Charity (72 page)

Jim opened the back doors of the van, pulled out a couple of old chairs and a bookcase and made a crude bed in the back with a pile of blankets. He worked in silence punctuated only by the odd grunt, but his mind was working overtime.

‘Let’s have him now.’ He crouched down in the van, holding out his hands.

Toby groaned again as they laid him down.

‘Find ’is car keys,’ Jim said, climbing out of the van for some old cushions to wedge him in with. ‘I’ll get a bottle of whisky and give him some to keep him quiet.’

Jim ran back upstairs with a bucket of water. There was no time now to scrub up the blood on the floor, but he sloshed the water over it and checked that nothing of Toby’s was left behind.

Rummaging through an upturned orange box he pulled out his knife kept in a leather sheath. It had been some years since he’d last used it for anything more than a threat, but he’d kept it razor sharp. He studied it for a moment, running his thumb down the glinting blade, then pushed it back into its sheath, wrapped it in an old black sweater and tucked it under his arm.

When he came back down the stairs with a half-bottle of whisky, Alf was standing looking at a sheet of paper.

The bird’s telephone number,’ he said, handing the sheet of hotel writing paper to his brother. ‘’Ere’s ‘is wallet too.’

Jim put on a pair of thin leather driving gloves. The brown pigskin wallet was stuffed with notes, some English but mostly German marks. He took out thirty pounds, left the rest and checked through the photos of three different girls. Two were obviously Stratton’s sisters, blond like him; the third was a dark-haired girl in a bikini. Amongst a bunch of receipts there was one for petrol bought earlier in the day. He took that out, tore it into shreds and shoved the rest back.

‘That should do it,’ he said, wiping the wallet carefully with a cloth, then clambered into the van. He replaced the wallet in Stratton’s hip pocket, then, lifting his head up, signalled for his brother to pass the whisky.

Toby bucked violently as the bottle touched his lips, his one undamaged eye flying open in alarm.

‘Don’t be fuckin’ stupid,’ Jim said. ‘It ain’t poison, only Scotch. Drink it, you berk, it’ll ‘elp the pain.’

As the fiery liquid dripped on to his tongue it brought Toby round enough to be aware that the arm holding him was gentle, the threat gone. He had no fight left in him: he drank greedily, wanting only relief from the pain.

‘That’s it,’ Jim said encouragingly, watching as the whisky level went down, some of it spilling down over Toby’s chin and neck. ‘Now just you keep quiet, otherwise we’ll ‘ave to gag yer.’

‘Whatcha going to do wiv the number?’ Alf asked, pointing to the hotel writing paper abandoned on a box, his big face furrowed with frown lines.

‘I’ll stick it in his car.’ Jim wiped it clean, but made a note of the number on the back of his hand. ‘Don’t suppose it’s a real number anyway, but it’ll give the filth something to chase.’

‘Where we goin’?’ Alf said in a whisper.

‘Down to Kent,’ Jim muttered, picking up his sweater with the weapon concealed inside it. ‘You follow me.’

‘I don’t like this.’ Alf’s voice was even more nasal than usual. ‘Ain’t there another way?’

‘No bruv’, there ain’t.’ Jim shrugged his shoulders. ‘Now get in the van and drive out when I open the doors. If he starts shouting or you need me, flash yer lights.’

Toby flitted in and out of consciousness. Each bump in the road, each jerk as the van braked, sent excruciating spasms of pain through his leg and spine. It was almost dark now, which must mean they had driven a long way but he no longer cared where he was being taken; all he could do was focus on Jim’s promise that he’d get him fixed up.

Charity’s face danced before him. He could see her long white-gold hair, soft blue eyes and gentle mouth, and he felt deep, agonising shame. Tomorrow she would worry when he didn’t turn up. She might even get a call from a hospital.

How would he explain away his injuries? What if the police got wind of it? He’d told Jim and Alf about Uncle Stephen, suppose they told someone else?

But the thought of prison and losing his inheritance was nowhere near as bad as imagining what it would do to Charity when she discovered the whole truth about him.

It was only as Jim drove through the Blackwall Tunnel that he thought of Dungeness. It was a long way from Canterbury, but far more isolated. He and Alf had been fishing there ever since they’d been kids and they knew their way around it better than anywhere. He signalled to Alf to pull into a petrol station in Shooters Hill and while they were filling up told him their destination.

