Death in July (16 page)

Both vehicles flew through the red lights.

A split second later, they were across the junction, unscathed and hitting open road. Sam eased off the accelerator a touch and started breathing again. He watched the fire engine pull away, then glanced in his mirror. A row of stationary vehicles stared back at him, their drivers waiting for the lights to change. The Bentley would be further back, too deep in traffic now to catch him up. He searched in the mirror and nodded in satisfaction.

No cameras. No police.

That had been lucky.

***

Sam couldn't afford to dither. No doubt some upstanding citizen was on the phone right now to the authorities reporting a maniac running a red light. He drove on at a steady speed, heading for the top end of the beach, where the sand and sunbathers gave way to fishermen and their sailing vessels. Arriving at his destination, he tucked the Capri away at the very back of a large, unmanned car park overlooking the water's edge, almost full to the brim with vehicles. Then he crossed the road briskly and started searching the shallow water for Denny's boat.

Sam and Denny had met in rather unconventional fashion during Sam's first night in Newgate. Sam was asleep in the back of his car, parked up opposite the beach, worn out from the day's long drive, when someone rapped on the Capri's window and woke him from his slumber. An old man wearing a peaked sailors cap and a long black beard had his face pressed up against the car window, peering in at Sam. Denny Berner looked like a salty old seadog. Smelt like one, too. He even sounded like one when he opened his mouth to ask Sam why he was roughing it in his car that unseasonably chilly night. Tired, disorientated and staring back at a character straight out of a pirate movie, Sam told the old man to mind his own business. Denny had shrugged easily, unfazed by the rejection, telling Sam he was welcome to crash down in his boat any time. Sam had groaned and gone back to sleep, wondering how many such characters populated Newgate.

He forgot about the old sailor boy until a few days later when he was walking along the concourse at the top of the beach, gazing at the assortment of yachts, boats and tugs. A shout caught his attention, and there was Denny, waving to him from aboard a moored boat, pipe in mouth, resplendent in his sailors jacket and cap. Sam rolled his eyes and went over.

Denny was not your typical boat owner. For starters, he never left the shore. Too dangerous, he told Sam as the two men bonded that day over a bottle of rum. The notion of falling overboard, never to be found in some vast body of water, troubled him too much to part from land. Sam laughed and asked what was the point in having a sailing vessel. Denny was unabashed, telling Sam how much he enjoyed the peace and quiet down here, explaining how the motion of a boat swaying on gentle waves soothed him, how he found the sound of water splashing playfully against the hull most relaxing. Sam had told him it was each to their own and helped himself to another shot of rum.

Sam spotted the small boat up ahead, tied up, bobbing up and down gently on the tide. Painted in small white letters along the black hull was the imaginative epithet,
Blackbeard.
Sam walked on to the vessel, calling out Denny's name. No answer. With no-one on deck, he popped his head inside the modest cabin and found it empty. Emitting a long sigh, he flopped down on one of the bunks. There he lay for some minutes, staring up at the cabin ceiling, relishing the brief isolation, welcoming the cool shade and slight sea breeze.

Trying to make head or tail of the clues he had.

Sam swung his legs around, stood up and delved into his pocket, pulling out the list of names and the army photograph. Sitting back down, he studied the piece of paper found at the cemetery, then gazed at the picture. All five men sitting on that tank were now dead. Sam tallied up the names with the years they passed away.

George Howell. 1992.

Billy Dunker. 2009.

Henry Burton. 2010.

William Pearce. 2011.

Geoffrey Compton. 2013.

Sam could see no discernible pattern. Erica Wright's recent death only clouded the issue further. Sam considered the causes of death. Apart from George Howell's end in a pile-up, the rest were all highly questionable. A fire, two falls, a suicide and, most likely, a terror-induced heart attack.

Sam realised how cunning the perpetrator of these crimes had been. These were elderly people, well into their eighties, more susceptible to losing their balance and falling, more inclined to forget a burning cigarette. The investigations would have asked less questions because of the victim's ages. All the evidence pointed to a fatal accident, a sudden heart failure, a tragic taking of one's own life. Death was expected of these people. The only debate was how they went.

Suddenly, footsteps were coming on to the boat. Sam looked around the tiny cabin. He had nowhere to go. The porthole wasn't large enough to precipitate an escape. There was nowhere to hide. He swept his bits of paper up and stuffed them back in his pocket.

He had no choice but to charge the door, catch whoever was on the other side flat-footed, give himself time to get to his car.

He got to his feet and stared at the door. The handle was turning. As the door started to open outwards, Sam rushed forward and hit it hard with his shoulder. He heard it crunch into someone's face, sending the person flying backwards onto the deck. Sam's momentum carried him past the fallen newcomer, who was moaning in pain, hands over his face.

'What did you do that for, Sam?'

Sam was almost off the boat, about to flee across the road to his car, when he stopped. He recognised that voice. Looking back, he saw the stricken figure on the deck checking his hands for blood.

Denny.

