The Last 10 Seconds: A Novel

by Simon Kernick

  The thing was, because the Wolfe infiltration had been an unofficial job, I’d done everything possible to make sure my bosses didn’t find out about it. I’d used an old ID from when I was temporarily seconded to Soca a couple of years earlier, and because Soca was a wholly separate organization from the Met, Bob wouldn’t have been able to tell that it was an undercover ID. Also, I’d changed my appearance hugely for the job. Not just by growing my hair and adding big sideburns, but also by putting on more than a stone in weight. It was possible that if Bob had been given a photo to look at, and it wasn’t a particularly good shot, he wouldn’t have recognized me.

  Having someone like Bob looking out for them would explain why Wolfe and his crew had always remained several steps ahead of law enforcement. And I suspected that if the police dug deeper into their activities, they’d find that the man they bought their drugs from was Paul Wise, one of whose central activities was drug smuggling.

  And then there was the way Bob had hurried out of the room when I mentioned the tape.

  It all fitted. But it was still just a theory, and one that was so vague and lacking in evidence that it would be laughed out of a police incident room, let alone a court. A part of me wondered whether I was reading too much into it, that everything that had happened over the past days had made me paranoid. It was difficult to believe that my boss was protecting the men he knew were my brother’s killers. Yet there are many cases in this world of men doing terrible things in the pursuit of money, and perhaps Captain Bob, a man for whom the term ‘self-interest’ might have been invented, was one of them.

  I tried Tina’s landline. There was no answer, so I left a message, asking her to meet me at my flat and telling her it was urgent. I then tried her mobile, with the same result, and left the same message.

  I stepped away from the bank of phones. I had no idea if she was home or not, or whether she was in real and immediate danger, but I wasn’t going to be able to rest until I’d got hold of her, and if I couldn’t do it by phone, I was going to have to turn up in person.

  And do what? Stand guard over her, an invalid with a bad leg who’d just discharged himself from hospital, until she handed over the tape to the journalist?

  In truth, I wasn’t sure what the hell I’d do, but I had to do something, so I limped back to my room, wincing against the continued stiffness in my leg. I had a clean set of clothes I’d got Simon Tilley to bring from home when he’d visited, and I changed into them, careful not to dislodge the bandages that still covered most of my stomach area. I was a long way from fighting strength but, incredibly, neither of the bullets I’d been hit with had damaged any vital organs, and my injuries were healing well, stiff leg aside. In fact, my ribs, two of which had been fractured, had been giving me far more pain, and they ached now as I moved around the room.

  The clock on the wall said 10.14. An hour at least, probably more, since Captain Bob had left in such a hurry.

  I hurried out the door, hoping I wasn’t too late.

  Sixty-one

  Tina Boyd was allowing herself to float gently in a mildly drunken haze, largely ignoring the documentary on the TV.

  She was bored and restless, wanting to get the meeting with Nick Penny, the Guardian journalist, over and done with so that she could wrap this whole thing up and finally put her nemesis in the spotlight.

  It had taken her days of thinking to work out what was the best thing to do with the Anthony Gore confession tape. At one point she’d seriously considered handing it over to Mike Bolt to deal with, knowing that he would never cover anything up. But, though she trusted him totally, she’d decided against it. He’d already done her enough favours, and as a result had found himself in plenty of trouble of his own. Far better to give it to an experienced investigative journalist like Penny, who specialized in sniffing out big stories, and who had a strong anti-establishment background. She knew it would mean the end of her career, as there was no way she could avoid the tape being traced back to her, but frankly, at that moment in time, she was past caring.

  Tina was currently suspended on full pay, but she wasn’t going to be hanging round the flat for much longer. The days were too long and empty, the opportunities to drink too many. No, as soon as Penny made the contents of the tape public, she’d take a holiday – somewhere warm, exotic, and a long way away – and kick the booze for good.

  She yawned and picked up the empty wine bottle, wondering whether to open another, just for a quick nightcap. It was crap stuff, but drinkable, at least. But when she got to her feet, her head spun and her vision blurred for a couple of seconds, which meant it was definitely time for bed.

