Payback Time
BY
D.R. Justice
Copyright: D.R. Justice2006
The right of D.R. Justice to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted under the Copyrights, Designs and Patents Act 1988. Illegal copying or distribution of this title in any form or by any means is strictly prohibited All characters in this story are aged eighteen years and over.
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Dedication
This book is dedicated not to family or friends but to the ‘Guilty Ones’, those so inconsiderate in their lifestyles and behaviour so as to cause inconvenience and disruption to their neighbours, work colleagues and others around them.
It is my fondest wish that after having read this book that you will take a few moments to sit back and to assess your own behaviour toward others. For who can tell, perhaps one of your neighbours might at this very moment, be harbouring a grudge and be hatching a plan of his own, one in which he looks out across the street to your house and says softly to himself:
“I’m coming for you.”
Chapter One
Today it would begin - and with a vengeance: Chas Merson shrugged his shoulders, drawing his chin deeper down within his waxed jacket as some defence against the chill evening mist. He pulled the woollen cap down over his ears and wiped a rivulet of water from the tip of his nose with the back of his hand. A wry smile broke the usually serious expression on his rugged face - for today it had begun.
As he set a gruelling pace across the desolate moors of the Peak District he allowed himself a rare moment of mirth, something absent in him for some years now. That smile increased steadily to a broad grin and he chuckled, unable to contain the pleasure he felt after twelve long years of waiting. They would know now that he was coming. He would leave them in no doubt of it, exactly as he had planned.
The rhythmic swishing sound that the coarse heather made against his boots, in time with the movement of the rucksack on his back, helped maintain his pace. It was a fast and punishing pace, one that would bring many younger men to their knees. It was a tribute to his constant training, harsh and demanding, pushing himself to the limits in everything that he did. The plan - his plan - demanded it and he wouldn’t stray from or vary the plan - ever.
When he reached the narrow, stony track he turned, followed it for almost exactly seven hundred yards before leaving the track and moving onto the rugged higher ground. He prided himself that at forty-two years of age he could physically outstrip most other men, driven relentlessly onwards by the plan. It was that burning and all-consuming mixture of anger and ambition - the two main elements that had originally sown the seeds for what was to come.
Zigzagging as he walked, so as never to use the same ground twice, he moved towards the cliff face. His field-craft training now came into play, telltale signs not seen on the ground are clearly visible from the air and he didn’t want to help police helicopters track him at some future date. Each weekend and some weekdays for three years he had walked this same route, varying it only to ensure that no regular path was worn to betray his destination.
A coating of light dew covered his woollen hat and face in dampness, beads of sweat ran over his eyebrows and stung in his eyes but he forged onwards. A quick glance at his watch told him that he was getting close. He sensed it also despite the thick mist but as with everything that he did, he double-checked. If he was to see the conclusion of the plan then precision and attention to detail were of the utmost importance. He had started it and fully intended to finish it - whatever the cost. Determination and staying power, these two qualities had seen him through the hardships he had endured to reach this point. Lesser mortals would have given up long before, but not him. He had a mission, his plan. Long and hard he had worked to perfect it and now nothing and no one would prevent him from completing it.
He halted abruptly, his ears straining for alien sounds in the thick, blanketing mist. There were none. His eyes traversed methodically left and then right and all around him, adjusting to the veil of white that the mist produced as the daylight began to fade, searching for any hint of movement. Yet another trick learned in his time in the army reserves and the parachute regiment. Part-time it may have been, but they were equally demanding in their standards required as they were in the full-time regiments. They had trained him well and he had learned equally as well.
Close now, Chas arrived at the foot of Clifton Fell, a tall rocky out-crop that dominated the landscape, one of many such peaks in this part of the Lake District. Popular with climbers, the peaks drew many weekend scramblers willing to dice with death whilst scaling the rugged rock-faces. Clifton Fell, however, drew few. Classed as extremely dangerous within the climbing fraternity, Clifton Fell attracted only the best and they were more interested in the rock-face itself rather than the cave that Chas was heading toward. It was just one of the many reasons that he had chosen this location - remote, tranquil and most important of all, it was unknown to most.
Leaping from boulder to boulder, his strong boots, German paratrooper’s boots, the type he knew and favoured, kept him sure-footed on the slippery, damp surfaces. With one final leap he landed on the shale-strewn level ground at the entrance to the cave and once again stood still, tuning his senses to the silence. Satisfied that he was unseen, Chas kicked away the screed and strained to move the large flat piece of rock that covered the cave entrance before ducking inside.
It felt good to be here, like coming home. Every weekend for the past three years he had been here and he had made it homely. It would serve as his base of operations; would add to his alibi by introducing confusion as to his movements and whereabouts. It was the perfect location. Chas stripped off his rucksack and jacket before setting up the gas camping stove to boil water. His thoughts then turned to Gilly Clunes, that teasing little bitch at the farmhouse. The one he’d nurtured carefully over the years, the one who would serve as the greater part of his alibi. Today that alibi and their relationship needed to be cemented; it was part of the first stage of the overall plan, to draw her in and to ensure that no one could ever doubt his reasons or presence in the Lakes.
Nothing was written down. He carried the plan in his head. For so long it had developed there, he knew every detail of it without the need for notes. It lived within him, was part of him. Gradually it had taken over more and more of his time and thoughts. It continued to, more so now that it had started for real.
Chas poured the scalding water into the tin mug. It was army issue, a gift from Her Majesty on leaving the regiment, even if the Queen was quite unaware that she had actually given him a gift. Two tea bags, two sugars, very hot and very strong, that’s how he liked his tea. He added just a teaspoon full of milk and sat back on the sleeping bag to rest.
