Dead Heat

Fourteen

‘Sit.’

Verner waved the pistol, indicating Henry should do as he was told. Nervously he moved across to the kitchen table and sat next to John Lloyd Wickson. Tara remained slumped on the floor, whimpering into her hands covering her tear-stained face.

‘Shut it,’ Verner said to her, getting annoyed by her snivelling.

Unlike Henry, she took no notice. Her world had crumbled, was destroyed, and nothing Verner could say or do would make anything worse for her.

‘Henry, shut her up, will you?’

‘It’ll mean me getting up again and going across to her.’

‘Do it, then — but don’t do anything stupid. I know you too well. You’re a bit of a hero, aren’t you?’

Henry stood up slowly, went and bent down next to Tara. He took her shoulders and shook her gently. ‘Tara, you need to be quiet. . please. . this man will do something stupid if you don’t.’ She did not respond. He could tell his words had not penetrated at all. He shook his head at Verner, who, he saw, had picked up the shotgun in his left hand, the pistol now tucked into his waistband.

‘Get back to your chair,’ he told Henry. When Henry was seated, Verner inspected the shotgun. ‘Nice weapon. Devastating at short range.’ He glanced at Coulton and laughed. ‘But you already know that, don’t you?’ He began to empty the shotgun. The cartridges dropped out of the weapon on to the work surface he was next to.

Henry saw a chance. Verner was holding an empty gun and he had the pistol in his waistband.

‘Don’t,’ Verner said, anticipating the possible move. ‘You’d be dead before your ass even left the chair.’

Henry settled down, obviously having telegraphed his move.

Verner reloaded the shotgun: three cartridges, racking one into the breech, then letting the gun hover at a point equidistant between Henry and Wickson. He kept it aimed there, covering the both of them, and moved across to Tara.

‘I told you to be quiet,’ he said. With one lightning, stunning and expertly executed blow, he hit Tara with the stock of the shotgun across the side of her head.

Tara toppled over, unconscious and bleeding.

Both Henry and Wickson rose from their chairs, but Verner was already covering them again, a look of dare on his face.

‘There was no need for that,’ Henry said.

‘I make the rules, Henry.’

Both men sat back down, horribly aware of Tara bleeding heavily from the deep wound inflicted by Verner’s blow.

Verner circled away from them to the opposite side of the table.

Coulton had stopped moving now. There was no more twitching and dancing.

‘Good shot, eh?’ Verner commented. He pulled a chair out, spun it round and sat on it, resting the shotgun across the back of it.

‘Cops’ll be here soon,’ Henry said.

‘And that’s supposed to give me the frighteners, is it?’

Henry shrugged. ‘Just stating a fact.’

‘Thanks.’ Verner turned his attention to Wickson, who was probably having the quietest, most withdrawn period of his life. He was terrified and it showed. ‘Now then, Mr Wickson. You have deeply upset the people who employ me. I don’t know much about it, to be honest, not my business, but I do know they helped you out of some financial difficulties and now you want to turn your back on them.’ Verner cleared his throat. ‘Not acceptable. You owe them and you want to welch on payment.’

‘I owe them nothing,’ Wickson whispered.

‘Tell him, Henry. He doesn’t seem to have grasped the concept.’

Henry tried to play it dumb, wanting to string this out for as long as possible. ‘I assume that the people who employ you are the Mafia?’ Verner nodded. ‘In that case, John,’ Henry said to Wickson, ‘once you’re in debt to them, they don’t let go.’

‘Exactly.’ He winked at Henry. ‘You know your stuff, don’t you?’ To Verner, he said, ‘All they want to do is share in your business. Only a small percentage.’

‘Fuck ’em,’ Wickson said.

‘No. Nobody ever fucks with us. Look, all they want is a few measly per cent of your legitimate business, which, as we know, has great expectations.’

‘What’re those?’ Henry said, latching on with interest.

‘The future of Blackpool,’ Verner said. ‘The Las Vegas of Europe. Big plans for this place. . and Mr Wickson, as we know, will be very much involved in the demolition and reclamation of buildings and land when all the new casinos go up along the sea front. He’ll make about fifty million, rough estimate — won’t you?’

Wickson stayed immobile and said nothing.

