by Jack Slater
‘Roger.’
The helicopter swept closer, curving south as Pete neared the junction ahead. Then it began to hover, sinking lower over the river. He knew the infra-red cameras were of limited use through tree-cover so no doubt they were getting low to disturb the branches so they could get flashes of anything warm beneath the leaf canopy.
Slowing, he turned right onto a road that was hardly wider than the one he’d left, but at least was a little better maintained. Water was lapping only a foot or so below the weeds and bushes to his left. He pressed the accelerator, picking up speed in a desperate race to reach his search area before the tide peaked.
As he sped along the narrow road, he couldn’t help picturing in his mind a trussed-up Tommy writhing upside down on the end of a rope, his hair brushed by the lapping salt-water, stomach aching and head swimming as he struggled to stay alive, hoping and praying that someone would find him before it was too late.
Something Dick had said finally sank in. This was like a bad B-movie. Had Steve Southam been watching too many 1960s American TV shows? Re-runs of Mission Impossible and the like? Or old adventure films?
It didn’t matter where he’d found his inspiration for this latest piece of cruelty. What mattered was making sure it didn’t succeed.
Then something else struck him.
‘Where would he have got the rope?’ he asked Jane. It wasn’t something the average person randomly carried around with them and Southam didn’t have the build to be a climber.
‘Does it matter at this moment?’ she countered. ‘We know he got it. Knowing where from won’t help us catch him.’
‘It might if he goes back to wherever he spent the night. He wouldn’t have gone too far to get hold of it.’
‘Unless it was in the car he stole.’
Pete’s lips pursed, frustration flaring inside him that he struggled not to release. ‘Helpful suggestions would be appreciated,’ he said.
He felt Jane’s stare on the side of his face. She was silent for a long count. ‘There’s limited options round here, I suppose. Farm supplies. Sports places for sailing, paragliding and so forth. I don’t know where else.’
‘Get on the phone. Get some people searching.’
He reached the outer edge of the Powderham deer park, refused to allow his gaze to go across towards the castle. The helicopter was still hovering over the trees to his left. The urge to stop and search from the ground was almost overpowering but he forced himself to keep driving. Ben was only a couple of minutes behind him at most, and Southam was likely to stretch him as far as he could. The whole plan was clearly designed for maximum impact and stress, pushing the police resources and Pete to the limit and beyond.
Jane began speaking into her phone, leaving the car’s comms system to provide them with radio commentary of the helicopter search.
‘We need feet on the ground to agricultural and water-sports retailers. Has anyone seen Steven Southam in the last twenty-four hours? Specifically, buying rope or cordage of any kind. Anywhere else that might sell it, too.’
Then her voice was drowned out by the noise of the helicopter as it swept forward overhead, the crew unable to see anything relevant at Powderham. They were moving on to the woods further down the estuary near Kenton. The woods Pete was heading for.
*
‘We’ve got something.’
Pete was still half a minute out from his destination when the call came over the radio. But he didn’t recognise the voice. It wasn’t the chopper.
‘Stand by.’
Where the hell were they?
Pete tensed, ready to put his foot down hard, despite the narrowness of the road.
‘It’s a body.’
‘No,’ Pete groaned, his face pulling into a grimace of pain and grief as his hands tensed on the wheel and his stomach knotted. He felt Jane’s hand on his leg, squeezing briefly.
‘Steady, boss.’
‘Correction. He’s alive.’
Pete let out a huge sigh as Jane’s reassuring hand left his leg.
‘Ambulance needed immediately, Netherton woods.’
The north bank of the Teign, a few miles from their current location.
Pete slammed his foot down, ignoring Jane’s protest, ‘Whoah! Easy, boss. No need to kill us. There’s people already there with him.’
They swept under the hovering helicopter, which would keep searching until the target was confirmed. Soon after, they reached the South Town area of Kenton. Pete hit the sirens, barely slowing for the junction with the main road as he turned left towards Starcross.
