“I don’t mean killing me,” Ash said dismissively. “I know you’re going to do that. You have to. I mean, killing Alice. Because eventually you’ll have to do that, too. Eventually it’s going to be her or you, and when you can’t make her toe the line, you’ll kill her.”
Mickey Argyle slapped his face. That shocked his crew as much as what the dummy had just said. They’d seen Argyle deal with people who crossed him in a number of different ways, involving everything from lump hammers to concrete galoshes. If he’d kicked Ash to a bloody pulp, then cleaned up the mess with a welding torch, they wouldn’t have turned a hair. But he slapped his face. That made it personal, and they struggled with the idea of their boss having personal feelings.
And, a little, with the possibility that the dummy might be right. Fletcher said, “Boss?” uncertainly, as if seeking reassurance.
Argyle didn’t spare him a glance. All his attention was on Ash. He loomed over the man on the ground like a thunderstorm. “Who have you talked to?”
“The reporter—Nye Jackson.”
“Yes. And?”
“Constable Best.”
“Who else?”
Ash considered for a moment. He didn’t expect to walk away from this. If he talked, it would be over fast; if he didn’t, it would take longer. Faster would be easier, but slow held out the faint hope that something might happen. That someone might come to his aid. It was only a very faint hope, but it was the only one he had. He lifted his head to meet Mickey Argyle’s stare. “I may have mentioned it to my dog.”
CHAPTER 27
H
AZEL FELT MORE
human with every mile that passed under the big, comfortable car’s wheels. Not enough to feel equal to whatever lay ahead, perhaps, but enough to try some joined-up thinking.
“I tried to get through to you, sir. I couldn’t. But DI Gorman could?”
Fountain was concentrating on the road. It wasn’t designed for speed, although speed was what they needed. “I switched my phone back on after I left the meeting.”
“I don’t want you to think I went behind your back.”
“You did what you had to do.”
“Yes. There wasn’t much time.”
“Hazel, it’s all right. I’m just glad I was close enough to help.”
“Me, too.” She frowned. “
I’m
glad I wasn’t waiting for the local guys to arrive. They don’t seem to be treating it with much urgency, do they?”
“They’d a long way to come. When I get a minute, I’ll let them know we’ve left.”
Hazel nodded carefully. “I suppose, after ten years, you must know Mickey Argyle better than most people. Well enough to know about this blacksmith’s shop, for instance.”
Fountain shrugged like a bear, hunched over the wheel, reading the road. “A lot of info crosses your desk in ten years. Even if you can’t always use it, you don’t forget it.”
“Do
you
think he’d kill his daughter?”
Fountain risked a brief sideways glance. “God, I hope not!”
“He killed her fiancé. And she must know he did. And
he
must know he’ll never be safe while she’s alive.”
“She
may
be in danger,” conceded Fountain. “But not while you and Rambles are still around.”
“He has Ash and he thinks I’m dead.” She didn’t want to ask, but she had to. “He’s going to kill Gabriel, isn’t he?”
A slightly longer look. “That matters to you, doesn’t it?”
Hazel was taken aback. “Of course it matters! It’s my job to keep him safe.” She refrained, just barely, from adding: “It’s your job, too.”
“I know that. I mean, it’s personal now as well. You’ve become friends. You’ve got fond of him.”
She was about to deny it, when she realized that would be lying. “I suppose I have.” She sounded surprised. “He’s a good man. He’s a
clever
man. Yes, we’ve become friends, but that isn’t really the point. We—the police—would have the same obligations to him if he didn’t have a friend in the world.”
This time he looked her full in the face, for so long that he had to snatch at the wheel as the road came around unnoticed. “All right. Listen to me, Hazel Best, and listen good. When we get to this forge, I will do everything in my power to save Gabriel Ash. But you will stay in the car. There’s nothing you can do to help, and you’ll only put yourself at risk if you try.”
Hazel found herself gaping. “You can’t go in on your own! I’ll call for backup.…”
“I already did,” said Fountain calmly. “While you were out cold. They’ll arrive soon after we do. I’ll be fine. I can look after myself. I can probably look after Ash. I’m not sure I can look after all three of us.”
She bit her lip. “Are you armed?”
“Don’t be silly,” snorted Fountain. “Mickey Argyle isn’t stupid. He can’t murder a chief superintendent and hope to get away with it. He’ll compromise.”
