The Circle Now Is Made (King's Way Book 1) (28 page)

“What the fuc..?”

Before he could utter another sound, Eddy had grasped him by the throat, simultaneously burying his right fist into the pot of soft flesh beneath his belt. Vance gasped for breath as he was dragged by Eddy and the two agile black youths along the coastal path to where the dinghy was moored. The bulk of the contents was cannabis, but there was white powder in waterproof bags beneath the canopy also. The three crew members lay shivering on the bank beside it. Two of the estate hands made short work of unloading the haul into heavy-duty bags so as to clear the inflatable for another cargo: Vance.

“Right, where’s Skuce?” rasped Eddy as he and the twins stripped the fat man to his underclothes and lashed him - face up - to the slatted dinghy bottom.

“I don’t
know
!” protested Vance. “Let me go…I can make you all wealthy…”

“Think I’d believe you?” mocked Eddy, “you wouldn’t let me keep money I won fairly. And even if you meant it, witnessing this would be worth more than your filthy offerings. I'd planned for Skuce to join you, but it looks as if you’re going alone! We’ll sort out another surprise for that rat when he turns up.”

Vance screamed with horror as the three dragged the dinghy into deeper water, then swam with it to the trawler and secured it to the stern. It was an unenviable task in the conditions; but worth every bead of sweat to see Vance tossed like a squealing pig in the choppy sea.

“Have a good time,” chorused the twins, “Send us a card from the Scillies.

“Or the Channel Islands, even… if the fuel holds out!” Eddy turned to the twins and laughed. "With the boat engine running, he won't know he's not moving until dayligh..."

"Men! Along that way!" yelled Duane, who'd been using Eddy's binoculars. "Way up on the edge of the farm fields over there: running away."

"That must be half a mile… uphill!" Eddy gulped. "Are you
sure
?" Duane nodded, at which the group unwittingly set off in pursuit of a farmer recovering a couple of stray Fresians. 

*

  “We’ll find the dogs when it’s light.” Skuce was breathless on his return, minutes later, from a futile search of the eastern end of the bay.  "It wasVance's stupid idea to use those mutts - the dogs
and
the men!" On hearing the Land-Rover engine chugging, he checked the winch. Saw it was in motion. “The dinghy’s being wound in," he called to his companions. "The old man must have started it up!”

“Reckon 'e was disturbed?” asked an accomplice. “Where the fuck's he gone?”

“Look! Idiots!” rasped the shaven-headed thug. “I'll keep an eye on the winch. If you see anyone let me know. Right away…!” Skuce produced a small pistol from his pocket. “... I’ll blow their brains out!”

“No arms, Vance ordered!” yelled one of the men in panic.

“D'you think I'd risk this lot without a gun? - I’d have put a bullet through that pair of ghoulish watchmen but for Vance's stupidity. Now - go and a look round, but hurry back and
let me know!”

The men promptly disappeared into the darkness. Didn’t return. Within minutes Skuce became alarmed. Anxious that they'd disappeared so silently, he peered around the area. By day a haven of beauty and light - by night a labyrinth of rocks and threatening shadows. He left the vehicle to investigate and almost stumbled over the unconscious men. Panicked! He'd never acted alone before. In Skuce's reckoning, solution meant elimination. Questions came last. Isolated by the inky darkness and the magnitude of the situation, he stared desperately around, wondering what course to take. A huge, shadowy figure approached slowly from behind until it towered over him. Fergal was about to seize Skuce when the shrieking laughter of the Mendez twins rang through the storm like distant gulls. Skuce spun to face the immense shadow. Emptied his silenced revolver… but the colossus stood firm. Without even wincing he seized the thug by the throat and squeezed until it crunched like an apple-core in his fist. Skuce fell gasping to the ground, miraculously conscious and still able to attempt escape. But the giant followed. Skuce groveled on all fours. Away from the spectral figure - whining like the cowed dog he was. “Let me go!” he managed, spitting, forcing the words through his blood-gorged windpipe. But Fergal had no intention of letting go. Although in horrific pain, he surged forward. Even at close range only two of the wildly fired bullets had struck him… sunk deeply into his side. He gasped as he took hold of Skuce again. Lifted him into the air like a doll, then dashed him down. Again and again Fergal repeated the action, Skuce trying to cough words from his blood-filled mouth. Trying to plead for mercy. But there was to be no mercy. A vengeful fire burnt in the Irishman’s eyes. He grasped Skuce's wrist. “You’ll never shoot anyone with this arm again!” Fergal knelt and grasped each end of Skuce’s forearm. Snapped it like matchwood across his knee! The splintered bones and torn sinew pushed through Skuce’s waterproofs; blood pumping voluminously from the ruptured arteries. Skuce collapsed across the cable as Fergal limped from the dreadful scene before sinking to the ground. Slowly the cable slid beneath Skuce’s body until the grapple dug into his side, dragging him inexorably towards the winch. Skuce somehow found the presence to attempt a scream, but no scream emerged. He watched in muted horror as the lifeless arm became enmeshed between cable and drum and was reeled slowly in.

A contorted, almost bloodless death mask was found by Eddy and the twins minutes later, staring up from a body huddled grotesquely over the winch. The engine was still chugging, the grapple still revolving, gouging chunks of flesh from the lifeless form as it did so.

 “If ever a fitting death could have been chosen...” said an investigator as the morbid spectacle was photographed in the cold morning light.

Chapter Eighteen

As he waited uneasily near the junction on Bromyard Downs, Greg had no idea how his friends had fared almost twenty-four hours earlier. The heavy feeling in the air made him restless as he shuffled uncomfortably in the Ulster. Already there were signs that the storm which had lashed Cornwall was beginning to whip its tail over the higher ground where he waited: the sky was black as moist winds drove menacing clouds across the sky. Greg had taken the precaution of hiding the drugs in some nearby hedges, wary that a routine patrol car might stop to investigate. The battery on the mobile phone was flat and he'd been wary of making a landline call. With no knowledge as to whether the boat had arrived, and less still of the outcome, he was concerned that the authorities might, at that moment, be out looking for him.

