by Michael Kerr
LETHAL INTENT
A DI Matt Barnes Thriller
-2-
By
Michael Kerr
Copyright © 2013 Michael Kerr
Discover other Titles by Michael Kerr at MichaelKerr.org
Also By Michael Kerr
DI Matt Barnes Series
1 - A Reason To Kill - Link
2 - Lethal Intent - Link
3 - A Need To Kill - Link
The Joe Logan Series
1 - Aftermath - Link
2 - Atonement - Link
Other Crime Thrillers
Deadly Reprisal - Link
Deadly Requital - Link
Black Rock Bay - Link
A Hunger Within - Link
The Snake Pit - Link
Children’s Fiction
Adventures in Otherworld – Part One – The Chalice of Hope - Link
Kindle Edition, License Notes
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psychopath (sik-) n. Person suffering chronic mental disorder
esp. with abnormal social behaviour; mentally or emotionally
unstable person.
CHAPTER ONE
A cold, steady rain began to fall. The quickening patter of drops on the lid of the coffin became a frantic drumbeat that made Matt wince. Black umbrellas popped open with the sound of leathery bats’ wings rustling against one another, vying for space. This was one of those grey days that would never fade or be only half remembered; a day of sorrow to add to the catalogue that he carried as a heavy, unsolicited burden.
The priest had not even been reading from the missal that he now closed with liver-spotted hands to protect the wafer thin pages from the downpour. He didn’t need to, for he had officiated at enough funerals to know the service by heart, like an actor in the long run of a stage play, who knew his well-rehearsed lines so well that it took no more conscious thought to recite them than the act of breathing does. It was depressing; a solemn ritual that Matt took no comfort from.
Arthur Barnes had collapsed on the sea front at Hove. His heart had been doubly broken, first by the loss of his wife, Nancy, and then by disease. A quadruple heart bypass had only given him a short-lived reprieve.
With his father’s passing, Matt now felt the shadow of his own mortality shorten, to become a stealthy step closer. It was as if death was a curtain, ready to be drawn as darkness fell. He should be used to it. Christ, it was as natural as birth; just the return to the oblivion from which all life was spawned. So why did it seem such a dismal event? Maybe because it was a reminder that all dreams, schemes and aspirations were leading to a final curtailment, from which there was no escape. And the loss of one’s parents was an up front and personal attention-getter. It was as if the fickle finger of fate was now pointing directly at him, and a deep, disembodied voice was proclaiming: ‘You’re next, sunshine...You’re next’.
“Are you all right, Matt?” Beth said, linking arms with him as they walked along the gravel path towards the tile-roofed lych-gate.
“Who’s asking? The psychologist or―”
“Don’t be insulting, Matt. I can see you’re hurting, but that doesn’t mean you can get away with talking bullshit.”
“Sorry,” Matt said, hiking his shoulders. “No, I’m not all right. This just about crowns a bad year. It’s as if a fan has blown all the shit my way.”
“That doesn’t say a lot for us.”
Matt stopped, turned to her and grimaced. “I didn’t mean it that way, love. I’m just feeling abysmal. Being at another funeral brings it all flooding back. If it wasn’t for you, I don’t know how I’d cope.”
Beth tilted her face up and they kissed, unconcerned as to where they were, or that the rain was now drilling down like nails, soaking them to the skin.
That summer had contained the stuff of nightmares. It had started with Matt and his team being hit by a contract killer as they guarded a reluctant super grass who had enough on Frank Santini – a London gangster – to close him down and put him and many others behind bars for a long time. The witness, and the police both outside and inside the bungalow at Finchley, including Matt, had been gunned down. Matt had been the only survivor of the attack, but had taken two slugs, lost a kidney, and almost bled out at the scene. Before the killer, Gary Noon, was finally trapped and shot dead, several more people had died at his hands.
Doctor Beth Holder had been the psychologist that had consulted on the case, building a profile on the mentally deranged killer. The only good thing to come out of such horror had been first working with, then falling in love with DI Matt Barnes. They were now soul mates who had a future together, marred only by Matt’s difficulty in coming to terms with being in charge when his colleagues were murdered. He held on to unfounded guilt like a drowning man to a life belt, unable to embrace the fact that shit happens, and that it had been a bent cop in Santini’s pocket who was wholly responsible for all that had followed.
“Come on,” Beth said. “Let’s get out of this rain and find a Starbucks. We could both use a cup of coffee.”
Matt expelled a long sigh. He was a pragmatist at heart; knew how to rationalise life’s bittersweet lessons, and always bounced back. With Beth in his life, he felt that he had much more than he deserved. She could put things into perspective and stop him from wallowing in self-deprecation.
“I’d rather have a large scotch,” he said, putting an arm around her shoulders and running along the pavement to where his Discovery was parked.
Driving north on the A23, Matt saw the Carlton keeping well back. He managed a small smile, signalled well in advance, pulled off the road into the car park of a large pub and stopped near the rear door, to get out and key the remote to lock it when Beth climbed out and ran for cover.
As he reached the bar, a hand rested on his shoulder. “I’ll get these.”
