Blood Money (chapters thirty five, thirty six, thirty seven and epilogue.) (standard:Suspense, 4247 words) [18/18] show all parts
Author: Hulsey	Added: Oct 06 2011	Views/Reads: 2206/1614	Part vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Continued.

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Schofield led his guest indoors. The odour of paint and the reek of
disinfectant were unpleasant to Pauline's nostrils. She had to admit 
that with a bit of work, the interior of the farmhouse indeed did have 
potential. It was like stepping back in time, the stone fireplace and 
the stove catching her eye. 

“Well, what do you think?” 

Pauline nodded. “It's not a palace, but with a lick of paint, new
curtains, new light fittings and furnishings, then perhaps it could be 
actually habitable.” 

She relaxed in a shabby armchair, lit a cigarette and focused on her
brother. “You think you can stand all of this isolation, Dean?” 

“It suits me just perfect. I'll live off the land and embrace the
lifestyle. Have you noticed, I haven't even got a TV? This is how I 
want to live, without interference from the outside world.” 

Pauline was unconvinced. “Bullshit. You love attention, Dean, and the
bustling lifestyle of London. You don't have to pretend to me... I have 
in my boot your share of the money. Okay, live here, but live in 
luxury.” 

Schofield smiled. “You're looking at the new Dean Schofield; Lord of the
manor and soon to be owner of select livestock. Forget those 
scrawny-looking sheep out there. Soon, this place will be thriving with 
cattle, select livestock and maybe even a herd of horses. I have 
everything I want here, sis.” 

Pauline waited until her brother had returned with a cup of tea before
asking something that had been on her mind for a while. “Dean, when I 
met with O'Hara, he happened to mention that you had two million pounds 
of his.” 

“Rubbish... I blackmailed Mukhtar and Rasheed out of one million. What
happened to their share, I don't know... Wait a minute. You think that 
I...” 

“No! It's just playing on my mind... I know that I should now feel
happy, but I don't. I've lost Sam, and no matter what you tell me, I 
know that you're unhappy. A loner you're not, Dean... O'Hara's money; 
it's brought nothing but death and misery. It's as though it's cursed.” 


She gazed at her brother and did not recognise him. His hair was now
long and his beard, thick. How he had aged in the last year. 

“You sent the message to Manaf?” asked Schofield. 

“Yes. He knows nothing about your predicament... Are you sure you want
to give him such a large sum of your money?” 

Schofield nodded. “I want you to take one hundred thousand pounds out of
my share and to set up an account for Manaf. He could do a lot with the 
money.” 

The door flung open, almost coming off its hinges. The man who stood
before them was armed; his pistol aimed at Schofield. 

“Hello, Dean.” 

“De Vries.” Schofield looked towards his sister. 

“She didn't betray you,” uttered the Dutchman. “Let me explain.” 

The detective sat on a rickety chair; his weapon still trained on
Schofield. “I read about O'Hara's strange donation to your sister and 
thought, why? O'Hara obviously knew that Sam was out to fleece him, and 
no doubt, he knows that you have his money, so why would he donate 
money to your sister? Then it clicked. It all fell into place. You had 
to be blackmailing him, but Pauline here wouldn't have the balls or the 
know how to do this herself, so I reckoned that you had somehow 
returned to England.” 

“You came here alone?” asked Schofield. “Not usual Interpol procedure is
it?” 

“Let me finish and all will be revealed,” continued De Vries. “I watched
Pauline and placed a tracking device on her car. You see, it wasn't too 
difficult finding you.” 

“I'm sorry, Dean,” moaned Pauline. 

Schofield sighed. “Blackmailing O'Hara was all my idea. Pauline had
nothing to do with what went on in America. Let her go. You still have 
your arrest.” 

De Vries laughed out loud. His eyes were wide and unblinking. “You think
I care that you blackmailed the Irish twat? A little secret, Schofield; 
I'm not even bothered if you did murder Peebles. You see, I've toiled 
and sweated blood for Interpol for so many years, and my reward? A pat 
on the back and a promise of promotion... My intention at the outset of 
this case was to recover the money before it fell into the hands of 
Sipah-e-Sahaba, but as time went on, I raised the crossbar. My 
ambitions now differ.” 

