by Bill Kitson
It was a shop Nash had never been in before. The owner was surrounded by stacks of CDs and assorted musical instruments. ‘Do you stock piano wire?’ Nash asked him.
Between listening to the man’s complaint that he sold so little it wasn’t worth keeping it, except as a service for a few dwindling customers, Nash gleaned the information he was seeking. The names of those who’d bought piano wire recently. There were very few, but one name stood out. A woman’s name. A woman who’d bought piano wire within the last week, and also fifteen years earlier. The shopkeeper knew her well; had good reason to. A reason he explained to Nash. And when he heard that name, Nash knew the identity of the killer.
Nash returned to the present. ‘Yes, I know which of them did the actual killing, The one who killed both Stacey and Tucker. But I’ll never be able to prove it. How can I stand a chance of telling whether both parties knew about the murders beforehand? I suspect they did, but I’m not sure it really matters. In my eyes they’re equally guilty.’
On the other side of the door Gary Vickers listened intently. Nash had grown to like Vickers. He believed the convicted killer to be a pleasant, easygoing character. As Nash was speaking, there was nothing likeable about Vickers’ expression. It was neither pleasant nor easygoing.
Becky hopped out of the car when Nash pulled up. ‘Go get some sleep,’ she told him. ‘I’m going to work on my report of tonight’s fun and games. I’ll bring it round to your place in the morning. I’d rather you saw it before I send it in.’
‘There’s no need, Becks. I trust you.’
‘I know.’ She smiled brightly. ‘But I want to. And you should be able to get some rest, now all the trouble’s died down.’
Chapter twenty three
Gemma Fletcher had always been an early riser. She was up and about by 7.15. By 8 a.m. she was showered and dressed. She sat on a bar stool in her kitchen with a mug of coffee, going through the paperwork she’d need. When the doorbell rang she glanced at the clock. Too early for the postman, it could be a parcel. But she wasn’t expecting anything. She went to the door and opened it slightly. Not wide. This was the Westlea after all.
Her visitor pushed the door open. ‘You!’ She gasped. ‘What are you doing here?’ She looked down. Saw what was in her visitor’s hand. Her knees trembled with fear.
Nash slept so soundly he didn’t hear the bell the first time it rang. He staggered to the door and peered blearily out. ‘Becks! What are you doing here? What time is it?’
‘I said I’d bring that article over, remember? And it’s 8.30. I take it you’ve just got out of bed?’
‘I wouldn’t have, if somebody hadn’t leaned on the doorbell. Come through.’
Nash read the copy. ‘That looks fine, but remember, I didn’t ask for it. You can’t be censored by us before you go into print.’
‘Normally I’d agree. But you’ve made me privy to things a reporter doesn’t usually hear. That means I’ve to be extra careful not to violate the confidence.’
‘I wish all reporters were like you.’ He slid a glance at her. ‘In more ways than one. Before I leave, I’d better check everything’s okay at Grove Road. Excuse me a minute.’
He used his mobile to ring Vickers’ number. It was one of the officers who answered. ‘Yes, it was quiet all night. The biggest problem was keeping awake.’
‘What about Vickers?’
‘Don’t know. He hasn’t surfaced yet.’
‘And I thought I was late rising.’ Nash frowned. ‘He doesn’t usually sleep in; fifteen years of prison routine stopped that. Go check on him. I’ll hold on.’ He attempted to fill the kettle, one handed. ‘What! How did that happen?’ Nash listened. ‘Right, leave it to me. Stay there. The house still needs protecting.’
‘I don’t bloody believe it,’ he said as he disconnected. ‘Vickers has done a runner – again.’
‘When?’
‘By the sound of it, sometime early this morning. His bed was slept in, still warm apparently. But the back bedroom window was open. He must have climbed onto the flat roof of the kitchen. Now he’s roaming about Helmsdale with Jake Fletcher and his cronies after him. Just what I need.’
But Nash was wrong. Vickers was no longer the prey. He was the hunter.
Nash was still pondering this development when his mobile rang again. He glanced at the display. ‘Yes, Viv.’
‘We’ve had a sighting of Danny Floyd on the Westlea. By all accounts stoned out of his mind; sitting in the gutter, crying his eyes out.’
‘Whereabouts?’