The cave was small and dry, tall enough for Chas to stand upright with his six-foot two frame, and wide enough for him to lie down with room to spare for the assortment of items that he had collected there.
Sipping the hot liquid, the tea bags still in the mug, Chas began to laugh. Softly at first then loudly, long and loudly, he enjoyed his thoughts immensely. It had been easy at the Matthews’ house, so very easy. ‘Well planned of course,’ he compliment himself aloud to the cave interior. ‘They’ll know of me by now,’ he mused softly.
Fumbling in his jacket pocket, he withdrew the packet of Benson & Hedges cigarettes and lit one. Not often nowadays did he smoke but at times of elation there was nothing better, hot tea and a smoke, two of his little pleasures to comfort him during the long hours in the cave.
The heat that the camping stove produced in the small space soon provided a degree of warmth, increasing the temperature a degree or two and further helping him relax. Chas removed his boots and reached for the local newspaper. It was not a publication from around here but rather the free paper that served the community of his hometown in Hertfordshire. Quickly he scanned the pages, his hawk-like eyes darting to each and every headline, his sharp mind discarding in a split-second those irrelevant to his activities. Nothing as yet but, it was still early days.
Neatly folded, he replaced the paper into his rucksack. He would dispose of it at home, not here. Chas locked his fingers together, slipped his hands behind his head as a pillow and settled down to think.
He again ran over the details of stage one of the plan, checking and noting, looking for flaws or small additions that could be improved upon for later use. This done, he summed up his progress to date, reliving the feelings of being in the Matthews’ house. The spraying of the letters on the wall, the photographs and the envelope posted through the Soames’ door. He smiled, unable to resist a loud chuckle as he imagined Soames’ reaction when he went to get into his car. As he often did, Chas then summed up the reasoning behind him finding and using the cave.
The cave’s location had been chosen with much care; many long walks and hours of searching had been necessary to locate the ideal spot and before Chas had finally decided upon it. Clifton Fell lay seven miles west across the moors from Kinston railway station where he always arrived. Care was taken to be sure to talk to the porter or ticket collector there, anyone that could confirm seeing him if they were ever asked. The farmhouse lay three miles to the north of the cave. Then, his masterpiece in the planning, a second railway station, Garston, lay eight miles to the west of the cave and in the opposite direction to the first. From there he could return to his hometown, unnoticed and free to carry out his activities. Again he smiled in satisfaction at his planning skills. Sleep eluded him for some time, his mind active and recounting all parts of the plan. Eventually, and a little before midnight, he closed his eyes and almost immediately began snoring heavily.
***
Gilly Clunes busied herself in the farmhouse kitchen. Tomorrow he would come. He always did on Fridays. Late afternoon or early evening, depending on how well the trains ran to time, delayed sometimes they were, although not often. She watched the clock for his arrival, she so looked forward to his visits; they brightened so much her otherwise boring life. At twenty-eight she expected more out of life than being a tenant farmers’ wife. The visits from Chas, however, more than helped to meet her desires, leaving her content to cope with the daily routine in between them.
‘Darts match again tomorrow night,’ Jack said without looking up from his newspaper as he sat at the kitchen table. Born and bred in the peaks, he was a farmer through and through. A man of few words, abrupt and seemingly uncaring, he liked his life and thought little of others that fitted into it.
‘Tell me when there isn’t a bloody darts match!’ Gilly huffed. ‘You should have married your mates at the pub, not me.’
Jack didn’t answer, instead immersing himself deeper into the paper that he was pretending to read so as to avoid her questioning.
‘Go out early, you do, and come back late, drunk as always. Darts, darts and more bloody darts.’
Jack closed and folded the paper. He stood to walk out of the room when Gilly spoke again.
‘Good job we’ve got the bed and breakfast part of the business or your boozing would ruin us.’
‘Our one guest, Chas you mean?” Jack sneered in response. “And he only comes here at weekends.’
Gilly rattled the plates in the washing-up bowl deliberately. She knew Jack hated trying to talk to someone above other noise.
‘He pays well. The same as all of the other guests we used to have put together,’ she said defensively.
‘That’s the way he wanted it. He wanted to be our only guest and he pays for it. It’s as simple as that. It’s less work for you. One is easier to deal with than six or seven and he isn’t even here half the time.’
Gilly lapsed into silence. Her thoughts were again of the lovely Chas. Ever since that first time he had stayed at the farm she had found herself attracted to him. He was everything that Jack wasn’t, strong, fit and good looking. He was confident and knew what he wanted. A little secretive perhaps but that was his business. She did, however, wonder how he got the scar on his hand. She had never liked to ask but it intrigued her. Always polite and the perfect gentleman, he was welcome here for as long as he wished to be. The longer, the better, so far as she was concerned.
Jack had gone into the lounge to watch television. She had to admit that he worked hard on the farm if he failed at being a husband to her. He also seemed to work hard at making life pretty grim for her. A housekeeper rather than a wife would suit him better. As she dried her hands she turned and stuck her tongue out in the direction of the lounge, childish it was, she knew, but it made her feel better. It was just one of the little things she did that helped her cope with her overweight pig of a husband.
Tomorrow night she would follow the usual routine. She’d wait until Jack had gone to the pub, and then she would bath, apply her make-up and change into the clothes that she saved specially for Chas’ visits. If Jack could ever see her dressed like that he would throw a fit. For her it was like being a teenager again, flirting and seeking attention, and in particular, the attention of her special man, Chas. It was her little secret and she loved every second of it. She felt a wonderful tingling sensation surge through her at the thought, one that teased at ever nerve end in her body and brought her to instant arousal. Tomorrow couldn’t come fast enough for her.