“You've turned tea leaf,” interrupted Schofield. 

De Vries frowned and waved his pistol. “A phrase I've never come across,
Deano. However, I think we understand one another.” 

“Take the money and let Pauline go,” insisted Schofield. 

“Don't! Don't make demands... Before I tell you my plans for you, please
tell me where the money is.” 

Pauline ground out her cigarette. “It's in my bank account.” 

“I think not,” countered De Vries. “I've watched you make so many trips
to the bank lately, and although my patience was wearing thin, I 
anticipated why you were amassing so much cash. So please tell me where 
the money is?” 

De Vries aimed his weapon at Pauline. 

“Wait!” yelled Schofield. “The money's in the boot of her car.” 

“Splendid. And the money that you acquired from Mukhtar and Rasheed?” 

“How did you know about that?” 

“I'm a fucking detective. If my mathematics is correct, then I presume
that the sum was one million pounds. I know it was you who met with 
them by the East River. What happened, Schofield? Did you and your 
brother actually plan that robbery? Did Mukhtar and Rasheed betray you, 
and that was the reason for you being in America?” 

“You're so wrong, De Vries... What I told you in Florida was the truth.”


The detective narrowed his eyes. “So why then would they hand you over
such a large sum of money?” 

“Work it out for yourself, Sherlock.” 

The expression on the face of De Vries changed. “How much is in the
boot?” 

“Half a million,” said Pauline. 

“And the money you procured from Mukhtar and Rasheed?” 

“In the cellar,” mumbled Schofield. 

De Vries got to his feet. “Okay, lead the way... You first, Pauline.” 

“No,” said Schofield. 

“What? You're in no position to argue.” 

Schofield looked towards his sister. “I'm realistic enough to know that
you have to kill us both... There may be another solution.” 

“I'm listening.” 

“The million in the cellar is yours. Leave the money in the boot and you
have no reason to kill us. Besides, I'm certain that you're no 
cold-blooded killer.” 

De Vries pondered. “And what's to stop you from reporting me, once I've
gone?” 

“Get real, De Vries. I'm not about to hand myself in now am I, and
besides, you now know where I live.” 

The detective nodded. “Okay, I agree... Lead the way, Pauline.” 

She hesitated; her fear of entering the claustrophobic crypt unsettling
her. 

Schofield acknowledged his sister's fear and directed her towards the
cellar. The Englishman flicked the switch and they descended the steep 
steps, the stale odour of dampness unpleasant. 

“Okay,” said De Vries, his pistol pointed at the midriff of Schofield.
“So where's the money?” 

Schofield motioned with his eyes towards the large barrel that was
standing in the corner. 

“Do me the pleasure,” insisted De Vries. 

Schofield removed the lid of the barrel and reached inside. He removed a
large wad of notes and tossed it in the direction of his abductor. 

“More,” grinned the greedy detective. 

Schofield continuously flung wad after wad of the money towards the
hysterical De Vries. Content that De Vries was distracted, Schofield 
gripped the sawn-off shotgun that was concealed in the barrel and 
swiftly directed his aim at the Dutchman. 

Pauline screamed, amid the deafening explosion, watching the body of De
Vries as it slammed with great force against the wall of the cellar, 
depositing blood and entrails all around. 

Schofield stooped over the bloody body, but already knew that the
detective was dead. The trembling Pauline approached her brother and 
proceeded to beat at his chest with her fists. 

“Why? Why, Dean?” Schofield hugged her. “I ha d no choice. Don't you
see? There's no way we were going to leave this cellar alive.” 

She sobbed and pointed at the shotgun. 

“Precautions, sis. I have firearms hidden all around the farmhouse. You
never can be too sure can you?” 

36 

Two days after returning from Wales, Pauline was still suffering. She
had been unable to sleep and her nervousness was perceptible, as she 
viewed every stranger as a potential policeman. 

Schofield had tried to reassure her that it was hardly likely that De
Vries would have confided in his colleagues about his plans to travel 
to Wales, but she was unsure. She was now an accessory to murder, and 
her fear of imprisonment stemmed from an incident when she was a child. 
Pauline had unintentionally separated from her friends and had managed 
to accidentally lock herself in a derelict warehouse. That she was 
found within six hours of going missing did not lessen her phobia of 
enclosed spaces. 