‘Victim not responding.’
This was a main tourist route. There was no telling what bumbling fools would be trundling up and down it at this time of year, acting as if they’d got all week to travel the five miles to the next coffee shop, so he kept the sirens on as they sped south at a pace that was just short of reckless. His police training came to the fore as he passed cars, vans and lorries that braked and pulled over when they caught his approach. Then he came up behind an old Morris Minor that refused to move with a lorry coming towards them, a line of cars behind it.
‘Jesus!’ he muttered and hit the horn repeatedly.
It still took seconds for the driver of the little car to register their presence on the narrow road with its stone walls up either side. There was nowhere to pull over now if they wanted to.
‘Scene photographed, victim recovered,’ the report came over the radio. ‘We need to untie him to commence CPR. We’ll preserve what evidence we can.’
‘Get on with it,’ Pete growled.
Finally, the oncoming traffic thinned and Pete pulled out to pass the old car, expecting to see an old man with white hair under a flat cap at the wheel as they passed.
‘Jesus!’ he muttered, glancing across to see a young woman at the wheel, a pair of bright yellow earphones clamped over her head. ‘What the bloody hell goes through these people’s brains?’
‘You’re assuming they’ve got some,’ Jane responded.
He kept driving, reaching the railway town of Starcross and rushing through it. It was about another five miles to their destination. If he could maintain current speed, it would take no more than five minutes to get there, but five minutes could make the difference between life and death if Tommy had stopped breathing. And the ambulance, although coming from Newton Abbot, would be at least as far away as he was.
There was nothing more over the radio until the helicopter crew confirmed, ‘Nothing found at Kenton. Returning to base.’
‘Roger,’ came the reply from control.
Pete and Jane were silent as he concentrated on driving, the road now clear of traffic.
Pete couldn’t keep his mind from conjuring images of Tommy. He must have been trussed up like a Christmas turkey, suspended by his ankles over the rising water, able only to wriggle and writhe or use his stomach muscles to bend upwards out of the lapping brine. But they would have quickly weakened. The pain would have been excruciating but desperation would have kept him straining until he couldn’t anymore. The blood would have been rushing to his head, pressure building as his whole vascular system tried to adapt to the unnatural state of inversion that it was not designed to cope with. He would have got quickly swimmy-headed so that concentration and even coherent thought was difficult. Then his stomach muscles would have finally admitted defeat, leaving no more that swinging and writhing to keep his head above water. But even that would only have worked for a while. He would have swallowed the salty water. May have been sick, which could be disastrous in his upside-down position, but even if it wasn’t, when he could no longer hold his breath, swallowing water would have given way to breathing it.
Pete just hoped the Newton Abbot officers hadn’t been too late: could bring him back from the brink.
Minutes stretched out like the road ahead. They seemed to be getting no closer as time ticked past. He itched to put his foot to the floor, but safety still registered at the back of
his mind. He wasn’t alone in the car. He would never forgive himself if he caused anything to happen to Jane. Yet, at the same time, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to handle it if he got there and found Tommy dead.
At last, he reached Teignmouth. The tourist town was busy, roads clogged with traffic and pedestrians. He kept the sirens on, the undulating sound echoing off the buildings. People were slower to react here, unsure of where he was until they saw his flashing lights.
This was where a light bar on the top of the car would have been an advantage. Flashing lights in the grille were much less visible in a closely-packed environment, especially in daylight.
Frustration boiling inside him, he worked his way through the town and finally free of it, heading upstream towards the larger, more urban area of Newton Abbot, the wide expanse of the river close on his left, water rippling and glittering in the sun.
Two minutes at most and he would be there.
Open rolling hills fell gently towards the estuary from his right. A line of trees sheltered the fields from the worst of the salt spray that would be lifted by a southerly wind in the colder months, but Pete had no time for such thoughts now. Above everything, he needed to get to Tommy.
