State Of Emergency: (Tom Buckingham Thriller 3) (21 page)

Still spinning, he managed to take two steps towards the corner of the wall. The dog was still twisting and bucking, as if it had just had an electric shock.

Once more, Tom spun round with the animal’s front legs pointing outwards with the G force. The dog’s head smashed against the stone. There was a thud, a weak yelp and the body relaxed. Tom’s own momentum carried him another one and a half turns, his head spinning as he tried to get his bearings.

He let the dog drop to the ground, still holding the back legs to keep control. It might have lost the fight or been stunned, but it could still raise the alarm or even attack again. A moment later he let go of the animal, dropped to his knees, picked up a big lump of granite from the wall and brought it down with both hands onto the head. There was no blood, no opening of the skull, just the dull cracking sound of bone breaking under the flesh. He smashed it down twice more to be sure the animal was dead.

Tom dropped the stone, got back to his feet with his hands on his knees and gulped in oxygen, trying to slow his heart rate as the adrenalin dissolved back where it had come from and the puncture wounds started to rage.

He pulled himself up to a crouch, took off his jacket, yanked up his sweater, pulled off a strip of T-shirt and used it to make a temporary binding for the wound. There were gaps between the top stones of the wall – enough to see that one of the men was out already, holding what looked like an assault rifle, the butt into his shoulder. Tom couldn’t see exactly what the weapon was but if it went bang, and something came out of the muzzle, that was a problem.

The man whistled, then listened. ‘Frankie?’

Tom glanced at Frankie, then back at his master. Both he and the canine corpse were still obscured by the wall – but only as long as the man kept his distance. There wasn’t likely to be much of a discussion if they did meet, so he needed to be ready.

A second man emerged from the doorway with a pistol. He slipped on the step, swore, caught his balance, swayed slightly then lifted his weapon vaguely in Tom’s direction. Nothing else for it. Tom aimed through the gap between the stones and double-tapped, centre mass, taking the drunk down first. The first man whirled round as his pal collapsed and Tom dropped him in the same way.

He waited for the third to show. If he wasn’t too pissed, this one would be taking a lot more care. Crouching low, with the stone wall for cover, Tom moved to his left so he had a better arc of fire on the doorway.

There was movement in the darkness just inside. The third man couldn’t see his mates from either the doorway or the windows because they had both fallen in the snow close to the house. A long burst of something heavyish, probably a 7.62, came from the doorway. Chips of wall flew about as the bullets hit before ricocheting into the air with a high-pitched whiz. The man had decided he wasn’t going to take his chances on the outside. Tom didn’t return fire. No point until he could see his target. Let him stew. There was no hurry. Eventually curiosity would get the better of him and he would break cover.

Five minutes passed – a long time when you think you may be about to be shot. The third man was either very patient or shitting himself. You could tell a lot about a man’s character from the way he handled a weapon. Spraying away like that showed nerviness, a failure to absorb training and a probable lack of any real experience of a fire-fight in which conserving ammunition is everything. Curiosity and impatience would override caution. And then the rabbit would emerge from his burrow.

Another five minutes passed. Then the third man stepped out, an HK G3 casually hanging from his right. He slipped on the snow and loosed off another burst, only it went straight down, shattering his left lower leg. Tom dispatched him with a double tap and set off towards the house.

He checked Evans’s photo, which he had saved in the phone: dark hair and eyebrows, a thin nose that had been smashed up so many times it looked like Frankie had chewed it, and a small, thin mouth: undistinguished and unmemorable. He toured the three bodies, turning each of them over. None was Evans. Was this a wasted journey?

He changed mags before entering the house. He would have to clear it before he started to look round. It smelt of tobacco smoke, alcohol and dog: Eau de Single Country Bloke. There must be something among the contents that would prove of interest.

He stepped into the kitchen. An old, greasy Rayburn gave off some warmth but the room was in stark contrast to the trademark Invicta neatness. There was a full ashtray on the windowsill, the table was strewn with food remains, and the washing-up from at least one meal was piled haphazardly in and around the sink: definitely not what Carter had had in mind as maintaining the place. He counted three dinner plates.