***
‘Real queer one this is,’ detective constable Williams said excitedly as he came out of the house to greet his Sergeant. Nothing ever happened in Bexham, sleepy little Bexham. Vandalism, the odd soft-drug arrest or break-in but little else, this though was really different - and exciting.
‘Calm yourself, Williams,’ detective Sergeant Latham said in a tired voice as he slammed the car door shut and walked into the front garden of the Matthews’ house.
‘Spooky and kinky is this one, boss,’ Williams enthused.
Latham stopped and looked around him. The experienced and overworked detective, who had seen it all in his time, eyed the watching neighbours as they had gathered to see the fun. It never failed to amaze him how ordinary people could stand watching the scene of a crime, for hours sometimes, in the faint hope that they might see something - perhaps something they wished afterwards they hadn’t seen.
‘I’ve told you before, Williams. Call me sir, Guv, mister or even your majesty if you like, but never boss.’
‘Okay Guv. Sorry.’
Latham pushed past his constable and entered the house. He was tired, and he never seemed to sleep well these days. Perhaps it was time to think of moving on. He’d had enough of the new breed of policeman they recruited nowadays. All colleges and exams, fancy terms and words for the same routines that he had practised for years, only now you had to be politically correct with everything and everyone as well. The job was becoming a pain.
He shrugged and walked into the lounge where the scene of crime officers were busy moving around, dusting door frames and taking samples of carpet. His eye was drawn to the large blood-red letters that had been sprayed on the lounge wall.
‘I’m coming for you!’ The words read.
Latham stood and looked at the writing on the wall. The small hairs on the back of his neck bristled and he shuddered involuntarily. He had seen this type of thing once before. That was when he was stationed in Oxford. A crack-head junkie had burgled a house. So high on his fix was he that he had walked straight into the arms of the uniformed boys called to the scene. This, however, was different. Whoever wrote this wanted to scare, to let the Matthews know he had been there and to make them sweat. Cold and calculating, this was no ordinary chance burglary as the initial radio message had implied.
‘Seen the coffee table, Guv?’ Williams asked as moved to stand next to him, breaking Latham’s train of thought.
The glass-topped coffee table had red-sprayed letters on it that spelt the word ‘whore.’ Above the word was placed a photograph of a woman in a scanty bikini.
‘Mrs Matthews,’ Williams said unprompted. ‘What’s in the kitchen, though, is right kinky.’
Latham said nothing as he followed Williams through the hallway, his trained eye searching the walls and floors as he went.
‘Another photo of Mrs Matthews,’ Williams pointed out. Taped to the cooker hood was another picture of the woman, again in a swimming costume.
‘And here,’ Williams called. ‘All the photos have been taken from the Matthews’ family album in the cupboard in the lounge.’
Latham looked into the laundry basket that sat on the kitchen table. It contained women’s underwear, Mrs Matthews’ most likely. A note attached read, ‘you are in these now. Soon I shall be also.’
‘Kinky or what,’ Williams exclaimed, awaiting a similar reaction from his boss.
‘Where are the Matthews now?’ Latham asked flatly.
Williams sighed and opened his notebook, flicking the pages fast with his wetted finger.
‘Mrs Matthews is staying with a friend at number twenty-three. She was nearly hysterical when our lads got here.’
‘Understandable,’ Latham observed.
‘Mr Matthews is in the cells at the station cooling...’
‘Why at the station?’ Latham asked quickly, scanning his gaze around the small kitchen.
The young constable sighed and then related, ‘Matthews went over the road to the Soames’ house, number thirty-four, and tried to beat the hell out of the husband. Our lads separated them. He accused Soames of having it off with his wife. He said it was him that broke into their house.’
Latham looked outside the back door and stepped into the small rear garden. He lit a cigarette and motioned to Williams to come to stand next to him.
‘How, Williams, would Matthews know where to go to try to beat up the person responsible?’
Williams looked bewildered, ‘How, why the envelope, of course.’
Latham took a deep pull on his cigarette. ‘And would that be the envelope you haven’t yet told me about?’
Berating himself, Williams shifted uncomfortably. He tried so hard to be efficient but Latham always seemed to catch him out and show him to be lacking.
‘All of the information please, Williams,’ Latham said in the tired and impatient voice he seemed to revert to whenever his constable failed to please him.
Williams spoke in as clear and precise manner as he could, relating all of the information he had been able to gain before the Sergeant had arrived.
‘Addressed to Mrs Soames, it contained another photograph of Mrs Matthews. When she opened it - Mrs. Soames, that is - she stood in the street screaming abuse at the Matthews’ house. That’s how the ruck started.’
Latham winced, the terminology these youngsters used nowadays.
‘Connected or not we don’t know. The Soames’ car, in the parking area at the end, was worked over pretty good too. All panels deeply scratched, roof included, all tyres slashed and pretty-well a write-off.’
‘Neighbours see anything?’ Latham asked as he walked to his car.
‘Haven’t had a chance to talk to above two of them yet and they didn’t see anything. It must have been late at night or early morning. Matthews works nights by the way.’
They walked, Latham leading and Williams following, along the path at the side of the house and out into the roadway.
Latham leaned against the car, his folded arms resting on the roof, looking around the small Close of two-up and two-down houses.
‘Any sign of a break in?’
‘None,’ Williams answered simply.
‘What condition is Mr Soames in?’ Latham asked, sighing deeply.
Williams cleared his throat. ‘Cuts and bruises mostly, a bit of hurt pride and a thirst for revenge. He’s down at casualty at the moment.’
