Death in High Places (10 page)

Beth's jaw was clamped so tight she had to force the words out. “Don't believe him. He'd say anything, do anything, to save his precious skin.”

Horn managed a cynical laugh. “Unlike you, of course, willing to lay down your life to do what's right.”

“This
is
right,” she sneered.

McKendrick sighed. “Beth, I know how you feel about him. But you can't kill a man for doing something that upset you. You lost a good friend on Anarchy Ridge; but it wasn't Horn's fault. Maybe he could have acted differently. Maybe you would have acted differently. Or maybe you just think you would. I don't know. I don't know what I'd have done in the same circumstances.

“I do know that the authorities both in Alaska and back here in England looked at the facts and decided he didn't have a case to answer. That Patrick Hanratty's death wasn't murder, or even manslaughter, but misadventure. Those boys were up there doing something they loved, and it went wrong and only one of them came back. It happened to be Horn; it could as easily have been Patrick. The mountains take a tithe. It was their turn to pay, that's all.”

He turned to Horn, was startled to see a brilliance in his eye that looked for a moment like tears. McKendrick cleared his throat. “Just so we're not making any assumptions, would you sooner take your chances out there alone or in here with us?”

It took Horn a few seconds to answer. McKendrick hadn't imagined the tears—they'd welled in sheer gratitude that finally someone understood. Horn had never hoped for forgiveness, that would be too much, but dear God he'd ached for a gram of human understanding. His voice was gruff, to disguise what he believed was a weakness. “I doubt it'll make much difference. Not in the long term. Probably not in the short term either.”

“All the more reason,” McKendrick insisted, “that you get a say in how we do this.”

Horn hadn't expected to be consulted. It was a long time since anyone had put much value on either his life or his opinions. He wasn't sure what to say. “If you think—if Beth thinks—you'll have a better chance if we split up, I'll make a run for it.”

“That's not what I asked.”

“No.” Still he hesitated. “Okay. Then, I don't know how long your shutters will keep out bullets, but they'll do it for longer than my skin will. If I get a choice, I'll stay here.”

“Fine. Good,” said McKendrick.

Beth stared at him as if he'd given away her birthright—which perhaps, in a way, he had. “You'd protect him? You'd put our lives on the line to protect
him
?”

McKendrick nodded. “I brought him here. What happens now is my responsibility. I'm not throwing him to the wolves as the price of our safety. For one thing, I think he's right—I doubt it would work.”

“Let's try it and find out.”

“No. Sorry, Beth, but when it comes right down to it, this is my house and I'll extend whatever protection it can offer to whoever I choose. If I'm going to die today, I don't want to go trying to appease a hired killer. I've made plenty of mistakes in my life, but I don't think I've done much to be ashamed of. That changes if I open the front door and push Horn through it. Even if he's wrong and you're right, and we could save ourselves that way, it's too high a price. I'm sorry.”

If it had been someone else—anyone else—she'd probably have agreed with him. She was a strong and determined woman, who'd faced the prospect of death and the idea that there are things worth dying for when she first started climbing. No one needs to risk their neck on the snow and ice and crumbling rotten rock of a mountain ascent. They do it because the emotional payback of success is worth the possibility of disaster.

McKendrick believed with all his heart that if it had been just the family here, or if they'd found themselves protecting some luckless fugitive whose life and struggles she knew nothing about, his daughter would have applied herself to the task with a courage and dignity that would have made him proud. That it was only her hatred of Horn, that soul-consuming passion she could see neither through nor past, that made her think that buying her life with his was a bargain.

“What the hell are you thinking?” she yelled, the chestnut braid flying in her rage. “Maybe you have the right to risk your own life, however worthless the prize—but it isn't just your life you're risking, is it? I'm your daughter—Uncle William's your brother. And you're prepared to sacrifice us all, and for what?
That?
That abject apology for a man? A deadweight who cut his best friend's rope when the going got tough?”

