He had lost his glasses along the way and had to squint at the phone’s screen to make out the right number. He hit the “call” button and pressed the phone to his ear in a hand that, he suddenly noticed, was shaking.
Some of the tension seeped out of him at the sound of Carmichael’s raspy voice.
“Bethancourt?” he said. “Is something up?”
“Yes, sir,” replied Bethancourt. “I’m on Hampstead Heath with Colin James and someone is shooting at us. Or,” he amended hastily, thinking that sounded too dramatic, “at least shooting at
someone.
”
“Have you been hurt?” asked Carmichael, his voice anxious. “Are either of you shot?”
“I don’t think so,” replied Bethancourt, suddenly unsure. “Nothing hurts at any rate, and I don’t see any blood. Are you all right, Colin?”
James simply stared at him incredulously.
“Have you got shelter?” demanded Carmichael. “Where on the Heath are you?”
“By the ponds,” answered Bethancourt. “We haven’t exactly got shelter—we’re behind a bush—but actually I think maybe the shooting has stopped.” He had only just become conscious of this last, realizing that though his body was braced for the sound of more gunshots, it had now been silent for several seconds.
“For God’s sake don’t assume that,” ordered Carmichael, sounding alarmed. “They might just be waiting for you to stick your nose out. Stay down, do you hear me, Bethancourt?”
“Yes, sir,” said Bethancourt, who was being distracted by James shouting for his dog.
“Unless there’s a safer place nearby,” Carmichael amended himself. “Concrete would be preferable.”
“We’re in the middle of a meadow in November,” said Bethancourt. “Concrete is not an option. If you want the truth, sir, I was pretty happy there was a bush.”
“Yes, of course. I’m on my way, Bethancourt. Just hold on.”
Bethancourt rang off just in time to see Churchill pounding up and bounding into James’s outstretched arms. Now even more concerned about Cerberus, Bethancourt risked sitting up and peering around the bush.
“I can’t see,” he said, his voice a little panicky. “Colin, can you see Cerberus? I’ve lost my glasses.”
James extricated himself from under his bulldog and propped himself up to look round the other side of the bush.
“He’s there,” he said. “I don’t know if he’s hurt—he’s lying down, but his head is up and his ears are pricked.”
It was more than Bethancourt could stand. Heedless of Carmichael’s warning, he got up and ran toward his pet, who remained quite still. As Bethancourt approached, Cerberus lifted his chin but did not rise and it dawned on Bethancourt that the borzoi had indeed obeyed his command to lie down and in fact was still obeying it.
“Good lad,” said Bethancourt, coming up. “Good lad, Cerberus. Come.”
And the great dog leaped to his feet, tail wagging energetically, and then reared up to place his front paws on his master’s shoulders. Bethancourt, braced for this, flung his arms around his pet and hugged him.
“Thank God,” he murmured. “Come along, lad.”
It was clear Cerberus understood that something had happened, but having been praised by his master, he seemed content to settle down at Bethancourt’s side.
“Here,” said James, coming up. “I’ve found your glasses. I’m afraid one of the lenses is cracked.”
“Cheers,” said Bethancourt, taking them and settling them on his nose despite this defect. At least he could see clearly out of one eye.
“Do you mind getting out of here now?” said James, glancing around nervously. “I don’t know about you, but I’m suddenly feeling very exposed.”
Bethancourt had to agree. The meadow was deserted now, everyone having fled, and the shadows under the trees had become menacing. In the distance there was the wail of sirens.
“By all means,” he said.
They broke into a jog as they made for the car park, only to be brought up short just before they reached it by dark figures holding powerful torches.
“Police,” announced a voice, and the light struck their eyes, blinding them.
“Splendid,” James greeted them.
“You coming off the green where the shooting occurred, sir?” asked the policeman.
“That’s right,” answered Bethancourt. “We were giving the dogs a run.”
Other policemen came up and they were led into the car park where a number of other people were being interviewed. Bethancourt and James were ushered over to wait their turn.
It all seemed vaguely unreal to Bethancourt, and he was aware of reaction setting in now that the danger was over. His knees were definitely feeling weak and he wanted very much to find someplace to sit down. Instead he lit a cigarette and brushed fruitlessly at the mud and bits of grass that seemed to be ground into the fabric of his coat.
A paramedic approached and asked if they were hurt at all.
“No,” answered Bethancourt.
“Not unless I come down with pneumonia from standing about in the cold,” said James, but his heart wasn’t in it and his tone reflected that.
