Blood Falls (42 page)

He didn’t have long. The need to void his bladder was real enough, but there were other, more important considerations. The next stage of his strategy was to empty his stomach, very rapidly, and without drawing attention to himself. If they heard him retching they’d only force more vodka down his throat to replenish what he’d lost.

After urinating, Joe shoved two fingers down his throat while simultaneously pushing the lever to flush the toilet. In the gurgling rush of water he crouched down and vomited, with a minimum of noise. This was the method that had once enabled him to drink the Mortons and their associates under the table.

Then he turned, gripping the sink as black spots danced across his vision. He could feel another spasm coming on but fought it back. The gurgle of the cistern refilling wasn’t loud enough to disguise a second bout. Instead, running the cold tap, he cupped his hands and frantically drank as much water as he could throw into his mouth.

The door started to open. An angry voice called, ‘Get a frigging move on.’

‘Yeah.’ Joe bumped against the door frame on the way out, still fumbling with his zip. His hands left damp patches on his jeans and the men around him instinctively recoiled.

They directed him back to the landing and down the stairs. Once or twice Joe tripped and had to be held upright by Todd and Bruce. He kept his mouth tightly shut so they wouldn’t smell the bile on his breath.

There was no one in sight as they reached the hall, and the
office door was shut. Joe wondered if all the other staff had been banished.

Before they left, his captors put on thick plastic coats, overtrousers and boots. Heavy-duty waterproof gear, designed to protect them from the elements. Joe wore only jeans and the thin plastic jacket he’d bought in Bristol, a week and a lifetime ago.

Joe was marched quickly to the Range Rover. The other three ducked their heads, while Joe turned his face up to the sky, the rain so hard and fierce that he could barely keep his eyes open.

‘Thirsty?’ Reece gave a scornful laugh. ‘You’re gonna have all the water you can drink soon enough.’

He was put in the back, forced to crouch in the footwell behind the passenger seat. Reece took the seat next to him. He held a leather sap. ‘You just give me a reason, all right?’

From the driver’s seat, Bruce tutted. ‘We ain’t supposed to mark him.’

‘What’s it gonna matter if his head gets split open? The rocks and tide’ll make a mess of him.’

They set off, the windscreen wipers struggling to combat the torrent of water, Bruce grumbling about the driving conditions, Todd about how unpleasant their task was going to be, and Reece just sitting silently, staring at Joe with murder in his eyes.

The footwell was a tight space, so Joe wasn’t thrown around too badly, but the motion of the car did little to ease his nausea. It was worse with his eyes shut, so he kept them open, staring at Reece’s booted feet and thinking:
I’m sober. I’m sober. I’m sober
.

He tested his muscles as best he could, flexing one or two at a time: tiny cautious movements. He played out how the attack might develop, like a choreographer preparing several permutations of a dance routine. If he got a chance –
when
he got a chance – it had to be exploited without hesitation.

He stayed positive, except for the odd moment when an image of
his wife and daughters broke his concentration and left him with the desperate, heartbreaking knowledge that one day they might be informed of his suicide and not doubt it for a second.

They would believe that Joe had given up on them, and somehow that thought was more unbearable than the idea of death itself.

Seventy-Six

WHEN CADWELL TURNED
up Joe was still having the booze poured into him. Leon affected surprise at the news of the funeral director’s arrival. ‘I’m too busy to see him now.’

Fenton stayed by the door, fighting the temptation to plead. Leon glared at him till he left the room, and was then beset by doubts. Wasn’t this reaction going to supply more fuel for the conspiracy against him?

To demonstrate to himself that he was a reasonable man, he went back over it all. It wasn’t too late to rethink. They could keep Joe here. Phone Danny Morton and see what was on offer.

But every time he played it out, all he saw was Morton sneering at him. Calling him a
fucking hick
. Calling him a
dumbfuck yokel
.

And Leon couldn’t do it. He couldn’t give Morton the satisfaction. No matter how much money was involved, Morton would feel he’d got the better deal. He would come out the winner, and Leon – the dumbfuck yokel – would be the loser.

There was no way he’d let himself end up like Victor Smith, begging for whatever scraps Morton cared to throw him. No way on earth.

But Joe had to go. Leon had no qualms there at all. One way or another Joe was determined to bring him down, and he possessed the skills to do it. For the sake of Leon’s own survival, Joe had to die.

