by DS Butler
41
MACKINNON SPENT TWENTY MINUTES on the phone to Ivy Baxter before she agreed to let him talk to Robbie. She insisted he could only have five minutes as she didn’t want Robbie getting upset.
Five minutes was better than nothing, and Mackinnon was determined to get some answers.
Mackinnon decided against taking one of the squad cars. It was usually quicker to use public transport.
Construction workers had put hoarding up, blocking the pavement by the Red Herring pub. The driver of a black cab blasted his horn after a pedestrian stepped into the road without looking. It was a close call, but the office worker who’d almost been mowed down didn’t seem too bothered as he gave the retreating cab the finger.
Mackinnon turned right into Gresham Street, walking past numerous glass-fronted buildings. A little further along the road, the pavements widened as he approached St Anne and St Agnes. A woman in a business suit sat on the bench outside the church, eating her lunch in the sunshine. It made Mackinnon remember how hungry he was. He glanced at his watch. He could pick up a sandwich on the way, and still get to the Baxters’ in plenty of time.
He decided to take a detour and took a left by a set of pedestrian lights and walked past the central criminal courts, craning his neck to look up at the golden Lady of Justice perched on top of the Old Bailey.
He took another left and entered George’s cafe. George made the best bacon rolls in London. Mackinnon ordered a roll and a coke to go. He normally ordered coffee, but it was just too hot for that. He didn’t envy George, red-cheeked and sweating behind the counter, but despite the heat, George was his normal cheerful self.
Mackinnon ate as he walked, savouring the taste of crisp bacon. When he got to the city Thameslink he boarded a number twenty-five bus going towards Ilford. He got off at Fieldgate Street and started to walk the short distance to the Baxters’ house.
Mackinnon strolled along Queen Street in the warm sunshine, glad he’d left his jacket back at the station. His phone started to ring, and he fished it out of his pocket. The number flashing on the screen was Ivy Baxter’s.
Mackinnon loosened his tie and leaned back against the brick wall to answer it. “Hello?”
“Are you there yet?” Even over the phone Ivy’s voice sounded brusque and demanding.
“I’m almost there,” Mackinnon said.
“Well, you’ll have to wait outside,” she said. “I’m getting Robbie McDonald’s for his tea. The little bugger won’t eat anything else. I don’t normally spoil him, but under the circumstances… Anyway, I’ve told him not to open the door to anyone, especially not the police, so don’t try and talk to him before I get back.”
Mackinnon tightened his grip on the phone. “I wouldn’t dream of it, Ivy. How long do you think you’re going to be?”
“I’m in the queue now.”
Mackinnon heard a muffled sound, as though Ivy Baxter had put her hand over the receiver.
After a brief silence, her muffled voice continued, “I shouldn’t be any longer than ten minutes, but you mind what I said. You don’t speak to Robbie unless I’m there.”
She hung up.
Mackinnon sighed and stuffed his phone back in his trousers pocket. He carried on walking slowly. There wasn’t any point rushing now.
He did understand Ivy Baxter’s mistrust of the police. It was something deep-seated that had grown over a number of years. Her two sons were serving time for armed robbery, and Mackinnon had heard on the grapevine that Ivy’s father had been in and out of prison all of her life.
Getting angry at Ivy Baxter wouldn’t help. It was annoying to be kept hanging, but if he got some information out of Robbie, it would be worth it.
Families like the Baxters would cut off their noses to spite their faces. Even if their lives were in danger, they wouldn’t confide in the police. Mackinnon knew it was only Ivy Baxter’s fear for her son that had convinced her to let Mackinnon speak to him.
It only took Mackinnon another two minutes to reach Newton House, where Ivy Baxter lived with Robbie in a ground floor flat. Newton House had been built in the sixties. The block of flats stood on the outskirts of the Towers Estate. The surrounding grounds were well maintained, and the flats themselves were more spacious than the new-builds and highly in demand.
