Angel of Death

by Ben Cheetham

  Once more, helplessness threatened to throw Mark into a catatonic stupor. He fought off the feeling. If he was going to survive this, he had to act now while his hands and feet were free. He felt around the boot. It was bare, except for the jerrycan. He turned his attention to the lock. There was a little rim around it. An idea occurred to him. The boot of his car had a false bottom that concealed a spare tyre and all the tools necessary to fit it. If this boot contained a tyre-jack, maybe he could use it to prise the lock apart. And even if that wasn’t possible, at the very least he’d have a weapon to defend himself with other than the broken spoon.

  Mark ran his fingers around the edge of the boot’s base until he found a gap he could push them into. They curled around the underside of what felt like a sheet of wood topped with a rough material. Wrenching at it, he managed to bend it upwards a few centimetres. A groan whistled through his teeth as he removed his arm from the sling and felt underneath the false bottom. There was a spare tyre but no tools – at least, not within easy reach. He stretched out his arm until it felt as if his wound was about to tear open. His fingers brushed against a metallic handle. With an effort that made sweat pop out all over his body, he wrapped his fingers around it and pulled it free. It was a bolt wrench. He lay still for a few seconds, letting the pain subside. Before he could make another attempt to find a tyre-jack, the car screeched to a halt.

  Mark’s stomach knotted with indecision. Should he fight? Or should he wait for a better chance to escape? Part of him cried out that it would be crazy to fight a gun with a wrench. But another, louder, part of his brain shouted, There won’t be a better chance. You either fight now or die later! He rolled onto his front, concealing the wrench under himself. The engine died. There was the sound of a door closing, then the boot popped open. Sunlight flooded in, dazzling him. Through blinking eyes, he saw that PC Stone was no longer holding the gun. As gloved hands hauled him upright, Mark whipped the wrench round. It connected flush with the side of PC Stone’s head, sending him staggering. Mark clambered out of the boot, aiming another blow at his captor. This time the wrench was deflected by a forearm. There was a dull crunch of metal against bone, but PC Stone didn’t give the slightest indication that he was feeling any pain. He caught hold of the wrench and yanked it from Mark’s grasp. He thrust his other hand into his jacket.

  Mark turned and ran as fast as his injured leg would allow. He knew it was hopeless. After all, he couldn’t outrun a bullet. But he also knew that he would rather die trying to escape than let PC Stone choose the time and method of his death. He was on a narrow road, flanked by trees. He passed a small red car, parked and empty. Maybe two hundred metres up ahead, he could see a broader road with a row of semi-detached houses on its far side. He swerved towards the trees, thinking it would be harder for PC Stone to get a clear shot at him in amongst them. Something hit him hard in the back, knocking him off his feet. Bolts of pain raced through his limbs, stealing their strength. Have I been shot? he wondered. His question was answered a second later when PC Stone arrived at his side and stooped to retrieve the wrench.

  ‘Nice try,’ growled PC Stone, kneeling on Mark’s back. A howl tore from Mark’s throat as his wrists were twisted together and bound with plastic cuffs. ‘Quiet, or I’ll have to kill you.’ It wasn’t a threat, it was a simple statement of fact.

  Mark bit down on his scream. Silent tears streamed from his eyes as he was hauled to his feet and shoved towards the red car. PC Stone opened the boot and took out a scrap of material, which he stuffed into Mark’s mouth and secured with duct tape. Then Mark’s world went black again as a cloth bag was put over his head. PC Stone pushed him into the boot and flipped his legs in after him. Pain came at him from so many different directions that he couldn’t identify them all. His straining ears caught the sound of footsteps moving away from the car. Then another sound like water being sloshed around. There was a faint whoosh. An acrid smoky smell seeped through the cloth bag. For a sickening second, Mark thought the red car had been set alight. Then one of its doors slammed shut and the engine came alive.

  At first the car moved fast enough to bounce Mark around. But it soon slowed to a steady pace. Drifting in pain-addled darkness, he struggled to hold on to a sense of time. Unconsciousness pulled at his mind. He refused to give in to it, focusing on slowing his breathing. Be calm, he kept telling himself. But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t keep his body from trembling. He tried to wriggle free of the cuffs, but they were on so tight his hands tingled with numbness. He rolled around, feeling for any sharp edges he might use to saw through the plastic. There were none. More out of desperation than hope, he drove his knees again and again against the underside of the boot. He kept at it until, after what seemed like hours but might have been minutes, the car pulled to a stop.

