In for the Kill Page 9

  ‘No one knows,’ hissed the younger woman, a tall, leggy blonde in her mid twenties, not unattractive but not my type.

  ‘If this Bob Morley is right, he could be out of prison and coming back for more.’

  ‘Then we must stop him.’

  ‘How?’

  The next bit I missed as they walked away from the window. Damn. I eased myself round a little more to see what they were doing, hoping perhaps to lip-read. It was a foolish hope, but when you’re desperate hope is sometimes all you’ve got, as I knew only too well. I took a chance. They might see me but I didn’t give a toss.

  ‘Don’t be daft, Joanne, we can’t do that.’

  ‘Jamie could. Do you want to lose all this and see me in prison too?’ the daughter retorted, anger turning her fair face ugly.

  Emma Brookes’ body slumped. ‘God, what a mess.’

  ‘Mum, it’ll be all right.’

  But the look her mother gave her was one of irritation and anger.

  ‘That’s what you said last time and look where it’s got us. For goodness sake, Joanne, isn’t it enough that your father killed himself?’

  ‘You can’t blame me for that,’ Joanne said hotly.

  Emma looked as if she’d like to. ‘If you hadn’t got mixed up with Jamie in the first place then none of this would have happened.’

  ‘Well, it did and it’s over now.’

  Emma looked sceptical. ‘Is it, Joanne?’ she said quietly.

  Her daughter frowned and turned away.

  I leaned forward eagerly only to find my arm twisted up behind my back. With a sinking heart I was spun round expecting to find myself looking directly into the face of a uniformed police constable. Instead I was facing a man in his early thirties with a broad face, cropped fair hair, cool blue-grey eyes and very expensive designer clothes rather spoilt by his obvious colour blindness and lack of style.

  ‘And who the fuck are you?’ he declared hotly.

  ‘I rather think that ought to be my line,’ I said boldly, my gaze unwavering and hoping that my expression showed mild interest when really my mind was racing to find a way out of this and get him to relax his grip on my aching body.

  ‘Not when you’re trespassing on my land, it isn’t.’ He tightened his grip. Judging by the look of him he could and would add another bruise or two to my face and torso, if he thought it was required.

  ‘I’m Bob Morley. I followed Emma Brookes here.’ That shook him. The truth usually did.

  When you need to lie always taint it with the truth.

  That way the suckers will believe you, one of Ray’s.

  ‘Why the fuck should you do that?’

  ‘To see where she went, and do you mind letting me go?’ I could see that he was tossing up whether to tell me to go soak my head or do as I ask. Then wariness crept into his suspicion.

  He released his grip on me.

  ‘You a cop?’

  ‘No.’

  Now his expression registered relief, which intrigued me and set my mind racing.

  ‘Who smashed up your face?’ he said.

  ‘A Mercedes. I had an accident.’ He looked as though he didn’t believe me. But then maybe he’d smashed a few faces himself and recognised the pattern. He was prevented from asking any more questions because as we’d been talking the women must have seen us and were now standing before us.

  ‘Jamie, I…’

  ‘Joanne, this…’

  The daughter and thug began speaking at the same time. I smiled an apology at Emma and said, humbly, ‘I followed you.’

  She started and looked nervous whilst her daughter looked livid.

  ‘Why the hell should you do that?’ It was Joanne who recovered first.

  I addressed my answer to Emma. ‘Because you seemed upset and I wanted to know more about Roger’s death.’

  ‘Are you another bloody private detective?’

  Joanne shouted. ‘Because if you are there’s nothing to tell you. Now piss off.’

  Was she was referring to Joe Bristow? She’d given me an idea. Time for some serious lying.

  ‘Joanne is right. I am a private detective. Joe Bristow and I worked together on the Andover case and when Joe was killed, I decided to take over and find out why someone would want to kill him.’

  They all look surprised. Jamie glared at me sceptically; I could see his brain ticking over.

  ‘You didn’t get that from any Mercedes.’ He pointed at my face.

  ‘Joe didn’t seem to think that your father’s death was suicide.’

