They had also put out an ‘All Ports Warning’ to prevent Gabriel from leaving the Country.
The search to capture Barnwell’s serial killer was in full flow.
* * * * *
It had been easier to get back to his car than he had anticipated. He slipped on his disguise, of the spectacles and his father’s duffle jacket, which were still in the boot and then scooped out a handful of hair wax from its tin and rubbed it into his hair. He sat in the car for a good ten minutes cursing. Things had come to a head quicker than he had ever anticipated. He would be punished for sure. They’d found the body of his mother before he’d had time to bury her, and sooner or later he knew the detectives would tear apart the house and find all of his little secrets.
A tingling sensation coursed its way through his body as the images of all his victims washed around in his brain. He closed his eyes trying to hold the vision of each one as he recalled what he had done to them.
Their names slowly filtered through. Carol Siddons had been the first. A smile lit up his face. He could still see the surprise on her face as though it was only yesterday. Then there had been Kelly Johnson. She had been a right tart. He’d soon sorted her though. He would never forget the two girls from the children’s home near Doncaster; Amy Clarke and her friend Katie Nichols. He’d met them on Nether Hall Road, a notorious place for prostitutes. He’d been cruising the area when he spotted them.
“Fifty quid for both of us” Amy had said “You’re getting underage you know.”
Those two bitches had chosen themselves.
Though, it had proved difficult killing them. The girls had been edgy the entire journey to the Manvers complex and when he had pulled onto the track behind the coking plant they had tried to escape. Thank god his car had only been two-door; they couldn’t get out of the back.
They had put up a hell of a fight. He had scratches and bite marks everywhere and the car had been a real mess when he had finished. It had taken days of cleaning before he could use his car again. He’d buried those two together in the same grave. And then there was Claire Fisher – posh little rich kid. If only her parents had known what she was really like. He didn’t need to rape her. She had given in to him so easy, but he’d still killed her anyway – gullible bitch. Three years ago there had been Zoe Green. She had been so pretty. He spotted her whilst he was mooching around Clifton Park, in Rotherham. She was walking her dog and had let it off its leash. Luring the dog to the bushes had been so easy and when she had come looking he had pounced. He could still see the shocked look on her face. She had just frozen and he had killed her in less than a minute. Smuggling her body into the boot of his car had been the hard part. He’d waited whilst dusk and then moved her before anyone had come searching. He’d driven home and secreted her behind his garden shed. He’d covered her with bin bags and garden rubbish, and the next day buried her between the hydrangea bushes and the back fence without his mother noticing.
Finally there had been Rebecca Morris. She had been his bad omen. Killing her had proved his downfall, but now wasn’t the time for recriminations. He still had things to do.
Starting the engine he aimed a lengthy look up and down the street, and when he had satisfied himself that no police officers were in sight he set off in the direction of the quiet country lanes, which he knew so well.
Earlier that day it had not been too hard following Grace’s people carrier.
She obviously has other things on her mind.
He smiled to himself as he wove in and out of the traffic, two, and no more than three cars behind. He had picked her up late into the evening leaving the police station and had followed her home. He had been elated that day when Grace had emerged at 8am with her two children. He hadn’t thought about the detective having kids - and they were girls at that.
He liked the look of the eldest in her school uniform. He was surprised to see her dressed like that because he knew the kid’s were on school holiday. Then he recognised which school she was at – private school. He guessed they must have different holiday’s and he took a short cut, anticipating where Grace would be driving. He was right. He was comfortably parked, a good hundred yards from the entranceway to the private school when Grace arrived. He used the zoom lens on his camera to watch the girl’s get out, and then snapped off a shot.
He was certain Grace would be working late again because of the ongoing hunt for him and he therefore guessed that her daughter’s would be making their own way home.
The remainder of the day he put things in place and rehearsed his lines, and ten minutes before the school day was due to end he slipped his car into a marked parking bay opposite the school gates and sat back to wait.
It wasn’t long before he spotted the eldest girl, coming towards him, chatting with a bunch of mates.
He slipped out of the driver’s seat and strode purposely towards her.
“Miss Marshall?” he asked and he showed the fake warrant card he had made earlier on his laptop. He could see she was taken aback. “Miss Marshall I’m detective Wild. I work with your Mum. She’s had an accident and I’ve been sent to take you to the hospital.” He could see the girl visibly pale.
“I need to speak with someone.” She reached for her mobile in her blazer pocket.
“We need to hurry Miss, your mum needs to go to theatre. You can phone who you need to tell on the way there.”
She dropped it back into her pocket and followed him, picking up the pace to keep with him as he jogged to his car.
* * * * *
Back in the MIT office, Grace and Barry Newstead had been given the task of logging all the evidence, which had been gathered and brought from the house. They were in the process of separating the vast array of forensic bags when Grace’s persistently ringing mobile phone disturbed them. The ring tone was a little baby continuously laughing. She loved the tone. It reminded her of her own two giggling girls when they had been babies, and how she had ended up in fits of laughter along with them. Every time she heard it, it had that same effect upon her. But this time she tried to ignore it. She had important work to do. It rang again and she snatched it out of her handbag and flicked up the screen. The screen told her it was Robyn. It had to be important; she knew not to ring her at work.
