The Killing Club (14 page)

Having left the park, he walked through the streets, planning his next move. A grey drizzle was coming from the sky, turning to sludgy grease underfoot as it hit the pavements. A whining, punishing wind whipped around the blackened stone buildings.

He hated Yorkshire; the pasty-faced women with their flat vowels and ugly bulk, the aggressively jesting blokes in the pubs, the chummy shopkeepers who asked impertinent personal questions. At least in London people mainly left you alone as you churned through the packed, anonymous streets. Biddy didn’t like London. She wanted to go back to Huddersfield where they both had been born. But he had always wanted excitement and change. The entry into a profession, the dearest wish of many of the parents of his generation, repelled him. The mere thought of years of studying followed by even more years of routine, safety and dullness made him feel suffocated before he had even started. He left school at fifteen and drifted into a life of hazard and chance: a couple of years working on an assembly line a factory making tools, then a stint in a betting shop, a spot of taxi-driving, a few years as a debt collector’s assistant. And then the big break came – being taken on as a bodyguard to a guy he met in a pub in Leeds. The guy turned out to be a fraudster and a thug, with fingers in pies in London, New York and Bangkok. McBride had got to see the world. The work was exciting and dangerous, and the money was fantastic. Until the fraudster was caught and banged up, and everything stopped.

But the experience he had gained working as a tough man and manipulator opened up an opportunity he would never have dreamed of. He’d landed a plum, reached the peak of his ambitions. But there was always an edge of fear when you were at the top, that dread of plummeting down. He had a sudden uneasy image of Christian Hartwell’s body dizzily twisting over the jagged lumps of rock on its way down to certain death. He slowed to a halt, his thoughts temporarily paralyzing him, making any kind of physical action impossible.

He’d made such a bungle of this killing. The thought of his ineptitude brought out a wave of heat which lay on the skin beneath his shirt like a slimy grey membrane. He’d been given the perfect means to do the deed: a superb knife, a state-of-the-art shooter if push came to shove. He’d tracked the guy for five whole days, ending up eventually in Yorkshire and to this craggy place where he had seen the opportunity to take out his target without any physical contact – a beautiful, clean kill. On the first sighting of the place where he could carry out the plan, he had rejected it. He needed a swift and foolproof dispatch – a knife in the kidneys and that was that. But though he was a hard man, knifing still took a lot of bottle, and he had had a trembling thought that he might not have quite the bottle he used to. Twenty-four hours had passed and he was once again tracking his target up the endless stone steps. And when the target reached that critical point, he had suddenly just needed to do it. There and then: a hard poke with the tips of his fingers. And the guy was gone. And he was filled with relief – until he remembered that he still had to make a search of the guy’s pockets. If he was carrying those photographs on him, the murder would have been in vain. There had been moments of indecision and then the relief of the plan to use his lighter and the brandy he always carried in his hip flask. And in the event, he’d found nothing of any use to the boss. He’d made a bollocks of the whole thing.

His heart gave a warning kick of fear. He resumed his walk, refusing to be intimidated by his own terror.

He passed a row of phone boxes, barely noticing them through the hurry and urgency of his thoughts. But something had registered subliminally. He slowed to a halt, then turned back and stepped into one of the empty boxes. Having dialled 999, he altered his voice to a higher pitch, then gave details for the need of an ambulance. He gave clear and accurate details of the whereabouts of the woman in need and, when asked for his own details, supplied a plausible-sounding name and address for their records and hung up.

He walked on, pondering his next move. The image of the big, sad lad who was some kind of relative of the old lady’s crept into his mind. The
Old School House
would have been ripe for a spot of breaking in and searching if it weren’t for him. He could probably handle him, as long as he was not carrying a knife of his own, but extra deaths always created extra risks, something else the boss would not like. Still not at the point where he could fix on the next plan of action, he reflected that calling the ambulance had surely been a good move. Maybe with quick discovery and care, the old girl might be as right as rain before too long. And he reassured himself that if he got his act together she would be no problem to manipulate. An old girl with a daughter and maybe the added bonus of grandchildren. Putty in his hands.