  Emma turned pale and Joanne bright red whilst Jamie simply looked confused.

  ‘Why wouldn’t it be suicide?’ Joanne declared petulantly.

  ‘You tell me.’

  ‘There is nothing to tell?’

  ‘No?’

  ‘My father’s dead. Now sod off and leave us alone.’

  I felt like telling her that frowns that deep would only give her wrinkles.

  ‘Did you know that Alex Albury is out of prison? He might come back to you for more money, or tell what he knows.’

  ‘We can deal with him,’ Jamie said, and I had no doubts that he could. He was glaring at me as if he wished he could squash my head between two bricks and then cement it into a wall, but I’d dealt with tougher men than him.

  ‘We?’

  ‘He won’t get anything from us,’ Joanne said.

  ‘He did before and I’d like to know why?’

  ‘Look…’ Jamie stepped menacingly closer to me, but I held my ground.

  I turned to Emma. ‘Albury claims he was innocent. If he decides to clear his name then he may get to the truth.’

  Jamie laughed. ‘He can try, but I don’t think he’ll live very long.’

  ‘Is that so?’

  ‘Jamie, be careful,’ Emma warned, but he rounded on her.

  ‘Of what? He’s not a copper and it’s his word against ours. Listen, whatever your bloody name is, if Albury, or anyone else, including you, comes around stirring up trouble I don’t think he’ll be around long enough to draw his pension.’

  ‘Are you threatening me?’ I said lightly.

  ‘Why don’t you piss off?’

  ‘With pleasure.’

  I glanced at Joanne before heading back to the car. Obviously Andover had blackmailed Brookes and it had something to do with his daughter. Joanne Brookes, from what I had seen, was about as delicate as a thistle. There was defiance and hardness in her eyes, and a cruelty around her mouth that reminded me of Rowde.

  I was surprised that her father had paid Andover to keep silent about her, but then she had probably been his blue-eyed little girl.

  I drove off with a last look at the manor house.

  I wondered if Jamie and Joanne Brookes had somehow discovered the true identity of Andover, killed him after he refused to say where the money was, buried the body and left me to take the rap. Then another more worrying fact dawned on me. By coming here and pretending I was a private detective I had alerted them about my own release. Would Jamie, Joanne, or their friends track down Alex Albury and attempt to eliminate him? If they did could I get to the truth before they killed me? Would my death silence Rowde and save my boys? That was possible, but my boys would grow up believing I really was a crook.

  I turned into the Hare and Hounds public house about half a mile from where Joanne and Jamie lived and ordered myself a non-alcoholic lager. I opened a conversation with the barmaid and, half an hour later I had the information I needed, and was driving back to Portsmouth.

  I caught the last ferry to the Island. My mind was teeming with ideas that led nowhere except to more questions that I didn’t have answers for.

  My head was throbbing when I stepped onto my houseboat and my chest felt tight with the knowledge that another day had passed that took me closer to my sons’ fate, and I was nowhere nearer the truth.

  I flicked on the light and froze. A wave of nausea washed over me. The room swam out of focus for a moment
and I closed my eyes praying that what I saw on the floor wasn’t there but was just a product of my overactive imagination.

  Slowly I opened my eyes. It was there all right.

  It was Westnam. He’d been strangled.

  CHAPTER 9

  I averted my eyes and tried to catch my breath.

  My heart was going like the clappers. God!

  First Joe and now Westnam. Who next? I closed my eyes trying to shut out the image of Westnam’s body, but all I could see was the limp bodies of my sons lying before me, so I threw them open again and hastily descended to the kitchen where I poured myself a stiff whisky. I tossed it back and felt the warmth slide down my throat. I took some deep breaths, got myself under control and returned to Westnam.

  Rowde was responsible for this, I felt sure of it. And yet Andover could have killed Westnam and planted him here to frame me again, but this time for murder. That made far more sense.

