Get Cartwright (21 page)

‘Buck up, sparky,’ Gene encouraged him. ‘If
we
can’t find her, what chance do you think Gould’s got?’

‘He’ll find her, Guv. Rest assured, he’ll find her.’

‘What makes you say that? Or are you going to tell me yet again that it’s too complicated to explain?’

‘It
is
complicated!’ Sam snapped at him. ‘It’s … It’s bloody complicated!’

‘Mmm,’ mused Gene. ‘That’s your
get out of jail free
card, ain’t it, Tyler. Anything you don’t want to divulge to Great Uncle Genie, you just blather about and throw your hands up and go,
Ohhhhhh, it’s so COMPLICATED, Guv!
’

Sam turned on him angrily and said: ‘All right then. You’re dead, I’m dead, this place ain’t real, and Gould wants to drag Annie off to hell.’

Gene looked blankly at him for a moment. Then, at length, he said, ‘Keep your rug on, Marjorie, there’s no call to get sarky.’

Sam paced round in a circle, kicking his heel.

‘There’s GOT to be a lead somewhere!’ he hissed, running his hands through his hair. ‘She can’t have just vanished. Somebody saw her. Somebody knows where’s she got to.’

‘Maybe it’s best
no one
knows. Safer that way. Anyway, since we ain’t going to track her down in a hurry, I suggest we work with what information we
do
have.’

‘And what’s that, Guv?’

‘Well, first up, we know Gould’s on our patch somewhere. Leastways, he was until very recently. Them bodies in the kiddies’ playground were still pretty fresh. And we know that he’s as keen to track Annie down as we are. So sooner or later, he’ll make a move that’ll give away his position and we can home in on him.’

Sam shook his head. Things weren’t that simple.

‘And then there’s McClintock,’ Gene went on. ‘Gould zapped him, you reckon?’

‘I have it on good authority.’

‘Why would he do that?’

‘Because he tried to …’ Sam hesitated, looking for the right words. ‘He tried to arrest Gould. Just take my word for it Guv, he had every reason to want Gould stopped.’

Gene shrugged: ‘Fair enough. We could do worse than turn his gaff over and see if anything tasty turns up.’

‘It’s possible. But we don’t know where McClintock lived.’

‘Ah, but we do. Ray just told me. He found it in McClintock’s Home Office records. He’s got a bonny wee bothy out in Trawden.’

‘Trawden?’ said Sam. ‘Guv, I don’t see what good it’s going to do trekking all the way out there. It’s out past Burnley, for God’s sake.’

‘Fresh air might do you good,’ shrugged Gene. ‘Hills. Dales. Sheep. Local in-breds. It’s what posey twats like you call
goin’ on ’oliday,
ain’t it?’

‘We’re not going to find anything at McClintock’s place, Guv. It’s a red herring. What counts is Annie. We have to find her before Gould and his mob do.’

‘But we
can’t
find her, can we, midge-brain!’ Gene glowered at him. ‘And until we get a whiff of her (now
there’s
a ghastly image) we got to keep ourselves happily occupied looking for clues that may be of assistance. It’s called “being a copper”. Trust me, Sammy boy, I’ve had training. So – drink up, we’re off to Trencher’s Farm.’

‘Guv, please, we don’t have time to waste going off to ... Hold up.
Where
did you just say?’

‘McClintock’s place,’ said Gene. ‘It’s called Trencher’s Farm, out at Trawden.’

His dream last night. The letter that had come for Annie, the one she wouldn’t open because her hands were covered in flour.

‘The return address just says “Trencher’s”. Where’s that?’

‘Oh, I don’t know, darling. I don’t have time for this, I’m up to my elbows in pastry.’

At once, Sam got his feet. ‘Right. Let’s roll.’

In a voice of utter contempt, Gene sneered: ‘
Let’s roll
...
?!
I put up with a lot from you, Tyler, but I draw the line at you carrying on like some bloody Yank.’

‘Let’s
move
!’
Sam cried, clapping his hands as if to wake Gene up. ‘Get that Cortina agitating some gravel, Gene, or I’ll get them keys off you and fire her up myself.’

‘And leave two pints on the table? You must be halfway mentalist!’

Gene downed his drink in one cavernous swallow, like a whale. Then he downed Sam’s and slammed down the empty glass.

‘All clear!’ he announced, licking his lips and patting his belly. ‘Right – let’s go drivin’!’ And as he strode past the barmaid he shot at her with a finger pistol, saying: ‘Ulysses will return! Catch you later, you two,’ and ogled shamelessly at her breasts.

