‘I told you everything I know,’ the girl said. She didn’t turn around.
‘Irene,’ Lottie began. ‘The police in London have your father.’ No movement, although Mrs Winter’s head snapped up. ‘He’s given them everything.’
‘I see.’ Her voice was dull. Maybe she’d stopped caring in order to protect herself. The last couple of weeks had thrown more at her than most people endured in a lifetime. Perhaps the miracle was that she was still standing. ‘What’s going to happen to him?’
‘We’ll need to speak to him,’ McMillan told her. ‘I have to inform you, he’ll almost certainly be in court. He might possibly go to jail.’
‘Sergeant,’ Mrs Winter said, ‘my cousin has had a terrible time. She needs peace and calm to recover herself.’
‘I’m sorry. But she also deserves the truth so she can make her plans.’
‘She can remain here as long as she chooses. Blood is thicker than water.’
If only that were true, Lottie thought. Ronnie Walker and his mother would still be alive and Irene wouldn’t be standing here.
‘We don’t have Donough yet,’ she said. ‘He’s vanished.’ But Irene didn’t move a muscle. ‘Do you have any idea where he could be?’
‘I’ve never even met him,’ the girl answered. ‘How would I know what he’d do?’
‘You’ve been hiding from him.’
Irene turned, a fast, fluid movement. Her face looked sharp, mouth pursed, voice cold and exact.
‘I was keeping myself alive. He killed Ronnie. He told my father he’d kill me. What would you have done?’
‘Exactly what you did,’ Lottie said softly. ‘But you were lucky. You have people who’d look after you.’
‘The inverts and the mannish, you mean?’ A vicious smile crossed her mouth.
‘Friends.’
‘Maybe they are.’ She shrugged.
Irene Walker seemed like someone who’d detached herself from life, who wouldn’t let herself grow too close to anyone. Maybe that was her armour. But Lottie knew she’d gain nothing by asking more about it.
‘Donough,’ she said. ‘Is there anything about him that you can think of? Anything at all?’
‘No.’ She didn’t even hesitate, didn’t even think.
Lottie glanced at the sergeant. He was staring out of the window.
‘Down!’ he ordered.
The shot came before anyone could move. Glass shattered. Irene Walker began to scream, slumping to the ground, blood seeping from her side. McMillan was already on the floor, crawling over to the girl.
‘Get the woman out of here,’ he hissed. ‘Now. Keep low.’
For a second Lottie couldn’t move. She was too terrified, the sound of the gun echoing round her brain. Then her senses kicked in and she dropped to the carpet, taking hold of Mrs Winter and gently urging her along on hands and knees until they were safely in the hall, where the maid was cowering.
She didn’t know how badly Irene was hurt. They needed an ambulance and a doctor.
‘Do you have a telephone?’ Lottie asked urgently. Mrs Winter just looked at her, dumb with shock. Lottie slapped her lightly on the face until she blinked. ‘Telephone?’ she asked again, but the woman shook her head.
There was the detective in the car across the street. Logan. Lottie wrenched the front door open and ran outside, waving her arms. But he was already in the garden.
‘A shot,’ she explained, surprised to find herself breathless. ‘Back garden. Irene’s hurt. We need an ambulance.’ She saw him hesitate and glance towards the house. ‘Now. And get some constables here as soon as possible.’ After a second he nodded and began to run. As he reached the corner she heard the shrill note of his police whistle.
Back in the hall she could hear crying and moaning and McMillan’s low, soothing voice. Crawling into the parlour she saw him cradling Irene’s head in his lap, stroking her hair as if she was a little girl. His jacket was off, and he pressed it against the wound in her side. The blood had spread across the rug.
‘Logan’s gone to call an ambulance,’ Lottie said. At first she couldn’t take her eyes off Irene. So pale, her breath shallow, just quiet sounds coming from her mouth. Then she looked at him. The tiniest shake of his head.
