Final Toll Page 9

  Cropper had the line rigged within minutes. Jeff slipped the loop under Chris’s arms and gave it a sharp tug, as if making a promise. There was still no sign of Colin.

  “So, let’s go Cropper. You and the doctor. You got your gas bottles?”

  Cropper made a gesture of lifting the two small gas bottles — not more than a foot long, clanking together, one black, one red. The plank was just about wide enough, so Cropper wedged the bottles together and held his outfit on his knees, Chris held his bag on his. He took a deep breath, feeling the blood run from his cheeks. Then they were away.

  The chair felt much more steady. Chris decided it was the extra weight, though every now and again he would reach for the certainty of his lifeline. The rain continued, and the wind remained slight. As he watched the cab approach, the terror he had had for himself was gradually replaced by the fear he felt for Johnny.

  “Sit tight,” he said, as they came opposite the cab. “Signal them up a bit. I’ve got to check how he is, before we do anything.”

  The chair rose a foot. That seemed fine. No need for perching on his toes, and he knew where he’d left Johnny’s wrist. As he reached down and found it, he realised with a sinking heart that it proved Johnny had not moved.

  Johnny’s pulse was weak but even, his skin clammy. Before they went any further, Chris was determined to get some antibiotic into him, and tried desperately to get far enough inside to reach his chest with the stethoscope.

  “You come outa there,” said Cropper suddenly. “It don’t sound good.”

  Chris remained very still for a few moments. Cropper was right. There had been a change in the bridge’s note of protest, a deeper groan from the metal. And he’d been a foot short of Johnny’s chest.

  “Then be quiet,” he said.

  But listening didn’t help. He couldn’t hear Johnny’s breathing for the roar of the river, and now, reaching for silence, it seemed to him that the bridge’s complaints were louder than ever.

  He gave it up, lowered himself to the seat, and prepared a couple of syringes.

  “What you doin’?” Cropper asked. He seemed uneasy.

  “Two injections first. Antibiotic and painkiller. It’s a risk, giving him painkiller, because I haven’t been able to check his respiration. But he’s got to have it. Then I’ll get a drip going. That’s going to be the most difficult.”

  “And this part ain’t?”

  Chris looked at him. Cropper was watching Chris’s hands, which were shaking. “It’s all right,” Chris said, but Cropper shook his head, and for a moment looked back to the solid comfort of the cliffs.

  “The wagon would come down on top of us,” he said dully. It was no more than a comment, something for Chris to bear in mind.

  He got to his feet, giving Cropper one of the syringes. “Hand it up when I say.”

  He had done it before. Practice makes perfect. One needle in, toss the syringe away, reach down for Cropper’s — water pouring from Cropper’s face, his eyes slits — then the other in. There was no time for hygiene, and anyway, from the smell, he knew there could be something worse to come.

  The drip was terrible to get in. It isn’t easy to get a drip going, even with modern equipment, quietly beside a hospital bed. You have to find a vein, slip the tube in accurately, withdraw the metal liner and leave the plastic tube in place, and rig up the drip so that there are no bubbles in it, nothing to interrupt the flow, with the whole thing adjusted to one drip a second. Chris was using a saline-dextrose base, hoping it would last four hours without any tissuing.

  There was no alternative but to get both shoulders inside and use both hands, and it had to be taped in position when he had it working. Time slid away. Cropper was protesting weakly all the while, and indistinct mumble of the loudhailer was going mad. But Jeff didn’t have to do it, and somebody had to, and in the end he was back on his feet on the chairlift, with only the plastic bottle to support.

  He hooked the bottle to the rim around the top edge of the cab, pleased, nearly satisfied, and aware that he had one thing he could replace over and over. Or so he thought at the time.

  As he sat down, Cropper whipped the rain from his face with one hand. “You going to do that every time?”

  “That or something like it.”

  “Can you do it on your own?”

  “Better with a good weight like you, Cropper, holding it steady.” Chris tried to grin, but his face ached.

  “Why d’you have to say things like that?” Cropper grumbled.

  “Now,” Chris said, “let’s get on. Time for your bit. About there, I’d say.”

