Evil Turn (Nathan Hawk Mystery) (6 page)

I became aware of a fluttering sound in the far-off stillness. It grew quickly into a recognisable clatter and yet still I asked, “What the hell is that?”

Grogan nodded in a north-easterly direction and said sourly, “Chopper, by the sound of it.”

We’d expected a car, but within two minutes a Eurocopter EC135 descended to Bryant’s Field with blades glinting in the sunset as if wielded by some demented samurai. The sheep rose and ran for cover, still chewing leftovers. Once the pilot had settled the aircraft the door opened and a skeletal set of steps unfolded to the ground. Blackwell was first down them, clocked us by the gate, then beckoned his travelling companions to join him.

Grogan’s reaction to his first sight of Liam Kinsella was much as I’d expected: indifference to the man himself and contempt for those who’d made the arrangements. Kinsella was dressed head to toe in battered denim – jeans, shirt, jacket, stained and oily, as if he’d just been rolled out from under a lorry engine. He had shoulder-length black hair, greasy and matted like his beard, both adding ten years to the thirty-two he supposedly was. He was protesting, answering back to those around him, mainly out of fear, but with good reason given that he was meant to be Tom Blackwell’s star witness, not his prisoner. Surely a certain amount of trust should have developed between them by now and yet he was handcuffed to an Organised Crime Command poster boy, nattily dressed with not a mark on him, who, while holding his charge close, was also at pains to keep him at a distance. Kinsella was the shorter, slighter of the two and gave the impression of being dragged along like a manky child.

Blackwell reached the gate, climbed over and shook my hand. “Good of you to come, Nathan.”

He turned as Poster Boy unlocked the handcuffs and side-vaulted the five-bar gate. He reached back, grabbed Kinsella by the denim and lifted him over. Above the protestations Blackwell introduced Fairchild and Grogan to him.

“And who are you?” Kinsella asked me.

“Hawk. I thought you’d be ... cleaner.”

Poster Boy handed Grogan the cuffs and key and began stroking non-existent detritus from his jacket. In grim disbelief at what was being asked of him, Grogan snapped the loop to his own left arm.

“Jesus, at least when I got here I thought...” Kinsella tried.

“Car,” said Grogan.

He opened the back door and pushed his other half in ahead of him. Blackwell gestured to Fairchild, her cue to get back in the car and start the engine, then he reached out to shake my hand again.

“You said you wanted to speak to me,” I reminded him.

“Oh, yes. I wanted to check we’re all on the same page. We are, aren’t we?”

If there was any doubt about that, he said, there was still just enough time for me to pull out, for Kinsella to be taken back to wherever they’d brought him from. He took my silence as approval of the plans as they were unfolding.

As I watched him return to the Eurocopter, watched the aircraft rise, turn in the air and head north-east, I wondered why I’d let him off the hook so easily. I should have made him account for calling me out when I suspected that he’d done so just to remind me who was running the show. I should have gone on from there, voiced Laura’s reasoning that he wanted my expertise during the lead-up to Flaxman’s trial, to say nothing of Fairchild’s unwarranted belief that he could rely on me. What stopped me, I’m ashamed to admit, was vanity: I was flattered to have been chosen for a job that he feared his own people might not be able to handle.

I’ve never watched those reality television programmes where disparate groups of people are thrown together in the same house and left to get on with it. It’s tough enough being shacked up with people you know and love. My own way of handling the in-house battles of family life had always been to position myself right at the front line, having the first and last word. Or at least that’s the delusion I cherish.

One aspect of life with these passers-through had to be dealt with immediately. Kinsella hadn’t had a bath for months, he boasted, and the stench of ever-ripening sweat which clung to him was enough to choke on. I was surprised they hadn’t made him shower at wherever he’d been held previously, but, as we soon discovered, Kinsella was a great one for quoting his human rights. He’d probably used it as a means to keep himself filthy. He could have his tattered clothes back, I said, once they’d been through the wash. He could keep his tangled hair and stupid beard. He could even go without cleaning his teeth, so long as he breathed away from me. But he was going to have a bath.

He objected immediately and I outlined his options. He could do it himself, with me and Grogan standing over him, or failing that Grogan would hold him down and I would scrub him clean with the head of a yard broom.

“Guantanamo,” he muttered. “It’s Guantanamo Bay. Water torture.”

“You’ll thank us in the end,” I said.

