by Iain Cameron
He removed the gag and with the only handkerchief in his pocket, wiped her dirty and blood stained face. He guessed her age at early forties with long black hair, now tousled and matted. She sported a fat lip where dark, red blood had coagulated, and a black eye. In addition to the rope tied around her hands, her leg was secured at the ankle to a long, metal chain, set into the concrete of the wall and impossible for him to undo without bolt cutters.
‘Who the hell are you? What are you doing here?’
‘My name is Marta Stevenson,’ she said in an American accent after spitting out some gunk in her mouth. ‘Who are you?’
Marta Stevenson? Wasn’t she the microprocessor designer Lawton was praising earlier? ‘I’m Detective Inspector Angus Henderson, Sussex Police.’
‘Thank God,’ she said, her face lighting up. ‘You’ve come to rescue us.’
‘I didn’t know you were here,’ he said, not wishing to tell her the truth, that he was there under his own initiative. He realised he needed reinforcements and reached for his phone but when he tried to dial, he found there wasn’t a signal. A cellar offered many advantages but this wasn’t one of them.
‘I need to go upstairs and phone for help, I can’t get a phone signal here.’
‘Don’t go, please. Don’t leave us. He says he's going to drown us. He’s only gone to get stuff for his boat and then he’s going to dump us both at sea.’
‘Who? Where?’
‘Larner, Gary Larner says he’s taking us to Brighton Marina where he has a boat and he’s gonna take it out to sea and drown us. We were kidnapped yesterday.’
On hearing the word ‘we’ it reminded him of the other prisoner behind him. He turned and moved towards him. If Marta looked bruised and bashed, her companion appeared to his untrained eye, to be in bad shape, as he had a large cut on the side of his head that was leaking blood down the side of his face, he had a knife slash on his upper arm, and his leg was tucked to the side at an odd angle, making him think it was broken.
He looked dead but when he felt for a pulse, he was alive but in need of immediate hospital treatment. He tried moving him into a more comfortable position and to make sure his airways weren’t blocked but stopped when he heard a strange noise. He listened, and heard it again. There was a creak on the cellar stairs.
THIRTY-NINE
‘Who the fuck are you and what are you doing in my basement?’
Henderson turned. Gary Larner stood at the bottom of the cellar stairs. He was smaller than Henderson expected, about five-nine but solidly built. His hair was a tousled mop of long, sandy-brown strands, making him look wild, reinforced by the angry scowl and wide-eyed glare on his face.
‘I am Detective Inspector Henderson of Sussex Police and I’m arresting you for the kidnap and assault of these two people.’
Larner strode towards him. Before he could react, Larner punched him in the face. He fell back in pain but as Larner swung another, he ducked, but not enough as it still made contact and knocked him to the ground and into a pile of cardboard boxes.
His head was still swimming when he felt Larner reach down and grab hold of his jacket and attempt to pull him upright. As if in a dream, Henderson pulled up his knees, planted the soles of his feet on Larner’s chest and pushed with all his might. Larner staggered back but lost his footing when he tripped over the prone figure of Marta Stevenson and smacked his head on an exposed water pipe.
Henderson struggled to stand upright, a simple task made way more difficult as he was standing on cardboard boxes, many of which were half-empty and when he tried to lever himself up, they collapsed, reminding him of trying to move around his yacht 'Mingary' on a rough sea.
He got to his feet at the same time Larner got to his. Henderson’s head cleared quickly but Larner's didn't and he staggered around like a Friday night drunk, a glassy look in his eyes and in his hand he held a gun. Larner shook his head and slapped his face while waving the gun to and fro, trying to maintain his balance and shift the fog clouding his brain. He had the look and smile of a Friday night inebriate, slow and lopsided.
‘Think you can come in here and fuck everything up for me copper? Except my boat ain’t so big and there’s only space for these two fuckers,’ he said, flicking the barrel of the gun towards the woman. ‘So I guess, I’ll have to kill you now and dump your body overboard later. But wait a minute Gary. You’re not coming back, are you? No, I’m not copper, sorry about this. So what will you do Gary?’ Theatrically, he put his index finger over his lips as if thinking.
