Craddock by Neil Jackson, Paul Finch Page B

some plan. And in one sense that boded well. If the felon had wanted to simply kill Craddock, he could have done so half a dozen times already. Not that it wasn’t still a distinct possibility.
    “ Burnwood … I said I’m here!”
    There was still no answer. Craddock took another step forwards and then felt something soft beneath his feet. He looked down, and saw that he was standing on grit, or was it mulch? He was confused. There was sand and shingle mixed with it, but also wood-chippings. He recalled that he’d seen Palmer lying on what had looked like raked earth. And then it struck him.
    The ballast at the bottom of the ship; he was walking on top of the ballast.
    That proved how deep into the vessel he’d penetrated.
    And then a bass male voice sounded from the darkness beyond the door.
    “ In here, major. I’m waiting.”
    Craddock hesitated, wondering if the instant he stepped into view he’d be greeted by a hail of bullets. But again, what alternative was there? From the moment he’d opted to enter this wreck, a face-to-face confrontation had been inevitable. Almost fatalistically, he placed his lantern down – as before, there was no sense making himself too easy a target – then cocked his Smith and Wesson, and advanced to the open doorway.
    Beyond it, he was confronted by another, near-identical section of hold, though in this case there was a difference. In the middle, two objects were hanging.
    Two men. Both upside down.
    Rope and woodwork creaked – just as it did on the gallows.
    Craddock felt a bolt of fear, then a terrible rage.
    He blundered forwards, gun to the fore.
    “ Now, major, don’t be hasty,” came the disembodied voice.
    Craddock halted. “Burnwood, you are the lowest … ”
    “ My, you look as though you really want to kill me.”
    “ Dead or alive, thief, it’s your decision!”
    “ And will I have that choice when I’m standing on the trapdoor at Lancaster Jail?”
    “ That isn’t my problem.”
    There was a brief silence, then: “ This is, I fancy.”
    Blue light spurted as a match was struck, and then a candle-flame sprang to life. The broad, shaven-headed form of George Burnwood materialised between the hanging shapes, which were now revealed to be Constable Palmer and Joseph Nethercot. They had indeed been suspended upside-down. Both were unconscious; Nethercot had been severely beaten; his thin, pinched features were black with bruises, streaked with dried blood. But Palmer was in a better state but in greater danger. While balanced the guttering candle in one hand, in the other he gripped the shotgun, and pressed its sawn-off barrels into the side of the constable’s back. The faintest pressure on that trigger, and he would blow young Palmer in two.
    Craddock swallowed down panic, but tried to remind himself that, whatever else happened, surrender was not an option. He took careful aim, only for Burnwood to step backwards so that he was partly shielded by Palmer.
    “ Drop the gun, or I fire,” the major said.
    “ Then fire.” The felon seemed unconcerned. “I assure you, no matter where you hit me, assuming you do hit me, I’ll have enough left to finish off this protege of yours.”
    Something inside advised the major that he should shoot … that he must , that he had no other choice. But Major Craddock, both as an army officer and a police chief, had always stepped prudently. Now was not the time to change the habit of a lifetime. “I’m not withdrawing from here, if that’s what you expect.”
    “ That’s not what I expect at all,” Burnwood replied. “But drop your weapon all the same.”
    “ There’s no possibility of that.”
    “ Lower it then … an inch or so. Give me a little room to manoeuvre.”
    “ A little room in which to kill my man, you mean? And probably me as well!”
    “ You’ll have to trust me, major.”
    “ When you’ve already shot two of my officers?”
    “ I had to shoot them …”
    “ They were unarmed, you