  With his head inside, he’d been able to associate the position of Johnny’s feet with the bodywork. He indicated a square in the metal immediately in front of the door. Rainwater was pouring over it.

  Cropper’s head was close to his. “How far is his foot?” he asked, his eyes moving. “Behind this lot, I mean.”

  “Three inches. Six, perhaps.”

  “But I can’t...” Cropper started again. “Don’t you know how far this flame goes?”

  “I’ll get up there with my torch and I’ll guide the flame inside. Tell you up and down and so on. Okay?” Cropper looked doubtful. “If you say so.”

  “I’ve got to get a good look at that foot.”

  Cropper nodded. Chris got to his feet. When he glanced down, Cropper was on his knees, the flame going. He reached inside with the hand torch, his head in. The flame struck through, and he saw exactly what Cropper had meant, as it had shot out only inches from the leg, spottles of molten metal flying with it.

  “A bit to your right,” he called quickly.

  And so on. It was painfully slow. They had to keep breaking off, and Cropper’s face was red with strain and heat. They had nearly finished when Chris heard a snap of metal, as though something had broken. It seemed to come from close to his head. He levered his head out of the cab, and looked.

  There was a small, round hole six inches from the drip bottle. There was a plucked hole in the shoulder of his anorak, the wadding pulled out. He stared at it, not understanding. Then it happened again, a foot farther away, and suddenly and appallingly he knew. Somebody was shooting at them.

  The blood hit the top of his head with a smack, and his eyes went out of focus. He wanted to scream, but Cropper was on the last cut. He couldn’t stop him now, didn’t dare to let anyone know. There’d be panic...

  He got down quickly to his knees. The square plate was coming out. Anxious to be away from there, he reached out to bend it free, but Cropper slapped his hand away. Chris saw he was wearing thick, rubberised gloves. Cropper lifted the piece out and tossed it away. He seemed to be taking an eternity, and the flesh crawled up Chris’s back.

  He lowered his head, the flame-cutter hissing beside his ear, and tried to forget the shots and the delicate balance of the bridge, and his own fear. The foot was crushed, bone showing through the flesh. A shaft of cast iron seemed to be piercing the side of Johnny’s boot. The visible flesh was dark, the smell putrescent. There was nothing he could do. In all that mess, nothing.

  “We’ll have to get back,” he croaked.

  “Let me see.”

  “No. It’s bad. We haven’t got much time. Signal us in.”

  They were brought in slowly. Chris was shaking, the tension flowing from him. Every yard was drawn-out agony. He staggered onto the cliff surface, and it was Marson who was there with the loudhailer, looking grim

  “You’ve got to hurry, Colin,” Chris said, still not certain whom he should tell about the shots. “He’s bad, really bad.”

  “If you say so.” Marson sounded dull.

  “Get your stuff rigged,” Chris told him. “Get your crane here.”

  Marson turned away, giving a shout to the air. “I want you, Jeff.”

  Grey was at Chris’s elbow, looking grave, though somehow excited, and his eyes were on the plucked tear in the anorak.

  “You’ve got to keep him alive.” It wa
s a flat instruction.

  “I’m trying.”

  Then Chris looked at Grey as if for the first time. He was strange. No doubt he’d been there, at the cliff, for twelve solid hours. The exhaustion was showing, breaking him down. But his last remark had not been pure routine or duty. There had been a personal ring to it, as though the outcome had become intensely important to him.

  “Alive,” Chris agreed. “For you?”

  Grey took his arm and led him aside. “D’you know what I thought I heard? Shots. Ridiculous, I know. Perhaps I’m feeling the strain too.” His finger reached out, and he gently flicked the protruding padding on Chris’s shoulder. “Perhaps not, though.”

  Chris took a breath, looking round for somewhere to sit. “I’ve been shot at,” he said, his voice shaking.

  “Does anyone else know?” Grey asked, dipping his head and peering at him under the peak.

  “I’m reporting it to you. For God’s sake, man, shot at!”

  “Not at you, doctor. Nothing personal, I’m sure. He was probably aiming at the drip bottle.” Grey was calm — unbelievably calm. It was the calmness of contained triumph.

