered, scrabbling around in a drawer with one hand for car keys only to discover she had, all the time, been clutching them in the other.

Meanwhile, in Monk’s Tallow, Charlie Lovell was berating his tight-lipped sergeant for hugging information to himself. “I didn’t think it was important sir,” the unfortunate Pritchard protested, “but I did remember to tell you anyway…” he pointed out.

“By which time a swallow could have flown south and back again!” Lovell complained heatedly. At the same time, he had to admit, they had other fish to fry and Arthur Bailey wouldn’t be the first to get his knickers in a twist over a bit of skirt. He grinned inwardly. By all accounts, according to Fred, Sadie Chapman was a bit of all right. “Get over to The Fox and Hounds and see if anyone’s seen Fred Winter or the Brady woman.  And don’t take no for an answer. Talk to people…and I mean talk. Mike, not interrogate. As soon as you find someone who has anything to say worth listening to, be sure you damn well listen, okay?  Then get back to me pronto.

“It’s probably nothing. All the same… Fred Winter’s no amateur and if he’s on to something…better to be safe than sorry.”

“But sir, I’ve got a thousand things to do!” Mike Pritchard protested.

“Well, now you’ve got a thousand and one. So the sooner you sort it the sooner you can get on with the rest, right?  Oh, and take young Dave Beale with you. He’s another one who looks as though he could use some exercise,” glancing pointedly at Pritchard’s hint of a paunch.

“Yes guv,” murmured the hapless Pritchard, saw it was useless to argue and went in search of DC Beale.

It was Beale who quickly established that Fred Winter and Carol Brady had been last seen leaving the car park of The Fox and Hounds in a hurry, heading off in the direction on Monk’s Porter.  Pritchard called Lovell.

“Get over there,” Lovell barked down the line. “Sniff around the Philips place and see what you can find out but be discreet.  Let me know if you find out anything or need any help. Oh, and Mike, if you spot Philips…leave well alone, okay?  If he’s our man, I don’t want him scared off.”

“You know me, guv, discretion’s my middle name,” Pritchard assured him and hung up before he could catch the full blast of Lovell’s snort in his ear.

In fact, Pritchard waited until he had satisfied himself that Horton was armed before calling Lovell again.

“You did…what?” Lovell was furious.

“I thought it best to ascertain…” Pritchard began, feeling aggrieved.

“Yes, yes, I dare say…” Lovell snapped back irritably, “So what, exactly, have you ascertained apart from the fact that Horton and Sarah Manners are at the cottage and Horton could well be armed? Did you see any sign of Fred Winter, apart from his car, or Mary Bishop, apart from hers? Or Carol Brady, for that matter, not to mention Harry Smith or whatever his name is…?”  He’d heard of too many cooks, but this was ridiculous.

“No sir.”

“Did you look?”

“Well, no sir.  But Winter and Mrs Bishop, at least, must be in the cottage, surely?”

“You’ve ascertained that for certain, have you sergeant?”

“Whatever, Horton’s armed, guv. I’m sure of it.” Pritchard repeated doggedly.

“Yes, well, let’s hope for all our sakes you’re mistaken and this is nothing more than a storm in a bloody teacup. Because if it isn’t…forewarned is forearmed, sergeant, and you’ll do well to remember that. Next time, do as you’re damn well told and leave the war to those who’ve won a few battles in their time. Now, stay put and don’t move. If anyone leaves the cottage, get young Beale to follow and tell him to maintain contact but do nothing, NOTHING, sergeant, until we know what we have here. And if it is just a Mad Hatter’s tea party, I’ll have your guts for garters, you can bet on it.” Lovell slammed down the phone and tried to avoid paying too much attention to a tightening of his stomach muscles while he set about organizing what he prayed would not turn out to be a hostage situation.  What the hell was going on, for crying out loud?  Nothing, probably, he kept telling himself. Oh, but who am I kidding?  Given that Fred Winter was in the thick of things, something was definitely up.

The phone rang. Lovell snatched it up impatiently and he found himself talking to Arthur Bailey. At the same time, he spotted a scrap of paper sticking out from under a file with a telephone number scrawled across it and a message to call back. He pulled it out and read Bailey’s name with dismay while the other proceeded to enlighten him about Fred Winter’s suspicions. 