They had the large, old-style windows, letting lots of light into the rooms. He didn’t envy the residents’ heating bills, though – the windows weren’t double glazed. They definitely didn’t need to worry about the heating bills today. It was sweltering.
Mackinnon leaned back against the wall near the front entrance of Newton House and enjoyed the fierce sun warming his face for a moment or two, while thinking through the questions he needed to ask Robbie. If he only had five minutes, Mackinnon needed to make every minute count.
He sensed the smell gradually.
It started off so light and vague that at first he thought he’d imagined it. But it grew stronger. Much stronger.
It was one of those smells that could be easily explained away - like something rotting or drains …
But after all the cases involving hydrogen sulphide recently, he couldn’t ignore it.
Mackinnon turned around to face the flats. It was a rectangular block, five stories tall. The sun glinted off the windows. Nothing seemed out of place. No signs on the windows, at least.
Mackinnon paced along the front of the building. From his reckoning he thought there must be four flats on each floor. He knew the Baxters’ flat was on the ground floor, but which one was it?
According to the officers who discovered Craig Foster’s body, a sign had been stuck to the window, warning of the toxic gas inside. But he couldn’t see any signs on the windows. One window had net curtains and heavy floral drapes, but right in the corner there was … something.
Mackinnon rushed forward only to realise that it was a sign for neighbourhood watch. He exhaled, surprised at how fast his heart was beating.
He needed to check the back of the flats. There was a small alleyway between this block of flats and the next tower.
It obviously didn’t get used much. The path was littered with broken bricks and pieces of wood. Mackinnon carefully made his way down the side of the building, towards the blazing sunlight. At the end of the alleyway, he blinked in the bright light and turned to check out the windows on this side.
There was nothing.
He debated whether to call it in. Was it just the drains smelling particularly bad on this hot summer day?
He worked his way back through the alleyway, cursing as a splinter of wood caught on his trousers.
When he made it to the front of the building, Mackinnon’s pulse spiked. The smell was much stronger here.
He definitely wasn’t imagining anything.
Then he saw it: the sign propped up against one of the windows on the right-hand side of the building.
It definitely hadn’t been there before. As Mackinnon got closer, he could see the word ‘TOXIC’ printed on it, along with a skull and crossbones.
Exactly the same as the sign found at Craig Foster’s flat.
Mackinnon rushed up to the window and shadowed his eyes, trying to peer inside. He wished it wasn’t such a bright day. Inside looked dark, and he couldn’t make out anything except shapes.
As his eyes adjusted, he thought perhaps it looked like a bedroom. He could see a TV flickering at the far end of the room.
It looked like a boy’s bedroom, decorated in blue colours. Was it Robbie’s? Were these flats two-bedroom or three-bedroom?
Mackinnon fumbled for his phone. He would have to call this in and evacuate the building.
He told control the location, and that the suspected toxic gas was hydrogen sulphide. He asked for backup and a hazmat team.
As Mackinnon finished the call, he noticed that the room was not empty after all.
There, slumped in front of the TV like a pile of dirty washing, was Robbie Baxter.
Mackinnon ran
around the side of the building, grabbing the first brick he stumbled across. He needed to break that window and release some of the gas before it killed Robbie. If it hadn’t already.
But first he needed to make sure everybody in the building evacuated.
Christ, he hoped they had a working fire alarm system in there. Mackinnon bundled his way back around the front of the building, to the entrance door. He tried to open it, but it was locked. He pressed every single one of the doorbells, hoping to get an answer from one of the flats.
Nothing.
Surely, someone must be at home? He yanked the handle, and the door rattled. The door was old, and the security lock was just a small panel on the side of the door. With enough pressure, it might give.
Mackinnon gripped the door handle with two hands and yanked as hard as he could. He put his foot on the wall to give himself more purchase and pulled again. The door groaned. Almost there.
