A Good Year for the Roses (1988) (22 page)

I saw no sign that I had hit anyone. I expect that my hands were trembling too much. The doors to the crematorium burst open and three men in dark suits and black ties burst through, then stood teetering on the steps. Lynch and Grant looked at each other, and made a beeline in tandem to the car that I had seen draw up to the building whilst I had been talking to David. One of them had obviously ducked through the building, out through the rear exit, then round to lay deadly ambush with the other, who must have been dropped off in the road.

I should have taken more notice, they must have followed me from my office. So much for Leicester, George. That was another one I owed him.

The three men from the crematorium remained standing on the step as Lynch and Grant made their tyre-squealing escape.

I raced towards the Rolls. As I ran I gestured for the three to stay where they were. I used the hand with the gun in it. I think they got the message, because they backed through the doors again.

I checked the front of the car first. I didn't want to know what had happened to Patsy, not right away. I could guess only too well.

The driver's compartment was carnage. The grenade had exploded in the chauffeur's lap. Through the smoke, I could see that it had ripped out of most of his stomach, and all of his groin. I could also see his thigh bones poking whitely through his shredded uniform trousers. He was sitting in a pool of blood and guts. I had to turn my head aside to stop myself vomitting at the sight and smell. I cursed the murderers and myself, and George Bright.

Reluctantly I opened the rear passenger door. I knew what I was going to find, but it didn't make it any easier. The bodies of Patsy and her companion were huddled together on the wide leather seat. I placed the rose I had picked up off the ground onto the roof of the Rolls, and put my gun in my jacket pocket. I gently separated the bodies. I assumed that David had been hit first, because Patsy's corpse covered the massive chest wound he'd sustained from the point blank blast of the shot-gun. Patsy had been hit in the head and most of her face had been blown away. Blood, brains and blonde hair were coated over the back window. The rear compartment stank of cordite and the coppery odour of freshly spilled blood. There was nothing I could do for any one of them.

I suddenly remembered the Ingram. It was still under the seat where David had placed it. I checked that the safety was on as I picked it up and slung it over my shoulder by its leather strap. I looked towards the crematorium, a priest was standing on the steps now, staring at me.

When they realised that the shooting had stopped, someone was going to be brave enough to come and see what had happened I didn't want to be around to answer any questions. I retrieved the rose, then ran away across the graves in the direction of my car.

I was limping by the time I reached the car. My foot had started to play me up. I scrambled behind the wheel and prayed that the car would start right away. It fired up at the first turn of the key in the ignition, and I screeched back down to the main gates. I sped past visitors and mourners staring up the hill towards the crematorium, from where the explosion and gunfire had come. I sent the car into a power slide onto the main road and accelerated into the one-way system. My hands were shaking on the steering wheel and I could feel the dampness of my palms against the slick leather. I was down to the wire with fear and tension, mixed with an elated relief that I had escaped unharmed. The killer's car was long gone. As I drove away from the carnage. I guessed that they had lost themselves in the maze of backstreets that crisscrossed the area. I drove as fast as I dared southwards, away from central London, down into the outer suburbs.

I wasn't thinking too clearly, I just needed to get away from the horror that I had witnessed and put together the information that had been disclosed by Patsy and the tall man named David.

When I thought of the girl and what had happened to her, I literally felt a stab of pain inside. I should have stuck to my commitment of non-involvement. Falling in love with a photograph was stupid. I might have guessed that when the image became flesh, she would let me down and do something dumb like getting killed. Ultimately people always disappoint you. It must be something to do with being human. I looked at the rose that Patsy had thrown to me, where I had tossed it on top of the dashboard and tears stung my eyes.

I was the only person left who knew everything, or nearly everything. The only person on the side of the angels that is. It was up to me to expose the whole story mess to the light, and identify the killers to the authorities. As such I was a marked man. Too many people had been killed with me in close proximity. I'd been an eye witness once too often now. Someone at the cemetery must have spotted the registration number of the Trans-Am. If the police traced the car, through Charlie, back to me, I was the prime suspect in a bunch of brutal slayings. It didn't matter that I'd been shot at myself. There were no witnesses to that fact as far as I knew, except for the killers themselves. I had been there, and that was that. Tie those latest killings in with the decapitation of Terry Southall, and of course the death of Jane Lewis, accidental or not, and I was public enemy number one. David had told me that the machine demands a sacrifice. He was right, and it could be me.