Latham pondered a moment, staring at the woman that peeped around her bedroom curtain in the house opposite.
‘Talk to all of the neighbours and then obtain a list of all calls our lot have attended in this cul-de-sac this year.’
‘Already done that,’ Williams beamed. ‘Domestics mostly, one family in particular stands out - the Matthews. Other than that there have been two burglaries in three years and some minor vandalism. That’s it.’
‘Well done, lad, good work. You get off now and see the neighbours and we’ll meet back at the station later.’
Latham sighed with relief as his constable moved off. He was keen but so bloody trying at times. Logical thought patterns seem to have escaped the younger generation, he thought. Latham lit another cigarette, he smoked far too much, he knew that, but didn’t really care. Thirty-nine he was now, and still a Sergeant. Inside he knew what this case held for him, the same as most of his cases - failure. Failure to solve them like a detective should. His successes to date, if they could be called successes, were built on easy to solve routine stuff. All the lads at the station knew it too. That was the hardest part to cope with, the sniggering and snide comments. He felt he was a good detective; he just hadn’t really had the chance to prove it. If this case was to help him he needed to move fast, before being ordered to shelve it. Percentages, everything these days revolved around bloody percentages.
With a defeated look about him, he opened the car door and slumped into the driver’s seat. The bright, June sunshine blazed through the glass, heating the interior to an oven-like temperature. He opened all of the windows and sat thoughtfully, logically summing-up the case, such as it was and on the scant information he had to date.
Carlton Close was a small cul-de-sac, part of a housing estate of an oversized market town, Bexham. The town itself was mainly working class, with a few ‘better’ areas. The crime rate was in line with many similar sized rural towns across the country, drunkenness in the town centre being the main problem. There were too many cars and too few spaces to accommodate them, new housing springing up all over, adding to the social problems and stretching the meagre police budget to the limit. He laughed a sarcastic laugh as he thought of budgets. His superintendent always quoted budgets at him.
This case worried him and at the same time intrigued him. He would need to get his act together if he were to stand any chance of solving it. He started the car and circled around the small ring that formed the end of the Close. Williams was busy talking to an elderly woman in her front garden as he swung the car around and drove off up the Close to the main road that it joined at the junction.
At the small supermarket that fronted the end of the Close, Latham stopped and popped inside to get a cold drink. Cola didn’t agree with him. It said it was sparkling orange on the can but Latham didn’t feel that it could pass for orange in anyone’s tastes. He sat down heavily on the worn old bench on the wide pavement outside the shop, looking down Carlton Close.
Ruined and rusty cars, some on jacks awaiting the next part of their repair as soon as the owners had some spare cash. ‘Why burgle an area like this?’ He asked himself. A good proportion of the households were on benefit of some kind, or low income, and there was not much here to be had in the way of rich pickings. The estate itself certainly lent itself to robberies. A warren of small alleyways and service roads criss-crossed Carlton Close, providing concealment for those bent on entering houses illegally. But once inside there was little to take. Five hundred or so yards across the main road there were good earning families with two cars and caravans for weekends away - so why here?
‘The break-in is it, you being a copper and all?’ The old man said, sitting down on the bench next to Latham. He rested his walking stick between his legs and shielded his eyes from the sun.
‘News travels fast,’ Latham fenced, giving nothing away. “Copper”, not many people used that term nowadays.
‘You’ll see no tears shed for the Matthews around here,’ the old man said firmly.
‘Why is that then?’ Latham asked innocently.
There was always someone ready to offer information in cases like this, petty vendettas to settle, to put the boot-in when they were down. Idle gossip mostly, though there was occasionally a hint of something that could set the thought process along another line.
‘You don’t kid me, copper. You know like I do what that family is like. They had it coming to them, those as evil do...’
‘And they deserved what happened, did they?’
Latham felt a surge of anger. He had no love for the Matthews, but idle crap like this did no one any good, least of all the police who had to clean up afterwards.
Latham turned back to face the man but he was gone, hobbling away with his stick as silently as he had come. He hated to admit it to himself, but most of the people around here would agree with the old man.
Seeing the beat-officer start the house-to-house questioning at the top end of the Close, Steve Latham stood wearily and stretched before walking across the grassed area to talk to the officer.
‘Well Reg find anything?’ Latham asked as he approached.
The ageing constable looked at him with a flat expression.
‘What do you think?’ The reply was curt and disinterested.
Latham saw in him almost a reflection of himself, a tired, old hand that had more experience than most but had been over-looked time after time in favour of the new-breed entering the force. Bitterness and resentment were festering inside him, and he was doing just enough to avoid being branded incapable, but closing his eyes to a lot of events. Latham sympathised. Reg was spinning out his days until retirement, looking forward to the day when his pension became due and he could close the door on police-work forever.
‘What’s your guess at what went on here, Reg?’ Latham asked, sighing in a defeated tone.
‘If you asked me for a list of suspects, I’d ask you for three days to complete it. The Matthews are not top of the popularity stakes around here.’
‘I’m beginning to get that impression. What do you know of the Matthews’ background?’
The elderly constable leaned against his bicycle and looked thoughtful.
‘Petty criminals - runs in the family - never tax their cars, ignore everyone else’s views, and are trouble makers on a minor scale. If they want to play loud music - and they usually do - to hell with what others think, that sort of attitude. Three sons, one of them is inside right now doing eighteen-months for assault, although all the lads have moved away from home and things have improved a bit since then.’
‘The burglary might be insurance fraud perhaps?’
The constable snorted, half-laughing.
‘Matthews? He wouldn’t know what insurance was. No, you can count him out, but when he does find out who did it, we could have our first murder in Bexham for some years.’