* * *

It was twenty to two when they took Joe out. Leon slipped upstairs, stood at a bedroom window and watched the Range Rover drive away. The rain was churning the gravel driveway into a series of miniature lakes. Perfect conditions for the task ahead.

Back downstairs, Fenton met him in the hall, his face grave. ‘You need to see this.’

To Leon’s surprise, he was beckoned in the direction of the basement. His first reaction was to suspect a trap. Were Cadwell and his men hiding down there …?

He made Fenton take the stairs first, stayed alert for any sound or movement. But the den was empty.

He sniffed. Pulled a face. ‘It stinks. What is it?’

‘This.’ Fenton placed his palm against the outer wall, next to the plasma TV. When Leon looked closely he could see that a patch of the wall was darker than the rest. He laid his own hand on it. Damp.

Fenton said, ‘The river level must have risen above the damp-proof membrane.’

They inspected the rest of the room. In the toilet there was a puddle of water on the floor.

‘Glenn guaranteed this would be waterproof,’ Leon said. ‘He can bloody well get it fixed.’

‘Probably have to wait until the storm passes.’

‘Whatever. Anyway, he should have picked up Joe’s stuff by now.’

Returning to the office, he tried Glenn’s mobile, but there was no answer. He was dimly aware of noise in the hall: that must be him.

Then Fenton came in, Derek Cadwell looming over his shoulder. He was wearing a dark suit with a white shirt but no tie, and a black fedora glistening with rain.

‘Not now, Derek.’

‘You don’t have a choice.’ There was more steel in Cadwell’s voice than usual. Always grim, the funeral director had a bleak determination on his face that gave Leon pause, but the conciliatory approach wasn’t his style.

‘I’ve been over it with Clive. I’m not changing my mind. Anyway, you’re too late.’

Cadwell pulled out one of the conference chairs and sat down, while Fenton took his usual position on the sofa. Enough space between them that Leon couldn’t look at them both at the same time. Was that a deliberate tactic? he wondered.

‘This isn’t about Morton. Or Joe Carter.’ Cadwell sounded weary, as though he’d spent so long time building up to this conversation that he barely had the energy to go through with it.

‘No?’

‘No. It’s about you and me, Leon. Our working relationship. It’s been far too uneven for far too long.’ Cadwell reached into his jacket and produced a USB stick. ‘This,’ he said, ‘is going to restore the balance.’

Seventy-Seven

JOE WASN’T ABLE
to see out of the Range Rover’s window, so he couldn’t track his route. All he had was a rough estimation of the direction and the time it took them to get there.

At first they ascended, driving south out of Trelennan, then turned left, heading east. For ten or fifteen minutes they travelled on flat, winding terrain, the rain hammering on the roof and gusting against the windows. Then the road dipped and rose and dropped again more violently, twisting through a series of switchbacks as they descended towards the coast.

Joe guessed they were about four or five miles east of Trelennan. The coast along here was rocky and inhospitable, with only the occasional hamlet or farm nestled in the hills.

Finally the Range Rover came to a halt, Bruce ratcheting the handbrake, and then there was only the sound of the rain, trying to pummel the world into submission.

‘Come on.’ Reece was the first to get out. Rain blew into the car, hitting Joe in the face. Reece shut his door and stood by it to prevent Joe from escaping.

Todd opened the rear door on Joe’s side, and Reece joined him as Joe manoeuvred himself backwards out of the car. Bruce was last to appear, abandoning the fight to keep his hood up.

Joe stood in docile silence, swaying in the wind. Cold rain poured
down his neck but he tried not to shiver. Drunks tend not to notice the cold. With heavy-lidded eyes he took note of his surroundings.

The Range Rover had descended a steep wooded hill and parked on a muddy track beside a narrow river mouth. A grassy bank led down to a spit of dark grey slate, curving out to sea as if directing the river to its rightful home. In both directions Joe could barely make out the shore, lost in the spray of a raging sea. There wasn’t another living soul in sight.

‘This is some shitty weather,’ Todd complained, shouting to be heard over the crashing waves. He and Reece took hold of Joe’s arms and escorted him around the Range Rover towards the riverbank. Then Reece stopped abruptly and yelled at Bruce: ‘The vodka.’