It was dark when they reached Ashford. Jim was thirsty, he wanted something to eat and some more fags but didn’t dare stop anywhere now. In London a man in jeans and a grubby vest might not be noticed driving a sports car, but down here he would be.

Why hadn’t he thought to bring them both a change of clothing? Suppose they were stopped on the way back by the police? How would they explain the blood on their clothes?

Jim was sweating like a pig, yet he felt cold. His stomach was churning, his back ached but he knew he couldn’t run from it. If the governor didn’t read about Stratton’s body being found in a day or two, it would be him and Alf for the chop.

Once out of Ashford on the familiar road to Ham Street Jim slipped into thinking about the past. He and Alf and a couple of mates would load up their old Consul on a Saturday afternoon with crates of beer, sandwiches and their tackle and stay out all night, fishing by the light of an old hurricane lamp. Those were the good old days: clearing houses all week, flogging it off to the junk shops, and weekends spent down here. If only they hadn’t been tempted by the big money! He might have known it would lead to something like this.

Inky darkness hid the marshes on either side of the narrow concrete strip that led towards the lighthouse. Past the old railway carriage where the barmy old couple lived then on towards the sea.

By day this part of the marsh was desolate enough to deter all but nature freaks and fishermen. Miles of shingle, with hillocks of marram grass and gorse bushes here and there, the only sounds the calling of seabirds and the wind. But by night it was eerie. The power station a couple of miles away was lit by arc lights like a forbidden city in a science fiction film.

Jim signalled to Alf that he was going to stop, and pulled up on to the shingle. He turned off his lights and immediately Alf did likewise.

The wind bombarded Jim as he got out of the car. He could taste salt on his lips and smell seaweed. Taking a few big gulps he scanned the area nervously. The road they’d taken was a disused one leading to nothing but the lighthouse; all the same, it was an ideal place for courting couples.

He could see no parked cars. Just black emptiness and the sound of waves breaking on the beach in the distance. Even a scream would be muffled by the strong wind.

Toby came to the moment the back doors of the van were opened. He could smell the sea, feel the loneliness of the spot and all at once knew what was going to happen.

‘You can’t kill me!’ he shouted. He couldn’t see their faces, but he could smell their sweat as they hauled him out. As the wind hit his damp trousers he wet himself again in terror. ‘Please let me go,’ he pleaded, suddenly entirely conscious. ‘I’ll give you everything I’ve got.’

He knew it was futile, but still he struggled. Every nerve-ending jangled with pain and as he opened his mouth to scream, a rag was shoved roughly into his mouth.

‘We didn’t want this,’ Jim said in his ear. ‘But there’s no choice now.’

Toby couldn’t move. Even bucking as they carried him like a sack of flour did nothing but hurt him more. His feet were still tied, the handcuffs still on his wrists and though he screamed again and again, the sound was muffled by the rag.

Stones scrunching underfoot, wind whistling. Jim was leading the way, holding Toby’s legs, his back in the white vest formidably wide. Toby jerked his head back towards Alf’s chest, his eyes nearly out of their sockets straining to see. But all he could make out was Alf’s teeth and the outline of his nostrils.

‘This’ll do,’ Jim said in a low voice and at once Toby was dropped to the stones.

‘No, please no!’ Toby shouted through the rag, trying to force it out with his tongue. Silently they rolled him over on to his stomach.

Toby waited for gunshot, his face pressed into the stones. Surprisingly the pain had gone and he could feel how smooth the pebbles were, taste the salt on them, smell the cool, fresh air.

He felt a hand go round his forehead. It was warm and rough, and smelt of tobacco. The other hand moved over his ear, holding his head tightly and jerked it back sharply, exposing his neck. It was Jim holding him; Toby could see Alf was at his side and in the darkness he saw the glint of the knife.

Odd things came to Toby in those few seconds. An instructor at Sandhurst demonstrating a similar hold. His mother forcing him to open his mouth to give him medicine and Charity holding him tightly against her chest as they waited for the car to take them to their parents’ funeral. Somehow all three memories had great significance.

‘Do it, Jim,’ Alf said. There was no spite in his voice, only urgency, as if the pair of them were preparing to put a sick dog out of its misery.

The pain in his leg came back hard and strong. His bowels evacuated just as he’d been told they did when men were executed. He was crying, but he could no longer make any sound come out.