He saw the flash of blue in the distance ahead, dimly heard the tone of a siren other than his own. The ambulance. He could see a bunch of trees ahead. Hardly a spinney, never mind a wood, but it appeared to stretch across the road and right down to the river.
He saw more flashing blue lights, not sure yet whether they were amongst or beyond the trees.
‘Ambulance arriving. PC four five niner still performing CPR on the victim.’ The words over the radio were followed by two notes of the ambulance’s siren, then the broadcast was cut off as the man released the transmit button.
The second constable would be at the roadside to direct the ambulance crew in.
Pete reached the edge of the trees, sunlight giving way to deep, dappled shade so abruptly that, for a second, he could hardly see.
Then the blue lights gave him a direction. He pulled up facing a patrol car, an ambulance parked behind it, lights flashing on both. He jumped out of the car almost before the engine had stopped turning, looked around desperately. They would be down to the left, but he could see nothing. Then he made out a narrow mud path. He didn’t even lock the car before setting off at a run, Jane somewhere behind him, her low-heeled shoes not suited to the soft ground.
Still, he could see no sign of the police and ambulance crew attending his son.
Finally, sliding around a muddy bend in the path, he caught a glimpse. A figure in green coming towards him through the trees. Moments later, another glimpse: a better view. Both members of the crew, moving fast, a stretcher between them. They vanished again in the dense trees. A darker figure replaced them briefly. One of the coppers.
Pete kept running, dodging left and right around trees and bushes. A fallen branch blocked the path. He jumped over it. Saw the approaching EMT’s again, much closer. No more than a few yards. He saw the blanket draped over the stretcher. They were running.
Oh, God. He felt suddenly weak with fear, but gravity kept him going rapidly downhill.
They were closing fast. Just feet now.
He jumped off the path, took out his warrant card and held it up. ‘How is he?’
He saw Tommy’s face, lying there. He looked calm. Pale. Pete’s heart went out to him, a physical ache in his chest as his son went past, riding the stretcher up towards the ambulance and, hopefully, salvation.
‘Not good,’ the lead man said briefly. Then they were past. Pete turned, about to follow when the first of the police officers caught sight of him.
‘This way, sir.’ He stopped, looking grateful for the excuse. It was a steep climb and he was a big man, two or three stones overweight. Plus, modern uniforms included about twenty-five kilos of kit.
Pete glanced back towards his son, desperately ill on that stretcher. He was torn. Professionalism demanded he attend the scene, but his son needed him to be there, up at the roadside, in the ambulance as the crew fought to save him.
But Jane was back there. The boy knew and liked her. And the scene of crime wouldn’t keep forever.
He grimaced, sucked a deep breath in through his nose, his body tense as logic and reason fought for dominance against raw emotion. His teeth ground together as the turmoil raged inside him. He didn’t know which way he was going to go until, almost without conscious input, he spoke. ‘Jane, stay with him,’ he shouted back up the hill, then turned back to the uniformed officer. ‘Lead on.’
The man turned gratefully just as his partner caught up. He thrust his chin at the older man, telling him to turn back.
He’d seen Pete’s warrant card, but only from a distance. ‘You know the victim, sir?’ he asked as they started back down, Pete following.
Pete’s lips tightened. He was tempted to tell him the truth but fought it down. ‘Yes.’
*
They led him to a point on the bank of the tidal river that was just like every other place for yards to left and right except for the down-trodden grass and weeds and the big old oak standing just a few feet from the water, several twisted, rough-barked branches extending out like writhing pythons over the lapping flow.
The younger man pointed to a position among the branches. ‘There, sir. That’s where he was suspended from. How the hell his attacker got up there and back, Christ knows.’
He threw the rope from right where you’re standing, Pete thought, shaking his head. No bloody idea.
‘We retained the bindings,’ the second one said, holding up three evidence bags. Pete could see that one of them contained only a piece of crumpled cloth.
A gag.