Hazel couldn’t see any room for a compromise. “He’s killed already. We
know
he’s killed already. If we walk away, he doesn’t, and vice versa.”
Fountain sighed. “You have the makings of a good police officer, Hazel, if you’ll just stop seeing everything in black and white. There’s
always
somewhere to compromise. If it’s only giving him five minutes of a head start before I call it in. To a man facing life in prison, a five-minute head start can look pretty attractive.”
“I thought…” She didn’t finish the sentence. “You know, when I got this posting, I was thrilled. I don’t want to embarrass you, sir, but the reason was you—what you’ve achieved in Norbold. It’s remarkable. Ten years ago the town was mired in crime of every variety. Now it’s not. You must be very proud of that. I know Division is.”
Fountain kept looking ahead, concentrating on the road. “You do what you can.”
“If you
could
get Mickey Argyle, it would be a perfect score. The drugs scene would collapse overnight. We’d round up the little-league players who’d try to move into the vacuum, and Norbold would be as close to a crime-free town as anyone’s ever likely to see.”
“If,” grunted Johnny Fountain.
“Of course,” Hazel said quickly. “I’m not underestimating the scale of the task. I mean, you’ve been trying for ten years. You must have tried every trick in the book. You’d almost think the bloody man was fireproof.”
“He’s good at his job.” Fountain shrugged. “As good at his job as I am at mine. He’s been doing it nearly as long. It matters to him as much.”
“Stalemate.”
“I suppose.”
“Today, somebody’s going to lose.”
He flicked her a quick look. But of course she was right. What happens when an irresistible force meets an immovable object is that you find out which of them was all mouth and no trousers.
* * *
What Mickey Argyle didn’t understand was that his threats were meaningless to the man at his feet.
Gabriel Ash had no fear of dying. If the God botherers were right, he might find his family again. Even if they were wrong, it would end his torment. He had nothing left to live for, only the remote chance that one day he might learn what had happened and find those responsible. For four years, not much more than habit had kept him breathing in and out.
It wasn’t that he wanted to die, more that staying alive barely seemed worth the effort. If he’d wanted to die, he could have killed himself. He’d had time and opportunity enough. But if someone was prepared to do the job for him.… It was like clearing out your cupboards because your neighbor has hired a Dumpster. It seemed a waste not to make use of it.
Except … except … there was the dog. Six months ago he hadn’t had a friend in the world, and no one would have mourned his passing. No one except Laura Fry would have noticed, and she’d have filled his slot within the week. (This assessment was both unfair and inaccurate. Laura Fry would not only have grieved for him; she’d have lost sleep wondering if she could have helped him more.) But now there was Patience, and Ash knew she would miss him. She might never find another owner who could hear her.
On top of that, there was Alice. If he died, no barrier remained between Alice Argyle and her father’s self-interest. Argyle wouldn’t harm his daughter until he’d removed every other threat to his safety. But when he realized that the only one left who could bring him down was a young girl—a strong, purposeful girl—grieving for her murdered lover, Mickey Argyle would begin to contemplate the unthinkable.
Gabriel Ash wasn’t afraid of death. He wasn’t afraid of being dead. He wasn’t even afraid of dying. A bit of him thought he deserved to suffer. A bit of him believed, like the witch finders of old, in the redemptive power of pain. He thought—and he knew he could be wrong about this—he could take the worst Argyle could do to him because it still wouldn’t make up for what in his single-minded arrogance Ash had done to his family.
That was the part Argyle couldn’t understand—would never understand. That there were people who had more to worry about than annoying him.
But Mickey Argyle hadn’t got where he was today by quitting at the first hurdle. He looked at Ash angrily, as if the man was being deliberately difficult. “What the blue blinding blazes is
wrong
with you?” he demanded. “Why are you doing this to yourself?”
“I’m not doing it to myself,” mumbled Ash.
His eyes were swollen shut and his lips were broken, the blood sticky on his chin. He was half lying, half propped against the anvil, its iron horns thrust through his bent arms. From the start—and he was no longer sure whether that was minutes or hours ago—he’d been able to do nothing to protect himself. Now he couldn’t even see the blows coming. Sometimes they used fists, sometimes boots, sometimes iron bars. They’d broken several of his fingers—he’d lost count now, though he’d been acutely aware of each as the bone snapped. He’d yelled, but he’d given Argyle nothing. Nothing to make him think there was no point continuing. Somewhere in the cool center of his brain where a fragment of pure personality remained aloof from the pain, Ash was quite proud of that. Less so of the yelling.
