by Paul Finch
Gemma’s breath was ragged and stuttering. She’d managed to claw a handkerchief from her jacket pocket, and clamp it to the base of the arrow, but the makeshift poultice was already a sopping, crimson mess.
‘We need back-up now!’ Heck howled into his radio. ‘I repeat, we are under fire!’
The MG swept into sight again, just ahead. It was much closer, less than sixty yards away. Latimer loosed another arrow. His ride too was jolting, he swayed and tottered, but his aim was unerring. The missile hit the weakened windscreen square-on, passing clean through the interior, missing Heck’s cheek by inches, thumping into the backrest in the rear.
Heck floored his pedal even though they were on another murderous curve. The suspension shrieked; a third hubcap went spinning away. But the next time the MG came in sight their problems would really begin. Only the turns in the track had saved them up to now, but the last mile or so was a straight stretch. That was where the MG would catch up and where, for a marksman like Latimer, they’d be sitting ducks.
Heck risked another glance at Gemma. She was icy-pale, drenched with blood and sweat. Her eyelids fluttered, but he could see that she was doing everything in her power to resist fainting. One hand still clutched the crimson dressing to her wound; the other was jammed against the dashboard. It was an impressive feat of courage, but it wouldn’t count for much if Heck didn’t do something soon.
He made a desperate decision.
They swerved, screeching, around a final bend. The MG briefly fell out of sight – and Heck jammed his brakes on, the BMW shuddering to a slantwise halt.
‘Get down,’ he shouted at Gemma.’ You’ve got to get down!’
‘I’m … pinned to the damn seat!’ she stammered.
She was telling the truth. Only half the feathered shaft was visible. The rest had gone straight through her into the upholstery behind.
‘This is going to hurt,’ he said, grabbing her collar and yanking her forwards. Gemma’s cry went beyond pain into horror and anguish, but behind her, the embedded arrowhead was torn free, bringing out chunks of fabric and foam-rubber. ‘Stay there!’ he said, pushing her down across her lap, throwing the car into first and hitting the gas, before moving swiftly up into second, third and fourth.
The last thing the two schoolboys were probably expecting when they rounded that final bend was to find their prey barrelling towards them.
The collision was explosive.
The smashing impact hurled Heck and Gemma forward with incredible force, but their belts held them and their airbags cushioned them. Meanwhile, the car’s crumple zones collapsed; in the blink of an eye, the entire vehicle changed shape. But the smaller MG took the worst of it. It was crushed to pulp beneath its bigger adversary, hammered into mangled scrap.
Its two occupants only survived because the roof had been folded back, and both were thrown clear.
Heck, ears ringing and head spinning, loosened his belt, pivoted around on his backside and kicked with both feet at his door. It was so warped that at first it resisted, but a second blow sprang it open. He leapt out, wafting his way through clouds of escaping steam. Carrot-Top was still rolling in trackside leaves and mulch. He looked stunned by what had just happened – but when he saw Heck looming towards him, he found his feet and lurched away around the back of the MG, heading along the track towards the main drive.
Heck followed, only to find Latimer sprawled in his path. The archery champ had taken a harder fall than Carrot-Top – his nose was badly bloodied, though he too was conscious. He groped towards his bow a couple of feet away. But Heck had reached him in two strides and kicked him across the face, knocking him cold, before grabbing up the bow and twisting it out of shape. Carrot-Top had only made it twenty yards. He might be young, but he was limping. He glanced back as he staggered past the shattered BMW – and never noticed when Gemma kicked the passenger door open into his path. He caromed away from it and fell sideways into the foliage. A second later Heck was on him. The kid squirmed violently, clawing and kicking out. He left Heck no option but to drag him to his feet by the belt of his pants, ram him back against the trunk of a tree, and cuff his hands behind it.
‘Alright!’ came an aggressive voice. ‘Everyone down! Hands where I can see them! Hey dipshit, you in the suit … I said get fucking down!’
Heck half-turned, sensing that a gun had been drawn on him.