While Fairchild ran his clothes through a delicate wash cycle, in case they fell further to bits, he play-acted his way through a supervised bath, demanding bubbles and ducks, and as he towelled himself down I handed him deodorant and talcum powder and informed him that this would be a regular event. Friday night would be bath night.

With him smelling bearable, a routine was soon established during which Grogan was never more than six feet away from his charge. Two areas were difficult, as you might imagine: lavatory and sleeping. Suffice to say that Kinsella was never allowed to close the door when he used the toilet and I often heard him complain about having to watch Grogan take a shower, but it was done in semi-jocular fashion so I thought nothing of it. Grogan also slept beside him on an old futon I’d dug out. He warned Kinsella at the outset that he slept like a cat, so God help him if he tried making a run for it. They turned in every night at eleven, slept right through and were both four square at the breakfast table by seven o’clock the next morning. Their conversational style was such that Kinsella, as he gained confidence, took the piss gently and Grogan responded with two-word threats or put-downs. Fairchild clearly found Kinsella’s remarks amusing, which often they were, but she tried not to let it show.

Fairchild had taken Ellie’s old room with its feminine ambience, its sweet smell of something I’ve never identified, its legion of soft toys in family groups. They were a direct link to her mother, Ellie said, and when she’d gone off to Nepal with Terrific Rick she could only take a few of them with her, insisting that I leave the rest exactly as they were. When she had come home the previous Christmas they’d been the first things she had checked on.

The visitors had been living with me for nearly a week when a plaintive text from Laura Peterson reminded me that she still hadn’t met my house guests. I apologised and we arranged that she would come round early the following morning and join us for breakfast. That fitted in with her plans perfectly, she told me, but, conscious that it wasn’t going to be the social event she’d hoped for, I explained that Grogan was pretty bloody in the morning, Fairchild was no ray of sunshine either and Kinsella was in need of another bath. It didn’t put Laura off and she duly arrived at about 7.00 am and stood just this side of the back door with an oddly shaped smile on her face.

I could pick up the next half hour of my life, put it down in another time and place, and it would fit perfectly. It was made up of the challenges and surprises which in kind, if not exact detail, have typified my existence. It began with a classic blunder on my part.

“Hi! Surgery?” I asked.

“Don’t be silly.”

“Sorry.”

I went over and kissed her on the cheek, at which point she seemed to deflate a little.

“I’m missing something, aren’t I?” I said.

“Yes.” Seeing no hope of getting me up to speed she moved on. “I’m having a day off today. I’m going into Oxford with Sheila Bright. She’s got an appointment at the John Radcliffe for chemo, after which we’re going to Brown’s for lunch, if she can manage it. Then shopping.”

“Ah, if you’re going to the covered market, get me a crab from...”

“Nathan, does this look like mutton dressed as fish?” she blurted out.

She stood there, hands splayed, demanding a response. She was referring to the clothes she was wearing: soft lace-up boots, fashionable leggings and a sparkly smock top. She’d hoped I would say, straight off, how fabulous she looked. I dug deep.

“Laura, the reason I didn’t notice was that everything you wear looks absolutely...” I was floundering. “...terrific. I’ve never seen you looking anything but...”

“Nathan, please.” She looked away, over my shoulder and out through the window by the sink. “Just tell me why Ben Gunn is sliding down the roof over the living room?”

From her allusion to the castaway in
Treasure Island
I knew exactly who she was referring to and turned to see, through the window, Liam Kinsella making his way down the thatch over the extension, using the chicken wire which held it in place to aid his descent. He must have come out through the attic room window above, dropped down onto the roof and was now heading for the wide blue yonder.

I’ve never been sure what kicks in at moments of crisis, just grateful that it usually does. Clearly, if a loved one is in danger a whole raft of instincts combine to help in the ... interception process. Kinsella certainly wasn’t a loved one, nor was he my responsibility, but within seconds I’d seen myself turn to the back door, yank it open and leap out onto the gravel just as he dropped the nine or ten feet from the edge of the thatch. He crouched into a classic squat to break his fall, sprang up again and ran. I could already hear Grogan, inside the house, crashing down the stairs, curse by curse.

I caught up with Kinsella at the big beech tree and kicked out at the back of his knee. He went down in a flurry of anger, the gist of which was, “Bastard coppers, you never bloody change, never lose the will to make other people’s lives a misery...”

He was trying to get to his feet and when he reached all fours I kicked his arms out from beneath his shoulders and turned to see Grogan, loose vest, boxers, nothing on his feet, prancing over beech husks towards us. I stepped back and when he reached Kinsella he stood over him and punched him in the neck. Kinsella dropped again. Grogan showered him with expletives.

