by David Hodges
The next instant fresh salty air was gushing with painful force into her lungs and she bent over almost double, gasping and retching.
‘Heard noises,’ Duval growled. ‘Thought someone else was here.’
She straightened slowly, reaching out to steady herself against one of the piles, and turned to face him. ‘You bastard,’ she gasped, peering myopically at the ominous black shape behind the torch that was trained on her face. ‘I told you I was alone.’
‘Yeah,’ he sneered, ‘but pardon me if I don’t believe everythin’ a copper tells me – comes from personal experience.’
Her hand slid into her pocket, feeling for the captor spray, but it wasn’t there and she stopped short, suddenly remembering that she had dropped the thing with her torch when Duval had grabbed her from behind. ‘So why ask me to meet you if you don’t trust me?’ she countered.
She heard him grunt. ‘What choice do I have?’ he retorted. ‘You’re the only one who saw what really happened to them two coppers.’
‘Apart from you, you mean.’
She saw the torch jerk and his tone was harsh and gritty when he replied. ‘I had nothin’ to do with that job. It was a bleedin’ set-up.’
‘Who by?’
‘An’ how the hell would I know? Maybe someone with a grudge.’
‘Might be quite a few of those around,’ she acknowledged with more than a hint of sarcasm, but he seemed not to have heard her.
‘Yesterday afternoon,’ he went on, ‘someone left a note under the windscreen wiper of me Land Rover while it were parked round the back of my place.’ He hesitated. ‘The note weren’t signed, but whoever wrote it said they had evidence I’d torched a farm near Glastonbury couple of weeks back—’
‘And had you?’
He ignored her. ‘They threatened to hand the lot over to Old Bill ’less I met ’em at midnight last night to sort out a price. Then, a few hours later, I gets a phone call from some geezer askin’ if I’d got the note an’ tellin’ me to make sure I turned up for the meet.’
‘And where was this meet?’
‘The car-park below Brean Down.’
‘And you went?’
‘’Course I bloody went, but when I got there no one showed. I hung around for nearly an hour an’ was on me way back when I heard the newsflash on local radio about them coppers in the Transit. I knew you lot had been there snoopin’ on my place—’
‘You knew we were there?’
He gave a contemptuous snort. ‘Do me a favour, love, I can smell Ol’ Bill a mile off. Anyway, I put two and two together and sussed I’d been set up – got out the way, so the job could be pinned on me – an’ I did the only thing I could an’ pissed off.’
‘And this note you mentioned, what happened to that?’
He released his breath in an exasperated hiss. ‘Stuck it in the pocket of me fleece I left hangin’ on the kitchen door, didn’t I? Didn’t think I’d need it again.’
Kate gave a disparaging grunt, for a moment forgetting her vulnerability. ‘A convenient story, I’ll give you that – almost believable.’
He swore. ‘It’s the bloody truth, you disbelieving cow. An’ unless your lot have already found it, that note will still be where I left it.’
His anger was palpable even in the gloom and Kate shrank away from him, stopping only when she found one of the pier’s piles at her back. ‘But – but why are you telling me all this?’ she blurted, as he towered over her. ‘I’m not even on the inquiry team.’
He snorted again. ‘Not very bright for the filth, are you?’
She frowned, unsure as to what he was getting at, but it was only for a moment and as realization abruptly dawned, she stared at him in disbelief. ‘Holy Moses, you want me to recover it for you, don’t you?’ she breathed. ‘You actually want me to go in there and bring it out for you?’
‘No, I want you to run away with me to South America,’ he threw back. ‘What the hell do you think I want you to do? I can hardly go back for the bloody thing meself, can I?’ He pressed something into her hand. ‘The key to the back door, OK? You just got time to do the bus’ before it gets light.’
Kate’s mind was racing. She was in a cleft-stick. There was no way she could overpower this giant of a man and take him in single-handed. If, on the other hand, she refused to co-operate, he would simply disappear, leaving her with nothing to show for her lone initiative but eventual dismissal from the force and possible criminal charges for obstructing an official police inquiry.