‘Why don’t you let these people go?’ Henderson said. ‘This man needs urgent medical help.’
‘Medical help, eh? Ha, what a good joke. Where Sanjay’s going, the little fishes will give him all the help he needs. Won’t they Sanjay?’
‘You could–’
‘Shut up copper,’ he bellowed. ‘I’m thinking.’
His eyes narrowed and a devious smile creased his face, the smile of a psychopath planning his next kill. ‘Yeah, I know what it is. I know just what to do,’ he said, ‘Gary comes to the rescue once again.’ He raised the gun.
To his surprise, Henderson didn’t close his eyes as he thought he would, when facing instant death. He wanted to look this madman in the eye, wanted to imprint his face as a lasting memory in his brain. Slowly, slowly his fingers tightened around the handle of the gun, his face contorted in a concentrated frown. He saw movement in the trigger finger.
Out of the corner of his eye, something moved behind Larner, the gun went off with a boom, nearly deafening him in such a confined space and to his surprise, Larner crumpled up in pain.
At first, Henderson assumed Larner shot himself as he couldn’t feel any pain, but he soon realised Stevenson whacked him on the shin with a slack bit of her leg chain. Henderson threw himself at his assailant, catching him in the midriff in a clumsy tackle and the two men careered into the empty void at the back of the cellar, the gun clattering to the floor somewhere behind them.
Larner tripped and fell but Henderson still maintained a grip on his jacket and they tumbled to the ground, Henderson on top and Larner on the bottom, breaking the DI's fall. They rolled together on the floor trading blows. Henderson was getting the better of him but many of his punches were ineffective as he couldn’t get a good swing and doing nothing to subdue the struggling Larner. Just then, Larner kneed him the groin.
He doubled up in agony and despite tears in his eyes and the inside of his head experiencing an explosion of colour as if peering through a child’s kaleidoscope, he forced them open as no way did he want to lose sight of this slippery bastard even for a second. Instead of teeing up for another blow, Larner hobbled across the floor towards the stairs and after grabbing the banister and holding it for a second or two for support, he disappeared up the cellar stairs.
Gingerly, Henderson forced himself upright but as soon as he did so, he felt giddy. He waited a few seconds and despite vehement protestations from Stevenson to stay with them, he headed up the stairs. The front door lay wide open, blowing in the chilled night air and making the sweat on his face feel clammy. He crossed the threshold and looked outside, in time to see the rear end of a Subaru Impreza disappear over the short driveway and roar off down the road.
He pulled out his phone and this time it did have a signal. ‘Control? This is DI Henderson, Serious Crimes Unit. I need an ambulance and two patrol cars to Bolnore Road in Haywards Heath.’ He turned to look at the front door. ‘The number of the house is...sorry there’s only a house name. It’s called The Cedars, that’s C-E-D-A-R-S. Inside the house, two people are chained to a wall in the cellar, so they’ll need cutting gear and one of the victims is in a bad way. Have you got all this?’
‘Yes sir.’
‘I am now in pursuit of a grey or silver Subaru Impreza heading out of Haywards Heath to destination unknown. See if you can get the number from the DVLA, the car belongs to one Gary Larner, L-A-R-N-E-R at the Bolnore Road address. When you get it, put it ou
t on ANPR straight away but flag him as armed and extremely dangerous and not to be approached.’
He ran to his car and drove after Larner. At the junction of Bolnore Road and the A272, he waited for a line of cars to pass but couldn’t see which way Larner went. He knew he owned a boat at Brighton Marina but would he still go there after his plans had been revealed? Henderson didn’t know much about him, whether he had a mother in Maidstone, a brother in Bradford, or a friend in Farnborough, or if he even possessed a passport, and so he didn’t have a clue where he was going. By the time he reached the A23, offering the choice of north to London or south to Brighton, his mind was made up.