  She tottered off down the hallway in the direction of her bedroom before realizing she hadn’t turned off the TV.

  But as she turned back round, she heard the lock on the apartment’s front door click loudly as it was turned. Then, as she watched, wondering if she was imagining things, the door slowly began to open.

  For a moment, Tina froze, unsure what to do, her thought processes slowed by the booze. But the door kept opening inch by inch, and then a gloved hand appeared round it, finally jolting her into action.

  Moving as silently as possible in her stockinged feet, she darted into her bedroom. The light was on from earlier and she looked round frantically for her mobile, but couldn’t see it. Nor could she remember where the hell she’d had it last, though she thought it might be back in the lounge. She vaguely remembered hearing it ring earlier, and ignoring it, because she didn’t want to be bothered.

  She heard the living-room door being opened, the sound of the TV growing louder. Someone was searching her flat, looking for her. Even in her befuddled state, she knew it had to have something to do with the tape, although how Paul Wise had found out about it was anyone’s guess.

  There was no time to think about that now. The most important thing was self-preservation.

  She crossed the bedroom floor and opened the old wooden wardrobe that had been here when she bought the apartment. It creaked loudly, and Tina had to resist the bizarre desire to laugh out loud, because as she stepped inside, pushing the coats and suits out of the way and shutting the door behind her, the whole thing reminded her of games of hide and seek at childhood parties.

  And then, as she heard footfalls moving stealthily down the hall in the direction of the bedroom, the fear set in again. She pushed through the coats in front of her, burrowing as far back inside as she could, desperately trying to focus on not making a noise.

  His footfalls came steadily closer, and the floorboard just inside her bedroom door creaked.

  He was in the room.

  She held her breath, feeling herself wobbling, trying not to lean too hard against the back of the wardrobe.

  The room was silent as she waited, no longer able to hear the intruder. Had he gone?

  Then her foot slipped, knocking into a pair of shoes with an audible clack, and Tina froze, clenching her teeth, cursing herself for letting her guard down like this.

  The wardrobe door flew open and the coats were yanked aside in one angry movement.

  For half a second, Tina stood there face to face with a man in an ill-fitting balaclava and a long raincoat who was holding a pistol with silencer in one gloved hand; then she leaped at him with an angry scream, going for his wrists in an effort to stop him from using the gun.

  But the drink had made her movements awkward and un coordinated and he stepped away easily, punching her in the back of the head as she stumbled past him. She put out a hand to head off a collision with the bedroom wall, before tumbling to the floor.

  As she turned round, the gunman loomed over her. ‘The tape. Where is it? Tell me now.’ He hissed the words, clearly trying to disguise his voice. But the accent was educated, possibly upper class. There was an edge of fear in it, too, as if he genuinely didn’t want to be in this position.

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ she said, enunciating her words carefully, strangely ashame
d at having her private drunkenness exposed as she played for time.

  ‘You know exactly what I’m talking about. We can do this the easy way or the hard way. If you tell me, I leave now. If you don’t, I’ll put a bullet in you and turn this place upside down until I find it. And I will find it.’

  Tina looked up at him, trying to work out whether he would actually let her go if she gave it to him. She was desperate not to hand it over and see her last chance of bringing Paul Wise to justice disappear, but she also knew that she didn’t want to die.

  He held the gun steady. ‘Last chance.’

  She swallowed, something stopping her from telling him, even though she knew she was taking a huge risk.

  ‘Tell me,’ he snarled, and she thought she saw the first hint of doubt in his eyes.

  But then he picked up a pillow from the bed, folded it in half and pushed the end of the silencer against it, still pointing the gun at her. Now if he fired, the report would be close to in audible. Not even the neighbours would hear through the paper-thin walls.

  She was about to die in her own home, the last sanctuary she had from the violent world outside. Yet still she couldn’t bring herself to speak.

  The gunman took a step closer and leaned down towards her so that the pillow obscured her field of vision. ‘I’m not going to ask again,’ he whispered, a renewed determination in his voice. ‘Where is it?’

