Crossfire (39 page)

He was quite quick in raising his gun but nowhere near quick enough. I was on him so fast, and as he swung the barrels up, I struck his right arm, the point of my sword tearing through both his coat and the flesh beneath. In the same motion, I hit him full on the nose with the sword’s nickel-plated hand guard. He immediately went sprawling straight down onto the concrete floor, dropping the gun and clutching at his bleeding face with both hands.

I stood over him with my sword raised high, like a matador about to deliver the coup de grâce. Garraway, meanwhile, curled himself into a ball with his arms up around his head, whimpering and shaking like a scolded puppy.

I aimed at his heart, and my arm began to fall.

“What are you doing?” I suddenly asked myself out loud, stopping the rapidly descending blade when it was just inches from his chest.

Values and Standards of the British Army,
paragraph sixteen, states that soldiers must treat all human beings with respect, especially the victims of conflict, such as the dead, the wounded, prisoners and civilians. All soldiers must act within the law. “Soldiering,” it says, “is about duty: so soldiers should be ready to uphold the rights of others before claiming their own.”

Killing Peter Garraway like this would certainly not be within the law, and would definitely be a breach of his rights as my unarmed and wounded prisoner. I would simply be taking revenge for the pain and suffering that he had inflicted on me.

I noticed that he had peed himself, just as I had done the previous week in the stable, although, in my case, it hadn’t been from fear. Maybe that would have to be revenge enough. I leaned down, picked up his shotgun and left him where he was, holding his face and arm, and quivering like a jelly.

I went quickly across the yard and out towards the house with the gun in one hand and my sword in the other. But the sword had now outlived its usefulness. I tossed it into the shadows at the end of the stable building and put both my hands on the gun—that was better.

I had no real plan in mind, but I knew that somehow I had to draw Jackson Warren towards me and away from my mother.

I broke open the shotgun. There was a live cartridge in each of the two chambers, but I cursed myself for not having looked for more in Peter Garraway’s pockets. I could hear him behind me, calling out pitifully for Jackson, so I reckoned it was too late to go back and find them now.

So I had only two shots. I would need to make both of them count. I closed the gun once more and pushed the safety catch to off.

 

 

I
f I wanted to draw Jackson and Alex away from my mother, I would have to reveal my position, something that was utterly alien to any infantryman.

The headlights were still shining brightly down the back of the stables towards the muck heap, but I wasn’t there anymore. I was about forty yards away, where the driveway met the turning circle near the house. I could see the car clearly from where I stood; at least I could see the headlights but from side-on.

How could I attract attention to myself?

I lifted the shotgun to my shoulder and fired one of my precious cartridges at the car. At this range the shot wouldn’t penetrate the vehicle’s skin, although it might just break a window. However, one thing was for sure, Alex Reece in the car would certainly know all about it.

I could hear Jackson shouting. Perhaps he had been too close to the shot for comfort. But did I care? Now they would know exactly where I was, and the car was already turning my way.

I purposely lingered a moment too long, just long enough, in fact, for the headlight beams to fall on my departing back. I weaved in the light for a split second before diving once more into the darkness down the side of the house. A shot rang out, but I was already safely protected around the corner.

I moved swiftly, grateful that I had made an extensive reconnaissance here the previous Thursday. I knew that the concrete path alongside the exterior walls ran completely around the rectangular building, the only obstacle being a small gate at one of the back corners.

In no time, I had completed the circuit and approached the front of the house again, but now I was behind the car, its headlamps still blazing towards where I had been just seconds before. In the glow I could see Jackson creeping forwards towards the corner, his gun raised to his shoulder, ready to fire.

The driver’s door of the car suddenly opened, and Alex stood up next to the vehicle, facing away from me, watching Jackson intently.

I moved slowly forwards, being very careful to be as silent as possible in my basketball boots on the loose gravel. Alex would have certainly heard me if the engine of the car hadn’t been left running. As it was, I was able to approach him completely undetected.

He was wearing a baggy sweatshirt and a large woolen cap.

I lifted the shotgun and placed the ends of the barrels firmly onto the bare skin visible just beneath his left ear.

“Move an inch and you will die,” I said to him in my best voice-of-command. But he immediately disobeyed me and turned around. But when I saw his face I realized I’d been so wrong, the car driver wasn’t Alex Reece, as I’d thought.

“Hello, Tom,” said Isabella.

I was stunned. I lowered the barrels.

“But why?” I asked.

“I’m so sorry,” she said in answer.

“Was it you who unlocked the gates?” I asked her.

She seemed surprised that I knew, but she nodded. “Jackson was in Gibraltar.”

It had been a VW Golf that I had seen that night. Perhaps I had been subconsciously convincing myself ever since that it hadn’t been Isabella’s car, but it had.

“Why didn’t you come and help me?”

All the misery of those three days in the stable floated into my mind.

She looked down at her feet. “Because I didn’t know that you were there, not last week. I only found out tonight when I heard Peter talking about it, and how he couldn’t believe you’d managed to escape.” She gulped. “Jackson just phoned home on Thursday and asked me to unlock the gates.”

I wanted to believe her, but then why was she driving the car here tonight? She couldn’t claim now that she didn’t know what was going on, not with Warren and Garraway running around with guns.

“Why are you here?” I asked. “Why are you doing this?”

She looked back up at my face and then towards Jackson. “Because I love him,” she said. It was almost an apology.

I too looked at Jackson, who was still inching carefully away from me towards the corner of the house, oblivious to the fact that I was standing behind him next to the car. I suddenly wanted nothing more than to shoot him, to kill him in revenge for what his greed had done to us all. And he was not a prisoner but an armed enemy combatant. There were no
Value and Standards
concerns here. I lifted the gun and aimed.