A Trojan unit, a heavily-armoured police carrier, had arrived from the main drive, and stopped in front of the two wrecks. Specialist firearms officers, or ‘shots’ as most cops knew them, were spilling out. Kevlar body-armour was strapped over their black, flame-retardant coveralls; only the black and white flashes on their visored helms revealed who they were. Several had drawn pistols or MP5s, and were advancing warily. Behind their vehicle, an ambulance had also arrived, but was waiting there helplessly, its passage blocked. The SFO who’d spoken was the closest, and now sidled forward. He was an older but fit-looking, broad-shouldered man, wearing inspector’s pips. He had Heck square in the sights of his Kurtz submachine-gun.
‘Better late than never,’ Heck told him.
‘I said hit the deck! Are you fucking deaf?’
‘Watch out, boss!’ an SFO sergeant shouted. ‘No clear shot!’
‘I’m DS Heckenburg, you stupid bastard!’ Heck retorted, hands spread. ‘Look … I’ve just made an arrest!’
The SFO inspector only flicked the briefest glance at the manacled schoolboy. ‘Don’t know you or him!’
‘If you let me reach for my pocket, I’ll show you.’
‘One-handed. And slowly … very fucking slowly.’
Heck reached gingerly into his inside jacket pocket, extracting his warrant card. On seeing that it wasn’t a weapon, the firearms inspector lowered his Kurtz and came forward, lifting his visor. By his hard unimpressionable face, he still wasn’t convinced they were dealing with one of the good guys. He all but snatched the card, determined to scrutinise it for any sign it might be a fake. When he handed the warrant card back, Heck decked him.
It was a swift right-hook to the jaw, and it dropped him like a sack of spuds. ‘Next time I say get a move on, get a fucking move on!’
‘You fucking slimy bastard!’ the sergeant bellowed.
Heck pointed at the troop carrier. ‘Shift that pansy wagon so the ambulance can get through, you knuckle-dragging wankers!’
The firearms sergeant was about to retort in kind, when he caught sight of Gemma crawling along the verge on all fours. Her hair hung in a sweaty mop. She was covered front and back in bloody froth. Half a foot of aluminium arrow jutted at an angle from her right shoulder.
Even the hardened shot’s mouth dropped open. ‘Oh, shit …’
‘Get over here!’ Heck shouted past the troop-van to the paramedics in the ambulance. ‘This area’s safe …’ He was interrupted by the growl of a heavy engine from the near-distance. He spun around. ‘Bloody artic … Jesus Christ, they’re going to get away!’
Instinctively, he started running along the track. A shout sounded behind him.
‘Get those medics on the job!’ Heck called over his shoulder. ‘The rest follow me! The bastards are making a break for it!’
Running in leather-soled shoes was never easy. Heck tripped and slid, but somehow kept staggering forward. None of the shots followed him initially. He glanced back as he ran. A couple were aiding the medics as they tended to Gemma but, ridiculously, the rest were attempting to shove the two wrecked cars off the track, presumably so they could get their own vehicle past. Heck swore, but charged on.
If nothing else, the SFOs were super-fit. They soon gave up trying to move the cars and pursued him on foot, and had almost caught up by the time he’d reached the Old Pavilion. He stumbled around to the rear, panting and soaked, but the HGV was missing.
‘This is Heck!’ he shouted into his radio. ‘Tell me someone’s covering the west gate?’
‘That’d be me, sarge,’ a voice replied. It was Gary Qui
nnell.
‘Be advised, Gary … there may be an articulated wagon coming your way. Check with PNC for the index. Gemma ran it twenty minutes ago. But you can’t miss the bloody thing. It’ll probably stop for nothing, so no heroics, okay? Just follow it till it runs out of fuel. In the meantime, get an all-points on it. If Central Counties Air Operations have got a chopper spare, that would help as well.’
‘Roger that,’ came Quinnell’s reply.
Heck was about to say more when he smelled smoke. The shots had noticed it too; they’d removed their ballistics helms and were glancing around, puzzled. Then there was a shout and fingers were stabbing. Fire writhed behind the grimy windows at the rear of the Pavilion.
‘Fuck!’ Heck shouted, galloping around to the front.
