Death Comes First (32 page)

Aloud she said in the kindest most reassuring voice she could manage: ‘I want to trust you, Charlie. We do all need you, I know.’

It was as if by sounding understanding she had flicked a switch in Charlie. By giving him even the merest flicker of hope she had cut through the charade of his being in control of himself or the situation.

He sank to his knees on the wet and muddy floor of the barn, alongside Monika, and began to blub like a baby.

Joyce knew she must seize the moment. Trade on her husband’s inherent weakness. Take the initiative while there was a chance that he might allow her to do so.

She walked across to him and rested a hand on his shoulder.

‘Come on, Charlie, remember JC. Let’s do this together, like we used to do everything,’ she coaxed. ‘We need to get out of here. Please listen to me. We need to get our children to safety, and we need to get Monika to hospital.’

Charlie shook his head and did not move.

‘You’re not a murderer, are you?’ asked Joyce. ‘Whatever else you might be, you don’t want to be that, do you?’

Charlie looked up at her through his tears.

‘I don’t know what I am any more,’ he said.

‘You are my husband,’ responded Joyce, although the words nearly stuck in her throat. ‘I want you to be the man I married again. Can you do that Charlie? For me.’

Charlie stopped crying. He seemed to be totally broken, thought Joyce. And totally pathetic. She had no sympathy for him. She had no feelings for him whatsoever. All she wanted was to be safe again, and for her children to be safe again. Particularly the two who were standing in stunned silence watching all this.

‘I w-will try,’ he said.

Joyce took one of his hands in hers and half pulled him to his feet.

‘Come on,’ she instructed with as much authority as she could muster. ‘Let’s go home. We’ll go home and then we can decide what to do next.’

‘I can’t go to jail, Joyce,’ said Charlie.

‘I’ll make sure you don’t,’ said Joyce, who at that moment didn’t care if her husband spent the rest of his life in jail, and in fact rather hoped that he would. ‘Fred went with you of his own free will, didn’t you, honey?’

She glanced towards Fred, who nodded uncertainly.

‘See – no abduction, Charlie. Molly and I came here of our own free will too. We’ll get Monika to hospital, make sure she’s all right, say she was attacked in the street, we found her the way she is. Then we’ll sort out everything else. Dad won’t pursue anything. He will have to do exactly what I say or he’ll be the one going to jail. C’mon, Charlie, let’s all go home, shall we?’

Charlie did not move. He was staring at the prone Monika. Joyce was still holding his hand. He hadn’t done a very good job of wiping it clean. She noticed that she now had blood on her own hand. It took an effort not to snatch it away from his grasp.

Joyce wondered how convincing she was being. It was hard to tell whether she was getting through to him. He must be seriously mentally ill, and probably had been for a long time. She tried a new tack.

‘If you don’t want to come, then at least let me take the children,’ said Joyce. ‘You don’t want them seeing you like this, do you? You’re in no state to look after them, that’s for sure. And you don’t want then to, uh, misunderstand about Monika. They can’t stay here with you, you must see that.’

Charlie shrugged.

Trying not to make any sudden movement, Joyce eventually removed her hand from Charlie’s. He allowed her to do so without protest. She turned away from him and slowly returned to the car. She opened the tailgate of the Range
Rover then looked towards her children, who were still clutching each other.

‘Fred, get in,’ she instructed.

Molly was looking her mother straight in the eye, seeking reassurance. With a nod and a little smile Joyce tried to give it.

Molly gave her brother a small push. ‘Do as Mum says,’ she told him.

Fred obediently climbed into the rear compartment behind the doggy gate that no one had got around to removing after the family dog had died the previous spring. Fred had ridden in the back many times before when the car was full. Sometimes along with the dog. That in itself was not a problem for him.

Joyce continued to give instructions. Charlie remained where he was. Then she saw his shoulders heave. He seemed to be starting to sob again. For the moment Joyce ignored him.

‘Molly, we can’t leave Monika here,’ she said. ‘We have to take her to hospital. Help me get her into the car. She can lie across the back seat.’

Molly nodded her agreement. Mother and daughter lifted Monika and half carried, half dragged her towards the car. Molly hesitated only briefly when Monika’s head rolled limply to one side, as she and her mother were manoeuvring the young woman into the back of the Range Rover.

