by Sarah Flint
‘Police can enter premises for the purpose of saving life or limb,’ Hayley Boyle smiled. ‘Ways and means eh! It’s been a long time since I used them.’
*
The door crashed open within seconds. One kick from Paul’s size 10s was all it took. Charlie ran through the doorway and had soon checked in every room, but there was no sign of Hunter. As Paul had said, it looked as if it had been vacated speedily and with little care. An assortment of furniture was spread about, some with their contents spewed out across the carpet. The wardrobes were empty, but there was a pile of clothing stacked in one corner of the bedroom, abandoned. Brenda Leach had moved on and had clearly taken only what she really needed, the rest had been discarded.
Charlie walked into a small kitchen-diner at the rear. Everything left looked like junk. They were at another dead end. Glancing out of the window, she realised despondently that it would soon be dark and their task in finding Hunter would be made even harder. Her gaze was broken by the sight of a rose bush in the back garden, partially torn by the wind from the arch to which it was connected. There were few flowers left on the bush, those remaining being high up at the top, blood red and in full bloom. They had to be in the right place.
Looking around the room, she saw a small pair of secateurs lying on a work surface, next to several green leaves and a single red petal. To their side lay half a dozen tiny triangular thorns; preparations for the next murder. She shouted out and the others came through, looking towards where she was pointing at the remainders of the rose.
Her eyes fell to the floor, searching for any other discarded thorns, before coming to rest on a patch of stained carpet. Lying across the stain was a length of electrical cable poking out from the interior of an old teak cabinet.
‘Look at that.’ She bent down over it.
‘Is that the same cable as Samson Powell used to hang himself?’ Paul was staring at it too.
‘Yes, and to tie up Leonard Cookson and Philippa McGovern.’ She nodded enthusiastically and opened the doors to the cabinet carefully, her eyes not quite believing what she was seeing. The cabinet was split into four compartments. The electrical cable was partially coiled into one of the sections, along with a stack of empty Nokia phone boxes and a pile of SIM cards. A half-empty glass bottle labelled sulphuric acid stood to one side, next to a black container with the words Kimbolton Fireworks stamped on the lid. It was the toolkit Brenda Leach had used to organise Samson Powell’s murders.
In the second compartment lay a pack of rubber gloves, several balaclavas, a quantity of black plastic carrier bags and several rolls of brown paper, all carefully squeezed into place. A length of fishing line, several hooks and two empty police exhibit bags were folded to the side. Without reading the wording on the exhibit labels, Charlie knew exactly what they had contained.
In the third compartment was a pile of paperwork. She donned a pair of forensic gloves and carefully pulled out one of the files, staring into the face of Philippa McGovern as she opened it. Underneath her photo was a comprehensive résumé of her personal and work details, along with particulars of the complaint against her that was outstanding. A large red tick had been drawn on the top corner of the page. On other pages were an assortment of other names and faces, some whose dead features were well known to Charlie; some ticked off, others clearly having been of interest to Leach. They were in no obvious order, but Charlie knew she had to confirm what they already suspected. She took a deep breath and flicked through the file until she came to Hunter’s image, gasping out loud at the sight of it.
‘Shit,’ Paul said, watching as Hayley Boyle stumbled across to a chair and sat down. None of them went to her assistance. It was as much as they could do to keep their thoughts to themselves.
The DCI spoke first, pointing at another file in the fourth compartment. ‘What’s in that one?’
Charlie took it out and opened it. The format inside was similar to the last; page after page of photos, along with personal details and lifestyle data. There were at least thirty profiles. Some had large crosses scored across the front page with the words ‘dead’ on them; others had detachable notes with the words ‘in prison’ or ‘sectioned’ along with release dates, no doubt ready to become active again should those dates allow. She turned a page and saw Samson Powell’s dark eyes staring out at her, as evil and vulnerable as when she’d last seen him swinging from the cable. Scrawled across the front of his profile was the word ‘FAILED’.
