The Button Man: A Hugo Marston Novel (10 page)

“Me?” asked Pendrith, not moving.

“Sure.” Hugo reached down and unbuckled Pendrith’s seatbelt. “He’s one of you, judging by the jacket and the gun. Why don’t you go talk to him?”

“I can think of one good reason,” said Pendrith. “What if he doesn’t like trespassers?”

“He probably doesn’t. But I can guarantee that he dislikes trespassing Americans more.”

“Can’t say I blame him,” Pendrith muttered, opening the door. He looked back at Hugo. “Do me a favor, will you old boy?”

“Sure.”

“If he shoots me, crush the bastard with your big American car.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

A
n orange streetlight flickered on as the red Mini pulled into the parking lot of the Rising Moon public house in Weston. A gigantic SUV took up two spaces near the door of the pub, which looked more like a thatched cottage than an inn.

The man parked his Mini on the opposite side of the lot and switched off the engine, then sat and listened as it ticked quietly into silence. The driver’s door creaked when he finally opened it, and the whole car rocked when he slammed it closed, necessary because of the old hinges and a prang or two over the years that had reshaped the frame. It was an old car, but the man was fond of it, trusted it. Sometimes old was simply better. Old meant reliable—and even when this old car wasn’t reliable, it was fixable.

It wasn’t much for country driving any more, though, the tired old wheels and almost-bald tires had spun a little too much when he’d started down the muddy country lane. Luckily, he’d had the sense to pull over and proceed on foot. Smart move: that lane was dead straight and they’d have seen him coming, dim light or no. As it was, he’d been able to put himself within sight and sound of Pendrith’s conversation with the man with the gun—the farmer who owned the land, the man assumed.

The old MP hadn’t gotten far out of the car before the gun swung toward his groin, making even the surreptitious watcher pause and wince. He’d then heard Pendrith call out, introduce himself. The armed man didn’t respond. Then Pendrith told him they were looking for someone, that it was urgent, a matter of national and international interest. That had been enough to get the man to shift his foot off the stump, though the gun never wavered. A question about Braxton Hall got no response but made the man wonder if that’s what lay at the end of the lane. Even when Pendrith told the farmer the name of their quarry, the only response he got was a shake of the head.

Poor old Pendrith had finally shrugged and turned back to the car, and the watcher had scurried back to his Mini, his heart in his mouth as the wheels slipped a few times before dragging him backward out of the lane. He’d waited in a lay-by for the Escalade to come out, then made a few calls to try and find out about the farmer and his property. He lost the Cadillac for a few minutes but figured they’d be heading for the one pub with rooms to rent, and he’d been right. After all, this was his territory, had been all his life. Which is why he thought it odd he didn’t know about any Braxton Hall.

The man wondered if it might be time to present himself to the American. He checked his right overcoat pocket for his notebook and pen, his left for his wallet, then started toward the front door of the pub. A bell jingled as he pushed it open, and two men on barstools, locals from their dress, glanced his way, looked him up and down, then went back to their beers. He went to the bar and hoisted his small frame up onto a barstool, sure to leave one between the locals and himself. After all, it wasn’t them he was here for.

The man ordered a half-pint of bitter from the publican, a stocky man in his sixties with the nose of a drinker and the breath of a smoker. Judging by the placard and licenses behind the bar, his name was Jim Booher. His half-pint arrived quickly and the man sipped at it, trying not to pull a face. He turned to look at the only other occupants of the room.

He’d know Stopford-Pendrith anywhere. It was his job to know, after all. And the tall guy was, by the process of elimination, the American. The driver of the Cadillac. The parker of the Cadillac.

The man wanted to go over and talk to them now, but he bided his time. The American and the politician each had a pint of amber liquid and a shot of something darker on the table in front of them. They’ll be friendlier, thought the man, once those drinks sit a little lower in the glass.

He took another sip of his beer and looked up at the publican.

“Are you serving food tonight?” the man asked.

