Slow Poison - Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-two

The King’s Head

Another quiet day of snow watching and lovemaking had made them hungry.

“I’ll give my chin a scrape. You go on down.”

“Shall I get a drink in.”

“Mmm, a small Brandy.”

The first thing that Alan knew of the broadcast came with the bedroom door bursting open to reveal George, all red faced and bellowing. Alan nicked his chin, spilling blood that would not stop.

“MISTER BELLAMY. THE LADY. QUICK. HER BE BAD. YOU GOTTA COME.” he shouted.

He grabbed Alan’s crumpled shirt-sleeve and pulled him behind him down the stairs. Becky was lying on the floor of the lounge bar, on the threadbare carpet, a blurred tattoo of cigarette burns. Dot had placed a cushion under Becky’s head and was fanning her face frantically with a beer mat. Alan dropped to his knees beside her, his heart thumping.

“WHAT THE HELL HAS HAPPENED? BECKY. COME ON, LOVE.”

“Her was watching the telly. The news. I dunno what it was. Something about a missing girl.”

“OH NO.OH DEAR GOD, NO.”   

“We better get her up them stairs.” said Dot, sensibly.

“The radio. Put the radio on.” said Alan, a little calmer. The landlord hurried behind the bar and switched on the tuner. The muffled hum of Radio One filtered out.

“Four. the news will still be on Four”

Static. And then there it was. Valerie Singleton.

“…the snows are severely hampering the Police in their search for Sarah. Five year old Sarah was last seen on Friday night leaving a pantomime in Stonehouse...”

Now Alan knew too. The nightmare had reached them all.

The Cotswold Cottage

“That’s us, isn’t it?”

Trim nodded weakly.

“Why can’t they find us?”

“I don’t know. The snow. Let me listen.”

“You are Mrs. Trim’s son. Why can’t we go to Mummy now?

“I told you. We’ll go when the snow stops.”

“Why are we on the telly, then?”

“Because of the snow. I don’t know.”

“Why is the Police looking then?”

“Because of the snow. Let me listen.”

He had never felt so weak, so totally lacking in energy. Listening was akin to scaling Cheops at noon. How the sun had burned down. It had been but a short hop from there to Saudi. The Arab from the hotel had taken him, had set him down alone on the banks of the Suez. They had tumbled from the dark bedroom into the fierce heat of the suburban Medina street. His heart had almost stopped beating when the collision found him staring into those eyes. Fred. Not a flicker. Not one glimmer of recognition. But he was forced to follow. Compelled.

All he could do was to sit in the corner of the cool cafe that Fred had entered, to watch from a dark corner as he drank strong coffee with the others he was with. The little Geordie, Wilson and Gardiner.

“They no good. They work oil field. No money. All for wife back home. No good.” the Arab had whispered.

Trim watched them for ten minutes or so and then they stood up to leave. Trim rose in his chair, but the Arab held his wrist with surprising force.

“We stay.” he hissed. And they were gone. The five years had been a slow backward roll with the brother. From the peaks of heaven, through the inevitable fall from grace into the quicksand of addiction. ‘Go on Len love. For me. There’s nothing like it, nothing at all.’

“You look like one of they dogs.”

He caught sight of himself in the long avoided mirror. It was true. He looked as though he were already dead. He splashed cold water on his face, bringing back a trace of the healthy bloom that there had been such short days before.

“I want Mummy.”

She didn’t whine. It was a simple statement of the truth.

“When the snow stops.”

“It has stopped.”

It had. Across the white fields the white hedgerows and copses stretched over the slopes and dips that had once been. The sky too was white. A million different shades of white.

“I meant when it thaws.”

“You promised.”

He had.

“I know. I can’t, not yet.”

“Why not?”

Couldn’t she see? He looked and felt like he had reached the final stage of cold turkey. He had seen it. He had taken Lenny there so often, had broken the body on the rack, had decanted the boiling oil, had played the Inquisitor, the Jailer, Judge and Executioner. Where was the book. He remembered. The old man. There were lines that would not fade. 

Blue walls screen my eyes and on the second landing I rest, pausing for the breath to return, working the persistent miracle. I make it to the door. I have seldom experienced such elation. Soon she will return to me, my Giselle, the hard edges of the words dissolving into the fibres of the page. Forgive me, my dear Ilya, but here, within these endpaper walls my life lies waiting.

Sarah began opening the floor level cupboards in the open kitchen.

“What are you looking for?”

“The crackers.”

“Don’t open the doors.”

She gave a little cry as the shotgun rattled onto the tiled floor and fell heavily across her toes.