  The buzzer to the apartment went as someone from outside the building called up, a long, uninterrupted noise, as if the caller was holding his hand down on it.

  She had no idea who it was – she never had evening visitors – but it managed to distract the gunman, who momentarily looked away.

  Which was when the drink took over and she launched herself upwards at him with an angry yell, ignoring the way her head spun as she went for the gun.

  Sixty-two

  I was still pushing down on the buzzer to Tina’s apartment on the fourth floor of the bland-looking apartment building when I heard a shot – a faint but unmistakable pop – and the sound of breaking glass.

  Behind me, the taxi driver was already out of his cab. He’d been demanding that I pay the fourteen-pound fare – something I hadn’t been able to do since I had no money – and he was getting steadily more irate as it became clear that the person I was visiting, and who I’d said would pay the bill, wasn’t answering.

  But now he stopped and looked up as pieces of glass landed on the ground. ‘What the hell was that?’

  I hobbled back from the apartment entrance and looked where he was looking. The window that had been broken was on the fourth floor, confirming my worst fears.

  Then I heard a second shot.

  I rushed back to the entrance and began ringing the buzzers for the other apartments, desperate to get inside. ‘Help me get this door open,’ I shouted to the taxi driver, who was a big guy about my age. ‘The woman up there’s in trouble.’

  He put up his hands. ‘Look, mate, I don’t want to get involved.’

  ‘I’m a police officer, for Christ’s sake! Sean Egan. You might have seen my name in the paper. The Creeper case. And up there is DI Tina Boyd, being attacked. Now help me get this bloody thing open! Now!’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Kick it!’

  He looked worried, but to his credit came forward at a steady run and launched a kung fu kick at the door while I continued to press the other buzzers desperately.

  The door shook but held. The taxi driver grunted in pain.

  A woman came over the intercom. ‘Hello?’

  ‘This is the police. Let me in.’

  ‘Show the warrant card to the camera.’

  ‘I haven’t got time. Let me in.’

  ‘No.’

  The taxi driver did another flying kick and this time the door flew open and I hobbled inside on the crutches. I told him to dial 999 and pressed the button for the lift. It opened immediately, and I got inside and pressed for the fourth floor. The taxi driver made no move to follow me as the doors shut, the phone already to his ear.

  I knew what I was doing was insane. I was unarmed, on crutches. I could offer Tina no protection whatsoever, and could easily get myself killed. But I owed her. This was my fault and I didn’t know what the hell I’d do if I was too late and she was already dead.

  The lift doors opened and I charged through them.

  Apartment 4B was opposite me, and straight away I saw that the door was on the latch, but as I shoulder-barged it, with no obvious plan of action whatsoever, it only opened a few inches. The chain was across it. Somewhere further inside I could hear the sound of a struggle.

  I cursed, hobbled backwards and charged it again. This time it flew open, and I stumbled inside, only just about keeping my balance, before starting off down the narrow hallway in the direction of the struggle.

  Another shot rang out, followed by the loud bang of someone hitting the floor, and I heard Tina let out a short, sharp cry of pain.

  I hobbled faster. ‘Police!’ I screamed. ‘Drop your gun, Samuel-Smith! It’s all over!’

  As I reached the doorway, I saw him standing above Tina, who lay sprawled out on the floor, her eyes shut, moaning in pain. He was still wearing the same raincoat he’d had on earlier, except now he also had a balaclava covering his bald head, and a gun in his gloved hands.

  He turned my way, lifting it up to fire, his eyes frowning behind the mask.

  Without hesitating, I threw one of the crutches straight at him, and as he knocked it aside with his gun hand, I threw myself forward, ignoring the searing pain in my leg, and slammed into him.

  My momentum and his lack of preparedness drove the two of us across the room and we slammed into the windowframe. I grabbed his gun hand by the wrist so that the weapon was pointing away from us, and with my free hand punched him hard in the face. He fell backwards so that he was half hanging out of the open window, forty feet above the street below. I could see the taxi driver staring up at us, a look of shock on his face, the phone still to his ear as I punched Bob in the face again and again, leaning all my weight into him, ignoring the agonizing pain in my leg, a pure and terrible rage surging through me as I thought of all the treacherous things this man had done: the way he’d protected the men who’d murdered my brother; the way he’d mutilated an innocent woman to protect a discredited politician; the way he’d come here to murder Tina. I wanted to kill him now, to tear him to pieces. To keep punching him until he finally fell sprawling and lifeless on to the concrete like the piece of dirt he was.