“You can stop it.”
“
You
can stop it.”
Argyle scowled. This wasn’t going the way it should. His first instinct was always to blame someone, but in all fairness he couldn’t fault either Fletcher or the Rat for lack of effort. Any more enthusiasm for the job and they’d kill the dummy stone-dead, and before that Argyle needed to know how much Ash knew. How he’d worked it out. Who he’d told, and if any of them were still alive. So he kept asking. He just wasn’t getting any answers.
Soon, Ash wouldn’t be capable of giving him answers even if he wanted to. Argyle needed another approach before it was too late. More leverage.
Unfortunately the girl was dead. Fletcher had described how they’d smashed her into a tree. If they’d grabbed her instead and brought her with them, Ash would have talked. Argyle had shouted at them for that, but his heart wasn’t really in it. He couldn’t have imagined that the dummy would need this much persuasion, either.
The girl … the ghost of an idea crossed Argyle’s angry, murky, conscienceless mind. Suppose he told Ash he’d sent men back to the cottage and his friend was still alive. Suppose he fetched Alice from the blacksmith’s cottage and told her to pretend to be the woman constable. To beg and scream a lot. If Ash could still see, it couldn’t be much, not enough to tell one distraught young woman from another. If he thought they were going to do to her what they’d been doing to him, his resolve would break.
It was getting increasingly difficult to tell Alice what to do.
Then forget the deceit. If Ash was so worried about Alice, Alice would do. Argyle wouldn’t have to hurt his daughter, just frighten her. Just make the dummy think he was hurting her. He’d talk then. He’d answer any questions Argyle could think of.
His hot, angry eyes never leaving the human wreckage at his feet, Argyle growled, “Go get her.”
Pausing, noticeably breathless, Fletcher frowned. “I told you, she’s dead.”
“Not
her.
Alice. Go get Alice.”
The big man’s eyes widened. Stillness held him. “Boss—are you sure?”
For only the second time in this whole violent day, Mickey Argyle struck out. His forearm swung up, knotted fist at its end, until it rapped his lieutenant across the chest. The blow was inconsequential to a man of Fletcher’s scale and profession, but it shocked him nonetheless. If anyone else had hit him, they’d be picking teeth out of their lip by now. He wasn’t going to hit Argyle. But he wasn’t going to forget, either.
He said in a low voice, “All right. Just remember whose idea it was.”
Which made Argyle blink. Fletcher never talked back to him. No one did. He’d have done something about it if he hadn’t had more urgent matters on his mind. And if Fletcher hadn’t already left the forge by the back door.
Argyle nudged Ash with his foot. Even the most scrupulous wouldn’t have described it as a kick. “This is your fault. You remember that. Your fault, not mine.”
“What is?” It wasn’t that he hadn’t been paying attention, or that information was leaking out of his battered brain. He wanted to make Argyle say it.
“What happens next.”
“Which is?”
“That we stop hurting you and start hurting her.”
“Alice. Your daughter.” He said the words as clearly as his broken mouth would allow and gave them time to sink in. “You’re willing to hurt your own child in order to get what you want from me.”
“That’s right.” Argyle leaned forward, the bubble of viciousness he moved in encompassing the man on the floor. “You want to be the tough guy? Let’s see how tough you are with a teenage girl screaming for your help.”
Gabriel Ash said quietly, “So this is how it begins.”
Argyle didn’t understand. “How what begins?”
“How a man sets about killing his own child. To start with, it’s a act. You don’t have to hurt her; you just have to convince me you’re prepared to hurt her. But what if it isn’t enough? Then maybe you do hurt her, just a little bit. A slap or two. Just enough to startle that first scream out of her.
“But what if I still don’t talk?” Ash asked the blurred shape bending over him. “You’re committed now, aren’t you? If slapping her about a bit doesn’t make me want to protect her, maybe cutting her will. Not badly, nothing that won’t heal—just enough to up the ante. Add a bit of blood to the screams. That should do the job, surely?