But as Lench got to his feet, wincing with pain, he realized that there were still problems. Grellier was probably still alive and might talk. The phone on which he’d received Tom Meron’s call was still in the house. The balance of probability was still against him. It was potentially enough for charges. Even if his employer’s people could reach the jury, as they’d done before, it might not be enough. Better to leave the evidence here and attempt to escape. That way he would have done all he could.
‘Come out with your hands up now! You are surrounded!’
He staggered towards the window, grabbing a chair as he went and sending it smashing into the window at the rear of the kitchen with such force it went straight through. Which was the moment when Lench realized that the police almost certainly didn’t have the back of the house covered – either that or they weren’t armed – because no-one had reacted to the chair’s exit. Without looking back, he hoisted himself onto the worktop, looked out into the empty garden, then went head-first through the hole he’d made.
Getting up again immediately, he half-hopped, half-ran, towards the field beyond. No-one tried to stop him. No further shouts of ‘armed police’ came from either his left or right. He kept going, ignoring the pain.
He sensed freedom.
47
The moment Bolt heard the sound of further gunshots coming from inside, he got to his feet and ran round the side of the house, the phone to his ear. As the operator came on he gave his name and rank and told him hurriedly that he needed armed police and an ambulance to a house at the top of Ranger’s Hill in Hambleden. ‘I don’t have the address but I can confirm shots have been fired and it’s a possible kidnap situation. Repeat: shots have been fired. You need to get ARVs here fast.’ He put the phone back in his pocket, not wanting to stay on the line and have to concentrate on two things at once. Unarmed and alone, he was undoubtedly risking his life, but he also felt that he had to do something. There were almost certainly people dying in there.
He reached the front door. It was shut. Pulling open the letterbox, he decided bluffing was his only chance. In such situations you rarely have time to think things through. If you did, you’d never go up without a gun against half the villains the job threw up.
Another loud shot came from inside, mixed in with quieter ones that Bolt knew were being muffled by a silencer. He could hear the pings the bullets made as they struck wood and metal. ‘Armed police! Drop your weapons!’ He shouted the words with as much authority as he could muster, and hoped for the best.
The gunfire stopped. Straight away. Bolt waited for two seconds, just to make sure that they weren’t suddenly going to change their minds and aim their guns at him, then looked left and right. No-one was sneaking up on him. ‘Come out with your hands up now!’ he called out. ‘You are surrounded!’ He didn’t know what on earth he was going to do when they did actually come out with their hands up. He didn’t even know who the villains were. But of one thing he was sure: if he sounded confident enough and they did indeed step outside with their hands pointing skyward and their guns nowhere to be seen, he could probably handle them until the cavalry got here.
He moved away from the door, ready to give the first man out a helpful slap if he saw the extent of Bolt’s lack of resources and proved troublesome, but a second later he heard the sound of a window being smashed. After a further, longer pause, a male voice called out to say that he was unarmed and that the man they wanted was getting away. It might have been a trick, but the voice sounded genuine, so Bolt opened the door and ran inside, turning in the direction from where the shots had been coming.
There were two bodies lying on the kitchen floor, partly obscured by the kitchen table, arms entwined in a position that looked both unnatural and uncomfortable. They were staring up at him, and though their faces were grimy and drawn, like startled scarecrows, he recognized them immediately as Tom and Kathy Meron. They appeared unhurt, and there was a pistol – a Browning or similar – with a four-inch silencer attached, lying a few feet from Tom Meron’s hand. On the floor in front of Bolt was a silver Walther PPK that was still producing a thin line of smoke, and next to it a pair of discarded gloves and a knife.
‘He’s getting away,’ yelled Meron, extricating himself from his wife’s embrace, his eyes wide and desperate. ‘He’s got our kids. You’ve got to do something.’
Bolt looked at the window from where the man in the balaclava had fired at him only a minute or two earlier. There was a huge hole in it, easily enough for a man to get through. He ran over and saw his attacker limping towards the end of the garden where a waist-high fence led to a fallow field and woodland beyond. He was obviously hurt but moving fast, and with reinforcements still realistically at least five, more likely ten, minutes away, there was every chance that he would indeed get away.
‘Where are the rest of you?’ demanded Tom Meron, coming up beside Bolt and following his gaze out of the window.
‘It was a bluff,’ Bolt told him. ‘I’m on my own.’
‘You’ve got to stop him!’ shouted Kathy Meron, getting to her feet. ‘If he escapes, our children die. That’s how he got us here.’
‘I’m going after the bastard,’ said Meron, and he turned away.
Bolt pulled him back. ‘Stay here, I’ll go,’ he said. ‘I’ll be able to stop him.’
He hurriedly pulled on a pair of scene-of-crime gloves and grabbed hold of the Walther and the Browning, pushing them both into the pockets of his suede jacket, not wanting them to stay in the hands of the Merons in case they did something stupid. Then he ran out of the front door, round the back of the house, and started after the man in black.
