The Hard Way

by Duncan Brockwell

  “We know enough,” Miller retorted, focusing on the road ahead.

  “If you knew what it was, you wouldn’t be bothering with us. You’d be going after the real villains.” He leaned in closer to the security grate.

  “We’re investigating the murders of two radio presenters and their producer,” she said into the rear-view mirror. “We have you both in cuffs. Tomorrow morning ballistics will test your guns, and when they prove to be the weapons used to shoot Colin Fisher, Brandy Reid and Kurt Austin, you’ll be going to prison for a very long time.”

  “Yeah, and who paid us to kill them? But more importantly, why? I can’t wait for you to find out why we’re doing this, because then you’ll have to alter your perception, believe me. This is so fucking huge, no one will believe it.”

  “I wish you’d shut up.” Miller glared at him in the mirror. “In fact, get back! I’d advise you to shut up now, before you incriminate yourself any further. We’ll have plenty of time to discuss all of this tomorrow. Right now, we have our suspects in custody. That’s enough for one night.”

  It was getting late. All Miller wanted to do was get to the station, process these two morons, go home, and wait for Luke, who was due to stay over again. A good night’s sleep would do wonders. Tired, she pulled into the police station car park.

  Day 8

  Tuesday, June 19th

  57

  Walker opened Miller’s front door quietly. As he closed it, he thought maybe he should have gone straight home. He couldn’t get the images of the Inans being shot out of his mind, or the look of shock in Melodi Demirci’s dead eyes. He wouldn’t get any sleep tonight.

  Having dug a hole deep enough and wide enough to bury their three victims, Zuccari and Sarge filled it in, forever covering their murderous secret. The Sarge told everyone to relax, that it wouldn’t come back on them, it couldn’t. At least he had some help digging from the farmer, while the rest of the squad chatted amongst themselves.

  The scariest thing about the whole experience was Vodicka’s change of personality. In one night she went from being a jovial, fun member of the team to his least favourite. He didn’t need to be psychic to know she wanted him to join the Inans and Demirci. Her evil eyes haunted him more than anything else.

  In the lounge, he found Rachel lying on the sofa, asleep, her mouth open enough for the smallest of snores to escape. He held the TV remote and switched it off. When he turned back, she was smiling up at him. “Hi! Sorry I’m so late.”

  Rachel sat up, patted the cushion behind her, and he wedged her between his legs. She settled into him, his arms wrapped around her. “How was your day?” He needed something, anything to take his mind off his awful night.

  “Eventful.” She stroked his hand. “We caught the shooters.”

  The news was big enough for him to force her to turn and face him. “How’d you manage that? And how do you know they’re your shooters?”

  She filled him in on their brush with danger in the woods, how the shooters waited for them outside Richard Fisher’s workshop. Rachel also filled him in on the fact one of them wanted to sort out a deal; apparently, he was worried for his own safety, that his employers would want him dead now that he was in custody.

  “Wait! You’re not, though, are you?” He thought he could tell by her expression that she had no intention of dealing with him. But he didn’t know her that well; they’d only been seeing each other for a week. “You can’t deal with them. They’re your shooters.”

  “Relax, no way! The only problem we have is we still don’t know what this is all about. The shooter says when we find out what it is, we’ll know why they’ve gone to such measures to silence Fisher. He knows what it is.”

  Knowing full well how hard getting a confession from suspects was, Walker didn’t bother continuing. “So, where do you go from here? Is it case closed, or what?”

  “Inspector Gillan will want us to carry on the investigation, but Hayes reckons the superintendent will insist on closing us down, since we have the suspects in custody. We’ll wait on forensics and ballistics to come back to us tomorrow. And we’ll find out the shooters’ names, too. They haven’t even given us that.”

  “Sounds like you’ve got a couple of hard cases there.”

  “Yeah, and dumb. You wouldn’t think it to look at them, but they’re hitmen, like real, as God is my witness, hitmen. I thought they’d be smarter.” She smiled at him. “What about you?” Rachel rubbed her eyes. “Here’s me going on about my day? How was yours?” The question lingered between them.

