by Peter Helton
‘I wasn’t swearing at you.’
‘Better not be. Perhaps I should have killed you when I had the chance. If I ever start a new list, McLusky, I’ll put you at the top, shithead.’ The line went dead.
The lights changed and for a moment they lost sight of the scooter. McLusky simply dropped the mobile on to the floor. Austin snapped back in his seat and steadied himself as McLusky accelerated into a gap between two cars that had all but disappeared by the time they got there. McLusky worked his horn. The sudden braking threw Austin forward. ‘We have a DNA match after all,’ he managed to get out.
‘How come?’ McLusky’s voice sounded as calm as though he were concentrating on a pinball game and only mildly interested in what was being said while he bullied his way through the traffic.
‘A girl was assaulted round here while you were on leave. We took about a hundred DNA samples from men who work in the area. His DNA was scheduled to be destroyed today but some bright spark double-checked first. Is that him over there? White helmet, grey scooter?’
‘Damn, he’s getting away through the lanes.’
Austin called in on his airwave radio. ‘Alpha 12, can I come in, please?’ He rattled off the description and their heading. ‘Armed murder suspect. Divert TFU from Dauphin premises in St Augustine’s to the pursuit.’ To McLusky he said: ‘His name’s Terry Manson, he works as a delivery driver for the deli people. Tactical Firearms were on their way there.’
‘Then I bet I know what he looks like.’
‘Me too, could be the very guy who delivered at the Steadman house when we were there to question the husband. Where’s he gone?’
‘Can’t see him. Which way did the bastard go, left or right?’
‘He’s just disappeared.’
‘I’ll go left.’ McLusky overtook two cars, forcing an oncoming van to mount the pavement. ‘He said he was on his way to see Pauline Leslie.’
‘Do you have a beacon?’
‘I don’t want to alert him. He told me the woman is still alive. If he knows we’re behind him he may not go there. Even if we manage to pull him he could simply refuse to talk and let her die wherever he has her stashed.’
‘I ran Manson through the computer, he has no previous but his father has. Done for shoplifting in a supermarket. And guess who owns the supermarket?’
‘Richard Leslie. Looks like it has to do with his dad, then. Still alive?’
‘Died of pneumonia. At his home.’
‘Did you check?’
‘Neil Shand was the landlord.’
‘There he is!’ McLusky tapped the windscreen. Manson was riding along at normal speed, five cars ahead. He puffed up his cheeks and let out a long breath of relief. ‘Thought we’d lost him.’
Austin gave their position and heading to control. In Hotwells, Manson crossed the river into Ashton Gate and proceeded north. They had been driving for nearly twenty minutes. Traffic was much lighter on this side of the river. ‘If your guess about the radius is correct he must have his base within ten or fifteen minutes from here.’
McLusky was skilled at pursuit yet the size and blackness of his car did not lend itself to stealth. ‘Just as well he’s a typical scooter rider, no glass in his rear-view mirror and I’ve not seen him check behind once.’
‘Things on his mind,’ Austin suggested.
‘I have things on my mind but I know exactly what’s behind me,’ growled McLusky. ‘He’s killing those he holds responsible for his father’s death, I suspect. Pneumonia? I expect electricity comes into it, that’s why he killed the Steadman woman they way he did, she had plenty of fluid in her lungs.’
‘And a radiator round her ankles. Makes sense. And Lamb with his cuts in services and we’re-all-in-this-together speech was just asking to be on Manson’s list.’
