Catching Up With Murder - Chapter 29

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

“Never mind that now!” Winter snapped, “Get the duvet, shove it under the door and block the smoke. DO IT, WOMAN, NOW, before we all choke to death!”

“He’s right mum.” Liam squeezed his mother’s hand before both mother and son launched into fits of violent coughing.

Carol stared through watery eyes at the smoke pouring with rapidly increasing intensity through the gap between door and floor, finally appeared to appreciate the gravity of their situation and hastened to do as she was told.

“There’s a knife under the bed. Get it and cut us free….NOW, woman, not next year!”

“Okay, keep your hair on!” she snapped back. Winter grinned, much relieved to see Carol displaying signs of her old self. 

It did not take long to free the two men. Resisting every impulse to see to Liam first, Carol’s native commonsense told her that Freddy Winter must be her priority, if only because he was in the best shape to get them out of this mess.

“Can you stand?” the detective asked Liam. Brady nodded, tried to get up but fell back. Carol gave a sharp cry and was instantly on her knees beside him. “How about you, Carol, can you manage?”

“Don’t worry about us, just get us out of here!” she yelled. Wads of acrid smoke were already finding their way past the duvet, thickening all the time.

Winter staggered to the bed, leaned over the inert form of Mary Bishop and felt for a pulse. He found one but it was very weak. Next, he grabbed a chair and hurled it through a window, using a jumper lying on the floor to clear most of the remaining glass from its frame.  “Carol, you help Liam and I’ll take Mary!” he barked and hoped she would not look behind her and see flames starting to lick at the duvet and crawl, slowly but surely, across the carpet.  But Liam had already spotted the danger and, leaning heavily on his mother, dragged himself to his feet. “Good man.”  Winter nodded approvingly. “Now, let’s get the hell out of here.”

It took time and time was not on their side. Winter fought hard to restrain a growing impatience as Carol climbed gingerly through the window, broken glass pricking bare arms and legs, before helping Liam, assisted by Winter, to safety.

By now the flames were quickly taking hold. Winter dashed to the bed, seized Mary Bishop in both arms and flung her over one shoulder. Mindful of the intense heat on his back, he scrambled through the open window with seconds to spare before the entire cottage went up in a huge fireball.  He did not dare look back but ran until he judged they were quite safe, lay his burden down as gently as he could, then slumped on the ground, gasping for breath, an almighty explosion ringing in his ears.

“Thank God, you’re safe!” He looked up to find Sadie Chapman, of all people, dropping to her knees beside him, her finer features contorted by a desperate anxiety. Carol and Liam…?”

“They’re fine,” she assured him and he thought he saw a trace of pain in the tired eyes. He tried to sit up and would have fallen flat on his back if she had not taken charge and helped him to sit.

The cottage was well ablaze. There was smoke everywhere. The wind was blowing it towards some trees. Relieved, he heard the distinctive wail of fire engines, saw two appear out of the corner of one eye, closely followed by an ambulance. He thought he heard Mike Pritchard’s voice, grating as ever on the nerves. But the smoke…trees…danger there…and…cover? Alarm bells replace the clamour of sirens in his head. “Cotter, Horton,” he tried to say but, try as he might, could only manage a croak, unintelligible even to his own ears.

“You’re a fine one and no mistake!” Charlie Lovell appeared – his face at least, if not the rest of him – hovering briefly within the rapidly narrowing perimeters of Winter’s hazy vision. One last effort to speak coherently proved too much…

Winter lost consciousness.

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

Cotter and Horton waited until the very last minute before haring through the tunnel of smoke towards the trees. Draped in wet towels, a handkerchief tied around nose and mouth, they did not stop until well among the trees, Cotter stumbled and fell heavily.  He let out a yelp, clamped a hand over his mouth and continued to moan softly. “I think it’s broken,” he wailed, nursing his right ankle and looking at Horton as if half expecting a good hiding for impeding their escape.