Another shot, more glass breaking. He must be trying to keep them pinned down. Irene whimpered, hardly stirring. Without thinking Lottie was on her feet. Back outside, moving cautiously along the side of the house, feeling the stone rough against her uniform. Holding her breath and turning her head just enough to peek around into the back garden.
Donough. Was he still here?
No sign. She waited, listening for anything at all. The shuffle of feet, the breaking of twigs. Nothing. If she showed herself and he was there, he’d shoot her. But if she stayed here and he’d already gone…
Seconds passed. Ten, twenty: Lottie counted them off in her head. She had to do something. Crouching, not even daring to think, not breathing, she scuttled to the cover of a bush, half its leaves gone. She waited for the worst. Her hands were shaking. She pressed them hard against her skirt. Fear was buzzing through her veins. The thick smell of cordite still hung in the air.
Stay here, she thought. Safe. Please God, safe.
But staying here wouldn’t catch Donough.
She listened. Only silence. At the end of the garden a magpie swooped from a branch, down into the long grass. The thought flashed through her mind: it wouldn’t be doing that if someone was there.
One cautious step, trying not to make a noise, then another. Her heart was hammering so hard she thought all Leeds must be able to hear it.
A third step. Still no voice. No shot. Donough had gone. He wasn’t stupid. He’d know the police were bound to come out in force.
Lottie ran to the back wall and pulled the gate open. A long, open slope of grass. Beyond it, the woods and the beck. And, in the distance, a man disappearing between the trees.
No choice. She had to go after him. Who else was there? It was her duty.
Lottie ran.
It felt as if it took forever. She wished she was a sprinter like Cathy. Halfway there and she was already puffing. Exposed. An easy target.
But Donough hadn’t looked like a man about to make a stand. He was rushing to escape, to save his own skin.
She slowed as she reached the woods. The trail was easy to follow. Long grass trodden down. Lottie followed cautiously. Steadily. Alert, eyes watching for movement. Burrs tugged at her skirt. Twigs tore her stockings.
Down between the bushes and the trees, something dashed through the undergrowth, making her gasp. Just a startled animal.
Where was he?
The arm tightened around her throat, shutting off the scream before it could begin. Her fingers tried to pull it away. But he was too strong. The grip was too firm.
The smell of gunpowder. Something cold against her temple. Metal. A click right by her ear. Cocking the hammer on the gun. He was going to kill her here. In cold blood.
She had one chance. Just one chance. Do it the way Geoff had taught her.
Lottie brought her foot up sharply. Her heel caught him on the shin, then she stamped down hard on his foot. Donough grunted and she rammed her elbow back into his gut.
She twisted away, turning to face him. He was bent over, clutching his stomach and trying to breathe. But the revolver was still in his hand. And it was still pointing at her, the muzzle black and big as the world.
She’d tried. Done everything the way she’d been taught. It’s for your own protection, he said, taking her through every move until it was second nature. She hadn’t even needed to think, just let her body work.
But she’d lost.
He must have been waiting behind a tree. She’d walked right into it.
Donough was staring at her, eyes full of hate. He was a big man, maybe fifty-five, fleshy, his face red and puffy under thick eyebrows, veins broken across his nose.
‘Walk,’ he ordered. ‘And don’t
try anything like that again unless you like the idea of dying.’
Lottie began to move. He stayed two paces behind. Close enough to shoot, far enough to be safe. Her mind was racing.
He could have killed her. There was no one around. Simple enough to pull the trigger. He wanted her for something else. A hostage. A guarantee he’d get away.
Good.
She was alive, she wasn’t hurt. And now she had a little time.
‘Where are we going?’ The voice surprised her; she sounded so calm, so steady. In control. Lottie gulped down air.
‘Never you mind. Keep walking where I tell you.’
They were following a dirt path. Nettles brushed against her legs, stinging hard. At a fork she asked, ‘Where?’
‘To the left.’
Somewhere in the distance she could hear a child crying, a full-throat wail that would stop as suddenly as it began. Signs of life. The grinding of a bus changing gears for a corner. There had to be a road close by. He wouldn’t dare gun her down in front of witnesses, would he?
