Fallout (The Nick Sullivan Thrillers Book 1)

by Karla Forbes

  The family liaison officer opened his mouth to reply, but at that moment, the telephone rang into the silent room.

  Feltham picked up the receiver, vacant and exhausted, and gave his name. For a moment, he didn’t realise the significance of what he was hearing; there had been too many false alarms over the last few days. When the unknown voice came clearly from the speaker he didn’t at first snap to attention.

  “Is that James Feltham?”

  “Yes...”

  “Listen carefully. Your wife can be found on Midhurst Common on the A272 west of Midhurst.”

  “Who is this?”

  The line went dead.

  Feltham stared hard at the receiver, appalled. That was it. It had happened so fast that there had been no chance to keep the man talking in an attempt to trace the call. The stunned silence around him lasted less than three seconds, then, as one, everyone pushed to their feet doing what they had to do. The caller hadn’t said whether Sarah Feltham was alive or dead, but it was clear from their grim faces that it was only her husband who was still clinging onto the last vestiges of hope.

  ***

  Since the moment he had been told that his sister had disappeared with Nick, Ed’s dismay had been growing. Word had spread quickly among his colleagues, and although no one was bold enough to mention it to his face, he could tell by the way people stopped talking as he approached that his personal embarrassment – the sergeant whose sister was helping a murderer evade justice – had become the latest item of hot gossip. No one could hold him personally responsible, but it certainly wasn’t going to do his career a power of good.

  The hubbub in the canteen fell silent as he entered, and he came to an abrupt halt, glaring belligerently around him.

  “If anyone’s got anything to say,” he snarled, “then say it to my face. I don’t appreciate people talking about me behind my back.”

  Conversation in the room slowly resumed, but the occasional outbreak of suppressed sniggers did nothing to help his mood. He bought himself a coffee and sandwich, slamming the money down with bad grace, and joined a fellow-sergeant who beckoned him over with a tilt of the head.

  “Don’t let them get to you,” he said, as Ed scraped back his chair and plonked down his tray. “They don’t mean anything by it. They’ll be talking about something else tomorrow.”

  “That’s easy for you to say,” Ed grumbled. “It’s not you they’re laughing at.”

  “True,” his colleague agreed, “but your sister is a grown woman. People don’t seriously expect you to be responsible for every member of your family. I doubt whether many people here haven’t got a few skeletons in their own cupboards they’re keeping quiet about.”

  “I suppose you’re right.”

  “Of course I am. Has anyone heard from your sister?”

  Ed shook his head glumly. “No. Both forces are keeping an eye open for her car, but so far nothing’s turned up. Fortunately Nick wasn’t under arrest when she decided to help him, so, technically, she hasn’t committed a crime. But I’m still furious with the stupid little cow. And as for Nick, I could bloody kill him!”

  Ed drank deeply from his coffee mug, lost in thought, and didn’t notice a colleague approaching until he tapped him on the shoulder.

  “The governor wants to see you in his office.”

  “What, now?”

  “Straight away.”

  Ed swore and pushed back his chair, getting to his feet with a scowl. “What the hell is it now? They’ve gone on a crime spree, raiding banks across the south of England?”

  His colleague regarded him with a rueful grin. “Well at least you can still joke about it.”

  Ed drained the last of his coffee. “Who’s bloody joking?”

  He strode off to the Inspector’s office, rapped loudly and walked straight in. In his governor’s eyes his standing was probably about as low as it could get; any insincere acts of courtesy weren’t going to improve the situation either way. He expected to face hostility, but found, instead, concern. It was disconcerting.

  “Guv?” he asked, a sense of deep unease creeping over him.

  The Inspector beckoned to a chair. “Take a seat, Ed. It’s about your sister...”

  Ed found himself tensing. He didn’t like the pity he saw in his boss’s expression. “We’ve found her.”

  Ed couldn’t trust himself to speak. He said nothing as he waited, his face tight with tension.

  “She’s been involved in a road accident,” the Inspector continued gently. “She’s been taken to Southampton General.”

