The Falcon Tattoo (The National Crime Agency Series Book 2)

by Bill Rogers

  ‘Don’t you dare,’ she said. ‘Can’t you hover nearer the ground?’

  He shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, even if I did, the down draught from those rotors is going to slam my UAV into the ground. I’ve no option.’

  She cursed as the drone swung back towards them, and they lost sight of the lock-ups. The observer hammered on the roof again. The video stilled as the drone went into hover mode and then swung back towards the lock-ups. Helen Gate’s imperious voice burst from the radio.

  ‘Silver Command, this is Gold Command. India 99 has aborted as per your instruction and is returning to base. I hope you know what you’re doing, SI Stuart.’

  Jo cursed again. Not just at the deliberate use of her name, but because she had never intended the helicopter to leave, only to back off. Before she could reply, Gerry Sarsfield was shouting in her ear and pointing at the screen.

  ‘They’ve spooked him!’

  The roller door of the lock-up had retracted and was now closing again. A man stood in front of it, staring into the sky. The camera zoomed. It was Malacott. Wild-eyed, desperate, confused. He ran towards his car. Stopped. Started again. They watched as he ran around the side of the carport towards the rear of the lock-ups.

  ‘Stay with him,’ Jo ordered. She grabbed the mike. ‘This is Silver Command. Target located. Juliet Six, Seven, Eight and Nine proceed immediately to . . .’ She stared at the screen and read off the coordinates for the lock-up. ‘And wait for me. All other units, hold your position and await instructions.’

  She turned to DI Sarsfield.

  ‘I’m going to that lock-up with Nailor. Can you stay here and direct the operation to secure Malacott? I’ll use your car.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ he said, as she opened the door and got out. He watched her sprint to his car and called after her.

  ‘Good luck, Jo!’

  There was a knot in the pit of her stomach. She knew exactly what he meant.

  ‘They got here fast,’ said Max, but Jo was already out of the car.

  There were four vehicles waiting in a V-formation outside the lock-up. A van containing the Tactical Aid Search and Entry team, the police dog van, the paramedic and forensics nurse, and the CSI team. Jo spoke to the Tactical Aid inspector.

  ‘I need that opening now.’

  ‘Leave it with me,’ he replied.

  ‘I’d like to go after Malacott,’ Max told her, ‘with the dog team.’

  ‘Good idea,’ she said. ‘Clear it with Sarsfield.’

  He grinned, checked that his earpiece was secure and began talking into his throat mike as he moved away.

  One of the enforcer team was trying to lever open the roller door so that a colleague could crawl under it and find the release switch. He sat back on his heels.

  ‘They’ve got security locks,’ he said. ‘We’ll need the MVT.’

  ‘Metal vapour torch,’ the inspector explained to Jo, ‘developed for the US military.’

  ‘How long will it take?’ she asked.

  ‘Seconds,’ he assured her. ‘Like a knife through butter.’

  Max was already walking fast past the white hatchback with the dog leading the way, his handler close behind him. The enforcer returned, holding what looked like the handle of a black regulation torch into which he was clipping a shiny silver cylinder some six inches long. He lowered the visor attached to his helmet and approached the doors.

  ‘We need to step well back,’ said the inspector.

  His colleague held the MVT against the doors at head height, close to the right-hand corner. He pressed a button. A two-second burst of red and orange flame lit up the entire area. Sparks flew and the enforcer disappeared in a thick, white cloud of smoke. He ejected the cartridge and clipped another into place, repeating the operation three times, then stood back, studying the perfect ring of holes.

  Jo’s throat and nasal passages stung, while her mouth tasted of burnt metal.

  ‘Bloody hell!’ she said.

  ‘Copper, aluminium, magnesium and liquid oxygen,’ said the inspector. ‘Brilliant, isn’t it?’

  The enforcer took a small hammer from his belt and struck the door at the centre of the ring. The steel plate fell away, leaving a six-inch hole. He reached his arm inside, felt for the cord attached to the manual release and pulled it. Seconds later, the door was open.

  ‘This is Silver Command,’ Jo said. ‘We’ve found her.’

  Chapter 57

  A ceiling strip light lit the room. There were rugs on the floor, photos on the wall, a clothes rack with wire hangers, and a king-size bed.