‘He’s a violent type then?’
The constable nodded slowly, looked at Latham as if to tell him that he knew nothing more, then turned to push his bicycle to the next house.
‘Mrs Thompson,’ he called back over his shoulder. ‘She’s the eyes and ears of the street, lives down the end at the bottom. I can’t remember the number.’
Latham smiled and wondered if that’s how people saw him, like the old beat officer Reg, worn-out and defeated. He mentally noted the name that the constable had given him and turned back towards his car. He recalled the words sprayed on the lounge wall and shuddered, ‘I’m coming for you.’
Chapter Two
Merson slowed down his running as he neared the cave, allowing his pumping heart to calm a little before stopping. Five miles, almost precisely, he had covered the route many times before. His early morning runs set him up for the day. They were all part of the enjoyment and necessity of being here. Slowly jogging for a few hundred yards then, increasing the pace of his run, out over the moors and around up onto the top of Clifton Fell by the back route. Spurts of sprinting mixed with steady paced running, as he had done in the regiment. It was good sound stamina training, needed to help the mind and body to cope rationally in times of extreme stress. He knew only too well how stress could drain the physical and mental resources, leaving a person less capable than they actually felt. It was a trap that he didn’t intend to allow himself to fall into, not now and not during the effecting of the plan.
Press-ups and sit-ups at the top of the fell were followed by a run back around the route that took him there to the cave. He loved this time of the morning here, early and still misty, but clearing rapidly. It could be harsh and desolate in winter, but he liked it just the same.
Almost as soon as he came to a halt outside the cave entrance, he squatted and began leg-stretches, flexing the hamstrings of his muscular thighs and ensuring that all of his joints were free moving and supple, ready to spring into action the very moment they were needed.
After training he would eat, then a short trip, one for pleasure this time. Later he would go to the village as usual and then to the farmhouse. Not normally here on a Thursday night, this had been a special occasion, the day the plan had started. Staying over-night in the cave meant he had the whole of Friday to himself before arriving at the farmhouse as he usually would early evening, adhering to the train arrival time and varying from nothing. All would appear normal if he stuck to his routine here. He must do everything as he usually did, resisting the temptation to add to or to alter the plan in any way.
Stretching finished, his muscles warm and supple, he began his karate training, starting with kicks. Roundhouse, front and back kicks, and then joint breaking kicks that powered out from his athletic frame. Not usually a violent man, he didn’t particularly like aggression, but he had begun learning the art as part of the plan. If the need should ever arise, he would be able to meet it. Hard and gruelling his training had been too when he had started learning karate. He was married then and that had made it all the harder, his wife never had understood him.
Open handed techniques and punches now, to harden his skin and to hone his skill and speed, striking hard against the log that he had dragged up to the cave two years before. As he punched, he recalled his elation at being awarded his second-Dan black belt. The first black belt was a huge milestone in his life and the plan, but the second-Dan gave him greater pleasure. He had achieved it all - as required by the plan.
On and on he struck at the log, losing himself in memories of how his instructors had expressed concern at his single-minded determination, an essential part of the art but so unhealthy within the way he approached it. In much the same way he had come under scrutiny in the regiment. They knew of his marriage difficulties and had accepted them. There were, after all, more psychos in the Parachute regiment than in an institution.
Elbow techniques and evasion practice finished his training for the day. He stood panting, breathing deeply and looking around at the now clear views over the moors. Bruised and beaten, that’s how most of his early training sessions at the karate club had ended for him. He had been a regular visitor to the casualty department of the hospital. That had worried his instructors, they had never said, but their looks told all. Who was this student? They asked themselves, who could fight time after time, willing to be hit and fighting on through the pain, as though only death itself could stop him. He’d been beaten time after time, only to come back for more with never a word of complaint. All that soon changed though. You learn fast when it hurts and learn fast he had. Beaten no more, he became a skilled practitioner of the art.
Breathing near-normally now he glowed with pride at his recollections. In the regiment he had, during exercises, been beaten again, starved, tortured, frozen near to death, run into the ground and humiliated beyond normal endurance. He had survived it all and won through. The small sacrifices he was having to make now seemed to pale into insignificance against those past experiences.
Grabbing his towel, Chas moved over the rocks with agile speed to the small stream at the side of the Fell where he washed himself thoroughly. The water from the higher ground, ice-cold and numbing, cooled the heated body and restored a calmer sense of normality. It sharpened his senses, made him feel better prepared for the coming events of the day and the future.
Taking water from higher still up the stream, he filled his water carrier and returned to the cave. Breakfast was a bit of tradition with Chas, particularly here, it comprised of fried eggs, bacon and baked beans. He liked it with toast but at the cave it wasn’t possible to toast so bread and butter sufficed. Fresh supplies could be a problem later as the plan progressed, if it turned the way he didn’t want it to that is, but Gilly could always help out in that area. Gilly, the lovely Gilly he called her, why exactly he called her that he didn’t know. He didn’t really care for her that much, nor for any woman come to that. Over the latter part of the twelve years he hadn’t had much time for them – but perhaps though that was all about to change.
His breakfast sizzling in the small frying-pan on the cooking stove, Chas sipped the scalding tea from his cup and thought more of the letter he had sent. Cut from various headlines in the ‘Sun’ newspaper, he had posted it in Bexham before leaving on Thursday. Addressed to the Matthews, it restated his message to them, ‘I’m coming for you.’
‘They should know about that by now,’ he chuckled aloud and scooped a fried egg out of the pan with his fork. Chas liked to sit outside the cave for his breakfast when the weather allowed. With the strong tea and the clean, quiet air around him, he felt complete - so unlike the way he had felt in the hellhole of Carlton Close.
