The Dead Lie Down (Adam Lennox Thrillers: Book One) (29 page)

The handle was silent but the door wasn't and let out an agonising creak as he
pushed it open. The sound brought his gun up, cradled in both hands, ready for
retaliation. As it swung open the room revealed one occupant, oblivious to the
intrusion, lying fully clothed on the bed, one hand clasping a half-full whisky
bottle, the other wrapped in a makeshift bandage. The unshaven look and unkempt
appearance lent it anonymity but Adam would have recognised the broken nose
anywhere.

Adam shook him roughly and Brad came to slowly, as if out of a deep cave. When
he realised what was happening he fought to retreat away from Adam, a wild-eyed
expression full of fear and panic dominating his features.

"Get away. I won't tell them anything, I won't. I can't take any more."

If Brad could have curled up in a foetal position then Adam imagined he might
have done, for this was a broken version of the man that Adam had known.
Sympathy, however, was far from Adam's mind as he hauled Brad out of the bed and
through to the main saloon. Brad came surprisingly meekly considering his bulk
and dropped into a settee, all the fight knocked out of him, taking care to protect
his bandaged hand. The glazed expression was starting to clear from his eyes but
the position of his body still reflected pain.

Adam stood over him. "It's all right Brad, you don't have to tell us anything, we
know most of it already. The smuggling, Dermot O'Rourke, Fran's death, the
papers." He listed them slowly as if counting them off on his fingers, Brad's
response changing marginally with each facet, his expression becoming more alert
but increasingly sullen with each passing moment.

"You don't know anything," he responded, some defiance entering his expression
for the first time.

Adam paused, turned to glance at Gerry, who was propping up the door frame, and
then turned back to Brad.

"We know your real name is Greg Lake." he said.

That took the wind out of Brad's sails so Adam carried on to push home his
advantage.

"We know that you've been smuggling arms into Ireland to replenish stocks after
the well-publicised disarmament. We know that Dermot O'Rourke is behind it, but
what we don't know is why." He relaxed a little and gave time for Brad to
respond but silence rang around the cabin, interrupted only by an occasional
sniff from Gerry and Brad's somewhat laboured breathing.

Adam leaned forward to Brad and gestured to his bandaged hand. "How many fingers
did they take, Brad?"

The wild look of fear and panic crossed Brad's face again. "Two," he whispered.
"He said if I talked he'd come back and take off both my hands."

Adam shook his head slowly. "You got into bed with the wrong sort of people
Brad. They can be very nasty if you don't play ball."

"They're after you," retorted Brad with surprising venom. "Reilly. You haven't
seen what he can do. He's inhuman, but he's after you." Adam could almost
discern a gleam in his eye as he said it.

"He did that?" Asked Adam, gesturing once more to the bandage.

The look of pain on Brad's face answered the question without the need for
words. Adam turned to Gerry. "I think I've met our Mr Reilly before."

The thought of Reilly getting his hands on Adam seemed to energise Brad.

"He's capable of anything. He has no feelings at all. I've seen a man jump off a
cliff to his death rather than have Reilly decide his fate."

"So why get involved with them in the first place," asked Adam. "Why take the
risk of getting involved in smuggling?"

Once again a light seemed to go on behind Brad's eyes. "It was a chance to get
even."

"With Bartlett?"

"Yes with Bartlett," spat Brad. "Have you known what it's like to be
parentless?" he demanded, a driving energy rising in him. "My parents killed
themselves when I was seven years old because Granger Bartlett drove them to it. I was
brought up by an aunt and uncle who loathed my parents for the shame that they
had brought on the family, and who tried to wipe out their memory. It was
fifteen years before I found out the truth about my parents' death and then I
swore revenge."

"But Granger Bartlett was already dead by that time," suggested Adam.

The pain of a memory crossed Brad's face. "I vowed to bring down the thing that
Granger Bartlett had worked his whole life to build."

"The company," completed Adam. "But there was a problem wasn't there? You found
that you couldn't bring yourself to compromise your management and commercial
skills, your pride got in the way and the company kept growing." Brad nodded,
and Adam continued. "So did you approach O'Rourke or did they approach you?"