‘But he would never have been in a position to do that had my employer not assisted him to remain solvent in the first place, isn’t that the case?’

‘I helped you out once, paid my debt to you and found other ways of keeping my business afloat until the Blackpool dream comes true.’

Verner laughed uproariously. He turned to Coulton. ‘Did you hear that, Jake? The Blackpool dream!’ The dead man did not respond.

‘It doesn’t work like that, John,’ Henry said. ‘I presume you mean the fuel laundering out back?’

Wickson nodded glumly.

‘No doubt they want a piece of that, too,’ Henry said. He was looking at a desperate man, someone who had steered his business into deep trouble and in an effort to save it had turned to the wrong people, people who would never let go. They had saved him from bankruptcy and then he had found a new, illegal way of keeping going — by laundering fuel. It all fell into place for Henry now. The dilapidated farm buildings at the back, the articulated fuel tanker Henry had dodged the other day.

Wickson had obviously seen fuel laundering as a way to make quick money. Henry knew the profits from it could be immense. It was a relatively new type of illegal activity in the UK, becoming more and more prevalent. It involved the conversion of red diesel into a fuel which appeared to be normal diesel. The excise duty rate of just over three pence per litre on red diesel (which contains a red chemical dye) contrasts with a rate of almost fifty pence levied on ordinary diesel fuel. This equates to a profit somewhere in the region of?14,000 per tanker of fuel. Good money by anyone’s standards. ‘How many tankers a week leave here?’ Henry asked.

‘Four.’

‘Bloody hell,’ said Henry, doing a quick add-up in his head. Over?50,000 a week. ‘You know that they’d never let you give that up, don’t you? Even when you’re making legitimate money from the Blackpool dream, they won’t even allow you to stop laundering fuel. You naive arsehole.’ Henry shook his head.

Wickson’s face screwed up as though he was about to vomit again. He started to retch, then hurled up on to the kitchen floor, which was covered with a variety of substances which it had never thought it would have on it. His head went down between his knees, then came back up. He wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his dressing gown.

‘Well — cosy chat over,’ Verner announced brightly. ‘I’ll let you into a secret,’ he went on conspiratorially, tapping his nose. ‘I don’t always kill people with bullets. I like to vary things if I get the opportunity — like tonight, Henry and John. That’s why we are now going for a short stroll. I have an excellent idea for the both of you, which in terms of evidence left behind, will be nil. Up and out of the kitchen door.’ Verner waved the shotgun. ‘Don’t do anything foolish or I’ll revert to type and blow you both to. . heaven. . or, in your case Henry, hell. It’s not too late for your souls to catch up with Mr Coulton’s here. Wonder which way he went? Up or down?’

‘You’re mad,’ Wickson said.

‘Oh, yes.’

‘Come on, John,’ Henry told Wickson. He stood up on very shaky legs, but Wickson could hardly move. Henry assisted him to his feet and Verner directed them outside the house. The door opened on to a patio. ‘We’re going to the stables, which, incidentally, I burned down. But I bet you already knew that.’

‘And mutilated a horse?’ Henry stated questioningly.

‘And that,’ he confirmed. ‘Shoulda seen his eye pop. Go on, get walking. Keep together and keep your hands on the top of your heads.’

Henry and Wickson walked ahead of him.

‘Why are we going this way?’ Wickson asked.

‘You’ll see, you’ll see.’

They emerged from the back of the house and went down the short lane to the stables. The rain had stopped but the ground was wet.

Henry looked ahead and said, ‘Jesus,’ under his breath. He realized why Verner was taking them this way. ‘Jesus,’ he said again.

‘OK, you two, stop here.’ They had only walked a few feet. ‘Step apart, now. . bit more. . say five feet apart. . that’s it, good. . now, whilst we are going to walk to the stables, we are going to do it three in a line, shoulder to shoulder. I’ll be in the middle. Henry, you’ll be on my left, John you’re my right-hand man.’ The two captives looked puzzled. ‘Just good practice,’ Verner said. Henry understood. He was covering himself. If he had walked behind them, he would have been exposed, but by walking between them it gave him a degree of safety. Henry also understood why he had been chosen to walk on Verner’s left. Verner did not see Wickson as a threat. He was just a blubbering idiot, whereas Henry was a danger. Keeping Henry to the left meant that, being right-handed, Verner could keep the shotgun pointed at him naturally as they walked. ‘Right you guys, by the left. .’

