His First His Second

by A D Davies

  “No. Actually, I was very sad. James said it was an accident, and his father believed it. I went to retrieve the body, from down here, right where Henry’s lying now. And she was alive. But only just.”

  Alicia computed the possibilities, came up with one. “She’d been raped, hadn’t she?”

  “James raped his own cousin. The daughter of the most wonderful woman in the world. The embodiment of her mother. And yes, in front of his father, I killed James. Did the old piano wire stuff.”

  “Her mother … you were in love with Tanya’s mother.”

  “I would never have moved on her. No. Peter Windsor was more than worthy.”

  “And you wanted to keep Tanya safe, do what was right by her, even if that meant—”

  “Don’t judge me like that. Don’t judge me at all.”

  “It was like James raped the love of your life, that all your efforts were for nothing. You killed James, and buried him … where? In Tanya’s grave? No. Not there. The aviary.”

  “Ironic, don’t you think?”

  Not as ironic as the conclusion to this case, Alicia thought. The frigging butler did it.

  She said, “That’s why Henry was so confident James wasn’t down here.”

  Lawrence chuckled. “Now how about you give me the gun? Then you can come see the girls.”

  Alicia readied herself. The slightest twitch. His thumb going half a millimetre either way, a tendon bulging, and she would squeeze-not-pull the trigger.

  The trigger.

  “It was Rachel dying,” she said. “That was what triggered your psychosis.”

  “Don’t you analyse me.”

  “You lost the love of your life, and idealised Tanya as her replacement. Her embodiment. It was a benign psychosis at first, a form of depression, but when James did that to her—to Rachel in your eyes—you snapped.”

  “I said don’t do that.”

  A clattering noise from behind.

  She glanced sideways for a split second, a heartbeat, but it was enough. The gun was gone, her shoulder flared in pain, and Lawrence held her against himself, a slab of a hand around her neck. The roller door of the lift rumbled upwards. Lawrence aimed the gun.

  And Richard stepped into the garage’s glare.

  “Richard, look out!” Alicia cried.

  The gun boomed and hot air crackled all around, sulphur stinging Alicia’s nose. Another shot and, somewhere, glass shattered. So close to her ear, it almost deafened her.

  Through the smoke, she saw the E-type’s windscreen was gone.

  Lawrence breathed hard through his nose, sounding like some threatened beast. In a sense, he was. But Richard was unarmed, or at best he’d retrieved a knife. He was also still wearing the cuffs.

  Then something hit her: where was Ball?

  Upstairs, in the freezing snow, Sergeant Ball stirred. He wasn’t sure where he was, only that his jaw hurt like hell. He remembered Alicia and a gun, and being ordered to stand guard while she led some comedian into a lift large enough for a car. Cars. That’s where they were headed. Down in a lift to see some cars.

  He also remembered hearing soft footsteps, that he was afraid of something, of someone. When he spun he was afraid that it might be that person, that he was in trouble. He caught a glimpse of who hit him, and it wasn’t who he thought it was going to be. Instead, it was the father of one of the girls.

  The ground was so cold. But his head span and he didn’t want to get up, not until he thought this through.

  Then he remembered something else too. It was the same father who was wanted in connection with two murders. The same father who appeared before the cameras and claimed his daughter was the most precious thing in the world.

  Jesus!

  The guy did his own daughter!

  It was the same old story. The grieving relative, appealing for their return.

  The bastard.

  How had DS Friend not spotted it? How? She was one of those head-doctor types, some smart arse with a degree. It was her job to interpret press conferences, finger the guy, the mother, the boyfriend.

  And he’d knocked Ball unconscious.

  Ball sat up, still dizzy, but coherent. He stood, finding the key that Henry used to open the lift. He was sure that’s where Katie Hague’s dad had gone. There it is.

  Shit.

  The key was in the mechanism but it had been snapped off. No way to turn it, not without the right tools.

  He thought back to his orders.

  Go get help if I’m not out in ten.

  Well, he’d been unconscious for … how long? He couldn’t tell. Forget it.

  He stumbled a little at first, regaining balance, checking which way up the world was, and ran drunkenly towards where Alicia said a van was parked. It was her only chance.