Several vehicles flashed by as he waited, their origins and destinations forever a mystery, but none showed signs of stopping or even slowing, and Greg was beginning to wonder if the exercise wasn’t a waste of time.

“Probably all fallen through,” he muttered wearily to himself after two hours had passed. “They may never be caught now.”

Greg climbed from the car and pulled up his collar before taking a short walk to stretch his legs; they'd grown cold and numb as he’d waited. He took shelter by a hedge and lit a small cigar, in despair of anything happening, when suddenly a battered Mondeo lurched erratically onto the verge almost opposite. Greg inhaled deeply, the shock instantly clearing his sinuses. Adrenalin coursed through his veins and for seconds he ached with tension.

The blue Mondeo! The one that picked Cass up.

He walked slowly towards the vehicle as the sole occupant climbed out, but Greg - almost praying it was the man with the eye-patch - didn’t recognise him. The stranger, a bedraggled young man, didn’t waste time. He looked as tense as Greg felt. Eager to do business and leave.

“Where is it?” he asked abruptly.

“Follow me.” Greg showed similar economy as he led the man to the concealed package, suddenly wondering if any code or procedure was expected. His head swam.
What if he offers money? What if I blow the whole thing? What if he’s armed?
Greg could only play by ear. He remained as uncommunicative as the other man.

“There.” His mouth dry, Greg pointed to the haul, obscured lightly by dead bracken at the foot of bushes. The man took the package.

Greg walked back to the Ulster and climbed in, all the time wondering if more was expected.

Apparently not
.

The man buried the haul in a half-empty feed-sack. Hid it beneath full ones of the same type, and drove away. Greg heaved a sigh of relief as he jumped back into the Ulster and drove to a phone box to dial emergency services. He ignored requests for details and left a message:

“Please don't interrupt!” Greg then gave all the vehicle details and directions and so forth before finishing, “I have to remain anonymous, but I promise you this is
not
a hoax!”

He drove the Ulster quickly to the outbuildings at Wyndham’s cottage, concerned a patrol car might already be on its way. He then settled on the settee to get some sleep, relieved that he'd at last
passed the parcel
.

Wyndham, who’d made tea and was cooking breakfast when Greg awoke, had news. “I seen them blokes you asked me to get rid on. I took Red out 'fore I went to bed, and spotted 'em riding past; came by a time or two.”

"Hopefully they won't present too much of an obstacle now, Wyndham. I'm praying we're rid of our biggest problem!”

Greg went on to explain that he'd to call on Anne McCaffrey that morning. “When that's done I’ll have to hang about here until after dark before I can return to Cornwall: I still feel I’m being watched.”

“What if police are waitin' for you?” asked Wyndham, his first concern being that he was losing his friend.

“I’m praying it’s sorted by now,” said Greg, “though whatever the outcome, I’ll have to face the consequences. I can’t hide forever.”

“I'll miss Red,” said Wyndham dolefully, unable to hide his low spirits. He'd grown fond of the ageing setter, and Greg had been the only friend he’d had who'd not made fun of his disposition.

“Don’t look so down,” comforted Greg, aware of his companion’s dejection, “as I said the other day, once the cafe’s sorted, you must come and help out for a few days.”

Later that morning, Greg met Anne McCaffrey and the solicitor's clerk, and the relevant paperwork was quickly completed. The young man didn’t ask awkward questions, and was, to Greg’s relief, less rigorous than his superior might have been.

“I’m so glad it’s all done with at last.” The old lady sighed as she stood in readiness for Greg to leave. “I can rest now.”

Greg just smiled as be bade her goodbye, aware that her last words were no doubt meant literally, and he breathed a sigh of relief that she would depart unaware of her lover’s duplicity.

As soon as it was dark, Greg wished Wyndham goodbye. "Please remember to make that phone call on time whatever you do. There'll be nothing lost if the call doesn't produce results, but my timing needs to be bang on for the next hour or so. "

"Won't forget nothin'," replied the giant solemnly.

Greg then drove back to the caravan. “A few things I must collect, Red,” he said as he made coffee, after which he  transferred two large, flat packages from the caravan to the Ulster.

"I'll just call to see old Alf before we get under way," he explained to Red as if he was in on the plan. "He's been a good friend and I'll miss him."

After saying goodbye to the ageing farmer, Greg made for the first call box on his way to check on the previous night's outcome.

"God, that's brilliant, Eddy," he said eventually. "There's one more thing I'd like you to arrange... It will involve a lot of driving, but I'll settle up I swear…" 

*

 Greg had no intention of driving straight to Cornwall, and for a good reason, choosing instead to stop first at a pub between Hereford and Ross-on-Wye. Before he went in, he made sure the car tailing had followed him onto the car park, then waited while the driver climbed out and walked jauntily ahead. On entering, Greg stood casually at the bar while the man ordered a drink and took it to a window seat, occasionally glancing out onto the illuminated car park. Greg's suspicions were heightened when the stranger averted his gaze, though self-doubt kicked in immediately: "Am I just getting paranoid?" he muttered before finally taking the plunge.

“Excuse me,” said Greg directly as he walked slowly over to the window seat, “It's been a long time since I was in here, but was this pub once calle…?”

"Sorry." The man raised a hand and grinned. "I only arrived in England yesterday. First visit here - to see relatives.”

"Trust
me!
" said Greg with an embarrassed laugh. "I realized you were Australian the instant you spoke, but then I always manage to find a newcomer when I need directions."