Текст книги "A Spider in the Cup"

Автор книги: Barbara Cleverly

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Текущая страница: 15 (всего у книги 23 страниц)

CHAPTER 18

The Riley slid over into a passing place and skulked unseen, shaded by the low-hanging boughs of a larch tree with which it blended perfectly. The driver tipped the peak of his grey tweed cap down over his forehead, funnelling his gaze directly at the Maybach Zeppellin yards ahead of him on the road. He found the packet of Woodbines he’d bought in Chelsea. They’d somehow seemed appropriate to the old banger he was driving. The ashtray was full of stinking old stubs. The owner, whoever he was, must be wheezing like a squeeze box. He took out a cigarette and lit it. Just a local man who’d pulled over to have a quiet smoke in a lay-by, if anyone was asking. He puffed twice and chucked it out of the car window in disgust.

The motor had been easy to nick. Piece of cake. He’d walked around the car park of a modest commercial hotel just off Oxford Street and spotted this unremarkable grey job conveniently parked with its nose pointing out to the street. Couldn’t be doing with that hot-wiring rubbish—he had the technique all right but he was no tuppenny ha’penny car thief. He’d just sneaked unseen into the hotel, nipped into the lift and gone up to the first floor. A minute later he’d clattered breezily down the stairs calling out a greeting to the dozy night clerk who’d looked up, startled, and anxiously checked the clock, waiting for his relief.

“Can you let me have the keys to my car? Left my shaving tackle in the boot. There they are—second row down.” He pointed. “The Riley.” He gave the registration number. Naw! No need to bother the valet. I don’t want him poking about in my boot.”

It would be some time before they sorted that lot out. With a bit of luck, he’d have replaced the car before anyone was even aware it had gone missing.

The occupants of the car in front had no eyes for anyone who might be following them in such god-awful countryside, he reckoned. Back of beyond. Medieval England out here. Only locals would want to be cruising about in these lanes and they were probably all still driving horse-drawn rigs. No, their problems were all in front of them. The big black car had pulled abruptly to a halt and now sat there motionless, filling the road. What was happening?

Ah—there he was again. The third man—the one in the panama hat with a pink-and-purple band around the crown. He’d caught an occasional glimpse of him on the back seat on the road out of London. There wasn’t much to be seen through that narrow slit of a back window those cabriolets had and the Riley driver wondered why they would choose to leave the hood up on a glorious day like this one. He immediately answered his own question. The man keeping his head down should perhaps have chosen a more discreet form of headgear if he wanted to avoid being noticed. That spanking white straw with flamboyant colours that shrieked posh Rowing or Racing Club made a statement. And what it was saying was: here sits money and influence. Boss man, clearly. Woken up by the sudden stop? He was giving the orders as, immediately afterwards, both front doors burst open, fouling the steep banks on either side and the two fedoras struggled out. They looked angrily ahead of them and began to shout at the uniformed constable who was strolling forward from the bridge to speak to them. Through the open window of the Riley the conversation was perfectly audible. The London men’s loud demands to know what the hell was going on were confidently answered by the large florid bobby in his ponderous Saxon voice.

“Absolutely no access to the bridge, sir … dangerous condition … couldn’t guarantee safe passage over it. Especially with such a heavy vehicle. Was never built to accommodate such weights and the modern motor it was that accounted for the collapse in the first place. We’re advising traffic bound for Dunsford to approach from the south as a precaution.”

A diversion was offered with a large gesture. “Only five minutes out of your way and a clear road through to the village. Where did you say you were going, sir?”

They ignored his polite question and, fuming and chuntering, the two men got back into the car, wrestled the doors free and thundered off in the direction indicated, managing a Maybach backfire of alarming proportions as they passed the constable.

He grinned with delight at the compliment, shook his head and watched them on their way for a minute or two. Then he picked his bicycle up out of the ditch and wobbled off in the same direction.

The Riley driver looked at a map, smiled, got out and inspected the road ahead. He moved the diversion sign back into the hedge to occupy the place where bent, yellowed grasses showed it had been recently parked. A bobby out here on a Saturday morning? Supervising the unnecessary re-blocking of a road? Someone with local clout, then, and a damn good information service, and very likely an address in Dunsford, was taking steps to postpone enjoying the company of the Maybach boys. He shook his head and smiled. The poor clowns had no idea they were expected. Or who was expecting them. But this changed his game plan.