***

'I think I need something to calm my nerves down.'

Sam smiled and dug out a bottle of rum from the cabinet. He started pouring into two glasses.

'Better make mine a double,' added Denny. 'I've had a bad scare.'

Sam passed him a glass. He looked at the red blotch on the end of Denny's nose where the door had connected. Fortunately, the peak of his cap had taken the brunt of the collision. That lay damaged on the bed, thrown there by Denny in disgust.

'Sorry about that, mate,' said Sam. 'I thought you were somebody else.'

Denny took a hearty gulp of rum. His mood improved immediately.

'Well, I'm pleased to hear you didn't attack me on purpose,' he grinned, holding out the glass, watching Sam fill it back up. 'Who did you think I was?'

Sam eyed Denny as both men slugged their drinks back. Denny knew the town and, like Archie, he knew when to keep his mouth shut.

'I've been tracking some people down. The trouble is somebody's trying to stop me. I thought it was them coming on to the boat...'

Denny shook his head, bewildered. Sam handed him the photo of the men on the tank.

'They're all from in or just outside the Newgate area. Do you recognise any of them?'

Denny studied the picture, scratching thoughtfully on his lengthy beard. Frowning, he got up and fetched a magnifying glass out of the cabin's single drawer.

'Eyesight's not as good as it used to be,' he told Sam, sitting back down to peer through the piece of glass.

Sam waited as Denny examined the picture once more.

'Have you found any of these people?' Denny asked, squinting hard.

'Yes,' replied Sam.

'Oh?'

'They're all dead.'

'Oh.'

Denny dropped the magnifying glass onto the bed.

'Well, I can't say I recognise any of them. Then again, I haven't lived my whole life here.'

Sam sighed. That missing link was still tantalisingly out of reach.

'Where was this picture taken?' asked Denny. 'Second World War, I presume?'

Sam nodded.

'France, as far as I know.'

'I wonder what that writing is on the bottom. I guess-'

'What writing?'

Denny picked up the magnifying glass and passed it to Sam along with the photo. Sam studied the picture and saw the writing Denny was talking about. It was thin, spidery and light, as though pencil had been used, or the words had faded in time. Sam's problem was he was looking at a printed photograph of the original picture. The quality was nowhere near as good. He needed to view a clearer version.

Sam moved the glass even closer to the picture in an attempt to decipher the writing. He thought he could make out the word
July
. The writing that preceded it was unfathomable.

He repeated the single word over and over in his mind.

July.

Geoffrey had died the week before, on the fourth of July. Erica had passed away in the same month. Sam recalled the press coverage of George Howell's funeral. That had taken place in September. Again, that didn't fit. However, Sam was convinced the writing on the photo had some relevance.

'Yeah, July. That's what I thought...'

Denny's words snapped Sam out of his haze. He didn't realise he had spoken out loud. Denny was looking at him studiously, throwing himself into Sam's mystery.

'It could be the date the picture was taken,' he suggested, his drawl sightly more urgent.

Sam shook his head.

'There's no writing after the word July, only before. If it was the date, there would be writing afterwards as well to show the year. Month, date, year.'

Sam bent down and looked out the porthole. The weather was still fine, not a cloud in sight. It was time to move on again.

Only he couldn't go anywhere yet. Two men in suits were walking along the concourse, having passed the boat. Sam had seen the same two men from behind very recently.

In the car park.

Getting out of the Bentley.

Sam watched as they met up with two other suited men. All four stood and chatted, lighting up cigarettes between them, gazing up and down the concourse. They looked in no rush to go anywhere.

He was trapped on the boat.

Sam ducked out of view and leaned back against the cabin wall. Denny couldn't miss his look of alarm.

'What's the matter?' he asked. 'You look like you've seen a-'

He brushed past Sam and peeked out the porthole himself.

'The suits?'

Sam nodded grimly.

'Well, they can't come onto people's boats. They're classed as private property.'

'I don't think that would stop them, not if they knew which one I was on.'

'Well, you'll just have to sit it out then,' shrugged Denny. 'They can't wait out there all day.'

Sam believed they could, and would, if they were certain he was close by. They must have found his car. Sam found himself both cursing and admiring their persistence.

'Come on, Sam,' said Denny, reaching for the bottle of rum. 'If we're going to be stuck here a while, we might as well make the most of it.'

Sam didn't reply. He was weighing up his limited options. Denny could be right. The men outside might pack up and go away shortly. Then again, they might not. He couldn't afford to hang around finding out. The gut feeling that time wasn't on his side was getting stronger by the minute.

Denny put the bottle back down, looked at Sam and sighed.

'You need to get out of here now, don't you?'

Sam nodded.

'Wait there,' Denny instructed, leaving the cabin. Seconds later, Sam heard the boat's engine explode into life. Sam went to the cabin door and pushed it open ever so slightly. Through the gap, he could see Denny at the steering wheel, one hand resting on it, the other holding a phone to his ear.

'Seymour, I know I've never moved the blasted thing before, but it's about time I did.'

