Bad Sons (Booker & Cash Book 1) (32 page)

‘It’s not drugs?’ My confusion must have been writ large with every line and muscle in my face.

‘No, Mr Booker. It is not drugs.’

‘What then?’

He exuded the confidence of a man who knew there was no rush; he had all the time in the world to do what he was going to do to us. Maybe he just liked the sound of his own voice, or maybe he was just enjoying his position of dominance and superiority over me and wished to prolong it. Maybe he was just enjoying chatting in English. Whatever his reasons, I sensed he was going to indulge me with an explanation.

‘Where are we, Mr Booker?’

It was going to be like that – a game. Play along and live a little longer in the hope of someone showing up to save my skin, or tell him to go to hell and die quicker.

‘We’re in a workshop.’

‘Good. And where is the workshop?’

‘In a museum in France.’

‘Very good. A museum in France commemorating what?’

‘A museum commemorating the Second World War.’

‘Excellent. Now, what is there in Dungeness that has taken our interest?’

An idea was breaking out of its shell and I didn’t like how it looked. ‘A pump.’

‘Wrong.’ He looked disappointed. ‘For someone with a fertile imagination you are not thinking about the bigger picture. History, Mr Booker. Real, authentic, preserved history. A wonder of human thinking, invention, resourcefulness and achievement. Something that helped create the world we live in. It’s also an opportunity. PLUTO has been all but forgotten by an era that should be more grateful. We are going to bring it back to life. Or we were. We were going to recreate the brilliance and simplicity of the scheme.’

And I realised why he had taken the time and trouble to relate his plans to me. It was part of his sick idea of humour. He found it funny to see my reaction to the harmless backdrop behind the deaths of my aunt and uncle and ultimately Jo and me.

He was smiling at me and I felt freshly wretched and sick.

‘A museum piece? A tourist attraction? Three people are dead for a bit of forgotten history?’

He bristled at that. ‘So far, yes. By the morning there will be five. So what? Five people. Do you know how many people died in the Second World War, Mr Booker? Millions.’

Now he had confirmed it I was freshly incredulous. I stared at him, temporarily incapable of expressing my disbelief. ‘You’re mad. You’re fucking mad.’

Instead of taking offence he just looked suddenly bored. He looked like he’d heard enough.

‘So why all the secrecy? Why the night-time comings and goings in the yard?’

‘Julien is one of those albinos for whom daylight is a particular unpleasantness. It gives him the most terrible migraines. He also does not respond well to the attentions that his colouring and size inevitably bring. We have had... problems in the past. We didn’t want problems in the UK. He is essentially a creature of the night and weak artificial light. That’s all.’

That was all. That was all this was about.

Everything has to start somewhere. Because the giant was an albino he couldn’t tolerate sunlight. Because he couldn’t tolerate sunlight his outside movements were restricted to night-time. Because of that, the three of them had appeared to be acting suspiciously in Flashman’s yard. Because of that, my relatives had taken an interest. And because of that they had been killed by a drug-crazed paranoid with a grudge, a sociopath with no regard for human life and a retarded albino giant. Because they had been killed and I couldn’t leave it to the police, the professionals, I was going to die too.

My head swam with the banality behind events that had brought me to that point. The desperate straits I was drifting in gave me sudden and ridiculous ideas about lashing out at his bar stool; knocking him down; jumping up and kicking lumps out of him before he could appreciate what was happening. But such actions are best undertaken with the intoxicating adrenalin that gives rise to them still boiling, pure and fresh in the system.

The antidote that is intelligent thought poured the necessary scorn and cold water on my hot impulse and probably saved me some nasty scars, perhaps my life.

On reflection, I have to be glad for my delay, or more accurately my cowardice. Action would almost certainly have resulted in only a foolish token opposition that would have ensured I got better acquainted with the business end of his knife. In any case, I waited too long.

He stood and moved away from me. He called to the giant, who emerged seconds later pushing Jo along in front of him. She looked ghastly and close to tears. Her clothes looked as though they had been interfered with. Buttons were undone. A crushing wave of guilt and wretchedness broke over me for what I’d involved her in.

He spoke firmly to the giant in French and they both looked at us. There was nothing in their eyes to give me hope that either Jo or I would see the morning.

***

47

The rain had been drumming its steady death-knell tattoo on the corrugated roof, making it necessary for us to raise our voices to be heard. There was something about the noise now that I found profoundly oppressive.

Jo seemed to have lost her power of speech and I found it hard to look at her.

My bile was bitter and building and my recently-consumed meal threatened an encore.

Any window of opportunity – however narrow the opening had been – to do something that might have had positive consequences for our situation slammed firmly shut with the reappearance of the tame albino giant. I despised myself for not having given vent to my impulses when the odds, while still poor, were better.

Even though it was stupid and obvious I couldn’t help myself. ‘What are you going to do with us?’

‘No one knows you’re here, no one will look for you here. Your secrecy might prove to our advantage.’

‘Who says no one knows we’re here?’

We both turned to look at Jo.

The driver studied her seriously. ‘Are you saying someone does?’

‘Of course they do. I’m a police officer. You don’t think I go chasing around on murder investigations without letting others know where I am, do you?’

For a long moment the rain was the only sound as our host showed a renewed interest in her. ‘Are you really? Who exactly have you told and what have you told them?’

‘My senior officer knows we’re here and he knows what we’re here looking for. If I don’t show up for work on Monday this place will be swarming with police. I advise you to release us.’ Her words sounded particularly brave if ultimately hollow but I admired her for trying.