Her mouth was dry. Her muscles ached. She was tense, so scared that every part of her seemed to be trembling, on the edge of tears. If she’d stuck to her proper duties, if she hadn’t wanted more… But if wishes were horses…
‘To the right.’
The words pulled her out of her thoughts.
The path took them to a bridge. It was nothing more than a thick, heavy plank over a stream. The wood was greenish where patches of moss were growing.
Lottie eased her way across, arms extended to keep her balance. It was treacherous. Slick. One foot started to slide and she gasped before righting herself. Her heart was thumping as she took another step, then another. She kept her eyes down, watching where she placed her feet.
The bridge was no more than nine feet long, but by the time she stepped on to the dirt path again, she felt she’d covered a mile. And Donough still needed to cross.
She glanced back. He was on the plank, concentrating. Another glance, ahead. The track twisted between the trees, a sharp turn after a few yards.
A few more seconds and he’d be over. Lottie lifted the hem of her skirt and started to run.
The shot rang wide. She crouched and kept going. No more came. She was out of sight. Dodging between the trees. Moving faster. Not daring to look over her shoulder. She dragged a wooden gate open and dashed out into a street. One car parked, no one in sight.
A single, deep breath and Lottie ran again, pushing her soles down on the cobbles, willing herself to go faster. Fear coursed through her. He could be coming now, raising the gun…
She turned the corner, holding on to the rails to stop herself falling. Two bobbies were there, walking towards her. Their eyes widened.
‘In the woods.’ She could barely speak, gasping for air. The sudden realisation she was safe now. ‘He has a gun.’
‘We heard it,’ the older constable told her.
He looked her up and down. She looked a wreck, Lottie knew that: uniform and stockings torn, face flushed and red.
‘Are you all right, luv?’
She nodded. ‘Aren’t you going to go after him?’
‘Our sergeant told us to stop here for now.’
Lottie stared at him until he turned away.
‘He’s shooting people, for God’s sake.’ It exploded out of her: all the fear and the anger. ‘There’s a girl up the hill who might be dead. He tried to kill me. And you’re hiding out of sight?’
‘Sergeant’s orders,’ he insisted. ‘We’re here if he comes out this way. There are others gone in after him. Don’t you worry, we’ll get him.’
‘And you’re going to do that skulking around here?’
‘Miss—’
‘It’s WPC,’ she told them. ‘Not Miss. I have a rank, same as you. Have you got that?’ They said nothing, faces impassive in the way only coppers could manage. ‘Well, don’t you have anything else to say for yourselves?’
She knew full well they wouldn’t. They were time servers, almost like prisoners waiting out a sentence and doing as little as possible. They’d never take a single risk they could avoid.
She was seething. But helpless. She couldn’t order them. They didn’t even take her seriously. Finally she turned her back on them.
At the corner she gazed towards the woods. Someone shouted, too far off to make out the words. A gun sounded, the crack echoing through the valley. And she knew she had no choice. It was her job.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
LOTTIE halted at the entrance to the woods. Her hand gripped the gate so hard that her knuckles were white, fingers aching. She knew what she had to do. But standing here she wasn’t sure she could make herself go any further. To take that step…
She’d done her bit. She’d had a gun to her head, for God’s sake. She’d done her best to stop him. She’d tried. But she’d failed. She hadn’t been good enough.
The hinges creaked as she pushed the gate open and for a moment she paused, feeling panic flood through her mind.
‘Wait a minute.’
The voice was low, quite calm. She turned, lifting her hand off the wood, feeling as if she was coming out of a trance.
‘I think he’s still in there.’
McMillan stood beside her, watching the woods.
‘What happened to you? You look like you’ve been through the wars.’
Lottie shook her head. ‘I’ll be fine. What about Irene?’
‘On her way to hospital. It’s up to the doctors now.’ He paused. ‘I’ve got four men coming in from the top.’