‘Yes. But when he promised not to hurt Richard Leslie he needed another way to get back at him.’ They had passed the suburb of Leigh Woods, now going at a steady 40 mph when Manson slowed down. ‘Shit, he’s turning off here.’ In front of them Manson curved off the road and into a narrow lane. Looking lazily over his shoulder he saw the black Mercedes approaching. He immediately accelerated hard up the lane while McLusky had to wait for three cars to pass before he could follow. ‘He’s clocked us, Liam.’ Austin was giving their position over the radio and McLusky reached under his seat and set the blue beacon on his roof. He left the window open and air and noise rushed into the car as the five-litre engine responded to his flooring the accelerator. Almost immediately they came to a fork in the narrow one-lane track. McLusky brought the car to a stop and turned off the engine, then stuck his head out of the window. He could hear the prattling of the scooter being driven at high speed down the left fork. With engine restarted the Mercedes surged down the lane, which the car almost filled from side to side. Austin cringed deep into his seat, casting a glance at the speedometer; if anything came the other way at the same speed the collision would happen at a hundred mph. A house flew past, a Porsche parked in front. Fields to either side now, hedgerows, trees, a high fence on the right, a ‘For Sale’ sign, more trees. Ahead the lane rose.
‘That leads to the back of Abbots Leigh, I think,’ Austin said.
McLusky slowed then stopped altogether, turned off the engine and listened once more. ‘Nothing, he’s turned off somewhere. The “For Sale” sign, what was that?’ He did not look for a turning space but reversed at speed down the lane. It widened when they came to the high wooden fence and gate with the printed sale sign on top.
‘What is that?’ McLusky asked.
‘I think it’s an old timber yard or saw mill,’ said Austin.
Both stepped out of the car and stood in the silence, the ticking of the cooling engine and a distant woodpecker the only sounds. Neither of them closed their doors. McLusky approached the tall wooden gate. Nothing could be seen, both fence and gate being eight foot tall. The gate consisted of two leaves meeting in the centre where they were joined through fist-sized holes with a thick dull metal chain. McLusky put his eye to one of the holes.
Austin had been right; on the other side lay a small timber yard, with long, low sheds covered in corrugated iron to the right and structures for timber storage on the left. A grimy van stood on the right, only just within his field of vision. ‘He is here,’ he said, looking up for a way in.
‘He’s got a gun, Liam,’ Austin warned. McLusky ignored him, reaching up to test one of the planks in the fence. ‘He’s killed four times and nearly killed you,’ Austin continued. ‘We should wait for the TFU.’
McLusky grunted and turned back to the car. ‘You’re right, of course.’
Back in the car Austin gave their position to the radio, then said. ‘ETA fifteen minutes.’
‘Yeah, right,’ said McLusky. He started the engine, reversed a few yards, then threw the car into forward gear, floored the accelerator and drove straight at the fence. He was still accelerating as the Mercedes smashed through the wooden boards and only braked when they were far inside the yard.
There was complete silence as they stood in the soft evening light on either side of the car. The place was shaded by several tall trees, their branches overhanging the low, dilapidated sheds. McLusky shared all of Austin’s misgivings but he could not bring himself to sit this out and let the Tactical Firearms Unit shoot the place up. Manson’s scooter was there, his helmet on the ground beside it. While the first three sheds were all open-fronted the last one had a wooden door flanked by two grimy sash windows. There was no point in tip-toeing around. ‘Manson!’ The shout fell dead without echo in the yard and the deep breath needed for it had sent searing pain through his side. ‘I’ve come for you!’ he called and made straight for the door.
It opened on a dim, cavernous shed. Near the front stood a counter and a desk, covered in yellowing papers and dust. Another set of grimy windows and an open doorway gave on to the rest of it; beyond it in the dim light McLusky saw workbenches, machinery, ankle-high drifts of s
awdust, off-cuts of every type of wood, stacks of timbers. Half-way down against the wall on the right stood a large old-fashioned fridge covered in scratches; a chain and padlock secured the door; next to it hung an open fuse box where Manson had accessed electricity; red and blue cables snaked away from it into the even darker back of the shed where he could just make out a crudely made wooden chair. It was rust red with the dried blood of Manson’s victims.
‘Watch my back, Jane.’ McLusky stepped through the doorway. His headache had returned and his ribcage ached from driving and shouting. His stomach churned acidly and his skin pricked with sweat. He took a few steps inside the gloom and stopped. The place smelled confused; strongest was wood and resin but there was also a fungal smell and a hint of urine. Somewhere in this chaos was Pauline Leslie, dead or alive, and Manson was in here too, he could sense it. He spoke quietly. ‘Might as well come out, Manson. I’m here, now, it’s over.’
