Rules of Honour (39 page)

‘We had to kill them,’ Hunter went on. ‘Self-defence you understand? And to release Mrs Rington who they were planning on murdering.’

‘Where’s the other one? Markus Colby?’

Rington pointed, and Jones saw the murderer standing further back in the hall. Markus had to be a giant of a man to stand so tall. It was only when Rington fully moved aside that he saw the rope around the man’s neck. He moved forward, a sound of dismay in his throat. He got to within feet of Markus when the man’s eyes snapped open.

‘He’s still alive.’ Rather than as a question, his words came out in a relieved statement as he saw that Markus was perched on an old wooden chair. It looked rickety enough that any injudicious movement by Markus would send him to a neck-snapping death.

‘We’re not murderers,’ Rington said. ‘The others died in the heat of battle, but we couldn’t kill him in cold blood. He’s all yours to do with as you wish.’

Then Rington led his mother away, joining his friend by the exit door. Hunter had collected a sack of some kind, and Jones realised both men had cleared the room of any evidence that they’d ever been there while awaiting his arrival. He once wondered how they had got away with the other killings they were suspected of, but it was clear to him now: they were careful. And they had never killed anyone who didn’t deserve killing, so their involvement was never fully investigated or was covered up entirely. He wondered now what the outcome would have been if he hadn’t gone to Markus’s house at the moment he did. If the man standing before him hadn’t subsequently murdered Tyler, would he have been happy to cover for them in the same way? Would they be as happy to cover for him?

He was sure they would.

He stared up at Markus.

Then he wandered back to where Chaney lay. A gun was in the man’s dead hand. It was the same model as the gun on Jones’s belt, but a quick check showed him that it was empty. He fed one bullet from his gun into Chaney’s.

He returned to Markus, saw how difficult it was for the man to remain upright on the stool. He unloosened the rope holding him upright and Markus collapsed to the floor. Jones stood over him in much the same way Markus had stood over Tyler.

There was pleading in the man’s eyes, but he was unable to form words through what was undoubtedly a broken jaw. Drool pooled on his chin. He was pitiful, but there was no pity in Jones’s heart. Markus Colby was responsible for eight murders that he had learned of, all of his victims brutalised for the man’s demented pleasure, but it was the face of his friend, Tyler, that came to mind as he studied the broken man at his feet. Jones thought of how Tyler had peered up at him, a look of complete faith that his friend would save him on his face, even as the blood bubbled out from under Jones’s hands. Jones had been unable to save him. He saw that as the ultimate failure.

But he could avenge him.

He shot Markus in the head.

Chapter 44

I was never sure how events would play out when bringing Detective Jones to the abandoned meeting house, or if duty would win out and we would be brought up on charges. Only as we walked away, and I heard the single crack of a gun, did I suspect that we were safe from prosecution. It was sickening, considering the events that had led to that moment, but I have to admit to being relieved. I was happiest for my friend, because all the way through I’d been worried that he would give in to his base emotions and execute Markus himself. I knew Rink would be tormented by such a decision and he’d carry the guilt with him for the rest of his life. I didn’t want him to suffer the way his parents had, and looking at the way in which his problem had been resolved I concluded that it was the best for all of us. Perhaps Jones would regret the impulse killing of Markus, but maybe he had a different sense of justice than we had.

We hadn’t waited for Jones to join us, but had driven away, seeking somewhere far from the reservoir to dump the sand-coloured car. I’d already hauled the two men from it and laid them with the others outside the lodge, as well as the man I’d killed on the path. To all intents and purposes it would look like a shoot-out had taken down everyone around and in the lodge. It was better that Jones covered his own tracks and wasn’t seen with us. He would be resourceful enough to find his way back to the city having destroyed any trace that he’d been at the old lodge, we concluded.