He called DS Walters.
‘Hello sir, how are you? Which pub are you in? Are you looking for some company to come and cheer you up?’
‘What the hell are you on about?’
‘I heard Harris mouthing off about the interviews we did last week. In fact, I think the whole office heard him. I imagine you’re sitting in some pub drowning them.’
‘What me? No chance, it’s not my style. Now listen up. I’ve just found two of Markham’s software designers chained up in Gary Larner’s house. At least I think that’s who they are.’
‘Who’s Gary Larner?’
‘A guy who used to work for Markham but he got booted out for taking dope and entertaining girls on company premises. He was working on a secret project but thinks Markham cheated him out of the profits.’
‘I’m with you now.’
‘He kidnapped the leaders of the team working on this secret project and he was planning to drown them before I turned up.’
‘Bloody hell. Where is he now?’
‘I’m in pursuit or at least I think I am, unless he’s headed off to the airport or a train station. I’m on the way to Brighton Marina.’
‘Why do you think he’s heading there?’
‘It’s where he keeps his boat and after dumping the two captives overboard and shooting me, I think he was probably going to leg it across the Channel to France or Belgium.’
‘I take it he didn’t shoot you?’
‘You’re right, I’m more or less intact.’
‘I’m pleased to hear it as he sounds a right nutter. Have you arranged back-up?’
‘No, because I can't tell them exactly where to go. I might be wrong about the marina.’
‘You’ll need back-up in case you run into him again, and your hunch is as good as any. I’ll set it up.’
‘Cheers. Where are you now?’
‘Still in the office.’
‘Don’t you have a home to go to?’
‘We spent so much time talking about the barney between you and Harris, I didn’t get anything done. I get the feeling I’ll start paying for it now though, as I think you’re going to keep me here all night. Hey, I’ve got some good news for you. Mathew Markham’s Bentley has been found.’
‘What? I’m amazed.’
‘Me too. It was discovered in one of the access roads leading into the Ashdown Forest, a burned out shell. An ignominious end to a beautiful car and hardly the behaviour of a bunch of car thieves, intent making a quick buck, don’t you think?’
He thumped the steering wheel in anger. ‘Why couldn’t they have found it a couple of days ago? It would have strengthened my case.’
‘I think so too.’
‘Does it mean you and everybody else are now coming around to my way of thinking?’
‘Just about.’
‘The best thing you can do is stay where you are and coordinate everything until somebody locates Larner. Keep in touch with Lewes control and call me if he’s spotted by any camera, ok?’
‘No problem. Good luck, sir. I think you’re going to need it.’
FORTY
DI Henderson was tearing along the outside lane of the A23. He was in his own car with no blue light, no siren, and no Day-Glo stripes and giving other road users, rare on this calm Thursday night, the impression of a young tearaway, filled with his own importance and believing his two hundred quid road tax gave him sole ownership of the tarmac.
He passed the two stone pylons erected either side of the southbound carriageway to mark the northern boundary of Greater Brighton, known to locals as the Brighton Gates, when his phone rang.
‘Angus it’s me,’ DS Carol Walters said. ‘Control have informed me they’re on the look-out for a light-coloured Subaru Impreza, yeah?’
‘Aye, Larner's car and the one he was driving when he drove away from his house in Bolnore Road.’
‘Don’t you remember, this is the same type of vehicle Suki Markham told us she saw on the night Sir Mathew was murdered?’
‘Bloody hell, so it was. I’d forgotten.’
‘One other thing, I’ve been told by the petrol heads around here that it’s a fast motor so it’s not beyond the bounds of credibility to suggest it might have been used to knock David Young off his motorbike, if his death was, as you said, somehow tied up in all of this.’
‘We’ll know for sure once we get hold of the car. An accident like that is bound to leave a mark on the bodywork even if he’s cleaned it, but somehow I doubt it as Larner’s a bit of an untidy sod.’
‘There’s our guy Locard rearing his ugly head again.’
‘What?’
