Authors: Mark Dawson
It was a good lesson to learn.
He heard the sound of an engine, and then another.
He squinted.
A lorry was coming towards them.
Charlie held his breath. Another lorry turned onto the road, and then a fourth. Four of them. The lorries drove slowly, carefully, drawing to a halt as they reached the long row of storage huts.
He moved slowly to the door, lifted the latch and opened it. The door of the MPs’ hut opened, too, and he saw an anxious face poke out.
The door to the nearest lorry opened and George Costello dropped to the ground. He was smoking a large cigar.
“Now!”
Shouts of anger and shock filled the air as the two huts emptied out, streams of men springing at the crooks from both sides. Charlie led his men, tackling George Costello to the ground. He took a fearsome wallop to the eye, rolled onto his side. The villain tried to get his feet underneath him, getting ready to run. Charlie threw himself at him again, looping his arms around his torso and hugging tight. His grip loosened and his arms dragged down to his knees. He squeezed tight, encircling his legs, and they both went down. The man was as strong as an ox; Charlie could feel his muscles through his clothes, solid, hard. Costello bucked beneath him, twisting his trunk around so that their positions were reversed so that he was on top, scraping Charlie’s crown against the asphalt. He hung on for dear life, trying to link his fingers but the man’s shoulders were too broad. He was a beast. Costello clenched his fist, his eyes boiling with anger, and he drew back his hand. “Help!” Charlie called out.
Both of the aides flung themselves onto Costello and he toppled away and against the wheel of the lorry. The brawnier of the two punched down with right-handers until Costello stopped struggling. A second man jumped over the mêlée, started to run; a detective constable laid into him, clobbering him with a right-hander that took his legs out from under him.
A volley of automatic fire cracked through the air.
Charlie scrambled to his feet and looked around. The tussle was almost at an end. The Costello lads had been unarmed and taken completely by surprise. Most of them had dropped to the ground with the volley from the machine gun. The villains were eating concrete, men with knees pressed into their backs and arms twisted around and halfway up to their necks.
A scuffle was taking place at the edge of the huts, two men fighting with two of his lads. He recognised Edward Fabian and Joseph Costello and, as he watched, Fabian knocked down his opponent and turned to help Joseph. The two of them quickly overpowered the policeman, breaking the hold he had around Costello’s neck and sending him to the floor.
Fabian paused, just for a moment, and Charlie locked eyes with him.
“Guv?” his sergeant said, pointing at the two of them.
Fabian was backing away, still looking at him. “They’re too far,” he said. “Let them go. We’ll pick them up later.”
The Aide yanked George Costello upright. He could feel the belligerence growing in him as surely as if his huge body was boiling with a heat that could be felt from yards away. “George Costello,” Charlie recited between ragged breaths, “I’m arresting you for theft, fraud, breaches of the defence regulations, resisting arrest and assaulting a police officer. You, my friend, are well and truly nicked.”
61
THE LORRY’S ENGINE ROARED.
“Doc!” Joseph yelled from the open cab. “Doc, come on, let’s go!”
Edward turned and ran. Joseph stamped on the gas as he leapt for the door, swinging from the handle as they picked up speed. The truck rushed at the gatepost at thirty miles an hour, pulverising the wooden barrier and then slicing through the wire mesh gates beyond. They made it out onto the road losing barely any speed, Joseph spinning the wheel so that the rear end fishtailed, spinning it back again to correct the skid. Edward opened the door and slid into the cab.
“We’ve been set up!” Joseph spat.
“Best worry about that later,” Edward said, hanging out of the open window to look behind them.
“They coming after us?”
“Not yet. We’ll never get away in this. It’s too slow and too easy to spot. We need to dump it.” He stared up the road ahead. “There,” he said, pointing towards a narrow track that led away from the main road. Joseph pumped on the brake to slow them enough to take the sharp left hand turn. The road was paved for fifty yards and then unfinished: a farmer’s track, used to get into the fields, rutted with deep ridges from heavy machinery. They bumped around, the suspension groaning in protest until the track turned to the right and entered a dense copse of trees and then petered out. Joseph brought the truck to a halt.
They sat in silence, trying to regain a measure of composure.
Joseph looked hopeless. “What are we going to do? We can’t stay here.”
Edward waited until his heart slowed a little.
“We’ll leave the truck and go on foot until we can find something else.” He opened the door and jumped down. “Come on.”
The main road cut through the fields two hundred yards to the north. The copse hid the truck from sight, but they would be visible as soon as they left its shelter. They had no choice. They set off, following the line of a low hedge, both of them alert to the sounds of traffic. The terrain was wet and muddy, with long swathes composed of ankle-deep sludge that clung to their feet and plastered their legs. There was a gentle slope that led up to an elevated point. They followed it.
“What happened?” Joseph said out as they ran.
“Someone grassed.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know. Butler? Who else?”
“You think?”
“They must’ve got to him.”