  The gun fell from his hand and clattered to the ground, but still I couldn’t stop myself, enjoying the hot pain in my knuckles as I kept up my assault.

  ‘Stop it, Sean. You’ll kill him!’

  It was Tina. On her feet now, her nose bleeding, her words slightly slurred, her hands grabbing at my arm.

  ‘We need him alive. He’s our only link to Wise.’

  And in that moment, the anger seemed to flood out of me, and I let go of Captain Bob and stumbled backwards, before falling to the floor under the dead weight of my bad leg.

  The last thing I saw before I shut my eyes and lost consciousness was Tina ripping the balaclava off the man who’d been my boss for ten years, revealing a face that was a bloody, defeated mess.

  It was over. All of it.

  Epilogue

  Tina settled into her seat on the plane as it waited for take-off, and relaxed with an orange juice. She’d been off the booze for close to a month now, and wasn’t even missing it any more, although she knew it was far too early to claim success. Alcohol has a way of sneaking back, unnoticed, into a person’s life, but for the moment she was doing a good job of forgetting about it. The cigarettes were a different story. She’d managed to cut down from twenty a day to ten, but that was the extent of it. Still, she figured any normal person had to have some vices.

  It was six weeks now since Robin Samuel-Smith’s arrest for attempted murder, and he was currently awaiting trial in th
e top-security wing of Belmarsh Prison. Tina’s own suspension had been lifted at the same time, it having been decided by the powers-that-be that punishing the police officer who’d done so much to break the whole case wouldn’t sit too well in the court of public opinion.

  However, Sean Egan, the man who’d possibly saved her life twice, and who’d also done so much to bring justice to those involved, had resigned his position. She’d only seen him once since that night in her apartment, when they’d met for coffee in a local Starbucks, and he’d told her he was planning on leaving the country for a while and going out to spend some time with cousins of his in New Zealand. He’d tried to get her out for a drink before he left, but somehow she didn’t think it would work. When it came down to it, they were too similar. Both opinionated and impulsive, they’d probably end up killing each other if they ever got together. She’d told him that and he’d laughed and replied that she was probably right.

  In the end, Tina had taken a leaf out of Egan’s book and applied for a leave of unpaid absence to recuperate – something which had been agreed to immediately. She imagined that her bosses were secretly pleased at the fact that she was out of their hair for a while.

  So here she was, on the way to Central America for a month-long backpacking trip in Costa Rica and Panama. She’d even treated herself to a business-class ticket, and though the cost had been frankly enormous and taken a great chunk out of her savings, she felt that she deserved it.

  The stewardess came by with newspapers and she picked a copy of The Times, allowing herself a small smile as she saw the photograph on the front cover. It showed a short, balding man in an unfashionable cream-coloured suit, with flabby cheeks and a pinched, shrew-like face, holding a hand up to shield himself from the flash of a camera. Paul Wise looked like a man under a lot of pressure, but then that was because he was. The government might have survived the scandal that had hit them in the shape of Anthony Gore, taking turns to get on camera and vilify every aspect of his life and career, knowing that he couldn’t fight back, but for Paul Wise, it was a different story. The crimes he’d committed over so many years were finally coming back to haunt him, now that he seemed to have lost all his backers within the establishment. He’d been named as the man behind the Kent conspiracy, and had been named too as the Mr Big behind a number of other serious crimes. Although he’d so far escaped extradition, and was fervently denying everything through his lawyers, as well as threatening legal action against those who’d named him, these threats and denials were being drowned out by the huge tsunami of pressure being aimed at the Northern Cyprus government, and at Turkey, which effectively controlled much of Northern Cyprus’s foreign policy, to deport him back to the UK to face trial.