by James Carol
‘I’ll text you when I get back to the car,’ Pascoe said. ‘No point us all being in the street if Gifford turns up. We don’t want to scare him off.’
He got out of the car and walked back the way he’d come. The text arrived two minutes later. Anderton started the car and pulled away from the kerb. She hit the turn lights and cruised gently into the street where Delaney lived. There was no sign of Pascoe’s car. Presumably he’d exited via the other end of the street.
Delaney’s house was two-thirds of the way along. It looked deserted. There were no lights on, and no bright red Pontiac Firebird parked on the driveway. It was compact and tidy, and not quite what Winter had expected. He thought that she’d go for something more showy. Something that made a statement, like the Firebird. Maybe she didn’t spend much time here, or maybe TV journalists didn’t get paid as much as he thought. They were only a five-minute drive from the Global studios, which might explain it. Maybe this was just a handy place for her to hang her hat. Nothing more, nothing less.
Anderton drove past the house and kept going for another hundred yards. She swung in to the kerb and killed the engine. The sightline was good. If anyone approached the house they’d see them. At the same time, they were far enough away not to be noticed. The sun was still up, which wasn’t ideal. This sort of work was best done in the dark, slumped down in your seat and hiding in the shadows.
The sun dropped from the sky at eight forty-five. Bang on schedule. Blue turned to purple and orange, and then there was the inevitable fade to black. The streetlamps winked on at nine. The Mercedes was parked in a dark spot halfway between the two nearest lights. The night sky was clear but there was too much light pollution in this part of Burnaby to see the stars. The moon hung in the north. White, bright and ominous.
Stakeouts drove Winter nuts. They always had done. There was too much hanging around, too much inactivity. The neighbourhood was a quiet one. The whole time they’d been parked here they had seen only two cars. The first had turned into a driveway further on up the street. They’d had to duck down when its headlights washed through the SUV’s interior, but it hadn’t come close enough to cause a problem. The second car had come in from behind them and parked at the kerb near Delaney’s house. For a moment they’d got excited, but it hadn’t been Gifford. They’d watched the driver get out. Watched him walk up to the front door of the house next door to Delaney’s. Watched him let himself in. Watched the house lights go on. Anderton had let out a long sigh. Then they’d gone back to waiting.
Ten o’clock came and went.
Eleven o’clock.
Winter’s phone vibrated at eleven-thirty on the dot. Just like it had done at eleven and ten-thirty, and every thirty minutes before that. Pascoe’s text was one word long and identical to all the others that he’d sent. Clear. Winter’s reply was one word long and identical to all the other replies that he’d sent. Clear.
‘Still thinking fifty-fifty?’ Anderton asked him.
‘He might be aiming to get here in the early hours so he can catch Delaney when she’s sleeping. That’s what he did with Myra Hooper.’
‘And what if Delaney isn’t coming home tonight? What if she’s got a boyfriend and has decided to stay at his place?’
‘If that’s the case then it actually works to our advantage. You were worried about Delaney being put in danger, right? Well, if she’s staying at her boyfriend’s then she’s not going to be in any. And what’s even better is that this won’t affect Gifford’s plans. If he turns up in the early hours and sees all the lights off he’ll assume that she’s in bed, and carry on regardless.’
Anderton took out her cell and searched for a number.
‘Jefferies?’
She nodded then raised a hand for quiet. The call lasted all of ten seconds. She hung up and put the phone away.
‘There’s no sign of Gifford over at the Shangri La,’ she said.
Winter turned and looked toward Delaney’s house. Everything was dark and still. A couple more minutes passed then the rear mirror suddenly filled with light. Winter glanced in the side mirror and saw the silhouette of a Firebird. The car passed into the wash of a streetlamp and he saw that it was red. He could hear the engine, throaty and low-pitched, not quite a roar but not far off it. There were two people in the car. The dark made it impossible to see faces. The shadow-person in the driver’s seat was presumably Delaney. You didn’t own a car like that and let other people drive it. The shadow-person in the passenger seat might have been male, but it was impossible to tell for sure. Her boyfriend, perhaps. Or maybe a girlfriend, if that’s how the wind blew.
