Time Is Running Out

by Michael Wood

  ‘Adele, you know Matilda better than anyone. Had she said anything to you lately about her health?’

  Adele looked confused. ‘Her health? I don’t … no. She’s fine. Why?’

  ‘When she was brought in she was bleeding. From her vagina. We took a sample of the blood and we’ve discovered she was pregnant.’

  ‘Oh my God!’ Adele exclaimed. Her eyes widened. ‘Wait. Was?’

  ‘I’m afraid she miscarried.’

  ‘Jesus…’

  ‘It’s not uncommon, when the body suffers a massive trauma like she has, to reject the pregnancy as a way of saving the life of the adult. She may not have even known she was pregnant.’

  Adele shook her head. ‘I don’t think she did. She would have told me. She definitely would have told me.’

  ‘I’m so sorry.’ The nurse placed a hand on her shoulder.

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘I’ll leave you to it,’ she said, standing up.

  ‘How’s the operation going?’

  ‘It’s going to plan so far. I’ll keep you updated.’

  ‘Thanks…’

  ‘Leah.’

  ‘Of course. I’m sorry,’ Adele said, wiping tears from her eyes.

  Matilda was pregnant! That was the last thing Adele expected to hear. Matilda had never wanted children. When she and James married, they both decided to live their lives together, doing what they wanted, going on holiday when they wanted, spending time together, and children didn’t fit into that plan. When James died, Matilda expressed a hint of regret that they hadn’t had children, if only because it would have meant a part of James would still be with her. Her maternal instincts, however, were purely for selfish reasons. She admitted herself on many occasions that she would have been a terrible mother and work would always have come first.

  Adele knew the relationship between Matilda and Daniel was blossoming and she had managed to extract some very personal details from Matilda about their love life once she was under the influence of a couple of bottles of Pinot Grigio, but babies were never mentioned. Had Daniel expressed an interest in becoming a father? Had Matilda realised he was her final chance to become a mother and give her a focus in life other than work? No. She would have told Adele.

  In the darkness of the glass in the vending machine across the corridor, Adele saw her reflection looking back at her. She could see the desperation and anger etched on her face. She had no idea what was stopping her from smashing her head into the glass.

  ‘Adele!’

  She jumped at her name being called and saw Daniel heading towards her down the corridor. His strides were long, his face a map of worry, his eyes glistening with tears. How was she going to explain this to him?

  Chapter Thirty

  ‘Introductions are starting. We’re going live in two minutes.’

  Danny Hanson was back at South Yorkshire Police HQ. He would have preferred to remain at the Parkway and have the impact of the bullet-ridden vehicles, the white-suited forensic team and flashing lights of the emergency vehicles in the background, but the producer of the BBC News at One felt the unassuming police station as a backdrop was more fitting to the seriousness of the situation.

  Danny was still relatively new to the world of broadcast journalism and had wanted to argue his point that an active crime scene was more visual. However, before he could express his opinion, he was reminded that it was only one o’clock in the afternoon. People watching this would be eating their lunch. They wouldn’t want to see blood splatter and bullet holes while tucking into their Boots meal deals.

  The unfolding story was going to be the lead item, and they’d return to Danny in Sheffield at several points during the thirty-minute programme. He’d also be on screen for most of the ten-minute Look North bulletin, and then the BBC News channel was going to focus on the rolling breaking news story for most of the afternoon. Danny was going to get plenty of TV exposure.

  To say Danny was excited was an understatement. He wanted to be a big player in the industry and working on the local newspaper was not a satisfying job, despite some of the stories he’d worked on thanks to Matilda Darke. It was a gamble moving into the world of broadcast journalism, and he had been worried he’d made a big mistake when his first story revolved around a zebra crossing being removed outside a junior school in Barnsley, and then reporting on a nursing home in Rotherham setting up a GoFundMe page to raise money for basic supplies for its residents due to heavy budget cuts by the council. However, he’d bitten his lip and held his tongue and was grateful for the experience of being in front of the camera. He was learning so much. Now, here he was, about to report on the lead story on a flagship news programme on the most watched channel in the country.