Craig waited until Swift’s car was out of sight. He stood in the doorway of the
Old School House
at a loss as to what to do next. Eventually, he went into the sitting room and – with much reluctance – switched off the big shiny television. He knew that he needed all his wits about him, now that he was on his own, entirely alone with the terrifying knowledge that he had only himself to rely on when deciding what to do next. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the slim black mobile phone which he had found in Mrs Hartwell’s drawer. He had been through all of her drawers and cupboards in the spare available moments since he came to the house. Not from a wish to steal anything, simply to get a sense of the place and of Mrs Hartwell’s life. And because it was impossible to resist the temptation when there was no one to stop him or find out. In one of the food cupboards he had found an old treacle tin containing a rolled bundle of twenty-pound notes. He stared at the bundle for some time; the largest amount of cash he had ever held in his hands in the whole of his life. Carefully, reluctantly, he replaced the tin in its hiding place.

The phone he simply couldn’t resist. Mobile phones were like gold in prison. Men would knife each other to get their hands on one that was smuggled in. It wasn’t as if he was taking the phone, he was simply looking after it for Mrs Hartwell. When she came home he would put it back in the drawer. He’d had no problem switching it on, but the battery was flat and he couldn’t find a charger. He told himself it was not an unsolvable problem; he’d work something out.

The sudden sound of the doorbell sent needles of alarm through his nerves. He stood very still, willing whoever was standing outside the house to go away. But they kept ringing. He tiptoed down the hallway. He felt the familiar terror of confronting the unknown.

‘Anyone at home?’ a woman’s voice called. ‘I’ve got your dog.’

Craig swallowed down the saliva which was pouring into his mouth. Someone had found Mrs Hartwell’s dog! He had to open the door, he had to take care of Mrs Hartwell’s dog.

As he cautiously pulled the door open, Tamsin gave a short bark which seemed to signal pleasure in seeing him. She leapt forward and put her paws up against his knees.

‘You can tell someone’s glad to get home,’ the woman said, cheerily.

Craig bent to caress the dog. Preoccupied by the panic and anxiety which had gripped him when Ruth failed to return to the house, he had forgotten about the dog. He squatted down on his heels and hugged the dog to him. She was part of Ruth’s family, the creature she probably spent more time with than anyone else, now that she was on her own. And her dog was safe now, and he would look after it. He glanced up at the woman. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘Thank you.’

The woman looked startled and then gratified to hear the note of deep sincerity in his voice. ‘I found her sitting under a bush in the park.’ She chattered on, but Craig wasn’t listening. He just wanted her to go away and leave him to wrestle with his bewilderment regarding what to do next.

Eventually the woman sensed that he was not going to enter into any kind of conversation with her. As she talked and tried to engage with him she gradually sensed that there was something strange about him, something potentially scary. I wouldn’t like to meet him alone on a dark night, she told herself, before bending to give Tamsin a farewell pat and departing.

Craig shut the door firmly and returned to the kitchen. ‘I don’t know what to fucking do,’ he told the dog. Tamsin heard him out, then took herself off to her basket, curled up and went to sleep.

Back at the station Swift fielded an anxious telephone call from Harriet Brunswick in London. She had just been informed of her mother’s admission to hospital by the ward sister.

‘Of course, they won’t tell me a bloody thing that’s any use,’ she fumed. ‘Just that’s she’s “stable”, although she hasn’t woken up properly or spoken yet. She’s had a CT scan and they’re awaiting the results. Useless.’

Swift realized that beneath the irritability and anger in Harriet’s voice was frustration and guilt at not being able to do anything to help from such a distance.

‘If I could get hold of Charles, I’d get him to speak to Mother’s consultant and find out just what’s what. But he’s in theatre and I haven’t managed to contact him yet.’

