Death Before Time (28 page)
“Can we put it out?”
“ ‘Old this…” The shepherd pushed the gun him and scrabbled on his hands and knees toward the glowing smoke - he looked like a spider against it, Fraser thought …
He could hear it crackling now.
He held the gun, glanced round … could he fire it? Did it have a safety catch?
The shepherd came back – “They’ve done something with the fuckin’ gas,” he said, taking the gun back. “Looks like we ‘ad better find a way out.“
The voice came out of the darkness again, strangely disembodied against the rising voice of the fire …
“Come on out, we don’t want to hurt you.“
The shepherd started to get up again, but Fraser grabbed his arm -
“I’ll keep him talking,” he said urgently, “Can you get out there – “ He pointed to the back window – “With the gun and circle round?”
The shepherd thought about it for a second and nodded. Crawled to the other side of the caravan and looked up …
Fraser called out, “How do we know you won’t shoot us?”
“Because we need you alive. We could have shot you several times over by now if we’d wanted.”
The fire had spread to the next room to them now and Fraser could feel the heat of it.
He also felt a sudden compulsion to believe what the man outside was saying …
No! He glanced at the shepherd, who’d levered the window open with the broom … he looked round at Fraser and nodded.
“All right,” called Fraser, “We’re coming out of the door.”
“Throw the gun out first.”
He looked round desperately … then the shepherd handed him the broom.
“All right,” he called again, shouting over the roar of the fire, “It’s coming out of the door now.“
He turned the handle and pushed it open – and the flames leapt in the draught … he dropped the broom through as low as he could, hoping they wouldn’t notice …The shepherd lowered the gun through the window, then in one quick movement, rose up and pushed himself out head first … his legs upended, he wriggled … then he was gone.
The flames were nearly at the door now, roaring, reaching for Fraser in hot licks … The dog ran to and fro, whining, yelping, licking Fraser’s face …
The voice again – “Well, are you coming?”
“All right,” he called … the shepherd should have got round by now … was he waiting for him … or dead?
Had to go, another minute and it would be too late.
He somersaulted out of the door, over the steps and rolled under the caravan …
*
Tom and Jo got to the war memorial at five to nine. They waited till nine, then Tom called Fraser’s mobile. No answer. (There wouldn’t be, since Fraser had just hurled it as far away as he could … )
At the message prompt, Tom snapped, “It’s me, Tom, where the bloody hell are you?”
“Not answering,” he said to Jo as he cut the connection. Then, “He should’ve been here before us ... “
“Perhaps he can’t answer because he’s driving.”
“He should’ve stopped - “ He turned to her – “D’you know which way he’s coming?”
“I think so … “
Tom tried the mobile again, then Jo directed him out of the village and up through the chicane. As they went past the car park at the top, she said, “Tom, stop - It’s his car … “
He reversed, then drove up to the three cars at the end.
“They must have jumped him but he got away,” he said, “But where?“
She said, “I know,“ and told him about the shepherd’s caravan …
He found a torch, then dropped the compartment under the dash and took out his gun.
“I’m going after them,” he said, opening the car door, “Phone the police and tell them how to get there – is there another way to it they can drive?“
“He’s got a truck, so there must be – “
The boom of a shotgun came quivering through the night air …
“Make that an ambulance as well.” He jumped out and started running along the Wansdyke. The shotgun boomed again.
He found the path, jumped over the stile and then let gravity take him down through the trees … he tried not to use the torch, then he tripped and fell … rolled over, got to his feet and went on, flashing the torch occasionally.
Then he saw the fire. Tried to go faster. Fell again ...
He heard the hitman shouting for Fraser to come out as he got there, saw him silhouetted against the fire, then saw the caravan door open and something drop out, not a body …
He looked round for the other hitman, couldn’t see him … then a body did drop from the burning caravan and roll underneath it … The gunman started forward and Tom, not daring to leave it any longer, levelled his gun and shouted “Stop – “
The gunman spun round, brought up his own gun …
Tom let off three quick shots – the gunman staggered and fell and Tom ran forward, then his eye caught a movement to the left … a flash, something hit his head –
*
Under the caravan, Fraser started crawling … molten fire dripped in rivulets from the floor to the ground as the heat closed round him …
He heard a shout, shots - then the whole kitchen section collapsed and the flames whooshed, licking his face …
The section of floor he was under began to sag, pressing onto his back … he dropped onto his face and squirmed like a snake … reached the other end, grasped and pulled at the nettles at the verge, barely aware of the pain as they stung his hands …
He pulled, then flexing his body round, rolled out as the whole bottom section collapsed onto the ground … He rolled into something - the body of the shepherd.
