Thunder Point

6

The House of Commons has sometimes been referred to as the most exclusive club in London, mainly because of the amenities which, together with the upper chamber, the House of Lords, include twenty-six restaurants and bars each providing subsidized food and drinks.

There is always a queue waiting to get in, supervised by policemen, composed not only of tourists, but of constituents with appointments to see their Members of Parliament and everyone has to take their turn, no matter who, which explained why Ferguson and Dillon waited in line, moving forward slowly.

“At least you look respectable,” Ferguson said, taking in Dillon’s double-breasted blazer and gray flannels.

“Thanks to your Amex card,” Dillon told him. “They treated me like a millionaire in Harrods.”

“Really?” Ferguson said dryly. “You do realize that’s a Guard’s Brigade tie you’re wearing?”

“Sure and I didn’t want to let you down, Brigadier. Wasn’t the Grenadiers your regiment?”

“Cheeky bastard!” Ferguson said as he reached the security checkpoint.

It was manned not by the security guards usually found at such places, but by very large policemen whose efficiency was in no doubt. Ferguson stated his business and produced his security card.

“Wonderful,” Dillon said. “They all looked about seven feet tall, just like coppers used to do.”

They came to the Central Lobby where people with an appointment to see their MP waited. It was extremely busy and Ferguson moved on, through a further corridor and down more stairs, finally leading the way out through an entrance on to the Terrace overlooking the Thames.

Once again, there were lots of people about, some with a glass in their hand enjoying a drink, Westminster Bridge to the left, the Embankment on the far side of the river. A row of tall, rather Victorian-looking lamps ran along the parapet. The synthetic carpetlike covering on the ground was green, but further along it changed to red, a distinct line marking the difference.

“Why the change in color?” Dillon asked.

“Everything in the Commons is green,” Ferguson said. “The carpets, the leather of the chairs. Red for the House of Lords. That part of the Terrace up there is the Lords’.”

“Jesus, but you English do love your class distinction, Brigadier.”

As Dillon lit a cigarette with his Zippo, Ferguson said, “Here they are now. Behave yourself, there’s a good chap.”

“I’ll do my best,” Dillon said as Simon Carter and Sir Francis Pamer approached.

“There you are, Charles,” Carter said. “We were looking for you.”

“People all over the place,” Pamer said. “Like a damned souk these days. Now what’s happening, Brigadier? Where are we at with this business?”

“Well let’s go and sit down and I’ll tell you. Dillon here’s going to handle things at the sharp end.”

“All right,” Pamer said. “What do you fancy, afternoon tea?”

“A drink would be more to my taste,” Ferguson told him. “And I’m pressed for time.”

Pamer led the way along to the Terrace bar and they found seats in the corner. He and Carter ordered gin and tonics, Ferguson Scotch. Dillon smiled with total charm at the waiter. “I’ll have an Irish and water, Bushmills if you have it.”

He had deliberately stressed his Ulster accent and Carter was frowning. “Dillon, did you say? I don’t think we’ve met before.”

“No,” Dillon said amiably, “although not for want of trying on your part, Mr. Carter. Sean Dillon.”

Carter’s face was very pale now and he turned to Ferguson. “Is this some sort of practical joke?”

“Not that I’m aware of.”

Carter shut up as the waiter brought the drinks and as soon as he had gone, continued. “Sean Dillon? Is he who I think he is?”

“As ever was,” Dillon told him.

Carter ignored him. “And you’d bring a damned scoundrel like this, here to this particular place, Ferguson? A man that the Intelligence services have hunted for years.”

“That may be,” Ferguson said calmly. “But he’s working for Group Four now, all taken care of under my authority, so let’s get on with it, shall we?”

“Ferguson, you go too far.” Carter was seething.

“Yes, I’m told that often, but to business. To give you a résumé of what’s happened. There was a burglary at Lord North Street, which may or may not have been genuine. However, we did discover a bug in the telephone which could indicate some kind of opposition. Have you any agents working the case?” he asked Carter.

“Certainly not. I’d have told you.”

“Interesting. When we were at the inquest on Baker this morning Dillon noticed two men who gave him pause for thought. He noticed one of them again later when we were at the crematorium.”

Carter frowned. “But who could it be?”

“God knows, but it’s another reason for having Dillon on the job. The girl still insists she doesn’t know the site of the submarine.”