  Ed still said nothing. He sensed there was worse to come.

  “She was hit by a car doing about sixty. She’s in a bad way, by all accounts.”

  “Is she going to live?” Ed asked, his voice harsh with shock.

  The Inspector dredged up a comforting smile. “They’re doing all they can.”

  Ed flinched visibly at the non-committal answer. “How did it happen?”

  The Inspector lowered his gaze. “We’re not sure at the moment, but the driver who hit her says that she ran straight out in front of him.”

  “Does he know why?” Ed asked forcing himself to sound calm.

  The Inspector spread his hands blankly. “At the moment we don’t have a clear idea of what happened, but according to the driver she appeared to be running away from something…or someone. She bolted from the trees and lost her footing, slipping down the bank.”

  “And Nick?” Ed asked, without emotion.

  “No sign of him,” the inspector admitted.

  “Could she have been running away from him?”

  The Inspector shrugged. “Until your sister regains consciousness, we have no way of knowing.”

  “But even if that wasn’t the case, he must have abandoned her to save his own skin when he saw what had happened?”

  “We don’t know that.”

  “Where the hell is he then?”

  The Inspector averted his gaze. The rawness of Ed’s anger was difficult to witness.

  “We don’t know that either,” he said guardedly. “We’ll find him, though, I promise. And if he had anything to do with your sister’s accident, he’d better hope that Kent Police find him before we do.”

  Chapter Ten

  Nick was running on empty, but as he approached Clacket Lane services it wasn’t just lack of fuel that was the problem, it was also lack of food. He had shot out of the door that morning without breakfast, and had had nothing to eat or drink all day. Strangely he didn’t feel hungry, but his empty stomach was doing nothing to help his headache. He wondered how Wilson and Fox were managing without food, and came to the conclusion that they must have brought their supplies with them. Neither man looked as though they would willingly go without.

  The sun had set a while ago and the strain of keeping up with an undistinguished black BMW was beginning to tell. On one occasion their rear lights merged into the traffic ahead and he thought he had lost them, but when he put his foot down in a panic he found himself overtaking them. He swore angrily at his momentary lapse of concentration and eased back as unobtrusively as possible. The last thing he wanted to do was attract their attention with a show of erratic driving.

  Another quick glance at the fuel gauge confirmed his worst fears: he was driving on fumes. He struck the dashboard with frustration, angrily facing up to the fact that not only had the whole day been a waste of time, but he was going to finish it off by grinding to an ignoble halt and losing them.

  He saw the slip road for the Services ahead and found himself praying. If he was in need of petrol, then surely they were too. As if in response to his mental entreaties they flicked on an indicator light and pulled abruptly off the motorway, coming to a halt on the garage forecourt. The adjacent pump was empty but the two men would only have to glance casually over in his direction to see him. He searched around and chose another pump occupied by an empty Renault, then sat there, strumming his fingers in mounting irritation as he w
atched the driver slowly wandering back as he checked his wallet. Wilson finished filling the tank and hurried off to pay, passing the Renault driver who was unhurriedly easing himself behind the steering wheel. Nick flicked on the ignition and edged forward, but the Renault driver seemed impervious to those around him. He sat there rummaging in his glove compartment as the clock ticked, and by the time he eventually switched on his engine and pulled away, Wilson was already on his way back to the BMW and Nick was feeling murderous.

  The time for caution was past. He scrambled out and began to refuel, but Wilson didn’t spare him a second look. Nick caught a glimpse of himself in the wing mirror and wasn’t surprised. The face looking back at him belonged to someone else. It was more than just the stubble and glasses. He realised with a start that he was looking haggard. He shrugged the thought away. There was nothing wrong with him that a couple more headache tablets wouldn’t shift.