‘And what makes you think I would help you?’ she went on quickly, playing for time as she tried to work out what to do next. ‘Two of my best friends died in that bomb blast.’
He gave a short humourless laugh. ‘Maybe, but from what I hear, you’re in enough cack yourself. Your mates think you run out on them two coppers, don’t they? Which means you need all the Brownie points you can get. So dig out that note for me an’ I’ll turn meself in. That way I gets a chance of proving me innocence an’ DC Hamblin gets a nice bit of personal glory. You savvy?’
‘And how am I supposed to let you know I’ve got the note?’ she went on, trying to keep him talking.
He grunted. ‘Don’t you worry about that, love, I’ll get hold of you – just give me your mobile number.’
She hesitated and he swore. ‘I ain’t got all day, you know,’ he warned.
Making a sudden decision, she rummaged in her pocket and reluctantly handed over one of her business cards, commenting, ‘Be a lot more sensible if you let the investigation team have the note and turned yourself in right now.’
Another cynical laugh. ‘Oh yeah? An’ have one of your lot burn it so they can get a quick conviction? Do me a favour. At least you’ve got too much to lose to stitch me up.’
‘But who’s to say you didn’t write the note yourself as a sort of insurance policy before you did the job?’
But suddenly he was no longer listening and she felt him tense in the gloom. ‘I thought you said you come here alone,’ he grated.
‘But I did.’
‘Is that right?’ Grabbing her by the hair, he jerked her head to one side so that she was staring back at the beach she had crossed just a short time before. At once she saw the policeman. He was only yards away from the pier, his tunic buttons glinting in the moonlight as he approached. ‘What’s he doin’ here then?’
Without waiting for her answer, he threw her roughly to one side and took to his heels, the elastic blackness springing back into place after him as the rapid sloshing of water accompanied his flight towards the other side of the pier.
Then, as she struggled up on to her knees in the wet sand, a powerful flashlight blazed in her face, forcing her to throw up an arm to shield her eyes from the sudden white-out. ‘OK, miss,’ an authoritative voice rapped. ‘Out here where I can see you.’
Flaming woodentop, she mused uncharitably, but complied with a resigned shrug of her shoulders. Where he had come from she hadn’t the faintest idea – no doubt the local plod who checked out the pier for the customary winos and junkies as a matter of course. But he had certainly cocked up any chance she might have had of persuading Duval to hand himself in and given her one hell of a job of trying to explain to her superiors what she was doing under a seafront pier at after two in the morning.
The policeman’s free hand was already cupped around the radio projecting above the lapel of his tunic and she closed her eyes in despair as he called for female backup.
‘Quick shag, was it, eh?’ he said, when he’d finished his request, the possibility that she could actually have been a victim of rape something he had apparently not even considered. ‘Your punter done a runner then?’
Kate shook her head in the manner of someone humouring a small child and produced her warrant card. ‘Not quite, Constabule,’ she said with emphasis on her mispronunciation of his office. ‘DC Kate Hamblin.’
He gaped. ‘You’re a police officer?’ he exclaimed.
‘No,’
she replied drily, pocketing her card. ‘I’m a bloody mermaid.’
chapter 9
THE MAN IN the hooded coat had been standing for so long under the canopy of the esplanade shelter that he could hardly feel his legs and feet. But it had been worth it. From his vantage point Twister had been provided with a good view of the beach and, more importantly, the pavilion pier, and his night-sight binoculars had enabled him to keep even closer tabs on Kate Hamblin as she cut across the sand towards the forest of supporting piles.
Staking out her Bridgwater pad throughout the afternoon and evening had certainly paid off and he was pleased that the patience of his old army days was still with him. He had thought about breaking into the little tart’s flat and doing her in there and then, but was glad that he had held back an extra thirty minutes. To be honest, he had been surprised to see her leave home at well after one in the morning, but it suited his purpose admirably and because of the GPS tracking device previously fitted under her car, he had been able to follow her at a discreet distance, leaving his Land Rover out of sight in a side street when he saw she had parked on the esplanade.