  Lawrence pulled Alicia backwards. She dug her heels in, but the floor was polished stone. No grip.

  “Richard, get out!” she yelled. “Get help!”

  He didn’t reply.

  Lawrence held Alicia tighter as he backed up. “Your daughter’s going to die. So’s your girlfriend. Come on out.”

  “I’m not his girlfriend,” Alicia said.

  “I’ve seen him on television. And you. The way you act together. Fawning over him.”

  She hadn’t thought one little thing of the press conference. She’d offered Richard her hand, both of them. She was comforting him. But she knew how it might look now.

  Through the fear and the desperate sorrow at failing so badly, Alicia sensed an emotion she hated, a sentiment she had never succumbed to before: self-pity. Even if she lived, even if they all walked out of here right now, there would be an inquiry. She’d be found out. It was the end for her as a police officer. No matter what plaudits her track record exuded. If this lunatic could spot it, a skilled PSD officer certainly would.

  They were through the doorway, into the darkness. She saw the garage getting smaller, the bright lights receding. She hoped to see Richard once more, bounding forward, dodging the bullets like a superhero, the man for whom she fell so hard returning for one last noble feat.

  Lawrence lifted her off the ground and tossed her aside. She didn’t hit the floor when she expected to. That came shortly after. Then she hit it again, and again. Stairs. She curled into a ball, elbow striking stone as she protected her head. A rib snapped.

  She stopped.

  Gazed back up from where she’d fallen. Lawrence the butler stood silhouetted against the glare. Then the shape of his arm reached up, pulled the door shut with a small hiss, and everything turned absolutely black.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  “NO!”

  Richard watched helplessly as the door closed.

  He had observed the man’s movements, retreating towards the door leading who-knows-where, and he predicted what would happen. So he’d snuck around the cars—the Jags, the Mercs, the Bentley—and pressed himself against the wall, out of the guy’s line of sight. He gripped the knife, its softness reassuring in his palm. He was ready to surprise the camouflage-dressed nutter with a head-on assault, when the door swung shut, replaced by a picture of a Land Rover going sideways up a mountain.

  Now he experienced a falling sensation, his feet turning to stone, his thoughts swirling too fast to understand. For the first time in his life, Richard Hague was panicking.

  Katie was down there, he was sure, and the other girl. And, of course, Alicia. He heard her cry out before the door closed and cut her off.

  He was sweating. His hand moistening the knife. He wiped his palms on his trousers.

  The first thing he did reaped no rewards: he tried the picture frame. He dug his fingers behind the frame, set his foot against the wall, and heaved. The picture flew off the wall, clattering to the ground. Flush to the pristine clean wall, a cast-iron door blocked his way, locked by a keypad, its numbers raised so he could not repeat the trick that accessed the Priceway store in Bridlington. There were no gaps, no holes, no opening of any kind. Even
his knife wouldn’t find leverage.

  He searched for something to use. But what? On a work bench he found screwdrivers, a wrench, even a crowbar. He tried jimmying the door, but it was solid.

  She’s going to die.

  She’s going to die.

  It’s all my fault.

  They’re dead, and it’s all my fault.

  But when he comes out, I’ll be waiting. I’ll gut him like he’s nothing. My knife’ll take his skin off and I’ll burn it in front of him while he dies. I’ll ram my fist down his neck. I’ll—

  —ram.

  What the hell am I thinking? How stupid can one guy be?

  Okay, Richard, get a grip. Think. How can you make this work?

  The lights came on and Alicia blinked. She was half blind, half deaf. Lawrence spoke to a girl on the floor. She was curled up like a baby, dark hair matted and filthy, crying, with the butler coaxing her back to normality. It was Siobhan.

  Where was Katie?

  Nothing here but white tiles with a small puddle of dried blood, a hose, a bath. Was she dead already?

  A hand! A hand hung out of the bath.

  “Katie?”

  The hand moved.

  “No talking!” Lawrence shouted. “No talking until I say so.”

