Holy Island Trilogy 03 - The Final Countdown (2 page)

Why? Why sign a kid off, when there was no proof?

Shaking her head, she reached over the blue Formica bench to switch the kettle on. There was another knock on the door. ‘For Christ’s sake!’ She practically stomped to the door.

Pulling it open, she blinked in surprise to find Detective Cox standing there.

‘I’ve got things to tell you, and no, they won’t wait - can’t wait.’ He pushed his way past her.

This was very un-Cox-like. Kristina, following him into her sitting room, frowned, wondering what the hell was up now. Whatever he’d found out, he was very excited about it.

Not long after, and deep in thought, Kristina slowly closed the door behind Cox. Both were colleagues and very good friends of Detective Inspector Mike Yorke, who had suddenly and under suspicious circumstances disappeared.

She leaned heavily against the door. Feeling the weight of the world on her shoulders and a slightly queasy feeling in the pit of her stomach, her fear for Mike Yorke becoming stronger by the minute, she sighed, knowing that staring into space and dwelling on what might or might not be was definitely not an option. Certainly not in this frightening new world that Mike, and now Cox, had made into a nightmarish reality.

With a final sigh, she pushed herself away from the door and made her way into the sitting room, glancing at the tiny square-faced silver clock on the mantelpiece which, like most other things in the small cosy two bed roomed cottage in the border town of Berwick on Tweed, had belonged to her beloved grandmother, Margaret. Kristina sighed. Her grandmother had died over three months ago leaving everything she had to her and a cousin, named Margaret after her grandmother. Cousin Margaret lived in London and worked on some beauty magazine. She had not been in touch with their grandmother for at least seven years, and hadn’t even been bothered to come to the funeral, but she was now demanding Kristina sell the house.

Yeah, well, she can flaming well dream on, cheeky cow. I’m not moving, not again. She sighed. It seemed as if all she had known this year had been trouble and death.

 Nine o'clock. She tutted as her eyes focused in on the clock, then, shaking her head again, muttered, ‘Where the hell are you, Mike? What is going on? Why the hell didn’t you explain more? It’s damn hard adding the pieces up.'

Small in stature, with a magnificent mane of auburn hair, Kristina flung herself onto the brown leather settee. She stretched the kinks out of her neck muscles, and pulled her red t-shirt down over her jeans before putting her hands behind her head and staring at the ceiling, mulling over what Cox had just told her.

Detective Cox was a computer whiz, and he’d done some fishing around for Mike. What he’d come up with had been frightening, and unbelievable to say the least. But it fitted in with the little Mike had actually told them. Problem was, he had found out just what Mike had asked him to find but, seeing as Mike was AWOL, there was no way to pass the information on.

‘No way,’ she muttered, her mind jumping back to what Cox had told her.

‘He must have got it wrong. Must have, too many movies and late night snacks. No way can what he dug up be true, even if it does fit in with everything.’ Cox was a known grazer of junk food. Kristina and the rest of the team often ribbed him about his diet which Cox, being Cox, he took good-naturedly.

 Her gut feeling, though, said the opposite. Cox was also the most unimaginative and down to earth person she’d ever met. To come up with something like this would mean he’d had a serious personality transplant. Sitting up, she sighed and chewed on her thumbnail.

Recently widowed, Kristina had only just came back to Berwick on Tweed. The moment she saw Mike, after a three year absence, she knew that the flame, despite her marriage, was still burning as strong as it ever had.

Stupid that I left in the first place!

And if I’m honest, he’s the real reason I came back here.

Even if I truly didn’t plan it.

Well, not consciously.

But, where the hell?

She picked up her mobile and tried his number again. After a minute, and no answer, frustrated she threw the phone down on the settee and glared at it as if it was to blame for everything wrong in the world, as well as the missing Mike Yorke.

‘Where the hell are you, Mike?’ she muttered again. ‘Stubbornest man I every flaming well met. You always bloody well were!’

A moment later she sat upright. ‘Shit, nearly forgot to phone Rafferty.' She picked up the phone and dialled Rafferty’s number. After a few rings, it went to voicemail. ‘Hmm.' Kristina looked at the phone and shrugged. ‘I’ll try again later.’