The publican nodded. “Like I told those blokes in the corner. My wife usually does the cooking but she’s ill. All I have is some day-old stew in the fridge—it’s bloody good nosh if you like stew. I’m reheating some for them now.”

“Well,” said the man. “If it’s good enough for them, it’s good enough for me.”

Hugo looked up as a short, thin man walked into the pub and headed for the bar. He looked to be in his sixties, roughly the same age as Pendrith but without the MP’s ruddy glow of good health. The man wore wire-rimmed glasses, and, as Hugo watched, he took them off, polished them with a handkerchief, then poked them back onto his nose with a bony finger.

Not a regular, thought Hugo, judging by the city-style trench coat, the mud on his business shoes, and the way the local boys checked him over and then ignored him. Hugo leaned forward but could see only half of the poorly lit parking lot through the window and couldn’t see the man’s car at all. He told himself to relax and enjoy his evening in the pub with a few good drinks and an entertaining politician. Pendrith had been complaining about his colleagues in Parliament for about twenty minutes, though it was plain to Hugo the old man loved the cut and thrust of being an MP.

“But try and get them to work on anything that matters, good bloody luck,” Pendrith was saying. “Terrified the damn press will criticize or ridicule them. Bloody oafs get into power and then are too afraid to exercise it.”

“So what matters, then?” Hugo asked. “When people say that, they usually have something specific in mind.”

“Absolutely. Piece of legislation I’ve been working on for a while. Probably anathema to you as a Yank, especially as a Texan, where they’re all for the chop.”

“The chop?”

“Execution, dear boy.” Pendrith waved a hand. “Used to be all for it, but I think we’ve moved on a bit, as tempting a solution as it may be. Civilization moves us to save lives, not end them, if you ask me. I know you don’t chop people’s heads off, don’t worry. But you do zap them, poke them with a needle, or some damn thing. Well, that’s one way to go about it, but the liberals and do-gooders here put an end to wringing necks back in the sixties. Now we have jails stuffed full of pensioners. Everyone is looking around trying to save money, get the government to spend less, and all the while we’re stacking old people in jail cells and giving them food, medical care, and free nappies, I dare say.”

“And your solution?”

“Well,” Pendrith said, talking into his beer, “they won’t let us shoot them, so I say we cut them loose.”

“What do you mean? Just let them out?”

“Yes. Why not? Send them home to their families, let them pay for their food and housing. State will probably be stuck with their medical care anyway, but we could probably close down a few prisons if we let all the old people go.”

“I can see why you’re having trouble getting support for this,” Hugo said.

“Well I bloody can’t.” Pendrith fumed in silence as the publican arrived with a tray laden with food and drink.

“Your beers, gents, but I can’t remember who ordered what so sort yourselves out.” He deposited two pint glasses, two bowls of stew, and a basket of French bread on the table. When their host had gone, Pendrith started up again.

“What is that, pale ale? Frightful stuff, watered down dishwater.”

“Each to his own.”

“Anyway, where was I? Ah yes, what’s the harm in letting elderly convicts out? What’s the downside?”

“For one thing,” Hugo said, “assuming these people are no longer dangerous and assuming they’ve been in prison a few decades, what makes you think they will know how to survive on the outside?”

“Survive?” Pendrith looked at him, wide-eyed. “I don’t give a hoot whether they survive or not! This isn’t some molly-coddling idea to let poor old Joe the Strangler spend his last years on a beach in Clacton-on-Sea. This is a way to save a boatload of money for the government. The only people it could possibly impact negatively are those released and, frankly, I don’t see why we should worry too much about them.”

“I saw the news this morning,” Hugo nodded. “Do you know who Sean Bywater is?”

“Name’s familiar,” Pendrith said. “What of him?”

“A murderer, famous in my line of work, just killed himself after being released. The report basically said he had nothing to live for on the outside.”

“Yes? Good riddance, if you ask me.”