There was every reason to bang me up in Brixton nick, to await trial at the Bailey. A bent ex-copper, drugs, and now five deaths in as many days. I couldn't see anyone buying coincidence on that. I had to find one of the gang who would talk, tell the truth and let me off the hook. It would be easier said than done. There were at least four of them still at large, possibly more, and all with blood on their hands. The weak link had to be George Bright. David had told me George was beginning to panic. I'd seen it myself for that matter. I had to get him to the police alive. As for the rest of the villains, they'd be well pissed off that they hadn't topped me already. They'd had enough chances, God knows. Only being armed and the intervention of the mourners had saved me in the cemetery. I'd bet that the bad guys were kicking themselves that they hadn't finished me off at the house in Brixton, or when they were chasing me through Waterloo. I was living on dumb luck and that wasn't good enough.

So there I was, in a car that was getting hotter by the moment, fleeing from a mass murder, wanted by both the law and the lawless. It was a classic ‘B’ movie scenario, only it was real and scaring the shit out of me. Whichever way I turned was a dead end, and it looked like being me that ended up dead.

I found that I had driven mechanically as far as Croydon. I checked my watch and discovered it was ten to two. I needed a drink badly. My mouth was dry and tasted bitterly of fear and defeat. I had to stop soon. If I didn't, I knew that I'd pile the car up and I didn't need that on top of everything else.

I drove around to the market, and even though the town was as busy as ever, I found a parking meter straight away. I stashed the Ingram under the driver's seat, hoping that no juvenile delinquent would bust into the car and lift it. But I could hardly carry it around the shopping centre at port arms. I ducked out of the car and into the first pub I saw. It was crowded with shoppers and market workers, but I welcomed the noise. I bought a beer and fought my way into the back bar where I found a seat. I took stock of my assets. I had my driver's license, banker's card and about thirty quid in cash on me. I could get more money from a dispensing machine using my bank card. But from here on in, I had to assume the worst about my immediate future. Eventually I was bound to be tied into the cemetery murders. That would put me amongst the most wanted in London. It figured that I had to get further out of town. I couldn't chance going home for the shotgun or a change of clothes, but I did have the sub-machine gun and a full magazine of ammunition, and a pistol, and where I was going, I didn't think anyone would be worried if my undershorts were a bit grubby.

At that point I didn't know if the police had the details of the Pontiac or not. Assuming the worst, I had to believe they did. I didn't want to hire a car, as the personal details from my license would go on file and the law could get the number of any new car I was driving within a very short time. Once again, and until the whole business was cleared up one way or another, I had to keep taking a paranoid, pessimistic view. That way, I might come out of my first case all in one piece. I considered stealing a car, but ignored the idea. Firstly I was no great shakes at vehicular larceny, and secondly it would be just my luck to get picked up for taking and driving away, and find myself explaining the situation to some uniform who would eventually put two and two together and end up getting a bit of promotion out of nicking me. Even if I did get away with it, the registration could be on the air within a couple of hours and I'd be fucked up again. So I was stuck with the Pontiac. Not exactly the most discreet car on the road, but that was tough. Next I decided I needed somewhere to get some rest. My nerves were shot. I needed some peace, if only for a few hours, but preferably for the night. I'd frozen with panic at the cemetery when the fire fight had started. I needed some time to psych myself up for whatever was to come. I knew exactly what kind of place I wanted.

Somewhere I could jump in and pull over myself.

When somebody started playing ‘A Whiter Shade of Pale’ on the juke, I went off to find a bank. I withdrew £100 in cash and went back to the car. On the way I stopped at a chemist and bought a toothbrush, some paste and a shaving kit. Even in times of adversity I wanted to have clean teeth and a smooth jaw. I also stopped at an off-license and bought a bottle of good scotch. By the time I reached the car, I felt that everyone in the street was watching me.