Lovell was about to dismiss any link between Sarah Manners and the death of Liam Brady years ago as nonsense when Bailey dropped his first bombshell. “You’re joking!” Lovell shouted down the line as it began to crackle and break up just as the other man was coolly informing him that the body in the grave bearing Ralph Cotter’s headstone was not Cotter’s. It was, to say the least, an unexpected blow. He had been   on the Brady murder case himself and remembered it well.

Barely had Lovell recovered from the first, when Bailey dropped his second bombshell. “For heaven’s sake…”was all he could say as he listened, incredulously, to the gruff, earnest voice repeating itself several times until satisfied Lovell had heard him correctly. Liam Brady, Carol Brady’s “deceased” son - the very same who had witnessed his father’s death all that time ago - was apparently not only alive and well but using the name of Harry Smith… that same Harry Smith, it would seem, last seen in Monk’s Tallow with Fred Winter talking to Mary Bishop, whose distraught husband was convinced she had run off with Sarah Manners. It occurred to Lovell that maybe she had done just that and they were hiding out at the Philips place. But Winter’s involvement - not to mention Winter’s car found parked some distance from the cottage - put the mockers on that little theory as sure as eggs was eggs.

“Yes, yes, Arthur, as soon as I hear anything you and Sadie Chapman will be the first to know,” he told Bailey, replaced the receiver then grabbed it again.   “…Yes, sir, I did say armed officers…” he found himself repeating seconds later while struggling to keep his tone respectful “…and, no, I can’t guarantee the situation warrants it, you’ll just have to trust me on this one sir. Yes, yes, I appreciate my head will be one of the first to roll if it turn out to be a wild goose chase. No sir, the press have not – and will not – be informed unless…Yes sir, I understand the need for caution…but Fred Winter…yes sir, Fred Winter, he’s one of those we think…yes sir, I’ll get on to it right away…”

Lovell hung up, not unimpressed to discover that Fred Winter’s name still carried clout in high places. As his chief had said, he could be an oddball at times but he’d also been a damn good copper. Nor does a damn good copper suddenly stop being one just because he takes early retirement. He kicked open the door, slipping into his jacket as he went, and burst into the main incident room. “Okay now, you lot, listen here…”

…………………...................

Horton gave a loud guffaw and let his tongue loll like a panting dog’s. Behind him, two women on the bed remained collapsed in an untidy heap.

On the floor, Liam Brady lay inert with a sticky red stuff pouring from a gash on the side of his head. Ahead, a grim-faced Fred Winter allowed the knife in his left hand to prick Cotter’s throat without drawing blood. His right arm tightened its grip on Cotter’s neck.  It had to be Cotter, he knew for sure now. It couldn’t be anyone else. Certainly, this was no woman’s body pressed hard and impotent against his, rage and terror coursing through the veins, vying for supremacy like a cornered animal’s.

Cotter yelped.

“Throw the gun over here, Horton. One stupid move and I’ll slit the lady’s throat…or should I say your boyfriend’s?”

Horton paled at the jibe, reached in his pocket and slowly withdrew the gun. At the same time, his surly mouth broke into a broad, lopsided grin. He pointed the weapon directly at Winter.

“If you want to shoot me, go ahead,” the detective growled, “That is, if you want to watch your boyfriend bleed to death. Believe me, I’m not bluffing.”

“Oh, but I think you are,” Horton jeered. Cops don’t slit people’s throats. It’s not in the manual.”

“Ex-cop,” Winter corrected him, “…and one with nothing to lose.”

“Please, Daz, do as he says,” Cotter croaked, face bright red and tears rolling down his cheeks.

Ignoring Cotter, Horton refused to let his attention waver from Winter’s fierce, penetrating stare. “What about the others?” he taunted Winter. “Who’s going to save them if I kill you?”

“Who’s going to save me if you don’t?” Winter countered, drawing the flat of the shiny blade across Cotter’s throat.

“Daz, please…” Cotter begged.

“You’re bluffing, Winter…” Horton took aim and focused entirely on the detective’s expression. Was it his imagination or did it falter a fraction? He tightened his grip on the gun handle and loosened the safety catch, just like he’d seen them do in the movies.  The cold metal pressing against his hand began to feel as if it was a part of him. There was some comfort to be had after all.