  “Fine!” He lay back and stared at the ceiling, Rachel between his legs, lying on him. “Pretty quiet, actually. Nothing major to report.”

  He should tell her. It affected her every bit as much as it affected him. Rachel was dating a triple murderer; well, accomplice to a triple murder at the very least. He held her tight, stroking her arms. She smelt amazing. He could tell she’d showered and washed her hair.

  The scariest part of this whole mess wasn’t Vodicka’s stare. It was the thought of losing Rachel. But he always thought negatively when he liked a woman, always thought something bad would happen to spoil it.

  58

  Richard Fisher lay on the only bed in the small cell, listening to the ominous prison noises. When he woke up that morning, prison was the last place he would have guessed he would be staying overnight. No one could have prepared him for being locked in a room against his will. And he wasn’t even in a real prison; it was a holding jail for suspects awaiting trial.

  Since being arrested earlier in the morning he’d been questioned, grilled for hours about his involvement in a child pornography ring, a paedophile ring. The National Crime Agency officers showed him vile photos of vulnerable children. They made him want to be sick, but apparently they were located on the PC in his workshop office. What a coincidence, yet they said not. According to the two lead officers, they’d had him on their radar for a couple of years, and it took them this long to act on solid CI testimony.

  The NCA officers finally relented, disappeared. Then the interrogation room door opened and in walked two more suits. Neither identified themselves, except to show him the documents he’d uploaded to the Intellectual Property Office’s portal. They asked him where the prototypes were, but he refused to answer, knowing this was all about his product, not some smokescreen kiddy fiddling ring. They were trying their best to smear his name in case the prototype found its way into the public sphere. And what better way than to make out he was “into children”?

  Richard couldn’t do hard time like some common or garden thug; he was a scientist. He used his brain, not his limited brawn. No, he had to get out of there. The problem was, he didn’t know where he was.

  He could hear the other inmates shouting. Lying on his back, in prison issue blue trousers and blue shirt, he heard someone calling to him, saying they were going to bash his paedo brains in. “Wait until breakfast, we’re going to eat you alive,” the voice called.

  If he didn’t get out of there soon, he believed every word the con said. If he was getting this kind of treatment now, in a holding prison, what would his life be like in a bona fide category A prison? Hell.

  An observation slat opened. Two eyes stared at him through the hole for a couple of seconds, before the slat closed. Suicide watch. They were afraid he might try to kill himself. But he wasn’t about to do that, and how could he if he wanted to? There was nothing he could use, no ceiling beams to tie his bed sheet to; no knives or sharp pointy objects he could stab himself with.

  The voices outside grew in intensity and volume. Richard listened. It sounded like a riot going on outside. When he heard the lock in his door, he stood and waited for the door to open. Fight or flight? He wanted to flee.

  “Remember what we said,” the guard said in the doorway.

  When the guard stood to his left, two muscular prisoners stepped inside his cell, both had bald heads, and nothing by way of necks to speak of. Their prison-
issue shirts were unbuttoned because they were too small for them. “No! Guard, you can’t leave me in here with them, please.” His plea was ignored.

  The door slammed shut, the guard locked him in. “Good luck, Fisher. You’re going to need it.” His laugh ricocheted around the small cell. “He’s all yours, boys!”

  He had nowhere to go. Richard backed up against the wall, his eyes darting from left to right. He couldn’t have been more afraid if he tried. “Please, you don’t have to do this.”

  “It’s nothing personal, old man. Stand still, and this will be over quick. If you fight us, we’ll make sure it hurts, bad.” The taller of the prisoners was convincing.

  Colin once told him, when outnumbered in a fight, go for the biggest one first, that way, if you were lucky enough to knock him out, the others would back off. When they were within arm’s width, he lunged at the taller meathead, his fist connecting with the guy’s already-broken nose. “Ow!” He hurt his hand.

