Deadly Game

by Matt Johnson

  ‘It’s all locked up, I’m afraid,’ the PC replied, somewhat meekly. ‘Shall I radio the nick to see if we have one?’

  Lynn noticed him glance at her left hand. He was looking for a ring. ‘It’s OK. I have a set in my pocket. But I’ll need you to come with me.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘So I don’t get accused of interfering with evidence or anything like that. I just need you to verify that I went straight up to the loft and came straight out again.’

  The PC shrugged. ‘Seems fine to me. Are you one of the SFOs, then?’

  ‘That’s right … you’re detective material I see.’ She smiled warmly, keen that he should see her comment as a joke rather than an insult.

  He laughed. ‘Yeah … sorry. Just didn’t realise there were any women in specialist firearms.’

  ‘There are two of us. Now … shall we get my torch?’

  Reaching into her trouser pocket, Lynn produced a small bunch of keys. ‘Fancy a look inside?’ she said, coyly. ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Alastair McCulloch. But call me Al, everyone does.’

  There were several keys on the bunch. Lynn struggled to find one to fit the newly repaired front door of the left-side house. Al offered to help.

  ‘Go on,’ she said. ‘If you can do it, I’ll stand you a tea at refs break.’

  Al took the keys and, in turn, tried the three keys in the lock. In the event, only one would actually go into the lock. He twisted the key gently so as not to break it. The lock was stiff, but it moved. A moment later the door popped open. They were in.

  As he turned back towards Lynn, she noticed a look of disappointment on his face. The reason was approaching from behind her. Two men had walked in from the pavement and started up the garden path. They looked like CID – both in suits, one much younger than the other. The older one was purposeful, in a hurry, but it was the younger one who spoke.

  ‘Hello you two. DC Bonner from AMIT. Mind if I ask what you’re doing?’

  Al turned sheepishly to face the new arrivals. As he stumbled for an explanation, Lynn came to his rescue.

  ‘Sorry gents,’ she explained. ‘Spoke to DCI Bowler first thing. He OK’d it for me to come and collect my torch.’

  She could see the two detectives start to relax. Perhaps they weren’t in the shit after all.

  The DC introduced the older detective. He was a Detective Inspector. She didn’t quite catch the name. It seemed they had called to check out a theory the DI had been working on. As the forensics team had now finished with the house, they had been cleared to have a poke around.

  Lynn pushed open the front door. The hallway was bare floorboards. She remembered the smell from the night before; a mixture of stale sweat and spray deodorant. A bit like an empty locker room following a tough game, the team having just headed off to the pub.

  The two detectives walked through and turned into the front room, the older one leading the way. She trotted up the stairs. Her new friend chose to stay with the detectives.

  On reaching the landing, Lynn realised she was going to need a hand to get into the loft area. She’d forgotten just how high the ceiling was. Returning to the ground floor, she found the others in the front room. The two detectives were in the process of tipping a double bed onto its side and pushing it against the wall. As she continued to watch, the younger detective, Bonner, pulled back the rug in front of the open fireplace. There was no carpet. The DI finished rolling up the rug and leant it against the bed. He scanned the floor.

  ‘Check the floorboards, Josh,’ the older detective said. ‘Look for cuts, missing nails. Anything that might look like a hide or a trapdoor.’

  She was curious now, figuring the Murder Squad must have had a tip that something was hidden beneath the floor. For several minutes the two detectives tapped timbers and prised at the gaps to see if anything was loose.

  ‘Nothing?’ said the older man.

  ‘Let’s try the back room,’ said Bonner.

  It was Lynn’s chance. ‘Al … come and give me a hand will you? I can’t get up to the loft.’

  ‘Teas are definitely on you then,’ he quipped as they ran up the stairs.

  He cupped his hands to lift her up. For the second time, she entered the dark void. Fortunately, the torch lay just inside the opening. She dropped it into a retaining loop on her belt and climbed back into the hatch.

  And that was as far as she got. As her equipment belt jammed against the wooden frame and then dug her holstered Glock pistol into her side, Lynn realised she was stuck, unable to drop or to climb back up.