‘That’s the strange part. Apparently he’s outside Gemma Fletcher’s place.’
‘Take some uniforms. I’ll meet you there.
Nash looked round. Becky was watching him. ‘Want a slice of the action?’
‘Try keeping me away.’
‘In that case, you drive. I might need to use the phone.’
‘The downside of all this preferential treatment is I finish up as a glorified chauffeur,’ Becky grumbled.
‘Regard it as a public service.’
‘Where are we headed?’
Nash gave her the address and explained as she drove. They arrived at the same time as Pearce. Sure enough, Floyd was half sitting, half lying at the edge of the pavement. He would have been flat out but for the road sign propping him up. Nash signalled to the others to stay back.
‘Danny.’ He spoke slowly and clearly, as if to a deaf man. ‘Danny, can you hear me?’
Floyd squinted up at the voice. ‘Nash, Nash, copper to bash,’ he chanted. ‘Got my orders, got my orders, bash Nash, bash Nash.’
Nash smiled grimly. ‘Who else had you orders for, Danny?’
‘Vickers, Vickers, frilly knickers. Seen him, seen him, tried to bean him.’
‘Seen him? Seen who?’
Floyd was rambling; Nash couldn’t be sure who he was talking about from one sentence to the next.
‘Seen him, seen him, tried to bean him.’
‘Yes, Danny, we know that. But who have you seen?’
‘Vickers, frilly knickers, Vickers. Seen him, seen him.’
‘You’ve seen Vickers, have you?’
‘Seen him.’
‘Where did you see him? And when?’
Two questions at once was too much. Floyd lapsed into silence.
‘Where did you see Vickers, Danny?’
‘Gemma Fletcher, gonna getcha, gonna getcha.’
‘You saw Vickers here? With Gemma Fletcher?’
‘Where’s the slag, where’s the slag?’
‘Did you talk to Vickers? Danny listen! Did...you...talk...to Vickers?’
‘Where’s the slag live? Where’s the slag live?’
‘Vickers asked you where Gemma Fletcher lives? Is that right?’
‘In the car, not too far.’
‘Vickers left here with Gemma Fletcher? Is that what you’re telling me, Danny? In Gemma’s car?’
It was a question too much. Floyd slid sideways onto the pavement and lay staring sightlessly.
‘Get an ambulance,’ Nash told Pearce. ‘Get him to Netherdale General as quick as you can. God knows what he’s been taking. Stay with him and when he’s fit enough, stick him in a cell.’
‘What about Vickers?’
‘I’ll deal with him. I’m more concerned with Gemma Fletcher’s safety. If there was any truth in Danny’s ramblings, Vickers has Gemma hostage. He thinks she killed Stacey. If we don’t find them quickly, I don’t give much for her chances.’ Nash’s phone rang. He answered and listened intently. Eventually he spoke. ‘Oh no! When did it happen?’ He listened again. ‘Where is he?’ After a pause he said, ‘Keep me up to date, will you? I’d come through, but I can’t as things are. Thanks, Jack.’
He lowered the phone and stared blankly ahead.
‘What is it?’
Nash looked at Becky as if she wasn’t there. His gaze transferred to Pearce, who was in the middle of organizing the ambulance. He beckoned the DC over. ‘Bad
news, Viv. Tom Pratt’s collapsed in his office; suspected heart attack. He’s been taken to Intensive Care at Netherdale. Too early to say how bad it is. When you get there, see what you can find out? Binns promised to keep me up to date, but as you’ll be in the building you might be able to learn more.’
‘I’ll do my best. Poor Tom.’
Pearce turned away and went to check on Floyd. Becky laid a sympathetic hand on Nash’s arm. ‘I’m sorry, Mike. Mr Pratt’s such a nice bloke. You’re pretty close to him, aren’t you?’
Nash nodded. ‘Tom’s one of the best. Not just as a copper. And yes, we work really well together. I trust him. When Tom says he’ll do something, it always gets done.’
‘How will this affect what’s happening?’
Nash tried to force his mind back to the situation in hand. ‘It isn’t going to make life any easier, that’s for sure. For one thing I’ll now be reporting directly to DCC King. And won’t that be fun,’ he added sourly.
