DON'T SCREAM an absolutely gripping killer thriller with a huge twist (Detective Jeff Rickman Book 3)

by MARGARET MURPHY

  Hart nodded, her concentration on the road forbidding comment — they had fifteen miles to cover and traffic was heavy. Her slim figure was bulked up by a stab vest, her face pale and determined.

  Foster sat forward in the back seat of the car, gripping the front seats to brace himself. ‘Has Eye in the Sky found the building?’ A Eurocopter had been deployed within minutes of the first emergency call.

  ‘It’s still searching the area,’ Rickman said.

  They blasted through the narrow streets of Walton, past tightly wedged terraces, shops, sudden flashes of open spaces and new housing, dropping to the railway line — on, jinking left. Aintree racecourse on the right, unexpected in the midst of low-cost housing — a glimpse of crumbling art deco buildings and on, to a wider arterial road and semi-detached suburbia.

  Hart slowed. Ahead, a mile of traffic backed up from Switch Island. They forged a way through, weaving in and out of the lines of vehicles, narrowly missing bumpers, squeezing through impossible gaps. Drivers pulled over to make way for the whooping, flashing motorcade, and Rickman caught glances of anxious faces through windscreens.

  The A49 was busy, but traffic made way for them as they swept through, trailing a swirl of mist in their wake. At previously agreed points along the main road, marked cars dropped out of the line, effectively blocking the main routes from the tangle of lanes that led to their target. More would be waiting along the A-roads that enclosed the farms and moorland to the west and north. On the map, the target area looked like a rough diamond, contained and containable, but the reality was fifty square miles of open country, and a thousand places to walk or drive out.

  ‘That lot’s wasting their time,’ Foster said. ‘This place is like a rabbit warren.’

  ‘Well, doing nothing is not an option,’ Rickman said.

  Foster muttered an apology.

  Rickman sympathised — his friend had been through some dizzying turnarounds in the past week. ‘Let’s just focus on getting the lads out safe.’

  Foster’s reply was cut off as the lead car turned hard left and Hart jammed on her brakes, dragging the steering wheel, forcing the car into a ninety-degree skid. She just made the turn, and after he’d righted himself, Foster exclaimed, ‘Eat your heart out, Lewis Hamilton.’

  Hart responded with the ghost of a smile.

  A glimmer of bloody light remained on the horizon, but the unlit lanes in the centre of the plain seemed to suck darkness into them.

  ‘Over there.’ Foster pointed.

  The twin beams of Gormley’s BMW pierced the night, and above the stranded car, fading in and out through thin layers of mist, the police helicopter. The EC135 Eurocopter was kitted out with a Nightsun searchlight and thermal imaging sensors and was their best chance of locating the shooters if they’d made a break on foot into the surrounding countryside, but if the mist thickened to a fog, they would have to return to base.

  Rickman switched channels and spoke directly to the police air observer, who, seated next to the pilot, would maintain communications. ‘Echo Charlie four four. DCI Rickman,’ he said. ‘What’ve you got?’

  ‘Still scanning the area.’ The officer’s voice was blurred by radio static and the whine of the chopper’s engine. ‘No sign of DS Cass or DC Smith. They could still be in the house.’

  The notion that two police officers might be in Rob Maitland’s hands burned like molten sulphur in the pit of Rickman’s stomach.

  ‘DI Hammond, sir,’ a second voice cut in. ‘ARU — I’ve got armed officers moving in on woodland to the south of the property.’ He spoke with a faint Scottish burr.

  ‘Have you had any response from the house?’ Rickman asked.

  ‘Nothing.’ The inspector’s voice was almost drowned out by the buzz of the chopper. ‘I’d like to send officers in.’

  ‘I don’t want anyone going in blind.’ Rickman radioed the chopper again. ‘Echo Charlie four four, can you shout the house?’

  Hart nudged the car onto a broad strip of grass at the edge of the road, joining an array of vehicles — marked and unmarked police cars, a marked police SUV, two vans and, well behind the cordon, two ambulances.

  ‘You — in the house.’ The Eurocopter’s Skyshout system had been designed for major evacuations. It was ten times more powerful than an average stereo on full volume, and had no trouble making itself heard over the clatter of the rotor blades. ‘Armed police have the building surrounded. Put down your weapons and come out of the house in single file. Keep your hands visible at all times.’