He got back into the car. He calculated he stood to gain ten minutes on the Maybach. Never comfortable operating in unknown territory, he liked at least to know he’d got the drop on the other lot. He briefly settled the .22 pistol more comfortably in his shoulder holster and drove across the bridge.

CHAPTER 19

The Maybach crunched its way over the gravel, backed up and parked at some distance from the front door. Two men got out and stared around them. Their startled jump, at the sudden peal of a stable bell, betrayed their tension.

The expression of the butler who answered the tug on the doorbell was one of polite puzzlement. He was in uniform but the enveloping green canvas apron stained with silver polish, duster hastily tucked into capacious front pocket, spoke of an unforeseen call on his time. He looked from one man to the other and seemed about to give them the frosty “The house does not welcome unannounced callers” speech he reserved for religious fanatics and shoelace salesmen. Until he caught sight of the Maybach. A butler can judge the status of a visitor faster than the editor of Debrett from a glance at his hat and his motor vehicle. Pearson evidently had a problem. Fedoras and foxy faces would normally be sent round to the tradesmen’s side door to run the gauntlet of housekeeper and cook but the foreign car spoke of wealth and power.

He decided to play this one into the ground and wait for a further sample of their bowling.

“Gentlemen?” He raised his eyebrows. “Are you expected?” Into the sullen silence that greeted this, Pearson hurried on with his prepared speech: “I do beg your pardon but the shooting party assembled yesterday and everyone went off to the lake at dawn. You’ve missed them.”

A ragged burst of shots could be just heard in the distance as the bells fell silent. The butler allowed himself a playful smile and cupped a hand to his ear in a stagy way to draw attention to it. “Duck on the menu, I’d say. All the gentlemen are down there in the woods. The ladies are in the kitchen potting strawberry jam. Are there just the two of you, sir?” He stepped across the threshold and glanced enquiringly at the Maybach. “Have you brought your man with you or is he coming down by train?”

“We’re not here to pot birds,” Onslow said. “Or jam. And there are just the two of us.” They produced their warrants. “Inspector Onslow and Sergeant Cummings, Special Branch.”

“Specials, eh?” The cards were taken from them, spectacles fished out of the front pocket and adjusted on nose. The cards were subjected to an attentive examination. “Harold Pearson, butler. At your service, sir.”

“Well, buttle then!” Onslow was growing impatient. “We’re here to see the boss.”

“Your boss or mine, may I ask?”

“Ours. The Assistant Commissioner.”

“Ah!” The butler seemed to relax. “That makes sense. Mr. Sandilands is indeed in residence—but I do wonder if he is expecting to see you? He gave no indication. He’s gone off to the shoot.”

“He’s not expecting us but he’ll be very glad we’re here.” He tapped the side of his nose. “That’s the name of our game—urgent and hush, hush.” He looked about him, eager to be off. “All you have to do, my man, is stop asking questions we’re not going to answer, point us in the right direction to find him and we’ll be on our way.”

“I’m sorry, sir.” Pearson shook his head. “That won’t be possible.” Seeing the men’s shoulders flex ominously, he was quick to add, “For your own safety. House rules. No one may just step unannounced into a duck shoot already in progress.” He lowered his voice. “Will we ever forget the unfortunate occurrence in ninety-two when Admiral Henshaw most unwisely loomed, unflagged, over the horizon? No—you too risk having your fore topgallant shot off.”

“How many guns out there?” Onslow cut through the butler’s jovial verbiage.

“How many?… Oooh … five shot guns and as many rifles I should say. They’re driving the far lake this morning. East bank. Taking the long reach from south to north. Except for one of the guests who has elected to fish the near lake. The American gentleman.” Pearson’s face melted into an expression of pitying amusement. “Though how he expects to catch anything with that racket going on a mile away, I can’t imagine. Trout do not take kindly to being disturbed. Sensitive creatures.”

“Probably just wants a bit of peace and quiet,” Onslow murmured. “Got sick of the conversation. We’ll try not to bother him. All by himself is he?”

