A few minutes later, Bronson clearly heard a metallic scraping sound from the bedroom to his left, and crossed to the doorway. He looked inside the room, checking the window, but the burglar was not yet visible. Bronson slid into the room, walked swiftly across to the rear wall and flattened himself against it, where he knew he’d be invisible to anyone looking in through the window.
He felt in his jacket pocket, checking that the handcuffs he’d collected from the Canterbury station were still there. When Angela had told him what she thought had happened at Carfax Hall, he’d decided that having a pair of cuffs in his pocket made sense. And it looked as if he’d been right.
Using his ears rather than his eyes to measure the burglar’s progress, Bronson could hear the man climb up the ladder, a muffled thumping sound as he put his feet on the rungs. Then there were a few brief moments of silence, followed by a faint rubbing sound which Bronson guessed was the insertion of the screwdriver or chisel or whatever turned out to be his tool of choice for forcing the catch.
He heard an irritated muttering from outside and suppressed a grin. Even the first-floor window catches weren’t
Bronson kept behind the substantial curtain that framed the window, as the man climbed into the bedroom, an empty nylon bag clutched in his hand, then crept slowly across the bedroom towards the door. Bronson waited until he was about halfway there, then crossed the room in half a dozen swift strides.
As he approached, the man half-turned towards him, a look of sheer panic on his face.
Bronson grabbed his right arm, forcing his hand behind his back and up towards his shoulder.
‘I know it’s a cliche,’ Bronson said, ‘but you’re nicked, my son. I’m a police officer and I’m arresting you on suspicion of breaking and entering and burglary.’
Grasping the struggling man by the shoulder Bronson held him firmly, he snapped the handcuff on to his right wrist, then grabbed his left arm and repeated the process, securing his hands behind his back.
‘We’re going to go downstairs,’ he said, ‘and I’ll explain what’s going to happen.’
Once downstairs, Bronson pushed his captive into one of the kitchen chairs. ‘Now, I’m required to caution you, so please listen carefully. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something that you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence. Do you understand the words of the caution?’
‘Just let me go, you bastard.’
‘I’ll take that as a “yes”, shall I?’
‘I’m not saying another word. I want my solicitor, and I want him now.’
‘Fine,’ Bronson said. ‘That’s entirely within your rights. I’m not going to question you – that will be done under caution at the police station – but I am going to search you to see if you’re carrying any offensive weapons. Are you carrying anything that might injure me?’
‘Go to hell!’
Bronson jerked the man to his feet and checked his pockets, pulling out a small wallet and placing it on the kitchen table.
Then he pushed the man back into the chair, sat down opposite him, and opened the wallet he’d found. Almost the first thing he pulled out was a driver’s licence. Bronson looked at the name on it and smiled.
‘Well, Jonathan,’ he said, ‘Carfax is a name I certainly recognize, so I assume this burglary is more personal than professional. I presume the old man cut you out of his will, so you’re bypassing the legal process and taking what you believe you’re owed.’
His captive didn’t respond.
‘But it doesn’t actually matter why you did it – it’s still burglary,’ Bronson said. Then he shrugged, reached into his pocket and pulled out his mobile phone. He glanced at his watch. It was almost eleven o’clock, so he thought he’d tell Angela that his mission had succeeded, then he’d call the local police.
‘Hi, it’s me,’ he said, when Angela answered her phone. ‘Just thought you’d like to know I’m sitting in the kitchen looking at your burglar.’
‘Really? Is he – I mean, was there any trouble? Do you want me to call the police?’ Angela asked.
‘No, thanks. I know the form. I’ll have to go to the local police station with him to make a statement and stuff, so I won’t get to the pub for quite a while, but I’ll call you once I’m at the cop shop to let you know how long I’ll be.’
‘OK.’ There was a pause. When she spoke again, Angela sounded uncharacteristically nervous. ‘Will you come up to my room when you get here? I want you to tell me everything that’s happened.’
Bronson smiled. ‘It’s a deal. I’ll see you later.’
But Jonathan Carfax was not looking nearly so happy. ‘This is entrapment. I don’t believe you’re a policeman at all. You’re just some bloody thug the museum staff have employed.’
Bronson pulled out his warrant card and showed it to him. ‘I’m Detective Sergeant Christopher Bronson,’ he said, ‘and I promise you that I’m a real police officer. My ex-wife works for the British Museum and asked me to give her a hand here.’ He reached across the table and pulled the local telephone directory towards him. As he did so, he looked at his prisoner. ‘Just sit quietly and we’ll get this sorted out. Are the cuffs too tight?’
The man shook his head. ‘No,’ he said grudgingly. Then his eyes widened and he looked behind Bronson. ‘Look out!’ he shouted. ‘Behind you!’
Bronson half-turned and, as he did so, saw a sudden flash of grey and then something slammed – hard – into the side of his head.
He saw stars for the briefest of instants, and then nothing at all.
19
‘Chris! Chris! Wake up, damn you.’
Bronson’s head felt as if it was bursting. There was a massive throbbing ache above his right ear, and all he wanted was for the pain to go away, for the pulsing agony to stop.
The voice was familiar to him, but for several seconds he couldn’t seem to place it. Or remember where he was. And then, with a rush, it all came back to him. Carfax Hall. The burglar, and then the kitchen. But he couldn’t remember what had happened next, or why he seemed to be lying on the floor with a splitting headache.
He forced his eyes open. Angela was bending over him, some kind of a pad in her hand that she was pressing against the right side of his head. That hurt, and he raised a hand to stop her.
‘Oh, thank God,’ she whispered. ‘No, don’t touch it. You’ve got a nasty gash on the side of your head. There’s an ambulance on its way.’
Bronson groaned and eased up into a sitting position. ‘I don’t need an ambulance,’ he muttered.
‘Actually, you probably don’t,’ Angela said, ‘but I really called one for him.’ She gestured behind her.
Slumped in a kitchen chair, his arms still obviously secured behind his back, and his face battered and bleeding, was the man he’d caught climbing in through the bedroom window.
‘What the hell’s happened?’ Bronson said. ‘I never touched him. Is he OK?’
‘He’s been badly beaten up, but he’s alive.’
Bronson took the pad from Angela, pressed it gingerly to the wound then struggled to his feet, the pounding in his skull getting worse as he stood up. Swaying slightly, he gripped the back of a chair with his other hand.
‘Just take it slowly,’ Angela said.
Bronson stepped across to the man on the other side of the table. His face was puffy and cut from repeated blows, his eyes closed.
Bronson leaned over him. ‘Can you hear me?’
The man stirred, looked up at him and nodded.