The match was still on. Though he had been a passable forward, Tom had never bonded with the nation’s favourite sport. He turned it off: the silence was a relief. He waited for a couple of minutes. Although there was no sound, he felt a presence. He was used to old houses seeming to be alive, letting out creaks and groans for no reason.

Clearing the ground floor first, he peered into the large wood-panelled living room, lit dimly by the last embers of the fire, taking care not to catch his foot on the frayed, unsecured rug. There were two more doors, one of which revealed some stairs down to what would have made a great wine cellar.

The circuit of the ground floor complete, he headed for the first floor, taking his time, eyes and weapon pointing upwards, towards where he was going. The stone staircase was good for moving up noiselessly, unlike wood. But all the same he paused with each step. At the top he halted for longer, and listened. After a minute he became aware of the sound of breathing, short and rapid. To his left was what looked like the door to a fitted cupboard. It had no handle, just a keyhole. Good choice. If it hadn’t been for the breathing he might have missed it.

‘Come out very slowly, hands on the back of your head. Anything different and I will fire. You’ve got five seconds. Five … four … three …’

The door opened. The figure had only one hand behind his head; the other was in a sling. He had on nothing more than a T-shirt and a pair of boxers. His feet were bare. But on his face, which was contorted with a mixture of indignation and dismay, a livid bruise surrounded a scabbed-up wound. It had to be the man from the flat Tom had attacked with the umbrella. The man who had killed Jez and his girl.

‘Evans. Good evening.’ Tom kicked him over so he fell face down on the landing, a nice big ‘Aargh’ as he went. Then he leaned over him, his boot pressing down on the back of his head so that Evans’s wound, with its newly formed scab, was pushed hard against the floor.

Evans squirmed and thrashed, like an insect pinned to a cork board by a curious school kid. Tom twisted his boot into the back of the man’s head as if he was trying to screw it into the floor. ‘So, how’s the face?’

‘The fuck? What is this?’

‘What does it look like?’

‘Fuck you, Buckingham.’

Tom pressed down a bit harder with his boot.

Evans let out another long furious groan of pain and frustration. ‘Go on – just get on with it, then.’ He spat the words through clenched teeth.

This wasn’t revenge. This was the application of pain so Tom could get what he needed from him. ‘We need to talk, you and me.’

‘Fuck off.’

‘Who sent you?’

‘You fucking killed Randall, you cunt …’

Tom leaned harder on the wound, twisting his boot. Evans was in tremendous pain but doing a good job of not giving anything away.

‘Who sent you?’

‘No one tells me what the fuck to do. You fucking killed my best mate.’

He was writhing around on the floor, like a beached marlin. Tom pressed his boot down harder once more, then stepped off him. ‘Hmm, well, I don’t know about you, but I could use a brew. Let’s go down to the kitchen, shall we? It’s nice and quiet there.’

38

Keeping half an eye on Evans, Tom filled the kettle. He found two mugs at the bottom of a cupboard, tipped out the mouse droppings and washed them in some of the boiled water from the kettle. There was just enough milk. Evans sat and watched him petulantly.

‘Too bad about Frankie. Only doing his job. Yours, was he?’

There was no answer from Evans, apart from a curt nod.

Tom eyed the empties as he reached for the teabags. ‘Your mates were having quite a party. This a refuge now for all of you who’ve fallen off the wagon?’

‘Fuck you.’

It could have been the demise of Frankie and his mates, getting caught barely dressed or being mocked for drinking that was pissing Evans off. He looked like a man who had been born angry, his features contorted into a mask of barely contained fury, which had reshaped what had once probably been an acceptable face. Tom had come across others like this in the forces, overstuffed with natural aggression but without the nous to channel it towards anything but their ultimate disadvantage. They attracted trouble like magnets, this sort. Every word that came out of Evans’s mouth was accompanied by a rather limited range of expletives. Even by the repetitive standards of the army, it was tiresome.

‘So what was on Randall’s mind?’ Tom put a mug down in front of him. ‘Come on. We can have a nice civilized chat, or more fun and games where I stand on your shoulder. Your choice.’

There was no reaction.