“Do you believe her?” Pamer put in.

“I do,” Dillon said. “She’s not the sort to lie.”

“And you would know, of course,” Carter said acidly.

Dillon shrugged. “Why should she lie about it? What would be the point?”

“But she must know something,” Pamer said. “At the very least she must have some sort of a clue.”

“Who knows?” Ferguson said. “But at this stage of the game we must proceed on the assumption that she doesn’t.”

“So what happens next?” Carter demanded.

“Dillon will proceed to St. John and take it from there. The girl mentioned a diver, a man named Carney, Bob Carney, who was a close friend of Baker. Apparently he knows the area like the back of his hand. The girl can make a suitable introduction, persuade him to help.”

“But there’s no guarantee he can find the damned thing,” Pamer said.

“We’ll just have to see, won’t we?” Ferguson looked at his watch. “We’ll have to go.”

He stood and led the way outside. They paused by the wall on the edge of the Terrace. Carter said, “So that’s it then?”

“Yes,” Ferguson told him. “Dillon and the girl will probably leave for St. John tomorrow or the day after.”

“Well I can’t say I like it.”

“No one is asking you to.” Ferguson nodded to Dillon. “Let’s get moving.”

He moved away and Dillon smiled at the two of them with all his considerable charm. “It’s been a sincere sensation, but one thing, Mr. Carter.” He leaned over the parapet and looked down at the brown water of the Thames. “Only fifteen feet, I’d say, maybe less when the tide’s up. All that security at the front door and nothing here. I’d think about that if I were you.”

“Two-knot current out there,” Pamer said. “Not that I can swim myself. Never could. Should be enough to keep the wolves at bay.”

Dillon walked away and Carter said, “It makes my skin crawl to think of that little swine walking around here, a free man. Ferguson must be crazy.”

Pamer said, “Yes, I see your point, but what do you think about the girl? Do you believe her?”

“I’m not sure,” Carter said. “And Dillon has a point. Why would she lie?”

“So we’re no further forward?”

“I wouldn’t say that. She knows the area, she knew Baker intimately, the kind of places he went to and so on. Even if she doesn’t know the actual location she may be able to work it out with this Carney fellow to help her, the diver.”

“And Dillon, of course.”

“Yes, well, I prefer to forget about him and under the circumstances, what I could do with is another drink,” and Carter turned and led the way into the bar.

At his suite in Paris Max Santiago listened patiently while Pamer gave him details of the meeting on the Terrace.

“Astonishing,” he said when Pamer had finished. “If this Dillon is the kind of man you describe, he would be a formidable opponent.”

“But what about the girl?”

“I don’t know, Francis, we’ll have to see. I’ll be in touch.”

He put the phone down momentarily, picked it up again and rang Smith in London and when he answered, told him exactly what he wanted him to do.

It was just after six and Dillon was in the study reading the evening paper by the fire when the doorbell sounded. He went and opened it and found old Mr. Cox standing there, a hearse parked at the curb. He was holding a cardboard box in his hands.

“Is Miss Grant at home?”

“Yes, I’ll get her for you,” Dillon told him.

“No need.” Cox handed him the box. “The ashes. They’re in a traveling urn inside. Give her my best respects.”

He went down to the hearse and Dillon closed the door. The Admiral had gone out to an early evening function at his club, but Jenny was in the kitchen. Dillon called to her and she came out.

“What is it?”

He held up the box. “Mr. Cox just left this for you,” and turned and went into the study and put it on the table. She stood beside him, looking at it, then gently opened the lid and took out what was inside. It wasn’t really an urn, just a square box in dark, patterned metal with a clasp holding the lid in place. The brass plate said: Henry Baker 1929-1992.

She put it down on the table and slumped into a chair. “That’s what it all comes down to at the final end of things, five pounds of gray ash in a metal box.”

She broke then and started to cry in total anguish. Dillon put his hands on her shoulders for a moment only. “Just let it come, it’ll do you good. I’ll make you a cup of coffee,” and he turned and went along to the kitchen.

She sat there for a moment and it was as if she couldn’t breathe. She had to get out, needed air. She got up, went into the hall, took the Admiral’s old trenchcoat down from the stand and pulled it on. When she opened the door it had started to rain. She belted the coat and hurried along the pavement and Smith, sitting in the van with Johnson, saw her pass the entrance to the alley.

