Concrete Evidence; Crime Book 6 (Detective Alec Ramsay Crime Mystery Suspense Series)

by Conrad Jones

  CHAPTER 41

  Becky reached behind her and grabbed the golf bag. She put her hand into the pocket and took out the three golf balls. Crawling back to the door, she leaned towards the gap and dropped one of the balls through it. She didn’t see it hit the Tarmac but she knew that it would bounce across carriageways causing havoc with oncoming vehicles. She listened for a reaction but none came. Becky dropped the other two onto the road and waited. She heard a horn blaring and lights flashed but the van maintained its speed.

  Becky reached into the bag and grabbed the clubs. She didn’t know much about golf but she recognised them as irons. She took one and slid it through the gap. She heard it clatter on the road followed quickly by a series of horns blasting. Her heart began to beat faster. She could see lights flashing off the bumper; the traffic behind was reacting angrily. Angry isn’t enough, she thought. She needed them to be so livid that they picked up their telephones and called the police. Becky reached for a second golf club and she slid it through the gap and let it go. It clattered from the back of the van and was greeted by more horn blasts. When she dropped the third club, the reaction intensified further. This time the drivers behind seemed incensed. The horn blasts were continuous. She clapped her hands together in joy and looked around for another potential missile to launch through the gap.

  When the van slowed quickly and veered to the left, her delight waned to be replaced with fear. “Shit, shit, shit!” she shouted as the vehicle slowed to half its speed. The music was silenced and she felt a layer of perspiration form on her chest and back. She gripped the piece of angle iron in her right hand and sat down behind the door. She closed her eyes and took a breath and steeled herself for the fight that would come. When her kidnapper opened the back doors, she would pounce like a scorched wild cat. She swallowed hard and realised how thirsty she was. She thought about what she would give for a drink of ice cold water. She thought it was odd to feel so relaxed and yet be totally ready to fight to the death. Maybe she was resigned to her fate? If her attacker had a firearm, she would probably die. She knew that he had a Taser or similar but that didn’t matter right now. The angle iron was heavy and it was sharp at one end. She was trained in unarmed combat by the police. Her Krav Maga lessons drifted through her mind in a blur. Strike for the weak areas, the eyes, throat and testicles. She would do that with every ounce of strength in her body until her breath stopped coming. She wouldn’t let him take her life cheaply.

  Suddenly, the van picked up speed quickly. She was thrown backwards and had to hold on tight. She heard horns blasting violently, long sustained blaring from three or four different vehicles. The van swerved and increased speed again. He was panicking. Becky squeezed the metal bar with both hands, closed her eyes and listened to what was happening outside. She could hear the tyres on the road. She could hear rainwater splashing beneath the van as it accelerated to full speed.

  Becky decided to maintain the pressure. She grabbed the basket of curtains and scrambled to the back doors again. She screwed up the top piece of material. It felt like a curtain. She fed it through the gap inch by inch and let it flap wildly in the slipstream. She heard horns blasting in response as it was ripped from her grasp. The next piece felt like a cotton bed sheet. It fell through the gap with ease and she felt it billowing to full width before she let it go. Lights flashed and the van swerved violently to the left. Becky stumbled backwards and landed on her elbows with a sickening thud. “Bastard!” she shouted at the top of her voice. She struggled to her feet and banged her fists on the bulkhead. “You have no idea how much shit you’re in!” she hammered her fists against the cold metal. The driver chose not reply but he responded by swerving sharply to the left. Becky was thrown against the side of the van cracking her head against the washing machine. “Fuck you!” she screamed. She felt the van lurch forward again as the driver pushed the engine to the limits. Warm blood trickled down the side of her face. She touched a deep gash on her forehead and felt tears of frustration filling her eyes. “Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you,” she shouted as she slammed her fists against the metal. “There is no way I’m giving up,” she whispered in the dark.

  Becky crawled to the ironing board and picked it up with both hands. She staggered to the back doors once more and tried to force it through the gap. It disappeared halfway and then jammed. She picked up the metal bar and used it as a hammer, striking the top of the board as hard as she could. Each blow forced it another few inches. She hit it again and it slipped out further. The sound of metal scraping against the road filled her ears. The high pitched squealing was deafening. Sparks flew in an arc as the board grated against the Tarmac and then it was ripped free by the immense friction as it clattered away from the back of the van. Becky clapped her hands in glee but the van maintained its speed.

  “Tell me someone has called the police,” she muttered in the darkness. The driver showed no sign of stopping and he was sticking to his route. She could tell from the speed of the van that they were on a main artery. He hadn’t turned off because he had somewhere to go. “I can’t sit around here and wait to see what happens,” she whispered to herself. The darkness and exhaust fumes were making her claustrophobic. She looked around and focused on the washing machine. Becky cleared the clutter from the back doors and then made her way to the corner. The machine was held in place with luggage straps and she fumbled with the clips and wrestled it free. It slid easily along the floor runners and Becky pushed it halfway across the van. She stopped, placed both hands flat against the top of the machine and braced herself. “On three, Becky,” she geed herself up. “One, two, three!”