A gurgling sound rose in Cotter’s throat and Horton was reminded of a baby with a dummy in its mouth. He began to laugh. No wonder Ralph had used a gun to kill Sean Brady. This was fun, the best he’d ever had. You should have told me what fun it is. He threw an accusing look at poor Ralph who was not only sobbing but dribbling now too. You disgust me.  As soon as the thought occurred, Horton was genuinely shocked and filled with remorse. Yet, did he really care if Fred Winter carried out his threat?  But if poor Ralph bled to death, that would leave him, Horton, all alone. He would hate that. No, he could not allow that. “You haven’t got the bottle, copper...” he sneered, forefinger lightly caressing the trigger as if it were a lover’s nipple. 

Without warning, Horton shifted the weapon slightly in his hand and pointed it at Liam Brady. His eyes, though, did not leave Winter’s face. “Go ahead, cut his throat. I’ll still have a few bullets left after I’ve killed your girlfriend’s little lad here…” He began to squeeze the nipple.

Winter did not lose his nerve. At the same time, he felt old. He’d had his fill of playing mind games and doing battle with his conscience. Well, it has to be something like that doesn’t it?  The truth was, he would never know why he dropped the knife and let Cotter go. Inconsequently, he felt bound to say, “She’s not my girlfriend.”

Cotter hastily retrieved the knife and waved it in Winter’s face, “I ought to…” he spluttered, visibly recovering fast from his ordeal.

“Leave it, Ralph, we don’t have time for that. We’ve got a plan to put into action, right?”

“Right, Daz,” Cotter giggled, dropped the knife and kicked it across the floor before going to stand by his partner.

“Kneel down copper. Let’s hear you beg. And get those big hands of yours up where I can see them,” Horton snarled.

“You’ll have a long wait,” Winter retorted but sank slowly to his knees. He did not raise his hands, however and ignored repeated gestures from Horton to do so. “If you’re going to use that thing you might as well use it now. Never shot anyone before, though, have you Daz?” He was guessing but had clearly hit a nerve. Horton got angry, held out the gun at arm’s length, mouth and nostrils smoking, eyes red and flaring like a pony Winter had once seen rip its belly on a barbed wire fence at his uncle’s farm years ago. 

Horton’s rage dissipated as quickly as it had arisen and he burst out laughing. “No such luck, copper, no such luck.  Tie the bugger up, my turtle dove. We don’t want any more distractions do we?” He laughed again until tears were streaming down his face.

Winter continued to observe Horton intently, even as Cotter tied his hands then ankles behind his back. He was quite mad of course. But that was the least of the detective’s concerns. A fine mess you’ve got yourself into this time, Fred Winter. Let’s see you wriggle out of this one then. He winced as Cotter linked the ropes that bound his wrists and ankles, jerking his legs sharply.  Falling on one side, he bit his lip rather than give his captors the satisfaction of hearing him cry out.  Cotter pulled the knots tighter.

Winter was facing the bed. In the gloomy space underneath, he caught a glimpse of something shiny. His heart leapt. It was the kitchen knife. Out of the corner of one eye he thought he saw Carol Brady move slightly. She was the only one with her hands still free. Winter allowed himself to feel a trifle optimistic, only to have his hopes dashed when Horton, too, must have spotted something and ordered Cotter to tie the woman’s hands.

“Oh, and with what?” Cotter demanded.

“I don’t know, do I?  Use your socks for all I care, just do it and get on with it. It’s high time we were out of here. “Oh, forget it. She’s dead to the world anyway,” he grumbled as Cotter continued to flap. “That is, if she isn’t now, she soon will be,” he added then flung his head back and guffawed.  Winter gave an involuntary shiver. It was, he thought, one of the most menacing sounds he had ever heard.

Carol moaned softly appeared to give her captors no further cause for concern. 

“Come on, let’s go.” Horton went to the door, but paused long enough to fling Winter a long, evil look. “Enjoy the fireworks,” he cackled then was gone, Cotter panting at his heels. Winter heard a key turn in the lock. Not long afterwards, he caught the first, strong, unmistakeable whiff of petrol…

He looked around. Liam was stirring. One glance at the ashen face and glazed expression, however, was enough to tell the detective that he couldn’t be relied upon for any immediate help. Mary Bishop was, as far as he could tell, still unconscious. “Carol?” he called out, “Carol, can you hear me? Wake up, Carol.” He could smell burning now. Shit, they’ve set the place alight. “Carol, wake up you stupid mare!” he yelled.

