Nowhere to Run

by Jack Slater

  ‘You seem happy. It must be an important witness,’ she said, as he put her down and they went indoors.

  ‘The main one,’ he told her. ‘The victim herself.’

  ‘Rosie Whitlock? You found her? Wow! Dad, that’s brilliant!’

  ‘What’s going on?’ asked Louise from the lounge.

  Pete’s eyes widened. ‘Your mum’s getting better.’ He went through. Louise was sitting in her usual place, the TV on in front of her. He leaned down and kissed her. ‘Hello, love. Just popped in to fetch something. I won’t be too long. We’ve recovered the girl. I’m on the way to see her with a few questions that should help us catch the bloke that took her.’

  ‘Shame Simon Phillips couldn’t be as quick about his job as you. Does this mean we’ll start to see you before bedtime again?’

  He felt a flash of irritation. ‘I can’t help what cases I get, Lou. But, yes, that’s the plan. I’ll be back as soon as I can.’

  He headed upstairs to his office, closed the door and lifted down the file on Tommy’s disappearance. There were plenty of photographs in here and they wouldn’t be missed, so questions wouldn’t be asked about why he’d taken one. He tucked a picture into his jacket pocket and replaced the file on the shelf. Sticking his head into Annie’s room, he saw she was at her desk, doing homework. ‘See you in a bit, Button. Love you.’

  She looked up. ‘Love you, too, Dad. Don’t be late.’

  He laughed. ‘I won’t.’

  Her little face turned serious. ‘Be gentle with her, Dad.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Rosie Whitlock, of course.’

  He felt a swell of pride at her concern. ‘Of course I will. And I won’t stay with her any longer than I have to, all right?’

  She nodded. ‘Bye.’

  *

  Pete drew a long, shuddering breath as he walked into the A & E department. He was nervous, he realised with a shock. He needed to know if the boy Rosie knew as TJ was, in fact, Tommy, but the consequences of that knowledge were . . . frightening. If it was Tommy, then the question became, why was he there? Was he a victim or a part of the plot? And if it wasn’t him, then where was he? Was this the last chance he had of finding his son alive?

  He stepped up to the desk, lifting his warrant card. ‘DS Gayle. My colleague, DC Bennett came in a short time ago with a victim, Rosie Whitlock.’

  ‘Ah, yes.’ The nurse pointed around a corner. ‘Down there, third bay. I think the doctor’s with them now.’

  ‘OK, thanks.’

  The third bay had the curtains drawn all around it. Pete stopped outside. ‘Jane,’ he called gently.

  ‘Boss.’ He heard her say something quietly, then the curtains wafted this way and that like a Morecambe and Wise sketch.

  Finally, she emerged at one corner. ‘The doc’s with her at the minute. Doing the exam and the . . . kit. I sent her mum and dad to the canteen for a while.’

  He nodded. ‘How is she?’

  ‘Considering what she’s been through, not too bad, physically. It’s going to take some time for her to recover mentally, though.’

  ‘Has she given you any sort of description of the suspect?’

  ‘Not much. He generally wore a black ski mask, so all she knew for sure until tonight was that he was white. Apparently, tonight, he wasn’t prepared. Came in a different vehicle. No mask. She still didn’t see much of him because it was so dark in the barn and the only light was pointed at her most of the time. But she thinks he had blond or sandy hair. She’d recognise the boy, though. She said he wore a mask, too, until she managed to get it off him earlier. She got the shock of her life when she recognised him.’

  ‘She got it off him?’

  ‘With his help. His idea, she said.’

  Pete grimaced. ‘No name on the perp?’

  ‘Apparently, the boy called him Mel.’

  ‘Which could be short for Malcolm. By the way, thanks for that file you gave me earlier.’

  ‘No problem.’

  The perp had to be Malcolm Burton. It all pointed to him. The van. The barn. The nickname. His knowledge of Rosie’s mother. His career choice, even. But the boy . . .

  TJ.

  Rosie’s description of him was vague enough to fit almost half the kids in the city, but it could be Tommy. And, as Jane had said, she could ID him.

  If it was Tommy . . .