The paramedic wandered off again.
“It is cold,” agreed Bethancourt.
“It’s being all wet and muddy,” said James, adding sadly, “I’m afraid this coat is done for.”
A uniformed constable with a notebook came over next.
“Do either of you have a motor vehicle here?” he asked.
“A gray Jaguar,” answered Bethancourt. “That’s it, over there.”
The constable looked and wrote something in the notebook.
“Might I see your license and registration documents, sir?”
Silently, Bethancourt produced his wallet and hunted through it until he found his license.
“The documents are in the car glove box,” he said, handing the license over.
The constable nodded and began to copy down Bethancourt’s license information. He was still working at it when Carmichael arrived, trailing detectives in his wake. He brushed the constable aside like a horse swishing its tail at a fly and took charge of Bethancourt and James.
“Give your car keys to Constable Lemmy,” he told Bethancourt, who did so, too spent to even inquire why. “You look pale, lad. Sure you’re all right?”
“I’m all right.”
“I think we had best get you both out of the cold,” said Carmichael. “How on earth did you come to get so wet?”
“It’s been raining for a fortnight,” replied Bethancourt. “You try rolling about on the ground up there.”
“If I might,” said James, “my house is very near here and I have plenty of warm drinks available.”
“Excellent, thank you very much,” said Carmichael at once, almost pouncing on this offer, which seemed to make James smile faintly. “We’ll drive, if you don’t mind. Constable, take down Mr. James’s address and bring Mr. Bethancourt’s car round when they’re done with it here. And,” he added, on the verge of turning away, “be sure you tell Inspector Hollings and Sergeant O’Leary where we’ve gone.” He paused a moment, as if running down a list in his head, and then nodded and ushered his two stray lambs into the police Rover.
Bethancourt was exceedingly glad to sit down. It was a rather tight fit, with himself and James and both dogs, but he would not have cared if he had had to ride with Cerberus in his lap so long as he could relax for a moment or two.
And a moment or two was all it took; James had not lied when he claimed to live nearby. The house was a beautiful early Georgian one, just the sort of place Bethancourt would have imagined James lived in.
James shed his soiled coat almost as soon as he had crossed the threshold, dropping the garment in a heap on the polished floorboards. Bethancourt added his to the pile and then joined James on
the antique hall tree bench to pull off his Wellies while Carmichael waited patiently.
“Sitting room’s through here,” said James, motioning toward a square archway. “Just let me get the light—there. Tea all round?” he added, almost perfunctorily.
“I’d love a cuppa,” said Bethancourt feelingly.
James nodded. “I’ll be back directly,” he said, and left his guests alone in the exquisite room.
“Run over it for me while he’s gone,” said Carmichael quietly when the sound of James’s footsteps had faded. “Were you actually with James when the shooting started?”
Bethancourt nodded wearily. “We hadn’t been walking long,” he said, trying to remember exactly what had been said before the shots. He recapped it as best he could for Carmichael.
“So you never saw the gunman?” asked Carmichael.
“No. I think the shots came from the general area of the trees, but I didn’t notice anyone there before I heard the first shot.”
A shiver ran through him and he shook himself impatiently.
“Did you think the shots were aimed at you?” asked Carmichael.
“I don’t know.” Bethancourt ran a hand through his hair, pushing the heavy fair locks off his forehead. “I didn’t think at all, really. I just yelled for Cerberus to get down and pulled James down on the ground with me.”
“It’s lucky you reacted that way,” said Carmichael, and the praise was clearly heartfelt.
Bethancourt shrugged. “I’ve been in enough shooting parties,” he said. “As soon as I realized it was a rifle shot, the reaction was automatic.”
“A rifle shot,” repeated Carmichael. “You’re sure it was a rifle? Not a handgun?”
Bethancourt paused, thinking it through. “I don’t know,” he said at last. “It sounded to me just like a hunting rifle. But now I come to think of it, I don’t know that I’ve ever heard any other guns fired. Perhaps they all sound the same.”
“Well, we’ll have the answer to that shortly,” said Carmichael. “Ah, here’s our tea. Thank you very much, sir.”
Bethancourt noticed that James looked tired, and once he had set the tea tray down he collapsed with a groan on the sofa.
“Do help yourselves,” he said. “It’s very odd, but I’m quite done in. I expect it’s the aftermath of the adrenaline rush. I don’t think I’ve ever been shot at before.”
Carmichael smiled at this and moved to pour out.