She sighed. Forgot to tell Cox to look into Rafferty as well, and about the missing email that could or could not be lost. Too tired, she thought, as she massaged her temples.

‘Time for bed.’

Only a few minutes had gone by since she’d closed the door on Cox, and as she spoke out loud she heard a quick, sharp bang. With a puzzled frown, and her mind notching up a gear, she went to the window. Her back against the wall, she carefully opened the curtain from the side and peeked out.

She frowned. What the--?

Cox’s car was still parked outside the house. The night was damp and slightly foggy, with a mist from the north sea which had closed in earlier in the day, but with the aid of the street lamp outside her door she could just about see him through the misted-up car window.

Hmm, she thought, what’s he still hanging about for? There’ll be hell to pay when he gets home, and that’s a fact. Cox’s wife is the one who wears the pants in his house alright.

Suddenly she froze. Was that a sound close to her front door, or was she just imagining it?

No, definitely not, I’m hearing things. She half-convinced herself.  But again, a moment later she thought she heard something. The flesh on the back of her neck began to tingle, and a slight flush of fear ran down her spine.

Why hasn’t Cox moved?

What the hell is going on?

The sound, which was hard to identify, but which she imagined was a bit like someone furtively trying the door handle without much success, happened again.

OK, the door handle is stiff and quirky, but did I lock the door?

‘Shit!’ she muttered, thinking back to when she closed the door after Cox and realizing that no, she hadn’t locked the door behind him. She quickly looked around for a weapon, something, anything she could use to defend herself with.

If there really is someone creeping about.

If I’m not just imagining it.

There’s nobody there.

Of course not.

But why hasn’t Cox moved?

Bet he just fell asleep, it’s this whole fucking business, got me spooked to high heaven.

And then she heard the sound again.

Her breath caught in her throat.

CHAPTER TWO

Mr Brodzinski walked to the crossing at the end of the road where,  after a white van went speeding past, he crossed over and made his way towards a small café. Bright green neon lights in the window advertised the café’s name, Marco’s. It was a few doors down on the opposite side of the road to Kristina’s house.

He ordered coffee and a piece of chocolate cake, then went and sat in one of the window seats. The seats were wooden but had comfortable lemon cushions with white stripes on them, which matched the walls and the lemon and white checked table cloths.

What to do now? He was thinking, as the coffee and chocolate cake were placed in front of him by a young woman with a smile that sadly reminded him of his grand-daughter. He added cream to the coffee and picked up the fork to eat his piece of cake.

‘My Annya is not dead,’ he muttered, the cake halfway to his mouth, his lips barely moving, unheard by the two young girls sitting at the next table, heads and mobile phones together, doing their own brand of muttering.

He stirred the coffee and took a drink, relishing the taste and loving the smell. He smacked his lips. Ah, this was good coffee. He took another sip and looked out of the window, watching as a car he recognised pulled up outside the detective’s house. His hopes lifted as he saw his friend Cox get out of his car.

Detective Clancy must have phoned him.

Perhaps they are going to sort it together.

Cox did promise me he would do what he could.

With a feeling of excitement stirring his blood, he swung his head round to the clock on the wall, then to a notice board next to the clock for the opening times.

Hmm, half an hour left before closing.

He would sit it out, wait as long as he had to until their business was finished, then when they came to the door, go over and confront them. Even if he had to stand outside when the café closed, for however long.

My Annya is not going to be forgotten!

CHAPTER THREE

Kristina’s eyes fell on a set of ornamental swords that she’d told her grandmother to hand in to the police station a few years ago, which of course the lovely awkward old bugger never had. Kristina had been meaning to, ever since she’d moved back down here, only she kept forgetting. Quickly she crossed the room and pulled the top sword out of its sheath. She judged it to be not quite a meter long, quite heavy and looked rather sharp. She had a very quick mental picture of her grandmother sharpening the blade.