“Yes, indeed!” Pearson seemed to approve his perception. “As well as his fishing tackle he did take out a rug, a fishing hat and a bottle of pink wine with him. And called for an Alexandre Dumas novel from the library. I’m not seriously expecting cook will be presented with much in the way of a fish course this evening but we may well be treated to a revelation of the identity of the Man in the Iron Mask.”

Onslow’s face tightened in concentration as he sieved the nuggets he needed from this swirl of information. The brief details of the armament in play and its disposition seemed gratifying to him. “Sounds like a lively scene out there in the greenwood,” he sneered. “We’ll keep our heads down. We’re used to dodging bullets.”

“Ah! So I understand!” Pearson was almost waggish. He allowed himself the intimacy of returning Onslow’s nose-tapping gesture. “A necessary skill in the Branch. All the same—if you’ll permit me, sir, I’ll go ahead of you and signal your passage through. Wouldn’t want you to be mistaken for interlopers. There’s a quick way through the stables and past the laundry cottages.”

Cummings looked questioningly at Onslow who, after a moment’s reflection, nodded.

Harold Pearson whisked the large and vividly yellow polishing cloth from his pocket, presumably intending to use it to signal with, and set off to walk ahead of them. “Follow me, gentlemen.”

He stayed his step abruptly, affecting to catch sight of the Maybach, and turned to them with an expression of playful reproof. “Oh my word! Black car, left standing in full sunshine? Any chocolates, flowers or springer spaniels in the back, perhaps? Careless guests have had disasters in the past …” Alarmed by the furious look Onslow threw at him and disconcerted by the abrupt way he rounded on him, blocking his sight of the car, the butler murmured, “If you’ll be so good as to hand me your keys, sir, I’ll park it under the cedar or in the garage if you prefer. It would be my normal practice.”

“I’ll go check the motor,” Onslow gritted to his friend, ignoring Pearson’s outstretched hand. He left Cummings listening to a burbling account of the near death in similar circumstances of her ladyship’s poodle in ’22 or was it ’23 … that long, hot summer. He climbed in, started the engine and moved off smoothly, driving the car to park in the deep shade of a tree, facing out to the open gates.

He returned and announced, “Nothing melting in the back but I wouldn’t want the upholstery to bleach in the sun. It’s the best leather.”

“Indeed!” Pearson said, approving. “Such a splendid motor deserves care.”

“You’re not wrong, mister. Now—shall we trot on?”

Judging from the quality of the steely glint in Onslow’s eye that the moment had come to stop wasting time, the butler sighed, gave a slight ironic bow and trotted on.

ONCE THEY WERE clear of the outbuildings and sheltered from the breeze, the valley drew them down into its green folds, intoxicating with its woodland scents of blossom, herbs and wild garlic. Birds of many kinds set up a cacophony of warning songs following their progress along the track. The well-drained soil was dry and resilient underfoot, the pathway drumming slightly under the heels of the men’s tough brogues. When Pearson turned to smile encouragement he noticed that the two strangers were looking about them, taking in their surroundings, assessing the steepness of the banks under the beech trees and the thickness of the leaf canopy, judging the direction of the shots in the woodland ahead. Checking their bearings. The very professional reaction of killers on unfamiliar territory. Supremely confident? Or ruthlessly uncaring? Pearson shuddered in spite of the buffets of warm air rising from the hot earth.

He was letting a tiger loose at a children’s picnic.

“I swear,” Onslow muttered to his companion, “if he waves that bloody duster over his head once more I’ll drop ’im!” He bridled at a sound he heard in the stand of trees to his right. “Someone up there?” he called to Pearson.

“Probably not … We’re still a good mile away from the scene of operations, sir. That would be a ring dove, I expect. Noisy blighters!” Pearson picked up a stone from the path and lobbed it with a cricketer’s skill at the tallest tree. To his relief a ring dove obliged him by fluttering out with an aggrieved squawk. He reminded himself that in India prowling tigers had their progress telegraphed ahead by the warning bleats and whistles of other wild creatures. Were his companions aware? He flung another glance back at the pair moving sinuously along the path in their black hats and dark city suits and decided: no, he’d got it wrong. This was a cobra he was ushering in.