  Becky drove hard with her legs and pushed the washing machine as fast as she could along the floor runners. It slammed into the back doors with a deafening clang, the vibrations jolted painfully up her arms. The doors buckled at the bottom but held firm. She dragged the machine back and positioned herself for another attack. The machine hurtled towards the doors again and impacted with a deafening crunch. The left hand door burst open and flapped loosely in the slipstream. “Get in there, you beauty!” Becky screamed. She pushed the washing machine another half a metre and watched as it bounced down the carriageway, shattering into a dozen chunks of scrap.

  There were three lanes, a motorway. The traffic behind was staying a safe distance away, avoiding the missiles that were falling from the van. The drivers were using one lane as far away from the rogue vehicle as they possible could. Becky felt a huge sense of relief. She took a deep breath of fresh air and sat down near the open door and screwed up the curtains one at a time. She tossed them out and watched them billowing like kites and then drop onto the motorway.

  She could hear the angry motorists venting their spleen on their horns and then she heard the most beautiful sound that she had ever listened to. Sirens in the near distance, first one and then another and then there were so many that she could no longer distinguish how many there were. When the blue lights came into view, she allowed the tears to flow freely.

  CHAPTER 42

  Peter Barton swore loudly as he looked in the wing mirrors and saw four sets flashing blue lights gaining on him. He knew that taking one of the MIT officers was a dangerous play but it had been a balanced decision. It wasn’t done on a whim. He planned everything down to the minor details. He picked Becky because she was petite. Some of the MIT detectives were real bruisers. He didn’t need a fighter. Over the years since he had been ejected from the police, every time he tried to pre-empt what they would do, he’d been correct and reacted accordingly. Killing Brian Taylor could have been avoided but he hadn’t anticipated them knocking on his door so soon. It was down to his foresight and planning that he had avoided escape on that occasion.

  This time he had underestimated the concussive power of the Taser. He had also underestimated the determination of the detective that he had kidnapped. How they had identified the van wasn’t beyond him. His captive had somehow managed to bombard the trailing traffic with junk. He had a
nticipated them catching him but not this early; not until he was ready. His plan was in the toilet and while he worked out what to do, there was a good chance that he could be shot in the process.

  His attention was taken by lights in the sky. They swooped over the motorway from his left to his right and a spotlight that hung beneath the chopper blinded him. The arrival of the force helicopter was the final act of the play. It was impossible to outrun it on the roads and onboard heat seeking technology made it impossible to hide from it on foot even in the dark. He shook his head and bit his bottom lip as he searched desperately for a way to control an impossible situation.

  A mobile ringing disturbed his thoughts. He grabbed the detective’s handbag from the passenger seat and looked inside. Her Blackberry was flashing and the screen read ‘DI Jones calling’. From his research, he knew that she was poised to head up Merseyside’s MIT when the aging detective superintendent took retirement. He weighed up his options and took it from the bag and then checked the wing mirrors again. The blue lights behind him had formed a rolling road block across the motorway. As the helicopter swung back overhead, he answered the phone. Talking could give him the time that he needed.

  “Inspector,” he answered. He steered the van into the centre lane and kept one eye on each wing mirror. The interceptors didn’t seem to be ready to make a move yet. He noticed a sign going by in a blur.

  “Peter Barton,” Annie said calmly.

  “It is.”

  “I need you to pull over onto the hard shoulder so that we can get my detective to a hospital and then you can tell me what this is all about. There’s nowhere for you to go.”

  “Okay.” He said. “But we talk first. I am all too familiar with how the police negotiate once you’re in a cell. It becomes a little one sided. I don’t want a repeat of the last time that I was questioned. I want to help you and you need to negotiate.”

  “There’s nothing to negotiate about but I’ll listen to what you have to say,” Annie kept her cool. “Make it quick.”

  “I killed Brian Taylor.”

  “I know you did.”

  “But do you know why?”

  “We have a good idea.”

  “I need to hear what you think happened.”

  “What I think doesn’t matter.”

  “It does to me. Humour me.”

  “He used to visit a relative that lived next door to your nephew,” Annie paused, “he has a conviction for kiddy porn and you think that he had something to do with Simon’s abduction.”

  “I don’t think anything, Inspector,” Barton said calmly. “I know that he took him.”

  “How do you know for sure?”

  “I just do.”

  “Okay, why kidnap my detective?”

  “I took your detective because I wanted to sit down opposite one of you without handcuffs on and explain everything. I just wanted to put over my side of the story. I was going to let her go as soon as I had explained everything.”

  “You Tasered a detective because you wanted a chat?” Annie asked incredulously. “Why not pick up the telephone?”

  “I needed to communicate how vital my information is. The situation was too urgent for a phone call. No one would believe me.”

  “You have created a dangerous situation. You could have killed her and got yourself shot to boot.”

  “Hindsight is a great gift, Inspector,” he sighed. “But how else could I get you lot to listen to me.”

  “If I’m honest, I can think of a dozen more preferable ways.”

  “I can’t change what I’ve done.” He paused. “How did you track the van so quickly?”

