Time Is Running Out

by Michael Wood

‘Over the phone.’

  ‘And how did she seem?’

  ‘Fine. Like she always was. We had a chat and a laugh.’

  ‘How long did you chat for?’

  ‘About half an hour, I think,’ she said, looking to her husband for confirmation.

  ‘Just over half an hour. You missed the whole of EastEnders, so we watched it on iPlayer afterwards,’ he said, holding her hand and squeezing hard.

  Janet gave a weak smile. ‘That’s right. Viv can’t stand the soaps. She says they’re too far-fetched. But try as I might, I can’t give them up.’

  ‘Was Vivian on her own while you were chatting?’ Sian asked.

  ‘No. Malcolm was there. He answered the phone when I rang.’

  ‘Did anything seem amiss?’

  ‘No,’ Janet answered more firmly. ‘Everything was fine.’

  ‘Did you arrange to go over there this afternoon, or did you go over on a whim?’ Aaron asked.

  ‘I was supposed to go over this morning, but I had a text from Vivian asking if I could go after lunch inside.’

  ‘Vivian texted you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did you reply?’

  ‘Yes.’ She dug out her mobile phone, opened the messages app and showed Sian the conversation.

  ‘She didn’t reply to you. It wasn’t read either.’

  ‘No. Vivian isn’t good with technology. She doesn’t like mobile phones. I bought her a Kindle a couple of Christmases back and I think it’s still in the box. Shame really as she likes reading… Liked reading,’ she corrected herself.

  Janet turned to Ronald. He leaned into her and put his arm around her shoulder.

  Sian handed the phone back to her. ‘Janet, is there anything you can tell me about Vivian and Malcolm that could give us some clue as to why they were killed?’

  She thought for a moment. ‘No. They’re good people. They’ll do anything for anyone. Well, Vivian would. Malcolm prefers to keep himself to himself.’

  ‘Has there been any arguments, money worries?’

  ‘No. Absolutely not.’

  ‘Any family concerns?’

  ‘There are always concerns with this family.’

  Sian leaned forward. ‘In what way?’

  ‘I think that’s why Viv doesn’t like soaps. They remind her too much of our own family. Divorces, affairs, bankruptcy, you name it, it’s happened to us, hasn’t it?’ She turned to her husband again.

  ‘I’m afraid so,’ he confirmed. ‘Malcolm and Viv had their oldest staying with them. His marriage ended last year, and he wasn’t taking it very well. He always was emotional, even as a boy—’

  ‘Sorry,’ Sian interrupted. ‘Did you say Malcolm and Vivian had their son living with them?’

  ‘Yes. Jake.’

  Sian and Aaron exchanged concerned glances.

  ‘Where is he now?’ Aaron asked.

  ‘Oh. I don’t know. I assumed he was in the house dead along with his parents,’ Ronald answered.

  ‘I’ll go and check if we’ve had any updates on the scene,’ Aaron said. He stood up and left the room.

  ‘Is Jake their only son?’

  ‘No. There’s… I thought you knew,’ Ronald said.

  ‘Knew what?’

  ‘Malcolm and Vivian’s youngest is Steve. Steve Harrison. He used to be a police officer here. He’s in prison for killing six people, including one of your colleagues. That’s when everything seemed to go downhill with this family.’

  Sian leaned back in her seat. Her eyes were wide with disbelief. When PC Steve Harrison was unmasked as a serial killer, as the man who had killed DC Faith Easter, everyone at the station felt the shock waves it generated, and it was a long time before they could all move on. Were today’s events linked to him? It was already going to go down in history as a dark day for Sheffield, but would South Yorkshire Police ever recover from it?

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  ‘It’s three o’clock, here are the news headlines: Two separate gun attacks in the northern city of Sheffield have left more than twenty people dead and dozens more injured. In a third incident, a bomb disposal team has been dispatched and an entire neighbourhood evacuated in the Worrall area of the city after the occupants of the house were found shot dead and a suspicious package found in the house. Chief Constable Martin Featherstone is leading the investigation.