  Sally Warburton lay naked in the centre of the bed, hands secured with cable ties to a Gothic-style iron bedhead, feet tied with rope to the bedposts. There was a set of headphones on her head, a mask over her eyes and a gag in her mouth. She was thrashing from side to side, struggling to free herself. There was a pungent smell unconnected with the burning metal.

  ‘What is that?’ Jo asked, resisting the temptation to rush in. ‘Do we need a biohazard kit?’

  ‘It smells like bleach,’ said the crime scene investigator. ‘He’s probably tried to destroy trace evidence, though with all this in here, I’d say he was wasting his time.’

  ‘Is it safe to go in?’

  ‘It’s your call,’ he said, ‘but I reckon so. Gloves on, masks on, keep to the left of the bed and keep the numbers to an absolute minimum.’

  ‘Right,’ said Jo. ‘Just you, me, and . . .’ She turned and beckoned to the forensics nurse. ‘With me,’ she said. ‘The rest of you, wait here.’

  ‘One photograph,’ she told the CSI, ‘then I want you to hang back till we’ve got a sheet on her and the blindfold off. I don’t want her seeing a man staring at her when that mask comes off.’

  They stood beside the bed.

  ‘Poor love, she must be terrified,’ said the nurse.

  As Jo began to remove the headphones, the young woman froze.

  ‘It’s alright, Sally,’ Jo said. ‘I’m Jo Stuart. I’m a police officer. You’re safe now. A nurse is going to cover you with a thin sheet and then remove your blindfold and your gag.’

  The gag was of a bondage type Jo had last seen on the body of a murder victim. It had small holes to allow the wearer to breathe, but not talk. Sally Warburton made a pitiful whimpering noise as the blindfold was removed. She stared back at them with wild frightened eyes that flicked from side to side. Gradually they settled.

  Jo gestured the CSI forward.

  ‘Can you cut those ties and untie her legs, and do what you have to do to secure trace evidence. I’d like her out of here, in that ambulance, and back to St Mary’s as quickly as possible.’

  She slipped off her own mask.

  ‘My colleague, Helen, is going to untie you now, Sally,’ Jo said. ‘Then she’s going to give you some paper briefs, a paper gown and some booties to slip on. She will also cover your hands. Then she will take you outside to an ambulance, and you’ll be driven straight to hospital so that we can have you checked over. Do you understand?’

  The young woman nodded and began to reply. Her throat was parched, her words emerging as a series of croaks.

  ‘I don’t think he touched me,’ she said. ‘Not like you think.’

  ‘Good,’ said Jo. ‘Nevertheless, we need to be sure, for your sake.’ She leaned closer. ‘Did you see his face at all?’

  Sally shook her head.

  ‘No, he was wearing a mask.’

  ‘We know,’ said Jo. ‘Did he say anything to you?’

  ‘Only when he came up behind me in the car park.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘He grabbed my arm and put something sharp against my neck. “I have a knife,” he said. “Do as I say and you won’t get hurt.” ’

  ‘That’s it? Nothing else?’

  ‘He told me to get in my car, to drive, and where to go.’ She paused. ‘There was something else though.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘It wasn’t anything
he said. It’s just that while I was driving, he was singing to himself.’

  ‘Do you remember what he was singing?’

  ‘I only remember a bit – I was terrified. I remember it was really creepy: him having a dove, and the sweet dove dying?’

  ‘At some point he changed cars?’

  ‘He made me get out, and then climb in the trunk of the other car. He brought me here and left me like this.’

  ‘He didn’t touch you again?’

  A shake of the head.

  ‘Did he come back and give you any food or water?’

  Another shake of the head.

  Jo could see that she was wasting her time.

  ‘Okay, Sally. We’ll take you to hospital now. You’ll be looked after. I’ll come back and see you as soon as I can.’

  She turned away, and left the forensics nurse to her tasks. She could hear all the time in her earpiece the chatter involved in the search for Malacott. He had last been sighted scaling a chain-link fence around one of the industrial units. Max and the dog handler had arrived there just as he dropped down on the far side. It was too high for the dog to clear, and the two of them had decided it was better to go round and pick up the trail on the other side. After all, they reasoned, he was boxed in and going nowhere. Jo hoped they were right.