“We’re approaching the smaller of the two lakes,” he announced. “The trout lake. Two more bends in the path and we’ll get a sight of it from above. It’s quite hard to see, you’ll find. Hawthorn, azaleas, rhododendrons are all low-growing over the water. Wonderful for the insects the fish feed on, of course. They say we’ve had an exceptional hatch of mayfly this season. Even an American should be able to come home with something in his creel at the end of the day.”

“And the guns—duck shooters? How much farther on?”

“Fifteen minutes’ walk. No more than that.”

The two men looked at each other for a moment. Onslow’s face twisted for a second in a grimace of satisfaction and then he nodded at his companion.

“Right then, in that case, I think we’ll say goodbye and thanks very much, Mr. Pearson. We can find our own way from here.”

“Oh, but—”

“No need for buts. Just let us do our job, will you? We’ll take good care not to show our—what was it? Topgallants?” And, finally dropping all attempt at civility: “Now you and your bloody duster—dismiss!”

Scandalised and offended, Pearson opened his mouth and closed it. Then with a touch of truculence: “Very well, sir. Have a good day at the shoot. I’ll be getting back to my pantry. Fifteen minutes walk, that’s all.” He turned and started to make his way back down the path.

The men waited until he was out of sight round the bend then they took their revolvers from their holsters—Onslow his Colt, Cummings his Luger—and, holding them discreetly at the ready by their sides, moved off towards the small lake.

Onslow caught sight of him first.

He stayed Cummings with a hand on his arm and silently pointed ahead and to the left. They stared at the figure reclining in a patch of shade under a tall tree not far from the water’s edge, checking the details. Fishing tackle lay abandoned several feet away. He was lying on his back on a tartan rug beside a wicker hamper, bottle of wine in a silver chiller, wine glass at the ready, open copy of a yellow-backed French novel spread over his chest. “Huh! Very nice for some!” Onslow’s comment was expressed silently by his eyebrows in an exchange of glances with Cummings.

They surveyed the fisherman for a while, noting how very still he lay, his feet at an odd angle, his jacket and shirt unbuttoned. His face was completely covered by a fishing hat of ancient design.

Onslow made no move. His senses were telling him there was something wrong here. For a start, this didn’t look much like the American senator. It was a dapper figure he’d had a good close look at back in London. Well dressed. This was more like a tramp. It could be anybody. He took a neat pair of racing glasses from his pocket and focussed on the sleeping figure. Right height, he would have thought, though it was always hard to judge when a bloke was lying stretched out. He tracked along the body, did a double take, and ranged the glasses back again to the feet in disbelief. Were those carpet slippers on his feet? Surely not?… Bloody were! The glasses moved on. Lumpy trousers … top half like an unmade bed. Tweed hat for a face.

He turned his attention to the wine. Rosé de Tavel apparently. One glass drunk, judging by the level in the bottle. He checked the title of the novel on the man’s chest. L’homme au masque de fer, he made out. Dumas. So far the bleedin’ butler had it spot on. Still … Onslow had once made a mis-identification early in his career with disastrous consequences. Once. In his job, no one ever fouled up a second time. They watched on.

The sharp warning call of a blackbird very close by made the men start. They shrank back into the shadows instinctively as the man they were watching pushed the hat away, grunted, sat up, moved his book aside and surveyed the tree-line—challenging, taking his time, searching for the source of the disturbance. He checked his watch and yawned. Reassured by what he saw or didn’t see, he rolled himself up in his rug, pulled the hat back down over his eyes and wriggled himself comfortable.

Onslow smirked with satisfaction and relief and slipped the glasses back into his pocket. This was Kingstone all right. No mistaking that ugly mug. He flashed a double thumbs-up to Cummings. Positive identification.

They spent some more time watching their target and his surroundings, looking, listening and sniffing the air with the quiet but tense calm of a predator. Waiting to allow any discordant notes to snag at their attention. None did. The sounds of the duck shoot—irregular crack of the guns, beaters calling—were reassuring to their ears. The idiots were providing perfect cover for their activities. One more shot ringing out would be neither here nor there and would be disregarded even if registered by the sportsmen down at the big lake. And if any nosey parker decided to follow it up—he would be … how far away had the butler said? Fifteen minutes? They’d be long gone by then. Firing up the Maybach, reporting success. Next stop the Bookie’s for a celebratory flutter.