 Just the sort of thing she would do, even though they’re illegal, thank God no one had been stupid enough to break in they would have met a worthy opponent in grandma alright.  Kristina thought as, light-footed, she ran to the cream leather settee along the wall beside the door. Jumping up, she stood and took a moment to steady herself. One knee bent, one bare foot firmly planted on the arm of the settee and the other on a cushion, she raised the sword above her head with both arms. Making sure she had the balance right, she waited, straining her hearing. It had gone deathly quiet. She could hear nothing.

If there is someone there, they’re good!

The door handle slowly began to turn. Kristina puffed the air out of her cheeks then, taking a deep breath, she held it in, pushing her worries for Cox and Mike to the back of her mind as self preservation kicked in and she gripped the handle of the sword even tighter.

The door opened, and the first thing Kristina saw was the gun. Gathering all her strength, without hesitating she brought the sword down in a quick slanted movement. Her aim was not to kill, but to knock the gun out of whoever’s hand it was, and to disable the bastard and put herself at the advantage.

The gun flew up into the air, and to Katrina’s horror it took her would-be assailant's thumb with it. As the gun spun over and over, droplets of blood spread in a wide arc, splattering the walls and furniture. Then gravity took over, and the gun fell in a direct line to the floor. The thumb landed at the shocked man’s feet a second later, tip first, then falling over.

Kristina was just as shocked as the man, whose face had drained of all colour as he clutched his wrist tightly with his left hand, and stared at her in utter disbelief.

Overcoming her shock and moving quickly, Kristina jumped for the gun. She landed on her knees. Her fingers were closing round the handle when the first kick hit her ribs.

‘Bitch!’ he screamed. ‘Fucking bitch!’ His face creased with pain, he glared at her through thick dark-rimmed glasses as his whole body began to shake.

Rolling with the kick, she managed to grab the gun, but she wasn’t quick enough to avoid the next kick. It landed at the base of her spine, right on her tail bone, sending spasms of pain all the way up her back.

Screaming, but without hesitating, she quickly rolled over and, still on her knees, aimed the gun at his crotch, just as his foot raised and he was about to kick her again.

‘Freeze, you bastard!’ she yelled, pulling herself up from the floor by gripping the settee arm with her right hand, and managing to hold the gun steady with her left.

‘Not much else I can do, is there?’ he said with a sarcastic sneer. ’The odds, as they say, are in your favour.’ The overwhelming smell of garlic as he spoke turned Kristina’s stomach. But she guessed he was babbling to stop himself from screaming. Professional to the end - if a tad sarcastic.

‘Take your trousers off, scumbag.’

‘What?’

‘You heard. Drop them.’

‘You’re serious, aren’t you?’ He looked at her as if he still couldn’t believe what had just happened.

‘Deadly. Now drop them.’

Holding his right hand, which was bleeding heavily, tight against his chest, he loosened the belt buckle on his dark grey trousers with his other hand and, with a sneer, pulled his zip down. His trousers dropped to his ankles.

‘OK. Step out of them, then drop the underpants.’

‘You for fucking real, or what?’ Again he glared at her in disbelief.

‘Just do it now. And don’t for one minute think I don’t know how to use this.’

Outside, Kristina appeared calm and totally in control of the situation, but inside she was terrified. Knowing that no way could she let him see just how frightened she was, she waved the gun at him. ‘Move it.’

Grinding his teeth in anger, he slowly rolled his underpants down and stepped out of them.

‘OK, get the rest off. Oh - and that’s nothing special down there, by the way. Really nothing to be proud of.’

Kristina could have bitten off her tongue when she saw the anger on his face.

Shit! Shouldn’t have said that!

But it was her way of dealing with danger. It was how she kept control. And it wasn’t every day, even in the police force, when you were faced with a semi-naked, heavily bleeding, thumbless man.

‘Kick the trousers over.’

‘I’m bleeding to fucking death here, bitch, and you want to play fucking bedroom games?’

‘With you? Er, that’ll be a big fat no. Kick ‘em over, scumbag.’

Kristina had never considered herself as foolhardy, or a hero. Well aware that the incident with the thumb had been a freak accident that could probably never be repeated in a million years, she walked slowly backwards, her eyes locked steadily on the man’s, until her hip made contact with the phone table. Finding the phone blindly by scrabbling around with her free hand, she picked it up and quickly dialled 999.