DEAD AIR (Henry & Sparrow Book 2)

by A D FOX

  Finley was amazed to discover that the presenters - Dave Perry and Sheila Bartley - were actually broadcasting right now! Across three counties hundreds of thousands of people were listening to every word they said, thanks to the microphones and the little desk with buttons and faders, and the mast which had travelled up and up into the sky like his telescope back home, Mum said, only much, much longer.

  He had been absolutely entranced. Mum and Dad wanted to go on to the pet show and in the end Mum had taken Gloria along on her own, because it was too hot for the cavy to be cooped up in her carrier out in the sun. Dad had stayed with him right until the end of the radio show, which concluded with shouts and applause from the audience, egged on by Dave Perry getting to his feet and waving his arms in the air.

  But while most of them wanted to queue to talk to Dave Perry and Sheila Bartley, and get signed postcard pictures of them, Finley really had eyes for the tech. He was mesmerised by the radio car and what it could do. Dad took his hand and they wandered across to speak to a man with a beard. Finley later learned this was Malcolm Bright, the station’s chief engineer. Malcolm was very nice to him and had allowed him to press the button which brought the mast slowly down, folding steadily into itself like a series of connected, tubular Russian dolls.

  When it was down, Finley had begged to be allowed to send it back up again. Malcolm had laughed and said OK, but only once. They had to pack everything up soon and get back to the station. So Finley had held the button, on the passenger side of the Ford Focus dashboard - keeping it pressed because if you stopped, the mast would stop too - until the whole thing had risen up again, taking its umbilical loops of wire with it. Finley could - quite literally - have pressed the up button and then the down button all day, but Dad said they had to let the radio guys get on.

  Finley knew he had to move along. He couldn’t expect them to let him go on playing with the radio car all day. But when he left, he took something with him. A new and abiding passion for the workings of local radio began to burn in him from that day forth. He had to know everything about it. Everything.

  Mum and Dad thought it was a passing fad, like his thing for helicopters and, before that, his thing for old vinyl record players. But they were wrong. This was to be the love of his life. He started listening on an old transistor radio in his room, wearing out the batteries regularly because it was the constant soundtrack to his life. He got to know every presenter, although it was difficult to get to know the mid-morning and mid-afternoon guys, because most of that time he was at school. On the weekends and in the evenings he could listen in as much as he liked… except when Mum or Dad told him he had to go to sleep. Even then he would sometimes wake in the night and sneak the radio under the covers with him so he could hear the whispering tones of the midnight shift guy. Back then it was someone called Gavin Fletcher, who was nice, but nowhere near as nice as Josh Carnegy.

  Of course, he got on air whenever he could, going in for quizzes and talking about any topics that a school kid could, charming the producers and researchers over the phone until Finley from Laverstock had become a regular on air. Sometimes they wouldn’t let him on, though, and Mum had to explain that they had to be fair and let other people have a go.

  He’d had his first station tour at the age of thirteen and found it electrifying. Especially the behind the scenes stuff with the engineers, who showed him the radio car again and let him sit in it. They showed him the old Studer reel-to-reel machines, too, which presenters and reporters used to use back in the nineties, to edit audio they’d recorded in studios or out on the road with small reel-to-reel recorders called Uhers. The Uhers had a leather shoulder strap and weighed a tonne. Not a literal tonne, but something that felt like a tonne, one of the reporters had explained.

  When he was older, on another tour, he even got the chance to use the sticky tape and razor blades to do some editing with those silky ribbons of red-brown oxide, in special metal grooves. You used white chinagraph pencils to mark the places you needed to cut. You had to sign a form beforehand, because of the hazard.

  But even though he often dreamed of it, part of him always knew he’d never get the chance to work at the station - to be the guy running the outside broadcasts and talking to other kids about how the radio car mast went up and down. He was too awkward around people. Even though he tried really hard he could never seem to work out what was too much and what was not enough. He was as smart as most men his age but he just couldn’t seem to get a hold on the way other people operated. He was always being either too much or not enough.

