by Bill Kitson
The officer glanced at the car. ‘Dead easy. Give me a minute.’
When the door swung open, the wail of the car alarm echoed from the surrounding trees. The officer reached inside and fiddled below the dashboard. The alarm fell silent. He nodded to Nash. ‘All clear now,’ he confirmed. ‘The boot release is down there.’ He pointed to a lever alongside the driver’s seat.
‘Thanks.’ Nash pulled a pair of latex gloves from his pocket. ‘Tell your boss we’ll have the car ready for them in quarter of an hour.’
‘Do you want me to help?’ Clara asked.
‘I want you to go to the other side of the car and watch. I want a witness that I’m doing everything by the book.’ Nash looked at the mess. ‘Although I doubt we’ll find anything in here that’ll point to the killer.’
He reached in and flipped open the centre console. ‘Aha!’ he exclaimed. Clara watched him remove a keyring containing a bunch of house keys. ‘That’s what I was looking for. You realize what this means?’
Clara shook her head.
‘It means we can search Tucker’s home.’
Next, Nash flipped the lever and the boot sprang open. Inside was a further collection of waste paper. ‘Doesn’t spend much time recycling,’ Clara muttered.
Nash moved a pile of paper. Jammed against the rear of the back seat was a small bag. Nash lifted it out. ‘Camera bag?’ Clara guessed.
Nash nodded. The bag was empty. ‘At a guess I’d say he had the camera with him. Which means either the killer took it, or it’s been hidden. We’d better ask them to go over the area again. There’s an outside chance they might have missed it.’
The oversight was understandable. The crime scene was pock-marked with rabbit burrows. Some of the holes were quite large and it was pure chance that the camera had landed in one of them. It was only when a manual search of each burrow was conducted that it was discovered.
‘Pure fluke,’ the SOCO chief said defensively. ‘We covered the surface thoroughly. Nobody gave the warren a thought.’
‘Not to worry,’ Nash pacified him. ‘You’d better check the rest of the burrows.’ He watched as the camera was sealed inside an evidence bag. ‘Let me have that as soon as you’ve finished with it. I’m anxious to see what’s on the film.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘I’m going to knock off now. I’ve got work to do tonight. I’ve removed a set of house keys from Tucker’s car. The rest is as we found it. I’ll leave you to organize removal.’
Nash and Mironova walked back to the car park. ‘Do you want me to come along to Tucker’s flat?’
‘It won’t take two of us. You keep on with the paperwork. Tell Viv I’m putting him on Vickers watch again tonight. I’m going to Tucker’s place. After that I’ll drop in on Vickers. I want to hear what he’s got to say about Tuesday.’
Earlier that afternoon Becky Pollard had chance to think about Tucker’s continued lack of contact. She buzzed down to reception. ‘Has JT been in touch?’
The receptionist was emphatic. ‘He hasn’t rung, or been here. Still hasn’t collected that parcel.’
‘I’ve never known JT so inaccessible and his copy’s due in. I just hope the story’s worth it. But I’m getting a bit concerned. His mobile constantly goes onto voicemail. I must have left half a dozen messages. There’s no reply from his landline either. I hope he’s not ill.’
Nash parked opposite Tucker’s flat, which occupied half the ground floor of a detached house dating from the early twentieth century. The front garden had been transformed into a hard standing for cars. There were no lights on, and the car park was empty. That suited Nash perfectly. He didn’t want a zealous neighbour reporting him as an intruder.
The outer door was unlocked. Nash stepped into the hall and found a light switch. He looked at the bunch of keys and tried two before the flat door swung open. Undecided, he stood in the inner hall. He reached for the light switch, then reconsidered and flicked his torch on. The short corridor contained five doors. Nash opened the first, the bathroom. The door opposite led into the kitchen. The third was a bedroom, the double bed unmade. A duvet lay crumpled on the bed.
At the end of the corridor was a sitting room. Next to it, a second bedroom had been adapted as an office. Nash looked at the desk, its surface strewn with papers. His gaze transferred to a bookcase that stretched the length of one wall. This was occupied for the most part by a collection of box files, all neatly tabulated. The first sign of organization Nash had seen. He was about to begin searching when he heard a sound. He paused, immobile, and listened.