Swift offered her information regarding the time of her mother’s collapse and its whereabouts.

There was a long silence, followed by a long sigh. ‘I knew something like this would happen,’ she protested. ‘She doesn’t take enough care of herself, always wrapped up in thinking about the needs of other people.’

Swift made no comment.

Harriet instantly came back at him. ‘And you say she was simply walking the dog in the park when she collapsed in the park?’

‘Yes. The police and emergency services were alerted by an anonymous caller.’

‘God! You make it sound a bit suspicious.’

‘There was no evidence that she was attacked or had anything stolen,’ he volunteered, frustrated to be having this conversation on the phone, when he needed to see her face to face to gauge her reactions fully.

‘This is a bloody nightmare,’ she said.

He could imagine her, furiously balancing all her responsibilities – child, sick mother, job, husband – although hopefully the latter would be a support rather than a cause for anxiety. Recalling his interview with Charles Brunswick, he was not convinced that would be the case.

‘Is that boy still around?’ she asked. ‘Craig whatever his name is?’

‘He was in the house when I visited earlier.’

‘Wonderful! He could have the whole place full of dossers and tossers by now.’

Again Swift didn’t comment, being sure Ruth Hartwell would prefer the house to be occupied by Craig ‘whatever-his-name-was’ than to be empty and the young man on the streets.

‘Would you get someone to check?’ Harriet asked, softening her tone. ‘Not heavy-handed stuff, just a PC walking up the drive to make sure the old place isn’t being trashed.’

‘Yes, sure thing. And I’ll go and see your mother as soon as she’s fit to talk to me. Will you be travelling up to see her?’

‘Of course. Just give me time to sort things out,’ she snapped. ‘I don’t think I can get away today but I’ll be on my way tomorrow – unless the hospital tell me otherwise.’

Swift heard the connection click off. He sat for a few moments, thinking over the conversation. He wondered if Harriet had any idea of the potential hornet’s nest she might be walking into when she arrived in Yorkshire.

He phoned Cat’s mobile and enquired after her health.

‘I’m doing fine,’ she told him. ‘I’ll be in tomorrow, no problem. Any developments with the Hartwell case?’

Swift heard fatigue in her voice. His wife Kate had occasionally suffered a bad migraine and it could easily take twenty-four hours until she was fully recovered. ‘I’ll e-mail my notes to you. Reading them is optional. Just relax and get well.’

And after that he reached for the phone again and put in a call to the governor of Wentworth Prison.

Craig went into the sitting room and turned the volume up on the TV. He sat cross-legged on the floor, grasping the remote and pointing it at the set with stabbing gestures, channel-hopping in the hope of finding something to distract him from the problem of getting to the hospital.

Hours went by and eventually the room grew dark. He went into the kitchen and found cheese and bread in the fridge. He made coffee. He let Tamsin go out into the back garden to relieve herself. He made sure the house was securely locked. And then he took his supper into the front room and curled up on the sofa, letting the flickering patterns of light from the screen glide across his vision until gradually they soothed him to sleep.

Superintendent Ravi Stratton called into Swift’s office for an update on the Hartwell case. It was only 7.30 on a cool July morning and the station was quiet, most personnel on daytime shifts having not yet arrived.

Stratton was looking good in a closely fitting navy suit and a cream silk blouse. Her long hair was loose, framing her face and lying on her shoulders. There was an air of steely determination about her, a quality which had not been nearly so much in evidence on the last occasion they had spoken.

‘I’ve just had information from the Burley-in-Wharfedale team,’ she told him. ‘They’ve had a look at Christian Hartwell’s flat. It’s been broken into.’

‘Right. Any further information?’

‘The forensic team are going in to see what they can come up with. The report from the uniform PCs who went in mentions that there was a TV stand in the living room, but no TV.’