“Beth,” said McKendrick softly, “can't you see that you're proposing to do exactly the same thing? To cut Horn loose because trying to save him will put us in danger? At least Horn and Patrick were friends, and they were up on Anarchy Ridge because they couldn't think of anywhere they'd rather be. Can't you see, it would be so much worse to do it to someone you didn't care about? Someone who never chose to put his life in your hands?”

The comparison hurt her womb-deep. The mere mention of her lost friend's name brought bitter tears to her eyes and her voice. “I don't know how you can say that to me.”

“Because we're up against the wall here,” said McKendrick apologetically. “It's my fault and I'm sorry. If I could go back and do it differently, I would. I never thought for a moment that what I was doing could have any implications for you. You must believe that. I would never willingly put you in danger. You matter more to me than anything. I hoped one day you'd understand that, but if we're running out of
one days
…”

He stopped and swallowed, then went on. “If we're running out of
one days
it's important that we do this right. We'll only get one chance. If we make a bad decision now, it won't be a question of living with it but it will be what posterity remembers us by. Do you believe there's a hired killer out there?”

“Yes!” she said hotly. “Like I've been trying to tell you! Like
Horn
has been trying to tell you.”

“A professional. A man hired by Tommy Hanratty to avenge the death of his son.”

“Exactly.”

“Then do you honestly believe that, having killed Horn, he'll drive away and leave us alone?”

She stood her ground. “Yes.”

McKendrick stooped a little to peer into her eyes. “Honestly?”

“Yes,” she repeated firmly. “A professional won't kill anyone he doesn't have to, because every hit increases the danger to himself and the risk of exposure to his employer.”

“Horn thinks he'll kill us to protect himself and Hanratty.”

“But then”—her lip curled—“he would think that, wouldn't he?”

McKendrick gave an oddly gentle little sigh. “He's offered to try and make a run for it. If you're right, I should take that offer. If
he's
right, I shouldn't.”

Beth shrugged, her strong, limber body stiff with resentment. “What's the alternative? Waiting till we starve to death? Drawing lots for who we eat first?”

“That's pretty much how castle sieges used to end,” agreed McKendrick ruefully. “Either the guys inside got hungry and came out, or the guys outside got hungry and went away.”

“Is anybody going to come looking for you?” Horn wasn't sure if he was helping his own cause or not.

“In a few days, maybe. Not before.”

“Even when they can't get you on the phone?”

“Like I say—in a few days.”

Horn scowled. “I thought you big international businessmen had to keep in touch? That the economy would collapse if you didn't?”

McKendrick gave a small smile. “A myth put about by us big international businessmen, to justify our absurd salaries.”

“So we're on our own?” Horn shook his head and shut his eyes to conceal the despair. “It won't take him days to find a way in.”

“Castles like this held out for months,” objected McKendrick, though he didn't sound altogether convinced.

“At a time when gunpowder and the armour-piercing bodkin were cutting-edge technology,” said Horn dismissively. “The guy out there will have access to plastic explosive, shaped charges, rocket-propelled grenades, the lot. A tin-pot little toy castle? Given a couple of hours, he could muster enough firepower to take over a city.”

It was time for a decision, and McKendrick made it. “Well, actually the choice isn't that difficult. If you're right we're all going to die whatever we do. There's no need to make it easy for him, or throw away the outside chance that we can hold him off long enough for something to change. And if Beth's right and he's only interested in killing you, we don't have to make a choice now—only if he gets in here. We'll batten down the hatches and wait to see what happens.”

Beth opened her mouth to argue but McKendrick stilled her with a hard look. “I know—you'd do it differently. But this is my house, and the responsibility is mine. I'm sorry if it turns out to be a bad call.

“So let's come up with some ideas to improve the odds. Make it harder for him. Keep him out for longer, prepare a plan of action for if he gets inside. Birkholmstead is still a stone-built fortification—even if he gets in, we can retreat from room to room and keep him at bay for hours, maybe days. In the meantime, we'll keep checking the mobiles—we only have to get a signal on one of them for five minutes and we can end this.”