  ‘“Today is possibly the darkest day in the history of South Yorkshire Police, and while our number has been significantly reduced, the police officers of this country are one force and we are banding together to bring the perpetrator of these crimes to justice. At present, this is an ongoing investigation, so I am unable to give you much information. To the people of Sheffield, I advise you to stay indoors for your own safety and only travel if absolutely necessary until the gunman is safely in custody. Thank you.”

  ‘Meadowhall shopping centre in the north of Sheffield has been advised to close, and many of the city’s schools and colleges are in lockdown. The Prime Minister is being kept informed of the situation and earlier gave a short statement from Number Ten.

  ‘“Our thoughts and prayers are with the families, friends, and colleagues of those injured and killed in today’s shocking events. I have been speaking with the Chief Constable of South Yorkshire Police and promised him the full cooperation of the government in his handling of the investigation. The safety of the people of Sheffield, and of the whole country, is our paramount concern. I have every faith in the police force and pray this is brought to a swift and peaceful conclusion.”

  ‘That was Prime Minister Theresa May. In other news, Brexit negotiations are continuing as…’

  Steve turned off the radio. He lay back on his bed, put his hands behind his head and a broad smile swept across his face.

  This was turning into the perfect day. He’d never liked his parents. He thought them too wet, old-fashioned and weak. They were content to allow life to pass them by as if it was something to be scared of. They’d lived in that house on Mowson Lane since they got married more than thirty years ago. They did the same jobs, shopped in the same stores, watched the same type of programmes and films and went to the same places for a holiday every summer. There was no variety. They were dull. It was tragic that the most exciting thing to happen to them was getting murdered by their own son.

  For their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary, Steve had wanted to do something special for them. He wanted them to have a holiday of a lifetime. They’d only been abroad once; they went to Spain for their honeymoon, but there had been a heatwave and they couldn’t cope with temperatures past thirty degrees, so cut the holiday short. Twenty-five years later, they were still talking about how hot the sand was underfoot. However, Steve wanted to change all that. He wanted them to explore new cultures. He showed them brochure after brochure of trips to New York, Sidney, Cape Town, Moscow, Brazil, Oslo, Rome, Corfu and Morocco. All were met with a lukewarm response. He had to admit defeat, and for their silver wedding anniversary he gave them vouchers for a furniture shop they enjoyed browsing around. They were dull people. Their lives were pointless and would be quickly forgotten when they died. The least he could do for his parents was make their deaths special.

  When today was over and the dust settled, Malcolm and Vivian Harrison would be synonymous with the Sheffield Gun Massacre. It all started under the cover of darkness in their twee semi-detached house, and if everything went to plan, it would end in a glorious bloodbath.

  Steve looked at his watch. It was almost three o’clock. Jake would be getting ready for the finale.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Mowson Lane and the surrounding streets had been evacuated. The team from Catterick Garrison had arrived and an expert wearing a full bomb disposal suit made their way very slowly towards the back entrance of Malcolm and Vivian’s house.

  Christian stood behind the cordon and watched. He couldn’t tell if the person in the suit was male or female as they were covered from head to toe in prot
ective equipment. He took a deep breath and looked around at the quiet houses. This was an affluent neighbourhood; residents looked after their homes and gardens. There was no litter, no graffiti, no burnt-out cars, yet it could all be destroyed if there was a bomb inside the house and it went off. He pitied whoever it was in that heavy suit.

  ‘What’s going on?’ He turned at the question whispered loudly in his ear to find Danny Hanson behind him.

  ‘I thought I told you to go away.’

  ‘You did.’

  ‘So why are you still here?’

  ‘Because it’s my job.’

  ‘Your job is to piss off the police?’

  ‘I report the facts as I see them. I’m currently seeing a bomb disposal team enter a house. I want to know whose house that is and if it has anything to do with the two shootings earlier today.’

  ‘Then you’ll have to wait for the official press release like every other media outlet.’

  ‘Oh, come on, Christian, help me out here.’

  Christian paused as if giving it some thought. ‘No,’ he answered firmly with a wry smile.

  ‘Where’s Matilda?’

  Christian ignored him.

