by Ellis, Tim
‘I thought you’d never ask. You and I go out for a meal.’
‘I hope you’re not saying what I think you’re saying?’
‘Whatever happens – happens.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘It means that I’ve fancied you for ages.’
‘Aren’t you married?’
‘A minor irritation.’
‘One meal – nothing more.’
‘One meal.’
She knew damn well he wouldn’t be satisfied with just one meal. The bastard thought she could be bought and sold like a cow at the market. She would never ask for sex in return for a favour at work, and yet some men seemed to think it was all right to do so. He’d want sex afterwards that was for sure. Well, she’d have to dissuade him from that idea.
‘So, how are you going to help me get Swash?’
‘I’ll come down and interrupt your interview in about fifteen minutes. His name has cropped up in one of our investigations. We’re in the process of getting a search warrant to turn his life inside out. We want to interview him after you’ve finished. Unless, of course, he reaches a deal with you. You might want to inform him that his chances of survival in prison would be greatly reduced if he’s convicted as a paedophiles rather than for perverting the course of justice.’
‘You’ve done this type of voluntary work before, haven’t you?’
‘Let’s just say that when it comes to philanthropy, I’m always happy to get my hands dirty.’
‘I’m on my way down there now.’
‘I’ll see you in fifteen minutes.’
Strebler would have to wait until tomorrow, she thought as she walked down to the interview suite. Two out of three tasks crossed off her list wasn’t bad.
Swash didn’t look happy.
The duty solicitor was a young woman called Jane Chapin – a do-gooder with the light of justice in her eyes.
‘My client says that his rights have been trampled on.’
‘I don’t know if you’ve noticed, Miss Chapin, but all guilty people say that.’
‘He says he hasn’t had his phone call.’
‘I allowed him to make the call on his mobile. If necessary, we can check his mobile phone records to prove it.’
‘He’s been in custody nearly twenty-four hours without being permitted to talk to a solicitor.’
‘And yet, here you are. Shall we move past the introductions to the main reason we’re all here?’
She switched on the DVD recorder – stated the date and time, and who was in the room. ‘Your client has been arrested for perverting the course of justice, Miss Chapin.’
‘As far as I’m aware, you have no evidence to charge my client with that offence.’
‘Mr Swash, what can you tell me about David Haig?’
‘His case was submitted for review to the CCRC. It’s my job to carry out a preliminary assessment, and having done that I felt there was justification to pass it to the review stage.’
‘What justification?’
‘I’m sorry, I don’t have to tell you that.’
Chapin interrupted. ‘What exactly are you claiming my client has done, Inspector?’
‘David Haig is a rapist and a murderer. He was convicted by a jury based on the fact that his DNA was found in the victim’s vagina. As far as I’m concerned there was no justification for passing his case to the review stage, which can only mean that Mr Swash has been compromised.’
The solicitor made a show of looking for something on the table. ‘I’m still waiting to see your evidence?’
‘That’s why we’re all here.’
‘You’re fishing. My client is not going to incriminate himself.’ She turned to Swash. ‘Your only response now is, “No comment”.’
There was a knock at the door.
‘Interview suspended at three minutes past six,’ Molly said and paused the DVD. ‘Please excuse me.’
She went outside, but left the door ajar.
After a couple of minutes she returned and pressed “Record” again on the DVD. ‘Interview resumed at seven minutes past six. Mr Swash, that was an officer from Vice. Your name has cropped up in an investigation into a paedophile ring . . .’
Swash’s face drained of blood.
‘The jigsaw pieces are beginning to fall into place, Mr Swash. I think you were blackmailed into helping David Haig, but as Miss Chapin has quite rightly implied – I have no evidence of that. So, I’ve agreed to drop my investigation and hand you over to the officer from Vice. He, apparently, does have evidence, and I needn’t tell you about the welcome paedophiles receive in prison.’
Swash and his solicitor had a whispered argument, and then Chapin said, ‘Against my advice, Mr Swash wants to co-operate on the charge of perverting the course of justice, but only if the other thing goes away.’
She had him. As she suspected, he’d much rather be charged with perverting the course of justice than a paedophile. Nobody wanted to be known publicly as a paedophile.
‘Let’s see what your client is offering first. I want him to make a full statement detailing exactly what happened – including names and dates.’
Chapin looked at Swash, who appeared to have aged twenty years in five minutes.
Resigned to his fate, Swash nodded.
Molly stood up. ‘Mr George Swash, I’m formally charging you with perverting the course of justice in the review of the David Haig case. You don’t have to say anything . . . I have to be somewhere else now, but I’ll send an officer in to take your statement. I’ll look at it in the morning. If it gives me what I want, I’ll talk to the officer from Vice and see if we can’t come to some arrangement.’
Swash nodded again.
Waters was waiting for her outside. ‘About the meal?’
‘I’ll ring you tomorrow to arrange a date. You’re paying by the way.’
‘I wouldn’t have it any other way.’
She walked back upstairs and collected her coat and bag. Now for Jacob.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
He walked along the road to the police station. John Crabbe was leaning against his black Chevrolet Camaro SS chewing gum.