“I’d like to know what you remember of the incident, Mr. James,” he said, handing his host a mug of tea.
“Thank you,” said James automatically, taking the mug while he gazed into the distance and tried to put together an account. Then he sighed and looked slightly ashamed. “I’m afraid I didn’t notice anything,” he said. “We were walking along, watching the dogs and chatting about the Haverford jewels when I heard a loud bang. I didn’t even recognize it as a gunshot.”
“Did you notice the direction the bang came from?” asked Carmichael.
“Oh, yes,” answered James. “It came from the trees up ahead. I looked in that direction just as Phillip here knocked me over and I thought I saw someone there. But I didn’t see him clearly enough to identify, or even to say for certain it was a man.”
Carmichael nodded and began to ask another question when his mobile rang.
“Excuse me,” he said, rising to answer it and moving back out into the hallway to take the call.
Bethancourt and James sat silently for a moment, sipping their tea. Then James’s phone began to ring, and after glancing at the screen, he exclaimed, “Good Lord, it’s Vivian. I have no idea how that woman manages to know everything the moment it’s happened. It’s positively eerie.”
He answered the call and Bethancourt was left to sit quietly by himself in the comfortable corner of James’s sofa and sip his tea in peace. He was grateful for this; he was finding the tea quite reviving, but was not yet ready to take an active part in affairs. But then his own mobile started ringing; when he saw it was Marla, he had a moment, like James, of wondering how on earth she knew what had happened.
“Hullo,” he said.
“Hullo,” she answered. “I’m thinking of going to dinner and having an early night—I’ve got that morning shoot tomorrow. Do you want to meet me at the restaurant?”
And Bethancourt could do nothing but laugh.
The End of a Long Day
G
ibbons knew nothing of all the excitement, though he was rather wondering when Bethancourt would return. As the evening wore on with no sign of his friend, he assumed things were going well and that Bethancourt and James had gone to dinner together. Impatient as he was to hear what Bethancourt would have to say, he was pleased that he apparently was ingratiating himself successfully.
Nurse Pipp looked in before she left for the night.
“Still up, are you?” she asked with a smile.
Gibbons was at first surprised, then struck by this remark.
“It’s true, isn’t it?” he said. “I’m usually asleep when you leave. I don’t know you’re gone till the night nurse comes in later.”
She nodded. “But you’re looking better tonight,” she said. “There’s finally some color back in your cheeks.”
“I feel better,” declared Gibbons. “The pain’s still there, but it’s not as bad as before. And I don’t feel so muzzy-headed.”
“Well, I don’t mind telling you the doctor’s very pleased with your progress,” she said. “I think when he sees you tomorrow, he might even set a date for your release.”
Gibbons’s eyes got very bright. “Really?” he said. “Oh, God, that would be heaven.”
“We’ll see. Don’t get your hopes too far up,” she warned him. “I said ‘set a date’ not ‘let you go home tomorrow.’”
Gibbons grinned at her. “I know,” he answered. “And you mustn’t think I’m not grateful for all your ministrations. But it’s not really awfully comfortable here.”
Nurse Pipp laughed. “I know,” she said. “I’ve had enough patients tell me so. Well, I must get on—have a good night.”
Gibbons let her go, leaning back contentedly on his pillows and dwelling happily on the prospect of going home.
He had dozed off by the time Bethancourt finally appeared, but woke at once at the sound of Cerberus’s nails on the tile.
“There you are,” he said, blinking sleepily. “Did it—what happened to you?”
Bethancourt, who looked very tired and very dirty, sank into one of the armchairs and stretched out his legs while Cerberus lay down beside him with a great
whoof.
“There was an incident,” he replied. “Someone let loose with a hunting rifle on Hampstead Heath. It rather looks like they were aiming at James and I.”
Gibbons gaped at him. “What?” he demanded.
“You heard me,” said Bethancourt, taking off his glasses and rubbing at his eyes. “I’ve been holed up at Colin’s house with Carmichael for the past four hours. Thank God they agreed to let us order in some food.”
“Was anybody hurt?” asked Gibbons, running his eyes over his friend’s lanky frame, but finding no sign of anything more serious than possibly some bruises.
“No, amazingly enough,” replied Bethancourt, replacing his glasses and blinking. “Damn, but it’s aggravating only being able to see properly out of one eye.”
“I thought it looked like one of your lenses was cracked,” said Gibbons sympathetically. “And it looks as if you’ve been rolling around on the ground.”
