Down: Trilogy Box Set (81 page)

The helicopter came into sight flying from the west. The pilot circled once then put his skids down on the rich soil a short distance from the police car. The farmer retreated to the cab of his tractor to protect his eyes from the rotor wash and emerged to challenge the men who were exiting.

Ben and two of his agents got out first followed my Murphy and Rix.

“Ben Wellington, Security Service,” Ben said to the older policeman. “Thank you for your assistance.”

“You’re most welcome. I’m Constable Kent.”

The farmer was yelling at them but the younger officer ordered him back.

“He seems angry,” Ben said.

“Planting season,” Kent said.

“I see. Well, hopefully we won’t inconvenience him for long. I wonder if you could keep my pilot company until we return.”

The policeman gave the Hellers a sidelong glance and said to Ben, “Where are you off to, if I might ask?”

“Not far. Low Street.”

“Might we be of assistance with an address or a name?”

“Thank you, no. We’ll be fine.”

“We’ve never had the Security Service on this patch before,” the constable said.

“Haven’t you?” Ben said, brushing past. “First time for everything.”

They emerged from the field and walked down a small lane that ended on Low Street across from The Swan, the only pub in the village of Hoxne. Rix turned to the right and with hands on hips looked up the street while Murphy lit a roll-up. The village had only eight hundred residents and early in the morning there was not a soul about.

Ben came up behind Rix. “Where to, Jason?” he asked.

“It’s up this way, I expect. I’ll know it when I see it.”

They walked up the street past the post office and general store and they were about to pass the village’s red telephone booth when Murphy stopped and looked inside.

“Someone’s nicked the telephone,” he said, amused.

“They’re for show now,” Ben said. “Everyone’s got mobile phones.”

“Bloody ridiculous,” Murphy replied as they carried on past a covered bench set on a patch of green.

Ben watched Rix as he studied each cottage lining the street. Some were thatched, others not, some brick, some stucco, all of them postcard-pretty. Then Rix stopped at a white one with a tile roof and a trellis of ivy around the front door.

“Is it this one?” Ben asked.

“Yeah, this is it.”

“Are you sure?”

“I said this was it, didn’t I?”

“All right then. Stand aside please.”

Ben knocked on the door. A curtain covering the window to the right of the door parted and the door opened. A sturdy middle-aged woman answered and said hello as if it were a question. She looked Ben up and down then bent her neck from side to side to see men behind him.

“Hello, madam,” Ben said. “My name is Ben Wellington from the Security Service.” He produced his identity card which she read and handed back. “We’re investigating a matter of national security. We have reason to believe that you may have recently been contacted by a man who is the subject of our inquiries.”

“I should stop you,” she said. “I don’t live here. I’m a home caregiver. I look after the owner, Mrs. Hardcastle.”

“Is she here?”

“She is, but she’s asleep.”

“Do you think we might wake her to answer a few questions?”

“I don’t think that would be a good idea,” the woman said. “She’s poorly today with a cold. She’s ninety. Did you know that?”

“I did not.”

“I put her down for a nap after breakfast. She’s foggy from the tablets her doctor prescribed. So you see, it wouldn’t do any good to wake her.”

“Are you here every day?” Ben asked.

“Five days a week. Another woman calls in on weekends.”

“Does she have a daughter?” Ben asked.

“I wouldn’t know. If she does I’ve never met her.”

“Could I ask if a man has come calling for her recently?”

“Not while I was here.”

“Does the name Lucas Hathaway mean anything to you?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“Could you give me a few seconds, please?” Ben said. He stepped away from the door and spoke to Rix. “Are you certain this is the right house?”

“It’s the one in the photo. I’m positive.”

“Well, it may be the house but there’s no telling if the woman here is the mother of Hathaway’s girlfriend. That woman might have moved or passed away years ago.”

“Why don’t you ask how long she’s lived here?” Rix suggested.

Ben called over to the caregiver and asked the question.

“Far as I know, she’s always been in the village. There’s a picture inside of her as a young woman in this very house.”

“We’ve come all this way,” Rix said. “We should search the house.”

“What’s the point?” Ben asked.

“Ma’am,” Rix called out. “Do you stay the nights here?”

