by GB Williams
Charlie wrapped his hand around Teddington’s cold arm. Normally he’d have rubbed it to try to warm her up, but the pain from Beamish’s kick prevented that. Now he stared at the van wall and tried to think.
They could bail through the sliding door, but that would be dangerous and given the beating Teddington had already taken, it probably wasn’t a great idea. There again, better some broken bones than a bullet in the brain. There was also the fact that he didn’t know where they were heading now. The plan he knew about had pretty much gone out the window from the second Beamish fired at Grimshaw. Logically then, he couldn’t rely on the post-op plans he knew about. Lincoln and Beamish had been whispering on and off all day—it was clear that he had been kept out of the picture for a reason. When had that started?
It wasn’t because of Teddington. Lincoln might have openly distrusted him after the closeness of their connection had been revealed, but it hadn’t signalled a major change.
Closeness of our connection. Who are you kidding?
Charlie glanced at the mass of chestnut hair leaning against his chest. Their connection was nowhere near as close as he wanted it to be. He couldn’t believe he’d missed her invitation. Well he could, he had, but he’d honestly believed she had no interest in him. He could have checked it out. Piper would have been able to give him her phone number, probably her address. There again, he could have looked through the phone book. There couldn’t be that many people called Teddington in the area. Only he’d been a coward, he’d stayed away. Convinced himself that he wasn’t worthy of her. He probably wasn’t, but he wanted her and the fear that she didn’t want him was more than he could face.
He bowed his head over her hair. He could smell apples, but also the scent of her. It was a scent he wanted to know better.
That was a prospect for the future; right now, he had to worry about getting the pair of them out of the present alive. He had to think. Looking back now, in all probability, Lincoln had never trusted him. There was the wallet to think about. He had thought it was a test of loyalty, but clearly it was just a prop for blackmail. Thankfully he had logged with CHIS the recording of Lincoln threatening him with being set up as a fall guy, so he should be able to wriggle free of that one.
There was still the matter of the heart. He didn’t know what had happened to that, and even though no one actually got killed, the repercussions wouldn’t be good. The years of being in the Force should have made it clear to him that there was no honour amongst thieves, no trust. He was just a pawn and he should have seen it sooner. At last he realised the simple truth… he’d just been out of the game too long. But he had to get back into it and damn quick.
Fears for poor little Lucy were a waste of time now. As were fears for himself. It was clear that if they were tried for this, they’d be convicted and they would serve for a very long time. He feared for Teddington. He had to get her out of this. He worried that she’d fallen asleep against him, which with a concussion wasn’t a good thing.
Whatever else he did, he swore he would stop Beamish, even if he had to serve time for murder. Again.
Assuming that everything he’d been told up till now was a lie, if he wanted Piper to catch these guys, then he had to stick with the team for now. Teddington was a complication, but she’d understand. He breathed in fresh apples. She would understand—eventually.
27
He didn’t have to do this, but Piper made himself do it all the same. He tried telling himself that he wasn’t doing this to avoid having to face Broughton, but he wasn’t that good a liar. There were plenty of parts of being a police officer that weren’t pleasant, but they still had to be done. Knocking on Mrs Whittaker’s door was just one of those parts.
A weary-looking man answered. The olive skin spoke of the man’s Mediterranean ancestry. And this was the first time in many months that Piper had seen him.
‘Prison Officer Sanchez.’
The man rolled his eyes. ‘Call me Enzo.’ He stepped back to let Piper into the house. ‘I’m not on duty. I take it you are?’
‘Afraid so.’ He kept his voice low. ‘How is Mrs Whittaker?’
‘Frightened.’ Enzo was equally careful not to let his voice carry. ‘Any news on Ari?’
Piper knew from previous encounters that Sanchez was the same age as Teddington, that they had been friends since the age of eleven. Sanchez lived across the road and it was him who’d helped Teddington get the job as a prison officer. The Sanchez family were close friends with the Whittakers. ‘I need to see Mrs Whittaker.’