  Al sniggered.

  Lynn was not amused. ‘Just give me a hand.’ She twisted and groaned, unable to move or even breathe properly.

  ‘How about we make that tea you promised me into dinner one evening?’

  ‘You cheeky fucker,’ Lynn replied. ‘When I get down from here I’ll be shoving this torch somewhere the sun don’t shine. Now get under me and help me push upwards.’

  Al waited. ‘Dinner would be nice, Alastair. Thank you,’ he said.

  Trapped and unable to move, Lynn took a deep breath. ‘OK, dinner it is … and if you tell a bloody soul how you got me to agree I’ll—’

  ‘OK, OK … I get the drift.’ Al cupped his hands once again and placed them under her black, hi-tech boot.

  There was a voice from downstairs. It was the DI. ‘We’re nipping next door to check the downstairs rooms there. When you two have sorted out your social arrangements, make sure you shut the door behind you.’

  Lynn smiled as she dropped down beside Al. The DI must have heard. Luckily, he also had a sense of humour.

  ‘You cheeky bugger,’ she said, cracking the torch onto the badge at the front of his helmet. ‘No way are you getting me to buy you dinner. You’ll get a brew and be grateful.’

  Al shrugged. ‘It was worth a try.’

  Lynn started down the stairs. ‘What were those two looking for?’ she asked.

  ‘A hidden room. They seemed to think there might be something under the floors downstairs. They’ve gone to check next door now.’

  As Lynn walked into the front room, Al followed. ‘I’ve got a hoolie bar in the car,’ she said. ‘That’ll lift the floorboards. I’ll go ask them if they want to try it.’

  Al agreed to wait in the first house until Lynn could return. The hoolie bar, or hooligan bar, was an adapted crowbar that would give the necessary leverage to prise up any floorboards. She headed back to the ARV car, opened the boot, pulled out the heavy metal tool and then walked up the adjacent path to the next door house.

  Chapter 62

  As the WPC started to prise open the first of the floorboards, there was no clue as to what lay below. Then, as what appeared to be a hollowed-out cellar beneath the floor was revealed, there was a yell from the front room next door, followed by the sound of a shot.

  I was first to react. ‘Josh … stay here,’ I said firmly. ‘Lynn … with me.’

  Lynn dropped the bar and drew her Glock from its belt holster. She was right behind me as we ran out into the front garden. We were just in time to see two men – one in the street and another in the process of exiting the adjacent front garden.

  The suspect closest to us was barefoot, explaining why he wasn’t moving as fast as his friend. He stopped, raised a pistol toward us and fired.

  As a round zipped over our heads, I dived for cover behind a low wall; Lynn tumbled forward and low onto the grass. Rolling over, she regained a crouch position with her Glock ready. She was fast, very fast. I was impressed. At a distance of about fifteen metres she put two rounds into the torso of her target. Both hit the chest area. It was instinctive, point and shoot, and as good as I had ever seen.

  ‘Armed police’, she screamed.

  Too late, I thought, until I realised that her warning was directed at the second suspect, running up the street.

  Save for the rapid beating of my heart and the sound of Lynn’s heavy breathing, the street
was now silent.

  I stood up slowly. There was no sign of the second suspect. In the adjacent garden, Lynn’s target lay still and on his back. A large red stain was spreading through his white shirt.

  ‘You check him,’ I yelled. ‘I’ll look for the other one.’

  I moved out into the street, ducking behind anything I could use as cover. There was no sign of the second man. Returning to the front garden, I found Lynn checking for a neck pulse with her left hand, her right still holding the Glock. She was shaking, her face pale.

  Her voice trembled as she spoke. ‘He’s dead.’

  ‘Probably before he hit the ground,’ I replied. ‘That was an incredible piece of shooting, miss.’

  I realised then that the PC from the first house hadn’t appeared. I was just about to storm in through the front door when Lynn held me back.

  ‘Wait … there may be others. We should call in help.’

  ‘No time.’ I called into the house for any signs of life. No response.

  Lynn led the way inside, Glock at the ready.