After a second he heard it again. The creak of a dry hinge. Somewhere, a door was being opened. Cautiously? Or furtively? Nash peered down the hall. There was no one in sight. Then he heard movement: footsteps. Someone was inside the flat.
The footsteps ceased. Silence. Turning off his torch, Nash slid noiselessly into the corridor. He advanced slowly, one step at a time, each movement taking an age. As he neared the kitchen, there was a sudden flurry of movement. A solid object cannoned into him. He grappled with the intruder and they fell to the floor. Nash wrapped his arms round his assailant. He felt the soft curves. At the same instant he caught the whiff of a light, fragrant perfume. His captive squirmed and wriggled. Nash freed one hand and switched on his torch. ‘It’s okay. I’m not going to hurt you.’
‘Who the hell are you? What are you doing here?’ The voice conveyed anger and fear.
Nash scrambled to his feet. ‘I was going to ask you that.’ Nash’s mind raced over the possibilities. Tucker’s girlfriend? Neighbour? He switched the light on. The woman was young, in her early thirties he guessed. She was pretty, or would be if her features weren’t contorted by fear. He reached for his warrant card. ‘Police,’ he told her. ‘Detective Inspector Nash. Helmsdale CID. Now, who are you?’
She took the card and inspected it, even checking his likeness against the photo. She ignored his question. ‘What are you here for? Where’s Tucker?’
‘I’ll tell you, if you’ll give me some answers.’ He helped her to her feet.
‘I came to check up on Tucker. He hasn’t been in contact for a couple of days. I work with him.’
‘You’re with the Gazette?’ She nodded. ‘And your name is?’
‘Becky Pollard. Now, please tell me why you’re here.’
‘I’m sorry, Miss Pollard. I’m afraid I’ve some bad news. Tucker’s dead.’
‘Dead? How? I mean, was there an accident?’
‘Not exactly. His body has been found in suspicious circumstances. Let’s go through to the lounge and sit down. I’ll tell you what I can. In return, I need information about Tucker. What stories he was working on, that sort of thing.’
She went to move and swayed slightly, dizzy with the shock. Nash put out a hand to steady her. He turned the lounge light on and guided her to the sofa. ‘Tucker’s body was discovered in Helm Woods yesterday evening. The pathologist estimated he’d been dead since Tuesday. I haven’t got the post-mortem results yet, but we’re treating the death as suspicious.’
‘I can’t believe it. JT was our top reporter. He provided us with lots of great stories; some of them terrific exclusives. You’re saying he was murdered, aren’t you?’
‘It seems highly likely, I’m afraid. Can you tell me what he was working on?’
‘I don’t know.’ Becky’s thoughts were a disjointed jumble. How was she going to break this to the Gazette? What was the reason for JT’s murder? Should she tell this policeman what she knew? Which wasn’t much.
‘Very well.’ Nash didn’t believe she was as ignorant of Tucker’s activities as she professed, but was prepared to wait. ‘Tell me how he operated.’
‘He was allowed to do his own thing. He was more like a freelance than a staffer, even though he was on the payroll. That was because he was so good.’ Her head came up as she added with a touch of pride, ‘My family have owned the Gazette for three generations. Part of the reason for our success is we’ve always been independent, w
ith no political allegiances. That makes it easy to go in for the sort of investigative journalism JT was good at.’
Nash studied the girl as she was speaking. Attractive, intelligent and articulate were his initial impressions. ‘And what’s your role in the Gazette?’
‘We tend to double up. I’m IT manager, deputy features editor, and staff photographer and relief reporter all in one.’
Nash kept it light. ‘That’s quite a package,’ he commented. ‘Attractively wrapped too.’
Becky blushed slightly.
‘Tell me,’ Nash continued conversationally, ‘in which role was it that you were working with JT? I mean, why did you come to find him, if you didn’t know what he was working on?’
Becky’s colour faded as quickly as it had come. ‘I...er...he asked me to get him some equipment. It arrived and I left messages for him, but he didn’t collect it.’