Enzo pointed to the living room and Piper went through, nodding to the Family Liaison Officer who stood on his arrival and offered a welcome cup of tea. The room was neat and tidy, in some ways too tidy. There was a box of paper tissues next to Mrs Whittaker, a bin full of crumpled white ones nearby. On the carpet were a couple of very small white flakes that seemed to have been torn off by hands that even now were twisting and tearing at another tissue.
‘Inspector Piper.’ The older woman looked up at him. Her eyes were red from crying, and her skin was pale. She looked tired and stressed, and much older than she had nine months ago when he had been visiting Teddington after her shooting. Innocent people always paid for the misdeeds of others, and here was the evidence right in front of his eyes.
‘Mrs Whittaker, I’m sorry to see you under these circumstances.’
She waved the apology away and invited him to sit. ‘The news says the siege is over. So what’s happening to Addy? Where’s my baby girl?’
The pet name surprised Piper, but his surprise was irrelevant, he knew who she was talking about. Piper could see the tears welling up in Mrs Whittaker’s eyes and felt his throat going dry. This case was getting to him far more than cases usually did. Even the idea of someone as tough as Ariadne Teddington being called a ‘baby girl’ didn’t raise a smile. His youngest, his son, at just 15, was already several inches taller than him and much stronger, but the man he was growing into would always be that same bundle of incredible squealing life placed in his arms after one of the most emotional days of his life.
‘At the moment, two hostages remain in the power of the gunmen. We’re tracing them and hope to get them back soon.’ He felt like a party political broadcast.
‘This is worse than when she was kidnapped before.’ Mrs Whittaker looked at the blank screen of the switched-off television set. ‘Not that she lets me refer to it as a kidnapping. At least back then you could assure me that… that… that man who took her was unlikely to hurt her.’
Piper swallowed. Oddly glad she couldn’t remember Charlie’s name, he knew he could tell her the same again now, except that there was more than Charlie to consider and at least one of the other men was happy to leave corpses behind him.
‘Mrs Whittaker, I can’t give you any guarantees. I can, however, tell you we’re doing everything we can to get them back safe.’ Which wasn’t amounting to a whole lot at that precise second. ‘We both know that Ariadne is a very capable woman. It was her actions that secured the release of the first hostage. She was instrumental in getting two additional hostages released when another was shot.’
The noise the older woman made when he mentioned the shooting told him he’d made a mistake. He apologised as the Family Liaison Officer distributed mugs of tea and Enzo reached from the sofa to the chair, taking Mrs Whittaker’s hand and offering soft soothing words in support. There wasn’t anything Piper could really do. He took a sip of the tea—too hot—but it was something to occupy his time. He looked between Enzo and Mrs Whittaker, caught the words “Aunty Susan”. They really had known each other a long time. Enzo had a place here; Piper really didn’t. But he needed to be somewhere. Somewhere other than the station.
‘I can’t lose her,’ Mrs Whittaker was pleading with Enzo. ‘I can’t lose her like Terry.’
‘Terry?’ Piper asked.
Enzo looked to him, then to the cardboard box at the side of the chair. Piper looked down to see it was f
ull of knickknacks. He looked up again and saw there was nothing on any of the shelves. He frowned.
‘Redecorating.’ Enzo supplied.
‘Addy was going to start painting tonight.’
Mrs Whittaker’s voice was distant, her expression lost. Not knowing what else to do, Piper reached down and took the top photo frame from the box. Silver, attractive without being fussy. The picture showed a boy, probably eight or nine years old. Very young, fresh-faced. He was in school uniform, a white shirt, green tie and jumper with a school crest on the chest. That wasn’t a local uniform. Over the top of the tie was a silver St Christopher. He saw a cute kid, and Piper could see some echo of Ariadne in the face.
‘That’s Terrence,’ Enzo explained softly. ‘Ari’s younger brother.’