Right by where I'd parked the motor was a hi-fi store. Inside they were demonstrating a new compact disc player. The record that was being played was ‘Carmen'. I stopped to listen as I checked if the Trans-Am was being bugged. There were no squads of marksmen wearing flak jackets, ready to riddle the car and me with M-16 rifle fire. Not even a traffic warden in sight. I relaxed when I found that the Ingram was where I'd left it. I rolled down the window and listened to the music as I sat in the car deciding where to go next.

I drove out of Croydon and headed south again. The sort of place I was looking to hole up in would be large and anonymous, full of transients. The last thing I needed was a nosey landlady. I drove down in the direction of Gatwick airport, avoiding the motorway. I struck lucky almost immediately. I was just about a mile from the airport when I came across a single storey motel. It had a huge carpark shadowed by the giant oak trees. I mentally thanked the architect who had landscaped the outside. I drove to the furthest corner of the lot, and parked the car close up under the leafiest tree. It must have been a car thieve's paradise, when I left the car I couldn't see the motel at all.

I found an old Nike sports’ bag in the boot of the Pontiac. The canvas was scuffed and grubby, but passable. I wanted to look like a rep on his way to his sales area having a night in an hotel on expenses. Into the bag I put the toilet gear that I had purchased, the bottle of scotch and the machine pistol. I kept the Cobra in the waistband of my jeans. Then I went to see if there were any rooms available. I got a single, with shower en suite with no problem. The girl on the reception was totally disinterested in me. It did my ego no good, but bolstered my sense of safety. I checked in with a fake name and car registration. I paid cash in advance, and trusted that no-one would bother to look around for the non-existant Ford Sierra, that I claimed to drive.

There was no porter, so I had to find my own room. That was another plus.

The room was small and smelt of dirty socks, used ashtrays and old sex. But the bed was a fair three quarter double, the bathroom was clean and the room contained a colour TV that showed recent movies on a special channel, twenty four hours a day. At least I didn't have to think if I didn't want to. On the way to the room I saw an ice making machine in the corridor. I went and filled one of the tooth glasses from the bathroom with ice. Into the other I put the rose from the cemetery to keep it fresh.

I turned on the TV and watched ‘Back To The Future’ on video and drank scotch on the rocks. Not that I particularly like scotch, but I figured that a private eye in a scruffy hotel room should do just that.

Now the taste of scotch always reminds me of that night, I don't drink it often any more. It also helped my hands to stop shaking and blocked out the memory of how terrified I'd been under fire. When the booze made me feel brave again, I checked the M10 over to familiarize myself with its workings. The magazine was fully loaded with thirty two brass jacketed slugs. I wondered if I'd have the nerve to pull the trigger. I'd only fired a machine gun once before, on a special anti-terrorist course when I'd been on the force. All I could remember about them was, they had a tendency to pull upwards whilst firing, they were very noisy and stank of gunpowder.

When half the whiskey was gone and I'd watched two more movies on the tube, I ordered a steak and baked potato from room service. I asked them to bring along a bottle of red wine with the meal because Patsy's face was beginning to creep into the corner of my mind as I stared at the TV set. I knew it would take a lot of alcohol to keep her out of my thoughts.

While I waited for the food to arrive, I switched the TV over to the evening news. The cemetery killings were the main story. Thank God there were no detailed pictures. The cameras had only been allowed to film the Rolls-Royce from a distance. No names were mentioned. The news people obviously had very little hard information to work from. They tried to flesh out the report of the triple murder by interviewing one of the witnesses who'd been in the crematorium when the killing took place. He'd seen nothing of the actual explosion and shooting, but managed to give a fairly accurate description of me. I was described as the third gunman. Charming. I was reported to have escaped in a large American car. The witness also described Blondie and his partner. They'd fled in a black car. That was all. When an item about Princess Diana opening a kidney unit appeared on the screen, I switched back to ‘The Terminator’ on the movie channel. It seemed an apt choice.