Carol opened her eyes. “What the…?” she groaned and thought she heard Freddy Winter’s voice calling her.

“Carol!”  There it was again. Slowly, her eyes began to focus. She became aware of someone’s breathing next to her and found herself staring at a woman she did not recognize.

“Carol! It’s me, Freddy. I’m down here, on the bloody floor. Pull yourself together woman!” Winter yelled again. He was feeling very tired, his movements, such as they were, were sluggish enough without being encumbered by the cords that had him trussed like a roasting chicken. In spite of himself, he could not resist a rueful grin. It wasn’t the most reassuring of comparisons to make in the circumstances, he had to admit.

Smoke had begun to drift under the door.

“Carol, for heaven’s sake...!”

Shakily, Carol sat up. Slowly her vision cleared. She saw Winter and attempted to grapple with the implications of his being apparently tied up. Then she looked at the woman lying beside her again and saw that she, too, had been bound. Her face looks a mess too, poor thing. She began to cough and looked enquiringly at Freddy Winter but neither saw nor heard his plea for help as her heavy eyes focused on Liam lying, unconscious and bloodied, inches away from the detective. “Liam!”  Her breath quick and rasping, she forced herself to clamber off the bed, dropped to her knees beside her son and cradled his head in her lap. 

“Carol, the knife, under the bed…. Get the knife, Carol!” Winter found himself yelling although she was right next to him.

She gave no sign of having heard but leaned over to kiss her son’s bruised face, ran her fingers through the hair, damp with blood, and kept saying, “Liam, Liam. Oh, Liam, my poor darling, what have they done to you?” She started coughing again. Her eyes turned instinctively but blindly to the door. By now smoke was pouring through the tiny gap between its base and the floor carpet. 

“Get something to stuff up the gap, Carol, Carol, can you hear me? Do as I say, woman, before we all choke to bloody death! Carol, for pity’s sake, listen to me damn it!”  It crossed her mind that it was so typical of Freddy Winter to lose his temper.  “Carol, snap out of it or we’re done for, all of us, Liam too. You have to make an effort Carol, for Liam.”

Make an effort, for Liam? Of course I must make an effort for Liam. He’s my son, isn’t he?  What the hell does Freddy think he‘s playing at, talking to me like this? She coughed again. Only, this time it struck here why she did it. For a moment she could only stare at an ugly black cloud rising from what had become a rush of thickening smoke under the door.

Carol started screaming then, and did not stop until Liam opened his eyes and murmured, “Mum?”

To be continued 

Catching Up With Murder - Chapter 27

 CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

“Burn the place down? Are you mad?” Cotter’s jaw dropped as he saw that Horton

 was deadly serious.

“Have you got a better idea how we kill our four birds with one stone?”

“But won’t it look suspicious? The police…”

“…will keep looking for Marc Philips and won’t bloody find him. It’s perfect. They can suspect what they like, get enough evidence to put poor old Marc away for life for all we should care. Because you and me, my flower, we know they won’t catch him, right?  It’s perfect,” he repeated with a guffaw that made even Cotter’s flesh creep. “It’s a shame about Mary of course, but that one’s down to, you my turtle dove, and there’s no help for it now, she’ll have to go.”  He poured himself another drink and kept hold of the bottle after Cotter shook his head. “There’s a can of petrol in the car. Go and get it.”

Cotter went to do as he was told, and then stopped dead in his tracks. “What about the other cars?”

“What about them? So they spotted Marc Philips and took it into their daft heads to have a word with him about this ‘n’ that. They could hardly drive away once burnt to a bloody crisp, could they?”

“But won’t people think…?”

“Cool it, flower, ok? Just cool it, damn you, “Horton snapped, “People can think what they bloody well like. Why should we care? Trust me, it’s perfect.”

“Someone might see us, they might already…” Cotter wailed.

“So? We’ll be first on the scene won’t we, devastated because we arrived too late to put the fire out.  We’ll be even more cut up when we discover how there was three dead bodies inside, won’t we, eh?” guffawing again. 

“Marc Philips?” Cotter remained sceptical.

Horton shrugged. “Probably legged it out the back and made his way…” He shrugged again, “…who knows where?  Who cares? We’ll give it a year or so then find you another ID.  Just try not to get ill in the meantime, yeah.” He chuckled.