He should be concentrating on what had happened to Gemma Fletcher. Had she been kidnapped or had she gone with Vickers of her own free will? Nash thought it unlikely. But if he’d taken her, how had he coerced her? He wasn’t armed. Or at least he hadn’t been. Had he collected a weapon en route? If so, how and where? And what would it be? Nash couldn’t think straight. The news about Tom Pratt had knocked him sideways. ‘Bloody hell! I can’t concentrate,’ he fumed.‘Mike, you have to,’ Becky urged him. ‘There’s nobody else. And I’m sure Superintendent Pratt wouldn’t want you worrying about him at the expense of solving this case. Or rescuing somebody from danger.’
Nash was still trying to marshal his thoughts when his mobile rang. It was the officer at Vickers’ house. ‘What now?’
‘Sorry, sir.’ Over the officer’s voice, Nash could hear another.
‘Who’s that?’
‘Next door neighbour. Came round to complain as soon as she could. She’d have been here earlier, but she’d to take the kids to school. Apparently she saw Vickers leaving.’
‘What’s she complaining about?’
The officer explained. Nash was still trying to make sense of this, and to puzzle out where Vickers had gone, when his mobile rang again. Nash glanced at his watch. It was almost 10.15. If Vickers had taken Gemma out of town, they could be anywhere by now. Anywhere within a fifty-mile radius. Needles in haystacks would be easier to find. He answered the phone, dreading what this call might tell him. Becky could see the tension in his face relax as he realized who the caller was. ‘Lisa. I’ve some bad news for you I’m afraid.’
He told her about Pratt. ‘But we’ve still got a job to do. And what’s happened this morning means it’s far from over yet.’
‘What do you mean, what’s happened?’
‘Vickers has got away from the officer protecting him and kidnapped Gemma Fletcher. Or that’s what we think has happened. Unfortunately we’ve only Danny Floyd’s word for that. And he’s spaced out and not making sense. Are you at Rathmell’s place?’
‘Yes. Do you still need me to watch him, or you have you anything else for me to do?’
‘No, hang on there. There’s a chance Vickers will pole up with Gemma. Give me a bell if anything happens.’
Nash began wandering aimlessly around. In the distance the high-pitched wail of an ambulance siren could be heard. Nash looked over at where Pearce and the other officers were standing round the comatose figure. Someone had put Floyd into the recovery position. Nash walked across. ‘How is he?’
Pearce felt Danny’s pulse. ‘Still living,’ he reported. ‘Pulse is erratic, but I suppose that’s to be expected.’
Nash turned to the others. ‘I’m going to need you two, after you’ve seen to this.’ He pointed to Floyd. ‘So get back in the van and wait for fresh orders. Hopefully by then I’ll have had a flash of inspiration.’
Nash wandered off towards the building where Gemma Fletcher lived. Becky thought she could guess what was going through his mind. Trying to puzzle out what Vickers was planning. Why had he taken Gemma? Where had he gone with her? And what was he going to do?
As he was struggling for inspiration, his mobile rang again. ‘Mike, it’s Lisa. Rathmell’s just left the Grange in a tearing hurry. Damn near took the gatepost with him. Do you want me to stay here, or follow him?’
In an instant Nash’s mind cleared. Now he knew what Vickers had in mind. ‘Follow him, Lisa. And make sure you don’t lose him. Rathmell’s our only hope of finding Gemma.’
Nash signalled to the team. He made a wind-up motion. ‘Ring me when you’ve some idea where he’s headed, Lisa. You’ve got hands-free, haven’t you?’
‘No problem.’
‘Thank God for technology.’
‘Sorry, Becks, we might have to move at a moment’s notice. This could get nasty, and I can’t take the risk of you getting hurt.’ He smiled at her. ‘I’m not putting you in harm’s way. We’ve been lucky a few times. I don’t want to push our luck. You mean too much. Besides,’ he added, straight-faced, ‘I don’t want to risk your godmother’s wrath.’
‘Don’t worry. I can walk back to town. But let me know when it’s over. And be careful, Mike. Please be careful.’
Nash watched her walk away. He didn’t want her to go. He wanted to run after her and bring her back. He sighed. She’d really got to him. The fact that he was missing her when she was still within sight proved that. Now he had to do some proving of his own. He had to convince her there were no ghosts. No dead lovers or memories of other girls. But that would be for later. For the present he had a job to do. And it was the hardest part of a policeman’s job. Waiting.