Henry needed to know some things before he died, just for peace of mind in the afterworld.

‘Did you kill the undercover FBI agent and Marty Cragg?’

Verner cackled with laughter. ‘You think I’m going to confess all my sins to you, Henry?’ They walked on in silence for a few yards, then Verner said, ‘Course I did.’

Ahead of them at the end of the path was the excavator and the crusher.

Charlotte Wickson had lain terrified at the top of the stairs, straining to listen to the confrontation taking place in the kitchen: the harsh words, the threats, the blast of the shotgun; then the arrival of Henry Christie, then more shouts, then the front door opening again and a man she did not know entering the house with a gun in his hand. She remained in the shadows on the landing, hidden from view.

The man closed the door behind him and stood there, head cocked to one side.

On the landing, not twenty feet away from him, tears streamed down the young girl’s cheeks and she shook as she endeavoured to keep her crying silent, to hold back from uttering something which would have revealed her position. The man actually looked up the stairs. She was sure she would be spotted. If he had turned the light on, he would have seen her.

Then came more voices from the kitchen, raised higher, more desperate, then another shotgun blast, screams, the sound of a scuffle. The man who had just entered the house slid down the hallway out of sight.

Charlotte almost collapsed with tension.

Things went quiet. She could not even begin to imagine what was going on, had no conception of what might have happened.

After all, she was merely a teenager.

One who had recently discovered that the man she thought was her father, wasn’t. Wickson had taken the revelation badly, and so had she. But even worse, he had reacted in such a way that had sent Charlotte spiralling out of control. He hated her. He had told her as much. Hated the fact she was not his flesh and blood, despised her, wanted to disown her, rejected her desire to be loved unconditionally by him, pushed her away and called her horrible names which were more applicable to a prostitute on the streets.

As if it was her fault.

She had been hurt, confused and upset by the revelation. She had known her parents’ marriage was not good, had not been for years, that they increasingly led separate lives. Yet, like all kids, she believed they would stay together.

Her mother had tried to keep things going, and for some reason, although she blamed her mother for the situation, she could not bring it in her heart to hate her.

It screwed her mind. Chewed her up, spat her out.

The drugs had saved her, or so she thought. They were an escape. So was the alcohol. So was her horse. . her poor horse. Now he had been hurt too.

And then she had been raped.

And now this. What was going on in the kitchen?

It all went quiet.

She came silently down the stairs, knowing exactly where to tread, which steps creaked, which were safe. At the foot of the stairs, she stayed still, listening. Nothing. She walked down the hall to the kitchen door, which she pushed slowly open.

She saw the legs first. Her mother’s legs.

She opened the door wide, ran in and slid down next to Tara, whose face was covered in thick red blood pouring out of a deep, nasty cut on her temple.

‘Mum,’ she cried. ‘Oh, Mum.’ She believed Tara was dead. Then she groaned and moved, spreading relief through Charlotte.

Just then, the young girl glanced quickly round and her eyes fixed on Jake Coulton’s lifeless body.

At first it took a few moments for her juvenile brain to register what it was seeing.

Then she screamed.

The three men heard the scream, even from where they were, almost 200 metres away from the house. All three heads turned to look.

‘My daughter,’ Wickson gasped.

Henry gave him a stare laced with ice, but said nothing.

They had reached the point where the excavator and the crusher were parked up for the night. They looked at the machines, immense pieces of equipment. The crusher was designed to be fed bricks, stone, rubble, boulders or whatever, which it literally crushed to a specified size and then spewed out via a conveyor belt either into a pile, or into another machine called a screener which further sorted the stone.

Henry had often seen them on building sites which were being prepared and cleared of debris prior to building actually taking place. The use of the crusher meant that nothing was wasted. He knew very little about the machines, but could easily imagine the power that the jaw-like crushers would need to exert to break up stones and rocks. He had never before stood next to such a machine. It was huge.

What they might do to a man unfortunate enough to fall into the jaws was unthinkable.