Again, Cotter shivered. By now, though, anticipation was already running ahead of imagination.

“To think, flower, there’s some poor sod walking around out there who’s got a real treat in store. Doesn’t it just warm the cockles of your heart?  Horton guffawed yet again. This time Cotter joined in the raucous laughter.

Cotter made his way cautiously, to the car. He needn’t have worried. There was no one in sight.  Daz was right. Everything was panning out just perfect.  It was a shame about Mary though.  He paused, deep in thought. Maybe Daz would let him…but probably not…besides, the sooner this was over and done with, the better. Who’d ever have thought they would be killing not two or even three but four birds with one stone, five including Marc Phillips. I like that. Yes, I like that very much.   Permitting himself a sly, self-congratulatory chuckle, he proceeded to carry the can of petrol back to the cottage without so much as a glance right or left. Otherwise, he might have spotted the sun’s reflection on a pair of binoculars homing in on him from not so far away.

By the time Cotter returned with the can, Horton had gone to the pantry and opened the door. He was carrying a gun. Two pairs of eyes almost glowed in the gloom and muffled sounds (protests, pleas?) reached his ears, invaded his head, titillating every nuance of the man’s being. He fetched a knife and entered the large pantry.  By now the eyes of both bound and gagged victims were following his hands with mounting terror and practically leaping out of their sockets. Horton knelt down and slashed the rope at Liam Brady’s feet then went behind him and stuck the gun in his belt while hoisting him up by the armpits.  “Move,” was all he said as, ignoring Mary Bishop altogether, he prodded the young man towards the bedroom.

Liam Brady winced in agony as the blood rushed to his feet. He did as he was told but stumbled awkwardly, only to have the gun barrel prod him sharply in the back.  Was this the end, he wondered? It has to be, surely? There was no way Daz Horton would allow either of them to live now that he…remembered? 

Yes, he remembered. Not quite everything, but most things, not least how Horton and Sarah Manners tried to send him off the cliff in his own car. But, why in heaven’s name, why? It was a question that would be answered sooner than he could have anticipated.

They entered the bedroom. In spite of the gag, Liam gasped disbelievingly at the inert forms of Fred Winter and Carol…his mum…on the bed.  At first he thought they were dead then relief sent tremors through his body as he made out a slight rhythm of breathing.  Instinctively, he made to go to his mother before another stab in his back brought home the precarious nature of his situation. Horton had produced a chair and was telling him to sit down. He had barely sat down when Sarah arrived.

“Go and get our friend a drink,” said Horton with a knowing wink and removed the gag from Liam Brady’s parched mouth.  Sarah disappeared. Liam took several deep breaths in quick succession and vaguely took in the rest of the room.

Then he spotted it. Tweedledeaf.  There was no mistaking the same bear whose battered features had haunted his nightmares for so long. But...what on earth was it doing here of all places?

He turned to look at his mother as if expecting her to have all the answers. In a way, she did.  The violet eyes remained shut.  She lay quite still. Thankfully, he could still make out a slight heaving of breasts. Winter, too, was breathing steadily. Thank God.

He looked again at the bear then back to Carol Brady’s pale, drawn face. He wanted to ask what the hell was going on but could barely manage a croak, “Mum?” There was no answer of course. Suddenly, her face began to blur to be replaced by another.  Now it was a man lying there, face a chalky white. There was blood too, lots of it. A man with…yes, a gun…and a small child hugging, yes, a battered teddy bear with one ear missing and the other dangling by a thread.  He recognized the scene only too well. Usually it would burst upon him in a flash and vanish as if in a puff of smoke. But this time was different. This time, he could see the child plainly. Oh, my God. He recognized himself. Moreover, the second he did, everything else fell into place….faces, places, dates…his dead father, his mother…Sadie…and…

The man leaning over his father with a gun in his hand turned round.

 “Uncle Ralph?”  Liam cried aloud, “What is it, Uncle Ralph, what’s the matter?” a child’s voice echoed around the room and made it spin, spin, spin…but he held on and did not fall off…shut his eyes only briefly and when he opened them again the image had gone and he was being untied…blood rushing to his wrists…the duct tape ripped from his mouth so that it hurt like hell. Sarah Manners was helping him take a long drink of water and it was so welcome yet there was something about her expression that was so…familiar? 

