by Tom Bale
There were two other people in the room: the consultant's secretary and one other patient. He ignored them as studiously as they ignored him. There was an LCD television mounted on the wall above the secretary's desk, but it was switched off. The only sound was the occasional patter of keys from the secretary's laptop and the rustle of the other patient's Telegraph.
Into this silence, the ringing of his mobile phone seemed a tasteless intrusion. He'd neglected to switch it to vibrate. Cowed by a sudden aura of disapproval, he nodded an apology and examined the display. The number intrigued him, so he stood and walked to the door before answering.
George was a burly man in his mid-fifties, with a thick torso and hard, slightly rough features. He had been a keen amateur boxer in his youth, and continued to exercise hard until only a few years ago. The weight he'd gained recently had helped smooth out his appearance, giving him a more cultured look, befitting a man who had risen from nothing and built a billion-pound empire.
The caller was DI Terry Sullivan, a useful acquaintance of many years' standing. And in no mood for pleasantries, evidently.
'Where are you?'
The question disarmed him. He was on the second floor of a converted town house in Harley Street, in a waiting room whose low leather sofas, Persian rugs and mood lighting were in stark contrast to the consulting rooms beyond. None of your business, George thought.
'You're not in Sussex?' Sullivan added.
'No. We stayed in London last night.'
George heard a loud sigh. His frown deepened as he picked up other sounds in the background: raised voices, sirens, something that might have been a helicopter.
Sullivan said, 'There's been an incident in Chilton.'
'What do you mean?'
'Do you own a shotgun?'
George, startled, was about to repeat the detective's last word, but managed to stop himself in time. He squeezed the phone a little tighter and said, 'Yes, I do.'
He heard Sullivan mutter an expletive. Then: 'Is there a TV where you are?'
George glanced over his shoulder, saw both the receptionist and the other patient staring at him. 'Uh, yes.'
'Turn it on. I'll ring you again in a minute.' George heard someone shouting the policeman's name. 'If I can,' Sullivan added darkly. He ended the call.
George went on staring at the display for a moment, then he offered the secretary his most disarming smile.
'Would you mind putting the television on?'
There were four consulting rooms on the second floor, two each side of a central corridor. Lavatories were at one end of the corridor, and the waiting room at the other. Vanessa quietly closed the door to consulting room number three and entered the ladies' cloakroom.
The room was empty, thankfully. She had no need of the toilet, but a great need for solitude. Just for a minute or two. Long enough to compose her thoughts.
She stood in front of the sink. There was a shelf above it, containing a pretty little basket of soaps, each wrapped in shiny pink paper. Above the shelf was a mirror, and in the mirror was a monster. It was no one she recognised. She had given up on mirrors months ago, practically as soon as the chemotherapy began.
The pointless, futile chemotherapy.
The secretary was the usual formidable creature these places seemed to favour, but on this occasion she didn't say a word. She just did as she was asked, and in silence all three of them watched the screen swim into life, revealing a headline in bold red letters: SHOOTING IN SUSSEX VILLAGE.
There was a live camera feed from a helicopter, hovering somewhere above Chilton's southern perimeter. It showed the road into the village choked with emergency vehicles. Dark figures scurried in the neighbouring fields. There was an unfamiliar white square on the village green, and another on the road by the church. Forensic tents, George realised. His phone rang again.
'You watching it?'
'What's going on?'
'We've got a lad dead on the village green. Shot in the head with a Walther P22, complete with suppressor. There's also a Purdey shotgun by the body.'
'I don't understand. Who did it?'
'Looks like he topped himself. I need to know if the gun is yours.'
'It could be,' said George. 'Does that mean . . . the house?'
'We've not been there yet. Got more than enough to occupy us in the village. Communications are a bit of a bastard out here, but hopefully we'll have the landlines fixed soon.'