Which would soak up the water, intensifying the terrifying experience and speeding up the process of drowning as it acted like the towel used in what the Americans called waterboarding.
Pete turned away, trying to hide his distress as his stomach heaved. He coughed, clearing his clogged throat and reached for one of the other bags, holding it high as he examined the contents.
They had cut the rope in such a way as to preserve the knots, showing both their positioning and their technique as well as retaining any forensic evidence they might contain.
Not that he needed to identify the suspect in this case.
‘Good,’ he said, handing it back. Maybe they weren’t completely clueless after all. ‘Anything else?’ He cast his gaze around the small patch of ground. ‘Footprints, cigarette butts, anything he might have dropped?’
‘Nothing we’ve found, guv.’
Pete doubted there would be anything useful. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘I’ll go and check on the victim, then, if you want to get that stuff to forensics. DS Gayle, Heavitree Road.’ He reached out to shake their hands.
‘PC Petersen and PC Tufnell, Newton Abbot,’ the older of the two said in response.
Pete gave them a nod of thanks and headed back up the slope. He’d got only a few yards when a siren indicated the ambulance was on the move. A new sense of urgency powered him forward as he took out his phone and dialled Jane.
‘Where are you?’ he asked when she picked up.
‘In the ambulance, on the way to Torbay General. He’s… They’re trying everything, boss, but it doesn’t look good.’
Pete was running up the hill, breathing hard. Jane’s tone told him much more than her words. His throat clogged so he could barely breathe. He needed to stop, to hang his head and wail out his grief, but he forced himself onward, the need to be with his son overpowering everything else. He fought to bring his emotions under control enough that he could speak. ‘I’ll follow. There’s nothing here for us.’ Steve bloody Southam, I’m coming for you, you screwed up bastard. And if my boy dies you better hope I don’t find you before someone else does.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
It was probably an abuse of privilege, but Pete didn’t even think about it as he pulled up beside the ambulance at
Torbay General hospital and followed the crew with the trolley his son was lying on into the building, Jane at his side.
They had called ahead and were met just inside the doors by two doctors and several nurses who rushed the trolley through into the trauma room.
One of the doctors held up a hand to stop Pete and Jane.
‘I’m his father,’ Pete told him brusquely. ‘And a copper.’
The doctor seemed to relent. At least, he gave up the idea of trying to stop them.
A nurse whipped the curtains around while another readied the resuscitation paddles. The machine gave a high-pitched whine as it charged rapidly, a third nurse quickly hooking him up to an ECG monitor. A steady tone was emitted from the machine.
Tommy’s heart was not beating. His thin chest was already bare from the ambulance crew’s attempts to revive him. It looked remarkably vulnerable and horrifyingly still. Pete saw the red marks of the rope bindings livid against the paleness of his arms, legs and chest and anger swelled again, pushing the fear aside.
The nurse handed the charged paddles to a waiting medic. ‘Clear,’ he called and pressed the pads to Tommy’s chest before triggering them. Tommy jerked violently, rising up from the bed despite his arms and legs remaining limp. The whine of the ECG remained steady, the higher-pitched scream of the recharging paddles underlying it. Again, the doctor called, ‘Clear.’
Again, he triggered the paddles.
Again, the ECG trace remained resolutely flat.
‘Epinephrine,’ the doctor snapped.
‘Isn’t that…’ Jane started as the nurse handed him a pre-prepared syringe. ‘Jesus!’
He’d slammed the needle straight into the centre of Tommy’s chest like he was hammering on a door. Now he squeezed the contents out of it.
‘What the…’
‘Adrenaline straight to the heart can sometimes shock it into re-starting,’ Pete told her as the doctor withdrew the needle and handed it back to the nurse before starting to pump the boy’s chest with the heels of his crossed hands.
The monitor beeped rhythmically in time with the compressions. Unconsciously Pete gripped Jane’s shoulder, the tension squeezing his very soul.