  The petrol filled up with agonising slowness as he snatched surreptitious glances at Wilson and Fox. They were sitting in the car talking, showing no apparent urge to move. His hopes began to rise; perhaps he could still do it. The pump cut out and, ramming the cap back on, he sprinted across the forecourt to pay. He was halfway across when he heard Wilson switch on the engine and as he spun around in horror he saw the BMW sweep past and disappear into the darkness. His hands fell to his side and he stood staring after them, feeling sick. He could only pray that they were returning to the lodge; otherwise he had lost them. And if that was the case, he had no idea how he was going to pick up their trail again. Devastated, he walked to the till and paid with his credit card. With no cash on him he had no choice – and right now, with hope rapidly fading, it no longer seemed to matter.

  For the first time in his life he was facing failure. It was ironic that it had happened when he most needed success.

  ***

  James Feltham’s mood was swinging from hope to despair. Over an hour had passed since he had received the telephone call. It was the longest, most agonising wait of his life. He went over the few short words the man had uttered, analysing, dissecting, searching for the smallest shred of hope that Sarah could still be alive. He spoke aloud, voicing his thoughts.

  “The caller said my wife could be found on Midhurst Common. He didn’t say my wife’s body.” He rounded on the Inspector who was sitting opposite him. “Do you think that could mean she’s still alive?”

  The inspector’s response was noncommittal. “It could do, sir. Let’s hope so.”

  Feltham was struck by another idea. “But if that was the case, why hadn’t she made her own way to a phone box and called for help?”

  “I’m sure there’ll be a reason,” the Inspector said soothingly.

  “Perhaps she’s alive but incapable.” Feltham sprang to his feet. “That’s it! She’s alive but drugged…or hurt.”

  “It’s possible, sir.”

  Feltham shrank back into himself. “So why haven’t we heard by now? An hour’s gone by; that’s long enough for you to locate her and let me know what the situation is.” His stomach tied itself into knots; the tension was becoming almost unbearable. “Why isn’t anyone telling me what’s going on?”

  He began to pace, clenching and unclenching his fists as the anguish of not knowing threatened to overwhelm him.

  The Inspector regarded him with concern. “I know this isn’t easy, Mr Feltham, but try not to upset yourself too much. Can I get you a cup of tea?”

  “I’m up to here with tea!” Feltham exploded. “It’s news I want, not platitudes!”

  The Inspector lowered his eyes. “I know that, sir. I’m sorry, I’m sure it won’t be much longer.”

  Feltham stopped pacing and visibly crumpled. “No, it’s me who should be apologising. It’s not your fault. I just need to know…whether it’s good or bad, I just need to know.”

  The Inspector opened his mouth to speak, but was interrupted by the sound of his mobile ringing. For a moment the two men stared at each other and then the Inspector pulled the phone from his pocket and glanced at the number.

  “Do you mind?” he said, gesturing to the door.

  Feltham nodded dumbly, wondering what this meant as the Inspector disappeared into the hall, already speaking urgently into his phone. When he returned a few minutes later, his face was sombre. Feltham searched his eyes and hope died.

  “She’s dead, isn’t she?” he said, his voice flat.

  The Inspector sat down beside him. “I’m afraid so,” he said. “I want you to know how terribly sorry we all are.”

  Feltham stared ahead, his manner composed. Only a tremor around his mouth gave an indication of the effort it was taking to hold himself together. “How did she die?”

  The Inspector hesitated. “We’re not sure yet. There will have to be a post-mortem.”

  Feltham digested this information in silence. “When can I see her?” he asked at length.

  This time the inspector’s hesitation was longer. “At the moment, I can’t really say… There’s a problem.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The nature of your wife’s death, it… It might be complicated.”

  Feltham looked confused. “You said you don’t know the cause of death.”

  “That’s right, we don’t... Well, not exactly.”

  Grief gave way to anger. “You either know or you don’t!”

  The Inspector paused, then seemed to come to a decision. “Until the post mortem has been carried out, we can’t be sure, but a note was left with your wife’s body. It said that she had died of radiation poisoning.”

  The words fell into utter silence. Feltham gaped, not understanding what he had heard. “Until we know either way,” the Inspector hurried on, “your wife’s body will have to be handled with extreme caution. The note was very specific; it said she was killed with plutonium.”

  Feltham recoiled. “Plutonium! My God! How? Why?”

  “Blackmail.”