“DON’T TOUCH IT!”

She jumped back in fright. Afraid of Trim and the gun.

“COME OVER HERE!”

Sarah edged toward Trim, toward the buzzing television, toward the safety of the big armchair. He had no idea how finely the firing mechanism on the shotgun had been set. He had simply loaded the barrels with the ammunition from the several boxes in the corner of the loft. He had first noticed the canvas and leather bag when Alan had shown him around the house. Sarah sat in the armchair, her legs up under her chin, a slow trickle of blood oozing from between two toes on her left foot.

“I want to go to Mummy.” she whimpered.

At last. Fear. Control. It begins.

“I told you. when the snow stops.”

(‘…when Hell freezes over Mister Wolf, when Hell freezes over…’)

“I want my Mummy.”

The King’s Head

“We must contact someone. There must be a way.”

“Hipwood’s got one of they old CB radios. His son has any road.”

“I’ll send one of the Jellyman boys over. Steve is a good friend of the Hipwoods. Goes hunting with them. They’ll let him use it.”

Amsterdam

Kramer was having problems making himself understood. The line was good, but the combination of his whispering voice and the stilted English was confusing the receptionist. Then an authoritative voice broke in.

“Inspector Kramer. Fellows, Scotland Yard. I was monitoring your call. It’s about the missing girl? I don’t understand.”

“I have just seen a video of the BBC broadcast. The photograph. This man. We believe he was involved in a murder.”

“Are you sure it’s the same man?”

“Almost positively. There had been an identification.”

“May I ask you for some details of the murder?”

“In December last year. An English man. His name was Farthing.”

“The soccer hooligans. They’re in prison now, aren’t they?”

“Yes, but certain facts have come to light since then.”

“Give me a moment or two and I’ll patch you through to the investigating officer on the case. He’s working from the area. give me your number.”

Kramer dictated the number slowly.

“Right. I’ve got that.” Fellows said.” Stay by the phone.”

While Kramer waited for the call, he ran the video through one more time. If this was Trim, then the waiter had been deadly accurate in his description. Five minutes later the telephone rang.

“Inspector Kramer? Detective Inspector Barnes here. The Yard put me on to you. Let’s hear what you have.”

Barnes listened incredulously to the wealth of information that had been accumulated over the weeks since the murder. When Kramer had finished, he thought for a moment.

“If this is the same man, and the coincidences are too much for us to quibble at this point in time, then he’s bloody dangerous.”

“I think that would be a correct assumption.”

“He’s been a devious bastard. god knows why he’s decided to go public now. I can’t tell you too much, but he seems to be known to the family.”

“I hope you find him soon.”

“Oh, we’ll catch him. If we can find him!”

“You will keep me informed?”

“What’s the weather like in Amsterdam?”

“A clear night. A little frost.”

“We can’t move for bloody snow here. It’s going to be a bugger of a job.”

“I’m sorry!”

And the line was dead. Kramer shrugged his shoulders in answers to the questions of the others in the viewing room. We’ll just have to wait for them to find him. Keep me posted, will you?”

Reports were coming in of a body found in a burned-out squat.

“Are you taking it? I feel like shit.” Kramer said. He took a handkerchief from his pocket and blew his nose very loudly.

“Look as though you should be in bed sir.”

“I was if you recall.” he whispered.

Stonehouse

“So she knows.” said Barnes coldly.

“We got through at last, but she heard it on the news.”

“You know she’s snowed in.”

“Of course I do.”

“Isn’t there something we can do? Shouldn’t she be helping us.”

“I’ll give it some thought.”

He had already been giving the matter a great deal of thought. He had experience of the Cotswold snows. Knew how deep and persistent it could be. This year rivalled Sixty Three, Forty Seven even.

“The army base. Is it still in use?”

“Babworth? Not for a few years, chief. Why?”

“I was thinking of some kind of air lift.”

“I think Babworth may have been closed since the war.”

“Check it out find out what’s available, where we can land, what we have on call. Let me know sharpish, and I could do with another tea, and…”

He caught the constable at the door.

“And another fag, if you can spare one.”

The constable was away for a long twenty minutes. He with a pot of tea and several mugs. And biscuits. He dropped a pile of newspapers in front of Barnes. One headline - blanket coverage.

“Well, it took some talking round - most of the choppers are on traffic duty - but they’ll let us have one in an hour. They’ll land in the park behind the Community Centre. Who will you need?

“How do you feel about flying?”

“Beam me up!”