“Perfect,” he said. “Let’s get on with it,” and he got out and went after her, Johnson at his heels.

Dillon went along the hall to the study, the cup of coffee in his hand, and was aware first of the silence. He went into the study, put down the cup and went back to the hall.

“Jenny?” he called and then noticed that the door was slightly ajar.

“For God’s sake,” he said, took down his flying jacket and went out, putting it on. There was no sign of her, the street deserted. He’d have to take a chance, turned left and ran along the pavement toward Great Peter Street.

It was raining very hard now and he paused on the corner for a moment, looking left and then right, and saw her at the far end where the street met Millbank. She was waiting for a gap in the traffic, saw her chance and darted across to Victoria Tower Gardens by the river, and Dillon also saw something else, Smith and Johnson crossing the road behind her. At that distance, he didn’t actually recognize them, but it was enough. He swore savagely and started to run.

It was almost dark as Jenny crossed to the wall overlooking the Thames. There was a lamp about every twenty feet, rain slanting in a silver spray through a yellow light, and a seagoing freighter moved downstream, its red and green navigation lights plain. She took a few deep breaths to steady herself and felt better. It was at that moment she heard a movement behind her, turned and found Smith and Johnson standing there.

She knew she was in trouble at once. “What do you want?” she demanded and started to edge away.

“No need to panic, darling,” Smith said. “A little conversation is all we need, a few answers.”

She turned to run and Johnson was on her like a flash, pinning her arms and forcing her back against the wall. “Jenny, isn’t it?” he asked and as she struggled desperately, he smiled. “I like that, do it some more.”

“Leave off,” Smith told him. “Can’t you ever think of anything except what’s in your pants?” Johnson eased away, but moved round to hold her from the rear and Smith said, “Now about this U-boat in the Virgin Islands. You don’t really expect us to believe you don’t know where it is?”

She tried to struggle and Johnson said, “Go on, answer the man or I’ll give you a slapping.”

A voice called, “Put her down. I mean, she doesn’t know where you’ve been, does she? She might catch something.”

Dillon’s Zippo lighter flared as he lit the cigarette that dangled from the corner of his mouth. He walked forward and Smith went to meet him. “You want trouble, you’ve got it, you little squirt,” and he swung a tremendous punch.

Dillon swayed to one side, reaching for the wrist, twisted it so that Smith cried out in agony, falling to one knee. Dillon’s clenched fist swung down in a hammer blow of tremendous force across the extended arm, snapping the forearm. Smith cried out again, fell over on his side.

Johnson said, “You little bastard.”

He threw Jenny to one side and took an automatic pistol from his left-hand raincoat pocket. Dillon moved in fast, blocking the arm to the side, so that the only shot Johnson got off went into the ground. At the same time the Irishman half-turned, throwing the other man across his extended leg, ramming his heel down so hard that he fractured two of Johnson’s ribs.

Johnson writhed on the ground in agony and Dillon picked up the automatic. It was an old Italian Beretta, small caliber, somewhere close to a point-two-two.

“Woman’s gun,” Dillon said, “but it’ll do the job.” He crouched down beside Johnson. “Who do you work for, sonny?”

“Don’t say a word,” Smith called.

“Who said I was going to?” Johnson spat in Dillon’s face. “Get fucked.”

“Suit yourself.”

Dillon rolled him over, put the muzzle of the gun against the back of his left knee and fired. Johnson gave a terrible cry and Dillon took a handful of his hair and pulled his head back.

“Do you want me to do the other one? I’ll put you on sticks if you like.”

“No,” Johnson moaned. “We work for Santiago – Max Santiago.”

“Really?” Dillon said. “And where would I find him?”

“He lives in Puerto Rico, but lately he’s been in Paris.”

“And you did the burglary at Lord North Street?”

“Yes.”

“Good boy. See how easy it was?”

“You stupid bugger,” Smith said to Johnson. “You’ve just dug your own grave.”

Dillon tossed the Beretta over the wall into the Thames. “I’d say he’s been very sensible. Westminster Hospital’s not too far from here, first-class casualty department and free, even for animals like you, thanks to the National Health Service.”

He turned and found Jenny staring at him in a daze and he took her arm. “Come on, love, let’s go home.”

As they walked away Smith called, “I’ll get you for this, Dillon.”

“No you won’t,” Dillon said. “You’ll put it down to experience and hope that this Max Santiago feels the same way.”