There was a long pause before the figure of Terry Manson slid into view from behind a large slant of oak planks. His silver semi-automatic was glinting as he held it steady, levelled at McLusky’s chest. ‘It’s never over until I say it’s over,’ he said mildly. ‘It’s nearly done, though.’
‘You sound disappointed.’
‘Just tired, I guess. I came to Bristol to avenge myself on the bastards who let my father die without food or heat in a flat with nothing but a blow heater he could not afford to run. But if you know my name you’ll know that. And now at the end of it I just feel very tired of it. I don’t even think killing them will give me any rest. I need rest. And I’m tired of you, too.’
‘I’m doing my job. You understand that. I have come to arrest you.’
Manson waggled the gun as though to draw his attention to it. ‘I’m the one with the gun, shithead.’ Even the insult was delivered in a tired, conversational voice as though all the anger had drained from him.
McLusky took a couple of steps towards him. ‘I don’t think that’s a real gun, otherwise you’d have used it. On me, or on them.’ He stopped ten feet away from Manson when he saw him tense his hand around the weapon.
‘The gun is real. But guns are vulgar and quick and sterile. They don’t do much for your anger.’
‘You’re not angry at all,’ said McLusky. ‘You are just full of guilt for not having been there for your father when it happened.’
Manson exploded at him. ‘You spiteful lying wanker!’ He took two steps forward and his gun hand wavered as if undecided what part of McLusky’s anatomy to discharge the weapon into. ‘I was working on a cruise ship thousands of miles away. I am not responsible, they were. Now get back, and you there!’ he shouted towards Austin who was waiting in the doorway. ‘You too, get out!’
‘Prove to me the gun is real and we’ll do as you say,’ McLusky said calmly.
At that moment the bulky shadows of two firearms officers in their bullet-proofs appeared at the windows behind Austin. ‘Backup is here, Liam,’ said Austin urgently.
Manson seemed to deflate a little, his shoulders sagging, his eyes wandering away from McLusky’s face towards his left. ‘The gun is real.’ He almost whispered it. He took aim and fired at the fridge just as firearms officers burst through the door, shouting commands. ‘Shithead.’ Manson stuck the gun into his mouth and pulled the trigger. McLusky jumped to avoid the spray of blood and brains as the back of Manson’s head exploded into fragments and his body slumped to the ground.
It suddenly became very quiet in the room or perhaps McLusky had gone temporarily deaf to the world. Deep inside his brain a high-pitched electronic buzz started up, became louder, then disappeared. He walked over to the fridge. There was a bullet hole in the top-left corner of the door. He rattled the chain. The old-fashioned door handle prevented it from slipping down but it could be pushed up. Austin came to his aid and between them they managed to push it over the top. The door gaped open. Parcelled inside, tightly bound and gagged with gaffer tape, was Pauline Leslie, barely conscious. The bullet had missed her.
McLusky strode from the shed out into the yard. The van of the firearms unit had driven through the enormous gap where his Mercedes had flattened the fence. The front of his car was dented, creased and scratched and one of his headlights was shattered but McLusky thought he had driven worse-looking cars. He let himself sink into the driver’s seat and for a moment rested his arms and forehead against the steering wheel. Then he straightened up and pulled the packet of Extra Lights from his pocket, withdrew the single cigarette left in it and lit it with his silver lighter. He drew the smoke deep into his lungs and exhaled without coughing. He started the engine and turned the car around just as the Range Rover of DSI Denkhaus nosed cautiously through the gap in the fence.
Denkhaus stopped beside him, let his window slide open and looked down at McLusky. ‘Where are you going, McLusky?’
He took another drag from the cigarette. ‘Not sure yet, sir. Manson is dead. Suicide. Pauline Leslie is alive. And I’m on immediate leave, remember?’ Slowly he pulled away and drove over the broken fence panels into the green lane where he briefly stopped, his head leaning out of the window. McLusky sniffed. He thought he could smell freshly roasted coffee, his very favourite hallucination.