"They approached me. They were looking for an insider in Bartletts. They found
out about my real past and made me a proposition."

"Co-operate or face disclosure," countered Adam.

"Something like that."

"So what got in the way of your plans?"

"Those bastards at Customs and Excise got wind of what was going on and put a
man on the boat."

"The murder victim?"

Brad's face screwed up briefly. "Yes."

"And as chance would have it John Bartlett was on hand to get in the way of a
tidy clear up."

Emotion showed on Brad's face now. "Stupid bastard, never did know when to keep
his fingers out. I was close to walking away with fifty million pounds and
pulling the plug on the company if I'd had three more weeks."

Adam got up and walked around the cabin a couple of times, which didn't take
long, as you could only just have swung a cat without getting blood on the walls.
He finally came back face to face with Brad.

"Did Fran get in the way as well? Did she find out about you and what you were
doing, so you had her stopped? Set up a cast iron alibi for yourself."

If Adam was aiming to get a reaction out of Brad he hit the jackpot as Brad
jack-knifed out of the chair and knocked Adam flying. Gerry, despite having been
a silent partner in all this, was no less observant however, and caught Brad with
a black-jack cosh that sent him reeling back into his chair.

Adam pulled himself upright and glanced at Gerry. "You carry that around with you all the
time?" he asked.

Gerry smiled. "You have to defend yourself against those little old ladies and
their handbags."

Adam dusted himself down but as Brad recovered he became animated once
again.

"I had nothing to do with Fran's death. I couldn't." He paused briefly,
deflating slightly in the process. "I couldn't. I worshipped the ground she
stood on, but she wouldn't even look at me."

"So who killed her?"

"I don't know. I swear, I don't know."

Adam took a few seconds to process this. "But you did go down and remove papers
from her body in the street didn't you, and then attempt to destroy the CCTV
tapes that showed what you did?"

Brad put his head in his hands. "Oh God, I was confused. She was obviously dead,
but she had found papers that linked me to the smuggling. I took the chance to
remove them." He looked up at Adam and in a plaintive voice said, "she was
dead."

Gerry spoke up from his corner. "What do we do with him Adam?"

"We hand him over to the police and let them handle it."

A
bolder voice broke from Brad now. "You've got no evidence of any of this. It's
my word against yours, and the last I heard you were wanted for the murder of
John Bartlett."

Adam permitted himself a smile. "Things have moved on my friend. Derek Travis
has been found alive, and before he lapsed into a coma he fingered you."

The colour drained out of Brad's face and Adam got up.

"I think we're finished here Gerry." He handed the gun to Gerry and made his way
out onto the deck where the sun was starting to break through between a gap in
the surrounding buildings. He stepped onto the quayside where he stopped to take
off the microphone and transmitter before handing them to DCI Ford.

"Did you get all of that?"

Ford grimaced. "We got enough. Of course we'll have to cut out the bit where you
lie about Travis' condition but it'll do."

Gerry joined Adam seconds later and they made to leave the boat dock when Adam's
mobile rang. He frowned until he saw the display.

"Clare?"

The urgent voice on the other end seemed to stop his heart briefly.

"Adam, they've taken Bel."

Chapter 40

Gerry now understood the term white-knuckle ride as Adam drove them back to the
office with scant regard for any traffic laws. One way streets became redefined,
traffic lights ignored, and speed limits overruled.

Adam cursed himself for putting Bel in danger, skirting around the fact that he
hadn't been the one to involve her initially and that it had been at her
insistence that she remain in the front-line in the pursuit of justice. That
made him either over-sensitive, a fall-guy, or a knight in shining armour, the
jury was out. Whatever the verdict, he had no doubts that the reason for her
abduction was to get to him, following his inexplicable escape from
extermination.

The classic picture of the beautiful heroine tied to railway tracks in an old
black-and-white silent film came to his mind for some inexplicable reason. He quashed
it as he swerved and narrowly missed a row of dustbins that someone had
thoughtlessly left out on the pavement.

Gerry frankly, was terrified, as were a number of drivers who had made the
mistake of using the same roads, expecting normal traffic protocols.