He looked to be giving Jo’s speech some thought. ‘I think you exaggerate. But thank you for the warning. We shall need to move your vehicle, of course. Give them somewhere else to look.’

He issued instructions to his pet colossus. While my senses and limbs were still lethargic with terror and before I realised what was happening, the big man moved around behind me and took my head and neck in his enormous arms. I struggled and kicked with the desperation of a drowning man as I understood that they weren’t going to be standing on any ceremony; Julien was to snap our necks like rabbits and we were to be disposed of only God and they knew where.

I was vaguely aware of Jo shouting and running at him and kicking him. Despite her arms being still bound behind her, she landed a couple of decent blows with her heavy boots, kept her balance and danced backwards to come in for some more. The grip that held me like a cooper’s metal hoops relaxed enough for me to squirm and as she moved back in for round two he swatted her away with a flick of the back of his hand. I watched on helpless as she sprawled on the floor. Our host guffawed loudly and I felt myself pulled back into the enormous body. His arms entwined themselves back around my neck and head like a pair of courting anacondas in preparation for the finale to his murderous embrace.

I thought of my uncle and Dennis Flashman, both of whose necks had been snapped, probably by this unthinking killing machine. A quick wrench to the side and my life would be extinguished as my head lolled useless on my broken neck. I tensed every muscle I had. I pushed and wriggled and kicked and writhed in pointless and futile resistance. And the tears of self-pity and frustration and helplessness stung my eyes and blurred my vision.

With his arms covering my ears the shot sounded like a child’s popgun: a gentle harmless barely-audible crack. A party-popper of an intrusion to the proceedings. I was dropped to the cold, damp concrete floor and I lay there chasing my senses and my breath.

Every condemned man appreciates a stay of execution and I was no exception. Whatever had happened and was about to happen, I wasn’t going to allow myself to be taken into those arms again without resistance.

Our host and the albino were both looking towards the wooden door we had come through. Jo finally struggled back up on to her feet. There was blood at the corner of her mouth and the glint of hate in her eyes.

The balance of power had shifted and my initial reaction sensed it was little to do with the firearm that had been discharged to take everyone’s attention.

Another large man stood dwarfing the little doorway. The juxtaposition gave a surreal Alice in Wonderland quality to the scene. He wore his hair long and grey and combed back harshly; a bushy grey and yellowing beard covered the bottom half of his face and he was running to fat and old age. But he exuded a patriarchal control. If his size, his presence and his overall effect hadn’t given him away as a close blood relative of the giant who’d just been trying to snap my neck the bone structure around his eyes did.

Seen through the light of the weak bulb above the doorway, the rain fell behind him less intense but constant like a recently-disturbed glass-beaded curtain. I got to my knees then my feet and took the couple of steps to stand with Jo. The fact that I was all but ignored by the two men who had been about to end my life bore further testament to the authority of the newcomer. It was immediately evident he was used to being obeyed without query in this company.

He growled out his question. ‘Gaston, qu’est-ce qui se passé?’

The giant looked immediately towards his confederate, telling me something I didn’t know.

Gaston’s confident and authoritative facade slipped off his face like a cheap Halloween mask to reveal a man afraid and guilty; a schoolboy caught torturing the family cat.

‘Papa.’

I was learning things fast.

‘Répondez-moi.’

I decided to remind them they had guests. ‘Do you speak English?’

The old man turned his intense gaze on me.

‘You are English?’

His English was good, although his accent was heavier than his son’s.

‘Yes. Your sons were about to break my neck. Kill us. Do you understand me?’

His gaze swung back to Gaston.

‘Papa, écoute-moi.’

‘We will speak in English.’

From the way his head nodded in the direction of Julien, I understood his reason was as much to keep him ignorant of what was to be discussed as it was to make Jo and me part of it.

Gaston persisted in his native tongue: ‘Papa, s'il vous plait tu dois m'écouter.’

‘I said English.’

Gaston’s eyes burned with fury at the rebuke and he fell silent.

‘Who are you? Why are you here?’

He’d spoken to me but it was Jo who answered him: ‘I am a British police officer. We have been kidnapped and brought here against our will.’ She turned to show him her bound hands. ‘Your sons are wanted for questioning in connection with three murders in the UK. When you walked in they were in the process of committing two more.’ It was a strong speech and depending on just how much he loved his children compared with the strength of his moral compass would either save us or doom us.

He looked back at his offspring and, if he were not party to any of it, I could only imagine his inner turmoil.

‘Papa.’ It was Julien. His utterance betrayed his fear and confusion.

His father spoke softly but firmly to him. ‘Va dans la maison et regardez la télévision.’

The giant’s shoulders slumped and he walked towards his father and the exit behind him without another word or a backward glance.

Jo couldn’t help herself. Maybe she thought her speech had put us in the clear. ‘Where’s he going?’

‘To the house. He should not be here. It will upset him and then he can become difficult.’

‘Upset him?’ Jo was raising her voice at our only way out and I didn’t like it.

‘My son is an imbecile. He has the mind of a child. He understands nothing about the consequences of his actions. If he has done something wrong then it is his brother’s responsibility.’

I tried to give Jo a look to tell her to leave it. I was happy to see the man who nearly snapped my neck leave the building. And it improved our odds, although the longer the stand-off went on the greater I believed our chances of getting out alive and without a fight to be.

Father turned his attention back to Gaston. ‘Do they speak the truth? You have killed in England? Did you have your brother murder for you?’