by Paul Finch
‘Takes two to tango, Mark. He wouldn’t have gone there if he’d got what he’d wanted at home.’
‘Kayla, that’s ridicu–’
‘Then I let my business ambitions get in the way of my relationship with Jess … until it was too late for her.’ She shook her head again. ‘I’m not a very good person, Mark. But when you say I’ve got no forgiveness in me, I beg to differ. Because that’s exactly the way I’m trying to cope with this situation. By forgiving those animals. And believe me, it hasn’t been easy … when I see the human wreckage they leave behind them.’
He watched her carefully, trying to read her stance.
‘You look as if you disapprove,’ she said with an unamused snicker. ‘Or is it just that you wanted an easy arrest and an immediate confession? On which subject, aren’t you supposed to have read me my rights by now? Is that what they call it over here?’
‘You’re not under arrest.’
‘I’m not?’ She looked genuinely surprised.
‘Like you said, I’ve no authority to even be in here. But you have to understand why I’ve formed suspicions about you.’
She shrugged. ‘If you’ve still got suspicions, Mark, we need to sort them out. Because life’s hard enough as it is.’ She bustled through into the room she was using as her sleeping quarters, returning with her tasselled leather jacket folded over her arm. ‘I’ll help you with your enquiries – interview me if you need to. I’ve nothing to hide, you see. And don’t worry … I won’t say a word about the unlawful entry you made to my premises.’ She pulled her jacket on. ‘Wouldn’t want to cause any more problems for the blokes looking after the scumbags of this town, would I? Shucks, there I go again, saying things that might implicate me in the murders.’
‘Look Kayla … I sympathise about Jess.’
‘Course you do.’ She grabbed a bunch of keys from a hook. ‘You all do. I heard exactly the same tosh from the coppers who pulled her corpse out of that drain. But they didn’t sympathise enough to catch the bastards who gave her the drugs that put her there, did they?’
‘Look, are you saying you’re willing to come down to the station and be questioned under caution?’ he asked her. ‘If so, we might be able to get this sorted out quickly.’
‘I’m presuming it could still result in me being arrested as a suspect?’
Bloody right it could, he told himself. But in truth, she would have to admit to something pretty damning for that to happen now. There was plainly nothing suspicious on these premises, illegal though his search of them had been, and Kayla was either completely innocent or the best actress he’d come across in the job thus far.
‘It’ll be a formal interview,’ he explained. ‘But you’ll be free to leave at any time, and from your point of view it’s an opportunity to put yourself well beyond suspicion.’
‘Good enough.’
Her tone was now short and businesslike. She wasn’t angry any more, but neither was she Heck’s friend.
They left the building together, Kayla locking it up behind them, and plodded across the yard in sombre silence. Almost as quickly as it had begun, the deluge had diminished to a drizzle, and even that was now easing off, water trickling copiously away down every gutter. Kayla unfastened the padlock on the gates and they sidled through. Once on the other side, she reached through the gap and clicked the lock back into place.
‘You want to follow me down to the nick?’ Heck said. ‘Like I say, you’re not under arrest. So you can take your own wheels.’
She smiled. ‘That’d be nice. If I had any.’
That comment puzzled him. He halted. ‘I thought you drove a Ford Fiesta?’
‘Oh, that. I hired it. Just for the night we went out. Appearances are everything, aren’t they?’
She sounded disgusted with herself, but Heck was hardly listening. Instead, he stared down to the far end of the alley, where what previously had been a vague outline in the heavy rain was now visible as a car parked opposite the front of the cinema. And it quite clearly wasn’t a Ford Fiesta.
‘So that’s not your motor either?’ he said.
Kayla glanced towards it. ‘I just told you – I don’t own one.’
He took note of the parked vehicle’s grey bodywork as he walked slowly towards it – and felt a slow creep up his spine.
‘You’ve got to be kidding,’ he said. ‘You’ve got to be …’
‘What?’ Kayla wondered, following.
He didn’t answer directly, but strode down what was left of the cul-de-sac, faster and faster until suddenly he was running, finally sliding to a halt when he was right alongside the vehicle.
It sat by the alley wall facing the cinema frontage. It was a grey Peugeot estate, and not only that – it had suffered extensive damage. Incredulous, he circled round to the rear bumper, which nestled alongside a shattered nearside light cluster (courtesy of his good self, of course) and kicked at it, at which point the number plate, which had also been damaged, fell off.