‘She’s sick,’ Charlie turned towards the DCI. ‘She wanted us to find this when she’d disappeared. It’s her way of game-playing; boasting about how clever she is, a proper psychopath, just like Anna Christophe described. She probably loved it when I told her how much I rated Hunter, especially when she knew she had the means to kill him. How fitting to finish by killing the senior officer that led the investigation into her own murders.’
Hayley Boyle stood up and came across to them, taking Charlie by the arm. ‘But she hasn’t gone… yet. Yes, she’s evil… and sick… and manipulative but she’s fucked up. Perhaps she phoned me on purpose from the burner phone, meant just for her and Powell because she thought I wouldn’t remember another unregistered number. Or to taunt us after she’d disappeared, like all of this. Maybe she thought Powell would dispose of his phone better before killing himself and their private number would never come to light. She couldn’t have known that you would be checking my phone records after all. Or it could be she was just plain careless. After all, she would soon be gone. But it doesn’t matter why. The point is… she won’t yet know that we’re on to her… or that we’ve found all this.’ Hayley Boyle swept her hand over the book of suspect profiles, before taking a deep breath and speaking out clearly.
‘One of these faces will be the person she has chosen to kill DI Hunter. She hasn’t got the guts to do it herself. We’ve just got to find the right one.’
Chapter 39
Ice was tiring of the game now. There were only so many things you could say to a tired old man who was past it and knew that he’d lost. He wasn’t so arrogant now he’d had to talk to save his life; in fact he’d said very little. It had been disappointing, she’d expected better, but then, there was very little he could say to justify his excessive use of force and the way he’d put guns before diplomacy.
She put the car into gear and pulled out of the quiet spot in which they’d been sat talking, now heading instead towards the final destination. It had been fun to start with, telling their captive how useless and corrupt he and the whole Metropolitan police were, detailing how she’d beaten them at their own game. The gleam in Number Two’s eyes showed that he agreed and that he was ready. He might be a pathetic waste of space, a useless weak sap, but for the moment he was primed and ready to do her bidding, the blade of the knife twitching in anticipation. It was perfect.
Very soon the weapon would be swapped, the gun delivered to the marksman. Soon, they would hear the thud of bullets hitting bone, the sight of skin exploding on impact, blood and brains spattered. This time though it wouldn’t be DI Geoffrey Hunter giving the orders. This time it would be her.
*
Blue lights flashed across the windows of The Crown pub in Harmondsworth and sirens cut through the air as they sped through the streets. All around them the ranges of black clouds were still assembling and the wind was increasing steadily. Brenda Leach’s address was now a crime scene, but they were still no further forward identifying where she and Hunter were.
There had been no trace of Brenda Leach’s name on any of the flight manifests for that day or several days to come, which at least confirmed that they hadn’t already missed her… but it did nothing to help in finding her. A reserved ticket would have at least given them a time to which she might be working or proved a useful tool to pinpoint her movements.
They had no clue as to where they were going, helplessly racing against a lack of time and knowledge. Charlie replayed the events of the last hour over and over in he
r head. There had to be something they had missed.
‘Both!’ she shouted out loud suddenly, as a single word pricked her memory. ‘When Chief Superintendent Ray Hooper told us about Leach and Hunter being together, he said both phones had been switched off.’ Charlie pulled her mobile out and scrolled to her contacts. ‘Leach has one number, but Hunter has two; work and personal… that would make three.’
‘Fuck it.’ DCI O’Connor grimaced. ‘I only had his work number, the one I gave to Leach. Quick Charlie, what’s his personal number. I’ll get Ray on to it straight away. Let’s hope Hunter is a sly bugger and has it hidden away.’
Within a few minutes Ray Hooper’s voice came back on the line. ‘The phone is still on. It’s just passed a mast on the Northern Perimeter Road. They must be in a vehicle, heading towards the tunnel into the main airport site, but with this storm threatening, the atmospherics will get worse.’
‘And when they’re through the tunnel,’ DCI O’Connor added, ‘it’ll get even harder. Any signal will bounce off the buildings and won’t be specific enough to trace.’
