by Michael Kerr
“I...I was out for the evening at a friend’s house,” Shirley said between sniffs. “When I left, Paul was waiting for me. He...He must have followed me.”
Pete’s heart did a drum roll. He was unconsciously holding his breath as he waited for her to continue. “And what happened, Mrs. Roberts?”
“He wanted me to know that he hadn’t done all the terrible things that you...the police were accusing him of. He gave me a phone number and asked me to call him tomorrow. He said that he would be moving away from London, and that he couldn’t take Hannibal...the dog, with him. He wanted me to make arrangements to collect it. He said that he would give me the address when I phoned.”
“And what is the number, Mrs. Roberts?” Pete asked with bated breath.
She gave it to him, and he asked her to repeat it, to be sure he had not misheard. Told her that they would get back to her, and not to worry.
He had an address within two minutes, thanks to reverse directories. He rang Matt on the secure line at the safe house.
“Yeah, Pete?”
“Shirley Roberts just came through for us, boss,” Pete said and proceeded to relay the conversation he had had with Sutton’s mother.
“Pick me up, Pete. I’ll mobilise the team and an ARU.”
“What?” Beth said after Matt had made the arrangements for an Armed Response Unit to attend the address that Pete had been given.
“Sutton’s mother phoned the Yard. She had a number for him. Now we have his address.”
“You think this will be the end of it?” Beth said.
“It’s never over till―”
“The fat lady sings. I know.”
Pete put a light on the Vectra’s roof and broke the land speed record – in London – to reach the safe house in Finsbury.
Matt got dressed, checked his gun and waited impatiently for Pete to arrive. He wanted this to be over with, and as quickly as possible.
“Very good, Mum,” Paul said as Shirley hung up. “When the plods come round to talk to you, just stick to what you said. Is that clear?”
“Yes, love, but why are―”
“The less you know the better, Mum. Can I trust you not to call them back and tell them that I was here?”
The look in his eyes chilled her. “Yes, Paul. I won’t, I promise.”
What a day! He was feeling in the zone, too up to stop. After being dropped back at Glendale Avenue, he’d paid the cabby with the money he had lifted from ‘Polly the Puncture’s’ purse. Ha! He had then driven home, fed Kirstie – who he was now becoming bored with – and took a Polaroid of the tattooed flesh, before feeding the bloody morsel to Hanny, to gulp it down and lick his lips in appreciation.
Everything was so clear. Maybe the frigid water had stimulated his brain cells. He felt as sharp as a straight razor, honed and ready to cut to the chase. He knew how to locate the sexy-looking doctor. Barnes was good, but good was not enough at the level he was operating at. Every problem has a solution, and this was a minor teaser to get past.
He had driven to his mother’s semi in Edmonton, parked three streets away and cautiously approached the rear of the house. He hadn’t left the family home with just Hanny. He let himself in the kitchen door with the key he had kept.
Mumsy was asleep on the couch in front of the television. There was a half empty bottle of sherry on the coffee table in front of her, and a chocolate box that appeared to be empty.
He shook her awake.
“Uh, Paul,” she groaned, grimacing and reaching up to massage her neck, which was cricked from the position she had fallen asleep in.
“Hi, Mum. Where’s that scumbag, Mickey?”
“He went back to his wife. The murder inquiry scared him off.”
“He’s no loss, Mum. Now, go make yourself a black coffee and get your act together. I need you to make a phone call for me.”
And now he was parked near the house of Lenny Mercer, the garage owner he had worked for, and whose private number his mother had given to the morons at the Yard.
Wow! They were quick and sneaky. It went down as smooth as silk. Laurel and Hardy in the guise of Barnes and his DS arrived a few seconds ahead of two other unmarked cars and a black transit van. They didn’t stand on ceremony. With Lenny’s car in the drive and a downstairs light on, they wrongly assumed that the now non-existent Paul Sutton was almost in their grasp.
