Heartman: A Missing Girl, A Broken Man, A Race Against Time (38 page)

“You ready to roll, JT?”

I nodded that I was.

“Good, I’ll go git the bag from the boot, then we can git the fuck outta this oversized pigsty and go find ourselves some bad guys.”

We closed up the barn doors, hiding the Cortina from view, then Vic and I walked across the field and through a small wooded area and back towards the boundary wall of the Blanchard estate. Vic walked on in front of me along the perimeter, hoping to find a suitable entrance to get us inside. Disappointed that he couldn’t find one, he turned to me and pointed to the top of the wall.

“Looks like we gonna have to haul our butts over this old pile o’ brickwork.”

“It ain’t the first time I had to do it, brother. C’mon, let’s git on with it.”

We clambered over the wall into the grounds of the estate and followed its edge until we could see the great house in the distance. Vic and I made our way across open land and into a small coppice that sat around sixty yards or so from the stable block and outbuildings at the rear of the property. It gave us a good view of the main gates, driveway and the house. I looked at my watch: it was four twenty. Dusk was slowly falling and the temperature was beginning to drop. In another couple of hours it would be well below freezing. I hoped that we wouldn’t have to be sitting out in the cold for too long. We found a spot close to the edge of the thickly wooded thicket that was sufficiently sheltered from prying eyes and would keep the icy wind off our backs. Vic looked across towards the house, a confused look on his face.

“Just tell me what the fuck we’re doing standing out here like a couple o’ stiff pricks? Let’s git our freezing batties inside that spread and jump the bastards from inside when they turn up. At least we can fight ’em in the warm!”

“No . . . That’s what Blanchard will be expecting; he’ll have it in his head that I’ll be waiting fo’ him inside one of the dozens of rooms he’s got in that place. I want him spooked, so we stay put here and wait it out, then we can see who’s going to roll up that drive and what we’ll be up against.”

We had to wait for just over another hour before a familiar grey Jaguar pulled into the driveway; it was followed by an expensive-looking Bentley S Two Flying Spur with blue and grey two-tone paintwork. I snatched Vic’s binoculars from the bag and focused on the slow-moving vehicles. Even in the failing light I could see the buzz-cut hairstyle of Mickey Warren at the wheel of the Jaguar and behind him the prickly, hawk-like features of Terrence Blanchard as they made their way up towards the house. The two cars came to a halt outside of the main doors. Both men got out of their motors and I watched as Mickey Warren stayed back, suspiciously scanning the boundary of the property before he joined his master on the large stone steps of his grand home. Blanchard was shouting and aggressively throwing his arms about, pointing to different parts of his property and the surrounding land.

I couldn’t hear what he was saying to Mickey Warren, but from the look on the bent copper’s face he was being put through the wringer. I watched as Blanchard walked up the remaining steps and disappeared inside. Warren returned to his car, opened the rear door and pulled out a canvas rifle case. He leant against the wing of his Jag, unzipped the case and removed what looked like a Lee-Enfield bolt-action rifle, then threw the case onto the ground. Warren drew back the bolt, eased a round into the chamber and wrapped the sling round his right forearm, then started to make his way along the side of the house towards the rear of the property.

I dropped the binoculars back into the holdall, then whispered in to Vic’s ear.

“Looks like Blanchard was getting hot under his collar out there. We ready to move?”

“Yeah, I’m ready . . . but if you say Blanchard’s looking vexed then watch out – man like him’s dangerous, you need to remember that!”

Vic was agitatedly looking out towards the two cars that had parked up.

“JT, I only saw two honkies git out their cars; where the hell’s that bastard Papa?”

“Who knows? Maybe he got scared, cut his losses and done a runner cos he knew I was on to him ’bout Carnell?”

“Nah . . . Not that, brother; he don’t run from anyting. You watch your back when we git ourselves in the thick of it up there: Papa, he’s like herpes, man, once you got him, you can’t git rid o’ him!”

All the time Vic was talking to me, he had been following Mickey Warren’s movements.

“That the copper that beat you ’bout with the slapjack, JT?”

“Yeah, that’s him.”

“Don’t you think it’s time fo’ a little payback?”

Vic looked across to me and back over to Warren, who was making his way towards the large stable block.