He had no idea who she was meeting; it had to be a meet of some sort surely – unless she was into moonlight skinny-dipping – but he was content to wait until she finished what it was she was here to do, just so long as she started back to her car before his legs and feet froze completely.
The arrival of the cop car was completely unexpected and he shrank back into the shadows of the shelter, silently cursing his luck as it stopped behind Kate Hamblin’s MX5. The young policeman was obviously surprised to see the solitary sports car parked on the esplanade and he walked round it several times, shining his torch through the windows and peering at the licence plate. Then, still not satisfied, he strolled over to the sea wall and peered down on to the beach. Twister saw him stiffen at the same moment as he himself saw the torch flash under the pier. Bugger it! That was bound to arouse the copper’s curiosity and could totally foul up his plans for the night.
He watched as the policeman headed for the gap in the sea wall and the steps down to the beach like a hound on the scent, seeing him emerge on the sand moments later and stumble diagonally towards the pier. Using his binoculars, he saw Kate Hamblin materialize from under the pier on the invitation of the policeman’s flashlight and stand talking to her colleague. From her body language, it was apparent that she was not at all happy at being disturbed and, lowering his binoculars for a second, Twister frowned. ‘Now what have you been up to down there, miss?’ he murmured quietly to himself.
His answer was not long in coming and it was delivered from a totally unexpected source. Sudden movement on the very edge of his field of vision drew his attention away sharply from the action below the pier to another of the railed plinths marking a beach access point 2-300 yards beyond the pavilion. A dark figure had emerged through the gap in the sea wall and was stumbling in near panic down the steps to the esplanade.
‘And who the devil are you?’ he exclaimed, and quickly trained his binoculars on the figure as it ran across the road to disappear into a side street opposite. ‘Well, I’m damned,’ he breathed, ‘Terry Duval. Now that is interesting.’
But interesting or not, he didn’t get much of a chance to ponder the possible implications attached to Duval’s sudden appearance. Instinctively swinging back to the beach, he saw Kate brush the young copper aside and start back across the sand towards the esplanade. It was time to go.
His Land Rover was parked in a side street on the other side of the road and he made it comfortably, slipping behind the wheel and sinking down in the driving seat as much as he could to avoid attracting attention. From its position near the mouth of the junction, he was afforded a clear view of his target climbing into her car. The copper arrived shortly afterwards, but drove off shaking his head even before she had started her engine. As she pulled away, Twister smiled. Everything seemed to be falling into place for him. Maybe he would even get to bed ahead of first light now, but before that he had a nice little ‘accident’ to arrange.
Two local coppers came for Linda, a regular and a special, and they seemed surprised to find that their burglar was not some hardened thug, but an emaciated young woman who looked about as problematic as a truanting schoolgirl. Maybe that was why they made their big mistake.
By rights they should have handcuffed her, but they obviously thought this slip of a girl, shaking and retching in the throes of cold turkey, would be no problem at all for them and they were almost casual in their approach.
‘Right, love,’ the bearded overweight regular said, shifting gum from one side of his mouth to the other. ‘You’re nicked, OK?’
There was no caution, no attempt to search her – which for male officers would have been out of order anyway, seeing as their prisoner was female – just the single gruff comment in the best traditions of a television crime drama and a brief nod to the special, who took hold of Linda’s arm to wheel her out to the waiting police car. The Rottweiler, denied its pound of flesh and rumbling its disappointment from behind a mesh panel fixed across the open kitchen door, watched her leave with as much interest as the old man, who came to the door to see her escorted down the garden path. His face was set into a grim smile of satisfaction as the special opened the door of the police car and gently pushed Linda’s head down to prevent her hurting herself when she climbed inside, but his satisfaction was short-lived.
