by Scott Hunter
“This isn’t one to tackle on our own, guv.”
“Listen, you go back to the car, drive it to the end of the lane and get ready to park across it on my signal. And keep your head down.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Take a wee look, that’s all. It’s probably a false alarm anyway. Go on, off you go.”
Looking a shade doubtful Charlie walked away towards the connecting alley between the lane and the car park.
The shop window was full of surfing equipment and beachwear proclaiming the benefits of the surf bum lifestyle – or so it appeared to Moran. It wasn’t his kind of shop and the wall of music which assaulted his ears as he entered did little to change his mind. There were perhaps a half dozen visitors browsing and chatting, mostly youngsters, but one or two older couples wandered in bemused fashion between the various displays, chuckling in low voices at some of the odder items of youthwear while at the same time giving Moran the distinct impression that they felt rather daring at having entered the premises at all.
And then he saw her.
In black leather. Trying on a pair of sunglasses, the reflector type favoured by US cops. Her hair was shoulder length, glossy and raven-black, and her physique, although diminutive, had quite obviously been honed to hard muscle in the gym.
Moran ghosted past her, but not before he had caught a glimpse of her eyes in the small, square sunglasses mirror. Dark, emotionless eyes. The eyes of a killer.
He moved on to the counter. On the wall to the rear above the shop assistant’s head were mounted a triad of spear guns and a selection of wicked looking diving knives. Moran offered a prayer to the woodland god who had saved him earlier and felt for his wallet. It was still in his jacket, and so was his credit card. Forty-eight pounds seemed a lot to pay for a knife, but then again he was working under special circumstances and he needed something quick and effective.
He chose quickly. Titanium was strong and the point looked deadly. For a brief, surreal moment Moran caught a vision of Higginson’s expression as the DCS glanced through next month’s expenses sheets. Moran made sure the girl was still focused on her sunglasses before making a quick purchase and an even quicker exit.
Moran waited until he was sure that no passers-by were looking his way before he buried the knife in the rear tyre. The air rushed out with a whap that turned a few heads, but by then Moran was strolling up the lane doing his best to imitate a tourist. He reached the turning point at the top of the lane and about faced in time to see Charlie idle the car into position at the far end.
One minute. Two minutes. His throat was so dry that he was tempted to nip into the newsagents for a mineral water but he couldn’t risk taking his eyes off the shop door. Any time now. Come on…
She bounced out of the shop and clocked the damage immediately. Her head went this way and that, looked down the lane towards Charlie and then turned back towards him so that it seemed to Moran that their eyes locked for a second or two.
She knows.
He wouldn’t have predicted what happened next. The girl mounted the bike, fired the engine, swung it around and opened the throttle full tilt towards Charlie’s end of the lane.
Damn…
He signalled but Charlie had already begun to accelerate towards the weaving motorcycle. Although destabilised by the lack of tyre pressure the assassin still somehow managed to exercise enough control over the machine to steer it. So much for your bike knowledge, Brendan…
He started to run. Charlie was coming up the lane and there wasn’t a great deal of room on either side for the bike to pass. The Chinese girl would still go for it, though. But which way? The gap on the left looked slightly wider to Moran and the rider evidently thought so too. Moran stopped, breathless, clutching his sides. He wasn’t going to get there in time to make a difference. He could only watch.
She’s going to get away…
Sparks flew as the bike made contact with a section of shop frontage. She was directly opposite Charlie’s car window…
Charlie swung the wheel and the car caught the bike just behind the saddle. The bike tilted sideways and fell into the shop alcove in a shower of glass and noise.
Good girl, Charlie…
The car had passed the alcove and Moran prayed that Charlie wouldn’t be tempted to get out. It seemed not; the engine revved and the car lurched backwards into the alcove. He heard it make contact with a rending scream of metal on brick.
OK, good move…
He was nearly there. The car jerked forward into the lane, but with a teeth-clenching grinding of gears Charlie reversed again; a further explosion of masonry dust and splintered wood greeted Moran as he finally reached the car.