Toby felt the light touch of the blade cold against his skin. Then the sudden slash, which was surprisingly painless. For just one moment he didn’t think they’d actually done it, but then he smelt blood and felt the warmth of it spurt up on to his chin.

Jim and Alf stared down at the body at their feet. Despite the width of his shoulders and muscular arms Stratton’s back and lean hips looked disturbingly boyish, blond hair as bright as a lantern in the darkness. Blood flowed either side of his neck, black against the light-coloured pebbles. They couldn’t see the yawning slash mark, but there was a faint bubbling sound, like air in a pipe.

‘Is he –’ Alf whispered, clamping a hand over his mouth, knowing that any moment he would vomit.

‘Not quite, but he soon will be,’ Jim whispered back as he bent to unlock the handcuffs and cut the rope round Toby’s ankles. ‘Come on, let’s go!’

Toby could hear a roaring noise in his ears, feel his life draining away. His own blood made his face warm, but nothing mattered any more. Charity’s face appeared before him, he felt her soft hands caressing his cheek.

‘I’m so sorry,’ he said silently. ‘Forgive me.’

Chapter Thirty-Six

Charity was laying the table for her dinner with Rob when the door buzzed.

All last night and earlier today she had been in a state of blissful anticipation. Her entire body tingled, her mind only on Rob. Even when she’d first met Hugh and John, she had never felt quite as giddy and deliriously happy as this. But when Toby failed to arrive for lunch, with no explanatory phone call, her glow slowly faded and anxiety took its place.

‘Yes,’ she said curtly into the receiver, fully expecting it to be Toby. It was just like him to turn up now she had bathed and dressed and prepared a meal for Rob.

‘Miss Stratton.’ The porter sounded hesitant. ‘There’s a couple of police officers here to see you. Can they come up?’

Charity winced with further irritation. She’d thought she was finished with questions from them!

‘OK,’ she said wearily. ‘Send them up.’

The blue silky flared trousers and matching top she’d put on for Rob’s benefit seemed a little too seductive to talk to the police, but it was too late to change now.

It was still very warm; the doors on to the balcony were wide open. Between irritation at Toby and anticipation at seeing Rob, the last thing she wanted was more cross-examination from the police.

She knew she would have to face a dangerous driving charge at some stage. Perhaps that was what they were calling about. Or perhaps they’d found some fresh evidence about Stephen’s killer?

She opened her door when she heard the lift but smiled when she saw two familiar faces.

One was the freshfaced WPC Bailey, the other burly Sergeant Searle. They were the two officers who had called to tell her about finding the petrol receipt in her wrecked car.

‘Have you got my watch back yet?’ she asked. ‘I did send the garage a cheque.’

But as she spoke they exchanged glances and instantly Charity felt a pang of fear.

‘What is it?’ she asked.

Sergeant Searle hesitated. Charity’s scarred face was flushed from the sun, her pretty hair tumbling over her shoulders. She looked almost recovered from her accident and now the news he had to give her would bring her further pain and anguish.

‘I’m sorry, Miss Stratton,’ he said, moving closer, quickly followed by Bailey. ‘It’s bad news, I’m afraid.’

Charity backed away and let them come in and shut the door.

‘What now?’ Charity clasped her hands together nervously. ‘You haven’t come to arrest me?’

‘No, of course not.’ Sergeant Searle put his hand on her arm and led her over to the settee. He had sad eyes like a spaniel. Now unsmiling, they seemed even larger and more mournful. ‘I’m sorry to add to the unhappiness you’ve already been through, Miss Stratton, but it’s your brother.’

‘Toby! What’s happened?’ Charity said in alarm.

Again they exchanged glances and the woman sat down beside Charity, taking her hand in both of hers.

Sergeant Searle bent towards Charity, lightly touching her shoulder. ‘He’s dead, Miss Stratton. We’re so very sorry.’

For a moment Charity was too stunned to take this in. She looked up at Searle, then back to Bailey.

‘An accident in his car?’ she whispered.

‘No.’ The sergeant paused for a moment as if trying to find the right words. ‘He was murdered, I’m afraid.’

‘I beg your pardon?’ She leaned forward, thinking she had misheard him.

‘He was murdered,’ he repeated, lowering his voice to match her soft one. ‘His body was found at Dungeness in Kent this morning.’