by Faith Martin
And even as she glanced around she saw two people parked in a dark red Mondeo a few hundred yards down the street. One of them was looking up and down the road through binoculars. Yes!
She didn’t know of the unfolding drama back in Thame. If she had, she’d have guessed that Evans would have already warned all his operatives at Gregg’s place that Myers might be about to try and pull something off, and so the officers in the car would have taken her warning seriously indeed.
She was just about to open the gate, intending to go up to the car and introduce herself and tell them that she thought she’d spotted Myers in the area, when a slight noise off to her left stopped her.
She froze, with her hand on the gate, for a moment, too terrified to move.
Then she slowly turned her head. She could see nothing. Not a cat moving, not even a couple of sparrows arguing in one of the bushes. But something had moved — she was convinced of it. Something fairly heavy, too. And the sound had definitely had a stealthy quality to it.
Janine felt her heart begin to pound, and she felt bile rise up in her throat.
And then she saw a movement in the shed in the far corner of the garden.
The people who owned the house were obviously keen gardeners, and had recently purchased a rather orange-looking DIY kit shed from B&Q. And it came complete with a rather large plastic-sheeted window.
And inside it, Janine was positive she saw something move.
She slowly stepped backwards, retreating down the pavement, keeping one eye on the shed as she did so. When she was almost past the window, she saw a large shadow rise up, and realised a man had been crouching on the shed floor. Which was why he hadn’t seen her walk up the path and stand by the gate.
Instinctively she ducked down, putting her hands out in front of her on to the damp lawn to stop herself from falling on her face. Scuttling without much dignity, she managed to make her way back towards the narrow concrete path by the side of the house.
Although she had the gun in her bag, fitted with the makeshift silencer, when Janine Mallow reached into the bag, it was for her mobile phone that she scrabbled. She wanted, oddly enough, not to call DCI Gawain Evans, but her old boss Hillary Greene.
It was instinctive, this need to talk to Hillary, and she’d already brought up her old boss’s number when she saw the plastic window of the shed move.
As she watched, fascinated, a small knife poked through the heavy plastic window, and began to cut out a small, neat hole.
And in that moment, Janine knew without a shadow of doubt why the man inside the shed was cutting that hole. He was cutting it so that he could poke the barrel of a sniper rifle through it, and rest it on the wooden ledge for support.
He was setting up the shot.
She dropped the mobile back into her bag and stared in fascination.
Like most people, Janine Mallow felt a deep resentment towards DI Peter Gregg. If he hadn’t botched the Myers case, none of the nightmare of the last few months would have happened. She wouldn’t have had to bury her husband, or face the thought of childbirth and child-rearing alone. She wouldn’t have to be alone in that big house every night, but would have Mel there, to cook dinner or make jokes about how fat she was getting.
And now here, just a few feet away from her, in that ridiculous cheap little shed, was the man who’d taken her life and future away from her.
All she had to do was walk up and push open the door and . . . Janine blinked as she saw her hand pressing against the wooden door.
She couldn’t remember walking up to the shed — let alone giving her brain the order to push open the door.
Inside, Clive Myers lifted his rifle from the floor and fed it through the cut-out gap in the window. He carefully positioned it, taking the time to get the right balance and feeling the weight of it shift against his shoulder. He wriggled himself against it until it felt right, then put his eye forward, getting ready to settle his socket against the telescopic sight. But before he could do so, he felt himself hesitate.
Something was wrong.
Something was different.
For a moment, he couldn’t understand what it was. The street outside was still deserted. There was nobody in the house behind him, for he’d checked that out before choosing this shed as his vantage point. And no cars had parked in the road, indicating a new arrival.
Besides, it wasn’t the noise level that had changed, but the level of light. It was lighter in here now than it had been a moment ago.
He felt a cold draught of warning wash over him, and began to turn his head to look behind him. His memory was already telling him that there was no mechanism inside the shed for shutting the door on the inside — there was no need for one. But he was sure that he’d pulled the door hard to behind him. And there wasn’t much of a breeze outside. Certainly not enough to catch the door and make it open of its own accord.
As he began to turn, he could feel adrenaline surge through his body as his instincts kicked in. And the old survival training had him reaching for his army knife, tucked down at the side of his boot, even as he turned.
He knew that the rifle in his hand was useless now. It would take him several precious seconds to pull it back out of the small plastic hole in the window, then he’d have to turn with it, and pull the trigger. All of which would take far too long. Whoever had found him would have more than enough time to launch a counterattack.
Within less than half a second his body turned and crouched, his weight swivelling on his toes as he turned to face the source of danger. Staring into the brightly lit doorway, he felt his hand touch the hilt of the knife and begin to extract it.
Yes, there was someone there.
A cop. It had to be. He’d noticed the horde of officers trying to protect DI Peter Gregg, of course, and he couldn’t think of anybody else who’d have any business inspecting garden sheds in the area.
Barely a second had passed now, since he’d first realised something was wrong.
The knife was already beginning to clear his boot when his brain processed what his eyes were seeing, and sent the message screaming through his neural pathways.
A woman.
It was a woman stood there — a woman with long blonde hair and a rounded stomach.