“Oh no, I come in the morning and leave after I give her some lunch. She can get by but we do help her with meals. A woman from the village helps with cleaning and laundry.”

Rix said to Ben, “Hathaway could’ve come and hidden himself. This lady wouldn’t necessarily know.”

Ben looked skeptical but asked whether they could have a look around inside and the garden.

“You look like a nice man and your identification card looks genuine but I’ve learned the hard way not to be too trusting. And as it’s not my house, I don’t feel comfortable.”

“If the police accompanied us, would that be more satisfactory?” Ben asked.

The woman nodded and politely shut the door.

In five minutes, one of Ben’s agents returned with Constable Kent.

“I did offer my assistance,” Kent said.

“Yes, and now I am taking you up on your offer,” Ben said, rapping on the door. “Let’s try again.”

The caregiver knew the officer and made way for a search as long as everyone promised to be quiet. The house was small and Ben’s men waited outside. The caregiver wrinkled her nose at Rix and Murphy and retreated to the kitchen with the policeman for a cup of tea, saying loudly enough for them to hear that some men ought to use deodorant.

There were only three rooms downstairs and two upstairs and with a postage-stamp of a garden with no shed the search was over quickly. They peeked into the old lady’s bedroom where they heard snoring and saw a white-haired head poking from the bedclothes. Downstairs in the sitting room, Rix examined the framed photos on a table. He picked one up for a closer look.

“What is it?” Ben asked.

“Nothing,” Rix said, quickly putting it down. He saw a photo album in a bookshelf and leafed through it while Murphy went out for another smoke.

Rix’s lower lip protruded.

“What is it?” Ben asked.

“This is her.”

Ben slid the photo from the plastic. An attractive brunette with a shag cut and bell-bottomed jeans stood beside a tree in the back garden of the cottage. The date was inked on the back: 1979.

“This is Hathaway’s girlfriend?”

Rix nodded and returned the photo to the album. He paged forward, looked at a few more photos and shut the book with a slap.

“Well, there’s no indication he’s been here,” Ben said.

“He still could come,” Rix said.

“I suppose so,” Ben said. “We’ll have the local constables keep an eye on the place. They seem keen to help Her Majesty’s government.”

They were on the M1 motorway again, this time heading south. Talley, wide awake, sat beside Hathaway while Youngblood and Chambers slept in the back. All of them were so crimson-stained it was as if they had bathed in a vat of blood.

“I don’t know where we’re going,” Hathaway said in a dull tone.

“You’re asking
me,
where we ought to go? Fuck if I know,” Talley said.

“Just saying.”

“There’s but one thing running through my mind,” Talley said.

“What’s that?”

“Finding the molls.”

“Why do you care?”

“Because I do, that’s why. They’re the ones that got us into the troubles we’re in.”

Hathaway screwed up his face in thought for a while then said in exasperation, “You’re blaming them for us getting sent here? If you recall we were chasing them to do rape and worse when it happened.”

“I do blame them.”

“Your logic’s all bolloxed up.”

Talley erupted, waking the men in the back. “If I didn’t need you for turning the wheel of this machine and getting us from here to there I’d cut out your liver and I’d eat it in front of your stupid face. Don’t you ever backtalk me again. You hear, Hathaway? You hear?”

Hathaway climbed down. “Yeah, sure, Talley, sure. Whatever you say.”

“I want to find them and crash ’em good and proper.”

From the back seat Youngblood said, “I want to find ’em too. I’ve got unfinished business between their legs.”

Chambers sniggered at that.

Hathaway said, “Look, I’ve been after them as long as I’ve been in Hell but Rix and Murphy were always protecting them. I’d like nothing better than crashing them but I don’t know where they are, do I?” Hathaway said.

“You’re from their time,” Talley said. “You tell me. Where would they go?”

Hathaway said he didn’t have a clue and drove in silence for a few miles. Then he added, “I called in at Jason and Christine’s flat one night to pick up something. She was waving a letter about she’d had from her ex’s lawyer. Something about support for their son.”

“What’s an ex?” Talley asked.

“Ex-husband. She was divorced, split up from him.”

“So she’d want to see her son, wouldn’t she?” Talley said. “Where’s he likely to be?”

