The Follow

by Paul Grzegorzek

  40

  IF THIS had been a Bond film the brothers would have placed the shotgun down within easy reach and wandered off to get some tools to hurt me with, but sadly it was real life and Dave carefully placed the weapon in the far corner of the room before returning and rolling up his sleeves.

  Billy stood over me and began to undo his flies but Dave stopped him with a hand to the chest. ‘What the fuck you doing?’

  ‘I’m gonna piss on ’im, ent I?’

  ‘Not before I’ve punched the shit out of him yer not. I don’t want my hands covered in your piss!’

  ‘Oh, yeah. Good thinking.’

  He zipped back up again and leaned down to breathe his stinking breath in my face. ‘I owe you. I’m gonna make you squeal like a pig!’ They both laughed at his ever-so-lever joke, then Billy pulled back a foot to kick me in the face.

  I knew that I would probably not survive the beating that these two were about to give me and, to be honest, I wondered if I really deserved to, but my desire for life was too strong and, without realising what I was doing, I dropped to my side and rolled under the kick, taking Billy’s standing leg out from under him. He collapsed in front of me with the breath rushing out of his lungs, and I staggered to my feet in time to dodge backwards as Dave swung a haymaker at my head.

  As he came forward, I suddenly reversed my movement and ran towards him, bringing a knee up and connecting with his balls. It was just as satisfying as the first time I’d done it to him and he collapsed with a shout of pain.

  Billy had just managed to get back to his feet as I turned to him, unleashing a roundhouse kick that caught him on the jaw and threw him clear across the room to crack against the wall. His eyes rolled up in his head and he slumped to the floor, clearly unconscious.

  The noise downstairs must have been deafening and I heard Davey shout from below. ‘Oi, don’t kill him, I need him to talk!’

  Neither of the brothers was in a fit state to answer but, to give him his credit, Dave was shakily trying to stand, a kitchen knife now clutched in his right hand while the other still cupped his aching balls. He staggered towards me with the knife held low, and as he came close enough I spun into a kick called ‘tiger whips its tail’, which I’d never been able to do properly in training, but today it seemed exactly the right thing to do.

  I spun in a circle, allowing my left leg to arch out backwards up and over my shoulder as I turned, hitting Dave in the face so hard that I actually heard his jaw crack. He fell to the floor, unconscious before he hit the boards. Gasping for breath from the sudden exertion, I waddled over and managed to pick up the knife with my bound hands, cutting myself several times but eventually getting the rope as well.

  Ignoring the pain from the new cuts to my wrists that mingled with the agony in my head, I picked up the shotgun and broke the barrels, making sure that it was loaded. Seeing the cartridges inside I snapped it shut again and opened the door, intent on going down to the kitchen and finishing this once and for all. I moved down the stairs carefully, trying not to make too much noise, but the old house gave me away and the wood creaked and groaned under my weight.

  ‘You finished already?’ Davey asked as I walked into the kitchen, shotgun first.

  ‘Not yet, but I’m about to,’ I replied, and was gratified to see them both swing round from where they were sitting at the kitchen table, jaws hanging open.

  ‘Now, there’s no need to be hasty,’ Davey said, standing and beginning to back away.

  ‘I haven’t been hasty; I’ve been anything but. If I’d been hasty, this whole thing would have been dealt with long ago and you’d be dead or behind bars.’

  Tate stood as well, edging towards the far door.

  ‘I wouldn’t bother going that way,’ I said, motioning with the shotgun. ‘That only leads to the cellar. Believe me, I have first-hand experience.’

  Tate raised his hands in submission and as he did a flicker of movement warned me, giving me time to duck the knife that Davey threw at my head. I spun to cover him, my finger already on the trigger but Tate lunged at me, grabbing hold of the end of the barrels. He tried to pull instead of push, and I felt my finger depress the trigger at the same time as he heard it, his mouth a wide ‘O’ of surprise as the first barrel fired, throwing him backwards across the kitchen with most of his stomach hanging out.

