The Judas Sheep (4 page)

Somewhere on the Tops, up near Scammonden dam, I wondered if the Town & County security cameras had captured Mrs Norris’s last visit. The Archers finished and a programme about gamelan music came on Radio Four. I hit the off button so hard I nearly pushed it through the dashboard. The local traffic police had been asked to examine their films for shots of the Roller, but I couldn’t imagine what we could learn from a few frames of grainy videotape showing her in the store, and decided it wasn’t worth pursuing. That was my first big mistake of the day.

The choices were wide and cosmopolitan: was it to be fish and chips, pizza, curry or Chinky? Or maybe a few slices off one of those big lumps of reconstituted meat that rotate perpetually, so the grease never quite makes it to the bottom, like the base of some horrific 1960s table lamp? I decided to stay with the faith and pulled up outside the chippy. They also sold floury bread-cakes there, so I stocked up with half a dozen of those, plus a Special and chips and a portion of mushy peas.

I dashed through the house, turning on lights, kettle and gasfire, and within five minutes was tucking in, a large steaming teapot before me. It had been a good day, but I hadn’t come to any conclusions. Strictly speaking, that’s how it should be. First of all, we gather the evidence. Then we form theories and put them to the test, just like scientists do. Non-judgemental. Personally, I’d rather have a confession, or a gun with fingerprints on it. Failing that, it’s useful if there’s
someone in the frame that you’ve taken a dislike to. Norris, for instance.

I placed the teapot within easy reach and telephoned Gilbert, to give him an update. When we’d finished he said: ‘So Doc Evans said it’s OK for you to start work?’

‘Er, no. I haven’t had time to see him.’

‘Bloody hell, Charlie, you’re out of order working when you’re supposed to be off sick.’

‘I’ll get him to backdate it.’

I flicked my radio over to Classic FM and caught the end of the Enigma Variations. I was just wondering whether to type my report before or after I showered when the phone rang. It was Annabelle.

‘Hello, Annabelle,’ I said brightly. ‘This is a pleasant surprise.’

‘Oh,’ I heard, followed by silence.

‘Er, hello. Are you still there?’

After a moment she said: ‘Yes, I’m still here, Charles. I was expecting you over for supper.’

Oh God! I’d clean forgotten. I fumbled for words. ‘I … I’m sorry. I thought we said Tuesday.’ It was a lie, and it pierced me like a corkscrew as I heard myself saying it.

‘No, I’m sure we said Monday.’

‘Oh, I am sorry, Annabelle. I must be confused. You know how easily that happens.’

‘Yes. Well, it won’t spoil for a few minutes – unless you have already eaten?’

I rubbed my stomach and ran a hand over my bristly chin. ‘Er, no, I haven’t.’

‘Good, so are you coming over?’

‘Yes, please, if I’m still welcome.’

‘Mmm. We will have to consider that.’

‘Turn the flame down low and give me twenty minutes.’

I put the phone down and dashed upstairs. That made it two mistakes so far today.

Bradley Norris had some thinking to do. He eased back a cuff to look at his gold Vacheron Constantin and drummed his fingers on the red oak desk that had belonged to his grandfather. They should be ringing any time. The visit from the detective wasn’t a surprise, but he was a cautious man and the stakes were high. He hadn’t lied about the call on Friday night that told him where the Rolls-Royce was parked, just been rather selective about the content of the message.

He always worked late on a Friday. It was his habit to call a progress meeting for four p.m. That way he stopped his managers sneaking off early for the weekend. ‘Poets’ day’, he’d once heard one of them call it. ‘Piss of early, tomorrow’s Saturday,’ the manager had candidly replied when asked what he meant. Well, that attitude wasn’t good enough for anyone who wanted to keep working for Bradley T. Norris. The meeting usually ended around five, but Norris liked to stay behind; wander around the production lines; create the illusion
among the workers that he was a twenty-four-hours-
a-day
man. If he was so keen, they should be, too.

It had been a good week for Shenandoah Inc. (UK). The new factory had exceeded production targets for the first time and was on course to go into the black, proving that the move to Britain from America had been a shrewd one. The anti-smoking lobby was almost as rabid here as in the States, and sales would be in decline were it not for aggressive marketing, but attractive incentives and a compliant labour force made this a good place to build a new plant. Eastern Europe, where sales were burgeoning, was barely the flick of a butt away, and the vast market of the Third World was yawning just over the horizon. There were no Surgeon General’s warnings there, and Made in England was often more acceptable than Made in USA. The only cloud in the sky was a zealous politician on the campaign trail, but there might be ways to deal with him.