Horton knelt and with surprising tenderness probed the injured ankle with his fingers. Cotter yelped again. “I don’t think it’s broken but I can’t say for sure until I take a closer look and we haven’t got time for that now, that’s for sure.  I guess it’s piggy back time, flower. Climb on my back and don’t near throttle me like you did once before, remember?” Both men chuckled and it came as no small relief to ease the tension a little. Once, years ago, they had challenged the Bishops to a race across the village green, Mary on Sam’s back and Cotter on Horton’s. Sam had won easily. Poor Horton, close behind, had been all but asphyxiated by Cotter’s frantic hold around his neck.

Hoisting Cotter on his back, Horton ran a few more yards then doubled back in the direction of the village, albeit taking a long circuitous route. Cotter soon cottoned on and began to panic. “What are you doing? You’re going the wrong way. We can’t go back to the village, that’s the first place they’ll be looking for us! We’ll be sitting ducks.  We have to get well clear or we’re done for, right?”

“Wrong, my turtle dove,” panted Horton, “it’s the last place they’ll be looking for us, especially where I have in mind…” He ran on, ignoring Cotter’s various sighs, grunts, and snorts of undisguised scepticism in between stifled yelps of pain.  On the outskirts of Monk’s Tallow, Horton told Cotter he would have to get down and walk.

“I can’t, it hurts!” Cotter wailed.

“I’ll help you. But me giving you a piggy back is going to draw attention to us and we don’t want that, right?” Cotter shook his head. “So lean on me and, with luck, people will just think their estimable librarian is a bit pissed…”

“What, in the middle of the day?” Sarah Manners sounded suitably shocked. Both men roared with laughter.

At the Bishops’ house there was no reply at first. Horton rang the doorbell again. “Sam, are you there? It’s me, Daz. Open up, I need a word. It’s important,”

It was several minutes before an unkempt Sam Bishop opened the door. His unshaven face brightened upon seeing Horton but he scowled as soon as he saw his friend had company.

“Where’s my wife?” he shouted at the librarian, who was hopping on one leg, grimacing as if in pain.

Horton smirked inwardly. It was evident from the way he slurred his words that Bishop had been drinking. That would suit his little plan very well. “Not now, Sam” he snapped, “Later, not now.” He pushed his way past Bishop, Cotter having to struggle to keep his balance, let alone keep up.

Bishop laid a hand on Cotter’s arm. “You’re welcome here any time, Daz, you know that.  But this one can sling her hook right now unless she tells me where Mary is!”  “Well, what have you got to say for yourself, you miserable piece of baggage?” But Cotter jerked free and literally tumbled into a chair. 

“Later, Sam, later,” Horton repeated, “Sarah’s hurt her ankle badly. Got any brandy?” 

“If you think I’m wasting good brandy on the likes of her, you can think again,” muttered Bishop. Then, as if for the first time, he began to take in their smoke smudged faces and generally dishevelled appearance. “Looks to me as if you could both do with a double,” he declared grudgingly, flung Sarah Manners a dirty look and went to fetch the drinks. He was pouring from a handsome, cut glass decanter, wondering what the devil was going on, when Horton came from behind and brought the gun butt crashing down against the back of his head, thus depriving him, temporarily at least, of an answer.

Horton dragged his old friend and chess partner into a bedroom, tied and gagged him to be on the safe side then rejoined Cotter.

“We can’t stay here,” Cotter protested.

“We can and we will, till it gets dark anyhow. Then I’ll go and nick a car and we’re away…”

“You make it sound so easy!” Cotter was sceptical.

“It will be, you’ll see. Most of the turnips around here forget to lock their cars, let alone turn on an alarm. It’ll be like taking candy from a baby. Meanwhile, we get cleaned up, help ourselves to a change of clothes and…Bob’s your uncle, we’re as fresh as a couple of daisies and ready for whatever. Now, let’s look at that ankle…” He was already tugging at Cotter’s shoe. Barely had he started peeling off the sock before the room resounded with piercing shrieks that were not, Horton reflected with a chuckle, in the least Sarah Manners-like. “Shut up, will you?  Talk about making enough noise to wake the dead….”