  “A six iron through the windscreen of an unmarked interceptor.” Annie smiled to herself. “It grabbed their attention.”

  “Your detective is very resourceful.”

  “Her name is Rebecca Sebastian and she’s incredibly bright.” Annie humanised him captive. What do you want, Peter?”

  “I need you to listen to me.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “I know that bastard Taylor took Simon. I spent years as a pariah of the worse kind because of that scum.” He sounded angry. “I lost years of my life as a child killer. Can you imagine what that was like?”

  “Not really but this isn’t helping.”

  “This is not about me being railroaded into a prison cell. It’s about Simon. I didn’t touch him.”

  “We know that you didn’t.”

  “You say that now but your attitude will change as soon as I’m locked up. It always does.”

  Annie didn’t want to get involved in an argument. “Okay, Brian Taylor kidnapped Simon. I believe you. Now pull over and we can sort this out before you get hurt.”

  “Don’t patronise me,” he snapped. “You see this is exactly why I took your officer. I have to make someone listen to me and take me seriously.”

  “I can see your point of view, Peter but you need to stop now. The Armed Response Units will drop you the first chance they get.”

  “You think that you can see my point of view?” he sighed. “Your head is so far up your own arse that you can’t see what’s staring you in the face.”

  Annie bit her lip. “What can’t I see, Peter?”

  “You’re dismissing me as if what I have to say isn’t important, that’s why I’m in this mess in the first place.”

  “I’m agreeing with you, Peter. We know you didn’t abduct Simon.”

  He paused before speaking. “But you don’t know everything.”

  “What don’t we know?”

  “Who is behind all this.”

  “If you know then I’m all ears.”

  “Brian was too scared to talk at first but he did eventually.”

  “A shotgun in the mouth will loosen most tongues,” Annie said sarcastically. “What did he tell you?”

  “He admitted taking Simon.”

  “Did you record his confession?”

  “You’re patronising me again, Inspector. We both know that a recording of a suspect under duress cannot be used in evidence.”

  “I’m not interested in what happens in a courtroom. I’m interested in what he had to say.”

  “He confessed.”

  “Okay, so I have to take your word for it. What else did he say?”

  “He told me that your number one suspect, Tod Harris was involved too.” He waited for Annie to react but she remained silent. “And he said that he had proof that Harris was involved.”

  “What proof?”

  “He said that Harris had kept Simon’s library book.” Annie paused to think. There was no way that Barton could know that without inside knowledge. No one outside of the MIT knew about the book or the Polaroid. “That book proves that he took Simon and that’s all I wanted to do. I just wanted justice for Simon and to clear my name finally.”

  “The book did cement things for us.”

  “You’re not kidding it did,” Barton scoffed. “I’ve been looking for something, anything to prove to you that I didn’t take him. When he told me about the book, I knew that I could finally get some justice for Simon.”

  “How did you know that we knew about the book?”

  “I don’t remember,” Barton stammered. He realised that he had said too much. “All that matters is that you have it.”

  “Harris’s mother left it for us with her suicide note.”

  “She knew what that animal, Harris had done.”

  “She probably did,” Annie sighed. Suddenly the integrity of the library book was shattered. Barton could have given it to Harris’s mother. She couldn’t air her thoughts just yet though. “You have achieved what you set out to do, Peter,” she said calmly. “Now pull over and let’s bring this to a close.”

  “Bring it to a close” he laughed. His laughter confused her. “You really don’t have a clue what I’m talking about do you?”

  “Obviously not,” she replied curtly. “Enlighten me.”

  “Do you know what co
nnects Harris to Taylor?”

  “Apart from being sick paedophiles?”

  “Apart from that,” he said frustrated. Another signpost flew past. This one registered in his mind.

  “No, I don’t know what the connection is.” Annie hoped that he did despite his method of gleaning the information.

  “They both have convictions going back years.”

  “We know.”

  “Do you?”

  “This game is boring me, Peter,” Annie sighed. She was happy letting him talk as he continued to drive. His fuel supply was burning down and all the motorway exits had been blocked. Sooner or later, the van would stop of its own accord. “If you have something that we don’t, please share it.”

  “I’m boring you?” he snorted. “If you lot did your jobs properly, we wouldn’t be having this conversation. Boring!”

  “Are you going to tell me or not?”

  “Did you go right back to their young offender files?”

  “Of course we did. They were sealed but we had a judge release them to us.”

  “And you didn’t find any connections?” he sounded smug.

  “No,” Annie said confidently although he had planted a seed of doubt that they had missed something. “They had no joint convictions.”

  “Did you look past their convictions, Inspector?”

  The seed of doubt germinated. “Obviously their records are still being analysed.” She said defensively. “The case is still ongoing.”

  “That could take your lot weeks!” he laughed. “I’ll save you some money.”

  “Please do,” Annie was curious. He had been a police analyst after all.

  “As teenagers, they were both represented by the same solicitor,” he paused for reaction. Annie felt the skin on her neck glow and tingle. “Have a guess at his name, Inspector.”