By now, Bolt’s target was negotiating the fence and was trying to drag his bad leg over it. He was having some difficulty. Twenty-five yards separated them. Bolt had given up smoking five years earlier, visited the gym two, sometimes three, times a week, and at school had been a champion sprinter. He knew he was going to catch his quarry, but behind him he could hear the sound of footfalls and heavy breathing. Tom Meron was coming. Maybe Kathy too. If he wasn’t careful, they could fuck this arrest up royally.
The man in black got his leg up and eased himself down the other side of the fence before stumbling away. He had seen his pursuer but was still trying to get away, even though he must have known he didn’t have a chance.
Bolt accelerated, reached the fence, took it in an athletic one-handed bound that impressed even him, and charged down his target, now only feet away. The target was a big man. So was Bolt, but this guy had a couple of stone on him, and most of it looked to be muscle. The man in black started to turn, but his bad leg went from under him and he fell onto his good knee. Bolt had spent more than ten years in the Flying Squad chasing down armed robbers and was well used to dramatic and violent arrests, so he kept coming, jumping up and using his momentum to kick the man full in his balaclava-clad face. He shot over backwards and Bolt rolled him over, drove a knee into his kidneys and twisted a muscular arm up behind his back, encountering little resistance.
He leaned forward so his mouth was next to the target’s ear. ‘You’re nicked, son,’ he hissed.
‘Sure,’ came the reply. The word was delivered with deliberate casualness, even though it was obvious the man was in pain. ‘No problem.’
‘I’m arresting you on suspicion of attempted murder and kidnap,’ he continued, reeling out the standard police caution.
Bolt then heard Tom Meron coming over the fence and running up to them. ‘Keep back!’ he shouted at him. A few yards further on he could see Kathy approaching too, her progress slower. She looked like she might collapse with exhaustion at any minute.
Meron ignored him. ‘Where are my kids?’ he screamed, kneeling down beside the man in black’s head and trying to wrestle off his balaclava. ‘Where are my kids? Tell me or I’ll kill you!’
‘Please get him off me,’ said the other man calmly.
‘Leave him, Mr Meron. Let me handle this.’
>
Their faces were only inches apart and Bolt could see the anguish carved deep into Meron’s every pore. He seemed to radiate pure animal fear, like electricity. Even his hair was standing upright. Bolt knew that he was beyond reasoning, and who could blame him?
‘His name’s Lench and he’s got my kids. We’ve got to find them. Please!’ As he spoke, Meron finally tore free the balaclava and scratched ferociously at the other man’s face. ‘Tell me where my fucking kids are! Tell me!’
Lench tried to pull free but was unable to. For a moment, Bolt made no effort to stop Meron as he gouged chunks out of the pale, pockmarked face beneath him.
‘I don’t know what the hell he’s talking about,’ said Lench, trying to look at Bolt.
His eyes were dead onyx, utterly emotionless. Bolt had seen similar before, in various cells and interview rooms. Killer’s eyes.
‘He’s assaulting me while I’m in your custody. Stop him or I’ll be on to the IPCC.’
Bolt was in no mood to help this arrogant bastard, who clearly knew the law and its limitations inside out, but as Kathy Meron arrived and aimed a kick into Lench’s ribs, shrieking that she’d kill him unless he talked, he knew things were getting out of hand.
He made a decision.
‘Tom, get Kathy away now,’ he ordered. Their eyes met and a message passed between them. The message said that, one way or another, Bolt would get them the information they needed so badly. ‘Back to the house. Right away.’
‘I don’t know anything about their kids,’ said Lench.
‘Help me, please,’ pleaded Tom Meron.
Bolt nodded, and watched as Meron got to his feet and threw his arms around Kathy before she could land another kick. ‘What the hell are you doing?’ she called out as he dragged her away. ‘He’s the only one who knows! We can’t let him go!’ Meron whispered something in her ear, and her resistance seemed to disappear. Bolt watched as they climbed over the fence together.
Bolt’s mobile rang. He let it go to message. He couldn’t hear any sirens yet. Only three or so minutes had passed since he’d made that initial call but the cavalry would be here soon. Especially as he was no longer answering his mobile phone.
‘Tell me where the kids are, Lench,’ he said evenly, using both hands to push the other man’s arm high up his back.
Lench grunted in pain, and tried without success to resist. ‘This is a case of mistaken identity,’ he repeated. ‘I don’t know what they’re talking about. Now, let me go. You’re assaulting a prisoner.’
‘If anything happens to them, you’ll never see the outside of a prison again. Do you understand that? Every day for the rest of your life you’ll be looking at the world through a set of bars, knowing that the view is never going to change.’ Bolt continued to apply the pressure on the arm, positioning it at an ever more precarious angle. Much more force and it would break.
‘I’m definitely going to have you for assault now,’ hissed Lench, through gritted teeth. ‘My lawyers are fucking Rottweilers. They’ll have your arse in a sling for this. You know you’ve got nothing on me.’
In the distance, Bolt heard the first sounds of sirens across the valley. They’d be here soon. Two or three minutes at most.
‘Where are the kids?’ he asked once again. ‘Tell me or I’ll bust it.’