By now a shocked semicircle of tourists had gathered to watch events unfold. The car rolled forward yet again. Moran caught sight of Charlie’s wide-eyed, tear-streaked face through the shattered windscreen, her mouth set in grim determination. Moran held up his hand but she wasn’t looking. The gears ground into first.
As the car moved he got a good view into the alcove. The girl had been crushed into the shattered plate glass window and left half-sitting, half-lying in and out of the shop, legs dangling. The bike itself was a twisted pile of metal.
Moran grimaced as the car smashed into the alcove a third time. He ran forward and wrenched the passenger door open.
“Charlie, enough!”
The Chinese girl was slumped over the bonnet, trapped between the car and the shop front. She wouldn’t be walking for a long time, let alone riding a bike. Moran reached over and gently removed the keys from the ignition. Charlie had let go of the steering wheel. Her body was shaking from head to foot like a woman in the grip of some terrible fever.
He placed his hand gently on her shoulder. “All right, Charlie. That’s enough. It’s over now. It’s over.”
Chapter 37
“So you’ve made your peace with the Devonshire constabulary, Brendan?”
Moran reflected on this suggestion for a few moments. “I think they are satisfied that I acted in their interests, sir, if that’s what you mean.”
DCS Higginson glowered. “You know what I mean, Brendan.”
“If it’s not impertinent to suggest as much, sir, I’d say that they have every reason to thank us several times over.” Moran ticked off the reasons using his fingers for emphasis. “Namely, assisting in the arrest of Matthew de Courcy and his mother, apprehending a murder suspect, disabling a self-confessed murderer, liberating a village from what amounts to a reign of terror…”
“All right, all right. You know what I’m getting at. It’s a damned mess, the whole thing. And a political nightmare.” Higginson fiddled with his letter opener. “These cross-constabulary incidents are a never-ending tangle of red tape. And you seem to specialise in the bloody things.”
Moran inclined his head in acknowledgement. Better stop there. He’d made his point.
“Anyway.” Higginson tapped the letter opener like a drumstick. “How’s DI Pepper? Timely arrival of hers, I understand?”
“She’ll mend. A few weeks off. Somewhere to live.”
“Quite, quite. The thing is, Brendan, I’ve received a complaint.”
“Oh?”
“Via Devonshire. It seems that a member of the public who witnessed the arrest of your Chinese girl claims that excessive force was used by an arresting officer.”
Moran noted the ‘your’ in reference to the assassin. So, she was his assassin now, not Higginson’s. “My officer acted in the best interests of public safety, sir. The assassin was armed – I can prove that. And dangerous. I don’t think I need to prove that.”
“Nevertheless, Brendan, there will probably be an enquiry. I’m just letting you know.”
“If I may, sir, DI Pepper has been through a lot in the last few months. I would strongly advise back-pedalling the complaint under the circumstances. She’s a good officer with huge potential. Something like this might send her–”
; “I can’t do that, Brendan. You know the form. It’s like a parking ticket. Once written…” Higginson opened his palms in an ‘out of my hands’ gesture.
Moran bit his tongue. It was madness, but no point trying to fight it now. He did his best to hide his anger and changed tack.
“And DCI Wilder, sir,” Moran sat forward. “Have you formally charged her?”
“I’d like to do more than charge her.” Higginson shook his head ruefully. “But Internal have been in touch. They’ll be taking her on.”
“I see.”
Higginson noted Moran’s expression. “Problem?”
“It’s just that we have a loose end, sir. I was hoping–”
“Ah, this other chap from the house. Andreas.”
“Yes.”
“Miles away by now, I’d have thought.” Higginson held the letter opener between two forefingers, moving it from left to right in an unconscious gesture of impatience. He clearly wanted to be onto his next task.