‘OK, John,’ Verner said brightly, ‘climb up on to the machine.’

‘Why?’

Henry almost tutted. Wickson had not got it.

‘Just climb up there and stand next to the jaws.’

Then it dawned on him.

‘No.’ He shook his head. ‘No.’

Verner stepped back and swung the shotgun round to point directly at Wickson’s face. ‘Just remember what this did to Mr Coulton.’

Wickson looked at Henry, who could do or say nothing to help. Whatever happened here, death was inevitable. How it happened was the issue.

Reluctantly, Wickson clambered up the ladder on the side of the crusher and stood gaping down into its huge metal jaws.

Verner pressed a button on the side of the machine. The engine of the crusher coughed horribly and its powerful diesel engine came to life. He pressed another button on the control panel and the crushers started to move, to grind nonexistent substances.

‘Jump in,’ Verner shouted. He raised the shotgun.

Wickson shook his head.

‘Do as you’re told.’

Wickson’s eyes were drawn inexorably to the powerful jaws. He had been working with crushers in the building trade for many years and had stood in this position many times. He knew exactly what the jaws could do.

He turned away, horrified by the thought.

‘Fuck it,’ Verner said. ‘I knew this would happen.’ He fired the shotgun. The blast punched Wickson in the stomach, as though he had been hit by a fist. He staggered backwards and dropped into the mouth of the crusher, into the jaws which immediately began to devour him, churning him into an unrecognizable mush, swallowing him into its belly. He was passed underneath a powerful magnet designed to sort out any metallic objects from the rubble, then he was disgorged on to the conveyor belt, as though it was serving up a meal.

The magnet had lifted his Rolex watch up.

There was nothing left of Wickson that was discernibly recognizable as human. What remains existed were deposited on the pile of shale that had once been bricks and rock.

‘My god, you fucking brutal bastard,’ Henry said, deeply shocked.

‘Name of the game. . Now it’s your turn, Henry,’ he shouted over the engine noise. ‘They’ll never be able to tell you apart when you both get slopped together in a bucket. Now get up there and jump in, or I’ll shoot you and carry you up there myself. I’m good at the fireman’s lift.’

Verner backed away from Henry, cautious, keeping him covered all the while. Henry reached out to the crusher and placed a toe on to the ladder on its side.

The sniper had seen the three males emerge from the rear of the house and walk towards the stables. Looking down the telescopic sight of the AW sniper rifle, he recognized Henry and John Lloyd Wickson and then — unbelievably — Verner.

He swore.

He had not seen Verner enter the house. How good was that? Hell, he must have been dozing or something. How had he got in without being seen? The sniper was sure he had been looking hard and concentrating, but sometimes you can try too hard and then miss very simple things. Maybe that’s what he had been doing. Alternatively Verner could have got in through the back of the house somehow.

The sniper smirked as he watched the three men progress towards the stables, Verner taking up a position between them, shotgun in hands, pointing loosely at Henry.

A good move by Verner. It gave him just enough protection.

The sniper’s mind raced: what the hell had gone on inside the house? Where was the wife, the daughter?

On reaching the site machinery at the stables, the men disappeared out of his sight completely behind the crusher.

Next thing, Wickson was standing on the platform on top of it and the crusher fired up moments later.

Why?

Then Wickson seemed to jump backwards and fell into the machine, which ate him up and then spat him out.

The sniper’s stomach churned at the horror. It was more than horror, it was revulsion, complete disbelief. But he only had a matter of moments to take in what had happened to the millionaire, because Verner suddenly came into view, stepping out from behind the cover of the crusher, brandishing the shotgun, presumably at Henry Christie.

The sniper had to settle quickly, get over what he had just witnessed, concentrate. Regulate the breathing, keep steady.

And fire.

At first Henry did not realize what had happened, and nor did Verner — but it was the latter who caught on first. It seemed like magic as the shotgun was somehow driven from his grasp by an invisible force and dumped on the floor.

Verner and Henry, for the most fleeting of moments, looked each other in the eyes, their brows furrowed, and then, just a fraction of a second before Henry, Verner put two and two together and computed the answer: he was being shot at.

Verner dived to the ground, wresting his pistol out of his waistband.