The shots joined him, and the front door, which had been locked, was smashed down under a hail of boots and shoulders. Intense heat whooshed out; acrid smoke billowed in their faces. Heck wafted his way forward, coughing, shielding his eyes. The entire rear wall of the Pavilion interior was already a sheet of flame. Other items were also blazing: piles of boxes, racks of garments. Windows cracked like gunshots. A set of shelves collapsed, numerous bits and pieces catching fire as they scattered away from it.
‘Better get out of here!’ the SFO sergeant shouted. ‘Place is going up like a tinderbox.’
‘We’ll lose a treasure trove,’ Heck replied, pushing forward. ‘Over there! Look!’
On the left, a table had been pushed against the wall, flanked on either side by filing cabinets. A desktop computer and screen sat on top of it, alongside documents, books and other stationery, and even what looked like a pair of night-vision goggles. A huge diagram – a homemade map of some sort – was pinned to the wall above, covered in marker-pen. All were blackening in the face of the inferno.
‘We’ve gotta save as much of that as we can!’ Heck said. ‘Especially the computer.’
All the way there, he fought gusts of oily smoke and clouds of sparks – halfway over, a portion of the smouldering timber floor collapsed. It was a flimsy trapdoor, and he found himself gazing down a cylindrical pit about twelve feet in depth, with bare brick walls. It might once have been a well of some sort, though by the stench it had more recently been used as a dungeon. At least there were no prisoners down there now.
Heck himself pulled the map down from the wall and folded it under his arm. One of the shots snagged the computer, and two others managed to lug a filing cabinet back towards the entrance, before the intensifying heat beat them back. Once outside, they could do nothing but stand back, agog, as roaring flames engulfed the ancient, sun-dried structure.
Heck’s mobile began chirping.
‘It’s me!’ Shawna said.
‘What’s happening?’
‘We’re at the school, and we’ve got it locked down.’
‘Good girl …’
‘Don’t thank me yet. Most of the birds have flown.’
‘What?’
‘Seems that about half an hour ago several pupils – we haven’t got an exact number – absented themselves from lessons without permission. When a teacher tried to remonstrate, she got a punch on the nose for her trouble.’
‘What about Enwright?’
‘He’s still here. Locked himself into an antechamber at the back of his office.’
‘Break the bloody door down!’
‘We’ve tried, but he must have piled stuff against it.’
‘Alright, hang fire … I’m en route.’
Heck glanced around. Some of the shots were still fixated on the blazing Pavilion. Others were mopping sweat and muttering together. He set off back down the dirt track at a jog. The ARV was where they’d left it. But various local uniforms and CID officers had now arrived and were in conflab with the SFO inspector, who looked bruised around the chops. Charlie Finnegan was also there; he’d taken custody of Carrot-Top, but was on the phone to somebody. None of them noticed as Heck veered towards the troop carrier, whose burly, bearded driver was standing on the road, smoking a cigarette.
‘Need to get up to the school fast,’ Heck said.
‘Call a fucking taxi then.’
‘Wrong answer.’ Heck stepped around him and climbed nimbly into the cab.
‘Oi!’
The key was still in the ignition. Heck twisted it and the engine rumbled to life. He swung the heavy vehicle around in a massive three-point turn, uniforms and plain clothes scattering on all sides. The driver in particular ran shouting alongside him, threatening everything under the sun, until Heck gunned the ARV ahead and he fell far behind.
Chapter 43
Pupils and teachers alike crowded every window. The entire school was a hive of police activity. Local plod was everywhere, as were plainclothes officers, not to mention more shots, who, as usual, were bustling around in muscular fashion as if this was really their show. The only civilian out of doors was Deputy Head Wanda Clayley, dashing about in her fluttery cape like a manic, black-garbed butterfly. She stumbled from one officer to the next, jabbering questions, but none of them were able or willing to help her. She latched on to Heck as soon as he climbed from the ARV, barely noticing that he was sweaty and blackened by smoke.
‘Mr Heckenburg! Mr Heckenburg … apparently you’re some kind of policeman!’
‘Some kind, yes, Mrs Clayley,’ Heck replied. ‘Not much of one.’
‘I was about to say the same thing.’
‘Just as you aren’t much of a teacher.’
