by David Hodges
‘What they doin’?’ Duval demanded. ‘Why don’t they jus’ drive in?’
Kate knew the answer to that, but decided it best not to enlighten him. The firearms team from the armed response vehicle would be making their way across the site, step by step, searching each building in turn, their Heckler & Koch sub-machineguns sweeping across doorways and windows as they advanced. The team would need to establish where their target was holed up before they could do anything. Then there would be the usual warnings and the instruction for Duval to come out with his hands raised. That was when she would be most at risk, for she knew deep down that her captor would not surrender now, even if the police decided to put up a hostage negotiator to try and secure her release before resorting to the final option. The police firearms officers would be highly trained professionals, of course, but things could still go wrong and if they did, whether the bullet came from Duval’s pistol or one of the H & Ks, it would make very little difference to her – she would still be dead and that was a sobering thought.
Duval was getting more and more twitchy as he peered through the doorway and that worried her too. She was well aware of the fact that just a few pounds’ pressure on the trigger of a pistol was all that was required to discharge the weapon and a nervous finger could easily do that by accident. So she forced herself to relax, praying that Duval would hold it together long enough for her rescue to be effected. But her captor had no intention of allowing her colleagues to call the shots and he suddenly dug her hard in the neck with the pistol. ‘OK, move.’ he rapped. ‘We’re going for it.’
But he had left it too late. As Kate stumbled out into the gathering dusk, two figures in military style blue uniforms appeared round the corner of one of the derelict buildings and immediately froze into a combat stance, their weapons trained on them. ‘Armed police,’ one shouted unnecessarily as the other moved carefully to one side in a backup position. ‘Stand still.’
Kate cried out as Duval grabbed her hair and pulled her head down on to her shoulder, the pistol pressed against her temple. ‘Do anythin’ an’ I’ll blow her head off,’ he snarled. ‘Now get out of the way.’
The first officer glanced quickly at his companion and motioned him back as he retreated a few paces. ‘Don’t be a fool, Duval,’ he said, his tone hard and uncompromising. ‘Put down the gun.’
Duval released an unnatural snigger. ‘You throw yours down first,’ he retorted and pushed Kate forward in the direction of his Land Rover, which was just visible between two of the derelict buildings to their right.
The helicopter now thudded in towards them, adopting a holding position fifty feet above their heads. Duval threw an angry glance up at the machine. ‘Tell that thing to piss off,’ he yelled at the policemen.
The lead officer spoke quickly into his personal radio and seconds later the chopper veered away across the fields to hover over a distant clump of trees.
They were now within a few feet of the Land Rover and out of the corner of her eye Kate saw that the second of the two police officers had disappeared, while his colleague had turned slightly and was following their progress along the barrel of his H & K.
Kate knew that once she got into the Land Rover with Duval she was finished. He would have no need of her half a mile down the road and would simply toss her out of the vehicle with a neat little bullet hole in her head. She had to act fast – and she did that just as Duval, backing towards the vehicle and using her as a shield, released his grip on her hair to open the driver’s door.
How he had expected to be able to climb up and pull her in after him was difficult to fathom, but he never got the chance. Suddenly lurching backwards to knock him off balance, she threw herself sideways, hitting the ground with agonizing force as her already badly bruised ribs screamed their outrage in a silent mind-numbing white-out.
The shout of ‘Drop your weapon’ seemed faint and unreal as she fought against the waves of intense pain and nausea that tore through her like high voltage electrical discharges, but the double crash of the firearm was real enough. So was the figure, just feet away from her, slamming back into the Land Rover under the impact of the shells and slowly slithering down the side of the vehicle like a broken ragdoll. Duval ended up in a sitting position against the front wheel, head turned in her direction, eyes wide open and fixed on her in the shocked realization of death.