I could hardly face the meal when it arrived. The steak was dry and the potato undercooked. The salad that accompanied the food had surrendered to old age long before it reached my plate. I ate what I could and chased the rest around my plate for a while. I drank the wine straight from the bottle. It looked like blood and tasted slightly of decay, but I was getting too drunk to care. Finally I fell asleep with the TV still playing, my revolver lying on the bed next to me. That night I had the first of the awful recurring dreams that have haunted me ever since. I dreamt that I was walking through a garden filled with rose bushes. They were all the same variety as the one Patsy had held at the cemetery. The perfume that rose from the flowers was thick and heady. I knew that danger lurked in the garden, that people were hiding from me amongst the bushes. And I knew who they were, they were the people I had seen dead over the past few days. I was desperate to avoid them. I was sure if I spoke to any one of them I would die myself. I could feel the eyes of the cadavers upon me and smell their putrescence through the scent of the roses. I awoke with the .38 clutched in my fist, the hammer drawn back. My finger was twitching on the trigger, a bare fraction of an ounce of pressure from pulling it. The gun was aimed at the TV set, where ‘Back To The Future’ was playing on the screen.

I carefully eased the hammer back and stuck the gun under my pillow. I dried my sweat on the sheet and fell asleep again.

Finally the morning insinuated itself through the thin curtains of my room and squeezed beneath my eyelids. I woke up sweating again in the overheated atmosphere. I was repulsed by my own stale smell. I dragged myself out of bed and staggered into the tiny bathroom and showered in the cramped stall. Then I shaved and cleaned my teeth. I dressed in two day old crumpled clothing and demanded coffee from room service. It was only warm when it arrived twenty minutes later, but after a potful I began to feel half human. I left the detritus of my stay to the maids and went and returned my key to reception. I was ignored again by the new blonde at the desk. I looked at myself in the mirror in the reception and decided I looked surprisingly respectable. I was only a little ragged around the edges. My eyes were slightly pink, but not so as anyone would remark upon them. Luckily I wasn't hungover. There must have been so much adrenalin in my blood it had neutralised the alcohol.

I went out and found my car in the morning mist. It hadn't been touched and started immediately. I drove down to Gatwick Airport. Suddenly, all I wanted to do was catch a plane. Any plane, anywhere. I'm sure if I'd had my passport on me I'd have buggered off to Spain. I fought back the urge to flees and parked the Pontiac in the long-term car park. I locked it up and pocketed the keys. I hoped Charlie would get his car back. It had been invaluable to me, and I'd grown rather fond of the beast. But for now it had outlived its usefulness. I walked from the car park to the BR station. There was a through train to Victoria due in just under five minutes and I bought a ticket. I also purchased a newspaper from the newstand. The murders were front page news. No arrests had been made so far. The paper had sussed out that international drug dealing was behind the crime. I was mentioned again but with little detail. However, they'd identified the Trans-Am even if the registration number printed was two digits out. Perhaps the police would find it parked up at the airport and assume I'd jetted off to the Costa Del Crime. I guessed that within a few hours, one way or another they'd know I hadn't, but by then it would be too late. I caught the train and travelled back up to town. The compartment was nearly empty as it was a weekend. I sat and looked at the country turn to suburbs and then city proper with the bag of massive firepower resting on my lap. When I got to Victoria I ate a proper breakfast in a back street cafe, and then got lost in the West End. I wandered around the familiar streets for hours. I knew that time was running out, but I couldn't bring myself to face whatever was waiting for me south of the river. I found myself in Soho at lunchtime. I went into a pub, but drank only fruit juice. I caught an early showing of a porno film in Brewer Street. I sat in the deserted cinema and stared at the naked bodies on the screen and felt nothing. I felt cold and emotionless. I had cut everything out of my mind except for the need for vengeance. I felt the cinema after twenty minutes and found a call box. I tried George Bright at his warehouse. Surprisingly he answered after the first ring. I said nothing just gently replaced the receiver onto the cradle after he spoke. I left the telephone box and hailed a cab.