by Adam Hamdy
‘Got them!’ Bailey yelled. The detective leaped up and tried the first key in the door. It slotted in perfectly, and turned. ‘Come on!’
Bailey grabbed Wallace and pulled him up and through the door. Another crack and Wallace felt the strength ebb away from the hands that held him. He fell on to the other side of the door, which slammed shut. As he pulled himself to his feet, Wallace saw that Bailey had been hit in the abdomen. Blood was spreading across his sky-blue shirt. Black blood, possibly from the liver. Wallace registered someone pulling on the other side of the security door. Bailey held up the keys, and smiled weakly. One of the keys had been snapped and Wallace knew that the other end was lodged in the lock.
‘Let’s go,’ Bailey said.
Wallace helped Bailey to his feet and slung the detective’s left arm over his shoulder. They set off towards the canteen. Moments later, Wallace heard another gunshot and shattering glass. He turned to see a gloved hand reaching through the panel window and searching for the latch. Wallace cast around the corridor, his eyes scanning for something he could use to vent his rage. He suddenly remembered his previous escape.
‘Wait here,’ he told Bailey. Before the detective could react, Wallace slipped out from under the man’s arm, crossed the corridor and grabbed a large, red fire extinguisher. He raised it as he rushed towards the door. The gloved hand had made contact with the lock and was beginning to turn the latch, when Wallace started his swing. The door opened as the fire extinguisher arced through the air. Wallace heard himself roaring with a bestial fury as he put all his strength into the blow. The edge of the metal base connected with the masked attacker’s wrist and the side of the extinguisher smashed into his hand with so much force that the door slammed shut. Wallace felt a rush of satisfaction as he heard a muffled howl and saw the crippled hand hastily withdraw through the panel window. He dropped the fire extinguisher and ran back to Bailey, grabbing the detective as fresh gunfire came from the panel window.
‘Good work,’ Bailey said weakly, before suddenly crying in pain. Wallace felt the instant drag of weight as the detective went down. He hauled the man round the corner, into the corridor that led to the canteen. He turned and saw with dismay that Bailey had been hit again. Blood was spreading across his shirt.
‘Come on!’ Wallace shouted, but Bailey was going nowhere. A sheen of sweat covered the wounded man’s face. His breathing was shallow and irregular and his eyes glassy.
‘Fucker,’ Bailey said weakly. ‘You make sure you get him.’
‘Come on, we can make it,’ Wallace urged.
Bailey fumbled for his pocket. ‘Take my car,’ he said, his voice taking on a hollow, rasping sound as his lungs fought for every breath. ‘Kye Walters,’ he added weakly. ‘File.’
‘What?’ Wallace asked, trying to focus on Bailey’s soft words.
‘Kye Walters,’ Bailey reiterated impatiently. ‘The Monkey Puzzle. Salamander. He’ll help. Salamander. Get him.’ Bailey’s head fell on to his left shoulder and his eyes rolled back.
Wallace shuddered as the policeman’s life ebbed away, but he had no time to mourn. He reached for Bailey’s pocket and pulled out the detective’s car keys. He peered round the corner and saw the killer’s other hand turn the latch. The door swung open as Wallace got to his feet and started sprinting.
He burst into the canteen to be greeted by two orderlies and a security guard running towards him.
‘Get out!’ Wallace yelled.
The orderlies barely had time to exchange sceptical looks before the killer ran into the canteen and fired off two shots. One of the orderlies went down. Wallace passed the other two shocked men and raced for the exit. He heard gunshots behind him, but didn’t turn to see what was happening. He made it to the security door that separated the canteen from the administration block and ran into another guard. He grabbed the man and dragged him back through the door, which was swinging closed.
‘Hey!’ the guard yelled.
‘There’s a guy with a gun!’ Wallace shouted in reply.
Wallace felt the man’s resistance abruptly stop and when he turned, he saw why: the masked killer was running up the corridor behind them. One hand held a pistol, the other hung limply by his side.