  Now, though, it seemed everything had changed. Today had been terrible. He’d been interviewed by the police and accused of being a stalker. He really hadn’t expected that. It was awful. But what had happened since was wonderful. Just look what he was doing now! He was driving the BBC Radio Wessex car to an extra special outside broadcast - in charge of the vehicle of his dreams. He could have got into one of the VSAT Enabled Reporter Vehicles but the VERVs didn’t have the soul of the old radio car.

  When he reached his destination, with the very special passenger he was carrying, there was going to be a really important live broadcast and it would be down to him to make sure it got out on air. It felt as if his whole twenty-three years of existence had been preparation for this moment. He was getting a life. Dave Perry, if he wasn’t dead, would have to eat his words. For a moment, Finley almost wished he wasn’t…

  Rob Larkhill was in a state of shock. He could smell the gaffer tape as he and Finley Warner sped through the dark, away from the city centre and towards the rural roads. Who would have guessed it would come to this? Finley Warner of all people? Sweet, annoying, childlike, psychotic Finley Warner. Of course he had already thrown a little suspicion on the guy because, with that stalking business, he was suspicious, wasn’t he? Obviously not suspicious enough because he’d been interviewed but not arrested. What the hell were the police even for?

  Honestly, he hadn’t seen this coming until tonight. He’d been so wrapped up with the death of Dave Perry and then Sheila Bartley. He had thought - hoped - maybe it was all over.

  Then Donna had said on the phone: ‘It’ll never be over, Rob. Not until they arrest and charge someone. I don’t know about you, but I’m never going to be able to relax again until that happens.’

  Rob had agreed. This whole thing was taking such a toll on him. Coming back to Radio Wessex had been fantastic, even with all its challenges. He was really beginning to make his mark, shaking up the scheduling and getting fresh blood in. Getting back together with Donna was also wonderful… but Dave fucking Perry just had to get murdered.

  And then Sheila had to join him. Christ. What a week. What a brain-melting, nerve-shredding week. He’d always known the job would eat him alive, but not like this. Now he was on a journey into the dark, swallowing his fear, putting on a good show, but understanding that it was all going to end in another death. He breathed that gaffer tape stink again, felt the adhesive against his fingers, and tried to stay calm.

  24

  Kate felt her phone buzzing in her inside pocket as the bike sped on. She was in no position to answer it. She realised she had been due to arrive home hours ago and Francis might have started worrying. Although they had their own flats and were meant to be living grown-up, independent lives, her younger brother had taken to checking in on her much more since the dramatic end to her last case. Finding out she’d been moments away from being murdered by a psychopath had shaken him up a bit. He’d lost one sister already.

  It was sweet but also a bit annoying, having to worry about him worrying about her.

  Did he have just cause tonight, though? His sister was currently clinging to the leather-jacketed waist of a man who was riding through the Wiltshire backroads, almost certainly above the speed limit, following the directions of a lump of glass on a chain around his neck… which was getting its intel from a tin of flapjacks.

  If that didn’t sound batshit crazy enough to at
least mildly concern an anxious sibling, she didn’t know what would.

  She had no idea how long this journey was going to take. Part of her was enjoying it, though, if she was honest. She’d not done much biking in her time but had always loved the sense of freedom it gave her. She understood why some of the traffic guys stuck with their two-wheeled steeds for years - decades, even. There was a thrill in getting to the scene of a crime or accident when you could speed past slow traffic without having to clear your path with blues and twos first.

  Another part of her, though, was getting uncomfortable and weary. It would have been easier, she had to admit, if that bloody shortbread tin hadn’t been jammed under her boobs. Even through the thick canvas of the satchel it dug into her ribs and held her away from the natural curve of Lucas Henry’s back. She longed to flip it around over her shoulder and fit herself properly against him. It would be warmer, too. The misgivings she’d felt earlier about this level of closeness to someone she was so conflicted about had vanished. She was too tired to care now; she just wanted to get comfortable.