They nodded silently at each other, satisfied that their quarry was in their grasp and this was the right moment to move in on him.

But the trickiest part of the deal was the guarantee that the boss had extracted from them—that they would arrange the man’s death to look like a suicide. The bloke had been under pressure, deserted by his girl, and this was a credible cause of death that would be seized on by the authorities. “No scandal welcome at a time like this,” they’d been briefed. “The powers in the land will opt gratefully for the least sinister interpretation. They won’t even want to know you’ve been there. You can pin your calling card to the front door if you like—they’ll ignore it. You’ll be straight in and out, no questions asked.”

Plan A had been to brazenly address themselves to Sandilands and deliver a message to Kingstone, the man he was covering. Flush him out, get him away from the Yard man and into the car. Then take off fast and do what you have to do, where it’s safe to do it. That simple. The alluring message was so compelling, the American bloke wouldn’t be able to resist taking the bait, apparently. Onslow had his doubts about that. He’d taken the trouble to read it. Not an invitation that would have got him hot under the collar. Still, it took all sorts … He was expected to use his initiative and he was, with some pride, beginning to fancy himself the angler in this murky little pool. The lure remained in Onslow’s breast pocket, unused. In reserve.

He wasn’t put out. Plan B was working out very well. Better. It had the advantage of not requiring him to lock horns with Sandilands. He’d never had the pleasure but he didn’t care much for the man’s reputation. And this way, there’d be no risk of blood all over the Maybach’s cream leather upholstery.

No need to check his gun, all was well prepared in advance. He’d practised with the American model the senator was known to possess. A Colt Pocket Hammerless .32. Easily concealed. Onslow, who always used a Smith and Wesson .38, rather despised it. Still, if it was good enough for Al Capone and John Dillinger and several army generals, it should do the job. And it only seemed right that a Yank should be killed by a Colt. Pity the papers would never get hold of the story. Just up their street. Onslow was holding the gun that would fire the killing shot and be left—after a quick going over with a hanky—clamped in the senator’s hand. Then they’d search the body and remove the victim’s own gun. Chuck it in the lake.

Onslow smiled as a further sweet touch occurred to him. He’d pour the remaining wine into the lake and leave the empty bottle by the body to tell its tale. “Dutch courage,” they’d call it. Drank himself stupid to get up the nerve to top himself. He thought for a moment. Pity it wasn’t scotch. Could anybody polish off a whole bottle of that pink stuff? Was that believable? He decided that since it was June and a hot day and the feller wasn’t English it would probably wash.

With a final confirmatory nod the pair moved silently down the path, glad of the cover of fifty yards of thick rhododendrons that shielded them perfectly from the senator’s sight and hearing.

Coming out into the dappled sunlight of the lake shore, they paused, sparing a few moments to allow their vision to adjust to the new light, then, eyes to the ground watching out for tree roots, they moved a few yards distant from each other and approached the still recumbent figure. He hadn’t moved. Flannelled legs wrapped in his rug with his feet sticking out … couldn’t be better. He wasn’t likely to spring up and grab them by the throat from that position. Hat still over head … he wouldn’t see them approach. Not until the moment Onslow snatched it off and shoved in his gun barrel. Kingstone’s last sight of the world would be four inches of blue-steel gun barrel ramming into his eye socket.

Cummings moved up, poised to throw his weight in a restraining hold on the victim’s legs the moment Onslow’s left hand dropped its signal.

It dropped. Cummings sank down sideways across the shins and grabbed the feet. The tweed hat whirled across the glade, thrown with pent-up energy by Onslow’s left hand. The gun barrel in his right dropped to the victim’s left eye at the same moment. Onslow’s coarse oath was obliterated by the blast of his gun as the bullet ripped through the face below.

“Bloody hell! What have you done?” Cummings struggled to his feet, spluttering, to find Onslow cursing and fighting for breath, his face and head covered in dust and fragments of straw whirling from the destroyed features. They gazed down in disbelief at the mess. And sucked in deep breaths as, with a second shock to the nervous system, each man felt the cold application of a gun barrel, grinding into the nape of his neck.