  We found the young PC in the front room. He was still alive, but weak from blood loss. Slimy red foam was bubbling from his mouth and nose.

  ‘Al … Al,’ Lynn yelled at him as she knelt down. ‘Stay awake mate, stay awake.’ She pressed the transmit button on her personal radio. ‘Trojan this is Trojan five three … Officer down … Ambulance…’

  ‘Can’t … breathe,’ the PC hissed.

  For a moment, I was back in another world, one I hadn’t experienced for a very long time. A man lying before me, bullet wound to the chest, familiar symptoms. So long ago, it felt like someone else’s life.

  ‘Tension haemothorax,’ I muttered to myself, under my breath.

  Lynn turned back to me. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘Tip him up,’ I said, trying my best to sound calm.

  ‘We should keep him still,’ Lynn argued.

  There was no time for debate. If I was right, the PC was close to death. I pushed past Lynn and ripped open his tunic. One wound; lower left chest, into the lung area.

  ‘We need to look for an exit wound,’ I said, my tone urgent.

  Lynn did as I asked without further question. Dark-red blood oozed slowly from the entry wound. There was no corresponding wound to his back.

  ‘Looks like a nine mil’ entry wound, round still inside.’ I was talking as I thought, deciding my options, reliving times past to work out what to do next. ‘Get me your trauma kit from the car,’ I ordered.

  Lynn hesitated for a moment, as if unsure whether to leave the injured PC.

  ‘Go,’ I yelled.

  As she headed back to the street, I kept talking to the PC. It was important to keep him awake, stop him falling into unconsciousness. I was right, I had seen these exact symptoms before.

  ‘Al … Alastair,’ I said. ‘Come on you bastard … stay with us. Think of the dinner Lynn’s gonna buy you…’

  Badly injured and bleeding, the PC grimaced through his pain. He was now grey, his skin turning cold and clammy. I gripped his hand. It was wet … sweaty. I pressed my fingers into his neck, found the pulse. Fast … very fast. A heart powered by adrenalin, trying to maintain blood pressure.

  Lynn returned with the first-aid kit and Josh Bonner. ‘I’ve called an ambulance,’ he said.

  ‘Do you have any duct tape?’ I demanded.

  ‘Duct tape?’ Lynn replied. ‘’What for? There’s micropore tape in the trauma pack, will that do?’

  ‘It won’t stick. I need duct tape … sticks better when there’s blood.’

  ‘There’s some in the boot of our car, guv,’ said Josh.

  ‘Get it. Be quick.’

  Hoping all the while a paramedic would appear in the doorway, I mentally rehearsed what I needed to do. Improvised occlusive dressing. Seal wound. Tape three sides to create one-way valve.

  I ripped open the first-aid kit and started to clean the blood away from the PC’s chest. Bandages, a scalpel, scissors, forceps and a plastic sheet fell beside me.

  ‘He’s slipping away.’ Lynn said, in a low voice.

  I tapped Al’s chest, around the wound and across to his sternum, doing my best to look calm. The last thing I needed was for Lynn to continue to argue with me.

  ‘What are you doing?’ she asked.

  ‘Listen,’ I said. ‘His chest cavity is full of blood. It should sound hollow. It’s why he can’t breathe.’ I was remembering lessons on battlefield treatment of casualties that I had attended over two decades previously. ‘We need to help him,’ I continued. ‘Rip open a scalpel pack and cut a piece of that plastic sheet to the size of a credit card.

  Josh returned and went to hand me the duct tape.

  ‘Tear me three strips about six inches long,’ I said.

  Josh and Lynn performed their tasks without objection.

  ‘Now keep him still,’ I urged as I used the tape to stick the plastic over the bullet wound to create a seal. If I was right, it would allow him to breathe. As the final strip stuck fast to the surrounding skin, Al’s breathing took a serious turn for the worse. It wasn’t working. The dressing had failed.

  Al was now beginning to panic, his legs and arms starting to shake uncontrollably.

  I took a deep breath, trying to buy myself some thinking time. ‘Any sign of the ambulance?’

  There wasn’t. We were on our own, and we knew it. And I knew what I was facing.