They emerged from the gardens and paused at the pavement edge, waiting for a gap in the traffic. Dillon said, “Are you all right?”

“My God!” she said wonderingly. “What kind of man are you, Sean Dillon, to do that?”

“They’d have done worse to you, my love.”

He took her hand and ran with her across the road.

When they reached the house she went straight upstairs and Dillon went into the kitchen and put the kettle on, thinking about things as he waited for it to boil. Max Santiago? Progress indeed, something for Ferguson to get his teeth into there. He was aware of Jenny coming down the stairs and going into the study, made the coffee, put the cups on a tray. As he went to join her he realized she was on the phone.

“British Airways? What’s the last flight to Paris tonight?” There was a pause. “Nine-thirty? Can you reserve me a seat? Grant – Jennifer Grant. Yes, I’ll pick it up at reservations. Yes, Terminal Four, Heathrow.”

She put the phone down and turned as Dillon entered. He put the tray on the desk. “Doing a runner are you?”

“I can’t take it. I don’t understand what’s going on. Ferguson, you and now those men and that gun. I can’t get it out of my mind. I was going away anyway, but I’m going to get out now while I can.”

“To Paris?” he said. “I heard you on the phone.”

“That’s just a jumping-off point. There’s someone I have to see, someone I want to take this to.” She picked up the black metal box containing the ashes. “Henry’s sister.”

“Sister?” Dillon frowned.

“I’m probably about the only person left who knows he had one. There are special reasons for that so don’t ask me and don’t ask me where I’m going after Paris.”

“I see.”

She glanced at her watch. “Seven o’clock, Dillon, and the flight’s at nine-thirty. I can make it, only don’t tell Ferguson, not until I’ve gone. Help me, Dillon, please.”

“Then don’t waste time in talking about it,” he said. “Go and get your bags now and I’ll ring for a taxi.”

“Will you, Dillon, honestly?”

“I’ll go with you myself.”

She turned and hurried out and Dillon sighed and said softly, “You daft bastard, what’s getting into you?” and he picked up the phone.

It was very quiet in the waiting room of the small private nursing home in Farsley Street. Smith sat in an upright chair against the wall, his right forearm encased in plaster and held in a sling. The half hour after their encounter with Dillon had been a nightmare. They couldn’t afford to go to a public hospital because that would have meant the police, so he’d had to go and get the van from the alley by Lord North Street from where he’d driven one-handed to Victoria Tower Gardens to retrieve Johnson. The trip to Farsley Street had been even worse. Dr. Shah emerged from the operating theater, a small, gray-haired Pakistani in green cap and gown, a mask hanging around his neck.

“How is he?” Smith asked.

“As well as can be expected with a split kneecap. He’ll limp for the rest of his life.”

“That fucking little Irish bastard,” Smith said.

“You boys can never stay out of trouble, can you? Does Mr. Santiago know about it?”

“Why should he?” Smith was alarmed. “Nothing to do with him this one.”

“I thought it might, that’s all. He phoned me from Paris the other day on business so I knew he was around.”

“No, not his bag this.” Smith got up. “I’ll get myself off home. I’ll be in to see him tomorrow.”

He went out of the glass front door. Shah watched him go, then walked past the reception desk, empty at that time of night, and went into his office. He always believed in covering himself. He picked up the phone and rang Santiago at the Ritz in Paris.

The traffic at that time in the evening was light and they were at Heathrow by eight o’clock. Jenny picked up her ticket at the reservation desk and went and booked in for the flight. She put her case through, but carried the traveling urn.

“Time for a drink?” Dillon suggested.

“Why not?”

She seemed in better spirits now and waited for him in the corner of the bar until he returned with an Irish whisky and a glass of white wine. “You’re feeling better, I can tell,” he said.

“It’s good to be on the move again, to get away from it all. What will you tell Ferguson?”

“Nothing about you until the morning.”

“You’ll tell him I flew to Paris?”

“No point in not doing, he’d find that out in five minutes from a check on British Airways’ passenger computer.”

“That doesn’t matter, I’ll be well on my way by then. What about you?”

“St. John next stop. Tomorrow or the day after.”

“See Bob Carney,” she said. “Tell him I sent you, and introduce yourself to Billy and Mary Jones. They’re running the cafe and bar for me while I’m away.”