  She stared at the walls. They were covered with photos of his victims. In some they were naked, in others clothed. There were head-and-shoulders portraits and close-ups of each of the tattoos. In none of the photos were the victims’ eyes open. She counted the portraits: there were three faces she did not recognise. Then she realised that one of the faces, not among the victims they had already seen, was known to her. It was a head-and-shoulders of his sister, Amanda.

  ‘Bastard,’ she muttered.

  ‘Sorry?’ said the CSI.

  ‘Not you,’ she told him. ‘Malacott.’

  ‘Oh,’ he said. ‘Anyway, I’ve got all I need, she’s fine to be whisked off to St Mary’s, and I’ll start on this lot.’ He gestured to the walls, and a table on the far side of the bed.

  Jo moved away from the bottom of the bed to allow Sally Warburton and the forensics nurse to pass. As they drew level, Sally stopped. Her body shook with shivers as she spoke.

  ‘You’re Joanne, aren’t you?’ she said. ‘Joanne Stuart – Abbie’s ex?’

  Jo’s reaction was visceral. Her fists curled into balls, her heart pounded, she realised that she had clenched her jaw. Ex? What gave her the right to call her Abbie’s ex? Anger was rising up to choke off any pity she felt for this girl. Sod that! This woman.

  Jo suddenly realised that they were both staring at her, waiting for her to respond. She slowly uncurled her hands, breathed in and forced a smile.

  ‘Yes, I am,’ she said.

  A reciprocal smile broke out on Sally’s face. She suddenly looked innocent and very pretty, despite her lack of make-up and her tangled hair.

  ‘Will you let her know I’m alright?’ Sally said. ‘And James too?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Jo.

  She watched as Sally and the forensic nurse walked slowly out of the lock-up towards the paramedic’s estate car.

  Jo inclined her head.

  ‘Gold Command, this is Silver Command,’ she said. ‘Our missing person is on her way to the St Mary’s Centre. She appears to be fine. Please advise her parents and her brother. Bronze Command, what is the sitrep on the target, please?’

  ‘This is Bronze Command,’ Sarsfield replied. ‘The target appears to have gone to ground within the search perimeter. We expect to have contact shortly.’

  Jo shook her head. What was that dog doing? And what about the UAV? She was beginning to wish she had not been so hasty in sending the helicopter away. This was where its thermal imaging would have come in handy.

  The CSI had walked around the bed, and was staring at the contents of the table. On top lay the discarded facemask Malacott had worn. Beside it was a cabin-size aluminium case.

  ‘Be careful,’ she said. ‘It could be booby-trapped.’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  Nevertheless, he was cautious, as he gently opened the lid. Inside, in special compartments, nestled a cordless electric razor, a multiple socket plug, sterilized needles in cellophane wrappers, plastic needle tips, three needle valve seats, three tubes of specialist permanent coloured ink, and various objects she did not recognise.

  ‘This is a portable DIY tattoo kit,’ said the CSI. ‘It looks like he was upping his game.’

  He closed the lid and picked up a small plastic jar with a handwritten label. Unscrewing the lid, he looked inside, screwed it back on and rattled the jar.

  ‘Flunitrazepam – otherwise known as Rohypnol,’ he said. ‘No wonder she was hazy about the details.’

  Jo pointed to a row of industrial-size bottles of liquid beneath the table.

  ‘What are these?’

  He squatted down and read the label.

  ‘It says sterilised water. We’ll find out soon enough.’

  ‘And this?’

  Jo nodded to an opaque spray bottle like the one she used to mist the orchids in the apartment kitchen. Beside it stood another plastic container. The CSI stood up and examined the container first.

  ‘It’s sodium percarbonate,’ he declared. ‘Otherwise known as oxygen bleach. He’s been mixing it with water and spraying it everywhere, trying to obliterate any traces of his DNA.’

  ‘Is it safe?’

  ‘To breathe, yes. Undiluted it’s corrosive, so make sure you keep your gloves on.’

  ‘Silver Command, Bronze Command, this is Gold Command. You need to hear this. Go ahead, Juliet Two.’