  ‘Shouldn’t she be here? I’ve been at the station, I’ve been at the Parkway and now I’m here, and I don’t see the DCI anywhere.’

  ‘I’m not answering any of your questions, Danny. Now if you don’t piss off, I’ll have you arrested for obstructing an investigation.’

  ‘I’m not obstructing anything. I’m behind the cordon like you. What’s happened to Matilda? Has she been suspended?’

  ‘No, she has not.’

  ‘Has she been shot?’

  Christian didn’t reply.

  ‘She has, hasn’t she? She’s been shot. Is she dead?’

  ‘Danny, please, fuck off.’

  Christian’s mobile started ringing, which saved him from another barrage of questions from the reporter. He’d practically told Danny what had happened to Matilda by answering only select questions. Damn, he should have ignored him from the start. He saw it was Sian calling him and swiped to answer.

  ‘You’re never going to believe who that house belongs to,’ Sian said by way of a greeting.

  ‘The neighbour did say their names. Michael and Vivian, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Malcolm and Vivian Harrison,’ she corrected him. ‘Parents to two sons: Jake Harrison and Steve Harrison. The same Steve Harrison who is currently in Wakefield Prison for killing six people including…’

  ‘You don’t need to remind me, Sian,’ he interrupted. ‘I’m aware he killed one of our own. I don’t fucking believe this.’ He tried to stop himself from shouting, but a few people turned in his direction, including the grinning Danny Hanson.‘Jesus Christ.’ He ran his fingers through his thinning hair as he thought. ‘Ok, get on to Wakefield Prison, make sure Steve is still behind bars and hasn’t managed to escape somehow. If he is, I want to know who he’s had contact with in the last six months – visitors, letters sent and received, everything.’

  ‘Will do.’

  ‘Also, try to find out where the other son is living.’

  ‘I have. He’s recently separated from his wife. He’s living back on Mowson Lane.’

  ‘So, what are we thinking? He’s either dead in the house or he’s the one who shot them and rigged it up with a bomb before going on a shooting spree?’

  ‘It has to be one or the other,’ Sian said.

  ‘Right, show Janet and Ronald those CCTV images we have of the gunman, see if they recognise him. If they do and they think it is Jake, get them to give you a proper photo and show it to your friend who set off the fire alarm, see if he can give you a positive ID.’

  ‘This can’t be related to Steve, can it?’

  ‘I don’t know. If his brother is the gunman, he could have been planning this with him for years. The first target was the same police station he worked at. It wouldn’t be surprising if he’s harbouring some kind of grudge.’

  ‘But why open fire at the Parkway? Nobody could guess who would be driving along there at that time.’

  Christian bit his bottom lip as he thought. ‘I know. Look, try to ID the gunman. Check on Steve in prison and we’ll go from there. I’ll come back to the station. There’s not much I can do here.’

  Christian ended the call and headed for his car. Danny caught up with him.

  ‘Problem?’ the reporter asked.

  ‘I’m not talking to you.’

  ‘Who does the house belong to? I heard you mention someone called Steve. Who is he? Does he live in this house? Is he the gunman? Come on, Christian, give me something.’

  Christian stopped in his tracks. ‘First of all, it’s DI Brady to you. Secondly, get the fuck out of my face,’ he spat.

  ‘Just tell me about Matilda. Was she shot at the station today? Is she dead?’

  At his car, Christian paused. He turned back. ‘Matilda Darke is very much alive.’

  ‘So why isn’t she leading this investigation? A double shooting, a bomb scare, surely a DCI should be on the scene?’

  ‘You’re the ace reporter, you tell me.’

  Christian jumped into the car, slammed the door and drove off at speed, leaving Danny stood in the middle of the street with a perplexed expression on his face.

  He dug his phone out of his pocket and made a call. ‘It’s me. Matilda Darke. Dead or alive?’

  ‘I can’t talk right now,’ the reply came in a hushed whisper.

  ‘Just answer dead or alive?’

  ‘Alive.’

  ‘Where is she?’

  ‘For fuck’s sake, Danny.’

  ‘Look, answer my questions and I’ll leave you alone.’