Henry saw his chance. He scrambled up the side of the crusher and jumped on to the platform on top, hoping to hell that whoever was shooting had not been sent to kill him, or that he would not be mistaken for Verner.

He ran across the width of the crusher, trying not to look down at the gnashing jaws which seemed to want more food, and dropped down the other side, literally leaping down the dozen or so feet to the floor. He landed hard, stumbled a few steps and raced towards the stable block that had survived the fire.

Verner rolled under the protection of the crusher, an expression of annoyance creasing his face.

His first thoughts were that someone had been sent to eliminate him because he was of no further use, now that the cops knew who he was. They would always be on the lookout for him and that was not good for a hit man, a profession that required a high degree of anonymity and blandness. His face would be plastered all over the country and maybe Europe and therefore his use was now limited. It was often the way with professional killers who had passed their sell-by dates. They knew too much and if they did get arrested they might talk and broker deals, so they had to be disposed of to make way for the next kid on the block. It made professional sense. That’s what his controller had hinted at when he’d made his phone call.

He laughed and hoped that the gun in his hand, the one he had acquired from a backstreet car park, worked. Henry slammed against the wall of a loose box, panting heavily, options coursing through his mind. Who the hell was up there — probably in the same spot Verner had occupied only days before?

It looked like Verner’s time had come.

But Henry was under no illusions that his own time might have come too. Whoever was up there, sniping away, was probably just as likely to pot him, he suspected. . although he hadn’t done so yet.

Henry knew he had to do two things: get himself out of here and try to get Tara and Charlotte out of the way as well. There was no quick and easy way back to the house — in cover, that was.

The direct route was out. That was just too open. The only way would be to skirt around the outside of the stables, head across the field to the old farm buildings behind the house, and use them as cover to get to the rear of the house itself.

He moved. There was no time to waste.

The sniper on the hillside seethed with frustration at himself. He could not believe he had missed Verner. The cross hairs on the sights had been bang on Verner’s head, but as he squeezed the trigger, something somewhere went ever so slightly wrong. Maybe he pulled the rifle, moved a fraction. . maybe, maybe, maybe. The fact was he had missed but at least he had managed to knock the shotgun out of Verner’s hands.

Sharp shootin’ at its very best, he thought cynically.

Next thing, Verner had rolled out of sight before he could send another bullet screaming at him and Henry Christie had cleared the crusher like some sort of athlete, although his very dicey landing was not graceful at all.

The sniper could easily have taken Henry as he ran to the stables, but he allowed him to reach his destination unscathed.

Verner was his target. He was the man he had been sent to kill, wanted to kill, was determined to kill.

Verner scrambled away from the crusher, keeping the machine between him and the sniper, and dropped into the drainage channel which ran parallel to the path all the way back to the house. It was cold and very wet in the bottom of the ditch, smelly too, reeking of rotting vegetation. Keeping low, Verner started to creep back in the direction of the house, but moving as quickly as his elbows would take him in the slush and mud, and keeping his gun out of it.

Henry pitched himself headlong into the field, using a low hedge for cover, not once daring to raise his head. The sobering thought that he might get it blasted off was good motivation to remain hunkered down. He stumbled on the uneven ground, falling forwards on to outstretched hands, which sank with a slurp into the soft, wet earth. He made it unscathed to the point where the field met the concreted yard by the dilapidated farm buildings where Wickson carried on his illicit trade in fuel laundering.

Keeping to the shadows, he rose wet and dirty from the field and ran to the gable end of the nearest building, then scuttled his way around the back of it. His intention was to skirt all the way around and re-emerge near to the back of the main house, where he knew he would be on open ground when he ran to the kitchen door. A risk he would have to take.

Charlotte Wickson had been transfixed by the spectacle of the dead man in the kitchen. It took her a long time to look away from him and back to her injured mother. Tara’s eyes opened. They were vague, bloodshot, distant. They closed again.

‘Mum. . oh, please, Mum,’ Charlotte begged.

As if by magic Tara’s eyes flipped open again. This time they were clearer, more focused. ‘Charlie,’ she wheezed.

‘Mum, we’ve got to get out of here.’

Tara put a hand on her wound. ‘I know. . Help me up.’

Charlotte supported Tara to get to her feet.