‘That sounds like a break-in with intent to steal,’ Swift said. ‘Or a clever way to make it look like one.’ The sudden thought of the big new TV in Mrs Hartwell’s sitting room came into his mind – something to ponder on later. ‘Ravi,’ he said, ‘was there a camera found in Hartwell’s flat?’

She glanced through the list in front of her. ‘There’s no mention of it.’ She looked up. ‘Is that significant?’

‘Maybe.’ He gave her an outline of his findings from the previous day: Charles Brunswick appearing to be out of the frame, as also did the young man currently lodging at Ruth Hartwell’s house. ‘I checked with the prison governor. Craig Titmus was still behind bars when Hartwell was killed.’

Stratton leaned forward as Swift went on to tell her about Craig’s account of a threatening visitor who had demanded to be given some photographs which he believed to be in Ruth’s possession. And then of Ruth’s admission to hospital and the preceding circumstances.

Stratton raised her eyebrows. ‘Do we know if she showed any signs of being attacked?’

‘No obvious signs. I spoke with the ward sister earlier on this morning. Mrs Hartwell is said to be doing well. She’s conscious again but still sleepy. They initially thought she might have had a stroke, but are now wondering if she simply had some kind of blackout. The sister commented that everyone is allowed one blackout without being considered brain damaged or in need of medical intervention. But they’re still waiting for the results of the CT scan,’ Swift concluded.

Stratton looked thoughtful.

‘I think we should do a search of the
Old School House
,’ Swift said. ‘And I think we need a warrant, just to be on the safe side. There’s young Craig to contend with and also Harriet Brunswick, who is something of a force to be reckoned with. We don’t want to waste time being sent on our way.’

‘I’ll get one.’ Stratton was so quick and sharp this morning, Swift kept glancing at her to try to put his finger on exactly why she seemed so different from how she had been in their last case discussion.

‘And I’ll go and talk to Ruth Hartwell as soon as she’s fully conscious,’ he concluded.

Stratton had been watching him carefully. ‘I get the impression you’re concerned we’re not making significant progress,’ she remarked, ‘but I think we are gradually building up a picture. We’ve certainly got more pieces of information to work with, even though they are not fitting into any format yet. But they will. I have every confidence in you and Inspector Fallon.’ She shook her hair back in a small gesture of assertion and Swift had the briefest glance of the shiny glint of beige plastic in her left ear. With a leap of insight he understood the reason behind her hesitations during the last discussion and the new sharpness now. Not to mention the new way of wearing her hair.

There was something about this knowledge that made him warm to her. And as they watched each other with silent assessment over the desk, he could feel the atmosphere soften.

‘How are you getting on with Inspector Fallon?’ she asked.

‘Very well,’ he said simply.

‘Good,’ she said. ‘And good luck.’ She smiled. ‘I think we need a little of that.’

Craig needed to see Ruth, needed to see with his own eyes that she was still alive. Which meant he needed to find the hospital. He decided to fall back on the strategy he had used when making his way from the prison release gate to the
Old School House
. He would go out into the street and even if he felt the need to count every footstep he would make his way to the bus stop where the snake-eyed man had disappeared into a passing bus. He would stay until someone came to wait at the stop, someone whom he felt he could speak to. And he would ask them which bus he needed to get to the hospital. It didn’t matter how long it took, the one thing to focus on was getting there.

He counted the change he had from his prison release money, wondering if that was enough for the bus fare to the hospital. And then it dawned on him that Mac the Knife could well pay another visit to the house and carry out a similar search of his own. He took the treacle tin from the kitchen cupboard, pulled the notes from it and folded them as flat as he could make them before putting them in the pocket of his jeans along with his own money. He vowed that he would tell her he had taken it to keep it safe. That was the very first thing he would tell her. And the next thing he would do was to ask her what he should do with the envelope of photographs in her dining room: the ones he had seen her place earlier in the kitchen drawer. It hadn’t taken him long to work out that the photos in the box could be the ones Mac the Knife was looking for. He had had a quick look through them, but they meant nothing to him. He slid the envelope into the laundry basket which stood beside the washer and tucked it underneath the clothes.