‘And if they go inside the thick walls of a terminal building, we’ll lose it completely,’ Paul muttered, braking sharply and swinging the car round.
Charlie looked up at the sky glumly. ‘Not to mention the fact we have no idea what vehicle they’re in.’ Bad luck was dogging them again. She stared down at Brenda Leach’s file of suspects encased in an exhibit bag on her lap. Somewhere within that file was the key. Bet was researching the names already but there were too many. They had to have answers quickly. It was essential to find Leach’s new foot soldier. He might be the only thing now that would lead them to her and Hunter.
She rang Naz, her foot tapping impatiently in time with every ring. The enquiry at the internet cafe had taken on a fresh urgency. They now had names and faces to put with any image Naz and Sabira might locate on the CCTV. If only there was CCTV.
The button was pressed on the phone before Naz answered. Charlie could hear her friend shouting in the background. She put the phone on loudspeaker.
‘Naz, how are you getting on? It’s urgent. We need a name or an image of the person who set up Jason Lloyd’s murder.’
The interior of the car fell silent, each person realising the relevance of the question.
‘Hi, Charlie. Well we’re here but it’s busy. We checked the register of customers for a name first and got the one that was written down; John Smith, which is obviously fake. Of course no one here bothered to question it.’
‘OK,’ Charlie had expected nothing more. ‘How about CCTV?’
They could hear the hubbub in the background. After a few seconds Naz shouted down the phone again. ‘Well, the owner’s here and we’ve established which computer the IP address comes back to, so we’ve seized that. There is CCTV operating, but this guy is being a pain in the arse. It’s an old system which uses 48-hour tapes which are stored for three months before being used again. We’ve got the tape for the last date and time when the computer was used to make contact with Jason Lloyd, but he is saying that he can’t remember how the system works to play it back. Our only option is to take it to be viewed at a station?’
‘Naz, we haven’t got time. We need it now.’
They listened as Naz tried again and they heard the man at the cafe make his excuses, his speech lazy and peppered with long gaps. He was clearly being obstructive.
‘Pass him over to me,’ DCI O’Connor growled.
The man came on the line, his tone belligerent. ‘Yes, boss,’ he scoffed.
‘I don’t know what your name is, but mine is Detective Chief Inspector Declan O’Connor. Remember that name because it is the one that will be responsible for shutting down your business and impounding every single one of your computers. I am dealing with a murder investigation and you are obstructing my officers in the execution of their duty. So I suggest you recall how to play back that tape quickly, because I swear if I have to come to your location you will be arrested, and next time it’ll be your voice on one of our tapes at the police station explaining to the magistrates why you were not willing to assist in a murder investigation. Do I make myself clear?’
‘Yes, boss,’ he said again, but this time they could hear he meant it.
The wait seemed to take forever. Paul slowed the car and they could hear the noise of machinery clunking on and off and tapes being played and rewound. Charlie felt sick with anticipation.
‘Bingo,’ Naz shouted at last. ‘It’s not a great image but it’s clear enough. It’s a male, white, aged late thirties, slim build. He has short dark hair and looks scruffy and unkempt. There’s quite a good shot of him as he is talking to the manager and paying him on the way out.’
‘Can you take a screenshot and send it to me,’ Charlie could feel her pulse racing as she waited, carefully scrolling through the suspect profiles to narrow the search down to the ethnicity and age of the man Naz had described. The description had already reduced their suspects to a possible five. Her phone pinged with the notification of an image. Everything was hinging on the image matching one of their suspects.
She opened the inbox with trembling fingers and stared at two images of the man who had facilitated the murder of Jason Lloyd. Hayley Boyle leant across as she turned the five pages of suspect profiles to compare them, letting out an audible sigh of relief as she did so. There was no mistaking the angle of the man’s jaw and the hook of his nose as they matched the image with their last profile.