The VRM read: PQ23 WXV.
Heck’s spine positively tingled.
He was long enough in the tooth to know that coincidences sometimes happened. But rarely on this scale. In truth, there was only one possible explanation. He turned to look at Kayla, who was peering at the half-wrecked Peugeot in bewilderment. Another impressive performance, he thought, reaching for his handcuffs – at which point they were distracted by a figure rising from a place of concealment between the Peugeot and the alley wall.
The first impression was that this figure was massively built. Though that might have been because of the heavy-duty dark-silver fatigues it was wearing, not to mention the leather harness holding the long steel canister slung down over its back, or its motorcycle crash-helmet which was specially augmented with an opaque, gold-tinted faceplate. In its thickly gloved hands it gripped what looked like an elongated oxyacetylene torch: a handled, triggered device with a fire-blackened jet-nozzle attachment. This device was connected to the fuel tank by a lengthy rubber tube.
Heck grabbed Kayla’s arm and dragged her backwards, but already the terrifying shape was clumping around the front of the Peugeot, hemming them into the cul-de-sac. Before they could even shout, it pumped its trigger and liquid fire ballooned towards them.
Chapter 37
Gemma followed Quinnell into the VDU room, where Ron Gibbshaw stood with his hands in his pockets and Sally Gorton sat in front of an array of screens.
‘Looks like Heck’s intel was good, ma’am,’ Gibbshaw said grudgingly. ‘We’ve managed to put an electronic vapour trail together.’
Gemma glanced at the central screen, on which a grainy black and white image, currently on freeze-frame, portrayed a row of closed garage doors with what looked like an empty parking bay alongside them.
‘This is CCTV of that so-called storage depot at Woodfold, ma’am,’ Gorton said. ‘Isn’t really worthy of the name, is it? That’s the only parking space, by the way.’
‘OK …’ Gemma said. ‘So what’s so exciting?’
Gorton hit a button. The image flickered to life as half a dozen gloved and ski-masked figures swarmed into view, some leaping lithely down over the brick wall on the far side of the parking bay, others running into shot as though from an open gateway. A couple of them were sporting handguns, two or three others wielding pickaxe handles.
‘This, I’m guessing, is Shaughnessy and his crew,’ Gorton said. ‘As you can see from the timer –’ she indicated a digital read-out in the screen’s bottom right corner ‘– it’s 6.09 p.m. on Friday, April 6. So all that marries up, and like Shaughnessy told Heck, they’re too late. There’s no one there.’
‘All right …’
‘So, we rolled it back in time a bit …’ Gorton hit a rewind switch, the images rapidly flowing backwards, the masked figures disappearing again, and nothing happening at all until suddenly, at around three o’clock that afternoon, a vehicle with a black caravan attached reversed into view and parked alongside the row
of garages.
Gorton hit ‘freeze’ and sat back, tapping her teeth with a pen. The car was a light-coloured Land Rover Discovery.
‘That’s not a dark-blue Jeep Cherokee,’ Gemma observed.
‘No, but he’s almost certainly changed his motor since the incident down in Peckham,’ Gibbshaw said. ‘And that is a caravan.’
‘Different colour.’
He shrugged. ‘New paint-job. And anyway, for the avoidance of doubt … roll it back a little bit more, Sally.’
Gorton did as instructed, and a couple of seconds after the Discovery had reversed into view, the driver’s door opened and a coated, bespectacled figure carrying a heavy haversack climbed out and backtracked away from it. Gorton hit ‘freeze’ again.
‘That’s John Sagan, isn’t it, ma’am?’ Gibbshaw asked.
Gemma’s hair prickled as she regarded the figure on the screen. Some things had changed: the close-cropped fair hair was now jet-black and styled differently, greased backward. The round-lensed, gold-rimmed glasses had been replaced by a pair with horn rims and square lenses. But there was no mistaking him. The basic shape, the way he carried himself, the gait. And the face, of course. That everyman face had branded itself into her memory.
‘That’s him,’ she said quietly. ‘God almighty, that’s Sagan. OK, where does he go next?’