  Feltham shook his head in confusion. “Blackmail? I don’t understand. My wife is dead. Isn’t it too late for that?”

  The Inspector averted his eyes, clearly embarrassed. “There’s no easy way to say this, but it seems that your wife’s fate was sealed the moment she was abducted. She was killed for one reason only: to prove to the government that the plutonium exists.”

  The full implication of the Inspector’s words sunk in. “You’re saying that whoever killed my wife has got more of this stuff?” Feltham asked, appalled.

  “Your wife’s murderer – or murderers – claim to have five kilograms,” the Inspector told him. “If that’s true, it’s a serious amount of plutonium to have fall into the wrong hands. It’s enough to make an atomic bomb.”

  “But they can’t,” Feltham said. “The technology required to make a nuclear bomb is beyond the scope of most terrorists… isn’t it?

  “I hope so,” the Inspector said with feeling, “because by killing your wife they’ve done more than just prove that they have the plutonium. They’ve also told us, loud and clear, that they are willing to use it.”

  ***

  Nick pulled off the forecourt and drove towards the food hall. He had lost the BMW, and his day’s work was in tatters. He had no idea what he was going to do next, and with nothing coming to mind, he hoped that a plate of food and a mug of coffee might help him to focus his thoughts.

  He pulled into a parking space, then remembered Annelies. He glanced at the clock on the dashboard, wondering if she was still waiting for him at the holiday lodge. First he tried his mobile, and listened with resignation as once again, it went into answerphone. Next he tried her home number with the same result. It was unsettling not knowing exactly where she was. He slipped the phone into his pocket and considered the alternatives. She was either still at the lodge with the mobile switched off, or she had given up waiting for him and had taken his advice for once and was already on the train to Brighton.

  Another, darker, thought edged into his mind.
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  Hubner.

  Nick had left her alone with a murderer. What if, true to form, she had disregarded his warnings and done something reckless? The thought made him nervous. She hadn’t seen these men in action. With only Nick’s heavily-censored version of events to go on, how could she begin to understand how evil they were? It was only because he had seen them slaughter a man in cold blood that he knew what they were capable of. Annelies was brave but naïve. He sensed that she was treating the whole thing as an adventure, without appreciating the real dangers involved.

  He came to a decision. Food could wait; he would go straight back to the lodge.

  He flicked the key in the ignition and began reversing out of the parking space. It was then that he saw them walking out of the food hall, juggling steaming hot beakers of coffee and polystyrene boxes of take-away food. Whilst he had been agonising, they had been buying supplies. He watched with narrowed eyes as they strolled towards their car. He had to decide, follow them or return to the lodge? With luck, that was where they were going, in which case the decision would be made for him. Right now, the only thing that mattered was the fact that he had been given a second chance. He wasn’t about to throw it away again.

  He eased the car around and waited in the shadows, watching as they slipped into the BMW and sat there eating. They seemed to be in no hurry, chatting as they tucked into their feast and discussing, no doubt, the success of their day. Nick’s stomach growled. He briefly considered hurrying into the food hall and grabbing himself something to eat, but then quickly dismissed the idea. If he came out again and found them gone, he would only have himself to blame. Instead he sat and waited, wishing more than anything else that he could be a party to what they were saying. He had rarely before felt so frustrated and that, together with his headache and empty stomach, was doing nothing to lift his spirits. He thought of Mason snapping at his heels, and wondered how much time he had before the law finally closed in on him.

  Not long, he concluded glumly.

  ***

  The mood of the two men sitting around the table was sombre. One of them, the Deputy Chief Constable of Sussex, Brian Henderson, had already gone home for the evening when the call had come. Now, as he took his place in a meeting room at Sussex Police headquarters, he was being apprised of the situation by his colleague, Assistant Chief Constable John Montrose. Their rank was a strong indication of the gravity of the situation. Conversation died as the door opened admitting the Chief Constable, Jim Becket. He was a steely-looking man of medium build and greying hair, and the determined glint in his eyes marked him out as a person of authority. He walked into the room and threw his briefcase onto a chair.