  Blood and gore splattered everywhere and I froze in shock, my mind trying to take in what had just happened. While I stood there staring at the insides of someone I used to call a friend, Davey threw himself at me, going wide of the barrel and pinning it to my body with his. His eyes were wide, almost ecstatic as we fought, our grunts and moans sounding like a horrible parody of lovemaking.

  I was bigger and stronger than my opponent but I was also badly hurt, and after a few moments he began to get the better of me, throwing tight punches into my ribs and stomach while I frantically tried to keep control of the weapon. He stopped punching, instead grabbing my legs and trying to haul me off my feet, but I countered and ended up on top of him on the floor, grateful for the soft landing.

  I jammed the top edge of the barrel under his chin and used my weight to force the metal down onto his windpipe, choking him and crushing his larynx. Wounded as I was, I wasn’t fast enough to stop the knee that he drove into my privates and my world erupted in pain as I howled and rolled off him.

  Before I could recover, Davey was up and out of the door, not even pausing to kick me on the way out. I struggled to my feet, sore and angry, and heard a car start outside. I raced for the door and got there in time to see him driving a jaguar XJS, wheels spinning in his haste to get away. Without thinking I raised the shotgun to my shoulder and fired, shattering the back window and peppering the smooth paintwork around the boot with buckshot.

  I heard a cry at the same time but if I had managed to hit him, he was still healthy enough to scream off down the driveway and out of sight.

  Suddenly drained and feeling sick, I returned to the kitchen to see if Tate was still alive.

  41

  WHEN I got back to the kitchen, the smell of Tate’s blood and guts filled the room like a butcher’s shop first thing in the morning. I dropped the gun on the table and walked over to where he lay slumped against the Aga, trying not to slip in the bloody slime that coated the floor.

  I bent down to take his pulse and jumped when his eyes flicked open, staring at me in obvious agony. ‘Okay Tate, I’m going to get you an ambulance. Just try not to move.’

  I looked at the mess the shot had made of his stomach and grimaced, forcing myself not to turn away and vomit. One whole side of his torso from groin to ribs on the left was missing, his guts and intestines hanging out and pumping a steady flow of blood. From somewhere deep inside an artery was spurting in an ever-lessening arc as he bled out. I didn’t need medic training to know that his remaining life was measured in minutes.

  He tried to speak, grabbing my arm with a blood-soaked hand and, despite his betrayal, I felt tears gather in my eyes and flood down my cheeks as I realised what I had done. ‘Shh, don’t try and talk. I’m so sorry Simon, but you grabbed the gun. I wasn’t going to shoot you, just him.’ I didn’t know if it was a lie or not, but he clumsily patted my arm as his eyes began to dim.

  ‘Sorry,’ he mumbled, blood spilling out of his mouth and staining his chin.

  ‘There’s no need to be sorry,’ I said, squeezing his arm. ‘It’s all over now.’

  His eyes sharpened for a second and he grabbed my hand so hard that I winced. ‘No,’ he said, speaking slowly so that I could understand, ‘I… gave…him… Sally.’

  My compassion drained away as the words hit me. ‘You gave him Sally? You told him where she lives?’

  He nodded, sagging back now that his message was given.

  I stood, fists clenching in anger. ‘You arsehole, I hope you rot in hell!’

  He waved a hand up at me as if to apologise but I kicked it away.

  ‘No, you die damned, you
die fucking damned!’ I shouted, turning and running for the yard, before a sudden thought brought me up short. Jimmy.

  I raced up the stairs, taking them two at a time with all thoughts of pain forgotten. My hands reached for my radio even as I realised they must have taken it. Seeing the room that they’d taken me to last time, I kicked the door open and almost cried with relief as I saw that he was still there. ‘Jimmy, Jimmy mate, I’ve come to get you out of here.’

  I shook him gently and he murmured something before a coughing fit racked him, each cough making him scream with pain. I stopped for a second, trying to find a way to get Jimmy out and save Sally from Davey, but my thoughts kept going in circles.