The journey did not take as long as Craig had thought. But it was harrowing. Getting up the courage to speak to strangers and ask them questions did not seem to be getting any easier. The first man he had spoken to, who was one ahead of him in the queue at the bus stop, had been both dismissive and faintly hostile. ‘Can’t help. Don’t live round here, pal,’ he’d said. But his eyes had been cold and he hadn’t sounded pally at all. Craig felt panic rise in his throat. He stepped back from the queue and looked up and down the street, having the sudden feeling that he was about to be ambushed and a stabbing fear that his old enemy Blackwell might materialize out of nowhere and shatter his attempts to fit into the new world which he had chosen for himself. A world that could easily be torn away from him.

The man who had been standing behind him, a pensioner sporting unruly tufts of grey hair crammed beneath a flat cap, turned in his direction and smiled. ‘You want the number 89, son,’ he said. ‘It’ll take you right to the hospital.’ He gestured to the space Craig had left in the queue. ‘Get yourself back in line. It’ll be coming any minute.’

This act of kindness lifted Craig’s spirits. The old man sat down two seats in front of him and Craig hardly took his eyes off him, having the sense of having found a temporary anchor in a turbulent sea. When the old man got up, made his way to the central exit door and then cautiously down the steps to the street, Craig followed him and trailed him to the hospital entrance, keeping his distance so as not to cause the man alarm. He wanted to catch him up and ask him how he would find Mrs Hartwell in this vast building which reared above him, its windows reflecting the cold grey light of this chilly summer day. But by the time he reached the inside of the hospital the man had vanished into the throng of people crowding the reception area.

Looking around him, Craig found himself instinctively shrinking from the clamour and bustle. He was on the point of turning around and walking straight out when he reminded himself of the purpose of this visit, and of how important Mrs Hartwell had become to him, and how he longed to help her in whatever way he could.

He noticed two women dressed in navy suits sitting behind big round desks which sat like islands in this big sea of people. Guessing they were hospital officials, he joined one of the queues. His heart thrashed in his chest as he eventually got to the front of the queue and found himself face to face with the business-like woman sitting behind the desk. ‘Mrs Ruth Hartwell,’ he said. ‘I need to see her.’ He held himself rigid, waiting for a brush off, a put down, a rebuke. Rejection had been the norm for so much of his life.

‘When was she admitted?’ the woman asked, her face and voice flat and neutral.

‘This morning.’

She tapped the keys of her lap top. ‘She’s in Wharfedale Ward.’ She pointed down the long corridor stretching away to his left. ‘Follow the signs.’

He wiped his hands nervously over his denim-clad hips, automatically waiting for a spoken dismissal.

She raised her eyebrows, nodding in the direction she had previously indicated.
Go on
, her eyes told him.

‘Right!’ he said, snapping to attention. ‘Thanks.’

As he turned, he heard her murmur, ‘You’re welcome,’ and another tiny flame of warmth flickered inside him.

Finding the ward was not a problem, but when he tried the twin entry doors he found they were locked. He stood, staring around him, at a loss, instinctively swamped with feelings of guilt. A woman came up behind him and pressed a button on the wall adjacent to the doors. There was a crackling sound from a small loudspeaker just above the button and a clipped, robotic-sounding voice said, ‘Wharfedale Ward.’

‘I’ve come to attend a case review on Mrs Turner. I’m her daughter.’

‘Come through,’ the robot said.

The woman pushed at the doors which miraculously opened. She went through and politely held the door for Craig. He glowed with triumph; he was beginning to get the hang of things.

But then the row of beds he had expected to see as the door closed behind him turned out to be a corridor. Uncertain what to do, he followed the woman who had helped him. She marched forward confidently, knowing the ropes, pausing at a large desk and smiling at the two people who were sitting behind it, bidding them, good morning.