‘Well …’ Gorton ran the video forward. The figure of Sagan threw his bag into the back seat of the Discovery, and clambered in behind the wheel. It quickly pulled away, drawing the caravan behind it. ‘We obviously lose sight of him here, ma’am, but we don’t lose it for long … we pick him up again on Salvation Lane, which is a pretty busy thoroughfare in that part of Bradburn. Means there’s lots of cameras in both directions …’
‘Let’s see it,’ Gemma urged her.
Gorton turned to the screen on her left and hit a few more buttons.
A fog of static cleared and a busy roundabout emerged, well lit by streetlamps.
‘This is the Summerton roundabout,’ Gorton said. ‘And here –’ as the Discovery and its caravan came into view ‘– is our boy.’
‘OK,’ Gemma said.
‘You see the timer … it’s only a few minutes later, so we’re bang-on.’
‘Yeah, go on, go on …’
The target vehicle proceeded across the roundabout and cut left along a dual carriageway.
‘This is Summerton Way,’ Gorton said. ‘At this stage he was headed northeast, away from the town centre.’
‘Don’t tell me he’s leaving the borough.’
‘We considered that possibility,’ Gibbshaw said. ‘But just hang about …’
Gorton turned to the screen on her right and her fingers danced on the keys. This time the focus fell on a busy T-junction, the timer again indicating that only a couple of minutes had passed.
‘This is where the slip-road comes off Summerton Way and joins Pendlebury Road,’ Gorton said. ‘You can see he’s going left. Now, on the map …’ She turned and indicated a large and detailed roadmap of Bradburn on the wall behind them. Quinnell had helpfully placed himself alongside it and indicated the route with his finger. ‘You can actually see that, instead of heading out of town, he’s skirting east, so he’s staying inside the borough.’
‘I see that,’ Gemma said.
Onscreen, the Discovery had pulled up at a set of traffic lights.
‘We’re a couple of minutes and a mile and a half further on here,’ Gorton added. ‘This area’s called Bowland Bridge. There are a few housing estates this far out, but not many. It’s mainly disused industrial land.’
On the screen, Sagan swung right and again vanished from view.
‘This is where we lose him,’ Gorton said.
Gemma turned a pained expression on her. ‘We lose him?’
‘Yeah, but only from the cameras,’ Gibbshaw interjected. ‘We’re pretty optimistic we know where he’s gone. Sally!’
Gorton got to her feet and joined Quinnell by the map.
‘This road he’s on, ma’am, Hunger Hill, is pretty isolated and basically leads to one of two places: Bradburn Municipal Cemetery and Crematorium, which I can’t see would hold much interest for him. And French & Sons Auto Traders.’
Gemma arched an eyebrow. ‘He’s gone visiting an auto trader?’
‘Not quite,’ Quinnell said. ‘We’ve done some digging and Sam French specialises in estate cars, caravans, motor homes and the like.’
‘I see …’ Suddenly Gemma felt she knew where this was going.
‘He’s got a compound up there on Hunger Hill,’ Gibbshaw said. ‘A big one. It’s crammed with about nine hundred vehicles, all in various stages of disrepair.’
Gemma nodded. ‘And you think that’s where he may have gone to ground?’
‘It’s locked, but most of the time unmanned.’ Gibbshaw shrugged. ‘Someone like Sagan could get in there easily. And, well … a vehicle pound already overflowing with caravans and motor homes would be as good a hideout as any. If not better than most. Natural camouflage, you could say. That’s the downside of it. The upside is that Sagan’s someone who rarely stays anywhere for long. But if this is as good a berth as we think, he might be tempted to camp out there permanently … or at least as long as he’s needed up here in the North.’
Gemma nodded again. ‘Well done, everyone. That’s a hell of a job. We need to get up there as soon as we can. There shouldn’t be any problem getting a warrant, at least.’
‘No, the problem will be the other caravans,’ Gibbshaw said. ‘There are lots and lots of them, most of which were already covered by canvas and the like … as will Sagan’s by now, I’d suggest.’
Gemma paused, pondering the problem.
‘He’ll not be there himself, of course,’ Gorton added. ‘But he can’t be far away. Probably found a bed and brekky on one of the nearby housing estates. The main thing is, if we start a pattern search up there, ripping canvases off and what not – basically making a racket and causing a scene – we’ll give him just the heads-up he needs.’
‘We still need to get up there,’ Gemma said. ‘If nothing else, we need to sit on that place. How many exits and entrances are there?’