George's attention was distracted by the sound of a door opening, so he didn't quite catch what Sullivan said. Glancing round, he saw Vanessa emerge from the corridor. She was walking as if on tiptoe, every muscle tense but controlled. Her eyes met his for a moment, bright and cold. Betrayed. He looked away. What did Sullivan mean about fixing the landlines?
'There are other fatalities,' the policeman said.
'How many?'
'Dunno yet, but it's a lot.'
On screen the aerial image flickered and went black. They returned to the studio, where the presenter looked unprepared and slightly chastened. Apologising for the loss of picture, he briefly recapped the situation. A gunman was believed to have carried out a shooting spree in the Sussex village of Chilton.
He heard Vanessa gasp. She took a couple of steps forward and grasped the reception desk for support. George turned away from her. A buzzer sounded, and after a moment the secretary invited the other patient to go through. Sullivan had been interrupted again, but he came back on the line just as something else occurred to George.
'What about the farm?'
'What?'
'Hurst Farm. It's along the same road as the house. The Caplans live there, Laura and Keith, with their daughter.'
Another curse from Sullivan, as if an impossible job had just got harder still.
'We'll check it out.'
A hand touched his shoulder, and he heard Vanessa say, 'Can we go?'
He half turned, distracted and irritable, shrugging her off. Then he remembered why they were here. 'What did he say?'
Vanessa sniffed; her contempt quite expected, and quite deserved. 'It can wait.'
'I'm sorry.' He gestured at the television. 'You can see why . . .'
There was a brief report from outside Sussex Police HQ, then it was back to the aerial shot, this time a little further from the village. It showed a helicopter taking off, while another waited its turn to land.
He heard a sigh, then felt Vanessa move around him. She clearly intended to leave, no matter what he did. Reluctantly he followed her out to the lobby.
'Terry Sullivan rang me,' he told her. 'He was worried we might be there.'
'Do they know what happened?'
'Not really. Sounds like pandemonium at the moment. I just hope the Caplans are all right.'
Vanessa pressed the button to summon the elevator, then turned to face the doors.
George shook his head. 'Dreadful,' he muttered. Lost in thought, he went on staring at his phone. 'Absolutely dreadful.'
'Eight to ten weeks.'
'What's that?' George looked up, confused.
'Mr Templeton's prognosis.' She swallowed loudly, moistened her lips. 'I have two months to live. At best.'
Eleven
He'd been in Chilton less than an hour, but PC Davies was already exhausted. A second armed response vehicle had arrived at eight-forty, quickly followed by half a dozen patrol cars and the first contingent of CID. They were joined by fire and medical crews, and the arduous task of searching the entire village began.
The man lying dead on the green might well be the sole perpetrator, but the chief inspector who'd assumed the role of Silver Commander urged caution. So far the only witness was the woman from Arundel Crescent, and she was flaky to say the least. He wanted at least one armed officer assigned to each team, along with a paramedic and a couple of uniforms.
Everyone present knew this approach might well mean an injured victim died before medical assistance could reach them. It also meant forcing entry to
homes and screaming at the occupants to get down, traumatising people who were already in a state of shock, and in some cases badly injured.
Once the first couple of survivors had confirmed the description of a single gunman, Davies began to take greater risks with his own safety, and he suspected his colleagues were doing the same. His team were the first to finish searching their allotted properties. He emerged from the village shop and left a uniformed colleague to supply the command post with details of the only occupant: a middle-aged woman in the stockroom, fatally wounded.
He stopped on the edge of the green and wiped his face. A passing paramedic offered him water and he took it gratefully. As he tipped the bottle up, he saw a helicopter descending into the field behind Arundel Crescent and recognised it as the one which had transported the female victim to hospital. He wondered if she'd made it there alive.
He heard a shout and looked round. A hugely overweight man with untidy grey hair was striding towards him. Davies vaguely recognised him, but had a look at his warrant card just the same: Detective Inspector Sullivan. 'We need to check out Hurst Lane,' he said, signalling to the paramedic who had given Davies the water. She was a short, plump woman who bore a disturbing resemblance to Ann Widdecombe.