Gene stamped on the gas and the Cortina roared away, out past the city limits of Manchester, heading north towards Accrington. They veered to the east, tearing through Padiham, Burnley, Brierfield, until, as the day waned, they reached the Forest of Trawden. Here they left that main thoroughfare and began taking the unmarked country roads.

Rolling countryside surrounded them, washed with the fading light of the setting sun. For Sam, it was like they had driven into an episode of
Last of the Summer Wine;
it was all winding roads, dry stone walls, grazing sheep. Here and there, farm houses were visible, standing alone or little clusters amid the open country.

‘How do we find McClintock’s place?’ Sam asked, peering about. ‘It could be any one of these farmsteads.’

Ridiculous though it was, some deep down part of him was hoping he would catch a glimpse of Annie, safe and sound, clambering over a stile maybe, or heading across one of the fields.

‘Ray said it’s off a road called Mill Lane,’ said Gene, cruising along, a fag in his gob.

‘Okay, so where’s Mill Lane?’

‘Get somebody on the blower and find out.’

Sam picked up the police-band radio receiver from the dashboard and twiddled the dials.

‘This is eight-seven-zero calling control, can you read me control, over.’

Static.

‘Phyllis? Can you read me, over?’

Through the hiss came broken fragments of Phyllis’s voice.

‘Yes, boss, I’m ----ding you. But you k--------eaking up -----'

‘You’re breaking up too,’ Sam said loudly and clearly into the radio. ‘Get a message to Ray and Chris. We need their help. We’re in Trawden, but we’re having serious trouble finding an address. Tell them we need them to give us that address. Hello? Are getting this, Phyllis?’

‘--------eed help------serious trouble--- Oh, heck, this f--king signal’s worse than a f------!’

Phyllis’s voice was drowned by a sea of static. Sam adjusted the dial.

‘Hello? Phyllis? Do you read me?’

Hopeless. Sam gave up, cursing under his breath.

‘We must be out of range, Guv,’ he said.

‘Oh, bravo, Wilf Lunn, thank God you’re here to tell us these things.’

‘Why didn’t you get a proper fix on the location before we set off?’

‘Well, why didn’t
you
?’

‘Because, Guv, I thought you knew where we were going!’

‘I do!’ Gene yelled. ‘We’re going to Trencher’s bloody Farm! Off Mill Lane! Somewhere in Yorkshire!’

Sam punched the dashboard in frustration.

‘Mind my dash!’ Gene snapped at him.

‘Bugger your dash. Why haven’t you got ruddy satnav like any other human being?’

‘I was inoculated against it as a nipper.’

Sam ran his hand anxiously through his hair. ‘You really should have got all the details from Ray, Guv, you really should. And look how dark it’s getting. We’ll never find this place blundering about in the dead of night.’

‘Well it can’t be
too
far away,’ said Gene, taking the Cortina along a narrow, bendy road hemmed in on both sides with stone walls. ‘We’ll find a pub and ask the carrot-crunchers. Somebody’s bound to know, even if no one out here can read or write.’

‘I don’t
see
any pubs.’

‘No. Shocking.’

‘Maybe the people in that car will know.’

Up ahead, tucked into a lay-by, was a large, chromium-fronted Humber Sceptre, jet black, with white rings on its tyres that recalled the cars of Chicago gangsters in old movies. In the gathering gloom of evening it was impossible to make out the people inside, but there was certainly movement.

Gene pulled up hard against one of the roadside walls.

‘
They
won’t know, Tyler,’ he said, eyeing the car suspiciously. ‘They can’t be local. Nobody from round here can afford a motor as dishy as that.’

‘They might, said Sam. ‘And if they’re tourists then the chances are they’ll have a map.’

‘Tourists? Trundling about this crap-hole in a diesel Sceptre?’

‘No harm in speaking to them.’

Gene shrugged.

Sam climbed out and stepped into the road – and at once, he regretted it. He felt strangely vulnerable, as if he should not be out in the open. The jet black Sceptre was sitting ten yards away from him, silent and motionless and yet as unnerving as a snarling dog. Inside, figures were vaguely visible, in both the front seats and the back. But none of them moved.

Overhead, the sky darkened. The sun was dipping below the horizon, casting everything into gloom – and yet somehow, that black car seemed to be swathed in more shadow than anything else, as if it carried about it a pool of darkness.

Stop spooking yourself, Sam. Just go over and tap on the window.

