The Spear Read online

  ‘Is he losing stock or money from the till?’

  ‘Oh, it’s straight from the till. We’ll check receipt books and till rolls in the evening and if we find too many “No Sale” marks we’ll try some test purchases.’

  Steadman nodded. Test purchases were any easy way of checking the honesty of suspect shop salesmen.

  ‘You’ll check on regular tradesmen to the shop, too?’

  ‘Naturally. There might just be conspiracy involved. It shouldn’t take too long to find the culprits, but after that, we’re pretty clear for work. That’s why I was interested in your visitor.’

  ‘Oh come on, Maggie. You know what happens when we begin to slack off. People go missing, couples want a divorce after twenty years of marriage, debtors do a bunk, blackmailers start blackmailing – we’re up to our ears in it again. And they’re just the little cases. We’ve always our main diet of company jobs: industrial espionage, embezzlement, security.’

  Maggile laughed aloud. ‘It’s my insecurity showing. There’s no reason why things should suddenly go bad for us – not now.’

  ‘Right. Look, I’ve got to get back up to Salford and there’s a few things to tidy up before I go.’

  Maggie stood. ‘Is it going well?’

  ‘The usual problem of old Joe retiring soon so why can’t we put him in charge of security? Fortunately, they’re seeing it my way and I want Sexton to select some good men and send them up to see me this week. Then it’s just a matter of setting up systems and hiring and training the security.’

  ‘All right, Harry, I’ll let you get on. I’ll give you a ring if anything important crops up while you’re away.’ She gave him an affectionate smile and walked to the door.

  ‘Maggie,’ he called after her. She turned, the door half-open. ‘Forget about our Israeli friend,’ he said.

  ‘Forgotten.’ She blew him a kiss, then left the office.

  Sue looked up from her typewriter as Maggie approached.

  Maggie’s voice was low when she said, ‘Sue, did Harry’s visitor leave an address where he could be contacted?’

  2

  ‘. . . it is the tragedy of the élite to have to participate in acts of violence for the glory of the Fatherland.’

  Heinrich Himmler

  ‘The world can only be ruled by fear.’

  Adolf Hitler

  Steadman threw his suitcase on the floor and slumped on to the bed. The night drive from Salford had been long and wearing, but he’d wanted to be home on Sunday evening. That way, he could be in the office the following day after a good night’s sleep. His client had insisted he stay over for the weekend as his guest, after the long hours he’d put in during the week. Steadman had accepted gladly, for there were still a few loose ends to be tied up before he returned to London and these would be more easily concluded with his client in a congenial and relaxed mood.

  Steadman was pleased with the way things had gone. Over the past two weeks he’d thoroughly screened all of the company’s employees and had found nothing amiss; but from now on, every member of the firm would possess a Works Pass, numerically marked and containing a photograph of the employee over-stamped with the company name. A daily report would be submitted by security on any unusual happenings during the day or any early or late visits to the company by employees (even if the reports were negative they would still be submitted). All documents would be classified, the more important of which would receive special markings and closer attention. A better system of floodlighting was already being installed, and in future no windows or doors would be left in shadows; even the roof was to be illuminated. All locks and safe combinations had been changed, and ground-floor windows had been fitted with thin but sturdy bars. Steadman had been in favour of a silent alarm system so that the security guards and police could be alerted of illegal entry without actually warning the trespasser; he wanted the intruder to be caught, not merely frightened away. His client had wanted clanging bells and sirens at first, to show the power of his alarm system to would-be thieves so that they would be deterred from ever attempting a break-in again, but he had given way to Steadman’s argument that the best deterrent to them, and any other villains who might have their eyes on the plant, was for them to be caught and made an example of. Steadman had also argued against the manufacturer’s request for guard dogs; correctly trained dogs were expensive and required handlers. He also had a personal abhorrence of any animal being trained to attack a man. Besides which they could easily be drugged.

  He had spent the weekend coaxing a higher salary for the Chief of Security out of the manufacturer, for Sexton had provided Steadman with the ideal man for the job. A soon-to-retire police officer, the man needed more persuading to move from London up to Salford, and only a good wage and financial help in moving would do it. The manufacturer argued that there were plenty of suitable men locally, but Steadman had not been totally happy with any he’d interviewed; they would be fine as guards, but were not sufficiently qualified in the key role of Chief of Security. The client finally succumbed to Steadman’s wishes and the investigator pressed home his advantage by persuading him to employ his own maintenance men and even his own window cleaners rather than use outside tradesmen. It was a smaller issue, but as far as Steadman was concerned, of vital importance if strict security were to be maintained, so he was particularly pleased at the outcome and had allowed himself to relax for the rest of the weekend.

  He flexed his shoulder blades against the softness of the bed and eased his shoes off with his toes. He had enjoyed the last two weeks’ work even though it had been arduous and frustrating at times. If his client stuck to the agreed plan for security, then the plant should become thief-proof and, hopefully, spy-proof, which would be good for the agency’s reputation and could lead on to similar commissions from other companies. Steadman had set up four such security systems in the past, with variations for the particular needs of each individual company, and it had proved to be highly lucrative work. It beat the hell out of runaway debtors or stay-away husbands.