  Exhausted and hurt as I was, I almost missed the noise coming from the room I’d woken up in. I got to my feet and crossed the landing to see Billy trying to push himself up, a pistol halfway out of a shoulder holster. I ran over to him before he could draw, kicking him in the face again for good measure. His nose split, gushing blood all over him as the weapon fell from his fingers. I grabbed the pistol and tucked it into the back of my belt, then dragged him over to his brother and bound them both as securely as I could using the cut rope from my wrists and the sleeves from their jackets.

  Finally satisfied, I ran downstairs and searched Tate, covering myself in his blood in the process. He moved his arms feebly but I ignored him, refusing to feel anything but hate for the man who had given up his colleague, my girlfriend, to a psychopath with a penchant for cutting people.

  I found my radio, car keys and warrant card, all bloody but undamaged. My fingers were trembling as I turned the radio on and waited for it to start up. Miraculously I had a signal, and I turned the dial to the main Brighton channel and pressed my emergency button, taking strange comfort from the horrific blatting noise.

  ‘Charlie Papa 281, do you need assistance?’ The operator’s voice was tense with worry.

  ‘I’ve got two officers down, one dying from a gunshot wound to the stomach, the other is PC Holdsworth and he needs medical attention urgently. Quentin Davey is arrestable for attempted murder and is currently driving towards Brighton in a green J reg Jaguar XJS from the direction of the Redhill area. I need someone to go and find Sally Carter in DIU and stay with her until he’s caught, he’s gone after her.’

  It was too much for one breath but somehow I managed it. ‘Confirm you got my last?’

  ‘Yes, confirmed, what’s your location 281?’

  ‘We’re at a farmhouse somewhere near Crowhurst, in Surrey, I don’t know exactly where.’

  Another voice came on the radio and I recognised the clipped tones of Chief Superintendent Pearson. ‘Gareth, this is Derek Pearson. Is there any more detail you can give us on your location?’

  I thought for a moment. ‘Hang on, I’m going to turn my GPS on, then you can track this handset, right?’

  The operator confirmed that they could and I fiddled with the radio, checking the battery level and seeing that it had just enough charge. ‘There, done. Confirm you’re getting my location comms?’

  ‘Confirmed, we’re on the phone to Surrey ambulance now.’

  ‘Roger. I’ll leave my radio here, I’m going after Davey.’

  Pearson’s voice came back on the radio, hard and insistent.

  ‘That’s negative Gareth, you will stay there and wait for backup to arrive. We’ve just assigned units to look for Sally.’

  ‘Look for her? What do you mean look for her?’

  ‘Apparently she had a phone call and left work, something about a problem at home. Don’t worry Gareth, I’m sure she’ll be fine.’

  The words fell on deaf ears as I dropped the handset on the blood-spattered table and sprinted out of the house, barely hearing Pearson’s angry shouts as I left.

  42

  I MADE it back to the car in record time, not stopping once even when my breath ran out, cold fear driving me instead. I nearly broke the key in the lock in my haste and forced myself to slow down, taking a deep breath before I started the car. I turned it around in the tight lane, ignoring the angry honks of a driver trying to get past. As soon as I was travelling back towards Brighton I flicked the switch to turn the sirens and flashers on.

  I was probably driving towards my own suspension and dismissal, but none of that mattered as much as making sure that Sally was safe. I was back on the M23 in minutes, breaking every rule in the handbook and nearly crashing more times than I care to count, but I couldn’t find it in me to care as I pushed the car to its absolute limit and screamed towards Brighton at a hundred and twenty miles per hour.

  Traffic flashed past in a blur and I risked taking one hand off the wheel for long enough to turn the car kit on, which was hidden in the glove compartment. The main channel was frantic with units all trying to call up one after the other, assigning themselves to the search for Sally.

  One unit came up on air and their message made me scream with frustration as drivers, confused by the sirens but barely visible grille lights, refused to get out of my way.

  ‘Charlie Charlie 102, we’ve reached the home address and the housemate has told us that a man came to the house and forced his way in, tying her up. When Sally got here he took her, she’s not sure where as she was still tied up.’

  Davey couldn’t have got there already, in fact I was surprised that I hadn’t caught him up already and my eyes were constantly scanning for his Jaguar as I sped along. I turned the radio up, hoping for anything that would help me find Sally.