  He’d checked his hair in the wing mirror of the van several times, fingering the ruffled, unkempt look it took him ages to perfect. His blue check shirt was clean and crisp and open at the neck. He looked smart and casual with an air of professionalism about him.

  ‘We can now go live to Sheffield for an update on this ongoing story with our North of England correspondent, Danny Hanson,’ he heard the newsreader say in his earpiece.

  His cameraman, Lewis, gave him the nod to begin.

  ‘Behind me is the headquarters of South Yorkshire Police, where earlier this morning a gunman opened fire, killing six people, including Assistant Chief Constable Valerie Masterson, who was due to retire later this year. Just two hours later, a gunman shot at cars from a bridge over the Sheffield Parkway, where we believe more than twenty people have lost their lives. Detectives from the Homicide and Major Enquiry Team as well as those from CID are working together to try to catch this gunman before he can strike again.’

  ‘What do we know of the gunman, Danny?’ the newsreader asked.

  ‘At the moment, we know very little. Chief Constable Martin Featherstone gave a statement at eleven o’clock this morning but didn’t reveal much information as to the identity of the perpetrator. Since then, we’ve received no further updates on who has committed this atrocity or when the next press conference will be.’

  ‘Are police treating this as a terrorist attack?’

  ‘Again, we haven’t been given any information as to the gunman’s motives, but a source at South Yorkshire Police has told me detectives are struggling to cope due to the personal nature of the incident.’

  ‘Are detectives being drafted in from other forces?’

  ‘Not at present. My source informed me that South Yorkshire Police were already understaffed before today’s shooting. An investigation like this is the last thing they needed. What happens today as this story unfolds, and whether more lives are lost, will surely be felt for a long time to come by detectives in the building behind me, and the public at large.’

  ‘Danny Hanson, our North of England correspondent, thank you.’

  ‘What the actual fuck!’ Christian Brady exploded.

  The remaining members of HMET had gathered around the television to watch the one o’clock news bulletin. Despite no further statements being given, they wanted to keep an eye on what the media was saying. It was possible the gunman could be watching this and deciding when and where to make his next move depending on what he heard. If he’d seen this, and believed South Yorkshire Police was dangerously understaffed, who knew where his next strike would be.

  ‘Where’s he getting this bollocks from?’ Christian stood back from the TV, hands on his hips, face red with thunder. ‘Who the fuck is his source?’

  Sian pointed the remote at the TV and turned it off. The room was plunged into silence. Even the phones seemed to have stopped ringing.

  ‘He made us sound like a bunch of clowns bumbling about like we’re fucking clueless.’

  ‘We are,’ Aaron said under his breath.

  ‘Was it you?’ Christian snapped, turning to him.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Are you his source? Are you pissed off for being removed from HMET so you thought you’d stick the knife in f
urther—’

  ‘Christian, calm down,’ Sian interrupted.

  ‘Why would I give that bastard information?’ Aaron asked. ‘He broke the story about … well, you all know about that. He helped ruin my marriage, for fuck’s sake. Do you think I’d give him information to help boost his career?’

  Aaron was visibly shaking at the confrontation. He was always a mild-mannered man, never one to cause a scene or stand out. Now, the entire room was staring at him.

  ‘Shit!’ Christian said, squeezing the bridge of his nose to calm himself. ‘I’m sorry, Aaron. I didn’t mean to accuse you, and I know you wouldn’t have spoken to the press, least of all that parasite. I’m sorry.’

  Aaron nodded. ‘I’m going to the toilet.’ He stood up and left the room with his head down.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Christian said again, this time to the whole team. ‘I’m not accusing anyone, but whatever we discover about this case does not leave these walls. Is that understood?’

  There were nods of assent around the room.