  They waited.

  ‘They’re long gone, boss,’ Foster said. ‘They wouldn’t’ve hung about once they knew they were shooting at cops, would they?’

  Rickman wasn’t so sure. He switched channels. ‘DI Hammond?’

  ‘Sir.’

  ‘Can you get listening devices in place?’

  ‘Will do,’ Hammond said.

  Rickman stepped out of the car, holding the passenger door open while Hart scrambled after him. The marked cars nearer to the house had turned off their lights to avoid becoming targets, and Rickman and his team shielded behind their own car as the helicopter buzzed and circled overhead.

  Rickman thought he saw movement by the house and his pulse quickened.

  ‘Keep your hands raised!’ the tannoy boomed.

  ‘Someone’s coming out.’ Hart stared intently at a spot to the right of the farmhouse.

  ‘I don’t see anyone,’ Foster said.

  The downdraught of the chopper blades churned the air, sending frost whirling like flakes of snow. At last, Rickman saw him — a natty figure dressed in chinos and a sports jacket. He had both hands raised. In his right, his police badge. ‘Cass,’ he breathed.

  DS Cass shouted something and pointed towards a low wall to his left. The helicopter rotated slightly, directing the Nightsun at a few scrubby bushes. Nothing moved. Cass walked forward, still yelling, and two armed officers rushed from the shelter of one of the vans. They grasped his wrists and elbows, half-dragging him out of the range of fire. Rickman ducked low, running to the personnel carrier where they had taken Cass. He was sitting in the corner of the bench seat, his hands clasped and his head bowed, while one of the armed officers talked to him in an undertone.

  ‘Where’s Smith?’ Rickman demanded.

  Cass’s head jerked up. ‘I’ve been trying to tell them, boss. He’s behind the wall — to the right of the house.’ The weariness in his tone suggested that he had already repeated this many times. ‘He’s bleeding.’ He looked down at his hands, at the blood on them.

  ‘Sir.’

  Rickman turned.

  ‘DI Hammond.’ The DI was small and weather-beaten, his flak jacket giving him the illusion of bulk, a pocket-sized commando. ‘I’m lead officer of the ARU.’

  Rickman shook his hand. ‘Can you get Smith out?’

  ‘We’ve got the listening devices in place. I’d need the chopper to pull back while we check it out.’ He handed Rickman a pair of binoculars, and Rickman stepped out of the van to take a look. The small limpet-like devices were clearly visible on the bay window and the glass of the front door. Rickman gave the order and the chopper peeled away, gaining altitude as it did so. Within seconds, the noise became no more than a faint buzz.

  Hammond spoke into his radio. A few moments later, he adjusted the earphone in his left ear, as the information was relayed to him. ‘There’s two, possibly three people inside.’

  ‘The shooters?’

  Hammond repeated the question for the tech support officers. After a pause he shook his head. ‘They’re not moving — could be they’re injured.’

  Rickman debated. They hadn’t located the shooters yet, and while they were still at large the threat to the rest of the officers present was his main concern. He spoke to the helicopter pilot. ‘Is there any sign of movement around the house?’

  ‘No, sir. But we’re picking up a heat source on thermal imaging. It’s on the perimeter, immobile — could be h
uman.’

  ‘Smith,’ Rickman said, with a glance at Hammond. ‘The front of the house is well covered,’ he told the air crew. ‘Focus on the woodland.’ Turning back to Hammond, he said, ‘Let’s get Smith out of there — then you can clear the house.’

  * * *

  Rickman walked alongside the trolley as four armed response officers in body armour trundled it from the driveway to the waiting ambulance. Smith’s skin reflected the lights of the emergency vehicles: red and blue, one moment washed with blood, the next, his face took on the blue pallor of a corpse.

  ‘He reached for his warrant card.’ Cass was hovering by the ambulance door. ‘They thought he was going for a gun.’ He passed hand over his eyes. ‘Should’ve been me — fuck’s sake, I’m the one not wearing protection.’ He reached out to touch Smith’s arm, strapped inside the trolley, but seemed to recoil at the last moment. ‘Jesus.’ Self-pitying tears stood in his eyes.

  Rickman’s radio spat, then the helicopter observer spoke urgently. ‘I’ve got three — correction — four people in the woods behind the farmhouse. Five more, stationary, just east of them. Wait — one of the first group just vanished off the screen.’