A pregnant woman!
For maybe another half a second, Clive Myers froze. He was trying desperately to match up two vastly disparate things. One part of his mind was in combat mode, a soldier on a mission, facing an unexpected enemy. But the second part of his mind belonged to a normally decent human being, who found himself looking at a pretty blonde pregnant woman. And he couldn’t make the two parts of his dilemma gel into one coherent thought.
And in that moment of confusion, Janine Mallow raised her hand, and saw a lemonade bottle. It made her blink, because, for a moment she had no idea why she was holding an empty lemonade bottle.
But Clive Myers knew. Clive Myers was looking beyond it and seeing the gun in her hand.
And instantly, his dilemma faded.
His hand cleared his boot. He knew he couldn’t get up off the floor and tackle her before she could fire. His only chance was to throw the knife.
He felt his arm muscles flex. His eyes widened.
And in that moment, Janine Mallow shot him.
* * *
Back at HQ Hillary Greene watched Paul Danvers read the last line on the last page, and close the file.
He looked up at her, puzzled. ‘I don’t get it,’ he surprised her by saying.
‘Sir?’
‘You’ve got very little that’s of use by way of forensics. You’ve got no witnesses, and just the two likely suspects. Who do you think it is?’ he asked tentatively.
Hillary blinked. Was it possible he really hadn’t seen it?
‘Sir, look at the date on the Linda Quirke file again,’ she began as her mobile phone shrilled in her pocket. She swore and reached for it absently.
‘All the time, it was staring us in the face
who did it,’ Hillary carried on grimly, ‘and Eddie Philpott’s stolen watch and ring alone should have handed us the answer on a silver platter, but the lack of . . . Hello? Look, can this wait . . .’ she began to snap into her mobile phone, then she froze.
Paul Danvers, watching her, saw all the colour suddenly leave her face. ‘What?’ she said, expelling the word in a single shocked syllable. Faintly, Danvers could hear what sounded like a hysterical female voice babbling away on the other end of the line.
‘Calm down,’ Hillary said sharply, swallowing hard. ‘Just stop talking for a moment.’
She stood up and walked restlessly towards the door, turning her back to Danvers, her shoulders hunching protectively against him. ‘Now, say that again, slowly and quietly,’ Hillary murmured into the phone.
Behind her, Paul Danvers got slowly to his feet, not sure why he was doing so. His heart was beating hard, and he had a sudden sense of real foreboding.
‘Oh no,’ Hillary Greene groaned. Then yelped sharply, ‘No! Don’t do that. Don’t move. Just stay exactly where you are. Do you know the name of the road?’
She listened, her shoulders shaking now with tension. ‘All right. I’ll find you. I’ll be there, just wait for me. We’ll sort it out. I promise. Just don’t do anything, don’t touch anything, don’t say anything to anybody if they get there before I do. Just stay right where you are.’ Her voice was frantic now. ‘Do you understand?’
She listened, then snapped the phone shut. She turned, her eyes focusing on Paul Danvers with difficulty. It was as if she’d forgotten where she was, and what they’d been in the middle of doing.
‘Sir,’ she said vaguely. ‘Sir, I’ve got to go.’
‘What?’ Danvers said. ‘But the Philpott case. You wanted an arrest warrant? What the hell’s going on, Hillary? Are you in trouble?’
‘No, sir,’ she said tonelessly. ‘Not me. But I have to go. We’ll talk about the Philpott case when I get back.’
Danvers stared at her, nonplussed. ‘Hillary, what’s happened? I can help. Let me help you,’ he pleaded.
Hillary Greene already had her hand on the door. When she turned back to look at him, she smiled grimly.
‘I doubt that you can, sir,’ she said. ‘I doubt that anybody can.’
And with that, she turned and ran.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Neville Colt slowly turned the handle to the outer porch and felt the door mechanism disengage. Very carefully he pushed the door open, centimetre by centimetre, but felt no resistance. Just as Mervyn Jones had indicated to his boss DCI Evans, the door was open and free of any booby traps.
So far so good.
Next he crouched down in front of the inner door and checked it over thoroughly with a range of gadgets that used everything from electro-magnetic readers and sonic pulsar technology to a plain and simple picklock. It took him nearly a quarter of an hour, but eventually he was through the two doors and into the hall.
On hands and knees he quickly found the fishing line the two police officers inside the lounge had talked about. Without changing the tension on the wire in any way, he was able to trace it to the lounge door, where it disappeared in the gap at the bottom.
OK. Now for the stairs, he thought grimly. Behind him, two of his men shadowed his every move, placing their feet where he placed his, each clutching a gun. It had been decided that Neville Colt would take the lead and check for booby traps, whilst his backup came fully armed, in case Clive Myers was indeed upstairs on his bed, and decided to come out shooting.
Neville Colt was a fifty-two-year-old veteran of this game, and his hands were perfectly steady as he crawled on all fours to the first step. Fit and lean though he was, he could still hear his breathing, which sounded loud behind the visor of his helmet. As toughened as technology could make it, he knew that should a cleverly concealed device blow up in his face, his helmet and visor would probably not be able to save his life.