Joe said a prayer:
Thank God they hadn’t forgotten it
.

Bruce returned to the vehicle and retrieved the bottle, while the other two fumed at the delay. Every second out here made them colder and wetter and angrier.

As Bruce approached, Joe was turned to face him. He now had Reece to his left, standing side-on to the riverbank, and Todd to his right, on the path directly in front of the Range Rover. Joe could feel their grip on him relax a little. He knew they would tense up again as Bruce made him drink the spiked vodka.

Anticipating that response, Joe let his body sag, his shoulders slumping and his arms bending at the elbows. He kept his hands suspended just above his waist. Shut his eyes and rehearsed the move; trying to allow for the fact that, despite his best efforts, he wasn’t fully sober. His coordination wouldn’t be at its best.

Bruce slowly removed the bottle’s top; of the three, he seemed the least affected by the rain. He grinned at Joe, eyes shining with malice.

‘Remember I said how fighting got me in trouble? It was with the filth. A bloke and a girl. Tried to arrest me for driving uninsured, so I beat the living crap out of them.’

As he spoke, the rain coursed down his face and tumbled into
his mouth. He spat it at Joe, who barely flinched as the water hit his chin.

‘So drink up, ‘cause ever since I’ve been hoping to go one better and kill a pig.’

Bruce lifted the bottle. Joe’s mouth drooped open, offering no resistance. As he expected, he felt the grip on his upper arms tighten viciously, but his hands remained level with his stomach, only inches away from the bottle.

Joe let the alcohol flow for just long enough to establish his compliance. Then he moved, grabbing the neck of the bottle with his right hand. He wrenched it free and rammed the solid base of it into Bruce’s face, then drew his right arm back and swung the bottle outwards, swatting Todd on the side of his head; simultaneously he used his left arm to shove Reece down the slope.

Reece cried out as he lost his footing and fell towards the rushing water. Bruce also stumbled backwards, his mouth a mess of blood and broken teeth. Todd wasn’t badly hurt, but of the three he was the least experienced, and unlikely to have the stomach for a straight fight.

Joe didn’t give him the opportunity. He jabbed the bottle into Todd’s nose, at the site of his earlier injury. Even over the storm, Joe heard the bone give way. Todd screamed, doubling over. Joe grabbed the collar of his coat and hurled him down the bank in Reece’s wake. No half measures now: it was kill or be killed.

Bruce came at him with a bellow of rage, the rain-diluted blood streaming over his bearded chin. Joe ducked sideways, surprising Bruce by going left, towards Reece, who was trying to clamber up the slope on his hands and knees. Bruce’s fist missed Joe’s head by less than an inch. Now off balance, Bruce hesitated rather than follow Joe down the bank.

Reece was equally astonished to see Joe leaping towards him. Instead of flattening himself down on the grass, which might have saved him, he instinctively rose up, chest out and fists raised, ready to fight.

But Joe had the momentum of the steep slope in his favour. He
leapt into the air and struck Reece in the chest with both feet. Reece was flattened by the impact, Joe landing in a heap next to him, and in a tangle of writhing limbs they slithered the last few feet onto the narrow slate beach.

Up close Joe could see the awesome power of the tidal flow, sucking at the slate as it rushed past, while the storm drove vicious waves across the surface, drenching them both with a foaming spray.

Joe recovered first, gaining a vital advantage by levering himself above Reece, who was pointed in the other direction, feet up on the bank and his head almost in the water. Joe grappled with him, trying to slide his body into the current, but Reece thrashed and fought to stop Joe getting a purchase, his wet-weather gear as slippery as the hide of some aquatic beast. Then, for a second, his resistance ceased, his gaze shifting to a spot just over Joe’s shoulder.

There wasn’t time to look, and the raging sea muffled any noise. All Joe could do was move – and hope. Keeping low, on his hands and knees, he drove his legs backwards as if doing a squat thrust. His feet connected with something, with
someone
, and as he dropped and rolled he saw Todd falling, not directly into the water but close enough for a wave to catch him.

Briefly immersed, Todd panicked, wrenching his head and upper body away from the edge. But in doing so his legs went in deeper; his heavy boots were swamped with water and after that he didn’t stand a chance: the current sucked him beneath the surface and he was gone.