We found a minor lake a couple of miles distant, and after stripping all identifiers from the car Rink sent it into the deep water where we watched it sink without trace just as the sun broke over the eastern peaks. I had lugged the plastic sack along with me, and inside it was the rope that had bound Yukiko’s wrists, and the hessian sack that had blindfolded her. In the bag we also placed our guns and Rink’s KA-BAR, and my blood-stained rag of a shirt. I loaded it with rocks, then hurled it far out into the depths of the lake. Afterwards we walked back to the motel at Chabot Lake, Rink carrying his mom in his arms the entire way.

Velasquez was sleeping when we arrived, but our buddy, McTeer, was fully alert and he met us at the door with his pistol drawn.

‘There’s no need for that any more,’ Rink told him. ‘Markus is finished.’

Rink took Yukiko inside and sat her down on a comfortable couch.

‘How are you doing, Mom?’

‘I’m fine, Jared,’ she said. ‘Please stop fussing.’

I hadn’t realised that Parnell and Faulks were up and about until I heard their collective whoop of joy as McTeer relayed them the news. The two old men came towards us from the depths of the lodge, their faces alive with a thousand questions. When they saw my semi-naked state, the small cuts all over me, they came to a halt, their mouths open in shock. I held a palm up to them. ‘Remember what I told you back at the cemetery that time? Best you don’t ask anything, then you can’t slip up and say something you might later regret.’

‘Just tell me it’s true. I’ll be happy with that.’ Faulks still appeared jittery but this time it was with excitement.

‘It’s over with. You can go home now. How’s about you gather your things together while me and Rink get cleaned up.’

Velasquez appeared from a back room. His dark hair was sleep-mussed, standing up like a cockerel’s crest at one side. His gaze seemed clear enough though, and he held his pistol in a firm grip. When he saw who was causing the fuss he relaxed. ‘Does this mean I get to go home too?’

‘First flight out,’ Rink promised, including McTeer in his glance. ‘I need you both back at the office and back to work. I don’t have money to burn, you know.’

Within hours both our vows played out. Rink and I took turns to shower – me tending to my minor wounds – then to dress in spare clothing, before organising taxicabs to take the old men home and our colleagues to the airport. We couldn’t leave San Francisco just yet. Not before Rink made sure his mom was OK. It would be difficult for her, now that Andrew wasn’t with her, but she had proven a resilient old bird and I trusted she’d be fine after a few days’ rest. She still had her friends close by, and I guessed that Parnell and Faulks would always prove sympathetic ears if she needed to talk with anyone about what had happened. Yukiko smelled of lighter fluid that Markus had sprayed her with, but she did not want to shower here. She wanted to go home. She cried when she recalled her home was no longer there.

I accompanied the old guys back to Hayes Tower. The police had been and gone from Parnell’s apartment, and it seemed like his landlord had seen to the replacement of the locks after Sean Chaney’s men had burst their way inside. Parnell checked around the apartment, and seemed pleased that it had not been totally wrecked. Who’d have guessed that two big men had been beaten up in his living room? The only sign of conflict was in the way the settee had been pushed against one wall, from when Rink had knocked his opponent unconscious and the big guy had flopped down on it. He offered me a seat, but I declined.

‘I can’t thank you enough, Joe,’ he said, extending his hand.

‘You might want to think about that next time you join a lynching party,’ I said, tempering my delivery with a grandiose wink that brought a faltering smile to Parnell’s face.

‘We know now that what we did was wrong,’ Faulks said.

‘No. Charles Peterson deserved everything he got,’ I said. ‘So did his son. Best that you forget all about the both of them now. The police might question you yet. Don’t admit to anything, OK.’

I shook hands with both old men, before leaving and hailing another cab to take me back to Chabot Lake. Enough time had passed for Rink and Yukiko to talk. That’s why I’d chosen to go with Parnell and Faulks: I didn’t want either Rink or Yukiko to hold back on their emotions while there was an observer nearby. That was their way. Hopefully by the time I got back, they’d have come up with some kind of plan for the future. Knowing Rink, he’d want his mom to come back to Florida with him. Knowing Yukiko, she’d refuse. I guessed that Andrew had left her well cared for in his will, and the insurance would pay out on her home. She’d be set up again in no time.