They clambered up the incline, the view opening wide as they gained height. The top offered them an elevated vantage point and, from there, they could see over the valley and into the facility, onto the rows of storage huts arranged beyond. The wide parking area where they had collected the merchandise was visible: the three remaining trucks had been blocked in by two green-painted military police lorries and two dozen police, several of them armed, were guarding a line of men prostrate on the ground before them. The prisoners had their hands behind their backs as two detectives worked up and down the line, securing their wrists with handcuffs.
Joseph looked over the scene, and Edward watched as the colour drained away from his face. “What is it?” he asked.
“It’s bloody Billy,” Joseph said. “It’s him, isn’t it?”
Edward paused, taking the opportunity to catch his breath. “Really?”
“He grassed us up.”
“Don’t be daft,” Edward said, because that was what Joseph would have expected him to say.
“I know, but where is he? He wasn’t here this morning. The only one of the chaps who didn’t turn up the morning we all get tumbled by the Old Bill. Don’t you think that’s odd?”
“Just a coincidence.” Edward did not want to push any harder than that. He had left the dots. It was not his place to join them, too.
The wind suddenly picked up, bending the tops of the nearby poplars like sword-tips. Branches––small and dead––were blown from the trees and rattled as they fell to the ground.
“Get down!”
A road ran twenty yards below them, cresting the hill half a mile ahead. A police car suddenly sped from around a hidden corner, its lights flashing and siren blaring loudly. The car roared around the bend and down towards the base. They dropped down, landing in a thick puddle of mud. They stayed there until the sound of the siren faded into silence. When they stood, fearfully checking the road to make sure it was clear, they were covered head to foot in muck.
Edward tried to wipe it from his clothes but it was wet and adhesive, and the attempt just made matters worse.
Joseph looked lost. “I don’t know what to do, Doc,” he said helplessly.
This was it, then. Everything Edward had worked towards was approaching a conclusion. He just had to approach it carefully, make it all seem natural and easy. The first thing he needed was Joseph’s support. The speech of reassurance and persuasion sprang full-blown to his mind. “First of all, we don’t panic,” he said. “We got out. If we’re careful and we move quickly, they won’t be able to find us. It’s not like we’ve never done this before.”
“This ain’t the jungle, Doc.”
“No, it’s not, but we know what we’re doing. How far to Halewell Close from here?”
“Fifty miles––maybe a little less.”
“That’s where we should go.”
“You want to walk fifty miles?”
“Do you have a better idea?”
“Why there?”
“We need to speak to your Aunt. This has gone on long enough.”
62
VIOLET COSTELLO MUST HAVE SEEN them as they loped across the fields at the back of the house. They were covered in mud, scratched from clambering through brambles and almost completely spent. They had struck out for Evesham, then followed the route of the A438 to Pershore, Upton-upon-Severn, Welland and Ledbury. They had seen several police cars, and had navigated around a road-block on the road outside Bradlow. It took them eleven hours to cover the fifty miles and they were exhausted.
The storm had gathered strength and now it lashed the countryside with wind and rain. It was dusk and the lantern that had been lit and hung under the
porte cochère
swung to and fro in the intensifying wind.
Violet opened the front door and came to them. “What’s happened?”
“The police––they were waiting. They arrested everyone.”
“George?”
“Everyone.”
“What about you?”
“Lucky. We were at the back.”
Violet stiffened the line of her jaw. “Get inside,” she said. She called for Hargreaves and told the butler to draw two baths. “You need to clean yourselves up.”
Joseph pointed dumbly at the candles that had been lit.
“The storm’s put the electricity out,” she explained. “It’s been on the wireless. It’s supposed to be quite fierce tonight.” She shook her head in weary resignation. “The perfect end to a perfect day.”
Joseph paused. “Is there something else?”
“It’s Chiara.”
Edward stepped forward. “Is she alright?” he said quickly.
She sighed. “It’s that bloody dog. You might as well see it now.”
“He’s come back?”
“In a manner of speaking. In the back yard.”
Joseph led Edward through the house to the rear entrance. There was a wide courtyard, catching and amplifying the wind as it swooped around the house. A crate had been placed next to the wall. It was three feet long by two feet wide. The lid had been prised free with a chisel, the wood splintered around the nails as Joseph flipped it upside-down with the toe of his shoe. Edward looked down. The body of the old dog was inside, resting on a bed of balled-up newspaper. The dog’s fur was damp in the rain. A wreath had been laid on top of him.
* * *
EDWARD WENT UPSTAIRS to his usual room. A set of Joseph’s clothes had been laid out for him––a suit, a shirt, even a new pair of shoes––and a bath was running in the bathroom. He stripped off his muddy clothes and looked at his body in the mirror: his skin was streaked with mud, and his legs had been shredded by brambles and thorns, dried blood running down from the scratches.