Craig followed suit, but didn’t get as far as saying good morning.

‘Excuse me!’ One of the people sitting behind the desk was speaking to him in a sharp, questioning voice, making his skin prickle with agitation.

He turned. The woman was dressed in a green uniform and was eyeing him with suspicion.

‘Who are you?’

He swallowed. ‘I want to see Mrs Hartwell.’ He heard his words in his head. They sounded too loud and too pushy.

‘Are you family or a friend?’

His mind raced. ‘Next of kin,’ he said.

‘Her son?’ The woman’s face had become more friendly.

‘Yeah.’

‘Oh, right. She’ll be glad you’ve come. It’s not visiting hours now, you know,’ she said. ‘But it’s all right to speak to her, just for a few minutes.’

He nodded. He looked through to the room where Mrs Turner’s daughter had gone. ‘Is she in there?’

‘Yes.’ She looked at him curiously. ‘Have you spoken to anyone yet about how she is?’

‘No.’

‘We had thought she might have had a mild stroke, but now we think she simply suffered a temporary blackout. She’s recovered consciousness and she’s doing well. But we’d like to keep her under observation for another 24 hours to ensure that she’s stable.’

‘Oh.’ He couldn’t take it all in. He wanted to ask more questions, but was not sure what exactly he should say.

‘First bed on the right,’ she said. The phone on the desk rang, claiming the woman’s attention, and he could tell she had already lost interest in him.

He walked through into the ward, fearful of what he might find, hardly daring to look at the figure in the bed.

It was coming up to ten o’clock and Cat had still not turned up at the station. Swift was beginning to be concerned and was highly relieved to hear her at the other end of the phone some minutes later.

‘Hi!’ she said. ‘You’ve every right to say,
what time do you call this
?’

‘Are you OK?’ he asked, hearing a bright brittleness in her voice which was uncharacteristic.

‘Yes.’ A pause. ‘I’m having an espresso in the café just across the road. Would you like to join me?’

Frowning in concern, he shrugged on his jacket. ‘I’ll be right there.’ He ran quickly down the steps and out into the street.

She was sitting at a table by the window and waved as she saw him. As he spotted her, his nerves tingled. She stood up as he joined her at the small round table. An electric thrill of shock went through him. Instinctively he put his arms around her and hugged her to him for a few seconds.

‘Sorry to drag you out of the office,’ she said as they sat down facing each other. ‘I needed a good strong coffee, and maybe a little tea and sympathy as well.’ She smiled, her soft generous mouth curving into a grin filled with irony.

She crossed her long legs and took a sip of her thick, dark coffee. Despite the sulky July weather, she was wearing yet another summery dress, this one sporting dramatic black swirls on a cream background. A bright-green cardigan was slung over her shoulders and her chestnut hair swung around her face, the ends curving around her chin.

Swift felt a lurch of the heart he had not experienced for a long while. His eyes kept resting on her lips, he didn’t seem to be able to pull them away. He took in a breath and made himself bite the bullet. ‘Are you going to tell me that you walked into a door?’ he said. ‘Or to mind my own business?’

Cat didn’t hesitate. ‘Jeremy did it,’ she said. ‘A great thumping backhander. He really meant it.’ She touched the bloody split in her lip, tentatively patted the bruising all around the left side of her mouth. ‘I fell back against the bathroom basin, so I guess I’ll have a black eye as well before too long.’

Swift looked at the bruised looking area around her left cheekbone. ‘It’s already coming on quite nicely,’ he said, rage and frustration building up at the thought of Cat’s being abused in this way.

‘I picked myself up and considered thumping him back,’ she said. ‘And then I knew that was the very last thing to do.’

‘So what
did
you do?’ Swift tried not to imagine the scene of Jeremy swinging a crashing blow across Cat’s beautiful mouth, tried not to imagine seeking Jeremy out and beating him up good and proper as Richard, his landlord, would say.