  There was a muffled metallic scraping. The car pulled forwards a few metres. Then the sound came again, suggesting to Mark that a garage door had been opened and closed. The boot clicked open. Hands grabbed him and hauled him out of it. He was manoeuvred forwards until his face came into contact with a wall. A hand pushed him down to a cold concrete floor.

  There was a moment of silence that pressed against Mark like a dead weight. Then came the trill of a mobile ringtone. ‘I thought we agreed you wouldn’t call unless it was an emer­gency,’ said PC Stone. After a brief pause, he continued, ‘No, sir, I don’t call this an emergency. Everything’s under control… She gave me no choice… I don’t want to say any more about that right now, sir. I’ll give you a full report when I collect payment.’

  Sir… full report. The words made the hairs on Mark’s neck bristle. They sounded like the sort of thing a policeman would say. Was it possible PC Stone really was who he said he was? How else could he have known I wanted to speak to Detective Monahan? Mark asked himself. The question prompted another one: was Detective Monahan involved in the kidnapping? Mark gave a sharp shake of his head. Detective Monahan had gone against Doctor Reeve. Surely that proved he wasn’t involved. Unless it had all been an act, a ploy to lure him out of the hospital. No, he couldn’t bring himself to believe that. Jim Monahan was the only one who’d been straight with him. Hadn’t he? Doubts crowded in on him like an angry mob. For an instant, he burnt with a raw hatred that overrode his fear. Not only had Stephen Baxley crippled his arm, he’d also crippled his capacity to trust.

  ‘I don’t think that’s a good idea,’ PC Stone told whoever was on the other end of the line. As if he’d been reprimanded, he added quickly, in a lower tone, ‘I realise that, sir, but you should still be extremely careful what you say to him. I’m putting you on to him now.’

  Mark felt the phone being pressed to his ear.

  ‘Hello, Mark.’ The voice was as accentless as a BBC newsreader.

  Are you certain he won’t remember anything? The words from Mark’s dream echoed back into his mind. A familiar surge of nausea told him that the person who’d spoken those words and the man on the phone were one and the same.

  ‘You don’t remember me, but I remember you.’ The man’s voice took on a sickeningly sensual thickness. ‘How could I ever forget the pleasure you gave me?’

  I didn’t fucking give you anything, thought Mark. You took it.

  ‘That film I had your father – or, more accurately, should I say, your step-father – make is still one of my most treasured possessions.’ A sigh filled the line. ‘I don’t suppose it’s any consolation, but I want you to know that I regret it’s come to this. Sadly, Stephen’s stupidity has forced me into this course of action. I don’t blame him so much as I blame myself. I should have known: once a pleb, always a pleb. But there you are, you live and learn. Goodbye, my sweet little boy. We won’t speak again.’

  The phone was removed from Mark’s ear. PC Stone spoke into it again. ‘Yes, sir… We sit tight and wait for the whore to come to us… I don’t think it’ll be long. She’ll have to make her next move quickly, if she’s going to make it at all… Then we kill all the bir
ds with one stone.’

  Mark wondered who the whore was. Was it Grace Kirby? Who else could it be? So she was still alive! Although, from the sounds of it, probably not for much longer. It seemed that all the loose ends were being tied up. But what had been meant by make her next move? Was Grace out for some kind of revenge? Blackmail maybe? Or maybe something more straightforward and bloody.

  ‘No, don’t go home,’ continued PC Stone. ‘The doctor’s the one who’s convinced this will work, so let him take the risk… If he’s wrong, he’ll be dead. Either way, I’ll call you when it’s over… I’ll use the same code as before: three rings, hang up, wait ten seconds, then another three rings.’

  Suffocating silence settled over Mark again. He cringed against the wall, wondering how long he had left to live. An hour? Two hours? Since his so-called father’s murderous rampage, he’d asked himself more times than he could count whether he’d want to live if Charlotte died. Now the answer stood out in his mind like letters of fire. Yes! He wanted to live, however desolate his life might be.