‘I’ve sent Charlie Finnegan to scope it out properly,’ Gibbshaw said. ‘No situation report from him yet.’
‘OK …’ Gemma pondered briefly. ‘Get everyone else up there who’s free. I want that vehicle pound completely encircled.’
‘Ma’am!’ Gorton objected.
‘We do it covertly,’ Gemma said. ‘I want observation points on every exit and entrance, but tell everyone to stay low. I want a twenty-four watch on that site. At some point, Sagan’ll break cover again, and that’s when we nab him.’
Gibbshaw followed her back through into her own office, where she kicked off her heels.
‘Shall we go public on the new-look Sagan?’ he asked.
‘Not yet.’
‘Like Sally Gorton said, he’s got to be lodging somewhere close. We hit the evening news, we could have a phone-tip within the hour.’
‘At the same time we could tip Sagan off that we’ve sussed his whereabouts. At the end of the day, if his life and liberty’s on the line, I don’t suppose he’ll think he really needs his Pain Box, or whatever he calls it … or his latest dodgy motor. He could easily leave those behind for us to find. Probably in about a week’s time, while he catches the next train out. Sit on that video-grab, Ron … at least for the time being.’
‘Fair enough.’ Gibbshaw waited in the doorway while she pulled a pair of wellingtons on. ‘You must be pleased that your trust in Heck was rewarded.’
She glanced at him as she took her anorak from a locker. ‘Try not to sound too resentful, if you can manage it. Heck’s on our side, you know.’
‘I know he is. I also know he’s a good detective. But he’s a wild card too. I don’t even want to ask how he got the skinny on Sagan … when he’s not even supposed to be working that part of the case. But th
e CPS are going to ask. They’ll need to.’
‘Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, eh? We don’t even know if that maniac Sagan’s up there yet.’
‘On the subject of maniacs, where is Heck?’
‘Chasing a lead.’
‘Off on his own again?’ Try though he clearly did, Gibbshaw couldn’t keep the disapproval from his voice. ‘That doesn’t help him when he has to account for his actions, you know, Gemma.’
‘That’s why I’ve told Katie Hayes to hook up with him as soon as she’s free.’ She shrugged her anorak on. ‘In the meantime, DI Gibbshaw, you and I have a date on Hunger Hill.’
Chapter 38
Heck and Kayla staggered backward, their feet skidding as they retreated across the mossy, rain-slippery cobbles. The Incinerator faced the same problem. Instead of catching them full-on in a blast of bone-bleaching flame, he too slid half off-balance, driving his first jet leftward. Even so, he’d closed off their escape route. On all sides stood high walls and then the cinema frontage. It was to this that Heck ran, dragging Kayla with him. Beneath the canopy stood a row of recessed double doors, each covered with boards. Heck threw himself shoulder-first at the nearest. The wood was old and rotten; it cracked, sagging inward.
‘Mark!’ Kayla screamed as the helmeted nightmare approached from behind.
Heck slammed into the boarding again, this time smashing it through, exposing a grimy glazed door beyond. A single stout kick and its central glass panel shattered. Heck slid through, hauling Kayla after him, and once they were in, ducking sideways – just as a gout of flame pierced the gap behind them, throwing hot, writhing colours to all corners of the cinema’s derelict lobby. Gilded handrails led up a low flight of steps to a long-abandoned ticket booth. Mildewed film posters advertised Jurassic Park, Sleepless in Seattle, The Fugitive …
Heck and Kayla saw none of this as they clattered up the steps, veered sideways and crashed through a pair of swing doors into the auditorium. The Incinerator followed, his heavy-booted feet thumping the mouldering carpet. More flame speared in their wake, setting the doors alight. Red phantasms scampered ahead of the duo, who were only vaguely aware of the vast, cavernous space around them. Two aisles ran down to the front, both strewn with decayed detritus left over from the last film-show: cartons, lolly sticks, gum wrappers. They paused, gasping, before taking the aisle on the right. Heck glanced back. The hulking form of the Incinerator was silhouetted on a curtain of fire. He’d halted, presumably so that his visor-covered eyes could attune to the darkness. He took aim again, this time putting his flamethrower to his shoulder. Another jet of flame spurted high and wide, arcing across the auditorium towards them. Heck grabbed Kayla’s hand again and ducked sideways, blundering between rows of dirty, dust-laden seats.