“No way of telling. I don’t even remember what his name was. But I do recall her ex-husband’s name. She was like, fucking Gareth this and fucking Gareth that.”

“Steer the machine to Gareth, then.”

“It’s not that easy. I need to remember his last name. Then I need to remember where he lived. Then we need to see if he’s still alive.”

“Well, think on it.”

Hathaway began to do just that, spurred on by the nubbin of a memory that there was something peculiar about the man’s name. He’d seen the lawyer’s letter; they’d had a laugh.

What was the geezer’s name?

Was it South or Southern?

No, it was something like that, wasn’t it? A direction. North? East? West?

West, that was it, he thought. But why would he remember that?

Then he had it: because his name was West and he was from Southsea. A silly juxtaposition had somehow stayed in his brain for thirty years, to Hell and back.

“I need to find a telephone book,” Hathaway said. “If he’s still alive and still where he used to be then maybe we can find him and maybe we can find his son and maybe we can find the molls.”

“Good,” Talley said. “’Cause I want to crash ’em good and proper.”

It was no small task finding an address for Gareth West.

First Hathaway pulled into a rest stop on the motorway near Leicester and slowly cruised it, looking for a phone box. He dared not go inside the restaurant or petrol station in his bloodstained state. Next he exited the M1 again for the B roads, looking for a phone box in small towns and villages. Finally he spotted one in a village and with a handful of change from the center console, he hurried inside to find, to his astonishment, no phone, no wires, no anything, just an empty kiosk.

He drove on. Youngblood and Chambers clamored for grub and on seeing an elderly man carrying a pint of milk and a newspaper from his car to his front door, he decided to be opportunistic. The house was far from neighbors and the man was easy pickings.

They drove off some hours after Hathaway forced the man to show him how to call directory enquiries, after Talley slit the old fellow’s throat, after they cleaned out the pantry and fridge, after they slept for a while, after they helped themselves to changes of clothes, and after Hathaway had taken the maps and siphoned off the petrol from the old man’s car.

Feeling refreshed, they returned to the motorway heading for Southsea.

The four Hellers arrived at Nightingale Road in the evening. Hathaway parked the car and got out leaving the others behind. The terraced house had G. West stenciled above the mail slot. He rang and Gareth’s muffled voice came through asking who it was.

“I’ve got a package for Mr. West,” Hathaway said, using a reliable gambit from his life of crime.

Gareth unlocked the door and Hathaway easily pushed his way in.

Several minutes later, Hathaway went to fetch his three companions. Inside they found Gareth tied to a chair with a tea towel crammed into his mouth. Blood trickled down a nostril.

“They were here,” Hathaway told Talley.

“The molls was here?”

“Yeah. They’ve cleared off.”

“You certain ’bout that?”

“It’s what he said. But we need to have a look around.”

“Do it. Any drink about?”

Talley sat on a chair in the kitchen drinking brandy from the bottle while Gareth stared at him, his blue eyes watery but unblinking.

“You want to say something to me?” Talley asked.

Gareth nodded and Talley pulled out his gag.

“Say it, but don’t shout or I’ll crash you.”

“You’re from there, aren’t you?” Gareth asked.

“From there? Yeah, I’m from there. What about it?”

“Why are you here?”

“I’m looking for the molls.”

Gareth said he didn’t understand.

“Molls. You know, the women we was with.”

“Christine and Molly were here. I told the other man that.”

“You sure they’ve lit off?”

“They’re gone.”

“Where’d they go?”

“I have no idea.”

“We’ll see ’bout that, won’t we?”

He stuffed the tea towel back in Gareth’s mouth and swigged brandy until Hathaway and the others returned to the kitchen.

“They’re nowhere to be found,” Chambers said.

“He says he doesn’t know where they went to,” Talley said.

Hathaway pulled out the tea towel again. “Did they have a car?” he asked.

Gareth asked for water. Hathaway filled a glass from the sink and put it to his lips. He drank thirstily and said, “I think so.”

“You’ve got a son, right?”

Gareth wouldn’t answer.

“Look,” Hathaway said. “We’ll find him and then he’ll be tied to a chair too. We don’t care about him, just Christine and Molly, all right?”