Corpse in Waiting Read online

  We left the car in the road outside a pub and walked the half mile or so towards the park entrance. Although there was no moon the sky was not completely dark due to reflected urban lighting and we were able to walk on a wide tree-lined grass verge using the flash lamp I had brought only when there were no passing cars to illuminate our way. I did not think anyone would spot us as we moved as close to the trees as possible, the only likely hazards being walking into a low branch or tripping over one of the very low post and log fences that bordered the road and drives to private houses on either side.

  ‘No one knows you’re here?’ I said.

  ‘No, I’ve my pension to think about. Look, this might be a really daft idea but did he have his mobile on him?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘He might not have had a chance to turn it off.’

  ‘He can’t have done.’

  ‘Why don’t you ring him and pretend to be his mother or someone like that and see what happens? You might catch someone on the hop.’

  This I did and it was answered at the fourth ring.

  ‘Patrick?’ I said without giving anyone a chance to speak first. ‘It’s your mother. How are you, darling? I haven’t heard from you for ages. Where are you?’

  Silence but for breathing noises, not Patrick’s, probably. Then, whispering. A few seconds later, staggeringly, Patrick came on the line.

  ‘Hi, Mum,’ he said, his voice sounding weak.

  I repeated most of what I had already said.

  ‘Sorry not to have kept in touch,’ he replied. ‘Yes, I’m fine but in a meeting right now so can’t talk. Where?’ he asked as though I had asked him that. ‘Oh, Frinton. It’s very smart.’

  The line went dead.

  ‘Not much to learn there then,’ said Greenway, who had been standing close in order to overhear. ‘Other than he’s still alive.’

  ‘Well, recognizing voices apart, he knew it wasn’t his mother to whom he was talking, but me,’ I told him. ‘He calls his mother by her Christian name, Elspeth, and she never calls him darling. The phrase “in a meeting” means he’s seriously outnumbered and “Frinton” is our code-word for “fearful” as in fearful of a successful outcome. “Very smart” means –’ my voice caught in my throat – ‘they’ve beaten him up.’

  ‘Do I call out the troops?’

  ‘I’d never presume to advise you about things like that.’

  ‘No, but your oracle thing?’

  ‘They’d have plenty of time to shoot him dead while the police were breaking down the front door. But you must know that my priority is Patrick, not nailing Descallier for his murder.’

  ‘I’d rather stick with yours until something better presents itself.’ After we had walked in silence for a few moments he said, ‘I didn’t tell you the truth just now. Richard Daws told me to have a go at getting Patrick out without making any waves and keep quiet about it.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘No idea, but he obviously highly values the man. Perhaps he somehow feels responsible.’

  ‘Daws is a bit more hard-boiled than that. He might be hoping Patrick does start a war if he has a little back-up.’

  ‘And thinks this character will do less political damage dead? Obviously I would not be at all happy if that was the truth. SOCA wasn’t set up to get rid of the politically inconvenient.’

  ‘Well, hopefully not,’ I said dryly.

  We did not speak again until we had entered the park and turned sharp left on to the rough grass. Some hundred yards ahead of us was the huge fallen tree. The park authorities had begun to cut it up and the top, where it had crashed through the fence, had been removed and dragged away. Also from my earlier visit I knew that quite a lot of damage had been done, not just to the six foot tall high-quality wooden fence but to shrubs and a small tree within the grounds of the house, which appeared to have been split in half.

  ‘Keep walking,’ I said. ‘There’s a section of fence that’s really been flattened just ahead.’ The fact that, so far, no repairs had been effected pointed to the unlikelihood of guard dogs roaming around.

  When we reached the gap I took hold of Greenway’s sleeve and he halted.

  I listened. On the lightest of breezes the night sounds were brought to us; the faint hum of traffic and the occasional closer car, planes high overhead, the rustle of leaves, an owl hooting. Then I heard voices coming from the direction of the house still concealed by the vegetation. It sounded as though people might be talking outside.