  ‘Right,’ I said. ‘I need some pipe … something like a hosepipe, about ten inches of it, maybe. And something like a balloon that we can tape onto the end.’

  ‘What for?’ Lynn asked.

  ‘We need to drain the blood from his pleural cavity.’

  ‘What … like make a hole in his chest, you mean?’

  ‘That’s about the sum of it.’

  ‘How about a biro? I’ve got one in the car. And I think there’s a hosepipe in the back garden.’

  ‘Biro’s too narrow … garden hose too big … something inbetween. Do you have a stethoscope in the car?’

  ‘Petrol siphon pipe do you?’ said Josh.

  ‘Perfect. Lynn … this was a brothel. Have a look around the other rooms … I remember seeing some condoms somewhere, and be quick … both of you.’

  As I waited, I taped down the fourth side of the plastic square now covering the entry bullet wound to Al’s chest. His chest movements had become very fast and shallow. I knew what was happening. His pleural cavity, ruptured by the bullet, had now filled with blood and air, so his diaphragm was losing the means to operate. We needed to get the blood out from that cavity, and we needed to do it fast.

  I pulled Al’s shirt back so as to expose the sides of his ribcage and moved his left arm up and away from his chest. I’d seen this demonstrated several times in theory but only the once in practice, and I’d never done it myself. Placing my hand into his armpit, I used its width to estimate where I was going to have to cut. ‘Between the seventh and eighth ribs,’ I said, talking myself through what I was about to attempt.

  Josh appeared behind me with a small length of clear hosepipe.

  ‘Clean it, best you can. Use one of the alcohol wipes.’

  Lynn came barging into the room. ‘Got one,’ she yelled, as she thrust the sealed foil packet into my hand.’

  ‘Open it up and tape it over one end of the tube, quickly.’

  As Lynn did her job, I reached for the scalpel and then felt for the softer area between Al’s ribs. My hand shaking and slippery with blood, I struggled to grip the slim metal handle. As the point of the blade touched Al’s skin, I uttered a silent prayer. Then, it was too late. I was in.

  ‘One inch cut, just the skin, no deeper.’ The words of our medic instructor – drilled into me nearly twenty years before.

  Although he was now semiconscious, I felt Al wince in pain.

  Next came the separation of the muscle fibres to allow access to the pleural membrane. I tried to picture it in my mind as I placed the sca
lpel to one side and switched to using the forceps. Gently, tentatively, I worked my way in, levering the muscle tissue aside until I felt a solid resistance. Pushing harder, I prayed again. Then … the sound I wanted to hear as the membrane succumbed to my efforts. It popped, just loud enough for me to hear it. I was there.

  Quickly, I reached for the petrol hosepipe and squeezed it into the hole I had created. For a second, nothing happened. Then a small ball of dark red blood appeared just near my trembling fingers. I resisted the temptation to push the tube further in. If the lessons I remembered were right, the blood should exit along the pipe, fill the condom and then, as the pressure in the cavity reduced, Al would be able to breathe. With the tube sealed to the outside air, and as his diaphragm started to work, air would be prevented from being drawn in to fill the void.

  Blood began to flow, slowly at first, and then in greater volume. It was working. I held the tube tightly in place and watched to see if Al reacted.

  He did. No more than thirty seconds from the moment I pushed the pipe between his ribs, his chest started to expand. At first the movement was barely noticeable, but with every subsequent breath he became stronger and the breaths deeper. After a minute or so, his face started to gain colour.

  I closed my eyes to say a silent thank-you and, as I did so, became aware of movement behind me. Two paramedics.

  The cavalry had arrived.

  The paramedics worked speedily and efficiently, replacing my homemade chest drain with a non-return device designed specifically for the job. I sat back against the upturned bed and watched as they worked. I was totally exhausted.

  A few minutes later they lifted Al onto a stretcher and carried him out to the waiting ambulance. Lynn decided to go with them.

  With Josh’s help, I got to my feet and, returning to the front garden, we found a colleague of Lynn’s in the process of pulling a sheet over the body of the gunman.