  18

  What if this is my fault? What if Amy and Mark die because of me? The questions crashed into Jim’s brain like stones hurled through glass. He shook his head in an effort to thrust them away. He needed to focus on the job. With every passing second the odds of Mark being rescued alive decreased. There would be plenty of time later to agonise about the possible repercussions of having given Grace the heads-up.

  Jim’s phone rang. It was Garrett. ‘I’m at the main entrance. Where are you?’ asked the DCI. Jim told him, and Garrett said, ‘Wait there. I’ll come to you.’

  Moments later Garrett and Scott Greenwood appeared at the door to the CCTV control room. Garrett’s eyebrows pinched together at the sight of Jim. ‘It’s Amy’s blood,’ said Jim, reading the question in his commanding officer’s eyes.

  ‘Have you heard how she’s doing?’ asked Scott.

  ‘No.’

  ‘So let’s go and find out,’ said Garrett.

  Jim and the DCI went in search of someone who could tell them what they wanted to know, leaving Scott in control of the scene.

  ‘What have you got for me?’ asked Garrett.

  Jim opened his mouth to reply, but his throat was suddenly too constricted to speak. Again the questions battered at him. What if, what if…?

  ‘Detective?’

  Focus, you son of a bitch! Clearing his throat with a noise like a strangled groan, Jim relayed all he knew.

  ‘Good work,’ said Garrett.

  Jim’s lips twisted into a grimace. Good work. The words stung worse than any insult. Praise was the last thing he’d expected or wanted to hear from Garrett.

  ‘Four bodies in three days. And now this,’ continued Garrett, shaking his head. ‘I’ve never known anything like it. This damned city’s turning into a warzone.’

  The DCI accosted a nurse and asked where the injured police officer had been taken. After making a quick phone call, she informed them that Amy was undergoing surgery. She led them to the Surgical Unit, where they were met by a surgeon. ‘I’m afraid it’s not good news,’ he said. ‘The bullet penetrated her trachea and oesophagus, and hit her spinal column.’

  ‘So she’s paralysed,’ said Jim.

  ‘It’s too early to say for sure. We’re still trying to establish whether the spinal cord has been damaged. What I can tell you is that we’ve managed to stop the bleeding and insert a breathing tube.’

  ‘What are her chances?’ asked Garrett.

  The surgeon’s expression suggested they weren’t good. ‘About the best we can say right now is that the speed with which she received treatment has given her a fighting chance.’

  The surgeon went on to say how the next few hours were going to be critical, but Jim wasn’t listening any more. There was a tingling pain in his chest; blood was pounding dizzily in his ears. He dropped onto a chair, head lowered, hands pressed to his face. He looked up at a touch on his shoulder. ‘Go and get yourself cleaned up, Detective,’ said Garrett. ‘Then we need to talk.’

  His shoulders slumped under the weight of his thoughts, Jim headed into a nearby toilet. He looked in the mirror and barely recognised the broken-down face that stared back at him with eyes full of haunted questions. He washed the blood off his hands and from around his mouth. But he couldn’t wash the blood entirely from his sleeves. Or from his conscience.

  Jim rolled up his sleeves and left the toilet. Garrett was talking to Detective Chief Superintendent Knight. The DCS was a tall, broad-shouldered man of about fifty-five, with hooded, serious eyes and a high forehead topped by short, iron-grey hair. He’d been with South Yorkshire Police for over thirty years, during which time he’d risen through the ranks from constable to heading up CID. Jim had got to know him well enough over the years on a professional, if not friendly, basis. He’d proved himself a competent DCI during his time with Major Incidents, gaining a reputation for being ruthless and relentless. But it had quickly become apparent that, like Garrett, he was more of a politician than a policeman. Rumour had it he was marked for one of the top jobs. Possibly even Chief Constable. Jim wouldn’t have been surprised if the rumour proved true. Unlike Garrett, the Chief Superintendent possessed a charisma that inspired the officers serving under him.

  ‘Jim, how are you holding up?’ asked DCS Knight.

  Jim shrugged away the question, as if to say, What does it matter how I’m doing?