David exited his mother's car and sprinted towards their home, armed
with two school library books. Pauline scurried after her son and 
unlocked the front door. The reek of expensive aftershave was alien to 
the household and instinctively, she knew that her home had been 
violated. 

“David!” she shouted. It was too late. 

The boy cocked his head to one side, wondering who the two visitors
were. 

Pauline scowled at Morris O'Hara, who was seated in Sam's favourite
armchair. His companion, who she did not recognise was relaxing on the 
sofa, sucking on a lollypop. 

“Hello, Pauline,” droned O'Hara. “And this must be little David.” 

Pauline placed a protective arm around her child. “How did you get in
here?” 

“It wasn't difficult. I thought that with your newly acquired wealth,
you would have secured your home more adequately.” 

Pauline snarled. “I left the alarm on. How did...” 

“Calm down, Pauline and take a seat... My, you look so tired. Don't you
think so, Terry?” 

Keenan nodded and addressed the boy. “Would you like a lollypop, little
one?” 

David melted into his mother's embrace. 

The killer persisted. “What's that you're reading? The Wind in the
Willows? That's one of my favourites.” 

O'Hara interrupted. “It appears that you've been telling me fibs,
Pauline.” 

“What are you talking about?” 

The Irishman raised his voice and his stare was hostile. “There was
never ever a letter left with your solicitor was there?” 

“How absurd. Of course there was.” 

“And you deposited it with Hector and Bullard?” continued O'Hara.
Pauline nodded frantically. “Haven't I already told you that?” 

O'Hara paced towards her and reached out for David. He wrestled the
child from her grasp and returned to the armchair. He perched the 
frightened child on his knee. “Where is your brother?” 

Pauline held her head and wept, her long brown locks partly concealing
her face. “Please don't hurt David.” 

Again, I'll ask. Where is Dean?” 

“D...Dean? How should I know? I paid him his share of the money and he
left.” 

O'Hara ran his stubby fingers through the hair of the child. “You dare
to fucking blackmail me, telling me some cock and bull story about a 
none-existent letter. You're making me so angry, woman.” 

David was now crying and struggling to reach his mother. She stepped
forward and Keenan intervened. “Back off, lady.” 

O'Hara pulled fiercely on David's hair, causing him to scream out in
pain. 

“Mr O'Hara!” protested Keenan. 

“Are you going soft, Terry? Don't you ever dare to challenge me with
your objections... Now, Pauline, you have a decision to make. Your son 
or your brother? It‘s your choice.” 

Pauline wept openly. “W...What if I was to return your money to you?” 

O'Hara chuckled to himself. “Return my money? My dear, I will take my
money back regardless, but you misunderstand me. Perhaps it's because 
you're a woman that you fail to grasp the concept of a man's pride... 
You and your brother fucked with me, and not even the Brit soldiers 
could attract so much of my hatred as I have for you... Have you 
reached your decision or do I have to pull every hair from your brat's 
head?” 

Pauline put her hands together in prayer. “I'm begging you, Mr O'Hara; I
don't know where Dean is.” 

The angry Irishman reached into his pocket for a penknife and held the
serrated blade against David's tiny throat. 

“No!” yelled Keenan, advancing towards his employer. 

“I'll tell you where Dean is!” screamed Pauline. 

O'Hara folded the penknife and Keenan backed off. 

“First of all, I need to know what you're going to do?” sobbed Pauline. 

“Isn't it obvious? I'm going to kill your brother and take back my
money.” 

“A...And us?” 

O'Hara swivelled his eyes towards the ceiling. “Of course, I will want
my money back, and then shall we say, I'm willing to offer you a 
pardon... Listen, I love children and what happened just now could have 
been avoided with your cooperation. Take me to your brother and you 
have my word that you and your son are free to go.” 

“God forgive me,” whispered Pauline. 

Keenan crouched down and whispered into the ear of his boss. “Let me
deal with Schofield, Mr O'Hara. Never before have you wished to witness 
an execution.” 