He staggered up … the burning caravan was threatening to topple over on them … Getting his hands under his shoulders, he pulled him away … and something gleamed - the shotgun!
He grabbed it, ran round the caravan …
In the light of the flames, about twenty or thirty yards away a figure was standing … One of the hitmen, and as Fraser watched, he walked slowly forward, stopped and pointed his gun at something on the ground …
Fraser lifted the shotgun and pulled the triggers … nothing.
He shouted “Oi!” as he scrabbled with his fingers …
The hitman spun round, let off a shot … a voice, female screamed, “No – oo … “
The hitman glanced back … Fraser felt something click under his fingers and he hauled on the triggers again –
A double spear of light shot out and the recoil knocked him backwards.
He scrambled up again, ran to where the hitman had been standing …
He was dead, his face and upper body a mess of blood. The figure at his feet was Tom.
The woman came running up – Jo –
“Is he all right?”
“I think so … you see to him, the shepherd’s round there, worse - “
A siren cut through the noise of the fire.
“Police,” she said. “I called them. You’d better put that down.“ She indicated the shotgun.
Fraser dropped it and went to look for the shepherd. He found him where he’d left him. The dog, which had jumped out after Fraser, was whining and licking his face.
He was still alive, but in a worse state than Tom – at least two bullets to the body that Fraser could see, almost certainly bleeding internally.
The siren suddenly grew louder and then stopped. Blue lights pulsed. Fraser stood up as two police ran over to him. One knelt by the shepherd, the other said,
“Was it you who phoned us?”
Fraser shook his head. “She’s round the other side.” He looked at the shepherd. “He’s bad … “
“There’s an ambulance just behind us.”
It arrived in time to save the shepherd, but both contract killers were dead. They were never identified. (They had, as the shepherd thought, “done something with the gas” - cut the pipe from the cylinder, lit it and pushed it back through the hole into the caravan.)
Tom was taken to hospital and Fraser and Jo spent the rest of the night answering questions, as did Patrick Fitzpatrick, once Marie returned home – he’d been telling the truth about that, at least.
Patrick simply stuck to his story, that the others had persuaded him to approach Fraser and offer him an internal enquiry in return for his silence on the euthanasia plot at the inquest ... no, of course he knew nothing of any ambush … and yes, of course he’d kept the others informed of what he was doing.
The other three were questioned the next day and confirmed what Patrick had said.
“There’s one thing that still puzzles me,” Fraser said to Tom that same day at his hospital bed. “Those hit men, they could have shot me easily, several times. Why didn’t they?”
Tom thought for a moment. “If you’d been found dead with bullets in you,” he said, “it would’ve confirmed that you’d been silenced. If, however, you’d been found dead in your burnt out car at the bottom of the scarp, it would have just been a tragic accident.”
*
A few days later, Tom, his head still bandaged, found himself pressing the bell push of George Woodvine’s house again. The girl answered and said she’d see if Mr Woodvine was available. He came to the door.
“Can you give me one good reason why I should speak to you?” he asked coldly. He made no comment on Tom’s bandaged head.
“Because, with your help, I think I can clear this mess up.”
Woodvine pursed his lips and slowly nodded. “I suppose that comes under the category of good reasons. You’d better come in.”
He stood aside to let Tom through, then closed the door and indicated the drawing room.
“Well?” he prompted when they’d sat down.
Tom said, “You know about the attempt on Dr Callan’s life last week?”
“I ought to,” he said dryly. ”I’ve been questioned at length by the police about it.”
“The point is,” Tom said, “Why? Why should anyone want to kill Dr Callan?”
“I’m assuming the question is rhetorical?”
“Not entirely, no - I’d be interested to hear what you think. Bushwhackers, perhaps?”
Woodvine smiled unwillingly. “Frankly, I’d have said that was just as likely as the police’s suggestion, that one of us, the – er – junta, set him up to prevent him speaking at the inquest.”
“Speaking about what, did they say?”
“His obsession with the idea that Philip and Helen were killing off their patients.”