“What about you? When will you be back?”

“I don’t honestly know. A few days, a week, I’ll see how I feel. I’ll look you up when I get back if you’re still there.”

“I don’t know where I’ll be staying.”

“It’s easy to find someone in St. John.”

The flight was called and they finished their drinks, went down to the concourse and he accompanied her to the security entrance. “I’m sorry if I’ve made trouble for you with the Brigadier,” she said.

“Entirely my pleasure,” he assured her.

“You’re quite a guy, Dillon.” She kissed him on the cheek. “Frightening, mind you, but thank God you’re on my side. I’ll see you.”

Dillon watched her go, then turned and made his way to the nearest row of telephones, took out a card with telephone numbers which Ferguson had given him and rang the Cavendish Square number. Kim answered the phone and informed him that the Brigadier was dining at the Garrick Club. Dillon thanked him, went out to the rank and took the first cab in the line.

“London,” he said. “The Garrick Club. You know where that is?”

“Certainly, guv.” The driver examined Dillon’s open-necked shirt in the rear-view mirror. “Wasting your time there, guv, dressed like that. They won’t let you in. Jacket-and-tie job. Members and their guests only.”

“We’ll have to see, won’t we?” Dillon told him. “Just take me there.”

When they reached the Garrick, the driver pulled in at the curb and turned. “Shall I wait, guv?”

“Why not? I’ll be straight out again if what you say is true.”

Dillon went up the steps and paused at the desk. The uniformed porter was civil enough. “Can I help you, sir?”

Dillon put on his finest public-school accent. “I’m looking for Brigadier Charles Ferguson. I was told he was dining here tonight. I need to see him most urgently.”

“I’m afraid I can’t allow you upstairs, sir. We do require a jacket and tie, but if you care to wait here I’ll have a message sent to the Brigadier. What was the name, sir?”

“Dillon.”

The porter picked up the telephone and spoke to someone. He put the phone down. “He’ll be with you directly, sir.”

Dillon moved forward into the hall, admiring the grand staircase, the oil paintings that covered the walls. After a while Ferguson appeared up there, looked over the rail at him and came down the stairs.

“What on earth do you want, Dillon? I’m halfway through my dinner.”

“Oh, Jesus, Your Honor.” Dillon stepped effortlessly into the Stage Irishman. “It’s so good of you to see me, the grand man like yourself and this place so elegant.”

The porter looked alarmed and Ferguson took Dillon by the arm and propelled him outside to the top of the steps. “Stop playing the fool, my steak will be quite ruined by now.”

“Bad for you at your age, red meat.” Dillon lit a cigarette, the Zippo flaring. “I’ve found out who the opposition is.”

“Good God, who?”

“A name, that’s all I have. Santiago – Max Santiago. He lives in Puerto Rico, but recently he’s been in Paris. By the way, they also did the burglary.”

“How did you find this out?”

“I had a run-in with our two friends from the coroner’s court.”

Ferguson nodded. “I see. I hope you didn’t have to kill anyone?”

“Now would I do a thing like that? I’ll leave it with you, Brigadier, I feel like an early night.”

He went down the steps to the cab and got in. “I told you, guv,” the cabby said.

“Oh, well,” Dillon said. “You can’t win them all. Take me to Lord North Street,” and he leaned back and looked out at the London night scene.

Jack Lane, only recently divorced, lived alone in a flat in West End Lane on the edge of Hampstead. He was cooking a frozen pizza in his microwave oven when the phone rang and his heart sank.

“Jack? Ferguson here. Dillon had a run-in with those two suspicious characters who were at the coroner’s court and the crematorium. They’ve been working for a Max Santiago, resident of Puerto Rico, recently in Paris.”

“Is that all, sir?”

“It’s enough. Get yourself down to the office. See if French Intelligence has anything on him, then try the CIA, the FBI, anybody you can think of. He must be on somebody’s computer. Did you get anything on this Bob Carney fellow, the diver?”

“Yes, sir, an interesting man in more ways than one.”

“Right, you can brief me in the morning, but get cracking on this Santiago thing now. Five hours earlier than us in the States, remember.”

“I’ll try to, sir.”

Lane put the phone down with a groan, opened the microwave oven and looked with distaste at the pizza. What the hell, he’d nothing better to do and he could always pick up some fish and chips on the way to the Ministry.