The bottom lip of O'Hara trembled erratically. “This is personal, Terry.
Nobody has ever dared to blackmail me before and I want to pull the 
fucking trigger myself.” 

O'Hara pointed to Keenan's tattoo. “Do you even remember what that
stands for? We succumbed to a bunch of bumbling, geriatric politicians, 
but the warrior spirit inside us still burns fiercely... Now, Pauline, 
you will show us where your brother is.” 

37 

Dressed only in a pair of denim shorts, Schofield cast his fishing line
out once more into the river. He swallowed a mouthful of beer and 
squinted against the brilliant sun, admiring the farmhouse that he 
could now call his home. 

Pauline of course was correct; her brother did crave attention,
especially that of the fairer sex. In time, he had decided to venture 
into the nearby village and no doubt socialise with the unassuming 
locals. 

A glimmering reflection caught his eyes and he focused on the vehicle
that was speeding towards his home. Schofield abandoned his fishing rod 
and substituted it for his shotgun. Crouching down, he took refuge in 
the shadow of a tall oak tree. 

He recognised the blue BMW, but why hadn't Pauline rang his cell phone?
Their arrangement was that if she decided to visit him, she would first 
of all call him. 

Schofield watched suspiciously, as the BMW parked in front of the
farmhouse, beside his Range Rover. Pauline and little David abandoned 
the vehicle, but did not approach the farmhouse. He heard his sister 
shout. 

“Deano! Deano! Where are you, Deano?” 

Deano? Pauline resented that his friends had tarnished his name, and
often used to correct them. “His name is Dean and not Deano,” she would 
stress. That fact, and her reluctance to approach the farmhouse alarmed 
him. 

Schofield lowered his semi-naked body to the ground and crawled swiftly
through the long grass. He could now hear David crying, his protesting 
ignored by his mother. Schofield focused on the BMW and swore that he 
detected movement in the rear seats of the vehicle. He estimated that 
he was out of effective range of his shotgun and regretted his decision 
not to purchase an automatic rifle. 

He crept forward, stealthily and military like, his body now saturated
with perspiration. 

“Surprise, surprise,” came the voice from behind. 

Schofield felt the cold steel of the pistol against the nape of his
neck. 

“Don't do anything stupid, Schofield.” The accent was definitely Irish.
“Let go of the shooter.” 

He did as he was told and turned onto his back, recognising the face of
the Irishman who he had met at Miami Airport. 

“On your feet... Didn't I warn you what would happen if our paths ever
crossed again? You should have taken my advice, Dean; you're out of 
your league.” 

O'Hara had witnessed the incident and stepped from the vehicle, dark
patches of perspiration visible on his white, silk shirt. “At last we 
meet. Lovely day to die don't you think?” 

“I'm sorry, Dean,” cried Pauline. “They threatened to kill David. I
didn‘t have...” 

“It's okay, sis. The IRA was never particular about the choosing of
their victims, no matter what age or sex. Isn‘t that right, O‘Hara?” 

Keenan lunged forward and cuffed Schofield across the head with the butt
of his pistol. He growled. “I'm a soldier and I don't make war against 
children. In every war there are unavoidable, innocent casualties.” 

Schofield massaged the bloody wound on his scalp. “What about young
David there? Is he to be an unavoidable, innocent casualty of war?” 

“Shut up!” ordered O'Hara, who was now brandishing a pistol. “I doubt
that you have a bank account, and so I assume that my money is 
concealed somewhere on your property. Just point me in the right 
direction and we'll be on our way.” 

Schofield focused on the mound of earth not two metres from the feet of
O'Hara. Beneath the mound, lay the body of Jan De Vries. “Why don't I 
believe you?” quizzed Schofield. 

O'Hara wiped his brow with his handkerchief. “Oh, how silly of me. Did I
forget to mention that I was going to kill you after you returned my 
money? You do realise of course that to uphold my reputation, I must 
resort to such drastic measures?” 

“What about my sister and her son?” 

O'Hara bared his immaculately capped teeth and his eyes sparkled. “Tell
me where the money is and they're free to go on their way.” 

Schofield hesitated. “It's in the well.” 