“You fucking sod, give you an inch you take a fucking yard! No more of that, you little shit!”

It was the first time any of us had seen Grogan’s temper. We knew it was there, we knew that unleashed it would be dangerous. Kinsella groaned. Grogan stooped down and punched him again, then again and then again. It wasn’t me who stopped him, it was Laura.

“Hey! Just a second!” she called from the kitchen door and headed towards us.

Grogan froze, fist clenched, conscious of a stranger looking on. He must have missed her on his way across the kitchen, leggings and sparkly top notwithstanding. He looked at me.

“This is Doctor Laura Peterson,” I said. “Laura, Sergeant Bill Grogan. On the ground, Liam Kinsella. At the back door, Detective Constable Petra Fairchild.”

They turned to see Fairchild, who was looking pretty good, considering. A shiny pink dressing gown was tied firmly at the waist and she was spiking up her hair.

“What’s happened?” she asked, approaching.

“Your star witness just made a bid for freedom, though why he should need to’s a mystery. I’ve made coffee, by the way.”

I led them back into the house. Grogan, who had dragged Kinsella in behind me, threw him into a chair with such force that it tipped backwards. Arms and legs akimbo, Kinsella struggled to keep upright and just about managed it.

“Five minutes,” Grogan said to me. “Keep an eye.”

He meant that he needed five minutes to go and get dressed and would I mind making sure that his charge – his prisoner, it seemed – didn’t make another break for it. He nodded at Laura, a mixture of gratitude that she’d stopped him from doing serious damage to Kinsella and apology for having been caught in a state of undress. As he passed her I saw her eyes stray to the tattoos on his bare flesh, the neck and upper arms. They were violent and tribal and at some stage he’d tried to have them removed with minimal success. He left the kitchen and we heard him go up the stairs two at a time.

Laura clapped her hands, just once, to alter the mood.

“Right, what does everyone have for breakfast?” She went on to stress the importance of the first meal of the day.

“Would you like some help?” Fairchild asked.

“Thank you, dear, get some bowls out...”

“So you’re the lady of the house,” said Kinsella.

“I most certainly am not.”

“All the same I apologise for what you’ve just witnessed. My part in it, at least. As for the others involved...”

“Kinsella, zip it,” said Fairchild, pointing above her head. “You’re in a heap of trouble as it is.”

Laura took a packet of Quaker Oats from the cupboard and measured a couple of mugfuls into a china bowl. She added milk, a rough amount, stirred the result and placed it in the microwave. It might have been breakfast in a million households across the country. I was pouring coffee. That was becoming routine. In the morning I poured coffee, in the evening I poured wine or whisky.

I set a mug of black down in front of Kinsella, pointed at the sugar. He muttered his thanks and drew up to the table.

“Mr Kinsella, where have you been living?” asked Laura.

It seemed an almost surreal question to ask, given the circumstances.

“You mean where was I brought up? North Wales.”

“Yes, but where have you been more recently?”

He smiled. It wasn’t just the facial hair that was discoloured and matted; the teeth were glued together with yesterday’s food, if not the day before’s. The breath, if you were unlucky enough to catch it, was lethal.

“Living rough,” he said. “Then even rougher, behind bars.”

“Protective custody,” Fairchild modified.

“That would explain it,” Laura said. “You have head lice and, of course, the nits that go with it.”

There was an immediate silence. I was the only one in the room with chalk-face experience of what Laura’s words meant. Con had arrived home from a new school one day with head lice. No matter how much the school nurse tried to persuade us there was no shame attached, it didn’t really work until we realised that everyone in the school, teachers included, had fallen prey.

“It’s nothing to worry about,” said Laura.

“I had a bath last week,” he protested.

“Makes no difference. You will need treatment. All of you.”

The microwave pinged just as Grogan re-entered the kitchen, fully dressed. He went over to Kinsella, grabbed him and the chair as if they were one, and dragged them to the far radiator. He took a pair of handcuffs from his pocket, snapped one loop round Kinsella’s left wrist and the other round the inflow pipe which ran up the wall. Common sense would say it was a temporary measure, mild retribution on Grogan’s part, to be reversed when he’d regained his composure.

“He’s got head lice, Bill,” said Fairchild.

“What?”

“Head lice, Sergeant,” said Laura, believing that a medical voice would soften the impact.

Grogan’s eyes focussed serially on various parts of the room and Fairchild stepped in between the two men. Laura went to the rescue.