‘Excuse me?’ Her cheeks turned bright pink. ‘I devoted an hour of my time this afternoon to showing you around our premises. I had no idea I was being duped in this most deceitful way.’
‘It’s my earnest hope that you also had no idea you were harbouring in your school a bunch of extremely disturbed and dangerous individuals, who may be responsible for a number of sadistic murders.’
‘But this is simply nonsense! There’s no conceivable way Dr Enwright …’
Heck brushed past her. ‘Save it, Mrs Clayley … for the enquiry that will inevitably be held into the running of this establishment and those supposedly in charge here.’
She tried to protest further, but he signalled to two uniforms and she was led away. He headed inside, where more uniforms were on guard at the doors to offices and classrooms. A local inspector approached him in the main lobby.
‘Heckenburg, sir. Serial Crimes.’ Heck flashed his ID. ‘No one’s to leave this building. The kids are not even to leave the classrooms. Firstly because some of them may still be suspects, but mainly for their own safety.’
He caught up with Shawna in Dr Enwright’s office; she was standing with a bundle of buff folders under her arm. Eric Fisher was seated in front of a desktop computer; paperwork was heaped on the floor alongside him. A uniformed PC hung around uncertainly, looking like a spare part.
‘I’ve just heard that Gemma’s being taken straight through for emergency surgery,’ Shawna said, on seeing Heck. ‘The arrow severed her subclavian artery. It’s touch and go whether she’ll be able to use that arm again.’
Heck nodded stoically. ‘Where’s Enwright?’ She indicated a closed door in the far corner. ‘What’s on the other side of that?’
‘Apparently just a storeroom.’
‘Window?’
‘Too small for anyone to use.’
Heck kicked at the door. His foot rebounded from what felt like solid oak. The impact didn’t leave so much as a dent. ‘Dr Enwright!’ he called. ‘This is Detective Sergeant Heckenburg. Look … you’re only delaying the inevitable.’ He pressed his ear to the panel, but heard nothing from the other side. He straightened up again, glancing distractedly at the folders under Shawna’s arm. ‘What’s that lot?’
She picked through them. ‘School files on the kids who’ve done a runner. Names are Doug Latimer, Anthony Worthington, Heather Greer, Arnold Wisby, Luke Stapleton – copper’s son, worryingly – Susan Cavanagh, Gareth Holker … and the blondie, who I think is
Holker’s girlfriend, is that correct?’
Heck nodded, remembering. ‘Her name’s Jasmine Sinclair.’ He glanced through the files, looking at the attached photos. ‘We don’t need to worry about Latimer and Worthington – they’ve both been nicked.’ He swung back to the door. ‘You say you’ve tried breaking this down?’
‘It’s defied all our efforts so far.’ She pointed at the PC, a large, raw-boned young man, who rubbed at his shoulder with a pained expression.
‘We’ve been told there are racks of steel shelving in there, sarge,’ the PC explained. ‘He may have used them to shore up the door.’
Heck hissed through clenched teeth. ‘We haven’t got time for this.’
‘Hydraulic ram?’ Shawna suggested.
‘And how long until it gets here?’
She shrugged. ‘He’s not going anywhere.’
‘But these acolytes of his are.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You don’t think they’ve gone running off looking for their mummies and daddies, do you?’
Shawna looked stunned. ‘You think they’re gonna do another job?’
‘A grand finale.’ Heck thumbed at the locked door. ‘Of course, we’ll not know until we speak to the maladjusted freak in here …’ He turned and left the office, shouting over his shoulder: ‘Shift that desk, yeah?’
Shawna glanced at the nonplussed uniform. ‘Better do as he says.’
Enwright’s desk, which was large and rather grand and apparently made from mahogany, wasn’t particularly easy to shift, but at length – with much grunting and cursing – they were finally able to push/drag it to one side of the room. And just in the nick of time, because from the passage adjoining the office there was a shattering of glass – which sounded distinctly like one of the outer doors, and then the deafening clank and clatter of an engine that had seen better days. When Heck reappeared in the doorway, he was saddled on a motorised lawn-roller, which pumped fumes as he drove it across the office at top speed.