O'Hara looked towards the old well. “Okay, show us.” 

Still rubbing his wound, Schofield walked slowly towards the well. He
gripped the handle and proceeded to turn it. The large metal container 
rose slowly to the surface. Schofield released the handle. 

O'Hara grinned. “Are you fucking with me? If you are, then I'll throw
the brat into the well!” 

“Relax, O'Hara,” groaned Schofield. “Your money is sealed in waterproof
wrapping.” 

O'Hara peered into the large bucket. “Then show me, man.” 

The private investigator looked towards his sister and then at his
nephew. He groped inside the bucket and produced a bulky package. He 
handed it to O'Hara. 

“There's no way this package contains a quantity of cash that will save
your sister and her bastard's lives.” 

“Count it, O'Hara,” insisted Schofield. “You'll be pleasantly
surprised.” 

The suspicious Irishman passed the package over to Keenan. “Count it,
Terry.” 

Keenan knelt on the ground and ripped open the package with a knife. 

Schofield saw his opportunity. He reached into the bucket and gripped
the pistol, letting off two shots, before O'Hara could react. The first 
round hit the older man in the shoulder, and the second exploding in 
the stomach of Keenan. 

Everything to Schofield seemed to happen in slow motion. So much
screaming. The bleating of the sheep and the chirping of the hovering 
birds, contaminated by the loud shots and the odour of gunpowder. So 
much screaming; so much horror. 

O'Hara managed to return fire and Schofield felt his bare chest explode.
He fell back and once more heard the loud screams of Pauline and David. 
He groped for his pistol, but he was weak, helpless to stem the flow of 
blood from his chest. 

O'Hara staggered towards Schofield, blood streaming from his shoulder
wound. “Fool! You fucking Brit fool!” He aimed his weapon at the head 
of Schofield and squeezed the trigger. Schofield died immediately. 

O'Hara circled the well and regarded Keenan, who was fighting for
breath; his prone torso a lake of crimson. 

“Fuck, Terry. It doesn't look good does it?” 

Pauline and David wept loudly and hysterically. 

“Shut up!” commanded O'Hara, who was now fondling the package of
banknotes. “You know, there must be a couple of hundred grand in here. 
No doubt, he'll have the rest stashed away close by.” 

O'Hara grimaced and stared at Pauline. “I don't suppose you're medically
trained?” 

Pauline shook her head and fixed her sad eyes on her dead brother.
“Then, I no longer have any use for either of you.” He raised his 
pistol and pointed it towards Pauline. 

“But you gave your word,” she pleaded, attempting to shield her son. 

“Another unavoidable, innocent casualty of war,” scoffed the Irishman. 

He took aim, heard the gunshot and felt the searing pain in his chest..
He fell back onto the grass and stared manically at the spiral of smoke 
rising from the gun of Keenan. Blood ran down the mouth of O'Hara, as 
he croaked, “ Why?” 

“N...No children,” gasped Keenan. “No children.” He closed his eyes and
died momentarily before his employer. 

Pauline cradled her child and wept uncontrollably. Together, they sat
amongst the corpses until sundown, totally in shock and unable to take 
in the horror they had witnessed. 

Pauline waited until David was asleep before rising. Wearing gloves, she
collected together the package of banknotes and flung them into the 
well. She picked up her son and carried him to her car. It was a long 
drive home. 

EPILOGUE 

Manaf had reached the age of eighteen and was much revered by his
people, due to his accomplishment. The village of Lambada Lhok, which 
had been so tragically ravaged by the tsunamis had been restored to its 
original condition. 

There would always be a void in the village, due to the loss of 3,600
lives, but Manaf and his people could learn from the catastrophe and 
ensure that such an occurrence would prove not so tragic in the future. 


In the heart of the village stood a series of memorials, to ensure that
the names of the dead villagers lived on. A taller, more prominent 
marble monument took centre place. The monument was a tribute to the 
benefactor of the village; an unknown saviour to many. He went by the 
name of Dean Schofield. 

The irony was that although Morris O'Hara's money did indeed bring death
and destruction, a small part of it brought prosperity and hope to a 
small village in Indonesia. 


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