The Witness at the Wedding

Thirty-Eight

“Time you moved,” said Michael Brewer. He stepped back into the outside world. Even though dappled through the trees, the early evening June light dazzled Carole as she climbed the steps out of the cellar.

“Get in the car.”

“No, I don’t want – ”

“Get in the car!” His voice snapped out like a whip-crack. The gun was still following her every movement.

Trembling, she inched towards the Renault, which had not been moved since she left it the previous evening. Instinctively, she went towards the driver’s door. But was that right? The bodies of the other strangled victims had been found on the back seats.

It seemed ridiculous even to be thinking of such niceties, but Carole found herself asking, “Do you want me to sit in the back or the front?”

Michael Brewer opened his mouth, but the reply never came. Suddenly he hurtled forward, as a body burst through the trees and cannoned into his back.

The gun went flying. As Brewer scrabbled forwardto recapture it, the other man leapt on to his back. With huge relief, Carole recognized the white hair of Robert Coleman.

“I’ve got you now, Mick,” he shouted. “Give yourself up. The police are on their way!”

Brewer was the bigger man. And the stronger. He’d kept himself in shape – perhaps he’d had to keep himself in shape – in prison, and kept tough during the past few weeks of living rough. He lifted himself off the ground, and turned around at speed, shaking off the lighter Robert Coleman, who crashed to the ground.

Ignoring the gun, Brewer pounced on his winded opponent. Grabbing hold of his lapels, he dragged the man up off the ground. But Robert was not completely out of commission, and managed to thump a punch into Brewer’s midriff.

The taller man recoiled, but did not lose his grip. “You bastard, Robert!” he gasped. “Don’t worry, though, now you’re going to get what’s coming to you!”

Keeping one hand tight on the lapel, he drew the other one back for a punch, but Robert was quick enough to butt his head hard forward. He was too short to catch Brewer’s chin, but the thud into the base of the throat made the man choke and release the jacket.

Surprised by his sudden freedom, Robert Coleman swayed, and at that moment Michael Brewer’s bunched fist caught him hard on the mouth. He flew backwards into the undergrowth. Brewer moved forward to tower over him.

Carole Seddon had never hit anyone over the head with a gun before, but since she had picked the thing up, she thought she might as well have a go. She’d never have a better opportunity – or a more important one. Holding the gun’s barrel tightly, she reached upwards, and brought the butt crashing down on to the back of Michael Brewer’s neck.

The effect was very satisfying. He tottered for a moment, then crumpled to the ground, emitting a sound like the air being forced out of a paper bag, and lay immobile.

“Thank you very much, Carole,” said Robert Coleman through his bleeding lips. “You really helped me out there.”

“My pleasure.” She waved the gun ineffectually in her hand. “I’m afraid I’m not used to handling these.”

“No reason why you should be. I’ll take it.”

She handed the weapon across, and looked down at the recumbent figure of the ex-prisoner. “So what do we do with him? Wait till the police arrive?”

“We could do that,” said Robert Coleman, “but we might have a long wait.”

“What do you mean? What are you going to do with him then?”

“I think he might suffer an accident. Get caught in the blaze when he torches your car.”

“What are you talking about? Why would he want to torch my car?”

“He wouldn’t. But to the police that would look like what he’d been trying to do.”

“But, Robert, why should my car be torched?”

“Because it will have your body in the back of it, Carole. Strangled. Just like all the others.”