“I won’t argue, Tom,” Matt said to the burly DCI who had attended the funeral.
“I’ll find a table,” Beth said, unbuttoning the black coat she had worn out of respect for the sombre occasion. She shrugged it off and draped it over a chair near the hearth, before holding her hands out to be warmed by the flames from the crackling log fire.
“A lot of your dad’s old mates turned up,” Tom said after ordering three double Glenfiddich’. “He was a good cop.”
Matt nodded. His dad had been a desk sergeant at Greenwich for many years, and was the reason he had joined the force. Arthur Barnes had liked the law. Said it gave structure to society, and had always maintained that without order, chaos would proliferate and rule.
“What are you and Beth doing at Christmas?” Tom said. “Jean said I should invite you over to our place.”
Christ! Could it be mid-December already? “I’ll talk to Beth about it. She still has family, but we haven’t even discussed it yet. But thanks for asking, Tom. And thank Jean.”
They joined Beth, and Tom raised his glass. “To absent friends and loved ones,” he toasted, and the three of them clinked glasses and sipped the warming single malt.
A few minutes later, as Matt went to the bar for another round, Tom’s mobile phone chirped. He withdrew it from his coat pocket and flipped it open. “Bartlett,” he said.
“It’s Deakin, Guv.”
“Yeah, Pete, ruin my day, why don�
�t you?”
“We’ve got an abduction. A thirteen-year-old girl.”
“And?”
“She’s the daughter of Raymond Preston, the Chie―”
“I know who the chief is, for fuck’s sake. Give me the details.”
“The girl came out of school half an hour ago, walked across the street and waited for her lift. Another girl saw a van pull up. She was snatched, Guv.”
“Random? Or is there any reason to believe she was targeted?”
“No way of knowing, yet. One of her classmates said that Laura was there one second and gone the next. It was raining and pretty dark, but it happened under a street light.”
“Did the girl eyeball the driver, or get a make and plate number?”
“Nothing, Guv. Only that the van was a white Transit, and that she thought it was a man at the wheel.”
“I’m on my way. Get Laura’s friend to look at photographs of vans. What have you jacked-up?”
“The scene is taped off, and a forensic team are there now.”
“Keep on it,” Tom said. “Someone must’ve seen it go down.
Matt came back from the bar and saw the grim expression on Tom’s face as he pocketed his phone. “What?” he said.
“There’s every chance that Ray Preston’s daughter has been abducted. We’ve got a fucking White Van Man starting up.”
CHAPTER TWO
LAURA was lying on her side in the darkness. Her mouth and nose burned, and her throat hurt. She was shaking, cold and terrified. Her teeth were actually chattering. What had happened? She thought, concentrating and trying to remember. It was like attempting to hold onto a fading dream, elusive and just beyond recall.
Her bladder was pounding, and she couldn’t move her hands or feet. Oh, nooo! It flooded back. The van had pulled up next to her, outside the school. A man had leaned across, opened the passenger door and showed her his police ID and said that her father had been in a road traffic accident. He’d told her to get in and he would take her to the hospital. She hadn’t hesitated, just climbed into the vehicle. And as she asked how badly hurt her dad was, the van had pulled onto the forecourt of a closed-down garage and stopped. She recalled wetness on her face and a choking sensation. He must have chloroformed her. This was like one of those scary movies, or some of the terrible things that came on the news. She was a victim of some sex fiend or serial killer. She began to weep. This was unreal. She was supposed to be going to Melanie Crawford’s house that evening, to listen to music, watch a DVD and sleep over.
A screech of metal-on-metal made her stiffen and hold her breath. She could hear her heart trip hammering in her ears. She recognised the sound as being a bolt being slid back.
A crack of light appeared, to become a blinding slab as a door was opened and the room was illuminated. The silhouette of a figure appeared, black against the backlit rectangle of the doorway. And then a naked bulb blinked on above her, and her bladder gave under the numbing fear that enveloped and froze her mind.
The figure approached, gently lifted her up into a sitting position, then pulled up a wooden rail back chair and sat down, facing her. All she could see was ice-blue eyes behind the holes in the Balaclava that he wore. He was dressed in what looked to be a boiler suit buttoned up to his neck. On his feet were a pair of dirty grey Nikes, and his hands were sheathed in white rubber gloves.
He leaned forward, drawing a newspaper from a pocket of the navy-blue overalls, to open out and place on her lap. It was only then that she realised her clothes had been removed.
Her captor had a camera. As she looked up at him, the flash went off and twin red suns formed as her retinas held the blazing image. She squinted, blinked rapidly, and after a few seconds her sight returned.
“You’re not stupid, are you, Laura?” the seated man said in a breathless, whispery voice. “You shouldn’t be, having a top cop for a daddy and attending a fancy private school. I want you to know that if you behave, then you get to go home real soon. Would you like that?”
She couldn’t find her voice. Just nodded.