  The shorter of the intruders grabbed him and put him on his front. Richard lay with the muscular prisoner’s full weight on top of him. “Please, we can talk about this.”

  “Grab the sheet!”

  The prisoner whose nose he’d hit whipped the sheet from his bed, scrunched it into a long thin rope and handed it to his partner in crime.

  Richard felt the sheet around his neck, as his attacker – his murderer – twisted the sheet, which squeezed his neck. He couldn’t breathe. The pressure inside his head unbearable, Richard flapped his arms in the air, trying to find the sheet.

  The prisoner kept winding the sheet, the tougher it became, the harder he wound it. Richard tried screaming, but nothing came out. The pain in his neck grew to such intensity that he wished he were dead. Please let it be over!

  “One last twist,” said the prisoner on his back.

  The last thing Richard Fisher heard was the prisoner mopping up his own blood, laughing. It was a sinister, deep, bragging laugh. At the next suicide watch, the guard who’d let his killers in would find his body attached to the sheet, which would in turn be tied to the door handle. It didn’t matter, though, his death would never be investigated, or even called into question. His suicide would be seen as admission of guilt, that Richard Fisher, the scientist, inventor, engineer, liked the company of little children.

  59

  Miller awoke to Luke’s comforting arm around her. She lay on her side, her arm draped over his chest. When she looked up to see his handsome face, he was awake, his eyes open, staring up at the ceiling. “Hi!” She put her palm to his cheek.

  When he failed to reciprocate her smile, she sat up and stared down at him, his eyes avoiding hers. A single tear rolled down his cheek, which he wiped away, as though the act itself might erase it from her memory. “Luke, baby, what’s wrong?”

  Luke sat up quicker than she could pull him back. He turned away from her, bent over, and picked up his artificial toes. Wrapping her arms around his shoulders, she kissed the side of his neck. “Baby, please tell me what’s the matter? Is it something I’ve done?”

  He turned to her, his eyes sad. “It could never be you. You’re perfect.”

  Perfect wasn’t a word she would use to describe herself, but who was she to argue? “What then? Tell me. I might be able to help.”

  Turning his back on her again, he sniffed. “We’re done for, all of us.”

  She didn’t like the sound of his voice, the tone. “What do you mean? Who’s done for? Why?” Did she want to know?

  He whirled round, faced her, took her hands in his. “It’s so unfair, after we’ve just met. Babe, I’m going to be going away, soon, and for a long time. I’m so sorry!”

  “Luke, I‘m confused. Going where? Why? With who? Who’s we? Talk to me, please. I’m a great listener.” She could tell he wanted to tell her.

  “I can’t tell you, I’m sorry. They’ll kill us both.”

  “Now you have to tell me.” She put both palms on his cheeks. “Something happened earlier, didn’t it? That’s why you were late. Just tell me, Luke, I can help.”

  “How? Nobody can help me? We killed three people tonight.”

  Miller felt her mouth open. “Huh? What do you mean? How? Did a job go wrong? If it did, the inquest will exonerate you, surely? You’ll be suspended until then, but–”

  Luke stood up. “No, you don’t get it. My team, we executed three people tonight, in cold blood. They were tied to chairs, for fuck’s sake; they had no way of defending themselves. Zuccari just let the first have it, shot him in his forehead.”

  Not knowing how to react, Miller recoiled at this fantasy. “What? No, this is some sort of bad joke, right? Haha, Luke. Very funny. Your sarge, your friends, they wouldn’t risk their jobs by executing people. Good one, you almost had me.”

  “It’s the truth, Rachel, believe me. Zuccari shot one of the Inan brothers. Then Vodicka shot the other brother, and the Sarge tried to force me to shoot Melodi Demirci, but I couldn’t do it. I dropped my gun, and Zuccari did it for me. Then Voddy threw me a shovel and I dug a grave big enough for all three of them.”

  Stood on the other side of the bed, Miller felt like she’d been punched in the gut. Her boyfriend was an accomplice, a complicit participant in a triple murder. If he wasn’t joking, she had a murderer in her flat.