“No,” Isabella screamed, grabbing the barrels.

Jackson turned towards the noise, but he would have been unable to see anything, as he would be looking straight into the headlights. But he started to move back towards the car.

I threw Isabella to the ground and again raised the shotgun towards Jackson, but I hadn’t bargained on Isabella’s panic-driven determination. She grabbed my knees like a rugby player and pushed against the car, forcing me backwards over onto the gravel.

One of the huge disadvantages of having an artificial leg is that it seriously hampers recovery from a horizontal position, as it’s impossible to bend the knee sufficiently. I rolled over on the gravel to be facedown and drew my good leg under me, but Isabella had been quicker.

She was already on her feet, and she wrenched the shotgun from my hand, stamping on my wrist for good measure.

How embarrassing, I thought, to be disarmed by a woman. Perhaps the major from the ministry had been right all along.

But Isabella didn’t turn the gun on me, she simply ran away with it while I struggled to my feet, using the car door handle to pull me up.

A shot rang out. It was very close.

I turned quickly to see Jackson running towards a figure lying very still on the ground in the light from the headlights, a figure whose hat had come off, revealing long blond hair, hair that was already soaking up an ever-increasing pool of bright red blood.

In another incident of what the military euphemistically call “friendly fire,” Jackson Warren had killed Isabella.

He sank down onto his knees beside her, dropping his gun onto the gravel alongside the one that Isabella had been carrying. I walked the few yards from the car and picked up both weapons. I unloaded their second barrels, placing the unfired cartridges in my pocket. There had been enough shooting for one night. In fact, there had been far too much.

Jackson turned his head slightly to see me.

“I thought it was you,” he said. He made it sound like an excuse, as if shooting me would have been acceptable. He turned back and cradled his wife’s lifeless head on his lap. “I’d told her to stay in the car. I saw someone running with a gun.” He looked up at me again, now with tears in his eyes. “I just assumed it was you.”

He should have checked.

T
hree weeks later, Pharmacist, this time with no green potato peel-induced tummy ache, romped up the finishing hill to win the Cheltenham Gold Cup by a neck. It was the second Kauri House Stables success of the afternoon, after Oregon had justified his favoritism to win the Triumph Hurdle. My mother positively glowed.

In the post-Gold Cup press conference, she stunned the massed ranks of reporters, as well as the wider public watching on television, by announcing her retirement from the sport with immediate effect.

“I’m going out on a huge high,” she told them, beaming from ear to ear. “I’m handing over the reins to the next generation.”

I stood at the back of the room, watching her answer all the journalists’ questions with ease, making them laugh with her. Here was the Josephine Kauri that everyone knew and expected: confident and in control of the situation, in keeping with her status as National Woman of the Year.

I believed that she was as happy that day as I had ever seen her. It had been a somewhat different matter when I had returned to her hiding place that night at Greystone Stables to find her frightened, exhausted, bedraggled and to the point of complete mental and physical collapse.

But much had changed since that dreadful night, not least the removal of the imminent threat of public disgrace, and the prospect of being arrested for tax evasion. Not that the senior inspector from Her Majesty’s Revenue and Customs hadn’t been pretty cross. He had. But nowhere near as cross as he would surely have been if we hadn’t arrived to see him with a check for all the back tax.

Martin Toleron had worked some magic, producing a team of accountants to sift through the shambles and to bring some order and transparency to my mother’s business accounts. It had been quite an undertaking.

“It’s the least I can do,” Martin had said, happily agreeing also to pay the accountant’s bill.

So the previous Monday, my mother, Derek and I had arrived by appointment at the tax office in Newbury, not only with a check made out for well over a million pounds of back tax, but with a set of up-to-date business accounts and a series of signed and sworn affidavits as to how and why the tax had not been paid at the correct time.

We had sat in the senior inspector’s office for more than an hour as he had silently scrutinized our documents, never once putting down the check, which he held between the index finger and thumb of his left hand.

“Most unusual,” he’d said at some length. “Most unusual, indeed.”

Then he had returned to his reading for another hour, still clutching the check.

I didn’t really think the inspector knew what to say. The accountants had calculated not only the tax that was overdue but also the amount of interest that should have been levied for its late arrival.

The amount on the check had taken all of the million dollars that had been returned from Gibraltar, together with every penny that the three of us had been able to muster, including Derek’s ISAs, another mortgage on the house and the proceeds from some sales of my mother’s favorite antique furniture, as well as all my savings, including the injury-compensation payout that had arrived from the Ministry of Defense.

“Are you sure that’s wise?” Martin Toleron had asked me when I’d offered it.

“No,” I had said. “In fact, I’m damned sure that it’s not wise. But what else can I do?”

“You can come and help buy me some racehorses,” he’d replied.

“Now, are
you
sure that’s wise?”

We had laughed, but he’d been entirely serious, and he had already engaged the services of a bloodstock agent to find him a top young steeplechaser.

“I have to spend the money on something,” Martin had said. “I don’t want to leave it all to my bone-idle children. So I might as well enjoy spending it, and trips to the races will sure as hell beat going to Harrods every week with my wife.”

 

 

M
y mother, Derek and I had sat in the tax inspector’s office for nearly three hours in total while he had read through everything twice, and then while he had gone to consult someone at tax HQ, wherever that might be.

“Now I have to tell you, Mrs. Kauri,” he’d said to my mother on his return from the consultation, “we at the Revenue take a very dim view of people who don’t pay their taxes on time.” I thought that he’d been about to wag his finger at her. “In the light of these affidavits and the payment of the back tax due, we have decided to take no action against you at this point. However, we will be carrying out our own audit of your tax affairs to ensure that you have given us a full and frank disclosure of the situation before we can close the matter entirely.”