Cotter quietened but continued to sob, sigh and bite his lip during the entire process of Horton’s ministrations, nor letting up for some time afterwards.

………………………….

Meanwhile, in a private room at Brighton General Hospital, Fred Winter opened his eyes and was pleasantly surprised to see Sadie Chapman, lying back in a chair beside the bed fast asleep. He glanced out of a window, saw that daylight was fading and wondered if it was the same day or…

 “How long have I been here?” He murmured and hadn’t meant to ask the question aloud but it was enough to jolt Sadie awake.

 “Thank heavens you’re all right. You’ve been out for hours.”

 “Only hours, you say?” That’s all right then.  Feeling reassured, he asked after the others.

“Carol’s fine. She’s been giving the doctors merry hell because they want to keep her in for observation. Mary Bishop is apparently ‘stable’ whatever that means.” She hesitated.

 “And Liam?” he prompted gently.

 Sadie shrugged. “He’s fine, apart from a splitting headache, as far as I can tell. I saw him not long ago, just before they took him down to X-Ray.”

  “And…?”

 “He seems to remember just about everything. He and Carol are very close,” she added almost wistfully.

 “So…how is he with you?” Winter could see she was close to tears but a stubborn streak in him insisted he must not let this remarkable woman sell herself short.

 Sadie merely gave another shrug and said nothing. Winter waited and was finally rewarded with a wry smile. “He was pleased to see me, so I suppose that must count for something,” she said quietly.

Winter was trying to think of an appropriately encouraging comment when an image slipped into his mind and stuck there. He saw the blazing cottage, thick smoke carried towards some trees on a stiff breeze forming what could almost be described as a tunnel of sorts. “Cotter, Horton?” he sat up and glared questioningly and with such ferocity at Sadie Chapman that the poor woman started in alarm. “I don’t know,” she stammered, “I did hear they weren’t found in the house when the fire fighters finally went in but they can’t have got far, surely?”   

The detective lay back on the pillows, his thoughts so jumping ahead and tumbling over each other that he had to close his eyes to reassemble them in any lucid form. To Sadie Chapman’s relief, he seemed much calmer when he opened them again.  He spotted a nurse in uniform pause to chat with a patient in the bed opposite and called her over. “Nurse, I’m leaving so I’d be grateful if someone can bring my clothes.”

“You need to rest, Mr Winter. And it’s sister, not nurse,” Maggie Kershaw told him in a crisp, no-nonsense voice reminiscent of Miss Parker.

Winter shook his head. “No, I’m sorry. I need to get out of here and I need to do it now, this minute. So whatever it takes, please arrange it. I’ll gladly sign myself out if that will make you happy.”

“It certainly won’t make me happy, Mr Winter. But if you insist…” she sighed and walked away in the brisk, efficient, but never hurried manner of nursing staff the world over. Minutes later a male nurse appeared with the detective’s clothes, looking much the worse for their earlier mangling. He was holding out a discharge form and already reaching for the biro tucked behind one ear.

Winter snatched the form. “Do you have a car?” he asked Sadie, who nodded but looked disapproving.

“I’m not sure this is a good idea, Fred.”

“Nor am I but needs must as the devil drives, eh?”

Not long afterwards, they were sitting in Sadie’s blue Cavalier about to leave the hospital car park when another vehicle pulled alongside and DS Mike Pritchard wound down his window, the better to say his piece. “Where do you think you’re going, Winter? I was just on my way to see you. My guv’nor thinks you can tie up a few loose ends for us…”

“I dare say,” commented Winter dryly, “But I have things to do, sorry. You’ll want to talk to the others, too, of course. Well, don’t let me keep you.  By the way, is it true you let Cotter and Horton get clean away?”

“Cotter?” the younger man reddened and looked perplexed.

“Oh, never mind. It’s a long story. Get Lovell to fill you in and while you’re at it tell him I’ll be at the Bishops’ place. I need to see Sam Bishop urgently.”