He reclined in the hot water, closed his eyes and listened to the rain beating against the window panes. For the first time all day, he had no audience to persuade, no performance to give. He allowed himself to relax. The day had been perfect. He had ensured that they were last into the base, and then had stalled the engine so that the other lorries could draw further ahead. There had been enough distance between them and the others for escape to be possible and then, when detective inspector Murphy had had the opportunity to renege on their deal, he had chosen not to. He must have removed Billy from the street. Those were the main strokes, but even the details had been better than he could have expected. He had expected that he would have to prompt Joseph to the conclusion that Billy might have been involved but that hadn’t been necessary. He had sown the seed himself. It would be a simple matter to help him nurture that doubt into the certainty that it was Billy who had sold them out. After all, where was he? Who was the only man who hadn’t turned up today? Yes, he thought happily, it really was perfect. He spread soapsuds luxuriously up and down his arms and across his chest, closing his eyes and sinking his head beneath the surface so that he could scrub the dirt from his hair. He emerged again, blinking water away, and chuckled at how it could not have gone any better.
He giggled again, and then sobered himself by deliberately concentrating on the one problem that he still had to solve: how to persuade Violet and Joseph to follow his advice and take the fight to Jack Spot. He had brought them to a desperate pass, removed the threat of Billy from the equation, removed George and his enmity and cynicism, and deftly manoeuvred events so that he could persuade them that Spot had orchestrated the family’s demise. Raiding the restaurant. Burning down Ruby Ward’s garage. The dog. They were hopeless. They would listen to him now. He would have what he wanted.
But was he ever tired! He allowed himself to relax and tried to concentrate on the things he had to do. He thought of Joseph, a few rooms down the corridor, bathing himself at this very moment, his legs as sore and weak as his own, his body covered with mud. He would be confused and angry. He could see the frown across his brow, the hurt in his eyes as he sat brooding about his oldest friend and what he might have done. He would still be doubtful but those doubts would become suspicions when Billy failed to show up. He imagined him tomorrow, setting off for the Hill, knocking on the door of Mrs. Stavropoulos, but she wouldn’t know where her son was, either. He pictured him in Soho, trying the Alhambra, the French, the Caves de France, the Colony, the Mandrake and the Gargoyle and finding no sign of him anywhere… what else was he to think, under the circumstances?
So tired.
A sense of grogginess overcame him and he closed his heavy eyes. The scene dissolved in a wash of greys and blacks and then it was all green and brown, the greens of bamboo and delphiniums and hostas, the browns of teak and mangrove trees, the colours of the jungle, and, overhead, the grey and black spectrum of the monsoon. The air was still and heavy, pregnant with static, and then the rains came. Big, fat, ponderous globules that grew heavier and heavier and then, as if at the press of a celestial switch, fell as a deluge, a great roar of water, thundering against the trees and the earth and river and the mountains. Edward saw himself, at the rear of his platoon, dressed in his khaki fatigues and with his Sten gun aimed out ahead of him, sweeping the vegetation on either side of the narrow road as they progressed towards the bridge across the Irrawaddy. He was scared. Rain washed across his face, blurring his vision. He watched the muzzle flashes from either side of the road, a Japanese platoon lying in ambush, hidden behind screens of bamboo and obscured by the curtain of rain, two type 92 heavy machine guns set on tripods on either side of the road, a lethal firing zone that they were already deep within. The machine guns were ‘woodpeckers’ because of the noise they made, the whirring rat-tat-tat calling out, the men at the front taking the first barrage. Their weapons splashed into muddy puddles as they staggered backwards, arms flailing. The other men got their weapons up and started to fire, shredding the bamboo as they emptied their clips. Edward threw himself into the mud, shuddering as the body of one of the privates collapsed across him, then another falling across the first. He closed his eyes and prayed, his bowels loosening as a third and then fourth soldier was picked off. The woodpeckers fired for thirty seconds straight and then stopped. Eleven soldiers were left dead on the road. The only noise was the thunder and the rain, the cycling down of the guns and the whooped celebration of the Japs. Edward lay still, feeling the thick, warm tick of another man’s blood as it dripped down onto his forehead, onto his lips, into his mouth. Four Japs approached, firing single shots into the fallen bodies, one by one, but not Edward. They missed him. The Japanese paused for a minute, sharing a prayer to their Emperor or whoever the hell it was that they worshipped, and began to fold up the machine guns. It took ten minutes, twenty minutes, then thirty, the guns dismantled and hoisted onto their backs. A banded krait slithered out of the envelope of grass at the side of the road and curled itself into the warm cavity between Edward and the dead man beside him. A snub-nosed
meh nwoah
monkey sneezed in the overhanging branches. Edward did not move. Finally, the Japanese turned towards the bridge. He shouldered the bodies aside, the snake slithering away as he burrowed out from amid the outflung arms and legs, swiping rain and blood from his eyes. He stooped to collect a Sten gun, pressed in the box magazine with shaking fingers and held the trigger, spraying the platoon with bullets. The six men were close, and too encumbered with the woodpeckers to defend themselves, and Edward fired until the magazine ran dry, replaced it with his spare and emptied that, too. Sixty-four shots. He went over to where they had fallen, took a Nambu pistol from the holster of one of the men, and shot them in the head, one after the other. Then, one bullet left in the chamber, he aimed the muzzle downwards, at his foot. He pulled the trigger.