“Well, I suppose all four of you could be said to have motives for not wanting him to do that.”
“Naturally.” Woodvine shrugged. “As servants of the Trust, we have no wish to see, or hear, it slandered. That’s why we were going to guarantee Dr Callan an internal enquiry into the matter if he agreed not to say anything at the inquest. That’s why Patrick asked him to come to his house.”
“I meant personal reasons.”
Woodvine drew a breath, then released it. “I suppose that’s true as well, to a greater or lesser extent.”
Tom said curiously, “Why was Fitzpatrick the one asked to speak to him? Why not you, for instance?”
“They’d had a good relationship in the past and we thought he might be more responsive to him.”
“Did you really think that Dr Callan would agree to an internal enquiry?”
“Why shouldn’t he?”
“Well, as we both know, internal enquiries can be postponed, delayed, frustrated in a hundred ways, and when they do eventually come to a conclusion, it’s usually meaningless.”
“Oh come, that’s rather cynical, isn’t it?”
“Is it?” Tom paused for a moment, then said quietly, “I still think that the key to all this is the identity of the person who had Philip Armitage employed in the first place.”
Woodvine snorted impatiently. “The key to
what
, for God’s sake? We’ve been over this before anyway - it was Patrick, after he’d read Philip’s article.”
“He says it was originally Nigel Fleming who noticed the article and gave it to him.”
“Does it matter?”
“Does it surprise you that neither of them knew about Armitage’s record?”
“What record?”
“The fact that he’d been suspected by the police of practising euthanasia at his unit in Southampton.”
Woodvine blinked. “Is that true?”
Tom nodded slowly.
“I see … “ He looked up sharply at Tom - “Suspected, you said, was he ever charged?”
“No. The CPS said there wasn’t enough evidence.”
“Then he didn’t have a record.”
“Let’s say his history, then.”
“Why should any of us have known about that?” He looked at Tom carefully. “Mr Jones, it was originally my understanding that you didn’t believe this theory of Callan’s either – are you now saying that you do?”
“No, I’m not saying that,” Tom replied. “What I’m saying is that I
know
it to be the truth.”
A heartbeat’s pause, then: “A remarkable conversion, if I may say so.”
“Not really. I always believed it. Now, I know.”
Woodvine looked at him askance. “Then it would seem that you’ve been less than honest with me – with any of us, in fact. I’d be interested to know exactly
how
you know.”
Tom said, “As well as Dr Callan, we’ve had a nurse working undercover for us at the hospital.” He told him how they’d isolated the ampicillin resistant pneumococci from a dying patient and then saved the life of another by giving her cefataxin.
“You
have
been underhand, haven’t you?” Woodvine said when he’d finished. “However, fascinating though it may be, that doesn’t amount to anything like proof.”
“Possibly not, although it’s very strong circumstantial evidence, as is the doctored artificial saliva device we found, the one used to give Mrs Stokes her infection. Definitive proof has been more difficult to come by.”
“Perhaps for the very good reason that there isn’t any.”
“That may have been the case before,” Tom said easily, “But not now. After the attempt on Dr Callan’s life, the police took his story more seriously and yesterday, they searched Armitage’s and Miss St John’s houses a little more thoroughly and found a cache of the doctored devices. Now, that really
is
strong circumstantial evidence, wouldn’t you say?”
Woodvine spoke carefully. “What I would say is that I only have your word for that. And also no guarantee that if this evidence exists at all, it wasn’t planted there by Dr Callan. Or even yourself.”
“You’re clutching at straws. We can also show that Armitage and St John were killed on the order of the person who arranged for them to come here in the first place.” Tom wasn’t completely sure about that, but felt the time was right to say it …
“This is surreal – “ Woodvine was still smiling – “What possible motive could anyone have for that?”
“The Trust, of which you are Chairman, was at grave risk of overspending two years ago, due to the St James’ debacle and the Euro conversion. Philip Armitage’s plan saved nearly ten million pounds, which was enough to get you out of the immediate trouble. His redesigned hospital was only about half the original cost, and since then, has saved about a million and a half a year. That’s the motive. The ostensible motive.”
“Of course,” he continued before Woodvine could say anything, “Philip Armitage and Helen St John weren’t in it for the money. They were idealists who genuinely believed that euthanasia for the hopeless cases was the only way forward. And when they realised they were going to be caught, they planned to confess and use their trial as a platform for their ideals. Armitage even wrote and told you he wasn’t going to involve you, which is how you were able to use his postscript when you had him killed.”
