Born in a Burial Gown (41 page)

Fluke yawned, a big one that he couldn’t stop. He hadn’t realised how tired he was.

‘Who was your contact in the police?’

Cross gave him a name that meant nothing to him. For the first time, he made a note. It would be someone for the team to arrest at least.

Mortimer looked at his watch and stood up. ‘Time’s up, Inspector. You got everything you need?’

‘One more thing, Mr Mortimer.’ He turned to Cross. ‘Do you know who she was. What her real name was? Where she was from?’

Cross looked at Fluke. ‘I have no idea. I told you she was a ghost. English is my bet. She fled to where she knew when she was in trouble. Other than that, I can’t help you.’

Fluke had been expecting that. It was possible her real identity would always remain a secret. He’d always remember her as Samantha though.

‘That it?’ Mortimer said.

‘For now.’

Cross smirked. ‘There’s no for now, Mr Fluke. This is it. As soon as I can get on a plane, I’m out of this shithole. Time to get Stateside, see what type of deal they’re offering.’

‘Waterboarding and black sites would be my guess,’ Fluke said.

‘Ah, Mr Fluke. But you don’t know what I know. I have things my country wants and I only want my freedom in return. And access to my money of course. They’ll deal, we both know that.’ He smirked. ‘You never know, we may meet again one day.’

Fluke turned and walked out.

‘Nice place,’ Bridie said, eventually. The first thing anyone had said since Fluke had finished telling them about the interview with Cross.

Fluke looked over at her. She was hugging her knees to her chest and staring into the fire. She was wearing a black vest and her tattooed arms seemed to be alive as the flames danced in the darkness. Her skin was a creamy white. She was beautiful. More
Guns and Ammo
than
Vogue
but stunning nonetheless.

He nodded sadly. ‘Yep. For how long, though, I don’t know.’

She looked at him quizzically. Fluke explained the situation with his illegally built cabin. To his surprise, she laughed.

‘Is that all? I thought you were going to say something serious.’

‘It is serious,’ he protested. ‘I’ve got a court date.’

She burst out laughing. ‘You’ve just singlehandedly taken out an international assassin and you’re worried about the county council. You crack me up.’

‘You think he has a case?’ Towler asked.

She stopped laughing. ‘You’re serious? Are you telling me the pair of you have been worrying about this?’

Fluke nodded and saw Towler do the same.

‘Listen. I think I can handle the county council’s planning department.’

‘Yeah, you do international law. This is local. It’s different,’ Fluke said.

‘The only thing that’s different is that they’re terrified of a court case with someone who knows what they’re doing. They can’t afford it for one thing. I’ll send them a letter first thing tomorrow saying I’m representing you, and I’ve instructed Mr Tinnings to act on our behalf.’

‘Who?’ Towler asked.

‘My secret weapon. A barrister friend of mine in London who owes me a favour. Charges ten thousand pounds a day.’

‘I can’t afford that!’ Fluke burst out.

Bridie smiled. ‘We won’t need him, silly. Just the name will terrify their solicitor. They won’t risk losing and having to pay his fees.’ She looked at them both. ‘The law’s not always about who’s right and who’s wrong. Sometimes it’s about who has the most to lose. And anyway, I’ve only just got here. You think I’m letting them take it away? Not a chance.’ She smiled at Fluke.

They fell into silence once more. Fluke felt a strange peace settle over him.
I may even get some sleep tonight
, he thought.

Abi broke the silence. ‘What’s a stalker?’ she asked.

‘Where did you hear that word, Abi?’ Fluke asked.

‘Daddy says that Bridie’s yours.’

What could have been an uncomfortable silence was broken by Bridie roaring with laughter. Before long, Fluke had joined in. Towler, embarrassed, eventually grinned as well.

‘Yes, I am, Abi. Your daddy’s right,’ Bridie said when she’d stopped laughing.

Fluke offered Towler a cigar and they lit up. A sense of peace settled over them all.

‘This is beautiful,’ Bridie said. ‘I bet you get a different view everyday. It’s a shame about that dead tree there, if you took it down you’d have an uninterrupted view across the lake. I have a friend who’s a tree surgeon. She’d take it down for you for a cup of tea. I’ll give her a call if you want.’

This time it was Fluke and Towler who laughed and Bridie’s turn to look confused.

‘You want to tell her why we can’t chop that tree down, Abi?’ Towler said.

‘That tree?’ she said pointing. ‘That’s where Hooty McOwlface lives.’ She giggled delightedly at Bridie’s obvious astonishment.

‘There’s a tawny owl that lives there. He’s out hunting at the minute but he’ll be back later,’ Fluke explained. ‘He’s out getting a nice fat mouse for Abi.’

‘Yuk,’ she shrieked.

Fluke got up and to pour more wine. Towler put his hand over his glass.

‘I’m driving mate.’

As they sipped their drinks and looked out across the lake and fells, it dawned on Fluke that Bridie hadn’t covered her glass. He knew she didn’t drink and drive. She must be planning to stay the night. Apparently Towler had also come to the same conclusion. He gave Fluke a crude wink.

Bridie looked at Fluke and raised her glass in his direction. He looked back at her and raised his own.

In the distance, an owl hooted.

Six weeks later.

HMP Durham.

Dalton Cross was wearing a suit. He was still on crutches but he was fit to fly. He was being moved from hospital to Durham Prison while a specially chartered flight was being arranged.

‘Cross. This way, please. Grab your things. Follow me!’ the prison officer barked.