Tom pushed the mug closer. ‘Look, I get it. You’re pissed off about Randall. But he was about to drop two civilians. What else was I going to do? Rolt wasn’t even in the building. Just like you, Randall fucked up, but he was stopped and you weren’t.’

Tom could see behind the angry face the wheels of Evans’s brain slowly turning, only to be hijacked by another eruption of anger.

‘Rolt fucked us after all we fucking did for him.’

‘Okay, but how?’ Tom had some sympathy for that view but this wasn’t going to be a bonding exercise. It was going to take all his resources to get Evans to stop being aggrieved for two seconds and actually think.

Evans gave him another look of contempt. ‘You cunts got no fucking idea.’

‘You may well be right there. What don’t we know?’ Tom pushed the sugar bag towards him. ‘Two spoons or three?’

Evans tipped a cascade of sugar into his mug and used the end of a dirty fork to stir it, while he delivered a speech Tom could have scripted for him about Westminster selling the country down the river, betraying the troops they’d sent in to fight bloody suicide bombers with one hand tied behind their backs because the politicians wouldn’t provide what they needed to give it good and proper to the Taliban, then brought them home and pissed all over them. And now the country was being fucked over by fucking raghead scum while the government did fuck-all. The whole thing was depressingly predictable.

Then he fell silent, frowning at Tom with a weird gleam in his eye.

‘What don’t I know? Spit it out.’

Evans shook his head. ‘Randall wasn’t like us.’ He gestured at the empties. ‘He stayed on the wagon, wasn’t going back to any of that. He worshipped Rolt. Reckoned he’d saved his life. He was devoted to him, never wavered. Getting the job driving him around in the Bentley, that was the ultimate. He was there for Rolt twenty-four seven.’

‘I heard he was awkward.’

Evans looked at Tom as if he’d gone mad. ‘Whoever said that’s talking fucking bollocks! You couldn’t have asked for a more obliging—’

‘Never mind. Keep talking.’

‘Then came the trip to Geneva. Rolt says to him, round dinnertime, “Get me to Switzerland for breakfast.” No advance warning. Randall says of course. So he takes him through the Tunnel, drives him all the way down to Geneva for a meet.’

‘Who with?’

Evans looked at him, pitying. ‘You’re Rolt’s arse-licker and you don’t know shit.’ He nodded slowly, relishing the fact that he knew something Tom didn’t. ‘He’s kept it from you an’ all, hasn’t he? Randall was the only one who knew.’

‘Knew what?’

‘That was when he found out, driving round Geneva while they talked in the back. Rolt closed the partition but Randall kept the intercom on. Heard the whole thing. Rolt begging and pleading …’

‘Come on, then, begging who?’

Whether Evans was about to enlighten him or not, he never got to find out. Tom heard it first, the distant growl of an approaching engine, something making its way towards the house. ‘Who’s that?’

‘Dunno.’

‘
Who?
’

‘I don’t fucking
know
, all right?’

‘Who else knows you’re here?’

Evans didn’t answer. Despite the snow the vehicle was moving fast. Tom leaned across the table and punched hard into Evans’s shoulder to control him, then killed the lights and dragged him, whimpering, by his other arm towards the stairs.

‘Who the fuck is that?’

‘Fucking told you. I
don’t know
.’ There was a new note of desperation in Evans’s protest. Maybe he was telling the truth.

Tom twisted both his arms.
‘Who?’

But Evans was starting to panic and they were out of time. Tom bundled him up the stairs and followed, keeping a firm grip on the injured arm. He had just seconds to decide whether to slot him right now so he could concentrate on the new threat coming up the lane, or keep him alive to use as a bargaining chip. He would have been better off staying on the ground floor, but he had the fire escape at the back as an alternative exit. All these thoughts were coursing through his mind as they reached the top of the stairs.

The engine noise was the distinctive grumble of a petrol V8. He glanced over his shoulder as the headlights came through the windows below and turned back to see Evans’s hand held high, smashing something down on his head.

39

Tom came to with a blinding pain across the back of his head and the sensation of something warm trickling over his face. All he could see in front of him were flashes, pulsing from the pain. He had no idea how long he had been out: maybe no more than a minute. He struggled into a sitting position and found an old metal alarm clock that must have been Evans’s weapon.