After a pause, Woodvine said, “I think that you’re seriously deranged, Mr Jones.” He stood up. “I’d like you to go now, please.”
“Your father was called Robert, wasn’t he?” said Tom, not moving. “
Sir
Robert. And your grandfather Henry?
Sir
Henry. Both knighted for services to the state.”
“Are you seriously trying to suggest that as a motive for me?”
“Certainly. You wanted this knighthood more than anything in the world, and you knew it was yours –
ostensibly
for guiding the Trust through troubled waters without scandal or overspending. You wanted it so much,” Tom said slowly, trying to control the anger he still felt, “That you were prepared to connive at the deaths of 150 people to get it.”
Woodvine gave a short laugh. “How could I have possibly known about Armitage’s activities in Southampton?”
“You met Armitage five years ago there on one of your fact finding trips. Mrs Peacock, who was a manager there at the time, remembers introducing you to him.”
Woodvine shrugged. “I may have met him, but – “
“As for his activities, you were told about them, in your capacity as a chief magistrate, by Superintendent Hayes, who was in charge of the case, as an example of justice not done.
“Later, you made it your business to find out everything you could about him. You saw his article in
Community
Care
and it gave you an idea. You sought him out and put a proposition to him, which he foolishly accepted. You left the article on Fleming’s desk, knowing that it would end up with Fitzpatrick. Then all you had to do was congratulate him on his brilliant idea when he suggested head-hunting Armitage.”
Woodvine shook his head pityingly. “And I suppose I somehow arranged for Callan to visit Patrick so that I could set up the – er – bushwhackers.”
“Indeed. You did that as you’ve done everything else, by suggestion and manipulation, so that you were always in the background.”
Woodvine went over to the door and opened it. “Mr Jones, I shall be reporting you to the authorities. And now, I should like you to leave my house, please.”
Tom still didn’t move. “I shall be reporting to the authorities as well. The police know that it’s you and are actively looking for proof. They’ll almost certainly find it. Even if they don’t, you will not be getting your knighthood, not ever. You will be eased off the Bench and all the other positions you hold; in fact, you will never hold any position of influence again in your life. And those around you will gradually become aware that there is something unwholesome about you. You will become a nothing.”
Woodvine said, “You don’t have the power to do any of those things.”
“You’re absolutely right,” agreed Tom, “I don’t.” He smiled wolfishly. “But my boss does.”
“Even if you’re right, which I very much doubt, you will be giving me a non-punishment for a non-existent crime.”
Tom leaned forward. “We both know that what I’ve said is substantially true, and that one way or another, you’re going down for it. But we also know that it was not originally your idea, that someone in the Department put you up to it, someone who knew your – “
“What Department are you talking about?”
“The Department of Health – “ It wouldn’t hurt to say that much – “Where you have friends. Are you going to let this particular
friend
get away with it? Getting you into this mess and leaving you to braise in it.”
He was studying Woodvine’s face as he spoke, but there wasn’t the flicker of a suggestion that any of it meant anything to him …
He said, “For the last time, will you leave my house, now, or am I going to have to phone the police to eject you?”
Tom got to his feet and walked to the door. Woodvine followed him into the hall as Tom opened the front door and let himself out.
He walked down through the scented pergola to his car, got in and drove away. He drove to where Marcus and the police were waiting in the van.
“Hard luck,” said Harris. “You couldn’t have done any more.”
Tom nodded. “He probably guessed I was wired.” He divested himself of the bug and handed it over. “And now I’m going outside for a few minutes if you don’t mind.”
He walked a little way from the van and lit a cheroot.
Marcus joined him.
“He was right Tom, you couldn’t have done any more.”
He shrugged. “Maybe.” Then – “God,” he said, “I hate the thought of them getting away with it.”
“They won’t. Or at least, Woodvine won’t – I can deliver most of what you promised him. And you never know, our friends back there might find something to nail him with.”
“I don’t think they will, though,” said Tom. “And the other bastard’ll get off with nothing … “
Marcus said quietly, “I’m hoping that won’t be entirely true either. I shall drop words into selected ears and then frame the kind of report that’ll let him know that I know … ”