The guard started running with Wallace and the two of them rounded the corner by the dispensary. They raced up the corridor towards the final security door that led to the main lobby. The guard had his key card in hand. Wallace heard another crack and there was a tumble of arms and legs beside him. The key card flew forward and landed by the door. Wallace looked down at the fallen guard, who was splayed in a rag doll pose, a gaping wound in the back of his skull. Wallace heard a couple of shots as he lunged for the key card. Wood splintered as bullets struck the door. He swiped the card and the reader flashed green. He felt something sear his arm, but he ignored the screaming pain, barrelled into the door and sprinted across the lobby.
Wallace prayed that his luck would hold. He aimed for the edge of one of the pieces of plywood that covered the lobby window frame and charged it with his shoulder. He hit the temporary covering at full speed and felt satisfyingly out of control as it came away from the frame. There was a splintering sound and crushing pain, and Wallace found himself outside the building. He scanned the car park and saw Bailey’s car. As he sprinted towards it Wallace looked behind him and, through the hole in the plywood, saw the killer taking careful aim. Wallace suddenly changed direction and rolled as the crack of gunfire sounded across the car park.
He got to his feet and pressed the central locking. He yanked open the driver’s door, fumbled the key into the ignition and turned. The starter screamed as Wallace held it longer than necessary, but he didn’t care; he slammed into reverse and hit the accelerator. A bullet shattered the rear window and pierced a hole in the windscreen, just to the left of Wallace. He thumped the gearstick into first and stomped on the accelerator. The car roared forward, raced down the drive, smashed through the hospital gate and swung on to the main road. Behind him, Wallace could see distant blue flashing lights. He held his foot on the accelerator for a couple of blocks, and kept checking his rear-view mirror. He saw two police cars turn into the grounds of the Maybury Hospital, but he wasn’t being followed. Satisfied that he was safe, he slowed down and tried to drive like a man who wasn’t running for his life.
The adrenalin that surged through his veins dissipated and was replaced by a numb emptiness. He looked at his right arm and saw a bleeding gash where a bullet had taken a slice out of him just below the shoulder. Wallace felt the car oscillating and realised it was because he was shaking so violently. He pulled into a bus stop and looked in the mirror, desperately willing himself to keep it together. The sight of his reflection, the memory of all the men he’d seen killed and the knowledge that his ordeal was far from finished overwhelmed him, and Wallace broke down. He opened the door and staggered from the vehicle. He only made it two steps before he vomited by the back wheel. His body heaved violently as though trying to expunge the events he’d just experienced. Satisfied that he had purged himself, Wallace stood upright, only to be greeted by the sight of a night bus trying to pull into the stop. The driver gestured angrily and sounded the horn. Feeling totally drained, Wallace just waved weakly, climbed back into Bailey’s car, and drove into the night.
18
Connie rolled over to pick up her ringing phone, her eyes trying to focus as her brain was shocked into consciousness. The display showed an unknown number. It also showed 05:08; an uncivilised time for any conversation. ‘Hello,’ she answered.
‘Connie, are you OK?’ Wallace asked, his voice alive with palpable concern.
‘I’m fine. Where are you? What’s going on?’
‘He came,’ Wallace told her. ‘They’re all dead.’
Connie heard the panic in Wallace’s voice as his words ran into one another.
‘Are you sure you’re OK?’ he asked.
‘I’m fine,’ she replied emphatically. ‘Where are yo
u?’
He didn’t reply.
‘Are you OK?’
‘I don’t know what to do,’ Wallace responded weakly.
‘Let me come and get you,’ Connie suggested. ‘We can go to the police.’
‘It’s too dangerous,’ Wallace insisted. ‘I don’t know who to trust.’
‘You can trust me, John.’
The line went silent.
‘I know,’ Wallace replied finally.
‘Let’s meet somewhere,’ Connie said. ‘Somewhere public and safe. The Millennium Bridge, opposite Tate Modern.’
There was a moment’s pause.
‘When?’ Wallace asked finally.
‘As soon as you can get there,’ she said. ‘I’m leaving now.’
‘OK,’ Wallace conceded.
‘I love you, John,’ Connie said.
‘I love you, too.’ Wallace’s voice quivered with emotion.
Connie hung up and hurriedly climbed out of bed.