‘Have you checked he’s still down there?’
‘Not since this morning. He didn’t say anything, and he didn’t look in the best of health either.’
‘Once Molly’s finished with him, he won’t be in any kind of health. You can stay out here . . .’
‘I’ll come in.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘There were some things I didn’t put on my CV.’
‘We’ll leave it up to Molly. She might not want witnesses.’
‘I’m easy, but you can be sure I’ve never been a witness to anything in my life.’
‘Thanks.’
Molly arrived and pulled into a parking space along the street. After cutting the engine and the lights, she climbed out of the car, lit a cigarette and began walking towards them.
There was no trace of the snow that had fallen earlier, but more was expected during the night. An orange street light ten yards away provided a ghostly backdrop to their clandestine meeting.
‘Hello, Molly,’ Randall said. ‘This is John.’
Molly nodded at Crabbe. ‘One of your people?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, should we get on with it?’ she said flicking the half-finished cigarette into the road.
‘What have you got in mind?’
‘I think we both know what I’ve got in mind. I’ll need a gun.’
Randall looked at Crabbe and nodded.
Crabbe walked to the boot, opened it and pulled out a Glock 17. He handed it to Molly. ‘It has a full magazine, and it’s untraceable.’
Molly put a round in the chamber and checked the safety was on. She’d done her firearms course a few years back, but she still recalled the basics. ‘Good.’
He also gave each of them a torch.
‘Where is he?’ Molly asked.
‘In a cell. We’ll both be coming . . .’
‘I don’t need either of you there.’
‘That may be so, but we’re still coming in there with you.’
‘Stay out of my way then.’
John Crabbe led them through the door behind the overgrown bush. Once inside the stairwell, and just as they were about to descend to the cells, a noise ricocheted down the stairs from above them.
‘What the hell was that?’ Randall directed at Crabbe.
Crabbe shrugged. ‘Unless someone’s wandered in off the street to keep warm.’
‘I hope you haven’t let him escape?’ Molly said.
‘Stay here,’ Crabbe said. ‘Let me go and check he’s still locked up.’ He disappeared down the stairs into the darkness.
‘We don’t want any witnesses,’ Molly said.
‘No.’
They heard the noise from above again.
Crabbe came back. ‘He’s gone.’
‘Shit! How the hell did that happen?’ Randall asked.
‘We can save the post mortem until later,’ Molly said, moving towards the stairs.
‘Wait,’ Crabbe said. ‘I’ll get a few things out of the car.’ He disappeared again.
Molly directed her torch at his chest. ‘You didn’t tell me it was a Mickey Mouse outfit you were working for.’
He ignored her.
Crabbe returned, passed Randall the shotgun and then led the way up the stairs to the next floor.
How the hell did Jacob get out of that cell? He should have anticipated it. If it was anybody’s fault – it was his. He should have stripped Jacob, left him naked and probably done a body search as well. Molly was quite right though – nothing would be served by dwelling on the past. The more urgent question was: How were they going to do this? Discounting the basement, there were four storeys. The attic had housed the senior magistrates and police officers. There were three stairwells, which were problematic because it meant that Jacob could move easily up or down between floors without being seen.
‘Hang on, John,’ Randall said.
Crabbe stopped.
‘Got the jitters?’ Molly threw at him.
‘There are three sets of stairs. While we’re going up this one, he could be coming down another, find the exit and escape.’
‘Christ almighty,’ Molly exploded leaning against the flaking wall. ‘It would have been a lot easier if you’d just kept him locked up.’
‘Have you got radios, John?’ Randall asked him.’
‘Yes.’
‘Here’s what we’ll do. We each take a stairwell. We climb the stairs at the same time. When we reach each floor we check all the rooms, then we move to the next floor. Eventually, we’ll drive him up to the top floor and he won’t have anywhere left to go.’
‘Can he access the roof from the top floor?’ Crabbe asked.
Randall shook his head. ‘No.’
They made their way down to the open back door and waited while Crabbe got the radios. When he returned they split up. Crabbe took the left-hand stairwell, Randall the centre that they’d been using and Molly had the right-hand one.
‘Ready?’ Randall asked.
‘Ready,’ Crabbe said.
‘Ready,’ Molly echoed.
They began their ascent.
Randall couldn’t believe it had turned into such a mess. They’d had it nailed down. Jacob was trussed up like a lamb for slaughter. All Molly had needed to do was blow his brains out and that was an end to it. They could even have left John Crabbe to bury Jacob in some God-forsaken place and then forgotten all about tonight.
Instead, here they were, playing hide-and-seek in the dark with a psychopath when they should all have been at home doing whatever took their fancy.
What would he have been doing? Kiri would have had another long day. In fact, they both would have had long days. Maybe they’d be sharing a bath, soaping each other and making love . . . He’d had a feeling lately that she was thinking about a baby. Oh, she hadn’t said as much, but he knew how the game was played, and her body clock was ticking. She kept pointing people out on the television, or in magazines – the pregnant princess, the celebrity couple, the strange case of the . . . What the hell was he going to do? He hadn’t been able to protect Mathew and Tilley. Did he deserve to have any more children?