  He briefly considered ringing Maggie to let her know he was back, but on glancing at his watch and seeing it was well after eleven, he dismissed the thought. He had spoken to her a few times during the week and there had been no crises at the office, so there was little point in disturbing her at such a late hour. Tomorrow morning would be time enough to catch up on any news.

  Steadman stretched his limbs but resisted the urge to let himself sink into sleep. He was hungry and a stiff drink would do wonders for his metabolism. The investigator rolled off the bed and padded over to the window. He peered into the darkness, seeing little of the small church grounds opposite, a dark reflection of himself in the glass obscuring the view.

  Steadman lived in a small terraced house in a quiet mews off Knightsbridge. It had cost a small fortune, but the cul-de-sac was central and its peaceful position in the thriving city was something to be relished. The tiny park that surrounded the church across the narrow road made an ideal spot to relax over the Sunday papers during the summer months; even the occasional gravestones, grey and white with age and bird droppings, gave the grounds a peaceful stability. A few benches were scattered at random in the grounds and his neighbours all seemed to have their allocated spot, their dogs their allocated trees. The money Steadman had acquired through working for Mossad, and the commissions he had received on negotiating arms deals for the Israelis, had been enough to pay for the house as well as buy himself into Maggie’s business, and now his earnings came purely from the agency. It gave him a comfortable life and a busy one which, he reflected, was the most one could expect. You had more, once, he told himself, and you foolishly expected it to last. Foolishly, because danger was all around you both then, but you still thought it couldn’t touch you. It had though, and it had killed Lilla. So never expect too much again. That way, you’ll never be disappointed. He closed the curtains on his dark, brooding image.

  He went downstairs, his stockinged feet s
ilent on the heavy carpets, and along the short hallway to the tiny kitchen, where he poured himself a large vodka with a small tonic. Deciding it was too late to eat out, he took a pizza from the fridge, unwrapped it and put it into the oven. His cleaning lady, who came in twice a week, had thoughtfully stocked up his food supply during his absence, but he rarely cooked elaborate meals for himself – women friends could be relied on for that.

  Steadman padded back down the hallway to the front door and retrieved the week’s mail that was lying there. He took the letters and his drink into the lounge and settled into the armchair. He sipped at his vodka tonic, then began to open the envelopes on his lap. The only bills he paid any attention to were the red ones; the others he crumpled and dropped on the floor. A letter from an ex-girlfriend made him groan aloud. She had grown tired of being an ex- just as quickly as she had of being current and now thought it would be ‘super’ if they got together again. That letter, too, soon lay crumpled at his feet. An invitation to a security exhibition followed by a series of lectures on the subject interested him and he placed this one with the Final Demands resting on the arm of his chair. The rest were advertising circulars and these found their rightful place on the floor.

  He ate his supper at the breakfast bar in his kitchen, the cool voice and records of a late-night DJ keeping him company. A hot shower and another large vodka eased the remaining stiffness from his muscles and left him pleasantly drowsy. He fell naked into his bed and was asleep within seconds.

  The hammering woke him with a start. He lay on his back staring up into the darkness wondering what had dragged him from his slumber with such suddenness. Then the banging came again. It came from downstairs – his front door. Who the hell could want him at this time of night? And why not use the doorbell? But this was hammering, not knocking. With a curse, he leaped from the bed and pulled back the curtains, pressing his face close to the glass of the window in order to see directly below. The banging stopped almost immediately.

  Steadman blinked his eyes as he tried to see into the gloom. He thought he saw movement in the shadows below, but couldn’t be sure. As he turned from the window, about to find his discarded trousers and dash downstairs, he thought he saw a black shape scurry across the narrow road into the darkness of the churchyard opposite. Again, he couldn’t be sure, nothing was distinct in the poor light.

  As he pulled on his trousers, he snatched a quick look at the luminous digital clock by his bedside. Two twenty-three. If someone was playing a joke, he’d kill them. He ran down the stairs, angry now, but when he reached the hallway, he halted. Something made him hesitate. He stared at the door, for some reason reluctant to open it. There was a stillness in the air. A chill. And he could hear a strange muffled sound coming from the other side of the door.

  He moved slowly along the hallway, his breathing held in check, his footsteps quiet and deliberate. He pressed his ear against the wood and listened.

  Something was scraping itself against the door and he thought he heard a low murmuring. The sound wasn’t human; it was like the whimpering of an animal in pain. He considered going back for his gun which was locked away upstairs, but dismissed the thought as being over-dramatic. A sudden thump against the door made him draw away.

  Then he realized how ridiculously he was behaving, standing there in the dark like an old woman, afraid to open the front door. He reached for the latch and swung the door inwards with a jerk.

  A figure stood spreadeagled in the doorway, arms outstretched, holding on to the door frame. The head hung down and a dark liquid seemed to be drooling from its mouth. The figure seemed strangely slumped, for the knees were bent as if giving no support to the body. A low moaning noise came from it, occasionally rising to the animal-like whimper Steadman had heard from the other side of the door; but the noise had a strange gurgling to it, as though blood were running down the person’s throat.