Henry had never been a particularly fast runner. He had been a rugby player in his younger years, but had succeeded in that through sheer bloody-mindedness, guts and willpower rather than through anything such as speed and agility. As he pinned himself against the old farm building, he could see that the kitchen door was at least a hundred metres away, across a wide expanse of manicured lawn and concrete patio — and that there was no other way to get to the house. He had to sprint like hell, out in the open, to get there.

He wondered where Verner had got to.

The crusher was still gnashing away near to the stable block. Presumably there was still a sniper up on the hillside. Verner was not to be seen as Henry cautiously peered out from behind the safety of the stone building.

Where was he? Still pinned down behind the crusher?

Henry doubted it. He was too resourceful to let that happen to him — which is why Henry wanted to get to the house and get the females out of there somewhere safe and sound. He knew that Verner would see Tara as unfinished business as she was a witness against him, one who needed to be eliminated, even though Henry believed that nothing she had seen would have registered with her. Verner did not leave people alive.

Henry counted to five, then launched himself out of the shadows and into the open.

The back of the house seemed to be a very long, long way away. More than his estimation. Felt like half a mile.

He felt very naked and vulnerable, exposing himself like this.

His arms pumped, fists clenched, expecting something very bad to happen to him.

He hit the back wall of the house running, breathless, heart and ears pounding with blood.

He twisted through the kitchen door, sliding the bolt across to lock it. He found the room empty with one exception: Jake Coulton was where he had been left, sitting up raggedly against the wall, his massive head wound exposed dreadfully.

Repulsion at the sight made Henry queasy for a moment.

‘Unlucky, pal,’ he said and crossed the kitchen to the inner door which led to the hallway, picking up his mobile phone from the table as he passed.

The sniper used a combination of uncorrected vision — his eyes — his telescopic sights and his night binoculars to comb the area below him for Verner. He scanned from the house, along the path to the stables, and back towards the old farm buildings. He had watched Henry Christie make his way across the field and then disappear around the back of the barns, but his main concern was the whereabouts of Verner. He had lost him completely.

A little bit of panic set in.

Verner could not be allowed to get away.

He searched desperately for a glimpse of his target, kicking himself for not having blown his head off when he’d had the chance. That was what lack of practice did — made you stale.

Verner lay deep in the ditch, having inched the full length of it, so that he was at the point where it ended close to the house. He was perhaps twenty metres away from the gravel-covered parking area at the front of the house. The fact he had made it so far reassured him. It meant that the gunman on the hill could not see him and did not know where he was — but he was under no illusion that as soon as he emerged from the mud, there was a good chance of him being picked off.

He was deeply curious as to who had been hired to take him out of the picture.

Ramirez was good. He was a Spaniard who had worked around the world for various organizations, but he was expensive, probably too costly to be doing a job like this. And last Verner had heard, Ramirez was somewhere in Latin America.

It could be Orlando, an Hispanic hit man working out of Florida. He was good at long range, but if it had been him, Verner knew he would have been dead by now.

So it had to be a second-rater, or someone out to make his spurs. Verner plumped on who it was. Jackson, the British ex-Army guy who had, recently, had a slightly suspect record of achievement. He had missed the last two hits, despite bragging he was a long-range specialist.

That thought made him feel better.

He took a chance and raised his head slightly. Four cars were parked on the gravel: Wickson’s Bentley was nearest to him, then parked next to that was the heap of crap Henry Christie had arrived in, then Tara’s Mercedes and then a small black sports car belonging to the late, great Jake Coulton.

Two down, Verner thought. Wickson and Coulton. If I get the chance to take Henry Christie and Tara Wickson, I’ll be pleased enough. Firstly because they were both witnesses and secondly because he wanted to kill Henry anyway. If I can do that, he thought, I’m sure I’ll be able to outwit the sniper on the hill. But I’m going to have to be quick about it.

They were in the hall. Charlotte was trying to drag, cajole, push her injured mother towards the front door.

Henry came into the hall, dishevelled, dirty and desperate in appearance. Charlotte saw him. She opened her mouth to scream.

‘It’s me, Henry,’ he said, holding up his hands. ‘I’m a bit of a mess.’

She stifled the scream by clamping both fists over her open mouth.