Plate washed and cleaned after breakfast, Chas sat on a rock away from the cave entrance drinking his second cup of tea of the morning. He allowed himself one cigarette as he sat bathing in the June sun. A party of climbers passed nearby along the thin pathway below him. He waved in response to their waving and they moved on along the track, as he knew they would. The equipment they carried showed them to be of novice or intermediate standard, not that Chas knew much about climbing but their equipment differed from the elite that came to use Clifton Fell, he could see that much.
The thumb of his right hand absently rubbed the scar on the back of his left hand, as was his habit, evoking memories of the time that he had received it. Never one to idle long, Chas returned for his rucksack and set-off toward the farmhouse.
***
Williams barged in through the door of Latham’s office at the police station, swinging the door wide, sending it crashing noisily against the metal filing cabinet that stood behind it.
‘You were right boss...er… Guv,’ he gushed excitedly. ‘The post office intercepted it as you said they might. Addressed to the Matthews and post-marked Bexham, at about four in the afternoon.’
Latham rubbed his eyes wearily. Lack of sleep and the constant annoyances from Williams were taking their toll on him.
‘Quietly, Williams, quietly,’ he barked in annoyance at the sudden entry into the room.
Williams slowed to a walk and laid the letter on the desk in front of Latham. Steve Latham looked at the letter thoughtfully, he read it in a second, and the meaning contained within it, led him into deeper thought.
Williams said nothing. He knew his boss’ moods and this wasn’t the time to speak. He moved round to his own desk and sat down, resisting the urge to rest his feet on the desk as he did when Latham wasn’t around to see him. Two years he had been with Latham and he still hadn’t figured him out. It was as though Latham did everything with the greatest of reluctance. His mood could change in an instant. Always cautious of his boss, Williams shrugged and waited.
Latham stood and faced out of the window, silently watching the clouds, as he was prone to do in troubled times. “Helps to soothe the worried brow,” he would say.
‘Have you spoken to, Matthews yet?’ Latham’s deep voice broke the silence in the room.
‘Yes, last night, he knows nothing and wouldn’t tell if he did.’
‘And you accepted that did you?’ Latham asked, still facing the window.
Williams felt angry. He had tried hard to get Matthews to talk to him. For two hours, whilst Latham was snugly at home, Williams had questioned the man. God knows, he thought to himself, this job leaves little time for a social life as it is.
‘He’s not an easy man to deal with,’ Williams said defensively.
Latham didn’t answer, but continued to look at the clouds, much to Williams’s annoyance. He hated being ignored.
‘What is your assessment of this case, Williams?’
‘Mine?’ Williams asked in surprise. Never before had he been asked that. He hesitated, as though Latham were testing him and then gave his opinion.
‘Well, on the points system, this rates low and we should shelve it. It has an interesting element in that the message that was meant to scare...’
‘Frighten the life out of more like,’ Latham interrupted.
Williams paused and continued.
‘But from our point of view we have little to go on and the sooner we shelve it and be rid of it the better. It will be easier be for us too. Put it down as a domestic dispute between two families and forget it.’
Latham turned and sat once more at his desk, pressing his fingers into a pyramid with his elbows resting on the table.
‘You’re right, of course, Williams. We should shelve it as low-grade, but that message, that bloody message, it means more. I’m sure of it.’
Williams stretched lazily and pushed back in his chair.
‘The chief will shelve it,’ Williams offered.
Latham nodded his agreement slowly and lapsed back into silence. A few moments passed, and then he spoke.
‘Right, here’s what we do. My midweek case review meeting with the chief is on Wednesday. We do what we can until then. If nothing turns up by the time I go into the meeting, we shelve it.’
‘Okay Guv, what do I do then?’ Williams spoke, his lack of agreement portrayed by the tone of his voice.
‘Go around the residents of the Close again. Probe a bit deeper. You know, provoke a bit and see what comes up.’
Williams groaned and stood up, the list of residents in his hand. His slouched shuffle to the door told Latham that it was under protest, but then most tasks Williams carried out were under protest.
***
Chas watched from the small grassy rise that overlooked the farmhouse. His binoculars zoomed in on Jack as he worked in the stonewalled yard of the farm, loading bales of hay into the back of the Land Rover and ferrying them out to the surrounding fields. Gilly could be seen on occasions flitting around, busily doing her chores. More than once she had come out into the yard to hang washing and to go to the barn. One time she had put two fingers up to Jack when his back was turned. This amused Chas as he lay on his stomach looking down on them. It thrilled him to be able to enter people’s lives, to see the little personal bits of their routines that no one usually sees, and they weren’t even aware that he was watching. It was exciting and thrilling, like it had been in the Matthews’ house, to touch their personal possessions and to be in their home, for them to wonder and to wait - a terrific high like no other.
Sucking on the imperial mint from the packet he had brought at the station, Chas watched as Jack began his final tasks before packing-up for the evening, the light was still good, but Jack liked his beer and it was of course Friday - darts night.
Another two hours passed before the sound of the Land Rover starting up stirred Chas from his catnap. He watched as Jack drove the Land Rover slowly along the bumpy track towards the main road. There it turned in the direction of the village. Almost immediately the bathroom light came on at the farmhouse, causing Chas to smile. Gilly, the lovely Gilly, was making herself ready for him. He knew she would be easy, he was aware of her feelings for him. It amused him in a way, like a schoolgirl crush she had harboured for so long. Tonight though was the time to strengthen that and to bring it round at last to his advantage, to set in place the final part of his alibi, the part that any questioning policeman would understand and dismiss from his enquiries.