For several minutes she was unable to tear her gaze away from him or the two bloodied holes in his chest from which dark rivulets streamed like oil from a leaking barrel; staring at it with the same kind of morbid fascination that draws rubber-neckers to grisly accident scenes. Not for the first time since this horrific business had begun, she felt strangely detached from the reality of what was going on around her; lost in a macabre unreasoning world of her own in which the white bloodless faces of Andy Seldon, Alf Cross, her poor sister, Linda, and the hapless Ray Jury all jostled for a place. Now there was Terry Duval too – not much of a human being, but still another life brought to a violent end. So much tragedy, so many lives extinguished and each one linked directly to her. Irrational though it was, she couldn’t help feeling an almost overwhelming sense of guilt, a growing conviction that she was jinxed and the unwitting catalyst in it all. And as she stared at Duval, she imagined that his lips curled into a momentary sneer of satisfaction.
Then the horrific illusion was gone and one of the policemen was bending over her, gently but firmly helping her to her feet. ‘You OK, love?’ he queried, peering into her face.
For a few seconds she just stared at him, as if unable to comprehend what he was saying. ‘You shot him?’ she eventually managed to choke through the vomit welling up in her throat. ‘You killed him – just like that?’
‘Had to,’ he replied and he stiffened defensively before resorting to the standard response he would have to use later during the inevitable IPCC4 inquiry. ‘He was armed and presented an imminent threat.’
His colleague straightened up from the corpse, Duval’s pistol in his hand and his face grim. ‘Not that much of a threat as it turns out, mate,’ he breathed. ‘The bloody fool’s pistol was made of plastic.’
The red Mk II Jaguar didn’t like the narrow lane. Its low-slung body had been designed for smooth even road surfaces along which it could snarl at maximum revs, not the undulating ribbons of broken tarmac that looped their way across the Somerset Levels, and at over fifty miles an hour, it was a miracle that the Jag stayed on the road at all.
But Hayden Lewis didn’t care. Kate was far more important to him than even his beloved classic car and the news flash he had just picked up on his car radio about a reported shooting on the pumping station site had scared the hell out of him.
A police road block had been hastily set up a couple of hundred yards from the site entrance and he only just managed to pull up in time, the Jaguar lurching to a stop inches from the marked police traffic car parked broadside across the lane.
The uniformed sergeant wore an angry scowl as he marched up to the car. ‘Bit of a hurry, were you, sir?’ he rapped, then stiffened when Lewis thrust his police warrant card under his nose. ‘And you should certainly know better anyway,’ he added, his face darkening even more.
Lewis almost knocked him over as he flung his door wide. ‘What’s happened?’ he exclaimed, making to push past him.
The sergeant threw an arm out to bar his progress, his eyes glinting. ‘It’s an armed incident,’ he snapped. ‘No one’s allowed through – not even you.’ He nodded towards the mouth of an intersection to his right. ‘You can rejoin this lane further along if you turn right at the top.’
Lewis made no move. ‘Is Kate OK?’ he said, a stubborn set to his jaw.
The sergeant took a deep breath. ‘Look, I don’t know any “Kate”,’ he retorted. ‘I was pulled off the motorway to set up this bloody roadblock and that’s all. Now, I suggest you Foxtrot Oscar, OK?’
‘Sounds like good advice to me,’ another voice joined in and Lewis turned s
harply to meet the cold stare of DCI Callow who had suddenly materialized at his elbow.
‘Ma’am,’ he acknowledged without enthusiasm.
Callow treated him to a frosty smile. ‘So why are you still here, DC Lewis?’ she queried.
Lewis stood his ground. ‘I want to know if Kate’s all right,’ he persisted.
Callow raised an eyebrow. ‘Do you now?’ she replied. ‘How very touching. Well, for your information, she is absolutely fine, which is more than can be said of Terry Duval. He got a fatal dose of lead poisoning, courtesy of the ARV team.’
Lewis felt her eyes boring into him and sensed she was looking for a reaction from him in relation to Duval’s death. But he made sure he disappointed her. ‘I want to see her,’ he said instead.