‘What sort of equipment? Was it computer stuff or photographic?’
‘Neither. It was...’ Becky hesitated, aware of the illicit nature of the listening equipment. ‘It was electronic equipment.’
‘We recovered a camera near the body. I’m waiting for forensics to finish with it before I check what photos are in it. Was that Tucker’s camera?’
‘I expect it was one JT borrowed from me. Was it analogue or digital?’
‘I think it was analogue.’
‘I’m fairly sure that belongs to the Gazette. JT wasn’t much good with high-tech equipment, so the old-fashioned film-bearing camera was enough for him to cope with.’
‘If he wasn’t technically minded, how do you think he’d have coped with surveillance equipment?’
The question was delivered so casually, it took Becky a second to realize what Nash had said. She gasped and said weakly, ‘I never said it was surveillance equipment.’
Nash laughed. ‘What else could it be? You told me Tucker wasn’t technical, yet he borrowed a camera rather than taking you along. You said he was an investigative journalist. Stands to reason he’d want to find out what someone was up to without being rumbled. What was it? Listening and recording gear?’
Becky nodded. ‘Don’t tell anyone,’ she pleaded. ‘I’ll get in awful trouble if they find out. I was just doing him a favour. It was nothing to do with the paper.’
‘I’ll keep it to myself, on one condition.’
Becky eyed him with suspicion.
‘Tell me what you know about the story Tucker was working on.’
‘I don’t know much. It had something to do with Carlton Rathmell.’
‘The MEP? The one who’s been making the headlines?’
Becky nodded. ‘JT borrowed the camera for that story.’ She was about to add more when she stopped. Her head lifted. She sniffed. ‘What’s that smell?’
Nash turned and inhaled. As he did so he heard a click. A letterbox? Then he caught the scent. ‘Petrol!’
He jumped to his feet. Then they heard a gentle sigh of wind.
Nash took three quick strides to the lounge door, Becky alongside him. He glanced down the corridor. A tongue of flame shot upwards and began to spread. He slammed the door shut and glanced round. ‘Window!’
As they stumbled around the furniture, Becky looked back. The door frame was etched in a faint orange glow. The fire was spreading. The window was their only way out. And it didn’t look as if they’d much time. ‘Hurry!’ she urged him.
Nash stared at the frame. It was double glazed and the window locks were on. There was no key in sight. Then the room was plunged into darkness. Becky screamed and clutched his arm. ‘Electrics are shot,’ Nash said. His voice was calm. He didn’t feel calm. ‘Fire’s probably burnt through the cable. I can’t open these windows. They’re locked and there’s no key. We’ll have to break them.’
Becky fought against the rising tide of panic. ‘But they’re double glazed.’
Nash shone his torch on the corner of the glass. There was a kitemark. ‘Damn! Toughened glass; shatterproof.’ Bad had just become a whole lot worse.
Chapter sixteen
‘Hold the torch.’ Nash handed it to Becky.
‘What are you going to do?’ The tide of panic was rising.
‘Figure out how to open this window.’
Becky looked back. The glow round the door edges was brighter. She swung the torch towards it. Along the base of the door she saw a wispy grey tendril, curling with the sinuous grace of a snake and just as deadly: smoke. She caught the first whiff in her throat and coughed.
‘Bring that light back!’ Nash ordered.
‘There’s smoke coming into the room,’ Becky spluttered.
Nash glanced back. ‘More reason to hurry. Shine the beam on the window.’
‘Won’t someone notice? Raise the alarm?’
‘Not fast enough. If we’re going to escape we’ve to do it ourselves.’ There was a way. It might work, but Nash was reluctant to try it. He had his pistol; he could shoot at the pane. There was no guarantee it would break, even with the impact of a bullet. No guarantee where the bullet would ricochet. He’d have to be desperate to try. He wasn’t that desperate. Not quite. Not yet.
The window wasn’t new. The double glazing was from the early days. The age gave him hope. Not much, but a little. He took out a multi-bladed penknife. ‘Keep the beam on the edge of the glass.’ He stretched to the top corner and felt for the joint. There it was. A narrow slit between the horizontal and vertical pieces of the frame. Concealed on the outside, exposed on the interior. Nobody expected burglars to break out of a building. Hope increased, marginally.