The car pulled on to the driveway, the engine died, the headlights went off. The person in the passenger seat got out first. It was still impossible to see a face, but judging by the size and build and the way they moved, this was a male. He was carrying a small overnight bag, so presumably he was planning on staying. The car doors closed with a bang. Delaney got out and led the way. She unlocked the front door and they went inside. A second later the door closed and the street fell quiet again.
‘She’s got her boyfriend with her,’ Anderton said. ‘That could complicate things.’
Winter thought about everything he’d seen in the last thirty seconds and shook his head.
‘That’s not her boyfriend, Anderton. Did you notice how slowly she was driving?’
‘It’s a residential area and it’s getting late. Of course she’s going to be driving slowly.’
‘You’ve clearly never driven a muscle car. Get behind the wheel and it’s like you’re possessed. It’s like slipping into a Stephen King story. You just want to put your foot down and drive everywhere at a hundred miles an hour. That’s exactly what Delaney was doing the first time I saw her driving that car. She braked so hard she left ten-foot tyre marks on the tarmac.’
Anderton thought this over. ‘If that was Gifford, he wasn’t using a gun to coerce her. It’s dark, but I could make out that much.’
‘Guns aren’t his weapon of choice. Bombs are.’
She frowned. ‘This doesn’t fit with his MO. Up until now he’s always gone after his victims in their homes.’
‘He’s devolving. When that happens their behaviour becomes increasingly unpredictable. All bets are off. Think about the way his MO changed with Myra’s murder. Breaking into the house when she was asleep. Approaching Cody in the park. He’s unravelling. That was just the start of it.’
‘I’m going to call this in. We need back-up.’
Winter nodded. ‘No arguments here. We still need to get in there, though. And fast. We have the element of surprise, but if we wait for the cavalry we’ll lose that advantage. At the moment Gifford will be familiarising himself with his surroundings. We don’t want him getting too comfortable. That would be bad for Delaney.’
‘Agreed.’
Anderton took out her cell phone and called Freeman. While she did that, Winter texted Pascoe to let him know what was going down. Anderton kept things brief. By the time she was hanging up, Winter was hitting send.
‘You ready to do this?’ he asked.
‘Ready as I’ll ever be.’
63
They got out of the Mercedes and crossed the street. The hedges, trees and fences hid their progress along the sidewalk. The shadows hid their progress up the driveway. There were no lights on in the front of the house. The window panes in the door were dark and empty. Winter took out his lock picks and went to work. Slowly, slowly. Feeling. Teasing. The final pin succumbed and he pushed the door open an inch so it wouldn’t lock again.
He put his picks away and drew his gun. Anderton already had hers out. He pushed the door open a little further. No squeaks, no creaks, just the gentle movement of a door opening on well-lubricated hinges. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust. The details of the hallway slowly made themselves known. The angles of the bannister, the shadows of the pictures, the shape of a table. Sounds came to them out of the silence. Voices. Winter list
ened more closely. Not voices plural, a single voice. Gifford’s. He caught Anderton’s eye and motioned for her to follow.
The voice led them away from the stairs and down a corridor. Light snuck out from around the closed door straight ahead, a dim glow that went all the way around the frame. They edged nearer and stopped in front of it. Winter could hear Gifford on the other side. He was talking in a professional voice, the one he no doubt used to put his clients at ease. It projected confidence and suggested that everything would be okay. It was also a liar’s voice. Based on what Winter was hearing, things were not going to be okay. At least, not for Delaney.
‘You know,’ Gifford was saying, ‘you really shouldn’t have made her cry.’ He paused as though he was waiting for a reply. ‘Cathy and me, we might have had our problems, but that happens in relationships. You’re not always going to see eye to eye. That doesn’t mean I don’t care what happens to her, though. When you love someone, you love them forever. That’s the way it works.’