The car groaned as Sullivan sank into the driver's seat. Davies caught a whiff of body odour, masked by a generous dose of aftershave. Sullivan drove one-handed, his arm held high and bent at the elbow, his belly wedged against the steering wheel. Alongside him, Davies had to lean against the door to avoid the risk of physical contact.
The village made a surreal backdrop, like a scene straight out of MASH or Apocalypse Now. Helicopters swooping in and out, fed with casualties by stretcher bearers running to and fro. Forensic teams in paper suits, swarming around the victims like white blood cells around a wound. The village was now so crowded that only ambulances were being permitted access to the High Street. Everyone else had to park on the approach road.
Weaving past a cluster of cars outside the church, Sullivan nearly collided with a SOCO taking photographs of the dead postman.
'Fucking nightmare,' he muttered.
'It's like a vision of hell,' the paramedic piped up from the back seat. After that, no one spoke till they reached the farmhouse.
* * *
The first thing Davies saw was the front door standing open. He felt a tingle of apprehension, and a heaviness in his gut. No more, he thought. Don't let me find any more.
But there would be more. He felt sure of that, as soon as he got out of the car. There was an unnatural quality to the silence. Even on an arable farm, people would be up and about by now. Someone who'd heard the sirens and the helicopters and come out to investigate.
'No one in there,' DI Sullivan said as he followed Davies towards the door. 'No one alive, anyway.'
From behind them, the paramedic said, 'We shouldn't give up hope.'
Davies nudged the door open with his foot. He peeked over the threshold and immediately caught the stench of blood and human waste.
He stepped inside. It was an old dwelling, with low ceilings and small rooms. The decor was tired, but efforts had been made to brighten it up with well-chosen lamps, mirrors and pictures. A woman's taste and ingenuity, trying to offset a man's reluctance to spend time or money on decoration.
The living room was dominated by a big old Philips TV with an equally ancient VCR. No DVDs or game consoles. The room opposite, next to the stairs, had a large oak dining table and looked like it was never used. By contrast, the kitchen was warm and cluttered and much more welcoming. It was here that he found them.
He was in the doorway, staring at the bodies, when Sullivan came in behind him. 'Clear?'
Davies shrugged. He hadn't checked upstairs yet, but it all seemed a bit academic now. He moved aside to let Sullivan see the room.
Like several other victims, the occupants of the farmhouse had been having breakfast when the killer struck. There were two plates on the pine table, one with a half-eaten pile of eggs, bacon, sausages and mushrooms; the other with poached eggs on toast, untouched.
The farmer was sprawled on the floor. He had been blasted in the stomach with a shotgun, but it hadn't killed him straight away. The blood and intestines covering his hands suggested he had literally tried to hold himself together.
The woman had also been killed with the shotgun, a blast to the head at close range. There was little of her face left, but they could tell she was fairly young, maybe early thirties, with a slim figure. Her jeans lay discarded on the floor. Her sweater and t-shirt had been hiked up, and her bra torn off. There were marks on her skin where she had been pawed by her killer. Her pubic hair was matted with blood.
Sullivan whistled. 'This is a bit different.'
'Rage,' Davies said. 'Sexual rage.'
'Seen any others where the shotgun was used?'
'Not yet.'
'Me neither.'
They both pondered for a moment. 'Wonder what it means,' Davies said.
'Doubt we'll ever know,' said Sullivan. 'Fucker took his secrets with him.'
There was a soft thud from overhead. Both men gave a start. Davies whipped round, bringing his gun up. The paramedic, waiting by the front door, threw up her hands in terror.
'Hey,' said Sullivan. 'Where's the kid? They've got a daughter.'
Davies took the stairs as lightly as he could. Reaching the top he sensed movement at the end of the landing, as if someone had ducked into the bedroom. His heart raced. If it was the girl, why had she run away from him?
Because she's bloody terrified. She probably saw her parents murdered.