Liam strained to focus. He knew those eyes. Hadn’t he just been looking into them?  “Uncle Ralph?” he spluttered although unsure whether he was addressing the man who had just killed his father or…

 The librarian’s face had turned a jaundiced colour.

“No!” Liam Brady shook his head in disbelief. “It can’t be. You can’t be…My God, Uncle Ralph, it’s you!”

Cotter dashed out of the room.

“Well, well, we are on the ball today, aren’t we?” Horton, just behind him, leaned forward and sneered into Liam Brady’s stunned profile, stroking his cheek with the gun barrel. “Welcome back to the real world.” He uttered a loud, ugly, guffaw that blasted his captive’s ears and sent his pulse racing.

As Liam struggled to come to terms with his memory, it felt rather like he was getting the worst of round after round in a boxing ring.  Every part of him ached. How did Mary fit into this, he wondered?  Instantly, he started guiltily for not having given her a thought for some time. How much she did know about Sarah Manners? Had she guessed the librarian’s secret, that ‘she’ was really a ‘he’? Is that why she had to…die? 

We are going to die, all of us.  He felt sick. Seconds later, he heard Mary scream.

.................................................…

As soon as Liam Brady spoke his name, Cotter made a dash for the loo. No one except Daz on rare occasions had called him by his birth name for so many years that he had actually begun to think of himself as Sarah Manners. Watching the disbelief in Liam Brady’s eyes turn to hate, contempt, loathing, all in the same instant, had upset him terribly. He sat on the loo for a good ten minutes, letting his bowels take the strain and feeling marginally better for it.

His thoughts turned to Mary Bishop. Poor Mary, she would be terrified. Maybe he could, after all…

The pantry was easily big enough for two. Cotter untied her feet with a kitchen knife and indicated that he was about to remove the gag. “Not a word, Mary, not one word,” he mumbled warningly. She shook her head, amazed at her capacity to stay calm. Once the tape had been peeled off, she was content just to breathe through her mouth for a while. “Would you like a drink?” Mary Bishop nodded and hoped this would mean he intended to untie her hands as well…but no such luck.  Sticking the knife into his belt, he went to the sink, came back with a cupful of water and held it to her dry lips. She drank eagerly, spilling much of the lukewarm liquid down her dress.

Cotter knelt beside the woman and stroked her hair. “I’m sorry, Mary, I really am. I wouldn’t have hurt you for the world.”

“And now?” she wanted to know. The person she had only ever known as Sarah Manners shook her…his…head. Mary, involuntarily, did the same. She still could not quite believe it. “You certainly had everyone fooled,” she told him and Cotter thought he detected a note of admiration in the sweet, remarkably controlled voice. “Did you kill that girl?” she asked with a directness that made him blush.

“Among others,” he boasted and began to tell her the whole story from its grisly start to…well, it didn’t have an ending yet, did it?  Should he tell her, he wondered? Should he prepare her for flames licking at the pretty face (pretty, in spite of the bruising) and perfumed flesh until all that was left were charred bones?  Or would she already be dead by then, he wondered, overcome by smoke? A hand stroked her neck.  Such a pretty neck, it almost seemed a shame to…

“You’re an extraordinary person but, then, I always thought you were.” Mary Bishop forced herself to smile and, successfully, fought off shudders prompted by those long, slim, she-male fingers at her throat.  “A very exciting person…” she added, lying through teeth that would gladly have drawn blood if her hands weren’t tied, rendering the exercise pointless.  Don’t provoke her…him…oh, God, what a mess! She found herself thinking of Sam and silently vowed she would make everything up to him if she ever got out of this…alive?  What did she mean…alive?  Surely they didn’t mean to kill her, did they?  What else can they do, you stupid woman? They can hardly let you go free – or Harry Smith – knowing what you know. She wondered just how much Harry Smith knew. Too much, obviously…

She had barely wrenched her mind back to the immediate danger when, without any warning, ‘Sarah Manners’ kissed her on the mouth. It was a long, hard kiss and the fingers at her neck dug into the flesh. Fleetingly, she almost enjoyed the taste of lips on hers that had figured so prominently in her dreams for years. All at once, she remembered…managed to jerk her head away and wanted to vomit. Instead, she screamed.