He watched through binoculars as the members of the armed unit swarmed into the small front garden. They were suitably clad in Kevlar body armour and helmets with visors. One – wielding a small steel battering ram – smashed the door open and stood aside as his gun-toting colleagues stormed the house.
He had to laugh. Lenny would most likely have a heart attack or shit his pants.
After the penny had dropped, the boys in black filed out, climbed back into the van and were whisked away. Only Barnes and his cohorts were left. They talked for awhile, looked about them in the gloom, then went to their cars and drove off.
He followed one who was by himself in a late model Astra. It was one of the cops who had been at the doctor’s pad in Roehampton.
DC Chris Mallory was as disappointed as the rest of the team. He was now off duty, or to be precise, on standby, but was too hyper to go home to his maisonette in Leyton. They had all thought that it was a wrap. A bum tip had led them to a middle-aged garage owner’s house. It was the guy who had once employed Sutton as a mechanic. The significance of why they had been given his phone number eluded them. The boss and Pete were going to interview the suspect’s mother. Maybe they would find out why they had been lured to Southgate on a fool’s errand.
Chris pulled into the car park of his local pub, The Swan, went into the bar and ordered a pint and a bag of pork scratchings. Sitting on a stool, he made small talk with Sheila, the busty redheaded landlady, who was mutton dressed as lamb in her tube top and tight leather miniskirt, but a warm and friendly woman with a bubbly personality and a passion for Leyton Orient, having a son who had been a midfield player back in the late nineties.
After three pints, Chris felt more mellow, and suddenly dog-tired and ready for bed. He went for a leak, left by the rear door and walked across the ill-lit gravel car park, thumbing his remote as he approached the Astra. He was half in, half out of the car in a very vulnerable position – neither standing nor sitting, off balance – when he caught a blur of movement out of the corner of his eye.
Shirley had consumed the rest of the sherry by the time Matt and Pete turned up on her doorstep. She knew that it would be the police, but ignored the strident chimes of the bell until convinced that they had no intention of leaving. She walked unsteadily out into the hall.
“Okay, for Christ’s sake,” she slurred. “Hold your fuckin’ horses, I’m coming.”
She unlatched the door with difficulty. She felt dizzy, and her body and speech were not responding too well to her brain’s commands. She didn’t feel well, and thought she might throw up.
“You again,” she said, pulling the door open, managing to focus on Matt for a second before passing out.
Matt caught her as she crumpled.
“Jesus boss, she’s pissed,” Pete said.
“You’ll make a detective yet,” Matt grinned. “Let’s get her upright and full of black coffee. We need some answers.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
HE was eight again. Scared of heights, confined spaces, the dark, most insects; spiders and earwigs in particular. But all his fears paled into insignificance when set against the creature he knew materialised at night in the fitted wardrobe of his bedroom.
There were basic undeniable rules that even monsters had to abide by. They could not attack you during daylight hours, or even at night if the light was on, or if you kept your head under the covers. The biggest problem was, that adults didn’t believe in them, which meant you had to somehow deal with the problem yourself. It was a private thing between you and it; an ongoing trial that, at the time, was impossible to
know you would grow out of.
He had somehow survived the imagined threat, to move on and put childish things in a corner of the attic of his mind that was only visited when half-forgotten memories were invoked, to trigger events that could be filed away, but not erased.