“You’ll be lucky,” retorted Pritchard, “We’ve been trying to get hold of him for hours. He seems to have gone walkabout. Out looking for his wife, the locals seem to think. They have a few choice ideas of their own about Mary Bishop and Sarah Manners, it appears.”

“I’m sure they do.” Winter did not doubt that for one minute, “Just remember to tell Charlie where I’ve gone, okay?” He turned to the woman beside him, “Step on it Sadie, I’ve got a feeling we’re running late.”

“Look here, I don’t think…” Pritchard started to protest. But the Cavalier was already on its way back to Monk’s Tallow and his thoughts might as well have been meant for a passing seagull.

All credit to Pritchard (he must have learned his lesson) Winter noted approvingly less than five minutes later as familiar bars conjuring up childhood images of a masked man on a white horse blared in his pocket. He read Lovell’s name on the tiny screen. “Hello Charlie,” he said cheerfully, ignoring the stream of verbal abuse that followed. “No, I’m not up to anything. I’m just paying Sam Bishop a friendly call. You can’t object to that, surely?” He grinned, glad that Sadie Chapman could not hear what was being said, for all she was plainly a woman of the world. “Holding out on you? Now, would I do that? Talking of which, how come you haven’t filled Pritchard in on the Sarah Manners charade. What do you mean, giving you bullshit? I’ve told you everything I know, what more do you want… evidence, for heaven’s sake?” This time he held the phone away from his ear while Lovell continued to make no attempt to choose his words carefully. “Look, I haven’t time for all this. Meet me at the Bishops place as soon as you can but don’t do anything until you’ve spoken to Sadie first. Yes, Sadie Chapman, she’s in the driving seat…”

“Fat chance!” he heard Sadie snort next to him as he gestured to her to make a right turn.

“Yes, well, maybe it is one of my daft hunches but, well, you know me, never one to walk away. Bye Charlie, see you soon I hope.” He switched the phone off and laid it on the shelf above the glove compartment.

“So what is this daft hunch of yours?” Sadie wanted to know. Winter, though, was giving nothing away just yet. He merely scratched an ear and made no immediate reply. How could he? Wasn’t he still mulling it over in his head, far from sure himself that he wasn’t barking up the wrong tree? Not for the first time, Fred, not for the first time. He chuckled and began to relax. Not for a moment did the notion occur to him that they should turn back.   

“You heard Pritchard. Sam Bishop’s nowhere to be found. What makes you think he’s going to turn up just to oblige you, Mr Detective?”

“Turn left, left again then straight ahead till I tell you to stop,” was all Fred Winter trusted himself to say.

……………………………..

 Sam Bishop out cold in the bedroom, Cotter and Horton were swigging brandy and exchanging reminiscences…anything to take their minds off their situation. Cotter was no fool. Things couldn’t get much worse…could they? At the same time, if Horton said he had a plan, he was more than happy to go along with that.  He was dog tired, his ankle hurt and his lungs felt as if they had been yanked out, soaked in petrol and thrust back inside.

“So we get ourselves a car, what then?” he wanted to know. “Besides, there will be roadblocks, the whole caboodle, we won’t get very far.”

“Do I know every side road and short cut around here like the back of my hand or do I not?” Horton demanded, feigning an indignant air. “Have faith, my turtle-dove, have faith. When did I ever let you down, eh?”

“I’m scared, Daz. Where will it end?”

Horton knelt beside his long-time lover stretched out on the sofa and tweaked his nose. “Nothing’s going to end, flower, you’ll see. It will be a new beginning. Once we get sorted it will be you and me against the world, just like it’s always been. Nothing’s going to change because of a few hiccups and some nosy bastard of a detective sticking his oar in. Now, am I right or am I right?”

Cotter managed a weak smile but couldn’t help thinking how he much preferred his partner when he was beating the living daylights out of him. That was an act of love he understood. This gentle, considerate, reassuring, all but romantic Daz was practically a stranger.  Oh, he was grateful. But it was unnerving, almost surreal. Even so, he returned his partner’s unexpected kiss on the lips with a passion that had nothing to do with gratitude.

To be concluded

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