The rotor blades cleared a wide circle of snow, leaving a surprising ring of green that looked like a full stop from two thousand feet. The noise was intolerable. Conversation was impossible. Barnes stared out of the window totally unprepared for the extent of the drifting that had blown across the county, bringing all traffic to a virtual standstill.

“HOW LONG BEFORE WE’RE THERE?” he shouted at the pilot.

The pilot strained to hear. Guessing at the question, he attempted a reply.

“ABOUT TWENTY MINUTES, SIR”

“WHAT?”

The pilot repeated the reply. The constable heard and tried top relay the message to Barnes.

“TWENTY MINUTES!”

“RIGHT. TIME FOR ANOTHER FAG!”

The constable pointed to the stickers that were plastered around the interior if the cabin; ‘NO SMOKING’

“Shit!” Barnes muttered. No one heard him. He pulled rolled up The Guardian from inside his coat and studied the faces before him.

The Cotswold Cottage

Sunday. Billy Cotton, The Clitheroe Kid, boiled cabbage and rabbit, tinned prunes and custard. Sing Something Simple. Sunday had once been like that. Trim watched the girl munching dry cornflakes from a bowl, numbed into a trance by the Astaire musical that was running. Sundays were so different now. Nothing could ever bring back the innocent tedium of those days. Touching down in Spain, all those years ago, there had been a hold up at the airport - industrial action of some kind - and the company had bussed its passengers out into the desert to a stuccoed one-story hotel. There had been Sangria at a deserted poolside, all very Hockney, the blue of the pool and the sky, the glare of the sun upon the arid earth beyond the low white walls, the mountains in the distance. The mood was shattered with a loud ‘WAKEY WAKEY!’ as someone, hidden from view, switched on the cassette deck in the office. ‘Somebody Stole My Gal’ echoed out across the pool, across the desert, replacing the low-key chic with knotted hankies and naughty postcard ladies, and the aroma of boiled cabbage. Sunday.

“What are we having to eat?”

“I don’t know.”

“We’re not having cabbage I hope.”

“No, we’re not having cabbage.”

“What then?”

“What do you want?”

“Chips!”

“All right. Chips.”

“And a egg and beans and sausages.”

“All right.” he said, feeling sick again.

“Are we going to be on the telly again?”

“I don’t know.”

“That picture. It didn’t look much like you.”

“No?”

“Nor did mine.”

The Husband or the Mother must have given the photograph to the police. He hated the photograph. It had been taken at their wedding anniversary party. The Mother had ordered an enlargement.

“When are we going to have dinner?”

“You’ve got something now.”

“This isn’t REAL dinner.”

The child was insatiable.

The migraine was beginning again. Panic held at bay by the sweet white powder. The locusts were gathering, ready to swarm. The low drone of their buzzing tickled in his eardrums, hammered at the pain.

“What’s that noise?” Sarah asked, running to the window to look. Trim watched her in disbelief.

“Oh look. It’s a helicopter!”

They were coming. He would rather it was the locust cloud.

“Oh, it’s going again.” she said, watching the police helicopter circle overhead, sweeping out of sight.

“You look funny again. Are you going to be sick?”

He could not reply.

“You didn’t have a cracker like I said.”

“No.” he forced out.

“Well then - it’s your own fault.”

The low drone began again. He looked out at the patch of sky that was visible, but there was nothing. Sarah resumed her position in the armchair, leaving Trim to his wings and throbbing pain.

The Helicopter

“WE CAN’T RISK THE FIELDS.”

“WHY NOT?”

“TOO MANY GULLIES.”

“WHERE WILL WE LAND THEN?”

“AT THE OLD BASE.”

“BUT THAT’S MILES AWAY.”

“IT’S NOT THAT FAR.”

“CAN’T YOU GET IN ANY CLOSER!”

“NO. LOOK, THERE’S THE VILLAGE.”

Barnes could just see the thin line of houses that made up the village. He was hoarse from the lack of cigarettes and the shouting.

“WHERE’S THE BASE?”

But the helicopter lurched and turned his stomach over. The constable looked green.

“ALL RIGHT, WHEELER?”

“NO I”M BLOODY NOT, SIR. I”LL BE GLAD WHEN WE”RE DOWN.”

There was room on the parade ground to land several craft. The snow flurried up around the helicopter, obscuring vision. The passengers could not see clearly until they were standing away from the machine, the rotors spinning to a halt.

“It’s like some kind of ghost town, chief.”

“It’s bloody weird.” said the pilot.

There was a wind that gusted through the boards of the barracks that howled with the cry of an animal in torment.