Moran soldiered on. He needed Higginson’s buy-in for this – better not highlight the potential for yet another cross-constabulary outing, though...
“But if I can track him down, sir, it might put the seal on any further activity from the Huang network. At least in our neck of the woods. And I just feel that, for Stephen Banner’s sake, for all of our sakes–”
“Quite, quite so. DS Banner’s funeral’s next Thursday, by the way. Bloody Home Secretary’s attending, so it’ll be all protocol and form. But look, can’t we get anything out of your Chinese girl?”
“Still unconscious, I’m afraid. And I rather think that the two gentlemen I met in the hospital corridor will have considerable more clout than you or I – with respect, sir – when she does eventually come round.”
“MI5. Surprise surprise.”
Moran nodded. “So, is DCI Wilder still in our hands, so to speak?”
“She’s being collected tomorrow morning,” Higginson said, poker-faced. “I may not notice if you want to pop in to wish her well. Or whatever.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“I don’t believe we’ve met?” Moran tested his weight on the flimsy wooden chair, rested his elbows on the bare table and indicated the chair’s opposite number. “Please.”
DCI Suzanne Wilder’s reputation was known to Moran and the unmistakeable vestiges of authority were still evident in the way she held herself and by the manner in which she scrutinised him as she accepted his invitation to sit down.
“You’ll be Moran.”
“That’s correct.”
“What do you want?”
“I don’t like loose ends. I wondered if you could help me out.”
“Why should I?”
Moran poured himself a glass of water, took a sip and sat back in the chair with his arms resting on his stomach, fingers interlocked, thumbs tapping. “Because I want to talk about Andreas.”
Wilder looked as though he had slapped her. Her expression darkened.
“Easy one to start us off, eh? How did you meet?”
“He was one of my brother’s contacts.”
“I see. And you were introduced so that you could plan my sergeant’s murder and the discrediting of my DI? Did Sheldrake tell you where to find him, or did he find you?”
“Does it matter?”
“It might. And a helpful attitude, as you know, may go a little way towards the reduction of any sentence you’re given.”
Wilder looked around the small room, as if to finally satisfy herself that she had reached the point of no return. “Don’t be ridiculous. A couple of months off a life sentence isn’t much good to me.”
“You haven’t really got much to lose, have you?” Moran offered quietly.
Wilder sighed. For a moment her poise seemed to fail her. Then the stony expression returned. “All right, I’ll tell you. But not because I’m kindly disposed towards you, or that I believe it will make any difference to what happens to me.”
Moran knew the reason. It was always the same when half a partnership was in custody and the other running free, especially if the one in custody had been stitched up and left to fend for herself. Wilder wanted revenge. And if you added an emotional context – as there clearly was here – then heavy persuasive techniques were seldom necessary. Just the right degree of prompting. Having said that, Moran still knew he had to draw on every last ounce of professionalism during the interview – not because he was fearful of failing to extract the information he needed, but rather to keep his anger in check so that he wouldn’t succumb to the temptation to lean over the desk and strangle Wilder where she sat.
“Fine. In your own time.”
“Andreas was brought in to clean up the mess after the Ranandan brothers were killed. My brother recommended I get in touch with him. I found out where he was living – easy enough if you know who to ask – and together we planned the operation.”
Operation. The premeditated murder of a police officer. Moran swallowed his outrage, held his peace and waited for Wilder to continue.
“We spent a lot of time together. He was lonely, I suppose. The natural thing happened. And then a few weeks ago that Polish slut moved in and screwed everything up.”
“Everything?”
“Almost everything. Andreas became distracted. He was good at his work, but she had done something to his head. His attention to detail was compromised.”
“Well, you still managed to kill my sergeant and frame my senior officer.”
“Yes, but the details weren’t rigorously checked. DI Pepper’s arrival at the house was not anticipated – we had someone else lined up for the room, but suddenly we had to move quickly, improvise a little. That damned glass of water. Andreas would have made sure of all that if he’d been thinking straight.”