The light in the bathroom went out and Chas traced her progress through the house by the rooms that lit up and then darkened as she moved into and out of them, ending once more down in the kitchen. He stood up and stretched, picked up his rucksack and straightened the grass where he had lain. There was no need to do such, but old habits die hard, his field-craft training so deeply ingrained within him.
As he walked, he thought back to when he had joined the regiment. His wife at the time had reacted angrily, just as she had when he had joined the karate club – mostly with noisy objections. Not that he had neglected her, their marriage was under strain anyway and the relationship that they shared, if you could call it a relationship, was tense and falling apart. It was irrelevant by then anyway, the plan had been conceived and the joining of the club and the reserves were just part of it. His activities in both had taken him out of the house most nights of the week it’s true but by then, there was little for him at home anyway. She was a bitch, a snotty bitch with ideas above her station. He was well shot of her and her whining ways. Life had been hell with her as it had been hell living in Carlton Close, all of it history now - until today that is, when the focus would fall once again on that small cul-de-sac, Carlton Close.
‘Agro, come on boy!’ Chas called to the dog as the Collie leapt over the gate and came bounding up the path to greet him. Jack had named the dog, much to Gilly’s disgust. She would have preferred a nice, normal name as she had put it, anything in fact, as long as it wasn’t ‘Agro!’
The dog reached Chas and went through his usual two-legged dance around him, resting his front paws on Chas’ upper body. Panting and yelping with excitement, the dog never left Chas’ side until he reached the kitchen door, when he would again revert to a guard dog and take his post by the gate.
Gilly stood in the doorway of the kitchen, watching as Chas closed the gate to the yard behind him and walked across the yard towards her. Bathed and changed, Chas had to admit to himself that she looked good, better than usual in fact. Her shoulder-length black hair brushed and styled neatly, the crisp blue blouse and the neat but short pleated skirt in royal blue. With the way she had applied her make-up, she looked not much older than twenty. She was bright and radiant, with a huge smile that parted her red-painted lips to show sparkling white teeth that made her seem even more attractive still.
‘I can set the clock by you Chas. Always on time you are,’ Gilly called as he approached, her local accent conjuring up images of a peasant girl to anyone that didn’t know her.
‘Just what I want you to know and to remember,’ he said quietly to himself.
As he reached the doorway, Chas dropped his rucksack and took a step back.
‘Gilly,’ Chas said emphatically, ‘you look absolutely gorgeous.’
Taken completely by surprise, Gilly blushed. Never, in all his visits, had he said such a thing to her. Normal and polite things, yes, but he had never given her such a compliment.
‘Thank you, Chas,’ she said awkwardly.
He stepped forward and gripped her shoulders. Pulling her closer to him he kissed her on the cheek.
‘Jack?’ He asked simply but in a tone that suggested a hidden meaning.
‘Where he always is on a Friday?’ Gilly replied raising her eyebrows.
Chas circled his arms around her waist and kissed her full on the lips, a long and lingering kiss. Passionate and meaningful, she responded instantly, her hands rubbing his broad shoulders and then closing around the back of his neck. Their bodies pressed against each other, both of them well aware of his erection that grew instantly and pressed against her stomach through their clothing. At last the kiss finished and Gilly gasped for breath before speaking first.
‘You’ll be going out tonight as usual, I suppose,’ she said sadly, hopeful that he would correct her.
‘Afraid so,’ Chas teased. ‘I’m off down to the village now and then back here - to spend the evening with you.’
Gilly’s eyes widened and her smile returned. She hugged him again, tightly and, seemingly gratefully.
‘Later tonight I must go out, but we can still spend a quiet evening together before that.’
Breaking the hold she had on him, she stepped back, her voice now urgent and her face flushed slightly with excitement.
‘You nip to the village and I’ll get your dinner out, then...’
Chas winked at her and walked away. He leapt the low wall into the field and cut across country to the village. The effect that Gilly’s closeness had had on him was amazing. It had been a long time, he realised that now, but he had forgotten just how good it could be. His face was serious and his concern at how she might now affect the plan filled his mind. He determined to not allow the relationship to develop to such a stage. The plan as always took precedence over everything else in his life.
***
The village was quiet as he turned into the market square and went into the small shop. Opening hours around here were designed to suit and to serve the needs of the farming community, open early and until late.
‘Mr Merson,’ the shopkeeper greeted him warmly, getting to his feet from the stool behind the old-style wooden counter. Before Chas could remember the man’s name and reply he spoke again.
‘The love life is looking up then,’ the shopkeeper said and smiled.
‘Sorry?’ Chas asked confused by the man’s comment.
‘The lipstick,’ the man said, pointing to Chas’ face.
Inwardly cursing himself Chas wiped his lips. Sure enough, there was lipstick.
‘Oh that! An old dear’s thank you for carrying her bag,’ Chas dismissed lightly. He was aware of the gossip that circulated in the village, of Gilly and her lodger, the groups of women that chewed over all the immoral goings-on at the farmhouse. Threesomes, orgies and more probably, he knew of all the stories. The man looked unconvinced and waited patiently for Chas to tell him what he had come into the shop for.
‘Your wife usually serves me,’ Chas offered, changing the subject and directing attention away from him and his lipstick smears.
‘She’s having a lie down, long hours and she’s not too good on her feet these days. She always tells me about you though, how you come in for two pints of milk. Must be in cartons, so it won’t spill in the rucksack, she says.’
Chas was well known in the village now. Over the three years he had made it his business to speak to and to befriend as many people as he could, for to be seen here could only strengthen his alibi. The success of the plan, in the main, revolved around his sound alibi. He had done much to create the right conditions that would throw any investigation way off track. By coming into the village he would be remembered and that was exactly what he wanted, for no one could possibly be in two places so far apart at the same time - could they?