Henry knelt down by Tara, who had slithered down the wall into a heap. He inspected her head. Verner had hit her very hard, causing a deep, wide gash. Henry could see the grey of her skull in the split on her scalp. It needed to be treated quickly. Lots of blood was being lost through it. Henry switched on his mobile, but the battery died with a pathetic bleep. He looked around and saw a house phone on the wall, rose and grabbed it, holding it to his ears. Nothing. It was dead. Had Verner cut the wires before entering the house?

‘I’ve got my mobile phone upstairs,’ Charlotte volunteered.

‘Go get it. . go on, go,’ he shooed her.

The youngster dashed upstairs, leaving Henry with Tara. He pondered whether or not to get her to her feet, but decided against it.

He went to the front door, a big, solid oak thing with one small pane of glass in it, distorting any view outside. He turned the handle and opened the door a fraction, peering out with one eye. The crusher was still churning away hungrily. He looked towards the hill in the distance, but saw nothing. Who the hell was up there? And where was Verner? Had he been driven away? Henry doubted it.

Immediately outside the house were the cars, parked in a variety of different ways. The black sports car and Tara’s Mercedes faced the house; his Astra and the Bentley, parked almost side by side about ten feet apart, were backed up to the house, so they faced down the driveway.

He was weighing up whether it was worth trying to get the females out into his car and to get them the hell away from the house, or to do a runner with them into the fields and get them to lie low and wait for the arrival of the cops. . and where were they? he wondered. Would they ever feel the need to turn up? Henry was thinking like a disgruntled member of the public again.

Quite simply he did not know what to do for the best.

A thought struck him like a bolt of lightning.

Charlotte came flying down the stairs and handed him her mobile phone. He pushed it back into her hand. ‘Call the police — 999.’ She looked shocked at being asked to do such a task, and dropped to her knees beside Tara. Henry squatted down beside them and said urgently, ‘I need to get to my car. . No, it’s OK,’ he said, halting Charlotte’s intended interruption. ‘I’ll be straight back, then we’re going to lock up the house, sit tight and wait for the cops, OK?’ He nodded enthusiastically. Charlotte nodded back, less enthusiastically. ‘OK, you get the police on the line while I go to the car. I’ll only be gone for seconds.’

He stood up, knees, as ever, cracking, and went to the door. His car was perhaps fifteen feet away. On the left was the Bentley, which would give him some cover from the hillside if necessary. It would take just seconds, he reiterated to comfort himself. In his mind he process-mapped his task, step by step, visualizing it. He crouched down and pulled the door open. Then he had another thought. What if it all went wrong when he got to the car? Over his shoulder he called, ‘Charlotte, come here, love.’

Reluctantly she crawled across to him, not wanting to leave Tara.

‘When I go out,’ he said in as plain English as he could manage so he would not be misunderstood, ‘you close the door behind me. But stay by the door — don’t go back to your mum, OK? Stay by the door and let me back in when I come running, OK?’

She nodded.

‘Make sure you let me in,’ he said, just to make sure she had got it.

‘Right.’

‘Good lass.’

He edged out of the door, then sprinted to the back of the Astra.

Verner found a foothold on a rock from which he could propel himself towards the parked cars. He repositioned slightly until he was in exactly the right position and would not slip. He braced himself, counted down, his muscles coiled. Then he exploded like a greyhound out of the traps.

The sniper was fractionally late picking him up. He fired three shots — crack, crack, crack — all three bullets marginally behind the running figure of Verner, who flung himself out of sight behind the Bentley. Frustrated, the sniper put another couple of shells into the body of the Bentley.

Henry had the hatchback of the Astra open. He was crouching down behind the car, delving into the recess where the spare wheel should have been. He heard a noise behind him, went very cold, spun round slowly, keeping his right hand behind his back.

Knelt down by the back nearside corner of the Bentley was Verner.

‘Boo!’

Verner was in a combat kneel — one knee on the ground, the other drawn up — and had his pistol pointed directly at Henry’s heart.

‘Changing the wheel?’ Verner said.

‘Something like that,’ said Henry, his lips hardly moving.

‘Got ya.’

Henry gave a gracious nod and sniffed something in the air: petrol.