Then all of a sudden, there was a buzz, and the door was released. Mackinnon barely managed to stay upright as the door flew open.
He darted inside, his eyes scanning the walls for the fire alarm. It had to be here somewhere.
He found it behind the door. Mackinnon pressed the panel of glass with his thumb, breaking the glass, and the shrill sound of the fire bell rang out.
Thank God. He picked up the red fire extinguisher, which was hung on the wall just below the fire alarm, and raced back outside, leaving the security door propped open with a brick.
Outside, Mackinnon moved towards the window, lifted the fire extinguisher high above his head, and then smashed it, with as much force as he could, into the window.
As the glass cracked, the smell of the gas released from inside was unbearable. Mackinnon gagged, then held his breath and continued smashing the glass.
He called out to Robbie, telling him to get over to the window, to get out. But Robbie remained unresponsive on the floor.
Mackinnon continued battering the splintered glass until he’d removed enough to climb inside. He gripped the window ledge and clambered inside. His trousers caught on the remaining spikes of glass sticking up from the window frame.
He was still trying to hold his breath, but his lungs felt like they would burst.
He reached Robbie quickly. The boy’s face looked so pale. Was he dead already? Mackinnon heaved the boy over his shoulder and staggered back towards the open window. He needed to take a breath. He was starting to feel dizzy.
Mackinnon bundled Robbie outside.
Mackinnon kept a grip on Robbie’s tracksuit top, to stop him falling head first, and lowered him to the ground. Mackinnon followed Robbie’s body out of the window.
Mackinnon’s head was spinning. He dragged Robbie’s body further onto the grass, hoping that the fresh air would get rid of some of that toxic gas. How much did it take to kill someone? Probably not much for someone as small as Robbie.
Other people started to exit the building. Most of them covered their noses and mouths with their sleeves.
“Oh, my God,” a woman said. “What’s happened to the boy?”
“Gas,” Mackinnon managed to say. “Hydrogen sulphide. Very toxic. Is everybody out of the building?” He was finding it difficult to breathe. His throat tightened and he gagged.
“I think so.” A man with long dreadlocks, sweeping past his shoulders, approached Mackinnon. “What’s happening?”
Mackinnon didn’t answer. He was too busy checking Robbie’s airways were clear and trying to determine if he was breathing. He fought the need to vomit and lowered his head close to Robbie’s mouth. A faint whisper of a breath touched his cheek. Robbie was still alive.
A plump woman, carrying a little Yorkshire terrier, ran coughing towards them. “Robbie? My God where’s Ivy?”
She bustled forward, gently pushing Mackinnon away from Robbie’s body. “I’m a nurse,” she said and started to check Robbie’s breathing. “What’s happened here?”
Mackinnon couldn’t answer. He left the nurse attending Robbie. He needed more air. Despite the fact he’d thought he’d managed to hold his breath in the flat, he really wasn’t feeling very good.
He managed to stagger away in time to throw up by a brick wall.
Afterwards, he sat down on the grass and tried to take in deep breaths.
Another person exited the flat. Mackinnon was feeling so awful, he almost missed it. It was the reaction of the rest of the crowd that got Mackinnon’s attention. Perhaps they thought this man was some kind of official, someone here to contain the gas, after all he was wearing protective clothing.
The man, walking briskly away from the flats, wore a gas mask and was dressed entirely in black.
As the masked man headed down the path and away from the flat, Mackinnon called out, “Hey, you. Stop. Police.”
The man in the mask turned to look at Mackinnon.
Mackinnon struggled up onto his hands and knees on the grass. He obviously didn’t look like much of a threat. The masked man didn’t even bother to run. He just picked up his walking speed.
No one stopped him.
Mackinnon got to his feet, trying to stop coughing. If this was the man behind all the gas attacks, he couldn’t let him just walk away.
Mackinnon’s legs shook as he tried to follow the masked man. He bent over and rested his hands on his knees as a hacking cough ripped through his chest. Mackinnon staggered forwards. “I said stop. Police!”
