Chapter Thirty-Nine
Des McAlister zapped the TV off with the remote and sat staring at a blank screen. As bedtime approached, the seriousness of his predicament intensified. Two of his old comrades had been killed in bed. Just how safe would he be, with Magee and his men patrolling outside? It was the thought of his wife and kids being attacked, as well, that made the burden of keeping quiet his dreadful secret almost unbearable.
‘You know something, dear?’ Amy McAlister ventured. ‘I’m almost glad of this security alert. We haven’t seen so much of you during the evening for years.’
Des McAlister smiled falsely at his wife. Inside, he was a bag of nerves. ‘This time, Amy, it really is very serious. More so than ever before.’
‘We overcame the problems before, dear. I daresay we’ll do so now.’
‘I’m not so sure,’ McAlister muttered. ‘Look, Amy, if anything happens to me, let the kids know I love them won’t you?’
‘Oh, Des!’ his wife cried. ‘Don’t speak like that!’
McAlister fidgeted with the TV remote. ‘I’m sorry, Amy. I just have a bad feeling in my bones, that’s all.’
‘Well I don’t, but you’ve upset me now.’ Amy McAlister rose from her chair. ‘Look, I’m going to bed. I’ll read for half an hour or so. Join me when you’re in a more positive mood.’
Des McAlister nodded and leant back in his chair to contemplate matters. Theft and murder. Of those, he was guilty. How was he to explain them to Amy and the kids after all these years? Should he even bother? Why not let the inevitable happen? At least death would bring salvation. No awkward questions, no recriminations, no looks of astonishment. There again, it would leave the kids with no father. Could he do that to them? Which scenario was worse? He closed his eyes. Please God, give me one last chance to redeem myself.
As if in response to his prayer, the telephone rang. He grabbed at it.
‘Good evening,’ the caller spoke in a muffled tone. ‘Is that Des McAlister?’
‘Speaking. Who is this?’
‘Sorry, the line’s bad,’ the muffled voice continued. ‘I’m in a public phone booth, I can hardly hear you. Hang on, I’ll just give it a whack. There! Can you hear me better?’
‘Yes, a little better, but it’s rather crackly. Look, who is this?’
‘It’s Nick. Nick Price. Do you remember me? It's been a long time since your days in Lucy’s Tiger Den, hasn’t it?’
‘Nick Price? Yes, of course I remember you. Dear God, I haven’t heard Lucy’s Tiger Den mentioned in years.’
‘Great days, weren’t they? Look, sorry, but there’s no time for social pleasantries. You're aware of the recent murders, aren't you?’
‘Yes, I am. Chief Inspector Magee has warned me about the problem.’
‘What are you planning to do about it?’
‘Well, nothing, really. Magee has my house under surveillance. What more can I do?’
‘You can fight back, for one thing.’
‘No. No more fighting, Nick. Enough is enough.’
‘We can stop him. We must silence him ourselves.’
‘Kill him you mean?’
‘No, not necessarily.’
‘What then?’
‘Did Magee tell you about his suspicions, that the killer is a Thai person?’
‘He mentioned the possibility. Why?’
‘Well, did Magee also tell you that the Thai Ambassador is keen to catch the killer, if he is Thai, and send him back to Bangkok? That way, there’ll be no trial in this country. If anything, there’ll just be a secret trial in Thailand. No one will ever know what's happened.’
‘But how could that be achieved? How can the Ambassador catch him?’
‘Well, we need to set a trap, and we need your help to pull it off. You're his next victim and we need you to draw him out into the open. You won't have to fight, Des, I promise you that. I'll do any fighting that’s necessary along with the help of the Ambassador’s staff. You see, the killer’s an embarrassment to the Ambassador. I've been talking to him myself tonight and he explained everything. All we have to do is bring the killer into the open. There will be no court case, no media exposure, life will go on as normal. Do you understand that, Des? You won't have to fight in any way whatsoever.’
‘What about the police?’
‘There’s no danger that the police will be involved either, we’re doing this without Magee’s knowledge.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes really, Des. Do you like the sound of it so far?’
‘Of course I do, Nick. My god, if only it were possible. Please, let's do it.’
‘Good man, Des. Right. There’s a small element of risk though, but I’m sure you’ll agree it's worth taking. We have to set you up as bait. A bit like tying up a goat to a tree to catch a tiger, I'm afraid, but there's no other way. There's a small park at the bottom of your road with a war memorial in the centre. Do you know it?’
‘Yes indeed. I often jog past there on the way over to Hyde Park.’
‘Good. We reckon the killer is watching your house. He's just waiting for the right time to strike. We want you to lead him to the war memorial where we’ll be hiding in the bushes. Do you understand?’