  My main concern right now was that I had a big man with me who had the potential to blunder around like an elephant with a headache. This turned out to be a groundless worry for when we advanced a couple of minutes later, picking our way over the brash and wood chippings, the voices no longer audible, he turned out to be almost as silently moving as Patrick. On my unspoken suggestion, having navigated our way through the wreckage into an undamaged part of the shrubbery, we bore right, following the boundary fence. In order to remain quiet progress had to be extremely slow.

  After what seemed like hours we reached a slight outward curve in the fence and then, a matter of ten yards farther on, another that met it at right angles. I had Patrick’s tiny torch with me and risked using it for a few seconds. This fence was lower but I did not dare shine the light over it in case it was spotted by those indoors. We had no choice but to follow it even though it meant we were going closer and closer to the house before I really thought it safe to do so.

  Quite quickly we reached an opening, a rustic archway that appeared to lead into whatever was over to our right on the other side of the fence. I was in front and turned to halt Greenway by placing a hand on his chest, leaving him there while I investigated what was through the arch. A few yards in I met a wire mesh fence: it was around a tennis court screened off from the rest of the garden. I went back and got the Commander to follow me. If we could go this way to get nearer without being detected . . .

  I was trying to concentrate and not think about Richard Daws’ involvement but this was difficult. Had he been worried that I would go in alone if no police action appeared to be forthcoming? He knew the way Patrick worked too. He also hated corruption in high places, being a high place sort of person himself. I could only think that rather than just getting Patrick out quietly he wanted the whole thing blown wide open, the pair of them having had a small part in bringing down a government once before after the Home Secretary of the time had condoned the setting up of a ‘school for terrorists’ to catch some of the world’s most wanted criminals. Encouraging such people into the UK had had disastrous consequences.

  ‘You’ve stopped,’ Greenway breathed into my ear, perhaps wondering if I was losing my nerve.

  ‘I’m thinking,’ I whispered crossly.

  ‘Sorry, ma’am.’

  I set off again and, as we were shielded by the fence from the house, risked using the little torch. We were following a grass path and soon came to another opening. I peeped though it and saw that a side wall of the house was only a matter of yards away across a driveway that I guessed accessed garages, this proving to be correct when I leaned out a little further to have another look. There did not seem to be any point hazarding ourselves in walking in such an exposed position.

  ‘Go back,’ I said.

  He made no demur and we retreated until we had reached where we had gone though the archway, carrying on through the shrubbery. After a few minutes of painstaking progress, Greenway having indicated that I should again lead the way, it became possible to glimpse lights through the foliage. Then, suddenly, a wide expanse of lawn was before me, nothing between us and the house but a fairly large tree over to one side. I went smartly into reverse, treading on one of Greenway’s toes and then stood motionless, he looking over my shoulder as I carefully parted the greenery so we could see more clearly.

  There were a lot of lights on in the house and, directly before us, French doors into a living room which were wide open, the light streaming out on to an
extensive patio furnished with tables and chairs, large potted palms and some kind of built-in barbecue. Judging by the voices people were in the room beyond and, as we watched, three men came out through the doors. They were silhouetted against the light for a moment. Was one of them Stefan and another the beer-bellied moron who had attacked me in Boyles House? Not coming in our direction they approached the tree, one side of which, away from us, was in deepest shadow. They spoke but seemingly not among themselves but to the tree. One man laughed, moved into the shadow and I heard a soft thump followed by another, indeterminate, sound. Then they all laughed. As they strolled back towards the house and I went into the light I saw that two of them had drinks glasses in their hands and were walking unsteadily. Yes, possibly Stefan and beer belly.

  Quickly, I turned, almost bundling Greenway out of my way, and set off back towards where we had entered, moving as quickly as I dared. I knew he was following me but was not about to explain my reasons right now. Back in the shrubbery by the main boundary fence, actually the rear of a wide border, I went right past where we had entered until we were in the area nearest to the shadow side of the tree.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Greenway whispered when I paused for a moment.