Anderton put her hand on the handle and counted down from three on her fingers. She hit zero and pushed the door open. Winter burst past her, his gun leading the way, eyes taking in everything. Anderton was a step behind, covering him. Delaney was bound to a chair with silver duct tape, eyes wide and terrified. The strip of tape across her mouth stopped her screams getting out. She saw them and started struggling to break free, the chair rocking back and forward, legs banging out an uneven rhythm.
Gifford was four feet away, next to the kitchen table. His face was completely expressionless. No joy, no sorrow, and nothing in between. Winter was struck by how normal and unthreatening he looked. This wasn’t some big tough guy. Not even close. Under ordinary circumstances you wouldn’t give him a second glance. He was wearing a white button-down shirt and tan chinos. His jacket was laid neatly on the table next to his bag. The girdle wrapped around his midriff had two bombs sewn into it, one on each side of his stomach. This time he’d used a full pipe. Instead of the blast being directed inwards it would go out in all directions, spreading white hot shrapnel throughout the kill zone.
‘Drop your guns,’ Gifford said.
The professional reassurance was still there in his voice. He locked eyes with Winter. His face was serious but there was the hint of something that might have been a smile. Winter didn’t move. Nor did Anderton. They were standing there with their Glocks aimed at Gifford’s head. Gifford was standing with his feet slightly apart, looking relaxed. His right hand was curled around the bomb trigger on his belt.
‘I will detonate this bomb,’ he said. ‘Don’t think for a second that I won’t.’
‘Nobody needs to do anything rash,’ Anderton said quietly. ‘We can find a way to work through this.’
‘Okay, let me tell you how this works. The only way it works. You’re going to lower your weapons and you’re going to do that right now.’
‘Nobody needs to die.’
Anderton was still speaking quietly, but Winter barely heard her. All his attention was fixed on Gifford and the bomb. That was all that mattered. Everything else was secondary. Gifford was acting like this sort of thing happened every day, like he was completely in control of the situation. The fact that there were two guns aimed at his head didn’t seem to faze him. Winter had seen this before. The absolute self-possession that some psychopaths displayed was disconcerting. Their backs could be all the way against the wall and they’d still think they were in charge.
‘You have three seconds to comply,’ Gifford said calmly.
Winter looked at the bomb vest, just for a fraction of a second, but it was long enough to see everything he needed to. The wires trailing from the bombs met in the centre of Gifford’s stomach and travelled down to his waist. His hand was wrapped around the trigger attached to his belt. Winter’s brain was working fast, going through the possibilities.
Was he using a dead man’s trigger?
No. That wouldn’t be practical. It wouldn’t be the pragmatic solution. He used the bomb vest to coerce his victims. ‘Do what I say or I’ll push the trigger.’ It was all bluster and hot air. He didn’t actually want to use it. He wasn’t suicidal, he just wanted his victims to think he was. Like he’d done with Cathy when he cut his arm open.
Could the threat be neutralised without shooting Gifford in the head?
Yes.
Gifford had already got to ‘two’. His voice sounded as distant as Anderton’s. Winter shifted his aim and fired. The first bullet hit the top of Gifford’s right arm. His hand flew away from the trigger and he let out a howl of pain. The second bullet blew out his left kneecap. It had to be the left. If he collapsed to the right he might accidentally trigger the bomb. It was like felling a tree. Gifford crashed to the floor, falling to the left, away from the trigger. His face was white. He was huffing and puffing and trying to bite back the pain.
‘Don’t move,’ Winter yelled.
Gifford froze, and then something in his expression changed. This was the face of someone who’d opted for suicide by cop. Winter had seen this before. He thought about all the people who’d been murdered, all those lives that had been ruined, and it was so tempting. Gifford’s left hand started moving toward the trigger, but Winter was faster. He covered the distance between them in two strides and stamped on Gifford’s wrist. Then he shot him in the hand. This time there was a scream. It was loud and harrowing and seemed to go on forever. Winter raised the Glock and aimed at Gifford’s head.
‘Stop!’ Anderton yelled. ‘Don’t kill him!’