“Maybe. I’m sure many would agree, but do you even think these people will have families to take them in after decades in prison?”

“Look,” said Pendrith, leaning forward. “My point is merely that the spineless weasels in power right now are so afraid of looking soft on crime, they can’t see this for what it is. It’s tough on crime, for Chrissakes. It takes a bunch of decrepit no-goods, makes them fend for themselves, and saves the government a bundle in the process. And yet all they see, because all the reporters will say, is that we’re letting a bunch of murderers into the community.”

Pendrith shook his head and stabbed his stew with a spoon, stirring it and releasing a plume of steam. They ate in silence for a few minutes, Hugo quickly concluding that the two-day-old stew was, as the publican had suggested, still very edible. He wasn’t so sure about the bread, whose brittle crust and chewy interior suggested a vintage very similar to that of the meat. But he ate hungrily and found the room-temperature beer to be a fine accompaniment.

“Speaking of murder,” Hugo said. “How would I get ahold of information about an old case? Information that only the police have.”

“How old?”

“Late 1800s.”

“Ripper stuff? Most of that is in a museum, I think.”

“No, actually it’s not Ripper. Not officially, anyway. A little after, in 1905.”

“I think I can help you.” Pendrith pulled a pen from his jacket pocket and wrote a name and a number on a paper napkin. “Chap’s an archivist, worked at Somerset House and Scotland Yard. Loves all that true-crime stuff. Mention my name and he’ll get you what you need, though it may cost you a bottle of claret.”

Hugo thanked him and tucked the napkin into his pocket.

As they were wiping their bowls with the last of the bread, a movement at the bar caught Hugo’s eye. The man who’d been sitting by himself was walking toward them, a smile on his face and a full pint of beer in each hand.

“Gentlemen,” the man said. “Do you mind if I join you for a minute or two? I come bearing gifts.” He set the beers down on the crowded table, pints of bitter for both men. He offered his hand to them. “My name is Harry Walton. I’m a freelance reporter. Been putting together a piece about the little accident that two of your countrymen had up this way. I saw your big car outside, heard your accent, and I know Lord Stopford-Pendrith from television. So I’m putting two and two together and wondering why you are in Hertfordshire but not particularly close to the scene of the accident.”

“You have a lot of assumptions in there, Mr. Walton.”

“Assumptions and research.”

Hugo sat back. “By research I assume you mean following us. Am I right in thinking you drive a red Mini?”

“Very impressive,” Walton said.

“Red Mini?” Pendrith looked back and forth between the two men. “What the bloody hell does that have to do with anything?” He leaned toward Hugo. “And how did you know he has one?”

“He was following us in London,” Hugo said. “Got a ticket for an illegal U-turn, if I remember right. Then I saw him again on the A1 earlier but didn’t make the connection.”

“Following us?” Pendrith puffed. “What the devil . . . ?”

“Let’s just say we were headed in the same direction.” Walton smiled innocently. “Anyway, I don’t know if you know my name, but lately I’ve been doing more celebrity stuff. It’s crap, most of it, but pays well and isn’t too taxing for freelancers like me. And while you’d think we have to hunt around and nibble away at the privacy of our wonderful celebrities, most of them are media whores and love attention.”

“I’m sure they do,” said Hugo. “I also assume there is something specific we can do for you?”

Walton leaned back as the publican arrived with a tray and began loading it with their empty beer glasses and stew bowls. When the rotund man had gone, Walton cleared his throat. “As you can see I’m no spring chicken, though I could chase you all over Christendom if I wanted. Lately, though, I’ve been finding that the direct approach works best, saves everyone time and effort.” He grinned. “After all, if you tell me to get lost I can still follow you all over Christendom, right?”

“The hell you can,” said Pendrith.

“Anyway, that’s not something I want to do,” Walton said. “I’m here thanks to some well-placed sources who told me that a pair of very famous American guests were being let out of jail and put in the care and custody of the US Embassy.”