  ‘I have a very, very nasty feeling about that tree,’ I said before setting off again.

  To his credit he did not press me further, just padded softly to the rear.

  There was a sudden burst of loud laughter from indoors and I paused again for a few seconds before moving off. A darker shape materialized in front of me that turned out to be, after I had practically cannoned into it, a gazebo. I slid around the side of it, risked a second’s flash with the torch into the interior, and then went in, drawing Greenway in with me when I sensed him slightly losing his bearings in the opening.

  ‘Stand still,’ I breathed. ‘There’s a teetering pile of folding chairs right behind you. Please stay here while I have a recce.’

  He patted my shoulder by way of acknowledgement and I walked out on to the deep shade of the lawn. The tree was before me, a large darker blob, against the brightness of the light being shone across part of the lawn from inside the house. I could see no detail. When I reckoned that the nearest lower branch was a matter of feet from where I was I stopped and listened. I could hear nothing.

  Then I heard a soft creaking sound as of stretched rope and the short hairs on the back of my neck prickled.

  I went in the direction of the sound and walked right in to someone, someone who was hanging from the tree and judging by the way we touched, revolving slowly. Swiftly, I conducted an examination, discovering that his feet were only a matter of inches from the ground and that he was hanging, thank God, not by his neck. The lower part of his right leg was not flesh and bone but I already knew who it was : you tend to know your husband even in the dark.

  Patrick appeared to be alive but unconscious.

  Trying to remain calm I went back over to the gazebo, making a hissing noise when I guessed I was nearby.

  ‘I can just see you,’ Greenway hissed back.

  ‘He’s hanging from the tree,’ I told him.

  Greenway swore under his breath.

  ‘By his wrists,’ I amended.

  I was all ready for trouble, sure that we would now be detected. Again, I risked a quick flash with the torch, mostly to avoid braining ourselves on the branch, not very thick, that was bowed down under its load. Swiftly, and somehow managing in almost complete darkness, Greenway hoisted me up and succeeded in supporting me with one arm and taking most of Patrick’s weight with the other while I cut through the rope using the knife. It was very sharp but still seemed to take for ever.

  ‘I’ve got him,’ Greenway grunted when everybody went groundwards and the branch whooshed up to its normal place giving me a hearty slap on the face with twigs and leaves on the way.

  We half ran back to the gazebo. I stood in the doorway to try to prevent any stray beams of light escaping having given the torch to the Commander in order that he could assess Patrick’s condition. When the patient suddenly sat up with a choice expletive he got a large hand clamped across his mouth. Even when this was removed and he had doubled over, trying to cope with the pain, he carried on swearing very, very quietly. I did not think he knew we were present or that he was no longer in criminal hands.

  Greenway realized this too and we changed places. I thought mild shock tactics might work, knelt down and kissed that part of his face that was not curled into the agonized ball, as it turned out his right ear. The swearing ceased.

  ‘It’s me,’ I said into the ear. ‘And don’t thrash about, we’re in a summer house in enemy territory.’

  He was still in terrible pain. I shone the torch beam quickly on his hands and they were livid with huge welts around his wrists from the rope. Gently, in the dark again, I massaged the life back into his fingers.

  ‘We must go,’ Greenway said.

  Patrick started, not having realized he was there. Then, his voice hoarse, probably because it would prefer to scream, and speaking in short bursts, he said, ‘The women . . . are in the indoor swimming pool.’

  ‘In the pool?’ I said.

  ‘It’s been drained and they’re being held there at gunpoint. I think they’re going to . . . dump them somewhere and Descallier’ll leave the country.’

  ‘How do you mean, dump?’ Greenway asked, also crouching down.

  ‘There’s was talk of a shipping . . .’ For a moment Patrick could not speak at all, shuddering. ‘Container,’ he continued. ‘There’s no ventilation . . . which is reckoned . . . will solve the problem. But first . . .’

  ‘First?’ Greenway prompted.

  ‘They’re going to have some fun . . . with them.’