Very carefully, he reached for a little hooked knife on his tool belt, and began to remove the first tack on the stairway carpet. First he had to lift the carpet and see if there were any wires anywhere or signs of recent carpentry. If not, he’d then proceed up the stairs one step at a time, with a magnifying lens attached to his helmet, which would let him see if the rest of the carpet had any signs of tampering. Ideally, he’d go up the stairs removing the carpet as he went, but with a possible suspect on the premises, such time-consuming care had been deemed counterproductive. Carefully, keeping his breathing steady, he began to remove the second tack.
* * *
Hillary Greene turned off at the main roundabout, speeding past the large Salisbury’s store there and taking the next few left turns. In her mind, she was running over Janine’s panicked telephone call of just a few minutes ago.
Had she really shot Clive Myers? Was it possible he was not in Thame, where she knew a potentially explosive stand-off was under way, but really here in Kidlington? Word had come down about the bomb threat as she was racing out through the door, the desk sergeant more or less shouting the news to her as she ran past. She hadn’t caught all of it of course, but enough to understand what was happening.
She braked hard, spotting the street name Janine had babbled over the telephone, and the driver of the Astra behind her tooted angrily.
Hillary sped a short way up the road, then abruptly slowed down. DI Gregg’s minders must be stationed all along this road, and she didn’t want to draw attention to herself just yet. So far, she could see no congregation of people at any of the houses, so it was just possible that nobody had heard the shot.
She spotted the two police officers in the car as she idled past, and saw them take note of her number plate. It would only take them a few minutes to run it, and then contact base for instructions. She would have about twenty minutes, if that, in order to assess the situation and decide what to do.
She saw Janine’s forlorn blonde figure a moment later, standing just inside the garden gate of one of the houses on her left. Janine had spotted Puff the Tragic Wagon, her boss’s old Volkswagen, the moment it had turned down the street, and was waving frantically.
Now Janine gave a dry sob of relief as Hillary Greene pulled in and clambered out.
‘I’ve killed him,’ were her first words as Hillary reached her. Her face was deadly pale, and tear tracks marked her cheeks. She was shaking hard, and Hillary stepped inside the gate and down the path a little way, pulling the younger woman further into the garden. She led her to where a small wall formed an L-shape around the porch entrance, providing them with a low seat.
She took Janine’s hands in her own, aghast at how icy they were, and forced her down. ‘Sit down. Now, where is he?’
Janine pointed a trembling finger at a new-looking cheap orange shed in the corner of the garden.
Hillary swallowed hard. ‘OK. Stay here, I’ll take a quick look,’ she ordered.
Janine nodded wordlessly.
Hillary crossed quickly to the shed, took a deep breath, and looked inside, without actually going in.
The first thing she saw was the sniper rifle, its ominously sleek, strangely insubstantial profile snaring her eye. Its barrel was resting through the plastic covering of the window, and its butt rested clumsily on the floor. It was only as her eyes went downwards, following the line of the rifle, that she saw the man on the floor.
She felt a small cry escape her, for her first thought was that the man on the floor couldn’t possibly be Clive Myers. It looked nothing like him. Then she got a grip. Who else would be holed up in a shed with a sniper’s rifle and a prime view of DI Peter Gregg’s back garden?
Still without going inside or touching anything, Hillary knelt down. Now, closer to the ground, she could see that the ex-army man was wearing a wig. And two more things became clearly obvious.
It was Clive Myers after all.
And he was dead. He lay utterly still, with no signs of breathing, and his open, staring eyes never blinked. O
nly a small amount of blood seeped into the coarse wooden flooring of the hut, indicating that he’d died quickly. In his right hand lay a wickedly sharp-looking knife, with a bone handle.
Hillary jerked upright and walked back to Janine. There she crouched down in front of her and waited until her ex-sergeant’s tear- and fear-filled eyes met hers, and then took a deep breath.
‘All right, Janine, I want you to listen to me,’ she said clearly. ‘I need to know what happened here, and I need to know fast. Don’t lie, and keep to the facts. I don’t know how long we have before others get here, and we need to get our stories straight. Do you understand?’
Janine gulped and nodded.
* * *
In Thame, Neville Colt crawled up the last stair and found himself on a small landing. Three doors led off it — he was guessing a bathroom and two bedrooms.
All three doors were shut.
Great, he thought grimly, and held up a hand, indicating to the two men behind him that he wanted complete silence.
He listened hard, but could hear nothing. Neither a dripping tap nor the creak of a bedspring broke the silence. Well, if Myers was up here, he was lying very still, Colt mused.
The bomb disposal man didn’t think that Myers would have heard them coming up the stairs, and nobody watching the house had seen any movements in the windows. Still, the man could be behind one of these doors, and ex-army men tended to have good instincts.
There was going to be no easy way out of this one.
With a sigh, Neville began to crawl on his hands and knees to the first door. And through the magnifying lens attached to his helmet, he saw the first of the three fishing lines. He froze, and held up his hand again, but this time his fingers gave the silent signal for a hidden device.
Behind him, and according to protocol, his men retreated halfway down the stairs and lay flat, giving themselves cover. Not that it would probably be enough to save them if Neville Colt got it wrong.