  My God, he thought. Had he been with Burton all this time? Rosie had said he was another victim but, if so, why was he masked? It made no sense. A couple of hours ago, Pete wouldn’t have entertained the concept of his son being willingly involved in something like this, but the file Jane had given him – the comments from his school mates and teachers, even from Annie – had shown him a side of his son that he had been completely unaware of. A side that pointed to a disturbed and potentially dangerous mind.

  No, he thought. It couldn’t be true. But then the small voice at the back of his mind replied: What if it is?

  But, how could we – I – have gone so wrong? How did I not see that things were so far out of kilter? He sighed heavily. The answer was all too easy. I was never bloody there, was I? Always out on a job, tracking down some suspect or other, making the city a safer place. But who for? Who had he been doing it all for? The population in general? His family? Or himself – his own satisfaction and sense of self-worth?

  What was he going to tell Lou? He shook his head and refocused on Jane, who was watching him with a worried expression on her face. ‘Is she going to be comfortable with me going in there after the exam, do you think? Just for a couple of minutes.’

  Jane shrugged. ‘She was OK in the car.’

  The doctor emerged from between the curtains, tucked a stray strand of dark hair behind her ear and looked from Pete to Jane and back again. ‘You can go in now, Detectives, but don’t be too long and don’t stress her, please.’

  ‘We won’t. Thanks, Doc.’

  Pete nodded for Jane to go ahead of him. ‘Rosie,’ she said, ‘you remember my boss, Detective Sergeant Gayle?’

  Rosie was lying in bed, sheets tucked up to her neck. Her eyes looked huge and somehow hollow, her face pale. She nodded.

  He gave her a smile. ‘Never mind Detective Sergeant. I’m Peter,’ he said. ‘I’ve just got a couple of things I want to ask you about, then I’ll leave you with Jane and go fetch your mum and dad, all right?’

  She nodded again.

  ‘I’m not going to ask you about what happened to you. There’s people a lot more suitable than me for that. What I want to ask about first is the boy, TJ.’

  She gasped. ‘Have you found him? Is he safe?’

  Pete reached into his jacket for the photo. ‘Is this him?’

  Her eyes got even bigger. ‘Yes,’ she whispered. ‘Is he all right?’

  Pete’s chest churned. He could barely breathe. An icy feeling spread down the back of his neck, his fingers and legs tingling. He tried to keep a calm exterior. ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘Of course I’m sure.’

  ‘OK. It’s all right. We haven’t found him yet, no. But, we will.’

  ‘But the man – Mel – was beating him up. He hurt him last night, but tonight, he was really . . . It was as if he wanted to kill him. And then, when I tried to help, he hit me and . . . the next thing I knew, you were there.’

  Pete put the picture away with a hollow feeling in his chest. He gave Jane a brief glance. He could see the question in her eyes, but this was not the moment to answer it. He turned back to the girl. ‘We’re doing everything we can to find him, Rosie. There’s one other thing I need to ask you. I’ve got a voice recording here.’ He brought out his phone. ‘Would it be OK for me to play it and see if it’s the man who took you? Mel?’

  Nervousness flashed in her eyes, followed by doubt and finally resolve. She nodded.

  ‘OK. This is part of an interview Jane and I did earlier today with a man that some evidence led us to.’ He found the recording on his phone. ‘Here it is.’<
br />
  He pressed play.

  His own voice began: ‘That’s all right then. Only, we have a possible sighting of it on Tuesday morning, just before eight-thirty. You wouldn’t have been driving it then?’

  ‘No. I’d have been . . . Tuesday? I was going to say on my way here, but not that day. I was on a course in the city centre. But, either way, I’d have been in my car.’

  Rosie gasped and hugged her knees to her chest, trembling, her eyes huge.

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘A Citroën C4. Dark blue. It’s in the car park.’

  Pete touched the pause button. ‘Is that him?’

  Rosie looked up at him and dipped her head slowly.

  ‘You’re sure? Do you want to hear a bit more, to be certain?’

  She shook her head. ‘No. No more. I’m sure.’

  ‘OK then.’ He gently squeezed her shoulder. ‘That’s all I need for now.’

  Her eyes were big and haunted. ‘He killed Lauren.’