  ‘I’ll fix me a raid,’ Greenway said and his clothing rustled as he stood up and rummaged for his phone.

  That was when the screaming started.

  I went into a kind of mental limbo, shocked by the dreadful sound, and aware that Greenway was speaking quietly on his mobile after another fleeting use of the torch, no doubt thinking, rightly as it happened, that no one indoors would hear or see him with all that racket and ‘fun’ going on. Patrick got to his feet, staggered and dislodged a couple of the garden chairs but the clatter brought no reaction from the house.

  ‘I’m not going to wait for reinforcements, which are on their way, but get in there and arrest some of these bastards before some woman gets seriously injured or killed,’ Greenway announced.

  ‘They’ll kill you,’ Patrick told him. ‘There’s at least twenty of them in there.’

  ‘They wouldn’t dare,’ said Greenway and set off into the darkness.

  I tore after him. ‘Think!’ I implored him, using Patrick’s time-honoured exhortation. ‘Have some kind of plan first.’

  ‘There’s no time for plans.’

  I grabbed one of his arms and hauled him to a standstill with sheer physical effort. ‘Our terms!’ I said, hardly caring if anyone heard me. ‘You do as we advise.’

  ‘Patrick’s in no fit state to do anything.’

  ‘Yes, he is,’ Patrick’s voice said from behind us. ‘Just.’

  ‘We ought to go in armed and you can’t even hold a gun.’

  ‘I can do anything when necessary.’

  When driven to it, speakable and . . . not so.

  Without another word, Greenway handed him the Glock and I gave Greenway the Smith and Wesson.

  ‘Stay safely out of the way,’ Greenway said to me.

  ‘No, I think we ought to find Ingrid some kind of protection,’ Patrick said absently and headed off, weaving around a little, adding over his shoulder, ‘You’re right, there’s no time for plans.’

  Trying to shut my mind to what was occurring indoors I paused just behind Patrick on the patio as he stood to one side of the double doors, Greenway on the other. As we had approached I had glimpsed a couple of men slumped in armchairs just inside, probably two of the three who had taunted Patr
ick as he had hung from the tree. The shrieking and screaming was coming from somewhere within the house – it sounded horribly as though women had been released and were now being hunted down – but it was impossible from one quick look to ascertain how many other people were in this first large room.

  Patrick bent and, fumbling, picked up something from the garden that turned out to be a fairish-sized clod of earth. He handed it to me and mimed what I should do with it. Lobbed in with some verve the lump burst wonderfully on the forehead of one comatose figure, yippee, Stefan, showering the pair of them with soil. They reeled from their chairs towards us, sozzled, were grabbed as they exited and then guided into a more certain state of oblivion, Greenway providing the fairly brutal means. Relieved quickly of weapons they were then consigned, with glorious indifference, into the prickles of an adjacent holly bush.

  I found myself in possession of a short-barrelled .38 Smith and Wesson, with which of course I am very familiar, and thanked my lucky stars it was not what the US police refer to as ‘A Saturday Nite Special’ a cheap, badly made weapon, similar to the kind of thing inside Martino Capelli’s dragons and likely to blow up in your face.

  ‘This is official,’ Greenway said to us just before striding into the room. ‘We’re here to arrest them. If they resist . . .’

  Was it my imagination or could I hear sirens over the din?

  ‘Did you bring any handcuffs?’ Patrick asked in conversational tones as we hurried through the room, bright and opulent, which was empty of people but for another inebriate in an armchair who appeared to be out cold.

  ‘No,’ Greenway replied.

  ‘Pity.’

  ‘Yes, it means we might have to shoot them anyway,’ the commander observed cold-bloodedly. ‘God, I hate this kind of crime!’ he ended up roaring as we entered another room. ‘Armed police!’ he bellowed. ‘Stand quite still or we’ll shoot!’

  Two men, one with his trousers down, dived for weapons in the pockets of jackets thrown over nearby chairs, were in receipt of a shot each and did not get up again.