Piper frowned as he looked at the picture. A quick glance down and he saw another school picture, same boy and a girl who had to be Ariadne. There was also a more recent picture of Ariadne, one of her beaming as she presented her baby daughter to the world. So that had to be about six years ago, before she’d come back to the county. ‘What happened?’
‘He disa—disappear…’
‘He disappeared,’ Enzo took up the story when Mrs Whittaker couldn’t. ‘Vanished a couple of months after the family moved in. There’s never been any trace found.’
‘The police said he’d run away. But he wouldn’t have. I know my boy, he wouldn’t have just left. Something happened to him, but the police weren’t interested.’
The lump in his throat felt too large to swallow, but Piper had to. ‘I’m sor—’ His mobile demanded his attention, he placed the picture back in the box, ‘—sorry.’ He glanced at the screen. A text, from Broughton.
Station, now.
‘Mrs Whittaker, I’m sorry about what happened with Terry, but I can assure you that I will not stop until we have Ariadne back. But right now, I have to go.’
‘What’s happened?’ Mrs Whittaker was on her feet, her expression pure fear.
‘I’ve been asked to return to the station, no reason given.’ He stepped forward, put his hand lightly on the older woman’s upper arm. ‘I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about. If there had been a major development I would have had a call, not a text. This is probably something procedural. The Senior Investigating Officer may want a conference about the way forward.’ He offered a tight smile, and no indication that he was in fact the SIO in this case. Then he left.
Waves of exhaustion were trying to drown Teddington. She had to fight to keep her senses, her eyes were drifting closed.
It was good to be with Charlie but even that wasn’t comfortable. After everything that had happened to and around them, it was clear they were in a doomed relationship, however much she wanted him. He was the first man to touch her heart since her divorce. Always had lousy taste in men.
Focus!
Jumping from the van was a possibility, but they were leaning against the sliding door. Opening it would take enough movement that Mr White or Mr Blue would shoot them before they could get out. She didn’t want to get shot again.
Charlie was staying calm, she’d have to do the same thing. He had a better understanding of what was going on than she did. He’d have a plan.
She hoped.
She looked at the bags piled in the middle of the van. Money. And probably quite a lot of it. However much it was, was it worth all this? Worth shooting a police officer? Worth throwing a kid under a bus? God, she hoped Lucy was okay. She’d hate to think how Megan would be if the kid had been killed in the fall.
Thank God there hadn’t been a bus.
Focus.
She couldn’t help Lucy any more, she had to help herself. And only herself. Evidently Miss Arden was as fake as her name. Thinking it through, Teddington guessed Arden’s appointment was to ensure that Presswick was in the building to open the safe, or safes. That was why she’d been so quiet through it all; she’d had nothing to fear. The van was cold and the frequent sharp turns had calmed down. The singing of the tyres had changed. They weren’t on tarmac roads any more, but concrete. There were a few places around the area where that change occurred. The song changed again, became less rhythmic, and much bumpier. A damaged concrete road. She was no expert but she suspected that these were too common to give an exact location. The van was slowing, now moving too slowly to be on a main road. Even a B-road. Was this a farm track? Were they reaching their destination?
She looked up at Charlie. Under all that make-up she could see worry in his eyes. Was he as much out of the loop as she was?
At the back of the vehicle, Mr White, Mr Blue and Miss Arden were tensing, moving, grabbing bags. The vehicle stopped, the rear door was opened from outside. Teddington saw a big guy, tall and blocky. He had black hair and almond-shaped eyes. Definitely some oriental blood in his lineage. He scowled when he saw her. Mr White and Mr Blue were straight out.
She sat up and Charlie shifted to kneel, sliding the door behind them open. The others were pulling the bags out. Mr Blue offered Miss Arden his hand; Charlie reached in for Teddington. She took his hand and shifted awkwardly. As her feet went to the concrete floor, she realised they were in some empty storage facility. Their van and a blue Caravelle were parked within a few metres of each other and they were the only things in the place. She didn’t mean to but she swayed on her feet.
Charlie steadied her with both hands. ‘Look at me.’