Considered a bit of a freak by the locals, a man with a passionate love for walking and the Peak District in particular, Chas came in for much comment, both to his face and by the gossips behind his back. Both suited him just fine.
Carrying two pints of milk, Chas crossed the fields on his way back to the farmhouse, still livid with himself for making such a simple slip. Okay, lipstick in itself was no great issue, but the implications from it, particularly in these parts, were to be avoided. It was a timely warning to him that if he were to allow a woman to enter his life once again, on whatever terms, he needed to be careful. Tonight had illustrated perfectly how a moment’s lapse could have cost him dearly, a mistake he didn’t intend to repeat. He would control her as he did the rest of his life - very tightly.
Care would certainly have to be exercised with Gilly from now on. His thoughts turned more to her again as he quickened his pace to the farm.
***
Williams knocked on the door in Carlton Close and waited. The peeling paintwork of the door and frame seemed in stark contrast to the well-tended and orderly garden.
‘Who is it?’ Mrs Thompson’s weak voice enquired through the door.
Williams smiled at her words. She had watched him walk down the path and he had seen the curtains move. She knew damned well who he was.
‘Police, Mrs Thompson.’
The door opened slowly, an elderly woman with a kindly face stood in the doorway. Her smile beamed up at him.
‘Come in, young man,’ she said and turned to walk along the hallway to the kitchen. ‘How do you like your tea?’
‘None for me thank you.’
Williams closed the door and walked through to join her in the kitchen. As he arrived there she was already pouring from a china teapot covered with a thick floral cosy.
‘Sit yourself down then,’ Mrs Thompson commanded in a motherly tone.
Pulling a small chair to the opposite side of the small Formica-topped table, Williams sat and took the cup that she offered to him.
‘It’s about the break-in across the road again, Mrs Thompson. Are you sure that after having had time to think on it, that you didn’t see anything?’
‘I’m quite sure constable.’
‘Did you sleep well Wednesday night? Were you up and around in the early hours I mean?’
‘Woke at about one, then again about three, but then I do most nights. I don’t go looking out of the windows at that hour though, do I?’
The sarcasm in her voice told Williams that he would need to change track or lose her as an ally.
‘I need all the help I can get Mrs Thompson. You, if anyone, can help me - will you?’ He put on his best little-boy-lost look to add emphasis to his plight.
Mrs Williams looked at him and then leaned forwards and patted the back of his hand reassuringly. ‘You’re so much like my son, tall and slim. He’s got thick black hair just like you. Married now he is, two lovely children that...’
‘The man, Mrs Thompson,’ Williams prompted.
She pondered a moment, rubbing her chin with her arthritis-crippled hand. ‘He had a limp,’ she said softly.
Williams put down his cup in surprise.
‘So you did see him.’
‘I saw the man who did that to Mr Soames’ car; yes.’
‘But you told me...’
Mrs Thompson shook her wise, old head.
‘You asked me if I saw the person who broke into the Matthews’ house and I said I didn’t. You never asked me about the car.’
She was right, of course. Williams felt a fool. There was no way Latham was going to hear of this. He would just tell him that the old lady forgot and leave it at that. Life wouldn’t be worth living otherwise. Latham would remind him of it at every opportunity for years to come. He’d drag it up again and again to ridicule him. So, he would say nothing of it.
‘So can you give me a description of him?’
Again Mrs Thompson shook her head.
‘Too dark, it was a man and he had a limp, that’s all I saw.’
The door closed and a tired Williams stood on the doorstep. For nearly an hour he had tried to prise more out of the old lady. The man’s height, direction he came from and went afterwards, coat or jacket, trousers or jeans, but nothing more from her. As he walked to the car he began thinking that Mrs Thompson would do well under interrogation. Nothing would break her.
At least he had something to tell Latham, not a lot, but something, and he should be grateful for that. He would call in at the Matthews’ house once more before he left the Close. Sheila Matthews had returned to the house and her husband had insisted on going to work the night shift as usual. The new guard dog that Matthews had bought that day would, they felt, deter any repeat and therefore they felt safer. He had also had a burglar alarm fitted. Williams had seen the van parked outside the house earlier in the day.
This was one visit he didn’t want to make. Matthews took every opportunity to tell the police of their shortcomings in preventing crime, ironic really, coming from a man like him. A tongue lashing from Mrs. Matthews was the last thing that Williams needed at this moment, but Latham had insisted that he check the house once more before leaving. With a heavy sigh he slipped his notebook into his pocket and went over to the gate of the Matthews’ house.
Chapter 3
Settling himself comfortably in the long bench-seat of the train, Chas looked forward to resting on the journey. The carriage was virtually empty, one or two late workers finding their way home and two teenagers on a night out, but they soon got off.
After leaving Gilly, he had walked briskly across the moors in the darkness to Garston railway station - not the station he had arrived at. From there, he’d taken the train to Birmingham, had changed trains and then the final leg to Bexham, arriving at about twenty past midnight. Garston lay to the east of the cave, in the opposite direction to Kinston station where he had arrived. By using this route, he could be seen and prove he had been seen arriving in the Peak District early evening on Friday to stay at the farmhouse and go walking for the weekend. This route back to Bexham, however, was off the main route. He could return unnoticed, as though he had never been away.. He changed clothes in the station toilets, avoiding any and everyone and speaking to none. He travelled virtually unseen, never drawing attention to himself and paying cash for all his tickets, unlike his journey to the peaks though, so that his credit card provided further proof to reinforce his alibi.