Callow frowned. ‘Correct me if I’m wrong, DC Lewis, but weren’t you assigned by DI Roscoe to incident-room coverage?’
‘Yes, ma’am, but—’
‘Then what are you doing swanning around the countryside?’
The traffic sergeant sensed the escalating antagonism between the two and discreetly edged out of the way.
‘I wasn’t swanning around – with respect,’ Lewis contradicted. ‘I heard Kate was in trouble and came straight out here.’
‘So chivalry is not dead then?’ Callow sneered. ‘Well, let me set your mind at rest. DC Hamblin is currently en route to Highbridge for a debriefing with Detective Superintendent Davey.’ Her chagrin at not being part of the debrief was clearly evident in the spiteful expression on her face. ‘But that has nothing to do with you, so I suggest you return to your assigned duties immediately before I lose what little patience I have left.’
Lewis glimpsed movement across the adjacent field and saw a big 4 x 4 he recognized as one of the force’s ARVs emerge from among a collection of buildings on the pumping station site and turn towards the entrance gate.
He tensed and Callow stepped smartly in front of him. ‘One more step,’ she warned, ‘and you’ll be off CID and back to wearing a funny hat.’
Lewis hesitated, watching the ARV bump its way along the track at a crawl. He knew that the threat of being returned to uniform patrol duties was not an idle one and he checked himself in time. He would be no good to Kate off the department and if she was to be debriefed at the station, then there was every chance he would be able to see her there anyway.
Unfortunately, however, Callow was ahead of him and, as he climbed back into his car, she leaned on the sill of the open window, her frosty smile back with a vengeance. ‘In fact, DC Lewis,’ she said, ‘with Duval now sadly demised, I expect the incident room to be run down very soon, which means we don’t really need you there anymore. So take the rest of your shift off – you must have quite a few hours’ overtime left on your card.’
Lewis shook his head as he started the engine. ‘I’d rather work on, if you don’t mind,’ he replied.
She leaned right into the car. ‘Read my lips, Lewis,’ she rasped. ‘You are off duty as of now. Go anywhere near the nick and I’ll have your balls. Capiche?’
Lewis glared at her. ‘I don’t think you can force me to take time off,’ he said.
Another humourless smile. ‘I can do anything I like,’ she said. ‘And you’d better believe it.’
3 ARV – Armed Response Vehicle
4 IPCC – Independent Police Complaints Commission
chapter 20
TWISTER WAS FEELING restless and frustrated. It would soon be dark, but there was still no sign of Hayden Lewis or Kate Hamblin. Where had the bloody love-birds got to? He suddenly felt very uneasy, a little voice in his head telling him he should give up on the whole thing. But quitting went against the grain. One of them at least had to put in an appearance sooner or later; he would just have to be patient. As he settled back into his chair, however, after first removing the bulbs of the chandelier, he broke a golden rule and lit a cigarette. The smell would be a dead give-away if someone opened the front door, he knew that, but he needed a drag like nothing else and anyway, by the time they sussed they had company, it would be too late. He just had to remember to take the cigarette butt with him afterwards. Didn’t want to risk that being picked up by some eagle-eyed plod and sent for DNA analysis.
He had finished his cigarette and pocketed the butt when his mobile telephone rang. He checked the number on the display and frowned. It was the organ grinder again and he decided it would be better to answer this time.
‘Twister,’ he announced with a weary resignation.
‘What the hell’s going on?’ a familiar voice snarled.
‘Meaning?’ he replied, his tone dull and indifferent.
‘Meaning the two new murders I’ve just heard about – the breakdown man and Hamblin’s sister. Press are saying that, behind the scenes, they are being linked to the same killer.’
‘So?’
‘Were they your handiwork?’
‘’Fraid so.’
‘Are you crazy?’
‘Maybe, but it’s nothing to worry about – I’ll be better soon.’
‘This isn’t funny, Twister.’
