The Messiah Secret

18

Bronson had been standing in the same spot for perhaps ten minutes, and the movement he’d seen hadn’t been repeated. He was just beginning to think he’d imagined it, maybe it had been an animal — a fox or a deer, perhaps — when he saw it again.

This time there was absolutely no doubt about it. From the undergrowth an object emerged horizontally, about four feet above the ground, and for an instant Bronson couldn’t work out what it was. Then he recognized the end of a ladder and smiled to himself.

‘Cheeky bastard,’ he muttered, easing forward slightly, the better to see the man as he approached the property. He didn’t seem to be in any particular hurry, and was walking steadily across the uncut grass towards the back of the house, the ladder slung on his shoulder, looking for all the world like a workman arriving to do a job. Perhaps his lack of haste was a measure of his confidence that the house was empty — or maybe, more prosaically, it was just that the ladder was so heavy that he couldn’t run or trot with it. In any case, he seemed to know exactly where he was going, and in a few moments vanished from Bronson’s line of sight, moving around to the rear of the property.

Bronson stepped back out of the bedroom, and waited, listening intently for the sound of the top of the ladder being placed against the wall of the house. But he heard nothing, and after a few seconds he walked back to the bedroom at the end of the corridor and peered out of the window.

Then he saw the man again: he was running back towards the tree-line and then vanished among the trees. Less than half a minute later he popped back in to view with a bulky bag clutched in his left hand, and jogged over to the house.

A few minutes later, Bronson clearly heard a metallic scraping sound from the bedroom to his left, and crossed to the doorway. He looked inside the room, checking the window, but the burglar was not yet visible. Bronson slid into the room, walked swiftly across to the rear wall and flattened himself against it, where he knew he’d be invisible to anyone looking in through the window.

He felt in his jacket pocket, checking that the handcuffs he’d collected from the Canterbury station were still there. When Angela had told him what she thought had happened at Carfax Hall, he’d decided that having a pair of cuffs in his pocket made sense. And it looked as if he’d been right.

Using his ears rather than his eyes to measure the burglar’s progress, Bronson could hear the man climb up the ladder, a muffled thumping sound as he put his feet on the rungs. Then there were a few brief moments of silence, followed by a faint rubbing sound which Bronson guessed was the insertion of the screwdriver or chisel or whatever turned out to be his tool of choice for forcing the catch.

He heard an irritated muttering from outside and suppressed a grin. Even the first-floor window catches weren’t that loose. Then a louder noise, a click, as the catch finally gave way, and moments later the unmistakable sound of a sash window sliding upwards.

Bronson kept behind the substantial curtain that framed the window, as the man climbed into the bedroom, an empty nylon bag clutched in his hand, then crept slowly across the bedroom towards the door. Bronson waited until he was about halfway there, then crossed the room in half a dozen swift strides.

As he approached, the man half-turned towards him, a look of sheer panic on his face.

Bronson grabbed his right arm, forcing his hand behind his back and up towards his shoulder.

‘I know it’s a cliche,’ Bronson said, ‘but you’re nicked, my son. I’m a police officer and I’m arresting you on suspicion of breaking and entering and burglary.’

Grasping the struggling man by the shoulder Bronson held him firmly, he snapped the handcuff on to his right wrist, then grabbed his left arm and repeated the process, securing his hands behind his back.

‘We’re going to go downstairs,’ he said, ‘and I’ll explain what’s going to happen.’

Once downstairs, Bronson pushed his captive into one of the kitchen chairs. ‘Now, I’m required to caution you, so please listen carefully. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something that you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence. Do you understand the words of the caution?’

‘Just let me go, you bastard.’

‘I’ll take that as a “yes”, shall I?’

‘I’m not saying another word. I want my solicitor, and I want him now.’

‘Fine,’ Bronson said. ‘That’s entirely within your rights. I’m not going to question you — that will be done under caution at the police station — but I am going to search you to see if you’re carrying any offensive weapons. Are you carrying anything that might injure me?’

‘Go to hell!’

Bronson jerked the man to his feet and checked his pockets, pulling out a small wallet and placing it on the kitchen table.

Then he pushed the man back into the chair, sat down opposite him, and opened the wallet he’d found. Almost the first thing he pulled out was a driver’s licence. Bronson looked at the name on it and smiled.

‘Well, Jonathan,’ he said, ‘Carfax is a name I certainly recognize, so I assume this burglary is more personal than professional. I presume the old man cut you out of his will, so you’re bypassing the legal process and taking what you believe you’re owed.’

His captive didn’t respond.

‘But it doesn’t actually matter why you did it — it’s still burglary,’ Bronson said. Then he shrugged, reached into his pocket and pulled out his mobile phone. He glanced at his watch. It was almost eleven o’clock, so he thought he’d tell Angela that his mission had succeeded, then he’d call the local police.

‘Hi, it’s me,’ he said, when Angela answered her phone. ‘Just thought you’d like to know I’m sitting in the kitchen looking at your burglar.’

‘Really? Is he — I mean, was there any trouble? Do you want me to call the police?’ Angela asked.

‘No, thanks. I know the form. I’ll have to go to the local police station with him to make a statement and stuff, so I won’t get to the pub for quite a while, but I’ll call you once I’m at the cop shop to let you know how long I’ll be.’

‘OK.’ There was a pause. When she spoke again, Angela sounded uncharacteristically nervous. ‘Will you come up to my room when you get here? I want you to tell me everything that’s happened.’

Bronson smiled. ‘It’s a deal. I’ll see you later.’

But Jonathan Carfax was not looking nearly so happy. ‘This is entrapment. I don’t believe you’re a policeman at all. You’re just some bloody thug the museum staff have employed.’

Bronson pulled out his warrant card and showed it to him. ‘I’m Detective Sergeant Christopher Bronson,’ he said, ‘and I promise you that I’m a real police officer. My ex-wife works for the British Museum and asked me to give her a hand here.’ He reached across the table and pulled the local telephone directory towards him. As he did so, he looked at his prisoner. ‘Just sit quietly and we’ll get this sorted out. Are the cuffs too tight?’

The man shook his head. ‘No,’ he said grudgingly. Then his eyes widened and he looked behind Bronson. ‘Look out!’ he shouted. ‘Behind you!’

Bronson half-turned and, as he did so, saw a sudden flash of grey and then something slammed — hard — into the side of his head.

He saw stars for the briefest of instants, and then nothing at all.