The man started to walk faster. Mackinnon broke into a jog. His lungs hurt, and his chest gave a stabbing pain every time he breathed in, and now his eyes were watering too. He wiped his eyes with his sleeve.
It was like being in a dream.
The faster Mackinnon moved, the faster the man in front seemed to move. He never gained on him. By the time they got to the end of Queen Street, the man in black was sprinting.
42
THE KILLER BROKE INTO a run. What the hell was that man doing here? He’d seen him before. He was one of the police officers looking into Syed Hammad’s death.
He couldn’t believe it when the fire alarm sounded. But even then he thought the gas would kill Robbie before the fire brigade arrived. He’d had to keep his mask on when he left the building. There were too many people who could have given his description to the police. It attracted more attention, of course, but at least it disguised his face.
He’d been furious when he looked back towards the building and saw the broken window. He didn’t know if he’d been successful. Surely Robbie couldn’t have lived through two exposures.
He couldn’t believe he’d been so unlucky. If Robbie Baxter hadn’t lived in a ground floor flat, that policeman would never have spotted him in time.
He clenched his fists. That stupid policeman. Why was he there? How did he know?
Did he just happen to be passing? No, that was stupid. Perhaps if it had been a uniformed PC … but this man was plain clothed that meant he was a detective.
Did that mean the police had guessed his plans? There hadn’t been anything in the papers or on the news.
He carried on running along Queen Street, trying to look casual – as if a man running in a gas mask could ever look casual. He wanted to take his mask off, so he wouldn’t stand out so much, but he couldn’t do that until he was out of sight of the policeman, and in an area without CCTV.
The bag he carried over his shoulder was heavy even though he’d emptied all the chemicals. He shot another look over his shoulder.
The man was still chasing him, but he looked weak, and he was gasping for breath. He didn’t look like he was particularly unfit. In fact, he was tall and well built. He must’ve inhaled some gas and that was slowing him down. Unfortunately, it wasn’t slowing him down enough.
The killer felt his chest tighten and willed the stupid policeman to give up.
Why didn’t the policeman understand that he was helping him, they were on the same side?
He had to push past an elderly couple who wouldn’t move o
ut of the way quickly enough, and then he looked back. Christ, where did that policeman get his energy from? He wasn’t losing him. If anything, he was getting closer.
A BT engineer was crouched beside an open green electrical box on the side of the pavement. He looked at the killer, and then did a double take. If the killer hadn’t been so shattered, he would have laughed.
The sun was beating down. His black sweatshirt stuck to his skin. He rushed past two teenaged girls, who screamed at the sight of him. The little yappy dog they had on a lead snapped at his ankles.
These passers-by weren’t helping. They were slowing him down. He needed to get away, somewhere quiet. He saw the road sign for the Burdett entrance of the Towers Estate.
The sign was splattered with bird shit. The killer turned a corner, and pigeons scattered as his feet slammed against the pavement. He ran into them and raised his arm to protect his face. He hated pigeons. His mother called them rats with wings.
He looked over his shoulder once more. Shit. The policeman was only a matter of feet behind him.
43
THEY WERE APPROACHING THE centre of the Towers Estate. If Mackinnon didn’t catch up with him soon, he would lose him in the alleyways that criss-crossed between the flats.
Mackinnon put on a burst of speed. The muscles in his legs screamed in response. He couldn’t keep this up much longer.
The masked man stumbled, almost dropping the large bag he had slung over his shoulder, and Mackinnon managed to get closer. That heavy black holdall was definitely slowing the man down.
Mackinnon desperately tried to reach out. He was within finger-tip distance. As they rounded the corner to the next street, the man in black stumbled; the heavy holdall fell to the ground.
It was enough.
Mackinnon grabbed the fabric of the man’s black sweatshirt and pulled as hard as he could, sending them both tumbling into the road.