“So I have,” said Bethancourt dispiritedly. “I don’t recommend it.”
“No, of course not,” said Gibbons. “Do tell me what happened, Phillip—I’m bursting here.”
“I did tell you,” retorted Bethancourt. “Someone—as yet unidentified—took a couple of shots at me with a rifle on Hampstead Heath. Why, I have no idea. I wasn’t doing anything, and neither was James. We were just walking along while James told me he doubted the Haverford jewels would ever be seen again and I wondered if that was because he’d stolen them when some idiot started in with the rifle. I fell flat, taking James with me, and we got behind the nearest bush. Then the shooting stopped, we got up, collected the dogs, and went off to meet the police.”
“I see,” said Gibbons, trying to contain his impatience. “How did you end up at James’s house with Carmichael?”
“That was Carmichael’s doing,” answered Bethancourt. “He turned up and took us off—and I was damned grateful for it, by the way. I was bloody well freezing to death in a soaking overcoat in a car park in November.”
“I’m sure it was very uncomfortable,” agreed Gibbons impatiently. “What did the police find out? Carmichael must have told you something.”
Bethancourt thought for a moment. “They found the rifle,” he offered. “Oh, and apparently several people had noticed the chap because he was carrying a cello case. Or maybe it was a double bass, I can’t remember. I think a bass seems more likely—most rifles are longer than a cello now I come to think of it.”
“Finding the rifle would be important,” said Gibbons dryly. “I take it you’re trying to tell me the shooter concealed the gun inside a double bass case? And presumably the police found both items where he left them when he fled?”
“Well of course,” said Bethancourt irritably. “Why on earth should I be going on about musical instruments otherwise?”
Gibbons regarded him silently for a moment
“I don’t think,” he said, “that being shot at agrees with you very well.”
“That’s the understatement of the year,” agreed Bethancourt with feeling. “To be perfectly frank, I loathed it.”
“At least you didn’t get hit,” retorted Gibbons. “Some of us haven’t been so lucky.”
“Just because it could have been worse doesn’t mean I have to approve of the way it was,” said Bethancourt, and Gibbons had to pause to work out exactly what he meant.
“Oh, really,” he said, once he had it. “You are in a mood, aren’t you? Never mind—let’s get back to what happened. How many shots were there?”
“I thought there were dozens,” said Bethancourt, “but in fact there were only three. The police found the casings, and then dragged James and I back up to the Heath so we could show them where we were standing when we heard the first shot. Then we had to wait around while they traced the trajectory. They found the first bullet—or at least
a
bullet—in a tree on the other side of the meadow and the SOCKO chap said it looked very much as if our man had been aiming for me or James. I’m exceedingly glad he was a lousy shot.”
“So am I,” said Gibbons. “You didn’t see the gunman yourself, then?”
Bethancourt shook his head. “There were several people about,” he said, “but I didn’t see anyone carting a double bass around.”
“Still, you said there were other witnesses,” said Gibbons thoughtfully.
“But not much of a description yet,” said Bethancourt. “Just a young man of average height in a dark coat and cap. What people noticed was the bass case.”
“Could be the chap I was following on Tuesday night,” said Gibbons, and Bethancourt nodded.
“Could be,” he said.
Gibbons was silent a moment, turning it all over in his mind.
“So what do you think, Phillip?” he asked at last. “Do you think this was a setup by James to avert suspicion from himself?”
Bethancourt shrugged. “It could have been,” he said. “Particularly as no one was actually harmed. Frankly, I can’t imagine why anyone would want to shoot either of us otherwise. James was telling me that the jewelry seems to have disappeared altogether, and Lord knows I don’t have an idea in the world that would incriminate anybody. On
the other hand, Carmichael and the others seemed very sure they’d find the man in short order.”
“There is that,” said Gibbons. “He must be all over the CCTV footage, and it won’t be hard to pick out a man running about Hampstead Heath with a bass case.” He thought a moment. “If I were going to try to bring something like that off,” he said, “I’d be out of the country by now—it would be the only way to avoid getting caught.”
“James would realize that, of course,” said Bethancourt. “Well, I suppose we’ll know soon enough, one way or the other. Either they’ll catch the bloke in the next day or two, or they won’t.”
“Even if they don’t,” warned Gibbons, “it doesn’t mean Colin James
is
guilty, only that he might be.”
“And even if he is guilty, it doesn’t necessarily follow that Davies is his accomplice,” said Bethancourt. “I know, I know. I’m feeling very discouraged by the whole thing.” He yawned.