“Drop it! Well, what do you know! We carry the same gun!” said a cheerful American voice. “That was quite a demonstration. Text book assassination! My left eye was that? Ouch! Don’t tell me—I guess I was meant to have just killed myself?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “After all that sound and fury I don’t need to impress you with an explanation of what will happen if I pull this trigger. Flesh, blood and bone will join the sawdust in the atmosphere. Yup, sawdust! We found our battered friend here on duty scaring crows in the pea field and enlisted his help. I think with a bit of attention, some needle and twine, he might just live to fight another day, but you won’t if you so much as twitch an eyebrow. How’s your feller, Sandilands? Coming quietly?”

“Disarmed and quiet enough.” The voice was calm with a thread of amusement. “The pistol I’m holding under his ear is my Browning. It makes an even bigger hole than a Colt. I think Mr. Cummings knows that.” Joe had listened to Kingstone’s outburst with relief. If ever a man deserved his short moment of triumph, this one did. It had taken some guts to stake himself out yet again there on the forest floor, depending on a bunch of ill-prepared and untested new friends to step in at the right moment. Joe called into the shrubbery: “Marcus! Cuffs!”

A third man emerged from the shrubbery. He kicked both guns away to a safe distance and with steady hands slipped police cuffs on to both men, their arms behind their backs.

Kingstone went to peer into Onslow’s face. “Not often a man gets to see the expression in the eyes of his killer as he pulls the trigger. There wasn’t one, Joe. He could have been filleting a fish. Can we get rid of this garbage?”

“It was him and then it wasn’t him. They did it while we were behind those bloody bushes … Swapped over!” Cummings’ voice was rising in hysteria. “You thick shit! They knew we were coming! Place is swarmin’ with ’em! You led us straight into it!”

“Shut your face!” Onslow advised.

Angry, near to panic and non-plussed by the sudden reversal in their fortunes, the two agents stood panting and glowering at their opponents. The un-dead American was grinning at them, the second man—the butler—still wearing his cleaning smock, now appeared to be answering to the name of Sandilands. What the hell? This figure collected up the discarded pistols carefully by the barrel using his duster and slid them into his capacious front pocket.

“You know, Kingstone,” he said amiably, “I really must get myself one of these garments. They cover a multitude of sinful protuberances. Speaking of which, I’ll have your bunch of keys, Mister Onslow. I’m looking forward to passing a fine-tooth comb over your upholstery. And may we also relieve you of your wallets, gentlemen?” He patted down both men with practised hand, removing their possessions. “Not much to go on. Two warrant cards of some interest, racing glasses, small change and two fivers each. A meagre haul.” The objects went into his pocket. “I’d call it a professional pre-hit strip-down. Nothing incriminating. What’s this?” He extracted a folded piece of paper from Onslow’s inside pocket and passed it to Marcus. “Take a look, will you?”

Marcus unfolded it. “It’s the racing page from the back of the Daily Mirror. Tips for today’s races. He’s drawn a circle round the four twenty-five at Manchester.” Marcus laughed. “His selection’s called “Gun Law,” apparently! Inside information or sense of humour, I wonder?” He glanced at Onslow’s stony face.

“Probably going to blow his ill-gotten gains on a horse. Huh! I’m not going to ask what my skin was worth,” was Kingstone’s cheerful comment.

“Well now. I think we should all be making tracks for home,” Marcus said. “I’ve laid on an armed escort. And we don’t want to keep the local constabulary waiting. They should be arriving at the house with the paddy-wagon any minute for the journey to Guildford nick where we have two cells reserved. Ready lads?” he called.

A dozen men and boys, from grey-beards to not-yet-shaving, all carrying shot guns and rifles, appeared soundlessly from the bushes. They stood and stared round-eyed at the scene.

“Well, I’ll be damned!” Kingstone burst out laughing at the sight of them. “Is this the shooting party or is it the Merry Men?”

Marcus smiled and went to stand with the group. “Foresters all—excellent shots … birdcalls and tracking a speciality! I think, if you want a label, you can just call us the Yeomanry. Good old English word for good old English Men at Arms.”

Understanding and sharing his elation, Joe wasn’t going to quibble with the pride and the sentimentality. Half of these blokes—the older ones—had already done their bit in the last lot so that the rest—the young lads—would never have to. He stood to attention and snapped off a salute in their direction. Six of the men grinned back and their saluting arms shot up in a spontaneous and well-remembered response.