  Rickman waited.

  ‘Woah! Another’s gone.’ He paused, then, ‘What the . . .’ The chopper lost altitude, buzzing like an angry wasp above them. ‘We’re going in for a closer look.’ The Nightsun came on — thirty million candles of light, and a beam that looked solid enough to climb.

  Rickman watched the ambulance pull slowly away, lights flashing, no siren. It seemed like a bad omen.

  The helicopter had lost more height and now clattered thirty feet above. Rickman spoke into his radio again. ‘Talk to me,’ he said, raising his voice over the racket.

  The air observer spoke to the pilot, ‘Yeah, I see ’em.’ Then, ‘Sorry, boss. The group of four was badgers. The other five look like green-welly types — and they look terrified.’

  Cass gave a high-pitched laugh.

  Rickman looked at him sharply. ‘Did I miss the joke?’

  Cass passed a hand across his forehead. ‘We should’ve warned the local badger watch, after all,’ he muttered, still with a sick smile on his face. Then he began to weep.

  Rickman took him by the elbow. ‘Look at me,’ he said.

  Cass seemed to have difficulty locating Rickman, and when he did, his eyes were unfocused, as if he wasn’t sure what he was looking at.

  ‘You’re in shock,’ Rickman said. ‘Go to the van. Await my instructions.’

  Cass stared at him, uncomprehending, and Rickman nodded to one of the armed officers. He stepped forward and took Cass by the arm. Cass yielded, unprotesting. ‘Don’t let him out of your sight,’ Rickman said. ‘He talks to no one.’

  The solid beam of the Nightsun pinpointed the position of the civilians within the wood. Rickman’s next priority was to bring them to safety. He spoke to the air observer. ‘Tell them to stay put — we’ll come and get them.’

  Hammond was at his side. ‘I’ll send our guys in,’ he yelled into Rickman’s ear, competing with the blare of the helicopter Skyshout.

  Rickman nodded. ‘The house?’

  ‘I’ve a team moving in now.’

  Rickman returned to his vantage point next to the police van as armed officers moved in on the house. Foster joined him. Foster must have taken part in more than his fair share of armed ops when he was in the Marines, and he watched the action as though he was assessing a military exercise.

  Six armed officers approached the building at a low run. Though helmeted and encumbered by flak jackets, they sprinted like athletes. The first two used a police enforcer to smash the door off its hinges. They moved aside and four more ran into the house yelling, ‘Police! Armed officers!’ They tore through the house, their yells audible even over the constant clatter of the chopper.

  A sharp crack from the back of the house and twenty officers on the periphery ducked. Rickman and Foster exchanged a look. Gunfire. A second shot. The chopper veered off, its rotors a high-pitched whine. More gunfire. The chopper switched the Nightsun to wide beam, drenching an area the size of a football pitch with white light. Then it swept in a circle, the Nightsun leaving an after-image like a question mark on Rickman’s retinas.

  A volley of shots followed from within the woods and Hammond clamoured for information from his team. ‘Lima Oscar five, come in,’ he repeated. Then, abandoning protocol, ‘Frank — what’s going on?’

  The helicopter observer cut in. ‘Echo Charlie four four: two shooters down. No police casualties. Repeat, no Yankees injured.’ The Nightsun narrowed on an area close to the back of the house and four more armed officers swarmed over the low wall, heading for the light.

  ‘Sir!’ An armed officer stood at the door of the farmhouse, his MP5 carbine lowered across his body. ‘House is clear. We need a paramedic.’

  Hammond looked to Rickman.

  ‘We need to clear the area first,’ Rickman said.

  Hammond sprinted for the house and Rickman followed, running low and fast. The door frame was twisted and splintered. Beyond it, a warm glow gave a welcome incongruous with the crush of uniforms, all carrying weapons.

  Rickman caught a coppery taint at the back of his throat: the unmistakable reek of blood.

  A door to his right led into a long sitting room. Bernie Carter sat with his back to him, his head slumped forward. Two officers worked on him: bandages improvised from tea-towels had been tied around his ankles and wrists, and blood had pooled around his feet. Lengths of rope lay cut and discarded on the floor. Carter was barely breathing, his skin paper-white.

  One of the men straightened up. ‘They cut the major arteries,’ he said, his voice not quite steady. ‘Hardly a nick in the flesh, but . . .’ He looked helplessly at the bloody mess at his feet.