“Reaction, I expect,” said Gibbons. “You go home and tuck yourself up in bed with a drink and a nice book and you’ll feel right as rain in the morning.”
“I think I will,” said Bethancourt, a little apologetically. “I’m done in, I’m afraid. Besides, I need to smoke—I haven’t had nearly enough cigarettes in the past four hours.”
“Take yourself off then,” said Gibbons. “I’ll probably fall asleep again soon anyhow. Ring me when you wake up in the morning.”
“Will do,” said Bethancourt, regaining his feet with an effort. “Come along, Cerberus. Good night, Jack.”
But Gibbons did not fall asleep once Bethancourt had gone, though he turned off the light and arranged himself as comfortably as possible. Instead he lay staring out into the darkness, watching the pattern the streetlights outside made on the wall, and thinking over everything.
As Bethancourt and Gibbons wished each other a good night, Carmichael was standing in a chill wind on Hampstead Heath. The SOCKOs had brought out powerful flood lamps and were busy
examining the ground beneath the trees where the rifleman had stood. Others were shooting laser beams through the darkness to estimate the trajectory of the bullets. They had dug two of them out of the trees on the farther side, but the third was proving elusive. The two trajectories they had thus far traced, however, went more or less through the spot where Bethancourt and James had been standing, leaving little doubt as to the shooter’s target.
Why, was a harder question. Both James and Bethancourt claimed to know nothing that could possibly give anyone a motive for doing away with them. And if James was innocent of stealing the Haverford jewels, it was difficult to see a motive. On the other hand, if James were in possession of the jewels it was a very different story. Carmichael’s eyes narrowed as he contemplated this possibility.
His mobile rang and he answered it quickly.
“Public relations has got their statement ready for the ten o’clock news,” reported Inspector Davies. “And the communications center has already brought the fellow up on CCTV. Nothing good enough for an ID yet, but they’re working on it.”
“Good work,” said Carmichael. “We ought to get something out of that. What about the rifle?”
“It’s registered to a Gerald McSweeney,” answered Davies. “Address in Mayfair. Sergeant O’Leary has gone off with a couple of uniforms to make inquiries.”
“It’ll be a miracle if we can clear it up that quickly,” said Carmichael.
Davies agreed. “I’m afraid so,” he said, “but it had to be followed up.”
“Yes, of course,” said Carmichael. “Well, I’m nearly finished up here, as soon as they come up with the third damn bullet. There’s no doubt who our lad was shooting at.”
“I didn’t think there would be,” responded Davies glumly. “I’ve never seen such a case, sir. I keep wondering what we’ll have next: Bombs? Perhaps a grenade launcher?”
“At least no one got hurt this time,” said Carmichael. “All right, Inspector. Ring me if you find out anything more.”
“Will do, sir,” said Davies, and rang off.
Davies was right, of course, reflected Carmichael. It was incredible to have a crime committed with an untraceable handgun, and then to have the culprit commit a second crime with a registered hunting rifle.
“Chief Inspector,” someone called, and Carmichael turned to see Vivian Entwhistle, Colin James’s secretary, coming toward him across the green. She had arrived at James’s house earlier, at about the same time as O’Leary and Lemmy had turned up with the witness statements, and had at once begun to shower James with silent criticism. Carmichael had quite liked her.
“Yes, Miss Entwhistle?” he said once she came up beside him. “Do you have something for me?”
“I believe I do,” she answered, proffering a large manila envelope. “In there,” she continued, “are several threatening letters Mr. James has been receiving over the past few months. The first one I opened and handled, but the rest I have worn gloves while inspecting, and have placed them into individual plastic bags at once.”
Carmichael frowned as he took the envelope and peeked into it. “This should have been reported at once,” he said.
“I know,” Vivian replied. “Mr. James refused to let me contact the police on the grounds that the letters were merely cranks. I disagreed with him, but I am in his employ and did not feel I could override his decision. So I merely kept the letters. When you read them, I think you’ll see why I was alarmed.”
“Do they threaten anything specific?” asked Carmichael.
“No.” Vivian shook her head. “They accuse Mr. James of harming the letter writer’s loved ones, and two of them accuse him of murder. They promise retribution, but do not specify what form it will take.”
Carmichael nodded, and tucked the envelope securely under his arm. “Thank you for coming to me with this, Miss Entwhistle,” he said. “I’ll read them as soon as I’m done here, and then give them to the forensics team to work on. This may prove very helpful indeed.”