He’d wondered where Marina could be. She was good for his image and for the company’s. She was young – more than twenty years younger than him – was glamorous and fashionable, and she smoked like a New England kipper factory. But when you said that, you’d said it all. He’d met her when she was a model, used by Shenandoah in a highly successful advertising campaign. They’d had to come to England to find her because there was nobody similar back home who could draw on a cigarette and make it look as if they were having a multiple orgasm. Her American
counterparts were heavily into half-marathons and born-again virginity. Marina’s pouting lips, wreathed in blue smoke, said volumes more than: ‘My, this is a good cigarette.’ The young and trendy fell for it, and so did the President of the company.

Norris had looked up the number of the private investigator someone had recommended, and left a message. Marina would take him to the cleaners, but it would be worth it. He’d sent for a taxi, and when the phone rang he’d assumed it was Security at the front gate, to say it was waiting for him, but it wasn’t.

‘Mr Norris?’ the strange voice had enquired.

‘That’s right. What can I do for you?’

‘I’m just ringing to tell you that your Rolls-Royce is at Burtonwood services, eastbound, on the M62. Could you collect it from there, please?’

‘Why, sure. What’s happened? Who is this?’

The voice had droned on, ignoring his questions. ‘There’ll be no charge for the Roller. You also have a wife, Marina. A good-looking lady, if you don’t mind me saying so.’

Norris realised it wasn’t the public services informing him of some inconvenience with his car. It was something far more sinister. ‘Y-yes?’ he stuttered.

‘She, unfortunately, won’t be in the Roller. If you want her back it’ll cost you a hundred thousand pounds, cash. Cheap for a bird like that, I’d say, but we’re not greedy. You get the money together, we’ll be in touch on Monday. Oh, and don’t call the police.
If you do, I can’t guarantee she’ll stay in one piece.’ Click.

Norris had stared at the silent instrument for a few seconds before replacing it. He’d taken a Red Wing from the ivory box on his desk and lit it with the solid gold, gas-fuelled reproduction Zippo lighter. He’d sunk back into his Texan leather chair, inhaled deeply for the first time in ten years and sent three perfect smoke rings spinning towards the ceiling.

Nothing had changed, he decided. His wife had disappeared, but there was no way that the police could link her with Harold. His plans were half-formed, and a lot depended on the people he would have to deal with, but there was no need to abandon those plans.

Norris busied himself with balance sheets and private accounts and wrote several cheques, the largest of which were to pay off Marina’s credit cards. Then there was her bill from Town & County. He’d picked it up from the manager, Saturday morning, when he’d called in and surprised Security by asking to see the tapes from the twenty-four-hour surveillance cameras. He didn’t have as long to wait as he’d expected. At two thirty-five the phone was ringing. ‘Norris,’ he said quietly.

After a long silence the same voice as before said: ‘Did you get the money?’

‘Yes.’

A longer silence. He was obviously disconcerted – a period of negotiation had been expected. ‘All of it?’

‘Yes. All of it.’

‘OK. Stay where you are.’ He rang off.

Twenty minutes later he was back. ‘What’s the number for your portable phone?’ Norris gave it. ‘OK. Here’s what happens. Nine o’clock tonight you put the money in the boot of the Roller and sit there waiting for us to call. Understood?’

‘I understand.’

‘And listen to this: the person who collects the money will only be a messenger. He won’t know where your old lady is. So if I were you, I’d play ball. It’s your only chance to get her back.’

So far, so good. They’d kept their word Friday night; now he’d find out if they could deliver the goods again. But the goods he had in mind didn’t include Marina Norris.

It was raining, turning to sleet, as Bradley Norris placed a small bundle in the boot of the Rolls. The clock on the dashboard, which no longer had a tick to disturb the discerning driver, said five to nine. Six minutes later his phone rang.

‘That you, Norris?’

‘Yes.’

‘Is the money in the boot?’

‘Yes.’