“Let’s git it on!” Vic whispered and nodded over at me to follow his lead.

I watched as he released the safety catch on the shotgun and, crouching down low, we started to walk along the edge of the thicket towards where it broke out into open ground. I noticed Vic continuing to stalk the copper’s movement. When Warren disappeared into the block of horse stables, we sprinted across the lawn and made our way around the rear of the stabling yard towards the other entrance and waited. We stood flat against the side wall of the stables; across from us was the gravelled courtyard that had doubled as a car park on my previous visit. I remembered beyond that were the kitchens: the perfect place to enter the house. I reached into my coat, pulled out the Colt from my waistband and raised it against the side of my face, and waited.

Warren’s footsteps grew louder as he clomped on the concrete inside the stable block. I heard him stop for a moment and turn on his heels as if he was going to return the same way he had come. I looked at Vic, who just put his finger to his lips and gently nodded at me to be cool. Then Mickey Warren’s pacing started up again; the man’s heavy footfall left the hard concrete surface and his tread touched the gravel in the open paddock. Instinctively I shot out from behind the wall and slammed both my clenched fist and the butt of the Colt into Warren’s face, knocking him senseless to the floor. Vic came from behind me like lighting, and I heard the familiar swishing sound of his flick knife releasing itself from its hilt; he dropped to his knee, stuffed his hand over the incapacitated cop’s mouth and went to sink the six-inch blade into Warren’s guts. I grabbed at Vic’s arm, preventing him from finishing him off.

“No Vic . . . Not him, we bag his ass up. Whatever happens from now on, we still got ourselves a crooked lawman to t’row into the ring. Listen, he’s gonna keep me and you outta jail, if tings git shitty later . . . Trust me, brother.”

I put the Colt back through my belt and then hooked my hands under Warren’s arms and dragged him into the stable block. Vic watched me for a moment, rubbing the stubble on his chin, then followed me in, dropping the holdall at his feet. He then reached down into it, pulled out the two lengths of rope and threw them over to me.

I began tying Mickey Warren by his hands and feet in a series of tight fishing knots that a grizzly bear would have struggled to break free of, then squeezed his cheeks open and stuffed my handkerchief into his mouth. I called over quietly to Vic.

“Here, gimme a hand to sling his butt into this horse stall.”

I knelt besides the unconscious body of the copper and I watched as Vic went and retrieved Warren’s Lee-Enfield rifle from off of the ground in the paddock. He unclipped the magazine and pulled the bolt back to receive the unspent cartridge, then slipped both sets of the gun’s ammunition into his pocket and slung the rifle over his shoulder.

“OK, Dick Tracy, what next?”

“I want you to go round to the front of the house and make sure neither one o’ those flash motors is fit to drive outta here. I don’t want Blanchard to be able to make a run fo’ it. When you’ve finished putting the jalopies out o’ action, you scout round and keep a sharp eye out in case Papa decides to show after all, got that?”

Vic nodded, but was clearly unhappy that I’d made the decision for us to separate.

“Now gimme that iron so I can jemmy open the kitchen door.”

Vic reached into the holdall and handed over the short metal bar with the flattened, hammered end, and a torch.

“You may wanna take one o’ these too. Just watch your back in there with that slippery muthafucka Blanchard. If you in any doubt ’bout how its gonna play out when you finally git to him, and if he gives you any shit at all, you put a bullet in his head or holler out and I’ll come do it, you hear me?”

I looked at my cousin gravely, shaking my head.

“I hear you . . . Look, I’m sorry I got you into this mess, brother, even after I’d stood in front of you and said I wouldn’t.”

Vic looked at me and shrugged to himself, then winked.

“Shut your fool mouth . . . Now let’s finish this shit!”

Vic raised the shotgun on to his hip, smiled at me, then walked out into the darkness.

I leant against the wall at the back of the house and fitted the jemmy as far as it would go into the frame of the door, next to the handle and lock, and wrenched it open with a single firm yank. I stepped inside the unlit kitchen and switched on the torch, scanning the beam around the massive scullery.

At the left-hand side of the room was a short corridor that led towards a door. I walked along the corridor, took the brass door handle in my hand and opened it up.