The gunshots were still ringing inside Winter’s head, affecting his hearing. Her voice sounded muffled. He stood there for a second longer, staring along the barrel, the adrenaline making him itchy. Gifford was making little mewling noises and squirming in agony. He was desperate to get away from the pain, but there was nowhere to go. His breathing was shallow, his face pale. His blood was staining the floor tiles. The bullets had missed his arteries and internal organs. The bones in his hand had been shattered, and he’d be walking with a limp for the rest of his days, but he’d live.
Winter lowered his gun and tucked it into his waistband. Then he hunkered down next to Gifford to get a closer look at the bomb. As far as he could tell the only way to detonate it was by pressing the trigger. No booby traps, no surprises. He started to remove the trigger from Gifford’s belt and Anderton took a sharp intake of breath.
‘It’s okay,’ he said. ‘It’s not going to go off.’
‘And you’re sure of that?’
‘Ninety-nine per cent sure. Gifford isn’t suicidal.’ Winter glanced at Gifford. His eyelids were fluttering as he struggled to stay conscious. He was totally out of it. ‘He’s designed this bomb to be reused. It’s more robust than it looks. He doesn’t want it going off accidentally. This is what he would have used to coerce Myra. He probably used it on the other victims too. Remember, he’s pathologically pragmatic. If something’s working, why fix it?’
‘Even so.’
‘Okay, what do you suggest? We just leave the crazy guy with a live bomb attached to him?’
Before Anderton could say anything else, Winter finished removing the trigger and stood up. There was a nine-volt battery fitted into the back of it. It was a brand-name item that had cost no more than a couple of dollars. In a different context it would be no big deal. It could be used to power a toy or a clock or a smoke detector. In this context it was the difference between life and death. He unclipped it carefully. For a brief moment all he saw was a bright white flash of light, but it was only his imagination.
‘All done,’ he said.
‘So, I can breathe again?’
‘Yeah, you can breathe.’
A sudden clattering sound made them both turn. Delaney was glaring at them from the kitchen chair, issuing demands with her eyes. She rattled the chair legs against the floor again. The message was clear: free me now.
‘We could leave her like that until the police get here,’ Winter suggested.
> ‘Don’t tempt me.’
Anderton went to find some scissors and Winter took another look at Gifford. He had stopped squirming and was drifting in and out of consciousness. The blood from his wounds was spreading slowly across the floor. The girdle had a row of hooks and eyes down the front. Winter unfastened them one at a time, working from top to bottom. Then he rolled Gifford off the girdle, each jerky movement eliciting sharp gasps and groans. Winter carried the girdle to the table and laid it down gently. Even though it was disarmed it still gave off a bad vibe. Send nine volts of electricity into the detonators and it would be capable of killing every person in the room.
The first thing he saw when he unzipped Gifford’s bag was a second bomb. It was just lying there, inert but potentially deadly. The device was encased in a plastic sleeve, and only half a metal tube had been used. Myra Hooper had been killed by a similar bomb. And Lian Hammond. And Alicia Kirchner. And Isabella Sobek. There was a spool of wire in the bag and a reed switch. There were more batteries, too, all the same make as the one he’d removed from the trigger. The bag contained everything Gifford needed to ensure Delaney met the same fate as Isabella and the others. The difference was that Delaney was a minor celebrity. Unpleasant though she was, her death would have sparked a wave of public sympathy. Gifford would have had more grief than he’d have known what to do with.
Winter looked over at the chair. Anderton had managed to free Delaney. She’d also removed the tape from her mouth. Delaney was weeping freely and acting like Anderton was her new best friend. Her words were coming out in a torrent, one long endless rush of relief. Tomorrow she would no doubt start to wonder about how they’d managed to get here so quickly, but for now all she cared about was the fact that she was still alive.
Winter suddenly became aware of someone else in the room. He hadn’t heard them come in because his ears were still ringing. He turned around expecting to see Pascoe and his buddy. They would have heard the gunshots. Hell, the whole neighbourhood would have heard them. It wasn’t Pascoe, though.