Neither of the policemen had considered that their twitching emaciated prisoner might actually be capable of resistance. The regular officer had already gone round to the driver’s door, assuming that his colleague was quite able to deal with her on his own, and the last thing the special expected was for the prisoner to suddenly turn on him while he was doing his best to ensure that she didn’t injure herself. But Linda was a lot more streetwise than was apparent. As a result, the part-time policeman was caught completely off guard and the next instant doubled up in agony against the side of the car as she reached behind her to grab his testicles through his nicely creased trousers.
Then she was gone, vanishing into the night even before the regular officer had time to spit out his gum. But, as she staggered drunkenly across town, heading for the backstreet semi where her newly acquired cash could buy her the one thing capable of satisfying the craving that was now tearing her apart, she had no means of knowing that escaping from police custody would turn out to be an even bigger mistake than that made by the two police officers in underestimating her capabilities.
Kate waited until the police car’s rear lights had faded into nothing along the esplanade before moving off. The acrimonious encounter with one of her own had shaken her almost as much as the meeting with Duval and she regretted brushing the young copper aside as she had done. He was bound to report her presence on the beach and it would not take long before that got back to Detective Superintendent Davey and DCI Callow. With nothing to show for her night’s reckless escapade, she would be hung out to dry.
There was only one way out of the mess: find Duval’s note. Ironically, that meant getting even deeper into the hole she was digging for herself, but at least then she would have something positive to produce and if it also resulted in Duval turning himself in, then maybe – just maybe – DC Kate Hamblin would be seen in a much more favourable light. Maybe.
She would have to be very careful though. Duval’s cottage would almost certainly still be under surveillance on the chance that he might go back there and if she were to be spotted by one of her colleagues before she could get what she wanted, it would be all over for her.
A dead badger lay partially flattened in the middle of the road – a recent non-statistical casualty – and a fox sniffing at the remains turned its head quickly towards the approaching car, its eyes glittering for a moment in the headlights before it streaked away into adjacent undergrowth.
Kate hardly noticed either animal and her wheels just missed the corpse – passing on either side of it – mo
re by luck than judgement. She was even less aware of the headlights following her at a discreet distance, as she left the sleeping seaside resort behind and headed along the black ribbon that was the grandly named Queen’s Drive towards the roundabout at Edith Mead where the A38 linked up with the twin slip roads to the M5 motorway.
In the Land Rover that was tailing her, Twister swore. Where the hell was the silly bitch going now? He had expected her to cut through Burnham’s backstreets to Highbridge and then take the A38 to Bridgwater. He had already decided where he was going to drive her off the road – another non-stop fatal accident that would hardly raise an official eyebrow – but that was completely out of the window now. All he could do was to follow her and look for another suitable opportunity.
Yet at the same time something was nagging at him. Why had she met up with Duval under the pier? What had he told her? What could he tell her? Maybe it would be best to put off the accident for the time being – see where she went first? Yeah, a stay of execution until he could suss out what madam was up to; that was the best plan. After all, what was there to lose? There would be no chance of getting to bed before dawn now anyway.
Twister watched as Kate turned left at the Edith Mead roundabout, but stayed well back as she headed along the A38 towards Bristol. It was as well that he did, for just a quarter of a mile further on she turned sharp right, cutting through a gap in a concrete safety island and disappearing into a lane on the other side of the road. He gave a brutal smile as he followed her. ‘Harp Road, eh?’ he muttered to himself, glimpsing the sign at the mouth of the junction. ‘How very apt.’ Angels were fond of playing harps, weren’t they? Well, he fully intended to ensure that this particular angel joined the ranks of the heavenly harpists a lot sooner than she had ever anticipated.
The burned out police Transit was no longer at the murder scene when Kate drove slowly past. She guessed SOCO had finished their examination of the immediate area and had had the vehicle and its gruesome contents moved to a more secure location – both for forensic examination and to deter the press and other ghouls from camping out in the vicinity. Nothing now remained to mark the spot save the blue and white ‘Police Crime Scene’ tapes hanging limply from their poles between the hedgerow bordering one side of the drove and the adjacent rhyne, which glittered coldly in the moonlight as it angled right to follow the line of the road.