  ‘The gunman will have watched that. He’ll believe what that shit said. If he is planning a third shooting, this will give him the impetus to step up his game. He’s got guns, he’s got a van he could use to ram into a crowd. He could have a bomb for all we know. That,’ he said, pointing to the blank television screen, ‘could have given him everything he needs to launch an attack bigger than anything we’ve ever seen.’

  A phone rang. Scott answered it on the first ring.

  Sian stood up from her desk and went over to Christian by the murder boards. ‘What do we do?’ she asked. Her voice was quiet, almost tearful.

  ‘Where are we with identifying the gunman?’

  ‘All we’ve got are a few blurred images from CCTV. Nobody has called in claiming to know him or seen anyone running around with a gun.’

  ‘I emailed those images to Featherstone over an hour ago. Why hasn’t he released them to the press?’ Christian asked.

  ‘Maybe he has.’

  ‘Then why aren’t they on the news? Sian get me someone from the BBC on the phone. I’ll send them myself.’

  ‘I’ve got Danny’s mobile somewhere,’ Sian said, heading back to her desk.

  ‘I’m not talking to that cock. Get me someone who knows what they’re talking about.’

  ‘That was the Chief Constable’s secretary. He wants to see you,’ Scott said, putting down the phone, to Christian.

  ‘I bet he does,’ he said with a heavy sigh.

  He tucked his shirt into his trousers and tried to neaten himself up for the Chief Constable. He headed for the door with Sian following.

  ‘Christian, ask the Chief Constable about the images before you send them to the press. There may be a reason why he’s holding them back.’

  ‘No. This is my investigation. My call. I want this man found. Somebody knows who he is.’ He unlocked his phone and handed it to her. ‘The images are on there. Send them to the BBC, Sky, ITV and as many newspapers as you can think of and ask them to use them. I want them on TV and slapped all over social media.’ He was frustrated at the lack of pace the investigation was taking, and, fuelled with adrenaline and the desire for a result, his words were falling over each other.

  ‘But—’

  ‘Did you ever see Matilda running to ask for permission? No. Neither am I.’

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Mowson Lane, Worrall

  The twenty-minute drive from Rotherham to Worrall was almost doubled thanks to the Parkway being closed and traffic backed up on all the surrounding roads. Janet Crowther was a nervous driver at the best of times and liked to plan her routes meticulously before setting out. The fact she’d had to double back on herself and go down roads she’d never been on before, and had been beeped at by irate drivers desperate to get to their destination, did nothing for her stress levels. At one point, she’d pulled up on a residential street, turned off the engine and took a few minutes to compose herself. She was close to tears and her hands were shaking. She turned on the radio, hoping a bit of classical music might calm her down.

  ‘…gunman opened fire from a bridge over the Sheffield Parkway leaving at least twenty people dead and dozens more injured. Eyewitnesses say people were fleeing from their cars and dropping like dominoes as the gunman mercilessly picked off his victims one by one.’

  She quickly turned it off. Janet’s face paled. If she’d left home at the arranged time, she could have been on the Parkway when the gunman opened fire. She could have been one of those twenty dead.

  ‘Good grief,’ she uttered under her breath, performing the sign of the cross and kissing the crucifix she always wore on a chain around her neck.

  Life was incredibly precious. Janet knew that more than most people. What her family had gone through lately would have kept EastEnders in storylines for years – two cancer battles, a redundancy, two stolen cars, a house burnt down, a hidden affair, three divorces, an attempted suicide, and a serial killer exposed. What this family didn’t need was more drama, and that included her being shot at while driving down the Parkway.

  She fired off a quick text to her husband, Ronald, telling him about the traffic issues and another to her sister, Vivian, saying she was going to be even later, due to what was happening in Sheffield. She still hadn’t replied to her first text yet, but that wasn’t unusual. Vivian and technology did not go well together.

  Suitably composed, Janet glared at her reflection in the rear-view mirror. She still looked pale and her eyes were wide, but she’d stopped shaking. Always a good sign. She turned on the ignition of the Nissan Micra, carefully pulled out into traffic and headed for Mowson Lane.