“Good girl. Now listen to me very carefully. Your life depends on you understanding a few simple rules. You are in the cellar of a house that is miles away from anywhere. There are no windows, and no way out. I’m going to untie you, then leave. There is a mattress to sleep on, a bucket to use as a toilet, and a jug of drinking water. You will be fed regularly, and I will leave the light on. All you have to do is remain quiet and cause no damage. Do you understand?”
She nodded again.
“No, Laura, say it. Tell me that you understand what is required of you.”
“I...I understand,” she said, her quavering voice hardly audible.
“I hope so,” he said, and withdrew a knife with a long, serrated blade from another pocket of his overalls and brandished it no more than an inch from her face. “If you start screaming for help, I’ll cut your tongue out with this. Now, have you any questions?”
“Why are y...you doing this?” Laura said as tears ran down her cheeks.
“Let’s just say your daddy needs teaching a lesson, Laura. This isn’t about you. You’re just a means to an end.”
He cut through the tape that bound her wrists and ankles and walked out of the room.. After the door was locked, Laura went over to the mattress in the corner of the whitewashed cellar. Both the thin mattress and the single, rough blanket were damp and smelled musty, but she was freezing cold, so huddled beneath the itchy woollen cover and eventually cried herself to sleep.
When they finally got back to the Yard, Pete Deakin was pacing up and down outside Tom’s office. “The chief wants you and DI Barnes upstairs now, boss,” he said.
“What else have you got for me?” Tom said.
“Er, nothing, ” Pete said with a pained look on his face. “Up to now we’ve taken statements from three other kids who were outside the school and remember seeing a white van. But none of them paid much attention to it. Forensics is doing their thing. Trouble is, we have a probable crime scene where the girl was taken from, but not much chance of there being any physical evidence.”
Tom nodded and headed for the lift with Matt.
“I’ll make coffee,” Beth said to their backs, slipping her coat off and entering Tom’s office.
“Come,” Detective Chief Superintendent Ray Preston called out when Tom knocked on the fifth floor office’s door.
Tom and Matt trooped in. They felt like recalcitrant schoolboys being summoned into the headmaster’s study to be admonished for some breach of rules.
Ray Preston had taken over the reins of the Serious Crimes Unit after his predecessor, Jack McClane, had committed suicide. McClane had been in ‘bed’ with Frank Santini – east London’s answer to Al Capone – and fed the now late gangster with information that had cost lives. When braced in his office by Tom, who had proof of his selling out, Jack had calmly stepped out of the window and taken a one-way ride to hell, pile-driving into the pavement far below.
Though still finding his feet in the SCU, Ray instilled confidence. He knew all the team’s Christian names, was familiar with their records of service and personnel files, and was as quick to praise as he was to hand out royal bollockings if mistakes were made. Ray had pushed for and got a commendation for Matt after the serial killer, Noon, was gunned down outside Beth’s apartment block. Ray Preston was the real deal, and had worked the streets and come up through the ranks the hard way.
To Matt, the chief – though bald on top – had the general looks and presence of Robert De Niro, the Yank actor. He was gruff by nature, hiding any emotions he felt behind a rock hard exterior.
“Sit,” Ray said to them both. “You know what has happened?”
“Yes, Guv,” Tom said. “We’re on it.”
“This may not fall into the criteria of what we usually take on board,” Ray said. “I’m hoping that there’s a simple explanation. But I don’t expect Laura to have just taken off with friends. She was waiting for
an arranged school run lift. And we’ve heard nothing. She has a mobile and would have phoned her mother or me if she was able to.”
“Until we know different, we have to presume that your daughter has been abducted,” Matt said. “Shouldn’t we let the Kidnap Investigation Unit run with it?”
“No, Matt. We’ll deal with it. And that decision is final.”
“Okay. We’ll need a full list of all her friends, and the names of anyone you know who owns a white Transit,” Matt said.
Ray picked up a piece of A4 copy paper and handed it across the desk to Matt. “Those are the kids that Laura hangs out with,” he said. “I’ve made calls. Nobody has a clue where she might be. I don’t think she’s with anyone she knows. Some perv has taken her, and we all know the odds against getting her back.”
“We don’t know anything yet, Ray,” Tom said. “It may have been a random abduction, or she may have been targeted.”
“Meaning?”
“That you may have upset some headcase. Or we might get a ransom demand.”
“Yeah, and Elvis might be alive and well, doing a Howard Hughes in the basement of Graceland. I’m a copper, Tom, not a bloody celebrity with millions in the fucking bank.”
“So we’ll check the staff at the school out for starters. Did Laura mention any teacher who she might have had a crush on?”
“No...Yes. Come to think of it she did talk about her art teacher a lot. Said he was a dead ringer for Ronan Keating, whoever that might be.”
“I’ll check with CRO and see if he has any form, then go and have a word with him,” Matt said.
Ray stroked his pink, balding scalp in the manner he had run his fingers through a crop of hair he hadn’t had for a couple of decades. Tom and Matt could see the man’s cheek muscles bunched. It was disheartening to observe a chink in the normally hard-as-nails exterior of a cop who hardly ever showed any visible emotion. But this wasn’t just any case. His only daughter was out there, in all probability in the hands of an unknown subject with some, so far, hidden agenda.