‘Good. Here’s what you do. Drive south on the M6 to the Knutsford services. Park the Roller about two spaces away from the end of one of the rows of cars, pointing outwards. Know what I mean?’

‘Yes, I think so.’

‘Right. When you get there walk into the restaurant and order yourself a nice meal. Take at least an hour to eat it. Then go back to the car and drive home. OK?’

‘Yes.’

‘Good. I reckon you’re about ten miles away, so be there in fifteen minutes. Any later and it’s off. Understood?’

‘I understand.’

‘Oh, and you can leave the boot locked. We have a key.’

And he was gone.

The phone call was made by Frank Bell, the big one, and leader of the gang. He was the brains behind their schemes. He folded the little Motorola portable phone acquired earlier via a teenage car-thief and placed it in one of the pockets of the camouflage jacket he wore. ‘He’s on his way,’ he said, looking at his watch.

The man seated beside him was similarly dressed, except his jacket bore the insignias of several crack regiments, not all of whom had fought on the side of the Allies in World War Two. He was called Shawn Parrott, and was further distinguished by his unprepossessing physiognomy. Parrott was only average height, but he had steel cables for sinews and a pair of hands like excavator shovels. He was the action man, the Mr
Fix-it
, the killer. The only emotion he’d felt when he blew Harold the chauffeur to Kingdom Come was inside his jeans, but that was his secret.

Norris, never a fast driver, made it well within schedule. He was fussing over the unfamiliar light switches and other controls when the phone rang again.

‘Yes!’ he barked into it.

‘Our mistake,’ said a new voice. ‘Drive down to the next junction and back up the other side. Then follow the old instructions.’

Fifteen minutes later Parrott and Bell watched the Rolls creep tentatively into the northbound car park, feeling its way like a new rat in a laboratory maze. Norris turned down an aisle, then changed his mind and headed for the next one. He paused, saw a better space, and moved forward again. He drove through one bay and parked with the car pointing outwards, exactly as ordered. After a few seconds the lights extinguished and the door opened. The two men watched him walk purposefully towards the restaurant.

The third member of the gang was called Darren Atkinson. He’d followed the Rolls down the motorway in a battered Bedford van. He pulled into the space behind it and switched off the ignition with a screwdriver. Then the three of them left their vehicles and walked towards the toilets, Atkinson in front, Frank Bell and Shawn Parrott about fifty yards behind. They all had pees, without acknowledging each other, and walked back the way they’d come. They were confident the American wasn’t under surveillance.

Frank Bell started the Sierra and drove it across the
car park, stopping next to the Rolls. Darren Atkinson was already lifting the boot-lid.

‘Hurry up!’ Bell urged him.

The upper half of Atkinson’s torso vanished inside the cavernous boot of the Roller. He emerged holding the bundle, which was wrapped in a Town & County carrier bag. This is all there is,’ he hissed.

‘Are you sure?’

‘’Ang on.’ He dived inside again. There’s nowt else,’ he declared.

‘C’mon, then. Let’s go.’

Atkinson jumped into the back seat of the Sierra and Bell let the clutch out. He drove quickly but without any visible fuss, careful not to attract attention. They left the stolen Bedford for the police to find.

Atkinson passed the package to Parrott, in the front seat. ‘Bastard’s done us, if you ask me,’ he said.

Parrott fumbled with the wrapping until he reached the contents. ‘What the fuck’s this?’ he cursed. He was holding a video cassette.

Bell, driving, looked across at it. ‘What else is there?’

Parrott lifted a manila envelope out of the bag, stuffed full of something. ‘This looks more like it,’ he said, pulling a bundle of notes from it.

Bell eased the Sierra into the middle lane, keeping a careful eye on the speedo. ‘What are they? Twenties?’ he asked.

His partner-in-evil flicked through them. ‘Yeah, all twenties.’

‘Can’t be more than a few thousand there. Anything else?’

Parrot groped around in the bag and found a sheet torn from an A4 pad. Printed on it in block capitals were the words: Watch The Tape, Then Ring Me.

‘Yeah,’ he replied. ‘He’s sent you a fuckin’ love letter.’

None of them owned a video machine. They drove slowly up the M6, towards the next junction.

‘My mam’s got one,’ Darren told them.

‘Where’s she live?’

‘Sutton Coldfield.’

‘Fat lot of good she is, then. What about that bird of yours?’