He walked towards the car, but every step felt wrong, like he was walking out onto a sheet of ice he knew would not support his weight. He glanced back at the Cortina. It was sitting there, its headlights blazing, the red glow of Gene’s freshly lit cigarette flaring regularly within like the beacon of a tiny lighthouse. At the sight of it, Sam felt a burning desire to run back, like a five-year-old child looking back at his mother from the school gates on his first day.

‘For God’s sake, Sam – just grow up.’

Lifting his head, and pulling his leather jacket straight, Sam picked up his pace and strode towards the Sceptre. And as he did, he saw the doors open, and three men in black step silently out. Like the car itself, they seemed to be smothered in a darkness deeper than that of the surrounding evening gloom, making them indistinct and somewhat ghostly. But Sam could see well enough that each one wore a stocking over his head, like old-fashioned bank blaggers did, and that they each carried a sawn-off shot gun in their gloved hands.

In unison, like three robots operating on the same circuit, they cocked their guns.
Ka-chunk!
But Sam was already tearing back towards the Cortina.

‘Move, Gene, move move move!’

As he reached the Cortina, there came a thunderous roar, and a sudden flash of light illuminated the road. The Cortina’s windscreen shattered, hurling fragments of glass all over Gene.

Sam flung open the door and threw himself in head first, and even as he did he felt the motor lurch away, its tyres howling, as Gene hit the gas. He sprawled against the seat, his legs dangling out of the open doorway, fighting to clamber inside. There was another blast of gunfire, and this time the Cortina jolted sideways, striking the dry stone wall and ploughing along it. Metal screamed as the off-side front wing was ripped clear from the body of the car in a shower of sparks. Gene flung the wheel and the Cortina lurched to the left, its back windscreen exploding as more bullets tore into it.

And then Sam felt a powerful hand grasp his belt and haul him all the way in. The passenger door swung shut beside him. Shoving aside chunks and shards of windscreen, Sam managed to get upright. Next to him, Gene was gunning the engine and gripping the wheel, hands speckled with blood, the evening air roaring in through the gaping windscreen. His face was set in a hard grimace, his teeth bared, eyes narrowed.

‘What the HELL did you go and say to ’em, Tyler?!’ he bellowed.

Sam shot a glance out through the jagged hole that moments before had been the rear windscreen. He saw blazing headlights ripping up behind them.

‘They’re gaining, Guv!’

‘Is it Gould? Is that who it is?’

In his heart, Sam knew that it was. Who else could it be? Had Gould wrung from McClintock the location of Annie’s hiding place before he killed him? And were he and his three lackeys having as much trouble locating the place as Sam and Gene? Or had they been lying in wait deliberately?

‘Make ’em go away!’ Gene barked, and Sam felt something heavy and metallic thrust into his hand. It was the Magnum.

Under different circumstances, Sam would have argued. He would have piped up about due process and avoiding bloodshed, castigating Gene for his readiness to pull guns out and start blazing away. But not today.

Sam heaved back the Magum’s powerful hammer. It felt like loading a Howitzer. He took aim, resting his arms on the headrest of his seat, and trained the massive barrel on the dazzling headlights racing up behind them. His finger settled on the trigger.

‘Bastard,’ he hissed under his breath, and fired.

The recoil damn near hurled him out through the shattered windscreen and across the bonnet. His ears rang from the blast, like he’d just crawled out of a Who gig. The headlights behind them ducked left, as if dodging the bullet, then raced up at terrible speed, crashing straight into the Cortina’s rear bumper. The impact was ferocious. Gene cursed, bouncing heavily in his seat.

‘Right!’ he spat. ‘My turn!’

What happened next was too confusing and too fast for Sam to follow. All he knew was that he was being flung crazily about in his seat, as if suddenly on a mad fairground ride. Tyres screamed, the engine howled – and then the Cortina was belting along the dark road, the dry stone walls rushing by in the headlights, the Sceptre’s taillights rapidly receding behind them.

‘Now
that,
Tyler, was a U-ey.’

‘The Cortina’s had it, Guv,’ said Sam, glass crunching under him every time he moved. ‘It’s never going to out-run ’em.’

‘Heart of a lioness, this girl. She’ll get us clear.’

The Cortina was shuddering, as it were suffering terrible cramps and pains deep within its engine. The whole driver’s side wing and wheel arch were gone, the tyres were smoking, and the tracking was so shattered that Gene was constantly fighting with the wheel just to keep her straight.