‘Bust it and you can kiss goodbye to your pension. You’ll never be able to explain away a broken arm.’ Even though he was in obvious pain, Lench somehow managed a small laugh. He knew damn well that Bolt’s threat was impotent, and that every second he didn’t talk brought him closer to his lawyers.
The DI had met plenty of men like him before. Hardened career criminals. Men with a degree of intelligence and street cunning who knew the weaknesses of the system back to front. Who knew that the greatest mistake they could make was to admit to anything. Who knew that even the best evidence could be torn apart in court by clever, well-educated defence barristers. Who knew that plenty of trials collapsed on legal technicalities because judges, in their wigs and gowns, followed the law to the letter, even if it clashed with common sense. Who knew that juries could be bribed and intimidated if the person doing the bribing and intimidating was determined enough. Who knew, ultimately, that the law was weighted in their favour. What, then, was the point in admitting to anything?
Bolt released the pressure and stood up. Lench rolled over so that he was facing the man arresting him. His face was small and round, the features cruel and unhealthy. His pale, dead-looking skin was lined and cratered with acne scars and stretched tight over uneven and prominent cheekbones that served to obscure the cold, slit-thin eyes. As they faced each other, and Lench rubbed his arm, his bloodless lips spread in a knowing sneer.
‘You’ll pay for doing that,’ he said, more confident now. ‘Maybe when all this is over, I’ll come and do something to your kids.’
‘I haven’t got any.’
‘Pity. One day, eh?’ Lench sat up, still rubbing his arm, and looked down at his injured foot. ‘Get me an ambulance. I need this foot looked at.’
Bolt had learned to be patient in the face of the abuse of those he’d nicked. Every copper had to be. To react, especially in an age when there were cameras everywhere, was potentially disastrous. Most of the time the abuse was just bluster, and he was able to brush it off, knowing that the guy was likely to be going down; but with this man, Lench, it was different. The bastard knew the odds were stacked in his favour. He also knew that any mention of the kids and their whereabouts would incriminate him hugely. Bolt thought about what might happen to the Meron children. The people who held them were ruthless. It would probably be easier to get rid of the children rather than let them go. Murder them and make their bodies disappear.
Bolt thought of Mikaela, pictured her as she was. Wondered what she’d advise him to do.
‘One of these sirens better be an ambulance. This foot needs looking at.’
Bolt turned around. He could no longer see Kathy and Tom Meron. He guessed that they were back at the house, waiting for him to get the information out of Lench, trusting that he could deliver. The emergency services sounded like they were coming into the village now. Time was running out.
His mobile started ringing again.
The kids could die. They might already be dead. Or they might already have been released. He just didn’t know, and the man in front of him, sitting there with the cocky look on his face, was the only one with the information.
Bolt pulled the pistol with the silencer out of his pocket, and released the safety. He pointed it at Lench’s lower abdomen.
A flicker of doubt crossed Lench’s face but disappeared so fast it could almost have been something Bolt imagined.
‘Tell me the location of the kids now or I put a bullet in you.’
Bolt’s arm was steady and his face impassive, but inside he was a maelstrom of conflicting emotions and desires, knowing that what he was about to do would put his whole career and even his freedom at risk. He was threatening to shoot a prisoner. He’d never done anything remotely like this before. He’d killed a man once during his Flying Squad days, but that had been an ambush and his victim had been armed, resisting arrest, and pointing a sawn-off Remington automatic at Bolt’s head. In other words, what he’d done was justified. But this . . . this was different. But still he kept his arm steady.
Lench sighed in the manner of a primary school teacher showing exasperation at a particularly irritating pupil. ‘So now I’ve got you on threats to kill as well as assault. You’re in a lot of trouble.’
Bolt pulled the trigger and shot him in the gut. Lench’s upper body was knocked backwards by the momentum of the bullet but he remained upright. He gasped frantically and his eyes flew wide open, then he clutched at the wound, trying to do something to ease the pain. Finally, he rolled over onto his side, moaning loudly.
Bolt leaned down and grabbed him by the scruff of the neck, pulling him round so they were facing each other. ‘Tell me where
they are or the next shot’s into your bollocks.’
‘Fuck you,’ Lench spat, blood dribbling out of the corner of his mouth.
Bolt shoved the silencer against his crotch. ‘Last chance not to talk like a two-year-old girl for the rest of your life.’ He pushed down on the gun. ‘I’m already fucked. Nothing’s going to stop me fucking you too.’
Their eyes met. It was easy to tell that Bolt wasn’t lying.
‘Twenty-four Limestone Street in Hendon. The ground-floor flat. That’s where they are.’ More blood leaked out of Lench’s mouth, running down his chin. He started coughing, and said something about an ambulance, but Bolt couldn’t make it out amid the choking sounds.
Bolt stood back up. The emergency services were coming up the hill now, only a matter of yards away. As many as four different sirens shrieking. Enough to have the ramblers dispersing for miles.
‘Armed police!’ he shouted without warning. ‘Drop your weapon, now! Now!’
Lench rolled over so he was lying on his back, staring up at Bolt, his expression suddenly calm. He knew what was happening. That this was the end of the road. If anything, it was a relief.
Relentless: A Novel Page 23