  “He?” Chris demanded. “You know him?”

  “Calm down. Don’t make a scene.” Grey put a hand to his elbow. “Here, you’d better sit down. Let’s get in the Land-rover.”

  Chris did as Grey suggested, but shook his hand off. “What the hell’s going on?”

  Grey was in the driver’s seat, the skirts of his mac pulled up. He took off his cap and looked down at it. His voice was very quiet. “I don’t know who he is. I’ve been waiting for four years to find out. Patience, that’s what makes a good policeman. And now — this is going to bring him to me, make him show himself. The moment I found out what was on that truck, I was ready for him. And when I heard the name of Johnny Parfitt, I knew I was close.”

  Reaching for a cigarette, Chris glanced at him uneasily. “That bullet was close,” he said quietly.

  “And so was the business with the winch slipping.”

  “You mean it was the same...?”

  Grey was nodding.

  “You said nothing bloody personal!” Chris shouted. “Keep your voice down. I’ll explain. That Johnny Parfitt was involved in a hijack, just over four years ago. He was driving a wagon-load of whisky. Six tons of it. Whisky, you see. That hijack. Parfitt was driving the wagon, and he chose to take a lonely road. He was in with them, of course, and I suppose the idea was to tap him on the head to make it look genuine. But it wasn’t the sort of road for a wagon. One of our patrol cars noticed it and followed, just curious you understand. But they saw that tap on the head, and they went in. The wagon got away, with a man standing on the back of the load. The patrol car stopped to pick up Parfitt, then they went in pursuit.”

  It sounded to Chris like an official report.

  “The co-driver in the patrol car said later that they could’ve been doing sixty. There was no chance of getting past on that narrow road, so they were hustling the wagon, trying to force them into error. And all the time that jeering devil on the back .

  “He picked up a crate of scotch and hurled it at the car’s windscreen. You can imagine what that did, at sixty. Parfitt and the co-driver got a period in hospital. The driver was killed. Parfitt would never reveal the identity of the man on the wagon, and yet he must have known him. No amount of...”

  “Pressure?” Chris suggested, as Grey tried to find the word.

  “Interrogation,” Grey corrected severely. “Nothing we could do would persuade him. He went on trial for complicity to manslaughter, and got seven years. So now he’s out, with remission, and he’s in that wagon out there. When I knew who he was, I had the vague idea that he’d been taking this wagon to the same man.”

  “Would he do that?” asked Chris. “He’d hardly consider him a friend.”

  “You’re quite right. Just as I reasoned it. But then, I thought, when we get him out, then he’ll be ready to give us a name.”

  “I don’t see that.” Chris was short with him. Grey’s objective didn’t appeal. “Why should he, when he wouldn’t before?”

  “Having served his sentence, maybe...no, I don’t think he will either. But, clearly, that’s what my man thinks, and that’s all that matters. Look at it, and see what’s happened. The media, the TV people, the radio — for once in their narrow, sordid lives they’ve done some good. Somewhere, listening to the news, our character from the whisky wagon has heard that Johnny Parfitt is here, trapped, and in the circumstances likely to reveal his name. If we get him out alive. So, he’s come to me. I don’t have to search him out, he’s coming to me. At first — the winch — I had a thought, a hope that it could be him. But now — the shots — damn it, it must be him. He daren’t allow me to rescue Parfitt alive.”

  Chris noted sourly that it was Grey who was doing the rescuing.

  “You mean,” suggested Chris, “dare not allow me to keep him alive?”

  “You mustn’t think that. Purely impersonal, I assure you.”

  “It was a personal bullet.”

  “Oh please, not that attitude.”

  “Attitude? You’re going to sit here like a bleeding spider, waiting, waiting, while he picks at me — picks at anybody — with his rifle, or whatever he’s got.”

  “Which is exactly why I’m asking you to be very discreet. Not a word. I don’t want him to know I know.”

  “I can’t believe I’m hearing this.”

  “And anyway, can you imagine they’d all go on working, with the danger?”

  “So there is a danger? You concede that much?”