She did but she didn’t feel well. ‘Everything’s blurry.’
‘Good.’
It took her a second to realise that Charlie hadn’t spoken. Tilting her head was a mistake that nearly knocked her off her feet; she put one hand up, leant on the edge of the van and looked at Mr White. Behind him, figures were loading the Caravelle, getting in. The oriental man was throwing something into the Transit. Something splashed on her. Petrol.
Charlie had turned to face Mr White. ‘She’s concussed and needs medical care. I know a doctor, struck off, so no danger of him ratting on us. She’s no use to you. You can keep my share of the money, but let me take her out of here.’
Mr White smiled. ‘Oh, I’m keeping your share all right.’
Teddington couldn’t figure out how to warn Charlie as Mr White raised his gun. Charlie’s own gun was up. He fired.
Nothing happened.
‘Well, you said you wanted to use blanks.’
Charlie’s hand tightened on her arm for a fraction of a second then was ripped away. Teddington saw him fall back, the force of the bullet pushing him along the floor. The gun in Mr White’s hand was smoking, Teddington screamed. Petrol woomphed its ignition. Heat washed up one side as Teddington’s world turned to ice. Another hand gripped her arm. She was dragged backwards, reaching for Charlie, but being pulled away from him and the burning van. Mr White’s hands were way too familiar around her rump as she was bundled into the other van.
The rear windows of the people carrier were tinted, so as Teddington looked out at the unmoving corpse, her whole world seemed blacker. Charlie had never been hers, and now he never would be.
Hands were moving over her.
She looked down, Mr White was pulling the seatbelt across her as the vehicle pulled away. She took another sorrowful look back at her dead dream. As they moved away from the scene, Teddington was overly aware of Mr White’s closeness.
‘Why is she still with us?’ Miss Arden demanded.
‘Until we’re clear, she could still be of use.’
‘You’re Mr Blonde,’ Teddington said to the woman. ‘The missing Reservoir Dog.’
The woman laughed and pulled the blond wig from her head. ‘Not exactly.’
Ari’s swell of grief at seeing Charlie dead flooded her with hate of all these people for their part in that. ‘Oh, I’d say dog is exactly what you are.’
The kick was sharp. She almost wondered if it broke her shin, yet painful as it was, it was a million miles away. She ignored the pain, didn’t even flinch. Just sneered at the other woman. Teddington
looked over the lank brown hair in a sharp and unflattering bob.
‘Should’ve kept the wig.’ Teddington turned to stare unseeing out of the window. ‘You looked better as a blonde.’
28
‘A complete fuck-up.’
Piper stood before Broughton’s desk, overly aware of the man’s earlier declaration. His fuck-up is your fuck-up. He was actually a little sick of it repeating in his head. He was even more aware of Sheldrake’s presence in the room. Over the last few hours he’d had cause to utterly switch his opinion of the woman. But he still wasn’t entirely sure he trusted her. Broughton had been right about Sheldrake, she was media savvy. She was also intelligently political—she’d offered a lift to save him from bothering one of the uniform patrols, whose mopping up job was just beginning.
He’d managed to put her off, saying that she must have more important things to do than drive him to Mrs Whittaker’s, so he’d left on his own. Somehow, he wasn’t overly surprised to find her waiting for him in Broughton’s office. Here to watch his downfall. It was his call, his watch, his fuck-up. One perpetrator was dead, a hostage shot, another being stitched and plastered back together—worse yet, a child—and two more still captive. And that was before they started thinking about the money and property stolen. The other thing they’d taken with them was his career.
So even this was all over, bar the shouting. He had nothing left to lose. Telling Sheila wouldn’t be fun. His wife was understanding, but he wasn’t sure she’d understand this.
‘What have you got to say about your informant now?’
Piper swallowed. That was the easiest question to answer. ‘That he gave us all the information he had, though clearly it wasn’t all the information there was to be had.’
‘He told you there would be a raid. He said a six-man team. There were only five in that bank and none of them the fuckers he named!’