  Surely Rowde wouldn’t want me behind bars when he thought he had the chance of getting three million pounds? Though it crossed my mind that Rowde could have killed Westnam as a reminder to me of what he would do to my boys if I didn’t play ball. Well, I was playing, and part of Rowde’s game, I guessed, required me to get rid of the body and erase all trace of it ever being on the houseboat. By killing Westnam, Rowde was implicating me further, building up more ammunition to manipulate me with. Yes, the more I thought about it the more convinced I became that this had Rowde’s signature on it. I told myself that later I would go to the police and tell them the truth; I didn’t have time for that now.

  Moving a dead body requires an enormous amount of strength and in my pain-racked state it would require a superhuman effort. But I was strong and fit. Most of all I was desperate. I could do anything; move iron girders with my teeth if I had to in order to save my children. Not being seen was a different matter altogether. Scarlett seemed to have eyes in the back and sides of her head, a skill developed, I guessed, because of her mother’s illness. And as her mother went walk-about at all hours of the day and night I couldn’t be certain that the pair of them would be safely tucked up in bed.

  It had started raining heavily. I was glad; it meant fewer people about to witness my activity.

  I consulted the tide timetable. The tide was just on the turn so I had no time to lose.

  I stripped Westnam, noticing he had no papers on him, and bundled up his clothes. Then I found some lines and my sailing gloves and donning the gloves I tied one rope around Westnam’s naked torso under his armpits and the other around his ankles. My hands were sweating and the perspiration was running down my face and back. I felt sick at what I was doing, but could only tell myself it was for my sons. I had no choice.

  The wind was rising all the time, the last thing I wanted. I pulled on my sailing jacket and opened the patio doors. The wind and rain rushed in like Westnam’s avenging spirit; lashing at my face.

  I hauled Westnam’s body along the floor, straining my ears for any sounds of life from Scarlett’s houseboat. I thanked God for a dark, moonless night and although I cursed the wind and the rain, it kept all but the foolhardy, or guilty like me, indoors.

  My yacht was moored up beneath the steps of the houseboat. Glancing to my right and left I hauled the body up as best I could, stifling my groans and praying that even the ones I couldn’t stifle wouldn’t be heard against the stormy night.

  Panting heavily and sweating profusely, I had Westnam almost in my arms leaning against me.

  I felt sick at the smell of death. Then, holding tight to the two ropes, I tipped his body over the edge head first. Slowly I let him slide down the edge of the houseboat easing the ropes until his head and upper torso touched the cockpit. My arms were almost pulled out of their sockets as I let down the rope. Then his crumpled, naked body lay in the yacht.

  I locked the patio doors, pocketed the key, climbed on board my boat, and let off the lines.

  I started the engine, praying that no one would hear it, and turned into the wind. Thankfully as the tide rushed out it helped me.

  It was dangerous but I knew the channel well.

  And it was deserted, not even the fishermen were foolish enough to go out in this. I wanted to get around the Foreland into Whitecliff Bay before I tossed Westnam overboard. Where he would end up I didn’t know as long as it was away from me and my houseboat.

  As I chugged into the tempestuous night I felt sympathy for Westnam. What a bloody awful way to end your life! Andover had ruined Westnam’s life as surely as he had ruined mine. I tried not to think of any relatives grieving for Westnam. I knew from Joe’s reports that his ex wife was living in the States and they’d had no children.

  The tide was beginning to push me to port when I wanted to go to starboard. I corrected my course. The waves splashed over the side of the small boat soaking both Westnam and me.

  Where he was he couldn’t feel it and I was beyond caring about my own physical condition. My sailing jacket kept most of my body dry but my feet and legs were drenched in salt water, as were my face and hands. I could see one or two lights from the houses on the shore. This was far enough, any further and I’d be able to say hello to the container ships moored up for the night off Bembridge Ledge.

  I grabbed Westnam’s body. He was so heavy that I wondered if I’d be able to do it. My body screamed with pain, but with some superhuman effort I dredged up from God alone knew where, I hauled the poor sod over the side of the boat.