When I arrived back at the motel, Yukiko was sleeping in one of the rooms vacated earlier by the men.

Rink was watching TV with the sound turned down low.

‘Something you gotta see, brother,’ he said. There was a tone to his voice I had not expected.

‘What is it?’

He didn’t reply, just indicated the TV screen.

It was tuned to a local channel.

It showed a news crew at a crime scene, reporting live as firemen bustled about behind them.

I didn’t immediately recognise the abandoned meeting house in its current state. Not now it was barely a heap of smouldering embers. The fire crew were still dampening it down, but already investigators were poking around in the steaming wreckage.

More than the chattering reporter’s words, the tickertape banner playing across the bottom of the screen told me everything.

Murder suspect Markus Colby a.k.a. Charles Peterson had fled from police after fatally shooting one detective and wounding another, where he’d then come into conflict with local underworld figures at their remote hideaway on the shores of Upper San Leandro Reservoir. The police had no idea as yet why a furious gun battle had broken out during which Colby had slain a number of men, before being killed in a shoot-out with Sean Chaney. At some point a lamp had been broken and ignited some spilled accelerant and had burned down the lodge house. They were questions the chief investigator hoped to answer following further investigation.

The reporter then approached a large, fair-haired homicide detective overseeing the proceedings and asked his opinion. The man looked tired and drawn, a little ruffled by a long night of extraordinary occurrences, but he still mustered a few words: ‘No one knows what was in Markus Colby’s mind that would drive him to do this. But I will say that it matches his modus operandi. During previous attacks he has employed firearms, bladed weapons and fire against his victims. He was a brutal killer, but on this occasion he met someone equally dangerous. I’m sorry that I missed the opportunity to arrest him for his crimes, but I will add this: I’m satisfied that his terrifying murder spree is over with now, and the elderly residents of our good country can rest a little easier in their beds.’

It was a slightly scandalous comment to come out of a police officer’s mouth, and it shocked the reporter to momentary silence. By the time the interviewer formed a second question, Detective Garforth Jones had already moved away.

I looked at Rink, wondering if I wore the same stunned expression he did. I exhaled slowly. I had come to terms with the fact that Jones had taken revenge on Markus over the slaying of his partner, but I hadn’t expected this. But who was I to complain? Jones had found a way that exonerated us all. If ever there was a burden of obligation it was now on Rink and me never to mention Detective Jones’s involvement in this to anyone.

‘You think any one will buy his story?’ I asked.

Rink shrugged. ‘Maybe if Markus hadn’t murdered Detective Tyler things would be different. Now, I’m not so sure. Perhaps someone will suspect something, but who’s going to dig too deeply? Cops have a way of closing ranks to protect their own. Jones got his partner’s murderer: one way or another, that’s all that will matter to them.’

‘You sure about that, buddy?’

He looked wistfully at the bedroom door beyond which lay his elderly mother. She had survived everything that had happened to her, but being forced to reveal her secret would likely finish her off.

‘I hope so, for my mom’s sake,’ he said.

Thanks and Acknowledgements

As usual there are people who I must thank for their unflinching encouragement and support while writing this book, and as usual the list is a long one. So, without further ado, I say a huge thank-you to: Denise Hilton, Luigi Bonomi, Alison Bonomi, Thomas Stofer, Sue Fletcher, Eleni Lawrence, Swati Gamble, Alice Wood, Pete Nicholson, Richard Gnosill, Gary Jones, Paul Tyler, Col Bury, Lee Hughes, Jim Hilton, David and Karen Hilton, Jacky and Val Hilton, Sheila Quigley, Adrian and Ann Magson, Raymond Hilton, Sue Harding, David Barber, Ian Grahame, Trevor Turner, Martin Fell, and all my author-type friends throughout the world. Also, a huge thank-you goes out to my readers: without your support, all the efforts of the above would be for nothing.

I would also like to say a posthumous thank-you to Sensei Ronnie Whittle, the person who taught me the concept of
giri
and all that it stands for. I carry a burden of obligation to you all.