“Jesus, it’s creepy. Gives me the willies!” said Wheeler. Barnes looked around him at the deserted camp. Few of the windows could boast a pane of glass. Fixtures and fittings had been removed at the end of the Fifties, all the locks and handles, catches and bolts. That the walls still stood remained a mystery. The walls stood, their gutta-percha roofing in want of repair, allowing the snow to creep under the eaves to build icicle nests.

“When was this place closed down?”

“No idea, sir.” said the pilot.

“Great place to be sent for your holidays. It’s like bloody Siberia up here.”

“They used it as a prison. Hard labour. The lot.” Wheeler offered.

“Something we could do with. Soon cut down the crime rate!”

“You should suggest it to the commissioner, chief.”

“Yeah, I’ll put your name forward as guvnor, if you like.”

Barnes laughed.

“Pub’s this way, sir.” said the pilot.

“Now that’s the best news I’ve had all day!” said Barnes.

The journey to the King’s Arms was a heavy slog. It took thirty minutes of high stepping, the heavy wellingtons leaving deep holes in the snow. They approached the pub at its rear, climbing the low stone wall, rather than search for a gate. The warmth of the kitchen shimmered like a mirage around the back door, the snow having melted away in a jagged half-circle around the base of the wall. Barnes turned the door handle and let them in to the stifling heat.

“Whoa, that’s better!” said Wheeler, stamping his boots. Dot came steaming through from behind the bar, snorting through her flared nostrils like a prize bull.

“Whur you buggers spring from?” she bellowed.

“Ah, the King’s Arms, I presume?” said Barnes patronisingly.

“Presume what you bloody well like. What be you doin’ in my kitchen?”

“Sorry. Detective Inspector Barnes. We’ve come to see Mrs. Farthing.”

“Why didn’t you bloody say? Comin’ in the back way an’ all. Come on. Her be through here.”

Dot grabbed Barnes’ sleeve as though he were a wayward child. He could not resist, she was very strong. Wheeler and the pilot exchanged looks.

“Shame you’re spoken for, chief.” Wheeler laughed.

“Bugger off!” Barnes replied as he disappeared into the bar.

“It’s the law come fer Mrs. Farthing.” Dot announced to the empty bar.

“How do you get here in the snow?” The landlord asked from the door to the cellar.

We flew into the old base.” Barnes replied, freeing himself.

“What? That old place? Wouldn’t catch me up there.” he said.

“Why not?”

“Haunted ennit.” said Dot.

Barnes looked at the pilot. The pilot smiled and said;

“That’s what the locals say, sir. Didn’t I tell you?”

“No you didn’t!”

“I thought it was creepy, chief.” said Wheeler.

Alan had watched the men trudging across the fields. He had assumed them to be the Hipwoods. This was a miracle.

“Are you gentlemen from the Police? Did I hear right?”

“And you are?” asked Barnes.

“Alan Bellamy. I’m with Mrs. Farthing.”

He did not elaborate. Barnes was already familiar with his name.

“How long have you been stuck up here?”

“Since Friday. We heard the news. How did you get here?”

“Flew in with the chopper. How is she?”

“Not good. You know that she lost her husband recently?”

“Yes. Bad business. Where is she now?”

“She’s lying down. She’s in a state of shock. This has been the most awful blow. She was only just beginning to come through the death of her husband.”

“We think that we should get her out of here. We need her help.”

The landlord brought two tumblers over to the group, filled generously with Scotch. Dot thundered in with the tea. The Scotch brought life back to Barnes’ voice, raised it from the hoarse whisper to its normal pitch. The hollering journey had hurt.

“Can you really get us out?”

“I’m not sure about you, sir.” said Barnes. He looked at the pilot who was braving Dot’s tea.” Have we got room for two?”

The pilot looked Alan over, judging his weight. Dot would have been disqualified.

“Shouldn’t be any problem.”

Alan allowed himself a sigh of relief.

“Shall I see if Becky - if Mrs. Farthing is up to talking?”

“Good idea. Don’t rush her, but we should make tracks as soon as we can.”

“I know.”

Becky was sitting in front of the dressing table mirror. She was applying light touches of make-up to her tired face.

“I heard you talking.” she said, without looking round.” Can they really get us out of here? Do they know where Sarah is?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think so.”

He had seen her this close to grief before, at the other side. The future was uncertain.

“I’m going to be able to come too.”

“I wouldn’t want to go without you.”

“I wasn’t sure.”

He placed his hands upon her shoulders and she tilted her head slightly, enough to caress a hand with her hair.

“Let’s go down.”