‘Yes, I understand.’ McAlister was aware that he’d begun to shake.
‘I'm phoning from near the park right now and four of the Ambassador’s staff are getting into place at this very moment. I want you to slip out of the back door, make your way along the alleyway and down to the park. We’ve seen a couple of policemen down that way, but they're in hiding and won't have time to react if you run past fast enough.’
‘I’m fit, I can do it!’
‘Course you can, Des. There’s just one small problem though. There's a police officer stationed near your back gate. You'll have to think of a way to distract his attention. He'll be expecting someone to break in, not out, so you should have an advantage over him.’
‘And the killer?’
‘He should be nearby, probably hiding in a neighbouring road waiting for his spies to tell him what's going on. They'll spot you and tell him. You should have a couple of minutes spare at least.’
‘When do we go?’
‘No time like the present, Des. Don't think about it, just do it okay? Go now!’
‘Right. I will. Right now.’
‘Good. We're all here waiting for you, Des.’
McAlister replaced the receiver and breathed deep. This was it. The opportunity he’d prayed for, the one last chance he’d desperately sought. Good old Nick Price; a man of action, a man to depend on. Everything would be all right now, he said to himself as he grabbed a coat out of the under-stairs cupboard and walked into the kitchen.
‘What are you doing, dear?’ Amy asked as she poured herself a mug of hot chocolate.
‘I'm not tired, dear. I thought I'd go out and chat with the police. They must be terribly bored. I might even make them a cup of tea. Anyway, I could do with a breath of fresh air.’
‘What about the terrorist threat, dear?’
McAlister laughed at his wife's suggestion. ‘As you said earlier, it's just a threat. We’ll get through it.’
‘Well don't be too long, will you? You know I can't sleep if you're not in the house.’
‘Half an hour at the outside, I promise. Okay?’
‘Okay then. See you later. Turn the lights out, will you?’
‘Sure,’ McAlister said as he slipped out the back door.
Des McAlister's house was a Georgian terraced town house with a long walled garden and a service pathway at the back. He sneaked down the flagstone path he had laid himself many years ago, knowing precisely where to tread so as not to make the slightest noise. He soon reached the back gate and stood staring at it and the seven foot high wall running the length of his garden. He bit his lip, stifling a curse; he hadn’t oiled the gate recently. He knew the rusty hinges would make enough noise to wake the entire neighbourhood.
&nbs
p; There was no alternative. He had to go over the top in order to avoid catching the attention of the officer on the other side. Shaking his head in dismay, he removed an old chimney pot from the rhubarb patch and placed it near the wall. With one hand grabbing the top of the wall, he eased himself up onto the pot. Gingerly, he peered over the top, withdrawing immediately when he saw a police officer squatting on his haunches just a few feet away.
McAlister stepped back down on to the lawn trying to think of a solution. The only idea that occurred to him was a bit too violent for his liking, but time was running out. He had no other option. He crept over to the garden shed and picked up one of the two dozen sandbags he’d bought in a panic after the great storm three years earlier. He went back to the wall carrying the sandbag, shifted the chimney pot two feet to the right, took a deep breath and climbed back on top of the pot. The officer was still there, seemingly oblivious to his antics.
McAlister gripped the sandbag in his right hand, held the top of the wall with his left, leant slightly over and swung the sandbag down from the side. The bag arced and slammed into the side of the unsuspecting officer's head. The hunched man keeled over. Stunned, McAlister hoped, rather than dead. Unfortunately, there wasn't time for him to stop and find out. He jumped down from his chimney pot, opened the gate and turned towards the park and his salvation.
McAlister came across no one during his mad dash, and within three minutes found himself in the centre of the park, his back to the war memorial statue, trying to make out shadows in the dark.
‘Nick?’ McAlister hissed. ‘Nick, where are you?’
A bush rustled less than thirty feet away and a figure crept out in a crouching position.
‘Over here!’ The kneeling man hissed back.
‘Jesus, Nick, I'm scared shitless.’
‘That's okay,’ the crouching man whispered back. ‘I understand. We're all around you.’
‘Are you armed?’
‘Yes, we are. Why?’
‘I could do with a gun. I feel so vulnerable.’
‘Are you sure? I didn’t think you liked guns.’
‘I’ll make an exception in this case.’
‘Well, okay, just a second, I’ll come over.’ The crouching man withdrew into the bush and re-emerged clutching a bag. He jogged over to McAlister in a bent position, keeping his head down. Then he stood up quickly and, with a violent swing of his arm, hit McAlister on the side of his head with a cosh. McAlister flopped to the ground unconscious.