Wallace replaced the receiver and exited the glass coffin that encased the payphone. He looked up and down the quiet street and couldn’t see any obvious signs of danger. Bailey’s car was parked on the other side of Station Road in a pay-and-display space. The Vauxhall was pointed towards Norwood Junction train station. The trains weren’t running yet, but Wallace knew he’d be a fool to continue driving Bailey’s car. The police, the killer – everyone would be looking for it. He crossed the street, which was lined with small shops, estate agents and a mini-cab office.
He began his preparations to abandon the car by opening the boot. Inside was a holdall which contained a first aid kit, a torch, a telescopic baton and a change of clothes. Bailey was of similar size, so Wallace stripped out of his Maybury pyjamas and slipped on a pair of jeans. He used the first aid kit to treat the deep gash the bullet had cut into his arm, before putting on a hooded top and a pair of trainers. He pushed his pyjamas into the holdall, slung it over his good shoulder, and slammed the boot shut. He moved on to the cabin and first explored the back, where he found a mid-length black coat on the rear seat. He checked the pockets and found half a packet of gum. He draped the coat over the holdall and moved on to the front. Some anti-bac gel, an ice scraper and some old pay-and-display parking tickets in the side pockets.
Wallace opened the glove compartment, looking for the cash he’d secreted there two days earlier. He was greeted by the sight of a manila folder which had been squashed into the small space. The folder was marked ‘Huvane Logs’. He opened it and found a thick sheaf of documents. The top sheet had a scrawled name and phone number: Christine Ash, 212 555 3781. The other sheets were covered with website addresses and dates. Some of the entries had been circled, and Wallace recognised a name – Kye Walters, the name Bailey had said as he lay dying. He put the folder in the holdall and reached under the owner’s manual for the bundle of cash. He thrust the money into his jeans pocket, tossed Bailey’s keys on the front seat, and slammed the door. He walked away from the car feeling like a tomb robber, but consoled himself with the thought that Bailey wouldn’t be needing any of this stuff. Wallace had no idea what the future held and had to scavenge whatever he could lay his hands on.
He walked into the mini-cab office and approached the grey-faced controller sitting in a small cave behind a glass window.
‘Where to?’ the controller’s voice crackled from a speaker at the side of the window.
‘Clapham Junction,’ Wallace said into the microphone.
‘Two minutes,’ the controller replied.
‘I’ll be outside,’ Wallace told the sick-looking man. If there was trouble he did not want to be cornered in the tiny space of the cab office.
Connie had been standing on the narrow bridge for over four hours. She kept scanning the oncoming pedestrians in both directions. As Monday morning wore on, the crowds of people grew thicker and morphed from individual commuters to groups of tourists. The squat mass of Tate Modern dominated the south bank of the river, and to the north, in between the gleaming glass of the riverside office blocks, she could see the distinctive dome of St Paul’s Cathedral. She had called in sick, resolving to spend the day on the bridge waiting for Wallace. The Maybury killings had made the news and Connie kept checking her phone for BBC London’s latest reports. To her dismay, police were seeking escaped inmate John Wallace in connection with the deaths.
At ten forty-five, she saw Wallace approaching from the north. He was wearing a blue hooded top, jeans and trainers without any socks. He had a green oblong bag slung over his shoulder. But the thing that stood out most was his face; underneath fresh wounds, he looked haunted. Anxiety and fatigue marked him, and if it hadn’t been for his hood, every single person he passed would have read the signal loud and clear: here was a man in deep trouble. Connie wanted to run to him, but she couldn’t risk drawing unnecessary attention, so she walked slowly in his direction. She put her arms around him and felt tears spring as she squeezed him close to her.
‘John, I’m sorry,’ she began.
‘I know,’ Wallace said, pulling away from her. He looked up and down the bridge, his eyes cutting through the crowd, searching for danger. ‘So am I.’
‘The police are looking for you,’ Connie said. ‘It’s all over the news.’
‘We need to find somewhere safe.’
‘My place?’ Connie suggested.
Wallace shook his head. ‘Detective Bailey probably told his superiors where he found me. We’ve got to go somewhere else.’