  ‘Roger 102, confirm the kidnapper was Davey?’

  ‘That’s a negative, he was an eastern European, stocky, five foot ten with a scar on his cheek.’

  ‘Received, all units, be on the lookout for an eastern European male, stocky build, five foot ten inches tall, with a scar on his cheek.’

  I tuned out then, knowing that Davey had beaten me again. He had obviously phoned ahead and managed to get one of his men to grab Sally for him. They could be anywhere now. I thumped the steering wheel in frustration, nearly losing control of the car as I did so, and let forth a scream so loud that it hurt my already aching head. I turned the flashers and sirens off; there was no point driving aimlessly round Brighton when he would have her tucked away somewhere, waiting to do whatever it was that his twisted mind would come up with.

  As I approached the Bolney turn-off, I glanced at the slip road and saw something out of place. I almost cried with relief when I realised that it was the rear end of a Jaguar with a shattered windscreen just disappearing out of sight. I slammed the brakes on, ignoring the beeps of protest and screeching of tyres from behind me, and reversed back to the slip road. I turned into it and put my foot down again, tearing after the car I’d just seen.

  I caught up with it as it drove over the other side and back down onto the A23 and realised that he had only turned off to see if he was being followed. I slowed to match the other traffic and tried to drive casual. It worked, or at least it seemed to, and he returned to the main road without doing anything out of the ordinary. I followed, keeping several cars between us for cover, intent on finding out where he was going, as I knew that he would be heading for Sally.

  I agonised over whether or not to call comms and let them know that I’d found the vehicle, but I knew if I did, uniform would stop the car and we’d never find Sally, so I stayed off the radio and followed him instead.

  We drove along London Road and through Patcham, getting bogged down in traffic before we reached the bottom of Preston Drove. Davey suddenly pulled into the bus lane and up Harrington Road, skipping the traffic and heading towards Surrenden Road at the back of Preston Park. I nosed out carefully, giving him a few seconds to get ahead before I turned into the road and followed him at a safe distance.

  This was where it got dangerous. If I let the gap widen too much, I would lose him in Brighton’s twisting streets, but if I got too close he would notice and take me on a wild goose chase until he lost me. Better the latter than the former though; at least
if he saw me following I could still call other units in. If he lost me, well, my mind shied away from what he would do to Sally if he got hold of her.

  He reached the end of the road and turned right. I lost sight of him again as he drove south on Surrenden Road towards the park. I still hadn’t regained sight of him by the time I reached the end of the road and my heart began to flutter wildly as I looked right and left. There was no sign either direction, so the only logical choice was Preston Park Avenue.

  I shot across both lanes of traffic, missing another car by inches as I swerved into the road I was aiming for. I breathed a sigh of relief as I saw the Jag pull into a driveway about halfway down and thanked any deity that chose to listen for helping me to make the right choice. I pulled into a space across the road on the edge of the park and killed the engine, taking a moment to breathe before getting out.

  Every fibre of me was screaming to get out of the car and race after Davey, but I had to be sure that this wasn’t just another test to check that he wasn’t being followed. I sat there for a full thirty seconds, my hands gripping the wheel so tightly that I thought it might snap as I ticked the seconds off in my head. Once I had reached thirty, I got out and locked the car, walking along the edge of the park towards the driveway where Davey had parked.

  As I got closer I began to worry that he had somehow slipped away, as I couldn’t see the car. Could there be some alleyway I didn’t know about that was wide enough to drive a car through? I hoped not. I drew level and saw that the driveway disappeared around the side of the Victorian house, which appeared from the number of doorbells to be split into flats.

  Taking a risk, I crossed the road and crunched as quietly as I could up the gravel to the rear of the house, peering around the corner first and being rewarded by the sight of the battered Jag sitting all alone, the engine still ticking as it cooled.

  He hadn’t come back round to the front and there was a twelve-foot wall guarding the rear and sides of the car park, so I turned my attention instead to the back of the building which had two private entrances nestled next to each other. The numbers on them said ‘31g’ and ‘31f’ and one of them must have contained Davey. Presumably Sally and her captor too, but which one?