  Alicia sat up. Her right elbow ached like hell, and her ribs were agony. Broken, and she knew it. Her arm just about worked, but it’d swell and bruise. She focussed on Lawrence as he helped Siobhan to her feet. And Katie was alive too. Her cause wasn’t lost after all.

  “Let us go and you might still qualify for mental incapacity,” Alicia lied. “I could tell the judge you can’t stand trial.”

  Lawrence sat the girl in a chair, at first seeming not to hear Alicia, but then he stormed over. He lifted her to her feet, as easily as picking up a bag of apples, and yelled in her face, “I am not insane! I’m upset.”

  “About Tanya, I know. You wanted to prove she loved you. You made her kill for you.”

  “You don’t understand.”

  She maintained a calm and soothing voice, using his first name, rubbish trick or not. “Lawrence, I do understand. She was hurt, needed nurturing back to health. You killed the person who hurt her, and then you took care of her.”

  “Stop it.”

  “Henry thought both of them were dead, didn’t he? That’s why he was so shocked when Tanya showed up.”

  He led Alicia roughly to a chair opposite Siobhan. “You can fight on behalf of Katie.”

  “Let me see Katie. She needs help.”

  “You will fight on behalf of Katie.” He held out a rubber mallet. “Take it. You will be my First.”

  “You wanted Tanya to kill for you like you killed for her. Isn’t that right, Lawrence? Isn’t that right?”

  He closed his eyes, containing his anger. “If you win, Katie lives. If you die, Katie dies.”

  “I’m not fighting Siobhan for you.”

  He thrust the mallet forward, hand trembling. “Take the damn hammer!”

  “No.”

  “Take it.”

  “No.”

  He gripped Alicia’s hand and jammed the tool in it, closing her fingers. She tried to open them but he was too strong. As soon as he let go, the automatic gun came out, the six-shooter Ruger wedged in the back of his trousers. He cocked the weapon and aimed it at Siobhan.

  He said, “You drop that and I’ll shoot her right now.”

  Alicia held on to the hammer. “Let me see Katie.”

  “No. You’ll see her if you live.”

  “But I’m not going to fight.”

  “You’re no Rachel, Detective. You don’t even look like her. But you have her fire, her intelligence. You must have to find me like this. You can fight for her. You will fight for her.” He addressed Siobhan. “You know the rules, honey. You fight until one of you dies.”

  “And you didn’t expect Tanya to die, did you,” Alicia said.

  That froze him right where he was.

  “You thought you’d nursed her back to health. Better than that, you physically improved her, trained her to fight, wanted her to prove her skill, even though she was damaged … emotionally. So you found Pippa Bradshaw, someone you could keep as a replacement just in case Tanya wasn’t as strong as you hoped. But when she wouldn’t fight, when neither of them would fight, you killed Pippa yourself. Didn’t you, Lawrence? You murdered her as an example. One punch. Then made Tanya disfigure the body.”

  “They wouldn’t obey. They didn’t understand. Like you.”

  “But when you brought Hayley along, you’d scared Tanya so much that she did it for you. She beat Hayley and you promised to free her if she killed for you. But you didn’t. You brought Katie instead.”

  “I needed to see it wasn’t a fluke. I needed another Second. Tanya—Rachel—was my First…”

  “Rachel was Tanya’s mother, Lawrence. She died long ago. I know you must have loved her dearly, but Tanya didn’t have to pay like this. Nor Hayley or Pippa.”

  “You have to fight now.”

  “We’re not going to fight.”

  “Oh no?” He fired the gun in the air, the bang filling the room.

  Alicia closed her eyes at the noise, and when she opened them, Siobhan was running at her. She leapt on Alicia, clawing and scratching for the mallet. Alicia held it away and received a thump to the face. Not a controlled hit, just panic and anger. Siobhan gripped Alicia’s hair and pulled her head up, whacking it back down on the tiles. White pain flashed. Dull thuds around her skull.

  “Come on, fight back,” Lawrence urged.

  Alicia dropped the mallet and got hold of Siobhan’s wrists. But the girl was panicking, making her strong—stronger than Alicia. She kept hold of Alicia’s hair, but was not banging anything off the ground. Alicia retracted her legs, tucked them under Siobhan’s armpits, then extended quick and hard. Siobhan shot into the air and across the room.