  ‘I know, I know. When something like this happens it makes everything else seem unimportant.’ The DCS put a hand on Jim’s shoulder. ‘But you’ve still got to take care of yourself. If you’d like to talk to a welfare counsellor, I’ll—’

  Jim cut DCS Knight off with a shake of his head.

  ‘There’s no shame in it.’

  ‘I know, but there’s no need. Really. I’m OK.’

  ‘Well how about taking some time off? You look as though you could do with a bloody good rest.’

  ‘I’d rather drop dead than rest while the bastard who did this is still out there.’

  DCS Knight’s lips contracted into a grave but friendly smile. ‘I expected nothing less from you, Jim.’ He turned back to Garrett. ‘However many officers you need, I’ll see that you get them. We need to send out a clear message that this kind of thing won’t be allowed to stand.’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ said Garrett. ‘And what about that other matter?’

  ‘I’ll leave that up to your judgement.’

  Jim wondered what other matter they were referring to. The thought passed from his mind as Garrett gestured towards something behind him. ‘I’d better go speak to him,’ he said in a heavy voice.

  Glancing round, Jim saw a man sitting bent almost double on a chair along the corridor. He recognised him from the photo on Amy’s iPhone, although instead of happiness the man’s face showed only pain and fear. Jim felt another sharp constriction in his chest. DCS Knight took a dutiful breath. ‘I’ll do it. What’s his name?’

  ‘Justin Sheridan.’

  As the DCS headed over to Amy’s husband, Garrett fixed enquiring eyes on Jim. ‘What do you think Mark was so eager to talk to you about?’

  ‘My guess is he’d remembered more about what happened to him at the Winstanley house.’

  ‘And you think that’s why he was kidnapped?’

  ‘I’d say that’s a given. Which begs the question, who knows what we’ve been talking to Mark about?’

  ‘Only Doctor Goodwin and Doctor Reeve.’ Garrett pulled at his chin. ‘Something doesn’t add up here. If this is just about what Mark knows, why isn’t he already dead?’

  The words struck Jim with the force of an accusation as he found himself wondering whether this was as much about what Grace knew as what Mark knew. Perhaps Mark’s kidnapper hoped to use him against her somehow. Jim struggled to keep from wincing away from his DCI’s gaze.

  Scott Greenwood appeared through a nearby door. ‘The helicopter’s spotted a burning car in Little Roe Wood, a few hun
dred metres from the Norwood Road.’

  ‘The kidnapper must have switched cars,’ said Jim.

  ‘Get over there and check it out,’ Garrett said to Scott.

  As Scott headed back out the door, Garrett motioned for Jim to follow him. ‘Where are we going?’ asked Jim.

  ‘To talk to Doctor Goodwin and anyone else on Critical Care who’s had contact with Mark.’

  ‘What about Doctor Reeve?’

  ‘I’ve already contacted him. He’s on his way here.’

  When they entered the Critical Care Department, several pairs of worried-looking eyes turned towards them. They belonged to a cluster of nurses who were talking in hushed voices at their workstation. ‘I’m so sorry about what’s hap­pened,’ said one. ‘I’m Head Nurse Jess Campbell. What can I do to help?’

  ‘We need to talk to all staff members who’ve had contact with Mark Baxley since his admission, as well as anyone who was working at the time he went missing,’ said Garrett.

  ‘Of course. I’ll gather together everyone on duty.’ Nurse Campbell turned to one of her colleagues. ‘Mary, you’d better start going through the rotas and putting together a list of names.’

  ‘Have you got a room we can use?’ asked Garrett.

  ‘You can use the staffroom.’

  ‘I’m also going to have to ask you to seal off Mark Baxley’s room until my detectives and a forensics team have looked it over.’

  Nurse Campbell’s brow wrinkled. ‘I hope there’s not going to be a lot of people coming and going. The patients on this ward are all seriously ill. They need complete rest.’

  ‘Don’t worry. We’ll keep a low profile. We won’t disturb any patients unless it’s absolutely necessary.’

  Nurse Campbell led them to the staffroom. Garrett arranged three chairs in such a way that two were directly facing the third. ‘I’ll lead the questioning, OK?’ The DCI said OK as if asking for Jim’s approval. But he wasn’t asking, he was ordering.