‘Looks like you’re a target too, though.’

Verner mirrored Henry’s nod. ‘So it seems.’ He relaxed with the gun, letting it waver slightly. ‘I’ll be OK. . the guy’s not a very good shot.’

Henry’s right hand came from behind his back, clutching the handgun he had confiscated from Troy Costain. He had no idea if the thing would work, whether it was loaded with blanks, or what. He simply prayed as he leapt to one side and, as he rolled, loosed off two shots at Verner, whom, once again, he had surprised.

Verner took one in the right shoulder, flinging him back on to the gravel. The other one buried itself in the wall of the house.

Henry rolled twice, came back on all fours and scuttled behind Tara’s Mercedes.

Verner struggled back on to his knees, managing to keep hold of the pistol. Intense pain seared through his shoulder, upper chest and neck.

He looked down at the wound and touched it with his free hand, the tips of his fingers coming away covered in blood. Shock rippled through him. He caught his breath, feeling light-headed and disorientated.

He slumped against the Bentley in an effort to keep upright as he scoured around for Henry.

‘You bastard,’ he cried.

Henry was prone on the gravel, looking underneath the Mercedes, trying to work out Verner’s position, aiming his gun along the ground. He could not be sure where he was, was not even sure he had hit him.

Verner could not think straight. He had never been shot before, but had always thought it would be a piece of cake to be wounded. Yet it hurt so much. He touched the wound again, wondering hazily why it was so bad. It was only his shoulder, for God’s sake. His fingers moved over the joint and then, even to his slightly befuddled mind, it was clear why it was so awful: the exit wound. The bullet had blown out the whole of the back of his shoulder and shoulder blade. Now he had no feeling down his arm. It was as though it was no longer there. He tried to keep hold of the gun, but his fingers did not work. It dropped with a ‘clink’ on to the ground.

He hauled himself up to his feet by using the back wing of the Bentley, smearing blood across the shiny bodywork. His head was spinning and the smell of petrol invaded his nostrils as he staggered around the back of the car, clutching at the smooth body to try to stay on his feet, but finding no purchase for his fingertips. He stumbled, not knowing where he was now, his brain seeming to have lost all sense of place, yet he could still smell petrol. He fell to his knees again and with a surge of clarity realized he had fallen into a puddle of petrol which was gushing out of a hole in the side of the car, like beer out of a punctured barrel. He gagged on the fumes which rose around him.

Verner slumped down on to his hands, so he was on all fours. The brief moment of clarity disappeared from his mind as he fought the intense pain in his wounded shoulder. He remained in that position for a few seconds, then his right arm folded under his him, unable to support his weight. He sank face down in the petrol.

‘Need. . to. . move,’ he said to himself.

With a massive force of willpower he pushed himself up to his knees with his left hand and tried to get to his feet by pulling himself up on the side of the Bentley, heaving himself up by using the door handle.

The next bullet from the sniper was right on target, slamming into Verner’s back, just below his left shoulder blade. It hit him with such force, it pinned him against the car. The next bullet struck him in the lower back. The next one missed completely and hit the centre of the rear wheel, ricocheting off with a ping and producing a tiny spark which ignited the rising petrol vapour with a whoosh. The flames clawed up Verner’s petrol-doused trousers, rising and engulfing him.

Henry ran to the front door of the house, screaming for Charlotte to open up. Good kid, she responded and Henry threw himself through the gap into the hall. Charlotte slammed the door behind him and locked it. He returned to the door and put his face to the mottled glass pane, trying to see what was happening, even though he knew that he was asking for trouble by doing this.

His countenance morphed into horror as he saw, though the distorted glass, the burning figure of Verner stomping around next to the Bentley, silent, no screams coming from him, as the flames ate him.

Henry watched open mouthed, but riveted.

Then, in a flash, it was all over for Verner.

The sniper put another bullet into him. This time it went into the side of his head, destroying the brain cortex, and killing him instantly. Verner jumped sideways in a grotesque way, hit the side of the Bentley and dropped to the ground, where he lay unmoving, apart from the flames rising up from his torso.

A procession of police cars turned into the driveway leading to the house, their blue lights flashing dramatically.

At last, Henry thought sourly, help had arrived.