  She sensed that they were slowing down and wondered if they were close to the killer… or another victim. Soon she realised it was for a different reason entirely. In a lay-by just ahead of them was a roadside disco of red and blue flashing lights. Shit! Not a spot check, please! It was past midnight by now and this was the time of year when her colleagues in traffic started ramping up their pre-Christmas drink and drive campaign. A patrol car she recognised from Salisbury Traffic was parked up, its door already opening.

  Lucas continued at a sedate pace and then, sure enough, an officer stepped out and raised his hand, his fluorescent jacket gleaming in the headlight, and waved them in to the lay-by. Shit, shit, shit! This was all she needed. To be caught out on the back of Lucas Henry’s bike was going to be mortifying. And worse - it could mean they would lose their connection with the Gaffer Tape Killer.

  Lucas slowed to a halt, tilting the bike a little as his boots found the cold tarmac. She hopped off the back as he kicked down the stand and switched off the engine.

  ‘Good evening, sir,’ said PC Bob Hartnett. She recognised his thickset build, his greying beard and his extreme chirpiness.

  Lucas took off his helmet and said: ‘Is there anything wrong, officer?’

  ‘Not that we know of, sir,’ went on Bob. ‘We’re just doing the drink and drive spot check lottery between now and Christmas and you’re lucky enough to have won a party blower.’ He held up a black unit with a white tube protruding from it. ‘Have you had a drink in the last twenty minutes, sir?’ he asked, cheerily.

  ‘No,’ said Lucas.

  Kate hung around behind the Triumph, arms folded over her satchel and the helmet still on. She hoped and prayed Bob wasn’t feeling too officious tonight and wouldn’t ask her to remove her headgear and take a test too. As a passenger she shouldn’t necessarily have to, especially if she stood there looking as sober as a judge and not suggesting she might be a danger to traffic.

  ‘Had a smoke, sir?’ went on Bob, taking the plastic wrapper off the tube.

  ‘Not any more,’ said Lucas, with a sigh.

  ‘Tough to give up, isn’t it?’ empathised Bob.

  ‘You should see my Twix habit these days,’ said Lucas. He sounded remarkably chilled out.

  ‘Just blow in here please, sir.’ Bob held up the breathalyser and Lucas blew. Kate steeled herself. She had no idea whether Lucas had been drinking. He’d been out for the evening when she met him, so he could have been half-cut for all she knew.

  Bob peered at the result and said: ‘So you have had something to drink, then.’

  ‘Yes - I had a bottle of Peroni about two hours ago,’ said Lucas. ‘Within the limit, isn’t it?’

  Bob peered for a bit longer, dragging out the drama, and she held her breath, praying he wasn’t about to turn to her next. And then he did turn to her next. He peered at the helmet, narrowing his eyes. Oh shit! The helmet! The fucking helmet! She had literally taken it from the shelf above Bob’s desk half an hour ago.

  ‘Nice helmet,’ he said, finally.

  She patted it and nodded. ‘Does the job,’ she said, affecting a northern accent in a moment of wild improvisation. If she turned around right now he would catch sight of the little neon green sticker he must have put on the back and there would be an interesting conversation.

  ‘I’ve got one just like that,’ he said. She was about to northern up another response but then he turned back to Lucas and said, ‘You’re good to go. Keep it to the one bottle next time too and you’ll have no arguments from me. Have a nice evening.’

  Thirty seconds later they were pulling away and PC Bob Hartnett was waving them off with no obvious recognition of the helmet she’d stolen from him. She hoped to god he wouldn’t catch sight of the sticker and give chase.

  Finley turned the car off road and began to bump along a farm track, the headlights picking out the rutted route between high hedgerows; a few late insects flitting across the beam.

  ‘Will he be here?’ he asked. Robert Larkhill nodded. He’d promised that Josh was sorry about calling Finley a stalker, and that he was going to make it up to his number one fan. Josh and Finley were going to run a very special OB in the last hour of the overnight show. The manager had fixed it all up. All the way here they’d listened to some other guy in Josh’s slot - someone based up in Manchester who was presenting to various parts of the south of England where radio stations didn’t have their own overnight guy. He was nowhere near as good as Josh. It was quite offensive having to listen to him.