"It's all very well driving a tank like this in the Iraqi desert," protested
Gerry, "but the London East End wasn't built for this."

Adam gave a tight smile. "You forget that I never actually drove a tank."

Gerry ducked to avoid an incoming tree branch. "Now I understand why." He looked
up. "Don't use the Blackwall Tunnel, it's closed for maintenance work, or the
Mile End Road, they're digging it up."

Adam turned briefly. "James Bond never had to put up with this shit!"

Gerry smiled despite himself. "Very good. Bernie in 'Notting Hill' wasn't
it?"

"Max actually."

Clare opened the door to the office before they were out of the car, and thrust
a piece of toilet paper into his hands as Adam strode past her.

"Bel must have managed to write this before they left." she said. "It was still
attached to the loo roll."

Adam lifted the paper. 'to dunwich chapel wont die without you'. He sat down at
Clare's desk and swore comprehensively.

"There's more," said Clare, watching Adam put his hands to his face. "They shot
Mitch."

Adam looked up and met her gaze. "Is he.."

"He's alive. He's in hospital but he's critical."

"Shit. Just when I need him."

"And this package arrived by special courier this morning." She handed him a
large Jiffy bag with no markings save the name and address of the addressee.

Adam stopped and took it from her. He exchanged glances with Gerry and then
ripped open the package, ignoring the 'Tear Here' label. He tipped out onto his
desk a dozen A4 sheets of close hand-written script and a standard compact
cassette. Leaning back in the chair he let a sigh escape.

"So this is what it's all about. So many dead just for this."

The atmosphere in the office seemed to freeze for a moment whilst Adam ran
through a plan of action in his mind. Master tactician, his first thoughts were.
Shit what do I do now?

He looked at Clare, then at Gerry, both of whom regarded him with expectation. He
felt in his bones that things were drawing to a close far more quickly than he
had anticipated but still an uneasiness crept through his brain like a cold
draught on a railway platform. He pulled out a business card from his wallet and
handed it to Clare.

"Clare, phone this number. Whoever answers the phone give them my name and tell
them exactly what you know. If they question you, just mention the name
'Erikson'. And tell them I'm going to Dunwich." He picked up the contents of the
package and scooped them back into the envelope. "Put this into the safe, make
the phone call and then go home. Do not come back to the office on any account
until you hear from me." He waited for a nod and then moved to get up and leave,
but not before Gerry had a chance to interrupt him.

"What about me? I'm in."

Adam smiled. "You've watched too many thrillers, Gerry, you're even beginning to
sound like one."

"I'm no Mitch but I'll ride shotgun." he protested.

Adam paused to think. "Can you handle a gun?"

Gerry laughed, with a carefree wave of the hand. "When I was a teenager there
wasn't a rabbit in Sussex was safe from me."

Adam unlocked a filing cabinet that had never seen files in its life and drew
out a small handgun, which he handed to Gerry. "Do nothing with it until I tell
you to."

Gerry beamed like a kid with a new toy, which is exactly what Adam was worried
about, however, beggars can't be choosers.

Adam regarded his two fellow conspirators briefly. 'The Saint' was a phrase that
came into his head but he decided that Leslie Charteris might not be too
impressed with the comparison.

"I'm going to get the Landrover. It's not the fastest bucket of bolts but it'll
take whatever terrain we throw at it through the Dingle Marshes."

Gerry grimaced and rubbed his ample backside in memory of the Landrover's seats
and their lack of springing. Still, too late to back out now, he grabbed a
cushion on his way out the door.

Minsmere sluice was an octagonal brick structure some twenty feet across and
some twenty feet deep. Its purpose was to control the flow of water into and out
of the bird reserve close by. At this time of year it was full of muddy water
and was opened only occasionally to allow water out of the dyke to fill the
reed-beds and wetlands.

Bel could just make out the shape of the brick surround in the gathering gloom
of late evening as consciousness slowly returned to her. She became increasingly
aware of aches and pains across her body that hadn't been there before. As her
brain cleared she realised her current predicament with increasing dread.