  “They’d see it as such. But you’re more sensible than that. Now I’m on the alert. The whole of my resources will be concentrated on this. We can trap him like that!” His palm slapped down on his knee.

  “Is that what makes a policeman?” Chris asked in disgust.

  Grey’s eyes darted from side to side. “He’s here, somewhere. The danger, if that’s how you prefer to see it, is still there. Would I do better going after him, when I haven’t got a clue where to look, and leaving this area unprotected? Ask yourself that.”

  “You expect me to go down there, knowing some madman’s got a rifle?”

  “But I’ll get him first. Believe me.” Grey spoke with a stubborn persistence that was almost manic.

  “And all this effort, what’s it going to get you? Promotion?”

  “Satisfaction. Retribution.” His voice was cold and thin. “He murdered my son. My son drove that police car. My son, four years dead.”

  Eleven

  It wasn’t going well, and Marson knew it. They were 1 up to schedule, perhaps a little ahead. But the most important thing was the Jones. He grew more and more nervous the longer he went without contacting Sievewright. He used the ten-hundredweight van to drive to the nearest phone box, but they told him that Sievewright had left his office in a hurry. He was therefore almost relieved when Foster told him that Sievewright was on the radio. But Marson realised it meant Sievewright was at the main site.

  Ray Foster was looking nervous when he handed over the mike. Before Marson pressed the transmit button he nodded for Foster to leave. He was left alone with Foster’s mongrel, who eyed him with suspicion.

  “Marson,” he said.

  “About time, too. What the hell’s this with the Jones?”

  Thomas Winstanley Sievewright, that was, self-made man, founder and overlord of Sevco Corporation, and in a bad mood.

  “You’ll realise why we need a bigger crane,” Mar-son said. “You’ll have heard about it—”

  “Heard enough, Marson. Why the devil you let yourself get involved, Christ knows. It’s not ours, man. There’s an official way of going about this sort of thing. You’re on a loser, you’ve got yourself conned into it. Lack of field experience. You’ll learn, though. In the meantime, you’ve got to come along and speak to that fool on the Jones. He just ploughs ahead. Insane, I think.”

  He was i
gnoring the whole situation into nonexistence. There was only one way to squash that: plough ahead.

  “You’ll have seen, Chief, on the telly, seen what it’s like,” Marson said. “We don’t stand a chance without the Jones crawler.”

  His bark of contempt almost split the speaker. “Not a chance. We don’t want any fiascos, Marson. Nothing like that, linked with the company. So speak to your man on the Jones. We need it here, on the main site, and you bloody well know it.”

  “But I can’t just—”

  “You heard. Do it, for Christ’s sake, and stop arguing.”

  The speaker clicked when he switched off, and Marson stood there, mike in hand. He knew what it was all about. Head office stank with it — one of the reasons he’d been glad to get away from there. Sieve-wright didn’t want the company involved. He knew they were going to fail, and that was all right as long as it was Marson’s operation. Send in equipment from the main site, and it would become a company affair, and Sievewright was afraid of that. He’d change his tune when they succeeded. If they succeeded. Then it would be Sievewright beaming on the screen, and claiming it all for himself.

  The radio came on again suddenly. “Jeff?”

  “It’s not Jeff,” Marson said wearily. “It’s Marson.”

  “Sorry about all that, but he’s been raving, here. We can’t do a tap, and Marty Summers just keeps the Jones moving. Nobody can stop him.”

  Marson could imagine that. The Jones probably weighed fifty tons. Get that moving, and you’d need an anti-tank gun to stop it. “I’ll drive over and speak to him,” he said wearily.

  He put the mike down on the bench. The mongrel put his ears back as he went out.

  He watched them bringing in Chris and Cropper. They had taken a square foot of metal from the side of the cab. Whatever they had achieved, however it might help, it was nothing compared to what Marson would have to do to ensure the availability of the Jones. He had to leave now to head off the Jones, to keep Sievewright reasonable. He told Jeff what he wanted doing while he was away. There seemed little point in making Sievewright’s objections known — in making the team doubt the worth of his every order — until he had tried everything, exhausted all his options.