  “Rachel, what’re you doing?” He rushed around the bed towards her. “Baby, don’t run off, I need your help. I’m in deep shit.” He grabbed her shoulders, stared into her. “Please, baby, help me. What am I supposed to do?”

  Feeling hemmed in, naked in front of him, she looked into his tearful eyes. “You have to tell your superintendent.” She saw the sorrow in him. “You’re telling me the truth, aren’t you? This isn’t a joke?”

  “I promise you, it’s no joke. They’re dead. Buried on a farm somewhere. Sarge, Voddy, Zuccari, they’re all going to get away with it.”

  “Promise me you had nothing to do with it, that you didn’t execute one of them yourself.” Somehow just knowing that put her mind at ease. “Please, Luke, promise me.”

  “I’ve already told you, they tried to force my hand, but I couldn’t pull the trigger. Zuccari swiped the gun from me and shot Demirci in her face. I’ll never forget her dead eyes. And I can’t go to my Super, the team are going to be keeping an eye on me from now on. Voddy wants me out of the way, I can tell. And only yesterday we were talking about going to France for a weekend. I can’t believe how quickly things can change.”

  Miller’s head was spinning. “Luke, go and wait in the lounge, would you? I need time to think.”

  “Please don’t leave me, Rachel, I’ll do anything. I love you!”

  She moved to the bathroom, closing and locking the door.

  He loved her? Sat on the toilet, she realised he meant it. And on top of that, she loved him, too. How cruel life was. They’d only been seeing each other for a week; how could she love him so quickly? It made no sense. Sense or no, there was no denying her heart. Luke Walker was the man for her. But how was he going to get out of this?

  Underworld gangsters or not, Luke and his team wouldn’t get away with murdering Demirci and her two psychotic cousins. It didn’t matter that the Inans had severed Zuccari’s fingers on Demirci’s behest; squads of armed police couldn’t run around executing villains, no matter how evil they were. There was no room for vigilantes in the nation’s capital, or any other city or town for that matter.

  Miller sat on her loo for fifteen minutes, thinking to herself. “Luke, I know what you need to do.” She stood, walked into the lounge to find him lying on the sofa, staring at the ceiling. “Did you hear me? I know what you need to do.”

  “I’m listening,” he replied, eyes straight up.

  “You need to report your team to the IOPC.” Miller expected him to put up a fight. When he didn’t, she sat on the couch with him. “You can report them online, ask them to be discreet when they call you in. It’s the best way. We can do it now, use my computer.” She wasn
’t expecting him to do it.

  He sat up. “Fuck it! Let’s do it!”

  60

  Charlotte awoke, startled. It took her a few seconds to acclimatise to the fact she was sat behind the steering wheel of her car. Hidden by a hedgerow on a country lane, she’d parked in a field, hoping to escape the van driver who chased her and the detectives.

  After the van stopped chasing her, and after she lost sight of the detectives’ Peugeot behind her, she’d carried on driving, not daring to go home, in case someone was following her, or worse still, knew where she lived. Paranoid, she’d turned left, then right, then left, until she had no idea where she was.

  Wiping her eyes, Charlotte looked around her. In the dark, she’d failed to notice the cows grazing in the field. “Where the hell are we?” Why she was talking to the cows, even she didn’t know.

  Her mobile lay on the passenger seat. Picking it up, she checked her messages. There was a missed call from Hayes, several actually. A voicemail lay in wait for her, so she dialled the appropriate three-digit number and listened to the playback.

  Hayes informed her that they had Colin, Brandy and Kurt’s shooters in custody, as well as Henry’s murderer. Although the initial threat was over, Hayes believed Charlotte was still in danger, that Richard’s invention was still worth killing for. Hayes urged Charlotte to call her, so that they could establish what her brother’s invention was.

  She had no intention of calling Hayes. Charlotte was going to pick up the package her brother left her. All she had to do was figure out where she was, then drive to Neelkanth Safe Deposit, grab what was inside and leave without being seen. And that was when she realised she needed help.