He picked up a bag containing prison issue toiletries, blankets and a pillow and followed the prison officer.

‘Now. You’ve been told that our remand wing is full? You’re going to have to go onto general population with convicted prisoners for now. We’re putting you on the lifer wing though, it’s a bit calmer, and remember, you’re still a remand prisoner so you still have remand rights. You can wear your own clothes, you’re entitled to more phone calls and more visits. You can spend more money. With any luck, you’ll be where you need to be by the end of the week.’

He wasn’t worried. He’d been in far worse places and he’d be back in the States within the week. He hadn’t been lying to Fluke. He had information he hadn’t told anyone about yet. Enough for a deal. He had passports and funds tucked away in case of emergencies. If he played it right, he might even get a nice CIA pension.

The wing he was brought onto could have been lifted straight out of a scene from
Porridge
, a sitcom he’d enjoyed since coming to the UK. He knew it wasn’t a new prison but it looked more like a film set than somewhere to spend the night. He shrugged. It was better than that gulag in the Ukraine he’d once had to spend a month in.

The prison officer stopped outside a cell halfway down one of the landings. He took a bunch of keys out of a leather pouch on his belt and unlocked the door. He stepped aside and waited for Cross to walk in.

‘There’s a button to call if you need something. This red one here. Press it for anything less than a fire and you’re in the shit. We’re locked down for the night. You have your breakfast in the bag you’ve just been given. Eat it tonight and you go hungry in the morning. Don’t eat it tonight and someone’ll take it off you. Your choice. Doors will be unlocked at eight am. Sleep well, Cross.’

He watched as the door shut with a heavy clang. A sound only a prison door can make. A sound heard by thousands before him. A sound that made good men despair and brave men cry. Cross smiled. It was going to be easy.

He stared at the door for a second before turning to survey his cell. To his surprise he wasn’t alone.

Someone was getting up from the bottom bunk. A small, shaven-headed man. He was wearing a pair of shorts and nothing else. Crude tattoos covered his body. He had the look of someone who’d spent a lifetime in institutions.

Cross nodded at him and smiled. He might be on crutches but he was still capable enough to put the idiot down if he tried anything.

The man smiled back. ‘You want a brew, mate?’ He had a thick Geordie accent.

With nothing else to do, he said ‘yes’. While the man busied himself making the drinks with the in-cell kettle, Cross settled his meagre belongings on the top bunk and tried to put the sheets on the rubber mattress. They seemed too small and he eventually gave up.

‘Here ya gan, mate,’ the man said. Cross got down and reached forward for the drink he was being offered.

Before he could take it, the man hurled it at him. It struck him on the bridge of his nose. The cup smashed.

Cross screamed.

Boiling water covered his face. Some went down his throat and he instinctively swallowed. Excruciating pain exploded in every nerve ending. He tried to wipe it off but it was sticky. Sticky and burning. His hands stung as well. Even through the pain, he knew what it was.

Sugar and boiling water.

Prison napalm.

He could feel parts of his face melting and he tried to scream even louder. Nothing happened. His vocal cords had been damaged. His throat swelled and he gasped for breath, clawing at his face, trying to remove the blistering mask he was wearing.

One of his eyes went dark as molten sugar fused his eyelids together.

Cross fell to the floor, still frantically tearing at his face, incapacitated.

The man stood over him, watching calmly.

Cross could see he was holding something. Even with only one eye, he recognised what it was. It was unmistakable.

The shank in the man’s hand looked crude but deadly. Cross had used a variety of weapons in his life but he’d never considered how a toothbrush could be fashioned into something so sinister-looking.

He tried to reach the red panic button but the man was on him before he was halfway.

The man said nothing. He held the sharpened toothbrush so Cross could see it clearly.

‘What do you want?’ he rasped through his ruined vocal chords. His voice was barely above a whisper.

The man still didn’t say anything.

Cross saw rather than felt the first blow. He thought he might have just been punched until he felt a warmness that could only be blood. The pain of the wound wasn’t able to compete with his burning face. Half a dozen quick stabs followed. All in the same place. Not deep but deep enough.

He tried to say something, anything but the words wouldn’t form. He stared at the man with his one working eye. The man looked down without expression. He showed Cross the toothbrush shank up close. Cross shrank back as it was held up to his eye. It was razor sharp and bloodied. Beyond fear, he watched as the man pushed the shank towards his throat. He pressed it against him, just hard enough to break the skin.

‘I’m going to kill you now, Mr Cross,’ the man said.

He gently but firmly pushed the sharpened toothbrush into Cross’s neck. He could feel it going through skin and flesh before finally meeting resistance in the thin muscular wall of the great jugular vein. The man grunted with effort as he plunged the shank in. Cross felt warm liquid around the wound. His shirt was drenched in seconds. He felt weak and lightheaded.

He lost control of his bowels and his bladder.

The jugular takes blood back to the heart rather than being powered from it, so there was no arterial spray, rather the steady flow of death. The man removed the shank and watched him.

Cross had cut enough throats during his career as a contract killer to know his wound was fatal. Of all the places he thought he might die, on the filthy floor of an English prison cell drenched in his own piss hadn’t even come close.

As his heart struggled to find enough blood to keep him alive, he went into the first stages of cardiac arrest. Before Dalton Cross slipped into the unconsciousness that would precede his death, the man leaned over and whispered something into his ear.

‘Nathaniel Diamond says hello.’

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