  But Finley understood that everyone at BBC Radio Wessex had had a really bad day and that Josh needed a break. So he was just going to do this one little outside broadcast, opting into BBC Radio Wessex in the last hour. Normally Finley would be listening to the last hour in bed, drinking cocoa from his BBC Radio Wessex mug. Tonight he was out here in the wilds of Wiltshire, getting ready to play his part in the most important OB ever.

  He drove on up the hill until the track ran out and it was just grass. This was where Josh would meet them; he’d been quite specific about the location. He seemed really keen to get there, according to the texts on Larkhill’s phone.

  I’m on my way. Don’t do anything until I get there!

  As if. This was all about Josh, wasn’t it? Finley had always known they were meant to be together. His mum and dad hadn’t believed him. Dad had said he needed to ‘see someone’ about his obsession; that it was unhealthy. If only they could see him now!

  Finley stopped the car and put the handbrake on carefully. He was going to have some cocoa now. Here in the dark in the middle of nowhere, with the manager of BBC Radio Wessex. Did it get any better than this? Yes! After the cocoa, he was going to get the mast up.

  Josh should really have gone home to bed. He should be getting an early night so he could go in again in the morning and speak to Larkhill about what he’d seen.

  Why he had decided to come over all private eye and get into the pool car, he really didn’t know. Maybe it was because he’d suffered so much anxiety about Finley Warner and now he had a chance to take back some kind of control - find out what was going on in that nutjob’s head and get him to answer for it. How the fuck had he managed to steal the radio car? How did he know where to find the key?

  Malc kept all the keys in a cupboard in the engineers’ room. Everyone on station knew about it; you had to get your key from it when you took a VERV or a pool car; you signed a book to say you had the key. Malc usually locked the cupboard at the end of the day.

  Except not this day. When Josh had run into the building, he’d failed to find Rob Larkhill there - or anyone else. He’d checked the cupboard and found it open, the radio car key missing, of course. He tried Rob’s mobile but it just went to voicemail. Josh took a deep breath and dug out the card he’d been given by that blonde detective - the good-looking one called Kate Sparrow. He called the number and left a message: ‘Um… DS Sparrow? T
his is Josh Carnegy from Radio Wessex. You said to call if I thought of anything… suspicious. Well… I’ve just seen something suspicious outside. Finley Warner… the guy who’s been kind of stalking me… he just drove out of here in the radio car. I think he’s taken it off on some kind of… I dunno… joy ride? I think he might be going to the Wiltshire Showground, out near Devizes. He’s got a big thing about that site because that’s where he first saw the radio car. I’m going to follow him in a pool car. You might want to send someone.’

  She hadn’t called back. It made him feel slightly foolish. With a murder investigation going on that week, maybe a car theft wasn’t a big deal. Maybe Finley was just driving it round the block and would arrive back in five minutes to sheepishly park it. Still didn’t answer the question of how he’d got into the garage in the first place, with no ID pass. Perhaps he’d stolen one from someone…

  It was then that Josh decided to drive out to the show ground… check out his hunch. It would take about twenty or thirty minutes at this time of night. He wasn’t entirely sure what he was going to do when he got there, but he was too wide awake, too wired to just go home and go to bed. If he saw Finley and the radio car up at the showground he wouldn’t even get out of the car. He’d just call Kate Sparrow again and if she didn’t pick up he’d dial 999.

  And if he didn’t see anything, he’d just drive the pool car back, report everything and go home to bed. He collected the key from the unlocked cabinet and headed down to the garage. He started up the beaten-up old Peugeot, shoving the seat back - whoever’d driven it last was clearly a midget - and shot out of the garage, giving the roll-down shutter a click from the pool car key fob, so it would lower automatically, in case Eileen from Old Milton decided to drop by next, and take a VERV for a midnight spin.