At his flat, Smith was on his second large Scotch, his right forearm in plaster and held by a sling. He felt terrible and it was beginning to hurt a great deal. He was pouring another Scotch when the phone rang.

Santiago said, “Have you anything for me?”

“Not yet, Mr. Santiago.” Smith searched wildly for something to say. “Maybe tomorrow.”

“Shah has been on the phone. Johnson shot and you with a broken arm. ‘Fucking little Irish bastard,’ I believe that was the phrase you used. Presumably Dillon?”

“Well, yes, Mr. Santiago, we did have a run-in with him. We’d got the girl, see, and he managed to jump us. He had a gun.”

“Did he really?” Santiago commented dryly. “And what did you say when he asked you who your employer was?”

Smith answered instinctively, “Not a bloody thing, it was Johnson who…”

He stopped dead and Santiago said, “Carry on, tell me the worst.”

“All right, Mr. Santiago, the stupid bastard did give Dillon your name.”

There was silence for a moment and then Santiago said, “I’m disappointed in you, my friend, most disappointed.” The phone clicked and the line went dead.

Smith knew what that meant. More frightened than he had ever been in his life, he packed a suitcase one-handed, retrieved a thousand pounds mad money he kept in a sugar tin in the kitchen and left. Two minutes later he was behind the wheel of the van and driving away one-handed. He had an old girlfriend in Aberdeen who’d always had a weakness for him. Scotland, that was the place to go. As far away from Johnson as possible.

At the nursing home Shah sat behind his desk, the phone to his ear. After a while he put it down, sighed heavily and went out. He went into the small pharmacy at the side of the operating theater, fitted a syringe together and filled it from a phial he took from the medicine cupboard.

When he opened the door at the end of the corridor, Johnson was sleeping, linked to a drip. Shah stood looking down at him for a moment, then bared the left forearm and inserted the needle. Johnson sucked in air very deeply for about five times, then stopped altogether. Shah checked for vital signs, found none and went out. He paused at the reception desk, picked up the phone and dialed.

A voice said, “Deepdene Funeral Service. How may we serve you?”

“Shah here. I have a disposal for you.”

“Ready now?”

“Yes.”

“We’ll be there in half an hour.”

“Thank you.”

Shah replaced the receiver and went back to his office, humming to himself.

It was almost eleven when Travers returned to Lord North Street and found Dillon sitting in the study reading a book. “Jennifer gone to bed?” Travers asked.

“More than an hour ago. She was very tired.”

“Not surprising, been through a hell of a lot that girl. Fancy a nightcap, Dillon? Can’t offer you Irish, but a good single malt perhaps?”

“Fine by me.”

Travers poured it into two glasses, gave him one and sat opposite. “Cheers. What are you reading?”

“Epictetus.” Dillon held the book up. “He was a Greek philosopher of the Stoic School.”

“I know who he was, Dillon,” Travers said patiently. “I’m just surprised that you do.”

“He says here that a life not put to the test is not worth living. Would you agree to that, Admiral?”

“As long as it doesn’t mean bombing the innocent in the name of some sacred cause or shooting people in the back, then I suppose I do.”

“God forgive you, Admiral, but I never planted a bomb in the way you mean or shot anyone in the back in me life.”

“God forgive me, indeed, Dillon, because for some obscure reason I’m inclined to believe you.” Travers swallowed his whisky and got up. “Good night to you,” he said and went out.

Things had gone better than Smith had expected and he soon had the hang of handling the wheel one-handed, just the fingers of his right hand touching the bottom of the wheel. The rain wasn’t helping, of course, and beyond Watford he missed a turning for the motorway and found himself on a long dark road, no other vehicles in sight, and then headlights were switched on behind and a vehicle came up far too fast.

It started to overtake him, a large black truck, and Smith cursed, frightened to death, knowing what this was, and he frantically worked at the wheel. The truck swerved in, knocking him sideways, and with nowhere to go, the van spun off the road, smashed through a fence and turned over twice on its way down a seventy-foot bank. It came to a crumpled halt and Smith, still conscious as he lay on his side in the cab, could smell petrol as the fractured tank spilled its contents.

There was the noise of someone scrambling down the bank and footsteps approached. “Help me,” Smith moaned, “I’m in here.”

Someone struck a match. It was the last thing he remembered. One final moment of horror as it was flicked toward him through the darkness and the petrol fireballed.