On the other side was another, larger corridor that was lit by small wall lights. I followed the length of the passageway, which finally brought me to a second, more ornate doorway. I quietly opened it up and stepped out into the main reception hall of the house. At my feet, an impressive white tiled marble floor stretched out in front of me; it was intercut with black diamond shapes across its width and breadth. I turned off the torch and put it into my jacket pocket, then stood for a moment and admired the cut crystal hanging from the chandeliers and the expensive oil paintings and portraits that hung on the flock-wallpapered walls around me. The room was filled with the fresh scent of lilies, lending it the atmosphere of a high-end funeral parlour. In the centre of the baroque-style vestibule stood a large, crimson-carpeted staircase. I walked to the bottom of it and looked up towards the second floor; a gallery ran around the entire length of the upper floor, looking down on to the atrium below. I began to make my way up the plush matted steps and wondered if Blanchard employed staff to run such a large place, and if he did, then why were none of his aides about? Perhaps he’d decided to give them the night off on account of my unexpected social call. The stillness of the building was giving me the creeps, so when I reached the top of the stairs, I took the Colt automatic from my waistband and pulled the slide back.

Holding the grip firmly in my right hand and keeping the pistol at chest height, I began to walk along the left-hand side of the gallery towards a passageway that had a series of rooms.

“You’ll only find the guest bedrooms in that section of the building, Mr Ellington!”

I spun around and aimed the Colt 45 directly towards Terrence Blanchard, who stood on the other side of the staircase. He showed no sign of alarm at a gun being pointed at him, and he smiled at me. Blanchard sure wasn’t pretty. He had the caustic appearance of an aging bird of prey: all hook nose and sunken eyes. His silver hair was combed back across his scalp and his pastel-soft skin stretched across his bony face, which gave the impression of a lost soul that had received early mummification. He was suavely dressed in a violet cravat, quilted dark-purple smoking jacket with gold-braid piping around the collar and cuffs, and a pair of bespoke grey pinstripe trousers. Between the tips of two fingers of his left hand he pinched an ivory holder; attached inside it was a freshly lit unfiltered cigarette. He put the pale holder to his lips and inhaled, then blew out a haze of thick smoke towards me.

“My study is just to the right, please . . . Mr Ellington, this way.”

Blanchard held out his right hand to guide me towards his private quarters. I kept the Colt trained onto his upper torso and apprehensively walked towards him as he carefully backed up and stopped outside the large open doorway to his study, the pale-skinned palm of his hand again gesturing to me to enter.

“After you . . . Mr Blanchard.”

“Thank you . . .”

Blanchard walked into his study.

“You’re quite a cautious chap, aren’t you, Mr Ellington?”

“Pays to be cautious with strangers, even well-dressed ones: my mama taught me that.”

“Quite right, quite right, my dear chap. ‘How prone to doubt, how cautious are the wise!’ as they say.”

I followed the barrister in and took a good look around the room, which was badly lit by various candles. Two of the walls, one on the right and the other behind me, were draped in thick, dark-red velvet curtaining; there were no windows visible. To my left stood an enormous black wood ceiling-to-floor bookcase filled with leather-bound tomes; on the wall directly in front of me a coal fire roared inside a massive granite fireplace. Blanchard walked over to a small Victorian oval drinks cabinet, opened up the door and took out a bottle and two small brandy balloons.

“I was about to enjoy an early Armagnac; would you care to join me?”

“I’ll pass, thanks . . . but you go right on ahead.”

“Yes . . . Yes, I think I will, if you don’t mind? Mr Ellington, it would appear that you and I have gotten off on the wrong foot after this morning, as it were. I was hoping I could rectify our little misunderstanding.”

Blanchard poured himself a generous amount of his high-priced French brandy, put the stopper back into the bottle and returned it to the cabinet, then walked a few more paces towards me, stopping by the edge of his desk, and raised his glass.

“Chin-chin.”

He took a delicate sip of the spirit before returning his bird-like gaze towards me.

“By ‘misunderstanding’ I presume you’re talkin’ ’bout my interest in your little members’ club, Mr Blanchard?”

“That, and my other personal affairs: affairs that I’d prefer remained out of the public domain. So rather than protract the situation, perhaps making it difficult for both us in the future, I thought that as gentlemen we could come to an agreement?”