  Rickman scanned the room. Two bodies lay slumped in the corner, near the French windows, both with gunshot wounds. ‘Okay, there’s an ambulance waiting. Take Carter out first — but as soon as practical, I want these men checked out.’

  * * *

  It was a relief to step out into the cold night air. Rickman took a deep breath, listening to the constant rattle of the helicopter as he returned to his vantage point, next to the firm’s car Hart had driven. He glanced up as the chopper engine’s tone changed and it banked left, training the Nightsun beam on something at the edge of the wood.

  A small knot of people stumbled out of the dense tangle of shadows, blinking in the sudden glare of light. They were shepherded by armed officers towards one of the personnel vans. Rickman counted three women and two men. Two of the women held clipboards, all wore weatherproof jackets and hats.

  ‘They look scared out of their wits,’ Hart said, her face hard with anger. ‘It’d be good, just once, to make the Maitlands of this world as afraid.’

  ‘Maitland bled Carter like a sacrificial lamb,’ Rickman said. ‘But it doesn’t take back what Carter did to Mark and Jasmine.’

  Hart looked at him, more puzzled than chastened.

  ‘In principle, I’m with you,’ he explained. ‘I’d like to see the bastards suffer — but meting out punishment like that doesn’t give men like Maitland insight — it only makes them more determined not to be a victim.’

  The first of the civilians climbed into the police van, but the next two seemed reluctant. The man had his arm slung around the woman’s shoulder. She huddled close to him, as if for protection. The man smiled and pointed towards a battered old Land Rover parked on the grass verge of the lane. They were too far away, and the continuing racket from the chopper was too great to hear the exchange, but the man produced a set of keys, still smiling. His attitude was self-deprecating, almost apologetic, but he continued towards his car, with a wave of thanks. The officer stared after him for a few moments, then shrugged, helping the final passengers into the van.

  As the van pulled away, four armed officers emerged from the rear of the farmhouse, half-carrying two men, both handcuffed
and bleeding. Rickman studied their faces as they passed, then looked back towards the couple still heading for the Land Rover. It was impossible to make their features out at this distance, but the woman’s body language seemed wrong, and the man was holding her too tightly.

  ‘Maitland.’ His heart picked up pace.

  ‘You what?’

  Rickman grabbed Foster’s arm before he had the chance to turn and look. ‘Get Hammond. Tell him Maitland has a female hostage, and he’s making towards the Land Rover on the roadway. Tell him—’

  Automatic gunfire ripped a line of orange light through the darkness ten metres from the police cordon. An officer fell. Others returned fire.

  Foster dived for cover and Rickman followed, taking shelter behind one of the cars.

  Another rasp of gunfire. ‘Christ, they’re using Uzis,’ Foster said. ‘We didn’t get them all, Jeff.’

  The Uzi spoke again, a rude burst of sound, followed by the rapid thunk-thunk-thunk of bullets through metal. One of the cars exploded, sending flames twenty feet into the air. Hot fragments of metal rained down.

  Rickman clicked the speaker button on his radio. Nothing happened. He tried again. ‘Shit!’

  Maitland crouched, fifteen feet from the Land Rover. The woman screamed and struggled as more gunfire punched holes in door panels and sheet metal.

  ‘Tell Hammond!’ Rickman yelled. ‘Warn the roadblocks.’ Foster was off and running.

  Maitland slapped the woman, and Rickman felt a surge of rage. The woman stopped struggling and allowed herself to be led towards the Land Rover.

  His heart thudding, Rickman abandoned the shelter of the car and made for the vehicle at a loping run.

  There was barely a tuft of grass between him and Maitland, but if he could make it to the roadside, he could use the ditch beside it for cover. Maitland had almost reached the Land Rover — he looped around the back of it, using the woman as a shield. Gunfire flashed and stuttered to their right, but it was aimed at the police, closer to the farmhouse.

  The woman saw Rickman. Her eyes widened, and Maitland sensed something. He spun round as Rickman dived into the ditch. The thin layer of ice cracked, and Rickman gasped at a surge of bitter cold as water filled his shoes and soaked the knees of his trousers. The noise of the gun battle drowned out the harsh sound of his breathing, and he waited a moment, thankful for the cover of mist gathered in creamy swirls in the colder air of the ditch.