  The splash his body made almost drowned me, as did the movement of the boat combined with the waves. It would have served me right if it had. I scurried into the cabin, found my spare anchor, and after wrapping Westnam’s clothes around it I threw it in after him. Then I began my journey back. If I had thought going out was bad then returning was hell on earth. The tide wanted to take me back into the Solent.

  I wasn’t quite sure how I made it. Luck, God, whoever and whatever, and I was tying up alongside my houseboat, exhausted. I crashed down on the floor of the houseboat and fell asleep. When I awoke it was still dark, but a quick glance at my watch told me it wouldn’t be long until dawn. I was cross with myself. How could I waste time sleeping when my sons’ fate was in Rowde’s hands? I shivered violently and tried to ease myself up. My arms felt as though they weighed more than the Clifton Suspension Bridge and my legs as though all the blood had been drained from them and the bone extracted leaving them wobbly, like one of those puppets in a children’s television programme.

  I was shattered but I hadn’t finished yet. I had to scrub this room, then a hot shower, food and onward.

  Four hours later I was changed and fed and there was, as far as I could see, no evidence that Westnam alive or dead had ever been here. I knew the drill at prison and that between 10am and 11am the visits booking line would be open. I went out to a call box and asked to book a visit with Ray. I’d forgotten that there was no visiting on Thursdays and Fridays. Blast! I booked to see him Saturday afternoon at 2pm, the earliest possible time. Three days away and too close to Rowde’s deadline! But even though Ray was incarcerated I knew that if I wanted information on Jamie Redman, Joanne Brookes’ partner, then the prisoner network would give it to me.

  I couldn’t just sit around and kick my heels until then though. I had to do something to find Andover but the trail was getting colder by the minute. There was only one person left for me to try and that was Couldner’s daughter, Lorraine Proctor. I hurried out to the car where I’d left Joe’s reports containing the last address he had for her. She lived just outside Chichester, not far from the marina. It was quite a way to travel if she wasn’t in so I would telephone her from the first call box I came to. Before I could climb into the car a voice hailed me and I turned to see the blonde goddess from Brading church heading towards me.

  She was dressed for hiking in shorts and walking boots. Her honey blonde hair shone like something out of a hair advertisement. She looked the picture of such perfect health and vitality that she made me f
eel positively ill. I turned to see Scarlett at the door of her houseboat.

  ‘What happened to you?’ the blonde goddess said, a concerned expression on her beautiful face.

  ‘I fell over. Too much to drink I expect,’ I joked, impatient to be away. I heard Scarlett’s door slam.

  ‘You’re Alex Albury. Percy Trentham told me after I described meeting you in Brading church.

  I’m Deeta.’

  What else had Percy told her? That I was an ex con? If he had it didn’t seem to bother her. I took the hand she proffered. Her grip was strong and dry. I didn’t feel quite so much the embarrassed adolescent this time of meeting her, though I did silently wince at the memory of my ineptitude at our last encounter.

  ‘How do you know Percy?’ I was still suspicious of her.

  ‘He has a metal detector. I see him on the beach sometimes. He’s a mine of information about the Second World War.’

  I recalled she had said she was writing a book about the Island at war. I didn’t like to tell her that some of Percy’s war stories were very dubious. She was the historian; she would check her sources.

  She said, ‘My grandfather lived here during the early part of the war. Percy said you used to live in Bembridge House and that your grandfather built the folly there as an air raid shelter. It’s a remarkable piece of architecture. Percy said your grandfather was a very important man in the war.’

  ‘I don’t think so. He died in a sailing accident in 1940. I shouldn’t trust everything Percy tells you.’

  ‘He likes to exaggerate. I looked your family up though. Did you know that you are descended from the Anglo-Saxons?’

  ‘That might explain why I feel so old and tired sometimes.’

  She laughed. Despite all my problems I couldn’t prevent my loins from again responding to her beauty and her sensuality.

  She said, ‘Do you have any records that your father or grandfather left?’

  ‘Sorry, no.’ Any other time I would like to have talked to her. I would have flirted with her and I would certainly have invited her out for a drink.