  Steadman could see nothing beyond the feebly twisting body except blackness. He reached for the hallway light switch and flicked it down, blinking his eyes rapidly against the sudden light. When he finally focused them, he saw that the figure in the doorway was that of a woman. And there was something familiar about the slumped head.

  ‘Maggie.’ The name came from Steadman’s lips in a whisper. He reached forward and raised her head; blood ran from her mouth on to his hand. Her eyes were glazed and red-rimmed but he thought he saw a flicker of recognition there.

  ‘Maggie, what’s happened to you?’ He moved forward to take her in his arms. For some reason, her arms remained stretched outwards as though unwilling to let go of the door frame. Her head moved and she tried to speak, but the blood in her throat choked her words.

  ‘Oh, God, Maggie! Who did this?’ He pulled her forward, wanting to carry her to the sofa in the lounge, but a weak scream came from her.

  ‘Maggie, let go of the door. Let me take you in,’ he pleaded.

  She tried to speak again and her head slumped forward as she lost consciousness. This time Steadman tugged a little more firmly, but still she clung to the door frame. Then he noticed the trails of blood running down from her arms. He pushed his head past her shoulder and his eyes widened in horror as he saw the nail protruding from the back of her hand.

  He grabbed her to support her weight and saw her other hand also had been nailed to the door frame. ‘Maggie, Maggie,’ he said over and over again, holding her close, lifting her to prevent her hands from tearing. He called out, hoping a neighbour would hear, but no lights came on from the other houses. It was the dead of night; they were either in deep sleep or just didn’t want to hear. He made up his mind quickly, sensing he had no time to lose. Someone would come eventually if he kept shouting, but by then it might be too late.

  He eased Maggie’s body down as gently as he could, then ran into the kitchen and threw open a cupboard where he kept his work tools. He found a hammer and raced back down the hallway, his heart pounding, his fear rising. Her torn clothes were covered in blood, most of which seemed to have come from her mouth. Steadman eased himself past her and with one arm around her body, pushed the forked end of the hammer underneath the nailhead with his free hand. He tried to pull the nail out without using the back of her hand as a lever, but it was deeply embedded. He had to let her go and use both hands. Maggie’s body slumped again and he pulled at the hammer with all his strength, a cry of relief escaping him as he finally wrenched the bloody nail clear. He tried to catch her as her body fell sideways, prevented from falling completely to the ground by the nail in her other hand. Steadman let her go and again gave all his energy to yanking out the other nail. It was embedded deep into her hand and he had to push the hammer’s fork into the skin to gain a grip. It made him nauseous to do so but he knew he had no choice; he had to get her free as quickly as possible.

  The three-inch nail loosened, then came out smoothly and clinked into the road. Steadman dropped the hammer and carried the still figure into the house, gently laying it on the sofa in his lounge. He snapped on the light, then knelt beside her, wondering if there was anything he could do before he called an ambulance. Her head lolled to one side and her open, unseeing eyes told him the worst. Frantically, he ripped open her jacket and placed his hand over her heart. He couldn’t trust his trembling hand to give him an answer so he put his ear to her breast and listened. There was no heartbeat.

  He cried out her name again and took her head in his hands, looking at her still face, pleading with her to be alive. Her mouth had dropped open and he saw it was thick with blood. Perhaps she was choking, perhaps if he laid her with her head down. Then his muscles froze as he stared into the blood-filled cavity. He fought against the sudden upheaval in his stomach and, as steadily as possible, rested her head back against the arm of the sofa.

  He knew that she was dead. But he wondered why her tongue had been ripped out.

  3

  ‘This time our sacred soil will not be spared. But I am not afraid of this. We shall clench our teeth and g
o on fighting. Germany will emerge from those ruins lovelier and greater than any country in the world has ever been.’

  Adolf Hitler

  Steadman sat at Maggie’s desk and covered his face with trembling hands. There were no tears in him, just a great weariness, a feeling of hopelessness. He thought he had banished violence as savage as this from his life once and for all, but now it had searched him out again like an old enemy who refused a truce. Why Maggie? Who could have done this to her?

  The police, summoned by a neighbour in the mews who was not quite brave enough to answer Steadman’s call for help, but alarmed enough to call in the law, had burst into the investigator’s house finding him cradling the dead body of his partner in his arms, his bare chest soaked in her blood. They had regarded him warily, listening gravely to his story, but ready to pounce at the slightest indication of aggression.

  An ambulance had taken away the mutilated body and the hours that followed were filled with questions, questions, questions. Who was the dead person? What had been her relationship to him? Had they quarrelled? Was the business going well? Were they lovers? Describe exactly what had happened. Again. Again. What had their quarrel been about? Had there never been disagreements in their partnership? What had their latest conflict been over? What cases were they currently working on? When was the last time he’d seen her before tonight? Describe again what had happened. What time had he woken? Why hadn’t he phoned for the police? Was she alive when he had found her? Start at the beginning again.