“Hello Robyn, mum’s busy, tell me what you want quickly,” she said disgruntled.
“I gather I am speaking with Detective Grace Marshall,” said the man’s voice.
She didn’t recognise it.
“Who is this? Is that school? Is there something wrong with Robyn?” she asked anxiously.
“Not yet but there soon will be.” The man’s voice was cold and menacing.
Grace froze, her mind racing.
“You know who this is Grace, don’t you?” He continued, “It’s Gabriel Wild. You’ve been bad mouthing me Grace and you need to be punished.”
“I haven’t. Is Robyn there? I haven’t been saying anything about you.” she stammered.
“You’re lying Grace. I heard you. I was hiding in the bushes. You said I was a coward and a wimp and a pervert. Those were your words Grace and for that I’m going to hurt you where it hurts the most.”
There was a long pause on the other end. Grace’s face turned ashen. In her line of vision she saw that Barry was trying to get her attention. She knew that he had spotted that something was wrong.
“Do want to speak to Robyn?” Grace could hear her daughter sobbing in the background. The sobbing got nearer.
“Robyn. Robyn.” She virtually screamed down the phone.
The sobbing drifted away and Gabriel Wild was back on the line “Do you know what I did to all the other girls?”
“If you hurt her. If you harm one hair on her head I’ll fucking kill you.” She screamed back with an edge of hysteria in her voice. The tears of anger and desperation welled up in the corner of her eyes.
Without warning the line went dead.
- ooOoo -
CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE
DAY THIRTY-SEVEN: 12th August.
Detective Superintendent Robshaw was running the operation from the Command Suite at the police station. He had called in a Hostage Negotiator, had briefed Task Force Firearms Unit as to their duties and turned out as many police vehicles as he could muster and ordered them to park up at strategic points throughout the district. Finally, he had called in the phone technicians from headquarters to fix the tracking and recording equipment to Grace Marshall’s phone. As soon as her mobile rung again they would be able to get a fix on the user.
In less than four hours he had managed to get everything into full swing, and he was praying that nothing had yet happened to Grace’s daughter, and that Gabriel Wild had a big enough ego to make contact.
He didn’t have to wait long. Grace’s mobile started to ring.
Suddenly the ring tone was not so funny.
She watched the technicians operate their equipment and when they gave her the ‘okay’ signal she flipped up the screen.
It was Robyn’s phone. “Hello Robyn?” she said nervously.
“Hello Grace it’s me.”
She recognised Gabriel’s voice.
“Let me speak with Robyn,” she replied.
“You’re in no position to make demands Grace. And I’m guessing there’s someone else listening to this so I’ll be hanging up before you can get a trace. I just want you to say goodbye to your daughter.”
Grace could hear Robyn’s cries coming nearer to the receiver. Within seconds she was sobbing in her ear.
“Help me mum,” she snivelled. Then her weeping drifted away.
“The next time you see your daughter, Grace, will be in the mortuary with all the other bitches,” Gabriel hung up.
Grace dropped her mobile.
For several seconds there was complete silence in the room. It was broken by one of the technicians.
“Traced it.” he shouted and stabbed an index finger on a blown up copy of a map of the District. “They’re here, behind one of the units on the Manvers Industrial site.”
* * * * *
The early evening sky was rapidly filling with grey clouds. With it came a fine rain. It sprayed across the windscreen of the parked MIT car, diminishing the view of the main Dearne parkway. Hunter and Tony Bullars were in the unmarked car. They had tucked the Vauxhall Astra into a lay-by and were monitoring the airwaves on their radio sets. Watching and waiting.
When the shout went up, indicating the location of Gabriel Wild, the two detectives bolted upright: Stirred into action.
Seconds after the radio broadcast Hunter locked onto a car that was screaming towards them.
Wild’s Toyota rocked the MIT car as it shot past.
Hunter revved up the engine and slammed into first gear.
Tony Bullars snatched up the radio handset to call it in.
The wheels spun, churning up loose gravel, and Hunter pressed harder on the accelerator, spurring the car in the direction of Wild’s speeding Toyota. Whipping through the gears Hunter soon had the unmarked police vehicle registering seventy mph and was making ground in their pursuit of the fleeing fugitive. He could hear from the radio chatter that other police cars were coming to their aid. The airwaves were awash with police officers’ voices strategically aiming their vehicles to cut off every conceivable escape avenue to Wild. ‘Whiskey nine-nine’ - the police helicopter had lifted from its base at Sheffield to join in the hunt.
As an advanced driver, trained in the craft of pursuit from his drug squad days, Hunter handled the car faultlessly, jerking around the many roundabouts, before pointing the bonnet towards the middle of the road as he straightened out to continue the chase. He beeped wildly on the car horn then re-adjusted his fingers to flick on the beam of his headlights.
As Wild’s car swerved up ahead and the brake lights illuminated Hunter knew his driving had had an effect.