Chapter 40
‘Ross Naylor, 28/02/1980, male, white, born in Glasgow,’ Charlie read the details out to Bet as they sped towards the main airport buildings. ‘According to Leach’s profile of him, he was born in Scotland but came to London at the age of twelve when his father left home. His relationship with his mother also broke down, but he had an older brother called Ricky that he idolised. They were inseparable and Ross would do anything Ricky told him to, including crime. In 1999 both boys got arrested for a vicious robbery on a cash-in-transit guard, leaving him with multiple fractures. Ricky got twelve years in prison and Ross four but after two years Ross was released and was instead sectioned under the Mental Health Act to the St Bernard wing of Ealing Hospital, where he met Brenda Leach.’
‘Ah yes. She worked there from 2000 to 2004. She must have recognised he was easy pickings on his own.’
‘Exactly. Anyway, Leach’s notes state that she kept in contact with him. She effectively took Ricky’s place, until Ricky was released in 2005 and the brothers paired up again. She then took a background role, but she never let Ross go… and of course she was waiting for him when he went into self-destruct mode, after Ricky was shot dead by police in a bungled robbery two years later.’
‘And the evil bitch has kept him on the sideline until now?’ Bet swore loudly. ‘No wonder she’s groomed him though. He sounds pretty vulnerable and he must hate police.’
‘She’s highlighted that in her notes, calls him a “Stupid lowlife”. In his mind, though, she’s always been there for him and he’ll do anything to keep her.’
‘And now she has the means to allow Ross to do to Hunter exactly what police did to his brother…’
‘That’s where you come in, Bet. We need to know as much as you can find out about the circumstances of Ricky’s death. Where, when and why. There must be a link with why she’s chosen here.’
The call fell through as they went into the tunnel that led towards terminals one to three and the main hub of the airport, but she’d said what was needed. Hunter was somewhere in here but they couldn’t pinpoint his exact whereabouts.
The light had almost gone as they reappeared out of the tunnel, the sky being tightly packed with rainclouds rolling over and over malevolently, but the air remained warm and the atmosphere heavy with moisture. Charlie pressed her face to the window, scanning every person, every vehicle, for the two faces she’d committed to memory and the one that she knew so well.
Every police officer on
duty at Heathrow and the whole Metropolitan area had been passed photos of Brenda Leach, Ross Naylor and Hunter, but so far there had been nothing. It was if they had entered the tunnel and disappeared into thin air.
*
Ice wound the car slowly up the ramps towards the top, each level growing quieter as they ascended. She looked out across the airport, watching the workers and the passengers scurry about, their movements appearing to speed up with distance. Like ants, they needed to be squashed; their lives ended like the useless creatures they were.
Above them the sky opened up, the dark forces at play in the clouds sending out waves of wrathful ire. A few spots of rain hit the windscreen, each heavy droplet transmitting shock waves across the glass. She pulled over and pressed the boot release. Inside, carefully wrapped, was the rose, the perfection of its blood-red petals in total contrast to the imperfection of her childhood. Nobody would ever know the treachery of what it symbolised to her; the simple notes of the nursery rhyme striking fear into every part of her being, its words synonymous with the rash on the faces of Plague victims. The beauty of the rose forever intertwined with the horror of the Black Death. This time it would be her that would leave the reminder next to the body; Detective Inspector Hunter would be the recipient of the death flower, but nobody would ever know why.
She glanced around at her captive, handcuffed and subdued, resigned to his fate. Her eyes were drawn to the blade of the knife, the metal dull but devastatingly sharp. It had accomplished what had been required initially but now it needed to be exchanged. The gun was on hand, its beautiful lines and exquisite power concealed within the usual wrapping of brown paper.
She got out and walked slowly to the boot, stooping to retrieve the red rose, and the weapon, marvelling at its weight. A dozen little girls started to sing the words of the nursery rhyme in her head as she unwrapped the paper reverently, running her hands over the smoothness of the grip and down the barrel to its end, from where the bullet would explode, its sharp, deadly force shattering the bastard’s skull. Ring a ring o’ roses, a pocket full of posies. She didn’t care that her fingerprints and DNA would be all over it. Soon she would be gone and they would be left astounded at the ineptitude of their chase.