Before the scream had died away, Horton jumped on Cotter from behind, dragged him off the hysterical woman and was laying into him like a madman with his fists. Cotter neither made a sound nor put up even a token resistance. He lay on the cold pantry floor, content to let Horton beat him to a pulp, relieved to have the situation taken out of his hands. Not until he began to whimper did the beating stop and Horton get to his feet, flinging Mary Bishop an accusing look as if she, alone, were to blame for the whole, sickening mess. Well, wasn’t she? The woman was evil. She was Eve, Delilah, Helen of Troy all rolled into one.  How could poor Ralph have done anything else but fall for the bitch?

 The slap Horton dealt her took Mary Bishop completely by surprise and sent her reeling, crying out in pain, against the pantry wall.  He glared menacingly at her.  But the rage in him ebbed as quickly as it had risen. This was no Eve, no Delilah or Helen of Troy, for crying out loud. Oh, she wasn’t bad looking but nothing special.  His thoughts flew to Sam. Poor Sam, how had he put up with her all these years?  They would be doing his chess partner a big favour.

In the bedroom, Winter had begun to stir even before Mary Bishop screamed. Some seventh sense warned him not to try and sit up or utter a sound, which was easy enough since he could barely move anyway and his throat was parched. He heard voices from a distance. They seemed vaguely familiar. He forced his eyes open a fraction and peered through a mist that, slowly, began to clear enough to permit some vision of sorts. The voices were significantly closer now. He recognized them. At the same time he managed to link two hazy figures just ahead with the voiced and was able to distinguish one from the other. Daz Horton and Liam Brady…what the devil…? 

Sarah Manners appeared in the doorway. Through half-closed eyes Winter made out the librarian’s agitated manner but her exchange with Liam was like a mime play and  he could not hear a word at first…then he caught snatches…could have sworn he heard her call Liam by name. Liam? Had the young man remembered who he was then…and what else?  He saw her dash out of the room, near hysterical it seemed to the detective.  There followed an exchange of sorts between Harry-Liam and Horton comprising mostly of sharp words and dark looks. Several times, Liam attempted to rise from his chair. On each occasion, Horton, wearing a menacing sneer, waved something at him. Liam promptly sat down again. Winter risked opening his eyes a fraction further to confirm what he had already guessed.  Shit, he’s got a gun.  Then he heard a woman scream.

Winter’s first instinct was to glance, surreptitiously, at the body on the bed beside him. But Carol Brady lay quite still, completely out of it, her face a pale mask. Only the gentle rhythm of her breathing told him that she was alive.

“Mary!”  

Winter heard Liam shout her name and saw him try to get to his feet. This time, Horton did not settle for waving the gun and issuing a curt command to stay put. After the briefest hesitation, Horton slammed the weapon against the side of his captive’s head and sent him flying.

Liam Brady collapsed in a heap on the floor.

Horton rushed out of the room, although not so panicked by the scream that he forgot to lock the door after him. Winter grimaced. Whatever Horton and the librarian had in mind for them all, the omens were not looking good. He tried to sit up but fell back, helplessly. His whole body - outside and in – felt like a tightly rolled wad of cotton wool. Don’t be such a wimp, Fred. You can do it. You have to, for crying out loud. He tried again.

....................................................

“What the hell do you think you’re playing at?” Horton had seen at a glance what was up. Mary Bishop’s state of part undress spoke volumes.  After dragging Cotter off the woman he dealt her an almighty slap across the face. The screaming was instantly replaced by a hysterical sobbing.  “You’re all the same,” shouted Horton at her, “You damn women, you’re all the same, teasers the lot of you.” He rounded on Cotter. “As for you, you bastard…for years I’ve stood by you, been faithful, looked after you… and this is how you repay me. Not content with getting your leg over that little slag from the fair, you’re at it again with this one. I ought to…” He laid into his lover like a man possessed. Raising a fist to strike yet again….

The doorbell rang.

Horton froze. Cotter began to panic. Even Mary Bishop appeared momentarily stunned.

“What do we do, Daz, what do we do?” Cotter whimpered piteously.

“We answer the bloody door, that’s what we do,” Cotter jerked a thumb at the Bishop woman, “and make sure you keep her quieter than a bloody grave unless you want to be digging your own…” He braced himself and went to the door. Mary Bishop opened her mouth to scream again but Cotter’s fist got to it before she could utter another sound.