‘We’re heading towards Helmsdale,’ Lisa told him. ‘Just coming up to the ring road. Hang on; he’s signalling to turn left.’
As Lisa spoke, Nash realized where Rathmell was going, knew where Vickers had taken Gemma, and why.
‘He’s heading for Helm Woods, towards the river,’ Nash told her. ‘That’s where Vickers has gone. He’s taken Gemma to the place where Stacey was killed.’
Gemma was scared. She’d never been so terrified in her life. She was used to being in control. Always got what she wanted, either by her own efforts or with the help of her brothers. She knew what she wanted and she’d have it, no matter who got in her way.
Now she was alone and terrified. She was in the hands of a man she’d used and discarded. A man who’d come seeking revenge. In the last few minutes Gemma had learnt why he needed revenge, and how terrible that revenge would be. Now she knew how, and why, she was going to die.
Her plight was desperate, her position precarious; hands tied behind her back, a noose round her neck. She was standing on the branch of a huge fir tree. On the edge of the clearing she knew so well. One slip and she’d be dead. The drop was no more than fifteen feet. Gemma was only five feet six inches tall. The noose chafed her neck. But that was the least of her worries. By a long way.
‘Rathmell will probably turn into the car park next to the picnic area,’ Nash told Lisa. ‘Drive past slowly, you’ll probably see Gemma’s car there. Park further down the lane and wait for us. We’ll be ten minutes or so.’
Nash hadn’t reckoned on the terrain and the time of year. Narrow country lanes, a tractor and trailer loaded with round bales, the driver oblivious to the sirens and flashing lights. Nash cursed and edged out. Every time he got a straight bit of road there was a vehicle coming in the other direction. Nor did his siren help. The tractor driver had ear defenders on, attached to his iPod. With Led Zeppelin blasting through the earphones, Nash didn’t stand a chance.
At last, the farmer turned off. Nash surged forward and within seconds spotted DC Andrews’ car. He drove into the car park with the squad van in close attendance. Seconds later Lisa pulled in.‘The place we’re heading for is the clearing where Tucker was found. The situation’s delicate. Vickers has taken Gemma Fletcher hostage. I want a softly-softly approach. When we get close, I want you to spread out behind me. Understood?’
Rathmell reached the clearing. There was no sign of life. Then he heard a slight noise, like a muffled scream. Movement caught his peripheral vision. His mouth opened with shock. He sensed someone close at hand. He felt a sudden pain at the back of his head. Then everything went black. ‘Hello, Carl,’ a voice said in his ear. But Rathmell was beyond hearing.
Nash heard the sound first. He held up a hand, motioning them to stop. He signalled Lisa forward. ‘Do you hear that?’ he whispered.
Lisa strained to catch the slightest noise. Then she heard it. ‘It sounds ...’ She stopped. It was too incongruous. ‘It’s somebody whistling. Isn’t it?’
Nash nodded, his face grim as he edged forward cautiously. He saw something move on his left. He walked quickly round to the far side of the clearing, close to the banks of the Helm, sheltered by a bank of ancient and massive trees.
Hardened as he was, Nash almost vomited. Vickers was on his knees. The front of his jeans and T-shirt were liberally daubed with a mixture of blood, brains and cranial fluid. Nash watched in horror as Vickers wielded the lump hammer. Time and again he lifted it and brought it crashing down. As it struck, it made a soft, squelching sound. With each strike Vickers’ clothing received a fresh splattering.
Vickers continued to whistle as he continued to strike. He whistled, even though his victim must have been long dead. He whistled, even though his victim was by now unrecognizable. As Nash listened, he recognized the tune, recognized it, and its sick significance. Maxwell’s Silver Hammer.
‘Gary,’ Nash spoke gently, ‘put the hammer down, please.’
Vickers looked up and gave Nash a dreamy smile. He seemed perplexed by Nash’s request. ‘Hello, Mr Nash,’ he greeted the detective brightly. ‘I’ve become politically active. Mr Carlton Rathmell said the ordinary people of this country need to stand up and be counted. I read it in the paper. He said they need to take direct action to get a fair deal for themselves. So that’s what I’ve done. Such sensible advice, don’t you think?’