  Alicia got to her feet, and Siobhan was coming back at her. Alicia parried and flipped Siobhan over, sending her across the floor again. Unfortunately, she landed right next to the mallet. She scrambled up, swinging at Alicia, a snarl to her face, hate in her eyes. It wasn’t Alicia she was fighting, not in her mind, not deep down; it was Lawrence.

  Alicia backed up too far. She hit a chair, lost her balance and landed on her back. Siobhan was on her in a second. She straddled Alicia, knees pinning her arms, the injured elbow now agony. Siobhan raised the mallet with both hands, the lethal blow prepared.

  “Please,” Alicia said. “You do this, and he wins.”

  Siobhan wavered. Breathing. Breathing steadily. Eyes wide and locked with Alicia’s.

  “But I live,” she replied, and swung down.

  Horrendous thunder exploded from one the corner of the room. Metal on stone boomed out, dust billowing. Huge chunks of masonry rumbled to the floor, smashing tiles. Rocks flew, fragments landing on the grappling women, and debris tumbled and cracked. Siobhan scrambled off Alicia, screaming, hands over her head, the mallet still in her hands. Lawrence shielded himself from the stone shards, pointed his gun upwards. Fired once, twice. Alicia pushed away, right up against the wall. She could reach the bath.

  It was like a bomb had exploded.

  ARV backup? This quickly?

  When the dust mostly settled it became clear what had happened. The battered nose of an E-type Jaguar jutted through the doorway at the top of the stairs, the door now non-existent. Stone from the wall itself had caved inwards and was still crumbling.

  Lawrence aimed his gun, motionless in the eddying dust.

  Another crash sounded to the left, the wall bending in but not collapsing. Lawrence instinctively turned to it. And as he did, out of the smoke and ruins, Richard Hague launched himself off the bonnet of the Jaguar. Lawrence loosed off two clumsy rounds, but Richard landed on him, knife in hand, slashing away.

  Richard’s face, Alicia noticed, was not that of a blood-crazed maniac; he was concentrating. Keeping the gun-hand at ba
y, meticulous attention to his own weapon. His expression … neutral.

  Alicia heaved herself up, looked in the bath.

  Katie Hague could hardly breathe. Her lips were blue and her eyes were wide and scared. It sounded like she was inhaling through a straw.

  Asthma. Richard said she was asthmatic. The dust in the air was killing her!

  Richard and Lawrence squared off, like boxers now. Lawrence bled from cuts to his face and chest, and a defensive wound to his arm. Richard still wielded the knife, but Lawrence was unarmed. Unless…

  “He’s got another gun!” Alicia said.

  But it was too late. He was far enough away to whip the gun out and point it, cocked, ready to go, before Richard could even move. Instead of shooting Richard, however, he pointed the weapon at Alicia.

  “Right,” Lawrence said. “Let’s see what you’re really made of.”

  It took several minutes to set up the scene as the killer wanted it. He made Richard drop the knife on the floor and slide it over. Lawrence caught it under his foot and held it there. Then the military nut retrieved his own weapon. This was the scenario Richard had envisaged all along. Him and this man. Face to face. But it wasn’t working quite as he hoped.

  The pop star girl wept in the corner, shaking her head and pleading not to be hurt. Alicia was made to crouch on her knees and look at the floor, like a Catholic schoolgirl. Katie—Jesus, Katie!—lay in a bath, taking fast, tiny breaths. She saw Richard, her eyes dancing with hope.

  And Lawrence trained his gun on Katie.

  “Go over there,” he said to Richard. “Face your two girls.”

  Richard complied. He stood two feet away from his daughter. Unable to touch her, hug her, help her. He couldn’t see what Lawrence was doing.

  Metal sounded, tinkling on tile. Then a snap. Then something slid along the floor, halting by his foot.

  “Pick it up in your right hand,” Lawrence said.

  The butler moved to Richard’s left, stood near the rubble-covered stairs. He’d be able to see everything from here, even the last girl, rocking and crying in the far corner. His gun was aimed at Richard.