  ‘This is Juliet Two, Silver Command. We have just discovered items in our search of the target’s house that suggest that he may be armed.’

  Jo’s heart began to race.

  ‘What items, Juliet Two?’

  ‘Five antique knives and a modern hunting knife. We also found a selfie of the target holding a revolver. It looks like an old-spec British Enfield, Number two, Mark one, thirty-eight calibre. We come across a lot of these. Usually they’re de-activated.’ He paused, letting the tension build. ‘But we also found a half-empty box of cartridges. There’s no sign of the weapon.’

  ‘It’ll take us fifteen minutes to get an armed response unit to your location,’ said Gold Command. Her voice was steely with reproof. ‘I think we should do that, don’t you?’

  Jo swore silently.

  ‘Yes please, Gold Command,’ she replied.

  ‘Contact, contact!’ someone bellowed in her ear.

  ‘This is Silver Command,’ she said. ‘Who is this? And where the hell are you?’

  ‘Sorry, Ma’am, flight control here. The target has broken cover eighty yards south of the BP garage. He’s crossing Haslingden Road. Quebec Two and the dog handler are in pursuit. Target has just vaulted a drystone wall into a field.’

  Jo took a deep breath. Until the armed response arrived, she and Max were the only two with firearms.

  ‘Quebec Two,’ she said. ‘Please be aware that the target may be armed with a revolver. Proceed with caution. I’m on my way to cut him off. All other units hold your position. I repeat: do not approach the target.’

  Before Max had time to acknowledge her command, Jo was already out of the lock-up and running towards her car.

  ‘Flight control, where is he now?’ she asked.

  ‘He’s heading straight for Guide Reservoir.’

  She flung open the door of the Audi and dived into her seat.

  ‘Don’t lose him,’ she said.

  ‘No fear of that, Ma’am. Now that he’s out in the open.’

  ‘Go!’ she yelled at the driver. ‘Just go!’

  Jo hung on to the grab strap as the car hurtled the five hundred-odd yards around two bends and the Beehive Roundabout. It wasn’t just that she had to get to him first, it was the thought of losing a second perpetrator to a watery grave, as she had her own abduc
tor. Once had been careless, twice would be professional suicide.

  As they sped down by the side of The Willows, she spotted Max and the dog handler, halfway across the field. Both dog and suspect were out of sight. The car squealed to a dramatic halt in front of twin steel five-barred gates that marked the boundary between the tarmac and a sandy path above the reservoir. Jo leapt out of the car into a sudden rainy squall, clambered over the gates and set off running, the comforting presence of the Glock 26 hard against the small of her back.

  Guided by the sound of the dog’s furious barking, and instructions from the flight controller, she turned left along the path beside a drystone wall, beyond which was a five-foot-high steel palisade fence with wicked sharpened tips. Behind her she could hear pounding feet. Max’s shouted words were lost on the wind. The dog had stopped barking now. At the end of the path, she scaled another drystone wall on to the road, ran five yards, climbed over one more wall, and landed on a grassy bank that led down to the water.

  Malacott stood facing a second steel fence, looking out across the reservoir. He heard her coming, and turned around, head bent. His arms were down by his side. In his right hand he held a revolver.

  Jo stopped, reached behind her, and drew the Glock. She assumed the stance, square to the target, arms slightly bent, support hand locked, strong hand relaxed. The front sight blade centred on his chest.

  ‘Armed police!’ she yelled, as much for those listening as for him. ‘Drop your weapon, and get down on the ground!’

  Malacott turned towards her. His hair was a sodden mass of coiled snakes. Rivulets of rain streamed down his cheeks like tears. Behind him, the wind whipped up white horses on the reservoir.

  ‘Drop it, now!’

  He slowly raised his head and stared at her. His eyes were wild and full of confusion, as though he had no idea what they were doing here.

  ‘Malacott, drop your gun now!’ she yelled. ‘Do it now!’

  She strained to hear his response above the wind.

  ‘You won’t shoot me,’ he said. ‘You don’t have it in you.’

  ‘Drop your weapon,’ she repeated. ‘Then get down on the ground!’

  He smiled sadly and began to raise the gun towards her.