by Peter Helton
The answering voice was harsh and defiant, yet unmistakably that of an old man making an effort to sound strong and confident. ‘Go away! I’ve got one of your lot in here. He’s my hostage.’
McLusky moved slowly forward into the hall. ‘Nonsense, Mr Cooke, it’s over. You don’t want a hostage. That’s never worked before for anyone.’
‘You’re coming closer, I can hear you coming closer. Stay where you are or I’m going to hurt this officer.’
‘You don’t want to do that, Mr Cooke. How is the officer? He’s very quiet.’ As he moved closer to the door he thought he could detect the sound of laboured breathing. The hissing, he now realized, came from a hurricane lamp.
‘He’s not feeling too clever. I had to hit him on the head and I had to gag him. Don’t come any closer now or he gets it.’
‘I’m afraid I have to see him for myself, you could be lying.’ Keep him talking, Cooke has no plan, don’t give him time to make one.
‘Lying? I don’t lie, you are the liar, you are all liars, all that rubbish spouted about me.’
‘Nevertheless, it’s my duty to satisfy myself that my officer is alive. I’m going to come and look now.’ He moved slowly sideways into the rectangle of hissing light and stood still.
The centre of the room was taken up by several small tables. Every inch appeared to be covered in tools, boxes, wires, a car battery, bottles, canisters and a vice. Under the dark windows stood shelves filled with more material; in the corners bin-liners were overflowing with the remains of carefully dismantled fireworks.
Dearlove sat rigidly on a kitchen chair. He had been tightly trussed up with cables and his limbs taped to the legs and backrest of the chair. There was drying blood on the side of his skull and face. Several lengths of silver gaffer tape had been used to gag him. Dearlove breathed with noisy effort through a nose and sinuses choked with his own vomit, some of which encrusted his nostrils. His eyes stared straight at McLusky with wide unblinking terror. Behind him stood Cooke, his deeply lined face thrown into sharp relief by the hurricane lamp hissing on a foldable workbench by his side. Standing quite still he looked like a figure made from leather. His right hand rested on a petrol can. It was uncapped and McLusky thought he could smell the contents.
‘His name is David. I don’t think David can breathe very well. There’s no need for a gag any more, we’re here now. Everyone knows we are here. Any chance of taking David’s gag off?’
‘Shut up about him, you’re trying to distract me.’
‘Distract you from what, Mr Cooke?’ He took a casual step forward.
‘Stay where you are. Distract me so you can rush me. But I warn you, I have lots of weapons at my disposal. And there’s petrol in this. One false move and he’ll burn.’
‘Then we’d all burn. There’s no use in that. It won’t make any difference. It won’t bring them back.’ McLusky craned his neck left and right, leaning forward, looking about, moving forward a few inches. ‘Is this what they would have wanted you to do? Your daughter? And your wife, Barbara?’
The name electrified Cooke. ‘How dare you speak about them? How dare you mention her name?’
‘Would Barbara approve of this? Would she have liked it?’
‘Shut up. I warned you!’ His hand jerked forward and petrol splashed over Dearlove’s head and side. In response the DC let out a long insistent grunting noise of fear and pain as the noxious liquid bit into his head wound.
‘How many bombs are there? Just out of interest.’ McLusky spoke casually as though what had just happened was of no concern to him.
‘That you will find out over time.’
‘You’ve got none left, have you?’ He looked about, displaying disappointment. ‘All your arsenal deployed, all your little soldiers out there. It’s all over then, isn’t it.’ A statement, not a question. ‘Well, you outsmarted us then by the looks of it. So there’s no longer any need for all this.’ His hand gesture encompassed the room, indicating Dearlove. ‘Well, that’s it then. I’m going to go now, Mr Cooke.’
‘You’re going to go?’ He looked puzzled.
‘Are you going to tell me where you planted the remaining devices?’
A single flat syllable. ‘No.’
‘I didn’t think so, and I can’t make you, I know that too, so there’s nothing I can do here.’ McLusky spoke in a matter-of-fact voice. ‘Obviously, I’ll have to take him with me.’ Three steps brought him into the middle of the room. Keeping his eyes entirely on Dearlove as though Cooke couldn’t possibly have any more objections, he took hold of the back of the chair and dragged it around until Dearlove was facing the man with the petrol can. With one swift movement he ripped the gag off his mouth. Dearlove gasped, coughed, spat. McLusky tilted the chair back and began dragging the groaning constable through the door. As soon as there was room Austin took over and pulled him away. McLusky remained standing in the hall, facing Cooke. Several sirens could now be heard approaching. Cooke’s head appeared to shake with tiny nods as he let the petrol flow from the can to the uneven vinyl floor where it pooled by his feet before creeping towards McLusky and the door.
‘Why don’t you come outside with me, Mr Cooke. It doesn’t have to end in here. Not like that.’ He searched the man’s face for anything worth saving. Still holding the empty petrol can Cooke stood very still now, a leather statuette. He no longer appeared to be seeing him. One thin stream of petrol had reached the tip of his own shoes. McLusky nodded. ‘But perhaps it’s for the best. Goodbye, Mr Cooke.’
He stepped over the creeping stream of petrol and crossed the hall just as Constable Pym entered the kitchen. McLusky shouted at him: ‘Get out!’ The flash of igniting petrol reflected in Austin’s eyes as it snatched the oxygen from the air. They tumbled out into the rain together. McLusky swung the outer chipboard door shut. It was a symbolic gesture rather than any attempt to deprive the fire of oxygen. Out here the close was busy with police and paramedics, many converging on the prefab. Just as he filled his lungs to shout a warning a window blew out in a vicious blast, making his warning superfluous. There had obviously been some gunpowder left.
An ambulance was leaving with DC Dearlove on board, its siren wailing as it neared the main road. McLusky found Austin standing by a defunct lamp-post. He lit a cigarette, offering one to the sergeant, who barely hesitated before accepting it. Both greedily inhaled while watching the black smoke and flames pouring from number thirty-five. ‘Deedee all right, you think?’
Austin scratched the tip of his nose. ‘I guess. He was cursing coherently.’
‘Oh, good.’
‘So we’ve no way of knowing how many devices are still out there?’
‘No way at all. Could be one or two, could be dozens.’
‘Isn’t there some way we can stop people from picking the things up?’
McLusky shook his head and began walking towards his car. ‘I shouldn’t think so. Shouldn’t think so for one minute.’
It was raining harder now. The remaining residents of Nelson Close saw the bungalow burn, though most stayed indoors to watch from their windows.
FB2 document info
Document ID: fbd-2db8b2-41f8-4743-73a2-b901-5f26-c744ad
Document version: 1
Document creation date: 07.08.2013
Created using: calibre 0.9.42, Fiction Book Designer, FictionBook Editor Release 2.6.6 software
Document authors :
Peter Helton
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