'Armed police!' he shouted, trying to sound stern but not overly intimidating. 'Come out slowly. You're going to be all right.'
Silence. No reaction at all. What if it's not the girl? He knew it was unlikely, but the sexual assault on the woman had challenged his assumptions. There was something else going on here, and it unnerved him.
Maybe he should withdraw. Get a full team here to storm the house. But he'd never hear the last of it if there was only a little girl, too petrified to show herself.
'I'm a policeman,' he called, more softly this time. 'My name's Chris. Will you tell me your name?'
No answer. He sighed. Took a cautious step forward.
Then he heard it. A low, frightened mewling. He smiled, thanking God he hadn't called for back-up, and strode towards the end bedroom. Poised on the dressing table was a large black cat, regarding him with spectacular disdain.
'Have you found her?' Sullivan said.
Davies ignored him, turned and pushed open the door he'd just passed. A spare bedroom, with a single bed. But the duvet was rucked up, and there was a Tom Clancy paperback on the bedside table. A crumpled pair of jeans on the floor.
Next door was the bathroom, and the final room was a little girl's bedroom. The walls were painted a light purple, with a matching lightshade fringed with beads. Posters of Girls Aloud and Take That on the wall, and a row of Jacqueline Wilson books on a glass shelf.
The girl was in bed. At first glance she might have been asleep. Her pink duvet was drawn up to her chin, just as you would expect on a cold morning. She lay on her side, nothing visible except a pale sliver of cheek and a sweep of long brown hair. Only the pillow lying partly across her face gave any indication that things were not as they seemed.
'Up here,' he called. For the first time that day, he felt tears straining behind his eyes. He blinked rapidly and turned away.
Sullivan hurried into the room, followed by the paramedic. He took a brief look at the girl, then touched Davies's shoulder. 'You okay?'
'Fine.'
Sullivan grunted, as if he couldn't understand why Davies needed to maintain the pretence. There was a hushed exclamation from the paramedic. She had pulled back the duvet, and at first Davies imagined she was reacting to some terrible violation of the child's body. Then he registered the awe in her voice.
'I've found a pulse.'
; Twelve
By the time Nina called, Craig was on the A23 in his VW Golf, heading south as fast as the Saturday morning traffic would allow. It was almost eleven o'clock and he was no closer to finding out if his father was safe.
'What's the matter?' she said. 'Are the kids all right?' She sounded different, somehow. Slightly flustered, slightly upset, but there was an aggressive edge to her voice.
'They're fine,' he said. 'Where are you? Why didn't you answer your mobile?'
'I switched it off. I always do when I need to concentrate.'
'I wasted ages trying to get hold of you. The guy on the switchboard couldn't find you anywhere.'
'The switchboard isn't manned on Saturday.'
'Well, someone answered. He said you weren't at your desk.'
A long, theatrical sigh. 'It was probably one of the lads on the ground floor. Maybe they looked in the wrong place. Maybe I'd popped out to the loo.'
'I had to take the kids to your mum's. She tried phoning you as well.'
'Why? What's happened?'
He fought back an impulse to shout: How can you not know? Instead he laughed. By ten o'clock both the BBC and ITV had broken into their normal schedule to bring live coverage, and there were constant updates on all the main radio stations. It was at his in-laws' house that he'd first heard the word 'massacre' used to describe the incident.
'You really don't know?'
'No.' Her voice wavered. 'What?'
'There's been a shooting. In Chilton.'
Her gasp was followed by a peculiar busy silence.
'Who are you with?'
'No one. Have you spoken to your dad?'
'I can't get through to him.'
His peripheral vision caught a flash of blue light in the rear-view mirror. He veered left, leaving the outside lane clear. A convoy of six vehicles sped past: police cars and scientific support vehicles. And there was a black Transit, whose purpose wasn't immediately obvious. Then he understood: it was a mortuary van.
'Craig? You're not going there, are you? Wouldn't it be better to call the police?'
He laughed again, and ended the call before he said something he might regret.