Joyce proceeded to climb into the driver’s seat and gestured to Molly to get in alongside her. It was then that Charlie finally moved.

‘No,’ he said. ‘Wherever we go from now on, whatever happens, I want us to be a whole family.’

He walked towards the car. Joyce reached out to turn the
ignition. She didn’t want this man with her and her children. She was afraid of him. She wanted to leave him behind. And that was exactly what she intended to do. She would start the engine and drive away. He couldn’t stop her. If necessary, she would run him over. She didn’t want her children to see that. But she would do it. If necessary, she would damned well do it.

She groped for the key with extended fingers. It wasn’t there. She realized at once that Charlie must have taken it. She hadn’t noticed, but she supposed he must have done so while they were having their not-so-cosy chat earlier.

‘Give me the key, Charlie,’ she demanded. ‘Give it me now.’

Charlie was standing by the car. He shook his head and reached for the door handle. Joyce reached for the lock. Again Charlie was too fast for her. He jerked open the driver’s door.

‘No,’ he said. ‘You don’t go anywhere without me. None of you do. I never want us to be apart again. I’m not going to let that happen.’

His eyes were wild. He was sweating. He must have rubbed his hands over his face, because it was now streaked with blood as well as tears. He was a terrifying sight. Joyce was now convinced that he was in the grip of a serious nervous breakdown. God knows what regular use of skunk might have done to his brain. She suspected he’d been hanging on to the vestiges of sanity during this six-month period he’d pretended to be dead, hiding in his girlfriend’s flat, smoking a hazardous mind-altering narcotic, watching and waiting, to see if Joyce would do as he had told her in his letter, and plotting his next catastrophic move when she did not.

The scene with Monika in the barn must have pushed him right over the edge. Certainly it had driven him to a shocking level of violence. And in front of his children.

Charlie caught hold of her arm and pulled.

‘Get out,’ he said. ‘I will let you leave. But anywhere you go, I go. From now on we go as a family. I’ll drive.’

‘All right, all right.’ Joyce wrenched her arm free. ‘We will all go together. We will do what you want. But please, let me drive. You are in no state to drive your children. Look at yourself. You’re wet with sweat, even though it’s so damn cold, and you’re covered in blood.’

Charlie looked down at himself, raised a hand to his sweating forehead, then looked at the blood on his fingers. Again he seemed surprised. His shoulders slumped. But he was not prepared to give in.

‘I’m fine,’ he said.

He took a dirty tissue from the pocket of his combat jacket and rubbed at his face in a desultory manner. There wasn’t much improvement.

‘There,’ he said. ‘That’s the best I can do for the moment. I’m perfectly able to drive. So move over to the passenger seat, Joyce. Molly, get out, and climb in the back.’

‘Charlie, no,’ said Joyce. ‘Please. I will do whatever you tell me. But please, let me drive.’

‘No,’ insisted Charlie, his voice unnaturally high. ‘I am not letting you drive me anywhere, Joyce. If you want to get out of here, if you want to go home, for us to take our children home and work everything out, like you said, you will have to let me drive.’

‘Oh no, Charlie—’ Joyce began.

Charlie put a hand over the pocket in which Joyce
presumed he’d put the car keys. ‘Otherwise we stay here,’ he said. ‘All of us, together.’

Joyce stared at him. At this man she barely recognized. It seemed that she had no choice. She would have to take the risk. To hope that he really did intend to take her and the children home, and not to some other crazy hiding place.

‘All right,’ she said resignedly. She turned to her daughter: ‘I’m moving over, sweetheart. Your dad’s going to drive.’

Molly looked as afraid as Joyce felt.

‘Where am I going to sit?’ she asked in a small voice.

‘Out you get, Molly,’ instructed her father sharply. ‘You must ride in the back with
 . . . 
with
 . . .
’ Charlie hesitated as if he could no longer bring himself to speak the name of the young woman to whom he had promised so much. ‘W-with Monika,’ he finished with an effort.

‘Oh no, oh, Mum, don’t let him make me do that,’ Molly began pleadingly, and she started to cry. ‘It’s too scary.’

Joyce made one last attempt to avoid what seemed to be becoming inevitable.