  Pete hesitated, in the act of putting his phone away. ‘You saw that?’

  ‘No, but he came and took her away and I could tell he was going to. You will catch him, won’t you? And put him in prison?’

  Pete’s throat clogged. He swallowed heavily and reached out to give her shoulder a squeeze. ‘We will. I promise.’ He glanced at Jane and stepped out through the curtain.

  Jane emerged behind him. ‘Boss?’

  He paused and turned back to face her.

  ‘The picture. Tommy?’

  Pete nodded.

  ‘She told me before you got here that he fought with Burton. Twice. Last night and then again tonight. He told her to run if she got the chance. Not to worry about him. She knew him before, from the swimming pool.’

  Something shifted in Pete’s gut. It was inevitable now. It was going to come out that Rosie knew Tommy before. What the hell was he going to do about those emails? He grimaced. At this point, he had no idea, but whatever it was, it would not reflect well on him that he had known about it and said nothing. But that was for later. ‘I’ll go fetch the parents,’ he said and walked away before Jane could ask any more.

  *

  Dave stepped away from the back of the police van, a new supply of evidence bags in his hand as a car slowed beyond the gates of Malcolm Burton’s house and he saw the blinking glow of indicator lights. Headlights swept across the overgrown garden as it turned in. He heard the handbrake ratchet up in the dark-coloured saloon at the same instant as he recognised the badge on the front.

  Citroën.

  It was Burton.

  He stepped forward. Saw the man’s face, pale in the darkness, eyes widening as recognition and fear registered. The Citroën roared and shot backwards through the gateway.

  Shit. He was running.

  Tyres squealed on the tarmac outside as the Citroën swung sharply to the right. Headlights flared behind it, a horn blasted and there was a dull crunch of impact. Dave ran forward, the evidence bags falling from his hand. Officers were streaming out around him, aiming to box the fleeing man in, but the car’s engine roared again as it surged forward like a wild beast. Burton wasn’t stopping for anything. Men scattered, yelling, as Dave went up the road at a run.

  He heard a second impact and a shout of pain as a man was hit, but he didn’t pause.

  His black Norton was parked just twenty yards away, between two cars. He had the key in his hand by the time he reached the motorbike. Shoved it into the ignition and swung his leg over the seat in a single move. One kick and the low, throaty rumble told him it was ready. He kicked away the stand and tapped the gear shift, pulling out of the little gap thirty yards behind the Citroën.

  He didn’t bother with lights or the helmet that was hooked by its strap over the left handlebar. No time. He opened the throttle, the bike leaping forward like a living thing. He swung it around the Toyota 4 x 4 that was stopped in the middle of the road, having been hit by the Citroën, saw the fleeing schoolteacher turn at the end of the road, the car swinging wildly into the wider cross-street, one brake light shining silver where the impact with the other car had smashed the casing.

  Dave made the turn and opened the bike up again. Just the Citroën showed ahead. He saw it brake hard. No indicator, but it turned right into a side road. Dave had to catch up. He couldn’t lose Burton now. No way. He left it late to brake, leaning hard into the turn, back tyre sliding, then accelerated hard again up the narrow side street, the roar of the big engine echoing off the tall Georgian houses to his left. Ahead of him, the Citroën turned right again.

  Good move, he thought. Whoever had seen Burton driving away would know he was heading west. With no lights behind him, he could turn back on himself and have everyone looking in completely the wrong direction, leaving him free to get away.

  Dave kicked down through the gears and leaned into the turn. He saw the French car moving sedately now, a single tail light glowing red.

  Moments later, shock jolted through him as brake lights flared, one red, the other bright white, and the Citroën swung into a parking space.

  What the hell was he doing?

  Had he spotted Dave, despite the black bike and leathers and his lack of lights? Was he setting up to knock him off the bike and make his getaway?

  Dave frowned, slowing the bike as he thought he saw a light shine dimly inside the car. Then the driver’s door opened. With no defence or hiding place, all Dave had left was attack. He twisted the throttle. The engine growled as the bike accelerated hard towards the man emerging from the car with something shiny in his right hand.