  ‘She’s been shot twice. She’s being operated on at the Hallamshire.’

  The line went dead. He almost put his phone away, but it burst into life. It was his producer.

  ‘I know there’s fuck-all wrong with the camera, Danny. I want you live in two minutes or you’ll be back on that shitty local paper.’

  Danny turned to the BBC News van and saw Lewis stood with the camera on his shoulder and a guilty look on his face.

  ‘Oh, I’m more than ready.’ He grinned.

  Chapter Forty

  Inside the Harrisons’ house on Mowson Lane, bomb-disposal expert Liam Fury crouched to look into the microwave. The glass was tinted and didn’t give him a good view, but he could see a small brown plastic tub with a white lid. At the corner, the lid was raised, and a white wire was sticking out. He needed to get at the plastic box, remove the lid and access what was inside.

  He took a torch from his pocket, which wasn’t easy with the heavy gloves he was wearing, and turned it on. He aimed it at the microwave and had a good look at the inside. The tub didn’t seem to be connected to the microwave at all, so it had just been placed on the glass turntable inside rather than wired to the appliance. In that case, opening the door and taking it out shouldn’t pose a risk.

  ‘I’ve located the device,’ he said into the built-in microphone. ‘It’s housed in a small Tupperware tub, but until I remove the lid, I can’t see what kind of device I’m dealing with.’

  He put the torch back in his pocket, placed a finger on the door release button and slowly pushed. The door clicked open a fraction. Very slowly, he pulled the door fully open and looked at as much of the box as he could without moving it.

  The lid was attached to the box apart from one small corner where the wire protruded. In order to see how intricate the device was, he’d need to fully remove the lid.

  Liam could feel his heart pounding in his chest. He was sweating inside the heavy suit, which weighed just over eighty-five pounds. His breaths were shallow, and he tried to calm himself down with a few deep breaths.

  ‘I’ve opened the microwave door. I’m now going to carefully remove the tub and place it on the kitchen work surface next to it.’

  He licked his lips and with two giant, gloved hands he reached inside
for the tub. He placed them firmly on either side of the box and made sure he had a secure grip before attempting to lift it. Very, very slowly, he picked it up and took tiny steps back from the microwave in order to bring the box out.

  Liam swallowed hard a few times, but his mouth was dry. Aged only twenty-four, he’d been on two tours in Afghanistan and successfully deactivated more than fifty improvised explosive devices. Once back home in North Yorkshire, he tried to return to a normal life, which wasn’t easy after the things he’d seen in the aftermath of a warzone. What he never expected was to be standing in a kitchen in a house in Sheffield attempting to deactivate a home-made bomb. His surroundings of a normal suburban street added to the pressure. He hadn’t felt this nervous when he was looking at the mechanics of a suicide vest strapped to a sixteen-year-old girl in Kandahar, who was hysterical and had changed her mind. Thankfully, the bomb had only been a dummy.

  ‘I’ve removed the tub from the microwave and placed it on the work surface. I’m now going to remove the lid in order to look at the device.’

  His voice was quiet and low, yet the microphone picked up every word. In order for Liam to take the lid off, he’d have to remove his chunky gloves.

  His fingers were steady as they touched the plastic. He lifted the corner that was already raised and ran his finger underneath to detach the lid from the tub. It seemed to take an age until it was fully separated, yet he still couldn’t see inside. Wires could be attached to the underside of the lid. Until he knew, he couldn’t lift it fully away in case it set the bomb off.

  Gently, he bent his knees and lowered himself so his eyes were level with the work surface. He squinted and saw more wires in the box, but none of them seemed to be stuck to the lid.

  ‘I’m now going to remove the lid,’ he said.

  Standing back up, he removed the lid and placed it carefully next to the tub. He looked into the plastic container.

  ‘What the fuck?’

  Chapter Forty-One

  Jake Harrison parked around the corner from Stannington Secondary School and turned off the engine. He hadn’t bothered listening to the news for the last half an hour, so didn’t know how far the police were in their investigations. He didn’t know if they’d discovered who he was. He looked around him. There was no police presence at the school. Good. No reason to change his plan.