‘And two around the corner back there.’
He gave her a quizzical look but said nothing.
‘I need to go and find him.’ Before she could speak he shook his head. ‘Just me. I’m sorry.’ He reached into his jacket and drew out a revolver, the twin of Donough’s. ‘The chief constable authorised it.’
‘And it’s not a job for a woman?’ she asked.
‘Not this one, no.’
‘I’ve already escaped from him in there.’ She nodded towards the trees. ‘When he had a gun to my head.’
His jaw moved. For a moment he looked at her and didn’t say anything.
‘No,’ he said again.
‘I can help, John.’
‘It’s Sergeant to you, WPC Armstrong. I’ve given you an order.’ He pushed the gate open and began to walk, not looking back.
He meant well, she thought. He believed he was doing the right thing. Keeping her safe. Chivalrous. But it was too late for that. She could still feel the gun barrel on her skin and Donough’s breath on her neck. For a second she shivered. Then she put her hand on the gate and opened it. It didn’t matter what McMillan said. She had to do it. Duty.
She couldn’t see the sergeant. Men’s voices echoed from the far side of the woods. They might as well have been wearing electric lights.
Lottie trod carefully, skin prickling with goose pimples. No more than ten yards from the gate and the terror was roaring through her. Maybe McMillan was right; maybe she didn’t belong here. She could hardly put one foot in front of the other, like trying to stride through glue. But she wasn’t going to back away. She couldn’t. She wasn’t going to run.
Donough could have gone. God knew how many ways there were out of these woods.
She knelt and selected a sharp stone. It fitted in her palm. At least she’d have a weapon. Not much, but it was better than nothing.
Walking was overwhelming. Each step was an effort, forcing herself on.
She wanted to find Donough.
She was petrified that she’d find him.
The shadows were beginning to lengthen. Another hour or so and dusk would begin. If he could stay hidden until dark they’d never find him.
Lottie reached out, stroking the coarse bark of a tree. If she tucked herself in here she could keep watch. And she’d be ready if Donough came. But she knew the truth.
She was too terrified to go any further.
>
Half an hour? More? Things seemed to settle all around her. The tramping of boots off in the distance, an occasional shout. Closer, though, Lottie could hear the birds, the rustle of leaves. A conker dropped, landing softly in the dirt. Almost peaceful.
A sound. Something moving awkwardly through the undergrowth. Too large to be an animal. She crouched, out of sight, the stone tight in her hand. Probably only one of the coppers crashing around, but just in case…
The seconds stretched and dragged.
Then she could see him. Stumbling, dragging his right leg. Face twisted in pain. He still had the gun in his hand but it seemed more like a weight than a weapon. Another few moments and he’d be close enough to touch.
He must have caught the movement from the corner of his eye. Lottie raised her arm, ready to bring the stone down on his wrist. But he fell away from her, landing in the bracken. Her blow slipped through empty air. Donough was lying on his back, the revolver raised, pointing straight at her. A rictus grin on his mouth. Satisfaction in his eyes.
She couldn’t run this time. No escape.
His finger was tightening on the trigger. It seemed to be taking all his strength.
The shot took off half his face. Lottie began to scream as she sank to her knees.
‘You’re fine,’ McMillan told her. He’d wiped her face cheeks with his handkerchief but she could still taste the blood, still smell it as she breathed. ‘You’re safe now.’
She glanced back at the body. It was surrounded by uniforms now, almost hidden. The scene replayed in her head again. The awful smile, the gun, the finger on the trigger.
‘Come on, we’ll get you out of here. A cup of tea, that’ll help.’
Her body was numb. She was walking but she couldn’t feel a thing. Tears were pouring down her cheeks and she couldn’t stop them.
‘Stay here,’ he said, leaving her to lean against a garden wall. Lottie could hear his voice, but it was a hum, a background; the words wouldn’t stick and form in her mind. She began to shake. Hands first, then her arms and her legs. And nothing she could do to stop it.
Modern Crimes Page 24