Somewhere else was a seedy hotel in Bayswater. They’d taken a taxi to Paddington and then walked the back streets of West London until they found somewhere that looked desperate enough to accept cash. The receptionist, a thin man of Middle-Eastern origin, had not even bothered asking for identification. The wry smile he gave when Wallace filled in the registration card with the names Mr and Mrs Turner, suggested that he suspected Connie was hired pleasure. Wallace peeled a hundred pounds from his shrinking supply of cash, and the receptionist handed him a key and directed them to their accommodation on the third floor of the white stucco building.
The room was foul. The threadbare paisley carpet looked like it had been laid in the 1980s and was so dirty that it was hard to distinguish pattern from stains. Cracked, peeling paint flaked from the frame that lined the lone dirty window. Foul green wallpaper was marked with ancient damp stains. Wallace checked the tiny bathroom. The tiles were chipped and the grout covered in black mould. The heavy toilet and sink were ringed by rusty limescale. Further into the small room lay a tiny double bed that sagged in the middle. It was covered by a cheap purple spread, stained and ragged. Wallace put the holdall down on the rickety desk and slumped in a creaking wooden chair. He ran his hands through his hair. Connie walked over and touched his shoulder lovingly. Wallace took her hand for a moment and then released it, feeling utterly defeated.
‘What happened?’ she asked as she sat on the edge of the bed.
‘I woke up and he was in my cell. I don’t know if the doctor prescribed something too strong or if the killer was somehow able to dose me, but I never even heard him come in. If I hadn’t come round . . .’ Wallace trailed off. ‘Detective Bailey had given me a stun gun, so I used it. It gave me time to escape, but I couldn’t lock the door behind me, so I held the guy in my cell until the cops arrived. Bailey called me over and these two big policemen with guns went to my cell. The guy – the killer – he came out and attacked them. He went through them, grabbed one of the guns and killed them both. We all ran, but Detective Bailey and I were the only ones who made it. Then he was hit – twice.’
Wallace broke down at the memory and his voice cracked as he continued, ‘I watched him die and—’
‘He’s not dead,’ Connie interrupted. ‘I’ve been listening to the news – Bailey’s in a coma. They’ve got him in intensive care.’
‘But he . . .’ Wallace trailed off in disbelief.
‘He’s alive,’ Connie said emphatically.
Wall
ace felt a wave of relief wash over him. ‘Bailey mentioned a name,’ he said, reaching for the holdall and pulling out the manila file. He tossed it to Connie. ‘I found this in his car. The name he’s circled; that’s the one he mentioned – Kye Walters.’
Connie examined the folder and its contents, as Wallace finished his story.
‘After Bailey was shot, he told me to take his car. I ran. The guy killed at least another three people, but I made it out. I ditched the car at Norwood Junction. That’s where I called you. I took a cab to Clapham, then a bus to Victoria, then I got the tube to Euston, then walked to Euston Square and took the tube to Moorgate – I’m sorry it took me so long, but I had to make sure I wasn’t being followed.’
‘John, I’m so sorry,’ Connie said. ‘Are you OK?’
‘I don’t know,’ he replied, breaking down.
She stood up and embraced him. Wallace recoiled in pain.
‘What?’ Connie asked with concern.
‘I was hit,’ he explained, indicating his arm.
‘Let me see,’ she instructed.
Wallace sat on the edge of the bed, while Connie applied a fresh bandage to his wound.
‘It’s stopped bleeding,’ she told him.
‘I’m sorry I got you into this,’ he said sadly.
‘It’s going to be OK,’ she assured him.
With the dressing complete, Connie backed away and gave Wallace space to put his top back on. While he straightened himself out, she examined the folder he’d found in Bailey’s car.
‘These are Stewart Huvane’s server logs. They show the websites he visited in the weeks before he was killed. The ones that have been circled all have the same name in the domain address: Kye Walters.’
Connie produced her phone and typed one of the addresses into the browser. Wallace crossed the room and studied the folder. After a few moments, Connie’s phone displayed an article from a local news site, the Cold Spring Bulletin. The article was accompanied by a photograph of a smiling teenage boy. The caption beneath identified him as Kye Walters. Connie scrolled down and she and Wallace read the headline, ‘Suicide Shocks Cold Spring. Local Teen Selling Drugs Online’.
