Lethal Intent (DI Matt Barnes Book 2)

by Michael Kerr

  “You okay, boss?” Pete said. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  Matt frowned. He wasn’t okay. He may have put Beth in the firing line, again. He really wasn’t safe to be around. He looked up at the clock on the wall, it was ten past seven. Beth would almost certainly be on her way to the Yard. But he had to know for sure. He lifted the nearest phone and punched up her mobile number.

  Waiting. Anticipating and running his simple plan over and over again in his mind. It was six-thirty in the morning and the dark gave him all the cover he needed. Should she not venture out before daylight, then he would just drive home and reschedule. There was no rush. Barnes had no idea that his life was now under a microscope. Beth Holder was a fruit he could pick at his leisure, when conditions were right. Hopefully it would be that morning. He wanted to make her acquaintance and talk to her at length. He might even let her speak to her beloved cop on the phone. It was time to turn the screw and show Barnes just what superiority he was up against.

  He used his hand to wipe away some of the condensation from the glass, and then hunched down and looked up through the windscreen to the top floor flat. Her light was on.

  Beth got ready. Watched the news as she sipped tea and clock-watched. The breaking story was of a child’s body being found in a north London park. There were few details, apart from the fact that the boy had been murdered. She walked over to the sink, emptied the cup and rinsed it out. She felt morose. While she had been safe and warm, a youngster had been slain. It really was a jungle out there.

  She pulled on a fleece-lined jacket, switched off the TV and lights and left the apartment. On the way down in the lift she felt vulnerable and at risk. A small inner voice told her to go back, batten down the hatches and phone Matt. It was irrational. The thoughts of violence and murder were building up like banks of dark cloud to oppress and intimidate her.

  Shaking off the presentiment, Beth exited the lift and crossed to the main door. The fall of sleet was waning as she jogged across to her car. Shit! She had forgotten her car keys. She searched her pockets and handbag to no avail. Her mind was wandering. The news of the murdered child and the accompanying footage of the tented crime scene and of milling police and the coruscation of blue lights had derailed her concentration. She ran back, swiped her key card in the lock and re-entered the building. Back inside the apartment she picked up the bunch of keys from the coffee table in the lounge and once more headed for the door, only to stop and reach into her bag as her mobile rang.

  “Beth?”

  “Yes, Matt. I’m about to set off...again. I got down to the car park and had to come back for my keys.”

  “Are you still in the apartment?”

  “Yes.”

  “Thank God! Stay there. I think you might be in danger. I’ll send a couple of the team round to stay with you.”

  “Why would I be in danger? Explain.”

  “There’s every chance that Sutton has been watching me.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “After he called me yesterday, and we found the photograph in the phone box, I spoke to a kid who had seen him.”

  Beth knew what was coming next. “I just caught the news. Is the child murder in Stoke Newington―?”

  “Yes. The lad who ID’d him got his throat cut. I think it prudent to assume that Sutton did it. And it wouldn’t be safe to suppose that he hadn’t seen us together. You need to be protected until it’s resolved.”

  Beth said nothing. Her life was now effectively on hold. She was both angry and frightened at the prospect of being in mortal danger, but accepted the reality of the situation. She would just have to grit her teeth and ride it out.

  “Beth, are you still there?”

  “Yes. Who are you sending?”

  “Marci Clark and Chris Mallory. They’ll be with you shortly. Barricade the door until they arrive. And don’t open it for anyone but them.”

  “You really think―”

  “You know what he’s capable of. Better to overreact and live to fight another day.”

  “When will I see you?”

  “Later. We’ll find a safe house to move you to. With a bit of luck we’ll find him soon. For now just take it easy, and when Marci and Chris arrive do anything and everything they tell you to.”

  “Never a dull moment with you, is there?”

  What the fuck was she playing at? It had been thirty minutes since she stopped in the middle of the car park and searched her pockets and bag. She acted as though she had misplaced her car keys. The lights in her apartment were still on, and she had not ventured out again. Why the change of plan? Dawn would soon break and make it too risky to take her. He waited anxiously, willing her to reappear.

  The Mondeo entered the car park at speed and braked to a halt in one of the slots nearest to the entrance door that was reserved for disabled drivers. He ducked down, instinctively wary. Raising up just high enough to see over the dash, he watched as a man and a woman quickly exited the car and looked about them, maybe hoping to spot a green Rover parked-up. Cops. Something had alerted Barnes to the possibility of his woman being in danger. Had they found the boy’s body and supposed that he had killed him? Was Barnes bright enough to extrapolate and reason out that his association with Beth Holder was known to him? Apparently.

  He waited for a couple of minutes, to give the plods time to take the lift up to the top floor, before starting the car up, pounding his hands against the steering wheel until they hurt, and then driving slowly away, not turning the headlights on until he was out of the car park. There was nothing he could do for the time being. Making an assault on the building was out of the question. The plainclothes cops would be armed, and prepared to shoot with no hesitation. He would have to bide his time and redirect his frustration at having been outwitted.

