The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike) Part 1742 by Angharad Copyright © 2012 Angharad All Rights Reserved.

We arranged to meet Mike Rennie at the local airfield after calling the police on a disposable mobile and telling them there was someone with a gun seen at Stone’s house.

With a bit of luck they’d do a search and if James was there, they’d find him, meanwhile we’d check out the quarry and then return to Stone’s house if there was nothing at the quarry.

We’d only been at the airfield about ten minutes when the whirlybird hove into view. I’m never sure about helicopters, certainly they can do things fixed wing aircraft can’t but they glide like bricks, so if your rotor goes, so do you at 32’/sec2. Mind you, I suspect most small aircraft don’t glide too well either–I’ll stick to bikes, except they’re not too clever at crossing deep water.

In ten more minutes we were airborne and heading out over the quarry, Mike switched on the thermal imager and we checked out the bank and into the beginning of the trees of the woodland which had thwarted Stone senior. We did three runs over the area, there was nothing there which we were able to see either with the searchlight–I could do with one of those on my bike–or the thermal equipment.

We headed back towards Stone’s mansion, it was really quite a big house, probably about the same size as Tom’s, only without the various extensions that had been added to our house since the seventeenth century. No, the Stone’s house was late nineteen sixties. There was a police car still in the drive and a dog team wandering about. Mike picked up on the police radios and they were still searching the place, having found some heroin in significant quantity to arrest Stone. It seems they’d also found some unregistered weapons, including a handgun. As these are illegal in the UK, possession is an arrestable offence, so Mr Stone had been taken into custody.

We went back to the airfield and heard that the police were leaving the house as nothing else had turned up. There was no mention of James, though a Porsche not registered to Stone was apparently in the garage.

Driving back to our house, Si told me that our little jaunt in Mike’s broomstick was costing five thousand pounds and that was at a discount. Apparently helicopters might sound like flying lawnmowers but they tend to use a bit more fuel. I suggested the envelope might just pay off the debt and he smirked.

An hour later, it was now after midnight, I drove over to Stone’s house again, he was just returning–apparently on bail–in a taxi. “Mr Stone, a word if you please.”

“Who are you a reporter?”

“No, I’ve come to rescue the Porsche you have in your garage.”

“Yours is it?”

“A friend of mine owns it actually.”

“Oh yeah, well he sold it to me.”

“Might we discuss this?”

“No, I’m tired so you can piss off.”

“I’m afraid I’d like to talk to you, now, Mr Stone.”

“Look, bitch, didn’t you hear me? Now piss off or I might have to hurt you.”

He walked through his gate and I followed him. He went to grab me and I used a basic self defence move where you step backwards grab your assailant’s thumbs and bend them against the joint. It’s very effective, he yelled and then tried to kick me, so I broke his left thumb–unfortunately he was left handed–how was I to know.

“You’ll pay for that, you bitch.”

“I doubt it, but you will. Now where is my friend? Or shall I break your other thumb and then all of your fingers, then your arms and finally knees.”

“What are you some sort of psycho?”

“Only when provoked. Now, I want a signed confession of how you killed Gareth Sage, hired someone as a fake brother and also abducted James Beck, the owner of the Porsche. Then I’ll give you an hour’s start before I call the police.”

“You’re mad.”

“Only in the nicest of ways.”

“Rebel,” he called and the large canine appeared and bounded towards us. “Get her,” he ordered the dog.

I let go of Stone ready to do what I had to against the dog. It walked cautiously towards me snarled and ran away, Stone tried to hit me with his good hand and I kicked him in the chest knocking him about six feet away where he landed completely winded and defeated.

“I could break your ribs one by one instead, unless you tell me where my friend is.” To emphasise the point I tapped him with my toe in the ribs, enough to hurt a little but not to do any further harm.

I hoped my sunglasses and hoodie would be enough to disguise me, although the kickboxing might give the police a clue.

“Let him alone,” an older woman came walking towards me carrying another handgun.

“There’s ten years for possession of one of those.”

“It’s life if you touch him again,” she spat, and I understood her perfectly.

“Put the gun away, Mrs Stone, your precious son is going away for murder and possession of firearms, if you want to join him, keep holding it. If you fire at me, the neighbours will hear it and the police will be back again.”

“But you’ll be dead,” she threw at me.

“So will you.”

“What d’you mean?”

“Because I’ll still have enough energy to kill you before I go, and I’ll kill him too.” I nodded at her son.

“Keep back,” she said as I walked towards her. “I’ll shoot.”

“Not with the safety on,” I used the oldest trick in the book.

“What?” she took her eye off me and looked at the gun. It gave me the second I needed and I flew at her grabbing her hand with the gun, she fired two shots, one of which hit her son who had staggered towards us presumably to help her as he had a chair in his hand. He screamed, and staggered backwards into the pool clutching his chest. She screamed and I dealt her an uppercut which flattened her instantly. I kicked the gun away, I wasn’t tempted to pick it up, instead it went under some bushes by the side of the patio.

The lights showed the blood from Stone colouring the water in the pool. I hoped this was the shallow end, and jumped in to rescue him, if it wasn’t too late. The plastic thermal covers were a damned nuisance but by the third attempt I managed to grab hold of him and drag him back to the edge of the pool. With some difficulty, I heaved him onto the side and began helping him to breathe.

“Where’s James?” I demanded when he opened his eyes.

“You’ll never know,” he croaked.

“I’ll kill your mother, you bastard,” I threatened and he smiled, then coughed up more water, which was tinged with blood–he was going to die unless I got help.

I called for assistance from the poolside, dialling 999 and asking for police and ambulance. It was going to be a long night.