‘Why don’t you follow us in your car, Charlie? Then Molly wouldn’t have to move.’

She gestured towards the Honda.

Charlie shook his head. ‘The police are sure to be looking for it by now, and after all this rain I don’t even think it would make the track. Anyway, I’ve told you: we’re sticking together from now on.’

Joyce thought the police might be looking for her Range Rover by now too. She hoped so. But that didn’t seem to have occurred to Charlie.

Mollie was sobbing quietly. Much as Joyce felt for her daughter, she knew that none of them had any choice. She could only do what she believed was for the best.

‘Molly, do as your father says, please,’ said Joyce. ‘We need to get away from here. It will be all right, I promise.’

Molly began to cry more loudly. But she obediently got out of the front of the car and climbed into the back. She chose to sit at the end where Monika’s feet were, making herself small in the corner, so that Monika could remain lying along the seat.

‘Good girl,’ murmured Joyce encouragingly as she manoeuvred herself across the front of the Range Rover and into the passenger seat. ‘We’ll be home in no time, you’ll see.’

Charlie climbed in behind the wheel, produced the key and switched on the ignition.

Without another word he started the engine, reversed out of the ruined barn, along the rough track now swimming with mud, and on to the Landacre–Exford road, turning in the direction of the A38 and the M5.

A two hour journey to Tarrant Park – assuming that was where Charlie was planning to take his family – lay ahead. Joyce was dreading every long minute of it.

Twenty-three

Meanwhile, Vogel and DCI Clarke had arrived at Southmead Hospital. Clarke was still talking as she pulled into the car park. Vogel had expected the DCI, who operated on a need-to-know basis, to restrict her briefing on Henry Tanner and his family firm to the bare minimum. What he hadn’t appreciated until now was just how little she herself knew.

Nobby Clarke had only a sketchy idea of what Tanner-Max’s defence brokerage actually involved. She didn’t know the details of the many countries they had dealt with over the years, or of the conflicts they had influenced and perhaps even indirectly instigated. She did not know the company history. She knew nothing of their initial dealings with Israel, including the heavy water transaction, which had so impressed Charlie Mildmay when Henry had revealed it to him all those years ago. She knew nothing of involvement in shipping chemical substances to be used in warfare contrary to international law. She knew of no dealings with criminal elements, as Charlie was at that moment alleging to Joyce. All she knew about Henry Tanner had been passed on to her by the government of the United Kingdom. By people who themselves may or may not have known all that they should about Tanner and Tanner-Max.

‘I’ve been told by the Foreign Office that Henry Tanner is a man of considerable importance to this country, and indeed to half the Western world,’ she informed Vogel.

And she went on to tell him, albeit only in the broadest of terms, without nearly as much detail, and without many of the salient points, much the same story as Charlie Mildmay’s.

‘Henry Tanner is an internationally known arms broker,’ Clarke related. ‘His front is his own legitimate import-and-export agency. He brokers arms deals with countries and organizations in the world where it is in the interest of the UK and her allies to place consignments of what are called defence materials. Some of these are manufactured in the UK, and it’s big business. There are 130-odd British arms manufacturers, who between them generate in excess of forty million quid a year for the exchequer. And I am sure you know that the West Country is where the majority of Britain’s arms-producing factories are located, and that is why the company was originally set up here. The majority of Tanner-Max’s undisclosed cargoes are, however, merely channelled from their countries of origin through our ports and air corridors, primarily here in Bristol where Tanner has a network of warehouses and loading bays at what remains of the docks and at the airport. It’s all highly political, obviously, and top secret. Tanner-Max is a family business and its cover is impeccable. Since the Second World War the company has been looking after British interests in parts of the world where we cannot be officially seen to have any kind of presence.’

Vogel was poleaxed. He had not expected anything like this, even when his hands had been tied behind his back by Reg Hemmings.

‘Think of it as a kind of money laundering,’ the DCI
continued as she switched off the engine of the CID car. ‘Tanner makes sure vast quantities of arms and other defence products end up where our government wants them, without anybody knowing they came from us. And that, Vogel, is why we have to look after him. And why, if anything untoward happens to him or any of his family, it has to be investigated at a level above country plod.’