  Back home. He got out of the Nova and slammed the door. Hannibal had been straining at the end of his chain to greet his master, but slunk back to the kennel with his tail tucked between his legs, and ears flat. The dog could almost smell the palpable rage that emanated from Paul, and knew from past experience that this mood went in tandem with acute pain that would be levied for no act of disobedience on his part.

  Paul dried his rain-soaked hair and combed it, then switched on the kettle and walked from room to room, trying unsuccessfully to control his temper. He had to vent the pressure. He raced down the stairs, checked the peephole in the door to satisfy himself that Kirstie was still shackled and on the bed, then entered, to run across and reign down hard blows until the initial screams turned to whimpers. The sensation of his fists sinking into her body to bruise her to the bone was eventually enough to dissipate his wrath. He took her roughly and without preamble, then left the cellar and climbed the steps on shaky legs, to make a pot of tea with trembling hands as his laboured and ragged breathing subsided. He felt much better. His head was now clearer. And as always the sex left him feeling satisfied and a little listless. Maybe he had hit Kirstie too hard. He would take her a nice cup of tea and explain that the beating had not been personal. He might even let her phone home and have a few words with her husband and daughter. Although on second thoughts, that was not one of his better ideas. Barnes was now too organised. Any incoming calls to the Marshalls’ household would be subject to being traced. He had to outguess the cop at every turn and not make any mistakes.

  She couldn’t or wouldn’t drink the tea. She was in a lot of pain, covered in blossoming bruises, and her lips were split and bleeding. But he doubted that he had ruptured any major organ or broken any bones. She was resilient, and he had held back…a little.

  He fed Hanny, then went to bed and slept through till dusk. After showering, he prepared a meal of fried eggs on toast, all the while determining just how to strike again and further frustrate Barnes.

  Beth spent most of the day at her computer. DCs Marci Clark and Chris Mallory drank vast quantities of coffee and spent a lot of time on their mobiles. To Beth, their presen
ce was both reassuring and an invasion of her personal space. Having armed officers in the apartment was daunting. And the prospect of being whisked off at dead of night to some safe house was not on her list of things to do. At Marci’s request she had already packed a case with essentials. She had been informed that if and when the move happened, it would be fast.

  “Do you do this a lot?” Beth asked Marci.

  “What? Babysit?” the flint-eyed DC said.

  “Yes.”

  “I did a stint with Witness Protection, same as the boss. We cross lines in SCU.”

  “You must find it pretty boring.”

  “No more than most duties. We work on the assumption that whoever we are ‘sitting’ will definitely be subject to an attempt on their lives. That way we don’t get complacent. The downside is drinking too much coffee and being sedentary. I can’t afford to put any more weight on. I’m already a bit of a lard arse.”

  “Where will you be taking me?” Beth said.

  “That’s on a need-to-know basis. Chris and I don’t even get told that. I would imagine that Barnes...er, the boss, will supervise your move himself.”

  “What’s he like to work for?” Beth enquired of the stocky DC, who she thought was centred and very professional.

  Marci smiled. “You’re the shrink. And by all accounts you and he enjoy much more than just a working relationship.”

  “That’s no secret. But I don’t work for him. I just wondered...”

  “He’s a diamond,” Marci said. “The team comes first with Barnes. Any brass who want to ridicule us, have to get past him. He’s very protective of those who give him a hundred percent. And we all do. A lot of the DIs and higher ranks are full-of-shit pen pushers. Barnes likes to lead by example and spend as much time as possible on the street, working cases.”

  Beth nodded. The look of respect in Marci’s eyes as she talked about Matt was not manufactured. In some way Beth felt a little jealous. There was no way that she would ever have that same relationship with him. The camaraderie he had with fellow officers was elitist in its own way. Anyone outside the fold was a non-member who could not share the bond that they enjoyed. It was like a private club.

  At six p.m., after phoning from outside in the car park, Matt and Pete went up to relieve Marci and Chris. They had come to transfer Beth to a safe house in Finsbury; a stone’s throw from the Sadler’s Wells Theatre.

  He watched from the safety and anonymity of the Nova. He had parked in a space on the road that fronted Hawksworth House, to see Barnes and his sidekick arrive in a Vectra. He slid down low on the seat and waited to see what the cops’ next move would be. Fifteen minutes later the Vectra pulled out into the traffic. He caught a glimpse of Beth Holder in the rear seat. Awesome. He had returned just in time to witness an attempt to relocate the psychologist. All he had to do was follow them to wherever they stashed her. They would relax in the belief that she was safe, and after a couple of days he would show them how wrong they were.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  AFTER reversing up to the bumper of the car behind, he engaged first gear and was about to pull out in pursuit when the other unmarked police car cruised by. The two cops who he had seen arrive that morning were protecting Barnes’s rear. Maybe there were more. It was another setback. He was not prepared to take the risk of trying to follow them, only to be caught in a trap. They would take it for granted that if he had targeted the psychologist, then he would tail the car she was in. The day had started badly and showed no signs of getting any better. Some days were diamonds, some gold, and others, like this one, had less worth than the rhinestones on a cheap whore’s dress.