‘I’m on the first floor,’ John Crabbe’s voice came over the radio.
‘Me too,’ Molly said.
The swing doors scraped open in front of him announcing his arrival. He shone his torch left and right as a signal, and could see their torches in return.
As he moved into the first room he realised that what they were doing wasn’t ideal. As they were searching rooms, Jacob could still sneak down the stairs and make his escape. There was nothing he could do if that happened. This was the best he could do with the resources he had available. In an ideal world he would have called CO19. An Armed Response Team would have arrived and stomped through the building like a herd of rampaging elephants. CS capsules and stun grenades would have been used as if nobody had ever heard of budget cuts. He wasn’t in the force anymore though, and he couldn’t call CO19.
What explanation would he have given anyway? The person we kidnapped and illegally imprisoned in the cells has escaped. Can you re-capture him for us, so that we can then murder him and dispose of the body? Oh, and please don’t tell anybody.
‘Clear,’ John Crabbe said.
‘Molly? he hissed into his radio.
‘Is it a fucking race? Clear.’
‘Move up to the next floor.’ He heard the doors swing open and bang shut to the left and right of him, and then he re-entered the middle stairwell.
Maybe this would work. Jacob would keep moving up until there was nowhere left to hide. The crazy bastard would give himself up, knowing that he’d reached the end of his little game. Molly would blow his brains out, John Crabbe would bury him in some God-forsaken place and they’d all go home and forget about tonight. All they needed was for Jacob to stick to the script.
‘I’m on the second floor,’ John Crabbe said.
He must be racing up those stairs. ‘Yes, I’m here,’ Randall echoed.
They waited.
Nothing.
‘Molly?’ Randall said.
No answer.
Crap! Where was she? ‘Molly?’ he said louder, as if that would make a difference. He sounded desperate – maybe he was. He’d captured Jacob so that Molly could feel safe again, but now she wasn’t safe at all.
‘Hello?’ It was Molly.
‘Where the fuck have you been?’
‘Did you miss me?’
The end door burst open, and she waved her torch about. ‘Sorry. It took me a while to realise I’d shifted the channel on the radio, and then I had to find the right one again, which was difficult because . . .’
‘Are you all right?’
‘Yes.’
‘Search, don’t talk.’
How come he’d appointed himself as Molly’s protector anyway? When he’d needed her, she’d let him down, so why should he bother now? The truth of it was – he loved her. Not as a woman, although she was certainly a very beautiful woman, and any man would be a fool not to fancy her, but they’d been partners for five years and that changed everything.
‘On the third floor,’ John Crabbe’s voice jerked him out of his reveries.
‘And me,’ he said as he pushed the swing doors open.
They waited.
Nothing.
He was loathe to start prompting her again because he knew she’d only give him a mouthful.
‘How are things, John?’
‘Yeah fine. Nothing so far.’
‘I think I’d have heard about it if there had been.’
‘Of course.’
‘Molly? Stop pissing about.’
‘She’s not pissing about this time, Randall.’
His stomach knotted up as he heard Jacob’s voice. ‘You hurt her, an
d I’ll . . .’ What would he do that he hadn’t already done, and hadn’t been planning to do?
Shit! What had started off as a straight-forward murder and body disposal had turned into a fucking disaster of the highest order. He began moving to the right-hand stairwell.
John Crabbe caught him up. ‘What do you want me to do?’
‘I have no idea.’
They reached the place where Molly should have been, but there was no sign of her. Where had Jacob taken her – up or down?
‘Go up,’ he said to John. ‘I’ll go down. If it’s clear up there, go past me down to the entrance. We can contain it as long as he doesn’t get out.’
Crabbe nodded.
‘And John, be careful. Don’t underestimate this guy – he’s a fucking psychopath.’
‘This is the guy that murdered your family, isn’t he?’
‘Yes.’
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Molly opened her eyes It was pitch black and her wrists and ankles were bound – presumably with the plastic ties from her own jacket pocket. She tried to wriggle her hands free, but they were bound tight behind her back. Her head throbbed and there was a sharp pain at the base of her skull. She’d just reached the landing outside the swing doors leading to the third floor corridor when everything went black.
Familiar feelings of helplessness overwhelmed her again. She had tried so hard not to become a victim, and yet here she was – under Jacob’s control again. Tears flooded into her eyes, but she forced them back.
I am not a victim.
I am not a victim.
I am not a victim.
For the time being she had the destructive feelings under control, but for how long?
‘Hello?’
‘Molly! I’m so glad you’re awake,’ Jacob’s voice came out of the darkness. ‘Now let’s be clear, if you call out it’ll be the last thing you ever do.’
‘You’ll never get out of here alive.’
‘Oh, I think I will. I have something to bargain with now, and I also have a gun with a full magazine – very generous. You and I are going to walk out of here together.’
‘And live happily ever after?’
He gave a short laugh. ‘And why not?’
‘Because the first chance I get I’m going to kill you like I killed your brothers.’