  Dave flipped on the bike’s headlight. Burton was caught rabbit-like, frozen in the beam, some kind of narrow blade in his hand. Then, leaving the car door open, he started forward. The distance between them was down to feet. Dave lined the bike up, twisted the throttle further and jerked up the handlebars, lifting the front wheel off the tarmac, aiming straight for the man in front of him.

  Fear and shock were etched on Burton’s face as he yelled out, the bike coming at him like a mechanical battle horse.

  Dave turned the wheel at the last moment so that it hit him at an angle across his thighs, slamming him backwards into the open car door. He went down hard and the back wheel of the bike went over his outstretched legs. He screamed. Dave rode the bucking bike clear then slammed on the brakes, pulling it around into a spinning halt in the road. He killed the engine.

  ‘You stupid bastard, you could have killed me,’ Burton yelled in the sudden silence. He sat against the open car door, his legs outstretched on the tarmac, the left one twisted at an odd angle.

  Dave pushed down the bike stand and swung his leg clear. ‘I reckon that’s broke, mate.’

  Burton looked up at him. ‘Of course it’s bloody broken. Look at it! I need an ambulance.’

  ‘Dare say you do, but there’s something else you need first.’ He lifted out his handcuffs, leaned down and attached one end to Burton’s right wrist. ‘Arresting. You’re nicked, matey.’ He saw that what Burton had been holding was a screwdriver. It had rolled a couple of feet away, almost under the car. He lifted Burton’s arm and clipped the other end of the cuffs to the handle of the car door. ‘You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you fail to mention, when questioned, something that you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be used in evidence. Do you understand?’

  CHAPTER 34

  The night air was crisp as Pete wove his way briskly through the maze of hospital buildings, heading for the central block.

  He was almost there when his phone rang in his pocket. He took it out and checked the caller ID. Colin Underhill.

  ‘Already?’ he muttered. He had only called the DI a few minutes ago, as he left the A & E block, to request warrants for Malcolm Burton’s arrest and a search of his home. Surely, they couldn’t be through yet?

  ‘Guv’nor?’

  ‘Pete. Just calling to let you know, the warrant for Burton’s arrest isn’t going
to be necessary.’

  ‘Why the hell not?’

  ‘Because he’s just been arrested. Leaving the scene of a road traffic accident, injuring a police officer and evading arrest. For now. Dave Miles nabbed him. He turned up at his house, but spotted the guys before they could arrest him and tried to do a runner.’

  Pete laughed. ‘Brilliant. Nice one, Dave.’

  ‘He’s on his way to the hospital, as soon as an ambulance arrives to fetch him. Broken leg. Dave ran over him with that bloody great bike of his.’

  ‘Ouch. Great news, Guv. Thanks for letting me know.’

  ‘No problem. Goodnight, Pete. And well done.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  Pete ended the call and slipped his phone back into his pocket as he pulled open the glass door in front of him. Warm air enveloped him like a blanket.

  Now, he really had some news for the Whitlocks. He couldn’t help grinning as he checked the colour-coded signs and headed down the corridor.

  The café in the main concourse was almost deserted. The Whitlocks were the only customers and they were sitting quietly, concentrating on the cups on the table in front of them like strangers.

  After the admission she’d had to make the day before, though, Pete was surprised that they were even sitting at the same table. That was not going to be a happy household for Rosie to go back to, he imagined.

  Alistair looked up expectantly as he approached.

  ‘Mr Whitlock.’

  Jessica’s head rose at the sound of his voice.

  ‘I came to tell you the doctors have finished with Rosie for now. You can go and see her. And I can also tell you that we’ve made an arrest. The man we suspect of abducting your daughter.’

  ‘My God,’ Jessica stood up quickly to face him. ‘Who is he? Do we know him?’

  Pete pressed his lips together. ‘Yes, I’m afraid you do, Mrs Whitlock. It’s a colleague of yours. Malcolm Burton.’

  ‘What?’ She looked, horror-struck, from Pete to her husband and back. ‘Oh my God! I can’t believe it. I spent time with him in the staffroom yesterday. He was so sympathetic and . . . and all the time, he . . . I feel sick.’ She leaned on the edge of the table as Alistair got up quickly and Pete stepped aside.