‘You know, the criminal psychologist you’re always banging on about. Criminals always leave something behind at the scene and always take something away with them.’
‘I’m astounded, not because you remembered Locard, but you were actually listening to what I was saying in those meetings.’
‘Cheeky beggar, talk to you later.’
He didn’t know too much about cars but there were few in the CID division of any police force who didn’t know about the Subaru Impreza. At one time, they were the getaway vehicle of choice in numerous jewellery shop snatches, security van heists, post office and bank robberies, in fact any crime requiring a fast getaway. Just about every modern car is capable of breaking the speed limit but few cars could touch the Impreza for its 0-60 acceleration. This coupled to a four-wheel drive system, meant it didn’t fishtail all over the tarmac when the gas was applied, including much of what could be found in the average police garage.
The junction with the coast-hugging A27 lay up ahead. He made it on to the road, but to his dismay found it choked with slow-moving traffic. This was not unusual in Brighton as numerous, large scale-events took place all year round, at the Amex Community Stadium, the Racecourse, the seafront and at numerous theatre and concert venues. As luck would have it, he didn’t need to stay on the road long and a few minutes later, turned off and headed towards Brighton Marina.
He knew the route well as his own boat was anchored in the same place, although it was still shored-up for winter with the sails packed, the hull tied to embedded rings at the side of the harbour and tarpaulins covering all exposed areas, as he hadn’t found the time to sort it out.
Soon, he eased the car down the familiar concrete-sided marina slip road, which on bleaker nights than this felt more like a tunnel. He abandoned the car on thick yellow lines close to a barrier, erected to prevent riff-raff from straying too close to the exclusive apartment blocks, some of which had their own parking space for their car and a berth for their yacht, and ran towards the boats.
He didn’t have any idea what sort of boat Larner owned and wouldn’t have a cat’s chance in hell of finding it without some help, as there was almost fifteen hundred berths in the marina and even to a sailor like him, many boats looked the same. Instead, he headed towards the reception area, hoping against hope that one of the berthing masters was around.
It was after nine o’clock and dark and it was unlikely that many yachts or speedboats would be out on the water, but the berthing masters ran a twenty-four hour service. Even though the Marina was used in the main by leisure craft, plenty of commercial fishing boats sailed from there, working all-year-round to land lobster and mussels, and it was not unknown for the odd yacht
to turn up, part-way through a long-distance voyage or a group of kids out on the water practising night-time drills.
He pushed open the door to the office and felt a surge of heat and coffee aroma hit his face like a warm Sahara breeze. To his relief, a man was seated behind the desk, someone he had seen several times before. He was staring at his computer screen while drinking from a large mug with the logo of one of the local yacht chandleries on the side. Given the temperature of the room, it was no surprise to see him dressed in a light coloured polo shirt and denims, but with a thick anorak hanging from the peg behind him for those times when he had to venture outside. The name badge was, ‘Bill Haversome - Berthing Master.’
Henderson put his police ID on the table. ‘Good evening, Bill. I’m trying to locate the berth of a boat belonging to a man named Gary Larner. Can you tell me where I can find it?’
‘No problem detective.’ He paused to look at him. ‘I’ve seen you before, haven’t I? You’ve got a boat on the west side, if I’m not mistaken. Don’t tell me.’ He looked at the ceiling for a few seconds. ‘Yep,’ he said smiling, ‘it’s a Moody 32 and named after a place in Scotland. Am I right?’
‘Well done. It’s called 'Mingary', it’s a district of Ardnamurchan on the west coast of Scotland.’
‘I’ve got a good memory for boats, me,’ he said tapping the side of his head with his finger. ‘Bloody hopeless with people’s names but boats are a doddle. There’s not much else to do around here in the winter, you see.’
He turned back to the computer and started tapping away on the keyboard. ‘Ah here we are,’ he said, turning the screen towards Henderson for him to have a look. ‘Larner wasn’t it?’
‘Yes it is.’
‘I assume you know how the jetties are numbered.’