‘Who’s laughing?’ He hesitated. ‘Look, the girl was a mistake, OK? How was I to know she was Hamblin’s twin?’
‘And this Ray Jury character – was he one of the family too?’
‘Hardly. Just a bit of collateral damage, that’s all.’
‘Collateral damage? What’s got into you? You were only supposed to knock out a bloody surveillance team – not half of Somerset.’
He yawned. ‘Yeah, well, it’ll all be over soon anyway.’
There was anxiety in the caller’s tone now. ‘Why do you say that? Where are you?’
He smirked to himself. ‘Nice little thatched cottage in Burtle actually.’
‘Burtle? What the hell are you doing there?’
‘Waiting for a certain police lady and her boyfriend.’
There was a sharp intake of breath. ‘You prick! You’ll blow everything.’
‘Thought you wanted Miss Fancy Knickers out of the way?’
‘That was before you went on this last killing spree. We can’t afford more corpses with their necks broken. Snapping necks is hardly Duval’s MO anyway. He’s a bloody arsonist, not some kind of martial arts hitman.’
‘Fine, so I’ll arrange a nice fire this time. Could be fun and it will put Duval back in the frame.’
‘Just drop the idea, will you? I’m not convinced Hamblin is the threat we thought she was and, despite your best efforts to cock everything up, there’s still a realistic chance that this whole business will turn out just as we’d planned. So no more killings, OK?’
Twister didn’t answer and the caller added, ‘Are you listening to me? I said it’s over. Finished. Have you got that?’
He took a deep breath, reluctantly deciding to come clean. ‘It can’t be.’
‘What are you saying?’
‘Hamblin and her boyfriend have something of mine and I need it back.’
A heavy pause. ‘Something of yours? Like what, for instance?’
‘Like the electronic tracker I put under her car. She and this guy, Hayden Lewis, found it after the crash.’
A despairing groan. ‘I can’t believe I’m hearing this. You seem to be making a profession out of incompetence. If your fingerprints or DNA are on that thing—’
‘I’m pretty sure there won’t be anything on it, but I can’t afford to take the risk. I have to find out where the tracker is and get it back.’
‘Well, it’s pretty obvious where it is, isn’t it? Police forensics will have it.’
‘I doubt it. Hamblin is persona non grata with the firm and seems to be playing her own little game. I don’t reckon she’ll trust official channels, so the thing is likely to be still in her possession.’
‘In which case, it’s best left there – especially if getting it back means knocking her and her boyfriend off afterwards.’
‘It’s all right for you,’ he retorted. ‘There�
��s nothing to connect you to any of this and in your position, no one would suspect you anyway, but I’m wide open if that tracker happens to lead Old Bill to me.’
‘But as you’ve just said, that’s pretty unlikely, isn’t it? And anyway, you should have thought about that before sticking the thing on her car in the first place.’
‘Easy for you to say that, sitting there on your fat arse while I do all the dirty work.’
‘That’s what I hired you for, isn’t it? Not that I’d have bothered if I’d known what an amateur you are.’
Twister’s face darkened. He was growing tired of the constant insults. ‘So what do you suggest?’ he said coldly. ‘There’s a lot of money riding on this job.’
‘I’m not in the game of suggesting anything – I’m telling you, forget the girl and the tracker and get out of that place before it’s too late.’
But he was no longer listening and abruptly snapped the flap of his mobile shut, cutting off the call, as headlights grazed the front window of the living room and car tyres crunched in the gravel alongside the cottage.
‘Seems like it’s already too late,’ he murmured to himself and, switching his mobile off altogether, he left his seat to position himself behind the front door, which opened directly on to the living room, flexing his powerful hands as he waited for the key to turn in the lock.
Detective Superintendent Steve Davey was on a high. That much was obvious when he showed Kate into DCI Callow’s office. Davey’s eyes were bright with almost evangelical zeal and he wore his characteristic boyish smile like a badge of commendation.