“You’re saying that this Gosia girl seduced him? Stole him from you?”
“He denied it, of course. Men do, don’t they?” Wilder’s eyes were black and bitter. “But he promised that when we were finished we would go back to Poland together. There was plenty of work for us there.”
“Via Huang, no doubt.”
Wilder looked at him steadily. “I’m not saying anything about him. Not now. Not ever.”
Moran shrugged. “As you please. Go on.”
“What else can I say?” She shrugged. “May I have a cigarette?”
“Not yet. Where would Andreas be heading? How would he leave the country?”
“One of two ways. Either by private plane, or maybe Eurostar. That’s a favourite. He likes his comfort.”
“I see. Any guesses for his present circumstances?”
Wilder rubbed at a stain on the table top. She looked up and for a moment Moran could see the pale reflection of a once handsome woman. Not beautiful, but handsome; there was a difference. When she spoke her voice was flat and emotionless. “If she’s with him he won’t use the plane. Eurostar would be my guess. Maybe even the ferry. But he’s probably gone already. He’s good at what he does, when he’s on the case. You’ll not find him easily.”
“Thank you. I don’t expect we’ll meet again.”
“No.”
Moran got up and left. He went straight out to the car park, found a trio of external plastic rubbish bins and kicked hell out of them until his feet protested and he had to find a seat on the concrete lip of a nearby parking bay to get his breath back.
It seemed a long time since Moran had held court from his customary spot in the incident room – just to the left of the whiteboard by the glass windows which separated his private office from the rest of the team. It seemed a long time, but in fact it was only eight days.
George McConnell, Bola Odunsi and Brit were seated in an attentive semicircle. Moran wished that Charlie was well enough to be involved, but he had sent her on compulsory sick leave to stay with her parents in Coventry. He hadn’t mentioned Higginson’s complaint; Charlie didn’t need that right now. He was still two officers down; Tess Martin was doing fine but out of
commission for the foreseeable future.
Moran regarded his depleted team. George was looking apprehensive. He knew that Moran wouldn’t let his mid-week all-nighter go by without comment. However, Moran had decided to let the Scot stew for a while; it would make him keener to please.
“Lend me your ears, good people,” Moran began. “We have a fugitive and a possible abductee to track down.”
“Friends, Romans or countrymen?” Brit asked innocently.
Moran frowned, feigning bafflement.
“Shakespeare, guv. Julius Caesar.”
“Ah. I thought it was Dumas.”
Now it was Brit’s turn to look perplexed.
“Alexander Dumas,” Moran smiled. “The three musketeers. That’s what you three look like from where I’m standing. Anyway, let’s get on. I’ve had a wee chat with Wilder.”
The three exchanged glances. Bola Odunsi screwed one hand into a fist and punched it into his open palm.
Moran continued. “Wilder informs me that we should be looking to the Channel Tunnel. Or, less likely, a private plane.”
“Want me to check the smaller airfields, guv? He could be off anytime,” McConnell offered.
“I don’t think so. I think that Andreas will take his time leaving the country.”
“What makes you think that, guv?” Brit asked.
“Because Wilder would have me believe that he’s already left. She can’t quite bring herself to shop him completely.”
Understanding dawned on the trio’s faces.
“So.” Moran found a chair and sat down. He felt drained of energy and his headache was never far away, lurking in the background like some unwanted party malingerer. “We think about other ways. My chart-topper is the ferry.”
“Portsmouth, Plymouth, Poole, Dover…” Bola began.
Moran raised his hand. “I know. A lot of ground to cover. And out of our jurisdiction.”
“Back to the Orts Road house, guv?” McConnell suggested. “We need a starter for ten.”
“Nope. No need.”
All three frowned.
Moran paused, enjoying their confusion. A moment later he relented and produced a folded slip of paper from his pocket. “Booking form. Brittany Ferries, Poole, Tuesday morning, seven thirty. Three tickets.”