He selected a short, stubby blade. After a few false starts, he worked it into the slit and began to lever the blade to and fro. There was a sudden cracking sound. For a second Nash thought the blade had broken. Becky swung the beam away. She gasped. Nash looked over his shoulder. The upper panel of the door had split. A tongue of flame reached round the broken timber, licking greedily at the blistering paint. The heat intensified. Instantly. ‘Come on,’ he urged.
She fought the desire to glance back. Better not look. Better not know. Nash inserted the blade again. There was another sharp crack. Something flew past, at eye level. She blinked.
‘Got it.’ Nash levered the top part of the frame away. ‘Now for the others.’ His voice was calm. She felt soothed by his refusal to panic. She struggled for breath as a choking cloud of smoke billowed. The dragon hadn’t given up on its victims.
Nash’s hand touched her shoulder. ‘Get down low, the air will be clearer. Keep the torch shining up.’ She crouched down.
Nash was coughing as he set to work on the side of the frame. She watched. Watched and prayed. Within seconds both vertical strips were off. He knelt and took a long shuddering breath, then levered the bottom of the frame clear. ‘Move back out of the way,’ Nash ordered.
Becky felt trapped. If she moved she’d be nearer the fire. Devil or deep blue sea? She opted for the devil and shuffled backwards. The heat was on her back. The torch beam reflected curls of smoke throughout the room. Now Nash had the bottom piece of the frame in his hand. He threw it to one side and reached for the exposed edge of the pane. Becky saw him change for a longer blade and slide it under the glass. He levered it and the pane fell inwards. Nash pushed it to one side. It landed with a soft thud.
‘Come forward.’
Becky needed no second invitation. She crawled alongside the detective. ‘What now?’ she gasped. Two words, long enough when you’re choking.
‘On your back. Feet against the window.’
‘What?’
‘We’ve got to try...push...the outer pane out.’ Nash was gasping for breath. ‘Try with...our feet... Ready?’
They lay side by side, feet against the glass. They pushed. Nothing. ‘Again.’ They pushed again. Still nothing.
‘Kick...at the corner,’ Nash coughed.
Becky’s throat was tight. Her lungs felt as if they were bursting. ‘Again.’ His hand gripped hers. She kicked out. Fee
bly. Strength fading. ‘Harder!’
She kicked again. Then again. She swung her foot once more. Her foot met no resistance, at the same instant a cool current of air washed over her. Momentary relief. There was a huge roaring sound behind: the dragon reached out for them. Nash dragged her half upright, then pushed her over the ledge and out through the window. He dived after her. They landed in a tangled heap, scrabbling about as if on ice. They’d fallen on the glass. Nash rolled, hauling Becky to one side, and they lay on the tarmac, gasping in huge draughts of the cool night air. Behind them the thwarted dragon roared and belched flames and smoke.
‘Come on. We’re not safe yet.’ Nash reached down and pulled Becky to her feet. ‘Falling masonry, roof tiles,’ he explained succinctly. They staggered across the car park until they were clear of anything the burning building could throw at them.
Nash pulled his mobile out and dialled 999 as they slumped to the ground, exhausted, still gulping at the night air. Becky waited until he’d finished the call and tugged at his sleeve. ‘Mr Nash.’
He looked at her.
‘Thank you. If I’d been alone, I’d be dead now.’
Nash would have none of it. ‘If I hadn’t been there, you wouldn’t have got inside.’
Becky hadn’t the energy to argue. The adrenalin of fear had gone. Shock and reaction were setting in.
There was little hope of saving the building. The fire service deployed all their equipment and managed to check the other flats were empty, but the flames had got too strong a hold. Nash and Becky sheltered in the back of an ambulance, receiving oxygen. The paramedics tried to persuade them to go to Netherdale Hospital but they refused. The doctor who arrived shortly afterwards checked them over and reluctantly agreed to their release.
‘How did you get here?’ Nash’s voice sounded hoarse.
‘Walked. I left my car at home.’ She whispered her reply, aware that her voice too was husky.