Chris opened his eyes to a darkness that was complete; an absence of light that surely indicated total blindness. Panic and the need to perceive his current plight vied for attention. The cop in him won out and examined the circumstances in an attempt to understand and assess the predicament he was in. He had a sickening headache, and was lying on his side. He tried to move, but his arms were pinioned behind his back, his feet locked together, and he could not open his mouth. He made as if to straighten out, met solid resistance almost at once, and became still. Use your senses! He could smell pine and petrol and stale smoke. He was in his car. To be more precise, in the boot of his car. The smell of pine was from disinfectant he’d used to clean the carpeting the previous Saturday. Relief flooded through him. He wasn’t blind; an affliction he had always dreaded. The logical explanation was that he had been mugged. Some bastard had struck him over the head as he climbed into the driver’s seat, robbed him, bundled him into the boot and tied him up like a parcel. He felt a flood of relief, followed almost immediately by a stab of chagrin. Not only his phone, wallet, cash and plastic would have been taken. He had been armed, for fuck’s sake. His gun and warrant card would also be gone. How would that look? If he was really lucky, he might just get a caution. But he’d been drinking, and was technically off duty and still carrying his firearm. That could put him back in uniform, which would be a bloody nightmare. He hadn’t worked his way up to being a detective in Serious Crime, only to end up back on crowd control at football matches, or manning radar traps. He had no excuse for what had gone down. Having a few pints and ending up disarmed and trussed up in the boot of his car was a major fucking catastrophe.
He felt sick to the gut. How long had he been here? When would he be found? He needed to remove the tape that covered his mouth and at least be able to call out for help. Working his jaws until they ached, he was rewarded. The tape began to give, to lose its grip. Another minute or two and he would be able to scream at the top of his voice. Someone in the pub, or more likely the car park, would hear him and let him out.
The loud click of the lock on the boot lid being released filled him with relief. The interior light came on to return him to the world of the sighted. But his initial elation burst like a punctured balloon as he immediately recognised the grinning face above him.
“Do you know who I am?” Paul said. “Yes,” he answered for the still partially gagged cop, “of course you do. I want you to know Detective Constable Christopher Mallory, just how serious the position you are in, is. While you were snoozing I drove us to a piece of waste ground that will afford us all the privacy we need. I’m going to uncover your mouth and ask you some questions. If you’re sensible, you’ll answer them. If you lie to me, I’ll know, and will be obliged to kill you. Is that clear?”
Chris nodded his head. His thoughts were of his girlfriend, Karen, his mum and dad, his sister, Sonia, and his niece and nephew. He didn’t want to die. He was only twenty-five. He had a whole lifetime of dreams and aspirations to chase.
Paul lifted the red two-gallon petrol can from the boot, unscrewed the top and began to pour the amber liquid over Chris, to thoroughly soak him from head to foot, before walking backwards away from the car to leave a flammable trail on the hard ground. He then returned and tossed the now empty can back in beside his captive and withdrew his lighter to show to the groaning cop.
“You need to fully appreciate what could happen here, Chris,” Paul said as he ripped the tape from the cop’s mouth. There’s no reason why you shouldn’t get past this in one piece. I do not intend to kill you. You are no threat to me. Talk and live. Okay?”
Chris spat out the petrol that ran into his mouth. His eyes were burning as the fuel inflamed them. He was suddenly eight again, and the monster had finally appeared, made itself known to him, and was surely going to devour him.
“You were at Dr. Beth Holder’s place this morning,” Paul stated. “I want to know where she has been moved to, exactly how many plods are guarding her, and where they are. And before you feed me bullshit, be advised that I’m not going to let you go until it checks out. If you lie, you die.”
Chris squinted up at the man he knew to be a callous serial killer. His vision was blurred, but he could see Sutton’s thumb on the wheel of the lighter. Abject fear pervaded his mind. The thought of being burned alive was too terrifying to properly acknowledge. He started talking, gave up all he knew, and inwardly prayed that his insignificance in the man’s plans would be his salvation.
“I believe you,” Paul said as he wiped Chris’s face dry with a thick wad of tissues, then rammed them into his mouth and wrapped duct tape around his head to gag him again. Leaving the boot open to ensure an adequate oxygen supply to it, he stepped back a few paces, lit a cigarette and took a long draw from it before bending, spinning the wheel of the Clipper and touching the flame to the evaporating fuel trail on the ground.