Horton could not have put a name to the smartly dressed, red haired figure at the door but had seen him around the village a lot lately and knew for a fact he was Old Bill. “Yes?” 

Detective sergeant Mike Pritchard introduced himself, flashed ID, and would have pocketed it again had the other man not snatched it, and appeared to examine it with exaggerated thoroughness before returning it without a word. “We’ve had reports of the cottage being occupied, sir. Naturally, we have to investigate. You’ll be well aware, of course, that we’re anxious to track down the owner. It’s our belief he can help us with our enquiries. Is Mr Philips at home?”

Horton shook his head. “Sarah and I come to look over to the place from time to time…check for any mail, you know.”

“You have a forwarding address for Mr Philips?”

Again, Horton shook his head. “It’s only ever junk mail. We just bin it. Otherwise he’d never get in the front door for a mountain of the stuff.” He flung the constable a wry grin.

“Miss Manners is with you, yes?”

“Yes. Did you want a word with her? She can’t give you any more information than I can, I’m afraid,” he added apologetically.

Pritchard was instantly on his guard, curious as to what lay behind this sudden change of attitude from frank hostility to something resembling polite co-operation. He wouldn’t mind betting, either, that the bulge in Horton’s jacket pocket was not a paperback novel. “You can come in and search the place if you don’t believe me officer. Sarah and I haven’t set eyes on Marc for weeks. Hand on heart...” He made the gesture with a mocking look that sent Pritchard’s hackles into overdrive. He was sorely tempted to take up Horton’s offer but his instructions had been merely to ascertain the man’s presence and that of his partner-in-crime. Of one thing he could be sure. The others must be alive or Horton would never have risked coming to the door. Even as he spoke, his eyes peered over Horton’s shoulder into the small hall. Like Horton, though, it was giving nothing away.

“Thank you, sir. Sorry to have bothered you and Miss Manners.” Pritchard gave a friendly wave and left.  Horton, he was sure, did not suspect a thing. Lovell, when he finally got here, would be well pleased.

Horton watched him go, his stomach performing somersaults. You stupid geezer, take me for a bloody fool do you? Whether Pritchard was on his own or had company, Mary Bishop’s car and that interfering sod Fred Winter’s told their own story. It didn’t mean they had to be in the house of course. They could be busy making daisy chains just about anywhere. Huh! Chance would be a fine thing and that copper’s nobody’s fool…

Reluctant for a moment to go back inside, Horton sighed heavily and shut the door. There was no time to waste. He returned to the pantry, almost tripping over the can of petrol from where it squatted under a shabby print of the Madonna and Child. (Did Ralph have no taste at all?)  

“Who was it?” Cotter demanded. His eyes remained fixed on the can and his Adam’s apple suddenly became very active.

“Old Bill of course. Why? Who were you expecting, the Avon lady?” Horton growled. Ignoring Cotter’s stifled cry, he knelt and hauled the partially conscious Mary Bishop over one shoulder, returned to the bedroom and waited, impatiently, at the door while his partner fumbled with the key. “It’s only a key, it won’t explode in your hand,” he grumbled. But still Cotter’s trembling fingers could not open the door.  Getting angrier by the second, Horton snatched it, rammed it in the lock, turned it with deliberate precision, kicked the door wide open the instant it swung ajar and strode into the room, anxious to dump his load. Cotter followed, chewing anxiously on a thumbnail.

Carol Brady lay where they had left her, demonstrating no signs of movement. Liam was stirring on the floor, moaning, and plainly posed no immediate threat.  It was not until he was actually in the process of dropping Mary Bishop on to the bed that Horton realized what was wrong.

Where the devil was Fred Winter?

He heard a flurry of movement behind him and imagined the worst but it took a few more seconds to heave Mary Bishop off his shoulder and turn round. Damn, damn, damn. Winter had Ralph in an arm lock, the kitchen knife at his throat, and clearly meant business.

In his jacket pocket, the same gun Cotter had used to kill Sean Brady gave Horton small comfort.  He could live with having to kill people. A man does what he has to do, right? But shooting someone down in cold blood was something else. It was ugly. Worse, it was pointless. Where was the satisfaction to be had in pointing a gun and pulling the trigger?  Any fool could do that. Besides, there was something else to consider...

He had never used a gun in his life. 

To be continued