  It wasn’t long before she parked outside the detached house. Malcolm’s Vauxhall was under the car port and the downstairs curtains were still closed. It wasn’t like Vivian to leave the curtains drawn into the middle of the afternoon. It was a very dull day. If she was reading in the living room, perhaps she wanted the big light on and didn’t want passers-by nosing in.

  From the front passenger seat, she took a bunch of flowers and a plastic tub with a home-made cake inside. Janet never visited someone’s home without a gift.

  It was a cold and gloomy afternoon. A mist had hung in the air all day and a fine drizzle was falling. She rang the bell, stepped back from the white door and waited. She looked down at the bunch of flowers and smiled. A burst of colour in this dank, dreary month always cheered things up.

  No answer.

  She rang the bell again.

  A gust of wind came from nowhere and made Janet shiver. Wearing light trousers and a fleece jacket, she was chilly and couldn’t wait to get into Vivian’s house with the real log fire. Hopefully, there was a coffee brewing.

  She stepped back from the house and looked up. The upstairs curtains were closed, too. Janet frowned. She put the flowers and cake on the doorstep and dug out her phone. She selected Vivian’s mobile and gave it a call. It went straight to voicemail. She decided against leaving a message and tried calling the landline. She could hear it ringing through the front door. She bent down and lifted the letterbox. The phone was in its cradle on the hall table. The doors leading to the living, dining room and kitchen were all closed. The answer machine kicked in and, again, Janet ended the call rather than leave a message.

  This was very unlike Vivian. She knew Janet was coming over this afternoon. If there was a problem, she would have called to cancel, not left her sister freezing on the doorstep.

  Janet selected Malcolm’s mobile number and rang it while she went around to the back of the house. She squeezed past the Vauxhall and failed to notice the red light of a sensor above her head come on.

  Jake Harrison looked at the damage to his neck in the mirror in the visor above the front passenger seat of the van. Three scratch marks that had drawn blood. He licked a tissue and dabbed at it. It stung slightly and he winced. He hadn’t expected such a cat fight. It was almost funny. He unplugged his mobile phone, charging in t
he cigarette lighter, and jumped out of the van. He selected the camera, pulled open the back door and took a photograph of his insurance policy tied up in the back. He winked and slammed the door closed.

  Back in the front of the van, he was about to send the picture in a text message when a notification alerted him. The sensor he’d placed in the car port had been triggered.

  Taking an iPad from his bag, he selected the program that turned on the hidden cameras he’d placed within the house. There were three in the kitchen, two in the hallway, two in his bedroom and one each looking over the front and back entrance to the house. If the sensor above his dad’s car had been triggered, that meant someone was making their way to the back of the house.

  Jake selected the camera from the drop-down menu and brought it up full screen. There was Aunt Janet, approaching the back door. His smile turned into a grin.

  He’d never liked Aunt Janet and Uncle Ronald with their holier-than-thou attitude. They took in kids who needed emergency foster care, set up a foodbank for those in the neighbourhood who had fallen on hard times, helped with the church and their social and fundraising activities. They were so pious and saintly that it had to be a ruse. Surely their God-bothering was masking a darker identity? If not, then he was pleased it was good old Aunt Janet who was going to stumble across her sister and brother-in-law. That would wipe the sanctimonious smile off her face.

  He watched as she approached the back door. She cupped her hands around her eyes and leaned into the glass for a good look into the kitchen. It seemed to take an age before she reacted. When she did, it caused Jake to guffaw. He applauded and was thrilled this was recording. He’d be able to watch it over and over again.

  Janet couldn’t believe what her eyes had witnessed. No. It didn’t make sense. It wasn’t possible. She’d spoken to Vivian on the phone last night. She’d told her about her test results and how she’d used the wrong flour in the cake and was making a second one. They’d laughed and Vivian brought up the story of spelling Malcolm’s name wrong on his fiftieth birthday cake. How did life go from that to seeing her sister on the floor of her kitchen in a pool of blood? It didn’t make sense. It wasn’t real.