  He drove aimlessly and on automatic pilot in the general direction of home. He had a need that demanded satisfaction.

  It was on a quiet back road in a swish residential area – just a hundred yards up from the entrance to the Hazelmere Golf and Country Club – that he cruised past the opportunity to round the day off on a high note. He took the first left into Glendale Avenue and parked behind a Jeep Cherokee. Making sure he had everything he might need, he got out, locked the car and started walking back the way he had come.

  Judith Palmer lived alone in a flat above a bookmakers in Thetford. She had been in Cockfosters for two days, visiting – out of a sense of duty, not choice – her widowed mother. At twenty-six, Judith was now regrouping after a messy and hostile divorce that had left her both mentally and physically exhausted. The dust was now settling on that dark period of her life; time healing her crushed spirit and allowing her, at last, to get back on track. She was rebuilding, functioning again as an individual, not as chattel subjugated to another person’s will.

  Her mother was a real pain in the arse, apparently not happy unless she was continually reminding Judith that she had never approved of her marriage to ‘that no good, idle, work-shy slob’.

  Two days with her mum had set Judith back two months, and she had decided not to visit again for a long time. She also refrained from mentioning that she was moving from Thetford the following week, and would be even farther away from the barrage of depressing rhetoric. An old school pal had helped Judith secure a secretarial post up north at Leeds University, and had also asked her to move into her cottage, which was out at Shipley and overlooked the River Aire. This was the fresh start that she had needed; the anticipation of a new beginning in different surroundings being the tonic that she knew would kick-start her mundane life.

  Throwing her holdall into the back of the Subaro, she waved good-bye to her mother, who stood at the door of the terrace house that had once been full of happiness; had been a home, but was now – since Judith’s father’s untimely death from a brain tumour five years ago – more like a cold and lifeless sepulchre, her mum its lone and lonely guardian.

  Driving off, Judith could feel the oppressive influence dissolve like melting snow, lifting her spirits and lightening her mood. She lit a cigarette and played a Springsteen CD, her thoughts now focusing on the future and Leeds as ‘The Boss’ sang of walking the streets of Philadelphia.

  As she took a short cut to the M25, the front offside tyre blew and the car slewed heavily to the side as she fought with the steering wheel and somehow managed to stop alongside the kerb.

  “Christ!” she shouted, stabbing the cigarette out in the ashtray. Just another minute or two and she would have been on what Chris Rea had dubbed The Road to Hell, heading for home.

  He smiled. The road was ill-lit, lined on both sides with tall trees that cast long shadows across its breadth under the moonlight. The night air was clear; the ground crisp underfoot with a thick frost. Most important, the road was deserted, save for a solitary young woman who knelt by the side of her car, its spare wheel leaning against it next to her. No one else was visible in the vehicle. She was alone.

  He made a left turn into an avenue, parked and walked back to the road, and along the pavement towards her, strolling casually, hands in pockets, not wishing to alarm her, should she notice his approach in the shadow-streaked night. He estimated that she was in her mid-twenties. She was wearing a thick Arran sweater with the sleeves pushed up to her elbows, and tight jeans that strained; the denim taut against firm buttocks as she squatted, struggling to remove the flat.

  Judith was losing her temper. The lug nuts wouldn’t budge, and her arms and hands ached from the effort of pulling on the brace to try to loosen them; her only reward a strident shriek of metal on metal as one moved a fraction, giving false hope. Her mobile was in the car, and she accepted that she would soon have to admit defeat and call someone out to change the fucking wheel for her. Just the thought of some smug, hairy-arsed grease-monkey turning up and taking two minutes to do the job, all the while giving her that ‘Me Tarzan, you helpless Jane’ look, was more annoying than the knowledge that she would be presented with an extortionate bill. But, such was life, she didn’t have breakdown cover.

  “Hi, can I help?” Paul said, not moving towards her as he passed by, just slowin
g his pace a little.

  Startled, Judith dropped the brace, head jerking round to pinpoint the source of the voice. Her concentration and foul mood had rendered her oblivious to her surroundings, and unaware of the man’s presence. He was a young, slim guy. She thought he looked relaxed, with hands in pockets and a casual attitude that was not intimidating. He had a pleasant, open friendly face, and appeared genuinely concerned. Yes, she decided, this was a solid guy, just out for a walk and not looking for any trouble. Probably on the way home from his local pub.

  “I can’t seem to get this wheel off,” Judith said, standing, a little giddy for a second from the straining; feeling embarrassed and more than a little useless.

  “Please,” Paul said, stopping, all warm and friendly, using his ‘butter wouldn’t melt, Mr. Nice Guy voice’. “Let me. It’ll be my good deed for the day.”

  He waited until she moved to the side, away from the wheel, not invading her space or giving her any reason to be unsettled or wary. Sitting on his haunches, he quickly changed the wheel, even faking a certain degree of difficulty, stating that the lug nuts were almost seized up, making small talk as he laboured. He could sense the girl relaxing as she moved closer to him, even asking if she could help. He spooned on the charm. It always worked. Well, nearly always.