Discarding the cigarette, he ran away from the vehicle, laughing as the world brightened and the loud whoosh from the boot sent invisible shock waves out to hit his back with heat and blow him along even faster. He was a free spirit, and as he left the patch of waste ground and headed back to his car, that was not far from the pub car park, he dismissed what had just transpired as a triviality. The cop was a nonentity; a means to an end, just another pleasant diversion. He was already looking forward to his next exploit; the taking of Beth Holder from beneath the noses of her inept guardians. And yet it was at that moment he perceived that death was in some way an anticlimax. Someone becoming totally, permanently insensate only released them from the fear and pain that he could subject them to. He realised that it was the suffering and false hope that fed his need. As he drove, he planned. The police were in disarray. He had used his pathetic excuse for a mother to lure them to Lenny Mercer’s house. They would now be questioning her, and would be no wiser for having done so. If they thought he might be doing a bunk, then good. It didn’t matter. The diversion had been to enable him to follow and lift a cop, to determine the shrink’s whereabouts, and that mission had been fully accomplished. Barnes would be confident that her location was secure, only known to a handful of his team. By the time the burnt out car and the charred remains of the DC were found and identified, it would be too late. Vehicles were being stolen and torched every night. It was a common practise, carried out by brain dead youths who got their rocks off by way of joyriding and vandalism.
Parking in a residential street in Finsbury, he checked his newly acquired semiautomatic handgun, jacking a shell into the breech. The plan now was to negate the threat posed by the two cops that the late DC had told him were three doors up from the safe house in a blue Citroen.
“You want some?” DC Phil Adams asked DC Mike Henton as he poured black coffee from an oversize pump flask.
“No ta, Phil. I need a piss. I’ve drunk enough coffee to sink a ship.”
Stakeouts were a regular part of the job, and almost all eventualities were catered for. Experience bred necessary negation of nearly all the problems that might occur.
Mike reached over to the rear foot well and retrieved a two litre bottle of Coke. Its original contents were gone, replaced by a few inches of urine. He unzipped, unscrewed the top from the plastic bottle and carefully docked his dick up against the opening.
As Phil’s door was yanked open, he dropped the flask and cup, reached for his gun, but slumped forward unconscious as the butt of another pistol was slammed into his temple.
Mike felt a sharp pain as he tried to cut off the stream of piss and dropped the Coke bottle.
“Hands on the dash, now, or I’ll blow your fucking brains out,” Paul said in a clipped whisper.
Mike obeyed, oblivious to the spreading war
m patch on his jeans.
Paul reached across with his left hand and removed the gun from Mike’s shoulder rig, then repeated the exercise with Phil’s.
When Mike left the car with Paul, Phil’s hands were handcuffed behind his back, his mouth taped, and he had been pushed down in the front foot well with a rug from the back seat over him. For good measure, Paul had hit him twice more with the butt of his gun, with what he thought to be enough force to kill him or at least fracture his skull and ensure he didn’t come round for a long time.
They reached the door of the second floor apartment without incident. Mike confirmed that only one cop, Dean Harper, was inside.
“Here’s how it goes,” Paul said to Mike. “You get him to open up without raising any suspicion. Tell him I’ve been lifted...anything. If he doesn’t buy it, I shoot you in the spine, then empty the mag through the door. Understand?”
Mike understood that he was in a ‘no win’ situation. He was tempted to try and disarm the man; spin round, sweep the gun hand away and use his unarmed combat training to deal with the situation.
“Go ahead, try it,” Paul said, noting the tension in the cop and knowing that he was on the verge of making a stupid move.
Mike contained himself. Knocked on the door. Two slow raps repeated three times.
“Yeah?” Dean’s voice. Mike knew he would be looking out through the peephole set at eye level.
“They got the bastard, Dean. He wouldn’t give it up. One of the ARU boys took him out. It’s over.”
The sound of a security chain being taken off, then the deadlock. The door opened and the subsequent few seconds went exactly as he had visualised they would. He pushed the cop forward into his colleague with the barrel of the gun, triggered the weapon with the muzzle pushed up hard against the man’s spine, then immediately took a step forward, pressed the smoking maw up against the centre of the other surprised looking plod’s chest and fired again.