She still didn't like it, but finally Beth accepted that it wasn't a battle she could win. “I'll do the phones. I'll take them up on the roof every ten minutes or so—if there's a signal going, that's where we'll get it.”

“Make sure he doesn't see you,” warned Horn. “With a good sniper rifle he could be accurate to as much as a mile.”

“I won't stay still long enough for him to use it.”

“Do you have a flagpole?” asked Horn.

McKendrick looked puzzled. “On top of the tower.”

“Then we can fly a distress signal.”

“This isn't a ship of the line!” snorted Beth. “We have a Union Jack, not a wardrobe of pennants! We can't send England Expects and all that stuff.”

“We can fly the Union Jack upside down,” said McKendrick. “The universal distress signal.”

Trying to picture it, Horn frowned. “Doesn't it look pretty much the same both ways up?”

“Pretty much,” admitted McKendrick. “It would take an expert to notice, even from close up.”

“And anyone who gets that close probably won't get to leave,” said Horn grimly. “I don't think we should count on anyone noticing which way up the flag is.”

“Then we'll fly a tablecloth instead,” said McKendrick, suddenly inspired. “The biggest, whitest one I can find. Flag of truce.
That
would be noticed, even from a distance. Whoever saw it might not know what it meant, but he'd know it meant
something
.”

“Would he know to call the police rather than come blundering up to the front door to ask what the problem is?” wondered Beth. “Come to that, would the police know to send a SWAT team, or would we get a couple of PCs on their way back from liaising with a Neighborhood Watch scheme?”

McKendrick looked as if she'd slapped his face. But it was a point. He didn't want to see a couple of twenty-something constables mown down investigating a bit of table linen on a stick.

“I think,” said Horn, “he won't pick a fight with the police unless he's cornered. Because he knows that, the world over, there are two kinds of murder hunts—those where the victim was a civilian, and those where he was a police officer. They pull out every stop in the organ when it was a cop who got killed. Of course they do—it's personal. It also means they're dealing with someone who'll stop at nothing. No professional hit man wants to be the subject of that kind of manhunt. I think, if he sees a police car coming and he has the chance to slip away, that's what he'll do.”

“All right,” decided McKendrick. “We'll hoist a tablecloth and try to attract attention. Beth will keep trying the phones. Next we need a line of retreat…”

Beth touched his arm. “No, next you should check on Uncle William. Will you tell him what's going on?”

McKendrick shook his head. “No point upsetting him when there's nothing he can do to help. But I will draw the curtains.”

Horn shook his head. “Don't do anything to mark out his room as different. You draw his curtains, the guy outside knows there's something in there you want to protect.” He hesitated. “Look, I don't want to be insensitive, but what's the problem with your brother William? Why can't we bring him down here with us?”

For a moment he thought McKendrick wasn't going to answer. “Beth, where's that damask tablecloth your mother used to use for dinner parties? Oh, yes—I know. Horn, you come with me. When we've got it flying, I'll take you in to meet William. You can see for yourself what the problem is.”

 

CHAPTER 7

F
ROM THE
top of the tower Horn had a panoramic view of the heart of England. It was very green, and rather flat, and populated by trees and hedgerows and not so many people. In fact, none that he could see. Not only no people but no signs of people, unless you knew that the straight lines carved through the fields were the mark of tractors. There were no dwellings in sight. He could see no roads other than the driveway by which they had arrived.

From this vantage he could see Birkholmstead more or less as a plan on a map, and it gave him a better impression of the castle than he'd managed from inside. It really wasn't very big. There would be comfortable stockbroker Tudor houses in any leafy suburb that covered as much ground, though none would have matched it for height. The tower was the highest point, but it was only the size of one fairly small room—the attic room the spiraling steps had brought them through—with a crenellated parapet through whose slits an earlier generation of defenders had ranged their arrows.