Silence. Sam watched in morbid fascination. Was Denny seriously contemplating a first excursion in the boat? It sounded like it.

'Okay, I'm glad you've come round to my way of thinking. Now, how do I get to your place?'

Sam groaned.

'Denny!' he hissed through the doorway. 'You can't! You've had half a dozen drinks, and you've never-'

Denny brushed him off with a dismissive wave. Suddenly, Sam had to pull the door shut. The four men were on the move again, resuming their patrol of the concourse. Two were approaching Denny's boat. Sam watched out the porthole, waiting for them to re-appear. When they passed by the boat, he nudged the cabin door open again. As he did, the boat jolted and began moving, its engine ticking over loudly, the smell of diesel strong in the air.

'Denny!'

Sam couldn't believe what he was seeing. Denny had a pair of sunglasses on, a glass of rum in his hand, and his phone trapped under his chin. He turned to Sam, smiled broadly and gave him a thumbs-up. Then he spoke back into the phone.

'Right, Seymour. What do I do now?'

Sam rolled his eyes.

***

Miraculously, Denny negotiated the boat safely out to open water, taking advice from the anonymous Seymour in one ear and Sam in the other. Sam had picked up the basics from a couple of hairy undercover operations involving fast boats and drug smugglers.

Once the shore was out of sight, Sam climbed up on deck and took over at the wheel. The rum was just starting to hit Denny. He grinned at Sam, who couldn't help a smile of his own.

'Sam, I did it!'

'Yeah, and you won't remember a thing about it tomorrow,' laughed Sam.

Twenty minutes later, they steered the boat into a tiny harbour containing several moored vessels, all noticeably larger and finer than the one they had travelled in. An affluent neighbourhood overlooked the jetty, a hilly suburb dotted with huge mansions and expensive sports cars. Sam recognised the area. He wasn't far from Benjamin's place.

Sam conceded he would have to leave his own car where it was for now. Not having wheels was going to slow him down. His original intention had been to go back to the flat, connect his camera to the computer and look at the photo on the screen. Then a thought struck him.

Why not look at the actual original?

***

Sam got the cab to drop him a street away from Benjamin's bungalow. He wanted to approach with caution even though he was using the back route. Once again, he jumped over the fence into Benjamin's garden and scuttled up to the back door. This time Benjamin hadn't left the kitchen window open. Sam checked his pockets and swore softly. He had left his cutting tool back at the flat.

Drastic measures were needed.

If Sam felt guilty at trespassing on Benjamin's property last time, it was nothing to how he felt now as he jabbed at the window pane with a small rock. The glass cracked, creating a spider's web all the way up the pane. Moving fast, he deftly pulled the shards out until there was a gap big enough to climb through.

He scrambled into the kitchen, jumped down onto the floor and whispered a quiet apology.

'Sorry, Benjamin.'

Then he was off, finding the personal items from Geoffrey's cottage in exactly the same place he had left them. He extracted the photo and gazed at the bottom of it. The writing was a lot clearer.

14 July
.

A date without a year?

That made no sense to Sam. Such historic memorabilia should have been dated fully, marking the moment in time properly for posterity. Sam flipped the picture over in his hand absent-mindedly and gazed around the room, considering whether the date in July made any difference now. Apparently, it didn't.

He looked down, dejected.

Writing.

On the back of the photo.

The same spidery writing as on the front.

Another list.

Five entries, each containing a single letter followed by a date.

G 23 September 1992

B 14 July 2009

H 14 July 2010

W 14 July 2011

G 14 July 2012

Sam compared it to the list of names he had deciphered. George Howell, Billy Dunker, Henry Burton, William Pearce, Geoffrey Compton.

The first initial of their names matched.

Sam blew out his cheeks.

He had it. Sam finally had the pattern.

Other pieces began to fall into the place.

George Howell's death had been an accident. A multiple pile-up of that magnitude couldn't have been arranged. Therefore, for all intents and purposes, he was not part of the list. He may have been targeted if he had lived longer, but for some reason, this macabre hit list was only activated four years ago.

Three or four years.

That's how long Barry Rogers had been receiving junk mail from Lexbury Car Rental. The man killing these people was renting a car each year to carry out his gruesome task. He had started his mission in 2009. His first target, George Howell, was already dead, so he turned his attention to Billy Dunker. Pushed him down the stairs. Then, the following year, he set fire to Henry Burton's home. The year after that, he caused William Pearce's fatal fall. Then, last year, he tried to kill Geoffrey Compton.

Sam loaded up the internet on his phone and checked the date Geoffrey had been attacked.

14 July.

Sam was sure if he checked the dates of the previous three deaths, they would all be the same.

These people had been murdered on the same date in consecutive years. Picked off one by one to mark some mysterious anniversary.

But why that particular date?

Sam was struck by something so powerful, so simple.

What was today's date?

He looked at his watch.

14 July.

He felt his pulse quicken. He had been right. The killer had been hanging around for a reason.

Somebody else was due to die today.