Beyond the Toyota Hunter spotted whirling blue lights in the distance, heading towards them. The response on the radio told him that it was the marked firearms vehicle and he began to ease off. The Task Force vehicle had a far more powerful engine and was far better placed to take over the chase.
* * * * *
Gabriel Wild almost lost control when he spotted the CID cars flashing headlights in his rear view mirror. For a second his car snaked and he stamped on the brake and whipped down the gears. Hitting the accelerator he could hear the Toyota’s engine scream as he began to widen the gap again. His concentration on the car behind made him completely miss seeing the oncoming marked police car until it was too late.
* * * * *
The police Volvo lined its bonnet up towards the Toyota and swung sideways across the road. The actions had the desired effect. The Toyota’s tyres protested with a concerted squeal, jarring, as Gabriel braked harshly. He could do little to stop the car crabbing sideways as he began to lose control of the steering. In a fit of panic he hit the accelerator. The engine screamed, drowning out the bursting front tyre. It bounced up the kerb, onto the grass verge, smashed through wooden fencing, lining the side of the road, and picking up speed, on a muddy surface, it careered wildly down a small incline. The Toyota slid for ten yards before flipping over, rolling twice onto its roof, finally coming to a halt when it hit a metal gatepost.
* * * * *
Gabriel’s head had taken out the windscreen and only the exploding airbag had saved him from being thrown through. As he kicked open the buckled drivers door he caught a glimpse of himself in the rear view mirror. His face was barely recognisable. His forehead had a wicked gash and blood poured from numerous cuts. His right cheek was already swollen causing his eye to close. He also saw that his lip had split in two. He reached up, fingers probing his blood-marked face.
“The bastards. The fucking bastards,” he screamed.
Robyn was slumped forward in the passenger seat. He could see she was stunned but uninjured. He snapped off her seat belt and dragged her by her hair across the front seats, pulling her through the driver’s door, snatching his Bowie knife from the door-well as he stumbled out onto the grass.
He saw that the CID Officers following behind had already alighted, as had the two uniformed officers who had cut off his path, and they were armed; their short rifles pointing in his direction.
Panic set in.
Gabriel pulled Robyn closer to him pressing his head tightly against hers. His focus was on the two armed officers. He could see their mouths moving but he couldn’t hear what they were saying. The detonation of the airbag had temporarily deafened him.
He pushed the blade to her neck, digging the point into her soft flesh, drawing blood. “I’ll fucking kill her.” he screamed. “I’m telling you she’s fucking dead.”
* * * * *
If Gabriel Wild could have just looked in a mirror at that moment, he would have known how wrong he was.
But then he couldn’t see the red laser dot from the tritium illuminated sight dancing on his forehead.
The 9mm lightweight round left the Heckler and Kock MP 5 muzzle at 400 metres per second. The illegal dum-dum bullet punched into Gabriel Wild’s head just above the eyes, smashed through his skull and fragmented into the frontal lobe of his brain.
He had no time to realise why none of his limbs would move how he wanted them to. The force flung him backwards and before he hit the ground he was dead.
A little blood splattered Robyn Marshall’s cheek and for a second she stood there frozen. Then she let out a shriek and the shriek became a scream.
The Officer secured the cocking handle of his gun, cleared the round in his chamber and then pulled away the fifteen round magazine holder. He turned and handed his weapon to his Supervisor.
“Sorry Sarge I felt I was left with no option. You heard me shout to him three times to drop the knife but he took no notice. I thought he was going to kill her,” he said.
As he strolled back to the Armed Response Vehicle, Paul Goodright received a flashback of the night the C
ID car was stolen. Like the other times, he saw the image of his sister lying in Intensive Care, the doctors telling her that her boyfriend had been killed and that she would be crippled for life by the joyrider who had run them off the road.
He had sworn there and then to her that he would track him down, and after all these years of probing and searching his efforts had finally paid off.
Paul dropped his chin into his chest trying to suppress the smile, which was creeping across his mouth.
He had finally delivered Gabriel Wild’s punishment for all the misery he had caused.
Now he could lay his own demons to rest.
* * * * *
“What were Gabriel Wild’s last words to the firearms officer just before he shot him…?
In between drinks, sniggers and laughter erupted from the group of detectives at yet another one of Mike Sampson’s serial killer jokes.
Hunter smiled and shook his head.
The MIT team had virtually taken over one half of the lounge. It was a good job the pub had only the handful of regulars that the team all knew. Anyone else other than the locals in the lounge and they might take offence.
An hour earlier he and others from the team had been so pleased to see Grace hugging her fourteen-year-old daughter so tightly in the back yard of the police station.
He’d tried to put a reassuring arm around his partner telling her it was all over but one look at her face told him her head was elsewhere. All she had kept repeating was that she needed to get Robyn home.
Grace had left with her daughter in the back of a traffic car, in a complete daze.
The Detective Superintendent had wrapped things up very quickly with one of the fastest de-briefs Hunter had ever known, ending the short conference with a promise of a more thorough scrum-down early the next morning and finishing the preamble by standing everyone a drink to celebrate the end of the investigation.
Heart of the Demon (D.S.Hunter Kerr) Page 24
